Blood Moon (Ella Wood, 2)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Jovie had mentioned the colorful camp community in his letters.

  “Was it frightening during battle?”

  “We camp followers stayed well out of the way, for the most part. But yes, we could hear it. And smell it.”

  “But Jack didn’t make you stay.” It was a question disguised as a statement.

  “He set me free, Miss Emily. He didn’t make any demands.”

  “Then why did you continue to play his servant?” Jeremiah was young and strong. He could have gone anywhere, done anything.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t want to leave him.”

  Obviously, the young men had shared a bond that she’d known nothing about. “When did you find out?” she asked quietly.

  “Zeke told us years ago.”

  Jeremiah had been closer to Jack than she had ever been, she realized. He’d known him better, known the truth longer. And he must have mourned his passing fully as much as she. They’d each been grieving alone. She studied his features and thought she could see something of Jack in his eyes.

  “I miss him, Jeremiah. I’ve missed him for years, I suppose. I didn’t know who he was beneath his charade.”

  “He hated doing it. Said it made him feel like two people.”

  She made a wry face. “His acting skills certainly rivaled Thad’s.”

  “He used to talk about you sometimes.” Jeremiah crossed his ankles. “He was so proud of you when Zeke told him you’d helped Lizzie escape. He wanted to tell you then.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “He said it was hardly something he could put in a letter. But the next time he was on furlough, we ended up in Savannah.”

  “He could have told me then.”

  “He planned to soon. But by playing the game a little longer, he was protecting you, just in case his suspicions about Mr. Black proved false.”

  The secondhand memories brought an enormous sense of comfort. “Help me know him better, Jeremiah. If you think of something, anything, that might show me sides of him I’ve never seen, please share it with me.”

  Jeremiah nodded his agreement and silence fell, far more comfortable than any they had ever shared. Emily turned her attention to the book in her hands. “Had Jack planned to teach you to read?”

  “He was helping me learn my letters when he died.”

  “I could teach you. We could meet here.”

  That was another advantage Jack and Jeremiah had. As two young men, their relationship would never be in question. But as a white woman and a man with Negro blood, it would be far harder for her and Jeremiah to socialize. Emily had already thought it out. The meetinghouse provided a perfect setup.

  “You would do that?” Obviously, he hadn’t expected this as the reason for the summons.

  “I taught Lizzie.”

  Jeremiah’s smile pushed against his cheeks. “I’d like that fine.”

  ***

  Missouri set upon Emily the moment she arrived home and thrust a letter at her. She could hardly contain her excitement. “Open it!” she instructed, clapping her hands together with glee.

  “Can I come inside first?”

  “No! Open it.”

  Could it be from Jovie? Emily’s heart pounded eagerly as set her bag inside the front door and caught the envelope being waved in her face. She awaited no other letter as expectantly, although she hadn’t shared that information with Missouri. She flipped it over, fingering the flap which had already been torn open, and glanced at her roommate questioningly.

  “The letter came addressed to a man,” Missouri explained. “Mrs. Calkins had no idea where to deliver it, so she opened it. It was quite a mystery, but when she asked the rest of us, I knew exactly whose it was. Go on, open it before I lose my patience and read it to you!”

  Emily squealed. The letter wasn’t from Jovie, but it was nearly as welcome. She tore it from the envelope and a check fluttered to the floor.

  Dear Mr. Thomas Wilson,

  I am pleased to inform you that three of your recent submissions have been accepted for publication in upcoming issues of Harper’s Weekly…

  Emily dropped the letter and picked up the check. Five dollars! She grinned and waved the paper in her excitement. It wasn’t nearly as much as she’d been paid by the private collector who purchased Somebody’s Daughter, but if she could continue to capitalize on her talents, she might not have to pursue menial employment to earn next year’s tuition.

  “The firstfruits of your labor,” Missouri exclaimed. “This is what you came to school for, after all. I suppose it means you’ve become a true artist.”

  The compliment was enormously gratifying.

  23

  The express train covered the miles between Baltimore and Washington in only one hour, with no mishaps, no interruptions, and no breakdowns. Emily spent the entire trip alone, partly because she was gaping out the window in amazement at the smooth, startling speeds, and partly because Lucy had seen to it that no one sat beside her. Emily didn’t mind; the South had nothing like the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad.

  The walk from the depot to Mr. Brady’s studio could have been more pleasant. A stiff breeze blew off the Potomac, and the mercury on the thermometer rose just enough to melt the snow into a fine drizzle. Their group must have been quite a sight—eight young women, hunched against the weather, marching behind the upright form of Mr. Woodward.

  “It’s just ahead, ladies,” he called. “The sign is there.”

  Brady National Photographic Art Gallery—Emily could see it on the upper floors of a building shared by Gilman’s Drugstore and the banking house of Sweeny, Rittenhouse, and Fant. The women piled through the door, climbed the stairs, and emerged in Mr. Brady’s extravagant reception room, chattering excitedly and shaking water off their dripping cloaks.

  They were greeted almost immediately by a bearded man in his early forties. “Mr. Woodward!” he exclaimed in a thick, Scottish accent and pumped their instructor’s hand enthusiastically.

