On This Long Journey Read online

  August 18, 1838

  The Cherokees held at the other camps and stockades throughout what was once our Nation are all brought west to make ready for our departure. Our wagon trains will set out from the Cherokee Agency.

  Among the new arrivals was a painfully thin young woman of my age. She was wandering about, looking quite lost. My mother saw that her dress had once been a fine one, though now it was ragged and unmended. She rose and took her by the hand and brought her to our small fire. Then my mother began to comb her tangled hair. Quite overcome by this kindness, this poor young girl, whom I shall call Betsy Redbird, poured out the terrible story of what had happened to her at the fort where she had been held captive.

  She and her friends were returning from Mission School when they were taken captive still far from their homes. They were brought to the camp where none of them had relatives. A group of young white soldiers soon began speaking to her and her friends. The girls had a good command of English. They were dressed and comported themselves quite like proper young white ladies. At first, the soldiers treated them with what seemed to be great courtesy and respect. At their lonely post, far from other young women of their own race, those white soldiers seemed to view the Cherokee lasses much as they would their own sisters and sweethearts at home.

  One night this changed. Several of those young soldiers came to them with bottles of spiritous liquor and induced them to drink. By now these girls had been in that camp for many weeks and had viewed far too much suffering and death. They were in some despair. In those inhuman surroundings, every one of them had seen people die.

  “The worst,” Betsy Redbird said, “was to see the babies die. We wanted to forget the babies.”

  Although it went quite against the temperance teachings of their schooling, the girls began to drink with the soldiers. Perhaps they thought that drinking would for a time take them away from their sordid surroundings. They could pretend they were at a cotillion, listening to waltz music and discussing literature.

  When the girls had become almost insensible with drink, the soldiers began to pull them away from the fire. They tried to resist, but were too weak and too drunk. They cried out for help, but the soldiers were armed. The Cherokee men who tried to come to their aid were driven back with curses and blows as the girls were dragged out of the camp into the darkness.

  I said nothing as Betsy told us her story, her eyes upon the fire as she spoke. My mother put her arms around the poor girl. My two sisters held her hands as she wept and wept. A fierceness filled my heart, a great anger at all that had caused this to happen to our people. Had a gun been in my hand and Old Hickory before me at that moment, I think I would have discharged the weapon into his chest.

  Yet as much as I felt hatred at that moment for the white people whose greed led to our downfall, I felt even more toward those Cherokees who betrayed us. They had signed the fraudulent Treaty of New Echota that agreed to our removal. Those traitorous men and their families were already in Indian Territory, having gone ahead of us. They had been treated with deference by the army. Now they were likely building comfortable new houses, having selected the best of the western land for themselves.

  Then another thought came to me. What would happen when the rest of our Nation arrived, including those who now saw them as blood enemies? Though it was not a cold night, a shiver went down my spine.

  I lifted my head and saw that Betsy was now looking at me across the fire. I reached out my hand and placed it gently upon hers. “You are most welcome to stay with us,” I said.

  August 23, 1838

  Our chiefs have divided our people into emigration parties of about one thousand each. As far as possible, the parties are made up of relatives and friends and neighbors. Aside from one group, we will have no soldiers guarding us. That group is partly made up of the remaining Cherokees who are pro-treaty and opposed to Chief John Ross. They number less than seven hundred and will be given a military escort.

  These pro-treaty Cherokees have made themselves more evident in the last few weeks. They have buzzed about like hornets, stirring up trouble. They have tried with little success to convince others to join them. They have promised more land in the west to anyone who joins them. They have offered to pay at the onset of the journey the whole of the $65 Removal payment each Cherokee is allotted. Those who travel with our loyal Cherokees will receive half that money as we set out, and the other half when we reach the west.

  They have also said, which is a dirty lie, that Chief John Ross and his family will make a great profit from his contract with the government.

  All this has made the general mood even more grim.

  Eight deaths in the last two days.

  August 28, 1838

  Although the deadline set by Scott was September 1, we hope to begin our sad trek before then. Despite the heat and lack of rain, the first emigration detachment has begun to move for departure. It is led by Hair Conrad; 729 people.

  John Ross will not depart until the last of our people are safely upon their way.

  September 1, 1838

  No rain.

  Detachment led by Elijah Hicks set out today — 43 wagons, 430 horses. With him is White Path, one of the most beloved of our old chiefs. White Path is most infirm. Many people still lack clothing, blankets, etc. Some families do not even have a single cooking pot to prepare their food.

  Twelve more died this week.

  September 3, 1838

  Reverend Bushyhead’s detachment left today — 950 people.

  September 4, 1838

  Many now ill with measles. It is a terrible disease for Indians. Most whites survive it. Most often we do not. To our children it is frequently fatal, but those who contract this spotted sickness as adults nearly always die.

