The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg

by Rodman Philbrick

  SOON AFTER BREAKFAST my new guardian shuffles into the drawing room, walking like he’s got something sticky on his boots that makes it hard to lift his feet from the floor. He’s tall and thin, with narrow shoulders not much wider than his head, and long skinny arms that shoot past his frayed cuffs. He’s wearing an old black frock coat, short at the waist, and trousers that shine at the knees, and a crooked stovepipe hat that bumps against the door frame as he enters the room.

  “Pardon me, sirs!” he exclaims, blushing. “A thousand apologies! Oh dear, oh dear!”

  Mr. Webster B. Willow don’t look much older than my brother, Harold. The fine blond hair on his narrow chin hasn’t decided if it wants to be a beard, and his eyes are so close together it looks like he’s studying his nose or trying to see around it. Mostly he seems to be upset about forgetting to take off his hat like a gentleman does when entering a house, and he looks like he wants to leave the room and try again.

  “Never mind the hat, Webster,” says Mr. Brewster impatiently. “The hat is of no consequence. Come in, come in. I want thee to meet Homer Figg. He will be in thy charge.”

  “Splendid, wonderful, how do you do, sir,” he says, grabbing my hand and shaking it without actually looking at me. “Wonderful opportunity! Splendid!”

  He fidgets nervously with his dented hat while Mr. Brewster explains that we shall journey by train to Portland, and from there take an overnight steamship to New York.

  “We can’t be exactly sure where or when Homer’s brother has been assigned,” Mr. Brewster says. “It is likely that all the new recruits will be sent to encampments in New York or New Jersey and from there dispatched to the field of battle. Is that clear?”

  “Field of battle, yes,” says Mr. Willow.

  “Thee will have to make inquiries once thee has reached New York,” Mr. Brewster says, focusing upon the young clergyman. “I will provide thee with letters of introduction to newspaper editors, should that be useful, and to the local elders of my church. But thee will have to use thine own ingenuity to accomplish this task, understood?”

  “Ingenuity,” says Mr. Willow. “Indeed.”

  “Thee must be clear in thy purpose, Webster, lest thee be mistaken for a spy.”

  The idea alarms Mr. Willow. “Spy? Spy? They hang spies, don’t they?”

  “Indeed they do,” says Mr. Brewster gravely. “But thee will not be spying. Thee are simply inquiring as to the whereabouts of an underage soldier who was taken into the army on a ruse. Thee will secure his release by legal means.”

  Mr. Brewster makes it sound pretty easy. All we have to do is go someplace and ask some questions and my brother will be released from the army.

  THE NEXT DAY, AFTER a long carriage ride to the station, me and Mr. Willow find ourselves in a Boston and Maine Railroad car, bound for Portland. While the locomotive sits at the station building up steam, we wait on seats made from varnished oak. Everybody is dressed up like they’re on their way to church. Women with long starched dresses and bonnets tied under their chins, and men in black wool suits, storing their tall hats in a special rack above their heads, and a conductor in a fine uniform, collecting tickets.

  “Steam up in ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out. “Steam up in ten! Take your seats! Take your seats, if you please!”

  Mr. Willow is feeling a bit nervous and confides that he has never been to Portland, let alone New York. “Truth is, I have never been on a train and have never seen a steamship with my own eyes.”

  I tell him not to feel bad — until a few days ago I had never been anywhere but Pine Swamp, and once to Skowhegan for the state fair.

  “How far is it to Portland?” I want to know.

  Mr. Willow has no idea, so I ask the conductor. “Thirty-eight miles, station to station,” he announces, sounding very pleased with himself. “Time of travel, approximately one and a half hours.”

  Almost forty miles and we’ll be there in less than two hours! That’s faster than a racehorse can run flat out, and a horse can’t run but a few miles before it needs to rest. But when I try to discuss the subject of speed and horses and trains, which is really quite interesting, Mr. Willow says he feels faint.

  “I am distinctly indisposed,” he complains in a sickly voice. “I must be ill from the motion. Rail sickness, they call it.”

  “We’re not moving yet, Mr. Willow,” I point out.

