The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (17 page)

Inside the circle, men and women danced around a large fire. The men wore coarse blue jackets with brass buttons and red sashes. Their jaunty caps had tassels, and their leggings were decorated with beads and quills. The women wore similar decoration. They were every shade of brown, and among them were some of the most handsome people I had ever laid eyes on. They talked in a strange language and laughed loudly, which is pretty much the same everywhere.

The music came from mouth harps, flutes, and drums. It wasn’t so much a melody as a repetition of chords and rhythms. After nodding along for a while, I took out my violin and joined them, earning smiles all around. Later, waving, I bade them good night.

I returned to our camp and found Flynn by the fire. “So who are they?”

“The answer to that question,” he said, poking the coals, “will make some men rich. I plan to be one of them.” He kept me in the dark for another moment and then relented. “They come from Pembina, along the Manitoba border. They’re the descendants of fur trappers, Frenchies and Scots mostly with Cree and Ojibwa women. Beautiful to look at, wouldn’t you say?”

“They have their own tribe? How many are there?”

“Maybe four or five thousand.”

I looked at my employer in disbelief.

“Well, those old trappers were hardy fellows,” he said, “and they’d settle down for the winter with two or three wives. And that goes back a hundred years. So after a time, there were lots of these creatures, neither white nor Indian. They started making their own babies and talking this talk that’s half Cree, half Frenchie, and half whatever those Scotties talk. Once a year they make the trip to St. Paul to trade their hides and wheat. It’s like the circus comin’ to town.”

“And their name?”

“Bois Brûlés? Means burnt wood—refers to their color.”

“How will they make you rich?” I asked, fearing he planned to make slaves of them.

Flynn glanced about, as though the trees might steal his secret. “They will make me rich if they are real people, which I assert to you that they are.”

“They seemed quite real to me,” I said, not knowing how they could be otherwise.

Flynn put out his knobby hand and shook mine as though I had promised him my vote. “My friend,” he said, “I’m glad to hear you say that, for if the Bois Brûlés are real people, as I say they are and you do too, then Minnesota is near the number of souls it needs to become a state. Now remember Indians don’t count, but nothin’s been decided on the Bois Brûlés—after all, they’re part white. And since the sooner we become a state the better, folks have suddenly become open-minded on the question.”

Flynn let it lie there, while I tried to solve the riddle. I couldn’t.

“It’s a matter of simple geometry,” he said. “To count the Bois Brûlés, you have to draw the lines north to Pembina, and that makes a Minnesota with Kandiyohi smack in the middle. I’m very fond of these people.”

Tom Flynn was unabashed. If the Brois Brûlés were judged real then his plan would succeed. And was there anything wrong with this? I couldn’t see it if there were. I was sure that those with whom I’d just played music wished to be thought of as real. And right there, I began wishing for it too, thinking it might be good for me.

* * *

We reached Forest City late the following day. It wasn’t a city; it was barely a town. But it did have a small inn, and that’s where we stayed. At dinner that evening, Flynn and I shared a table with a young couple, Elijah and Loretta Woodcock. They had been married for a year but were only recently reunited, as Loretta had come west to join her husband in a cabin he had just finished.

Loretta Woodcock was plainly clothed but painfully beautiful. Her dark hair fell upon her shoulders in long curls, and I found myself stealing looks. Elijah Woodcock talked proudly about the land they were going to settle in a place called Green Lake. “There’ll be a town there someday soon,” he said, “and we’ll own some nice pieces as our pay for sitting it this winter.”

Mrs. Woodcock tried to look happy as her husband described the new land, but behind her stiff smile was fear. And why not? What sensible woman would not be afraid of such isolation—more so if she were to become with child. “I didn’t think I’d be so well fed in the wilderness,” she said, trying to be polite.

“Well, this is the end of the line,” said Flynn. “It’s all heathen land from here on. You know what they say:
No church west of St. Cloud. No God west of Forest City
.” Everyone made an effort to laugh, but the best Loretta Woodcock could do was to hide a grimace. I wanted to kick Flynn under the table. In the silence that followed, I thought about the land before us and about those who had lived there. And about how all of us at the table were searching for our dreams on land that once held theirs.

