Crooked River Page 11

Laura was silent, looking out at the woods. “I don't know, Reb,” she said uncertainly. “Perhaps after what he said, perhaps they might. It was a brave speech to give, it was. But I don't know.”

  The jury would meet and give their verdict the next day, Laura said. And then the whole terrible business of the trial would finally be done.

  in the Ojibbeway game of

  moccasin

  you must watch

  carefully

  to guess

  which moccasin

  holds the marked musket ball.

  you must look into the faces

  of the moccasin players

  and you must not be fooled

  by their dancing arms or

  their loud drum.

  you must watch with your eyes

  and guess what each one

  is hiding.

  when I look at the white chief

  and his twelve strangers,

  i think of the game

  of moccasin.

  The jury deliberated inside Mr. Perry's store the next day. As the noonday hour crept closer, people began to gather outside the store, waiting to hear the outcome. More than a few of the men had brought their jugs of whiskey to toast the death of the Indian, they said. But I prayed hard that they were going to be proved wrong.

  Me and Laura sat on a blanket in the shadow of the store, near Mr. Perry's woodpile. Mercy played with her yarn doll next to us. “He's innocent and the jury will see that, won't they?” I whispered to Laura for the hundredth time, and she said she hoped they would.

  Mrs. Hawley came over and settled down next to us with her new little baby. “It's a trying day, isn't it?” Mrs. Hawley sighed. “Waiting for all the men.” She smoothed her baby's straw-colored hair. He was a scrawny, squalling little thing.

  Even in front of kindhearted Mrs. Hawley me and Laura didn't dare to say what we thought about the trial. We just nodded politely and said it was a long wait, especially with all of the work left to be done.

  Mrs. Hawley cast a look toward the store and shook her head. “I wish my husband wasn't even on that jury. He doesn't have any grudges against the Indians,” she said softly. “It's the white man's word against the Indian's word, that's what my husband says—and who can decide which one to believe or what to do?”

  I wondered if Mrs. Hawley's husband believed Indian John was innocent. Mr. Hawley was a quiet sort of man who seemed to do more thinking than most folks, so I hoped that he did.

  Glancing over at Mercy, Mrs. Hawley turned her words in another direction. “Your little sister's growing up real fast, isn't she?” she said, and we agreed that she was.

  When it was past noon, the doors of Mr. Perry's store finally opened. The whole crowd outside the store fell silent, seeing the jury men come out of the building one by one. I watched the men walk to a row of planks that had been set up for them as seats. The men didn't look to the right or left but kept their eyes to the ground. In the hushed silence, Mrs. Hawley's baby started screaming, and a trembling chill began inside me.

  Judge James R. Noble and the sheriff followed the jury. The judge's black robes flapped around him like dark crow's wings. Close behind him came Augustus Root and Peter Kelley. At the sight of Peter Kelley's pale and drawn face, Laura's hand flew to cover her mouth and my throat tightened as if I would be sick. Mr. Kelley paused next to the judge's table with Augustus Root, and I could see his hands rolling and unrolling the brim of the hat he held. His face was the color of ashes.

  One of the jury men walked over and gave the sheriff a piece of paper, and the sheriff carried it to the judge. I don't recollect what the sheriff said, but I won't ever forget what Judge Noble did afterward. He looked at the jury men and told them to pronounce their verdict to the crowd.

  My heart hammered in my chest.

  Each of the twelve men stood up one by one. The Hoadley brothers slouched and grinned as they said, guilty, guilty. Vinegar Bigger took off his old hat, pressed it to his chest, and mumbled, guilty. Shoemaker Nash said, “In my true and impartial judgment—guilty.” Only Mr. Hawley paused a moment and looked out at the crowd before he said softly, “I believe he is guilty.”

  Peter Kelley's voice nearly broke as he jumped up right after Mr. Hawley and shouted, “Your Honor, the counsel, please, requests a new trial. The jury hasn't fairly considered—”

  But Judge Noble shook his head. “The good men of this jury”—he glanced toward the men—“under tremendous responsibility have duly weighed all of the evidence. They have deliberated carefully and they have found the Indian called John Amik guilty of murder in the first degree—”

  “But, Your Honor—” Peter Kelley's voice rose.

  “Mr. Kelley—” the judge warned.

  “The evidence was not—”

  The judge leaned across his table. “Mr. Kelley,” his voice thundered. “The verdict has been decided. The defendant is guilty. And the sentence will now be read.”

  As some of the men brought Indian John to stand in front of the judge, my ears throbbed and my head spun as if I would soon faint away.

  The judge leaned forward, fixing his eyes on Indian John. “You, John Amik, have been found guilty of the crime of murder—do you understand that?” the judge said, and the interpreter, John Bigson, repeated the words. “The laws of God and man attach the penalty of death to the crime of murder.”

  Indian John did not move.

  The judge continued. “You, John Amik, are no longer fit to live with the white man, and it is my duty to tell you that your time is fixed upon this earth. The court will allow you little more than a week's time to prepare for another world and to receive one visit from a representative of your people.”

