Crooked River (20 page)

On the last morning left before the day of the hanging, when it seemed almost impossible to wait any longer, I gathered up an armful of my brother's clothes and a sharp knife, and I crept from our cabin while everyone was still sleeping in their beds.

As I stood in the early morning darkness outside our cabin, I could not stop the awful shivering in my arms and legs. Surely I would never have the courage to climb the gallows when I reached it. That's what my mind said. And how would I cut the rope when I got there? How deep should I cut? And where?

A morning bird cried its lonely, sad sound somewhere in the shadows. It was as if that bird was worrying for me. As if it knew I ought not to try and save anybody.

I looked at the cabin door behind me and tried to
decide whether to turn back or go on. Laura was sleeping peacefully inside, and I knew I was causing her nothing but trouble by doing what I was, especially when she was trying her best to be a good Ma to me. And if Pa found out that I had sneaked away from her and tried to save the life of the Indian, both of us would be made to pay dearly.

But I couldn't keep away the thought of Amik either. If I turned back, he wouldn't have a soul in the world left to save him. I thought about the six little glass beads he had first given to us for the food we brought him … how he had named me Bird Eyes for my quick, darting eyes … how he hadn't done a thing that he was being accused of … how he was an innocent man who was being hanged because some folks had set their minds on hating Indians.

Standing there in the darkness, I remembered Peter Kelley's story of Old Turtle Woman. She had come all the way to his front door to save the life of his Ma. Even though she was an old Chippewa woman, she hadn't turned her back or let his Ma die. Telling my mind that I could be as brave as Old Turtle Woman, I took a deep breath and made up my mind. I started toward the settlement.

The Evanses’ cabin was still dark when I passed it, and Vinegar Bigger's small place was, too. The only thing I could see was a thin wisp of smoke from his chimney. I stayed to the side of the narrow mud road, half running, half walking.

When I reached the edge of the settlement, I hid among the stand of trees behind Mr. Perry's store. I could see lights glowing in the tavern windows and
one in the back window of Mr. Perry's store, where he lived. There were dark shadows of hogs moving and rooting along Water Street and a big horse tied up to a tree. But no people wandering yet. It was the time of the morning when the cows needed to be milked and fires tended, I told myself. No one would pay me any notice.

As I pulled on Lorenzo's worn trousers and his old linen shirt, I tried not to think about how I was destined to go straight to hell if any man caught sight of the shameful clothes I was wearing. Even Lorenzo's hat felt peculiar on my head with my hair piled inside it.

I had come this far, I told myself, and Providence had been with me. I had got out of the house and down the road without being seen, and I had pulled on my brother's trousers and shirt. All I had left to do was climb the gallows and cut the rope. The sun would be coming up fast. There wasn't time left to waste.

The gallows stood in the clearing next to Mr. Perry's store. As I moved out of the woods toward it, my heart trembled in my chest. A feeling of death seemed to drift around the gallows like a fog. You could almost see Death and touch it nearly. My mouth felt as dry as dust.

In front of me, the hanging platform rose from the ground like a pale wooden skeleton. Narrow steps went up one side.
Climb, Reb. Climb.
I kept my eyes fixed on the steps, counting them. My legs felt as heavy as millstones. There were nine steps—no, ten. They leaned some to the left.

Reaching the top, I could hardly bring myself to look at the place where the condemned man would be made to stand and the hanging beam that stretched overhead. The names of the boys were scratched fresh and scrawling all over the wood planks at my feet.
Lorenzo Carver. Benjamin Evans. Jacob Welsh. 1812.
The hanging rope lay curled in the corner of the platform, just as Lorenzo had said.

As I stood up there, my heart thumped in my chest and my face felt warm. It seemed as if I stood under a blazing pine torch and the whole world could suddenly see what I was doing. Pulling out the knife I carried, I could hardly keep my trembling fingers curled around it. It shook like a palsy in my hand. All I wanted to do was cut the rope as fast as I could and run.

A dog barked in the distance and I crouched down low and sawed the rope with a terrified fury. I put two cuts in it. They weren't very deep because I was frightened awful bad by the sound of the dog. Maybe I sawed through one of the three twists that formed the rope. I don't know. After I was done, I didn't even look at it. I just tore back down the steps and ran for my life.

Back in the woods, I couldn't recollect where I had left my dress and petticoats. I stumbled from tree to tree, trying to find them. The sun was slicing through the woods, and I didn't have time to waste. Pa and the boys and Laura would be awake and wondering what had become of me.

There.
I saw the blue cloth of my dress. Snatching up the roll of clothes, I shook them and pulled them
fast over my head. Stuffing Lorenzo's clothes and hat under my arm, I hastened through the woods. Seemed as if I couldn't take in enough air and I had a terrible sharp pain in my side.

As I drew nearer to our house, I heard voices.

My heart pounded. I didn't dare to be seen with the knife and my brother's clothes. Sticking them beneath a pile of leaves, I prayed a fervent prayer that when I returned to fetch them, a rattlesnake wouldn't be curled up in the middle of them.

When I came into the cabin clearing, my mean Pa stood in the dooryard.

I thought I would fall to pieces right then.

“Where the devil you been?” he hollered. “We been calling out for you.”

