Northfield (12 page)

Jack Hayes quickly mounted the horse of the bushwhacker I had killed, which a kid had fetched after catching it in front of Mr. Cook’s place on Fourth, and Dwight Davis rode toward us, mounted, ironically, on the other dead bandit’s horse, which he had recovered at Northfield Livery. “We’ll follow them,” Mr. Hayes said. “Try not to let them out of our sight.”

“Don’t get too close, boys,” George Taylor cautioned. “They are desperate men. They have laid Joe Heywood low and shot that Swede from Millersburg.”

“What about Joe Heywood?” Mr. Manning asked. “Someone should inform his wife. And we should get his poor body home.”

“Best clean it up first,” said a pale gentleman, rolling a cigarette in front of the bank door. “Sons-of-bitches blew his brains out.”

“Take my buggy,” Mr. Davis said, pointing toward the livery “You boys catch up, soon as you can get a posse together.”

With that, Mr. Davis and Mr. Hayes took off in pursuit of the outlaws.

“We need to send a telegraph to Sheriff Barton down in Faribault,” Mr. Allen suggested. “And Minneapolis. And Saint Paul. We must trap those desperadoes!”

“Let’s get a damned posse up, now, boys!” Mr. Taylor shouted. “Time’s a-wasting. You with us, Henry?”

I will admit that I did not have a strong desire to ride with the posse, but there is a matter of duty. I had two. “All right,” I said, but detecting my friend Clarence Persons, standing near Skinner and Drew’s Drug Store, I shouted at him: “See if you can get the bodies!”

Excellent cadavers are hard to come by in medical school.

They say up to 1,000 men took part in the search for the Northfield robbers over the following weeks, and I pride myself that I served as one of those, albeit not for long. The Northfield posse was ill prepared, and I cannot be called an exception. One gentleman turned back after losing his dentures. Another lost his gun in the Cannon River. At least neither Principal Mohn, nor posse leader Mr. Taylor, would allow the young boys at St. Olaf to join us.

Twenty-one rode out of Northfield, Mr. Taylor and four others leading the way in a double rig, the rest of us on horseback. We caught up with Mr. Hayes and Mr. Davis at Millersburg, and followed the trail to Shieldsville.

As for me? I felt mighty foolish riding an old plug mule in my stocking feet, gripping the Smith carbine in my hand with the sack of cartridges tied around my horn.

The clouds opened shortly thereafter, a downpour that would continue most of September, and I soon found myself soaked through to the bone. I had no slicker, not even a hat. Luckily my mule gave out (so did, I), and with no great reluctance I returned to Northfield the following day, changed into dry clothes, ate a filling supper, and sought out my friend Clarence Persons.

After a coroner’s inquest and exquisite photography by Mr. Sumner, and a while the following afternoon to let the trainloads of tourists come and gawk at the dead men, the two outlaws had been buried in our town cemetery’s Potter’s Field shortly before my return, but the constable and undertaker had promised to bury them shallow. Grave robbery is not a noble endeavor, but I am a medical student and I killed one of those fiends. I figure I deserved him more than anybody else, and nobody was claiming the man Mr. Manning had slain. As I have previously mentioned, those men had a higher calling than outlawry.

On the evening of September 8
^th
, my friends Clarence Persons and Charles Dampier hired out a buckboard and a Negro, and we began our nocturnal business at Northfield Cemetery. The Negro did not care for it, but did his duty, although he would not leave the wagon. Charles and Clarence lacked much enthusiasm for the idea, as well, but the ground was soft from all that rain—it still drizzled as we set to work around midnight— the graves fresh, and, as the undertaker and constable had promised, shallow.

A dirty, detestable job, but we worked quickly, and few people inspect graveyards on rainy nights after midnight. Our conspiracy went undetected. We dug up the bodies, stuffed them into barrels marked
Paint
, and had the Negro drive them to Minneapolis depot, where the “paint” was shipped to the University of Michigan Medical School in Ann Arbor.

On September 10
^th
, I attended the funeral of Joseph Lee Heywood, with most of Northfield, but my mind, I admit, found itself weeks ahead, wondering what would happen back in Ann Arbor.

To answer that question, dear reader, I will skip ahead. Well, I became something of a hero when I returned to school in October. Even the Ann Arbor
Courier
proudly advertised my coup.

The Students of the Medical Department
Will This Winter Have the Pleasure
of Carving Up
TWO GENUINE ROBBERS!!!,
being members of the
Northfield, Minnesota gang.

