The Tinsmith by Tim Bowling Page A

There might never come another chance like this.
    Gardner handled the body by the legs, not wanting to touch the head, which was grinning and greasy as a gargoyle soaked in oil, and hoped that his fellow photographer would rise to the challenge. He was no more maidenly than a Glasgow publican, after all.
    â€œCome on, Jim. They’ll be back for it soon. I only want to shift it a little ways. Till the sun’s up.”
    For the truth was, Gardner had seen a mass of dead rebels not too distant. He realized that he and Gibson could dump this body among the rebels and nobody’d be certain to come near it, at least not for hours. By then, there’d be light enough. And he’d have his first prize stereo of the great battle: Slave Owner’s Terrible Last Moments. Or something akin to that. It wasn’t the time for thinking up fancy titles.
    Gardner noticed Gibson look past him. His eyes measured the progress of the light. All around them in the large, churned-up field, the low groans and gasps of wounded men broke into the monotonous droning of the flies, faded away briefly, then started up again.
    â€œWe’ll be seen,” Gibson said. “And if we’re caught, Alex Gardner, you’ll no ee get any studies of dead soldiers. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
    â€œAch, you’d think you were the dapper Brady himself with your fussing and worrying. I’ll do it myself. Just bring up the wagon, will you. There’s little doubt the Rebels have gone, what with all that ruckus in the night, but we’d better be sure before we go any closer to where the worst fighting happened.”
    Gardner could see his assistant’s nostrils flaring, but he suspected that the quiet all around them, not to mention the dead, checked his tongue against a slanderous rejoinder. He only grunted and pointed to the horse. “And what about that? Just look at the animal, kneeling there like it was in the stable at Bethlehem. You’d no ee take it for dead. That’d make a fine study.”
    He was right, of course. It was a handsome white charger, its front legs gracefully tucked under its blood-soaked body, its noble head turned to the side. The poor creature looked to be living still, unlike the hundreds of others scattered around, most of them tangled in their reins so tight that they might have been tangled in their own bloody guts. But Gardner hadn’t time for dead horses now, no matter what they looked like.
    â€œThey willna move the man’s horse,” he said. “It’s him they’ll soon be after. And they can have him too, just after I get my study.”
    Gardner quickly looked around. It was still dark enough for cover and he wouldn’t need more than ten minutes. Keeping his hold on the legs, he dragged the body toward the dead rebels, deliberately avoiding its ghastly expression. If not for the heavy smell of blood, he thought the corpse might open its mouth and shout at any second.
    No one saw him as he moved slowly toward his goal. He knew then, with Lee reportedly in retreat and the sun rising, that fortune was truly on his side. It would be a bonny day, the exposures would be wonderful. Even here, in a position behind the front lines, and in the grey dimness, he could see what a terrible carnage had occurred. It did not leave him unmoved. But sentiment, for a soldier or a photographer, was a luxury to be enjoyed when the work was done. And his was only starting. Fast work it would have to be too. With the Rebels gone, the army would waste little time in clearing its dead from the field. Already Gardner was gagging on the stench. It hung so putrid and solid that he knew no burial party would linger over their duty.
    When he reached the sprawl of dead rebels, he paused for a while to consider them. Already some were bloated, their hands and feet twice their usual size, their faces black as any negro—one wore a fountain of