Sarah Ridge
Running Waters
November 1834
A
fter the guards came to protect us, John remained at home. From that day forward, all the inside doors remained open.
When I passed the study door with a basket full of dirty clothes, he and Rollin sat together in the armchair. John read, “Aeneas sailed to the mouth of the Tiber…” He looked up when he saw me watching them from the doorway.
After his father’s distraction, Rollin finished reading the sentence. “From there, he went on a long voy—” John smiled while Rollin struggled to sound out the word. “Voyage,” John corrected him, found his place, and continued the story.
I made chicken and dumplings in the kettle while John and Clarinda sat at the kitchen table, bantering question and answer, trading quill back and forth. He laughed at whatever she wrote, filling the silence. Scratching sounds came from the quill. Chair legs creaked underneath them. I looked over my shoulder and caught John doing the same to me while Clarinda took ink from the well.
From the door of my hothouse, the children’s laughter stopped my return to the kitchen. John walked the harvested fields with Herman on his shoulders and Susan’s hand in his. He lifted Herman by the arms, placing him on the ground. All three of their heads bent low in the grass. John pointed, directing their eyes to a doe and buck, leaping over the thick growth at the edge of the trees.
After supper one night, John rocked Sugar, our infant son, touching his head with its wisps of strawberry hair. John didn’t know I was listening. He talked to the cooing babe. “You look so like your mother, Aeneas. He, too, was born of Aphrodite.” So, he’d named our son after a warrior who built Rome after the fall of Troy. I wasn’t upset, but John’s Aeneas would stay my Sugar. The handsome child had a calm temperament and sweet gummy grins, squealing in bursts like a flickering woodpecker.
So, instead of secrets, John hid nothing. Instead of delivering invitations to the Treaty Party’s council himself, he sent riders and remained at home. Instead of riding to his father’s or Elias’ houses, he asked them to come to Running Waters. They made their plans, standing next to the parlor fireplace while I knitted winter socks.
He kept every unspoken promise he made years ago, holding himself to account for the one inside his handmade hummingbird box. Inside it, John had renewed his vow to make so many “crooked places straight.”1
L
The Treaty Party’s council meeting would fill three days with ceremonies and debates, discussing the business of agreeable terms for the government’s purchase. Already on the farm, twenty or more makeshift shelters stood with fires burning. At my request, the men of Running Waters butchered a steer to supply enough meat for so many.
On the first day, Mother Susannah arrived early to grind beans to make bread enough for the masses. Honey formed another loaf in a tin. Sunflower and I fed Susan and Herman their breakfast. After wiping her face, I passed Susan to Susannah so I could remove two crusted loaves from the brick oven, placing them side by side on the biscuit box to cool.
Mother Susannah put her bowl on the table and took Herman from Sunflower’s hip. Then, with arms full, she bounced two grandchildren on her lap. She looked up from their faces, and her expression turned more serious. She spoke to Honey who translated for me. “The soldiers warned us to take the main road here even though it is miles around the wooded path. Quatie and Ross are nearby. I heard him speaking. They steered many to their camp who’d planned to come here.”
So, Ross closed in on enemy territory. I turned away to hide my face. “What did he say?” I asked, knowing the array of Mother Susannah’s expression well enough.
Honey linked Susannah’s words. “Ross spoke English to Quatie, and she repeated his words in the people’s tongue. They asked travelers if they loved their land. When they said yes, she encouraged them to sign their name on Ross’ petition and go home. Ross doesn’t want anyone to hear the wise council of my husband and my son.”
Honey folded the bread dough, shook her head, and clicked her tongue. “Lonely women do desperate things. If it got that man to talk to her, Quatie would say anything.”
I turned around when Clarinda and Rollin entered the kitchen. Clarinda, taller than her brother, grabbed her egg basket while he gathered his milk pails. They headed to the outbuildings to do their chores early, so they could play with other children. They left the door standing wide open. I called after them, but neither returned. Seeing them run side by side made me think.
I said, “When John brought Rollin and Clarinda home, they told me what Marz did. Marz talked to a Cherokee man in the woods. Marz told this stranger about the President’s message, the letter I took to John.” Thinking backward, I asked Sunflower, “When did Quatie bring Marz to stay with us?”
