The staterooms had been filled with cardsharps and land speculators and no end of trouble. For the teacher to have arrived in one piece, she must have sat up all night praying.
Nettie put her hand on the younger woman’s forehead, then nodded. “A good night’s rest will set you right.”
Grunting and groaning, James and the rev hauled one trunk upstairs. Will followed with the second. The room had a narrow bed, table and chair, and closet, but no chest of drawers. He’d done his best, but he couldn’t fix where the planks didn’t match, where the boards had warped out of plumb.
When they returned downstairs, Miss Makinoff excused herself and went to her room. The men settled on the porch.
James tipped his chair back. “New teacher’s a beauty.”
Henry grunted. “I wonder why she left that college.”
Why, indeed? From what Will had read, Vassar had been built with every sort of advantage, all the latest innovations.
“Did you hear her ask Nettie if we had a water closet or bathing room?” James raised his whiskey-laced coffee. “Two bits says she’s gone before Christmas.”
“Before first snow.” The rev snorted, then realized his mother could hear from the kitchen. “Sorry, clergy don’t bet.”
“By first frost,” the agent said. “No, the next time the Brulé raid.”
Will worked his knife through a chunk of wood, carving out a limberjack for Frank. Since he’d arrived in ’73, three so-called teachers had tried the job. The longest lasted four months.
Usually Will didn’t part with his money so easily, and it might have been wishful thinking on his part, but mixed with the fear in her eyes, he saw a spark of determination. “You’re on.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Smoke. Wood burning.
Sophia sat up in bed. Why was it so dark? And where was she?
The Ponca Agency.
She rolled off the prickly mattress, crossed the bare floor, and pulled aside the muslin curtain that had failed to bar the mosquitoes.
No fire this direction. No light at all. Merely darkness, and darker shadows from moonset. A rhythmic chorus of insects and amphibians echoed from all directions.
The distinctive smell of burning wood tainted the air.
Could that other tribe—the Brulé, the Burning—have set fire to the house? Sophia’s hand gripped the wood frame of the window. No fireproof brick here. No iron doors or attic water-tanks. No night watchman.
Sophia exchanged her nightgown for one of her navy dresses and slippers, then stepped into the hall. Nettie’s door was closed. Should she knock, report the fire? An unnecessary alarm would disturb the dear woman’s sleep. And she certainly did not want to rouse the men.
The one with the thick brown beard, Reverend Henry Granville, might unleash a sermon on her. And the tall one, the agent, James Lawrence, also showed the inclination to lecture. Had the fine art of civil discourse escaped this place?
On the other end of the spectrum, the carpenter—Will Durham, Donne?—barely met her gaze, and spoke to her only indirectly. Yet he conversed easily with the Indians.
They all seemed to have a touch of ill humor, even Nettie. What manner of mess had Sophia gotten into? And how quickly could she extricate herself?
The smoke persisted.
Sophia’s boxes formed a hulking tower in the parlor. She worked her way past them to the front window. No fire to the east, nor out the kitchen window. The stove was cool, its coals banked. The exterior doors were barred, and it seemed prudent to leave them so. Tenor and bass snoring echoed from the interior chambers.
Sophia returned to her room.
Now what should she do? The noise of unpacking would wake the others. If she had a lantern or candle, she could write to the Mission Board, request her reassignment to China.
A pang of homesickness rolled over her, but it was the convenience of gaslights she missed, not the College as a whole. Especially not Annabelle and Rexford. Off on their honeymoon to Niagara Falls, undoubtedly boring each other to tears.
Outside her window, dogs barked a wild anthem, starting all at once without obvious prompt. Sophia moved the chair to the window and sat with her forearms on the sill to keep from scratching her collection of insect bites. Still dark, no movement.
After several minutes the dogs stopped, again for no apparent reason, and the chickens started. Roosters, actually, several of them in a hoarse chorale. No sunrise yet. And no more smoke smell.
