Sarah grinned. “You just don’t take no for an answer when you set yer mind to a thing, do ya?”
Abigail shook her head, “No, Sarah, I don’t. I’m a spoiled old rich lady used to getting her way. Will you humor me?”
“When you put it that way, ma’am, I can’t say no again. I’ll go along with the grammar lessons.” And she had, proving quickly that Tom was not the only good student named Biddle. Now, as Sarah and Tom talked about returning to Lincoln, she spoke with nearly flawless grammar.
“I think I’ve about learned all Mrs. Titus can teach me, Tom. My head’s so full of cleaning solutions and routines, I think it may burst. And if it does, I just know a bottle of carbolic acid will fall out! Maybe Mrs. Braddock would let the two of us go back home before the house is finished—”
Tom jumped off the bed. “You think she would, Sarah, really? I can’t wait to—”
Sarah laughed, “Hold on, Tom—I said maybe. I’ll ask Mrs. Braddock tomorrow. Tonight she’s having guests in for dinner, and I’m to help serve. If I do that well, then I’ll feel justified in asking about going home a little early. The fact is, I could probably be of more help there. Mrs. Braddock says the house will be finished soon, and I could be there when the furnishings begin arriving to unpack and arrange and have things all set up when the Braddocks come in the fall.”
Tom headed for the door. “I’m going to bed early. Then tomorrow will come sooner and you can ask about us going home.” Tom closed the door firmly, and Sarah sat down to write home.
Dear Aunt Augusta and LisBeth,
It’s been eight weeks now, and Tom and I are more homesick than ever. Neither Tom nor I care much for the big city of Philadelphia. On Saturdays Mr. Braddock has been kind enough to drive us about town. He showed us where the Centennial was held last year.
But we miss Lincoln—Joseph, and Asa, and even Jim Callaway. Have you seen much of him lately? I guess he’s busy on the homestead, and I hope he does right by you, LisBeth.
Mrs. Braddock insisted that both Tom and I take diction lessons while we were here. I guess a fine lady even needs maids that talk fancy. Now, that wasn’t proper grammar, was it? Please don’t tell on me!
Anyway, I’m going to ask tomorrow if we can come home. I’ve learned all the cleaning and cooking a girl should have to know.
Your faithful servant,
Sarah Biddle
When Augusta read Sarah’s letter, she couldn’t help commenting, “Seems like every letter we’ve received has said something about Jim Callaway.”
LisBeth, once again up to her elbows in dishwater, chuckled. “I think she’s set her hopes on Jim.”
Augusta looked up surprised. “Nonsense! He’s way too old for Sarah. She’s getting herself into a wonderful position—a fine career. There’s no need to go tying herself to a dirt poor farmer.”
LisBeth scolded. “Aunt Augusta, Jim Callaway is a fine man, you’ve said so yourself. And as to his occupation, he told me this spring that someday that place will be the showplace of the county, and I believe he’ll do it.”
Augusta was not to be deterred. “Yes, he’ll do it, no doubt, after years of scraping and sweating and wearing himself down. And whoever hitches up to him will be old before her time.”
LisBeth disagreed. “Oh, I don’t know as it would be all that horrible.”
“LisBeth Baird! I’ve heard you talk about the sodbusters headed west. You’ve seen your share of broken dreams come in that hotel door and ask for a room.”
“True, but there’s something about Jim’s dream—” LisBeth set the dutch oven she’d been scrubbing up on the counter to dry and turned to face Augusta as she dried her hands. “Jim has a passion for the land. The last time Joseph and I rode out to visit, Jim took us on a walk. He’s planted nearly one hundred apple trees in that field just west of the house. He talks about his plans, and I can’t help but see it the way he plans it: mature orchards, fields laden with ripe grain, a barn full of fine stock—”
Augusta burst the bubble. “Posh, LisBeth. Castles in the air. Two summers of drought, and he’ll go under.”
“I don’t think so,” LisBeth disagreed gently. “Something about Jim Callaway makes me think he’ll stay. Even in the tough times. I think he’ll just dig in and stay put.”
