Soaring Eagle

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “And what good is it doing, may I ask?” Janson argued. “Are they any more civilized this year than they were when you came back in 1870?”

  “Keep an open mind, Thomas. Don’t believe everything you’ve been told. The Sioux are not sphinxlike, unfeeling savages. I’ve seen them collapse with peals of laughter when one among them successfully mimics—” Alfred stopped abruptly, realizing that it was Janson who had been the subject of the recent mimicry that had so amused the Dakota.

  Janson calmed down a bit. “All right, Alfred, all right. I’ll grant you that I’ve a lot to learn. I’ll agree that the Indian is human. I’ve seen that they can learn, in spite of what I was told by some of the zealots back east. But are you having any success in changing their lives for the better? I just don’t see it happening at the agency. I don’t love them like you do, but I’d like to do a decent job and see them live more useful lives. It’d be better for everyone.”

  Alfred pondered the questions. “Well, Thomas, our converts rise and fall just like those in any congregation would. They hold fast and quit; they lag and start ahead; they mature and they stand still, just like Christians everywhere. We haven’t had many graduates as yet, but I did receive one letter from a graduate who has made his way out to Montana to serve. He wrote back to say, ‘Santee Normal Training School sows good seed. May her deeds shine as the stars’ In all the failures we’ve had—and there have been many—one success like that makes the work worthwhile.”

  “What about this wild Indian I heard about that showed up on your doorstep? Will he be coming Saturday to collect provisions? He’ll have to register, you know.”

  Alfred answered skeptically. “Do you think you could wait on the regulation about registering, Thomas? He’s stayed on, but underneath the cooperation there’s a very rebellious spirit still.”

  “We don’t need any more troublemakers. If he’s going to cause trouble, I’ll have to send him out to Standing Rock. That’s where the Lakota belong, anyway.”

  Alfred answered quickly, “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. I don’t think he’ll cause any trouble; he’s just slow to adjust. But he met Pastor Thundercloud when we sent him on vacation last fall, and John seems to think he’ll come around. Soaring Eagle is a willing worker, and he’s also worked hard at language study.”

  Janson relented. “All right, Alfred. You’re the Indian expert—as you’ve reminded me. I’ll not make a stir about it for now. Just you see that you keep him busy. Get him a civilized name too. And keep him here if at all possible. I don’t need the agency all stirred up about the arrival of some wild Lakota.”

  When James and Martha Red Wing invited Soaring Eagle to accompany them to the agency for their annual issue, Soaring Eagle demanded, “What is ‘issue’?”

  “Issue is when we all receive things from the government. Things they give us to help us get by. Things we cannot grow. Things we used to trade for. It’s a day of celebration. We take our fastest horses and have races. There will be visiting and feasting, like the old days when the traders came.”

  Soaring Eagle helped James lead his fastest pony out of the corral and tie it to the back of the wagon before responding. “I know of this. I did not know it was called ‘issue.’ The government always gives things to our people when we meet for talks. Then they take whatever they want from us.”

  James countered, “No, they will not be taking from us this time, Soaring Eagle. I have my eighty-acre farm. It is mine. I have a paper that says it belongs to me. But there are things we need to get started. The government gives us these things.”

  Soaring Eagle jumped into the back of the wagon and sat down, his back to the wagon seat. As James slapped his team and the wagon lurched along, Soaring Eagle said to no one in particular, “Giving things will make some lazy. When I was young, there was a lazy brave in our village. Those who tried to help by giving him things only made him worse. He stopped trying to hunt. He started to make trouble for everyone. That is what will happen on the reservation if everything is given to these Indians.”

  James looked at Martha and smiled. “I think he’s been listening in on Reverend Riggs.”

  Soaring Eagle heard and said soberly, “If Reverend Riggs said this, he is right.”

