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Dream of Life

Michael Phillips

Dream of Life

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Author is represented by Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard St., Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

Electronic edition published 2012 by Bondfire Books LLC, Colorado.

ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795326400

Dedication

To the Cherokee People and their noble ancestry, to my “one-fourth” Cherokee mother-in-law, Cherokee, to my “one-eighth” Cherokee wife, Judy, and to our three “one-sixteenth” Cherokee sons Patrick, Robin, and Gregory.

Contents

Prologue: From the Old Books—America

Seven Americans in the Royal Court

Part One: Troublesome Times for a Proud People

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Part Two: The Harvest Brings Life

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Part Three: Season of Unrest

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Part Four: A Nation Explodes

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

From the Old Books—America

A hunter, a woman, a child

Ani-Yunwiya—The People

Attacullaculla, Chief of the White Feather

Nanye’hi Ward, Beloved Woman of the Cherokee

Long Canoe and the Secret of the Cave

Secret Mission

Trail of Tears

Notes from the Old Books

Bibliography and Source Materials

Families in Dream of Life

Endnotes

PROLOGUE
From the Old Books
—America—

Seven Americans in the Royal Court

1730

In the year 1729, the Scottish trader Ludovick Grant, enlisted by London adventurer Sir Alexander Cuming, a Scotsman by birth, ventured with Cuming through the rugged wooded region and along the trail over Ooneekawy Mountain into the heart of Cherokee land in the new world called America.

The idea for a voyage to the colonies to meet with native tribes had actually come to Cuming’s wife in a dream back at their home in England. A daring man by nature, Cuming had endorsed the prospect with enthusiasm. It would be an adventure, as well as a chance to help solidify relations with the Indians for the English over the French. Most of all it would increase his standing in the eyes of the English court.

Grant had been into Cherokee territory many times. He had traded with the Cherokee and knew both the settlement of Telliquo as well as that of Tannassy, named for the river, some sixteen miles away. Reaching some lasting agreement with the Cherokee was imperative. Their mission was all the more critical in light of evidence that the Indians were showing more favor toward the French. If another war broke out, the French could take control of all Carolina. Cuming hoped to prevent that by allying the Cherokee with England once and for all.

He had not exactly been sent by King George. But he was loyal to the Crown, and if he could win the Indians over, the English colonies would benefit enormously from the alliance. If it earned him the king’s favor, what Englishman would turn away kindness from the king’s eye?

When asked by Cuming to take him to the chief of the Cherokee, Grant had replied that the Cherokee had many chiefs.

“How many?” asked Cuming.

“Several for each village, and they have more than forty towns—there may be over a hundred chiefs, several hundred. I don’t know.”

“Then take me to the most important of them,” replied Cuming.

“I will take you to Moytoy,” replied Grant in thick Scottish brogue. “He is called the headman of Great Telliquo. But there are other powerful chiefs as well.”

Cuming was amazed at what he saw as they entered what was a village of remarkable size, with dozens of lodges of wood, bark, and mud, a variety of growing crops, and beasts of many kinds, the whole surrounded by a palisade perimeter of vertical logs bound side by side to a height of eight feet or more. He had heard that the Cherokees of DeSoto’s time had lived in sizeable cities. But he had envisioned something far more primitive than this. These people were obviously living a structured, semicivilized, community form of life.

Grant exchanged greetings in the native tongue. He was quickly speaking English again with a young man in his late teens or early twenties, anxious to try out his own broken English. Grant introduced him to Cuming as Ukwaneequa, nephew to the chief, a slight but engaging and personable young man of scarcely more than five feet in height but of keen intellect. His English was sufficient to quickly communicate Sir Alexander’s mission to his fellow villagers.

“And here is the chief’s son, my cousin Oconostota.”

Again Cuming offered his hand in friendship. The young warrior just introduced, however, neither took it nor betrayed any hint of welcoming expression. A momentary shudder went through Cuming’s frame as he glanced at the sheathed knife at his side. He would not want to meet this fellow alone in the forest on a dark night!

He turned again to the short and friendly Ukwaneequa, who now spoke to his cousin in the Cherokee tongue. Oconostota nodded, answered him a few words, then turned and left the group.

“My cousin says his mother is not well,” said the personable youth. “But I will tell my uncle that you are here, and that you come with greetings from the English king. In the meantime, be welcome in our village.”¹

He turned and spoke to some of the others gathered around in his native tongue. While he went in search of his uncle, the rest of the villagers eagerly crowded about their visitors and made them to understand where they would stay. As they made their way through the village to the accompaniment of a growing throng of curious natives, Cuming could not help noticing the scalps of dead enemies hanging from poles in front of warrior houses. The Cherokee may have been one of the advanced tribes in this land, but he shuddered at this visual display of one of their customs.

