by Kirby Larson
“Pledge is to be no less than a hundred dollars,” he said.
I turned the card over in my hand. “Even if I have a good crop, that wouldn’t leave me enough to pay all my bills.”
The man shifted the wad of chaw in his cheek. “By order of county director Frank L. Houston, each farmer’s share is to be one hundred dollars.”
My hands trembled as I set the pledge card back down on the desk. “Be that as it may, this is my pledge.”
“Everybody’s got to make a sacrifice,” he pressed.
I would not let myself cry. “This pledge does represent a sacrifice. I am already committed to a fifty-dollar Liberty Bond.”
“Seems you need a lesson in patriotism,” he sneered. “Maybe you need to be hauled before the judge.”
I thought of Elmer Ren and Karl’s barn fire and broken fence and bit back any more arguments. I snatched up the pen, made a cross-out, and wrote “$100.”
He pretended to tip his hat. “Why, that’s mighty generous of you, ma’am.” His voice was as slick as lard on a skillet. I gathered up my skirts, pushed through Traft’s rowdies and hurried outside. My stomach churned—and so did my temper. I needed some fresh air.
“Hattie! Wait.” Leafie came up behind me. “I’m headed to Wolf Point tomorrow. Is there anything you need from the big town?”
“A miracle,” I answered.
She smiled. “And what store carries those?”
“Leafie, I don’t see how I’m going to make it.” I ticked off months on my fingers. “July, August, September, October. Four months to finish the proving-up requirements.” I waved my hands apart. “Yes sirree, I’ll be a regular land baron as long as I get my crop harvested—”
“Barring hailstorms and grasshoppers,” she interjected.
“—sell it for a profit—”
“As long as Congress don’t fix the price too low.”
“—and have thirty-eight dollars cash in hand to pay the closing fee on my claim,” I finished.
“Thirty-seven seventy-five.” She grinned. “You’ve heard what they say about us homesteaders, haven’t you? Most of us are still walking around ’cause we haven’t got the money for a funeral.”
I smirked. “Very funny.” She could afford to joke about this. She owned her land outright. And as long as she could break horses, she’d never worry about money. Not in this horse-crazy country.
She patted my arm. “It’ll all work out, Hattie. Don’t you worry. Maybe not the way you think it’s going to, but it will work out.”
“I sure hope you’re right.”
“Listen, I’m taking Perilee’s kids with me to Wolf Point. For the parade. Why don’t you come with us?”
“Oh, I’m not in the mood.” I brushed a mosquito away from my head.
She tucked her arm through mine. “Come on. It’ll do you good.” She raised one hand skyward. “Fussing won’t make rain, you know.”
I pressed my lips together.
“We’ll come by early. You can take a turn driving Joey and Star.” She nodded. “Nothing like a parade to take your mind off your troubles.”
Wolf Point was buzzing. There was little I wanted to celebrate about National War Savings Day, but Fern, Mattie, and Chase didn’t need to know that. Let them be children, excited by the prospects of music, marching, and folderol.
We passed by the Glacier Theater as we hunted for the best parade-watching spot. The current feature was The Kaiser, the Beast of Berlin. I expected they’d sell plenty of tickets to that one. The streets were lined with people. The children were dressed in their Sunday best, and I, in a flight of patriotism, had tied a red, white, and blue ribbon to my best hat.
Leafie gave Chase fifteen cents to buy three paper flags. Holding a toddling Fern with my right hand and a giddy Mattie with my left, I found a prime viewing spot on the boardwalk in front of Hanson’s Cash Grocery.
“Here, girls.” Chase handed his sisters their flags.
The Citizens National Bank of Wolf Point passed out fans with a slogan printed on one side: Come across or the Kaiser will. I was given one and used it, gladly. Each day seemed hotter and drier than the day before. Though I didn’t own a thermometer, Karl had kept me apprised of the temperature.
“Five days, ninety-five degrees,” he said with a worried shake of the head. Even Mr. Gorley was gloomy: “Wheat’s going to roast right on the stalk.”
The heat was a standard topic of conversation.
“Hot enough for you?” asked Leafie, her red face peeking out from under a battered old bonnet.
