This is a photo I took of the historical marker near the former school site located on the Carlisle Barracks.
If you're not familiar with it, it's one of several facilities across the country that sought to "civilize" Native Americans by forcing youngsters away from their families to live in these institutions. Very sad.
Even sadder to drive past the headstones in the small graveyard in the Barracks. About 170 children and teens died while at the school. One, Lucy Pretty Eagle, is said to still walk the grounds. She died at the tender age of ten. You can read more detail about the school and Carlisle's general history here.
Here's a photo I took of the graveyard. People still visit to leave small offerings on the headstones of the children. Some students, like the world famous athlete Jim Thorpe, managed to get through school and live successful lives. Thorpe attended in the early 1900s. The stories that really struck me were of the first students at the school's opening in 1879, those who had no idea what to expect, who were punished for behaving as they were brought up to behave rather than an "American."
Another photo I took in a local museum. This group shot is nearly life-sized, so that when you view it, you feel like the children are staring back at you. And the haunted look in their faces stays with you.
Another article mentions ghosts I'd never heard about before - the captured Hessian soldiers who helped construct the stone building near the Carlisle Barracks to house gunpowder, and which also served as a prison (later for "unruly" students as well). According to the article, one man who visited late at night said that rather stepping into the room that's now a museum, he was transported back in time to 1777 to a very active Hessian Powder Magazine room occupied by Hessians! The article has a few other interesting ghosts if you'd like to check it out.
I'll have another Halloween guest on Friday, so be sure to stop by!
I love watching the Olympics, don't you? The feats of these athletes amaze me.
I wish they had some video clips of older games. I'd especially love to see Jim Thorpe in action. One sportswriter said, "He moved like a breeze." As one of the Native Americans who attended the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, you'd think our local newspapers would have mentioned his incredible accomplishments in their recent highlight of past Olympics, but Thorpe is often overlooked.
His athletic prowess was discovered accidentally when he broke the school record for the high jump on a whim, while wearing overalls and a work shirt.
He played football, baseball, track and lacrosse, and
also competed in hockey, handball, tennis, boxing and ballroom dancing. His coach signed him up for multiple events at competitions, and he once won a dual meet against Lafayette, taking
first in the high hurdles, low hurdles, high jump, long jump, shot put
and discus throw.
Before the Eastern Olympic trials in 1912, he'd never thrown a javelin and didn't know he could take a running start, throwing from a standstill. He still took second place.
At the Stockholm games in 1912, his 11.2-second record in the 100 meter dash remained unbroken until 1948.
In the now-defunct pentathlon, Thorpe placed first in four of the five events, which took place in a single day.
After two days of competing in nine other events, Thorpe blew away his competition in the last event, the 1500 meter run - wearing mismatched shoes. His 4 minute, 40.1 second record remained broken until 1972.
His overall Olympic score remained unbroken for four more Olympic games. Yet in 1912 the IOC stripped him of his medals "for violating the elitist Victorian codes of amateurism." The IOC sent two replica medals in 1982 to his family but failed to reinstate his incredible record at the 1912 games.
Following the Olympics, Thorpe returned to Carlisle to lead the school football team to Ivy League-level victories. The Smithsonian article explains it all, and asks why it took a letter-writing campaign for Thorpe's image to finally appear on the Wheaties box in 2001.
He went on to play football professionally, and is recognized by the Football Hall of Fame.
Thorpe is one of the most famous Native Americans who attended the Carlisle Indian Industrial School. I hadn't researched him while writing Follow the Stars Home because I focused on the school's opening decades earlier. While my characters are fictional, the events were all too real. Thorpe's story is just one of many dealing with triumph over brutal conditions.
I only hope the IOC will recognize their error in not giving this amazing athlete his Olympic due.
Today wraps up a crazy summer! It's actually my last release of the year, so it's even more special.
Today at 6:30 p.m. EST, I'll be chatting on the EP site, and giving away an ebook copy. Hope you'll come over and join me! The other release authors will be chatting from afternoon into evening too - it's a great way to learn more about them. Click here tonight to join the chat!
And on Monday night, I'll be at Night Owl Reviews with Margaret West and Ginger Simpson in a Native American romance-themed chat. I'll be giving away a PDF copy of Follow the Stars Home, and Ginger and Margaret have great giveaways too. Monday's chat is from 8:00 till 9:00 p.m. EST. On Monday, click here to join that chat.
