The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (20 page)

I built a fire in the stove, and when it was going strong, I sat in my chair and reached for my bag. As I opened it, a piece of paper fell out. I picked it up. There seemed to be some writing on it, but I couldn’t make it out. I went over to the door and opened it partway, letting the daylight fall on the paper:
Dear Joseph. I know your secret. It’s safe with me and Cleo, and if you ever need help, you can always call on us. Noah.

I let out a groan. Noah knew. I paced back and forth trying to think of what it might mean. If he hadn’t found a new way, Owen would stop at Noah’s, and even though Noah had pledged that the secret was safe, how often do our intentions and actions follow a different course? That night my sleep was ragged.

The weather the next day was bright, but I stayed inside, too tired to hunt. Late in the day I heard a gunshot. I grabbed my rifle and opened the door. There, emerging from a grove of trees, was a man and a sled. I hurried out to meet Owen, thinking that he might be at his limit, but when I reached him, I saw that his eyes were full of life.

“Little Brother,” he said with a grin, “we got some good eats.”

I let out a happy yip and then insisted on the final pull. When we reached the cabin, I began to unpack. There was a shoulder of ham, a sack of potatoes, onions, dried beans in a sack, bacon, more bacon, flour, and jarred peaches.

“Where did you get all this?” I asked, amazed.

“St. Cloud,” he answered, as if it were just down the road. “Weren’t no provisions in Forest City.”

“Must have cost a fortune,” I said, shaking my head.

Owen laughed. “Didn’t cost nothin’. When I got to St. Cloud, they sent a message downriver, and a letter came back saying to give us anything we wanted. Well, considering that they’re sitting warm and getting ready to be rich, I wasn’t shy.” Owen began to unlace his boots. “And in case you were wonderin’, I didn’t go to St. Paul.”

“Yeah, but you thought about it.”

My friend looked up and smiled. “Yes, I did.”

I wasted no time in cooking up the best meal I had seen in months, and I was glad to hear that Owen hadn’t stopped at Noah’s. He’d found a shorter way. That evening we sat and told our stories. Owen was asleep before I was done with mine.

* * *

What was left of the winter plodded on. In March, the cold lost its grip, and the snow melted back to the shaded places. Tufts of skunk cabbage poked up in the bogs, and the frogs began to peep at dusk. Then geese began to land on the lake. I was so happy to see them that I didn’t shoot a one.

Our contract went to the end of the month, and as that time drew near, we began to wonder if we would see our employers. After a winter on this windswept hill, it didn’t seem likely that it would be the capital of a great state, or even a lesser one. The end of the month came and went, and our spirits began to sink. We had each been paid a hundred dollars in the fall, but we had done what we said we would and wanted to be paid the hundred owed to us. We stayed on. A week went by. And another. I started shooting geese.

Then one sunny afternoon four men and a wagon appeared on the track. We waved like shipwrecked sailors. I was happy to see Tom Flynn and company, but I felt strangely annoyed as they moved into the house, easy as you please. Then Flynn unveiled a keg of beer, and all was made right. “To you brave gentlemen,” he said, raising his cup to us.

“Can we drink to statehood?” I asked. “Is this still to be the capital?”

Flynn winced. “No, we’re not a state. And as far as the new capital, we had a little trouble this winter. But now we’re here, and you’re gettin’ paid.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, and we raised our cups again.
Owen and I left the next day with handshakes all around. I had decided to go with him on his new route and bypass Noah White’s cabin. Noah had been a friend, yet I felt resentful, as though he had meddled in my life. I didn’t want to see his knowing looks. I didn’t want to explain to him or perform for him.

Owen and I slept our last night together under the stars. The following morning we didn’t bother with a fire as we prepared to go separate ways. He was heading to St. Cloud, while I was to follow a more westerly path that would bring me to the Crow River and then Manannah.

“Well, Little Brother,” he said as we shook hands, “I hope you find your horses.”

That was my dream, of course. Owen’s was to marry his lady of the night. I had my doubts, but in the moment of parting, I couldn’t discourage him. “And may a certain woman in St. Paul come to her senses.”

Owen made a fist as though holding a coin he would never surrender.

