Cry of the Blood: The Agony of Suffering, the Power of Forgiveness

By Patricia Nash-Williams

In the mid 1800s legal immigrants entered the United States by the hundreds; the illegal slave trade flourished; and Native Americans discovered gold on their own lands.

In 1835, President Andrew Jackson signed an order that forcibly removed all Indians from their lands in Alabama, Tennessee, Georgia, and the Carolinas; they were to be removed to the western frontier, leaving their homes and possessions behind. The order passed Congress by just one vote. Chief Justice of the Supreme Court John Marshall objected; he demanded President Jackson rescind the order, but Jackson refused. In the spring of 1838, Jackson sent General Winfield Scott to Georgia with orders to build the stockades that would house the Indians awaiting their removal from the only land and life they had ever known.

The first book in a planned trilogy, Cry of the Blood introduces an exciting and dramatic cast of characters beginning with the McCarrons from Australia, the Carvers from Germany, and the Kewahnees from West Africa. With its passions of love and hate, and agony and forgiveness, it offers a colorful adventure story put in a time frame of the early to mid 1800s in American history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Apr 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458202321

Patricia Nash-Williams

PATRICIA NASH?WILLIAMS received her theology education at Oral Roberts University— Tulsa, where she earned a Master of Divinity and a Doctoral degree. Patricia has worked for the past seventeen years as a hospital staff chaplain in Tulsa. She resides in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the city of her birth, where she married, had six children, nine grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. She is a member of Asbury United Methodist Church.

Book preview

Cry of the Blood

The Agony of Suffering, the Power of Forgiveness

Patricia Nash-Williams

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Cry of the Blood

The Agony of Suffering, the Power of Forgiveness

Copyright © 2012 Patricia Nash-Williams

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-0233-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0234-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-0232-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012903429

Abbott Press rev. date: 3/14/2012

Contents

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Two

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Of what worth is a story if it does not grab the heartstrings of one’s soul!

Prick the conscience, the story said to itself.

Nay, for it may disturb, it answered.

"‘Tis true, but how do you not know that there might yet

be a flicker of light within?

For every human has a soul, my friend,

and every soul a conscience, no matter how small it may be.

If just one line written could ignite that flicker so wee,

who knows what magnitude of light might rise to surface

and how many sparks ascend!"

Patricia Nash-Williams, D.Min.

IN MEMORY

OF

GRANNY

Acknowledgments

I first and foremost thank my heavenly Father God, my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit for guiding me in this work, and for giving me visions, ideas, and thoughts throughout the process without which this story would never have come to life; they also brought the right people to help me at the right place and at the right time, every step of the way.

Many people have been an encouragement to me, and I thank each of them from the depth of my heart. I especially want to acknowledge and thank my friend Mary Ann Elliott of Tulsa, Oklahoma, who so graciously gave of her time in editing. I took her suggestions and corrections very seriously, making changes and re-writing.

I thank my three sons, Mike, Paul, and Scott Williams, and my Grandson, Levi, who all made important and wise suggestions. They helped me in different ways as I traversed the many pages of history and research, and the actual writing of the story. Thanks a million times over, guys.

I also thank Darin Keply for making himself available to help me learn needed computer functions. At various times I would become so frustrated with not understanding how to, that I would seek out his help; he was always there for me, and amazingly patient. I know today that it was God’s divine plan for Darin and his wife, Shelly, to move across the street from me many years ago even though they moved on to another neighborhood a few years later.

The time came when the entire hospital where I was working as staff Chaplain moved to a larger hospital; a hospital where Darin just happened to be working as the head staff Chaplain; truly amazing! And to have the availability of his computer knowledge and help at the particular time when it was most needed was absolutely God. How I do remember the days of the old typewriters before computers; not as frustrating, but quite laborous! Darin and Shelly, God bless you both for your help and friendship.

I would be remiss if I did not mention Granny, the person for whom this book is dedicated, for sharing some of her life-stories with me. These stories were the catalist that started me thinking about writing this particular novel. Granny was part Cherokee and was my husband’s grandmother; her grandmother came to the Western Frontier on the infamous Trail of Tears (which Frontier became the State of Oklahoma, November 16, 1907). Thus, our story! I pray you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing and living it.

Patricia Nash-Williams

Forward

With the ratification of the New Echota Treaty, the removal of the Cherokee Nation was sealed; President Andrew Jackson, and Congress by one vote, had set in motion the Indian Removal Act, which forced the removal of the Indians from their lands in the Carolinas, Georgia, Tennessee, and Alabama, and gave those lands to the white man. In May, 1838, with an army of four-thousand regulars and three-thousand volunteer soldiers sent by the command of the President, General Winfield Scott began the building of the stockades which would write the beginning of one of the darkest chapters on the pages of American history.

