Through Rushing Water

by Catherine Richmond

  A fool, Sophia thought. But a holy fool.

  Families took their children in hand and started the long walk home. The joyful noise of this morning had ebbed into silence. The women did not keen, the children did not talk. Once again, no one would meet Sophia’s gaze.

  James ran back to the steamboat and waved it on downriver. The whistle sounded three low notes, then their lifeline to civilization disappeared around the bend.

  An isolated cloud rolled over the village, blotting out the sun. One bolt of lightning with its attendant thunder shook loose a drenching downpour. The spaces between buildings turned to mud.

  Sophia hurried into the house and up the stairs. A waterfall spouted from a drooping spot in the ceiling. The rain was drenching her bed and her books. Ruined! All ruined! Unreadable by Bear Shield or anyone else.

  Those in English she would replace at her next bookstore visit. The French she could reorder. But the Russian—no, not her father’s copy of Fathers and Sons, signed by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev himself!

  The day’s accumulation of tears breached her defenses, her loss of control adding to her misery. She flung the books into the hall, wrestled the window closed, dragged the bed across the floor, and positioned the washbasin under the rivulet.

  Such a waste. This whole teaching experience was a waste. She should be on the steamboat out of here, out of this wretched land with its ravenous mosquitoes and bottomless poverty and—

  “Sophia?” Will called from the foot of the stairs. “What was that noise?”

  “I am rearranging the furniture. To accommodate a waterfall.”

  “You decent? I’m coming up.”

  Decent? A glance in the mirror showed a bedraggled rat, hair hanging in Medusa-like snakes around her face, dress splotched and limp. Sophia found a handkerchief that had somehow escaped the deluge and dried her eyes.

  Will paused in the doorway and looked up at the ceiling. “Those shingles would have to be twice as good to be second rate.”

  Sophia dared a glance at him. His hair had responded to the rain by curling into ringlets. He sat on his heels and picked up the nearest book. “I’m sorry.”

  “You did not make it rain.” She bent to assist him. Her Russian poetry might dry. Several volumes of the lives of saints were not as damaged as she had first thought.

  “I built this house.”

  Will was responsible for this loosely connected pile of lumber? Yet he handled her books with reverence, easing the pages apart and setting them on end. “Hey, Catharine Beecher autographed this to you.”

  “You know who she is?”

  “My sister’s a teacher.” He squinted up at her as if she were a puzzle. “What’s a pearl like you doing with us swine?”

  “I am hardly—” A glance out the window showed the Agency’s resemblance to an animal pen. “I am trying to serve God.”

  He made a sound in the back of his throat, then nodded at her bed. “Best get you another.”

  The addition of water to the old mattress added an unwelcome effluvium to the air.

  “What is it about this place?” Sophia removed the sheets.

  Will rolled up the dripping mess, then paused, waiting until she met his gaze. His eyes warmed. “You mean one moment you’re thinking you’re right where God wants you to be, and the next you’re wishing you were long gone?”

  He understood. Her tension drained and she managed a smile.

  “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Any news?” Sophia asked James on Monday afternoon. The school building was far enough from the riverfront that she might have missed hearing a small boat.

  “No. It’s been quiet.” He helped her close the windows. He had dispensed with his vest and wore only a muslin shirt. In this heat, fashion and propriety surrendered to practicality. “I thought perhaps we would have more students now that the parents have seen the school is open. But instead many were missing.” Sophia poured the last few drops from the water bucket onto her wrists, trying to cool off from the oven-like heat. Unfortunately, discarding a few layers was not an option for women. Julia’s ointment had cured her mosquito bites’ hot itching, but the rest of her skin threatened to erupt in a heat rash any moment. “Have the Poncas gone on a hunt?”

  “Not without permission. Or horses.”

  He did not volunteer any theories, leaving Sophia to carry the conversation as they walked. “Well, I took advantage of the small class. Marguerite, Frank, and Joseph have been promoted to the second reader. Rosalie can now say the alphabet and Susette can write it as well. All can count to one hundred, write their numbers, and recognize coins.”

