Trail of Hope (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll) (2 page)

“
Ani’Yun’wiya
, the ancient Cherokee name, is who we are—the Principal People.”

She tamped down an intense, unfamiliar flood of anger. From her first day in this godforsaken fort, she had witnessed the Cherokees’ abuse at the hands of the soldiers who starved and beat them. As she gazed at the fort’s inhabitants, clumped together in family groups, she exclaimed, “Surely the government doesn’t want the Cherokee treated like this?” With the last word, she flung her hands toward the Indians.

Martin smiled. If the tiny lift of his lips could be called a smile. “No, little one. General Scott is a good man. He ordered food for all of us. Because so many of us have died, he also ordered the soldiers to treat us better. But these orders are not obeyed.”

“Did you go to school to be a lawyer? And why don’t you go by your Indian name?”

“You have many questions.” He grunted, but Sophia caught the glistening of approval in his clear eyes. “Martin is my only name. As more white families settled these lands, my grandfather believed we would need white names, so trading between our people would be easier. My father had two names, Indian and white. By the time I was born, he never used his Cherokee name, and I was only Martin.”

Sophia’s admiration for the old Indian and his people grew as she listened. In spite of abuse and starvation, the Cherokee spirit remained strong. Even as death hovered, waiting for its next victim, Sophia observed their loving regard for one another. Like one huge family.

“I attended William and Mary, the white man’s college in Virginia,” Martin said, pushing out his thin chest with pride. “My father insisted. He was a smart man, my father. He watched as the white settlements grew larger. He told me I must become an important person—that the Cherokee would need important people to survive.” Sophia watched his bony shoulders wilt. “I don’t feel so important now.”

She placed her small hand over Martin’s skeletal arm and squeezed, her tentative smile disappearing as his own smile dipped downward into a frown. His eyebrows furrowed together, and his gaze focused on something behind her.

“Martin?”

He gently patted her arm, then slowly forced his stiff, old body to a stand. “I will return shortly.”

Sophia turned and her gaze traveled from person to person and finally stopped near the fort’s tall log doors, where Martin now stood talking to a young man. Her eyebrows rose slightly as she peered closer. The unknown man’s face had sharp contours, high cheekbones, and very tanned skin. From this distance, his eyes looked black. When his dark stare landed on her, she decided she wasn’t that curious about who he was after all. His trousers, soft-looking leather coat, and dark shirt almost fooled her, but she knew he too was an Indian.

A sharp yell pulled her attention from his handsome face, and she found herself watching several boys hitting a small rock with a stick. She didn’t notice the uniformed soldier who stood under the shaded overhang of a small shed and watched her every move.

She stood, trying to rearrange and smooth her worn and tattered gown, a gift from someone who’d taken pity on her that first night she was here. She despised the ill-fitting garment but refused to complain. It was a lot better than the nightgown she’d arrived in. Before she could finish the forward motion of her step, a hand wrapped around her upper arm and squeezed. She fell backward, hitting something hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, which she pulled back in a harsh gasp when a familiar, wheezy voice snarled in her ear.

“You try my patience, dear Sophia.” Major Todd shoved her through a small group of Indians too afraid of him to help her. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

He pushed her toward one of the small buildings inside the fort’s massive walls. Frantic, she searched for some way to protect herself. She wasn’t prepared when he shoved her against the hard wooden planks of the room’s wall. Something poked her in the back, but the sharp pain was nothing compared to the constricted burn spreading through her chest. She tried to breathe. Clawing at his short, stubby fingers, now wrapped tightly around her throat, she gasped minute amounts of air. After several seconds, she wheezed, “What? What. Did. I. Do?” The major ignored her struggle. Dark spots now floated in her dimming field of vision as her air-deprived lungs burned.

“You are spending too much time with that
Indian
,” he spat. “Have you slept with him yet?” The back of his other hand slammed across her face. “Whore.” He slapped her again, whipping her head sideways, but she was able to gulp in one massive breath.

