Uncertain Glory (11 page)

No one stepped up. The men looked self-consciously at each other.

“C'mon, men. I'd sign it myself if I didn't know bein' over seventy would disqualify me, no matter what requirements they come out with in Augusta!” Everyone laughed.

But suddenly the crowd fell silent as Edwin Smith, who lived up on High Street, stepped forward. “I'll sign your paper,” he said. “I've already decided to enlist, no matter what directions are sent from Augusta. I'm twenty-three, and healthy. They'll want men like me. I'll be the first to sign your paper, Major Bailey.” He bent down and signed with a flourish. “I'm certain Wiscasset will have no problem enlisting enough other brave men to defend our Union.”

After he signed, Edwin Smith headed up the hill toward his home. “He's probably going to tell his mother,” whispered Charlie.

“I sure hope so,” I said. “She shouldn't hear it from anybody else.”

Next to sign was George Pierce, a friend of Smith's. He was followed by an older man from the countryside I didn't know. Charlie asked his name, so we could put it in the paper as one of the first to declare his intentions to enlist. “Paul Cunningham,” was the answer. “I hear my cousin Thom acted up some at the Custom House this morn
ing. I'm bound to restore family honor by acting like a patriot this afternoon.”

After Mr. Cunningham, Owen's father, John Bascomb, signed his name, shaking hands with several other men in the crowd afterwards. I grinned at Mr. Bascomb and shook his hand, hard.

But Mr. Evernon turned away and refused to shake Mr. Bascomb's hand.

“It's people like you, Bascomb, that are the cause of this war,” he said. “If there weren't any Negroes in this country, we wouldn't be in this situation, and none of us would be talking about leaving our families and risking our lives.”

“If people in the South didn't treat people as property, then we wouldn't be at war,” said Mr. Bascomb. “I'm proud to live in a country willing to fight to end slavery.”

“
Humph
,” said Mr. Evernon, and he spit on the ground near Mr. Bascomb. “Slavery's no problem for us here in Maine; we did away with it years ago. Why should we get involved with a states' rights issue in the South? Why should we care what happens in South Carolina?” He stepped toward Mr. Bascomb. It looked as though he was ready to fight. “Why should Maine men lose jobs—why should they lose their
lives
—because of something happening hundreds of miles away?” He took another step toward Mr. Bascomb.

Mr. Bascomb didn't back up, but others stepped between them. As Charlie and I watched, Mr. Evernon backed off and headed down the street toward the tavern.

“You'll all see I'm right!” he called back over his shoulder. “Just wait!”

A shadow had fallen on the afternoon. Some of the men talked quietly among themselves, and one or two talked with Mr. Bascomb, I noted. But not many. No one else signed Major Bailey's paper.

In a few minutes the crowd dispersed.

“Mr. Evernon works for Captain Tucker, doesn't he?” asked Charlie, as we headed down the hill to the
Herald
's office on Water Street.

“He's the accountant for Tucker's business,” I answered. “I expect there won't be much shipping to account for between here and Charleston and London as long as there's a war on.”

“So he may not have a job much longer,” Charlie pointed out. “Not that Mr. Bascomb has anything to do with that.”

“We have to write up the interview with Nell,” I reminded him, ready to change the subject. “And the call for militia troops.”

“And what happened at the Custom House this morning,” added Charlie. “It's going to be another long night.”

Chapter 21

Monday night, April 15, late evening

Even with Owen's and Charlie's help, it took all of Monday afternoon and evening to write up the news, set it in type, and then print it on both sides of a two-page
Herald.

“We'll meet back here at seven sharp tomorrow morning to distribute it,” I decided. “We won't make any sales now, with most folks gettin' ready for bed.”

Could I ask 2 cents for this bulletin instead of the 1 cent I'd been charging? Two cents was my usual charge for a full, four-page issue, but this bulletin contained historically important news. I'd taken notice when some people said they planned to keep our recent bulletins.

“Let's hope nothing else newsworthy happens tonight,” said Charlie, pulling on his jacket.

