Kentucky Morning
Mingo spent the winter of 1766-67 in The Amity House with Walter and Nancy. The two young men worked from early morning to evening darkness making furniture for the inn. Walter had some knowledge, having repaired furniture in his family's house and farm tools, harnesses, and buildings on the farm. Mingo was a willing apprentice and the two worked well together. They made three tables and a long bar across the wall near the fireplace, two small cot beds for the travelers to come and one large double bed for Walter and Nancy. Mingo continued to sleep on a pile of blankets before the large center room fireplace.
Mingo's hair grew to cover his shirt collar. He tied it back with a thin leather thong that he carefully cut from the mules' reins. In the dark hours of the winter night Nancy sat before the fire sewing two cloth shirts for him, one in a deep wine red and the other a sky blue. He purchased a pair of buckskin trousers from the trader's store outside Williamsburg and was pleased at the easy comfort they provided. Their only disadvantage was that they became stiff if they got wet and were not treated. Nancy made him one cloth pair to wear when the buckskin needed to be cleaned.
The spring thaw began in mid-February and Mingo was restless. The Millers understood and did all they could to prepare for the approaching parting. Mingo made a trip into Williamsburg on one of the mules and with his father's parting gift purchased three pounds of tea, two pounds of sugar, ten pounds of corn meal, a pound of salt, shot, powder, hatchet, and a pair of locally made moccasins. He bought a tin kettle, pot, cup and plate, along with a long-handled metal spoon and steel butcher knife. Three red blankets were added to the list, as was a heavy cloth tarp and two lengths of hemp rope.
He also purchased a dun-colored mule to act as a pack animal. He sat in one of the many taprooms and listened to the talk flowing around him. It was as if he wanted to absorb as much of his British culture as possible before following his heart across the mountains and into Kentucky.
Nancy delivered her son on the last day of February with a minimum of difficulty. There was a nearby farm wife that acted as midwife to the surrounding farms and she tended the young woman with knowledge and compassion. Mingo and Walter spent the hours of labor finishing the long plank benches to stand before the equally long plank tables in the taproom. Mingo did all within his power to distract the nervous husband and when the birth was complete and Walter held the squirming baby to show Mingo, his blue eyes reflected all the gratitude and affection that he felt for his tall companion.
On the third day of March Mingo rose with the light and bade farewell to Walter, Nancy and Edmund Miller. He held his namesake for several minutes praying for the infant's well-being while the child's parents looked on with brimming eyes. They knew that they would never again have a friend quite like this quiet Cherokee man. All their lives Walter and Nancy would remember the months that they spent in Mingo's company. They counted the time as some of the best of their lives.
Mingo gently returned the infant to his mother. He pulled his coat over his shoulders, slung his powder horn and pouch in place, and faced his friends. Walter put out his hand and took Mingo's. Then, as the emotion overtook the small innkeeper, he pulled Mingo into his arms and hugged him tightly.
Nancy handed the baby to Walter and also pulled the tall Cherokee close. She held herself against him for several long seconds and Mingo could feel her body trembling from suppressed sobs. He bent and kissed her cheek. The loving gesture was too much for the young woman and she pulled from Mingo's arms, snatched her baby from her husband, and ran sobbing into her bedroom.
Mingo blinked back the tears that had quickly formed, walked to the door and grasped his gun. He walked through and heard Walter shut it behind him. The bang had a solid sound of finality. Mingo grasped the mule's lead rope and strode west with long strides, wanting to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Millers as quickly as he could.
More than at any time in the past ten years of his life he wanted to turn and run back. He had no doubts about his chosen course, but he knew that he would miss Walter and Nancy more than anyone he had ever known with the exception of his own mother and Calvin Cushing.
He made only 10 miles the first day through the thick timber. The ground was soggy from the melted snow and he could not walk as rapidly as he wished. He carefully made camp against a rock outcropping deep in the Virginia forest. The hot tea was welcome as the cold of early March settled after the sun set. His meal of corn cakes sat heavy in his stomach. The sound of the mule munching the newly uncovered winter grass was soothing. With heavy eyes Mingo finished the tea, unpacked his blankets, rolled into all three and was asleep in the space of a half dozen deep breaths. He was going home.
