American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  It was silent for several minutes as they pondered the things Sydney had said.

  “There was an article in the same newspaper Richmond was reading from the other morning,” said Chigua. “Another article—about the Cherokee chief Stand Watie. It is what prompted my thoughts toward wanting again to know more of my heritage. I want to connect again with that past. I think I remember my grandfather speaking of the man in the article. Cherokee blood flows in my veins. All at once I long to know what that means. Suddenly I find so many unanswered questions stirred up in my heart.”

  Chigua paused, glancing away as she struggled to find the words to express what she felt.

  “I realize how illogical it sounds,” she went on, “but I almost feel guilty that I was taken from the Trail of Removal when so many died along the way. Reading that article stirred up many things. It probably sounds funny, but I want to complete the Trail… or perhaps I need to complete it. I know it would be symbolic. But I feel it is something I need to do for myself, as a pilgrimage to discover who I am.”

  “But where would you go?”

  “Where the rest of the Cherokee are now, to the Indian Territory of Oklahoma.”

  “You mean… you want to go all the way… back there?”

  Chigua nodded. “It is where my people are,” she said. “I must have relatives there. I never knew what happened to my sister. I had many cousins on the trail too, aunts and uncles. Now that we no longer have to fear slavery, I want to find them—perhaps when the war is over. I must know if any of my own people are left. And the ring—”

  She paused and drew in a deep breath, thinking as she spoke.

  “I think,” she continued slowly, “I think I realize that I must no longer keep such a precious treasure to myself.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Sydney.

  “Whatever the ring’s history and significance, it seems that it should be in the hands of a chief, perhaps this Stand Watie. I must know about the ring, and then decide what is to be done with it.”

  “Maybe it will be knowing the history of the ring,” said Sydney, “that will also help you discover what being a Cherokee means.”

  Sixty-Two

  After helping Mrs. Walton feed and wash the men in her care, Cherity saddled a horse from her stable, where there were only two to choose from, and rode out of town west alongside the track of the rail line. She had found herself wondering whether she would know the site when she came to it. But it would have been impossible to miss. As she came around a bend in the line, suddenly there spread out before her a scene she could only describe as one of devastation. Beside the track was a deep crater where the explosion had obviously occurred. Gnarled and twisted rails lay off to the side of the new track that had been laid. Down the embankment to the right lay the three shattered and twisted passenger cars that had been derailed and sent toppling off the track. Two lay on their sides, badly broken, the third was actually split in two pieces and was blackened from fire. How anyone could have survived was a miracle. All around the ground for a hundred or more yards were strewn bits of the wreckage—paper and torn bits of clothing, hats, carpetbags some still with belongings and clothes spilling out of them, a few books and newspapers and shoes and tools and bits of wood and metal… everything wet from being out in the weather and blown about in the wind.

  Cherity pulled up on the horse and sat gazing out over the scene. Again, as seemed to be happening frequently these days, her eyes filled. A terrible knot formed in her stomach.

  “Oh, Seth… Seth!” she whispered and began to cry.

  Slowly she dismounted and began to walk down the slope, stepping between bits of the wreckage of human life. Everything here had once belonged to someone. Now it was just out here being swallowed up by the earth and the elements. She was almost afraid to look about, afraid that she might see an overlooked dead body or a hand or foot or finger. After the horrifying sights she had seen in the last two days, nothing would surprise her.

  Everything filled her with an overwhelming sense of empty sadness. She was never going to find Seth. It was a hopeless search. It had been hopeless from the beginning. She had done what she came here to do. But it was no use. Seth was not in Bend or Jefferson’s Crossing.

  He was nowhere.

  Slowly she continued to walk around, stepping over a torn piece of a man’s shirt, then around an open carpetbag with a mud-splattered woman’s dress spilling out of it… a baby doll… some letters and papers, a bit of lace, a boy’s cap. Thankfully she saw nothing that looked like what Seth had been wearing when she had seen him last.

  She stooped down and gently picked up a sheet of paper whose ink was splattered and faint.

  Dear Harriet, she read in the splotched page, I am sitting in the train on my way to Memphis to visit George. He is in the hospital there after being wounded in the fighting. I have not seen him since he left three years…

  She could make out no more of the blurred hand.

  The poignant words broke her heart. Was George still lying in a bed somewhere waiting for his mother or father or grandmother or aunt or whoever was the author of this letter, wondering what had happened to them?

  She let it fall back to the ground and continued her way about, stepping gingerly over the remnants of so many lives whose suddenly shattered stories would never be known. It was so quiet. All was silence, as if even the birds and squirrels and rabbits did not want to disturb this place where life had been suddenly interrupted… and where some lives had been snuffed out before their appointed time.

  On she went down to the bottom of the embankment. Timidly she looked inside one of the overturned wooden coaches through a huge hole gashed in its roof. She almost feared to see what might be inside, but it was just more of the same, broken and overturned benches and seats, some luggage, papers, clothes, hats…

  As she turned away, a shrill train whistle shrieked behind her. Nearly jumping out of her boots, she spun around as the thunder of a great locomotive clattered around the bend on the repaired rails above, followed by a coal car and three coaches. Her heart in her throat from the sudden sound, she watched as it rounded the curve and slowly disappeared. Gradually again quiet descended upon the woods.

