“Yes. Harp was going to take our land. I know that. But I think I would have liked to have fought him in court instead.”
“And would that have been more fair?”
She knew it would not have been, except that Harp would have been the one taking unfair advantage. She looked at Turner and knew she did not have to say it.
“It’s just … strange. It feels strange. It feels calculated. And you’ve never been a calculating person. Lord knows I can’t stand Harp Webb, but to see him led off like that, trussed up like a pig—”
“I know what you mean.”
“I guess we might as well get used to it,” she said.
Turner took his hat off its peg and got ready to go to the fields, but Charlotte took his sleeve. “James,” she said. “We must not let this war change us. Promise me that you will not let this war change you.”
“I can promise you that I will try,” he said. “God knows what lies ahead.”
“Perhaps we should go ahead and clear out of here. There have to be safer places.”
He stopped at the door. “If you really believe so, you should bring that up at the next community meeting. You’re the president. That’s too big a question to be decided by just you and me.”
Turner walked out, took his hoe from where he had left it resting against the wall of the house, and headed for the fields. As he walked away, Charlotte watched his figure diminish against the mountain, which was rich in deep summer green. Other men were walking out of their houses, joining him in the fields, and she could see them greeting each other as they met. She knew it was just her fear talking, but couldn’t help longing to be back in New York, far from this turmoil. At the same time, as she watched the men begin their labors, and saw the women come out of their houses to sweep the steps, mind their children, shake their rugs, she knew that this community was no longer an experiment to her. It was her home, one that she had chosen just as surely as she had chosen Turner, and one she would never willingly leave. On the side of the distant mountain she could see the gravestones. They had buried loved ones here. They were no longer just visiting—or playing, as Harp had accused them. They were bound to this place now, war or no war.
The news from outside was sporadic and confusing. Charlotte’s father wrote that he had begun training a new class at the Point, but had almost immediately been rushed south to help throw up earthworks around Washington. The Army of the Potomac had suffered a disaster, and the rebels were expected at the gates of the capital within days. There was a silence for several weeks. Then the mail brought two letters at once, although they had been written a week and a half apart. Charlotte opened them in order.
The first said that the rebs had unaccountably failed to follow up their victory at Bull Run with a march to Washington, and that their days of frantic trenching had been for nothing—a turn of events he was perfectly satisfied with, as they had not had enough time to put up more than the simplest of breastworks, and if it had come to a fight, he had little doubt but that they would have been overwhelmed. As it was, they spent their days drilling recruits and their evenings at leisure; he had already seen two plays and a concert. Charlotte opened the second letter and read:
My darling daughter,
Since last I wrote, much has happened, and I regret that, carried like a leaf on the river of events that rushes us all to our destinations, I have failed to write you as often as my heart impels. I am well, and pray you are the same.
I am no longer in Washington, although fear of this letter’s interception prevents me from stating my whereabouts with greater exactness. I am now a colonel, in charge of a regiment, that lost its previous commander to the fortunes of war; but having no superstition in that regard, I have no concern for my personal safety beyond what I feel for all of my men. The identity of my regiment must also be obscured, but I assure you, they are good, stout boys, and you would smile to recognize the names of some of my junior officers. I am told that Caroline’s husband has been recalled from the West, and has acquitted himself well in several engagements.
My recall to the field of arms has given rise to thoughts of larger scope, of this world and the next, so I hope you will permit a father a few moments of reflection. Great forces are at work in the world, but I cannot comprehend them. We are down to the four of us now, you, me, and your husband and son, and it is from that foundation that all our calculations must begin. The woodchuck in its den, the swallow in its cliff crevice, sleep in their beds while storms rage around them, but for better or worse we are not animals or birds. We strive, we aspire, we seek something greater while forgetting what we have. But in these times you must think like the woodchuck. Dig so deep that the storm overhead is but a faint rattle. Decide what matters, and grip it to you. Everything else, no matter how sweet, familiar, noble, or comforting, is expendable, and you must be ready to let go of it. Please remember that.
I am, and will always remain, your devoted and loving
Father
Charlotte held the letter carefully in both hands, as if it were made of fine bone china. She did not want to fold it up and lose sight of the words. For the first time since the war began, her heart overflowed with the fragility of everything in her life, how every letter from her father could very well be his last words to her. After a while, she did fold up the letter. She tucked it into her apron pocket, but reconsidered and placed it in the crack between her new window frame and the wall, where she knew it would be safe.
The local reports were no clearer. The Union Army had been beaten badly near Springfield, its general killed, and it had retreated to St. Louis. But the rebels had not followed. They had retreated too, down into Arkansas or somewhere. And in the empty space that opened up, groups of men began appearing.
At first they rode by urgently, as if on their way to somewhere, or from somewhere. But then the groups rode more slowly, watchfully. Instead of staying on the main road, they would ride through the cutoff to Daybreak, walking their horses and peering into house windows as they passed. They rarely wore uniforms, or what uniforms they had were a nondescript half-colored garb. And in the slanting light of near-dusk over the mountaintop, no one could have told anyway whether the uniforms were blue or gray or something in between. The men in the fields warily watched them go by.
