Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  Halfway up the mountain, his uneasiness deepened. He couldn’t say why, but something made him slow down and pick his way quietly up the path. All he knew was that something felt wrong. Another few steps, and he realized what it was—it was the smell of cooking meat.

  Turner squatted behind a tree for a few minutes and pondered what to do.

  It could be a straggler of one sort or another, someone who could be scared off with a show of force. It could be some of the Indians from across the river, although that seemed unlikely. Or it could be an entire regiment, for all he knew. In any case, that smell meant that at least one of their cows had met its end. He couldn’t stand not to know.

  He put a cartridge into the breech of his rifle and crept up the hillside. In the quiet evening every step he made through the fallen leaves sounded loud to him, like the crashing of a child. But the cattle had made a well-trodden path by now, so he could move quietly.

  When he reached the place where the slope began to round out to ridgetop, he paused again. The cooking smell was stronger. He could hear men’s voices, but it was hard to tell how many there were. He could see the glimmer of a fire through the woods and crept closer. Then he heard the voice of a man behind him.

  “Should I shoot you now, or take you to see the captain?” the man said.

  “Take me to see the captain,” Turner said through clenched teeth. He should have known they would post guards.

  “Set your rifle against that tree and walk on, then,” the man said. Turner did as he was told.

  Around two small fires sat twenty men, lounging against their saddles. None of them were wearing uniforms. They had fixed up a spit from some saplings, and a rear haunch of one of the Daybreak milk cows was roasting over one of the fires. At the sound of their approaching footsteps, all heads turned in their direction.

  “Over to your right,” said the man behind him.

  “Well, looky here,” came a voice from the other side of the fire. “It’s the town builder.” Sam Hildebrand stood up and faced him across the flames. “What are you doing out here in the night?” he said. “Armed, too. That’s dangerous play.”

  “Bringing the cattle home,” Turner said.

  Hildebrand’s eyes flickered to the haunch of beef between them. “We confiscated one of ‘em. May have to confiscate another one, too. Don’t worry, we’ll pay you for ‘em.” He turned to a man nearby in the circle. “Harp, write him out a scrip for me.”

  The man leaned forward and said nothing. It was Harp Webb.

  “Hand me that rifle, Pony,” Hildebrand said. He sighted down the barrel of Turner’s Greene and then examined its breech-loading mechanism. “I’ve heard about these. How much time you think you gain on a reload?”

  “I don’t know,” Turner said. “I’ve never had to reload in a hurry.” Hildebrand slid the bolt back and forth a few times. “That’s right,” he said. “You ain’t joined up on either side, have you?”

  “No.”

  He snicked the bolt in and out a few more times. “Little bit of practice, I’d say maybe twice as fast. That could serve a man well out in the field. Of course, for my kind of fighting, ain’t nothing beats one of these.” He pulled a revolver from his belt and hefted it in his hand.

  Turner did not reply.

  “Harp here wants to join up with me,” Hildebrand continued. “What do you think, Mr. Turner? Would old Harp make a good guerrilla?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Turner said.

  “Oh, come on, now. A man like you has an opinion on everything.”

  “Yes, I’d say he has what it takes.”

  “Only thing is, Harp here has never killed a fella. I’m not sure that whiskey-making and squirrel hunting qualify a man to ride with me. What do you think?”

  Turner spoke slowly. “From my experience, the right situation can make a man capable of almost anything. Almost.”

  “You wouldn’t stoop to killing, eh?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Turner said, looking him in the eye. Hildebrand held his gaze. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll take the rest of my cows home. You can write me that scrip some other time.”

  “Can’t do that,” Hildebrand said. “We have some business to transact in the morning, and I’m afraid I can’t trust your loyalty.” He sighted down the barrel of the pistol at an imaginary enemy in the woods. “What do you think? Can I trust your loyalty?”

  “No,” Turner said. “You cannot.”

  Hildebrand put his pistol back in his belt. “Then you’re going to have to spend the night with us.”

