LisBeth nodded. “Yes, Carrie. You could. And I agree, if you think you want to work with the Indians, the sooner you visit the better.”
“Just tell Jim to give me a few days notice, if he can, so I can get packed up and so that Mrs. Hathaway can plan for my absence.” Carrie hesitated. “It is all right, isn’t it Mrs. Hathaway?”
Augusta gave hearty consent. Carrie congratulated LisBeth and returned to her room, her heart pounding with excitement.
The winter quarter of school flew by as Carrie anticipated her return to Santee. She could think of little else. Everett wearied of her preoccupation and found himself avoiding her in order to avoid talking about the trip.
When the morning came that Carrie was to depart with Jim Callaway, Everett bade Carrie good-bye with a forlorn look.
Carrie was cheerful. “You’re headed home for a wonderful summer, Everett. I’m only taking your advice. I’ll be finding out what I think of Santee, and what working among the Indians is really like. I’ll be dispelling all those romantic notions you’ve teased me about.”
As the wagon trundled north, Carrie Brown settled back to read, unaware that the object of her “romantic notions” was at that moment boarding a train in Boston to escape romance.
Chapter 12
The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.
1 Samuel 16:7
December, 1883
Friends,
I have witnessed Thanksgiving among the white people at the home of Mr. George Woodward. They served much more food than we at Santee would see in many feasts. While the people in Boston have been kind to me, as I sat at the table with them I wished that I could see my friends at Santee again and wade through the snow to your Thanksgiving.
I have received a letter from Pastor Thundercloud. He has asked for prayers for the Dakota churches, but I think that these prayers need also to be made for the churches here in Boston where I speak. I copy it for you. Pray that they may be more consecrated to the work of saving souls. Pray that a deep and genuine revival of religion may be experienced in the Boston churches. Pray that Christ may be so formed in all the Christians, and the Holy Ghost come upon them with such power from on High, that they will have it in their hearts to go everywhere and tell the story of the cross to all the wild Dakotas on the plains and, thus, bring them to Christ.
The Friends here say that when I lecture, that sends help to you, because then more is donated to the barrels. I wish you would write to me and tell me—are you receiving more barrels from Boston?
I am your friend,
J. Soaring Eagle King
Throughout the fall and winter months, Soaring Eagle prayed and studied and lectured. When Dr. Riggs’s letters continued to encourage him in his course of study, he tried to be content. Still, his longing to return to Nebraska grew. He spent many hours in the parlor of the Davis home, staring at the portrait of Indian tepees long after the Davis family had retired.
One evening late in December, Soaring Eagle was at dinner with George and Julia Woodward when George presented him with a document. “Read it over, old man. I think you’ll be pleased. The Committee has finally accomplished something concrete.”
With a flourish, George handed Soaring Eagle a carefully worded document titled Platform of Principles on Which to Represent Our Indian Policy. Soaring Eagle read the document. When he had finished, he set it down on the edge of the table and took a long drink of water.
“No comment, Jeremiah?” George was obviously disappointed.
Soaring Eagle shook his head.
Julia chimed in. “We thought you’d be pleased.”
“Pleased.” Soaring Eagle was barely able to contain his anger. “I have been lecturing and speaking for months. Everyone has said that my speaking will result in help for the Indian. Do more barrels of clothing reach Santee? No. Is more food sent? No. Have any of these young men in Boston who sit and listen to me with smirks on their faces been converted to Christ? Has even one person come forward to say he will take the gospel to the plains? No. You hand me this document and expect me to be pleased. More words on paper is not progress. We Lakota know all about words on paper. They make the whites feel better about themselves. They accomplish nothing for the Indian.”
Soaring Eagle’s voice shook with rage as he snatched up the document and began to read aloud. “1. Indians are men, not much differing from others, with the same wants and governed by like impulses as other men.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice as Soaring Eagle commented. “I am so pleased to know that it has only taken you five months to learn this from me.”
