“Here’s President Grant,” he pointed out. “And General Sherman. And Fernando Wood.” Slim duly noted them. There were some big city merchants, with imposing architectural details behind them, an opera diva, and Lily de Chantal, of course. Theodore paused by her.

He’d always had a pretty good idea why Frank Master had suggested he take the picture of Lily de Chantal, though he wasn’t such a damn fool as to ask why. It was a suspicion reinforced when, ten minutes ago, he’d heard Hetty Master drily remark: “She looks a lot older than that in real life.” The picture was excellent, with a theatrical backdrop.

“I took this after her recital last year. Did you go to it?”

“Can’t say I did.”

“It was a notable event—quite a society occasion. Maybe worth a mention.”

Slim had a look at the other portraits, and took down a couple more names. They’d been carefully chosen to attract more clients. Then they came to Boss Tweed and Thomas Nast, and the courthouse.

“Good timing,” said Mr. Slim, making a quick note.

“I suppose so,” said Theodore. “People have been looking at them.”

“It’ll make a good opening for an article,” said Slim.

“So long as it’s not the only thing you mention.”

“Any other sitters you’d like to tell me about?” the journalist asked quietly. “Anyone of interest?”

Theodore glanced at him. Were those sad eyes better informed than they let on? Did Horace Slim know about Madame Restell?

“All my sitters are interesting,” said Theodore carefully. But he’d better give the fellow a story. “I’ll tell you whose picture’s missing,” he offered. “Abraham Lincoln—at the Gettysburg address.”

At the end of that summer of the Draft Riots, when he’d decided to leave New York for a while and follow the war out in the field, there’d been only one sensible way to do it. And that was to work for Mathew Brady. Brady had the government concession. He’d send you out, even provide you with a special carriage, converted into a movable darkroom. And so, in November 1863, along with several other photographers, Theodore had found himself down in Pennsylvania, at Gettysburg, where a new cemetery had just been prepared to receive the fallen heroes of the great battle that had taken place nearby only months before.

There had been little doubt, by then, about the significance of the Battle of Gettysburg. Before July 1863, after all, both sides might have been getting sick of the war, but the Confederacy was still on the offensive. Down on the Mississippi, General Grant had so far failed to take the Confederates’ mighty fortification at Vicksburg. Bold General Lee and Stonewall Jackson had taken on a Union army twice their size on the Potomac River, and though Jackson had died, Lee and his Confederate army had swept through Maryland and into Pennsylvania, threatening both Baltimore and the capital.