On This Long Journey Read online

  . . . Every possible kindness, compatible with the necessity of removal, must, therefore, be shown by the troops, and, if, in the ranks, a despicable individual should be found, capable of inflicting a wanton injury or insult on any Cherokee man, woman or child, it is hereby made the special duty of the nearest good officer or man, instantly to interpose, and to seize and consign the guilty wretch to the severest penalty of the laws.

  I read Scott’s orders aloud to White Will, who said he could recollect having heard them before. At the time they did not have much meaning for him and so he had mostly forgot them. He would, by God, remember them now.

  July 12, 1838

  Today I woke up from a dream. I was standing near the hollow tree where I had hidden my father’s musket. The Feeler was there with me. He had something in his hand. It was wrapped in the deerskin I had given him. He held it out, showed it to me, then placed it deep within the tree.

  It is the first time I have dreamed pleasantly since coming to this place. It was good to see my great-uncle in that dream. I have spent much of the day thinking about him. Dreams are of great importance to our people. Was this dream a message?

  July 13, 1838

  Chief John Ross visited the camp and spoke to the people. He did not bring the best news. The best news would have been that we could return to our homes. That can never be again. Our homes and lands are now firmly in the hands of white men. I am sorry for our homes and lands. I have not seen it, but some of those on the camp allowed passes to seek their lost children have. They say that many of those who have taken our homes seem to be poor housekeepers and have no respect for the living earth. This land will suffer without us.

  But the news spoken by Chief Ross was, to some small degree, good news. Though short in stature, when Tsan Usdi speaks, he draws himself up and seems tall as a great oak. He is not an orator like the Ridge, but speaks with such honest certainty that no one doubts his words.

  “We may be allowed to conduct our own removal,” Tsan Usdi said in his soft, clear voice. “Instead of rough white men with guns forcing us along the trail, we may be led by other Cherokees. We shall not have to travel the dangerous rivers or be placed on the roaring trains. Too many precious lives were lost that way. Instead, we may go by land, departing when the fall rains arrive, cooling the land and making travel easier than in the killing summer heat.”

  Chief Ross also spoke of the whiskey traders who prey upon us like vultures on weak lambs. He urged us to drive them out. General Scott has given his blessing to that effort. To that I say, Hurrah!

  July 14, 1838

  Another Sunday and the singing in our morning services seemed more joyful. John Ross’s words have given new spirit to us.

  A number of us in good health have begun making shelters for those too weak to build their own. Our leader is a full-blood named Sam Blackfox, who is a member of the General Council.

  We have also formed a group to enforce temperance in the camp. With the help of three sympathetic soldiers (White Will among them), the whiskey traders were ejected from the compound this morning. Since the traders were white men, we Cherokees were unable to force them out. One whiskey trader tried to stand his ground. But the three soldiers gave that man a good beating. All his jugs were smashed. The two other traders escaped as quickly as they could in their wagon. I think they will not come back soon.

  July 16, 1838

  I was not well. I woke two days ago coughing and spitting blood. It frightened me. I have seen this happen to others just before they give up the ghost. My mother remained calm and soothed me. The wound in my jaw where my teeth were knocked out had begun to bleed. The blood was clean, she said. I would be weak for a spell, but I would be healthy again in a day or so. Then she fed me soup made from greens she gathered. Today I feel strong. For the first time since I was struck by the gun butt, my jaw does not ache.

  A party of a dozen Cherokees, mostly men, came in today from the hills to the east. They received the call from John Ross to surrender. All were well armed but gave up their guns to the soldiers with the promise their weapons would be returned as soon as they were safely on the other side of the Mississippi.

  July 19, 1838

  John Ross has called for a General Council meeting on July 21. General Scott has approved it. He is allowing parole to a few Cherokee men chosen by our people to represent us. They may leave the camps if they pledge to only attend the meeting at the Aquohee Stockade and then return. Scott has learned that though a Cherokee may run away when he has the chance, he will never break his word.

  Among those in the camp who will go to Aquohee is Sam Blackfox. He has asked me to accompany him as his secretary.

  July 22, 1838

  My heart is full. Though in bondage, we are yet a nation. Our people resolved at Aquohee that the business of emigration would be undertaken by our Nation. Chief John Ross will be the superintendent. He will negotiate with Washington to obtain funds to pay for the journey of eight hundred miles that will take eighty days to complete.

  I did not speak in the Council, since I was only attending as a clerk. However, my mother saw that I was well dressed for the occasion. In the camp, our clothes have been reduced to rags. Some of our people are almost naked. Living without proper shelter and with no easy means to wash ourselves or our laundry has also been hard upon our garments. It is not uncommon to see shirts and dresses made of blankets and various pieces of cloth sewn together. Somehow, with the help of others who heard I would go to Red Clay, proper clothing was put together for me. I was given a blue-and-white shirt. Though a size too large, it was without a single patch or tear. Someone supplied a beautiful piece of red-patterned cloth that I wore about my head in a Cherokee turban. For many years now the turban has been the favorite head covering for Cherokee men. Some white men see our turbans as proof of their theory that our ancestors came from far across the ocean to the east and that we are the descendants of Hindoos. They have also credited us as one of the missing Tribes of Israel, a nation of wandered Jews. When I spoke of those theories to the Feeler, he laughed for a long time.

