Escape to Fort Abercrombie

by Candace Simar

  It seemed Martin filled everyone’s thoughts. Klara sniffled, and Sven looked away with a hiccough.

  “Martin and Frank will both come home,” Johnny said. His lower lip quivered. “I know they will.”

  “I’ve made up my mind,” Ryker said hurriedly. He had to act before he chickened out. “If something goes wrong, stay hidden until the fighting stops. You’ll have water and enough potatoes for a few days. Maybe you’ll catch a fish or another turtle.”

  “What then?” Johnny said. “We won’t know if it’s safe to go to the fort.”

  “Then, Johnny,” Ryker said slowly, “it will be up to you to sneak forward and figure it out. The rest of you must wait here until he gets back.”

  “Tell the soldiers that our mother is missing, and ask them to come back for the children. Fix landmarks in your mind so you can tell them where they are.”

  “And if the Indians win?” Johnny said. “What do we do then?”

  Ryker didn’t know what to say. “Papa left me in charge. I’ve made up my mind.”

  Klara grabbed him around the waist and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Brother,” Klara said. “I’ll pray for angels to keep you safe.”

  “I should do it,” Sven said, with a pout. “I’m a better climber.”

  Sven had shown good sense all throughout their ordeal, but Ryker stood his ground. He was the oldest. It was his responsibility.

  “Ryker is right,” Klara said. “Papa named him in charge.”

  “All right,” Sven said with a pout. “But I don’t like it.”

  “I’ll do as you say,” Johnny said.

  “All right, then,” Ryker said. “I’ll give it a try.” He looked up where the fallen tree hooked on the lower branch of the cottonwood. It was hard to judge how tall the tree was, but Ryker guessed at least forty feet. It was a long way to the top. The deadfall linked the lower branches of the ancient cottonwood like a steep staircase. It would carry Ryker to the lower branches of the cottonwood where he could climb the sturdy branches of the larger, older tree. He would be as high as an eagle. “Papa and Mama would be proud of you all.” He picked up Elsa and kissed her sweaty face. “Be good now,” he said. “Stay out of trouble.”

  He tucked his shoes out of sight and gave instructions for Johnny to hide the sack of potatoes behind the brush.

  His first steps on the fallen tree rattled the leaves and caused the branches to shift under his weight. “Stay back in case it pulls loose,” Ryker called out to the others. “Keep Elsa close.”

  Ryker thought for sure he would crash to the earth. He held his breath, steadied himself, and continued climbing. He wrapped his legs around the trunk and clutched the trunk with both hands to pull himself upward. Sticky sap clung to his fingers and toes. A westerly breeze smelled of gunpowder and damp earth.

  Ryker must concentrate. Don’t think about anything except inching forward. Don’t look down. Keep your eyes on the crotch of the cottonwood tree.

  More gunshots sounded from the fort. Ryker was higher than the ridgepole on their barn, higher than the sailor in the ship’s crow’s nest during their ocean voyage, higher than the time he climbed a grain bin in Dodge County.

  His head spun, and he felt a little giddy. He clutched the tree with his knees and wrapped his arms around the trunk, resting until his head cleared. A paralyzing fear gripped him. He wouldn’t look down again no matter what happened. He would creep forward, even if only an inch at a time. It didn’t matter if it took all day to reach the cottonwood. It only mattered that he reached it.

  A flock of pelicans flew at eye level, landing with a splash in Whiskey Creek. Ryker did not look down. A pesky fly buzzed around his nose. Ryker wrinkled his nose but did not swat it away. He concentrated on the rough bark, the tree trunk, the sticky sap, and his goal.

  He grasped the leafy branches, breathing easier with the branches in his clutching hands. He moved slowly, pushing his feet from branch to branch, inching forward, feeling the rub of bark on his bare feet, feeling the cloth of his shirt tear when it caught on a broken branch.

  Another blast sounded from the direction of the fort. Smoke billowed beyond a small rise where Slabtown lay. He could see where the waters of Whiskey Creek flowed into the Red River. He could see men in Slabtown. Red men.

