The Indian School
Gloria Whelan
Illustrated by
Gabriela Dellosso
For Stephanie Spinner
Contents
One
It was September before they knew what to do with…
Two
The knock on my door came early. I dressed at…
Three
In the morning there was a terrible commotion. Aunt Emma…
Four
Each day Raven would ask if she might go into…
Five
All the rest of the week I stayed away from…
Six
I did not stop to throw on my cloak, but…
Seven
Early in March the snow began to draw in on…
About the Author
Other Books by Gloria Whelan
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
It was September before they knew what to do with me. I was to go to my aunt Emma and uncle Edward. It came about in this way. A letter was sent telling them of the terrible wagon accident that killed Mama and Papa. They wrote at once kindly offering to care for me.
Uncle Edward, who was my father’s brother, was a minister. Some years ago he and Aunt Emma traveled north to start a mission school for Indian children. Just as they would take me in and care for me, so they took in and cared for the children of the Indians. Mama and Papa always spoke kindly of Uncle Edward. “He means well,” Mama had said, “but he has a weakness. Just when something must be done, he cannot make up his mind.”
“Emma makes up for him,” Papa had answered. “She is strong enough for the two of them.”
It was Aunt Emma who wrote:
September 3, 1839
Coldriver, Michigan
My dear Lucy,
Your uncle and I were greatly sorrowed to hear of the unfortunate accident that befell your dear mother and father. The Lord has gathered them into heaven. We must not question His ways.
We have arranged for Luke Jones, a blacksmith from our school, to bring you here to us. He will be in Detroit to purchase iron the first week in September and will return with you.
Bring only sensible clothes. Your mother, God rest her soul, was not a practical woman. It may be that you have fripperies in your wardrobe. Do not bring them. Our life here is a simple one. It will be best if your parents’ possessions are sold. Such money as they bring can be given over to you to provide for your keep. There is little money to spare here.
Since you are an only child, it is likely that you received much coddling. You must not look to us for the kind of attention you had from your mother and father. The good work we do in our school for Indian children takes all of our time. You will be welcome here but you will be expected to do your share.
In the Lord,
Emma Wilkins
The letter seemed a cold one. It did nothing to ease the misery I had felt since losing my dear mama and papa. I told myself I was fortunate to have a place to go. Still, I could not be happy, for I found little welcome in my aunt’s words.
I was curious about the Indian school. Indians were often seen in Detroit. They brought furs to trade. They came to collect yearly payments given in exchange for the sale of their lands. Some had taken up residence in the city. A few attended Father Richard’s university. The only Indian I knew well was Waugoosh, who worked along with Papa building ships.
When the day came to leave, Mr. Jones appeared at our door. Although he was dressed as a white man, I could see he was an Indian gentleman. One of his pant legs was rolled up to reveal a wooden leg. He did not seem bothered by his infirmity but had a pleasant way about him. There played about his mouth a little smile as though his thoughts took him only to agreeable places. Though he limped badly, his arms and shoulders were those of a strong man. It was not hard to imagine him shaping iron on his anvil.
I had heeded my aunt’s words, so I had only one small trunk to take with me. This Mr. Jones placed in the wagon on top of his new store of iron rods. I kept beside me a small package of books. My mama and papa had often read to me from them. When I held them, I could still hear their voices.
I bid good-bye to our elderly neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Bontee, who had cared for me since the accident. After reading my aunt’s letter, Mrs. Bontee had shaken her head. “I only wish, Lucy, that Mr. Bontee and I could keep you with us. Sadly, we are too old. You are only eleven and must have someone younger to care for you.” They embraced me warmly. Mrs. Bontee had prepared a large basket of food for my journey. I wished I did not have to eat it. I wanted to keep it with me as a reminder of the Bontees’ kindness.
As the wagon headed away from Detroit, I looked over my shoulder at the town that had been my home. How often Mama and I had visited the town market. This time of year the stands were heaped with apples and plums and the pears for which our French farmers are so famous. I thought of the times Papa and I had walked down to the wharves. We loved to see the great puffing steamships and the schooners with their sails out like soaring gulls. Papa would point with great pride to those ships he had helped to build.
Mr. Jones watched me, the little smile still on his lips. “I could not live in such a town,” he said. “Too many people. In the forest I pick up wood for my forge. Underneath are ants. Many, many. They run this way. They run that way. That is a town.”
In no time the road took us into the woods. At first there were cabins scattered among the trees. Then there were no cabins. Only great empty fields where stumps of trees appeared to grow like some ghostly crop. “What has happened to all the trees?” I asked.
It was the only time that day the little smile left Mr. Jones’ face. He took one of his hands from the reins and made a chopping motion. “That is another reason I do not like your town. All the houses there once grew in this forest.”
We left the empty fields behind and entered into a wood so thick and dark the sun could not find its way into it. “How do you know where to go?” I asked. “The trails all look the same to me.”
