A Slant of Light

by Jeffrey Lent

  Becca had walked out the hour before wearing the milk-house yoke with heavy wooden buckets each side, her free hands holding tin buckets of cold water doctored as August liked, the wooden buckets filled with fresh-baked steaming loaves wrapped in sacking, a whole ham cut in slices, a wedge of hard cheese, and a crock of ten-day cucumber and pepper pickles. A tin of molasses cookies.

  The men sprawled and ate and drank dippers of the harvest water. Midday, the shade was pleasant enough, but the air had died and the heat drove down upon them. Sweating where they lay. The afternoon and on into the long evening would only grow more heat. Not a cloud in the sky, which was good. The great fear, once harvest started, were thunderstorms creeping in late afternoon or even in the night.

  August was in ill humor. Early on, partway around the first swath as he perched high on the seat and watched the oats coming sweeping against the cutting bar, he’d spied a meadowlark flare up then drop back down and seen the frantic fledglings trying to fly, fluttering helpless off into the oats that, until this moment, had been their entire safe world. And the horses walking forward, the work to be done, his traveling eyes striking back and down at the very moment the cutting bar bloomed red and wet with blood. Moments later, when he again glanced down, the bar was clean, oats falling backward under the swirling, relentless paddles. Every field offered tragedy. Yet it stayed in his mind as he ate, half-listening to the comments, small complaints offered up around him. Burning eyes, a pulled muscle in a back, a wicked chestnut. Work.

  It was then he saw the spout of dust coming down the lane toward the field. From the dust-mirage he made out a leaping team and carriage. No one else had seen it yet, so he eased up from his elbow and watched it come. He’d seen that carriage before.

  Judge Ansel Gordon wore a trim black suit furred with road dust, a white shirt with a string tie, and a square-crowned bowler hat of best quality, his long white hair spilling onto his shoulders as he wheeled up before the group, brought his team to a frothing stop, and raised one finger to touch the brim of his hat and by greeting said, “Gents.”

  August and Marsh stood, the three young men remained prone. August did not look at Harlan.

  The judge looked at August. “I’d thought to catch you at the house but your girl sent me along.”

  Marsh said, “We’re cutting oats. You passed no other crews at such work, all the way from town?” An edge of challenge in his voice: He knew as much of Harlan’s ordeal as most others in the community.

  August overlaid, “It’s a hot day for a buggy ride.”

  “Hot for any labor but my efforts don’t stop any more than yours.” He redirected to Marsh and said, “I observed some other men at work in their oats. Are you in a competition?”

  “Only to get the work done, nothing more.”

  “Ah, yes. And I wish you the best of it. But I’m afraid I’m going to relieve you of a laborer.” He looked then at the younger men and said, “Harlan Davis, come along with me.”

  “Now, wait,” August said. Already feeling he was failing Harlan as he’d promised he would not. “Are you arresting him?”

  Harlan had stood when the judge spoke his name. The judge glanced at him, then to August.

  “No, I’m not arresting him, but he’ll come with me. Or shall you gentle farmers form a mob against me?” His voice sparked and acid, the lace of laughter within.

  August said, “He was released to my care, and I’d know what your business is. Such was my understanding.”

  The judge said, “Get up in here, boy. I don’t have all day to sit here jabbering, and neither do you.” To August he said, “My business is mine own. I intend to confer with the boy, as is my duty.”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Swartout. I been expecting something like this.” Harlan walked forward toward the carriage, then stopped. Unsure what to do, where to sit, perhaps waiting one last direction from August.

  Who did not truly have one but did his best. “You’ll return him before the end of day?”

  “I did not say that.” The judge waved his free hand in a broad gesture. He said, “Climb up beside me, boy. And brace yourself; this is a hot-blooded team.” He turned his eyes upon August and that dark lace of humor was altogether gone. He said, “See to your work, while I attend mine.”

  Harlan looked back at August and said, “Get your oats in. You done good by me.” And he stepped up into the buggy and settled himself, looking off away from all of them.

