by Rick Albee

"Ouch!” Amanda cried out, then quickly looked to the door. But Annie Bidwell had not heard her.

Amanda sat next to the window, catching the final rays of daylight as she finished her needlework. The young Maidu Indian’s eyes had grown tired in the fading light.

A drop of blood appeared at the tip of her finger, and she put it between her lips.

This room on the second floor of the Bidwell mansion was only used for Mrs. Bidwell to teach Maidu girls how to sew. The rich surroundings were a stark contrast to Amanda’s stick hut, which had to be rebuilt each year upon her family’s return to the Sacramento Valley. She gazed out the window, her finger still to her lips, when the older woman’s voice startled her.

“Amanda, is that a tear I see on your cheek?” Mrs. Bidwell asked. “Whatever is the matter, my dear?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bidwell,” Amanda said as she quickly swiped at the tear that had escaped her eye. “I do not wish to worry you.”

Mrs. Bidwell knelt before the young lady and took both of Amanda’s hands into her own. “Now you listen to me. Whatever the trouble, I’m here to help.”

Facing the Truth

“You have shown me nothing but love, Mrs. Bidwell,” Amanda started to say, but then she stopped.

“Oh, dear, what is on your mind, Amanda?” Mrs. Bidwell pleaded. “Please share your thoughts with me.”

“When we return from the mountains in the warm season, there will be no place for us to live.” Amanda began to pour out her heart. “Most of my people have died from the sickness, and my father doesn’t know what to do.”

Amanda’s eyes now swelled with tears. “He tells us there is a thing called a vote, but because we are Indians, we are not permitted to do this vote, even though it is about our land.” Amanda stopped, unsure if she should continue.

Mrs. Bidwell nodded. “And you’re afraid the white men will decide to take away your land?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Amanda replied.

The older woman closed her eyes for a moment and slowly shook her head. “Amanda, there are many things in this world that seem terribly unfair. Among them is the fact that neither Indians nor women have the right to vote.”

Amanda looked into the compassionate face of her teacher and friend.

“That will all change,” Mrs. Bidwell assured her. “And if I have anything to do about it, it will change quickly. You can be sure of one thing, Amanda. You will always have a place to live here with me and Mr. Bidwell.”

Amanda gave the woman a warm smile.

“After all, you have been like a daughter to me, and I love you,” Mrs. Bidwell said. “This will always be your home, for you and your family. Now come with me.”

Call for Action

Mrs. Bidwell took Amanda by the elbow and steered her to Mr. Bidwell’s desk They sat in front of it together. As Mrs. Bidwell gathered a pen and paper, Amanda thought, It feels so unusual to use Mr. Bidwell’s things.

All the Maidu Indians knew Mr. Bidwell was as kind as his wife, but he appeared to be stern and gruff. The people kept their distance, not wanting to bother the hardworking man. Mr. Bidwell had labored many hours at the source of the Bidwells’ fortune, his gold claim on the Feather River. The Indians appreciated the generosity of John Bidwell and his wife.

“Now, my dear, we may not yet have the vote, but we do have the pen!” Mrs. Bidwell said with a sparkle in her eye. “Dear Mister President,” she mumbled.

The letter grew longer and its tone more aggressive. As Mrs. Bidwell wrote, Amanda followed the words, reading them aloud.

“That’s very good, Amanda,” the older woman said. “Spending those evenings together reading has done you well. You are an accomplished reader!”

Speaking Up

The following weekend brought nearly 200 guests to the mansion. Among them were the Bidwells’ close friend and noted botanist John Muir, Asa Gray, who was a representative from President Hayes’ staff, and two of the most politically active women of the time, Susan B. Anthony and Frances Willard.

Annie Bidwell greeted several new arrivals when she felt a touch on her elbow. Frances Willard stood next to her.

“Annie, dear, is it true what Susan just told me? Did you indeed write to the President on behalf of your local Maidu Indians?”

“Yes, it is true.” A smile crept across Mrs. Bidwell’s face. “And seeing his representative here, I may just try to get a commitment from him on this very day.”

“I can’t say that speaking with the representative will do much good,” Frances replied. “But his attendance is indeed positive.”

“It is absolutely shameful what the government is trying to do to those poor people,” Mrs. Bidwell continued, “robbing them of their land. If only we women had the right to vote, things would be different.”

Frances nodded in agreement.

“God as my witness, I’ll live to see all His creations treated with equality and justice. Not just for women and the Indians, but for all mankind—white, black, yellow, brown and red.”

“Well stated, Annie, but perhaps your efforts should be more directed at first.”

Mrs. Bidwell cut her off. “You mean fighting for the right to vote as a woman?”

“Of course,” Frances said as Susan B. Anthony approached their conversation.

Believing and Doing

“I’ll not hear of it,” Mrs. Bidwell said softly, but earnestly. “God did not put us on this Earth to do only those things that help ourselves. We must be concerned with the needs of others, too. My husband is a staunch Unionist and was a great supporter of President Lincoln. When Abe Lincoln said all men were created equal, he meant all mankind.”

Mrs. Bidwell hesitated. “You do believe all humans are created in God’s image and likeness, don’t you?”

Both Frances and Susan were taken back by the intensity of Mrs. Bidwell’s words and the sincerity of her belief.

“There is a great evil in this world, and it takes men and women of exceptional character to deal with it,” Mrs. Bidwell went on. “If we tolerate any discrimination, if we allow segregation because of skin color or gender, then we become a part of that evil. I’ll not stand for it, and I’ll do all in my power to not have it done to others.”

“She’s not kidding,” Mr. Bidwell piped in. “I’ve seen my wife in action. There’s no stopping her.”

Mrs. Bidwell continued: “The Maidu Indians must be able to return to their ancestral lands after the annual migration. And if the president’s representative won’t give me the help I need, I’ll sit on President Hayes’ steps until he attends to my request.”

“I believe you would,” the soft yet authoritative voice of John Muir came from behind Mrs. Bidwell. “And I believe you will be successful.”

Mr. Muir put his hand on the shoulder of Asa Gray who had joined the group.

“And now, Sir, what is it you are going to do to help this lady?”

	Q: What is a bird’s favorite game? A: Air hockey. Adam O., 9, Arkansas Clubhouse Jr. Click here to subscribe