Uncertain Glory

by Lea Wait

  “I didn’t ask. But Pa said it was hard to schedule a time. Many people in town want to talk with her.”

  “I’ll bet she’s making a small fortune,” Charlie said. “I suspect the war is adding to her coffers. How do you think she and her aunt and uncle paid for those fancy clothes they’re wearing?” He walked toward a part of the shop concealed by a rose-colored velvet curtain.

  “Charlie, get away from that corner! You know you’re not supposed to go over there.”

  “No one else is here this afternoon. What harm would it do to look? You work here, and it hasn’t done you any grave moral damage.”

  I moved over in front of the curtain and crossed my arms. “I’m in charge of the shop, and I don’t want anyone to come in and see you behind there. It’s indecent. No boys or men are allowed in there except Pa and me, and that’s only because we work here. Most of the time Ma handles that department herself.”

  Charlie made a motion as if to part the curtain, but then backed off. “All right, all right. Relax. I’ve seen corsets and stockings and petticoats and drawers before. They hang on the laundry line at the Mansion House every day. I was just teasing.”

  I kept my eyes on him. Charlie couldn’t always be trusted when he had mischief on his mind. “You’d be a big help to me if you’d go back to the office, get the cards we printed, and deliver them to Mr. Pendleton. Owen should be back any minute. One of us should be in the office when he’s working, in case he has questions.”

  “All right! But setting type hour after hour is boring. You have an hour off; I needed to stretch my legs a little.”

  I bit my tongue. Charlie’d taken the whole morning off so far as I could tell. But, then, it wasn’t his print shop. “I’ll be at the office as soon as my parents get back.”

  He’d only been gone a few minutes when Mrs. Parsons came in to buy a bonnet for her niece in Camden. She spent fifteen minutes debating whether a pink hat with white flowers looked better than a white hat with pink flowers. She bought a yellow bonnet with ribbons instead of either of them.

  Then Mr. Chase stopped by to see if Pa would usher at the Congregational Church on Sunday morning, and Widow Quinn bought some red silk embroidery floss for a cushion she was stitching for her sister’s parlor.

  When the bell on the shop door jingled again it was Ma and Pa. I gave Pa the message from Mr. Chase and then asked, “Was Miss Gramercy able to contact Ethan?”

  Ma’s smile answered. “She did! And he sent you a message.”

  “Me!”

  “He said he missed his little brother Joe, but that you had work yet to do in life. He would see you again someday, when your work was finished.”

  “He wished us all well,” added Pa, “and said he had no pain where he was—only joy. That the next world was not to be feared.”

  “It made me shiver, hearing that girl talk,” said Ma, putting her outside bonnet carefully under the counter and replacing it with the one she wore inside. “I’m so glad we were able to arrange a time with her.”

  “Nell Gramercy’s gift is a true one,” said Pa. “We’re blessed she chose to share it with us in Wiscasset.”

  “I have to get back to the Herald office,” I said, patting Trusty on his head. “I’m glad the meeting went well.” I hugged Ma, and then I hugged Pa, too. How long would it be before I wouldn’t be able to do that?

  To my surprise, Charlie was alone in the office.

  “Where’s Owen?”

  “Don’t know. He hasn’t been here,” he said. “I took the cards to Mr. Pendleton, and he gave me the five dollars right off. The money’s in the desk.” Charlie gestured to where I put any paper money we earned. “For someone who wants to learn the business, Owen seems to have disappeared.” Charlie slammed a font tray down on the table. “The day we need him most.”

  I didn’t answer. Owen had been with me all morning; Charlie hadn’t.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said.

  “I’ve been looking at the Act. It’s printed on twenty pages now, but I think with smaller fonts, we can do it on ten. It’s going to be ten full pages, though, and we’ve only just started the first.” Charlie looked at me.

  I nodded. “You’re right. We’re going to take four of the pages and distribute them, with one or two boxed items, like one for the news from Virginia, as an issue of the Herald. That will mean we don’t have to print the Herald in addition to printing the Act. But it’s still going to be a lot of work.”

