John Ridge
Washington and Boston
January 1832
B
ehind me, Greek columns surrounded the arched half-circle of the House chambers, with no head or foot. Unable to take a full breath, I held onto my lapels to occupy my clammy hands.
When I turned to face the House congressmen, a bronze eagle hung above a nearby fireplace. To my people, the eagle symbolized strength and power. Uwohali, the eagle, carried two twin feathers on its tail. If only native nations and America could steer side by side and embrace the continent’s future together. If Congress vetoed Indian removal, it would return our faith in American justice.
I unfolded my memorial and set it on the podium. I didn’t need it, having rewritten the words so many times. Without grand gestures, I raised my voice in sincere solemnity.
“My people have suffered great injury and loss of property, disposal of liquors and the insults which Georgia prided itself in heaping upon the unprotected victims of their rapacity. Congress must look with sanguine hope and offer us its shield of protection.1
“We pray for the return of a happy day—when the dark clouds which lower upon the habitations of Cherokee Nation’s citizens will be in the deep bosom of an ocean buried, and the patriot’s heart throbs with feelings of good faith and friendship.”2
Every Christian congressman should vote his heart. If he didn’t, he needed to ask himself who was the savage, the heathen. Could the honest part of the world dominate over Indian nations while my people, and many unresisting tribes, suffered such trials?3
I laid my copy on the table and recessed down the aisle. I joined Coodey, Martin, and Elias, and we crossed into the foyer. We breathed only after the doors shut behind us.
From Pennsylvania Avenue, I looked toward the dome. Coodey and Martin strolled ahead, but I stopped walking and grabbed Elias’ arm.
He looked up the three flights of grand stairs. “Such great sums spent to renovate the building after the British burned it to the ground.”
I replied, “Money would have been better spent saving native nations from ruin.”
When we walked back to the Indian Queen, I thought how Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Hamilton, Adams, Monroe all attempted to create a utopia, a realization of what the first immigrants called their “City on a Hill.” If half of what America’s forefathers envisioned became a reality, then the world would look to this continent as an example, where its people voted their fate.
L
The following month, Elias and I left Coodey and Martin in Washington and traveled north to Boston’s “sanctuary of freedom.” Bells on the exterior of the Old South Meeting House struck ten when our barouche driver stopped near the front of the brick, steepled building.
We were to speak in the same place where colonial rebels cried out against British oppression. From Elias’ stillness, he appeared to be affected by similar throes.
I said, “From its pulpit, Samuel Adams rallied colonists against King George’s Intolerable Acts. From this street corner, they led the walk toward the harbor. Can you see it? In your mind’s eye?”
Elias said, “All I see is a herd of white men dressing as Indians, screaming war whoops, carrying crates of tea on their shoulders.”
I laughed. “Well, that too.”
Elias didn’t even smile. “How soon these Americans forget.”
Inside the meeting house, chinked, plastered walls held stained molding, in dark shades. The sanctuary contained a maze of boxed pews under a single balcony carved with indented filigree. So many arched windowpanes let in the day’s natural light.
Elias and I sat stoically while the meeting house pews filled with mumbles.
Elias asked me if he could be the first to speak. I’d memorized his speech after repeated hearings, but this time, he held my attention anew. The congregation rested in his palms.
“I ask you, shall red men live, or shall they be swept from the earth? With you and this public at large, the decision chiefly rests. Must they perish? Must they all, like the unfortunate Creeks, go down in sorrow to their grave? They hang upon your mercy as a garment. Will you push them from you, or will you save them? Let humanity answer.”4
The crowd stood in silence, unwilling to break tradition of not applauding in a house of God. As he concluded, I listened closely. Gasps and sighs signified the audience’s acceptance, their sympathies. Such feelings defined hostility by antithesis.
I took the podium after Elias returned to his seat. Absent reason, my heartbeat was steady, without the nervous acceleration I experienced in the Capital. Here, history granted me the camaraderie of its compatriots. In front of me was a bronze eagle, holding a large clock with Roman numerals to denote the time.
My passions rose. So overcome, I didn’t conclude with words I’d prepared. To make this moment count, I spoke with fervent will.
