“Your name means to sing, then?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Minowe said with the same straight face she used in class when addressing Miss Wells. They both laughed. “What Alma mean?”
Alma paused. Her name had come from a great-aunt whom she’d never met. If it had some meaning, she certainly did not know what it was. She looked down and toyed with the cuff of her sleeve. “It’s just a name.”
“We give you Anishinaabe name.” Asku leaned forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. After a moment, he pointed to a cluster of aspen trees, their pale bark silver in the moonlight.
“Azaadiins,” he said.
CHAPTER 9
Minnesota, 1906
The brougham stopped before a large, two-story building built of pale yellow stone. A clock tower topped its grand façade. Farther down the road, brick barracks lined the street. Soldiers marched around the manicured grounds. The seasoned boys, back from the Philippines or Cuba, moved with confidence and efficiency. The others, newly recruited from farms or immigrant slums, blundered through their steps. To Alma, all of them looked young.
The drilling, the uniforms, the regimented order reminded her of Stover. Little brown boys and girls marched to and fro in her memory, their breath a visible cloud in the slanting light of dawn. She shuddered and pushed the thought from her mind.
The cab agreed to wait. She climbed the stairs to the administrative headquarters. In the foyer, she stopped a soldier and asked for directions to the holding cells. The young man’s eyes drifted downward from her face, then sprang back a moment later. His cheeks reddened when she repeated her question.
“Don’t reckon I know what you’re after, ma’am. Let me show you to the major’s office.”
In the presence of the major, the young soldier straightened. The blush disappeared from his cheeks. He hung back by the doorway, eyes fixed on the polished wood floor, offering nothing in the way of introductions. Alma sighed and approached the major’s desk. “I’m here to visit one of your prisoners.”
The man stood and smoothed his uniform. Bronze pins and embroidered insignia emblazoned the khaki-colored wool. “Prisoner?”
“Harry Muskrat. A Chippewa from the White Earth reservation.”
“Ah, the Indian.” He sat back down and motioned to the plain, straight-backed chair in front of his desk. “What’s your business with him?”
Alma sank into the chair and took a moment to arrange her skirt. “He’s an old acquaintance.”
“Acquaintance?” Like the younger man before him, his eyes rolled down her silk traveling dress, then up to the wide-brim hat pinned atop her hair. He leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Forgive me, ma’am, but you hardly seem the type to have history with the redskins. You from a church or one of those do-good ladies’ societies? I assure you, ma’am, this heathen’s soul is beyond saving.”
“I am not from any church or women’s organization, Major. As I said, I am a friend. Mr. Muskrat is a U.S. citizen. The army has no business holding him, let alone barring visitors.”
“He killed a federal agent.”
“Then it’s a federal issue, not a military one. He’s being tried in federal court, is he not?”
The major’s face hardened. “What makes you think he’s a citizen?”
“All Indians who claimed their land allotments and adopted civilized habits were granted citizenship.”
“This redskin’s no farmer. He’s landless, a vagabond. A drunk. That ain’t no civilized life.”
Alma’s fingers clenched around her corded purse strings. This man knew nothing of his prisoner. She’d heard that hardship had driven a few Indians to lease or sell the land they’d been given, but with his skills and intelligence, Asku was impervious to such hazards. “He’s a citizen and I would like to see him.”
Silence hung between them. The soldier behind her shifted his weight and the floorboards creaked. The major glared in his direction. “Sergeant Brooks, take Mrs. . . .”
“Mitchell.”
“Mrs. Mitchell here to the ordnance depot. I believe her Indian’s being kept in the round tower.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.
“Thank you.” Alma rose and followed the sergeant from the room, hurrying to shut the door behind her before the major could change his mind.
They walked down a broad dirt lane bounded by barracks, warehouses, and artillery sheds on one side and open fields on the other. Trees stood at random intervals, casting a checkerboard of shade upon the lane.
The farther they walked, the fewer soldiers they passed. Alma shuffled to keep up. “Where are we going again?”
