Blue and Grayscale - Chapters 1 & 2

Chapter 1

I reined Thorn in and jumped off, my knees buckling under my heavy load.  I grabbed Thorn’s saddle to steady myself and adjusted my pack on my shoulders.  I couldn’t go dropping my equipment.  Magnesium flash was replaceable, but the camera I had built myself.

I grabbed my tripod and ran toward the creek.  I had to get pictures of this.  Not only would I capture the historic rout of the Southerners, I would prove to my parents that a girl didn’t need a man to be worth something.  I would document this forever, and my pictures would appear in newspapers around the world.

I came to the top of a hill, and the field spread out in front of me.  The creek was about a tenth of a mile away, and in that space sat at least two hundred people.  Children sat on picnic blankets with their mothers, eating peanut butter sandwiches.  Some of the women sat in the grass and talked with each other.  The men stood and pointed across the creek.  I started down the hill at a run.  I wanted to get as close to the creek as I could.  I could only zoom in so far.

I weaved through the crowd of picnickers, trying not to bump anyone with my camera.  People stared at me as I passed.  “You’re going closer?” one woman asked incredulously.

“Of course,” I replied.  “I won’t get any shots from back here.”  I skirted around her twin boys and kept walking.

“Hey!” someone shouted.  I turned around.

“Lynne!”  Lynne sat on a picnic blanket, waving at me.  Her blond hair hung in a braid on her shoulder, and she was wearing a pretty blue skirt.

I ran over to my friend.  “What are you doing here?”

“Watching the spectacle, of course,” Lynne chuckled.  “I wasn’t going to come, but Anthony brought me.”

“Anthony?” I repeated.

“Yes,” Lynne said, a little confused.  “Didn’t you meet him?  Anthony, this is Victoria.”

A young man in a tacky leather coat turned around.  He was sitting on the picnic blanket next to Lynne. 

“You’re the photographer,” he said.

“That’s right,” I confirmed.  “Tori Shaw.”  I held out my hand, but Anthony didn’t shake it.

“I have to go,” I said, not bothering to seem apologetic.  “See you later, Lynne.”

Lynne waved to me as I walked away.  “Bye, Tori!”

I walked away quickly, focusing intently on the creek.  I didn’t like that Anthony character.  I knew his type.  He wasn’t worth Lynne’s time.  She would just get upset when he left her for some other unwitting girl.

As I neared the creek, I saw a commander directing traffic.  There was a posse of photographers filing past him.  “This way, please!” he shouted.  “As far to the side as possible!”

“But that’s right next to those trees,” I argued.

“Can’t have you getting hit by stray bullets, now can we?” the commander said with a thick New York accent.  “This way, please, ma’am.”  I trudged off after the other photographers.

I found a spot at the edge of the creek and unfolded my tripod.  I opened my pack and propped my homemade camera up.  It was larger and heavier than most cameras of the time, but it had better resolution and a great zoom lens.  After it was secure on the tripod, I got out a roll of magnesium flash and my sparker, and tore a little off for a test burn.  Pure magnesium gave off a bright white light, but it oxidized easily.  Better to test some now than to get flames in my shot.  I clicked the sparker over the little strip, and it ignited, burning bright enough to leave a dark spot in my vision.  “Hey!” another photographer shouted.  “Watch where you’re pointing that!”  I stuck my tongue out at him.

Somewhere across the creek, a trumpeter started a fanfare.  I heard voices, and then loud shouting.  I stepped behind my camera and looked through the lens.  In a few moments, our soldiers would appear from behind the trees in one of their famous phalanx formations.  They would look sharp in their crisp new uniforms, while the Southerners would be sloppy and unorganized, like the rednecks they were.  We’d put them in their place.  Who did they think they were, creating their own country like that?  Silly, just silly.

But it was the Southerners who appeared first.  They were dressed in gray uniforms, and they waved big red flags with blue X’s through the middle.  A soldier banged out a pattern on a drum, and the Southerners marched forward and stood in a line.  I snapped a picture.

