Eight
There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not: The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.
—Proverbs 30:18–19
July 4, 1863
My Dear,
I begin this letter with a term not meant to patronize, but rather to remind you my heart holds you dear …
Simon read the words he had just written, exhaled sharply, crumpled the piece of paper, and sent it the way of its predecessors into the small stove in the corner of his room. He struck a match and dropped it in the midst of several wads of paper. Closing the stove door, he crossed the room to stand looking out the window as dawn illuminated the river town of Davenport, Iowa. He had been here several weeks but thus far had sent only one letter—a pitiful missive in what he had come to think of as Old Simonese formal, distant, cold. It would not do to send Genevieve another like it—not when she had smiled up at him with those eyes and said she would like to be courted through the mail.
He sighed, oblivious to the city just outside his window. Life held so many unpredictable elements. When he had wanted to hold her close, she remained distant. Now that she was willing to cross the distance between them, had even invited it, he could not find the words to realize the goal. Help me, Lord. I feel she is Your gift to me, but I don’t quite know how to claim her. You know me, Father. I’m from the old school. Ellen and I didn’t show our true feelings often, even in the private moments. Genevieve won’t put up with that. She’s completely different. Wonderful. Show me how to court her. Show me how to love her. Simon’s eyes strayed to the table beside his bed where his Bible lay, yet unopened that morning. Please look down on this poor old preacher and help me, God. Simon went to his Bible, opened it to the Song of Solomon, and began to read.
The thunder of horses’ hooves in the distance announced Camp McClellan’s morning cavalry parade through town as the men took the first of their two daily treks to the river. It seemed to Simon that a cloud of dust had hung in the still air since his arrival. Already this morning he could feel grit collecting beneath his shirt collar. Unbuttoning the starched collar, he laid aside his Bible, rolled up his sleeves, and returned to the small desk near the window. Casting a plea to heaven for help, he wrote:
My Dear,
If all I meant to accomplish in this letter was to tell you about the city of Davenport, to describe the condition of the Dakota prisoners and the status of our work here, I would not have destroyed several earlier versions of my writing. Have you any idea how awkward I feel convincing my old self to move aside so that you can get a clear view of the man who loves you? The old Simon Dane would never have engaged in anything like a courtship by mail. But then that Simon Dane was a fool blessed by the love of a woman he did not deserve. I am amazed, dear Genevieve, at how history has repeated itself, for even as I attempt to cast aside my formal, distant self I am once again blessed by the interest of a woman I do not deserve. How is it that God has chosen to bless me in such a manner not once, but twice in a lifetime?
I pause to reread the above paragraph as I sit at my desk looking out on the city of Davenport, and I realize that this is hardly a letter suitable for the ears of my children. I entrust to you the task of interpreting this letter for their ears in a manner that protects our privacy and yet conveys my love to them. How I miss them! Just last evening when I was walking back to my little room from the prison, I glanced in at one of the hotel windows to see a family dining, and the long amber-colored curls of a little girl about Meg’s age made my heart ache to see her.
As Simon bent to the task of writing Gen, sweat collected on his forehead. He rose and lifted the window in a vain attempt to catch any errant breeze that might drift up from the river. The morning’s traffic to the river below had begun, and the noise of commerce competed with Simon’s attempts to concentrate.
If you were with me this moment we would be hurrying to escape the sweltering heat which penetrates the walls of this little room. We would descend to partake of Mrs. Smith’s boardinghouse breakfast where I imagine you would disdain her rather nondescript biscuits and long for a huge dollop of Miss Jane’s blackberry jam to increase their palatability.
However, once we exited the boardinghouse you would be treated to the sights of a rather substantial river city which, although it has existed only a little longer than you have been alive, boasts many imposing brick buildings and fine residences. We would stroll along one of the boardwalks erected to protect the fair citizens from disappearing into the endless mud that accompanies any rain. I would offer you my arm lest you stumble on one of the many loose boards that rise without warning to trip unsuspecting pedestrians. You would no doubt comment on the hogs roaming the streets at will, rooting up grass, fences, and seedling trees planted by the more hopeful citizens of this city.
Twice daily, the cavalry from Camp McClellan rides through the city in order to water its horses down at the river. The resulting cloud of dust deposits a gritty film over everything. Miss Jane and Mrs. Whitney would be driven to distraction trying to keep the furniture dusted.
The city has seen several hundreds of recruits arrive, train, and depart for the battlefields in the East. Now they are adjusting to the presence of the Dakota prisoners. The camp itself is situated on a high bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, the railroad bridge, and the city of Davenport. A fine belt of tall trees will help shield the prisoners from winter storms, and this will be needed as the barracks in which they are housed were hastily erected and are quite drafty.
The men are confined inside an enclosure about two hundred feet square inside of which are four buildings—former soldiers’ barracks, albeit without the beds. Of these four buildings, two are occupied by prisoners, one is a combination hospital and women’s quarters (about a dozen squaws have been brought down to do the cooking and laundry—two even assist the post doctor in the hospital). All is surrounded by a high board fence, four feet from the top of which is a walkway constantly patrolled by sentries.
