Sophia knelt next to him, covered her face with her hands, and said, “Ku-ku, I see you!” She opened her fingers and the baby laughed.
Will said, “I thought it was peek-a-boo.”
Oh dear. Had she made another mistake?
A yellow dog crawled from beneath the porch, followed by three puppies, all enthusiastically wagging their tails.
“Zlata and her troika!” Sophia petted them, then caught Will’s frown. “In English, it would be ‘Goldie.’”
“Don’t name them.”
Was he no fun at all? Or had she violated some Ponca custom? Apparently she had more to learn than she had to teach.
“Hello, fine lady, gentleman,” called a middle-aged man. His skin was darker than hers, but lighter than the tribe members’. Tufts of kinked hair stuck to his head and chin. He held up a long stick with the word Missouri carved into it, misspelled. “Isn’t this bountiful? I can make one for you. And what might your name be?”
“Don’t tell him,” Will murmured.
Sophia ignored him. “Ekaterina Mikailovna Dolgorukova,” she said. Her old classmate would no doubt be surprised to be remembered on the American frontier. She was probably busy with her duties as the tsar’s mistress. One moment—was the penalty for lying worse for missionaries? “Thank you kindly, but I have no need of a walking stick.”
“What about tomorrow?” The peddler followed them. “What about your friends back home? Wouldn’t they be proud to own this memory of you?”
Did he mean “memento”?
“My friends’ memories are intact, thank you.”
Will picked up his pace. Sophia trotted along behind, not wanting to be left with the salesman.
“Wouldn’t your father look extinguished carrying this?”
Did he mean “distinguished”? Whoever taught him English should be reported. “Thank you, but my father is already quite extinguished. In heaven, walking sticks are not necessary.”
“Reynaud.” The carpenter evidently had heard enough of the man’s spiel. He raised his hand, palm out, and said one Ponca word. The man nodded and loped off in the other direction.
“Mr. Dunn, you are quite proficient in the native language for only living here three years. You are a quick learner. Children pick up languages easily, but adults have a more difficult time of it. Did you take classes?”
“Aren’t any.”
“So you learned by hearing and using it. Do the Poncas have a written language?”
He shrugged. “One of the earlier reverends was working on it.”
“Perhaps the women would be so kind as to teach me.”
Will stopped and stared at her.
“People can learn more than one language. I know Russian, French, a little German, and English. My Ukrainian is a bit rusty.”
“You’ve already figured out there’s a difference between how men and women say things.” He blinked and shook his head. “I was here two years before I noticed that.”
“Once you learn one language—”
The earth vibrated with thundering hooves. Will grabbed her elbow and maneuvered her to the side of the path. A dark blur of a horse passed, then another. Both were ridden by soldiers.
Sophia coughed and waved away the dust. “Is there an emergency? A skirmish?”
“A race.”
“A race? Right through the village? But the children! Where is their commanding officer? I will lodge a complaint.”
“The commanding officer was the second fellow.”
Sophia was furious, and her father was no longer here to discipline these louts. She uttered a word missionaries were forbidden to say. But perhaps it did not count since her escort did not know Russian.
Well, she would simply have to pray about the soldiers. What else could she do? Unless . . .
“Is there a livery nearby?”
“We have the team that pulled the wagon this morning. The saddles are locked in the stable.”
“Perhaps something more . . . agile.”
“I’ll check with Long Runner,” Will said. “If the Brulé haven’t run off his herd, he might have one you could borrow.”
They turned the corner to the agency building. Two dozen Ponca men filled the space between the fence and the porch.
“Uh-oh.” Will took off at a run.
So much for always being escorted.
“The teacher!” The group turned toward her, faces set in anger, arms crossed.
James separated from the crowd and marched to meet her. His hair stood on end. “Miss Makinoff.”
What faux pas had she committed now? “Yes, Mr. Lawrence?”
“You did not ring the bell.”
For whatever reason, this seemed to be a serious offense.
Sophia opened her mouth to apologize, but Will intervened. “The school didn’t officially open. Brown Eagle’s children helped Miss Makinoff get ready.” He repeated the statement in Ponca.
“I am so sorry for whatever offense I may have caused.” Sophia addressed the Poncas. “Please forgive me. School will begin tomorrow morning. Please send your children when the bell rings.” She extended a hand to the nearest, hoping she was not violating protocol, and tried to smile without looking him in the face. “Good evening, sir. I am the teacher, Miss Makinoff.”
He had seen enough white interaction to pump her arm and utter a long string of syllables.
“Cries for War,” Will said in an undertone, then guided her to the next.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. War.”
“Buffalo Chip.”
“Enchanted, Mr. Chip.”
“White Swan.” This man’s hair waved as if it had been crimped.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swan.”
Will’s conduct was worthy of a diplomatic interpreter of any embassy. Within minutes he restored peace and cleared the yard. Sophia’s tongue passed from dry to parched. She hurried inside, searching for water.
“Miss Makinoff.” James followed. “Do not ever do that again.”
She found a pitcher on the table, poured herself a glass, and drank. She turned to the agent. “Perhaps you could provide an explanation—”
Nettie sent them to wash up.
