Chapter 8

JULY 26, 1861

WEST OF WASHINGTON, DC

The banjo plinked a meandering tune as the regiment sprawled throughout the camp. Some wrote letters home. Others scattered into the meadow beyond, enjoying a leisurely game of baseball during the late-afternoon lull. A few had begun preparations for the evening meal while another group stood on picket duty, wilting under July’s oppressive heat.

Gabe studied the pasteboards in his hand and yawned, the heat rendering him drowsy and limp.

Selby grinned triumphantly and threw down his hand. “Flush, boys. Pay up.”

The men let out a chorus of groans and dropped their own cards in disgust.

“How many does that make for you, Selby? Three wins?”

“Four.” The swarthy soldier smiled, his eyes twinkling. “But who’s counting?”

Chuckling, Gabe opened his knapsack and tossed Selby the required payment . . . a square of hardtack.

Selby caught the unforgiving portions being tossed toward him with a laugh. “Weeks, your hardtack ain’t full of maggots, is it?”

Weeks stretched lazily and scratched his head. “Not last I checked. I wouldn’t know—not since we’ve been camped out here for a few days enjoying salt pork and beans.”

Though the sandy-haired soldier appeared as relaxed as a cat in sunshine, Gabe knew many Union soldiers had defected completely or spent their free hours drinking rotgut in the local saloons. It was as if the entire Union army had the starch taken out of its resolve and flailed miserably as a result.

The quiet time had allowed him to develop the photographs of Bull Run in haste and deliver them by hand to Brady’s Washington gallery, a luxury that might not be afforded in the future. Brady had seemed pleased with the prints until he saw the one of the poor soldier whose legs had been broken and pulverized into bone flecks and blood as he lay in the middle of the combat field.

Shrouded by a somber cloud, Brady pulled the spectacles from his nose, the lines deepening around his eyes. “Such things no man should ever behold . . . or suffer.”

Gabe blinked away the memory. He’d sought something noble to capture, some remnant of life, but there had been nothing in that wasteland of scarred earth save for the lone dandelion.

Swallowing the knot in his throat, he forced a smile when Cooper asked if he was in for another round. He nodded toward Turner, who sat propped against the trunk of a wide tree. “Only if Turner will join us.”

Briggs guffawed as he shuffled the wrinkled pasteboards. “Turner ain’t nothing but a young pup. He ain’t joined us in a game yet.” His dark beard tugged upward as he smiled. “Smart lad. He knows we would strip him down to his drawers given half a chance.”

As the others laughed, Turner took his thumb and lifted the brim of his kepi. Those bright-blue eyes of his sparked. “If you’re playing for hardtack and end up losing your drawers, you got bigger problems than being whipped by a pup.”

Gabe grinned at the uncharacteristic barb from the normally quiet fellow. The others elbowed Briggs, who tossed Turner a challenge.

“Want me to deal you in or are you too busy napping?”

Straightening his hat, Turner slid him a lopsided smirk. “Deal me in. Losing hardtack won’t make me lose a wink of sleep.”

The slip, slip, slip of pasteboards from Briggs’s fingers was a comforting sound among the chirp of birds and buzzing bees. As each of them studied their cards, Weeks’s voice was soft. “How many do you think have deserted?”

Jackson grunted. “Too many.”

Turner lifted his eyes to the group. “Hopefully not for long.”

Pasteboards forgotten, Cooper leaned forward. “Why? What did you hear?”

Turner studied his cards. “I hear President Lincoln may have a new general for us.”

Selby’s eyes rounded. “Any word on who?”

Turner shrugged. “There’s a rumor going around that it might be George McClellan.”

Briggs whistled low. “Is it wrong to pray such a thing comes true?”

“Nothing wrong with wanting to see our troops drilling and fighting again instead of seeking out loose women and whiskey.”

Cooper snorted. “Both are good company, but whiskey hasn’t won a war, and certainly women never did.”

Gabe startled when Turner flipped down his cards with a smug flourish. “Can anyone beat a full house? No, of course not. I can tell since you’ve all been displaying your pasteboards while I shared the latest piece of news.”

Gabe glanced down at his hand. Sure enough, his normally guarded cards were tilted forward, forgotten in his fingers. Looking around the group, he saw the other men’s necks redden as they realized they’d made the same mistake.

With a sly grin, Turner stood. “Keep your hardtack, gentlemen.” He turned on his heel to leave but looked back over his shoulder. “Whether it be whiskey, women, or young pups, if I were you, I wouldn’t underestimate any of the three.”

