Uncertain Glory (4 page)

How could Nell know about Ethan? How could she know that Pa blamed himself for Ethan's boat's leaking and sinking in The Narrows? Only Ma and I knew that Pa had planned to patch the skiff with pitch, but had been helping Ma that day and forgotten.

I shivered. Charlie said we should prove this girl was a fraud. But what if she wasn't? What if she
could
talk with dead people? How else could she have known about Ethan?

Chapter 6

Thursday, April 11, evening

We waited 'til everyone had left the parlor before making our escape down a back stairway to the kitchen. I didn't complain none when Charlie managed to scrounge a platter filled with enough sliced lamb and bread for both of us. Mrs. Giles beamed at our thanks as we hightailed it to his room.

For the first few minutes we didn't talk. Fresh bread and young roasted lamb slathered with mint jelly is worth concentrating on.

Finally I said out loud what I'd been thinking. “Nell Gramercy may truly be communicatin' with spirits. She's only been in Wiscasset a few days. How could she have known Mrs. Quinn's husband and son were both dead, and both named Michael?” I kept my thoughts about Ethan to myself.

Charlie shook his head. “It's all humbug. Has to be. No one can get messages from the dead. She must have found out ahead of time about the people who're coming to her sessions.”

“Not if the spirits speak to her directly,” I pointed out. “And what about that . . . that white stuff that came out of her mouth?”

“I've read about spiritualists. That stuff she called ectoplasm is supposed to show that spirits have entered the medium's body, or something like that. Sometimes spirits knock, to give answers or spell out words, or move furniture in the room when a spiritualist is working.
Some spiritualists make fog-like figures appear. I would've liked to have seen that! Or the table rising into the air!”

“It was spooky enough to see her cough up that stuff and hear what she was saying,” I said. I didn't need ghosts appearing or knocking or furniture floating around. “If we report what we saw, we have to say that Nell Gramercy got messages from dead people.”

Charlie shook his head and brushed crumbs off his shirt front onto the floor. “The Boston paper said ectoplasm may be spiderwebs, all mashed up together, that the spiritualist hides in her cheeks.”

My stomach turned sideways. I pushed the almost-empty platter of lamb away.

“Maybe it's not true. But no matter what it was, I think she knew what she was going to say before she went in that room.”

“But how could she? Unless we know how she got her information, we can't say she
didn't
communicate with spirits.”

Charlie crumpled the piece of paper on which he'd taken notes earlier that evening. “I don't know. But you're right—we have to find out more. Nell Gramercy is just a girl. She's younger than we are. She can't be doing all this herself. Maybe that uncle of hers is somehow telling her what to do and say. He sold the tickets. He knew who would be there.”

“How could he tell her anything? He hardly spoke tonight.”

“He must have a way. Some signal. We just have to figure it out.” Charlie turned to me. “What did she say to your father? I didn't even know you had a brother.”

“I don't talk about him much,” I said. “If you'd been in Wiscasset longer, you'd have known. Ethan was older than me. His skiff was
caught in the current at The Narrows, between Westport and Davis Islands. It sank about eighteen months ago.”

“I'm sorry. You must miss him a lot.” Charlie was silent for a moment. “I always wanted a brother.”

“Ethan and I fished together and went sliding on Courthouse Hill in winter. He wanted to be a mariner and sail to the South Seas.” I stood up. I didn't feel comfortable talking about Ethan. Charlie didn't know what it was like to lose a brother. “Thank Mrs. Giles for the grub. I've got to get to home. Ma'll be worried.”

“I'll come over to the office early tomorrow,” Charlie said. “Right after I check the news from the South. I'll help you finish up Saturday's issue and start printing it. With or without a story about Nell Gramercy.”

Chapter 7

Friday, April 12, morning

I didn't see Pa or Ma Thursday night. The only one waiting up for me was Trusty, so I didn't know if Pa had told Ma he'd gone to Nell Gramercy's session, and what she'd said. 'Course, he didn't know I was there, so I couldn't have said anything anyway.

