Red Bird

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Julia returned to her flip self. “Of course, I still don’t like it quite as much as I like being escorted by a handsome man, but I do like it.” She laughed softly. “I guess you could say I’m ‘less ruffle’ and ‘more garment’ than in the past.”

  “But you haven’t had to give up the handsome escort.” George frowned. “Julia, you might be interested to know that there has been some concern about you and Jeremiah. The Committee has discussed it.”

  Julia bristled, “How dare they?”

  “They dare, my dear sister, because they know of your past, uh, interests. They dare because it is their duty to protect Jeremiah and to make certain that he finishes his studies and accomplishes the purpose for which God sent him here. They dare because they are very well aware of the mutual attraction between you two. And they want to ensure that you both maintain a level of conduct that is above reproach.”

  Julia waved her hand in the air. “Oh, all right, George, there’s no need to bring that up. Surely you must know I would never—”

  “Absolutely.” George sighed. “Let us make certain that our conduct remains impeccable. Social customs in Boston are completely new territory for Jeremiah. He’s had no opportunity to learn about these relationships and he’s no fool. He knows he should be very careful. And, I might add, so should you, for his sake.”

  “But what if he cares for me, truly cares for me, and just doesn’t know how to, well, how we go about things here.” Suddenly, Julia urged her brother. “Isn’t there some way you can let him know that I wouldn’t be averse to his attentions?”

  George sighed. “You really do think men are idiots, don’t you, Julia? If Jeremiah King thinks you’d be ‘averse to his attentions,’ as you so blandly put it, then he’s blind. Once again, I have to ask you, what is it you want?”

  Julia lifted her fine chin. “Anything, George. Anything he wants.”

  “Blast it, Julia!” George was nearly angry with her. “Do you really intend to pursue this attraction when you know he fully intends to return to Nebraska? I’m sorry, dear. But somehow I can’t picture you making coffee over a fire in a cabin, or whatever they call those shacks they make from the earth.” George began to laugh louder, oblivious to Julia’s distress.

  “George, stop. Stop laughing.” The hurt tone in Julia’s voice brought George’s laughter to an abrupt halt. Julia concluded their conversation. “All right, George. I get the point. You see no future for me with Jeremiah King, so you won’t intervene. Fine.”

  April, 1884

  Dear Friends,

  It has been raining and snowing for weeks, it seems. When I walked in the rain, I caught cold. The Davises have been kind to call a doctor and I am well again now.

  That is, my body is strong again. My spirit still feels weak, and I think it is because it longs to see the hills around Santee. I think of my little room at James and Martha Red Wing’s. I wonder about the black mare that James said he would keep for me. I would like to be where I could catch that black mare and ride her over the hills to watch the prairie come to life again after this long winter. Here in Boston the buildings hide the sky, and there is little grass.

  Do not think that I am too lonely here. Robert and Nancy Davis are very good to me. Their sons were very sick but are better now, and once again they want me to wrestle with them. It makes me think of the boys at Santee and how they made a game of trying to sneak up on me to tackle me from behind. I think I have grown slower now and, perhaps, they would be able to do it. I am forgetting my Indian ways.

  George Woodward and his sister Julia will be coming with Robert and Nancy Davis and Reverend Johnson to visit Santee soon. You will like them, I think. They do care very much for the Indian and they have tried to understand what the real needs are. When they come, you must be certain to show them everything. If you lay the needs before them, I know that they can furnish great relief. Share the difficulties and trials fully.

  I will be finishing my classes soon. Thank you for arranging for me to go to Wisconsin. I know you do this for my good. I am trying not to disappoint you.

  Your friend,

  J. Soaring Eagle King

  Alfred Riggs read Soaring Eagle’s letter with grave concern. He read anguish in every line, and his heart ached for the young man trying so very hard to please his mentor when he was obviously depressed and homesick. The moment he received the letter, he took up pen to write Soaring Eagle and order him back to Santee. The letter was unnecessary. The evening after Soaring Eagle wrote the letter, something happened that sent him back to the Davises to pack his belongings and leave Boston on the first train headed west.

