Uncertain Glory (9 page)

“He died a hero,” said Charlie, turning to me and standing a little too close for comfort.

Owen managed to squeeze between us. “Joe, while Charlie does the printing, would you help me hang the pages so they'll dry fast?” He was holding the rope we usually strung across the room.

“Of course I'll help, Owen.” I stepped backward, avoiding a confrontation. “We all want to get that page finished as soon as we can. You've both done a great job this morning. I can't believe you worked so quickly.”

“President Lincoln should make an announcement soon,” said Charlie. “He'll tell us what he's going to do, and what he wants the country to do. After all, we're at war. Everything's going to be different from now on.” Charlie started to print copies. “This is probably the most important time of our lives.”

“That will mean a lot of special issues of the
Herald,
right?” said Owen. “We'll make a lot more money.”

“We may,” I said.

I hadn't yet told Owen about possibly losing the press; I'd hoped I would never have to.

“Special issues are just the beginning, Owen!” said Charlie. “There's no telling how different our lives are going to be from now on.” He was grinning, working the press faster than I'd ever seen before. “Changes are coming, Owen. Just you wait and see! Nothing's going to be the way it was before Fort Sumter fell.”

He made it sound as though war was the best thing that could have ever happened to us.

Chapter 16

Sunday, April 14, late afternoon

One of the first changes because of the war was that schools were to be closed on Monday. No one questioned the decision. This week families felt a need to stay close. Talk of the war was on everyone's lips as Owen and Charlie and I walked from home to home late Sunday afternoon, selling our one-page bulletin announcing the fall of Fort Sumter and Major Anderson's surrender.

Most people in town bought a copy.

“I'll be saving this,” said old Mrs. Dunham. “I'll put it with my Bible. I suspect I'll be doing a lot of praying from now on—praying for all of us, and for our nation. For what'll be coming next.” She reached out and hugged both Charlie and me, to our surprise and embarrassment.

“She didn't hug me,” said Owen as we left her house.

“You're lucky. She smelled of salt pork and rancid whale oil,” I told him as we headed for the next house.

“You're too young to be a soldier,” said Charlie. “She hugged Joe and me because she thinks we might die in the war.”

“Charlie! How can you think such things?” I said, glancing at Owen. He looked as though he was about to burst into tears.

“It's true,” said Charlie. “We're not children. Owen's still a little boy.”

Mrs. Dunham wasn't the last, either. Mrs. Chase and Mr. Young both advised Charlie and me not to join up until the situation was clearer. Mr. Giles, on the other hand, came to the door, rifle in hand, asking if we'd heard yet where a man could go to enlist.

“Haven't heard nothin' about that, sir,” I told him.

“You will soon,” Mr. Giles answered grimly. “And when you do, I'll be there. Those Southerners aren't going to mess with my country and get away with it. Not likely. And any man who's a patriot will be right there with me. You remember that, boys.”

Trusty trotted along with us, occasionally barking at a passing horse or a darting squirrel. Everywhere there were exciting smells. He sniffed hay dropped from a rumbling farm wagon and ran after a barn cat, until I called him back.

“Maybe Dr. Cushman would like a broadside,” said Owen. “He's a good doctor. Mr. Dana pulled out my Pa's tooth when it hurt real bad, and left part of the tooth behind. Dr. Cushman pulled out the rest of the tooth, and there was hardly any blood.”

“We'll go to his office next,” I agreed.

Dr. Cushman's office was in his home on High Street, near the church and the courthouse.

Most folks who lived in big houses on High Street were like Captain Tucker, and made their living from the sea. They'd built their homes where they could watch the ships in Wiscasset Harbor coming and going, their fortunes ebbing and flowing with the tides.

A few of the boys who'd been playing soldier that morning were still chasing each other from one side of the Green to the other.

“Don't you want to be playing with the others, Owen?” Charlie asked as we walked up the hill. “We can carry the rest of the bulletins. You don't need to stay with us when you could be having fun.”

“I
am
having fun,” Owen said. “I'm not little, like those boys. I can help you and Joe.”

Trusty returned from investigating a trail that looked as though a rabbit had briefly emerged and then gone back to his lair.

“Owen, you're only nine. Some of those boys are older than you are. You can't just follow us around all the time,” said Charlie.

Owen's smile vanished.

“You've been a big help today,” I added quickly. “Charlie just wants to be sure we aren't keepin' you from your friends.”

“They're not my friends,” said Owen. “They're just boys.” He looked away from the Green. “What did you and the spiritual lady talk about, Joe? When you met her on the street.”

“We talked of the fog, and the black ice.” Would I betray Nell if I told Owen and Charlie she'd fallen? “She wasn't dressed for Maine weather. We talked about that, and Trusty, and I walked with her back to the Mansion House. I wasn't with her long.”

“Did you tell her your father'd been at one of her sessions?” Charlie asked.

“She remembered him. She said spirits came to her when they had important messages to give to people left behind. She said she'd been hearing spirits since she was very young—that talking with them was tiring, and she often had headaches.”

“Could she talk with my brother, do you think?” asked Owen.

“I don't know. I don't think she can talk with everyone who's died. It has to be someone who needs to contact someone still living.”

“I'd like to get a message from my brother,” said Owen. “But he was so little. He didn't even talk much when he was alive. He probably doesn't have anything to say now.”

“He's probably happy in Heaven,” agreed Charlie. “And if he's happy, he doesn't need to reach anyone here.”

Owen nodded.

Dr. Cushman's office was on the first floor of his grand, three-story house.

