Cultural
Background
Storyteller's Cabin
The Cherokees who lived in these North Carolina mountains in the 1800s did not wear headdresses or live in teepees. They dressed like the white man and lived in small villages, complete with stores, churches and schools. They had their own alphabet, and even published their own newspaper. Even though the white settlers had taken over most of their land through the years, the Cherokees wanted nothing more than to be accepted by the white man and to live in peace.
But to many white people, no matter what advances the Cherokees made, they would always be an inferior race of "savages." Gold was discovered down in Georgia, bringing a flood of white prospectors into the area. They harassed the Cherokees, looted their homes and stole their livestock. Meanwhile, other white settlers stood by like vultures, waiting to pounce on the Cherokee land if they fled. Certainly, the Cherokees thought, the U.S. government will send troops to help us, for we have been promised that we can stay on this land.
But no help ever arrived.
So it was no surprise to Tsali when word came into his village one day that U.S. President Andrew Jackson had made a stunning announcement. He ordered the Cherokees to move from their North Carolina homeland to strange lands way out West. This was a ridiculous order to Tsali -- they were farmers, not hunters. How could they uproot everything and move? Their ancestors had lived on this land for centuries, and as long as their spirits remained there, Tsali's people could never leave. So Tsali and his people refused the order, choosing instead to fight back the white man's way -- through the courts.
Two years had passed since the order, and as Tsali worked on his farm that morning, he had almost forgotten that he and his people were living in contempt of the U.S. government. He limped down to the barn to milk the cows, the crisp morning air throbbing in his aching knees.
Just as he reached the door, an ear-splitting scream filled the air, followed by a loud crash. Tsali dropped his bucket and ran to the side of the barn. As he looked down on the village, he could see a small army of white soldiers, armed with bayonets, kicking down the doors of the houses. Men, women and children were yanked screaming out of their homes and taken away, not even given time to look back. As they left, white looters ransacked their homes, snatching everything of value they could find.
Tsali's sons ran up behind him. "What's going on?" said the eldest son, his eyes filling with horror. "What are they doing?"
Tsali pushed them back toward the house. "Go get your mother," he yelled. "We've got to get out of here!"
Tsali's wife had come down with a bad fever that spring, and could barely muster up the strength to get of bed. Tsali's sons grabbed her and, with Tsali leading the way, ran away from their home forever, taking nothing with them.
As they ran, they could hear the soldiers yelling for them to stop. "Don't look back," yelled Tsali to his family. "Keep moving!"
As they reached the outskirts of the village, a cavalry of soldiers suddenly encircled them on horseback. Tsali's eldest son tried to escape, but a soldier clubbed him in the head with the butt of his bayonet. Tsali frantically looked around him, his pale wife gasping for breath on his arm -- they were helplessly surrounded.
Tsali's family was marched away from the village at gun point, along with other villagers who had tried to escape. One thing the Cherokees had not given up was their native tongue, and whenever the white soldiers weren't looking, Tsali whispered to his fellow villagers along the trail. He learned that many Cherokees had managed to escape into the hills. He also learned that the white soldiers had stockades set up to imprison the Cherokees before they were forced out West.
Tsali looked over at his poor, feverish wife, barely able to stand. She won't be able to live in such a place, he thought. His blood boiled inside him -- for the first time in his life, he was helpless, his manhood taken away by these white soldiers. He could do nothing to help his family.
In the distance, they could see the stockade -- a makeshift wooden fort bellowing smoke and misery from its depths. At the sight of it, Tsali's wife suddenly froze, her eyes filled with fear. "Keep moving!" snarled the soldier behind her. In her sickness, she paid no attention to him. Impatient, the soldier jabbed her in the back with his bayonet. She tumbled to the ground.
Without thinking, Tsali leapt at the solider. They struggled for the gun, Tsali's rage filling him with youthful strength. The gun suddenly exploded, and the soldier fell limp, a bloody hole shot through his chest.
The second soldier was in a state of shock, unsure what to do. In the distance, Tsali could see the other soldiers looking back at them, screaming for reinforcements. Tsali snatched the rifle from the soldier and shot him from his horse.
Now scores of soldiers were running toward them, guns drawn. Tsali frantically looked around him, unsure where to go. Then he looked up into the dark hills -- the same hills he had lost himself in as a boy. He knew every inch of those hills, and if his family was going to be captured, they weren't going to surrender without a fight.
Tsali lifted his wife onto his shoulder and turned toward the hills. "Run!" he screamed to his family.
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