The Cherokee Rose, page 22
The night of Patience’s burial, a lunar eclipse cloaked the sky in a darkness deep as winter. We were prepared for this, having heard tell of its coming by the Cherokee healer Earbob. Under this cover, Peggy, Mary Ann, and I led those Negroes who wished to come to the old hut built of mud and mica. Inside, we lit a candle to cast a circle of light. We girdled the gathered men, women, and children, altogether a party of twenty-eight, with clothing, provisions, letters of purpose, maps, and knives. We have divided them into groups for greater efficiency of movement. They will follow routes north, seeking out the trail of the strawberry plant, the leaves of which they carry in their sacks for point of reference. I have enlisted them for the express purpose of carrying seeds to a select few of my botanical colleagues in Philadelphia, who await their packages, and are of like mind. It is in Patience’s honor, for her stolen life, that I violate the legal principles of property. Christ’s love, not man’s law, reigns supreme.
September 29, 1815
The eclipse of last night was followed by a swell of storms that felled three oak trees and studded the mission buildings with hailstones. Mr. Hold was away doing business in the city of Augusta with the Head Missionary to the Cherokees as his companion. We women kept about our work. Faith ran the operations of the mission while secretly making her preparations. I monitored arrivals to and departures from the Hold house. At the urging of an elderly woman who speaks her native African tongue, Mary Ann has memorialized the ones who have left, casting the shape of their names in shells on the inside walls of the hut. It is tradition in the old woman’s country that those now departed who once brought wealth to the master’s house must never be forgotten. Together, they represent nearly a quarter of Mr. Hold’s human property. Haste is required by the pilgrims before the Godless Talley makes a full accounting of the Negroes lost during the unusual hailstorms. One thought alone brings me comfort. Should Mr. Hold learn of their absence from Mr. Geiger and seek to recapture them from afar, due solely to his rampant greed, he could not, would not, kill them all.
TWENTY
September 30, 1815
Our plan continues its forward motion. Within one week’s time the major festival of the Cherokees will commence. This is the ritual of the new green corn, through which transgressions are atoned and crossed relations mended. Peggy is adamant that all must be completed before this ritual begins. The long absent Mr. Hold paid an overnight visit home with plans to set out again next day for this annual ceremony. I have learned he attends yearly in the various host towns for the ceremony, more for the purpose of intermingling with other powerful chiefs than for observing the sacred aspects of this communal ritual. A chance has been presented to us. I pray that he will not have time to walk through the slave quarters and look upon the faces of his now depleted property. Against my best judgment, but with the wise counsel of Faith, I determined to send my beloved daughter to Mr. Hold. My heart was in my mouth as I watched them follow the stone path that the now deceased Isaac had laid across my garden floor. Peggy, with Mary Ann at her side, approached the house, bearing gifts for Mr. Hold in river cane baskets: honey laced corn cakes prepared by Faith, and freshly picked cherries gathered by the Cherokee scholars. Desiring reconciliation with his estranged wife and currying the favor of young Mary Ann, Mr. Hold readily admitted them. Peggy held her husband at length with fervent promises that all should soon be reconciled. After the sacred festival of renewal, she told him, she would return to his home accompanied by Mary Ann.
By design, Faith’s preparation will be slow acting. She has baked the seeds of Calycanthus floridus (sweetshrub) into the golden corn cakes. These are used by the Cherokees for poisoning wolves, among which Mr. Hold can be counted as kin.
October 1, 1815
Mr. Hold set out at dawn for the appointed town where the Green Corn ritual will be held. A turbaned Negro driver saddled the finest horses and mounted a steed beside his master. The Head Missionary to the Cherokees, having long disavowed such ceremonies as nothing more than heathen superstition, remained behind in the brick house. I remained in the mission cabin with the baby Adam in my care, aided, at times, by Mary Ann. I did not know that Peggy would follow behind her husband’s party on her own stout bay horse, cloaked in a woven hood that covered her hair, and carrying one of her husband’s fire-arms. I should never have known, had Michael not glimpsed her from the loft of the mission barn, where he often plays with the Cherokee pupils.
