The Legacy

By Dorothy Arnzen

In his old home in Oklahoma, Mark Williams mourns for the members of his family who were lost on the infamous Trail of Tears. He mourns for his brother and his two young daughters, and he longs to know what happened to his parents and his little sister, Walela, as he prays for answers in the ghostly moonlight.

In Missouri, under the same pale moonlight, Lela Schmidt prays in memory of the parents, also lost on the Trail of Tears. She remembers her brothers, her heart wrenched by the mystery of their fate. Did they reach the Indian Territory safely all those years ago, or were they too gripped by the cold hand of death on the long journey west? Shed barely escaped that gruesome fate herself, rescued by Fredrik Schmidt. They have since shared a secret that must never be told.

The story of Fredrik and Lela began in Hummingbird and continued through Until Next We Meet. Rejoin their journey of love, faith, and courage in The Legacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781462072972

Dorothy Arnzen

Dorothy Arnzen is a widow and has seven grown children, several grandchildren, and great grand children. Among the many things she has done while her children were growing up was to teach in the public school system, carry mail and tutor children. She worked part time to complete her advanced degrees and finished the requirements for a Ph.D. after her youngest son graduated from high school. Currently, her volunteer efforts include a free tutoring service and she belongs to several community and educational organizations and has received awards for community service.

Book preview

The Legacy

Dorothy Arnzen

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Legacy

Copyright © 2012 by Dorothy Arnzen.

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.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5888-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-7297-2 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 01/13/2012

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

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

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Other books by Dorothy Arnzen

Hummingbird

Until Next We Meet

To

generations past,

whose hard work and faith in God

built a great nation

and whose memory we honor.

Chapter 1

Granddad Williams’ Plans

As his seventy-seventh winter approached, Granddad Mark Williams had a premonition that this was the year that he would die. The old man, who had been born in the Cherokee Nation of Georgia, was not eager to die. There were many things that he loved in his world: the family of his beloved granddaughter, Mary Ann Schmidt, the red soil of his farm, and his little cabin in the Indian territory of Oklahoma. However, he knew that he had no other choice than to accept the ultimate fate of every man. Accordingly, he began his preparations for this: his final journey. The premonition was so strong that he did not even consider that it might not be accurate. But since a man functions on what he perceives as reality, Mark made several decisions in calm anticipation of his imminent departure from this earth.

What would he do with his possessions? They were few but were very precious to him. He decided he would bequeath his land and his small home to his great-grandson, Adler Schmidt, whose dream was to be a farmer and who many said resembled his great-grandfather.

When people would remark that Adler was the image of his great-grandfather, Mark would smile. He knew that he and Adler were not related because the boy was the grandson of his adopted daughter, Agnes. Her parents had died on the journey that became known as the Trail of Tears.

However, one evening while the old man and his young great-grandson stood together and gazed at the setting sun, they were startled when Adler’s mother spoke.

It is amazing how much the two of you resemble one another! cried Mary Ann. Adler and Mark both smiled at her confusion.

We are together so much that we have come to look alike, observed Mark. We are both tall, and we walk and talk the same way.

I guess that could be it, said Mary Ann. But she reflected that it was uncanny how two people who were not related by blood could resemble each other to this extent.

Today Mark had invited Mary Ann and Adler to his home to speak with them about the disposition of his property in the event of his death. Mary Ann’s eyes were red from the tears she had shed when Mark told them why he had called this meeting.

Mary Ann’s father had died when she was a young child. During the past year, she had lost her mother, Agnes, to death. Now her heart ached at the prospect of losing her grandfather. There would no longer be anyone who had known and loved her as a child. There would be no one between her and her own mortality. She and Fred would become the older generation.

"When I leave this world, I want Adler to have my house and my farm, because he respects the land and, more importantly, because he also respects our Tsalagi ancestry."

Granddad, said Adler, I don’t understand. How can you be so sure that you must leave so soon?

To depart from this earth is the lot of every person, and I believe that my time has come. I am fortunate that I have lived a long life. I have known much joy and much sadness, but it has been a worthwhile journey, answered Mark. He smiled gently and placed his arm around the shoulder of his great-grandson.

Granddad, are you feeling poorly? anxiously asked Mary Ann. Is that why you are telling us this?

No, I feel quite well, and I am at peace, he answered. However, I do have some things that I wish to talk about with you. I want my other grandson, Peter, to have the money that I have saved. It is little, but I want him to know that I did not overlook him. My great-granddaughters know that I love them, but they will marry and be cared for by their husbands. You may choose some things from the cabin, Mary Ann, so they will have something with which to remember me.

It makes me sad to think that you are giving your things away, said his granddaughter as she wiped tears from her eyes. Granddad, how do you know that this year is your time to go? Only God can know that. Maybe you are wrong.

I can see that this is very difficult for you, so we will finish some other time. We need not do this all today, said Mark as he placed his arm around her shoulders. But more and more, I hear the voices of my family who are gone. They are calling to me from the other world.

I just don’t want to believe that you are going to leave us so soon, said Mary Ann.

