Escape to Fort Abercrombie

by Candace Simar

  No doubt, Sven’s prairie chicken stewed over the cooking fire just outside the soddy. Mama let the stove go cold during the summer to keep the house cooler. They lived cooped like moles all winter, Mama said, and she determined to be outside as much as possible the rest of the year.

  “Have you noticed how dark and dreary man’s world is?” Mama said. “God’s world overflows with blooming flowers, sun on water, green grass, and blue sky.” She did all her summer cooking and laundry outdoors on an old grate set over a fire pit.

  His stomach growled again. No bread, of course, until after the harvest, but turnips added a good taste to the stew. Just thinking of turnips reminded him of his task. He waded toward Brimstone and patted his belly. It swelled hard and tight as a watermelon. This time Ryker knew to look away and hold his breath when he made the jab. The knife pierced the thick hide. Brimstone lunged, and Ryker stepped back to avoid a kicking hoof, tripping on a hummock and landing on his backside in the mucky slough with a splash. The water stank, and Ryker wrinkled his nose.

  Someone giggled. Ryker expected to see Klara but was surprised to see an Indian family watching from the edge of the grass. A woman holding a cradle board stood smiling beside a man mounted on a spotted pony. The man looked down at Ryker with dark eyes. The woman wore a leather dress and moccasins. Two naked boys, about the age of the twins, laughed and pointed. One had missing front teeth. They said something in their language, as Ryker struggled to his feet.

  Indians sometimes visited their farm. This same woman sometimes came to the homestead, asking for food. When Papa complained, Mama said the late treaty payments to the Sioux were a crying shame, and it was her Christian duty to do something about it. She gave the woman a few eggs, even though the hens were in a molt and laying poorly. Mama said they were good people just trying to feed their families. Ryker had noticed that Mama was always more generous to the Indians when Papa wasn’t around. Once she gave them the last loaf of baking. The Indians had patted Elsa’s yellow curls with approving clucks.

  If Mama had been afraid, she hadn’t acted like it. “The Bible says to be kind to the poor,” she said. “Perhaps angels at our door.”

  Papa had cast a disapproving look but wouldn’t contradict her in front of the children. Besides, it was hard to go against the Bible, whether or not it was their last loaf of bread. Sometimes the Indians brought small game or berries to trade. Once they left a haunch of buffalo on their doorstep. Mama said a kindness always returned in the end.

  Ryker wiped the mud off the back of his pants and dried his hands on his shirt.

  Johnny Schmitz warned that savages scalped people caught napping. When Sven had repeated this over supper, Papa shrugged his shoulders and said the Indians seemed friendly enough.

  The watching Indian family made no move to scalp Ryker.

  Scalped, with a knife. Panic made him forget the Indians. Where was his father’s knife? Ryker reached into empty pockets. He must have dropped it when he fell into the mud. Papa would kill him if he lost such a precious possession. Ryker knelt in the mud and felt the murky bottom with both hands. He had to find it.

  The woman spoke in her language. It seemed she was asking what he was looking for. Ryker made cutting motions as if he held a knife, then splashing noises to show it had fallen into the water. The woman nodded and placed the cradle board in the grass. She and the boys waded into the muck and looked intently around their feet. The man walked his pony into the slough and said something to his wife. She followed his pointed finger and reached down. She held up the knife with a grin.

  “Mange takk,” Ryker said, taking the knife from her hand. “Many thanks.” She had saved his bacon. He gripped the knife in his muddy hand and wiped it on the seat of his trousers before closing the knife. Then he put it into his deepest pocket, checking that no hole would lose it again. “Thank you,” he said again, embarrassed to feel a tear of relief leak out of his eye.

  The man nodded. Without warning, Beller charged out of the tall grass, barking and growling as the pony snorted and pranced. The woman called her boys, snatched the cradle board out of the grass, and handed it to the man.

  “Hush,” Ryker said. “Here, boy.” He grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and held him back from the Indians. “They’re friends,” he said. “Nothing to be upset about.”

