The Cherokee Rose, page 16
Jinx sank into a sitting position. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I wasn’t entirely closed to the idea, but I always thought if ghosts were real, my mother would find a way to visit me.”
Jinx was quiet for a moment before reaching out to touch the tips of her fingers lightly to Ruth’s back.
Jinx’s fingers were warm and comforting through the thin cotton of Ruth’s T-shirt. Ruth leaned into Jinx, letting their shoulders touch.
“Maybe your mother has been with you all this time. She’s a part of you, right? You can acknowledge her presence as much or as little as you choose to.”
“You’re still close with your great-aunt,” Ruth said.
“She’s always been my guiding light. But as much as I loved her, will always love her, I’m starting to realize she didn’t see everything clearly. She wouldn’t have liked me being here with you like this, for instance.”
“Because I’m a woman.”
“And because you’re not Creek.” Jinx paused. “And more than that. Because you’re Black. Aunt Angie had a rigid view of the right order of things.”
“I can’t say that doesn’t sting. Racial rejection hurts every damn time, and racial prejudice is a chimera. It repels some people, and attracts others. My mother married a white man she met in business school—my father. Her parents were dead set against it. They wanted her to marry well when it came to money and education, but only to a Black man. So there’s that…There was always something off about my parents’ relationship. I felt it as a child. It was like he loved and hated her at the same time. Her race was part of the attraction, and the revulsion.”
“I’m sorry,” Jinx said.
Ruth nodded in the darkness, pushing the knot of her fist into the dirt floor.
“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Jinx added. “The way my aunt was, the way your dad was. Some people respect and trust each other even through their differences.”
Ruth unknotted her fist, offering a hand to Jinx in the darkness. Jinx took it in a loose grasp. They sat together breathing, feeling the humid air around them, smelling the dirt of the cabin floor and the raw wood of the walls, hearing the breeze outside rustle the river cane.
Ruth peered at the open doorway where she had seen the girl, where she had tripped when she first entered the cabin all those hours earlier that now felt like days. She sucked in her breath. “The threshold,” she said. She leapt to her feet and moved to the doorway. She brushed her hands across the wooden frame, feeling the flow of the grain. “She was standing right here,” Ruth said, “the image, the girl. What if she wanted to show me something? What if she had a message?”
She dropped to the floor, inching her hand across the sill. The single plank lay unevenly across the dirt. Why use a wooden door sill on a dirt floor? Ruth shoved her glasses up, squinting in the white light that Jinx was shining on the ground. Near the end of the plank, the floor dipped, forming a subtle indenture.
“I need a tool,” Ruth said. “Something to dig with.”
Jinx was already gone, shining her flashlight through the dust-coated rooms.
“Here,” she said. “I found these in a back room.” She handed Ruth a gardening trowel and kept the spade.
They dug at the dip in the ground. Two inches deep. Three to four inches wide. The dirt softened and fell away beneath their tools. They reached a hollow space.
“It’s a ground safe, a keeping pit.” Ruth’s words tumbled over each other. “Enslaved people used to dig them in their quarters, to store food and hide treasured items, sort of like a safe-deposit box.”
Jinx laid the flashlight at the edge of the hole and reached a hand inside. She pulled out a conch shell, six silver buttons, a small glass vial, and a pair of green spectacles. Below those was a wooden box. She paused, looking at Ruth.
“Go ahead,” Ruth whispered.
Jinx pulled the box out of the ground and gently wiped the dirt from its surface. It was fashioned of light chestnut wood with intricate floral carvings.
Ruth reached over to Jinx’s lap and unhooked the small metal clasp, lifting the tight lid open. A square of scarlet silk was spread inside. Jinx unfurled the folds of the cloth. A sheath of manuscript pages, brittle and thin, nestled within the fabric.
“Holy…Is this happening?” Jinx whispered.
“I think it is,” Ruth answered, breathless. “Take out a page.” Ruth grabbed the flashlight from the ground and directed the beam toward Jinx.
Jinx’s hand shook as she reached for the sheet of curled paper. The amber edge flaked at her touch. She stilled her hand and read aloud.