He left with a confident swagger as the men burst into laughter.

Gabe leaned over the creek running south of the camp and splashed cool water over his heated face, relishing the respite from summer’s sticky warmth. Water dripped from his chin. He ran his fingers over his prickly jaw. The stubble was long enough to warrant calling it a beard. He should shave soon or pick up arms with the scruffy soldiers he trailed.

The thought was amusing. He could aim a lens but not much else. He admired the pluck and courage of the men who had remained steadfast despite the tumultuous upheaval after the blistering defeat at Bull Run. Scooping up another handful of water, he doused his neck, allowing the rivulets to run under the collar of his shirt.

They were heroes all. And it was his privilege to capture their stalwart courage through glass plates, lenses, light, and chemicals. A testament to their bravery for generations ahead to laud.

Brady’s praise of his latest images brushed through his mind. “With your permission, I may submit several of these to newspapers that have been clamoring for photographs from the battlefield.” Brady had patted his back and smiled behind his spectacles. “You may be famous when it’s all said and done, Gabriel.”

“You may be famous when it’s all said and done . . .”

Gabe couldn’t deny his pleasure at the thought. Could he really? The son of Scottish immigrants who’d lived on the edge of the Five Points slum—could someone like him really make his mark on the world?

The thought was invigorating.

Fame would lead to more opportunities. More privileges. More money.

The temptations that could result filtered through his mind like sand through a sieve. He glanced back through the thick cover of trees to study the boxy outline of the Whatsit squatting in the cool shade. His photography studio. A swaying box on wheels, filled with glass plates, silver nitrate, clattering equipment, and brown vials brimming with sharp-smelling liquids. He’d been so proud of it weeks ago, though he knew its odd shape and presence was a matter of curiosity for many of the soldiers, an object of ridicule from others.

Discontent rose in his chest, warring with the possibility of future fame and grandeur. Someday his establishment wouldn’t be on wheels and dragged from post to post by barn-sour mares. No, he would have a studio. A grand one. Maybe almost as grand as Brady’s.

Da’s rumbly voice from long ago invaded, scattering the puffed thoughts like a hard breath through curls of smoke. “Contentment, Gabriel.”

He’d watched his da’s large, calloused hands as he whittled and carved, slicing his blade through the soft wood, dropping curls of pine onto the pile at his feet.

“But Collin Spence has the best aggie I’ve ever laid eyes on. He always has the best jacks and even has a store-bought baseball. I want one too, Da.”

Da’s eyes were stern, though the whisper of a smile curved his mouth. “Aye, young Collin has been blessed. But then again, so have you. You have all you need, plus some.”

“But an aggie like that . . .”

The quiet scrape of knife into pine never stopped. “Gabriel, ‘godliness with contentment is great gain. . . .’”

The memory brought tenderness. And a sting. Sighing, Gabe scooped up another handful of water and drank, his thoughts tumbling.

A footfall sounded through the bramble, snapping twigs and shifting rocks.

Looking up, Gabe spied Turner approaching the creek, though the fellow hadn’t yet seen him. Here was a man whose story needed to be told, but the quirky fellow kept it locked away, sealed and impenetrable.

Gabe watched him yank off his kepi and kneel at the water’s edge. Dark hair spilled out, brushing his shoulders. Gabe studied him, wondering why Turner was so blasted quiet. For though the soldier spoke little, his intelligence and courage were keen. And at times, Turner seemed lonely, palpably so.

“Cooling off?”

Turner suddenly stood and yanked the kepi down over his head fast as a musket flash, whirling toward Gabe. Gabe puzzled at the reaction. Turner was acting as if he’d been caught in a transgression. But the man had a right to drink and be refreshed, didn’t he?

Maybe he was snappish, fearing an enemy had snuck up behind him. War made a man jumpy.

Raising his hands with a small smile, Gabe chuckled. “It’s only me. No need for alarm.”

Turner’s shoulders relaxed, though his face retained traces of suspicion. “What are you doing down here?”

Gabe shrugged and eased back into the grasses lining the muddy creek bank. “Same as you. Getting a drink. Enjoying the quiet.”

Turner grimaced and sat down, tucking his knees to his chest as he surveyed the gentle gurgle of the water washing over boulders. Plucking a nearby pebble between his fingers, he flung it across the creek, watching as it skimmed the water one, two, three times before sinking below with a faint plop. “Who could have imagined the entire Union army so demoralized in just a few short months?”

