Uncertain Glory

by Lea Wait

  “Your father’s bought tickets for us both to go to her session tomorrow night,” added Ma, “and he’s arranged for us to have a private session with her next week. If she can get in touch with Ethan, then I want to hear, too.”

  “It was amazing, son. She knew things about Ethan that only one of us would have known. After I knew he was well, and not angry with me, I slept better last night than I have in months. I don’t know how that girl’s able to get in touch with those who have passed on, but she does. She brought messages from old Mrs. Quinn’s husband and son, too, and told Captain Tucker that one of his ships was in a storm. That ‘storm’ might have even meant the battle you just told me about!”

  “Battle?” asked Ma, turning to me. “What battle?”

  “Down in South Carolina. The Confederates fired on Fort Sumter, and the Federal forces fired back. It began early this morning,” I explained.

  “Just when we were beginning to feel at peace about Ethan,” Ma said, sitting down hard on one of the kitchen chairs and reaching for Pa’s hand. “Let’s pray war won’t take our other son from us.”

  Chapter 9

  Friday, April 12, mid-morning

  I walked slowly back to the Herald’s office. The sun was higher in the sky and the chickadees were still calling to each other, but I focused on kicking pebbles into the deep puddles in the street. They plunked with a satisfying sound.

  Political arguments had always seemed boring and far away—something politicians in Washington and businessmen like Captain Tucker worried about. Of course, for years I’d heard people talking about why slavery should be ended. Why, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Mrs. Stowe’s book that described the evils of slavery, was written in Brunswick, just twenty miles down the road. A person in this town’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know about abolitionists and their campaign to end slavery in all the states, not just here in the North. Slavery hadn’t been allowed in Maine since 1783, way back when we were still part of Massachusetts. Families like Owen’s had lived here freely since then.

  But now the men at Fort Sumter weren’t talking. They were shooting—and being shot at.

  I maneuvered my way through the crowd near Mr. Johnston’s store. The clock in the window read ten-thirty.

  “Are they still fighting down in Charleston?” I asked Mr. Sayward, who was standing near the door.

  “Last message in said batteries on both sides been shelling steadily since a little past seven.”

  “So no one’s won,” I said.

  “Or lost,” Mr. Sayward confirmed.

  I nodded, and turned back through the crowd.

  Charlie was waiting at the print shop.

  “Where’ve you been?” said Charlie. “And where’s Owen? You were going to get him.”

  “I got distracted.”

  “I’ve got good news—even though it won’t help for this issue. Mr. Allen was at the tavern, as I thought. I gave him a copy of last week’s Herald and told him we’d like to cover the meeting Saturday night, and interview Miss Gramercy for our next issue.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “He’s given us each free tickets—press passes, he called them—for Saturday night. And we’re to meet with Miss Gramercy and her aunt at one o’clock on Monday afternoon.” Charlie pulled two tickets out of his pocket and waved them in my face.

  “Did he give you a ticket for me, too?” asked Owen, who’d just appeared in the doorway.

  “Owen! Good. Joe was just about to go and get you. We can use your help today,” said Charlie.

  “Can I go to the spirit meeting Saturday?” Owen repeated.

  “No; the tickets are just for Joe and me,” answered Charlie. “We’ll be writing the article.”

  “I’m learning to write, too,” said Owen. “I could help.” He picked up the broom and started sweeping the floor.

  “Not this time, Owen. And Joe, between seeing Miss Gramercy the other night, and Saturday, and then again Monday to ask her questions, she won’t be able to keep any secrets from us. After all, she’s just a girl.”

  “A girl who’ll have her aunt with her,” I pointed out.

  “We’re lucky it’s just her aunt; her uncle had another appointment then. After all, it wouldn’t be proper for her to meet with us without a chaperone. Her aunt won’t be answering our questions.”

  Owen knocked the broom against the wall as he put it back in place and stomped over to the font cases, where he’d practiced setting type for a business card last week.

  “What if Nell Gramercy doesn’t have any secrets?” I asked. “What if she can talk to people in the spirit world?”

