Through Rushing Water Part 3

"As teaching duties permit, I would be glad to serve as your sous chef. " At the woman's expression of incomprehension, Sophia corrected herself. "Your a.s.sistant. But I must warn you, I have little experience in the kitchen. For the health of the staff, close supervision is required."

The plank table had been set with white ironstone plates and steel cutlery. The red-and-white checked napkins matched the curtains. Sophia chose a seat by the window, giving her a good view of the action.

Coats and hats removed, the reverend and the agent attempted to barge through the doorway at the same time. When they realized Sophia was watching them, they paused.

"After you."

"No, no. Go ahead."

"Thank you." The reverend-Henry-the one with the thick beard, entered. He proceeded directly to the chair next to Sophia at the end of the table.

The agent, the tall one, James, considered his move with all the care of a grand chess master, then sat at the opposite end from the minister. Secular balancing spiritual.

Will, the carpenter, arrived next, taking the seat beside Sophia. Nettie sat opposite.

The reverend recited grace with thanks for the safe arrival of the teacher. Sophia crossed herself before the others opened their eyes, too travel-weary for a theological discussion.

Everyone at the table ate the chicken with their fingers. Feeling quite primitive, Sophia dispensed with utensils and did the same.

"Makinoff." Nettie pa.s.sed the asparagus. "Could that be Russian?"

"You are correct. I lived in Russia until I was sixteen."

Henry choked. "You're Russian? What was the Mission Board thinking?"

"I wondered that myself," Sophia said. "Perhaps my experience learning English and a new culture will be of benefit to the students."

"Russian? Aren't they . . ." The reverend traced the shape with his fingers. "What are those onion-domes?"

"Cupolas. It is a style of building. The equivalent of a steeple."

Henry's scowl deepened. "You're Christian, right? The Mission Board wouldn't send us a-"

"Yes, of course. I grew up in the Orthodox Church, which is the keeper of the true faith since Rome broke away and Constantinople was seized."

This revelation earned her more frowns than friends.

"I have attended Episcopalian services since arriving in this country." And G.o.d had been with her all along, a detail of little interest to these men.

"Keeper of the true faith?" The reverend bristled.

"You speak good English." The agent interrupted with rusty flattery. "Been in America long?"

Sophia responded to the easier question. "Since 1870. We lived in Paris a few years, traveled a bit, then landed in New York."

James leaned back and studied her through narrowed eyes. "Wandering like a gypsy."

"I am most certainly not a gypsy." She straightened. He had never seen a Romani if he mistook her for one. "I enjoy discovering new places."

"I went to New York once," the agent said. "They were having a riot about the draft."

"Fortunately we arrived after the end of the war."

"You and-"

"My father. He has since departed this earth."

"I'm so sorry," Nettie said.

A thump under the table indicated she kicked her son, who choked out, "My condolences."

"Have you done any teaching?" James asked.

"Yes. Most recently at a women's college in New York."

"There's a college for women?" Henry asked. "What for?"

"Our graduates occupy a variety of jobs: physician, princ.i.p.al, author, lecturer, bookkeeper, settlement worker, chemist, editor."

Worry lines creased Nettie's forehead. "With a background like yours, you're probably used to fancy food."

"Not at all. The College believes simple meals are best." Sophia indicated her empty plate with a turn of her wrist. "Everything was delicious."

"Well then." Straightening her shoulders, Nettie brought out a custard pie and sliced it into pieces.

Perhaps having to share the food with one more person generated tension within the staff. Or perhaps the addition of an available female transformed them into rutting stallions.

Certainly she would do her best to turn their opinion around, in whatever brief time she might have to stay here. She turned to the agent. "And the students? They are all from here?"

"Pretty much." James rested his large head on extended fingers. "The villages s.h.i.+fted a bit over the years, but they've always lived near where the Niobrara meets the Missouri. The Ponca tribe today consists of 730 peaceable, well-behaved Indians."

"And how many poorly behaved ones?" Sophia could not resist the jest. The agent's face flushed, and she hastened to soothe him. "Perhaps I will have a few mischievous children in school."

"You will," Henry said. "Indian parents rarely exercise control over their children, believing they develop best if left to themselves."

James straightened, attempting to tower over her without standing. "I taught a cla.s.s of seventeen girls and thirty-three boys in '71. We had no discipline problems."

"Coffee?" Nettie waved the pot like a truce flag.

"Is there tea?" Sophia asked before she thought better of it. The question earned indignant scowls from the men at the table. "Coffee will be fine."

Reverend Granville grabbed control of the conversation. "Our mission here at the Ponca Agency is to turn these Indians into Christian American farmers, prepared to a.s.sume their place in society as productive members of our great land."

He paused for a breath. "American?" Sophia asked. "Are they not American by virtue of residency on this continent?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the carpenter smile. James shook his head. "He means citizens of the United States."

"They are not?"

"No. Each tribe was a separate nation. But now, after the treaty, they are wards of the government."

"You must speak to them in English only," the reverend said. "Not French. And do not attempt to learn their language." He glared at Will, who stacked the plates and took them to the dishpan without responding.

"My teaching materials are all in English."

Sophia had more questions, but fatigue was rapidly overtaking her. The brief acquaintance with these men told her another opportunity would present itself soon enough.

The teacher stood. "If you will excuse me, please," she said. "It has been a difficult journey, and if I am to teach tomorrow, what I really need is to sleep."

"Seasick?" Will asked.

She shook her head, loosening a few curls from her hairpins. "I traveled the North Atlantic with ease. But this steams.h.i.+p . . . there was no way to lock the stateroom door."

At least she got a stateroom. Will had slept on a bag of flour, between stacks of lumber that threatened to crash down on him when the boat lurched. The guy in the next bedroll was on the run from the law in Indiana. The fellow on the other side had been jailed in Missouri for public intoxication and busied himself continuing the practice.

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, Va.s.sar 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 Brule 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 p.r.i.c.kly 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 Brule, 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 ba.s.s 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 rea.s.signment 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 was.h.i.+ng up from a pitcher and bowl was woefully ineffective. How long would she have to endure such conditions?