We set out the next morning on a route that went west, then south. The track was crude and our progress slow. Late the following day, we came upon a newly built cabin in a grove of box elder. “This is Noah White’s place,” said Flynn as we stopped before it. “We’re nine miles further on.”

The door to the cabin opened, and Mr. White came out to greet us. He was a solid fellow with large preacher hands and an odd roll to his gait, as though one leg were shorter than the other. He and Flynn laughed and slapped each other on the back. Flynn had brought Mr. White some supplies, and for dinner we had new potatoes and cooked pork, fresh out of a barrel. During the meal Mr. White took to teasing Flynn about his venture. “Why is any senator going to vote to come to this wilderness? They like their whiskey and their women.”

Flynn laughed. “The great motivator,” he said, pointing toward the ceiling as though the motivator was God, though we all knew that it wasn’t.

“I suppose you’ll be running for Senate yourself next year.”

Flynn shook his head. “I’m going to do fine when the building starts,” he said. “Just about everything that comes out here will come on our wagons. And don’t give me that look, Noah. You’re makin’ the same bet, sitting here for some railroad.” Mr. White smiled and didn’t argue.

After the dinner I helped Mr. White wash the plates, while Flynn’s men went out to sleep under the wagon. Flynn and I were to sleep inside, but before I could put myself under a blanket, Noah asked if I would play a game of checkers, seeing as how we would be neighbors soon. I agreed and we sat at the table as Cleo looked on. Noah won the first game, but I fixed him good the second, having learned a few tricks from the Johnson boys in St. Paul.

Next to us on a shelf was a book that I first thought was the Bible. On closer look, I saw it was a book of essays by Mr. Emerson, a man I had heard of but never read. When I was in school, Mr. Emerson’s opinions were thought to be unsuited for young minds. I told this to Noah, and he offered to lend me the book.

“Won’t you miss it?”

“I know it by heart,” he answered. “Just promise that you’d walk across a frozen lake to return it.”

“Without fail,” I said. We stood and shook hands as though we had agreed to explore Manitoba together.

* * *

We left the cabin at first light and again headed south. The wind picked up, and leaves swirled about us like orange snow. Some hours later, we came out of the woods and stopped on the crest of a small hill.

“There,” said Flynn, pointing forward. Up ahead on a rise of its own stood a cabin and behind it, through the trees, a large lake. As we approached, I could see two men stacking wood. Another man came out of the cabin when we arrived. Flynn looked at me. “Joseph, meet your partner.”

“Well, I’ll be,” I said, looking at Owen Carter, whom I had not seen since he broke the mate’s nose in Galena. Owen looked at me and smiled as though we had a secret.

“So you two know each other,” said Flynn.

“Well, yes, we’ve met,” I said, not sure what I should or shouldn’t say. Flynn seemed satisfied, and he motioned proudly toward the cabin. The logs were of good size and well chinked, just as he said they would be. The roof, however, wasn’t done. Flynn saw my eye go there.

“You and Owen will finish it when we leave,” he said. “And the door.” I nodded, hoping that Owen had more skills with wood than I did.

The men then began to unload supplies: a small cask of nails, several others of wheat flour, lamp oil, corn meal, and sorghum blackstrap. There was a cask of pork and some sacks with dried beans, potatoes, and turnips. I went inside and found that the cabin had a plank floor and the promised iron stove. The two windows on the south side were covered by scraped deerskin.

Before dark, Tom Flynn and I walked up the knoll behind the cabin, stopping when we got to the top. “Guess where you are,” he said.

“In Kandiyohi,” I answered with new pride.

Flynn nodded. “Yes, but right now you’re standing in the rotunda of the statehouse. It will overlook Lake Kasota behind and the capital square in front. Beyond that are the lots themselves—some two thousand already mapped.”

I looked out upon this new city and saw not one thing made by man.

T
OM FLYNN SNAPPED the reins. “See you in the spring,” he called as the mules began to pull.

Owen gave a soldier’s salute, and I raised my arm in farewell. “Next spring it is.”