  August stepped forward and said, “Shall I take this matter up with Enoch Stone?”

  Ansel Gordon smiled and said, “If you truly so wish, by all means.”

  He swatted the lines against the backs of his team and as quick, seemed to August quicker, as he’d come in, he was gone. For moments the bulk of the buggy visible, then lost as dust rose from the spinning wheels and fast-plunging hooves.

  August walked a short distance down the lane after them, stopped, and pulled a cheroot from a pocket and clipped fire from his thumbnail, smoked a bit. Marsh started to walk toward him, his feet crunching in the stubble, and saw his cousin’s shoulders arch and stiffen, so stopped and waited.

  Finally August turned and said, “What’re you gaping at? There’s oats to bind.”

  Harlan looked away off his side of the buggy until they passed through the Four Corners and the judge remained silent also. Despite the heat, the horses were fast and air passed cool about them. The judge took the longer but more level route along the base of the Bluff and Harlan wondered was it to save the team the climb out of the valley or to slow his arrival, wherever that might be. So he turned to face the judge.

  “I never did a wrong thing.”

  The judge had been driving with rapt attention upon his team. Both hands working the lines, taking pleasure in his horses. He glanced at Harlan and back, flexed both wrists to slow the trot a bit but not break it and said, “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen come November.”

  “Fifteen years old and never done a wrong thing? That would make you a first by my experience.”

  “I seen plenty of wrongs, I’d say. But I never broke no laws, least that I know of. And I’ve pondered that question hard.”

  “No doubt. Given where you were the last four years. Now, though, you must feel washed clean, rescued by that community of simple saints.”

  “Those are the people I come out of.”

  Ansel Gordon was quiet for a bit and then said, “Forgive my last remark; it was uncalled for. While this business before me is not entirely to my liking, the truth is, I’ve seen none of your people come before the bench until now. Esquire Stone is a curious man, wiser than many believe. Beyond his great reach for what can only be termed Christian mercy lies a wider comprehension that most might miss. He understands that this terrible war just now ended has not only preserved our federal union and unleashed vast machineries of death, but in those machineries has glimpsed a future where the yeoman’s life will be hard pressed by the very means of greater facility. The men engaged in manufacturing arms and goods of such great quantities will certainly now turn their eyes to peaceable but similar gains from such industry. Those of your ilk will need a man such as Enoch Stone to stand as both guard and translator against the press of such industry upon you. We are witness to a changing world. I tell you this to illustrate the prudence and fairness I attempt to bring to the bench. That said, I will not be trifled with. Do you comprehend me?”

  Harlan looked off away. South of them the great bulk of the Bluff rose, splitting the upper branches of the Crooked Lake, neither of which could be glimpsed from this vantage. He turned back to find the judge waiting.

  He said, “I told the few who asked, I’d answer any questions needed answering, anytime.”

  The judge took pause and reached up to tug his bowler down tightly upon his forehead and said, “I’m heartened to hear that.”

  Harlan drew a breath and said, “You know Mr. Hopeton won’t allow his wife to be dragged in the mud of another’s m
aking to save his own skin.”

  The judge said, “Ah, that. In fact, this morning before I drove out after you I explained to Hopeton he had no choice in the matter. That deal is done, signed and ready for the seal of the state. There remains only a simple hearing of sworn testimony that doesn’t involve your Mr. Hopeton and the matter is finished, closed. The particulars of the law are such that Malcolm Hopeton can’t make formal objection to clemency offered under those proceedings. And despite his utter silence these past weeks, I’d hazard that he’ll welcome the gift of his life more quickly than he may believe at the moment, once it stretches before him.”

  “He don’t have a say in it? At all?”

  “The law is a curious and wondrous creation. The presumption of innocence being the foundation. Almost as important, in some cases overriding the necessity of proving innocence, is the principle of extenuating circumstances. Meaning that which first appears to have been the result of one set of actions is determined to actually be the result of other, greater, actions. Such is the case of Malcolm Hopeton. But to speak directly to your question: For the time being Malcolm Hopeton has not deigned to speak his mind to me. He stood unblinking as I delivered this news.”

