Rollin Ridge
Washington City and Grass Valley, California
May 1866-October 1867
T
he constant clack of train wheels over the steel track was enough to lull anyone to sleep. When I looked up from rereading Papa’s journal, passengers slept with their heads bent back against neighboring bench seats. In such momentary quiet, looking out train windows, I unwound the landscape. Along the plains, taupe fields planted deep with wheat seamed the green forest beyond. Across Kentucky, acres of bluegrass and waxy leaves of green corn touched an azure horizon. In Virginia, the Appalachian valleys blurred gray, as if they still hid widows and orphans wearing mourning cloaks after enduring five years of civil war.
No one was exempt from tragedy. Susan, Andrew, Flora, and I were the only remaining Ridge children. Clarinda’s letters stopped in ‘57. Susan wrote that our brother, Doctor Aeneas Ridge, died in ‘59, still a young man. Herman fought with Stand’s Confederate brigade. Union soldiers took his life at Honey Creek in ‘64. Still alive, Cousin Stand only recently laid down his saber, serving as a Confederate Brigadier General, the last great man to survive and surrender in the great war.
It was Stand who called me East. He said he needed me to head a Cherokee delegation of second-generation Treaty Party sons: myself, Elias Cornelius Boudinot, Saladin Watie, Richard Fields, and William Penn Adair. Together, we sought to remedy civil unrest still raging in Cherokee Nation. America’s war only aggravated my nation’s animosity and political division. Stand’s letter said President Johnson proposed a new treaty to separate still-warring factions. We had to decide whether to split or unite our Cherokee Nation and settle things once and for all.
Fault lines remained deep between the Ross and Ridge-Watie parties. Anti-Ross advocates chose Stand as the minority’s chief in ‘62 and supported the Confederacy, while Ross earned two hundred and fifty thousand dollars after signing a treaty with the South’s Jefferson Davis. But after federal troops arrived, a scared Ross pledged his allegiance and turned his coat to Lincoln’s Union blue and fled to Washington. War at home continued after the departure of the Chief with Two Faces. He could do little to feed a starving nation from his comforts in Philadelphia, Delaware, or Washington.
Our delegation would meet Ross in Washington. I would finally sit across the table from the man and use my father’s voice. To me, he remained shrewd; the most loathsome reptile that ever fed upon the vapors of a dungeon was a thing of loveliness compared to this fine old patriarch whose head was silvered over by the frost of seventy winters. He cared naught for the government of the United States, nor for the Southern Confederacy, nor for his own people, nor for anything else either in Heaven above or on Earth beneath, whether holy or unholy. But gold. His bloody hands would eagerly stretch forth for some of our money in the United States Treasury by some pretense or other. It remains to be seen whether they would be duped into giving it to him or not.2
L
When our delegation convened, Ross wasn’t there, contributing only through notes written from his sickbed at the Medes Hotel. Although, with his absence, I was at liberty to speak freely and tell President Johnson how I feared bloodshed would ensue in Cherokee country if the government delivered us into the hands of the Ross dynasty. The Ridges, Boudinots, and Waties would not raise the flag of war and begin difficulties. “But rest assured, the Ross faction would certainly renew upon us the oppression of old and dig graves for us as they did for our immediate ancestors. Or try to dig them. In that case, we are men enough to resist, and we would—resist—even if it drenched the land in blood.”3
I left negotiations that day in the company of my cousin Boudi, “Elias Cornelius”, and we made our way toward the Metropolitan Hotel, once the site of the Indian Queen. We stopped in front of its marble entryway.
I squinted at the bright dusk, looking up at the sun-glazed windows. I asked Boudi, “What city did our fathers see behind those windows?”
He turned around as if my question required him to look again at the scene just passed. He said, “Certainly not the landscape we see now. The hotel is twice the size it once was.”
I said, “That is not what I meant.”
“We need your editor’s eyes now. Don’t turn poet on me,” Boudi said, smacking me on the shoulder. He entered the hotel doors while I stayed on the walkway, staring into the street.