  After a long moment, the dog quieted, and Ryker released him. He wagged his tail and played with the children, who chased after water bugs. Elsa toddled toward the slough with Klara close on her heels. The man on the horse pointed toward Brimstone, who wallowed in the center of the slough. He made a questioning gesture and then a stabbing motion in Brimstone’s direction, then another questioning gesture.

  They must think he had lost his mind. Of course it looked foolish. Ryker grinned. He waded out toward Brimstone, who shied away, but in the end allowed Ryker to come near. The Indian pony stood nearby as Ryker examined the ox’s belly, patting the bulging side. Ryker wondered how long it would take for the turnip to digest. He took a deep breath, removed the knife from his pocket, and unfolded the blade.

  “Ah,” said the man beside him. Then Ryker held his nose to show that it was going to stink and pushed the blade into the bull’s-eye on Brimstone’s side. A terrible smell erupted, along with a long, groaning noise. Brimstone bellowed but did not run away. Ryker patted his now deflated side.

  “Ah,” the man said as he held his nose. He handed the cradle board back to the woman and called the boys. Beller snatched a frog from the water and swallowed it in a single gulp. The man turned his horse out of the swamp. His family followed. They disappeared into the wall of grass.

  Ryker might write a story about this Indian family. He would call the man, Finds the Knife, with his wife, Good Person. He would name the older boy Laughing Boy, and the younger, Little Dog. Through the rest of the long afternoon while he watched over Brimstone, Ryker imagined the story of the Sioux family, who would have died except for the generous gifts of a pioneer woman from Norway. The Norwegian woman wore a blue kerchief. One day when her baby was sick and near starving, she found a buffalo haunch lying on the doorstep. In his story, the white family saved the Indians, who in turn saved them during a terrible blizzard. It would have been an ideal afternoon if only Ryker had paper and pencil to write it all down.

  Ryker determined to tell Mama the story and the new names he had given to the Indian family. He wouldn’t mention it to Papa.

  Ryker stayed by Brimstone’s side for two days. He slept with him in the sod barn. The ox groaned whenever his stomach distended, waking Ryker from his fitful sleep.

  By late the second day, Brimstone returned to health.

  “You did it,” Papa said. He clapped Ryker on the shoulder with a grin that showed all of his teeth. “You might make a farmer yet.”

  Ryker knew the truth. He would never be a farmer.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  “I’m thinking what Martin said about Mama’s letter,” Sven said the next day as they raked hay together. Sven had not been able to keep up alone, and fallen grass stretched around them in every direction.

  One of his letters told how Martin stayed awake during guard duty by memorizing one of Mama’s letters. In the letter, Mama told him to think twice before shooting anyone, because “that rebel boy has a mother, too.” Just then a Confederate soldier, a boy about Martin’s age, stumbled out of the trees.

  Martin said they stood looking at each other. Martin saw fear in the boy’s face and admitted to feeling more than a little afraid himself. After a long moment, the Reb asked why Martin didn’t shoot. Martin told him about his mama’s letter. They agreed to each go his way without killing the other and exchanged names to reconnect after the war.

  “I think we’ll be friends,” Martin had written. “If we live.”

  “Mr. Schmitz!” Sven pointed toward the path where their neighbor rode horseback toward their farmstead. “I knew there would be another letter today!”

>   The Schmitz family lived closest to them on the prairie. Even if they were German, they were friendly. At least the parents were friendly. Johnny was a bully. The way he tormented the twins was a shame. Frank had convinced Martin to run away with him. Martin would not have done it alone. Sometimes Ryker hated Frank Schmitz.

  Mr. Schmitz climbed off his horse and removed his hat. He held the reins as he greeted their parents. Ryker heard their voices, but the prairie wind carried away the words. Gray clouds gathered in the western sky like gray hens perching on their roost. Rain would ruin the downed hay.

  “Let’s go see,” Sven said.

  “No,” Ryker said. He knew better than disobey his father. They could go after the windrows were raked into haycocks, and not before. Even so, Ryker raked with his eyes fixed on the grown-ups by the soddy.