Four of them rode up and stopped one afternoon in the late summer. One of them, a man with a wide hat and a gold tooth, dismounted and came to the door. Charlotte met him on the step.
“Can we trouble you for a dipper of water?” he asked, tipping his hat.
Charlotte fetched the dipper and bucket from the barrel in back. The man was standing in the doorway, and she could tell that he was studying the contents of the house.
“We hear there’s a man makes whiskey around here,” he said as he walked back to the horses and passed the bucket. “This the place?”
“You passed it,” she told him. “It’s that house there.”
“Think he might sell us a jug or two?”
“Hard to say,” she said. “He’s in jail up in Fredericktown.”
“I’ve heard about that,” the man said, mounting his horse. “Thirty or forty of our boys locked up there, and another bunch over in Ironton. Trumped-up charges of one sort or another.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Charlotte said. “We don’t get much news out here.”
The man handed back the bucket and tipped his hat with a flourish, smiling broadly, his gold tooth glinting. “Well, thank you, ma’am. And God bless Jefferson Davis!”
When Charlotte didn’t respond, he looked at her suspiciously. “What’s the matter, ma’am, don’t you support the cause?”
“I just gave you a bucket of spring water, didn’t I?”
“That you did.” He smiled again. “This settlement up ahead, is it friendly?”
“Friendly as any, I suppose.”
“What I mean is, is it a rebel town?”
She looked at the man’s face. “It’s like e
very town. Some think one way, some think another. We try to work together and not let politics divide us.”
“This ain’t politics any more, ma’am. It’s war now, and there’s no splitting the pie.” He looked out over the village. “Prosperous looking little place. Strange, don’t see no cattle though.”
“A bunch of men came by and took them last week,” she said, surprised at how easy it was to lie. “Milk cows and all. They were dressed about like you, but they didn’t say what side they were on.”
“No hogs either.”
“Where did you grow up, man? The hogs are in the woods this time of year.”
That seemed to satisfy him. He backed his horse out of the yard. “Thanks for the water. I was just testing you with that Jeff Davis remark. Point of fact, we’re scouts for Plummer’s regiment. God bless Old Abraham!” He squinted at Charlotte, waiting for a response.
“God bless us all,” she said, “and grant us a speedy end to this conflict.”
“They told me you hill folk were a crafty lot. Let’s go, boys.” The men rode through the village fast, pausing at no more houses.
About sunset two more men came through behind them. One was a large man riding a big Belgian that looked more suited for plowing than road travel; the other was a little one-armed man on a nervous black gelding that he had trouble controlling. The horse was bridle-shy and kept pitching its head. Turner was in back of the house, washing up, and Charlotte was watching Newton out front.
“Did four men come by here earlier today?” the one-armed man called from his horse. “Strangers?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Ha!” the little man said. He turned to the big one. “I told you those shit-birds would take this road instead of the other one.” He turned back to Charlotte. “How long ago?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Couple of hours!” the large man said to his companion. “We’ll never catch up to ‘em.”
“Oh yes we will,” the little man said. “They’ll stop and make camp. We’ll come up on ‘em in three hours or so. Ma’am, they say anything else?”
“They said they were scouts for someone named Plummer, but that’s it.”
The large man lifted his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Who’s Plummer?” he asked.
“How the hell should I know?” the one-armed man said impatiently. “It ain’t one of our people, I know that much.”
“I don’t know,” the big man said. “If they stop and camp, won’t they put a man out?”
“These bastards ain’t smart enough to put a man out. Besides, we’ll see their fire a mile off.” He jerked the reins of his horse, which bucked up and nearly threw him, and yanked it toward the north. The two men rode off at a trot.
Turner had never come out front, which seemed strange to Charlotte, since he usually took pleasure in greeting passers. But as soon as the hoofbeats of the horses died away, he emerged around the corner. His face was grave. He sat down on the doorstone, took a knife out of his pocket, and began to whittle a stick with shaking hands.
“That’s them,” he said in answer to her unspoken question. “That’s the men who killed Lysander Smith. I never saw their faces, but I’ll never forget that voice.”
Chapter 23
The sound of that voice was all it had taken to bring back the entire awful scene in Turner’s mind: the beaten body of Lysander Smith, the arrogant bastard who organized the lynching, the bent tree, the single shot. But instead of the numb despair that had overtaken him the first time, Turner was now overcome by something new. It was a pure, simple hatred. He wanted to kill the men who had killed Smith, kill them all, kill them any way he could. It was a new emotion in his heart, and it felt strange. But it was there, and he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t. He felt like a coward for having hidden behind a corner of the house while they spoke to Charlotte, and wondered what he would have done in different circumstances.
He did not have long to wonder. Sometime in the night—midnight or later—the front door banged open. Turner and Charlotte woke with a start. Turner threw on some clothes and lit a lantern. In the front room, the one-armed man was sitting on the floor just inside the door, which he had not bothered to close. He held a pistol at Turner.