Murder is murder, a soldier said, and somebody must answer; somebody must explain the streams of blood that flowed in the Indian country in the year of 1838. Somebody must explain the four-thousand silent graves that mark the trail of the Cherokees to their exile. As an eye witness the soldier wished he could forget it all, but he could not. For as long as he lived he would continue to see the six-hundred and forty-five wagons which lumbered over the frozen ground with their cargo of suffering humanity along with those who walked beside them to the Western Frontier. Let the historian of a future day tell the sad story of its cries, dying groans, and its tears. Let the judge of all the earth weigh our actions and reward us according to our work, wrote John G. Burnett, a veteran in the United States Calvary, 1890.

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Then the Lord said to Cain, ‘Where is Abel your brother?’ And he said, ‘I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?’ And He said, ‘What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground ‘ (Genesis 4:9-10).

Introduction

April, 1836

The strong wind pounded the rain hard against the window. Lightening cracked against a darkened mid-afternoon sky. Major Roger Stark jumped; goose bumps prickled on the back of his neck and ran down his spine. "Durn spring storm, he said to himself. It doesn’t have to be so violent." He continued mumbling as he shuffled through the massive amount of paperwork on his desk in which he felt himself buried when his office door flew open. Startled, he watched as a dripping wet Lieutenant entered sliding on his knees. The Lieutenant’s left hand clung to the door handle while his right hand and arm flayed in the air for support, unfortunately only to grab air. Major Stark arose from his desk choking down laughter. Looking up at the Major from his most embarrassing position, the six-foot five army officer looked to the Lieutenant like a giant.

That wind and rain seems strong enough to blow a person away, Major Stark joked in a rather husky voice. He moved quickly forward to help the young Lieutenant. Welcome to Fort DeSoto. What can I do for you?"

I-I-I’ve a dispatch, S-Sir, he stuttered, for a M-Major Roger Stark from President Andrew Jackson, in Washington. Are you the Major, Sir? he asked, struggling to arise from his knees and attempting to close the door at the same time.

That I am, and you are? Major Stark asked, extending his left hand to help the Lieutenant and his right to shut the door.

S-Sorry Sir! Thank you Sir! Lieutenant Sandy Kimball at your service, Sir, the young soldier said, raising his hand in salute as he stood. He reached for his hat, but it wasn’t there. Uh, s-sorry Sir, the wind took it.

At ease Lieutenant! At ease! You’re dripping. There’s a hook on the wall behind the door where you can hang that wet slicker then please, have a seat.

Lieutenant Kimball hung his rain poncho. He then reached into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket and pulled out an envelope addressed to Major Stark. He handed it to the Major and sat down, flinching as another flash of lightening cracked across the sky. Makes one kind-of jumpy, he said, indicating toward the window.

Major Stark looked up from the dispatch he had opened and glanced toward the rain- pelted window. Don’t like spring storms! No-Sireee! Not one bit, Lieutenant. Not one bit. So, this is a dispatch from ‘Ol Andy, hmm?

Sir?

No disrespect meant, Lieutenant. President Jackson and I have known each other a long time. We go way back.

Yes Sir! Lieutenant Kimball stated, watching the rain hit the window pane like sprays of bullets then trickle downward forming streams of water.

"Hmmm, I wonder what the old Iron Horse is up to now," Major Stark thought silently to himself. As he began to read, Lieutenant Crawford came in through the door. Without looking up Major Stark waved his hand toward Lieutenant Kimball indicating to the Lieutenant to introduce himself. Lieutenant Kimball stood and shook Lieutenant Crawford’s hand. They exchanged introductions then both sat down and remained silent waiting on the Major.

Kimball stared at Lieutenant Crawford, a feeling of jealousy grabbing at his gut and throat. He looked at the single silver bar on the Lieutenant’s shoulderstrap, signifying his rank as 1st Lieutenant. The shoulderstrap with the silver bar was attached to his pristine dark blue uniform jacket; a red sash supported a saber at his side. He stared at the silver uniform buttons, and felt drab wishing he could distance himself from this whole scene as he sat there with no hat and rain-soaked hair. He then looked to the Lieutenant’s hat: dark blue, a waterpproof cloth forage cap, "of course!" he thought, and felt worse. He silently pouted.

After reading, Major Stark stared at the paper he held in his hand; his mind not daring to comprehend that which he had just read. He could feel the blood rushing to his head. His face became blustery-hot with emotion. His hands began to shake. The look on the Major’s face and condition of his shaking hands did not escape the Lieutenant’s attention.

Sir? Lieutenant Crawford queried in concern.

With eyes blurred from moisture, Major Stark, in disbelief, slowly and silently read the message once again. He looked up, Crawford, you ever heard of the New Echota Treaty?