When at last Moytoy made his appearance, warmly greeting Grant and speaking to Cuming through his nephew, he gave the British a tour of the palisaded town. After being introduced to the powerful priest Jacob the Conjurer, as the English called him, the village priest led them to several nearby caves of stunning beauty, where crystals of unmatched color and clarity grew out of the ground amid hundreds of stalactites and stalagmites. Neither Cuming nor any of his party had seen the like before.

“This is why they are sometimes called the cave people,” said Grant to Cuming. “This region is full of caves, and they make full use of them.”

By many signs and with the help of the chief’s nephew, the priest asked which color of crystal they fancied.

“The light purple,” replied Cuming. “It is the color of royalty.”

“He says for me to tell you,” said Ukwaneequa, “that it will be done, that he will find one the spirit of the cave will allow him to give as a gift to your king.”

Cuming nodded to the priest in gratitude.

“And there, at the far end of the great room of the cave is the great Uktena crystal. The blood of small animals must be fed it twice a week, and the blood of a deer twice a year.”

“Why?” asked Cuming.

“The crystal protects the tribe, as do the caves,” answered the chief’s nephew. “In times of war we hide our treasures, as well as our women and young, in the caves.”

“What kind of treasures?” asked Cuming.

“The yellow stones that come from the earth,” replied Ukwaneequa, “our paint and skins and royal feathers, and of course the crystals from the caves.”

Cuming and Grant exchanged glances but said nothing. Had they just heard what they thought they heard—yellow stones! Had DeSoto’s fabled quest for Cherokee gold actually been based on fact!

Back in the village, after a meal of roasted rabbit and venison, Cuming and his two servants were invited to the headman’s lodge. At last Cuming got down to the business for which he had come so far into the wilds, to gain favor with the Cherokee over the French.

“We come in peace, Great Chief,” he began, “in the name of our king across the water. You are a mighty people whose fame travels far. It is our desire to make alliance between you—your chief and all your people—and my king and his people.”

Ukwaneequa turned to his uncle Okoukaula, Moytoy the younger, and, with occasional help from Grant, gave his uncle to understand Cuming’s words.

“We have many chiefs,” said Moytoy.

“I have heard of this—red chiefs and white chiefs.”

Moytoy nodded. “We have chiefs for war and for peace, and others as well.”

“But it is said that you are chief among your chiefs.”

“Perhaps, but only because I am the great Moytoy’s son. I am still only one among many.”

“You have no emperor, no headman among headmen?”

“I do not know this word. What is an emperor?”

“The ruler of all people.”

“I do not rule all our people. The council rules, not a single chief.”

Cuming thought a moment. “Perhaps you, great headman called Moytoy, shall become king of the chiefs. I shall appoint you emperor.”

Again it was silent. Now it was the Cherokee’s turn to revolve much in his mind.

“The War Chief of Tannassy, the other chiefs of the great council,” said Moytoy. “It may not be that all would agree.”

“But if I could persuade them to give their allegiance to you?” suggested Cuming.

“How would you do such a thing?”

“Give your allegiance to my king,” said Cuming, “and I will see that many gifts come to your people. You will be wealthy among the tribes, with blankets and beads and knives, perhaps even guns. For this would not the rest of the Cherokee give you their allegiance?”

As the explanation—translated between Grant and his nephew—came to Moytoy, it seemed a small price to pay to receive so much from the Englishman. They had traded for many goods from the French and English. The women of the tribe coveted the fine cloth and soft blankets and many variety of beads. And if they could obtain more guns… the French had never made them such an offer.

Slowly Moytoy nodded. “So it shall be,” he said. “I will give my oath of allegiance to your king in exchange for the title and the goods you promise.”

During the entire exchange, the chief’s son Oconostota had not spoken a word.

Two days later, Grant led Cuming and his small band along a sixteen-mile trail to the village of Tannassy where they would find the greatest challenge to their scheme. There dwelt the most powerful war chief among the Cherokee. Carolina trader Eleazer Wiggan, who lived with the Cherokee in Tannassy and whom the Cherokee called the Old Rabbit, met the party of Englishmen and acted as interpreter. With yet more offers of gifts as well as assistance in times of war, Cuming’s smooth tongue resulted in another pledge of loyalty to King George II, as well as an agreement by the Warrior of Tannassy to accept Moytoy as Emperor of the Cherokee. The new word meant as little to the war chief as it had to Moytoy. But his agreement had been secured by the promise of weapons. The Warrior of Tannassy removed his crown of dyed opossum hair and handed it to Cuming in pledge of his word.

