The Smith Traders

In Unto These Hills, I portray a couple of nameless soldiers, both of whom are killed during the show. Not one to sit by and just let my characters be nobodies, I decided to write a back story. My characters are Nigel Smith, Senior and Nigel Smith, Junior. This is their tragic story. Oh and for the record, supposedly, Ahuli is a Cherokee name meaning drum; my source for this is the Internet, which means it might be true. For the sake of the story, let's just assume it is.

~The Smith Traders~

My father, Nigel Smith, Senior, was not a bad man and neither was I, but in the affairs of country, personal ethics don't matter too much. Reasons for the outbreak of war are innumerable, seems everyone has their theory, and I'm no historian to deal in discussions and debates about the whys. It happened. Let that be sufficient. My father was a trader and he joined the militia out of duty to his neighbors more than a duty to his country, though certainly the township took fair pride in the new country of the United States of America. When the pot boiled and the dark days of 1812 began, the town hesitated only for a moment; by the end of the year, she sent the bulk of her militia to join the fight. Mama asked Papa not to go, as wife's are oft to do. Whether or not it was a cold, winter evening, I don't know for sure, but that's the dramatic picture in my memory: cold, snowy, my brother Jeb and I huddled for warmth in our bed and three candles casting shadow dancers around the two room cabin.

Mama and Papa were outside, I think. If my memory is true, their voices crept in through the walls, and, though I tried not to listen, I heard the fight. I heard Mama begging him to stay with us, telling him he was going to get himself killed and his family, we, would be left struggling to survive. We would be left dying. Father balked. He argued duty to his neighbors, his brothers and friends. And what of his duty to us? I never heard an answer. The militia trumpets sounded and, an apologetic goodbye later, father was on the road to join General Jackson's forces. One thing I remember without a doubt: Mama cried and then Jeb cried and I--well, despite my best effort, I just whimpered, and my face stayed dry. I wished there was something I could say to be comforting to my family, but I was young and scared, and I did nothing.

Over the next months we got occasional, hastily written letters. Having been a trader before the war, Papa spoke some of the Cherokee language. This helped him move forward in the ranks. Indeed, Papa wrote that he met General Jackson himself. He spoke of Jackson as a shrewd man--smart but with a cruel, cold streak. My father didn't care much for Jackson the man, but he spoke highly of Jackson the general's presence and his blue-eyed charm. Father was far more positive about the Cherokee than he was about the man who would be one day be president. Even before the war, Papa had believed in always doing fair business with the native people. Be friendly to all men--a good businessman makes friends, not enemies, he'd say. These sentiments echoed in his letters, as he spoke of the people he fought beside. He told us of one man in particular, an Indian named Ahuli.

Papa met Ahuli two months after the militia joined the fight. Even as he fought in the army, father was always a trader deep down. So it was that, one night, sitting beside a small fire, he made an exchange with Ahuli. They shared a bowl of soup and a cup of water and traded stories of home and of their families. Papa found Ahuli a kindred spirit, and native man became a regular figure in father's letters after their meeting. If history were only letters, my father's story and, indeed, my own story, would have no tragedy, but war is war. Eventually, the letters stopped, and my mother, Jeb, and I heard nothing more from my father, Nigel Smith, Senior.

When father left, Jeb and I had done our best taking over the trading post, but without our father's guiding hand, and with many of our regular customers gone to fight in the war, business was slow. Still, we kept at it as best we could. Jeb and I were at odds time to time. He thought we should focus on trading for gold and coin. I believed in trading for tools and goods. I guess if I'm honest that's what hurt the business most of all. We were siblings and we fought as such, for we were assured in our youth and didn't understand our mortality. Mama, bless her, did little in those days. She prayed and waited for letters and, though she tried to hide it, I heard her crying every night. I wish I had comforted her better. I wish I had held her and been strong for her. Instead, I did nothing.

One hot day near the end of June, while we were cleaning the trading post, I told Jeb I was worried about Mama. I told him her crying was scaring me. He told me to pay it no mind, that being scared was being weak, that I was being a coward and that father would be ashamed of me. In those days, Jeb spoke down to me often. I don't hold it against him now. I think he was just as scared as Mama was, just as scared as I was. We all missed Papa and we all worried. However, none of that crossed my mind. Instead, I struck my brother square in the nose, the fears and worries all firing up in me and releasing from me as rage. Jeb lashed right back against me and, before we knew it, we were on the ground rolling in the dirt, hitting and kicking and screaming. Mama came quickly, yelling at us to stop, and I'm sure a passerby or two stopped to give a pitying nod. We paid nobody no mind, just kept on beating our emotions out of one another. I guess this would've kept on keeping on for a good while until one of us was knocked out, except that a voice louder than a drum barreled through the trading post: "If you are the sons of Nigel Smith, stop this foolishness at once. I bring sad news of your father." So it was that we met Ahuli.

