Escape From Elysian Fields

Escape From Elysian Fields

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C. Forrest lundin

Copyright © C. Forrest Lundin

2021

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Copyright Notice:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events or locales is completely coincidental.

Author's Note: Not all Cherokee held slaves. When the Cherokee Nation found itself on the Trail of Tears, there were slaves on the journey as well. Those African-Americans slaves were used as badly by some of the tribes of the Five Nations as by white slave holders.

The Cherokee did pas land through the mother. They also passed laws to keep men, White men from obtaining Cherokee property by marriage and laws to protect women who married outside the tribe.

About Southern Baptist, the ‘southern’ part does denote their acceptance of slavery as the Negro lot.

License Notes:

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase a copy for yourself. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Artwork: C. MacFarlane

Dedicated to: Great-great-great-Grandma.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Two Indians and A Dead Man: Chapter One

About the author:

Other books by C. Forrest Lundin:

Prologue

The Rebels couldn’t hold out much longer. When he heard about Richmond falling to the Union, Izzy went to his commander and asked to be released. After a long argument, Izzy told him he was going one way or another, that Cherokee Nation citizens weren’t subject to the laws governing the rest of the troops.

He didn’t know if it was true or not. It seemed his commander didn’t know either. Since he volunteered and had brought his kit with him, he could take the lot and vamoose. Not one to stick around and risk having permission rescinded, Izzy left. Having dealt with his old man for years, he knew better than to dally.

Buster, his older brother, fought for the South. Buster hated Izzy, a given in the MacCullough family, and no one seemed surprised when Izzy took off to join up with the North and Buster chose the South.

His father hadn’t been fond of Izzy either. The land and everything on it would go to Buster so Izzy’s determination to reach home in the Cherokee Nation before his brother had nothing to do with the land. With Buster’s nasty temper, Izzy feared for his mother, Satin, Lace, and the other slaves. God only knew what Buster would do, or Turlough.

Beating Buster home, if he could manage it, might save lives. If he had a head start... Izzy didn’t know if Buster was still alive, but suspected he was. It would be a race to see who could get home first.

He didn’t plan to stick around. He’d grab Momma, Satin, Lace, and whoever else would accompany him, and take off west. California or Oregon, either would do. As far from Turlough and Buster as he could get would be a wise move. To his mind, neither man was sane. Losing the war could make them both let go of whatever slim hold they had on reason.

The Cherokee Nation would be a hotbed of hate and men like him, those who fought for the Union, would be hard-pressed to get along in the coming years. The forced relocation, combined with the war... he could see hard times ahead for Union sympathizers. Better to get out while he could.

Izzy didn’t like it, but the old Cherokee trace seemed his best bet to get home the quickest. But he’d best be damn careful and stay alert. Meeting anyone he knew could find him dead.

Above Memphis would be the best place to cross the Mississippi. Then he’d turn southwest toward Little Rock. There he would pick up the old trail, but he’d keep to the woods and away from people as much as possible. Folk with nothing left to lose could be downright dangerous.

They would know him for a Union man by the blue uniform coat, one he couldn’t afford to take off for a little while. Until he felt sure the war was over and he wouldn’t be seen as a deserter by the army he’d served. A calculated gamble, one he had to take.

Izzy urged his horse to walk on when they should have stopped to rest. He hadn’t come to a place he deemed safe to camp. When he did, they’d bivouac for the night. He kept the canteens full; water wasn’t an issue. Grazing for Thor and a place where he could make a small fire were mandatory.

When others succumbed to dysentery and the like, he stayed healthy by drinking pine needle tea and foraging for wild plants. Between his mother and Satin, he knew how to thrive in the woods. Momma said it was his heritage.

Buster had never bothered. He looked at the old ways with distain. They had moved past being naked bucks in the forest. Land and slaves had moved them a cut above the rabble.

The sun skimmed the tops of the trees when Izzy found what he wanted. A small meadow adjacent to a stream might have been a beaver pond in years past. Now, it held an abundance of summer grass. He could fill the canteens and what looked to be a deadfall would provide dry wood for a fire and a place to spread his bedroll for the night.

As he hoped, the roots of a tree which had given way during the stream’s spring flood years before, captured other pieces of wood and the lot was dry as could be. He dismounted and his gelding heaved a sigh of relief. Thor went to cropping the vegetation as soon as Izzy hobbled him.

A small fire came next. That burning hot and nearly smokeless, he filled the coffee pot at the spring and went back to his camp for the night. Hunkered down by the fire, he waited for the water to boil and listened to the tone of the surrounding forest, alert to change.

