Journey Home Chapter Twenty-seven

Rachel Johnston stood at the window of the Wild Wood Inn looking out on a day quickly turning to night.  She was waiting for her husband to arrive.  The man sitting by the fire had assured her that John was alive and in good spirits, and told her that her husband had practically single-handedly prevented a war.  Hawk was taken, and though all danger was not past John should return to her soon. 

It could not be soon enough.

She stirred and looked toward the hearth where the man known as Adam Fox was sitting, turning a mug over and over in his hands without drinking the cider it held.  Early in the day she and Verity Moray had heard a wagon’s rumble in the distance, and then listened as it approached the inn with haste.  They had shooed the girls upstairs and forbidden Stephen to come down, and then together she and Mingo’s daughter had prepared to protect their own.  Verity had taken the post by the window, acting as lookout.  She had gone racing for the rifle.  When a shout of joy accompanied by the name ‘Danny’ had gone up from Mingo’s child, Rachel had lowered the rifle and rushed to the door.  Throwing it open, she had found a most unexpected party.

In her years as the wife of an Indian agent she had seen many natives, from the great Turtle of the Miami to Tecumseh’s twisted brother, the Open Door.  The children of Copperhead and Miriam Fox rivaled any she had met in beauty, grace and dignity.  Adam’s face shone with his convictions.  In some ways, the barrister reminded her of John.  Sunalei moved like wind over water.  She ran silent and deep.  The third member of their party was in great pain, both in body and soul, but out of Tobias Fox’s dark eyes shone determination and the spark of, perhaps, a greater destiny.

If he lived to fulfill it.

Rachel had offered to lend a hand.  Adam had thanked her for her kindness, but refused.  Then he and his sister had borne their brother upstairs to one of the vacant rooms.  Sunalei was there still, tending to Tobias in the Cherokee’s ancient way.  Adam had sent for a doctor, saying he did not doubt the Creator would hear his sister’s prayers, but that sometimes, even the Creator needed the hands and the mind of man to work His magic.

She dropped the curtain and crossed to where the Adam sat and dropped in the chair opposite him.  When the lawyer looked up, she asked softly, “How is your brother?  What did the doctor say?”

“After Dr. Turner finished complaining about the cinchona smoke in the room?” Adam asked with wry smile.  Adam leaned his head back against the wing chair and sighed.  “Toby’s wounds are superficial, but these are internal injuries.”

“What measures did the doctor recommend?”

Adam scowled.  “He wanted to bleed him.  I refused to allow it.”

“Why?”

His unnerving dark blue eyes settled on her.  “You have lived among the Indians.  Blood is sacred.  And I have never been able to understand how, when a man has already lost great amounts, taking more can heal him.”

“It has to do with humors,” she answered with a shrug.  “John practiced medicine in Fort Wayne, and has continued doing so in our town.  He does not bleed, though I know he has approved it done.”

“Maybe there is a time.  But not now.  I believe Toby’s wish would be to follow the ancient ways.”

“He cannot tell you?”

Adam shifted his gaze to the fire.  “He has fallen unconscious.  His body rages with fever.”

“I’m sorry.  I will pray for him.”

Adam looked back at her.  His smile this time was fond.  “You sound like my mother.  Though I am not certain Toby’s god is the same as your own.”   

“There is only one,” Rachel said as she rose to her feet.  “And all are His creatures.”

“Men like Hawk don’t think so,” he said, growing sober.  “Or Simon Keller.”

“So long as there are good men, there will be bad men who seek to destroy them.”  Her eyes flicked to the window.  “And women who wait, praying for their safe return.”

“I’m sorry I had no news about your son.”

“So am I,” she said.

“Perhaps your husband went to look for him.  He probably didn’t want to return without – ”  Adam paused.  He rose to his feet.  “Listen.”

Rachel heard it.  A horse clattering to a halt outside the door.  With the last few weeks’ events, they had no way of knowing if it was friend or foe.  She glanced at the door and saw it was unbarred.  Adam had noticed it too and was headed for his pistol that lay with his other belongings on a nearby table.  Before he could reach it, the door swung inward revealing a disheveled, dirty, and road-weary John Johnston. 

