Elsa howled in protest and struggled to escape. Klara drank a long swallow, then held the cup for Elsa to drink. “Try it,” Klara said. “You’re big enough. You can drink from a cup. Mmm . . . milk.”
Elsa batted the cup, and Klara pulled it back. “Say it. Milk.”
Elsa screeched, and Mama stuck her head out the door. “Try again. I’m too busy to nurse her right now.”
Klara held the cup, but Elsa slapped it away, spilling milk over Klara’s apron. Elsa threw herself down on the ground in a tantrum. Mama called for Klara to bring the baby to nurse.
“All right,” Klara said. She picked up the screaming baby and whispered loudly into her ear. “Spoiled brat.”
Ryker was glad he didn’t have Klara’s job. He headed toward the soddy with the full bucket, almost tripping over Sven, who wrestled with Beller by the door.
“Papa said to weed the cucumbers and melons before he gets home from the fort,” Ryker said. Sven was always trying to wiggle out of chores.
“First we work, and then we work some more,” Sven said. “Johnny gets to play. Not slave like us.” He motioned for Klara. “Let’s go to the hideout until Papa gets back.”
Sven and Klara sometimes played in the empty root cellar beneath the branches of the willow tree. This time of year it stood empty of potatoes and, though dark and musty, felt cool and welcoming. Best of all, it was out of sight from adults who always found more chores for them to do, hidden by the drooping branches that obscured the wooden trapdoor.
“Nei,” Ryker said. He corrected himself and spoke in English. “You will do your chores, or I’ll tell Papa.”
“Tattletale,” Sven said. “Martin would never snitch.”
The Landstad family had barely survived the last three years on the prairie. Their first five years in America were spent working for Papa’s cousin in Dodge County. Mostly Papa and the boys grubbed stumps, mucked stalls, and did the chores no one else wanted to do. Backbreaking work, and little to show for it, except room and board for the family. Papa spent winters working at a Wisconsin logging camp. There he earned real money. He came back from the pinery that spring of 1859 with a bounce in his step and a burst of confidence.
“We’re going to the prairie, Marie,” Papa said. “Pack the trunk. We’ve a place of our own.”
“The prairie,” Mama said. It seemed she turned pale at the mention of such a place. “A land without trees?”
“The best part,” Papa had said with a laugh. “I’ve grubbed my last stump. Wide open plains with plenty of room for growing things. Hardly a stone.”
“But, Johann,” Mama had pleaded, “are you sure?”
“It’s done,” Papa said with a laugh and picked her up and twirled her around until her skirts fluttered like butterfly wings. Then he kissed her on the mouth right in broad daylight. “We’re landowners, just like we’ve dreamed.”
“But Indians,” she stammered. “And schools . . .”
“Don’t worry,” Papa said. “Fort Abercrombie takes care of the Indians.” He smiled at Martin and Ryker. “Farmers don’t need schooling,” he said. “These boys can figure sums and read enough to manage. They’ll teach the younger ones.”
Ryker’s heart sank. His teacher in Dodge County had taught him both to speak and read English. Every Friday they memorized beautiful poems, and the best student received a stick of horehound candy. Ryker had earned three pieces of candy that year, but even sweeter on his tongue were the English words, so lovely and deep.
In the end, Mama agreed in spite of her anxiety. Papa was the man of the house, she had said to the children as they packed their meager possessions to leave for the unknown. “We trust God,” she had said with a shaky smile.
Mama followed Papa to America, and Ryker figured she would follow him to the moon had he asked.
Ryker remembered all these things as he brought the milk bucket into the soddy, where his mother nursed the baby.
“This baby needs to learn to drink from a cup,” Mama said with a sigh. “I don’t have time to nurse with all the work there is to do.”
She told Ryker to strain the milk against flies. He poured the rich milk into a porcelain pan and measured rennet, made from a dried calf stomach, being diligent to follow his mother’s directions. He stirred it carefully and covered it with a towel. By morning, Mama would heat the junket, pour the mixture into an empty salt sack, drain off the whey, and press it with a prairie stone. The whey would have been saved for pancakes if they had flour but would instead be given to the chickens. Eventually it would become gjetost.
