Time Pirate 6, page 9
As suddenly as the feeling had appeared, it faded, and the world started to appear again. I was still crouched down, though I could feel something softer under my feet than the hard dirt that had been there a moment ago.
“Oh, God,” Joan muttered.
I glanced at the brunette, who was now looking distinctly green. She raised a hand to her mouth and made a gagging sound, but after a couple of deep breaths, her skin took on a more normal color.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“Yep,” she said but bit her lip like she was trying not to burp or barf.
I gave her another moment, and then I stood up just enough to see over the top of the stall door. We were still inside the barn, though there was hay under our feet now. I could hear horses in some of the other stalls, but as I looked around, I didn’t see any people in the barn.
“I think we’re safe,” I whispered as I reached over the door and popped the latch.
The door swung open with a creak, and we stepped out of the stall. The day was brighter back in 1862, so we could see everything pretty clearly. It was definitely empty of people, though there were three horses that looked at us curiously.
“Hey, guys,” I said as we eased by the stalls.
“General McClellan’s tent isn’t that far,” Joan whispered. “Five-minute walk, tops.”
“Then let’s get going,” I said. “Maybe we can find Brady before he takes the picture.”
October 2, 1862 was also a lot warmer, and as soon as we stepped out of the barn, I could feel the sunlight beating against my back. I felt a trail of sweat start to form, and I made a mental note to get my clothes dry-cleaned soon.
“I wasn’t expecting it to be so hot,” Joan said as she held her hand up to block the sunlight in her eyes.
“Neither was I,” I admitted.
“Okay, the tent is this way,” Joan said and started to walk away.
“Halt!” someone shouted before she’d taken more than a handful of steps. “Who goes there?”
Chapter 5
I froze for a moment as I wondered if I’d somehow set the watch incorrectly. Maybe I’d somehow set it for 1962 instead, so we’d just shown up in the middle of a movie shoot or something.
Because no one ever really said ‘Halt! Who goes there ?’ in real life, right?
“Oh, oh, my,” Joan gasped and grabbed my arm.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” the voice asked.
The sentry stepped around an old wagon that he must’ve been leaning against and waved his rifle at us. He was a few inches shorter than me, but he had a beard that ZZ Top would’ve admired. His red hair looked like it hadn’t been combed in weeks, and his beady eyes were nearly hidden in the rolls of fat on his very round face. He wore a blue uniform that had seen better days, and I noticed at least two missing buttons along the front of his coat. His hat was far too small for his round head, which made me wonder if he’d stolen it from another soldier.
“I, uh, don’t think you know me,” I stammered.
“Not you,” the sentry huffed as he squinted at Joan.
The man seemed to be near-sighted, which would normally make me a little more confident he’d probably miss us if he fired, but he took another step closer, and I was aware he’d have to be practically blind not to hit at least one of us. I started to move in front of Joan, but the sentry couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Oh, yeah.” He chuckled and then bobbed his head in my direction. “I know this queen. I’ve seen her in town. At the Red Cock, I think.”
Joan’s face had gone bright red, and she shook her head so hard that her hair started to fall out of the pins.
“Yep, I know this one,” the sentry continued. “Didn’t know she would do you away from the Red Cock. How much do you charge for that?”
“Uhhh,” I hemmed as I glanced at Joan. “Actually, I didn’t meet her at the Red Cock. It was that other place… you know, near the Capitol…”
“There’s a few over there,” the sentry said as he cocked his head. “Well, you should get back on duty, soldier, or… whatever you are. As for you, whore--”
My knee-jerk reaction was to punch the guy in the face for speaking to Joan like that, but I didn’t want to start unnecessary drama, so I kept my fists by my side. As terrible as it sounded, the corporal’s mistake might actually get us inside the tent line, and Joan seemed to realize that as well. I saw her bite back whatever response she’d been about to make, though her eyes still burned holes in the man’s chest.
“I’ll see that she heads back to town,” I said quickly.
“Good.” The sentry nodded. “We don’t want anyone else getting distracted.”
“Right,” I said and grabbed Joan’s hand. “Thanks, uh…”
“Corporal Farr,” he said.
He winked at Joan as we moved around him, and we could hear him chuckling as he ambled back to the camp chair I could now see on the other side of the wagon.
“Jesus,” Joan finally muttered. “He thinks I’m… I’m…”
“Well, to be fair, that was what most of the women in the camps were,” I said.
“That’s not true,” Joan huffed. “There were nurses, wives, even women who served with the cannon divisions.”
“Okay, okay,” I said and held up my hands in surrender. “But, obviously, the first thing someone would think when he saw an unfamiliar woman hanging around the camp was, well, what Corporal Farr thought.”
“Typical man,” she muttered. “Look at the dress I’m in! No hooker in this era would have something this nice!”
“I doubt Corporal Farr is up on fashion,” I noted.
“I can’t believe he thought I looked like a hooker at some place called the Red Cock,” Joan huffed as she yanked her skirt free of yet more brambles.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I’m not sure if that was a compliment or not.”
“It was not.” Joan scowled.
