Wow, it's been a while! I would apologize, but you probably wouldn't care.
Sorry.
Thanks to Oniongrass, Hinagiku Flower, owlheadathena1, Ailesh Igirsu, and AquariusOtter for reviewing the last chapter!
Thanks as well to kittenseverywhere, BelayaRus25, GoldenxXxKitsune, Microraptor Glider, Anake14, Nikalian88, QuantumMelody, KaiDreavus213, HannokiKaen, Bommanator21, OCcreator, insanelaughtler, shadowstar92, EnergyEmber, HarukaHitoriki, Twix03, and again to owlheadathena1, Ailesh Igirsu for your many favorites and alerts!
Do enjoy the third installment of Alfred's journey west!
Alfred was sure that someday, he would look back and laugh at the expression he'd seen on George's face when Mohe released him from a particularly forceful hug. He probably would have laughed then, had the two other Cherokees not been looking the same.
Laughing at George was all well and good, but laughing at his brother's friends would have been stupid.
So for now, he just stood, about an arm's length away from an older brother he barely remembered, grinning like a complete loon, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Mohe had a similar expression, though more subdued, but his brown eyes were all but glowing with happiness where there had once been open hostility.
"Uh… Al?"
George broke the silence, and snapped Alfred out of his daze. "What?" Alfred replied, not bothering to turn away.
"Who's that?"
"My brother."
"Your what?!"
By this point, Sam and Lucretia had made their way over. It was Lucretia who had shrieked the last remark. Alfred finally turned away from Mohe to face the astonished faces of his wagon party.
"Do you mean to tell us you're some sort of half-breed, Alfred Jones?" Lucretia demanded.
"Er… no. Mohe's more of an… adopted brother, of sorts. Mind you, I've only met him once before, a long time ago, but he remembered me anyway!"
From the sound of the rapid-fire Cherokee being spoken behind him, Alfred guessed that Mohe was doing some explaining as well. When Alfred turned to face him again, the other two Cherokees were staring at him with no small amount of respect.
"I tell them you are also son of Sitala," Mohe said, switching to slightly broken Algonquin. Alfred remembered Sacagawea calling Nek that. Mohe's gaze shifted to the three people behind him. "Who are Mukki's friends?"
"Can you understand them?" Lucretia interrupted, but Alfred ignored her.
"I am leading them west," Alfred replied to Mohe, reverting to Algonquin himself, "but we got lost." He found himself regretting that Nek hadn't taught him any other languages of the People. That really would've been useful. He pointed to each member of his party in turn. "This is Sam, Lucretia, and George." Mohe repeated the unfamiliar names, making them sound almost musical with his heavy accent.
"Hey, Al, you're tellin' 'em we're best pals, right?" George whispered. "I don' wanna be bald."
"You're not going to be bald," Alfred replied, but in all truthfulness, he wasn't sure that the other Cherokee wouldn't be hostile. Mohe could certainly vouch for him, and if their reaction to him was anything like Sacagawea's had been, he was almost certain that he would be fine.
But his traveling companions were the wealthy white foreigners living on native land and completely clueless to it, the epitome of all the natives despised about Americans. They represented everything that had caused the Cherokee people to be forced from their home, and judging by Mohe's haggard face and beaten posture, it hadn't been an easy journey.
As Alfred arrived at the conclusion that the rest of his wagon party wouldn't be safe with the Cherokee, Mohe seemed to be thinking the same thing, his brown eyes warily appraising them. His two companions were acting similarly, but hostility was open on their faces.
"I think…" Mohe began, speaking slowly, hesitation in his voice, "it would be best if we set you on course, and went our separate ways."
Alfred nodded, both relieved and stung at the same time. Cherokees were known for their hospitality among the People, but it was only among those they knew were trustworthy. And white foreigners as a whole had certainly proved themselves anything but. Yet it still hurt that someone he considered a sibling would reject him so flatly.