The two cadavers were first-rate, impressing not only my fellow students, but also my professors, who singled me out for providing the
piece de resistance.

“A
prime, young specimen,” one classmate said after we had worked on the pipe-smoking man. “Practically flawless. How, pray tell, did you obtain such a corpse in this remarkable condition?” With pridefulness, I answered—“I shot him!”— savoring the startled expression on the young gent’s face.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
L
IZZIE
M
AY
H
EYWOOD

Pretend they’re shooting fireworks. I like to watch the pretty sparkles in the sky when it’s nighttime. Don’t you? I like to pretend. Usually. Pretending’s fun. Most times, I pretend I’m a mommie and my dolly is my baby. Sometimes we’re baby animals. I’m the mommie horse and dolly’s the baby pony. Or a mommie cat and baby kitty. Or a mommie rooster, which causes Papa to laugh, and a baby rooster. Or, without my dolly, I pretend by myself. I pretend I’m singing in church choir. I pretend I’m pouring tea for the ladies at the church. I pretend I’m talking to Mommie Martha. I pretend lots of things. I have to pretend today, too.

I heard the fireworks today, but it wasn’t nighttime like it was yester-night because I looked out the window in my room where I was playing with my dolly. Her name’s Martha, which Papa says was my real mommie’s name. Now my mommie is Mommie Lizzie—she has the same name as me; how can that be? I never knew Mommie Martha, but sometimes I pretend I did.

So, today, I played by myself in my room while Mommie Lizzie sat in the parlor where she worked on a quilt. She couldn’t let me help because she says I might stick myself and I’m just a baby, though I told her I wasn’t a baby, that I was a baby last year, but now I am five years old. I’m a kid. A little girl, like Papa calls me, though he sometimes tells me I’ll always be his baby girl, but I’m not a baby any more. Not a baby! Baby’s are four or stuff.

So, when I heard all the popping, I got excited, and I grabbed my dolly and ran to find Mommie Lizzie, and I yelled at her: “Fireworks! Fireworks! Let’s go see! Let’s go see!”

Mommie Lizzie, she put her stickpins down and rose, smiling, saying: “Lizzie, it’s not fireworks. Not in the middle of the day. See? And Independence Day has long passed.”

“Maybe it’s special fireworks,” I said.

Now we heard lots of fireworks, and Mommie Lizzie listened harder and walked toward the front door. “It sounds,” she says, “like corn popping.”

“What could it be?” I asked her. Then: “Let’s go see!”

She opened the door, which made the popping sound louder, and I tried to go down the steps to the edge of Third Street, our street, but Mommie Lizzie grabbed my arm and jerked me back. She was right, though. It couldn’t be fireworks because it was still not dark like it is when we go see the pretty sparkles and it couldn’t be special fireworks because I looked up in the sky and didn’t see any sparkles or things like that.

We heard some other noises, too, but they were too far away for us to understand. More popping. And then Mommie Lizzie got this terrible look on her face, and she brought her hand to her mouth and she gasped for breath, and I asked her if she was all right, but she turned around, and her eyes were so wide, and she shoved me inside, yelling at me: “Get inside, Lizzie! Oh, my God! Get inside, now! Now!”

And we were back in the parlor and Mommie Lizzie was slamming the door shut and sliding the bolt, and I started crying because Mommie Lizzie never pushed me and she never yelled at me and I wanted my Papa, and I cried that I wanted Papa, and Mommie Lizzie knelt beside me and pulled me close and she whispered in my ear: “I want Papa, too.” Then she told me she was sorry for scaring me, but I was still crying, and I told her I had left Dolly Martha on the porch because I had dropped her when she had pushed me.

“She’ll be all right,” Mommie Lizzie said.

“But I want her. I want.…”

“Hush.”

“But….”

“Hush!”

I wanted to run to my room, but what about my dolly? She’s the bestest dolly in the whole wide world and is special to me.

I listened. There was still popping, but I don’t think it was corn popping.

“I hope…,” Mommie Lizzie started, then bit her lip, and she was crying, and I kept crying, and then she hugged me, and scooped me up and took me to the rocker and just rocked me like I was a baby, like I was her baby, but I’ve told you already that I am not a baby any more, and she’s not my real mommie but my new mommie but I love her and she’s a special mommie, but I’m not her baby.

Well, Papa says, like I’ve told you, that I’ll always be his baby

But that’s all right because I love Papa.