  Mr. Schmitz handed Papa a piece of paper. It fluttered in the breeze. Papa could read a letter from Martin without problem, as Martin would write home in Norwegian. Ryker was the only one in the family who could read a letter written in English. Ryker raked as fast as he could with one eye kept on the adults in case Papa called him to translate. Though Ryker strained to hear, he could not make out a single word.

  Mama screamed. The unexpected sound cut through the stillness louder than the honking gander, like a rebel yell or an Indian war whoop. Beller disappeared into the grass. Marigold lifted her head from grazing. Mama collapsed to her knees, her blue kerchief reflecting the color of the sky.

  “No,” Sven said. His face blanched, and his voice turned to a strangled whisper. “Not Martin.”

  For the first time Ryker realized his childish foolishness in longing for the excitement of war. Soldiers died. Maybe the war had taken his older brother.

  Ryker threw the rake to the ground. Whipping or not, he had to know what was happening. Ryker ran toward Mama with Sven at his heels. It seemed he ran forever without getting anywhere, like in a dream. Mama rocked back and forth on her knees, her apron thrown over her head, praying and wailing like a crazy person.

  “Dear Jesus,” she prayed again and again. “Not my baby.”

  Mr. Schmitz stood holding his hat, looking apologetic and uncomfortable. A toothpick stuck out of one side of his mouth. He wore work-worn overalls and hobnail boots but rode the best horse in the community. “Frank wouldn’t an untruth tell,” he said in his heavy German accent, and in the peculiar sentence structure of their people. “What he knows, he speaks.”

  “Mange takk for bringing word,” Papa said, his voice hollowed and strained. The letter trembled in his hands like a brown-eyed Susan in the prairie wind. “It was good of you to take time from your work.” Papa’s voice failed, and he swallowed hard enough that his Adam’s apple bobbed. He didn’t seem to notice the boys had left the field.

  “The letter you may keep,” Mr. Schmitz said. He turned to climb on his horse. The saddle squeaked as he settled his weight, and he flicked the reins. “I’ll tell you when more I hear.”

  Mr. Schmitz disappeared behind the tall grass. Papa knelt beside Mama and patted her back. “It’s not certain,” he said. “Martin will return, you wait and see.”

  She threw her arms around Papa’s neck and wailed into his chest. “I told you not to let him go.” Her kerchief fell into the grass, a blue teardrop against the green grass still scattered with gray goose down.

  “Hush now,” Papa said. “Martin will be all right.”

  “You could have stopped him,” she said. Her embrace turned into flailing fists on Papa’s chest. “It’s your fault.” Elsa wailed, and the twins stared with open mouths. Ryker had seen his mother cry when his sisters died of smallpox back in Norway, but he had rarely seen Mama disagree with Papa, let alone strike him. “I’ll never forgive you if something happened to him.”

  It was a foolish statement. She must know it wasn’t Papa’s fault that Martin had run off. She should blame Martin for being led astray by that mouthy Frank Schmitz. Mama, so kind and gentle, seemed incapable of holding a grudge against anyone, especially Papa. She prayed the Lord’s Prayer every day, “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  “Ryker.” Papa handed the letter to him. “Read it again.”

  Ryker carefully unfolded the single sheet of paper. Frank’s handwriting climbed up and down across the page like dipping waves. Frank had never been a good student, always causing trouble instead of working his sums. It showed in his clumsy childish script with ink blots, and a drip of what looked like mustard on the corner. It was mostly written in English, and Ryker must translate to Norwegian as he read. Somehow his brain refused to think straight. He scrambled to find the part about Martin.

  “Mostly in German,” Ryker said.

  “Then the English part!” Papa said. His voice quivered with impatience. “Just read the goddamn letter.”

  Ryker struggled to catch his breath. It was harder with Papa waiting. He read slowly and haltingly, translating as he went, changing the American words into Norwegian ones.

  “I am unharmed, but bring bad news of Martin Landstad. We fought at the battle of Pittsburgh Landing in a place called the Hornet’s Nest. I was sent with a message for the general. I got back just as the enemy surrounded the battery. I hid in a thicket and watched their surrender, barely escaping being captured myself. I could see clearly that Martin wasn’t among those captured. I searched a nearby field hospital, but Martin was not among the wounded. I found Clyde Jensen from Breckinridge. He lost a leg. Please tell his family of his wounds, and that he has survived. Martin was not among the dead, though there were many, and some could not be identified. The dead and wounded number in the tens of thousands. The Reb general was killed. We will not face him again in battle.