Yes Sir. I never paid much attention to it, though. I heard it angered most of the Cherokees because the few that signed it gave away all rights to the Cherokee lands, and that their Principal Chief John Ross was against the treaty. And even though they were not authorized to sign it the United States government, knowing this, accepted the treaty anyway. I don’t know how much of what I heard was true.

"Your information is correct; as you might imagine there is much to it. I will try to sum it up. There was an Indian Removal Act of 1830 that was approved by President Jackson; it provided for the removal of all Indians to the Western Frontier. He spent the next few years attempting to encourage the Indians to leave voluntarily; some did, but most did not. In 1835 President Jackson appointed the Reverend John F. Schermerhorn as a special commissioner to the Cherokees and sent him with a treaty to New Echota, Georgia. A secret meeting was set up in the home of a man named Elias Boudinot and Major Ridge and his son, John, along with some Cherokees who called themselves Ridgeites. The treaty was signed. This treaty promised the voluntary removal of all Cherokees with the sum of $42 dollars to be paid by the United States Government to each Cherokee. The treaty of course was illegal as all get out as it was not approved by the majority of the Cherokee nation or their Principal Chief, John Ross who was greatly against it. Interestingly enough though, the U.S. Senate approved the treaty, but only by one vote; President Jackson eagerly signed it into law over and against the firey objection of the Supreme Court Justice, John Marshall.

Well, I have to tell you that a great rage over the signing of the illegal treaty went through the Cherokee Nation like a prarie fire. The Nation fired off a declaration stating the majority of the Cherokee desired to remain right where they were in their own land, the land of their birth. Thus the battle began, a losing one I’m sad to say, and now this, Major Stark indicated the letter from the President. We are charged with handling the removal in Georgia. Oh, I would imagine those who signed the treaty were tricked into thinking that what they were doing was the right thing, and that it would be to their advantage. But by signing the treaty they not only ceded the rights to their land, but formed the loop-hole for government confiscation of all the land that President Jackson wanted.

Many of our Senators sided with Principal Chief John Ross, who, like I said, was against the treaty, and had voiced strong opposition in Washington. I was informed that Major William Davis wrote a letter to our Secretary of War, Lewis Cass, a couple of weeks before President Jackson signed the New Echota treaty into law. He had stated his thoughts and observations clearly in his letter saying he felt it was his duty to the President and country to relate the facts of Schermerhorn’s meeting at New Echota that December of ‘35. He pursued in the letter that the treaty was not legal because it wasn’t sanctioned by the Cherokee Nation; in fact, in his opinion, it probably wouldn’t be sanctioned by even nineteen-twentieths of the Cherokees, and that it should not be considered. He accused Schermerhorn of carrying out a scheme of deception."

Hmm, I didn’t know all of that. I have a question, Sir. How does the President intend to make the Indians remove themselves? Lieutenant Crawford asked, looking first at the Major then at Lieutenant Kimball. Kimball remained silent, his cheeks sucked in and lips drawn tight.

Without answering immediately, Major Stark turned and looked toward the window. He noticed the wind and rain had begun to lessen. Turning back to Lieutenant Crawford and Lieutenant Kimball, he asked with a faraway look in his eyes, Do you know what happened to the lost sheep?

Both men looked at each other then back at the Major. Sir? they asked in unison.

"The Good Shepherd went out and found that little sheep and tended to it; He took care of it and nurtured it. He was not only its shepherd, but its friend. Whatever happened to man bearing one another’s burdens or helping one’s neighbors? Whatever happened to compassion and heart? I’ll tell you what happened, greed—that’s what! Greed for land and gold weaseled its slimy way in and festered in the hearts of some of the best people I thought I knew. The Good Shepherd was just shoved aside.

Sir, if you would care to read us the dispatch from the President maybe we could better understand.

Major Stark sat upright at his desk and cleared his throat. Yes, Crawford, you’re right, of course. Through tightened jaws and with a low rumble in his voice and barely audible, he slowly began to read:

April 5, 1836

Major Roger Stark

U.S. Army

Fort DeSoto, Georgia

United States of America

Major Stark, by my declaration as President of these United States, having accepted the New Echota Treaty as official, we will begin preparing for the move of the Indians westward that are presently residing in the Carolinas, and the states of Georgia, Alabama, and Tennesse. Their final destination will be the frontier west of the Mississippi.

As you are aware, under Jefferson’s presidency some of the Indians voluntarily removed themselves and settled along the Arkansas River in the west, also north of the Red River in the Mexican province of Texas. However, the remaining Cherokees, and other tribes, have stubbornly remained, refusing to be removed; these Indians will be removed, prayerfully without incident.

I am presently working to coordinate this massive removal. Because of their large numbers I can see no other way than not allow them to take any belongings except those possessions which they can themselves carry. Of course wagons will be provided to assist the elderly and infirm. I am putting General Winfield Scott in charge and will be sending him to you at Fort DeSoto. You can expect him in the spring of ‘38. I realize that is two years hence, but with my own presidency expiring next year there is much work to be done in preparation, thus my informing you at this time. You will be notified as to the exact timing of the General’s arrival.