  “Good morning, Mr. Gardner,” Mr. Woodward said. “Thank you so much for hosting us.”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  “As Mr. Brady spends most of his time in New York, Mr. Gardner has full control of his Washington studio,” Mr. Woodward explained. “Mr. Gardner, these are my photography students.” He gestured toward the gaggle of awestruck young women. “We’ve been looking forward to this trip immensely.”

  Mr. Gardner performed a crisp bow. “Please, leave your cloaks and bags here. The studio is closed until after your tour, so they will not be disturbed.”

  Emily dropped her things in a pile on the floor, already entranced by the artwork bedecking the walls of the reception area. The frames held not just dull, gray daguerreotypes, but dozens of dazzling images, some life-size, some full color, many of them readily recognizable individuals, and all perfected to the minutest element. Mr. Brady had a meticulous eye for detail.

  Mr. Woodward commanded their attention. “You are about to see demonstrations of the most innovative techniques and equipment used in photography today, but this is my favorite room in the studio. Here we have many fine examples of the finished products we are capable of producing with our current technology. Mr. Gardner, will you describe what we’re looking at?”

  The Scotsman rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “Of course.” He began with the most impressive images in the room, three life-size oil paintings of Daniel Webster, John Calhoun, and Henry Clay. “You may recognize these individuals. You’ll notice that Mr. Brady tends to feature celebrities in his galleries. It makes a dramatic impression on his customers, and Mr. Brady does have a flare for the dramatic.” He chuckled dryly to himself at this estimation of his employer. “And you may be asking yourself why a photographer is featuring oil paintings. They are actually a combination of art methods. All three of these oil paintings began as daguerreotypes.”

  Several of the women murmured softly and stepped forward to study the images more closely.

>   “Mr. Brady photographed these men in the 40s and 50s. Since that time, the prints have been enlarged onto canvas and hand-painted by two well-known artists, Mr. John Neagle and Mr. Henry Darby. They are, perhaps, Mr. Brady’s finest pieces.”

  Emily stared at the paintings in wonder. She’d never heard of such innovation, combining technology with oils. She studied the lifelike details, the perfect lines, but before she’d finished taking them in, Mr. Gardner moved them on to another portrait.

  “Here we have another celebrity, President Franklin Pierce. This image was also taken some time ago and filled in with India ink. It just so happens, the original was enlarged using a Woodward Solar Camera, which was invented by Mr. David Archeson Woodward, currently of the Maryland Institute,” he added with a twinkle. The girls’ eyes whisked as one to their instructor.

  Mr. Woodward waved away their praise. “You’ll have the opportunity to use one if you continue my photography class. It was Mr. Gardner who conceptualized the process of applying ink. Notice the fine detail with which the portrait has been finished. You see it creates a striking, textured image.”

  Next Mr. Gardner showed them a tasteful composite of President Buchanan surrounded by members of his cabinet. Each individual photograph was posed and styled in such a way as to complement the whole. After that followed oil likenesses of the famous authors James Fenimore Cooper and Washington Irving, then several inked images of individuals she did not recognize, two portraits on porcelain, and a gigantic image of a local banker finished entirely in pastels. Mr. Gardner gave them a few minutes to examine them. While the other girls moved in packs, exclaiming over each portrait and pointing out significant details to one another, Emily worked her way around the room alone. She was awestruck by the beauty Mr. Brady had created.

  “Let’s move on, shall we?” Mr. Gardner directed the women through a door into the inner rooms of the studio. “We have two entire floors to explore.”

  Emily listened intently as he showed them the darkroom and the printing and framing rooms, promptly forgetting the names of a score of instruments. On the studio’s top floor, under a glass ceiling designed to let in sufficient light, Mr. Gardner showed them how to operate a variety of cameras. But she took particular interest in the finishing room, where prints were retouched or painted in oil, watercolor, ink, charcoal, or pastel. Throughout the tour, she kept that beautiful array of finished works at the forefront of her mind and found her enthusiasm for photography growing. It was a modern, innovative way to use her painting skills.

  “And finally,” Mr. Gardner said, guiding them to a glass case, “we’ll culminate our time together with some of the images from Mr. Brady’s famous Antietam gallery, all of which were taken by myself and my assistant James Gibson, I’ll add. These are actual views of the battlefield.”

  Emily froze in horror. Her eyes riveted on a picture of a heap of corpses lying beside a split-rail fence. They lay in unnatural poses, crumpled, twisted, with arms and legs splayed in death. Her stomach wrenched. Against her will, her eyes moved on to each image one by one, taking in the bloated carcasses of horses, a sunken turnpike strewn with bodies, and rows of dead laid out for burial.

  The images blurred. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. This was the hell Jovie lived with. The recurring climax of soldiering. The memories in his head. This was the field on which Jack had taken a mortal wound. But for the space of a few days’ time, any one of these bodies could have been her brother, stiffened, cold, and still.

  She felt ill. She would not have wanted Jack on display. A person’s death should be a private time, meant only for God and family, not captured on a glass plate to satisfy the curiosity of strangers. She glared at Mr. Gardner, blaming him for the indignity of this public spectacle.

