Adam heard and saw nothing but his wife’s colorless face. Around him the women busily cleaned up a baby that was beginning to cry, while the doctor worked with Andrea, forcing out the afterbirth, mumbling something about her losing a lot of blood. She was washed and packed and covered. Then the doctor waved something under her nose, and she stirred.
“Come on now, Andrea girl, don’t you go slipping away on me,” Dr. Cunningham said in a loud voice. “Wake up. I’m the one who should be sleeping. Between you and your husband, I’ve been up all night. You two are young enough to take it. I’m getting too old.”
She stirred more. “Baby…don’t take my baby away,” she whimpered.
“Nobody is going to take this one away,” Adam told her. He bent down and kissed her lips, but she didn’t seem to be aware of the present.
“No! Don’t take him away! Where’s my baby?”
Adam grasped her shoulders. “Andrea, the baby is right here. Calm down and lie still.”
She opened her eyes, confused. “Adam?”
“It’s all over.”
“I want you to try to stay awake awhile, Andrea,” the doctor told her. “Don’t be slipping off on me. Drink some water now, please. We’ll get you all settled and then this husband of yours can go back to his own bed where he belongs.”
She gazed at Adam, seeming to realize fully, for the first time, that he was there. She reached up and touched his bruised chin. Then Rose brought the baby over, a smile on her face.
“I have a fine grandson, Adam. Thank you.” She leaned down and kissed her son’s cheek before gently placing the baby beside Andrea. Adam stared in amazement at the wrinkled, red bundle with the sparse black hair. His son looked out of place lying next to his blond, blue-eyed mother. The contrast brought a smile to Adam’s lips, and seeing a son brought tears to his eyes. He reached down and, with a big finger, touched a tiny, soft cheek.
“A son,” he whispered. “Andrea, we have a son.”
She reached over and ran a hand over the tiny body, opening the blanket to see that her baby had all his fingers and toes. Then she looked up at Adam, who was speechless. Tears on his cheeks, he smiled, bent down, and hugged them both.
“Thank you, Andrea,” he whispered.
“Nobody can take this one away, can they?” she pleaded. “I can keep my baby.”
He held back a sob. “Yes, you can keep this one.”
It was called the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek. Signed by only a minority of the Choctaws, it was deemed valid by the government. The State of Mississippi could now expect the Choctaws to leave, and as soon as the treaty was signed whites began to make their appearance, swarming onto Indian farms, declaring ownership, looting homes. Federal Indian agents did nothing to stop the white pilferers, and the Choctaws fell into utter chaos and confusion, many turning to the alcohol that white traders brought them. To be drunk was the only consolation, and the whites didn’t mind. A drunken Indian was easier to swindle.
The Cherokee were now beginning to get their own taste of the effects of the Indian Removal Bill. Gold was discovered near Dahlonega, in the heart of Cherokee country. Nothing could have been worse for the Cherokees, for the word gold meant a literal white stampede. Georgia had to get legislation into gear to arrange for the removal of the Cherokee. But the Cherokee continued to fight their legal battle, in spite of the Removal Bill. There was still widespread sympathy for the Indians, and the Cherokee were politically well organized and disciplined. Meetings were held almost daily. At these Cherokee leaders urged unity and coherence. Over and over again, as the threat of white atrocities came ever closer, the Cherokee were urged to remain nonviolent, despite provocation, to suffer whatever indignities, insults, deprivations, and outrages were visited on them. Only by not fighting physically could they have any hope of winning any legal battles. The moment a sword was raised, the government would declare war, and with more numbers and weapons, the whites would gladly ride down on the Cherokee and exterminate them all. John Ross was the most ardent in urging unity and nonviolence. He became president of the Cherokee Nation and the leader of the Cherokee fight.
