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Nor did he now expect to find his daughter and wife alive. It was foolish, he condemned himself, ever to have left them.
But he hadn’t left them totally alone. There had been his slaves, among them a big, muscular black whose devotion to Carolyn and Lauralee was beyond that which was expected of him. He would have killed anyone who came near them.
“Jeremiah, oh, God, Jeremiah, I hope you were enough for their protection,” Boyd said, his throat growing drier as he got closer and closer to his home.
One turn in the road and he saw the devastation . . . the ruins . . . the charred wastes of what had been his house, outbuildings, and gardens.
There was nothing left to recognize.
“Carolyn?” he said, his voice choked and drawn. “Lauralee?”
There were no voices to answer him.
Then he saw the remains of a man. It did not take much thought to realize who this was. He recognized the silver bracelet on the man’s wrist. He had bought this for Jeremiah as a thank you for being so dependable.
Jeremiah was dead. Then what of his wife and daughter?
He hung his head and retched....
* * *
After he had left the regiment behind, Dancing Cloud had stopped long enough to shed the clothes of a soldier, down to just a pair of breeches. He was bare-chested and he wore no shoes, feeling and tasting freedom for the first time since he had gone to fight for the South.
Determinedly, anxiously, Dancing Cloud continued to work his way up the mountainside on his roan. He felt elated to be back to this region of luxuriant flora, with its great red-spruce forest, its clear air, its breathtaking sights.
He looked over his shoulder at his Cherokee friends, some wounded, some not. They moved as anxiously as Dancing Cloud, thinking of families and friends.
He turned his eyes back to the narrow path. There was almost impenetrable thicket and tangled undergrowth on the slopes and ridges, with an exceptional variety of flowering shrubs, mosses, and lichens, and a lavish display of purple-pink blossomed rhododendrons and azaleas.
Among the rushing streams that spiraled down from the summits and ridges of the mountain, were such trees as hemlocks, silver bell, black cherry, buckeye, yellow birch and tulip.
Every now and then he would get a glimpse of a black bear, or a browsing white-tailed deer. He enjoyed seeing the foxes as they lurked around beneath the trees, sniffing out a ruffed grouse, or turkey.
And above him, many colorful songbirds flitted about, as though welcoming him and his returning warriors.
The farther he rode up the mountainside, the hazier it got, the very reason the mountains had been given the name—the Great Smoky Mountains.
His heart beat like a drum within his chest. He again softly prayed that he would find his family as he had left them a year ago.
Dancing Cloud sank his bare heels into the flanks of his horse and he sent his steed in a faster trot, having now found the path that led to his village that lay in a sheltered cove and valley only a short distance away.
As he got closer and could see through the break of trees ahead, the sight that he had prayed would not be, was. Only a portion of the log homes of his village remained.
Dancing Cloud emitted a loud groan when his weary eyes discovered that his father’s larger cabin no longer stood near the center of the village.
But he was relieved to see the Wolf Clan Town House still standing. Within its walls burned the sacred fire of the Wolf Clan of Cherokee. It had been kept burning while so much had gone wrong for his people.
As Dancing Cloud grew closer, he saw so much more that made his heart ache. His father was standing at the edge of the village, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He looked as though ravaged with time, himself. He leaned heavily against a long, wooden staff, his eyes appearing empty.
His father did not even seem to notice that Dancing Cloud was approaching. There was no joy in seeing his son, only a remorse that seemed to lay heavy in the air, reaching Dancing Cloud as though he had just entered a thick thunder cloud, all black and dreary.
Dancing Cloud drew his steed to a halt and slid out of the saddle. His heart pounded as he ran to his father and embraced him. He grew cold inside when his father did not seem to have the ability to respond.
“E-do-do, Father, it is I, Dancing Cloud,” his son said as he took a shaky step back from his father. “I have returned from the war.”
He looked past his father and searched with eager eyes for the rest of his family. When he saw none except his aunt, Susan Sweet Bird, he placed his hands at his father’s lean, slumped shoulders.
“E-tsi? I-go-nv-tli? I-gi-do?” Dancing Cloud said, his voice breaking. “Mother? Brothers? Baby sister? Where are they, Father?”