  The judge went on: “Wherever he might be a year from now, he’ll think back and thank his lucky stars, his God if he’s got one or not, and perhaps even me, for how this all went. It was not a easy job. I felt like I was nudging three lunatics all into place, all the while needing to let at least two think they were guiding me against my wishes. Men are fools when they see a wink of power within their grasp and my job is to figure out what that power truly is and then dribble it out to them so they think they gained it themselves.”

  Harlan listened, also thinking if the judge would talk, Harlan was not yet compelled to. Perhaps after they arrived at the courthouse, the jail cell or whatever it would be, that would change. But for the moment simply struggling to comprehend all the judge was saying. Also trying to place where Hopeton stood with all of these doings, though it seemed clear he’d not changed his determination to die, even with the efforts of others to save him. Perhaps more so, because of them. The judge grew silent and they rode along and Harlan again looked off away. They’d gained ground on the swelling ridge above the lake before they’d drop down into town, a cluster of roofs, treetops, glimpses of streets and a pair of higher steeples visible below.

  Finally Harlan said, “There’s a whole ugly pile to this story no one seems interested in hearing.”

  After a moment the judge replied. “If I had the time I’d be half interested to hear more about how you and Amos Wheeler got along. But I don’t have time or interest enough. I can imagine and that’s part of my job as well. What seems shocking or outrageous, what most any two people can get up to, after enough time and enough stories all the surprise has gone out of it. I say this: You count yourself lucky, and like all others that made this sordid episode, quit looking over your shoulder and march forward. It seems you have a good job, one that, what with your sister long ensconced, almost certainly assures you a good home. That’s where you need to dig in and make your place now. Is that clear?”

  They went along without speaking further downhill into the town streets and turned off Main to Elm and onward toward the courthouse. Harlan was now as confused as possible. The judge’s last words had upset all his expectations: It seemed there was to be no cell for him, no great interrogation. But if not, then for what purpose this ride? To inform him he was to play no role, that the job was as good as done? Seemed a mighty effort on the part of the judge for such small return, an informing that could’ve been done seated under a shade tree at August Swartout’s. The judge is lulling me, he thought, and will reveal himself once we arrive. Perhaps nothing more than locking him up under some pretense or another until the clemency hearing was over. Perhaps something more sinister. The judge seemed a fair man but also one used to the smooth speech of authority vested upon him: He could so easily be speaking half his mind, holding half back. And Harlan saw that the workings of the law were a mystery to him: The more he learned of those workings, seemed the less he knew.

  They wheeled up the drive past the small cluster of buggies and waiting horses on this quiet day when no court was in session, around the back side of the building where a small carriage shed stood separate from the longer public shed. The judge pulled up and let his team come to a stop as a boy darted out of the cool, dim shed and caught up the bridle of the near horse.

  The judge stepped down from his rig and motioned to Harlan. “Get down, boy. Step lively, now.”

  Harlan stood and dropped down onto the packed gravel as the boy walked the team and carriage into the shed. He glanced at the rear of the building where a single plain door let in, with the legend No Entry in black block letters painted on the white door. He stood waiting, suddenly aware and self-conscious of his bare feet and rough clothes.

  The judge blocked a nostril with a finger and blew a slug of road dust into the gravel and looked back at Harlan. He said, “I’ll admit you’re a curious young man, Harlan Davis. Should I live long enough and you don’t hie off for the western territories or such but remain in the area, I’ll keep my eye upon you, to see what sort of man you become. One such as you, that can produce enough steam to send me off to gather you in at the bidding of a man I’d otherwise pay little attention to. And mark me well, it was not his feeble excuse but my own curiosity that sent me on my way. Perhaps, though, this ride into town, I’m beginning to understand a bit more.”

  Harlan said nothing.

  The judge said, “I made you a compliment. Does that count for nothing to you?”