  He does look pale, but when the whistle blows and the train lurches forward Mr. Willow recovers some of his good spirits. Buildings and trees and telegraph poles begin to rush by the windows, and the wheels start ticking against the rails in a kind of pleasant, peaceful way. “Not so very bad,” he says, looking pleasantly surprised. “Indeed not.”

  Now that he’s feeling better Mr. Willow wants to talk about himself. He tells me all about the little school where he pursued his Bible studies, the prizes he won for quoting Scripture, and how he had the good fortune to meet Jebediah Brewster at an abolitionist rally, and how Mr. Brewster has taken him under his wing and is helping to find him a position. “I am not presently affiliated with any particular congregation,” he confides. “I am open to possibilities. Indeed, indeed.”

  The way he talks, Mr. Willow believes that helping me rescue my brother is a kind of test, and if he passes, Mr. Brewster will find him a congregation.

  “A great man has given me his trust and I shall not let him down,” he announces, very solemn.

  After a while Mr. Willow’s voice kind of blends into the sound of the wheels clicking against the rails. It’s amazing what goes by the windows on a train. Farms and fields and forests, and rows of wooden houses, and big brick mills. Like we’re floating through a storybook and each turn in the track is a new page, and it’s a story I never heard before so I don’t know how it will end. Page after page, picture after picture, and always something new around the corner, and the chugging of the locomotive belching black smoke, making its own dark clouds against the sky, and the steam whistle sounding alive somehow, like the whole train is saying, Here-I-am, make-way-chugga-chugga-woowoo! Here-I-am, make-way-chugga-chugga-woowoo! and rocking me to sleep.

  When I wake up we’re in Portland, and that’s where the trouble really starts.

  AN OLD COBBLESTONE STREET leads to Portland Harbor, and everybody at the train station said we can’t miss it, our feet will tell us when we get there, but miss it we do. Seems that Mr. Willow hasn’t got no more sense of direction than a blind kitten, and won’t stop to ask along the way because he’s afraid of pickpockets and thieves.

  “A great man has entrusted me with a sum of money,” he mutters to himself, checking his pockets. “I dare not risk it.”

  I’ve got my eyes peeled for lowlifes, figuring a city like Portland might have its own versions of Smelt and Stink lurking about, but we don’t run into anybody that fits the description. Matter of fact, no one seems to be paying us any mind as we wander through fine neighborhoods of big houses shaded by giant elms.

  “Oh dear,” says Mr. Willow. “I seem to have gotten turned around again. Didn’t we pass that yellow house before?”

  “Twice,” I tell him. “We’re heading uphill.”

  “Indeed we are,” he says. “Are you averse to going uphill?”

  “I expect the water part of the city will be downhill, Mr. Willow.”

  “Really?” he asks, as if shocked by the idea. “Extraordinary!”

  “Let’s go downhill for a while,” I suggest. “See where it takes us.”

  Mr. Willow lets me tug him along by the sleeve and in a few minutes we get clear of the big elm trees and see the sparkling harbor laid out before us. The port is packed with ships of every size and shape. There are schooners and paddlewheel steamships and sloops and ferryboats and wherries and more kinds of vessels than I ever imagined, all crowded together along the waterfront like bees trying to feed at a hive.

  “Oh my,” says Mr. Willow, staring in wonder. “Oh my, oh my.”

  Now that
we can see where we’re headed and keep the busy harbor in sight, we’re able to cut through the side streets and down the pretty hills until finally we find the promised cobblestones under our feet, and the big iron gates to the steamship lines dead ahead.

  The cobblestones are mobbed with people in a hurry to get somewhere. Fine people in fine clothes, and workmen in rags, and police and sailors. Boys no older than me are loading carts and smoking clay pipes and looking very superior.

  “Look out! Make way!”

  When a fast carriage comes through, rattling over the stones, we have to step quickly to the side or risk getting run down. That’s how we happen to make the acquaintance of beautiful Kate Nibbly and her brother Frank.

  In her rush to avoid the carriage and keep her skirts clear of the filthy street, Miss Nibbly somehow bumps into Mr. Willow and ends up sprawled in his long skinny arms.

  “Dear me!” he exclaims, finding her there. “Oh my!”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” she says, fluttering a pair of soft gloves at his twitching nose. “You have saved me from ruining my dress.”

