The White Oneida

by Jean Rae Baxter

  On the fourth day after the lacrosse match, Broken Trail’s bandages came off. On the fifth day, Margaret made her last visit to bring him willow-bark tea. After six days, he began to worry about missing school. If he didn’t show up soon, Mr. Dudgeon might suspect him of malingering, and then a complaint would reach President Webber’s desk.

  When the porter appeared at the door of Cabin Five on the morning of the seventh day, Broken Trail feared that such a complaint had already been made.

  Everyone jumped on hearing his three crisp knocks. Jacob opened the door. When he saw the porter standing there in his black frock coat, he stood aside to admit him.

  The porter approached the bed. He looked down his long nose at Broken Trail.

  “How is the patient today?”

  “Almost as good as new.”

  “I have brought you a message from President Webber.”

  “What have I done?” Malingering was the only offence Broken Trail could think of.

  “Oh, dear me,” said the porter. “You’re not in any trouble. But if you are well enough, he would like to see you in his office.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  A puzzling summons. If he wasn’t in trouble, why did President Webber want to see him?

  “I suppose I am well enough.” He sat up slowly. His head felt fine as long as he didn’t move it quickly.

  The porter waited while Broken Trail dressed. They left the cabin. It felt good to be out in the fresh air. By the time they reached President Webber’s office, he felt ready for almost anything.

  The porter rapped on the door.

  “Come in!” came the deep voice from within.

  When Broken Trail entered, President Webber rose from the chair at his desk.

  “Ah! The wounded warrior. Do take a seat.”

  Broken Trail, who was starting to feel light-headed, sat down gratefully.

  “I’m glad to see you on the mend.” Webber took his seat again. “I’ve heard about your attempt to make the game of lacrosse a little more … civilized.”

  “I don’t know about civilized, sir. I’m just hoping to make it less warlike.”

  “Ahem. Very good. Lacrosse is a fine game. I consider sport to be an integral part of education. Mens sana in corpore sano, you know. But, of course, you don’t know.”

  Broken Trail did not ask for an explanation. He could not believe that the president had summoned him here to talk about lacrosse or about education.

  In a few moments President Webber got to the point. He picked up from his desk a letter written on fine vellum.

  “This is from Captain Brant. He writes that he must embark for England on a matter of importance. Because of his interest in your future, he requests that I grant leave for you to visit him before his departure.”

  “You mean, visit Brant’s Ford?”

  “Exactly. He is eager to show you the progress he has made in creating a model town.”

  “I’m eager to see it.” More eager than President Webber could imagine. Everything that Mr. Johnson had said flooded into his mind. What was Thayendanegea doing with the land that Britain had granted to the Six Nations? This was something Broken Trail had to see for himself.

  President Webber looked up from the letter. “He is grooming you for great responsibility. You should feel honoured.”

  “I do feel honoured.”

  “The middle of the school year is not a good time for you to be away. However, with diligent effort you will be able to catch up.” He looked closely at Broken Trail. “When will you be well enough to make this journey?”

  “In a few days.”

  President Webber shook his head. “More like two weeks, I should think. That will be soon enough. Captain Brant’s ship sails from Quebec in November. If you set out in two weeks, you’ll reach Brant’s Ford by mid-October. That will provide a fortnight for your visit before he has to leave. I’ll write a letter for you to take to him, though it will add little to the report I sent in August.”

  President Webber rose to his feet, indicating that the interview was at an end.

  CHAPTER 20

  Dark Deeds

  HE’D BETTER GO to class. If President Webber should ask for Mr. Dudgeon’s opinion, Broken Trail didn’t want to be accused of slacking.

  The Middle School classroom was only a few steps from President Webber’s office. Outside the door, he ran his fingers through his hair. He didn’t like what he felt. In the process of bandaging his head, Peter must have given him a haircut. His hair had a ragged feel, partly hacked and partly shaved. He patted down the unruly tufts before opening the door.

