Blood Lake

CHAPTER 1 - Tsali, 1838

They burned my house, the corn crib and the horse stall. Men in uniforms came a few hours before sunset and put a torch to everything. By the time my wife Ayita (First to Dance), our son Adahy (Lives in the Woods) and I came up from the stream where we had been fishing for dinner, the whole place was ablaze.

We had not been in this place long. We had moved from the village of our ancestors when the white Army captain, McClellan, told us the President in Washington had decreed we should be moved from our homeland…even though we had lived there for untold generations.

It hurt to leave our land. My grandfather’s grandfather, and others before him, had lived in the same place where I farmed and hunted. Several generations were buried there, their lavender-scented bodies gracing the earth, but the white man now said we had to leave everything behind, including our ancestors, and give our land to them.

I fled with my family after watching the first of the soldiers come. I had seen them prod women and old men with bayonets, and force them to leave their comfortable homes, taking nothing with them…no food, no coats, sometimes not even moccasins.

I wanted no part of their migration.

We went deep into the woods, almost to the first blue-grey ridges of Shacorage…the Cherokee name for those smoky, blue mountains. I thought we would be safe when we built our small house in a tiny clearing so far away from everyone, but they discovered us with ease.

We were downwind and could smell the smoke, so we all ran to the top of the ridge. I got there first, saw the uniforms and realized they had found us. I had hoped they would not search so deep in the woods in the shadow of the mountain, but we were not hidden well enough.

Stay down, I whispered to Ayita and Adahy, the white are soldiers here.

Our house, Ayita said. Her hands covered her face, as she did not want to see. My son Adahy said nothing, but his mouth was set in a hard, grim line as he watched his home go up in the mighty blaze.

The many fallen leaves near me rustled, and I turned to see Ayita running in a low squat toward the horse pen. I wondered what she doing, until I saw the thing she ran for…the blanket she had set out to dry over the fence rail. Woven by her grandmother, it was very precious to her and she must have thought to save it.

I dared not cry out and draw attention to her.

She is small, perhaps she can make it.

Ayita had already grabbed the blanket before a blue-clad soldier saw her. I heard the man shout to his companions, There’s a damned squaw! and my poor Ayita was surrounded in a matter of moments. She looked back in my direction, her face showing her fear.

She could understand nothing of the white tongue, and their commands to her would be gibberish. The soldiers prodded her to make her stand and, when she was too afraid to move, one of them poked at her with the bayonet on the end of his rifle.

It drew blood. Not a lot, but the small rivulet of red was noticeable on her arm, even so far away. I know that is what prompted Adahy to rush out of his concealment at the edge of the woods. He loved his mother dearly, and could not bear to see her hurt by these savage men.

I could hear Adahy yelling Currahee - a war cry - as he charged out of the woods. He had seen fifteen summers and was already a big, strong boy. He leapt upon the man who cut his mother with the bayonet, knocking him down.

The other soldiers seemed confused and afraid when he did this. They stood by and did nothing, until I saw the one nearest to me raise his rifle at my son.

I could not simply hide and allow them to murder my only son. I jumped out of the brush toward the man raising his rifle and echoed my son’s war cry.

Currahee.

In a moment, I had the man’s rifle in my own hands. I intended to toss it into the woods, but the soldier grabbed it back by the barrel…and it went off. The hammer must already have been cocked, since I had no time to do it.

The man fell, a dark red stain forming on the chest of his uniform blouse, and I knew the direction of my fate when one of the other uniformed men shouted to his companions, "That’s that damn Cherokee, Charlie!"

It was the name the white man called me, because most of them could not pronounce Tsali. He knew me. That meant they would search for me.

Into the woods I shouted at Adahy, run!

Grabbing Ayita by the arm, I pulled her with me into the trees as fast as I could move. We ran back down the ridge, crossed the stream where we had been fishing just a short time ago, and hid deep in the forest in a concealed cave under an uprooted tree, near the place all the whites called Clingman’s Dome.

We huddled in that cave under the tree root for the remainder of the night, not daring to move until just before the return of the sun. The soldiers had not followed us, perhaps not knowing how many of the Cherokee people were hidden in the woods.

As the sun rose, we went deeper into the hills trying to avoid them completely.

CHAPTER 2

It was autumn and the leaves were falling from the trees. Looking at my son, I could feel his anger and frustration. From my wife I felt fear. There was nothing I could do. I tried not to think about our plight, or what we would do if we could never stop running.

In six days journey into the mountains we came upon a community of other Cherokee who also had not yet been removed. My hope of joining them and making a strong resistance to the forced migration was high at first, but there were no warriors in the whole band. Just the remnants of seven families…all grandparents, women, children and young babies.

The leader of the little group, Tayanita (Young Beaver) who had taken the English name Taylor, gave us provisions and fed us. He gave each of us a warm blanket, too, which we appreciated very much, as the late October nights were becoming increasingly chilly.

Taylor knew the Army was coming to make them move, and was trying to gather things together they could carry, to take with them if they must flee. They did not intend to go on the forced march. They were heading deeper into the Smoky Mountains to meet others, who were already hiding in some of the more remote areas. Like me, they had sworn never to leave their precious homeland.

Word has already reached us of what you did, Tsali, Taylor said to me. But the version of the story he had heard said nothing of the abuse soldiers had inflicted on Ayita. Not a word about burning our home and all our possessions. Only that I had killed one of them with a tomahawk.

A tomahawk? I said, incredulous. Did they not look at the wound? It was a lie from beginning to end.

