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.”
She smiled back at him. “Can you stay with Newton for just another moment? I’ll be right back.” She walked to the woodroom, stepped inside quietly, and draped the coat over the rifles.
Hildebrand and his men were seated on the benches, finishing their breakfast, while a few others stood watch outside.
“You seem awfully calm for someone with killing on his mind,” Charlotte said to him.
Hildebrand barely looked up. “You get used to it.”
“You’ve joined the rebels then?” Turner said.
“I ain’t exactly joined,” Hildebrand said, squinting into the distance. “I’d say that my war and their war are running in the same general direction. I’ve never been a joiner.” He opened his coat and drew a pistol, checking its chambers. “And now I’m going to have to get down to business. Boys.”
At his word, the guerrillas jumped up from the tables and headed for the door. Hildebrand walked to the dais.
“Here’s the thing,” he said. “You people need to stay inside here until we’re done. Stay away from the windows. I do not want you people hurt by stray bullets. Or aimed ones either, for that matter.”
A man opened the door and put his head in. “Found some guns.”
“What did you find?” Hildebrand said.
“Couple of muzzle-loaders, one old musket.”
Hildebrand’s eyes found Harp Webb standing beside the entrance. “Take a look, Harp.”
Webb stepped outside and then back in. “They had some better ones. Breech-loaders.”
Charlotte spoke up. “Those were my father’s. He took them with him when he left.”
“Could be,” Webb said with a shrug.
“Search again,” Hildebrand said to the man. He surveyed Charlotte. “Your father couldn’t take the wilderness life?”
“My father was recalled to the service of his country.”
Hildebrand sat down at a bench and wiped his face with his hand. “Union man, eh? I was a Union man myself. Brother William joined up, not sure where he is now.” His face turned stony. “But that was before the Vigilance Committee up in St. Francois County hung Brother Frank, burned my house, and shot Brother Wash and Brother Henry. Boy of thirteen.” He stood up. “Since then, if it’s got a blue coat, I shoot it.”
They could see the men gathering their horses on the side of the Temple that faced the mountain, away from the river. From there, no one on the road could see them. Their plan—and the reason for using Daybreak—came clear to Charlotte. Through the windows they saw a man climb from the rain barrel onto the roof, and soon there was the sound of scuffing and scraping as he crawled to the top.
The man returned. “No more guns. But we found this.” He held the door open further and pushed Prentice inside. “Walking up the road like he was on a picnic outing.”
“Step up here and let me see you,” Hildebrand said. Prentice’s captor handed Hildebrand his musket, which he examined with amusement. “What unit are you with?”
“State militia, first district.”
“Those boys are a dozen miles away fighting Yankees. You’re a damn deserter.” He pulled a pistol from his belt and leveled it at Prentice’s chest. “Oh no, sir, they sent me out on a foraging party.”
“A deserter and a liar. Too bad I can’t kill you twice.” He cocked the hammer of the pistol, but then stopped and cast a glance toward the roof. “Well, hell, don’t want to perk up the Federals. If I had time I’d hang you. May yet.” He lowered the pistol and looked at Turner. “That reminds me, I hear you make some fine rope.”
“We do,” Turner said.
“I am going to purchase some from you. We had to hang a fellow with hickory bark the other day, and it was damn hard going.”
“I’m not going to sell you rope to hang one of our own people with.”
“Guess I’ll just confiscate it then.” He put his hand on the door latch.
There was a soft knock at the door. “Chalmers says he sees something, Captain,” said a voice.
“Ain’t that something? I’m a captain,” Hildebrand said, grinning. “If this goes well, maybe I’ll make myself a major. Tell Chalmers to get down off of there.” He stepped outside. The sun was full up now, and it was a beautiful morning. The fog had all burned away. Hildebrand took one of his pistols and gave it to Webb. “Harp, set yourself outside the door here. Kill anything that comes out, man, woman, child, or barn cat.” He left, shutting the door behind him.
Prentice walked to one of the benches and sat down, his wife and children gathered around him. He put his head in his hands.
