by Tara Johnson
Turner offered a shadowed smile. “You’re welcome.”
Leaning forward, Gabe studied the sniper, suddenly curious about the fellow’s story. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”
The small man took so long to answer, Gabe feared he was being ignored.
Finally he murmured, “I grew up on a farm.”
“Ah. Shooting at foxes near the henhouse, crows in the corn . . . that kind of thing?”
“Something like that.”
They fell silent again until Turner spoke up softly. “I admit, you held up against that Rebel pretty well, especially being unarmed.”
Gabe chuckled softly. “That’s not the first time I’ve had a knife pulled on me.” Turner raised a brow and Gabe grinned. “I grew up in New York City.”
“Not in the upper-class neighborhood, I assume.”
He cradled his tin cup. “Far from it. My family lived just outside of Five Points slum.”
“I take it that’s an undesirable place.”
“Quite.” He took another pull of the bitter brew. “My parents were Scottish and we migrated to America when I was just a boy of six. Being an immigrant in New York is difficult. Overcrowding, the deceptive preying upon the ignorance of new people in a strange land . . . You learn to live by your wits or not at all.”
Turner stared at the flickering fire and smoking wood but said not a word. So Gabe filled the silence with memories.
“It wasn’t uncommon for someone to pick your pocket or for some depraved individual to accost you if you happened to be out after dark.” He laughed. “I remember one time a fellow tried to steal Mither’s reticule.”
“Mither?”
“Sorry. I meant Mother.” He took another sip and let his thoughts drift back to that muggy summer afternoon.
“Da and Mither had a pittance of money. More than some, but not much to rub together, so when she realized the thief was trying to steal, Mither’s temper lit like a strike of lightning.” He chuckled. “Before the weasel could escape with her reticule, she yanked it from his clutch and began beating him over the head with it, raining down Scottish epithets and well-placed blows to his poor skull.”
He glanced across the fire to see Turner smiling below the brim of his kepi.
“The thief sped away like the devil himself was on his tail. Don’t ever anger a Scottish mother. She’s worse than a whole pack of mama bears. Of course, my da had a temper of his own. One time—”
“Do you ever hush?”
Gabe startled at the outburst. When he saw Turner lower his head to hide his embarrassment at the hasty utterance, Gabe couldn’t suppress the twitching of his lips. He threw back his head and laughed.
Turner’s shoulders visibly shed their weight and a grin bloomed on his shadowed face. “Forgive me.” He looked down into his tin cup. “That was rude.”
“Nay. Not rude. It’s true. I’ve always been a talker. It nearly drove my da to run for the hills.”
“It sounds like you had a good relationship with your father and mother.”
“Aye. I did.” But the sudden image of Da lunging at him assaulted the sweet memories and snuffed them out. The flash of a blade slicing . . .
No, that hadn’t been his da. Not really.
Pushing down the black memory, he blinked and focused on the soldier across from him. “What about you? Are you close with your parents?”
Turner didn’t speak for a long moment but finally cleared his throat and replied in a soft, clipped tone. “With my mother, yes.”
“And your father?”
“No.” Turner snipped off the conversation like thread between scissors. “I just wanted to apologize for being short with you in battle. When bullets are flying past my head, well, it makes a man punchy.”
Gabe rubbed the back of his neck. “I deserved it. I shouldn’t have gotten that close to the battle lines, but—” he shrugged—“I wanted to see. No, I needed to see if capturing a picture of the fighting was even possible.”
“And?”
He shook his head. “Too many issues with light and exposure speed.” He offered a lopsided smirk. “Not to mention the bullets and cannonballs screaming toward my camera.”
Turner chuckled low and Gabe felt a pang of satisfaction. The serious fellow had actually laughed. Imagine that.
Perhaps it was Turner’s youth or the way he seemed so aloof, but something about the soldier reminded Gabe of himself not so many years ago. Turner had erected a barricade around himself and didn’t welcome any intrusions.
Growing pensive once again, Turner slowly lifted his gaze. The shadows from his kepi fell away, revealing bright-blue eyes. “Why did you come? I mean, what does Brady hope to accomplish in all this?”