I thought we might watch Flynn’s retreat, but only moments later Owen went behind the cabin and started riving shingles. I didn’t want to look lazy, so I began to chop wood. Every minute or so, I would look out to see Flynn and company farther up the track. I wanted to chase after them.

In the afternoon, Owen climbed the roof and started pounding nails. I went inside and tried to clean a summer’s cooking off the crusted pots. I had to use a hunting knife. Once the pots were respectable, I swept out the cabin, stoked the stove, and had a crock of beans warm when Owen came down at sunset. He gave an appreciative grunt, after which we ate in silence. Later, we sat in the lamp-light, I oiling my rifle, he carving a walking stick.

“I suppose,” I said, “you didn’t tell our employers about your mutiny on the river.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said, unable to hide a grin.

“What happened in Galena?”

“Nothin’. Just told to stay out of trouble.”

“You came to St. Paul?”

Owen gave a nod. “I worked on the wharf. Then I hooked up with Flynn. What about you?”

“I peeled potatoes at the big hotel.”

Owen looked at my rifle. “You any good with that?”

I shrugged. “Been shooting since I was ten.”

“Good. You can hunt then. I’ll finish the roof.”

We didn’t talk much after that, and I didn’t care. I was happy to be put in charge of something I could do. Beyond that, the hunting would give me opportunities to bathe and wash my clothes.

* * *

I rose early and was outside before the sun was up. Lake Kasota lay silent and gray, its far side hidden by the mist. With rifle strapped to my back, I walked along the shore, in places stepping over the birthroot that grew at wood’s edge.

When the mist lifted, I got my first good look at the lake. It was larger than I had thought, stretching on to the east and disappearing behind a point of land. It would take hours to walk around, and if there were swamps along the edge, it could take longer still. I stayed on the near side, which was mainly dry and wooded land with small rises and few rocks. I saw no deer, but on my way back to the cabin, I shot a goose feeding in the pickerel grass.

Owen let out an approving yelp when he saw the bird, and later we sat by the stove and ate goose meat with grease-fried potatoes. Owen went at his plate like he hadn’t eaten in a week. “How goes the roof?” I asked.

“Good,” he said, wiping his chin on his sleeve. “But I want to get the planks for the door while we have the weather.” He laid out his plan, and I said I would go with him in the morning. Then he went back to carving his stick. Didn’t ask a thing about my hunting.

The next day we walked to a stand of oak whose leaves had faded but still clung to the branches. Owen picked a young, straight one, lined up the fall, and started in on it with the axe. The chips flew out in perfect order, and without a rest, the cut was made. Owen handed me the axe, and I circled the tree to begin my cut on the opposite side, a little below his. I was a good chopper but not near as strong as he, and when I was only partway in, Owen took back the axe. Soon I heard a loud crack, and the tree fell to the ground, right where he had aimed it.

“Now let’s see what we can pry out of ’er,” said Owen, taking off his shirt. He began the new cut about seven feet from the first. His shoulders and arms rippled as the axe came down. He was a strapping boy, the kind that had made my heart beat fast when I was a girl. I watched his every swing and felt like a thief. I wondered if later he might take off everything and dive into the lake to cool himself.

Once we had a free log, Owen set to work with a go-devil. In two hours we had three rough boards. We carried them between us, and before the sun was down, Owen had fashioned a door. He made hinges out of harness leather, and we tacked buffalo hide on the jams to keep out the wind.

That night I thought we might celebrate, uncork a conversation or two. But Owen just sat there and whittled his stick, so I decided to whittle mine by finding company with Mr. Emerson. I chose an essay on religion. He wasn’t greatly in favor of it. He said we should investigate God’s creation on our own, and his words brought to mind that sour apple Reverend Albright. In a wicked moment I wished I could have quoted Emerson during our walks and confirmed his worst suspicions.

* * *

I had been there a little more than a week, but something wasn’t right. The silence we sat in was familiar, but Owen wouldn’t look at me. I was somewhat acquainted with this as George Slater used to do the same—used to make me ask him to tell me about why he was bothered, instead of just saying it. Finally I had to speak.

“Owen, are you angry that I’m here?”

I thought he would say that he wasn’t, but he didn’t. Instead he gave me a hard look. “I don’t like it when people aren’t straight with me.”