Crossing the Deadline Read online

  Clay’s mother looks at Governor Morton. “Four years, Governor,” she manages to say between sobs. “Four long years.”

  “I know,” he assures her. “I know. And we’ll do what we can to reunite you with the rest of your children,” he says. “Give us time.”

  Clay’s mother lets go of her son, walks over to Governor Morton, grabs both of his hands, and kneels to the floor.

  “No, no, no,” the governor insists. He pulls her off the floor and pats her hands softly.

  “You don’t understand.” She reaches for Clay’s hand and draws him next to her. She wraps her arms around him and kisses the side of his head. “We always worked hard. We rose before the sun. We did what we had to do to make it through. Whatever Master said, we did. Then he sold us off like we mattered less than cottonwood seeds blowing different directions in the wind.

  “But you know what, Governor? We all need a reason for living. My children are my reason for putting one foot in front of the other every day. One day Master began selling off my children. He never told us where they was going. I didn’t know where any of them would end up.”

  Governor Morton nods. He begins to say something and pauses, thinking better of it.

  “When I said good-bye to each of my six children,” Clay’s mother continues, “I thought for sure it was the last time I’d ever speak to any of them again. Never thought the day would come when one of ’em would be in my arms again.”

  Governor Morton pats her arm. “George, you better head on over to Fountain City now. You can drop Clay and his mother off at Levi Coffin’s house. He’s expecting packages around midnight.”

  “Come,” Mr. Peckham calls to Clay and his mother. “We’ll have to hurry.” So Clay was the package the governor said he had for Mr. Peckham this morning.

  Clay’s mother, unable to control herself, wraps her arms around the governor’s neck and squeezes. And then, just as fast, Mr. and Mrs. Peckham whisk their two packages into the darkness toward Fountain City.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The governor, his wife, and I glance at one another, no one able to speak. Governor Morton and I stand in utter silence while Mrs. Morton walks to a nearby chair, sits, and wipes at her tears. I am shocked by the incredible joy Clay and his mother just experienced. But I can’t imagine the depths of her sorrow that she still does not know where five of her children are.

  Finally, Governor Morton speaks. “That is, in large part, what the war is about, Stephen. That’s what Robert is fighting for. The president often reminds me how much the Union depends on Indiana. He says, ‘Every person makes a difference. Everybody counts.’ Do you agree, Stephen?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Do you remember when the Confederates fired on Fort Sumter?”

  “Two and a half years ago. April, 1861,” I say, not needing a moment to think about the answer.

  “Lincoln called for volunteers to restore order. Within two weeks, I had twelve thousand men in Indianapolis ready for the cause. They became the Ninth Indiana Infantry under General Robert H. Milroy.”

  “Shiloh,” I say. “Mr. Peckham was there with Milroy, wasn’t he?”

  “Indeed,” the governor replies. “We’re mustering in the Ninth Indiana Cavalry Regiment soon. That’s why I’m home, Stephen. I can’t ask towns across the state to do their part on the war without asking my own to do the same.”

  I shuffle on my feet, feeling uneasy. “I’m glad you asked me to come here tonight,” I finally say. “After seeing Clay and his mama and the struggles they’ve faced, I want to join. Besides, Mother could use the extra money.”

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Thirteen. But I can do an awful lot. I can . . .”

  Governor Morton raises his hand for me to stop. He rubs the back of his neck several times. “Thirteen, huh? You’re a tad bit too young, Stephen.”

  “I’ll be fourteen in less than three months. I can do a lot. I shoe horses at my uncle’s livery every day. Mr. Wilson said he never saw anybody take to the bugle as fast as I did. I can ride a horse. . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” the governor says. “Was that you playing the bugle today at the depot?”

  “Yes, sir. I played the solo this morning.”

  “Your brother, Robert, mentioned you played in the band, but I wasn’t sure what instrument.”

  “A bugle’s been in my hand every day since I was nine. I’ve been playing five years now.”