Mingo developed an easy trail stride within the first week's travel. His long legs were a distinct advantage and the dun mule was an easy traveler. He developed the habit of talking to the animal as though it was another person, and was very grateful for the animal's presence.
He had not been truly alone at any time in his life. He found the experience both exhilarating and upsetting. The freedom was wonderful. He could eat when he wished, sleep when he wished, walk when he wished, rest when he wished. No one argued with him or depended upon him for anything.
Unsettling for Mingo were the hours of total silence when all the many thoughts, memories and emotions flooded into his mind and heart and he had no way of blocking them out. The forest birds and animals were too gentle to overpower the past.
He tried singing to distract his mind from the unwelcome memories, and the tactic worked as long as he didn't concentrate too much on the song. He discovered that the lyrics could be treacherous. Even if he carefully chose his song the lyrics had a way of sparking a memory. So he abandoned the lyrics and hummed the tune. Even this was not satisfactory. The tunes themselves held memories that he had not even imagined.
Every evening at his camp stop he practiced learning to use the whip given to him by the teamster in far off Philadelphia. He was proud of the skill that he was quickly developing. The dun mule swiveled his ears every time the whip cracked. He had memories too.
Finally one day as he approached the divide between Virginia on the east and Kentucky on the west he decided that he must take the time, no matter how long, to battle his ghosts and settle his mind. He found a beautiful campsite beside a clear spring that bubbled out of a limestone outcropping. He cleared a place for a semi-permanent fire, gathered several armloads of wood, shot a turkey and got it roasting over the fire.
The mule, which he had named Shakespeare in a moment of whimsy, was picketed safely nearby. The kettle was filled with spring water and steamed over the fire for tea. His blankets were carefully spread with the limestone behind them. He was as ready as he could make himself for his ordeal.
He ate his meal and cleaned the camp, then sat with his back against the cold limestone and let the memories press forward. Images, voices and feelings swirled together in a maelstrom of conflict. Though uncomfortable, he allowed the process until one event gained precedence over the others and he could focus on that one. It was his mother's death. With it came the feeling of abandonment that had wounded him so deeply. His breathing became labored as he struggled with the emotions and memories. After several minutes he was able to admit his loss and grieve for her.
The wild night closed in around him as he sat and dealt with his ghosts. The morning light found him still seated against the rock, his eyes ringed with dark circles of weariness but his mind finally quieter. He sighed deeply, banked the fire, rolled onto his blanket bed and fell instantly asleep.
He spent four days wrestling with his haunted past. The hardest ghosts to deal with were those that swirled around his father. He would sleep, eat, and battle. To break the cycle he walked into the forest and repicketed Shakespeare or set snares for small game. He remembered snatches of his boyhood training with his Cherokee people and enough remained that he could survive in the woods.
The emotions were taking a toll on his body but he was young and strong and understood that there would be no permanent damage. As he confronted his anger, bitterness and sorrow his mind grew quieter and he looked forward to the time soon to come when he could live his life without the torment that now plagued him.
An early spring storm attacked his forest retreat on the afternoon of the fourth day. He felt the air change around him and brought Shakespeare in close to the camp. Using both ropes he tightly tied the mule to a tree on the most protected side of the limestone outcropping. He quickly broke branches from the nearby evergreen trees and created a brush lean-to against the same limestone outcropping. He laid a pile of branches on the ground beneath the shelter and folded his blankets over it to act as a seat.
He placed his supplies beside the blanket on the branches along with all his beloved books. Before the storm began he cooked a quick meal of corn cakes and made a full pot of tea. As the lightning began to streak across the sky above him he took the kettle into the pine-scented shelter and prepared for the onslaught.
Just then another man burst through the trees and shouted. "There's a big storm a'comin' and you got a good shelter thar. Mind if I share it?" Mingo pointed his gun at the strange man and looked him over carefully as he stood illuminated by the dying campfire. The man was dressed in buckskin, carried a gun that was not now pointed at him, and a large pack. He grinned at Mingo and spread his hands to show that he was unarmed.
"You may come on in. It will be tight quarters. I was not expecting company."
The stranger carefully bent and slid under Mingo's brush shelter. He sat beside the Cherokee and extended his hand. "Charles Hays is my name. From Virginy now. Just carryin' a message to Major Roberts over to Detroit. Where you bound, pilgrim?"
