strong against the removal but when he saw it weren’t no use, he give in, for he had a young wife and a baby girl and he feared what would become of them was he killed in a fight with the soldiers. So John Goingsnake and his wife and baby girl was in with them folks being marched out of Carolina into Tennessee.”
“Tell the names of the wife and the baby,” I say, not wanting her to leave out any part of the story. The steady sounds of our rug machines as we punch the strips into the tight burlap backing could be the sounds of the Cherokees tromping along and that thought makes the hair on my arms stand right up.
Granny Beck keeps working. But she nods and says, “Bless me, how could I leave that out? The wife’s name was Nancy and the babe was called Rebekah.”
“Like you,” I say and she nods again.
“That’s right, honey, like me. Now, the Cherokees tramped along and it was a dreadful weary time. A few of them had horses and wagons but John Goingsnake andNancy was afoot, leading a pack mule loaded down with all they owned and the little one riding in a basket at the side. The soldiers was all on horses and they made the whole gang step along right quick. It was terrible hard on the old folks and the little ones. And when some begun to fall sick, it was hardest of all on them. The soldiers piled the sickest ones into a wagon and it never got too full for every night when the wagon was unloaded, there would be two or three to bury. The Cherokees would dig the graves and sing over the dead, telling them they were the happy ones, to be staying forever in these green hills.”
Granny falls quiet and swallows hard like there is a lump in her throat.
“And then …” I say to get her going again.
“And then came a day when Nancy awoke one morning, burning with a cruel fever and so weak she could hardly stand. ‘Don’t let them put me on the wagon,’ she said to her husband, and she staggered to her feet. By holding to the mule’s pack, she could just make out to stumble along. But soon she was plumb give out and John pulled half their goods off the mule—blankets and tools and anything to lighten the load so Nancy could ride. He put the baby on his back and they kept going, Nancy just barely able to hold on.
“Now, they was being marched to Tennessee along an old road called the Catawba Trail and it followed the river here in Marshall County. In time, this same trail come to be the Drovers’ Road and now the railroad track sets atop it.”
I have been through the woods down to the river though don’t nobody know this, and I have sat and watched the train go by on the other side. And now that I know this story, I can see in my head the poor Indianstromping along so sad and it makes me like to bawl to think of it. It was by the river that they camped that night …
“… and when John pulled his wife off the mule, she hardly seemed to know it but he made her a bed on their blankets and brewed a little tea with some dried pennyroyal and peppermint leaves they had brought with them. The soldiers come round with a ration of dry biscuit and water and then they set up their camps in a ring outside where the Cherokee were.
“John soaked some biscuit in water and put little soft bits in Nancy’s mouth but she didn’t have the strength to swaller. And before morning come, she died in his arms.”
“Did John Goingsnake cry?” I ask though I know the answer. Thinking of the poor Injuns makes me want to cry.
“No, he did not, though he had loved his Nancy better than ary thing. He sat there with one hand on Nancy’s cooling face, holding his sleeping baby and looking out across the river that was shining silver in the moonlight. It was the fall of the year—a dreadful dry season. He could see the rocks of the river just a-sticking up, looking most like stepping-stones all the way across the water. And that gave him an idea.
“ ‘Nancy,’ says he, speaking low to her spirit which he knows is
“Tell the names of the wife and the baby,” I say, not wanting her to leave out any part of the story. The steady sounds of our rug machines as we punch the strips into the tight burlap backing could be the sounds of the Cherokees tromping along and that thought makes the hair on my arms stand right up.
Granny Beck keeps working. But she nods and says, “Bless me, how could I leave that out? The wife’s name was Nancy and the babe was called Rebekah.”
“Like you,” I say and she nods again.
“That’s right, honey, like me. Now, the Cherokees tramped along and it was a dreadful weary time. A few of them had horses and wagons but John Goingsnake andNancy was afoot, leading a pack mule loaded down with all they owned and the little one riding in a basket at the side. The soldiers was all on horses and they made the whole gang step along right quick. It was terrible hard on the old folks and the little ones. And when some begun to fall sick, it was hardest of all on them. The soldiers piled the sickest ones into a wagon and it never got too full for every night when the wagon was unloaded, there would be two or three to bury. The Cherokees would dig the graves and sing over the dead, telling them they were the happy ones, to be staying forever in these green hills.”
Granny falls quiet and swallows hard like there is a lump in her throat.
“And then …” I say to get her going again.
“And then came a day when Nancy awoke one morning, burning with a cruel fever and so weak she could hardly stand. ‘Don’t let them put me on the wagon,’ she said to her husband, and she staggered to her feet. By holding to the mule’s pack, she could just make out to stumble along. But soon she was plumb give out and John pulled half their goods off the mule—blankets and tools and anything to lighten the load so Nancy could ride. He put the baby on his back and they kept going, Nancy just barely able to hold on.
“Now, they was being marched to Tennessee along an old road called the Catawba Trail and it followed the river here in Marshall County. In time, this same trail come to be the Drovers’ Road and now the railroad track sets atop it.”
I have been through the woods down to the river though don’t nobody know this, and I have sat and watched the train go by on the other side. And now that I know this story, I can see in my head the poor Indianstromping along so sad and it makes me like to bawl to think of it. It was by the river that they camped that night …
“… and when John pulled his wife off the mule, she hardly seemed to know it but he made her a bed on their blankets and brewed a little tea with some dried pennyroyal and peppermint leaves they had brought with them. The soldiers come round with a ration of dry biscuit and water and then they set up their camps in a ring outside where the Cherokee were.
“John soaked some biscuit in water and put little soft bits in Nancy’s mouth but she didn’t have the strength to swaller. And before morning come, she died in his arms.”
“Did John Goingsnake cry?” I ask though I know the answer. Thinking of the poor Injuns makes me want to cry.
“No, he did not, though he had loved his Nancy better than ary thing. He sat there with one hand on Nancy’s cooling face, holding his sleeping baby and looking out across the river that was shining silver in the moonlight. It was the fall of the year—a dreadful dry season. He could see the rocks of the river just a-sticking up, looking most like stepping-stones all the way across the water. And that gave him an idea.
“ ‘Nancy,’ says he, speaking low to her spirit which he knows is
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