Ryker brushed a green weed growing down from the dirt ceiling away from his face. Mama allowed the weeds to grow unhindered, saying that she enjoyed a splash of color against the dark walls. The one-room dugout had a table built into one wall, and a bed built into the opposite wall. The children slept on pallets spread on the dirt floor. A small stove and stovepipe stood in the far corner, with the stovepipe stretching up through the thatched roof. A shelf built into the wall held a scattering of crockery and cooking utensils. A copper boiler sat on top of the stove. Above the door were pegs holding Papa’s long rifle. Snakes or gophers sometimes burrowed into the warm room, and Mama’s screams of discovery often woke the children in early morning.
His mother ordered him to rinse the milk bucket and place it in the sun to dry. “Cover it with a rag against the flies,” she said, her face lined with fatigue.
Little Jimmy Henderson’s mother died of fever last year, and his father talked of sending the two-year-old to an orphanage in St. Cloud. Ryker could think of nothing worse than being an orphan.
Ryker impulsively kissed his mother’s cheek. “I love you, Mama.”
She turned in surprise. “You’re growing up,” she said, and placed her warm hand on his arm. Her blue eyes swam with tears. “Almost a man.” She looked at him with tenderness. “Trust God to help you through the hard times.” She choked back a sob. “He will never leave you, if you put your trust in Him.” Her words like a caress.
It was an awkward moment, open affection rarely shown in their family. Papa’s voice bellowed from the barnyard, calling him to the cucumber patch.
“Your father is a good man,” she said as if reading Ryker’s mind. “He’s hard on you, but that’s the way he was raised. He worries you know . . . it almost killed him to lose your sisters . . .” She bit her lip. “And now this business with your brother . . .” She turned to hide her tears.
Ryker obeyed his father, of course. What choice did he have? A fierce anger boiled toward Martin who had so selfishly broken their mother’s heart. Then it spilled toward his father, who acted like God Almighty. Ryker vowed to be different than they. He would never make his wife live in a dirt shack, dark and impossible to clean. He would treat his children with respect. He would not browbeat them or make them drudge in the fields like slaves. He would be different.
He daydreamed as he hacked weeds among the cucumber vines. The twins crawled around the plants, gathering cucumbers for their mother’s pickle crock. Elsa toddled between the rows, getting in the way. She howled from a bee sting, and Ryker stopped hoeing long enough to jiggle her on his hip to stop her crying.
Someday he would be rich and live in a town big enough to have a library. One thing was certain: he would not be a farmer. When he grew up, he would never, ever, pick up a hoe or a rake again.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
Mr. Tingvold stopped by the field in late August when it seemed they would never finish making hay. The summer session of school had started without them.
Papa walked over to Mr. Tingvold but nodded toward the boys to keep working. “God dag!” he said in the traditional Norwegian greeting. “Good day.”
“Playing hooky, I see,” Mr. Tingvold said with a jolly laugh. His wife was the teacher of their little school, but sometimes Ryker wished Mr. Tingvold were instead. Mrs. Tingvold seemed a cheerless, harsh person; Mr. Tingvold, always jolly in contrast.
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“Work to do,” Papa said with a frown. “No time for school.”
They were gathering haycocks into huge stacks. At first it had felt like a game to jump on the growing stack to compact the hay as tightly as possible. But hot weather and monotony soon turned it into plain, hard work. By the end of a day of trampling haystacks, their legs ached and it seemed they felt the tiredness in every muscle of their bodies. They trampled it as tight as possible to prevent the wind from carrying it away. Then Papa fashioned the top layer of the stack to shed water or snow.
Damp hay molded and ruined the value of the fodder. Fort Abercrombie wanted only sweet hay, sun dried and healthy. Ryker had calculated the amount of hay the fort needed to feed its large herds of horses and cattle. At least two tons for every animal. Papa acted like they would supply every ton.
Two haystacks stood finished already, and Papa hoped to do another before snow. Another stack would carry them through the winter, even if their barley crop failed. It was their insurance against hunger. Ryker prayed a desperate prayer that they would never again suffer hunger and cold as they had that first winter on the prairie.