As Cuming took the strange crown, obviously of great value in the warrior’s eyes, yet so primitive and from such an ugly and despised animal, the contrast struck him anew between this people and the splendor of the English court.

Suddenly his brain filled with the most extraordinary idea!

“Great Warrior,” he said as Wiggan translated his words. “You shall yourself present your crown to my king, and tell him in your own tongue of your pledge of loyalty.”

A confused expression met Wiggan’s attempted translation.

“You shall accompany me back to England!” added Cuming.

Again Wiggan translated. Slowly the warrior chief shook his head. He had no interest in travel. He only wanted the Englishman’s guns.

“Then perhaps some of your other chiefs shall go with me,” suggested Cuming.

But Wiggan’s words of translation roused no more enthusiasm from any of the other chiefs. Cuming returned to Great Telliquo with the news of the war chief’s agreement to a pledge of loyalty to Moytoy. But now he had on his mind the exciting idea of a visit by native chiefs to England. The party that left Great Telliquo several days later, including Moytoy himself, Jacob the Conjurer, and many of the chief’s attendants, was bound again over the mountain, this time to the valley towns on the other side, where the agreement of a pledge between the Cherokee “emperor” Moytoy and the king of England would be placed before the Cherokee national council at Nequassee. By now the word had spread from village to village, and their coming was greeted with much fanfare and anticipation. With feasting and dancing and much ceremony, and with the continued smooth negotiation of Sir Alexander Cuming, the national council recognized Moytoy as Emperor of all the Cherokee, and gave its allegiance to King George II of England.

Under the agreement, the Cherokee would not trade with the French. The English would favor the Cherokee among other native tribes with the best of its goods. The Cherokee would be rewarded for the capture and return of fugitive slaves from the Carolina colonies. And should war break out against them, either from the French or other tribes, the Cherokee would receive military assistance from the colonial militia. Immediate arrangements were also made for the shipment to the Cherokee villages numerous guns with ammunition, as well as the coveted red paint produced in the colonies.

The Cherokees had their half of the bargain, and Cuming had his so-called Emperor. It was the first of many such agreements between the English and the Cherokee.

Only one other arrangement needed to be concluded to make Cuming’s coup with the Cherokee nation complete. But from none of the villages could he interest a single chief in a voyage to England. All asked how long it would take, and, being told three months, quickly declined.

Cuming pled with Moytoy one last time.

“Great Emperor of the Cherokee, I earnestly entreat you to accompany me to my homeland across the sea, to meet my king to whom you have pledged your loyalty.”

“The distance is too great,” replied Moytoy shaking his head. “You say it is a full moon each way.”

“That is true. But you would see dazzling sights none of your people have ever beheld. Your name would be great for all time.”

“My wife is unwell. I cannot be away from our people so long.”

Cuming thought of the short, young, enthusiastic Ukwaneequa to whom he had already grown attached. It would be better, he thought, to take a youth than to return empty-handed. He suggested the boy to the chief. Moytoy nodded in consent.

Others of the young men in the towns and villages of the Cherokee soon heard that young Ukwaneequa was planning to go with Cuming. Interest in the voyage across the water began to spread.

When Sir Alexander Cuming at last returned over the mountains to the settlement in eastern Carolina, seven Cherokee men, one of them Chief Oukah-Ulah, accompanied him, bound for the adventure of their lives.

Diamonds and precious stones glittered from white necks and wrists, mingled with subdued laughter from the ladies of the court. An air of cultured gaiety, the fluttering of fans, rustling of silk dresses, and a murmured undercurrent of hushed voices filled the great hall. The clusters of ladies and gentlemen numbering several hundred before the closed doors of the throne room represented the aristocratic elite of Europe. None had spared the least effort to adorn themselves for the upcoming audience with His Majesty, King George II of England.

The occasion was the king’s installation of his Knights of the Garter. Though but a few would be honored, many of those present hoped for a momentary word with the king or perhaps some mark of recognition during the day’s ceremony and following banquet.

Into the middle of the assembly walked a tall man, lean, for he had not recently been feasting on the soft foods of refinement, but hale and hearty from spending so much of his time out of doors. In contrast with the setting, his eyes shone with a keen look of adventure. His approach turned several heads, and exclamations followed.

“Cuming!” called a gentleman nearby. “A great pleasure to see you again! We heard a rumor that your recent voyage to the colonies left you in poor health. I am glad to see otherwise. You are thin, I must say, but I have never seen you looking better.”

