Citizens Creek (25 page)

The black man riding with the Cherokee family called out to Lieutenant Phillips in English, and the lieutenant leaned down to
hear him over the noise of the crowd. There was extended conversation back and forth, the black man acting as interpreter, and at the end, the military man agreed to something. The Cherokees they’d traveled with for the last few hours lifted Granny Sarah from the wagon, disentangled themselves from the crowd, and prepared to follow Phillips through the gate. Chibona caught Rose’s eye for an instant but looked quickly away.

Before Phillips could disappear through the gate, her grandfather grabbed the bit of the lieutenant’s horse. At first, Phillips seemed ready to lash him with the rein, but pulled back in recognition.

“Cow Tom. You made it to the fort,” he said. “Bad situation all around.”

Her grandfather switched to English. “Confederates came for us.”

“Not many Indians left out there, Cherokee or Creek. Confederates are burning or destroying what they can. Most everyone not fighting in the army is in the fort now.”

Cow Tom gestured toward the Indians surrounding them. “These people look starved,” he said.

“Not enough food to go round,” Phillips said. “Supply wagons don’t always get through.”

An old woman, full-blood Creek, hair done up in a traditional topknot, reached out to Grampa Cow Tom, pulling at his leather cloak with her thin, fragile fingers.

“You speak the white man’s tongue,” she said in Mvskoke. “Tell him how we die without food and warm clothes. They don’t feed us and we can’t go out to hunt without being killed by Confederate Indian. They don’t give Creeks our rations.”

A slave in Creek dress came at her grandfather from the other side. “Soldiers come, say get to the fort after the Battle of Honey Springs, but we belong to Indians don’t got nothing now. And no way to raise food or make cloth.”

A bone-thin woman, filthy, in a ragged scrap of dress, elbowed Rose as she pushed to the front. Rose fell to the ground, but no
one noticed, and she scrambled to pick herself up. She grabbed at Granny Sarah’s hand to try to shield her. A swarm of bodies and voices crowded in as attention channeled to her grandfather, and the assumption he was linked somehow to the army man on the horse. Most had lost someone to smallpox or dysentery or stomach disorders, to pneumonia or other disease. Everyone had some story of uproot, of neglect, of starvation, but even her grandfather struggled to understand so many different languages and dialects.

“We can’t tell what they say, but there’s damned little we can do anyways,” Lieutenant Phillips shouted to her grandfather, and he gave his horse a little kick, moving him through the crowd. He turned back. “Come tomorrow. Translator skills might prove useful,” he said.

The lieutenant disappeared through the gates, the Cherokee family behind him, and the rest of the crowd fell back. The thin woman who knocked Rose down rushed forward and began to pick through the fresh horse droppings for bits of undigested corn. Another woman followed her lead, and they fought over the spoils.

All Rose wanted was to get warm and to sleep. She pulled Elizabeth under her blanket to share body heat. Grampa Cow Tom circulated among those outside the gates of the fort he could readily identify as Creek, whether black, mixed-blood, or full-blood, gathering complaints to present to the military about the cold, insufficient food, disease, and lack of supplies.

It was Gramma Amy who began the search for a place for the night. Rose’s family never walked through the gates into the bowels of Fort Gibson. Her grandmother found a spot on a grass-trodden knoll outside the walls of the fort and formed a ring around what few supplies they had left. The grass was damp and the wind blew, but they lit a fire and ate the last of the cold tack and jerky. There wasn’t enough to offer their neighbors, and Rose couldn’t ignore the greedy eyes of want trained on all of them as they chewed. So tired she could barely think, she wrapped Elizabeth beside her, covered them with her blanket, and laid her head down.

Already, Rose didn’t like their new home.

Chapter 34

ROSE WORRIED OVER
Granny Sarah. The trek to Fort Gibson drained them all, body and spirit, and the wretchedness of their situation weighed heavy all around, almost as searing as the persistent rank smell of open sewage and filth, the unpredictability of on-again off-again food rations, and the sickness girdling them no matter which way they turned. Hacking coughs pierced the darkness of the night, and a piteous chorus of moans came from several directions at once within the mass of humanity outside the gates of Fort Gibson. Someone died every day, a stiff body found in the morning after a long, chilly night, first loudly mourned and then stripped of their blanket to pass to the living. Deadly fever struck whole families, gone one after the other, dependent on strangers for the burying.