Then our soldiers marched out from behind the trees.  Their pressed navy blue uniforms crinkled as they walked, their steps perfectly synchronous.  The trumpeter repeated his fanfare, and three commanders at the front of the phalanx raised their swords.  Someone hoisted our flag into the air, and there was a collective shout.  One of the commanders barked an order, and the soldiers started jogging, still in a phalanx.  They held their rifles in front of them as they ran, their fancy belt buckles clinking in unison.  I twisted the zoom dial.  This was it—this was the start of the War of 1861.

Chapter 2

I gripped the shutter handle of my camera.

Then there was a loud bang, and a fireball erupted in the middle of the navy phalanx.  I felt the shockwave through my feet, and I grabbed my tripod to keep the camera from shaking.  That was a cannonball!  Where were the Confederates hiding a cannon?!  There was another cannon blast, closer to the river this time, and two photographers fell over.  I hugged my camera tightly to steady it.

Once the ground stopped shaking, I snapped a few pictures, but the Southerners fired another cannonball, and another, until the air was filled with smoke so thick I could barely see the photographer next to me.  I snapped the shutter closed, trying to protect the lens, and looked out at the battlefield.  What was happening?  Where were our soldiers?

Finally, the cannon barrage stopped.  The smoke cleared, and I opened the camera shutter again.  The entire Union phalanx had pancaked on the turf, hands over their heads for protection.  I saw a commander look up and make a small hand motion, but no one else moved.  For a long moment, there was silence.  Then I heard a low rumble, coming from behind the trees.

“What’s going on?” I asked the photographer next to me.

“I don’t know!” he replied, looking quite bewildered.

I shook my head.  “Forget this,” I muttered.  I grabbed my tripod, wrapped the camera strap around my wrist, and hoisted my camera up, resting its weight on my shoulder.  Being careful not to jostle the camera too much,  I ran out from behind the trees and stopped in front of a small bridge.  I jammed the tripod into the ground, swiveled the camera back toward our soldiers, and looked through the lens for the source of the rumbling.

Suddenly, fifty horses appeared from behind the trees, galloping at full speed toward the Confederate line.  They flew past the flattened phalanx, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.  I could feel the ground shake as they passed, and so could the Union soldiers; many looked up at the giant warhorses.  The riders were all officers—they held swords out in front of them, and the sleeves of their uniforms were adorned with white stripes.

But the Southerners were leading a charge of their own.  The two lines of cavalry met almost directly in front of me, and chaos erupted across the battlefield.  The horses collided like two ocean waves running into each other, the riders jabbing their swords at each other while trying to maintain control of their horses.  Meanwhile, foot soldiers from both sides fired into the fray, hoping to hit the enemy.  I had never seen such carnage.  Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach, almost too sick to work the shutter.

I scanned the crowd of navy uniforms, looking for a single soldier to focus on in an effort to block out the rest of the scene.  I panned my camera to one of the commanders, the one who had lost his hat.  He must have noticed me, because he stopped and looked in my direction for a moment.  He waved at me, telling me to get out of the way.  Then a bullet glanced across his shoulder, and he fell to the ground.  He surveyed the battlefield frantically, looking for some sort of shelter.  Then another officer appeared next to him and pulled him up.  I took a picture.

The commander said something to his friend and pointed at me.  I zoomed in on them, wondering what they were saying.  I was pretty good at lip-reading, but the hatless commander had turned away from me.

Then a cannonball landed in the river and exploded.  I fell over, unable to keep my balance.  There was another explosion, and my camera toppled, seemingly in slow motion.  I screamed and dived under it, catching it just before it hit the ground.  It was heavy, at least thirty pounds, and it knocked my breath away.  I sat up slowly, keeping a tight grip on the camera.  As I scrambled to my feet, I noticed that my bag had fallen, its contents scattering all over the ground.  I groaned and bent down to pick them up.

A steady rumbling made me look up again.  The Southerners had started another cannon barrage, and the Union phalanx had scattered, soldiers and horses running every which way.  Even the commanders had given up, running alongside their troops.  As the first few packs of soldiers came slopping through the creek, I realized how dire the situation was.  We were running away—losing.  We were actually losing!

