Kit Carson

From The Serpent’s Knee

Chapter Three

At the Tennessee crossing, Rodney McIvor found quarters near the trading post of Lewis Ross, brother to the Cherokee Nation’s chief. The pack horse had gone lame; Rodney had to find another animal. He was in need of a barber’s care, not to mention a general up of person and clothing. A militia camp was nearby, and the officer in charge was sending a courier to Elijay with the dispatches for the Georgia troop command. It was here that Rodney first learned of the gold rush around Dahlonega and Rome. The trails were filled with outsiders, a matter, the militiaman said, was quite distasteful to Georgia authorities bent on subdividing Cherokee lands for their own white citizens.
Remembering Twotoes Kell, once Andrew McIvor’s agent at Elijay. Rodney asked leave to send word to Kell. Rodney would wait at the river crossing for Kell, or one of his men.
The militiamen were native Tennesseans, on patrol at the request of the regular army, soon to bivouac at Charleston. Rodney and a group of the troopers gathered around a camp fire the first night; Rodney had purchased whiskey, and tongues were loosened.
“They’re going to yank up all the Cherokees this spring and summer,” a sergeant said. “When I was up on the Hiwasssee last week, they was building stockades. Man, they were big. Can hold thousands.”
“That is surprising,” Rodney said. “In the east, I heard no talk of a settlement. Newspapers reported their chief in Washington, speaking for the Nation.”
“Uh Huh. Them Georgians ain’t fooling, Mister. Guess you English folks are kind of out of touch.”
Captain Tillman, the officer in charge, laughed. “Mr. McIvor is better informed than most foreigners, Sergeant. I knew his father years ago. Andrew McIvor roved Indian country from Savannah to the Mississippi. However, Chief Ross might as well come back and prepare his people. They’ll be removed, peaceably or by force. It isn’t just, I grant. But I am only a militia officer.”
“All I got to say,” The sergeant commented, “is that were I a stranger—and a foreigner—I wouldn’t be messing around down there. There’ll be trouble, sure as hell.”
In the five days he remained at the crossing, Rodney saw a stream of men, all armed, riding into Georgia. Each day also, men returned, escorted by Georgia militiamen. Fights were numerous around camps at night. Bit by bit, Rodney learned of the Cherokees’ plight. New laws had removed the right to sell property, even livestock, save through a white agent. The land lottery was in effect where gold had been found. White missionaries protesting expropriation had been marched off to Milledgeville prison.
If they would realize the inevitable, Rodney thought. Ross should be back, to bargain with the Georgia government. Something could be worked out. More and more important became the need of establishing firm title to the Cherokee land grant.
Rodney decided to go by his mother’s home first. He would talk with John Gunaski and The Owl. If necessary, he would hasten to Savannah and get his father’s attorneys to act.
A young Cherokee rode in the following morning, asking for Rodney. “I am Running Otter,” he said, speaking in precise English. “My uncle is Twotoes Kell. I have brought the horse you need.”
Running Otter was Rodney’s size, quiet spoken. He wore an indigo shirt, unlike the barewaisted majority of young men Rodney remembered. “Where did you go to school?” Rodney asked.
“Brainerd. For a year I served with the missionary McFerrin. You are to ride with me to Elijay.”
“How is Twotoes? I was afraid he might have left Elijay, it has been so long ago.”
“Twotoes still calls you Atalla.”
His Cherokee name! “After all these years? There are others—The Owl, and my kinsman, Gunaski. Have you heard of them?”
“I have heard of them. It is a long ride. We had better get going.”
They reached the hill country before dark. Running Otter made camp, and when he opened his saddle pack, Rodney saw the embroidered tunic folded so carefully. “I belong to the Cherokee Guard,” Running Otter said. “Twotoes is an officer. He was concerned about your safety.”
“No Cherokee would harm me.”
“There are some who would harm you because they consider you a white man. There are white men abroad who would rob, then kill you.”
Rodney shook his head. “It’s rather difficult to realize such a condition. I left the Nation when one could hunt or ride in peace.”
Running Otter had killed some squirrels. Now he cooked them with an improvised spit. With water and cornmeal the Cherokee made ash cakes. Rodney was dubious until he tasted salt. “The first ash cakes since I left here,” he said. Then he laughed. “I wish the fine fellows I know—across the ocean—were here tonight.”
“They would laugh.” Running Otter sat cross-legged, staring at the coals glowing in the fading light. “Tell me. Attalla, do you choose the white man’s world forever? Is it better?”
“In comfort, yes. In an easier life. If you ask, do I approve all the white man’s thinking, then I tell you I do not? But I have enjoyed life in England.”
“It must be different,” Running Otter mused. “The old ones speak of England. But if these people are our friends, why do they cross the sea and take our land? What is the difference between white men?”
“You ask a question I cannot answer, Running Otter. The strong take from the weak.”
“We are not weak,” Running Otter flared. “Only our leaders are weak. Like old women.”
“Does your guard intend to resist the removal?”
“We obey John Ross. Most Cherokee trust him. I speak of men like Major Ridge,
Who acted without power of the Council, and betrayed us to Jackson’s man. Like an old woman, they took the coward’s path for security.”
“I wish I could have talked with the chief’s brother at the landing,” Rodney said. “He was in Washington too.”
