Yellow Bird's Song by Heather Miller

Author:Heather Miller [Miller, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical fiction, Cherokee Indians, Creek Indians, Indian Removal Act, Andrew Jackson, Chief John Ross, Georgia history, American history, American Indians
Publisher: Historium Press
Published: 2024-03-19T04:00:00+00:00

L

The knocking woke me. I crawled to respond. Delano looked where my height should be but found me hovering a foot above the red carpet. Finally, he said, “Up and at ‘em, Ridge. Colonel Grant is already barking downstairs. Looks like you’ll have to meet him as you are.”

My first thought questioned why he used “barking” to describe this man, but when I heard Grant speak, I knew Delano chose the right word.

The backs of the standing crowd reached the waist of the man wearing a white coat and eccentric red tie. He spoke not to those standing beneath him, but loud enough to be heard by those walking across the street. His efforts weren’t wasted. A stream of future readers found their way to stand at his feet.

“Buy a subscription to the True Delta,” Grant bellowed, making my head pound in tune to his tempo. “Eight dollars for a year’s worth of political commentary, polite humor, and news from these United States. It is, by far, the best Atlantic newspaper ever sent to California. Buy a subscription, and I’ll offer you a canister of miracle paste that whitens the teeth for no additional charge.”

After collecting several names, addresses, and coins for the paper and the paste, Grant recognized Delano and, by proximity, eyed me standing on the edge of those filing away. He seemed a man whose joy was proportionate to the jingle of coins dropped in his pocket. He approached and shook Delano’s hand.

Delano said, “This is the man I wanted you to meet.”

I offered him my hand then stood in profile, staring across the street, waiting while Colonel Grant took in my ragged self.

Grant remarked, “You’re a strangely attired fellow, good-looking under an honest day’s dirt. Delano here says you are in search of employment?”

“I’ll do anything honest.” I picked up a canister of the paste, thinking Grant must be a scam artist to sell baking soda in a can and call it a miracle. But at eight dollars per subscription, he needed to keep coins in his pockets. This must be the way he fills that need.

“Can you write? By your appearance, one might guess the contrary.”

“I did some writing back home,” I said, not boastful but true.

“Where’s that?” he asked.

Might as well get this out of the way. Most men ask. “I was born in Cherokee Nation in the East, then removed to the West, to Indian territory. After my father died, we lived in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Had a farm in Missouri.”

“Hmm,” Grant said. “Well, Delano can recognize talent from a mile away. So, for him, I’ll do this for you. Write me a piece for the Delta and bring it back tomorrow morning. I’ll read it, and if it has merit, you’ll have found a career writing and selling the news.”9 After making me the offer, both men walked down the street together, assumedly to feed themselves after the morning’s exertions.

With a pound in my head and in desperate need of a bath, I sat on Grant’s barking box and gathered my thoughts.

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