“I read the woods like you read those.” He pointed to my package of books. “Look there. See the pine that stretches up higher than the others. And there, the hemlock where the lightning has bitten into it. Soon we will come to the tree where the eagle builds its nest. Tomorrow we go side by side with a stream. This land once belonged to my people, the Potawatami. In the days before I was a blacksmith, I often took this trail.”
“How did you come to the Indian school?” I asked.
“When I was a young man I was about to kill a makwa, a bear. The bear did not like it. I did kill the bear, but first he tried to have my leg for his dinner.”
I shuddered. “Are there bears where we are going?”
“Only a few,” Mr. Jones said. “If you do not try to kill them, they will not try to eat you.”
I resolved then and there never to kill a bear.
“After I lost my leg, I was no use to my tribe. I was no longer a good hunter. The blacksmith at your uncle’s school was growing old. Your uncle told him, ‘Teach Red Fox your work.’ Before the school, Red Fox was my name. Now I teach Indian boys how to make a living in that little part of the world that is left to them.”
The forest was filling with darkness. I worried that we would have to spend the night in the wagon. Perhaps there would be a bear in the woods. Perhaps it would know that Mr. Jones had once killed a bear. Perhaps it would be angry. “Will we have to sleep in the woods?” I asked.
“No, no. Look there. You see smoke?”
It took me a while. Finally, in the distance, I could see a wisp of white smoke curling into the darkening sky.
“It is the cabin of Mother Sally. She will take us in.”
The sliver of a cabin was hidden among the trees. I could barely make it out until we were upon it. In the darkness the light from the window was a welcome sight. An old woman opened the cabin door. She had a gun pointed at us.
“Who is that? Come into the light so I can make you out.”
I was too frightened to move, but Mr. Jones limped boldly up to the woman. “It’s me, Mother Sally. I brought a young lady with me.”
“Luke. Come in. You too, my dear.” I was much relieved to see the gun laid smartly aside.
The cabin was tiny but tidy. The chairs and table looked more like trees growing out of the floor than furniture. Mother Sally was as tiny and tidy as her cabin. Her face was like a withered apple. A long gray braid tied with a shoelace hung down her back. “You are just in time,” she said. “I shot some grouse this morning and they are turning on the spit.”
The grouse were excellent and with them we had roasted potatoes and cider. Soon afterward we lay down to sleep. Mr. Jones rolled himself up in a blanket. Although I protested, Mother Sally gave me her cot while she curled up in a chair. Remembering the bears, I did not think I would close my eyes. Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire or the heavy meal, but I fell asleep at once.
Over our morning porridge Mother Sally said, “There is good news. My husband, Alfred, will be returning any day now. It is said he was seen on the road up from Ohio. I must take my gun and go looking for a deer. Alfred was ever fond of venison.”
After many heartfelt thanks we drove off in the wagon. “Mother Sally must be very happy that her husband is returning,” I said.
Mr. Jones shook his head. “She has been saying that for forty years. And still he does not come.”
“Then where is he?”
Mr. Jones’ small smile widened. “As far away from that gun as he can get.”
In the early evening I noticed a livening in the horses. We began to follow a stream. After a bit we came upon a dozen cabins, one next to the other. With deep woods all around them, I did not wonder that they huddled together. Nearby I saw a store and a mill perched on the bank of a river. “The town of Coldriver,” Mr. Jones announced. “We are only a few miles from the school.” He turned to me. “I don’t say anything against the school. Your uncle has been good to me.” He was silent for a moment. “You must do as your aunt says. She is a woman who likes to have her way.”
I had time for no more than a hasty glance at the school grounds. There were outbuildings and fields. All was enclosed with a fence. Beyond the fence as far as you could see was the forest. The forest appeared stronger than the fence. We pulled up to a large cabin that looked to have many rooms. At once a door swung open and a man came to meet us. He was as thin as the edge of a knife, a man who would have to hang on to a tree in a windstorm if he was not to be blown away. The greater part of his lean face was hidden by whiskers the color of a ginger cat. He made one or two steps toward us and then one or two steps back. He appeared uncertain of how best to greet us.
A moment later he was pushed aside by a stout woman in a black dress. Her hair was skinned back so tightly, the corners of her eyes were slanted with the pull. She came briskly out of the cabin. “You are Lucy. You are very welcome. I am your aunt Emma.” She turned to Mr. Jones. “You may see to the horses, Luke. You are very late for dinner but there will be something for you in the kitchen.” The thin man appeared to be waiting for orders. “Edward,” she said to him, “don’t just stand there, get the child’s trunk.”
As she drew me inside, she looked at the books I carried. “What have you there? Books. I must see what they are. Young minds must be kept fresh and clean.”
“They are my mama and papa’s books, Aunt. They often read to me from them.”
She glanced at the titles. “Ivanhoe. That is romantic nonsense. And what is this? The Book of English Verse? We will find you something more sensible than poetry to read.” She laid the books aside. “You have been traveling for two days and will be tired and hungry. First you must have something to eat. Then I will show you to your room. We go to bed early here and get up early.”