  By a strange twist of fate, our family has already experienced this plague. My mother had measles when a small girl. It swept through her family, killing her relatives. She alone recovered. As for me, I caught it while at boarding school. Not knowing that I had it, I came home, became gravely ill, and infected my sisters. My mother nursed us back to health. Knowing how deadly this plague was to Cherokees, my mother warned off our sympathetic neighbors by tying red-and-white cloths to sticks and fastening them at each corner of our fence. Still, we were given help. Many people left food by our fence but never came within sight of any of us until we had recovered.

  Now my fears are for others. How many will die from this new affliction?

  September 8, 1838

  Still no rain.

  More detachments have set out on the trail. Among them is the party of emigrants led by Situwakee — 1,250 Cherokees from the Valley Towns of east Tennessee; 62 wagons and 560 horses. The kind Reverend Evan Jones is with this party.

  I find myself thinking today about my friend Reverend Jesse Bushyhead. His wife is expecting a child and will certainly give birth before they reach the western lands. My mother is worried for her, but Reverend Bushyhead has faith that the Lord will take care of his own. Also his sister, Otahki, is traveling with them and will be there to help his wife.

  Otahki has two young children of her own. She is regarded by everyone as a kind and caring person. Her husband, Lew Hildebrand, will be acting as a courier for John Ross. My mother is especially fond of her friend “Nanny.” That is her special name for Otahki. When Otahki’s first husband, John Walker, was murdered in 1834, my mother was one of those who comforted Nanny, as Nanny did her on my own father’s death.

  Reverend Bushyhead has not failed to conduct services on a single Sunday, despite the hardship of the camps. Even when he and Reverend Evan Jones made their journey east this summer at Scott’s request to try to convince the Cherokees in the mountains of North Carolina to come in, he managed to keep the Sabbath.

  Before he left, I spoke again to Reverend Bushyhead about the great anger I have felt in my heart at the protreaty Cherokees.
r />   “Did not Samson,” I asked, “bring down the temple onto the heads of his enemies?”

  In reply, Reverend Bushyhead gently reminded me that though I might be strong, I am not Samson. True as the words of the Old Testament are, the New Testament shows that forgiving our enemies is one of the greatest of teachings. It makes the heart lighter to do so. If we do not forgive each other, our hatred will only grow until we are all destroyed.

  I hope I can find the strength to forgive. My heart is so heavy now that a millstone could not weigh more in my breast.

  As I walked away from our conversation I remembered something. His sister Otahki’s first husband, John Walker, was not killed by a white man. John Walker was one of the Cherokees who opposed John Ross and went to Washington to speak in favor of the treaty. He was murdered by another Cherokee.

  September 12, 1838

  Word has come back of the five emigration parties that have left thus far. All have had to hold up at the mouth of the Hiwassee River, Blythe’s Ferry, only twenty-five miles from here. There is such great heat, and water is so scarce that their animals cannot keep going. The rivers are too low for the ferry to be operated. Still, Choowalooka’s party departs tomorrow or next day. Choowalooka is known to the white men as James D. Wofford. Reverend Butler has voiced concern to me about the choice of Choowalooka. In the past, he was known to drink most heavily. Can a drunken Moses lead our Israelites? Perhaps it would be fitting, since we are not going to the Promised Land but to a place far west of Eden.

  Fifteen died in the last three days.

  September 15, 1838

  Elizabeth has continued to stay with us. (She prefers to be called Elizabeth rather than Betsy.) Because of my mother’s cooking, her face no longer looks thin as a hatchet blade. It is no longer so hard to look at her. In fact, she is better looking than I had first thought. Her voice is also pleasant. I think that the name of Redbird suits her well since its song is quite melodious.

  She is watching me now as I write. Perhaps I should cross out these last few sentences. Reading them again makes me feel uncomfortable.

  September 16, 1838

  Greatly afeared for Emily, who has a cough. I pray it is not whooping cough but is only due to the continued dryness of weather and dust.

  I am more than ready to depart and put the torch to our small rude lean-to of bark and sticks. Elizabeth helps much in caring for Emily. She has given Emily a kerchief to tie over her nose and mouth to keep out the dust.

  We are all sick with worry.

  September 19, 1838

  Emily’s cough has lessened, and she is stronger. Wearing the kerchief over her face helped her very much. It was not the whooping cough but only the dust. Today my mother and my younger sister Ruthie both embraced Elizabeth and thanked her. I nodded my agreement and then went out quickly to help in the harnessing of animals for the next party that is leaving. Because I am good with animals, this has fallen to be one of my jobs.

  Good though I may be with animals, it did not stop Napoleyan from spilling me off his back today. He did not run away but merely turned and looked down at me as if to ask why I was there and not upon his back. I have a large scrape upon my left elbow. Though I speak both English and Cherokee well, I feel there are not enough words in the two languages combined to fully describe the cussedness of that blasted species that has been named the mule.