“It is bad,” Running Otter said. “Step by step, Georgia’s governor strips the Cherokees of authority. And the Guard is hated now because we serve to enforce Georgia’s laws.”
“It has happened before,” Rodney said. “It will happen again. History’s pages are filled with records of invasion by the strong. My friend, the militiamen in Tennessee say stockades are being built to receive your people.”
“My people?” Running Otter’s eyes were fierce. “Are they not yours too? Your mother is buried in our land. Our land!” he repeated.
“I pledge you that land will stay mine, Running Otter.”
“Ai. I hear such vows each day.” Running Otter stood. “We have a long ride tomorrow.” He stretched a blanket on a mossy bank, speaking no more.
In a winding valley near Elijay, a group of horsemen approached. Leader of the dozen riders was a stout Cherokee whom Running Otter saluted.
“I have brought Attala,” he called.
The leader rode forward on his dappled mare, and he beamed, leaping to the ground. Rodney did likewise as he recognized The Owl, grown fleshier, but with the same features. “Attalla,” he repeated, fairly lifting the younger man off the ground. “I have waited a long time.”
The others drew apart. The two had much time to talk over; the image of a stoic Cherokee was an historic error. The Owl was in the grip of emotion, asking for details of Andrew McIvor’s passing, and Rodney’s career. Rodney, in turn, felt all the love a boy had for the one who had taught him so much, and now, he discovered, he had not forgotten. “You come in our dark hours, my beloved,” The Owl said. “Even the home of Ross has been taken. Good men, like Chief Vann, who built the finest home in the Nation, cowered in an upstairs room as white men fought over his possessions below. And we of the Guard must prevent resistance.”
“Tell me,” Rodney said, “if federal troops do come, wouldn’t they help protect the Cherokees from this looting?”
“I do not think so,” The Owl shook his head. “We are helpless. Too few in numbers. Too—civilized,” he added. Then he changed the subject. “Your uncle still lives, but he is soon to go. He is very feeble. You remember Tresa? She is staying with Gunaski.”
Rodney told him of his mission. “When I get back from Savannah, I want to honor my mother’s grave.”
Rodney explained that he would reserve the home and burial ground in case of a sale. The Owl was silent, looking away, right hand stroking his mare’s head. “This I must tell you, Attalla. A white man lives in Black Pine’s home. There are others settled on your best land. It is a Cherokee grant, and now by Georgia laws you face trouble. Much trouble.”
“I am a Georgia citizen.”
“You are half Cherokee, Attalla. But I would go first to your Savannah lawyers. It must be as Andrew McIvor’s son and heir that you have a chance.”
When they rode into Elijay, past the trading post The Owl still operated, one of a group of Cherokees shouted Rodney’s Cherokee name, running forward. It was Tunanya. He pulled Rodney from his horse, shouting, wrestling; Rodney tripped, plopped into the dust, thoroughly outraged. Then an urge, alien until now, possessed him. He grasped Tunanya, rolling, panting, and laughing. About them Cherokees circled, yelling. And at last Tunanya released Rodney. “My brother,” he said, embracing him. “He is not soft. He is truly Attalla.”
Such was Rodney McIvor’s reception. There was much talk that night, of the old days, of the threatened removal. And Rodney sensed the confidence in John Ross.
Osahnee, wife of The Owl, welcomed him, shooing a young woman, bustling about her outdoors kettles. The Owl introduced kin Rodney had never seen before. She was preparing food already for the visit of a missionary; behind the trading post a brush arbor had been constructed. From her, Rodney learned of his uncle. “He will die soon, Attalla. You must see him. Tresa looks after him well, but the life flame is low.”
“I shall see him tomorrow, Osahnee. When I return from Savannah, I shall bring back whatever he needs.”
Osahnee grunted. “Gunaski rests upon a pallet. There is little he needs, except your visit.” She faced him, hand on broad hip. “Go as Attalla, not as a white man.”
“Meaning the way I am dressed? I had rather he see me as I am, Osahnee.”
She left him, unconvinced. There was more talk that evening, with the children playing by the outside fire. The Owl led Rodney to the trading post. It was almost bare. Copies of the Phoenix, with an editorial by Boudinot, urging acceptance of the Ridge-Schermerhorn treaty, were on the counter. The Owl read Boudinot’s article. “None wants the paper now, Attalla. They say Boudinot is a traitor too. He is not. But Elias Boudinot is mistaken.”
“You would not resist removal?”
“Ross will delay that. There are many here in Georgia who sympathize with us.”
“From what I hear, that kind is in the minority.”
“We have been threatened with removal before.”
The Owl explained the claims of two factions weakening the Nation’s strength. It mattered little to Rodney. He was impatient to be off to Savannah. Loss of the Cherokee grant would upset all his plans. Funds from the land sales would bolster his Liverpool investment and enable him to buy the home in Surrey County.
Rodney was up when a bearded white man and a young woman rode through Elijay and out to The Owl’s place. The man was Uriah West, medical missionary. Rodney watched, as a group led him to a vacant cabin. It wasn’t the man, however, that attracted Rodney’s complete attention. The companion was little more than a girl, blessed with a figure that her clothing could not conceal. Her profile was classic. Not until Rodney was closer did he see the pockmarked face.
She was Nancy Alder, West’s foster daughter and helper. White or Cherokee, Rodney was uncertain, she was so bronzed. She looked his way, dark eyes taking in every detail. When their eyes met, she looked away, ignoring him thereafter.