Sighing, Gabe threw the meager remnants of the cool coffee into the grass. “Brady wants to document the conflict, for as long as it lasts, as a historical record. Nothing more. Before sending me out, he kept saying, ‘We learn who we were to decide who we want to be.’”
Turner grunted.
“Speaking for myself, I initially decided to come out of pure excitement. The opportunity to learn from the greatest photographer of our time, better my skills, and embark on a grand adventure seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. But now—” he swallowed as his throat constricted—“after seeing the carnage, I don’t know.” He frowned. “This conflict, the hate is so ugly. So hideously vile. I don’t want to dwell on the cruelty. I’d rather capture beauty, as meager as it might be.”
“Beauty amid all this?”
“Beauty can always be found if we train our eyes to see it.”
Turner was silent as he shook the remaining drops from his cup into the grass. He stood slowly and leveled his gaze at Gabe. “I wish you the best.”
“Thank you. Obviously I need someone to keep me out of mischief.” He sobered. “And I definitely need a friend.”
“Consider yourself to have both.”
They shook hands, and as Turner departed for his tent, Gabe smiled.
A friend. A quirky, mysterious puzzle of a fellow, but a friend nonetheless.
Chapter 6
MANASSAS, VIRGINIA
JULY 20, 1861
Cassie winced, shifting the fifty-pound pack across her back, wishing she could simply drop the cumbersome load and forge ahead with only her rifle. The relief from the oppressive weight would be a luxury. She dragged in a breath of muggy air, longing for one cool breeze to stir. Instead the heat hung heavy and thick.
Their regiment had marched through Virginia, melting into the thousands of Union troops preparing to make a stand against the Rebels just outside the capital. Cassie blinked against the sweat stinging her eyes as she stopped to catch her breath. Wave after wave of shimmering Union blue marched onward, resembling lapping waves of the ocean.
At her side, George groaned, rubbing his flat stomach with dirt-crusted fingers. “Ach, my stomach. Cursed dysentery.”
Offering him a sympathetic glance, she shuffled along in the laborious march. “I heard a surgeon tell a nurse dysentery might be killing more soldiers than bullets or minié balls.”
“I believe it. Hard to march when your stomach feels like it’s going to fall out.”
She nodded toward the trees and bramble lining the road. “Look for some blackberries. They will help.”
With a renewed burst of energy, George broke formation to seek the treasured fruit.
“What is the poor boy going to do come winter when there is nary a blackberry to be found?”
Turning, she shrugged at Weeks as he clomped behind her, stirring up a cloud of dust. The statement was true enough. Little could be found to sate their already-shriveled stomachs. Coffee, beans, and hardtack only went so far. Meat was scarce and sometimes blue. Not fit for consumption, though some of the boys tried and regretted it with a vengeance later.
“I guess Providence will provide us the answer when we come to it.”
Weeks wiped at the sweat trickling down hi
s temple. “Either that, or we’ll all be dead.”
Briggs released a hearty laugh. “Not me! If I go down, I’m taking the whole blamed army of Johnny Rebs with me!”
The boisterous declaration brought cheers from those around him, but Cassie could not join their confident shouts. Unease niggled the pit of her stomach. Nerves? Perhaps. Fear? Most assuredly. Only a fool would go into battle unafraid. No, it was something more.
The clattering wheels of a barouche approached from the east, drawing their attention to the bouncing conveyance. The small forms of a man and woman perched atop the covered seat grew larger as they drew alongside the shuffling soldiers. The sleek Morgans tossed their glossy manes and pranced as if dancing through a parade. The driver, a portly man with a tall black hat and side-whiskers, waved at the soldiers. His voice boomed over the throng. “Well done, lads! Show Jeff Davis what the Union is made of!”
Cheers rose thick as dust. The woman wearing a dress resplendent with rows of lace and frills lifted her gaze from below her pert parasol. Upon seeing Thomas Turner, she blew a kiss from her gloved hand. Heat swept into Cassie’s cheeks. If the debutante only knew . . .
