THE TRAIL WHERE THEY CRIED

A story of love and loss among the Cherokee in my continuing series about Women who went West

The child cried out in her sleep, and I turned over to soothe her. This dreary and cold place where the white man kept our people was nothing like her room in our farm house. With a heavy heart, I gazed for a time at her sweet face, relaxed in sleep.  My grand daughter of five summers,  the extension of my life on this earth, and I had to awaken her to face one of the worst hardships she might ever know.

Thanks to Josiah Keye trapper and lost father, Winter Dawn carries the white man’s blood along with ours. Yet she is Cherokee enough for the white man, and she will go with us on a long journey from our home in Tennessee to Indian Territory. The removal had been decreed by the white president they call Old Hickory. He wants us gone as do the ignorant white riff-raff of the south.

My daughter Quick Deer and my grandsons Bold Hunter and Small Elk, myself and this most precious child must now leave the home we have always known. Winter Dawn has inherited a gift I have carried  all my life. She walks with the spirits who have moved on, and as she grows this gift will increase in power. This young one does not know it yet, but she will have great influence one day.

I am Bone Woman, a witch of the highest degree, and I sing over the bones of the dead to bring them peace, but Winter Dawn will soon bring peace to the living in such ways as she can not yet imagine. For that destiny, I must keep her safe on this trip, no matter what. Her mother has enough to do caring for the two young boys.

With reluctance, I touched her shoulder and watched her come awake, her dark eyes widening in startled fear. I put a finger to my lips.

“Hsst, my small one. We must dress quickly. We are going on a long journey and we must ready ourselves in silence.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and I put my arms around her slim shoulders. “It will be all right. Chief Ross and his wife Quatie are traveling with us. He will take care of us. Now, dress quickly. We must go.”

All around us men, women and children somberly prepared for the trip west. For the women there is fear. How will we live? Where will the children sleep. Are there houses as befit the proper Cherokee? Many think we live in hogans or tipis. As for the men,  their anger is evident as many would rather stay and fight the white man’s government than surrender.

October, 1838 and a cold rain wet our hair and shoulders as we carried our small bundles toward the wagons lined up in the mud. My daughter, huddled together with the young ones as if she could protect them from the blast of wind that plucked at our clothing.

The white soldiers, most of them mounted, herded us like cattle into the wagons, until not one more man, woman or child could fit. Over one thousand in count, we were packed and packaged, as if we had no feelings, no needs. As if we were not human.
After all were loaded, Chief John Ross led us in prayer. The bugle sounded and the wagons moved, slowly at first, then at a better clip. All the children waved goodbye to their homes as long as they could see through the mist of their breaths. In the cold morning air.

Winter Dawn’s small hand clung to mine. In the crush we had become separated from her mother and brothers. “Grandma, where are we going?” Dawn asked in a voice I could barely hear over the hubbub of those around us.

“To another place, child.”

“What kind of place? Will we have a house and a garden?”

“I hope so, sweet one, I do hope so.” I slid down to the bed and took her on my lap. “Why don’t you try to sleep, child?”

“I would grandmother, but I don’t think I can.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because I am afraid that when I open my eyes you won’t be here.”

I gathered her close. “That is one thing you do not have to worry about. I will be here until you no longer need me.”

It wasn’t long after dawn that the sun broke through the clouds and many of us were allowed to climb down from the wagons and walk. What a relief that was after our cramped quarters. The mounted solders pushed and prodded us to move, move, always move.

Some of the older ones fell alongside the trail and, if they could not rise, were left. If we tried to stop and help them, we were dragged away. If we protested we were beaten into submission. How had this great people descended into such a pathetic state? We were the only tribe known to hold a recorded council while captives of the white government. Our first written laws dated back to 1808. How could we come to this?

The how I do not know, but the why is clear. The white government wants our rich lands and they have land that is next to worthless which they will give us and all the other tribes.

Many days later we struggled over the Cumberland Range and crossed our ancestors hunting grounds. At the Ohio river, we ferried across into Illinois. Winter fell upon us, attacked with stinging snow and bitter winds.

Old men and women along with children fell ill. Some died, including my poor dear grandsons. I fear their mother will not recover. I now have complete care of Winter Dawn who weeps for her brothers until my heart breaks.

Soon after we camped on a bluff overlooking the Arkansas river near Little Rock, the already ill Quatie gave her blanet to a sick child who lived, but the dear wife of John Ross perished and was buried in the mud of an unmarked grave. We wept there and wondered how many more we would lose.

My prayer is that Winter Dawn will one day be strong enough to put this behind her. I have many bones to sing over as we reach our destination. It is Ross who tells us that we lost over 400 lives on the long march: The Trail Where They Cried.

Sometimes I think it would be better had we all perished, rather than ended in this place where we are kept like prisoners to finish our lives without connection to our home, our spirits. All that we once loved.