  “Do we even have enough pieces of type?”

  I shook my head. “We’ll have to set two pages, print them, then set another two pages. We have no choice.”

  Charlie whistled. “Godfrey mighty. When does all of this have to be done?”

  “First thing Monday morning. At the latest.”

  Charlie shook his head. “I do like that we’re among the first to know what’s happening with the war. Some boys our age don’t even understand what’s happening. But to get all that typesetting and printing done, we’ll hardly be able to sleep from now until Monday.”

  “You’re right. Without both of us, the job can’t be finished.” I hoped Charlie wouldn’t think of an excuse to be somewhere else, as he sometimes did when there was work to be done.

  “Then why are you talking instead of setting type?” Charlie handed me a type tray. “I stopped at the telegraph office on my way back from Mr. Pendleton’s. There’s no news to concern ourselves with for the moment—although the Sixth Massachusetts has left Boston for Washington.”

  “While we’re still recruiting here in Maine. I wonder how many men have gone to Edwin Smith’s house to enlist today.”

  “And how long it’ll take him to get his quota,” Charlie said, setting pieces of type on the table. “Captain Tucker said one hundred men, but that’s a lot for a town the size of Wiscasset.” He reached to set another line.

  “What did Mr. Pendleton say when you left the cards we printed with him? Is he getting much call for portraits?”

  “I almost forgot. He wants to put an advertisement in the Herald this week, reminding families of his services. He was pleased with the cards. We only spoke briefly; two families were in his office, inquiring about appointments. One man wanted a portrait of his promised lady to carry with him. She was sniffling and crying and was all upset.” Charlie’s fingers were flying over the type.

  Would Pa want to take a picture of Ma with him when he left? I’d saved out one of the cards for him. What if he were hurt somewhere, and no one nearby knew who he was? I’d make sure Pa filled it out and took it with him. Just in case.

  We were interrupted by heavy steps on the stairs leading to the office, and then, a knock.

  “Mr. Bascomb!” Charlie said, opening the door. “What brings you here this afternoon?”

  “I came to talk with Owen,” Mr. Bascomb said, looking around the room.

  “Owen isn’t here,” I said. “He left about twelve-thirty and hasn’t been back. We assumed he went home to you.”

  Mr. Bascomb frowned. “He was home, sure enough, but I had to give him some upsetting news, and he ran out. I assumed he’d come here. If he’s not here, then I don’t know where he is.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what was he upset about?”

  For a moment, Mr. Bascomb was silent. Then he spoke slowly, saying each word distinctly, as though to ensure his words were understood.

  “I went this morning to enlist. To serve my country, as a man should.” His mustache quivered with emotion. “Captain Smith turned me down flat. Said they weren’t taking no men of color in the Union Army. Didn’t matter who I was, or how long I’d known everyone else in line, or what I could do. Said I couldn’t serve in the Army alongside white folks. Said that was the rule come down from Washington, set in 1820. Didn’t matter that men of my color served in the Revolutionary War, and are serving now in the Navy.”

  Mr. Bascomb headed toward the door, then turned around.

  “I don’t blame my b
oy for being upset, but I want him home—where we can talk about it together. If you see him, you tell him that. And you tell him I’m still proud to be an American, and he should be too. No matter what those people in Washington say.”

  Chapter 28

  Thursday, April 18, early morning

  Charlie’d left the newspaper office at suppertime, but I’d stayed until the oil in my lamp had burned out and my eyes were too tired to set any more type. I’d slept a few hours at home, and was having bread and cold meat for breakfast before heading back, when someone pounded on our kitchen door.

  Pa opened it.

  “John—good morning! What brings you here so early? The sun’s barely up.”

  It was Mr. Bascomb.

  “My Owen didn’t come home last night,” said Mr. Bascomb. “I thought maybe he was at your place. Or that Joe might have an idea of where he’d be.”

  I got up from the table. “I haven’t seen Owen since yesterday morning, and he hasn’t been here. But I’ll help you look.” I started putting on my jacket.