It seemed, during this time, that Adam was gone almost constantly. But Andrea had the baby now, little Jonas Adam, named for his grandfather and father. The baby was fat and healthy, dark and handsome like his father, and a great joy to Andrea, helping to ease the pain she felt because of the child she had never seen. She watched him like a hawk, keeping him by her side at all times, holding him so much that Adam declared she would spoil him. But he understood, for the deep terror in her own heart was also in his. All around them danger lurked and chaos prevailed. Yet the Cherokee stayed together in their desperate fight, while in Mississippi the government proceeded to root out the Choctaws; and the Georgia Legislature handed down a new set of laws to the Cherokee, hoping that just the threat of this new legislation would frighten the Indians into running. A few did, for the words of the new act, passed immediately after the Indian Removal Bill was approved by the Federal Government, provided for the confiscation by the state of all Cherokee land. A lottery was planned, in which whites could buy chances to have their names drawn. The winners were awarded sections of Indian land. That precious, sacred land that had belonged to the Cherokee for hundreds of years was to be gambled away to whites. Other threatening provisions of the new act were the abolition of the authority of the Cherokee government and nullification of all Cherokee laws; prohibition of meetings of the Cherokee Council and of all other Cherokee gatherings, even religious ones; punishment by imprisonment of any Cherokee who urged others not to migrate; denial of the right of any Cherokee to testify in court against any white man; denial of the right of the Cherokee to dig for gold on their land.
The Georgia Militia moved into the gold fields, seizing and destroying all tools and machinery, burning all buildings and homes that surrounded the immediate area of the gold fields.
Every time Adam went out the door, Andrea lived in fear until he returned. Her own health was making a slow return, but worry about her husband’s well-being was keeping her spirit down. She was sure he’d returned to his busy schedule too quickly after his attack; after nearly two months he still limped. And she’d had to leave her precious home. Since there was more safety in numbers, Adam had insisted she stay at his father’s house. In her heart she grieved for her own home. They had been allowed to live in it such a short time. Everything was happening too fast now, too fast! She couldn’t even live in her own house. The Cherokee dwellings around the gold fields had been burned. Torched! She feared a visit from the Militia, and she feared Douglas Means. Worse yet, she could not help but wonder if her own father was among those prepared to buy a chance to win Cherokee land.
It seemed impossible that any of this was happening. How could a government simply create laws to suit its fancy, laws that in so many words said that a certain people no longer had the right to exist, that all they loved and had worked for could no longer be theirs, that they must simply uproot themselves and move to a land so different from their own that many of them would die just from the change in climate? How could Georgia and the nation do this to such a good, proud, intelligent people, a people who had been there for hundreds and hundreds of years; a people who were educated, civilized, settled; who were good Christians. What was the crime in being an Indian? Yet with all its bills and acts, the government had declared it a federal offense to be an American Indian.
It was late October, 1830, when Adam returned from another journey to Washington with John Ross. Andrea looked up at him from the bed, where she sat nursing Jonas.
“Thank God, you’re back,” she said quietly. “You look so tired.”
He closed the door, removing his jacket. “I am tired—tired of constant arguments, and of digging at my brains to come up with the right words to stall off the inevitable.”
She swallowed back a lump in her throat. “You can’t give up, Adam.”
He smiled almost bitterly. “Now
you sound like John Ross. Are you sure you don’t have any Cherokee blood in you?”
She smiled. “Come and see your son. He’s growing up and you’re missing it.”
He stared at her a moment, then came and sat down on the edge of the bed. Reaching out, he touched the boy’s soft, black hair; studied the little dark fist curled against his mother’s milky white breast. Then he smiled and traced a finger over the full, white skin himself. He met her eyes.
“I couldn’t make love to you for a long time. You had so much healing to do,” he said quietly. “And my leg and all…then all of this traveling.”
“Adam, I’m all right now. It’s been three months. We’re letting too much get in the way. I don’t want what’s happening to stop us from loving each other—or from making love. And every time you walk out the door I die a little bit inside. Let’s not talk any more tonight about Washington or the militia or John Ross. Tell me in the morning. I want my husband to make love to me. That’s where I get my strength. I’ll get stronger a lot faster if I can draw my strength from you.”