An owl hooted and a night jar called as the light faded. Come morning, he would try to tickle a fish from the stream if there were any to be had. The two armies had almost denuded the countryside of game and fish. He’d seen a squirrel but didn’t want to make any noise. Shooting anything might bring him the trouble he wanted to avoid.

Thinking he’d spotted some Man of the Earth vines on the verge of the meadow; Izzy had marked them in his mind. When day broke, he’d check. If that’s what he saw, he could dig them and roast what he found come evening.

His stomach grumbled and he shrugged. He’d gone without food enough times during the war to know he wasn’t at risk for lack of something to eat. Tomorrow night would be soon enough to fill his belly.

Which suggested another need—something beside his rifle and shooting iron to hunt with. At the top of his list of things he needed, a decent sapling to make a bow stood up there along with arrow material. He could harden the tips of the arrows in the fire, which would be fine for small game. The silence of the bow was what he needed most.

The next time he ran across a stand of willow, it would be best to stop and see what he could find. He had decent string in his saddlebags. The real need was a straight hardwood sapling for the base of the bow.

The tall, rangy young man, with dark hair like his mother, finished his tea and tossed the dregs on the fire. He stood and checked the location of the horse. Izzy walked into the meadow to bring his mount closer. The hobbles removed; Izzy picketed the gelding close by. If he had to leave in a hurry, the horse should be handy.

Thor saddled; he fastened his gear to the back of the saddle. The girth he left a little loose. The animal could still nibble whatever it found close by. Izzy kicked dirt on the coals and put the fire out. He lay in the bedroll, both rifle and pistol close at hand. A breeze came up and played tag through the treetops. Nothing sounded wrong or out of place.

Early morning found Izzy digging the roots of the plant he’d spotted the previous day on the edge of the meadow. The plant had an extensive root system, and he only took the youngest ones. They would be tender once roasted in the coals of the evening’s fire.

Keeping a southwest course, he eased through the woods. Twice he had to take a long detour around an isolated farm. Both had dogs which yapped their heads off until he got far enough away to be out of scent range.

Just before he found a campsite for the night, he spooked a young squirrel. Mouth crammed full; it couldn’t make up its mind which direction to take across the faint trail Izzy followed. Feeling sorry for the thing as it scampered first one direction then the other, he pulled his knife from his boot and threw it at the animal, skewering it to the ground.

Izzy dropped Thor’s reins and kicked free of the stirrups. He hurried to gut the animal before the meat got contaminated by the contents of its gut. He thanked the squirrel for its meat and left the hide and guts there. Some other critter would make a meal of his leavings.

With it wrapped in an old piece of cloth, Izzy stuffed it into a saddlebag, mounted up, and rode on. That night, his belly full of roasted squirrel and roots, he slept well.

Morning dawned dark and gray. Rain threatened. He’d been feeling it coming for the last day. His right arm where he’d broken it as a boy had been throbbing since mid-afternoon the day before.

Breaking out the slicker, he got ready to get wet, but there was only so much the rain gear could do. If the heavens opened, he’d be wet eventually.

In some ways, rain could be a blessing. It would cover any tracks he’d left. It didn’t matter how hard he tried, there would be some sign of his passing. Another possible side effect would be if he reached the river as the rain moved through. Increased bug activity on the river might mean a fisherman.

Free Negros tended to congregate in the upper reaches of the Missip above Memphis, or so he’d heard from a few soldiers. They were a canny lot and didn’t often mix with anyone. If he could find one, he hoped to get ferried across the river to the west side. Good fishing would bring them out, he hoped. Then he had better do a good job of convincing.

The next day dawned gray, but the rain held off. Perfect fishing weather. They followed the river trail as best they could. Izzy spotted a long sandbar jutting out into the murky water. As they wound around the curve of the bank, a boat made from a large log sat in the middle of the eddy. Created by the sandbank, the still waters made a great fishing hole.

In the middle of the curve, he saw two other dugouts. The first boat had an older Negro and a young boy handling the lines. The woman in the second canoe fishing with a small child made a motion with her hand.

A quick glance told him to keep his eyes on the older man in the first boat. The man sitting in the third dugout spun the thing around with his paddle, putting his back to Izzy. He didn’t want to cause any trouble and if they wanted to keep the identity of the big man in the third canoe a secret, he wouldn’t argue.

Mornin’. Izzy took off his hat, slid from the saddle, and squatted on the bank. How’s the fishing?

Tolerable. You hankerin’ to buy one?

I’d be in the market ‘cept I’m figurin' I need to hang on to my money for another purpose.

After a quick suck of his teeth, the old man shook his head. How ‘bout some free advice?

I’ll always listen. Might not take it, but I’d be a fool to not listen.

