Crossing the Deadline (6 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

It's not hard to find the recruitment tent. A gray canvas banner hangs between two trees beside it with the words:

HEADQUARTERS 9TH INDIANA CAVALRY

Uncle Clem opens the flap to the tent and motions for me to go in. “His father's dead,” he tells the man sitting behind the table.

“Captain Northam,” the man says calmly.

“Beg pardon?” Uncle Clem asks.

“I have a name, sir,” the man says. “It's Captain Northam.”

“Yes, sir,” Uncle Clem says quickly. “Captain Northam, this boy's father is dead.”

The captain slides his spectacles down the bridge of his
nose a bit and glances at Uncle Clem. He looks at me, lays down his pen, and rubs his hands together to warm them. Cupping his hands and breathing into them tells me he's as cold as we are. During all this time he never takes his eyes off me. His pleasant, peaceful manner, along with his gray beard, seems more the makings of Saint Nicholas than a war recruiter.

Captain Northam sits in silence, simmering as quietly as a stew. He stares at me until the silence grows too thick for Uncle Clem. “I'm his guardian. His uncle. I'll be signing for him today.”

The captain turns and spits in a tin can resting on the ground by the table leg. Slowly, he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. Again, he turns his gaze to me. “What about your mother?” the captain asks. “Why isn't she here?”

Uncle Clem puts up his hand and says, “She's unable to be here to sign him up, so I'm here in . . .”

Without taking his eyes off me, the captain puts his hand up to stop my uncle from speaking. “I asked the boy a question. Your mother?” the captain asks again. This time he adds a warm smile. “What about her, son? Where is your mother?”

I have to think quickly. I don't want to anger my uncle,
but I have to answer the captain's question. His stare and silence cause me to shift my weight several times. “She's . . . ah . . . She couldn't come today,” I say. That
is
the truth.
Think!
I say to myself. “She . . . is . . . ah . . .”

“Gravely ill,” Uncle Clem says. “In this last year, the good Mrs. Gaston has lost her husband and her oldest son to the war.”

That's a lie because Dad died two and a half years ago.

“Is your mother okay with you joining?” Captain Northam asks me.

Uncle Clem points to the banner strung across the street. “She supports the president's cause to preserve the Union but cannot travel here to sign her son into the army. My good man—”

“Captain. Captain Northam,” he corrects my uncle again.

“Sorry. Captain it is,” Uncle Clem agrees. “Captain, she, like all good patriots, believes that the Union must be preserved.”

Captain Northam hasn't looked at Uncle Clem since the conversation began. He stares at me with a warm smile. I get the feeling this very scene has played out many times, and he has sent every underaged boy home.

“Is that true, son?” Captain Northam asks.

“My father and brother both have met their Maker. Yes, sir. My brother, most recently, near Lexington, Kentucky.” Technically, I told the truth. I didn't say they both died in the war. I said they both died and that Robert had died in Kentucky. If the recruitment officer thinks they both died in battle, that's not my fault.

Captain Northam removes the tobacco plug from his mouth and tosses it into the spittoon. His thumb and forefinger are stained with tobacco juice. He wipes them on the underside of the table.

“He's a bugler, just slightly underage,” Uncle Clem says.

“How old are you, son?”

“Fourteen,” I say. Now I am lying, but just barely. I won't be fourteen for another three weeks.

“And Governor Morton assured his mother the boy would be away from the front lines . . . back with Major Lilly. . . when she allowed him to join. He's to enlist as a bugler. Show the captain your horn,” Uncle Clem commands.

I open my leather case enough for the captain to see. “Take it out and play something for me,” he says.

“Now?” I ask.

“No time like the present,” Captain Northam says with a smile.

I look at Uncle Clem. “Go ahead. Do what the good captain says.”

I take the instrument from the case and press it to my lips. The frigid metal stings and shoots pain through my mouth. I blow slow breaths into the horn to warm it up.

Captain Northam folds his arms across his chest and buries his fingers into his armpits.

I take a deep breath and begin the melody from “Battle Cry of Freedom.” The notes come crisp and clear just as they did the morning I played it for the governor. The confines of the tent make the horn sound louder than I expect. It startles me. Midway through the first verse, men from nearby tents come in to see who's playing. After I finish one verse and a chorus, a round of cheers erupts.

Captain Northam stands and claps the loudest. “That was absolutely wonderful,” he says. “Just wonderful.”

Uncle Clem reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Here's a letter stating that Stephen's to enlist as a bugler.” He lays it on the desk and pushes it across to the captain. “It's written by Governor Morton. He knows of the family's situation.”

Captain Northam opens the envelope and snaps the paper crisply to unfold it. He reads the note carefully and
looks up at me. “You know Governor Morton?”

“Yes, Captain,” I say. “The governor and I talked about the war in his living room just a while back.”

Captain Northam folds the paper and hands it to me. He dips a pen into a bottle of ink and asks for my name.

“Stephen M. Gaston,” I say.

Captain Northam writes my name in the ledger with “Bugler—Company K” beside my name. “Sign here,” he says, spinning the book around. “You're Major Lilly's personal bugler. Welcome to the war, son.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Captain Northam hands me a slip of paper and explains I'm to get on the morning train to Indianapolis. “Give this ticket to the conductor. We send rosters to Major Lilly on a daily basis. He's in the capital, training men as we speak,” he says. “You'll arrive the same day as he gets his new list of names.”