From my mind’s eye, everything became diminutive, pianissimo. No more were men crossing the street in top hats and canes. Open, horse-drawn barouche carriages replaced fashionable brown coupés. The rhythmic sounds of horseshoes were silenced on the dirt road. Train whistles and steamboat roars faded into oblivion. Tree trunks shrunk and lost their shaded stature. Cobblestones disappeared into beaten dirt under my soles as I watched my feet walk down the avenue toward the Medes Hotel.
With my letter to the New York Tribune in the bag at my side, along with Father’s journal, Stand’s ledgers of Ross’ family’s financials, Jackson’s words, Lumpkin’s remarks, General Scott’s remembrances, Brigadier General Arbuckle’s reports. My leather satchel was heavy with twenty years of confrontation and betrayal: undeniable proof Ross was never the man the Cherokee believed him to be.
I knocked on his hotel door. An unknown woman answered, dressed in a nurse’s gray and white. When I asked to see Ross, she curtseyed and granted her kind permission, and gestured for me to enter his suite’s front parlor. Had she known our history or announced my presence to him by name, he’d surely denied me entry. But her ignorance became my permission. I followed her across the room, leading me down a brief paneled hall, and opened the door to Ross’ bedroom.
She whispered, “He isn’t speaking much. Perhaps your visit will help.”
With her hand still on the doorknob, she allowed me to pass. She curtsied again and shut the door behind her with petticoat rustles marking her hoop-skirted exit. Finally, I saw the man, and stood beside Ross’ sickbed.
He was awake, propped against a mahogany headboard. He wore a red robe with black velvet lapels over a clean night shirt. Someone combed away his silver hair from the wrinkles on his forehead. The skin around his eyes drooped as significantly as his jowls underneath. The creases around his mouth stressed his permanent scowl. Gray whiskers peered along a weather-beaten face down his neck to curling gray chest hair. This old man’s existence was sallow, feeble, speckled by protruding moles and dark spots, a residual remnant of his Cherokee mother’s blood. My imaginings of him dressed as a devil were not far off the mark.
He examined me as thoroughly as I did him, with no exchange of gesture or word. He didn’t appear to recognize my face, as I had expected, not after so many years between last seeing my father. I unbuttoned my coat and sat in the bedside chair while he stared at my face. I took the bag from across my chest, laid it on my lap, and opened its leather flap. From it, I pulled a note from Major Ethan Allen Hitchcock and read it aloud.
“Ross is a man of unbound ambition, a rascal of artful cunning, shrewd, managing, an ambitious man.”3 I set it on the edge of the emerald-green quilt covering him. Ross only threw his hand in the air and grunted with his mouth closed.
I pulled another from the confines of my satchel and opened it to read the shaking script of an aged President Jackson. “What madness and folly to have had anything to do with Ross, when the agent was proceeding well with the removal and on principles of economy that would have saved at least one hundred percent from what the contract with Ross will cost.”
I said, “Jackson added a postscript. ‘Why is it that the scamp Ross is not banished from the notice of this administration?’”4
I set it on top of Hitchcock’s note and pulled out a ledger. He watched my hands trace its center ribbon to the marked page. I said, “The deductions from the accounts recorded here vary. From a dollar and a half per citizen for soap, as the people moved slower than expected, to $500,000 added to the cost of removal for your personal salary. I don’t believe the federal government paid such an amount. You stole it from the Cherokee’s Treasury. You and your brother gained wealth racketeering the government. You took the bread from the hands of Cherokee, sick and dying.”5
Ross grabbed the ledger and set it on the other side of his bed, out of my reach. I couldn’t tell from his defiant silence whether Ross knew who I was. The following recitation from Arbuckle would, no doubt, reveal my identity. By now, I was more determined than ever that he knew my name.
“I have of late received positive information that John Ross was at the Double Spring Council, with many (or most) of the principal men of the late emigrants, on Wednesday before the Ridges and Boudinot were killed. From information derived from the same source, it would appear almost certain that Edward Gunter was in the woods near Boudinot’s when he was killed. It has been frequently reported to me that Mr. Lynch, who is now with Mr. Ross, was present when John Ridge was killed, and that the party halted at Ross’ house the same day, where they took their breakfast.”6
Ross shifted on the bed, sliding the ledger and letters to the floor.
