by Tara Johnson
Has Miss Esther been looking after you? She promised me she would. Who would have thought attending the Relief for Youth Charity Club would have led to so much attention from the female persuasion on your behalf? Despite your protests that you find Miss Esther’s attention to be an invasive trouble, I suspect you harbor a fondness for the dear woman. Upon seeing her, your eyes twinkle in a way they never did when I came to play cards with you, or when old Gustav dropped in for a rollicking game of dominoes. Perhaps you are not so dedicated to your years of bachelorhood as you imagine yourself to be.
Despite your grousing, Relief for Youth has done much good for the young people crowding the streets of New York, giving them mentors and hope, just as you gave me. I encourage you to keep on with the noble task, even if it means fighting off the amorous attention of the fairer sex from time to time. Miss Esther has a heart of gold. Of that, I have no doubt.
Amid the business of my tasks—preparing plates and chemicals, waiting expectantly for the proper shot ordained with providential light, ducking bullets and cannon fire while developing a slew of war-story images—I have managed to find some leisure time on occasion and have made several friends. The men from Ohio have been kind, and I’ve grown especially fond of the soldiers making up the Michigan 2nd infantry. I’ve even had the opportunity to visit some with the Zouaves. They dress in the brightest colors imaginable—snowy-white shirts and bloodred trousers. How I wish I could capture the vibrancy of their colors with my lens! Perhaps their vivacity will shine through the stilted world of black-and-white.
I thank you again for your generous funding of the equipment needed for this venture. You and Mathew Brady have laid a world of opportunity at my feet. I shall not fail to repay you for your kindness. Perhaps if I am blessed with divine favor to be a world-renowned photographer, I shall claim it all began with the benevolent heart of my dear neighbor who is like my own grandfather. I am learning much . . . all things of photography, war, and the catching of stubborn fish.
With kindest regards,
Gabriel
A stream of muttered words caused Gabe to look up from the letter he’d penned. He stretched lazily along the bank of the swollen river and grinned at the scowl marring George’s face as he attempted to bend a fork tine into a fishhook.
“Trouble, George?”
The soldier glared. “Your fishing pole doesn’t look much better, Avery.”
“True.” He cast a glance at his own pitiful attempt lying in the grass near his feet. The pole was crooked, the twine tangled, and the hook looked better suited for a battle than a fishing expedition. He shrugged. “There are some skills a city boy has trouble acquiring.”
“No kidding.” George groused. “This was Turner’s idea. He’s the one wanting to fish. We should make him fashion all the poles.”
Weeks laughed. “You’re just mad because you’re no good at it. On the other hand—” he held his own pole aloft—“take a look at this. Not bad, if I do say so myself.”
George picked up a rock and chucked it at the gloating man. “The proof is in the fishing. You can boast when you catch something.”
Turner smirked and adjusted his kepi. “You gonna jaw all day or catch some dinner? I’m tired of beans.”
Weeks wrinkled his nose. “The meat they served yesterday was so spoiled, the flies wouldn’t touch it.”
The four of them settled along the bank with their poles and waited as nature lulled them into drowsy repose. Time slipped away like water dripping through a sieve.
The sun had sunk deep into Gabe’s bones, tugging him into a sluggish haze, when Turner sprang to his feet. The line of his pole jerked and grew taut.
“I got one!”
Gabe snapped alert and stood as Turner fought to wrestle in the catch. “Looks like a big one.”
“That’s . . . putting it . . . mildly,” Turner grunted through gritted teeth.
Weeks and George cheered as if watching a boxing match. Turner’s face was mottled crimson. “Blasted thing is fighting me tooth and nail! Here!” He shoved the pole into Gabe’s hand and stepped into the river. “Hold it steady.”
The pole strained in Gabe’s clutch. “This monster is going to break the line!”
“Not if I have any say.”