“Got any eggs?” asked Rooster Jim, all spruced up in mostly clean clothes. “We could fry ’em right here on the steps.”
“I’ve got some ice-cold sarsaparilla inside,” said Mr. Hanson. “Come on in after the parade and help yourself. My treat.” He tickled Fern under the chin and patted Mattie’s curls. Then he handed me three crepe paper flowers, one red, one white, one blue.
“Look!” Chase tugged on my skirt. “Here comes the first band!”
Though they kicked up more dust than proper notes, the Circle town band was warmly welcomed by the crowd. A ripple of applause turned to a roar as they began to play “God Bless America.”
I caught Leafie wiping her eyes, and I felt mine well up, too. It wasn’t only the majestic music that tripped up my emotions. My mind filled up like a pretty girl’s dance card. There was Charlie—whose last letter had been too long ago—sticking his sweet neck out on my behalf. Then there were Perilee and Karl. I could never have found better friends—a better family—than them. But what would Charlie think of my being friends with them? Did being born in Germany make Karl any less my friend? This puzzle made my head spin. Actually, it was no puzzle to me anymore. But thinking how to explain it to Charlie—that was the tangle.
The wind picked up around me, whirling my thoughts even faster. As if war worries weren’t enough, what about money? I’d gone over and over my ledger. Even if I had a bumper crop, I didn’t see how I was going to squeeze by. And that was before I pledged for those darn war stamps. I wouldn’t even let myself think about not making it, about failing to prove up. My stomach churned with the worry, the heat, the uncertainty. Maybe it was too much to ask to have a place of my own; maybe I was always going to be Hattie Here-and-There.
Mattie reached for my hand and squeezed it, one-two-three. As I squeezed back, those worries slipped right out of my fingertips. Would I trade any of my troubles to be back in Iowa, never having known this sweet little girl and her family? That was one answer I was certain of.
The hot, dry wind swept away the last notes of the song. Men replaced their hats as the band launched into their next number. They marched on, followed by the Fort Peck Livery and Sale Barn wagon, all decked out in red, white, and blue bunting. Mrs. Martin sat in the back of the wagon, a tribute to Mother Liberty. Next came two automobiles wearing bunting for Pipal’s Garage and Service Station.
“Those are Luvernes,” exclaimed Chase. “The newest thing.” Not to be outdone, the Fuller Motor Company entered a fancy rig. “Touring car,” said Chase in a dismissive tone. Touring cars were evidently old hat.
Behind the autos came the County Council of Defense, all mounted on Tipped M horses. Traft touched the brim of his hat as he passed me. I didn’t acknowledge the gesture. Behind the riders, the Methodist church staged a patriotic tableau, and then the children of the Wolf Creek School—minus their star pupil, Chase—marched, adorned with blue sashes and singing “Over There.” As my charges waved their flags in approval, a gust of wind snaked down the street.
Fern’s flag flew out of her hand. “Fwag!” she cried, toddling toward the steps.
“Oh, careful, honey.” I pulled her back. “You might get trampled!”
“Fwag! Fwag!” Plump tears rolled down her plumper cheeks.
“There, there,” said Mr. Hanson. “None of that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out three pieces of ribbon-striped stick candy. “Hold on to this fo
r a while,” he told Fern. He gave a stick apiece to Chase and Mattie and then unwrapped the last one for Fern.
“What do you children say?” I asked.
“Thank you, Mr. Hanson!” Mattie and Chase chimed together. Fern flashed a juicy baby smile around her treat. Mr. Hanson laughed. “A sweet helps any hurt, don’t it, Fern?” She kept working on her stick candy.
At the very tag end of the parade came Mr. Cogswell’s delivery wagon, its sides adorned with hand-painted signs proclaiming “National War Savings Day Parade.” Unable to resist this ripe opportunity for promotion, Mr. Cogswell had also tacked a smaller banner across the back of the wagon, advertising “Fresh Cherries at Cogswell’s. Best price in town.”
Mr. Hanson catcalled good-naturedly when he saw that. “Come on, children.” He took Mattie by the hand. “Let’s get something cool in you.” Chase followed, and some of the other children from around town did, too.
