The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (24 page)

I wanted to yell every curse I knew, but I measured my words. “Sheriff, if I had tried to murder Willie, he’d be dead.”

“But you did stab him?”

“I did. And I presume that in Meeker County it’s the right of every man to defend himself. Did Willie say why I stabbed him?” I looked hard at the sheriff, but he was wearing his poker face.

“Willie said a lot of crazy things. He said that you tricked him, and then tried to kill him.”

“Anything else?”

The sheriff paused. “Yes. He called you a she-devil.”

That was it. My secret was gone. Part of me wanted to run, and another part of me wanted to lash out. But the sheriff knew his way around a situation, speaking slowly, evenly. “I would be obliged if you would tell me your side of things. You might begin—and I mean no disrespect—by tellin’ me exactly how I ought to address you.”

I cursed silently. “You should address me as Mrs. Slater.” I hated to hear myself speak those words. After everything, I was, once again, the wife of George Slater.

The Sheriff nodded. “What happened?”

I took a breath. “Willie found me bathing in the river. He forced himself on me, but then I got hold of his knife and drove it into his leg.” I paused for a moment, it all coming back. “I should have killed him, I truly should have. But then, of course, you might have some real business here.”

“Still do,” said the sheriff. “If what you say is true—and knowin’ Willie, I could believe it—then you have nothin’ to fear from the law. But I have a warrant for your arrest from the county attorney. I want you to give me your gun, and I don’t want any trouble.”

“Willie attacked me,” I said, in disbelief.

By then the sheriff knew that I wasn’t going to lift my gun against him. His tone became hard. “You can talk about that with the county attorney. And you can file a complaint against McAllister. But you’re coming with me. Give me your gun. Now.”

We rode slowly to Forest City, saying nothing the whole way. In town, people stared as we went by. The sheriff frowned. “I don’t have no place for you,” he said, “but I think Doc Blanchard might put you up. The county attorney will be back tonight. You’ll see him tomorrow, and you can tell him what you told me.”

The Blanchards’ house was down a side road. When we got there, I stayed with the horses while the sheriff went to the door. He knocked and a gray-haired woman answered. The sheriff spoke to her and then motioned for me to come. He introduced her as Mrs. Blanchard and me as Mrs. Slater. She gasped when she saw my face.

Dr. Blanchard appeared. He was a short, balding man with spectacles. The sheriff told him that I was there to clear up a misunderstanding. That was silly, for from the looks of those in town, everyone had heard some version of Willie’s story.

The doctor eyes ran over my wounds. “Please come into my office.”

I stepped forward, but the sheriff blocked my path. His eyes narrowed under the brim of his hat. “You are not to leave here,” he said. “Make a fool out of me, and you’ll be sorry.” I nodded, and he stepped aside.

The doctor led me into his office and looked closely at my head. “I want to put some salve on these cuts. Otherwise, there really isn’t anything to be done. Are you injured … anywhere else?”

“It’s all in the hands of God now,” I said, wondering if some small part of Willie were growing inside me.

The doctor nodded in a way to show that he understood. “That was some bad business out there, Mrs. Slater. I’m very sorry for your trouble.”

* * *

I slept a good part of the afternoon in the room the Blanchard’s had offered me. At dinner I ate silently with the doctor and Mrs. Blanchard, glad they didn’t seem to need conversation. After the meal, I said I’d wash the dishes. I was now Mrs. Slater, and that would be in keeping, though I was still in britches and had no thought of getting out of them. Mrs. Blanchard agreed, seeing I needed something to do. A little later, she came into the kitchen, a man close behind.

“This is A.C. Smith,” she said. “He’s the federal attorney at the land office.”

Before me stood Abner Comstock Smith, though I only learned his full name later, for he was called “A.C.” by everyone. He was lean and shaven and looked quite handsome in his canvas britches and calico shirt, open at the neck. I dried myself and through force of habit offered my hand. He took it, not quite sure whether to shake or not, so I helped out by shaking his. “I thought I might be of service to you,” he said. “I hope I haven’t intruded.”

“No. I would be very grateful for any help.”

Dr. Blanchard cleared his throat and nodded to his wife. “Me and the missus can go for a walk.”

“Certainly not,” I said. “Please stay and listen if you care to. I have no secrets now.”

