“Residents of Centerville, I came here today to ask you to continue to join our president and go forward without fear and with manly hearts to fight the battle to heal this great nation.”
Governor Morton folds his papers and tucks them into his coat pocket. He waves to the assembly and says, “Thank you, Centerville, for welcoming me home today.”
Mr. Wilson waits for the ovation to subside before turning to me. I quickly rub the sweaty palm of my right hand on my pant leg so my bugle doesn’t slip, and play the first four bars of “Battle Cry of Freedom” alone. The notes spring loud into the air, and I hope Mother is listening somewhere hidden by the crowd.
When the rest of the band joins in, the governor raises his hands. “Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, one moment please,” the governor interrupts. “Stephen Gaston, I almost forgot. If you’ll come over to the house later, I have a little something I’d like to give you. George Peckham, I have a package for you, as well.”
The governor points to Mr. Wilson to continue the song.
Yes, we’ll rally round the flag, boys. We’ll rally once again.
Every time the words “rally round the flag, boys” are sung, men remove their hats and wave them over their heads. A spine-tingling sight, though, is the sea of tiny red, white, and blue flags waving back and forth.
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; We will rally from the hillside,
We’ll gather from the plain, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.
The band plays to a crescendo, and the crowd joins in on the chorus.
The Union forever, Hurrah, boys, hurrah. Down with the Traitor, Up with the Star;
While we rally round the flag, boys, Rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.
We are springing to the call for
Three Hundred Thousand more,
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom, And we’ll fill the vacant ranks
Of our brothers gone before . . . .
CHAPTER SIX
Mom places a bowl of fried chicken on the table as I set three plates. “Did you come hear me play my solo today?” I ask.
“No,” she says almost in a whisper.
“It seems like the whole town was there.”
“The last place I saw Robert was on that train platform.”
“I know, but Mr. Wilson picked me to play. . . .”
Mother stabs a spoon into the bowl of potatoes so hard, I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter. “Stephen, we rarely hear from your brother or know where he is on any given day. He said he’d be gone for a few months, and it’s been two years. This war’s turned into an ugly scab that refuses to heal. If I show my face at a rally, it means I support what’s going on. And I’m just not ready to do that.”
Uncle Clem opens the back door, and a gust of cold air fills the kitchen. He removes his jacket and walks to the basin to wash his hands. He glances at Mother in the mirror hanging on the wall.
“What’s wrong?” Uncle Clem asks.
“Chicken may be a bit overdone,” Mother lies.
* * *
Throughout dinner Mother, Uncle Clem, and I stare at our plates, only looking up to reach for a bowl of food. The clanking of forks against plates breaks the silence. Not another word is spoken at dinner until Uncle Clem clears his throat. I hope a piece of chicken or potato is lodged, but when I look up, I see he is trying to get my attention. He pinches a piece of biscuit and tosses it into his mouth. He nods at my mother, sitting to his right.
“Ma, can the apple pie wait until later, after I see what the governor has for me?”
Mother sees the uneaten pieces of squash scattered around my plate, then narrows her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Who knows?” Uncle Clem answers quickly. “Governor Morton said he has a package he wants to give Stephen.” He shoots a look at Mother, and then back to me. “I guess it’s not every day you get an invite to the governor’s house now, is it? I’m sure it’s something important. Don’t you think?” he asks her.
Mother stares down at the table in Uncle Clem’s direction but doesn’t make eye contact. She glances at the pie, and then smiles at me. “The pie can sit right where it is until you get back,” she relents. “Go on.”
My feet barely touch the ground as I race out the side door. I run through the narrow arch that connects our courtyard to Main Street, wondering about the package. Why didn’t the governor give it to me at the train depot? He’d said he had a package for Mr. Peckham, too. Maybe “package” means something altogether different. Is it the same thing for both of us?
My feet fly across the cobblestone on Main Street lined with Conestoga wagons parked for the evening. Ever since I can remember, hundreds of them have passed through Centerville like rain in downspouts. Every one of them headed west, stopping in Centerville only long enough to rest or get supplies.
I go by one with a bed frame strapped to the side. Another has a barrel cinched with a rope as thick as my wrist. As I round the back end of one of the wagons, my shoulder catches a chair leg strapped to the sideboard. It yanks me back as my feet fly out from under me.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, pard,” a man calls down to me. He’s standing beside the wagon, working on a wheel he’s removed from the axel.
I stand up and dust myself off. “That wheel’s taller than me,” I say, admiring its size.
“And four inches wide.” The man gives a tug on one of the spokes. “They sink right down in the muck if the wheels aren’t wide enough.”
I pat the wagon’s side like it’s a horse’s flank. “It’s a whale on wheels,” I say. “I want one of these to take me to Texas one day.”
“Why there?” he asks.
“Don’t know. Guess because it’s not here.”
“Well, you’re young,” he says. “Got plenty of time to make that happen.”