Augusta took a moment to consider, and then did an about face. “Well, if our Sarah is taken with him, if she has her heart set on him,” Augusta looked up at LisBeth, “he could certainly do worse!”
LisBeth grinned. “Yes, he could, Aunt Augusta, much, much worse. But, goodness, Sarah hasn’t even begun to work for the Braddocks yet, and we’re planning for her to leave! We’d better not let Abigail and David find out about that!”
“Well, I hope Sarah talks Abigail into letting her come home. She sounds really sick of Philadelphia.”
“That she does.” LisBeth smiled. “I wonder if she still carries that pouch with her.”
“What pouch?” Augusta wanted to know.
“Oh, when she was packing to go, she had a little pouch tied around her neck. When I asked her about it, she said, ‘I got train fare for Tom and me. Anything happens, I always know we can get back home to Lincoln.’ ”
Augusta laughed, “That girl! Nobody will ever outsmart her.” She was suddenly serious. “I’m glad to know she finally feels that she has a home. There was a time when I didn’t think Sarah or Tom would ever trust anyone again.”
“You’ve done wonders for them,” LisBeth said.
Augusta rustled the paper and refused the compliment. “Me?! Nope, wasn’t me that took them both off the street and made them stay until they felt loved. That was your mama, LisBeth.”
LisBeth smiled warmly. “And another kindness done by Jesse King rises up to bless her memory.” LisBeth stood up abruptly. “Which reminds me, Jim Callaway promised to help me set out another cedar tree at Mama’s grave tomorrow. That storm last week tore the top out of the one I set out last spring. Guess I’ll be turning in.”
LisBeth retreated to her room. Lighting a lamp in the dark, she accidentally knocked Jesse’s Bible to the floor. As she picked it up, she noticed that the open pages were filled with notes and underlinings. Out of curiosity, LisBeth settled into the rocker with Jesse’s worn quilt across her knees. As she began to read, Lisbeth’s eyes were drawn to the verses her mother had underlined, but her heart was drawn to the author of the book.
Chapter 21
. . . be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.
James 1:19
“ S oaring Eagle, you speak English and Dakota very well now. But in order to progress in society, you really do need to learn other things. Please. Take this history book and just read it aloud.” The two men were sitting at the Red Wings’s kitchen table, a kerosene lamp and a stack of books between them. James Red Wing was leaning forward earnestly, while Soaring Eagle leaned back in his chair, his jaw set.
James tried another strategy. “The boys have all begun to look up to you. They see you ride in the races at the agency and win. They watch as you help build the shops and haul water. You are very strong, and they admire that. But they also see when you refuse to learn something that Reverend Riggs has included in the school. They see when you fold your arms in church. They see that you do not pray to thank God for your meals. Now, in the matter of religion, I cannot ask that you pretend to believe what you do not believe. But I can ask that you study history and geography as do all of our other adult students. The boys will try harder if they know that you, too, are studying these things.”
Soaring Eagle reached across the table and took up the top history book. Opening it, he pointed to the first drawing in the text. A farmer stood on a huge rock in the center of the drawing, his seed bag at his side, his arms outstretched to the skies. Below him stretched a huge body of water on the opposite side of which could be seen a tiny village. The sun peeked over the horizon in the distance.
“This,” Soaring Eagle said bitterly, “is not a
history that I want to learn about. The white man stands high up and stretches out his arms and says ‘All that I see is mine.’ Then he takes it.”
James Red Wing tried to interrupt, but Soaring Eagle held up his hand to silence him and tapped the open book with a finger as he continued, “The white man sees the sun in this drawing, and says that it rises to shine on the village and on all that he possesses.” Soaring Eagle laid his open hand over the drawing. “But the Lakota sees this drawing, and he knows that the sun is sinking behind the hills, and that all that has been Lakota will be no more.” He closed the book carefully and laid it back on the table. “Why should I want to learn more of this?”