  “How long’s he been missing for?” asked Pa, reaching for his own coat.

  “Since a little past one o’clock yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Bascomb replied. “I’ve looked everywhere. My wife’s been crying the night through, making herself sick. In her condition, I don’t know whether to worry more about her or the boy.”

  “Has he done anything like this before?” asked Pa.

  “Never! He’s a good boy. Works with your Joe and Charlie at the print shop instead of going to school some days, but that’s no secret.”

  “Maybe he’s with a friend,” suggested Pa.

  “He doesn’t have any close friends that I know of, except for Joe and Charlie,” said Mr. Bascomb. “Of course, no father knows everything about their children. What do you think, Joe? Where could he be?”

  “I don’t think he’d be with any other boys.” I hesitated, wondering how much I should say about what I’d seen Monday. “He got into a fight the other day with some boys about his own age. He was real proud of you, Mr. Bascomb. He was bragging what a good soldier you were going to be. Some of the other boys were saying . . . nasty things.”

  “So that’s how he got that black eye and nosebleed. I thought his story about running into a tree sounded suspicious. And then for him to hear what happened yesterday,” Mr. Bascomb said, shaking his head in anger. “A boy shouldn’t have to take on the battles of grown men.”

  “Joe told me what happened when you went to enlist,” said Pa. “It’s neither fair nor right, John. The army needs men like you. The decision out of Washington must have something to do with that slavery issue down south.”

  “They’re saying it’s because Lincoln doesn’t want to aggravate the slave-holding states that haven’t left the Union. But don’t fool yourself—they’re afraid white men even here in the North won’t want to serve alongside men of color, to sleep in the same tents and use the same latrines. And too many folk think men of my color won’t make good soldiers. Don’t forget: Nathaniel Gordon, a Maine man, is sitting in a New York prison, accused of engaging in the slave trade in West Africa last summer. But today that’s neither here nor there. Today I’d appreciate your help in finding my Owen and bringing him home.”

  Pa nodded. “One thing’s for sure: If he’s been hiding since yesterday afternoon, he’s raging hungry by now. I’d think he’d be coming home anytime.”

  “That’s what I kept thinking all night. That it was cold, and he’d be hungry. I figure he’s either somewhere with a friend, or something’s happened to him. Something bad,” said Mr. Bascomb.

  “We’re going to find him,” I said. “I’ll get Charlie; he’ll look, too.”

  “I’d planned to check with the businesses down on Water Street next,” said Mr. Bascomb. “They’ve been closed all night. Now that they’re opening, someone might find him if he was hiding there.”

  “I’ll go out to the steam mill and then check the shipyards on Fore Street,” said Pa. “Joe, after you get Charlie, why don’t you boys head up Federal Street? Maybe one of the houses north of Main Street is vacant, or has a barn or shed Owen might hide in.”

  Where could Owen be? Was he hurt and alone somewhere? No one mentioned the one fear we all shared: the river.

  Where Ethan had disappeared.

  Chapter 29

  Thursday, April 18, mid-morning

  “I told Father that Owen was missing. He said he’d check inside the inn, but I don’t think Owen would be here. Besides, people would remember seeing a small boy,” Charlie pointed out. “Although I suppose he might have hidden in one of the outbuildings. We’ll look there.”

  The stable seemed a good place to start. Charlie checked the hayloft, while I looked in the stalls and in every guest’s wagon or carriage.

  “If Owen were looking for a place to hide, there are lots of places in here,” I said. “Under the seats, and in the compartments for trunks, and under the hay. And there are several empty stalls.” We called his name, but there was no answer. Old Mr. McKinley, who was in charge of the Mansion House stable, said he hadn’t seen any boys.

  We walked past Mr. Stacy’s house and Mr. Turner’s; no places there for a boy to hide.

  The old burying ground had been filled long ago, and some of the worn granite headstones had toppled over. Wealthier families in town had moved their family members’ bodies to the newer, more stylish, cemetery over on Spruce Point, where there was more space. Boys sometimes dared each other to climb the iron fence and explore the ancient graveyard. Owen wouldn’t have gone in alone; Charlie and I were sure of that.