Follow the Stars Home was a true labor of love. Like all my character, Black Bear and Quiet Thunder became very real to me in their struggle to get home again.
Luckily, Ginger Simpson of The Examiner thought so too. :) Her review said, in part: Ms. Masters has penned an insightful and entertaining novel that’s bound to teach you a few things about history. The mark of a good historical writing is peppering in the historical facts, and… you’ll walk away knowing much more than you did about the Lakota and their brethren than you did when you began the story. Kudos to Cate Masters for another winning novel. You won’t be able to put Follow the Stars Home down until you turn the last page.
Black Bear stared at her, the fullness in her gaze made his breath flutter like the fireflies. “The moonlight lit your face. You’re more beautiful than ever.” Warmth coursed through his face. He must have enchanted himself with the song. Though he’d thought it many times, he’d never before called her beautiful. Unable to hold back any longer, he knelt in front of her, and she lifted up to kneel before him. Entwining his fingers through hers, he held them against the scar on his chest where the bone tore through two summers ago. With a voice soft as a trickling stream, he spoke. “I welcomed the pain of becoming a man. Do you know why?” “Because you wanted to be a great warrior?” His thumbs caressed the back of her hands. “No. The time of great Sioux warriors is ending. I must learn to be a better hunter. To provide for my family.” A family he wished with all his heart to have with her. His insides lurched when she glanced down. “Black Bear—” She tried to slide her hand away, but he held it fast. “Please let me speak.” His seriousness silenced her. With a nod, she lifted her gaze to his scar, the mark of his love for her. It spoke of his hopes for their future. From now on, he wanted it to be a reminder of this night. Soft urgency gave fire to his words, and the fire sparked in his blood. “I know now why you are called Quiet Thunder. I didn’t know I could feel such thunder inside. It overtakes me every night while I try to sleep. In everything I do, I feel your spirit with me. I need to know if you feel the same.” He pressed her hand against his scar so she might feel his heart thudding through his skin. It pulsed with his life’s blood as if to mingle with her own. When she raised her chin, moonlight illuminated her face, her dark eyes ablaze. “Yes.”
I'm having such a great summer! My third release of summer is Follow the Stars Home, available Aug. 7 from Eternal Press.
Like Angels Sinners and Madmen, the meticulous historical research slowed down the actual writing of the novel. But I found it fascinating, and hope you will too.
Here's a different excerpt:
Black Bear stared at her, the fullness in her gaze made his breath flutter like the fireflies. “The moonlight lit your face. You’re more beautiful than ever.” Warmth coursed through his face. He must have enchanted himself with the song. Though he’d thought it many times, he’d never before called her beautiful. Unable to hold back any longer, he knelt in front of her, and she lifted up to kneel before him. Entwining his fingers through hers, he held them against the scar on his chest where the bone tore through two summers ago. With a voice soft as a trickling stream, he spoke. “I welcomed the pain of becoming a man. Do you know why?” “Because you wanted to be a great warrior?” His thumbs caressed the back of her hands. “No. The time of great Sioux warriors is ending. I must learn to be a better hunter. To provide for my family.” A family he wished with all his heart to have with her. His insides lurched when she glanced down. “Black Bear—” She tried to slide her hand away, but he held it fast. “Please let me speak.” His seriousness silenced her. With a nod, she lifted her gaze to his scar, the mark of his love for her. It spoke of his hopes for their future. From now on, he wanted it to be a reminder of this night. Soft urgency gave fire to his words, and the fire sparked in his blood. “I know now why you are called Quiet Thunder. I didn’t know I could feel such thunder inside. It overtakes me every night while I try to sleep. In everything I do, I feel your spirit with me. I need to know if you feel the same.” He pressed her hand against his scar so she might feel his heart thudding through his skin. It pulsed with his life’s blood as if to mingle with her own. When she raised her chin, moonlight illuminated her face, her dark eyes ablaze. “Yes.”
