The Curse of the Buttons (15 page)

Aunt Betsy opened the door. “OK?” she called quietly, David and Johnny just behind her.

“Just a minute,” said Ike. He ran up to his room and back down. He handed David the picture of the Button men. “This is the closest I’ve got to a picture of me.” Then he pulled his slingshot from his waistband and two stones from his pocket and stuffed them into David’s other hand.

“Mrs. Button!” Albirdie hollered. “They’re coming!”

“Let’s go, Johnny,” said David. “Front door.”

“No,” said Aunt Betsy, holding him back.

“Wait,” said Ike. He dashed out to Albirdie, and together they ran toward the approaching horses. It was Mr. Cutts and Mr. Simms with the Missouri men.

Ike waved his arms to stop them.

“Sirs!” he said, standing in their path. They ignored Ike and simply guided their horses around them.

“Hinman says Buttons are four houses up this alley. We’ll find them there,” Mr. Simms said as they passed.

“Wait!” Ike yelled. “You’ve got the wrong house!” They pulled up their horses and turned toward Ike and Albirdie. The men from Missouri had long shotguns across their saddles as well as pistols holstered at their waist. They looked down at Ike, and he froze. Albirdie nudged him.

“He’s right!” she said, stalling.

“The Buttons live on the other side,” he said, pointing to the Hinman house.

“Thank you, little man,” said one of the Missouri men. “Simms, can’t you get anything right?” He dug his heels into his horse’s flank and veered around Cutts and Simms into the Hinmans’ yard.

“But . . .” Mr. Simms began. He swatted a wasp away from his horse’s ear. And then another. “Blasted!” he said.

There were wasps everywhere. Mr. Cutts and Mr. Simms spurred their horses, turned in the direction they’d come, and galloped away.

Ike and Albirdie ran to the Button yard. No Barfoot. No cart. The doors and windows of the Button houses were closed.

“Look,” Ike said. The wasp nest had a hole in it. The stone he’d given David was on the ground underneath it. Ike ducked under the hovering wasps to pick it up, then he and Albirdie ran between the houses to the street just as Barfoot trotted around the corner, pulling the cart out of sight.

“Good-bye,” Ike whispered.

Clanging bells split the dawn.

Ike snapped awake.

“Leon! Jim!” He thrashed his arms but the wide bed was still empty.

He scrambled to the window. The ringing went on, like a year of Sundays all at once.

Independence Day.

Aunt Betsy, Aunt Sue, and his mother appeared in the yard with robes tied over their nightgowns. They settled at the table with steaming mugs of coffee. As the echo of the bells faded, Ike leaned out to listen.

“It’s settled, then?” said Aunt Betsy.

“Mr. Box brought me the letter last night,” his mother answered. “House is big enough for us now, and when our men return, some of us can live in the hired hand’s cabin.”

“Oscar says they’ll muster out in August,” said Aunt Sue. “We’ll have it shipshape by then.”

“Mr. Day will come with his team and wagon, after the parade.”

“I’ve written Daniel,” said his mother. “I hope the letter finds them safe.”

Then
crack!
A shot rang out in the distance, then another.

Ike tucked his nightshirt into a pair of pants and ran down the stairs and out the back door.

The mothers were standing, hands on hearts, as the little girls ran out, wailing.

Crack, crack, crack.

“Happy Independence Day!” Susannah shouted as the little girls huddled around her.

After breakfast, dishes were cleaned at the pump and layered with linens in boxes. The girls made piles on the porch: clothing, kitchen, sundries. Ike and Susannah heaved the sewing machine table to the lawn.

“Is there news?” he asked for what seemed like the hundredth time over the past three days.

“Here.” Susannah held out a folded piece of paper. “Albirdie brought this over after you were asleep last night. It’s from David.”

It was a drawing. Two boys stood under a starry sky. A tall woman stood next to them.

“Mr. Jenkins told Albirdie they’re with their mother,” Susannah said. “They are on their way north.”

Ike smoothed the paper. A faint line connected some of the stars.

“A bear,” he whispered. He refolded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket.

“I’m going to the parade with Kate,” said Susannah. “Thomas is marching with the City Rifles. There’s time. You should go with Albirdie.”

Ike found David’s discarded shirt. He tore it into strips and tied one on Barfoot’s mane and two on his tail.