Rodney left early. He had left saddlebags and pack at the trading post. Running Otter accompanied him until Rodney reached the trail leading to Sandtown; from there on, he was traveling familiar country. He overtook two groups bound for the gold find; each time he was identified as white and not challenged.
Once he met a family with carriage and wagon, heading northward. From Sandtown it was an hour’s ride to John Ganuski’s home, set apart in a narrow valley. An old woman was tending a fire beneath an apple tree, the latter as ancient as the human. Rodney had tied up his horse before Tresa emerged, shading her eyes from the already hot sun. She was mature, still plump and somewhat pretty. “Don’t you know me? Rodney called.
“Attalla,” she cried. “Dani-tuga---my brother.” She ran to him as he held out his arms. “Last night I dreamed you came. Ai—I wept.” She clung to him.
The ancient one stood watching, without expression. “The aga-wela is Kalo-nah. Gunaski’s cousin.”
The Raven. Toothless, she approached now, calling his name. They told him John Gunaski was conscious. Rodney hurried into the dark cabin, guided by a feeble coughing. The slight figure on a pallet, spread on the dirt floor, looked pathetic. Rodney remembered his uncle as a large man. Large and active. He bent over the ailing man, whose beadlike eyes were bright, almost feverish. “You know me?” Rodney was surprised that he spoke in a tongue so long forgotten.
“Attalla.” The word was whispered. The claw of a hand extended was cold. “I called you. The time of the full moon.”
“I have been living across the great sea. Now I come because I have buried my father.”
“Ai. I know. The time for passing on has come, my son. The time for you to fight is here.” Gunaski tried to sit up. “Your land is taken. They trespass upon our burial grounds. I am dying, my son. But you are young. Fight---fight….”
Rodney waited. John Gunaski spoke no more. Eyes closed, he was still, save for twitching fingers. Tresa came to Rodney’s side. “He goes into the sleep often now. Soon it will be all sleep and the spirit will be gone.”
Outside they talked, as The Raven tended her cooking. Tresa had been at the Gunaski place a year now, since The Raven too had grown feeble. “I know Gunaski’s time is here,” Tresa said. “But The Raven cannot take the long journey they say we must endure. Even if she rode.”
“You believe the removal will come, don’t you?”
“Can we live here, waiting for more and more white men to take our lands, our goods and our homes? Attalla, have you come back to help us fight?”
“It is too late. Perhaps there never was a proper time, Tresa. White men are pouring into this country and they are going to take land.”
“I do not understand.” Tresa’s volatile spirit asserted itself. She laughed softly. “I couldn’t imagine you in battle, Attalla. You have grown dignified. Tell me, are you married/”
“No. But soon.”
“A white lady?”
“Her name is Ailsa. She lives in Tennessee. I met her in England.”
“You are white. The McIvor saw to that.”
“The McIvor is dead,” Rodney said.
“Then why are you here?”
“To settle my father’s affairs. Also, to see my friends again.”
“I am glad you saw Gunaski; he is the last of your mother’s people.” She left him then. Rodney tended his horse, walked to the spring he remembered. The sun had long since vanished from the dell, lighting trees high on the bluffs. He listened to birds, remembering Cherokee names for them. There was ka-gu, the crow, calling from the pines. Tsay-ku, the jay, was with friends above. And deep in the woods, ku-gu-tsa, the flicker, sounded.
