Dear Deanna, she read,
I have been going back and forth to Richmond, not quite as frequently as in the final months of the war, but enough to feel that I am doing some good. It is so satisfying to see the wounded men gradually getting back on their feet and going home. For the first time since the war, some of the wards and hospitals are actually beginning to have a few empty beds.
I have been thinking a great deal about what I will do now. I never really thought about such things when I was young. But after what happened during the war, I have become introspective and prayerful about what life means and what we are put on this earth for. I have realized that I really am very fortunate—God has given me so much. I have a wonderful family and friends—like you!—and I realize that I want to use what God has given me to help those who haven’t been so fortunate. So I have been thinking about going to school to become a doctor. I have talked to my father about it and he is completely in favor of it and said he would help with the cost of schooling. I haven’t decided for certain yet, but I am thinking seriously about it.
For now, especially with Seth not back to full strength from his injuries, I am helping my father with the work around Greenwood. It is good working alongside him as a man instead of a boy—I think the war made us all men. My father is a good man! I don’t know why it took me so long to see it. I really enjoy being with him….
When Deanna finished the letter a few minutes later, she immediately went back into the house, ran upstairs to the room she shared with Mary, Suzane, and Rebecca Borton, and sat down at the writing table to begin a return letter of her own.
Far to the west in the Cherokee Territory of Oklahoma, the man who, even if indirectly, had been the subject of the recent newspaper interview was out walking in the small village which for years had been his home.
The end of the war had sent him into a period of deep reflection. The years had crept up on him with surprising haste. He had always hoped that a time would come when he would be shown clearly what to do about the old times… and the new. But the recent war, far from clarifying his vision for the future of his people, had obscured it all the more. And new pressures, and with them new dangers, were upon them.
He grieved for the ongoing conflict.
Yet what could he do? He was but one man, and an aging one. Youth did not respect antiquity as it once had. What could his words accomplish now, one lone voice amid winds of change?
He knew that his days among his people were slowly drawing to an end. The time when he would be gathered to his fathers was approaching like a slow dusk settling down upon his earthly life.
He had concluded a portion of his duty. Yet it still remained for him to pass on the heritage that had been given into his possession. He was old and getting older. As the great chief Attacullaculla and the Ghigua before him, he must now seek worthy young Cherokee who valued and honored the old ways.
And perhaps…
It had been so many years. But was a time of returning, even at his age, also at hand?
How else to complete the sacred circle of beginnings and endings? How else to secure the heritage… and pass it on to those destined to follow him?
Seventy
Stand Watie knew that he was in danger. Not only him, but his friend of the white feather. Black Wolf would not rest until he saw them both dead. Whatever their differences, that chilling fact now united them. He must warn his friend. Hopefully he could persuade him to leave the territory for a season, as he had done many years before.
Once his own family was safe, Watie set out for the north of the territory—a ride of two or two and a half days. As he went, he was welcomed into prominent Indian homes each night of his journey.
Unknown to him, however, his every step was watched by allies of Black Wolf.
Before the end of the first day word was being sent to Black Wolf’s followers to meet at dawn in Cherry Tree. The assassination of Watie with his father’s tomahawk would signal the beginning of the uprising. The old wise man would be next. Their scalps would ensure Black Wolf’s claim to the chieftainship of the nation.
But Stand Watie also had his supporters. Getting wind of the attack, and fearing the worst, Watie saddled his fastest mount and before dawn of the second day set out. On the way he sent word to his own allies that he feared violence, and with instructions to gather at Bull Hollow.
With the war over, Richard Fitzpatrick was no longer traveling as much as he had been. Both he and Veronica had committed themselves anew to one another, and to being home together most evenings, now riding together and spending as much time with one another as possible. If they had traveling to do in the future, they would do it together.
But Veronica had changed. How much of her self-centeredness was due to the lack of integrity and character of her parents would never be known, but her recent troubles had forced her to look inside herself and she began to find a new source of strength. She had always been a strong personality but now that strength had a purpose. She could no longer content herself with sitting around the house all day, nor to looking forward to this or that social function. The looks and smiles and expressions of appreciation from the many wounded men she had ministered to, mostly in Richmond but in the wards and hospitals of Washington as well, had helped her overcome her initial squeamishness with the whole idea of being around pain and blood and death. Gradually she found rising within herself genuine compassion for the men who she realized were lonely in the midst of their suffering. And she felt a remorse, a responsibility toward them. How many of them might be here wounded because of her foolishness?
She now, therefore, was keeping as busy a daytime schedule as Richard. She had learned enough from her practical experience over the course of the year to be a genuine help to the doctors and nurses who came to depend on her as one of their regular staff.
Midway through one morning, as she was walking through the ward which had been set up at St. Joseph’s Catholic school in the nation’s capital, having just changed the dressings on an arm that had been amputated a month before, she was surprised to hear her name.
“Miss Veronica… is that you?” said a weak man’s voice from somewhere in the row of beds.
