Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  Cabot sighed. “But I don’t think the world is interested. Everyone is talking union, slavery, and war. We are going to be forgotten.”

  “Maybe,” Turner said. “‘Mute inglorious Miltons,’ you think? There are worse fates. We could have just been mute and inglorious.” It felt good to laugh together.

  “Or perhaps this other cause is the one we should have chosen. Perhaps Lysander Smith was on the right path.”

  “He chose his, and I chose mine. I don’t want to look back.” Turner stood up. “Speaking of inglorious, I guess we had better hoe our way home.”

  They picked up their hoes and walked to the rows of corn. As they did, a rider crossed the ford and came up the road—the same leather-coated man who had ridden by a few weeks earlier.

  “You boys live here?” he said, inclining his head toward Daybreak.

  “Yes,” Cabot said. He rested his hands on the end of his hoe and looked the man in the eye.

  “Here, spread a few of these around then,” the man said. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a sheaf of handbills. “I want to make Greenville before I quit tonight.”

  “What’s been happening?” Turner said.

  “All hell is what’s been happening,” the man said. “The Federals put some abolitionist in charge. Governor and the legislature are on the run. They got chased out of Jefferson City, heading southwest is what I hear. Ain’t going to be no neutral state, that’s for sure.”

  The man rode on, and Turner and Cabot read the bills.

  MUSTER CALL

  All ABLE-BODIED MEN between the ages of 18 AND 45

  Are Called to Muster

  To Defend the State Against the YANKEE INVADER

  By Order of the Legislature

  May 11, 1861

  Report to Your County Seat and Await Orders

  “Well, you wondered ‘now what’ the other day,” Turner said. “Looks like this is what. Everyone will want to see this. We can finish the corn tomorrow.”

  The men gathered at the Temple and studied the handbills.

  “I’m not going,” said Wickman. “I’m not able-bodied.”

  “Me neither,” said Glendale Wilson. “I’m feeble-minded.”

  After the laughter had ended, Prentice said, “I don’t know. It says it’s an order.”

  “But who’s going to enforce it?” Wickman said. “They want volunteers. I don’t volunteer.”

  “We know that for sure,” Prentice said back. “Like when there’s weeds to be pulled.”

  But after the banter, the men sat quiet and passed the handbills around some more.

  “I guess I’ll go,” Prentice said. “I’ll tell you boys what I hear.”

  “I’m a Baltimore man, not a Missourian,” Wickman said. “Don’t know what they’ll do in Maryland. And besides, I’ve got the Missus to think about.

  And the little ones. We’ve already lost the two, and I think losing me would.…”

  His voice drifted away.

  “Well, I can’t go,” Cabot said. “I’m a Yankee invader.”

  “No, you’re not,” Prentice said earnestly. “You’re a good man, everybody knows that. This bunch that’s marching across the state, they’re different.…”

  He stopped and was silent.

  “No, they ain’t the Germans,” Thomas Schnack said. He had said nothing till then. “What I hear, the Germans got told to stay in St. Louis. These are regular Army, with maybe some Germans. But still, I don’t think I go to this muster call. I don’t think I get a very friendly greeting.”

  One of the men poked Prentice in the ribs. “Who knows, maybe if you join the State Guard, you’ll meet up with Newton Carr. Just hope he ain’t pointing a cannon at you.”

  That thought rendered them gloomier than ever, and the group broke up and headed for their homes. As they were blowing out the lamps, Cabot took Turner by the arm.

  “I want you to know,” he said, and then stopped. “I want you to know that nothing improper passed between Charlotte and me on that trip to town. I want you to know that.”

  Turner’s face was sorrowful. “I knew it in my heart,” he said. “I’m the only one fool enough for that.”

  They shook hands wordlessly and parted.

  At home, Charlotte listened to his account of the meeting, although he left out his final conversation with Cabot. “Prentice can’t be thinking about joining up,” she said after he was finished.

