by Tara Johnson
“Then you ain’t got no worries either.”
Didn’t she? She lived with a cloud hanging over her head every waking moment. Being caught, being discovered, being killed, being sent back home. Each prospect seemed worse than the last.
She shook her head. “But it seems different for you. You seem . . . happy.”
His eyes shimmered. “Some days I am. Other days not. But I’m always joyful.”
He was talking in circles. She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“My massa was a mighty mean man. Some days seemed like the devil himself. I was mighty unhappy when I was with him. But joy, that’s a different story. Joy comes from forgiving and being forgiven. The day I forgave him was the day I finally felt free.”
“He sought your forgiveness?”
“No.” The contraband’s voice was wistful. “Would have made it easier perhaps. Perhaps not. Massa would likely curse my name and shoot me on sight if he saw me now, but it don’t matter.” He patted his chest. “I’m free in here. Ain’t always been easy, though. I struggled hard with hate for that man, until one day I learned about Frederick Douglass. You hear of him?”
“Of course.”
He nodded. “Douglass goes and writes a letter to his former massa, telling him that he loves him but hates slavery.” His eyes glassed. “Douglass showed love to the man who used to abuse him. Love! I couldn’t fathom such a thing. But God showed me he’s forgiven me for a lot more.”
The contraband sighed, gazing into some faraway distance as they walked. “Massa was taught to hate by his daddy, and his daddy’s daddy before him. They was all miserable men, or so I’s been told. Unhappy and bitter. In some ways, I think Massa was more enslaved than I ever was.” He turned to her and smiled. “At least God broke my chains. Massa ain’t found his freedom yet. I sure hope he does.”
With that, he broke into a jaunty whistle, erasing all need for further conversation.
Cassie couldn’t have spoken further if she’d tried.
Chapter 36
AUGUST 28, 1862
Grit and exhaustion burned Gabe’s eyes as the horses plodded lazily along the road, the darkroom wagon bobbing behind them like a large, sleepy bear.
Less than a day’s ride and he would be at Manassas Junction, happily replenished with chemicals, glass plates, and oats for the weary horses. Brady had assured him Gardner would arrive within a fortnight. None too soon. All the pictures he’d stored at the supply depot left him unsettled.
The system was necessary; he knew that. Carrying around stacks and stacks of developed photographs was reckless, and the chances of Gardner finding him among the thousands of soldiers and regiments scattered throughout the land was like looking for an ever-moving needle in a haystack. Keeping them at a fixed drop point was the logical thing to do. Still, it left an itchy feeling between Gabe’s shoulder blades to know his photographs were sitting in a depot station, unguarded for weeks on end.
The wafting scent of smoke assaulted his nostrils. He frowned and stopped the horses. A yellow haze drifted over the treetops in the distance. All was calm.
He urged them forward once more, the usual clip-clop of their hooves failing to soothe him. With each step, the acrid stench grew stronger, mingled with the aroma of cooked meat.
As long as my photographs are safe, I can take care of Jacob. At least I can see to him.
Weeks, George, and Selby had been stolen away or cut down in the bloom of youth. Cassie was all but lost to him, but he still had his work. Nothing could take that away.
The thought brought him a small measure of comfort.
In half a mile, the frenzied sound of hoofbeats pounded the earth. A horse broke through the trees bearing a man hunched low, something large and round tucked under his arm.
Pulling the horses to a halt, Gabe stood on the driver’s seat and waved. “Whoa, there! What’s all the hullabaloo?”
The wild-eyed man with his frizzy brown hair panted and yanked on the reins of his lathered horse, attempting to fight it back into calm. “Ain’t ya heard? Stonewall Jackson just tore through the Union supply depot ahead.”
Gabe’s stomach crawled into his throat. “When?”
“Yesterday morning. He and his cronies tore Manassas Junction apart. Burned a hundred railroad cars, and his men seized everything they could carry.” The panting stranger gestured to the bundle in his arms. “There’s still a couple barrels of hard bread and half a dozen hams scattered around the tracks. I’m taking this one home to the missus. I’ll probably go back for more if they don’t get taken.”