By now Uncle Edward had returned. He reached out once or twice and finally put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “We are very pleased to have you, my dear. Your mama and papa’s deaths were a great sadness to us.”
“That is in the past, Edward,” Aunt Emma said. “Lucy must make a new beginning.”
A meager fire burned in the school’s sitting room. By its light I could see several straight wooden chairs and a table with benches on either side. There were no cushions or pretty rugs and curtains, as there had been in our home in Detroit. Aunt Emma bid me sit down at the table, and called out, “Mary, bring in Miss Lucy’s dinner at once.”
Immediately an Indian girl of fifteen or sixteen hurried into the room with a full plate and a cup of tea. She moved silently, making no more of a stir than a shadow. Her black hair was plaited and wrapped around her head like a crown. Her eyes, which ever looked downward, had a fringe of long lashes. After placing the food in front of me, she hurried out of the room, dropping a sort of curtsy to Aunt Emma on her way.
Uncle Edward sat across from me. Aunt Emma stood over me as though impatient for me to finish. The food was tasty. There was some kind of fish along with corn and squash. I ate it gratefully, only wishing my aunt would sit down.
“It is not our custom to serve food at all hours of the day and night,” Aunt Emma said. “Tonight we make an exception. After this, dinner is at five.”
Uncle Edward explained, “The children from the school help out in the kitchen and need to have a good night’s sleep.”
When I finished, Aunt Emma called again into the kitchen and Mary quickly appeared. “You may take the dishes away, Mary, and see to the smudge on your apron. You must have gotten too close to the fire.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary said. She kept her chin tilted down but glanced quickly at me out of the corners of her large brown eyes before hastily disappearing into the kitchen.
“Tomorrow, Lucy,” Aunt Emma said, “I will show you your duties. We will also begin your lessons.”
Uncle Edward cleared his throat a few times. “Surely Lucy can have a day or two to become used to us, Emma?”
“It is never too soon to make a beginning, Edward. Now, Lucy, I will take you to your room.”
We climbed a stairway so narrow, Aunt Emma had to gather in her skirts. In my room was all I needed but nothing else. “We have a simple life here, Lucy. The Indian children pay nothing for their keep but corn and sometimes venison. The missions can send little in the way of money. It is only by hard work and sacrifice that we manage.”
My aunt left me with a caution to go to bed at once so I would be rested for the morning. I hung my clothes upon the pegs and placed my comb and brush upon my washstand. I hoped the presence of my few belongings would make the room more familiar. But the strangeness would not go away. That night I slept fitfully, disturbed by the hooting of an owl and the cry of some animal that sounded as lonely as I.
TWO
The knock on my door came early. I dressed at once, with only a quick glance in the bit of mirror that hung over the washstand. The glass was so small, I was sure it was meant for neatness and not primping. I had seen my aunt look disapprovingly at my wayward curls. Now I tried to pull them into a prim straightness. Even my freckles seemed too much decoration.
Meals were taken with the Indian students. As I entered the dining hall, all eyes turned to me. Though the students ranged in age from infants to nearly grown-up, they were dressed alike. The boys wore corduroy trousers and cotton shirts. The girls were in calico shifts and homespun aprons. In Detroit I had been used to seeing Indians in clothes embroidered with colored beads and wearing necklaces and bracelets of beads or silver. I thought of the yellow birds that lose their bright plumage in the winter. These students all seemed to be winter birds.
As soon as breakfast was over, Aunt Emma said, “Edward, I have much to do. It would
be best if you showed Lucy the school. When you return, I will quiz her to see what class she will enter.”
I was glad to follow Uncle Edward outside. My aunt’s busyness made no room for me.
My uncle paused, uncertain. “Shall we see the barn first or the schoolrooms? The barn, perhaps. No. Let us start with the school. We have fifteen boys and twelve girls. The Indian children come to us for many reasons. Some are brought here because they have no parents. Some come because their parents wish them to learn. They see the writing on the wall. The Indian lands are overtaken by white settlers. As the woods disappear, the animals disappear. The Indians can no longer make a living in the fur trade. The settlers do not leave the Indians enough farmland for their crops. The old life of the tribes will soon be a thing of the past. The Indians must become farmers and smiths and carpenters.”
I thought it a pity that so much of the change must come from the Indians and so little from the white man.
“It is our hope,” Uncle Edward went on, “that some of our students will go on to our church’s academy in New York or to some other university.”
We entered a room in which two older Indian girls were working at a loom while another was spinning. “This is the weaving room,” Uncle Edward said. “Last year nearly a hundred yards of cloth were woven here. The Indians seem to have a special talent for making things with their hands. At first they wished to use their own designs, and very pretty some of them were. Your aunt thought it best that the cloth be woven in a more plain design.”
We went from the carpentry shop to the smithy, where Mr. Jones oversaw the work of two Indian boys. We saw the chicken coop and the cow barn. In the pasture three milk cows nosed aside fallen leaves to pull at the browning grass.
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