  “I think so,” Turner told her. “He’s a Missourian born and bred, not like you or me. Or most everyone else here, for that matter. We’re all transplants.”

  “But we’re Americans.”

  “Yes. But loyalties out here—”

  Charlotte’s expression grew grave. “Perhaps I should go talk to him.”

  “I imagine his own wife is doing plenty of that.”

  They dressed for bed quietly once it was dark. Newton picked up their mood and went to bed without his usual fussing about staying up later. Sometime in the night, Charlotte reached for Turner, the first time she had done so since the day she had found him with Marie. Her embrace was tight and fierce, not the passion of pleasure, but of possession. He felt as if she were molding herself to him, clinging to him like a drowning man would cling to a branch. In return he gripped her just as close, and through the night they rocked and writhed, arms and legs entwined, their open mouths a breath apart.

  The news was spotty for the next few weeks. Prentice came back from the militia meeting fired up with enthusiasm and apologetic toward the rest of them. “I have to do this,” he said. “Anyway, it’s only a ninety-day muster, so I should be back in time to help with the harvest and the rope work.”

  Emile continued to keep up his shop in town, but one week in mid-July he returned, bringing all the newspapers as usual, but shaking with fear. “Bad things, very bad things,” he said. “The Federals, they take over town, and Ironton too, is what I hear. They gonna protect the iron mines and the lead mines, and the railroad. So I think, hey, this looks like good business, and I go over to introduce myself to the captain. I tell him shoes and boots, made and repaired. But then I get a mile out of town today, and a bunch of men, five of them, they ride up behind me.” He shuddered. “The man says, don’t do no business with them damn Yankees or we kill you. They mean it too.”

  Turner listened to his story while everyone else passed around the newspapers. “It’s all right, Emile,” he said. “We don’t need you to go into town anyway. There’s plenty to do around here.”

  “But the money!” Mercadier said. “And I think maybe I put us into danger by going over so quick and talking to the soldiers. You think?”

  “We need you more than we need any money,” Turner said. “And as for danger, there’s plenty to go around. I doubt if you can add to it or subtract from it.”

  The newspapers wrote of the legislature fleeing to the southwest, Springfield or beyond, of a new convention of all Union men convening in Jefferson City, of the possibility that martial law would be declared. As he read, an idea came to Turner. He knew he should talk to Charlotte about it, but knew also that she would try to stop him. And if it failed, he wanted to be the only person to feel the consequences. But he knew he owed her something.

  In the morning he saddled a horse. “I need to go into town to talk to this captain,” he said. “I don’t want any hard feelings over Emile not showing up at his shop any more. And I want him to understand why.”

  “Do you think it’s safe to do that?” Charlotte said.

  “Well, I don’t have any enemies yet, at least not that I know of,” said Turner. He paused. “And I want to see if I can get something done about this court case.”

  She gave him a questioning look, but he said nothing further. “Be safe,” she said.

  He crossed the ford and made his way to the top of the ridge. The countryside which had seemed so inertly beautiful a short time ago now seemed full of menace. He listened for threat in every sound. But the road was emp
ty, and all the farmhouses he passed were quiet. He rode briskly, not wanting to linger. He had not armed himself. He guessed that anyone he might meet would probably be better armed and quicker to shoot.

  The quiet ride into town gave him confidence, and he stopped at Grindstaff’s store. Grindstaff did not come out front to greet him as usual, but stayed inside.

  “I tell you right now, I probably ain’t got what you need,” he said as soon as Turner walked in. “I ain’t got much of nothing.”

  “That’s all right,” Turner said.

  “You can’t count on the railroad any more, and there ain’t many goddam steamboats running. People are sitting on the bluffs playing potshot with the pilot houses. Besides, these goddam Federals have about cleaned me out.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be dangerous to do business with them.”

  “Hell, I ain’t got no choice. Running a store is what I do. Anyway, these boys, they don’t ask, they just take. Lucky thing their money’s good.”