Alfred's mind flew to Nek. What would she think of him, now that his people (because no matter their atrocities, he was still an American) had hurt hers so? And he'd been incapable of stopping it.
Maybe Mohe knows where she is, Alfred thought, suddenly filled with an almost dangerous hope. He could apologize, try to right the wrongs of his people, if he could just see her again—
"We can't be here, associating with these… people!" Lucretia suddenly exclaimed. "They're savages, and George is right, we'll all wind up scalped and dead—"
Jerked back to the present, Alfred's head snapped around, and he focused on the woman who was wearing down his last nerves. "Don't you dare insult my family, Lucretia," he growled, feeling angrier than he'd been in a long time. "They have every right to turn us away after what our government did to them, but Mohe's going to help us, because he's my brother." Lucretia stared at him, eyes wide, shocked into silence. "But I from the way you treat yours, I suppose you can't understand that," Alfred finished bitterly.
Sam and George were staring now too. Alfred ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration he'd picked up long ago from Jefferson. Or had it been from Franklin? He couldn't remember anymore, his thoughts a confused mess. He turned back to Mohe, who was staring at him, clearly not understanding what was being said, though the angry undercurrent was hard to miss.
"They'll accept your hospitality," he said wearily, "and thank you for offering."
Mohe blinked, comprehension dawning on his face. He smiled quickly, grimly, at Alfred, before nodding formally to the people accompanying him and gesturing for them to follow.
_V~-~-~V_
Mohe's companions were understandably wary of the Atkinses and George, yet they had a respect for Alfred that bordered on awe, which made him wonder just how far Nek's influence went.
Mohe himself was nothing but cordial, but his eyes betrayed a similar wariness towards the members of Alfred's party. At Alfred's insistence, Lucretia brought out some of their beans and rice, which he cooked alongside the corn and squash offered by the Cherokee.
After eating in a silence that was indicative of the tension between the two groups, the two Cherokee men went about their usual chores on one side of the campfire, while George, Sam, and Lucretia huddled by the wagon on the opposite side. Alfred and Mohe sat together, between them, talking (ironically enough) in a language neither of the other parties could understand.
From Mohe, Alfred learned that the older Cherokee was called Onaconah, and the one who was speaking constantly in hushed tones as they worked was Gawonii. He learned that this year was a bad year for crops, that Mohe's arrival in Oklahoma had been punctuated by a minor dust storm, and that he'd met with four of their siblings that Alfred had never seen before they all left, one by one. Mohe had been the last.
Alfred insisted that Mohe tell him everything, because even though Nek had told him he was to remember for his people, he would remember this for Mohe too, because he knew what had happened when other tribes had been forcefully removed from their homelands.
So Mohe told him a story far darker than Alfred had imagined, his face flickering in the fire as the empty plains turned to evening around them.
It started when the Americans had discovered gold in the state of Georgia, near to where Mohe's people had lived. Originally, Alfred's government had decided that the Cherokee were their own nation, and thus couldn't have laws imposed upon them (he remembered that, as it had happened while Jefferson was in charge). That decision soon changed, and Mohe's tone turned quiet as he told of their forced relocation.
Their siblings had relented earlier, and had been spared, if only somewhat. The soldiers, he said, came and forced his people together in camps, then burned their homes and stole all their belongings. There was inadequate food, inadequate warmth, and no medical care for those succumbing to foreign diseases. He didn't need to say what had happened to those who couldn't bear the conditions.
Then they were sent to walk, with next to nothing other than the clothes they wore, forbidden from going near any white settlements. They were sick, starving, and even the soldiers following them weren't much better off.
False treaties were signed, and anyone protesting was killed. "We've settled down, now," Mohe said, "and we hope our numbers will rise again. We are a strong people," though Alfred wished that he didn't have to be that strong. No one should.
Nu na da ul tsun yi, Mohe called it, the Place Where They Cried.
And he had the scars to show for it.
_V~-~-~V_
Just as he'd promised, Mohe and the other two Cherokee scouts guided Alfred and his small party westward again.
