Uncertain Glory (15 page)

“I went this morning to enlist. To serve my country, as a man should.” His mustache quivered with emotion. “Captain Smith turned me down flat. Said they weren't taking no men of color in the Union Army. Didn't matter who I was, or how long I'd known everyone else in line, or what I could do. Said I couldn't serve in the Army alongside white folks. Said that was the rule come down from Washington, set in 1820. Didn't matter that men of my color served in the Revolutionary War, and are serving now in the Navy.”

Mr. Bascomb headed toward the door, then turned around.

“I don't blame my boy for being upset, but I want him home—where we can talk about it together. If you see him, you tell him that. And you tell him I'm still proud to be an American, and he should be too. No matter what those people in Washington say.”

Chapter 28

Thursday, April 18, early morning

Charlie'd left the newspaper office at suppertime, but I'd stayed until the oil in my lamp had burned out and my eyes were too tired to set any more type. I'd slept a few hours at home, and was having bread and cold meat for breakfast before heading back, when someone pounded on our kitchen door.

Pa opened it.

“John—good morning! What brings you here so early? The sun's barely up.”

It was Mr. Bascomb.

“My Owen didn't come home last night,” said Mr. Bascomb. “I thought maybe he was at your place. Or that Joe might have an idea of where he'd be.”

I got up from the table. “I haven't seen Owen since yesterday morning, and he hasn't been here. But I'll help you look.” I started putting on my jacket.

“How long's he been missing for?” asked Pa, reaching for his own coat.

“Since a little past one o'clock yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Bascomb replied. “I've looked everywhere. My wife's been crying the night through, making herself sick. In her condition, I don't know whether to worry more about her or the boy.”

“Has he done anything like this before?” asked Pa.

“Never! He's a good boy. Works with your Joe and Charlie at the print shop instead of going to school some days, but that's no secret.”

“Maybe he's with a friend,” suggested Pa.

“He doesn't have any close friends that I know of, except for Joe and Charlie,” said Mr. Bascomb. “Of course, no father knows everything about their children. What do you think, Joe? Where could he be?”

“I don't think he'd be with any other boys.” I hesitated, wondering how much I should say about what I'd seen Monday. “He got into a fight the other day with some boys about his own age. He was real proud of you, Mr. Bascomb. He was bragging what a good soldier you were going to be. Some of the other boys were saying . . . nasty things.”

“So that's how he got that black eye and nosebleed. I thought his story about running into a tree sounded suspicious. And then for him to hear what happened yesterday,” Mr. Bascomb said, shaking his head in anger. “A boy shouldn't have to take on the battles of grown men.”

“Joe told me what happened when you went to enlist,” said Pa. “It's neither fair nor right, John. The army needs men like you. The decision out of Washington must have something to do with that slavery issue down south.”

“They're saying it's because Lincoln doesn't want to aggravate the slave-holding states that haven't left the Union. But don't fool yourself—they're afraid white men even here in the North won't want to serve alongside men of color, to sleep in the same tents and use the same latrines. And too many folk think men of my color won't make good soldiers. Don't forget: Nathaniel Gordon, a Maine man, is sitting
in a New York prison, accused of engaging in the slave trade in West Africa last summer. But today that's neither here nor there. Today I'd appreciate your help in finding my Owen and bringing him home.”

Pa nodded. “One thing's for sure: If he's been hiding since yesterday afternoon, he's raging hungry by now. I'd think he'd be coming home anytime.”

“That's what I kept thinking all night. That it was cold, and he'd be hungry. I figure he's either somewhere with a friend, or something's happened to him. Something bad,” said Mr. Bascomb.

“We're going to find him,” I said. “I'll get Charlie; he'll look, too.”

“I'd planned to check with the businesses down on Water Street next,” said Mr. Bascomb. “They've been closed all night. Now that they're opening, someone might find him if he was hiding there.”

