Kit Carson

Of all the places revisited, Savannah appeared to have shrunken. To the young McIvor, the waterfront was enormous, the city a metropolis. There were signs of healthy growth. New buildings and streets were spreading outward from the docks. Most baffling was the attitude of Augustus Craigmore, long Andrew McIvor’s counsel. Treating Rodney with courtesy, Craigmore managed to remain aloof. There was little to do about the warehouse properties except sign necessary papers. Regarding the Cherokee grant, Craigmore was evasive. When Rodney pressed for action, the lawyer begged for time. Craigmore admitted the merits of Rodney’s claim, as the son of Andrew McIvor. Still, he explained patiently, the moment Rodney admitted his Cherokee blood, troubles would increase. “You may have to go to the next legislature,” Craigmore said, “You have a better chance in getting a special act passed, than before a jury. However, I shall file suit immediately. Could you supply me with an accurate survey?”
Rodney couldn’t. But he knew where it was, in Black Pine’s old home. It
was in a small safe Andrew McIvor had presented. Rodney had played around it many times. “I could get a forthwith court order for you to open the safe,” Craigmore said. “But you will have to see a local peace officer. Send the survey papers at once. Nothing can be done until I get it.”
Rodney’s dismissal irked him; Craigmore was reluctant, not at all sympathetic. Still, Rodney reflected, Andrew McIvor was dead, no longer a lucrative client.
Riding toward Elijay, Rodney considered invoking the Cherokee Guard. But if white families were already on his grant they would defy representatives of the Nation. Rodney decided to strike directly for Black Pine’s home.
A day’s ride away, Rodney overtook white settler frequently. With the stubble of four days on the road, Rodney looked the part of an adventured. He began to pause and talk with the travelers. Some had drawn lots around the lower towns. Others were going to pitch camps and wait for the soldiers to drive out the Cherokees. Apparently, word was spread widely that the removal was imminent.
Rodney made camp a few miles from Black Pine’s old home. He sighted the place, set beside a winding stream and flanked by pastures, now free of cattle. The house had been built of logs, with wide porch and an ell. As he saw smoke rising from stacks of cut lumber, Rodney saw that the great maples, willows by the springhouse, and small apple orchard were gone. Chopped down! A half dozen men were sawing timber, and the frame of a cabin stood in a field. Nearby was a covered wagon, with a woman and children doing chores.
A tall clean shaven man of fifty was supervising the negro workers when Rodney came up. He glanced at the newcomer, and then walked across to the road.
“Something I can do for you?” he inquired.
“Yes sir. Who is in charge here?”
“I am. The name is Bentley. Dodd Bentley. Looking for land? I bought a thousand acres. They tell me there’s another old grant four miles west.”
“My name is McIvor,” Rodney said. “Who sold my land to you?”
Bentley stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re driving at sir. The state of Georgia deeded me this property. For due payment received. You say you are a McIvor. The name sounds familiar.”
“Andrea McIvor is…was my father. I must warn you that your title is not clear.”
“Clear enough for me. Enough for me to order you off my land.”
“I have a court order, Mr. Bentley. Will you accept it, or force me to see the sheriff?”
Bentley was amused. “And what is the order for?”
“To examine the contents of a safe in the house once owned by Black Pine.”
“A safe.” Bentley looked at the two white men just arriving. “Did you hear that, boys. He says there is a safe in the house.”
“Then let him find it for us,” one of the men said.
“Wait.” Bentley looked up at Rodney, face thoughtful. “First, explain just how you came to own this land.”
“It was left to my mother at Black Pine’s death. In turn, I inherited the land.”
“Exactly how did an Indian chief figure in this willing of land to your mother, Mr. McIvor?”
“Because she was Black Pine’s daughter,” Rodney said. And in the moment of speaking this truth he knew he had invited disaster. The silence which followed was significant. By now a half dozen men, three of them slaves, surrounded him.
“A half-breed,” Bentley said, speaking very softly. “He rides in like a white man, and he dares to tell me…Dodd Bentley…that he owns the property I bought and paid for.”
Rodney failed to see one of the white men steal around the rear of his horse. He was grasped by his right boot, and then pushed so that he tumbled into the dust at Bentley’s feet. Before Rodney could react, the other man plumped astride him, pushing Rodney’s face into the dirt. “A damned Cherokee half-breed,” he howled in glee. “Let’s strip him.” With that he opened a clasp knife. With the two men holding him down, Rodney’s clothing was slashed, then ripped into shreds.