Turner thrust his hands into the shallows, where the fish writhed in a flurry of splashes. Gabe ground his jaw as he tightened his hold on the pole. Turner howled but snagged the belligerent fish and tugged him to the riverbank. His right hand bled as he held up his prize.
“Bully catch! The hook caught my hand, but see here. Must be close to ten pounds.”
George stared at the unfortunate creature, his expression aghast. “What is that thing?”
Turner grinned. “Catfish. Not the prettiest creature but cooks into a fine meal.”
“He has whiskers.” Weeks’s dry observation caused the lot of them to burst into laughter.
Rubbing his jaw, Gabe studied the fish with a smirk. “We should give him a name. With that sour face, and considering how much of a fight he gave, how about Jeff Davis?”
Turner shook off a patch of mud from his arm with a laugh. “Jeff Davis it is. A Confederate fish never could match a determined Yankee fisherman.”
Chapter 11
AUGUST 9, 1861
The quiet of camp was disrupted when muffled shouting drifted through the trees.
Briggs looked up from cleaning his rifle, his dark beard tugging downward into a wary scowl. “What’s that about, do you suppose?”
Cassie listened. More muted curses, then all fell silent. No shots.
She went back to scrubbing her plate clean. “Sounds like the pickets to me. The Confederates must be holding their lines close to ours.”
Sven, the big Swede, lowered his thick blond brows. “I pray not. Makes me nervös.”
Briggs grimaced. “Worst job in the infantry, if you ask me. All those hours of monotony with nary a thing to do but watch the flies, yet the first to take a bullet if the enemy approaches.” He swung his swarthy gaze to Cassie. “You’ve watched them some, yes?”
She shrugged. “When I have the chance. Their job—” she shook her head—“there’s something about it.” She struggled to find the right words. “It’s exhilarating and puzzling at the same time. Having to know all the signs and countersigns, listening for every footfall and snapped twig. Knowing any moment a Rebel might attack you . . .” She swallowed and continued scrubbing. “Takes a lot of courage, I’d say.”
Sven nodded. “Ja. Mod. You take me to watch sometime, ja?”
“I’ll take you the next opportunity we have.” She turned toward Weeks. “You want to come?”
The lanky soldier shook his head with a wry smile. “Not a chance. I want to increase the distance between a Rebel bullet and myself, not decrease it.”
George’s eyes lit up. “I’ll come! I’ve wanted to see what all the fuss is about. Heard the doc wants to see the same. I bet Gabe will be up for an adventure too.”
“Sounds like we have a picket-watching party then.”
They crept through the woods two days later, having taken advantage of a rare quiet hour after a particularly scalding round of drilling. The general had tightened down on their drills even more than before. They would be advancing soon. Cassie could sense it in her bones.
Doc had been too preoccupied treating ill soldiers to traipse through the thick bramble and George had not been released from courier duty, so it was only her, Sven, and Gabe who crept toward the Union picket lines. Cassie crouched low and listened for footfalls.
A flash of blue snagged her attention, and she motioned the men to move as quietly as possible. They snuck as close as they dared and settled on the ground, watching the navy-clad soldiers walk back and forth across the boundary line.
Sven’s soft bass murmured, “Rebel pickets are just beyond the meadow, ja?”
“That’s what the captain says.”
They watched for a moment in silence.
/>
“Nothing is happening,” Gabe muttered.
“Not yet, but wait.”
Long minutes went by as they watched the picket soldiers scrutinize the woods bordering the meadow. They made no sound save for the splat of spittle that hissed between their teeth before it hit grass.
A faraway voice shouted, “We’re watching you, yellow Yanks!”
Cassie’s breath caught as she nudged Gabe to attention. The picket soldiers stiffened, their faces tightening into iron as they clutched their guns with white knuckles.
Sven frowned. “Why aren’t they answering back?”
“Since the cowbell dodge took out several of our pickets, the general says they are not allowed to talk to the enemy. The order hasn’t deterred them much. On occasion—” she smiled—“they dole out a dose of the same medicine.”
