Tushpa's Story (Touch My Tears: Tales from the Trail of Tears Collection)

By Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer

Mississippi, 1834

 

"Protect the book as you do our seed corn. We must have both to survive."

 

The Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek changed everything. The Choctaw Nation could no longer remain in their ancient homelands.

Young Tushpa, his family, and their small band embark on a trail of life and death. More death than life lay ahead. 

 

On their journey to a new homeland, the faith of his father and one book guide Tushpa as he learns what it means to become a man and a leader.

But before long, betrayal from within and without rip at the unity of the band. Can Tushpa help keep his tattered people together? Or will they all be lost to sickness of the mind, body, and spirit on the four hundred mile walk?

 

A continuation of the anthology Touch My Tears: Tales from the Trail of Tears, this story follows an original manuscript written by Tushpa's son, James Culberson.

 

"As the great-granddaughter of Tushpa, a boy on the Trail of Tears, I grew up far away from Oklahoma with little knowledge of our history.  It is through reading the moving stories collected by Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer that I have a better understanding of the struggles, endurance and bravery of our Choctaw ancestors." Beverly Bringle, direct descendant

• Language: English
• Publisher: RockHaven Publishing
• Release date: Jan 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386118053

Book preview

1

Mississippi. Spring 1834

Who died? The question beat in my mind in rhythm to my steps as I walked with my mother and father to the burial grounds. No word had circulated of a loved one’s death among the dozens of Chahta families as we all prepared to march hundreds of miles to a new land. But it seemed necessary to the older ones that they make a visit to the place where the bones of our relatives rested.

My father, Kanchi, led the way as families joined us in the slow walk to the burial grounds. My father was a head taller than most Chahta men. I never walked too close to him because I wanted to be able to see his face without falling over backwards. He had a sharp face, his jawline distinct and definite. I felt small next to him, not quite the height of his chest. I did share his dark brown eyes and long, loose black hair.

More and more walked alongside us now, until the entire band had joined together as one. And one we must become to survive, my father said.

Finally, the grave houses came into sight, little log structures covering the resting places of my ancestors. I glanced around for a new grave house, the one we’d come to mourn at. But instead, the eldest ones of the group—along with our head chief, Baha—formed the inner circle in the midst of the resting place.

Chief wore a red turban wrapped around his folded black hair, the kind of blue-black of a crow’s feathers when light wasn’t shining on it. But sunlight showed the traces of white coming from beneath the turban. His turquoise hunting coat—made from the trade cloth brought by French explorers long ago—fit loosely over his boulder frame. His round cheeks almost met the wide white collar of his shirt, and did touch when Chief turned his head to look around. And he was always turning his head, always looking, always watching over our people.

My father joined the second circle and I found myself in the outer one between my friend Ishtaya and my mother. Ishtaya was my height, though not as fast when we ran barefoot through the woods. His black hair hung over his bony shoulders, and brushed the russet skin of his face when he turned to look at me.

We boys were not yet at manhood, but we imitated our fathers in front of us, standing tall and somber. My father was tallest in the circle, easy to see. A leather pouch hung around his neck, something bulging inside.

Chief Baha began, and as impossible as it seemed, everything around us fell into greater silence. "We have gathered here as a people many times to have a yaya, a cry of remembrance when we lost a loved one. Now we gather to relieve another kind of grief, the loss of our homeland. To say goodbye to a land which we will see no more."

Someone moaned, one of such pain that to hold it in would cause a heart to burst. A wail went up from the inner circle, and an old woman cried, We are a lost people. A lost people.

I bowed my head, not strictly from respect, but with thoughts racing. One by one, each person in the circles before me spoke of the good of our homeland, withholding any evil from their speech. What would I say when my turn came? We were leaving a land we loved. How was a boy to understand so much in so little time? I feared to speak in front of everyone.

We hadn’t brought food as was customary for a yaya, and I rubbed my stomach to silence its growl. Something important was taking place in this moment. How could I think of food now? Still, the growling and hunger pangs went on. And the fear.

My attention peaked when my father lifted his hands and parted his lips, but no words came out. I held my breath. Though my father kept silent much of the time at gatherings, surely he would not fail to say something to bring honor to us all. But my father said nothing and, after a time, dropped his hands to his sides.

A river of words continued round the circle; no one rushed in saying their parting words. My mother spoke hers quietly, and the group stood motionless to hear her grief. Her simple but sure ways made those around her pay attention when she spoke or acted.

My mother was a beautiful woman. Even when sad, her eyes were soft and knowing. Like the other women, she wore a simple dress but she’d adorned it with a beaded diamond design around her neckline.

When she fell silent, I sensed every face turn toward me. Even my friend Ishtaya turned slightly, as if wanting direction on what he might say.

I pulled my head between my thin shoulders like a luksi, a turtle. Something as sacred as this moment deserved great words, but if my own father could not give them, how could I?

Finally, I mumbled in a squeaky voice just loud enough to be heard by a few, "Chi hullo li. I love you."

Nothing noteworthy, nothing deserving of the nods around the circles. Ishtaya commended with, "Ome."

The time for the cry ended.

After hastened preparations, my parents and I were among the first families to arrive at the Great River. As temporary camp construction began, I joined my father, Kanchi, Chief Baha and second chief, Halbi, who stood on a fallen tree near the angry water’s edge. I listened silently to their words.