Bentley was laughing. He had picked up Rodney’s proffered court order. Now he rammed it into Rodney’s mouth. “Put him on his horse naked as a jaybird,” Bentley said.
They took his carbine, pistol and saddlebags. They took turns kicking him, twice in the stomach so that Rodney vomited. Sick, addled, he felt himself pushed into the saddle. Bentley slapped the horse. The dazed rider clung to the horn, swaying.
At a sharp turn, concealed by shrubbery, two negro men appeared, motioning Rodney to stop. The entire world was revolving as his horse stopped. He was lifted from the saddle gently. “You hurt,” one said. “We see you get hurt. We got place to hide you.”
A negro woman was in a primitive lean-to built of brush in a small swamp. Rodney sank to the floor of pine needles. “It is my land,” he kept repeating. “What sort of world is this?”
“They be bad men sir. Soon all black men and women run away.” The woman bathed his cuts and bruises while the older man, almost as grey as Jeffrey, produced britches and a shirt dyed with copperas. Luckily they had permitted Rodney to keep his boots. He told them his name, why he had come. “We hear of McIvor,” the leader said. “We from Savannah. Me…I’m Tuttle. They work us all day. We hungry. So, we run away.”
They showed him rifles, sacks of dried meat and cornmeal. “Tonight,” Tuttle promised, “we get your things back.”
Rodney didn’t ask how. He ached, not only physically, but mentally, for he wanted to face Bentley on equal terms. He wanted to grind the man’s arrogant face into the dust.
Worst of all, Rodney McIvor knew that he was helpless to even matters where all the whites would rally to Bentley’s support and run him down as they would some wild animal. This evening, left alone in the lean-to, Rodney felt that this was the nadir of his life. He slept, aroused when voices sounded outside. There was low laughter, and the sound of things being dragged inside. At sunup, Rodney saw his carbine and saddlebags piled at his feet. The negros were gone.
The scent of wood smoke reached him. Rodney went outside. The smoke seemed to be rising from the swamp proper. He followed a path, and Tuttle stepped out of a hazel clump. “Reckon you be hungry sir. We have a bit of fish my woman’s cooked.”
They ate on a log protruding from the slough. A turtle watched from a snag. In answer to the query as to his journey, Rodney said he would be going to Elijay. His first thought was of The Owl and other friends. “Why not join the Cherokees there?” he asked. “I could vouch for you.”
“There be others to come sir. We have far to go before we are free. The land is beyond a river they call the Ohio.”
“I know it well,” Rodney said. “But you must cross two slave states somehow.”
“We cross…somehow,” Tuttle said. “You ride fast sir. They say you half Cherokee and you try to kill Mister Bentley.”
“A lie.”
“Makes no difference sir. We be sorry they take your land. But they be too many to fight. You run. Just like we run.”
That ride to Elijay was like a journey through a dark jungle, hostile and unyielding. The very terrain seemed disconnected, first a hill, then a hollow. Threading the jumble of his thoughts were Ailsa, shaded walks along the Isis, Tresa and her gourds at the spring, the Liverpool offices. First in his mind was the Mosaic law. Kill!...Kill!...Kill!... He could not banish this urge.
Selma McIvor had taught him to fight this black rage; it was his Cherokee legacy. Body assaulted and humiliated. And so he rode into Elijay, wearing his bruises and cuts, shocking even The Owl.
Again a woman, Tresa, treated the marks of Rodney’s degradation. That evening, a council was held. Rodney told his story. Tunanya and Running Otter sat nearby, listening to Kell’s questioning. Presently The Owl rose. “It is a terrible thing they did to our kinsman, but this is white men’s business.”
“The land map,” Kell inquired, “is that not Cherokee business?”
“Attalla should have it,” Running Otter spoke up.
“But what means?” The Owl asked. “By force? You men of the Cherokee Guard know better. You permit these seizures.”
“We cannot intervene,” Kell said briefly. “We act on Council orders.”
“I am ashamed,” Tunanya said. “Ashamed that Attalla has come back, to be treated this way.” He touched Rodney’s shoulder. “We must talk this over together.” Running Otter joined them. They walked to the crest of a nearby hill. “There are four others who will ride with you, Attalla,” Tunanya. “Blood brothers. We three be of the Wolf clan. So are the rest.”