  At the sound of Soaring Eagle’s footsteps in the hall, Julia Woodward rose from her seat by the fireplace. The maid who had shown him in took Soaring Eagle’s hat and retreated. Julia called out a greeting, beckoning, “Please, Jeremiah, come in.” Soaring Eagle was seated opposite her before she explained, “I’m sorry that George won’t be joining us this evening, Jeremiah. He forgot that he had an engagement elsewhere.” She had poured tea for them both before she gave the rest of her news. With just the appropriate tinge of regret in her voice, she said, “The Johnsons had to send regrets, as well—something about Mrs. Johnson being indisposed.”

  Soaring Eagle rose immediately to go. He didn’t try to hide the disappointment in his voice as he said, “George has been very helpful in teaching me some of the rules of your culture. I know that I am never to speak to a woman to whom I have not been introduced, and I know never to be alone with a woman. Are those not true rules in your culture?”

  Julia avoided answering the questions directly. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Two friends can certainly enjoy a cup of tea by the fire without doing damage to anyone’s reputation. We’ve had this meeting planned for days. I see no reason why you and I can’t visit about the Committee’s trip—even though George and the Johnsons aren’t able to be here. I can certainly relay your suggestions to them.”

  When Soaring Eagle looked doubtful, Julia added reassuringly, “And we’re not alone. The servants are in the house. In fact, Molly will be in soon to collect the tea service. If you’re that concerned, I’ll go fetch her and ask her to stay in the room.” Julia raised one eyebrow and Soaring Eagle realized he was being teased.

  “Please stay,” she begged. “You’ve been ill, and we haven’t had the pleasure of your company—it seems like it’s been weeks. George will be home later, and I know he’ll be disappointed if he finds you were here and didn’t wait.” Julia took up her cup of tea. “I have at least two hours worth of impertinent questions that I’ve never been able to ask. After our dinner the other evening, I feel, well,” she lowered her eyes momentarily and then looked back at Soaring Eagle. “I feel closer to you now.”

  Soaring Eagle shifted in his chair. A voice inside him was screaming for him to get up and leave, but he ignored it. Instead of obeying the voice, he took up a cup of tea.

  “Don’t worry,” Julia laughed. “They aren’t improper questions, just ones that would be considered impertinent by proper Boston society. I want to know more about the life you lead before things changed so drastically. More than what you tell everyone else.” Julia settled comfortably in her chair, leaning her head against the high back. Soaring Eagle noticed her elegant, long neck.

  “I’ve gathered from your comments that most of the things being written today about the Indian aren’t accurate. I saw how angry you were at the Johnson’s last Sunday evening when the subject of the Wild West shows came up. You don’t think much of their portrayal of the Indian, do you?”

  Soaring Eagle had not been alone in the company of a beautiful woman before. He was trying his best to pay close attention to what Julia was saying but finding it very difficult to do so.

  Aware of his inner struggle, Julia offered, “You’ve had a stressful day of classes. Perhaps a glass of wine would help you relax.” As she spoke, she crossed the room to the wine cabinet.

  Soaring
Eagle shook his head. “No. When I was a boy, my father made me promise never to drink what he called ‘that evil stuff from the traders.’ ”

  Julia repented immediately, closing the wine cabinet, crossing back towards the fireplace. Soaring Eagle fought the temptation to linger over how gracefully she moved. Julia draped an arm over the back of her chair and remained standing. Twilight shone through the window behind her, accenting her fine shoulders.

  Soaring Eagle gulped some tea and stood up and moved to where his own chair formed a physical barrier between himself and Julia. Gripping the back of the chair he said again, “I should go.”

  Julia smiled. “Your father made you promise never to drink wine. Did he also make you promise never to be alone with an unattached woman?”

  Shaking his head, Soaring Eagle studied the fire.

  “Tell me about him. Tell me about your father, Jeremiah.”

  “He taught me everything I needed to know to live well in our world. He didn’t prepare me for the changes that were to come, but he tried to give me his faith in God. I suppose he knew that that was, after all, the best way to prepare his son for the future.” He concluded with regret, “He didn’t live long enough to see me accept his God.”