Iffen y’all didn’t steal that blue coat, best take it off and hide it in tha woods ‘afore y’all get ta Memphis. Ain’t no bluecoat’s life worth a plug nickel by his lonesome. Y’all find a necktie party before setting a foot inside tha city.

Thank ya kindly for the advice. Izzy noticed it didn’t take long for his hard won Northern speech to revert to the dialect he’d heard from Satin all his life. That’s one I’ll heed. If ya haven’t heard, tha war’s near over. Wouldn’t surprise me to hear they signed a surrender by now.

The small family in the boat exchanged glances. Then the old man turned back to Izzy. Y’all a deserter?

No. My commander let me go early ‘cause I volunteered. He couldn’t hold me. I’m trying to beat my elder brother home with the news if he’s still alive. I need to cross tha river and get back to Cherokee Nation first. Pa had slaves. Old man’s been hoot owl crazy for a few years. I need to get back and get everyone away before him and the heir start taking the loss out on his Negros.

The old man spit into the river. Cherokees never did much for us. Heard there was slaves with them when tha government relocated tha lot.

True. I’m not going to try to tell ya different. But I’m wearin’ this bluecoat ‘cause I didn’t hold with it. Tell me, y’all know anyone who can get me across? He waved a hand at the Mississippi in front of him.

Maybe. What y’all planning to do with tha folk after you get them? You gonna let them go?

That’s tha plan. But not in Cherokee Nation. I’m headed for Oregon or California. A new life for them and me. We get there, the lot can do what they please.

What’s this heir look like?

Taller than me. Dark red hair and he’ll have two Negros with him. Abel, who looks kinda like him.

The old man snorted. He understood what Izzy meant. Abel was Buster’s half-brother through Satin.

The other one, Leather. He’s half a head taller than the heir. Someone else sired him. Got a thin nose, chiseled face, and high cheekbones.

You want passage across; what you got to pay for it?

My last gold liberty. I saved it for this.

We can get you across if tha critter of yourn; don’t put up a fuss. Go down round the next bend. There’s two cabins back in tha woods. Don’t go by them. Y’all see a log barge. Got stake sides ‘bout waist high, sitting on tha bank. Wait there for us.

Izzy rose and mounted Thor. See you there.

The log raft sat on the bank. It had a big sweep oar lying across the box he assumed they used for transporting animals. They didn’t use anything available close to Memphis. He understood why. The families would face hatred and God only knew what else if they tried to interact with the white Southerners downriver.

Behind him, almost impossible to see from the river, two cabins stood tucked away behind trees and brush. Izzy noted a tendril of smoke exiting the mud chimneys of the cabins. People lived in both. He wondered how their lives would change with the defeat of the Confederate States.

The three canoes floated toward the bank. Izzy noticed what he hadn’t before—a line of rocks and debris that had backed up dirt and sand behind it. Scrub brush and willows had put down roots in the tangle, creating a narrow eddy where the boats put in.

Not natural where it was, Izzy figured the family had caused the pile of material to stack up there. It provided a respite from the current. Spring floods might take it out or damage their makeshift efforts, but when the water level subsided again, they could put more boulders in the water.

It didn’t appear to be in danger of washing away. Some snags from upriver had lodged at the edge of the pile. The whole thing might change the direction of the river if left alone.

Izzy dismounted when they pulled the dugouts up on the bank. The old man bent to whisper in the boy’s ear and the little fellow took off, legs pumping as he ran toward the cabins.

Saying an internal prayer that these people would deal fairly with him, Izzy watched the family fasten their strings of fish to sturdy bushes and drop them in the water. They didn’t know him and had no reason to believe a word he said.

One big thing had bothered him from the moment he understood his playmates were slaves—how could Pa think the government thought more of him than it did of the slaves he claimed to own? The government had taken their land and sent them off on the Cherokee Trace. They weren’t one whit different than the folk he used for free labor. Today, or tomorrow, if the government thought the land they supposedly gave to the Cherokee Nation held something they wanted, it would be gone.

He turned the matter over in his mind for more than a week before leaving to join up with the Union Army. Izzy, sure as God made acorns, wasn’t going to side with the Rebels. All the big talk boiled down to one simple matter—they intended to keep other humans in slavery. What being freed by the government might look like... who knew? He’d seen what slavery was and didn’t lean that way.

The old man approached him, his craggy face solemn as a fire and brimstone preacher. He hitched up his pants. As his bare feet hit the earth and little puffs of dust rose. Y’all get that there critter in tha box. Iffen you can’t hold it still, then tie it both sides. It gets to cutting up and tha whole shebang is liable ta turn turtle.

"Thor’s good. He’ll stand for me. I’m not eager ta take a