“You’ve been lucky so far,” said Abraham. “Your name was never mentioned.”
Jacob, who was wielding a broom, stopped sweeping. “You can’t go to class wrapped in bandages. I’ll tell Dudgeon you have a sore throat. I’ve hidden the dice. When the porter comes to inspect the cabin, pull the blanket up to your chin.”
“I’ll do that.” Samuel hesitated. “Can anybody bring me some food from the dining room? Two slices of bread with jam. If you can smuggle out a cup of tea, I like lots of sugar.”
“I’ll bring your food,” said Jacob. “I’ll look after everything.” He looked worried. Maybe he felt some responsibility for what had happened. As the cabin’s senior scholar, he should have discouraged the frolic, not taken part in it.
When he had finished sweeping, he turned to Abraham. “Edward and I noticed that you and Samuel left the inn early. We didn’t know why. We didn’t know Mr. Sinclair was in the card room.”
“Pretend you still don’t know,” said Abraham.
“And no word about the frolic,” said Broken Trail.
“What frolic?” Jacob raised his eyebrows as if he had never heard of such a thing.
“President Webber wants everyone to act as if this were just a normal morning,” said Broken Trail.
But it could not be a normal morning. The Lower School boys, being without their teacher, were shoved into Mr. Dudgeon’s classroom. Most had to sit on the floor because there were not enough chairs and desks for all. Where they sat did not matter greatly, since none had any inkling what Mr. Dudgeon’s lesson was about.
All morning long, Mr. Dudgeon avoided looking in Broken Trail’s or Abraham’s direction. Once, when Broken Trail offered an answer to an arithmetic question, waving his arm vigorously to demand attention, the teacher’s pink scalp deepened to purple and his eyes bulged. It must have been hard for him to keep up the pretence that the young man did not exist.
Broken Trail and Abraham put on their warrior faces to enter President Webber’s office. Shoulder to shoulder, they stood in front of his desk, their expressions showing no trace of nervousness or fear.
President Webber went straight to the point. “I want to know what you were doing on the road to Wickham.”
“We went for a walk,” said Broken Trail, “to breathe some fresh air.”
“Humph! That’s no excuse. To be not only out of your cabin but also beyond the limits of Sedgewick School is a serious offence.”
“Sir, I’m sorry,” said Broken Trail. “I will never do it again.”
“I won’t either,” Abraham sounded contrite.
Webber sighed. “I believe that Providence guided your steps.”
“That may well be,” Broken Trail agreed hopefully.
“If you had not been on that road at that time … it doesn’t bear thinking of.” President Webber heaved another sigh. “I have advised the teachers not to travel that road at night. I shall counsel Mr. Sinclair to be more careful in future. As for you two, no one would have known about your escapade if you had not stopped, like the Good Samaritan, to help a fellow human being.” He cleared his throat. “There will be no black mark on either of your records.”
President Webber rang the bell for the porter to show the boys out.
Broken Trail and Abraham kept their solemn expressions in place until they were outside the building. Then they pounded each other on the back and burst out laughing.
“He doesn’t want to know about the frolic,” Abraham gasped.
“Or about the card room.”
Abraham nodded. “He had to send home eleven scholars after the last frolic. That was three moons ago. Expelling another batch so soon would look bad. And how can he explain a teacher being robbed on the road from Wickham Inn after playing cards for money? He has a duty to protect the reputation of Sedgewick School.”
“The frolics don’t just hurt the school,” said Broken Trail, suddenly serious. “They hurt us too. I’d like them to stop.”
Abraham looked puzzled. “How do they hurt us?”
“They make white people look down on us. That’s the problem. How can they negotiate with us as equals if they don’t regard us as equals?”
“Hm.” He pulled his eyebrows together thoughtfully.
“Think about it,” said Broken Trail. “Now, if the dining hall isn’t closed, let’s have something to eat and then go to class. I can hardly wait to see Dudgeon’s face when we take our seats for the afternoon.”