“The colonies are not nearly so bad as the crossing!” laughed Cuming. “Primitive of course, but in most ways tolerable.”

“Do tell us what the colonies are like, Sir Alexander!” gushed a young lady. “Did you encounter any of those frightful savages one hears about?”

“Encounter them!” laughed Cuming. “I ate with them, slept with them, sojourned in the wilds with them, and am privileged to call many from the Cherokee tribe my friends.”

Expressions of astonishment went round the slowly expanding circle. The adventurer’s name had become well-known throughout London due in large measure to the exaggerated reports of his wife.

“Are they as backward and savage as the reports say?” asked another.

“Perhaps in some ways so they might appear,” replied Cuming. “The sight of enemy scalps hanging from war poles to adorn the homes of their warriors is shocking at first, I admit—”

Gasps sounded from the women. Several faces turned faint at the hideous thought.

“Some of their customs take getting used to. They have sent several scalps as a gift to the king. But believe it or not, our own English colonists also collect the black-haired scalps of Indians.”

“Disgusting!” exclaimed one of the men.

“I am not sure whether to believe you, Sir Alexander. No Englishman would do such a thing.”

“It is true. There is cruelty and barbarism on both sides across the sea, let me assure you.”

He paused briefly, allowing some of the hubbub over scalps to die down.

“Furthermore,” Sir Alexander added, “seven of their men have accompanied me here to England.”

The expressions of surprise now rose yet higher and spread throughout the great hall. Soon every eye rested upon Cuming. He turned and gestured widely, obviously enjoying this moment he had anticipated for more than a month.

Through the door at which he had entered a minute earlier emerged seven men. The one chief among them was dressed in English garb suitable for the occasion. The smooth tan skin of the other six was painted with spots of red, blue, and green. Feathers of many colors adorned their long black hair. The only clothing upon their brown, muscular bodies was the leather apron around each waist extending to the knees. Their feet were wrapped in leather moccasins.

“Indians!” sounded several exclamations of astonishment, for the discussion of scalps had not yet been forgotten. Murmured questions flew through the room. But even with hundreds of eyes staring at them, the seven Cherokee men remained calm, stoic, and dignified. Whether they were terrified or awestruck by the assembly, no hint of expression crossed their faces. Lean though muscular, all were of above average height, except for the nephew of Chief Moytoy, whose head barely reached the shoulder of the others.

In the midst of the commotion, a sudden double rap of the royal staff on the floor announced the arrival of the king.

“His Majesty, King George the Second!” called the court herald in a loud solemn voice.

The great double doors swung open. The crowd parted as the king advanced behind his guards.

Ladies and gentlemen bowed low. The king walked through the aisle of adoring subjects, smiling and nodding graciously. Pacing the length of the room he directed his steps straight towards Cuming, then paused and spoke.

“Sir Alexander,” he said, “we had heard of your return, and of the natives who accompanied you,” he added with a glance behind Cuming. “You are the talk of London. And it would appear with good reason!”

Cuming bowed low. “Your Majesty,” he said, “these seven men from the Cherokee tribe in the New World have come to pay homage to Your Majesty—in recognition of a treaty between ourselves and the Cherokee nation and their newly proclaimed Emperor, Chief Okoukaula Moytoy.”

“Is the chief one of these?” asked the king, nodding toward the seven silent Americans.

“He is not, Your Majesty,” replied Cuming. “His nephew has come in his stead. I have also brought one of their chiefs called Oukah-Ulah.”

“I see,” replied the king. “Take me to meet them.”

Cuming led the way toward the seven silent men who stood erect and unembarrassed to one side of the assembly. To the king’s surprise Cuming stopped in front of the shortest of the delegation and addressed him. The king had entertained princes and kings over the years and visited every court of Europe. George II was one familiar with power and dignity. Though the men before him were dressed as primitives, their carriage spoke more clearly than words that they understood the language of greatness.

A red-faced baronet began to chuckle as he watched the display, mistaking the king’s silence for condescension.

“They will at least provide the king’s court some much needed entertainment,” he began to one beside him. “I daresay, I have never seen such savagery—”

Suddenly the king spun around, his face flushed with anger.

“Are we to understand, my lord, that you find humor in these men!” he snapped. “How dare you mock or belittle them? These men are no mere savages. They are princes. Can you not see it in their eyes?”

Humiliated, the baronet shrunk back under the king’s glare and said no more.

The king turned again toward his guests.