Mingo remembered Captain Dary's warning and the many experiences of his lifetime that had made him wary of strangers. He looked carefully into Charles Hays' face, searching for signs of danger. He found nothing but the sparkling sea-blue eyes and smiling lips. The older man seemed to understand the reason for Mingo's actions and allowed himself to be examined without protest.
The thunder shook the timber and the two men glanced at the startled mule that was pulling frantically at his tether. "Hope you got him tied tight, young fella. Mules hate noise. I knowed me a mule oncet that pulled his head off jerking agin' a rope thataway."
Mingo stared at his companion, trying to decide if the tale could be true. He decided that it was unlikely. Shakespeare would probably pull, but he would eventually settle down. Or he would break the ropes and run away, in which case Mingo would have to chase him. He did not look forward to that possibility.
Charles Hays looked again at his companion. "Air you goin' to tell me your name, or do I have to start guessin'? It'd be a sight easier if'n you'd just tell, but a sight more amusin' if'n I start guessin'!"
Mingo smiled and told the traveler his name. "There, ain't that better? Now we can visit while this here storm's got us packed in here together tighter 'n a badger in a chipmunk hole."
Mingo shook his head in amusement as the man's description bloomed in his mind. He relaxed and began to enjoy his surprise company. The two men shared several cups of tea. Charles told fanciful stories and Mingo listened in enjoyment as the rain sluiced down off the limestone rocks and the thunder added punctuation to the tales.
Charles Hays and Mingo set out together the following morning. Both men were traveling the same direction and it made sense for them to stay together for added protection as well as companionship. They crossed the divide into Kentucky Territory in mid-April and began the descent down the west side of the mountains. Mingo was well provisioned and he shared equally with Charles. Charles did his part by doing the hunting while Mingo made camp each evening. They took turns guarding the camp during the night and spent each day telling stories about their disparate lives.
Charles was a rough man who had grown up in the wild forests of western Pennsylvania. Like Daniel Boone he had a wandering itch and left his parents' house when he was only fourteen. He worked hiring himself as a farm hand, a hunter for surveyors and a guide for British commands pushing westward into the wilderness. He was now in his late twenties, free as a bird and joyously happy.
Unable to read, write or cipher his ignorance seemed a blessing to him instead of a hindrance. Mingo could not understand anyone feeling that way so he explored the man's thinking with eagerness. Charles was quite willing to tell about himself and had a way of embellishing his stories that made the hours upon the trail fly by.
The wiry frontiersman taught his companion everything that he knew about woodsmanship. Though a half-Cherokee by birth Mingo's upbringing left him sorely out of place in the wilderness. He remembered a few skills from being an Indian child and had hardened his body through hard work with Walter, but though these experiences would probably keep him alive long enough to reach a Cherokee village they would not be enough if he should find himself in danger.
Charles taught Mingo the different tracks of the wild animals and how to move silently through the thick underbrush. He showed his Indian companion various edible plants and plants that could be used as rudimentary medicine. He enumerated the various tribes that they were likely to find in the wild interior and how to recognize each one. He mended Mingo's moccasins and explained as he did. The sky's messages were plainly written to the wild Pennsylvanian and he pointed out examples to Mingo as they traveled.
The two spent nearly three weeks together, then Charles Hays turned north to deliver his message to the command at Detroit. On the last morning together the two very different men said a heartfelt goodbye and turned to their separate ways. Mingo waved his hand in farewell and the slight smiling man returned the gesture with gusto.
Better armed with knowledge and anxious to meet his Cherokee family, Mingo walked as far each day as possible before making camp. Shakespeare remained a willing companion and the two ended their early May day in a beautiful small glade near the Stone River.
As night fell and the tree frogs buzzed Mingo prepared his blankets for the night. Suddenly he noticed that Shakespeare had lifted his head and pricked his long ears toward a spot in the deepest part of the woods. Mingo rolled quickly and grasped his gun, lying as flat as possible on the damp ground. Out in the dark woods there was silence.
Then three men walked out of the trees. They were Indians. Though they did not have their guns trained on him, Mingo felt their power as they approached his camp. He swallowed and forced his mind to carefully look at their clothing and feathers. As he did so, something from far back in his mind stirred itself. He lay barely breathing as the men continued toward him. They spoke in a language strangely familiar but that Mingo couldn't understand.