In John’s arms was a cloaked bundle crowned with a head of tousled hair, black as a night without stars.

Rachel drew a breath, whispered a prayer of thanksgiving for the return of her son and husband, and then ran to the door to take them both in her arms. 

~

            John Johnston wiped his hands on the apron he had borrowed from behind the counter at the Wild Wood Inn as he walked down the stairs.  It was early morning and he was exhausted, but he was glad he had agreed to take a look at Adam’s brother.  Adam had made the right choice.  Bleeding would have been harmful – if not downright fatal – to Tobias in his present condition.  There was no need to get the bad blood out of him.  The balance of fluids in his body had been disrupted, but it was more he needed, not less.  His sister’s ministrations were the best thing for him.  That, and time to heal and plenty of rest.

            Removing the apron John walked to the counter and taking a bowl, filled it with water from a jug and splashed it on his face.  He had seen Rachel to bed and left her sleeping with Robinson in her arms, and then gone to see his other son.  Stephen had been sleeping as well, but he had wakened him to let him know his brother was found.  Though relieved, the boy had not reacted as he expected.  Stephen had turned away and wept.  His eldest had lost weight and looked gaunt.  As father and doctor, he would have to tend to him, body and spirit, once the new day was begun.

            Outside the window, the sun was rising on a world wearing its first coat of frost.  They needed to be on their way.  John had no desire to cross the Ohio once the wintry western winds began to blow.  Still, he hated to go without speaking to the young man who had put an end to Hawk’s war.  Another day perhaps, and Tobias Fox would awake.

            They could spare that at least.

            Taking up a kettle, John filled it with water and walked to the hearth.  Its embers were burned down but with a little coaxing, he quickly had a fire.  He placed the kettle on the crane and then turned and reached for the coffee grinder.  There was too much to do to sleep.  He’d gone several days before without it.  He could do it again.

            John grinned.  Of course, he had been younger then.

            John had ground about a cup of beans when a knock came at the door.  He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.  It was five in the morning – time for everyone on the farm to be thinking of breakfast, and still early for city folks from the town.  Placing the bowl with the grounds on the counter, he walked to the door.

            “Who is it?” he asked.

            “The Morays,” a cheerful voice answered.  “Mother, father, and son.”

            John knew the voice.  He unfastened the latch and threw open the door.  “Mingo!  It is good to see you on your feet.”

            Mingo took his hand.  “I never got to thank you for your part in my rescue.”

“I did nothing.”

“That’s not what I hear.  Your David slew quite a Goliath.”

John laughed.  “More like Jack hightailing it along the beanstalk and hoping the giant

would trip!  Anyhow, you are all safely delivered.  Thank God!”  He turned his attention to Danny who was setting a few of their belongings down in the room.  “Danny, you certainly have been busy!  First, hauling Copperhead’s children and now this!  And Robinson told me about all you did for him.  Thank you.  Most heartily.”

            Danny stepped forward to take his hand.  “You have quite a boy there.  Actually, two of them.”

            John glanced toward the stair.  “Ah, yes, Stephen.  I am afraid that he still blames himself.  From what Robinson, said, Stephen is a hero.”

            “Maybe I can talk to him,” Danny suggested.  He glanced at his father.  “I know a little bit about beating one’s self over things beyond your control.”

            Mingo laughed as he came to his son’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “It is an inherited trait, I fear.”

            “Is your wife still sleeping?” Rachel Moray asked as she removed her cloak.

            John nodded.  “Just.”

            “Well then, apologies will have to wait.  I owe her and my own daughter one for leaving them.”  Mingo’s wife touched her husband’s arm.  “I am going to Verity.  Come along soon.”

            Mingo nodded.

            Danny yawned mightily.  “I’ve been on the road for two days.  I think I’ll find a bed and fall in it.  Call me in a week.”

             A few moments later, the two of them were alone.