I slung my half-packed bag over my shoulder and shuffled sideways, dragging my tripod behind me.  I had to get out of their way.  Besides, the cannonballs were landing across the river now, and I doubted that my film would survive an explosion.

One of the tripod’s legs got tangled between my feet, and I tripped, dragging my camera down with me.  I crawled out from underneath it, pulled the camera off, and stuffed it in my bag.  No use taking pictures now.  I pulled my bag up over my shoulder, staggering sideways under the added weight, and stumbled off toward the little bridge that spanned the river.

Then I looked up and saw a group of soldiers running toward me.  I tried to get out of their way, but my tripod was cumbersome, and it kept getting caught in the scrub behind me.  The soldiers tried to swerve around me, but two tripped over the tripod.  Its metal legs swung around and hit my knees, knocking me over.  When I scrambled up again, my tripod was embedded in the ground, and a line of horses was charging across the river.

I grabbed my tripod and pulled, but it was stuck.  I shook it a little and pulled again, but it didn’t budge.

The horses were a lot closer now, so close that I could feel the ground shaking.  I planted my feet and yanked repeatedly on the tripod, but still it didn’t move.  I was tempted to just leave it, but the horses were running in a line—with no room to swerve, they’d surely trip over it.

Then I heard someone behind me.  “Plant your feet and lean back,” he said.  “Now pull on my count.  One, two, three!”

I shifted back onto my heels and yanked as hard as I could.  The tripod popped out of the ground—and not a moment too soon.  The person behind me turned me sideways, and the horses thundered past, missing me by just a few inches.

When the roar of the horses’ hooves died down, I turned around and looked at the person who had helped me pull the tripod out of the ground.  It was the hatless commander, the one I had taken a picture of.  “Come on,” he said, taking my tripod.  “This way.  Under the bridge.”  I followed him to the arched stone bridge, and we slipped underneath.

“Why are we hiding under a bridge?” I asked.

“Would you rather be out in the open?” the commander asked rhetorically.  “The bridge protects us from bullets and cannonballs.  Ideally we’d be on the far side, so they wouldn’t see us if they decide to chase us, but the river is too deep to cross here.”  He leaned over and looked out at the field.  “Idiots,” he muttered.  “Run away from the people, not toward them.”

“They are running away,” I said, a little confused.

“Not the Confederates,” the commander explained.  “The civilians.  They ran toward the picnic grounds.  They’re drawing cannon fire toward the civilians.”  He shook his head.  “Simmons is an idiot.”  I tilted my head to the side, still confused.

“General Simmons,” the commander explained.  “He…he’s not that bright…”

I laughed.  “A couple sandwiches short of a picnic?”

“Yes, exactly,” the commander chuckled.  Then he stopped abruptly and looked at me.  “Forgive me,” he said.  “I never introduced myself.  I’m Robert Dawson.”

“Victoria Shaw,” I replied, shaking his hand.  I pointed at his uniform sleeve.  “You have a lot of stripes there, huh?”

“Yes, five,” he answered.  “I’m a colonel.”

“Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Colonel,” I said.  “Do you mind if I take a picture?”

“If you must,” Colonel Dawson sighed.  “No flash, though.  Can’t let anyone see us.”

“Great,” I said.  I unpacked my camera and set it up on the tripod.  “Act natural.”  Colonel Dawson smiled, shook his head, and peered around the corner of the bridge again.  I grabbed a stray piece of magnesium flash from my shirt pocket and held my sparker over it.

“No flash,” Colonel Dawson reminded me.  “The idea is to stay hidden.”

“Oh,” I said, my face flushing with embarrassment.  “Right.”  I put the mag flash back in my pocket.  I swiveled the camera around, snapped a picture of Colonel Dawson, and stuffed the camera back in the camera bag.

“So…” I began, fidgeting a little.  “How long are we going to wait here?”

“Depends on how fast Simmons can get things under control,” Colonel Dawson answered.  “Could be anything from twenty minutes to six hours.”

“Six hours?!” I repeated incredulously.

“I hope you have some food in that camera bag,” Colonel Dawson remarked.

“Lynne took all the sandwiches,” I muttered miserably.  I sat down next to my camera bag and stared at the other side of the river.  This was going to be a long afternoon.