Trail of Hope (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll) (3 page)

Clay nodded toward each man. “Seth, Thomas, Michael. Is there a problem?” He propped one foot against a large rock near the house’s foundation and rested his elbow across his knee, waiting for an answer.

Seth, the tallest and oldest of the three brothers, shook his head in frustration. “The council members have agreed to try one more time, asking the President to overturn the removal act and stop the final march.” He growled in disgust as he flung his arm toward the group of men talking heatedly amongst themselves. “They are foolish! Our people should be gathering food and necessary items for survival. Only the white men would be stupid enough to travel during the worst of winter.” Behind him, his two brothers nodded in agreement, voicing their own guttural
a-se-hi
. Yes.

Clay stood up straight and crossed his arms over his chest, willing the tension from his tight muscles. “I came for this reason also. I hope to change the council’s decision with the information I bring. Too many in the stockades die daily. Like you, I also agree something must be done now—not wait until it’s too late.”

He took a step forward and casually placed a hand on Seth’s shoulder, then continued into the structure. The evening’s light had faded, but he could still make out the dour look on John Ross’s face, and his jaws clenched in frustration. Clay adopted the chief’s rigid stance and asked, “Have you decided?”

Ross’s lips thinned, almost disappearing as his mouth tightened—the only hint of the stress caused by the group of huddled men. He shook his head, then turned sideways and indicated for Clay to follow. They walked toward the six men, still debating amongst themselves, their angry voices low and urgent. The moment Ross stepped up to their tight circle, all talking stopped. Each man faced him respectfully, their faces blank. Ross took a firm hold of Clay’s upper arm and pulled him forward into the circle.

“This is the man I told you about, Clay Jefferson. His Choctaw father’s tribe was the first moved to the Indian Territory. During their march, many Indians died, including his own family.”

Clay watched the variety of minute changes crossing each man’s face, from narrowed eyes to tightened lips to open anxiety. Ross continued. “I asked Clay to gather information—anything he could—for me to take to President Jackson.” He glanced at Clay and gave him one quick, hard nod.

Clay nodded. “The Choctaw were divided into three groups, with the first group transported in November 1831. General Gibson planned and routed our journeys, with horrible results. The guides did not know the way, we had no transports—either by land or river, and we were never given enough supplies for food or warmth. These were just a few of the problems. Gibson does not care about the Indians, no matter the tribe. Most of the citizens living in Vicksburg had already died from a white-man disease called cholera. The general took us there anyway.”

He paused, taking several deep breaths, pushing back the overwhelming grief and sense of helplessness that always surfaced when he was forced to relive the agonizing memories. “My mother, my father, and my little sister almost made it to our new home. They were murdered as we left the river.” He met each council member’s gaze and noted the sadness greeting him in return. “More than two thousand Choctaw died before they arrived at their new homes.”

Clay shifted his feet, then continued. “The Elders from several forts gave me information about the Cherokees’ imprisonment. The Cherokee are packed into the central outdoor area of each fort—unable to move around. The sick and young die by the hour, and many warriors have been beaten to death for no reason. A mountain of bodies lies outside each fort.” Clay clenched his fists but wouldn’t allow himself any other reaction amid these men. “Chief Ross is right. The Cherokee do not want the same fate as the Choctaw. If the Cherokee are forced to march, many more will die.”

He turned on his heel to leave, not waiting for a response. Ross clapped him on his shoulder in passing but didn’t say anything. Clay walked from the building chased by the sounds of arguing, of Ross trying to reason with the stubborn men. He understood. The Choctaw leaders had responded in much the same way. No one asked his opinion, but he believed the best action would be to organize and plan, with enough supplies for everyone. One thing he knew: the Cherokee could rely on the consistency of the United States government in their treatment of Indians—to the detriment of the tribes.

He grabbed the reins and mounted the bay, setting a slow pace. His thoughts wandered back to the beautiful girl he’d seen at the fort near New Echota. Her haunted eyes pulled at something deep inside him—something he’d thought lost. The longer she held his gaze, the more he had wanted to stay.

