The Window, Part 2 of 2
By Dave Hoing

Robert E. Lee had not been well. Exhausted after four years of fighting, his plantation confiscated by the government, he was an old man with no money and no career. He had accepted the position as head of Washington College in order to feed his wife and children, and to be an example for his defeated brethren, who were looking for somebody to give them hope. Go to work, he said, have pride. Rebuild this nation. It's yours now, too.

As an educator Lee had proved a success; as a citizen, an inspiration. He represented the best of what the South had been. So great was his acclaim that officials at Washington College, even before his death, had proposed changing the school's name to Washington and Lee University. This was intended primarily as a tribute to Lee, but it was also felt that the linking of his name with the father of the country would be a symbolic gesture of reconciliation.

But the war had taken its toll, and the General had never regained his health. The State Department in Washington received a secret report from his doctor revealing that, had he not been assassinated, he probably would not have survived another year anyway.

Believing the public might view the murder of a dying man less harshly than that of a robust icon, the government promptly burned the report. It was important that both sides, North and South, achieve a kind of emotional catharsis when justice finally descended, mercilessly, upon the assassin.

A woman knocked at the jailhouse door. "Sheriff Landers," she said, "your prisoner has his arm out the window. He's pointing at something. Should he be doing that?"

Landers wiped his eyes and yawned. It was morning and already hot. The dog days had set in. He'd slept poorly, and was still groggy.

"What?"

"He has his hand out the window."

"Who does?"

"Your prisoner, Sheriff!"

"Oh. Okay, Sally. I'll talk to him."

Sally smiled. "Thank you. It's not for myself, you understand. But we do have children in this town, and they're so impressionable ... I mean, I know he's a hero and all, but he is in jail."

"I do understand, Sally, believe me. I'll look in on him soon as I'm done talking to you."

The woman took the hint and left. She was right, though. Josh was still at the window, naked, his hand stretching out toward the gallows. Perspiration dripped from his fingers like blood. The shadow of the gallows washed over him, but it didn't frighten him. He seemed, in fact, to long for it.

His food had not been touched. Landers took the tray away and replaced it with more standard jail fare, beans and coffee.

Bobby came in as he was placing the food on Josh's cot. "What're you still doing here, Charlie?" he said. "You look like shit. Go home, for once."

"Our boy's been pretty popular. I figure somebody might try to bust him out if I leave him alone."

"Nobody'd do that, Charlie, even if they wanted to. It'd make you look bad, and they respect you too much for that."

"Anyway, he's been acting weird. Al's wife Sally was just here, complaining he's got his hand out the window."

Bobby frowned at the prisoner. "How long's he been like that?"

"All night, far as I can tell. Sally thinks I ought to do something."

"There a law against putting your hand out a window?"

"No."

"So go the hell home and don't worry about it. You don't need to stay here twenty-four hours a day. I can handle things. That's what you pay me for, ain't it? Now, get yourself some sleep. I don't want to see your ass in here before tomorrow."

Amused by Bobby's friendly insubordination, Landers said, "Sure thing, boss."

"What's the matter, Charlie?"

"Nothing. Just thinking."

"Charles Landers, I ought to know when something's bothering you. Now, what is it?"

Landers rolled over in bed and watched his wife as she scuttled about the bedroom, preparing for her day. He'd been awake most of the night. "He won't talk to me, Beth. Won't say a word."

"Who?"

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the jailhouse.

"Oh. Him. Usually you complain they talk too much."

"This one's different. We've known the boy for years. I didn't want to lock him up, but I had no choice."

"I'm sure he understands that."

"Then why won't he talk?"

"Maybe he's just scared, Charlie. People do get scared, you know. Don't take it so personal. Why don't you bring Marion up to see him? Might do them both some good."

"She's old, Beth, and sick. The shock might kill her."

"You call what she's doing living?"

"Likely she wouldn't even recognize him."

"Then what's the harm?"

Landers shrugged, his mind already elsewhere. "If only he'd talk to me."

"What do you want him to say, Charlie?"

"First thing I'd ask is, did you really shoot Robert E. Lee, son?"

His wife stopped bustling and gave him a hard look. "And what if he said yes, Charlie? What if he said, 'Yeah, I killed him?'"

Landers turned to the wall. "I don't know, Beth. I guess I'd ask him why."

