Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

Will nailed another wood shingle into place. And they were taking a break from building coffins. Burying Brown Eagle’s Elisabeth nearly did them all in.

  He caught a flicker of movement on the path and heard the clop of a horse’s hooves. In seconds Will shinned down the ladder and headed toward the stable.

  James dismounted and ran a hand over his face. All done in. He could pass for a man twice his age. “Kemble assumed charge of the wagon train in Columbus. The roads are near impassable. No shelter, inadequate food. Awful.”

  A rumble of thunder warned of another storm. Will relieved the horse of his saddle. Yellow Spotted Buffalo took the tools back to the warehouse. The men who had been plowing and planting wheat and corn in hope of answered prayers left the fields.

  James hefted his knapsack and trudged toward the house. “I need a drink.”

  “You need Someone stronger than drink.”

  James turned on him, his face flushed. “You see God helping these people? Ever? Stopping the Brulé, holding back the grasshoppers, bringing rain on a regular basis?” He shook his head. “Me neither. I’m beginning to think He means for the Poncas to die off, like the passenger pigeon and the buffalo. It’d be a better fate for them than that godforsaken Indian Territory.”

  Will didn’t blame James for his cynicism. He had been praying every day, several times a day. Yet Elisabeth and Julia hadn’t been healed. The tools he’d requested hadn’t come. And the Indian Office still seemed bent on driving the Poncas from their land. He swallowed. “God’s going to work it out,” he said.

  Soon, Lord. Don’t hold back Your hand.

  They washed and stepped inside.

  Nettie narrowed her eyes. Her jaw was clenched so tight, words hissed through her teeth. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  Before Will could ask what was wrong, thunder crashed and the storm broke. A voice echoed from the front room. “I’m Inspector Howard. Here to solve your Indian problem.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Will augered a hole in the hay wagon’s floor, fit a table leg into the space, and swung his mallet to smash the leg down. Spotted Horse had spent hours smoothing this table’s surface. He had measured and sawed the legs with precision.

  All for nothing. All that hard work, gone to waste. The furniture he’d taught them to build, torn apart to make wagons for their exodus.

  Will hefted the hammer in his hand. He’d rather take a swing at those rats from the Indian Office.

  The other legs went into their spots, then he nailed the tabletop to the uprights.

  Next came Fast Little Runner’s table, oiled and ready to assemble. But it would never be finished. Brown Eagle had built well too. It took all the strength Will had to yank it apart.

  He worked his way around, disassembling furniture, patching with scraps, until he had a wagon box as ramshackle as everything else the Indian Office had forced on the Poncas.

  He took a step toward the toolbox, then let the auger and mallet drop to the dirt floor. There were no more wagon frames, no more lumber. Nothing more he could do.

  Will slogged back to the house through the mud from the rainiest May ever. He toed off his shoes, yanked off his wet clothes, and fell into bed.

  Despite his exhaustion he couldn’t sleep. Yesterday’s council echoed through his head. Inspector Howard had ordered the tribe to bring their possessions to the agency warehouse, then load up for Indian Territory.

  It was over. The Poncas would no longer live where the Niobrara met the Missouri.

  Hard as the rain drummed, it didn’t block out the people’s cries. Will pushed out of bed, dressed, and shuffled into the kitchen. He found Sophia trying to coax the fire to life. “Here. I’ll get it.”

  “You cannot sleep either?” She stared out the window. “I see only rain. No miracle. The reservation closes today. All our friends must leave.”

  “Looks that way.” Will shoveled out the cold ashes. The wood box was near to empty. “See if there’s an old newspaper in the front room.” He went out for an armload of logs. All that was left was pieces of the Christmas tree. He’d have to cut more so Nettie could cook today. Back inside, he found Sophia reading the paper at the table.

  She was blinking back tears.

  Will knew the Poncas’ story wouldn’t merit attention from any newspaper. What else could make her so sad? “What’s wrong?”

  She shook herself and pushed the paper toward him. “Russia invaded Turkey.”

  Another country, another war. Will scanned the article. “You weren’t thinking about going back, were you? Isn’t the same guy in charge, the tsar?”

