Escape to Fort Abercrombie

by Candace Simar

  No . . . Ryker strengthened his resolve. He would ask his question in a respectful manner. The worst that could happen would be that Captain Vander Horck would refuse.

  “Who is it?” Captain Vander Horck called out.

  “Ryker Landstad,” Ryker said.

  “Come in out of the wind,” Captain Vander Horck said. “Excuse me for not getting up. Gout is giving me fits.”

  The man sat in his shirtsleeves reading dispatches, with his boots off and his feet propped up on a stool. The man’s big toe escaped through a hole in his sock. The room stank of cigar smoke and wood smoke.

  “There are lots of mouths to feed here at the fort,” Ryker said. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “There might be garden produce to salvage on the farmsteads.” He cleared his throat again. “We’ll need food to survive the winter. You might consider allowing farmers to return home to scrounge what’s left.”

  “It’s unsafe,” Captain Vander Horck said. “You heard—”

  “In the company of an armed soldier or two.” It was rude to interrupt, but Ryker felt he had no choice. “Just long enough to dig the potatoes. It would bring peace of mind to the settlers and add food to the larder.”

  Captain Vander Horck removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed. The smell of horse manure wafted up to Ryker’s nose. Ryker shifted his weight and wished he had scraped his shoes before entering the captain’s room. Captain Vander Horck said nothing. A clock ticked on the mantle. Martin had been right. It was prideful to think the good man would pay attention to a boy. Ryker turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Captain Vander Horck said. “It makes good sense. Not everyone at once, mind you, but staggered out over a couple of weeks.” He replaced his glasses and picked up the dispatch again. “Clear thinking, son. I should have thought of it myself.” Ryker was almost out the door when the captain spoke again. “Keep it under your hat until I can work out the details.”

  Captain Vander Horck gathered the remaining settlers the next morning and announced his plan. Ryker would be the first to return home in the company of two armed soldiers. “Only the men allowed to go,” Captain Vander Horck said. “No women or children.”

  Ryker watched Martin’s face darken. He didn’t understand why Martin would be angry about Captain Vander Horck’s decision. Could it be that Martin was jealous?

  Hannibal and Martin were assigned to accompany Ryker. They would leave before first light.

  “Anything to get out of the fort,” Hannibal said. “I’ve got a good case of cabin fever, and it’s only October.”

  Ryker rode an ancient army horse, one long in the tooth and mean of temperament.

  “Hang on for your life,” Hannibal said with a loud guffaw. “He’s a race horse.”

  “Don’t leave us in the dirt,” Martin said. “We’ll never keep up with such an old nag.”

  Ryker had never ridden a horse before. Their teasing made it harder for him to ask advice about how to manage the reins. Ryker took a breath. He would figure it out on his own. It couldn’t be that hard.

  Captain Vander Horck waved and nodded as they rode out of the fort. “Think about what I said,” Captain Vander Horck called out to Martin. “It’s not too late.”

  “What did he mean?” Ryker said, turning to look at his brother. “Your discharge?”

  Martin glared. “You a mind reader?”

  “Don’t you know that Ryker and the captain are on speaking terms these days,” Hannibal said in his wheezy voice. “They take tea together in the afternoon like gentlemen.”

  “Don’t think you’re a man, just because you talked the captain into letting you go out to the farm,” Martin said. “You’re still wet behind the ears.”

  They rode in silence past Slabtown. Martin pulled his horse to a stop and turned to face Ryker. “If you must know, Captain Vander Horck pulled strings to release me from the army.” He pulled his collar to protect himself from a sudden rising wind. “I refused.”

  “But, Martin . . .” Ryker said. He could not believe his ears. Martin was the oldest son, the one to take the responsibility. Martin knew how to manage everything. “The little ones need you. Mama . . .” He gulped. “We all need you.”

  “I worked it out,” Martin said. “The girls will go with Mrs. Kelly, and the hostler will take you and Sven.” He shivered in the cold and pulled his collar over the back of his neck. “Besides, Abe Lincoln needs me more than you do. I’ll finish what I started at Shiloh, even if it means fighting Sioux instead of Rebs.”

