“Carrie!” Augusta scolded. “Miss Smith is an excellent teacher. I remember when she was hired. She’s created a fine Latin department.”
“Maybe so, Mrs. Hathaway,” Carrie said doubtfully. “But every time I try to recite I see her frowning at me and I just can’t remember anything. Silas Kellum has been tutoring me, but I think I’m a lost cause. And there is no sure salvation except in being thoroughly prepared for Miss Smith every day.”
Carrie’s “sure salvation” failed her one morning in Miss Smith’s class. Carrie had prepared carefully, but Myrtle Greer was late to class, and when she finally arrived she looked unusually thin and quite ill. Carrie whispered her concern to Myrtle, and Miss Smith called out loudly, “In Nebraska, Miss Brown, young ladies do not talk while their professors are lecturing.” Carrie blushed profusely and sank back in her chair. Her embarrassment eased significantly when Miss Smith approached another student, sniffed loudly and said, “Young man, you need a bath. You may return to this class when such has been accomplished.” The student slunk out the door.
At the end of class, Carrie caught up with Myrtle. “Myrtle, what’s wrong?” Myrtle looked blankly at Carrie. “Wrong? What do you mean? Nothing’s wrong.”
“You don’t look well, Myrtle.”
“I’m all right. I’ve been working hard and studying ’til all hours, that’s all.”
“You look thin. Haven’t you been eating anywhere but that Merchant’s Cafe? I told you how bad it was.”
Myrtle looked back at Carrie. “You told me, Carrie, but it’s all I can afford and it’ll have to do.”
“But, Myrtle—”
Myrtle waved at Carrie and hurried away. When she didn’t attend class the rest of the day, Carrie expressed concern to Augusta, who took immediate action. “I’ll send Dr. Gilbert over to that boarding house right away, Carrie. Myrtle will have to talk to Dr. Gilbert.”
Myrtle did talk to Dr. Gilbert. Dr. Gilbert talked to Augusta. And Augusta talked to Miss Smith, the heartless Latin teacher. To Carrie’s amazement, Myrtle returned to classes a week later, with color in her cheeks and a new home. “Would you believe it, Carrie? Miss Smith came to see me at the boarding house and simply begged me to come keep house for her. Said her own housekeeper had left on short notice and she simply couldn’t keep up with teaching and all. Gave me a nice room and said I’m to keep up with my studies first and—”
Carrie stared in amazement. “Myrtle, are you talking about Miss Smith. The Miss Smith. Latin?”
Myrtle nodded. “Yes. Carrie, she’s really very nice. She lives all alone in a neat little house just a few blocks from campus. Compared to helping raise eleven brothers and sisters and cooking for farm crews, cooking and cleaning for Miss Smith will be so easy. I can’t believe it, Carrie. I just can’t believe it.”
Carrie couldn’t believe it, either. For several days after Myrtle’s announcement, Carrie watched Miss Smith carefully. It took great effort on her part, but Carrie finally saw evidence of Miss Smith’s closely guarded secret. At times she demanded things that were nearly impossible. But then a student would accomplish that nearly impossible thing, and when the student smiled triumphantly, a light glimmered in Miss Smith’s eyes, and a smile graced her lips, and Carrie discovered the secret. Underneath her stern exterior, Miss Elvira Smith harbored true love for her students.
Chapter 9
Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee: he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.
Deuteronomy 31:6
T he summer that Carrie Brown was working as a maid at the Hathaway House in Lincoln, Soaring Eagle was working on a dairy farm in Wisconsin. Owned by friends of the Riggs family who were also Friends of the Indian, the farm had often been host to various students from the Santee Normal Training School. Soaring Eagle was heartily welcomed and kept physically fit by every form of manual labor available on the farm. He spent the summer mowing hay and driving dairy cattle to and from the fields, using spare moments to study language—English, Latin, and New Testament Greek. He missed the open spaces of his homeland, but outdoor work offered some compensation so that when the fall came and he boarded the train for Boston, he felt ready to meet the demands of academic life in a big city.