James Red Wing agreed. “What you say has happened. It is happening. I cannot stop it. You cannot stop it. But you can refuse to be defeated by the changes that are coming. You can learn. You can help the boys here to learn to live in the changed world. I know it is hard to give up the old ways when a man had only to hunt well and fight well to live. Now a man must do more. A man must learn more.” James paused briefly before continuing. “Did you know, Soaring Eagle, that there are many whites who think that the Indian cannot learn?”
Soaring Eagle retorted, “We learn as well as the whites. We have muscles, brains, and eyes just the same as the whites. If we cultivate our brains and muscles and eyes we can do just the same as they.”
“Of course that is true,” said James. “That is why Reverend Riggs began the English edition of our newspaper—so the white Christians who send money for the school will see that the Indian can learn. Reverend Riggs understands better than any other white man that it is not that we cannot learn, it is just difficult for us to change. Here we have the school and teachers. We have farmers and blacksmiths to teach us how to travel on the corn road. If these boys in our mission school can learn and help their brothers to learn, if they can learn to live and work in the white man’s world, then we will have done some-thing just as important as your father did when he taught you to hunt. We will have given them a life, Soaring Eagle. When everything they have known is dying, we can help them have a life .”
“I wish the white man had never come to this country.”
“Don’t look back, Soaring Eagle. The road that our fathers walked is gone. This was once our country. Our pale brothers told us to move a little farther, and a little farther. Now the white people are all about us. There is no use in the Indian thinking of the old ways. He must now go to work as the white man does.
“Here at the Mission we have everything to learn about the white man’s road. We have to learn to live by farming instead of by hunting and trading. We have to learn to cut our hair short and to wear close-fitting clothes and to live in houses. We have to learn to harness a work horse and turn a furrow in a field and cut and store hay.”
James Red Wing took a deep breath and finished. “The government has given each family on this reservation eighty acres. This is our last stepping ground. The only way to hold that is to get educated ourselves. Our only chance is to become as the white man. We must get civilized.”
“This get civilized, it means ‘Be like the white man.’ ” Soaring Eagle said. When James Red Wing nodded in agreement, Soaring Eagle added, “And if the boys in this school become like the white man, you think they will have a better life.”
James Red Wing nodded.
Soaring Eagle leaned forward again. “When I was young, I was not hostile to the whites. A white woman cared for me from the days I was first wrapped in a cradle board. When I remember the old ways, I see a white woman cooking for me. A white woman cried when I won my eagle feathers. A white woman mourned when my father died. We had buffalo for food and their hides for clothing and our tepees. All we wanted was peace and to be left alone. It was a good life.”
Soaring Eagle paused and looked hard at his friend before going on. “Then one day we came through the Buffalo Gap and there were white men looking for gold in our sacred hills. We told them they must leave, but they would not. The government promised they would have to leave, but then the soldiers were sent out in the winter and destroyed our villages. Then Long Hair came. They say we massacred him, but he would have done the same to us had we not defended ourselves and fought to the last. After that, I went up to the Shining Mountains with Sitting Bull. When Sitting Bull went to the Grandmother’s Land, I did not want to go from the land. Many of my people went to the agency, but I did not want a life of idleness on the reservation. That is when I met John Thundercloud. I hunted and camped through the winter. When the last of my people were gone, I came here.”
Martha came into the room, but neither of the men noticed her. Without making a sound, she sat down and listened to Soaring Eagle’s anguished voice as he broke his long silence about himself.
“Sometimes I find it hard to believe that I ever lived our old Indian ways. I have gone to the white man’s school. I have read books. I no longer live in a tepee. I live in a house with chimneys. I am helping to teach the boys to follow the white man’s road. But I cannot forget our old ways. Often as the sun sets, I go to the Big Muddy and watch as the shadows come over the water. In the shadows I seem again to see my village, with smoke curling upward from the tepees. In the river’s roar, I hear my father’s voice. I hear my mother’s laughter as she calls back to him. It is a dream. I see only shadows. I hear only the roar of the river, and tears come to my eyes.”