  “That’s impossible,” said Charlie. “All we have to do is find out how she does it—how she knows what to say to people.”

  “It may not be that easy.” I kept thinking of how excited my parents were to have heard from Ethan. “She was very convincing last night. And not everyone in Wiscasset may want to hear that Nell is fooling them.”

  “That’s next week’s problem,” Charlie said dismissively. “Today we have to set type for tomorrow’s edition.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Owen, would you like to set a couple of the ads?”

  Owen looked up and nodded, grinning. “I can do it, Joe. I can!”

  “Then let’s get started. I have the social news and some ads already set, but there are empty spots on pages two, three, and four, and we’ll have to redo the first page with the news from Charleston. Owen, there are three spaces left to fill with ads on page four. Why don’t we finish those first, and then check the telegraph office?” I kept thinking of what Pa and Ma had said about the fighting. “We could talk to people there, and to those at the tavern and the inn, and find out what they think the attack on Fort Sumter means to the country, and to us here in Maine.”

  “Good plan,” said Charlie. “That way we could quote people and put their names in the paper, too. People buy copies of a newspaper when their names are in it.”

  Owen was already carefully setting the type for an ad for the Mansion House. Charlie and I took trays to work on the other two pages. All was silent as we each reached for the pieces of type we needed.

  Owen was the first to speak. “Do you think many soldiers will be killed down at Charleston Harbor?”

  “Could be,” answered Charlie. “Men die in battles, and what’s happening at Fort Sumter sounds like the closest thing to a real battle the United States has been in since the war with Mexico.”

  “What do you think it would be like to be a soldier?” Owen asked.

  Charlie stopped for a moment and gazed off into space. “And fight for the honor of our nation? It would be glorious.”

  Chapter 10

  Friday, April 12, evening

  Both sides in Charleston were still firing late that afternoon. Faces at Wiscasset taverns were getting grimmer, but only a few men still waited at the telegraph office. Events were happening more slowly than most had thought. Or hoped.

  Meals had to be cooked, oxen shod, boats caulked, babies fed. Life must go on.

  Owen and Charlie left the office to get their suppers, but I stayed to complete the week’s accounts and ensure supplies for next week’s Herald and any special editions were in order. Knocking on wood, I figgered I could just make it through the next ten days before Mr. Shuttersworth showed up with his hand out.

  I’d said a silent prayer of thanks when Mr. Dana came by in the afternoon to order business cards for his pharmacy. Luckily, I had plenty of the heavier paper the cards required. It’d take a dozen special orders like his to come up with the cash I needed, but every order counted. I’d already started Owen setting type for the cards.

  Warm daytime temperatures had fallen sharply. Now thick fog filled the streets. My boots skidded where the morning’s puddles had frozen. I was glad to reach home and inhale the welcoming smells of chicken broth and baked bread. It was a minute or so before I realized Trusty hadn’t greeted me at the door.

  “Trusty?�
�� I called. “Trusty?”

  “Trusty’s in the yard,” Ma called from upstairs. “I was about to bring him in. This dank fog’s no weather for even a dog to be out in for long. Thank goodness you’re home.”

  I lit the tin kerosene lantern with the glass front and went outside. “Trusty?” No answering bark. I checked the dooryard fence for openings. Small paw prints were all over the muddy earth, but there were no holes in or under the fence. Trusty must have climbed the woodpile again and jumped over the fence into our neighbor’s yard.

  I held the lantern out as far as I could. Sure enough, a half-dozen logs had fallen from the top of the pile into the yard.

  If Trusty had left the yard, he’d have headed for Water Street. I worked there, and Mr. Chase’s butcher shop on Union Wharf was his favorite stop. Mr. Chase always gave him a treat. But no one would be at the butcher shop at this time of night.

  “Ma?” I called up the stairs leading to our sleeping chambers. “Trusty’s gotten out. He’s probably headed toward the river. I’m going after him.”

  Ma came to the top of the stairs. “Do be careful, Joe. The fog and black ice will be worse on the piers than here.”