“You asked us to throw off the hunter and warrior state; we did so. You asked us to form a republican government; we did so—adopting your own as a model. You asked us to cultivate the earth and learn mechanical arts. We did so. You asked us to learn to read. We did so. You asked us to cast away our idols and worship your God. We did so. Now you demand we cede to you, our lands. That we will not do.”5
An elderly man in the back stood first, followed by his younger neighbor. Across the aisle, another. Toward the front, a fourth. Three on the balcony stood together. No one remained in their comfort by the time I returned to Elias’ side. We looked at one another, fulfilling a dream we shared: to be heard as men not perceived as savages. Once, we’d been viewed as mere spectacle, but these men saw us as revolutionaries. The money and miles traveled became worthy of such expense.
We didn’t realize that outside there were multitudes waiting to greet us. We placed a copy of my memorial, in place of a petition, at the head of the receiving line. Each man shook our hands, offered prayers for our cause, and signed his name on the document. The day gathered six thousand names, not marks.
A graying gentleman and his younger companion waited their turn to speak to us. I recognized them as the first two to stand in the sanctuary. The eldest held the brim of his top hat and bowed graciously.
With charismatic Boston vowels, he said, “I have never heard of a people more self-reliant than your Cherokee Nation. Mister Boudinot, I am honored to make your acquaintance. I subscribe to your Phoenix. Today, gentlemen, you fired my blood and roused the indignation of all those who listened. Like the Cherokee, I am no stranger to God’s voice in the trees and mountains. I heard its voice again, today, from you both.”
“Thank you, sir,” Elias said. “To rise from the ashes, one has to burn.”
The elder said, “Then I hope for a quick revival. Your people presently stand in the heat.”
Invigorated by his overwhelming support, Elias credited his Lord and Savior. “The Holy Spirit walks with us on this journey out of bondage.”
The elder continued, “Our darker brethren walk a similar path.” After equating slavery with removal, the gray-haired man introduced himself as Ralph Emerson, a reverend and philosopher, a man of headwork. At his side stood his apprentice, Henry Thoreau. With such a dark complexion, I wondered whether native blood flowed in his veins. But with so much facial hair, he must be of European descent. The younger wore a wrinkled homespun suit, countering his freshly pressed mentor.
Thoreau said, “The white man’s honeybee stung the red child’s hand, a forerunner of that industrious tribe that came and plucked the wildflower from the race by the root.”6
I said, “I sincerely hope, Mister Thoreau, God sees fit to alter your vision and sees to it our people remain safely at home.”
Elias continued. “At least now, it is apparent to all who heard us today which side is right, and which is wrong.7 Slavery and removal are moral issues and should not cross into politics. The Constitution leaves such matters to state sovereignty.”8
Emerson said, “Trust yourselves, gentlemen. Every heart vibrates to that iron string.”9 With that, both men traveled down the street toward the bay, holding the brim of their hats with harbor winds in their faces.
L
When the Supreme Court returned to session, rooms at the Indian Queen were scarce. Newspapermen filled the halls each night, but were absent during the day, congregating, waiting for the court’s decisions. If they wrote faster than their competition, their reward for such diligence brought increased sales.
The press collected in front of an exterior podium when Justice Marshall arrived to read the decision in Worcester’s case. Our attorney, Wirt, and the Cherokee delegation were granted no special seat or private room for hearing such a pivotal decision. Hopefully, the court freed two noble men, and by extension, a noble race from Georgia’s constitutional illegalities.
In his robe and wig, Justice Marshall addressed the waiting crowd. We stood at the back, straining to hear. Whatever it would be, we must remain calm, absent exclamation or groan, without elation or cry. Nearby, newspapermen spotted us with pens at the ready to report such reactions.
Justice Marshall said, “Cherokee Nation is a distinct community, occupying its territory in which the laws of Georgia have no right to enter, but with the assent of the Cherokees. Every legislative act against their people by the state of Georgia is consequently void.”10
I asked Elias, “Did he say void?” I couldn’t be sure I heard.
Elias looked at me with tearful eyes and replied with an astonished whisper. “Our prayers have been answered.” Among the press, we kept stoic, but walked taller when returning to the Indian Queen.
