It was a tactful way of asking why he wasn’t in uniform. He felt guilty.
‘No ma’am. I’m a photographer. I want to take pictures of the aftermath of the battle. Exhibit them in Washington. I think it’s important people see what a terrible thing war is.’
Gilbert felt even more guilty to be parroting Roberto’s lines.
‘You will do the world a great service if you do that, Mister Owens. But I fear it will not stop the war.’
‘You’re probably right on that score, ma’am, but I think it’s still a good thing to do.’
She nodded thoughtfully.
‘And do you have a wife, Mister Owens?’
‘I did, ma’am. She died – four months ago, this very day.’
The blonde woman’s hand went out and touched Gilbert’s arm as it rested on the counter.
‘I’m so sorry, Mister Owens. So, so sorry.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘And how are you doing, if you don’t mind me asking?’
Gilbert emptied his glass. She took the cork from the bottle of whisky and refilled it.
‘Not well, if truth be told, ma’am. I’m afraid that after she died, I buried myself in this’ – he lifted his glass off the counter. ‘If it hadn’t been for my Italian friend, I’d still be doing that.’
She nodded.
‘It’s very difficult,’ she said. ‘You feel that there will never be any joy in the world again. That the best part of your life is over.’
‘That’s exactly it, ma’am. And for you, has it gotten any easier?’
‘They say time is a great healer. Maybe it is. But in some ways, it feels as raw today as the day I found out. A friend told me a year is an important milestone. Another said two years. Well, this coming twenty first July it’ll be two years. I guess I’ll just have to see.’
‘The photographs I take ––’ Gilbert began, picking up his glass and considering its golden contents in the lamplight. ‘They come out in black and white. And it’s like all the color has gone from my world – that I see everything now in black and white. I used to enjoy the beauty of the world so much – especially when I was with her – and now’ – Gilbert shrugged – ‘I just look at it and say, “sure, so what?”.’
‘I know that feeling so well,’ she said. ‘Was your wife very beautiful?’
‘As beautiful as you are, ma’am,’ he said, without thinking.
If she was surprised or shocked, she didn’t show it. She simply said, ‘Thank you, Mister Owens’.
And it occurred to Gilbert that he hadn’t overstepped the mark. He felt he could speak openly to her. She was that kind of person. Sarah had been like that. What was it she had said? ‘I hate conversations which are just small talk’.
‘You should call me Gilbert,’ he said, extending a hand.
‘Abigail Wakeman,’ she said, taking it. ‘Most folks call me Abby.’
He held her hand for several seconds. It was warm and soft and small. It was the second touch he had felt today.
‘Perhaps you’ll meet somebody else, Abby,’ he said. ‘There are good men around.’
A picture of Roberto popped unexpectedly into Gilbert’s head as he used the phrase ‘good men’.
‘I think not,’ she replied. ‘I get to see a lot of men that come through here. I’ve never encountered anybody whom I would even think comes remotely near my dead husband.’
It was exactly what Gilbert felt about Sarah. Where would he ever find such a beautiful, fun-loving, uninhibited person? There might have been a time when he would have been attracted to Abby. Standing opposite him in the lamplight, she looked so beautiful. And almost effortlessly they had drifted into this soul-baring conversation. She seemed tender, caring, loving. There was a fire in her – how many women would have continued to run a place like this after their husband’s death? And with a war waging around it? He imagined she was – or at least, had been – very passionate.
And yet Gilbert felt no stir of attraction. Had she offered now to take him to her bed, had she given him the chance to see her naked, to lie beside her, to hold her, he felt he would just have had to decline. The prospect offered him no pleasure and he wondered where this part of himself had gone. Had it died? When he thought back to how he had been before he met Sarah. And then – the explosion of passion when they had been together. Was it all dead now? Would it never come back again? The strangest thing of all was that he didn’t particularly want it to.