  “I can count, Stephen.” The governor rubs the back of his neck again. “Well, I’m just thinking out loud now, Stephen. Officers need strong buglers to relay order to the soldiers. What I heard from you this morning was impressive.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Buglers wake the men in the morning, tell them when it’s time to eat, and when to extinguish their lights for the evening. Do you think you can learn fifty different bugle calls?” he asks.

  “I can learn a hundred,” I say quickly.

  “I have to leave for Indianapolis first thing in the morning. Your mother will have to sign for you, since you’re underage.”

  “I understand,” I tell him. There’s no way my mother will sign for me, so I don’t say another word. I stare at him, no emotion on my face.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” the governor says as he crosses to a rolltop desk in the corner of the room. He raises the slats and pushes them up and back into the rear of the desk. He reaches for a piece of paper and takes the quill from a jar of ink. “I’ll write a letter to your mother, stating I recommend you to be Major Eli Lilly’s personal bugler.”

  Governor Morton writes on the paper as he speaks. “Dear Mrs. Gaston, Major Eli Lilly is in need of a top-notch bugle player such as your son. If you’d be so inclined as to allow Stephen to enlist, I’ll see to it he’s kept in good care. The major is a brilliant druggist from Indianapolis and a personal friend. I consider him one of the Union’s finest soldiers. Your son will be in good hands.”

  The governor signs the bottom of the note with a flourish and folds it in an envelope. “Show this to your mother, Stephen.”

  I nod to him but can’t bring myself to say the words “I will.”

  “Ohh, and one more thing,” he says. Taking the copy of David Copperfield out of my hands, he taps the book against my chest several times. “If your good mother signs for you and you enlist, I want you to personally bring this book back to me when you return home. I’ve had little time for reading since working in the capital. I look forward to borrowing it from you when the war’s over.”

  “I’ll do that, sir. I promise I’ll return the book to you.”

  Governor Morton slips the envelope into the middle of the book and hands them to me.

  * * *

  I rush into the house to tell Mother what the governor of the entire state of Indiana said about Robert and to show her what he gave me. There’s an envelope on the kitchen table addressed to Mary Gaston. The letter has fallen to the floor, so I pick it up and glance at the last line and see it was sent by John Robbins, son of the hardware store owner who mustered in the same day as Robert.

  In Camp with TN 115th Regiment Infantry near Lexington, Kentucky

  September 16, 1863

  Mrs. Gaston,

  It is my duty to put pen to paper to inform you Robert met his Maker today, September 16, 1863, in Nicholasville, Kentucky, as our regiment encamped nearby. Robert was the finest soldier I know and was a friend to every man he met.

  He died bravely preserving our Union. If financial circumstances prevent you from claiming his body, I want you to know he will be buried with several Indiana men, side by side, in a beautiful spot overlooking the Kentucky River.

  Robert spoke often of you and Stephen and loved you dearly.

  Your dutiful servant,

  John Robbins

  Mother did not leave her room for weeks.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  November 12, 1863

  After thinking about it for tw
o months, I decide to tell Uncle Clem my plan. It doesn’t take much talking to get him to see it my way. He leans against a stall rail, his arms folded, and never says a word as I explain what I want to do. I’ve never seen him so quiet. He ponders it for three more weeks, and then his only condition is I can’t tell Mother. “Leave a note for her,” he says.

  * * *

  Ice crystals form on my lips as Uncle Clem and I ride due south toward Moores Hill to enlist me into the Union Army. I stretch a woolen scarf over my mouth and nose, and that helps a bit but not much. Tucking the ends under my coat collar holds it in place so it doesn’t fly off. A thin slit, just below my hat, provides an opening for me to see where I’m going. One saving grace is that it’s not snowing or sleeting.

  Occasionally I tilt my head and look straight down at the saddle horn and use the top of my hat like a shield to cut the wind. Finally the cold becomes unbearable. I lean forward and tuck my head against the horse’s mane. His neck feels warm like a thick blanket.

  Most of the trip is covered in silence. Cold winds whip us from every direction. As we come out of a slow bend in the road, a tavern appears on the right. Thick smoke rises from the chimney. Uncle Clem sees it too. “I’m cold,” I say, hoping he’ll stop.

