Sarah Ridge
New Echota, Cherokee Territory
July 1827
I
held a crying Rollin, shushing and swaying him in the morning sunlight. Honey bustled into the room carrying a white box, wider than her demure frame. She peeked around it, trying to see her feet, and set it on the bed. “Brother John already dressed and waitin’ for you outside. It’s getting late this mornin’. This feedin’ will do. Rollin eat all day long, if’n you let him. And before you ask, we be fine while you two is gone.”
I laid Rollin in his cradle. His legs kicked free of his light blanket, and his fists stretched and contracted, trying to hold the morning sun warming his face. Above him, perched on her knees atop a chair, Clarinda’s eyes watched through the glass window, keeping faithful sentinel duty.
“Trouble follows Clarinda. Rollin’s cries bring more. They need so much attention, Honey. Are you sure you can manage? John must go; I’ll stay.”
“We won’t be lookin’ for trouble from crows,” Honey reassured.
She flipped the box open. “Oh, Sarah, you’ll be the finest dressed white woman at da Vann’s.” Inside the box was an emerald-green satin gown with flouncing sleeves and ribbons running across the bodice, interlacing to allow the dress to fit as snugly as the wearer wished. A parasol and hat draped across new elbow-length white gloves.
“He shouldn’t have bought me such a fine gown. I’ll leak through my shift. I shouldn’t go.”
“Nos, you won’t. I brought dem cabbage leaves. Go on, now. Mister John gets lost talkin’ to all da Cherokee. You ‘minds him of his English.”
“I won’t ask,” I said, tempted into vanity by the green sheen running through my fingers. “I’ll just assume Mother Susannah gave the cabbage leaves to you and put them wherever you tell me.” According to Honey, cabbage leaves could remedy nursing mothers away from their hungry sons.
“That’s the way of it.” Honey put her hands on her hips and stood taller, proud she knew more than me—albeit a common occurrence. Honey was my linkster with my husband’s people. I would trade my life to save hers, had once before. Born into servitude, after her father’s death, her body and soul were free. By choice, she became a Ridge. I loved her as a sister.
Honey helped me dress while John waited on the porch of Mother Susannah’s cabin near New Echota. When I closed the door behind me, John checked the time and returned his pocket watch to his waistcoat.
He must have heard me walking behind him and offered me his matching sleeve. “You’re stunning,” he said, “like you flew here and landed on my arm, walela.” John’s compliment, the Cherokee word for hummingbird, reminded me of our courtship.
I whispered, “I’m going to melt inside these stays.” My pragmatism was no match for his poetry. His linguistic prowess was not limited to English but began in his native Cherokee tongue.
“The moon is still out. We can go back inside if you’d like. Take the stays off. I’ll do as you please.” He smirked.
“How would that help?” I asked, even though I knew he would best me again.
“You and I could populate Cherokee Nation with beautiful and intelligent people instead of attending horse races and talking politics.” He held on to the lapels of his coat and raised his head. “Both are for future generations, after all.”
I smiled at him and him at me, although he kept his eyes closed, soaking in the heat from the morning sunlight on his face. I thought for a minute, hoping to remember the proper phrase. I spoke with the intonation of a question, raising my voice. “It is the very error of the moon. She comes more nearer Earth than she was wont. And makes men mad.”1 John chuckled and smiled and kissed my hand with the memory. We read Othello two winters ago and memorized lines that fit our moods. I accredited Rollin’s conception to the tragic love story.
He turned, holding my cheeks in his hands, and barely touched my lips with his. “Perhaps there will be an eclipse today, where the heavenly orbs will meet.” Then, leading me toward the awaiting carriage, he said, “An eclipse, nvdo walosi ugisgo—the frog eats the sun, more or less.” My Cherokee culture and vocabulary lessons continued.
I said what he already knew. “Even during the day, you find moonlit words to say.”
He ignored my sentiment and continued his lesson. “When Cherokee people see an eclipse, they beat pots or pound drums. They shout and stare wildly at the sky to scare the frog away from the sun, thinking themselves victorious when the moon drifts, returning order to the heavens.2 Ridiculous.”
John tried to rid his people of superstition and bring them to education, such as he learned from missionaries. Unfortunately, most of his people had not had the educated advantages his family’s wealth brought him. He hoped to transfer his love of learning to all those he met.
