The War Wagon

By Gerald Sheagren

The single-horse wagon lumbered through the backcountry of northern Virginia, axles creaking, clouds of gritty, yellow dust billowing in its wake. It was a strange-looking contraption, much resembling a small, narrow room that had been detached from a house and perched precariously atop four wheels. Painted on its whitewashed sides in fancy gold and black lettering was HORATIO B. ZANE -- FINE PHOTOGRAPHIC IMAGES.

At the reins was a thin, dour-faced man of about fifty, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and a white linen duster. He was playing with the remains of a cigar, deftly moving it from one corner of his mouth to the other. His face was the color and texture of old saddle leather, crow’s feet pinching his eyes into watery, little slits. If joy and good humor were the sustenance of life, this curmudgeon would have been dead long ago.

Seated next to him was a young male, perhaps in his late teens--bug-eyed and bucktoothed, a floppy slouch hat resting on ears that were much larger than usual. Blotchy freckles spattered his nose and cheekbones, looking as though a pot of brown beans had exploded, striking him squarely in the face. His chin bore the rudimental sprouts of a carrot-colored beard.

There came a rumble of artillery, sounding like a thunderstorm building in the distance. A faint smell of sulfur rode on the humid air.

"Brady an’ Gardner don’t usually show their faces `til two or three days after a battle. Not me. I like to be on hand `fore the smoke clears." Zane plucked the cigar from his mouth and spat out a piece of its wrapper that had stuck to his tongue. "But those two yahoos keep getting’ all the credit an’ I’m mighty tired of it."

George McKenna stifled a yawn, tiring of the same old refrain.

"Brady an’ Gardner, Brady an’ Gardner, Brady an’ Gardner! It’s high time I got the recognition I deserve." The old man thumped a knee with his fist. "I’m better than those two put together."

George grunted, shooing away a mosquito that had landed on his ear. God, how he despised this crotchety, foul-mouthed, old tightwad! Zane habitually shortchanged his customers, giving them the least he could for the most money. He also had a fondness for whiskey, was rumored to beat his wife on a regular basis and frequented Hooker’s Division in Washington City, where he took up with prostitutes. He had recently brought a fourteen-year-old whore to his studio on M Street and had spent a noisy hour with her in the back room. When she left, she was sobbing, a nasty red welt strung across one of her cheeks. If the photographer possessed the slightest hint of integrity, George had yet to see it.

"I wanna get some shots of some fresh kill." Zane screwed up his face as though he was sucking on an extra sour lemon. "I hate it when they get all bloated up. They look like a bunch of overstuffed rag dolls."

George groaned.

Zane smiled wickedly, blowing a mouthful of smoke into the boy’s face. "Ya know, Georgie; sometimes I don’t think you’re cut out for this business."

"I love the studio work, but this battlefield photography bothers me. It ain’t right. It jus’ ain’t right."

"Well, you had better get use to it an’ mighty fast. If a photographer takes some memorable shots on the field of battle, he could make a right good name for himself. An’ that, dear Georgie, is exactly what I’m plannin’ to do." Zane smiled broadly, his teeth gapped and crooked and stained brown from tobacco. "Yes sireee! I’m gonna immortalize this war with my pictures. The name of Horatio B. Zane will be waggin’ on peoples’ tongues for years to come."

"Doesn’t takin’ pictures of the dead make you feel cheap?"

"Cheap?" Zane cackled a laugh. "Hell no, boy! It’s gonna make me feel rich!" He flicked the reins. "Giddy-up, Mabel, ol’ girl! Let’s get this war wagon movin’!"

They had left Washington City nearly two days ago, at first light, over the Long Bridge. After checking Horatio’s pass, a big, bearded sergeant had waved them into a long caravan of ambulances and supply wagons that was crawling along at a snail’s pace. Ten miles into Virginia, after consulting a map, Zane had struck out on his own, following obscure country lanes, some not much wider than a footpath. The rolling farmlands they passed were still and picturesque and George wondered how they could remain so with such a devastating war raging all around. Crude wooden signs, with one end sharpened to a point, marked the directions and distances to such places as Manassas, Brandy Station and Culpepper.

They had slept the night near the wagon, listening to the chirping of crickets and the occasional howl of a dog. In the morning, after a breakfast of coffee and biscuits swaddled in pork fat, Zane had consulted his map and turned onto a wider road which followed the sluggish, brown waters of a river. Trees, stooped and gnarled with age, lined its banks, and the air was alive with the incessant humming of insects. At one point, George had spotted a Union kepi floating past, and, shortly after, a bloodied shell jacket with one of its sleeves torn completely away. The war was getting closer; somewhere up ahead, beyond the trees and tangled underbrush.

