Thursday, April 18, early morning
Charlie’d left the newspaper office at suppertime, but I’d stayed until the oil in my lamp had burned out and my eyes were too tired to set any more type. I’d slept a few hours at home, and was having bread and cold meat for breakfast before heading back, when someone pounded on our kitchen door.
Pa opened it.
“John—good morning! What brings you here so early? The sun’s barely up.”
It was Mr. Bascomb.
“My Owen didn’t come home last night,” said Mr. Bascomb. “I thought maybe he was at your place. Or that Joe might have an idea of where he’d be.”
I got up from the table. “I haven’t seen Owen since yesterday morning, and he hasn’t been here. But I’ll help you look.” I started putting on my jacket.
“How long’s he been missing for?” asked Pa, reaching for his own coat.
“Since a little past one o’clock yesterday afternoon,” Mr. Bascomb replied. “I’ve looked everywhere. My wife’s been crying the night through, making herself sick. In her condition, I don’t know whether to worry more about her or the boy.”
“Has he done anything like this before?” asked Pa.
“Never! He’s a good boy. Works with your Joe and Charlie at the print shop instead of going to school some days, but that’s no secret.”
“Maybe he’s with a friend,” suggested Pa.
“He doesn’t have any close friends that I know of, except for Joe and Charlie,” said Mr. Bascomb. “Of course, no father knows everything about their children. What do you think, Joe? Where could he be?”
“I don’t think he’d be with any other boys.” I hesitated, wondering how much I should say about what I’d seen Monday. “He got into a fight the other day with some boys about his own age. He was real proud of you, Mr. Bascomb. He was bragging what a good soldier you were going to be. Some of the other boys were saying . . . nasty things.”
“So that’s how he got that black eye and nosebleed. I thought his story about running into a tree sounded suspicious. And then for him to hear what happened yesterday,” Mr. Bascomb said, shaking his head in anger. “A boy shouldn’t have to take on the battles of grown men.”
“Joe told me what happened when you went to enlist,” said Pa. “It’s neither fair nor right, John. The army needs men like you. The decision out of Washington must have something to do with that slavery issue down south.”
“They’re saying it’s because Lincoln doesn’t want to aggravate the slave-holding states that haven’t left the Union. But don’t fool yourself—they’re afraid white men even here in the North won’t want to serve alongside men of color, to sleep in the same tents and use the same latrines. And too many folk think men of my color won’t make good soldiers. Don’t forget: Nathaniel Gordon, a Maine man, is sitting in a New York prison, accused of engaging in the slave trade in West Africa last summer. But today that’s neither here nor there. Today I’d appreciate your help in finding my Owen and bringing him home.”
Pa nodded. “One thing’s for sure: If he’s been hiding since yesterday afternoon, he’s raging hungry by now. I’d think he’d be coming home anytime.”
“That’s what I kept thinking all night. That it was cold, and he’d be hungry. I figure he’s either somewhere with a friend, or something’s happened to him. Something bad,” said Mr. Bascomb.
“We’re going to find him,” I said. “I’ll get Charlie; he’ll look, too.”
“I’d planned to check with the businesses down on Water Street next,” said Mr. Bascomb. “They’ve been closed all night. Now that they’re opening, someone might find him if he was hiding there.”
“I’ll go out to the steam mill and then check the shipyards on Fore Street,” said Pa. “Joe, after you get Charlie, why don’t you boys head up Federal Street? Maybe one of the houses north of Main Street is vacant, or has a barn or shed Owen might hide in.”
Where could Owen be? Was he hurt and alone somewhere? No one mentioned the one fear we all shared: the river.
Where Ethan had disappeared.