  As they bumped along, James took the opportunity to share some of his own story with Soaring Eagle. “Soaring Eagle, my brother, in times past I walked over a dark road. I hated all the whites, and I fought them when I could. I was in misery, in the midst of many fears. My people were dying, and there was no man on earth to save me, so I fought. But the soldiers came and I was taken far from home and put into prison in a place called Davenport. Alfred Riggs came to that place and told me of the Good Shepherd, he who never tires; he who walks bravely in difficult places and in desert lands, ever seeking the lost.

  “The Good Shepherd—Christ, the Son of God—delivered me from the valley of death and from the place of torment of the Evil Spirit. He caused me to live. He is the Savior of both body and soul. It is he who even now adds night and day to my life. I am going to get the things at the agency, but I do not trust the government to make me live. I will work on my farm, and I will trust Christ. His Word alone I obey. I am trying to live his life, and I am grateful to God for his servant Alfred Riggs. I will take his help, and I will take the government’s help, and I will live for Christ.”

  James Red Wing spoke quietly, but there was a passion in his voice that Soaring Eagle had not heard before. When they reached the agency, Soaring Eagle jumped out of the wagon and helped James unload the large wooden box they had brought for the government provisions.

  Dozens of families had come to the agency. As. the Red Wings’s wagon trundled up and stopped in line, dozens of eyes saw the new face riding in their wagon. Dozens of voices whispered. James and Martha greeted friends and introduced Soaring Eagle, who nodded solemnly to each new acquaintance. When he had grown tired of introductions, he took refuge in the back of the wagon and pretended not to see or hear anyone around him.

  On the porch of the agency sat a clerk, reading names from a list. Soaring Eagle heard the name James Red Wing and watched as James stepped forward to have his ration ticket stamped. The box from the wagon was dragged up to the porch. Then, Agent Janson read from a list while an assistant tossed things into the box. “Four blankets. Eleven yards dark blue flannel. Three and one-third yards red flannel. Ten yards linsey. Twelve yards cotton flannel. Twenty yards gingham. Two shirts. One shawl. Two pair socks. Two pair stockings. One hood. One pair boots. One pair shoes. Six skeins yarn. One man’s overcoat. One man’s jeans suit. Six spools thread. One man’s hat. One pair gloves. One mattress.”

  As the stained pillow tick that passed for a mattress was stuffed into the box, James and Martha stepped off the porch, dragging the box with them. Soaring Eagle watched in disbelief. As they loaded the box into the wagon, James explained, “We get this once every twelve moons.” Looking over the top of the wagon box, Soaring Eagle frowned. “This is for twelve moons?” He fingered the calico. “This will not last twelve moons. You should have hides.”

  James smiled patiently. “Hides made good clothes for the old ways. Now Mary makes our clothes from this cloth.”

  James pointed east of the agency building to a corral full of livestock. “Now we’ll have some fun.” Several braves had painted their faces and were circling the corral, raising their guns in the air. Once again, a family name was called out. This time, a steer from the corral was driven down a chute and let loose. Immediately one of the braves on horseback chased it across the prairie. It bellowed and charged momentarily before dying at the hands of the Indian who chased it. The afternoon was spent in this pursuit, and with each family busy butchering its own beef, it was late afternoon before the promised races could begin.

  James Red Wing got up stiffly from cutting the last hunk of meat from the carcass and pointed at Soaring Eagle. “You should ride Little Star in the race.”

  Soaring Eagle shook his head.
“She is your mare.”

  “But you are a better rider than I. And I would like to prove that she is the fastest mare. I want to build a good herd of ponies. If the others know that Little Star is fast, they will want her blood in their own ponies’ veins.” James drew Soaring Eagle to the back of the wagon. “Look.” He pointed to a huge cottonwood tree in the distance. “It is only to that tree, then toward the sun to the creek, then back again. You can win easily. If you win, I will give you Little Star’s sister. You need another pony.”

