The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg (8 page)

“Why’d you follow us here to this old mine?” I want to know. “Why not take the fugitives and go?”

Reed shrugs. “That’s what I first thought to do. Get away quick as I could. But then I thought about how these two men would follow us, and how you’d helped me out there in the woods.”

“I didn’t do much,” I say.

“It was enough,” says Reed, patting the top of my head. “They’d have killed me if you hadn’t convinced them I was worth more alive.”

“Then we’re even, ’cause you saved my life, too. I was a goner for sure.”

As we walk along, following the wagon ruts in the dark of a moonless night, Mr. Reed starts to recover a little of his strength. He wipes the last tears from his eyes and says it will be a busy night, there is still much to do.

“How long will it take for the fugitives to get away?” I ask.

“We leave tonight,” Mr. Reed explains. “Two or three days to reach the border, if the weather holds.”

“And you will lead them.”

“That’s what I do,” he says.

T
HE WARM GLOW OF THE LANTERN
in the Brewster house guides us, and when we finally limp into the yard, holding each other up, there are two wagons in the driveway, each with a team of horses snorting and pawing the ground, as if eager to get moving. The fugitives who had been hiding in the basement are climbing into the wagons, carrying their few belongings and huddling together. I never seen such a mournful group — you’d think they was on their way to a funeral instead of freedom.

Mrs. Bean is the first to see us coming out of the darkness.

“There they are!” she cries out. “Alive! Both alive!”

The fugitives swarm from the wagons, whooping out with joy. They grab hold of Samuel Reed and clap him on the back and then lift him up and carry him to the wagons. Everybody crying and laughing at the same time, joyous to have their hero back among the living. Amazing how fast the funeral turns into a welcome-home party, and how Mr. Reed seems to draw even more strength from his friends, until he looks as strong as when he was swinging that iron bar.

“Hush now!” he orders them, grinning. “You’ll wake the whole county. Into the wagons, quickly, quickly. Make haste! We must be miles from here before dawn.”

A few minutes later they’re all back in the wagons, ready to go. All those dark faces full of new hope. Even the babies have stopped crying and burble happily in their mothers’ arms.

Samuel Reed climbs up into the driver’s seat of the first wagon and takes the reins.

Jebediah Brewster steps forward, holding a lantern. He shakes Mr. Reed’s hand and says, “Godspeed and God bless. I’ll await word that thee are safe across the border before releasing Mr. Smelt and his associate.”

Mr. Reed snaps the reins and the wagons rumble out of the long drive and slowly melt away into the night.

Seems like this would be a good time for me to slip away, too, see if I can locate Bob the horse and be on my way. Every minute I was here is a minute closer to the war for my big brother, Harold. But when I turn to go, Mrs. Bean sweeps me up in her plump arms and hugs me and smothers my face with icky kisses.

“Never thought a boy could be good and a liar, too. But you are,” she says. “You are.”

T
HERE MUST BE SOMETHING
about a goose-down mattress that makes you dream of things that can’t be true. Like our parents are still alive in our little house, and my father is smoking his long clay pipe by the fire, and our Dear Mother is reading me and Harold a story from a book she holds in her lap. The story is about an Indian scout and his adventures in the deep forests. There’s another story about a funny little man who goes to sleep for a hundred years in a cave, or maybe that’s a story Harold told me later, because the dream is fading and I can’t hold it, no matter how hard I try.

Morning at Jebediah Brewster’s house. The sun comes in like warm honey, and I can smell whatever Mrs. Bean is cooking for breakfast. Something with baked apples and brown sugar and cinnamon.

I hate to get out of bed — I never been in anything so soft or cozy. Makes me want to fall back asleep and find that dream where my parents are still alive and Harold is safe and wars are in storybooks from a long time ago.

I could do it, too. Mr. Brewster wants me to stay. He says a twelve-year-old boy has no business chasing an army on the way to war, and I can stay here and help him with the Underground Railroad. He says that getting beat by a colored man is so humiliating Smelt and Stink will never bother us again, and there are still wagonloads of fugitives who need help.

Part of me really wants to do it. Wants to forget about my brother and live in the lap of luxury, and get fat on pancakes and apple pie and pork cutlets and pan-fried chicken and ginger cookies with sugar on top. Maybe go back to Pine Swamp one day, riding in a fine carriage and dressed like a gentleman. Show old Squint what became of that ragged boy he kept in the barn like an animal.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t forget my brother Harold, marching to war on his bare feet, without even a real gun. Sleeping on the cold ground without enough to eat, nor clean water to drink, and sickness everywhere. He’s so brave and honorable and careless of himself that he’ll get killed for sure, and it will be my fault for not trying hard enough to save him.