            “Hawk?” John asked.

            “Gone, as is Daniel.  Major Gray gave them a company in escort.  They should arrive in Frankfort in the next couple of days.”

            “And Watowah?”

            “He is being held.  As soon as I have my family safely secured, I will return him to the People for judgement.”

            John paused. “White justice might treat him more kindly,” he offered.

            Mingo’s face was hard.  “I know.”  He took off his great coat and slung it on a chair.  “Is that coffee I smell?”

            John smiled.  “I was just about to fix a cup.  Have a seat.  I will fix you one as well.”

            Moving to the chair in front of the fire, Mingo took a seat.  When John handed him the coffee he drank deeply of its scent first, and then savored the hot liquid as it coursed down his tired throat.  “Have you seen Toby?”

            He nodded.

            “Will he live?”

            “He’s young.  I believe so.”  John took a sip.  “He has an excellent nurse in his sister.  I expect the fever will break soon and he will wake.”

            “Good.  I would like to speak to him before I leave.”

            For a moment they fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts.  At last John shifted as if uneasy.  “May I ask you something, Mingo?”

            “Anything,” the older man said.

            “The Indian.  As things stand, his way of life is doomed.  Do you agree?”

            “Sadly, yes.”

            “And that something needs must be done.”

            “Yes.”

            “Whatever may be alleged to the contrary, they can never be saved on what is called Reservations.  They must have a country and an independent character, under certain modifications assigned to them, or their race will perish.”  John had leaned forward as he spoke, his passion resonating in his tone. With a chagrinned smile, he shifted back.  “Forgive me.  I forget to whom I speak.  I know you have advocated for your people.”

            “For what little good it has done.  Many of the Cherokee have migrated voluntarily to the west of the Mississippi, settling in Missouri, Arkansas and Texas.  Others remain on ancestral lands, but it will not be long before some reason is found to remove them.”

              “Your voice would be an important one in the fight.  Would you come with me?  To Washington?  And speak for your people?” John asked.

            “There are others to do that.  John Ross, for one.”

            “Yes, but you are unique.  You have found acceptance in both worlds.”

            “And rejection,” Mingo added quietly.

            “I know.  And I know the battle fought will be hard won, if won at all.  But it breaks my heart!”  John paused as he thought of all the great men he had known – Little Turtle of the Miami, Captain Logan – a Shawano who had given his life for the United States during the last war – and Black Hoof, Logan’s chief just to name a few.  “Alas, for the poor Indian,” he said at last, “few or none care for him now.  Speculative benevolence is all expended on the African.  It is because no political capital can be made out of the misfortune of the Indian.”

            Mingo was staring at him. 

            “What?”

            “You are a most unusual white man, Mr. Johnston,” the elder Cherokee said with a smile.  “I would be happy to do whatever I can to aid you in this cause.  We can talk after I deliver Watowah to the justice of the People.”

            John sank back in his chair.  The coffee had done little good.  Mingo could tell the agent was exhausted.

“Thank you,” he said.  “We can only pray that the tide can yet be stemmed.” 

~         

            Later that day, after John Johnston had finally yielded to fatigue and joined his wife in bed, Mingo was surprised when he opened the door of the inn to find a familiar pair disembarking from a coach.  They were of a height, even though of different sexes, and both had pale blond hair that blazed white in the afternoon sun.

            “Israel!  Bekah!” he called in greeting.  “I thought you were going to join Daniel.”

            Both were moving slowly.  Bekah leaned into her father’s meager strength.  One of the soldiers must have gallantly lent her a coat that she had thrown over the linen shirt she wore, and a pair of army trousers.  Bekah’s shoulder was bandaged – he could see the linen peeking out – but it looked clean.  In no time, both of them should be good as new.

            Maybe better.

            Israel took his hand and shook it, and then pulled him forward into a hug.  “Thanks, Mingo,” Daniel’s son said softly as he released him.  Then, nodding toward the inn, he added, “We’re going to meet pa, but not without Sunalei.”

            “She’s caring for her brother.”