T
HE SYCAMORES STOOD in the mist like rooted spirits. The path through them seemed enchanted, as though I might come out of the fog and find myself along Basket Creek. But the River Crow didn’t turn into the Basket, and that was easy enough to see. There were no ledges or falls—it just meandered about like a lazy brown snake. I followed its course, and as the mist began to burn off, I came upon a sign rudely nailed to a tree: STARTS HERE, MEEKER COUNTY.

By noon, I could see the houses and barns of Manannah. People were all about, more than I would have thought to see—a celebration perhaps. Charred pork and sweet beans came to mind, but those hopes faded as I drew closer and heard shouting. I came upon a man loading a wagon, a woman with a crying child seated above. “What’s going on?”

“The Sioux have risen!” he cried. “They’re killing everyone!” The man climbed up and took the reins, but he could do nothing as the way was blocked by another wagon. He called on God to damn all.

A lanky fellow with a brimmed hat hurried over and gave no greeting. “You come in from the south?”

“Kandiyohi,” I said, as though it were a town and not a cabin.

“You running from the savages?”

“None that I know about. What’s happening?”

“Not sure,” said the man. “A fellow came in from Henderson last night, scared to death. Said the Sioux were attacking the settlements.”

I shook my head. “I haven’t seen a thing.”

The man said he was glad to hear that, though he didn’t seem less worried. He put out his hand and introduced himself as Otis Whitmore. I told him my name. He asked what brought me to Manannah, and I said I’d come looking for work. Mr. Whitmore scratched his neck. “Well, our hired man left this morning, but we’re not taking on help. Don’t know anyone who would be. Half the town is leaving, and the rest of us are trying to figure out what to do.”

A fine hello this was. I had gotten myself to Manannah, the town where Noah White said I should stake my claim, the town where people were “gettin’ along good,” last he heard. Now it seemed they were taking the place apart. And what should I do? Should I try to save my scalp and keep on going? To St. Cloud? To St. Paul? It wasn’t a happy thought but then neither was being cleft by a hatchet. The best I could do was take a look at those who were fleeing and those who were staying. I did and decided to stay.

An hour later, the settlers who remained gathered under a hickory, maybe seventy or eighty in all. I stood back and watched as, by show of hands, the men elected a commander, a farmer named John Hillsboro, a former captain who had fought in Mexico. Hillsboro accepted the post wearing his blue army coat that no longer covered his belly. He didn’t look impressive, but the townsfolk knew their man. His first words were an order. “Stop fortifying the farms,” he said, eyes moving from man to man. “I want everyone here.” Hillsboro then pointed to four houses that were to be the corners of a fort we would build.

I was part of the brigade that began work on the fort while others went out to their farms for supplies. Using fence rails, barrels, and whatever else, we made walls that might have kept out a stray mule. It looked like a barnyard after a windstorm. The next day we took it all apart as the trunks of young trees were brought in and stood upright. By the following afternoon, we had something that could pass for a stockade so long as you were coming at it from the west. It would take another day or two for the walls to meet on the other side.

Captain Hillsboro seemed pleased, and there was talk about how we could hold out in the fort for a week, if need be. By then the soldiers from Fort Snelling would have arrived with cannon and bayonet—every hour surely brought them closer. We also waited for the return of a wagon that had been sent to St. Cloud to buy guns and powder. Some thought that it might come back with volunteers to help us. In the meantime, no one in Manannah worked for anyone. We all worked for each other, sharing the danger and the food.

Otis Whitmore introduced me to others, including his wife Mary and his brother James, a leaner version of himself. People were friendly, but no one was particularly curious about me. They had plenty to think about and were happy to see anyone who could lift a rifle. During the day, Otis and James would go out to the farm to check on things. Other men did the same. Hillsboro may have been the commander in the blue coat, but inside the fort it was Mary Whitmore who gave most of the orders. I stayed there and helped with what I could, most often standing guard, looking to the west for signs of attack and to the east for those of relief.

At night we sat about fires. People spoke of their former homes along the Allegheny and Shenandoah, now left behind with parents, sisters, or friends. Scraped clean of those attachments, like hides readied for a window, we sat in the dim light and awaited a common fate.

On the fourth afternoon, I was outside the fort standing guard with three others. Like grazing deer, we looked up at the same moment—a crack, a rifle shot. From the west, across the big meadow, a man with a rifle was running toward the town. He stopped, bent over, and then ran again, making hurried looks over his shoulder. Two men dashed out to meet him and as good as dragged him the last hundred yards. The wide-eyed young man was gasping for air. “Indians!”

