Friday, April 12, mid-morning
I walked slowly back to the Herald’s office. The sun was higher in the sky and the chickadees were still calling to each other, but I focused on kicking pebbles into the deep puddles in the street. They plunked with a satisfying sound.
Political arguments had always seemed boring and far away—something politicians in Washington and businessmen like Captain Tucker worried about. Of course, for years I’d heard people talking about why slavery should be ended. Why, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Mrs. Stowe’s book that described the evils of slavery, was written in Brunswick, just twenty miles down the road. A person in this town’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know about abolitionists and their campaign to end slavery in all the states, not just here in the North. Slavery hadn’t been allowed in Maine since 1783, way back when we were still part of Massachusetts. Families like Owen’s had lived here freely since then.
But now the men at Fort Sumter weren’t talking. They were shooting—and being shot at.
I maneuvered my way through the crowd near Mr. Johnston’s store. The clock in the window read ten-thirty.
“Are they still fighting down in Charleston?” I asked Mr. Sayward, who was standing near the door.
“Last message in said batteries on both sides been shelling steadily since a little past seven.”
“Or lost,” Mr. Sayward confirmed.
I nodded, and turned back through the crowd.
Charlie was waiting at the print shop.
“Where’ve you been?” said Charlie. “And where’s Owen? You were going to get him.”
“I got distracted.”
“I’ve got good news—even though it won’t help for this issue. Mr. Allen was at the tavern, as I thought. I gave him a copy of last week’s Herald and told him we’d like to cover the meeting Saturday night, and interview Miss Gramercy for our next issue.”
“And?” I asked.
“He’s given us each free tickets—press passes, he called them—for Saturday night. And we’re to meet with Miss Gramercy and her aunt at one o’clock on Monday afternoon.” Charlie pulled two tickets out of his pocket and waved them in my face.
“Did he give you a ticket for me, too?” asked Owen, who’d just appeared in the doorway.
“Owen! Good. Joe was just about to go and get you. We can use your help today,” said Charlie.
“Can I go to the spirit meeting Saturday?” Owen repeated.
“No; the tickets are just for Joe and me,” answered Charlie. “We’ll be writing the article.”
“I’m learning to write, too,” said Owen. “I could help.” He picked up the broom and started sweeping the floor.
“Not this time, Owen. And Joe, between seeing Miss Gramercy the other night, and Saturday, and then again Monday to ask her questions, she won’t be able to keep any secrets from us. After all, she’s just a girl.”
“A girl who’ll have her aunt with her,” I pointed out.
“We’re lucky it’s just her aunt; her uncle had another appointment then. After all, it wouldn’t be proper for her to meet with us without a chaperone. Her aunt won’t be answering our questions.”
Owen knocked the broom against the wall as he put it back in place and stomped over to the font cases, where he’d practiced setting type for a business card last week.
“What if Nell Gramercy doesn’t have any secrets?” I asked. “What if she can talk to people in the spirit world?”
“That’s impossible,” said Charlie. “All we have to do is find out how she does it—how she knows what to say to people.”
“It may not be that easy.” I kept thinking of how excited my parents were to have heard from Ethan. “She was very convincing last night. And not everyone in Wiscasset may want to hear that Nell is fooling them.”
“That’s next week’s problem,” Charlie said dismissively. “Today we have to set type for tomorrow’s edition.”
“Right,” I agreed. “Owen, would you like to set a couple of the ads?”
Owen looked up and nodded, grinning. “I can do it, Joe. I can!”
“Then let’s get started. I have the social news and some ads already set, but there are empty spots on pages two, three, and four, and we’ll have to redo the first page with the news from Charleston. Owen, there are three spaces left to fill with ads on page four. Why don’t we finish those first, and then check the telegraph office?” I kept thinking of what Pa and Ma had said about the fighting. “We could talk to people there, and to those at the tavern and the inn, and find out what they think the attack on Fort Sumter means to the country, and to us here in Maine.”
“Good plan,” said Charlie. “That way we could quote people and put their names in the paper, too. People buy copies of a newspaper when their names are in it.”
Owen was already carefully setting the type for an ad for the Mansion House. Charlie and I took trays to work on the other two pages. All was silent as we each reached for the pieces of type we needed.
Owen was the first to speak. “Do you think many soldiers will be killed down at Charleston Harbor?”
“Could be,” answered Charlie. “Men die in battles, and what’s happening at Fort Sumter sounds like the closest thing to a real battle the United States has been in since the war with Mexico.”
“What do you think it would be like to be a soldier?” Owen asked.
Charlie stopped for a moment and gazed off into space. “And fight for the honor of our nation? It would be glorious.”