The crowd had gathered around the grandstand and depot while others lined both sides of the railroad tracks. Chauncey glanced down Main Street, looking for the automobile bringing Congressman Zeller but instead saw Tillman Estep walking toward him. A mother picked up her child as Estep approached, turned so the child wouldn’t see Estep’s face. Showing up to bask in a real hero’s fame, Chauncey thought as he watched Estep make his way through the crowd, and quite willing to frighten children with his Halloween mask of a face to do it.
Chauncey heard his name shouted. Jack stood on the depot platform, waving frantically for him to come. He walked rapidly toward the depot where Boyce Clayton gestured at a paper in his hand. At first Chauncey thought it was a telegram saying the train had been delayed. Then his stomach knotted as he realized the telegram might contain news that would ruin everything he’d worked so hard on. But as Chauncey stepped onto the platform, he saw it wasn’t a telegram but a wanted poster.
“Me and Ansel, we’ve seen this fellow,” Boyce said.
Chauncey shoved closer.
“Where?”
“At Hank Shelton’s place. This fellow’s living with them. Slidell Hampton took us down there to play music one evening and we seen him.”
Linville Wray took the poster and stared at the etching.
“Let’s go get the damn Hun.”
“Count me in,” Jubel Parton said. “Somebody get my horse and I’ll fetch rifles and ammunition, and plenty of rope.”
“Me and Ansel are with you,” Boyce Clayton said.
“I can go on ahead and get my dogs,” Linville Wray said, “just in case he tries to hightail it.”
But what about the ceremony, Chauncey almost said, as men prepared to get their horses.
“How come you just to notice it was him today?” Chauncey asked.
“There wasn’t much chance little as we get to town,” Boyce said.
“That’s right,” Ansel added. “Slidell and Hank both said he was from New York. How was we to know the otherwise?”
“The when don’t matter,” Jubel said. “We know now and we’re wasting time.”
“You going to lead them, Sergeant Feith?” Wilber asked, standing beside Chauncey now.
“Of course he is,” Jack said, “and we’ll be with him.”
“I’m thinking we should contact Sheriff Crockett in Marshall,” Chauncey said. “I mean, a matter like this is more his jurisdiction than mine.”
“Wait a damn minute,” Jubel seethed. “Hell, that Hun could be in the next county by the time the sheriff gets here.”
“It’s called proper protocol,” Chauncey stammered.
Jubel stared at him.
“I got another name to call it, Feith,” Linville Wray said.
Everyone stared at him now, and on their faces, even Jack’s, was the same look Chauncey had seen on the playground when he was a boy and wouldn’t roughhouse and the same look he’d gotten from people like Tillman Estep and Hank Shelton and now a fourteen-year-old. All of them wanting to think the worst of Chauncey Feith. But this time would be different, he decided. He’d show them once and for all.
“Meet in front of the Turkey Trot,” Chauncey said, and pushed through the crowd to get to the stable.
The men gathered on their mounts and Jubel came from the hardware store with an armful of rifles and a box of bullets, three ropes coiled around his shoulder.
“Slidell’s around here somewhere,” Boyce said. “I seen his wagon. Maybe he can help.”
“How do we know he ain’t helping that damn Hun?” Jubel asked. “You said he knew him. Besides, we ain’t got time to wait.”
“Let’s go,” Chauncey said.
He jerked the reins and turned Traveler. The horse galloped down Main Street scattering pedestrians and halting a Pierce-Arrow limousine, the astonished face of Senator Zeller behind the passenger glass. Chauncey passed the last storefront and soon caught up with Linville Wray and his wagonload of dogs. Chauncey slowed and told Linville to meet him not at the cove mouth but at Hank Shelton’s place, then slapped Traveler’s flank and the horse was again at full gallop. Chauncey glanced back and saw that the boys and men followed. He remembered how Boyce hardly acknowledged him three months earlier at the Turkey Trot, but by God Boyce and Ansel both were following him now and so were Jubel Parton and Linville Wray. He felt the horse beneath him, solid and assured. Traveler obeyed each tug of the reins without hesitation. Jubel and his horse briefly pulled alongside, but when they turned onto the narrower wayfare Jubel fell back and Chauncey led alone.
“Make sure your guns are loaded,” Chauncey said when they got to Slidell Hampton’s house.
Chauncey took a magazine from his ammo pouch, turned so the others couldn’t see his hands trembled. He pushed the magazine into the Colt’s handle and pulled the slide back, released it to put a round in the chamber.
“How many guns does Hank have?” Chauncey asked Boyce.
“No more than a shotgun by my reckoning,” Boyce said. “But I can’t figure him to be on a German’s side in a fight.”
“Hank and Laurel, I don’t think they know who he is,” Ansel added.
“We’re arresting them all,” Chauncey ordered. “What’s the truth and what ain’t we can sort out later.”
Chapter Twenty-three
As they walked through the woods, no breeze stirred what last leaves clung to the branches, but it wasn’t like the stillness before an afternoon thunderstorm or after a thick snow. Instead, it seemed the earth had paused, unsure if it wanted to turn back toward summer or move on into winter.
