Through Rushing Water (14 page)

Henry grunted, as close as he would come to agreeing with her, then turned to the hymn. He gave the opening chord and the students came to attention.

“My country 'tis of thee . . .” They started tentatively. And as well they might. Was it really their country?

“Sweet land of liberty . . .” In their short lives, the tribe had lost considerable liberty.

“Land where my fathers died . . .” At least that line applied.

“Land of the pilgrims' pride . . .” How did they feel about the pilgrims, those early invaders?

“From every mountainside, let freedom ring!”

Would freedom be possible for the Poncas? What would freedom look like for them?

The second verse spoke of love for their native country with its hills and woods. The students' voices gave their best to this verse.

Henry launched into the third verse, then realized the children had finished, and sounded a belated final chord. The parents applauded and the children dispersed to their families.

“Thank you for accompanying us.”

“That song has four verses,” Henry snapped.

Nettie stepped between them to hug Sophia. “And your students learned half of them. In only a day. Well done! Few Americans know that much by heart.”

The congregation exited the church.

“Teacher.” John Adams tugged on her elbow. “This is my aunt. She wants a dress like her sister, Julia.”

“I am so sorry.” Sophia clasped the woman's hands and tried to remember the words Will used. “The dresses were all given out. I have written letters to friends in New York, requesting more.” And fabric for more practical garments, such as underclothes.

Soon she was surrounded by women from Point Village and Hubdon, asking, she assumed, about dresses. They would not look her in the eye, but had no reservations about lifting her skirt to examine her shoes, fingering the trim on her sleeve, and touching her hair. Sophia had pared down her wardrobe to modest, simple designs and sober colors, befitting a missionary. But for those who had so little, it must seem an abundance of wealth.

A middle-aged woman towed a tall boy into the group. “Hello, Teacher. I am Bear Shield.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Shield.” Sophia was delighted to meet anyone capable of interpreting.

The boy put in requests on behalf of the women, who then hurried to the pit where Will carved slices of beef that James served with biscuits.

Bear Shield, however, stayed fixed in place. He looked down at his toes and scuffed a foot in the dirt. “Do you have any books?”

Sophia blinked, then smiled. “You like to read?”

Bear Shield knew words to warm a teacher's heart. “Yes, but I might forget if I do not practice.”

“I would be glad to have you attend school.”

He shook his head. “I must help my father farm.”

She nodded. A head taller than her oldest student, he would not fit in. “What reader did you complete?”

“I do not remember. I read the story of Jesus and the blind man.”

“The fourth reader. Excellent. Yes, I will find a book for you. Could you stop by the agency house this evening?”

Bear Shield agreed, then galloped off to eat.

Nettie linked arms with Sophia. “When I'm surrounded by people all asking for one thing or another, I remember how the crowds followed Jesus during His time on earth. No wonder He went away alone sometimes.”

“Yes, it is fatiguing.” Sophia paused to catch her breath. “Will warned me not to show favoritism.”

“I wish I'd heeded his warning. Put your money toward one small problem and you've soon got a hundred big problems on your hands.” Nettie's shoulders slumped as if the entire weight of the tribe rested on her. “Take your moment, then come eat.”

Below them the entire tribe assembled in one large picnic. Families sat on the grass to eat and visit. Young children raced between groups. Julia and the other elegantly dressed women fluttered, showing off their finery. Zlata and her puppies circled, watching for anyone who did not have a good grip on his sandwich. The sun shone over all, as American as any picnic. All they lacked was a baseball game.

Perhaps the New York teams might donate their old uniforms and equipment. Perhaps baseball fans could donate clothing to the tribe. Why should she limit her requests for help to churches?

But none of this would happen if she went to China.

A steamboat sounded upriver. Sophia hurried into the house for her letters.

James reached the river's edge first. “Something's wrong,” he said in an undertone.

Soldiers with rifles lined the boat's decks. The man in the pilothouse, whose job it was to watch the river for sawyers and sandbars, was flanked by more riflemen studying the bluffs through spyglasses.

