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meals, talking, and reading in each other’s presence. Mostly they just waited. Hughes thought the novelty of a photo session would help them pass the time, especially after Bennett had remarked a month back about never having had his picture taken. Leery performed most of his work in his studio, but Hughes had convinced him to visit Bennett’s home—it was the only way he could get the old man to consent to having his photograph taken. Yet Hughes also understood that the exercise was more than a diversion. Sitting for a portrait with Bennett made him feel like an heir.
    Hughes stood up and looked out the window. There were a few ships in the harbor. Perhaps one of these will end the waiting, he thought.
    “They’ll demand surrender soon,” said Bennett.
    Hughes moved his gaze toward the little fort just barely visible in the distance. “Yes. I suppose they will.”
    “If Sumter falls, war will come.”
    “I agree.”
    “But it won’t change our goal.”
    Hughes took his eyes off the fort and looked at Bennett, still seated in the chair. He knew the old man was determined in just about everything he did, but he had not known him to be as determined as he was now. On the day Bennett told him about the plan, he had also said he expected it to be the final important act of his life.
    Suddenly Leery called out from his portable darkroom. “We’re done,” he announced. The photographer stepped out, squinted briefly, and studied the picture. He held up a glass plate and looked at Bennett. “This is called the negative,” said Leery. “It’s a reversed image. Black is white and white is black.”
    “That’s what we’re trying to stop,” muttered Bennett.
    Hughes smiled at the crack as he went to see the picture. It was well focused. The lines were sharp. It was an excellent photograph from a technical perspective. The only problem was Bennett. He was scowling. In negative, he looked like a fiend from the pits of hell.
    “Langston,” said Hughes with a sigh, “let’s try it once more.”
    “We have done this twice already,” complained Bennett, still sitting in his chair across the room. “I am really quite fatigued.”
    “Looking pleasant really takes no effort, Langston. This will be the last one. I promise.”
    Bennett sneered. “No more after this.”
    “Prepare the next picture, Mr. Leery,” said Hughes triumphantly. “This time, I would like to observe.”
    “Certainly, Mr. Hughes.”
    They squeezed into the portable darkroom, a small space when only one person occupied it. For a moment they just stood there. Then Leery’s arm reached out of the curtains.
    “Marcus!” The boy put a clean glass plate in his hand. Leery pulled it into the darkroom. He seized a vial and uncorked it.
    “This is the collodion syrup.” He tipped the vial and poured its contents onto the glass, then twirled the plate in his hand until a thin coating covered the whole surface. “Now we let this dry,” Leery said, setting the plate down on a small shelf. “It will take a few minutes.”
    When the two men emerged from the darkroom, Bennett was still sitting in his chair. Leery gestured to his assistant. “Drop the plate into the silver nitrate when it’s ready.” Marcus disappeared behind the curtains.
    “This can be a dirty line of work,” said Leery, pointing to the smears and streaks on his apron. “I let Marcus handle some of the grubbier chores. He’s a smart boy. If he were a little older, he could probably run this whole business for me.”
    “And if he weren’t a slave boy,” sniped Bennett.
    “Actually, he’s not a slave boy,” said Leery. “He’s free and lives on Nassau Street, in the free black neighborhood. I employ him.”
    “Really,” said Bennett. His disapproval was obvious.
    Leery either did not catch the reproach or he ignored it.
    “After Marcus pulls the glass from the silver nitrate, we’ll have to take our picture while the plate is wet,” he said. “The air is moist