The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (19 page)

“I can see you in a couple of years,” I said. “A big watch in your hand, master of the station.”

Noah laughed. “Better a watch than a hoe. What about you?”

“I want to raise horses,” I said, curious as to what he’d say about it. “This looks like good land.”

“It is,” he agreed, “but you’re a few years early. If I were looking to claim a piece, I’d go up to Manannah. Last I heard, folks there were getting along good.”

“Manannah?” I asked, not sure if I were saying it right. “Where is it?”

“A couple of days north of here in good weather.”

I thanked Noah for this advice, rolling the new word around in my head.
Manannah
. I wasn’t sure if it were an Indian name or a Bible name, but I liked the sound of it.

“Well, are you a man of your word?” he asked. “Did you bring the book?”

“You saw it in my bag.”

“What did you think?”

“I liked it most,” I said, “when Mr. Emerson talked about nature.”

“Ah, yes,” said Noah, putting a hand to his breast.
“Nature never wears a mean appearance. Neither does the wisest man extort her secret
.”

“Begging the author’s pardon,” I said, “I think I’ve seen nature wear a mean appearance. But did you come here for that? For nature?”

My friend shook his head. “No. I’m escaping my marriage or, rather, setting my wife free.”

I was at a loss. “Where is she now?”

“Back in Illinois.” Noah looked away as though traveling there in his mind. “She said she would follow me here, but we both knew she wouldn’t. She married me but loved another man, and I didn’t know that until she could barely stand the sight of me.”

Noah looked down and fell through time. I sat there and wondered if all of Minnesota wasn’t peopled by those who had lost at love.

* * *

The weather turned foul the day I got back to Lake Kasota. For the next week there was little that Owen or I could do outside. I felt trapped and brooded as much as he did. When things improved, I went out to hunt but came back with nothing. We decided to start in on the pork, and Owen took an axe to the barrelhead. There was a hiss, and the cabin filled with an awful smell. Owen dragged the barrel to the lake and put it under the ice. We then thought to open the second cask of flour. The first had been fine, but when we opened the second, it was covered in a black mold. And we had already lost our turnips and potatoes to a rot. It was early-January, and we had only a few lean weeks of food.

That night we ate beans, though with every spoonful, I felt anxious for eating what we might later need. Owen kept staring at the table. “One of us’ll have to go to St. Cloud,” he said. “Likely nothing in Forest City.”

In the silence that followed, I considered the journey. What with the snow and all, towing a sled to St. Cloud and back could take a dozen days or more, assuming the weather held. I hadn’t much the heart for it, the only attraction being the prospect of a hot bath.

“It’s gotta be me,” said Owen. “I can pull more. And you can hunt while I’m gone.” I agreed, and we talked about what had to be done for his journey.

The next day Owen braced one of the sleds he had made for dragging wood and fashioned a harness by which to pull it. He warmed his boots by the stove and rubbed them with beeswax. For my part, I took two buffalo robes and sewed a sack for him to sleep in. Then I cooked our remaining bacon with a big pot of beans heavy with blackstrap, his food till he got to somewhere that had something else. Late that night I woke to hear him rustling about. He left without a word, as though he were going to fetch some water.

* * *

The days that followed were cold and dreary, the pewter sky sucking the very life from me. Then I fell sick. The fever lasted only a few days, but after that I couldn’t find my strength. I stayed in bed. Cleo would come lick my face to ask if anything were wrong. I couldn’t make myself hunt, though I grew hungrier by the day. I had become stingy with the food, not certain of Owen’s return. I knew he would not abandon me, but what if he fell sick, as I had? He didn’t have a bed or a stove—just two hides sewn together.

The nights seemed to go on and on, and even in the day, I had to light the lamp if I didn’t want to stumble over things. The silence pressed in as though it were a noise. The wind could relieve it, and I welcomed that even when it brought the cold. There was too much time to turn things over in my mind. And once that began, it would go in circles.
How was it that I had come to be here? Did God have a plan for me? Was this punishment for my sins?
I began to imagine that hell was not the hot place so talked about, but rather a very cold one—like Minnesota. Why couldn’t it be? Who did we know who could say for sure that it wasn’t? Not Reverend Albright. Not Reverend Hale. And why were God’s emissaries such dried-up strips of jerky? You’d think He’d have his pick.

