Slant of Light

by Steve Wiegenstein

  She reflexively patted her apron pocket. The latest letter from Turner was still there. She always kept the newest one with her for a while before adding it to the packet in the bedroom. Turner was, as he always had been, a faithful correspondent, although the letters themselves were sometimes muddy or crumpled. She knew he was downplaying the hardships he and her father were enduring in Virginia; the newspapers were full of stories about the grind down the Peninsula, Lee’s takeover of the rebel army and his dash into Maryland, and the horrific day at Antietam. But Turner wrote about people he had encountered, odd sights he had seen. If the weather was fine, he would mention it. If he didn’t say anything, she knew they were pushing through knee-deep mud, or snow, or something.

  Charlotte knew he sent letters addressed to Josephine as well, and no doubt there were words in them for Marie. She had made her peace with that fact. Frances Wickman liked to go into town after the mail; she took the children in once a week to see their father and spend the day. When Frances returned, there was usually a letter from Turner for Charlotte and one for Josephine. Charlotte could see the look in Marie’s eyes as they waited for the mail and knew that Marie still loved him, probably as much as she herself did. There was nothing she could do about that. Life had its odd turns, and this was one of them.

  Things had been quieter lately. The big military operations had moved south and east, to Tennessee and Mississippi, and Price’s rebel army was somewhere in Arkansas. But the guerrilla war had gotten worse; it was dangerous to be a man, whatever the age. Earlier in the fall, the Federal commander up in Palmyra had taken ten prisoners out of the jail and had them shot, sitting atop their own coffins, as punishment for some rebel offense. And a week ago Frances had ridden to town and passed old Krummrich, at least sixty, hanging from a tree in front of his burning farmhouse. He had thought his advanced age would give him safety to talk up the Union, but he was wrong. So Emile stayed close to the colony and let the women make the town trips. So far, at least, a woman could still travel undisturbed.

  The graves of Adam, Harp, and all the soldiers had grassed over a little; but there were three fresh mounds in the cemetery. Marie got the credit for that idea. Even the most desperate forager would not think to unearth such a site, so they had buried three tightly nailed boxes under about an inch of dirt, with potatoes and turnips for the winter. They would dig them out one by one as the need arose. It would be a lean winter, but they would manage.

  As she sat and watched, a man on a horse crossed the river at the ford. He had to be a rebel—the Union soldiers always traveled in groups. And he was either supremely confident, or he had the carelessness of the desperate, to be traveling alone in broad daylight. When he reached the bank, he did not come down the road, but cut into the woods along the river. He followed the riverbank south through the underbrush, using the ropewalk as a path, riding slowly with his head bent over the neck of his horse. When he was across from the Webbs’ old house, he turned out toward the road again. Charlotte watched him dismount, remove a couple of blankets from behind his saddle, and place them in a line across the road. Then he led the horse across, picking up the blankets behind himself. He rolled them up and tied them behind the saddle again, but when he tried to remount the horse, something seemed to be the matter. He couldn’t lift his leg high enough to get his foot in the stirrup. He tried several times, his horse standing patiently, but with no success. Finally he led the horse to the porch of the house, climbed up a couple of steps, and tried to swing himself over its back from there. But the angle was wrong. He missed the saddle and fell on his face beside the horse. It stood beside him for a minute, the reins trailing on the ground, and then began to graze in the yard.

  By now several of the villagers had noticed the activity and were standing in the street, watching, unwilling to go any closer. Charlotte came down through the fields. The thought passed through her mind that this upper pasture would make decent corn ground, and she made a mental note to set the children to picking up rocks out of it this winter.

  She walked down the center street of Daybreak, the Sharps rifle cradled in her hands. Frances Wickman came out to meet her.

  “What do you think?” Mrs. Wickman said.

  “Let’s go see,” said Charlotte.

  By the time they reached the house, Emile Mercadier and Mrs. Prentice had joined them, with Newton and Angus tagging along behind. They stood in a circle around the man as Emile rolled him onto his back. He let out a deep groan but made no other sound.

