American Dreams (30 page)

But the five minutes stretched to fifteen, prolonged partly by the time it took to calm a nearly hysterical Victoria and carry her downstairs, and partly by the time required by the soldiers to search every corner and cranny of the large house and roust the frightened servants from their hiding places.

The instant the family was herded outside, two slovenly white men snared Will and tried to convince him to sell them the house and its contents, his livestock, crops, equipment, and his field slaves, offering to pay him less than a pittance of what everything was worth. Even as Will rejected their offers, refusing to be cheated, the black smithy, Ike, came running from the stable area.

"Master Will, some white men's takin' yo' hosses. I tries t' stop 'em, but they knocks me down." Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead.

Hearing this, Eliza turned to the officer. "Aren't you going to do something?"

"No." Jed mounted his horse, well aware there was nothing he could do. Even if he managed to recover the horses from these thieves, there would be others, and he couldn't spare any men to stay behind and protect the Gordons' property.

Over and over again, he tried to convince himself that he wasn't to blame for what was happening, he was simply following orders. But as his men marched the Gordons and their house blacks away to join the rest of the captured Cherokees, Jed found it impossible to look Temple in the eye. Why did he have to be the one who had taken her prisoner?

 

 

 

25

 

 

The Blade slowly walked his horse toward the stockade gates, its jagged walls built of split logs sharpened and set in the ground to form a high picket. From behind them, he could hear the bewildered murmur from the mass of humanity imprisoned inside. The sound was an echo of the voices he had heard at the previous three military outposts where he had searched for Temple and his son.

A week ago he had seen the military patrols scouring the countryside, driving the Cherokees from their homes, their fields, and their spinning wheels, and herding them like cattle to the outlying forts, prodding the recalcitrant with bayonets and curses, lashing the resisters with whips. He had immediately ridden to the nearest outpost, identified himself as a treaty proponent, and obtained a pass to search for his family.

At the stockade gate, the guard checked his pass and waved him inside. As he rode over to the commanding officer's headquarters, The Blade scanned the sixteen-foot-high pens that held the captured Cherokees.

Dismounting in front of the office, he handed the horse's reins to Deu. "Wait here for me."

He entered the building, his moccasined feet making almost no sound on the rough floor planks. The sergeant at the desk looked up in mild surprise as The Blade blocked the sunlight streaming in through the doorway.

"Are you here to give yourself up?" The sergeant's gaze traveled over him, taking in the moccasins, the buckskin leggings, and hunting shirt, then moving to the red turban around his black hair, finally stopping on the scar.

"I am looking for my wife and son." The Blade again took the pass from his pocket and gave it to the man. "They were taken about ten days ago. The name is Stuart."

"Names aren't much help around here. Most of them won't tell us who they are, and won't answer a roll call. Hell, we don't know who we have."

 

"What do you want, Lieutenant?" Temple stood before him, her dark gaze smoldering with resentment and distrust, her blue calico dress smudged with dirt, the hem tattered and water-stained from the river crossings. Jed tried not to remember how vastly different she had looked just two short weeks ago.

Perspiration trickled down Jed's neck and under the collar of his uniform as the sun broiled down mercilessly on the camp and its congestion of humanity. He looked down the long row of log pens, each sixteen feet square and every one crowded with captives, prisoners really. A few, like the Gordons', were partially and crudely roofed to provide them some shelter and shade from the summer sun. Conscious of the eyes staring back at him, Jed recognized his discomfort was not caused solely by the relentless heat.

"I have given your father permission to return home and load up the belongings that were left behind." Personally, Jed doubted there would be much left with all the pillaging and looting that had gone on and still continued. "He has taken the wagon and your Negro Ike. I expect it will be two or three days before he returns."

"And you are concerned he won't come back," she accused with challenging bitterness. "You should not be. You have his entire family for hostages to ensure that he does."

"I know he will return," Jed asserted, stung by her tone yet unable to blame her for it. "I merely wanted to inform you of his departure and to inquire if there was anything I could do to help—anything within my power."