And so I told my story. I didn’t mention Honesdale, just simply said that I had been abandoned by my husband and had left my daughter with my parents and set out to make my way in the world. When I tried to describe Willie’s attack, my voice wavered. The event spilled forth in pieces, like the remains of a teacup on a stone floor. Mrs. Blanchard covered her mouth. Mr. Smith nodded slowly—I suppose to let me know that he was listening.

When I was done, Mr. Smith said he was sorry for what had happened and would speak to the county attorney in the morning. Since the warrant was for attempted murder, he didn’t imagine there would be any trouble. He said he would help me if I wanted to file a complaint against Willie, but we could talk about that later. I thanked him and he left.

In low spirits, I went to my room. I just wanted to settle with the law, go back to my farm, and live there as a woman, if I could—if they would let me. But I wouldn’t be just any kind of woman. Not now. I would be one with the every freedom of a man, starting with what I would wear. And close upon that thought, Mrs. Blanchard entered the room and offered an old night shirt of hers. I thanked her but said I had my own, meaning the rag that had once belonged to my grandfather. I wanted something familiar next to my skin.

* * *

I expected to see Mr. Smith early the next day, but the morning was near gone when he arrived, no smile on his face. “The county attorney,” he said, “doesn’t want to let you go just yet.”

I could scarce believe it. “Am I to be put on trial for defending myself?”

“No,” said Mr. Smith. “He’s thinking about other charges.”

“What charges?”

“I don’t know. He seems to want to prosecute you for wearing pants and pretending to be a man—an offense against moral decency, whatever that is. Willie is to be left out of it.”

“How convenient,” I said, feeling myself flush.

“I’m sorry about all this,” said Mr. Smith. “I won’t lie. Richards is a difficult man. And worse, he’s got ambitions.”

“But the murder charge has been dropped?”

“Yes.”

“Then why can’t I go?”

Mr. Smith shook his head. “Richards wants you here. Now, he really doesn’t have that say-so, and we could contest it, but it wouldn’t do any good. And if you left town, people would be coming up with all kinds of ideas. By mid-afternoon, you’d be a bank robber, and by dinner something worse. We’ll sit tight. Maybe when he thinks it through, the man will see reason. I’ll find out tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve sent for my friend U.S. Wylie in St. Cloud. He’s a good lawyer and knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

I was glad Mr. Smith’s friend was a good lawyer and would keep his mouth shut, though I wasn’t sure what part of this was still a secret. And why did we need another lawyer? The only bad thing I had done was go looking for Willie, to find him and kill him. But no one knew about that.

The next morning Mr. Smith returned and said that Mr. Richards had, indeed, filed charges against me—for wearing men’s clothes and pretending to be a man. The trial was to take place in a week.

“Am I to be sent to jail?” I asked.

“They have to find you guilty first,” said Mr. Smith. “And I don’t think Judge Robson would send you to jail. And I don’t think that’s what our county attorney has in mind.”

“What then?”

“I think he wants you run out of here. If you’re found guilty, a criminal warrant can be filed at the land office. You’d be denied title to your land.”

“They’d take my land? For wearing britches? That’s not right!”

“No, it’s not right,” agreed Mr. Smith, “but if they get a guilty verdict and want to make an issue of it, they can. I’ll do my best for you, Mrs. Slater.”

It didn’t make sense to protest anymore to Mr. Smith—he was on my side. “I am grateful for your help,” I said, attempting to sound brave. I don’t know how brave I really was, but I think life had already begun to put a crust on me. I wasn’t standing there crying.

* * *

Two days before the trial, Mr. Ulysses Samuel Wylie walked into the Blanchard kitchen. I didn’t know, at first, who he was, because I had imagined Mr. Smith’s friend, the good lawyer who was coming to help me, as older—a man with large hands and a carved face. But that wasn’t Mr. Wylie. He was a young man, with a sly grin, and a shock of orange hair. We were introduced and then Mr. Wylie turned to Mr. Smith, who was seated at the table. “Is there anything new?”

My attorney shrugged. “Just legal history, Useless.”

I suppose that Mr. Smith called him that all the time, for Mr. Wylie seemed to take no notice. “What statute applies?”

“That, happily,” said Mr. Smith, “is a problem for our county attorney. I don’t think there is one.”