  Some of her classmates still perused the images, most with fists or fingers held up to their faces, a weak buffer against shock. Others had paled and turned away. But Lucy, she saw, had drilled her with a cold, pleased stare.

  She felt faint. The walls were closing in. Whirling, Emily fled the room.

  Mr. Woodward followed her into the reception area. “I’m sorry, Emily. I had no idea those images would be part of the tour. Had I known, I would have shielded you from them.”

  “I just wasn’t expecting—” She took a shaky breath. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She wasn’t certain at all. The abominable images were seared into her mind. She would never be free of them.

  “I’m fine,” she repeated.

  He patted her hand. “I’ll give you a few minutes. Then we’ll return to the depot, eat our lunches, and board the train for home.”

  Home. That place where sorrows are shared, hurts are healed, and people accept you. No, Baltimore wasn’t home.

  ***

  Dear Jovie,

  I do wish you weren’t so far away. I’m reminded often that I am a duck out of water here in the North. As much as I love what I am doing, I miss whatever magic it is that draws my heart back to South Carolina so often. It is the people I miss most, certainly, of which you are the chief. Individuals cannot live within a community for any significant length of time without developing a mutual support and understanding of one another. I miss that. Sometimes it even makes me forget the reasons I fled Charleston in the first place. Your letters do so much to fill the void of absence.

  Emily reread her words with a critical eye. She had dug out another of Jovie’s letters as soon as she returned from the train. After the shock of the Antietam pictures, she had needed that connection with him, even if it was a year old.

  I shouldn’t complain, as your situation is far worse. I was reminded today of just how much worse. This war simply cannot continue as it is or there will be no one left to carry on when the guns grow silent. Jovie, I need to know you’re okay. That you’re safe and well. We have too much invested in one another to let so much distance remain between us. And my heart grows troubled without word of your health. Please write to me soon.

  Your friend,

  Emily

  ***

  Several weeks later, Emily was in the kitchen of the boardinghouse adding the finishing touches to the final project for her portraiture class. It was the only room in which Mrs. Calkins let her use oil paints. Missouri had graciously posed on each of the last four Sunday afternoons, but as the image neared completion, Emily was growing more and more frustrated with the unnatural angle of her roommate’s right arm. She recalled her dissatisfaction with the sketch of the hoeing Negro woman. It was becoming quite apparent that if she wanted to improve, she needed a better understanding of proportions and the basic human framework. She chuffed in irritation and vowed to do something about it.

  Grace stepped into the room. “There’s a young man here for you. I let him into the parlor. He’s extremely handsome.”

  Emily froze. Could Thad have come back?

  “Is everything okay?” Grace hadn’t witnessed Thad’s last visit, though Emily was certain the other girls had filled her in.

  Emily set her brush in a jar of turpentine and wiped her hands on an old rag. She managed a smile that she hoped was passable. “Of course.”

  Still she wiped at the paint.

  “Shall I tell him you’re indisposed?” Grace asked uncertainly.

  “No. If it is who I think it is, he’ll keep coming back until I agree to see him. Better to face this head-on.”

  Grace touched her arm encouragingly. “Good luck.”

  Emily tossed the rag on the sideboard. She thought she had set Thad aside in a similar fashion, but her wild heartbeat was warring with the caution in her head. She resolved not to let him have such an effect on her. He had forfeited that right. Steadying her breathing, she strode into the parlor.

  Thad, dressed in a new factory-made suit that fit him to perfection, stood by the window looking out at the sunlit street. “I thought it was you,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.

  He spun to face her a
nd fumbled the derby he held in his hands. Picking it up, he maintained a respectful distance, but his eyes drank her in. “By God, I’ve missed you.”

  Emily clasped her hands together so he couldn’t see them trembling. “What do you want, Thad?”

  “I had to see you. To talk to you. I—” He swallowed hard.

  “You came six hundred miles just to talk to me?”

  “Yes.” He said it without a hint of apology. “Can we take a walk?”

  She hesitated. She had hoped to resolve this quickly.

  “Please?”

  Against her better judgement, she relented. “All right.”

  She grabbed her cloak and bonnet from the hall tree then led him out the door and beyond the sight of any curious onlookers. He set his own hat at a jaunty angle but did not offer his arm.

  “It looks like your business is faring nicely,” she observed, starting habitually on the familiar route to the meetinghouse. The air wasn’t warm, but a February sun peered weakly from between scattered clouds, and the roads were dry.

  He rubbed a hand absently down his coat front. “We have three ships. Remarkably fast English-made steamers. Unless the Union replaces their wooden warships with steam power, they’ll never touch us.”

  “Have you ridden on one?”

  He shook his head. “I’m no sailor.”

  “You’re an opportunist,” she supplied, not entirely free of rancor.

  He looked at her oddly. “You know I’ve never supported this war. And I’ll never risk my neck for a cause I believe is doomed. As I recall, you agreed with me on the foolishness of Secession.”

  “How have you managed to avoid the draft? I hear they’re calling up every available man.”

  “It isn’t hard to find a doctor willing to write out a health exemption if you offer enough in exchange.”