Crossing the Deadline Read online

  “Gravely ill,” Uncle Clem says. “In this last year, the good Mrs. Gaston has lost her husband and her oldest son to the war.”

  That’s a lie because Dad died two and a half years ago.

  “Is your mother okay with you joining?” Captain Northam asks me.

  Uncle Clem points to the banner strung across the street. “She supports the president’s cause to preserve the Union but cannot travel here to sign her son into the army. My good man—”

  “Captain. Captain Northam,” he corrects my uncle again.

  “Sorry. Captain it is,” Uncle Clem agrees. “Captain, she, like all good patriots, believes that the Union must be preserved.”

  Captain Northam hasn’t looked at Uncle Clem since the conversation began. He stares at me with a warm smile. I get the feeling this very scene has played out many times, and he has sent every underaged boy home.

  “Is that true, son?” Captain Northam asks.

  “My father and brother both have met their Maker. Yes, sir. My brother, most recently, near Lexington, Kentucky.” Technically, I told the truth. I didn’t say they both died in the war. I said they both died and that Robert had died in Kentucky. If the recruitment officer thinks they both died in battle, that’s not my fault.

  Captain Northam removes the tobacco plug from his mouth and tosses it into the spittoon. His thumb and forefinger are stained with tobacco juice. He wipes them on the underside of the table.

  “He’s a bugler, just slightly underage,” Uncle Clem says.

  “How old are you, son?”

  “Fourteen,” I say. Now I am lying, but just barely. I won’t be fourteen for another three weeks.

  “And Governor Morton assured his mother the boy would be away from the front lines . . . back with Major Lilly. . . when she allowed him to join. He’s to enlist as a bugler. Show the captain your horn,” Uncle Clem commands.

  I open my leather case enough for the captain to see. “Take it out and play something for me,” he says.

  “Now?” I ask.

  “No time like the present,” Captain Northam says with a smile.

  I look at Uncle Clem. “Go ahead. Do what the good captain says.”

  I take the instrument from the case and press it to my lips. The frigid metal stings and shoots pain through my mouth. I blow slow breaths into the horn to warm it up.

  Captain Northam folds his arms across his chest and buries his fingers into his armpits.

  I take a deep breath and begin the melody from “Battle Cry of Freedom.” The notes come crisp and clear just as they did the morning I played it for the governor. The confines of the tent make the horn sound louder than I expect. It startles me. Midway through the first verse, men from nearby tents come in to see who’s playing. After I finish one verse and a chorus, a round of cheers erupts.

  Captain Northam stands and claps the loudest. “That was absolutely wonderful,” he says. “Just wonderful.”

  Uncle Clem reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Here’s a letter stating that Stephen’s to enlist as a bugler.” He lays it on the desk and pushes it across to the captain. “It’s written by Governor Morton. He knows of the family’s situation.”

  Captain Northam opens the envelope and snaps the paper crisply to unfold it. He reads the note carefully and looks up at me. “You know Governor Morton?”

  “Yes, Captain,” I say. “The governor and I talked about the war in his living room just a while back.”

  Captain Northam folds the paper and hands it to me. He dips a pen into a bottle of ink and asks for my name.

  “Stephen M. Gaston,” I say.

  Captain Northam writes my name in the ledger with “Bugler—Company K” beside my name. “Sign here,” he says, spinning the book around. “You’re Major Lilly’s personal bugler. Welcome to the war, son.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Captain Northam hands me a slip of paper and explains I’m to get on the morning train to Indianapolis. “Give this ticket to the conductor. We send rosters to Major Lilly on a daily basis. He’s in the capital, training men as we speak,” he says. “You’ll arrive the same day as he gets his new list of names.”

  Uncle Clem grabs the shoulders of my coat and pulls me close. He hugs me as if seeing me leave is the hardest thing he’s done in his entire life. He’s never hugged me before, so I know it’s a show for the captain’s benefit. He fishes in his pocket and hands me a dollar. “I can’t stay and see you off in the morning, so use this to get a room for the night.”

