Angels and Eagles, Excerpt by Kevin & Jayne Kmitta

In a world torn apart by forced relocations and hidden secrets, two timelines intertwine to reveal a tale of survival, mystery, mysticism, and the unyielding spirit of the human heart.

In 1838, Rev. Raymond Johnson, a Jesuit missionary answers the call to provide comfort during the Cherokee removal. Johnson keeps a journal and captures Charles and Swiftwater Crow’s daily fight for their family’s survival against the brutality of winter, disease, hunger, and a revenge-minded Georgian militiaman named Vann Jericho. As Johnson witnesses the horror of the forced relocation, he soon begins to question his own faith and direction. Tragic events force him to leave the journal behind in the settlement of Sugar Creek in hopes to inspire future change.

In 2018 Sugar Creek, Dr. Doug Stone faces a decision: relocate to Chicago to take over his father-in-law’s medical practice—or risk his marriage and stay in Sugar Creek where a mysterious illness has been claiming lives in the small community. He stumbles upon Rev. Johnson’s journal in an abandoned antique shop. Across the divide of time, the journal becomes the bridge for two healers to unite in purpose to not only reveal dark secrets in modern day Sugar Creek, but also to illuminate the wounds of history while challenge continuing injustices.

When history speaks, the present must listen.

Excerpt

Soldiers on foot and on horseback had already forced their way onto the property, obliterating a section of the split rail fence in the process. Swiftwater and Mary jumped up from their rockers.

Homer Bear pulled his grandson close.

“Eduda?” Haya asked. (Grandfather?)

The elder motioned for him to remain silent and beckoned for Alma to also stand by him. Swiftwater and Mary took a step forward but stopped when Charles signaled for them to stay put. Swiftwater protectively wrapped an arm around her sister-in-law’s shoulder as Mary clung tight to her waist.

At least six Cherokee families stood on the road, scattered among several U.S. Army wagons and horses. Some stared back at the Crows with saddened eyes and varying degrees of disbelief mixed with shock.

The uniforms of the soldiers that surrounded them suggested a mixture of both federal and Georgia state militia volunteers, the very ones that Charles had been warned about as seeking revenge to settle scores for family members killed during past conflicts. Ominous-looking cartridge boxes were draped over their shoulders while bayonets glistened. The faces looked inhuman as tri-cornered caps shadowed their eyes, and beards accentuated angry, frowning mouths. Others appeared to be young and confused, not sure of their roles.

Charles and Michael stood shoulder to shoulder at a spot between the soldiers and their families. Michael, fists clenched like hammers, moved toward the closest soldier. The soldier, no more than twenty years old and wearing a uniform much too large for him, raised his bayonet and halted Michael. The soldier broke into a frozen, toothy grin. His squinty eyes indicated no fear as the business end of his bayonet fell just short of piercing the Cherokee’s sweaty cotton shirt.

Charles met Swiftwater’s eyes. Like his, her face reflected not anger but shock at the realization that this was the beginning of their end. The nightmare that they had blindly tucked away for a year or two had now become real. There would be no turning back.

A towering brute of a man eased off a horse that he seemed much too heavy for. He walked to the soldier who still held the bayonet to Michael’s chest. “If this one makes any moves, run that thing through the savage’s heart!” His voice carried impatience. “I shan’t have to remind you that these here are the holdouts. We don’t have’ta be so damn polite with these’uns.”

The big man approached Charles. He did not wear a hat, and his open jacket revealed a soiled red shirt that strained against his stomach. Greasy, long hair dominated the top of his head, and his lips were barely visible through a thick, brown beard. Charles forced himself to stand still despite the vile odor of stale sweat and whiskey.

“I am Officer Vann Jericho of the United States Army,” he said in a loud and gravelly voice.

Deep-throated snorts and high-pitched squeals seemed to react to the introduction. All heads turned in the direction of a small pen near the first row of corn ten yards away. Within it, a large sow lay gloriously within a fresh layer of mud. Named Mabel by the children, she seemed to smile back at Jericho as numerous piglets sucked at her teats. Several of the nearby militia men chuckled in amusement.