Gabe whispered. “What’s the cowbell dodge?”
Cassie hunkered lower, keeping her voice as breathy as possible. “That’s when the Rebs ring a cowbell and trick our soldiers into thinking a milk cow is nearby. No one will turn down fresh cream for their coffee. Just last month a picket wandered off to find the cow and found himself surrounded by six Confederates.” She shook her head. “Nasty trick.”
Distant shouts rolled across the meadow. “You tell old Abe Lincoln we said hello. I imagine he’s still licking his wounds after Manassas!”
One of the pickets muttered a curse under his breath and motioned to his fellow soldiers. Another man brought him a bottle filled with amber liquid.
Raising it high, he shouted, “Here’s to Jeff Davis! A toast for the devil!” He took a hearty swig and spit the contents into the grass, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and grinned. The other Union pickets burst into laughter.
Beside her, Cassie felt rather than saw Gabe smile. “So they make a habit of swapping insults?”
“Some days. On others, I’ve actually seen them lay down arms and trade newspapers with the enemy. Even tobacco or buttons.”
Gabe blinked, his face slack. “And the captain is okay with this?”
“Seems to be. It’s like an unspoken rule of some sort. No trouble will come to either side unless provoked.” Leaning back on her posterior, she wrapped her arms around her legs. “I suppose that’s why I enjoy watching them. It’s a strangely vulnerable situation. Yet . . .” She watched the picket soldiers scatter from their huddle and whispered, “It gives me a strange kind of hope that light has not totally disappeared in the world.”
The pickets fell back into silence and she noted the shifting sun. “Come. We need to get back.”
The other two stood and Sven, forgetting the delicacy of the situation, released a booming sneeze. Cassie froze.
Muttered curses. Shouts from across the meadow. Bullets whizzed past, exploding wood chips and bark from the trees.
The Union pickets would have no reason to think some of their own were watching. But they might think a contingent of Rebels had crept up behind them.
The blood leached from Cassie’s face. There was no time to explain. All they could do was run.
They dropped to their knees and began crawling like the devil was on their tail. More bullets zinged past, their metal heads lodging into trees with thunks, raining twigs and dirt down on their heads.
They scrambled on all fours until the whizzing bullets disappeared, then ran for their mounts. In minutes, they found their horses and rode hard through the thicket of trees. Cassie braved a glance toward the panting Swede. Sven’s eyes were as large and round as saucers.
“I know one thing.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t like being at picket!”
Despite the seriousness of the moment, Cassie couldn’t stop a laugh from bubbling out.
“Private Turner, the surgeon needs your help when you have a moment.”
Cassie nodded at the severe nurse who approached her with exhausted eyes and pinched lips. The matronly woman looked as spent as Cassie felt. At least helping at the Alexandria hospital relieved her from the infinite boredom of mindless hours filled with drills, drills, and more drills.
Camp life had taken on a nauseating tedium as McClellan waited to attack. Why he delayed, no one seemed to know. Word had filtered through the ranks that Lincoln’s detective Allan Pinkerton had told McClellan 150,000 Rebel soldiers were perched around the city, waiting to launch their assault. So the Union soldiers stayed, ready to defend the capital. Only the attack never came.
When a group of scouts returned and reported the giant barreled cannons the Confederates had aimed toward them were actually huge logs painted black, and that the Rebels had already fled, public opinion against McClellan had been scorching. One newspaper reported Little Mac had planted the Union’s finest soldiers to stand guard against “Quaker guns.”
Despite the humiliation, the general staunchly kept his forces outside Washington, where they did little but drill and complain.
It was a blessed relief when the field surgeon had requested soldiers to volunteer at the Alexandria hospital. Cassie was happy to oblige, even when the hospital work was a grueling affair.
Picking her way between the orderly rows of blanketed beds lining the room, she approached Dr. Goodwin. “You called for me, sir?”
