Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  In the predawn darkness he listened to the sounds of the forest. He heard mice or chipmunks rustling in the undergrowth and once, possibly, the whoosh of an owl’s wings as it swooped down on something. He rested his shoulder against the trunk of the tree, hefting the axe. When his knees began to ache from squatting, he let one knee rest on the ground instead, and then shifted to the other one after a while. Something splashed into the river behind him; it sounded big, a beaver maybe, but he realized that all sounds seemed magnified in the silence. Could have been a mink or a muskrat.

  He had to admit, it was a perfect spot for a bushwhacking. The horse would rear, the man would be thrown, and it would all be over in an instant. He hefted the axe. He’d gotten pretty good as a tree feller over the years, no expert to be sure, but good enough to keep pace with the rest of the men. Of course, a tree was not a moving target. Could he do it? He had no idea. What if it all went wrong? They would both be killed, then or later, no doubt about that.

  It was barely daylight when they heard the sound of hoofbeats on the road. Cabot lifted himself onto the balls of his feet and waited.

  The black gelding was coming along at a slow pace, its rider peering into the darkness ahead of him to see his way. When the horse reached the concealed rope, Turner yanked it up in a swift wave directly under its nose. The horse reared and let out a wild neigh, throwing the one-armed man neatly over the back of his saddle, then trotted down the road.

  They ran out from their hiding places. The man had landed hard on his back in the middle of the road with a groaned curse. Turner swung his axe high over his head and brought it down, but the man was quick enough to put up his hand and duck his head. Instead of a clean hit through the neck, the blade caught him on the side of the hand and slid down his arm, peeling back the left side of his jaw.

  The man reached for the pistol in his belt, but Turner stomped hard on his bloody hand, pinning it to his belly.

  Cabot stood over him, hefting the axe, and in the instant he was about to swing he locked eyes with the man on the ground. The man’s expression was not one of hate or fear, but rather intense concentration, as if he were trying to remember a name or add numbers in his head. The surprising ordinariness of his look stopped Cabot for a moment; he wondered if he appeared the same, focused and thoughtful. Then the moment was over as the man jerked his hand free from Turner’s foot just as Turner struck him a second blow square to the side of the head. Cabot heard the thwack of the blade in the man’s skull as a spray of blood spattered his face.

  That did the trick, he thought, and relaxed his grip on his axe.

  To his surprise, the man rolled over and tried to rise. But with only one arm, he could not rise up and pull his pistol at the same time. He got to his knees, his head held low to avoid a sideways blow, but his position gave Turner time to pull his arm back and then, with a full swing, bring the axe down hard on the back of the man’s head. With a moan, the one-armed man fell face down in the road. Turner stepped to one side and swung one more time, cutting right through the neck bones. The man’s legs quivered for an instant and then stopped.

  Turner stood in the road, panting. Cabot’s heartbeat drummed in his ears.

  “Just like butchering a damn hog,” Turner said. He looked at his bloody axe and then at the man at his feet.

  Cabot said nothing. He could no longer hear the sounds of the forest, just the blood rushing in his ears. He was sweating heavily. “I’m sorry,” he finally stammered. “I just couldn’t.…”

  “That’s all right,” said Turner.

  Cabot stepped up to the body of the one-armed man. “You’re sure this is him?”

  “Oh yes.” Turner squatted beside the body and rolled it over. The man’s eyes were open and sightless, and his jaw hung slack. Part of his cheekbone was exposed, a shiny white, where Turner’s first blow had hit. “I didn’t get to see his face the time before, but this is him all right. I’d like to say something to him, but I don’t know what that would be.”

  “What’s his name?” Cabot said.

  Turner shrugged. “Don’t know. Man Who Killed Lysander Smith.” Bile rose in Cabot’s throat and tears welled up in his eyes, but he swallowed hard and blinked the tears away. There was more to be done.

  “Well, let’s get this man out of here.” Turner looked around. “We can toss him in the river.”