  Three Indians chased a gray horse toward them. Paint splashed across their faces. The horse wore a saddle, and the stirrups flapped as it veered away from the painted men. The Indians paused, bending over to catch their breath and clutching their sides. One pointed toward the river. They quit chasing the horse and jogged instead toward Whiskey Creek. Another volley of shooting sounded from the direction of Fort Abercrombie.

  Ryker looked down. The children had left the hideout in the tumble of fallen trees and were standing on the edge of Whiskey Creek, in plain sight. Ryker waved frantically, motioning them to hide. They gazed toward the sound of the guns and didn’t see him. Elsa toddled alongside the bank, chasing butterflies. Would it all be for nothing? All this struggling only to be discovered just as they reached the fort.

  Ryker didn’t dare call out. The Indians were too close. In another minute they would be within view of the children. Ryker prayed a desperate prayer and broke the nearest tree branch. He threw it at the children, but it fell short and landed in the rocks. He broke another, pulled back his arm, and the tree lurched.

  Ryker squelched a rising wave of terror. He clung to the tree until it steadied. Then he gathered his courage, pulled back his arm, and threw with all his strength. He had to warn the children. Even if he were discovered, they might still hide in the brush undetected.

  The branch sailed through the air and plopped in the creek near the children with a splash.

  Sven looked up. Ryker motioned again. Sven understood. Sven jabbed Johnny and snatched Elsa into his arms. They crawled into the thicket, just as the Indians came to the water’s edge about twenty rods downstream.

  Ryker clutched the tree trunk, as still as a stone, praying they would not look up. The Indians drank from the creek, babbling in their language, laughing, and grunting. One spoke a few words, and the others hooted in laughter. A fox streaked through the underbrush. Ryker watched Sven clamp his hand over Elsa’s mouth. An eagle skimmed over the water.

  The Indians stopped to watch the eagle’s flight. They took dried leaves out of small bags hanging around their necks and tossed the dried leaves to the eagle. It seemed they were praying, but it was hard to tell. They never looked his way, only returned to the prairie from where they came, breaking into a loping run toward the fort.

  They disappeared into the tall grass.

  Ryker rested his head on the tree trunk and let out a long breath. One thing troubled him. The Indians showed no fear of the soldiers. They had joked, laughed, and been at ease, even though close to the firing guns.

  Below him, he saw the children hiding in the thicket. He motioned for them to stay there. He could not be worrying about them. He must concentrate on climbing the rest of the way.

  Ryker inched his way toward the cottonwood. The trunk of the deadfall grew thinner the farther he climbed. A pleasant breeze cooled his sweaty face. He disturbed a crow’s nest, close enough to see the fledglings learning to fly.

  At long last he reached the cottonwood. The fallen tree shuddered and quaked but held firm. Ryker pulled himself into the cottonwood crotch, gasping, stepping across to the cottonwood with rubbery limbs and pounding heart. He had made it.

  He had to rest before going on. If only he had a flask of water. His throat parched, and his shirt stuck to his back with sweat. He breathed and tried to be positive. Few people had been this high. It would be an adventure to write about some day. An adventure as exciting as Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

  A white tailed deer slept in a blackberry bramble not ten rods from where the children were hiding. An eagle soared from its nest and dived into Whiskey Creek, then came up with a fish in its mouth. Ryker wiped his sweaty face with hands sticky with sap. He
took a deep breath, prayed for strength, and climbed higher.

  The cottonwood tree felt as solid as a rock, unlike the widow maker. When he had climbed as high as he dared, he braced himself against the trunk of the ancient tree and turned to face the west. Whiskey Creek joined the Red River of the North around the bend and beyond a line of leafy trees.

  Ahead sprawled Fort Abercrombie.

  CHAPTER 26

  * * *

  It was like watching a dream unfold.

  Fort Abercrombie wasn’t much of a fort. It consisted of six main buildings and a scattering of outbuildings, a few haystacks next to a log barn. Horses and cattle were penned next to the barns. Dots of blue jackets huddled around the perimeter of the fort behind barricades of firewood or barrels. No walls surrounded the buildings, as in some forts. Ryker had known this before but saw it plainly from his perch: the lay of the land, the way the Red River flowed as a graceful S alongside the buildings, and the bustle of men and animals.