  She faced the window, but Will sensed she was seeing a different scene altogether. Her slender fingers scratched a mosquito bite on the back of her hand. “I had thought to return, yes. But it will not be possible.”

  Nettie appeared in the doorway, fatigue dragging her steps. She paused and stretched her back. “Sorry, children. I’m late getting going.”

  “No, we’re early.” Will coaxed the fire back to life.

  Nettie patted Sophia’s shoulder. “It’s a wonder we haven’t run out of tears.”

  “I signed up with the Mission Board to escape the humiliation of being jilted. I thought if they sent me to China, I could make my way back to Russia. I did not pray about it.” She let loose with a sob that nearly tore Will’s heart in pieces.

  Nettie wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Yet God used you anyway.”

  “No. I hoped to do a great work for God, like my father. But nothing I have done here helped. I protested too much, wrote too many letters, instead of tending my own garden, ignoring the rushing water.” Sophia pounded her fists on the table. “And now the government is moving the Poncas because I told them conditions here were inhumane.”

  “No. Congress voted for removal before you got here.” Will dusted his palms on his pants, then grabbed her cold hands. “You were right to speak up. I should have done the same when I first got here.”

  He knew it was true, although this was the first time he’d said it out loud. He’d been too late writing the bishop. He should have been writing letters all along.

  Nettie’s other arm clasped Will’s waist. “Children, I don’t believe God is causing this disaster of a fiasco. But I do believe He will make it work out. And I also know, no matter what, He expects His people to be about His business. Sophia Makinoff, you have a school to box up. And Willoughby Dunn, you have wagons to rig and a warehouse to organize. And I have empty bellies to fill.”

  Nettie bustled around, stirring up breakfast, leaving Will holding Sophia’s hands for one glorious moment. She didn’t have anywhere to go. Would she go with him?

  A rain storm veiled the school in a gray curtain. Sophia locked herself inside to pack. She collected the slates, finding the owl design Matthew Adams had carved into the frame of one. Then the McGuffey Readers—how excited the children had been, marveling over each picture. And the globe. Lone Chief had said that God’s hands hold up the earth. She collected the coins, remembering Rosalie studying the pictures on them, Susette puzzling over the trickster dime.

  She swallowed down her tears and dropped the money into her pocket. It clinked against her pistol.

  As she worked, Sophia prayed again for God’s intervention. All her efforts were for naught. Only the Lord could remedy the Poncas’ situation.

  “Miss Makinoff?” Marguerite knocked at the window, then called to someone on the path. “She is here.”

  Sophia opened the door to Mary, Buffalo Woman, Susette Primeau, and Moon Hawk. The rain had stopped. “Ladies?”

  The women filed inside and closed the door.

  Marguerite interpreted for her mother. “You have taught our children. You made music for us. You have given us pretty dresses.”

  Mary held up a buckskin dress covered with the most elaborate quillwork and beadwork Sophia had ever seen.

  “We want you to have the dress made by Julia’s mother, when she became the wife of Wa
lking Together.”

  Sophia had difficulty taking in enough air to respond. “Please, I am unworthy to accept such a beautiful gift.”

  “No one is left in Julia’s family. Her last cousin died in Point Village two weeks ago.”

  “Perhaps Nettie—”

  Mary stretched out the waist, showing it was too narrow for the older woman.

  “We gave Nettie a bag decorated with quillwork to keep her needles in,” Marguerite said.

  “You try on,” Moon Hawk said.

  “But this is part of your heritage, the history of the Ponca people.”

  Susette said, “You are part of our story too.”

  The women helped her out of her bodice, skirt, and petticoats. Her corset provoked universal head shaking and frowns. They finally got her down to her chemise, drawers, and stockings. The gown slipped over her head, soft and light. Sophia breathed in a faint odor of leather and smoke.

  Moon Hawk undid Sophia’s chignon and braided her hair into two plaits running down her back. Buffalo Woman handed her a pair of moccasins and Marguerite tied them, then pushed her drawers up and out of sight. Mary held up a mirror.

  “Oh! The dress is so beautiful. I am sure I do not do it justice as Julia did.”