From my satchel, I pulled a yellow tattered copy of the Arkansas Gazette, an article penned by my Aunt Sollee. I read the last paragraph aloud.
“Experience has too woefully taught me that Mr. Ross and his men do not defend their principles with paper or argument. The knife, the ambush, and the bullet are their means of disposing of their enemies. But if they desire to know who it is that dares expose their principles and atrocities, let them be answered that she is the daughter of him whom a dozen of their young men shot from a loft precipice, the sister of the man who was awakened from his slumbers by twenty-five ghastly wounds, and the cousin of him whom they slaughtered with a tomahawk and Bowie knife, just as he was answering their petition for charity.”7
Ross’ unintelligible grumble turned into a coughing fit. I helped him sit up and patted his back. When he quieted, I covered him again with the quilt. When I returned to my seat, I thought, one more. Let it be Papa’s words.
“The Treaty Party and all those who are able to understand and act intelligently meet the commission and treat upon the principles of doing justice to all and preserving their nation in the West. All are notified to attend. A respectable number and much of the intelligence of the nation meet and make a treaty. There are no protests—scarcely opposition. All is peace—the common Indians in their oppressed condition don’t care which side succeeds. They are amid starvation, injustice, slavery, and persecution. No opposition is made to the treaty at home but the Ross Council, and that is so implete that to hide their paucity, they sign the protest by their chairman and clerk. Before this, Ross has hired men to run through the nation to collect names and his friends stick them to protests and bring them into the Senate. They are counted. They exceed the whole population taken the last fall by upwards of fifteen thousand souls. No one is responsible for this collection of names and their appendage of protests. Yet they make an impression on senators. They see that it exceeds the truth, but in this tremendous forgery, they believe it showed its preposterousness. Yet enough will remain to embarrass their judgments of what is strictly their duty. If they reject us, where will they put us? How will they save our people from hunger, from degradation, from civil war, or war with the whites? They give us no outlet, no means to escape. Oh, gracious and everlasting God, have compassion upon the poor Cherokee race. Preserve them from despair—preserve them from blood. Oh, lead the hearts of all good men to save them from utter ruin and dispersion. Let not civilization and religion be sown in vain among them.”8
Ross grabbed at my sleeve, grunting from angry, pale, taut lips. He pulled his cold hand away. After returning Papa’s green and gold journal to my bag, I pulled out a copy of the New York Tribune and tossed it on his bed. He opened it and held it close to read the title line, “More of the Cherokee Indians”. He glared at me, squinting, and hurriedly turned to the last page with sudden realization who I was. I signed the piece with no pseudonym, not with my Cherokee name Yellow Bird, but with the name given to me by my father: John Rollin Ridge.
Every year of my life led to the article in Ross’ hands: Miss Sawyer’s lessons at the school Mama and Papa built at Running Waters, my time at Grandmother Northrup’s in Massachusetts studying at Barrington, Reverend Washbourne’s log walls reading the law. From all the scraps of poetry on torn paper to my first article for the Delta, the politics of the California American, to founding editor of the Sacramento Bee, editorials covering native rights and the Civil War, in the Red Bluff Beacon, Marysville Herald, Hesperian, and Trinity Journals.
I pulled the painted As Nas card from my pocket and handed it to Ross. “My father and grandfather sold the country for the benefit of the nation, but you and yours put the money in your pockets. For the honest and disinterested sale, the Ridges were murdered. For appropriating the money, the Rosses have been sustained, honored, and promoted.”9
With restrained silence, I collected the ledger and the letters from the floor and left him only my article and Papa’s card, still gripped in his shaking hand. I saw myself outside, closing the door behind me. Once beyond the lobby doors, I breathed the cleanest breath, so deep my weightless soul sighed.
The following day of negotiations, Ross’ message to President Johnson read, “Yes Sir, I am an old man, and have served my people and the government of the United States a long time, over fifty years. My people have kept me in the harness, not of my seeking, but of their own choice. I have never deceived them, and now I look back, not one act of my public life rises to unbraid me. I have done the best I could, and today, upon this bed of sickness, my heart approves of all I have done. I am still John Ross, the same John Ross of former years.”10
I thought to myself, “Yes, you’ve always been the same: a wealthy thief, an honor less traitor, a murderer of the just.”