  “No,” Cabot said, his mind finally engaged. “He’ll get snagged somewhere. And even if he floats downstream, somebody will spot him at French Mills. Or Jewett, or Shelton’s Ford, or somewhere. We have to bury him.”

  “You’re right,” Turner said. They looked around. Obviously they couldn’t take him back toward Daybreak or drag him up the bluff. Their gazes turned to Harp’s land across the river.

  “That’ll work,” said Cabot. “The ground over there is soft. Let’s float him across, leave him somewhere, and then come back after supper.”

  They picked up the corpse and carried it to the river. It was heavy and clumsy to maneuver, and the two men struggled to get it into the water. But it floated easily; they were able to pull it across with little difficulty. By the time they reached the other side, the gray light of dawn was giving way to a filtered yellow. They dragged the body up the bank and into the flat scrubland.

  “This would make a fine farm,” Cabot said as they dragged the body in. “Too much work for Harp, though.”

  About forty feet into the woods, they decided they had gone far enough and laid the body under a big cedar tree. “Don’t guess we need to mark the spot,” Turner said.

  They waded back across the river and scattered dirt over the bloody spot in the road. “Better rinse off that axe,” Cabot said. Turner took it to the river’s edge and immersed the head. By now it was almost full daylight, and they could see themselves better, wet and bespattered like a pair of hunting dogs fresh from bringing down a deer. “Am I as big a mess as you are?” Turner said.

  “A bigger one, I expect.”

  “We’re pretty bad, then. We better get cleaned up.”

  They left the axes behind one of the cottonwood trees and looped up the rope, then walked home in silence. What was there to say? They had just killed a man. No conversation seemed to measure up. Their pants and shoes were wet; they squeaked as they walked. Turner slipped into his house quietly; Cabot thought he had made it home without meeting anyone, but just before he reached his door, Emile Mercadier came around the corner of his house, back from an early morning trip to the woods no doubt.

  “What happened to you?” Mercadier said.

  “Slipped and fell in the river,” Cabot said, ducking his head and turning away. Emile gave him a look but said nothing. The weight of the deed—and the need to keep it secret—was heavy on him. He wasn’t sure how long he could go without telling someone. He tried to tell himself that this was war now, and war would call him to tasks he had not imagined before; but it felt a lot more like simple murder.

  Inside his house, Turner changed out of his wet clothes and dropped them into the washtub out back. He could feel Charlotte’s eyes on him and resented her gaze, but at the same time was grateful for her silence. The world seemed to be moving at a faster speed than he was.

  They had been in the cornfields for two hours before Turner remembered the man’s horse, which had run off at the first moment of the attack; and as if thought could spawn existence, he looked up from his hoeing and there it was, coming up the valley at a slow, aimless walk, the empty stirrups flapping gently as it walked. The other men in the fields caught his gaze and straightened up to watch it.

  “Looks like somebody’s got thrown,” said Wilson, in the row of corn next to him.

  Cabot was closest to the road. He stepped in front of the horse, which had lost most of its spunk since morning, and took its bridle in his hand. The horse made no effort to get away. Cabot patted its neck and led it to the fence.

  “What do you think, Turner?” Wilson said. Turner said nothing. He didn’t know what
to think. He wanted the horse to disappear. “What do you think?” Wilson repeated, and Turner looked around. The men were all looking at him, and he realized that they were waiting for him to give them guidance.

  “You’re probably right,” he said to Wilson. “Probably threw somebody. Let’s tie it to the fence rail. The owner will be along soon.”

  By lunchtime, no rider had appeared. “I think we ought to unsaddle it and put it in the barn,” Cabot said to the group. He led the horse to the barn.

  “Maybe we ought to walk down the road a ways, see if the fellow got hurt,” Schnack said.

  Turner tried to think of what to say, but his mind couldn’t seem to work fast enough. “Good idea,” Cabot called out over his shoulder. “Turner and I’ll walk down and take a look.”

  Turner was surprised at how quick Cabot’s mind was working. “I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said once they were out of earshot.