  The first person he saw was Margaret, whose desk was the closest to the door. She looked up from her copybook and smiled. He was glad to see the smile, but not glad to see how tired she looked. Was she sick? Or had something bad happened during the past couple of days? She had been cheerful the last time she brought him a cup of willow-bark tea.

  He glanced from her to Mr. Dudgeon, who stood glaring at him, his blackboard pointer in his hand.

  “Excuse me for being late,” said Broken Trail. “President Webber was talking to me in his office.”

  “It’s time you came back.” Mr. Dudgeon was the only person in the room who did not greet him with a smile. Broken Trail walked quickly to his seat.

  Mr. Dudgeon had introduced a new subject. Spelled out in capital letters on the blackboard were the words, “Sacred Geography.” Underneath was a map labelled “Saint Paul’s Third Journey.”

  Broken Trail saw at once that he had some catching-up to do. Since the map showed Saint Paul’s third journey, there must have been a first journey and a second. He must leave space in his book for copying Abraham’s notes. He flipped over four pages, leaving them blank, before dipping his quill in the ink pot.

  He copied the map and route from the blackboard. Asia, Mediterranean Sea, Troas, Ephesus. He had never heard of these places. He would probably never see them. But who knew? When Thayendanegea was seventeen, did he imagine that he would ever travel to England—not just once, but twice?

  Maybe someday he too would travel to distant lands. But, for now, Broken Trail had his own much shorter journey to think about.

  After the dismissal bell, Margaret was waiting outside the door. “You look better,” she said, “apart from your hair. It looks like mice have been gnawing it.”

  “I’m much stronger.” He paused. “How are you? You look tired.”

  “I am a little.”

  He did not press her to explain. “I’m leaving school for a time,” he said.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “Thayendanegea wants me to visit him at Brant’s Ford. He has to go to England and needs to talk to me first. I’ll be leaving in two weeks.”

  “Really?” Her eyes brightened. “How will you get to Brant’s Ford?”

  “On horseback.”

  He walked with her all the way to the maids’ quarters, but Margaret had no further questions about his journey.

  Broken Trail felt stronger every day, yet there were times when his head ached or he felt dizzy. Lacrosse practice was out of the question.

  “It’s a good time for you to go on a long trail,” said Jacob two days before Broken Trail planned to leave. “You might as well, because you’re out of lacrosse anyway until your skull mends. Just try not to fall off your horse.”

  “By the time you return,” said Abraham, “we’ll have both teams sorted out. A few more Algonkians say they’ll play for the Eagles, just to give the Eagles a fighting chance. Everybody knows Algonkians are better lacrosse players than Haudenosaunee.”

  Jacob protested, and shoved Abraham off his bed. Abraham got up with a laugh and pushed Jacob in the chest. Then Samuel came to Jacob’s aid and the two of them held Abraham down until he admitted that any Six Nations man could play better than any Algonkian even with one hand tied behind his back.

  The others left for practice, leaving Broken Trail
propped on his elbow, studying the latest list of Mohican words that Abraham had given him. When he had studied long enough, he left the cabin.

  As he closed the door, Margaret’s flute sounded its first notes.

  The music drew him toward the pines. He had not been there to hear her play since before his injury. Nothing had changed. The twittering of birds. The fragrance of the pines. The soft carpet of needles under his feet.

  Then the music stopped. It stopped abruptly, before the song had finished, leaving a note suspended in the air. The birds’ twittering ceased. Broken Trail paused, setting his raised foot down carefully on the path. He felt a prickling at the back of his neck, the danger warning that a warrior learned to heed.

  A man’s voice broke the silence. Mr. Dudgeon’s voice. Then Margaret’s. He could not make out their words.

  Instinct, not conscious thought, made Broken Trail step instantly from the path. Slipping from tree to tree, he approached as closely as he could. There was Margaret sitting on the trunk of the fallen tree where she usually sat to play. Her flute was raised halfway to her lips. Mr. Dudgeon was standing over her. Now Broken Trail was close enough to hear every word.

  “A girl like you ought to share her beauty.”