When they were inside the area lit by the fire Mingo noticed that one of the men seemed to be about his age, the other two older. They stood quietly, watching him. He slowly raised himself into a sitting position, making no effort to raise his gun. He waved them to seat themselves and offered his tin cup of tea. The three warriors sat and the oldest one accepted the tin cup. He tasted the contents, then bade his two companions to also taste. They talked together for several minutes. Mingo watched them excitedly. According to Charles Hays' descriptions, these three men were Cherokee. They could be his relatives.
Unable to sit quietly as this possibility coursed through his mind, Mingo rose to his full height and stepped toward them. The oldest man also rose and slowly approached. His dark eyes explored every inch of Mingo's face. He turned to his two companions, gesturing and talking rapidly. They also rose. Then the oldest man turned toward Mingo again and said one word: "Caramingo?"
Mingo's head spun and he caught his breath. He slowly raised his hand and placed it over his heart. He also said one word: "Caramingo". Then the night exploded in smiles.
The four walked into the Cherokee village before noon the next day. The oldest man, the one who had recognized Mingo, walked ahead of his companions and ducked inside a large lodge. Only a moment later a man with the air of authority stepped outside followed by a woman with a small girl at her side and the warrior that had found Mingo. The dignified man walked directly to Mingo and stopped inches from his chest.
Though nearly a head shorter the man's piercing eyes looked deeply into Mingo's for a long time, searching. The slow minutes passed and Mingo was becoming uncomfortable under the man's intense gaze. All around them men, women and children gathered and the buzz of conversation made a steady background hum. Suddenly the man took Mingo's arm and with authority addressed the gathered Cherokee. Then he turned to Mingo and hugged him tightly. Immediately other men and women clustered closely and did the same. Mingo was seriously out of breath from the intense hugs but deliriously happy. He was home.
Mingo's life as a Cherokee began at that moment. Menewa, his uncle, was the leader of the band that contained Mingo's family. He was pulled into the family lodge and given the seat of honor before the fire. His aunt, Menewa's second wife, handed him a wooden spoon and beckoned him to help himself to the stew simmering over the fire. Beside him sat the little girl, her enormous blue eyes a clear advertisement that she was white.
As many relatives as possible were crowded into the large lodge to watch Mingo's every move with obvious affection and joy, including the warrior who had first recognized him and turned out to be Menewa's younger brother. He couldn't stop smiling himself. The homecoming was as wonderful as he had imagined during all the dark years of his forced removal from them. Their warm affection was as soothing as ointment on abraded skin.
Every night he sat with his uncle's family and listened to the stories that they told. He remembered simple words and was soon able to understand much of what they were saying. The more subtle nuances he missed, but the flow of each story was understandable.
He reconnected with friends from his childhood and they taught him the ways of a Cherokee warrior. His aunt and her friends and relatives quickly created a beautiful buckskin vest with exquisite beadwork on the shoulders. The vest displayed his muscular arms perfectly and gave him great freedom of movement. His women cousins created a beaded necklace and armband for him, and his uncle gave him a metal bracelet and medallion to hang in the center of the necklace.
He wore a wide woven belt around his waist given to him by his aunt's sisters. His trousers were fashioned after the buckskin trousers, made from a pair captured from a party of surveyors that crossed Cherokee land. Mingo felt odd wearing them until he began to think more as a Cherokee and less as a white. His shoulder-length hair was braided beside his face but left free to fall about his strong shoulders at the back. His forelocks were cut into a black fringe across his forehead. Two feathers rose several inches above the back of his head.
After he had been with his mother's people for nearly two months Mingo asked his uncle to tell him about his mother. Menewa looked long into his nephew's dark eyes, then nodded and beckoned him outside the lodge. The stately older man walked a short distance into the woods and found a comfortable seat on a nearby rock outcropping. Mingo sat down a few feet away. Using short, simple words Menewa answered all of the questions that Mingo was able to ask.
His sister Talota had been beautiful. Many warriors wanted her as wife. But her high position made her a valuable commodity used to cement a political decision between the Cherokee and the Creeks. She could have refused the marriage but she considered it her duty to do as her people asked. After her Creek husband's death she returned to her own tribe with her Creek son. She would probably have chosen a high-ranking older Cherokee to take as husband.