"We've been going south this whole time?!" Lucretia had exclaimed incredulously. "Weren't we only supposed to for a brief time, before turning west?" Alfred had sheepishly rubbed the back of his head and repeatedly tried to assure her that he had indeed known where he was going (he just hadn't found it yet), and they'd just gotten a bit turned around.
"She's wondering how we got lost," he explained to a confused Mohe, who had frowned and said, almost fondly,
"I wonder as well how you are lost, when you can clearly follow the direction from which the sun rises and go straight west, once you realize that south is the wrong direction."
Alfred pouted, and complained to George that nobody trusted him. George had thumped him companionably on the back. "Don't let it get to ya, Al. Nobody trusts me neither."
For some reason, Alfred did not find that reassuring.
Lucretia also refused to have anything to do with Mohe or his companions, instead staying as far away from them as possible. Sam was amiable enough, but generally stood by Lucretia at her insistence.
George, on the other hand, had made it his mission to communicate successfully with any of the three Cherokee. Onaconah and Gawonii were wary of him, but eventually George talked to them so much that they finally started to respond. In Alfred's opinion, it was more of a resigned acquiescence to make him shut up, but Mohe assured him that the two were being genuinely hospitable. "In true Cherokee way," he said proudly.
To Alfred, it seemed like no time at all before they could see the rolling bluffs of familiar territory, and far in front of them, a tiny cluster of wooden and stone buildings that made up Fort William. Mohe, seated atop his horse, gazed at them with an odd expression on his face.
"Your people, Mukki," he said, gesturing needlessly at the buildings.
Alfred nodded. "My people," he agreed, as Mohe slid off his horse, standing next to Alfred instead.
"You accept them, then?" Mohe asked, turning to meet Alfred's eyes.
Slightly taken aback, Alfred replied, "Of course I do!" He hadn't even needed to think about it, just like he hadn't needed to think about it back in the Revolution, or during the burning of Washington, or immersed in the teeming city life of Boston. The Americans were his, just like the Cherokee were Mohe's. He couldn't really explain it, it just was.
Mohe smiled faintly. "That is good. Nek was worried that you wouldn't."
"Why?" Alfred asked.
"She thought that you might put your personal opinions over those of your people," Mohe said, looking back towards the distant fort. "I will tell her that those worries were unfounded."
"You know where she is?!" Alfred exclaimed, suddenly hopeful and desperate at the same time. "Can you tell me? Can I see her again?"
But Mohe just shook his head. "She also said you would want to see her, but that it is impossible."
"Why?!" he repeated, this time a plea, a deep-rooted desire put into words, because no matter what, Nek was always his Nek, his mother, his almost-forgotten past and someone he couldn't imagine absent from his future.
"She says that when the time is right, you will see her again. But for now, you must go where your people go." Mohe glanced at Lucretia and Sam, standing by the wagon and looking towards Fort William with excited gazes, and then at George, who was vigorously shaking the hands of the other two—very confused—Cherokee.
"But this is where we part, Mukki." Alfred smiled faintly.
"Thanks for taking us this far. We never would have gotten back on course without you."
Mohe grinned now, smiling broadly for the first time since Alfred had met him again, a smile of white teeth and crinkling eyes reminiscent of their first meeting all those years ago. "Anything for you, little brother."
_V~-~-~V_
Fort William was situated at the meeting spot of the North Platte and the Laramie rivers, and was a fairly new construction. It was really a fur trading outpost, not particularly protective of anything, but it was a good place for a wagon to stop to restock on supplies.
As newcomers, Alfred and the Atkinses were regarded curiously by everyone they passed, with Lucretia alone drawing most of the gawkers. After all, it wasn't often that a finely dressed lady (or any ladies at all for that matter) visited the fort.
"They're just uncultured," Lucretia said, sniffing at the small Indian trading encampment outside the fort. "I expect they have never seen anyone of my breeding in this… outpost." She sniffed again, and adjusted her hat (daffodil-colored for summer wear) while gazing imperiously at anyone they encountered from below its brim.