“Fix me a place to sleep,” he said. “And put my horse away. I need rest.” Turner lifted his lantern. The man’s face was scratched and he was dirty and sweaty, but he did not appear harmed otherwise. Through the open door he could see the horse, lathered, its reins tied to the hitching rail.
“Don’t worry,” said the man. “I ain’t being chased, not tonight anyway. Hurry up, I’m tired.” He showed no sign of recognizing Turner.
Charlotte had put on a dress and stood in the bedroom door, her hair down. She looked at the man and began to spread some quilts on the floor.
“We don’t have any extra pillows,” she said.
“That’s all right. I’ll use my boots.”
“Where’s your friend?”
“My friend met with misfortune,” the man said. “Lesson learned. Always travel with someone who makes a bigger target than you.”
He waved the pistol at Turner. “What are you waiting for? Brush down my horse and cool him off.”
Turner put on his boots and stepped out the door. “All right. I’ll put him in our barn.” He paused in the doorway. “What’s your name, anyway, sir?”
“My name is Mr. None-of-Your-Business, but you can just call me Fuck-You,” the man said. “Treat that horse good or there’ll be trouble.”
Turner stepped out, closing the door behind him, his mind racing. He untied the horse’s reins from the rail. The horse was too tired to fuss; it followed Turner to the barn, where he unsaddled it, brushed it down, and gave it a pail of water. The horse appeared to have gone through some rough brush, but otherwise it was unhurt.
He returned through the back door, took off his shoes, and lay on the bed. Charlotte lay beside him; he could tell she was awake. She started to whisper something, but he put his finger over her lips. They lay there, silent, for a few minutes, until the sound of snoring could be heard from the front room. Then he let himself out the back door as quietly as he could, his shoes in his hand.
He put on his shoes in the yard and walked through the darkness to Cabot’s house. He let himself in without knocking and made his way to Cabot’s bedroom. He shook his shoulder gently.
“It’s me,” he whispered to the startled Cabot. “Be quiet.”
Cabot wiped his face and tried to clear his eyes. In the dim light of his room he could see Turner pacing beside the bed, his big frame looming over him. The stars were bright and there was little moon. Turner leaned close.
“One of the men who killed Lysander Smith is sleeping on my front room floor,” he said. “And I mean to kill him.” He stuck out his jaw as if daring Cabot to disagree.
“Here and now?”
Turner paused. “No. This cannot be connected to Daybreak. Everyone in the county thinks we’re a Yankee town as it is.” He resumed pacing. “Something like this could get us burned out. No. It has to be done somewhere else, and on the quiet. Not even Charlotte can know. All right?”
“I don’t like the sound of this. Is that how this war is to be fought? Killings in the dark of night?”
“This isn’t war, my friend. This is a private killing. I’m sorry if it seems less honorable than a killing in broad daylight.”
Cabot considered, then decided. “All right.”
Turner reached out and patted his shoulder in the darkness.
“What are you thinking?” Cabot asked.
“This man is a stranger here, and he’s on the run. He’ll head south before daylight. We will be waiting for him down the road a ways. And no gunshots to attract attention.” He thought for a moment. “All right, I’ve got it. Meet me at the barn. Make no noise.” And then Turner was out the door, closing it softly behind him.
Cabot dressed in the dark, troubl
ed but impelled by Turner’s urgency. So it had come to this. He had endured all the battles and humiliations of Kansas, he had traveled to Daybreak, all in the hope that there was a better way for mankind than strife and subjugation. He had wanted them to be a light unto nations, a sign that the human race was capable of overcoming history through intelligence and good will, and here he was preparing to ambush a total stranger in the dark of night. And what about Charlotte, alone in the cabin with this man? Who was not to say that harm might befall her?
No time to think about that now. Turner would not wait long, and whatever else he might think, Cabot did not want him to enter this fight alone.
In the barn, a tall black horse was sleeping in a stall, and Turner was waiting with a couple of axes and a thick loop of rope. He handed one of the axes to Cabot.
They walked out the back end of the barn and went south through the fields, circling behind Harp Webb’s empty house, until they reached the road. They followed it south until they reached the bluffs where the river bent back in toward the mountain. The road ran hard against the bluff along a narrow ledge of ground, with nothing between it and the river but a few cottonwood and sycamore trees and a little underbrush. Turner looked over the ground a while, then tied the rope around the base of one of the trees and laid it across the road. He gathered leaves from the roadside and covered the rope with them. Cabot watched but did not ask questions.
“In daylight this would be obvious,” Turner said when he had finished, keeping his voice low. “But our man won’t wait till then.”
He took the trailing end of the rope and led it off behind a boulder at the base of the bluff. He motioned Cabot over.
“I’ll be behind here,” he said. “You get behind one of those trees. When they reach this spot, I’ll snap the rope, and we’ll come at him from both sides.”
He disappeared into the shadow of the boulder without another word. Cabot crossed the road, looking for a pool of deep shade under one of the big trees, and picked out his spot. It was good. He could see a long way up the road, almost to Webb’s house. He squatted down to wait.
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