  Before Mr. Willow can answer, I hear another voice coming up quick behind us.

  “Sister, are you okay? Have you been injured?”

  That’s her brother Frank, who looks to be about Mr. Willow’s age, and dressed like a prosperous gentleman, with a finely tailored suit, a gold chain to hold his pocket watch, gleaming leather shoes, and a mustache that curls up at the ends. Once he realizes what has happened — that the skinny clergyman has saved his sister from falling down or worse — he can’t thank Mr. Willow enough.

  “My dear fellow,” he exclaims, seizing Mr. Willow’s hand and shaking it. “Well done! Well done! Kate, have you thanked this brave gentleman?”

  “Yes, brother,” she says, sounding ever so sweet and meek. “I let him kiss my gloves.”

  Mr. Willow’s face gets as red as a ripe tomato, but he seems very pleased with himself. Frank looks things over, a big smile on his face, and his friendly eyes glint with humor. “Kissed her gloves, did you? Why that’s practically a proposal of marriage.”

  Mr. Willow commences to stutter and squeak like a tea kettle coming to boil, but Frank laughs and claps him on the back. “I jest, sir! A joke! And for being such a good sport, I must insist that you join us for a bite to eat.”

  “Oh no,” says Mr. Willow, blushing some more. “Can’t. Mustn’t. We have a steamship to catch.”

  “Really? What ship, pray tell?”

  “The Orion,” says Mr. Willow. “Bound for New York.”

  Frank and his sister look at each other and burst out laughing. “Excuse me,” says Frank when he gets his breath back. “No insult intended. But it seems we will be shipmates, for Kate and I have booked the same ship, for the same destination.”

  “Amazing,” says Mr. Willow, his jaw dropping open in wonder.

  “Not so very amazing,” says Frank, easily slipping his arm in Mr. Willow’s, and steering him toward the waterfront. “Half the folks on this street are heading for the steamships. But never mind, fate is fate, and now you really must join us for muffins and chocolate. The good ship Orion won’t leave for two hours yet, so there’s plenty of time to get acquainted.”

  “And who is this?” Kate asks, flicking her gloves on my head. “Your servant boy? Can’t say he’s doing much for you.”

  Something about the way she flicks those gloves, something about a very cool look in her beautiful gray eyes, something about Kate Nibbly just gets my goat. So I snatch the gloves from her hand — why’s she carrying them instead of wearing them, anyhow? — and I drop them in the gutter.

  Miss Nibbly stares at me in disbelief. I’m expecting her to get angry, but instead she sighs and says, “I take it you are no servant boy?”

  “No, ma’am, I am Homer Figg, and Mr. Willow is my temporary guardian until we get to New York and find my brother, Harold, except it looks like I’ll be guarding him — Mr. Willow, I mean. He’s a nice man but he hasn’t the sense God gave to a billy goat.”

  “Homer?” says Mr. Willow, momentarily distracted. “What’s that you say?”

  “Told her you were a clergyman, Mr. Willow.”

  “What an interesting boy,” Kate says, retrieving her gloves. “I just know we’re going to be great friends.”

  She smiles at me and then gives her brother a look, like she wants him to pay attention to something important, and then Frank Nibbly suddenly grins and claps his hands together and says, “Homer Figg! Splendid! So you’re the cause of this journey, are you?” He reaches out, shakes my hand before I can snatch it away. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Allow me to introduce myself. Frank T. Nibbly, attorney-at-law, justice of the peace, and entirely at your service.”

  Here’s something I didn’t know, but soon found out: When a lawyer shakes your hand and smiles with just his teeth, you best run for your life.

  LIVE IN A BARN AND YOU get used to having all kinds of creatures around. Horses and cows and pigs, and wild things like owls and mice and snakes. One time Harold and I watched a fat black snake swallow a little gray mouse. It was the most amazing thing because the mouse never moved or tried to get away. It was like the mouse knew it was snake food and didn’t want to make trouble.

  That’s pretty much how Mr. Willow acts with the beautiful Kate Nibbly. His eyes even blink like mouse eyes and he shivers like a mouse whenever she says things like “Oh really, Webster? How simply fascinating!” or “What’s your opinion, Webster, should I wear the pearl necklace or do you prefer the amber?”

