Edge of the Wilderness

Nineteen


Delight thyself also in the LORD; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.

—Psalm 37:4

Winter, which had lulled the residents of St. Anthony into thinking it might be mild, arrived with a vengeance. Thermometers dropped to forty below zero and then froze solid. Business on Main Street slowed to a trickle. Even Christmas failed to bring the locals out in force. At the Whitneys’, the holiday was celebrated quietly with little emphasis on the few homemade gifts exchanged, but great emphasis on cookie baking and games, the love of God’s family for one another, and the love of God for them all.

Aaron complained of having to thrust his legs into what he called “hollow icicles” each morning, but after hearing Samuel Whitney’s Christmas sermon on the manger in a stable, he began to get up early and start a fire in the kitchen stove while the household slept.

The rest of the children got in the habit of leaping out of bed each morning and racing down to the kitchen half-dressed, where they huddled around the stove pulling on stockings and thawing out shoes while Aaron heated water for hot cocoa and tea. He learned to make coffee and began leaving a steaming cup outside Gen’s door early every morning.

When the cold did not abate, Samuel Whitney hitched up a rickety sleigh and began to haul neighborhood children to school a half mile away. The corporate transportation had the effect of familiarizing the town’s permanent residents with “those missionary kids.”

As she had at the Dakota Mission, Miss Jane took to keeping her pockets stuffed with nuts and other small treats for the children. She met the sleigh each day and quizzed the children as they descended. Every correct answer to her scholarly challenges won a treat. By the beginning of February, “those Injun-lovers that bought Avery Criswell’s rundown place” had become simply, “the neighbors”—and good ones at that.

Once the river had iced over and steamship travel halted, St. Anthony no longer received its weekly mail delivery. The Lacledes sent a telegram:

Rejoicing at news. Love to children. Arriving on first steamship in spring.

Fanny & Richard Laclede

Miss Jane replied:

Train available St. Paul to St. Anthony. Eight departures daily. Less than an hour from station. Children excited. Rebecca remembers Aunt Fanny.

Miss Jane Williams

A flurry of telegrams ensued.

Will you come to St. Louis? Will make room adjoining children’s suite ready.

The Lacledes



Yes to St. Louis. No special treatment necessary. Happy to be of help. Funds used to give children special Christmas. Most retained in their name at bank.

Miss Jane Williams



Funds meant for you as well. Please telegraph for more when needed.

Fanny & Richard



Will discuss’ monetary issues after you arrive. Children well.

Jane



On Valentine’s Day, Rebecca and Timothy sent their own telegram.

Your favorite color, please. And does Uncle Richard smoke?

The reply came:

Favorite color red. No smoking.

Rebecca and Timothy made gifts for their aunt and uncle. Miss Jane began to make plans for her return to mission work. Aaron and Meg earned certificates for outstanding scholarship. Hope chased up and down the stairs and halls and learned to turn somersaults. Samuel and Nina Whitney selected a board of directors for their boarding school and made plans to open for their first session the following fall.

And Gen worried. That Elliot Leighton, who sneered when he said the word Indian, would be a hindrance rather than a help. That Simon would overdo. That supplies would run out and snows would hem them in and leave them vulnerable to illness and starvation.

When the thermometer stayed below zero and snows deepened, the boarders at the Whitneys’ were housebound for days at a time. Gen grew restless. Whenever she thought about spring something tightened in her midsection. Samuel and Nina had plans for their boarding school. Miss Jane had plans to go to St. Louis. Only she did not have a clear vision of what the future held.

Every day when she rose, Gen prayed that God would make her His servant. She prayed to be a good mother. And she prayed to love Simon Dane. She bowed her conscious mind and her will to doing love. But at night, when she dreamed, it was not Simon who came toward her in the moonlight.



Less than a week after he carried an ailing Simon to Mother Friend’s tepee, Elliot was awakened by the sound of someone pounding on his cabin door. “I’m doing all I can, Reverend. I don’t want ’em to freeze to death either.”

