Gretchen had watched Mrs. Baumbach and Adelaide fuss and flutter over Alina all morning. Now that Werner was back, his mother had been happy to forgive and accept Alina. Alina had to look perfect for Werner, of course. Gretchen had fought her hand-me-down corset and hoops until Tante Klegg had arrived. She had stopped Gretchen from strangling herself by her own sleeve.
“Remind me why I have to wear this stuff?” Gretchen had said between clenched teeth.
“You must dress your age now,” had been Tante Klegg’s reply.
Werner and Alina began reciting their vows. Alina cried, and Werner’s collar seemed too tight.
It had taken Adelaide all night to get all the grime out of Werner’s uniform. He stood in his tattered blues, sleeve pinned up to hide his missing arm. He looked nervous and excited and tired and annoyed.
Gretchen glanced at Karl, who looked uncomfortable wearing Werner’s old Sunday best. She lacked time to fit the suit to him, so she did as best she could. Only a few stitches tacked the pant hem and sleeve cuffs so Karl did not swim in fabric.
Pastor Baumbach described Alina’s unwavering patience while waiting for Werner’s return. He mentioned Werner’s perseverance to return to his bride.
Gretchen stared at her feet so no one would see her rolling her eyes.
The newspapers that morning had announced authorities had caught Booth and his conspirators. Her aunt and mother had continued eating breakfast as if the almanac reported a sunny day.
It was for the best. At least, Gretchen kept telling herself that. They had lost interest in Mr. Lincoln’s killer. They had also lost interest in Karl. Karl was Gretchen’s problem in the full definition of the word. Pastor Baumbach had intended a double ceremony that morning, but Tante Klegg had stopped it.
It did not make a lick of sense since Gretchen was certain Pastor Baumbach thought she was fifteen. How could he marry her off to a stranger and have a clear conscience?
Karl, sensing Gretchen was watching him, gave her a small smile. She did not return it.
Tomorrow they were going to Columbus. She did not know what that would mean for Karl or for her. The newspaper had shared the agenda for Mr. Lincoln’s funeral train’s arrival at the statehouse. Everyone in the region would travel to the capital city to pay their respects.
All Alina heard was Mr. Lincoln’s funeral would distract everyone. That meant no wait to walk into a photographer’s shop so she could get her wedding photo.
So they were going to Columbus tomorrow, Karl too, because it seemed foolhardy to leave him alone. Gretchen wondered whether anyone would recognize him as the lost prisoner. She wondered if, like her mother and aunt, no one cared anymore with the president’s body within reach.
Pastor Baumbach pronounced Werner and Alina as man and wife. They kissed. Alina threw her arms around Werner’s neck, saying, “We must never part.”
Werner looked sick to his stomach before burying his face in her neck.
Gretchen felt a little sad. Alina would have the rest of her life getting to know this man she had married. She did not like Alina, but she also did not like the idea of her suffering. How Gretchen hoped Werner would be a kinder husband than he was a brother.
Werner wrapped his arm around Alina’s waist, already the possessive husband. “Though I’m still angry at Mr. Lincoln,” he said, “I’m glad our wedding gives us cause to pay our respects to him.”
Gretchen rolled her eyes. She would have found a way to Columbus with or without Werner’s wedding. This was her chance to see Mr. Lincoln in person. This was also her chance to see if her father—well, her uncle—was on any lists. It had been weeks since they had heard anything. With Karl there and Werner home, it had been easy to ignore the fact that no one knew what had happened to Gregory Miller.
Until this wedding. Gretchen’s father should have been here for the wedding. One way or another, she had to know if he was on any lists: the prisoners of war, the missing, or the deceased.
Werner broke Gretchen’s reverie. “Out of respect for our former president, I’m allowing this so-called Karl to remain on my farm until Monday.”
Gretchen’s mouth dropped open. “Your farm?” She stepped closer. “Your farm?” she shouted.
“Gretchen,” Tante Klegg warned.
“Who said it was your farm?” Gretchen demanded. “I’ve been watching over the farm since Papa left, not you. This is more my farm than it ever was yours. You left!”