Uncle Clem grabs the shoulders of my coat and pulls me close. He hugs me as if seeing me leave is the hardest thing he's done in his entire life. He's never hugged me before, so I know it's a show for the captain's benefit. He fishes in his pocket and hands me a dollar. “I can't stay and see you off in the morning, so use this to get a room for the night.”

* * *

We walk to the livery, and I watch my uncle mount his horse. “Give the man a dollar for taking care of the horses,” he says.

I take the same coin he gave me ten minutes earlier and hand it over to the man at the livery. Uncle Clem grabs the rein of my horse and heads toward Centerville without so much as a look back or a good-bye.

I collect my linen duffel bag and bugle case and head to the saloon. The cost of a soda water is a bargain in exchange for a few hours of warmth until it's time to sleep. There are a few dollars in my pocket, enough to get a room for the night, but I don't want to spend it on that. I need to save every penny I can to send home to Mother. Knowing I'm providing a place for her to live so she won't have to take charity from the poorhouse brings a wide smile to my face.

I don't want to take a chance on missing the morning train for Indianapolis, so just after dark, I walk to the train station. Few people are on the street at this time of evening, and the depot's empty. The trains have stopped running for the night. There's a place in the back, facing the tracks, where two wide walls come together to form a right angle. I sit on my blanket and lean against the wall.

I open my bag and eat a piece of salt pork, bread, and a slice of apple pie that Mother baked last night. After I finish
eating, I lie down with my back to the wall and use my bag for a pillow. The blanket doesn't keep me warm enough, so I sit up, pull all the clothing out, and put on anything I can wear. Multiple layers plus the blanket do the trick. I finally drift off to sleep.

I have a horrible nightmare:

Sweat runs down my forehead and off the tip of my nose like it did on August afternoons at the livery. I swipe my face quickly with the sleeve of my shirt, only now, my white shirt has been replaced with a blue Union uniform. Water covers my bare feet. I'm standing in the middle of Paddy's Run, a gun in my hand. Lifeless forms, stacked like cordwood four-, five-,six-deep, cover the creek's banks. The war hasn't made its way north to Centerville, Indiana, has it?

Four men in Confederate uniforms carry limp bodies toward Crown Hill Cemetery. I stand perfectly still, exposed and unable to move, hoping they don't notice me. The soldiers go about their work, oblivious to a Yankee standing close enough to see the ranks on their coat sleeves. Why am I invisible to them? A cannon rings out from the west, causing the ground beneath my feet to rattle.

The blast wakes me from my dream. It takes several seconds, but the realization hits that I'm sleeping at the train station. The sky's a seamless black, and there are no sounds coming from the city streets. Swells of blood pound in my neck, and the throbbing in my wrists is like the constant beating on a bass drum. Short breaths, in and out, slow my heart rate to normal.

As soon as my eyes close the nightmare returns.

I raise my gun and point the barrel downstream. My eyes dart from bank to bank. My right forearm quivers and taps my rifle stock, making it sound like telegraph code.

The creek flows clear as windowpanes, but I can't feel the smooth rocks at the bottom of the stream, only the coolness across the tops of my feet. I walk downstream and end up past the cemetery and out of town in a shallow pool near Governor Morton's home. The pool sinks to waist deep at one end here before rippling out the west side of town.

More piles of men lay dead on the banks. Body fluids pour from their mouths and nostrils. Organs spill from wounds, and flies smother every cut like apple butter on bread. Blood cascades over dirt and rocks and mingles with creek water, turning it red as a cardinal's wing.

Mother stands stoic beside Uncle Clem beneath a barren oak tree. She's wearing a flowing black mourning dress with crinolines. A widow's cap rests snugly on her head. Light bounces from a piece of golden jewelry. It's a brooch with a quarter moon and stars and is clipped near the base of her throat.

Suddenly something catches Mother's eyes, and she points frantically to a body being carried to the cemetery. To my horror, I realize the next soldier to be buried is my brother, Robert. His eyes are open and blinking. He struggles to free himself but is unable. In desperation, he turns his head toward me and yells at the top of his lungs, “You have to save me, Stephen!”

Noise from a gathering crowd wakes me. Mothers, fathers, and girlfriends have come to say good-bye and wave handkerchiefs to loved ones. Some men mingle around the platform, shake hands, and tell one another they're from Rushville, Batesville, or Connersville. Watching them hug family and friends makes me wish I had said a proper goodbye to Mother. “I'm so proud of you,” one father says as he shakes his son's hand.

I take off the extra clothes I wore for the night and pack them and my blanket into my bag. There are few open seats
when I make my way down the aisle of the train. As I scout for an empty seat, I overhear one fella talking about how he got his first kiss from his sweetheart just before boarding the train. Those not talking about their sweethearts talk about how quickly the 9th Indiana will end the war.

I notice a shiny leather horn case in a compartment with one empty space nearby. “Is that seat taken?” I ask, pointing.

“Naw, help yourself,” the man in the seat says as he turns my way. It's August Smith, a fellow bugler from the Centerville band. “What are you doing here?” he asks, jumping up to give me a hug.

“I knew you were joining, and I thought the Ninth needed a good bugler,” I say with a laugh.

“Well, it's good to see you,” August replies. “I can't believe you joined.”