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Authors: Georgina Gentry

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Epilogue
June 1865
 
Capturing the Yankee wagon train had been the biggest Confederate victory in Indian Territory. However, there had been little action the past nine months, and everyone seemed to know it was only a matter of time before the Union forces triumphed. Things would not go well for the defeated, Jim Eagle knew.
Not that it mattered. Nothing much mattered to him anymore since the tragedies of early autumn and since the woman he loved had ridden out of his life forever. He had not realized how much he had cared for the mixed-blood Cherokee girl until she was gone. He had been too distraught over the deaths of his brothers to think clearly when he sent her away. Now it was too late, and she was gone forever.
Finally, one day a rider brought word that the war had ended two months ago in a faraway place called Appomattox, Virginia. On April 9, General Robert E. Lee had signed the official papers. Now all that was left was for General Stand Watie, the last Confederate general, to surrender his troops to the Yankees near the little town of Doaksville.
“Well,” the old man said to Jim, “we have fought the good fight, and now there is nothing else to do but surrender. Gather my officers and tell the men to put on their best uniforms and polish their buttons and bridles. The Cherokee Mounted Rifles will go out proudly. We will not look defeated, with our heads hanging.”
So on June 23, 1865, the weary, gaunt Cherokee soldiers made sure they looked as good as they could in their worn, faded uniforms, and rode to the former Choctaw capital to surrender.
When it was over, old Stand Watie shook hands with his men and told them to return to their homes and get on with their lives.
Home?
Jim wasn't even sure if there was anything left of his ranch after four years of fighting back and forth across it, nor could he hope that his mother was still alive. He'd not managed to get word from anyone. The only merciful thing was that if she was dead, she would be spared the heartache of learning that her two younger sons, Will and Tommy, were both dead and that they had been traitors, selling their loyalties for gold. She need not know that terrible truth.
Jim rode next to the old Cherokee commander as they left the town. “What will you do now, sir?”
“You don't need to call me ‘sir' anymore, Jim,” Stand Watie sighed. “I am no longer a Confederate officer, I am a tired, defeated old man.”
Jim smiled at him. “Sir, to me you will always be an officer, and a gallant one.”
“Well, I'm going home, if there's anything left of my farm. Between Southern bushwhackers and damned Yankees, they've probably burned the place and stolen all my livestock. What about you, son?”
Jim shrugged. “Probably the same story.”
The other raised his chin stubbornly. “We're Cherokee, a proud people; we survived the Trail of Tears, and now we'll survive whatever the Union does to the vanquished.”
Jim nodded, but his heart wasn't in it. What he needed to give him the strength to begin again was a beloved woman, and she was gone forever. If she ever thought of Jim at all, it would no doubt be with amusement or maybe a little sadness at the memory of everything they had endured together. He couldn't blame her. With his ranch needing to be rebuilt, there'd be lots of hard work and little money, no fine clothes and elegant carriages such as those the girl who called herself April Grant had hungered for.
He and the old Cherokee rode north through burned farms and devastated villages. Indian Territory seemed destroyed, its people dead or defeated. Only the bravest dared hope enough to begin rebuilding.
“What happened to that girl you favored?” Stand Watie asked.
Jim swallowed hard, remembering the warmth and the passion of her, the taste of her mouth. “She's in Boston now, I reckon, married to some rich white man.”
“Nice Cherokee girl needs a good Cherokee warrior,” the old man grunted.
“I was a fool, and maybe I didn't have much to offer.”
“Did you ever tell her you loved her and wanted her to stay?”
Jim shook his head. “I sent her away, but maybe it wouldn't have mattered. A broken-down ranch in the middle of a war-torn territory can't compare with a fancy back-east city.”
The old man smiled. “It would if she loved you.”
Jim didn't answer, remembering. He hadn't realized how much he loved her until she was gone, and now he would not get another chance to tell her.
They came to a crossroads and reined in.
The old general said, “I'll be heading east from here.”
“I'm going over past Tahlequah,” Jim said.
“Good luck to you, son.” The old man held out his hand, and they shook solemnly. Then he turned his bay horse and started east.
