Sanders watched him with smoldering eyes as Jessup backed his horse and carriage and drove off. Then he looked toward the doorway in which his wife stood.
“It’s all your fault,” he grumbled at her. “You planted the bad seed in her! Now you know the meaning of passing on your sins! You sinned, and now our daughter! I told you a long time ago I’d take care of her, provide for her, pretend she was mine and cover for your sins, woman, but she has shamed me now! She’ll stay at that school until she’s a proper lady. After that it’s up to her. I don’t care if I never see her again.”
He stormed off, and Harriet Sanders went back inside the house, closing the door. She had tried to love her daughter, but Andrea was the seed of one night of passion with a traveling salesman—her one night of weakness, her one moment of wondering if lying with a man could be more than just duty. That was all Morgan Sanders had ever made it, strictly a wifely duty—undress, submit to a man she did not love, then watch him turn over and go to sleep as though she were nothing more than a “thing” to be used for his pleasure. The salesman and his devilish ways had brought out new emotions in her; silly, lustful feelings that had made her wonder about sex and why some women seemed to enjoy it. And for one night she had enjoyed it—one night of sin for which she had paid for the rest of her life. Andrea had been the first payment. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Andrea, who bore no resemblance to Morgan Sanders, but a strong resemblance to the blond-haired, blue-eyed salesman. For some reason Morgan Sanders had never gotten her pregnant, but the salesman had, in one night of sinful passion.
Morgan had tried to forgive her, but first he’d given her a terrible beating after seeing the salesman hurriedly climb out of the window when he’d come home unexpectedly. Then had come the silence, and, finally, an attempt at forgiveness. But he’d used her violently after that, taking out his revenge through his use of her at night. Then the blond-haired baby came, and after that she still could not get pregnant by Morgan. That and her building resentment, and her own suffering over her sin, had driven her to take another bedroom. She wanted no more of men and sex. She had tried to warn Andrea about feelings of lust and passion, and even love, but the child had not listened. Now she would suffer, too. That Cherokee boy could not possibly have loved her, no more than the salesman had loved her mother. Andrea had surely been used. And the worst part was that it had been done by an Indian boy. A white girl was not supposed to love an Indian boy. It simply wasn’t right. But then, Andrea came from bad seed. Harriet had worked hard to make her daughter a proper, Christian girl. But when a child came from bad seed, there wasn’t much that could be done. Perhaps the strict Christian school to which they had sent her would help. She could only pray that it would. She hated bringing more shame to poor Morgan. She had failed him. She knew that sometimes he went to visit the wild farm girls who lived north of them. But she couldn’t blame him now. A man had a weakness for the animal instincts born in him, and she had had enough of such things. She was no longer willing to satisfy those needs.
Adam walked up the ridge toward the oak tree. All around him was summer beauty; singing birds, blooming wildflowers. But he heard and saw none of it. Andrea was gone, and he didn’t even know where. Andrea! If only he could kill Morgan Sanders! If only he could do something, anything! This lonely, helpless feeling was almost more than he could bear. He wanted to cry, but his anger would not let the tears come.
He winced with pain as he climbed over a fallen log. He was still sore from Morgan Sanders’s cruel kick, and his lower lip was swollen. But if he could have been given free rein, he knew he would have licked the man. He was strong enough. But poor Andrea had been lying there on the floor. He’d had to go to her, to try to help her…and then there was the rifle.