Imperceptibly the darkness began to fade. Sophia could make out a long ridge to the south and a bluff looming over the village to the west. A stooped elder, possibly the Lone Chief who met the steamboat yesterday, climbed to the top. He faced the sun and raised his arms.
He appeared to be praying.
She hoped he said one for her. Without her icon and prayer book, she certainly needed it. After a few minutes he lowered his arms and began a cautious descent back to the village.
Sunrise lit the roofs of houses, all of them at a uniform pitch like a factory town. Next to each stood an elevated framework reminiscent of the pergolas of Italy. But instead of grapes, these were draped with drying plants or laundry. A yellow dog trotted between the nearest houses, nose down, followed by a rolling trio of puppies. Farther away a child emerged, bucket in hand, and raced off toward a cow.
Where were the horses?
Morning’s light revealed the monastic simplicity of her room: plastered walls, a painted floor, a narrow bed cobbled together with a few boards. Nothing like the carpeting and wallpaper of the College, or the tall windows opening to her balcony in Paris, or the gold-trimmed walls and inlaid floors of St. Petersburg. Even on military campaigns, her father had more luxurious quarters than this.
Most of all Sophia missed plumbing. Chamber pots were a nuisance, and washing up from a pitcher and bowl was woefully ineffective. How long would she have to endure such conditions?
A fragment of a Bible verse floated to the surface of her mind—something about learning to be content in plenty and in want. She should have paid more attention. A missionary ought to know these things. With a sigh of resignation, Sophia attended to hygiene, then went downstairs.
In the kitchen James and Henry, in shirtsleeves, served themselves from the stove.
“Good morning, Sophia! How are you feeling?” Nettie bustled about, apron fluttering over her poplin dress.
“Fully restored, thank you.” She must not let these men see her as weak. “I smelled smoke earlier.”
“One of our lost sheep,” the reverend said.
Sheep? She had not seen any sheep. She frowned.
“Lost sheep,” Henry repeated. “Like in the Bible. He sets fires for no particular reason, but doesn’t burn anything down.”
“He’s insane,” added the agent, apparently referring to the Ponca fire-starter, not the reverend. “But asylums don’t take Indians.”
“Chilly mornings he may need the warmth,” Nettie said. She directed Sophia to the stove. “There’s coffee, oatmeal, sausage, bread. And hot water for—”
“My tea.” Sophia held up her tea ball, primed with her morning infusion. “How kind of you.”
Henry blessed the food. In the middle of the prayer, the carpenter came in, set two buckets of water on the stove, then slipped into his seat.
“Mr. Dunn is chronically tardy, even to church,” the reverend noted. “As the schoolteacher you may take corrective action.”
It hardly seemed fair to reprimand the man for working. “May I also correct your grasp on your fork?” Sophia asked.
Nettie hooted. “I’ve been fussing on that since he was a wee pup.”
The minister lifted his eyes to heaven in supplication, then rotated his wrist into the proper position. “After breakfast Will can hitch up the wagon to haul your boxes to the school. It’s a half mile south. James will show you around.”
Sophia nodded. “When does the school session start?”
James refilled his coffee. “Since you�
�re here, today.”
“Oh dear.” There would be no time to unpack or prepare lessons. She consulted her pocket watch. “At what time?”
“The Indians don’t have clocks, so when you’re ready, ring the bell. Slow means school. Fast means Brulé.”
Sophia started to help wash the dishes, but Nettie shooed her off. “Go along now. You’ve plenty to do setting the school in order and I’ve got Moon Hawk, er, Rosalie Nichols, coming to help this morning. Bring down your clothes and we’ll wash while you’re gone.”
Back in her room the bed had not been made and the chamber pot had not been emptied. No lights. No plumbing. No servants.
For a moment she considered changing into a better dress, but with the Indians’ dearth of clothing, she might seem to be flaunting wealth. And certainly she did not need to add to Nettie’s workload. In view of the lack of sidewalks, though, she exchanged her slippers for boots.