  “Hey, Sophia, did you pack your—” Will opened the door, then froze in place, his mouth open.

  Sophia stepped back into the room’s shadow, feeling exposed without the full armor of undergarments. The dress ended at mid-calf, exposing as much leg as her bathing costume. She shivered in the cool damp, but her face heated with a blush. The women giggled. Moon Hawk murmured in Ponca. Will also turned red. He shook his head as the rest chimed in, concurring with Moon Hawk’s suggestion.

  One more time Sophia drew on Will’s expertise. “The ladies want me to take Julia’s dress, but it is so beautiful. Should it not stay with the Poncas?”

  “Ordinarily, yes.” He swallowed and continued to stare at her. “But they’re trying to find safe places for their valuables. I’m keeping a war bonnet, tomahawk, and leggings. So yes, uh, you should hang on to it. Could you . . .” He motioned with his chin for her to step out of the building.

  Moon Hawk and Marguerite dragged her into the light.

  Will swallowed. “Yes. That is a, uh, great dress. First rate. Uh, best beadwork I’ve ever seen.”

  Sophia rubbed her bare arms. If he stared much longer, she would squirm.

  “I’ll take your box back to the house,” he said. “You can come when you’ve had a chance to . . . ah, change.”

  With that, he picked up the supplies and left.

  Sophia turned to the women. “I am honored that you entrust me with such a treasure. I shall give it my utmost care. And if the time comes when you would like it back, I will return it.”

  She gave each of them a hug, then hastened away before she began to cry again. And later that night as she packed the dress into her trunk, she realized she was leaving with infinitely more than she had brought.

  “. . . two corn plows, three axes, one saw, two bedsteads, two ox yokes, one new cooking stove.” Will penciled Standing Bear’s name on his possessions, then listed them on the lined paper Sophia had given him.

  Inspector Howard strode up to the warehouse, pointed at Will’s best friend with his index finger, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Brown Eagle. You go back to the Santee Agency. Get on the boat.”

  “What?” Will blinked. He’d forgotten Brown Eagle was Santee. Their Agency was in good shape. Brown Eagle’s family would have a place to live, a school, a church. “He’ll need to pack up his family.”

  “No. They’re Poncas. They can’t go with him.”

  “Nothing in the order says to split up families.” Will clenched his fists. He’d be all too happy to have a chance to wipe that smug look off the inspector’s face. “They have a passel of little ones. His wife just had a baby.” Howard didn’t need to know the baby was now six months old and his mother had died. Mary had her hands full with six children.

  The inspector called to a pair of infantrymen. “Escort this one to the boat.”

  “I will help your family,” Will promised in Ponca. The Santee Agency was only ten miles away. Maybe his family could escape and find their way east.

  A white finger jabbed toward Will’s face. “And you. No more Indian gibberish.”

  Sophia ran up, skirts dragging in the mud, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Will—” She started talking in some foreign language, then corrected herself. “The soldiers are herding the children with bayonets!”

  Inspector Howard narrowed his eyes. “The Russian! Kemble warned me about her. When the soldiers come back, I’ll have them haul her off too. They’ll have a good time searching for her pistol.” Howard hurried into the warehouse out of the rain.

  Will had to hide Sophia. And . . . bayonets? For this, a tribe that had never raised a hand against the United States?

  Sophia, ever her father’s daughter, calmed herself enough to report what she had seen. “Four detachments of cavalry from Fort Randall and one of infantry from Fort Sully.”

  Will explained about Brown Eagle.

  “His poor wife. I can help too.”

  He leaned close so the inspector wouldn’t hear. “No, you need to help Nettie make food for their journey. I don’t know what Russians call it, but my mother called it bannock.”

  Nettie could keep Sophia out of trouble.

  “Of course.” Sophia took one step toward the house, then turned back. “I have envelopes with stamps for my students, so they can write. But I do not know where I shall be.”

  “Use my address and I’ll send them on to you. Fifteenth and Jackson, Omaha, Nebraska.”

  “Bless you.” Sophia rose up on tiptoes. Her soft lips brushed his cheek.