Briggs’s laughter cracked like cannon fire. “Turner! You’ve an admirer, you do!”
Cassie dropped her gaze to the churning dust of the road and ignored the jests.
Weeks dug his elbow into her side. “What’sa matter, Turner? It’s not like you got a gal back home.”
Cassie frowned. “It just seems like poor taste for the city dandies to parade around the troops and act so flippant.”
Jackson, a soldier with dark hair and an easy smile, shrugged. “Maybe they’re trying to lift our spirits.”
“War is no garden party. It’s life and death. I don’t want any distractions.”
The others fell silent at her muttered sentiment. She felt like a wet blanket but would not take back the thought. She had no desire to attract any attention, nor be distracted. By males or females alike.
Still, if the audacious debutante realized Private Thomas Turner was not a male at all . . .
The thought made her snicker.
The men gathered in small clumps, relishing the rest, however short it might be. Despite the urgency to get to the Confederate capital and capture Richmond, the colonel had found it difficult to move the large number of troops in a hasty manner. They had walked only twenty miles in the past two days. Heat shimmered from the earth in scorching waves.
Sitting on a fallen log by the road, Cassie rubbed her ankles, silently cursing the woolen socks that had chafed her skin raw.
Glancing across the weary bunch, she found little comfort in knowing she was not alone. Briggs’s bluster had cooled into quiet exhaustion. Weeks looked ready to drop. George, having found no blackberries, held his cramping stomach, emitting occasional moans of misery. Cooper grimaced, yanking his swollen feet from his shoes. He rubbed his aching toes with a glower. Poor fellow—his boots had been nearly falling off when he enlisted, so the regiment gave him a pair. The problem was both boots were for left feet. No more matching pairs were to be had. Cooper had marched for days trying to convince a left boot it should fit his right foot.
The boot appeared to be winning.
Everyone looked done in. She glanced toward the annoying debutante and her pompous father, who refused to leave them be. Now the girl had her fluttering sights set on Gabriel Avery. Her high-pitched laughter drifted through the air, scraping at Cassie’s nerves. Gabe was smiling, leaning in, and saying something that brought the girl’s eyelashes into a fanning frenzy.
Something hot tightened Cassie’s chest.
Briggs chuckled, snapping her attention to where it belonged . . . away from the nauseating pair. “Jealous, Turner?”
Cassie nearly sputtered. Jealous of Gabe talking with that dunderheaded slip of a—?
“Looks like your admirer has taken a shine to the photographer.”
Cassie forced her muscles to relax. Why had she assumed Briggs was asking if she was jealous of the attention Gabe was lavishing on the pampered princess? “Nah. Ain’t got time for females anyhow. Got a job to do.”
“Hear, hear!” The men sitting nearby lifted fists in camaraderie, yet their careworn faces and shoulders drooped.
A fly buzzed near Cassie’s ear and she swatted it away, frowning when Gabe finally tore himself from the simpering female hanging off his arm and approached the weary regiment sagging beside the road. He dropped into the dust beside their group, wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “Canteens refilled and ready?”
Weeks lifted his own canteen and took a noisy slurp of water from it with a grin.
Briggs squinted against the sun beating down on their sweat-soaked kepis. “Looks like you could use a drink yourself, Avery. Or perhaps it was the charming company you’ve been keeping that’s made your face all red. Quite a good show we’ve been watching.”
Weeks chortled and Gabe smiled. Cassie dropped her gaze and refocused on her chafed ankles.
“The lady took an interest in Turner here, but he wouldn’t give her the time of day.”
Gabe lifted his brows high. Cassie ignored the teasing. Blasted woolen socks.
Weeks leaned forward. “Pretty thing, don’t you think, Avery?”
He shrugged, and Cassie felt the twinge in her middle slowly evaporate.
“Pretty enough, I suppose. Seems a bit young, truth be told.”
Cooper smirked. “Wouldn’t matter to me none.”
Gabe plucked at a straggly weed at his feet, tossing it away. “You don’t have a girl, Cooper?”
Weeks snorted. “You smelled his feet lately? No lady in her right mind would sign up for that.”
