American Dreams (2 page)

"Miz Temple." Ike shifted in his seat, angling his head back to her. "They be some riders ahead. They look like Georgians."

Temple's response was instant and sharp. "Drive on. Do not stop this carriage for any reason."

"But they be blockin' the road."

"Do as I say!"

"Yes'm."

The three riders pulled up and ranged their horses across the road. As the carriage drew closer to the spot, Ike shook his head. "They ain't room to go 'round, Miz Temple."

"Take the whip to the horses and go through them!"

"Yes'm."

With a shout to the team, Ike cracked the whip over their backs. The horses lunged into a gallop, jerking the carriage forward. Thrown back against the seat, Eliza grabbed at the sides for balance, while Temple remained perfectly poised and in place.

The three men swung out of the path of the onrushing carriage, one splitting off to the left and the other two going to the right. As the chestnut team charged into the gap, the three riders maneuvered their horses alongside and one man grabbed the reins from Ike, pulling back and forcing the carriage to a halt.

"You best be careful, boy," another rider drawled to Ike. "You nearly had yourself a runaway."

"Release my team at once!" Temple stood, her voice filled with fury. Eliza stared at her in astonishment. Still composed and confident, Temple allowed her temper to shine through eyes that Eliza felt certain could flash lightning.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" the same man murmured as he walked his horse back to the carriage. "Looks like she's a real Cherokee princess, don't she?"

Undeterred by either his sarcasm or leering smile, Temple ordered again, "I said release my team."

"Now is that any way to talk when we just saved you?" the man chided in open mockery. "Don't sound very grateful to me."

"It sure don't," another man echoed.

"That sure is a mighty fancy carriage she's got, Cale," the third rider declared, addressing the man Temple confronted. "And a fine-lookin' team, too. Matched as purty as you please. My missus sure would look fine in a rig like this."

"Yeah. You oughta make her a present of it."

Eliza was certain they were about to be robbed.

"No, you will not take it!" Temple grabbed the whip from her black driver and brandished it threateningly.

An explosion ripped the air. Eliza nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled toward the sound and saw two men on horseback emerge from the trees near the road. A telltale curl of smoke rose from the musket carried by one of them. From his bronze skin, high cheekbones, and straight black hair, Eliza judged him to be an Indian.

"You were told to release the team," the man said into the charged stillness. His tone was deceptively quiet, almost lazy in its inflection. But there was nothing indolent about the way he pointed the barrel of the musket in the general direction of the three men, a fact they noted with something less than pleasure.

"You're asking for trouble, Injun," the one called Cale muttered.

"And I think you are in no position to give it to me." He smiled and the smile was somehow deadly.

Fringed moccasins reached all the way up to his knees. A pair of close-fitting buckskin leggings hugged long, sinewy thighs. The dark blue of a hunter's shirt outlined the width of his muscled shoulders. But it was the dangerous-looking scar on his left cheek that gave weight to his words.

"What's that nigger doin' with a musket?" Cale demanded, waving a hand at the young colored man who accompanied the Indian rescuer. Belatedly, Eliza noticed that he was similarly armed. "You shouldn't give guns to coloreds."

"He carries it for me. But he tends to be careless. It might go off if you attempt to take it from him."

The colored man looked anything but careless or incompetent in his handling of the weapon.

"Come on, Cale." The heavyset rider released his hold on the reins and swung his horse away from the carriage team. "Let's get out of here."

The man wavered, his expression tightening in displeasure and his gaze stabbing at the Indian who sat calmly astride his horse. "I'll remember you, redskin," he warned and slapped his horses.

The trio rode off. Eliza stared after them, still dazed by the incident. "Those men, did they truly intend to take the carriage and leave us afoot?"

"They did indeed, Miss Hall, and we could have done nothing about it. Not now or later," Temple added somewhat cryptically before turning to face the buckskin-clad man who came riding up. There was something pleased and proud, and vaguely possessive, in the way she looked at him. "They would have succeeded if The Blade had not arrived when he did."

