Massacre at Powder River

“Are you feeling better, Mama?” young Winston Churchill asked his mother.

“I’ll be all right,” Jennie answered, although her voice was weak and there was a greenish tint to her skin.

“It is nearly time for dinner,” Winnie said. “I hope that the storm didn’t keep the chefs from their work.”

“Oh, Winnie, can you actually think of food now?” Jennie asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Winnie said. “We didn’t eat lunch, remember? You said you didn’t feel like it.”

“You go ahead,” Jennie said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t eat a bite.”

“Do you want me to bring you something?”

“No, I ... wait a minute. Yes, I would love an orange,” Jennie said. “I think I could eat an orange.”

“I shall try to get one for you.”

Normally at this time of day, the first-class dining room was filled with passengers marveling over the fantastic meals provided by the chefs. But this evening the dining room was empty, except for three people who were seated at the captain’s table.

Captain Hewitt, seeing Winnie come alone into the dining room, stood and called out to him.

“Here, lad, are you alone?”

“Yes, sir. Mama is ill.”

There was a smattering of laughter around the table.

“Yes,” Captain Hewitt said. “After the last twelve hours, several are, I’m afraid. Would you like to join us?”

“Yes, sir,” Winnie replied, pleased to have been invited.

The others around the table introduced themselves, and Winnie made a concerted effort to remember the names of each of them so he could call them by name when he left.

“Tell me, young man, what is taking you to America?” Captain Hewitt asked.

“My mother and I are going to visit my aunt and uncle in Wyoming. My uncle owns a cattle ranch, with real cowboys,” Winnie said.

“Well, now, I’m sure that will be a wonderful adventure,” the captain said.

Captain Hewitt and the others returned to their discussion. They were talking about the Sino-French war.

“The French have taken Vietnam from the Chinese,” the American, Congressman Henry Cabot Lodge, said. “But I studied the Vietnamese when I was publishing the International Review and you mark my words, the French have done nothing but grab a tiger by the tail. Vietnam is going to come back to haunt them some day.”

Winnie listened to the conversation with interest; then, at the end of dinner just before he excused himself, he said good-bye to everyone around the table, addressing each of them by name.

All were impressed with him, and they responded generously.

“Captain, before I return to the cabin, I promised Mama I would try and get an orange for her. Do you think that is possible?”

“It had better be,” Captain Hewitt said, and when he raised his hand, a steward appeared instantly.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Get a sack of oranges for young Mr. Churchill, would you please?”

“Yes, sir,” the steward said.

The steward disappeared, and within less than a minute returned with a bag of oranges.

“Thank you, sir,” Winnie said. “Thank you very much.”

When Winnie returned to the room, Jennie was sitting in a chair. Her appearance had improved considerably, though she still looked quite pale.

“Look, Mama, oranges!” Winnie said. “An entire bag of them. Would you like me to peel one for you?”

“Oh, yes,” Jennie said. “Winnie, darling, you are a savior.”

When Winnie’s private tutor learned that he was coming to America, she had given him an assignment.

“I want you to write an essay about America,” she had said.

“Oh, I know all about America. I have read about it.”

“No, not what you get out of books. I want you to record your personal thoughts from your own observations. Don’t even think about what is written in all the history and geography books.”

“All right,” Winnie had said.

Winnie and his mother had taken passage on the Baltic, a steam-powered steel ship that could carry one thousand passengers. Two hundred thirty passengers, like Lady Churchill and her son, made the crossing in luxurious accommodations, including a large stateroom with electricity and an attached private bathroom. Winnie began his notebook by writing of their time onboard the Baltic.

I like to stand on the promenade and look out to sea and think of the days when England’s ships explored the world. What brave men those sailors must have been to sail this mighty ocean in small wooden ships, propelled only by the wind. When I think of them, I cannot but believe that so very much is owed to so few, by so many Englishmen.