* * *
It only takes me two minutes more to make my way to the governor’s house. It sits on a small rise, like a pedestal. The yard slopes gently up to his front door. Tonight I think it’s odd that the governor’s shades are drawn. He invited me to come by, yet the house appears empty. I knock on the door just before dark.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I knock a second time and hear feet shuffle inside. I throw my shoulders back and lift my chin, trying to stand a bit taller, a little straighter. It’s not every day the governor invites you to his house. A door slams inside, and all goes quiet. The front door opens a few seconds later.
Lucinda, the governor’s wife, greets me wearing a purple evening gown. Gold bands of trim on her skirt look like braids of rope. Her face is narrow and delicate, in sharp contrast to her husband’s.
“Good evening, Mrs. Morton,” I say. “I’m here to see your husband.”
“Yes, I know,” she says, opening the door and motioning with her head for me to come in. As I walk by Mrs. Morton, the sweet flowery smell of her perfume reminds me of Dad. It is almost like the smell I caught when he died.
“Hello, Stephen. Welcome.” The governor, leaning slightly on his cane, shuffles from behind a green tufted sofa and extends his hand.
“Hello, sir,” I say, trying my best to deliver a strong handshake.
A small package, wrapped in brown paper, sits on an end table next to the sofa. I wonder if that’s my package.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Fine, sir, just fine,” I reply.
“I’m glad you were able to stop by. I have something for you.” He studies my face hard for a couple seconds. “Did you know that I’ve met Abraham Lincoln?”
“I heard you say ‘a good friend of mine’ when talking about the president this morning.”
“Oliver’s met President Lincoln several times,” his wife says. She’s sitting by the fireplace. Waxy pomade in her hair allows the light from the flames to twinkle on her head. “He telegraphs Oliver quite often,” she adds.
“I can’t imagine what that was like . . . to meet th
e president, I mean.”
“He shook my hand the same as you did,” Governor Morton says. “Your handshake might have been a tad firmer,” he adds.
I laugh. “Amazing,” I say. I steal a second glance at the package, and Governor Morton notices.
“Did you know that the president is a voracious reader?”
“Yes, sir, I’d heard that,” I say.
“Just like you, from what I’ve been told.”
First I’d been surprised when the governor of the whole state of Indiana called my name at the train depot. Now he’s telling me he knows how much I like to read. “Who told you that?” I ask.
“President Lincoln told me,” the governor says.
I nearly faint. I must have the oddest look on my face because Mrs. Morton quickly says, “No, no, no, not really. Oliver P. Morton, stop pulling this young boy’s leg.”
Governor Morton laughs and pats me on my shoulder. His mood turns serious. “Your brother, Robert, told me, Stephen.” The room falls quiet as a January night.
“How do you know Robert?” I ask.
“I met him at the training camp in Indianapolis. Recruits come to drill there before heading south.”
“Well, the Weekly reported Indiana has sent more soldiers than any other state to the war.”
“Almost as many as Delaware,” the governor corrects me. “I make it a point to talk to as many of the Centerville boys as I can when they’re in Indianapolis training. Robert and I talked for nearly an hour one day. You know what he talked about most?” he asks.
“The war?” I guess.
“No. We hardly mentioned that. We spent most of the time talking about you. He said you like to sit in Paddy’s Run Creek and call birds. He said you can call a bobwhite to within ten feet. Is that true?”
“When my lips work right, I can.”
“He also said you like to read.”
“Yes, sir, I do. Mother read to Robert and me since before I can remember. She taught us.”
The governor leans over the sofa and picks up the brown package from the table. He smiles broadly as he lifts it toward me.
My feet feel nailed to the floor.
“Take it,” the governor insists. “I brought it all the way from Washington, D.C., just for you.”
I slowly raise my hands and take the package. I stare at it a few seconds and peel back the paper. “A book,” I whisper.
“Not just any book. It’s David Copperfield,” Governor Morton says. “It’s by Charles Dickens. President Lincoln recommended it for you.”
I look at the governor in disbelief.
Mrs. Morton rises, leans in toward my ear, and whispers, “This is when you’re supposed to say, ‘Why, thank you, Governor, it’s very kind of you.’”
“Ohh! I’m sorry, sir. Thank you so very much, Governor. It is very kind of you,” I say. “It’s just . . . I . . .”
“Don’t need a speech. ‘Thanks’ will do just fine.” The governor laughs. “I know I don’t have to tell you how much you mean to your brother, Robert.”
“Well, thank you, sir. He means a lot to me and Mother,” I say.
“And it’s no coincidence I’m here in Centerville today.”
“It’s not?”
I recognize a sharp change on the governor’s face. His smile and laughter evaporate. He purses his lips, but not in an angry way. “Your brother seemed to be an honorable man.”
“He is, sir. Robert’s never cheated anyone out of a nickel.”
The governor pauses and looks me over from head to toe. “I bet you’re cut from the same cloth as your brother.”
“I am. Mother and Dad raised us both the same.”
“Then you can keep a secret, Stephen,” the governor says more than asks.
I search his face for a clue to see if he’s serious or if this is headed to be another joke. He stands stoic, almost wooden.
“Yes, sir. I can keep a secret. I promise, I can.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Governor Morton looks at Lucinda and nods toward the kitchen table in the adjoining room. She gathers her skirt in both hands and joins her husband at a pine chest along the wall. They grab black handles on the ends of the chest and drag it several feet, revealing a small door leading under the stairs.
