The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (16 page)

Mr. Owen frowned as though Pennsylvania was not a good state in which to have worked at a newspaper. Then he handed me a broom and told me to sweep the shop. This I did, trying to be swift and thorough. All went well until a tray of cold type hit the floor. One of the typesetters had knocked it over, but I was standing close by. Mr. Owen suddenly appeared, looked at the mess and then at me. I was on the street a minute later—couldn’t even tell you what the J. P. stood for.

The following day I answered a notice for kitchen work in the Hotel American. It was at the center of town and easy to find, what with all the fancy carriages lined up in front of it. I entered by the grand door and found myself on a plush carpet in the great lobby. I had never seen the like, even in Albany. Polished brass was everywhere and crystal hung from the ceiling.

I had been there but a moment when a well-dressed gentleman appeared by my side as if by magic. “May I help you?” he said, looking down his long nose. I told the man why I was there, and by his expression he made it plain that I had entered by the wrong door. He then took my elbow and firmly guided me through the lobby, smiling for all to see, as though he were helping an old woman. Once we were out of sight, the smile fell off his face. Through another door and I was handed over to the master of the kitchen.

Alberto Curasco was a heavy man with pocked skin whose words had an odd accent that I later learned was Portuguese. The kitchen was his kingdom, and before he had said a word, I saw him bellow at some unfortunate soul. Then he looked at me and snorted. I peeled potatoes and scrubbed pots the rest of the day.

The rich people who stayed at the American dined in its grand parlor that could seat a hundred. The fare was beef, buffalo, chicken, or pork served with potatoes, cabbage, and greens. Pies and cakes were offered for dessert, and Mr. Curasco was pleased when I showed some ability with butter and flour.

At the end of the day, Mrs. Johnson always had a large kettle simmering with soup. She made enough for her family and half a dozen others, nearby men who paid for their dinners. This gave me an idea, for there was much discarded food at the American. I introduced Mrs. Johnson to Mr. Curasco, and the two made an arrangement. Twice a day, the Johnson boys would arrive at the back of the hotel and leave a little later hauling buckets filled with scraps. Soon, the Johnsons had an eatery. Dinners of thick soup and bread were fifteen cents, and in a matter of days, they had to turn people away.

During this time I purchased, among other items, a strop and folding razor. Twice a week or so, I would stand outside my tent and run the blade over my face, making the contorted expressions and careful motions of a man who had something to shave. This must have looked real enough, for no one said a thing, one way or another. And what was the worst someone could think? That I was a young man eager for the rituals of manhood? That was a common enough story, and one that would do me no harm.

* * *

I worked in St. Paul six days out of seven. At night I found companionship in camp, either helping at the Johnsons’ eatery or playing the violin by the fire. The violin always brought memories of home, and these were not easy for me—more difficult still, because I had not yet written. It was well past time, but I was afraid. Not afraid as I had been in Honesdale, that my brother or someone would come find me, but rather afraid that my two lives, the one before and the one now, were so different that they could never touch, or if they did, something bad would come of it. Finally guilt overcame fear, and I sat one night at Mrs. Johnson’s table and wrote a letter to my daughter.

Dear Helen. I am in Minnesota Territory. Perhaps Mary can show you on a map where that is. There are redskin Indians out here, though I have seen only a few as I am working in a big town called St. Paul. Soon, I’ll go west and claim a piece of land and raise horses. Perhaps someday you will come, and we can ride together. I miss our woods and our home on Basket Creek. Most of all, I miss you, my darling. I don’t know when I will see you again, but please know that you are always in my heart. Mind Grandma and Grandpa, and give everyone a big hug for me. Your loving mother.

I put down the pen, unhappy with what I had written. But I had no idea of what else to say. And it wasn’t as though I had told lies. I was in St. Paul and would go west and raise horses. And if I could tame the land, then Helen might join me on ground that would someday be hers. This was the hope. With a farm I might, in some small way, still be true to Helen, and even to Lydia. But carving a farm out of the wilderness was no small thing—witness the steady stream of men and women flowing back into St. Paul, people who had hurried west in high spirits and returned in rags. I thought it best to find a situation.