Gabe grunted, feeling Turner’s frustration. “How do you account for it?”

Tossing another pebble, the young man murmured, “Fear, trauma, lack of leadership . . . probably all three.” He shook his head. “We need McClellan before the whole army disintegrates.”

“I agree.”

They fell silent and Gabe studied the man’s profile. No, not a man. A boy. Turner couldn’t be more than eighteen at best. His skin was still smooth, his voice light, yet his demeanor made him appear older. Wiser.

“That was quite a masterful turn of the cards earlier.”

“Wasn’t too hard. All that group needs is a good distraction and they forget what they’re doing.” Straight white teeth flashed in his face. “Like keeping their cards from prying eyes.”

Gabe watched a hawk dip and float across the creek bank. “Still, you’ve gotten to know your fellow soldiers pretty well in a short time.”

Turner looked away with a shrug. “It’s not hard. Not really. Especially when you make a habit to watch much and speak little.”

“Watching a person reveals their character, eh?”

“Something like that.”

They fell silent. What made this young man who he was? What were his dreams? Did he have family?

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Turner frowned and stared at a pebble he held, rubbing its smooth surface in circles with the pad of his thumb but stayed silent, his eyes fixed on something Gabe could not see.

“What are you pondering?”

Sighing, Turner dropped the pebble. “Forgiveness.”

The answer surprised him. No fluff or polite niceties for this fellow. He showed his soul or nothing at all.

Gabe flicked away an ant that was attempting to crawl up his trouser leg. “Hard thing to do sometimes.”

“Very.”

A small word, but it held so much meaning.

“You needing to forgive yourself or someone else?”

Turner’s voice was so soft, Gabe almost missed his answer. “Both.”

“What’s holding you back?”

Turner dropped his head and mumbled, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know how.”

Gabe fell silent. He doubted the soldier had ever been so vulnerable with another in his regiment, and he had no intention of rubbing salt in a wound with an ill-timed comment. So he’d just listen.

The steady trickle of the lazy water’s flow, the hum of bees and flies, the chatter of birds and squirrels mellowed the warm air until sleepiness crept over him like a shadow. Perhaps that was the reason Turner’s direct gaze and question startled him.

“Have you ever had to forgive someone?”

He offered a lopsided smile. “Yes. My father. God, too.”

Turner’s brows rose in an unspoken question.

Gabe yanked down the edge of his left shirt collar, revealing the white scar that lined the base of his neck. It was not as thick as it had once been, but it was still present. A reminder of what had happened. “My da was a great man. A wise and a kind one. Me being the only babe, well—” Gabe shrugged—“he doted on me. Took good care of Mither too.”

Turner’s face was a mask, his expression unreadable.

“I was only a young man when he started slipping. No more than sixteen or so, I’d say. Da started acting strangely. He confused easily. Couldn’t remember simple things. But when he started forgetting memories from long ago, things that had been locked in his heart for decades—” Gabe paused, reliving the pain—“that’s when we knew. Something was wrong.”

“What happened?”

“He began losing his mind. Mania, the doctor said.” His heart scraped raw as old emotions resurfaced, throbbing with a hollow ache.

“How did you get that scar?”

Gabe released the fabric of his shirt collar and let it settle back into place, almost as if he could hide Da’s violence. Such a thought was foolish. His father couldn’t help it.

He plucked a long blade of grass and folded it edge over edge between his fingers. “I was attempting to give him his medicine and he snapped.” He swallowed. “Maybe I moved too quickly. I don’t know. Somehow Da had managed to hide a knife in his trousers. Before I knew what was happening, he lunged at me, screaming like the devil himself.”

Turner winced.

“I must have blacked out because when I awoke, the sanitarium was hauling Da away and Mither was crying, trying to attend to both of us at once.” His throat cramped. “It’s a moment I never want to relive. I try to think of it as little as possible.” He released a thick sigh. “The point is, that moment made me angry with Da for a time. I couldn’t understand him. Couldn’t understand why my hero had failed me. To make matters worse, with Da so sick, Mither was forced to get a job in a factory. I did as well. But the long hours, the exhaustion—” he shook his head—“the strain of it, along with the heartbreak of losing Da not long after he’d been sent to the sanitarium, did her in. She died only two years after my father.” Pitching the rumpled grass to the ground, he looked directly at Turner. “To be honest, I was angry with God for allowing it to happen.”

Turner frowned and looked away. “What changed?”