  “Did Herrmann the lawyer leave town?”

  “Yep, he’s a gone goose. Didn’t nobody see him leave, he just up and went.”

  “So where are these soldiers, anyway?”

  “Right up the street.” Grindstaff pointed toward the center of town. “They’ve took over the goddam courthouse, and they set up a barracks across from it, in the hotel. Pretty fancy quarters for a bunch of soldiers, you ask me.”

  Turner looked down toward the courthouse. He could see a small group of soldiers drilling in the street, with a handful of townspeople idly watching them. “Well, I need to go talk to them,” he said. “I need to tell them that our man Mercadier isn’t coming back to town anymore. Apparently some rebel boys are—”

  “I know. They’re warning off everybody. They come and talked to me too. I had to tell them, hell, I can’t move my store, and if I close it I’ll starve. I may not like these Federal bastards, but here they are and I can’t do nothing about it.”

  “How’d they take that?”

  “Not so good. But I trade with ‘em too, on the sly, and take their State Guard scrip. It ain’t worth shit, so I gotta charge the Federals double just to come out even. So I figure I’m square with these rebel fellas.”

  “Local boys?”

  “Mostly. A few up from the Bootheel to organize things. I hear they’re putting together a real regiment down around Jackson or somewhere.”

  “Well, tell them not to shoot me. I’m just going in to tell them about Emile.”

  He left his horse tied up at Grindstaff’s and walked to the courthouse. A soldier at the door eyed him suspiciously.

  “I’m here to see your commanding officer,” Turner said.

  “What for?”

  “I represent the community of Daybreak, southwest of here. I’d like to speak to the commander.”

  “Wait here.” The man disappeared inside. Turner stood in the sun, aware that the idlers across the street were watching him. In a minute the soldier returned.

  “Five cents,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “To see the captain.”

  Turner turned away. “Go to hell.”

  “Oh, all right,” the soldier said. “A man’s got to eat. In here.”

  What had been the county clerk’s office had been turned into a headquarters. Two men were in the room—a captain at a table, some papers in front of him, the only man he had seen in a full uniform so far, and at another table to the side, a telegraph operator gazing at a silent machine.

  The captain looked up. “Well?”

  Turner had been rehearsing a number of ways to do this, whether to proceed cautiously, test for a response, try to negotiate—but at that moment decided to go straight ahead.

  “I am here to report a man who I think is aiding and abetting the rebels,” he said.

  August 1861

  Chapter 22

  Turner said nothing to Charlotte after his return from town, but when a patrol of soldiers—a sergeant and four nervous-looking recruits—showed up outside their door one morning a week later, she guessed he had something to do with it. They stepped into the yard to speak to them.

  “Are you Harper Webb?” the sergeant said. None of the men got down from their horses.

  “No,” said Turner.

  “You know Harper Webb?”

  “Yes. He lives in that house.” The five men turned their heads as if pulled by a magnet in the direction of Turner’s nod.

  “We have a report says he may be involved with the rebels around here. You know anything about that?”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about any rebel activity around here, Harp Webb or anyone else,” Turner said coolly. The sergeant eyed him with suspicion.

  “That’s what everybody says. You know if this Webb keeps any weapons?”

  “He has an old long rifle, a muzzle-loader,” Turner said. “Beyond that I don’t know.”

  “Good news, boys,” the sergeant said. “He’ll only have time to shoot one of us before we get to him.”

  “Oh, he’s a quick fellow,” Charlotte said. “I’ll bet he could shoot two or three of you.”

  “Well, ain’t she a saucy thing!” the sergeant exclaimed. “Ain’t you never taught your wife about manners, plowboy?”

  “You can keep your opinions to yourself where my wife is concerned, mister,” Turner said.

  “That’s ‘sir’ to you, plowboy,” the sergeant said. He snatched his quirt from its holder on his saddle and swung at Turner, but Turner leaned back a little and the blow missed. “I’d say both of you could use a lesson in manners.”

