“Captain Carter!” Mollie exclaimed with pleasure when she opened the door. Casita was not pleased; to her, he would always represent the worst the Army could do. She didn’t trust him. Casita started to excuse herself.
“No, Casita, you should stay,” he said. “What I have to say concerns you, too.”
Mollie and Casita sensed it was not good news. Casita and Jack were technically prisoners of war, even if they didn’t think of themselves that way. The Army could exercise its power over them anytime it chose. They sat down on the sofa opposite him and prepared for the worst.
“Go ahead, Captain,” Mollie said.
“Have you heard about a fellow called Lieutenant Pratt who is opening up a school at the Carlisle barracks in Pennsylvania?” he asked. “It’s a school for Indian children.” His eyes rested on Casita.
Casita stared back. She didn’t want to go to an Indian school, now that she didn’t feel Indian anymore.
“I’ve heard of it,” Mollie said slowly. “The Quakers are interested in the lieutenant’s experiment.” She smiled. “Pratt has an idea that the Indians can be educated as well as any white child.” She took Casita’s hand. “We could have told him that.”
Casita squeezed Mollie’s hand tightly, holding on for her life. Mollie and Charles would never let them go, would they?
“Pratt wants to teach them a trade, too,” Captain Carter said.
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Mollie exclaimed. “Casita is such a help to me, especially now that I’m in a family way.”
“Mrs. Smith, I think you are deliberately not taking my meaning,” the captain said. “Pratt needs students. Lots of them. We’ve been ordered to send as many as we can find. Casita and Jack are on the list.”
“They are my children. And I won’t let them go,” Mollie said, suddenly fierce. “You can’t let us love them for three years then take them away without any warning!”
Like a mama bear defending her cubs, Casita thought sadly. But a bear couldn’t win against the Army, and neither could Mollie.
“Officially, ma’am, they aren’t your children,” he said sternly. “They are prisoners of war and their fate is decided by the US Army. They leave next week.”
Mollie gasped. Casita cleared her throat to interrupt the way Mollie had taught her. “Captain, may I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“What if I don’t want to go?” She shrank into the corner of the sofa as though it might swallow her up.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I didn’t have a choice at El Remolino either,” Casita said, struggling not to cry.
“That was a long time ago,” Captain Carter said. “And this situation is different. This school is a new idea. It may be the solution to the Indian problem, and you will be there at the beginning.”
She had not heard the words “Indian problem” in a long time. Until the Indaa came to Texas, there had never been an Indian problem. The white people had created it themselves and now wanted her to suffer for it by taking her family away again. An anger that Casita had not felt since that day when the soldiers destroyed her village welled up in her.
“If I refuse to go will you tie to me to a horse again?” Casita asked angrily. “Beat my brother until he agrees? Maybe you’d like to burn down my house again? Because that was how you tried to solve the Indian problem before!”
“Casita!” Mollie cried.
Captain Carter held up a hand to reassure Mollie. “Ma’am, the girl is upset. Understandably. I know she has been happy here. And young Jack has done a fine job with the horses. But it is only for a few years, then they can come back.”
Casita took no comfort in that; the Army was not to be trusted.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Mollie asked. “Someone we can talk to?”
“I have my orders.”
There was no use trying to fight it, Casita knew. No one argued with the Army. Her life here with Mollie and Charles was over. Everything she had thought she had won was like a mirage in the desert. The only thing that was real was Mollie’s hand holding hers. Casita pulled away. Better to make the break quickly.
“May I please be excused,” Casita mumbled. Without waiting for Mollie’s response, she ran out of the room. In the kitchen, she stood with her back to the stove, out of breath. The scars on her neck began to throb.
The Army had destroyed her life. Again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“MOLLIE, FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, ISN’T SHE PACKED YET?” CHARLES’S bellow came from the parlor. “The stagecoach leaves in an hour.”
“Almost!” Mollie called from Casita’s room.