Sunflower signed around Herman, sitting on her lap. “Two years ago. Spring.”
Honey sprinkled flour on her dough. “Quatie showed us the stripes on Marz’s back, remember? Sarah, you’ve got to let that witch and that horrible night go. You couldn’t know Rollin and Clarinda ran off after her. You was laboring with baby Sugar.” She shook her head. “Could’ve been worse.”
Mother Susannah confirmed. “Quatie knew your kind heart wouldn’t turn the woman away. Makes me never want to let my grandbabies out of my sight.”
Following my reason, Honey’s eyes met mine. She pounded her fist into the dough in front of her and threw a towel over the rising bread. “Oh no, Sarah, no. Did Marz steal that missin’ letter? Did Quatie bring Marz here to spy on us?”
I shared Honey’s suspicion. “The last time I saw Quatie, when I learned Georgia sold her house in the lottery, was the same day the letter disappeared. I told Marz I was leaving.”
Sunflower shook her head and signed around Herman’s belly. “Find her. Ask her. Only way to know for certain.”
Vann entered the kitchen from the back door as I untied the apron around my waist and threw it on the table. He said, “Whoa. Slow down. Came in here to tell you Major’s about to call the council to order. John’s speaking first.”
Honey untied her apron and threw it next to mine. “If I’m guessin’ right, you’re goin’. I’m comin’ too.”
Vann said, “Did you hear me?”
We left Mother Susannah and Sunflower with the children and hurried toward the barn, weaving through the Cherokee crowding around the house. When we rode down the road, I looked over my shoulder. Major stepped onto the podium. Behind him, Vann whispered in John’s ear. John followed us with his eyes, staring as we passed.
One more time, I had to disobey my husband, evade the guards, to seek audience with a queen.
L
Ross’ crowd was easy to find. Wagons bordered the road. Horses grazed surrounded by pitched tents surrounded by pine trees. Their fires smoked in straight lines, less aromatic when burned under the sun instead of on crisp fall nights.
At the far end of the field, Ross stood on a stump, rallying whooping Cherokee warriors who lifted weapons in anger. I thought about how we’d never find Quatie in this mass of people. But she revealed herself, flapping away the canvas opening to a tent. She stepped forward to stir whatever was inside her pot.
I called her name. She heard me, straightened her back, and rested the ladle handle across the rim.
I approached her from the back. “Mother Susannah told us you were here.”
Quatie put her hands on her hips, recognizing my voice before turning around. She spat, “No secret where we are.”
I took a step toward her, but Honey stopped me and grabbed my arm. “No secret?” I asked. “You’ve kept many secrets.”
She smirked and sauntered closer. “White women are so slow minded.”
I wanted to question her, wanted her confession. But I had no time for her insults. “Why didn’t you care for Marz? Why bring her to Running Waters?”
Quatie said, “You made it too easy. You didn’t notice how fresh the whip marks were. I didn’t even have to lie much to get you to take her in.”
I stepped closer to her. “No Georgian soldier burned her home?”
Quatie shook her head. “No, but they’ve done so to many others.”
Appalled, I had a horrific thought. “Did you whip Marz to convince me? Tell me the truth.”
“Marz suffered and sacrificed for her people. When your husband changed his colors from red to white, Ross and I needed to know what he planned.”
I stuttered and asked her the next logical question. “Did Marz give you John’s letter from Cass?” Angry tears filled my eyes, but it wasn’t the time to cry.
We all looked toward Ross when his voice bellowed across the field. Underneath his podium, a freed Foreman raised a long gun in his hand. When I looked at Quatie again, she faced me. She pointed toward the man. “Marz took him that letter. And dutifully, he brought it to me. Marz told me your husband planned to run for principal chief.”
That is why Ross refused elections. I said, “How could you do such a thing? We were friends, sisters. We stood beside one another, outside of our husbands’ courts.”
She looked at me as if I were stupid. “Because you have everything I ever wanted. Love and children and an ambitious husband who listens to you.”
Honey stepped between us, invading Quatie’s space with a revelation of her own. “Sarah, when Quatie thought her husband might lose his grip, she took up his gun and fought his enemies herself. Like Nanyihi did.” Quatie took a step back as if such truths blistered.
