Thursday, April 18, mid-morning
“I told Father that Owen was missing. He said he’d check inside the inn, but I don’t think Owen would be here. Besides, people would remember seeing a small boy,” Charlie pointed out. “Although I suppose he might have hidden in one of the outbuildings. We’ll look there.”
The stable seemed a good place to start. Charlie checked the hayloft, while I looked in the stalls and in every guest’s wagon or carriage.
“If Owen were looking for a place to hide, there are lots of places in here,” I said. “Under the seats, and in the compartments for trunks, and under the hay. And there are several empty stalls.” We called his name, but there was no answer. Old Mr. McKinley, who was in charge of the Mansion House stable, said he hadn’t seen any boys.
We walked past Mr. Stacy’s house and Mr. Turner’s; no places there for a boy to hide.
The old burying ground had been filled long ago, and some of the worn granite headstones had toppled over. Wealthier families in town had moved their family members’ bodies to the newer, more stylish, cemetery over on Spruce Point, where there was more space. Boys sometimes dared each other to climb the iron fence and explore the ancient graveyard. Owen wouldn’t have gone in alone; Charlie and I were sure of that.
We continued down Federal Street, asking everyone we saw if they’d seen Owen. No one had. We walked all the way out of town until we came to the old granite jail.
“Mr. Cunningham is in there now, I guess,” I said, looking at the small windows covered with iron bars.
“That’ll show anyone who talks against the Union,” said Charlie.
“Talking’s one thing,” I pointed out. “Refusing to do your job for the country’s another. He wasn’t jailed for talking.”
“Guess not,” admitted Charlie. He looked down the road, where it became more pitted and muddy. “Owen wouldn’t have gone any farther than here, would he?”
I shook my head. “It’s just farms out there on the Alna Road. Owen doesn’t know anyone who lives that far from town. Let’s go back.”
We turned, neither of us saying anything for a long time.
Finally Charlie spoke. “Chances are he’ll have turned up by the time we get back, don’t you think? Wherever he was, probably he got hungry or thirsty and decided to go home.”
“I hope so,” I said. “He was so proud his father was going to be a soldier. And then, to have to face everyone he bragged to, after his father was turned down . . . That’s got to be hard, Charlie. Mighty hard.”
“I guess,” said Charlie. “But he’s young. He’ll learn to live with it.”
“Did your father change his mind after you talked with him yesterday? Is he enlisting?” I asked.
“Nah. He says he’s too old, and can’t shoot, and he’s not interested in the politics of it all.” Charlie dragged his foot, making a line in the dirt street. “Now that’s embarrassing. He didn’t even try to enlist.”
“I wish my pa wasn’t going,” I said softly.
Charlie stopped. “What?”
“I know—it’s patriotic and all. But I wish he’d let someone else go so he could stay home and help Ma with the store.”
“But you must be so proud! I wish he were my pa!” Charlie laughed. “You have all the luck!”
“Luck? My brother died, and now Pa’s leaving too; who knows if he’ll be comin’ back. And in the meantime, Ma has to run the store. Even if we get the Act printed in time to earn enough money so I can pay Mr. Shuttersworth, I’ll be torn between helping her and running the Herald, never knowing what’s happening to Pa.” I took a few steps toward Charlie. “You’re right. I’m lucky. Just plumb lucky.”
I should have gone to the Herald office, or to the Bascombs’ house to see if Owen had come home, but at that moment I was convinced I’d never get the printing job done, we’d never find Owen, and life would never work out the way I’d hoped it would.
And not even my best friend understood.
I left Charlie standing by the town water pump and headed home.