Behind closed doors, we clapped our hands and shouted praises to Heaven. We recited the ruling repeatedly, in all its glory. For so long, each defeat after each escalating defeat, we’d faced more challenges, climbing unceasing hills with the elusive summit always out of reach. The Cherokee topped the precipice, the pinnacle, in united victory. Nothing could remove the smile from my face. The ruling elevated us to constant jubilation.
Elias said, “A great triumph on the part of the Cherokees, so far as the question of our rights. It will no longer be a question between Georgia and the poor Cherokees, but between the U.S. and the state of Georgia.”11
“The judiciary prevails,” I said. “Such a win sets a righteous precedent. Georgia’s laws over our people are null.”
I was glad Elias was with us to celebrate. His editorials supported such a win. He deserved to feel the dignity of his success, achieved without violence, misdeed, or mistruth.
In my heart’s human selfishness, I wished I could be the one to tell my father and feel his gratitude and pride. My vain ambition wanted to be the one to tell Ross. I imagined his face when I would say, “I was here, pleading our case. Elias and I spoke in Massachusetts, collecting signatures and donations for our cause. I acted on behalf of the Cherokee Nation. Not you.”
The next morning, I packed such arrogance beside my clothes. I could not wait to make the long journey home and tell Sarah all that transpired. She’d be revived, glad I could stay home.
But nothing travels faster than bad news. At breakfast, we’d heard rumors of Jackson’s reaction to the high court’s decision. Murmurs spread like wildfire how Jackson denounced the ruling and sided with the dissenting opinion. One reporter imitated Jackson’s sarcasm and reported that Jackson said, “John Marshall has made his decision. Let him enforce it—if he can.”12 Rumors in other newspapers took the report one step further, saying Jackson called the court “stillborn.”
Our people again crossed one peak only to find another mountain.
I waited for our steamer’s departure in the silence of my room, scouring newspapers for confirmation of Jackson’s words in the dark. Then, the Indian Queen’s bellman knocked and delivered a letter. The post held only my name scripted where the address should be. On its back was the seal of the Office of the President. Jackson requested my presence for “private discourse” the next day.
Why would Jackson want to see me alone, without the others in our delegation? I knew better than to converse with him without witnesses. McKenney’s accusation taught me that. However, the president could not be denied. I knocked on the neighboring doors and reported Jackson’s strange request.
Coodey said, “I should go in your stead.”
“No. There must be a reason he asked for me.” I said, “It’s past time for Chicken Snake Jackson to crawl and hide in the luxuriant grass of his nefarious hypocrisy.”13
That evening, instead of attending the crowded dining room for supper, I requested a plate brought to my room, and unpacked.
L
My appointment at the White House was at five in the afternoon. I arrived early, but Jackson’s aides did not leave me to linger on the nearby grounds alone. Instead, they escorted me up a grand staircase lit by a crystal chandelier to the second floor and down a wide hall near Jackson’s private residence.
This room was extravagantly decorated, with ceiling-to-floor green tapestries smelling of kerosene lamp oil mixed with the stench of hand-shaken secrets. My guide called it the Audience Room when I stepped onto the green carpet, the same hue as the papered walls. The white fireplace mantle was the centerpiece of the room, engraved with a prayer attributed to President Adams.
“I pray Heaven bestow the best of blessings on this House, and all that shall hereafter inhabit it. May none but honest and wise men rule under this roof.”14
I doubted whether my present opposition was a man of such integrity, “honest and wise,” as President Adams hoped. Above the mantle, two portraits hung, one of President Monroe and the other of his wife, Elizabeth. Since I was alone in the room, I spoke aloud to Monroe’s fixed gaze. “Do you remember me? I was the student who wrote to you about the Cherokee’s war for liberty. The enemies I fought then are the same I battle now.”
While waiting, my eye caught a sheen of gilded bronze, eagles nesting in the window’s cornices. I whispered, “Uwohali,” when Jackson stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
“What’s that you say?” Jackson asked.
“I was just admiring your eagles, General, the Uwohali.”
