Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “What’s going to happen, James?” she asked. “What’s going to become of us?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said. “There’s talk that the governor has reached agreement with that general in St. Louis. But with Arkansas seceding, there’s like to be an invasion, and the quickest way from St. Louis to Arkansas is right through here. On the other hand, anytime there’s uncertainty, there’s opportunity. Maybe the price of beef will go up, and we could get a contract with the military, switch the fields over from grain to cattle. Could be a boon.”

  “No,” she said. “I mean us. What’s going to become of us, you and me?”

  “Ah,” he said. He was silent for a long time. “I can only tell half that story.”

  “What’s the half you can tell me?”

  “My half,” he said. “I am going to stay here unless I am called. I don’t think I will be, not with all these young men rushing to the fight. They should be enough to settle things. But if I am called, I will go. And I am going to love you and Newton till the day I die.”

  Charlotte found herself about to respond as she always had before, scoffing, skeptical, but her heart was not in it. She had might as well admit what she had always known at some depth, that she did love him, that while her hurt had not gone away, neither had her love, not completely. She was tired and sad. Danger around them, men leaving for who knows how long. She thought about the face in the window she had seen earlier. Was that destined to be her face forever? Harder, harder, ever harder?

  She took his hand. “You may have no choice in the matter,” she said. “I fear that events are going to compel us much faster than we can shape them.”

  “And the other half of the story?” Turner said. “The half that you can tell me?”

  He waited in silence while she thought. “I’ll be here,” she finally said.

  In the gathering darkness a rider came down the road, his horse’s belly wet from the ford. Turner waved at him as he passed. “Hello, friend,” he said. “What news from the wider world?”

  The man stopped and looked them over. He wore a broad hat that shaded his face and a leather coat despite the warmth of the day. “That depends,” he said. “What side you on?”

  “We are maintaining a neutral stance,” Turner said. “We are friends to all.”

  “Hm,” said the man. “See how long that lasts.” He shifted in his saddle. “All right, Mr. Neutral Stance,” he said. “Guess you heard the arsenal at Liberty’s been taken over. The Federals keep switching generals. Governor’s called for the State Guard to muster up. There’s a big camp of ‘em up in St. Louis, out on the west end of town.” He scanned their faces for signs of reaction. “How about you, mister? Going to join?”

  “I’ve got crops in the field and a family that needs me,” Turner said. “More than the Governor.”

  The man did not answer. He looked down the road. “That Harp Webb’s house?” he said.

  “That’s it.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and rode on.

  “Now who do you suppose that is?” Charlotte said after he rode out of sight. She watched him as he tied his horse to Webb’s porch railing and stepped inside.

  “More trouble, is my guess,” Turner said.

  They turned quiet again. Charlotte did not like to think that they were going to have to wonder from now on about everybody who came down the road, whether they were friends or enemies. It would be a hard way to live.

  It was almost too dark to see. Time to call Newton inside. Lamps were being lit all up the road. She could see them flickering in the evening. A whip-poor-will called from the fields, and after a while was answered. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought it to be a perfectly ordinary end to a perfectly ordinary day.

  May 1861

  Chapter 21

  Emile Mercadier came home from town later in the week with copies of the St. Louis newspapers. The men stood at the doorway of the Temple and passed them around, reading over each other’s shoulders.

  MASSACRE! read the headline in the Missouri Democrat. The dispatch said that a body of federal soldiers had raided the Missouri State Militia’s camp, taken everyone prisoner, and then fired on a group of onlookers as they marched them back to the Arsenal. In tones of outrage, the newspaper described the brutish German soldiers, like modern-day Hessians, speaking their guttural gibberish as they fired volley after volley into the frightened crowd of women and children.

  “Good Lord,” said Prentice. “It says here that three dozen were killed.”

  “Here’s the Republican,” Emile said.

  Its headline read FIGHT IN ST. LOUIS, and the story described how arms and cannon, stolen from Federal arsenals in the South, had been confiscated. According to the Republican, the troops had narrowly averted the takeover of the St. Louis arsenal, with its large cache of arms and ammunition. Missouri had been saved for the Union. An “unfortunate incident” was mentioned, in which a drunkard tried to cross the path of the troops returning to the arsenal with their prisoners, fired a pistol at the soldiers, and a confused fight ensued, with civilians getting caught in the middle.

  “Well, something happened,” Mercadier said.

  They read the newspapers again and again, trying to make sense of the incident, but it was as if two different events were being described. The Army had captured the militia camp and taken their weapons; townspeople had been killed. Beyond that, all was fog.

  But everything had changed. Blood had been shed, not at a fort no one had heard of in some distant state, but nearby, on the home soil.

  “Now what?” Cabot asked.

  “I wish I knew,” said Turner.

  What else was there to do but plant and hoe? Following Newton Carr’s advice, they had built a pen on the mountain for the cattle. Two people went up in the morning to drive them down for milking and pasture, and then two others would drive them up again in the early evening. The chickens could not be hidden away, but they had begun burying crocks of eggs. Most of the community thought this hiding was a silly precaution, but Charlotte had insisted.

