Holding on to Heaven (20 page)

He shook his head now and ran through the letter in his mind.

July, 1862

Dear Ma and Pa:

By now, you know Finn is gone. I was with him when he fell, cut down by a bullet from the Rebs. I hope you placed him near the walnut stand he loved. I've been in a Union hospital recovering from a head wound. I write to tell you I'm coming home
¾
taking the long way by horse. I'm leaving this godforsaken place and this godforsaken war. Should be home in mid-August.

Your son, Creed

His brother never had been much for eloquent speech. Direct, he'd always plunged into the river head first. His name suited him well because he lived his life by some personal creed, took what he wanted when he wanted it. He never followed the rules, yet everyone loved him.

Brand wondered what events would unfold by his homecoming. So much had changed since Creed and Finn left Red Wing in May of sixty-one. Their mother had written to her sons about his marriage, and about the birth of little Finn, but they hadn't responded. They had no way of knowing if Creed ever received her letters.

How appropriate the little man would carry Finn's name now even though he'd never know his uncle. He felt certain the boy belonged to Creed, yet Lauren would never reveal the father's identity. He'd never asked again after that day in the barn. Hell, he didn't care who had spawned Finn. He loved Lauren and the boy too. He'd have married her if ten children clung to her skirts.

The boy looked so much like Creed, the hackles rose on his neck when he looked at him. Finn had the same facial structure, gray eyes and far-off look. From the day he and Lauren had married, everyone accepted the child as his. He could only hope Creed would be as accepting.

Brand recognized the hundred year gnarled oak ahead, a notable landmark halfway between New Ulm and the ranch. The roan seemed edgy. He tossed his head and blew air through nostrils as if the stench of something noxious drifted in the air. Now that he stopped to think about it, he'd been unsettled from the moment he'd crawled from bed that morning.

Brand pulled into New Ulm an hour later and remembered what day it was—August 19th. Creed should be home soon.

Otto Krueger nearly spooked his horse when Brand stopped at the edge of town. "Brand, you act like you're out for a goddamn Sunday stroll." His arms flailed in the air. "My God, son, how did you get through?"

The man babbled so, Brand had a hard time understanding him. He scanned the scene of frenzied activity. Utter chaos. Barricades surrounded around a three-block area—upturned wagons, piles of wood, even household furniture.

The sheriff barked out orders to a group of ragtag men. Neighbors and friends he'd known for years stood behind the barricades, pitchforks, rusty riles and other crude weapons at hand. Women and children scurried toward the Dakotah and the Erd buildings, and Otto just kept waving his arms in the air.

Brand looked at the stout German and wondered if the town had gone berserk. "Otto, what the hell is going on?"

"What's going on?" Otto's eyes rolled back in his head. "Where have you been, under a rock?" Between harsh rasps, he spat the words. "The hostiles have attacked the settlements along the river, looted and burned the Indian agency, and killed and mutilated hundreds."

Brand glanced down the street and watched in horror as a stream of refugees poured into New Ulm from the opposite end of town, their torsos covered in dried blood, their faces frozen in terror. Many carried wounded children, others trailed behind like specters rising from the grave. Blood speckled their tattered clothing. Deep gashes to their arms, necks and chests bore evidence of recent wounds. Several hobbled forth on crude crutches, their legs dangling limp beneath them.

"Shit!" Brand bellowed. "Lauren and little Finn are at Full Circle!" The hideous scene roared through him with a thunderous dread. "Let go of my reins, Otto. I have to ride back to the ranch."

The German's chin dropped. "Are you mad, son? You'll never get through!"

"I just did." Brand tried to turn his horse around, but the sturdy German clamped both hands on the bridle and held the horse firm. "I'll stay off the main roads, take to the woods. Let go, damn it!"

"You listen to me, Brand Gatlin. We need every able-bodied person who can fight. If they take the town, they won't stop until they reach St. Paul. Think of the lives, man!"

Ferd Dickmann came running from The Dakotah. Like Otto, his voice cracked under the strain. "Brand, am I ever glad to see you! Get down from that horse and take a position on one of the rooftops. We've got to prevent the heathens from overrunning the town!"

His stomach twisted. "Ferd, take a good look at these people straggling in. They live along the river close the Full Circle and my family's home. Look at their faces. Don't you see what's happened to them?"

