Edge of the Wilderness (18 page)

That had been a few days ago, Elliot thought as he sat alone in their tiny shack, worrying about Simon, worrying about Meg and Aaron’s future, and thoroughly terrified at the prospect of trying to court Miss Jane Williams. She would be polite, Elliot thought. She would hide her revulsion. But under no circumstances would she be interested in a freak. Elliot sighed and got up. He stepped outside and looked up at the moon. In the west, a bank of clouds was moving in. It had been a dry year. Elliot worried that just when he might have to convince Simon to return east for his health, it looked like it might snow. And he had heard about the storms that blew across this awful place.

Don’t let it happen, God, Elliot
prayed.
Not if we are going to need a doctor.

[Love] . . . seeketh not her own.”

—1 Corinthians 13:5

December 18, 1864

St. Louis, Missouri

Dear Miss Williams,

I have just returned from an extended trip abroad. How it is that of all my acquaintances in St. Louis, no one would have informed me of your notices in the newspaper, I cannot say. However, it appears that you may have my niece and nephew, Rebecca and Timothy Sutton, in your care.

Perhaps some family history is appropriate. My sister Felicia and I were twins. I regret to say that we caused our departed parents a great deal of stress for many reasons, not the least of which was their complete inability to understand the rather intense religious conversion Felicia and I experienced in our early twenties. Further difficulties arose when neither of us fulfilled our parents’ plans for our lives. They never forgave Felicia for marrying Philip Sutton against their wishes. When Felicia and Philip moved to the frontier, the estrangement worsened.

When I met and married my Richard, it was the final blow to our parents. They never accepted our marriages to men who would not be bullied into submission—men who shared Felicia’s and my commitment to personal Christianity. When both Richard and Philip staunchly maintained their own ideas of leadership and independence, when it became clear that we would not be living the life of ease our parents had provided, we were virtually disowned.

Once my husband, Richard, and I went abroad, Felicia and I were able to exchange a few letters. I even have a photograph or two of Rebecca and Timothy.

Felicia’s letters stopped abruptly at the end of 1862. My mother and father did inform me of Felicia’s and Philip’s deaths, which were a great shock to my parents, who were in ill health. I think they were terribly grieved by their obstinate behavior. In a letter to me after Felicia’s death, my mother sounded truly brokenhearted. While we were able to mend our relationship, both my parents succumbed to old age and illness within a few weeks of one another at the beginning of last year. I was indisposed at the time of their death and unable to make the long journey home to see to their affairs.

My husband and I have at last returned to St. Louis. Upon going through my parents’ papers (their house was closed up and has awaited my return for the finalization of business and estate matters), Richard and I became aware that the fate of Felicia’s children was not exactly known. We are unhappily childless, Miss Williams, and the prospect of finding Felicia’s children has ignited a flame of hope in our hearts that words are insufficient to relay. To think that our prayers for children may soon be answered is almost more than we can believe.

I enclose a photograph of myself and Richard. While my very human desire is to rush to St. Anthony and throw myself at Rebecca and Timothy, Richard has convinced me that we should pray and wait upon your wisdom as to how best to introduce them to the idea of a new family. Timothy is too young to remember me, but Rebecca might have a glimmer of recognition if you mention the lady who used to send the oranges. (I managed to have a crate or two delivered to the frontier.)

I am certain the children have become attached to you, and I am most concerned that after all they have endured, they be spared any more pain if at all possible. Not being familiar with your situation, I hesitate to request this, but I wonder if you would be able to consider traveling with them to St. Louis? We would be happy to provide your passage and a salary as their nurse until the children have made the adjustment to their new home.

No amount of money could possibly repay you for what you have done, Miss Williams, but we hope that the enclosed will in some measure assure you of our heartfelt gratitude and our goodwill. We also offer a letter from our dear Pastor Irvine as a sort of “recommendation” regarding our character and suitability as parents. We eagerly await your response.

Most Sincerely,

Fanny & Richard Laclede

Miss Jane Williams waited, her hands clenched, while Gen and Nina Whitney sat at the kitchen table leaning over the letter.

Gen held up a check. “It’s for a thousand dollars,” she said in disbelief.

“I know,” Miss Jane said. “Go ahead and read what Pastor Irvine says about them.”

After reading the letter, Nina said softly, “They sound too good to be true.”

“Yes,” Miss Jane said. She sat down abruptly. “It’s wonderful, don’t you think?” She looked from Gen to Nina before hiding her face in her hands and bursting into tears.

Gen put her arm around Miss Jane.