I crossed the dirt ground to the other side of Quatie’s cookfire, glaring at her through the smoke. “You told us you revered Nanyihi as a blessed woman, a peacemaker. You’re nothing like her. When you sent Marz, you endangered my children. I sacrificed nearly a year with my husband because he thought I stole that letter, gave it to you, and told you everything he ever said to me.”
Quatie barricaded me and snarled. “When I heard you sent him away, I hoped you’d leave and take your half-breed children with you. White mother, your children aren’t Cherokee. They, and you, are clanless.”
After her insult, I couldn’t move. I said, “You’re lying to your people. Nothing will change. Federal troops are not coming. Georgia will continue to kill the Cherokee if they do not move West. No argument exists that President Jackson will hear. And none of this is John’s fault. Place blame where it is due.”
Quatie picked up her ladle. She raised it along with her voice. “I blame your people. Yet, here you stand, defending the Ridges against their own. Easy to say with federal troops guarding your porch. I lost my home because of your husband’s friendship with the Governor.”
I refused to move. She stepped forward, not giving me a moment to deny her accusation. She ranted in my face. “Don’t stand on my people’s ground and speak of lies. You’re a white hypocrite and will never be a chief’s wife. I sent Foreman to shoot any passing member of the Treaty Party. Too bad he only found Jack Walker. I will not allow my people to lose what they love, their land. They must see the truth behind these betrayals. Ridges learned greed living like whites.” Quatie’s tone was rancorous and resolute. She spat her last words when the toes of her boots touched my own. “I told you once, Sarah, there can only be one queen in a hive.”
I met her eyes. “You are right,” I said. “I’d never behave with such desperation.”
Honey’s brown eyes stared at me over Quatie’s shoulder. She broke the silence. “Only one thing more need sayin’, Sarah. Best get to it then.”
My eyes darted from Quatie’s to Honey’s. “What is that?”
Quatie’s bloodshot eyes never looked from mine. I returned her gaze.
Honey said, “I’ve watched you carry fear and pain for a long time. Helped tote it right beside you. But we ain’t leavin’ here with it still strapped to our backs. You know what you need to say.”
I didn’t know, but if I had, I knew Honey would be right. I denied every human instinct to slap Quatie across her face. I pulled away and walked toward the horses before I realized what Honey meant.
“Quatie,” I turned back. “Peter asked Jesus, ‘Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Till seven times?’ and Jesus answered, ‘I say not unto thee, until seven times: but, until seventy times seven.’”2
It took three attempts to mount my horse because my arms wouldn’t stop shaking.
When Honey gripped the reins in her hand, she said, “Yep. Them were the words.”
L
Before we reached the barn, I slid off the horse and ran toward John’s voice. He shouted over what must have been a hundred heads.
“When the white man arrived and claimed Plymouth, he stole the land belonging to Powhatan, chief of thirty Algonquin tribes. The English had no right, but built their homes, grew their tobacco, taught Indians of their God, and spread diseases no native could overcome. With Indian civilization, education, culture, and religion, whites taught us to turn the other cheek and seek peace. In time, we learned how to be civilized and progressive. We earned white man’s respect both here and in Europe.”
I could barely hear him from where I stood. He’d never know I returned, that I was listening.
His conviction spread over his words. “But, in our present state, we cannot maintain our culture, our national existence, struggling with the sorrow Fate has placed on our backs.”
I watched the wandering feet of the crowd. Men shook their heads; women took the hands of restless children, leading them back to their tents. He lectured the crowd on what they already knew, with language above their heads.
I climbed into the back of an empty wagon where John could see me, taller than the heads of those remaining. At first, he didn’t find me, but instead watched the people’s faces hovering under him, offering them what consolation he could.
“Cherokee Nation cannot continue in our present circumstances. Our women are raped and whipped. Homes stolen; deeds forged. Soldiers steal your crops, your horses. Warriors put down their bows and arrows and pick up tin cups full of fire whiskey. Our people lose ground. We must look to the West, where many of our clansmen have emigrated. Will you allow yourselves to be reduced to slavery in this, our Eden? Georgians only think of us with fear and contempt. They will not stop coming, invading, and burning our homes. Are possessions more important than our lives, our children’s futures, their children’s…?”
I untied the bonnet under my chin and threw it on the wagon’s wooden planks beneath my feet. I pulled the cap from my head and shook my red hair free. He saw me, looked up once, then twice at the color falling around my face.
