“Yes, sir,” said John. “I was raised among them.”
The Senator laughed. “Yes,” he agreed, “I’d assume so.”
John was unsure whether it was a compliment or a criticism. Maybe he’d never know.
TWELVE
Dinner was an experience in itself.
“I could have eaten everything they gave me with one knife,” he told his roommates later.
There was an array of eating utensils even beyond that of his previous experience with the Langtrys. Again, he managed to follow the actions of Jane, across the table from him. She was quite aware of his problem and helped him, as before. John would pause and watch her actions, an enjoyable pastime in itself. She would slowly and deliberately select the appropriate fork, and quite pointedly hold it in the proper position for use. Much of it seemed ridiculous to him, but he was trying hard to learn. He had not forgotten his basic goal: to learn the white man’s ways so well that he could be successful at them.
Some of the foods he could identify, some not. There was wine, too, to be sipped with the meal. It was warm and tingling on his tongue, and gave him confidence. He was tempted to gulp it from the stemmed glass, but noticed that the others only sipped. He could come to enjoy this, he admitted to himself.
There was one moment of consternation when a servant leaned over to offer some clear liquid in a shallow bowl. It was after the main portion of the meal … . Soup? Was he expected to take the bowl? Until now, each course of food had been placed on the table before him. He should have been watching the server more carefully. In something of a panic, he glanced around the table. There were no other similar bowls in sight. What was he expected to do?
His face flushed and he felt that everyone was looking at him. For a moment, he considered leaping to his feet to run from the room. Maybe the others would think he had become ill. That would be better than … Wait. Stay steady, he told himself. He glanced across the table, and his eyes met those of beautiful blue. Frantically, he reached out in his need. Help me! he asked silently.
The expression on Jane’s face was not exactly one of amusement, but it was reassuring. A very slight twinkle in the blue eyes, a conspiratorial smile that flickered around the corners of her lips … .
Very slowly, she lifted both her hands to the edge of the table, fingers pointing down … . Moved them together … A dipping motion, a slight wiggling or stirring movement, then raising them to return to her lap …
John looked again at the bowl before him. A single flower blossom floated on the surface. Water … Not to drink, but to wash. A finger bowl! He had never used one, or even seen one, but now he remembered that old White Horse, back in the reservation school, had mentioned such a thing when she was first teaching them the use of silverware in “polite company.” She had even used almost the same wiggling motions of the fingers now used by Miss Jane Langtry.
Now more confident, John gently dipped the fingers of both hands into the bowl, glancing across the table to verify as he did so. He received an almost-imperceptible nod of approval, which was more gratifying than anyone could have known.
The water was warm and soothing, and all seemed right with the world as he dried his fingers on the linen towel draped across the servant’s arm.
“Thank you,” John told the man quietly as he moved on. The servant nodded.
John looked across the table with a smile that sent the same message. Thank you! The returning smile said plainly that the message had been received. The girl nodded, ever so slightly. John’s heart was lifted, filled with the knowledge that they were communicating on such a level. He had not really expected to find whites who understood this sort of mind-talk, a thing of the spirit. And, that it would be this exotic creature with whom he established such an understanding was beyond belief. He smiled across the table at her, and she smiled back in return. His heart was very good.
“Alan is coming home tomorrow,” said the Senator. “A short visit between the school terms. You’ve not met Alan yet, have you, John?”
“No, sir. He’s at West Point, you had told me?”
“Right! Upperclassman now. He’ll graduate next year. Make a great leader,” the Senator added proudly.
“Yes, sir,” said John, and then felt rather foolish. For all he knew, Alan Langtry might be a complete idiot.
Probably not, though. To be accepted at West Point, even with the Senator’s influence, the young man must have some leadership qualities. Yet undoubtedly, Alan’s path had been easier because of his father’s influence. John had been long enough in the political system of the whites to see such things. Actually, he was a beneficiary, himself.
“I do hope,” said Mrs. Langtry, “that our country won’t become involved in the trouble in Cuba.”
John was puzzled for a moment. There had been talk about trouble on the Spanish-held island of Cuba, but that seemed far away. He failed to see how Mrs. Langtry’s statement fit into the table conversation.
“Now, now, Mother,” the Senator said patronizingly. “That would only give a young officer a chance to prove himself. To advance quickly.”
It took a moment for John to realize. There was a connection, a very solid one. A young officer graduating from West Point would be assigned his first command. If there was no military activity, no need for concern on the part of his parents. On the other hand, no opportunity to prove himself, either. He might remain a lieutenant for a long time.
With a sort of wonder and amusement, John saw a familiar pattern here. As a small child, he had listened to the old men as they smoked and talked in the lodge of Yellow Bull. They had talked of horse-stealing raids on the Crows and the Blackfeet, sometimes the whites. Even Cheyennes, though that was long ago, and the Cheyennes had even been allies at the battle of the Greasy Grass. It was all gone now. Even Red Cloud had signed a treaty with the Army.
But how reminiscent of conversations in Yellow Bull’s lodge, this discussion around a white linen table … . The men thinking of combat and honor, the women proud, yet concerned over possible harm to the young warriors. Maybe it had always been so, among all people. For some reason he thought of the Bible story of David and Goliath.