The Diary of a Mission to the Cherokees, by Anna Rosina Gamble, Sister in Christ
February 14, 1815
The rain fell and would not stop. It continued, unabated, throughout the last portion of our long journey southward. We passed through the mountains beneath the clear blue of sky, but entered Virginia with the drops constantly upon our backs. It was a bone chilling rain. My husband directed the trembling horses from the front of the wagon, his dark hat a covering over his thoughts. My skirts gathered about my knees, weighted down by the torrent. My sogged hair escaped its pins and hung about my shivering shoulders. From time to time, my husband chanced to glance at me, observing my discomfort. But he did not choose to speak or slow our pace. A higher calling urged us onward. We are expected within two weeks in the territory of the Cherokee Indians, where we will endeavor to spread God’s word.
Only when the wagon’s wheels stuck fast in the mud did he see fit to stop. He sloshed down to the ground in his boots, and with the help of a stranger, freed us. With our horses fatigued, and us besides, we consented to rest at an inn near Knoxville, the great center city of the Southwest Territory. We retired to our room before supper. My shoes had filled so with water that I thought they were buckets. My hair hung about my face like melted beeswax. I helped my husband to undress first and prepared his coat for drying while he studied his Bible by the fireside. Peeling off my skirt and petticoat, I lay them beside the fire to dry. I cast my gaze about the chamber, from dripping skirts to silent spouse, wishing for the simple comforts of home. I stared into the nascent flames, bright in the dimness, and reflected on all that I had left behind. I sacrificed my post as head teacher to the girls of Bethlehem village in order to answer this sacred calling. When John Gamble was named Head Missionary to the Cherokee Indians, a selection approved by the Lot, our earthly interpreter of Divine will, the elders of the Church agreed that Mr. Gamble should marry in order to ensure the success of the endeavor. Two women from his town of Salem were tried, but failed to gain the Lot’s approval. And then, recalling that I had accompanied Brother Loskiel as his secretary on a journey to the Ohio Indians, the elders approached me, my father and mother having both passed on many years before. Upon hearing what my marriage should be—a partnership for the work and glory of Christ—I agreed to wed at the late age of forty years. The Lot approved. There was neither necessity nor time for courtship. I relocated from Pennsylvania to the merchant village of Salem, North Carolina. There, in our foremost Southern Moravian town, I found a neatness and simplicity that could not fail but to excite the feelings. The buildings were remarkably trim, the gardens pretty, and the streets neatly paved. A noxious weed or tangled grass could not be found, for everything was kept in perfect order. We dwelled in Salem for the better part of a year as we prepared to depart, and many dear friendships were sewn there.
This journey from Salem to the Cherokee nation is the first that I have taken with my husband. How I miss my countrywomen of Salem. How I fondly recall my students of Bethlehem and the specimen garden beyond the schoolyard where we assayed a menagerie of plants. I have packed with me seeds and seedlings, tucked within a burlap wrap which I have not had to moisten due to the constant rain. I have also brought, in linen pockets sewn by my skillful students, a small collection of my favorite tomes: The Book of Common Prayer, An Introduction to Botany, A Botanical Arrangement of British Plants, and Paradise Lost. Besides my good husband, these books will be my only faithful company in the heathen land. And more books yet will be sent, together with sundry supplies, once we have safely arrived in Cherokee country. My sacrifice of the comforts of home is a requirement of this mission, and one that I make willingly. I have long desired to venture again into the unknown wild, taking the Light of our Savior to the aborigines of America.
I stood and turned the clothing beside the fire in the bedchamber of the inn, lit the candles, and prepared the beds for sleeping. The room smelled of damp and the musk of its former inhabitants. How I wished I could have brought with me a servant to ease the labor of our travels. But none could be spared by the Church, and my husband has been directed to rent one from Mr. Hold, who, we are told, is a very wealthy planter of his tribe with many Negroes to spare. Besides being an aid with the housework, such a servant might also be predisposed to understanding the Indians’ tongue, of which we have no knowledge.