A large company of federal troops commanded by General Scott will also be dispatched at that time and will accompany him to Fort DeSoto. They will need to be quartered. Please make proper accomodations for at least two-thousand. The number of troops plus volunteers and militia will total seven thousand; a proper number of these soldiers and men will be dispersed to other specified areas for the Indian roundup.

General Scott will arrive with the authority to build thirteen stockades at various planned locations, which will be the holding areas for the Indians awaiting their specific times of deportation. General Scott will have on his person all needed instructions. I am counting on you to accommodate the General in whatever he needs in order to hasten his work to completion. The removal will begin in or around June of ’38. You will lead the Removal on the trail. General Scott will remain in Fort DeSoto for a time.

Respectfully,

Andrew Jackson, President

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‘Respectfully,’ Sir? Pardon me if I may question, Major. Lieutenant Crawford remarked sarcastically.

You may, Lieutenant, my thoughts exactly. Major Stark rose halfway from his chair and leaned toward the Lieutenant, Son, are you sure it was President Andrew Jackson who gave you this letter?

Yes Sir. He told me in person that he wrote it with his own hand.

Major Stark sat back down. Leaning back in his chair he looked up from under his thick, black, eyebrows and stated with an icy coldness, You don’t say! How proud he must be! With jaws tightened and teeth grinding he brought his fist down hard on the desk top and spouted, Well, I won’t do it! He stood to his full height, gripping the dispatch angrily in his fist. I won’t do it, Kimball. You can take that reply back to the ‘respectful’ President. I refuse to follow such an ungodly order. And ungodly it is I assure you!

Nervously, Lieutenant Kimball reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a second letter, sealed and marked personal. He handed it to the Major. E-Excuse me, Sir, but President Jackson said you would respond in this manner, and that if you did I was to give you his personal note. He said it was for your eyes alone, Sir.

Major Stark took the sealed note. "At ease, Lieutenant, please sit down while I read. Letting out an elongated breath Major Stark looked at both men then he himself sat back down. He began to unseal the personal note from his boyhood friend, Andy Jackson, who had risen in the ranks to become the seventh president of the United States of America. Unfolding the paper he silently read. As he read, his lips again tightened and his eyebrows furrowed as though he were in pain.

After reading the note he leaned back again in his chair and looked solemnly at the two men who were watching him expectantly. He looked once again at the window, noticing the wind had abated. The rain was still striking the window panes, but with less force. In a more subdued manner he looked back at Lieutenant Crawford and Lieutenant Kimball, We hunted and fished and skipped rocks together; caught frogs together, he said, leaning forward with his arms extended on his desk. He clasped his hands and stared at his two index fingers, moving them up and down. After a moment he looked up at the two men with a wry smile, "I remember the time we put a frog in Miss Marquette’s coat pocket; she was our school teacher. It sure caused a commotion. We got tanned double, once at school and again at home. It was worth it, though, to see her reach into that pocket and come out with that slimy little frog in her hand. She jumped and screamed so hard that she fell backwards over a chair, screaming even harder when that little frog jumped up on her arm. The whole class almost fell out on the floor laughing.

Lieutenant Crawford and Lieutenant Kimball rocked with laughter. That’s really funny, Sir, I bet you felt bad about it later.

What? Not on your life, Crawford! Never! We were just nine year old kids. There was another time when Andy and I went skinny dipping in old man Baker’s pond. Baker didn’t know it, though. At least I don’t think he knew. We did a lot of things together that we weren’t supposed to do. We chased skirts and pulled pigtails. I still have Carolyn Saunders purple ribbon that I pulled off one of her pigtails.

Sir, you don’t! Lieutenant Crawford laughed.

Sure do! And it’s hanging on our parlor lampshade to this day to remind us of how we met. And the day came when I married the woman.

Sucking in a long breath Major Stark sighed, Well, you know, we’re not kids anymore, are we? He pushed back from his desk and looked at the one man then the other. Motioning to the paper he held in his hand, No, this is no small thing and certainly not something I will want to remember. Standing to his feet Major Stark stretched out his hand to shake the young Lieutenants. Lieutenant Crawford, here, will take you to your quarters where you can get dry and comfortable. He will see that you have dinner. I’ll have your reply ready by daybreak. You can pick it up here at my office anytime tomorrow. Good luck to you on your return trip. Sorry about this nasty weather and I apologize if I got a little heated a while ago. Oh, Crawford, one more thing: get this man a new hat!

"Yes Sir!

Thank you, Sir." Lieutenant Kimball shook the Major’s hand and saluted. He turned to leave the room with Lieutenant Crawford; remembering his wet slicker he lifted it from the wall hook and walked out the door, shutting it behind him.