If only. If only Grampa Cow Tom could stop and talk to her, just the two of them, the steady drone of his voice in story a magic shield against the crush of the days and nights away from the only home she’d ever known. But he was always too busy, with strangers, with family, always in a group, always in demand. Not even a full moon had passed, and now Granny Sarah, weary, had lost the will to go on.

Rose stepped in to minister to her great-grandmother the best she could when Gramma Amy had others to attend, but Granny Sarah refused the little food or water they scrounged, and spent most of her time sleeping. Granny Sarah had been ancient as long
as Rose could remember, but now she no longer made an attempt to rise each day, lying abed like so many others in the packed camp, her new routine one of sloth and resignation on the cold, damp ground. She perked up only slightly when Grampa Cow Tom came to sit by her side, for him and no one else, and slumped back into her own world when he absented himself to do his linguister work among the émigrés or camp officials. The weaker her great-grandmother became, the more Rose stayed close, struggling against her own loneliness in this world without Twin.

“I’m here, Granny Sarah,” Rose announced one early afternoon, a week after they first came to Fort Gibson.

Her great-grandmother motioned to be pulled upright, her desiccated weight light and unresisting even for a twelve-year-old girl as small as Rose. The day was mild, and a bit of the sun’s rays fell on Granny Sarah’s face, and she luxuriated in it, as if it was a gentle, stroking hand at her cheek. She was in a talkative mood, and put her clawlike hand around Rose’s.

“You got his face,” Granny Sarah said. “I pray you got his grit.”

“Yessum.” What else could she say?

Granny Sarah seemed to lose her concentration, but then squeezed Rose’s hand again.

“I was Bella before I was Sarah,” she said.

Although Granny Sarah’s eyes were age-clouded, there was a brightness behind, ravenous, fixing on Rose as if her great-granddaughter were the only person on earth, despite the filth and misery and anonymous thousands surrounding them. Granny Sarah pursed her dry lips and squinted hard, in search of what, Rose didn’t know, and Rose lifted the gourd for her great-grandmother to drink, afraid to break Granny Sarah’s mood. The moment offered the possibility of some glimpse of the past, something Rose longed for and seldom received. Once in a while her grandfather parceled out dribs and drabs of the exploits of his youth, the same few tales over and over, but he was miserly in the telling, and Ma’am never
opened any parts of her life to inspection.

Rose knew so little about this frail woman whose wrinkled skin clung to her bony frame like an ill-fitted suit. “Who was Bella?”

A fine sheen of sweat covered Granny Sarah’s face. She seemed at the edge of answering, but then released her grip on Rose.

“Wasn’t my fault,” she said.

“What?” Rose prodded. She wiped the moisture from her grandmother’s forehead with her sleeve. “What wasn’t your fault?”

“I see you with your sister, watching over her. You got it in you to do better than me, but hang tight to your children, hear? No matter what, keep them close. Don’t let them go.”

“Who was Bella?” Rose almost whispered, so soft, at first she wasn’t sure her great-grandmother heard.

Granny Sarah released her grip and wiped at her eyes. They were dry.

“Don’t even have any tears left,” she finally said. “No use rooting in the past. What’s done is done and gone.” She closed her eyes and quieted.

Rose fought the wash of disappointment, and prepared to help Granny Sarah lie back down, when her great-grandmother’s eyes fluttered open again.

“I was Bella once, but Sarah’s better.”

“Please.” Rose held her great-grandmother’s hand. There was a secret here, she was sure of it, some meaning that might help her endure this terrible time at Fort Gibson if she could just keep her talking. Everyone in the family, so stingy with their stories. “What was Bella like?”

“Never you mind. Leave it be. Some things aren’t for sharing,” Granny Sarah said. “My story belongs to me.” Granny Sarah made a great effort to focus, and tightened her grip on Rose’s arm again. “Children matter. That’s all what matters. You’ll see when you have yours.”

The moment was lost, and Rose didn’t push further.

“Ma’am thinks I’m too plain to get a husband,” she said instead. Amid the misery of Fort Gibson, she imagined herself and Granny Sarah alone and free to say anything.