Realizing it must be Simon, Elliot jumped out of bed, cursing his missing hand as he clumsily tried to pull on his drawers and simultaneously get to the door. He flung the door open just in time to admit a blanket-clad Simon Dane.

Once inside, Simon pushed the blanket away from his head and let it fall around his shoulders. He was thinner than ever, and he coughed a little, but there was purpose in his gleaming eyes as he said, “I need to talk to you.”

A knock sounded at the door and Simon admitted an old brave Elliot recognized as Ironheart, one of the few Dakota near the reservation who spoke fluent English.

Elliot snatched his prosthesis up off the floor, fumbling with the buckles on the leather straps. Simon added wood to the small stove in the corner of the room and sat on the edge of his cot.

Ignoring Elliot’s obvious self-consciousness about his disability, Ironheart touched the hook and pressed on the stuffed false forearm. “Not bad.” Looking at Elliot with honest curiosity, he asked, “White man make legs too?”

Elliot nodded, “Yes.”

“I hear many white men lose legs in that war they are having toward the rising sun.”

“The War of the Rebellion,” Elliot provided the name for what would one day be called the Civil War. He buckled the last buckle attaching the prosthesis to his upper arm and then shrugged into his shirt. “Yes, many terrible wounds have been inflicted.”

Ironheart asked, “Is it true that those white men make war by standing with shoulders touching and walking toward the enemy?”

“That’s the way it’s done.” Elliot began the laborious process of buttoning the row of buttons down the front of his shirt. He looked at Simon. “Something tells me you didn’t bring Ironheart over here to discuss battle strategies.” He threw some coffee grounds into a pot and set it on the stove. “I’m sorry I wasn’t prepared for company.” He looked at Simon. “It’s good to see you feeling better.”

Simon’s voice was hoarse, but other than that and a slight cough, he was much improved. “It would appear, brother-in-law, that you owe Mother Friend an apology.”

“I didn’t say anything to offend her.”

Simon chuckled. “You didn’t have to say anything. She knows exactly what you thought about her treatment—which, by the way, is a time-proven remedy—unlike some of the things the last white doctor I saw tried.” He grimaced. “Downing a fingerful of goose grease followed by a teaspoonful of turpentine.” He made a gagging sound and shuddered dramatically.

“All right, Simon, all right. Once again I stand corrected on my opinion of all things Dakota.” Leighton sat down and motioned for Ironheart to join them. “What is it?”

“Ironheart’s band is leaving the reservation,” Simon said calmly.

Elliot stared, dumbfounded, at Simon. “Leaving? When? For where? Why?” He shook his head and waved one hand in the air. “Never mind. I understand why.” He nodded at Ironheart. “But where can you possibly go that’s any better?”

“We are going home,” Ironheart said. His eyes glittered with determination. “The white man is not going to let, us live. We see now that anywhere he takes us, it will be only to watch us die.” He sat up straight, placing a hand on each knee. His voice was tinged with sadness. “We have no quarrel with the white man. We have always been his friend. If he had brought us to a place where we could live, we would plow the earth and do as he says. We would learn to live as he wishes. But in this place, there is nothing. Mother Earth is barren. Some of our people stayed in Minnesota near Faribault. Some near the Redwood. We wish to be near them. Then as we die, our brothers will bury us with our fathers.”

Ironheart spoke for a long time. He talked about his childhood in the Big Woods, about the changes that came upon the people. He spoke of the coming of the missionaries, of the reservation, of broken treaties and injustice. He was not complaining, Elliot realized, only telling the history of his people; because of some impossible generosity, he really wanted Elliot to understand what was in his heart.

The man’s tale carried Elliot back to the days in the army hospital when he had ridden the roller coaster of betrayal and anger and rage against the men in his regiment who turned and fled in the face of death. Unlike the Brady Jensens Elliot had known, Ironheart was looking death in the face, walking toward it, accepting it—and yet wresting a semblance of his own terms from it. It was a humbling kind of courage.

