John Ridge
Running Waters
Spring and Summer 1830
S
unlight poured into the windows of my study while I read two months of newspapers stacked on the floor. Each word from Athens, Augusta, Savannah, and Milledgeville declared “War in Georgia”. Yet, no one had seen the elusive Georgian Guard for weeks. Those men who’d stalked Running Waters, Vann’s Cave Spring cabin, my father’s house, and Ross’ home must have returned to their forts or farms at the command of superiors who thought to save soldiers’ lives by encouraging more white settlers. The vicious state didn’t care who removed the Cherokee if we were gone. After reading too many articles, all with similar slander, I hoped their lies never became the truth.
After the burned village, newspapermen wrote falsehoods, calling my father a savage killer. Their columns said Major Ridge was “painted red for battle and wearing a war bonnet.” Cherokee don’t wear war bonnets, whatever they are. They said: “he led his war party waving a tomahawk against innocent white homesteaders, killing helpless women and infant children, and burning their homes during the coldest winter on record.”1 My father carried a pistol and did nothing of the kind.
The article failed to mention that the burned cabins were Cherokee homes on Cherokee land. Unmentioned too was Sunflower’s rape and her husband’s murder. No mention of pleas to Colonel Hugh Montgomery months before and his continued refusal to remove the soldiers. Sensationalism. Mistruths written to provoke white settlers to seek vigilante justice for savage murders that never occurred. All to vilify the Cherokee and justify the whites’ further theft of our land.
I walked to the fireplace, lit a switch from the fire, and touched the flame to the candle wick on my desk. I tossed the switch back into the popping pinewood burning in the grate. Redundancy at its finest. After, I snapped the curtains closed and blocked daylight. I sat again and grabbed another paper, flipping it in both hands to extend the next series of lies beyond the crease.
President Jackson believed in the power of propaganda. The Augusta Chronicle expunged Jackson’s generous proposal for Indian removal. Jackson’s speech reported a “happy consummation” between him and the Congress who’d elected him, concurring that the Indian’s “speedy removal” was imminent. Wholeheartedly, I doubted the truth of the remark, knowing full well I’d signed no treaty forcing my people to move. According to the article, only one unnamed member of the House disputed Jackson’s endeavor. Who was the solitary protestor, I wondered.
Overall, Jackson’s speech abounded with rhetorical questions, asking but already knowing how the representatives would respond. I read Jackson’s quotes aloud, alone. “‘The waves of population and civilization are rolling westward, and we now propose to gain the country occupied by the red men of the South and West by a fair exchange and, at the expense of the United States, to send them to land where their existence may be prolonged and perhaps made perpetual. Doubtless, it will be painful to leave the graves of their fathers, but what do they do more than our ancestors did or than what our children are now doing?’”2
I gripped the paper and paced the room’s perimeter in contrary consternation. Jackson spoke with a forked tongue. He poorly constructed a weak line of reasoning, imitating, like snakeskin, a ridiculous pattern of fallacious claims. Jackson’s apathy encouraged Georgia to allow an invasion, with no treaty granting the thieves access. It mattered not. We had limited avenues to counter dishonest men. I said aloud, “Whatever treaty terms they can’t negotiate, they take by force.”
We were legally and morally right to defend ourselves. But by doing so, Chewoyee died, and Mills hung in prison. However, with the Georgian Guard ever present, Black Crow’s illicit deal with Ross was destroyed. For the time being, there’d be few undiscovered routes to transport stolen horses, whiskey barrels, or slaves that would pass unnoticed.
Still, I couldn’t think of how best to use the knowledge of Ross’ betrayal, gained at such a steep cost: Chewoyee’s and Mills’ lives. Since returning, I couldn’t sleep, seeing Mills swinging from the logs in the jail and, when awake, plagued by my suspicion of Ross’ dirty financials.
