John Ridge
Tuckabatchee Council Grounds, Creek Territory
November 1827
E
levated on the front porch, silhouetted in careening firelight, Yoholo left his cabin door open to greet us. Feathers perched on the crown of his head like a rook, while his shoulders were laden with a woven blanket. Tall, lean legs stepped off the stairs. Yoholo petted my horse’s steaming nose. “McKenney and Crowwell arrived two days past, even though the council isn’t until the day after tomorrow. He wanted to meet with us before you and Vann arrived. I sent them to Reverend Compere’s mission house. I didn’t want to smell either of them any longer than I had to. White men don’t wash as often as our native brothers do.”
Yoholo watched as an unfamiliar Peter slid from my horse after my feet hit the ground.
“This weather makes my bones ache,” I said and shook his hand, the other, holding my bad hip. “Father sends his greetings and tobacco for your pipe.”
Yoholo remarked, “It is a good night to smoke. Who’s this?”
“Yoholo, this is Peter.” I hadn’t thought to ask his surname, and he hadn’t offered it. However, if he took McIntosh, Peter was wise to keep it to himself, especially in Yoholo’s company. “We met this young man on your acreage running from Crows.”
Yoholo snickered, saying, “That is what my Creek brothers call Colonel Crowwell and his brother Thomas.”
“Same Crows,” I replied without laughter.
Yoholo gestured toward his cabin door. “Sounds like you have a story.”
Vann said, “We do.” He entered Yoholo’s cabin, leaving us alone to walk the horses to the barn under falling rain.
I unsaddled each with Peter’s help and pulled our traveling bags from their sides. Led to their stalls, our horses found well-deserved oats and clean hay.
“Cold bites harder after a moment in the warmth,” I said, and passed Yoholo Vann’s leather satchel while I slung my own across my chest. In a hurry to rejoin Vann, Yoholo and I were halfway across the yard before we realized Peter hadn’t followed.
Peter coughed,and we turned back. He apologized. “If’n it’s all the same to you, I’d sleep much better hearin’ dem whinnies.”
Yoholo looked at me to translate, and then nodded with understanding.
“My son will bring food and blankets, some clothes, shoes for your feet. You two look about the same size.” After my translation, Peter bowed thanks and closed the barn doors behind him.
Yoholo’s family’s cabin boasted higher ceilings than most, built to accommodate his height and stature. One entire wall encompassed a vast stone hearth, filling the room with orange light from the high flames held at bay by a suspended iron pot. Smells of salted pork and beans filled its walls. A rectangular table covered most of the floor, with a ladder on the periphery extending to a loft where his sons and daughters slept.
Yoholo sat at the head of his table and gestured for us to follow. “Is there such a thing as good news anymore? John, tell me about your son. He was born after you returned from Washington. What did you name him?”
“John Rollin—Cheesquatalawny. He’s a crier. Had he been our first, he may have been an only child.”
“Why? Is your wife not well?”
“She’s fine. Rollin was born much faster than Clarinda.”
Yoholo’s wife entered with hands holding three stacked wooden bowls. Her braided black hair hung down her back and framed her face. Long beaded earrings touched her shoulders. She ladled stew from the hearth pot, filling and setting bowls in front of us. “Children come faster each time. Our bodies have learned what to do.” Then she interjected, “Only two children?” She shook her head. “You love your wife, no? More love makes more babies.”
Without waiting for my answer, Vann nodded to her with gratitude when she placed the ham hock stew in front of him. Vann spoke to her but gestured at me with his spoon. “No one could love their wife more than John loves his Sarah.”
Yoholo grabbed his wife’s hand over his shoulder and kissed the back of her wrist. In April of ‘25, Yoholo, painted red and solemn, rode with a feathered spear in tow to McIntosh’s home near the Chattahoochee River. It was the first time I’d seen him as a war chief, not a diplomat, ready to die to protect Creek land and his people. A year later, in Washington, the same man held his blade to the thin skin covering his heart. This man, a father, a husband, prime minister, considered taking his own life because of the dishonor he felt from McKenney’s coercions. But, by choosing to continue the fight, he put the lives of his beloved people above his shame.