“I been almost killed now twice today,” he said. “I got back to my company just in time for them to get throwed up against about twice as many Federals, just south of town, and artillery like I never seen. So I decided it was time to hoof it. And now here’s this man going to shoot me right in the chest in front of my family, or hang me. I can’t put up with this kind of thing.”
Charlotte walked over and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t despair,” she said. “You never know in the morning where you’ll be by nightfall.”
“Hanging from that tree yonder, is how it looks to me,” Prentice moaned.
“Oh hush up, you fool,” said his wife. “Is that any way to talk in front of the children? Now take hold of yourself.”
Her words shamed him into stillness. He stood up and wiped his eyes, forcing a smile.
Through the windows behind them they could see the horsemen mounting up, hidden from the ford by the walls of the Temple. One man remained on foot, his reins in his hand, looking around the corner of the building.
“How many do you count?” Turner said quietly to Charlotte. She walked to one of the back windows and casually glanced out.
“Nineteen,” she said. “Plus Harp at the door.”
“And us with three rifles among us,” he whispered to her. He looked around the room. “And fewer marksmen. Even counting you, and I know you’re a better shot than most of these men. Maybe Prentice has had some practice.” He raised his voice to a speaking level. “Prentice, how many battles did you get into?”
Prentice was still in a stupor, gazing out the window in contemplation of his future hanging. “A couple. Today was the first big one.”
“Shoot anybody?”
“I shot in the direction of some people, don’t know if I hit them. That old gun they gave me was like something from Colonial days. I didn’t know you was supposed to bring your own weapon.”
“Can you come here for a minute? There’s something I want to ask you.”
Prentice walked to where Turner and Charlotte were standing. They put their heads together.
“I don’t need to tell you, if those men succeed, they will come back and hang you,” Turner said in a low voice. “We have three quality rifles in the back room. Will you take one up when the time comes?”
“Sure,” Prentice said, a look of surprise on his face. “Better than sitting here waiting to get killed.”
Despite Hildebrand’s warning, people crowded to the windows on the other side of the Temple, where they could see to the river. Before long they saw what the man on the roof had spotted: a troop of infantry, rifles shouldered, working their way down the hill across the river.
“Must have been sent to try to get behind the rebels,” Cabot murmured.
“Either that, or they’re just lost,” said Charlotte.
From the other side of the Temple they could hear Hildebrand instructing his men. “Don’t shoot till you’re in among ‘em,” he said. “I’ll lead the way. We’ll take their uniforms once we’ve finished them all. They could come in handy.”
“There must be forty men in that patrol,” Charlotte whispered to Turner. “They’re going to take on that big a group?”
“Looks that way,” Turner whispered back.
The Union troops disappeared behind the trees after they had made it down the rocky slope. For several painful minutes nothing could be seen. Everyone waited in silence.
Then the first soldiers arrived at the ford. They stopped. Before long the whole troop was standing on the riverbank.
They could see someone, apparently an officer, striding up and down the ranks. Finally he pulled out a sword and waved it in the air, and then led the way into the river.
“Of course they don’t want to go,” Emile said. “Water’s cold this time of year.”
The men followed reluctantly, holding their rifles in the air above them. “Okay, boys,” Hildebrand said. “We start once the last one is halfway across.”
From that distance, no sound could be heard from the soldiers crossing the river. Charlotte could imagine their mutterings of discomfort, their grumbling at the water in their boots and the blisters they would no doubt get from the soaking. The men went in the water by fours, trying their best to stay in ranks as they forded the river. Soon almost all of them were in.
Adam Cabot broke the silence. “Well, thunder,” he said. “I don’t think that old horse pistol of Hildebrand’s has much range.”
Without another word he threw open the door. Harp Webb was sitting on the step, watching the soldiers ford the river, and Cabot’s exit caught him by surprise. Cabot kicked him to the bottom of the steps and ran for the river in a mad zigzag, waving his arms and shouting, “Look out! Look out! Look out!”