  Zlata and her puppies emerged from a cool hole under a bush. “Sit,” Sophia said, holding up a bit of leftover sandwich. Four furry bottoms hit the dirt.

  “All that, and you’ve taught the dogs English as well.”

  He gave her a sidelong glance, and Sophia couldn’t tell if he was praising her or mocking her. She handed out the treats to the dogs, who then joined their parade.

  The agent fell silent again as they walked, staring straight ahead.

  “James, what worries you?”

  “We haven’t seen anyone from Fort Randall. After the news, I expected them to step up their patrols.”

  Considering her experience with the soldiers at the fort, Sophia imagined them to be cowering under their beds or drowning their sorrows. “Perhaps they await orders.”

  “No. They have standing orders to protect us. And the settlers. Ah, that’s it. Bet they’re playing host to a bevy of homesteaders.”

  “You did not consider joining them?”

  He cocked a skeptical eyebrow at her. “You’ve met a few of their soldiers.”

  “Perhaps we should pray for them.” There, now she sounded like a missionary.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “After this battle with the Sioux, I expect there will be more talk about closing the Agency and moving the Poncas to Indian Territory.”

  “Close the Agency? But . . . this is their homeland.” How many decades had Lone Chief and his predecessors prayed over this land? Will said their burial ground was on the bluff. “Where is this ‘Indian Territory’?”

  “Six hundred miles south of here.”

  “A significant change in climate and vegetation.”

  James shrugged. “The Poncas have talked about leaving, maybe going to live with the Omaha tribe—they’re cousins of a sort. But Nebraskans are calling for all Indians to leave the state.”

  “Why? You said the Poncas are considered well on their way to becoming civilized.”

  “More civilized than some whites, but most don’t recognize that. This land is in demand for homesteading.”

  They emerged from the copse to a refreshing breeze off the river.

  Sophia waved at the surrounding green hills. “So much open space here. Should there not be room enough for all?”

  He swabbed his forehead with a dingy handkerchief. “In Indian Territory they’ll combine the Poncas with the other tribes already there. Save some tax dollars.” A muscle in James’s cheek twitched. “Congress voted to move the tribe.”

  “But the Indian Office just built a new school. It would not make any sense for them to close the Agency.”

  Will spotted them and waved, yelling about a problem at the mill. James loped off, yelling over his shoulder, “Next I suppose you’ll tell me the Russian government is always logical and efficient.”

  In the shade of the porch, Nettie shelled a large bowl of peas while Henry read the newspaper.

  “What is the news?” Sophia asked.

  “Our troops were massacred,” Henry muttered from behind the Yankton paper. “Five companies. Custer, his two brothers, nephew, and brother-in-law, all gone. The battlefield was a slaughter pen.”

  “They’re calling the Indians savages, saying it’s time to settle their barbaric roaming.” Nettie flung a pod into her bucket. She nodded at their neighbors’ pergola, where B
lack Elk played with White Buffalo Girl, lifting her over his head, blowing kisses on the baby’s belly until she giggled. “What worries me,” she said as another pod struck with a ping, “is that most white people can’t tell a Ponca from a potato.”

  Will hefted the dishpan and carried it outside to dump. A flicker on the bluff caught his attention. A prairie fire? He dropped the pan and dashed inside for his spyglass.

  “What is it?” James followed.

  “Bonfire.” He passed the glass.

  “May I see?” Sophia asked. She’d gone upstairs earlier and come down with a copy of Gulliver’s Travels for Bear Shield. “Oh, the Poncas seem to be having a party.”

  Henry took the spyglass from her. “Not their usual sun-worshipping.”

  Will yanked on his boots. He thought he was wise to the Poncas’ doings, that they’d taken him into their confidence, that they trusted him. But he hadn’t heard one word about a bonfire tonight.

