Tom offered no reply, looking at John Carter with distrust. The man had some valid arguments, but he wasn’t about to believe that they had traveled in time.
John suddenly looked toward the road and said, “Please, my friends, let us step back into the cover of the woods behind us. I hear the approach of a wagon, and have no way to know if they may behave badly toward us. It would be best if we remained hidden until they passed.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. It’s probably some hikers or campers,” Tom said. “I think we should flag them down.”
“I would not recommend that. Please,” John pleaded, “at least remain hidden until we can see them. If you recognize them as friendly, you can then show yourselves.”
They moved back into the trees, Tom going along reluctantly. By now, everyone could hear the sound of approaching hoof beats, pounding heavily along the dirt road.
“Just sounds like horseback riders to me,” said Tom.
John shot him an indulgent but stern glance, placing his index finger to his lips. Tom scowled, but complied.
All their attention was drawn to the road. Approaching at a fast clip from the south was a team of four horses pulling a wooden, uncovered, Conestoga-style wagon. Two men wearing military uniforms were driving the wagon, and inside were about a dozen more men. Most of the men were wearing uniforms not recognizable as any branch of service the team had seen before, and the uniform color varied. Most were bearded and ragged, and all were armed with what appeared to be large caliber rifles. The wagon passed quickly, leaving a cloud of red dust behind. For a moment, no one moved. They continued to stare at the receding dust trail, as John said, “I believe it is safe now. It was just a single company of Georgia Militia, most likely heading to the tavern at the old Vann place.”
They stood slowly, brushing the dust from themselves, glancing at each other in disbelief. Tom looked bewildered as he struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation. “Maybe it’s a reenactment,” he said, not sounding very confident.
“A reenactment?” Adam said. “Do you suppose part of the reenactment involves removing the state park or the major highways we should have crossed by now?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Tom blurted. “This is all going way beyond anything I can understand.”
“Let’s not panic,” Adam said as calmly as he could. “I suggest we keep following John, and keep an open mind for now. Tom, you’re one of the brightest engineers I know, so if anyone can figure out what’s going on, you can. Hiking along with John can’t hurt, and may help to clear our minds so we can evaluate what has happened.”
Tom looked at him slack-jawed and shook his head.
“I guess,” Alice offered, “we don’t really have much choice but to go along with it, do we Tom? Our only other choice is to just sit here in the woods. If there’s some devious purpose I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. Let’s see what New Echota is like. You wanted to visit there anyway.”
“I wasn’t planning to walk. And I sure as heck wasn’t expecting to participate in some sort of historical reenactment!” he said, clinging to his feeble notion.
“Chill, dude,” said Sal. “Maybe we’ll get there in time for a powwow,” he joked nervously. “In a couple hours we’ll all be banging on drums and dancing around a campfire. That’d be awesome; like a native American rock festival.” The team chuckled tentatively. For once Sal’s wisecracking and bad jokes were a welcome bit of normalcy.
“Sorry,” said John in all seriousness. “Not likely to be a powwow, but I am sure there will be nourishment available.”
“I can handle some nourishment about now,” Sal said, “and a nice cozy tipi to take a nap in.” Even in this extraordinary situation, eating and sleeping were a priority for Sal.
“I am afraid not once again, Sal,” said John. “You are thinking of the wrong Indians. Tipis are used by Plains Indians. We live in houses.”
They crossed the road and continued southwest, in the direction of New Echota. John explained that there were no major roads until they reached the New Town Road, but the going would be easy. It was mostly flat, level terrain and open trails. “My detour to the valley of the stone wall made my journey longer, but I felt that my horse needed the rest and medicinal herbs there. I hoped it would be a place I could camp safely and undiscovered.”
“Undiscovered by whom?” Adam asked.
“The Georgia State Militia have been very aggressive to any Cherokee they suspect to be involved in organizational activities. There are also many gold prospectors and settlers who believe they are entitled to their lottery land. It is best for me to avoid just about everyone during these times, which is why I remained concealed when I first saw your group in the valley. My horse is not very good at hiding in the woods, though.”
“I guess he is kind of big to hide behind a tree,” said Adam.
“I must be candid with you, Adam. There is an element of risk for you and your companions in traveling along with me. Our group is probably too large to be harassed by prospectors or settlers, but the militia will not hesitate. They will aggressively question us if we encounter them, and there have been occasions where they have imprisoned whites whom they suspect as being sympathetic to Cherokees.”
“I suppose we might find it difficult to prove who we are, especially if this is really 1838 and we show them identification from more than 150 years in the future,” Adam said.
“Yes, if you have such documentation, I would recommend keeping it well concealed,” John suggested.
“Whadaya mean, Squanto?” said Sal, “Won’t I need my driver’s license to buy some firewater in town?” The others cringed at Sal’s political incorrectness, but they were happy he was beginning to act like his old self. Alice started to rebuke him with one of her expected comebacks, but John Carter began speaking first.