Owen had been yawning for an hour.

Only a week ago Charlie'd complained that nothing ever happened in Wiscasset.

When I got home Ma and Pa were going over their final list of inventory items to order for the store. I peeked over Ma's shoulder.

“Will we need to order that much?” I asked. “President Lincoln said he's only calling up troops for three months' service.”

The list included wool for blankets and coats, heavy thread for uniforms, boots, cheap soap, combs, brushes, handkerchiefs, shaving sets,
small sewing kits, traveling writing boxes, eating implements, waterproof envelopes, and knives of all sorts.

“It's risky,” Pa agreed. “But we're guessing Lincoln's being optimistic. He doesn't want the country to be scared about the prospect of a long war. These supplies are already hard to come by, and will be harder to get in the future. Every soldier needs to be equipped.”

“Word is, the State of Maine has no money to do so,” I said.

Ma nodded. “True enough. But that won't stop men from wanting to go, and families will do the best they can for their menfolk. We plan on having what we can here in the store to help them do that.”

“Our order will go to Boston on the stage first thing tomorrow. We may not be able to get everything on our list, but we'll try,” said Pa. “And Joe? I know you're busy with the paper, and all the news coming in—”

“That's where I was tonight,” I interrupted. “I have another special edition coming out tomorrow morning. I brought you a copy.” I handed one to Pa.

He glanced at the headlines. “You interviewed Miss Gramercy, I see. That's what I wanted to talk with you about. Your ma and I have an appointment to see her privately on Wednesday afternoon. Can you mind the store for us then?”

I'd done that many times in the past. “Of course. You're going to ask her to contact Ethan again?”

“We are,” said Ma. “I can't help being curious. She's such a little thing, to have so very special a gift . . .” Ma pointed to the newspaper sheet. “Well, you've met her, so you know. I'm hoping she can put us
in touch with Ethan one more time. She's brought so many wonderful messages to other people in town.”

Pa reached over and squeezed Ma's hand.

“The world is so full of dreadful news these days. It would mean a lot to hear a good word from Ethan. A final good word.” She looked at Pa, and then back at me. “You understand, don't you, Joe?”

I nodded. I hoped Nell and her voices could give them the answers they wanted to hear.

Ma went over to the stove. “I kept some biscuits and ham warm for your dinner. You look exhausted. Why don't you take this upstairs to eat as you're getting ready for bed?” She filled a pewter plate and handed it to me.

“Thanks, Ma,” I said. “And don't worry; I'll take care of the store for you Wednesday.”

Upstairs I pulled my crazy quilt around me and ate the warm dinner. I wished Ma and Pa had included me in their session with Nell. Would she be able to contact Ethan again? What would she say? I wanted to hear.

And what would Charlie say if he knew my family had scheduled a private session with Nell? What news would come about the war tomorrow?

Just a week ago life had seemed so simple.

Chapter 22

Tuesday, April 16, morning

I slept restlessly, and was at the
Herald
office before anyone else on Tuesday morning.

“It'd be best if we split up.” I pointed at the papers I'd divided into three stacks. “Charlie, you cover the businesses on Main Street and the houses north of Main. Owen, you take these down to the stores on Water Street and Fore Street. I'll take the homes south of Main Street, and the church and courthouse.”

That would give Charlie the telegraph office, the taverns, and most of the busier sections of Wiscasset. He loved to gab, and knew most folks there. Owen could take homes and small businesses, and I'd go to the legal buildings, the wealthier section of town, and the churches. Between us, we'd cover the center of Wiscasset in an hour or two.

“Today we're charging two cents for the issue. It's a two-pager, with historic significance—one that our readers will want to keep. Do your best. We'll meet back here as soon as our papers are gone, or as soon as we've covered our territories.”

Owen and Charlie nodded. “And keep your eyes open for any news.”

The three of us grabbed our piles of
Herald
sheets and headed out. The early morning was cool, but bright sun promised it would warm up later. Streets that had been muddy days before were beginning to dry.