Veronica stopped and turned, her eyes quickly scanning the faces, half of which had been watching her as she walked by. She saw no one she recognized.
“It’s me, Miss Veronica… over here,” said a wounded man several beds away.
Still Veronica stood with a puzzled look on her face. The man who had spoken looked to be about twenty-five or twenty-six, though the long thick, reddish beard made it difficult to tell. He looked like a mountain man from the West somewhere. There was, however, something in his voice that sounded familiar.
“It’s me, Miss Veronica!”
Veronica approached, staring intently down into his face.
She caught her breath. “Scully…?” she said questioningly. “Is that really you behind that beard?”
The smile and laugh that met her ears in reply removed all remaining doubt. “It’s me, all right!”
“Scully Riggs… I cannot believe it!” exclaimed Veronica. “How do you come to be here? Oh, I can’t believe it. It is good to see you again!” She looked around and then lowered her voice. “But… weren’t you fighting for the South?”
She sat down on the edge of his bed, such a gracious and forgiving and compassionate smile on her face as was capable of melting all the former barriers of division between them as all barriers, one might presume, even between those from whom we are most estranged and distanced, will instantly dissolve when we greet them on the other side. Then will the venom of humanity evaporate in the sun of righteousness. Even those we despised here will in a moment become our most cherished brothers and sisters. Such it was now between Veronica and Scully. They talked and chatted as if they had been the closest of friends.
“I got through most of the war all right,” said Scully. “I even got made a sergeant.”
“Scul
ly—good for you!”
“But then I got hit pretty good at Cedar Creek just last year. I was put up for a while near there somewheres, but I didn’t heal up too good, so they brung me here when the war was over.”
“Well I am so glad they did! I shall come and see you every day and get you back on your feet!”
“What about you, Miss Veronica?”
“I’m married,” replied Veronica. “I am Veronica Fitzpatrick now.”
“I heard something about that a while back. You ever go home anymore—to Dove’s Landing, I mean?”
“Occasionally, though not too often.”
“My dad still working at your place?”
“Yes… yes he is.”
“Next time you see him, maybe you could tell him you seen me and that I’m okay. I never was much for letter writing.”
“I will be happy to, Scully. I’m sure he will be relieved to know that you are well.”
“Tell him I’ll be back soon as I’m on my feet.”
“Of course. Well, I had better get back to work,” said Veronica, standing again. “But I will see you every day, and make sure you have whatever you need. And I will write to your father this week.”
She hesitated a moment, smiled again and bent down and kissed Scully on the forehead, then continued on her way feeling strangely warmed and at peace by the encounter.
The dreadful screams in the night would surely have brought an entire village to their defense. But William Thundercloud’s farm sat by itself, two miles outside Oak Hill. By the time he reached his window to look out, his barn was already aflame and the shrieks from the guesthouse where several single workers lodged had been silenced.
Thundercloud’s rifle was in his hand the next instant and he bolted for the stairs, leaving his wife trembling in terror behind him. He met his twenty-three-year-old son, also with gun in hand, on the landing.
Father and son dashed down the stairs in the darkness and the older Thundercloud threw open the front door. The ghastly sight that met his eyes momentarily turned his stomach. A rider bore down upon them, flaming torch in one hand and in the other a woman’s scalp still dripping with blood. Enraged fury exploded within him. His rifle was to his shoulder in an instant. Three rapid shots toppled the rider from his pony. But they were his last.
As his son followed him through the door, the silent swish of an arrow sent a razor-tipped flint thudding four inches into Thundercloud’s chest. His rifle clattered to the porch as he crumpled dead at his son’s feet. Two or three more shots aimed wildly at the charging war party were all the boy could get off before blood splattered from his own forehead and he fell in a heap over his father’s body.
Everyone in the guesthouse was already dead. A bare-chested warrior ran forward, stepped over the two bodies, and ran into the main house. He found the widow Thundercloud, her daughter-in-law, and five-year-old grandson in their rooms screaming for mercy.
All three were lying in their own blood within a minute, and what little jewelry the two women possessed clutched within the bloody hand of their murderer.
Stand Watie had lain down to sleep exhausted on the second night of his journey at the home of a friend in Bull Hollow. In the middle of the night sudden shouts awakened him. The yelling from outside and downstairs portended danger.
While Watie struggled to come awake, his Cherokee host burst into his room. Leaping from bed in pitch blackness to defend himself, Watie realized that the man intended him no harm.
“Come… come quickly!” he said in Cherokee. “You must be away… quickly, quickly!”
When Watie hurried out into the corridor moments later, the entire household was astir. People were running everywhere and shouting. Torches lit the yard outside and the whinnying of many horses added to the tumult. Some danger was obviously upon them.
Clomping steps pounded up the stairs. Watie recognized the silhouette of two of his own men in the thin light from below.
