Rollin Ridge, a mercurial figure in this tribal tale, makes a
fateful decision in 1850, leaving his family behind to escape the gallows after
avenging his father and grandfather’s brutal assassinations. With sin and grief
packed in his saddlebags, he and his brothers head west in pursuit of
California gold, embarking on a journey marked by hardship and revelation.
Through letters sent home, Rollin uncovers the unrelenting legacy of his
father’s sins, an emotional odyssey that delves deep into his Cherokee history.
The
narrative’s frame transports readers to the years 1827-1835, where Rollin’s
parents, Cherokee John Ridge and his white wife, Sarah, stumble upon a web of
illicit slave running, horse theft, and whiskey dealings across Cherokee
territory. Driven by a desire to end these inhumane crimes and defy the
powerful pressures of Georgia and President Andrew Jackson, John Ridge takes a
bold step by running for the position of Principal Chief, challenging the
incumbent, Chief John Ross. The Ridges face a heart-wrenching decision: to
stand against discrimination, resist the forces of land greed, and remain on
their people’s ancestral land, or to sign a treaty that would uproot an entire
nation, along with their family.
Buy Link:
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***
EXCERPT
Sarah Northrup Ridge, Near New Echota,
Cherokee Nation East, 1827
Orchards greeted us in neatly planted rows, dense with
peaches and apples, creating a fragrance in the air like home. Servants’
quarters bordered the tree line of flat valley land surrounding Diamond Hill.
Joe Vann’s large manor, a two-story brick home with expensive glass windows and
large white columns, held verandas on the front and the rear of the house.
There were corncribs, smokehouses, and outbuildings for weaving and cooking.
Given the abundant number of horses and carriages, many attended. A surge rushed
through me, nerves on fire, reminding me of the importance of the event, framed
by the fear I’d make a mistake.
Our carriage rolled through Vann land between a row of
walnut trees bordering endless green pastures. Black and white cows, silent
sentinels, gnawed grass and watched as we passed, undisturbed. As the horses pulled
us the last distance, I saw an open door at the side of the house. From it,
trails of servants carried trays and crockery from the exterior kitchen to the
main house near white linen tablecloths and white-washed ladderback chairs in
neat rows. Their movement reminded me of fire ants seeking sweets, and, in a
line, returning to their self-constructed dirt abodes. Other servants turned a
pig on an open fire, slaughtered for the occasion. The smell of salt and fat
from the roasted meat mingled with the aromatic sweet apples hanging on the
trees. The bees hummed louder amidst such plenty.
Most whites were surprised to know slavery existed
among the Cherokee. John and I argued over the institution. The Ridges treated
their servants like family. However, their will to choose their lives was the
identical desire of John’s people, fighting for God-given liberty to govern
themselves. While we still lived with his family, I could do little but speak
to my husband and pursue change. But I knew a time would come when America and
the Cherokee Nation must make the moral choice, no matter the economic
difficulty such a choice might bring.
Once I stepped from the carriage, John held my gloved
hand and said, “I’m instituting the wink law.” John’s top hat shaded half of
his face, so I couldn’t see his eyes in the bright sunlight. I predicted his
expression from his carefree tone. “Are you familiar, Mistress Ridge?” he
asked.
“I am not, Mister Ridge. However, I would hate to
violate without intention.”
“Ignorance of the law is no excuse. It is in the
Constitution.”
“I’m aware.” I grinned.
“One wink means I have ten minutes to end my
conversation and take you home.”
“What does a whole blink mean?” I asked.
I surprised him with my question. “I don’t know. You
have something in your eye?”
“A whole blink means I’m proud of you and content to
remain by your side, but thank you for saying so. You know I am worried about
leaving Rollin and Clarinda with Honey. She can manage one, but if Rollin
wails…”
“Amendment duly noted, Mistress Ridge.” He rechecked
his watch. “I’ll have you back to our children in hours.” His promise was
sincere, just under the surface of his sarcasm.
I pulled him close so I could whisper. “Promise me you
won’t leave me alone too often.” For a man so aware of time, he lost hours
debating politics.
“Agreed. I hope we get to mingle with the many guests
in the time we have. Some have traveled great distances and are new here.”
Major and Mother followed us into the sunlight. A row
of white women adorned in a rainbow of pastels held fast to their matching
parasols with white-gloved hands and whispered about the heat while their
white-breeched, black-booted husbands stood in small circles gesturing about
important matters. White pipe smoke hazed around their heads.
Shirtless Cherokee separated themselves by sitting on
their heels on the ground. Cherokee women walked through the guests with red
and purple baskets in their arms and yellowed gourds slung from leather straps
around their necks. Like John’s family, wealthy Cherokee slipped easily between
these two groups. As for me, I did not know where I’d fit in this mix of
classes and attitudes.
As a veteran English teacher and college professor,
Heather has spent nearly thirty years teaching her students the author’s craft.
Now, with empty nest time on her hands, she’s writing herself, transcribing
lost voices in American’s history.
Author Links:
Website: https://www.heathermillerauthor.com
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