Most people were curious about our interview with Nell, and wanted to know who had signed Major Bailey's “enrollment” sheet on the Green yesterday. Coins soon filled my pockets. Only one or two people complained about the 2-cent charge.

When we all got back to the office I'd add up the books again and see how close I was to the $65 I needed for Mr. Shuttlesworth. I walked faster. For the first time in days I was beginning to think I might reach my goal.

Almost everyone at the Lincoln County Courthouse wanted at least one copy of the bulletin. Some even wanted two. While I was making change for a lawyer waiting to try a case, Mr. Bowman, the county clerk, beckoned to me.

“Joe Wood?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I've heard you take on printing jobs, as well as publishing the newspaper. That right?”

“It is, sir,” I answered. Printing for the county clerk's office could be a big job.

“We just got word from Augusta that the state legislature passed an act concerning the raising of volunteers for the war. They're promising printed copies, but not for another ten days. Could you print twenty-five copies before then? We'll need one for every town in Lincoln County, plus some to spare for the county officers.”

“How long is the Act, sir?”

“About twenty pages. Short pages, though.”

Twenty pages.
A job that big would mean having the money to pay back Mr. Shuttersworth for sure! I wanted this job. I needed this job.

“Could I see a copy of the bill?”

“I won't be getting it 'til this afternoon. When it comes in, I'll send it down to you. Can you get me an answer then, as to how much it would cost, and how long it would take?”

“I'll let you know immediately,” I assured him.

I hardly remember the rest of my walk through town. Twenty pages! I'd never done a job that large. Did I have enough paper in stock? Could I do the job fast enough? Printing wasn't what would take the time; it was typesetting that'd eat up hours.

I could hardly wait to get back to the office to check my paper supply and start making up some more ink.

I'd ask Owen if he'd help. Mixing ink was like Ma's making piecrusts: Even when you put together the exact same amounts of pine pitch, flaxseed oil, and lamp black—soot gathered from lamps and chimneys—and a trace of soap, the temperature of the room could change the result. Owen enjoyed the challenge. I suspected that was because making ink was messy, and he left for home or school proud of the blackened palms that proved he was working in our print shop.

I was figgering how much ink I'd be needing for the next week when I heard shouting down on Fore Street. It sounded like trouble. I ran the rest of the way.

Owen was in the middle of a group of boys, holding the few copies of the
Herald
he hadn't sold.

“My father's going to be a soldier,” Owen was saying. “He's going to be a better soldier than anyone!”

“How can he be the best soldier when he's not white?” jeered Davy Searsmont.

“Yeah! My pa's going too, and he's the best with a musket in Lincoln County,” said Liam Reynolds. “He can get a turkey or a deer or even a moose with just one shot!”

“There ain't gonna be any moose in South Carolina, Reynolds,” said Davy. “So what are you and yer ma gonna eat when yer pa's off shootin' all them Southerners?”

“He'll kill 'em all, and get home in three months, jest like Mr. Lincoln says,” said Liam. “He'll be home before the leaves fall.”

“My father, too,” put in Owen, strutting a little. “My father can kill any three Southerners, any time, faster'n your father!”

“Oh, yeah?” said Liam.

“Yeah!” said Owen.

Liam reached over and grabbed Owen's newspapers and threw them up in the air, scattering them all over the Custom House lawn. Owen's eyes followed them, but his feet didn't move. “My father'll be a better soldier than your father—any day.”

“I'll bet your father doesn't even know how to shoot a musket. I've never seen him with one. Not once!” said Liam. “He's not even a real man. Real men are white!”

Owen's feet moved then. His left foot reached out and kicked Liam, hard, in his shins. But Liam's right hand was faster. It hit Owen's nose straight on. Owen's nose erupted in blood, spraying his own clothes and Liam's.

Liam moved back a step or two and reached up to touch his face. His hand came away covered with blood.

I stood back. If I stepped in, I'd be fighting Owen's battles for him. He'd never be able to show his face again. But I didn't want to see him hurt.

Then Davy and Liam and the other two boys took off.