William T. Sherman
He stood on the third board of the fence from the ground, and leaned
with his elbows on the top one, now and again kicking with his
moccasined foot a loose panel. How long he had been standing there
rattling that loose board no one knew, but in time one of the boys
noticed him, and suddenly he became an object of the greatest interest
among the boys of all sizes at the school. Boys who were playing down
by the river, up by the spring, and over by the saw mill came running
to see the stranger; and how the word reached them was as much of a
mystery as the appearance of the little figure on the fence.
Every one was eager to pelt him with a question, and get as close to
him as possible. He answered the questions in monosyllables; but he
showed objection to any near approach, by freeing his bare arms from
his little buffalo robe and pointing a wooden pop-gun at the eye of the
boy who was inclined to be too familiar. We kept at him until we found
out that his name was Thin'-je-zhin-ga, which, translated into the
language of the Missionaries, signified Little Tail.[1]
He had come over from the village to see the school, and was as much
interested in us as we were in him. All at once something attracted his
attention; his black eyes sparkled, out came one arm from under his
robe, and he pointed with a very dirty little finger and said, "Give me
one of those!"
The coveted object was a brass button on the jacket of one of the small
students. When Little Tail was asked what he wanted to do with it, he
said, "Tie it to my scalp-lock." This sounded very funny to us, and we
all laughed. The little chap retreated into his robe, covered his head,
and looked out at us with one eye.
The bell rang for dinner; and there followed a general scramble to
appear promptly at the table, and no thought was given to the queer
little visitor. Being the last boy to enter the house, I turned to look
back at him, and there he stood perched upon the fence, staring after
us as though he wondered why he was so suddenly deserted.
When we came out from dinner, he was still on the fence, but he was
busy. He had an ear of roasted corn and was shelling the kernels; when
he had nearly a handful he tipped his head back, poured the grains into
his mouth, and ate them with relish. After he had stripped half of
the cob, he seemed to be satisfied, and the remainder disappeared in
the recesses of his robe. As he finished his corn dinner, one of the
school-boys said to him, "Little Tail, how would you like to stay and
live with us here?"
"I would like it," he promptly replied.
"Will you stay?"
"Yes."
It was soon reported to the superintendent that a new pupil had come.
When the afternoon session opened and the pupils were seated, Little
Tail was given a seat at one of the desks, but to our delight he slid
down and sat on the floor. The teacher rapped the top of his desk with
a ruler and cried, "Silence!" and order was restored.
"What is the name of the new boy?" he asked.
"Thin'-je-zhin-ga," answered one of the boys.
Gray-beard tried to repeat the name, but only set the whole school
laughing. While this was going on, Little Tail reached down to his
belt and drew out a roll of milkweed fibre. It was his ammunition. He
tore off enough to make a bullet, chewed it, and, bringing the breach
of the pop-gun to his mouth, inserted the ball, twisting the gun with
his hands while he pressed the wad in with his teeth, making many
motions with his head. By pounding the butt of the rammer on the floor,
he drove the ball to the firing point; then raising the gun he began
forcing the ball with vigorous thrusts, aiming it at a mischievous
boy who sat opposite making faces at him. Bang! went the weapon; the
bullet, instead of hitting the object aimed at, struck Gray-beard in
the face, and made him throw his head back. We covered our faces to
suppress the giggles that bubbled up at this mishap. The wounded man
looked sharply at the young artillerist, who, seeing the mischief he
had done, very slyly thrust his gun into his robe, and, keeping an eye
on his victim, sat perfectly still.
The teacher looked serious, then we became scared. After a moment his
face relaxed, and he said in a pleasant tone, "We must have the name
of the new boy on the Register, but we cannot have any name that is
unpronounceable. We shall have to give him an English name. Will you
suggest one?"
A number of hands went up and as many historic names were offered and
rejected. Finally it was determined to call him William T. Sherman and
that name was entered upon the Register.
After school a few boys were detailed to wash and dress the new
arrival; so, with arms full of clothing, towels, and other bathing
appliances, the lad was taken up to the boys' dormitory. The first
thing to be done was to cut his long hair. A towel was put around his
neck, and soon the shears were singing a tune about his ears. He seemed
to enjoy it, and laughed at the jokes made by the boys; but when by
some chance he caught sight of his scalp-lock lying on the floor like a
little black snake, he put his fists into his eyes and fell to sobbing
as though his heart would break.
"Pshaw!" said little Isaac, rubbing his closely cropped head, "mine was
longer than yours when it was cut off, but I didn't cry!"
"Mine too!" exclaimed Abraham, picking up the braided look and putting
it where his had been; at which the rest of the boys laughed.