He smiled, his eyes tearing. “I’m sorry. I’ve had so much to think about.”
When he choked up, she put a hand to his face. “I know that. My God, Adam, you have to worry about losing everything that you love. But you won’t lose me, or little Jonas. Whatever happens, we’ll be with you, whether we stay here or have to go to a new land.”
A tear slipped down his cheek, and he took her hand and kissed it.
“You get undressed, Adam. Let me put the baby in his cradle.” She got up then, pulling the sleeping infant away from her breast and gently placing him in a large wooden cradle, hand-made for him by his grandfather. That done she turned, to study her husband lovingly and with desire as he removed his shirt. Their eyes held, and she could see a near-violent passion building in him. It had been a very long time, and his heart was torn inside. He undressed very deliberately, almost provocatively, a demanding look in his eyes.
She watched, her own passion building as she took in his magnificent physique. Her heart ached at the sight of the long scar on his right thigh, so white against his dark skin. Yet how beautiful he was! She opened her robe then. She’d worn nothing beneath it, hoping he would come home this night, hoping they could finally be one again. As she let it fall to the floor, she reddened slightly and then ran a hand over her belly, now flat again.
“I…hope I haven’t changed too much…from having the baby and all.”
He walked close to her, grasping her face in his hands. “And why would it matter to me if you had?” He bent down and met her lips, at first tenderly, then with a sudden, gripping passion. He pulled her close, embracing her so tightly she could barely get her breath. She felt his hardness against her stomach, and her own hunger was keen and urgent. Each time they did this could be the last, or so it seemed to them, for all around them was fear and sorrow.
Suddenly they could not get enough of each other. They kissed and groaned and touched and cried. He carried her to the bed, and as soon as he laid her upon it, he was on top of her, pressing, kissing, feeling, tasting, moving over her in hard, demanding urgency, trembling with the want of her and the fear of what could happen to her. He spent very little time in preparing her. He simply had to have her and that was that. He pushed her knees apart with his own legs, devouring her mouth as he guided himself into her in hungry fury, making her cry out; for the first time joining after giving birth is sometimes painful. But it didn’t matter. She had to have him. Adam! Her sweet, beautiful Adam! He was here, safe in her arms; she safe in his. They surged in desperate rhythm and he raised up, grasping her hips and pulling her up to him. She felt like a rag doll in his hands, totally at his mercy, letting him use her as he wished; for he needed her this way, and she liked nothing more than to please her Cherokee man.
He uttered something in the old tongue as his life surged into her belly. Then he stayed rigid for a moment before practically collapsing beside her and pulling her into his arms.
“My God,” he whispered. “I took you as if I were raping you.”
She kissed his chest. “It’s all right. We’ll do it again, a little more gently perhaps.”
He tangled his fingers in her golden hair. “I’m sorry, Andrea.”
“For what? I wanted you as much as you wanted me.”
“Not just that. The rest. Not being able to be with you and Jonas—all the danger. I planned on being with you all the time when I married you. I was going to just stay here and farm, maybe do some legal work on the side. We’d all be together.”
“We will all be together. Somehow it will work out.” She had to be strong. There were times when it was he who needed her strength, rather than the other way around. She sensed this was one of those times. He was going through hell. He lived with insults and abuse, whenever he set foot off Cherokee land and went to Washington, or whenever he encountered the militia. “Remember what John Ross tells you and keep following him, Adam.”
He swallowed. “Most of the time I can handle it. I get so mad—” He gripped her hair. “We can’t fight back. I want to kill them all, but I can’t, and it’s tearing at my guts!”
“I know, darling,” she whispered.
“I’ll have to fight, Andrea. If they ever…touch you or Jonas…I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Alarm went through her, and she pulled away and met his eyes. “Don’t talk that way. If you harm one white man, you know what will happen to you. It isn’t worth it, Adam. I can bear whatever might come, as long as you don’t do something that will mean we can never be together again. Promise me you won’t do something stupid and get yourself hung!”
