“Steady…steady…”
The men fixed their eyes on the same point across the room. Hughes appeared at ease, relaxing in his chair as if he could sit there all day.
“Steady…steady…”
Bennett, however, was clearly perturbed. For him, sitting motionless required total concentration. His face slowly twisted into a frown. His wide-open eyes blazed with intensity. He seemed ready to burst.
“Steady…steady…done!”
A man on the other side of the room gently placed a cap on a small tube projecting out of a wooden box. The contraption stood on three legs about five feet off the ground.
Bennett bolted up. He let out a loud hack and collapsed back into the chair, exhausted from the effort.
“We’re almost done, Langston. Only one more picture, I promise,” said Hughes.
“Let’s see how this one came out,” said the photographer, a wiry man with curly blond hair. His sleeves were rolled up, and silver stains covered an apron he wore over his shirt. He turned to his subjects and rubbed his hands together. “Would you like to see how the process works, Mr. Bennett?”
The old man grunted. “No thank you, Mr. Leery. I would not even begin to understand it.”
“Very well.”
The photographer removed a slide from the camera. It was housed in a protective case, out of the light. “Hold this, Marcus,” he said to his assistant, a light-skinned black boy who looked about twelve years old. Then Leery disappeared into a large box covered by a red curtain.
“Where did you find this man?” asked Bennett.
“He opened a shop on King Street last fall. He came down here from New York City.”
“I could tell that just by listening to him talk. I don’t trust people with a Yankee accent.”
“Many of the New Yorkers are on our side in this, Langston. You know that. They depend on us for trade. The whole merchant class there needs us. Besides, photography has nothing to do with the crisis. It’s just a diversion. You don’t need to be so grumpy about it.”
“I am restless. Our days are filled with waiting.”
Hughes could not disagree. He was coming to Bennett’s house every afternoon now. They spent long hours together, sharing meals, talking, and reading in each other’s presence. Mostly they just waited. Hughes thought the novelty of a photo session would help them pass the time, especially after Bennett had remarked a month back about never having had his picture taken. Leery performed most of his work in his studio, but Hughes had convinced him to visit Bennett’s home-it was the only way he could get the old man to consent to having his photograph taken. Yet Hughes also understood that the exercise was more than a diversion. Sitting for a portrait with Bennett made him feel like an heir.
Hughes stood up and looked out the window. There were a few ships in the harbor. Perhaps one of these will end the waiting, he thought.
“They’ll demand surrender soon,” said Bennett.
Hughes moved his gaze toward the little fort just barely visible in the distance. “Yes. I suppose they will.”
“If Sumter falls, war will come.”
“I agree.”
“But it won’t change our goal.”
Hughes took his eyes off the fort and looked at Bennett, still seated in the chair. He knew the old man was determined in just about everything he did, but he had not known him to be as determined as he was now. On the day Bennett told him about the plan, he had also said he expected it to be the final important act of his life.
Suddenly Leery called out from his portable darkroom. “We’re done,” he announced. The photographer stepped out, squinted briefly, and studied the picture. He held up a glass plate and looked at Bennett. “This is called the negative,” said Leery. “It’s a reversed image. Black is white and white is black.”
“That’s what we’re trying to stop,” muttered Bennett.
Hughes smiled at the crack as he went to see the picture. It was well focused. The lines were sharp. It was an excellent photograph from a technical perspective. The only problem was Bennett. He was scowling. In negative, he looked like a fiend from the pits of hell.
“Langston,” said Hughes with a sigh, “let’s try it once more.”
“We have done this twice already,” complained Bennett, still sitting in his chair across the room. “I am really quite fatigued.”
“Looking pleasant really takes no effort, Langston. This will be the last one. I promise.”
Bennett sneered. “No more after this.”
“Prepare the next picture, Mr. Leery,” said Hughes triumphantly. “This time, I would like to observe.”
“Certainly, Mr. Hughes.”
They squeezed into the portable darkroom, a small space when only one person occupied it. For a moment they just stood there. Then Leery’s arm reached out of the curtains.
“Marcus!” The boy put a clean glass plate in his hand. Leery pulled it into the darkroom. He seized a vial and uncorked it.
“This is the collodion syrup.” He tipped the vial and poured its contents onto the glass, then twirled the plate in his hand until a thin coating covered the whole surface. “Now we let this dry,” Leery said, setting the plate down on a small shelf. “It will take a few minutes.”
When the two men emerged from the darkroom, Bennett was still sitting in his chair. Leery gestured to his assistant. “Drop the plate into the silver nitrate when it’s ready.” Marcus disappeared behind the curtains.
“This can be a dirty line of work,” said Leery, pointing to the smears and streaks on his apron. “I let Marcus handle some of the grubbier chores. He’s a smart boy. If he were a little older, he could probably run this whole business for me.”
“And if he weren’t a slave boy,” sniped Bennett.
“Actually, he’s not a slave boy,” said Leery. “He’s free and lives on Nassau Street, in the free black neighborhood. I employ him.”
“Really,” said Bennett. His disapproval was obvious.
Leery either did not catch the reproach or he ignored it.
“After Marcus pulls the glass from the silver nitrate, we’ll have to take our picture while the plate is wet,” he said. “The air is moist today, so we probably have about ten minutes to get the job done-plenty of time. Now let me show you-”
The sound of a short knock interrupted him. The door to the room opened, and Lucius walked in. He stepped gingerly around the photographic equipment spread across the floor and approached Bennett.
“There is a visitor, sir,” announced Lucius. “He won’t give his name, but he says he’s from Cuba. He insists that you know him.”
Bennett looked at Hughes. “Perhaps our wait is over,” he said. Then he turned his attention to Lucius. “Give us a moment to arrange ourselves.”
The old slave exited the room. Bennett rose to his feet and looked at the photographic equipment. “Mr. Leery, you will have to excuse us. Mr. Hughes and I have a pressing appointment. You must leave immediately.”
“I understand.” The photographer turned to his assistant, but Marcus was already cleaning up. He spoke again to Bennett. “Shall I make prints of these photos for you right away? I can drop them off here, and you can review them later today at your convenience.”
“That would be fine, Mr. Leery. See that Lucius gets them.”
As Leery and Marcus scrambled to pack and go, Bennett put his arm around Hughes. “I will do the negotiating with our guest,” he said in a hushed voice. “You are here primarily as a witness.”
“I know. We’ve gone over this,” said Hughes.
The photographers did not need long. Marcus stuffed the darkroom full of pans and solutions, collapsed it, and carried it away. Leery took the camera. At the door, he paused for a moment. “Thank you very much for this opportunity, Mr. Bennett and Mr. Hughes. I am sure you will be pleased with the result.”
“Yes, Mr. Leery. Good-bye,” said Bennett.
Hughes frowned at Bennett’s curtness. “Thank you, Mr. Leery. Please do deliver those prints. I will be anxious to see them.”