Heart's Surrender

by Rosanne Bittner

  Pro-treaty Cherokees like John Ridge and Elias Boudinot began to regret their actions, for in the end they realized they had only been used and fooled by the government. Once the treaty was ratified, their own land and possessions were taken by the militia, and only the presence of federal troops finally quieted the ruckus. Tennessee troops were also sent in, for they were not as anti-Indian as were the Georgia men.

  There was a lull in militia violence during the presence of the federal troops. Andrea could take the children outside to play and enjoy sunshine and fresh air. Adam was gone almost constantly, but he knew that she was safe for the time being. He and John Ross and others helped the sick and the destitute, and guided the People in how to prepare for Removal; yet both still believed that somehow the good people of America would rally behind them and somehow stop the terrible thing that was happening.

  Wilson Lumpkin, now governor of Georgia and the appointed U.S. Commissioner in charge of effecting Removal under the new treaty, was enraged by the interference of federal troops. He whipped out letters to everyone involved, protesting the infringement of Georgia’s right to conduct Removal in its own way. He was furious at the bad name that his state now had, insistent that Georgia did not deserve it, and determined that Indian Removal would take place promptly. Lumpkin men managed to convince a few Cherokees to head west, and in January and March of 1837, small migrations took place. Those first to leave were allowed to take with them their possessions—horses, cattle, furniture, and ample provisions. The thousands who held out and refused to recognize the treaty knew that they would not be granted such privileges if and when they had to go. Still they refused to budge. Because of Wool’s increasing sympathy for the Indians, he was replaced by a Colonel William Lindsay in July of 1837, and John Ross was warned that if he continued to urge his people to disobey the treaty, he faced arrest.

  In January of 1838 Ross made one final trip to Washington, taking with him a petition signed by over fifteen thousand Cherokees. It declared that the treaty had never been recognized by the majority of the Cherokee, and was therefore invalid. Again Ross appealed to the reason and honesty of those in power. But Congress was now unwilling to reopen the issue, especially in the face of war with the Seminoles. Ross was warned that to delay any longer in moving his people to Indian Territory would bring them only disaster and calamity. In one last impassioned speech on behalf of the Cherokees, the honored Ralph Waldo Emerson himself addressed the new President, Van Buren, in April of 1838, stating among other things that “the last howl and wailing of these tormented villagers and tribes shall afflict the ears of the world.”

  When Adam brought home the news that Ross’s last appeal had failed, Andrea knew she had never seen more sorrow in anyone’s eyes. The loss of a child could not have brought any worse pain to her husband’s face. “We’d better…get a few things ready,” he said quietly. His fighting spirit was gone. Andrea could see him withering like a vine without water. He walked to the cupboard and took out a bottle of whiskey. “At least the federal troops are still in charge. We’re safe if we just do what they say.”

  Andrea watched him slug down some of the whiskey. She wanted to tell him to stop. She was afraid for him to drink, fearing he would fall into the state of drunken despair as had so many others. No! Not her Adam! He’d always been so proud and strong.

  “Are you sure—about the federal troops?” Ruth asked in a shaking voice.

  Adam lowered the bottle. He looked first at her, then at Andrea. “I’m sure. If they do not remain, and if anyone is harmed, this is one Cherokee who will not remain nonviolent!” He threw the bottle against a wall and stormed out of the cabin. Andrea stared at the shattered bottle, struggling to hold back tears, feeling that her happy life with her husband was just as shattered. She walked blindly into their bedroom and began to pack their clothing, in no particular order. Meanwhile, unknown to them, the man now in charge of the federal troops was deciding who would oversee the gathering in of the Cherokees, for he did not have enough men to cover the wide area of heavily wooded land in which the Cherokees were hiding. Major General Scott decided that to effect a rapid gathering of Indians into the holding camps, the Georgia Militia would have to be utilized. They knew the hills, and they had had experience with the Cherokee. Preparations got underway. In the spring, the Cherokees must go.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Eleven-year-old Indian walked on thin legs to his bed. He was tall for his age, and the other boys and the overseers of the orphanage where he lived had dropped Little from his name. Now he was just Indian. But more and more he wondered about himself, about the mysterious white mother he was supposed to have, and the Indian father, though both apparently had abandoned him. He wanted to know why they had left him to this life. Somewhere he had something others called a family. But whenever he asked Big Father or Miss Williams about it, they told him he must never think about his mother and father, that he would never know them, that he must be good and work hard until he was eighteen. Then he could leave the orphanage and make a life for himself.

