Read Online The Tinsmith by Tim Bowling - Free Book Online Page B

even better studies there—but how long before the routine procedures of the army destroyed them? In his excitement, he took little interest in the activity around him.
    Sometime before noon, however, Gardner witnessed a strange scene. A dozen yards to his left, a man in a fine suit and bowler, his hands in white gloves, was being threatened at knifepoint by a monkey-faced little fellow naked from the waist up. The two stood over the dead Rebel officer whose study had begun Gardner’s day. Cautiously, he moved closer.
    Monkey-face’s lips pulled back to reveal mostly gums. A lock of oily hair hung over one yellow eye. He held the knife in his fist. “You git yore dad blamed paws offa this one. It’s mine. Touch it again and you’ll be dead on the ground too.”
    The gentleman yawned as he reached into his breast pocket and removed a small pistol. His neat moustache quivered slightly. He held the gun straight in front of him, his arm fully extended.
    â€œI strongly suggest, my good man, that you find another officer.” He sniffed, and scowled. “There are certain to be plenty for all. But this one’s now the property of the Horace Greaver Embalming and Fine Casket Company.”
    Monkey-face brought the knifepoint so close to his face that it seemed he planned to put his own eye out. He squinted. “Greaver, you say? That the feller with the humpback? In the tent yonder?”
    The gentleman grinned, exposing his sharp incisors. “Humpback? I believe you’re referring to one of the metal canisters.”
    â€œHunh?”
    The gentleman sighed. “It’s not a hump. It’s one of the tanks for draining blood. Or for pumping the . . . ah . . . continual life into these distinguished fallen.”
    Monkey-face shrugged. “Wal, whatever it is, that feller said he’d pay good for officers brung into his tent. And I aim to git that money.”
    The gentleman, still grinning and holding the pistol out, said, “It seems we are working for the same fine establishment. And as I am not on commission . . .” He pocketed the pistol. “You may remove this hero from the field. But I warn you, there are competitors less patient than I. You would be wise to find a more . . . ah . . . persuasive weapon.” He made a graceful sweeping gesture with one arm. “I’m certain a man of your obvious discernment can find something amid the armoury here gathered.”
    Monkey-face spat. Then, putting the knife between his teeth, he bent and took up the dead officer by the armpits.
    The incident’s open, naked demonstration of money lust appalled Gardner, but not for long. When he reflected on his own considerable worldly ambitions on this battleground, he couldn’t exactly condemn others who also sought to improve their fortunes. After all, the fighting was over and the dead could hardly complain. With undiluted resolve, Gardner returned to the tripod, ducked under the cloth, and focused. Two dead Rebels, one’s head leaning on the other’s chest; he could perhaps come up with a title about dead brothers.
    Dead Rebels? Gardner suddenly remembered. When he stepped out from the cloth and saw that Gibson had not left the wagon with a fresh plate, he looked to the south where he had hidden his “treasure.” Human crows wandered everywhere, picking at corpses for one reason or another. Some negro gravediggers chanted low, in an unmelodic rhythm; above the sound, Gardner could hear each spade thrust in the earth. Where exactly was that line of dead Rebels?
    Then the photographer saw a soldier bent over the bodies. Though Gardner stood fifty yards away, the soldier seemed closer; he was wrapped in the bright sunshine, carved by it into prominence, like the image on a print. And he was dragging a body out of the line!
    Gardner took two quick steps forward as a shout formed and then died on