His body seemed thinner than when last we met. General Jackson made his way to me and shook my offered hand. Afterward, he gripped both his hands behind his back. He wore no frock coat. White sleeves rolled at his elbows, bordered by a maroon vest, and a black tie girding his neck. He appeared even more formidable with his graying bushy hair brushed neatly back from such a stubborn forehead.
“I ordered those,” he said. “The room needed something to break up all the green. Don’t you think?”
“Of course, sir.”
He rocked on his heels and stifled a cough. “You’ve never hesitated to disagree with me before. Do you think them gaudy?”
I shook my head and said, “No, sir. Just noting the coincidence. In my last months, I’ve seen many such bronze eagles.”
“My Rachel would have loved this room. She didn’t live long enough to join me in the White House. Died at the Hermitage of a broken heart after the death of our Creek son. Then, my political opposition attacked her character from the pages of every paper.”
“My father told me of your son. I’m sorry for both your grave losses. I’ve read the propaganda, sir. My wife and I too faced slander when we wed. Although our experience doesn’t compare, I know the sting of hyperbole.” It was all I could think to say, knowing how dearly the man loved his deceased wife.
How ridiculous, I thought. We avoided the reason for this meeting. I meant to present myself with more fortitude. That must be Jackson’s plan, to disarm me.
He gestured toward the armchairs. I set my hat and cane on a nearby elaborate mahogany tabletop. Its craftsman had inlaid golden threads under its transparent surface. How frivolous. Gold’s worth sealed under white man’s brandy glasses. I unbuttoned my coat and sat in the seat General Jackson offered.
He rested his hands where the side arms met the wings of the chair. I didn’t know what to do with mine.
He gestured to my cane. “How’d you get that limp?”
“Childhood illness, sir. I do not have my father’s constitution. I was sick when he left home to fight with you, leading the Cherokee brigade at Horseshoe Bend.”
“How old were you then?”
“Twelve. Attacked my lungs. My hip still swells and aches from the residual illness.”
“I wasn’t much older than that when the British killed my mother and brother. During the war, I ran messages across battle lines. They caught me. Held me captive for months. Caught smallpox in their prison.”
“Your hatred of British occupation and oppression is widely known, sir.”
“Yes, it would be. Thought I’d die for certain. Didn’t much care, except that I was defiant enough not to give the Redcoats the satisfaction of burning my corpse. I recovered. America and I had our revenge in New Orleans.”15 Jackson asked, “Do you have children?”
“Yes, sir, three. My wife and I are expecting again.”
Why did he avoid the obvious reason for calling me here?
“After suffering the pox, Rachel and I never could have a child all our own.”
He didn’t finish his thought. Instead, he packed a pipe, shuffled through a nearby cylinder for a switch, lifted the golden fireplace cover, and lit his pipe.
I still did not know why I was here, alone. Surely, it wasn’t to turn an enemy into a friend.
He leaned back in the chair. “We both have scars. Some seen. Some unseen.”
I broke the promise I made myself. Restraint. I asked, “Are what the papers report true? You will not enforce the Supreme Court’s decision? You will refuse to send federal troops to Georgia?”
He puffed and exhaled. “You’re a direct one. I like that. No, Ridge, I will not. More than that, though, I cannot. The law gives me little room to act against Georgia. Americans would see any federal intervention as turning the army’s weapons against its own people. I will not oppose providence, expansion. How could I? I’m its staunchest supporter.”
I responded quickly. “The president’s authority as commander in chief would deter Georgia’s attacks against the Cherokee.”
He retorted just as fast. “Such an order would imply war is my intention. Last year’s Creek rebellion proves it. Settlers will come. Invade Cherokee land regardless. They covet the fertile ground.”
His abrupt honesty took me back. I had no words to counter such a prediction.
Jackson asked, “Surely, at home, you’ve witnessed the effects of four hundred whiskey shops bordering Creek Nation.16 Heard about the smallpox epidemic plaguing the Creek?”17
“My people suffer under the same yoke, sir. But unlike the Creek, our government would never trade our sovereignty. Not with only federal assurances of removing white encroachers.”18
“Why not?” he asked, letting the question hang in the air like a disease.