I couldn’t stay still. “Then why a trial?”

Mr. Smith took a breath. “Look. Out here the law is whatever Mr. Richards, Judge Robson, and the jury say it is. Mr. Richards, unfortunately, has already weighed in on the matter.”

“And the judge?”

Mr. Smith cast a glance at Mr. Wylie—there was a story here. “I suppose for a complete picture,” said Mr. Smith, looking back to me, “you should know that our judge, Charles Robson, is a man without humor. Add to that a courthouse that on Sunday is a church where Reverend Robson leads the prayers, and I’d say the slope is uphill. You may also be familiar with the recent news concerning Mrs. Swisshelm. Forward ladies are a topic of some disagreement these days. Where His Honor stands with all this, I can only guess, but I can tell you for sure that he dislikes me and Mr. Wylie.”

This was more truth than I needed to hear. “Is there any reason for hope?” I asked, a little shaken.

Mr. Smith tried to steady me with a fatherly nod. “As long as we’re able to stand up and say what we have to say, there is reason for hope. But we have to work with what we have. Now, for what it’s worth, it would seem the law is on your side, or at least not against you. Also, I think Robson dislikes Richards as much as he dislikes me and Useless. He’s got an opinion of himself, and I don’t think he’d care to preside over a farce. So Richards may be on a short rope. We’ll have to pick our moments.”

“Speaking of our good friend, Reverend Robson,” said Mr. Wylie, “what will Mrs. Slater be wearing at the trial?”

“I think what she’s wearing now will be fine,” said Mr. Smith.

“You might think that, but Robson won’t. He sees her like that, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Smith. “Robson won’t like it. But he doesn’t like us anyway, so we’re not losing much. We lose a lot more if we start acting like there’s something wrong with Mrs. Slater’s clothes.”

“I won’t wear a dress,” I said. “If they want to parade me around in a dress, they can just send me to jail.”

“Well,” said Mr. Wylie, “I’m glad we’re all agreed on that.”

Just then Doc Blanchard entered the kitchen from the back door. He didn’t look happy. “I was summoned by the judge,” he said. “I’ve been ordered to make an examination of the defendant.” He looked over to me. “I, of course, see people in their natural state all the time, but I have never been asked to examine someone’s sex. If there’s anything you wish to tell me, now would be a good time. We can forgo the examination.”

“There’s no issue of fact here,” said Mr. Wylie. “We’ll stipulate that Mrs. Slater is a woman.”

The doctor shook his head. “I think they may still ask me to testify.” He turned to me again. “You are a woman in every part of you?”

“Yes, I am a woman in every part of me,” I said, annoyed, despite the doctor’s obvious sympathies. “I have given birth and have the marks to prove it. And if you want to know what that’s like, you could swallow a pumpkin whole and wait.”

From her chair across the room, Mrs. Blanchard let out a hoot. Then everyone laughed, and we sat and had our tea.

I
AWOKE TO the call of magpies and for a brief moment thought that I was back in Westerlo. Then I remembered—I was in Forest City, and it was trial day. They were going to shame me and take my land.

I rose to join Mrs. Blanchard in the kitchen. “Good morning, dear,” she said, trying to be cheerful. The doctor came in, and his mood was more to my liking. His face was a rock upon which all pretending crashed and broke apart like water at the bottom of a falls. After a silent breakfast, he kissed his wife and forced a smile in my direction. I was to remain at the Blanchard house while they made the jury.

Mrs. Blanchard insisted that she clean the kitchen, while I got myself ready. There wasn’t anything to get ready, so I just sat in the parlor and tried to read the
Daily Minnesotian
. But the print turned into a mosaic out of which jumped ugly faces. I had to put it down.

A while later a knock brought Mrs. Blanchard to the door. “I’ve come for Mrs. Slater.” I got out of my chair, glad for things to be moving along, but when I saw Mr. Wylie, I took a step back. His orange hair had been smeared with pomade, and his hands were poking out from his Sunday clothes, which looked like they belonged to his big brother. Side by side, it might have been difficult to say which of us was on trial for pretending to be a man.

For the last several days, I had been worrying about our walk over to the courthouse. Might people gather to gawk? Might they follow us and say unpleasant things? As we left the Blanchard house, I kept my head down but soon realized I didn’t need to. There wasn’t a soul to be seen.