  “Well,” Mrs. Wickman said. “Sam Hildebrand.”

  Up close and helpless, with his eyes rolled back and his mouth gaping, Hildebrand lost all power to terrify. His left pants leg was caked and bloody from mid-thigh down. The horse nuzzled Charlotte’s shoulder, as if it wanted to get a look too.

  Mercadier gave Charlotte’s rifle a significant glance. “Here’s our chance,” he said.

  “I’ve not yet reached the spot where I’d shoot an unconscious man,” Charlotte said. “Let’s carry him back to my house.”

  They unsaddled the horse and used its blankets to make a pallet on the floor for Hildebrand. Charlotte took a knife and cut away the trouser leg. The thigh muscle had a deep bullet wound from side to side; it was stuffed with cloth and had stopped bleeding for the most part, but was still seeping moisture. The muscle had nearly been cut through.

  “No broken bones, anyway,” Charlotte said. She had watched the granny woman from French Mills often enough to have an idea what to do. She sent Mrs. Prentice to cut some strips of bark from the willow trees along the riverbank and Newton for water from Harp Webb’s cave. She set the water boiling in two pans, one for willow bark tea and the other, just a small amount, simmering with some mashed slippery elm bark and coneflower root she kept in a jar in the rafters. She folded this mash into a clean cloth and packed it into the wound, wrapping it gently into place with more strips of cloth.

  “Now we wait,” she said. She looked at the group. “I’m going to go wash my hands. If he wakes up, soak a rag in that tea and give it to him to suck on.”

  She walked to the river and rinsed off her hands. The water was cold but felt good.

  “Really, now,” she said, surprising herself with the sound of her own voice. “What am I trying to prove?” She had no answer for her question and went on rinsing her hands and arms until all the blood was gone.

  In turns, they watched him through the night, and in the morning Charlotte changed his dressing. By noon Hildebrand had roused. He made an ugly face as he drank the willow bark tea, but drank it nevertheless.

  “You could put some honey in this,” he croaked.

  “If we had any,” Charlotte said.

  Hildebrand closed his eyes and laid his head back on the pillow. After a moment he spoke, looking at the ceiling. “I was figuring to get to Harp Webb’s cave and rest up a few days,” he said. “Either die there or get better and go on. My mama and wife are down in Arkansas.”

  “Run into some soldiers?”

  Hildebrand peeked down at his leg and let out a soft chuckle. “No. I was staying with some friends up by Mineral Point, and some local boy thought he’d make his name by killing the notorious Hildebrand. Shot me as I was going to the privy in the morning, then run off.” He looked down at the leg again. “Just so you know. You’re not going to cut that off.”

  “Not planning to, Mr. Hildebrand.” Charlotte picked little Adam out of his crib and went to the door. “If you’re up to it tonight, I’ll boil you an egg.”

  She stepped outside into the cool air, although she had nowhere to go. She could hardly imagine that she had been in there, talking with that killer, as if he were some casual passerby. Had she lost her senses? On the other hand, she couldn’t see another path to take.

  Newton came up to her as she sat under the tree. He leaned against her leg, which was his new way of keeping contact without performing the little-boy move of sitting on her lap. “Marie says that man is a very bad man,” he sa
id.

  “He is, honey. He’s a bad man.”

  “Is he going to hurt you?”

  Charlotte put her arm around him. “No. He can’t hurt me or anyone else.”

  “Why are we helping him?”

  She squeezed him tighter. “I was just wondering that myself. I guess it’s because he’s hurt, and maybe helping a hurt man is more important than stopping a bad man. Even when they’re the same person.”

  But she stayed away from the house the rest of the day and let Frances tend to Hildebrand. At night she went in to find him sitting in a chair at the table, drinking a glass of water with grave deliberation, while Newton sat across from him and watched his every move.

  “Your boy looks like he’s going to eat my liver,” Hildebrand said.