A bank of dark clouds bellied up against the rolling terrain of Missouri, just across the Mississippi. Ominous as they appeared, they promised relief from the stifling heat.

Children played in the space between the gallows and the jailhouse, beneath the trap door and the barred window. They found great sport in throwing rocks at the mysterious hand that groped desperately above them, squealing with glee when one of them hit the target and caused it to flinch. Bets were being taken as to who could throw the hardest and finally make it withdraw into the cell; but no one collected.

Rain started late in the afternoon and sputtered into the night. It was not the cooling rain everyone had hoped for; the bulk of the storm remained to the west, in Missouri, where Curry hid while waiting for his money. Eventually the storm had to come, but the next day the sun was back, along with the heat.

The townspeople did not, however, return to the jailhouse with food and wine for the prisoner. Their children had been telling stories. Al's wife Sally began a crusade.

Reliable sources, wrote the Richmond paper, have informed this correspondent that the assassin has been captured and is being held in a Northern state, possibly Illinois or Iowa. Agents are en route even now to take him into federal custody. It remains to be seen if Washington will mete out the justice it has so bravely promised. Let us pray that it will, and that this ghastly ordeal is at last over.

The ordeal was not over in Westkirk.

Bobby sent for Landers sooner than he intended to. "Sure is a strange duck," the deputy said. "He was always such a nice boy before the war."

"He's been at the window since I left?"

Bobby nodded. "I don't know what's holding him up."

"Did he say anything?"

"Nah. But I didn't ask him to."

Landers smoked a cigarette and looked at the gun rack across from his desk. Bobby ate some beans. "I don't suppose he put any clothes on?"

"Nope."

"Good thing Sally can't see that. She'd whip her Baptist coven into a frenzy."

"She's already started, Charlie. That's why I needed you here. Last night Al and Harvey came, said Sally was offended by his hand still being out the window. They was really mad, and not just for Sally's sake. Harvey said we ought to string him up now, 'cause wasn't the feds gonna do it anyway?"

"Harvey did? He was the one spouting off about how Lee deserved to die!"

"Funny thing about that. I reminded him and Al how everyone called Josh a war hero, and so what was different now? And Harvey goes, 'A war hero? Just 'cause the bastard was stupid enough to get hisself caught and thrown into Andersonville?' He goes, 'That don't make him no damn hero. Heroes was the ones who killed rebs. The only one he ever killed was Lee, and that was eight years too late.'"

Landers exhaled slowly, smoke rolling from his nostrils. "Dammit. Damn it."

"That ain't all, Charlie. They said he was no good after the war, neither, said he abandoned his ma. Never took care of her like a decent son should've."

"How could he, the way he come back from that death camp?"

"I told Harvey that, and he goes, 'He got better, didn't he? Still wouldn't do nothin', runnin' 'round all the time, not comin' home. Leavin' her to strangers.'"

"Those ladies volunteered to look after her after Josh left to fight the war, and they just never gave her up. They took better care of her than he could have. Harvey knows that. And yeah, Josh's body got better, but his head never did. Harvey knows that, too."

"You don't have to convince me, Charlie. They got a petition. You gotta get him out of that window. Better still, out of this town. Could mean your job if you don't. It's that bad."

"What makes people turn so fast, Bobby? Yesterday they loved us."

Bobby shook his head and slurped down the last of his beans. "Don't know, Charlie. Something 'bout their kids, I guess."

Landers dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his foot. "Okay. I need you to wire the feds again, tell them to hurry it up. Tell them to bring plenty of men, in case things turn ugly."

The deputy wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "On my way."

Landers forced himself to go to the back room.

A rancid stench greeted him at the door. Josh, still at the window, was a nauseating sight. Though he hadn't been here long enough to starve, his skin already sagged on his bones. It had a sickly yellow cast. His hair was filthy. Worse, the wounds on his back and wrists had become infected, festering with blood and pus and a clear fluid the sheriff didn't have a name for.

The cell was buzzing with flies.

How could he have let this happen? Landers had simply watched as the boy tore off his clothes and bandages, refused food, stood at the window ... He never would have tolerated that nonsense from any other prisoner; he didn't take any shit from them. Was it just because this one was a war hero?