“You must come!” said one. “Our lives are in imminent danger. There was a bloody attack in Oak Hill. Eight people were murdered, including two women in their bedclothes and one small child.”
Warrior that he was, even Watie went faint at the news.
“They thought we were there. The women’s fingers were chopped off to get at their rings. Two of the men and another woman were scalped. Already Black Wolf knows his mistake. We must flee. Our horses are waiting outside.”
Seventy-One
For days Seth Davidson had been thinking of James Waters.
Cherity’s father had given him a charge to protect his daughter. In agreeing to do so, he had given James his solemn promise that he would not tell Cherity of her Cherokee past until the right time.
But would there ever be a right time? What if something were to happen to him? It almost had. What if he hadn’t survived the train accident? Then he would have waited too long. It was true that the war was over. But life was not dependable. The entire war, climaxed by the train accident, made him aware of his own vulnerability and mortality.
Cherity was old enough to know of her heritage. Might it now be time, Seth thought, to fulfill James’ wish by doing the very thing James had himself feared to do?
Should he speak with his father again? Five minutes of his father’s wisdom would be a treasure indeed.
But no, this was his own decision to make. He must try to think what his father would say, and what counsel he would give, and then act accordingly. He must decide for himself what right in this situation truly was.
He knew what his father would say anyway: Ask God for guidance, submit your way to him, and then do what seemed the right and obedient thing to do.
All day, Seth revolved these things in his mind and prayed. The feeling grew upon him that he must talk to Cherity. Whatever hesitations and precautions her father had had about her Indian roots, Cherity was now a grown woman. She deserved to know. James had entrusted that knowledge to him. Now it seemed a time was at hand when it was no longer fair to keep her past from her.
That night after supper, Seth led Cherity outside. The warm quiet evening drew down upon them. Crickets sounded from the trees. They made their way toward the pasture where Greenwood’s horses were grazing and preparing for the night.
They climbed onto the top rail of the fence, not far from the place where they had had their first conversation together many years ago.
“I told you inside that I need to have a serious talk with you,” said Seth as they sat astride the fence.
“You have me worried,” said Cherity.
They sat in silence for a minute or two. Seth’s obviously changed demeanor began to concern Cherity all the more.
“Do you remember,” Seth began slowly, “before your father died… when he asked to see me alone?”
Cherity nodded.
“He had some things he wanted to tell me,” Seth went on, “that for reasons of his own he did not want to tell you at that time. Though he knew he was dying, there was information that… that he did not think would be safe for you to know.”
“Safe?”
Seth nodded. “He was concerned about possible danger to you—and your sisters as well.”
“What kind of danger could I possibly have been in?” asked Cherity. “What could my father have been worried about?”
“The very kind of danger that newspaper article spoke of,” replied Seth. “Danger in the Cherokee nation.”
Again Cherity looked at him with a puzzled expression.
“What could that possibly have to do with me?” she asked.
“Your father told me about his past,” Seth went on. “It was a past that he kept from you and your sisters because he feared reprisals should his true identity become known to the wrong people.”
“Seth, you are frightening me! What do you mean, his true identity? He was James Waters. Who else would he be? I mean… wasn’t he?”
“Actually,” sighed Seth, realizing he could not beat around the bush forever
, “your father was not born as James Waters.”
“What!”
“And… do you know your full name?”
“What do you mean, my full name? Of course… it’s Cherity Michel Waters.”
“Actually…,” said Seth slowly, “your given name is Cherokee Michel Waters. That’s why Cherity is spelled the way it is—it is short for Cherokee.”
A short gasp sounded from Cherity’s mouth.
“It was your father’s way,” Seth continued, “of passing on a piece of his heritage to you—a heritage he feared to tell you about for exactly the reasons the man called Stand Watie told that interviewer about—the vendetta between the two factions of the Cherokee people.”
“I… I don’t understand any of this. What heritage? What could the vendetta possibly have to do with me!”
“You inherited it,” said Seth. “At least that was your father’s greatest fear. You inherited the vendetta from him. Come,” said Seth, climbing down off the fence. Cherity followed. “Let’s walk,” said Seth, “and I will tell you everything he told me the day he died. But first I want to give you something your father gave to me for safekeeping.” He pulled from his pocket a ring.
“What are you doing with Chigua’s ring?”
“It isn’t Chigua’s—it belonged to your father.”
Cherity looked even more confused.
They walked out into the evening. When they returned an hour later, walking slowly hand in hand in the darkness that had now fallen, tears were spilling down Cherity’s face and her heart was full of the memory of her father and what she now knew about him. On the middle finger of her right hand she wore a solid gold signet ring of ancient kingly design.
They walked inside. Cherity immediately went to find Chigua. Without a word she embraced her.
“What is this?” asked Chigua as they fell apart and she saw Cherity’s eyes, swimming in tears, gazing deeply into her own with an expression whose meaning she did not comprehend.
“I think,” said Seth where he stood behind Cherity, “that she has realized that she may just have found a distant cousin.”
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