Major Stark sat heavily back down at his desk. Opening a drawer he pulled out a clean sheet of writing paper. With pen in hand he began:

April 24, 1836

President Andrew Jackson

Washington DC

United States of America

In regard to the official letter and personal note received from my commanding officer, President Andrew Jackson, which letter, I was informed, was written by his own hand, I have read. What you, Sir, have commanded concerning the removal of the Indians from their homes and lands, I have to say that my soul suffers great anguish. I ask myself, what could cause a man to do such a thing to other fellow human beings. Is it hate or greed, or both?

You know the Cherokee, Choctaw, and other Indian tribes, were here long before any of us. Their lives have been invaded so many times over—and now to be permanently removed from their homes? They lifted themselves to what they thought would be the place where the white man would accept them; a higher way of life, becoming educated in the white man’s ways. They rose to the challenge and succeeded.

The Cherokee own and run their own newspaper, and have their own alphabet thanks to Sequoyah—one of their own. They own businesses and productive farms. And you would strip them bare? Many, maybe even most of these Indians are now Christians and regularly attend services raising their children in the reverential fear of the Lord. If I knew of a way, Andy, God knows I would stop this heinous act. If you follow through with this, you can be assured that the cry of their blood will be heard in the highest heaven by the very God who created them, and you will have to answer for it.

I’ve been proud having you as my President. You’ve done some mighty good things for our country: you saved our banks, balanced the budget, and protected our people. You’re a true frontiersman who fought faithfully, a real hero, but you have always hated the Indians. It only takes one bad apple, Andy, to spoil the whole barrel, and the Treaty of New Echota was your bad apple.

We grew up together, Andy. We have been life-long friends. I will do what I am commanded to do because I am an officer in the United States Army and you are the President of the United States, my Commanding Officer, but it is with great sadness that I now say that you and I can no longer be friends.

I hereby make an official request: once I have followed through with the removal of the Indians to their final destination, I desire to be transferred to a Fort near their new territory for the purpose of helping them establish, and to keep the peace.

Yours in service,

Major Roger Stark

United States Army

Fort De Soto, Georgia.

Upon completing his reply, Major Roger Stark carefully re-read the letter he had written. He then folded his arms on his desk and dropped his head onto them and wept, sobbing from a broken heart: a broken heart for a nation for which he had always been proud to serve; fora native people he had come to know and admire; and for a life-long friendship forever lost.

Part One

Chapter 1

Australia:

The McCarrons

1818

It was a hot, muggy, day in late December when Laird McCarron set down his sledge hammer and leaned it against the new fence post. He spat on the ground. He untied the kerchief from around his neck and began wiping the sweat from his face and the back of his neck. Looking skyward, Laird stood with legs slightly apart to brace himself against the strengthening wind. "Ah Da, looks like its a-blowin up a thunderstorm. A little wind and rain is good, but not what I’m a-feelin is a-comin’." A tight grin formed across Laird’s mouth as he watched the clouds change, becoming dark then rolling faster and faster as though they were being chased by a giant leviathan in the midst of a swelling sea.

He looked down at the kerchief in his hand. "Ah Da, he sighed again, studying the kerchief. Part of our flag, it is! He caressed it fondly fingering it in his hand, remembering how he and his five men had been caught in the midst of a blowing sand storm while on patrol. The sand blowing and had whipped so hard they couldn’t see, much less breathe. Bring that flag over here, Bobby," he could hear himself saying like it was only yesterday.

"Yes Sir?" Bobby responded handing the pole to his commanding officer.

Laird knelt and laid the flag across his knee and began to tear the flag into six strips. He laughed to himself remembering the shocked look on his men’s faces. "Now listen to me, men, we’re in a serious situation here. We have to cover our nose and mouth. We’re a-go’n to turn back. We’ll make it to camp. Don’t panic! I don’t intend to lose a man out of ignorance. Remembering brought tears to Laird’s eyes. How he had loved his men, and how he so loved his country. Tearin’ that flag was a mighty hard thing, but it saved our lives, it did," he said to himself. He wiped tears with the arm of his sleeve and re-tied the kerchief around his neck.

The wind felt good against his skin—skin tanned by Australia’s hot summer’s sun. It was already darker than most whites because of his aboriginal ancestry; even though it boasted only a slight amount of aboriginal, it was his and contributed to his good looks. He had held his age well and knew he was still a handsome man at the age of forty-eight. Thick hair, he had, and a full head of it, light brown in color with just the right amount of grey, all curly and wavy-like. His eyes were bright blue, set under thick eyebrows and long black eyelashes. Just short of six feet tall, his body was muscular with long, strong legs.