He knew that ku-li, the raccoon, lived up in the bluffs and probably was watching this stranger. And as he sat there till dusk came, Rodney McIvor felt the pull of another time. A lot of his impatience ebbed, and the wish to stay here longer than overnight grew. But this could not be.
Tresa came with two huge gourds. “Are you going to spend the night here?” she asked. “The Raven has done her cooking, and Gunaski is awake.”
He filled the gourds, taking one. “I was remembering things,” he told her. “Things I had almost forgot. Like the times you, Tunanya and I stole The Owl’s horse and started for Savannah.”
Tresa’s laugh was a sort of gurgle, infectious. “He threatened to scalp us. Then he laughed.”
“I think it was the sight of us three on that poor swaybacked animal that amused him.”
“You saw Tunanya in Elijay? He lost his wife. You remember Usdigawa?”
“Did he marry her? What a temper that one had.”
“She was my friend.”
They talked some more that evening and the scent of wildflowers blended with acrid smoke from The Raven’s fire. Tresa said The Raven would sleep in the corncrib. “I want you near, Attalla. For this night I am afraid Gunaski will die. The Raven has dreamed it.”
He heard Tresa twice before midnight. Gunaski had called out. Sound asleep, Rodney felt a touch. “Come,” Tresa said. “The Raven says it is the rattle of death.”
Gunaski died at sunup, and the women went outside to wail. In moments a dog, in the Cherokee home a quarter mile distant, howled. Presently he saw two women crossing a field. Then came men. Motioning Rodney outside, they prepared the ancient kinsman for his burial.
After it was over, the other went away silently. Each gripped Rodney’s hand. The Raven sat on the floor inside, rocking, moaning softly. Tresa showed her practical side. She removed the pallet, draping it over a stump. She put out clothing, shaking her head when Rodney offered to help.
At noon, Rodney saddled his horse. “What will you do now?” he asked Tresa.
“I must take care of The Raven. I have no people now. We stay here.”
“In a week I shall be back. Is there anything you need from Elijay?”
Tresa managed to smile. “Plenty, but I can do without.”
Kell and his men were returning to Elijay, meeting Rodney at Sandtown. The news was disquieting from Washington; John Ross had failed again. Scott was to head the removal. Rodney thought of what the militia captain told him. He knew he must reach Savannah quickly. Kell offered to guide him to the lower trails, but Rodney knew his friend could ill afford to leave his post now. Taking a shortcut from Elijay, he struck off by compass in order to intercept a road from Carolina. More family groups were traveling now, heading westward towards Cherokee land drawn in the state lottery.


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Sally Roberts

As usual Kit:

Another great chapter of the "Serpent's Knee" It made this reader who is also of Cherokee hertitige proud of your Grandfathers story and equally as proud of you, Kit, for sharing it with all of us.
It's a hit!!!

It's a great history lesson. Thanks for posting this.

It needs to become a novel, yeah, and then a movie!!

I would go see this one in a heart beat!

Superb job here!

Blessings

Kit Carson

PaintedDiary

Dear Kit,

Who is the showoff now! lolol Seriously I cannot say it better than Sally. Your work on this is exceptional and of the highest caliber. I can't wait for Chapter 4!! There is only one thing left to say--->I'll be at your book signing! Loved it through and through. Makes me proud. I will be back to read again and again. Excellent rating.

Kim