  Standing up, the judge picked up a piece of paper and read in a loud voice, which echoed across the silent crowd. “It is therefore the sentence of this court that on the sixteenth day of June, about one week hence, between the hours of ten o'clock in the morning and noon, the Indian John Amik will be taken thence to the place of execution and hanged about the neck until he is dead.”

  And as the crowd stood and cheered around me and someone threw an egg at the front of Peter Kelley, I grabbed the cloth of my skirt in one hand, turned on my heels, and ran.

  i do not understand

  guilty

  guilty

  guilty

  guilty.

  i tell Red Hair

  i have always stood in the smoke

  between

  our people.

  i have not struck the gichi-mookomaanag

  in their lodges

  while they sleep.

  and i have overlooked

  the foolishness

  of those

  who would offend me.

  to you, Red Hair,

  i have been a protector,

  a brother,

  you will be sorry when

  i leave you,

  i say

  i tell Red Hair

  i feel no fear

  of death—

  but i do not understand

  guilty.

  It was Amos who found me.

  I could have run off when I heard his stumbling footsteps coming through the brush and his voice calling out my name. But I didn't. The light was fading through the woods, and I sat at the foot of a big tree with my knees drawn up to my chin. My dress was covered with scraps of leaves, and my face was raw from crying. If Amos found me, that was his business. If he didn't, I would stay where I was and let the sun rise and set, rise and set, until I turned into a pile of bones and dust.

  “There you is,” Amos said in a peculiar voice when he turned his head and saw me. Walking over, he set his rifle on the ground and hunched down next to me. “Laura's worried sick.”

  I didn't answer. Just kept my forehead resting on my knees, not looking up.

  Putting Laura's cloak over my shoulders, Amos sighed and sat down. “I know you feel softhearted about that Indian, Reb. Ever since you was toddling around t
he house, you always been that way. Never wanted to see us butcher the hogs or kill one of the calves. But it ain't gonna bring you any good to be that way, you understand what I mean? You've got to grow up and learn to see things different.”

  I didn't answer, just kept my head down.

  Amos sighed again. I could hear him snapping little twigs between his fingers, one after another, as if he was thinking hard.

  Without raising my head, I said, “He ain't guilty. I know he ain't guilty.”

  Amos kept on snapping twigs. In an even voice, he answered, “Don't be so foolish as to suppose that Indian John—or any other one—wouldn't put a tomahawk in your head or mine if they had half the chance.”

  “The witnesses lied,” I kept on, my voice rising. “Every last one of them lied. Me and Laura know the truth.” I didn't watch any of my words, just said whatever rolled off my tongue. I didn't care if I got in awful bad trouble with Pa. Or Amos either.

  Amos sent a spit of tobacco at the ground. “Maybe they did lie and maybe they didn't. I don't know, Reb. But can't you see that it don't matter? Look at a wolf for instance—even if you knew a wolf had never kilt a sheep, would you let him stay in your sheep pen?”

  “No,” I said fiercely, turning my eyes on Amos. “But I wouldn't kill him neither.”

  Amos didn't answer, just snapped more twigs. Finally, he said, “What if seeing what happens to Indian John sends the rest of the Indians out of here for good and leaves us to live in peace? Wouldn't you rather live that way, Reb, instead of always fearing the Indians—always worrying whether or not you or Mercy were going to be carried off and kilt?”

  “The Indians was on this land before us,” I said, thinking of that arrowhead I found and Peter Kelley's stories of the Chippewas fishing on the river where he grew up.

  “And that makes all this land theirs?” Amos stared hard at me. “That what you think, Reb? That we ought to give the Indians all this land that we cleared and planted and paid for?”

  “I don't know,” I answered stubbornly. “Perhaps.”

  “Get up,” Amos said sharply. “I'm tired of your nonsense.” He tossed his handful of sticks away and stood up. “Get up and brush yourself off, Rebecca, or I swear I will carry you back to the house over my shoulder. I don't want to say another word to you. Not one word.”

  Amos was as strong as an ox and he could have carried me all the way home like a sack of grain if he had a mind to. So, I didn't have no choice but to get up and follow him.

  The woods were nearly dark as we tramped along the narrow, overgrown path. I could hear wolves howling in the distance, and Amos kept his gun at the ready, not saying a word. I followed a few steps behind him, and he kept turning and checking all the time to see that I was still there.

  In my mind, I knew I could not stand by and watch as my wretched Pa and the other men hanged a man who wasn't guilty of anything except being an Indian. I would run off back to the East. I would go back to Ma's old family in Vermont.

  Let them try to find me.

  Ma always used to say, “It is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong.” But it seemed to me that suffering a wrong, when you hadn't done anything wrong, was worse.

  I couldn't forget the most awful sad look that crossed Peter Kelley's face as the verdict was read. And I wondered how Indian John must feel, being sentenced to die for a murder that he didn't carry out.

  Perhaps it was better to do wrong than suffer wrong.

  And right then, as I stumbled on a root in the dark woods, the smallest idea began to flicker inside me. What if I, Rebecca Ann Carver, did something terribly wrong to help someone who was innocent? The skin on my neck prickled at the thought.