Ferd's shoulders sagged. "Of course I see them, son, but you wouldn't make it through anyway. The hostiles have surrounded the town. You can't help your family if you're dead now, can you?"

Brand looked at the sky and drew a deep breath. Caught between a moral obligation to stay and an overpowering urge to return to Full Circle... to her, he felt a hand close about his throat and cut off his airway. Ferd and Otto spoke the truth. He was lucky he made it to New Ulm, didn't know how he'd made it through without getting his throat cut.

He dismounted and kicked at the dirt. "Where are my sisters?"

"At The Dakotah with the other women and children. Doc is setting up a temporary hospital and Em and Belle have volunteered to tend the wounded."

"Frank Knapp and Simon Atkinson?"

"Simon is guarding the lumber mill with his rifle, and Frank," he pointed, "is over there with the sheriff."

Brand pulled his rifle from the scabbard. "I can't shoot like Creed, if that's what you think. I'm a better shot close up."

Ferd blew air out his lips and his voice softened. "Fine, son. Barricade yourself behind that wagon. That's where they'll try to enter town."

At three o'clock in the afternoon, the Indians stampeded the town, their painted ponies dancing beneath a brilliant sun as they rode forth. Men moaned and women prayed as they advanced, racing across the prairie like screaming banshees.

Although vastly outnumbered and inexperienced in battle, the settlers fought with such ferocity the Indian ranks became disoriented and chaotic. On two occasions, the defenders were almost overtaken, but bolstered by the thought of what they'd lose should the hostiles get in, they rallied.

The battle raged for two hours before the Indians grew discouraged and retreated into the nearby woods. Jubilant cheers echoed through the streets of New Ulm despite the great loss of life.

After the battle, Brand watched as the enemy carried their dead into the forest. Physically depleted and mentally exhausted, he put his back against an overturned wagon and slithered to the ground.

Belle rushed from The Dakotah and dropped to her knees beside him. "Brand, thank God you're all right!"

"I am rather lucky today."

"Lucky?" She looked around at the carnage.

"I rode to town surrounded by heathens and had not the slightest inkling until I reached New Ulm."

"We've lost so many friends and neighbors." Belle wiped the tears from her cheek. "Fifty dead, eighty-seven wounded, and several children caught in the crossfire."

He watched the survivors lift dead bodies onto plank boards. "Where are they taking them?"

"Behind The Dakotah for now, a temporary burial ground. It's a bittersweet victory, Brand. We won the day, but lost so much."

"The day, Belle, only the day."

"What do you mean?"

"They'll be back in the morning."

She groaned. "The rumor is true then?"

"They'll be up all night mourning their dead, but they'll be back looking for revenge at first light. Why wouldn't they? Hell, we're so outnumbered."

Belle placed her hand on his arm. "Better have Doc take a look at that shoulder, and you could use some food."

"I don't think I can eat. I'm sick about Lauren and Finn. I've got to get back to Full Circle." He slapped his forehead. "What about Ma and Pa?"

"We don't know yet, and you're scaring me. I've never heard such misery in your voice."

He looked away, didn't want her to see his face right now. "If you could look into my heart, you'd see the same.

"You must not leave town; it would be suicide."

Brand rose and followed her to the makeshift hospital. When they stepped through the door, the sight sickened him. Battle wounds of every kind greeted him. He'd never seen such carnage and hoped to never see it again. The anxiety he felt before the attack paled next to what he felt in that moment. He couldn't think about what would happen to his family or Lauren if the renegades raided their homesteads.

Ferd walked through the door, greeted Belle, and turned to Brand. "We need volunteers to ride to St. Peter and Swan Lake."

"What for?" Brand asked.

"To warn the settlers, and we need reinforcements. Hard to say how many braves are out there, but you know they'll be back."

"I told you, Ferd, I'm heading for Full Circle."

"Someone needs to find out what those redskins are up to and there's a ton of settlers along the Cottonwood River. They have no idea this has busted wide open."

"Find someone else."

"Brand, you're the best shot with a rifle and you know the country like the back of your hand. If anyone can get us through, you can."

Brand looked at Belle. Chewing on her lower lip, she dropped her chin to her chest.