It all flashed through his mind over and over. He’d never dreamed there was that much hatred and prejudice in Morgan Sanders’s heart. If he had known, he’d have done everything differently. He’d never have tried to speak to him of marrying Andrea. He’d have stolen her away as he’d wanted to do in the first place. At least then she’d be with him now. They’d probably be waking up together and…
He picked up a rock and threw it, the hot tears finally starting to come. Andrea! Andrea! Where had they taken her? He hated being too young to know what to do. He hated Morgan Sanders, and all the whites who hated Indians. And he hated those who were trying to make him leave his homeland, his fine house, his oak tree. He had never been truly afraid it could happen until now. He’d already lost Andrea, and now he’d seen just how deep the whites’ hatred and jealousy ran. They really were a threat. It was possible that the whites would take the Cherokee land away, just like they’d done with the Creeks and the Choctaws! Yet the only thing that really mattered was Andrea. She was more important than anything else. And she was gone. Gone! What was he to do? Where should he look for her? Reverend Jessup had said he doubted she would even be registered under her own name, so checking all the schools in the north would probably lead to nothing. And maybe she had been taken farther south, rather than north. There were any number of places she could have been taken. To try to contact them all would take a lot of time and would probably prove fruitless. He did not doubt that the Sanderses intended to keep her identity and whereabouts a secret.
When Adam reached the oak tree, it really hit him. She was not there. He would never see her standing here waiting for him again, never lie beneath the tree with her naked body in his arms, never be one with her again, hear her voice, taste her lips, be inside of her, love her in every way. Andrea! Andrea!
He burst into tears then, for he was free to cry here under his tree, where no one could see and call him a child. Why couldn’t a man cry? It hurt to try to hold it back. He put his face against the gnarled old trunk and wept as he had never wept in his entire sixteen years. He wanted to curse his Cherokee blood, but nothing could convince him there was something about it that made him a lesser man or an unworthy one. His pride only grew stronger; his determination to prove he was as good as the next man would not be crushed by Sanders’s cruel words, nor by the outside forces that tried to keep him down just because he was Indian.
He cried for a long time. He had to get rid of all the tears before he went back. In a sense it seemed he was allowing himself to be a little boy for the last time. He wouldn’t cry after this. He’d be strong, and if he had to wait, then he would wait. For one thing he was very sure of: if he could not find Andrea Sanders, Andrea Sanders would find him, just as soon as she could. When she came back home from wherever they had taken her, she would come to him. They would not break her any more than they could break him. Nothing and no one would stop them from loving each other, nor could anything kill that love in the future.
He sank down onto the grass under the tree, curling up, wishing Andrea were there to curl up with him. All he could do was pray that she would be all right and would somehow come back to him. Adam knew Reverend Jessup would try to find her, but neither he nor the minister had any hope of success. He wanted to be angry with his father for not letting him go and steal Andrea away, but Jonas had been right to think they should try it the honorable way first. He had only been thinking of the Cherokee and of the consequences of stealing her. And his father felt bad enough over what had happened. There was no sense in making him feel worse. Anyway, it was really his own fault. He shouldn’t have let it go for so long. Yet how was he to tell anyone? How was he to know what to do when he loved a forbidden girl? But love her he did, and he would never stop.
He sat up and touched the tree trunk again. She’d loved this tree. It was their tree now, not just his. And although he ached for her, he knew that Andrea’s situation was worse, for she had been taken someplace strange and new. Perhaps she would be punished, and would have to work like a slave. She would be told she was bad, and she would be afraid. Oh, yes, she would be afraid. He should be with her to hold her and protect her. The frustration of not being able to be with her was painful, and the thought of living
without her for months, maybe years, made his chest ache fiercely. He’d considered putting a gun to his head or hanging himself, but the hope that someday she would come back had stopped him. If she returned, he must be here for her. He must be. So he would go on living, for Andrea, and nothing more.
Chapter Nine
For days that turned into weeks, the coach rattled on, and through it all Andrea was kept drugged, staying nights at times at unknown locations, carried in and out by a man she didn’t know, constantly watched by Mrs. Endicott. It was a drizzly, gray day when they arrived at the school, a dreary-looking brick building four stories high. Andrea had no idea where she was, but it was cool here, and quite green. The grounds were overgrown and dark, and from what she could tell, being somewhat groggy, there was nothing pretty or cheery about this building, nor was there any welcoming warmth in the cold voices of the people she heard talking when she was carried inside.