  “Trusty could slip into the Sheepscot.”

  “As could you. Step sharply.”

  “I will, Ma.”

  By now, even the mud on the empty streets was freezing. Most people in Wiscasset were safe and warm behind shuttered windows glimmering with oil lamps. The telegraph office and taverns were open, but they weren’t close to where I guessed Trusty’d gone.

  I held the lantern ahead of me, low, hoping the light would be reflected in invisible patches of ice on the narrow street. I skidded twice, and once slid and landed on my rear, spilling some of the oil from the lamp onto the frozen mud. The oath that came from my lips was not the sort I’d print in a family newspaper.

  Long wharves met the land at Water Street. Shops and stalls there sold everything needed by the mariners and their vessels that sailed from the Sheepscot River. A few tradesmen lived above the stores, but at this time of night the southern end of the street was left to the tides and bats and night birds.

  Now was the season when small vessels were pulled out of dry dock for summer, shipyards launched winter-built vessels, and ships set sail for foreign seas after wintering in port for repairs and time ashore for their captains and crews.

  “Trusty!” I called out, peering ahead through the mists. “Trusty, come!”

  The fog was heaviest here, in some places obscuring vessels and piers entirely. Swirling in lacy patterns, it teased me, lifting momentarily to reveal a docked ship or shuttered shop. I aimed my lantern so its light wouldn’t be reflected in the mist. I’d been confused by shimmering ghostlike reflections in past fogs. I shivered, remembering.

  Every few minutes I called again. “Trusty!”

  If there were spirits in Wiscasset, they would be here now. If the dead came back to what they loved, then Ethan would be here, for sure. He’d loved the sea, and the soft mysteries of the fog.

  “Trusty! Come!” The masts on the ships anchored in the harbor looked like a forest of leafless trees that appeared and then disappeared. Where was that dog?

  Arf!

  The sound wasn’t close by. Maybe I’d only heard the low moan of a ship’s rigging grinding against its mast.

  “Trusty!”

  ARF!!

  This time I was sure: The bark was louder. I ran, carefully, toward the sound—toward the corner where Water Street met Main Street, and then Main Street became the red Long Bridge across the Sheepscot. In winter ice gathered around the bridge’s pilings, and the wooden bridge itself became a treacherous pathway of thick ice. Even now, black ice from the dampness and fog would cover the boards, making them slick and dangerous. Trusty wouldn’t have ventured onto the bridge, would he? A small dog could easily slip off into the icy salt water.

  I called again. “Trusty?”

  The answering bark was soft, but close by. I turned. For a moment the fog cleared, and it looked like the mist circled around a slight figure standing in the doorway of Mr. Pinkham’s stationery store.

  Then Trusty ran toward me, feet slipping wildly on the ice but tail wagging like mad. I dropped the lantern and swept him up in my arms, burying my face in fur wet with fog. His tongue lapping my face was rough and warm.

  “There you are! You should have known better than to run away in the fog!” Trusty’s whole body shook with delight.

  “I can see he’s your dog.” The white-hooded figure stepped carefully out of the mist.

  “What are you doing out in this weather?” I asked, staring. “It’s dangerous on the streets.”

  Nell Gramercy laughed. “You’re here, too! I couldn’t stand being inside any longer. I wanted to see the river in the fog.”

  “There isn’t just fog. There’s black ice—ice you can’t see. You’d best get back to your inn.”

  Nell hesitated. “Your dog . . . you called him Trusty? Trusty found me. I was staring at the river. It changes, you know, every second. I saw faces there, in the mist.”

  I gulped. “I’ve lived here all my life. I assure you, there are no people on the river now, miss.”

  Nell shrugged. She was as small as I remembered; her head only came up to my shoulder. “Sometimes there are people no one else sees. What is across the bridge?” She took another step toward me and slipped on the ice. I grabbed her arm to keep her from falling.

  “I’m afraid I came north unprepared.” She stuck out her foot, displaying a stylish leather boot clearly not meant to be worn on icy streets. “I expected April to be warmer.” Even in the gray mist I could see her blush. “Before you got here I tried to walk back up the hill, but I slipped. And fell.”