  “You can step down from that horse, mister, and we’ll find out who gets called ‘sir.’“ Turner watched his face and waited to dodge another swing of the quirt. He felt unaccountably angry. Perhaps the war sentiment had infected him too.

  “By God! I’ve half a mind to do it. This whole county is a nest of rebels as far as I’m concerned, and we’re better off without the lot of you.” But the sergeant stayed on his horse. “Well, enough of this. I have orders to bring in one person, not two, and if I got down off this horse I’d have to bring in two. But watch yourself, mister. I ain’t got patience for smart alecks.” He turned his horse. “You two ride past, you two stay behind, and I’ll knock at the door,” he said to his soldiers. With a last glare at Turner, he rode away.

  They watched as the men positioned themselves. Harp had been watching too, for as soon as the soldiers surrounded the house he stepped onto his porch, barefoot and wearing a cotton shirt and pants.

  “Are you Harper Webb?” the sergeant said. Webb just nodded. “We have orders to take you in. You are suspected of helping the rebels.”

  “What rebels?” Harp said. “Ain’t no rebels around here.”

  “Very funny. You and your neighbor up there ought to join a minstrel show. Boys, search his house. You other two, search the barn.”

  “What are we looking for, sir?” said one of the men.

  “Anything suspicious, you ignorant clods,” the sergeant said. “If you don’t know what it is, bring it out here and I’ll look at it. And saddle up his horse while you’re there.”

  The men scattered, and the sergeant stepped onto the porch with a piece of rope. “Hold out your hands, I gotta tie you up.”

  “Let me put my shoes on first.”

  “All right,” the sergeant said. He called in the house. “Bring out a pair of shoes.”

  “The ones by the back door,” Harp called.

  “You’re a calm one,” the sergeant said.

  “What, you want me to cry?” Harp said. “Go to hell.”

  The sergeant made as if to strike him, but stopped. Harp didn’t flinch.

  “You’re in the mood to hit everybody today, ain’t you?” he said. “You forgot the lady back there. Or were you planning on hitting her on your way back?”

  This time the sergeant didn’t restrain himself. He slapped Harp across the face with the back of his hand and b
raced himself to strike him again with his fist; but Harp didn’t swing. “I ain’t going to make your job easy for you,” he said. “You want to shoot me, I ain’t going to help you.”

  By now the two soldiers from the house had appeared on the porch. One held a pair of brogans in his hand.

  “Give him his goddam shoes,” the sergeant said. “Whole valley full of smart alecks. This is the United States Government you are dealing with, sonny boy, and you had better learn that right now.” He turned to the soldiers. “Find anything?”

  “No, sir,” said one. “It’s just a house.”

  The other two came in from the barn, one leading Harp’s horse. “Anything?” the sergeant asked.

  “About forty gallons of whiskey out in the barn,” one said. “Whiskey maker, are you?” the sergeant said.

  “Be careful with that,” Harp said to the soldier. “Some of them crocks is what I use to piss in when I don’t feel like getting up.”

  The soldier wiped his mouth reflexively and then put his hand down again just as fast. “Got me there,” he said with a grin.

  “This ain’t a joke,” the sergeant said. “Mount up and let’s go.”

  Harp climbed on his horse, and the sergeant gestured for him to hold out his hands. “You don’t have to tie me up,” Harp said. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

  “I know you ain’t. But I’m doing it anyway.”

  He tied Harp’s hands together at the wrist and looped the rope around the saddle horn. “Say goodbye to your friends there,” he said as they passed.

  “Oh, they ain’t my friends,” Harp said. “I can guarantee you that.”

  Charlotte and Turner watched until the men had ridden out of sight, crossing the ford toward town. Then they went inside.

  “Well,” Charlotte said. She was thinking over the implications. The ease with which Turner lied to the soldiers bothered her, but not nearly so much as his not telling her in the first place about informing on Harp. “Is that what this war is about?”

  “You know full well—”