She smiled at his hastily added qualification, but the expression had a bite to it, like a sour lemon. Then it faded as her son toddled over to her side, chewing on a chunk of unleavened bread. When she looked at Jed again, all her previous hostility was gone, and her look now contained concern and silent appeal.

"Can you give us better food?"

The food issued to the camp's inhabitants was the standard military-prison fare of salt pork and flour, vastly different, Jed knew, from the Cherokees' customary diet of vegetables, beef, and fresh fruit.

"Nothing else has been stored in quantity—" he began reluctantly.

"Then let some of us forage in the woods for berries, poke-weed, wild onions . . . anything." Her request was neither an appeal nor a demand but fell somewhere between both.

Jed hesitated, aware of the risk that some might try to slip away. "I believe I can arrange that."

On his own responsibility, he allowed a half dozen women, including Temple, to leave the camp to forage. As a precaution, he assigned a detail of two guards to accompany them. At the last minute, he went along as well, staying close to Temple.

Hardly a breath of air stirred in the woods beyond the detention center, but it was free of the stench that permeated the camp. The trees provided a welcome shade from the unrelenting sun. Yet everywhere there was evidence of the damaging effects from the drought that plagued the entire countryside. The parched ground was baked hard; streams were dry; leaves withered on the bushes; the berries were scant and small.

Jed looked on as Temple reached for a dimpled raspberry hidden deep within the bush. He wondered how much longer the drought would last. Already reports were coming in of springs and water wells drying up and river levels dropping, making navigation of them questionable at best. One party of some eight hundred Cherokees had left the first of the month, traveling aboard a small flotilla composed of one steamboat and six flat-boats. Another was scheduled to leave any day. If it didn't rain soon, transporting fifteen thousand Cherokees by the riverways to their new lands in the West would have to be halted.

Her fingers grasped the plump berry, one of the few on the bush, and tugged it loose from its stem. As she withdrew her hand, she scraped the top of it on a sharp thorn, gasping sharply when it scored her flesh. Blood instantly flowed from the cut. Jed saw her start to blot the wound on her dress and pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket.

"Allow me." He took her hand and pressed the cloth on the cut, watching the red spread through the material. Yet he was more conscious of the warmth of the hand lying flat in his palm— and her nearness. When he slowly lifted his glance to her face, Jed found her staring at him.

"Now you have stained your handkerchief," she said.

"It doesn't matter." Gently, he wrapped it around her hand and tied it in a makeshift bandage, but he was unwilling to let the contact end so soon. "I have never forgotten those times we spent together in Washington. Remember, I taught you the waltz that first night we met." In his mind, he could still see her as she had appeared to him that night, dressed in a white gown shot with golden threads.

"Yes." She smiled faintly as if recalling the memory of it too, then sobered. "That was very long ago. Much has happened since then . . . much has changed."

Somehow Jed had the feeling she was thinking about her husband. He resented that, and knew he was wrong to. "Temple— sorry, Mrs. Stuart—if you would like, I could make inquiries at some of the other camps and see if your husband is being held at one of them."

Such a task wouldn't be easy. With few exceptions, most of the imprisoned Cherokees refused to give their names or line up for roll call. This stubbornness had made it difficult for the army to reunite members of families that had been captured separately and taken to different camps to await emigration.

Initially, Temple brightened at his offer, then the light died. "No."

Jed frowned. "What happened? Did he desert you?"
 

"I left him."

Her words pounded in his head, ringing with the implication that she was now free. For the first time he dared to hope there was a chance for him.

"Temple—" he began, then stopped, catching himself again familiarly using her given name. He laughed self-consciously. "I can't seem to think of you any other way. Temple." He repeated it with confidence, suddenly growing serious. "I want you to know how sorry I am about everything that has happened these last two weeks, and how much I regret my part in it. You have every right to—"

"I cannot blame you for what has happened," she inserted curtly. "If I sounded bitter earlier, it was directed at the . .. circumstances we find ourselves in now."

"But I put you here." He hated himself for reminding her of his role.