“Your Majesty,” said Cuming, “may I present Ukwaneequa, nephew of Emperor Moytoy. If the name is too difficult, we call him the Little Carpenter. He is familiar with our tongue. Beside him stands Chief Oukah-Ulah, the headman of their town of Tassetchee.”

The king shook the hands of both men. “I bring you greetings from my uncle, and from our people,” said Ukwaneequa, the youngest of the group. At the sound of his voice, speaking in their own language, again murmurs spread throughout the hall. The young man’s voice seemed to ring with the same dignity as their strange but compelling demeanor.

The king now offered his hand to each of the other five in turn as Cuming recited their unusual names—Kettagusta, Tathtiowie, Clogittah, Collanah, and Ounakannowie.

At last the king turned to his attendants. “I would have them dine with us today,” he said. “There is much we would learn of their people and their land. They may stand behind my table.”

When the ceremony and installation were complete an hour later, the assembly filed into the great dining hall where the feast had been prepared. The king’s attendants conducted Cuming’s seven guests to a place behind the king’s table.

During the meal the king asked many questions about the New World and declared himself astonished at the intelligence and nobility of his guests. He asked about their “emperor” as Cuming called Chief Moytoy and about the habits of their people in times of war and peace. Although the official spokesman for the group was Oukahulay, who presented the king with the crown of dyed opossum hair, the king directed most of his questions to Ukwaneequa. His quick and courteous answers won him the favor of all present.

Over the course of the next days and weeks, the king bestowed many gifts upon his visitors. Besides the opossum crown, they had also brought the king a vest of soft deerskin, a flint-tipped arrow, a wampum necklace of precious shells, the crystal from Jacob the Conjurer… and the Creek scalps.

Chief among the king’s gifts to the seven were signet rings he himself placed on the hand of each young Indian. The rings were a mark of honor and respect for those whom he called Cherokee princes, made of pure gold, a metal with which the Cherokee were well familiar, and containing the king’s signet. With the exchange of gifts the king declared that peace and friendship should exist forever between the kings of the Old World and the New.

Before the seven stepped upon their own lands they determined that the seven rings the king had given would be worn in times of peace, but kept in the tribal council lodge in times of war lest they fall into the hands of the war council and become a tool for death and destruction for a war chief of the red feather.

Soon after his return from England, Ukwaneequa began to rise in the leadership of the Cherokee. His name was changed to Attacullaculla and he became chief of the white feather. For the rest of his life, Attacullaculla remained steadfast in his loyalty to the British crown and was the leading Cherokee spokesman for peace. As the white settlers took more and more of the Cherokee land, however, there were many other Cherokee chiefs who did not share his sentiments.

Toward the end of his life, Attacullaculla knew he must somehow preserve the legacy of the seven sacred rings. He looked to his niece Nanye’hi Ward, she who had been most greatly honored among all Cherokee women with the title Ghigua, or “Beloved Woman,” as one whom he could entrust with the sacred charge.

When Nanye’hi, herself by now a woman of advancing years, glanced up to see the aging chief approaching in his chieftain’s garments, she sensed something momentous at hand. An hour later, uncle and niece, the most respected chief and the most revered woman among all the Cherokee, were on their way up the sacred mountain together.

The charge given to Nanye’hi that day was one she herself passed on years later to Attacullaculla’s great-grandson Long Canoe, whose faithfulness to their people she had been watching since the day of his birth. The rings must be hidden and their legacy kept safe.

As Attacullaculla had passed that solemn responsibility on to her, she now passed it on to the young man whose destiny would fade from the view of his fellow Cherokee. But the heritage he carried, though shrouded over for a season like the mists covering the mountains his people had long called home, would like those same Smokey Mountains, reappear in time to give new life to the legacy of a proud and ancient people.

From the Old Books continues at the end of this volume.

PART ONE

TROUBLESOME TIMES
FOR A PROUD PEOPLE
1819-1846

One

While darkness still covered the land, a man and boy, both more pale of skin than would have seemed likely from their heritage, made their way on horseback away from the land their people had possessed for more generations than any of their wisest men now remembered.

Long Canoe led the way up the mountain in the darkness. His nephew was still in a tragic stupor from the events of earlier in the evening. They paused briefly beside the sound of a waterfall, made more thunderous in the still of night. Behind it the man must tend to one final errand.