I needed to be elected to a higher office to assess the treasury reports. Suppose Ross was opportunistic enough to risk Cherokee lives to increase his fortune. Wouldn’t he also steal from the annuity paid our nation? If so, how could I call him to account without destroying our people? Georgia would capitalize on such a weakness. Newspapers would report the implosion of our infant government. We couldn’t unite and fight President Jackson if scandal divided us from within.
Jackson’s speech asked another question. “Can it be cruel, in this government, when, by events which it cannot control, the Indian is made discontented in his ancient home to purchase his land, to give him a new and extensive territory, to pay the expenses of his removal, and support him a year in his new abode? How many thousands of our own people would gladly embrace the opportunity of removing to the West on such conditions!”3
I held the paper to my pounding forehead and scoffed. Had I sat among the American representatives, I would have shouted my answer to his stupid question across the Capitol floor. “Send your people West—instead of the Creek, the Seminole, the Choctaw, the Chippewa, and the Cherokee. We’re fine where we stand.”
From Elias’ Phoenix, he countered so many “mistruths” published in the white man’s news. He offered an exact account of events and reported how Colonel Hugh Montgomery’s incompetence led the charge by refusing to remove settlers. When refuting Jackson’s bill, Elias too asked rhetorical questions, appealing to the common sense of his paper’s northern subscribers. “When do we have an example, in the whole history of man, of a nation, or a tribe, removing a body from civil and religious means into a perfect wilderness—all to be civilized?”4 In ironic contradiction, Elias’ acknowledgment of Jackson’s senselessness was apt. And I was glad my cousin was brave enough to print it.
People believed what they wanted. With the welcoming hand of the federal government, Georgians felt little empathy for “ignorant tribes,” no matter how civilized. It was against their interests. While President Jackson and Georgia’s Governor-elect Lumpkin bought and paid for newspapers to report white “progress,” they charged Cherokee Nation the cost of the paper.
I rested my elbows on my desk and rubbed my temples. I heard a knock behind me before a little hand turned the knob. Rollin ran across the floor to show me turkey feathers he held in his hands.
I picked him up and sat him on my lap, picking seed spurs stuck in his hair.
“Yellow Bird, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all day.” Of course, I knew exactly where he’d been. I was jealous of his freedom, running free under the sun.
He handed me one feather and answered my question. “Clarinda found them, Papa. In the field, near the stream.”
I asked him, “Why do you have them then? The Great Spirit sends the feather to the person who finds it.”
He said, “Mama said she had to share.”
I’d seen thousands of turkey feathers in my life. White horizontal streaks settled through speckled deep brown strands. I ran my hand down the plume and rested it on top of the mound of newspapers. Then, Rollin’s beautiful mama appeared in the doorway.
She called Rollin to her, who slid from my lap, running across the floor.
“I’m sorry. I know you need quiet to read.”
“You and our children should interrupt me more often.” I stretched my open hand to her to come and stand beside me, while I couldn’t help but squint my eyes at the bright light entering the room behind her.
I must have appeared sallow because when she got close, she touched my forehead and asked, “Are you well?”
I took her hand away and rested my heavy head on her waist. “My head hurts. Too much tiny type with no good news.”
She turned to leave for the kitchen. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, but I pulled her back.
She kissed the top of my head. Her palms raised my eyes to look at her. “You need light, fresh air. The sun is out. Go hunting; take Rollin with you.” She looked over her shoulder to the doorway after saying his name. “Since his birthday, all he does is argue with me, saying he wants one thing, only to decide he needs another.”
I turned to the papers on my desk, sneering and blowing quick air from my nose. “I’ve been reading of similar complaints.”
“Then stop. For today, at least. If you spend all your time in the house, what is the purpose of fighting for the land? Strap Rollin to your back or ride with him to get your father. The guards are gone.”
“A good idea, my philosophical wife.” When we stretched our arms apart, I held onto her hand.
“Don’t go yet.” I opened the bottom drawer, retrieved the household money box, and pulled from it the note she’d written. “I need to talk to you about this.”