And why hadn't the goddamned doctor come home? Josh was hardly more than a corpse when they'd shipped him home from Andersonville, and he looked worse now.

Yet, amazingly, he was alive. His left hand clutched at the bars, somehow holding himself upright, while his right hung limply from the window. His eyes were closed, and his face pressed against the metal.

Landers unlocked the cell door and approached him. The young man's expression was unreadable: either he was in extreme pain, or he was so far beyond pain that he'd found peace. Landers touched his shoulder. "Hey, son, wake up."

Josh's right eye twitched and parted a slit; the other was swollen shut due to pressure from the bars.

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

The prisoner's eye moved back and forth, finally settling on Landers.

"You gotta eat something. Get stronger. Survive. Nothing's been settled. A jury might find you innocent. You could still walk away a free man. Only-"

He paused. A question nagged at him: the same question nagging everyone else. "Only," he said softly, "I need to know, son, did you do it? Did you shoot General Lee? I got no particular interest in seeing you hang, even if you did. I just want to know."

The prisoner raised his right hand weakly to point at the gallows. His chin trembled. His mouth opened as if to speak. The movement of his lips was slight, almost imperceptible. No sound came out, and yet, he seemed to be trying to form words. Three syllables ...

I. Had. To.

The sheriff felt the blood drain from his face.

I had to. I had to. I had to I had to.

Christ, it was true. Landers, disappointed by the answer but relieved to know, bowed his head and whispered, "Thank you, son."

The skeletal hand dropped, the eye closed. Their conversation, such as it was, was over.

Landers sighed. Well, then.

Gently, he loosened the prisoner's grip on the bars and carried him to the mattress, which was still on the floor. He cleaned his wounds and dressed them with the remains of the bandages the boy had torn off. He forced water down his throat.

Josh didn't swallow, didn't move; but he didn't die, either. Landers almost hoped he would, to spare him the ordeal, the circus, the media frenzy of a trial, the scorn of his own people.

"I hate to do this," he said at last as he bound Josh's hands and feet to prevent another trip to the window. "You weren't hurting anybody."

The flies were a nuisance. Landers shooed them away and covered the unconscious figure with a blanket. In the stillness of the cell all he could hear was the rasping of the boy's breath. There was a poignant loneliness in that sound, a soul receding toward death.

"How can I help you?" Landers said, though he knew this time there'd be no response.

After a few minutes he went outside to the pump to wash Josh's blood from his hands. He didn't bother to pull the cell door shut behind him.

A wire from Peoria stated that federal agents had arrived there on the afternoon train, and were arranging a stage to bring them to Westkirk. They would be heavily armed.

Curry's contact in the telegraph office sent word to Missouri after delivering the message to Landers. The bounty hunter was packed and on his horse by that evening.

To the west, the storm system that had been stalled for several days finally started to churn slowly toward the Mississippi River.

By the next morning no one had seen either the agents or Curry, but there were already more strangers than usual in town. Big city reporters, no doubt, tipped off on the impending story.

Since yesterday the citizens of Westkirk had been overly courteous to Landers, though he could see disgust in their eyes. He had no idea what they could be angry about now; he'd done what they wanted.

Bulging black clouds roiled over the town. Landers and the city council had been meeting to discuss how to deal with the swarm of people likely to invade the area when news of Lee's assassin was out. When they emerged from the mayor's office, all eyes immediately turned to the sky.

"Twister weather," someone said.

"Better get home to the storm cellars."

Before they could disperse, however, they noticed a commotion in the street. Several children were rushing toward the side of the jailhouse, where one of the older boys had an axe. The lad strolled with as much nonchalance as a child carrying such a weapon could muster, then disappeared behind the building.

A light rain started to fall. Thunder and lightning were very close.

Landers and councilmen became suspicious. The prisoner had been tied down yesterday. Still ...

They hurried along behind the children, rounding the corner in time to see an axe swing and a bony hand fall as if in slow motion to the ground. The wrist did not bleed. The severed hand bounced once and lay there, crooked fingers pointing up to the gallows. Horrified, some of the men looked away. Landers gaped in shock. The children giggled. They all heard a body slump and saw the light go out of the window.

The rain was falling harder now, and the wind had come up.

Landers burst through the jailhouse door, startling Bobby, who'd been snoozing at the desk. "You was supposed to check in on him!"