Jericho’s uniform indicated he was not a U.S. officer but a member of the Georgia Guard. The highly trained and disciplined members of the U.S. Army all wore matching blue uniforms, while the more ragtag and undisciplined Georgia Guard wore a variety of colors, with the different pieces of clothing sometimes piecemealed together to resemble a uniform.

Jericho approached Charles. “Who talks American here?”

“I do!” Charles said proudly. Despite it all, he could not contain the small smirk on his face upon the perfect timing from his pigs. Charles stared into a left eye that was colorless and dead and followed the path of Jericho’s right one as it momentarily studied the birthmark on his face. A breeze whisked the man’s hair from the side of his head, and Charles noted the left ear was nothing more than a half-inch slit surrounded by bits of skin-covered cartilage.

In contrast to Jericho’s appearance, just over the man’s right shoulder, some twenty yards in the distance, stood a small grove of young peach and apple trees. Their beauty in the morning sun was on full display with an abundance of flowers in anticipation of what Charles knew would be their first banner season bearing fruit and one that they would never witness.

Jericho stared hard into Charles’s face, reading it like a book. “Look at me!” he barked. He then spoke to someone over his shoulder while maintaining eye contact. “Git over here and do yer read’n.”

A thin man, who wore brown suit pants with a matching button-up vest, stepped cautiously forward. A brown bowler hat perched haphazardly on his head, and a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses rested precariously at the tip of a long, thin nose. He stood in Jericho’s shadow as he read from a scroll in a voice that trembled slightly. “Are we on the land held by Rebecca Swiftwater Crow?”

Charles directed his gaze toward his wife. She nodded back at him, a far cry from the expression of pride and confidence he had seen just minutes before.

“Yes,” he replied in a voice barely above a whisper.

The man lowered the scroll as he recited the rest from memory. “By the decree of the State of Georgia and the U.S. Government and under the direction of General Winfield Scott, you hereby have ten minutes to gather any belongings that can be carried either upon one of the wagons or upon horse or upon your own back.” He pointed to the row of wagons behind him. “You will then join the others on the road,” he added almost apologetically. “The sick, elderly, or pregnant may travel in one of the wagons if space is available. Weapons of any kind are prohibited.”

“Where are we going?” Charles asked in a voice much quieter than intended. He felt his brother’s cold stare, knowing what Michael was thinking: a brave warrior should show no fear.

Jericho stepped forward. “First, to Fort Cass,” he said. “Then to Rattlesnake Springs in Tennessee. That’s all you need to know.”

Jericho scratched at his beard. He looked at Michael as he pointed to the elder and the children. “If you try anything, one of these here will git it!” He spat at the ground. “Now, git movin’. Yer lucky we’re givin’ you any time at all. Many of the others weren’t so lucky.”

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Angels-Eagles-Kevin-Kmitta-ebook/dp/B0FQZ2FRTW
Atmosphere Press: https://atmospherepress.com/books/angels-and-eagles-by-kevin-jayne-kmitta/
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/angels-and-eagles-kevin-kmitta/1149866716

Meet Kevin & Jayne Kmitta

Kevin is a graduate of the Northern Illinois University School of Journalism and a proud member of the 100-year-old St. Louis Writers Guild. When not writing, Kevin can be found hiking the trails of the Shawnee National Forest. Kevin lives with his wife, Jayne in Belleville, Ilinois.

A devoted family man, he cherishes time spent with family and traveling with his wife, Jayne. He loves animals of all kinds, including a particular a soft spot for black cats.

Despite his best efforts, Kevin is an inept gardener and the world’s worst pool player—a title he proudly shares with his grandson. A lifelong sports enthusiast, he channels his love for baseball into his role as a part-time usher at Busch Stadium.

Jayne graduated from Illinois Wesleyan University, where she majored in music education. For 25 years, she inspired generations of students to love music. After hanging up her director’s baton, she picked up an artist paintbrush. As an educator, Jayne weaves life lessons into the narrative.. AS an artist, she sees the world in melodies and brushstrokes, enhancing the words Kevin lays down.