Laird turned and leaned against the fence on arms muscled from years of working the land. Raising his eyes once again to the rolling sky he smiled to himself, memories running freely as the increasing wind blew through his hair. He remembered how his father had worked hard, insisting that he and his older brother be schooled in the Jesuit school over in Bainey. It had been costly, but somehow he and Mum had handled it. He could still hear him, "Those Jesuits know how to teach about life the good God created. All any fool has to do is to look outside of himself, and look up and around with eyes open, and they could see th’ handiwork of th’ Almighty, in th’ heavens, rivers and trees, th’ sun, moon, and stars. Not only that, Son, but those Jesuits will keep you on th’ straight and narrow, you won’t get away with stuff and nonsense under their tutelage."

"But, Da, Laird had whined when his dad had taken him on that first day, I want to stay with you. You can teach me."

"Now, never you mind, Laird, you have to trust your Da knows what’s best for his boy. Times are a-changin’, lad. You will need to be smarter than your Da. You’ll see! Come on with you, now, and stop your whimperin’."

"Guess you were right, Da, Laird whispered against the whistling wind. Laird had learned well. He was smart. He knew how to deal with people as well as the land, and the horses. A good man, loving and kind, Laird’s heart flowed through his hands making him known throughout the country for the compassionate treatment of his horses. He felt a warmth flow through him as he thought of his youngest son, Jordy. Just a little tike, he was, always a- followin’ after me, stretchin’ out those little legs to keep up, tryin’ to imitate his Da. I can still see him a-sittin’ atop the corral fence never tirein’, watchin’ while I worked horse after horse, tenderly whisperin’ into their ears, caressin’ their neck and body. Ah Da, you’d be mighty proud. He learned well how those horses respond. He has your tenderness of heart and lovin’ hands, he has." Laird brushed a tear of nostalgia with his same shirtsleeve, chuckling he interrupted his own thoughts, "I keep ‘a-doin’ this and it’s a-goin’ to be a different color than th’ other."

He was proud of his youngest son; the way Jordy had turned out. Oh, he was proud of Joey and Erwin, too, "but there’s just somethin’ about me youngest; that Jordy-boy especially touches me heart," he said to himself smiling, not feeling the least bit guilty.

Laird closed his eyes and leaned his head back, holding the memories. He saw Jordy again a-sittin’ on top of the fence, his eyes alert as a hawks’ watchin’ him walk out into the pas- ture where the horses were a-grazin’. It always amazed him how Jordy would stand quietly no matter how long it took, patiently a-waitin’ until one by one the horses came and followed him in, trustin’.

"Da," he could still hear that little eight-year old voice a-callin’ out, jumpin’ down off the fence and a-followin’ him into the barn: he relished in the memory of the little voice: When I’m all grown up, Da, I’m a-goin’ to own a horse farm, and take care of the horses just like you. Laird smiled at the sweet remembrance.

A hard worker and good horse trader, over the years Laird had become a wealthy man—fair and honest. His two eldest sons, Joey and Erwin, also lived on the ranch with their families. They all worked alongside, sharing in the running of the family business. The McCarrons were a God-fearing family clan, living according to the Good Book, the Holy Bible, following the words of Christ, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. They attended mass together on a regular basis and tithed to their church, believing the words of the Bible: when one cast their bread upon the waters it would return to them in many ways.

Reaching down and picking up his sledge and putting his memories to rest, Laird had decided he had better get back to the ranch-house before the storm hit. He secured the sledge, packed the box of nails, and mounted his horse. Contemplating on which route he should take, he knew it would be shorter if he headed back by way of Whitewater creek. He realized that that way could be dangerous should the threatening rain begin; the water always rose fast in Whitewater during a downpour. "Hopefully I can beat th’ storm," he told himself. He turned his horse around and headed east. He had just crossed the creek, made the turn to the north, and pulled in closer to the woods for safety when the biggest lightening strike he had ever seen cracked, seemingly splitting the sky in two. The light was so bright that it momentarily blinded him. The next thing he knew he was flat on his back on the ground with excruciating pain in his chest. It was hard to breathe. He opened his eyes. A tree had fallen and he was under it, or part of it; he could not distinguish which. His horse was standing close, nuzzling him with its nose. Laird attempted to raise an arm to take hold of the reins, but his arms would not move; he realized he was pinned.

Laird had been in predicaments before, some very close encounters with death, and he was not afraid. He knew someone would come looking for him when he didn’t show up. He tried to relax; however, the pain was intense and he was concerned about his inability to breathe well. He looked up at his faithful horse. "How could I have ever been so blessed with such a horse?" he thought. About that time he heard a rider coming, his closed eyes and he went unconscious.