"I took him beans a couple of hours ago. Even tried to spoon feed him. He wouldn't eat."

"He was at the window again!"

"How? He couldn't move, dammit!"

"I don't know."

They went to the back room to approach Josh together. Somehow, somehow, the fragile, diseased man had escaped his bonds and managed to tie himself to the bars of the window. He'd dangled his right hand outside again, an easy target for the children.

Perhaps he'd already been dead when he lost his hand; that would account for the lack of bleeding.

At any rate, he was certainly dead now. After the axe attack his weight had shifted and his body spun into the candle, knocking it from the shelf and extinguishing its flame. They found him facing them, slumping but upright, his left wrist bound to a bar in the window, his left hand still clutching it. His head flopped against his right shoulder. His mutilated right wrist had been jerked back through the window, settling grotesquely at his side.

Flashes of lightning silhouetted Josh's small form against the arm of the gallows.

The nation would be denied its hanging.

"You poor bastard," Landers whispered as he cut the bonds on the boy's left wrist. "This," he said, his voice cracking, "this is what you meant to do all along, ain't it, son?" Both he and Bobby were crying, though neither knew why. They'd seen death before.

Landers wrapped the body in a blanket and hugged it tenderly as a baby to his chest. He rose and carried it from the back room, past the stunned councilmen milling in his office, and outside, through wind and rain, and now hail, toward the undertaker's.

The streets were deserted. Everyone had taken cover from the storm.

The prisoner's hand lay where it had fallen.

There were reports of trees down north of town, and a few flattened barns, but the worst of the wind had missed Westkirk. The bounty hunter Curry had waited out the bad weather, then ridden in that afternoon under clear skies and cool temperatures. No angry mob greeted him this time; if the crowds noticed him at all, they didn't say anything.

The federal agents arrived early in the evening. At first they were furious with Landers for failing to prevent Josh's death. Grant was pressuring them, the Southern press hounding them. Seeing the condition of the body, however, gave them an idea. They hired a local photographer to make a series of grisly prints, detailing every cut, every bruise, every indignity inflicted upon it. They photographed the emaciated rib cage and especially the mangled wrist.

These prints were then distributed to newspapers across the country in hopes that they would satiate the public's thirst for blood.

The ploy worked.

JUSTICE AT LAST! trumpeted the Richmond paper. It ran a full-body likeness of the prisoner, urging its readers to come to its office and see the actual photographs.

Under the picture was the caption: THIS IS WHAT THE NORTH DID TO ITS OWN WAR HERO. The story went on to praise Sheriff Charles Landers for being so "sensitive" to his Southern neighbors' sense of outrage over the death of Robert E. Lee.

Throughout the South there was a collective sigh of relief. The North had demonstrated good faith. The assassin had, after all, killed a man who was once their greatest enemy. They'd won the war, they held all the power, and Lee was of no particular importance to them anymore. It would have been easy enough to do nothing, knowing the South was impotent. But they had acted swiftly once the criminal was apprehended; realizing the magnitude of the crime, they'd administered punishment accordingly.

Officials in Lexington, Virginia, went ahead with their plans to rename the General's school Washington and Lee University. President Grant himself attended the ceremony, declaring in his speech that the period of Reconstruction was now ended, that there was no longer a "North" and a "South," only a single, united nation.

Belatedly, Landers called for Marion to be brought to the undertaker's to view her son's body in its wooden coffin. Borne on an army cot by the husbands of the ladies of the church, the old woman was a virtual skeleton, her mouth downturned, her left cheek a cavern in the side of her head. Her eyes were open, unblinking, two dull orbs fixed in a skull. No life shone in them, even when she was set before Josh's battered form.

Then Landers lifted her useless hands to the boy's face. He was dead, she nearly so; but her fingers twitched and curled into something like a cup around his chin, a mother caressing her child. The old woman gasped, a soft intake of breath, the first sound she'd uttered since her stroke during the war.

Landers would later swear he saw a tear on her cheek and heard a small voice croak, "My boy."

Everybody in town was astounded by the news, and although she returned to silence, never to speak again, she did gradually regain the use of her arms, and her senses, and was able to assist the ladies in canning fruit.

Curry was paid for his efforts. An unexpected celebrity with the media, he rode out of town with five thousand dollars, keeping the prisoner's hand as a memento.