“The Cherokee have tried to regulate the sale of whiskey for the last few years,” he said, “but it has been a contentious issue with the whites. I do not believe you need a special license to buy alcohol if that is your wish. You would need one to sell it. The sale of firewater as you call it has been a widespread and debilitating problem among the Cherokee, so I recommend you avoiding it.”
“Uh, okay,” Sal said. “I was only joking, dude.”
“If I had been drinking,” said Tom, “it might make this situation more understandable.”
John made no further comment. His stern expression showed he did not take the subject lightly.
They hiked for nearly four hours, and Tom estimated they had traveled about eleven miles. He used the LANav to confirm his approximation, which indicated they had hiked eleven point eight. The others seemed reluctant to use the LANav, feeling a bit spooked by the device and believing it to be somehow responsible for their predicament. Tom logically determined that if it was the LANav that got them into this situation, whatever the situation was, it was likely to hold the solution for getting them out. He could no longer deny that they had somehow been transported to a place other than where they began this hike. There was no way they could travel this far in the direction they were going without seeing some sign of civilization. He had not seen a paved road, any sort of vehicle, or any other person for that matter. There had, however, been several other indications of human presence. The trail they were following, while not a well maintained park service trail, showed obvious signs of use as a footpath, and there were blazes on trees at each branch. They had also passed at least two areas where trees had been cut and removed. The cuts were old, and the people who did the cutting were long gone. A healthy creek flowed alongside the trail for a good part of their journey, and wherever they needed to cross rocks and logs were arranged to provide makeshift stepping stones and bridges.
He did not see any undeniable proof that they were no longer in the twenty-first century. As he walked, he ran through every “what-if” scenario he could think of that might explain what happened to them. Nothing made any sense to
his ordered mind. After four hours of unsuccessful reasoning, he was beginning to conclude that time-travel was about as good an explanation as anything else. He decided that in order for him to continue to contemplate what had happened to them, and to productively work on a solution, he was going to at least accept the possibility of time-travel. As outrageously illogical as that theory was, it offered the most reasonable answers.
The others had also been pondering their situation. They had all reached some level of acceptance, regardless of how much it went against the scientific aspect of their personalities. There was little choice. As Alice said, they could either accept their situation and keep walking or sit in denial in the middle of the forest. They were still too much in shock to openly discuss a plan of action to get back to their own time. If they tried, at this point it would only lead to more frustration. They left it unspoken for now, but all four were aware of the most frightening piece of the puzzle; with no concept of how they got here, there was no possibility of planning a return.
Cresting a small hill, they saw a break in the endless expanse of forest, revealing cultivated fields in the distance. Haze from the midday sun shimmered over the furrows in a recently plowed field. John stopped and pointed in the direction of the fields. “Those fields belong to the farm of Benjamin Rogers. We will be at the farmhouse in an hour or less, and we will stop there for rest and refreshment before going on to New Echota. The Rogers’ have been my good friends for many years, so it is a safe place to stop.”
“Refreshment sounds great to me,” said Adam, the others nodding agreement. “All this fresh air and exercise is wearing me out.”
“We have several miles to go before we reach New Echota,” said John, “but we have time for a short stop at the Rogers farm. It will be good to see Benjamin and his family again. I only wish I had better news for them.” With his horse in tow and the team following, he led the way toward the farm.
Adam indicated he wanted the others to stay back some distance from John so they could talk in private. Once John was far enough away to be out of earshot, he said, “At least at this farm there will be other people to talk to. I’d like to hear what they have to say about John’s story. They’ll either think he’s crazy or we are. I’m not sure one is any better than the other. I’ve been thinking, though. Have any of you considered what it means if we really are somehow in 1838, and on the Cherokee Nation in Georgia?”
“Yes, I have,” Tom answered. “I assume you mean on top of the bizarre assertion that we have walked back in time more than 150 years and do not know how we got here or have any clue how to get back. Other than those insignificant details, the particular timeframe is quite troubling. It is not exactly the time I’d pick to visit this part of Georgia.”
“No, me either. Does this mean you are accepting that we are actually in 1838?” Adam asked.
“Certainly not! I am willing to consider it for the purpose of our discussion, since I lack any better explanation. In any case, if I were thinking clearly when John told us his story earlier I would have remembered the history of this period. He told us this was May of 1838.”
“Oh my goodness,” Alice gasped. “If this is May of 1838 that means…” A look of horror appeared on her face.
“Exactly,” said Adam.
“Means what exactly?” asked Sal. “What’s the big deal about Georgia in May, 1838? I would have paid more attention in history class if I knew I was going to be testing a freakin’ time machine.”
“This month, in May, 1838,” Adam explained, “the state of Georgia enforced the Indian Removal Act. The militia forcibly removed every Cherokee from the state. They were taken from their homes, removed from the land that had been given to them by treaty with the U.S. government. Thousands of American Indians were made to give up their ancestral homeland and relocate, on a forced exodus to Oklahoma territory.”
“It was called the Trail of Tears,” said Tom, “which led to the deaths of over 4000 Cherokee.”