John picked up a familiar case, a telescope given to the Major by Doctor Gold in Connecticut. I don’t think the Major examined it out of the case more than a few times, but John used it constantly.
“Harriet and I looked through that telescope when we were children. It was a special treat, although I never understood what I was looking at. Why are you bringing it?”
“To loan it to a friend. What was Harriet like as a child?” he asked.
“Precocious, outspoken, stubborn. For a long time, I thought Harriet insincere, although I witnessed the contrary.”
“What made you change your mind?” John stopped to ask.
“Before you returned, after my parents sent you home, I was unwell, so heartsick, I didn’t eat. Everyone tiptoed around me, avoiding any room where I occupied myself. Harriet came to distract me, and we walked to Kellogg’s Mercantile. Mister Kellogg and Mister Copeland spoke cruelly of the native students, past and present. She stood up to them, told them their words were unchristian.”
“Did she now?” John continued the walk to the carriage, pleased by my recollection.
“Boldly. Harriet always wanted to be a missionary.”
Major Ridge guarded the open carriage door. John escorted me inside to join his already seated mother. After freeing his hand from mine, he and his father stood upright, framing light entering the darker carriage, mirroring one another’s pride and fortitude. War shadowed the elder; English words and law enlightened the student. Like bookends, they embodied the transition taking place in the Cherokee Nation.
We rode the Federal Road to Vann’s mansion in the Coosa district. Today, “Rich” Joe held horse races and served a picnic for the Cherokee Council and white guests during the Constitutional Convention. Chosen intentionally, July 3rd aligned Cherokee independence with America’s independence from Britain. So, while Georgia celebrated freedom, Cherokee Nation did the same. After living here for three years, this would be my first opportunity to meet with so many people John and his family held in such high esteem. Yet, my accustomed fear of their judgment slipped through my thoughts, while reassuring myself that this land was my home.
Orchards greeted us in neatly planted rows, dense with peaches and apples, creating a fragrance in the air like home. Servants’ quarters bordered the tree line of flat valley land surrounding Diamond Hill. Joe Vann’s large manor, a two-story brick home with expensive glass windows and large white columns, held verandas on the front and the rear of the house. There were corncribs, smokehouses, and outbuildings for weaving and cooking. Given the abundant number of horses and carriages, many attended. A surge rushed through me, nerves on fire, reminding me of the importance of the event, framed by the fear I’d make a mistake.
Our carriage rolled through Vann land between a row of walnut trees bordering endless green pastures. Black and white cows, silent sentinels, gnawed grass and watched as we passed, undisturbed. As the horses pulled us the last distance, I saw an open door at the side of the house. From it, trails of servants carried trays and crockery from the exterior kitchen to the main house near white linen tablecloths and white-washed ladderback chairs in neat rows. Their movement reminded me of fire ants seeking sweets, and, in a line, returning to their self-constructed dirt abodes. Other servants turned a pig on an open fire, slaughtered for the occasion. The smell of salt and fat from the roasted meat mingled with the aromatic sweet apples hanging on the trees. The bees hummed louder amidst such plenty.
Most whites were surprised to know slavery existed among the Cherokee. John and I argued over the institution. The Ridges treated their servants like family. However, their will to choose their lives was the identical desire of John’s people, fighting for God-given liberty to govern themselves. While we still lived with his family, I could do little but speak to my husband and pursue change. But I knew a time would come when America and the Cherokee Nation must make the moral choice, no matter the economic difficulty such a choice might bring.
Once I stepped from the carriage, John held my gloved hand and said, “I’m instituting the wink law.” John’s top hat shaded half of his face, so I couldn’t see his eyes in the bright sunlight. I predicted his expression from his carefree tone. “Are you familiar, Mistress Ridge?” he asked.
“I am not, Mister Ridge. However, I would hate to violate without intention.”
“Ignorance of the law is no excuse. It is in the Constitution.”
“I’m aware.” I grinned.
“One wink means I have ten minutes to end my conversation and take you home.”
“What does a whole blink mean?” I asked.
I surprised him with my question. “I don’t know. You have something in your eye?”
“A whole blink means I’m proud of you and content to remain by your side, but thank you for saying so. You know I am worried about leaving Rollin and Clarinda with Honey. She can manage one, but if Rollin wails…”
“Amendment duly noted, Mistress Ridge.” He rechecked his watch. “I’ll have you back to our children in hours.” His promise was sincere, just under the surface of his sarcasm.