“We’re almost to the camp,” I noted to try and change the subject. “And I don’t have a uniform on, so how are we going to get inside?”
“Well, good thing you’re with a historian rather than a hooker,” she said as she shot one last glare over her shoulder at Corporal Farr, but then she took a deep breath and composed herself. “Officers often had aides and even servants. So, you can pretend to be an aide.”
“But don’t they know all the aides?” I asked.
“Just go with it,” she said. “I doubt anyone will stop us. We look like someone’s servants, and they tended to come and go as the army moved around.”
“Right.” I nodded and then looked at the scene. “So, whose servants are we supposed to be?”
“McClellan is the one we want to get close to, so we’ll just say we’ve been hired to help out while he’s here.” Joan stopped for a moment and adjusted her dress, and once she was satisfied, she lifted her chin and marched into the camp.
At first, I thought we’d be able to just walk all the way to the General’s tent unimpeded, since no one seemed to pay attention to us. Joan certainly acted like she knew where she was going, and her scowl seemed to scare off anyone who looked like they were about to ask a question.
But as we got closer to the large tents that had to be where the officers slept, one of the sentries finally stepped in front of us. Joan stopped so quickly she almost fell over, and she scowled at the man as she shook the hem of her dress.
“Excuse me,” Joan huffed. “We need to see the General.”
“Who are you?” the sentry demanded.
He was of average height, but he had an impressive mustache and a very shiny Springfield musket that looked like it’d been polished within an inch of its life. His uniform was also very tidy, and yet, I had the feeling this was a man who’d seen a lot of action. His steely eyes looked us over, and there was a distinct lack of compassion there.
“We’re Joan and Francis,” Joan sighed. “General McClellan hired us to take care of his personal items while he was here.”
“Is that so?” he asked. “Then you know the password.”
“Oh, for…” Joan huffed again and rolled her eyes. “Lester.”
“That’s an old one,” the sentry muttered, and he had a silent debate as to whether he would let us pass. After a moment, he seemed to settle on letting us through, but not before he made our lives a little more miserable. “I’ll need to check you for weapons.”
He looked at me first, and his gaze seemed to burn right down to my bones. From his expression, he wasn’t impressed with what he saw, and he even sniffed when I held my arms up so he could pat me down.
Fortunately, he wasn’t as thorough as the cops I knew back in the twenty-first century, and he didn’t seem worried about the pocket watch or cellphone when he felt them. He gave me a sniff when he was done, and then he looked at Joan.
“Really,” Joan huffed as she folded her arms over her breasts. “You can’t seriously expect me to allow this.”
“I don’t care if you do or don’t,” the sentry replied. “But you won’t get any closer if you don’t.”
“That’s not acceptable,” I said.
“Everyone else does it,” the sentry insisted. “Even women. This is war, after all.”
I looked at Joan, unsure what I was supposed to do. I knew I was probably expected to defend her honor, but that would probably get us banned from the camp.
“Fine,” Joan said in a trembling voice.
The sentry grunted and stepped toward her, and as he started to pat her stomach and legs, she bit her lip and then buried her face in her hands. She was probably supposed to look embarrassed, but I had a sneaking suspicion she was trying not to laugh.
Honestly, I had no idea how he thought he could find a weapon hidden in all that fabric, but he finally stepped back and let us pass. I could feel his eyes following us as we walked along the line of tents, and I had to fight the urge to start running across the field because I was sure he’d see that as a reason to shoot me in the back.
“How’d you know the password?” I whispered when we were out of hearing range.
“I knew some of the ones the Army of the Potomac used,” she said. “I couldn’t remember exactly which one they were using now, so I just gambled and used one I knew was one of the older ones.”
“Where do you even learn something like that?” I chuckled.
“Many, many hours buried in the documents at the Smithsonian and the Library of Congress,” she replied with a smirk. “You’d be surprised what the government has held on to for all these years.”
“But they can’t figure out where my tax return went,” I muttered and shook my head.
Joan knew exactly where we were going, which was good, because we were getting more stares now, and not just from the other soldiers we passed. There were men and women in civilian clothes moving between the tents, and I saw a few of them look at us like they weren’t sure if they should stop us.
“Here it is,” Joan said as we approached one of the larger tents.
Both of the flaps on the front had been pulled back, possibly to let the air in, but then I spotted the man who was setting up an old-time camera nearby. He had a thatch of curly, dark hair with a patch of gray at the temples, a thick mustache with a short beard, and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked exactly like the photos of Brady I’d seen online, though obviously everything was in living color, from the gray suit to the blue silk tie and the faint flush of pink along his cheeks. He stopped for a moment to fan himself with what looked like a gardening hat, and he glanced at the sky as the sun disappeared behind a few clouds for a moment.
He shifted some of the equipment again, and then he looked around like he was expecting someone. When he didn’t see whoever he was waiting for, he walked over to the tent and said something to the men inside.
“It’s them,” I whispered in an excited voice. “And it looks just like the picture.”