And, what was a young red man to do now? Stealing horses to prove manhood was a thing of the past, frowned on by the whites, even to the extent of being punished by hanging. But he, John Buffalo, had found a way to exert his manhood, on the gridiron or in the track and field events. He had the determination and the skills.
Oddly, the Senator’s next question seemed to pertain to the same line of thought.
“John, have you thought what you might like to do after you graduate? What sort of work?”
“That’s a long way off, sir. At least two years.”
He was hesitant to speak of such high ambitions.
“I know,” said the Senator. “But one must plan ahead.”
“Yes, sir,” John said quickly. “I had thought of teaching … . Coaching, maybe.”
“Oh, yes! Coach McGregor had mentioned that. Physical education. Excellent. Didn’t he also say that you were helping him?”
“Only a little, Senator. A few suggestions here and there. I’m not qualified to teach.”
“Ah, but you have the skills. You can show others how you do it. Show your confidence, lad! And when the time comes, you may count on me for a recommendation.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it. But that really is a long way ahead.”
“Not as long as you think, John. But let’s not dwell on it. For now, let us menfolk adjourn to the library. Please excuse us, ladies?”
“Cigar, John?” offered the Senator as they entered the room.
“Thank you, sir.”
A smoke … A social smoke, among the men of the lodge. A rolled stick of tobacco leaves, instead of a pipe, but the same ceremony, it seemed.
The Senator clipped the ends from both cigars, lighted both, and settled into a leather chair, gesturing to another for his guest. Curls of bluish sm
oke spiraled toward the dark ceiling.
John had not smoked a cigar before. It was fragrant, stronger in taste than a pipe. As far as he could tell, there was only tobacco in the cylinder. He would have preferred a bit of sumac or willow, maybe cedar or grape leaves. No matter. It was a social smoke, with the host’s tobacco, and it was good.
He looked around the room, dark in the corners where the light of the gas lamp did not reach.
“We’re thinking of electricity,” said the Senator, noticing his glance. “It seems to be the coming thing.”
John was bewildered. Why would anyone want a better light? He had never seen gaslight until he came to Carlisle. Before that, the open fire, and at the reservation school, candles and coal-oil lamps. The world was moving faster and faster … .
“Care for a brandy, John?” asked the Senator.
It was not really a question. The Senator was already pouring from a decanter into two snifters on a sideboard by the big desk.
John looked around the room. The walls were filled with books, shelves reaching clear to the high ceiling. He wondered whether there was anyone who had read them all. He wanted to ask, but decided against it.
Senator Langtry now handed him one of the glasses. It was different in shape, nearly globular, with a short stem. John noticed that his host held the glass, cradled in his palm, with the stem between his fingers. The big man seemed to enjoy sloshing the dark liquid around in the bottom of the glass and then smelling it, finally taking a sip. John copied the ritual. Yes, a lot different from wine … . He sipped carefully and was instantly glad that he had not gulped more than a tiny bit. The liquid was warm in his mouth and throat, and pungent. “It goes up instead of down,” he would tell his roommates later.
He settled back comfortably in the big leather chair to listen to the Senator’s talk about football and track. It was easy, warm and comfortable here. He had only to respond occasionally to the Senator’s pointed questions.
“Don’t you think so, John?”
“Oh, yes, sir!”
He could certainly learn to live like this.
They finished their cigars and the brandy, and the butler appeared in the doorway, as if on cue.
“Anything else tonight, sir?”
“I think not, James. Good night.”
“Good night, sir. Master John, I’ll show you to your room when you’re ready.”
“Oh … Yes …” John rose quickly, only a little unsteady. “Good night, Senator.”
He knew the way to the room, of course. He had changed and cleaned up there earlier. But this must be a ritual for guests. Perhaps it did make sense. A confused guest might easily blunder into the wrong room among the several along the big upstairs hall.
He followed the butler to his room, and James turned up the gaslight and turned down the bed.
“Good night, sir.”
He slipped out quietly and closed the door.
There was a deep feather mattress and pillows, covered with white sheets. On the dark, carved headboard of the big four-poster, gargoyles presided over the scene. Odd things to carve on a bed, John thought, but he was too tired to worry about it.
He had only one regret. He would have treasured even a short contact with the Langtrys’ daughter before retiring, but it was not to be. He fell asleep, anticipating what tomorrow might bring.
THIRTEEN
Alan Langtry arrived the next morning for a brief holiday. The family was excited, of course, and in the excitement of the reunion, their guest naturally felt out of place. But it was not a new feeling for John Buffalo. He had felt that for much of his life.
After the first excitement of Alan’s arrival, however, this feeling began to subside again. Initially, the cadet had a slightly superior attitude, but it was only temporary. Very quickly, Alan Langtry became as friendly and hospitable as his parents and his sister. Within an hour or so, John was quite comfortable with them. They seemed to genuinely enjoy his company.
The two young men talked of school, which was hardly comparable, and of athletics, which were very much the same. Football was becoming important at West Point, and they discussed whether Alan and John might compete next year.