  When I emerged from our little lean-to of poles and blankets, I found Sam Blackfox waiting. He looked me up and down and nodded in approval. He, too, was well dressed. Also he had found four turkey feathers to place in his turban. We walked toward the gate and it opened before us. For the first time in many weeks I found myself looking at the horizon and not the rough wooden walls of a stockade. I felt quite giddy, but managed not to stumble.

  A wagon had been loaned by the army to convey us to Red Clay and back again. The horses, however, were balking and unruly. Upon seeing that, Sam Blackfox climbed up onto the seat and requested the driver to climb down, which he did. Sam Blackfox then took the reins and made a clucking noise with his tongue. The horses pricked up their ears and set off.

  It was a surprise to some of the soldiers who were watching, but it was no surprise to me. The wagon was a Cherokee wagon. The horses were Cherokee horses. Before he was taken from his home and stripped of all he owned, that wagon and horses belonged to Sam Blackfox.

  When we returned from Aquohee, Blackfox handed the wagon back over to the army men. He then pressed his face against the cheek of each of those two horses in turn, whispering something to them. Then, though I know not from where he got them, he produced two sugar cubes and gave one to each horse. For some reason there were tears in my eyes as we walked back into the stockade. I found myself remembering our cussed old mule Napoleyan.

  For the first time, there will be much to do here. I will try to put down the main points of the council meeting in my journal as time permits.

  July 30, 1838

  Chief Ross turned in his estimation of expenses for our emigration. It amounts to about $65 per person to remove the remaining 12,000 of our people who are in the stockade camps. Thus far, General Scott has informed him, the army has spent $600,000 for the expenses of feeding
and housing us and for the spring removals. This $600,000 has already been deducted from the monies set aside to pay us for our land in the Treaty of New Echota. The costs of emigration will also be deducted from the treaty monies.

  All of this information has been made public by Superintendent Ross at the General Council.

  August 2, 1838

  General Scott agreed that horses, oxen, and wagons should be provided for our removal. He has said that one wagon and five saddle horses for each twenty people would be satisfactory. There should be among the Cherokees at least five hundred strong men, women, boys, and girls capable of marching twelve to fifteen miles a day. The exercise would be good for them. That is what Scott said.

  August 3, 1838

  John Ross responded to Scott’s offer. Our chief pointed out that our wagons will be loaded heavily with cooking utensils, bedding, and other items needed for twenty people. With that much weight, no more than a few persons could be hauled. Scott agreed to this logic. There shall be at least one team, one wagon, and six riding horses for every fifteen people.

  August 8, 1838

  Have just returned to Camp Cherokee after four days away. A number of us have been given parole to gather horses and wagons for the emigration. Some of the agents sent out to gather the necessities for our emigration are independent contractors or with the army. But they have also allowed some Cherokees passports to take part in this effort as long as we have at least one white soldier keeping us company. Most often our agents must buy back property and livestock taken from us illegally. The brother of Chief Ross, Lewis Ross, is handling all of the monies for the emigration, and we have been given a budget to obtain transport. Each horse is being branded with the letters CN. This stands for Cherokee Nation.

  Despite the fact that our emigration cannot begin until the fall, General Scott insists that our people remain in the camps. There is enough food to keep us from starving. There are now a few more blankets. But there is still much suffering. There is no good sanitation for so many people. Although pit latrines have been dug away from the walls, there is always a bad smell from human waste and from sickness. While I was away, eight more people died in Camp Cherokee. Among the dead were the sister and the infant son of Sam Blackfox, who led our party.

  August 9, 1838

  Hard work this past Tuesday and Wednesday. Reverend Bushyhead has been given permission to move the Cherokee Baptist Church. The white man who is the owner of the land wants no church upon it, but has shown some decency by allowing the reverend to take what he can of it to Indian Territory. If it were possible, Reverend Bushyhead would take every stone, shingle, and board. But he has decided to be content with taking only those things most easily portable. The sole exception is that which caused us such labor. We have been removing the heavy beams, all six of them. They shall hold up the roof of the Cherokee Baptist Church when it rises again on our new lands.

  I found myself in the group of laborers disassembling the church. Sam Blackfox, who is Baptist, asked if I might have the time to help a little. Since the death of Sam’s sister and his son, whose graves Sam insisted upon digging with his own hands, he has worked twice as hard as before. He must stop often because of a racking cough that shakes his whole body. There was no way I could refuse him.