“But we are finished,” Casita said. Her canvas bag was packed with all her clothes.
“Not quite,” Mollie said. “Captain Carter said you could bring some keepsakes of home to Carlisle. What about this?” She pulled out Casita’s first needlepoint. It wasn’t very expertly done, but Mollie and Casita had worked on it together.
“Home sweet home,” Casita said, swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in her throat.
Trying to be lighthearted, Mollie said, “Unless you look closely, you can’t see the specks of blood from when you pricked your fingers. You can take a little bit of home with you.”
Casita nodded. “But I’m coming back.”
“Captain Carter said you can come home in three years. That’s not really so long.”
Casita had been with Mollie for three years, and it felt like a lifetime.
“It will be good for you,” Mollie continued. “You’ll find new teachers for your art. And won’t it be nice to meet other Indian children? You could find a friend your own age.”
“Mollie!”
“Coming, Charles!” Mollie hesitated, then reached into her pocket. “There is one more thing I want you to have.”
Casita caught her breath when Mollie gave her the leather necklace and the shell hanging from it. “My necklace,” she whispered. “I thought it was gone.”
“Captain Carter wanted us to destroy anything that was Apache,” Mollie said hesitantly. “But I put it away for you. I wasn’t sure if you would want it.”
It was too painful to hold it; the memories of her father would overwhelm her. “I don’t want it anymore,” Casita said, handing it back. “It’s from a time of my life that I chose to give up.” Not that her choices had mattered much in the end, she thought.
“I never meant for you to feel like you had to forget your past,” Mollie said. “There will be so many different tribes at Carlisle, you should have something that represents your own people. Something to remember them by.”
“I don’t want to remember,” she said fiercely.
“Memories of good things cannot hurt you,” Mollie said, pressing the necklace into Casita’s palm. “And one day it might bring you comfort.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” Casita said.
Mollie put her arms around Casita. “You will come back to us,” she whispered.
But Casita couldn’t help thinking that Mollie was making a promise she couldn’t keep.
Exactly an hour later, they stood by the stagecoach at the entrance to the fort.
“Don’t forget to write!” Mollie said for the tenth time.
“I don’t write so well,” Jack said.
“That’s why you are going to school,” Mollie said. “Maybe they will have better luck getting you to study.” She held out her arms and he stepped into her hug. He was taller than Mollie now. “I love you. Take care of your sister.”
“Don’t I always?” He hopped into the waiting stagecoach.
“It’s time, Mollie,” Charles warned.
Mollie turned to Casita. “Goodbye, my dear!”
Casita did not want to cry. The Army could take everything from her, but she would not give in to tears. She wouldn’t let them see that they had beaten her again. She pulled a folded square of paper from her coat pocket. “This is for you,” she said.
Mollie unfolded the drawing and saw a picture of herself, sitting in the rocking chair in front of the fireplace. Her favorite flowered shawl was draped around her shoulders. Her hand rested on the top of her stomach; Casita had even drawn her wedding ring. Mollie’s eyes were sleepy. Underneath, Casita had penciled in two words: “Mama waiting.”
For once, Mollie didn’t cry. Her dry eyes were clear and sad. “I’m not just waiting for the baby,” she said, “I’m waiting for my other children to come home.” She hugged Casita. “I love you. Take care of your brother.”
Speaking past the lump in her throat, Casita tried to imitate Jack’s happy-go-lucky farewell. “Don’t I always?”
The stagecoach lumbered to a stop in the great city of San Antonio, Texas. Jack and Casita were disappointed so far. They had heard of the enormous Spanish churches and the famous Alamo fort where the Indaa had lost so badly. But the train station was located on the outskirts of the town.
Charles helped Casita jump down. Her stiff legs nearly buckled underneath her as she shook the dust off her calico dress. Jack hopped out of the stagecoach. For him, the hardest part of the daylong trip had been being enclosed in the small coach. His suit was a dark grey and didn’t show the dust from the journey. “Can we explore?” Jack asked.