But, my dear Mary Ann, whether I go soon or at a later time, there is one thing that is very important to me, and I want to be sure that you have it.

Mary Ann and Adler looked quizzically at Mark as he continued to speak. In the chest in my bedroom is a blanket that my mother wove for me. She also made four other blankets: one each for my father, my brother Peter, my sister Francesca, and last of all, she made one for herself. Come, I will show you my blanket.

Together the three moved from the porch and entered the little cabin. Mark withdrew the blanket from the chest and spread it on the floor so that the intricate weaving was visible. For a moment he stood in silent contemplation of his mother’s handiwork.

Oh, Granddad! It is so beautiful! exclaimed Mary Ann. Look, Adler! See all the Cherokee designs. Think of all the work she did to make this blanket… and to think that she made five of them!

What is this in the corner? It looks like writing, said Adler as he respectfully stroked the blanket.

That is my Tsalagi name, which is Doyan for the beaver. My mother wove our names into the corner of each of our blankets. I brought mine with me when we were moved to the Indian Territory. When our two little girls died, I found some comfort when I wrapped myself in this blanket. I would imagine that my mother was holding me in her arms.

Mark was silent for a few moments as he held his blanket to himself and buried his face in its soft woven folds.

Oh, how could you bear to lose both of your little girls? I cannot imagine the pain of losing one of my children, cried Mary Ann as she shivered with dread at the thought.

It was a terrible time for your grandmother and me. Until now I have never spoken about it, said Mark. He paused for a moment before he could continue.

"Nun a hi dun a tla lu l, he murmured, the trail where we cried. He paused again to regain his composure, before he continued, Grandma Martha was so stricken that for a time I was afraid that she would also die. But then little Agnes, your mother, came to us."

Granddad, would you tell us how Grandma Agnes came to be with you? asked Adler. I always wondered, but I could tell that you didn’t want to talk about the past. But I would really like to know.

It has always been difficult for me to think about the sadness of that awful time, answered his grandfather. But it is part of your heritage, and you should know it. So, this one time, I will try to recreate the events as I recall them.

After a moment of silence, Mark spoke, and as he spoke they were drawn into the past through the eyes of the aging Cherokee.

Mark Williams relived the day when he had wandered aimlessly through the cold rain that was falling from the dark skies onto the camp of the people who were being removed. The fact that their destination was near and the trek would soon end was of no comfort to him.

Two weeks ago, he and his wife, Martha, had held Cecelia, the younger of their two little daughters, as she died of the fever. Two days later, Martha had shrieked in agony as Maria, their remaining daughter, died in her arms. Mark held his wife, and her scream echoed within him. Finally, her voice faded into moans and then into a deep, apathetic silence.

Now Martha was lying on their sleeping pallet with her face to the wall and waiting to die to be with her children. She did not respond to his pleas but continued to withdraw from a world she could no longer comprehend.

Mark had left the wagon to walk aimlessly through the camp. His steps were heavy and laborious from the terrible grief that he bore within himself. He thought of his brother, Peter, whose Cherokee name, Towadi, meant the hawk. Peter was part of this long wagon train, but Mark had not heard from him in weeks. Earlier, he had been told that his brother’s wife had died from the outbreak of chills and fever which was aggravated by the cold rain and lack of food.

Mark also didn’t know the fate of his parents and little sister, who had been forced to be in a wagon train that had started just before the onset of winter. Sometimes he murmured their names as a litany to console himself: Uwohali, his father, who was named for the eagle; Kamama, his mother, whose name was for the butterfly; and his little sister, Walela, who was named for the hummingbird. He smiled when he remembered when they would tease her about her light skin and how angry she would become when they called her "little white girl."

At Uwohali’s insistence, the entire family had attended the missionary school, learned to speak English, and became part of the Christian faith. At that time, each took an English name. As he walked through the camp, Mark yearned for the time when his birth family had been on their land in the Cherokee Nation of Georgia.

Mark saw that most of the people were huddled together as they silently stared out of their wagons at the dreary weather. Oppressive grief and hopelessness hovered in the air. Anguish was reflected in the tired faces of those who mourned for loved ones. The chilly rain continued to drip down from the edges of the wagon covers. When horses had died, people had abandoned the wagons. In some cases, families were sharing wagons. Others walked through the day and then slept beneath the wagons at night.

Mark tried to pray, but the words were without comfort. As he contemplated his future, his grief turned to anger. "Oh God! Where is your mercy? Why are you so cruel to those who trusted You?" he cried silently as he walked. How can I continue to believe and trust in You? You took everything that was important when you took our sweet little daughters and separated us from our birth families!

Mark continued to walk between heaps of sodden clothing as he avoided muddy puddles. He had turned to retrace his steps to the wagon when his foot bumped a pile of wet blankets. He stopped when he heard a cry. He raised the blanket and saw a small child, who clung to the body of a dead woman.

Ma, Ma, whimpered the little one as she stared at the tall man who was bending over her.

Mark looked around but could find no one who even appeared aware of what he had discovered. All were absorbed with their own grief and loss, and appeared oblivious to the scene before them.