She looked guilty for no reason, as I knew she would. I asked, “Why did you write it?” and handed her the scrap of paper.
She set the note back on the desk, staring at her script. “You were away.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t want you to think I’d take anything for any unnecessary reason.” She took a breath. “I wrote it the same horrible day they forced you to sneak home.”
I bent to see her eyes. “Sarah, you don’t need to account for anything.” I pulled myself from her. “Truth be told, I need to turn the running of this house and its finances over to you entirely. After reading the news, I will have little time to manage heads of cattle or corn and cotton prices.” I tore her note and slid its pieces into the pocket hidden in her petticoat. “I’ll teach you how to manage this summer. And after that, keep me informed. You’ll make these decisions in my stead. I trust you.”
She stepped back, slighting my intentions. “I couldn’t. I don’t have the skill. Trust Peter or Walking Stick to do it. The children fill my days. My father never would have entrusted my mother with so large a task.”
Sarah’s parents’ voices were never completely absent from her thoughts and reappeared at the most inconvenient times. “How many times do I need to remind you? You aren’t her. I’m not him. You already take care of everything here when I’m gone.” Before she escaped the room and worried her mind with newfound responsibility, I stopped her from leaving. “You must, Ani. If something happens to me, I won’t leave you unprepared. You must.
“After reading all this,” I gestured to my desk’s disorganized mess, “we need another delegation to travel to Washington, one that gets the ear of Chicken Snake Jackson, regardless of whether Ross wants me to go.”
She said, “Snakes don’t have ears.” She made me laugh. “Why would Ross not let you go? He trusts you.”
I hadn’t told Sarah about Black Crow’s deal with Ross. When Ross learned what I knew, our trust would be severed. Unfortunately, so must Sarah and Quatie’s friendship.
She asked, “Do you think he’ll speak with you?”
“Ross?”
“No, not Ross,” she laughed, “Jackson. I can’t imagine it a simple thing to get an audience with the president.”
I picked up the feather off the desk and replied, “Sometimes, one must be the loudest bird in the yard.”
I followed Sarah’s green gingham to the kitchen, where she broke a bit of tea from the block and put it in one of the cups her mother sent. I walked to the open doorway of the kitchen and looked out, leaning into the frame with my arm. “Mistress Ridge, I have improved upon your idea.”
“Which?” she asked without looking.
“While the children sleep this afternoon, I’m taking you hunting instead of Rollin. His squeaks will scare away the birds. And you need to learn to shoot.” After she poured hot water into the cup, I turned her around and kissed her forehead. “I am suddenly hungry for turkey.”
L
Sarah walked behind me, studying the ground. I’d already seen their tracks, three-pronged indentions with talons pointing in dry dirt. She followed them, walking in whichever direction they led, but all she did was crisscross.
I put the musket’s barrel over my shoulder, walked back to her, and said, “I love you more now than I could ever say.”
She smiled. “What makes you say that?” Then, with barely a breath between thoughts, she studied the turkey tracks. “Where did they go? They stop here.”
“Watching you think fascinates me. Turkeys fly, Ani. Not far, but they do.”
“And snakes have ears. Of course, turkeys fly. What did you think I was thinking?”
“Are you being sarcastic, Mistress Ridge? Surely not.” I laughed. “When men bring home a bird, all the women can think about is all the feathers to pluck. The hunter has the harder job. He must stay out of sight. Far enough away the turkey won’t know he’s there, but close enough to hit the biggest one. If we find a rafter, we watch for the gobbler with the largest spread and longest beard. Then aim for the smallest part of his body, his head.”
“Where did the turkeys go that made these tracks, my philosophical husband?”
I put the gun barrel toward the ground and grabbed my wife’s waist, pulling her to me with my free hand. “They roost in trees. I don’t remember you being so witty. When did this happen?”