  By the time Will’s world righted itself, she had reached the agency house. He ran past the locked school to Brown Eagle’s and found the boys in the yard.

  “The soldiers broke the door this morning.” Frank showed him. His jaw clenched as he fought to stop crying. “They took everything.”

  Joseph pounded his leg with a fist. “A soldier picked up Thomas Jefferson’s little brother by his hair.”

  Will dug his fingers into the door frame. The four-year-old hadn’t even started school, hadn’t yet been subjected to the rev’s haircuts. If Will had a gun, he’d . . .

  What? Shoot someone? Start a war? Will took a breath and his vision cleared. Brown Eagle’s chairs, lamps, bedsteads, washtub, washboard, stove, and table were gone. How were they supposed to cook without utensils or food?

  Mary shivered on a blanket in the corner, holding the baby close. Michael, forced into early weaning by his mother’s death, gummed a strip of beef jerky. Rosalie and Susette huddled on either side of her, eyes glassy with fever. A half dozen flour sacks contained what was left of their possessions.

  “We will need our furniture when we get to Indian Territory.” Marguerite wiped her tears on her sleeve. “The soldiers said they would send it. But I do not think they tell the truth.”

  Frank and Joseph ran inside. “Soldiers!”

  A wagon rattled. “Load up!” commanded a sergeant.

  “Sergeant, it’s raining. And the lady of the house just had a baby.”

  “I got my orders.” The man turned to talk to the driver of a passing wagon.

  Will carried Mary and the baby, then helped the rest climb in. Her blanket would be a soggy mess in no time. He pulled off his canvas duster and draped it over them.

  Sophia found the table already piled with brown loaves. “I am so sorry. I am too late to help.”

  Nettie pulled another tray of what looked like oatmeal scones from the oven. “It won’t last long for five hundred people. If I had more time, I’d butcher those roosters who wake us up every morning.”

  A clergyman peeked into the kitchen. “I thought I heard your voice, Miss Nettie.”

  “Reverend Hinman.” Nettie’s mouth stretched into a grim smi
le. She introduced Sophia to the missionary from the Santee Agency. “I wish I could say ‘good morning,’ but it isn’t. I hope you have a miracle for us.”

  He shook his head. “Since January, Kemble’s been telling Washington the Poncas consented to the move. To relent now, he says, would weaken the government’s position in dealing with all Indians. Not to mention what it would do to his career. The Commissioner of Indian Affairs plans to move Spotted Tail’s and Red Cloud’s bands here by summer. The Yankton and Sioux City businessmen are rooting for Sioux, a bigger market for them.”

  “If they treated the Poncas fairly, all tribes would want to be treated fairly.” Sophia started to help Nettie load the food into pillowcases.

  “Miss Makinoff, if Henry and I could have a moment of your time?”

  Nettie nodded. “Go on, child.”

  Sophia followed the minister into the office. Henry glanced up from packing his library. He handed her a letter with a weary smile. “I don’t know what you’ve planned next, if you’re returning to the College . . .”

  “I have worked so hard to prevent this future for my students, I have not spared much thought for my own.”

  The letter was from the Reverend Doctor Doherty, the rector of a school for young ladies. I would be pleased to employ a teacher of Miss Makinoff’s caliber at Brownell Hall. Sophia blinked at Henry. He did not like her, yet he had found employment for her. “How kind of you to look out for me.”

  “You’re a good teacher.” The compliment slipped through clenched teeth.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have an opening at the Santee School,” Reverend Hinman said.

  “I have school supplies sent by the churches in New York. Could you use them at the Santee Agency?”

  “You can’t send them with the Poncas?”

  Henry scowled. “They have barely enough wagons for the people.”

  Reverend Hinman shook his head. “Why not send the tribe by boat or railroad?”

  Before Henry could respond, Nettie called from the kitchen. “It’s time.”

  Sophia left the Brownell Hall letter in her room, wrote Will’s address on her stamped envelopes, then hurried to join the rest. They dressed in their raincoats, grabbed a full pillowcase in each arm, and tromped through the mud. Mist thickened to a downpour. Thunder rumbled. The calendar said May sixteenth, but pounding rain chilled like early March.