“When we get to New York, will we live beside the ocean?” Laurel asked.
“If not, we’ll be near.”
“Good,” Laurel said. “I want to look at something I can’t see the end of. That’s how it is, isn’t it, endless?”
“Yes,” Walter said.
They came to the brook and made their way upstream. Laurel set the muscadine wine in the pool and they stepped onto the outcrop and unpacked the basket. The rock was warmer than last time, brighter as well since there was no haze or clouds, just a wide rising into a depthless blue. As Walter unfurled the checkered quilt, he imagined it seen from an aeroplane or zeppelin, the cloth like a flag making some human claim on this wild place.
“I should have had you bring your flute,” Laurel said as she took the bread and preserves from the basket, set out the plates and napkins and knife. “But I’m of a mind we’ve got enough prettiness without it.”
More than enough, Walter thought, with the blue sky and the stream’s sparkling mica amid the flow and shoal of yellow leaves. The dress Laurel wore was pretty too, the finer cloth clinging to her body’s curves, the dress’s cut revealing more of her breasts and shoulders. When Laurel had first come out of her room, he had found the green color unsettling, but now he saw it for what it really was, not an omen but a confirmation that what he’d once lost had finally returned. They ate, then drank the wine. Afterward they lay down, Laurel with her head on his shoulder. Walter listened to water slide off the ledge and splash below. He closed his eyes and felt the sun take away the deep-earth dampness that had seeped into him. With the sound of the water and the way the outcrop seemed to float above the cove, it was as if they were adrift. He remembered a song he had heard in Central Park about rowing a boat because life was but a dream.
Laurel settled her hand over his. They did not talk and after a while he thought she might be asleep, but then she spoke.
“When you think about the Vaterland, do you ever have moments when you think it didn’t exist?”
“Not recently,” he said. “You have made certain of that.”
“I guess so,” Laurel said, and smiled. “There’s so much more I want to know, know good enough not to forget. The place you were born is called Narsdorf and is in Saxony and the con
servatory is in Leipzig.”
Walter nodded.
“May fourth is your birthday and your sisters’ names are Gertrude and Lena, and your father’s name is Claus and your mother’s Anna.”
“Very good,” he said.
For a few moments they were silent. The wine and sun had made him sleepy and he closed his eyes.
“As lonely a life as I’ve had in this place I’d not wish it otherwise,” Laurel said, “because had it been different I wouldn’t have met you. Your life, it’s not been a bed of roses either.”
“Easier than yours,” Walter said.
“But it was hard for you at the conservatory.”
“Not so bad after the first few weeks.”
“And you were twelve when you went there?” Laurel asked.
“Yes, twelve.”
“But now things are better,” Laurel said, “so there’s no need for us fret about what once was.”
Laurel leaned and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss lengthened and they shed clothes and brought their bodies together, but in a drowsy way, then fell asleep with their clothes a pillow, the quilt half under and half around them. After a while they woke and dressed. For a few minutes they sat on the quilt, listening to water veil the forest’s other sounds.
“I guess we better get back so I can start supper,” Laurel said.
Walter helped Laurel to her feet. She brushed off the dress.
“I’ll have to wash it again before we leave for New York, but it was nice wearing it for you. It made today more special.”
“Yes,” Walter said. “It did.”
Laurel put the cups and knife and preserves in the basket, but instead of packing the quilt and wine bottle, she found four flat creek stones and placed one on each corner of the quilt. She set the wine bottle in the middle and secured it with a small cairn of rocks.
“Why are you doing so?” he asked.
“Because this might be the last time we get to picnic here. Even if it’s not us or Hank and his family, somebody else will come to this cove, maybe to live. I want them to see that something happy could happen here.”
Walter picked up the basket and followed Laurel off the outcrop and past the pool where she’d chilled the wine. They followed the brook’s leaps and pauses into the cove.
“Maybe I’ll make a pie for tonight,” Laurel said. “Would you like that?”
“I would,” he said.
“Slidell gave us those apples. You want that or blackberry?”
“Blackberry.”
“All right,” Laurel said. “But there’s one condition.”
“Which is?”
Laurel turned and smiled.
“You let Hank fetch the cinnamon this time.”
The brook grew quieter as the land leveled. The path veered away from the water and into the woods. They were halfway to the cabin when they heard dogs barking and then a shout.
“Something’s wrong,” Laurel said.
Walter set the basket down and they hurried through the trees until they could see the cabin.
Hank was roped to a porch rail and a man in a uniform pointed a pistol at him. Another man tied a noose to the well’s scaffolding. Boyce Clayton was in the yard with a red-headed man who held a leash in each hand, on the other ends two dogs, their long ears dragging the ground as they circled and sniffed.
“They know you’re here,” Laurel whispered as Ansel Clayton came from the cabin with a shirt. “Come on. Hurry.”
When they got to the brook, Laurel told him to take off his shirt. He did and handed it to her.
“Wade up the creek and don’t let your feet touch the bank,” Laurel said. “Go to the waterfall. If I don’t show up by dusk, go to your old camp. I’ll come for you when it’s safe.”
