The White Oneida Read online

  Edward and Abraham sat down, each one’s face a mask of stony indifference. Two unsmiling maids wearing white mobcaps set to work with scissors. After they had finished trimming Edward’s and Abraham’s hair, Broken Trail and Samuel took their places.

  No bowl was needed for Broken Trail’s hair. He sat quietly while the maid destroyed his overgrown scalp lock, his brown hair falling on the floor to mix with the black clippings already there. When she had finished, he put his hand to his head. His hair was now the same length all over. As he rose from the stool, it occurred to him that this was the same kind of haircut his white mother used to give him long ago, when he was a little boy back in Canajoharie.

  Samuel smiled at his appearance. “Your head looks like a burr.” After supper later in the day, Broken Trail led Dark Cloud from the stable. Exercise was what the horse needed, and so did he. One mile down the road to Wickham and one mile back would clear the clouds from his mind. Dark Cloud needed no urging. Being cooped up in a box stall all day was no life for a spirited stallion. Broken Trail took him at a gallop all the way to Wickham, turned around and started back, easing the pace to a brisk trot.

  They were halfway back when Broken Trail saw Mr. Sinclair walking toward him.

  Broken Trail gave a wave.

  Whether Mr. Sinclair didn’t recognize him or whether he was lost in thought, it took a moment for him to return the greeting with a brief nod. Broken Trail received the impression that Mr. Sinclair was not pleased to see him. This was strange. Until now, Mr. Sinclair had been the friendliest of all the teachers.

  After the ride, the curfew bell rang just as Broken Trail opened the Cabin Five door.

  His cabin mates—all except Peter—were talking. The moment he stepped inside, they stopped.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” said Samuel.

  “We might as well tell him,” said Jacob. He turned to Broken Trail. “We’re going to Wickham on a frolic.”

  “Oh,” said Broken Trail. “All of you?”

  “Certainly not me!” Peter’s gaze swept over the others. “I’ve told them it’s wickedness and folly.”

  Abraham gave a guffaw. “Peter, you sound just like Dudgeon.”

  “We’ve been cooped up since Sugar Moon,” Samuel said. “That’s a long time. Everybody’s forgotten about the last frolic. Nobody will notice.”

  Silence followed.

  Finally Jacob said, “Well, Moses, do you want to come?”

  He did not sound eager, and that suited Broken Trail fine. He was certain that the pathway of his life did not run through the inn at Wickham.

  “No. I’ll stay here.”

  “Will you give your word that you won’t tell anyone?” Jacob asked.

  “You have my word.”

  Edward snorted. “The word of a white man means nothing.”

  Broken Trail clenched his fists. No point in saying anything. He didn’t want to start a fight.

  “I believe Moses,” said Jacob. “It’s Mr. Sinclair I’m worried about.”

  “If he’s there, we’ll pretend not to see him,” said Samuel, “and he’ll pretend not to see us.”

  They left after a few moments, leaving Broken Trail and Peter behind.

  “The Lord will punish them,” Peter said darkly.

  “What’s this about Mr. Sinclair?” Broken Trail asked. “While I was out riding just before curfew, I saw him walking down the road to Wickham. Surely he doesn’t go to frolics!”

  Broken Trail remembered President Webber’s description: “a gathering with spirituous liquor, lewd dancing, and rude conduct late into the night.” He could not picture the pale young teacher cavorting in such a manner.

  “Not frolics. Mr. Sinclair plays cards for money in a back room at Wickham Inn. The students know he gambles, though he may think we don’t. We all want to protect him because he’s the fairest teacher in the school. He’ll lose his position if President Webber finds out.”

  “Do the other teachers know?”

  “They must, but they keep it to themselves. I once overheard him ask Mr. Johnson to lend him money. Mr. Sinclair looked frightened. They stopped talking as soon as they saw I was close enough to overhear. On the nights when Sinclair goes to Wickham, he often doesn’t return until Prayers Before Sunrise. I’ve seen him sneaking back.” Peter paused. “When he first came here, he had a horse. A good bay mare. He lost it at cards. Now the local barrel maker rides the mare while Mr. Sinclair goes about on foot. Someday he’ll have nothing left to lose.”