"The ones who signed the false treaty put us here. Your role was inconsequential compared to theirs." She turned. "If you don't mind, I would rather not talk about any of this."

She moved away, clutching the basket containing the small mound of berries. Jed instinctively reached out to stop her from walking away from him again as she had done all those years ago. "Temple—"

The instant he felt the firm yet pliant flesh of her upper arm, he forgot what he was going to say. It didn't seem to matter.

Nothing did, except the feel of her flesh beneath his hand. Encouraged by her lack of resistance, he moved to stand behind her, grasping both arms and rubbing them in caressing strokes. All the love that he thought he had successfully banished came rushing back, stronger than ever.

"I didn't think it was possible for you to grow more beautiful, but you have," he declared huskily.

Once he had loved her, Temple remembered. Did he still? She ached to be held and loved. For two years, she had felt empty and alone. She had begun to believe her life would always be that way. Yet here were warmth, caring, and affection, the promise of desire and fulfillment—all the things she had missed. All she had to do was turn around. She was tempted, tempted by the pleasant memories of a happier time when she had smiled and laughed and danced with this man, a time when there had been hope for the future. She wanted to recapture that, cling to it and somehow ward off the ugly reality of the present. She wanted to, desperately, but she didn't turn and invite his embrace. Something held her back.

Yet she gave in to the pressure of his hands and allowed him to turn her. Her heart beat at a solid, steady rhythm as she stared at his mouth and the clipped, golden hairs of his small mustache above it. Tilting, it began to move closer. No, a little voice inside cried in protest, but she didn't pull away.

"Lieutenant Parmelee!" A voice intruded. Jed straightened, and quickly dropped his hands to his sides, a tautness claiming his features. One of the guards ran up and halted, coming to attention and saluting smartly. "One of the Indian women has disappeared, sir."

"What do you mean?" Jed snapped.

"She's gone." The soldier's Adam's apple bobbed. "I think she slipped away, sir."

Jed swore silently. "How long?"

"Not long, sir. One minute she was pulling up some roots by this tree, then ... she wasn't there."

"Go find her," he ordered curtly. "In the meantime, we will take the rest of the women back to camp. And, Private, inform the other guards that there will be no more foraging in the woods by the prisoners."

"Yes, sir."

 

Accompanied by one of the camp guards, The Blade walked slowly past the log enclosures, glancing at the occupants of each. Deu followed half a step behind, his gaze also fixed on the people penned like animals. After two weeks of visiting stockade after stockade, looking for the one that contained Temple and Elijah, the scene and the attendant smell of a thousand people or more concentrated in one small area had become all too familiar. The Blade had become inured to it, as well as to the hostile looks, the backs turned on him, and the low threats murmured in Cherokee from those who recognized him as a signer of the ignominious treaty.

But he also knew the very act that had made him an outcast among his own people had given him the freedom to look for his wife and son. The pass in his pocket protected him from the patrols that roamed the countryside and gave him access to the multitude of camps. Temple had to be in one of them.

As he moved on to the next pen, he caught a flash of blue directly ahead of him. The same shade of blue as the calico dress Temple used to wear. Instinctively, he swung his gaze to it and halted abruptly when he saw her walking toward him.

"There she is," he murmured to Deu and stared at her bedraggled appearance—the soiled and tattered gown, the untidy hair, and the cloth wrapped around the hand carrying the basket. She looked hot and tired, and thinner, judging by the looseness of the dress. God, how he loved her. The pain of it squeezed at him, nearly buckling his knees. He started toward her again, gaining strength with each step, paying no attention at all to the officer walking at her side.

When Temple appeared to stumble, Jed grasped her arm to steady her. At almost the same instant he noticed the unnatural pallor in her cheeks and the round look of her eyes as she stared at some object ahead of them. Frowning, he glanced to the front. A Cherokee in buckskin leggings and a hunting shirt walked toward them, accompanied by one of the camp guards and a Negro. As the Indian came closer, Jed saw the brilliant blue color of his eyes and the thin white scar on his cheek. Her husband, the man he had volunteered to locate only moments ago.