  “We’re staying with Auntie Abigail at the fort over the winter,” Ryker said. He sat up straighter and gripped the horse’s mane with both hands. A flock of geese flew toward Whiskey Creek, honking a sad and lonely song. “You can keep your money.”

  “But I told you,” Martin said.

  “Papa left me in charge,” Ryker said. “It’s not your decision.”

  CHAPTER 48

  * * *

  Martin jabbed his boot into his mount’s side and cantered ahead. Ryker could see his brother’s anger in the way he stuck out his jaw and jerked the reins. Ryker felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach, too.

  Gray clouds layered the sky like pond scum, and a cold wind burned their ears and noses. The prairie stood forlorn and forsaken, the grass brittle and dry with the frost, and the wild flowers dried stalks of dull colors. A red fox scurried across their path, and a flock of geese flew overhead, winging southward to avoid the upcoming winter. Their haunting cries fitted Ryker’s mood. Vonlaus. How could he manage without Martin’s help? How would they ever find Mama?

  It was like Martin to do what he wanted, even if it meant others had to pick up his tasks. Like running away from home to escape the farm. Like refusing to come home to help with the children. Ryker looked at Martin’s silhouette ahead of him and did not like what he saw. Mama always said that Martin took after Papa. Maybe she was right.

  They cut across the prairie on the route Hannibal had used the time he ran away from the army. “Your ma talked me out of it,” he said. “Said it was safe at the fort.” He snorted in his wheezy voice.

  They rode all morning and came up to the homestead from the west. A thickness of memories choked Ryker’s throat: the feeling of sun beating down as they raked hay; the smell of Mama’s bread baking in the oven; the taste of warm milk from Marigold; and the sound of Papa’s weeping in the dark of night after he learned Martin was missing. The haystacks had turned to black circles of ash. A flock of blackbirds pecked in the barley field. Martin shooed them away, and they rose like a black blanket shaken in the wind. Martin fingered the stalks but came up empty handed.

  “Nothing left,” he said with scorn. “All that work, and nothing to show for it.”

  Ryker bit back the words pointing out it was not Martin’s work that had been lost. Papa, Sven, and Ryker did it all, with Mama and Klara working to keep them fed. The blackbirds settled back on the field to resume their pecking and scratching. Papa had been right. Wild things did not bother the hay. It made sense to concentrate on next year’s hay crop. He would plant enough grain for their own use and rig a scarecrow to keep the blackbirds away.

  They left their horses in the tool shed, at the end of the hayfield. Hannibal insisted they secure them out of sight. “No need to get stranded afoot. It’s a long hike back to Fort Abercrombie.”

  Wild animals had rooted in the west garden, but Ryker pulled a fat rutabaga. Its pungent smell so enticed him that he shook off the dirt and bit into the tangy vegetable. “Look,” he said. He kicked through the dead cucumber and bean vines. “Rutabagas, carrots, and potatoes.”

  They would come back and dig the vegetables after they looked over the home place. They would stay overnight in the soddy and get an early start in the morning. They plodded toward the root cellar, no one speaking, everyone dragging their feet. They stood next to the willow tree with its yellow fall leaves and gathered at the closed wooden door that led into
the root cellar.

  Ryker steeled himself to open the door and remove the body for burial. He didn’t know if he could muster the courage. Ryker had left Papa with his hands resting on his chest and covered with the burlap sack. Beside him, he heard Martin sniffling.

  “It’s his grave,” Martin said. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and sniffed again. “Not right to disturb him.”

  “He’d stink,” Hannibal said in a matter-of-fact way. “Best to leave him unhindered.”

  At least Ryker didn’t have to make the decision. They piled stones in front of the small trapdoor, and heaped dirt on top of the stones to seal Papa’s grave. Tears and strong emotion surprised him. Grief, regret, and a sudden anger sprung up and spilled out of his mouth.

  “You broke Mama’s heart when you ran away,” Ryker said. “Papa’s, too.” The anger settled thick as a blanket after Martin enlisted. “And when we heard you were missing . . . Mama blamed Papa.” How long ago it seemed, although it was only a few months. “I heard Papa weeping in the night when he thought we were asleep.”

  “Well, what did you expect me to do?” Martin said. “Stay on this farm and make hay all my life? I wasn’t about to waste my life out on the prairie. I’m a better soldier than a farmer. It’s all I ever wanted to do.”