I folded the woolen blankets back, making a sleeve of warmth for my husband. He settled himself and consented to close his piercing grey-green eyes. When his breathing aligned into a regular pattern of sound and silence, I peeled away the cool, wet underthings that modesty had precluded me from freeing myself of. I lay my soaked shift and stockings beside the fire, pulled on a dry cotton gown, and braided my tangled hair. I turned to the second bed, grasped the blanket, and had only begun to rest myself when my husband called my name. His voice was low within the silent room, and yet cloaked by that firmness that underwrote his character. I turned toward him. His eyes were stern upon me. I rose and answered his call.
Jinx looked up from the wreck of a page and into Ruth’s eyes. “I know this woman,” she said. “The missionary, Anna Rosina Gamble. I found a reprint of an old Moravian Church history at a secondhand bookstore in Tennessee. It included a summary of Anna Rosina’s work in Cherokee territory, as recounted by her student. That student was Mary Ann Battis. Anna Rosina kept a diary of her time on the plantation, a full-length manuscript that was lost.”
“Not lost, saved,” Ruth said. “And I think we know by who.”
“Mary Ann,” Jinx said. “The girl you saw. She must have hidden it when she lived here. But she never told the church about it. She kept it secret from them. I wonder why.”
“Keep going,” Ruth said.
She leaned over Jinx’s lap, squinting at the barely legible manuscript pages. The curling script faded into the paper like so many watermarks. How could Jinx make it out, the faded, looping words, the s’s that looked like f’s, the disappeared punctuation marks? Ruth tried to read along, tried to follow with her eyes as Jinx picked up the story with the next diary entry.
Jinx stumbled while reading at first and then caught a rhythm, the particular cadence of Anna Rosina Gamble’s lines. Ruth gave up trying to read along and closed her eyes, letting Jinx’s soothing voice carry the story. She felt the hard dirt floor beneath her legs, the humid evening air around her, the paintbrush end of Jinx’s braid brushing her arm. She breathed in the smell of the manuscript pages, a scent like crushed leaves, a scent like sifting baskets. Plant matter. Jinx read on, her voice the breeze, her voice the river cane. Shh, shh.
March 3, 1815
The journey to Cherokee territory was tedious and slow, with many difficulties to be endured. The greater therefore was our relief when on the first day of March we safely reached the Cherokee settlement called Hold Hill. At evenfall, we were directed to Mr. Hold’s plantation by a wandering, paperless Negro, who, when Mr. Gamble inquired, indicated through signs, for he spoke only the Indians’ tongue, that he was a free man. Mr. Hold’s plantation is a broad swath of land, consisting of a rough set of buildings chiseled out of the wilderness between the woods and a field of river cane so tall that one cannot see beyond it. His own house, a fine and fancy brick affair recently built, is impressive indeed for this country. We have been told that his is the most profitable and civilized of all the Cherokee establishments, for Mr. Hold has put his plantation profits into the development of various mercantile establishments. He owns two trading posts and ferries besides, and seeks to establish a gristmill.
Upon our arrival, Mr. Gamble climbed down from the wagon, removing his hat for less than an instant while he wiped perspiration from his brow. The nearness of the river’s flow makes the air here wet, with or without a rainfall. Mr. Gamble has the thin, drawn face of a man always thinking: of what should be done, what must be done, and how it should best be accomplished. Every aspect of his existence is drawn and quartered through the chastening prism of duty. He is held in much esteem by our Church for these qualities of single mindedness and dogged self discipline. He directed me to remain in the wagon and approached a cabin with glass paned windows situated along the road to the main house. There he met Mr. Geiger, Mr. Hold’s business manager. I breathed a relieving sigh at the sight of Mr. Geiger, standing at the cabin door in woolen breeches. He is a white man, and German by descent as we Moravians are.
I let my worrying fingers come to rest upon my lap. The details of our stay here have been prearranged by elders of our Church and the Cherokee Agent for the U. States, Return Jonathan Meigs. Agent Meigs pledged to help support our labors from the national Dept. of War funds. The remainder of our support comes from our brethren and sisters in Christ and the profit of whatever goods we might barter with the Indians. The chiefs in council of the Cherokee nation have consented to have a Christian mission, provided that a school should teach their children the English language. Our Church elders insist that such a school, if it be established, must instruct in religion as well as English, and must room and board the children in order to extricate them from the daily influence of their heathen households. None other than the prominent Mr. Hold himself has offered to host the mission on the grounds of his estate.