The surgeon’s frizzy gray hair stuck out around his head like puffs of cotton, evidence of how often he rubbed his fingers through it. Dark shadows and thick wrinkles lined his face, but his pale-blue eyes were still sharp and focused. “Thank you, Turner. A number of the men are suffering from lymphogranuloma venerum, and I need you to administer their medicine.”
Cassie frowned. “I’ve never heard you speak of this illness before.”
“It’s not a disease most of the men want announced, since it is contracted by frequenting the brothels.”
She kept her face impassive, though her stomach curdled in disgust. “I see.”
“I’ve compiled a list of the men who need treatment. Can you read?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He nodded in satisfaction and handed her a penned list of names. “I need you to administer the treatments. Each of them need a dose of this.” He held up a single capsule. “It contains balsam of copaiba, powdered cubebs, and magnesia. Make sure they take it with a fair amount of water.”
Grasping the bowl of prepared medicines, she asked, “What can be done if these treatments fail?”
Dr. Goodwin frowned. “The next step would be applying black wash, composed of calomel and limewater, to the affected areas. Or urethral injections of nitrate of silver and sugar of lead.”
Cassie winced. “I shall pray these pills will suffice then.”
A grim smile tilted the doctor’s lips. “Prayer would be in order.”
She turned to seek out the men requiring the medicines. On her way to the first man’s bedside, a burst of spirited conversation drifted through the buzzing room. Looking over, she watched Gabe pat a patient on the shoulder. A man whose head was heavily bandaged, his other arm in a sling. She blinked.
Private Sanders? The crankiest man at the Alexandria hospital was . . . smiling?
Gabe murmured something low, and the normally cantankerous Sanders laughed, his voice booming through the room.
Turning away, she pondered the happy-go-lucky photographer. How did he do it? How did he manage to befriend even the most unlovable people?
If I only had that gift, perhaps my father would have loved me . . .
She shook away the thought and trudged to Private Watkins’s bedside. The young man was attempting to nap with his arm flung across his eyes. His groanings, however, let her know he was not actually slumbering.
“Private Watkins? Doc Goodwin has your medicine ready.”
Another low groan. The arm rose as the clammy-faced man scowled. “I’d feel better if you just shot me and put me out of my misery.”
“Come now. It’s not as bad as all that. Perk up, soldier. Take your medicine and maybe the photographer will capture your image with his
fancy camera. You may end up in the papers. Famous. You don’t want to look like you’ve been sitting in a pickle barrel, do you?”
Watkins’s mouth twitched at the corners, though pain still shuttered his eyes. “I suppose not.” He frowned and tossed a cautious glance across the room at Gabe. “You don’t suppose that fancy box of his can put curses on folks, do you?”
“No more than you’ve already done to yourself.”
He reddened and looked away. She pushed the large capsule toward him. “Here. Take this. I’ll fetch you some water.”
Cassie served medicines and encouragement until her back ached from bending over the low cots. She assisted the able to their feet so they could have their image imprinted on Gabe’s glass plates. Those with missing limbs chose to sit up in bed, the scratchy blankets discreetly covering the bandaged stumps that remained. Some were too ill to even lift their heads. The sharp sting of chloroform, the sour odor of whiskey, of unwashed bodies and fecal waste, seemed to cling to her like paste. Her stomach soured as the day wore on. Bile rose in her throat every time the doctor asked her to assist him in holding down a thrashing patient suffering from gangrene. The stench crawled like a living thing into her skin and coated her tongue.
Don’t think; just do.
The afternoon sun was slipping away as she stepped outside the hospital and stretched her back, breathing in the warm air blessedly free of illness and death. Soldiers wandered on the outskirts of the property, sprinkling lime over the pit where chamber pots were relieved of their contents.
“How do you do it?” Gabe’s low voice intruded near her right ear.
She turned with a start. “What do you mean?”