CHAPTER 15
Smudge
SUNDAY. A BRIGHT midsummer morning two days after the adventure on the road to Wickham. As usual on a Sunday, the assembled school marched into Wickham for morning service at the Congregationalist church.
Broken Trail welcomed the break from the six-day school week. Despite the tightness of his black frock coat and the stiffness of his buckled shoes, he enjoyed the walk.
Settled into a pew, with Abraham on one side and Samuel, bandages hidden under his shirt, on the other, he thought over the events of the past two days. He had been serious when he told Abraham that the frolics should stop. A night of drinking and dancing brought boys of different tribes together, but not in a good way. Frolics did nothing to honour the traditions that they shared. There must be better ways to bind the tribes together. By itself, each tribe was like a stick of wood that a man could snap with his hands. Bind those sticks into a bundle, and no one could break them.
The preacher was talking about Jonah, whom God had sent on a mission to the people of Nineveh. Jonah didn’t want to go to Nineveh. He took ship for a different place and as a result spent three days in the belly of a great fish.
Broken Trail understood the message: when God gives you a task to carry out, you’d better do it or you’ll be sorry.
The Great Spirit had set him a task. Unlike Jonah, he had no desire to avoid it. His problem lay in finding ways to carry it out.
After church, he thought about this all the rest of the day.
That day there was no lacrosse and no chance to take Dark Cloud for a gallop. The only activity permitted was Bible reading. In the evening Margaret’s flute was silent.
When night came, Broken Trail tumbled wearily onto his bed. He closed his eyes and was almost asleep when he heard Peter and Jacob arguing.
“It’s a sacrilege,” Peter said, “especially on a Sunday.”
“After all that praying, Sunday is when I need it most.”
“If you prayed with sincerity, you wouldn’t need it at all.”
Need what? Broken Trail wondered.
Abraham joined in, “Maybe you don’t need it, Peter. But you don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
Broken Trail raised himself on one elbow. “Where are you going? What are you going to do?” Surely, after what happened two nights ago, they weren’t planning a visit to Wickham Inn!
“We’re going into the bush for a smudge,” said Jacob. “Do you want to come?”
Did he want to! There was nothing Broken Trail wanted more than to gather with the others in this sacred rite.
“Yes. I want to come.”
“No!” Edward sat up on his bed. “Moses has no business taking part in a smudge.”
“He has every right to take part,” Jacob said. “He’s proved himself one of us.”
“If Moses is at the smudge,” said Edward, “I’m not coming.”
“Do you mean that?” Jacob asked.
“I do.”
“Then it’s you who shouldn’t come. All who go to a smudge must bring a good mind.”
Edward turned to Abraham. “What do you say?” There was a pleading tone in his voice. “We Algonkians must stick together.”
“Jacob has said it already. Moses is one of us.”
“It’s Moses or me.” Edward turned his face away.
It was some time before Jacob broke the silence. “Moses, here’s what happens. We wait until no light shows from Webber’s house or the main building. Then one by one we slip out and
meet in the pine trees.”
“Do you smudge right there among the pines?”
“No,” said Jacob, “the fire would be seen. We go further away, into the hills. If you stick with me, I’ll lead you there.”
“I’ll keep watch,” said Abraham. “The rest of you can sleep. I’ll wake you when the lights are out.”
Although Broken Trail lay down like the others, he was too excited to sleep. He remembered the last time he had smudged. It was the day before he had started on his journey to Sedgewick School. His mother had been at the smudge, as well as his uncle Carries a Quiver, and his friends Young Bear and Spotted Dog. He remembered the smell of the smoke and the feeling of reverence that bound them together.
This is the kind of thing that he had been searching for. A smudge reached out in all Four Directions, including every tribe.
At Abraham’s signal, Jacob and Broken Trail left the cabin first. They entered the forest, walking silently over the years and years of pine needles that padded the ground. Broken Trail heard rustling noises in the trees. An owl called from far away; another, somewhere nearby, answered. The moon rose, round and silvery, to light the trail as it wound deeper and deeper into the hills. Finally, Jacob turned onto a narrow path leading to a forest glade.