Charles pulled out his pocket watch. “We don’t have time. We’ll wait in the station. The train leaves in two hours and four minutes.” Charles snapped shut his timepiece. “Your escort will find us there. He’ll take you to Fort Hays in Kansas. A group of other children who are also going to Carlisle is gathering there.”
Casita and Jack exchanged looks. Jack looked ready to meet any challenge. For him, three years at a boarding school was a small price to pay to ride a train. Casita was more like Mollie. What if the Army forgot about them? What if they got on the wrong train? Mollie had calculated the distances on the map before they had left. From Fort Clark to San Antonio was 140 miles. Fort Hays was almost 700 miles away from San Antonio. From Fort Hays to Carlisle was 1,300 miles more. Her mind couldn’t imagine a distance that great. But Charles assured her that they would arrive in Carlisle in just a few days. Casita couldn’t believe that was really possible.
Unaware of Casita’s worries, Charles picked up her bag while Jack hoisted his on his shoulder and set off for the train depot. Charles’s limp was worse after the long journey, but he still set a good pace. Casita wanted to stop and stare up at the tall two-story building. A steeple on top made it even higher. More coaches than she’d ever imagined in one place were jostling to find space in front of the station. Charles led them through the chaos as surely as if they were crossing the parade ground at Fort Clark.
Casita heard a loud rumbling. The ground beneath her feet shook. She froze. “Is it an earthquake?” she cried. She and Mollie had read of a terrible catastrophe in China where the earth had split apart, but Casita had never thought there could be one in Texas.
“It’s just a streetcar,” Charles said. “Look!” He pointed. A team of horses was pulling a metal house up the street. It glided along iron rails embedded in the road. “The streetcars bring people from here to the center of town.”
“Can we go on one?” Jack asked.
“No,” Charles said, pushing open the door to the depot. Casita had never seen such a room, with its high ceiling and high windows streaming in long rays of sunlight. Even the noise from all the people seemed to fly up high and bounce about. But it was the shops that caught Casita’s attention. She couldn’t believe how many there were. She saw signs for a barber, a pharmacy, a grocer, a bar, a restaurant, even a photography studio. Everything a traveler might need, she thought. With a start, she realized that Casita Smith was a traveler now, too. A large sign on the wall showed a train and proclaimed that the San Antonio railroad was “the shortest line to all points North, East, and West.” Casita felt lightheaded; she was going both North and East.
“Before we meet your escort, there’s something I want to do first.” Charles led the children to the shop with a sign over the door that said “Photographer.” Charles walked in and held the door behind him for Casita.
Casita took one step, then stopped before she cleared the doorway. “A photographer?” she said. “But . . .”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise for Mollie if I had your photograph taken.”
“I will go,” Jack said, pushing past Casita. He looked back at her. “Why do you look so afraid?”
“Don’t you remember?” she whispered. He had been as nervous as she was when they first saw that picture of Mollie and Charles.
“That’s just superstition,” he said, sounding like Charles. “It’s just a picture, and I want to see how it works.”
Charles beamed and clapped Jack on the back. Reluctantly, Casita followed them inside.
The photographer came from behind a velvet curtain, surprised to find two Indian children. He brought them to a back room where there was an ornate table and chair. He seated Casita on the chair facing the camera and instructed Jack to stand next to her.
“You must sit perfectly still until I tell you it’s all right to move. My plates have to develop.”
The photographer lit enormous lamps that flooded the room with light. Ducking under the black cloth on the back of his camera, he said, “Ready?” His hand moved under the black cloth. Nothing happened.
“Don’t move,” he reminded them. Casita counted under her breath to fifteen. “That’s it.” The photographer emerged from the cloth. Jack ran up to him. “Can I see it?” he asked.
“This is only a plate with a picture embedded in it,” he said. “I have to print it.”