Each day I searched the notice board for work that might take me west. There were occasional calls for carpenters or blacksmiths, but most notices were for work in St. Paul. In the meantime, I went to bed each night with food in my belly and a dollar richer, money I would need later, even if the land were free. And so the summer passed, till I began to think that I would travel west the following spring.

* * *

One morning on a free day in September, I saw a notice that offered two hundred dollars for guarding a claim over the winter in a place called Kandiyohi. Curious, I followed the directions to a building with a painted sign: WHITE BEAR LAND CO. I opened the door and came in on five hard-faced men leaning over what seemed to be a map.

A man with thick arms and curly hair took a step forward as though to block my view. “What do you want?”

I took a step back. “I saw your notice to guard a claim.”

The man came toward me, put his hand on my shoulder and hurried me outside. Once on the street, he looked me over without a smile. “So you want the job?”

“I might,” I said. “Where is this place? And how do you say it?”

I suppose I wasn’t the first to ask that question, ‘cause the man laughed and then kindly broke the word into four syllables. “It’s sixty miles due west,” he said, “but to get there you need to go north to St. Cloud.”

“Is it good land? Good for horses?”

The man laughed again. “Sure it is, but the land you’d be sittin’ is spoken for.”

“And what will I live in?”

“Well it’s log and not sod, if that’s what you’re wonderin’. It’s got an iron stove, and you and the other man will be well supplied. Your partner is already out there. What can you say for yourself?”

I thought and then remembered something my father used to say. “Well, sir, I always try to finish what I start and do what I say I’m gonna do.”

The man nodded his approval and told me his name was Tom Flynn. He then asked if I had a rifle. I said that I did and could hit a squirrel at forty yards. I think Mr. Flynn liked that answer, because he asked me again if I wanted the job.

Despite his gruff manners, there was something about Flynn I liked. And I believed him about the cabin and the supplies, so I put out my hand. If all went well, I’d come away with two hundred dollars and be that much closer to getting my own place. But why did it pay so much? And why did I need my rifle?

“Not meaning to pry,” I said, “but just what’s so valuable out there? I mean, that you’d need to guard it.”

Flynn paused and looked around. “I’ll tell you, but not until we’re on the trail. I’ll be going with you and the last wagon.” We agreed to meet in two days, and I walked away wondering what it could be. A vein of gold?

I returned to our camp and found Agnes Johnson tending three pots of soup. “You’re home early,” she said, looking to see if I was walking steady.

“I’m leaving,” I said, proudly. “Going west to guard a claim.”

Mrs. Johnson gave a sad look. “We’ll miss you, Joseph. But I know you’ll do well out there.”

I had known her only a few months, often sitting with her by the fire after the dinner was served. Sometimes I’d play checkers with her boys, and perhaps that had something to do with it, but in some small way I think Agnes Johnson had come to adopt me. In that moment, I wished she really were my mother, or rather wished my mother were more like her.

I put up a sign asking twenty dollars for the tent and the spot which in four months had become a good one, the shanty town having grown. I had it sold by dark and made ten dollars’ profit on land that wasn’t mine. I could have made twenty.

T
OM FLYNN AND I traveled by coach to St. Anthony, where we boarded a steamer heading north. Two days later we were in St. Cloud, a poor cousin to St. Paul, but its streets were busy with people and wagons. We took rooms in a small hotel, all paid for by the White Bear Company. At dinner we sat at a table and ate buffalo. Flynn finished his before I was half done and ordered another plate. He dug into that one as though it were his first.

For all his appetite, Tom Flynn was only a little heavy in the belly. His face was heavy too with scars from years of scraping it with a blade. This was his third trip since spring to Kandiyohi, and he’d been there twice the year before. He said he was from Ohio and had come to St. Paul when it was still called Pig’s Eye.

“Nobody back home thought Tom Flynn would amount to nothin’,” he said, pointing his fork. “Someday, when this is done, I just might pay their fare so they can come out and see.”

