Crossing the Deadline (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

September 28, 1863

The first frost of the year coated the ground last night, so it's cold as I set out for the train depot. “On your way to play for the governor?” Miss Amanda Gates calls from her porch. She and Margaret Peckham are rocking and tying American flags onto thin cedar rods. “I see you have your horn.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I reply while pushing open her gate. “Mr. Wilson gave me a solo to play. We'll see if all my practice pays off.”

Margaret drops a flag into a large wicker basket as I place one foot onto the top step. “You'll do fine, Stephen. I have no doubt,” she says. She pulls her quilt tighter around her waist. “Late September has brought a chill to the air.”

“Yes, it has,” I reply. “That's a lot of flags you've made for the recruitment rally.”

“We've collected scraps for weeks,” Miss Gates says. She motions with her finger for me to come closer. I lean in, and with a hushed voice she says, “Even Mrs. Loggins, who's meaner than a cottonmouth cornered in an outhouse, surrendered a swatch of white from a piece of bedding.”

Mrs. Peckham laughs. “Not that she gave up much. Looked like it hadn't been washed in seven years.”

“Margaret!” Miss Gates says.

“I'm just tellin' the truth, Amanda. I'm only tellin' the truth.”

“I'm sure everyone will love your flags,” I say.

Miss Gates nods toward Margaret. “She made the stars. She wound white thread around her needle three or four times, held the knot in place, and pushed the needle back through the same hole it came from. White dots the size of tomato seeds.”

I smile at Margaret. “Miss Betsy Ross herself would be proud.”

“We don't want the governor of Indiana to be embarrassed by his hometown,” Margaret replies.

Miss Gates lays the fabric in her lap and shoots a sideways smile at her friend. “Horsefeathers, Margaret. How could Governor Oliver Morton not be proud of his own hometown?
We're family. When he sees these flags waving, he'll have to be wallpapered not to be impressed.”

Miss Gates holds up her latest creation. “Stephen, does this look crooked to you?”

She's fishing for a compliment. “What on earth are you talking about, ma'am?” I say. “The seams appear straight as rails. They're expecting a couple hundred people to hear the governor. Do you think you have enough flags?”

“They'll go as far as they can go,” Miss Gates says.

* * *

Two hours later I see the ladies carrying their baskets through the crowd at the depot. Their hands retrieve one flag at a time as if they're delicate dried flowers. They nod to each man and hand a flag to each lady. Sherry Ball stands next to me. She runs her fingers over a row of French knots.

“Every single flag has exactly five rows of seven stars, Sherry,” Margaret assures her. “There's no need to count 'em all. One star for each state. The thirty-fifth star is West Virginia's. It was official on July fourth.”

“Should only be twenty-four stars on your flags, ladies,” Richard Charman butts in. When the war started, Charman
hung a flag from his front porch. But he cut one star out for every state that left the Union. “Seceshes' stars should be taken off every Union flag,” he says with venom in his words.

Margaret raises her voice. “You may call any state who seceded a Secesh, Richard Charman, or whatever else you like. But this is an American flag.” She stares him dead in the eyes, daring him to blink. “What you do with your flags, at your house, sir, is your business. These are my flags, and I worked hours to put every dadblamed star on 'em. I thank you very kindly to keep your comments to yourself.”

“It's a very beautiful flag, indeed, Mrs. Peckham,” I interrupt.

“Thank you, Stephen,” she says, fighting back tears. She walks away, then stops. After taking several seconds to collect her thoughts, she turns and looks back. “Stephen, your brother, Robert, is fighting for all of this flag, every red and white stripe and all thirty-five stars. His efforts are not for a cut-up and tattered flag with some stars missing.”

That brings a smile to my face and a lump to my throat.

CHAPTER FOUR

A train whistle draws everybody's attention west. I look down the tracks and see pillars of smoke swell from a locomotive's engine. The train's “welcome whistle” blows, and Mr. Wilson waves his hand to get the band members' attention.

Our director has taught music for twenty-five years in Centerville. A year ago he formed the Community Band with boys too young to enlist and men who returned from the war wounded. When the train whistles, he pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and taps his baton against George Peckham's tuba. There are no signs of Mother. But with the band sitting on chairs so close to the platform and the crowd so thick, I can only see past three or four people.

Mr. Wilson says I know more about music than anybody he's ever taught. “Stephen, you take to the bugle like a flame
takes to a candle,” he said one day. More than anything in the world, I hope Mother's here to hear me play my first solo.

I refocus my gaze on Mr. Wilson. He puts one finger against his lips to indicate we are to begin softly. “We'll build the music,” he said in practice. “We'll whip the crowd into a frenzy.”

We begin “Battle Cry of Freedom” on the downbeat. As the train nears the depot, Mr. Wilson keeps the beat with his right hand and motions with his left hand for the music to swell. As the train slows to a crawl near the depot's platform, the music reaches a loud crescendo.

When the train screeches to a stop, four porters pull boxes painted red with white stars from the side of the grandstand to create steps from the train.

The doors open, and a hush falls over the crowd as if this all had been practiced a hundred times. A rotund man, dressed sharply in a dark suit, a watch fob hanging from one vest pocket, steps into the doorway. He grips the metal bar on the side of the train with one hand and waves to the crowd with a black walking cane tipped with a gold sphere. He waddles down the steps and onto the platform. Governor Morton receives a deafening roar of approval. He tugs on his goatee and bows his head to the crowd.