His eyes teared and he touched her face with a shaking hand. “I can’t make a promise like that. I won’t let anyone hurt you, Andrea, not ever!”
Their eyes held. There was no arguing with him tonight. More tears slipped down his face. “Oh, Adam,” she whispered, her own throat aching now. She reached out and touched the tears. “My poor Adam.”
“I can’t help it, Andrea,” he hissed, struggling against the tears. “Sometimes…I just can’t hold it in any longer.”
She moved up, pulling his face against her breast, stroking his hair. “Then don’t. Don’t hold it in, or you’ll lose your mind. You’re here in the privacy of our room with your wife. If you can’t cry to me, then what good am I.”
He shook quietly, and she felt wetness against her skin as she rocked him gently, kissing his hair, her own tears falling quietly. If anyone had reason to weep, it was Adam Chandler. Her heart saddened even more when she suddenly thought of the oak tree, his tree—the place where he prayed and got his strength. They couldn’t even go there anymore, up on the ridge where everything was quiet and beautiful. It was too dangerous now. It would always be theirs, standing on the ridge, tall and silent—the oak tree, where Adam Chandler first made a woman of her. Others could come and take the land, but they couldn’t take away their memories.
In the wee hours of the morning when little Jonas stirred and cried, Andrea awakened, aching and tired from strenuous lovemaking with her husband. Quietly, she slipped out of the bed and pulled on her robe, then went into an adjoining washroom, to sponge off her body, so recently touched and tasted by her husband. Then she quickly changed the baby, picked him up, and sat down in a rocker to feed him. She studied her beautiful little son, who, it was evident, would be as strong and handsome as his father. And she closed her eyes then, and prayed—for Adam and for the courage and wisdom they would both need in the days ahead.
Never once had she regretted marrying her Cherokee man, no matter what horrors lay ahead for them. She would have it no other way. She knew he felt guilty about putting her in this situation, and smiled at what a foolish thing it was for him to feel that way. How she loved Adam Chandler! Her heart ached not for her own danger, but for the Cherokee, for Adam. Such a good man he was, so intelligent, so kind; normally a peace-loving, Christian man. The whites were bri
nging out a side of him that would ordinarily have remained dormant. She could see anger building in him, desperation and hatred and a need for vengeance. That worried her more than anything. She knew he’d meant it when he’d said he’d never allow anyone to hurt her. She couldn’t allow herself to think about what that could mean. She forced back the thought of Douglas Means, the worry over where that man was at this moment. She wondered sometimes what had ever happened to Mary, but that didn’t matter anymore. It was Mary who had caused Andrea’s exile to the north. She would never forgive Mary Means for that.
Jonas finished feeding, and she placed him in the cradle, covered him. Then she removed her robe and crawled back into bed, wanting to feel her naked body against Adam’s. As she snuggled close to him he stirred, then turned over, more asleep than awake as he pulled her against him.
His hands began to move over her, his eyes still closed. He whispered her name and kissed her hair, slowly awakening, enjoying the soft warmth and sweet comfort of being suspended between sleep and wakefulness in a warm bed in the early morning, his woman beside him. It had been so long since he’d had her this way. For the moment he had depleted his worry and rage in that one fit of weeping against his wife’s breast, and somehow he felt stronger, more at peace. How would he have borne any of this without his Andrea? he wondered.
He gently moved over her, vaguely remembering taking her in one hard, nearly violent intercourse hours before. Poor Andrea. She put up with so much. His lips moved over her neck and shoulder, down to her breasts, which he sucked gently, tasting some of the milk meant for his son. The thought of the sweet mother that she was only made him want her more. Sensing no protest from her as his lips moved back to her throat, he gently massaged her secret places with his hand, exploring, bringing out the sweet juices of love and building her passion as he should have done that first time. He’d hardly given her a moment to breathe then. This time would be for her. He could show her he was sorry, let her be a woman, do all the things that satisfied a woman.
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