  “May I come with you? I would like to see the top of the bluff.”

  “It’s not safe,” James and Henry said in unison.

  “Not much of a trail,” Will said. “And it’ll be night on the way back.”

  “I shall bring a lantern and my pistol.”

  “What?” all three men chorused.

  “Where did you get a pistol?” The agent loomed over her, as if his height might intimidate Sophia.

  “Monsieur LeGrand, the drummer.”

  “He’s a charlatan of the first degree. Probably took your money and left you a theater prop.”

  Sophia straightened. “I should say not. The pistol is accurate at fifty feet. And Monsieur LeGrand was quite fair in his negotiations.”

  “Accurate? That was you this morning?” Will asked.

  The rev growled. “Lucky you didn’t shoot your foot off.”

  “My father, Constantin Ilia Makinoff, instructed me in marksmanship.”

  “How much?” James asked. “What’d you pay him?”

  Before their eyes, Sophia transformed into Queen Victoria. She managed to look down at the agent, giving him a royal how-dare-you, even though James was a foot taller. “Exactly where did you grow up, Mr. Lawrence? I should like to know where it is considered acceptable behavior to make such inquiries.”

  “Fiendish dancing.” The rev returned the spyglass to Will, then marched off for the bluff. James took a few leaping steps, trying to escape Sophia and use his long legs to be first up the narrow path.

  “I love dancing.” Sophia took the lantern off the back porch and followed.

  Will joined the parade. “Only the men dance.”

  “I shall watch, then.”

  “They didn’t ask us to come.” Silly woman, sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. At the least he hoped she’d slow the rev down, but unfortunately she kept up, even on the steep scramble to the top.

  A skeeter-scatterer, as Will’s sister-in-law called the wind, blew off the heat of the day and cooled his sweat. The yellow dogs greeted them with wagging tails.

  “Zlata and her troika! Are you enjoying the party?” Sophia petted them, then stretched her arms out as if embracing the prairie. “It is beautiful. Like the Russian steppes.”

  “You Russians put steps in your hills?” the rev asked between huffing and puffing. He grabbed Thomas Jefferson as he darted by. “What is the meaning of this fracas?”

  “Treaty.” The child squirmed away. “Hi, Teacher!”

  “What treaty?” James gave up on his official pose to brace his hands on his knees and gasp for breath. “I didn’t sign”—he heaved again—“any treaty.”

  Will scanned the horizon. Sophia was right. It was beautiful. Evening’s sun turned the Missouri’s mud to gold and the sky to deep blue. Ponca Creek sparkled in from the south. Up here the reservation seemed peaceful. Up here the fallow fields, pastures emptied by the Brulé, and houses built of scrap didn’t show. “Stay with me,” he told Sophia, but he’d already lost her.

  “C’mon, Dunn. I need an interpreter.” The rev marched to the bonfire. God ought to blister Henry’s butt for failing to learn the language. But no, English-only was the policy until something needed to be said. Will wove his way through the dancers, keeping an eye out for the fearless, foolish teacher.

  The Poncas’ song sounded like the one Will had heard once before, when they’d brought home a buffalo. Five men sat around the big drum, keeping time. The rest circled the bonfire clockwise, doing their fancy footwork, shaking gourd rattles. They wore their traditional clothes, deerskin decorated with beads, feathered headdresses, breastplates of bone hair pipe, red face paint. Several had sleigh bells around their arms and legs. The women stood around the outside of the circle, holding children or clapping and stamping their feet. Everyone sang, raising their voices to the sky, thanking God for His care.

  The rev dragged Will into the circle, where he grabbed Lone Chief’s arm. If his plan was to block the dancers, it failed. The circle widened to accommodate the obstruction. The chief kept moving, towing Henry along.

  “What is the meaning of this heathen display?” the rev yelled. “I demand you stop! Immediately!”

  Will said in Ponca, “He wants you to stop.”

  Lone Chief removed the cedar whistle he’d been blowing and grinned. “So I guessed.”