When the bay stumbled over the rocky ground, he realized the slow pace wasn’t enough. He stopped and made camp for the night. The heat from his small fire felt good in the night’s cold air. Clay turned the skewered quail, his mouth watering at the smell of roasting meat. After several failed attempts, he’d managed to kill the small bird with his blowgun. He looked forward to meat again, after finishing the last of his aunt’s venison jerky days ago. A few hours that morning had been sufficient to replenish his berry and nut supplies, as he’d found several muscadine vines and an abundance of hickory nuts. Once he met with John Ross and the Cherokee Committee, he would take the time to hunt game for the long trip home.

As he stirred the wood, a weak flame flickered deep inside the pile, bouncing higher as it drank in the crisp night air. He lay back on the hard ground and listened to crickets chirping back and forth to each other as his thoughts returned to the council. Watching the thin film of smoke curling into the night sky, a bad feeling churned in his gut. He dreaded the approaching turmoil between the soldiers and the Cherokee. The only somewhat comforting thought was that he could now continue searching for the men who’d killed his family. His eyes closed and the tightness in his muscles loosened, slowly relaxing from his weeks on a horse.

A faint crack sounded to his left. Before he could move, the cold bite of a knife blade pressed into his throat, making it hard to swallow. The smell of sour sweat and tobacco wafted over him, and his stomach clenched uncomfortably. The only visible part of his attacker was a tattered, dark blue sleeve, with part of the frayed gold trim dangling where the stitches had been pulled out, and a filthy light blue pant leg and muddy boots. Clay wondered whether the soldier ever bathed.

“What…?” he spit, then growled when a fiery burn moved across his neck as the soldier pushed the knife deeper into his skin.

“You gonna be sorry, injun. Should’ve turned yerself in with them others,” the soldier groused. He pulled Clay’s upper body off the ground as he moved backward. The soldier’s harsh tug pushed his chin higher and made breathing difficult.

“Hey, Joel! Git over here an’ help me tie ’im up.”

“I’m a comin’!” Joel yelled from behind.

Clay waited to see what they were going to do, knowing he had to try to get away before their ropes took away any chance for freedom. Joel, who looked to be about twenty and just as grimy as the other man, squatted at his feet with a rope in his hands. Before the soldier could tie his ankles together, Clay kicked, striking his arm. He used the distraction of the kid’s high-pitched squeal to twist out of the first soldier’s hold. Unfortunately, when he tried rolling to his feet, the larger man’s fist knocked his head sideways. His head dropped back to the ground, and he felt the skin on his cheekbone split open where the large, beefy knuckles made contact.

His unplanned escape escalated into a fight for his life when both soldiers kicked his midsection and back at the same time. Each ensuing blow landed with sharp, burning pains lancing his body until he lay immobile. His arms were painfully jerked behind him and tied together, blending this final burst of pain with all the rest and drawing him into a merciful, unfeeling void.

Chapter Four

“We’ve received the order to move out.” Bryan’s voice held a note of apology as he gave them the news. Now Sophia shivered from the icy chill covering her skin and coating the sleeping landscape—and from the fear of the unknown snaking through her, as well. Naked shrubs and skeletal trees hovered on both sides of the thin, dirt trail but gave little shelter against the harsh sting of the bitter November wind and no indication of what lay ahead.

Turning to Martin, she sensed rather than saw a worsening in his fragile condition. Just before they were forced out of the stockade, he’d gotten sick. The Cherokee medicine man had died the week before and left no one to take his place. Sophia hadn’t been able to sit and do nothing, so she’d asked the healer’s wife to try to perform a healing, which seemed to be working until Martin’s fever rose again. He now sat in the corner of the wagon, huddled in his thin, gray blanket. Deep lines furrowed his face and made him seem older than his almost fifty years. What bothered her most was the emptiness she saw in his dark brown eyes. Their light was gone.

Ignoring her frozen muscles, she stepped up her pace. Half walking, half running, she caught the side of the wagon with her hand. “Martin, are you okay?” Her brow furrowed. “Martin?” she asked a little louder.

Martin’s head rose until he met her worried gaze. “I am fine, Granddaughter. Just tired.”