Eventually they finished their drinks. Abby said she had a few more things to do, but Gilbert suspected it was just so that they wouldn’t end up going upstairs together. He wished her goodnight and went to his room. Again he was struck by not feeling the urge to hug her, hold her, kiss her. Before going to sleep he went out on the balcony again. The night was humid and muggy. The moon was near full and sailed through heavy dark clouds. It looked like it might rain. Inside he heard Abby on the stairs and then her footsteps receded across the floorboards towards the rear of the building.
Sometime during the night it began to rain. It was a hard rain drumming on the roof and on the floor of the balcony. Gilbert wondered about the soldiers, sleeping out in tents or out in the open under such rain. And then he thought of the ones who were not sleeping, but wounded or dead. Was there nothing in the world but desolation and death?
Saturday 4 July 1863
39
‘Happy Independence Day, Mister Owens,’
He had woken early – just after dawn. He had washed, dressed and wandered out onto the balcony. The world was a study in black mud, the muted green of the fields and trees, and a gray sky. The smell of the rain that had fallen was still in the air, and low, heavy clouds spoke of more to come. The depressing vista matched Gilbert’s mood. He looked over his shoulder.
It was Abby. She was still in her black skirt but had changed into a different blouse. It was black too but had some red lace facings on it. Her face was pale and her blonde hair was tied back loosely. When he heard her calling him ‘Mister Owens’, he knew that the intimacy of last night was gone.
‘And to you, ma’am. I had forgotten all about it.’
‘Let’s hope it’s the last one we shall have in war time,’ she said.
‘Amen to that,’ he agreed.
She came to the edge of the balcony and placed her hands on the rail. She had long fingers – pianist’s fingers. Sarah had long fingers and had played the piano. He pictured her – sitting at the piano, her skirt cascading over the stool as she played Mozart or Chopin. She had loved music. Sometimes she played popular songs and sang along with them. She had a beautiful voice.
‘Your daughter still sleeping, ma’am?’
‘She is. With luck she’ll sleep for another hour or so and I can get some chores done.’
After a time, she said, ‘Normally – in fine weather, that is – I love this time of the day. I love when there’s no color in the world and then it gradually starts to appear. I guess it’s the opposite to your photographs, Mister Owens.’
‘I guess it is, ma’am, now that you come to mention it.’
After another silence he said, ‘That was some rain last night.’
‘It’s like god was crying for all those dead young men and boys. Heaven help the poor soldiers who had to lay out in it.’
She turned and smiled. In another life, Gilbert thought, I could have loved you. I could have loved you so much.
‘Thank you for last night, Mister Owens I hope you didn’t mind but for me it was good to have someone to talk to. I haven’t done that for a long, long time.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. I really appreciated you talking with me.’
‘And now,’ she said. ‘You and your colleague have a long day ahead of you and work to be done. How does flapjacks, bacon and some good strong coffee sound?’
‘It sounds just exquisite, ma’am.’
After breakfast, as they tackled up Leonardo, Abby came out of the kitchen door and handed them a brown
paper package.
‘Sandwiches, gentlemen – ham – just in case you get hungry.’
Gilbert thanked her for her thoughtfulness and then, watched by Abby and her daughter, Roberto maneuvered the wagon out through the gate.
Gilbert said, ‘I hope we’ll see you on our way back, ma’am.’
‘I hope so too,’ she said. ‘God speed, gentlemen.’
The going was slow, the air warm and damp. The rims of the wheels buried themselves in the mud as they swished through it. They passed through wooded country, went by a place called the Moritz Tavern and crossed a low, sluggish river. The signs of army traffic were more common now. The road was boggy, trees had been cut down, open spaces showed signs of having been encampments, there were the burn marks of campfires, the banks of the river were muddy from many feet and hooves. The clouds were so low they could almost be touched. There were no birds or birdsong, a clear sign that it was going to rain.
‘I hope this battle’s over,’ said Gilbert.
‘Don’t hear no shooting,’ said Roberto.
And it was true. Apart from the noise of the wheels and Leonardo’s hooves, the world was strangely silent. Then the rain began, a heavy shower that was so sudden it was like a faucet being turned on. Roberto stopped the wagon and ran to the rear. He returned a few moments later with two army capes. Gilbert just shook his head and smiled.