  She held out her left hand, as a child would do to show a sore spot. The palm of her thin white kid glove was torn. Kid gloves sold in our store were expensive. Most women in town wealthy enough to own a pair saved them for elegant occasions.

  “I’ll get you back to the inn,” I said. “That’s Long Bridge—longest bridge in the State of Maine, folks say—more than three thousand feet long. It goes over to Davis Island, in Edgecomb. You can’t see the island now, because of the fog.”

  “Do many people live there? I thought of walking across before I found out how icy it was.”

  “A few families. And Fort Edgecomb is there. It was built to protect Wiscasset during the War of 1812.”

  “It’s old, then.”

  “People talk about fixin’ it up, but never seem to do so. It’s a nice spot for a picnic. Or a game of hide-’n’-seek for children in summer.”

  Nell shivered. “I’m cold. I’ll let you help me to the inn. I’m staying at the Mansion House.”

  I put Trusty down, hoping he’d stay with us. Nell took my arm as though she were a grown woman, not a twelve-year-old. No one had ever taken my arm before. I sure hoped I didn’t fall on my rear again while she was trusting me to help her stay upright.

  I held the lantern and we started carefully up the hill.

  “I should introduce myself,” she said. “I’m Nell Gramercy, from Albany, New York. No one knows I left the inn. My aunt and uncle think I’m resting. They’d be furious with me if they knew I’d left. I’m embarrassed at having to ask for help, but I don’t know how to get back up the hill without falling again.”

  “I’m Joe Wood, from Wiscasset, Maine.” I grinned, thinking how Charlie would howl if he could see me now. “I own a newspaper and print business in town. I know who you are. I’ve heard you can talk to the dead.”

  “Spirits of the departed come to me,” Nell corrected. “I don’t know why, or how. It’s been happening since I was very young.”

  “My father was at your spirit circle the other night. You delivered a message from my older brother, Ethan.”

  “I remember your father, and the spirit of your brother. Your brother was young when he moved on, wasn’t he?”

  “He was fifteen when
he died.”

  “I’m sorry.” She paused. “I had brothers, too, once. I hope the message helped your father.”

  I nodded. “It did. Pa seems to be sorrowing less. He’s helping Ma at our store again.”

  “I’m glad. Spirits come to me because they’re not at peace, or because they feel someone they left behind is not.”

  We made our way carefully up the street, Trusty following close behind.

  “Then you really hear the voices of dead people?” I couldn’t help but ask her directly.

  “Not all the time. And I don’t hear them exactly; I sense them,” said Nell. “It’s hard to explain. And it’s very tiring. That’s why I was lying down this afternoon. I had one of my headaches.”

  “Ma gets headaches. She drinks peppermint tea or powdered charcoal in water.”

  “Does that help her?”

  “I guess. She doesn’t have to lie down a lot.”

  “She’s lucky. Sometimes my headaches last for days, and I can’t eat or sleep. My uncle gives me medicine, but it doesn’t take the pain away; it lifts me above the pain. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have commitments to people. Then I could hide in a dark place for hours. This afternoon I felt a little better and hoped some fresh salt air would clear away the pain and shadows.”

  “Has it?”

  “I guess it has.” Nell smiled. “I’ve been so worried about getting back to the inn over the ice I haven’t had a chance to think about my head. I must be better!”

  Up the hill, a block ahead of us, several men were standing outside the telegraph office.

  “Wait,” Nell said, stopping. “Why are all those men there?”

  “Waiting to hear the latest news from Charleston,” I explained. “The telegraph office is in Mr. Johnston’s store.”

  “Then take me to the back door of the inn, please.”

  “But that’s half a block farther than the front door.”

  “I don’t want anyone in town to see me. They might start asking me questions about the future, or about their loved ones. And my uncle will be sitting with his brandy and cigar in the tavern or lobby of the Mansion House. He’d be furious if he knew I’d gone out alone. The back door is best.”