  “What did he say?” The firelight and setting sun made the rev’s face look as red as the devil’s.

  “He knows you’re not happy.” The beat was contagious. Will’s feet moved in time.

  The rev waved his fists as if he’d like to grab the elder and give him a shaking. “Then why is he doing this?”

  Because your happiness is not his goal, Will thought. He turned to Lone Chief, wondering how to fit his carpenter’s vocabulary to the question. “Why?” He made a sweeping motion, encompassing the fire, the drummers, and the dancers.

  “We made a treaty with the Brulé. We bury the past to survive the future.”

  Will relayed that message.

  Henry whipped his head back and forth hard enough to make his hat fall off. He stabbed the air with his finger. “You can’t make a treaty without the government, without the Great White Father! Where is this treaty? Did you even write it down? Who witnessed it? You didn’t have permission to leave the Agency and the Brulé didn’t have permission to come here, so you’re all in violation.”

  Will boiled the tirade down. “He has many questions.”

  “Yes, he does.” Lone Chief nodded. “But now is the time to celebrate, to thank God for the end of the war.”

  “He said they’re thanking God the war’s over.”

  “He said the name of his God, not ours. This is a heathen ritual. It must stop. If they want to thank the one true God, they must come to church.” The rev pointed to the building at the base of the bluff.

  “Too small,” Lone Chief said in English. He shook off the rev and moved back into the flow of the dancers. Will made his escape. Henry made a “stop” motion at the drummers, who grinned and picked up the pace. He tried again with a cluster of dancers who waved back. Finally he stormed off. Sunday would bring a blistering sermon.

  Will had ventured an opinion once, that the Indian’s God and the white man’s God was the same, just that their name for Him was different and they worshipped differently. After all, Sunday mornings with the Baptists didn’t look the same as the Methodist song-fest or Episcopal hullabaloo.

  The rev had just about tarred and feathered Will, ranting that other denominations were on the ragged edge of salvation, hanging on to heaven by their fingernails. Will had better not be weakening the gospel message with any heresy. After all, he hadn’t been to seminary. What did a carpenter know anyway?

  The rev had been dispensed with, and James was watching the festivities with crossed arms. Will figured he’d best rescue Sophia from whatever trouble she’d gotten herself into—if he could find her in this crowd. The only people moving were the dancers, so Will stepped into the circle.

&nb
sp; “Welcome, brother!” Brown Eagle clapped him on the back. Will hadn’t recognized him under his headdress. “You do not dance?”

  “Not well.” Will tried to keep up with his friend’s footwork. “I look for the teacher.”

  “She is with my daughters.”

  Well then, he might as well dance. Will went around the circle twice until his feet stung. How did these men stomp in their moccasins? He waved to Brown Eagle and stepped out. Sophia had been on her feet all day. She might be ready to go too.

  A flickering outside the firelight caught his eye. Sophia’s hair had fallen out of its knot to form a gold cape down her back. She led a circle of girls, hands linked at shoulder height. They wheeled around, stepping and stomping. As the tempo changed, she showed them more moves, little kicks, stepping into the circle while making a bow over one arm, clapping overhead, spinning. Even though she danced beyond the light of the bonfire, beyond the lantern’s weak flame, her face glowed. She spotted Will and waved.

  “The beat is a little slow,” she said breathlessly, “but it is perfect for teaching.”

  “Shouldn’t the children be learning from their parents?”

  “But they do not have a dance for the girls.” She stopped and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Have I violated some cultural taboo? Or a religious rule? Episcopalians dance, do they not? But then, I suppose learning a Ukrainian dance will not help them become American.” She sighed. “Being a missionary is complicated.”

  Like the Poncas’ dance.

  During his growing-up years, Will’s older brother had coached him on how to behave at a dance, trying to break him of his bashfulness. He’d learned how to invite girls to dances, ask them to partner with him for the next set, and escort them home. Did any of those lessons apply here?