“Go on ahead,” I said to the children, handing Fern to Leafie. “Now that the parade’s over, I can retrieve her flag.”
“Better hurry,” said Leafie, smashing her hat tight to her head. “With this wind, it’ll be blown clear over to North Dakota in no time.”
I scampered down the stairs from the sidewalk to the street. Fern’s little flag had not escaped being trampled by the parade’s participants. I picked up the sad, tattered souvenir, hearing her wails in my head. I didn’t want her day to end on tears, so I walked back over to the Herald office to buy another flag. What was a nickel, anyway?
A wrangle of male voices caught my attention. Down the way, from where the parade had ended, another parade of sorts was beginning. The leader appeared to be Traft Martin.
The crush stopped next to the land office. Several hulking men shouldered their way inside. Soon they were back, pushing a slim man with glasses out ahead of them. It was Mr. Ebgard.
“Word has it, Ebgard, that you haven’t been doing your share to support the war effort,” growled a man I didn’t know.
“Seems mighty unpatriotic of you,” said someone else.
“Maybe with a name like Ebgard, you’re hoping the Kaiser wins.”
A tall man stepped forward, towering over the much smaller Mr. Ebgard. “Perhaps you forgot how many boys from Wolf Point are over there—”
“And Circle and Vida,” called other voices in the ever-growing crowd.
“From all over around here, boys we grew up with…” The tall man’s next words were nearly drowned out in cries and shouts. “Seems you’d be thinking of them instead of some foreigners.”
I pressed up against a storefront, close enough to Mr. Ebgard to see sweat beaded up on his nose and forehead. His glasses were askew. He straightened them. “I have done nothing wrong,” he said quietly.
“Nothing wrong?” Traft Martin spoke up, looking at the gathered men. “Why weren’t you watching the parade? And what about writing that letter to the governor? In support of that preacher over to Brockway?”
“His church is mostly immigrants. They can’t understand him if he preaches in English.” Mr. Ebgard’s voice was calm.
“That’s the language of loyal Americans.” Traft took one step closer to Mr. Ebgard. I could see veins popping out on either side of Traft’s neck. Rivulets of sweat rolled in icy streams down my spine.
“Tell you what we’ll do, Ebgard.” Traft spat out the name. “You can prove your loyalty here and now. Fred?”
The tall man—Fred—pulled out a small American flag. He waved it under Mr. Ebgard’s nose.
“You love this country?” asked Traft.
“You know I do.” Mr. Ebgard’s chin quivered slightly, but his voice was strong and clear.
Fred backed up the street, almost to Erickson’s Hotel. Traft pointed toward him. “Then prove it. You get down on your hands and knees and crawl before your flag.” He stepped closer to Mr. Ebgard. “And when you get there, you kiss it. You hear me?”
The crush of men closed in on him. I wobbled like a newly dropped calf, overcome with the smell of sweat. And fear. And pure meanness.
Step forward, I told myself. Make them stop.
The men continued with their vicious prank. Someone pushed Mr. Ebgard, hard. He fell to his knees. His glasses flew toward me.
“Start crawling,” Traft ordered.
Dread and disbelief turned me into a statue. I watched Mr. Ebgard struggle to his feet. His jacket sleeve was torn out of the shoulder seam, and his pants were filthy with horse droppings.
Do something! My brain cried out the orders, but my legs refused. I couldn’t take my eyes from the horrifying scene.
Someone kicked Mr. Ebgard. He fell to the ground face first. Blood trickled from his nose.
I glanced around. Why wasn’t anyone stopping this? A wave of nausea swept over me as it had that day I fainted in the field. There was no “anyone” at a time like this. There was only me.
“Traft.” I could hardly get the name past my trembling lips. I tried again. “Traft!”
Startled, he turned.
“Go on home, missy,” one of the men called.
I took a baby step forward. Thank God my legs held. “I—I—” What could I say to these men? “I have business with Mr. Ebgard.” Another baby step forward. And another. I bent to pick Mr. Ebgard’s glasses up out of the dust. “A legal matter.” With trembling hands, I returned his glasses to him. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Mr. Ebgard rose and slipped them back on his face. “Won’t you step into my office?” I took his arm—to steady myself.
