The Curse of the Buttons (3 page)

He could earn his keep, besides, with some gaming. Marbles or checkers? He was better at checkers, but marbles were easier to pocket. He took five muddies and a taw from the crock and placed them in front of the bear, but they rolled off the slightly slanted shelf and clattered to the floor.

Ike dove to sweep them up and crouched there, still, listening for his brothers, who would not be pleased to be awakened. But they simply suspended their breathing mid-snore, then in unison began again, shallow at first, then deep and hearty.

The mollusk could go in a shirt pocket, slingshot and drumsticks in his waistband, and everything else in pants pockets.

He picked up a stack of checkers, then set them back.

Checkers made him think about winning and losing. Losing made him think about Albirdie Woolley. She had cleared every boy and girl who dared challenge her of each token they anted. Even Jim. She used Ike for practice, and they played countless games in the back pew of her father’s church while listening to the various speeches and political carryings-on that took place there, so Ike felt some pride in her accomplishments.

Last week Albirdie had won an official army compass off an unsuspecting soldier who came to her father’s church for a strengthening prayer.

Direction
. . . He could find his way anywhere in Keokuk, but he’d never had to test his inner compass outside town. Could he really find his way in the South?

Ike got to thinking about the mysterious force that pulled the compass’s small arrow. He thought about the words
north
and
south
in the way he’d heard them bandied about these last months. Keokuk rode the very coattails of
north,
but though
south
was as near as Missouri, he had never been there. None of them had, as far as Ike knew. Not even Palmer.

Ike needed Albirdie’s official compass.

He dressed quickly, plucked Lincoln from the shelf, and the mollusk with the pearl, then snuck down the stairs and out the back door.

The crickets were putting up a racket that covered Ike’s nighttime movements, and Barfoot snorted sleepily in the livery. Ike rubbed his horse’s neck.

“Come on, boy, wake up,” he said. “Let’s go see Albirdie.”

He swung himself onto Barfoot’s back, coaxing him down the alley and into the street. It would be faster on foot, but this could be their last ride together for a while. They clopped down Morgan, across Seventh, to the church. Albirdie and her father had quarters at the back.

“Don’t wander far,” Ike whispered.

He climbed the sycamore and edged toward the middle window. He whistled three short notes and a long one. He waited, then whistled again. A moment later the door below him creaked open and a candlelit figure waved him in.

The air in the sanctuary was stale and cool. In the moonlight, the pulpit loomed like a hovering ghost and the altar cross stood at dark attention. Ike slid into the back pew next to Albirdie. She’d pulled a dress on over her nightgown, and she fidgeted with the sleeves. “What is it?” she asked.

“Rematch,” he said, pulling the mollusk from his pocket.

“You woke me up for a rematch? I thought something exciting was happening.” She stood. “I can beat you at checkers tomorrow.”

“Wait.” Ike spit on his index finger, polished the pearl, and held it up close to her face. Albirdie reached for it, but Ike cupped his hand around the shell.

“If I win, I get your compass,” he said.

“No,” she said. She pulled a brass button from the hymnal box on the back of the pew, the place where she stored her things. “This might be from the uniform of a general.”

“It has to be the compass.”

“No.”

Ike glanced up at the pulpit, then looked down at his bare feet.

“It’s for my brothers,” he said. “A traverse such as theirs . . .”

“You wouldn’t give up that pearl for your brothers.”

“As Lincoln has called . . .”
Ike started again, but at the sound of footfalls he ducked to the floor.

Albirdie pinched out the flame between her thumb and index finger, then dropped the kneeling rail and lowered herself onto it, folding her hands on the pew in front of her.

“Albirdie Ilene!” Ike heard the Reverend exclaim. “What in heaven’s name are you doing in here?”

“The Iowa First is leaving tomorrow,” she said calmly. “You said we should pray for their safety.”

“Well, now,” said Reverend Woolley. “So I did. So I did. Be quick about it, then, and back to bed.”

“Yes, Father.”

They were quiet for a long moment, then Albirdie raised the kneeler and kicked Ike.

“All clear.”

Ike set the mollusk next to Albirdie.

“I need the compass,” he said.

“There’s not time for a whole game now. He’ll be back to check on me.”

“Then trade me the pearl for the compass.”

“Why?”

Ike opened his mouth and closed it.
For my shelf. For my leaving collection. So I can . . .

Albirdie got up to go.

“What if I went with them?” Ike blurted. “South. I’d need to find my way.”

Albirdie sat down again. She did not say
You’re too young
or
That’s foolish.

“It’s not the getting lost you got to worry about,” she said.

“Still.” Ike set Lincoln next to the mollusk. “The compass would help.”

“There’s plenty of important things to do here,” said Albirdie.

“No,” said Ike. “The men are going south. I want to go with them.”

Albirdie propped the Lincoln card on her lap. She fingered the shell.

“The pearl is a pretty thing,” said Ike.

“It’s small,” said Albirdie. She handed it back to him.

“But gleaming.” Ike held it up to her face. “It’s a rare treasure from the Mississippi. Even Leon has tried to talk me out of this pearl.”

Albirdie set the picture down and took the shell from him again.

“And your California bear,” she said.

Besides the photo of the Button men, the bear was Ike’s one tangible piece of evidence that Palmer had existed and that he’d gotten all the way to California. He felt Palmer’s strength when he held it.

