Chapter 10
AUGUST 2, 1861
WASHINGTON, DC
Left, right, left, right, left, right.
Cassie’s heart mimicked the sharp snap of the snare drums as her regiment marched as one down Pennsylvania Avenue in front of thousands of hopeful eyes. Thunderous applause and shrill whistles lifted into a riotous tumult.
The blood of Bull Run had not yet been avenged, and all of Washington fixed its eyes on them, praying, begging Providence that the next skirmish would be met with victory.
Their military flags were hoisted high, flapping in the warm breeze. Cassie kept herself stiff as she held her rifle on her shoulder, unwilling to look anywhere but straight ahead. Her face she schooled into stern focus despite the shouts of excitement pummeling the air.
A sudden roar rippled down Pennsylvania Avenue and she knew he had arrived. Their general. Sure enough, a sleek black stallion proudly trotted by, carrying their commander on his glossy haunches. When the crowds saw him, handkerchiefs were waved like military banners. Boys whistled between their fingers, and men raised clenched fists into the air, nearly drowning out the booms and cracks of the drums.
As she marched, Cassie caught the visage of General McClellan astride his powerful horse as he turned to the crowd, his expression fierce.
“I give you the Army of the Potomac!”
More cheers and shouts arose. The soldiers kept pounding their march forward in thundering rhythm.
It seemed the entire North had fallen under the spell of their general as quickly as the troops had embraced him.
Yet despite her burgeoning hope that the tide would turn, she could not escape the dread pooling in her stomach. She did not want to go into battle again. She couldn’t.
The rifle hoisted on her shoulder seemed to suddenly weigh twenty pounds more than it had mere moments ago. Dread tasted an awful lot like despair.
Left, right, left, right, left, right.
“Did you see the president, Mr. Avery? Did you?”
Jonah jumped up and down as he pestered Gabe. Since returning to camp, Jonah had been a flurry of energy.
Laughing, Gabe ruffled his hair. “I saw him.” He winked. “I even took a photograph.”
“Fancy that!” Jonah stopped squirming and eyed him sharply. “You took a picture of President Lincoln with that box of yours?”
“I did indeed.”
“Could I trouble you for a copy?”
He leaned down and propped his hands on his knees. “Tell you what, if you let me capture your likeness, I’ll let you have a copy of both.”
“I think I could oblige.” Jonah’s wide grin revealed crooked teeth. “I’m going to tell the others. Say, I might even end up in the papers. I’ll be famous!”
As he raced away, Gabe chuckled. Jonah certainly brought vitality to the camp. Since Turner had befriended him, the little fellow seemed to blossom and grow under the attention of the men, who included him in their meals, conversation, and games.
“If anyone has the energy to be drilled for eight hours each day, it’s that scamp.”
Turner’s dry tone caused Gabe to whirl toward his friend with a grin. “I’ve never seen him so excited. He’s talked of nothing but getting a glimpse of Lincoln and his wife through their carriage window.”
“The way I hear it, they were looking right at him as if, and I quote, ‘no other soldier existed.’”
“Pretty soon, he’ll be declaring the parade was in his honor.”
Turner shook his head and dropped to the ground, pulling a bag from his haversack. Gabe glanced around the camp. The occasional man walked across the grassy meadow, no doubt assigned to some kind of menial task. The rest of the soldiers rested in clumps of blue. Some wrote letters home; others napped or occupied their free time by whittling some new treasure from whatever they had found. A group of boys—buglers, drummers, and errand runners—gathered to play a rousing game of aggies. Their childish laughter drifted over the hills, blanketing the camp in soothing melodies.
Dropping to the ground, Gabe sat back and watched, pretending to view the scene through the eye of his camera.
“Mighty quiet this afternoon,” Turner said.
Gabe rubbed the back of his neck, kneading the tight muscles. “I must say I’m glad. The grand review parade sapped me of my gumption.”
“Did you manage a photograph of President Lincoln?”
“Indeed I did. I filled up a whole plate box full of images. Took them right to Brady’s studio, seeing as how it was only a few blocks away. Gardner was there, and thankfully, we were able to get them all developed. Without his help I’d still be there, up to my elbows in chemicals.”
Turner tossed him a square of hardtack. He caught it midair and looked for a rock to break it open. Cursed things were like chewing on dried mortar.
Smashing his own hardtack against a sharp rock, Turner examined the remaining crumbles in his hand and groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
He jutted out his hand to reveal the white crumbles inside. “Look. Weevils got into this teeth duller.” Wrinkling his nose, he tossed the destroyed hardtack into the grass.