Jim watched him go, knowing that the door was closing on his life as a Confederate soldier. They had lost the war, and there was no telling what punishment the federal government would inflict on the tribes for daring to support the Southern cause. It didn't matter; nothing mattered much without the girl he loved by his side. He had never felt so lonely and bereft in his life as he rode toward his ranch. Perhaps he would return to being a Lighthorseman. He wondered if his old friends, Yellow Jacket and Talako, had survived the war, and whether he would run across them again. One thing was certain: From now on, he would be a true Cherokee; no more white man's name for him.
 
 
It was almost dusk two days later as he topped the hill and looked down into the valley of his ranch. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that the log cabin and the barn were still standing and appeared to be in good repair. A few horses and cattle grazed in an adjacent field. Down below him, a small figure in a poke bonnet and a faded calico dress labored in a garden. She was old and stooped, but hoeing stubbornly.
Mother.
His eyes teared up as the hot June breeze carried the scent of wildflowers to him. Now the woman paused and turned to look in his direction, shielding her dark face from the sun with one hand.
“Hey, Ma!” He galloped his horse down the hill and across the green landscape, hardly reining the palomino in as he dismounted, and they ran into each other's arms. “Ma! Oh, Ma, I thought you were dead!”
“Jim, boy, oh, Jimmy!” The old woman threw her arms around him, sobbing as she did so. “I thought you'd never come.”
They hugged each other.
“I'm home now, Ma, and I'll never leave again.” The time he dreaded had come. “Ma”—he pulled away from her—“about Will and Tommy—”
“I know.” Her wrinkled old face grew somber, and she nodded. “Your woman brought me the news that they'd both died heroes in the war.”
“My woman?” What on earth was she talking about?
His mother gestured toward the house, and for the first time, Jim noted a young woman with long black braids sitting in a rocker on the porch of the cabin. She had her head down, but she wore a traditional Cherokee dress, and she was nursing a baby. He could only stand and stare as the girl got up out of the chair hesitantly and put the baby in a cradle on the porch. She came down off the porch, slowly walking toward him as if she was not quite certain of her reception.
He stared at her, not believing his eyes. He had dreamed too long of her, and now he must be dreaming again. “April?” And then his arms came up, naturally, as they had a million times when he dreamed of holding her.
 
 
She had sat on the porch, hardly daring to believe what her eyes told her as the big, dark man on a palomino horse had come riding out of the dusk, silhouetted against the setting sun. She had pictured this reunion a million times, but she was not sure if he could ever forgive the part she had played in his brothers' deaths, or even if he had ever loved and wanted her. Then, very slowly, he had held out his arms to her, and she was running, running. It seemed like a thousand miles across that yard, and she saw nothing but his beloved face and those outstretched arms reaching for her. Then she was in his embrace, and he held her as if he would never let her go, while they both wept. “Jim! Oh, Jim!”
“Oh, April, I never expected you would come here—”
“I am not April,” she said softly, looking up into his rugged face, blurring through her tears. “I am Kawoni, a proud Cherokee, and I am Jim Eagle's woman if he wants me.”
“Wants you? Oh, Kawoni, I've been such a fool for mistrusting you, for sending you away.”
“It doesn't matter anymore,” she whispered, and kissed his dear face. Then his lips found hers, and they clung together as if this embrace would never end.
“And I am no longer Jim Eagle,” he said. “I will be a traditional Cherokee. I am Wohali, and I am home forever.”
She smiled up at him through her tears. “It is good, Wohali. Your mother and I have held the ranch together, awaiting your return.”
He held her close, and there was no need for words. She loved him like she could never love another.
“Kawoni, I don't know what the future will bring now that the Confederate Indians have been defeated.”
“It doesn't matter; we've got each other; we'll manage somehow.”
The baby began to wail from his cradle, and Jim looked toward the house and then down at her, his eyes full of surprise and questions.
Behind him, the old woman laughed. “We go in to supper. You will want to meet your son.”
“My son?” Jim looked toward the house again, then back into Kawoni's eyes.
“Your son,” she nodded, her heart too full to speak. “I knew when I rode out that night, but never got a chance to tell you.”
“My son,” he whispered. “Oh, Kawoni, until a few moments ago, I thought I was just a defeated soldier with nothing to my name, and now I have everything.”
“We are a very, very rich Cherokee family.” Kawoni smiled up at him, and then the three of them walked toward the cabin, where little Jim wailed lustily.
Tonight,
she thought as Jim picked up his chubby son and kissed him,
tonight, we have much to make up for, and a long night of passion awaits us.