I feared I'd blurt out something I shouldn't, so I got up even earlier than usual and headed for the
Herald
office, straightaway. With the paper due out Saturday afternoon, and having spent more than two days on the broadside and the bulletin, I reckoned there was plenty to do in the next twenty-four hours.

“C'mon, Trusty. Today you can come with me to the office.” Despite his words last night I knew I couldn't count on Charlie. Trusty would be good company.

The early morning was cool, but the sun was beginning to lighten the sky. Piles of drifted snow remained where shadows of trees and houses kept them from the direct rays of the sun, but the ice was out of the river, finches were chirping mating songs in bushes along the road, and above me Canadian geese honked as they headed north for the summer. An eagle flew downriver. The day was full of April's promise.

Trusty sniffed every horse and ox turd, every stagnant puddle left from the week's rains, and joyfully chased a gray squirrel up a greening tree. He was so happy to be out of the house and yard that I took the
long way around, walking down by the shipyards and wharves and then along Water Street. All was peaceful.

Until we reached Main Street.

Despite the hour, a crowd was gathered outside Mr. Johnston's store. Miss Mary Averill, the telegraph operator, worked in an office in back of the counter there. To be truthful, a part of me didn't want to know what the other part understood had happened. But news has got to be faced, especially if you're a newsman. I ran to join the others. Trusty ran with me, barking excitedly at the crowd.

Mr. Colby was holding his wife, who was sobbing. Several knots of men were deep in conversation. Others stood alone. Then I saw Charlie.

“There you are!” Charlie said. “I wanted to get you, but I didn't want to miss any new wires. Miss Averill slept at the store last night so as not to miss any messages, but they didn't start coming in until an hour ago.”

“What's happened?”

“Yesterday the Confederate general, Beauregard, ordered Major Anderson at Fort Sumter to surrender and leave the fort. Of course Major Anderson refused. Then, at 4:27 this morning, the Confederate battery at Fort Moultrie fired at Fort Sumter. And Major Anderson's men fired back.”

“And then?”

“That's all we know! That's why everyone is standing here. Waiting.”

“How long does it take to find out?”

“A telegraph operator in Charleston is sending messages north along the wires to relay stations. I don't know how many stations are between South Carolina and Maine, but messages are sent to Portland,
and then to Yarmouth, Brunswick, and Bath. The Bath office sends them here. The telegraph is an amazing invention, but it can't send messages hundreds of miles at once.”

“If the first office is in Charleston, could be that it's only tellin' the Southern side of the story.”

“Telegraph officers are said to be honest.”

“I suppose.” It seemed almost impossible. Here we were, standing on a street in the State of Maine, waiting to hear what a man or woman in a Southern city tapped out in dots and dashes on a telegraph key. “Men could be dying in Charleston right now, and we'll know about it in only three or four hours,” I said. “That's never happened in a war before.”

“And President Lincoln can go to the telegraph office at the War Department and know what his army is doing,” agreed Charlie.

Suddenly I had a selfish thought. More people were joining the crowd on Main Street all the time. Maybe the future of my chosen profession was doomed. Who would buy a newspaper when they could get news within hours from the telegraph? I shared my worries with Charlie.

“Not everyone can stand here all the time,” Charlie pointed out. “And what about people still at their homes or farms? They haven't heard what's happening yet. Plus, telegraph wires aren't strung everywhere.”

“True. But tomorrow's
Herald
will have to be as up-to-date as possible. With news changing this fast, there's no way to tell what might be happening by the time we deliver the paper.”

Trusty followed us as we moved through the crowd.

“I had an idea last night, after you left,” said Charlie. “We could interview Nell Gramercy.”

“What?” I reached down and stopped Trusty from impolitely sniffing old Mrs. Gould. “Interview Miss Gramercy? Are you crazy? I'm worrying about covering a battle in South Carolina, and you're talking about interviewing a girl spiritualist.”

“She's news, too! Local news. And she's going to hold that big meeting tomorrow night no matter what happens down south.”

“So?”