Rodney pondered the offer; it appealed to him. But did he want the charts that badly? Or was it to be revenge? It didn’t seem to matter. Not now.
Find Tuttle. Stampede Bentley’s livestock. Drive his slaves off. Cram Bentley’s deed down his throat. Rodney was trembling. Words…Cherokee words flowed from his lips. “Ai,” Tunanya cried. “We go.”
The brush arbor held a single lamp. Rodney, parting from his fellow conspirators, paused. He saw the missionary examining a small chest. There were sundry bottles and vials. Rodney came nearer. West saw him, invited him in. “So you are Andy McIvor’s son. I was sorry to hear of his passing. Come here.” He examined the lumps on Rodney’s face. “They beat you up, I hear. It is happening so much in the lower towns.”
“This time a lesson must be taught.”
The missionary straightened a row of vials in a leather case. Rodney saw the pockmarked girl enter; she had the glide of a panther, noiseless in tread. “Who will teach that lesson?” West asked softly. “You?” He lifted his head. “If you plan that, you are a fool.”
“Then I am a fool sir.”
The girl paid Rodney no attention. West nodded her direction. “Her name is Nancy. Nancy Alder. Mr. McIvor, would you say I am a white man, or half white?”
“My impression is that you are a white man sir.”
“I am part Englishman, part Delaware. The grandfather tribe. Why I devote my life with the Cherokee is my own affair. I say this before I warn you of bringing retribution, not on yourself, but these harassed brothers of ours. For that is what would happen. A raid, an ambush, any act of violence will bring, not soldiers, but a mob of land crazed, gold crazed men. You would be responsible.”
West closed the leather case. “The Owl has talked with me, before our service tonight. I have heard of this man Bentley before. He is not a Georgia citizen, but an out state adventurer. He would clear thousands of acres, using slave labor, and then sell. My advice, Mr. McIvor, is to realize what every Cherokee must eventually. You have lost.”
The girl was studying him, seated on a crude plank bench, chin on palm. Now she spoke. “I hear you are to marry a white lady. Why not quit this country?”
“It happens that loss of my land jeopardizes my future.” Rodney was nettled; Nancy Alder seemed amused. He knew now that she was not white. But she would have been beautiful; she was attractive regardless of the pit marks.
West laughed softly. “Mr. McIvor. A well educated man like you can manage; the loss of your lands is not tragedy. I know how outraged you feel now. Sleep on it. Take a day, somewhere by yourself. Talk further with The Owl. Knowing Andy McIvor, I would say he would advise you to dismiss the entire matter. What is Bentley to your future? Nothing.”
“I can never forget,” Rodney said. “But I shall take your advice, Brother West.”
“I shall pray for you,” the girl said.
She wasn’t amused now.
Hardly had Rodney reached his cabin when Tunanya arrived. Running Otter arrived moments later. They had a bottle of whiskey.
The moon had barely cleared the trees, touching the now darkened brush arbor, when a group in the cabin, now numbering seven, joined hands. “Ai,” they chanted, “Tsu-tsa-si. Revenge.”
They saddled their horses, each armed. Silently they stole away, leading their mounts well out of Elijay.
Elijay slept, but there was a stirring about the stockade where members of the Guard kept their mounts. The Owl and Uriah West had seen the departure of Rodney and his companions. Presently another detail rode southward.

Sally Roberts

Kit:
Another chapter of pure adrinalin! The whites taking over the Indian territory with permission of the government. and the Indians being moved somewhere else because their land is being sold away. It is certainly an attention grabber!

I devoured every word. I bet it would make a GREAT movie.

I can't wait for the upcomimg chapters of..."The Serpent's Knee"

Blessings

PaintedDiary

Dear Kit,

I read this several times, and each time I am completely enthralled in this. Ya know, this is really amazing, and I am very serious. I can see this also as a movie or series for television. The characters, dialogue, and such, as I mentioned before are so authentic, yet so so real. You have great one-liners as well and this is a true classic. Please continue this and consider going beyond this forum with this. There is every component, and it is RICH in history. I am alittle misty by this masterpiece Kit, so I am going to end by saying we are truly blessed also to have you here with us and to share your gift.

Kim

PaintedDiary

Came back for another read and am in awe. Thanks

Kimberly

Kit Carson

Halfway through Chapter Five, when Dickens wrote serial novels, they used to wait on the docks. Go look at the reply I left on "Molly McBride" about grandfathers' parents.