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Jordy McCarron was working with the horses, rounding them toward the barn, keeping his eyes on the angry looking sky. Shuddering, he remembered the time they had lost a horse to lightening. He hurried, not wanting to lose another. His thoughts went to his father; he had an uneasy feeling. "Shouldn’t he have had that fence mended by now? I wonder what’s a-takin’ him so long. Sure is a-gettin’ dark for mid-day; looks like we’re in for a big one." Just then a gigantic lightening bolt snapped across the sky. The horses whinnied and bolted, running the last hundred yards to the safety of the barn. Jordy followed them in, slid off his horse and shut the barn door. He began pitching hay into their feeder troughs, not being able to shake the uneasy feeling about his father. The feeling was so strong that Jordy stopped and leaned against the pitch fork, "Maybe I had better investigate." Come on, Johnny-O, he said to his horse, maybe it’s not the smartest thing we ever did, you and me, but we’re a-goin’ out again." As if he could understand what his master was saying, Johnny-O lifted his head, turned, and followed Jordy outside.

Jordy, Jordy! Da! Hurry! Tree hit by lightenin’; pinned Da, Joey yelled, near panic.

Jordy grabbed his horse’s reins and swung his leg up over the saddle, pulling himself up in one, swift motion. His heart was pounding. Is he alright? he yelled over the increasing shrillness of the blowing wind.

All I know is that when that big bolt of lightenin’ struck he must have been on his way back from a-fixin’ that broken fence, the one on down a-ways south-west of Whitewater creek. It looks like he was a-passin’ a tree that got hit by that big strike and it came a-crashin’ down right on top of him.

That was a big strike alright. Biggest I’ve ever seen, Jordy shouted. I almost had the horses to the barn when it hit. It scared them and they ran the rest of the way in.

Jordy and Joey rode as fast as they could against a strong south wind, which was whipping up to gale proportion. How did you find him?

I didn’t, Uncle Charlie and his men did Joey shouted, the wind whipping his face and filling his mouth making it almost impossible to talk. Charlie found me out by the north-west gate and shouted somethin about Da being hurt and him a-goin’ for the Doc. He gave me a short rundown then took off at a dead gallop. Erwin is with Da.

Oblivious of the rain that had begun to pour Jordy and Joey pulled up and literally flew off their horses. They ran to their father who was lying on the ground, pinned under a gigantic tree limb.

Da, Da! the boys shouted.

Their older brother, Erwin, had worked a rain poncho under Laird’s shoulders and over his head forming a tent to protect his face and head from the rain. He was holding Laird’s head as best he could without raising it too much. Laird looked up at his sons. He attempted a smile through gritted teeth. Can’t breathe too good, fellas; keep a-passin out.

Tree was struck by lightenin’. See where it split off, Erwin pointed, shouting above the howling wind. Uncle Bradley and I tried to lift that limb off of him, but we couldn’t budge it. We’re a-goin’ to have to use ropes. It was that big lightenin’ strike that hit about fifteen minutes ago. Uncle Charlie and Doc are a-goin’ to meet us at the house. We need to get him moved out of here fast. With this torrential downpour, Whitewater is a-goin to crest pretty quick.

Moving fast, Joey had already grabbed his rope and was tying it to his saddle-horn. Without saying a word Jordy and the three other men did the same. Each then attached their ropes to the tree branch. Erwin remained, holding Laird’s head and shoulders free from the accumulating water.

That branch must be three feet in diameter, Jordy shouted.

It’ll be one heavy dude to lift, Joey shouted back through the pounding rain.

Securing their ropes the men signaled they were ready, fully realizing the importance of working in unison, the well-trained horses knew how to pull together. The ground was already water-soaked making the ground muddy and slippery. Joey and Jordy had only one thought, to get their father out as fast as possible. Ok men! On the count of three, pull nice and steady, Joey shouted: "One—two—three!" The tree limb lifted and Jordy and Joey jumped off their horses, helping Erwin pull their father out from under, freeing him while the others kept the horses steady. Skidding to his knees, Jordy knelt in the mud and took his father’s head and shoulders from Erwin; he held him in his lap as his father again went unconscious. Erwin jumped up and began giving orders to the men. Jordy was frightened for his Da; looking up he read the expression on his brothers’ faces that mirrored his own feelings.

Following Erwin’s and Uncle Bradley’s instructions, the men quickly made a sled with blankets and tarps attached to tree limbs with ropes. They then attached it behind Laird’s horse, securing the poles with ropes to either side of the saddle then carefully laid their unconscious father on it. They then tied their father to the sled so he wouldn’t slide off and slowly began walking Laird’s horse—pulling Laird in the direction of home. Laird’s horse whinnied and stepped gingerly as though he understood what he was doing. Doc was waiting at the ranch-house when they arrived. Uncle Charlie was standing out front waiting with Calley. Charlie helped them lift Laird into the house. They set him on a pallet Calley had prepared on the floor in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace; the storm had brought a chill to the air, which was uncommon for December. Jordy and his brothers helped Doc and their mother working quickly to remove Laird’s wet clothes, they then wrapped him in warm blankets, which Calley had heated by the fire. Jordy knelt over his father and untied the kerchief from Laird’s neck and tied it respectfully and lovingly around his own. Calley prayed silently by her husband’s side.

