Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “Wellsir, there ain’t any younger ones around here,” Charley replied. They were loading hemp stalks into a wagon to take them to the ropewalk. “She’s the youngest you got. And she’s pretty, too.”

  “There are bound to be girls on the farms around here. Just look around.”

  “Oh, I’ll find ‘em all right. I got a way about me.”

  “Whatever you say, Charley.”

  Splitting the hemp stalks proved to be the hardest part of the ropemaking. Even after lying on the ground for six weeks, they were still tough; the fibers had to be pulled away from the stalks carefully or else they would lose their value. Before long, everyone’s fingertips were raw and bleeding around the nails. Carr had the idea of having the children walk over the stalks to break them, which helped, but it was still tedious work. Finally, there were enough fibers laid out along the ropewalk to start the jack. The shaft was pulled into place, the gears were engaged, and slowly the ropejack began to turn. Round and round it went, twisting the hemp and pulling the strands together, and all along the walk they could see the fiber gradually twisting into a rope.

  “How will we know how to stop it?” Turner asked Webb.

  “Just by feel. Eventually it will feel like it’s supposed to. For now, we just need to keep stripping out more stalks.”

  Charley’s romantic zeal made it even harder for Turner to find time alone with Marie. They went weeks without a moment together, as Charley always found an excuse to visit them in the print shed when they were composing The Eagle.

  “You ought to teach me how to read,” he told Marie. “I’d like to read what you all are writing.”

  “I’m not writing anything,” she answered. “Mr. Turner does all the writing. I just set it into type.”

  Charley sniffed. “A dollar says you’d write better than him. He’s smart and all, but I bet you’re just as smart. What do you think, Mr. Turner?”

  “I know never to bet against you, Charley.”

  Turner knew it was unwise to keep up his affair with Marie. Secrets were hard to hold in Daybreak, maybe impossible. But he didn’t want to stop. The pleasure was part of it. He could get the same pleasure from Charlotte anytime, but the thrill of the forbidden added to his pleasure with Marie, and her young body was firm and supple, a delight to handle. There was also the pleasure of knowing that this young beauty, coveted by everyone in the community from Charley on up, was his, all his. And in those snatched moments when he took her into his arms, he could feel in her admiration the lost sense of purpose that had led him to Daybreak in the first place. The pall of Lysander Smith’s death lifted, and for a little while he felt his old spirit-stirring energy break through the lethargy that had overtaken him.

  Out in the fields, with only labor to occupy his mind, he wondered about Charlotte and Adam Cabot. Lately, they had seemed stiff and strangely careful with each other, avoiding direct interactions. He had never seen them do or say anything compromising, but there was just a sense of something. He didn’t like it.

  After lunch one day, he saw Harp Webb clatter up the road with a wagon full of whiskey jugs and bags of saltpeter, off to visit his customers. He walked out in the yard to the edge of the road.

  “Going to town?” he called.

  Harp looked down at him suspiciously. “Wagon’s headed that way, ain’t it?”

  “Just making conversation. How’s your new boarder working out?” Harp grunted. “That little pissant ain’t my concern. My daddy’s the one who hired him. I have my own affairs to tend to.”

  “You like him all right?”

  “Oh, he ain’t bad. Gets on your nerves with the yessir and nosir all the time, but what the hell.”

  “Good worker.”

  “That I wouldn’t know,” Harp sniffed. “He comes over here to do all his working.”

  “Don’t I know it. That boy’s underfoot all the time, following me around like a pup.”

  “Maybe it ain’t you he’s following around,” Harp said, winking. “All he wants to talk about of an evening is women. Daddy don’t like it, thinks it’s unchristian, but I talk to him anyway. I’ll tell you something,” he said, leaning down. “He says he’s had a woman, but I don’t think he ever has. I’ve got half a mind to take him up to the Indian camp and get him some for real.” You mean—

  “Sure, they put out. You just stand in the clearing and jingle the silver in your pockets, and see how long it takes.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “That don’t surprise me. The list of things you people don’t know seems to have no end, as far as I can tell.”

  Turner let the remark pass.

  The rope brought a good price, and the poor corn crop made Turner wish they had planted more hemp. On the evening of their next weekly meeting, he walked home with George Webb and Cabot. They stopped at Turner’s house to rest and talk with Charlotte, and he brought up the subject of next year’s planting.

  “We’ll have to rotate the fields,” George Webb said. “That corn has worn out the lower field, and we need to let it go to pasture next year. We can put the corn where the wheat is now, and move the wheat to the hemp field. So the hemp will go where the pasture is.”

  It seemed sensible enough. Then Cabot surprised them all.

  “I am planning to ask for a leave of absence from the community for six months, starting early next year,” he said. Turner saw him glance toward Charlotte, whose face was expressionless. To their stunned silence, he added, “I intend to run for the legislature, and I will need the time to travel around the county.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Webb exploded. “Of all the crazy ideas. Republican ticket too, I’ll wager.”

  “Yes, Republican. I don’t think it’s so crazy,” Cabot said. “I think I have a lot to offer.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Webb said, standing up. “But you couldn’t get elected in this county, whether you took six months or two years.”

