Red Clay, Running Waters

By Leslie K. Simmons

In 1824 John Ridge, promising son of a Cherokee leader, returns from his New England education with his White bride, Sarah Northrop, burning to defend his people's rights, and realize the dream of an independent Cherokee Nation.

Peace at ho

• Language: English
• Publisher: Koehler Books
• Release date: Dec 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888241721

Leslie K. Simmons

Leslie K. Simmons writes about extraordinary people at the center of crucial turning points in American history. She is particularly fascinated by outliers and the lesser known (but no less incredible) stories that slip through history's cracks. After decades of research, she followed a path marked by serendipities to the true story of John and Sarah Ridge and her debut novel, Red Clay, Running Waters.

Book preview

Part 1

RELIGION

1818-Conviction

CHAPTER 1

Hand over ebony hand, the muscle-knotted arms of the ferryman yanked on the ropes, pulling the split-log raft cross-current to the opposite shore. The muddy churning waters, raucous with yesterday’s rain, crested the platform conveying the carriage, sloshing its wheels, horse hooves, and the bare feet of the driver holding the reins.

The ferry had crossed the Oostanaula River hundreds of times, but for those sitting in the carriage atop the water-soaked logs, this journey differed from all others. Elevated on the receding bank behind them, their house sat amongst the sheltering arms of hickory and chestnuts. A curl of smoke danced above the chimney in the morning sun.

On the seat in the carriage opposite Skaleeloskee, his mother and father were silent, more a pause for reflection than an unwillingness to speak. Leaning his lithe body out the carriage window, autumn wind ruffled the dark hair below his turban, refreshing his flushed face. The familiar scent of home calmed his churning stomach as the dock and his house behind him grew smaller. He must remember all of what he saw here, but between sleepless nights of anticipation, and thoughts of what this experiment meant for his future, his mind was consumed. Loosening the figured, beaded sash tied across his fringed jacket, Skaleeloskee shrugged off his uncomfortable feelings.

In four years when I return, I will be a man of twenty.

The music of the water silenced his inner voices, the ones fearful of travel outside of his nation, fearful of the long journey into the Northern American states. Leaving home and living among White men was required if he were to become a leading man like his father.

As if announcing Skaleeloskee’s triumph, the familiar road on the opposite bank was petaled with amber and sienna leaf-fall when the ferryman pulled to the shore, jumped the span, and secured the ropes to the dock. With a jolt, their driver climbed into his seat, flicked the reins, jerking the carriage into motion. Thudding hooves striking wood and stuttering wheels signaled the end of their brief passage. A short distance beyond the muddy bank the driver pulled to a stop.

Feeling his mother’s gaze upon him, Skaleeloskee lifted his eyes to see her face ravaged by distress. He turned away from her scrutiny, eyes stinging with tears. His father stepped down from the carriage, offering a hand to his mother. Skaleeloskee followed, his feet touching the soft red clay earth. When he looked up, his father beckoned. Linking arms, they walked to the river’s edge.

Look to your home, his father’s firm voice directed. Fix it in your heart, as I have done each time I left you and your mother here.

Skaleeloskee pushed down his conflicting emotions and fixed his gaze across the brown tumbling expanse. As fine a house as any he knew met his eye. Their plantation nestled between a patchwork of fields and pastures on both sides of the river, ringed by slaves’ quarters across the road. Beyond the house at Ridge’s Ferry lay corn cribs and stables, kitchens, smokehouses, and barns. An orchard stretched in neat rows, the ground peppered with apples and pears. His father’s store sat in the distance; the ferry docks belonged to them too.

His mother’s melancholy gaze swept across the waters toward a patch of newly turned earth in a shadowed cedar grove. His sister’s funeral beneath the trees last month was still fresh in his mind, the missionary making them kneel in Christian prayer, the weeping of his heart’s blood for the loss of his childhood companion. It had shocked Skaleeloskee how quickly a life could end, his sister’s presence gone forever. His mother’s pangs from her absence would increase with his leaving. He reached for her hand. She looked up at him. Her smooth parted hair under her bonnet showed the sculpted planes of her cheeks, and shadows from her crying.

We have already given your sister to God, she said. Now I must sacrifice another of my children. At least it is to serve our people’s good, and not death that takes you from us.

A nip of apprehension prickled his skin, recalling his father’s many leave-takings, and their fears for his safe return. Kanuntaclage had traveled far from here, over the vast lands east of the Mississippi, along the Great Indian Trails, fighting alongside the Americans in the recent Indian Wars, and calling on their presidents in the American Capital. The spirits had protected Skaleeloskee’s father, He-Walks-the-Mountain-Tops, for some greater purpose.

His mother’s entreating look shifted to his father. Are we right to send our son so far away, placing his fate into the hands of White men, even if they are Christian men of religion?

Would he be satisfied to stay home, with the others already at the school? his father replied. He has long passed the ability of his teachers here. How would you and I occupy his restless mind to good purpose?

Skaleeloskee caught his father’s look over his mother’s head and suppressed a smile. Most people saw Kanuntaclage as a stern man of regal bearing and stature, a warrior, a staunch and wise leader. The grooves in his father’s square face showed a determined, observant man, one who understood the nature of the world and its sorrows—both recent and past. But the tender arm placed around his mother’s shoulder spoke of his father’s loving, kind, and generous nature. Childish adoration had long ago transformed to admiration and deep respect. Looking at his father now, majestic in his russet topcoat and buckskin breeches, gray streaks in the black curls under his striped turban, Skaleeloskee saw what he hoped to become.

Sehoya, his father chided his mother, you know our chiefs agree with sending the chosen scholars north. The legacy of our people can no longer be written in blood. It must be written in ink on parchment, in their language, if our people are to thrive. The religious people who come here with the government’s support have proven they wish to do the Cherokee good, even if, like all White men, they wish us to change our ways to suit theirs.

Dropping his arm from her shoulder, the crease between his father’s brows deepened. We must find ways to live beside these people, religious men or not. Besides, Kanuntaclage said, the desire for education and improvement grows amongst our people. When these scholars return, they will instruct others, and more schools will rise up. This will prepare us for the future.

