The men finally came out from behind the shed. This time the girl was completely limp and had to be carried. They threw her onto the wagon like a sack of potatoes.
“Get them to the holding camp,” Douglas ordered. “Then we’ll make camp ourselves for the night. There’s a farm on the other side of this valley we’ll see to tomorrow.”
“Any women?” one of them asked. The fat private was still buttoning his pants.
Douglas grinned. “Just the wife, I think. But then they can’t all be virgins, can they?”
There was a round of laughter, and the soldier driving the wagon whipped its team into motion. Douglas waited for them all to get moving, then rode past and ahead of them, thinking of how pleasant it would be to get his hands on Andrea Sanders now. Imagine that! Andrea Sanders laying with a Cherokee boy. He laughed again, taking his place at the head of the men, feeling victorious.
Six months passed, and Adam was seventeen. He turned his hatred and frustration into energy, running every day, lifting heavy things to build his muscles more, practicing shooting with a rifle and a handgun, throwing his knife. Always his people spoke of peace, but he saw a day coming when peace would not be possible. And there was no peace in his own heart. He wanted to kill people. How much better he would feel if he could just kill Morgan Sanders!
He was in constant agony, forcing himself to eat but not really having an appetite; using mental concentration to sleep and relax; for his thoughts were so full of Andrea that such things were almost impossible. Where was she? Was she some kind of prisoner? Surely she was, or she would have tried to get a letter to him. Andrea! Time had not weakened his love for her in the least. If anything, it had grown stronger. All he had to do was wait. She would come. She was still alive, that much he knew. Reverend Jessup had visited the Sanderses again, and had got that much out of them. Adam had feared she had died and they had not bothered to tell him.
It was nearly February now, 1827, two years since the government under President Monroe had declared that all land west of the Mississippi River was Indian Territory into which no whites could enter. “Indian Territory!” he muttered, slinging some wood onto a pile. “Barren, worthless land! And at that, whites are already moving in, against the law, and no one stops them!”
Was there no end to what the whites could get away with, no end to what was denied the Indians? Peace! How could there be peace? Yet by not using any physical force, the Cherokee seemed to be winning ground. That was the secret, the only thing that kept the Georgians frustrated. They needed a damned good excuse to kick out the Cherokee, and they couldn’t come up with one. Meanwhile the Cherokee continued to display in court their legal possession of the land. Over and over they were warned not to fight back physically, even if the militia should attack, yet surely the time would come when they would be deliberately provoked. Adam was not sure how he could hold himself back in such an instance. If he did, then someday, in some way, he would get his revenge.
But already some whites were moving onto Cherokee land by more clever means, by marrying Cherokee women who were stupid enough to allow such marriages. Some of the people actually thought that such unions would help keep the peace, and would insure that the woman’s family stayed on their land. Adam thought otherwise. The whites were only buying time, and when the invasion came, some of those white men would hand over their Cherokee wives for removal to Indian Territory, with no guilt whatsoever. How ironic it was that no one thought a thing about those white men marrying Indian women, yet his wanting to marry Andrea had been looked upon with horror. What strange values the white man had.
He threw on the last log and wiped sweat from his brow. Even though it was supposedly winter, the weather was very mild in Georgia, and much of this wood would not be used. He wondered what it was like where Andrea was. Was it hotter? Or was it cold? Was she being properly cared for? She was fifteen now. Had she changed very much?
Again the lump came to his throat. Andrea! How would he ever get over this? When would the helpless feeling go away? Why couldn’t he just go over to the Sanders farm and torture Morgan Sanders until the man told him where Andrea was? If these were the old days…
“The old days!” he growled. He picked up a hatchet and slammed it into an upended log, splitting the wood with one mighty blow. He had grown in the past six months, was broader, stronger, more a man. The only thing that kept him from going crazy was working with Elias Boudinot, helping interpret Greek and English books into Cherokee. It took hours, but it made the time go swiftly. Someday they would have their own newspaper, Elias said so.
Everything would be perfect, if only Andrea were with him. But she was not, and sometimes he wanted to die. Only the knowledge that she still lived and would surely come home someday made him want to keep going, as well as his own stubborn pride and his refusal to let anything make him stop loving Andrea Sanders. Let them laugh. Let them think him too young. Let them chide him for loving a white girl. He didn’t care. He loved her and that was all there was to it. They could all think what they wanted.
His nights were spent dreaming of a pretty little girl with long blond hair and soft blue eyes, who whispered his name in sweet, innocent ecstasy when he touched her in magic places, who opened herself to him for sweet pleasures no other girl could bring him. Those others didn’t understand that she was his wife in every way. A man didn’t give up on his wife. He didn’t give up loving her, hoping to hold her again, trying to find her. But all his searching had been fruitless. Now there was nothing to do but wait and pray, and it was agony for him. Andrea! He slammed the hatchet down again, pretending the log was Morgan Sanders’s head.
Andrea sat at the small window of her room, looking through the glass and bars to the swirling snow outside. Everything was buried, the tree branches bare, the land dead. She had never seen such snow, had no idea it could blow so hard or get so deep.