She said, “In childbirth. So, turkeys roost like Quatie’s peacocks. If you don’t let go, I’ll be with child again before we leave the woods, with or without a bird for dinner.”
I kissed her quickly, released her, and took her hand. “Yoholo’s wife would agree. I don’t know if I could give you another child right now. I’m starving. Come on.”
At the edge of the field, behind a downed log, we lay beside one another, with our shoulders together and our ankles intertwined. I was on Sarah’s left, watching the open field where Clarinda and Rollin found the feathers earlier this morning. I whispered in her ear, “Shooting a partridge is about patience and stealth, but when a turkey gobbler spreads his tail feathers for the hens, he doesn’t care who knows he’s there.”
Sarah whispered back, not taking her eyes from several females who scratched through leaves, looking for seeds. “Would I be wrong to assume that men behave differently?” She put the rifle in the socket of her shoulder and looked down the sights.
“Don’t shoot the hens,” I warned. “Watch and wait for the gobbler.” A jake bustled into the group and strutted in a circle, fanning his feathers, eager to boast about his spread.
“Hold on. Let’s see if that jake brings a gobbler.”
After a few minutes of entertainment watching the jake flaunt his feathers, a deeper gobble drew our attention to the right of the field.
I pointed. “That’s the one you’ll shoot.”
“But if I miss, they’ll all fly away.”
“That is true, and we’ll eat salt pork for dinner, but what a story you’ll have to tell.”
The jake and the gobbler fanned their feathers, circling one another. The young male flapped his wings and threw a spur to the gobbler, while the gobbler proved his dominance by throwing his own. After considerable flapping, their sparring escalated, and the gobbler wrapped his neck around the smaller jake’s, trying to drop him by pushing his head down.
The turkeys’ fight for dominance mesmerized Sarah.
I whispered, “Brace the gun into your shoulder and don’t think about missing. You’ll hit him. You didn’t miss when we practiced shooting all those clay pots you broke.”
She lifted the rifle to her shoulder, staring down the barrel, and closed one eye.
“Don’t close that one. Close the other eye.”
She switched eyes. “Right.”
“The gun will kick, but you know how that feels. Take a deep breath and let half out before pulling the trigger.”
“Stop talking to me.”
When the smoke cleared, her bird was down. I took the gun from Sarah and helped her stand. She wiped her hands on her dress and said, “I wasn’t sure I hit it. I couldn’t tell through the smoke.”
“You killed it. That means I must pluck it.” Sarah took down a bird so old, Rollin and Clarinda would have feathers to spare.
L
Summer drought followed spring’s bounty. When I rode down the path toward New Echota, miles of bent and shriveled stalks gripped dry husks curling around barren cobs. Cotton prices skyrocketed. With slave labor, Ross profited from his cotton more than even Rich Joe Vann.
With Sarah’s frugality, those living at Running Waters suffered only from our labors in the heat watering the primary gardens. The orchard crop was thin, but planting corn close to the stream meant we’d keep the crib full enough to sustain ourselves and our animals.
My father’s cotton fields suffered, but with his field hands, he managed a thin crop, selling it for more than it was worth. We prayed thanks for such bounty and shared as much as possible with those less fortunate nearby.
But instead of a joyful family affair, July’s Green Corn Ceremony was full of drunken games and viciousness. Cherokee clans traded flasks and chanted through the turkey dance, singing, “We are living in one cove, a flat and level cove. We are scratching, spreading leaves in just one cove. Tail feather spreading first on one side, then the other.”5
During that dry summer, many Cherokees lost their coves, and each singer’s defeat was palpable. Stand spoke to many a visiting farmer pushed from their land. One disheveled man asked why he should plant, work the ground, and allow Georgians to reap from his labors. Stunned into an uncommon silence, Stand had no answer.
Before the following day’s council, elders waved large turkey-feather fans over Chief Ross, lending him the bird’s pride. They fastened cock spurs to his boots. More turkey feathers hung from the long stem of a pipe smoked between him and the councilmen.
