Authors: Lalita Tademy
The group didn’t so much settle in their campsite as collapse where they stood. The small warmth from the rising sun didn’t reach under the trees, but lighting a fire was too risky. They worked out a watch schedule, and Ma’am and Aunt Maggie produced
puska
and dried deer strips. The meat helped push away the knifelike gnawing at Rose’s belly. Gramma Amy pulled out her mortar and pestle and mixed up a medicinal concoction, her movements slow.
Rose’s eyes were so heavy and her body ached so deeply, she sat on the cold ground and stared at nothing. She wanted Twin, and recited his name over and over in her mind, but he didn’t come. Elizabeth laid her head in Rose’s lap and dozed, her stiff hair icy to the touch. Rose covered her sister’s ears with the edge of the blanket. The next thing Rose knew, Gramma Amy was forcing her awake to drink down a potion, and she struggled to swallow the bitter-tasting brew before falling back into dreamless sleep. She missed all the morning and some of the afternoon. Elizabeth shook her awake, eyes bright with panic. Rose did her best to keep Elizabeth calm, tearing off a piece of deer strip she’d saved and giving it to her sister. Elizabeth devoured all of it.
They lay in their blankets together.
“Are they going to catch us?” Elizabeth asked again, as she had last night before they crossed the stream. Rose watched the chilled puff her words left in the air.
“No. Everything’s better at Fort Gibson. We’ll light a big fire and roast a whole pig.”
Rose promised Elizabeth any number of impossible things. When she ran out of words, she sang softly to Elizabeth, snatches of lullabies and ceremonial chants, stroking Elizabeth’s back, and Elizabeth fell off to sleep again, wheezing slightly. Rose dozed too.
Her grandfather finally returned, and led them out of the copse through close vegetation in the woods until they came to a narrow trail. Tonight, there was no stream to cross, but the moon sliver barely lit their way, and they were careful of every step, staying close to one another so as not to wander off alone into the dark. Once again, they walked all night, the pace not as punishing as the night before. They walked into the dawn, and waited in the dangerous sunlight hours. Amy caught a prairie rabbit, but everyone else stayed huddled close. Her grandfather came back to them in the full light of day, with as pleased a look as he ever displayed.
“Found it,” he said.
He led them up a craggy hill and cleared away shrubs from the face of the ridge. On the other side was a cave, the fissure-crack so narrow each had to stoop as they entered single file. But despite the small crevice, the inside opened into a broader expanse, enough for all of them, though a tight fit. They pulled the shrub behind them to disguise the entrance, and posted a sentry. Here, they lit a small fire and cooked the rabbit, and the women produced a thin stew.
Gramma Amy treated the sick and the weary, which was just about everyone, and individuals tended themselves as well, rewrapping their feet, airing their clothes, smearing fat on their faces to stop the cold’s penetration. Two had fevers, but other than tender and blistered feet, there were no more serious ailments among them. They listened to the wind howl and periodic bouts of rain, but with hot food in her stomach and the reminder of a fire’s warmth, Rose
began to believe they really would make it to Fort Gibson.
They rested in the cave for a full day and night, and until the next evening. When Cow Tom led them back into the prairie, their pace quickened. Tired though they were, they trudged through the mud without complaint. There was enough distance between themselves and the ranch to feel they were no longer in danger from the Confederates back there, but they worried about other roving bands.
By the fourth night’s walking, Aunt Maggie’s milk dried up, and the baby, who had remained so quiet, refused comforting. Elizabeth went from limp to hobble and had to be carried. Granny Sarah only walked at a turtle’s pace. They tried night hunting, with poor results. Despite foraging nuts and berries along the way, their food store was low, and they cut back to half rations.
But the night finally came to an end. Rose spotted the thread of light announcing the sun’s rise. The day was warmer than in all the time they’d been walking, almost like spring after a long, hard winter. They waited in the tall grass for her grandfather’s return and pronouncement of the day’s hiding place. When Elizabeth pulled at Rose’s tunic, demanding attention, Rose had to stop herself from slapping her. She wanted a moment to herself, just a moment to relish the daylight and the prospect of sleep and quiet. She closed her eyes to better feel the warming sun on her face, and for an instant, she thought Twin had come, but the feeling slid away.
