Chapter 30

Dear Gabriel,

As I make preparations to depart for my own sojourn into this photographic endeavor with equal parts terror and fascination, I longed to stop and write you. This journey we have embarked upon is being marked as a successful contribution to the war efforts by General Winfield Scott. He has realized the value of photography as a kind of military topography, deeming our work invaluable. I pray other military leaders will heed his words as well. This praise is due, in no small part, to you and all the other photographers we have sent out to record this great drama.

I see you took my most recent instructions to heart. Your piece “Beautiful Heroines of Home” has been favorably received by five major newspaper publications. I suspect this is only the beginning. If other papers respond as enthusiastically as these, you shall be receiving a tidy sum for your efforts. The piece is, I think, quite intriguing. Aside from the woman’s beauty, there is something quite telling in her expression. Hope, sadness, courage, uncertainty—her visage is like the multiple facets of a cut jewel. Each part just as fascinating as the last. You are to be commended.

As soon as I receive payment, I will forward you your portion posthaste, unless you have a more preferable reception point. I understand any reticence you may have in using regular parcel post. The mail delivery within regimental lines can be an arduous and uncertain endeavor, especially in light of forced marches to unknown destinations.

Rather than continuing to return to the capital to restock supplies and other necessities, I have acquired permission to use Union signal stations outside Manassas Junction and Yorktown, and at several points in between. Please avail yourself of these drop points. Glass plates, chemicals, washbasins, and a handful of small cameras have been stocked at each, as well as feed for your horses. The signalmen have been given your name and identification. You should have no trouble entering. In addition, to spare photographs from being damaged by sending them through the mail, all photographs can be stored and held at these signal stations. My esteemed assistant Alexander Gardner has been appointed the task of retrieving work stored at these depots until the war is concluded. Due diligence must be made to store your photographs together, with your name printed on the outside of the envelope or box.

Best wishes as you continue to press forward. May Providence smile on you.

Sincerely,

M. Brady

“Whatcha reading?”

Gabe crumpled the letter, keeping the information hidden from Jonah’s eyes. The last thing he needed was the nosy lad learning he’d submitted a picture of a woman to the newspapers. Jonah knew far too much as it was.

“Just some correspondence.” Gabe gave him a pointed look. “Nothing for you to worry yourself over.” Squinting over the sun-dappled camp, he wiped away the sweat beading his forehead. The late afternoon was quiet, a rare break in the din of the siege. The scent of earth and grass perfumed the air.

Gabe nodded toward the middle of the grounds. “You finished with assignments for the day?”

Jonah kicked at a pebble near his boot—a boot that flapped open like the slobbering tongue of a panting dog. “I suppose so. Ain’t much to do unless Captain Johnston sends for me. No messages for the message boy makes the day drag.” His eyes brightened. “But I asked if I could be moved up to powder boy for the big cannons.” His small chest puffed out like a fireplace bellows. “Captain says he’ll give it a think.”

Shoving Brady’s letter into his pocket, Gabe walked toward the horses and released them from their bridles. “Sounds like a dangerous job to me.”

Jonah sniffed. “I can handle it.”

“Mm.” Arguing with him would only cause the headstrong boy to dig in his heels. “I imagine so. It’s understandable that you want to give up your messenger duties. After all, only a select few could bear the weight of that responsibility.”

His brown brows furrowed deep. “What do you mean?”

Gabe shrugged and slapped the horses on their rumps, letting them roam unencumbered over the grassy slope beyond. They tossed their glossy heads and pranced away. “You know, carrying such privileged information is for only the most courageous soldiers. The most trustworthy.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t want it. Too many people depending on me.”

Jonah’s mouth puckered. Gabe smothered a smile.

“Maybe you’re right. My work is mighty important. Kind of like Turner’s, ain’t it?”

Gabe’s carefree mood soured. He hadn’t seen Cassie since she’d returned, but he knew she was there. Several of the soldiers had remarked on Turner’s disappearance and sudden reentry.