  “It’s all right,” Cabot said. “It’ll do us good to see the place in daylight anyway.”

  They had reached the place in the road. The dirt they had scattered had concealed most of the blood, but even a casual eye could see that something had happened there. Flies had gathered on certain spots, which though covered with dirt, still had a disturbed look.

  “Not much to do about it now,” Cabot said. “It’ll be dry by the end of the day.”

  They walked on, another hundred yards or so, and then returned to the colony.

  “No sign of anybody,” Cabot said to the rest of the men. “I tell you what,” Schnack said. “I think some fellow’s got himself bushwhacked and the horse just run off.”

  “Didn’t hear any shots,” said Wilson.

  “Hell, he could have got bushwhacked ten miles down the road, or day before yesterday,” said Schnack. “I sure don’t recognize that horse. It’s a fine one, though.”

  “If I was to bushwhack somebody, I’d make sure I caught their horse,” Wilson said. “Plenty of money in a horse like that.”

  “I don’t want to hear this kind of talk,” Turner said. “Bushwhacking and killing.” He walked away from the group and returned to his row of corn. He hoed and hoed, chopping up the weeds, focusing his entire self on the next weed, the next tuft of grass. The men could stand and palaver all day if they wanted.

  He reached the end of his row and started up the next. A few feet down it, he stopped and looked up. The men, shamed by his action, had all returned to work. Turner walked through the rows to Wilson.

  “Saddle that horse and run it on up the road,” he said. “Take it across the river so it won’t come back. If anybody comes along and sees it in our barn, they’ll think we’re the ones who bushwhacked its rider. And then there will be hell to pay from somebody. Rebels, Federals, somebody, you can bet on it.” He looked around. All the men had gathered around him.

  “He’s right,” said Schnack. “That there horse is bad luck for sure.”

  “Do it now,” Turner told Wilson. “And if it turns out it’s just a rider got thrown, well, his horse went thataway. He can chase it to the next county as far as I’m concerned.”

  They heard the bell ringing for lunch. Turner was glad. He was hungry.

  August/September 1861

  Chapter 24

  Charlotte guessed well enough what had gone on in the early morning; and when Turner said after supper that he needed to go out for a while, she did not ask why. He returned late and wet, and in the morning she saw another set of muddy clothes in the washtub. The next morning she washed them along with everything else, just another row of clothes on just another line.

  On the surface nothing seemed different. Turner worked the fields with the men, joining in the weekly discussions about what could be expected from the corn and when to cut and shock the hemp. Subscriptions to The Eagle had dropped off to almost nothing since the start of the war; few people seemed interested in news of the Daybreak colony anymore. But Turner worked on the next issue in the late afternoons anyway, fussing over wording and muttering at his farmer’s fingers on the type.

  She would not have known how to ask him, or what she would say in response to his answer; so she just let the incident remain unspoken. But unspoken it hovered between them.

  Later in the week, Sheriff Willingham came down the road, riding in the center of a large Federal cavalry patrol. He tipped his hat to Charlotte as he reached their house.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said. “Your husband around?”

  His simple words chilled Charlotte, a deep cold that started in the pit of her stomach and radiated out until only her head and hands seemed warm. “He’s out in the fields,” she said. Her mouth was dry; the words came out scratchy.

  “Should be coming in for lunch soon. Care to join us, Sheriff?”

  “We got to push on, but thanks the same, ma’am. We could use some water, though, if you don’t mind. Your spring water here is always fine, I been telling these boys.” He nodded toward the horsemen.

  “Of course. Climb down and rest a minute.” Charlotte went behind the house and dipped the bucket in the barrel. She watched her hand as it moved through the water and was grateful to see that it did not tremble. When she returned, the horsemen had all gotten down and were sitting in the shade of the big maple tree, their horses tied to the rail.

  “Actually, it ain’t ‘sheriff’ any more,” Willingham said as she handed the bucket around. “Martial law’s been declared. So now I’m the provost-marshal.”

  “What’s the difference between a sheriff and a provost-marshal?”