From his dinner table, Yoholo’s eyes addressed us, but his words were intended for his wife’s ears. “I could have many wives, but I prefer this one, my woman with the smart mouth and fine backside.” She pulled her hand away and laughed, sauntering into the neighboring kitchen.
Yoholo watched her leave and shook his head. “Vann? Your daughters? How do they fare?”
“Lethal. Warriors in skirts. They don’t need me, and I’m a worthless father with little left to teach them.”
This chief’s philosophy surrounding meals, wives, and children seemed simple. “Teach them to find husbands who take them hunting. Time spent together will keep them fed and bring you many grandchildren.”
Yoholo’s wife overheard her husband’s sage wisdom, raising her voice to respond. “Take your own advice, and you will have more mouths to feed.”
Our host leaned on his table, resting his elbows and forearms around the bowl, moving his wooden spoon through the stew to cool it.
He said, “When I was young, on the banks of the Chattahoochee, there was a beautiful island covered in stately trees, carpeted with thick grass. When my people could find no game elsewhere, a hunter would go to the island and kill a deer. Only one deer, mind you, to share with the village.
“The banks of this island were sandy. But, when the river flooded, the same banks wore away, and the island shrank. That island is growing even smaller now. Deer have disappeared. If we had only planted grass on that sandy soil, the deer would thrive, and the waters would recede. Now white men come upon us like a flood and wash away the remaining seed.”1
He stared, recalled footsteps over untrodden paths, memories aban-doned and retrieved in pensive hindsight. Silence swallowed the sounds of falling rain on the roof. I knew his regret questioned what he could do now to prevent further loss.
He took his spoon from the stew, and said, “It defeats my people’s purpose to sell the island. There are few deer left elsewhere.”
I said, “In all ways, we will aid your people to keep the land.” The sentiment was not one I expected to deliver to my friend, not after seeing the 192,000 acres of scrub pines and flood plains. Yoholo’s desire, his hope for his people’s survival, cleared away the overgrown thickets binding my thoughts. He planned to build a new life and plant grass on that soil, facing whatever repercussions white politicians brought. Vann lowered his eyes without comment, confirming he held the same opinion.
At Yoholo’s request, we recounted Peter’s tale: horseshoes, hidden whiskey, yellow gold, and perched Crows. Yoholo knew Thomas Crowwell owned a tavern at Fort Mitchell and supplied food and drink for McIntosh’s inn near High Falls at the medicinal springs. He added that Crowwell’s fort was named for David Mitchell, once its commanding officer, who later was forced to resign amidst accusations of running stolen slaves.
“Then Crowwell continues the business.” Vann concluded with a logical assumption.
I shifted in my chair, putting my weight on my good hip, and resting my arm over its woven back. “Rest assured; Crowwell and his brother steal horses from Cherokee while they are in their cups.”
Vann crossed his arms over his chest. “If McIntosh saw gold, he’d swindle his way into collecting more to hide under the floor of his barn. Crowwell negotiated the deals. His brother acted as McIntosh’s dis-tributor. McIntosh distilled the whiskey. All three tripled their profits by selling slaves and horses to encroaching whites.”
Yoholo stood, squeaking the chair’s wood along the floor, and gazed into his dwindling fire, throwing an additional log to burn. “I’m glad you brought Peter. His appearance will provide an interesting interaction when Colonel Crowwell reappears the day after tomorrow and sees the young man very much alive. His reaction will tell us how deeply he is involved.” Yoholo sounded like my father.
Before I could say so, Vann replied, “I’ll make certain of it.”
A knock at the door revealed a messenger delivering a note from McKenney and Crowwell requesting a late-night meeting. They didn’t ask for Yoholo, only Vann and me.
I said, “How did he even know we were here? What could they want?” I was tired, not looking for a confrontation tonight.
“Isn’t it always brandy and coercion?” Vann asked.
“Knowing what we know, can we refuse? We must change clothes.”
Yoholo turned from his fire, face redder from the radiant heat. “I will stay up and await your return. The ride is not far.”