Papa’s name is Joseph Lee Heywood. He works at the bank. Do you know him? I bet you do because he knows everybody in town. He’s been working at the bank as long as I can remember. He was a hero, too. During the old war he almost died fighting the mean Rebs. I don’t remember the war because I wasn’t born yet, and I never met a mean Reb. Papa told me not to worry, that mean old Rebs don’t come to Minnesota much and aren’t as scary as witches and warlocks, and the war is over, right prevailed, and we’ll never see something that horrible again.

I think Papa is the most handsomest man that ever was, and Mommie Lizzie, she says so, too. He has fur on his face, and it’s dark and sometimes it pricks me, but mostly it’s soft. Other men in town have fur on their faces, too, but only Papa lets me touch it when he comes home after working at the bank. Mommie Lizzie came here a little while ago back when I was just a baby, maybe three years old, to be my mommie because Mommie Martha is in heaven. Papa says we’ll all see Mommie Martha sometime in heaven. He says heaven isn’t the place where we go on Saturdays to place the flowers where Mommie Martha’s sleeping, the special place with all the crosses and stone things in the ground at the edge of town. He says heaven is in the sky, like the clouds and the stars and all the pretty sparkles when they shoot off fireworks. Mommie Martha went to heaven after I was born and was just a baby, and then I didn’t have a mommie except for the times when I’d let my dolly be my mommie and I’d be her baby until Mommie Lizzie came to see us and live with us and be my new mommie.

“Listen,” Mommie Lizzie said.

We were still sitting in the rocker, and I listened, but the popping sound wasn’t making noise any more.

“I don’t hear anything,” I told Mommie Lizzie, and she said—“I know.”—and we both got off the rocker and moved toward the door again.

I hoped Dolly Martha hadn’t gotten scared from all the daylight fireworks and run off and hided. And I hoped that bad dog, June, that lived next door hadn’t taken my dolly and run off with her like she run off with the wooden spinning top that Papa had bought for me and warned me not to leave it outside, but I did, and it was an accident.

Dolly Martha was right where I dropped her and I ran and picked her up and told Mommie Lizzie: “Look!” Only Mommie Lizzie didn’t look, not at me, but kept looking down the street, and I looked down the street to see who was coming— maybe, Papa!—but no one was coming.

We didn’t hear any popping. Some dogs barked, maybe puppy June was one of them, and heard some other noises, but nothing much else. I wondered what had happened to the daytime fireworks. They hadn’t lasted very long.

I asked Dolly Martha if she had seen anything, and we started talking, and then Dolly told me she wanted me to comb her hair, so I pretended that I had a comb and started combing her hair, which is what I was doing when Mommie Lizzie stepped down the steps.

“Where are you going?” I asked, but she must not have heard me. She just walked a few paces and then she looked down the street again, and, when I looked up, I saw some people coming, and I got excited because I hoped one of them was Papa, but no, these men didn’t have any fur on their faces, and Mommie Lizzie, she came back and put her hand on the rail on our porch and was stepping up toward me.

Then one of the men running down the street began yelling: “The bank’s been robbed! The bank’s been robbed! We’re getting a posse!”

Mommie Lizzie swayed a little, then ran up the steps and started to go inside, then just turned, and I saw she was crying again, and she just flattened herself against the wall, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, but I stopped combing Dolly Martha’s hair, and, when my dolly asked me why I had stopped, I told her to just hush, and kept on looking at Mommie Lizzie.

She was acting crazy. She never acted crazy. Mommie Lizzie acted kind of scary, like witches and warlocks and mean Rebs.

“Was that man talking about Papa’s bank?” I asked Mommie Lizzie. She didn’t answer, so I asked her again, and even again, and had to shout it before she looked at me, but still didn’t answer, just blinked her eyes, and then she took this long deep breath and held it for the longest time, and I thought she was going to hold her breath forever like I did sometimes when I was a baby and was mad at Papa or somebody for something.

She breathed out, and shook her head, and then she knelt beside me and asked: “I’m sorry, Lizzie, what is it that you asked?” She was still crying, not loud or anything like that, just tears flowing down all her cheeks.

“Is that man talking about Papa’s bank?”

“Pray that it is not so, sweetheart,” she said. “Let’s go inside and pray.”

“But it’s not nighttime or breakfast or dinner or supper.”

“Let’s pray anyway.”

“But it’s not church.”

“Come,” she said.

“What’s a posse?” I asked.

“I’ll explain later. Let’s pray. Let me find our Bible.”