The average age of the Dakota men here is about thirty, although we have a few very old men whose health is in such a precarious state I do not expect they will survive the winter next.
I long to tell you more, but the sun shining in my little window reminds me that my duty is up the hill inside the board walls I have been describing.
I miss you terribly. My love to the children.
We hold religious meetings three times each day. God is doing a great work here and has certainly remembered His children in their affliction. Chaska, a new convert, speaks at many of these meetings. He is a gifted orator and dispenses the gospel in a very fluent and impressive manner. His audience listens with profound respect, and more than once I have seen a time of spontaneous encouragement break out as the men speak of the freedom they have found in Christ and what His promises mean to them.
When not in religious meetings the men write to their friends at Crow Creek, play games, sing, or make bows and arrows or other trinkets for which there has sprung up a lively market in Davenport. There is talk of allowing groups of the prisoners under guard to be employed by neighboring farmers for the fall harvest.
New recruits to Camp McClellan usually begin by being quite harsh with the prisoners. However, after a few days their’ opinions inevitably change and the treatment mitigates. I have observed nothing so harsh as to compare with what these poor souls endured at the hands of the citizens of Minnesota and thus I have concluded that the Lord has been gracious to bring them here where they can serve whatever term of imprisonment the government sees fit to impose. The men seem resigned to their lot. Yesterday one even said to me that for all the whites that were killed he supposed someone must pay a price, and that if being held in prison would be accepted as payment for his brother’s crimes, he was willing to do it.
I am gaining more than I am giving while I serve among these men. T
heir resolute faith humbles me. I would wish that I could be so content as they. And yet I am not, because I am removed from the one my heart holds dearest of all. Please write every word Hope speaks, every lesson Meg recites, and tell Aaron that if he dares grow taller than his father during his absence, he will have some very serious explaining to do when I return.
I miss you terribly. And yet I am where the Lord wishes me to be. Tell me, Genevieve, does absence make the heart grow fonder?
As time went on, Simon Dane grew more and more astute in the finer points of courting by mail. He began to take risks, sharing observations and feelings about life that he would have avoided in Gen’s presence.
Gen faithfully responded to each letter with anecdotes about the children, news from St. Anthony, and nonjudgmental acceptance of Simon.
When the war chief Little Crow was killed while picking raspberries in a thicket north of Hutchinson, Minnesota, Gen expressed outrage that the chief’s body was thrown on a heap of entrails at a slaughterhouse. Whatever crimes he may have committed, Gen scribbled angrily, he deserved to be treated with the dignity owing any human created in the image of God. Simon agreed.
A seventy-five-dollar bounty was offered any man in Minnesota who could prove he had killed a Sioux warrior. Gen wrote, Do you not find it ironic that Dakota scouts—men who accept the duty of scouting for the white army and may find themselves forced to act against their former friends and brothers—are offered only twenty-five dollars for the same scalp! I shudder to think of it.
Reports of General Sibley’s campaign against the “savages” filled the newspapers. Amid the reports of battles at Stony Lake, Big Mound, and White Stone Hill, Gen and Simon kept up a lively correspondence in which they wondered about their Dakota friends and church members. Samuel Whitney says that a church has been formed at the scouts’ camp. I like to think of Nancy and Robert Lawrence being reunited there and having some semblance of a happy life.
Small parties of hostile Sioux continued to participate in violent raids in isolated parts of Minnesota. A soldier of the Second Nebraska lost his entire family when they were massacred while he was away fighting with Sibley.
Gen and Simon discussed all these events in their letters, and as they discussed and shared their thoughts, little by little, their hearts began to come together. Simon began reaching out by asking her to pray for him. Eventually he shared his innermost thoughts in a way that might never have been possible except for the safety of physical distance. Little by little, Simon and Gen opened their inner selves to one another until one evening Gen wept as she read aloud Simon’s account of the death of one of the older men. She replied, As I reread your letter alone in my room, I weep with you at the loss of the dear old man. It is as if I can feel your heart breaking, even though you know he has entered the eternal kingdom where none can do him harm. How I wish that even now I could put the children to bed and come sit beside you and mourn with you and yes, hold you while we cry together.
“What is it?” Miss Jane asked, looking up from the half-knitted sock in her lap. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Gen said quickly, studying Simon’s most recent letter carefully.
Miss Jane’s knitting needles flew as she glanced over her glasses at Gen.
Gen shook her head. “Really. It’s nothing.”
Miss Jane nodded and got up. “Well, then, I’m retiring.” From the door she said, “Timothy and Rebecca both need new shoes. I promised them we’d trek uptown tomorrow after school. Is it all right if we take Meg and Hope with us?”
No answer.
“Miss LaCroix?”
Gen started and looked up. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said it appears as if nothing is mighty distracting,” Miss Jane said.
Gen blushed. “Do you remember Cloudman having a daughter about my age?” she asked abruptly.
Miss Jane shook her head. “No. Why?”