  Already the other men were lining up to race. Friendly shouts rang out, bets were placed, and the ponies snorted and pawed. Soaring Eagle looked each one over and knew that Little Star could easily win. The temptation was too much. Pulling off his shirt and stripping to only a breechclout, he leaped on the pony’s back and urged her to the line, just in time for someone to shoot off a pistol. The line of ponies stretched out across the short course, their hooves pounding the dirt and raising a cloud of dust. Approaching the cottonwood, Soaring Eagle slipped to Little Star’s off side and made such a sharp turn that her hide nearly scraped the bark of the tree. James let out a whoop of delight. Little Star tore across the remainder of the course to the creek, and when she neared the tree the second time, Soaring Eagle once again slipped to her side. She won easily.

  “Some race, James!” called one of his rivals. “That wild friend of yours knows how to ride! I’ll be over tomorrow to talk to you about breeding her to my stallion. We’ll have some fine horses from those two!”

  Soaring Eagle trotted up on Little Star, smiling with the joy of the race in spite of himself. Seeing that he was the center of attention, he immediately dropped to the ground, tossed the reins at James, and retreated to the wagon, where he pulled his shirt and leggings back on. He sat at the back of the wagon, catching his breath. James came leading Little Star and slapped Soaring Eagle on the back. “Thank you, my brother! Already I have the promise of a fine stallion to breed to Little Star.”

  Soaring Eagle looked up soberly. “I thank you, James Red Wing.” At the question in James’ eyes, Soaring Eagle laid his hand over his chest and explained. “Today, when Little Star and I were running over the prairie, there was joy here. It is good to know that my heart remembers happiness. I had begun to believe that the hurt would be forever.”

  Chapter 20

  She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness.

  Proverbs 31:27

  Sarah Biddle sighed as she looked out the window of her small upstairs room in the Braddock mansion in Philadelphia. Sarah’s room was tucked under the eaves at the back of the mansion, and while it was tiny, with a slanting roof and only one small window, from her vantage point Sarah could see the garden. Roses were blooming in profusion in the formal rose garden, and beyond that shone a riot of color from dozens of other flowers. Sarah watched as the gardener bent over his roses, pruning and fussing his way along the last row, gathering a basket full of blossoms that Sarah knew would grace the dinner table that evening.

  From behind her, Tom said, “I can’t help it, Sarah. I’m homesick. Mrs. Braddock is a nice lady, and David’s swell, but I want to go home.”

  Sarah’s rather thin lips turned up in a wistful smile as she turned and said softly, “Me, too, Tom. I want to go home, too, but our new home isn’t finished yet, and we have to wait just a little bit longer.”

  “Why do we need a new home anyhow, Sarah? I liked Aunt Augusta’s just fine. And I just know I’m not going to like living in some big fancy house! I don’t like it much here.”

  “Oh, it’ll be different in Lincoln,” reassured Sarah.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Well, when we get to Lincoln, you’ll get to go back to Miss Griswall’s school, and all your friends will be there. They’ll be very impressed to hear about your trip to Philadelphia. Besides that, in Lincoln, I’ll be in charge of the house.”

  Sarah winked at Tom, who climbed up on his bed and rubbed at his leg before saying, “Thank goodness! No crabby gardeners. No high and mighty housekeepers shaking their fingers in my face.”

  “Now, Tom,” Sarah remonstrated gently. “Mrs. Titus is a good housekeeper. She’s not really high and mighty, not the way you mean. She just—”

  “—wants to make sure things are just the way Mrs. Braddock likes ’em,” Tom finished Sarah’s sentence for her. “I know. Mrs. Titus ain’t so bad. I’m just sick to death of big cities and big city folks.”

  Sarah was inclined to agree with Tom although she didn’t say so out loud. The past eight weeks had been full of cleaning and cooking and gardening. Sarah’s mind whirled with the myriad things she was expected to learn.

  The first week, Mrs. Titus confined Sarah to the kitchen and sent Tom outside to amuse himself. Fondants and marshmallows, butterscotch, and pastils took up every morning (“Mr. David just loves candy”).

  Having learned that Sarah was an adequate cook, Mrs. Titus concentrated on attractive presentation and serving. “You can’t go in there with raspberry stains all over your hands,” Mrs. Titus grumbled one day. “Here. You take oxalic acid and cream of tartar in equal proportions. I keep ours in this box in the pantry. Be certain to mark it ‘poison’ so that brother of yours doesn’t think it’s powdered sugar and eat it! Anyway, wet your hands and sprinkle them with this. That’s it—rub some more. See?” Sarah obediently scrubbed until the raspberry stains disappeared and dutifully wrote down the “receipt” in her notebook.