  Julia sat down again by the fire, asking, “If it isn’t too painful, I really would like to know what life was like for you before, before everything became such a, such a mess.”

  Soaring Eagle looked about the room, wondering how to begin to explain life on the plains to a product of Boston society. His eyes returned to Julia Woodward. She met his gaze directly. There was no hint of flirtation in her eyes or her voice, only a genuine interest in his life, his past. Loneliness swept over him, and Soaring Eagle realized that he wanted to share more of himself with Julia Woodward.

  He was groping for where to begin his saga, when the answer appeared at his very feet in the form of a bearskin rug spread across the hearth. Seating himself on the rug, Soaring Eagle crossed his legs and settled comfortably by the fire.

  “I killed one of these once.” He ran one hand along the back of the bear’s head. “I think the one I killed might have been a little larger. It took me three arrows.”

  “Only three?” Julia sounded surprised.

  At the hint of admiration in her voice, Soaring Eagle shook his head. “Three arrows are two arrows too many. I should have done it with the first. By the third arrow I was shooting down at the bear from the top of a very tall tree. My heart was racing, and I was convinced there would be an empty space at my campfire that evening. Mine.”

  Julia perched her feet on a needlepoint footstool and took up some handwork. “Please, Jeremiah. Tell me more. I want to know everything, everything about you.”

  Something sounded a warning in Soaring Eagle’s mind, but he brushed it aside. “You’ve heard many of the most exciting stories already.”

  “I don’t want those stories. I want the ones you don’t share when you speak to groups.” Julia laid her needlework in her lap and scooted to the edge of her chair. “Tell me about a normal day. What was a normal day like in your village? What did you eat? What did you wear? Just the everyday things.” Julia took a deep breath before concluding. “I want to know what makes Jeremiah King who he is. What’s in your soul?”

  Seated on the bearskin rug in Julia Woodward’s parlor, Soaring Eagle began to talk. He described a typical day in his village, a day when buffalo were plentiful and there were no soldiers to worry about. He talked about breaking his father’s horses, and worrying his mother when he was gone too long on a hunt. He described his mother with special tenderness. When he spoke of his father it was with such pride that Julia felt his anguish when he related trotting across the prairie to find his mother kneeling by the crushed body that had been pulled from beneath a massive buffalo bull.

  At some point during his lengthy recitation, Julia laid down her needlework, slipped out of her chair, and came to sit beside him on the bearskin rug. When he concluded his monologue, she had pulled her knees up under her chin and was staring into the fire. He reached out to trace her hairline with the back of his hand. Suddenly the picture of her dressed as she was tonight, sitting by a fire in his tepee, made him laugh.

  Before he could pull away his hand, she had caught it in her own. “Tell me what I’ve done to make you laugh,” Julia said, “so I can make you laugh often, when we’re alone.” She lifted his hand to her cheek and murmured, “I like the sound of your laughter.”

  “I was thinking,” he answered softly, “of you, dressed as you are tonight, trying to tend the fire in a tepee.” He pulled his hand away and leaned back on one arm. “The picture reminds me of how my mother must have looked when Rides the Wind brought her to our village. I was only a baby, but I heard the story many times. His favorite part was always describing her trying to start a fire.” Soaring Eagle chuckled. “For a while they called her ‘Makes No Fire.’ She would work and work.” He crouched before the fire, showing Julia the antics just as Rides the Wind had re-created them.

  Julia laughed with him. Watching him smile, she suddenly asked, “Did you have someone?”

  Soaring Eagle sat back down next to her. “No,” he answered quietly. “There’s never been anyone.” When she turned to look up at him he corrected himself. “Once, long ago, there was a very young woman who cared for me.” He paused before continuing. “The last winter her family moved north, into Canada.”

  “The last winter?”

  “The last winter of that way of life.”

  Julia grasped her forearms tightly, hugging her knees to her chest. “You never saw her again?”

  “Never.”

  “And there was never anyone else?”

  “Things changed. Too quickly.” Soaring Eagle smiled at her. “There were too many other things to concern myself with. Too much study. Never enough time to learn the rules about men and women in your world.” He shrugged his shoulders. “As long as I am only Jeremiah King, the Indian, there is no need.”