By daybreak they were well away through the valley and the deerskin pouch of she known as the Ghigua was several times heavier than before. It not only bore five sacred rings but enough gold to cover the expenses of a long journey and much else besides. His intuition told him that his nephew’s life depended on the speed and secrecy of their flight. They must travel far beyond the borders of the Cherokee and keep their identity hidden. Surely the assassins would not soon forget either the son or the brother of Swift Water.¹

When would it be safe here? With a sudden twinge of melancholy Long Canoe wondered if he and his nephew would ever return to the once quiet mountain valley where they had both been born. This was indeed a sad moment. But he knew that for now, they must disappear without a trace.

Theirs was a legacy already being overrun by the rush of two new races—one white, one black—across this continent that the brown tribes of a diverse but related people had for millennia had to themselves. There would be no turning back of history’s relentless march. Henceforth it would be a shared land, and the white man would write its new history, not the brown or the black. It would depend on a few like him to preserve the ancient legacy of his people. Both man and boy were of Attacullaculla’s seed. The man’s reasons for leaving were to preserve the past, not abandon it.

In the north he hoped to protect that heritage, even if to do so meant hiding it for a time.

By the time Long Canoe was missed, the rest of his kinsmen assumed that he too had died that night, or perhaps had fled west. His close friends shook their heads in bewilderment. Long Canoe had never expressed a desire to go west. His distant cousin Major Ridge thought he might have hidden himself in the mountains. But as the months passed and Long Canoe never returned to his seat on the Cherokee council, gradually the others assumed he was either dead or had joined the Old Settlers in the west.

What had happened to the boy likewise remained a question no one could answer.

After they were found to be missing and never returned, no one ever knew that aging Nanye’hi had, with the help of her daughter Katy Harlan, braved one more arduous journey to the top of the sacred mountain. What was her mission she never even told Katy. But when she emerged from the cave behind the waterfall, leaning on her trusted walking stick, a knowing smile spread across her lips which said more than she ever told another soul.

She could die in peace. The legacy would go on. Where destiny would take the rings, even her prophetic vision could not tell. But she was at peace. Long Canoe had been faithful to his charge. The Great Spirit would watch over them now.

Long Canoe was never heard from again. The suddenness with which he had vanished was forever after shrouded in mystery. The few who in later years came to know of his whereabouts, and even visited him from time to time, never divulged his secret. Most assumed that he had followed the Old Settlers west. In after years, however, when contact between eastern and western Cherokees was reestablished, there was no trace of his arrival among the western Cherokee.

Thus the mystery of his disappearance grew into legend.

In a small brick boarding school in New England the headmaster was concluding his final arrangements for a new pupil.

The boy said little as his uncle spoke with the man. He sensed that his past lay behind him and that his future was here. But at twelve, even the stoicism of his race could not prevent his being intimidated at sight of his future home.

The headmaster rang a bell. His assistant appeared and took the lad to his classroom to introduce him to his teacher and fellow students. When the two men were alone, the discussion continued.

“How long will the boy be with us?” asked the headmaster.

“I will leave you enough to cover two years’ expenses,” said the traveler from the south. “At that point I will assess his progress.”

“How will I contact you?”

“You will not be able to for a while. I will be in touch with you. I will be relocating myself. It is best for the boy to remain ignorant of my whereabouts for a time. He must learn to make a place for himself here.”

“As you wish, sir,” said the headmaster, a little skeptically. “But if the boy’s tuition is not paid I will have no choice but to turn him out—”

“Do not worry, my friend. The boy’s expenses will be paid in full. Money does not happen to be one of our problems. But the boy is in no little danger, as am I—”

The expression of concern on the headmaster’s face registered clearly enough that he wondered if he had made a mistake by admitting the new student.

“Have no worries,” said his strange visitor. “The danger I speak of is far away. Much farther than you can imagine. Not a trace of it will follow him here. We have traveled a great distance. Our movements are untraceable. But if his true identity were to become known to the wrong people, or my whereabouts discovered, there could be consequences. The boy must not know where I am. For the present he must be cut off from his roots. There is much danger. That is why I have brought him to you. It is for his own safety. I do not know what the future holds for me. Eventually he may contact me through you. I am sorry to be secretive, but it is for the boy’s best. I ask you to trust me. I will reveal more in time.”

The headmaster nodded, apparently satisfied.

“One more thing I would ask,” added the boy’s uncle. “Please watch him closely for a time. He has suffered a terrible shock with the loss of his parents. His need of love will be great. He is alone in the world. Even I as his closest relation cannot be near without endangering him.”

“My wife and I will do all we can for him.”

“He is a good boy, intelligent, quick to learn. He will adapt.”

“I will be sure he receives all he needs.”

“I am more grateful than I can say for your kindness. I will contact you when I can. Now… will you take me to him? I would have a few final words alone before I depart.”