Hours before Peggy returned covered in road dust, her hair a storm cloud, Faith and I learned of the shocking occurrence from Indian passersby who often visit the mission. Mr. Hold is dead, shot by a pistol, it is presumed, and his body then badly burned. The shooting occurred in the vicinity of the tavern of Mr. Buffington, where Mr. Hold had stopped for whiskey while en route to the festival. The perpetrator is as yet undiscovered.
Mr. Hold was buried in an unmarked grave near where he fell. All was done quickly and without fanfare by those who had been his companions in drink and vice. Patience, the object of his torture, had garnered more mourners than this famed captain of enterprise, a prominent chief of the Cherokee tribe, nevertheless known for his deception and avariciousness. Due to Mr. Hold’s great number of enemies, it is said his assailant will not be searched for and may never be found.
At Peggy’s insistence, we put out our fires and rode all evening to watch the Green Corn dances, the Indians’ festival of thanksgiving. The night sky was a whorl of ethereal light above us. Faith and I were seated in the front of a wagon driven by Sam Cotterell. I felt every dip and rise of the rough road and thought that I might be sickened, as I have been often of late. Faith unwrapped a square of cloth and handed me a slice of flat bread. Mary Ann sat behind us in the bed of the wagon humming in a low voice to baby Adam, who slept fitfully in her lap. Michael and our Cherokee scholars were tucked in snugly beside her. Peggy led the way on the back of her bay horse, hair loose and flying wild into the air behind her.
Once we arrived at the encampment, Earbob the healer, with the assistance of Peggy, Sam, and the older boys, built temporary structures for our party beyond the square ground. We feasted on the first day, during which Earbob came to speak with Faith and made her a comfortable place to sit. As we camped there, a new fire was made by a conjurer and his assistants. The green corn was sanctified, after which the women and men danced, tortoise shell rattles shaking like seed packs about the women’s legs. All who were gathered feasted again on new corn, dried meat, fish, beans, pumpkins, and fruits.
After the ceremony, each family came forward to collect a spark from the fire to carry back to their homes. Peggy’s face glowed in the reflection of the virgin flames. Mary Ann seemed to likewise glimpse a renewed path before her. I touched my hand to my belly on the bed of straw that Sam Cotterell had prepared for me, certain of the new life growing within. No dance, no fire, can ever restore me to my former self.
October 3, 1815
The seeds of the new fire have been planted in the hearths of every dwelling on the plantation—Cherokee, Negro, and white alike. The houses of Hold Hill have been cleansed.
October 5, 1815
The weather is russet in its warmth; the leaves have begun their turning. With Mr. Hold now gone and his enterprises shut down, the white traders rarely come to our isolated mountain location. Even the Agent for the U. States has turned his attention elsewhere, devoting his time to meetings with the other big men in the tribe: Chief Doublehead, Mr. Ross, Mr. Ridge, and Mr. Watie, the father of our former students Buck and Stand. Peggy thrives in the midst of this neglect, trying an experiment that has perhaps never been ventured before in slavery’s territory. Peggy has set the slaves at liberty to work for themselves, and they have run off the Godless Talley, threatening him with knives and sickles. The Head Missionary to the Cherokees, in fear or in shame, has departed for our Home Church and left me as sole proprietress of this mission until such time as the Church appoints his replacement, which I suspect they will be reluctant to pursue now that Mr. Hold, our sponsor, is dead.
October 10, 1815
Peggy has sent to Charleston, repurchased Mr. Hold’s master craftsman Butler, and reunited him with his family. Like the other slaves on this estate, he now has the liberty to come and go as a free man. She has, besides, enlisted Butler to renew the character of her home to dispel the memory of her dead husband’s presence. She has selected a palette of earthly hues and has envisioned a beautiful floral design. The likeness of the Cherokee rose, being her favorite flower and its seeds having been planted at the grave of Patience, shall be made in repetition and set in place throughout the house.