But she had taken the eye of the young British officer assigned to survey Virginia west of the mountains. Again she was asked to accept an unwanted marriage, this time to please a British ally. But she did feel affection for the red-haired British officer and they married according to Cherokee custom. Her Creek son would not accept her choice to live with a white man and ran away back to his father's people as soon as he was of age.
Her younger son, himself, was born with both Cherokee and white blood. He remained with his mother's people and lived as a Cherokee. Talota died of a poison that came from a wound on her hand where she accidentally cut herself with the edge of a metal trader's pot. The rest Mingo knew.
After Menewa finished Mingo sat with his head bowed. His hands were clenched with suppressed emotion. Menewa understood the difficulty his nephew must be having accepting his answers. He continued to sit and watch his much-loved nephew struggle with the past that was not in any way his doing. Then he rose and placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder in a gesture of affection and understanding. After several seconds he walked back into the village and left Mingo with his own thoughts.
His uncle's explanation had answered questions that he had pondered for much of his life. His respect for his mother was already high, but now that he understood her sacrifices he honored her even more. He made a vow to himself never to shame her memory by any word or deed. In his heart he promised her that he would live his life as honorably as she had lived hers. He rose unsteadily and moved silently to her scaffold. There he lay down beneath her shriveled body and mourned her through the remaining hours of the short summer night.
Atsila, Menewa's wife, decided that Mingo needed his own lodge. He was a grown man and as such did not need to live with his extended family. She had seen his discomfort and embarrassment as Menewa rolled off of her late in the night. It was time for him to have his own wife, but in the meantime he could leave his aunt's lodge and protect his privacy in his own small dwelling. Though unusual Atsila soothed herself with the thought that everything about Mingo was unusual.
She enlisted the help of her two sisters and in the space of a few days constructed a small lodge only ten paces from her lodge. Near enough to feel part of the family and take his meals with them, the little building was far enough away to give the young man the privacy that his white blood craved. She even left a small window in the side of the building as was common among white settlers so that he would feel more content. Mingo thanked his aunt with simple words and patted her arm in gratitude. She smiled and waved him inside with his first bundle of books.
Mingo spent days constructing a chair out of supple willow branches. He wove them together over a frame which he bound together with rawhide thongs. The chair was very comfortable as it gave with his weight. He accepted a narrow cot from his uncle, also woven from supple branches. Over this frame he piled several deer hides with the fur facing up. The bed was also surprisingly comfortable. His uncle had carefully extended the frame for his tall figure.
Mingo slept soundly alone in his own cabin. He was uncomfortable admitting it, but he did crave a measure of privacy uncommon among the Cherokee. He assumed that it came from all his years of living as a white man. Privately Menewa believed that it was just his nature.
As the summer eased into fall and Mingo continued to participate in Cherokee games and social gatherings it was only natural that he cast his eyes at the unmarried Cherokee women. And they cast their eyes at him.
Two young women pleased him very much. One was adventurous and somewhat rowdy. Her name was Tsigalili, Cherokee for ' chickadee'. She resembled the little bird with her quick movements and bright black eyes. The other young woman was more sedate. Called Sunalei, she also resembled her name which in Cherokee meant 'morning'.
Before Mingo the chickadee had cast her eyes upon a warrior named U-ne-gau-yo-na. When he noticed Mingo watching her as she moved about the camp he quickly made his acceptance known to the young woman. U-ne-gau-yo-na was a good hunter and capable warrior, and Tsigalili and her family agreed that he would indeed be a good husband. Tsigalili accepted his suit and so Mingo's choice was in effect made for him.
He watched Sunalei as she did her daily chores. Though not really tall, she was taller than most of the other girls and women in the village. She was comely, with high cheekbones and a pointed little chin. Her smooth skin was light for a full-blooded Cherokee and her smile was quiet and sweet. She noticed Mingo's attention and contrived to do most of her work within his line of sight. Carefully she watched him and gave him her slow smile several times a day. She was of a suitable clan, and Mingo asked Menewa's advice about accepting her invitation.
Menewa listened to Mingo and offered no objections. He spoke to Atsila, and she also had no objections. The two went to see Sunalei's parents the next day. Mingo waited anxiously in his lodge, trying to prepare his mind for the idea of marriage. He acknowledged that he had few examples in his life to compare. Menewa and Atsila, Walter and Nancy were the only married couples that he had observed closely. He nervously paced his small cabin as he waited.
