Black River Read Online Free

South. And that’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
    Louden reached for the file folder, opened it, and handed O’Brien a picture of a woman wearing a formal dress. She had long brown hair, high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, and she was smiling, something O’Brien rarely saw in photographs from the Civil War era. The woman was photographed standing near a river. Louden nodded. “I think the lady in the picture was my great, great, grandmother. This is a copy made from the original photograph donated to the museum. The story of the finding was in USA Today, too.”
    O’Brien looked closely at the woman’s face. “Where was the picture taken?”
    “I never knew. Looks to be here in Florida, the palms and river in the background.”
    “Why is it so important for you to prove that the woman in the framed photo is related to you?”
    “I mentioned that I was raised in the South, in and around Charleston. Families and their reputations go way back. Honor, commitment, bravery…they are all traits we believe in and don’t take lightly. It’s a handed-down heritage.” Louden, his face filled with concealed thoughts, stared at an open space over O’Brien’s shoulder. He exhaled a deep sigh and met O’Brien’s eyes. “My great, great grandfather was said to have been someone General Robert E. Lee had taken under his wing. My father once told me that he’d heard General Lee so trusted my great, great grandfather that the general assigned him a very important mission. We don’t know whether he succeeded or failed.”
    “Why’s that?”
    “Because no one ever saw him again. He became absent-without-leave. And, if he was killed in action, his body was never identified. The whispers in the South, in Charleston in particular, grew louder, especially the first fifty years after the war ended. For generations of southerners, they believed he was a coward. A man who ran away, someone who hid, retreated rather than face his sworn duties and the enemy. They believe he was one of the biggest cowards to have ever put on a gray uniform. Some of the elders said he ran from the Confederate Army the night before a battle and hid, finally making his way out West, leaving his young wife and children behind. He was never seen again.”
    O’Brien nodded. “So, if this copy of a photo currently housed in the Confederate Museum is your great, great grandmother, it will prove that one of the men found dead on the battlefield was carrying it. And the man carrying it was her husband—a soldier who did not run away but was, instead, a brave man because he fought until his death. Most likely, since the photograph was found next to his body, the last thing he saw was the image of his wife, which he probably pulled from his rucksack as he lay dying.”
    The old man’s eyes widened, color blossoming in his pallid cheeks. “Yes sir. It would indeed prove that.”
    “Why come to me?”
    “Because I hear you find things, you find people. If you can find that painting, I remember there was writing on the back, written by my grandfather. Although I was only thirteen, it struck me so profoundly, I memorized what he wrote, and hoped one day I’d find a wife like he had.” The old man closed his eyes briefly searching the archives of his memory, and then he said in a whisper, “He wrote, ‘My Dearest Angelina, I had this painting commissioned from the photograph that I so treasure of you. We shall display the painting prominently in our home for all to see…as your beautiful face is always displayed privately in my heart.’” He turned to O’Brien. “Will you help me? If the painting survived, it will match this photo, more importantly, will correct history and right a terrible wrong, a bad reputation that my great, great grandfather did not deserve, and a stigma his family had to endure.”
    O’Brien studied the image closer. The woman in the photograph stood near a river, smiling. Visible in the sepia tone image was a single flower she