  We continued down Federal Street, asking everyone we saw if they’d seen Owen. No one had. We walked all the way out of town until we came to the old granite jail.

  “Mr. Cunningham is in there now, I guess,” I said, looking at the small windows covered with iron bars.

  “That’ll show anyone who talks against the Union,” said Charlie.

  “Talking’s one thing,” I pointed out. “Refusing to do your job for the country’s another. He wasn’t jailed for talking.”

  “Guess not,” admitted Charlie. He looked down the road, where it became more pitted and muddy. “Owen wouldn’t have gone any farther than here, would he?”

  I shook my head. “It’s just farms out there on the Alna Road. Owen doesn’t know anyone who lives that far from town. Let’s go back.”

  We turned, neither of us saying anything for a long time.

  Finally Charlie spoke. “Chances are he’ll have turned up by the time we get back, don’t you think? Wherever he was, probably he got hungry or thirsty and decided to go home.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “He was so proud his father was going to be a soldier. And then, to have to face everyone he bragged to, after his father was turned down . . . That’s got to be hard, Charlie. Mighty hard.”

  “I guess,” said Charlie. “But he’s young. He’ll learn to live with it.”

  “Did your father change his mind after you talked with him yesterday? Is he enlisting?” I asked.

  “Nah. He says he’s too old, and can’t shoot, and he’s not interested in the politics of it all.” Charlie dragged his foot, making a line in the dirt street. “Now that’s embarrassing. He didn’t even try to enlist.”

  “I wish my pa wasn’t going,” I said softly.

  Charlie stopped. “What?”

  “I know—it’s patriotic and all. But I wish he’d let someone else go so he could stay home and help Ma with the store.”

  “But you must be so proud! I wish he were my pa!” Charlie laughed. “You have all the luck!”

  “Luck? My brother died, and now Pa’s leaving too; who knows if he’ll be comin’ back. And in the meantime, Ma has to run the store. Even if we get the Act printed in time to earn enough money so I can pay Mr. Shuttersworth, I’ll be torn between helping her and running the Herald, never knowing what’s happening to Pa.” I took a few steps toward Charlie. “Yo
u’re right. I’m lucky. Just plumb lucky.”

  I should have gone to the Herald office, or to the Bascombs’ house to see if Owen had come home, but at that moment I was convinced I’d never get the printing job done, we’d never find Owen, and life would never work out the way I’d hoped it would.

  And not even my best friend understood.

  I left Charlie standing by the town water pump and headed home.

  Chapter 30

  Thursday April 18, nooning

  “Did you find Owen?” Ma asked. “I’ve been worried about that boy all morning.”

  “Charlie and I didn’t. Maybe someone else did.”

  Ma looked at me. “I would have been out there myself, but I’ve been kept busy all morning, selling goods and taking orders from women whose husbands and sons have enlisted.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t. “These are difficult days for everyone.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Your pa is still out looking, so far as I know. A lot of townsfolk are.”

  “Owen should have come home by now, Ma.”

  “If he were able.” She glanced toward the corner of the kitchen where she’d hung a framed sketch an itinerant artist had drawn of Ethan when he was a toddler.

  I hugged her. I was now taller than she was, I realized.

  Many of the men in town had also gone out to look for Ethan. But his skiff had been missing too, so they’d known where to start the search. With Owen there were no such hints.

  “I keep thinking of Owen’s poor mother,” said Ma. “After the store’s closed today, I’ll go sit with her. I have a loaf of cinnamon bread baking for her now.”

  Food. The way to console and show compassion.

  “Your cinnamon bread’s the best, Ma,” I said. “Mrs. Bascomb will love it. And Owen, too, when he gets home.”

  We smiled at each other.

  “I’m going down to the Herald office to check on things. Then I’ll look for Owen again. Don’t wait supper.”

  Ma nodded. “My thoughts and prayers go with you, and all the searchers.”