The native man had traveled on foot hundreds of miles to deliver the story of my father's death to his family. The Battle of Horseshoe Bend put an end to the Creek War and was a strong victory for the United States in the War of 1812. It was a battle in which my country's men killed several hundred Creek warriors and suffered minimal casualties of our own troops. I do not take pride in the knowledge of the overwhelming suffering we caused the families of those we killed or the destructive treatment of the Indians after the battle was finished. I know that the Creek suffering as a whole was greater than the American suffering, but my Papa who was one of the few Americans killed on the battlefield and my family suffered that loss with great sorrow. Ahuli's tale was an honest one. Papa had escorted a Creek prisoner off the battlefield. After handing him over to authorities, my father ran back to the field to rejoin the fight. He killed only one warrior before being struck with a knife. He fell without fanfare, without being noticed by his own countrymen. Ahuli dragged him from the battlefield and promised him he would find us. My father died in the arms of a Cherokee man who loved him as a brother.

Ahuli finished his story. The trading post was quiet in the summer heat. With hardly a sound, Mama thanked Ahuli for finding us and turned away, staring at nothing, silent. Jeb didn't move; he, too, was silent, a dark rage beginning to grow deep inside him, a rage which would never stop simmering. My own silence lasted only a moment. Then, suddenly, unlike the night my father went away, the floods came. I wept and my mother looked away and my brother fumed. As I began to collapse, I felt strong, warm arms around me. Ahuli, my father's friend, a Cherokee Indian, held me.

Jeb lashed out. He pushed Ahuli away from me calling him a filthy redskin. He slandered our father's friend. Liar, he said. Vile Indian. He screamed and raged and forced Ahuli out of the trading post. My mother and I, shocked, did nothing. I don't know what became of Ahuli after that. By the time I was back to myself, the native man was gone. I wish I could say Jeb didn't mean his words. I wish I could say it was all shock and rage and emotion, and perhaps at the beginning it was, but he never let go of that rage. My brother Jeb, by choice or not, unfairly blamed all Indians, even Ahuli, for our father's death for the rest of his life. I never agreed with him about this, but I never spoke up. I didn't feel it was my place. I let it be. I did nothing.

Mama passed a few years later during a harsh winter. After her death, my brother Jeb and I left town together. We followed in our father's footsteps, joining the United States Army. I joined to honor our father's memory. My brother joined to seek revenge on natives. When Andrew Jackson, as president, signed the Indian Removal Act, Jeb and I were both involved in the removal. I took no pride in it. Indeed, I struggled with it.

Marching the Indians across the country, I can't count the number of times I hesitated to carry out my orders. Again and again, I thought of Ahuli. I thought of the unfairness of what we were doing. But still, I carried out my orders on that terrible trail. Once I was called upon by my superiors to put chains on the Cherokee hero Junaluska. I did so fearfully and ashamedly, and in my fear, I struck out, pushing the defeated man in a petty display of power--false power; I trembled as I struck him. My brother walked by my side for much of the march. Then, one day, a group was ordered to chase after Tsali and his sons, a group of Cherokee who were resisting the removal. I was among that group. Jeb was not.

We found Tsali and had him in our custody, but soon, a skirmish broke loose. Tsali's granddaughter cried out, begging to go home. My commanding officer smacked her, telling her to be quiet. I trembled at his brutality, aghast at his anger towards a little girl. I was shaken by his cruelty. I was shaken, and, for a moment, I didn't see the lieutenant at all--I saw my brother. Before I knew what was happening, Tsali's sons had wrestled my gun from me and, like my father before me, I, Nigel Smith, Junior, was falling to the ground, the warmth of my own blood pouring from a knife wound.

As I laid there, alone, dying, I sobbed, wishing for someone like Ahuli to hold me. But Ahuli was long gone, driven away by my brother's anger and by my hesitation to act.

Some time later, Jeb learned of my death. Since then, his anger towards Indians has only continued to grow. I wish I could speak to him. I wish I could tell him it wasn't their fault. I wish I could tell him that rage helps no one, that acting out against the native people honors neither my father or me. But my brother, like so many other American citizens, lives and hates, and my father and I are long dead. And I can do nothing.