  Before Ryker could answer, a low mooing sounded behind the outhouse. Brimstone. No sign of Fire, but Brimstone stood chomping dried weeds. Ryker hugged him around his neck, patting the scars on his side. The ox looked skinny but healthy. “Don’t go eating any turnips,” Ryker whispered into his ear. Brimstone answered with a low moo.

  “We can’t lead the ox back to the fort,” Martin said. “He’ll slow us down, and I have to get back for guard duty tomorrow night.”

  “We’re not leaving Brimstone,” Ryker said. “Think of Papa’s winter at the logging camp to pay for him.” Ryker took a breath and squared his shoulders. “I’ll bring him myself if I have to. He won’t make it through the winter once the slough freezes up and snow covers the dried grass. I need him for spring planting.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Martin said. His lopsided smile turned into a grimace.

  “You’ll see,” Ryker said. “Papa said to hang on to the farm. I aim to do it.”

  The black hen scurried into the dried prairie. Three brown eggs lay in a hidden nest under the outhouse wall. Broken egg shells were scattered around the small hideaway where invading animals had robbed the broody hen. The frost had taken its weedy camouflage, leaving it open and exposed. Ryker placed the eggs in his pocket with a chuckle. “Patsy’s nest right under our noses. Klara searched for it all summer.”

  He told Martin and Hannibal how he would capture the hen and bring it to Fort Abercrombie to help feed them through the winter.

  “An egg is a beautiful thing,” Hannibal said. He cleared his throat and looked intently at Ryker’s pocket holding the small treasures. “How long has it been since I’ve tasted one?”

  Ryker ignored the hint. He would bring them to Auntie Abigail in appreciation for letting them stay with her over the coming months. She might make a cake or a pudding. Katt streaked past and hid under the willow branches.

  “Katt!” Ryker said. A fierce joy bubbled within his chest. The Sioux had not taken everything. “She’s grown wild.”

  “You’re crazy,” Martin said. “I’m not Noah, and this ain’t no ark. I won’t be toting animals back to Fort Abercrombie.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ryker said. “I’ll do it myself.” The bubble of happiness changed to a growing awareness of his brother’s shortsightedness. A good cat kept rats out of the grain and flour. A daily egg meant the difference between food and no food. After what Ryker had been through in getting to Fort Abercrombie, he felt fearless. He had faced and triumphed over impossible problems. He could do it again if he must.

  “Oh, oh,” Hannibal interrupted before Martin could answer. He pulled his sidearm and pointed toward the soddy. “We’ve got company.”

  A plume of smoke puffed above the mounded roof, then died away. Someone was trying to start a fire in the stove. They weren’t doing a very good job.

  “Injuns,” Martin said. He pulled out his revolver, too. “Should we go back for reinforcements?”

  “We can handle a stray Injun or two,” Hannibal said, while pulling his side arm.

  Ryker doubted it was an Indian. An Indian knew how to build fires. He recalled the efficient way Good Person managed her camp. “Might be a survivor taking shelter,” Ryker said. “A woman or child who needs our help.”

  “We’ll find out. You stay with the horses,” Martin said. “If it goes south, go to Fort Abercrombie for help.”

  Ryker glanced toward the shed, where the horses were safely tethered. Martin wasn’t the boss of him. He would look through the side window if he wanted. If he saw Indians, he would return to the horses. He wished for Beller’s warning growl.

  Hannibal and Martin crept to the front door. Ryker followed from a distance, quiet lest they order him back to the horses. The door sagged on its hinges, sure evidence of wild things, or wild men, inside. A bucket of water sat outside the door beside a pitiful stack of corncobs and cow patties.

  “Don’t startle him,” he heard Hannibal whisper. “Even a rat fights when cornered.”

  Ryker dodged to the backside of their prairie home. He heard a crying baby. He crept up to the small window. He peeked inside. A woman wearing a blue kerchief hunched over the stove with a newborn baby in one arm, while stirring the coals with a poker.

  “Mama?” Ryker said. He looked again. He felt like the time he had fallen from the tree and was seeing double. He blinked hard and squinted through the filmy glass. Then he leapt to his feet and called out to his brother. “Don’t shoot,” he said. “It’s Mama.”

