My heart beats with curiosity and fear. In a scramble, I find the box of matches on the mantel, and I relight the lamp.

“All right, William,” I whisper. “I know that that you’re here and that you’ve summoned me. Now. What do you want me to see?”

The light is dim illumination. I unknot my dark shawl and drape it over the back of the armchair. Then I arrange the table lamp to shine directly in front. I prop up the first image.

It is a drummer boy, not more than ten years old. An innocent.

In a different dress he could be one of Geist’s cherubs. I set the plate down and set another against the dark fabric. Here is a colonel or possibly a general, all bristling epaulets and waxed mustache.

Something has changed. The room has gone so cold my teeth chatter. My urge to leave this room is so violent it almost overwhelms me. I’m not sure I can reckon with the truth I might uncover here. But the motions of my body do not listen, and stay mechanical, working smoothly, capably. I exchange the general’s image for another. Fallen soldiers, sprawled in the long grass. It twists my heart. The Wilderness, perhaps? It could be any of the countless, unnamed battles.

In the end, what does the name or the place of death even matter?

The next image shows a line of young men. Six in all, but I recognize two. At one end, sitting on the ground, Nate Dearborn. Standing over him is a short, square man with a slack and bearded jaw and a bristle of dark hair, holding the defiant stance of the leader. Is this Curtis? Must be.

And there, second from the opposite end, is Quinn. His shoulders defiant, a tourniquet wrapped around his eye. I don’t need the identifying caption at the bottom of the plate to know that I’m looking into the eyes of the Raiders. All dead now, all but one. And William Pritchett is not among them.

On closer inspection, I see the date scratched in the bottom. July 10, 1864.


28.