“I love you,” she whispered.
Still holding the baby, he put his arm around her and hugged her to him, kissing her again and again. “And I love you, my Cherokee woman, more than you'll ever know!”
TO MY READERS
The general public is unaware that Indian Territory became a bloody battleground as the Union forces in Kansas and the Confederates in Texas met in the middle to fight over it. The Civil War did indeed pit brother against brother, friend against friend, and split tribes down the middle. While the Choctaws and Chickasaws mostly went for the Southern cause, the other three of the Civilized Tribes split more evenly. When it was over, farms were destroyed, villages burned, and 14 percent of the Indian children in the area were orphans, and 33 percent of the women widows.
In the end, none of it mattered. Greedy whites waited on the sidelines, looking for any excuse to steal the Indian lands—and they found one. Their excuse was that since many from the Five Civilized Tribes had fought for the South, they deserved to be punished by having their land confiscated.
It is a true but little-known story of the Civil War that Old Opothleyahola, the elderly Creek leader, led his people valiantly as they battled their way through three hundred miles of winter snow and Confederate troops to reach Union Kansas. We do not know much about him or even have a good translation of the meaning of his name. Unfortunately, he did not live until the end of the war. He died an exile in Kansas and is buried near the town of Belmont. He holds a place of honor in the Indian Hall of Fame in Anadarko, Oklahoma, but otherwise, he has been pretty much overlooked and forgotten.
When the many fleeing Union Indians finally reached Kansas, sadly, they were not much better off than they had been under Confederate rule. The Union forces were not expecting almost six thousand Indians to arrive, could not deal with their numbers, and surely did not want them. Many of these unfortunate Indians starved or froze to death in the miserable temporary camps, among them the valiant old Creek leader. In all, the Creek had lost almost two thousand of their people dead along the way as they fought their way north. It is surely one of the most poignant, untold stories of the Civil War.
If the subject interests you, I'll suggest two books that you might find at your public library:
Now the Wolf Has Come: The Creek Nation in the Civil War,
by Christine Schultz White and Benton R. White, Texas A&M University Press, College Station, TX, 1996; also
Opothleyaholo and the Loyal Muskogee: Their Flight to Kansas in the Civil War,
by Lela J. McBride, McFarland & Co., 2000.
For further information on the Creeks, you might enjoy a book by Oklahoma's own beloved historian, Angie Debo. The book is
The Road to Disappearance: A History of the Creek Indians,
U of Oklahoma Press, Norman, OK, 1941.
The Creek had fought on the side of the British in the War of 1812, and the Cherokee fought on the side of the United States. The bloody battle of Horseshoe Bend, led by future President Andrew Jackson, defeated the Creek. In the long run, our government treated loyal Indians no better than they did the others.
The sinking of the
J. R. Williams,
and the Confederate capture of the big Union wagon train, known as the Second Battle of Cabin Creek, were the two greatest Confederate victories in the Indian Territory.
Some of you may be astounded to hear of the black Indians. Yes, they do still exist and have voting rights as members of at least two of the Five Civilized Tribes. I've already told you about the famed Seminole Negro scouts who rode with the U.S. Cavalry after the Civil War, in an earlier book,
Bandit's Embrace.
There are other tribes besides those in Oklahoma that have mixed-blood members. For more information, I suggest
The Black Indians: A Hidden Heritage,
by William Loren Katz, published by Aladdin Paperbacks (Simon & Schuster), 1986.
There are numerous books on the Cherokee. Among them are
Cherokee Tragedy: The Ridge Family and the Decimation of a People,
by Thurman Wilkins, U of Oklahoma Press, 1970; and
The Cherokees,
by Grace S. Woodward, U of Oklahoma Press, 1963.
Yes, Stand Watie, a Cherokee, was the only Indian general of the Civil War and the very last Confederate general to surrender. He died in 1871 and is buried in Polson Cemetery, about fourteen miles northeast of Jay, Oklahoma, in Delaware County.
Ironically, on the Union side, a Seneca Indian, Colonel Ely S. Parker, wrote the surrender document and was present as one of General Grant's aides as Lee signed it.