Chapter Twenty-four
They made their way to where the land began its descent. The path became rockier and they passed beneath a drift of tin and bottles, on the ground salt and chips of colored glass. Chauncey knew why they’d been placed here and thought of last January when he’d asked Slidell Hampton to take the telegram about Hank’s wound to Laurel. I’d not have thought a military man to be spooked by old wives’ tales, Slidell had taunted.
The cliff’s shadow engulfed them and the men as well as the boys got quieter. The air became cool and moist. By the time the ground leveled, the cliff cleaved half the sky. Chauncey had heard there were places in this cove that light had never touched, and if a man lingered long in one he’d never be able to look at the sun again. He thumbed back the Colt’s safety.
Chauncey slowed and let the others ride alongside as they came out of the woods. Hank was on the porch but there was no gun visible. Even if he has one, with one hand he won’t be able to aim it good, Chauncey reassured himself.
“Where’s that Hun spy you’re hiding?” Chauncey ordered as they dismounted.
“What are you talking about?” Hank asked.
“Walter,” Boyce said, “the one what plays the fife.”
“Use one of them ropes to tie him up,” Chauncey ordered Jubel. “You boys help.”
“He’s a musician,” Hank said, “from New York.”
Chauncey unholstered the pistol and aimed it at Hank, willing his hand not to tremble.
“Where’s your sister, helping him hide?”
“He ain’t no spy,” Hank said. “He can’t even talk.”
“Grab him,” Jubel shouted, and he and the boys pinned Hank against the side railing.
The boys held Hank while Jubel bound him, leaving just enough rope to knot the ends tight around a slat.
“Where are they?” Chauncey demanded.
“You go to hell, Feith,” Hank said.
Chauncey heard the hounds coming down the trail into the cove.
“We need something he’s worn and them dogs will find him quick enough,” Boyce said.
“Go get something you figure his,” Chauncey told Ansel, “and make sure that Hun ain’t hiding under a bed. Boyce, check the woodshed. Jack, take Wilber and search the barn and don’t forget the loft.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said.
In the side yard a scaffold had been built over the well but there was no pulley or bucket.
“You better check that well, Jubel,” Chauncey said.
Jubel took a rope with him. He struck a match and peered into the well mouth, then threw the rope over the top beam and tied a noose.
“One less thing to do when we find him,” Jubel said. “Once he quits kicking all we’ll have to do is cut the rope.”
Ansel came out of the cabin with a chambray shirt.
“You sure it’s his?” Chauncey asked.
“Too small to be Hank’s,” Boyce said.
“When I get these damn ropes off me, I’m coming for all you sons of bitches,” Hank shouted.
“Maybe we won’t give you the chance, Shelton,” Jubel said. “The good thing about a noose is you can use it more than once.”
“There ain’t no call to ponder nooses,” Boyce said.
“The water’s yet murky on all of this,” Ansel agreed, “and it looks to be murky for a while yet.”
“If you old men ain’t got the stomach for it, head on back to town,” Jubel said. “Right, Chauncey?”
The men turned to Chauncey, and it wasn’t a bunch of boys waiting for orders but three men, two of them a good thirty years older and Boyce a Spanish War veteran.
“That’s right,” Chauncey said to Boyce and Ansel, “though after what the Huns did to your nephew I’d have thought you all to be the first to help.”
Boyce and Ansel didn’t respond but they didn’t leave. In a few minutes two hounds came out of the woods with Linville stumbling behind, the leashes jerking and swaying in his hands.
“Left the wagon and other dogs at Slidell’
s,” Linville said, “but these two are the proudest in the pack.”
“This is his,” Boyce said.
He handed the chambray shirt to Linville, who wadded it and let the dogs nuzzle the cloth before unleashing them. The hounds circled the yard until one gave a long moan and made a low-nosed rush into the woods, the other close behind.
“They’ve struck it,” Linville said.
“Let Linville ride with you, Wilber,” Chauncey said, and turned Traveler toward the far ridge.
At first the dogs and horses followed a discernible path through the woods. They came to a creek and for a few moments the hounds were confused. Then the dogs found the scent and followed it downstream. Chauncey and his horse splashed through the creek, then back onto the bank, weaving their way through woods and water. A branch knocked off Chauncey’s hat but that no longer mattered. He didn’t need a sign of rank to lead.
Jubel pulled close to Chauncey.
“That Hun’s headed for the river.”
Chauncey took the lead again and soon glimpsed water beyond the blur of trees. Suddenly, the woods ended and he was on a narrow riverbank with the hounds and Laurel Shelton. Chauncey pulled out the pistol as the rest of the search party floundered onto the swath of sand.
“Where’s the Hun?” Chauncey shouted above the riders attempting to calm their mounts.
Laurel Shelton was backed against a tree, the hounds barking and slobbering as they surrounded her. Jack shouted that there was a shirt in the river. All the while, men and dogs and horses bumped and stumbled and circled. Traveler lost his footing for a moment and veered perilously close to the water. Chauncey had the dizzying sensation that he was on a horse astride a carousel, the world turning around him.