James guided her out to the porch. “The previous agent withheld rations if the Indians didn’t send their children to school.”
“How horrible. No wonder they were upset.” Where was the soap? And the towel? She shook her hands dry. “I hope you have discontinued his policy.”
“Of course.”
“If all those men are fathers of students, my class will have more than fifty.”
Henry joined the hand-washing line. “They’ve nothing better to do than raise a fuss.”
“They’re all related one way or another to your students.” Will held the door open for her. “They know the future of the tribe depends on schooling.”
The future of the tribe? Perhaps this position held more import than she had first estimated. “Nettie, may I help?”
The woman bustled between the table and the stove. “No, dear, it’s all ready. After teaching, I imagine you’re done in.”
Done in, but her mind still raced with questions.
The men took seats and Henry began his prayer. Sophia paid attention, thinking she would memorize it and teach it to the students, but as the minutes ticked by and the prayer showed no sign of ending, she abandoned the idea.
“Amen,” he finally said, and Nettie served roast and potatoes.
The reverend continued in his pulpit voice. “The duty of missionaries at this Agency is to allay discontent and encourage the spirit of goodwill, hope, and faith in the government, and obedience to its wishes. We must provide true light to their darkness.”
The others concentrated on their food; apparently this was another familiar sermon.
Sophia took advantage of his pause for coffee. “My students today were Frank, Joseph, Marguerite, Susette, and Rosalie. They live in the house near
the spring. Do they have parents? What is their last name?”
James looked to Will. Did the agent not know?
“Frank is the son of Brown Eagle and Mary.” The carpenter tapped the table, drawing out the family tree. He had not rolled down his sleeves. Muscles rippled beneath his skin. “Mary’s sister-in-law, Joseph and Marguerite’s mother, died of cholera. Their father, Fork, was killed by the Yanktons, returning from their Agency last year.”
Frightfully complex. Or perhaps Sophia had been distracted by the man’s physique. She directed her attention back to Brown Eagle’s genealogy.
“The Yanktons claimed Fork was intoxicated.” James’s black look indicated he did not think much of their excuse.
“Susette is the daughter of Elisabeth and Stands Dark, who drowned when the Missouri flooded a few years back. Elisabeth is Mary’s sister. And Rosalie is the daughter of Elisabeth and Brown Eagle.”
“Two wives.” Nettie shook her head.
“If not for Brown Eagle, Elisabeth would starve.” Will’s voice was quiet, but his clenched fist betrayed his feelings.
“So,” Sophia said, “Brown Eagle taking in Elisabeth is charity, as in the Bible, where a man marries his brother’s widow?”
“It’s like those Mormons.” Henry thumped the table so hard the butter dish rattled. “They came through here a few years after the Catholic priest. Muddied the waters.”
Nettie held out a fragrant offering with a lattice crust. “Pie?”
Hostilities ceased immediately.
A lesson for military commanders around the world.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Will figured after teaching all day, Sophia wouldn’t have much to say at night. He was wrong. After untangling Brown Eagle’s family tree, she asked the biggest question of all.
“Why are the Poncas so poor?” Sophia set her fork on her empty plate. “The Indians at the Santee Agency are dressed in clothes, not rags. Their buildings are in good repair, their fields are cultivated.”
“We’re doing the best with what we’ve got.” The agent pressed his knuckle to his forehead, ready for his evening dose of medicinal whiskey. “They’re ready and willing to work, but ignorant of proper ways and need constant supervision. The farmer quit in April and I had to fire the blacksmith last winter, so they’ve been short of guidance.”
“Ready and willing to work?” Henry turned up his lip in a sneer. “Not likely. Sloth is a common vice among the Poncas. They’re supposed to learn to be white men, farmers. But they hide inside all day.”
As if he ever left the house.
“Smart, what with the threat from the Brulé,” Will said. “The Poncas have been under attack since the treaty of ’68, when the government messed up and gave their land to the Sioux.”
“Why do they not correct the treaty?” Sophia asked.
“It’s more complicated than correcting a student’s essay.” James braced his head on his fingertips. “The Poncas have had horrible luck: drought, floods, hailstorms. Some years they’ve had to beg food from Fort Randall, the Omahas, the Pawnees.”
“And horrible staff,” the rev added. “One pocketed their annuity. Another brought Indian women into the house every night.” He shot his fiery glare down the table. “So the government sent the church to the Agency to provide salt and light.”
“Unfortunately the church hasn’t been able to do anything about the allotments,” Nettie said. Worry lines creased her round face.
“That’s probably one of your most important jobs,” James told Sophia. “Teach them about money. The Indians didn’t use it before, so the whole idea is new.”
“You won’t make friends with those in town who’ve become rich on the Indians’ ignorance.” Will smiled in Nettie’s direction. Her spats with the merchants had gotten her banned from most stores in Niobrara.
“Finance is hardly your most important subject.” The rev reached for his Bible. “What good is it if a man gains the whole world, but loses his soul?”
“These people are closer to starving to death than gaining the world.” Sophia stood. “I appreciate your advice, all of you. With so much to teach, a good sleep is in order.”
