by Tara Johnson
George grunted. “Don’t I know it. Just healed up from Bull Run and the captain has me felling logs and drilling like I’m fresh meat.”
Briggs lit a pipe and flicked the match into the grass, stomping out the curl of smoke with the toe of his boot. Tiny wisps of white escaped through his nostrils as he puffed a white cloud with a soft bop. “Little Mac’s tough, but we’re better soldiers for him. Maybe when we face Johnny Reb again, we’ll show ’em what we’re made of.”
Jackson nodded toward an approaching figure illuminated by the glow of sparks spiraling upward from nearby fires. Dusk had turned the sky to coal, yet the feeble light shone against a silhouette growing larger as he neared. “Looks like the photographer is coming this way.”
Cassie looked down, hating the pleasure that filled her chest. Since Gabe had shown her his traveling darkroom, they’d talked continually. He was always seeking her out, asking for Thomas’s opinion on interesting photographic possibilities and the best weapon to use in combat, as well as sharing all manner of interesting, humorous stories. Cassie had realized she didn’t mind his chatter and chumming in the least. In fact, she was quite fond of his banter and lighthearted tales and found herself looking forward to their chats more than she ought. She needed to melt into the obscurity of nameless men fighting in the great conflict, not become buddies with an observant fellow who loved to talk.
Letting him get close, even while trying to keep him at arm’s length, was too risky. If she were discovered . . .
Sand coated her throat, congealing into a lump so hard, it was like she’d swallowed one of Weeks’s playing dice. She could not go back home.
Briggs’s deep voice intruded. “You two have been thick as thieves lately, Turner. You finally warmed up to him, eh?”
She picked at the shredding sole of her tattered boot. “He’s a good friend. And he does most of the talking, which suits me fine.”
Briggs yanked off his kepi and ran his thick fingers through his shock of black hair. “That’s the truth. He loves to talk. I ain’t never seen a man who attracts folks to him more than Gabriel Avery. He’s a good sort.”
Before she could comment, her gaze snagged on the solitary figure of a young boy two fires over. He was alone, poking at his popping fire with a long stick. His back was hunched over as he sat on his haunches. No figure ever seemed so lonely.
She nodded in the boy’s direction. “Any of you know that fellow over there?”
The group turned to look but collectively shook their heads. Weeks frowned. “There’s thousands camped out here and you’re asking about a mite like that?”
For some reason, Cassie was unable to take her eyes off the spindly lad. “Just seems on the young side, is all.”
Something tightened in her chest as she watched him listlessly stir the fire. Sparks shot up into the night. She rose and headed in his direction.
Briggs called, “Hey! Where you going? We’re gonna teach Gabe chuck-a-luck.”
She forged ahead, shouting over her shoulder, “You go ahead. I’ll be back.”
Leaving their grumbling behind, she picked her way over the dark terrain, mumbling in irritation when her boot turned in a snake hole. At her approach, the boy scowled. She’d thought he was perhaps thirteen when she’d seen him across the way. But this lad couldn’t be more than nine or ten. She eased down next to him in the damp grass but stayed silent as he prodded the fire.
“You need something, mister?”
Smiling at the huffy tone, Cassie shrugged. “Just a bit lonely for some company, is all. That is, if you’re agreeable.”
With a sniff, the little soldier replied, “I reckon that would be all right. Just don’t go jawing all night.”
She managed a serious nod. “My name’s Thomas Turner.” She stuck out her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, the scruffy boy offered his own sunburned paw.
“Jonah Phifer.”
“Nice to meet you, Jonah.”
Grunt.
“Where you from?”
“Missouri.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “You?”
“Michigan.”
Silence.
The gruff tone melted away as Jonah blinked at her in the light of the dancing fire. “Does it get cold up there?”
“Very.”
Blond hair peeked out from underneath the brim of his kepi. “We get some snow, but I’ve always wanted to see a great big bully snow. Snow so deep you can build a house out of it and live like them Eskimos I’ve heard about.”
“We get snow deep enough to do that.”
His chest puffed out. “Of course, I’m used to the heat and humidity too. Our summers are tough. They’ll make a man out of ya.” Shooting her a haughty glance, he lifted a brow. “Something Michigan types don’t know much about.”
So much pride packed into such a tiny body. She kept her face serious. “You’re right. I’m not used to this heat. I feel sticky all the time.”
Jonah barked a sudden laugh. “My buddy Wes says stepping outside in the air during July is like getting licked in the face by a slobbering cow.”
Cassie’s chest bloomed with pleasure as she laughed along with him. What a funny little boy.
“How old are you, Jonah?”
“I’m ten.” He raised his chin as if daring her to refute him.
Cassie grunted. “Hmm. I would have guessed thirteen or fourteen.” A wispy expression of pleasure hovered over Jonah’s mouth. “What’s your job, soldier?”
“Errand boy.” He frowned. “I was wanting to be a powder monkey for the navy. Trained for it and everything, but I couldn’t get my sea legs.” He sighed melodramatically. “I sure was looking forward to blowing stuff up.”
She suppressed the mirth bubbling for release. “Sounds like an interesting job . . . if you take away the queasy stomach.”
Jonah tossed a rock into the fire and smiled with satisfaction when it made the logs shift, causing the wood to snap and whistle. “I like that sound. What makes burning wood whistle like that?”
“Don’t know.”
“Me neither.”
Silence.
“How did you manage to enlist? Being underage and all?”
Jonah’s face turned dark. “Schoolmaster Howe encouraged the recruitment officers to give me a try. They take on drummer boys, so why not?” His little jaw tightened. “I’m an orphan.” He turned to her with a scowl. “That don’t make me lonely or sad or anything like that, you know.”
“Of course not.”
Straightening his spindly shoulders, Jonah scratched the straw-colored hair crammed under his kepi. “No, Howe thought he was getting rid of me, but what he didn’t know was that I hoped to join up. I wanted to join up.” Jonah glowered. “I was thrilled to get away from that old man.”
“I take it you two didn’t see eye to eye.”
“No, sir.” Jonah shook his head. “He hated me and I hated him.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. He called me a poor little orphan boy a lot, and that made me fighting mad. Also called me the devil’s son from time to time.” Jonah turned to Cassie with an incredulous glare. “Now how could I be an orphan and the devil’s son at the same time?”
She somehow managed to keep a straight face. “Doesn’t make much sense.”
“’Xactly. He sure could get mad. Like the last day, he took a switch to me. I asked him a question and called him ‘Teacher.’ He didn’t like that none. He wanted us to call him Schoolmaster Howe.” Jonah snorted. “He stopped in his tracks and said, ‘Mr. Phifer, can you be so kind as to call me by my respectful name?’ So I says, ‘Of course, Schoolmaster Howe’d-he-get-so-ugly-and-mean.’”
It took all of Cassie’s willpower not to burst into gales of laughter.
“Old Man Howe like to have whipped me raw that day. So, you see, when he was happy to recommend me as fit to serve, I was more than happy to oblige him. The captains here drill us until I’m bored out of my m
ind, but at least they don’t whip me or call me the devil’s son.”
Keeping herself in check, Cassie nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. Say, I’ve got a group of friends I’d like to introduce you to. We’re gonna play some games before bed. You want to join in?”
Jonah’s slow manner spoke of reluctance, but there was no hiding the excited pleasure that filled his eyes. “I reckon that’d be okay.”
“I appreciate it.”
They stood and walked side by side.
“I like you, Private Turner. You don’t jaw too much at all and that’s nice.”
Cassie winked. “Happy to oblige, Private Phifer.”
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.