Miss Jane accepted Nina’s offered handkerchief and cried for a few moments before wiping her eyes and saying, “I—I’ve been praying for guidance. I’ve felt so at loose ends. I’ve felt almost trapped, and then guilty for feeling that way when Rebecca and Timothy need me. I’ve spent more nights than I care to admit pacing around my room, wishing I could return to the mission work, trying to be content if I don’t. And now, the Lord seems to be making the very thing I want possible and I dissolve in a puddle. Honestly!”

Nina spread the letter on the table and reread a few passages. “They sound like sincere Christians. And they are obviously well off.” She looked up. “What are you going to do?”

“Tell Rebecca and Timothy, of course.” Miss Jane took a deep breath. “It will help immensely if Rebecca has some memory of the oranges. It would at least be a connecting point.”

She pushed herself away from the table. Standing up, she balled Nina’s handkerchief into the palm of one hand. “I don’t see any reason to put this off.” And she headed up the back stairs to Rebecca’s room.

Rebecca Sutton had more than a vague memory of a woman sending oranges to her parents’ farm. “Mama talked about Aunt Fanny all the time,” Rebecca said. “She has dark, dark hair and eyes, just like Mama did. She married Richard and they went away to France. And they were very happy. We had their picture in an album that Mama kept in the bedroom.” She frowned. “But the Indians tore it all up when they killed Mama and Papa.” Her expression changed and she murmured, “I guess it burned up in the fire.” She looked at Miss Jane. “They burned lots of our things after they took Timothy and me. They made us watch.” Something glimmered in her eyes, and almost as if a switch had been turned, she changed the subject. “Mama said Aunt Fanny was the first one to learn to read, and the first one to say she loved Jesus. And she taught Mama to sing the doxology. They used to put on plays in the attic together . . .”

“Well,” Miss Jane said quietly, “I’m glad to see you remember so much, because your Aunt Fanny wants you and Timothy to come live with her in St. Louis.”

The two children looked at one another. After a moment of silence, Timothy frowned and said, “Don’t
you
want us Auntie Jane?”

Miss Jane suppressed a sob. She hugged Timothy. “Oh, you dear boy. Of
course
I want you. But I’m just a poor spinster. Your aunt and uncle have been very sad for a long time because God hasn’t given them any babies.”

“God hasn’t given
you
any babies, either,” Timothy said abruptly. “If we go away, you’ll be all alone.”

Rebecca gave her brother a little shove. “You have to be
married
to get babies, Timothy. And anyway, when Miss Jane goes back to the mission she’ll have lots of Dakota children to love.” Rebecca looked up at Jane. “Isn’t that right, Aunt Jane?”

Jane nodded. “I’ve been asking God to show me what I should do. Not just about you dear children, but about many, many things. And I think if He gives you a wonderful new home in St. Louis, perhaps that means I am supposed to return to the reservation and teach again.”

“What if we don’t like St. Louis?” Rebecca asked abruptly.

“I think you will like it very much,” Miss Jane said quickly. “I’ll be coming with you to make certain.”

“You’re coming too?” Timothy asked.

Miss Jane nodded. “Just to help you get settled.”

Rebecca and Timothy sat side by side on the edge of Timothy’s bed, thinking. Finally, Rebecca looked up. “I’d like to meet Aunt Fanny,” she said with confidence. “Mama always said I’d like her a lot. She didn’t say too much about Uncle Richard. But we’ll try him, too.” She hesitated before adding, “I’ve been worried you would go back to the Indians and take us there.” Her voice lowered a moment as she said, “Please don’t be mad at me, Aunt Jane, but—I don’t want to go back to the Indians.” She shivered. “I’d be scared all the time.”

Miss Jane knelt down and put her arms around both children. “Thank you for telling me that, Rebecca. I’m sorry you’ve been worried.” She cupped Rebecca’s chin in her palm and touched her nose. “I’ll go right to the telegraph office and let your aunt and uncle know that we want them to come as soon as possible.”

The children bounded off the bed and out into the hall. Rebecca hurried downstairs to tell Meg and Aaron the news. Timothy followed, obviously deep in thought. At the top of the stairs, he turned around. His dark eyes flashed as he said, “If I don’t like St. Louis, I’ll come find you. They won’t stop me. I won’t be afraid of the Indians, and I won’t let them stop me!”

“If you don’t like your new home, Timothy,” Miss Jane said solemnly, “I will personally come and get you.”

“Promise?”

Miss Jane nodded. “Absolutely.”

With that, Timothy followed his sister downstairs. Miss Jane donned her wrap and hat. By the time she reached the telegraph office, she had almost stopped crying. She told herself on the way back to the Whitneys’ that the tears were tears of joy. Over the next few days, she said it often enough that she began to believe it.

Delight thyself also in the L
ORD
; 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.