Vermont. She had heard of it. That was where she was now, she’d finally been told. Vermont. She was a thousand miles or better from Georgia—from Adam. But her love for him had only deepened with all the hard work, the insults, the studies, the bars, the locked door. How could it not deepen, when Adam’s life grew in her own belly?
She looked down at her swollen stomach, running her hand over it. She was seven months along now, and every day she made Miss Darcy tell her again that she would be allowed to keep her baby. She told them over and over that she wanted it, for it was a part of Adam. Already she planned to take the child straight to Adam as soon as she got out of this terrible place where she worked and studied eighteen hours a day.
She had scrubbed floors and walls and washrooms; she had worked in the kitchen, changed beds, washed clothes. The chores never ceased, and in between she was given rigorous studies. She was learning many things, even some French. She was learning everything, except how to stop loving a Cherokee man who, she knew, was waiting for her. But that was her secret. She would not tell them she still loved Adam. The more she told them so, the longer she would stay here. She had finally figured that out. They wanted proof that she was losing her feeling for Adam Chandler, that she was repenting her “sins” and becoming a respectable young lady. But now there was the baby. Miss Darcy had told her that she should give it up, that keeping it would be carrying around the proof of her sin. But Andrea had refused.
“The baby is not to blame,” she had told the woman. “The child should be with its real mother. I owe it the kind of love only a mother can give.”
“Are you sure you aren’t keeping it just because it is a part of that Indian boy?”
“No,” Andrea had lied. “I hate him for what he did to me. I know now what I did was wrong. But my Christian upbringing prevents me from turning out one of my own. I will keep the child, and bear the burden of raising it. Every time I see it I will remember my sin, and it will help me not to sin that way again. To raise the child alone will be my punishment.”
Miss Darcy had agreed that she could keep it, but inside
Andrea was filled with terror. Somehow she felt Miss Darcy didn’t believe her story. The woman was shrewd and calculating, and Andrea was afraid. At first she feared they would do something terrible to her, poke her or make her drink something that would make her lose the baby. Other girls had told her it had happened to them, but for some reason she was allowed to carry her child. After hearing the stories of some of the others, however, she worried. Would they kill it after it was born? Would they truly let her keep it? Every day she asked again, and got the same answer. “Yes, you may keep the child, if that is what you wish.”
Tears slipped down her face as she ran her hand over her belly, feeling the baby move. Her baby. Adam’s life. Adam! Sweet, wonderful Adam. His seed had been planted inside her in those beautiful moments they’d had together, and now his life grew in her. She must keep it! She must have Adam’s baby. Oh, how she would love it!
But she was terrified of having it. Miss Darcy kept telling her she was too young, that young girls sometimes died giving birth, or their babies died. The woman never failed to remind her how painful it would be. And there was the ever-present threat that she wouldn’t be allowed to keep her baby.
She put her head on the window sill and wept. This truly was a terrible place, cold and cruel and miserable. The other girls in it had been sent here for much the same reason as Andrea. All had had their hair cut short when they’d first arrived. Some of the most sinful ones had had their heads shaved. The pregnancies of many were aborted, some were whipped. Andrea had been whipped, her second night there—the first act of “cleansing” her soul. Never would she forget the pain of it, the humiliation of hanging naked while Miss Darcy and two other women witnessed her whipping, which was administered by a stern man with a huge hooked nose who called himself a minister. Andrea knew better. No minister looked at a young girl the way that man had looked at her. Did her parents know what really went on here? Did they approve? Why had her father so quickly sent her away? Life at home had never been happy, but it had not been unbearable, nor had she been cruelly treated. Why was she being so severely punished for her one mistake? And why didn’t her parents even try to understand that in her mind it had not been a mistake at all, but an act of love. Surely they didn’t love her. Why? How could parents not love their child?
She wept until her ribs ached. Adam was the only person in the whole world who really loved her, and now she didn’t even know what had happened to him. She could only pray he was all right, pray she’d get back to him. But she didn’t pray to the kind of God they talked about here at this terrible place. That couldn’t be the real God. Her God was kind and loving, forgiving, and understanding. Her God would have approved of her love for Adam Chandler, would have smiled down on the union that had resulted from that love. Her God understood that she was Adam’s wife in every way. These people tried to make their joining ugly and sinful. But it hadn’t been. She would never believe that. They would not break her. She would not let them.
She wiped at her eyes and watched the snow again. Even if she could get away now, she’d never be able to get to Adam. She couldn’t go far in the deep, icy white below, and even if she could, she wouldn’t know which way to go. She had no money, not even a proper coat or boots for such weather, and the door was still kept locked, the window barred. Would she ever get out of this room, ever live through this agony and go home to Georgia—to Adam? Such a hope seemed a distant dream now. Perhaps they had no intention of ever letting her go. Perhaps they had something terrible in mind for her and the baby. Her young mind invented all kinds of awful things they might do to her. And who was there to turn to? No one. If only Adam were with her…How wonderful it would be to feel his strong arms around her, hear his whispered words of love and reassurance. Adam! No, they had not made her stop loving him. They could never make her stop.
