The Tinsmith by Tim Bowling

bumped across the battleground to the still-contested area where the Federal and Confederate surgeons gathered and exchanged wounded. The sun dazzled off the broken muskets and sabre tips, then sank inexorably into the bared flesh of the dead.
    He climbed stiffly out of his wagon and approached a Rebel surgeon who was busy directing stretcher-men. Clearing his throat loudly, he said, “Pardon me, sir. Horace Greaver, embalming surgeon, at your service.”
    The willow-thin man looked up, his eyes dark as bruises on a transparent apple. He glared a few seconds, then turned back to a soldier trembling on the ground.
    â€œI realize, sir,” Greaver went on, offended by being disregarded but not wanting to let the offence interfere with business, “that you are engaged in your most important and honourable duties. If you could just direct me to your embalming surgeon?”
    To Greaver’s amazement, the Rebel snapped up like a branch released. His nostrils flared whitely.
    â€œWe do not have such . . . such individuals in the Army of Northern Virginia.” He melted back toward the earth.
    Gardner removed a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow. As always, a cluster of flies hovered around his hands. He did not know how to proceed. The Rebel’s unexpected scorn, as much as his information, had left him both impressed and winded. But when he concentrated on the lost profit—a colonel, fully preserved!—he felt dizzy. He tried to explain.
    â€œI am sure, doctor, that the families of the South are anxious to have the bodies of their loved ones returned to them. In my wagon, I have the beautifully preserved corpses of three of your officers, and I am willing, for a fair price, to put them into the hands of whoever is responsible for seeing that the soldiers of your army are returned to their homes.”
    It hardly seemed possible to Greaver, but the Rebel’s face flushed. His jaw worked rapidly but no words came out. Then he put two fingers into his mouth and whistled, short and sharp.
    In the near distance, a group of Rebel soldiers turned at the sound. Greaver quickly understood the surgeon’s intention. With haste, he returned to the wagon, climbed in, puffing heavily, and snapped the reins. He did not look back, but he could imagine the lead balls sinking into his flesh, almost feel the blood draining from his vessels.
    But no sounds followed him. After five minutes, reassured that there was no pursuit along the dusty turnpike, he slowed the horse to an amble and began to calculate his chances of getting payment directly from the Southern families. How would he manage it? No doubt they’d be willing to pay, Rebels not being so different than Northerners in their customs of death. But how could he collect? Or, for that matter, be sure to get the bodies shipped with a guarantee of delivery? If only he had access to the president, Greaver was sure that Mr. Lincoln would do everything in his power to see that the embalmed Rebels made it home safely. But not all embalming surgeons were treated equally; some, like Dr. Holmes, had influential contacts. Greaver, on the other hand, was left solely to his own devices. And he had to face the hard facts: the truce had turned into a debacle of lost profit. A colonel! And he’d spent two hours injecting him too. A lovely job, all to no avail.
    Now Greaver stood in the comfortless shade afforded by a thin tarp, injecting a couponed Union private through the armpit, and encouraged only by the fact he’d paid that mad soldier nothing for the colonel’s corpse. Still. Waste! This particular loss gnawed at him like a maggot in a festering wound. Of course, there was still considerable profit to be made from the Union officers alone—he would do well from this battle, very well indeed—but the loss rankled, as if he’d been the victim of a confidence man. But that soldier had been too mad to play tricks.