He read on. “2. In their native state, Indians are lawless, and often need to be restrained by force. 3. It is more economical to feed Indians than to fight them, as well as more humane and Christian. I would have hoped,” Soaring Eagle remarked, “that the Christian motive would have preempted the economic one. Forgive me for expecting so much from the churches of Boston.”
Soaring Eagle tossed the document at George. “The final paragraph should have been the content of the entire document, George. Read it. Aloud. I want to hear you read it.”
George Woodward complied. “To successfully accomplish the objects herein enumerated—to civilize, to enlighten, to educate and bring up to the highest style of manhood—we regard the teachings of the gospel of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ are indispensable, and therefore we urge that the prosecution of the missionary work among the Indians be imperative.”
Soaring Eagle nodded. Leaning towards George he said, “I think, George, that your committee needs to be spending their time on the missionary work—not the wording of documents.” Standing up abruptly, Soaring Eagle bowed to Julia and to George. “Excuse me, but I find that I can no longer continue this conversation and still honor my Lord God. Good evening.” Throwing his napkin down angrily, Soaring Eagle strode out of the dining room.
It was nearly midnight before Soaring Eagle walked up the Davises’ street and let himself in. The house was quiet, and as he started up the stairs, he stopped abruptly. Instead, he went into the parlor and sat, once again, before the portrait of the Indian village camped in the Black Hills. Leaning his head back against his chair, Soaring Eagle half closed his eyes, remembering. He could almost hear the drums beating, smell meat roasting over campfires, feel the softness of a buffalo robe wrapped about his shoulders.
He sat for a long time, remembering, longing for—Soaring Eagle sat up abruptly, looking more carefully at the painting. All at once he realized that his longing had crystallized into specific desires that he was able to name and pray for. The reading of the document that George Woodward had so proudly displayed had played a part in focusing his disappointment—the dissatisfaction that he had been feeling for weeks.
Lord God, Soaring Eagle prayed, I want to return to my people. I want to tell them the gospel. I have been praying of this for weeks now, and still there is no answer.
Dr. Riggs encourages me to stay here. I have asked You to show me Your will through him, and if that is to stay here, then I will try to be patient. But, God, I am so lonely.
Another specific need crystallized. There are other things, Father. You have made me a man, my Father. Here among the whites they accept me as ‘the educated Indian.’ But to them, I am an object of interest. Not a man. Lord God, I want a wife.
As he stared at the portrait of the village, Soaring Eagle thought of Winona. She had loved him, but his heart had been so full of rage and hatred that he had had no room for love. He began to think of other women he had met. Lord God, I want someone to wrap in my buffalo robe. Someone who will enter into my life, become part of my soul, understand the things I cannot say. You have made me, Lord God. Have you not made a woman for me?
In his memory, Soaring Eagle saw children skittering around the village, chasing dogs, shouting joyously. Lord God, I want children. Before I knew You, I thought I would never want to bring a child into this w
orld. Now, I want children. I want a son to take hunting, as my father did me. I want a daughter to tell stories to, to make toys for. Soaring Eagle remembered the corncob doll that still lay in his parfleche back in Nebraska. He remembered a little girl wrapping it carefully and cradling it as tenderly as if it were an expensive china doll, the kind he had seen in store windows here in Boston.
Soaring Eagle sat before the painting in the Davises’ parlor praying as tears of loneliness and despair spilled down his cheeks. Why, God, why? Why do You let me have these desires when there is no one to fulfill them? Dr. Riggs says that I should stay here. Must I stay here, heavenly Father, where my spirit is dying?
Finally, Soaring Eagle rose and went up to his room, falling into an exhausted sleep.
The New Year passed, and Soaring Eagle took advantage of poor weather to study more. He was booked for fewer lectures, but this created more opportunities to visit informally in the homes of various influential people. He plodded wearily through these evenings, doing his best to be patient with the often foolish questions he was asked, returning to his room after each encounter with a melancholy that would not lift.