Gen read aloud, “‘One of the women claims to be the daughter of Cloudman who she says died in battle against the troops in Minnesota. She is quite lovely and boasts finer blankets and ornaments than the other women. This has given her some power over the soldiers assigned to guard the prisoners, which would be opportunity for evil if she did not use it to benefit her fellow Dakota. Since she generously shares whatever favors she receives with the other women, I cannot fault her enjoyment of the attentions she receives. She speaks most graciously of her days at the Hazelwood Mission and remembers the new work I had just begun near her father’s camp when the outbreak began. She expresses an interest in the gospel and sits in rapt attention when I teach. It is quite encouraging to have a woman whose labors are many take time to attend to the preaching of God’s Word.’”
Miss Jane chuckled and shook her head. “You are jealous, Miss LaCroix.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gen protested. “I’m just concerned for Simon’s reputation. A missionary serving alone has to be careful.” Gen traced down the letter until she located another passage. “Listen: ‘Our Indian princess says that her name is Light of the Moon. She seems hurt that I do not recall meeting her in her father’s camp. Tell me, my dear, do you recall Cloudman having a daughter? She would have been a bit older than you. Other than an aristocratic face the only thing I can think that you might recall is her hair, which is exceedingly long and reaches nearly to her ankles.’”
“Write the reverend and express concern for the princess,” Miss Jane advised quickly. She looked at Gen over her glasses. “And sign it as affectionately as you dare.” She smiled knowingly. “You are jealous.”
Gen blushed. “I suppose I am. A little.”
Nine
This I recall to my mind, therefore have I hope. It is of the LORD’s mercies that we are not consumed.
—Lamentations 3:21–22
“What you think you’re doin’ in my cornfield?”
Daniel Two Stars stood as still as possible, trying to keep his voice from trembling as he explained, “I’m a scout for the army. See my uniform?”
The farmer’s cold eyes showed surprise at being answered in English. He scanned Daniel’s blue jacket. “I heard about Sibley using Dakota scouts. But all those troops left for Dakota Territory. For all I know you took that jacket off a dead soldier.”
“I have a paper from General Sibley,” Daniel said evenly. He looked down toward his left. “In that pocket. Can I show you?”
“Turn around.” The farmer motioned with his rifle.
Daniel moved slowly until his back was to the farmer. He could feel sweat trickling down his back while the wiry little man stepped up and searched him, then carefully reached into his left pocket and withdrew the piece of paper.
“All right,” the farmer said. “Turn back around.” When Daniel once again faced him, the man balanced his rifle across one forearm while unfolding and reading the paper. It was dated June of 1863—just a few weeks ago. The farmer read,
The Bearer, Daniel Two Stars, is a civilized Sioux Indian who deserves the gratitude of the American people for having been prominently involved in saving the lives of white women and children during the late Indian war. He is employed as an Indian scout and assigned to Fort Ridgely for the purpose of reconnoitering the area to apprehend any Sioux Indians, be they hostile or friendly, and returning them to Fort Ridgely from whence they will be removed to the Sioux Reserve in Dakota Territory or imprisoned after due process of the law of the United States of America.
I recommend Daniel Two Stars to the kind consideration and attention of all citizens of the United States.
General H. H. Sibley United States Army
“Says here you saved white women and children,” the farmer said, squinting up from the paper.
Daniel nodded. “I did what I could.”
The farmer folded the paper and put it in the breast pocket of his red plaid shirt. He motioned again with the rifle. “You can put your hands down. Just don’t make any sudden movements.”
The farmer patted his pocket. “It says you’re a scout for the U.S. Army. But like I said before, Sibley took his scouts with him. So what are you doing in my cornfield?”
“Since Little Crow died there have been rumors hostiles might try to cross back into Minnesota.”
The farmer took his hat off and swiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. “I know all about that. What’s that got to do with you?” He settled his hat back on his head.
“They decided to divide the scouts up into camps. They left three of us at Fort Ridgely to help protect the settlers coming back. Someone rode in yesterday and said they found a campsite down here. They said an Indian child was buried in the old way, high in a notch of a tree. Captain Willets sent us to check it out.”
“Us?” The farmer looked around warily.
Daniel jerked his chin up, indicating the cornfield behind him. “My friend Robert Lawrence is in there hoping you don’t kill me.”
“Come on out of there, Robert Lawrence,” the farmer called loudly. He took two steps backward and waited. At the opposite end of the cornfield a few stalks of corn moved. The farmer repeated, “Come on. I see where you are. I won’t shoot.”
When Robert finally appeared, the farmer motioned him to stand beside Daniel.
“How come your uniforms don’t match?”
“They give us old uniforms,” Robert said. “Whatever they have.”
“I heard about that Indian campfire,” he said. “It’s on my neighbor’s place. Down by the creek that runs through his south field.” He shuddered. “Small child wrapped in a buffalo robe high up off the ground. It ain’t Christian.” The farmer nodded at Robert. “You got one of those papers that tells what a fine citizen you are?”
Robert nodded.
“Let’s see it.”
The farmer looked over Robert’s paper carefully and added it to his pocket. “You two walk down here from Fort Ridgely?” he asked abruptly.
Edge of the Wilderness Page 8