Skaleeloskee remembered well his shock and confusion attending the first school in the nation at the Moravian mission at Springplace. Suddenly, he was no longer an Indian boy of seven, chasing squirrels and frogs, but a scholar, expected to follow unfathomable rules. While enslaved people translated the teacher’s English into Cherokee, the missionaries’ mysterious books filled him with awe. It had been painful at first to be away from his family, but he soon became an explorer under the missionaries’ tutelage, mapping terrains in his mind in words foreign to his own native tongue. He found if he listened to their messages about Jesus, the secrets in their writing were offered in exchange.

Sehoya pulled her paisley shawl closer. But the missionaries say our son’s heart is careless. I fear if he does not become pious, our souls will not meet in Heaven if he does not return.

Why did she so desire this White man’s Heaven when the spirits dwelt all around them?

Agitsi, he said, reaching for his mother’s chilled hands, squeezing them for reassurance, we must trust your Lord sees into my heart before deciding what fate awaits my soul. Have you not taught me to always do the honorable thing, to choose not for ourselves, but for others? I know my duty, Skaleeloskee said. I promise you I will keep my heart and mind open to His word.

She embraced her son, then, looping her hand in his elbow, they turned from the bank.

Fears must be set aside. Only the possibility of death or failure in his studies, bringing dishonor and shame, could threaten his bright future. As much as his heart remained rooted here, what lay beyond the boundaries of their farm, beyond his country, beyond his nation, called to him like a cord buried deep within, pulling taut, drawing him away.

Struggling to contain his excitement, Skaleeloskee locked the vision of home in his mind, to be called on for comfort later, then handed his mother up into the carriage.

Sehoya’s lines of worry receded when the journey resumed. The horses knew their way through the undulating landscape of farmsteads, fields, and forests to Springplace, where the scholars going north would embark. Neighbors, knowing where the family was traveling to, waved calling Donadagohvi as they drove past. Skaleeloskee lifted his hand at each til we meet again, his heart racing faster.

The miles to his old school were so familiar as to go unnoticed, but when he caught sight of the cluster of log buildings on a broad sloping plain, unanticipated sentiment washed over him. This place had felt like another country when he first came, even knowing home was within reach, but that had long passed. Now, nostalgia and recognition of the impending moment sealed his lips.

The carriage slowed to a walk approaching the complex. Young scholars, loose from their instructions, ran alongside them calling greetings. Under a distant tree, several horses pulled at their tethers. By the church, Brother Gambold conversed with a man Skaleeloskee did not know. Two boys about his age stood beside the men.

His first teacher stood by the schoolhouse in a garden of spent herbs and flowers, the sun catching the glass of her spectacles. It was she who first opened his eyes to the world of reading, math, science, history, and to what a Christian was supposed to be. How quickly he learned how to live in both worlds — the one Cherokee, the other, the White’s, one they called civilized.

Anna Gambold was the first to see the fire of knowledge ignited in Skaleeloskee, and knew it continued to burn, unquenchable. She never discouraged his probing questions, though at his next school, Brainerd Mission, he quickly learned how to keep his independent thoughts to himself.

Once out of the carriage, his father gave a nod in the school’s direction.

Go say farewell to your teacher, he said.

Walking the path toward the garden where the spare woman waited, Skaleeloskee’s heart raced. When he came close the teacher opened her arms and called to him, Come here, John Ridge, she said, using the English name she had given him, and bid a farewell to your other mother.

Anna’s frame, weathered yet vigorous, could still hold him in a strong embrace. We will send you off on your own mission in good health, with the Lord’s blessing. She draped her hand affectionately on his shoulder.

The English she had taught him flowed from his tongue. The day has arrived at last, and I am well, he replied. Skaleeloskee walked a few steps demonstrating the slightness of his limp, then looked toward the hobbled horses he and the other boys would soon mount. The inflammation in my hip has subsided and I am determined, as long as the Mission Board does not ask me to walk all the way to New England . . . or dance one of their dances, he laughed, easing his nerves.

Ha! That is good, Anna smiled, patting his arm. Now, I know you and the other students will get hungry on your journey. Her knotted hands pressed a parcel into his. It smelled of corn cakes, dried venison, and summer’s dried peaches.

Her head tilted in the distant group’s direction, her face becoming beatific. Our Savior shines his light on the Cherokee, for see how His blessings have spread. Three more scholars sent for higher learning, and on your way you will visit our home church in Salem, a truly blessed place to witness the workings of Our Lord.

Skaleeloskee’s affection for the meek, wise woman spilled over. Our blessing, he said, lifting his chin to include those gathered by the church, my blessing, he turned back to her, has been your arrival to our land. The gifts you bestowed on us, on me are ones we can only repay through our own worthy deeds. He pressed her hands, knowing these might be his last words to the dear woman. You will see, he said. We will return men of learning— missionaries, teachers, statesmen—all for our people’s continued benefit. I will not be careless with the gifts you have given me.

He bent, kissing her lightly on the cheek. She squeezed his hands in return. With one who so cherishes knowledge, she said, it would be against your nature and God’s will, would it not?

Linking arms, they walked toward the others. You will learn many things between here and Connecticut, some of them worthy, and some of them not, but I know this training of Indian scholars is God’s will. The world will soon welcome you as brothers in Christ. Skaleeloskee looked down at the red dirt still clinging to his shoes.

Now, my fine lad, she said, come greet the others.

Brother Gambold was speaking when they drew close. And to think, he said, the first fruits of our humble labors here, that our students were so highly commended as to be selected for America’s first aboriginal academy. Well, I can hardly thank our Savior for his gifts.

Plain in his usual black frock coat, Brother Gambold stood alongside John Ridge’s parents and a distinguished looking stranger, more a gentleman of business in appearance than the usual minister or merchant who visited their country.

Ah, here you are, Gambold pressed forward, come let me make introductions to your guardian for the journey. The missionary led him to the tall gentleman attired in a green frock coat, Nankin trousers, and a fine pair of Hessian boots.

Dr. Peter Dempsey, Gambold said, may I introduce you to Major Ridge and Susanna’s son, John Ridge, another student destined for Cornwall.