  But where would he go? What would he do? The only work he knew how to do was in the factories, where he ran machines fourteen hours a day, every day. He rose early, ate bread and butter, got into the enclosed coach and went to the factory, where he worked seven hours straight with no break; then he was allowed a half-hour for the little sack lunch Miss Williams gave him each day. After eating he worked six and a half more hours, then went home. It was already dark. He ate soup, and on rare occasions some meat, sometimes even some fruit, but that was a rare treat. It was the same for all the boys at the orphanage. There was no time to play, and often one of his friends would disappear. Miss Williams always told him the boy had “gone away,” nothing more. It frightened him. Some of the older boys said those who disappeared had actually died from working too hard. They simply were not strong enough to be good factory workers. Indian was not sure what dying meant, except that there was something frighteningly final about it.

  He rubbed at aching muscles and curled up against his pillow, wondering if he would someday “go away” because of all the hard work. He wondered about the people he saw when he walked from the dark coach to the hot factory. Under blue skies, they walked around on the streets, some smiling and laughing, big women with little children at their sides. Surely they were mothers. It seemed to him it must be a nice thing to have a mother, and to walk about in that world he did not know; to be free to run, to touch grass and watch the sun.

  He shivered and pulled the blankets around him. He could not forget the horrible accident that had occurred that day. Another boy’s arm had been severed. So much blood! Why had the boss man waited so long to get the boy help? Had that boy “gone away” too? He had not come back to the orphanage that night. Indian swallowed back fear and a desire to cry. Every day he wondered if it was his turn to get hurt. He was as careful as he could be with the big machinery. He never complained, and he made no trouble. Those who were very, very good and had no accidents, those who were smarter than the others, sometimes got to work at the orphanage instead of the factories. They were allowed to do odd jobs for Miss Williams, to clean her many books and serve her her meals. Indian intended to get such a job someday. If he did, he would look at all those books. Somehow he would learn how to read and write, as he’d seen Miss Williams do many times. He had asked her about it, but she’d told him Indians must not be taught to read and write, that it was not good for them. He could not imagine what could be wrong with looking at little figures and figuring out how they spelled words. His mind was alert and bright, and he wanted to know more, about books and writing, about the outside world, the sky, and other people. And he especially wanted to know about his mother and father. Maybe Miss Williams had some papers hidden away that told all about him. If he could find them, and then find out what they said, he might find his mother and father.

  Charles Adam Bird was born in the spring of 1838. But the joy of his birth was marred b
y the disaster about to befall the Cherokees. Ruth and James knew their little son would not grow up in the beloved homeland. It was only a matter of time before the federal troops came to take them away. There was no place left to hide, nowhere to run. There were only those last weeks of agonizing waiting.

  The waiting ended in horror, in the wee hours of morning just before the sun was full up, when they slept hard, unaware that outside the cabin men had gathered for the roundup of Cherokees. But these were not federals.

  It wasn’t even daylight yet when Adam and Andrea awoke to the sound of the cabin door being chopped open with axes. In their sleepy state there was little time to react to the unexpected intrusion. Adam quickly pulled on a pair of pants, cursing the fact that just days earlier federal troops had confiscated all his weapons. He had expected them to come soon to take him and his family away, but they had not been abusive, and he had not expected them to come at such an early hour and to crash into his home unannounced.

