The Trail Where They Cried

It was the first snow of the season. The flakes fell in a delicate flutter and left white crystals on our puffy blue coats. We looked like globs of spilled paint against the vast and intricate colors on the stretched blanket of marching Seminole. Our soldiers rode in clumps of three or four on horseback, while the Indians both marched and rode on horses or in wagons. At a first glance you would never guess that we were the ones leading, but the sad veils shrouding Indian faces explained it well. Their glazed eyes looked down at the ground right in front of them, boring holes into the earth. You can't be leading anyone when you're not looking where you're going.

It seemed that the snow weighed heavy on them. With each flake their necks craned further forward and demolished their posture. They looked defeated. Most of them were.

All except those four defiant heads at the front, holding high and straight like the hardy pines scattered on the rolling flats surrounding us. I remembered those four very distinctly from the battles, all the soldiers did. They were the tribe leaders and they fought at the front lines of every skirmish since the wars began. Our leaders sat in the back and watched it all as they shouted commands. The four of them fought wild and smart in those battles, catching us on our heels. I remembered seeing a strength in them that we lacked. They fought like a cornered beast, and to us, that's just what they were. Yet here these four carried on, still at the head and heart of it all. 

When we had rounded this group up it was on a day when those four were out on a hunting expedition. We caught wind of the leaders' absence and rode in on the vulnerable camp with our rifles pointed and our throats ringing. We knew that we had caught them unsuspecting and took their terrified families and hid them away. When the four returned they saw they had no other choice than to drop their guns, their fresh, bleeding deer falling lifeless into the dirt. Their hands were tied behind their backs but their eyes burned on heads that never hung low. That burning was there every single day and we couldn't extinguish it for the life of us.

I began to lag as I stared at them, up in front. I was repelled from them as if we were like magnets. I was in a strange awe of that air they carried, that strength in the thud of each step and the energy that flourished in their wake. It spread over the ground to their people. It was a strange earthly electricity that sought the weak and shot up their spines, keeping them upright. It was barely enough, though, to keep them all from keeling over right in the middle of the trail. As I watched them feed their people courage the footsteps slowly grew louder, like they were gaining weight or stomping, a solid, bassy thud that you felt more than heard.

I became aware of my lagging and snapped back into a normal pace. My fellow infantrymen that rode nearby glanced awkwardly at me and gave disapproving sighs as they shook their heads. The other soldiers shrugged me off almost as much as the Indians did. I heard one take a shot at me quietly, but not so quiet that he didn't think I could hear.

"I think he's got a crush on Big Red," he said.

Big Red is what they called the tallest of the four leaders, although I had heard him addressed as Micco by his people. He was not only tall but held himself in a way that certain men do, a way that makes a man step back when he approaches. When it came time to communicate with the tribe it was through him, no matter what. He spoke in one word sentences that cut the silence like a knife. A group of our soldiers marched on all sides of him, occasionally throwing promises of a bleak future and vague threats, trying to fence him in and break him like a wild horse.

One of the guards turned a head on the tall Injun.

"Do you have the courage to die?" the words slipped from under a flapping bushy mustache that mostly hid his mocking smile. He returned only a silent, powerful stare. A stare of no anger or visible hatred, a stare filled with dominance. His posture was perfect and unwavering like a statue carved from bravery and strength. He stared at the guard. "Are you prepared?" he asked again, demanding response.

"Yes."

The footsteps grew louder.

I looked out at the horizon that we chased, just below the shrouded sun. Thin clouds and slow fluttering snow cast a grey glow over the gently rolling plains. The land was painted brown with bushes and small trees scattered here and there, dabs of green smeared sporadically in grass and high up in the occasional conifer. The uncluttered slopes left the river that rest far away under the falling sun visible in the distance. It hung there like it was watching us, like it had gotten word and was anticipating our arrival. The cold water that ran through it sludged on and on as we crept closer.

I heard a shuffle behind me and turned. One of the Indian women fell freezing from her horse, her relaxed body flopped to the ground without struggle or any sign of life left in her. The thick smocks she was covered in sounded softly as she settled in the the dirt, shivering slightly. A young Injun, maybe 16, leapt down from the wagon and tried to lift her, calling Seminole words I would never understand. They were consumed by the flood of lifeless marching, swallowed up and excreted out the rear. I turned my head forward and didn't give a second glance back, and most of the lifeless marching Indians did the same.

I watched and the four at the front were completely surrounded as there were whispers and points to something up ahead. One of the four pointed a finger to a crow that circled not far but high, flying and watching over the bleak land like a shadow free from the form that cast it. Weaving low, a blue jay made confusing swirls in and out of that crow's twist of darkness. It teased and mocked the crow with confidence before eventually just making its easy way onward. The crow made no move at all to pursue and the blue jay dipped and swirled freely in the distance.

Big Red hopped down from his horse and walked right by the arch of soldiers to his sides and behind. He picked up one of the several blue feathers that glowed brilliantly in the cold grey twilight, sitting softly on top of the thin layer of snow. He held it up to the setting sun, the light illuminating it around the edges. It glowed.

The entire caravan became frozen upon seeing the one man stop in that cloud of blue. Only eyes moved and they all locked onto the tall Seminole standing in front of his still horse. He rose that long feather high with an extended arm. All eyes watched in silence as he brought it down and stuck it in his hair. The other three leaders eased from their horses now, and moved ahead of the caravan, finding feathers for themselves and sticking them in their hair. All four wore the bright blue feathers and every single Indian sat up straighter, watching them as they got back on their horses without a word.

They continued to march and the confused guards in front simply stood there in bewilderment. The followers all mirrored their leaders' movements, trotting on with a renewed confidence and hope. The sound of feet pounding the dirt became deafening now, and in a complete unison. The pounding was a steady beat, a familiar beat and it suddenly dawned on me. These footsteps were the drums that played when they sat around fires, the beat that pounded through the festive nights throughout their homelands, the beat that rang loud as they charged ahead furiously in the heat of battle. The feathers were their pride, their hope. They marched to the steady beat and we followed them.

Big Red sounded a deep whoop, low at first then evolving to a loud, wild scream. A scream bound to nothing on this earth. It rang clear across the land and silenced everything. Even the sounds of nature hushed. It filled every ear within miles. The entire tribe answered without hesitation in a war cry so loud that it shook the earth.

They marched us all the way to the river, and I watched their defiant spirits manifest themselves above, dancing like fire in the wind and snow.



*I wrote this story based on a first hand depiction of a Seminole man which was written and passed down. As it was told, this group of Seminole marched their way to a building on the Mississippi where they waited for a boat to bring them the rest of the way to the new Indian Territory. The four 'troublemakers' led an escape by breaking down the door, allowing the group of Seminole to hide. Two men of the tribe stayed behind and both ended up being shot upon the escape, the only mentioned losses. One of the men stayed because he was sick and wanted to "carry out the will of God and die." The rest of the escapees hid on a boat and waited for things to die down, then made their way down the river. They were never found and forced to the new Indian Territory.

This story took place during the time of the Trail of Tears. The Trail of Tears mainly refers to the atrocities committed on the Cherokee, but as you can see more than the Cherokee were forced from their homes. The Treaty of New Echota in 1838 traded Indian lands east of the Mississippi for land primarily in Oklahoma, a treaty which the Native Americans had never agreed to and was fueled by the possibility of riches in the Natives' homeland. It is guessed that around 4,000 Cherokees alone lost their lives in the forced marching.