On This Long Journey, the Journal of Jesse Smoke, a Cherokee Boy, the Trail of Tears, 1838 (My Name Is America)

3 Nov

On This Long Journey, the Journal of Jesse Smoke, a Cherokee Boy, the Trail of Tears, 1838 (My Name Is America)

On This Long Journey, the Journal of Jesse Smoke, a Cherokee Boy, the Trail of Tears, 1838 (My Name Is America)

Language: English

Pages: 208

ISBN: 0545530865

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Critically acclaimed author Joseph Bruchac's exciting JOURNAL OF JESSE SMOKE is now in paperback with a dynamic repackaging!

In 1838 in Tennessee, the Cherokee Nation is on the brink of being changed forever as they face the Removal -- being forcibly moved from their homes and land, in part because of a treaty signed by a group of their own people. Sixteen-year-old Jesse Smoke has been studying at the Mission School, but it has been shut down and turned into a fort for the ever-increasing number of soldiers entering the territory. Now Jesse has returned to his home to live with his widowed mother and two younger sisters. All hope lies on the Cherokee chief, John Ross, who is in Washington, D.C., trying to delay the Removal. Then one night, family members are suddenly awakened, dragged from their homes, and brought at gunpoint to a stockade camp. From there, Jesse and his family are forced to march westward on the horrifying Trail of Tears during the long, cold winter months. It's a difficult journey west, and Jesse's not sure if he and his family can survive the journey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

will defeat them.” May 17, 1838 Despite the general uncertainty, livestock still must be fed and farm chores done. Corn is now knee-high. Napoleyan escaped his stall this morning and went into the cornfield. I was sure he had trampled the corn or at least eaten some, but he had not. I believe he just did it to irritate me. He seemed to be laughing at me as I led him back to the barn. Mules! Too busy to write during the day and now too tired this evening to write more than this. May 25, 1838

could hear us and then crouched down beside me to tell me that he could not read a word. Nor write, neither, he added, though that was scarcely necessary. I said nothing in return. What could I say? White Will stood up. I stood with him. There was something on his mind other than a confession of illiteracy. Leaning close and still whispering, he asked if he might ask a favor of me. “I shall give ye favor for favor in return,” he added quickly. “Yes?” I said. He then asked if I might help him

sent west again that he had hurled himself over a cliff to avoid capture. Some had been so beaten by the soldiers who captured them that the poor wretches suffered broken bones, though their only resistance was to run, not fight. General Scott’s orders to his men may have forbade unkindness to our people, but a good part of his troops have paid no attention to such commands. July 8, 1838 I am thankful for the health of my mother and sisters and for my own health. But I am not thankful for the

clothing and make his way back to DeKalb County, where his old job awaits him. “I will call myself John Campbell,” Fourkiller said. “They will not send a Scotsman to the Indian Territories.” July 10, 1838 Four more men and three women were baptized today. One of the women had lost both her infants to the fevers. She wept with joy at the thought that she would see them again in the life to come. I wept also, but not from joy. There are so many losses every day that the flow of our tears must

not before I saw the tears in her eyes like those that blurred my own vision. August 12, 1838 I attended the services led by Reverend Jesse Bushyhead today to say farewell to Sam Blackfox. He died this morning. I helped Reverend Bushyhead dig the grave. After the burial was over I sat, for how long I did not know, with one hand pressed against the soft earth as if I could again hold my friend’s strong hand one last time. It was not easy to find the strength to stand. How hard it is to make new

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