Sam and George looked around with blatant curiosity while Alfred led the group to what he assumed was the room in which they could trade something for food. He hadn't quite worked out what they would trade yet, but he'd find something eventually.
The chatter that filled the fort was suddenly interjected with a loud cry of "Donald!"
Every head in the immediate vicinity turned to where there was another wagon with another lady in a hat who looked suspiciously like Lucretia.
"I guess they have seen yer breedin' before, Lucy," George said snidely. Lucretia shot him a glare, and immediately made a beeline for the other woman, who was currently chewing out a skinny-looking redhead.
"Honestly, Donald, why on earth did I hire you if you can do nothing but drop my things all over this horridly dusty ground? Are you so very useless that you cannot even carry a parasol properly?"
The redhead, who appeared to be Donald, was apologizing profusely, while making a vain attempt to dust off the parasol in question. The lady snatched it from his hand, and Donald quailed under the look she gave him.
Suddenly, another man appeared, a rather rotund man wearing a stiff gray suit that stretched about his middle, and who was also in possession of a mustache that reminded Alfred very much of someone else's eyebrows in its resemblance to a caterpillar that had crawled over his upper lip.
Instantly, the woman softened. "Terrence, darling! How did your purchasing go?"
"Just fine, my dear," the man replied, his voice booming yet failing to instill any sense of importance in the listener. "I got those furs you wanted for a fraction of what they come at back east or in Canada, just a fraction!"
"Even a fraction of the Canadian price, darling? However did you manage that?"
"With my keen business mind, of course!" the man replied. "But I'm actually not positive about the Canadian price… I don't trust those Canadian dollars, do I?"
"Of course not, of course not." The woman glance around, and suddenly, her eyes lit upon Lucretia, who by this time had almost reached her, with Sam trailing not far behind. "Oh, my goodness! A sensible soul, at last!"
"I could say the same!" Lucretia exclaimed, looking happier than Alfred had seen her yet. The two immediately began twittering away, with the men (even Donald and the parasol) all forgotten.
"Such a shame she couldn't a-found her earlier," George muttered. "I woulda been saved an earful." Alfred nodded in agreement.
The puffed-up pigeon of a man was glaring at the newcomers, irritated at being ignored. "Who are you lot? I demand you introduce yourselves!"
Sam instantly apologized, cutting off George, who looked like he was about to make a sharply-worded reply. "Excuse us, but we just arrived. This is my wife, Lucretia, my brother-in-law, George, and our guide, Alfred Jones."
The pigeon-man's eyes bugged, and he regarded Alfred with an air of utter incredulity. "You—you're that Canadian! That man from the citizenship bureau! What in Heaven's name are you doing out here?!"
"Canadian?!" Alfred asked, indignant and feeling more offended than he probably should have. "I'm American all the way! I've never even been to Canada!"
But the pigeon-man just shook his head, peering closer at Alfred. "If you're not him… you two certainly bear a striking resemblance! You could be twins!"
"I'd certainly remember if I had a twin brother."
"I suppose you would…" the man said, deflating slightly. "What was that man's name…?" He considered this new dilemma briefly, but suddenly, he puffed himself up to an even greater volume than before. Looking over George and Alfred, he said grandly, "With all of this, I forgot to introduce myself!" Extending a hand self-importantly, the other grasping his coat lapel, he declared, "My name is Terrence Westcott, owner of Westcott and Sons." He paused, before adding, "Inc."
"Ink?" George asked. "What's ink gotta do with anything?"
"Incorporated, man, incorporated!" George still bore a rather blank expression.
"Whaddaya sell at an 'incorporated'?"
"Westcott and Sons, Inc, a proud distributer of all varieties of farming implements, is making a westward move to supply a yet-untouched market with the very finest in modern agricultural equipment!" he announced, as if delivering a well-practiced speech.
