Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  “You should let Mr. Mercadier help you when he gets back from his days in town.”

  Cabot smiled and blushed. “Emile helps in a supervisory capacity. He inspects everything we do and tells us to re-do about half of it.”

  No one was nearby, so Charlotte leaned close and said, “Stop by the house today if you can. I’d like to talk to you about that subject we talked about at Christmastime.”

  She could feel him grow tense at her nearness and saw the quick look of adoration in his eyes and the agony when she didn’t return it. Feel for him as she might, Charlotte would not encourage him—that could only lead to things she was unprepared to deal with. Cabot nodded stiffly and went on his way.

  In the early afternoon, Cabot knocked at the door. Charlotte let him in quickly, embarrassed to feel like a sneak.

  “I spoke to my husband,” she said quickly. “He is suspicious of those who would question the method instead of focusing on the outcome. You and George should bide your time, keep your eyes on increasing our prosperity, and not raise questions of the democratic process until later on. George was right. He is very touchy on this subject.”

  “But democracy is part of the outcome, not just a process,” Cabot said. “If all that mattered was making money, we could have just formed a joint-stock company and been done with it.”

  “I’m only giving you my advice,” Charlotte said. “I can’t tell you what to do. But I don’t see anything good coming from questioning his leadership at this moment.”

  “I’m not questioning his leadership. I was explaining this to Lysander a couple of days ago. Debate and examination are an essential—”

  “You were discussing this with Lysander Smith?” Charlotte interrupted. “An outsider, and an odd one at that? Adam, I thought you would have better judgment.”

  Cabot’s expression grew defensive, almost pouty. “I’ve gotten to know Lysander better than most, sharing a house. He’s not so bad. You should give him more credit.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She stared at him in amazement. “A couple of privileged characters from the first families of the East, that’s all I see you two having in common. Even if you do like him, he’s not one of us. He’s a visitor. You shouldn’t trust him with our private debates.”

  “I’m sorry. But I find him very astute.”

  “Astute. Right. Well. Good luck then.” Charlotte opened the door, and Cabot stepped out. They kept their posture friendly, although their faces were set.

  Cabot bowed and adjusted his hat. “I owe you my thanks for speaking with your husband,” he said. “I do appreciate that, even though I can’t agree with your opinions.”

  “I know.” She clasped his hand. “Adam, please think before speaking. With James, with Mr. Smith, with anyone.”

  His face softened. “Of course, Charlotte. This community is my home. I am not about to speak foolishly and put it in danger.”

  She feared he already had, by talking to a man like Smith, but chose not to repeat that fear. And as if drawn by the mention of his name, Smith appeared in the street, walking past the house on his way south.

  “Holding hands in the street,” he teased. “My, this is a modern town.”

  They dropped their hands, and Cabot was about to speak, but Smith waved his hand. “Oh, that just makes you look guiltier. Cabot, I’m going to visit Brother Harp for a while. Care to join me?”

  “I have work,” Cabot said briskly, stepping down from the doorstone.

  “Work, work, work,” Smith said. “You should learn the habits of these rustics. They don’t work until they have to. And sometimes not even then. Webb the Younger and I shall spend the afternoon philosophizing by the fire.”

  “I can imagine,” Charlotte said.

  “Oh yes, we’ll have our dram,” Smith said to her. “I respect that you are a temperance community, so I have Harp keep my stock at his house. It’s forty-rod rot, but I fear he has a corner on the local market.” He tipped his hat. “Off to work with you then.”

  Cabot drew his coat around him and headed toward the barn. Charlotte stayed in the open doorway as he left. Smith smiled his mischievous smile at her. “Just teasing, you know.”

  “So you say. A tone of constant irony gets wearying after a while, Mr. Smith.”

  “Poor Adam is too honorable for his own good. He would be better off if he unbent just a little, don’t you think? Let himself down from that hook of duty he hangs himself upon?”

  “But then he wouldn’t be Adam.”

  His mocking smile broadened. “So you do love him, then.”