Cooper glared. “I suppose your feet smell like lilacs?”
Weeks smiled smugly. “My girl hasn’t any complaints about the way I smell.”
“If she were here, she would.”
Cassie felt her mouth tugging upward at their silly jests.
Gabe nodded toward Briggs. “What about you, Briggs? Got yourself a woman?”
The man’s wide, bearded face softened. “Sure do. My Moira’s the prettiest thing you ever did see. Full of sass and pluck, too. Gave me a strapping son and two girls as beautiful as their ma.”
Cassie paused and studied the faraway look in her friend’s eyes. Big, exuberant, larger-than-life Briggs was smitten. That was plain to see. What would it be like to love and be loved with such devotion?
“How old are your children?” Gabe asked.
His eyes twinkled, chest puffed out in pride. “Seth will be twelve next week, and the girls are eight and six.”
“And here I thought you were a crusty old bachelor. Haven’t heard you mention them until now.”
Smiling gently, Briggs patted his chest with a meaty paw. “I don’t say much, but I carry them all in here.”
Weeks frowned at a cluster of soldiers congregated on the far side of the road, milling around a couple of women, their faces all but obscured by the clutch of admirers. “Speaking of the fairer sex . . .”
Gabriel frowned. “Who are the men talking to?”
Weeks arched a brow. “Don’t you know? Amid that throng are two females. Soiled doves, to be precise.” Weeks lifted the brim of his kepi, revealing matted hair. “If you’re looking for more, shall we say, mature female companionship, you might want to say hello.”
Heat scorched Cassie’s neck. She longed to flee. Her companions suddenly seemed dangerously, irrevocably male.
Gabe frowned. “I’ll not be introducing myself.” His face darkened.
“Not lonely, I take it.”
Gabe stood, his jaw rigid. “Doesn’t matter if I am or not. Women weren’t meant to be treated in such a way. I couldn’t stand before God if I did . . . nor could I live with myself.” He offered a tight smile. “They’ll be calling to move soon. I better get back to the darkroom.”
He departed, leaving silence in his wake.
Cassie s
tared at his receding form and blinked. She’d never heard a man speak of women in such a way. As if they were meant to be cherished, not used. She’d certainly never seen it demonstrated in her own life.
Who was Gabriel Avery anyway?
The sun had not yet risen when it began.
Chaos. Screams. Torn flesh. Exploding earth. Sizzling bursts of gunpowder. Shaking so severe she feared her teeth would be rattled from their sockets. Acrid smoke. The gritty taste of sand and dirt. Ears buzzing into a numbing hum. Clapping booms of cannons and the shrill screech of shells. And blood. So much blood.
Death was everywhere.
Had the sun been snuffed out completely? It seemed so. Perhaps it was only the thick fog of smoke. Perhaps it was from the screams of agony that choked out all other sensations. Whatever the reason, light and all that was good in the world vanished.
Her own regiment had only just crossed the creek in Manassas when they were greeted with a volley of gunfire. Somehow, amid the din of exploding rifles and bone-jarring cannons, the colonel’s sharp yell of “Left flank, march!” could still be heard.
After getting into position, she and her fellow soldiers hunkered down, ready to fight, when bullets began ripping through their ranks, picking off men like ducks on water. The shouts filtered down through the line: minié balls. The Rebels were hitting them with the cruelest weaponry known to human flesh. A bullet that flattened when it struck bodies, ripping apart both muscle and tendon while shattering bone.
The whistling shriek of cannons sliced overhead, and Cassie crouched lower, tearing open another powder cartridge with her teeth and spitting the acrid taste into the dirt. A cannonball hit nearby, plowing through the ground. The world tilted on its axis.
Somewhere in the distance, drums rat-tat-tatted the signal to engage. All she could muster was one primal desire. Survive. Nothing more.
A large tree crashed to her left, and screaming soldiers attempted to flee as its splintered top careened to earth. Gun ready, she licked her lips and aimed for anything foolish enough to be wearing gray. Farther down the line, she could hear Briggs yelling, “I got a bullet for you Johnny Rebs, sent straight from Lincoln himself!”