Christ, what should I do?
The army of civilians would travel in the opposite direction, but he prayed someone would warn Lauren and his parents. Ferd rounded up the volunteers and they gathered at the outskirts of town. Most rode horses, but some had piled into a wagon.

"Let's go, men." Ferd took the lead. "We'll hit St. Peter and Swan Lake first and then head for the settlements along the Cottonwood."

Brand climbed into the wagon and watched the ribbons of smoke shroud New Ulm in a gray cloud of death.

Chapter Twelve

Lauren pressed her eyes together against the blinding beams of sunlight and drew the damask curtains closed. She plucked a pair of leather riding pants from the top shelf of her armoire, grabbed a tan cotton blouse from the dowel and shucked her dress. The ensemble would be hotter than the light cotton shift, but she felt obligated to fulfill her promise to Uncle Mason to ride out to the south pasture and round up a mare.

"Damn beasts," she muttered to the ceiling.

A flash of disgust crossed Nelly's eyes while she rocked little Finn in her arms. "Ladies don’t be swearin'. An' what is ya all riled up 'bout now?"

"One of the mares is determined to foal beneath a blazing sun. Uncle Mason doesn't care where she has the young one as long as he doesn't have to assist in this scorching heat."

"If'n the fool want to have her baby outside, let her." Nelly returned to crooning a lullaby to Lauren's son.

The po' old slave has gone to rest,

We know that he is free.

His bones they lie beneath his breast,

Way down in Tennessee.

Nostalgia flooded Lauren. Nelly's mother, Daphne, had sung the same words to her as a toddler. About to leave the room, she pulled the knee-length boots over her calf when loud voices from the yard stopped her in mid-stride. She pulled the draperies back and glanced to the porch.

Her uncle crossed his arms, his face was redder than a beet. "You best be on your way; we want no trouble here."

Lauren's gaze drifted to Aunt Estelle while she inched her way toward her husband. She looked beyond them and realized why panic etched her aunt's refined features. Five warriors had ridden into the yard, their faces painted in garish shades of red, yellow and black. Shouts in the Dakota tongue shattered the quiet morning.

Her stomach pitched violently and her lower lip quivered with rage when a savage raised his rifle and delivered a bullet to Uncle Mason's chest. A sickening thud echoed in her ears the moment he hit the floor of the porch.

"No-o-o!" screamed Estelle.

Another shot exploded from a nearby rifle and Lauren's knees buckled. Her aunt teetered for a moment and then collapsed on top of her husband. A flurry of activity broke out on the ground. War cries split the air when the leader slipped from his horse, yanked the tomahawk from his waistband and crept toward her loved ones with the nimble grace of a cougar.

Hank ran from the barn with his rifle aimed at the red man's chest. He died where he fell, shot from behind by a brave near the corral. Justus met a similar fate when a hatchet—thrown with deadly accuracy—landed between his shoulder blades. Paralyzed with fear, Lauren retched when the enemy slid from his horse and finished the job with his scalping knife.

"Lawdy, Lauren, who be doin' all that hollerin'?"

Choking back the bile in her throat, she dragged her gaze from the window and turned to Nelly. "Take Finn and hide. Don't come out, no matter what happens."

"Who down there?" Nelly's round eyes grew whiter than cotton bolls.

"Never mind about that now. Do as I say and quickly!"

Lauren fled from the room like a woman gone mad and bounded down the steps three at a time. Upon reaching the porch, she ran to her aunt and uncle and knelt beside them. "No! This can't be happening! Aunt Estelle!"

High-pitched shrieks reached her ears as the Indians pranced their ponies around the yard, the bloody scalps dangling from their spears. The leader stood at the top of the porch steps, his obsidian eyes hard and cruel; his face impassive. Lauren rose to her feet, head up, chin out, and faced him.

Dressed in caramel buckskin pants and high-top moccasins, he struck a terrifying pose. A dark blue vest covered his torso, adorned with beads in the shape of an oak tree and acorns. A breechclout of the same fabric hung from his narrow waist, and over his right shoulder, a pouch made of buckskin and porcupine quills danced beneath the glare of the sun. Three black and white feathers stuck out from behind his left ear, lying flat against his shiny black hair. His features strong and fierce, his dark eyes pierced her with a sinister look.