My Native American historical romance, Follow the Stars Home, will be available on August 7. Check out the trailer, which I just finished:
I'm very excited about its release! The story's very dear to me. Here's a sneak peek:
A movement in the trees caught his eye, the slightest shift in the shadows. He lowered the stick and sat still as a tree atop his buffalo skin. An animal would have revealed itself, so he suspected a person hid there. His heart tightened with hope. After waiting a moment, he called, “Hello?” The moonlight alighted her doeskin dress no matter as she stepped from the shadows into the clearing. He scrambled to his feet. “Quiet Thunder. You’re here.” His thick voice caught in his throat and his self-confidence abandoned him. Long he’d waited for this moment, but now felt unsure what to do. Her words rushed out in a strangled breath. “Yes. I heard the cry.” He held the twig with both hands and twisted it. “I played all afternoon trying to get it right.” Her eyes widened as she recognized the siyotanka. He’d made the flute hoping to enchant her with its magic. His song must be working—she walked to him as if drawn by it. “I thought it an elk’s cry.” The high praise made his breath tangle in his ribs. Grandfather told tales of Lakota who cut cedarwood branches to craft a flute shaped like the long neck and head of a bird with an open beak. The instrument’s sound resembled the call of an elk, powerful medicine supposed to make a man irresistible to the woman he loved. He lowered his head. “I hoped it would bring you here.” Shyness overcame him, and he could not meet her gaze, only stare at the siyotanka. “You brought me here.” Her words were bold with truth. Tonight, he wanted to speak only truth. To hear only truth. His gaze leaped to hers. Glancing at the bow she carried, he grinned. “You came to shoot me?” Ducking her head, she said softly, “No.” When he reached for the bow, his hand grazed hers, and he struggled against the urge to pull her close. “I’ll set them down. Nearby, in case you need them.” Gently, he slid the strap from her shoulder and put both next to the buffalo skin, then extended his hand for her to sit. Nervousness twisted through him, made every action stiff and formal as if performing a ritual. Since childhood, he’d run with Quiet Thunder, shot arrows with her, rode horses with her. Two summers ago when a sticker branch cut her leg, he’d carried her to a stream. Holding her in his arms had awakened new feelings, and since then, his fingers itched to feel her skin every night. She knelt, and then sat atop her legs. “Are you all right?” He crossed his legs and sat. “I am now that you’re here.” Biting his lip, he cast his gaze away. Happiness surged through his spirit, filled his skin so full it threatened to burst open. “Play me your song.” Like the stars twinkling above them, her eyes sparkled, like laughing spirits clustered in crowds along the white carpet of the Milky Way. He lifted the flute to his lips and gently blew. His song seemed to enchant everything around them. Fireflies glittered like falling embers. The music of the stream mixed with the flute. His heart skipped and danced with the lilting tune, the tune he made for her alone. When she closed her eyes, he painted her beauty in his memory. She opened her eyes. “Why did you stop?” Black Bear stared at her, the fullness in her gaze made his breath flutter like the fireflies. “The moonlight lit your face. You’re more beautiful than ever.” Warmth coursed through his face. He must have enchanted himself with the song. Though he’d thought it many times, he’d never before called her beautiful. Unable to hold back any longer, he knelt in front of her, and she lifted up to kneel before him. Entwining his fingers through hers, he held them against the scar on his chest where the bone tore through two summers ago. With a voice soft as a trickling stream, he spoke. “I welcomed the pain of becoming a man. Do you know why?” “Because you wanted to be a great warrior?” His thumbs caressed the back of her hands. “No. The time of great Sioux warriors is ending. I must learn to be a better hunter. To provide for my family.” A family he wished with all his heart to have with her. His insides lurched when she glanced down. “Black Bear—” She tried to slide her hand away, but he held it fast. “Please let me speak.” His seriousness silenced her. With a nod, she lifted her gaze to his scar, the mark of his love for her. It spoke of his hopes for their future. From now on, he wanted it to be a reminder of this night. Soft urgency gave fire to his words, and the fire sparked in his blood. “I know now why you are called Quiet Thunder. I didn’t know I could feel such thunder inside. It overtakes me every night while I try to sleep. In everything I do, I feel your spirit with me. I need to know if you feel the same.” He pressed her hand against his scar so she might feel his heart thudding through his skin. It pulsed with his life’s blood as if to mingle with her own. When she raised her chin, moonlight illuminated her face, her dark eyes ablaze. “Yes.” He exhaled a ragged breath and leaned in to touch his lips to hers. When she slid her arms around his neck and pressed close to him, he felt in danger of floating into the laughing stars. With slow purpose, he slid his mouth against hers, fueling desires he’d never before experienced. The effort of holding himself back caused him to tremble. Slowly he lifted his lips and whispered her name fervent as a prayer, his breath stirring her hair. She clung to him, her arms wrapped tight around his waist like a vine clinging to a tree.
This is a photo I took of the historical marker near the former school site located on the Carlisle Barracks.