“Are you warm enough? I can give you my blanket if you’d like.”

The corners of his dry lips tried to rise, but their upward movement stalled. He shook his head. “No, I am fine. You need the warmth.” He placed his hand on hers, still resting on the wagon’s side. “Stop worrying. You will find gray hairs.”

A surge of emotion—unsure whether it was relief or happiness—poured through her. This was the first lighthearted comment he’d made since leaving New Echota.

****

Sophia was exhausted. They had walked from sun up to sun down, no matter the weather, herded by the soldiers. She wasn’t about to complain, though, especially when so many had no blankets or shoes. Every morning she woke up to discover more people had died, young children and the elderly, their bodies too fragile to fight off the night’s freezing temperatures—and hard winter had yet to arrive. This morning had been particularly hard. While getting Martin’s morning rations, she’d stumbled over an old grandmother and her grandson, frozen to death in each other’s grip under their icy blanket.

Shaking her head to clear the memory, she glanced up to find Bryan a few feet away, a blanket gripped in one hand, his arm limply hanging at his side. She sighed sadly and dropped her gaze back to where her hands lay in her lap.

“You can’t save everyone, Miss Sophia.” Bryan squatted next to her and laid the blanket across her lap. “They died t’gether. Nothin’ can hurt ’em anymore.”

She sighed. “I know you’re right.” She met his gaze, ignoring the tears blurring her vision. “He was only four,” she whispered brokenly. “He never knew what happiness was.”

Bryan cleared his throat, but she could hear the depth of emotion in his lowered tone. “He’s happy now, playin’ and laughin’ up in God’s lands.” He wrapped his hand around hers, gave her numb fingers a small squeeze, then pulled his glove back on and stood. “Do you need help loading the wagon?”

Her gaze traveled over the small group with whom she’d walked hundreds of miles. Threadbare blankets draped over hunched figures as they began a new day’s march. She shook her head, and the tears dropped, interrupted by the movement. She pressed her lips together to stop their trembling and forced herself to stand as Bryan made his way through the silent people and mounted his horse. She didn’t want to think of these lifeless bodies lying where they’d died. She knew that without a proper burial, their souls couldn’t follow the path to their Great Spirit. Every chance she got, she helped a few of the older kids cover frozen corpses with anything they could easily pick up. She looked down at the scrapes and bruises on the palms of her hands, then tightened them into fists. “I
have
made a difference.” She let out a slow breath and forced her sad thoughts back to the present, thrusting one foot in front of the other over the rough terrain. She didn’t even try to stop the persistent thoughts pushing through her worn-out mind.
Will we make it? What will happen when we get there? How many of us are going to die?

When they finally arrived in Tennessee, they camped next to the town of Nashville for several weeks. She watched an animated discussion between Martin and Bryan and wondered what they argued about. Martin’s morose disposition since his illness didn’t bode well. The fire had returned to his eyes, but it wasn’t friendly, and his tight lips and scowl sent a frisson of dread scurrying through her. Whatever the subject, it hadn’t been a pleasant one.

She let him brood a while longer. Finally, after listening to him grumble and growl, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Martin, why are you so upset? What did Bryan tell you?”

He grumbled a few more times, then took a deep breath, which ended in a cough. “The man leading us to the new lands was called back to Washington. It seems that General Winfield Scott appointed Major Todd to lead us the rest of the way.” He turned a knowing gaze to her face. “I fear for your safety, Sophia. Bryan has told me of his cruelty, both to animals and to his men. But especially to the Cherokee.”

She sighed. “I guess somewhere deep inside I knew I wouldn’t be able to escape him.”

Silence covered them like a shroud, broken only by the clopping of the soldiers’ horses as they did their night-time rounds and an occasional creak from the wagons at the movement of the Indians fortunate enough to sleep there. She stared at the spread of blankets a few of the men had tied onto poles to keep the snow off while they slept. Her mind, however, wouldn’t slow down, and sleep remained elusive. She focused instead on what she could do to stop the major from whatever he was planning. While she lay there, a prickling sensation inched its way over her skin. She sat up and glanced around, but no one was there. Not even the soldiers were nearby.