I pulled him close so I could whisper. “Promise me you won’t leave me alone too often.” For a man so aware of time, he lost hours debating politics.
“Agreed. I hope we get to mingle with the many guests in the time we have. Some have traveled great distances and are new here.”
Major and Mother followed us into the sunlight. A row of white women adorned in a rainbow of pastels held fast to their matching parasols with white-gloved hands and whispered about the heat while their white-breeched, black-booted husbands stood in small circles gesturing about important matters. White pipe smoke hazed around their heads.
Shirtless Cherokee separated themselves by sitting on their heels on the ground. Cherokee women walked through the guests with red and purple baskets in their arms and yellowed gourds slung from leather straps around their necks. Like John’s family, wealthy Cherokee slipped easily between these two groups. As for me, I did not know where I’d fit in this mix of classes and attitudes.
A close family friend, John Ross, stood atop a stump near a stand of hickories which offered him an arc of shade. His English words spoke to the purpose of the Cherokee’s new Constitution to an array of men, Cherokee and white alike, separated by class but listening, Cherokee men stood closest to Ross, outlined by Rich Joe Vann’s curious white guests, standing at a distance but still quite able to hear Ross’ prepared speech.
Ross bellowed the words written on the page in his hand. “There is every reason to flatter us in the hope that under wise and wholesome laws, the preponderating influence of civilization, morality, and religion will secure us and our posterity an ample share of prosperity and happiness.”3
Turbaned warriors clapped at Ross’ eloquence, followed by a delayed reaction from some white men who discovered a sudden motivation to stray.
Behind Ross, near the trunk of a neighboring tree, I noticed a small woman dressed in pale pink. She was Cherokee but wearing European styles. Her black hair parted down the middle, swept from her face, and was bound by a simple wrap next to a pink rose. She held gloved hands in front of her and waited with penetrating eyes, studying the men’s faces in the crowd. She angled herself to survey those who’d turned away from Ross, who’d denied him applause or remark.
Still, many clapped and extended their hands as Ross stepped down. I couldn’t take my eyes from the noble woman behind him. Noticing the direction of my stare, Mother Susannah said in slow English, “Quatie Ross,” and gestured toward the woman. I pulled my arm from John’s, who was already leaning toward the ambient sounds of English spoken around his father. Mother Susannah took me to meet the woman of my attention.
Quatie Ross’ face carried lines between her eyes and around her mouth, denoting her age. She seemed older than me, but the indentations were perhaps from sun and work instead of years. I curtsied with Mother Susannah’s Cherokee introduction, hearing my name mid-sentence. Quatie, in return, studied me and reached out to touch a tendril of my hair. It was not intimidating, only a reaction I’d come to expect. There were few white missionaries in the territory with red hair.
In English, she asked, “Do you speak our tongue?”
“I understand more than I speak correctly.” Better to be honest about my understanding of Cherokee verbs rather than make a fool of myself.
“Then, I will speak English for you, and Cherokee for Mother Susannah.”
I opened my parasol when we stepped away from the grand shade supplied by the house and followed Quatie Ross. She led us to a group of older women seated near a separate glade of oaks. I did not belong. Their attire was more muted and homespun than our trio’s elegant gowns.
I overheard an unfamiliar white woman speak with a familiar New England accent. “It is a shame Reverend Gambold couldn’t come. His presence might deter some of the gambling, drinking, and ball games, sure to follow all this political talk. He is unwell. May never regain his strength. He never stopped mourning Anna’s passing years ago.”
Following her comment, she closed her eyes and shook her capped head. My mother would have said something similar, dressed in the same fashion as this stranger.
I knew of the man she spoke. Minister Butrick and his apprentice, Arch, introduced me to the aged and infirm Reverend Gambold at Oothnaloga Mission’s services.
Quatie responded first in Cherokee and repeated her sentiment in English. “Their passings gave us all pause. It was God’s will that Peggy and Anna died so close to one another, buried together beneath ‘God’s Acre.’ Do you remember? It was the same night a fireball crossed the sky. A star fell.”
“Who were Peggy and Anna?” I mumbled.
Quatie whispered, gesturing toward the mansion. “This house once belonged to Peggy, Rich Joe’s mother. Anna was Reverend Gambold’s wife. They were close friends.”
Quatie angled her body gracefully, as if she moved through water, asking Susannah, “Peggy was your niece, was she not?”