            “Adam?  Did something – ”

            “No.  Toby.  Hawk meant to kill him, but Copperhead’s children are made of iron.”  He met Bekah’s eyes.  “Just like Daniel Boone’s.”

            “Pa said to tell you he was sorry he had to go without saying goodbye,” Israel said.

            Mingo looked in the direction of the now abandoned camp, thinking beyond it to where his friend had gone.  “We’ll meet again.”

            Israel nodded.  “Sure you will.”

            At that moment the door behind them opened and Rachel Johnston stepped out.  She looked worried.

            “Rachel, what is wrong?”

            She was clutching a shawl about the shoulders of her night gown.  “I can’t find Stephen.  He’s not in his bed.”

            “Do you think he has gone outside?”

            “I don’t know,” she sounded both weary and almost beyond patience.  “He blames himself for everything that happened to his brother.  His father tried to speak to him, but Stephen wouldn’t listen.  And now he’s gone.”

            “Well, he can’t have gone far.  Not with that injury to his leg.”

            “I know, but – ”

            “I will find him,” Bekah said.

            They all turned to look at her.  “Thank you.  But why?” the boy’s mother asked.

            Mingo knew.  “Bekah and Stephen have much in common, Rachel.  Let her try.”

            The worried woman looked from one of them to the other.  “Very well.  But if I haven’t heard anything in an hour – ”

            Israel stepped forward and favored her with a winning smile.  It was one of the kind he had inherited from his father.  Coupled with his own charm, the lady was doomed.

            “Why don’t you let me fix you a cup of tea, Mrs. Johnston, and let me tell you a little bit about my girl….” 

~

            The Johnstons’ son was sitting under a tree just behind the inn.  No doubt Stephen thought the shadows hid him.  Bekah watched for a few minutes before showing herself.  The young man pounded his fists upon the tree, his face streaked with tears not of self-pity, but of self-condemnation.  She understood the feeling well.  She had known it for too many moons.  Now, when she closed her eyes, she could at last see Squire as he had been – not dead, or dying, but standing strong and tall.  Her brother was smiling.  Content that she was at peace.

            She only hoped she could do the same for Stephen Johnston.

            Before going to seek their son, Bekah had borrowed a skirt from his mother.  The soft fabric brushed her legs; so different from the buckskins and cloth trousers she had grown accustomed to.  Rachel Johnston had promised her one of her dresses.  The thought both excited and frightened her.  She had run from her sex for so long, it was going to take a little time to get used to the fact that she was a woman.

            Bekah moved into the light.  “Stephen Johnston,” she said, “may I speak to you?”

            Stephen looked up, startled.  He struck the tears away with the back of his sleeve and started to shake his head.  Then he saw her.  Bekah knew she must present an unusual picture.  She still wore the army coat she had been loaned.  Her linen shirt bore the remnants of its Indian decoration.  And then, there was the skirt, which was a soft shifting blue. 

At a loss for words, Stephen simply frowned.

            Bekah walked to his side and then sat on the ground cross-legged as was her custom.  “May I tell you a story?” she asked, looking away from him.

            “You’re not going to lecture me?” he asked with a sniff.

            “No.  That is not the way of our People.  I will tell you what I have seen and known, and if there is wisdom in it, it is up to you to find it and take it into your heart.”

            “Are you an Indian?  You don’t look like one.”

            Bekah smiled.  Still she did not look at him.  She did not want to shame either of them.  “That is a part of the tale.  Now like the still water, be silent and listen.  My name is Rebekah Boone and once, I had a brother named Squire….”

###

            Three-quarters of an hour later the pair appeared at the front door of the Wild Wood Inn.  Rachel Johnston rose to her feet when she saw her son, but held herself back.  Stephen stared at her for a moment and then, wet-cheeked, limped forward into her arms.  He hugged her tightly – so tightly it seemed as if he might never let go.  Then, remembering he was a man, Stephen let her go and stepped back.

            “I need to go talk to Pa,” he said.

            “Go and wake him then,” she answered.