Uncle Clem’s house has a similar small space. He stores winter clothes there in summer along with household items seldom used. The governor swings a metal latch and opens the door cautiously, as if some wild animal might escape. I tilt my head to one side and try to peek around the door, but I can’t see into the dark alcove.
The governor motions into the blackness with his thick finger. No response. He reaches his hand under the stairs. A shape the color of coffee grounds emerges from the darkness and rests on the governor’s palm. It’s a hand.
A barefoot boy, dressed in mis-fitting pants and shirt, steps out from the darkness. He’s exactly my height, but thinner. His hair, although cropped short, curls tightly against his scalp. His eyes are dark and flash with fear as they dart quickly around the room, taking in his surroundings, especially me.
“This is Clay,” the governor says, bringing him farther into the room.
“Hello, Clay,” I say, extending my hand.
Clay averts his eyes to the floor. “Bonjour, Ami,” he whispers.
“What are you doing under the stairs?” I ask.
No reply.
“Can he speak English?” I ask Governor Morton.
“Ask him,” the governor insists.
“Speak English?” I say slowly, enunciating each word. Clay looks at the governor and shrugs.
“Parlez-vous Anglais?” the governor translates for Clay with a wink.
”Naturellement, je vivais dans Louisiana,” he says.
“My goodness. What did all that . . .?”
Clay interrupts me before I finish, “Of course, I do. I’m from Louisiana.” He smiles.
I look at the governor and then over to Clay. The pair slap their thighs and laugh together, proud of the trick they’ve played on me.
“You knew what I was saying?” I ask Clay.
“Naturellement.” Clay nods. “Naturally.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?” Clay asks.
“Is that French you’re speaking?”
“Oui.”
“How do you do that?” I ask again.
“Don’t know how I do it. Been doin’ it since I was born near New Orleans fourteen years ago on John Burnside’s plantation along the mighty Mississ—”
“No, no, no,” the governor interrupts. He waves his hands back and forth quickly. “No names, Clay. Remember?”
Clay closes his eyes and bows his head, ashamed of his mistake.
Governor Morton grabs Clay and pulls him close for a hug the same way Dad hugged me when I did something wrong and was sorry for it. “It’s okay,” he assures Clay with a pat on his back. “It’s okay.”
A slight smile returns to Clay’s face.
“What’s the Mississippi River like?” I ask.
“They don’t call it the Mighty Mississippi for nothin,’” Clay responds.
“Cotton is big down there in the South, isn’t it?”
“Non, sucre—sugar where I lived. Brings in more money than cotton. We worked the sugarcane fields from ‘can to can’t,’” Clay says.
“Can to can’t?”
Governor Morton explains, “Slaves work from when they can see the sun until they can’t.”
Two loud knocks on the front door send Clay scrambling to the small space beneath the stairs. He dives in and quickly pulls the door shut. The Mortons scoot the chest back in place along the wall. Lucinda walks to the door and glances over her shoulder at the governor. She stands patiently, waiting for his signal. Governor Morton looks toward the chest, places his fingers against his lips, and nods to his wife that it’s okay to open the door
CHAPTER NINE
George Peckham steps into the house. He’s al
one. He looks at the governor, tilts his head back and arches his eyebrows. The governor nods back at him. Mr. Peckham peers into the darkness and motions with his hand for someone outside to come in. Seconds later, Margaret Peckham and a dark-skinned lady enter the room. George closes the door quickly behind them.
Margaret stands with one arm around the lady’s shoulders, comforting her. The lady sobs softly. Mrs. Morton crosses to her side and drapes a shawl over her shoulders. Governor Morton advances slowly. He tenderly lifts the woman’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. A smile spreads across his face, revealing teeth between his mustache and goatee. He nods ever so slightly.
“Ohhh, Lord,” the lady says, choking on her words. She stamps her left foot against the rug multiple times as if trying to knock a hole through the floor. Tears stream down her face. Mrs. Morton collects a hankie from her sleeve and places it in the woman’s hands.
The lady covers her mouth in disbelief. Governor Morton puts one finger against his lips and points to the pine chest beside the stairs. He walks over and motions for her to follow. The governor points to the handle on the chest, and together, they drag it away, revealing the small door.
The governor gestures at her and then to the latch, indicating that she is to be the one to open the door. She grasps the latch softly, as if the slightest jarring might break it. Her trembling hands cause the metal to rattle. She rotates the fastener, swings the door open on its hinges, and peers into the darkness.
A second later, Clay lets loose a blood-chilling scream and leaps from his hiding place into his mother’s arms.
Mrs. Morton catches a sob in her throat. It sounds like a hiccup, but I know better. She produces a second hankie, this time from the other sleeve, and covers her mouth and nose.
“Mama,” Clay finally says. “Mama, is it really you?”
“Oui, mon cher, c’est vraiment moi,” she says. She presses Clay’s cheeks between the palms of her hands. “Yes, child, it’s really me.”
We stand quiet as the moon, save for sniffles and the rustling of hankies, for several minutes.
Crossing the Deadline Page 3
