‘Tho I Be Mute
By Heather Miller
By Heather Miller
Clarinda faces a moment of profound reality—a rattlesnake bite, a harbinger of her imminent mortality—and undertakes an introspective journey. In her final days, she immortalizes not only her own story but that of her parents—a narrative steeped in her family’s insights into Cherokee heritage during the tumultuous years preceding the forced removal of Native communities.
In 1818, Clarinda’s father, Cherokee John Ridge, embarks on a quest for a young man’s education at the Foreign Mission School in Cornwall, Connecticut. Amidst sickness, he finds solace and love with Sarah, the steward’s quiet daughter. Despite enduring two years of separation, defamatory editorials, and societal upheaval due to their interracial love affair, the resilient couple weds in 1824. This marks the inception of a journey for Sarah as she delves into a world both cherished and feared—Cherokee Territory. As John Ridge advocates for the preservation of his people’s land and that of his Muskogee Creek neighbors against encroaching Georgia settlers and unscrupulous governmental officials, the stakes are high. His success or failure hinges on his ability to balance his proud Cherokee convictions with an intricate understanding of American law. Justice remains uncertain.
Grounded in a true story, ‘Tho I Be Mute resonates with a compelling historical narrative, giving an intimate voice to those heard, those ignored, those speechless, urging readers to not only hear but to truly listen.
Excerpt
Chapter 5: Laundry, Sarah Bird Northrup
As the morning progressed, we continued in quiet through laundry day. Mother joined us when the sun crept over the hill. Absent her customary grace and stature, she stepped in front of the rinse tub and filled it with water from buckets. She gripped the large paddle, smooth from weekly use, and stirred away the clothes’ soapy remnants.
With one basket ready to hang on the line, Cornwall woke with people beginning the routine of their daily lives. Some mimicked our ritual. Some hoed in garden beds. Some opened stores of flour and cloth. Some hunched over Bibles and English textbooks. Cornwall was both ordinary and blessed at the same time.
The wind continued until late afternoon after Jane and Mother returned inside. The final basket overflowed with wrung and twisted heaps. I bent over, grabbed a tangled sheet, and flipped it into the wind. I tossed it two more times to unfurl its length and crossed the hem over the line. Mother insisted I use the pegs on the sheets, so the crease would be at the seam rather than down the middle.
Under the amber afternoon, a walking silhouette approached from behind already dry, sheeted walls, fluttering, stretching in the breeze. The shadow’s gait was slow but steady, rising on its left side, aided by a single crutch. It wore boots that clung to thin, tall legs. The fitted frock coat tails lifted and cast an unusual shape, as if it had tail feathers. The silhouette’s head rode atop its neck, grand, chin pronounced, and short, wavy hair brushed away from his forehead. John’s eyes found me, separated by the hanging sheets.
I spoke to his shadow. “You’re early. Are you unwell?” I stretched from the waist, grabbed more pegs, and stepped down the line. I avoided his gaze, but his gravity made my arms heavier.
“Doctor Gold is coming by this afternoon, so I must be well,” he replied, with a hint of tiredness. He often spoke of his family’s expansive farm, so I imagine he was bored, sitting in class studying crop rotations when he wanted to read philosophy.
“Good.” It was all I managed to say, mispronouncing the word with clothes pegs between my lips. I unfurled another sheet. If Doctor Gold was coming, that explained why Jane and Mother made their premature departure from the washboard and tub.
I paralleled the line, and John pantomimed my movements with a moment’s delay. Pulling the peg from my mouth, I sighed and trapped the right end of the sheet, frustrated with the endless work.
John looked at me inquisitively. “What’s troubling you, Miss Sarah?”
“Nothing more than washing day.” My impatience hid the truth. “Mother and Jane still think I am younger than I am.”
“So, you’re ready to fly the nest?” he asked with a measured pace and chuckled.
“Not necessarily, I just do not wish their constant reminders of things I do by habit.” He did not deserve my short temper.
He hummed a single note and replied, “Since I have been from home, I have taken care of myself a great deal. But when I return, it’s the same for me. My mother reminds me to cork the ink and to take off my boots before falling asleep. I can hear her say it now as if she stood here among the drying.”
We saw one another again in the absent space on the line. I said, “You must miss home. Your mother and father wish for your return. Your father said so when he was here.”
“I miss them, but Elias eases my loneliness. He is my father’s brother’s son.”
“Yes, I remember. He’s your cousin?” Surely John knew the word.
“Yes,” he said. “But we are as close as brothers, and my father is his in many ways, as his father is mine. Therefore, that is a better description. Elias plans to leave soon to attend Andover Theology School. Here, he has more friends than I do, but I am a better student. He is witty and personable, a wonderful storyteller, a skill I do not have.”
John smile straightened, saddened by Elias’ pending departure. His expression brought lonely thoughts to my mind. Affirming what I already knew to be true, I said, “. . . and you want to make people think. Your talents are a gift from God. It is a noble weight you look to carry.”
“It is why I was sent here: to study, to learn the ways of your lives. It is what our elders insist must happen. Thomas Jefferson warned the Cherokee to learn what it meant to be American. My people must seek the education provided to us. Now, Cherokee land carries my people, but in the future, we may have to learn to carry it with us.”
“Made any discoveries?” I asked.
He answered, “How hurried everyone seems. Except you.” Then, he paused mid-thought, speaking with a younger expression on his face, one more reminiscent of his age. He seemed to catch the memory of his home in the wind, squinting against the fading sun. “Light. I miss the light. I miss running my horse along the edge of the Oostanaula River in the morning’s glow. I miss the green haze above acres of grass bordered by trees as far as one can see. I miss council meetings with enormous fires under starry skies in autumn. Mountains and coves pebbled with spectrums of color. . . I miss . . .”
I interrupted his musings, sensing his sadness, and changed the subject. “Have you slept with your boots on?” My mind imagined him doing so, and I covered my mouth with my hand to hide my grin.
“Only when my mother cannot see.”
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Heather Miller
History is better than fiction.
We all leave a legacy.
As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-four years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she’s writing it herself, hearing voices from the past. Heather earned her MFA in creative writing in 2022 and is teaching high school as well as college composition courses.
Miller’s foundation began in the theatre, through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and sing every note from Les Miserables. But by far, her favorite role has been as a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer, and a RN. Alas, there’s only one English major in her house.
Heather continues writing the Ridge Family Saga. Her current work-in-progress, Stands, concludes the Ridge Family Saga.
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Thank you for hosting Heather Miller today, with a fabulous excerpt from ’Tho I Be Mute.
ReplyDeleteTake care,
Cathie xx
The Coffee Pot Book Club