Watching the gliding arc of a sparrow, he lifted a shoulder. “Got tired of fighting God. What I realized, what I tell myself still, is that Da was sick. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Turner laughed dryly, his face darkening. “Our situations aren’t the same. The one who hurt me knew what he was doing. Made choice after choice to do so. He destroyed the lives of everyone around him and caused misery everywhere he went.” He scowled. “He doesn’t deserve forgiveness. I can’t.”

Silence stretched loud and thick.

Gabe stood slowly. “All I know is that forgiving gave me peace. It was like cutting myself free from a hundred-pound burden.” He brightened, trying to chase away the dark clouds hovering between them. “Say, would you like a tour of the Whatsit? No one else has asked to see it and I’m eager to show it off.”

Turner smiled. “Lead the way.”

Cassie smiled as Gabe showed her every single compartment of his traveling darkroom. His excitement and chatter had lightened her dark mood considerably.

As she stood in the small space, listening to him explain what each chemical was used for, she realized just how green his eyes were. They gleamed like gemstones when he was animated. His shoulders were wide—muscular but not bulky. The golden highlights in his sandy hair gleamed when the lamplight hit them just so . . . and his smile. Heavens, his smile could melt a heart . . . if the heart were so inclined. Golden stubble glinted in the lamplight. His jaw was strong.

With a start, she realized he was staring at her with raised brows, his face expectant. Heat rushed up her neck. He had asked her something and she was standing mute. Acting like . . .

Shaking the ridiculous thought away, she cleared her throat. “Pardon? I was so busy trying to take everything in, I missed your question.”

He smiled again and her stomach lurched unexpectedly. Odd sensation.

“I asked if the smells bother you.”

“No.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not any more than Cook’s beans.”

Faint lines crinkled around his eyes as he laughed. Her pulse kicked.

“Mixing up collodion is foul-smelling business. Ethyl alcohol and sulfuric acid stink like death to begin with.” He winked. “If I ever disappear, check the Whatsit. It’s likely I have passed out from the odor.”

She laughed lightly and caught herself, praying it didn’t sound feminine. She must maintain her identity. She was Thomas Turner. Thomas. Thomas . . .

Swallowing down her nervousness, she pointed at another chemical vial. “And what is in that?”

“That, Private Turner, is silver nitrate.”

“Isn’t that used as a cauterizing agent?”

“It can be, but not for the wet-plate process.”

Her interest piqued, she leaned forward, studying the odd array of vials, bottles, glass plates, varnishes, and papers scattered across the small table. “How does it work?”

“I hand-mix the ether with ethyl alcohol to make a solution called collodion and coat a glass plate with it. It sensitizes the plate to light. Then I immerse the plate in silver nitrate and place it in that large plate box over there.” He pointed to a container enforced with brass corners. “Just don’t get the silver nitrate on your skin. It will turn it brown or black. All the chemicals have to be mixed in here with as little light as possible or the photograph will be ruined before it’s ever exposed.”

“Hard to do in the darkness.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Even harder to do with cannons shaking the whole blasted wagon apart.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “So you put the plates inside the camera?”

“Yes. Under the black curtain connected to the camera, I pull out a wet plate, drop it into the camera, and when I’ve decided the time is right, I remove the lens cap to expose the plate to light.”

“For how long?”

He shrugged. “It depends on the light. Not usually more than three to five seconds, but it can take longer. Then I put the plates back in the box to protect them until I can bring them back here, where I develop them. I wash and dry each plate with water, then coat it with varnish to protect it.”

Incredible. “So much work for one photograph.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it. Once the glass plate negative is finished, the image can be printed on paper over and over again.”

She blinked. “Amazing.”

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Thanks to Mr. Brady, we can capture moments of eternal importance. We can offer comfort to families and sweethearts missing their men. We can help newspapers accurately report the truth.”

“I had no idea it involved so much.”

“So, my friend—” Gabe arched a sandy brow—“I know I tried your patience terribly that first battle, what with you having to save me.” He smirked. “Was it worth it?”

Chuckling, Cassie picked up a bottle of silver nitrate and studied it carefully before placing it back on the table. “I had my doubts about you at first, but I think you’ve won me over.”

She couldn’t help but return his smile when the corners of his eyes crinkled once more.

“Well, that’s one. Now for the rest of the regiment.”

Cassie’s paralyzed tongue couldn’t say what she was thinking. Gabriel Avery had already won over everyone he’d met. And now he’d wormed his way into a reluctant friendship with her as well.

For some strange reason, the thought terrified her.