Broken Trail and Jacob had been the first to leave the cabin, but they were not the first to arrive, for there was Margaret, her shadowy form crouched over a tiny fire. She was feeding it twigs to nourish the little tongues of flame.
She raised her head. “Se-go-li,” she greeted them.
“Se-go-li,” they replied.
No further words were spoken. Jacob and Broken Trail stood watching as she added small sticks and then bigger sticks to the fire. Now there was enough light for Broken Trail to notice a clay bowl resting on a flat rock close by.
A few moments later, Abraham and Samuel arrived.
Margaret rose from where she had crouched over the fire. She picked up the bowl from the top of the flat rock, knelt on the ground, and placed the bowl in front of her. The others sat down, forming a tight circle.
Margaret took from her neck a leather bag suspended by a thong. From the bag she pulled out four smaller bags, each the size of a mouse. After opening the first little bag, she poured a bit of its contents—dry, crushed leaves—into the bowl.
“Here is sage, for cleansing,” she said.
She opened the second little bag and poured some of its contents into the bowl.
“Here is sweet grass, for bringing quiet to our minds.”
Then the third bag.
“Here is cedar, for the healing of our bodies.”
And the fourth.
“Here is tobacco, for carrying our prayers to the Great Spirit.”
She returned the little bags to the larger one, then spoke again.
“The Great Spirit gave us these four medicines to help us in each of the Four Directions while we walk the long trail of our life.”
Abraham picked up a blazing brand from the fire and gave it to Margaret. With it she lit the pile of medicines in the bowl. A flame flared, burned brightly, and then settled to a glowing ember.
She fanned the ember with the underside of a feather, then passed the feather through the rising smoke. Gently, she guided the smoke to her eyes, her nose, her mouth, and her throat.
The others leaned forward—three Oneidas, one Mohawk, one Mohican—and she wafted the smoke to the eyes, the nose, the mouth, and the throat of each in turn.
After the smudge was finished, they waited in silence until no more smoke rose from the bowl. During those moments Broken Trail felt the presence of the unseen spirits all around. More than that, he felt a greater closeness to the others than he had ever felt before.
They stamped out the fire. Margaret knocked the ashes from the smudge bowl and tucked it into a space at the base of the rock. Apparently that was where it would stay until next time.
The black of night had faded to grey by the time they were back at Sedgewick School.
Broken Trail had barely closed his eyes when the bell rang for Prayers Before Sunrise.
They were dullards in class that morning. Edward and boys from other cabins answered nearly all of Mr. Dudgeon’s questions. Margaret made a mistake in arithmetic.
When they left the schoolroom at midday, Broken Trail was walking right behind her. Mr. Dudgeon was standing by the open door. As she passed through the doorway, he reached out his hand and laid it upon her shoulder.
“Our top scholar did not do so well today,” he said in a syrupy voice so low that Broken Trail could hardly make out his words. Margaret flinched.
“I’m just a little tired, sir.” She walked quickly outside.
Broken Trail followed. The schoolmaster’s chalky finger marks were visible on the dark fabric of her shawl. He wanted to brush off the chalk, but he knew he had no right to touch her.
He caught up to her. When he fell into step beside her, she turned her head to glance at him. He was about to tell her that she had chalk marks on her shawl, but she spoke first.
“About the smudge. It’s the most important thing we do together. As long as we have the smudge, there’s hope.”
“That’s the same thing I was thinking.” In a moment he continued. “I was a little surprised to see you there. How were you able to leave the building without being seen?”
“I don’t sleep in the same room with the maids. There aren’t enough beds. So I have a straw pallet in the kitchen, under the stairs. Because it’s close to the back door, I can leave at night without being seen or heard. Jacob lets me know whenever there’s going to be a smudge. Whoever arrives first lights the fire. I often lead the smudge. Back in Old Oneida, a holy woman instructed me in all our sacred rites. She was training me to be a keeper of the teachings.”