L
Rain stopped, and the night sky cleared, bringing a clinging cold during the hour’s ride to Reverend Compere’s house. Several men sat on the rectangular home’s extended front porch around the structure’s perimeter. In silhouette, McKenney’s standing stately frame, wrapped in a fur coat, contrasted with Crowwell’s seated stature. The lit ends of their cigars flamed while we dismounted. A young Creek boy collected our horses, blowing steam from their nostrils.
McKenney called my name with dripping condensation. “John,” he said, “nice to see you again.”
Vann mumbled with steaming breath. “Let the lies begin.”
I held the railing, marking each stair while McKenney extended his hand to shake mine. Once we reached the porch’s top step, he stepped to the side, and gestured toward the man whose reputation preceded intro-duction.
“May I present Colonel John Crowwell. These are the Cherokee negotiators, John Ridge, and David Vann.”
Crowwell did not turn, did not stand. Instead, he bent his arm to bring his cigar to his lips breaking the pattern of moonlight through horizontal porch pickets. The brass buttons on his federal uniform pulled against their holes while thin legs stretched in front of him. His long sideburns compensated for his receding hair. His pronounced cheekbones framed dark eyes, with lips set in an irrecoverable grimace. Smiling wouldn’t adjust the resting scowl on his face, not that I imagine he exerted much effort to do so.
Regardless, I extended my hand to shake his. Colonel Crowwell looked at my hand but refused to move from his comfort to reciprocate the gesture. Instead, his dominant hand lifted his brandy glass to his mouth.
I could not account for such a snub. I kept my face stoic, but in my mind, his disrespect reminded me how ignorant some white men could be. They viewed Vann and me as sub-human, for no other reason than the color of our skin. White men in Crowwell’s position viewed Peter as a tool, a slave, with their greed overwhelming the young man’s humanity. I should be grateful Colonel Crowwell limited his disgust of me only to insult.
Vann saw Crowwell’s refusal and distracted McKenney, inquiring about his latest travels, but McKenney noticed. I tilted my head. Then, emblazoned by Crowwell’s disregard, I shook the hand of Reverend Compere, sitting beside him in the shadows.
“We’ve had very productive councils with the Choctaws and Chippewas,” McKenney said, touching the pinned gifts given him by their tribal chiefs, worn as proudly as military epaulets. “They were very agreeable to our generous terms.” Crowwell cleared his throat with a nod in our direction, implying Vann and I might be the root cause of the Creek’s dwindling attention.
McKenney continued his condescending exhortations about the rivers and woods he crossed while delivering the “excellent” speech sent from the Great Father in Washington. He called himself a peacemaker. I didn’t think we were at war. I was uncomfortable, still mentally seeking the cause for Crowwell’s deliberate dodge from courtesy.
Vann changed the subject, tilting back his brandy before we gathered our horses to leave. He asked McKenney about the five-thousand-dollar debt owed us after negotiating the Creek’s last treaty, remuneration for the four hundred and sixty acres offered as compensation for translation services rendered.
McKenney scoffed and remarked, “Let me pass over my mountain first, and then I will attend yours.”2 McKenney’s savage metaphors continued, as did my suspicion of his intentions. Why had they insisted on seeing us tonight? What was behind such urgency? To brag, intimidate, overpower? To gauge whether we supported selling the Creek’s acreage?
However, this was not the time to reveal our intentions. Regardless of how I felt, it wasn’t my story to tell. Yoholo must lead his people in this grave decision. McKenney and Colonel Crowwell schemed to surprise us, attempting to coerce and capture our bishop in a move we didn’t foresee. Another move was necessary to uncover his strategy.
L
The following day, Opothle Yoholo led the purge to prepare for council. He drank first from a gourd full of the black drink, arsee. Once consumed, the emetic caused those who consumed the boiled holly berries to vomit the remnants of their stomachs. Younger Creeks arched on their sides and held their stomachs, while elders sat tall, motionless, with smoking pipes resting in painted hands. Little Prince, the eldest and most revered Creek warrior, was noticeably absent, not allowed to consume the black drink because of failing health.
As Creek guests and advisors, Yoholo insisted we take part in the ceremonial ablutions. Yoholo was the first to vomit and return to the council square’s firelight with open palms, free of ill will or harsh thoughts against any opposition. The purge freed one’s instinct for revenge.
