Free The Tinsmith by Tim Bowling Page A

stand it. It’s like swallowing great gobs of pus out here.”
    By the time the two photographers reached the slaughter along the pike road near the whitewashed little church with the thatched roof, they had their system worked out. Soon enough they didn’t even talk anymore. The light poured over the bloated corpses and smashed limbers, and the white church shone like a gull’s wing against the black woods. A bonny day for photography. But Gardner knew he’d be a cold and heartless man if he hadn’t paused amid all that carnage and considered the truth of what lay before him: brave men had died horribly, boys from modest backgrounds mostly, farm boys and fishermen and workers on both sides, dying for their beliefs while Brady’s fine friends nibbled on squab and made grand noises about sending the Rebels back to Richmond. Gardner almost hated himself then for his excitement—nay, his joy—under the cloth. And yet, he thought about what his images might mean to a public far removed from the war’s reality, and that spurred him on. Mostly he didn’t even have to embellish; the dead were affecting enough, even if, as the day wore on, only Rebels and horses remained on the field. The burial parties worked quickly. Often Gardner had to ask them to take a break while he made his exposures, for any movement would blur the image. They obliged, no doubt out of curiosity at the photographer’s presence, but not for long. Gardner couldn’t blame them. It wasn’t a ground well suited for lingering.
    Gardner did not think of his stolen corpse again until later in the afternoon, when, recrossing the battleground of their first studies, which still resembled a massive broken tabletop left uncleared after some giant’s hideous orgy of feasting, he and Gibson stopped once more at the fenced barnyard surrounded by greasy tents for some fortification. Little had changed. The surgeons still cut into bodies, the wounded lay about in solid piles of moaning agony, the graveyard with the plank headboards had grown just outside the fence beyond the cooks’ tent. A few women, looking strange in their feminine apparel, placed cold cloths on foreheads, dispensed water and food, and generally comforted as best they could. Their courage and sense of duty so moved Gardner that the raspy voice at his ear startled like gunshot.
    â€œHave you just come from out there?”
    Gardner turned and recognized the bearded surgeon he had observed on his earlier visit. If the man had looked ravaged then, he seemed little more than nerve endings now. The torn sackcloth of his face, the eyes swimming in blood, the forearms so gore-caked that he might have just dipped them in a vat of guts: Gardner could hardly believe the surgeon possessed the strength to speak. He pointed weakly toward the battleground. Gardner nodded, half afraid the wake of air from his small gesture would knock the surgeon down.
    â€œThe tall soldier. The one who was helping me. You didn’t see him?”
    The urgency in the man’s voice alarmed Gardner. He could hardly tell what answer the surgeon hoped for, but Gardner gave him the truth.
    â€œI did. At least I believe so. I was some distance away.”
    The surgeon grimaced and clutched his stomach. “Excuse me, sir. One moment.” He opened a small bottle, shook a pill into his hand, and quickly swallowed it. “What did you see exactly?”
    The question took Gardner aback, but he saw no reason not to answer. “I saw him carrying a body into the wood.”
    The surgeon grabbed Gardner’s elbow. His grip reached to the bone. “That man has done noble service. He has saved many from a lingering, painful death. If you are asked about him, I urge you . . .”
    A cry of pain from behind spun him around. When he turned back and looked in Gardner’s eyes again, he spoke in a hoarse whisper.
    â€œDon’t mention to any officer