* * *

The gray days were finally and blessedly followed by bright ones. The sunlight made me well. I went out with my rifle and headed away from the lake. I came across fresh tracks and followed them to a small meadow. There, on the far side were two does. They both ran when I fired, but one didn’t get far. The unwounded deer came back to her sister. I shot at her, and she bounded off. I approached the fallen one. She was frightened and struggled. I took my axe handle to her head.

I set out after the other, following a trail of blood. Soon I saw her standing alone, looking unsteady. She saw me approach but merely watched with those big doe eyes, weak from her wound. I took her down with one shot.

There was plenty of day left, so I was able to bring the deer back to the cabin in two runs with the smaller sled that Owen had made for moving wood. I dressed them and buried the innards as deep as I could in the snow. Then I hung the deer side by side from a tree limb, high enough so that the wolves and bears couldn’t get at them. I was quite pleased and wished that Owen could see the deer, as my hunting skills had come into question.

In the morning I walked out to check on my kill, but my heart near stopped, for not far away were three Indians staring at the hanging deer. They wore leggings and blankets, but how they stood the cold I couldn’t say. I thought of the burned lodge.

I supposed the Indians to be Dakota Sioux whose land this was not long ago. They carried muskets and long knives, but did not act like they wished me harm, though who knew what they were thinking? As for me, I was thinking everything, most particularly that my gun was not loaded and by the door where it should have been. I wanted to run into the cabin, but didn’t want to act like I had something to fear, or do anything that might make them think that I was alone. So I walked to where the deer hung and cut one rope. I pulled the carcass a step or two toward the Sioux then motioned for them to take it. I walked back to the cabin, expecting something terrible with each step. I went inside, and when I looked out again, my loaded rifle now at hand, the gift deer was gone and so were the Sioux.

I sat by the stove but couldn’t stop shivering. Owen had been gone almost three weeks, and I didn’t want to spend another night alone. I began to gather what I would need for the journey to Noah’s. I quartered the remaining deer and put a piece on the sled. I made a nest there for Cleo.

Trudging in the snow to Noah’s wasn’t any easier the second time. Cleo and I got there late in the day, and again I announced my approach with the rifle. When we got close, Noah opened the door, and Cleo and I were both very pleased to enter his warm and tidy cabin. Ours had become cold and filthy. I unwrapped myself and then the frozen venison. Noah’s face broke into a smile.

“So you got yourself a deer,” he said, placing a fresh stick in his stove.

“Two,” I replied. “But I’ve got only one now.”

“Wolves?”

I shook my head. “No. Sioux. Three of them. I gave them a deer, and if it hadn’t disappeared, I would have thought I’d dreamed them.” I described for Noah my encounter and didn’t pretend that I hadn’t been frightened. I asked if he had seen anything of Owen.

“Yes. Several weeks ago. He told me of your troubles. I thought you’d come sooner.” I reminded him that I was being paid to stay at my cabin.

We ate pork and beans again that night, as the deer was well-frozen. Noah wiped his plate clean with a piece of cornbread. “You were fortunate with the Sioux,” he said, “what with their land stolen and their lodge burned.”

I was surprised. “Don’t they have new land along the Minnesota River?”

“What? Their feedlot? It’s ten miles wide!” Noah stood and began to pace about like a schoolmaster. “Can you tell me, Joseph, why they were put there?” I shook my head. “Well, if we shipped them further west, say to Dakota Territory where there’s lots of land, then some other white men would get their annuity.”

“Can we not teach them to plant?” I asked. “The Mohawks where I grew up are good farmers.”

“They may be,” said Noah, “but not the Sioux. The brave could never bring himself to dig a potato patch. It’s slave work. Women’s work. They’re finished. Remember those three you saw yesterday—you can tell your grandchildren.”

Overnight it began to rain. In the morning the world was covered in ice. It remained cold and gray most of the day, and by turns we napped, talked, and played checkers. Cleo took a liking to Noah and made herself comfortable in his lap.

“I’m sure he’s a lot better with you,” said Noah, petting Cleo, “but I could barely get a sentence out of your partner.”

