by Lea Wait
But Charlie and I weren’t here to talk about her aunt and uncle.
“Can you see the future?” I asked.
“Sometimes I can; sometimes not. My gift is not one that can be depended upon. I’ve had gamblers beg for the results of horse races, or politicians, the results of elections. My gift does not answer those sorts of questions.”
“What does it tell you about this war we’re entering into?” asked Charlie, leaning forward.
“It says little,” said Nell, looking at him sadly. “But I see a long tunnel, and much darkness.”
“That proves your gift is not perfect,” said Charlie, almost triumphantly. “President Lincoln has only called up the militia for ninety days. No one thinks it will take long to defeat the Confederates.”
“Only time will prove anyone right,” said Nell. “Whether they be spirits or presidents.”
“And now,” Mrs. Allen said, “I think we’ve tired Miss Gramercy enough. You boys should be able to write something up with what she’s told you, and you have all that news about the war to write up, too. Miss Gramercy has to rest. Communicating with spirits is exhausting, you know. Very exhausting.”
As she spoke, Mrs. Allen rose and shooed Charlie and I out of the parlor before we could ask any more questions. I looked back as Mrs. Allen closed the door. Nell smiled and raised her hand to wave good-bye.
Charlie and I ran back down the main stairs, nearly crashing into a dignified couple walking up. We didn’t stop until we were out on Main Street, causing several frowns from gentlemen and ladies in the lobby.
“We didn’t ask anything about her family,” Charlie said suddenly, as we slowed down.
“It said in the Boston newspaper that she was an orphan. Her parents must have died,” I reminded him. “And when we were walking the other night, she said she’d had brothers—as though she didn’t anymore.”
“I guess she’s lucky her aunt and uncle are taking care of her.” Charlie shook his head. “You and I have both had people die in our families, but you still have your ma and pa, and I still have my father.” He walked a few steps further. “And we didn’t ask how she performs her tricks.”
“She’s very convincing, isn’t she?” I asked, looking back at the Mansion House and wondering if Nell was looking down at us.
I was glad Charlie hadn’t asked her about tricks. I remembered what she’d said at that first session—that you had to believe in them for spirits to come. I had a feeling her voices wouldn’t have wanted their existence questioned.
“I guess she did give us enough to write up our interview,” Charlie said begrudgingly, as we stood on the street.
That was when we noticed something happening up near the Village Green.
Chapter 20
Monday, April 15, mid-afternoon
Old Major Ben Bailey, whose tavern we’d visited Saturday night, and who’d fought in the Mexican War back in the 1840s, had set an old, red-painted pine table plumb at the very bottom of the Village Green. On either side of the table he’d planted poles firmly in the mud, and the Stars and Stripes waved from each one.
On the front of the table hung a large, crudely lettered sign:
ARE YOU A PATRIOT OR A COWARD?
SOLDIERS, SIGN UP HERE!
“C’mon!” said Charlie, heading up to the table, along with eight or nine other people who’d also been watching. What was Major Bailey doing? Was this an enlistment station? It didn’t look likely.
“Stand back, men! I can only take one at a time!” Bailey said, grinning at the men crowding around his table. “I’m proud to see all my fellow Wiscasset citizens respondin’ to our president’s call to arms!”
“Hey, Ben,” called Mr. Irons, over the hubbub. “What’re you doing? We’ve received no directions for enlistments. I’ve heard Maine has no money to pay a militia, neither.”
“True enough, Archie,” answered the major. “But mark my words, we’ll have all the answers we need any day now. And the sooner we start thinkin’ about it all, and men start markin’ their name on a piece of paper”—he waved a blank sheet in the air to demonstrate—“the sooner we’ll have our marchin’ orders.”
“How many men do you think they’ll be wanting from Wiscasset?” Charlie asked.
“As many as wants to go, I reckon,” said old Mr. Ames from over to Union Street. “Wars gobble up young men, and too many don’t come home.” He shook his head. “Don’t none of you be signing no papers, for Ben or nobody else, ’til you thinks it through and talks with yer families.” He stomped off down the hill, muttering to himself.
“Don’t be believin’ what Mr. Ames said right off,” said Major Bailey. “Mr. Lincoln’s talkin’ ninety days. That’s barely enough time to get men enlisted and armed and move ’em south, much less get ’em to any battles. And battles is where war is fought, ain’t it men?”
I looked from one excited man to another. Most were nodding in agreement, Charlie with them. War was battles, wasn’t it? That’s what history books said. Battle after battle after battle. And for every victory in battle, someone was defeated. History books said that, too. We’d already lost the first battle, at Fort Sumter.
“To be a part of them battles, you got to be one of the first on the list. It’s true, what Archie said,” Major Bailey said. “We got no directions as to how to do this thing, and we got no money to pay anyone. But who needs to be paid to be a patriot? We know our president says he needs seventy-five thousand men, and he needs ’em now. Our governor and representatives up to Augusta are prob’ly trying to figure it all out right this very minute. We can get a head start by havin’ a list ready for ’em of all those men ready, willin’, and able, right here in Wiscasset. Ready to go march just as soon as we know where to send ’em.”
“The major’s a character, for sure,” a man in back of me said, “but he’s making more sense than most I’ve heard today.”
“Maybe,” said a second voice. “But I’m not signing any piece of paper that takes me away from home without talking it over with my wife, that’s for certain. If I did that, I’d have no home to come back to!”
“Good point!” said the first, and the two men walked away.
“So, who’s goin’ to be the first patriot to sign his name?” said Major Bailey. “Who’ll it be?”
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 morning. 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 a
ny 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.