When the bath was over, William T. Sherman was dressed. He was
delighted with his brand-new clothes, particularly with the long row
of brass buttons that adorned the front of the jacket. When it came to
the shoes, his grief for the lost scalp-lock was clean forgotten, and
he strutted about to show the boys that his shining black shoes sang to
his satisfaction.
William T. Sherman was quick to learn, and by the time winter was over
he was speaking the peculiar English used by the boys of the school;
he said, "fool bird," for quail; "first time," for long ago, and other
Indian expressions turned into English. He was fond of arithmetic,
and spent much time ciphering on his slate; he would write down the
figure 1, 2, or 3, add to it a string of aughts, and then try to read
them off. Grammar he abhorred, and in the spelling class, he held a
permanent place at the foot. In out door sports he excelled; he could
beat any boy of his size in leaping and running, and we had yet to
learn other things in which he was expert.
One day, during the great June rise, all the boys were at the river
watching the huge drift logs floating down the muddy Missouri.
"Say, boys!" exclaimed Ulysses S. Grant, thrusting his hands deep
into his pockets; "I bet one hundred dollars that river is strong. I
wouldn't like to swim in it; I'm sure the eddies would pull me under."
Gideon, who was always boasting of what his father could do, shouted,
"My father could swim clear acrost and back again; he ain't 'fraid of
eddies. He--"
"What's that?" cried a number of boys, startled by a heavy splash in
the water. We all watched, and two brown feet came to the surface,
wiggled, and disappeared. After a moment a round black head slowly
arose. "Ha! Ha! I'm not 'fraid eddy!" shouted William T. Sherman, for
it was he. A few vigorous strokes brought him to shore again.
"Take off your shirts and pants, boys, let's swim," he said.
We did so, and timidly splashed about the shallow edges of the water.
A large tree was drifting down near the middle of the river. William
ran up along the bank for quite a distance, and then plunged into the
water. It was a beautiful sight to watch him as he threw his arms up
and down, moving swiftly toward the tree; he reached it, dived under
it, and came up on the other side; then he scrambled on the trunk and
shouted for us to come, but none of us dared to go. After a moment he
stood up on the tree, flourished an imaginary whip, and cried, "Git
up, there!" with a succession of swear words,--genuine swear words. He
was imitating the Agency teamster, and did not know what he was saying.
He had heard the servant of the Government urge on his horses by such
terms, and he was merely repeating them. Those of us who had been at
the Mission a long time, and had all the Shorter Catechism in our
little heads, and were orthodox by compulsion, if not by conviction,
were horrified to hear those dreadful words uttered by a pupil of our
school; for we knew some severe punishment awaited the little sinner
should there be a traitor among us to make it known to Gray-beard.
Before we had fairly recovered from our shock at hearing this swearing,
we were startled by a cry, "Job is drowning!" Not one of us moved, we
were so frightened; but, quick as a flash, William T. Sherman sprang
from his imaginary wagon, swam swiftly to the boy, caught him by the
hair as he was going down for the last time, and brought him to the
surface. "Kick! Kick!" he shouted; "make your arms go! Don't stop!"
And after a hard struggle the two boys landed.
Job had swallowed considerable water, and become very sick. We didn't
know what to do for him; but after we had rubbed and pommelled him, and
held him by the heels head downward, he felt better; then we took him
to the Mission and put him to bed.
On our way back Sherman spoke very little, but those of us who had been
frightened into helplessness had much to say as to what we did or might
have done to save Job.
At supper Gray-beard as usual counted the boys, and found one missing,
"Where's Job?" he asked.
"He's got the th'tomick ache," said Daniel, his mouth full and his
spoon raised half way with a new supply.
School went on the next morning as though nothing had happened. The
teachers had not heard of the drowning and the rescue; but the girls
had learned all about it and threw admiring glances at Sherman: to them
he had become a hero, and each of the different gangs among the boys
now wanted this hero as a member.
The recitations for the afternoon session were over, and the bell was
tapped as a signal to put away our books and slates, and struck again
to call us to order. When all arms were folded, there followed an
ominous silence. Gray-beard slowly looked around the school-room, as
though to read every face turned up to him, then he spoke:
"I have been told that some of the boys in this school are in the habit
of swearing; that is one of the things you are forbidden to do. It is
wicked to swear, and any boy that I find has been doing so I shall
punish very severely. I want you to remember this. After the closing
exercises William T. Sherman will come to my room; I have something to
say to him."
All eyes on the boys' side turned toward William as we chanted the
Lord's prayer; then Gray-beard made his usual supplication, during
which the big girls twisted their necks to look at their hero.
The exit from the school-room was quite orderly, but as soon as the
groups of boys passed into the hall, they set up a shouting and
singing, and made off to their different resorts for play. We, the
Middle Five, were the last to go; and, as had been hastily arranged
between us, I went to Gray-beard and asked some trivial question in
order to give time for Brush to go and advise Sherman as to what
answers to make if he was asked as to his being guilty of swearing.