The man who now changed his name for a second time in his life, taking again to himself his father’s English surname, left the wintry skies of New England where he had studied at Dartmouth years earlier, and traveled south again. He used a portion of his gold to purchase a fertile track of land suitable for many purposes, and settled in the heart of Virginia. The tract was only some sixty acres, whose rocky ground and thin topsoil had never attracted a buyer. But its location, several small but choice fields, and two or three extensive caves beneath the northern ridge, would suit his purposes perfectly.

Within a few short years, the ground had become profitable, verdant, and was the envy of every plantation owner for miles around.

Young Swift Horse, nephew of Long Canoe, grew into manhood. Gradually the events of his early life faded into the mists of memory along with his Cherokee name. None of his fellows ever suspected the true origins of his bloodline, nor did he himself pay much heed to events occurring within the nation of his heritage. Old chiefs were dying and with them an ancient way of life slowly passed into history. He was one of the new breed who thoroughly integrated into the modern life of New England America.

Two

The westering sun sank slowly behind a tree-lined ridge. In a remote region of the North Carolina mountains known as Winding Creek the hot afternoon seemed endless. Four women counted out the slow hours in a little log cabin where they were gathered to help in the birth of the newest child of the Cherokee Wolf Clan. The oldest woman was herself a matriarch of the clan. Her once dark hair gleamed with the silver of many winters that had come and gone since she was first laid in her mother Nanye’hi’s arms. The birth she was attending now was for the child of her own daughter Ailcey.

It had been a difficult birth. The young mother had been laboring since dawn but the child seemed little closer to entering the world than when she began. Some of the women spoke in concerned whispers. But Katy Harlan, as she was called, knew that the child would survive. She had seen a white doe on the ridge the previous night. She knew that it signified the arrival of peace and prosperity to the clan.

Cata’quin placed a cool cloth on the young mother’s forehead and squeezed her sweaty hand.

“Courage, Ailcey. The child is almost here.”

The mother opened her mouth but a pang seized her. The words became instead a cry of pain.

Two women hurried with rags and hot water from the kettle. The taller of them, a young black woman in her early twenties, crushed some herbs into the steaming water to freshen the air. She understood the anguish in the eyes of the young mother. She had given birth to a child of her own a few months before. She and her husband were black slaves on the Harlan farm. She had grown up with Ailcey like a sister. She leaned over the bed.

“Miz Ailcey, you’s most dere,” she said softly. “I ken see a little head now.”

As she spoke the young mother made a final desperate effort. Eight or ten minutes later the thin wail of a newborn greeted her ears as she dropped back in complete exhaustion.

Grandmother Katy Harlan took the baby in her arms and presented it to its mother.

“You have a daughter!” Katy announced proudly. “This one is a special child, Ailcey.” Her eyes took on a faraway look as she gazed down on the tiny red face of her granddaughter. “She will have a long and eventful life. She will travel far from her home if my eyes do not deceive me and she will make peace between many people before the end. Perhaps she will even wear the ring of my mother the Ghigua.”

Katy touched the gold ring on her right hand and then smiled as she saw how large it looked next to the tiny curled fists of the newborn.

“What you gwine call her, Miz Ailcey?” asked her black friend.

With the sound of her legendary ancestor still faintly in her ears, she replied.

“Chigua,” whispered the mother, then closed her eyes.

When Chigua’s birth was announced in the village there was great rejoicing. But the happiness of the clan was brief. The toll of the birth had been too great for the mother and young Ailcey’s strength was too far gone. She could not recover and steadily weakened. Within a week she was gone. Little Chigua had lost her mother.

The family held council and came to a quick decision. The newborn would need a mother’s milk for many months. The obvious choice for a wet nurse was the young black slave Sudina Magodan who had attended the birth. Her own child was but three months of age.

Thus little Chigua, descendant of the legendary Cherokee chief Moytoy, suckled and then grew up with Sudina’s children, descendants of the youngest son of an ancient forgotten African chief called Tungal whose son Magoda, known as Moses, had lived during the time of Moytoy the elder.

Young Chigua, great-granddaughter of the Nanye’hi Ward the legendary Ghigua, was three when she first remembered hearing Sudina telling one of her older children of the five rivers of her native land.

“Look at dat han’er yers, chil,” whispered Sudina softly, unaware that Chigua was listening as intently as her own five-year-old daughter. “Dem’s da lines ob doze five ol’ ribers dat da ol’ king from da ol’ country tol’ his chilluns ’bout. Doze be da five ribers er freedom dat our people once knew, an’ dat dey’s gwine know agin one day. Dey say da blood er kings is inside us, chil’, an’ dat we’ll gib birth ter kings one day agin. So don’ you neber fergit ter look at dat han’er yers an’ doze lines ob da five ribers, cuz dey’ll tell you who you is, an’ where you cums from.”

