Monday, April 15, morning
“Joe, Joe—come quick! There’s trouble! Fighting down at the Custom House!”
I was rightening up the office after Sunday’s work. I’d already made good use of the broom, and had just added the income from the Fort Sumter bulletin ($1.10, for a new total of $47.50) to the accounts book when Charlie’s voice echoed up the stairs.
Fighting at the Custom House? Could Southerners have already attacked this far north? What weapons would they have? As I ran down the stairs to follow Charlie down Water Street, I felt in my back pocket for the knife Pa had given me last Christmas. It was meant for whittling, but most days I carried it with me, finding it handy for cleaning type and other chores. But what good would a small blade do in a war?
The street was full of men, women, and children running toward the massive stone and brick building down near Whaleship Wharf. A few men even waved muskets. Not many in town ever had need of weapons. Not before now.
A crowd had gathered in front of the Custom House steps. Mr. Cunningham, Wiscasset’s customs collector, in charge of inspecting ships arriving from foreign ports, was holding the American flag high. That was the moment I realized it wasn’t flying above the Custom House as usual.
“I refuse! I will not fly this sacred flag over a building representing a country that has declared war on its own states!” Mr. Cunningham shouted. “I care not what that so-called president of ours says! The Southern states should be reasoned with, not declared our enemy. Lincoln is wrong, and I will not follow a command against my principles!”
“Traitor!” screamed old Mrs. Fairfax from the crowd, shaking her cane at Mr. Cunningham. “Those Southerners fired on our boys! On United States soldiers!”
“She’s right!” yelled Mr. Dana, the pharmacist. “Lincoln’s our president. Raise the Stars and Stripes!”
“Traitor! Traitor!” The crowd took up the cry.
Without thinking, I found myself chanting along.
“I’d rather burn down this building than raise our sacred flag when it no longer represents the United States our forefathers created—the United States we love and honor!” shouted Mr. Cunningham.
“Try to burn down the building, you idiot!” yelled someone else. “The building’s strong, like the Union, made of stone and brick. It won’t burn because of one man’s opinion.”
“We’re going to war just because some slave-lovers want to change the way other people live!” bellowed Cunningham, trying to be heard above the crowd. “Let people live the way they want to live! Every state should make its own rules! Why should we send our sons to fight in a place we’ve never even seen?”
I saw Owen’s father moving to the back of the crowd.
“Because we’re all Americans!” came from the crowd.
The chant of Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! began again, and the crowd began to surge up the steps, toward Mr. Cunningham, who backed up against the high Custom House doors, clutching the American flag to his chest.
A shot rang out.