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.
From Chapter 2: All That I Have Ever Had Is Yours, John Ridge
Long days later, we approached Cornwall, Connecticut from the south, where the Housatonic flowed over rolling hills similar to my homeland. From my view behind coach windows, stables and sawmills introduced the villages’ logging trade. Sheep grazed in the valleys under Colt’s Foot Mountain, supplying the wool mill with raw materials. In this valley, hamlets of family farms surrounded First Church. Wooden fence posts and rails divided tiny Cornwall into squared lots, while at home, our land overlapped, providing for an entire people.
The carriage stopped in front of the Academy of the Foreign Mission sitting among the bare cedar trees and hemlocks during this blustery fall of November 1818. The school building was a gambrel-roofed, two-story structure with a chimney on one end and a weathervane on the other, acting as bookends. Next to our classroom, a winter garden grew purple-leafed kale and hearty cabbage. A bare maple stood alone in the yard. With it, I sympathized, naked and separated, under constant surveillance. Unimpressive in appearance, this academy was where I hoped to gain insight into history and English, more advanced than my former schools at Spring Place and Brainerd Mission. It was an honor to be sent here, but at that moment, it lacked imagination’s climax.
Reminiscent of the original ‘city on the hill,’ the Foreign Mission School was primarily for religious instruction, training future missionaries who intended to convert the ‘savages’ to Christianity. I understood the whites’ faith; the Great Spirit has many names. Therefore, I would be contrite, but conversion was not my intention. I did not plan to become a missionary. Father insisted I become a lawyer, a politician. The Great Spirit was more equipped than I to guide the Cherokee to salvation.
As Doctor Dempsey opened and stepped from the carriage and interrupted my observations with reminders of my father’s expectations and guidelines for my behavior. To say these reminders were absent from my attention would imply his words were irrelevant. Still, Dempsey’s lecture was unnecessary. Concluding his ‘Sermon from the Coach,’ Dempsey waved his hand and said, “We are here, John. Let us make our introductions.” We crossed the worn path, with Dempsey leading, and I following behind, as my limp slowed my gait.
Upon entering, smells of recent peat fires and old books struck me. Sheer numbers of texts bordered the log walls of the schoolroom. The spines on the shelves wrapped around rough-crafted tables and straight-backed chairs set for study and meals. A small fire burned in the hearth, while candles lit this day of clouds. As we entered, the students’ backs, grouped in pairs, hovered over books of prayer. They took turns reading to one another various verses in English, absent any context, and translated them into the languages of their homelands. Missionary school indeed. The Biblical stories whites esteemed taught me many things, including what they thought it meant to be a man. Although I would never be Sampson or King David, my name was John, Skahtlelohskee, the mockingbird.
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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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