The man named Dempsey had a snap of energy along with the authority derived from self-confidence that John much admired. Kind, sharp eyes rested on either side of a most unfortunate nose that dominated his long face and overhung his inconsequential mouth.

John made a deep bow. I am honored to meet you, sir, he said.

And you, Mr. Ridge, the gentlemen bowed in reply, a lilt of surprise in his voice. John glimpsed a spark in the man’s eye, a most encouraging sign for the weeks of travel ahead.

We are very fortunate to be able to entrust our students to your care, Dr. Dempsey. Gambold nodded. I can assure that you will find your charges both well spoken, and well acquainted with proper Christian behavior.

Dempsey looked between Gambold to John and two other boys. Returning north with three Cherokee scholars is an unexpected but pleasant consequence of my business here. I believe there is every prospect the journey will be both illuminating and memorable for us all.

Gambold called to one of the other scholars, George Vann. John knew George’s face and stout build. He wore his White man’s clothing today. Then the missionary reached to draw a deerskin-clad youth in closer. And here is Darcheechee, another worthy student from the mission at Brainerd, the missionary said.

Hardly past childhood, the boy wore leather leggings, rather than breeches, and flushed when pushed forward, his tawny round cheeks growing darker, his eyes cast to the ground. His hunting shirt and dull jacket spoke of humble origins, contrasting with the colors and woven ceremonial clothes John wore. John felt a rush of sympathy for the younger boy, knowing he had probably never set foot outside this region.

Dempsey withdrew a fob from his waistcoat pocket. Well, he said, looking first at his watch, then at the sunlight cast on the fields, there are many miles to cover, and much to be endured. He snapped the lid shut. Shall we make good use of those horses getting fat over there? I will see to the packing and leave you to your farewells. Bowing, their new guardian made for where the horses grazed.

Suddenly, the time John so longed for had arrived, and his breath no longer filled his lungs. Feet heavy, he walked with his parents, seeking the privacy of a shaded tree for their final exchanges.

Eye-to-eye with his father, John experienced a rare failing of words. Ridge, recognized for his own eloquence, stood mute as well, his square, tattooed hand heavy on the bones of John’s shoulder, rooting him to the earth, for he felt as though he was floating away.

Now it is time for you to take up your responsibility, to earn respect and to serve the people, as I have done, his father said in their native tongue. His jaw was clenched, his eyes glassy with emotion. You and I have spoken plainly these last days of what I know, what you will see, and what may come. Nothing more can be done to prepare you for living among White men. Keep the things we spoke of close and let them guide you. You know what is right. Fill the hunger in your head. Listen, observe . . . but always remember, it is not just for yourself you were chosen. A shadow passed over Ridge’s face, his grip tightening. Remember also your heritage. The treatment we receive from Whites is not a mark of our worth.

His mother rested her fingers on John’s arm. She tenderly stroked, as if to imprint the feel of his youthful body into her memory. Do not be so hard on him, my husband, she said. Remember what he willingly sacrifices and must endure. Tears flowed freely when she pulled John into her embrace. All we ask of you, my son, is that you return . . . and you return a good man.

A sigh shuddered through John at the recognition of the leap ahead.

I will do my best, Agitsi. You have my pledge.

Ridge lifted his head, looking in the direction of the travelers, then up at the golden sycamore leaves above him.

This time of the Great New Moon is for new beginnings. He nodded, the line a familiar one. As the leaves turn, the golden eagle takes flight. Do not forget, it is easy to mistake knowledge for wisdom, my son. I know your choices will be honorable ones. Ridge leaned close, whispering, And keep your thoughts to yourself, else your sharp tongue may bring you to grief, he admonished, engulfing John in his arms one last time. Nothing good comes without sacrifice.

The next moment, John Ridge was atop his horse, filling his lungs with autumn air, riding the road with his companions, facing forward.

CHAPTER 2

Hooves treading on the red clay road and the murmur of the forest were broken from time to time by the grinding and churning of mills, or the creaking, shouts, and strains from the lumber yards they passed. Often children ran from cabins, calling encouragement, begging the scholars to stop and speak, but the party only waved in reply.

John Ridge balanced in his saddle, hanging back with his companions, conversing in their native Cherokee tongue, all of them experiencing varying degrees of shyness toward their guardian.

My English is not good enough, Darcheechee said. He held his horse’s reins stiff-armed with determination, eyes darting every which way. The arms of the coat John had given him hung comically over his small hands. The boy had nothing to wear but what he arrived in. John felt empathy for what Darcheechee’s ignorance of the outside world would force him to suffer, but he would do what he could to help the boy.

George Vann held himself casually, familiar with his own cousin’s toll road. You are the oldest, he said to John. You speak for us. Besides, you have traveled and know more about White men. You will know the right questions to ask.

The right questions to ask. True, John had an advantage, he supposed. Along with his father’s shared wisdom, he had the most advanced study, and had been to Knoxville, so why should he not represent them? He would gladly take the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity and engage in unrestrained conversation with this gentleman, especially if he were a man of knowledge beyond what was held in the Bible. With long and arduous travel of a thousand miles north, they would have little choice but to become familiar.

Pulling his horse away from his companions, John came alongside their guardian, tightened the reins, and slowed his mount. The hammer of blacksmiths echoed through the trees in the valley ahead. Several minutes of companionable silence followed while Dempsey’s gray-streaked head swiveled, absorbing the sights.

John knew the two-story house with the grand porch on the crest they approached. Diamond Hill it was called, Joe Vann’s vast plantation. Once crossed by buffalo herds, from here roads went to Nashville, Augusta and beyond. John recalled his father’s old war bonnet made from one of the beasts with horns, but that was the only buffalo he had ever seen. The paying crossroads now brought many travelers and traders to the nation and to Joe Vann’s house, his empire a measure of success among those embracing the White man’s ways, like his father and mother.

My companions have sent me as liaison, sir, John announced. Dempsey glanced his way and smiled.

Do you think they require one, Mr. Ridge? Dempsey’s expression was one of perpetual amusement.

Heat rose in John’s cheeks. They have many questions and are shy, sir. I hope you are a patient man, he said.

