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study—a Reb officer flat on his back with the brains spattered over his blackened face and his belly swollen like an observation balloon—he set Gibson to sensitizing the plates. Gardner knew it would be at least seven minutes before his assistant threw back the big tarp and scrambled out of the wagon, so he had just enough time to pick up a nearby rifle and stick it in the officer’s open hand. He couldn’t get the officer’s fingers closed around the stock—they were too stiff—but it was a useful touch nonetheless.
    The sun crept over the nearby tree line now, gushing light over the field, so Gardner fixed the camera and aimed it at the body. Then, with a long breath to calm himself, he stepped under the cloth and focused.
    And there the dead officer was, black-faced and swollen, his dirty grey uniform open at the breast, the rifle in his hand. Only, of course, he was upside down, and it seemed for a few seconds that the dead officer floated out of a torn cloud, a terrible vengeance in his cold rifle.
    Gardner ducked out from the cloth just as Gibson stepped backwards from the wagon with the plate fixed in its wooden holder. He shut the door and hurried over, his face tense.
    â€œCome on, man!” Gardner urged, knowing full well that even an extra second could dry the collodion and render the plate useless.
    â€œDo you want me tripping, Alex? I canna go any faster.” His voice was a strained rasp already, and Gardner thanked the Lord for it. Say what he would about the man’s cussed cantankerousness, James Gibson cared as much as Gardner did about getting the job done.
    Gardner took the plate holder from him. Then he moved the focusing frame out of the way and put in the holder—it took him a little longer than usual to attach it to the camera, his hands trembled so. But he drew another deep breath and slid the front panel out of the holder, exposing the plate to the inside of the camera. Now came the moment of truth! He removed the two lens caps and he almost swore that he could hear the light flooding through—it was like a torrent of water every time, though he knew well enough that he heard only the blood pounding in his temples.
    If the battlefield had been still earlier, it was frozen now as Gardner counted out the exposure. One, two, three . . . slow down, easy . . . four, five . . . go even, Alex, boy . . . eight, nine. Those fifteen seconds were the longest of his life. When the last number finally passed his lips, he replaced the lens caps and the holder’s front cover. Then he looked up.
    â€œJimmy! Are you set?”
    It was a foolish, unnecessary question, but Gardner put it with a smile. In fact, he couldn’t wipe the joy off as he strode to the wagon.
    â€œDon’t be so daft, man,” Gibson said. “Just give me the plate.”
    Gardner handed it over carefully. “We’ll have to sink them all in glycerin till tonight. There’s no ee time to heat them now.”
    â€œAye.” Gibson plunged back into the wagon, yanking the tarp behind him. Gardner could hear his assistant cussing a blue streak as he tied the tarp strings to his ankles, but he wasn’t worried. Gardner knew that safelight couldn’t be any safer even if he himself was the man working in it. Besides, he had to move the camera.
    So an hour passed, unchanged but for the increased activity in the field. Several burial parties—a few consisting of negroes—dragged Gardner’s potential studies away and placed them in shallow graves; individual soldiers out searching for comrades sometimes found them, picked them up, and moved away soberly to find whatever better resting places might be available. The photographer rushed from one body to another, all the while thinking that everything was happening too fast, that he couldn’t delay going to the front lines any longer—there were bound to be