“There are your stripes, Old Pokey,” he said. “Now you look ready for a parade.” He climbed on Barfoot’s back, then slid off and went into his quiet house. His mother’s letter was on the dining-room table. Ike turned it over and picked up her pen.

He tucked it into the envelope and ran out to Barfoot.

“Come on,” Ike said. “Let’s get Albirdie.”

Ike and Albirdie followed the thundering of feet and thumping of drums to Main. Calvary Captain Sample passed, then a small brass band.

“It’s Thomas!” said Ike as the rifles marched into view. From their perch atop Barfoot, Ike and Albirdie watched the Home Guards, the Washington Guards, the mayor, the poet of the day, Albirdie’s father with the rest of the city clergy, and the judges and lawyers. The civic societies followed, including Mrs. Gorman and Mrs. Hinman, carrying the Aid Society flag.

Then the citizens left the sidewalks and followed, led by a small band.

“My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” the piccolo trilled, and everyone broke into song.

Ike and Albirdie joined in, loud and off-key. Barfoot dipped his head and whinnied along.

Although Ike is a fictional character, I placed his story in the midst of actual historical events.

Early in 1861, several southern states seceded from the union of the United States, naming Jefferson Davis provisional president of the Confederate states. In March, Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated president of the union, and in April, shots were fired on Fort Sumter, launching the country into a civil war.

North and south, men left their homes and gathered to form armies. Over the course of the war, more than 76,000 of those volunteers came from Iowa.

Iowa was a free state, but the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 made it illegal to help freedom seekers, people who were escaping slavery. The penalty was a thousand-dollar fine and six months in jail. The Emancipation Proclamation, which freed slaves, would not be signed until 1863. So although there were free blacks living all across Iowa, including in Keokuk, freedom seekers like Mary, David, and Johnny would have been returned to their owners if they were caught.

Scores of freedom seekers did cross into Iowa. Many found their own way north or were assisted by free blacks. Others were sheltered by a loose network of abolitionists known as the Underground Railroad. The true extent of this network is unknown. Because of the necessity for secrecy, very few records were kept and most people kept their assistance secret.

An 1861 article in the Keokuk
Gate City
newspaper describes a shrill and terrifying steamboat whistle breaking into a June night, waking the town and drawing crowds to the levee. The report of the arrival and departure of the steamboat
Jeannie Deans
captured my imagination and launched me into Ike’s story.

For the sake of streamlining the narrative, I took liberties with select dates and details, while trying to stay true to the mood and import of the time and place. I merged the experiences common to many towns of the time. The first regiment to leave was actually the Iowa Second, and most of the men from these first companies were from other parts of Iowa. Keokuk men would leave later.

Scores of intriguing details had to be omitted. I encourage readers who want to learn more about the Civil War to go to their local library, as I did, and read the many firsthand accounts and nonfiction books on the subject and explore such websites as
www.civilwar.org
. Visit historic sites and history museums. And as you do, imagine yourself in the story — or make up a fictional character of your own.

I am indebted to librarians far and near for their time, enthusiasm, creative brainstorming, and assistance in gathering materials, including Tonya Boltz and the staff of the Keokuk Public Library; Dina Stansbury, Karen Brown, and the staff at the Monterey Public Library; and Carol Shields at the Seaside branch of the Monterey County Free Libraries.

The people of Keokuk were generous with their time and knowledge, including my host, Julia Logan; researcher Terry Altheide; and the enthusiastic volunteers of the Keokuk Historical Society. Lynn Koos at the African American Museum of Iowa in Cedar Rapids read and shared valuable resources and expertise.

Mighty thanks to those who read and/or gave advice at critical junctures: Dan Baldwin, Jacqueline Briggs Martin, Leigh Brown Perkins, Michelle Edwards, Maria Hanson, and Lauren Stringer.

The support of my California writers group is invaluable. Cheers to Kate Aver Avraham, Carol Diggory Shields, Paul Fleischman, Elin Kelsey, and Jill Wolfson.

I am grateful for the dedication and artfulness of my editor, Deborah Noyes; designer Pam Consolazio; the enthusiasm and keen eye of Miriam Newman at the finish line; and the whole Candlewick team, who turn my words into beautiful books.

Finally, a special thank you to Bryce Hodges, whose well-timed declaration of enthusiasm for a Civil War–era story set my notion into motion.