  “I’ll kill him for you,” Webb said.

  Hildebrand chuckled. “I think Harp here wants to prove to me how bloodthirsty he is. Think so, Mr. Turner?”

  “I don’t want to get killed, if you don’t mind.”

  “Hear that?” Hildebrand said to the men. “Mr. Turner doesn’t want to get killed, if we don’t mind.” After their laughter had died down, he said, “I owe you for the cow. The least I could do is not kill you, too.”

  “People will be coming out to look for me. You know they won’t just leave me out here.”

  “That is true,” Hildebrand said with a shrug. He thought for a moment. “Well, boys, I guess we won’t bed down here tonight after all. We need to ride down the mountain. Saddle up and follow me.” He looked at Harp. “Don’t shoot this man, at least not now,” he said. “Maybe later. We’ll see. Mr. Turner, you lead the way.”

  The men rode down the hillside at a slow walk. Turner thought about making a run for it but knew there was no chance. When they reached the pasture at the edge of the forest, the guerrillas spread out as if on cue, and Turner realized they had already planned what to do. Within a half hour they had rounded up everyone in the village and brought them to the Temple, hastily dressed in whatever clothes they could find.

  Once everyone was gathered, Hildebrand and his men walked into the meeting hall and stood in front of the doors. He lit a lantern and raised his hand for quiet.

  “I am sorry to disturb you tonight, but it cannot be helped,” he said in his oddly soft voice. “You all just have to spend the night here, and with any luck we’ll be gone by noon tomorrow.” He paused. “And I have to tell you, if anyone—man, woman, or child—sets foot outside without my say-so, they will be killed. So just settle down and get some sleep.”

  Charlotte spoke up. “Mr. Hildebrand, some of these children need to go to the privy.”

  Hildebrand’s eyes darted from side to side. After a pause, he said, “Take ‘em.” He looked at one of his men. “You go along.”

  When the children returned, Hildebrand looked around the Temple nervously. Holding a group this size overnight had clearly not been in his plans. Several of the children were crying.

  “Can you calm this bunch?” he said to Charlotte.

  “I can if you people leave,” she said.

  Hildebrand rubbed his chin. “All right,” he said. “But we’ll have a man outside each door.”

  The guerrillas filed out. By now it was full dark, and without a lantern the black quickly enveloped them. A few people tried to make places to sleep on the floor, using bundles of clothes or books from the library shelves for pillows. But for the most part, they sat huddled on the benches in the chilly room, the children whimpering or crying.

  Charlotte stood at the dais, her figure little more than a shadow. She spoke: “Where there is inequality, let us bring balance.” At “Where there is suspicion, let us bring trust,” others joined in. They finished together.

  Where there is exclusion, let us bring openness.

  Where there is division, let us bring harmony.

  Where there is darkness, let us bring Daybreak.

  Then they repeated it again, twice. By then everyone had quieted down. More people settled on the floor to sleep.

  Turner walked to the dais and took Charlotte’s hand. She squeezed it in the dark, moving aside to let him speak.

  “‘It was a fine morning in June
when I set out from New York harbor on my travels to Daybreak, although of course at the time I did not realize that Daybreak was to be my destination,’“ he began, and in a flash of astonishment he realized that he remembered the whole thing, word for word, start to finish. He went on. “‘My friend John Fletcher, first mate of a merchant vessel, had persuaded his captain to engage me as the medical officer for a long voyage in search of new sources of spice, a journey to which I, possessed by the spirit of adventure, readily consented. I was then an idle youth of twenty, the son of a wealthy family, and I fear much given to sloth and disregard of my fortunate condition.’“ By the time he reached the end of the first chapter, the children were all asleep, but he continued to recite a little while longer, simply for the pleasure of hearing the words. It was, he thought, not a half bad story. But soon the recollection of the danger they were in returned. He stopped. Now was not the time for clever tales.