They were walking side by side. Broken Trail felt emboldened. “I have heard that you’ll go back to Old Oneida as soon as some respectable person is found to take you there.”
“I’d leave tomorrow if I could. It’s bad enough being the only girl at the school, without Edward lurking about with that hangdog look and Mr. Dudgeon patting me and cooing in my ear.”
He blurted, “You have chalk on your shoulder.”
“Ugh!” She stopped walking and brushed it off.
“But what choice do I have?” she continued. “Who knows when the next respectable person will stop at Sedgewick School on his way to Old Oneida? I may be stuck here for years.”
He looked down at her. Most of the time she seemed so sure of herself. But at this moment she sounded anxious and uncertain.
“Margaret,” he said, “if you need help, you can count on me.”
She looked up at him. “Do you mean that?”
Their eyes met. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”
“Thank you. I won’t forget.”
CHAPTER 16
More Lessons
“PRESIDENT WEBBER would like you to come to his office directly after class,” said the porter, who had intercepted Broken Trail on his way from the dining hall after breakfast.
“Thank you. I’ll be there.”
The summons did not alarm him, though he was curious about the reason for it. It was Thimbleberry Moon—August. After three months at Sedgewick School, his mind now moved comfortably back and forth between the two ways of talking about the seasons. Since the adventure on the road to Wickham one moon ago, life had been quiet. Broken Trail was not in any trouble that he knew of.
As soon as class was dismissed at noon, he went directly to President Webber’s office. The porter opened the door. Broken Trail marched straight in, holding out his hand to show his mastery of civilized manners.
“It’s time for me to write to Captain Brant,” said Webber as they shook hands. “He expects a quarterly review of your progress.”
When Broken Trail was seated, facing him across his desk, Webber glanced at the paper that lay in front of him. “Mr. Dudgeon speaks wel
l of your progress, though not of your attitude.” He cleared his throat. “I shall not mention that to Captain Brant.”
Broken Trail nodded. Ever since the encounter in the upstairs hall, Dudgeon’s manner had been hostile. He felt like saying that it was Dudgeon who had the bad attitude, not him.
Webber continued. “I am less satisfied with reports of your lack of progress in other ways. For example, I have been told that you end every meal by knocking your fist upon the bench in that heathen manner of giving thanks. I am disappointed that you cling to that practice. But it is a minor matter. If you continue to do well in your studies, I expect that you will be ready to enter Upper School at the beginning of Winter Term.”
“Thank you, sir.”
This was good news. The promotion would not only please Thayendanegea, it would bring escape from Dudgeon and his offensive dictations.
“And then college,” Webber continued, “after another year.”
“College! Me?”
“You’re certainly clever enough.”
“I would have to study Latin and Greek?”
President Webber frowned. “I recall that we discussed this at our first meeting.”
Broken Trail sighed. “Thayendanegea sent me to school so that I could become a statesman like him. If knowing Latin and Greek will help, I suppose I must learn them.”
“I trust that you will show more enthusiasm when the time arrives.” He cleared his throat. “For the present, I shall report that your progress is more than satisfactory.”
Broken Trail left the office thinking over these words. “More than satisfactory.”
Maybe President Webber thought so, but the mention of Latin and Greek made Broken Trail uneasy. Although Thayendanegea had not mentioned Latin and Greek, he had made clear that Broken Trail should learn as many native languages as he could. He had named some of them: Mohawk, Onondaga, Cayuga, Tuscarora, Shawnee, and Mohican.
Broken Trail had not made a start at a single one.
He could begin by asking Samuel to teach him Mohawk. That would be easy. It was a Six Nations language, like Oneida, with many words in common.
But if he was to help Thayendanegea in his work of uniting all the tribes, it made more sense to learn one of the Algonkian languages.
The White Oneida Page 7