In the midst of such unspeakable horror when words have sometimes failed us, one shining example of Glorious Womanhood has come to light to this reporter. Raina Olsen, a young schoolteacher only sixteen years of age, was one of those quick-thinking pioneer women we herald in song and poem. Unable to keep her pupils safe when the Savage Storm gnashed its teeth and blew in the window of her one-room schoolhouse, she was tasked with getting them all to safety in the middle of the Most Ferocious Blizzard ever recorded in Nebraska. This courageous young woman tied her pupils together using all the little girls’ apron strings and led them to the safety of a nearby farmhouse. The way was full of danger, and all nearly perished while crossing a treacherous bridge over a raging river. But this brave daughter of pioneers managed to get her flock to safety.
The courage and wisdom displayed by this pretty young woman has touched the hearts of all involved, and she has been the recipient of much gratitude in the tiny community of Newman Grove, where she saved so many young lives.
Her ambition, she states modestly, is to return to the schoolhouse as soon as it is repaired. A chance to study further, perhaps even at the university in Lincoln, would not be dismissed outright. When asked about plans to marry, the modest young lady blushes and demurs, although there is many a young man in the area who has lost his heart to this Heroine of the Prairie.
“EXCELLENT WORK, WOODSON,” ROSEWATER SAID with undisguised surprise that rankled. He peered at Gavin over the top of the latest edition. Gavin was seated in the great man’s office, while Forsythe cooled his heels outside. “We were desperate for something like this. We need to keep circulation up, but God Almighty it was getting dreary, day after day some new tragedy. Christ, they all begin to blur together don’t they? Amputations, frozen babies, trains stuck for days with no food, dead farmers, all those children, on and on and on. People get tired of constant bad news, they shut it out after a while, become immune to it. It takes something new to excite them and get them buying papers again. And, by God, man, you’ve done it! This is wonderful. We need to find some other young women—the prettier the better—like this Olsen girl.”
“We also need to find a way to spin this whole disaster so as not to scare people out of the state.” Jonas Munchin, one of the town’s boosters and thus Gavin’s actual boss, spoke gravely. “The eastern papers are still reporting high casualties—one of them said nearly a thousand have perished. We can’t have that kind of thing reported. There’ve been some angry citizens out here who keep writing to those papers back East with figures that won’t help us at all. Some quack in Dakota said about a hundred died in the southern part of that territory alone. Now, how he can know that, I can’t comprehend—did he go out and count them all himself? Maybe he included some of the Natives on the reservation, but really, who cares about them? Still, the papers are running with those figures. We have to counterattack.”
“We can do some opinion pieces,” Rosewater mused, drumming his ink-stained fingers on his desk. “To contradict those kinds of figures, talk about the benefits of the storm—you know, how snow is welcome; it means we’re assured a good crop this summer, all that water. Something like that. Something about the freshness of the air after a blizzard, compared to the smoke-filled cities back East—keep that kind of thing up. You know what to do, Woodson—that’s what you’re paid for. Forget the facts of the matter, concentrate on the distracting stuff that people want to believe in, like the heroines. I think there’s something in it for you if you do, don’t you, Munchin?”
“Of course.” Munchin threw his arms open expansively, as if the state’s coffers were his very own to do whatever he wanted with, and that was probably the simple truth, Gavin thought wryly. “All that tragedy was good for a while, but we have to be careful. Whatever the actual death toll is, report only about a third of it, if you even have to do that. Maybe forget the facts entirely and just do those puff opinion pieces—people think those are the news, anyway, especially if they’re printed in a newspaper. And soon enough the eastern newspapers will move on to something else. They sit in judgment back there, they criticize us in the West at every turn, they make fun of us, but what do they really know? They only send someone out here when he’s in disgrace.” And the man looked pointedly at Gavin. “We’re the end of the road, the flophouse, for those eastern elites. They don’t care about us unless something like this happens, then they have a field day at our expense.”
Gavin actually agreed with Munchin’s point; he just disliked the man himself, and the not-so-subtle disparagement of his own character, which he had to admit was accurate. Or least it had been, until her. His maiden.