The landing stage extended, and the captain met them halfway. He leaned close, face grim. “Indians on the warpath. Custer got wiped out, scalped, him and the whole entire Seventh Cavalry. I'd advise you and the missus”—he nodded at Sophia—“and any other Americans, to evacuate.”

Sophia chilled. Her hand, of its own volition, touched the nape of her neck.

“What the—” James sputtered.

“How far away is the battlefield?” Sophia asked. “Were there wounded?”

“No, ma'am. Not a one left. It was a massacre. Way up off the Yellowstone River, in Montana, thousand miles or so.” The captain jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

For the third time today Sophia was reminded of Russia: here, too, the rivers crossed extraordinary distances.

The captain wiped his brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Go round up the rest, get packing. I'll wait half an hour. No more. Want to get as far downriver as I can before nightfall.”

Were they in that much danger that they should leave immediately? Did the warpath lead here?

White Swan and several other men brought out drums and began pounding out a four-beat rhythm. Were they signaling other tribes, making plans to continue the slaughter?

Perhaps she could do more good for them by going east to collect the supplies they needed. She could speak to the government officials she had met at Montgomery Hill, travel to Washington City even. She could bathe in a proper tub and catch up on her newspaper reading.

“I'll tell the others,” James said.

Sophia turned to follow. A colorful flash caught her eye—Julia in her new dress. Rosalie crowned Moon Hawk's baby girl with a circlet of yellow flowers. Frank and Joseph ran a three-legged race against the Adams brothers. Lone Chief and Little Chief stood by the church, arms raised in prayer.

Sophia put her letter to the Mission Board in her pocket, then handed the rest of her correspondence and a dime to the captain. “I will be staying. If you would please post these, I would be ever so grateful. And now, if you will excuse me.”

“Hey, lady,” yelled a private. “You want to be scalped like Custer?”

She supposed she should make some missionary comment about God's will, but she was not in the mood. She was no stranger to death. She had seen battlefields in Crimea and Caucasia. Fathers, brothers, sons. Bodies destroyed by cannon fire, scattered across fields, stacked like hay. Blood running in the trenches. The wounded crying for release. And the smell—

Sophia hurried toward the latrine. Too late. The side of the house was as far as her feet managed before her stomach rebelled at the nightmare memories.

“Sophia?” Will touched her shoulder. She shook her head and tried to wave him away, but he did not leave.

“Here.” He held out a dipper of fresh water. “You're staying?”

She took the water, rinsed her mouth, and nodded. “Yes. I find I have fallen in love.”

He froze with his hand reaching out toward the dipper. “With James?”

“Perish the thought.” She placed the dipper in his hand. “With the Poncas. With little Rosalie and her siblings, Moon Hawk and her daughter, Julia and baby Timothy, Lone Chief.”

Will's eyes locked on her face. One eyebrow rose, and he nodded. Had she finally met with his approval?

“Perhaps I cannot accomplish anything as grand as my father's freeing the serfs, but I will do my best. And you? Are you staying?”

“Yes.” He studied the bluffs. “Lone Chief says it was the Cheyenne and the Lakota, relatives of the Brulé. The Poncas won't be siding with the likes of them.”

“He knew?” Her stomach settled.

Will nodded but did not elaborate. “If you're all right, I'll go see what Henry and Nettie have decided.”

She pushed off the wall. “I shall come with you.”

The church bell rang. Faces grim, the villagers hurried to the building.

Henry sat with his head bowed, fists clenched between his knees until James thumped his shoulder. The reverend dragged himself to the pulpit. He opened the Book of Common Prayer, then with a slow shake of his head, set it aside. “Dear brothers and sisters in Christ.” He scanned the congregation, tears in his eyes. “Sad news has reached us this morning of a horrible battle upriver. Let us join together in prayer.”

He bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, we lift up to You the souls of those lost in this violence, that You would conduct them to Your heavenly gates with due dispatch . . . er, quickly. We pray for those who were injured, that they will find relief from pain. We pray for the families of those lost in this battle, that You would comfort them. And we pray for the government in Washington City, that they will make wise decisions in the face of this tragedy. Help us labor together for peace. In Your name, amen.” He led them in singing “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.”

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?”