Turning away, Gabe pinched his mouth. “Guess so.”

Jonah laughed. “You guess?” He lowered his voice and darted a look side to side. “I bet she—uh, he—found out what the Rebels have planned next.”

Gabe clamped his jaw.

“He can prob’ly blend right in with them.” The boy grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “You got to admit, he’s good at pretending.”

“Yes, Turner is quite a good actor.” His stomach clenched. Cassie was all too skilled at deception.

“You seem vexed. Hasn’t she—he come by to see you?”

The boy’s perpetual slip of Cassie’s gender was disconcerting. Good thing they hadn’t told him her real name. “No, not even to deliver my letter. Briggs brought it to me instead. I guess he has assumed postal carrier duties.” Gabe looked away, wishing the precocious boy would be called away on some other errand.

Jonah pursed his lips. “I guess I don’t much mind being messenger boy if I’m doing important work like Turner. Say—” his eyes rounded—“maybe President Lincoln will give me a spying job too!”

As he watched the boy race away, Gabe sighed, his heart sinking into his stomach. No, son. No spying. I can’t handle another innocent person I love wrapped in lies and danger.

Yet was he so different? He had yet to confess he’d sent Cassie’s photograph to the papers without her knowledge or permission.

He pushed the unease aside. Jacob was the one who mattered now. It was his duty to care for the man. Without Jacob, his dreams would have never left the ground.

And Cassie . . .

With a grunt, he trudged into the Whatsit. The warm temperatures and lack of ventilation made the small wagon feel like a boiler room.

If Cassie could only learn to trust him, to believe he had her best interests at heart, she would understand his desire to see her safe and protected. Then everything between them could be perfect.

Why couldn’t she understand?

MAY 4, 1862

YORKTOWN, VIRGINIA

One minute they were slogging through shin-deep mud in the pouring rain. The next, the earth exploded like a geyser, shooting rock, mud, and bloody bodies through the air.

Sound ceased.

Cassie blinked away the rain flickering against her lashes. Mouths moved, shouted, but her ears registered none of it. They were numb, buzzing with a strange kind of deafness.

A shrill ringing filtered through. Another boom shook the ground, rattling her teeth in their sockets. Mud and debris rained down, pelting her face and hands.

Even after the message she had relayed to Pinkerton and General McClellan, they’d waited for two days. Why did the general refuse to move? And why now did they lurch forward to capture Yorktown, only to have pandemonium unfold before them?

Faint shouting drifted toward her. Briggs looked at her with wide eyes, his bearded face spotted with mud. “What was that? A strange new type of cannon fire?”

Cassie shook her head. “No whistle beforehand.” Her voice sounded strange.

Briggs clutched his rifle with white fingers. “What, then?”

What indeed? Medics scurried to attend the men whose limbs had been ripped away and tossed into the mud like discarded clothing. It was as if a cannon had been shot from under the ground.

Under the ground . . .

She snapped to face Briggs. “Buried explosive shells.”

Briggs scowled and swore.

The buzzing faded, replaced by dull sounds of life. Screaming men, the sucking squelch of mud, grunts of weary soldiers pushing forward.

They were approaching the Rebel picket lines she had crossed less than a fortnight ago. Two explosions but no gunfire. No rows of gray backs waiting for them?

A bone-breaking blast lifted her from her feet, throwing her backward. The ground erupted, flinging up large chunks of mud. The two men who had been marching in front of her were thrust into the air.

As her body slammed into the ground, pain burst all across her back. The world went eerily silent again. She tried to roll onto her side, but the quagmire made the work difficult. With a groan, she fell back and panted, staring up at the gray sky. Rain dampened her face, pinging her skin and rolling into her nose.

Briggs’s face loomed over hers, his mouth moving. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she grasped the hands he offered. She rose slowly, her uniform caked with sludge.

His mouth rounded, resembling the words Turner, are you hurt? His bushy black brows rose.