  * * *

  We walk to the livery, and I watch my uncle mount his horse. “Give the man a dollar for taking care of the horses,” he says.

  I take the same coin he gave me ten minutes earlier and hand it over to the man at the livery. Uncle Clem grabs the rein of my horse and heads toward Centerville without so much as a look back or a good-bye.

  I collect my linen duffel bag and bugle case and head to the saloon. The cost of a soda water is a bargain in exchange for a few hours of warmth until it’s time to sleep. There are a few dollars in my pocket, enough to get a room for the night, but I don’t want to spend it on that. I need to save every penny I can to send home to Mother. Knowing I’m providing a place for her to live so she won’t have to take charity from the poorhouse brings a wide smile to my face.

  I don’t want to take a chance on missing the morning train for Indianapolis, so just after dark, I walk to the train station. Few people are on the street at this time of evening, and the depot’s empty. The trains have stopped running for the night. There’s a place in the back, facing the tracks, where two wide walls come together to form a right angle. I sit on my blanket and lean against the wall.

  I open my bag and eat a piece of salt pork, bread, and a slice of apple pie that Mother baked last night. After I finish eating, I lie down with my back to the wall and use my bag for a pillow. The blanket doesn’t keep me warm enough, so I sit up, pull all the clothing out, and put on anything I can wear. Multiple layers plus the blanket do the trick. I finally drift off to sleep.

  I have a horrible nightmare:

  Sweat runs down my forehead and off the tip of my nose like it did on August afternoons at the livery. I swipe my face quickly with the sleeve of my shirt, only now, my white shirt has been replaced with a blue Union uniform. Water covers my bare feet. I’m standing in the middle of Paddy’s Run, a gun in my hand. Lifeless forms, stacked like cordwood four-, five-,six-deep, cover the creek’s banks. The war hasn’t made its way north to Centerville, Indiana, has it?

  Four men in Confederate uniforms carry limp bodies toward Crown Hill Cemetery. I stand perfectly still, exposed and unable to move, hoping they don’t notice me. The soldiers go about their work, oblivious to a Yankee standing close enough to see the ranks on their coat sleeves. Why am I invisible to them? A cannon rings out from the west, causing the ground beneath my feet to rattle.

  The blast wakes me from my dream. It takes several seconds, but the realization hits that I’m sleeping at the train station. The sky’s a seamless black, and there are no sounds coming from the city streets. Swells of blood pound in my neck, and the throbbing in my wrists is like the constant beating on a bass drum. Short breaths, in and out, slow my heart rate to normal.

  As soon as my eyes close the nightmare returns.

  I raise my gun and point the barrel downstream. My eyes dart from bank to bank. My right forearm quivers and taps my rifle stock, making it sound like telegraph code.

  The creek flows clear as windowpanes, but I can’t feel the smooth rocks at the bottom of the stream, only the coolness across the tops of my feet. I walk downstream and end up past the cemetery and out of town in a shallow pool near Governor Morton’s home. The pool sinks to waist deep at one end here before rippling out the west side of town.

  More piles of men lay dead on the banks. Body fluids pour from their mouths and nostrils. Organs spill from wounds, and flies smother every cut like apple butter on bread. Blood cascad
es over dirt and rocks and mingles with creek water, turning it red as a cardinal’s wing.

  Mother stands stoic beside Uncle Clem beneath a barren oak tree. She’s wearing a flowing black mourning dress with crinolines. A widow’s cap rests snugly on her head. Light bounces from a piece of golden jewelry. It’s a brooch with a quarter moon and stars and is clipped near the base of her throat.

  Suddenly something catches Mother’s eyes, and she points frantically to a body being carried to the cemetery. To my horror, I realize the next soldier to be buried is my brother, Robert. His eyes are open and blinking. He struggles to free himself but is unable. In desperation, he turns his head toward me and yells at the top of his lungs, “You have to save me, Stephen!”