A crooked smile was John’s answer. You are fortunate then. Lawyers are taught to be patient, if they are not so naturally inclined, which I am. I welcome your company and your queries.

Oh! John said. A doctor of law then, not of medicine or theology. The prospect of interrogating someone as well-read as a lawyer in the long weeks ahead was almost too good to be true.

The sun was still warm, the rays breaking through, shining on the rolling pastures they passed. Dempsey pointed his chin toward the Black workers in Joe Vann’s expansive fields. I suppose the stature of a man in the South, be he Red, or White, would rely on such things, he said. Still, Indians holding Negro slaves is the least of the surprises I have found on my visit here.

The man’s directness startled John. It was customary for conversations with White strangers to take a more formal and circuitous route.

This is your first visit to our country, sir? John asked.

Indeed, it is, Dempsey replied. It was my good fortune to be sent by my governor to secure contracts for Cherokee goods. He patted the saddlebag at his knee. It has been a most illuminating experience. I live in New York City, you see.

You do not have your own slaves then, sir?

No! Dempsey snorted, looking away from the fields. I venture you will have ample opportunity to observe the differing attitudes in the North between those who live in the South on the subject of slavery and the Negro.

John knew such places existed, places where Blacks lived free, but even his father had never gone to a land without slaves. His brow knit, conjuring the familiar sight of dark faces at his own home.

There are many fields of indigo, cotton, corn, and tobacco worked by Red and Black skins alike here, John said, embracing Dempsey’s forthright approach. Our ancestors held slaves long before the British arrived to sell Negroes to us. Joe Vann owns close to a hundred enslaved people, but men like him are few among us. It is a common practice even in the Bible, is it not?

And does the Bible not also say we are all equal in the eyes of God? Dempsey replied.

John shifted in his saddle, the corners of his lips tightening. This was not a challenge he anticipated from this man so soon in their acquaintance.

This Christian contradiction is very curious to me, John replied, but many here have no wish to discuss it.

I dare say, Dempsey said, scrutinizing John’s face.

John was accustomed to Whites looking directly at a speaker. But among themselves, no Cherokee would be so rude as to stare at the face of a speaker when spoken to. How could a person’s words truly be heard if your mind was busy watching?

I confess, I expected wattle and daub huts here when I arrived, their guardian admitted, returning to his observations. Instead, my breakfast was served on fine china, in a house with glass windows and mahogany furnishings.

Not so many live in that manner, John confessed. You will still see many rude huts crossing our lands. Most live in sturdy log homes on their own farms, like Darcheechee’s parents, and like your own settlers on the frontier. As you see, we are rising in prosperity, as well as education. When you return to your home, you must tell your friends of the rapid progress of my people.

Indeed, Dempsey said.

Curiosity soon overcame shyness and the other boys pulled alongside.

It is not far now to where we will stay tonight, George Vann offered.

Dempsey glanced at the sun, well past midday. Good, Dempsey replied. Enough riding for one day. How practical that your missions are within a day’s ride of each other.

Many religious men come to our country, George said, his tailored jacket flapping open as they trotted along to gain time. His full face no longer spilled over his high collar but eased more naturally into his thick neck now he had removed his cravat. They tell our chiefs of the generous people in the United States who wish to lift us from what they say are our degraded ways. We too can work towards the betterment of mankind, just like the Christian missionaries do.

Dempsey stiffened in his saddle, his eyes darting between his companions. Degraded, pagan, savage, heathen, John had heard them all slide easily off the tongues of White people, heedless of the implied insult. He hardly took offense anymore, except to do whatever was in his power to negate the disparaging label relegating his people to an inferior status. It was surely just a sign of ignorance, and he must be patient.

When Mr. Evarts from the Mission Board accompanied our other Cherokee scholars to Cornwall, my cousin, Kilakeena, and two of my friends had the honor of calling on Mr. Jefferson and President Monroe, he announced, changing the subject.

Dempsey’s horse danced as if startled. How extraordinary! Dempsey said, incredulously, as though the notion of swarthy youths visiting presidents would never have entered his head. Your Mr. Evarts appears to be very well connected in the Capital.

He is one of the school’s founders, John replied. Besides, Indian delegations visited Washington City every year, my father sometimes among them.

Darcheechee rode quiet at John’s shoulder, listening intently, his lips working. At last, he made one of his few utterances of the day. Some of our people believe the missionaries come only to trick us into giving up our land, the boy said, but I believe it is to save our souls. That is why I attend school, so my people can come to know the Lord, and go to Heaven.

John purged his lungs. As grateful as he was for what his teachers did, Darcheechee’s words made him bristle. Many of his people could not understand why they must give up things the missionaries said were bad. Sometimes, John did not understand it himself. Why were beliefs held for centuries an insult to the White’s Christian God, joy at dances considered sinful, or their ancient medicines dismissed as worthless?

We too have many good ways White people could learn from, he said, then stopped himself. I mean no condescension, sir.

Dempsey carefully formulated his reply. It has been my experience, young man, that people wish to be right more than they wish to do good.

John’s expression clouded. Cherokee think that this way of thinking is strange, he said. What good is being right if evil will result? The question appeared to disarm Dempsey, just as it had John’s teachers. But most of us know little of White society, so we must rely on the goodness of the friends like you who wish to help us.

Well, Dempsey said, looking at the waning sun, This friend thinks it is time to give our horses and our backsides a rest. He pointed ahead to a cluster of buildings remarkably similar to those they just left behind.

As the blue light of evening’s chill encroached, the shelter, a satisfying meal, and prayers dulled the pangs of separation. In no time the party was gnawing on venison bones cooked with onions and greens, planning ahead to when they would crossover from Cherokee land.

After they finished eating, Darcheechee looked out the window toward the fading horizon and home. Nothing but fields, forests, a few dwellings, and night sounds surrounded them.

Is it true that White people put their houses so close together, no land is left between them to grow their food? the boy asked. Will it be like the great cities we have read of in our history books, like Athens or Rome?

A sharp humph passed Dempsey’s lips as he wiped away the pot liquor. I dare say Washington is more a ruin than a Rome, he replied, most of it being burned a few years ago in the war with the British. You will see when we stop there. Much rebuilding is still underway, and the streets of the city . . . well. Still, it is a town of fifteen thousand souls.