  Haven’t known her five minutes and already she’s Kate and he’s Webster, and you’d think they’ve been sweethearts for years. We’re sitting in a little restaurant at the steamship terminal, eating butter muffins dipped in chocolate and glasses of ice-cold milk. Miss Nibbly is busy making Mr. Willow feel like he’s the most important man who ever lived, and her brother Frank is being ever so nice to me.

  “You say your brother was sold into the army? Extraordinary. What a terrible injustice. The whole purpose of the war is to end slavery, is it not?”

  “I don’t know what the purpose of the war is,” I tell him, talking around a mouthful of muffins. “I just don’t want Harold getting killed is all.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Frank says, sipping delicately at his glass of milk. “The loyal brother. How touching. And you say this enterprise, this urgent journey to free your brother, is being financed by Jebediah Brewster, of the famous Brewster Mines?”

  I didn’t say no such thing, but Mr. Willow did, blurting out all our private business the first time Miss Nibbly asked. How Mr. Brewster is testing his character by sending him as my guardian, and how he has letters of introduction to very important people, and how he’s been instructed to purchase Harold’s release, if it comes to that.

  He does everything but show her the money entrusted to him by Mr. Brewster, and that’s only because I jump on his shoe.

  “Homer, what has gotten into you?” he asks, rubbing his skinny foot.

  “Time we got on the ship, Mr. Willow.”

  “There’s no hurry,” says Frank Nibbly, showing me his teeth. “No hurry at all.”

  But the other passengers are saying their good-byes and starting to board the steamship Orion, and the stewards are loading up the trunks and baggage, and clouds of smoke are coming out of the smokestack. Mr. Willow finally notices what’s happening and jumps up like somebody stuck him with a darning needle.

  “The boy is right!” he blurts. “We must go! Can’t miss the ship!”

  When Mr. Willow makes it clear we really do have to board, I figure that will be the end of it, because something tells me the Nibblys don’t really have tickets for the steamship, but want to trick us into missing the boat so they can figure out how to fool Mr. Willow into giving them the money.

  They’re after the money. I know it and Frank knows it and Kate knows it. The only one who doesn’t know what’s really going on is poor Mr. Willow.
I grab him by the cuff and drag him to the gangway, into the crowd of passengers who are boarding. He keeps looking back at Miss Nibbly and she keeps batting her eyelashes, but finally we’re at the top of the gangway and a man is asking for our tickets.

  “Tickets? Tickets?” says Mr. Willow, looking confused. He pats his pockets and my heart sinks, but then he finds the envelope and hands over the tickets and the man is shooing us aboard, telling us to make way for the other passengers.

  My idea is to hurry along to the cabins, but Mr. Willow turns back to the rail, looking for Miss Nibbly in the crowd below.

  Frank and Kate are nowhere to be seen.

  “Where can she have gone?” Mr. Willow wants to know.

  It’s on my tongue to say they’re off looking for another sucker, but the poor man looks so hurt I decide to keep my mouth shut.

  IF THE CABINS ON THE STEAMSHIP Orion were any smaller they’d be cages, and me and Mr. Willow would be clucking like chickens. There’s barely room to open the door, and the bunks are so short and narrow that Mr. Willow has to practically fold himself in half before he can lie down. It’s not so bad for me — I mostly fit — and from the top bunk I can see out the little window. I lie there and watch the light fade from the sky until the stars come out.

  We could walk the promenade deck, like most of the other passengers are doing, or visit the dining room, or maybe even explore the steam engines, or tour the wheelhouse, but Mr. Willow doesn’t want to leave the cabin. I never seen a man go lovesick before, but there’s no doubt about what’s wrong with Webster Willow. He’s pining for Kate Nibbly. A few hours ago he never knew she existed, and now he can’t live without her.

  “You need to see a doctor,” I advise. “Maybe get some pills, or some leeches to draw away the sick blood.”

  “Shut up, Homer.”

  “See? If you were feeling well, you’d never tell anyone to shut up. You’re much too polite.”

  “Go away and leave me alone.”

  “Can’t,” I say from my perch on the top bunk. “You’re my guardian. If I was to fall off the ship or jump into the boiler, Mr. Brewster would hold you responsible and you’d never get your own congregation.”