John finished his sentence, distracted. He said, “… survival?” He shook his head and repeated the phrase, refocusing himself back to those judging his integrity.
In front of him, I needed him to know I stood behind him, loved him, believed in him, after so much distrust and time apart. I took off my gloves and threw them, inside out, at my feet. I raised my hands to sign, “I laid my blanket over you, and you became mine.”
He studied my hands and slowed his speech, both speaking and listening at the same time. He let his written notes fall from his hand and continued. “Will you throw blankets over your eyes? Deny the violent truth you see for yourselves?” In our daughter’s tongue, he shook his head and returned a sign, throwing his hands to the side. He meant he shouldn’t have thrown trust aside.
I signed, “I never lied to you. Quatie sent Marz to spy. She stole Cass’ letter. Quatie is the War Woman who ordered Foreman to kill Walker. Quatie is to blame.” When I said her name, I raised my hands above my head and made a crown of my fingers.
He returned to his speech, trying to hide the shock rippling off him after such a realization. His words told me he understood.
“Searching for answers has led my family down a dark path, where those once trusted turned their backs to us. But it wasn’t me they shunned; they shunned you, our nation’s people. Your laws, your treasury, your language, your safety, your humanity. If we are hungry, we are not free. If we are sick, we are not free. If we suffer fear and danger from all sides, we will never be free.
“If we ignore such treachery, we stand in eastern darkness, without the sunlight of transparency. If we keep our eyes closed, we cannot grasp the hand reaching out, pulling us to the West, the direction of day, not night.”
I looked around at the wandering eyes of the men and women standing underneath my husband. They planted their feet and stopped moving. Their eyes traced his every movement. Their faces changed from scrutiny to regard. They angled their bodies to face him again. He’d touched their hearts. He noticed the shift, too, and stepped down the stairs.
He asked, with hope in his voice, “Follow me? I will lead my family beside yours, away from rage and fear, danger, and dying. In the past, we were a commanding people, blessed in ways we couldn’t know. If we turn our heads west and chase the sun, we can be so again.”
I took advantage of his pause and answered him. I signed, “Wherever you lead, I will follow, holding your hand.”
The people leaned forward, appearing to want John to say more. He silenced, took off his coat and laidit on the porch. He unwound the tie around his neck and let it drop to the ground. He pulled his shirt away from his chest, revealing the tattoo painted on him as a boy. John bent down and grabbed a handful of earth. “My roots come from this ground.” He covered his heart with the same hand. “I speak the truth. I’ve never betrayed you. Help me leave our children a legacy. United, we go West together. When we dig in new ground, fertile soil, the saplings we plant there, under the western sun, will, in a generation’s time, give them shade.”
He bowed his head, and the crowd came alive. Some moved toward tables, ready to make their mark. Others circled Major Ridge in handshakes. John limped toward Elias and Vann, and they embraced him, whispering in his ear.
I stayed where I was and watched him make his way through the crowd, shaking hands with some while others clapped him on the back. When he reached me, he looked up and winked. He asked, “Mistress Ridge, have you ever played chess?” He offered me his hand and helped me step down from the wagon.
“No. My father said it was a man’s game. Teach me?”
John shook his head and smiled. “Absolutely not. But only because I like to win.” He guided me around the corner to stand before him. He didn’t let go. “I’d lose for certain. You’ve already mastered the gambit.”
He made the grandest bow, and when he rose, he laid an imaginary crown on my head. His hands slid over my cheeks and held my face. “My queen, to win, she is the one piece the king can never afford to lose.” He kissed me.
With his taste still on my lips, I whispered, “Lightning and thunder will crash around us. Cyclones of wind will tear our home apart. Snow will fall so deep the door won’t open. Droughts and floods will ruin the harvest. But I will endure whatever each day brings because you stand beside me.”
He pulled me close and whispered in my ear, “If I am stronger or smarter than I once was, it is because I know how much I have to lose.” John looked around us, over his shoulder. “If I’m granted time and trust to lead these souls to sanctuary…” He rested his forehead against mine. “… it’s because your serenity, constancy, and affection provide safety for my soul.3 If my hourglass yields but little sand remaining, every last grain of hope, I promise—to you.”