Darcheechee’s eyes grew round. People dense as forests, like bees swarming around honey in a tree. He fidgeted, uncomfortably.

I cannot envision these places, myself, George admitted, shrugging.

Then I will provide expert guidance, Dempsey said. You will soon become accustomed. In exchange, I propose a few lessons in your language. It would greatly enhance my recounting of my travels to my friends in New York. It is bound to impress them.

Do you think our English good enough to be understood in the North, Dr. Dempsey? John queried, curious if any accent marred his speech.

I should say so, Dempsey replied. Superior to many of my acquaintances, and infinitely better, I imagine, than some we will encounter along the way.

Wado, John said.

Wado? Dempsey replied.

Yes, that is right, he smiled. It means thank you. It will be useful, as no Cherokee would take payment for such a thing as hospitality.

That night, lying awake listening to a whippoorwill’s call, John’s horizon rippled like a distant mountain range, with boundary after ascending boundary unfolding in his mind.

The purring clicks of the key-wind turning announced their departure each morning.

Seven-thirty, precisely Dempsey said, snapping shut the lid of his pocket watch.

Each morning, muscles sore, his stomach churning with anticipation, or perhaps from the previous evening’s meal, John’s body screamed resistance. Each morning, already dressed, he saw Dempsey’s watch open, the sun catching on the dial, the delicate blades pointing at the time, ticking softly like the beating of a frog’s heart.

Dempsey looked distracted. Today their horses would leave Indian lands, pointing northward into the American states.

John looked from their lodging’s window. "Pakanahuili the Creeks called this place, he said to Dempsey. Standing Peach Tree is what the Whites call the village." Beneath the two-towered US fort, the Creek village was dense with houses stretching along the Chattahoochee River.

So far, Dempsey had proven nearly as indulgent as most Cherokee parents, another pleasant surprise to the boys. Unlike their mission teachers, he was good natured if their banter lapsed into their native tongue. He said he enjoyed the rhythmic, musical cadence, like water rolling over rocks. He never chastised levity, admonished their questions, or gave sermons, appearing to hold with none of the usual condescension. In short, Dempsey was unlike any White man John, George, and Darcheechee had ever met. Last night’s dinner conversation proved it.

A lantern, centered on their table at the busy tavern, had cast amber light over their evening meal. On earthen platters the fare on the table was akin in the hues to the landscape they traveled—catfish fried in yellow cornmeal, mashed orange squash, fresh green beans. It tasted like home, their last meal in Indian country, though perhaps it was strange fare for a man from New York.

Everyone has heard of that battle at the Horseshoe, George said, biting into the crisp cornmeal, licking his lips for the crumbs. He looked sideways at John. How your father grew impatient with Jackson’s futile bombardments of the Red Sticks, so the men plunged into the river, stole the Creek’s canoes, and ferried our warriors across the Tallapoosa. They pushed the enemy into Jackson’s troops.

Darcheechee’s awestruck eyes rested on John. The tale of Major Ridge’s exploits had become legend. Dempsey’s usual scrutiny of John intensified.

But wait, Dempsey said, confusion writ large on his face. Your father fought with Jackson against the Creeks? His eyes narrowed. Holding tight to his tankard of ale, he furtively shifted his gaze over the faces of the many Creeks in the room. How is it we are at ease sitting amongst your enemies here tonight?

John shrugged. It can be confusing, I admit. Our boundaries mean Cherokee have many ties among the Creeks. When we were children, a faction rose among them following a prophet. His followers thought returning to the old ways would restore Indian lands from the Whites. These followers were called Red Sticks and they aligned with the British. Other Creek brothers joined the Cherokee to fight under General Jackson on the American side.

Dempsey hesitated, rolling his thin lips inward, the amber light making hollows of his cheeks. Humor had gone from his face.

I know little of your two tribes, he said, but General Jackson’s heroic reputation is well known throughout my country. My understanding is, you will forgive me, that the man is an Indian hater.

The boys shot John a quizzical look. Having heard many visitors ask the same question of his father, he was accustomed to this reaction. His reply was measured, unsure how far he should go. Jackson is well known to our leading men. My father says the general holds great store in bravery, and in victory. But he is not an honorable man. It has long been clear we Indians cannot defend ourselves against such a mighty tide of White settlers. My father knew the choice was between returning to our old ways, certain to doom us all, or to join the American’s side. It was the only way for us to not suffer, although many still did in the end.

Dempsey pushed away his plate, took a deep swallow from his tankard, put his drink down and studied their faces.

Yet you put trust in the White men living among you, enough for your people to send you all this way into their care, he said. Missionaries come to teach you, traders conduct business with your fathers, the government offer funds for your progress. His pupils grew dark, the sad tilt of his eyes deepening; his words came, reluctant. These things may have painted a picture of what lies outside of your country that may not be proven in experience. A warning of compassion was in the man’s eyes.

Tomorrow your journey begins in earnest, Dempsey continued, his usual relaxed demeanor absent. From here, people will not be so accustomed to seeing Indians. There will be those who do not share the kind intentions of the Whites you have encountered at home. He searched their faces for comprehension.

Darcheechee’s head bowed, as if afraid to hear what else Dempsey had to say next, but John’s steady gaze did not change.

I cannot stop people from staring at us or making comments that may cause you hurt, Dempsey added softly.

But our Savior teaches we are all the same in God’s eyes, George blurted. Are the people you speak of not Christian? I thought all White people were Christians?

Dempsey’s swigged his beer. Many are, he stammered, but not all. Across the room wayfarers, frontiersmen, Natives, and militia mingled. And even those that say they are. . .

We understand, John interjected, his voice firm. My father says people may fear Indians because of the past. Also, our people have been uneducated. Many Whites mistakenly believe this means we are simple children who cannot reason. A howl came from a table of soldiers at cards across the room. Others think we are no better than the beasts of the forest, John smirked, giving Dempsey a hard look.

Do not worry, sir, he said, thrusting his fork into his food. George and Darcheechee grunted in recognition of the motion of a kill. We have been warned not to let these behaviors pierce our hearts. We will turn the other cheek. John smiled. We must simply disprove any erroneous impressions White people may have formed about us.

