The White Oneida

by Jean Rae Baxter

  “President Webber put me in Middle School. Which teacher will I have?”

  “Bad luck! You’ll have Dudgeon—the one who led the prayers at supper. If you take my advice, you’ll work hard to be promoted to Upper School as fast as you can. Then you’ll have Johnson. He’s half Mohawk. You must have noticed him.”

  “I did notice.”

  “They say he’s one of Sir William Johnson’s sons. Sir William was the biggest landowner in the whole Mohawk Valley. He died about ten years ago.”

  “I’ve heard of him. He married Thayendanegea’s sister Molly Brant.”

  “That’s the man. She settled him down. Before that, he was too fond of the ladies. But he made good provision for all his children, whether their mothers were native or white. That took some doing, because there were so many of them. He saw to it that the girls had dowries and the boys had an education.

  “The fourth teacher is Dr. Merton, the old one with the mouldy wig. They call him the Professor. He teaches Latin, Greek and metaphysics to the students in the college. They say he’s fine. But I hate it when he sits at the table where I’m sitting; he keeps spouting Latin and he sprays us with crumbs when he talks.”

  “Can’t you avoid his table?”

  “That’s hard to do. The teachers don’t come in till after the scholars are seated, and they never take the head of the same table twice in a row. That’s Webber’s rule. He wants the teachers to know all the students, not just the ones in their class.”

  “President Webber wasn’t in the dining hall.”

  “He doesn’t eat with everyone else. He and his wife have their own house here on the grounds, unlike the teachers who live in the main building. Their rooms are upstairs. Students are never allowed up there.”

  As Jacob was speaking, a new sound reached Broken Trail’s ears. It was the music of a flute, coming from the pine trees at the back of the campus. The flute’s slightly reedy sound rose above the trills and warbles of the birds just beginning their evening song. He stopped to listen.

  “Who’s playing?”

  “Margaret. She often plays her flute in the evening.”

  “I saw a girl called Margaret when I was picking up my school clothes from Mrs. Greene.”

  “That’s her. She’s the only girl scholar at Sedgewick School. She helps Mrs. Greene in the afternoons.”

  “I thought she was a maid. Nobody told me there were girl students at Sedgewick.”

  “Margaret’s here by mistake.”

  “You mean they didn’t know she was a girl?”

  Jacob laughed. “Not that kind of mistake. You’ve seen Margaret. There’s no doubt she’s a girl. A missionary left her here on his way home to Boston. Margaret had been a student in his Bible class at Old Oneida. She was so clever that he wanted her to have a chance to go to school. He thought Sedgewick still admitted girls. When President Webber started the school, it was for girls as well as boys. But he stopped enrolling girls last year.”

  “Why?”

  “To stop the frolics. But he miscalculated. Getting rid of girls made matters even worse. Now we sneak out to Wickham Inn when we want some excitement. If there’s a disturbance, the constables raid the inn. That’s Webber’s worst nightmare. Half a dozen Sedgewick scholars locked up in Wickham Gaol is very bad for the school’s reputation. Webber cares about nothing as much as he cares about Sedgewick School’s reputation.”

  The flute music stopped. As Jacob and Broken Trail walked on, a new song began. It made Broken Trail think of starlight.

  “You were telling me about Margaret. You said a missionary left her here.”

  “He did. When he arrived with Margaret in tow and discovered that girls were no longer admitted, he didn’t know what to do with her. He didn’t dare take her to Boston. His reputation would be ruined if he showed up with a beautiful sixteen-year-old native girl. When he asked for help, Webber said she could stay here until some respectable person passing through on his way to Old Oneida agreed to escort her home. Until then, she lives with the maids in the other half of that building where you picked up your clothes.”

  “Does Margaret go to frolics?”

  “Not her. Too serious. Margaret’s the top scholar in the Middle School.”

  The sound of Margaret’s flute followed them all the way to Cabin Five. Samuel and Edward were already there, ready to finish the dice game. Edward won, which put him in a better humour.

  Broken Trail went to bed slightly more cheerful about the possibility of getting along with all his cabin mates.