The Blade. Eliza frowned at the unusual name as Temple Gordon greeted him, breaking into a language that was obviously her native tongue. He echoed the sound, drawing Eliza's attention to him.

"Miss Hall, may I present The Blade Stuart," Temple began.

Eliza never heard the rest of the introduction. She was too stunned to find herself staring into a pair of blue eyes that appeared even more blue by the deep coppery shade of the man's skin.

"After your long journey, I regret that you were welcomed so rudely to our nation, Miss Hall." The sound of his voice jolted Eliza from her absorption.

Her glance darted briefly to the long and jagged scar on his cheek before his reference to the would-be robbers prompted Eliza to ask, "Who were those men?" She directed her question to Temple. "And why did you imply they could have stolen your carriage and team with impunity?"

But it was The Blade Stuart who answered. "They were Georgians, Miss Hall. They believe this part of the Cherokee Nation was given to them years ago by your federal government. When gold was discovered last year in our mountains an hour's ride to the east, Georgia passed a law seizing possession of all this land and forbidding any Cherokee to mine the gold or give testimony against a white man. Which leaves the Georgians free to come onto our lands, steal our property, and attack our people without fear of punishment."

"That cannot be true," Eliza protested, torn between outrage and disbelief.

"I assure you it is, Miss Hall," he stated, then looked at Temple. "In times such as these, you need to be wary when you venture from your home."

"And in times such as these, you are needed at home," Temple stated in sharp criticism.

"I am on my way there now."

"For how long this time?" Temple challenged. "A day? A week? A month? Before you succumb to your restless urges and leave again. Your father is no longer a young man. He needs your help. Your people need your help. It is time you assumed your rightful place as the son of Shawano Stuart."

The Blade was clearly amused by her lecture. "So you told me the last time I saw you."

"And you paid no attention to me. This time you must," Temple insisted.

"And if I do, will you show me the sweetness of your smile instead of the sharpness of your tongue?" His smile continued to make light of her words, but there was a darkening of interest in his eyes as he watched her.

Knowing she had won a small victory, Temple looked away. "I would at least view you with some respect."

"Perhaps it is not respect I want from you," he murmured, then smoothly switched the subject. "How is your mother?"

Temple started to protest the change, then checked the impulse. "She is still troubled by a cough. Otherwise, she is well."

"She will be anxious for you to return. Deu and I will ride a ways with you to ensure the Georgians do not decide to ambush you farther along the road." He backed his horse clear of the carriage.

"Your escort is appreciated, Mr. Stuart," Eliza declared, and she took her seat again.

As soon as Temple joined her, Ike slapped the reins and chirruped to the team, urging them forward. The Blade Stuart and the young black man with him cantered their horses to the front and ranged along the road ahead of the carriage.

"The Blade. That is an unusual name," Eliza remarked.

"It comes from his Cherokee name, which means 'the man who carries the mark of the blade.'"

"The scar on his cheek."

Temple nodded. "He received it in a fight when he was twelve." Her glance traveled to the man under discussion, and her expression softened. "He has been a disappointment to his father. And to others."

Eliza recalled Temple's earlier criticism of him and guessed, "You do not like him very well, do you?"

Temple gave her a startled look. "You are wrong, Miss Hall. If he would but remain here and assume the responsibilities that are his, I would marry him."

"What?"

"Our families have always wanted it."
 

"But is it what you want?"

"It is what I have always wanted," Temple stated with a determined set to her chin and a gleam in her eye that no proper young lady should have.

 

 

 

2

 

 

Thirty more minutes of travel brought the carriage and its occupants to a fork in the road. The Blade Stuart and his black companion took the rutted trail that branched to the right. Ike swung the chestnut team after them, and the federal road was left behind.

On either side of the rough track, the land had been tamed by the plow and planted to crops. Eliza saw fields of corn, indigo, and cotton, the green of young plants vivid against the red-colored soil. Here and there, pastures formed islands of solid green, thick grass providing forage for the cattle that grazed in them.