Gavin rose, shook hands, and left the stale office with its cigar smoke, and its smugness that stank just as much. He ignored Forsythe’s questioning glance and stepped outside, inhaling fresh air—although the air in Omaha was not fresh, not like it was out there on the prairie, where it was so pure it stung the nostrils and ignited every sense. Here, even in winter, there was still the stench of the stockyards and the human and animal waste that came when men and horses and pigs and dogs all lived together in one contained area, no matter how large, how growing. How thriving.
Gavin took another walk, but this time it was to the train depot; the trains were back to running, between storms. He and that nag had had their last communion; he wasn’t going to rent a sleigh again. There were people on the prairie who would take him where he needed to be.
People, not numbers. Some of them more special to him than others.
Young Minnie Freeman is another of these intrepid maids who managed to save her students against all odds in the Worst Nature Can Imagine. When the soddie that served as a schoolhouse had its roof blown off by the Fury of the Storm, Miss Freeman acted with courage and resolve. Faced with certain Death by Freezing, she—like her fellow Heroine Raina Olsen—tied her pupils together with a length of rope found in the schoolhouse. Then she bravely led her pupils through the storm to safety.
We at the Bee feel strongly that Raina Olsen and Minnie Freeman should each get a medal, at the least, for their heroism. If not for their acts of bravery, more would have perished. But because of them, the list of casualties is far smaller than is being reported by some newspapers back East. We should honor these young ladies and ensure their future. Donations can be sent c/o the Omaha Daily Bee.
Dear Sir,
I wish to donate to Miss Olsen the sum of three dollars so she can realize her goal of attaining an education. Her story has touched my heart. We need more women like her.
Dear Sir,
Please accept one cow, to be given to Miss Raina Olsen for her bravery. She can do what she pleases with the cow, which is a good milk cow.
Dear Sir,
I would like to donate two dollars each to Minnie Freeman and Raina Olsen in gratitude for their bravery.
We at the Bee have been inundated with letters concerning the heroines Minnie Freeman and Raina Olsen. There have been poems and songs written for them. There have been many generous gifts of goods and money, as well, and we continue to urge those who can to contribute to their futures. We have been sent so many gifts in care of these two brave lasses that we have taken the liberty of setting up a fund for them, and we will duly note, in each issue of the Bee, the donor and the amount in a column titled “The Heroine Fund.” You may send all donations c/o the Omaha Daily Bee.
“More good work, Woodson,” Rosewater said ten days later, with a genuine smile. “The Heroine Fund—brilliant! I think we need one or two more young ladies, though, to truly capture the imagination and keep this thing going. We’re falling off a little, although not too much. People keep donating because they want to see their names in print—that was a hell of an idea, you son of a bitch! One more big story, don’t you think? A tale of woe, someone people can rally around—that’s the very thing we need.”
Gavin nodded. It was precisely what he’d been waiting to hear; now it was time.
It has come to our attention of the Great Suffering of another victim of the storm, a young girl named Anette Pedersen. This poor unfortunate girl had her life saved due to the bravery of her closest friend, a boy named Fredrik Halvorsan. Young Halvorsan tragically died a hero’s death protecting his little companion. In the worst of the storm, he gallantly covered his young friend with his own coat and other clothing, ensuring her survival by his sacrifice. Anette Pedersen is a girl of just eleven who has been in a household that was forced to take her in after she was abandoned by her own mother. She has suffered an Amputation of the Hand due to frostbite and continues to suffer greatly, although it is now hoped that she will live. We will provide updates of her condition as warranted.
Dear Sir,
I would be happy to take in the little girl I read about in your paper, Anette Pedersen. I will give her a good home and all the care she needs. I am a widow with a tender heart and good fortune enough to share, and a nice snug home in Lincoln where she wouldn’t have to do a lick of work, the poor child.
Dear Sir,
I am sending a dollar to Anette Pedersen, the little child who has lost a hand. Please make sure it gets to her.
To the General Public:
We have added Anette Pedersen to the roll of the Heroine Fund. All donations earmarked for her will go directly to her and she will share, along with the others, any donations that are given without any recipient designated.