"When he asks you if you been swearing, say, 'No, sir, I don't know
what swear is,'" said Brush to Sherman.
"All right."
"Then tell him you been saying what you heard Agency man say to horses;
but you don't know what those words mean, maybe they're swear words,
you don't know."
Gray-beard went up to his room, followed by William T. Sherman, who
for the first time entered that apartment. Boys who committed serious
offences were disciplined in that place. I was taken there for fighting
Andrew Johnson; Brush took his punishment there when he nearly cut
Jonathan's ear off with a wooden sword. Most of us had had peculiar
experiences in that room.
William T. Sherman had come to us direct from a tent; our bare
school-room and play-room were all that he had seen of the
furnishings of a civilized dwelling, so when he was suddenly ushered
into Gray-beard's room he was quite dazzled by the bright draperies,
pictures, and the polished furniture. He stood with hands in his
pockets, mouth and eyes wide-open staring at the things, although twice
requested by his host to sit down.
William timidly took the chair assigned him. It rocked backwards, and
up went his feet; he clutched wildly at the arms, and the chair rocked
forward; he got his footing, then sat perfectly still, fearing the
chair would fall over with him.
Gray-beard took a seat facing the boy, and began to question him, "I
was told that you had been swearing; is it true?"
Bewilderment at new sights, and the flight of the rocking-chair had
put Brush's promptings out of Sherman's head, and in his confusion he
answered, "Yes, sir--ma'am."
"It is wicked to swear, and you must be taught to know that it is. Now
say what I say," and Gray-beard repeated the third commandment, until
Sherman could say it without assistance, and then bade him to keep on
until told to stop.
Poor William sat in the treacherous rocking-chair repeating this
commandment, while Gray-beard wrote at his desk. William might as well
have sat there imitating the cry of some animal or bird, for his mind
was not dwelling upon the words he was uttering, but following his
eyes as they moved from one strange object to another,--the pictures,
the gilt frames, the sea shells, the clock on the mantelpiece, then
something hanging near the window absorbed his attention, and his
tongue and lips ceased to move as he drew with his finger on his
knee the figure 1, adding to it a number of aughts. Gray-beard noted
the pause, and said, "Go on, William, don't stop." After some little
prompting, the boy resumed, but his finger kept moving, making the
figure 1 and a string of aughts after it.
When Gray-beard and William T. Sherman left the school-room, Brush and
I and the rest of the five went toward the spring and sat under the
large elm. Brush lay down on the grass and read a book he had borrowed
from the superintendent, while the rest of us talked.
"I'd like to see that boy who told on William T. Sherman; I'd give him
a licking," said Warren.
"I'd kick him hard," added Edwin.
"I bet it's that tell-tale Edson; he ought to be thumped!" I suggested.
While we were talking, William came and sat down with us. Every now and
then a quivering sigh would escape him, although he tried not to show
that he had been crying. Little Bob, believing as we did that William
had been whipped, and, desiring to express sympathy, said, "Say, did it
hurt?" William did not answer; nobody ever answered Bob.
"What did Gray-beard do to you?" I asked, turning to William.
"He made me sit down and say a commandment one hundred times."
"Which one was it? Say it to us."
"I don't want to say it; I said it enough." After a pause he asked,
"What is swear?"
"When you call God names, that's swear," said Warren.
"I don't do that. I know God, it's the same Omahas call Wa-kon-da; but
I don't know what means lord."
"It's a man just like big chief," explained Lester; "he has plenty of
horses and lots of money. When he tells anybody to do anything, he got
to do it; that's a lord."
"Is Gray-beard lord?"
"No, Gray-beard isn't lord."
"Say, boys, a one and six aughts is one million, ain't it?"
"Yes," we answered in chorus.
"Gray-beard is lord. He's got one million dollars. I saw it on a book
hanging by his window; it had a name, I can't say it, then Bank and
Cap'tal, and then a one and six aughts,--that's a million. He's got one
million dollars!"
Brush threw his book down, raised himself on his elbow and looked at
us with a smile; then he said, "I know that book William T. Sherman
saw, it's the book Gray-beard counts the days by, and it's got on it
what they call advertisement. That bank wants people to know it has
one million dollars capital to go by; I learned that in my arithmetic.
Gray-beard isn't a lord; he's a missionary,--the same kind that goes to
Africa and Greenland's icy mountains."
FOOTNOTE:
[1] He belonged to a band in the Omaha tribe known as
Mon'-thin-ka-ga-hae, people of the underground world; in other words,
animals that burrowed and lived in the earth; such had small tails, and
the name Little Tail referred to this peculiarity.