Tante Klegg clucked her tongue at Gretchen and shook her head. She gave her a well-meaning look with a pained smile. Gretchen’s hand came to her mouth as she realized she had no claim to the farm because she was not the daughter of the family.
Werner made it clear he knew exactly what Gretchen was thinking. “I know Mr. Lincoln wanted reconciliation. But I bet he also wanted to live. Just like how I want my arm back.”
Pastor Baumbach frowned and shut his Bible. Adelaide wiped tears from her cheeks. Tante Klegg was impassive, and Karl was white as a sheet.
“I’m man of the house, Gretchen,” Werner said. “And don’t you think I know how Karl got into my house?”
Gretchen took a step back, shaking her head.
Werner continued, “You and your mother are no longer welcome. When your pet Karl leaves, so will you.”
“You would evict us?” Tante Klegg said.
Pastor Baumbach held up his hand. “We should not have pushed for this so soon, Alina. It was unwise. It was selfish of us in his state.”
Alina ignored her father. She looked from Tante Klegg to Gretchen, clutching Werner’s hand at her waist. “Gretchen is your daughter?”
The room fell silent.
Pastor Baumbach hugged his Bible to his chest and regarded Gretchen. “This is what upset you. Not Werner’s return.”
Gretchen, her throat closing with tears, could say nothing.
Pastor Baumbach gave a measured look to everyone in the room, Tante Klegg and Adelaide in particular. He retreated to his bedroom.
Still pondering, Alina said, “You’re not his sister at all.”
Gretchen lifted her chin.
“I’m serious,” Werner said, guiding Alina to the kitchen. “I want the three of you out by Monday or so help me, I’ll shoot every last one of you.”
Mrs. Baumbach and Adelaide did not look at Tante Klegg, Gretchen, or Karl when they followed Werner and Alina into the kitchen.
“Now do you see why I kept your lineage a secret?” Tante Klegg said. She lifted her skirts and sailed out of the house. Moments later, Gretchen and Karl heard the wagon creaking down the road.
Gretchen’s shoulders drooped. “I guess we’re walking home.”
Route of Funeral Procession
Saturday, 29 April 1865 / The Ohio Daily Statesman
MILITARY PREPARATIONS in this city for the Funeral Ceremonies of the late Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, who Died at Washington by the Hands of an Assassin, on the 15th day of April, 1865.
The remains of Abraham Lincoln, late president of the United States, will arrive in the city of Columbus, O., at 7:30 o’clock A.M. Saturday, the 29th inst., at the Union Depot.
The funeral escort will consist of the 88th O.V. Infantry.
III. Officers of the army not on duty with troops are respectfully invited to participate in the obsequies.
Detachments of the army and volunteer organizations, not on duty with the escort, will be assigned positions on application to Capt. L. Nichols, Tod Barracks.
All military officers to be in uniform and with side arms. The usual badge of mourning will be worn on the left arm and sword hilt.
In order to prevent confusion at the entrance gate, all who are not in line of procession, will form after the left of the procession has entered the Capitol square, in two ranks on the outside of square fence, on High street, running North to Broad, South to State, thence East on Broad and State streets, for extent.
ROUTE OF PROCESSION. The procession will move promptly from south
of depot at 7:30 A.M. South on High to Broad, east on Broad to Fourth, South on Fourth to State, west on State to High, north on High to main entrance of Capitol. A mounted cavalry force will be stationed at all intersections of High street north of Town street, for the purpose of preventing all vehicles from entering on High street. That street must be kept clear for the movement of the procession. At 6 P.M. the Capitol will be closed. The procession will reform in the following order to escort the remains to the depot…
Twenty-Six
Saturday, 29 April 1865 / Columbus, Ohio
Gretchen avoided bumping shoulders with Tante Klegg and Karl, who had kept her up late by speaking into the small hours of the night. Her eyes were bleary, and her head and heart heavy. Her entire body trembled from exhaustion. She did her best not to yawn as the wagon swayed.