Chapter twelve
The forest path gave way to cultivated land with long, recently plowed furrows and fields that were already flourishing with unending lines of tiny green sprouts. They passed regiments of evenly spaced peach trees, standing like soldiers at attention, presenting their stout, knobbed branches laden with pink buds. A lone black man, working a horse-drawn plow in one of the adjacent fields, paid no heed to the passing group of hikers, nor did John make an attempt to communicate with him. He continued his trek toward a cluster of buildings, an enormous barn, a substantial, well-kept farmhouse, and several smaller outbuildings of various shape and function. As they approached the barn, John let loose three loud, sharp cries. Noticing the team’s startled reaction, John explained that it was a courtesy to let folks know when you were approaching. Alice wondered why he hadn’t done that for the man they saw plowing.
On hearing his cries, two mixed-breed dogs ran toward them from the barn, barking vociferously. A short, stocky man wearing high-waist trousers with suspenders, linen shirt, muddy brogans, and a well-worn straw hat emerged from the barn. Aside from the two braids of black hair dangling below his hat, he had the appearance of a typical farmer, or what the team assumed a typical Georgia farmer would look like. The man turned in the direction of the barking dogs, and quietly murmured something to them. The dogs immediately ceased their barking. They continued trotting toward John and the group, now at a friendlier pace. The man in the straw hat smiled broadly and raised his right hand to shoulder height in a salute of welcome to John Carter, who returned the gesture.
“Osiyo, John Carter,” the man said.
“Osiyo, Benjamin Rogers. To-hi-tsu?” John replied.
“T’o-si-gwu, I am fine, ni-na?” said Benjamin.
“Os-di, I am good, although I wish my news were better,” said John, “but first I would like you to meet my fellow travelers. They are from the future.”
“The future?” Benjamin said, “I am happy to hear there is going to be one! From the look on your face, John, I wasn’t so sure.”
“I carry news that is indeed distressing,” said John, “but it must wait until I tell you the names of my friends. This is Adam Hill, Tom Woody, Sal Lolliman, and Alice Delvecci.”
Benjamin heartily shook hands with each of them, making the briefest of eye contact and smiling warmly, projecting a sincere welcome.
“Tsi-lu-gi,” Benjamin said. “Welcome to the Roger’s family farm. We have never had visitors from the future here before. I am anxious to hear the story behind John’s most intriguing introduction; much more anxious than I am to hear his bad news. First, I must provide you all with food and drink. It is a beautiful day for traveling, but you all look very weary. John, stable your horse here in the barn, and let us talk while we walk to the house and inform Catherine of your arrival.”
Adam hoped to speak with Benjamin to get more information about where they were, but the farmer had clearly stated his intention to talk to John first. He held his questions for the moment and listened to the two men talk. It seemed to him that neither seemed to be in much of a hurry to get to the point.
They began by discussing the planting season and how much work there was to do on the farm at this time of the year. Next, John talked about his horse, how his detour led to the meeting of Adam and the team, and made mention that he brought them along since they seemed to have been led out of their “normal place” by a new invention they were testing. Benjamin indicated that he understood, and that John had done the right thing to bring them along. They had no further conversation about Adam and the others, and to Adam’s relief, said nothing to indicate any collusion between them to concoct a story.
They spent several minutes discussing John’s horse, which seemed to be recovering well from its injury. Benjamin offered to have a look at the progress of the recovery anyway. Considering the gravity of the news John needed to convey, Adam thought John and Benjamin were doing their best to avoid the subject entirely. When the discussion finally turn
ed to John’s news, the primary reason he made a nearly 100 mile journey, the tone of the conversation seemed dispassionate and matter-of-fact.
“So it seems that in spite of John Ross’ efforts to appeal to the new president,” said Benjamin, “we are expected to uphold the illegal treaty of Major Ridge.”
John sighed. “So it seems. The petition against the New Echota treaty contained nearly 16,000 Cherokee signatures. Yet the treaty was still ratified by a single vote. The political party of former President Jackson, the Democrats, overwhelmingly supports his position against us. They still hold much power among their legislature. Appeals that were made by some of the greatest white speakers, including Henry Clay, Daniel Webster, and David Crockett, have gone unheard.”
“John Ross must have a plan to proceed on our behalf, and you will carry the details of that plan to the others in New Echota.”
“There is some indication that the new president Van Buren, who is of the Whig party and sympathetic to our cause, may be willing to give us more time before allowing Georgia to forcibly carry out the treaty. It is not likely to be much time, or acceptable to the Georgia governor. John Ross will continue to do all he can to work on our behalf in Washington City. He holds great concern that the state of Georgia will begin to act even more violently toward us if we have not vacated our lands here before the deadline of May 26th. Even so, he is adamant against giving in to removal. I continue to hope for his success, but it may also be prudent to begin some preparation to remove to the western Indian Territory in the event of his failure.”
“My heart feels pity for you, John Carter; if that is the message you must deliver to New Echota. I have known you long and well, but even I cannot begin to understand how to move my entire family and farm nearly a thousand miles westward at the beginning of planting season.” The conversation between the two men ended, contemplating the gloomy despair of each other’s words.
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