  He found Charlotte lying on the floor with Newton using her thigh as a pillow. He lay perpendicular to her so that she could have his thigh for the same purpose, his boots behind his head for a pillow.

  “What’s going to happen?” Charlotte whispered.

  “Some kind of attack, I guess. Beyond that, I don’t know.” had become mere sounds over time. Hearing them again in the darkness, in danger, with the children frightened and the adults trying not to transmit their fear any further, reminded him of their meaning. Replace suspicion with trust. Open whatever is closed. All those virtues seemed distant now, replaced by the old habits of thinking—suspicion, conflict, violence—that had kept the world in thrall for millennia. They all had bloody hands now, or would soon enough.

  Adam Cabot lay on the floor on the other side of the room. It had been good to hear Travels to Daybreak again after so long. He had almost forgotten the story that had led them to this place, the imaginary tale of a young man transformed by experience into someone better, someone who learned to think of the community first. They recited the invocation every week, but the words

  Would they survive the morning? It seemed likely. If Hildebrand and his men had wanted a massacre, they would have done it already. Still, that was how the Border Ruffians had done it at Marais des Cygnes—lure everyone into a sense of safety, then kill them all. And even if killing them was not the intention, once the shooting started there was no guarantee of anything. That would be the greatest irony, to end up shot down by Federals.

  And if they did survive? What would happen to the colony? Slow destruction, the picking away of men one by one, until a ragged band of survivors had to make its way to safety, like those sorry Irish earlier in the year? Not a fate to crave.

  Knowing they would still be awake, he crept to where Charlotte and Turner were lying in the dark. The faint light from the windows showed Newton asleep on the floor.

  “Hey,” Charlotte said softly.

  “Thanks for the recitations,” Cabot said.

  “Did the trick,” said Turner.

  Around them the villagers were settling down. “Where’s Emile?” Cabot said. “He shouldn’t have been roused out like this. He’s no danger.”

  “He’s over in the corner,” Charlotte said. “Marie and I fixed him up a pallet.

  He’ll be all right.”

  The mention of Marie left them all silent. What was there left to say? Nothing. “If this is the end of us, I want you to know that I’ve loved you both,” Cabot said.

  “Oh, this isn’t the end of us,” said Charlotte. “Just you wait.”

  The quiet confidence of her voice cheered him. “What do you say, James? More ideas bubbling up from your fertile imagination?”

  Turner was quiet. “I’ve loved you too, Adam. You’ve been a true friend. I’m just sorry I got you mixed up in, well, you know. And now this.…”

  “Don’t be sorry. There’s danger everywhere these days. And like King Henry says, those who are sleeping in their beds tonight will look back someday and wish they had been here.”

  “Well and good, but I’d rather have been given the choice.”

  “We don’t get to choose our moments of testing. They’re on us before we know them.”

  Charlotte stirred. “You men and your philosophizing! Will you go to sleep? Morning is what will be on us before we know it, and I need to think.”

  “About what?” Turner said.

  “About how to get us through the next day alive, you silly,” she said. “What else would I think about?”

  Cabot tiptoed to his resting place, abashed. He lay on the floor with his head propped on a stack of books. Then there was nothing to do but wait, wait in the dark, and hope that the morning would bring less devastation upon them than what now seemed inevitable.

  Chapter 26

  Fog covered the valley at dawn, making the chilly air seem even chillier. Everyone stretched and ached. Hildebrand was at the door at first light. He removed his hat.

  “You all can take your privy breaks, four at a time,” he said. “Pony here will be your guard.” Charlotte walked up to him.

  “Mr. Hildebrand, those cattle on the mountain should have been milked last night,” she said. “They’ll be in agony this morning.”

  Hildebrand gave an imperceptible nod. “I’m a farm boy myself, ma’am,” he said. “You go up and bring ‘em down.”

  “I’ll need help with the milking.”

  “All right, but no men.” He scratched his chin. “Some of the boys was wondering if you all might have some breakfast?”

