The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg (15 page)

“Indeed?” the professor says, sounding very interested. “General Lee comes north?”

Robert E. Lee is the wily old Confederate general that’s been winning most of the battles ever since the war started, and even the toughest Union men speak of him with respect.

The sergeant squints at the professor. “Could be,” he says. “What makes you so curious? Wouldn’t happen to be spying, would you?”

The professor laughs and slaps his knee. “Good one, sir! I may be hanged for a rascal, but never a spy! No, no, sir, our curiosity is perfectly innocent! We ask because this orphan boy is looking for his brother. Claims he was illegally sold into the army at the tender age of seventeen.”

“Was he now?” The sergeant studies me with his squinty eyes.

“Yes, sir, my uncle said he was twenty and swore him in for replacement and kept the money. That swear was a dirty lie. Harold ain’t but seventeen.”

“And what do you aim to do, little fella, supposin’ you do find him? He’s been swore in, you said so yourself.”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But find him I must.”

The sergeant gives another suspicious glance to the professor, then jerks his chin at me. “Try Pennsylvania, vicinity of the Potomac River. Any men mustered in the last few months, that’s likely where they’ll send ’em, in preparation for the battle to come. And, son?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Keep your head down. Soon enough the air will be thick with lead.”

That night I can’t sleep for worrying about Harold. He’s so strong and brave they’ve probably given him the flag to carry into battle. First thing those Confederates will see is Harold coming over the hill, waving the Stars and Stripes, and every secessionist rifle will have eyes for him.

I imagine General Robert E. Lee on his gray horse, shooting at Harold with his fancy silver pistol, and Harold falling, tangled up in the flag.

I imagine Harold bleeding on the ground, his face getting paler and paler.

Harold dead.

That’s when I get up from my little bunk in the last wagon and climb out into the night, wanting some cool air to clear my head. It’s stupid to torment myself with visions of what might happen to my brother when he gets to the war.

Nothing to be done but to keep on searching as our little caravan heads west, into Pennsylvania, like the old sergeant said. Find the Maine regiments and explain to the generals that they got the wrong boy, that they must give me back my big brother before something bad happens.

I’m a few yards from the wagons, doing my business behind a big rock, when the rider comes out of the night.

Man on a black horse. He’s got the horse’s hooves wrapped in rags, to muffle the sound, and at first I think he must be here to rob us. Why else sneak up on us through the darkest, quietest part of the night?

I’m about ready to shout out a warning to the others when Professor Fleabottom slips out of the first wagon. He’s wearing a dark cloak that blends him into the darkness, and something about the way he moves says he’s all business.

The professor meets up with the man on the horse. They speak for a few minutes, but so low I can’t hear nothing but a murmur. Then Professor Fleabottom looks around to make sure nobody is watching — he don’t see me peeking around the rock — and he reaches into the dark cloak and takes out a leather satchel, the kind that carries mail or dispatches.

The professor hands the satchel to the man on the black horse. The man gives him a quick salute and wheels the horse away, vanishing silently into the night.

Now I got two reasons not to sleep: Harold and whatever the professor is up to, sneaking around under cover of darkness.

A
BOUT THE ONLY THING
I recall about our Dear Mother dying is the coffin. How it smelled of pine and camphor, and how small it was. How was our Dear Mother to sleep in a place so narrow? That worried me so much I could not sleep or eat until Harold explained that our Dear Mother was herself now in Heaven, and had left behind a pale remnant that must be buried in the earth.

The pine box would suffice.

Still I didn’t understand. What did he mean by “remnant?”

“A thing left behind,” he told me.

“How do you know?” I asked him.

He said, “Mother told me herself, just before she passed. She said we must not grieve over her poor body because it is only a remnant, and her immortal soul has flown off to be with God. She’ll have all the room she needs in Heaven, Homer, so you are not to worry.”

I was four years old at the time, which means Harold was only nine, but he comforted me better than any grown-up, and I was able to sleep so long as it was next to him, knowing he would be there always.

What makes me think of that little pine box, and Harold, too? The terrible black wagons we meet upon the road, not far from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. They are like big hayrick wagons without the hay, drawn by four horses, and the whole of each wagon is swaddled in black cloth and marked with the Union emblem.

Under the cloth, peeking out here and there, are stacks of cheap pine coffins.

The professor pulls our little caravan over to let the death wagons pass, and bides us stand with hats off and heads bowed, as a sign of respect.

As the last wagon goes by, it throws a spoke and nearly overturns. The professor leaps down to offer his assistance and puts Tally and Bern to work repairing the wheel while he entertains the driver with his fine talk.

“A splendid job you’re doing, bringing comfort to the bereaved,” he says. “How is it these men were not buried on the battlefield?”

“Most are, of course,” the driver says, wiping his sweaty brow with a soiled hankie. “These poor brave soldiers died of their wounds sometime after the battle, and so are returned to their homes.”

“What battle was this?” the professor wants to know. “We hear only dribs and drabs of the war.”

“Skirmishes mostly,” the driver says. “The armies are maneuvering, trying to get position.”

“Near the Potomac, I suppose?”