When Taylor heard our true version around his campfire that night, he still advised me to go back and turn myself in. A runner told me the General of the soldiers said if you will come in voluntarily to be judged and pay the penalty, he will intercede with the government to grant the rest of us permission to remain. But…

But, I said, trying to contain my smile. Why is there always another part to the white man’s story?

If you refuse, the General will turn his soldiers loose to hunt down every one of us.

So you think I should do this?

I believe the white justice is fair, he said. When they hear the full story, you will be exonerated and set free.

Free to climb into a wagon and be moved from the land of my grandfathers?

I know my tone conveyed every bit of my heartfelt disbelief. I could not hide it.

You will still be alive, Taylor said, his eyes never wavering from mine. If you keep running they will hunt you down and kill you. He tossed a white feather into the flames and the symbolism was not lost on me.

Perhaps.

It is certain, he said.

I don’t know…

Taylor looked at Ayita and Adahy. It is equally certain they will also kill your family.

I suppose that is what really decided it for me. I looked at my wife and son, dirty and hungry from our six-day run through the mountains.

Do you really think the white man’s justice will extend to me…a Cherokee? I said.

They have signed treaties with the Cherokee Nation, Taylor said, making us equals.

Is that why they force us into wagons and cart us away from our homes?

If you surrender, they will leave the rest of us alone, Taylor said. We will be allowed to stay in the mountains.

So you think this is what I must do? Taylor did not answer, but I looked again at my family and, when I thought of my people being allowed to remain, I made my decision. Very well…I will go back and turn myself in.

Not alone, Ayita and Adahy said together.

That is how, in less than one moon’s time, we all came to be at the new stockade by the river.

Soldiers guarding the Cherokee already imprisoned behind those walls saw us plainly, as we made no attempt to be silent and hidden. I walked up to the guard at the gate, laying down my hunting bow and quiver. They had me also put my knife and rifle on the ground.

You have been looking for me, I said, holding up my hands to show I was unarmed. I came seeking justice.

That there is the same injun bastard who shot William During last week, when we rousted him from the land he was squattin’ on, one of the soldiers shouted. "I’m pretty sure his name is Charlie."

There was a soldier there I knew as John Burnett, and knowing our language he questioned me. Is that true? he said, nodding toward the soldier who shouted.

My name is Tsali and I was living peacefully on the land of my grandfather’s grandfather, I said, as my ancestors did before me…and the soldier who died did so by his own hand.

That other one jumped me, another soldier shouted, pointing in the direction of Adahy with his bayonet.

The young one?

Hell, yeah, the soldier shouted again, He was trying to get my gun away from me.

He was protecting his mother, I said, as I was.

That one…Charlie…shot Bill During in cold blood, another soldier screamed. He was pointing at me.

That is not true, I said. The soldier grabbed the barrel of the weapon I took to keep my son from being shot, and it went off. It must have been already cocked.

The Colonel in charge asked the sergeant Is that true? The sergeant merely shrugged. The Colonel looked around the encampment and I heard him whisper, I don’t know that there’s enough to find these two guilty of anything but running off to avoid the migration, but I can’t let them go. It’ll send the wrong message to the other savages.

After his comment, there was another loud chorus of soldiers shouting for our execution. They drowned out the voices of the Cherokee men in the stockade who wanted our release. When they bound my hands behind me I knew our fate had already been decided.

The hands of my son were bound behind his back, too. I begged the soldiers to release him, but their hearts were hardened and their minds made up.

He is but a boy, I said.

They would not hear my pleas.

I sighed, my heart heavy. At least they are letting your mother go, I said to Adahy, as we watched Ayita being pushed into a barn with dozens of other Cherokee women.

What are they going to do with us? Adahy said, as fear darkened his handsome face. I thought I knew, but I could not bring myself to answer him.

As they led us to the small trees that stood by the stockade wall, I turned to the other Cherokee who were to be witnesses and shouted in my native tongue, Remember the justice of the white man, my brothers.

Adahy sensed then what was to come and, in his fear, he began to struggle. They hit him repeatedly with the butt of their rifles to make him stop. He was still after that, but he began to shout rude insults at them. Duk-shan-ee he called them.

Assholes.

Do not waste your breath, I said in a quiet voice, trying to ease his fear. Show them you are brave.

To the soldiers and other whites present, I shouted in English. We came voluntarily into your hands, trusting in your justice. We did nothing wrong, except desire to stay on our own land.

Private Burnett, the man we had known for years as an interpreter for the white man’s tongue, stood before me to say that he was sorry, but if we did as the sergeant asked it would be over quickly.

If I must die, I said to him, I would choose to die by the hand of my own people. I knew they would agree to my request, for then the white soldiers could claim there was no Cherokee blood on their hands.

The Colonel and sergeant both nodded when Burnett told them, and then Burnett spoke in Cherokee to men in the stockade. The four frightened Cherokee he had chosen shuffled to the gate, where they were each handed a rifle loaded with a single musket ball. Six stony-faced soldiers stood with their fully loaded repeating rifles aimed at them.

They placed Adahy next to me, with our backs to the stockade wall. Before the first volley could come, I called out to Private Burnett, I will hold you responsible for this thing soldiers do today to me and my only son.

Burnett looked contrite, but he did not back down from what he was asked to do.

I’m just followin’ orders, he said, and shrugged. Then I saw the Colonel nod, and the sergeant turned.

Ready, the sergeant shouted.