“Sophia, wait.” Henry put up a hand. “If the rest will excuse us, I have something to discuss with you.”
What sermon would he drop on her now? Whatever it was had Nettie pondering the grain of the table. James lingered in the front room, delaying his imbibing ritual to read a March issue of the Yankton Dakotaian. Will went to his room, but left his door open.
“May I take the opportunity to clarify the protocol here?” The teacher sounded not the least bit cowed. “The use of first names is acceptable. And the escorting of an unmarried woman?”
“Is necessary for your safety,” Nettie said. “Conduct yourself as if someone is always watching, because the Poncas do watch us. And we must show them good Christian behavior.”
“Sophia.” Henry used his voice of doom. “Mother discovered an idol in your room. On the wall over your bed.”
“It is not an idol,” Sophia said in her teacher’s voice. “It is an icon. Common for Orthodox Christians in eastern Europe.”
“Idol worship is a grievous sin.”
“I agree. But icons are not worshipped. They are used during prayers, to help focus.”
A chair scraped. “I’ll have to report you to the bishop.”
Will grinned. Icon, idol? He didn’t know which was what. But the mile-wide gap between the bishop and the rev, he had witnessed with his own eyes.
Sophia would be staying.
On her second morning at the Ponca Agency, Sophia slept until the dogs barked. After inspecting her mosquito bites, more every day, she peeked outside. Fog swirled a sheer curtain around the house. The humid air carried no hint of smoke; perhaps the moisture prevented the setting of a fire this morning.
Sophia lit the candle she had brought upstairs and opened her prayer book. She flipped through the pages. Ah, here it was: a prayer before mealtime.
She translated the words from Russian. O God, our Creator and Sustainer, Thou nourishest our souls . . .
Dreadfully complex. Perhaps something simple: O God who made us, thank You for food that fills us, keeps us healthy, and gives us strength. Amen. It might be easier to memorize if it rhymed, but Sophia had never been adept at composing poetry in English.
The roosters started their raucous chorus, her signal to proceed to morning prayers.
In the name of the Father—
A puff of damp air blew out the flame. How inconvenient. She had no more matches. In her next job, she must insist on gas lighting.
And of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Sophia leaned out the window, trying to determine how soon the sun might provide enough light to continue the morning reading.
Lone Chief emerged from the mists, climbed to the top of the bluffs, and raised his arms to the rising sun. He did not have a prayer book. Perhaps he had memorized prayers. Or perhaps he simply spoke what was in his heart.
Which is what she should do.
Sophia bowed her head. Dear Lord, I regret to inform You, through grievous error, I have been sent to the Ponca Agency. Here my skills are of little use. I can accomplish nothing for You. Please rectify the situation by sending another teacher, someone more suited to the rigors of this assignment, so I might continue on to China. Or perhaps it might be best to send me home to Russia. Amen.
CHAPTER NINE
Sophia unlocked the school and gasped. “A chalkboard!”
A large black rectangle stretched across the front wall of the classroom. The odor of fresh paint filled the air. She hurried to prop open the windows. The latrine had been whitewashed too. Will must have returned last night. The windows were polished. The puddles the students made had been cleaned up. Why had he not asked her to accompany him?
This morning Will had gone to help someone named Yellow Horse, so the dispute between James and Henry over who would accompany Sophia to the school
ended in a draw. They both did. While neither could build a bookshelf, she would put them to work in other ways.
“This barrel contains clothing collected by my church in New York.”
Henry held up an elaborate dress. “Do they think we’re running a fashion parade?”
James shook out a double-breasted chesterfield, complete with a velvet collar. “Easterners have no idea.”
“The fabric is good. Perhaps Nettie can find a way to adapt it. Although Frank would look rather distinguished in the top hat.” Sophia glanced at her watch. “It is eight o’clock already. If one of you men would kindly ring the school bell.”
After tense negotiations, James elected to haul the barrel back to the house and Henry rang the bell. He greeted the students as they came and sent them to Sophia’s desk to be entered in her ledger.
Frank, Joseph, Marguerite, Susette, and Rosalie arrived first, being the closest to school. Sophia was pleased with herself for matching names and faces. The girls were easily differentiated by size. Frank’s round face resembled her cousin Yevgeny, and Joseph’s pointed chin reminded her of Uncle Ivan. “Last name? Brown Eagle? Or simply Eagle? Or wait . . . tell me your fathers’ names.”
“Pick a surname,” Henry said. “A white name.”
Sophia lifted an eyebrow. Perhaps she should name them all Romanov. If it was good enough for the Russian royal family, it should be good enough for Henry. “Should not their parents be consulted?”
“If they had an idea, they’d have made their choice by now.”
What name would fit? “What name would you like?”
Henry made an ugly noise in the back of his throat. “Washington. They were first, so they’ll have the first president’s name.”
A lot of letters to remember, but distinguished. Sophia entered it in the ledger. In the next group, four boys needed first and last names. Did they live in the same house? Were they siblings? A round of questions between them and the newly anointed Washington children did not resolve the issue. “How about Nicholas, Alexander, Vladmir, and Alexi Alexandrovich?” Names good enough for the tsar.
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