Vann rested his head on the log behind his back. His eyes closed, but no one could sleep with their neck in such an awkward position. His neighbor startled him and passed him the gourd again. He drank while I could consume no more. I waved it off and crawled to the surrounding dirt to lay my face on the wet grass. Retching burned and parched my throat. Too weak to rise, I sank deeper into the ground.
My dreams were vivid. My horse’s mane spread wide in a gallop. Grassy patches from the field rose and fell under my stirrups. I followed voluminous war cries and woodsmoke seeping through the thick morning fog.
But in my mind, I understood the past in this present. This attack, led by warrior Menawa and Opothle Yoholo, enacted Creek Blood Law. I recognized the scene from ‘25: Chief McIntosh’s Lockchau Talofau, the night of his murder. Instead of watching Creek’s retribution from the hill above the house, as I once had, I rode across the pastureland toward the smoking timber of McIntosh’s cabin, knowing I shouldn’t intervene.
Over rolling, green hills, a dogtrot house stood bordered by sweet gum and walnut trees. Shots reverberated from a battalion of Creek warriors gripping torches in one hand and pointing pistols and red-painted clubs aloft by the other. Threats screamed across the yard in one voice, answered by blasts of pistol shots from behind the smoke escaping from broken upstairs windows. Riderless horses panicked and ran from nearby stables. No one saw me slide my leg over my horse to dismount and slap Saloli’s rump to prompt her escape.
Fire blossomed from the porch like orange lilies in full bloom. Windows shattered and fell into smoke so hot that the glass shards curled. I walked through the flames but remained unburned. On the floor to my left, Chilly McIntosh, the Chief’s son, dug through a woman’s trunk and donned her clothes. A scrolled parchment sat beside him on the smoldering mattress, undoubtedly the original Treaty of Indian Springs. Dressed as a woman, Chilly McIntosh threw a bonnet over his black hair and passed through my ghostly form. Then, he ran to the Chattahoochee River and swam to escape with the treaty in his mouth. Vann and I had witnessed his escape years before.
McIntosh’s son-in-law, Samuel Hawkins, kissed his wife, Jane, on the stairs for what I knew would be the last time. He sent her to flee into the trees. But I knew what he couldn’t see, the warriors lying in wait. After, Hawkins ran up the interior stairs to assist in McIntosh’s last stand.
Hawkins didn’t notice when I followed him. McIntosh’s back arched over the window frame, firing pistols from each hand. Then he retreated behind log walls, dancing between incoming bullets and broken glass. Behind him, Hawkins reloaded wad and ball.
Heavy feet alerted me to Menawa’s approach. Turning around, I met the warrior’s eyes, stark white under red paint. He struck my temple with the butt of a flintlock, knocking me to the floor. My initial panic turned into a daze. He pointed the same pistol at my head. Time slowed while he clenched the trigger. The gun misfired.
The angry warrior gritted his teeth and pulled me by my shirt collar close to his red face. “McIntosh, you will pay for your crime with your life.” He picked me from the floor with violent grabs under my shoulders, pulled me backward down the stairs. Then, joined by a Creek horde, threw me from the house.
“You have the wrong man,” I screamed. “I am not Chief McIntosh.”
Menawa replied, “McIntosh, we have come. We have come. We told you if you sold the land to the government, we would come.” Panting between his words, he said, “You, your children, and their children will die.”
Warriors circled me, raising glistening knives to stab me. I never lost consciousness, remembering each searing tear of my skin. Smooth-bottomed moccasins buried me deeper with every step.
A woman’s screams passed through the sounds of crackling fire and falling treads from the second floor. But it wasn’t the voice of one of McIntosh’s wives. Sarah’s English screams seared my ears, held back by red-painted shoulders surrounded by flaming timber. She coughed, begged them to release me with my true name. “Skahtlelohskee,” she yelled, pushing against their shoulders.
I pulled my heavy body from the ground to yell in bloody bubbles at the men. “Kill me. Don’t touch her.” With my last earthly thought, I knew how much I needed her, how her spirit rooted me. With one last gurgle, the tether between Sarah and I dissipated. Her cries faded, and their loss further caved in my chest.