The strangled sob caught in her closed throat as fear raced through her battered body. “Martin is like a grandfather to me. Nothing more,” she choked. The skin on her face burned and felt numb.

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and a small tic began in his right eye. He backed away, his hand dropping to his side. She pulled herself upright and eased from whatever had been digging into her shoulder blades. With each deep, calming breath, the tremors faded from her sore muscles. The stench of his foul breath as it blasted across her face with his next warning made her want to retch. She swallowed furiously, trying to control the upward flow of bile in the back of her throat.

“He might have lived in a regular house and worn our clothing, but he’s still a filthy Indian. Your mother worked too hard to make you into a loving, young woman—a
white
lady, I might add. Do not disappoint me again. Next time, I will not be as forgiving, and you will be treated like the rest of these savages.” Not understanding anything he was talking about, she let her gaze follow him as he clomped across the room, her hand gently massaging her tender neck.

He opened the door but hesitated, turning back toward her. The slimy smirk on his face made her empty stomach roil. “You will learn to do as you’re told. I was promised your cooperation.”

After the door slammed shut behind him, her shaking increased, now more with anger than fear. “How dare he!” she whispered. “I will
never
be his wife.” For the first time in her young life, she was on her own. An unknown strength pooled somewhere deep inside her, and she knew she could handle whatever he did.

Edging around the door, she hung her head and picked her way through the crowd, not wanting to be seen. Gingerly, she lowered her sore body to the ground at the base of the far wall and curled up in a ball. Voices faded into the background as exhaustion claimed her.

“Oh, Lord, what happened to you?”

The young male voice startled her awake, and her eyes flew open as she glanced up. Despite the soreness in her muscles, she had instinctively scooted backward and hugged her knees tightly to her chest, then relaxed. The voice had come from a young soldier, not Major Todd. The young man’s open-jawed shock, almost amusing in its horror at her appearance, steadied the choking panic writhing in her gut.

“I ran into a small problem.” Her smile dropped into a grimace. Her slender fingers hovered over her cheek, then fell into her lap. “Is it very noticeable?”

The young soldier stared down at her swollen face but shook his head. “Not too much.” He squatted and handed her a bundle held loosely in his grip, then sat back on his heels. “Who did this?” He jerked his head toward the large group at his back, his gaze locked with hers. “The Cherokee are good people. Loving. They wouldn’t have done this.”

Sophia carefully unwrapped the dirty blanket and stared into the dark blue eyes of the antique doll her father had given her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She hadn’t told anyone about her problems with the major and surprised herself when her mouth opened, spilling everything.

After a short silence, another voice joined their quiet conversation. “Child, why did you not tell me?” Martin leaned forward and tipped her face up with the tips of his fingers. Sadness filled his eyes. “That is what family does. We take care of each other. You are also a part of the Cherokee family.”

So many feelings flooded through her, filling her heart until her chest ached. She clutched the tiny bundle to her, drawing strength from her father’s last gift. In a fit of fancy, she’d named the antique doll for the intricate flower carved into her bleached white bone chest.
Rose.
Sophia knew her doll wasn’t a living, breathing person, but there was something special about her. The first painful childhood secret she’d shared with her Rose had marked the last time she hadn’t felt lonely.

Looking up, she met Martin’s worried gaze. “I’m all right. At least I will be.” She nestled the doll in her lap and willed her jittery stomach to calm down. “Sally always said the major was a bad man. She used to say, ‘He has devil eyes, Miss Sophia. I seen the fires a-burnin’ in them. Devil eyes.’” She blinked back the threatening rush of tears. “Sally was right, you know,” she whispered.

“Excuse me. Sir?” The young soldier motioned for Martin to follow him a few feet away.

Sophia watched Martin quickly glance at the doll drooping across her lap and wondered why his frown darkened, but she was too tired to really care. He didn’t say anything but instead turned and faced the young man.