No unpleasant encounters were endured on the long train ride from Chicago to Boston. Soaring Eagle kept his books nearby and used the time to study. He scarcely looked at fellow passengers until a man settled opposite him after a stopover in Pennsylvania.
“Jeremiah King, I believe?”
Surprised, Soaring Eagle looked up at the stranger who stretched out his hand. “R. J. Painter. St. Louis Post Dispatch. ” Painter took a vacant seat opposite Soaring Eagle and continued, “I believe I heard you speak in St. Louis this past spring.”
“Entirely possible,” Soaring Eagle replied. “I was there with my sister for a few meetings.”
“Would you be willing to give me an interview, sir? I’ve been trying to follow the news from the west closely—just a personal interest. I’d like to do a piece on the Santee Normal Training School—something on this issue of the value of teaching Indians in the vernacular—or requiring only English instruction. I’d be interested in your views.”
Soaring Eagle took a deep breath and reluctantly lay aside the anonymity he had enjoyed for one entire summer in northern Wisconsin. Once again he took up the mantle of being the token Sioux Indian for the Santee Normal Training School and the Friends of the Indian. It was a heavy mantle that he would soon weary of wearing.
In Boston, Soaring Eagle climbed down from the train into a mass of humanity that nearly overwhelmed him. Men and women shoved and pushed against one another, hurrying in different directions. Baggage handlers shouted and cursed, newsboys and vendors hawked sandwiches and newspapers, and each one seemed to pause momentarily in his activity to stare at Soaring Eagle. He tried to remain calm. Still, as he was carried along with the crowd, his heart began to pound. He could feel the tightness of his collar and reached up to loosen it, finally managing to make his way out of the throng. Waiting with his back against a column, he tried in vain to remember the names Alfred Riggs had given him. What if they didn’t come? If he couldn’t remember the names, he would be alone in Boston.
“Jeremiah King, welcome to Boston!” A short, balding man with a ridiculously tall hat was pushing through the crowd. He pumped Soaring Eagle’s hand enthusiastically, turning to pull a tall, thin woman toward him. “Robert Davis. My wife, Nancy.” Without further ceremony, Davis apologized. “I’m sorry we weren’t here the moment you disembarked, Mr. King. There’s so much traffic in the street today, we just couldn’t—”
“You don’t need to be gallant, Mr. Davis,” a familiar voice sounded. “You were late because I couldn’t get my bonnet tied on to suit me.”
Soaring Eagle looked over the top of Nancy Davis’s head and saw Julia Woodward. The bonnet in question was enormous, lined with just the right shade of emerald to accent her dark eyes. Her gown of emerald silk was trimmed with black lace. Soaring Eagle didn’t really listen to what she said. Julia was shaking his hand, taking his arm, welcoming him to Boston, guiding him through the crowd. Robert and Nancy Davis looked meaningfully at one another and followed.
Julia explained, “George waited with the carriage so we could make a quick getaway. We’ll send someone for your trunks. You’ll be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Davis.” Julia turned and gave Nancy Davis a winning smile.
Once the four were seated in the Woodward’s carriage, Julia was quiet, content to watch Soaring Eagle. He was on edge. His eyes continually moved from the street to the shops, to the tops of the buildings they were passing. At the Davises’ home, things were no better. Everyone was seated in the formal dining room around a huge table. A meal of elegantly prepared foods with elaborate table service was spread before them. Soaring Eagle sat on the edge of his chair, answering questions with meaningless monosyllables, trying to r
emember the lessons he had been given in etiquette.
As a hostess, Nancy Davis had always tried to anticipate her guests’ needs. She was well aware that Soaring Eagle was uncomfortable. Finally, she manufactured a reason to check on someone in the kitchen. As she passed her husband’s place at the table, she stooped and whispered something. Robert Davis immediately stopped pressing Soaring Eagle to participate in the conversation. Turning instead to George and Julia Woodward, he skillfully guided the conversation away from Soaring Eagle and towards planning the details of one of his speaking engagements at a meeting of the Society of Friends.