“Did you see ’em?” Hillsboro asked.

“No. But Seth and Stuart sure did. Only an hour ago. They sent me back and went to warn the Brochners.”

“We’ve got to go meet them,” said one young man.

“Now, Wes,” said Hillsboro, “every man is needed here.”

The young man shook his head. “Seth’s my brother, and I ain’t gonna let him get kilt. He’d come for me.”

The church bell began to ring, and the captain gave way. “Okay, but no more than five. And I want you to go no farther than Hollister Creek.”

Wes looked about. “Who’ll come with me?”

The feeling of danger surged through me like whiskey. I felt alive and closely bound to people I hardly knew. Faces spoke. Eyes told stories all by themselves. I raised my hand.

* * *

The five of us began at a slow run and soon got strung out in a line with me at the end. The track was rutted, and I was watching where each foot came down. I didn’t want to twist an ankle, and I didn’t want to be left behind, but that fear didn’t last long. My time in Kandiyohi had made my legs hard. I could keep at it as well as any of them.

When we reached Hollister Creek, Wes held up his hand. “I’m going on,” he said in a low voice. “You all stay here with Charlie; he’s in charge.” He looked about, daring anyone to mention the captain’s order not to go farther. Then he looked at me. “Your name’s Joseph, right?” I nodded. “Joseph, I want you to head up the creek and watch at the bend above. The rest of you set up here. If you hear me shoot, it’s trouble.”

Wes waded across the creek and started up the track. I crouched and crept upstream. At the bend, the bush willows grew thick on my side of the creek, good cover but no comfort, as every place was wet. There was nothing to do except nestle into the slop and watch for Indians. I tried to breathe quiet so I could hear the slightest noise, but that made things worse, for what forest does not have sounds? And you can make out of those whatever you wish, so in trying to hear Indians, I began to hear them, creeping closer but never appearing.

I couldn’t say how long I was there, each minute was its own world. Then I heard a sudden noise, a splash. My hands gripped my rifle, and my eyes swept the far side. I could see every leaf that moved. No one. Then another splash, but this time I saw the stone that had caused it. I looked down the creek. Charlie waved for me to come.

When I reached him, Charlie put a finger to his mouth and motioned up the track where Wes had gone. By this time, whatever had been on the track was now in the bush. We took cover. I got behind a skinny birch which didn’t hide a thing, but that’s what was there, so I got behind it and pointed my rifle at the far shore. I heard the crunch of small branches. “Charlie,” a voice called out. “It’s us. Don’t shoot.”

“We’re here,” called Charlie. “Come across.” Then out of the woods and into the creek came Wes and four other men, guns held high. When they got to our side, Wes said he didn’t think they were being followed. No one had seen any Indians since the first sighting.

We returned to Manannah at a fast walk and in good spirits, entering the fort to the sound of cheers. Captain Hillsboro wanted a report. “How many were there?”

“I saw six or seven right out,” said the young man named Seth. “But there were others in the woods behind. There might have been a dozen, maybe twenty. It looked like a hunting party.”

“Hunting party?” said Hillsboro.

“Yeah,” said Seth, “like we’ve seen before. If they had wanted us, we was easy pickin’s.”

“Well, you might be right,” said Hillsboro. “Or perhaps they’re just scouts. We’ll have ten men awake at all times during the night.”

That evening, the young men sat outside the fort and told stories of our afternoon sally. And much pleasure there was in the telling. “Hey, Charlie,” said Wes, “for two bits, we’ll tell Jenny Lindross that you shot yourself three Indians.”

There were a few chuckles, but Charlie wasn’t amused. “Keep at it, Wes, and you’ll be eatin’ dirt.”

The girl that the boys teased Charlie about was serving food that night. She wore a smock of unbleached muslin, made grayer still by the smoke of the fire she tended. Her bonnet was simple, but from it escaped strands of fine brown hair that hung down in wisps about her face. As she spooned supper onto Charlie’s plate, she gave him a look of relief—he had returned safe from the day’s adventure. Charlie, aware that his friends might be watching, made a show of hardly noticing her.