Peggy has renamed her home the Cherokee Rose in sympathy with her affections for the sister she has lost, who lies on the hillside even now, covered by a blanket of roses. Hold Hill remains the name written upon the maps and records drawn by the Cherokee Agent of the U. States. But to Peggy, it is Cherokee Rose, and to the slaves as well, who respect her now as a friend.
November 1, 1815
Fall is waning with the sun, and winter waits with bated breath. The Cherokee and Negro women rush to dry their peaches. I have word that my seed packets have been delivered to the North. And trails of strawberry plants stretch in four directions spreading out from the Conasauga River valley.
December 10, 1815
All things must begin and end, and so it is with Mr. Hold’s grand plantation enterprise. Mr. Hold entrusted his legal affairs to the Head Missionary to the Cherokees with whom he had developed an unholy bond. This ensured the protection of Mr. Hold’s property in the Georgia courts. The appointed administrators of the estate have seen to it that while Peggy can retain the house, mission complex, outbuildings, and furnishings at the insistence of the Cherokee Council, she has no jurisdiction over the slaves, save for the ones that she brought with her from her father’s house at the time of her marriage. The others must be sold at auction to satisfy Mr. Hold’s contracts and debts. Peggy has seen to it that baby Adam be known hereafter as the child of Mary Ann Battis, so that he might never be counted among Mr. Hold’s enslaved population.
December 25, 1815
We gathered this holy day with Peggy, our Cherokee pupils, and a large number of the neighboring Negroes, for the celebration of Christmas. For this purpose, the floor of the hearth room was scattered with green spruce branches, and a window was decorated with a wreath of the same. At the top of the window, beautifully lit by burning candles, were the words “Christ Is Born!” written in gold letters by my dear Mary Ann. After singing a few stanzas, Sam Cotterell spoke on the meaning of this celebration. Then he read the story about the birth of our dear Lord, and, along with all those present, fell to his knees. We finished with a splendid repast prepared by Faith and a number of the Negro women, who had been laboring over their festive dishes for the better part of a week.
There was sadness, together with joy, in the demeanor of those in attendance. Accompanied by the evident presence of God Incarnate, the service was closed, and all bid their farewells.
January 1, 1816
A new year has commenced. The administrators of the estate have finally arrived from Charleston to find the plantation empty of slaves, save for those belonging on paper to Peggy Hold or the Cherokee mission. The others have gone the way of seeds in the wind, and Peggy could not give a clear account of them to the administrators. Women, they presumed, have no heads for the careful management of property, and thus the widow will not be held liable. They will now begin the sale of Mr. Hold’s trading post, ferry, cattle, horses, and gristmill to raise the proceeds needed to settle his debts. And so this once thriving plantation has become a spirit town, and we few who remain are left to ourselves.
February 2, 1816
My pregnancy is far advanced, and the pains in my chest are such that it is evident the child and I cannot both survive. I have requested that all my earthly possessions here, in Salem, and in Bethlehem be sold. As much as I detest the act itself, I have used the collected sum to purchase Faith as well as Michael from the church and set them at their liberty. Faith holds their free papers, and Mary Ann possesses a copy.
February 17, 1816
Cold shakes the windows of our cabin. I keep to my bed day and night, waiting for the change. I continue to read with my dear Mary Ann in the subjects of botany and poetry. In the main, she reads to me now, her eyes clouding when she looks upon me. Sam Cotterell is often about the place, doing whatsoever chores Faith has for him and sitting long hours by my bedside, telling stories about magic grapevines and reading from his Bible. He has given up the road and is no longer an itinerant preacher. He will make his home here, he promises me.