  “Mr. Smith, don’t make fun of good people.”

  “But it’s so much more enjoyable than making fun of the bad ones. The bad ones don’t even notice. I’ll sit there and mock Harp Webb all afternoon, and he won’t even feel a sting.”

  “You might be surprised at what Harp Webb notices.” A breeze rattled the branches of the trees, and Charlotte looked out into the February sky. “Another few weeks, and you can begin your botanical work again.”

  A cloud passed over Smith’s face. “God, don’t remind me. I don’t know why I ever let that idiot Foltz persuade me to this project.”

  Charlotte smiled despite herself, happy to know that at least something made Smith uncomfortable. He certainly spent most of his time inflicting discomfort on everyone else.

  “Seriously,” Smith went on. “Why should I concern myself with the comings and goings of people out in this benighted landscape? They can all go to hell, black, white, the whole lot of forest apes. You and Cabot are the only people I can talk sense with. There’s a reason people live out here on the frontier. The rest of society can’t stand them. It shits them out, and they land out here in the woods and rocks.”

  “This is hardly the frontier, Mr. Smith,” Charlotte said dryly. “If you want the frontier, you’ll have to go west a few hundred more miles.”

  “It’s frontier enough for me. Well. Time to go find Webb the Younger and drink. Then perhaps I’ll see if I can get Marie Mercadier to speak to me in French. That always lifts my gloom. Quite the little printer’s devil, that one.”

  Smith wandered off down the road, and Charlotte turned inside. Standing in the open door had chilled the house, so she fetched an armload of wood from the woodbox in back. The chill would wake Newton from his nap soon; she could hear him stirring in his bed. No point in fetching him yet. She could get in a bit of mending before he woke and perhaps chop some onions for tonight’s soup.

  March/May 1859

  Chapter 15

  The seeds for the ropemaking operation arrived in March in heavy sacks with a rank smell that repelled even the mice in the barn. “They say the Indians used to grind up this stuff for flour,” George Webb said, rolling some seeds between his fingers. “Course, they say that about everything. You’d think the Indians were roaming through the woods eating the bark off trees, like beavers.”

  When Thursday came, the day to ride into town to fetch Emile Mercadier from his shoe shop, Marie made a show of begging to go along with Turner. “I have a new jacket for him,” she said, showing a solid-looking garment of heavy brown cloth. “He will be so happy.”

  The morning sun was warm on their backs as they forded the river in silence. They worked the wagon up to the ridgetop, still in silence. “It is going to be one of those lucky false spring days, when everyone thinks that spring has really come,” Turner said when they finally reached the top.

  “Why lucky?” said Marie.

  “Gives you hope. You know that spring is on the way.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But I don’t like the false part.”

  They did not speak again for a while, although the air between them was heavy with intention. And when Turner passed the Indian camp and turned the wagon down the little-used wagon track, Marie did not ask what he was doing. He took them a hundred yards into the forest and then stopped beside a plum grove. He got down and tied the horse to a tree, and when he turned aroun
d, Marie had gotten into the back of the wagon and spread out a blanket. She was lying on the blanket with her dress pulled up to her neck. Turner leaned over the side of the wagon and kissed her.

  “Take everything off,” he said. “I want to see your whole body.”

  She looked dubious but did as he asked. Turner climbed into the wagon and kneeled above her. Her nude body was pale and slender, small breasts with dimpled nipples, a fuzz of brown hair on her arms and legs.

  “I’m cold,” she said, so he lowered himself down and covered her with his body. “That’s better,” she said. He unbuttoned his trousers.

  Marie did not appear to enjoy herself, at least not the way Charlotte did. She made a noise at one moment, and Turner pulled back, afraid of hurting her; but her expression was serene.

  “Why are you doing this?” he said afterward.

  “Because I love you. Charlotte was right. You are a silly fellow who doesn’t often understand the mind of a woman.”

  He propped up on one elbow and pulled his coat over her body. “She said that, did she?”