Deciding against busting his own snack open, Gabe grimaced. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”
Turner offered a lopsided grin. “I suppose if I was starving, I wouldn’t mind so much. But seeing as how I’m not—not yet, anyway—I’ll pass on the weevil meal for today.” He snapped his fingers. “Say, I almost forgot to tell you. The big Swede in our regiment is wanting you to take a photograph of him. Asked me to make the request.”
“Might as well. It’s quiet. Soon we’ll be moving out, and there will be no time. I’m trying to develop all the photographs I can now, being so close to Brady’s studio and all. Soon I’ll have to send everything to him by post. What’s his name?”
“Private Sven Frenken.”
Gabe nodded and stretched out against the cool grass, relishing the soft tickle of it against his skin. A warm breeze mellowed his muscles. “Swedish, eh?” He thought back on his parents and their vibrant European ways. “I’ve always wanted to see Sweden. Switzerland and Austria, too. If I could accomplish it by jumping aboard a steamboat, I’d do it in two blinks.”
Turner was silent, as he often was, and pulled out a small knife and a stick, quietly slicing the bark away in long strokes.
Gabe prattled on, knowing his friend was listening. “Yes, Europe and then Africa. I’d take photographs of lions and elephants. Of Bushmen and grasslands. Did you know Africa has a creature called a giraffe?”
Turner kept working, although a small smile played around his mouth. “Can’t say that I did.”
“Tall animal with a neck longer than some houses. Spotted brown and black against yellow-and-orange bodies. I want to see it all someday.” He let his imagination drift, let himself fall into the cracks of nearly forgotten dreams. “I would take images and sell them all over the world.”
“And then what?”
Gabe smiled as he looked up at the blue patches of sky. “Why, then I would become a world-famous photographer, of course.”
Turner grunted.
Angling his head to see his friend’s profile, Gabe asked, “What about you? Where would you go if you could?”
“Don’t know.”
“Come on, Thomas.” He rolled to his side and propped himself up on one elbow. “Anywhere in the world with no restrictions. Where would you go?”
Turner paused and looked into nothingness, his mouth twitching. “West. I’d go west.”
“West?” Gabe frowned. “Is there much there other than sagebrush and dehydrated cattle?”
“Of course. Indians from countless tribes, cattle ranchers and farmers. Miners and wild animals. Outlaws and squatters. Gamblers and missionaries. More variety in landscape than all of Europe combined.” As if suddenly aware he’d spoken much, he dropped his gaze back to his task. “Or so I hear.”
“Where do you hear all that?”
“School. Our schoolteacher traveled out to Oregon Territory as a small boy. He told us about the things he saw.”
Gabe watched him, sensing a sudden shift in his mood. “Nowhere else other than the West? A different country, perhaps?”
Turner shrugged. “If I did what I wanted, I would run.”
“Run where?”
“Away. Far away. I would run so fast it would feel like I was flying. And I could leave everything behind. I—” He stopped suddenly and frowned before falling silent.
“Where would you go?”
Turner’s shoulders appeared weighted down by some invisible stone. “Doesn’t matter. As long as I’m running away.”
Gabe eased back into the prickly grasses, mulling over Turner’s words as bees and insects hummed near his ear.
Just what was Thomas Turner running from?
AUGUST 4, 1861
Dear Jacob,
I pray you are well, enjoying robust health and the Almighty’s blessings. Despite the oppressive humidity and heat of Virginia, if I close my eyes long enough, I can picture you in your flat, reading the Atlantic Monthly or the Times, alternating between rubbing Sophocles’s glossy coat and fussing at him for toppling your stack of newsprint.
How is everyone in our acquaintance? Did Antonio find a job? I have petitioned the Almighty on behalf of him and his family. I miss the Swedish family down the hallway who always greeted me with a hearty “God morgon, ja?” at the start of each day. Does the building still smell of colcannon and corned beef? I am not often the homesick type, as you know well enough, but I confess, when I grow weary of the smell of dirt and blood, of fear and gunpowder, I lay my head upon my cot in the traveling darkroom and try to remember every scent and sight of our neighborhood. It does my heart good.