  Ryker shielded his eyes from the dipping sun. A number of women gathered around an open fire in the center of the fort, shielded by a cluster of outbuildings. The cooking fire whirled a black smudge overhead. None resembled his mother, but it was hard to tell so far away.

  A woman crawled from one small band of soldiers to another, dragging a sack behind her. At each stop she doled out supplies, maybe food or ammunition. How courageous she was to venture into the open. She wore a sunbonnet. It wasn’t Mama.

  To the south of the fort’s main entrance, Indians clustered in Slabtown, out of sight of the soldiers. He watched tipis going up, saw their ponies tethered near the river. More Indian camps showed beyond a small rise to the north. His heart sank. The Indians planned to stay. Sneaking into Fort Abercrombie through Slabtown would be impossible for them to do without being seen by the Indians.

  Perhaps the fighting was over.

  A brown line of Indians stood up from the tall grass near Slabtown. They whooped horrible cries and rushed the fort. The soldiers turned their guns on the attacking Sioux. Other blue coats rushed to stop the attack from Slabtown. Ryker watched as the howitzers opened up on the screaming Indians. The brown men dropped to the ground like hay before Papa’s cradle.

  Martin’s letters mentioned fierce battles, but it was one thing to read about a battle in a letter or newspaper. It was quite another thing to see the elephant for himself.

  Ryker’s belly clenched as he realized the dangers Martin faced in the War of Rebellion. The howitzers rained bullets not just shot them. There was no escape. He imagined Martin reloading the heavy artillery pieces, as was his job. In Martin’s war, the howitzers fired both ways. No one could survive such an onslaught.

  Clouds of gunpowder covered the fort like fog, and even from that distance the pungent odor drifted in the air. Slabtown trees snapped in two with each round of artillery fire, until the beautiful trees became jagged stumps and fallen branches.

  Sioux braves shrieked wild yells and rushed again. A haystack by the barn, on the other side of the fort, burst into bright flame. Other Indians crept toward the barn and remaining haystacks with lighted torches. They would set the buildings ablaze before the soldiers realized what was happening.

  Ryker watched, mesmerized by the brilliance of the Sioux’s plan. The soldiers were too busy fighting the Slabtown Indians to notice what was going on at the barns. The torch bearers neared the other haystacks. Soon it would be too late to stop them.

  If only Ryker could warn them. Without the sturdy barns, fodder for their animals, and the cover of the outbuildings, the soldiers would be vulnerable to even deadlier attacks. He felt helpless, sick to his stomach with the knowledge of what was happening.

  A bugle sounded. Soldiers turned their guns on the Indians heading toward the barns. They had been seen. Blue coats hurried toward the barns, some dragging an artillery piece and positioning it to fire in the other direction.

  Just then, a soldier rushed out into the open and fired at the Indian brave creeping toward a haystack. A small puff of smoke showed before Ryker heard the shot. The Indian crumpled flat and lay still. A small circle of fire burned next to him from the fallen torch. The soldier stomped the flames out with his boots, brandishing his pistol and shooting at other Indians. Ryker could have cheered.

  Ryker’s fingers itched for a weapon to help the brave soldier.

  He could not understand how a treaty, even if it were broken, could be the cause of such carnage. They had never hurt the Indians.

  But the attackers persisted. An Indian brave crawled unseen toward the cattle pen. The cattle burst out of the flung-open gates, stampeding out onto the prairie, followed by screaming Indians waving strips of cloth. The cattle charged over the fallen Indian, racing away from the burning haystack and melting into the prairie.

  Soldiers made only futile efforts to stop them. Clumps of Indians hid in the prairie grass beyond view, waiting to kill any soldier foolish enough to leave the safety of the fort.

  The battle ended as abruptly as it had started. Even if the Sioux had not overtaken the fort, they had succeeded in destroying one haystack, stampeding the cattle, and doing much damage.

  From his high perch, Ryker watched the fort resume a more normal routine. Sentries guarded all sides of the fort. Civilians in regular clothes gave aid to the fallen. Some soldiers lay their heads down to rest, while others cleaned their rifles. More than one relieved themselves behind the barn.