  “Not with you.” She lowered the flute to her lap.

  “But you like white men. I’ve seen that so-called Oneida follow you into the woods.” He smiled. “Not that I blame him. There’s only one reason a woman walks alone, and that’s to invite a man to follow her.” He sat down beside her. She edged away. He put his hand upon her thigh. “You’re wasting yourself on him, Margaret. You need a man, not a boy.”

  She pushed his hand aside and jumped to her feet. “If I needed a man, why would I choose you?”

  Standing with her hand in a fist and her eyes gleaming with anger, she showed no sign of needing help. Broken Trail wanted to leap to her defence. But would she welcome it? She looked like a girl who knew how to fight her own battles. So he waited.

  “I’ll teach you why.” Mr. Dudgeon stood up. “This is a lesson you’re going to enjoy.”

  She struck before he could lay a hand on her. A hard punch to the stomach that doubled him over. The breath went right out of him. Knees bent, hands gripping his knees, he took some time to pull himself erect. When he had straightened, he looked her in the eye and he spat the words:

  “You dirty squaw!”

  His chins quivered, his eyes bulged, and his face was purple with rage. No trace remained of his desire for her. It had changed to something else. Pulling back his arm, he struck a terrible blow to her face.

  Broken Trail flinched, feeling the shock of the blow. He did not think about what to do—at least not consciously. Before Dudgeon could hit her again, Broken Trail hurled himself at the teacher, threw him backwards over the log and slammed him against the ground. His fingers fastened around Dudgeon’s throat.

  Margaret screamed, “Stop! You’re going to kill him.”

  Slowly, Broken Trail let go.

  Dudgeon rose onto one elbow. He coughed.

  Broken Trail stood up, stepped back two paces, and then one more. “I won’t kill you.” He did not move until Dudgeon had hauled himself to his feet and, walking unsteadily, disappeared down the path.

  Then carefully Broken Trail put one arm around Margaret’s shoulders, cradling her gently.

  The curfew bell rang.

  “I’ll walk you back.”

  “Take me to Mrs. Greene. Her private rooms are behind her storeroom. The door is at the back of the building.”

  “Where’s your flute?”

  She looked around on the ground. “Oh, no! It’s broken.” She picked up the two pieces, looked at them, and then slowly put them into the pouch she wore slung over her shoulder.

  He walked at her side, keeping a short distance between them, for he sensed that was how she wanted it to be. When they reached Mrs. Greene’s door, he knocked.

  Mrs. Greene opened the door. “What’s wrong? You know it’s past curfew.” Then she saw Margaret’s swollen cheek and her half-closed eye. “My dear child! What happened?”

  “Mr. Dudgeon …” Margaret’s voice faltered.

  “He attacked her,” said Broken Trail.

  Mrs. Greene opened the door wider for them to enter.

  Broken Trail felt at once the comfort of the little room. A painting of wild flowers on the wall. A warm hearth with a kettle on the hob. A wooden bench with bright cushions.

  Mrs. Greene motioned Margaret to sit on the bench, and then sat beside her. “I’m not entirely surprised. I used to have a dozen girls under my care. There were occasions when Mr. Dudgeon showed too much interest, but he never actually molested anyone.”

  “He did this time.” Margaret started to cry.

  “This is terrible.” Mrs. Greene took her hand. “I’ll tell President Webber, though I’m not sure what purpose it will serve.”

  “Do you mean he won’t do anything about it?” Broken Trail asked.

  “If he didn’t do anything about Helen, he won’t do anything about this. I suppose you’ve heard about Helen? She was one of my girls.”

  “The murdered girl?”

  “Yes. The three young men who should have been charged all belonged to good families.” Mrs. Green stood up. “People in Wickham said it would be a tragedy to ruin the lives of those boys because of one mistake. To them, Helen was just an Indian.”