As a wife in the outback, Calley knew the seriousness of the situation. She also knew this was not the time for hysterics or even tears. Praying now, her heart suffering for her husband, the words of Solomon in Ecclesiastes from the Bible went through her mind, There is a time for every purpose under heaven, a time to be born, a time to die…a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance…a time to keep silence, and a time to speak…. She hardened herself against the fear that was ripping at her; tears of joy or tears of sorrow would be shed later.

Doc stood up, straightening his back with some effort. Putting his arm around Calley he helped her up and walked to the front door. I’m a-gettin’ old, Calley-girl. Me body tells me it is so.

Calley looked up at Doc, whom she had known all her life, and smiled, trying to hide the terror she felt within. Standing at the door Doc looked at Calley full in the face. You’re a brave woman, Calley-girl. You’ve always been the bravest of the bunch. Now, you will have to be the bravest once again. Laird—well now, he’s been hurt real bad, he has. I can’t stand here, me darlin’, and tell you everythin’ is a-goin to be alright. I wish with all that’s in me that I could, but I can’t.

I know, she choked a whisper, her voice catching in her throat.

Doc leaned down and kissed her on her cheek, a cheek that was moist with tears. I’ll be back in the early morn, I will, when the sun breaks over Bainey. There isn’t anythin’ else I can do for him tonight. Try and get a little soup down him when he awakens. It’s all in the Almighty’s hands now. When you lift your prayers to the Blessed Virgin and her Son, might you sneak a little one in there for me? I feel so helpless, and I’m not supposed to be a feelin’ that. But Laird’s been me best friend all me life, you know.

Oh, Doc, I know! I know! Calley broke into sobs, throwing her arms around Doc’s neck and hugging him hard.

Doc gently and firmly held Calley. Jordy me boy, here, take hold of your Mum; see to her now.

Jordy moved quickly and took his mother back to the chair beside his Da. She’ll be alright, Doc. She’s probably stronger than any of us. Take care, now. We’ll be seein’ you in the mornin’. And blessin’s be unto you.

During the night pneumonia began to fill Laird’s lungs. The next morning by the time Doc arrived Laird’s laborious breathing had greatly increased. After examining him Doc stood and shook his head. He, himself, was losing the best friend he ever had, and he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words he needed to say to the family, so he stood silently with head lowered and eyes closed. In those few seconds while standing with his eyes closed he heard the fatal silence fill the room. Opening his eyes, he turned and knelt over his friend, putting his ear to Laird’s nostrils—Laird was gone.

Calley knew, for her husband’s hand had gone limp in hers. She collapsed on his chest sobbing. Oh Blessed Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Please help! No! No! Oh God, don’t take him. Please don’t take him. I love him so, she cried, clinging to his body. Jordy reached over and forcefully, but gently and lovingly, lifted his mother and held her as she cried, his own heart breaking and ripping apart.

The three brothers, their wives and children, along with the other family members, Doc, hired hands, and close friends, stood silent at Laird’s graveside. The brothers didn’t even hear the words of the Priest; tears flowed unashamedly. They stood with arms around each other, each feeling as though a part of them had died along with their father. With her husband’s death, Calley had collapsed and gone into a state of bewilderment, so much so that she had not been able to attend the funeral. Doc had told them she was in a state of shock, but that her condition was temporary. He believed in time she would recover, to what extent and when he could not say.

After the funeral and in the days ahead, it was hard getting back to work on the ranch. For their father was everywhere; his presence was in the barn, at the corral working the horses; his voice was in the breeze; he was walking across the grounds, even his fragrance filled the house. The gaiety and laughter the family had once shared so openly was now gone, even Uncle Charlie, and Uncle Bradley and Aunt Melinie’s children were silent. One evening near the end of June when of all their families had gathered for dinner Jordy began to share about his plans, First of all I have to tell you, I have asked Kathleen to be me lovin’ wife and life-partner.

Shouts, whoops, and hollers went around the table, along with the mutual agreement It was about time.

And, he said, taking Kathleen’s hand in his, we have been a-talkin’ about movin’ to America.

The silence that ensued could have been cut with a knife. Shocked, everyone looked at Jordy hardly able to comprehend what he had just said. Expecting this reaction, Jordy quickly continued, "Please, hear me out. All of you know how sick Mum is. She’s not improved. We want to take her with us. Think about it. If she stays here I don’t think she has a chance to get any better, it’s too close to the memory of Da. It’s November now and he’s been gone almost a year and she is still the same. She cries a lot. You know that Doc thinks that in time she will