Chapter 37

OCTOBER 14, 1862

Cassie only half listened to Jonah’s chatter as she brushed down Abe’s glossy coat and winced at the aching pain in her left foot.

It had been months since Bull Run, and still her bruised body ached. She’d been thrown from her horse one moment and awakened in her darkened tent the next, her mind thick and muddled. Briggs told her he and another soldier had found her unconscious out in the woods, but whenever she asked for more information, he always pressed his lips into a line and looked away. Jonah had been a frequent visitor, keeping her entertained with silly stories and antics of camp life, but it was Gabe whose face she longed to see. He never came. Why did she think he would? She’d made it clear to him she wanted nothing further to do with him. He was only abiding by her wishes. So why the aching need for him? And why did the nagging feeling of his presence invade her memories and dreams?

Recovering from a broken foot, rib, and finger took time, but she had far too much pluck to lie abed. Despite everyone’s protests, she was back to her duties, albeit rather slowly, within several weeks.

“You ought to see Johnny Cooper spit. Never did see a fellow spit so straight or so far.”

She chuckled and strapped the mailbag to Abe’s saddle. “There’s a talent that will take a man far in life.”

“Aww.” Jonah glared. “You’re no fun. Can’t you see the value of a good spit? What if you need to spit out some snuff but the spittoon is across the room? Or what if the only way to stop a varmint is by spitting on him?”

Cassie arched a brow. “If a varmint turns tail and runs because of some spittle, I have a feeling it wasn’t much of a match to begin with.”

Huffing, Jonah took an apple from his haversack and polished it on his threadbare uniform coat as Cassie pulled herself into the saddle. “You got mail to deliver?”

“Always.” She smiled and tugged her kepi low.

Jonah puffed out his chest, just as he always did before he offered some manly word of advice. “I hear we’re about to march within the hour. Be careful of the weather. The captain said it’s fixin’ to turn.”

She eyed the sky, noting the swift swirl of clouds gliding past. “He’s likely right. I’ll catch you in a day or two.”

Jonah grinned, saluting with the apple, as she kicked Abe into motion. Mile after mile. Day after day. Pretending. Always pretending.

How long could she go on this way?

Cassie shivered and hunkered lower into her coat, the wool feeling thin as paper. An oppressive cold weighted the air like an invisible cloak of iron. Odd for the middle of October.

After delivering messages to headquarters, the weather had turned, just as the captain had predicted. But the regiment had marched along a different route than previously agreed upon, and now she was aimlessly wandering through the woods of Virginia.

Something sharp pinged against her cheek. Another bounced off the brim of her kepi. Then another and another. Hail. Her breath fogged as she clamped her jaw tight, willing the tremors to cease.

Sparse leaves that had yet to fall rattled in a gust of wind. Abe seemed uneasy, anxious to continue on their way. Yet she had no idea of their destination.

Cold wind blasted her cheeks and numbed her nose, and icy rain fell in sheets. Drops clung to her lashes as the sun set, plunging the world from gray glimmers into black. She urged Abe down the only marked path, praying the poor horse would be tough enough to endure the onslaught. Their progress was slow as they slid along the muddy grit of the trail.

She could no longer feel her face, toes, or fingers. A strange knot had formed in her middle. Another hour and Abe sagged under the oppressive wind and rain. Hail had covered the path.

Peering through the blackness, Cassie spied watery spots of light dancing through the night. Lights? More than one. A village perhaps?

Abe must have sensed refuge, for his sluggish pace suddenly quickened as the outline of buildings took shape through the storm. Cassie could have cried in relief. Surely some good soul would put them up for the night.

A cluster of passing shadows on horseback caused her to pause and watch. The hairs on the back of her neck rose when the sound of shattering glass drifted through the air, breaking the whistle of wind and hissing rain. She slid from the saddle and winced when pinpricks of pain shot up her legs. She grasped his reins and moved cautiously around the side of a building, watching. One of the forms held a lantern aloft. A Southern voice cursed as another voice barked commands to take goods from a business.

She slunk into the shadows, her stomach shrinking. Confederate guerrillas. She’d heard of the vile men who plundered and murdered Union sympathizers, looting their homes and establishments for whatever purpose they deemed necessary. She couldn’t stop here.

She and Abe pressed on until her entire body was soaked and chilled. What time was it? Midnight? Later? Time no longer mattered. Neither did temperature. She and her horse both seemed to be walking in a kind of numb, sleepy fog. A fog so thick, she nearly slammed into the farmhouse that appeared in her path.

Fumbling up the steps, she rapped on the door, but there was no answer. No footfalls on the other side. She could never barge her way into a stranger’s house and assume residence.

However, a quick scan of the yard revealed the barn door stood open. It took only a moment to decide.

She led Abe inside, barred the door from the howling wind, and collapsed onto the hay-strewn ground, immediately falling into a dreamless sleep.

Jackson called to Gabe over the sound of bacon sizzling on a stick above the popping fire. “Hey, Avery! You seen the latest papers?”

Gabe looked up and frowned. Next to him, Sven paused in penning a letter home to his wife. The noon break from marching was a welcome reprieve.

Jackson’s breath puffed in the cold air as he loomed over them and handed a wad of inky newsprint to Gabe. “That Gardner fellow you work with? His prints are in this one. Causing quite a stir.”

Gabe grasped the paper with his free hand and furrowed his brows. “Why is that?”

Jackson shrugged. “Apparently Gardner managed to talk them into printing images of the dead.” The young private crossed his arms. “It’s a bit of a shock.”

Gabe shoved his spit of bacon to Sven, the treat all but forgotten as he riffled through the paper with shaking fingers. Sure enough. Gardner’s prints covered pages two and three. Corpses lay at odd, grotesque angles. How did he manage to convince the editors to print them? Such a thing had never been done before.

He scanned the articles, the type blurring. The images had been captured at Antietam. Gardner was quoted defending the paper’s decision to print the gruesome photos, saying, “Let them aid in preventing another such calamity falling upon the nation.”

Gabe lowered the paper, his thoughts churning like a cyclone. Getting newspapers to buy photographs had been a selective process before. A difficult endeavor. But now . . .

Gardner might have paved the way for a multitude of photographic opportunities.

Sven looked over Gabe’s shoulder and grimaced. “Do you think this will repulse the public?”

Gabe shook his head. “It will either repulse them or make them desperate for more. Sensationalism sells. Always.”

Before he could ponder further, Briggs stomped up, his breath puffing from his nostrils like an enraged bull. With a hot glare, he tossed a newspaper at Gabe’s feet and jabbed a thick finger in the air. “Why didn’t you tell me who Turner is?”