  “Are you, now?” he replies.

  “Can we stop to warm up?” I ask. “Just for a little while? My hands are turning numb.”

  Uncle Clem nods rapidly. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s stop and thaw out.”

  We tether our horses and rush in. Six tables sit off to the left of the room, gathered near a roaring fire. The blaze heats the tables enough so that the men playing cards have discarded their coats. They stop their game and look up at us, then quickly go back to what they were doing. A long wooden bar, chest high with stools, covers the right half of the far wall. Uncle Clem walks to the fireplace, then presents his hands to the flames and rubs them together.

  “Your mother makes five dollars a month as a laundress for Dutch,” he says when I step beside him. “That doesn’t pay for the food the two of you eat, boy. You should thank your lucky stars I was there to take the three of you in when your father died.”

  I nod but don’t say anything.

  He turns to face me, which puts his back to the card players. “Keep your mouth shut when we get to Moores Hill, and I’ll get you signed into the army. You send me seven dollars from each paycheck, and your mother has a place to stay. Do what you want with what’s left. Spend it, gamble on cards like these guys, I don’t care.”

  A paunchy man walks up to the table nearest us, wiping his hands on an apron along the way. “What’ll you two men be having today?” he asks.

  “Whatever you recommend,” Uncle Clem says with a smile.

  “I got pork and roasted potatoes ready right now,” he says.

  “If it’s hot and good, I’ll take it.”

  “Drink?”

  “Anything you bring will be fine.”

  When the man walks away, Uncle Clem says, “If I don’t see seven dollars a month, you can collect your mother at the poorhouse when you get home.”

  “Mom has nowhere else to go. Dutch doesn’t pay her enough to get a place of her own.”

  “Dutch?” Uncle Clem snarls as he says the name. “He’s taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?” he asks.

  “Yeah, Dutch has been good to me and Mom.”

  “And I haven’t?” Uncle Clem raises his fist to hit me. I put both hands over my face to block the coming blow. If the men were not nearby, I’m sure I’d feel his knuckles against my nose. Uncle Clem leans so close, I feel his breath against my ears. “You went crawling to Dutch and told him I beat you, didn’t you?” he asks.

  “No,” I answer.

  “I say you did.”

  “I swear I didn’t say anything to him.” I put my hands down and walk over to sit in a chair.

  “Liar,” he says. “Dutch came to the livery and told me so. He said if another bruise appeared on you, he’d make sure it would be the last.”

  I shrug like I don’t know what he’s talking about.

  “I don’t have to worry about that anymore, do I?” Uncle Clem pats his coat pocket. “The letter the governor wrote will see to it you’re gone and out of my hair.”

  The food arrives, and Uncle Clem smiles as the chubby man sets two steaming plates in front of us.

  “Drinks?” he reminds the bar owner, and shovels a fork of meat and potatoes into his mouth. “Giving this letter to me instead of showing it to your mother was the smartest thing you’ve done in a long time.”

  “She would have ripped it into a million pieces and tossed every last one of them into the fire,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. Then he laughs. “I’d love to see her face when she sees the note telling her you decided to run away and look for work in Ohio.”

  “She won’t believe it.”

  “I don’t know about that. Your mother’s not that bright, and she won’t care. She barely notices that you’re around most of the time.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, feeling myself getting flush. I want to spit in his face.

  Finally, when I calm down, I decide to ask something that’s been on my mind for a long time. “Did Robert send you money?”

  “What?”

  “When he mustered in. Mother said she never knew what Robert did with his army pay. She never saw any of it.”

  My uncle chuckles. “You had a roof over your head, didn’t you?”

  I can tell by the grin on his face that what I suspected was true. Robert sent all his money to Uncle Clem. And he kept it all for himself. “Why do we have to go to Moores Hill?” I ask. “Why couldn’t I have joined in Cambridge City or Richmond?”

  “Too many people know us there, boy,” he explains. “Can’t take the chance they’d ask too many questions. They’d want to know why your widowed mother isn’t signing you up, you being thirteen and all. You keep your mouth shut when we get to Moores Hill and let me handle it. Got it?” he asks.