A hand grabbed my shoulder. “What do you think you’re doing?” I didn’t recognize the voice, but I refused to turn. My stomach churned; I could taste bile in my throat. I steeled myself against the blows that were sure to come.
“We’ve nothing against her.” That voice I did recognize. It was Traft’s. “Let her be,” he said.
The stranger released me with a jerk, spinning me away from Mr. Ebgard.
“You’re all a bunch of traitors,” the stranger said. But most of the men began to ease away, as if they’d suddenly found other business in town. Fred and his flag were nowhere to be seen. Traft stared at me, then opened his mouth as if to say something more. He shook his head and walked away.
I made it into Mr. Ebgard’s office before I collapsed, slumping into the nearest chair. “I feel…” I swallowed hard. “Sick.”
Mr. Ebgard rummaged in the cabinet behind his desk. He pulled out a bottle and two glasses. He poured something into each one. “Drink this.”
The liquid burned down my throat. After one sip, I set the glass on the desk. “That was horrible,” I said. “Those men—”
Mr. Ebgard set his glass down, too. His hand trembled as he dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.
“They all look so normal.” I couldn’t express what was roiling around inside me. “Like neighbors.”
He poured himself another shot. “Some of them were. My neighbors.”
“I don’t understand.” My arms, legs, head, everything was heavy. Too heavy to move.
He lifted his glass to his lips, started to sip, then put the glass down. “It’s the war.”
I placed my palms on the desk, breathing deeply. “Did the war burn Karl’s barn?” I said slowly. “Break little Elmer’s arm? Change you into a criminal?”
“No.” He sat heavily in a chair. “No. But this evil is so big. The fight has spread far beyond the battlefield. It’s to the point that anything—even writing a letter on behalf of a pastor and his flock—can be seen as treason.”
Mr. Ebgard’s voice was calmer; I noticed my hands had stopped shaking. “I’d better get back to Leafie and the children. They’ll wonder.” I stood slowly, testing my legs. They wobbled as they had that day on the train, during the fat man’s tirade. But they held.
“You are a brave girl.” Mr. Ebgard patted my arm. “A brave girl.”
I looked at his scraped and bruised face. “You might want to clean up before you head hom
e,” I said. “Good day, Mr. Ebgard.”
“Good day, Miss Brooks.” He opened the door and glanced outside. “All quiet,” he said.
I stepped through the open door, pausing on the walkway to take another deep breath. I paused again before going over to Hanson’s Cash Grocery. I tried to clear my mind of what had happened. Clear my mind so it wouldn’t show on my face. My legs were barely shaking as I went inside.
“Here.” Mr. Hanson handed me a sarsaparilla. “You look like you could stand to wet your whistle.”
“Fwag?” asked Fern. Absently I handed her the trampled one.
“Hattie?” Leafie looked at me. I shook my head to keep her from saying anything else.
“Dirty.” Fern threw the flag down.
I thought about Traft and the men with him, swarming like enraged wasps. I wiped my eyes. “Yes, it is,” I said.
CHAPTER 18
JULY 1918
* * *
THE ARLINGTON NEWS
Honyocker’s Homily ~ Independence Day
Don’t think, because we have no fancy bandstands or city parks, that we can’t celebrate Independence Day with as much verve as you do in the big city. Folks from all around will gather on the banks of Wolf Creek to picnic, play baseball, and commiserate about the dreadfully dry weather. Though the tone will be light, we will stop at noon to honor our servicemen. And each of us, this writer especially, will pray that the current Allied success at the Battle of Cantigny signals a speedy end to this war.
* * *
“And there’ll be vanilla ice cream.” Chase had gone on for a full five minutes about the upcoming Fourth of July picnic. “Oh, and the baseball game!”
“It sounds wonderful.” I filled another kettle with water from my well and lugged it over to the struggling garden. Thank the Lord for the deep well Uncle Chester had dug. After carrying countless kettlefuls to the green beans that morning, my arms felt as if they would fall right out of my shoulder sockets.
Chase filled a smaller pot and carefully measured the water out over my sunflower. “Mama did this last year,” he said. “Planted flowers in coffee cans. She said this year, she planted a baby instead.” We both laughed.