  There had been no word from Herrmann, the lawyer, for a couple of weeks. Given the uncertain times, Cabot felt nervous about this silence; surely at least a letter would be in order, he said to Charlotte and Wickman at their next directors’ meeting.

  “You think Harp Webb will keep after this lawsuit, with all the other troubles in the country?” Wickman said.

  Charlotte looked glum. “Harp’s like a rat terrier. He’s not the type to give up on anything.”

  “Very well, then,” Cabot said. “I’m going to town tomorrow to find Herrmann. Do either of you want to come along?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Wickman said. “I’m not good in these kinds of sessions, all hard talk and bargaining. You two should do this.”

  Charlotte met Cabot’s gaze. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  “If you need to talk to—” Cabot began, but she cut him off.

  “I’m the president of this community. I don’t need anyone’s permission. And let’s take my phaeton for a change. I’m tired of farm wagons with no springs.”

  As he wiped down the phaeton the next morning, Cabot nervously wondered what was in store. Going out in the fancy carriage with him would set tongues wagging. Was she ready for that? Was he? And what were her intentions? She knew how he felt. He decided to let her take the lead in the conversation. There was nothing he could say that she didn’t already know.

  With the tall wheels of the phaeton speeding them along the road to town, they spoke only of the war and the coming visit with the lawyer. Once there, they found the streets nearly empty. All the war talk had frightened everyone into their houses. Herrmann’s office was locked. No one answered Cabot’s knock. After a minute, though, there was movement at an upstairs curtain, and a few moments later Herrmann let them inside.

  “I’m not going to be able to represent you in September,” he said abruptly. “I’m leaving for St. Loui
s. It’s not safe for a German speaker around here.”

  “Who are we supposed to get?” Cabot said.

  “I don’t know. There’s a lawyer in Ironton, Emerson is his name. He might take your case. Try him.”

  Herrmann paced his living room and looked out through his windows from time to time. “The native-borns are in a fit,” he said. “All the Germans around here are pulling in their heads like turtles. I tried to talk some of them into moving back to St. Louis, too, but they’re stubborn. Gotta hold down those farms.”

  “What’s happened?”

  Herrmann looked at them incredulously. “You haven’t heard anything, have you? Good Lord, you’re just like those old Dutchies, head down and nose to the dirt.” He peeked through his curtains again. “Very well, here’s what I know. That business up in St. Louis has the state buzzing like a tree full of bees. I thought Missouri would stay in the Union, but now I don’t know. I hear General Harney and Governor Jackson are going to meet to try to calm things down. The governor’s a Douglas Democrat, so maybe there’s hope. But in the meantime, he’s brought back old Pap Price to command the State Guard, and they’re forming regiments all over the state. Refusing Lincoln’s call for troops was—well, it wasn’t good.”

  “But you? Why are you running?”

  “Those soldiers who shot into the crowd in St. Louis were from the Home Guard—Germans every one of them. That’s not going over well. Sam Hildebrand’s already been through here once. He killed a fellow out in the Flatwoods, some farmer who looked at him cross-eyed. There’s a bunch from around here forming a Vigilance Committee, looking to pay him back for that. In other words, this is not a good time to have enemies, and I’ve antagonized too many people as it is.”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying this, but—”

  “I sound like a coward? You don’t have to tell me. If somebody had told me I’d be running like a rabbit at the first sign of trouble, I’d have laughed, or maybe spit in his eye. But your tune changes once you see a fellow you represented in a lawsuit brought to town in the back of a wagon with a hole in his forehead.”

  “So you’re catching the train out of here.”

  “Actually, no. Somebody’s burned the railroad bridge. I hear the Federals will be coming down to build it back, but I’m not waiting. I’m taking the road straight north.” Quietly, he added, “You folks should consider it too.”

  Cabot laughed. “I won’t speak for the others, but I’ve been tarred and feathered, and damn near lynched. It’ll take more than a marauding local to run me off.”

  Cabot and Charlotte climbed into the phaeton in a state of gloom. “Stop at the stable before we leave,” Charlotte said quietly. “I want to talk to the liveryman.”

  The stable owner greeted them with a wave, but Charlotte leaned down from her seat before he could speak. “How much will you give me for this carriage?” she said. “I’m of a mind to sell it.”

  The liveryman circled the phaeton, rubbing his chin. “This ain’t really the place for fancy rigs,” he said. “You couldn’t haul a sack of potatoes in this thing.”

  “That’s not what it’s for,” she said. They leaned forward so he could inspect the upholstery on the seat and back.

  “Five dollars,” the liveryman said.

  “Oh, don’t joke,” Charlotte said. “Twenty, and that’s half of what it cost me. It’s hickory, top to bottom.”

  “I see that. But what it cost you is not my concern,” the man said. “Ten is as high as I’ll go.”

  “All right, but it has to be in hard coin,” she said. “Send a man out to pick it up any time. We live out in the country and need it to ride home in.”

  The stable owner reached up and shook her hand. “Where you folks live?”

  “Daybreak,” Charlotte said. “Heard of it? It’s down past Cedar Grove, across the river.”

  The man’s smile disappeared. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Wish I’d have known that’s where you were from.”