Blue morning skies faded to dusk’s red, merging with the purples of ascending night. My bodiless spirit hovered above my bleeding form. Once thoughts of Sarah left my mind, my soul reshaped into the body of a mockingbird, and I flapped white and gray wings to soar to the Nightland, navigating my way by constellation’s compass.
It was the flying that woke me. Realizing where I was, I crawled back to Vann’s side but could sleep no more, haunted by my desire for the return of my wings.
Rain dripped on my head from pine needles, one after the other, in predictable drops. At dawn, we dragged our exhausted bodies to the spring and went to water, washing away the night’s purging. We drank freely, revived by its cold.
L
Dressed in a frock coat and tie, I sat near Creek’s distinguished chiefs to listen and to translate McKenney’s and Crowwell’s bloated speeches. Vann hurried in after Yoholo began introductions and sat next to me. I whispered, “Was Peter willing?”
“Yes. Crowwell will do nothing surrounded by witnesses. But just in case, I’ll stand beside him with my thumb on my pistol.”
McKenney began, and I translated. “I am sent by the Great Father in Washington to visit his red children, those who live where the sun sleeps and those who live in the warm country, his Creek children.” Then he spoke in the third person, hoping to gain credibility, as if God Himself had written his speech. “McKenney obeyed and went in stagecoaches and traveled far—then he sat in a great canoe that carries fire in its bottom and sent its smoke to Heaven, and traveled to the Great Lakes, where the winds live and where cold dwells and makes the waters to freeze, so hard, men and cattle can pass over it dry-shod.2
“He left his big canoe and entered a bark canoe and went up a river whose rapids were like the falls of the Tallapoosa and found Indians. They were sitting in darkness and had not heard the White Father talk for a while. The Indian’s paths were choked with briers, and their feet were bleeding. He gave them their White Father’s speech, and with it, light. And the Indians were glad.3
“But the Indians said, ‘When you go away, the briers will grow again, and our feet will bleed.’ He asked them why. Because, they said, ‘We have bad birds among us, and they will make the briers grow.’ Then, he drove away those bad birds from their country, left a mouth with them, and told them they must listen to that mouth alone; it would talk the voice of wisdom from Washington, and if the birds come back again, to listen to them no more. They promised him they would do as he told them. Then, he shook hands with them, and, in his canoe, traveled down the great father of rivers, the Mississippi.”4
Vann leaned to my ear discreetly and said, “McKenney must think we are bad birds.”
McKenney disguised his courting of his Creek listeners with insulting flattery. Then, finally, he arrived at the only part of the speech that mattered.
“There is a small strip of land,” McKenney said, “which the Treaty of Washington did not embrace. Nevertheless, your White Father believes it belongs to him. Last year in Washington City, the delegation promised to sign it to our possession if the original treaty lines did not reach it. So, the Creek must fulfill their promise and resign the acreage, according to the treaty demands.”5
It was a lie, coercion to avoid paying the Creek for their remaining property. Yoholo stood and held a hand to stop anyone else from talking. Yoholo’s crown of feathers did not move when he said the single English word, “No.”
Crowwell’s surprise brought him to his feet. McKenney rebuked, saying, “It is the Cherokee voices, particularly that of John Ridge, influencing your decision.” How was that possible since I’d spoken none of my own thoughts?
Yoholo confronted McKenney. “When our delegation was in Wash-ington, our purpose was to find justice from the United States by the annulment of McIntosh’s unsanctioned treaty. Your White Father granted us that, but not without replacing it with an immense sacrifice of Creek land. So fast, we held in difficulty, so unmerciful were those who wanted all we owned. In the Treaty of Washington, the American government outlined the limits of our country—specific, detailed, and guaranteed to us.6
“We have little land left, sufficient only to raise our children. After obtaining so much from us, we had hoped for the remission of your earnest attempts for our lands. If such had been the understanding, we would have surrendered the whole chartered limits of Georgia in the treaty, but it is not here so written.”7
After the translation, McKenney pointed at me. “Ridge promised if the treaty lines came close, his Creek brothers would abscond the remaining acres.”
“I said no such thing.” In my mind, I heard my father’s wisdom. “Cherokee were wrong, no matter their righteous intentions.”