“She was. My heart still grieves the loss.” Susannah’s hand behind my back put me on display, as these women examined me themselves. “But, with death comes new life. My daughter Sarah, John’s wife, has two children. Rollin is only three months old.”
Quatie’s eyes widened. “I remember nights of little sleep and the long days that followed when my children were infants. Ross was rarely home to help.” She returned her gaze to her husband but spoke to me. “My youngest, Jane, is six years old.”
I said, “It is difficult for us to be away from our children, even for a short time.”
A woman approached us, wearing a European-fashioned gown of crisp yellow with firm pleats. The toes of her white shoes peeked from under the hem. She trod to our flock, looking behind her, escaping some annoyance. Ironed curls lay in ringlets around her gaunt cheeks, making her eyes appear larger than they should have been.
“I cannot stand to hear one more minute of that man’s boastings,” the stranger said.
Quatie asked, “Which man?”
“That Ross fellow. His skin is not red, yet he talks as if it is dark as yours. Excuse my mention of the obvious. You speak English, I see? Far better than those slaves of Vann’s. His Pleasant is anything but.” She scoffed when looking back at the men attending Ross’ continued recitations. John stood near him, with his forearms crossed over his knee, and the foot of his weaker leg perched on the stump where Ross had delivered his speech only moments ago.
Quatie listened but turned her back to the woman in yellow, looping arms with Mother Susannah. After the unsavory comment about her husband, Quatie left me behind to speak to the arrogant woman by myself.
“I’m Julianna Connor, here with my husband on a visiting tour.”
“I’m Sarah Ridge. My husband is John Ridge.” At the mention of his name, I looked back at him, hoping to catch his attention and blink.
“Oh, I heard him speak once in Philadelphia. I was only a girl. Such rhetoric and prose. He’s nothing like the Indians gathered here. These natives seem made of dirt and confusion, far from ideal. Until this party, this visit has been neither orderly nor comfortable.” She hid her whispered words behind a gloved hand. “So many of these women dress like unchristian witches, exposing so much skin to the light. It’s indecent.” She changed the subject and her tone so quickly, I shuddered. “It must be love, for you to choose to live so far away from—” She expelled a forced cough while searching for a careful word, “—civilization.” She assumed since we were white, she could reveal her true thoughts, and the Cherokee women around us would be none the wiser. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
She cackled mocking glee. “Your gown is lovely. Although, if I may say so, the bodice’s binding is last year’s fashion. No matter here.” She exuded insincerity with every pleat of her gaudy, yellow dress.
I said, “My husband bought it for me. I disagree entirely with your conclusions.”
“About the gown? I know the day’s fashions. Trust me,” she said.
“No. I’m honored to wear what John selected. You are wrong about the Cherokee.”
“Surely, you recognize their heathen nature, their savage ways. So many in poverty, yet the wealthy own slaves? God forbid.” Her language was such that I had not heard in three years, but cruel words rarely change. Mistress Connor was not what I expected today.
“You didn’t mind the slaves when they obeyed you. I find these people, my husband’s people, to be honest, kind, spiritual, and clever, masters of their world. They carry the souls of the smallest and oldest on their shoulders. Warriors bear the weight and do so with joy. They are generous people with spirits of fire, matching the irrelevant color of their skin.”
Mistress Connor scoffed when Quatie returned with Mother Susannah, distracting me from the ridiculous woman.
Mother Susannah addressed me in Cherokee. All I understood was “Sollee” and “horse,” so I curtsied to excuse myself and reopened my parasol, hoping its shade might hide my exasperation. I bowed to excuse myself, leaving Mistress Connor alone, to scan the crowd for company she deemed appropriate.
Many gathered near the fences to watch the horse race on Joe Vann’s illustrious track. Some believed he wasted valuable cropland when he ordered servants to construct it. However, cultivating so much land, I imagined he did not feel the monetary loss.
From my view, a tall gentleman in a black vest stood with his arms across a fence post bordering the racetrack. He watched as fourteen-year-old Sollee Ridge mounted her horse. John met us when we inched closer to the rail near the starting gate. The gentleman turned and at once recognized John.
“How’s the leg?” the man inquired.
“Better in the summer. How were your travels, Sam?” John greeted him with an animated handshake. “Or should I address you as Governor Houston?”
