“This may interest you,” Theodore remarked, leading the journalist across to another picture, which consisted of two posters. “I picked ’em up, in different locations, then put them side by side on a wall.” Each advertised the rates being offered for joining the Union army. “You’ll recall the reluctance of our own state to accept any black men into the army at all. But, of course, the black regiments came to be some of the best in the Union by the end of the war.”

The posters were quite straightforward. A white private was offered $13 a month, and a $3.50 clothing allowance. The black private was offered $10 and $3 for clothing.

“And what point are you making?” the journalist asked. “Are you aiming to shock?”

“No,” said Theodore, “it’s just a little irony. A reminder, if you like. I dare say plenty of white soldier boys reckoned that difference was fair—after all, the white man’s family would need more, because they lived better.”

“Not everybody’s going to like you,” said Slim.

“I know. That’s why my good friends told me not to show this part of the work. But I told ’em—in a friendly way of course—to go to hell. The record is the record, Mr. Slim. It is for you, as a journalist. And it is for me. If we don’t tell the truth as we see it, we have nothing.” He smiled. “Let me show you a landscape.”

It was the only landscape in the Civil War section—actually three landscapes pasted together to make a wide panorama. And under it, the title: Marching Through Georgia.

“In the fall of ’64, I’d gone back to New York. Grant was stuck in Virginia at that time, and the war so unpopular again that most people reckoned Lincoln would lose the election that year, and the Democrats would make peace with the South so the Confederates could have pretty much declared a victory. But then Sherman took Atlanta, and everything changed. The Union cause was up again, Lincoln would be re-elected, and Sherman would make his great march from Atlanta to the sea. A fine photographer I knew, named George Barnard, went down to join General Sherman there, and I went with him. That’s how this picture came to be taken.”

“Marching Through Georgia,” Horace Slim remarked. “Fine song.”

“Yes. You know 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?”