  Two glasses are set on the table in front of us. Suddenly I feel shame for leaving home without telling Mother the truth about why I was leaving or where I was going. I pray when she finds out, she’ll understand that it’s up to me, the man of the house, to do something to make life better for the both of us and for families like Clay’s.

  With bellies full and bones warmed, we ride the last hour south. A banner, stretched across the street and tied from the roofs of the saloon and bank, greets our arrival:

  THE UNION MUST AND SHOULD BE PRESERVED!

  We stop at the livery to stable the horses before walking across the street to a cluster of tents. Posters dot the town:

  ELI LILLY, DRUGSTORE OWNER, FORMING AN ARTILLERY.

  In This Great Emergency Our Government wants Men! Men with stout hands and willing hearts, men who will fight manfully for our just and holy cause.

  RALLY! RALLY! RALLY! MEN OF INDIANA!

  Respond nobly to this last call as you have done to others. Listen not to those who would deter you from going: they will approach you in a thousand ways; heed them not; they have oily tongues but are

  TRAITORS AT HEART

  The undersigned has been authorized by His Excellency O. P. MORTON, Governor of Indiana, for Eli Lilly to raise the 9th Indiana Cavalry

  PAY FROM $13 TO $23 PER MONTH HEADQUARTERS, MOORES HILL, IN

  Captains, Lieutenants, Sergeants, and 2 Buglers per company

  “Send me ten dollars per month, boy,” Uncle Clem says when he sees the sign.

  “You said seven before,” I remind him.

  Uncle Clem grabs the hair sticking out from beneath the back of my hat into his fist. I wince, and he yanks my head back and tilts it up so I’m forced to look him dead in the eyes.

  “You’re hurting me,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “I don’t care. It was seven dollars before I saw the sign. I had no idea they’d pay that much for somebody to blow a stupid horn. The deal’s changed.
Ten dollars.”

  I nod, as much as I can with him holding my hair in a vice. He lets go and heads across the street toward the recruitment tent. I follow him, feeling like a whipped pup.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It’s not hard to find the recruitment tent. A gray canvas banner hangs between two trees beside it with the words:

  HEADQUARTERS 9TH INDIANA CAVALRY

  Uncle Clem opens the flap to the tent and motions for me to go in. “His father’s dead,” he tells the man sitting behind the table.

  “Captain Northam,” the man says calmly.

  “Beg pardon?” Uncle Clem asks.

  “I have a name, sir,” the man says. “It’s Captain Northam.”

  “Yes, sir,” Uncle Clem says quickly. “Captain Northam, this boy’s father is dead.”

  The captain slides his spectacles down the bridge of his nose a bit and glances at Uncle Clem. He looks at me, lays down his pen, and rubs his hands together to warm them. Cupping his hands and breathing into them tells me he’s as cold as we are. During all this time he never takes his eyes off me. His pleasant, peaceful manner, along with his gray beard, seems more the makings of Saint Nicholas than a war recruiter.

  Captain Northam sits in silence, simmering as quietly as a stew. He stares at me until the silence grows too thick for Uncle Clem. “I’m his guardian. His uncle. I’ll be signing for him today.”

  The captain turns and spits in a tin can resting on the ground by the table leg. Slowly, he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Again, he turns his gaze to me. “What about your mother?” the captain asks. “Why isn’t she here?”

  Uncle Clem puts up his hand and says, “She’s unable to be here to sign him up, so I’m here in . . .”

  Without taking his eyes off me, the captain puts his hand up to stop my uncle from speaking. “I asked the boy a question. Your mother?” the captain asks again. This time he adds a warm smile. “What about her, son? Where is your mother?”

  I have to think quickly. I don’t want to anger my uncle, but I have to answer the captain’s question. His stare and silence cause me to shift my weight several times. “She’s . . . ah . . . She couldn’t come today,” I say. That is the truth. Think! I say to myself. “She . . . is . . . ah . . .”