My father took the pipe first, inhaled, and sucked the smoke back into his nose. Father began a story while studying the pipe in his hand. “The diamond-backed turtle conjured to win the race with magic, hiding secrets he still won’t tell. On his journey home, the turtle stopped to drink from the river. He dipped his face and got his scalp wet, the war trophy he carried around his neck.”
Father passed the pipe to Sleeping Rabbit, who added to the story, “Behind him, a large turkey gobbled from his kernelled neck and startled the thirsty terrapin.” Then he puffed from the feathered pipe and passed it to his friend, James Starr.
Starr said, “The turkey challenged the turtle. He said, ‘I don’t think that scalp looks good on you.’” He inhaled from the feathered pipe and laughed, which made him cough. He passed the smoking end to Chief Ross.
Ross puffed with small inhales but exhaled a single stream of smoke. He didn’t continue the story, just passed the pipe. Ross fully understood Cherokee but spoke our language little. His matriarchal line made him one of us. However, he still hadn’t spoken the language of the people he represented.
Elias took the pipe from Ross and said, “The turkey challenged the terrapin for his trophy scalp.” Elias puffed his chest and changed his voice to talk as he imagined a turkey might. “‘That scalp drags on the ground when you wear it that way. May I see it?’”
Stand elbowed his brother and took the pipe from him. “The terrapin made the mistake of his life. He took off his scalp, handing it to the gobbler. That sly turkey threw up his spur, hanging the war trophy around his own neck.”
Stand patted my back with one hand and handed me the pipe. I said, “The turkey ran away from the slow terrapin. Called him gullible, gobbling, ‘How does it look on me at this distance?’”
I switched to English and traced our fire’s circle. I honored Chief Ross with the last smoke. “The turkey stole the turtle’s beard. The turtle could never move fast enough to catch the robbing gobbler.”6
Chief Ross looked puzzled, put the pipe to his lips, surrounded by a beard of his own, and inhaled.
L
Georgia’s ban on tribal assembly went into effect two weeks before the Green Corn Council, but we risked holding it in New Echota one last time. Stand shook my hand as we walked inside. “The paint on our beloved council house has barely had time to chip before Georgia forces us to abandon our capital.”
When we took our seats, I told Stand, “Ross recommends we move future councils north to Red Clay.”
Before Stand could answer, our chief took to his podium and began, “I am not your enemy; American President Jackson is. To fight against his Removal Bill, I plan to secure American attorney William Wirt of Baltimore. I’ve appealed for the aid of Georgian attorneys Underwood and Harris. According to Secretary Eaton, the President will not intercede when Georgia surveys Cherokee territory to prepare for the lottery. Therefore, we must hire lawyers to dissuade Georgia’s premature and unlawful initiative. They agreed to aid us, but at significant cost.”
I felt the wind from Ross’ wings. He made the situation sound desperate enough that the council would have no choice but to hire Wirt.
Ross recognized me to speak. I spoke first in Cherokee and then following with English. My people came first. “This is the same Eaton who believes Cherokee are no more capable of being educated than wild turkeys. Can we afford such costly representation?”
Ross stared at me. I waited for his explanation, trusting my intuition.
Ross countered, “We’ll solicit support from our northern allies to cover the costs.”
His reply was weak, embarrassed by our nation’s lack of funding. I followed his remarks with another question. “And if we do not receive enough money from their kind donations? A trip North for delegates would be expensive. Cherokee Nation cannot afford such noteworthy attorneys and pay room and board for delegates in Boston, Philadelphia, and New York.”
Ross had yet to tell the council of General Eaton’s further sabotage. So, I asked another question. “What if Jackson follows through with his threat, as Eaton said he would? To pay the annuity to each Cherokee family instead of granting the lump sum to the Cherokee Treasury. We are less likely to afford such expensive council if Jackson pays individual men.”