  “Maybe you’re underestimating the people of your county.”

  “Maybe you just don’t know them as well as I do. Tell me this. Who’s our state representative now?”

  “Mr. Anthony.”

  “What does he do? Where does he live?” Cabot was silent.

  “Who was representative before him?” Webb continued. “How about that?” To Cabot’s continued silence, he answered, “John Polk, that’s who. And Josiah Anthony has a big farm up by St. Michael’s. If you want to get into politics you have to know these kinds of things. You can’t just have ideas. Otherwise you’ll find yourself going up to your opponent’s brother-in-law and asking for his vote, and wind up getting a punch in the eye for your troubles. And do you know how many votes Mr. Frémont got in this county last election? None. Zero.”

  Cabot crossed his arms. “Is that all anyone thinks about? Who’s related, who lives where? It seems to me that there are important things happening in this country, all around us, that people ought to be thinking about.”

  “Oh, they ought to,” Webb replied. His face was red and puffy. “But they aren’t. And they don’t vote on them either. They vote on whether they know you, or if their preacher knows you, or if they’ve done business with you. And as soon as they elect you, they start looking for reasons to complain about you. Trust me, Adam, politics is no place for the idealist.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve lost your ideals,” Cabot said, a little petulantly.

  “Oh you may think what you like,” Webb said. “When I first ran for office, back in thirty-six, I was a young man too. I figured I was smarter than everybody else and could help direct the county the way it needed to go. But a couple of terms on the County Court taught me that people only want politicians to get them what they want and the hell with everybody else. If you want to make the world better, the place to do it is right here, not out there.”

  The two men regarded each other. “Think about it,” Webb said. “Whether you take a leave is not what’s important. Just don’t waste your time on s
omething you’ll come to despise.” He sat down.

  “Adam, do you really think you need six months?” Charlotte said.

  “Well, four months anyway,” Cabot said. He turned to Webb. “Do you have any idea who else might be running?”

  “Not a glimmer,” Webb said. “I got out of that long ago. You can expect there’ll be half a dozen, though. There’s always plenty of people want to run for office.”

  Turner held his tongue. Adam was a good man to talk to, intelligent and informed, and worked as hard as anyone. But if he had affections toward Charlotte, it wouldn’t hurt to have him out roaming the county for a while.

  “Well, this is for the whole community to decide,” Turner said after a moment. “Besides, election time is months away. Let’s keep this among ourselves and discuss it again when the time gets closer.”

  They stood to leave. In the doorway, George Webb turned to speak.

  “I—” he said, then stopped. “I—” A look of surprise passed over his face. “It’s—” Then his look of surprise turned to one of fear, turning to bewilderment, turning to panic. They all gazed at him in wonder at the bizarre expressions that were passing over him.

  Cabot took a step toward him. “George?” he said. Webb’s expression was now one of utter terror.

  “It’s under—” he said. Those words were all he got out before he collapsed in the doorway. Cabot was the first to reach him.

  “Good Lord!” he cried. “Sit him up.”

  They propped Webb against the doorframe, but it was no use. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. Turner knelt before him, calling his name, but could not tell if he heard or understood. A moment later his head fell to his chest. George Webb was dead.

  Chapter 18

  Harp Webb had his father’s funeral at the Methodist church in town, although Turner had offered the Temple of Community. “It’s up to him,” he told Charlotte. “I never heard George express any wishes.” Charlotte hadn’t either, although she also knew that George had neither set foot in nor mentioned the Methodist church since she had known him. But they dug his grave in the Daybreak cemetery, just up the hill from Lysander Smith’s.

  Everyone turned out on a chilly Saturday morning for the service, except Charley Pettibone, who had disappeared into the woods before dawn with a squirrel gun, speaking to no one. The church was packed. Charlotte felt more like an outsider than ever when she saw the line of elderly men and women trooping up to shake Harp’s hand at the front of the church. On her shoulders she could feel the weight of the gazes and whispers of the old settlers as they pointed toward the Daybreak group. She didn’t know any of them. The sheriff was there, as were other dignified-looking souls in heavy black suits, people from Webb’s political days. A murmur went around the church when the circuit judge came in, a somber, silver-haired man who placed his wide-brimmed hat over his heart and held it there throughout the service.

  The Methodist preacher had much to say, but the words washed over her as she sat in the ranks of mourners from Daybreak, three full rows at the back of the church. She was lost in her own thoughts. Lord knows she would miss George, not just the man who had given the community its start, the man who knew so much more about farming than any of the rest of them, but a man whose simple, firm beliefs in their ideals reassured her that the community did indeed have a purpose. They would have to make their own way now, and she could only hope that some among them would have the wisdom, or at least the common sense, to take his place.

  She studied the hard-faced men and women in the rows ahead, old settlers who sat impassively through the service, their expressions solemn but unmoved. Pinched faces, thin noses, set jaws, people for whom hardship was the normal way of life and sudden death no surprise. Would she become one of these oak-hard Ozarkers? She looked down at her calloused hands and ragged fingernails. Apparently she was well on her way.

