Trail of tears

इसे मुफ़्त में आज़माएं!

This is my birthday, December 11, 1890, I am 80 years old today.
On one of my long hunts in the fall of 1829, I found a young Cherokee who had been shot by a band of hunters. He had gotten away from them and was hiding under a low flat rock.
Knowing many of the Indians and able to speak their language, I was sent as an interpreter into the Smoky Mountain country in May 1838.
The trail of the exiles was a trail of death. They had to sleep in the wagons and on the ground without fire.
He was whipping an old, weak Cherokee. The sight of that nearly blind creature lashed by a bull whip was too much for me, so I attempted to stop McDonal. He lashed me across the face, the wire tip on his whip cutting a bad gash in my cheek.
When Scott invaded the Indian country some of the Cherokees fled to caves and dens in the mountains where they still live today. I have wanted to try and find them, but I have put off going from year to year, and now I am too weak to ride that far. I can truthfully say that I did my best for them when they certainly did need a friend.

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