A few miles further along, with the boom of artillery and the crackle of musket fire decidedly louder, they began to see the first signs of battle. Trees had been split asunder by projectiles, their crippled branches littering the roadway. More than once, George had to leap from his seat and drag them off to the side in order for the horse and wagon to pass. Dead and wounded Yankees, appearing as patches of blue, could be seen sprawled amongst the underbrush. A sour bile arose in George’s throat as he noticed a brogan lying in the middle of the road, with the bloody stump of a foot still attached. There was a canteen impaled to a tree by a jagged piece of shrapnel; a prayer book, ripped down the spine, its pages scattered about. Everywhere: discarded knapsacks, blanket rolls, cartridge boxes and articles of clothing. The birdcalls and the croaking of tree toads which had accompanied them for the past twenty miles had suddenly ceased. The rotten egg stench of sulfur caused George’s eyes to water.

"Looks like the Grim Reaper is gonna be mighty generous to us today." Zane cackled and slapped his knee. "There’s plenty of subjects jus’ waitin’ for my lens. Oh, yes, indeed! There’s hundreds of `em!"

They heard the thudding of horses’ hooves and the jangle of sabers long before a troop of Union cavalry rounded the bend up ahead, nearly lost in a great, swirling cloud of dust. Sweat-lathered mounts, bays and sorrels and dappled grays. Grim-faced men with beards and boys with peach fuzz. Dust-shrouded blue uniforms with yellow piping. Carbines free of their scabbards and ready for action.

A short, weary-looking captain trotted his mount in a full circle around the wagon, inspecting it seemed, every board and nail and letter on its side. Reining in his horse alongside Zane, he bent low in the saddle and launched a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the roadway. George couldn’t help noticing that sweat had congealed the dust on the officer’s forehead to mud.

"Where you gents comin’ from?"

Zane jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Clear from Washington City."

"Is that right?" The captain thought for a moment, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, perhaps you can tell me; how’s President Lincoln farin’?"

Zane rubbed thoughtfully at the stubble on his chin. "Right poorly I s’pect, considerin’."

"Considerin’ what?"

"The dismal failures, to date, of the Army of the Potomac."

"Those are not kindly words, sir. Not kindly a’tall."

Zane ignored the captain’s glare, pulling a card from his pocket and handing it over to the officer. "Anytime you’re in Washington City, drop by an’ I’ll fix you up with some right choice carte de visites. You appear to be a real photogenic kind of fella." Then cupping a hand around his mouth, Zane raised his voice so the others could hear. "The same goes for you boys! Horatio Zane’s my name. Got a studio on M Street, not far from the Capitol. I take some mighty fine group pictures."

The captain squinted at the card, unimpressed. "Brady an’ Gardner I’ve heard of. Can’t say the same for you."

"Not yet anyway. But you will, sir. You most certainly will."

The officer twirled the ends of his moustache. Then leaning over in the saddle, he cocked an inquisitive eye at George. "Why aren’t you in Mister Lincoln’s army, son? You look to be the proper age."

Speechless, George stared down at his hands.

"The hell you say!" blurted Zane. "He has a letter of deferment from the Adjutant General hisself, releasing him from any military obligations so he can learn the fine art of photography." The old man patted his pocket. "I got it right here, if you’ve a mind to look at it."

The officer dismissed the offer with a wave. "No need. I’ve got more pressing business to attend to."

Zane cupped a hand behind his ear. "By the sounds, the battle has moved off to the west."

"Indeed it has, sir. And it’s as bloody an affair as you’d ever want to see." The captain pulled a twist of tobacco from his saddle bag and gnawed off a generous piece. "If I was you, I’d turn this wagon right around an’ head on back to Washington City. The battle can easily shift back this way an’ you’d be caught right in the middle."

"I’ve come too far to be turnin’ around."

"Suit yourself. You can’t say I didn’t warn ya." With that, the captain raised a gauntleted hand and brought it down. "At the double! Ho!"

The trooper galloped off and George watched after them until their red and white guidon was lost in the dust.

"Maybe he’s right, Horatio. I wouldn’t much cotton to bein’ caught in a battle."

"Maybe nuttin’!" Zane gave the reins an impatient flick. "Giddy-up there, Mabel! The war’s a-waitin’ on us!"