  Her husband, sitting beside her, wore the bland expression he always brought out for public occasions. He was looking more and more like a country politician himself these days, not the restless lecturer she had fallen in love with. Perhaps that lynching had done its work, brought him into line, knocked down any thought of changing the world outside of Daybreak. True, the idea had always been to perfect the community and let it serve as a beacon to the world, but lately it just seemed as though simple survival was all they were after. What good was it to be idealists if all it brought them was struggle? She looked again at his face. What was he thinking, really? She could no longer tell where his thoughts were, and that was troubling.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she glanced behind her. Adam Cabot was one pew back, his cow eyes fixed on her. She turned away quickly. Now there was someone whose thoughts were all too easy to discern. He should behave with more discretion.

  Then the funeral was over, and they stood as the casket was carried past. Now for the long wagon ride to Daybreak. She took Turner’s arm.

  On the steps of the church, Turner signaled to Cabot with a flick of his hand. “Let’s go last,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Charlotte thought briefly that he had noticed Cabot’s gaze as well, but when they were on their way home, the two of them in the wagon and Cabot on a horse alongside, he said simply, “We are going to have to elect a new treasurer.”

  She looked at the line of wagons ahead, most of the village. Who could do the job? Her father, of course, but he was not a member and showed no interest in becoming one. Emile Mercadier was committed to the cause, but getting on in years, and hardly a practical man. Marie was sharp enough. Would the colony accept someone that young? Not to mention a second female. And then there was—

  “John Wesley Wickman,” Cabot said.

  “That’s who I was thinking, too,” said Turner. He wiped his face with his palm, a nervous gesture she had noticed more often lately. “And something else we need to talk about. We need to find what George did with the treasury.”

  Cabot reined to a stop. “You don’t know?”

  “He never told me. Never told anyone, as far as I know.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “No. He didn’t believe in banks, we all know that. Whenever we needed money, he would show up the next day with the exact amount, always in gold and coin. And the books were always square, down to the penny.”

  “But where are those pennies?” Charlotte said.

  “I wish I knew. He’s got to have a strongbox someplace close.”

  They rode in silence for a mile, digesting the news. Charlotte fought back panic. What had been hidden could be found. Surely George had left instructions.

  “We’ll have to talk to Harp,” Cabot said.

  Turner nodded. “I know. But I wish we didn’t.”

  “He could try to keep it for himself.”

  “I don’t think so,” Charlotte interjected. “He’s a strange one, but he has his own sense of right and wrong. Just up and stealing something is not his way.”

  “You should go,” Turner said. “He likes to talk to you.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she said. “But I need at least one of you to go along.”

  “You’d better do it,” Cabot said to Turner. “I can’t stand the man. I’ll just get his back up.”

  The two of them walked over to Webb’s house after lunch the next day, when they felt sure that Harp would be up. He seemed to keep completely irregular hours; some days he would be out before dawn, and other days he seemed to lie in bed till the late afternoon.

  He was awake and waiting. “You’re here about your strongbox. Well, didn’t take you long, I’ll give you that.”

  “You know about that, then.”

  “I know he kept one. Not sure where he kept it. His room is over there.” Harp gestured to a bedroom at the end of the house. “Help yourself.”

  Charlotte hated the feeling of walking around in the dead man’s room, only days after she had seen him die. All the little things—the bedsheets, the razor and mug, the stack
of worn books by his bedside, the reading glasses—seemed shabby and inadequate to the man she knew. The room seemed as impersonal as the cell of a monk, but at the same time she could feel George’s presence in everything.

  “Well?” Harp called.

  Turner looked under the bed, between the mattresses. Nothing. He checked the wardrobe for a false bottom. He worked his way around the walls, looking for flaps in the wallpaper or hollow spots behind furniture.

  “Not yet,” he called back.

  They looked for loose floorboards, flaps in the chairs, hidden shelves in the ceiling. Finally they emerged, unsuccessful, into the front room.

  “No luck, huh?” Harp said. “Don’t surprise me. The old man was a crafty sort. Didn’t give you a hint or nothing?”

  Neither of them answered. They were looking around the room. “I’d be surprised if he hid it anywhere else in the house,” Harp said. “Too much chance for any old somebody to find it.”

  Turner took the poker from the mantel and stirred the fireplace ashes. “Here,” he said. “There’s a loose stone.”

  Charlotte and Harp watched as Turner pushed the coals to the back with the fireplace shovel. Sure enough, the stone directly beneath the andirons wiggled in its bed; there was no mortar around it. Turner pried it up with the poker.

  Under the stone was a heavy metal plate.

  “Son of a bitch,” Harp said. “I’ve spit tobacco on that rock many a time.”

  Turner flipped up the plate with the poker, revealing a deep square hole, its sides trimmed, and a bound metal box at the bottom.

  “I take it that’s not yours?” he said to Harp.

  “Hell, no,” Harp said. “I keep my money up in my cave.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have our third director present when we open it,” Turner said. “So we all agree on what we see.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Harp.

  Turner stepped onto the front porch and waved to Cabot, who was sitting on the Turners’ doorstep holding the account book. He walked over.

  The box had a clasp but no lock. Turner balanced it on the porch railing, made sure all four of them could see, and opened it.