Samuel and Sterling Davis went on holiday with their mother. The boys became seriously ill during their absence, and while letters assured their father and Soaring Eagle that they would be fine, their convalescence was expected to prevent their returning home until spring brought warmer, healthier air to Boston.
The one light in Soaring Eagle’s life was his friendship with Julia and George Woodward. Julia, who took his arm and led him through uncertain situations in such a way that he appeared to be the leader. Julia, so beautiful that he was sometimes speechless when they first met after a few days apart. Julia, who gazed at him with something in her dark eyes that stirred him so deeply it frightened him.
Following their initial amazement at Soaring Eagle’s reaction to the Platform, George and Julia Woodward had gone to their friend with an apology. “We want to understand, Jeremiah. We’ve missed something. Can’t you help us poor ignorant Bostonians understand?” George said it with such pathetic sincerity that Soaring Eagle broke into laughter.
He smiled at his two friends and nodded. “I will try, my friends. But first, you must do something very difficult.”
“Anything,” Julia Woodward assured him.
“Try to see past what you call ‘the Indian problem’ to the men and the women and children who are hurt by this problem. God can help you do it.” Soaring Eagle added sugar to his coffee and stirred it as he spoke. “You mean to do well, and I understand that, but you cannot solve ‘the Indian problem.’ That is what I have been trying to say for all these months.”
He took a sip of coffee and continued. “Let the government wrestle with the laws and the proposals. While they are struggling to write documents and policies, you and your friends can be sending real help to real people. Collect more clothing. Send more money. Challenge your young people to consider becoming missionaries. Spend your time doing this—not writing documents and proposals.”
Soaring Eagle leaned forward in his chair and looked from George to Julia intently. “If you could once see Santee, see the children learning, you would understand why I am impatient. Lives can be changed for the better, for God’s glory, now. You do not have to wait for some document to give you permission to help. You can make a difference in all that, George and Julia.” Soaring Eagle paused and sighed. “But these papers you write, they make no positive difference for my people. I said something in anger before, but I repeat it to you now. We Sioux have seen many well-written papers that promise great things. We have learned to ignore them.”
Pausing again, Soaring Eagle collected his thoughts before continuing. “It is really not so difficult, my friends. Begin with me. Think for a moment. What am I to you? After all these months, am I still ‘the Indian?’ Or am I a man you know who happens to be Indian?” He sighed. “You must see beyond the problems and the issues, my friends. See the man. See the people I represent. When you see us as people, not as part of a problem, then you will begin to give real help.”
Soaring Eagle lowered his voice and looked from George to Julia. His eyes rested on Julia as he concluded. Julia had listened carefully. Now, however, her eyes drifted away from his face, to his broad shoulders, his hands. She lowered her eyes and her cheeks took on a rosy glow.
George Woodward cleared his throat and pulled a piece of paper from his coat. “At the risk of having you storm off again, Soaring Eagle, I’d like to read you something. You mentioned that if we could see Santee for ourselves it would accomplish a great deal. Just last evening the committee wrote another resolution. I think you’ll like this one.” George handed the paper to Soaring Eagle, who read:
Arrangements have been completed for a visiting committee to go into Dakota and visit the mission stations. The Committee of Reverend Dr. A.C. Johnson, Robert Davis, Esq., and George Woodward will be accompanied by Mrs. Davis and Miss Julia Woodward. We expect to leave Boston by April 18. We are to be joined by Rev. John Thundercloud of Santee, who has consented to accompany the committee to the other stations. From Santee we shall go to Fort Sully, to Sisseton, and last of all to Berthold.
Julia Woodward spoke first. “You see, Jeremiah, some of us have been listening to what you say. But it took a while to convince the Committee to fund the trip.” Julia smiled with excitement. “Once they’ve seen the work firsthand, there should be more response. More understanding.”