  Noise from a gathering crowd wakes me. Mothers, fathers, and girlfriends have come to say good-bye and wave handkerchiefs to loved ones. Some men mingle around the platform, shake hands, and tell one another they’re from Rushville, Batesville, or Connersville. Watching them hug family and friends makes me wish I had said a proper goodbye to Mother. “I’m so proud of you,” one father says as he shakes his son’s hand.

  I take off the extra clothes I wore for the night and pack them and my blanket into my bag. There are few open seats when I make my way down the aisle of the train. As I scout for an empty seat, I overhear one fella talking about how he got his first kiss from his sweetheart just before boarding the train. Those not talking about their sweethearts talk about how quickly the 9th Indiana will end the war.

  I notice a shiny leather horn case in a compartment with one empty space nearby. “Is that seat taken?” I ask, pointing.

  “Naw, help yourself,” the man in the seat says as he turns my way. It’s August Smith, a fellow bugler from the Centerville band. “What are you doing here?” he asks, jumping up to give me a hug.

  “I knew you were joining, and I thought the Ninth needed a good bugler,” I say with a laugh.

  “Well, it’s good to see you,” August replies. “I can’t believe you joined.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  December 21,1864

  As we pull into the station, my stomach rumbles as much as the train. A shield of dull gray hangs above the city, and a foggy haze sits on everything. It looks like snow will fall from the sky at any moment, but the promise holds off. The smell of thick smoke and steam ambushes us as we step down from the train.

  A man wearing a dark blue overcoat is waiting on the station’s platform. His mustache is cut short to end above the corners of his lips. His chin and neck are shaven clean. Charcoal-colored hair hangs below the edges of his cap. He’s thin and walks parallel to the train in measured, crisp steps, almost in a strut. He points through the smoke toward a double gate nestled into a two-story-high wall and yells, at no one in particular, “When you get inside the camp, go past the tents on the right. There’s a platform nearby. Gather there.”

  As I pass, the man grabs my shirt collar. “Hold on, young man,” he says, pulling me back to his side. “Kinda young-looking to fight a man’s war, aren’t you?” he asks.

  Golden oak leaves sit on his shoulder straps. Major, I think. I wonder if he’s Major Eli Lilly.

  “Well . . . actually . . .” I catch my answer before it slips out. Robert wrote home of some boys, as young as twelve, trying to muster in the army. Many wrote the number eighteen on a piece of paper and tucked it into the heel of their boots. When enlistment officers asked, “Are you over eighteen?” young recruits could honestly say, “Yes, sir, it’s a fact. I’m over eighteen and that’s no lie.”

  I recognize I have paused too long and need to say something. “Save it,” the major says. “I bet you’re ‘Over eighteen’! Right?”

  “Yes, sir,” August Smith answers for me. “We’re over eighteen, and the Ninth is gonna help end this dadblamed war,” he assures the major. “As soon as we’re trained, the Ninth’s gonna end this fight in double-quick time.”

  The major eyes me up and down, points his chin toward the gate, and says, “Get inside.”

  As we walk away, August looks back over his shoulder. “Pleasant fellow,” he says. “Stephen, if you wait until you’re eighteen, the war will be over.”

  Large wooden gates open to reveal a city within the city bustling with activity. Immediately off to the left of the entrance, a man is yelling. “You’re going to be shot five times before you can get your powder in the barrel.” He snatches the musket from a soldier and continues his rant. “You should be able to fire three rounds per minute. Whoever loads faster, you or Johnny Reb, determines who will live. Watch the steps as I go through them again.”

  The instructor reaches into a black container strapped to his waist and pulls out an object the size of his thumb. “Retrieve cartridge from box and tear the paper with your teeth. Pour the powder and minié ball in.” He demonstrates.

  “Ram the powder and ball into the barrel, and replace the ramrod.”

  He reaches into another container. “Prime the weapon with a percussion cap, and you’re now ready to cock, aim, and fire.”

  Beyond the men learning to shoot, in a field large enough for all of Centerville to fit in, men ride horses. The riders all make their horses gallop on command then stop suddenly. They trot and walk in patterns.

  With so many people, the training camp must have a larger population than most towns in Indiana.