Cold air blew in between the unchinked logs in the little shack, and Elliot shivered. The wind has shifted, he thought.

As if he could read Elliot’s mind, Ironheart said quietly, “This dryness is about to change. We must leave before the snow. At sundown tonight we will be going.”

Simon broke in. “The plan is to leave the tepees and tents here. It will be a while tomorrow before anyone knows they are gone. If the snow moves in as expected, I doubt Agent Finley will risk any soldiers to come after us. He doesn’t care that much about his Indian charges.”

“Us?” Elliot looked from Simon to Ironheart and back at Simon.

“The thought is that if we travel with them, they’ll be less likely to get killed by some overzealous settler.” Simon hurried to add, “I had to talk nearly half the night to convince Ironheart to let us go along. He doesn’t like the idea. He’s afraid that if any harm comes to us, the army will use the excuse to kill them all. But then I suggested that we might be useful in other ways.” He paused and waited for Elliot to absorb the information.

“How many people are we talking about?” Elliot asked.

“Less than a dozen,” Simon said quickly. “They have a few ponies. You’d be amazed at what they can fit on a travois.”

“How far is it to the Redwood?”

Ironheart said something in Dakota that made Simon laugh. He translated, “He says ten days or less for Indians. Two weeks for whites.”

Standing up, Elliot reached for an old carpetbag sitting on the floor. He took out a cigar and, opening the stove door, lit it. He had just sat back and prepared to draw on the cigar when he caught something in Ironheart’s expression. He handed the cigar to the old man, who drew on the cigar and exhaled slowly, obviously savoring the flavor of the fine tobacco. He ceremoniously passed it back to Elliot.

“Keep it,” Elliot said.

“No,” Simon said quickly. “Share it. Ironheart honors you.”

Frowning slightly, Elliot obeyed, then passed the cigar back to Ironheart; who took another draw and passed it to Simon. To Elliot’s amazement, Simon puffed on the cigar without collapsing into a fit of coughing. The men sat quietly until the cigar was a glowing stub. When Elliot finally got up and tossed the butt into the stove, Ironheart stood up to go.

“I will knock,” he rapped a distinctive beat on the door. He looked at Simon. “You will see no one, but you will know what to do.”

Simon nodded. When Ironheart had gone, the two men sat talking for a long while.

“If these people were the warriors who had started this whole mess, I wouldn’t give them any quarter,” Elliot said. “I’d be the loudest advocate of the most overwhelming force. But standing by and watching defenseless and innocent people die sickens me.” He stopped abruptly. “One question,” he raised his eyebrows and looked at Simon. “What happens after we get to the Redwood?”

“You and I keep going. All the way home.”

“You mean back to St. Anthony?”

Simon nodded. “If the weather allows it. We’ll get another supply train together and do our best to get back to the reservation as quickly in the spring as possible. We’ll organize a letter-writing campaign to Washington.” He stood up and began to pace back and forth across the tiny room. “I want to see Finley gone. He’s nearly heartless. The idea of Sibley being allowed to take troops away from here is ridiculous.” He pounded his open palm with his fist. “Someone has to get them to listen. Someone.”

Elliot went to Simon and put his hand on his shoulder. “Someone will,” he said resolutely.

Simon looked up at him. “Are you telling me that you are willing to be that someone?”

“Perhaps I am,” Elliot mumbled. He lifted his left arm and slapped his prosthesis. “It is one thing this wouldn’t interfere with. In fact, if I were to don my old uniform, I suspect I could get through a few closed doors in Washington.”

Simon slapped him on the back. “Thanks be to God, Elliot. Thanks be to God.”

“Don’t be too premature on the thankfulness,” Elliot warned. “I haven’t done anything yet. And we still have to keep from getting frozen or killed in the next two weeks.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I am doing this. It’s insane.”