Book Spotlight and Excerpt: ‘Tho I Be Mute by Heather Miller

 

Clarinda faces a moment of profound reality—a rattlesnake bite, a harbinger of her imminent mortality—and undertakes an introspective journey. In her final days, she immortalizes not only her own story but that of her parents—a narrative steeped in her family’s insights into Cherokee heritage during the tumultuous years preceding the forced removal of Native communities.

In 1818, Clarinda’s father, Cherokee John Ridge, embarks on a quest for a young man’s education at the Foreign Mission School in Cornwall, Connecticut. Amidst sickness, he finds solace and love with Sarah, the steward’s quiet daughter. Despite enduring two years of separation, defamatory editorials, and societal upheaval due to their interracial love affair, the resilient couple weds in 1824. This marks the inception of a journey for Sarah as she delves into a world both cherished and feared—Cherokee Territory. As John Ridge advocates for the preservation of his people’s land and that of his Muskogee Creek neighbors against encroaching Georgia settlers and unscrupulous governmental officials, the stakes are high. His success or failure hinges on his ability to balance his proud Cherokee convictions with an intricate understanding of American law. Justice remains uncertain.

Grounded in a true story, ‘Tho I Be Mute resonates with a compelling historical narrative, giving an intimate voice to those heard, those ignored, those speechless, urging readers to not only hear but to truly listen.

 Buy Link:

 Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/bPGpPz

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Excerpt

From Chapter 2: All That I Have Ever Had Is Yours, John Ridge

Long days later, we approached Cornwall, Connecticut from the south, where the Housatonic flowed over rolling hills similar to my homeland. From my view behind coach windows, stables and sawmills introduced the villages’ logging trade. Sheep grazed in the valleys under Colt’s Foot Mountain, supplying the wool mill with raw materials. In this valley, hamlets of family farms surrounded First Church. Wooden fence posts and rails divided tiny Cornwall into squared lots, while at home, our land overlapped, providing for an entire people.

The carriage stopped in front of the Academy of the Foreign Mission sitting among the bare cedar trees and hemlocks during this blustery fall of November 1818. The school building was a gambrel-roofed, two-story structure with a chimney on one end and a weathervane on the other, acting as bookends. Next to our classroom, a winter garden grew purple-leafed kale and hearty cabbage. A bare maple stood alone in the yard. With it, I sympathized, naked and separated, under constant surveillance. Unimpressive in appearance, this academy was where I hoped to gain insight into history and English, more advanced than my former schools at Spring Place and Brainerd Mission. It was an honor to be sent here, but at that moment, it lacked imagination’s climax.

Reminiscent of the original ‘city on the hill,’ the Foreign Mission School was primarily for religious instruction, training future missionaries who intended to convert the ‘savages’ to Christianity. I understood the whites’ faith; the Great Spirit has many names. Therefore, I would be contrite, but conversion was not my intention. I did not plan to become a missionary. Father insisted I become a lawyer, a politician. The Great Spirit was more equipped than I to guide the Cherokee to salvation.

As Doctor Dempsey opened and stepped from the carriage and interrupted my observations with reminders of my father’s expectations and guidelines for my behavior. To say these reminders were absent from my attention would imply his words were irrelevant. Still, Dempsey’s lecture was unnecessary. Concluding his ‘Sermon from the Coach,’ Dempsey waved his hand and said, “We are here, John. Let us make our introductions.” We crossed the worn path, with Dempsey leading, and I following behind, as my limp slowed my gait.

Upon entering, smells of recent peat fires and old books struck me. Sheer numbers of texts bordered the log walls of the schoolroom. The spines on the shelves wrapped around rough-crafted tables and straight-backed chairs set for study and meals. A small fire burned in the hearth, while candles lit this day of clouds. As we entered, the students’ backs, grouped in pairs, hovered over books of prayer. They took turns reading to one another various verses in English, absent any context, and translated them into the languages of their homelands. Missionary school indeed. The Biblical stories whites esteemed taught me many things, including what they thought it meant to be a man. Although I would never be Sampson or King David, my name was John, Skahtlelohskee, the mockingbird.

History is better than fiction.

We all leave a legacy.

As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-four years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she’s writing it herself, hearing voices from the past. Heather earned her MFA in creative writing in 2022 and is teaching high school as well as college composition courses.