  “I don’t understand a word you’re telling me.”

  “Ah. Of course not. This business, by damn, it is a thing, isn’t it? Upon all of us. No. Wait. I’ve done my bit for this day. You, you walk down to the end of the long shed and you’ll find the man asked me to bring you. Which I have done.”

  “Who is it? Do I have to? ”

  “Do you have to? Would you stand in contempt of my court?”

  “I might. Who is it?”

  The judge looked off at the sky and reached to his trouser pocket and pulled forth a silver flask the size of his hand and thin as a deck of cards, pulled the cork, and tipped it up to swallow once, and once again. He replaced the cork and then the flask in his trousers, looked at the boy and said, “There’s no reason to lock you up. Yet. And you don’t want there to be one. Just walk down and talk to the man. I’d say there’s an even chance you’re a match for him.”

  “Hold there, Harlan Davis.”

  Harlan stood, blinking. In the depths of the shed Enoch Stone sat in his sleek buggy, the horse a blood bay. Sunlight on the afternoon’s angle striking the polished brass of the harness fittings.

  Stone said, “Climb up. I’d have a word with you.” He lifted his broad-brimmed hat from where it rested upon the seat next to him and held it in one hand over his lap, keeping his head bare and face open to the day while using his other hand to indicate the space free on the upholstered seat, quilted by buttons in a pattern of diamonds. He said, “Come now. I won’t take a minute or two. I know you’ve been talking with the judge and would know what passed between the two of you.”

  Harlan said, “It weren’t much. I need to get on back, there’s work waiting.”

  “Perfect. I’ll drive you to Swartout’s and we can talk along the way.”

  “No, sir. I’ll walk myself.”

  Stone placed his hat on his head and stepped down from his buggy before Harlan. He gripped the boy by the elbow with one hand and ruffled his hair with the other and said, “All right then. I’ll walk along with you a bit and we can talk and then you can find your own way home. I was thinking to assist you but if you don’t want my help, so be it. But talk we will.”

  Harlan twisted to free himself and could not. He said, “I got nothing to say to you. Nothing you want to hear. Let me go.”

  Stone tightened his
grip and stepped off into the shade, deeper onto the lawn away from the street and Harlan had no choice but to go with him. Stone set a good pace and it came to Harlan that the judge might well be watching and so, determined to grasp a measure of control of the situation, he stepped along brightly and said, “You think you know something about me. You don’t know nothing at all.”

  Stone was striding hard and made no response. They came to a bench placed upon a small rise of the courthouse lawn, flanked by a pair of young oaks, and behind the bench was a small copse of tall cabbage roses all abloom in white and red, some few with pink centers and with the effect of a shaded hidden place—perhaps an accident, perhaps placed there by civic women of the town who considered there might be a need for such a spot of solace and privacy for the families encumbered or daunted by the proceedings of the court. And Stone pressured Harlan’s arm and so side by side they settled into the bower of shade, making a tensely odd company.

  Harlan did not wait but spilled out. “All of you have got it wrong. Backward. You are blaming the wrong person.”

  “We are blaming no one. Simply making clear a truth and saving the life of a decent man, a war hero, a trusting soul, who cannot be blamed for not wishing the truth of his wife’s duplicity to be known. But, Harlan Davis, all knew of her actions long before this recent unfortunate incident occurred. You must know that comprehension was widespread and so also there’s a great and earned sympathy for Malcolm Hopeton. You’re a loyal young man and it’s understandable you are swayed by Hopeton’s distress over learning the truth. He would deny it? Why, what man would not? Truth is, as we proceed these next few days there’s every intention of letting it be known publicly of Hopeton’s objections. He’s a good man, Harlan. Who loved his wife. And it will not serve him well should his objections be buried—why, then there would be those wags who’d claim he’d not killed her by accident, as he surely did, but murdered her in a jealous rage, as he very well could’ve if he was other than who he is, but is now claiming otherwise, to secure the clemency being offered, the mercy he surely deserves. Do you not see that?”