Mr. Tingvold shared local gossip while Ryker pitched haycocks on top of the growing stack. Sven jumped to compact the hay into the stack. Ryker kept his ear cocked toward the men’s conversation and caught most of what was said. He heard the word Sioux several times and also the word war.
“Just come from Slabtown,” Mr. Tingvold said.
Slabtown stood on the eastern edge of Fort Abercrombie, just across the Red River. Logging companies in the Big Woods floated giant logs down the Otter Tail River to where it connected with the Bois de Sioux River that became the Red River of the North. A large blade turned the logs into boards freighted away on riverboats. Papa said Minnesota logs were building cities across America. Huge piles of slabs and chopped stacks of cordwood supplied the boats with fuel. Immigrants lived there, enjoying the work and close proximity of the fort. Johnny said saloons and gambling houses outnumbered private homes. He whispered about upstairs women willing to sell their bodies, even to boys their age if they had the money.
“Payments to the Sioux are late,” Mr. Tingvold said. He and Papa always spoke to each other in Norwegian. “Seems Honest Abe needs the money for the war.”
Murmuring voices kept low.
“What are they saying?” Sven said and slid down the side of the stack, mopping sweat from his red face with his shirttail. He picked up a rake and gathered the scattered bits of hay lying around the base of the stack.
“Don’t know,” Ryker said. “Hush, so we can hear.”
“Me, neither,” Papa said clearly. “With the fort so close, I can’t imagine there would be a problem out here.” Papa looked their way and lowered his voice. Obviously, he did not want the boys to hear.
“Maybe they’re talking about Martin,” Sven said with a determined set of his jaw. “I’m going to sneak closer.”
“You’ll get in trouble,” Ryker said. “Papa said to finish this stack before another rainstorm heads this way.” Each stack took almost a month of work. If they pulled together, they might even finish another before frost ended the haying season.
Sven propped his rake over his shoulder and hurried toward the men.
“Where are you going, young man?” Papa said with a growl.
“The outhouse,” Sven said while pointing with his jaw toward the home place, rubbing his tummy and making a sour face. “Don’t feel so good.”
Papa scowled but assented. “Make haste. Work to do.”
Ryker pitched another haycock but kept an eye on his brother. Sven ran toward the out-house but ducked into the tall grass beyond the men. The turkey-foot grasses wiggled, showing Sven’s movement to circle back closer to where they stood. Then only the wind rippled across the green prairie.
The sun beat mercilessly down. Just another row and Ryker would be finished. Maybe then Papa would allow him to go to school. He tried to remember the words for a poem he had learned last year. Something about a village blacksmith.
Mr. Tingvold turned to leave, and Sven sneaked back toward the path. He stood and headed back toward the haystack.
“Feeling better?” Mr. Tingvold called out to Sven. “Got the Tennessee Trots.” He laughed at his own joke. He cautioned about the dangers of bad food and water. The conversation drifted to a close.
Mr. Tingvold hitched up his suspenders. “Boys, the missus says come back to school, or there’ll be hell to pay.”
Papa walked with Mr. Tingvold for a short distance down the path.
“What did he say?” Ryker said.
“Trouble with the Sioux,” Sven said. “Papa says we’re close enough to the fort, so we don’t have to worry.”
Something wasn’t right. They were ten miles from Fort Abercrombie, too far away for the soldiers to be much help. He remembered Finds the Knife with his steely glance, sharp arrows, and hunting knife.
Sven whispered that Clyde Jensen had died from his wounds at Shiloh. His missus got the news that week. War news was all bad, and Mr. Tingvold said Lincoln was botching the war and needed to be voted out before it was too late.
That night, Ryker had just fallen asleep when his parents’ whispering woke him.
“What’s wrong, Johann?” Mama said. “Don’t cry so.”
Ryker listened. Muffled sobs came from their parents’ bed. “It’s my fault,” Papa said. “We never should have come to this God-forsaken place.”
“Hush now,” Mama soothed. “Martin will come home; surely the angels care for him.”
“And this whole business with schooling.” Papa sniffed, and Ryker heard the edge of anger creep back into his father’s voice. “Of course they should be in school, but what’s a man to do?” Papa said. A creaking and rustling of corn shucks. “I can’t keep up without Martin’s help. Selling hay keeps the wolf from the door.”