  Women crowded around a man lying on the ground near the cook fire. This must be how God feels, Ryker thought. To look down on all of us and see everything going on, nothing hidden, nothing out of sight.

  Indians surrounded the fort on all sides. Their fires added wispy smoke to the settling gunpowder. They posted guards, too. Beyond site of the fort, and out of range of the artillery, Indian women butchered stolen cattle. The Indians would feast while the soldiers and civilians at Fort Abercrombie kept watch. It wasn’t fair.

  The hopelessness of their situation almost paralyzed Ryker. Vonlaus. They needed to get into the fort, but the fort was surrounded. Ryker’s only plan had been to get to the fort. He and the children might hide for a while, but they had little food and couldn’t stay hidden forever. Nothing hindered a wandering Indian from stumbling across their hiding place.

  Ryker scanned the women within the confines of the fort. He was too far away to see faces, but Mama wore a gray dress the morning she was taken. Most of the women wore gray dresses. Ryker saw only sunbonnets.

  Ryker studied the lay of the land. Their only possibility of entering the fort was by the river winding alongside the cluster of buildings. A strong swimmer might sneak into the fort under cover of darkness. None of them were strong swimmers. They were in the middle of a hornet’s nest, as surely as Martin had been at Shiloh.

  What they needed was a cave, or another root cellar, someplace safe where they could hide until Ryker figured out what to do.

  “Are you going to stay up there forever?” Sven called from the base of the tree. “What’s happening? Do you see Mama?”

  “Be quiet!” Ryker called down. “I’m coming down.”

  He looked down. The dizzy feeling returned, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. He considered how best to place his hands and feet. His muscles cramped from clinging to the branches. He looked up into a clear blue sky without even a wisp of cloud.

  As he turned to back down the branches, he caught a glimpse of blue next to the river. At first he thought it a bird of some kind and squinted his eyes against the bright afternoon sun. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to be a soldier hiding in the tall grass. Maybe an Indian wearing a soldier’s jacket, or a stray jacket dropped by someone in a hurry.

  He kept the blue splotch in view as he climbed down the cottonwood tree. The sturdy branches made for an easy climb until he reached the crotch where the deadfall intersected with the cottonwood. He pushed away the fear that a blue-jacketed Sioux might be waiting to ambush him when he stepped away from t
he tree. He must focus, or he would fall and break his neck.

  Below him, Klara chased after an escaping Elsa. Klara swooped the laughing baby into her arms and stepped back behind the briars. A sudden thanksgiving bubbled in his chest that God had returned their baby sister to them. He would concentrate on the miracle of finding her, and not on the fears that made his legs weak and shaky. The preciousness of family, and even Johnny, filled him. How lucky he was to not be alone in such hard times. He prayed that he would be able to obey his father, rescue the children, and find his mother.

  Ryker held onto the sturdy cottonwood as if it were a welcoming friend, reluctant to leave its hospitality. He stretched a foot to the wobbly deadfall. It quivered and bowed. He could not close his eyes, as he wanted. Instead, he looked up into the sky and watched a fluffy cloud float in from the western horizon.

  It had a funny shape. It looked like a dog with a long tail and sharp nose. One ear was missing. Beller! He was their angel, after all.

  With a new burst of confidence, Ryker put one foot onto the thin upper trunk of the tree and felt for a branch to hold with his left hand. He shifted from the cottonwood to the descending staircase of branches. He felt like the acrobat on the high wire that Mrs. Tingvold had once seen at a circus.

  He waited for the tree to fall crashing to the ground, but nothing happened. Beller drifted overhead, riding a prairie breeze. His tongue hung out in the same friendly expression he had always worn. His presence strengthened Ryker’s resolve.

  Carefully, inch by inch, Ryker backed down the tree trunk, moving first his right foot, and then finding a handhold with his right hand before moving the left foot down to join the right. Beller would protect him.

  Ryker reached the lowest branches of the deadfall and paused to steady himself. Next he must leave the safety of the branches and scale down the branchless tree trunk. He wasn’t sure how to place his feet to get a sturdy grip. It had been easier climbing upward. He clung to the branches, and looked out to where the blue jacket had been.