  Tomorrow would bring a different challenge. Eight years had gone by since his last day in a classroom. If Thayendanegea had not insisted upon the importance of education, Broken Trail never would have consented to endure such misery again.

  That night he dreamed he was lost in a strange forest. A wind was howling. He heard laughter inside the wind. Many people laughing. They were laughing at him. Then the sky seemed to explode with noise.

  He sat up, one hand clutching the amulet that hung around his neck. “Oki! Oki!” he cried, calling upon his guardian spirit.

  “Get up!” That was Jacob’s voice. “That’s the morning bell, not an enemy attack. We start the day with Prayers Before Sunrise.”

  Broken Trail rolled out of bed and pulled on his breeches. In the darkness he could barely make out the shadowy forms of his cabin mates scrambling into their clothes.

  “What happens if we don’t attend?”

  “Work detail,” said Jacob. “Cleaning the latrine. It’s easier to listen to a few prayers.”

  The latrine! Broken Trail shuddered. He had already visited the latrine, a smelly building used by the scholars of all six cabins. Its facilities were basic: a wide board with five evenly spaced round holes, constructed over an earthen trench.

  He put on his shirt. His fingers moved slowly, fastening each button. “Does anybody check to make sure we’re there?”

  “President Webber himself. He always conducts Prayers Before Sunrise. If Webber weren’t there, nobody would show up—except Peter, I suppose.”

  Broken Trail followed the others from the cabin. In the east, the pointed tops of pine trees were black spires silhouetted against the band of pink light that stretched across the horizon. The sleepy scholars crossed the field and entered the dining hall.

  It was cold and dark. On each of the four long tables stood a single flickering candle. There was no food in sight. The benches were in place beside the tables, but no one sat down.

  At one end of the dining hall the four teachers and the porter faced the incoming crowd. In front of them, dead centre, stood President Webber. His stern eyes fastened on every face.

  “Let us pray.”

  At least Prayers Before Sunrise did not take long. Webber gave thanks that everyone had survived the night and voiced gratitude for the gift of a new day. Amen.

  “I thought they would feed us,” Broken Trail said as they filed out of the dining hall.

  “They will,” said Jacob. “But first we have to tidy our cabins. They’re inspected while we’re at breakfast.”

  When the cabin had been swept, the mattresses shaken and the blankets neatly folded, the clanging of the bell summoned the boys again.

  Now a warm fire blazed in the fireplace. Huge bowls of porridge rested on the tables, along with spoons, small bowls, and tin cups. Two great kettles of tea were steeping, slung from hooks over the fire.

  This time it was Mr. Sinclair who said the Grace. He looked sleepier than any of the boys.

  Broken Trail liked porridge, but after he had eaten only a little, his appetite disappeared, A hard lump formed in his stomach when he thought of what was coming next. Not even two cups of sweet tea made the dryness in his throat go away.

  The classrooms were in the main building. Since their doors opened off the hallway that ran from the front to the back of the building, the classrooms could be reached either from the lobby or from the dining hall.

  There were
two classrooms on each side of the corridor. Each teacher had stationed himself outside his own classroom, waiting by the open door. Broken Trail trudged toward the one where Mr. Dudgeon stood.

  Jacob punched him on the shoulder. “Oneida warriors feel no fear,” he said before he and Peter disappeared through the doorway where Mr. Johnson had taken up his post.

  Forcing all expression from his face, as a warrior should, Broken Trail entered the Middle School classroom.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Sinful State of Boys

  AT THE FRONT OF the classroom was the teacher’s desk, and behind it a blackboard, on which the date was printed in white chalk: 2 May 1785. Next to the blackboard, a leather strap hung from a nail. Along one wall were shelves laden with ink pots, slates, copybooks, and Bibles. Near the door was a table covered with open boxes holding paper, quills, pencils, and chalk. The students’ desks stood in five rows.

  Samuel, already seated at his desk in the middle row, was busily trimming his quill with the small knife the boys were allowed to carry for that purpose.