I watched the wide eyes of the Creek’s taciturn elders. They studied our movement with flat faces, waiting, unable to turn their eyes from their expectation of an incoming catastrophe.
In English, I said, “Then, why pay to survey the land?”
Crowwell scoffed before saying, “What do you mean, sir?”
I hated repeating myself. “Why take surveys of the land? If the government already owned the land by the initial treaty, there would be no need for an additional survey at substantial cost to our White Father.”
Crowwell, insulted by my question, turned his back to the throng of angry Creek chiefs. Then, to assert his dominance, McKenney stepped in front of Colonel Crowwell. He told Yoholo, “Settling this strip of land is a fulfillment of Ridge’s promise.”
Yoholo needed no translation and refused any further debate. “You have heard our talk, and we have no other. If you were to talk as you do now for ten days, this council would not give you another answer.”8
For a solitary moment, I pitied McKenney. His pompous chain of successful Indian treaties would end today, a noteworthy humiliation among his colleagues.
McKenney turned his back and opened the door. “I am sorry my Creek sons and brothers have chosen such talk for their White Father. We will gather our belongings and leave for Washington.”
“Time to saddle the horses,” Vann whispered in my ear.
With McKenney and Crowwell’s departure, the attending Creek filed out behind the agents. The two exited their temporary lodgings, bumbling bags in tow, and crossed the crowded yard.
Vann opened the stable door and stepped aside to reveal Peter, leading McKenney’s and Crowwell’s horses. Then Vann pulled our guarantee claim letter from his lapel pocket and waved it, reminding McKenney of his government’s promise to pay.
The faces of the two white men surged with imminent rage at Vann’s reminder. One looked at the other in unspoken communication. Then Crowwell bent down and whispered in McKenney’s ear.
I stepped in front of Yoholo and asked Colonel Crowwell, “What is the meaning of your whisper? First, McKenney speaks unfounded accusations against David Vann and me, and then you, Colonel Crowwell, whisper to McKenney.”9
White Crow didn’t offer any excuse or explanation. To no one’s surprise, McKenney wouldn’t do as he promised, remarking how Vann and I did not deserve our wages if we had spoken mistruths about guaranteeing the land.
“Do you feel taller, standing on lies?” Vann said through a smirk and laughed, unsurprised by the unfulfilled promise. He handed Crowwell his horse’s reins, taken from Peter’s grasp.
Short McKenney remained indignant and disgraced, while Crowwell stood erect and stoic, staring at the young black groomsman with disgust. Peter didn’t falter, didn’t bow his head or retreat. The two agents mounted their horses and cantered away, looking over their shoulders, rightly expecting a coming advance of red war clubs.
Peter said, “God willin’ and the Creek don’t rise.”
Night crouched, covering our faces in its darkness. With each passing hour, Yoholo and I assumed McKenney rode fast for Washington. Meanwhile, Crowwell would return to his profiteering, protected by Fort Mitchell’s palisades.
L
The next day, the Creek Council convened near the square. Yoholo whooped loudly to quiet his compatriots. Once gaining their eyes, he cried out. “Instead of pursuing their journeys, McKenney and Crowwell halted on the opposite bank of the Tallapoosa River and spoke to Little Prince, whose mind has left him.”10 An outcry whirled in the air like a dust storm. Cheaha and Talladega stood beside us with open mouths while the Lower Creeks circled the approaching elder, Little Prince.
Yoholo stepped on top of a rock and continued. “We are not slaves to the white man’s word.” He held out unshackled arms. “This verbal promise McKenney speaks of is nothing. It is not in the treaty, not binding.”11
Old, arched by a feeble spine, Little Prince parted the crowd with his porcupine roach, moving others aside. He stopped in front of Vann and me and raised his head. A white film glazed his eyes. It took significant effort for him to gather breath enough to speak. Little Prince said, “The great man says you two made the promise.”12
We could not rebuke his misunderstanding. Without asking us a question, he hadn’t granted us permission to speak.