  “But he keeps on gambling?” To Broken Trail this seemed unbelievable.

  “He must think that if he keeps at it long enough, he’ll win everything back.”

  Broken Trail lay on his bed, his arms folded under his head. “They’re all taking a gamble. I don’t just mean Mr. Sinclair. The boys, too. If they’re caught, they’ll be expelled. I don’t suppose Abraham cares, but the others seem to.”

  “You’re wrong about Abraham. He’ll be in disgrace if he’s sent home. There’s no rich patron to pay Abraham’s fees. His band made a big sacrifice to send him here. None of their elders can read or write. They count on him to be their negotiator when he finishes school. They chose him because he was the brightest of their young warriors.”

  “He doesn’t look too bright to me. If he doesn’t want to be expelled, why does he act as he does?”

  “He likes taking risks. That’s the way he is.” Peter rolled over. “Enough talk. I’m going to sleep. Prayers Before Sunrise comes soon enough.”

  Broken Trail wondered when the frolickers would return from Wickham. If they were to be fit for school the next day, they should not stay out long.

  He dozed off.

  Suddenly the cabin door burst open, jarring him awake.

  Abraham and Samuel staggered inside. Abraham was supporting Samuel.

  “Samuel’s been shot,” said Abraham. “Build up the fire. We need light.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Afterwards

  PETER KNELT BY the fireplace and blew the embers into flame while Abraham and Broken Trail pulled off Samuel’s shirt.

  There was a bullet hole in the soft flesh just below his left shoulder, and a larger hole at the back where the bullet had exited.

  “You’re lucky it went through,” Broken Trail said. “Less chance of infection.”

  Samuel grimaced. “I’d be luckier if I hadn’t been shot.”

  Broken Trail saw no point in commenting on that. He had seen wounds where the bullet had gone through vital organs, or shattered bone, or caused death from loss of blood. This one could be managed.

  As soon as he had the fire blazing, Peter came to take a look. “Can you lift your arm?”

  Samuel raised his arm a little before it fell back. “Fine,” said Peter. “No tendon severed. Now remain still.” He pulled his box from under his bed and began to tear a shirt into strips.

  “What happened?” Broken Trail asked Abraham, whose clothes were nearly as bloody as Samuel’s.

  “We were in the front room at the inn. A fiddler was playing. Samuel and I were leaning against the back wall, watching the dancing. We were outside the door to the card room. We heard Mr. Sinclair’s voice inside. He said, ‘My trick.’ Or something like that.

  “A little later he came out with a big smile on his face. He sidled close to the wall, looking like he was trying to sneak away without anybody noticing him. After he’d left the inn, Samuel and I heard the men in the card room cursing and swearing. They called Mr. Sinclair a cheating rogue. Then they came out. Three men. One had a rifle.

  “I said to Samuel, ‘They’re going after him to take back the money he won.’ Samuel said, ‘We better follow them.’ So we left.”

  “Did you tell Jacob and Edward you were leaving the inn?” Peter asked.

  “No. If they hadn’t noticed Mr. Sinclair was there, we weren’t going to mention it. Besides, we didn’t want to lose any time. We knew he must be going along t
he road, because he doesn’t know our path through the woods.

  “When we caught up to him, the men already had him on the ground. They were kicking him. He wasn’t moving. Samuel and I hid in the bushes. We gave war whoops to make them think there was a war party in the bushes ready to scalp them.

  “They panicked. The man with the rifle fired in the direction the war whoops came from. It was too dark for him to see us. It was just bad luck the bullet hit Samuel. The shooter didn’t stop to reload. All three men ran away down the road to Wickham.

  “I came out from the bushes. I checked that Mr. Sinclair was still alive. Then I had to figure out what to do. He and Samuel both needed help, but I couldn’t carry two people. Samuel was losing a lot of blood, so I decided to bring him here, then go back for Mr. Sinclair.”

  “You mean, he’s still lying on the road?” asked Peter.

  “I pulled him onto the grass. I’ll go back for him as soon as we have Samuel’s bleeding stopped.”