“No. Lincoln and the pearl. But not the bear.”

“Then you’ll have to go without the compass.”

“Fine. I will.” Ike grabbed Lincoln and the mollusk and stomped to the door.

“Wait. I really like that bear.” Albirdie followed him to the door. “Think about the bear. I’ll bring the compass to the
Jeannie Deans
tomorrow just in case. Come to the gangway.”

There was threat of rain. There were flocks of hankies waving. There were tears and shouts and swelling cheers as soldiers passed in ragged lines through the mass of Keokukians to their waiting steamboat. The ground vibrated with the feet of a thousand men.

Ike stood wedged between Susannah and his mother, straining to see the Buttons pass by. How could there be this many men in all of Iowa, much less on one levee? How would the
Jeannie Deans
carry them all?

His plan was to walk alongside the Button men when they passed, gradually slipping into the ranks behind them. Few of the soldiers wore uniforms, only their packs and jubilation distinguishing them from civilians. He touched each of his filled pockets and checked the slingshot and sticks tucked into his waistband.

It had seemed like a good plan in the familiar confines of his room, but a small bulb of doubt had sprouted in his chest as they’d approached the levee, and with every wave of soldiers, it grew, squeezing his breath into short, tight gasps. He took out the bear and held it hard in one hand. He would find Albirdie. He would trade the California bear for the compass.

“Ike!”

“Leon!”

“Help me out, will you?” Leon pulled Ike into line with him.

Ike’s heart swelled and he breathed in, stumbling as he tried to stay next to Leon in the crush of arms and legs and heaving chests. Leon
did
want him along! Ike imagined the weight of a drum hanging from his shoulders. He saw himself deep in the woods — holding his compass in front of him, leading his brothers to . . . And there the scene stopped.
What would they encounter in the South? Fort Sumter had burned. Would they be surrounded by fire? Would they see dead men? Would rebels put spears through their stomachs?

No matter. He was going.

“Yes! Anything!”

“Good,” said Leon. “Kate was supposed to be here. I can’t find her. Give her this note.” He stuffed a small, folded paper into Ike’s hand, gave Ike’s shoulders a quick squeeze, then pushed him back into the sea of spectators.

“Good-bye, brother!” Leon called, marching on.

“Wait!” Ike hollered. “Leon!” He shoved the note deep into his pocket and pushed his way back into the ranks. “Leon! Wait!”

Albirdie had said she’d be here; all he had to do was find Albirdie. Then he’d catch up to Leon. He let lines of men pass him so he could be sure to see Albirdie at the gangway.

The last of the soldiers were boarding. Deckhands were lifting the thick securing ropes. And there! There was the Reverend, spreading his arms out to bless every man he could reach, Albirdie by his side.

Ike waved the bear over his head, trying to catch Albirdie’s eye. The
Jeannie Deans
let out three short whistles, and all of Keokuk broke into song.

“Ain’t that a fine trinket,” barked a deep voice behind him, and the bear was snatched from Ike’s hand. He whirled around, dukes up for a fight, but he was looking into the wide midsection of a uniformed giant.

“You can drop them china teacups and step aside,” said the stranger, leaning his smirking face into Ike’s. “Go home and wait for the blessings sure to rain down on you for the gift you give your country.” He laughed and kissed the bear, then popped it in his chest pocket and shoved Ike out of line.

“Hey! Give it back!” Ike lunged for the bear but was swallowed by the singing crowd and lost his bearings. Which way was the river? Where was the steamer? Where was Albirdie? He could feel the imprint of the bear on his palm where he’d been clutching it. He opened his sweaty fist and looked at his empty hand.

“Leon! Albirdie!” Ike’s voice evaporated in the cacophony of the crowd. He followed the mournful cry of the steamer whistle and pushed his way to the shore just as the
Jeannie Deans
pulled away.

“Wait!” he hollered.

It was moving so slowly. He could still reach it.

He waded into the river.

“Father!” He didn’t notice his sopping pants. “Don’t leave me here!”

“Leon! Jim!” He was up to his waist and the current snapped at his legs.

“Uncle Hugh! Uncle Oscar! Wait!”

The boat turned, heading south, the soldiers growing smaller. Then it passed Mud Island and drifted out of sight.

“Stop!”

Ike’s voice faltered. He stood staring at the wide Mississippi, Keokuk’s road to Hannibal . . . St. Louis, New Orleans . . . the Gulf of Mexico. He slapped the water with his empty hands. “Wait!”

“I said to meet me at the gangway.”

Albirdie. It was drizzling now, and her hair sprang out in curls.

The hubbub faded as those left behind returned to their homes and businesses.

“If you’d given me the compass last night, I’d be on the boat now,” Ike yelled, wading to shore.

Albirdie held up the compass, which was hanging on a string around her neck. “If you’d come to the boat, I would have.”

Ike reached for the compass, but she held it to her chest.

“I did! I did come to the boat!”

“Do you have the bear, then?”

He looked at her hard. “No.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d give it up.”

Ike pulled the handful of marbles from his pocket and threw them into the river. There was no use explaining. One by one he whipped his whittled drumsticks away, too. He turned and stomped off, then broke into a run. He glanced back and saw Albirdie following, but he didn’t wait for her to catch up.