“The ordnance depot.” He turned and winked at her. “That’s officer speak for the old fort.”
“Old fort? Why keep prisoners there?”
Sergeant Brooks shrugged. “Don’t rustle up many Injuns these days. There was that uprising a few years back on the Leech Lake reservation, but don’t think they arrested any of them bucks.”
Alma fought back a scowl. “I see.”
“In sixty-two they held hundreds of them Sioux Indians on that there island.” He pointed to a lonely patch of land caught at the intersection of the Minnesota River and the Mississippi.
“How old is this old fort?”
“Built clear back in 1819,” he said, walking with plumbed pride. His chest deflated when he saw Alma’s frown. “Don’t worry. It’s been fixed up a bit since then.”
“What happened to them?”
“Who?”
“The Sioux.”
He shrugged. “A few of them was hanged, I think. Some starved. Nasty winter that year. Eventually thems that weren’t no threat were sent back to their reservation.”
Alma’s feet slowed. The island’s dense foliage hid whatever imprints the teepees and fire circles might have left, as if nature had swallowed all memory of these people. She paused a moment more, then rubbed the chill from her arms and hurried after the sergeant.
A round structure—like the ruins of a medieval castle—became visible at the end of the drive. Long, narrow musket holes cut through the stone walls, and battlements crowned the roof. “Is that the round tower?”
“Yup, there she is.”
Inside, the round tower looked more like a storehouse than a defense post or prison. Crates and boxes lined the walls. Odd bits of furniture lay dust-covered and jumbled. Stairs leading to a second story circled around a great stone column in the center of the room.
At first, the room appeared vacant; then Alma heard a faint snoring. A soldier—so small and narrow through the shoulders Alma first thought him a child—sat on the bottom step, cradling his head atop his knees.
Sergeant Brooks’s cheeks flashed crimson. “Attention!”
The tiny soldier sprang to his feet, swaying slightly and rubbing his bloodshot eyes. “Private Robinson, at your service.”
Brooks glared at him. “This woman wants to see the prisoner.”
“The Indian?”
“Yes, the Indian. How many prisoners ya got?”
“Well . . . um . . . just the one, sir.”
“Very well, then. Where’s the visitors’ log?”
The private’s eyes darted about the room. “He ain’t had no visitors yet, sir . . . but I’m sure there’s a log around here somewhere.”
Alma waited while the men rummaged through piles of clutter. Her gaze drifted up the winding stairs and her heart bounded. She fidgeted with her hat and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress.
“Here it is, ma’am. Just sign here.”
Alma took the fountain pen he offered and signed the blank sheet of rumpled paper. Halfway through, she frowned and crossed out the lettering. The black ink seeped and spread. “Forgive me, I, um . . .” She steadied her hand and started over. “Blanchard was my maiden name.”
Neither of the soldiers appeared to care. The private grabbed a ring of keys and started up the stairs. “Just a warning, ma’am, he don’t talk much. Mig
ht not know any English, come to think of it.”
Alma smiled. “His English is impeccable.”
The second floor was nearly bare. Narrow beams of light spilled in through the embrasures, illuminating a hidden army of dust in the air. Rusty metal bars cordoned off a quarter of the room. At one end of the cell lay an empty cot with a chamber pot tucked beneath. A tray of stale bread and mushy beans sat untouched upon a small table nearby. And there, in the corner, facing away from them in a simple, straight-backed chair, was Asku. Alma’s breath hitched. Gray trousers and a dirty white shirt sagged against his bone-thin frame. A long black braid trailed down his back. Though he must have heard their footfalls, he did not turn around. She rushed to the iron bars. “Asku.”
Little more than a whisper escaped her throat, but Asku turned around. She swallowed a gasp. The face of a stranger stared back at her. Deep lines cut his forehead and fanned from the corners of his eyes. His chapped skin looked several shades darker than she remembered. A dull expression hung from his face.