  “Go now,” said Peter. He had the shirt ripped into strips. “I’ll take care of Samuel.”

  “We’d better hurry,” said Broken Trail.

  Abraham looked askance at Broken Trail. “I can manage. This isn’t your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.” Broken Trail picked up the blanket from his bed. “We may need this.”

  “All right,” said Abraham. “Let’s go.”

  It was a dark night, with only a sliver of a moon. When they reached the spot, they nearly stumbled over the motionless figure lying in the grass beside the road. Broken Trail knelt, lowered his head to Sinclair’s chest, felt his heartbeat, heard him breathe.

  Abraham folded the blanket lengthwise. As they lifted the wounded man onto it, he moaned, “I’m not … I didn’t …” He slipped back into unconsciousness before finishing his protest.

  They met no one along the way. When they were on the path that led from the road to the school’s main building, Broken Trail asked, “Where shall we take him?”

  “We can take him to our cabin if we have to. But it will be better if we can carry him up to his room. Let’s try. Half the time, the porter forgets to bolt the front door.”

  “You mean, put Mr. Sinclair in his room and leave him there?”

  “It’s nearly time for Prayers Before Sunrise. That’s when we can tell Mr. Johnson about him. Johnson will look after him. With a bit of luck, nobody else will know what happened.”

  They carried Mr. Sinclair right up to the massive double doors of the main building. Abraham grasped the door handle. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. The lobby was in total darkness. Apart from their footsteps, the ticking of a clock was the only sound.

  After passing President Webber’s office, they stopped to take off their shoes. Broken Trail looked up at the darkness at the top of the stairs—the stairs that scholars were forbidden to ascend.

  “Do you know which room is his?” Broken Trail asked.

  “He’s mentioned that it’s right over the dining hall. So it must be at the end of the corridor.”

  They climbed the stairs, Abraham carrying the front end of the load. The upstairs hall was utterly dark, but at the end there was a window, a rectangle of grey light showing them the way to go. They stopped at the last door and carefully set the wounded man down on the floor.

  Abraham’s hand was on the door latch when a voice cut through the stillness.

  “What are you doing here?”

  There was Mr. Dudgeon, a lighted candle in his hand. He was wearing a striped nightshirt that reached his knees. The frizz of his ginger hair stood out all around the bottom of his nightcap. With his eyes bulging and his double chins quivering, he looked comical. Neither boy laughed.

  For an instant Mr. Dudgeon did not notice his colleague lying motionless on the floor. But then he saw him, and took a step back.

  His eyes locked on the congealed blood—Samuel’s blood—that covered Abraham’s shirt. “What have you rascals done to Mr. Sinclair?” The candle shook in his hand. “Help!” he shouted. “Johnson! Dr. Merton! Wake up!”

  CHAPTER 14

  The President’s Decree

  TWO DOORS OPENED. Mr. Johnson, draped in a blanket, and Dr. Merton in his dressing gown were there in an instant.

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Dr. Merton.

  “What happened?” Mr. Johnson asked.

  “We found him … outdoors,” Abraham said calmly.

  “Where … outdoors?” asked Mr. Johnson.

  “On the road to Wickham,” said Abraham. “It seemed best to bring him here.”

  “Savages,” Mr. Dudgeon muttered. “Ruthless savages.”

  Mr. Johnson glared at Mr. Dudgeon. “Be quiet!”

  Dr. Merton, who had appeared to be deep in thought, spoke at last. “Mr. Dudgeon, if these boys were the attackers, they would have left their victim lying on the road, not brought him here at considerable trouble and danger to themselves. Res ipse loquitur. They are innocent.”

  Mr. Dudgeon gulped. “That doesn’t change the fact that they have broken two important rules. First, scholars aren’t allowed outdoors after curfew. Second, scholars aren’t permitted upstairs at any time. You can be sure that President Webber will hear—”

  He was interrupted by the clanging of a bell.

  “—will hear about this very soon.”

  The night was over. It was time for Prayers Before Sunrise.