“I'll go out to the steam mill and then check the shipyards on Fore Street,” said Pa. “Joe, after you get Charlie, why don't you boys head up Federal Street? Maybe one of the houses north of Main Street is vacant, or has a barn or shed Owen might hide in.”

Where could Owen be? Was he hurt and alone somewhere? No one mentioned the one fear we all shared: the river.

Where Ethan had disappeared.

Chapter 29

Thursday, April 18, mid-morning

“I told Father that Owen was missing. He said he'd check inside the inn, but I don't think Owen would be here. Besides, people would remember seeing a small boy,” Charlie pointed out. “Although I suppose he might have hidden in one of the outbuildings. We'll look there.”

The stable seemed a good place to start. Charlie checked the hayloft, while I looked in the stalls and in every guest's wagon or carriage.

“If Owen were looking for a place to hide, there are lots of places in here,” I said. “Under the seats, and in the compartments for trunks, and under the hay. And there are several empty stalls.” We called his name, but there was no answer. Old Mr. McKinley, who was in charge of the Mansion House stable, said he hadn't seen any boys.

We walked past Mr. Stacy's house and Mr. Turner's; no places there for a boy to hide.

The old burying ground had been filled long ago, and some of the worn granite headstones had toppled over. Wealthier families in town had moved their family members' bodies to the newer, more stylish, cemetery over on Spruce Point, where there was more space. Boys sometimes dared each other to climb the iron fence and explore the ancient graveyard. Owen wouldn't have gone in alone; Charlie and I were sure of that.

We continued down Federal Street, asking everyone we saw if they'd seen Owen. No one had. We walked all the way out of town until we came to the old granite jail.

“Mr. Cunningham is in there now, I guess,” I said, looking at the small windows covered with iron bars.

“That'll show anyone who talks against the Union,” said Charlie.

“Talking's one thing,” I pointed out. “Refusing to do your job for the country's another. He wasn't jailed for talking.”

“Guess not,” admitted Charlie. He looked down the road, where it became more pitted and muddy. “Owen wouldn't have gone any farther than here, would he?”

I shook my head. “It's just farms out there on the Alna Road. Owen doesn't know anyone who lives that far from town. Let's go back.”

We turned, neither of us saying anything for a long time.

Finally Charlie spoke. “Chances are he'll have turned up by the time we get back, don't you think? Wherever he was, probably he got hungry or thirsty and decided to go home.”

“I hope so,” I said. “He was so proud his father was going to be a soldier. And then, to have to face everyone he bragged to, after his father was turned down . . . That's got to be hard, Charlie. Mighty hard.”

“I guess,” said Charlie. “But he's young. He'll learn to live with it.”

“Did your father change his mind after you talked with him yesterday? Is he enlisting?” I asked.

“Nah. He says he's too old, and can't shoot, and he's not interested in the politics of it all.” Charlie dragged his foot, making a line in the dirt street. “Now
that's
embarrassing. He didn't even try to enlist.”

“I wish my pa wasn't going,” I said softly.

Charlie stopped. “What?”

“I know—it's patriotic and all. But I wish he'd let someone else go so he could stay home and help Ma with the store.”

“But you must be so proud! I wish he were
my
pa!” Charlie laughed. “You have all the luck!”

“Luck? My brother died, and now Pa's leaving too; who knows if he'll be comin' back. And in the meantime, Ma has to run the store. Even if we get the Act printed in time to earn enough money so I can pay Mr. Shuttersworth, I'll be torn between helping her and running the
Herald,
never knowing what's happening to Pa.” I took a few steps toward Charlie. “You're right. I'm lucky. Just plumb lucky.”

I should have gone to the
Herald
office, or to the Bascombs' house to see if Owen had come home, but at that moment I was convinced I'd never get the printing job done, we'd never find Owen, and life would never work out the way I'd hoped it would.

And not even my best friend understood.

I left Charlie standing by the town water pump and headed home.

Chapter 30

Thursday April 18, nooning

“Did you find Owen?” Ma asked. “I've been worried about that boy all morning.”