Our delegation healed our nation’s wounds and united the Cherokee Nation. Chief John Ross died five days after we signed the treaty, August 1, 1866. He died of old age, or so his doctor said.
L
In October of the following year, I found myself with a doctor hovering at the foot of my bed, standing between Lizzie and Alice, each holding my opposing hands. They spoke around me, not thinking I could hear.
“Encephalitis,” the doctor reported, “a softening of his brain.”
With desperation, Lizzie said, “He talks to me, but it’s only nonsense. He tosses and mumbles. I can’t understand him.” She reached across my knees and took Alice’s hand. How tight a grip they held over me.
No words came from my mouth, but I understood all she said. My mind answered her. “No, Running Deer. It isn’t nonsense to dream of evil men living charmed lives killed by paper bullets. Or of horses stomping the throats of mountain lions. Never wrong to know how injustices done to three men become injustices to the world.”11
Lizzie asked Alice to show the physician to the door, leaving me and her alone.
She rinsed a cloth in a water basin beside the bed, rang its contents free, and placed it on my forehead. I opened my eyes to shocking light, like lightning flashes that leave its witness temporarily blind.
She wiped my forehead and returned to join our hands by my side. She called to me, repeating my name. I knew I couldn’t answer her, but hoped she sensed my thoughts. She was my spirit-talker, my Running Deer.
Once Fortune’s hand strewed our path with flowers and kindly swept away the thorns. Even in my happiest hours here, words of other days stole along and silently overwhelmed me. Words too deep to be repeated—remembered words. Eternity cannot destroy what would send thrills into my spirit. Forgetfulness is not for us; let us remember.12
My needless breaths came in shallow puffs. Dark spots consumed the room. When little air remained, I spent my last saying, “Oh darlin’, how I wish I had wings.”
With no pain or noise, the weight of the quilts covering my body unleashed their restraints. My shapeless spirit hovered above. My amber light reached out to touch her curls when she wiped tears from her eyes. It is well that woman should, like a weeping angel, sanctify the dark and suffering world with her tears. Let them flow. The blood which stains the fair face of our mother Earth may not be washed out with an ocean of tears.13
I tried speaking to her. I said, “Find it. Read it, my love. They were the first and the last words I can give you.”
She must have sensed my thought and pulled the filthy and torn parchment from the pocket of my coat draped across a nearby chair. She opened it, touched her hand to her mouth, and said, “Rollin, you finished.
The prairies are broad, and the woodlands are wide,
And proud on his steed, the wild half-breed may ride,
With belt round his waist and knife at his side.
And no white man may claim his beautiful bride.
Oh, never let Sorrow’s cloud darken their fate,
The girl of the “pale face”, her Indian mate!
But deep in the forest of shadows and flowers,
Let happiness smile, as she wings their sweet hours.”14
She said, “My love, I make one last promise to you. This world will know your spirit, read your songs.” She stopped the clock hanging on the wall, walked to the window, and opened it, with incoming wind blowing hair across her face.
A voice came to me in the breeze. “Cheesquatalawny, once we chased the dusk. Time to chase the dawn.”
With the overwhelming smell of pleasant earth rising from the ground, my yellow-feathered wings soared. Once again, Papa led me, flying behind his mockingbird’s black and gray. If living thought could never die, why should he expire? If there was love within his heart, he must live on. No less than a man’s dwelling place above, the mockingbird’s notes were far brighter now than ever. And I heard his call, with finer ear and clearer soul, beneath a shade more soft, a sky more blue.15
Papa led me higher, away from the Pacific coast, northwest, speeding on endless gales beside Mount Shasta. From a lofted nest above us, broad eagle’s wings soared across the night sky. Papa glided underneath, paralleling the eagle’s path. I followed, speeding through the star-filled sky. Papa sang, “Rollin, do you remember?”