  Willingham grinned sheepishly. “I ain’t completely sure. One good thing is I don’t have to run for election.”

  One of the military men got up from the ground and strode over to where they were talking.

  “A provost-marshal serves at our pleasure,” he said. “His job is to enforce the civil code and assist us in managing the civilian population. But to be quite frank with you, madam, in time of war we have one task, and that is finding the rebels and destroying them. We are here to tell you and everyone down this valley that anyone who is a rebel, who supports the rebels, who aids and abets their cause in any way, is an outlaw and subject to punishment that will be both immediate and severe.”

  “Mrs. Turner, this here is Sergeant Ford, who is in charge of this bunch. Sergeant Ford, this is Mrs. Turner,” Willingham said. Ford touched the brim of his hat and looked at Willingham.

  “We’ve finished our water. Find this man and let’s move on.”

  Willingham flushed. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, think we could go out in the field and find him?”

  But the men in the fields had seen the cavalry troop arrive and had come to see what was going on. Turner was the first in the yard.

  “Good day, sheriff,” he said.

  “Provost-marshal,” Charlotte corrected. Turner gave her a questioning look. “I’ll explain later.”

  Willingham shook hands with Turner. “I’ll get right to it,” he said. “The state’s under martial law now, and we gotta root out the rebels. You all seen any suspicious characters come by here lately?”

  “Yes,” Turner said. “Four men rode through a while back, and then two more later on in the day. They were all heading north.”

  The cavalryman gave a complacent smile and waved his hand. “Oh, we know all about those boys,” he said. “Couple of local horse thieves thought they’d jump one of our scouting parties. Or maybe they were rebel scouts. Doesn’t matter, killed them both.” He looked at the group appraisingly. “Did they stop here, spend the night?”

  “The first bunch stopped for water, like you men,” Charlotte said. “The last two just rode on through.”

  By now everyone had gathered. “I don’t think Mr. Willingham here is being clear enough, so I’ll tell you myself,” Sergeant Ford said, raising his voice so everyone could hear. “The United States Government is in control of this region now. Anyone who is a rebel, or who assists the rebels in any way, or who conceals
their operations, is subject to martial law. This means imprisonment and confiscation of property. Any man under arms who is not in uniform is considered an outlaw, and subject to summary execution. Now let’s move on to the next settlement.” He walked to his horse and swung himself into the saddle.

  “These boys kinda dampen a man’s enthusiasm for loyal citizenship,” Wilson said, a little too loud.

  The sergeant took a pistol from his saddle holster and leveled it at Wilson. “That’s the kind of seditious talk that gets you put in jail or worse, sonny boy,” he said. “I’ve half a mind to put a ball in your guts right now. The lot of you can consider this your warning. There won’t be a second one.” He put the pistol back in its holster and jerked his horse’s reins.

  Charlotte stepped forward. “My father is Colonel Newton Carr of the United States Army, and I will not be spoken to in such a way!” she said. “If you want loyalty, you had better deserve it.”

  “I don’t care if your father is the Lord God Jehovah himself,” Sergeant Ford said. “We’re going to rid this countryside of rebels if we have to kill every man in it.”

  He rode away, leading the patrol down the road toward French Mills. “Be right there,” Willingham called after him. Once the soldiers were a few yards away, he said to Turner, “I want to apologize for my companion’s lack of manners.”

  “It seems to be a common problem these days,” Turner said.

  “Well, yes.…” Willingham watched them go. “They’re the catbirds right now, anyway.”

  “I thought you were a Southern man, Sheriff,” said Turner. “You stood right here a few years ago and lectured me on Missouri being a slave state now and forever.”

  “That’s the truth,” Willingham said. “But when there’s a strong wind blowing, you can either ride it or fight it. Right now those fellas have the towns, the railroads, and the mines, so they’re blowing pretty hard. Maybe one of these days the rebels will take over, and they’ll hang me for working with the Federals, or I’ll have to run off. But for now I’m putting my chips on their color.”