“Charlie and I didn't. Maybe someone else did.”

Ma looked at me. “I would have been out there myself, but I've been kept busy all morning, selling goods and taking orders from women whose husbands and sons have enlisted.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes didn't. “These are difficult days for everyone.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Your pa is still out looking, so far as I know. A lot of townsfolk are.”

“Owen should have come home by now, Ma.”

“If he were able.” She glanced toward the corner of the kitchen where she'd hung a framed sketch an itinerant artist had drawn of Ethan when he was a toddler.

I hugged her. I was now taller than she was, I realized.

Many of the men in town had also gone out to look for Ethan. But his skiff had been missing too, so they'd known where to start the search. With Owen there were no such hints.

“I keep thinking of Owen's poor mother,” said Ma. “After the store's closed today, I'll go sit with her. I have a loaf of cinnamon bread baking for her now.”

Food. The way to console and show compassion.

“Your cinnamon bread's the best, Ma,” I said. “Mrs. Bascomb will love it. And Owen, too, when he gets home.”

We smiled at each other.

“I'm going down to the
Herald
office to check on things. Then I'll look for Owen again. Don't wait supper.”

Ma nodded. “My thoughts and prayers go with you, and all the searchers.”

Charlie was at the office, as I'd hoped. Neither of us mentioned our earlier talk.

“Owen's still missing,” I said.

“I heard,” Charlie answered. “People say they've looked everywhere. No one knows what to do, or where to look.”

“Charlie, I've thought of someone who might be able to help us find Owen.”

“Who? Everyone in town has already tried, Joe. Wiscasset isn't that big a place. There aren't that many places to look.”

“We could ask Nell.”

“What?”

“She could ask her spirits! Maybe Ethan, or some other spirit who knows Wiscasset, will have seen Owen.”

“You want us to ask Nell Gramercy to holler up to all the ghosts around and see if any of them have seen Owen?” Charlie came over and put his hand on my forehead, as though testing me for fever.

I pushed him away. “Don't joke! What harm could it do to ask her? You've been wanting to test Nell, to see if her powers are real. Well, no one knows where Owen is, so no one would be able to tell her ahead of time, right? This would be a real test.”

Charlie shook his head. “Her uncle would never let her do anything like that. Besides, she talks to people who've died. Owen hasn't died!”

“No, I don't believe Owen's dead,” I agreed. I wasn't going to let myself believe that. Not yet. “He's probably hiding because he's mad that his father can't enlist. He's embarrassed because he bragged to the other boys about what a wonderful soldier his father would be.”

“You're daft to even think of trying to involve Nell Gramercy.”

“What harm would it do to ask her? She can say she can't do it—or doesn't want to do it,” I said. “It'll be dark in a few hours. What if Owen's outside somewhere in the cold and wet? We need to do everything we can to find him.”

“Nell Gramercy's a fake. You heard what that mariner said down at Bailey's. There's no reason to get her involved. If we try to see her, we'll just waste time we could be using to search, and we'll get in trouble with her uncle, and with my father, who's promised their family privacy. It's a crazy idea. I'll help you with printing; I'll look for Owen; but I won't get involved with a girl who says she hears voices.”

“Does she eat in the Mansion House dining room?” I persisted. “Maybe we could talk to her there.”

Charlie shook his head. “Her aunt and uncle have their meals and afternoon tea delivered to their rooms, and they're always together. Her room adjoins theirs. It won't work, Joe.” He walked to the door of the office. “When you come to your senses and want to work on the printing, let me know. I'm going up to the Bascombs' house to see if any of the search groups need an extra man.”

He slammed the door.

I paced the floor. The unfinished trays of type we'd started to set for the Act sat accusingly on the table. I'd lost almost an entire day; I'd never get the job done now. But how could I sit here and set type when Owen's life might be in danger?

Appealing to Nell Gramercy might be crazy, but why not ask her? No one had been able to find Owen so far. Perhaps another set of eyes . . . or voices . . . would make a difference.