  Andrea groped for her robe, her heart pounding with terror. “Adam, the boys!” Already men could be heard storming around the outer room, ordering everyone up. Their own bedroom door burst open then, and even though lighted lamps were behind the soldier so that she could not see his face in the dark room, instinct told her who it was. Andrea backed away.

  “What the hell is going on!” Adam roared.

  “Outside,” came a voice. “Get out here where we can see your faces.”

  “Is this the way the federal government conducts our removal? Plenty of people will hear about this!”

  “We aren’t Federals, Indian. We’re Georgia Militia. Now get out of this room!”

  Andrea choked back a whimper, and Adam was immediately across the bed and at her side. He held her close. “The militia isn’t supposed to be a part of this,” he said coldly, gripping her tightly.

  “Well, plans changed.”

  Another soldier came into the room, while in the main room Andrea and Adam could hear crying.

  “Let me go to my children!” Andrea whimpered.

  The second soldier held up a lamp, and she paled at the realization that her suspicion was true. The voice of the man who had ordered them up was too familiar. Douglas Means grinned when he saw his captives.

  “Well, well. I knew you two lived here. My timing was right this time.”

  Adam moved quickly. It would be better to die and know Andrea would not be harmed than to go peacefully. Andrea screamed his name as he charged into Means so fast that Douglas could not fire his gun. The two men went crashing into the outer room, and there was no doubt Douglas Means would have died at Adam Chandler’s hands at that moment. But there were too many soldiers. Andrea ran after him but was pushed away, and forced to watch in horror as heavily booted feet kicked at her husband and gun butts smashed into him until he was unable to fight back. Douglas Means had easily scrambled away, and he only grinned at Andrea’s screams while her husband was beaten. She was pushed back by more soldiers, until she stood against a wall alongside the rest of the family. Eight-year-old Jonas ran to kick at the men who were hurting his father, but he was struck by another soldier and pushed back to Andrea. She clung to the struggling boy.

  “No, Jonas. They’ll hurt you!”

  “They’re hurting Father!” the boy raged, tears on his face. Six-and-a-half-year-old John clung to his mother’s housecoat and cried, and Ruth cringed behind her husband, her horrified eyes on Douglas Means.

  It had all happened in seconds, with no time to think or fight back or hide. Everyone was gathered now, standing in nightgowns and underwear. The room seemed filled with yelling and screaming and crying. Adam had fought like a madman until a barrage of feet and fists and gun butts had silenced him. Then Douglas had finally ordered the men to stop pummeling him.

  “I want him to live,” he said with cold bitterness. “I want him to know I have his wife.” He turned cool gray eyes to Andrea, and she felt vomit rise in her throat. “I no longer need to worry about spoiling an innocent virgin, do I, Andrea?” His eyes moved over her as the room quieted, except for the sounds of whimpering women. “It’s been a lot of years since that little slut Andrea Sanders tried to fight me off in a barn. Now I shall finish what I started there. I’ll let your stinking Indian man live so he can know you’re in my hands. He’ll regret putting his own hands on a white girl, especially one that belonged to me.”

  Andrea clung to her sons, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe, terror engulfing her, her eyes on Adam now as the other soldiers cuffed his wrists. Heavy chains were attached to the cuffs.

  “Keep him separate from the others,” Douglas ordered. “Chain him behind a wagon, but leave it empty. When you get him to the holding camp, keep him chained outside the walls of the camp. He’s one of the leaders and he’ll keep them stirred if they see him, especially if they see he’s been beaten. It’s important he be kept away from the others.” His eyes came back to Andrea and her sons. “Are these the only half-breed bastards you have?” he sneered.

  “Don’t hurt my sons,” she answered, suddenly calming in the face of danger to her children.

  “Come along quietly and I won’t, dear Andrea.”

  How she managed to make herself walk, she wasn’t sure. She only knew that to resist could bring harm to her boys and more harm to Adam. “Please let the others gather some of their belongings and…some of ours.”