Gabe’s stomach roiled. The supplies. His photographs. Months of work . . .
“What about the nonartillery depots? Are they still there?”
The stranger shrugged. “Doesn’t look to me like much is left, but take a gander if you’ve a mind to. Be careful, though. The place is still burning.”
With that parting warning, he kicked his horse back into a run and sped away.
Gabe snapped the reins, his heart galloping faster than the horses had ever dared.
Please, God . . .
He swallowed as a faint crackling sound grew louder. Manassas Junction lay just behind that hill. Thick curls of black smoke belched up from the woods beyond. Urging the mares forward, he winced against the smoke stinging his eyes and thickening the air. He pulled the clamoring wagon to a stop at the top of the hill and jerked the wagon brake, the horses only too happy to stop.
Manassas Junction was a burning ash heap of rubble and waste.
He jumped from the driver’s seat on wooden legs and walked toward the torn, disjointed tracks. Barrels lay broken open at odd angles all over the clearing. The metal shells of railroad cars smoked in crumpled heaps, some of them twisted as if wrung like laundry in the hands of God. Rifle shot peppered every conceivable tree, every railroad car, every skeletal remain of buildings and outposts.
His chest burned as he walked toward the engulfed wreckage. He winced against the blast of heat from nearby fires, barely noticing the tears that resulted from the thick smoke irritating his eyes. Coughing, he headed for the depot he and Brady used as their drop point. The place where he’d stored months of carefully cataloged photographs and prints of the most gruesome and breathtaking images of the conflict that had ripped their nation in two.
A thick knot wedged in his throat as his breath quickened. The building was gone. The sturdy logs had been reduced to a heap of disjointed sticks. Nothing more than smoking ash and rubble. A gust of wind flamed a nearby fire to life, shooting sparks into the air. A burned piece of roofing material tumbled across the clearing.
Something cold sleeted through his middle and iced his blood. His purpose. His dreams. The desire of his heart. The artistic integrity of photography had been his redemption. A way to offer restitution for the way he’d failed his parents. But it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. Everything he’d worked so hard for had suddenly been ripped away, burned to cinders that floated away from the earth and chased the wind.
With a guttural cry, he dropped to his knees and tunneled his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, yanking until his scalp burned. Only one thought managed to break to the surface of his drowning emotions.
Why, God? Why?
Cassie gasped as artillery shrieked and exploded overhead. Leaning close to Abe’s head, she clutched fistfuls of his sleek mane and kept her body low as his legs ate up the distance between the commanders’ positions.
Though the sun had not yet risen, torment had broken free and rained down on the Union forces in Manassas. The situation was all too familiar. Wasn’t it only a year ago that the Confederates had tried to slaughter them on the same patch of earth?
A fireball burst overhead. She yanked Abe away from the tree falling in chunks as big as fire logs. Soldiers bellowed and ran all around her. Poor Abe pawed the ground, uncertain where to place a hoof.
I must get to Colonel Emmerson.
She mustn’t shirk her duties.
The commanders depended on her to keep their communication open. Cringing against another shriek of ammunition followed by a thunderous boom that pelted her arms with dirt and debris, she urged Abe into a gallop, away from the skirmish. Her heart pounded in rhythm with the horse’s stride.
Just a little farther.
A wide ditch loomed ahead. She leaned in to give Abe his head, but without warning, the horse’s hooves left the ground. Time slowed as her body was flung into the air.
Pain exploded. A heavy pressure pinned her left side, then mercifully eased. The world dimmed.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She blinked. Pain seared her head. The blurry image of Abe stared down at her. The horse cocked his head as if wondering why she was lying on the ground. His likeness sharpened.
Thump. Thump.
Cannon fire thudded in the distance. What happened? Her mind felt muddled.
The messages.