  Broken Trail considered sitting next to Samuel, but rejected the idea and headed diagonally for the back of the room to take a seat as far as possible from the teacher’s desk. It was beside a high window. When seated, he would not be able to see out the window, but he could keep an eye on everything in the room.

  Abraham entered soon after Broken Trail. He too walked to the back of the classroom, where he sat down at a desk in the opposite corner from Broken Trail, his left cheek with the snake tattoo facing Broken Trail. The snake was brown and black, diamond-backed, coiled, its triangular head upraised and ready to strike. Broken Trail wished he had a tattoo like that. Scalp locks could be cut off and face paint scrubbed away. But if a boy arrived at school sporting a tattoo, nothing could be done about it.

  The classroom was nearly full when Margaret entered. She sat down at the desk closest to the door. Edward took the seat right behind her.

  From his place in the back corner, Broken Trail had an excellent view of Margaret’s glossy braids, one elegant cheekbone, and her slim brown hands folded on her desk. Edward, slouched in his seat, was staring at the back of her neck.

  Mr. Dudgeon entered and closed the door. His pale blue eyes swept the room. He made an entry in the ledger on his desk. That attended to, he cleared his throat, steepled his fingers below the roll of fat under his chin, and said, “Let us pray.”

  Broken Trail lowered his head and stared at the floor. This was the third set of prayers so far today. It began with a lament for the sinfulness of boys in general, followed by an appeal that God would extend his mercy particularly to boys whose souls were still in a state of paganism. Broken Trail listened with an increasing unease. The petitions angered him, and the prayer went on for so long that he feared it would last the whole morning.

  When God had heard enough about the wickedness of boys, Mr. Dudgeon pronounced a loud Amen, raised his eyebrows, and looked straight at Broken Trail.

  “We have a new scholar in our midst: Moses Cobman. I trust that Moses will live up to the fine traditions of our school.” His sour expression suggested that he had little hope of this.

  All the scholars twisted around in their seats to have a good look at Broken Trail.

  Mr. Dudgeon cleared his throat. “That’s enough gawking about. It’s time for dictation. Today’s passage is from the speeches of the Reverend Eleazar Wheelock, whose school provided the inspiration and model for Sedgewick.”

  While two boys serving as monitors distributed paper and ink pots, Broken Trail began to sweat. Dictation was a torture he thought he had escaped forever. In his earlier school days he had failed to master either the art of penmanship or the connection between the letters of the alphabet and the spoken word

  Mr. Dudgeon opened a leather-bound book, cleared his throat, and read the passage aloud:

  This earth is all God’s land, and he will have it all cultivated. So long as there are not people enough to inhabit the earth, God lets the wild beasts have it for their dwelling place, and a few lazy, savage people he suffers to live a hungry miserable life by hunting. But when the children of men grow numerous, and want the earth to cultivate for a living, the wild beasts must give place to them, and men must improve the land for God; if they do not, they are bad tenants and must be turned off as such.

  Mr. Dudgeon lifted his eyes from the page. His sweeping glance challenged anyone to disagree.

  There was dead silence for a moment. Then, from the opposite back corner came Abraham’s angry muttering, “Someday I’ll show you what a lazy savage can do.”

  Mr. Dudgeon’s head jerked up. He glared at Abraham. “What’s that? What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I heard a reference to lazy savage people, did I not?” Mr. Dudgeon’s face grew red and his eyes bulged. “Perhaps you consider yourself to be a prime example.”

  Abraham said nothing.

  “Detention,” snapped Mr. Dudgeon, “Five hundred lines after school today: This earth is all God’s land, and he will have it all cultivated.”

  “Ooh!” A low groan rose. It sounded as though half the students were devastated at this sentence. Abraham staring straight ahead, did not move, although the snake gave a twitch.

  “Let us begin dictation.” Mr. Dudgeon’s eyes returned to his text.

  Broken Trail uncorked his ink pot and gripped his pen in unaccustomed fingers.

  “The earth is …”

  As he wrote “The,” a splatter of ink drops flung themselves across the white paper that lay in front of him. He continued undaunted.