  September 20, 1838

  Departures have begun again with Richard Taylor’s party. Fully half of our Nation are now upon the trail. They drag their feet as they walk, carrying burdens of grief so heavy that each step they take away from our beloved homeland is a great labor. Behind them they leave only heartbreak and loss; ahead there seems to be no prospect but even greater suffering.

  Pro-treaty Cherokees have not yet left. They number about seven hundred, but have gained no new recruits, even though they swear that their route will be easier than the one chosen by the loyal Cherokees.

  September 23, 1838

  A better day today. With so many of the Christian ministers, both white and Cherokee, now upon the trail, I wondered who would appear to lead our services upon this Sunday. To my great surprise it was Preacher Tsan. Since he has a wonderful voice, whether singing stomp dance songs or hymns of praise, the singing was the best it has been in many days.

  He nodded at me when he saw me join the gathering. When services were over, he spent a good deal of time talking with my mother. She seemed as happy to see him as was I. Finally I drew Tsan away so that he and I could sit together in the shade of an oak tree.

  “Where have you been?” I asked him.

  Tsan told me that he had been taken by Georgia soldiers while on the road two days to the south. Surprisingly, they had shown him some respect because of his calling. They took him to a fort farther to the east and allowed him to hold services. He had been with the last group just brought here to Camp Cherokee. I told him I had been keeping my journal, and shared some of it with him. He approved of it, saying that I was doing well.

  We sat for a time in silence. Then the hint of a smile played at the edge of Tsan’s mouth. “I have seen your grandfather,” he said.

  His words stunned me. The Feeler was not dead after all! I finally managed to stammer out a response, asking in which camp he was being held.

  Then Tsan smiled, a true smile this time. The Feeler was in no camp at all. The soldiers have never caught on. Instead, he has been wandering freely from one camp to another, using his medicine to help those who are sick and come to the edge of the camps for his aid. When Tsan asked him how it was that the soldiers allowed him such freedom, the Feeler answered that the white people allowed him nothing.

  “They are blind,” the Feeler said. “Their eyes are smaller than those of the mole. They can see no farther than their own shadows. They cannot see me.”

  September 26, 1838

  Our claims for losses and damages have not fared well. Many of us have not yet been paid, and the money is needed for the arduous journey ahead. Governor Lumpkin is one of the two commissioners appointed to supervise and carry into effect the treaty of removal. He has always shown favor to the pro-treaty Indians, whose claims have all been paid in full. Most of us will go west with not even a partial repayment for our losses. So much for the detailed accountings given us by the army.

  But neither money nor goods can ever set the balance straight. How much could be paid for the life of a husband or a wife, a mother or a father or a beloved elder? All of the gold that the white men love so dearly was not worth the loss of even one Cherokee child. So much has been torn from our hearts that I wonder if we shall ever again be whole as a people, if any Cherokee shall ever be able to look again at the setting sun without his or her eyes brimming over with tears.

  I stood today by the gate looking into the woods. The earth is bare of every branch and dry twig. All have been gathered for firewood. There is no longer the sign of a squirrel, and even the birds are now few. The bows and blowguns of our hunters have taken all of the game to feed the thousands kept captive.

  For a time as I stood there, the air smelled clean. Then the wind shifted and brought to me the smells of the latrines, of urine and sickness. I do not want to leave our land, but I will be glad when we depart from Camp Captured. It has been a hell upon earth. Farewell to salt pork forever!

  As I write this by lantern light I heard something spattering on the roof of our little shelter. Rain! The blessed fall rains have come at last.

  September 28, 1838

  My mother and my sisters and I have been chosen for a later detachment. So I have been going about saying farewell to our friends. Among those leaving today was Standing Turkey and his wife. Their family is smaller now. They lost four of their children to sickness in the camp.

  It took all morning to form the line of wagons, perhaps fifty of them. I am not sure of my estimate. The wind blew dust into my eyes. It w
as hard at times to breathe because of the dust clouds.

  Finally, at noon, all was ready. What a sight it was to behold, that long line of people and wagons stretching for a mile along the road that was edged by heavy forest. Perhaps one-fifth of the party were in the wagons or on horseback. Those in the wagons were mostly those too young, too old, or too infirm to walk upon their own feet. The rest would try to walk the whole way. Many of those on foot looked only slightly less weak or ill than those who rode. The awful summer in the camps has taken its toll on us.

  Old Going Snake, one of our most respected chiefs, tapped his heel gently against the side of his pony and made his way to the head of the line. Several other young men on horses followed him. The day was now bright and beautiful, yet no one smiled up at the Great Apportioner, the sun, to give thanks for this day.

  That is when a most curious thing occurred. A deep roll of thunder sounded. Not one cloud was in the sky, yet that sound rumbled up from the heart of the hills behind us. Then it was gone, leaving a perfect silence. It was as if all who were there held their breath. Was our beloved land speaking its protest at our mistreatment? Was that thunder an omen of future troubles to be visited upon this land? I cannot say, but I marked it well. I shall not forget it.