Adelaide had slept at the Baumbach’s, preferring to travel with her son and new daughter-in-law to Columbus to pay her respects to Mr. Lincoln.
Gretchen had never visited the capital city. She was sad and excited to pay her respects to Mr. Lincoln. And scared, if she had to admit it, because there was a chance that her father’s name would be on a list. She hoped he was on a list of soldiers sent to Camp Chase for mustering out. Or on a hospital list. Or even on a missing persons list.
Gretchen dreaded finding his name on any other list.
Karl’s hand brushed hers when the wagon bounced over a rut in the road. Both jumped. Gretchen clasped both of her hands together in her lap so it would not happen again. When she glanced at Karl from under the brim of her bonnet, he was as bright as a ripe tomato.
Gretchen looked at Tante Klegg, who had not noticed or chose not to notice. Tante Klegg had not said a word to her all morning. It was obvious she blamed Gretchen for getting them kicked out of the farmhouse.
The thing was, Gretchen suspected that had been Werner’s plan all along. That his mother went along with Werner without arguing seemed to confirm it. One way or another, those two had planned to get Gretchen and Tante Klegg out, and Karl was the perfect excuse.
“Them cussed fools,” Gretchen said to herself.
They neared the city; wagons and buggies lined the road for miles ahead. Tante Klegg pulled the horse aside and tethered the reins to a tree. “We will walk from here. We cannot get our wagon through this mess.”
The crowds were unfathomable. People filled muddy streets, lined boardwalks, and waved handkerchiefs out of windows. Tante Klegg, Karl, and Gretchen shuffled into the line to view the president’s remains. Black crepe fabric wound around the statehouse’s tall columns so they looked like striped candy.
Most faces wore expressions of shock, dismay, or a certain weary acceptance. Some displayed something more sinister. Grim satisfaction—that was how Gretchen would have described them. She wanted to scream at them for daring to view Mr. Lincoln. They were gloating; that is what they were doing. They were happy Booth took someone so important to the Union. Gretchen felt like she kept seeing Werner’s smirk everywhere. She balled her fists together.
The man beside Gretchen shoved her with his elbow. She cried out as she stumbled into Karl. The man ignored her, shoving his way to the front of the line.
“All right?” Karl said, helping Gretchen stand. She nodded and looked away from Tante Klegg’s raised eyebrows and pressed lips.
They shuffled forward. Gretchen could feel her heart beat against her corset. She wished she had grabbed an apple before they climbed into the wagon that morning.
A woman said something about finally seeing the president’s comeuppance. Someone else shushed her and said she should not speak ill of the dead.
Gretchen shuddered. She wondered whether anyone was cruel enough to do further harm to Mr. Lincoln. She had read his casket would be open for the mourners to view. She had heard there was a man whose sole purpose was to apply chalk and paint to Mr. Lincoln’s face to hide the decay.
They reached the official mourning line sometime after noon. The line circled the statehouse block and beyond. Gretchen knew they had until six, when the funeral train would leave for Indianapolis.
Tante Klegg maintained her silence as they waited. Gretchen shifted from side to side, craning her neck to guess how long it would take to reach the doors. Karl did not know how to feel or act. He remembered, in part, swearing citizenship to the United States when he left Camp Chase. By default, Mr. Lincoln was the only president he knew. Had he been a stalwart Confederate before capture and fever and memory loss? He had no idea. Tante Klegg had pestered him with questions late into the night. His head still swam from trying to remember, trying to appease her.
Their conversation had not been easy. Tante Klegg wanted to know why he was in Camp Chase. In the early morning hours, she had convinced herself that she and Gretchen had to leave, and he as well. “You must join us,” she had said, “or you must disappear. You will not survive Werner.”
Karl wanted to ask Gretchen whether she knew Tante Klegg had given him the opportunity to leave. That if he remained, he had to marry her.
Gretchen clutched Karl’s hand as the crowd pushed them to the side. She complained about the crowd’s changing mood. They stumbled trying to match the crowd’s pace. A flash caught Karl’s eye.