  Douglas grinned. Reaching out and placing a hand under her robe, he groped at a breast. “You’ve matured, dear Andrea. And I must say, you are much prettier. How sad that you wasted your gifts on an Indian man.”

  She jerked away but he grabbed her hair and yanked her back, pinning her against him. “I think it’s about time you found out what a white man is like, don’t you?”

  He shoved her over to two other men. “Take her back to my tent and hold her there. And don’t let anybody touch her. She’s mine.” His eyes moved over her coldly. “Every last little intimate part of her.”

  The two men pulled her out the door, amid cries of “Mommy, Mommy” from her sons. James Bird’s parents and Rose hurriedly grasped the boys as they tried to run after their mother, and Adam struggled through black pain and near unconsciousness, wanting to go to her. He mumbled her name, but men were dragging him somewhere. Soon he was outside in the early morning dew. The sky was just beginning to get light, and he could hear horses riding off, hear more orders being given, hear his sons crying. Were they being hurt? Someone yanked at his wrists. He was chained to something.

  “You’d better find your senses and walk, Indian, or you’ll be dragged,” a voice told him. He struggled to get to his feet. Andrea! Where was Andrea! She’d been taken away. Douglas Means had taken her away! No! No! He had to kill! He had to kill Douglas Means and save Andrea!

  He began to pull wildly at his chains, but they were hooked to something. He pulled and pulled, ignoring the raw pain at his wrists.

  “Adam, please stay calm!” He heard his mother’s voice then. “You’re badly hurt, and they’ll hurt you more if you fight them!”

  “Shut up, woman, and go get in the other wagon!” a man bellowed.

  He could hear Jonas screaming then, knew the boy was kicking and fighting as he kept shouting at the soldiers, calling them names, telling them to let him go to his father and to bring back his mother. “My father will kill all of you if you hurt my mother!” the boy yelled, and he then let out a string of insults.

  There was a loud slap and a sort of thud then, and Adam didn’t hear his son’s voice again. Rage and sorrow overwhelmed him, and he tugged at the chains again, gritting his teeth against tears. “Jonas!” he groaned. “Bastards!” he shouted louder then. “Sons of bitches! Stinking white cowards! Cowards! You’re all cowards! There is not a man among you!”

  Over and over he tugged at the chains like a wild animal. But minutes later he had to stop tugging and start walking, for the wagon had jolted into movement. He threw back his head and breathed deeply o
f the morning air, thinking that perhaps if he breathed deeply enough, he could get enough of his beloved mountain air into his lungs to keep it there forever and take it with him to the barren, unfamiliar land where they would be taken.

  His mind reeled with a horrible mixture of emotions. Douglas Means had his wife, perhaps his sons were hurt, and he was being taken from his homeland. It was really happening. The very thing they had fought against for so many years was now happening. The mountains! The valleys! The green trees and running waters. The animals and the sweet red earth. The old farm, and the giant golden oak under which he and Andrea had known so much happiness. The oak! Andrea! No! He could not bear this horrible loss—not everything all at once. He could not leave this place where the earth was his true mother, the mountains his true father, the trees and flowers his strength, the running waters his blood. His ancestors’ remains rested here, his own spirit lived here. To leave this place was to leave his spirit behind and to take only a shell of a man to new places. But worse than the gripping ache of leaving his homeland was the fierce need to find Douglas Means. This could not be happening! Federal troops were supposed to come for them, not Georgia Militia.

  The morning came, sunshiny and beautiful, and Adam’s senses cleared somewhat, but his body was badly battered and bruised. The skin of his face was split open in several places, and blood had formed scabs on it. He knew he was badly injured, yet somehow he didn’t feel the pain. His legs kept moving as he was forced to walk behind the wagon. He turned away and groaned as they passed a small cabin outside which women stood, stripped and being whipped. This could not be happening! How had the government let this happen? Didn’t anyone know what was being done to the Cherokees?