She was opening the door when another man in a checked suit came running down the street, and started pounding on the door of the house near ours, the house where Mr. Karl—he comes from some place called, oh, I can’t remember—but Mr. Karl lives in that house and the other man was yelling—“Robbery, robbery!”—and Mr. Karl, he opened the door and said:
“Guten Tag. Was gibt es Neues?”
He talks funny, I think.

“Robbery!” the man in the checked suit said. “Robbery and murder!”

“Wie bitte?”
said Mr. Karl.

“Robbery, I said!” The man in the checked suit was waving his arms and he was sweaty and icky stuff, and I kept waiting for Mommie Lizzie to go inside with me, but she just stood frozen. And then I heard the man in the checked suit say this: “Robbery and murder! They robbed First National and murdered Joe Heywood, shot Alonzo Bunker.”

“Grosser Gottl”
Mr. Karl said.
“Der Meuchelmord?”

“Yes, sir,” the man in the checked suit said. “Foul murder. We’re forming a posse. Come with me to the square!”

“Ich komme sofort!”
Those are funny-sounding words Mr. Karl says, but Papa tells me that’s all right and that Mr. Karl is a fine Christian gentleman and good neighbor, but he didn’t even remember then that he was our neighbor, I guess, he was so excited because Mr. Karl took off running after the man in the checked suit. They were running toward the railroad tracks, which Mommie Lizzie and Papa say I mustn’t play on, and toward the river and the square, which is where Papa works.

Mommie Lizzie jerked me inside and slammed the door. She was holding her stomach with one hand, covering her mouth with the other, like she was going to be sick, and I hoped she wasn’t going to be sick.

“Mommie Lizzie,” I said. “They were talking about Papa. What were they saying about Papa?” When she didn’t answer, just stood there, I started crying, and Dolly Martha was crying, and Mommie Lizzie finally knelt beside me and she pulled me tight and almost crushed me, and then she scooped me up again and we ran into the parlor, and she stumbled on the quilt she was making, but didn’t drop me, and then she sat me down in the rocker and she was sitting, kneeling, just right there in front of me, and she took another one of those deep breaths, and she wiped her tears and suddenly she wasn’t crying no more.

“Lizzie May,” she said.

I nodded.

“I need you to be very strong. I need you to be a big, big girl now. You can’t be a baby any more.”

“All right, Mommie Lizzie. I’m not a baby. I’m five. But where’s Papa? I want Papa!”

“I know.” She paused again. It seemed like the longest time, and I felt I would start crying again, but then she squeezed my arm, squeezed it hard, but not too hard so that it hurt.

“Lizzie May, do you remember when Papa’s friends from work came over a little while ago and were talking about the secessionists during the late unpleasantness?”

Well, I remembered Papa had a party, but I don’t remember anything about it.

“You remember one of Papa’s bosses asked what Joe, your father, would do if bad men wanted him to open the safe like the bad Rebels had done at that bank in Vermont during the war?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Joe said he’d never open the safe for such scoundrels. Do you remember that?”

“I think so.” But I didn’t.

“Your father is a hero.”

“He was a hero in the war. When he fought the mean Rebs.”

“I fear he was a hero today, sweetheart.”

“Is Papa coming home soon?”

“I pray so, but….”

Somebody started knocking on the door, and Mommie Lizzie shivered and it wasn’t even cold. She stood up, but not before she kissed both of my cheeks and wiped my face with the hem of her skirt.

“I miss, Papa,” I said. “I love Papa. I want Papa to come home…now.”

“I love him, too.”

Preacher Leonard is with Mommie Lizzie now. She is wearing a black dress, and Mrs. Ames says I’ll have to wear a black dress, too. She says Papa was a hero. I tell her Mommie Lizzie and I knew that. I heard the man tell Mommie Lizzie, when she opened the door, that Papa had been a hero, that he would not open the safe for the bandits, and I heard Mommie Lizzie, being strong, say: “I would not have had him do otherwise.”

“You are a courageous lady,” the man said.

Mommie Lizzie pretends good, too.

They would not let me see Papa. They brought him home in a buggy, and covered with a white sheet, but there were some icky spots on the sheet, red and brown and nasty, and I knew it was blood, but I didn’t touch it. Maybe, I thought, Papa was pretending to be a ghost, but they told me that Papa was in heaven, that that was just his body, nothing in the scheme of things—what is a scheme?—and that God has a reason for everything, even this.