No longer the center of attention, Soaring Eagle took a few more bites of food and then excused himself from the table. He rose and went to a window, peering down at the traffic on the street below, contemplating his surprising reaction to the Boston train station. Nothing anyone had told him had prepared him for Boston. He had gone through St. Louis and Chicago, but apparently at “off” times. He was somewhat perplexed at the feeling of absolute panic he had experienced when confronted with such a crowd of strangers. He tried to sort through the feelings, but could not reason his way to an explanation. How do they live like this . . . so cut off from the land? He smiled ruefully, took a deep breath and prayed, Help me, God, to endure it. The months of school . . . the tall buildings that block out the sky . . . I want to do the right thing, Father. But, please, take me back to the prairie before too many moons.
Soaring Eagle turned around and put his back to the window. An oil painting over the fireplace in the parlor across the hall drew his attention, and as the Davises and the Woodwards continued in deep conversation, he walked across the narrow entryway and into the parlor to inspect the painting.
“Shhhhhhhhhhhh,” a child’s voice whispered. “Be quiet, Sam.”
“But he’s in here, Sterling. He wasn’t supposed to come in here. Mama said we could watch as long as we were quiet. So shhhhhhhhh. ”
The conversation was taking place in stage whispers emanating from behind a pair of heavy draperies at a window to the right of the portrait. Soaring Eagle approached the painting on the right side and studied the scene of an Indian village arranged at the foot of a mountain. He took in every detail and decided the artist must have actually visited the spot—it was a perfect recreation of He Sapa, the favorite wintering spot of his childhood.
The voices had ceased, but there was still a tiny bit of movement behind the drapes. Soaring Eagle sat down in the chair near the drapes and waited. Waited. Waited.
“Ah-choo!”
In mock terror, Soaring Eagle yelped softly. In a low voice he directed an order to the curtains. “Come out from behind those curtains!” Two boys emerged, white-faced, wide-eyed, terrified.
Soaring Eagle sat back down and folded his arms, staring at the two boys. He demanded, “Who are you and why do you spy on me?”
“Samuel Davis, sir,” said one boy. He was stoutly built, with a round face and ruddy cheeks almost as red as his flaming hair.
“St-St-Sterling D-D-avis, sir,” said the other boy. He was only slightly smaller than his brother, with the same round face and the same flaming red hair.
The boys stood side by side, facing Soaring Eagle. They trembled, and Sterling nudged his older brother. It was a signal, and the two boys turned to flee. But Soaring Eagle was too quick for them. In a flash he had jumped up and grabbed the two boys around their waists. Too terrified to struggle, they hung like limp sacks, staring sideways at one another, awaiting their fate.
“Mama’s gonna be real mad at us, Mister. She said we had to be good. Not bother anyone. She’s gonna be real mad.”
“Shut up, Sterling. She’s gonna be more than mad. We’re probably gonna get killed .”
Soaring Eagle set the boys down on the floor. They scooted away from him, their backs against a ridge of cushions that hung over an ornate couch, not daring to move as he asked with mock seriousness, “Is this a custom among the whites of Boston? Do they often kill their children because of disobedience?”
Sterling, the smaller one, spoke up. “Naw. She won’t really kill us. But she’ll be really mad. We bothered a guest. That’s against the rules in this house.”
Soaring Eagle let a very slight smile soften his features as he said, “What if the truth is that you didn’t bother a guest. What if the truth is you rescued a guest?” He looked from Samuel to Sterling, then sat down with them on the floor, crossing his legs and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I was just wishing that I was at home, around my campfire, telling stories to the boys in the village.” He pointed up to the painting. “When we moved to our winter campground, my village looked just like that.” Samuel and Sterling relaxed a little, even crossing their legs and sitting like their guest. Soaring Eagle continued. “Now, I know you are not Lakota, but I think that perhaps boys everywhere like to hear stories. Would you let me tell you a story?”
Samuel and Sterling Davis nodded their heads.
“So,” Soaring Eagle said. “I will tell you of a time I disobeyed my mother—and of what happened to me because I was spying on a stranger who came to visit.”