The three young people went riding in the afternoon, and here they could really begin to relate. There is a theory among horsemen that there is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man. This was a prime example. They laughed and joked and rode over the countryside, free of troubles and responsibility for a little while.
The gear for riding “English” style puzzled John. The uncomfortable saddle, the two sets of reins … (Years later in a similar situation, he heard an old cowboy comment, “If you can’t handle a horse with one set of reins, you sure as hell ain’t gonna do it with two!”) But he managed, paying attention to the actions of the others. Most of his experience with horses had been in his childhood, usually bareback or with a simple saddle pad. The bridle had often been only a soft-tanned thong, tied around the animal’s lower jaw as a “war bridle.”
But he could recognize and appreciate the quality of the animals. The tall bay gelding which he rode was a magnificent mount. John wondered how it would feel to chase a buffalo, a bow or a lance in his hand. He had never experienced that thrill, except in childish pretense. He thought of his father, and wondered what Yellow Bull would have thought of this bay as a buffalo runner. He guessed that this horse, Major, might have been too tall for the warrior. As nearly as John could remember, Bull had favored a more compact, muscular mount.
But the days of chasing buffalo were gone now. They had become quite scarce even before John had been removed to the government school. He could remember only a time or two when as a boy he had seen free-ranging buffalo. They were not very impressive. Thin and ragged, their woolly winter coats shedding in patches. There were no more than six or eight animals. A group of young men had raced out and managed to kill two as they fled before the riders. The camp had eaten well for a few days, and even managed to store a little meat.
Usually, though, such “hunts” were held at the Agency. A few scrawny steers would be driven to the reservation and penned near the Agency office. The word would go out quickly that the government beef issue had arrived, and the people would gather. One steer at a time would be released, to be chased down and killed by young men on horseback. The cowboys who had delivered the ration would watch with glee, yelling and cheering at the pitiful remnant of a proud people … .
“Go git him, Chief!”
Then the women would butcher the kills, salvaging every scrap possible of the never-quite-sufficient ration. The elders would shake their heads sadly. John remembered the despair in his father’s face as he had watched. There had been no initiative left, nothing on which to base his dreams. Quite possibly, he now realized, this was part of the reason for the death of Yellow Bull at a rather young age. His spirit had been dying for a long time. His son was just now beginning to see how difficult it must have been for one of the warriors who had defeated the yellow-haired chief, Custer, at the Greasy Grass. It had been a victory, yes, but the beginning of the end for the People … All the more reason for his son, now John Buffalo, to reject the old ways and to excel in the world of the white man.
“Race you to the stables!”
Alan Langtry’s challenge jolted him out of the daydream. John put his heels to the bay, and the two horses leaped forward to the contest. Langtry’s big gray was a jump ahead, having caught the other by surprise. But Major had been on the track and recognized a race. Ears flattened, the bay stretched his neck and ran. He was smooth … All his gaits had been smooth as the riders trotted and cantered, but now … Aiee! Like a well-oiled engine but without the noise and the steam, the magnificent animal challenged the competition. Stride by stride, a hoofbeat at a time, they gained on the gray. His nose came even with Langtry’s stirrup, then the shoulder of the horse, now neck and neck … . They passed the gate to the training track and thundered into the y
ard in front of the stable in a dead heat.
“Say, you’re pretty good!” Alan laughed. “Are you this good at football?”
“Of course he is!” Jane stated flatly, pulling her mare to a stop beside the others. “Wait till you see him!”
“That might be a while,” said her brother. “But it could be, John, that our next contest will be on the gridiron!”
They walked the horses to cool them out, unsaddled and turned the further care of the animals over to the stable grooms.
It had been a good day, and John felt a warm kinship with the cadet whose background was so different from his own. Their natural competition as budding athletes was a friendly one, their conversations open and interesting. John sensed that Jane felt it, too, and was pleased. He realized that the girl wanted the two young men to relate well. She was obviously close to her brother, and it was with great satisfaction that he saw her approval of their budding friendship. It could have no other meaning—she was attracted to their guest. He had already sensed that, of course, and could hardly believe his good fortune. He longed to spend more time with her, in private, to share his ambitions and dreams, to gain her approval for the things he hoped to achieve.
“What do you intend to do, after college, John?” Alan asked at dinner that evening.
“Well, I’d thought of coaching,” John said hesitantly. “I—”
“He’s helping McGregor some, now,” interrupted the Senator.
“Football?” asked the cadet.
“Track, mostly. A little football …”
“He’s as good at track as he is at football,” boasted the Senator.
John was uncomfortable. He would have liked to explain that the coach had simply asked him to give bits of advice to some of the younger athletes. But the Senator …
“I see this young man as a potential Olympic athlete,” said Senator Langtry broadly, addressing Alan. “Track and field … We’ll bring him along!”
The idea flitted through John’s head that nobody had asked him, but it was lost in the realization that here were people who cared, and he was grateful. Besides, his relationship with Jane Langtry showed all signs of becoming more than friendship. Her smile, the promise in her eyes as she looked at him, plainly said so. He longed to spend some time alone with her, if only to talk.
The Long Journey Home Page 8