  During week two, Sarah was inundated with cleaning solutions and routines.

  “Now, some use jeweler’s sawdust, but I think the secret is in the rinsing.” Put a few drops of aqua ammonia in the rinse water, and the cut glass will sparkle. Dry with old silk handkerchiefs.

  “You’ll need to polish the silver once a week. I do that on Friday so that any weekend guests will see only gleaming silver. Use a velveteen rag and cream of tartar. If you do it once a week, that should suffice to keep the silver shining. If a piece gets really tarnished, you can boil it. Use one teaspoonful each of cream of tartar, salt, and alum to one pint of water.” Mrs. Titus raised her eyebrows, “But I certainly hope you don’t have to resort to that.”

  Sarah followed Mrs. Titus through her routine and scribbled notes until her head ached. “I declare, Tom,” she said wearily one evening, “I’m beginning to think I don’t have sense enough to even clean house for Mrs. Braddock, let alone run the whole place.”

  “Aw, Sarah, you can do it. You practically runned the hotel back in Lincoln.”

  Sarah sighed. “I’m afraid the standards of our hotel guests weren’t quite what they are here in Philadelphia. I can’t believe what Mrs. Titus does every day. Start a fire, cook breakfast, empty the cinders, wash off the stove, heat water for dishes, wash the dishes, then it’s upstairs to air the beds, make the beds, empty the bedpans, clean the bedware, clean and fill the lamps, trim the wicks.” Sarah arched her back and stretched, turning her head from side to side and groaning. “In the hotel we have help. At the Braddocks’ it’ll be up to me to see that it all gets done.”

  “It won’t be so bad. It’s only Mrs. Braddock and Mr. David. They can’t be so messy.”

  Sarah laughed. “You’re probably right. And it is a good opportunity.”

  Just when Sarah thought she had begun to understand running the house, Mrs. Braddock called her in to the library and added another task—grammar lessons from a private tutor.

  Sarah balked. “Since when does a housekeeper need fancy grammar, Miz Braddock? I missed out on schoolin’, but I’ll be a first-rate cook.”

  Abigail Braddock smiled wisely. “Sarah, you’ll be receiving my guests, and I don’t want them to think you’re a country bumpkin. I want them to be amazed at what a lovely and graceful girl you are. You never know what opportunities might walk in the front door for a lovely young girl with proper diction!” Abigail winked playfully and Sarah blushed.

  “Aw, Mrs. Braddock, I
know what yer gettin’ at. I got no interest in gettin’ married off to some rich guy. I wouldn’t know how to act.”

  “But you will know how to act when Mrs. Titus and the tutor get through with you, Sarah. And, like I said, you never know.”

  Sarah looked away and pictured Jim Callaway riding up to the Braddocks’ door. “The only man who’d maybe call on me would come to the back door, Miz Braddock. No disrespect intended, but that’d be just fine with me.”

  Abigail teased, “It sounds like you have someone in mind already. Am I having Mrs. Titus teach you only to lose you?”

  Sarah blushed. “No, ma’am. Ain’t nobody showed no interest in me.”

  “Well, if you won’t take the help for yourself, then I’ll appeal to you for Tom’s sake. As you know, Augusta and I have great hopes for Tom. He’s bright.”

  Sarah nodded energetically, “Yes, ma’am. Tom’s real smart. He’s gonna go far. Now that we got ourselves a good home, and he can go to school and all, he’s gonna be something. I’m saving up so he can go to the University.”

  Abigail wheedled. “Well, then, we both agree on that. And Tom needs to see his sister setting a good example. So why don’t you attend the grammar lessons with Tom—as a good example. He’ll improve quickly, I know, and when he gets back to Miss Griswall’s school in the fall, she’ll be astounded.”