She tried to scramble to her feet, but white-hot pain seared down her left side. She fell back, hissing through her teeth. Her left hand felt oddly numb and tingly. Rolling onto her stomach, she managed to hook her elbows underneath her torso and used them to inch herself forward out of the grubby ditch. Rocks scraped and poked into her skin. Each movement sent ripples of pain down her side.
Crawling to the top, she gasped and cried out when she attempted to put weight on her foot. Hot, crippling fire caused it to crumple beneath her. She managed to grab on to Abe’s saddle and pull herself atop the horse by sheer force of will. As she stretched herself along his broad back, she patted his neck and urged him forward, moaning as the bouncing motion jostled her body into a new plethora of miseries.
A sea of humanity stretched out before Gabe as he surveyed the mass of wounded, moaning men smothering the land of Manassas Junction.
The faint aroma of coosh wafted through the air, but the scent of bacon grease and cornmeal soured his stomach. He couldn’t eat. Not in the face of so much suffering.
With his own supplies dwindled to almost naught, he felt useless. He couldn’t take any photographs. He had no water or medicine to offer the mangled, dying men begging for relief. All he could do was pray. Weak, pitiful prayers that felt like they rose no higher than his head.
He scrubbed his fingers over his stubbly jaw, wishing he could simply turn off his emotions.
“Avery!” A booming voice called to him from among the milling crowd of workers and soldiers.
Lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the sun, Gabe watched a portly man with a bushy beard pick his way slowly across the field, his gaze roving side to side, mouth agape as he drank in the sight stretched before him.
“Mr. Gardner?” Gabe stepped forward.
“Aye.” Gardner stopped before him, his fingers curled around the haversack slung over his shoulder. The soft brogue was like an embrace. A reminder of home.
Gabe’s throat clogged. “It’s good to see you, sir.”
“Likewise, Avery. When I heard about the junction, I feared for you.”
“I’m fine. I arrived shortly after Jackson had burned everything up. All my work has been destroyed, though.” The admission tasted bitter in his mouth.
Gardner sighed. “’Tis a shame. If I’d left Washington sooner, perhaps . . .” The Scot cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Gabriel. General Jackson struck us all a hard blow.”
His chest constricted. “I was counting on the money from those photographs, sir.”
Gardner frowned. “So was Mr. Brady.”
Gabe pressed his lips shut. It wasn’t Gardner’s fault. Who could have known the Rebels would have swung back and struck in such a way? Or that McClellan would have run such an abysmal fighting campaign?
The world was topsy-turvy. And Gabe had absolutely nothing to his name.
Gardner surveyed the field of men stretched from end to end. “What are you doing here?”
Gabe shrugged. “I’m out of supplies. The Rebs destroyed those, too. I’ve been walking among the dying and praying.”
The ghost of a smile tugged Gardner’s beard. “Come.”
Interest piqued, Gabe followed on his heels. “What are we doing, sir?”
“I have a wagon full of supplies for you, Avery. Not to mention a new camera technique I want to try out. I need some assistance, though. Have you heard of stereographing?”
“No, sir.”
Gardner turned his head. “Would you like to learn?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “Good. We’ve got a war to record.”
Gabe crawled onto his bedroll and slumped in exhaustion. His body was already melting under fatigue but his mind raced. He’d spent all day with Gardner, watching and learning the art of stereographing. Who could have imagined that two lenses capturing simultaneous pictures would create a three-dimensional image when seen through a viewer?
The Scotsman’s innovation and quiet intelligence had been just the balm his battered spirit had needed.
He shifted onto his side and watched the sprinkling of stars overhead. The summer heat made sleeping in the Whatsit far too miserable a prospect. He would be grateful for the wagon come winter, but this night, he was thankful for the occasional stirring of air outdoors, even if it was sticky with humidity.
Footfalls and snapping twigs approached from his left.
“Avery! Have you seen Turner?”
Growling under his breath, Gabe turned over to see Briggs standing above him, a scowl marring the moonlit patch of his face. “I’ve been busy all day. What makes you think I’ve seen Turner?”