Then his eyes brightened, like dying embers coaxed back into flame. The boy she remembered shone in those eyes—curious, precocious, gentle. He rose from his chair, hastily buttoning his cuffs and wiping his trousers. “Azaadiins!”
Azaadiins. She’d almost forgotten the sound of the name. Her name. “Gigwiinawenimin, Asku.” I’ve missed you.
“Gimiikawaadizi.” He wrapped his hands around the bars just below hers. “How beautiful you look.”
The private rattled his keys against the bars. “None of that funny Indian talk. I thought you said he speaks English.”
Asku glowered at the guard. Gaunt as Asku was, he still towered above the private. “I do.”
The small soldier puffed out his chest, but took a step backward. “Let’s hear it, then.”
Alma flashed the private her prettiest smile. “Might I have a chair to sit on while we talk?”
He looked around the empty room.
“I saw one downstairs,” she said, batting her eyes for good measure. “Would you be so gallant as to fetch it for me?” He stalked toward the stairs, and she turned back to Asku. “Are they treating you all right? You’re so thin. They haven’t hurt you, have they?”
He stroked her gloved hand with his index finger. “No, Azaadiins. They have not mistreated me.”
“I read about your case in the paper, my husband—”
“Turn, nishiime. Let me look at you.”
Alma blushed. She stepped back from the bars and did a quick spin. “I came right from the train depot. I hope—”
“Time has not touched you. You’re the same girl of my memory.”
She reached into her purse and handed him a small package. “I brought you something.”
He peeled away the paper and twine. “The Return of Sherlock Holmes.”
“I know it isn’t much. I hope you haven’t read it.”
His fingers trailed across the silk-wrapped cover, as if it were the soft skin of a lover. He opened the book, brought the pages to his nose, and inhaled. “Thank you.”
Footsteps banged up the stairs. They both straightened. The private returned dragging a wooden stool. “Will this do, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Asku carried his chair to the edge of his cell and she joined him sitting, the folds of her skirt spilling around her down to the dirty floor. The rusty iron bars seemed to widen the inches between them.
“You’re married now?”
“Yes, that’s in part why I came. When I—”
“What’s his name?”
“Stewart. Stewart Mitchell.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Five years. He’s a lawyer, you see, and—”
“Children?”
She looked down at her clasped hands and shook her head. “No.”
“Nashke.” He touched her hand through the bars. “You’d be a good mother.”
Alma forced a smile even as her stomach knotted. Asku was wrong. She had nothing to offer a child. “My husband and I took the first train from Philadelphia when we learned—”
“Philadelphia. Minowe told me you left Stover after—” He stopped, and she was grateful. “A city of such culture suits you.”
Alma rubbed her arms. The afternoon warmth seemed to falter, the light filtering in through the narrow, paneless windows becoming sickly. “I never needed fancy things. I could have been happy anywhere.”
“But you’re happy now.”
“Yes.”
He regarded her a moment, then frowned. “You never could lie well, Azaadiins.”
“How can I be happy when you’re imprisoned here?”
He started to withdraw his hand from the bar, but she grabbed it fiercely between her own. “Asku, I know you could not have killed that man. My husband and I are here to help. To get you set free.”
Asku stiffened. The joy her visit had brought bled from his face. Even his voice lost its lightness. He got up and walked to the lone window within the cordons of his cell. “Those days in the classroom, in the wood shop, marching around the grounds . . . Did you ever stop and think what they were doing to us was wrong?”
Alma blinked. What did this have to do with the murdered Indian agent?
“To rob us of our homes, our families, our language, our way of life.”
She shifted. The rickety stool creaked. “I . . . I guess I never thought on it.”
“You never wondered”—he clasped his hands so tightly his knuckles cracked—“if perhaps the harm outweighed the good?”
“We were so young.”
“That was the point. To blot out our inherent wickedness before the stain had a chance to set. Your father’s very words.”
“You know he meant well.”
Asku turned. “How do you yet defend him?”