“Andrea Sanders,” someone said. She caught pieces of words and sentences—“has lain in sin with a Cherokee Indian boy”…“should do hard labor along with her schoolwork”…“will take a lot of hard work to cleanse her of her sins”…“slut, but still young enough to be saved. It’s the boy’s fault. Indians have the devil in them.”
She felt herself being carried up several flights of stairs, then sensed the closeness of a small room. Someone set her on a bed. “Pay attention, Andrea.” Mrs. Endicott’s voice. “This is Miss Darcy. She runs this school, and will be in charge of you from now on. I have to go back to Georgia and tend to my mission work there.”
Andrea blinked, staring through blurred eyes at a huge woman with black hair pulled back tightly into a neat bun. She couldn’t see well, but she knew the woman was giving her one of those stern, disapproving looks.
“You won’t need to take the medicine anymore, Andrea,” the woman declared, her voice hard and gruff. “Your room will be locked, so we needn’t worry about you running away. Besides, you’re four stories up and there are bars on the window.”
Adam! She could think only of two things. Where was she, and what had happened to Adam? If he were here, he’d help her.
“Once your head is clear you will begin some rigorous chores, and you will be watched at all times. You have proven that you need watching, haven’t you? You’ve been a very bad girl, Andrea, vain and slutty. You will work hard here, and we’ll humble you until you understand the seriousness of what you have done and beg God’s forgiveness. The first thing we do here to rid our bad girls of vanity is cut off their hair.”
Someone bent close, and she saw the scissors. “No!” she screamed. “Adam! Where’s Adam! What have you done with him!”
“You must not talk of this boy again, Andrea,” the fat woman told her. Someone grabbed her hair tightly, and someone else held her arms. “And from now on, you are not Andrea to the outside world. We will keep your identity hidden. According to our records, you are Marie Higgins.”
Andrea heard a long, loud scream as scissors chomped through her long, golden mane. Did the scream come from her own lips? She wasn’t sure. “It will grow back in time,” someone said. “When it has done so, you will be a reformed woman, ready to go out again into the world and live as a godly person, not as a wanton woman.”
They let go of her, and a moment later the voices were gone, cut off by the sound of a door closing and the click of a lock. She looked around a tiny room hardly bigger than a closet. How she wished she could think more clearly. Why was this horrible thing happening to her? She reached up with a trembling hand to feel her hair. It ended at her neck, a short clump of nothingness. Another scream welled up in her throat, came out as a long groan, was followed by uncontrolled sobbing. She threw herself down on her bed, pulling a pillow close to herself and aching for Adam. If he knew, he’d kill them all and take her away from here! Adam! But had someone already killed him? How had she come to be here? What had happened to Adam that night he came to her? How could her parents be this cruel?
She wept bitterly, well into the night. But she was determined not to give up. She would not stop loving Adam Chandler, not ever, no matter what they did to her. They could never stop her from loving him. Someday she would get out of this place, and Adam would be waiting for her. He would never desert her, never stop loving her, and he’d probably try to find her. But the fat woman had said they were going to call her Marie! How could he find her if they didn’t call her by her right name? They had thought of everything! She had been whisked away to some secret, horrible place hundreds, maybe a thousand, miles from home, where she was imprisoned and was to be called by another name. Adam could never find her this way. But she would get to him! If it took a lifetime she would get to him!
Douglas Means watched the neat, frame farmhouse burn, while the Creek family that had owned it, and the small farm it sat upon, watched in horror. Douglas only smiled. He enjoyed this job much more than he’d thought he would. Most of the Creeks were well on their way to Indian Territory, but the few holdouts like these made his job quite pleasant, for the militia had free rein with these stubborn ones, permission to roust them out of Georgia in any way they saw fit.
Douglas was a sergeant now, ruling over a motley bunch of men who were total failures in life and who had nothing better to do than ride with the Georgia Militia and have their fun at the expense of the Indians. Now some of his men ordered the husband and wife into a wagon. The couple clung to each other, both naked and bleeding from a brutal whipping. One of the men threw them blankets to cover themselves, then he tossed in a few of their meager belongings. Most of their valuable possessions—household items and stock—would be kept by the soldiers and turned over to headquarters for “the cause,” although some things would be kept by the men.