  What if I went against my Pa and Amos and all the men in the settlement who believed Indians were nothing but murderous savages? What if I freed Indian John before the hanging and let him escape?

  I tugged the cloak tighter around my shoulders.

  Perhaps that was what I would do.

  in the darkness

  of night

  i sing and pray

  to Kitche Manitou and the other spirits—

  lead me to a good fire,

  hear my cries, and

  answer me.

  a dream comes to me

  while I sleep—

  i hear the voice of the Thunder Beings

  loud, loud, loud

  as Midé drums.

  i open my eyes

  and see a cloud

  black as a crow

  circling, circling

  above me.

  in front of me

  appears

  a man

  i have seen before

  in spirit dreams.

  he holds a palm

  of tobacco

  in his outstretched hand.

  Amik, he says to me,

  Amik,

  why do you go about pitying yourself

  when the wind,

  the rushing wind,

  will carry you

  across the sky?

  you must sing

  to the Thunder Beings,

  he says.

  you must sing—

  circle above me

  a cloud,

  circle above me

  a cloud—

  and the Thunder Beings,

  they will come.

  when I awaken

  from my dream,

  i know

  what the spirit man says is true.

  i know

  i will not die.

  As I sat by the hearth the next morning, the question of whether to free Indian John spun around and around in my head. To defy my Pa and my settlement—and perhaps even the whole state of Ohio—seemed an act of madness. And what if I was caught? The punishment for setting a prisoner free was something I could not even bring myself to imagine. No one, not even Laura, would ever forgive me for doing such a thing.

  I was so lost in my thoughts, I didn't even hear the soft knock on our cabin door. Laura was the one who called my name and waved her arm impatiently. Her hands were dripping wet from washing Mercy's mop of hair. “Go on,” she said. “Reb, go on and answer the door.”

  Outside, I was struck speechless to see Peter Kelley and an Indian woman waiting in our dooryard. The Indian woman was nearly as tall as Peter Kelley, and she stood to one side of him, leaving a wide space between them. Clusters of small tin cones dangled from her ears, and strings of colored necklaces hung from her neck like webs.

  I stared at her as if she was a spirit come to life.

  “I have brought Rice Bird, Amik's wife,” Peter Kelley said in a voice that seemed close to tears. The woman's hands tightened on the white blanket she wore around her shoulders, but she did not look up. “Could we”—Peter Kelley's voice wavered—“come in for a moment to pay a visit to Amik?”

  As they stepped into our house, Laura came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. “Rebecca and I are filled with sorrow and pity about what happened at the trial,” she stammered. “Truly we are.”

  Peter Kelley didn't answer Laura at first. He looked down at his feet, as if he was thinking hard about something.

  “I never believed the trial would end as it did,” he said finally. “In the depths of my soul, I didn't. I thought that they would be fair, even with an Indian man. But I have learned something this week, Miss Carver.” He glanced at Laura. “I have learned that all of the lawyers, and all of the courts, and all of the judges in the world will never change the hearts of men.”

  “Mine was changed,” I said stubbornly.

  Laura added that hers was, too.

  But Peter Kelley just shook his head and didn't answer a word.

  Turning to Rice Bird, he gestured at the steps to the loft, and she moved softly toward the stairway. It seemed that she didn't so much walk as float, like a lonely autumn leaf blowing across the floor, that's what she looked like to me.

  Peter Kelley followed a few steps behind her. The hopeless way the
y appeared—the Indian woman by herself and Peter Kelley with his downcast shoulders—brought tears to my eyes.

  As Rice Bird reached the loft, a dreadful sad wail began.

  Me and Laura had to leave the cabin. We carried Mercy all the way to the springhouse and rolled a clay marble on a square of dirt, back and forth to her. Even from that distance, you could still hear the mournful, wailing cries of Rice Bird, and it was enough to break your own heart to listen to them.

  my gentle Rice Bird

  cries and weeps—

  my love,

  i do not wish you to go

  on the road of the spirits—

  i do not wish

  to paint your face

  or point your feet to the west

  or place your medicine bag

  beneath your head.

  i tell Rice Bird—

  Amik will not die,

  not until

  his children are old

  and the line of his life is long

  and straight.

  you will see,

  the Thunder Beings will save him.

  Red Hair gives me a sorrowful look

  as if i am a child

  who cannot understand.

  no, he says,

  in a few days’ time, Amik,

  you will go to another place—

  you will go to the land of the hereafter

  and we shall never see you

  on this earth

  again.

  i tell Rice Bird and Red Hair—

  be not like two women.

  bring me tobacco

  for an offering

  and build a nest for the Thunder Beings

  near the place

  where the gichi-mookomaan

  prepares to end my life.

  go away from me now, i say.

  i have told you

  what you must do.

  When Peter Kelley said goodbye to us that day, I knew we would never see the likes of him again. As Rice Bird waited at the edge of the woods, with her back turned toward us, he made his way to where we stood by the springhouse. Even little Mercy was still and silent, watching him.

  “I wanted to tell you before I left that I was grateful,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “For what you did. Even in spite of your own Pa. Even in spite of all the others. For showing some human decency and kindness”—he waved his arm in the direction of the house, and his voice broke—“to him.”