“I have not seen you at the ladies’ tea in some time. And it’s so unfortunate that you missed the concert at the parade ground. It was rousing, though of course quite loud.”
“Yes,” I said, “I was able to hear the drums and horns even as I worked.”
“Working on your photographs?” she asked. “We understand you have modified the pantry in your house where you do such things.”
I nodded but dared not speak, so instead sipped at my tea.
“We have seen you about the grounds often with your camera,” Mrs. Haywood continued. “It is the landscape that interests you, rather than portraits?
“Enough!” said the General. “I don’t have all afternoon to natter away. Do you see those over there?”
He pointed to a wooden box near the door of the parlor.
“Plates. From the expedition. They came down the river with the papers. They need to be handled.”
I did not understand. Were these photographs from Allen’s journey? And did he ask me to develop them?
“Yes! Yes!” the General shouted.
Of course I would do anything to assist, but I suggested that Mr Redington in Portland would be better suited to develop such important photographs.
“We’ve been in contact. He recommended you. Frankly, I’d prefer he do it. But he can’t get to them for some time, and he says you’re more than capable. I’ll have them sent up to your house.”
General Haywood stood then, eager to be free of the parlor, but I could not let him go without asking if he had heard anything from my husband or his men.
“Not a word since Haigh Canyon.”
As for the glass plates, it seems no one has opened the box since its delivery, as it was marked “Photographs” and the General prudently wanted them handled only in a dark room. I am anxious to discover their contents.
June 19
Such a disappointment! More than two dozen photographs from the expedition are lost. Not only are the plates cracked and broken, but it looks as if someone stripped them out of their protective slides and exposed them. At first I thought all were destroyed, but I have discovered just nine that were spared.
I sent word to the General, and he replied that he feared as much, as there were rumors that the Wolverine Indians had tampered with the shipment before it was delivered to Alaska’s coast.
As I waited for his reply, I found myself hoping that the General would say that he had reconsidered, and request that I send the plates on to Mr Redington after all. I have yet to put any of them into solution.
Some part of my hesitation is irrational. If the men were injured or in danger at the time these were taken, surely such reports would have been sent along with the plates. Yet against my will, photographs from our Civil War come to my mind. What if, alone in my dark room, I am confronted with some scene of Allen or his men in distress? The thought nearly incapacitates me with dread.
A more rational concern, however, is that I may very well ruin these precious plates. I grow more confident with my skills, yet I cannot rule out the possibility that I will wrongly measure my chemicals, or misjudge how long to leave a plate in solution, and it is not as if these photographs can ever be retaken. I hope Mr Redington has not been too generous and reckless in his recommendation.
I know the General is anxious to have this done, but perhaps I will wait until tomorrow, with hopes that I will be calmer of nerves.
June 20
I regained my courage after all. Five plates developed to varying degrees of success late last night, and today I made prints in the sunshine. Mr Pruitt had neatly annotated each with a slate pencil, so I am able to identify them as such.
The first was marked “Wolverine River, April 1885,” and showed a wide river made of slabs of ice so closely piled up on one another so as to reveal only small patches of dark water. Though the weather is foggy and overcast, one can see in the far distance a stand of evergreen trees along a steep hillside. The terrain makes me think that there must be tall mountains beyond that are obscured by the low clouds. It is an icy and forlorn scene, so that I can hardly imagine anyone living comfortably in such a landscape.
The next plate was irretrievably damaged by fogging, a problem I know all too well. I suspect Mr Pruitt was challenged to handle the plates without a dark room, probably working beneath the focusing cloth in daylight. I am sorry to not be able to see the image, for it was titled “Midnoosky dance” and sounded fascinating indeed.
There then was an image marked as “Kings Glacier,” a mountain of broken and towering ice. This was the scene Allen so wished me to see.