Granny Sarah laughed, a short, dry sound that took much of her energy. “No need putting plain in your mind. You are Cow Tom’s granddaughter. That’s enough. You’ll make it enough, and find a way, once decided what you want.”

Granny Sarah lay back of her own accord, spent, her brittle bones a-creak. She closed her eyes and settled into a pattern of labored breathing. Rose pulled her blanket up to cover herself. As afternoon stretched toward evening, and Granny Sarah’s breathing grew more ragged, Rose reflected on what her great-grandmother’s words might mean, and what she most hoped for. Home. Husband. Family. Children. Enough, without constant want. Safety. She would sacrifice almost the world entire to have these things.

Shortly before dusk, Granny Sarah gasped, a sharp breath different from the others, and then gasped again. Rose thought to run to find her grandfather, but wouldn’t leave Granny Sarah alone. Only one final rush of air in, and the old woman stopped breathing, mouth agape. Rose sat still, unsure what to do, and finally, with a trembling hand, pulled Granny Sarah’s eyelids closed, as she’d seen Gramma Amy do once before with a neighbor’s child, and worked at her great-grandmother’s face to close her mouth until the lips touched. She straightened her on the blanket, and crossed her hands, one over the other, at her waist, until she looked more peaceful.

Only then did Rose run to get Aunt Maggie, who took charge as Rose drifted to the background and watched.

Not long after, Gramma Amy and Grampa Cow Tom returned from the day’s scavenging, together. The rest of the family were all gathered around the body by then, and Grampa Cow Tom elbowed his way through the human circle, the dawning reality of Granny Sarah’s passing clear by the wildness in his eyes. As he rushed forward to her body, his knees crumpled under him, and he sat limp
alongside her where he’d fallen, just staring at her face, now stilled. Rose tried to describe Granny Sarah’s final hours to him, but he wasn’t listening. He never looked at Rose, even as she talked, his gaze only on Granny Sarah, and Gramma Amy wrapped her arms around Rose’s shoulders and pulled her off to the side, putting distance between them. The rest of the family moved back too, Grampa Cow Tom’s grief outsizing them all.

Her grandfather stayed next to Granny Sarah’s body, refusing to move. Her grandmother brought him a blanket and cloaked him in it for warmth, but he didn’t acknowledge his wife either. More than anything, Rose wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how. If Gramma Amy wasn’t able, what chance did she have?

And then she saw the rush of tears down his dark cheeks. He made no attempt to hide or wipe them away. His shoulders heaved, and he held his head in his hands, giving the gulping sobs full rein. Rose had never seen her grandfather cry before, but he wept with abandon, as if he’d never stop. Rose didn’t think such a thing possible, Grampa Cow Tom in tears, and it terrified her, more than Granny Sarah’s death. Her grandfather was always composed, always in charge. Finally, they left him there alone with the body and retreated to their bedrolls.

“He needs come to his own peace,” Gramma Amy told them.

Throughout the long night, Rose heard her grandfather speak in tongues she couldn’t understand, sometimes shouting in anger, sometimes whispering in tones that sounded like begging.

He was still by Granny Sarah’s side in the morning when Rose woke, but now he was quiet, more in control of himself, more the grandfather she knew. She brought him
puska
and fresh water, and offered the meal to him.

He accepted in silence, forcing down their precious ration without comment or connection.

Chapter 35

“WE BURY HER
proper,” Grampa Cow Tom announced, his voice loud and thick.

He’d been gone three days, disappeared in the direction of the fort while Gramma Amy prepared the body, and finally returned. Rose smelled the stink of spirits on him, triggering vague memories of her father. She’d seen many men drink before, and women too, especially since coming to Fort Gibson, sometimes so deep in their cups that they stumbled as they walked, or soiled themselves and didn’t care. Grampa Cow Tom wasn’t to that stage, but she had never seen him drink at all.

He pulled a small pistol from under his coat, and waved it in the air.

An alarm ran through Rose at the sight of the pistol. She knew what came next, but not like this, not without ceremony. This wasn’t right at all.

Gramma Amy rushed to Grampa Cow Tom’s side, easing the gun from his grip as she helped him sit on the ground. He handed the pistol to her without protest. His head rolled forward toward his chest as if too heavy to hold up.

“Proper,” Gramma Amy promised him. “I’ll hold to the gun till it’s time.”