Harp Webb regained his balance and fired the pistol at him several times, missing each time. Cabot leaped the rail fence at the edge of the field and ran down the road, still shouting.
“Well, shit!” Hildebrand barked. He took his rifle from its saddle holster, drew a bead, and knocked Cabot down with one shot. “All right, let’s go, boys!”
Charlotte covered her mouth to fight back a scream. Adam had been struck, but where? How badly was he hurt? The rattle of hooves, the neighs of the horses, sounded muffled and faraway in her ears compared to the sound of that single rifle shot. She watched the spot where he lay. There was motion. No, it was only her imagination. No, he moved for certain. He raised himself up, knelt, perhaps walked or crawled away a few feet. The fence and the weeds blocked her view.
The guerrillas rode around the corner of the Temple and were quickly at a gallop through the cornfield, leaping their horses over the rail fence at the other side of the field. But Cabot’s warning cries had alerted the Union soldiers. The ones who had reached the near bank, including the officer, formed a thin line, but they fired much too soon and too high. Bullets spattered off the walls of the Temple, and one went through a window. Only one of the guerrillas was hit.
The soldiers on the bank tried to reload, but their weapons were old and had to be ramrodded. By the time they had gotten in the powder, shot, and wadding, Hildebrand’s guerrillas were among them, firing at close range with their revolvers. Their officer made a saber swipe at one of the horsemen but was cut down by several shots.
The troops in the river ran for the opposite bank, and the ones who had not yet entered took cover behind trees. The riders galloped into the river after them, but the water slowed their progress, and even though they shot down several of the retreating soldiers in the river, the men on the other bank were able to get off a good volley. Three more horsemen went down.
Turner pulled himself away from the window and went into the woodroom. He took out the rifles and placed each one beside a window on the river side of the Temple. Marie and Frances saw what he was doing and moved to the windows, taking cartridges out of their hiding places. They didn’t have many—maybe a dozen each—but it would have to do.
“Prop open all these windows,” Turner said. “Prentice, get over there by Marie. She’ll hand you cartridges as you fire. Children, get into the woodroom or up against these stone walls. There might be some flying glass. Boys, I’m sorry, but I think Charlotte’s a better shot than you. Stay here behind the walls and be ready to pick up if someone gets disabled.”
Charlotte heard him speak but didn’t move. She couldn’t take her eyes off the place where Cabot had fallen. She was sure she had seen something—had he waved? Was that a signal for help?
There was a gentle hand on her back, and Frances Wickman spoke in her ear.
“Here, dearie. We’ll fetch him once it’s safe.” Frances pressed the carbine into her hands.
Charlotte looked at it a moment uncomprehendingly, then her thoughts snapped into place. Adam had leapt into action when he saw his moment, and so must she. She took the cartridges from her apron and laid them in a row on the windowsill. About half a box. Not enough for a sustained fight. If they ran out of cartridges, she didn’t know what they would do. Throw rocks, she supposed. But the thick stone of the Temple walls felt reassuring.
The riders retreated to the near bank and began shooting the wounded, but one more volley from across the river made them retreat even farther. Then Hildebrand waved his arm. The men leaned from their saddles to pick up their dead and wounded, swung them up, and started back toward Daybreak.
“Shoot when they pass that last corn shock,” Turner said. “Aim low.” A moment later, he cried, “Now!”
Charlotte had not fired the Sharps in quite some time, and its recoil knocked her back. The side of the Temple was enveloped in smoke for a few seconds; when it cleared, she could see another rider down.
The guerrillas seemed to assume that the colonists were firing muzzle-loaders like the ones the soldiers had, for as soon as their volley had been fired they spurred their horses forward. But the speed of reloading the breechloaders paid off; another two horsemen hit the ground before any of them were even within good pistol range. Charlotte, Turner, and Prentice reloaded and shot as fast as they could.