"So…" Alfred asked, glancing at the redhead, who was now standing off to the side, looking rather grateful to be free of the woman's tirade, "is he your son?"
Mr. Westcott turned an alarming shade of puce. "No," he said stiffly, "I don't have any sons."
"Then who is he?" Alfred continued, gesturing at the redhead for emphasis.
The businessman turned, looking at the young man as if he'd never seen him before. "Oh, that's just Donald. He's a personal assistant my wife insisted on bringing."
Suddenly looking emboldened, Donald stepped forward, meeting Alfred's gaze a bit shyly. "I'm Donald Finnegan. Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones."
"Aw, don' go callin' Al 'Mr. Jones'!" George exclaimed. "He'll get a swelled head!"
Alfred shot George a glare. "No, I won't. But Alfred is fine."
Mr. Westcott, once again looking irritated at being ignored, directed the conversation back to himself. "We're leaving tomorrow, you know, off to Oregon Territory. Marietta is tiring of this foul, dusty desert, and I need to find my land, and as they say, time is money and of the essence!"
Alfred considered pointing out that this land wasn't really a desert, that the genuine deserts were off to the south in Mexico and were far drier than this, but Mr. Westcott was already off on some new tangent involving money and sand and state-of-the-art modern farming equipment, so he turned to George instead.
"You want to find something for dinner?"
George, who was excited by food just as easily as Alfred, threw an arm around Alfred's shoulders and began marching towards the main buildings of Fort William. "You just read my mind!"
The following day, the elated mood that Lucretia had developed once the Cherokees had left disappeared once again with the departure of Marietta Westcott.
"The only reasonable person I've met on this horrendous journey!" she lamented. "She truly understood the necessity of seasonally coordinated hats!"
_V~-~-~V_
Several miles away, with a new guide to continue their westward journey, Terrence Westcott suddenly burst, "Matthew Williams! That's it!"
In his enthusiasm, he threw up an arm, whacking Donald soundly in the side, who squeaked and knocked a pile of Marietta Westcott's belongings off the side of the wagon.
But nobody noticed Donald, so nobody noticed when he missed a handkerchief in his frantic collection of the fallen belongings, leaving it forlornly crumpled in the dust.
V/~-~-~\V
So.
I meant for the Oregon Trail to only be three chapters long, but like this story in general, it seems to be taking longer than originally planned. I never thought I'd be writing anywhere near twenty chapters on my first multi-chapter fic. This is turning into a freaking novel, I swear.
For history...
The Trail of Tears (known literally as the Place Where They Cried in Cherokee) happened as described, and is a tragedy often overlooked or barely mentioned in history courses, as our country doesn't seem to like pointing out the ugly parts of its past. But the forced movement of the Five Civilized Tribes out of their homeland and into Oklahoma was a brutal trip, killing an estimated third of the Cherokee population alone. Today, however, the Cherokee tribe is the largest Native American tribe in the country, hence the reason that Mohe hasn't disappeared.
Fort William was begun by fur traders in 1834, where the North Platte and Laramie rivers meet. In 1849, the US Military purchased it and renamed it Fort Laramie after Jacques La Ramie, a French trapper. It was a regular stopping spot for those traveling on the Oregon Trail.
As for time frame, I'm putting this story in midsummer of 1840. Yes, the Westcotts are those irritating folks from a couple chapters back, returning to annoy people (why do I write so many annoying characters?).
The whole hand-signal thing from last chapter is a very basic sign language developed by the Native Americans, of which I have no idea how extensive its vocabulary is, and have adapted for my purposes.
Donald is another new character, not a real or historically influential person. I sorta feel bad for the number of OC's in this story, but oh well...
I also really wanted to have Mattie sneeze at the end, when Mr. Westcott shouts his name, but resisted the urge.
Next chapter probably won't be so detail-oriented, because they need to get to Oregon at some point, here.
And as always, feel free to ask a question or comment on this chapter in a review! See you next time!