“Not yet, and if the newspapermen get their way, perhaps never.” He chuckled a belly laugh. “I’m here as Joe Vann’s guest and your father’s friend. Couldn’t miss Sollee’s race. Glad the weather held. Hot and muggy. No rain until later this afternoon, I imagine.” He nodded toward Diamond Hill, remarking, “Up there, your father was speaking Cherokee so fast, I couldn’t keep up. My knowledge of your language was meager to start with and has not aged well.”
“You’re modest. You speak the language better than most. Better than Ross.” Then, catching sight of me, Mister Houston acknowledged my presence with a gracious nod.
“Who is this lovely young woman?” he asked with the deep bow of a tall man.
“May I present my wife, Sarah. Sarah, this is Sam Houston. He marched with Father, and Ross during the Red Sticks’ War.”
Houston again bowed his head, after I held out my hand.
“Welcome, Mister Houston,” I said, noticing his shadowed, kind blue eyes. His receding hairline spoke of too many hours on horseback wearing hats.
“That accent is from nowhere near here, Mistress Ridge. Where are you from?”
“Connecticut, sir.”
“Oh, don’t call me sir. Call me Sam.”
As we spoke, I noticed Quatie Ross standing apart from the men led down the slope by Joseph Vann.
“Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” Squeezing John’s arm, I left him to talk with Sam Houston and intercepted Quatie’s approach.
Once she was under the shade of my parasol, I whispered, “I owe you a debt for taking me from Mistress Connor’s conversation.”
“I was pleased to hear your observations about my people, Mistress Ridge. I’ll soon be preparing for winter. Join me? So many candles to make and blankets to weave. Come to my home. Bring your children. I’ll send the particulars.”
With the simple reminder of Rollin and Clarinda, my body renewed its insistence that my attendance at this function needed to be short. I put my hand on my heart to measure whether Honey’s cabbage leaves had done their job. They had. Nonetheless, I felt an impending milk surge in my chest. Her eyes followed my hand and smiled, understanding the gesture.
“I’m honored,” I said. “Thank you for your kindness. Unfortunately, there are few to talk with here I can understand.”
Quatie looked into my eyes and said, “It is a shame this is our first meeting. Ross and the Ridges are quite close, as you know.” Then she nodded and moved away to stand taciturnly near her husband’s magnetic voice. She did not take his arm. Instead, she stood behind a gathering of other Cherokee men collecting nearby, listening. It seemed a curious place for her to remain alone. A hot breeze followed her departure and blew wisps of hair into my face.
From the hill above, Mistress Connor followed the remaining guests, trailing behind her much older husband. He carried a brandy in one hand with a smoking cigar wedged between his fingers and the glass. Major, one of the tallest in the crowd, walked down the hill and joined John and Sam Houston, each resting a foot on the fence rail. Without words, their relaxed bodies assured confidence in Sollee’s victory.
Parallel to the starting gate, Rich Joseph Vann’s feet reached the top of a freshly painted white box to announce, “With the Federal Road, you all could attend today’s monumental occasion.”
After returning to my husband’s side, he whispered, “What Rich Joe meant to say was that now more whites will make the journey. Easier to drive their wagons down the Federal Road.” Few listened to Vann. Instead, his guests discussed odds, tallied bets, and clasped hands to seal wagers.
Sollee mounted her horse sidesaddle at the end of the track, the only female among five male competitors. With a crop in her hand, Sollee’s riding boots peeked under her orange gown, draped over layers of crisp white petticoats. Next to her, a bare-chested rider glanced over his shoulder, gawking, and mocking her elegant attire. Undeterred by his taunts, her focus remained on the finish line while whispering in her mare’s ear. Then she laughed at the Cherokee rider, never turning her head to address him.
Mister Sam said, “Look at that girl, John. She is afraid of no one. It wouldn’t surprise me if Sollee marries a rancher and works harder than he does. She’s riding sidesaddle. I don’t see how our women do so.”
“Father would like nothing better—the marriage, I mean, not her riding style,” John clarified, and assured that the assumption was precisely the Major’s plan for his daughter.
Vann’s pistol shot stirred the dust under the horses’ hooves. Whoops rang from outside the fenced gate bordering the track. Sollee’s dark hair unwound from its strict curls and tangled in the ribbons of her bonnet while speeding across the track. She rode clear of any competition, victorious in the bout. After crossing the finish line, she cantered her mare past the unfortunate losers in total control. She offered no second glance to the weaker competition and approached the fence and Sam Houston. Once seeing him, she adjusted her hair with her free hand. Then, she petted her horse’s neck and whispered in its ear. What did she tell the animal, I wondered?