Briggs frowned. “Captain is asking, that’s why. No one in the Michigan Second has seen him since the skirmish at daybreak.”
Alarm skittered down Gabe’s spine. Cassie was missing? Sitting up on the bedroll, he grabbed his boots. “You sure he’s not among the wounded?”
“Captain checked. Twice. Turner was sent to deliver a message to Colonel Emmerson with the New York Fifth but hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
Gabe’s stomach knotted as he pushed to his feet. He grabbed a rifle and caught the canteen Briggs tossed his direction.
As Gabe marched away from the rows of sleeping men, Briggs called out, “Wait, I’m coming with you.”
He nodded and moved into the unknown dark of night. Help or no, he wouldn’t return without Cassie.
Voices drifted overhead. Swimming in and out of her consciousness. Murky. Unlike the shards of pain that jabbed her body every time she moved.
Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. She tasted dirt. Darkness kept her trapped. She tried to cry out, tried to claw her way past the black net that had been cast over mind and body, but it held fast. She was too tired.
A familiar voice boomed. “It’s Turner! He’s here!”
Another voice. Footsteps and shuffles. Warm hands cupped her face. She longed to melt into the tenderness of the touch.
A gentle voice whispered, “Cassie. I’ve found you.”
Strong arms lifted her, cradling her in a cocoon.
She was home.
Gabe sat near Cassie’s too-still body sleeping in her tent. His head felt heavy as he cradled it in his hands. Muffled sounds of camp life drifted through the shadowed canvas, but the noise buzzed in his ears like a swarm of flies. He was exhausted, yet he couldn’t rest. Not until he knew if Cassie would be all right.
His nerves stretched taut once more. She needed to be examined, but doing so might very well reveal her secret. He felt stuck at an impasse, torn between two impossibilities, neither one satisfactory. He lifted his head and studied the soft curve of her cheek. She needed to wake up.
Everything was spinning out of control.
Who was he fooling? He had no control. It had all been a mirage.
He flexed his sore knuckles, still aching from the blows he and Briggs had exchanged when they’d arrived back at camp. The large soldier had been understandably perturbed when Gabe had refused to let Turner be seen by the physician at the hospital co
rps. They had argued vehemently. Briggs seemed unconcerned with Gabe’s story that Turner was deathly afraid of physicians, claiming the man was unconscious. He wouldn’t know. Gabe winced remembering how he’d slammed his fist into the soldier’s iron jaw.
Although he’d regretted having to resort to such measures, the punch had finally made Briggs understand the depth of Gabe’s feelings on the matter. He’d returned with some morphine sulfate, tossed it to Gabe with a glare, and stalked away.
Groaning, Gabe dropped his head back in his hands. It would be so much easier if he could explain Turner’s true identity to his friend. Instead, he’d slipped the morphine under Cassie’s tongue and let her sleep.
She might despise him, but at least for this moment he could do his utmost to care for her and nurse her back to health. He had nothing else to offer.
Only himself.
Chapter 37
OCTOBER 14, 1862
Cassie only half listened to Jonah’s chatter as she brushed down Abe’s glossy coat and winced at the aching pain in her left foot.
It had been months since Bull Run, and still her bruised body ached. She’d been thrown from her horse one moment and awakened in her darkened tent the next, her mind thick and muddled. Briggs told her he and another soldier had found her unconscious out in the woods, but whenever she asked for more information, he always pressed his lips into a line and looked away. Jonah had been a frequent visitor, keeping her entertained with silly stories and antics of camp life, but it was Gabe whose face she longed to see. He never came. Why did she think he would? She’d made it clear to him she wanted nothing further to do with him. He was only abiding by her wishes. So why the aching need for him? And why did the nagging feeling of his presence invade her memories and dreams?
Recovering from a broken foot, rib, and finger took time, but she had far too much pluck to lie abed. Despite everyone’s protests, she was back to her duties, albeit rather slowly, within several weeks.