As the wagon lurched forward, George sighed and stared down at his lap, thinking hard on what the captain had said. There was no doubt that he should be in the army, doing his fair share. His twin brother, Henry, less freckles and smaller ears, had been seriously wounded at Bull Run, never again able to use his right arm. For him to get through each day, it took laudanum and a good amount of whiskey. One of his cousins had died of dysentery and another had been killed at the Stone Bridge at Antietam. Of his three closest friends, Israel was in the naval blockade off North Carolina, Thaddeus was fighting somewhere in Tennessee and Tom Witherspoon was on the personal staff of Ulysses S. Grant. Although he had never been an overly courageous person, George felt that he should be sharing in their miseries instead of working for a no-good skinflint like Horatio B. Zane.

"Somethin’ chewin’ at’cha, Georgie?"

"Huh? Oh--uh--no. No, nuttin’."

"I beg to differ an’ I be knowin’ exactly what it is.’ Zane clamped his teeth down hard on what little remained of his cigar. "That sanctimonious sonofabitch got ya feelin’ sorry for yerself, didn’t he? That’s it, ain’t it?"

"Please, jus’ lemme alone."

Zane raised his voice to a high-pitched whine. "All of a sudden, l’il Georgie McKenna is hearin’ drums an’ bugles in his head. "I’s a-comin’, massa Lincoln! I’s a-comin’! I’s sure `nough seen the light.'" The old man snatched a slip of paper from his pocket and waved it under George’s nose. "Well, here’s yer deferment, bucko. Rip `er up! Go ahead; rip `er up."

George reached for the paper, but Horatio quickly held it out of reach.

"Yes, sah, massa Lincoln! L’il Georgie McKenna is willin’ to offer up an arm, mebbe a leg, his whole dang life for the glorious cause! Yes, sah, I’s a-comin’! Horatio barked a laugh and started to sing. "Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory--glory--hallelujah!"

"Gimme that deferment! I’ll rip it up, sure thing, an’ make you eat every piece of it!"

"Naw, I don’t think so," said Zane, tucking the paper back into his pocket. "I’ll jus’ hold onto it. I wouldn’t want you doin’ somethin’ rash, now, would I?"

"You’re a stinkin’, miserable, ol’ rat," George hissed between clenched teeth.

Zane chuckled. "So my wife tells me."

The wagon wheels squealed over the pockmarked road, sounding like a bunch of piglets crying out for their mother. Scores of Yankees lay along the roadside--the dead looking as though they were asleep, the wounded crying out for loved ones or begging for water. Wreathes of powder smoke drifted through the woods like specters. George began to hear a sound that reminded him of a breeze groaning through the eaves of his family’s old farmhouse in Germantown. After pondering on its origin for a few moments, he became all too aware of what it was: the great, collective cry of hundreds of wounded left on the field of battle to fend for themselves.

Spooked, Mabel let out a long, wet snort, tossing her head from side to side.

"Get along there, gal! C’mon, giddy-up!" When the horse failed to budge, Zane let out an exasperated sigh. "Awright! This place will have to do. Get the camera out, Georgie."

George sat rooted to the seat, feeling a bit woozy, as he stared down at a corpse with both of its legs severed just below the knees. A black and yellow butterfly, unmindful of the horrors of war, lighted on the man’s nose for a few moments before fluttering off. George clutched the seat, trying his darnest to keep down the morning’s breakfast.

"What’cha waitin’ for, boy? Get out the dang-blamed camera."

"I’m--I’m feelin’ a little sick."

Zane gave a throaty laugh. "Bet’cha ain’t hearin’ those bugles an’ drums any longer."

George climbed down from the seat and walked to the rear of the wagon on wobbly legs, opening the rear door and pulling out a rosewood box mounted on a tripod. He quickly set it up where Zane was indicating.

"Now fetch me a wet plate an’ the lightproof box. Hurry it up, boy! Time’s a-wastin’."

When George returned with the wet plate, Zane snatched it, ducked under a black hood and mounted it inside the camera. Reaching from beneath the hood, he removed the lens cap and adjusted the tripod an inch or two to the right. Finally, when everything met his approval, he snapped a picture of the carnage and quickly tucked the exposed plate away inside the lightproof box. George hustled to the wagon and returned with another. This procedure went on a half dozen times until Zane pulled a flask from his pocket and took a long pull of whiskey.

"Got some mighty fine pictures here, Georgie. Now, let’s find a likely subject for my next shot. C’mon."

George followed the old man into the woods, stepping over mangled corpses and the writhing wounded. The stench of excrement assaulted his nostrils, gagging him, and he couldn’t help thinking how the human body purged itself at the moment of death. A wounded soldier grabbed at his trouser leg, begging for water, a pinkish foam bubbling to his lips. When a shadow traveled across the ground, George looked up to see a buzzard sweeping overhead.