  “Isn’t there anyone you know who looks at you in another way?” Julia gripped her knees tighter, aware that she was trembling.

  The moment the words escaped her lips, Soaring Eagle saw the image of a blue suit and red hair, the St. Louis train station, and a blown kiss. He answered Julia honestly. “There is one.” He began to tell Julia about Carrie Brown, but she didn’t let him finish.

  “No, Jeremiah. There are two. I don’t know about the girl in Nebraska, but I am here. Now.”

  Soaring Eagle had never kissed a woman before. The scent of her hair, the softness of her silk gown, everything about her was so compelling, the emotion that washed over him the moment they kissed terrified him. Instantly, the thing that had been trying to push its way to the forefront all evening succeeded in making Jeremiah listen. Get out of here. Get out now or you will make everything you have ever said about God and faith and living a true life into a lie.

  It took more effort for Soaring Eagle to push Julia Woodward out of his arms than he had ever expended in his life. He almost ran to the door. He heard her call his name, but he didn’t look back. Don’t look back. You’re not strong enough to look back and not stay. Don’t look back. Just go to the door. Go to the door, Soaring Eagle.

  Soaring Eagle followed the voice of his conscience out the door, through the streets of Boston, and back to the Davises. He listened when it said, You cannot remain in Boston. You’re too lonely, and she is too beautiful. Go home to Santee, Soaring Eagle. Sort out your feelings. Ask God for guidance. Talk to Dr. Riggs. Don’t let this happen without thinking things through. If it is to be, it will be. In God’s time. Not this way. Write a letter to the Davises and to the Woodwards. Explain that you are too homesick. They will understand. They know you’ve been depressed. They’ll be disappointed you left so abruptly, but they will understand.

  Dawn broke the next morning with the first sunshine Boston had seen in weeks. Sunshine broke into the parlor at the home of George and Julia Woodward whe
re Julia still sat, staring at the ashes in her fireplace.

  Light streamed into the breakfast room of the Davis home where Sterling and Samuel were eating alone, having just received the news that their favorite houseguest was gone.

  Sunshine spilled into the train car where Soaring Eagle sat. But he was too immersed in thought to take notice.

  Chapter 14

  Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.

  Psalm 116:15

  Dr. Gilbert spoke in the voice he had learned to use when telling the thing he hated most to people he admired. He spoke slowly and distinctly, in his gentlest tone, trying to comfort even as he told Sarah what she was facing.

  “Toward the end it could get,” the doctor paused, “difficult for her. I’ll do what I can. I’ll teach you to administer morphine. We must pray that God takes her before she suffers unduly.”

  Over the doctor’s shoulder, Sarah could see the door to Mrs. Braddock’s room, the door that had always been open to her, welcoming her in, giving her endless gifts, gifts for a daughter, not a housemaid. Sarah stared at the door for only a moment before she fixed her eyes on Dr. Gilbert’s and said calmly, “I’ll be fine, Dr. Gilbert. Just see that she’s cared for properly. Don’t worry about me. I’ll do whatever you say. And I’ll be fine.” Sarah hoped that she sounded more confident than she felt.

  “You’ll likely need help at the end,” he said kindly, patting Sarah on the shoulder.

  Sarah shook her head. “I’ll get someone to help with the house if necessary, but I’ll take care of Mother Braddock myself.” She looked up at Dr. Gilbert. “I owe her so much, Doctor. The least I can do is to be the one—” She bit her lip and stopped. The door loomed in the background.

  Dr. Gilbert nodded and pressed her hand. “Abigail Braddock is a fine woman, and you are a fine friend. I’m only a short distance away. You send Tom for me whenever you need me. I’ll come right away.” He reached inside his medical bag and handed Sarah a new bottle. “Continue with the application we’ve discussed. Soon, you’ll need to add this.” He withdrew a note from his bag and handed it to Sarah. Chloral hydrate, gr. 5, Vaseline, oz. 1. to correct fetor and allay pain. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.” He had only gone down three or four steps before he turned and looked back up at Sarah and added, “You don’t have to do this alone, Miss Biddle. We’ll do it together.”