CHAPTER 3

After days of hard travel, filthy lodgings, and rude treatment, Salem, North Carolina appeared as a paradise. The sun-drenched brick buildings glowed vermilion in the Moravian town, a picture of order and beauty. A white steepled church pointed the way into the verdant valley, its copper dome decorating the cloud-filled blue sky. Beside the church, three-story brick buildings followed along a lush town square. Neat rows of timber frame houses and shops paraded opposite.

Darcheechee stood in his saddle, pointing. That must be the boy’s academy, and that one for the girls. The pillars at the entrances of the buildings appeared as the columns of ancient Greece to John.

George’s eyes shone with admiration. So, this is Salem, the model for worldly perfection Anna Gambold spoke of. Do you imagine our school in Cornwall will be like this?

I can only pray we are so fortunate, John replied.

The warmth of the sun-reflected buildings mirrored the village inhabitant’s inner radiance and that of their host, Brother Steiner. The head instructor’s good humor never ended during their visit, ensuring they were shown the village craftsmen at work, the classrooms full of well-groomed students, and then, the library. In all John’s waking hours, he never imagined so many books existed. The prospect sent his heart pumping as did the music permeating the town. People here lived with hymns, choirs, brass bands, and concerts played everywhere. One day the young ladies from the female academy played music for them by a man named Mozart, music so beautiful John bowed his head to shield his tears.

On the eve of their departure days later, John lifted his eyes to the aspiring church steeple as he climbed the stairs with his friends. The bells clanged from the spire touching the blue heavens. Such feats of construction inspired awe.

He resisted the urge to cover his ears as his chest still vibrated from the tolling bells when he and his companions stepped through the church’s arched doorway. A huge, vaulted space bathed in amber candlelight forced the breath from his lungs. The chamber was full, with people turning to look as they took their seats in the front. John fixed his eyes straight ahead, the faces glaring back a blur. Above where the minister would speak, rows of gleaming metal pipes encased in wood lined the walls, stretched to the arched ceiling above, like so many golden trees searching for the sun.

That must be the organ Sister Anna told us of, the one they use for sacred songs, George whispered, wide-eyed.

Darcheechee’s eyes glistened. The windows are as tall as two warriors. And look . . . he pointed to scenes from the Bible in the multi-colored glass. John clasped his hands, stunned into silence.

Unannounced to all in the chamber, a blaring thrum suddenly bellowed forth from the golden tubes, filling the room, the air, trembling the walls, and causing John to flinch and cower against his friends. The cadence of notes gushing forth was a thousand drums beating against his body, the swelling sounds vibrating his every nerve, making the hair on his arms stand on end.

Great Spirit, what power is this? John hissed in Cherokee. Anna Gambold always said the spirit of the Almighty inspired their souls with music when words failed. Now he understood. The power of the music filled a space in him he did not know existed.

Swept upward by the sounds and the minister’s exhortations, Darcheechee proclaimed he could not wait for his Gospel training and had already chosen a Christian name. Brother Steiner, the head instructor, granted the boy the honor of taking his last name. Riding out of Salem the following morning, Darcheechee shed his Cherokee clothes, along with his Cherokee name, and was now called David Steiner.

Soon, John suspected, the wonders of Salem would fade, the recollection overwhelmed by what Dempsey called civilization lying ahead. He wondered if a point would come when, overwhelmed by the might of White society, his people might be forced to shed more than their Cherokee names.

Flame-light pierced John’s opening eyes.

Arise!

Dempsey held a sputtering candle close to his face. We must be ready for the coach to Philadelphia.

Where were they? John rubbed his eyes, reluctant to face the frigid room.

Washington City.

In truth, it did not live up to his expectations. This was the seat of White man’s power? True, the buildings were impressive, what there were of them. Great slabs of white stone mountains planted in the middle of a dismal swamp, like temples John had seen in books, only cattle grazed in open pastures, and muddy streets rife with dogs and pigs rooting. Down the wide lanes Dempsey had pointed to the president’s house made of white stone. As foretold, the Capitol building was indeed a ruin, its unfinished skeleton ragged against a flat plane of gray sky. To John, the place was dreary, barren, stripped of leaves on its few trees, but he admitted the city spoke of White man’s intent in the hollows of the Potomac.

The snap of cold in the room had John quickly dressed.

Dempsey examined David Steiner in the candlelight. There! he said. The boy’s fingers fidgeted with the collar of his new clothes, his broad face resting like a melon atop the white ruffled folds of his neck piece. David’s hair, shining black, was smoothed to conform to the spherical shape of his head. A startled expression had dominated his countenance since they arrived in the Capital.

We will practice tying cravats more later. Dempsey said, dropping his hands. For now, this will do.

George preened sideways in the looking glass, fussing at the spikes of his newly cut hair. Apart from his warm skin tones, he appeared as any scholar off to study. John’s own reflection in civilized dress was not new to him, though he found the dark blue frock coat and ruff at his neck most becoming.

You will do nicely gentlemen, Dempsey said, ushering them out the door. John thought Dempsey was immensely cheerful, considering it was two in the morning.

Outside their accommodation, porters raced up and down the sidewalk, pushing stacks of luggage, lanterns swaying from their loaded carts. Elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen hovered on the sidewalks, as though it were the middle of the day. Dogs sniffed in deep tracks up and down the street while the clatter of commerce echoed off the buildings, filling the night air.

A distant rumble foretold the arrival of the stagecoach.

You will like it . . . you will see, Dempsey assured them. For a little while, anyway. Believe me, he said, after ten or fifteen miles, you will be glad for the change of horses. You may wish they could as easily change out your backside.

John laughed. He liked this singular man.

The Baltimore Pilot coach careened to a stop in a spray of muck in front of them, forcing a hasty retreat from the sidewalk. No sooner had the wheels stopped, than porters swarmed on the roof, hefting bags off and on.

Amidst the surrounding chaos, a top-hatted gentlemen of middling age grasping a cane came from the hotel and pushed past them, a young lady swathed in woolens and furs on his arm. When the carriage stopped swaying, the older man offered his hand to assist the girl, the coach box dipping as she stepped in. The man followed her inside.