March 12, 1816
My body can no longer bear the strain of the child who curls beneath my heart. I feel time growing short. I have instructed my dear Mary Ann, who tends to me with tearful eyes, not to speak a word of my eventful life. She and Sam Cotterell will adopt my unborn child as if it is their own. Peggy has bestowed on them the mission cabin, where they will make their home as adopted father and daughter, and continue the teachings of the Lord in this land. Patience’s son Baby Adam is quite a handsome child with a serious disposition and precocious mind. Now that the administrators have left, Peggy prepares to bring him into the brick house, where she intends to raise him with Mary Ann’s steady help. After convincing the parents of our pupils to entrust their children to her care even in the wake of Mr. Hold’s violent demise, she has likewise made her home a lodging for those students. I have no doubt that the work of the mission school will go on in my absence.
April 5, 1816
Easter draws near. My Mary Ann has traversed the fields and riverbank as I once loved to do. She has collected a bouquet of wildflowers in wanton bloom and placed them atop my writing desk. Sun glints through the windows, touching the verdant leaves.
April 18, 1816
Though I am weak with the effort, I must write of joyous news. On this day I gave birth to my own precious babe, Isaac Samuel Cotterell, on the Cherokee Rose Plantation. He bears the name of Isaac, a noble soul, and of his father, a true man of God. I pushed Isaac out into Faith’s hands amidst the piercing pains of my heart. My body could hardly bear up to it. My breaths came as mere flutters and will soon not come at all. The good Faith bid me drink a cup of tansy tea, which will soon soothe me into forever sleep.
I trust my dear Mary Ann to destroy this diary as I have requested. The work of the mission that brought me here is not yet complete, and would forever be tainted by the truth of my story. Little Mary Ann, do not cry as the baby does, flailing in our dear Faith’s able arms. For surely our reunion will occur in Heaven a mere lifetime from now. Merciful God, Your forgiveness is perfect, and Your vengeance is true. May this place live on to prove the truly miraculous works which only a just God can authorize. I remain in death as in life a servant of our loving Christ, whose sufferings were not in vain.
TWENTY-ONE
The silver glow of early morning light filtered through the doorway as Jinx turned over the final page of Anna Rosina Gamble’s diary. The three of them sprawled on the dirt floor of the mud shelter shoulder to shoulder, spines bent and necks arched toward the stack of yellowed papers. When the sound of Jinx’s voice sank into silence, she felt the others jerk beside her in a somatic jolt of confusion. Their bodies did not immediately know where their minds had gone. They had been transfixed by the words just like her over the last two hours, and now they had to reacclimate as if awaking from a dream. Jinx flexed her fingers and rolled her shoulders. She adjusted her eyes to the dawning light and turned first to look at Ruth, whose chocolate eyes were still full of tears. Ruth swiftly wiped them away with the back of her hand, then flopped the hand, palm curled, into her lap.
“He killed her,” she whispered, staring at the empty doorway and disturbing the strange quiet that seemed to cast the round house in an otherworldly stillness.
“We know,” Jinx said, reaching out to touch her fingers to Ruth’s back as if that small gesture of support could be a buttress. She was unsure if Ruth was referring to Hold or Talley, but it didn’t matter. The accusation fit them both. They were guilty of unspeakable crimes, and so was the missionary who abetted Hold’s abuses, and all the men in the United States and Cherokee Nation whose actions ensured the rampant abuse of vulnerable people. “But Patience was loved during her lifetime, and her memory was cherished after the tragedy.”
“She’s talking about her mother,” Cheyenne said, her mascara-smudged eyes bleary and set in dark circles of fatigue. “Aren’t you?”
“My mother’s death was not an accident,” Ruth said, her voice rising above a whisper. “I was the only one who believed that story, but I always felt deep down that he killed her. He pushed her off the side of that cruise ship and watched her drown. How could I live with him for eight years after that? How can I stay in touch with him now?”