When Mr. Gamble inquired about water and food for our horses, Mr. Geiger called for servants from the barn. The two men, bulky as barrels and darker skinned than soot, set down our trunks on the dusty, red road and then led our horses away. Mr. Geiger conversed with my husband in English, the language of preference here next to the Indians’ tongue, explaining that Mr. Hold was away on business in Charleston, Carolina, and that we should stay in the main house until a cabin of our own can be prepared.
We were accompanied to Mr. Hold’s home, where upon we met his wives, as Mr. Hold and the Indians here practice the sin of adultery as if it is indeed a virtue, customarily keeping for themselves more than one wife, and sometimes as many as five. Mr. Hold has two wives—a younger one, who is quite lovely and speaks the English language much, the daughter of a Cherokee woman and an English trader; and an elder wife, who speaks only her native tongue and is said to be the younger one’s half sister. The younger Mrs. Hold lives with her husband in the brick house. The elder Mrs. Hold, having her own peculiar dwelling in a cleared spot within the river cane, was merely visiting the home of her husband on the day we arrived. It appeared, however, that the elder wife took precedence over the younger even in the house that was not her own, for she was the one who bid us to come inside. She gave us gifts of woven cloth and a basket of dried, dark berries, which I judged to fall within the Rubus genus. The younger wife directed a Negro girl of perhaps twelve, who then heated water in a kettle suspended above the fire and made us a refreshment of tea. There was no sugar, for Mr. Hold had not returned from his latest trading venture. Nor was there honey or anything nearly so sweet. To accompany our tea, we were served plain cornbread and a sour hominy meal that reeked of lye.
The contrast embedded in this place is striking. The house, which had stood the better part of a year, according to Mr. Geiger, boasts glass windows, triple stories, and verandas to channel the breeze. On the inside, however, it feels much like the rough hewn dwellings of the Carolina country folk, having none of the refinement of our own Moravian village structures. The rooms are full of dirt and confusion. The walls smell of hominy and wood smoke, and the air is thick with the residue of too many bodies in motion. My husband and I sleep on mats beside the fire in the rear most parlor of the house, for there are neither bedrooms nor beds to spare in this large abode. The younger Mrs. Hold retires in a room on the second floor in the evenings, and the elder Mrs. Hold continues her visit mainly to survey us, sleeping in a spare room in the upper chamber. Various men and women whose names we were never told sleep and visit within the house as if it is an outdoor camp, bringing in food from the separated kitchen, taking their meals in any room they please, and clogging the already fetid air with the swill of pipe smoke.
A host of children also scamper through the house, feeding themselves from a large pot of stew nursed on top of the fireplace coals and otherwise running around the plantation grounds unchecked. When they frolic out of doors, which for them is a constant pastime, the children graze directly from the edible trees and plant life. I am told that the pink blossoms of the Eastern Redbud shrub (Cercis canadensis), are as delightful a treat to these children as pastry cakes to the youths of Bethlehem. There is no school for the Indian children here to attend, and no discipline is exacted from them, so that they dash to and fro like wayward field mice with the Negro children as their sole companions. Some of these Indian youngsters, I have learned, belong to Mr. Hold by paternity. The others are his nieces and nephews, the children of his sisters. The younger Mrs. Hold retains the rosy cheeked blush of unblemished youth. She appears to be less than eighteen years and has no children of her own. The majority of Mr. Hold’s children, we are told, live in their mothers’ respective towns, for Hold had other wives before, or in addition to, the two whom we have met.
The familial life of these Indians is a complete confusion. No one of organized mind could unwind these tangled genealogical registers. Besides the unnamed persons, upward of twenty of whom seem to regularly dwell here, sundry Indians visit the place from day to day, some, but not all, being distant relatives of the Holds. Many a night we must share our sleeping spot beside the fire, rendering what should have been a fine parlor cramped and malodorous.