  “I’ll look after him,” said Mr. Johnson. “I know how to treat wounds of this kind. The rest of you go to Prayers.” He took a second look at Abraham. “There’s blood all over your shirt. Take it off. I’ll lend you one of mine. President Webber mustn’t see you looking like that.”

  “I hope you’re not trying to abet these scoundrels,” said Mr. Dudgeon. “Be assured that I shall report their offence to President Webber as soon as Prayers Before Sunrise ends.”

  “You should reconsider that,” said Dr. Merton. “Let’s get dressed and act as if everything were normal.”

  “I shall get dressed. But I will not act as if everything were normal.”

  With these words, Mr. Dudgeon left them. Dr. Merton also went to his room.

  After Mr. Sinclair had been carried to his bed and Abraham had donned a clean shirt, the boys descended the stairs, put on their shoes, and made their way to the dining hall.

  While President Webber was beseeching God to lighten their darkness, the first light of dawn fell through the dining hall windows.

  Abraham and Broken Trail stood side by side. When Broken Trail turned his head, he saw Abraham looking at him, his eyes sending a message very different from that of their first meeting. The smile he gave was all the more welcome, given that Abraham rarely smiled.

  Broken Trail returned the smile. No two people, he thought, could share an experience like the one they had just been through without becoming friends.

  Now it looked as though punishment was the next thing they would share. They had been outside their cabin after curfew … not just wandering around the grounds but on the road to Wickham. They had been caught in the forbidden upstairs corridor. Expulsion loomed.

  The Prayers Before Sunrise passed right over Broken Trail’s head. The hymn began:

  Behold, the heathen waits to know

  The joy the Gospel will bestow.

  From the corner of his eye he saw a twitch of the snake tattoo on Abraham’s cheek. The young Mohican’s faced showed no trace of joy.

  Broken Trail’s thoughts were also far from joyful. He might be expelled. If that happened, how could he explain such a disaster? He remembered how Catches the Rainbow’s loving hands had sewn his deerskin clothes and fashioned the head-dress for his scalp lock. What would she feel when her cherished son returned home in disgrace?

  Hardest of all would be telling Thayendanegea, who had vested so much hope—and money—in his future.

  As soon as the prayers ended, Mr. Dudgeon hurried over to catch President Webber and tell him the dreadf
ul news. His voice quivered with indignation as he described the scene in the upstairs hall. Within moments a crowd of students gathered, giving him a wide-eyed audience as he elaborated upon the courage with which he had confronted the culprits.

  “Stop!” President Webber commanded. “Where is Mr. Sinclair now? What is his condition?”

  “He’s in his room, where Mr. Johnson is tending his injuries. Mr. Johnson claims that his knowledge of savage medicines makes him an apt physician in this case.”

  “Then there’s no need to summon the doctor from Wickham.” President Webber looked relieved. “The savages are well versed in treating injuries. Mr. Johnson must be familiar with the remedies of his mother’s people.” He paused. “But what was Mr. Sinclair doing on the road to Wickham in the middle of the night?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Abraham and Broken Trail. “And what were you two doing there? I must get to the bottom of this. Come to my office at the end of morning classes. Until then, proceed as if this were a normal day.”

  “Sir,” Mr. Dudgeon protested. “Must I endure the presence of these rascals in my classroom this morning?”

  “You must. There will be no disruption of routine, or at least no more than necessary. That is how I am determined to proceed.”

  Broken Trail and Abraham left the dining hall and started down the path to their cabin.

  “Even if Webber expels me,” said Abraham, “I’ll never be sorry we helped Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Let’s get our story straight,” said Broken Trail, “then neither of us will be expelled.”

  Abraham nodded. “When he asks what we were doing on the road to Wickham, what shall we tell him?”

  “We’ll tell him we were going for a walk. No talk of card games or of frolics.”

  “He won’t believe us.”

  “Let him pretend to believe us.”

  The sun was rising over the eastern hills when they reached their cabin.

  Jacob, Edward and Peter were tidying the cabin. Samuel, his shoulder swathed in bandages, was lying on his bed. He asked anxiously, “Did Webber notice I wasn’t at Prayers? Does he know I was shot?”