I wasn’t disputing Ross. We both knew Eaton would do so, having met the boisterous man. But with no large deposit, the treasury would be penniless to afford expensive attorneys. Jackson and Eaton threatened with intention. Why would President Jackson allow treaty payments, paid by the American taxpayer, just so Chief Ross could sue the American government and use the money to pay expensive lawyers to argue against them? With Americas coffers still recovering from the War of 1812 and the inflated price of new land acquisitions, the American purse was far from overflowing.
Still, it was a great deal to ask poor Cherokee families to travel a week for their portion, a mere five dimes, no matter how great that sum might appear to drought-starved farmers. The money and the choice needed to belong to them.
Ross cleared his throat. “The council should sign its districts’ power of attorney to me, so I may claim the annuity on behalf of the treasury.”7
I wanted to ask him to repeat himself, fearing I didn’t hear him accurately. Ross’ words felt like a spur scratching against my chest. How dare he assume the council would allow him all the power and all the money?
I covered the imaginary wound with my hand and sat down as councilmen rose to their feet. Men talked over one another, some agreeing to Ross’ request, seeing the benefit. Other hands pointed across the aisle, accusing men of theft who’d been friends the night before.
James Starr walked down the aisle and asked Ross for permission to speak. Starr turned to his fellow chiefs and said, “I nominate John Ridge as president of the National Council. We need a man who’s not afraid to question our chief. John brings us information we didn’t know. He should oversee the treasury. However, I agree with Ross. Our nation needs lawyers to fight President Jackson.”
Vann seconded the motion. Xander McCoy walked and stood beside me, picked the quill from the desk, and said, “I will finish John’s term as clerk, if council grants its consent.”
This might be the only way Ross’ request for the attorneys might pass. After my nomination, Ross had to decide whether toallow an uncontested vote for me as president of our National Council or deny it, and appear a money-hungry tyrant. With only two choices, neither good for him, Ross called for the vote. Father abstained and followed me down the quiet aisle outside while Xander recorded the hands.
I turned left and paced at the foot of the stairs. Father stood still. Being in motion helped me think. Once the doors closed behind us, I said, “Surely Ross knows he can’t hire attorneys without enduring eyes on the treasury.”
Facing similar circumstances during British oppression, Hamilton, Jay, and Madison wrote The Federalist Papers: the checks and balances of government.
I stopped and faced my father. “What must a chief do to save his nation? How much will it cost?” I crossed in front of him and stopped on his other side. “Why does it always come down to handing over the coins of our liberty, our rights, to a king?”
I crossed again, farther away, talking to myself. “The wealthy hold riches and therefore the power but can be blackmailed because they do. The poor have nothing to steal except the ground beneath their feet.”
At the Foreign Mission School, in Reverend Herman Daggett’s Constitution class, he taught us The Federalist Papers. Most of my peers stared out windows or doodled on their slates, holding chins in their palms. But Elias and I were attentive. I remembered Madison’s particular phrase in English. “Knowledge will forever govern ignorance, and people who mean to be their own governors must arm themselves with the power such knowledge brings. The abuse of liberty may endanger their liberty, but also by the abuse of power.”8
Remembering, I shook my head and passed my father again, stomping the ground more adamantly than before. “Even if I am not granted this position, I cannot, will not, with a clear conscience, sign away the rights to their money, unchecked.”
He stopped my stride by pulling a turkey feather from his coat pocket. He brushed it across my face and handed it to me. “Leadership and loyalty have found you, my son. All any nation’s people can ask of its chiefs is to speak and to serve.”
I sat on the council steps with my head in my hands when Father resumed my pace. We heard them before McCoy opened the double doors. Friends and brothers poured through, overwhelming me with handshakes of congratulations.
Over their heads, Ross and I saw one another. He twisted his neck, straightened his head, and acknowledged my victory with a solitary nod. If the council granted Ross the right to spend the Cherokee’s annuity on lawyers, they’d asked me to stand directly behind him and follow their money.