“Dr. Cushman, sir, would you like to buy a one-page bulletin with news about Fort Sumter?” I asked when he opened the door. Dr. Cushman's office was the only one like it in town. Stuffed robins and egrets and puffins and gulls and passenger pigeons and eagles, and even a large snowy owl that the doctor had shot, hung on the walls.

Owen shivered. “The birds all have eyes,” he whispered to Charlie. “They're looking at me.”

Dr. Cushman took a copy of the paper and handed me a penny. “Thank you. I'm impressed with how well you've been running that newspaper of yours.”

“There's bound to be a lot of news now,” Charlie put in, “with the war and all, and with Nell Gramercy in town, making predictions. We have an exclusive interview with her tomorrow.”

Dr. Cushman frowned. “That young woman's presence in Wiscasset is an unfortunate folly. She's encouraging people to think they can contact the dead.” He shook his head. “I have the sad job of ministering
to people who are leaving us for the hereafter, and I have to say, I've never seen any of them return.”

“They don't return. They just leave messages with Nell for people who loved them,” I said. “She got a message from my brother Ethan, for my father.”

The doctor looked at me. “I heard that, Joe. My wife was over to your family's store yesterday. She said your father was helping put merchandise out, and was feeling much better.”

“He is,” I replied, nodding.

“Sometimes recovery comes in strange ways,” Dr. Cushman said. “But people need to understand that there's a line between the world of the living and the world of the dead.” He looked out into the empty street. “Although you can't know the number of times I've wished I could make that line disappear, or at least change the moment it comes to one of my patients.”

“I hope I never have to go to that doctor,” said Owen, as we headed back down the hill. “When he fixed my father's tooth he came to our house. We don't have dead birds.” He looked up at me. “Dr. Cushman won't shoot Gilthead, will he?”

“I'm sure he won't,” I assured him. “Everyone in town knows Gilt-head's a pet.”

But I wondered whether Dr. Cushman would pay the Bascomb family a visit should Gilthead ever die of natural causes. I hadn't seen any parrots in Dr. Cushman's collection.

Chapter 17

Monday, April 15, morning

“Joe, Joe—come quick! There's trouble! Fighting down at the Custom House!”

I was rightening up the office after Sunday's work. I'd already made good use of the broom, and had just added the income from the Fort Sumter bulletin ($1.10, for a new total of $47.50) to the accounts book when Charlie's voice echoed up the stairs.

Fighting at the Custom House? Could Southerners have already attacked this far north? What weapons would they have? As I ran down the stairs to follow Charlie down Water Street, I felt in my back pocket for the knife Pa had given me last Christmas. It was meant for whittling, but most days I carried it with me, finding it handy for cleaning type and other chores. But what good would a small blade do in a war?

The street was full of men, women, and children running toward the massive stone and brick building down near Whaleship Wharf. A few men even waved muskets. Not many in town ever had need of weapons. Not before now.

A crowd had gathered in front of the Custom House steps. Mr. Cunningham, Wiscasset's customs collector, in charge of inspecting ships arriving from foreign ports, was holding the American flag high. That was the moment I realized it wasn't flying above the Custom House as usual.

“I refuse! I will not fly this sacred flag over a building representing a country that has declared war on its own states!” Mr. Cunningham
shouted. “I care not what that so-called president of ours says! The Southern states should be reasoned with, not declared our enemy. Lincoln is wrong, and I will not follow a command against my principles!”

“Traitor!” screamed old Mrs. Fairfax from the crowd, shaking her cane at Mr. Cunningham. “Those Southerners fired on our boys! On United States soldiers!”

“She's right!” yelled Mr. Dana, the pharmacist. “Lincoln's our president. Raise the Stars and Stripes!”

“Traitor! Traitor!” The crowd took up the cry.

Without thinking, I found myself chanting along.

“I'd rather burn down this building than raise our sacred flag when it no longer represents the United States our forefathers created—the United States we love and honor!” shouted Mr. Cunningham.

“Try to burn down the building, you idiot!” yelled someone else. “The building's strong, like the Union, made of stone and brick. It won't burn because of one man's opinion.”

“We're going to war just because some slave-lovers want to change the way other people live!” bellowed Cunningham, trying to be heard above the crowd. “Let people live the way they want to live! Every state should make its own rules! Why should we send our sons to fight in a place we've never even seen?”

I saw Owen's father moving to the back of the crowd.

“Because we're all Americans!” came from the crowd.

The chant of
Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!
began again, and the crowd began to surge up the steps, toward Mr. Cunningham, who backed up against the high Custom House doors, clutching the American flag to his chest.

A shot rang out.

Chapter 18

Monday, April 15, mid-morning

The crowd went silent at the sound of the gun.

“Godfrey mighty,” Charlie whispered. His face was pale.

You wouldn't believe how quiet it was. No one seemed to know what had happened—or what might happen next. I felt hot, and then cold, and although I'm not usually a praying person, I found myself saying a silent prayer that war wouldn't come to Wiscasset.

Then Sheriff Chadbourne strode to the top of the Custom House steps, holding an old musket in his hand. It was smoking.

“Thom, either you raise that flag and do your duty as customs collector, or I'm bound to arrest you on grounds of civil disobedience.”

Mr. Cunningham raised his chin high. “I won't collect customs for a country that makes war with itself over a states' rights issue.”

Sheriff Chadbourne sighed. “Then you'll have to come with me.” He looked down into the crowd. “Henry, come take our nation's flag from Thom here.” Then he spoke to everyone. “Folks, show's over. The Custom House is closed for today. Anyone's got customs issues, see me at the courthouse.” He took Mr. Cunningham by the arm and marched him through the crowd as some jeered.