  We had hoped to be home by harvest time but are no closer to an end than when we started this mess. We march for Corinth soon, in pursuit of Beauregard’s army.”

  Ryker looked up from the page. “He ends with a paragraph written in German and his signature.”

  “Nothing more?” Papa said. “Did you miss anything?”

  “No,” Ryker said, looking over the paper to make sure. It was always that way with Papa.

  “Don’t cry, Mama,” Sven said and retrieved his mother’s kerchief. She wiped her eyes with it before sticking it in her apron pocket. “Missing isn’t dead. Is it Papa?”

  Klara carried the squirming Elsa in her arms. Klara set her down, and Elsa toddled across the yard chasing after a brown hen. The hen squawked, and Elsa chuckled a deep, throaty laugh. The midday sun shone white off her baby curls.

  “Mind your sister,” Papa said to Klara with a sharp voice. “Snakes hide in the grass.”

  “Yes, Papa,” Klara said. She chased the little girl toddling toward the slough.

  The cattails bowed in the prairie wind, and frogs croaked from the slough. The bittern harrumphed, and Ryker looked for it among the reeds. Clouds drifted overhead, hiding the sun.

  “We’ll eat,” Mama said as she got to her feet. Her voice sounded small and breathy. She tied the kerchief back over her hair, and small yellow curls escaped on the sides of her face. Her puffy eyes leaked tears. She wiped them with the back of her chapped hand.

  Frank and Johnny Schmitz had been cruel about their mother’s kerchief. They said Yankees wore sunbonnets. They said their mother must return to the Old Country if she dressed like a Norwegian square-head and refused to talk American.

  It seemed impossible that anyone would despise their mother because of her pretty blue kerchief. Ryker had stood with gaping mouth, unsure what to do about the insult. Martin didn’t hesitate but went nose to nose with Frank with fists curled, even though Frank was built like an ox and outweighed Martin by a stone.

  “You pig-dogs know nothing. Our mother is a saint.” Martin held his fist under Frank’s nose. “Take it back or I’ll give you a chiliwink you’ll never forget.” Martin knew how to handle situations.

  Papa’s voice intruded. “Get back to work.”


  Mama interrupted, something she rarely did. “Nei, not today. I need my children beside me this day.” She pulled Ryker close enough that he could smell the lye soap on her skin. Then she squared her shoulders and gave Papa a stern look. “They’ll not go back to the fields until after the noon meal.”

  Papa shrugged. He looked up at the cloudy sky. Without a word, he plodded out to the hay field with stooped shoulders and heavy footsteps. A strange burden settled on Ryker’s chest.

  Although Ryker didn’t understand the German paragraph in Frank’s letter, he recognized two words used by boys at school. Todt meant dead. It was next to Martin’s name. Then hoffnungslos, the German word for hopeless, like the Norwegian word vonlaus. Ryker wouldn’t tell his parents that Frank believed Martin to be dead. Surely the army would contact them soon enough with the facts, whether good or bad.

  Hoffnungslos. Hopeless. Martin felt most vonlaus about Martin’s return.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  “Klara!” Ryker called to his sister as he finished the next morning’s milking. Klara came out of the outhouse just in time to stop Elsa from following Patsy into the tall grass next to the barn.

  “Watch the baby!” Ryker said, as he gave Marigold’s udders a final squeeze. “We’d never find her on the prairie.”

  Marigold had freshened the same day they learned of Martin going missing, giving birth to a beautiful little heifer that would grow up to build their dairy herd. Mama named the little calf Rosebud.

  “I can’t even go to the outhouse in peace,” Klara said with a pout. “How am I supposed to pick berries, find Patsy’s nest, herd Marigold, and mind the baby all at once?”

  “Come,” Ryker said, and motioned for her to dip a cupful of warm milk from the bucket, a rare and welcome treat. “You’ll feel better after a drink.”