  More dejected than ever, Cherity began to climb back up the hill to the tree where she had tied Mrs. Walton’s horse.

  She trudged up the hill toward the track. The sun angling down glinted off the shiny new lengths of iron rail. She squinted briefly and looked away. As she did her gaze was arrested by a shiny object on the ground about ten feet from her reflecting the ray of sunlight piercing through the treetops. She followed the sight and drew in a sharp breath, then ran forward and stooped down.

  Half buried in the dirt, a third of it protruding out, lay a metal-encased photographic plate. She recognized it immediately as similar to what Seth had used when taking their photographs at Greenwood before leaving for the war.

  With heart pounding, she fell to her knees, pulled it out of the ground, and scraped off the dirt caked over it. It was now worthless. Yet it suddenly became the most precious thing in all the world.

  Frantically Cherity glanced around her. What else might be here… other pieces of his equipment… maybe part of a camera?

  She crawled around in a circle, desperate to find anything else that might offer a link, however slight, to Seth and what had happened to him. Heedless of the mud and dirt on her boots and dress, she made her way about on hands and knees, clawing as if the dirt itself was filled with gold and diamonds and precious gems.

  Her hand felt something… it was long and thin and hard. She dug at the earth like a dog searching for a bone, then grasped and pulled… a pen… the end of a pen! She couldn’t be sure… but it might be Seth’s!

  Energized to a frenzy of excitement, she scraped and clawed and looked about feverishly to her right and left… and there was what looked like a ripped portion of a leather writing folder!

  She grabbed it and yanked it from the grou
nd and wiped at it with her grimy palm. It was but a piece of stiff leather, perhaps six inches by three or four, but… was that a faint monogram…? She squinted and rubbed frantically, trying to clean it off enough to read… she could barely make out a few letters… The Bos—Hera—

  Seth had been here!

  Sweating almost in a fever of hopeful panic, she crawled about until suddenly… was that a corner of a wad of folded paper? …just beneath where she had found the torn bit of leather satchel!

  Her hand closed on it and she tugged gently with one hand as she dug out around it with the other, taking care not to rip the damp and fragile paper. A few seconds later she gently pulled out two crumpled sheets of writing stationery, bits of dirt caked to them, that had somehow clung together and been partially protected by the piece of leather. With heart beating louder than the locomotive that had just passed, slowly she unfolded the crumpled, damp, dirt-stained pages.

  Dear Cherity, she read in the familiar hand, the words blurred and running together.

  It was enough. She broke into tears, able to read no more until she could gain control of her wild emotions.

  It took a minute or minute and a half. Gradually she settled herself enough, then wiped her eyes as dry as she could get them, and tried to continue.

  Dear Cherity,

  It has been three days since I saw your face at the door of your room. I have thought of nothing else since, and your look of anger has haunted me day and night. I am so dreadfully sorry for hurting you as I obviously have. I know that perhaps I have not earned your trust, but I hope you will trust me enough to listen to an explanation that I pray will set your mind at ease. Believe me when I tell you that I love you with all my heart, and I—

  By now Cherity was fighting a losing battle against the flood of tears.

  —I would never intentionally do anything…

  The writing stopped. With a choking sob, Cherity turned the sheet over, then scanned the second sheet of paper in vain. But there was no more. Seth’s words ended in midsentence. The explosion must have thrown satchel, letter, pen, and Seth, from the train the next instant. Whatever else he had intended to write, she would have to keep as a hoped-for treasure in her heart.

  Cherity sat back and slumped to the ground, the pen and wet fragment of letter clutched in her hand, and wept.

  How long she sat it was hard to say. When she next became aware of herself she was on the other side of the overturned cars still clawing and digging searching for even the tiniest something that might have been Seth’s. Her knees and fingers were raw and her whole body shivering from the cold. She had been back and forth over every inch of ground, but other than a muddy boot that might have been Seth’s, or just as well might have belonged to a complete stranger, the rest of her day’s search yielded nothing.

  Slowly she realized that she could do no more. Mentally and physically exhausted at last, she stood. Lugging the boot, the pen, the scrap of letter, the bit of leather, and the photographic plate back up the hill, and managing to mount the horse and keep them in her lap, she set out again for Jefferson’s Crossing.

  Forty minutes later, Cherity rode slowly back into the yard of Mrs. Walton’s farm, slumping in the saddle, a more dejected and defeated sight than could be imagined.

  She walked into the house in a stupor. Mrs. Walton saw her, dirt all over her dress and arms and face, at first thinking she must have fallen from the horse. She approached with a look of compassion. Cherity said nothing. She just fell into the older woman’s arms and sobbed.

  “I… I found some of his things,” she choked after a minute. “But… oh, Mrs. Walton… I’m so afraid!”

  Mrs. Walton held her a few minutes until Cherity’s outburst had subsided.