Dempsey pointed his chin to the open compartment. Gentlemen, I believe those are our seats.

Entering first, Dempsey took a place beside the man with the cane. The older gentleman was cordial, the two making pleasantries until George and David found their places opposite on either side of John.

And these are for my traveling companions, Dempsey said, handing the tickets to the coachmen.

The gentleman beside Dempsey sobered abruptly, his lips tightening as he scrutinized their faces. A deep frown wrinkled the man’s brow, his agitation manifesting itself with an emphatic, Sir! Are these savages truly your companions?

John’s stomach knotted. It was clear they had left the kindness of missionary and Cherokee hospitality.

Dempsey looked over at his charges, perplexed. Why yes, he replied, these young scholars are bound for seminary under my protection.

The man looked them up and down again, apparently not seeing three well-mannered scholars.

Can you possibly expect me to allow my daughter to remain in the company of . . . of these heathens for the duration of the journey to Philadelphia? Preposterous! Such an insult I cannot tolerate. They must be removed from this vehicle . . . immediately.

The daughter’s head swiveled, her face flushing. Father!

Dempsey’s mouth opened, no speech coming forth.

George began to leave his seat, but not before John’s grip on his companion’s arm kept him seated. Ahani hedohesdi! John hissed, his face set like stone. Stay. We have as much right as they. He spoke in Cherokee, the blood whooshing in his ears.

Dempsey looked askance at the man. We are all paying customers, sir, he finally replied, mirroring John’s thoughts. I could not possibly ask my charges to leave this carriage and travel unescorted. They are strangers to this part of the country, and as you know, there are many undesirable characters willing to take advantage of such innocence.

The man’s face flushed with rage. Driver! he shouted, thrusting his cane repeatedly on the ceiling of the coach. Driver, remove our bags immediately from this vehicle. We will not be traveling in such company as you allow to engage this service.

A scuffle of bags and bodies ensued, and the seats became vacated.

Damn it! Dempsey slapped his gloves across his leg, his features a storm.

George inhaled, his eyes going round as pebbles. No person of character would utter such a word in public, but such a word expressed John’s sentiments entirely.

Dempsey offered a hushed apology before a few other passengers climbed to the vacated seats.

All aboard, shouted the driver, climbing onto the box and cracking his whip in the air.

Far from the way station and the frenzy of changing horses, they stood on the crest of a hill overlooking an uninterrupted vista. The city of Baltimore spread before them, a frosted, vast, dusky mass of habitation. Wisps of smoke lifted in the warmth of the rising sun. Towering above the fog, church spires—gilded summits—sparkled. Reflections bounced on eastern windows like a thousand shimmering fires glowing. In the city’s harbor, insect-sized ships lay as though trapped in liquid amber.

John laughed to himself, thinking how confident he had been he was prepared for what they would encounter. What crowded his thoughts were the might, the chaos, the vast distances, and the number of people they had seen. Filled with terror and awe, he was overcome by a feeling of smallness he had never known, except when looking upon the heavens at night.

The crunch of approaching footsteps pulled him away from his thoughts.

So, John said, more to himself than to his guardian, this is what civilization looks like.

Dempsey, arms folded across his chest, snorted. Well, I suppose you may say so, though I wager there are many uncivilized things transpiring there.

A wondrous sight indeed, John observed, his breath rising in puffs in the November air. Clouds moved in swift bands, the wind picking up. My father spoke of this city, with buildings of brick and stone, streets lined with rocks, and ships like those below traveling the rivers and seas. No words could have conveyed such an image. It is beyond his telling. With sagging shoulders, John Ridge now saw for himself the scale of his challenge.

No wonder our leaders encourage us to assimilate. Soon we will have little choice.

Dempsey’s fists clinched. I am so sorry for what happened back there . . . what that man said, he paused. And for losing my temper.

John placed his hand on Dempsey’s arm, ensuring his tone held as much kindness as he felt.

They sent us, he replied, so we could learn to better understand your fellow citizens, our neighbors, in all their ways.

Ha! Dempsey replied, unclenching his fists. I am still trying to work that out for myself. I fear your trip to Cornwall is only the beginning of what will be required to fulfill that quest.

Twelve o’clock, twelve o’clock. All quiet at twelve o’clock.

The watchman’s sauntering footsteps paced the cobbled street outside, his lantern arching high. All quiet, he cried.

The rattle of carriage wheels, crunch of foot traffic, and rain in the frigid night was what John heard, that and the other boys’ snorts across his hotel room, only serving to keep him awake.

In his own bed, John’s mind shot in a hundred directions. That morning they had awoken to the crystalline metropolis of Philadelphia, its endless rows of brick buildings, massive structures stories high, and churches taller than mountains, buildings so crowded together that no blade of grass grew between them, just as Darcheechee had said. People mobbed the streets, moving, always moving, as if going to a Green Corn Dance, but it was too cold for corn.

That morning, with his mouth agape, John had struggled to emulate Dempsey’s aura of confidence in public. Dempsey, his arm hooked into David Steiner’s elbow, dragged them past the makers of maps, shoes, thermometers, hats, perfumes, cabinets, chocolates, saddles, combs, looking glasses, musical instruments, and watches. Distracted, they progressed no more than a few feet before questions flew in both languages.

Dempsey insisted they see the city’s most important building. In a daze, they had stared at the Pennsylvania statehouse, its towering spire marking the place Whites formed their first constitutional government. John tried to imagine the men who had presided there, Jefferson, Adams, the Founders, debating ideas that inflamed a revolt against their oppressors. These were men his father had met, men who understood the power of principle to propel. John knew well what legacy those men left behind.

Further ahead on the sidewalk, a sing-song cry came from a Black woman sitting beside a kettle over an open fire. Bundled up warmly, she stirred the contents while she chanted:

"Pepper pot, all hot, all hot

Makee back strong,

Makee live long.

Come buy my pepper pot."

She held forth a tin cup of steaming brew as people passed by.

Shall we? Dempsey reached into his pocket, giving coins to the woman. From what I understand, a cup of this will start a furnace in your stomach and heat you for the rest of the day.