“He will talk,” I said, “if you wait a week or two.”

Noah smiled. “He didn’t say much, that’s for sure. But he did say one thing. Said you’re only twenty. Is that so?”

I forced a chuckle. “Some things are true for Owen,” I said, “because he needs them to be true.”

That hadn’t really answered the question, but Noah didn’t seem to care. “You know, Joseph, you remind me of a cousin of mine.”

“Is that so?” I said, happy to be moving on.

“Yes. You’re smart like she’s smart.”

She’s smart? I grinned like he had told a funny story. “Well then, she must be real stupid, ’cause anyone sitting out here in the cold can’t be smart. The smart ones are back in St. Paul. And that goes for you too, Mr. White.”

Noah laughed and seemed satisfied. Cleo then stretched herself before settling back down into his lap. “Noah,” I said, “in another month or so, I’ll be done here. I don’t know where I’ll end up. Would you take Cleo?”

My friend looked surprised. “But, Joseph, she’s yours.”

“If I had a place of my own,” I said, “I wouldn’t part with her for the price of a horse. She likes it here. Please.” He said yes and I felt sad.

I would have been content to stay at Noah’s for the rest of the winter, but I owed Flynn a duty, and knew I should be at the cabin when Owen got back. He had spoken of trying a more direct route, so I couldn’t be certain he would pass this way.

Late in the day the weather cleared, and after dark, the moon rose full. I told Noah that I would leave before dawn—moonlight on the snow had always been a fascination for me. Noah said he’d pack me some provisions. That night I slept with Cleo for the last time.

I woke in the dark not knowing the hour. When I poked my head outside, the moon was still high. I left quietly and started off across the frozen land, following the creek into a grove of box elder and cottonwood. The night was silent, and the clouds moved as phantom sailing ships. Each time the moon came out from behind one, the trees around me burned like lime as the silver light reflected off each branch and twig, covered still as they were with thick ice—a forest made of glass. A slight breeze would bring cracking noises, but a sudden one might break a tree into a thousand pieces as I looked on.

On a small rise I paused in the silence. I had seen the light of the moon on snow many times in New York but never in a landscape so untouched by human hands—no roads, fences, or chicken coops. I had not felt the loving presence of God in a long time, but now I gave thanks to Him for the beauty of this world. I felt blessed, chosen, and may I not be damned for saying this, but it seemed in that moment that God had brought me to that place so that He could look out over His creation and see it through my eyes.

For the next hour, the only sound I heard was that of the trapper shoes on the crusted snow and the sled rattling behind. When I stopped, it was so quiet I could hear my heart. Then out of the forest came a horrific noise that could only belong to a pack of wolves. A single wolf howling at the moon is one thing, and I had heard that many times where I grew up, but the sound that a pack of wolves makes is nothing like that. It’s a chorus of shrieks that speak of torture and horrid death. My rifle was already on my shoulder, and I went to the sled and found the axe handle. I would have prayed for deliverance, but I didn’t believe in it. If I were set upon, it would be my right to defend myself and the wolves’ right to eat me. God would not shed a tear either way, or He would not have made the wolf.

I kept moving, holding to an even pace, trying not to spend my strength. Then I saw them—a pack of seven or eight coming down at me through the woods. I looked for a tree to go up, but the ones nearby weren’t climbers. I chose a fat one to put at my back. My hand shook, and I hit it hard to get the tremor out.

Had they come at me fast, I couldn’t have fought them. But since I wasn’t running, and I knew not to do that, they advanced cautiously, baring teeth. I raised my rifle and fired at the closest. The report surprised them. The one I shot yelped and scrambled away a short distance. He fell, got up and then limped behind some rocks. Two of the others followed him, and then I heard an awful sound as though the two had set upon the wounded one. I reloaded and shot again, but I didn’t hit anything, as the wolves were already moving away. And everything inside of me said to do the same. Now I went as fast as I could go. In a while the sun was up, and I heard no more of the wolves.

I saw my cabin in the distance and kept myself hidden. I watched for Indians but saw none. Finally, weariness and hunger drove me forward. About the cabin were no new tracks, and inside everything was as I had left it.