Chief John Ross Stands Alone

Chief John Ross, leader of the Eastern Cherokee Nation sat at his bare desk. His files and office supplies were already packed in wooden crates against the wall behind him. Across the desk sat Reverend Samuel Worcester, Christian missionary to the native Cherokees of western Georgia and eastern Tennessee. The minister, a tall man in his late thirties with wavy brown hair, was dressed in a close-fitting black suit with a ragged collar. His sun-darkened skin was nearly the same color as Ross’s.

“Chief John, we must do something to halt the Georgia militiamen. I don’t think you realize how quickly the current situation may become dangerous.”

He spoke so quickly that Ross had trouble understanding all his words. English was a language he had used most of this life, but it was not a tongue he used on a regular basis. Ross spoke much more slowly than his guest because he wanted to be very careful with his words so that Worcester would understand his message.

“Samuel, I clearly understand how Cherokee lives have become so threatened because Governor Gilmer refuses to protect our right to own our lands. Your own Chiefs do not recognize that we are more like you whites than other tribes. We are not like the Choctaw or Chickasaw people. We do not move our villages from place to place. We do not live only by hunting and fishing and gathering berries. Cherokee have long lived in the whiteman’s manner. We want to be at peace with your people.”

Ross didn’t need to have a white, even one he respected, remind him of what was happening to his own people. He had been warning everyone about the coming disaster from the time he was first named Chief. Only three years ago he and two other clan leaders, Standing Rock and Co-Til-Kee, led a delegation to Washington to meet with President Andrew Jackson. They sought to convince the white leader that the State of Georgia was breaking federal law by seizing Cherokee land. Jackson, living up to his sobriquet “Indian Fighter,” refused to even meet with these leading citizens whom he referred to as “heathens and damned sauvages.”

Secretary of War Eaton met with the delegation instead, chastising them for trying to waste the President’s time. He said that they should be treating instead with Georgia’s Governor because it was clear the State, not Washington, was acting against them.

Following their failed entreaty, the situation became much worse. Given the lack of leadership coming from newly elected President Van Buren, Governor Gilmer refused to enforce constitutional laws protecting the property rights of land-owning Cherokee against seizure by whites.

Reverend Worcester listened very attentively to his good friend. The Massachusetts native, with brave wife Anne Orr, had lived among the Cherokee since 1816 at the service of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. During those twenty years he became convinced that the governments of both Georgia, and the United States meant to destroy the Cherokee, take their land, and drive them to reservations west of the Mississippi. 

Ross went on.

“Like your people we farm to eat. We raise many head of cattle, ponies, sows, and chickens upon our lands. Most Cherokee live in permanent houses like yourselves, not in wigwams and longhouses. It has been like this for generations. There are some of our poorer people who live in sheds or sod homes, but is this not also common among poor whites?”

“John” said Samuel “I know the people here in your capital and even up in the Ozark Mountains live in a very civilized manner. Ann and I are educating Cherokee children in our Christian school. Like yourself, many of your people already follow our one true God.”

“Yes, I understand that you know us. You have proven yourself a true friend. You have suffered physical and financial mistreatment for siding with my people. You have been in and out of prison for the last five years. Anne has been denied medical care and lost your first daughter at birth.”

The Chief rose abruptly from his chair, straightened the cuffs of his white muslin shirt and walked toward the office door. Twelve years as leader of his embattled nation had left its marks on his handsome face. His hair was streaked with white and dark bags had formed beneath his eyes. This man who would soon be known as “Moses of the Cherokee” because of his leadership during The Removal feared the days that lay ahead.

“The powerful men who are trying to drive us away still think we are heathen animals. Even Jackson, who lived his life near us and with whom we fought in a war against the Chickasaw, speaks to us like ignorant children who must be punished. You and I have both resisted this dreaded removal to no avail.”

“John, may God protect the Cherokee. We must continue to fight.”

“Reverend, I must ask you to leave now before I offend you. You, sir, are a good soul, a man who seeks to understand our ways. You and your wife respect our traditions and do what you think is right to improve the future for my people. But you are white. As fair as you are to us, you will always see the world differently from Cherokee.”

As Worcester rose from his chair and reached to shake the Chief’s hand, Ross put his right hand on his chest above his heart.

“I cannot take your hand. The handshake is a white custom. Those men I met in Washington offered me their hands in friendship. They said they wanted peace, but they were reaching out to grab hold of my land and my home. I sign you in Cherokee fashion and wish you donadagohvi, be safe till we meet again.”

Both men walked to the open door through which they could see soldiers of the Georgia militia on foot and horseback herding native family groups into fenced stalls originally built to hold livestock during market days. Most captives walked in single file carrying belongings in bed rolls or carpet bags. Those who were able to bribe a soldier into letting them keep a donkey or small pony led these animals loaded with pots, pans, bedding and bags of corn, squash, and beans.

Reverend Worcester left the tribal office and stepped out into the chaos. He noticed one young man who was dressed in a suit of homespun and a fine leather hat with a single feather in the brim trying to aid an old man who lay fallen on the unpaved street. A mounted militiaman, dressed in faded blue coveralls, stained muslin shirt and a grey hat with a star-and-bars patch, glared at both natives. He pointed his shotgun down at the fallen man.

“Halt, soldier,” shouted Worcester as he rushed to lend a hand. “In the name of God, I beseech you to back off.”

“In God’s name you say?” yelled the rider. “Which God? Our Christian God or the gods of these non-believers?”

He swung the butt end of his shotgun into the shoulder of the old man who had nearly made it back to his feet, felling him face down in a shallow puddle. As the younger man tried to raise the old man up again, the assailant shouted.

“Let him die in the mud like the devil he is,” he bellowed as he hit the young man in the face with the rifle barrel. “I swear you both will be the first of many to be lost in the days to come.”

Turning attention to Worcester, the soldier pointed his weapon toward the white man.

“And you. Sir. Stand back or you too will die.”

A shot rang out from the direction of the Tribal Office doorway directly behind the missionary. It struck the abusive rider in the chest, knocking him from his saddle and on to the ground face-down at Worcester’s feet. Though Chief John Ross was nowhere to be seen, the Reverend thought it must surely have been his friend who spilled the first blood of the Trail of Tears.