“As you aptly said, whites approach regardless. If one white man leaves, ten more take his place.”
General Jackson’s stare urged me to further forthrightness. I said, “Last year’s treaty destroyed Creek sovereignty. The federal government divided and conquered them.”
He said, “Think. Why hasn’t Ross agreed to a similar treaty? Are your people not desperate enough? Could there be some other reason?”
I answered without thinking. “If Ross signed such a one-sided treaty, he’d have to relinquish all power. The man revels in it. Reveres it.”
Unsurprised, Jackson leaned forward and held his pipe between his hands. “Answer me this. Has Chief Ross’ policy of passive disobedience deterred Georgia?”
“No,” I said, offering Jackson the same honesty and directness granted me.
He advanced his reasoning. “Does your National Council seek to declare war on the settlers? Support warriors who’d provoke Georgia into outright war?”
I said, “Our numbers are too small. Such a sting would mean mass suicide.”
He said, “You’ve seen what Georgia’s papers report about warriors evicting settlers? I’ve read of your father’s troubles. Georgia’s governor told me his version of events.”
I rebuked him. “They accused us of what they do: theft, rape, and murder. What the paper printed was an utter mistruth. Georgia was the one who captured and beat some in our party to death. My father knew we took a risk, but there was more at stake than you know.”
“Your father was a sensible man. I assume he still is, with all his faculties?”
“Very much so. I am grateful. He is my strongest confidant.”
“Then, tell your father the only hope of relief is to abandon the country and remove to the West. I am a powerful man, but not powerful enough to keep greed at bay.”
He put his pipe to his lips again. “I offer Cherokee sovereignty at a safe distance from those who cause your people harm. I do not want my loyal friends to see their livelihoods stolen. For this, the American government will pay their way West and sustain them the year following. Despite what you may think, I do not wish for the demise of the Cherokee Nation. How could I? I may be many things, John Ridge, but I am loyal to my friends. Friends like your father. Not that scamp, Ross.”
I felt the need to defend Ross after Jackson’s slanderous remark. But, instead of rushing to speak, I raised my eyebrow. After seeing it, he gave his reason for the insult.
Jackson said, “Your principal chief may align his political pursuits on behalf of your people, but I believe he’s vested more in his personal financial success through his real estate dealings.”
“Our people admire him.” When that remark did not move Jackson, I said, “He and our National Council fight to save the land of our ancestors. Land where we’ve grown and hunted our sustenance much longer than the invading Americans. How could you speculate as to Ross’ intentions?”
Jackson tilted his head, as if, in his mind, he debated whether to show the last card held in his hand. He lowered his voice. “I know because Ross negotiated a treaty in 1819. It guaranteed civilized half-breeds the opportunity to become wealthy American citizens. For Ross’ efforts, he received six hundred and forty acres in the Tennessee Valley, land ripe for cotton. I know because I sat at the other side of the table and wanted to buy it. In 1819, your chief sold Cherokee land to the government, denounced his citizenship, and profited from the cotton grown there.”19
My conclusion spilled from my lips with abandon. “So, Ross is an American when it suits him and Cherokee when it lines his pockets. He makes money either way.”
So much of what Jackson said aligned with what I already knew. Ross refused McIntosh’s bribe because it proved him faithful to the Cherokee. He married Quatie for her family’s political heritage. With her as his wife, even if he were entirely white and American, she could hold the land and all its improvements under Cherokee law. It made sense—the story about Kalsatee, the man abandoned on the way to trade in Tennessee. Ross’ arrangement with Black Crow.
As if Jackson read my thoughts, he asked, “Have you had the misfortune of meeting former Indian Agent Colonel John Crowwell? Eaton said the two of you shared words.”
“He and Father nearly came to blows. Yes, I have had the misfortune of his acquaintance and that of his brother, Thomas.”
Jackson said, “Did you know Agent Crowwell resented Chief McIntosh’s control over goods bought and sold in Creek Nation? After McIntosh’s murder, he redirected buyers and sellers through his brother’s business. Important to keep affairs in the family, wouldn’t you say?”
I remarked under my breath, “Some of McIntosh’s and Crowwell’s business associates assaulted my wife.” How much did Jackson know?