Has Miss Esther been looking after you? She promised me she would. Who would have thought attending the Relief for Youth Charity Club would have led to so much attention from the female persuasion on your behalf? Despite your protests that you find Miss Esther’s attention to be an invasive trouble, I suspect you harbor a fondness for the dear woman. Upon seeing her, your eyes twinkle in a way they never did when I came to play cards with you, or when old Gustav dropped in for a rollicking game of dominoes. Perhaps you are not so dedicated to your years of bachelorhood as you imagine yourself to be.
Despite your grousing, Relief for Youth has done much good for the young people crowding the streets of New York, giving them mentors and hope, just as you gave me. I encourage you to keep on with the noble task, even if it means fighting off the amorous attention of the fairer sex from time to time. Miss Esther has a heart of gold. Of that, I have no doubt.
Amid the business of my tasks—preparing plates and chemicals, waiting expectantly for the proper shot ordained with providential light, ducking bullets and cannon fire while developing a slew of war-story images—I have managed to find some leisure time on occasion and have made several friends. The men from Ohio have been kind, and I’ve grown especially fond of the soldiers making up the Michigan 2nd infantry. I’ve even had the opportunity to visit some with the Zouaves. They dress in the brightest colors imaginable—snowy-white shirts and bloodred trousers. How I wish I could capture the vibrancy of their colors with my lens! Perhaps their vivacity will shine through the stilted world of black-and-white.
I thank you again for your generous funding of the equipment needed for this venture. You and Mathew Brady have laid a world of opportunity at my feet. I shall not fail to repay you for your kindness. Perhaps if I am blessed with divine favor to be a world-renowned photographer, I shall claim it all began with the benevolent heart of my dear neighbor who is like my own grandfather. I am learning much . . . all things of photography, war, and the catching of stubborn fish.
With kindest regards,
Gabriel
A stream of muttered words caused Gabe to look up from the letter he’d penned. He stretched lazily along the bank of the swollen river and grinned at the scowl marring George’s face as he attempted to bend a fork tine into a fishhook.
“Trouble, George?”
The soldier glared. “Your fishing pole doesn’t look much better, Avery.”
“True.” He cast a glance at his own pitiful attempt lying in the grass near his feet. The pole was crooked, the twine tangled, and the hook looked better suited for a battle than a fishing expedition. He shrugged. “There are some skills a city boy has trouble acquiring.”
“No kidding.” George groused. “This was Turner’s idea. He’s the one wanting to fish. We should make him fashion all the poles.”
Weeks laughed. “You’re just mad because you’re no good at it. On the other hand—” he held his own pole aloft—“take a look at this. Not bad, if I do say so myself.”
George picked up a rock and chucked it at the gloating man. “The proof is in the fishing. You can boast when you catch something.”
Turner smirked and adjusted his kepi. “You gonna jaw all day or catch some dinner? I’m tired of beans.”
Weeks wrinkled his nose. “The meat they served yesterday was so spoiled, the flies wouldn’t touch it.”
The four of them settled along the bank with their poles and waited as nature lulled them into drowsy repose. Time slipped away like water dripping through a sieve.
The sun had sunk deep into Gabe’s bones, tugging him into a sluggish haze, when Turner sprang to his feet. The line of his pole jerked and grew taut.
“I got one!”
Gabe snapped alert and stood as Turner fought to wrestle in the catch. “Looks like a big one.”
“That’s . . . putting it . . . mildly,” Turner grunted through gritted teeth.
Weeks and George cheered as if watching a boxing match. Turner’s face was mottled crimson. “Blasted thing is fighting me tooth and nail! Here!” He shoved the pole into Gabe’s hand and stepped into the river. “Hold it steady.”
The pole strained in Gabe’s clutch. “This monster is going to break the line!”
“Not if I have any say.”
Turner thrust his hands into the shallows, where the fish writhed in a flurry of splashes. Gabe ground his jaw as he tightened his hold on the pole. Turner howled but snagged the belligerent fish and tugged him to the riverbank. His right hand bled as he held up his prize.
“Bully catch! The hook caught my hand, but see here. Must be close to ten pounds.”
George stared at the unfortunate creature, his expression aghast. “What is that thing?”
Turner grinned. “Catfish. Not the prettiest creature but cooks into a fine meal.”
“He has whiskers.” Weeks’s dry observation caused the lot of them to burst into laughter.
Rubbing his jaw, Gabe studied the fish with a smirk. “We should give him a name. With that sour face, and considering how much of a fight he gave, how about Jeff Davis?”
Turner shook off a patch of mud from his arm with a laugh. “Jeff Davis it is. A Confederate fish never could match a determined Yankee fisherman.”