I included the young Cherokee scout Clem Rogers in this story for a reason. Clem was an actual person who survived the Civil War and became a prominent rancher. Rogers County, in northeast Oklahoma, is named for him. However, here in my home state, Clem is best known as the father of Oklahoma's most beloved son the entertainer, Will Rogers, who was killed in a 1935 plane crash.
The McIntoshes, the half-breeds who had signed away the Creek lands in Alabama, became even more prominent after the Civil War. McIntosh County, in southeast Oklahoma, is named for this family. There are also a Cherokee County and a Creek County. The town of Doaksville, where Stand Watie surrendered, no longer exists. The town of Bowlegs is named for the Seminole chief, and of course, the Creeks' Tulsey Town survived to become the city of Tulsa. The Western Cherokee capitol is Tahlequah, where there's a good museum, and a pageant every summer reenacting the Trail of Tears. The Creek capitol and museum is in Okmulgee, if you'd like to visit.
The Creek warriors in the early years carried red-painted war clubs and were called the Red Sticks. In French, the words are Baton Rouge. So now you know how the capital city of Louisiana got its name.
For general information on American Indians fighting in the Civil War, I recommend
General Stand Watie's Confederate Indians,
by Frank Cunningham, U of Oklahoma Press, Norman, OK, 1998;
The American Indian in the Civil War, 1862–1865,
by Annie Heloise Abel, U of Nebraska Press, 1992;
Between Two Fires: American Indians in the Civil War,
by Laurence M. Hauptman, The Free Press (Simon & Schuster), 1995; and
The American Indian and the End of the Confederacy, 1863–1866,
by Annie Heloise Abel, U of Nebraska Press, 1993.
For those who scoff at the possibility of a woman fighting in the Civil War disguised as a soldier, historians have documented at least one hundred women who did just that. It is estimated that as many as five hundred to a thousand women may have joined the two armies. A book on the subject is
All the Daring of the Soldier: Women of the Civil War Armies,
by Elizabeth D. Leonard, W. W. Norton, 1999.
All my stories connect in some way in a long, long saga that covers some fifty years of our country's Western history. Both Yellow Jacket and Jim Eagle had been members of the Lighthorsemen, the law enforcement arm of their tribes. They are both friends of another Lighthorseman, Talako of the Choctaw tribe, the hero of my earlier book,
Warrior's Honor.
Many of these stories are written out of sequence. The clue to following the saga is the date each story begins, which is always in the first several pages of each book. Some of my earlier books are still available from Zebra's mail order or your local bookstore.
I am always glad to hear from readers. For an autographed bookmark explaining how all the stories fit together, and a personal reply, please send a stamped, self-addressed #10 envelope to: Georgina Gentry, PO Box 162, Edmond, OK 73083-0162, or check my Web site at:
www.nettrends.com/georginagentry
.
 
 
So what story will I tell next? I received an enormous amount of mail from readers who loved my last book,
To Tame a Texan.
They all wanted me to continue writing more humorous stories about Texans and the Durango family, and I'm pleased to do so.
Lacey Van Schuyler Durango has been reared by her aunt and uncle, Cimarron and Trace Durango, down in the Texas Hill Country around Austin and San Antonio. Prim, uptight Lacey is an ambitious Texas newspaper woman who has no time and no use for men. She's also the national president of the Ladies' Temperance Association. Lacey's riding a train to the Oklahoma Land Rush with plans to stake a claim and start her own newspaper. She and her L.T.A. ladies intend to mount a crusade to keep this new town dry, figuring if there's no saloons, their ideal city won't attract disreputable rogues.
Speaking of disreputable rogues, enter Blackie O'Neal. Blackie is a charming Texas rascal who could talk a dog off a meat wagon. This handsome scoundrel has been run out of half the towns in the Lone Star State. Think Rhett Butler, only more so. On a fine chestnut stallion, Blackie is galloping into this new town with plans to build the world's fanciest saloon and bordello, Blackie's Black Garter. He's got his eye on a choice piece of real estate right downtown. Unfortunately, it's the same land that our Texas temperance leader, Lacey, wants for her newspaper office. Uh-oh.
If you like feisty heroines and sexy heroes caught in humorous conflicts, come along for the adventure as this staid liquor-hating lady and the whiskey-peddling rascal clash. And maybe, just maybe, there might be a Texas-size romance in this story I call
To Tempt a Texan.
 
Adios till next time,
Georgina Gentry
BOOK: To Tame A Rebel
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