New York - The Novel

who hates it? Sherman himself. Can’t bear the sound of it.”
    “They play it wherever he appears.”
    “I know.” Theodore shook his head. “Think of the lyrics of that song, sir.” He sang them softly: “‘Hurrah, Hurrah, we bring the jubilee! Hurrah, Hurrah, the flag that makes you free!’” He looked at the journalist.“It has a joyous ring, don’t it? That’s what makes it so contemptible, to those of us that were there.”
    “Well, the slaves were glad enough to see you, surely?”
    “Yes—‘How the darkies shouted when they heard the joyful sound,’ as the words of the song go. The slaves greeted Sherman as a liberator, it’s true. And though when he set out, he hadn’t been that interested in them, he came to believe in their cause and did much for them. But consider the lines that follow—‘How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found; How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground.’”
    “Poetic license.”
    “Hogwash, sir. We took every provision we could use from that fine land, most certainly. We raped it. But anything that was left after that, we destroyed. It was deliberate, it was cruel, and the scale of it had to be seen to be believed. That was Sherman’s intent. He believed it was necessary. ‘The hard way,’ he called it. I don’t say he was wrong. But there was no joy in that land, I assure you. We destroyed every farm, burned every field and orchard, so that the people of the South should starve.” He paused. “Can you quote me the words of the song that describe it?”
    “‘So we made a thoroughfare for freedom and her train; Sixty miles of latitude, three hundred to the main.’”
    “That’s right. A great swathe of total desolation, a blackened wasteland. Utter ruination. Sixty miles wide, sir, and three hundred miles long. That’s what we did to the South. I do not believe anything more terrible was ever done in the history of war.” He paused. “And some damn contemptible fool has made it into a popular song.” He pointed to the landscape. “That’s what it looked like.”
    The landscape in the photograph was wide indeed. You could see for miles. And it stretched to a distant horizon. In the foreground were the charred remains of a farmstead. And everywhere else, as far as the eye could see, was an empty, blackened wasteland.
    There was one more room to visit. It was the smallest, and it contained pictures that were not united by any theme. The first to catch the journalist’s eye was Theodore’s picture of the black men walking up the railway tracks beside the gleaming river.
    “I like that,” he said.
    “Ah.” Theodore was genuinely pleased. “It’s an early one, but I’m still quite proud of it.”
    There were some small studies of family and friends, including a fine one of his cousin Hans, the piano-maker, sitting at the keyboard, the fine lines of his face caught by the soft light coming from an unseen window.
    On one wall were three views of Niagara Falls, commissioned by Frank Master. They were wonderfully striking, the long exposure adding a complexity to the billowing sprays rising from the base, and a dazzling clear sky making the whole scene almost unearthly, like a painting.
    “Hmm,” said Horace Slim. “You’ll do well with those.”
    Theodore grinned. “Pays the rent, Mr. Slim. They are technically excellent, by the way.”
    There were a few scenes of New York, including one of the reservoir on Fifth Avenue. Hetty Master had commissioned it.
    And that pretty much seemed to wrap the exhibition up. Except for one small, rather dark picture in a corner. Horace Slim walked over and took a quick look at it. The photograph had a title:
Moonlight Sonata
.
    It took a few seconds to decipher what was in there. The scene had required a very long exposure, because it was taken by the light of a full moon. You could make out a trench line, and a sentry standing near a field gun, whose long barrel shone softly in the moonlight. There were tents and a little stricken tree.
    “Civil War?”
    “Yes. But it didn’t seem to go in the other room, somehow. It’s more a personal photograph, I guess. I may take it down.”
    The journalist with the sad eyes nodded, folded up his notebook and put it in his pocket.
    “Well, I guess I’m done, then.”
    “Thank you. You’ll give me a notice?”
    “Yes. Don’t know how long—that’ll depend on the editor—but I have all I need.”
    They began to walk out