‘You never cease to amaze me, do you know that?’
Roberto grinned.
‘These dirty pictures, boss. Amazing the things you can buy with them.’
They had only just restarted when they noticed, up ahead and stretching off to their left, a long line of white smoke that hung low to the ground. Gilbert thought for a second that it was ground mist and couldn’t imagine how that could have formed on a muggy day like today. But then he saw that it was actually smoke from campfires.
‘Soldiers,’ he said and Roberto said, ‘Si’.
They were running up a gentle slope towards a ridge top when, in the silence, they heard a distant crack like the sound of dry twigs snapping. It was immediately followed by a spattering of other cracks so that the effect was like thorn bushes being thrown on a fire. Gilbert and Roberto looked at each other. Then simultaneously, they realized what it was.
‘Christ,’ said Gilbert. ‘That’s musket fire.’
‘Eez guns,’ said Roberto in chorus.
And with that a handful of Rebel soldiers in a mixture of coats and capes seemed to materialize on the road right in front of them and unslung their rifles. Roberto brought the wagon to a halt.
The picket consisted of a lieutenant, very tall, very thin and four men. Gilbert explained what they were doing.
‘Well, I’m sorry, sir,’ said the lieutenant in a strong Southern drawl. ‘But you ain’t going to be going any further today.’
He turned and pointed northwards in the direction they had been heading. ‘We’re on this side of the road,’ he said, gesturing with his left hand; ‘Yanks on that side,’ he said pointing with his right, ‘and everyone’s just waitin’ to see what everyone else is gonna do. You go up there you’re just gonna get your head shot off. So I suggest you find yourself a nice tree to shelter under and wait to see what happens. You don’t have any food, by the way – or coffee?’
Just as Gilbert knew he would, Roberto began to protest. Gilbert pulled him up short, then he explained to the lieutenant that the Confederacy had already taken all their food.
‘That’s a pity,’ said the lieutenant.
Gilbert persuaded Roberto to back the wagon up. Meanwhile the Confederates stepped back in amongst the trees. Their uniforms blended with the washed out gray of the sky and the landscape, so that it was like they had simply disappeared. Gilbert and Roberto found a tree and sheltered under its broad branches just as the lieutenant had suggested. Rain dripped onto the brims of their hats and their capes.
‘Boss, we can’t wait ‘ere,’ said Roberto. ‘For all we know Brady or some of those other guys could be here any minute. We gotta get to Gettysburg now.’
‘I guess we could back track, go east and try to come in behind the Union lines,’ said Gilbert.
‘Ain’t gonna work, boss. Did you see a turn off to our right on the way up? I didn’t.’
‘We could go overland,’ suggested Gilbert.
‘Not in this kind of weather, boss. Take too long. Anyway, we probably get lost. Or suppose we bump into Brady. And how about while we’re doing all that something ‘appens here?’
‘Well then I guess we’re just going to have to wait,’ said Gilbert.
‘Ow about we try the dirty pictures again, boss? See if we can get past these guys?’
‘It’s not these guys are the problem,’ said Gilbert. ‘If we go past them we’re likely to get killed. I’d say that’s a problem.’
They fell silent – out of ideas. The rain stopped but then started again. They ate Abby’s sandwiches, listening to the rain splattering on the canvas of the wagon, the mud of the road and Leonardo’s back. The poor horse was drenched and looked miserable. From time to time, Roberto went and nuzzled him, talking softly to him in Italian. All the while they kept glancing down the road they had come, wondering if they would suddenly see another wagon carrying a mobile darkroom. The intermittent crackle of rifle fire continued up ahead beyond the Confederate pickets.
‘What time is it?’ asked Gilbert.
Roberto had a watch – it had been his father’s. He clicked it open.
‘Jus’ after two,’ he said gloomily.
‘We’re going to lose the day,’ said Gilbert. ‘Even if they let us through now, pretty soon it’s gonna be too dark to take pictures.’