  “I’ll tell you what I am going to do,” she said. “I think I will boil some water and draw you a nice warm bath.”

  Cherity tried to smile.

  “But… but don’t you need help with the men?” she asked. “I can get changed myself and—”

  “Nonsense. The men can keep and I’ve got the stew for their supper on the stove. You have your bath and we will clean you up and get you into a clean dry dress and then decide what to do.”

  Cherity nodded gratefully.

  Suddenly all she could think was that she wanted to be home.

  Sixty-Three

  Carolyn had again been praying in the arbor. She glanced up and saw Richmond coming toward her along the walkway.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Carolyn.

  “I have an errand to attend to that has waited many years,” Richmond replied. “I have decided that I must ignore its inevitability no longer.”

  Richmond rode into the precincts of Oakbriar with a heavy yet determined heart. This would be one of the most difficult things he had ever done. But the truth must prevail. Light had to shine. Whether that truth must be shouted from the housetops, he wasn’t sure. But it must at least be brought to light.

  Even had he not been following news of the war and the Union march toward the city of Richmond, which every Virginian was well enough aware of since they were again caught in the crosshairs of the conflict, he knew that Denton Beaumont was at home. There were few secrets in a small community like that surrounding Dove’s Landing. Word about everyone traveled fast. On this day, however, Richmond approached Oakbriar in hopes of bringing one of its longest-lasting and darkest secrets at last into the light.

  He dismounted and walked to the door.

  “Hello, Jarvis,” he said when Jarvis answered his knock.

  “Mister Dab’son,” returned the black man respectfully.

  “I am here to see Mr. Beaumont.”

  “I will tell him you’s here, Mister Dab’son.”

  A minute later Beaumont’s heavy step descended the stairs. He approached his visitor without benefit of a smile or offered hand.

  “I would like to talk to you, Denton,” said Richmond. “In private if you don’t mind.”

  Beaumont eyed him skeptically.

  “What about?”

  “Mr. Brown and his house, his land,” replied Richmond. “And possibly the secrets he took with him when he disappeared.”

  Beaumont hesitated another moment. “All right, then,” he said. “Come upstairs to my office.”

  He led the way inside and up the stairs. When the door to Beaumont’s private sanctuary was closed behind them, both men took chairs.

  “I don’t like the way you went behind my back about Elias Slade,” Beaumont began.

  “I am sorry,” replied Richmond. “But I asked you to deal with him earlier, and after a second attack, I could wait no longer. Is he finally gone?”

  “I told him a warrant had been issued but that I did not want to be involved. I told him to get out and never show his face around here again. Yes, he is gone.”

  “I am glad to hear it. But I came to see you about other matters.”

  “Ah, the Brown land,” nodded Beaumont. “So… have you finally decided to sell that worthless tract? If so, I cannot guarantee that I could possibly pay as much as I once offered you. You should have taken it when you had the chance, Richmond.”

  “That is not why I am here. The Brown land is still not for sale.”

  “Why are you here then?” snapped Beaumont irritably.

  “I want to speak with you seriously about some things that happened many years ago. What do you know about the disappearance of Mr. Brown?”

  “Nothing! Why should I know anything about it?”

  “I have reason to believe that you may have been the last one to see him around here.”

  “What are you talking about!”

  “My father had great respect for Mr. Brown. I want to get to the bottom of what happened and why.”

  “But why? As you said, it was a long time ago. The man is gone, what does it matter?”

  “It matters to me.”

  “He was just an Indian, for heaven’s sake! Why would you care about such an inferior
people?”

  “Guard your tongue, Denton. That is an outrageous thing to say.”

  “Bah! You and your notions! It’s perfectly true and everyone knows it.”

  “The Cherokee are a noble people.”

  “Just like, I suppose you’ll be telling me next, the darkies are!”

  “They too are a noble race.”

  “Listen to yourself, man! What have you sunk to talking like that? They’re not the same as whites.”

  “So is it true that you regard the life of a white man more highly than that of a red or a black man?”

  “Of course. All enlightened people do.”

  “There are many who think the compass of enlightenment swings around in exactly the opposite direction. But your point of view raises another question,” added Richmond. “My brother was neither Indian nor Negro. Did you show his life equal respect with your own?

  Beaumont sat staring straight ahead, momentarily stunned into silence.

  “What does Clifford have to do with Brown and… and anything else?” he asked after a moment, his tone slightly subdued.

  “He may have everything to do with it, Denton. I think you and he may have been together when, as I say, you were the last to see Mr. Brown before his disappearance.”

  “What are you accusing me of?” Beaumont shot back.

  “I am accusing you of nothing. I only said that I think you and Clifford may have been the last to see Mr. Brown.”

  Soothing his ruffled feathers, Beaumont gradually calmed.

  “I believe you know this portion of map,” said Richmond, pulling the envelope from his pocket and withdrawing the torn paper from it.

  “Yes, it’s mine. That girl who is staying with you stole it from me. I’m glad to see you had the good sense to return it.”

  He reached out for the paper, but Richmond withdrew it.

  Beaumont’s eyes flashed with fire.