  Mrs. Greene crossed to the hearth, poured water into a small basin, and moistened a cloth. “Some of the town’s leading citizens paid discreet visits to President Webber.” She sat down beside Margaret again and dabbed at her swollen cheek. “It’s not that he’s a bad man. He truly believes that he’s doing God’s will. But you can’t run a school like this without money. A serious scandal would destroy …”

  “Just a minute,” said Broken Trail. “You must report this to President Webber. But I’ll speak to him first. What’s the name of the rich man in Boston who gives the school all that money?”

  “Theophilus Richter.”

  “Thank you. I know what I’m going to say to President Webber.”

  CHAPTER 21

  A Problem of Some Magnitude

  BROKEN TRAIL IMAGINED that he was holding an eagle feather in his hand. His uncle Carries a Quiver had taught him this trick, telling him, “If you imagine the feather hard enough, your words will not fail you.” He had also told Broken Trail that to conquer your enemy with words—not weapons—there were two things you had to know: what he most treasured and what he most feared. In President Webber’s case, Broken Trail was certain that he knew exactly what those two things were.

  So here he was, standing in President Webber’s office with the rising sun shining through the tall windows. President Webber looked annoyed but not worried. Yet he must have suspected that something unpleasant was in store, for he did not invite Broken Trail to sit down.

  “A problem of some magnitude must have arisen,” he said, “for you to insist upon speaking to me at such an early hour.”

  He did not appear to be acting. Webber’s calm manner assured Broken Trail that he knew nothing about what had happened last night.

  “Sir, I’m sorry if this isn’t a good time to speak to you, but something serious has happened. I felt sure you’d want to know about the problem right away.”

  “Well, of course. What is it?”

  “I have a complaint to make about Mr. Dudgeon.”

  “About Mr. Dudgeon? You surprise me. He’s an excellent teacher.”

  “It’s not a complaint about his teaching. What I have to tell you is … Mr. Dudgeon has behaved …” For a moment Broken Trail feared that words had failed him. He held tight to the imaginary eagle feather. “He followed Margaret into the woods yesterday evening. He said horrible things to her. He attacked her. I was there. I heard him. I saw what he did.”

  “Mr. Dudgeon is a gentleman in whom I have complete confidence,” President Webber stated firmly. “I have no doubt th
at you and Margaret mistook his words and his actions.”

  “No, sir. There was no mistaking what I saw and heard.”

  Webber frowned. He pointed to a chair that rested on the carpet in front of his desk. “Now, why don’t you sit down so that we can have a sensible conversation about this?”

  Broken Trail did as he was told. Webber walked around to the far side of his desk and took his seat. He cleared his throat. “This is how it appears to me. A gentleman out for an evening stroll meets a young woman who is a student in his class. He addresses her in a friendly manner. She misunderstands his intentions—”

  “But, sir!”

  “Please let me finish. I was about to say that I shall not insult Mr. Dudgeon by asking him to defend himself against such a charge. Over the years, I have heard many extravagant allegations about various teachers. In every case the motive has been spite, or an imagined injustice, or a desire to attract attention. My response has always been to ignore such charges, which is exactly what I propose to do in this case. Now, Moses, if you will be so good as to withdraw your complaint, I shall say nothing more about it. There will be no black mark on your record.” He paused. “As for the girl, the sooner she returns to her village, the better.”

  “I agree about that!” Broken Trail exclaimed. If President Webber was eager to get Margaret out of the way, then he was just as eager to help her return home. “Sir, with your permission, I’ll travel to Brant’s Ford by way of Old Oneida so that I can take Margaret home.”

  “You!” President Webber’s mouth fell open, then closed. “I must give that suggestion some thought. Eyebrows will be raised if I allow a young man to escort a girl on a journey of several days through the forest.”

  “Because there’d be gossip?”

  “Gossip that could bring an end to all the wonderful work we do here. Training missionaries. Spreading the gospel. Saving souls.”

  “That would be terrible.” Broken Trail tightened his grip on the imaginary feather. “Everything destroyed by a bit of gossip …” He looked straight at President Webber, forcing him to meet his eyes. “… a suggestion of scandal reaching the wrong ears.”