  He ran to the door, laughing with glee. Martin and Hannibal urged caution, but Ryker shook off their clutching hands. “It’s Mama,” he said. “It’s really her.”

  He pushed through the sagging door and stumbled over the threshold, as clumsy as Johnny Schmitz. Mama turned toward the commotion, holding the poker like a weapon. No recognition flashed in her eyes, only fear in the pathetic way she positioned to defend her baby, like a muskrat caught in a trap.

  Mama had lost flesh, her cheeks hollow. Gray lines shadowed her mouth. Another gap showed when she opened her mouth. Her ragged dress barely covered her body. The newborn baby was shriveled red as a dried plum.

  “Mama!” he said. “It’s Ryker.”

  Mama dropped the poker. She gripped the edge of the stove. Her knees started to buckle. “I prayed you’d come.”

  Ryker caught Mama in his arms before she fell to the floor. Her weight felt wispy as a cloud. The baby howled.

  “Take your brother before I drop him,” she whispered. Ryker took the baby, wrapped only in an animal skin. Mama gripped Ryker’s arm with fingers as skinny as old bones. “Tell me,” she said, and the light in her eyes sent a shiver through Ryker. She looked near death and reeked of cooking fires, dried blood, and unwashed body. “Tell me at once. Do the children live?” Mama said. “Did you find Elsa?”

  “Ya, Mama.” Ryker couldn’t tell her about Papa yet. “We’re all fine.”

  “Don’t lie,” Mama said. She gripped his arm and hissed into his face. “I want the truth.”

  Ryker assured her the children were safe at the fort. He and Martin half dragged, half carried her to the bed, and Hannibal took over the fire building. She slumped onto the mattress, looking dazed and exhausted. Mama’s teeth chattered. No bedding remained in sight. Ryker took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Martin draped his army coat over her legs and feet and interrupted Hannibal to fetch bedding from the horses.

  “She told me,” Mama said between clacking teeth. “I didn’t know . . . couldn’t believe her. Had no choice.”

  She rambled like a crazy person, like someone who had lost her mind. She stared at Martin without recognition. Then she pointed an accusin
g finger.

  “You did it,” she shrilled. “You took my baby.”

  “It’s me, Martin,” Martin said. “Home from the war.”

  “Martin?” Her wails sounded as loud as when she learned he had gone missing. She reached out and fingered his beard. Martin folded her into a bear hug. “Is it really you?” Her voice muffled in Martin’s chest.

  “I’m home. We’re all safe.”

  Mama sobbed huge gulping sobs, clutching frail arms around his chest.

  “I had to do it,” she said. The wild look in her eyes brought a lump to Ryker’s throat. Maybe she never would be herself again. “The bad men wanted Elsa. I had no choice.” She wrung her hands and reached for the new baby. “Give him back! You can’t have him.” She settled the baby to her breast and rocked back and forth. “Johann will never forgive me.”

  “Rest now,” Martin said. He stood up and put the kettle on the stove. “Hannibal, fetch tea leaves from my saddlebag.” Ryker asked Martin to cook the eggs for their mother as Hannibal jogged toward the horses.

  Ryker held Mama then, cradling her and the new baby in his arms and rocking her back and forth. Lice crawled through her tangled hair showing beneath her kerchief. Poor Mama, always so meticulous about her grooming.

  “Killed them. Women and children. Burned the Schmitzes’,” Mama said. Her eyes locked with Ryker’s, and her voice shuddered. “They were taking Elsa away, the woman said so. Said Elsa would be lost forever.”

  “Rest, Mama,” Martin said. Ryker noticed his shoulders heaving, though he turned his face.

  “What woman?” Ryker said. Mama was making no sense.

  “Why the one with the kind eyes,” Mama said in a far-away voice. She picked the front of Ryker’s shirt with filthy nails, as long as bird claws. “She said, ‘Don’t be scared to let Elsa loose on the prairie like Moses’s mother put her baby in the bulrushes.’ I didn’t know if I could trust her.” Mama pinched Ryker’s skin through his shirt, reminding him of the nipping geese when they had harvested feathers. Mama rambled about the bad men and the woman. “She said, ‘Hurry up, before they come.’ ”