We are pleased to announce that the following Good and Generous citizens have made contributions to the Heroine Fund, originally started here at the Bee:
Mrs. Charles Wentworth donated $5 to Raina Olsen
Mr. Reed Garner donated $7 to Minnie Freeman
Mr. and Mrs. James Farmer donated $2 to Raina Olsen
The Bastable Boarding School in Lincoln has offered free tuition, room, and board to Anette Pedersen
Mr. Jacob Pendergrast donated $2 each to Raina Olsen and Minnie Freeman, and sets aside $5 for the education of Anette Pedersen
The Presbyterian Congregation of Grunby, Nebraska, took up a collection, the sum of which ($10) is to be divided equally between the three heroines
A former medical officer in the Grand Army of the Republic, who wishes to remain anonymous, donates a custom-made wooden hand to Anette Pedersen once she is recovered
As of this date, it totals nearly $15,000, spread nearly evenly among the three heroines.
Today, February 5, Raina Olsen reopened her schoolroom, the scene of much horror and drama during the Great Blizzard. The Bee sent a photographer out to capture the moment. Pictured is Miss Olsen with most of her students. Since the creation of the Heroine Fund, Miss Olsen has been inundated with many proposals of marriage, although the innocent maid protests, stating that she is too focused on her pupils right now to think of anything else.
The exploits of the heroines were picked up by the wire services and ran everywhere, east and west, although it was the Bee that saw the greatest increase in readership because Nebraskans thought of them as their own. Everyone was touched by the girls’ plight; everyone on the prairie was proud of the schoolteachers. The updates on Anette’s health, which continued to improve, were followed as anxiously as the travails of a maiden in a dime novel.
One woman, in particular, followed those updates, although how she first became aware of them, no one, later, would be able to say. The woman could not read English and wouldn’t have been able to afford to buy a newspaper anyway. Or have access to one. Perhaps a neighbor had braved the weather to alert her to the news of this child. Perhaps someone recognized her name, now forgotten by most—if, indeed, they even knew she had a name—until the girl became famous overnight.
But this woman got on a mule one day, according to her husband. She told him and her sons that she would be back in a week, perhaps—she was hazy on that, that was what the husband remembered, later. In fact, she’d done some things to make him wonder if she planned on coming back at all—she took her meager wardrobe with her, her one comb that still had a few teeth in it, a tarnished silver spoon she’d brought from the old country. She told him to try and remember to feed the boys, for heaven’s sake. And then she was gone.
What no one knew but her was that she had seen something bright, something possibly beautiful, glistening on the horizon. She’d never had anything bright or beautiful in her life—except for that spoon, which, in truth, she’d stolen. She’d only known misery, poverty, hunger. She couldn’t remember why she came to America in the first place. Poverty was poverty wherever you lived. Maybe she’d just been swept up in the tide of others coming. She wasn’t the type of person to display initiative on her own. Life was short and cruel; it had its own plans and it was only fools who tried to outsmart it.
But this was different. This was providence. And she’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.
The woman aimed her mule in the direction she had traveled only a year and a half before. Did she have any shame when she remembered that previous journey? Any remorse, when she recalled her daughter’s questions, her bewildered eyes—her pathetic tears?
There was no remorse, no shame; she’d done what she had to do, what would make her life easier.
She snorted, thinking that her journey this time was so similar. She had troubles—that hadn’t changed much in the ensuing months, not even with one less mouth to feed—and a solution had presented itself yet again. All she had to do was go to the same house she’d gone to before. Tying her nag of a mule up outside the prosperous two-story home, she realized that if all went according to plan, she had left her husband and sons without any means of transportation. Oh, well. Maybe, if she was feeling particularly generous, she would drag the beast home behind a new carriage, a farewell present before she turned her back on that damned miserable cave and rode off to live in a grand house with servants, a house full of gleaming furniture and plush carpets and china plates, a house that didn’t smell of shit and sweat and boiled potatoes. That didn’t smell of him and the brats, still unable to make it outside—they didn’t have an outhouse, only holes in the ground—before they pissed themselves.
But probably she wouldn’t do that, after all. Her husband was a lot like her; it wouldn’t be smart to let him know she was suddenly rolling in money.
If all went according to plan.
She walked to the front door and knocked. And when the door was answered by the woman she remembered—that beautiful woman who had looked at her with such distaste the other time, too—she calmly stated her business.
“I am Anette’s mother. I heard about her from the papers. And I am here to take her home.”