The woman ladled a pungent chunky broth into a tin cup for each. Cradled in his gloved hands, John lifted the steaming broth to his mouth, hot vapors warming his face, the spicy aroma tingling his frigid nose.

Arrggaah! George had cried warning after his first sip. A fire is burning in my mouth! he said, tears welling. Now I can feel the fire everywhere!

A contest ensued to see who could finish the soup first. With burning mouths and much laughter, they returned the cups, politely thanking the woman, for which she seemed surprised.

Dempsey pointed them towards the harbor. I cannot help but notice, George said, there are many Blacks on the streets here. Are there so many surplus slaves their masters can spare them to be hired out?

Dempsey hesitated, rubbing his chin. They are not slaves. Slavery was abolished here before you were born, he said. George’s startled face stared back at him. This state of Pennsylvania was the first to make laws to give the Negroes their freedom. I suppose people here believed they had an obligation, being the promulgators of our declaration, you know.

George Vann looked indignant. There are many people in our country who would not tolerate such things, he said, my cousin Joe included. Even the missionaries at home have Blacks working the fields and doing household chores for them.

Dempsey took considerable time to respond. There are many people with strong feelings on both sides of the issue, he said. In the North you will find that, while a Black person may not enjoy equality, they, for the most part, are at least at liberty.

John was unable to recall a time at his home nation without slaves, and that there were many Cherokees of mixed blood, both Black and White. His family’s good fortunes, and those of their friends, might quickly end if the slaves became free by such a law. But, as Cherokees made their own laws, John supposed he need not be too concerned. He filed these thoughts away in that convoluted place where his future ponderings lived.

One o’clock! The time is one of the clock.

The swinging lantern outside his window threw beams on the walls of his room.

What was the point of trying to sleep when every hour was interrupted with a reminder of the hour?

Soon the birds would begin to sing. If there were birds here to sing at all.

CHAPTER 4

Dumbstruck with terror, David’s hands covered his ears, He curled his body against the racket coming from the boat tied to the wharf. I . . . I cannot, the boy shouted above the din.

Dempsey’s arm came round the poor boy’s trembling shoulders. Come, come, he said. The monstrous beast in the water bellowed in earnest. By twilight we will be in Poughkeepsie, he shouted over the sound of the steamboat’s engines, as though the name of the place had meaning to them. After that, only one more day to Cornwall and your school.

Dempsey cautiously guided David across the gangway, with George following tentatively over the undulating boards. John’s own knees shook as he stepped onto the rising and falling planks stretched over the watery span. One more day of this journey.

The boat’s paddle wheels churned the murky gray river below into foam, flinging froth on the boat’s decks. A smokestack spewed billowing black clouds, tossing glowing embers into the air.

Once on board, Dempsey pulled them aside. I will explain how this . . . this creaking monster works, he shouted. The ride will be smoother than the stagecoach, even if the noise is abominable.

George brushed sparks from his jacket in haste, his eyes like a wounded fawn. Will it catch us on fire? he asked.

Dempsey looked up at the towering tubes chugging black filth. Not usually, he shouted, but nevertheless, I should take you inside where it is quieter, and I can explain.

Weaving between porters and stevedores, they made for the stateroom. John felt raw, exhausted, and numbed by his experiences, unsure how he would endure what was ahead. Rocking gently with the motion of the deck, his mind a tempest, he followed, hesitating.

At the door, he turned to his companions. I believe I will remain outside for a bit longer to enjoy the view, John said. A quizzical look was his reply. You go ahead. I will join you later.

Dempsey seemed reluctant, but seeing John was determined, he relented.

The paddlewheels pounded behind him, but John found a sheltered spot for himself between crates and barrels, free from sparks and chilling winds. The cold made him grit his teeth, but it also helped to clear his thoughts. Hugging his arms close to his body for warmth, he watched the steamboat push off amid a chorus of shouts and thrown ropes. In the distance, the vast metropolis of New York receded, shrinking into a hazy gray mass.

Dempsey’s home city held over a hundred thousand souls, crowded together in a fortress of brick and stone in a space smaller than John’s district at home. Other cities they had passed, as grand as they were, appeared tranquil compared to the terrible traffic, crescendo of noises, and the smells, both rancid and exotic, of New York City. It was a fine place to live, Dempsey had assured him, but John doubted it; he was not an insect, though he felt smaller than one with each passing day.

His father’s tales now made sense. How insignificant and fragile, how vulnerable his community now appeared to him in the face of what he had seen in the last six weeks. His heart squeezed, comprehending how White people could speak of the Indians’ extinction, of his own race as a dying breed. So, to stand against these mighty forces and survive is why we were chosen. His chest puffed with pride, but a pain had lodged in his heart.

Soon the jumbled frenetic docks receded, and the country turned to soft-hilled farms along the Hudson River’s steep banks until only dense forests with tenacious leaves and evergreens remained. Where once only the paddle of canoes disturbed the waters of the sylvan expanse, the roaring clank of the steamer’s progress and the roof bells toll now echoed against the shores. Our ancestors, people of the Six Nations, this was once all theirs.

A hollow feeling washed over him. It was not the worm of fear he recognized, only the dimness of an unseen future. Fingering in his waistcoat pocket, he searched for the smooth surface of the watch nestled inside. Thinking back on the purchase when they passed through Philadelphia, he stroked the surface till his thumb turned warm.

How could there be so many things to purchase, to possess? David had asked Dempsey when they had turned one of the city’s corners and faced another long row of shops. John had seen the tremor of David’s hand against Dempsey’s coat.

George pointed to one of the windows. What could the use of that be? he had inquired.

Why, it is a microscope. The purpose of which Dempsey explained.

How useful is it when what it shows cannot be seen without it? George replied.

Exhausted by their inquisitions, Dempsey paused to catch his breath. Look you, he said, I believe I still hold funds on your accounts if you would like to purchase a remembrance of our expedition.

At the time, John had almost tasted his singular desire. Before his wide-eyed friends opened their mouths, he blurted. Please, sir. I already know what I should like.

Yes? Dempsey had replied.

A watch, like the one you use, John said. If he were to receive a gentleman’s education