  “You needn’t worry,” Charlotte said. “He’s a good boy, and we have already discussed you.”

  Hildebrand cocked an eye at her. “Glad to know it,” he said. “That poultice you made is a fine thing. I can feel the healing already.”

  She boiled three eggs and placed them on the table. “Here you go,” she said. They each took an egg, peeled it, and ate in silence.

  “I came back here the night after that scrape,” Hildebrand said at last. “I had figured to collect my boys. The Federals usually just let ‘em lay. But I saw that you all had buried them, and for that I thank you. I sent word to their families, so if you have strangers wanting to visit your graveyard, that’s probably who it will be.”

  “And you?” Charlotte said. “The ones you kill? Do you just let them lay?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I suppose I do. I take your point.” He chewed a bite of egg thoughtfully. “I heard about them running all the men out of here. I’m sorry for that. Your husband all right?”

  “He’s back East with my father, in the Army of the Potomac. He’s all right as far as we know.”

  Hildebrand’s glance sneaked over to the table by the stove, but it was clear that the egg was all any of them were getting that night. So he kept his peace.

  “And that deserter?”

  “When the Federals came through, they took him prisoner. He’s confined up at Jefferson’s Barracks. We don’t hear as much out of him, but we’re hoping he’ll get paroled soon.”

  “What a world,” he said. “If I had joined up when my brother William did, I might have been out east with the Federals myself. Instead, I’m here, getting shot by a sneak in the bushes.” He took another drink of his water. “It’s all right, though. I’m not cut out for warfare at a distance. If I’m going to kill someone, I’d prefer to know his name.”

  “Does that make it more moral?”

  “Moral?” Hildebrand snorted. “I never made any such claim. I’ve got three brothers and an uncle dead, my house burnt out, and my wife and mother on the run. I’d hate to be the man who could see all that happen and not pick up a gun. I didn’t want to be a sheep, so I chose to be a wolf instead.”

  “And after this war is over? Will you be able to put down the wolf and pick up the man?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Over? I haven’t given a moment’s thought to this war being over. I guess it will have to end someday, won’t it.”

  “Of course it will. And when it does, we will all have to look at what we have become.”

  “What I would like to know,” Hildebrand said, “is whether there is any spot on this earth where man is just. I can live with kill-and-be-killed. I didn’t want to wait for divine justice, so I made my own. Put my thumb on the scales, you might say. And once your thumb is on the scales, you can’t take it off. Now that I’m on this path, I have to walk down it to the end, and that’s fine. But I’d like to know if somebody else somewhere has figured out another path, even though it’s not for me. Just to know that it’s there.”

  Charlotte gathered up the plates and put them on the counter. She could scour them in the morning.

  “I’d like to know that too, Mr. Hildebrand,” she said, with her back turned. “You killed a very dear friend of mine, I suppose you know that.”

  Hildebrand sat silent. “Yes,” he said, after a while. “Good man, too. No reason at all for him to run out and warn those boys, except he thought it was the right thing to do. We weren’t going to harm any of you people, just wanted you out of the way during the fighting and didn’t want no alarms. Maybe help ourselves to some food.”

  She turned from the counter and looked at him across the room, her arms folded. “So if I were to want to put my thumb on a scale.…”

  “Yes, ma’am, I guess it would be me who would rise up on the other side. Well, if I may, I’d like to know where my horse and gear are. I will leave in the morning. Margaret and Mama will be worried down in Arkansas.”

  “They’re in Webb’s barn. Your horse is fine, a little underfed, I’m afraid, but that’s all we can do. Newton, get ready for bed.” The boy got up from the table, his eyes still on Hildebrand, and walked sideways to the back room.

  “Ma’am, I need to tell you this,” Hildebrand said. “I am not a man who forgets a slight, but I am also not one to forget a kindness either. If your husband comes back here, you can tell him that he is safe from me and mine. Normally, a man tries to shoot me, I’m not going to rest until I shoot him. But you, well.…”

  “Don’t thank me,” Charlotte said. “I was trying to shoot you, too.”