“See what?” I said, thinking I might get Flynn to tell me what I’d been hired to guard. He smiled and said nothing. Just then, something touched my leg. I looked down to see a scrawny, three-colored cat making a sad appeal for food. I slipped her a piece of buffalo, and she ate it in a single swallow. Then I heard a sharp yell, and the cat ran for the door. The hotel keeper came over. “She won’t stay out of here,” he said by way of apology. “I’m gonna have to shoot her.”

Five minutes later the cat was at my feet again. I looked at Flynn. “Can I take her?” He raised his eyes as though I were a soft-hearted fool. I took that for a yes and carried the cat to my room. I put her on the bed, and she lay with her paws outstretched. I named her Cleopatra.

In the morning, Flynn and I met up with two men and a heavily loaded wagon. We headed out of St. Cloud on the rough road that went south, my bag and rifle on the wagon, as was Cleo, who, already certain of my devotion, watched as Flynn and I walked behind. Until this moment, my travels in Minnesota had been on the river. Now I was walking through new land and breathing its ripe smells. It was an odd patchwork of woods and grassland, the forest and prairie, meeting and claiming what they could, the swamps taking the rest. The trees were familiar, maple and ash, oak and cherry, but there were no sudden rocky rises like there were in New York. And other than the ruts in the road, there was no sign that men, white men, had yet lived on this land—and they hadn’t, because until recently it had all been Indian land. There had been a treaty—some sort of payment. But had everyone agreed? Were there savages still out there? Flynn’s men had their rifles loaded and within reach.

At midday we stopped to rest. I sat on a log next to Flynn and told him it was time. What was this about?

Tom Flynn gave a boyish smile and replied with a question. “Well, are you ready to be the very first citizen of the future capital of all the Northwest?” I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Next month,” he continued, “White Bear will file a plan for a new city. It’s to be called Kandiyohi, after the county it’s in. When Minnesota becomes a state, it’ll need a new capital—something in the center, not over by Wisconsin. If the lines get drawn the way we think, Kandiyohi will be sittin’ pretty.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. “And you’ll own all the land?”

Flynn shook his head. “We’ve given a lot of it away already, or rather promised it. But there’s plenty to go around.”

My employer was clearly pleased with himself, and I was not put off. I liked this scheme. It gave me confidence that we would be well supplied.
The capital of all the Northwest
. It had a ring to it, and I’d be the mayor of the place, at least for the winter. In that moment, my dream of raising horses fell away, and I imagined myself an important person in this new city. Maybe in a few years, I too would be inviting people to come out and see it. And I liked that I wasn’t going to be guarding gold or something that people might want to take from me. Who would want to steal some plain, ordinary land when you couldn’t take it anywhere, and there was so much of it to start with? When I asked this of Flynn, he said that his company had spent a lot of money on this city already, and he didn’t want to come out in spring and find someone else on the land. It was my job, mine and my partner’s, to make sure that didn’t happen.

We headed south again in the afternoon. And spending every hour with Flynn and company introduced a new problem. Certainly, I could find the time and place to relieve myself in private, but I soon saw that simply peeing in private wasn’t enough. Once out of town, men peed quite casually in the presence of one another, usually just turning and facing a tree or a bush. If I didn’t do this, it would, after a time, appear strange.

And so that afternoon I began to pretend to pee like a man, something I never had to do in Honesdale. I would stop on the trail when Flynn was a short distance ahead, turn my back and face a tree. I would spread my legs, throw back my shoulders, and engage my hands, the left holding my trousers, the right feigning the more specific task. I was amused by the playacting and wished, not for the first time, that I had a hose for this purpose, it being opportune.

Late in the day we came upon a broad meadow where another track came in from the south. Already there, at the far end, was a great camp with a large circle of wagons. We set up on the near end, but I could hear the beat of drums and the notes of what I thought were flutes.

“What in heaven’s name is that?” I asked.

Flynn laughed. “The Bois Brûlés.”

“Who are the Bwaa Brulay?” I said, imitating the sound of his words.

“Go and find out. They’re friendly.”

Curiosity got to me, and I went over to their camp. A double circle of wagons, perhaps forty, formed the outer rim. I had never seen the like. They were carts, really, with only one axle and wheels taller than myself. The rails and spokes were made of bent wood. Not one piece of metal anywhere.