  “The” was almost the only word he knew how to spell. What about the next? “Erth?” Carefully he shaped the letters.

  By the time he finished with “erth,” the schoolmaster had reached “the wild beasts have it for their dwelling place.”

  Broken Trail looked quickly at Abraham, who clutched his quill in a stranglehold but kept on writing.

  Hopelessly behind, Broken Trail wrote “dweling plas,” and then gave up.

  Pens scratched. Mr. Dudgeon read.

  At the end of dictation, he told the boys to sign their names on their papers. Broken Trail managed to write “Moses” with no more than one blot and four sprinkles.

  After collecting the papers, the monitors handed out slates, chalk, and rags for wiping the slates clean.

  It was time for arithmetic. The schoolmaster wrote the problems on the blackboard for the scholars to copy onto their slates. This was something Broken Trail could do. Numbers by themselves made no sense. But if he translated the problem into twelve acorns added to seven acorns, it was simple.

  After a precise time had been given for solving each problem, Mr. Dudgeon called upon scholars by name to hear their answers. Then he wrote the correct solution on the blackboard. Margaret alone was right every time.

  “Let this girl serve as an example to all,” the schoolmaster said while the boys rubbed their slates clean for the next problem. “Just as she makes up for the inferiority of her sex by the superiority of her intellect, so all of you can compensate for the inferiority of your race through hard work and diligence.”

  Margaret sat with her shoulders hunched, as if she were trying to make herself invisible.

  Mr. Dudgeon had not finished. “Margaret is the best scholar in the school. If she were not a girl, I would recommend her for college.”

  Poor Margaret. Broken Trail would rather be skewered to a post by a hundred arrows than have Mr. Dudgeon shower such praise on him in full view of the other students. But he consoled himself that there was no chance he would ever be best in the school.

  After a grammar lesson, in which Mr. Dudgeon parsed the sentence, This earth is all God’s land, and he will have it all cultivated, he dismissed the class for the midday break.

  CHAPTER 7

  A New Book, A New Page

  WHEN BROKEN TRAIL left the classroom, he saw Margaret standing in the hall. She stood
with her hands clasped at her waist, looking as if she were waiting for someone.

  As he walked by, she said “Se-go-li,” the usual Oneida greeting. He looked both ways to see whom she was speaking to. Since no one else was there, she must have been speaking to him.

  “Se-go-li,” he replied. They slipped into speaking Oneida.

  “When I saw you yesterday picking up your school clothes, I didn’t know who you were,” said Margaret. “Mrs. Greene told me afterwards.”

  “So you’ve heard about me? The White Oneida. I don’t much like that name.”

  “I haven’t just heard about you. I’ve even seen you before.”

  “Have you?”

  “You weren’t the White Oneida then. You were just a white boy, about my age, that Oneida hunters found in the forest, sound asleep in a pile of leaves. They took you to their fishing camp at the west end of Oneida Lake.”

  “What! Were you there?”

  “Not there. When they left the camp, they brought you to our village. That’s where I saw you. They made you run the gauntlet.”

  “I remember that. It was just women and children swatting me with cornstalks.”

  “I was one of those children.” She laughed. “I gave you a great wallop, but you didn’t flinch. After that, my family moved to Old Oneida and I never saw you again—until yesterday—but I heard about you from time to time. When people started talking about the White Oneida, I figured it had to be you.”

  “Well, I never …” Broken Trail scratched his head. “After I’d run the gauntlet, I was adopted by a man and woman whose son had died. A few years later, General Sullivan’s army destroyed our village and we ended up on the north shore of the St. Lawrence River.”

  “I had ten winters,” said Margaret, “when Sullivan’s army attacked Old Oneida. The soldiers charged with bayonets.

  We ran screaming into the forest. My mother and little brother and I hid under some bushes. We saw soldiers bayonet my father and set fire to the longhouses.”

  The hall was now empty. Mr. Dudgeon came out of his classroom and shut the door behind him. He glared at them. “Why are you speaking that heathen gibberish? You both know English.”