The bed crunched when she sat. She unbuttoned the mattress. Straw? No, prairie grass. Considering the green hills surrounding the village, they had plenty to spare.
Her mind raced forward. What would she need for school? A true missionary would no doubt begin her morning with prayer, but Sophia had yet to unpack her prayer book and icon.
Below her window she heard a heavy clip-clop, accompanied by the rattle of harnesses and the creak of wooden wheels. She hurried downstairs to meet the dray.
Will loaded her baggage and his toolbox in the wagon’s box, then hopped up beside them. James arrived after the work was done, in time to hand her up to the seat. He shook the reins and they bumped across the grass.
“Were you the first teacher here, James?”
“No, the year before, they had a lady, Mrs. Reed, for a few months.”
“Then you taught until your promotion to agent?”
“I was sent elsewhere until my appointment this year. Others came here, but none stayed long.”
Guilt threatened to choke her; she did not plan to stay either. “So the students have not had the benefit of regular schooling?”
“It’s been hit or miss.”
“Mostly miss,” Will said.
James shot an angry look at the carpenter. “Even when we have a teacher, the Indians are not in the habit of following the calendar.”
Will rested his arm on his bent knee. “Likely they’re hungry or sick. Can’t come in winter without coats and boots.”
“I found the Ponca students excel at writing, speaking, and memorizing, but not comprehension,” James said. “They are suspicious of strangers—”
“Smart of them,” Will muttered.
“—but teachable.”
“What would you say is the current rate of literacy among the Poncas?” When the answer was not forthcoming, Sophia rephrased her question. “How many can read and write?”
James muttered, then nodded east. “Miss Makinoff, your schoolhouse.”
It was the same size as most of the houses, about twenty by forty feet, and painted white. A bell topped the roof. A pair of cows trimmed the lawn.
“It is new,” Sophia said.
“The previous one was uninhabitable.” James unlocked the door, then handed her the key.
Another change. No one locked doors at the College. A rush of hot musty air blew past.
“When was the schoolhouse in use most recently?”
“We had a teacher here in February and March.”
“Three months ago? Surely children cannot learn in such sporadic sessions.” Sophia wondered, with a surge of panic, how long it would take for the Mission Board to send her successor.
“Government’s breaking the treaty.” Will pulled a rag from his back pocket and cleared the cobwebs, working his way around the partition forming the anteroom.
“With your experience,” Sophia asked James, “could you not keep the school open?”
“My duties as agent fill the day.” His expression hardened, a clear message that his assistance—and interference—would be limited. That was something to be thankful for.
“There’s room for fifty students, but you probably won’t see that many.”
Instead of desks, the schoolhouse was furnished with long tables and benches in gradually decreasing height. The teacher had a kitchen chair and a desk made of packing crates.
Sophia closed her eyes for a moment, seeing her classroom at the College: her walnut desk and matching chair, shelves stocked with Pylodet’s Littérature Contemporaine and Otto’s Grammar, the wall map of France.
“Where are the maps? How can you teach geography?”
“I hope you brought your own.” James pressed his finger to the space between his eyebrows.
“I did. Where are the bookcases?”
“No books.” He rubbed his forehead with his knuckle.
“No books? None at all? No bookcase?” What would Catharine Beecher say?
“Tell me what size and I’ll build one,” Will said.
Sophia turned to Will. “About waist high, to fit under the—Is there not a chalkboard?”
Will pointed. “I can paint the wall black.”
Sophia nodded and ventured a smile in his direction. This handyman was quite handy indeed. And innovative.
Sophia examined the packing crate desk and found it empty. “Where are the enrollment lists, attendance records, and grade reports?”
The agent shrugged. “Aren’t any.”
How was she to teach in these conditions?
At least she would have fresh air. Sophia attempted to raise the nearest window, but it did not move, not even a fraction of an inch. Was it painted shut? She made a fist. A strong hand caught hers before she could slam it into the frame.
