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.
I was figgering how much ink I’d be needing for the next week when I heard shouting down on Fore Street. It sounded like trouble. I ran the rest of the way.
Owen was in the middle of a group of boys, holding the few copies of the Herald he hadn’t sold.
“My father’s going to be a soldier,” Owen was saying. “He’s going to be a better soldier than anyone!”
“How can he be the best soldier when he’s not white?” jeered Davy Searsmont.
“Yeah! My pa’s going too, and he’s the best with a musket in Lincoln County,” said Liam Reynolds. “He can get a turkey or a deer or even a moose with just one shot!”
“There ain’t gonna be any moose in South Carolina, Reynolds,” said Davy. “So what are you and yer ma gonna eat when yer pa’s off shootin’ all them Southerners?”
“He’ll kill ’em all, and get home in three months, jest like Mr. Lincoln says,” said Liam. “He’ll be home before the leaves fall.”
“My father, too,” put in Owen, strutting a little. “My father can kill any three Southerners, any time, faster’n your father!”
“Oh, yeah?” said Liam.
“Yeah!” said Owen.
Liam reached over and grabbed Owen’s newspapers and threw them up in the air, scattering them all over the Custom House lawn. Owen’s eyes followed them, but his feet didn’t move. “My father’ll be a better soldier than your father—any day.”
“I’ll bet your father doesn’t even know how to shoot a musket. I’ve never seen him with one. Not once!” said Liam. “He’s not even a real man. Real men are white!”
Owen’s feet moved then. His left foot reached out and kicked Liam, hard, in his shins. But Liam’s right hand was faster. It hit Owen’s nose straight on. Owen’s nose erupted in blood, spraying his own clothes and Liam’s.
Liam moved back a step or two and reached up to touch his face. His hand came away covered with blood.
I stood back. If I stepped in, I’d be fighting Owen’s battles for him. He’d never be able to show his face again. But I didn’t want to see him hurt.
Then Davy and Liam and the other two boys took off.
It all happened so fast.
I ran toward Owen to make sure he was all right, but he just looked at me in embarrassment and ran toward his home.
I walked around the Custom House yard, picking up Owen’s papers. The nasty words kept ringing in my ears. Real men are white.
This war wasn’t just going to be fought in the South.