Then we turned east, gliding with wings, soaring faster than tumbleweed blowing across the Nevada desert. Then, we skimmed the surface of the prairies, growing tassels of corn and wheat. Papa sank and dove down next to a running creek, the Neosho. From a nearby branch, two cardinals perched side by side. The red male began its song. It was Peter. The female answered in a voice I knew as well as my mother’s, Honey. The four of us flew side by side to Honey Creek, gliding over Peter’s Prairie. Papa fluttered and rested his claws on a tombstone engraved with his earthly name. I followed, perching on Grandfather’s stone next to his.
The horizon purpled the sky highlighted with rose hues, barely unsealing the sun. It was the hour farmers woke. Testing my strange voice, I asked, “Where is he?”
He replied in a tongue my soul understood. “Your grandfather and grandmother are beyond, in the Nightland. They wait for us. We remain here, never again to leave one another behind. My penance is also yours—to watch above the living. We are nearby, but unable to warn them in a way they understand. My noble son, know I never left your side. What a life you’ve led. I’m proud of you.” He let go with the breeze and flew southeast.
I followed him toward the morning sun. We glazed over the Mississippi River, yielding to the gray green of morning forests, homeward bound, to the familiar ridges of Cherokee’s Blue Mountains.
Papa spoke in my mind. “Rollin, glide to the oak beneath you. She waits for you.”
I did as he said, tightening the muscles in my wings, holding my golden feathers rigid, close to my breast. I slowed and fluttered, gripping the branch of an oak that held a ramshackle cabin upright.
It was too late. Human bones draped down broken stairs. My heart knew it was Clarinda. I felt abandoned, lost. As I had when I was a child, I sang my sister’s name, but she was mute. She could offer no answer.
When the sun peeked over the mountaintop, I heard a woman speak. Her chirps whispered, “Brave brother.” Above me, a redbird opened her eyes. Her long wings lifted, stretching wider than mine ever could, and circled straight up into the sky. My sister’s voice commanded, “Follow me. The journey is not far.” It was the first time I’d ever heard my sister’s voice.
Thin air scorched my tiny lungs. I climbed upward, flying behind her, higher than I thought my wings could carry me, past the morning horizon.
When Clarinda reached the pinnacle between sunlight and space, she tucked her wings close and dove straight down. My eyes closed as we made the searing dive to the Nightland. When the pressure released, we descended, stretching our wings into a field of sunflowers, settling on the branches of the laurel tree.
Clarinda said, “Papa said we have to fall before we can fly.” She swooped up and joined the owl circling above us, Skili.
I settled and hopped down a branch and perched beside my brothers, Herman, a red bird, and Aeneas, a flickering woodpecker. And then Papa’s mockingbird flitted to a higher branch to reveal Mama’s red-throated hummingbird form, hovering in front of me.
She said, “My son, there was never any need to ask for my forgiveness.”
L
Did the birds above man only warble warnings of dangerous mountain lions on the prowl? Call their mates nesting far away? Had they only chirped from their need of mere seed and worm? What prophecies did their warnings foretell? What philosophy did their chirps teach when my mind couldn’t comprehend such lessons?
Not seeing, I had seen. Not hearing, I had heard.
Grounded on Earth, we come from direct communion with nature in her most sublime and beautiful aspects. We look upon the tall hills that lift into the dome of Heaven above pine-clad summits, filled with weird-like music (as if the thunder whispered), and stoop upon their ridges, breathing in the purer atmosphere which bathes them, a newer life to soul and body. We watch the eagle soar from the cliffs far into the blue ether over our heads or diving into the abyss of air beneath our feet until we could almost have been willing to exchange our immortality for the power of his sun-gazing eye and cloud-cleaving wing.16
I joined my family’s birdsong, speaking with caws that echoed across endless space. With my senses awakened, all the birds became my soothsayers, shaman seers through yellow glimmer and gaze. As Yellow Bird, I understood such incomprehensible poetry. They sang over their loved ones, flightless beneath.
“Hold fast,” they said. “Steady, nourishing rain falls just beyond the boastful thunder and arrogant lightning.”
All my earthly life, so many birds flew past—knowing.