Soaring Eagle swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He glanced at Martha Red Wing, who was wiping tears from her cheeks. Wearily he stood up and walked to the door of the small house. He reached up to put one hand on the door frame, where he leaned for a moment with bowed shoulders. Then he threw back his shoulders and turned around. Regaining his proud bearing, he said earnestly to James Red Wing, “I can learn to raise wheat and corn. I can learn to follow what you have called the corn road. I can learn the white man’s history and geography. I will do these things. I will help the young boys at the mission to learn these things. But I do not believe Indian ways are wrong. You cannot make a white man of me. That is one thing you cannot do.”
Soaring Eagle was true to his word. He kept his long braids and his Lakota dress, but all that summer he studied history and geography and every other subject required by Reverend Riggs. Even when the school was closed for the summer break and the students who were supposedly following his example returned to their homes on the reservation, Soaring Eagle studied. When he had completed the elementary courses, he began high school work, so that when the boys returned in the fall, their idol had surpassed them and challenged them to catch up.
When he wasn’t studying, Soaring Eagle worked. His natural ability with horses made him the logical choice to tend the mission livestock. He hated the pigs and chickens, tolerated the oxen and cattle, and pampered the two old draft horses used to plow the fields. When work at the mission was done, he returned to the Red Wings’ home where he helped James and Martha.
Plowing presented a challenge he would gladly have foregone. He hit stumps and rocks and repeatedly fell on his knees as he tried to keep up with the lurching plow and the unruly draft horses who had immediately discerned that the man at the reins was a novice. But he had determined to learn everything, and he did, even the things that set him to muttering under his breath.
During the summer break, the empty residence halls required a thorough cleaning and many repairs. James Red Wing was a good carpenter, and together, he and Soaring Eagle spent weeks hammering and whitewashing, building and scrubbing. What would have been “women’s work” in the Lakota village often fell to James and Soaring Eagle.
Scrubbing down the church’s rough board floor one day, Soaring Eagle called to James Red Wing, “The white women here should be very happy. They would never bear the work in a Lakota village. This would be women’s work there.”
Rachel Brown’s voice called from the doorway, “And tell me, Mr. Soaring Eagle, just which tepees in your village had board floors?”
Soaring Eagle
turned away to hide his embarrassed smile as Rachel made her way up the center aisle with a bucket of water. Behind Rachel came Carrie, skipping along with a basket full of prairie flowers. The two arranged the flowers in the bucket and placed the bouquet in front of the altar. When Rachel left, Carrie stayed behind, scooting along a pew and watching Soaring Eagle work.
“I saw the bees, Soaring Eagle. Lots of bees.”
James Red Wing looked up. “That could be the swarm that got out of one of the hives yesterday. Where did you see them?”
“In a tree by the ravine, where Soaring Eagle killed the snake.”
Soaring Eagle laid down his brush and looked at Carrie. “Can you show us?”
Carrie took Soaring Eagle’s hand. James Red Wing retrieved the empty hive and a saw. Together, the three walked toward the ravine. Stopping abruptly, Carrie pointed up at a tall cottonwood. The end of one branch was entirely covered with swarming bees.
Soaring Eagle bent down and said to Carrie, “Red Bird, you must go back now. We will get the bees to come back to live in our hive. Then you can have honey again whenever you want it. But I do not want you to get stung. Go back to the church.”
Soaring Eagle took the saw from James and, tying it to his waist with a strip of leather, began to climb the tree. When he reached the branch where the bees were swarming, he sat with his back to the tree trunk and straddled the branch. Then he reached out as far as he could to tie a string around the branch and began to saw. The branch began to bow toward the ground. Carrie slipped behind another tree to watch.
“Get ready!” Soaring Eagle shouted to James, who waited below, beehive in hand.
A few more strokes with the saw, and the branch was cut through. Soaring Eagle lowered it slowly and dropped to the ground just as James clamped the box over the swarm. Both men began beating on the box to draw the bees up into the hive.
Soaring Eagle (Prairie Winds Book 3) Page 17