Half an hour later, Samuel and Sterling Davis had not moved from their places on the carpet with Soaring Eagle. They had, however, howled with laughter to the extent that Nancy Davis had stormed across the hall and to the doorway of the parlor, ready to pounce on them both. When she saw the scene before the fireplace, she motioned to her guests, who followed her to the door.
Sitting on the floor with Samuel and Sterling, Soaring Eagle was totally relaxed. His face was animated and his eyes sparkled as he described scenery and characters in the story from his youth. He motioned and gestured, lacing his anecdotes with Lakota legend and Bible truths.
Sterling and Samuel Davis suddenly looked past Soaring Eagle and at the look on their faces, he stopped talking and turned around. Sterling and Samuel stood up abruptly. Soaring Eagle stood behind them, putting a hand on each boy’s shoulder. “Your sons have made me feel welcome to Boston, Mrs. Davis.”
Nancy Davis answered with mock sternness, “Then they’ve just gotten out of a tight spot, I’d say. Well, Samuel, Sterling, you’ve heard us talk about Mr. Jeremiah King, who’s to be staying with us this next year while he attends classes at Harvard. Now you have met him, and it is time for you both to retire.”
Robert Davis interjected. “Boys, Mr. King has been very kind to entertain you when he has just arrived and is no doubt weary of meeting new people. You two get right upstairs, and remember the rules.”
“Yes, sir” the boys echoed, making their way for the stairs. “Never go in his room, never interrupt when he talks, and don’t ask rude questions.”
Following the boys up the stairs, Nancy Davis swatted them and whispered intensely, “Your father didn’t request a recitation, boys . . .”
Robert Davis turned to Soaring Eagle. “I hope they didn’t make too much of a nuisance of themselves.”
Soaring Eagle shook his head. “No. Never. Samuel and Sterling will never be a nuisance. They let me talk of home, and I like to tell stories.”
Robert nodded as he guided George and Julia Woodward to be seated in the parlor. As he took a seat, he laughed. “Well, one thing is for certain, Mr. King. You have just made Samuel and Sterling Davis the two most popular boys in school tomorrow. When they tell their friends that they spent tonight sitting on the floor hearing real Indian stories from a real Indian!” Robert chuckled. “Why, the notoriety might even make them like school—for an hour or so.”
Chapter 10
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit
Psalm 51:12
H is full schedule of studies and speaking engagements prevented Soaring Eagle from spending much time with Samuel and Sterling Davis. He did, however, manage one visit to their school. When he arrived in native costume, Samuel and Sterling Davis were thrilled. They each took a hand of their friend and led him to the front of th
eir class, delivering an elaborate introduction and nearly bursting with pride.
Soaring Eagle told the class of his life before his ride to Santee and his conversion to Christianity. He made the speech a brief one, because he wanted to give the young students plenty of time to ask questions. He was not disappointed. The young scholars delighted him with their openness and their honest curiosity.
At the close of the session, Samuel and Sterling once again led their friend out of the classroom and to a waiting carriage. “When we get home, would you show us that game you talked about?” Samuel wanted to know. “The one where you throw the ball?”
As soon as they arrived home, the trio made its way to a little patch of green behind the Davis home. “The game is called Tapa wankayeyapi ,” Soaring Eagle explained. “On the prairie, we would cut out a piece of sod to be a symbol for the center of the universe. But your parents would not want us cutting the grass. So,” Soaring Eagle took Sterling by the shoulders. “You stand here, in the center.” Sterling complied, and Soaring Eagle went on to explain, “We would have four others, one at the north, one at the south, one at the east, one at the west. But we have only Samuel and me. So, Samuel,” Soaring Eagle motioned to the boy to stand opposite him, on either side of Sterling, “when Sterling throws the ball, we will see who can catch it.” Sterling threw the ball skyward and Soaring Eagle pretended to scramble for it, making certain that Samuel caught the ball.
“Now,” Soaring Eagle explained, “among my people, this is a sacred game. It was taught by the White Buffalo Calf Woman, who told us that the ball represents God moving away from the people—and then coming back to join them.” Soaring Eagle looked at the boys soberly. “As Christians we know that God never moves away from us. But sometimes, we move away from Him. That is something we must never do.”
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