            Stephen glanced back at Bekah, who waited by the door.  Israel’s daughter nodded and smiled a weary smile.  Then her son turned and, slowly, made his way up the stairs.

            Rachel walked over to Bekah.  “Thank you.”

            “I did not want your son to waste his years as I have.  I told him my story.  I did not tell him what to do.”  Bekah wavered on her feet.  She lifted a hand to her forehead.  “He knew without me having to.”

            Mingo stepped over and caught her arm.  “I think it is time, Bekah, that you join your family.  You and your father will do well to let your mother tend you a day or two, along with her brothers, before you undertake any new adventure.”

            Bekah’s hazel eyes lit with joy.  “My uncles?  They are well?”

            He nodded.  “Adam is whole and Toby has awakened.  The fever is abating.”

            “Then I will sleep.”   

            Rachel turned to Mingo as the young woman moved to follow Stephen up the stairs.  “And you, what will you do?  Get some rest as well?”

            “There is one more task to be completed, dear lady,” the elder Cherokee answered, “and then, I assure you, I most certainly will.” 

~

            The late afternoon sun spilled through the window.  It slid across the polished floor and jumped on the brass fender that fronted the fireplace, sparking like a newly kindled fire.  The sick room was dark, but not so dark that Mingo could not see the figure that occupied the bed.  Tobias Fox was propped up against a nest of pillows.  Copperhead’s youngest son had been stripped of his blood-stained clothes and wore only a simple linen night shirt.  Beneath it, against his deeply tanned skin, soiled bandages showed.  Mingo recognized the familiar scent of willow bark mixed with a half-dozen herbs used to form a homemade poultice that had the power to draw pain from a man’s bruised flesh.  Toby was lying with his eyes closed and, for just a moment, Mingo was thrown back forty years. 

Of all of his friend’s children, this one was the most like Copperhead – at least in appearance.

            Mingo hesitated, unsure if he should wake the invalid.  Toby had only just broken a fever.  He would be weak and must rest.  The needs of the Cherokee would wait until the needs of the man were met.  At peace with that conclusion, Mingo turned to go.  As his fingers touched the brass knob on the door, he heard an intake of breath.

            “Stay,” the wounded man said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

            “You should rest,” Mingo replied, turning back.

            “I will.”  Toby opened his eyes.  “Once we have spoken.”
            He nodded; then he took hold of a chair and drew it to the side of the bed.  Sitting down, Mingo waited.  Though there were things he would say, he meant to let the other man speak first.

            “Watowah?” Toby asked.

            “Taken.”

            The dark eyes narrowed, not with pain but with wariness.  “By the white men?”

            Mingo nodded. “Yes.  He is held in custody until I claim him.  I convinced Major Gray that his fate should be left up to the People.”

            Toby nodded.  “And my men?”

            “Waiting Moon has taken them in search of the others who traveled with Watowah.  They will also be tried for their crimes.”

            “And me?”  Toby’s gaze moved to him.  “Will you try me as well?”

            He was genuinely puzzled.  “Why would I want to see you tried?”

            “I traveled with Watowah.”

            “At Monlutha’s request.”

            “Yes.”  Copperhead’s son shifted uncomfortably.  “And no.  When I left with my chief, I did not know whose side I was on.”

            “You cannot have agreed with Watowah – ”

            “I agreed with what he wanted – not with your death, but with the death of the white man.  I have spent years bringing death to the white man.”

            “Your mother is white,” Mingo countered sharply.

            Toby looked away.  “I have not seen her for more than twenty years.”

            “Well, if you surrender yourself and go to prison, it will be another twenty before you do – if she’s still alive then.”

            The younger man looked back.  The wary look of an animal caged had not disappeared.  “You would let me go?”

            Mingo straightened in the chair.  “Toby, I heard what you did in Hawk’s camp – how in one moment your turned them from the renegade to yourself.  You have powers of persuasion; a personal charisma that can touch the hearts of men.  If…in error…I know what you did before was for the People and not for personal gain.  You are your father’s son, whether you care to admit it or not.  Use your powers for your people’s good.  Make Copperhead proud.”