“I'll help. We'll fill three pages of the
Herald
with the ads and social notices and fillers you already have. We'll keep checking with the telegraph office until right before we have to set type for page one, tomorrow morning. If anything happens after that, it has to be a special edition, like the one two days ago. You made money on that! On the first page, we'll put an article on the happenings in South Carolina, and what people here think about it. And, if we can get it, an interview with Nell Gramercy.”

“Her uncle might think more people would pay to see her after reading it,” I admitted.

“Exactly.”

“I'll need your help, and Owen's. Full-time,” I added.

“You go and get Owen. I'll find Mr. Allen. He's usually in the tavern, even in the morning,” Charlie said. “Father sends people there if they want to know anything about the spirit sessions.”

“I'll take Trusty home first. Then I'll find Owen. Meet me back at the office,” I told him. “When you find out whether we can interview Nell Gramercy, we'll know how many columns we'll have to fill.”

Charlie had a talent for getting what he went after. He might just get us that interview with Miss Gramercy.

Chapter 8

Friday, April 12, morning

Trusty happily trotted back home to Middle Street with me. He didn't know he was going to be left behind the fence that enclosed the dooryard. Keeping Trusty with me if I was going to be at the newspaper office all day by myself was one thing, but I didn't want to worry about him if Charlie, Owen, and I were all going to be in and out of the office, interviewing people, checking with the telegraph office, and racing back to write stories.

Besides, I wanted to tell Ma and Pa the news. They wouldn't know about the battle in Charleston Harbor.

Trusty squeezed his way inside the shop ahead of me. Ma already had a customer. Mrs. Pendleton was trying on one of the spring hats that had arrived by coaster last week from New York City. Ma was helping her decide which color flattered her most. She looked up and nodded at me. “Your father's in the back.”

Had Pa told her he'd gone to the spirit circle last night?

A bang echoed from the room in back of the store. I gathered up Trusty, who gave one reluctant bark, and we went through the back door of the shop into the private area of the building. Trusty wasn't normally allowed in the store; that was the territory of Snowball, Ma's large white cat.

Drafts from the cellar windows had been blowing the door from the cold cellar to the kitchen open for weeks now. No doubt the door was
banging again. I reminded myself to get new hinges. In the meantime, Ma and I had been piling crates in front of the door. The crates weren't enough to keep the door closed when the wind was from the north, but they should've been enough on this calm, sunny morning.

But, no. The sound I'd heard was the hammer Pa'd dropped. I stared. Pa hadn't fixed anything since Ethan had died. This morning he was screwing new hinges onto the cellar door.

“You're home, son! I heard that darn door knocking against the crates again and decided this would be the day to fix it, so I got some new hinges over to the blacksmith shop on Water Street. Hand me that hammer, would you?”

I did.

“You're awfully quiet. Don't you like the hinges I chose?” Pa pointed. “They're bigger than the ones we had before, and fancy, with the ends swirled and all, but the holes for the smaller ones were too loose. These should hold better, and add a bit of elegance to the room.” He hit a hard blow to a nail whose hole would serve for the screw he'd put in next.

“The hinges are fine. Where are the umbrellas and buttons and silk flowers for hats?” The crates and barrels of inventory I hadn't finished unpacking two nights before were gone.

“I sorted those and got them out into the shop. Your mother likes to get the new merchandise on display as quickly as she can, you know. Always says it brightens folks up to think ahead to summer this time of year.”

It had been months since Pa had shelved any new items for the store, and he'd only done it then because Ma had nagged him. “Are you feeling all right, Pa?”

“Right as rain. Better, since the sun is finally shining! Just woke up this morning and decided I'd rested long enough. Seemed a good day to make a new start. I'm sorry not to have helped out as much as I should have recently, but I'm proud of all you've done for your ma, especially with the printing business taking so much of your time.”

He put a screw in the hinge. “You've been doing a darn good job with the newspaper. I see you've been picking up printing jobs, too. I appreciated your leaving those bulletins for us on the table two nights ago.”