She got up and went to her small cot, curled up under the heavy quilts. One blessing that came with her growing larger with the pregnancy was that they had finally lightened her chores. And for being so good, they had actually told her that tomorrow she needn’t rise early. Sleep. Wonderful sleep. She would really get to lie in bed in the morning for the first time since coming here. She closed her eyes and dreamed of Adam, feeling her cropped hair with one hand, wondering what he would think of it being so much shorter. But it already fell to her shoulders, and maybe by the time she saw him again, it would be long. But that would take months. That would mean not seeing him for months. And surely it wouldn’t be that much longer. Once the baby was born, they would let her go home, if she convinced them she was repentant and no longer cared for the Indian boy.
In a large room on the first floor of the school, Miss Darcy sat at her desk composing a letter to Morgan Sanders.
According to your wishes, Mr. Sanders, an abortion has not been performed on your daughter for fear of damaging her health. However, as you requested, the child will be given immediately upon birth to an orphanage of our choosing, and his or her identity and whereabouts will never be divulged to the mother or even to you, her parents. Since this child is the illegitimate offspring of your daughter’s sinful union with an Indian man, I fully agree that she should not keep it, and I understand your own rejection of this grandchild. Be assured all will be taken care of. Your daughter has been told that she may keep the baby, only to keep her calm until after the birth, which could be hard on one so young. Once that is over with, she will never see the child and will be told that it died. After she has delivered the baby, I am convinced that soon thereafter she will be fully recovered of her senses and ready to return home, a repentant and humble young lady, well schooled and ready to start life anew. She has worked hard and learned well, and I see some goodness beneath the sin visited upon her by that heathen who drew her into his den of iniquity.
God bless you both in our struggle to keep the world a decent place for our little children.
Sincerely,
Evelyn Darcy
The woman folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and addressed it. Then, hearing the protests of a new arrival, she set the letter aside and took the scissors from her desk drawer. It was time for another haircut.
Adam watched the whirling skirts and smiling faces. But he stood alone, having no desire to dance with any girl there. It was spring. Last year he had escorted Andrea to this annual dance. How he had wanted her that night. But he’d gone with that wild farm girl who’d shown him all the ways there were to please a girl. He was glad he’d gone to her first, glad he’d known what to do with Andrea.
But it mattered little now. Andrea was not here. He could see her, watch her float around the floor, feel her in his arms, see her smiling face, the blush that came to it that night when he’d danced with her. They were both nervous, both falling in love. But that had been a whole year ago. How did she look now? What was happening to her? What was she thinking? His eyes stung with the tears provoked by the memory of that last dance. He took a deep breath and swallowed his pain. He must not show his emotions here. Hurriedly he joined a group of men, including Elias Boudinot and John Ross, the Cherokee leaders. The men were discussing politics, as always, and welcomed Adam into their circle.
“Lumpkin is trying to get Indian Removal brought up before Congress,” Boudinot continued. “He wants to go over the President’s head and stir up the public.”
“We have plenty of people on our side,” John Ross declared. “Many ordinary citizens, especially in the North, sympathize with us, as do some prominent men in Congress.”
“Yes, but we all know who our next president is likely to be,” another offered. “Andrew Jackson has announced he’s in the race, and everybody knows how popular he is. All of us are aware of what that could mean to us.”
Faces hardened and hearts tightened. There was a time when the Cherokee had called Andrew Jackson their friend. They had even gone to war with him against the British and against the Creeks when the Creeks had fought on the British side in 1812. They had been loyal to Old Hickor
y, had won many battles for him, battles for which Jackson had taken all the credit, not mentioning his Cherokee fighters.
John Ross spoke up. “We fell for the old white man’s trick of divide and conquer. We wiped out half of the Creeks at Horseshoe Bend, then Jackson turned around, took all the credit, and opened up a lot of Indian land to white settlement. It is too bad we could not all see what was happening even back then. Since the white man stepped foot on this continent he has used Indians against each other to achieve his own ends. The Indians were just too ignorant to realize it. But we aren’t ignorant any longer. Andrew Jackson could become our next president, and we all know he speaks for Indian Removal. He has turned on us, so we must be careful. He will have an answer for our constitution and our request to consider ourselves a separate state. We must emphasize that the land we now own is protected under the treaty, a federal document. The state cannot interfere with a federal act.”
“But it already has. Pressure has gotten the federal government to declare that all this land now belongs to Georgia,” Boudinot answered. “Just to wipe the noses of indignant Georgia politicians like Lumpkin, who want us out of here, the federal government has said Georgia can claim this land. But they refuse to help its citizens to oust us only because they know a lot of people sympathize with us and it would make them look bad to come in here with federal troops to clean us out. That’s why we have to concentrate on the Georgia courts. We have to do everything we can to make Georgia congressmen and others in charge look like asses if they kick us out. We have to keep the public stirred up in our favor. That’s the only thing that will prevent the militia from coming in here and attacking us. We must constantly embarrass the Georgia citizenry and those in power by constant legal challenges of every move they make.”
Heart's Surrender Page 15