George Woodward nodded. “That’s right, old man. The committee has even engaged a journalist to go along. He’ll join us in St. Louis. Remember R. J. Painter? Well, you made an impression, Jeremiah. He heard from the committee in St. Louis about our plans and offered to pay his own way if he could accompany us on the trip.”
Dinner was concluded while Soaring Eagle tried to prepare George and Julia Woodward of Boston for their first view of the plains. As they listened to Soaring Eagle that evening, George and Julia Woodward realized that something was happening between themselves and their Lakota friend. He described the west, and they saw it for the first time, not as a foreboding wasteland, but rather as the homeland of a people. Soaring Eagle laughed and gestured, describing villages and people, transforming people who the Woodwards had thought of as helpless savages in need of a champion into men and women in need of many things, but nothing so much as the need for a Savior.
“You see, my friends, our bodies may be poorly fed and clothed, but if we can make progress in living truer lives, in being better men and women, that will make us happier and bring us nearer to God. This can only be accomplished through the gospel. Someday the things around us all will drop away. We will all stand face-to-face with the Real and the Eternal. We can afford to lose some of the poor pleasures of this life. When we pass over the unreturning way, we will need to hear ‘well done’ usher us into the gates of the other life.”
Julia Woodward saw the west through Soaring Eagle’s eyes, and she was surprised to feel herself blinking back tears as she contemplated the spiritual plight of an entire nation of people without the gospel of Christ.
George Woodward left the dinner table a few minutes early to reclaim coats for the frigid carriage ride home. While they waited, Soaring Eagle and Julia Woodward basked in one another’s presence, saying nothing, but smiling with a new understanding. Soaring Eagle looked at Julia and wondered if this woman might, after all, be God’s answer to his prayer for a wife. For her part, Julia Woodward realized that for the first time she was no longer seeking the attentions of Jeremiah King, the Indian. Julia rose from the dinner table and smiled warmly as she took the arm of Jeremiah King, a very attractive man, who just happened to be a Lakota Indian. There is a difference, Julia thought as they walked across the dining room together. She looked up at Jeremiah King with new eyes. Soaring Eagle looked down at Julia and smiled, covering her hand with his own.
Chapter 13
Flee also youthful lusts: but follow righteousness, faith,
charity, peace, with them that call on the Lord out of a pure heart.
2 Timothy 2:22
George, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Julia Woodward smoothed her damask napkin and took a dainty bite of breakfast.
George’s voice sounded weary. “Julia, you have previously had very little interest in our nominal membership in the Society of Friends. Your position as recording secretary is purely ornamental—or at least it was, until the arrival of Jeremiah King.” George took a gulp of hot coffee before continuing. “Suddenly you go to every meeting, every lecture. You don’t flirt nearly as much. You’re reading different books. You’re different, Julia. Why, I believe you actually listened to Reverend Johnson’s sermon last Sunday morning!”
Julia folded her napkin thoughtfully before responding. “And wouldn’t you say it’s about time? A few weeks ago I overheard Nancy Davis talking about me. She said, ‘That woman is all ruffle and no garment.’ ” George sputtered with amusement at the analogy, but Julia went on. “I was furious. But she was right. I’ve always taken on whatever cause suited my fancy, just like adding a ruffle to a dress. Then I’ve sought out the best escort for the occasion and made myself the perfect adornment for him. Whatever was required, I said it, with no thought as to the real issue, the garment you might say. I don’t really know why, but somehow that sort of thing doesn’t seem right anymore.”
Julia took a deep breath and chuckled softly. “I’m amazed to find that I am really interested in the issues we discuss at the Friends meetings. It’s rather heady stuff for a girl like me to suddenly be seriously interested in national issues like the Indian problem.” Julia looked at George soberly. “But you know, I’ve learned something about myself, George. I have a fairly good mind, and when I use it in the right way, people do take me seriously. They listen to what I have to say. Sometimes they even change their attitudes. And then sometimes they even act on those changed attitudes.” Julia added thoughtfully, “I like that, George.”
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