Mister Sam took the reins from her as John held his hand to help his little sister dismount. Already an accomplished lady at fourteen, she sighed from her accustomed exertions and smiled at Sam Houston. Once her feet met the ground, she acknowledged him, asking, “When are we going to Washington City again, Mister Sam?”
“Say the word, and we will ride there together.” He escorted her up the hill toward the house, stopping intermittently to greet those wanting to thank her for their bountiful winnings. Major offered Susannah his arm and followed them toward lunch, anticipating that John and I would follow.
Servants propped open the doors to the house so guests could travel through. The dining room’s walls were in hues of aged copper, olive, and maroon, with a large portrait of the home’s first owner hanging over an intricately lathed mantle. Silver candlesticks lit the sideboard, full of adorned, green-rimmed, white candy dishes full of ribboned sugar and a large platter holding a fresh tea block beside a steaming silver teapot. John and I walked through the dining room to the foyer, lofting high and steep with a split staircase dividing the middle of the house. Streams of children barreled from the top floor to the bottom in hungry anticipation. We followed them to the rear entrance shaded from the afternoon sunlight by the mansion’s second story. Servants bordered the long tables, covered with roasted pork, watermelon, corn, and pies cradled in elegant white ceramic dishes trimmed with painted violet wildflowers like those growing through Vann’s vast pastureland.
John escorted me to a table occupied by Reverend Sam Worcester’s family, New Hampshire missionaries building a home in New Echota. Next to them sat the homespun, northern woman I spoke with earlier. When she saw me, she stood and extended her bare hand to my gloved.
“I knew your accent was familiar. I’m Sophie Sawyer from near Boston, a small town called Grassy Pond. You?”
“Cornwall, Connecticut. My father is the steward at the Foreign Mission School there.”
Sophie Sawyer was a plain woman, young, not yet a spinster, with a loud voice drawing the attention of those nearby. “I work with the Worcester family, teaching and training the Cherokee to be proper Christians. I hope you will send your children to Brainerd School when they become of age.”
“We live too far away, I’m afraid. It will be years before Rollin is old enough. Our daughter will learn at home from her father and grandmother.”
She tilted her head, curious why Clarinda would not attend school. But she asked no further questions, nodded, and took her seat beside the awkward Ann Worcester. I didn’t want Ann to feel excluded, so I said, “Ann, your new home looks beautiful. Two stories in the shade of hardwoods, with a well dug so close to the house. You must be eager to move.”
She hunched her shoulders like an elderly woman. Mousy brown hair escaped her cap, with fuzzy wisps surrounding her plain bonnet. “The well will be of the utmost convenience.” Her remark did not invite further conversation.
Finally, Reverend Sam stood and silenced the crowd to pray a Christian blessing over the feast, and after, leaned into the table and scooped servings onto his plate. It amazed me how much thin men could eat.
He said, “John, what do you expect from Georgia’s Governor Forsyth regarding the Constitution?”
“I imagine it will not please him. Won’t help our cause now that Governor Troupe warms a Senate seat.” After speaking, John leaned back in his chair and stretched his free arm behind me.
“Ross spoke of your revisions to his Constitution, asking for an oath from the Principal Chief to the Divine Being. I appreciate the Lord’s inclusion. Ross’ mention of the geographic boundaries may be, shall we say, necessary in the future.”
John replied, “It was right to amend them both. The Principal Chief answers to God, the Great Spirit, in his thoughts and deeds. The chief must function as His hand, protecting the flock. As you know, reasons to include the boundaries are ever-present.” He gestured to a table filled with white Americans. “For the benefit of all, Elias will print the Constitution in his Phoenix.”
Reverend Sam spoke across his wife, who speared tiny bits of food, chewing with little change to her dismissive expression. “Have you heard from Elias, John?” Reverend Sam asked, reaching for the bread plate.
“He has matters to attend to in the North. He’s soliciting subscriptions to support his press.”
Worcester tore into a loaf of bread and handed my husband a piece. “Yes. ‘De Ave Phoenice’—where the sun shines eternal brightness to the place where the soul ascends, nourished with food reminiscent of the sacraments.”4 He squinted, raising his head to the unforgiving sunlight. “Especially on a day like today, with so much evidence surrounding us—the Cherokee people rising from the ashes—engaging in civilization, education, spiritual renewal.”