“Name’s Bryan, sir.” When he lowered his voice, she had to focus to hear his words over the background noises. “I haven’t been here long, but I’ve seen how you take care of her, sir. Major Todd ordered me t’ give her the doll, but when I saw what he’d done to her, I couldn’t give her his message.”

“What is the major’s message? I will tell Sophia when she’s feeling better.”

Bryan shuffled from one foot to the other. “I don’t rightly understand it, but he wanted her to know her father wouldn’t be comin’ for her. Said he was restin’ with her mother.”

Sophia heard a pained cry, then realized she had made the pitiful sound. She felt arms wrap around her trembling shoulders, unaware of the stream of tears staining her face.

Sophia pulled away from Martin with a loud hiccup and wiped her face. “Thank you,” she whispered. “When I heard what that soldier—Bryan—said…”

“Miss Sophia, I don’t understand. Your parents are together. That’s good, isn’t it?” Bryan’s face pulled into a lopsided frown, waiting for her response.

She moved her head slowly from side to side as the tears again trickled down her face. She drew in a shaky breath. “No. That’s not good. My mother’s dead.” She turned her soggy gaze to Martin. “He killed my father.” Pain consumed her body, squeezing and crushing her chest. She clenched her jaws, the momentary ache giving her strength. A small spark stuttered and then roared to life somewhere deep inside her. She pushed her shoulders back and sat up straighter. The strong will and determination that had cost her a close relationship with a mother who wanted a demure young lady, not a tomboy, was now going to be her weapon against the major.

Martin held out his hand and helped her up. “Let’s find an open spot against a wall. We will be trampled if we sit out here.” He slowly wove through the tight crowd of people. Sophia wanted nothing so much as to go off and sit by herself in a dark corner. Since she couldn’t, she obediently followed. He would only worry.

His joints popped and creaked as he lowered himself to sit next to her where she plopped down on the ground, uncaring how her dress looked this time. Finally, after a few grunts and moans, he managed to get comfortable. Not wanting any more questions, she changed the subject. “Martin, who were you talking to earlier?”

His eyes sparkled. “He is the son of my best friend. He is called Clay.”

“Clay?” she prodded.

“Jefferson. His white name is Clay Jefferson. He asked me questions about the relocation—and our treatment here. The Cherokee Council will try to stop the relocation.”

“Does he also have an Indian name?”

He nodded. “Nighthawk.”

“Nighthawk,” she quietly repeated. She knew nothing about Indian names, but his sounded strong. Clay’s handsome face shadowed her thoughts as her tired mind replayed the day’s events only to return to one unanswerable question—would she ever see him again?

Chapter Three

Dirty and tired, Clay left the fort and rode into the small town of New Echota. He had pushed hard to get the information he’d gathered from the Indian Territory to Chief Ross. He needed a bath but still had ten more hours of riding before he would arrive at the Cherokees’ new council house at Red Clay.

The last time he’d been in New Echota, people bustled along the carriage-rutted street, shopping and visiting with one another. Now, however, it resembled a ghost town. At its edge, he stopped at a small farm, owned by a long-time friend of Martin’s, to trade his tired horse for a fresh one. After transferring his gear to a well-muscled bay, he rode north, the small, picturesque town disappearing behind him. The moment he hit the trail, he urged the horse into a steady pace. He and his new four-legged companion had forty-one miles to go and no time left.

Two days later, Clay rode up to the skeletal council house where several other men already hovered around the lodge’s central fire pit. Evidently there hadn’t been time to build anything more than the four corner posts before putting the building to use. He slid off the bay and wiped the sweaty horse down as best he could, then led the tired animal over to a group of horses already drinking in a shallow but clear and bubbling creek.

He crossed a dense carpet of browning grass and tall spindly weeds to the council house, stretching his sore muscles as he walked. Just inside the entrance, three men stepped into his path. Murky fingers of anger caressed their reddish-brown skin, distorting their features as dark gray clouds skipped over the night sky. Clay watched the emotion twist across his long-time friends’ faces, wondering what had just transpired within the small circle of elders to erase their ever-present smiles.