He had over two hundred Civil War books, accumulated mainly on visits to bookstores during business trips. At best he thought of himself as an amateur historian of the War. He would always try to watch Ken and Ric Burns’ documentary whenever they re-ran it on TV; Ed reckoned it was the best documentary ever made. He could explain – not that he had ever had an opportunity to do so – why the South had come so close to winning the War at Gettysburg. When pretty much any general’s name was mentioned, Ed knew which side he had belonged to. He admired Longstreet and Sherman and John Buford and U.S. Grant. Lee he found remote and unreachable and could never understand why he had been so loved by his men. But Ed accepted that he had been. He could explain why Chancellorsville had been such a masterpiece for Lee. Ed had finally figured out regiment, brigade, division, corps, so that he could picture each and didn’t have to think about the terms when he read them. And perhaps more than anything else, he never stopped marveling at the astonishing courage of the men who had fought the war. Units had routinely suffered thirty per cent casualties. Some units – at Gettysburg for example – had suffered more than ninety per cent casualties. Had anything remotely like it happened in Afghanistan, the war would have been ended by public outcry. But these men went on doing that day in day out for four years. Eighteenth century tactics against twentieth century weapons.
The movers brought their stuff the same day. Erica had marked each item and box with the name of the room where it was meant to go and had then put signs on all the room doors. As the boxes were placed in the correct room, she and Ed unpacked.
Ed loaded boxes into the attic – old papers, bills, college notes, stuff from previous jobs – stuff that they really would have to go through some time. Erica had ensured that the boxes were small enough to fit through the attic opening. She was some organizer, he thought. As he carried the last one up and positioned it, he shone the flashlight around to have a look at the place. It seemed empty but then he looked again. Over in the furthest corner where the roof descended to the eaves, there was something. Stepping across the rafters carefully, he shone the light on it.
It was a leather satchel about ten inches by a foot and about a couple of inches thick. It was made completely of brown leather with a heavy flap and strap. There was a thick layer of dust on top and a vast network of cobwebs held it in position. Ed extracted it from the sticky cobwebs and blew off the dust. He carried it down the ladder and replaced the attic cover.
‘Hey, look what I found,’ he called to Erica.
She came into the kitchen as he tipped the contents out onto the table. A strong smell of must rose from the open satchel along with some vague chemical smell. Ed lifted it to his nose and found that the chemical smell seemed to be ingrained in the leather itself.
There was a map, a notebook with a black cover, a letter consisting of several folded sheets, a scrap of paper and a couple of photographs on pieces of firm card. One had fallen face up, the other face down.
‘Is it a diary?’ Erica asked as Ed picked up the notebook.
He took the notebook and opened it. The inside cover was blank. Then on the next page began a list which ran over the next few pages. The items in the list were numbered from one to fifty. They said things like ‘Confederate dead on the field of the Great Charge’ or ‘Union and Confederate dead at The Angle’ or simply ‘Amputation’. The entries read like an auction catalog. Or a catalog for a gallery or an exhibition or something like that.
‘Don’t think so. Most of the pages seemed to be empty. Just a little bit of writing on the first few – lists, or something.’
‘A pity,’ she said. ‘Maybe we could have found out something about the house’s previous owners or its history.’
Erica picked up the piece of white card and turned it over.
‘Whoa,’ she said and passed it to Ed.
In it an attractive young woman was sitting sideways on a chair with one arm resting along its wicker back. Her leg nearest the camera was raised and its calf rested on the thigh of her other leg. Apart from black stockings, ankle boots, a string of pearls and a broad-brimmed hat, she was naked. She cupped one breast in the palm of her hand and gazed at it with an expression that was somewhere between tenderness and longing.
‘I guess the bag belonged to a photographer,’ said Ed, looking at Erica and smiling.
‘A pornographer, more like,’ she grinned.
The map was an old one entitled ‘Colton’s New Topographical Map Of The States Of Virginia, Maryland and Delaware’. Counties were marked on it and colored in faded pink and yellow and green. A route from Washington D.C. to Gettysburg was drawn in red pencil.
The other photograph was a head and shoulders portrait of a very beautiful woman with dark hair, parted in the centre and tied back. She was smiling at the camera.
‘That’s unusual,’ said Ed. ‘Normally the pictures you see from that time – everybody’s looks as serious as the Bible.’
Erica picked up the letter and opened it. She read it aloud, ‘Gilbert, where we are today is an extraordinary celebration of the road we’ve traveled and the destination we’ve reached – a celebration of now, of being in the moment and relishing the harmony of being two meshed souls.
I’ve learned so much from your big-hearted, extraordinary view of life. I know I’m a work in progress and have had to grow despite, instead of, because of elements of my life. But because of you I’ve learned that love is a state of being, not a journey to a goal while changing the other person in your life into the type of person you want them to be. I’ve learnt that just existing in the glorious harmony of being together and allowing a meshing of spirit, mind and body is what we all earnestly desire but so often lose sight of.
Love isn’t about achieving goals and changing people. It’s about feeling the glorious gift of just being in the moment. And it’s about rejoicing in where we love and where we celebrate life and love.
Gilbert, I promise that will always offer love, warmth, sanctuary and safe harbor; that my arms will be warm and loving and that where we live will be nurturing, restorative and a celebration of our love.
Your extraordinary capacity for love, humor, joyous lovemaking and eternal optimism have been the most incredible gifts in my life. I love you so much and am honored that you want me to be your wife.’
Ed saw that her eyes were moist by the time she came to an end.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Silly me. I just thought that was really, really beautiful.’
The final item was a single sheet of paper with what looked like a woman’s handwriting on it. Ed read it and then passed it to Erica. She read it aloud. ‘Bird watching, buying Gilbert presents, eating in restaurants, making lists of things to do, walking on a beach, like looking after G, walking by the river, like the thought of being healthy, buying nice clothes and looking nice, spending time with G, laughing, making love, reading, dressing up to go out, exploring.’
Sounds like a list we could use,’ she said.
The next day was cold and sunny with a steely blue sky. Erica wanted to go out and see what was in the garden so after breakfast they put on old clothes, boots and gloves and went out to start cutting their way through the tangle of overgrown foliage.
‘My god,’ she said, after a few minutes. ‘There’s a greenhouse here.’
Sure enough, there was. As they pulled away more and more of the foliage, they discovered a low red-brick wall and an iron frame on top of it. Most of the glass was gone or broken but a few panes still remained intact.
‘I remember they said in that documentary, The Civil War, that many of the photographs taken during the war were done on glass plates. After the war everyone was sick of it and nobody wanted to see pictures of soldiers or dead bodies any more. So the glass became more valuable than the pictures with the result that a lot of them were broken or thrown away. But apparently lots were used in greenhouses like this.’
‘So you mean there’d be pictures on these plates,’ said Erica, lo
oking up at some still intact sheets of glass.
‘No,’ he said. ‘The sunlight would have burned away the images long ago.’
---o0o---
And while it’s still fresh in your mind …
Maybe you’d be kind enough to write a review on the Amazon product page.
Sunlight (The Four Lights Quartet Book 2) Page 23