She shook her head, trying to gain her bearings. Noise filtered slowly through the deafening hum. The only thing she could hear well was her own pulse pounding dully in her ears. Men all around her scrambled away from the detonated shell. What good would it do? The lot of them were playing blindman’s bluff with the Rebels.

Her entire frame ached.

Her fingers grew slick clutching the wet rifle. The regiment moved forward with deliberate slowness. Or did it only seem that way because sound had been sucked into another realm? When she stumbled and fell to her knees, Briggs hoisted her up, tucking his thick arm under her left limb, half-dragging her forward. Why wouldn’t her body cooperate?

They pressed into the Rebel camp. White canvas tents stood erect, but no one greeted them. The entire place was deathly still. They trudged past a tent and she saw it—crude caricatures of Union soldiers painted on the canvas’s broadside. Ugly curses and insults were plastered around the ridiculous drawings. A sensation both hot and cold crawled through her.

Her limbs and back tingled. She shrugged away Briggs’s help. “I think I can move well enough now.” Her voice was still thick, but at least she could hear it.

Rain streamed in rivulets over the abandoned camp, pooling on the ground where campfires once sat. Loose canvas flapped in the wind.

Cassie ground her teeth. The entire place had been abandoned. They were too late.

“I’m sorry, Captain. It’s too dark inside the tent, and the chemicals won’t process without proper light.”

Captain Johnston stroked his wiry side-whiskers. “What if we were to carry these letters—” he said the word as if it were a curse—“outside? Could you photograph them then? I want President Lincoln to see what these demon Rebels left behind.”

Gabe shook his head. “I’m so sorry, no. Rain is just as destructive to the wet-plate process as darkness is. And you would likely ruin the evidence. I can photograph them once weather conditions improve.”

Johnston growled and thumbed through the mocking missives before tossing them to the table.

The sounds of revelry outside were a harsh contrast to the captain’s sour expression. While the soldiers rejoiced that the Confederates had fled Yorktown, leaving the stronghold ripe for the plucking, Captain Johnston had found four letters waiting for them inside the largest tent. One addressed to President Lincoln, two for General McClellan, and one for “The First Yankee Who Comes.”

When the captain had called for Gabe to “capture evidence the Confederates had left behind,” he’d been able to read only one of the taunting messages intended for General McClellan.

You will be surprised to hear of our departure at this stage of the game, leaving you in possession of this worthless town. But the fact is, we have other engagements to attend to, and we can’t wait for you to gather your courage any longer. . . .

The mocking jab at the general’s pluck would not sit well.

Johnston rubbed his stumpy fingers over his balding scalp, leaving the thin strands on top in disarray. He muttered as he riffled through discarded papers left on the table, most of them, no doubt, more taunts and ridicules intended for Yankee eyes.

Johnston muttered under his breath, “Why didn’t McClellan move when Turner told him they were preparing to leave?”

Gabe’s breath hitched. “Turner warned him this would happen?”

Johnston’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Never mind. I should not have spoken. Forget what you heard.”

Feeling like he’d been punched in the gut, Gabe swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“If you are unable to take these photographs, I have nothing else at the moment, Mr. Avery.” He waved his hand, shooing Gabe out the tent flap and into the infernal drizzle that refused to leave.

Gabe walked back to the Whatsit, barely noticing the thick mud covering his boots. Around him soldiers cheered and celebrated, their spirits undeterred by the damp weather. All they could see was the victory of a town abandoned.

But Gabe couldn’t muster any joy. Not when he realized the depths of Cassie’s work.

She’d snuck into a Confederate camp and collected military strategy from the enemy.

Rain slid under his collar, snaking down his back and dampening his shirt. He had aided her reckless plan. If something had happened to her, he would bear at least some of the responsibility.

He dropped his head against the slick walls of the wagon, letting the rain soak his clothes. Drops fell from the tips of his hair.

Forgive me, Father, for not protecting her like I should. Give me courage to do what is best for her. Something cold clamped his chest. Even if it means I lose her.