            Toby’s stoic demeanor cracked.  “My father…does he still live?”

            “Yes.”

            Copperhead’s youngest son fell silent.  He remained so for some time.  Mingo sat with him, waiting.  Even though more than half of his life had been lived among white men, Mingo was at peace with silence.  There was no need for words until there was a need.

            “I will go with you,” Toby said at last.  “I will speak against Watowah.  I will tell my people what I have done.  If they do not condemn me – and if they will have me – I will then speak for them.”

            “ ‘There’s no taking trout with dry breeches,’ ” Mingo quoted with a smile.

            Toby laughed.  Then he winced with pain as his hand shot to his side.  “You’ve been talking with my brother.”

            “Don Quixote was a very wise man.”

            “Mad man, you mean.”

            “A man may be mad past recovery, and yet he can have lucid intervals,” Mingo countered with a paraphrase from Cervantes.  “As the old knight said, ‘Who knows where madness lies?’  Perhaps the only way great things can be done is to think beyond what is possible – and is that not a kind of madness?”

            Copperhead’s son drew a deep breath and leaned forward in the bed, offering him his hand.  “For the People,” he said solemnly.

            Toby’s flesh was still warm, but his grip was sure.

Mingo nodded.  “For the People.”

 Epilogue

Georgia, 1838

            Mingo stood before his old friend’s door.  He hesitated to knock.  Just because he could not sleep, that did not mean Copperhead was still awake.  The sun was cresting on the horizon, rising on a day long expected but denied.  Today they would leave their homes, forced by a cruel government to camps plagued by dysentery and disease.  Neither he nor Copperhead had to go.  As individual land owners they were not subject to removal as were those on tribal lands.  But they had both chosen to move with their people. 

            The People, who had been their lives.

            As Mingo raised his hand to knock at last, the door opened.  Copperhead, who was fully dressed and wore a great coat as if ready for a trip, greeted him with a weary smile.  “Come in, my friend,” he said as he moved out of the way.  “I was just about to come to you.”

            “I see sleep has eluded you as….”  Mingo’s voice trailed off.  They were not alone.  Two men stood before Copperhead’s fire.  One of them was his son Adam, a man in his mid-fifties now.  Adam was elegantly attired as befit his profession as a counselor of the law, in a rich blue suit with a burgundy vest and a tall beaver-skin hat.  The man beside him was slightly younger.  In his late forties, perhaps, and dressed similarly, but on his head he wore a kind of turban and there were other obvious signs of his Indian heritage.  The man was facing the fire, so his features were masked.  When he turned, Mingo drew in a sharp breath.

            It had been years.

“O-si-yo, Mingo,” Tobias Fox said.

“Toby.  The last I heard of you, you were in North Carolina.”  Copperhead’s younger son had traveled with William Holland Thomas whom they both had come to know during their travels in support of the Cherokee’s rights.  The Qualla Cherokee were much like Toby’s own family, landowners who should have been safe from the Removal act.  Fearing they would not be the white lawyer, William Holland, had fought for their rights and won.  There was talk of making Thomas a chief.

“Toby’s been traveling with me for a while, Mingo.  He just got in this morning,” Adam said.  “He came so we could meet with Chief Ross.  I am afraid there is nothing to be done.  We have expended every energy and worked every angle.  All legal options have been exhausted.  This administration is not interested in justice, only in proving it is right by its use of might.”

Mingo turned and looked toward the window.  Outside the day had dawned.  Both the soldiers and their people were stirring.

“Then it is truly over,” he sighed.

“Father, Adam,” Toby said, “if you don’t mind, I would like to speak to Mingo.  Alone.”

Copperhead nodded as Adam said, “We’re going to see the chief.  Come when you are done.”