  “Not quite. She tries to tell me about men. She thinks I am a child who needs her advice. And when she talks about men, I think she is usually talking about you.”

  “So I’m the model? Or the cautionary example?”

  “Maybe both.” She returned his frank gaze. Under the coat, Turner could feel her hand between his legs, caressing him. “And why are you doing this?”

  Turner didn’t know what to say. “Because you love me. Because you let me.”

  Marie looked into his face and then up at the sky. “That wasn’t what I was hoping for. But it will do.”

  “What were you hoping for?”

  She waved her hand between their faces. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. A hymn to my beauty, maybe.”

  Turner wanted to say more to her, to comfort her with his affection. But he had no desire to be dishonest with her. He knew his motives were impure, so why be coy about it? She was young, she was fresh, she was good-looking, and they shared grand ideas together.

  They did not linger. Emile would be expecting the wagon before long. But Turner was glad to have time with Marie when he did not have to look over his shoulder or listen for someone approaching. He unhitched the horse and pulled it around, and they headed toward town. Marie smoothed out her dress and sat quietly beside him in the wagon; she held his hand while they rode through the woods but released it whenever they neared a farmhouse. They talked of the next issue of The Eagle, of the hemp field and rope factory, of the other citizens of Daybreak.

  Mercadier was surprised to see his daughter, but she was ready for him. “I finished your new coat!” she cried, hopping down from the wagon and flourishing it. Turner hurried to pick up their mail and goods. He did not meet Mercadier’s eye during the ride back and thought he felt Mercadier’s gaze on him a few times, but eventually decided it was his own guilty conscience at work.

  Lysander Smith started his ostensible botanical expeditions as soon as the weather got warm, disappearing for longer and longer periods of time. He had been gone for two weeks in May when Turner was awakened from a sound sleep by Charlotte shaking his shoulder.

  “There’s a man at the door,” she said. She had lit a lantern and held it up for him to find his pants. Turner wiped his face and tried to shake off the heaviness of sleep.

  “Who is it?”

  “I didn’t open the door. He didn’t say.”

  They tiptoed out of the bedroom, leaving Newton asleep in the trundle. Standing in the yard was Sam Hildebrand. He held his horse’s reins in one hand and grasped his belt buckle with the other.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” he said. His narrow face was deeply shadowed in the light of the lantern. “You know a man named Smith? Says he lives here.”

  “Yes,” Turner said. “He’s been boarding here since fall.”

  “That’s what he said.” Hildebrand swung into his saddle. “You need to get yourself a mount and come with me. This Smith fella is in trouble and he asked for you. I’ll wait for you down past Harp’s house.” He pointed south with his head.

  “But can’t—” Turner looked around at the night. “Lives are at stake,” Hildebrand said and rode off.

  Turner threw on some boots and a shirt and went to the barn to saddle a horse. In the black of the barn’s interior, he lit a lantern. The horses, sleeping in their stalls, stirred at his movements. He picked a big gray gelding and saddled it up.

  Hildebrand was waiting at the narrow place where the road ran between bluffs and the river. As soon as Turner came into view, he reined his horse south again.

  “What’s this all about?” Turner called to him.

  Hildebrand turned in his saddle as Turner rode closer. “Let’s gab about this when we get farther on,” he said. “Right now I want to make time.”

  He took off at a fast trot, breaking into a canter when the splashes of moonlight let them see the road better. Turner’s gray was a strong horse, but Hildebrand’s was clearly more accustomed to long, fast rides, and Turner struggled to keep up.

  They followed the road for five or six miles, then Hildebrand suddenly veered off to the east into the woods.

  After the first crash through the underbrush along the road, Turner found himself in open forest that was easier to ride through than he had imagined. The shade of the trees made it harder to see, though, so they had to pick their way more slowly. Turner tried to stay far enough behind Hildebrand to avoid getting whipped by limbs, but close enough to follow his path.