Jackson leaned back in his chair. “No need to ask how they were punished. Deservedly so, I might add. Would have done the same had they taken my Rachel.”
Since Jackson offered an exchange of trust, I reciprocated. “In a fortunate hand of cards, Thomas Crowwell told me how he ran pony clubs and sold whiskey and slaves. He paid Ross a percentage of the profits to redirect our Light Guard, granting the thieves safe passage. With Georgia’s soldiers evicting so many, I hoped Crowwell’s business venture ended.”
Jackson tilted his head into a slight nod. “I doubt it. Crowwell’s horse racing is an expensive hobby, often incurring handsome debts. Crowwell and his brother bet more than they breathe.” General Jackson crossed his leg. “Ross’ involvement doesn’t surprise me. You’ll be pleased to know I dismissed Colonel Crowwell of duty, effective December 31, 1832.”20
I covered my fist with my other hand, holding both over my mouth. After Ross’ involvement with the Crowwells, the man sought control of our treasury. New Echota was in ruin because Ross paid white attorneys rather than feed those evicted from their farms. I saw why he prioritized the lawyers, but at what cost?
When I looked up, I couldn’t stop my tongue. “My people are destitute. With so much homelessness, the civilization we’ve pursued for decades has become all for naught.”
Jackson said, “Your people are as weak as Ross wants them to be. Control the story, garner the funds, and control the population. Keep them poor, or worse, drunk. It makes them needy, seeking answers from their chief.”
I whispered my thoughts. “Ross delays.”
“He’s trying to wait out my presidency. Truth is, I have no reason to believe the people won’t reelect me. Not only as the incumbent but as America’s war hero, offering land to meet the needs of an increasing population. During my next term, we reach the Pacific.”
General Jackson would relocate or kill every Indian nation from here to the ocean.
But now, my nation took priority. I said, “I have enough political standing to bring articles of impeachment for Ross’ crimes. But I’d risk a great deal by doing so. The men in his service are loyal, and the Cherokee people believe everything he tells them.” Prosecuting Ross for fraud would divide our nation and make it easier for Georgia to move their belongings into our homes that much faster.
Jackson admitted, “I’ve thought of killing him myself. It would shift the chess pieces on the board, so to speak. But the war sure to follow would end the Cherokee. If you impeach him, Cherokee judges will serve better justice than making him a martyr in the hands of a federal court. His punishment shouldn’t come by government lead but by Cherokee tomahawk—if you will. Or you could run against him. Rally your people’s emotions. Make them see a better alternative. They must change their minds about Ross. You are your father’s son, are you not?”
Comforted by that truth, I said, “I am. Thank you for your honesty.” I knew I needed to talk with my father and stood without asking Jackson’s leave.
General Jackson shook my hand and retook his seat to smoke his pipe. He coughed after inhaling but gathered enough air to stop me from turning the doorknob. “Young Ridge, despite what you may think, the American eagle stands for liberty and justice for all.”
With pipe smoke lingering above his head, my reply was immediate. “Uwohali reminds us of our people’s strength and power.”
Jackson’s smoky haze chuckled above the wingback chair. “John Ridge, they are the same thing.”
L
On the shores of the Potomac River, I sought escape from Jackson’s words. But in their place, my doubt lingered. Had I become what I hated, like dishonest McIntosh bargaining with land he had no power to sell? It was entirely possible I would die because I considered changing my mind. I knelt by the bank and removed my glove, hoping the water’s icy numbness would wash such thoughts away.
River branches travel from the same source, flowing north to south. Through its travels, it bends, above and below ground, and never stops. Would that I could follow at such speed. Make my way home in days instead of the long month aboard steamboat and coach. I yearned to return to its peace.
I reached for the head of my cane and used it to stand. Jackson spoke the truth, in all its ironic contrast. Chief Ross squandered the people he’d vowed to raise. To find their strength, the people must see how Ross leads their desperation.
My people must choose between our sovereignty and our land. Either we negotiate removal on our terms now or die, wallowing in debt and destitution, bleeding from bayonets gripped in the hands of blue-clad soldiers.