  August nudges my shoulder and points to a building opposite the main entrance. “I can hear my stomach growling. Maybe we can get something to eat there.” Along the far wall, smoke pours from several chimneys attached to a long building. “It’s gotta be the dining facility.”

  “The major said we’re to gather around the platform,” I remind him, pointing to a wooden stage.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time,” he says, heading in the direction of the mess hall.

  A series of buildings that appear to be barracks run along the edge of two walls. Men, their hands planted in their armpits, dash in from the cold. White tents, too many to count, sit just yards from the barracks and stretch beyond, past what I can see.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Men stroll along, carrying bags and an occasional bugle case. All my worldly possessions are stored in one sack: the clothes I packed, a blanket, a copy of David Copperfield, ten pages of writing papers, envelopes, a pencil, stamps, a Bible, and my bugle.

  A towheaded man sits under a walnut tree, polishing a bugle. He looks to be about my brother’s age, maybe twenty. “Cold, huh?” I ask.

  “Not bad,” he replies.

  “I’m from Centerville.”

  “Rushville,” he replies.

  “I’m Stephen Gaston. What’s your name?”

  “Henry.”

  “Just Henry?” I ask.

  “Dorman,” he adds.

  “Are you a bugler?”

  “Company K.”

  “Hey, me too,” I say. Getting him to say more than a word or two is as tough as using pull-offs on a horseshoe. He wipes his horn with a cloth.

  I sit and lean against the tree. “Excited?” I ask. “About going into battle and about seeing the elephant for the first time?”

  “Naw,” he says, shaking his head. He lowers his voice and leans closer to me. “I can’t play it,” he whispers.

  “What do you mean you can’t play it?”

  Dorman shrugs.

  “You mean you can’t play very well.”

  He hands the bugle to me. “It sounds like a goose when I blow it.”

  “How’d you join as a musician?” I ask.

  “I lied,” he says. He tucks his lower lip between his teeth and clamps down. “I told ’em I could play, and they never asked to hear me blow a single note. I need work to feed my wife, Sarah, and my son. I saw they needed buglers, and I don’t want to get shot. I figure this is the safest place to be in the army.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Back with officers, sounding their orders.”

  A light breeze lifts a tuft of his thin hair, a
nd he reminds me the world of Dutch.

  “I’ll teach you to play,” I promise.

  “Is it hard?”

  “Naw, as long as you practice, you’ll do fine. And make thirteen dollars a month as you learn,” I say.

  “I’ve got to send every penny home to the wife and new son. He’s three months old.”

  “Yeah. I know what you mean. It’s just me and my mother, so she needs every penny I can send her.”

  Taking Dorman’s bugle and turning it over in my hand reveals it’s covered with scratches and dents.

  “I stole it from a cousin,” he says quickly. “I figured if the recruitment officer saw I owned a horn, they’d believe I could play it.”

  “I bet it sounds beautiful. You’ll pick it up fast,” I assure him. “We won’t head south for a while. There’s lots of time to learn to play between now and then.”

  “I just hope we’re safe with these,” he says, gesturing to our bugles.

  “Hey, fellows,” August says, coming around the tree. “Did you know prisoners are being kept three blocks north of here at Camp Morton?”

  “That close?” I ask.

  “Yeah, three thousand prisoners from places like Lexington and Fort Donelson. I’d give anything to get a good look at ’em.”

  “Hold on,” I interrupt. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Lexington is where Robert was killed. “Did you say prisoners from Lexington are three blocks away?”

  “Yeah, Gaston. Clean out your ears.”

  A bugle sounds, and the recruits who were on the train with me rush to an open section of the field near the center of the camp. The major I had met earlier climbs the steps to a shoulder-high platform. He strides to the front edge and waits for silence.

  “Men, my name is Major Eli Lilly of the United States Union Army. The two hundred of you who arrived today join eight hundred men already in camp to form the Ninth Indiana Cavalry. As of now, you are the eyes of the army. It’s our job to keep commanders informed about enemy movements. That’s not an easy assignment.”