  Charlotte nodded and called to Frances Wickman. “Mr. Hildebrand here would like some breakfast for his men. Could you and Marie meet me in the barn after you finish here? I’m going up to fetch the cows.”

  “This big a bunch, all we’ve got is biscuits and lard,” Mrs. Wickman grumbled. “Or we could make hoecakes.”

  “Whatever you make is fine,” Hildebrand said. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Some beggars,” Mrs. Wickman muttered, but Hildebrand pretended not to hear.

  Charlotte walked up the mountain, her mind churning. These men hardly seemed intent on their destruction. If they had intended them harm, they would not have stayed to beg breakfast. Perhaps the safest thing was to stay quiet, do as they were told, and let the day happen. But there was harm headed for someone, there was no doubt.

  The cattle were as she had thought they would be—restless and desperate to be milked and fed. They practically ran down the hill to the barn.

  Inside the barn, Frances and Marie were waiting. The two of them immediately started milking, but Charlotte had other ideas. She dug the sack of rifles from under the hayloft and took out three Sharps carbines.

  The two women had finished milking by now. Charlotte held out a rifle to each. “Let’s see if we can get these under our skirts,” she said. They tried several arrangements, finally ending with the rifles slung between their breasts on pieces of bridle strap, barrel end up. The cartridge boxes were too bulky, so they just took out as many as they could and put them in their dress pockets and bodices. “When you get to the Temple, go into the woodroom behind the speaking platform,” she said. “There’s half a cord of wood in there, and we can put them behind the woodpile.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Mrs. Wickman asked.

  “No,” Charlotte said.

  They looked at each other. “Haven’t been reading too many hero tales to the children?”

  “Not a one!” Charlotte said, and the three of them laughed.

  “All right then,” said Mrs. Wickman. “Just so I know we’re not doing something foolish.”

  They paused at the barn door and looked each other over. “All right,” Charlotte said, taking the milk pails. “I’m stopping at the springhouse.”

  The three women walked with stiff haste. A rider came alongside them, a pistol in one hand. “Come on, ladies,” he said. “We need everybody inside.”

  “You’re not going to kill us, are you?” Marie said.

  The man laughed. �
��We don’t shoot women. What do you think we are, animals?”

  Charlotte raised her milk pails. “I need to put these down in the spring water,” she said. “I’ll be right there. You all go on.”

  Inside the springhouse, she quickly set the milk pails into the cold water. The rifle hung like an anchor beneath her dress, and she felt hopelessly obvious. But it was the best she could do. She walked into the morning light and headed for the Temple, her head held high. The Temple had never seemed so far away.

  Inside, Newton and Turner ran to embrace her, but she waved them off.

  “One moment,” she said. “I need to go over here first.” She walked to the woodroom and shut the door behind her. Behind the wood rack, the other two Sharps rifles were lying on the floor. She undid her strap and placed hers on top of them, then looked around. There was nothing to cover them. She untied her apron and placed it over one end of the rifles, but decided it just called attention to the spot and tied it on again.

  Charlotte slipped into the meeting hall and looked over the group. Families were clustered together, fearful and hushed, a few children whimpering. Adam Cabot stood alone, fully dressed as if prepared for a day’s work. She walked over to him.

  “May I borrow your coat?” she said. “I’m cold.”

  He gave her a questioning look, but handed her his overcoat. “Women and temperature,” he said.

  Charlotte said nothing, but put on the overcoat and joined her husband and Newton. She knelt in front of the boy. He was holding Turner’s hand, and his lip was quivering.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Your father will know what to do.”

  She stood up and pulled Turner close. “I love you,” she said.

  He held her for a moment. “Thank you. I love you too.”

  Then she whispered in his ear, “Father’s rifles are behind the woodpile. Marie, Frances, and I have cartridges.”

  Turner’s head jerked back in amazement, and he looked at her with a wondering smile. “My resourceful Charlotte. I should have known there was a good reason the people elected you.”