  This nonplussed him. He pushed his chair back from the table. Unable to walk, he lowered himself to the floor on his hands and scooted himself to his pallet, not speaking.

  Charlotte was about to follow Newton into the bedroom but stopped at the door. “That one-armed man who was with you back in fifty-nine, the one who tried to hang Lysander Smith—”

  “I remember him. Lost that arm in a flour mill, or so he told me.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Cunningham. Matty Cunningham. It was his daddy’s flour mill, down in Bloomfield, where he lost that arm.”

  “His parents, they’re still living?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  She went to bed then, got Adam in his cradle and Newton tucked in the trundle, but sometime in the night Newton crawled into the big bed with her and she let him stay. She awoke in the wee hours to hear Hildebrand scraping his way across the floor and out the door. She knew it would be the Christian thing to go out and help him, but couldn’t find it in herself to do it. A half an hour later, she heard a horse go past the door. When it reached the road, its hoofbeats clattered away at a fast clip; she supposed Hildebrand had decided to forgo secrecy in favor of speed.

  The next morning, once Adam was fed and safely in the hands of Frances for a couple of hours, she went to the barn and found a piece of board. There was a broken shovel handle leaning against the wall; she split the handle end with the axe and fixed the board into it, tying it into place with some pieces of rope. Then she laid it in the wagon, brought a pot of ink from the print shed, and drove across the river. She tied the horse to a tree at the side of the road and walked into the scrubland.

  It wasn’t hard to find the grave of the one-armed man. The ground across the river was sandy, brushy undergrowth; the big cedar tree was one of the few landmarks. She located the mound of dirt on the north side of the tree, as long as a man.

  Charlotte laid the marker on the ground, cleaned off a stick, and painted the man’s name on it with the printer’s ink. Then she found a rock and drove the broken end of the shovel handle into the ground. It went in easily; the soil was not hard packed.

  She looked around. It was a scrubby piece of ground, with greenbriar and blackberry bushes all over. The blackberries were probably what attracted the bear Adam had mentioned once, long ago. It was not a good place to be buried, but then again, what place was.

  When the spring floods came, this marker would probably be washed away. She knew that. But tonight she would write the family, and at least they would know where their son was buried. Even a killer
was someone’s son, somebody’s darling.

  Charlotte untied the horse and took the wagon back to the barn. She returned the ink pot to the print shed; the Washington press and trays of type sat undisturbed, gathering dust. Perhaps she and Marie should start up The Eagle again; Marie could typeset, and between the two of them they could come up with ideas. But she discarded the notion as soon as it passed through her mind. Where would they get paper? What bits they could come by were precious for letter writing. And who would be their readers? Their subscriber list was probably as out-of-date as Harp Webb’s old muzzle-loader.

  No, she supposed, the time was not right for publishing, reaching out, trying to set an example. Now was the time for holding on. Another morning in Daybreak, a day in which to survive, to gather remnants, to act the part of the groundhog and burrow deep, to hold on to what is dear while storms present and future raged overhead. God willing, Turner would return someday, Turner and her father, and all the rest, and they would write new chapters to their lives. And for those who did not return, she could only hope that someone would mark their graves and write their families.

  Charlotte looked at the sky and checked the angle of the sun. Adam would surely be awake by now, and hungry. It was time to get on with the day.

  Book Club Questions

  1. Is Adam Cabot too idealistic for his own good? How would you strike a balance between idealism and practicality in their world and in ours?

  2. How harshly do you judge Turner for his failings? Should Charlotte have forgiven him?

  3. How do you feel about Charlotte and Adam and their involvement?

  4. Which of the secondary characters is the most memorable to you and why?

  5. Although Sam Hildebrand’s actions in the novel are fictional, he was a real-life Missouri bushwhacker. How did you feel about him, and did your feelings change over the course of the novel?