Through it all, she kept an eye on the spot where Adam Cabot had fallen. For endless minutes he lay still, and Charlotte fought back cold dread at the thought that he had been killed. But she could not let this thought distract her in the smoke and confusion. There was no time for tender feeling. She had no idea whether she had shot anyone or not. Bodies were scattered through the cornfield, and she had aimed at some, but she felt a disconnection between her firing and the human beings lying in the field before her. The roar of the rifles firing from inside the Temple made her stunned and temporarily deaf.
She turned away from the windows, snapping open the breechblock on her rifle and blowing out the debris. She snapped another cartridge into place and thought about what might happen after Hildebrand regrouped his men. The front of the Temple was defended well enough; but if any of the horsemen made it to the back side, they could fire through the windows behind them, and that would be a quick end. Or they might come in from the back door through the woodroom.
Charlotte turned toward the front door just in time to see it open about a foot and the tip of a pistol barrel poke inside. She raised the rifle to her shoulder and fired through the door at where the holder of the pistol would be standing. The blast made a tremendous echo inside the Temple, the pistol fell away, and then all was quiet.
By now the remaining soldiers had recovered themselves and crossed the river. They took positions on the bank and fired into the backs of Hildebrand’s men. Their aim was still not good—another window broke—but the shooting from behind had its desired effect, and the horsemen took off down the road at a gallop. Charlotte’s ears were ringing so loudly that she wondered if the sound would ever go away.
She looked out the window again. Adam Cabot was no longer there.
They emerged into the October sunlight. Harp Webb lay writhing on the steps, but Charlotte paid him no mind. She walked past him. She could see the Federal soldiers gathering themselves at the ford and the last of Hildebrand’s guerrillas disappearing around the bend past Webb’s house. Everyone was coming out of the Temple, sooty and disheveled, into the cool morning air.
Charlotte began to walk, and then to run, through the cornfields to where Cabot had fallen. She threw the rifle aside and climbed over the rail fence by the main road.
“Adam?” she cried. “Adam!”
There was no reply.
She looked around, frantic. Perhaps she had come to the wrong place. Perhaps he had not been hurt as badly as she had imagined.
Then she saw him on the riverbank. He had crawled off the road and was struggling to prop himself up against the trunk of a cottonwood tree. His face was sweaty and covered with dust, and his eyes were open. Charlotte ducked under the ropemaking tables, scrambled down the bank to him, and wiped his dusty face with her apron. Her efforts only smeared the dust; she dipped the apron in the river and tried again. That was better.
“Here. Here,” she said, helping him sit upright.
“Good,” he murmured.
She placed her hand inside his shirt and felt his heart weakly beating. She felt lower. Hildebrand’s bullet had caught him in the left side, a few inches below the armpit. With every breath Cabot took, she could hear a rattling gurgle from the wound. Cabot’s gaze was unfocused, and his eyes wandered.
“Can you hear me?” she said.
Her voice brought his attention back. He looked at her with an expression of deep fatigue and nodded his head. “You’re badly hurt,” she said. He nodded again. “Just stay still. We’ll bring help.”
Cabot’s gaze searched her face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m staying with you.” That seemed to relieve him; he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Charlotte kept her hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall in short, jagged bursts. He was gazing intently at the river; she reached with her other hand and dipped her apron in again, holding it to his face.
“Adam,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.” He opened his eyes again and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Oh, yes,” she said in answer to his unspoken response. “There’s always something more to say.” His lips formed a thin smile.
She dipped her hand into the water and let a thin stream fall into his mouth. Cabot worked his lips, swallowing the water, and his face relaxed. “Good,” he said again. His breath was shallow and wheezy.
From the shade of the cottonwood tree they could see the Temple of Community across the valley. Cabot’s gaze drifted to it. “Long way,” he said.
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “It’s a long way.”
He looked at her with a vague expression on his face. “True,” he said. She wasn’t sure what he meant, but nodded anyway and held the damp end of her apron against his brow.
Then his eyes focused, and he seemed more intent. His face got the pugnacious expression it used to have when he was arguing with George Webb. “I meant to tell you.”
He tried to draw a breath. His lips moved, but no more sound came out. His gaze drifted toward the river and settled there as Charlotte watched the light in them fade. And then he was still.