Chief pointed to the center of the river. "That is Bihi Island. In my many crossings to visit our brothers over the river, I have learned all the currents and landing places. That is the place to rest and straighten the cargo if needed. It will be an easy crossing, but we must prepare."

I studied the face of the chief. Though far from old age, his skin was worn from years of travel and responsibility for his people. But even in this crisis, he took care in wearing his red turban neat around his folded hair.

The crossing was at the mouth of Cypress Creek, just south of Friars Point on this, the Mississippi River. The river stretched a mile wide. The current was stiff. But since the river was wider at the mouth of the creek, the waters calmed a bit.

Halbi motioned to the foam along the bank. Water is high.

Our second chief always looked straight ahead, prepared to go through or over whatever stood in the way of doing what needed to be done. He was a hearty man with a square jaw and forehead, his face a burnished red from many seasons in the sun, farming his crops or hunting game to provide for his family. His wide shoulders matched the river we now faced. But looking between them, I didn’t think the river posed any sort of threat to Halbi’s imposing build.

Chief Baha nodded. We will prepare a raft and canoes while we wait.

I looked to the forests we’d left behind, wondering when the rest of the group would join us. Some had grown fainthearted over leaving and had lingered behind.

My father voiced his thoughts to Chief. The others?

For the first time, Chief’s shoulders hunched as he looked around at our people already in the camp, watching them. The rest will come. Even if we had not given our word, the white man will not let them stay. They will force them to leave.

Since the signing of the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, which ceded the last of the Chahta land in Mississippi to the United States, droves of our people had left the homeland. The main part of the Removal, overseen by the U.S. government, took three years and hundreds dead to accomplish. Our Chahta Nation of twenty thousand was broken and taken away, forced on a march none wanted to make.

But our chiefs had given their word, had promised we would remove without violence. Some tried to stay, those who wanted to take advantage of the provision in the treaty to remain in the homeland if they became U.S. citizens. But they were attacked and driven out. Just as we would be.

We asked our white neighbors—who had moved into our Nation, who had been friendly—to defend us to their government. These people, who I heard my father speak to in broken English, the way I learned their language, said they were sorry for what was happening to us, but did not want to meddle in the affair.

The time had come for our band to leave.

Not wanting to hear the sadness in the chief’s voice, I hurried back to the camp, putting my youthful energy into helping erect a shelter for my mother. It didn’t take long, since my friend Ishtaya joined me and soon we were left with little to do. But a jovial voice called to us.

Time’s wasting. You loafers come help me with this canoe.

We bounded to the side of Tushpatubbee, the man who would serve as a scout and camp builder for the long journey ahead. Tushpatubbee, axe in hand, stood beside a tree he had just felled. He was a man of the woods, with no family depending on him.

I admired everything about him, from his coonskin cap and hunting coat with colorful yarn woven in, to his beaded shot pouch and buckskin britches with fringe. He wasn’t a giant man—my father was taller—but he had a presence about him that made up for his average stature. He wore his hair long like most Chahta men, flowing loose down his back. On his dark face was always a grin, seeming to widen his narrow jawline.

Over the next several hours, Tushpatubbee had us working on the canoe, while dozens of the other men worked on three more. Soon, he turned the work of this one over to us saying, You’re man enough.

This adage was spoiled when an enthusiastic Chilita, the wise daughter of Halbi, joined us. While her father erected their shelter, she chose to help with the boat preparation.

Though our age, Chilita had the advantage of being a good two inches taller than either of us. She had the soul of an elder but the face of a little girl. I might have thought she was pretty, if I thought of such things, but she wouldn’t have appreciated it. Chilita was sensible and straightforward like her father with a square chin to match his, but her round nose and smiling eyes softened her appearance. She wasn’t shy nor was she giddy, so I generally didn’t mind her being around.

And she was a good friend, so I hid my frown at the intrusion on our manly work with the canoe. Chilita went right to work. Ishtaya smiled and Tushpatubbee chuckled.

Night came.

More of the group straggled in throughout the next day. They bemoaned their losses as evening fell. Whispers of returning to our homes were circulating when a runner stumbled into the light of the cooking fires.

The young man bent over double in front of Chief Baha, gasping for breath. Fires. Fire, they are burning our homes. Families…escape. He coughed. Not all.

A wail sounded, and a warrior stomped his foot repeatedly. Vengeance! He drew his hunting knife and cut the air. Others joined him, the roars escalating throughout the camp.

Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance!

Chief’s shoulders slumped. Tushpatubbee removed his coonskin cap and bowed his head, as if helpless to comfort someone mourning the passing of a life. Halbi, the second chief, raised his knife with the others.

Ishtaya stepped next to me. Chilita stood on my other side. We were all afraid.

Chilita stared at her father, then gripped my arm, her fear adding to mine. She whispered to us, They will be killed. Someone must do something.

Someone did. Someone stepped into the light of the cooking fires, commanding attention. He raised his arms, and suddenly, I remembered a time last harvest. It was after my father had gone to a meeting. A missionary meeting. But he had never spoken of it. Just raised his arms as though imitating someone.

Now he spoke. All listened.

"My kin and blood brothers, I know how you feel about what has