Together they watched the two men leave and then Toby crossed to the door and closed it behind Adam and his father.  Then Toby turned and faced him.  In the younger man’s face was the fulfillment of the promise Mingo had seen eighteen years before.  For years they had worked together, fighting for their people’s rights, traveling to Washington; speaking before crowds and appearing before Congress.  He and Toby had fought Andrew Jackson’s election and known that loss would mean many, many more; the greatest of which found a name in the Treaty of New Echota.  After that they had parted, Mingo returning to the tribal lands and Toby moving on to North Carolina. 

Mingo had heard that he had died. 

For a long time Toby simply stared at him.  Then he came to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “I have come to release you from your promise, Mingo.”

“Promise?  What promise is that?”

“The one I demanded the night that Hawk was defeated.”

Mingo frowned.  “That I fight for my people, you mean?  As I said then, what else could I do?”

Toby hesitated as if he did not wish to offend him.  Then he said, “Live.”

“I don’t understand….”

Copperhead’s son moved to the window.  He pulled the curtain back and looked out on the rising tide of humanity.  “Since that night my father was beaten and almost killed, I have been driven by an inner fire.  Forty years I have fought.  I paid no heed to family, to myself.  Three years ago the fire overtook me and I almost died.”  He glanced back at Mingo, a shy smile on his face.  “That was when I met Catherine.”

“Catherine?”

“She is Qualla Cherokee.  Her father is a friend of William Holland Thomas.  I fell ill at their home during the celebrations of William’s winning the right for her people to remain on their land.  Catherine tended me.  She…taught me.  There are things more important than throwing one’s life away on a hopeless cause.  And it is hopeless, Mingo.  I asked to speak to you because I consider you a good man, a friend, and someone I dearly love.”  Toby turned back.  “Do not go with the People.  Choose life, not death.”

“Have you said the same thing to your father?” Mingo asked, his voice trembling with emotion.

“Yes.  I have offered him a home with Catherine and me.”

“Did he give you an answer?”

Toby smiled.  “Not yet.  But, as you said so long ago, I can be very persuasive.  With Adam’s voice added to mine, and the fact that Sunalei and her husband bide there as well, I think he will come.”

Mingo was aware that Israel and his family, after his father’s death, had joined the Qualla Cherokee.  Bekah was there too, married to a white man of all things.

“So many years….”  His voice broke and he began again.  “For so many years I have made the People’s cause my own, I do not know if I can walk away.”

“You are an old man, but your son is not.  Nor are his children.  They need you, as I need my father.”  Toby’s fingers tightened on his flesh.  “We have done enough.”

###

Danny Moray placed the book he was reading on the table by the fire and ran his fingers over his eyes.  The words had blurred as his tears spilled onto the pages.  He glanced at the clock on the mantel.  It was nearly midnight.  The day was over.

The Cherokee were gone.

His store had fallen silent early as his customers hastened to watch the tribe’s departure with a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity.  Most did not approve the president’s action, but – as ever – the man on the street had little to do with policy regardless of what the country’s precious Constitution declared.  It had been a day of goodbyes and the emotion of it had taken a toll on him.  Robinson Johnston had mounted up and departed for lands farther west, grateful for new orders that drew him away from the dreadful business.  Danny had lost not only his father, but Copperhead and his family.  He had said goodbye to Adam, Toby and the older Cherokee the night before as well – unwillingly, no, unable to witness the beginning of the long walk.

He was a coward, he knew it.   But since his illness, the strength had gone out of him.  Just like it had gone out of his father with his mother’s death.  Danny knew it was her loss more than anything else that had set his father’s feet on the road that would lead to his death.  He would have to explain it all to the children tomorrow. 

“Dear God,” he whispered as he sank back into the chair.

Unexpectedly, there was a knock at the door.

Danny glanced at the clock again.  Yes, it was nearly quarter past.  Rising wearily from the wingback, he picked up the candle and carried it to the door.  Probably some late night traveler in need of supplies, or one that erroneously thought he kept an inn as well as a dry goods store.  After placing the candle on the table by the door and turning the key in the lock, he opened it.  Outside the moon was full and it cast the stranger into silhouette.