Though her own race would in time ingrain into her consciousness its own legends from the old books of her ancient past, this slice of history from the black race with which she shared her youngest years also became so deeply part of her from constant repetition in her hearing that all her life Chigua could not look at her hand without silently wondering if she too might somehow be distantly connected not only to Moytoy but also to the ancient chieftain of the blacks whose name time had forgotten.

Three

An adventurous aristocratic Frenchman decided to seek for himself a new life in the New World where land was cheap and opportunity unlimited. Twenty-four-year-old Jacques LeFleure sailed in 1798 to the island of Jamaica, where he used a portion of a sizeable inheritance to purchase a sugar plantation. Behind him in France he left a wife, also of high breeding and aristocratic blood, and baby daughter. It took LeFleure about a year to get the plantation and home in order and suitable for the style of living to which they were accustomed. Then he sent for his family. Accompanying Madame LeFleure as lady’s maid and governess to the child was a young statuesque French Negro girl of sixteen. Like her mistress, Calantha Billaud was well-educated and spoke three languages and also commanded a reading knowledge of Latin. She possessed enough of an adventuresome spirit to find the prospect of travel to the New World exciting and full of challenge.

Over the next several years the plantation prospered. LeFleure and Madame LeFleure had two sons and another daughter. Though black, Miss Billaud was treated as an equal member of the family. LeFleure, already wealthy before arriving in Jamaica, refused to own another human being. He did not operate his plantation with the use of slaves, but employed freedmen, white and native, and paid them a fair wage. He grew to become a respected member of the Jamaican community.

When the two LeFleure sons reached seventeen and eighteen, they were sent to the mainland of the United States to study at the University of Georgia. While they were away, Madame LeFleure took ill with a fever and died. The sons came home briefly for the funeral, then returned to their studies on the mainland. There they learned the agricultural methods of the great southern plantations, with an eye to introducing cotton to their father’s enterprise. They also became intrigued with the dependency of the South’s cotton economy on slavery. By the end of their schooling they had thoroughly adapted themselves to the peculiar institution of slavery their father despised. This change in outlook, however, they thought it best not to divulge to him.

In the next two years following his wife’s death, while his sons were still away, Jacques LeFleure came to realize how attached he had become to his wife’s maid and friend, Miss Billaud. The grieving Frenchman, wealthy but now lonely, one daughter grown and married, his two sons away, began to haunt the classroom where Miss Billaud continued to tutor his youngest daughter, now in her teen years, watching and listening to every word that fell from the enchanting black lips. He began inviting the governess, now a majestic and stately black woman of regal beauty and thirty-nine years, to walk with him in his expansive gardens when the days’ lessons were done. Their conversations grew gradually more relaxed. Intimidated somewhat at first, in time Miss Billaud grew comfortable with the man’s gentleness, kindness, and humor. Laughter gradually accompanied their time together and slowly the sun returned to the countenance and heart of Jacques LeFleure.

Though LeFleure was nine years senior to his governess, before long they were nearly inseparable. The two were married in 1824. A son was born to them in 1825 whom they called Sydney.

Upon completion of their studies, the two sons, now in their twenties, returned to help their father on the plantation and to institute some of the changes they had planned. Now older and having grown accustomed to the feelings toward the Negro in the American South, whatever fondness they might once have felt for their childhood governess had disappeared. In their minds they had forgotten how very black she was. The sight of her on their father’s arm, speaking in cultured French as if she was his equal, was enough to turn their stomachs. In many ways, though they still treated him with the respect of his station, they had become thorough sons of the American South, and despised their father for what he had done.

As for the half-black child of their father’s unbelievable marriage, he was nothing but a bastard in their eyes, certainly not the half brother to which the blood in his veins testified. They hated him and lost no opportunity to treat the poor youngster with cruelty and contempt behind their father’s back.

Calantha did her best, however, in the occasionally unpleasant circumstances, to bring up her son in the culture and refinement of a Jamaican plantation atmosphere. She taught him the classics, stories from the Bible, and to read and write, in addition to French and Latin, Spanish and English. The boy’s aging father Jacques doted on his tan-skinned young son and gave him every advantage that his wealth afforded him. His older grown sons resented the boy all the more bitterly, seeing him lavished with privileges they had forgotten that they too had enjoyed.