Miller’s foundation began in the theatre, through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and sing every note from Les Miserables. But by far, her favorite role has been as a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer, and a RN. Alas, there’s only one English major in her house.

Heather continues writing the Ridge Family Saga. Her current work-in-progress, Stands, concludes the Ridge Family Saga.

Author Links:

Website: https://www.heathermillerauthor.com

Twitter: https://x.com/HMHFR

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HMillerAuthor

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/heathermillerauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21805281.Heather_Miller

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@heathermillerauthor

 

Book spotlight and Excerpt: Yellow Bird’s Song by Heather Miller

 

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:

 Universal Buy Link: https://books2read.com/u/49a2w8

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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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Spotlight on Glen Craney, author of The Cotillion Brigade (A Novel of the Civil War and the Most Famous Female Militia in American History)

 

Georgia burns.
Sherman’s Yankees are closing in.
Will the women of LaGrange run or fight?
 
Based on the true story of the celebrated Nancy Hart Rifles, The Cotillion Brigade is an epic novel of the Civil War’s ravages on family and love, the resilient bonds of sisterhood in devastation, and the miracle of reconciliation between bitter enemies.
 
“Gone With The Wind meets A League Of Their Own.”
-- John Jeter, The Plunder Room
 
1856. Sixteen-year-old Nannie Colquitt Hill makes her debut in the antebellum society of the Chattahoochee River plantations. A thousand miles north, a Wisconsin farm boy, Hugh LaGrange, joins an Abolitionist crusade to ban slavery in Bleeding Kansas.
 
Five years later, secession and war against the homefront hurl them toward a confrontation unrivaled in American history.

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 Glen Craney
Some Facts
(Stuff you may or may not know!)

When I was a boy, a great-uncle took me to the American Civil War battlefield of Perryville, Kentucky, where his father served as a Union captain. It was a rare treat to talk to someone with such a close connection to the war. Years later, after his death, I discovered his father had a brother who fought at Perryville on the Confederate side, and they searched for each other after the battle. I’m not sure why my great-uncle never mentioned him. Hard feelings over the war, maybe?

 

Glen Craney and Uncle at Perryville 
(personal photo)

 As the only boy in my high-school typing class, I won the contest for tapping out the most words per minute. I now have two graduate degrees, but typing remains the most valuable skill I’ve ever learned.

A couple of years ago, I traced the Civil War route my great-great grandfather took in General Grant’s army. At the Louisiana battlefield of Mansfield, where he was captured, there was only one other visitor that afternoon, a man from Texas. His great-great-grandfather, fighting for the Confederacy, was killed on that same ground. We were stunned to discover that our ancestors had served in regiments that faced off against each other during the battle. Could my ancestor have fired the fatal shot?

 

Battlefield of Mansfield

 (taken by Glen Craney)

 I grew up on a turkey farm. There's an old saying: Only one creature on Earth is dumber than a turkey—the guy who raises them.

 

Turkey Farm

 (personal photo)

Before I turned ten, I single-handedly won a hundred Civil War battles and repulsed Santa Anna at the Alamo, all with one weapon: This Parris Kadet toy cap musket.

Parris Kadet Toy Civil War musket

 (personal photo)

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Buy Links

Amazon UK  Amazon US  Amazon CA  Amazon AU  Kobo  iBooks  Barnes and Noble

¸.•*´¨)✯ ¸.• ✮ ( ¸.•´✶

Glen Craney

A graduate of Indiana University School of Law and Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, Glen Craney practiced trial law before joining the Washington, D.C. press corps to write about national politics and the Iran-contra trial for Congressional Quarterly magazine. In 1996, the Academy of Motion Pictures, Arts and Sciences awarded him the Nicholl Fellowship prize for best new screenwriting. His debut historical novel, The Fire and the Light, was named Best New Fiction by the National Indie Excellence Awards. He is a three-time Finalist/Honorable Mention winner of Foreword Magazine’s Book-of-the-Year and a Chaucer Award winner for Historical Fiction. His books have taken readers to Occitania during the Albigensian Crusade, the Scotland of Robert Bruce, Portugal during the Age of Discovery, the trenches of France during World War I, the battlefields of the Civil War, and the American Hoovervilles of the Great Depression. He lives in Malibu, California.

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