“I . . .” Alma felt a hand around her neck—her own hand—clutching at her collar, pressing into the soft flesh around her windpipe. How dare Asku say such things. “Nothing meant more to him than that school. Besides, what other choice was there? Imperfect means toward a perfect end.”
He laughed a hollow laugh and gestured to his meager cell. “Is this the end of which you speak?”
“This is all a mistake, Asku!” Heat flamed up her ears. “That’s why I’m here, to make this right.”
“Some things cannot be made right.”
“Not true.” She stood and clenched the iron bars. Rust chipped off onto her gloves. “What happened to you? You were happy at Stover.”
“That was not happiness. That was survival.”
“Now who’s lying?”
He shook his head. “If I were happy then, I was a fool.... Perhaps we both were.”
Alma’s jaw slackened.
“Thank you for your visit,” he said without expression. “I do not want your husband’s help.”
“What are you talking about? They mean to hang you.” She rattled the prison bars. “You’re innocent! I can sort this out for you.”
His eyes, the dark, foxlike eyes she loved, grew cold and dull. “I’ve had enough help from the white man.” He looked past her and called for the guard. Footfalls sounded on the stairs, and he still did not look at her. “We’re done here, Private. Please escort Mrs. Mitchell out.”
“Asku, wait—”
“I wish you well, Mrs. Mitchell.” He dragged his chair to the corner and sat down, angled away from her, still as death.
Her mouth went dry. She shuffled backward, unable to pry her gaze from the stranger in the tiny cell.
What had happened to her beloved friend?
CHAPTER 10
Wisconsin, 1881
Miss Wells strode down the aisle, her horsehair crinolette rasping against her cotton skirt, her heels like a hammer atop the wooden floor. She rapped her ruler on the edge of the desk Alma and Minowe now shared. “On your feet, Margaret. Let’s hear your numbers.”
The girl flinched and slowly rose to her feet. “One,
two, dree, four, five . . . er . . .”
“Six,” Alma whispered without looking up from her book.
“Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” Minowe sank back into her seat beside Alma the moment she finished speaking.
“Adequate, but not exemplary.” Miss Wells’s eyes flickered to Alma and narrowed. “Perhaps next time you can complete the recitation without Miss Alma’s help.”
Alma clamped her lips around a laugh. She glanced at Minowe and saw the same pent-up laughter building behind her cheeks.
“All right, class, pull out your slates. Write out numbers one through ten. Copy them five times before the end of the period.”
Minowe picked up her chalk, and Alma turned back to her book. She knew Miss Wells would quiz her about the reading at the end of class, but her attention drifted from the book’s pages to the windows.
A fresh powdering of snow had fallen during the night. She couldn’t wait to don her overcoat and race outside. The Indian girls played a game with sticks and twine—pupu’sikawe’win, Minowe called it—no matter the weather. Now Alma played as well.
Of course, the snow had put an end to their nighttime excursions into the forest. Mr. Simms would undoubtedly notice footprints leading to and from the school.
After lunch, the boys marched outside for woodworking instruction with Mr. Simms while the girls cleared the tables and headed for the kitchen.
With her arms elbow-deep in a bowl of minced meat and breadcrumbs, Mrs. Simms divvied up the chores. Alice and Catherine washed the noontime dishes while the littlest girls dried. Others set to work peeling potatoes and churning butter.
Alma, Minowe, and Rose—whom Alma now called by her Ho-chunk name, on stools at one end of the large, wood table in the center of the kitchen. A mound of dough towered before them, which they were to knead and shape into rolls.
Alma loved this time of day, no matter what her assigned task. As long as they did their work and kept their voices to a whisper, Mrs. Simms never yelled at them for talking and giggling.
With an apron tied about her waist and her hands dusted white with flour, Alma grabbed a handful of dough and pressed it down onto the table. She flattened and folded, flattened and folded, then formed a small ball and placed it into a large pan greased with lard. Her next one came out oblong and lumpy—more the shape of an animal than a roll. She laughed and nudged her friends.
Between Earth and Sky Page 6