“That’s the one we should inspect next, then,” Percy said.
We were on our way there when the first bullet struck.
My mother had always been an embarrassment to me, with her faded enthusiasms, her Bible verses and Congregationalist poetry, her missionary zeal on behalf of people whose lives were so tangential to mine that I could barely imagine them.
She didn’t like it when I volunteered for Cuba in 1880. It wasn’t a proper war, she said. She said it was yet another concession to the South, to the aristocracy’s greed for expansion toward the equator. “A war engineered at the Virginia Military Institute,” she called it, “fought for no good reason.”
But it blended Northerners and Southerners on a neutral field of battle, where we were all just American soldiers. It was the glue that repaired many ancient sectional rifts. Out of it emerged great leaders, like old Robert E. Lee, who transcended regional loyalties (though when he spoke of “America,” I often suspected he used the word as a synonym for “Virginia”), and his son, also a talented commander. In Cuba we all wore a common uniform, and we all learned, rich and poor, North and South, to duck the Spaniards’ bullets.
The bullet hit a shed wall just above Percy Camber’s skull. Splinters flew through the air like a cloud of mosquitoes. The sound of the gunshot arrived a split second later, damped by the humid afternoon to a harmless-sounding pop. The rifleman was some distance away. But he was accurate.
I dropped to the ground—or, rather, discovered that I had already dropped to the ground, obeying an instinct swifter than reason.
Percy, who had never been to war, lacked that ingrained impulse. I’m not sure he understood what had happened. He stood there in the rising heat, bewildered.
“Get down,” I said.
“What is it, Tom?”
“Your doom, if you don’t get down. Get down!”
He understood then. But it was as if the excitement had loosened all the strings of his body. He couldn’t decide which way to fold. He was the picture of confusion.
Then a second bullet struck him in the shoulder.
“Liberty Lodges,” they had been called at first.
I mean the places like Pilgassi Acres, back when they were allowed to flourish.
They were a response to a difficult time. Slavery had died, but the slaves had not. That was the dilemma of the South. Black men without skills, along with their families and countless unaccompanied children, crowded the roads—more of them every day, as “free-labor cotton” became a rallying cry for progressive French and English buyers.
Who were Marcus and Benjamin Pilgassi? Probably nothing more than a pair of Richmond investors jumping on a bandwagon. The Liberty Lodges bore no onus then. The appeal of the business was explicit: Don’t put your slaves on the road and risk prosecution or fines for “abandonment of property.” We will take your aging and unprofitable chattel and house them. The men will be kept separate from the women to prevent any reckless reproduction. They will live out their lives with their basic needs attended to for an annual fee only a fraction of what it would cost to keep them privately.
What the Pilgassi brothers (and businessmen like them) did not say directly—but implied in every line of their advertisements—was that the Liberty Lodge movement aimed to achieve an absolute and irreversible decline in the Negro population in the South.
In time, Percy had told me, the clients of these businesses came to include entire state governments, which had tired of the expense and notoriety incurred by the existence of temporary camps in which tens of thousands of “intramural refugees” could neither be fed economically nor be allowed to starve. It had been less onerous for them to subsidize the Lodges, which tended to be built in isolated places, away from casual observation.
Percy’s grandfather had escaped slavery in the 1830s and settled in Boston, where he picked up enough education to make himself prominent in the Abolition movement. Percy’s father, an ordained minister, had spoken at Lyman Beecher’s famous church, in the days before he founded the journal that became the Tocsin.
Percy had taken up the moral burden of his forebears in a way I had not, but there was still a similarity between us. We were the children of crusaders. We had inherited their disappointments and drunk the lees of their bitterness.
I was not a medical man, but I had witnessed bullet wounds in Cuba. Percy had been shot in the shoulder. He lay on the ground with his eyes open, blinking, his left hand pressed against the wound. I pried his hand away so that I could examine his injury.
The wound was bleeding badly, but the blood did not spurt out, a good sign. I took a handkerchief from my pocket, folded it and pressed it against the hole.
“Am I dying?” Percy asked. “I don’t feel like I’m dying.”
“You’re not all that badly hurt or you wouldn’t be talking. You need attention, though.”
A third shot rang out. I couldn’t tell where the bullet went.
“And we need to get under cover,” I added.
The nearest building was the boarded-up barracks. I told Percy to hold the handkerchief in place. His right arm didn’t seem to work correctly, perhaps because the bullet had damaged some bundle of muscles or nerves. But I got him crouching, and we hurried toward shelter.
We came into the shadow of the building and stumbled to the side of it away from the direction from which the shots had come. Grasshoppers buzzed out of the weeds in fierce brown flurries, some of them lighting on our clothes. There was the sound of dry thunder down the valley. This barracks had a door—a wooden door on a rail, large enough to admit dozens of people at once. But it was closed, and there was a brass latch and a padlock on it.
So we had no real shelter—just some shade and a moment’s peace.
I used the time to put a fresh handkerchief on Percy’s wound and to bind it with a strip of cloth torn from my own shirt.
“Thank you,” Percy said breathlessly.
“Welcome. The problem now is how to get back to the carriage.” We had no weapons, and we could hardly withstand a siege, no matter where we hid. Our only hope was escape, and I could not see any likely way of achieving it.
Then the question became moot, for the man who had tried to kill us came around the corner of the barracks.
“Why do you want to make these pictures?” Elsie asked yet again, from a dim cavern at the back of my mind.
In an adjoining chamber of my skull a different voice reminded me that I wanted a drink, a strong one, immediately.
The ancient Greeks (I imagined myself telling Elsebeth) believed that vision is a force that flies out from the eyes when directed by the human will. They were wrong. There is no force or will in vision. There is only light. Light direct or light reflected. Light, which behaves in predictable ways. Put a prism in front of it, and it breaks into colors. Open a shuttered lens, and some fraction of it can be trapped in nitrocellulose or collodion as neatly as a bug in a killing jar.
A man with a camera is like a naturalist, I told Elsebeth. Where one man might catch butterflies, another catches wasps.
I did not make these pictures.
I only caught them.
The man with the rifle stood five or six yards away at the corner of the barracks. He was a black man in threadbare coveralls. He was sweating in the heat. For a while there was silence, the three of us blinking at each other.
Then, “I didn’t mean to shoot him,” the black man said.
“Then you shouldn’t have aimed a rifle at him and pulled the trigger,” I said back, recklessly.
Our assailant made no immediate response. He seemed to be thinking this over. Grasshoppers lit on the cuffs of his ragged pants. His head was large, his hair cut crudely close to the skull. His eyes were narrow and suspicious. He was barefoot.