Charles laughed. “You’ll have to wait to see it until you are home again.”
“That will be years,” Jack complained.
“When you return, you’ll have grown up and we’ll have to do another one.”
Charles paid the photographer and they headed back into the train station, pushing their way through the waiting passengers. Casita stayed close to Charles, but Jack immediately disappeared.
“Where did Jack go?” she cried.
Charles chuckled. “Like any red-blooded American boy, he’s looking at the trains.” He pointed. There was a wide doorway on the far side of the depot. The sun was streaming down on the tracks. Jack was there, peering at the tracks, waiting for the train.
“Papa, where’s the train?” he asked.
“It will be here soon enough.”
In the distance, a long whistle blew. Jack ran down the paved platform to the edge of the depot so he would see the train first.
Like the streetcar, Casita heard the train before it appeared. Then a black gleaming machine rolled in, smoke belching from its smokestack. Jack ran alongside, whooping and pumping his fist.
“That’s the motor that pulls the whole train,” Charles shouted over the noise.
The motor was pulling a wagon with coal in it and four cars with windows and doors.
“How does it stop?” Casita asked, backing away.
Charles put his arm around her shoulders and kept her next to him. “There are brakes. You’ll see!” Sure enough, there was an awful squeal of metal scraping metal as the train began to lose speed. She clapped her hands over her ears, cringing as she waited for the crash. With a loud groan, the train came to a stop.
A conductor threw open the doors and passengers started getting out. No one seemed amazed that the train had stopped safely; they took it for granted. Casita wondered if she would ever be so calm about riding a train.
Jack was already examining the wheels that propelled the motor; they were almost as tall as he was. “Get back, Jack!” Casita ordered. “You’ll be crushed.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not moving now,” he said, waving away her fears. “When can we get on board?”
“In a minute,” Charles promised. “Be patient.” He never minded Jack’s eagerness. Mollie said that Jack reminded Charles of himself as a young boy.
A man in a blue uniform like Charles’s approached them. “Lieutenant Smith?” he asked. When Charles nodded, the soldier said he was Corporal Quinn, and Captain Carter had arranged for him to escort the children to Fort Hays.
“I have your tickets,” Corporal Quinn said. “Let’s get on board.” They climbed into the first train car and Corporal Quinn showed them where they would sit. Casita had never seen leather so polished or so soft. Or polished lamps attached to a rounded ceiling. She couldn’t believe that this small fancy house would really take them 700 miles.
“I have one more child to find. I’ll be right back,” Corporal Quinn said, hopping off the train.
Charles looked at his pocket watch. “It’s time,” he said. “I want you to make us proud at school.”
“I will,” Jack said, sticking out his hand for Charles to shake.
“Me, too,” Casita said as she stepped into his gentle hug.
Blinking as if dust had gotten into his eyes, Charles said, “Good-bye.” The train’s whistle hooted again and he hurried off the train.
Left alone, Casita realized their escort hadn’t returned. “Where is the Corporal?” she asked. “What if he doesn’t come back? Charles has already left.”
“You worry too much.” Jack looked out the window at the thinning crowd on the platform. “There he is! And he’s got another girl with him.”
Casita pressed her face against the glass so she could see. The girl was younger than Jack, perhaps eight or nine years old. She wore a dark blue cotton camp dress, gathered at the waist and loose on top. Around her neck were red beads. Corporal Quinn held her hand, but she looked as if she wanted to take it back. There was something about her that reminded Casita of her cousin Juanita.
Corporal Quinn brought her on board and pointed to the seat next to Casita. The girl obediently sat down. To Casita, she looked like a tiny frightened doll.
“I’ll be in the next car,” Corporal Quinn said. “Fetch me if you need me. But only if it is important.”
As soon as he was gone, Jack spoke in English. “What is your name?” He repeated the question in Ndé.
The Lost Ones Page 11