A mile from the federal road turnoff, The Blade Stuart reined his horse off the trail and pulled in long enough to make eye contact with Temple. Then, without so much as a nod of his head or a lift of a hand, he rode his horse into a stand of trees, the young black man trailing behind him. The carriage continued on, without any slackening of pace.

"Where is Mr. Stuart going?" Eliza inquired when he disappeared from view.

"The home of his father lies beyond that ridge. It will shorten his journey to ride across it."

"I see." Eliza faced the front again and inspected the rutted lane ahead of them. "I hope we meet no more Georgians."

"Few venture onto this trail," Temple assured her.

"Let us pray that is the case today as well." Eliza clutched at the side of the carriage for balance as a front wheel dipped crazily into a deep hole hidden by a puddle of standing water. An instant later, the wheel rolled free with a bouncing jerk.

Ike pulled the team out of a trot into a walk. Directly ahead, a low-water crossing was flooded with runoff from the recent rains and dammed by a fallen limb of an ancient cottonwood tree and the detritus snared by it.

Two Negroes worked to clear the debris and let the water resume its normal flow. One stood in water up to his knees and tugged at the tangle of branches and brush, a single suspender holding his pants up, his dark skin glistening with sweat. The other wielded an ax and chopped at the thick cottonwood limb. The ringing
thwack
of the ax blade biting into the wood sounded above the rattle and rumble of the carriage.

A man on horseback had stationed himself on the opposite bank, where the towering arms of the cottonwood shaded him from the sun's burning rays. Eliza gathered from his watchful attitude that he was there to oversee the work. Slavery, she knew, was a common practice in the Southern states, but one she simply could not endorse.

"That is a shameful sight," Eliza stated, unable to hold her tongue any longer.

Temple gave an absent nod of agreement, her expression showing a similar displeasure. "Little progress has been made since first I passed here. Our field Negroes grow lazy in my father's absence. He will not be pleased."

"Your
field Negroes?" Eliza repeated in surprise. "Those are your slaves?"

"Yes," Temple confirmed. "Did you think they belonged to someone else?"

"No. That is ... I simply did not expect a Cherokee to countenance the owning of slaves."

"How else would we plant and harvest our crops?"

"Hire them as you would any worker and pay them a fair wage for their labor. This practice of slavery is an abomination. It should be abolished. Colored people are human beings; they are not livestock to be bought and sold."

Temple summarily dismissed the notion. "You are from the North. You know nothing of our blacks or you would not show such ignorance."

Eliza was about to argue her position when the full import of Temple's earlier remark registered. She sat up. "You said those were your field Negroes. That means we have reached the land you farm."

"We have, yes."

Eliza craned her neck, trying to catch an advance glimpse of her final destination. Several structures built of roughly hewn logs were visible through the heavily leafed trees just ahead. Two of them appeared to be little more than sheds.

A loud, raucous cry rent the air just as the carriage veered away from the buildings and started up a gently sloping knoll shaded by towering chestnut trees. Atop the knoll sat a three-story brick mansion fronted by a white-columned veranda and roofed balcony. Peacocks strolled the front lawn, which was landscaped with flowering shrubs and brick paths that radiated like spokes on a wheel from the imposing structure.

"What is this place?" The building had all the grandeur of some official's residence.

"Our home," Temple replied with unconscious pride. "Welcome to Gordon Glen, Miss Hall."

Eliza stared in amazement.

When she accompanied Temple inside a few minutes later, she discovered the interior was as grand in appearance as the exterior. A great hall, dominated by a handsomely carved walnut staircase, ran down the center of the first floor. At the opposite end was another entrance, a twin to the baroque door they had just entered, complete with a fan-shaped transom above it.

To the left, a set of double doors opened onto the front parlor. An intricately patterned rug of forest green and gold carpeted the room's wooden floor. Its colors complemented the green-velvet-covered mahogany settee that bore the distinctive design of a Phyfe-made piece. Yet the rug, the settee, the brass wall sconces, the Boston rockers—all the parlor's fine furnishings paled in significance before the room's massive fireplace. Carved out of walnut and crowned by a mantelpiece of chiseled marble, it rose the full height of the room.