Cheaha, a man of uncompromising courage, talked in our stead to honored Little Prince. “You sent me to Washington to break McIntosh’s bad treaty. We did so and secured ourselves some land, yet scarcely large enough for our people to stand upon. I know nothing of this promise-talk from McKenney. Our friends John Ridge and David Vann know nothing about it. We love the native land under our bare feet and will not sell it. But, if we must concede it, it will be because you did not agree with the rest of us, Little Prince.”13
“Luckscha. False,”14 Little Prince commanded.
Sounds from an incoming rider, a Creek boy delivering a note, distracted the crowd. The missive bore McKenney’s writing, addressed to Vann alone. Stiff wind renewed, lifting the tales of frock coats, blowing the red tails of Yoholo’s drape. The incoming wind misshaped the porcupine adornments atop Little Prince’s hunched head.
Vann read it and wadded it up in his hand, hesitant to reveal its message. Careful with his words, Vann said, “He wants me to use my influence to induce the Creeks to accede. Only then will he see our claim paid.”15
Drips of rain began their slow assault. Before long, they pummeled and extinguished our fires. Negotiations moved back inside the council house. I sat near the resistance, Yoholo, and the Upper Creeks. No one spoke when we passed a pipe while runners fetched McKenney and Crowwell back.
Near an hour later, McKenney and Crowwell entered, soaked, making them seem more comical and less aggressive.
McKenney began with no greeting, not even offering respect to the attending Little Prince. Instead, he started with his rebuttal. “In Washington, Opothle Yoholo, John Ridge, and David Vann transacted all-important business. These three usually came to the war office and spoke for the Creek delegation. I do not know why my children, the Creek, placed their confidence in these men. I assumed it was because they convinced you they had sense and honesty.”16
Yoholo stood with unwavering fortitude. “The delegation is present now and can tell this council whether transactions existed without their knowledge or consent. The treaty recorded the names of the delegation. Call them to testify. Facts do not sustain your claim. You talk much of a verbal promise, not recollected by any others.”17
Yoholo continued while I translated. “We speak truth where your government has a history of lies. Unfortunately, you have not always fulfilled your promises.”
“I do not acknowledge any mistruth, sir.” McKenney offered no further refutation. Colonel Crowwell listened but did not speak.
Yoholo gestured to me. “Our Cherokee friends are honest men. The American negotiators say one thing, and again, do another—”
McKenney interrupted Yoholo. “My proof of Ridge and Vann’s promise remains in Washington City. I will be proven correct, sirs. I will expose Vann and Ridge’s dishonesty.”
Losing my patience, I spoke in English and Creek. “I swear on my family’s honor, Abraham’s God, and my Creator, this man speaks false.”18
Laughter fell from the Creek Council, although I didn’t think my vow was humorous. McKenney’s accusation brought such a reaction, not my response to it.
Yoholo said, “We know you to be a man of truth, John Ridge. You do not need to swear.”19
Then, McKenney made some other disconnected speech, destitute of reason, from anger and embarrassment, disappointed he couldn’t produce the document. I didn’t need to wonder why; no such document existed.
Before McKenney answered, Yoholo turned his back to the government agents.
McKenney spoke, regardless of Yoholo’s refusal. “I will judge the length of my speeches and talk as much as I please. However, I will attend to no further Creek letters if penned by John Ridge.”20 He turned abruptly like the termagant from a morality play and stormed into the rain.
Little Prince would not budge. His mind was thin from fever and age. Yet, as Creek patriarch, he overruled Yoholo. All must follow his lead. Creek doctrine dictated each vote be unanimous. It deluded me how one vote in five hundred could control the will of a nation. But it had, and the Creek’s last remaining land in Georgia was given freely to the United States government.
Little Prince’s ancient and frail voice spoke to us one last time. “If you young men come among our people again, I will kill you.”21
His last words hung around my head like the cursed albatross in Coleridge’s ‘Ancient Mariner’. Vann and I walked in silent shame down the empty aisle.
Yoholo met us at the stable as we saddled our horses for home. He held bags containing our fee, given from the Creek Treasury’s allotment. The three of us said goodbye, not knowing whether we might see one another again.
Yoholo said, “If you ever need me…”
All I could reply was done with the firm grasp of my hand.
I knew then that Vann and I, McKenney’s bad birds, never should have accepted the gold.