“We’ll get by,” Mama said in her calmest voice. “To make it in America, the children must speak and read English. They need an education.”
“You know how tight things are,” Papa said. Ryker heard the frustration rising in his voice. “Norwegian is the language of our people. It’s good enough.”
“Of course,” Mama said. “But we’re Americans now.” More rustling and squeaking. “I’ll help with the haying.”
“But the barley is heading out,” Papa said. “Damn blackbirds will take the crop without the children chasing them away.”
“I’ve done it before.”
“I hope they appreciate all you do for them.”
“And you,” she said. “How hard you work.” Elsa cried out in her sleep, and Ryker reached over to pat her back. The smells of the night pot filled the room, and Sven snored softly beside him. Smoke from the smudges burning in front of the door and window drifted in. Without the smudges, the mosquitoes ate them alive. He strained to hear.
“All right, then,” Papa said. “Until the barley ripens. Just the boys. We can’t spare Klara, especially if you work in the fields.” More shuffling on the cornhusks. “Girls don’t need learning. The boys will do chores in the morning and after school.”
“Maybe Klara could go on her birthday as a special treat,” Mama said in a low voice. “We have nothing for a gift, no flour or sugar for a cake.”
Ryker grinned in the darkness.
“And the Red Men?” Mama said.
“I told you,” Papa said, and his voice sharpened. “The Sioux know better than cause trouble so close to the fort.”
“But you know how they’ve been treated.” Mama sniffed. “Shameful. Terrible. And now their payments are late again.”
“I shouldn’t have told you,” Papa said. His voice softened. “Governor Ramsey and Abe Lincoln will work it out.”
Quiet then, but Ryker lay awake long into the night. He was sure that Mr. Tingvold said Minnesota would pay the price if the Sioux didn’t get their treaty payments. Ryker wondered what that price might be.
CHAPT
ER 7
* * *
Ryker wiggled on the hard stump used for a stool, peering over the shoulder of his teacher toward the bright sky. Flies buzzed around the stalls. It smelled of old hay and cow manure. A bead of sweat rolled down his back, reminding him of the hot barley field waiting after school.
“Pay attention,” Mrs. Tingvold said in a crabby voice. Though she spoke American, she sounded as much Norwegian as the Landstad family. She wore an ugly brown dress and tied her hair in a kerchief like Mama, only one so old and faded it was hard to tell what color it once might have been. Her crumpled mouth reminded Ryker of a rotting apple with its cracks and dents, and she lacked most of her teeth.
Mama said they were lucky Mrs. Tingvold knew enough book learning to teach them a little reading, writing, and arithmetic—even if the Tingvold barn must serve as a makeshift school. The few neighborhood children gathered on stumps and rocks, balancing slates and sharing books. With Martin and Frank gone, Ryker was the oldest boy.
“Take it back,” Sven, demanded from his seat near the door. He was always arguing with Johnny. “You’re a liar.”
“Boys!” Mrs. Tingvold said from the front of the room, picking up the willow rod she used for a pointer as if she were ready to thrash the both of them. She bristled like a broody hen. “What’s the trouble?”
“He’s lying,” Sven said, balling his fists and glaring at Johnny.
“Pa says Martin’s dead,” Johnny said. He wore store-bought trousers and bright-red suspenders. His dark hair stood out in cowlicks, and freckles dotted his face. “Missing means dead in the army.”
“It does not!” Sven said.
Klara moved closer on the stump she shared with Sven and popped her thumb in her mouth. Klara had been allowed to go to school before Elsa learned to walk. But now, Mama couldn’t keep watch over Elsa and do all the chores as well. The twins sat together to share a slate.
Ryker didn’t know whether to join in the fight or stop the argument. Clippings from the Tingvolds’ newspaper told about the battle, casualty lists, and prisoner exchanges. The battle, now called Shiloh, killed thousands of soldiers on both sides. Ryker brought the clippings home to read to his parents. Mrs. Tingvold was nice sometimes.
Escape to Fort Abercrombie Page 4