When Grampa Cow Tom returned, they followed him to a flat patch of land sheltered by trees, not far from a stream. He was more talkative than he had been for days. He had seen small groups of Indians of different tribes moving north toward Fort Gibson, some in wagons, some on horseback, but most walking, as they were. He had even seen two Union soldiers on their horses in the distance, scouring the landscape, protecting the territory from Confederates. He announced that after a rest, they would walk in the daylight, and arrive at Fort Gibson before nightfall.
Her grandmother came round, checking everyone. She got
to them last, and Elizabeth was already asleep. Her grandmother brushed back some of the sleeping girl’s hair with her hand, feeling for temperature. Permanent wrinkles grooved Gramma Amy’s forehead and around her eyes, baked in by years of sun and wind and hard work. Gramma Amy lay herself down on the ground beside the girl, closed her eyes, and slept.
Now that they were close, Rose wondered what the fort might be like. She imagined an enormous structure with thick log walls, filled with soldiers and guns and horses, and vast storerooms of food of all kinds, dried meat, cornmeal, preserves like they stored in their own pantry at the ranch. She could almost feel the heat from a tall community fire, spitting sparks, and pictured herself with the other women in a circle, preparing warm meals with the fresh game and the fresh fish the men would catch. She would welcome seeing other Upper Creeks, listening to their stories of where they came from, what they left behind. She would welcome falling asleep at night instead of walking, without dreams of Confederates finding her crouched behind a bush and dragging her out by the ankle to her death. Maybe Twin would come to her once they settled.
They set out north one last time. Gramma Amy hummed as she walked, so Rose did too. Midmorning, they came upon a small group surrounding an overloaded wagon stuck on the open trail. A healthy, full-sized stallion trailed his reins as he grazed, and two women rolled out a new wheel. One of the men fixing the wagon was black, about her grandfather’s age, but the rest looked to be full-blood Cherokee.
Her grandfather and the ranch hand rushed to lend a hand. Although close to the fort, they weren’t yet within its protection. There were four children, including a pointy-nosed, dark-haired Indian boy a little older than Rose, and a girl about Elizabeth’s age. They couldn’t have been on the trail very long. Not only was their horse fresh, they all looked well fed. Once the new wheel was in place and they were ready to move on, their main man offered Grampa Cow Tom a wagon space, and he chose Granny Sarah to
ride. The two parties took to the trail again together.
They fell into a rhythm walking in the daylight, and Rose gravitated to the middle of the pack, the road wide enough and the sky light enough they no longer had to follow single file. She listened to the worried squeak of the wagon wheels in front, and took solace from the men with guns behind. The Cherokee boy also walked in the middle, and they trudged along almost side by side without words. After an hour or so, the boy pulled out a piece of dried meat from his pocket and began to tear off chunks with his side teeth, chewing as he walked. Rose hadn’t eaten since last night, and she couldn’t help but stare at the deer meat. She tried to quell the desire by sipping a little water to trick her stomach. That only made things worse.
The boy held out his half-eaten strip to Rose, and said something to her. Grampa Cow Tom had taught her a few words of Tsalagi, but those weren’t the words the boy used, and she didn’t understand.
Rose was uncertain whether he offered the rest of the piece or one bite, but she took the chance to look at him squarely for the first time. He was full-blood. His long, dark hair was pulled back away from his face and stuck under his cap, his leathery skin a rich, coppery color and free of facial hair, his eyes a warm brown, set deep. His face was the opposite of her own, sharp nose, high cheekbones, thin lips, a profile so graceful it was almost feminine, and she suddenly worried about how she appeared to him.
She bit off a chunk and worked it in her mouth, savoring the tangy juice. She tried to hand the rest back to him.
“Chibona,” he said, pointing to himself, watching her.
“Rose,” she replied.
He pointed to her and then to the strip of meat, and back to her again.
Rose nodded and accepted the remainder of the chew. She knew she should save it for Elizabeth, but she wanted nothing more at this moment than to possess something the Indian boy had touched.
And she was hungry. She bit off another piece, smaller this time, and stuffed the rest into her pocket.