Where is the family of this baby? he angrily roared to a soldier who was walking nearby and who reluctantly turned at the sound of Mark’s voice.

They are likely all dead, the soldier answered as he turned away from the sight of the orphaned child and the accusing eyes of the tall Indian.

In less than a week, the young soldier thought as he walked away, this awful trek will be finished, and I will go back home! Maybe someday I will forget the sights and sounds of this Godforsaken Indian Removal process.

Mark took the child and placed her under his coat, safe from the rain. Now what can I do? Someone needs to look after this poor little one, he thought, or she will surely die. Mark continued to walk toward his wagon as the child continued to softly whimper. He could not leave the baby to die. But what if he and Martha took in the baby and then the little one died? They had seen so much death! What would it do to Martha if this child would die? How could he bring her another child who might also die?

Mark dreaded assuming another emotional burden. But someone had to save this little orphan. He carried the child to his wagon: to Martha. His wife turned on her pallet and looked in direction of the whimpering child.

Who is that? she murmured and he thought that her voice had grown weaker.

I found her clinging to the body of her mother, he answered. If I had left her, she would also have died.

How could you bring her here? cried Martha. My God! I can’t face any more death. She turned to bury her face in the blankets.

My dear, please be strong. In a few more days—we will reach the Territory and we can start over, begged her husband. I heard the soldiers say that we are almost there.

What difference will that make to us? Our little girls are gone! What kind of a future do we have? his wife cried.

This little baby has no family, either. Maybe we can care for this poor child until we reach the Territory and then someone else will take her. My dear, I couldn’t just leave her lying there in the rain by her dead mother.

Mark placed the baby on the pallet by his wife. She slowly turned and stared at the small child, whose eyes appeared large and dark against the pale skin of her thin face. Martha rose and seated herself at the edge of the pallet.

How could you bring her here! she cried again. How dare you bring me a child who has lived, when my children are dead! Do you really expect me to mother the child of a stranger? She paused when the little girl attempted to climb onto her lap.

Ma, Ma, cried the little voice, and in spite of herself, Martha responded to the cry of the baby.

Well, she is here, and the least we can do is take care of her, she said as she found a dry coverlet and wrapped it around the child. But this is a stranger’s child. I want my own girls back. Mark stroked her hair in silence, because he could find no answer for the bereaved mother who was wailing for her children.

We will keep her until we get there, and then someone else must take her, said Martha. But you are right; we can’t let her die. Then it occurred to her that the baby might yet die. How could she bear to hold another dying child? But then she thought, We are committed to try to save this little orphan.

Martha turned toward her husband. We must find some food that she can eat. Mark, what do we have? she asked.

We have some dry hardtack, since you did not eat when they gave it to us.

Soak a small bit of it in water, and see if she will take it,’ said Martha. It isn’t much, but it will at least relieve her hunger pains."

I wonder how she survived, mused Mark as he began to place a small portion of the bread in some tepid water. He wished that he had warm water, but due to the rain he could not build a fire.

I think that she is young enough that her mother was probably still trying to breastfeed her, suggested Martha. She does have some teeth and should be able to eat the bread, if she will take it. Poor little lamb.

Martha held the baby girl, took a small piece of the soaked bread, and placed it into the tiny mouth. The child appeared startled at first, and then she greedily ate the food. Mark saw the tender look on the face of his wife as she turned and rocked the little one in the warm blanket. He felt a glimmer of hope. But what would happen if the child died?

What will we do now? A small child who has no family has come to us, said Mark after the baby had fallen asleep.

Martha was silent as she contemplated the face of the sleeping child.

I must not allow myself to become attached to her, she said, but Mark saw that she held the child closer to her breast. But God has sent us this baby, and we must decide what to do. We have no choice except to do our best so that she does not die, said Martha. Surely God would not let us watch the death of another child. I think that I would like for us to pray together and ask God to tell us what to do.

Mark did not remember the words of their prayer, but he did remember that from that day on Martha began to slowly recover. Along with the terrible sadness in her eyes was a grim determination that death would not claim this child who had come into their lives. As she held the baby, her lips constantly moved in prayer.

Within a week they had reached their destination in Oklahoma. They continued to live in the wagon while Mark built the small cabin that would be their home. Here there was food, and even some milk, for the little girl, who continued to live and began to thrive. One day she smiled, and Martha’s heart expanded to welcome her.

Neither of them thought again of finding someone else to care for their little lamb. When she felt overwhelmed with grief for her lost children, Martha would hold the baby close. While the terrible agony of her loss remained, the love that she felt for this orphaned child gave purpose to her life.

Martha spent most of her days seated in the wagon tenderly rocking the child. In the evenings they both sat with their little lamb, who would smile and coo at them.

We need to name this baby, said Martha. She can’t go all her life as our ‘little lamb.’

Well, I have been thinking about that, said Mark. "Then I remembered that during the church services, the missionaries would sing the words Agnus Dei, which is Latin and means ‘Lamb of God.’ Why not name her Agnes?"

God sent us our little lamb, said Martha, and she