At the edge of the crowd stood a man with a delicate contraption. Karl could not pull his gaze away. The contraption was a precarious box atop three spindly legs. The man standing behind it held up a thin stick with a smoking tray. Karl released Tante Klegg’s hand without realizing it.
“Not now,” Tante Klegg said as Karl inched through the crowd. He made sure to turn around and shake his head. He did not want her to think he was taking her offer. Not yet, anyway.
Karl pushed through, Gretchen following because he had not released her hand. The man lifted the heavy black fabric hanging off the back of the box. Karl froze. It was just like his memory. The man stepped underneath the fabric, draping it over his head and shoulders.
Tante Klegg moved farther away with the crowd. The doors were about to open so they could pay their respects to Mr. Lincoln. Gretchen’s head swiveled from Tante Klegg to Karl, unsure who she should follow.
The man clicked a thin piece of wood in place at the front of the box. He emerged and pulled out a glass plate, which he encased in a thin wooden sleeve and tucked away in the box at his feet.
“What’s that you’re doing?” Karl asked.
“Capturing history,” the man exclaimed. He pulled another pane of reflective glass and slid it into place.
“How long are you exposing for?” Karl asked, without knowing what he meant.
The man’s brows arched but he spouted off words that made no sense until they did. Focus, light, and a steady stand were key to a good capture, Karl remembered. The subject must be still because the light took time to burn the treated glass. That was why stills of battles were no good. Better to capture the equipment, or the campground, or the bodies after a skirmish. Movement was impossible to capture.
Karl’s heart was not in capturing details. It was too easy to make a mistake and waste expensive materials. Karl looked at his trembling hands. “Might I?”
The photographer stared at him. Gretchen clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes bright with excitement. She moved onto the boardwalk to get out of the way of everyone pushing toward the statehouse. Tante Klegg, grumbling, did the same.
The photographer hovered as Karl lifted the velvet. The photographer rattled off instructions, but Karl did not listen; he did not need to. This contraption was not his profession, but it was his trade. He could, if he had to, step in and take the still if his partner fell to a bullet.
Karl stepped beneath the curtain. It felt like the most natural thing to happen since he left Camp Chase. He breathed a sigh as the velvet muffled the noises around him. All he had to do was concentrate. Find the scene. Slide open the front panel at the right moment. Hold up the flash. His assistant lights the fuse. Everyone holds still. Latch the panel shut again.
&nb
sp; Karl blinked, and the statehouse disappeared. In front of him was a body. The face stared at him, unseeing. An arm outstretched on the ground, reaching for help that was too late coming. Of course, that was not where the body fell, no. Karl had moved the body. Made it a real scene. Needed to pull at the heartstrings back home. Rally everyone for the cause. What cause would warrant disturbing the body of a boy who died so he could take a good picture?
Karl stumbled away from the large camera. He fought the urge to retch all over himself.
The photographer leaped to prevent the camera from falling over. “Get out of here before you break something,” he hissed.
Gretchen grabbed Karl’s arm. “You know how to use that thing, don’t you?”
Karl nodded. He bent at the waist and clutched his knees as he gulped foul-tasting air.
“You’re a photographer?” Gretchen pressed, waving Tante Klegg over. They had to get out of there. They had to see the president. They had to find the list of the missing and the dead. They had to help Karl remember who he was. He was so close to remembering, she could tell.
Karl shook his head. He took a long, steadying breath and stood upright. “Photographer’s assistant,” he said.
Gretchen put her hand to her ear to show she had not heard him. The doors had opened at the statehouse. Everyone was rushing forward, hoping to make it through.
“Photographer’s assistant,” Karl said. “I can take them stills. I have taken them, after a bullet felled my employer. They almost got me. I was fumbling with the equipment. Trying to get out of the way. I didn’t want to get shot. I was documenting history.”
Gretchen’s grip tightened. “You aren’t a soldier.”
He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “I think… my name’s… Elias.”
“And my name’s Witt,” the photographer said, “and if you ruined my camera, so help me God…”
Twenty-Seven
The Last April Page 14