Shortly after noon Menewa entered his lodge. Mingo stopped pacing and stood still before his willow chair. He could tell from his uncle's face that something had gone wrong. Slowly he sat down in his chair. "Tell me, Uncle. What is wrong?"
Menewa's tight lips denoted anger. Mingo saw the expression and steeled himself. He imagined the problem was his mixed parentage. Again. A sigh escaped from deep in his chest. He bowed his head.
His uncle strode to his side. His voice registered his anger as he spoke. "Mingo, never bow your head to prejudice." He saw his nephew struggle with the unfamiliar word and Menewa tried again. "Sunalei's parents do not wish the match. They object to your white father. They say that you carry a taint. Sunalei does not want to displease them." Again Mingo frowned at the unfamiliar word. Menewa was becoming agitated as he searched his mind for simple words.
"Nephew, some men do not like other men because of their skin. With others it is the blood. You must face both kinds of men. All of your life you will find men who hate you, who are afraid of you or who challenge you because of that which you cannot control. You walk a path that few others must take. It is not right, but it is so. I am sorry. "
Mingo raised his eyes to his uncle and nodded his understanding. Menewa placed his hand on his nephew's muscular arm and squeezed. Then he turned soundlessly and left the little lodge. Mingo sat quietly in his willow chair. His mind whirled with despair. He had thought to find acceptance among the Cherokee that he could not find among white men. Now he had to face the fact that prejudice occurred in all races, in all cultures. He slumped in his chair as the realization opened new wounds over the partially healed scars in his soul.
Mingo did not appear for the evening meal. Atsila looked questioningly at her husband and Menewa shook his head. She sighed and moved toward the door. Menewa stopped her before she could pass through. "Leave him. He struggles with pain that you and I can only imagine. He will come to us when he is ready."
Atsila obeyed. Menewa knew Mingo's history far better than she did. His first wife Tsisqua died without a son, leaving Menewa alone and needy. She stepped into the position of wife with her own gifts. Menewa trusted her with his heart, but not with his past. She knew that in time he would confide in her. She would wait.
When the next morning became afternoon Mingo left his lodge. He entered his uncle's lodge and ate several bites from the bubbling pot, then left in silence to return to his own lodge. When he did not reappear for the evening meal Menewa took it upon himself to address his nephew.
Mingo was sitting in his willow chair, eyes closed. He was thinking. All day the images of Anora Masterson had swirled in his mind. Even Guinevere Alford passed through. Sunalei gracefully wove her way in. His father's taunting words echoed over and over: "Her father is concerned that you will contaminate his daughter ...." Apparently James Alford was not alone. Walter and Nancy smiled in his memory. If he was never to experience the same closeness he could bear that. What was so wounding was the reason. He heard Menewa enter his lodge and opened his dark eyes.
"Mingo, it is not good for you to remain alone. Come into my lodge and laugh with us."
"No uncle. I have no laughter in me. Tomorrow I am going into the woods alone. I must think apart from you. I must decide my path. I now know that I created this wound for myself. I forgot what I know to be true. Men are men no matter their color."
"That is true. You are wise, Mingo. Do not let this hurt change you into a bitter man."
"That is what I fight, uncle. My father is a bitter man and I know the result of that bitterness. I must not become as he is. I must go out alone to seek my true self. Can you understand?" His dark eyes, full of misery, held Menewa's.
Menewa nodded. "Your lodge is here, my nephew. Your family is here. Many friends wait for you, to welcome you into the company of Cherokee warriors. When you are ready, come to us." Raising his hand in a salute of farewell, Menewa ducked under the door covering and was gone.
The next morning before dawn Mingo strode out of his uncle's village and into the Kentucky woods. Over his shoulders he wore an elkskin coat, beautifully tanned a russet brown by his loving aunt. He took his gun, his shot pouch and powder horn, his knife and whip, a blanket and few provisions. He would live off the land as a Cherokee warrior. In the silent woodlands he would sort out his life path.
As he broke free of the dense timber into a small open meadow the sun touched his head with its golden rays. In that bright moment he was Caramingo, a Cherokee, Talota's son. He was also Edmund Kerr Murray, the son of an English Earl. But above all else, he was a man.