The governor lifts both hands and says, “Thank you.” Nobody can hear his words above the ruckus. He strokes his thick black mustache and raises both hands again, calling for silence, but his gesture has the opposite effect. The cheers grow louder. Men remove their hats and wave them in tight circles over their heads. The words “thank you” are said again and again, paired with nods of his head. “Thank you. Thank you,” he says louder.

When the crowd finally settles, George Peckham lowers his tuba and shouts, “Welcome home, Governor!”

“It's good to be home, George,” comes the answer. He strolls to a podium decorated with pressed bunting of red, white, and blue stripes.

“The good folk of Centerville certainly know how to wake snakes,” he says.

Another chorus of cheers erupts from the crowd.

“Who's that up there?” a shrill voice yells when it's quiet enough for her to be heard. “All I see standing behind that podium is plain ol' Oliver Hazard Perry Morton.” The comment brings a roar from the crowd.

“Yes, Miss Amanda Gates, it's just me,” the governor confesses.

“Why, I remember when you had a full head of hair and
were thin enough to hide behind a buggy whip,” she says. “What happened to you?”

Governor Morton laughs politely at her comment. “Well, as you can see now, it's reversed. My belly is full and my hair is thin. It would take an entire barrel of whips to hide me now. And”—he wags his finger—“I'm not leaving town until I've had a slice of your famous pumpkin pie.”

Miss Gates shakes her finger back at the governor and says, “I thought so. I got two pies cooling right now. Just stop by and take a whole one home with you.”

CHAPTER FIVE

As the laughter dies, Governor Morton pulls several notes from inside his coat pocket. “Friends, this war has taken too many of the Union's finest; some from right here in Centerville. Many said it would be just a summer conflict. But here we are, three summers past. We will not rest, we will not bend, because our cause is the right cause.”

Governor Morton points to a tall thin man leaning against the train, his arms folded against his chest. “Bill Robbins came to Centerville seven years ago and opened a hardware store. Bill, would you have worked as hard as you have to see all you've earned given away to somebody who did none of the work?”

“Not in this lifetime,” Mr. Robbins says.

“But that's what slavery is. People working hard for no
reward. That is wrong, and we can't allow it to continue. Where is Dutch?” Governor Morton asks.

Dutch is near the platform, hidden from view by the podium. He waves his hand in the air. “Down here, Governor.”

“This gentleman traveled a long ways from Europe and built a business along Main Street. Does he give all his sweat so that one hundred percent of what he reaps will be handed over to others?”

“No, sir!” Dutch yells. “I work hard for what I have.”

“Exactly. You do the work.” The governor pauses. “And you reap the rewards. Slavery, folks, is unrewarded work.”

“But we're sick of this war!” a woman yells from the back of the crowd.

A chill flashes up my spine, and the hairs rise on the back of my neck. Was that Mother? Did she come to the rally to challenge Governor Morton?

Governor Morton nods in agreement. “I know you are.” He pauses several seconds and opens his mouth to talk, but stops.

I turn to Sherry Ball. “Who said that?”

“It's Richard Charman's wife,” she says.

The governor pulls forward on his goatee with his left hand and taps the side of the podium with his right. “We're all
downright sick of the fighting,” he finally says in a lowered voice. “The separation from fathers, brothers, and sons is a pain we can't put into words. But there is a larger call. That's why I'm here today, in my own hometown of Centerville, Indiana, to remind you, my friends, that this war is a crusade, and we must continue to do our part to preserve the Union.

“I see a time in the very near future when we will once again have one flag representing all of the United States of America.

“Show me a man facing battle with fear and yet staring it smack in the face out of a sense of duty to his country. Then I'll show you a hero.

“I speak about two of our own bravest: Robert Gaston and John Robbins.” People turn to stare at me. I feel my face turn flush.

“Those two boys did not leave Centerville, family, and friends to fight for glory. Robert's mother, already a widow, has sacrificed in his absence while he is serving his country.

“President Abraham Lincoln, who is a good friend of mine, said to both houses of Congress on July 4, 1861, ‘having thus chosen our course, without guile and with pure purpose, let us renew our trust in God, and go forward without fear and with manly hearts.'

“Residents of Centerville, I came here today to ask you to continue to join our president and go forward without fear and with manly hearts to fight the battle to heal this great nation.”

Governor Morton folds his papers and tucks them into his coat pocket. He waves to the assembly and says, “Thank you, Centerville, for welcoming me home today.”

Mr. Wilson waits for the ovation to subside before turning to me. I quickly rub the sweaty palm of my right hand on my pant leg so my bugle doesn't slip, and play the first four bars of “Battle Cry of Freedom” alone. The notes spring loud into the air, and I hope Mother is listening somewhere hidden by the crowd.

When the rest of the band joins in, the governor raises his hands. “Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, one moment please,” the governor interrupts. “Stephen Gaston, I almost forgot. If you'll come over to the house later, I have a little something I'd like to give you. George Peckham, I have a package for you, as well.”

The governor points to Mr. Wilson to continue the song.

       
Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys. We'll rally once again.

Every time the words “rally round the flag, boys” are sung, men remove their hats and wave them over their heads. A spine-tingling sight, though, is the sea of tiny red, white, and blue flags waving back and forth.

       
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom; We will rally from the hillside,

       
We'll gather from the plain, Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.

The band plays to a crescendo, and the crowd joins in on the chorus.

       
The Union forever, Hurrah, boys, hurrah. Down with the Traitor, Up with the Star;

       
While we rally round the flag, boys, Rally once again,

       
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom.

       
We are springing to the call for

       
Three Hundred Thousand more,

       
Shouting the battle cry of Freedom, And we'll fill the vacant ranks

       
Of our brothers gone before . . . .