“I’m sorry.  We’re closed,” he said before he saw who it was.

“Does that mean I have to come back tomorrow?” his father asked.

Danny froze, dumbfounded.  “Father?”  For a moment, he thought he was dreaming.  He closed his eyes and shook his head, and then opened them again.  It was no ghost or illusion.  Cara-Mingo, son of Talota and Lord Dunsmore, whom he had grown up calling Kerr Moray and father, stood outside his door.  “Father!” Danny cried as he threw his arms about him.

As Danny’s tears wet the shoulders of his father’s great coat, he looked behind the older man and saw a carriage waiting in the street.  Within it sat Toby and Adam Fox, as well as their father, Copperhead.  Adam saluted smartly and then he ordered the driver to move on.

Danny released his father and backed away.  “I don’t understand,” he said.

            “It’s been a long journey son, but at last, I am home.” 

~

            Mingo stirred and opened his eyes.  Outside the world was crisp.  The black sky was dotted with diamond dust and as he watched, the dust descended, coating the landscape outside his window, turning the December-hard land pure white.  Five years had gone since he had made the choice to remain behind.  This night never passed without his thinking of the Cherokee people.  Over 4000 had died on the trail that was wet with tears.  He did not regret that he had not been one of them.  He had, as Toby suggested, chosen life.  In the last few years he had seen a great grandchild born and held the squalling infant in his arms.  Mingo had lived nearly a century, passing from knowledge as a young man of field and stream, to an old one who had seen both steamboat and iron horse crossing the rivers and plains where once his people had run. 

            He was tired.

            An hour before, his granddaughter Rachel had come to check on him.  She was petite and blond as her grandmother had been.  She had brought him food, but he had told her to leave it by the bed.  It remained there, uneaten. 

            On a night like this Mingo could see them all; the people he had loved and lost.  His mother, Singing Wind, and his bellicose father.  Menewa and Star.  Somewhere out west, ancient beyond words, it was said Arrowkeeper still wandered, but even the younger ones like Monlutha had followed their ancestors and become one with the earth.  And, of course, there was Daniel and Rebecca.  When Israel visited, he had brought with him a bit of earth from their graves.  It sat in a cherrywood box on the table by his bed next to their portraits.

            And then, there was Rachel.

            A tear escaped his eye.

            “Old man, you are feeling sorry for yourself,” a soft voice said.

            Mingo blinked.  “Rachel?” he asked, thinking his granddaughter had returned.

            “Yes,” the woman answered.  Her silk skirts sighed as they struck the side of the bed and she sat beside him.  “It is I, my beloved.”

            The familiar touch of her hand made him look.  The silver light pouring in the window struck her hair, spinning gold.  She wore it piled on her head.  The trailing ends cascaded around her pale but perfect face.  Rachel Cornell Moray was young.

            And beautiful.

            “Rachel?  How?”

            His beloved wife smiled as she rose to her feet.  Still holding his hand, she beckoned him to follow.  He did, casting off the aching fatigue of age and grief as easily as his covers.  As his feet found the floor, Mingo felt renewed, invigorated…

            Alive.

            Rachel walked with him to the mirror that hung on the wall next to the door of the room he occupied in their son’s house.  The man reflected there was young and vital.  His hair black as the bear’s coat.  His skin bronze as a tanned hide.  The frail and fragile frame he had worn the last thirty years had grown lean and well-muscled.  He looked much as he had that year when he met Daniel Boone.

            “They are waiting.  Daniel and Rebecca.  And the others,” Rachel said, almost as if she had read his mind.  “Are you ready?”

            He hesitated.  “What of Danny?”

            She touched his face, his cheek, his lips.  “It will not be long and we will all be together.”
            Mingo looked at her.  Rachel!  Fresh as a meadow in Spring.  Beautiful and breathtaking as the sun in splendor rising to herald a new day.  He caught her in his arms and then crushed her in his strength and kissed her.

            Rachel laughed.  Then she took his hand and spoke.

            “Come, beloved.  The journey home has just begun.”

 - END -