Abraham Lincoln and George McClellan were seated on opposite sides of a table cluttered with maps and pieces of paper. Neither man looked very happy with whatever they were discussing, though for the sake of the people around them, they hadn’t resorted to yelling at each other.
But it looked like the General was trying to make a power play, because while McClellan was protected from the sun and had plenty of space to stretch out, Lincoln was caught in a slice of sunlight, and his chair was squeezed in between the table and what looked like a credenza that had been draped with an American flag. When Brady approached the pair, it was also McClellan who spoke first.
In addition to the chest, McClellan had a bed, complete with fluffy pillow and knitted blanket, a couple more chairs, some basic camp equipment, and a captured Confederate flag that had been tossed on the ground nearby. A faint breeze carried the scent of gunpowder and smoke, and a persistent blue jay called from a nearby tree. Part of me still found it hard to believe I was about to witness that exact moment when the photograph was taken, even though it was unfolding right in front of me.
“Something’s wrong,” Joan noted with a frown.
“Um, what?” I muttered and then shook my head to clear it.
“I think Brady had one of his assistants with him for this shoot,” Joan said as she looked around. “But it looks like he’s the only one here.”
“Does that matter?” I asked.
“Maybe not…” Joan hesitated, though, like she wasn’t really sure.
“Should we offer to help?” I asked. “We know he takes the photo.”
“And you know what about daguerreotype?”
“Er, I know it’s an early form of photography.” I shrugged and then folded my arms. “Do you know more?”
“Of course I do,” she said.
Brady had finished his conversation with Lincoln and McClellan, and neither man looked very pleased. They stared at the camp for a moment and then resumed their conversation. There was clearly tension between the two, and even though their voices remained civil, it was obvious neither man wanted to spend much time with the other.
“Excuse me,” Joan said as she suddenly stepped near Brady.
Brady stopped fanning himself for a moment and studied my companion. He had the critical eye of an artist as he took in her face, her messy hair, her body, and her clothes. He seemed to notice something strange about the fabric, because he squinted, but then I remembered Joan saying something about Brady’s eyesight beginning to deteriorate by this time, so hopefully he won’t notice something amiss.
“May I help you, ma’am?” the photographer asked.
“You’re Mathew Brady,” she replied as she patted her hair.
“I am indeed,” he agreed. “And you are?”
“Joan Giles,” she said and turned to look at me. “And this is Frankie… Francis. We were hired to help at the camp.”
“Ah, of course.” He nodded and waited for the historian to explain why she’d bothered to talk to him.
“We could help you, if you need it,” she said.
“Help me?” he chuckled. “With what?”
“With the camera,” I said as I stepped forward. “Just tell us what you need, and we’ll do it.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you.” He looked amused, though I didn’t get the feeling he was willing to entrust his livelihood to our hands. “Do you know anything about this equipment?”
“Of course,” Joan said confidently.
She walked over to the camera, and after adjusting her dress again, she began a lecture on the entire process that started with a description of the best ways to coat the copper sheet with silver and then moved on to an analysis of the perfect mirror surface.
By the time she started talking about iodine and bromine vapors, Brady waved his hat at her until she fell quiet.
“Yes, fine, you know how it works.” The photographer studied her again and then looked at me. “And you?”
“I’m good at carrying stuff,” I replied with a shrug.
“Well,” he huffed and looked around. “Since my assistant has apparently disappeared into thin air, I suppose I should be grateful for your help.”
“Mr. Brady!” Lincoln called out. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, yes,” the photographer sighed. “Let me get the plate…”
For the next fifteen minutes, I moved the camera around while Joan and Brady debated exposure times and lighting. Every time a cloud passed overhead, Brady would scowl at it and then threaten to call it all off, but that might have just been his frustration over his impaired vision. Thankfully, Joan always convinced him that we’d be alright, and the photographer would go back to lining up his shot.
Lincoln and McClellan continued their own conversation during those fifteen minutes, though toward the end, they seemed to be running out of things to say. McClellan picked up a small metal rod from the collection on his desk and started to tap it impatiently, while Lincoln picked at some invisible lint on his pants.
“We’re set!” Brady finally declared.
Joan and I took several steps back just to be sure we were out of the picture, and then we watched Brady go through the final part of the process. There was no giant flash or puff of smoke, and other than waiting for the perfect moment to remove the lens cap, there really didn’t seem to be much to it.
“Excellent!” Brady declared as he placed the cap back on the camera. “Miss Giles, if you would be so kind…”
Joan hurried over and helped the photographer remove the plate and place it quickly in a wood box while Brady placed a fresh plate in the camera. He took three more pictures that day, while Lincoln and McClellan muttered to each other, and then he thanked both men for their time and patience.
“Would you be able to help me back to my cart?” Brady asked when the last precious plate had been safely stowed.
“Of course,” I agreed.
We helped gather the equipment, which provided the perfect cover to steal a pair of monogrammed field glasses dangling outside the general’s tent, and once we were sure we had everything, we followed Brady back through the line to a small wagon. The bottom was covered in hay, no doubt to protect the equipment that was Brady’s only means of support.