‘Is a disaster, boss. And it ain’t just Brady. While we sitting here on our asses they buryin’ the bodies.’
He cursed viciously in Italian. Then just as they had begun to discuss sleeping arrangements for the night ahead, the lieutenant and two men appeared on the road again and came towards them. The lieutenant still had his rifle on his shoulder but the other two men held theirs pointed forward with bayonets fixed.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but I’m afraid I’ve just received orders to relieve you of your wagon. It’s needed to help get our wounded back across the Potomac and into Virginia.’
40
Roberto looked up to heaven, held out his arms and said, ‘Jesus a Christ’. Gilbert played for time. ‘We were planning to sleep in it,’ he said. ‘Shelter from the rain. Can we give it to you tomorrow?’
‘Afraid not sir. We need it now. My men here will help you unload your things.’
Roberto let fire a vicious salvo of curses. One of the Rebels pulled back the hammer on his musket and that noise, loud in the soft gurgling of the rain, settled the matter. Roberto and Gilbert got down and began to unload the equipment from the rear of the wagon. They removed their capes to cover the growing pile of gear. In minutes they were drenched.
‘We can still do it on foot,’ said Gilbert to Roberto as they worked. ‘It’ll just take a lot longer.’
Roberto looked completely mournful.
‘Is no good, boss,’ he said. ’is finished. Is finished.’
Gilbert knew that he was right. They had two heavy cameras, tripods, two boxes of slides and chemicals, other bits and pieces to transport. They would have to improvise a lightproof room using the two capes. Then inside that, prepare glass plates with collodion, handle chemicals, develop pictures. He knew it wasn’t possible.
The two Confederate soldiers stood by the rear of the wagon watching them. The lieutenant had gone up to Leonardo and laid his shoulder against the horse’s head, nuzzling him and stroking his nose. Roberto looked at what the lieutenant was doing and swore again.
Then suddenly there was a crack of musket fire. The two Rebel soldiers ducked instinctively. The shot sounded so close that Gilbert and Roberto dived for cover and hunched down behind the wheel of the wagon. T
hen there was a groan and they saw through Leonardo’s legs that the lieutenant had fallen to the ground.
One of the Rebel soldiers ran to him, while the other stayed watching Gilbert and Roberto. The soldier squatted down by the lieutenant’s head and then shouted, ‘Hey, you men, get the lieutenant in the wagon – now’.
Gilbert and Roberto looked at each other and stayed sheltering behind the wagon.
‘Move,’ said the other Confederate, gesturing with his rifle and bayonet.
Gingerly, they stepped out from behind the wagon and went to where the lieutenant lay in the mud of the road.
He had been shot high up in the thigh where there was a large round hole. His groin and trouser leg were drenched in dark red blood. The man who had run to him had managed to tie a neckerchief above the wound as a tourniquet and that seemed to have stopped the flow of blood.
‘We gonna get you to a doctor, sir,’ said the man. ‘Put you in the wagon now.’
The lieutenant’s eyes were open and his face was so pale it was almost blue. His uniform and face were soaked from the rain.
‘No,’ he said, his voice very faint so that the word sounded like little more than a breath. Then more strongly, he said, ‘Please … listen very carefully.’
He gasped with pain, screwing up his eyes before opening them again.
‘We’re pulling out,’ he said. ‘That means if you take me to a hospital now, one of two things will happen.’
He winced again and it must have been nearly a minute before the wave of pain passed and he could go on. Gilbert was amazed at how lucid he was.
‘Either … either they’ll put me on a wagon headed back south – in which case I’ll die before they can take my leg off. Or they’ll leave me here with a bunch of other wounded and maybe a doctor. If that happens I’ll be last in line and I’ll die anyway.’
He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. Another wave of pain came and he rode it.
‘My only hope is to become a prisoner of the Yankees.’
He closed his eyes and for a moment, Gilbert thought he had died. Then they flipped open again.
Sunlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 2) Page 17