  “Why? Because you would have cut a sharper bargain?”

  He shrugged. “I hear that place is some kind of abolitionist hideout.”

  Charlotte leaned toward him. “I’m an abolitionist, but I can’t say as much for the rest of the townsfolk. And I’m right here, so you can’t say I’m hiding out, now can you?”

  “No, ma’am, I’d say not.”

  “Hard coin. Remember that.”

  When they reached the edge of town, Cabot said, “Do you think that was wise?”

  “To hell with wisdom,” Charlotte said. “What has wisdom ever got me?”

  The day was bright and warm, and as they passed the farms along the way, they could see people in the fields, working as always, and it was possible to imagine that there was no war, that life was proceeding as it always had. But as they passed, men straightened from their work and watched them suspiciously until they were out of sight. Heads inclined together, and occasionally a man would walk with exaggerated casualness toward his house. There was a war on, all right.

  When they reached the wooded ridgetop that ended with the Indian camp, Charlotte put her hand on his arm.”Listen,” she said.

  Cabot reined the horse to a stop. They sat in silence, and he thought briefly that she had meant for him to hear a birdsong, or a sound from the forest. But then she spoke.

  “I’ve not been as consistent or honest with you about my feelings as I should have been,” she said, choosing her words. “And for that I am sorry.” Cabot tried to demur, but she raised her hand. “Pursuing you and kissing you, then avoiding you. That must have felt like coquetry, and I hope you know I’m no coquette.”

  She stepped down from the phaeton and walked up to caress the horse’s nose. Cabot stayed in his seat. “Would you have been a better match for me than James? Yes, I think you would. But it’s a match we didn’t make, and I’ll not bemoan my fate. Without James, there would be no Newton, and that is something I can never call a mistake. I have to live the life I have, not the one I might have had.”

  “I know.” He could think of nothing else to say. He knew she was right but hated to speak the words.

  “I know you love me. How could I not? And if I am unable to say the words or fail to show affection in return, it’s not from want of feeling, but from knowing that some feelings breed disaster. I don’t have to look far to see that truth.”

  She climbed into the phaeton and took his hand. “I have forgiven James, and so must you. We have always been a tiny island in a hostile sea, and now those seas are stormy. We must hold together, Adam, as hard as that may be.”

  “Does Daybreak have a place in the world anymore? Perhaps it’s time for us to leave our island and enter the sea.”

  Charlotte looked thoughtful. “I’m afraid I don’t see you as a warrior,” she said. “I want you here for your safety. And for my—” She squeezed his hand. “Well, I guess for the selfish pleasure of having you near. I would have said I want you here for your wise advice and your help in running the colony, but I am sick to death of appeals to duty and greater causes. I want you here to talk to me and keep me halfway human.”

  Cabot tried to keep his face from twisting into a grimace. Why couldn’t she have been self-indulgent a year ago, when there was room for personal desires? Now with war afoot, his heart had grown painfully crowded with allegiances in all directions.

  “You ask a great deal of me,” he finally managed.

  “Yes,” she said, releasing his hand. “And it’s not fair, and I’m sorry. But there I am.”

  Cabot chucked the reins and did not reply.

  Turner heard the news from town with foreboding. If Herrmann’s reports were right, it would soon be unsafe to ride to town for supplies, and the idea of selling their rope up north was in danger as well. Perhaps these talks between the general and the governor would work out.

  With Charley gone and Webb dead, it was harder than ever to keep ahead of the work. Turner found himself in the cornfield from early to
late, planting and hoeing. Even those who weren’t the best farmers, like Wickman and Cabot, pitched in, returning to the fields after dinner.

  It was a late June evening when Turner found himself the last man in the field, along with Cabot. Cabot had still not been friendly to him since the incident with Marie, but the quiet of the evening and the fatigue of their work seemed to ease the tension. They worked their way down adjoining rows and rested when they got to the end. They rested their hoes on the fence by the road and sat on a stump, looking back at the village.

  “Let’s work our way back on the next two rows and then call it a day,” Turner said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Cabot said. But neither of them was ready to stand up yet. They stayed where they were.

  Cabot spoke again after a while. “We came out here to change the world. But I think the world may be changing us instead.”

  Turner did not answer.

  “Ever since I was a boy, I wanted to change the world,” Cabot continued. “I remember when Charlotte loaned me your book to read, on the steamboat coming out. I didn’t accept the reasoning, but Lord, what a force of feeling was in it! What grand sentiments—I could feel what man was really capable of. It was as though clouds had parted and I could see a mountaintop—and realized that I too could climb to that height and be the person I could see up on that mountain.” He paused, seeming a little embarrassed at his rhetoric. “I guess you felt something like that when you were writing it.”

  “No,” Turner admitted. “When I wrote the book I wanted to be celebrated. It didn’t dawn on me that people could actually try to live this way, or want me to lead them. I only wanted to be famous.” They could see people in the colony moving about, finishing up their chores. “Strange,” he said. “It’s only after having lived here that I truly feel idealistic. Before, it was all just abstraction, but now … I see people living their ideals. And I know what’s possible.”