“Locked.” Will removed a long nail from the sash. The window slid up easily, then as swift as a guillotine, swooped back down to slice off her fingers. Will pulled her hand out of the way in time. He propped the window open with a stick. “Careful.”
“Thank you,” Sophia whispered. Perhaps her heart would return to its normal rate sometime today.
She managed to unlock, open, and prop the other five without incident. Then her morning tea made another need known. She walked around the building. “Where are the latrines?”
“There aren’t any.” James reddened. “The boys use the bushes and the girls use the ditches.”
“Other way around,” Will said. “I’ll build you an outhouse. We’ll unload while you . . .” He tipped his head toward the brush.
“If you will excuse me, I believe a bit of mushroom hunting is in order.” Miss Beecher had not warned of this either.
Sophia availed herself of the opportunity. Her father’s soldiers had built latrines wherever they stopped. Failure to do so was unsanitary, an invitation to illness. How could any education occur in the absence of the most basic of necessities?
When she returned, James had left with the wagon. In the yard Will reconfigured one of the crates to form a bookcase. He worked with swift, sure motions, at one with his tools. Sophia applauded. “Bravo!”
Still no smile. He lifted his chin. “Your students.”
Three urchins of uncertain age and gender stood at the edge of the schoolyard. Is this what they wore to school, scraps? No shoes? Did they not know better, or was this all they had? At least their faces were clean and their hair braided.
“But I have not rung the bell. And this place needs a good scrubbing.” Apparently also her responsibility. Heedless of her objections, Will continued his carpentry. So. Planning time had ended and teaching begun.
Sophia called to the children. “Good morning, students.”
The trio shuffled backward a few steps. The smallest put a finger in his or her mouth.
“Come along.” Sophia motioned to them. “Come to school.”
They stared at the ground.
Sophia took three steps toward them, hand extended. “I am your teacher, Miss Makinoff. What are your names?”
They dashed behind a tree stump. Now what
should she do?
Behind her a deep voice spoke in their language.
“Do they speak English?” she whispered.
“Some.”
Some? Is that how he answered questions? Sophia turned to glare at him. One eyebrow gave a you-are-the-teacher twitch. What would it take for this man to smile? Perhaps if she stuck out her tongue—
“Did the Mission Board tell you anything about the people, about the Poncas?”
“Only that my job would be to teach reading, writing, the use of money, the Christian faith, sewing—”
“The Poncas don’t look each other full in the face. It’s not polite.”
“They stared at me yesterday.” Now that she thought about it, they had glanced away when she smiled at them. “Ah. But not my face.”
“Put your hands down by your side. And wait. Quietly.”
Sophia straightened her arms. After a moment a small hand—hopefully one that had not been in a mouth recently—slipped into hers. “Good morning,” she said again, glimpsing the child from the corner of her eye. “My name is Miss Makinoff. Please tell me your name.”
After a moment the carpenter said another Ponca word.
The child whispered, “Marguerite.”
“Rosalie,” murmured one behind her.
“Susette.” Another hand slipped into hers.
Très bien. She smiled and, wonder of wonders, Will smiled back. Or perhaps it was another twitch, so quickly was it over.
“Have you attended school before?” she asked the girls.
No answer.
“We must prepare our school.” She stepped into the building, the girls in tow. How could she tell them apart if she was not to look at them? She handed the bucket to the tallest, whom she guessed to be eleven or twelve years old.
“Marguerite,” she said tentatively, earning a nod. “If you would be so kind as to collect some water.”
To the next, perhaps eight years of age, she handed the broom. “And, Rosalie—no, Susette—if you would sweep.”
And the rag to the littlest, estimated five years. “And, Rosalie, if you would dust.”
Perhaps an unconventional start, but surely necessary. And housekeeping skills were considered part of their training. Marguerite walked away, swinging the bucket.
Through Rushing Water Page 4