A little boy tried to run, but the men herded him down, laughed and threw him around before flinging him into the wagon. More men came from behind a shed, dragging a naked and beaten girl of about fifteen. Douglas licked his lips. Never had he had such a wonderful serving of young virgins as he had since joining the militia. This one had been especially exciting, had fought like a she-cat until four men had pinned her into helpless submission while Douglas, as always, had been the first to try her. The others were through with her now. She could get into the wagon.
A heavyset man with a five-day growth of beard rode up to Douglas then, his uniform soiled and sweat streaming down his face. “Got a letter for you from headquarters, sir,” the private stated. Douglas loved it when older men had to call him sir. “They told me to bring it out to you, seeing as how you were going west from here and might not get back to headquarters for a few days. I have orders to join up.”
The man handed Douglas the letter, eying the naked young girl being loaded onto the wagon.
“Thank you,” Douglas told him. “What’s your name, Private?”
“Wilson, sir. Greg Wilson.” He kept watching the girl. “Now that’s a sweet, young thing, I’ve got to say. Any chance of me getting something out of my system, sir, before you haul her away?”
Douglas glanced over at the girl, who sat with her head hanging. He laughed lightly. “Go ahead. It will take me a few minutes to read this anyway.”
The man saluted. “Thank you, sir.” He rode up to the wagon and said something to two other men, who proceeded to drag the girl back off the wagon. She screamed and protested again as they forced her battered body back behind the shed, the heavyset man following. And her little brother cried, huddled against his parents.
Douglas paid no attention to the girl’s pitiful wailing, nor to the laughter of the men. He opened the letter. It was from Mary. As he read he smiled more broadly, feeling victorious.
“So,” he muttered when he’d finished, “I was right about that little slut after all. Spreading her legs for a Cherokee boy.” He shook his head. “What do you know about that? Little Andrea, pretending to be such a prissy thing.” He wished she were there right then. He’d take her down a notch or two. He knew all about wom
en now, and since Andrea Sanders had been bedded by an Indian boy, he could have her anytime he wanted, and she couldn’t say a thing about it. It was too bad she’d been taken away. Even Mary didn’t know where she was. He hoped it was to some horrible place. Maybe she’d even die there. It would serve her right.
He stuck the letter into his pocket and took out a cigar, lighting it. Things had quieted behind the shed, except for a few grunts out of the fat private. He lit the cigar, wishing he could turn his attentions to the Cherokee. The first family he’d hit would be the Chandlers. He’d cut Adam Chandler down with his sword and then cut off his privates. And he’d rape that pretty little sister of his, right under Adam Chandler’s nose. That would be one pleasant experience. What would be even better would be to have Andrea with him, to strip her and have at her right in front of Adam. He laughed aloud at the thought of it. Too bad the Cherokee were so damned clever at legal things. Georgia was having one hell of a time getting rid of the pests. The federal government had declared that all land that was a part of Georgia belonged to Georgia, not to the Cherokee. But they had not offered to help Georgians get the Cherokee out, nor did they condone force. And half the country was crying out in defense of the cursed Cherokees.
“Fools!” he muttered. Why would anyone defend Indians? Those on the side of the Cherokees were making Georgians look like heartless landmongers who would stop at nothing to get what they wanted. Georgians didn’t like looking that way, so they’d backed away from attacking the Cherokee just yet. In the meantime the Cherokee continued to wage a brilliant legal battle, with men like Daniel Webster on their side, and the whole thing was at a standstill. In Douglas’s estimation, what the Cherokee needed was a little “convincing,” a raid now and then, a burned farm, murdered stock, raped women, whippings—all done in the night by hooded unknowns. Several men had talked about it, as a way of giving the Cherokees a little “push,” and Douglas knew it would happen sooner or later. He intended to be in the middle of the action when it did.
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