He pointed to her once again and asked a question, but she couldn’t catch the meaning of his words and shook her head.
This time, Chibona pointed to the black man who had fixed the wagon wheel, walking ahead of them, and then back at Rose.
“Gvhnige?”
he asked.
Rose suddenly understood what he asked and bristled. “Yargee is our chief, but we’re free,” she said in Mvskoke. “Not slave. Creek and free.”
Chibona studied her, uncomprehending.
“The Confederates came to take our ranch. I warned everyone just in time.” Rose couldn’t stop herself from talking, even though she knew he couldn’t understand Mvskoke. “We’ve been walking five days.”
They trudged along in silence for a time, but Rose ached to hear his voice again. She couldn’t bear that he’d lost interest.
“My Grampa Cow Tom goes to Fort Gibson all the time. He interprets for our chief. I can speak English too.”
“English,” Chibona repeated. He shook his head and fell into an easy stride, and she kept up, but didn’t initiate any more talk. When one of the older men called for him to help with the horses, he made his way toward the front of the group, leaving her behind.
For the first time since they started walking days ago, Rose shut out some of the ache of leaving the ranch and Twin, and the terrors of the trek. She caught a glimpse of the back of Chibona’s head and, comforted by the gestures of a stranger, dropped back to walk alongside Elizabeth.
Chapter 33
THE BLENDED PARTY
journeyed on, rounding a bend on the trail, and in the distance, on a hill, a sprawling stone structure came into view, with wide porches running its length on both levels. They’d made it to the fort.
“Look, Elizabeth,” Rose said. “One day, I’ll have porches like that.”
The fort didn’t look at all like what she’d created in her mind, and as they came closer, word passed down the line that the building on the hill was a barracks for the soldiers, and not the main army post after all.
A bit farther, the fort itself rose up out of the flatlands. Rose had never seen so much stone. The walls were thick, and scores of soldiers carried rifles. But more jarring than the soldiers, which Rose expected and welcomed, were the Indians scattered everywhere, outside the walls of the fort as well as inside, sitting, standing, lying down, out in the open. Makeshift tents of blankets and pelts dotted every square inch of the terrain, intermingled with scrawny cattle, a few horses, chickens, and wagons of every sort crammed with personal and household items.
There were more displaced people at Fort Gibson than she could possibly count, many more than there were soldiers. Mostly Cherokee, judging from hair and beadwork and feathers, but also Upper Creek, Choctaw, and Seminole as well, as far as the eye reached. Since younger men were off fighting in the army, a majority of those surrounding the fort were women and children, or old men like her grandfather. Sprinkled in were family clusters with skin
as dark as hers, but there was no way for Rose to know whether they were slave or free. Almost all seemed in the same condition of wretchedness—malnourished, shivering against the cold, ragged, weak, sick.
Grampa Cow Tom led the way through the motley sea of people, and pressed forward toward the front gate. Several bodies lay splayed on the ground in unnatural positions, not moving. Rose wasn’t sure if they were dead or sick or asleep. There was something in the faces of the Indians who inhabited Fort Gibson as they stared back at the new arrivals, something Rose couldn’t quite articulate, but instinctively grasped, at least in part. Fatigue. Despair. Resignation. But most of all, hunger. Clearly, most of the people here were starving. They shivered in the cold, damp mud and huddled together in family units, lethargic. For so many people in one place, there was remarkably little activity, as if everyone waited on something.
An army soldier on horseback yelled in English for a cleared lane to enter the fort. Few understood his words, but his intent was obvious, and people parted to open a path.
“Food,” someone called out from the crowd in Mvskoke, and others picked up the refrain, in Mvskoke and Hitchiti, in Tsalagi, in other Choctaw and Cherokee dialects, hands reaching toward the man on the horse. The soldier spurred his huge mount forward. Rose understood only some of the petitions, but not all, the languages crowding one another.
“Nothing to hunt.”
“Please. Medicine.”
“Dead. My two children gone.”
The soldier didn’t respond, not to any, and kept his eyes purposefully forward and focused on the gate. Rose recognized him. The man on the horse was Lieutenant Phillips, the white man who sometimes visited their ranch to talk to Grampa Cow Tom.