  The white soldiers who went with us as our guards also joined in the labor. Though the soldiers at some of the camps have been cruel to our people, more often than not I have found them to be decent men like my friend White Will. Though some were stern to us at first, they now appear to have grown to like or respect us. Many, in fact, are quite ashamed of what has been done to the Cherokees.

  By the end of the second day of our labors, Reverend Bushyhead — who rolled up his sleeves and worked beside us — was joking with me. My name should not be the same as his, he said. Rather than Jesse, I should be renamed Samson, for my strength was helping to bring down the temple.

  I joked in return that perhaps his name should be Solomon, for was he not going to raise up the temple of the Lord?

  Though I am not a Baptist, Reverend Bushyhead enjoys conversing with me. I know the Bible as well as any, and he is one who much enjoys intelligent conversation. Only a week ago we had a lively discussion on the supposition that Christ could not have been a white man but must, in fact, have been an Indian or at the very least one whose spirit was more like that of our own people. Few white men seem to value generosity over the possession of material things.

  Upon returning to our small corner of noisome Camp Cherokee, I asked my mother, bent over a pot of squirrel stew hung above our little cooking fire, if she had noted any change in me. Did I appear larger and stronger? She allowed that I had, indeed, grown at least the width of two fingers in height. Despite the poor food in the camp, my shoulders had broadened.

  “You look much like your . . . ,” she said. Then my mother turned quickly back to her cooking without finishing her words. But not before I saw the tears in her eyes like those that blurred my own vision.

  August 12, 1838

  I attended the services led by Reverend Jesse Bushyhead today to say farewell to Sam Blackfox. He died this morning. I helped Reverend Bushyhead dig the grave. After the burial was over I sat, for how long I did not know, with one hand pressed against the soft earth as if I could again hold my friend’s strong hand one last time. It was not easy to find the strength to stand.

  How hard it is to make new friends and then lose them. Some of our people now seem to have closed their eyes to the living. They wait only for the sight of their dead loved ones who will come to them and embrace them when they, themselves, have passed from this earth and gone to the next world.

  Fourteen died this week.

  August 16, 1838

  I have been reunited with a dear old friend. He is stubborn as ever. Still, my mother and my sisters and I are delighted that we shall be sharing his company. I am speaking of Napoleyan, our red mule. We did not purchase him, as we have had to do with the other animals we have been gathering for our exodus. Instead, he joined our company quite on his own.

  Yesterday, as we rode past cabins that had once been Cherokee and now were inhabited by white families, a white man with a black beard came out to hail us. The newly arrived white farmers have begun to be much more friendly to us now that they see us with ready cash in our pockets for the purchase of horses and oxen.

  This man, however, did not have a horse or an ox to sell. Instead he had a request. “If you is looking for animals,” he said with considerable eagerness, “there’s a mule that has been tromplin’ our fields. It would gratify us if you was to take him, free of charge. Or even kill him for the meat.”

  He then spoke fervently about the great red devil that came at night to his fields. It kicked down their fences and flattened their corn with its great hooves, devouring whatever it felt like. They had tried to shoot it, but it was too elusive for them and would take to the piney woods before any of them could catch it.

  Though my face showed no mirth during his disquisition, I must confess that I was smiling inwardly. The crops that the “red devil” had been trampling had been planted not by these white farmers but by Cherokees. I had a good idea just who that mule was. We were but a few miles from the farm that had been my family’s.

  Arrow Toter, the Light Horse leader of our troop, looked over at me and nodded. It was Arrow Toter who had waved to me that day last November as his men galloped past our farm. He thanked the farmer and said that we would keep a lookout. As soon as we had rounded the bend, Arrow Toter turned to me. “The mule is yours?” he said to me in Cherokee.

  “It sounds like him,” I answered.

  Arrow Toter laughed. “If only such creatures could have offspring,” he said, “then we might leave them here to share their blessing with generations of whites to come.”

  “If only,” I agreed.

  “Call him,” Arrow Toter said.

/>   So, as we rode along, I called to Napoleyan. I did not shout his name. Instead, I brought his memory to my mind. I saw again those times when we were together. I saw myself as a small boy crawling beneath him. I put the pictures into my thoughts of currying him with the brush, taking him to the creek for water, bringing him oats, scratching behind his ears with my right hand as I fed him a carrot.

  My eyes were closed as I rode, picturing those good memories. I do not know for how long. Time goes away when you remember in such a fashion.

  I heard the sound of hooves coming up beside me at the same time that a wet nose was pressed against my hand.

  Though he much prefers the company of Indians, Napoleyan remains a cussed mule. He came to me as gentle as a lamb and suffered me to comb the tangles from his mane. He stood as I treated the cuts and other wounds upon his side, including one that will leave a scar and seemed to be the graze of a bullet. But it was quite another matter when they tried to burn the CN mark into his rump. He kicked the red-hot brand from John Iron’s hand and then chased him twice around the corral before poor John was able to escape. Napoleyan will go west on his own terms, free of the brand of the Cherokee Nation.