"C’mon, boy. Get yer feet movin’."

Nearby, a tree which had been struck by a shell, suddenly split clear down its middle, with a sound that reminded George of someone biting into a hard, crisp apple. It fell in two different directions, each half landing on a number of wounded men that were too weak to get out of the way.

Ignoring the carnage, Zane was nimbly stepping over bodies, humming and kicking debris out of his way. Stooping down, he snatched up a gold pocket watch, blew it free of dirt and tucked it away into his pocket. As he approached a dead soldier, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, he knelt down to examine the corpse more closely. The boy’s eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted, as though he had dozed of for a few minutes of precious sleep. A piece of shrapnel had neatly snapped his suspender; a patch of blood bloomed across the shirt directly over his heart. He had golden ringlets of hair and a small pug nose. An anxious mother would never see this lad home again.

Zane rifled through the kid’s pockets, coming up with three Indian head pennies and a small Bible. He kept the pennies and threw the Bible aside.

"Here’s a perfect subject for me, Georgie. Oh, yes, indeed." Zane held up his hands, thumb to thumb, and studied the face through their opening. "The death of innocence."

"My, God! He’s hardly more than a child!"

"How’s Massa Lincoln’s war seem to you now? C’mon, we’ll carry him out to the road where there’s more light."

"I most certainly will not!"

"You don’t think that Brady or Gardner wouldn’t do the same?"

"I don’t give a hoot! It ain’t right."

"’Right’, you say." Zane snorted a laugh. "There ain’t nutin’ right about this whole dang war."

"Still."

"Still nuttin’! Now grab this boy unner his arms an’ I’ll take `is legs."

George hesitated, tears brimming in his eyes.

"C’mon, boy, do it! It’s jus’ part of the job like anythin’ else."

They hauled the young Yank out of the woods and laid him back against a tree near the side of the road. Zane carefully arranged the body to his liking and grabbed a musket, placing it across the boy’s lap. After appraising his work for a few thoughtful moments, he hustled to the wagon and returned with an ambrotype which he placed into the soldier’s hand.

"What’s that for?"

"The proper affect. He died while holdin’ a picture of his family. Ma an’ Pa an’ l’il sis. Nice touch, huh?"

"You miserable ol’--!" George kicked up a clod of dirt. "I don’t know why in the blazes I work for you. I swear, havin’ the Devil for a boss would be more rewardin’."

"That’s what’cha think, do ya?"

"I don’t think. I damn well know!"

"Well, you’ve made yerself plainly heard, Master McKenna." Zane planted his hands on his hips, his eyes glimmering with anger. "Well then, once we get back to Washington City, I will no longer be in need of yer services. I think a more mature person would be more to my likin’."

"Good! That’s jus’ fine by me!"

"I should have expected such from the likes of you. Damn shanty Irish, you an’ all yer kin."

George unleashed a great roundhouse punch that connected solidly with the old man’s jaw. Zane staggered backwards, letting out a groan, and dropped like a one-hundred-fifty pound sack of potatoes. Regarding his handiwork for a few pleasurable seconds, George took the deferment paper from Zane’s pocket, ripped it into tiny pieces and sprinkled them over the photographers still body.

"How do you like those apples, ya ol’ coot?"

George turned to walk away, but as an afterthought, he whirled, took a running start and kicked over the camera, its lens shattering on a rock. With that, he unfastened a belt, complete with cartridge box, cap pouch and bayonet frog, from a nearby body and secured it around his own waist. Then picking up a .58-caliber Springfield, he hooked its sling over his shoulder and marched over to where Mabel was snorting and thumping the ground with her hoof.

"Goodbye, ol’ gal. I hope to see you a’gin, but it’s not too likely. You take care an’ eat plenty of oats."

Then George took a deep breath, braced himself and headed off toward the distant crackle of musket fire.

The End

The War Wagon © 2004 by Gerald Sheagren

Gerald Sheagren is a fifty-seven-year-old writer and recent retiree, who can best be described as a cross between Kenny Rogers and Santa Claus--picture white hair and beard, jovial face and slight paunch. Besides writing short stories, Gerald enjoys reading, studying U.S. history and adding to his ever-growing collection of Civil War artifacts. His plans for the future include moving to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, so he can walk those hallowed grounds, feel at peace with himself and conjure up more stories. Gerald resides in Torrington, Connecticut, with his wife, Sharon, and a cat by the name of Molly Brown.

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