I ran my tongue over my dry lips and tried to think. My heart thumped and thumped. “I took a basket of eggs over to the Hawleys, Pa, 'cause they ain't got none and I forgot to take them yesterday. They needed them for their breakfast. I didn't want them to have breakfast with no eggs. All their hens is dead.”

Pa squinted his flint eyes at me, as if he could see right through all my lies.

I knew what he would ask next. Why had I taken the eggs so early in the morning? Before the sun was even up? And why had I left without telling no one? And where was my egg basket?

But instead, he cursed at the Hawleys. “All their hens is dead?” he hollered at me.

I dug my fingers into my palms, praying. “Yes sir, they is, that's what I heard.”

Pa pointed his finger. “I don't want you giving no more of our eggs to them. You hear me, Rebecca?” he swore. “If they ain't smart enough to raise their own damn chickens, let 'em starve. We ain't their provider. Now git in here and help your poor sister with breakfast.”

While we were fixing breakfast, Laura kept casting disapproving looks at me. “You best never do that again,” she whispered, pinching my arm hard when no one was watching. “I was like to die when I saw you weren't in bed.”

I told her I couldn't sleep, thinking about what would happen the next day, and so that's why I had decided to get up and take some eggs to the Hawleys for their breakfast.
God forgive me for lying to my kind-hearted sister.
“I'm just awful sorry Pa found out about their hens,” I added.

That part was true. Me and Laura had been giving eggs to Mrs. Hawley for more than a month.

It surprised me when Laura reached over and squeezed my shoulders, though. “I'm sorry, Reb, I don't mean to be cross with you,” she whispered. “I know what a trying time this is. We'll just bear tomorrow the best that we can. It's the will of God, surely. You and me, we will bear it the best that we can.”

My sister Laura had as much to bear as me, because Pa was sending her to the hanging to keep watch over Lorenzo, although she had pleaded and pleaded not to go. I was to be left at home with Mercy.

In my mind, I tried to picture how it would happen the next day. How Pa and the other men would
climb the gallows, so proud of themselves for hanging a poor Indian. They wouldn't notice what had been done to the rope. The rope would break in front of their own eyes, and Indian John would be free.

But as the day wore on, I began to worry that perhaps I hadn't cut the rope deep enough. Or in the proper place. Or that Indian John wouldn't be able to get to his feet in time and run. That night, my mind tossed back and forth. I feared that there was something about the hanging that I had not considered. Something I had overlooked perhaps.

And as it turned out, I was right.

If I live to be a thousand years old, I will never forget what happened on the day of the hanging. How the morning dawned warm and bright, as if the blue sky didn't know an innocent Indian was going to be hanged beneath it. And how Reverend Doan came early to our house, before me and Laura had even taken down the quilts strung between our beds.

I answered his soft knock at the door. Seeing old Reverend Doan standing there with his Bible and his black funeral clothes made the hollow feeling in my stomach grow worse. “I have a small handful of tobacco to give to John Amik,” he said in his frail voice. “And I'd like to read the scriptures to him and pray for his soul, if I might.”

Pa, who was sitting at the table, told the minister that he could read the Bible and give the Indian all
the tobacco in the wide world, but nothing would save an Indian's soul.

“All the same,” Reverend Doan persisted, “I've come to try.”

While the minister's thin voice droned above us in the loft, me and Laura cleared the breakfast table and tried to fix the clothes for Pa and the boys to wear. Laura was warming two of our flatirons in the fire so she could smooth the creases out of Pa's suit of clothes, and I was mending one of Lorenzo's shirts, when a rattling sound began outside our cabin. It sounded like the shivering noise of a rattlesnake's tail, only louder.

I turned to Laura. “What do you reckon that is?”

“What is?” She wiped her sleeve across her flushed, warm face.

“That noise.”

“I don't hear a sound,” she answered.

I moved over to the window to look out, and that's when I saw them.

Two crooked lines of men were marching out of our woods in a procession. Muskets rested on the men's shoulders, and they wore buttoned-up coats, even though the morning was already warm. There was a boy in front who I had never seen before, and he was keeping time on a drum.

My heart jumped with fear. What were they coming here for?

As the lines drew closer, I could see a few faces I knew among the strangers—Mr. Evans, and the Hoadley brothers, and William Grant, and Vinegar Bigger, who was wearing an old cocked hat with a feather—

“The militia's here,” Lorenzo hollered, bursting through the cabin door.

“The what?” I whispered, turning away from the window.

Lorenzo waved his arm. “Come look at them, Reb. They're all gonna keep guard at the hanging of the Indian.” He pointed at the door excitedly. “Pa told me there might be near fifty men from all over. I reckon that's how many there is, don't you think so, Reb?”

All my breath seemed to leave me at once. I didn't have words enough to answer Lorenzo. It took all the strength I had to keep myself from crumbling to the floor.

“Come and see the militia with me, Laura.” Lorenzo turned and called out to my sister. “They're all dressed real handsome.”

Shaking her head, my sister followed him outside. After the door closed, I couldn't hold back my tears. Rebecca Carver, my mind whispered, what a fool you are. You never counted on anybody guarding the gallows, did you? Never figured on the militia being called. Just thought you would be the one to save Amik.

What a fool you are.