The driver shakes his head wearily. “West of the river. Lee has been harassing Harrisburg of late. The Union sends its men to find him and this is how they return — shot to pieces and dying. Some from their wounds, more from sickness and fever. It is a sad business.”

“Very sad,” says the professor. “Tell me, sir, would a mild tonic help? A pick-me-up?”

He means his elixir and the driver readily accepts. As he sips from the bottle the weary driver becomes even more talkative, and he and the professor discuss the state of the war.

It seems that after their triumph at Chancellorsville the Confederate forces have indeed come north as rumored, invading Pennsylvania and looking to put a bayonet through the heart of the Union Army.

“They say if Lee wins one more battle the war will be over and the South will be triumphant.”

“Surely not!” The professor says, looking much distressed. “Our General Hooker can fight, can he not?”

“Hooker?” The driver gives him an odd look as he takes another swig of elixir. “Have you not heard? Fighting Joe Hooker has resigned in despair or bad temper, no one knows for sure. Lincoln has promoted General Meade in his place and ordered him to stop Lee’s army at all cost.”

“Meade is in charge? Extraordinary!”

“You know something of the Union generals, do you?” the driver asks suspiciously.

The professor clears his throat. “Only what I read in the newspapers. I know nothing of Meade but his name, really.”

The driver shrugs. “Ah well. It is not for us to criticize. It is only for us to serve and die as the generals command. They say that some of the northern states are near rebellion themselves. New York in particular. They want an end to things, one way or another. These are the dark days of the war, a time for dying by the thousand, and for what? To free the slaves? I care nothing for slaves!”

After that the driver will speak no more. He waits until his wagon is repaired, then trundles off, silent as the grave.

The professor stands in the road, watching as the coffin wagon rounds a bend and vanishes from sight, then pats me on the head. “Not to worry, young Mr. Figg. If what the man says is true, the war may be over before your brother has to fight.”

I hope so. I don’t want Harold coming home in no black wagon.

O
NE FINE DAY, NOT FAR
from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the wind brings us a present. We been hard upon the road since the night before, on account of a certain colonel who took exception to his new recruits drinking the professor’s elixir and sent a squad of lively fellows to arrest us.

The professor bribed them with silver coin, but still we had to flee and put many miles behind us before the sun rose.

I’m riding in the third wagon with Tally, trying to persuade him to stop and cook us breakfast.

“They say an army travels on its stomach,” I remind him. “What about medicine shows? Don’t we travel on our stomachs, too?”

Tally shakes his head, keeps the wagon moving. “I believe there’s an old leather boot under the seat,” he says. “Chew on that, if you like.”

“What’s that I hear?” I say, putting my hand to my ear. “Distant thunder? Artillery? No — it’s your empty belly! What a lonesome, hungry noise it makes. Pancakes, Tally. Fried potatoes. Strawberry pie.”

“Strawberry pie?”

“We passed a whole field of strawberries, not a mile back. Fresh strawberries baked in a pie. Mmmmm, good,” I say, taunting him by rubbing my stomach.

“Stop it, you little scamp! We’ll have our breakfast when the professor says so, and not before.”

That’s when the great black monster comes over the horizon, blown by the warm summer wind. Looks like a giant head making faces at us as it rises over the grassy hills.

“Professor!” Tally cries, standing up in his seat. “Look!”

The wagons halt as an enormous silk balloon fills the sky. The silk bulges and ripples, changing shape with the wind, and looks like a thing alive.

As it gets closer I can make out a basket hanging by ropes, and a man in the basket, waving frantically and pointing at something. Beneath the basket is another long rope dragging an anchor. The anchor keeps hitting the ground and bouncing back up in the air.

“Runaway balloon,” Tally says, his eyes lighting up. “Bernard! Let’s grab the anchor!”

The juggling brothers leap from their wagons and give chase. I follow close behind, striving to keep up. The man shouts from the basket, but he must be a hundred feet in the air and the words are jumbled.

We’re in a country of rolling hills, running through knee-high grass, chasing the anchor as it tumbles and bounces.

Tally gets his hand on the anchor and gives a yell of triumph, and then he’s yanked into the air and falls, tumbling head over heels in the soft grass.

Next thing, Bern leaps over his fallen brother and snatches at the anchor. It drags him along and spins him around as the great balloon pops up again, pushed by the wind.

“Grab my legs!” he yells.

Somehow I manage to get both arms around his legs. For a moment the extra weight seems to hold us down, with my toes dragging along in the grass. Then another gust lifts us high into the air and we’re both screaming for help.

Far below us Tally is running to keep up, begging us to come down to earth. We would if we could, but the fall is too far. I’m hanging on to Bern’s legs for dear life. Then as the hill below us rises to the ridge, we swing closer to the ground.

We’re going so fast the grass looks blurry.

“Look out!” Tally yells, pointing.

At the top of the hill looms a cluster of tall elm trees. We’re heading right for it! The thick branches look like spears rushing at us. I’ve half a mind to drop and take my chances, but before I can figure out how to let go we swoosh into the trees.

Last thing I see is a branch exactly as fat as my head.