  They reached the river. Hildebrand rode directly in, looking neither to right nor left. Turner would never have attempted a river crossing by night, but followed Hildebrand’s track precisely, and sure enough, there was a trail of packed dirt that led up the bank on the other side. They climbed up a steep slope a couple of hundred feet or more before the path leveled off, following a ridge.

  He lost track of how long they rode like this, working through the mottled darkness of the forest. It felt past midnight, but all Turner knew was that the night seemed to be getting darker.

  They kept following the ridgeline. It seemed to Turner that they were heading generally east, but he could not tell for sure. The stars were only intermittently visible through the canopy of leaves, and he had to concentrate on keeping up.

  Eventually the unseen path Hildebrand was following opened up into a trail, not quite wide enough for a wagon, but a clear trail nevertheless. Hildebrand slowed his horse to a walk and then came to a stop and looked around. He sniffed the air.

  “Here’s where we go down,” he said.

  They dropped off the ridge into a long hollow that ended, to Turner’s surprise, on another road. Before Hildebrand rode out onto the road, he stopped again and listened.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said. “Your friend Smith may already be dead, and if he is, you need to deal with that like a man and not act a fool. One killing is plenty.” He urged his horse out into the road. “These men up here are going to want to ask you about him, and you’d be wise not to get caught in a lie.” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a revolver. He checked its chambers and then put it in his belt.

  They rode past the shoulder of the ridge they had just come down. To Turner’s surprise, Hildebrand began to sing. As they rounded the ridge, Turner could see a bonfire in the next hollow, a hundred feet from the road. They rode into the hollow, Hildebrand still singing, and as they got closer a man stepped out of the shadows with a shotgun lowered at their chests. He wore a flour sack over his head with two rough holes cut out for his eyes.

  “It’s me,” Hildebrand said. “That’s him.” The man looked at Turner without speaking but stepped out of their path.

  They rode into the firelight and dismounted. Near the fire were two other men with flour sacks over their heads. One was enormously tall and fat and wore a shirt with the sleeves torn off, revealing huge fleshy arms. The other was a much smaller man who still had on his
coat, despite the heat of the bonfire, and because of the coat Turner did not notice for a moment that he was missing his left arm. Behind the fire, Turner could see three horses tethered to the trees.

  The one-armed man spoke to Hildebrand. “This the man?” Hildebrand nodded. The man walked up to Turner and stood uncomfortably close, his face about the level of Turner’s breastbone.

  “Welcome to the party,” he said. “Your friend’s been here for a while.” He turned and walked back toward the light.

  A few feet away from the fire, Lysander Smith was lying on his side on the ground, his hands tied behind his back. He struggled to lift his head as the men walked toward him. One of his eyes was bruised shut, and dried blood covered his face. Turner recognized his yellow vest, but the rest of his body was the universal color of dirt. His hair was thick with caked blood. One ear appeared to be sitting wrong on his head.

  “You know this man?” said the small man. His empty coat sleeve was folded up and pinned.

  “Yes,” Turner said. “His name is Smith.” His throat was suddenly dry and his voice didn’t come out for a moment.

  “That’s what he said too.” The man walked over to Smith and poked him with his toe. “I guess your name is Smith after all. Seemed a little too convenient for me.”

  Turner made a move toward Smith, but everyone reacted toward him, and he stopped. “May I?” he said to the small man, showing his handkerchief.

  “Suit yourself,” the man said. Turner knelt beside Smith and wiped his face. Smith’s jaw was slack, and saliva trailed out of the corner of his mouth.

  “You fellers have been busy,” Hildebrand said.

  “We rowed this boy up Salt River for a while,” the one-armed man said. “Ain’t that right, pal?”

  “Yeah,” the big man said. His voice was high-pitched and tinny. “We rowed him.”

  Turner put his hand under Smith’s head and used some of Smith’s saliva to clean out around his eyes. The look in Smith’s one open eye was terrified. Turner wanted to stand up, get righteous, exercise some rhetoric, but he remembered Hildebrand’s warning and held himself in check. He straightened up.