“We were right to call you Atsensuti, the messenger.5 As you know, the more Georgia pushes against us, the more our people need education.”
Near the Capitol, I knew this to be true, but I wondered if such advancements stretched beyond the Coosa district, to the mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee. What might the Cherokee lose by the exchange?
John continued, “Elias is campaigning now. Relationships he’s establishing will prove fruitful in the future.”
Worcester gestured with bread in hand. “I pray daily for my friend’s safe travels.”
Latecomer, Stand Watie, Elias’ brother, interrupted Mister Worcester’s response. “My brother needs to return home from that pale woman he loves. No offense, Mistress Ridge. Nothing like having a world traveler for an older brother. I haven’t had a belly laugh since he left. Won’t till he returns.”
“Stand, glad you could join us.” John stood and shook his cousin’s hand. Stand was a bold man, funnier than Elias if such a thing were possible. His constant expression was that of a smile, with long black hair brushed away from his face, so thick the wind barely disturbed its deep waves. John told me his name meant, “two persons standing together, so closely united in sympathy as to form one body.”6 I’m glad his parents shortened it for daily use.
“There are two good reasons for my tardiness, cousin.” Stand grabbed a chair, spun it in his palm, and sat in it backward, leaning mighty forearms on its back.
“No doubt. All is well?” John asked him.
“It is. I have no excuse for my tardiness other than family obligations, ladies. I hope that ensures your forgiveness.” Stand examined his fork for cleanliness and once satisfied, filled his plate with fruits and vegetables. He speared individual green beans, eating one after the other.
Once the meal was done, the intruding clouds escaped. After their departure, the shade turned to fiery sunlight. A late approaching coach stopped at Vann’s intersection with the Federal Road. A bushy-headed gentleman exited the carriage and extended his hand for another inside. Then, the two clasped hands and began their ascent up Diamond Hill.
I held my hand above my eyes to shade them from the afternoon’s sun. With a sharp inhale, I gasped, knowing those two anywhere, although never having seen them together. With her hair in braids twisted around her ears, in a black-and-white striped gown, Harriet Gold Boudinot caught sight of me. She left Elias behind to follow with his leisurely gait. I handed John my parasol, lifted my gown to free my feet, and sprinted to meet her. Neither of us slowed our pace, not even when we wrapped our arms around one another. She smelled the same—like sugary tea parties from my childhood.
“Oh, Sarah, Elias is all I wished him to be. So completely wrong my mother was. No number of wrinkles on her forehead from fretting and worry could stop me from swearing my life and love to him.” Harriet didn’t let me go nor did I her until she finished speaking. Meeting us, John shook Elias’ hand and embraced him.
John bowed to Harriet. “Mistress Boudinot, in our carriage, I thought I’d return a gift, one to help you and Elias see a long and happy marriage.”
I said, “The telescope? You knew.”
John grinned and nodded, then asked, “Is Cornwall as we left it?”
Elias shook his head. “No. Worse. Now they’re burning effigies in the front yards. On a brighter note, I earned enough in donations to finish paying for the press. You know how it is. Every speaking engagement is the same. Half of the congregations think I plan to scalp them, and the other half thinks I’m some piteous, exotic savage in need of saving.”
Harriet spoke with confidence. “So much of the lack of civilization people imagine—”
Her remark was interrupted by grunts from a ball game on Rich Joe’s racetrack. Shirtless, wearing only buckskin breechcloths, players hurled a ball violently from baskets at the end of wooden sticks. Blood smeared around their noses and over their cheeks. Sunlight glared across the players’ bare chests, shimmering with bear grease, ensuring no opponent could hold them down.
Harriet finished with newfound hesitation. “—is untrue.”
John and Elias’ expressive smiles lifted even more while they removed their coats, handing them to us.
John winked to ask, “Another ten minutes?”
Harriet stared at the game and passed Elias’ coat to me without looking at her hands.
Elias said, “I hoped we wouldn’t be too late to watch the game.”
Unapologetic to his new wife’s shock, he took my husband by the shoulder to study the game’s strategy from the fence.
I, too, was shaken, but certainly less than Harriet, who withdrew her handkerchief from its hiding place in her sleeve. I escorted her to shade, hoping to revive her of the appalled expression fixed across her already sunburned face.