Mrs. Bean is stuffing me with scrambled eggs and fried potatoes and apple crisp when Mr. Brewster looks into the kitchen and says, “Good morning, Homer. Has thee decided?”

“Let the boy have his breakfast in peace,” says Mrs. Bean, shaking a spatula in his direction.

“Thee is right, of course. My apologies,” he says, retreating.

“No,” I call out. “Wait.”

Mr. Brewster comes into the kitchen, looking at me kindly, but sort of worried. Mrs. Bean just shakes her head and sighs, and then pretends to fuss at the stove.

“My brother is my whole family,” I tell him. “They tricked him and sold him like they sell a slave.”

“And thee means to find thy brother, no matter what?”

“Yes, sir. I must.”

“How will thee find him?” Mr. Brewster wants to know.

“First I’ll try and locate Bob the horse.”

Mr. Brewster looks thoughtful. “Assuming thee locates this horse, then what?”

I’ve got it all planned, except for all the nagging details. “Ride south until I find the army,” I tell him.

“That’s it?” he says doubtfully. “Ride south and hope for the best?”

“I can follow south,” I assure him. “Don’t need a compass to follow south, if you know where the sun rises and where it goes down.”

“And if I said thee were but a child, and must stay here under my guardianship?”

Lying to Jebediah Brewster doesn’t work, so I tell him the truth. “I’m grateful for your kindness, but I’ll run away. I must.”

He nods his great white head, like he already knew the answer. “The old horse is in the stable. It has been curried and watered, and given hay and oats.”

Bob the horse is alive! Good old Bob! I can’t wait to see him, and jump up from the table before the apple crisp is gone.

“Sit thee down,” Mr. Brewster says, very stern. “Finish the food that has been blessed in this house.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, slumping back into the chair. “But Bob, he —”

“The horse will keep. Indeed, he will keep very well while thee journey by train and steamship to New York.”

“Steamship?” I ask, puzzled. “New York?”

Mr. Brewster looks at Mrs. Bean, who is still fretting by the stove, pretending that she doesn’t care what foolishness we’re talking about. “I have made certain inquiries,” he says, sounding very grave and serious. “Men recently enlisted in the state of Maine will stop in New York before joining up with the Union Army. It’s likely thy brother will be among them, and that he will have been transported on a troop train or possibly by steamship. Certainly it is much too far to travel by horse.”

Suddenly I get a picture in my mind of Harold on a train with hundreds of other soldiers. He’s never been on a train before. Will he be scared or excited? Likely both, knowing Harold. Here I’d been thinking he’d have to march all the way to the war, but trains make more sense, if the whole point is getting men to where the shooting starts as quick as possible.

“Does it cost a lot to get there?” I ask. “I could sell you Bob. He’s a good old horse.”

Mr. Brewster smiles. “The animal is certainly old, I’ll grant thee that much. Never mind the cost of the journey, I’ll provide it gladly. And if I was not so urgently occupied here, I would accompany thee myself. But I dare not leave. Ebenezer Smelt may be gone, but there are like-minded men who will take his place.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say grandly. “Don’t you worry about Homer Figg!”

That makes Mrs. Bean roll her eyes, but at least she’s smiling again.

“No,” says Mr. Brewster. “I cannot in good conscience let thee proceed alone. I have arranged to have a young Methodist clergyman act as thy guardian. He will be supplied with sufficient funds to buy thy brother out of enlistment.”

It all sounds good to me. Better than good, because I get to see what a train looks like, and ride a steamship, and Harold gets out of the army. Then we’ll both come back to live with Mr. Brewster, and I’m pretty sure he won’t make us sleep in the barn.

Sitting in that warm and wonderful kitchen, it seems like all my dreams are about to come true. Of course if I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have taken Bob the horse, or my own two feet — anything but get on that train.

Trouble is, I had no more sense than a hungry mouse. I saw the cheese and never paid attention to the trap. Trap by the name of Willow.

The Reverend Webster B. Willow.

S
OON AFTER BREAKFAST
my new guardian shuffles into the drawing room, walking like he’s got something sticky on his boots that makes it hard to lift his feet from the floor. He’s tall and thin, with narrow shoulders not much wider than his head, and long skinny arms that shoot past his frayed cuffs. He’s wearing an old black frock coat, short at the waist, and trousers that shine at the knees, and a crooked stovepipe hat that bumps against the door frame as he enters the room.

“Pardon me, sirs!” he exclaims, blushing. “A thousand apologies! Oh dear, oh dear!”

Mr. Webster B. Willow don’t look much older than my brother, Harold. The fine blond hair on his narrow chin hasn’t decided if it wants to be a beard, and his eyes are so close together it looks like he’s studying his nose or trying to see around it. Mostly he seems to be upset about forgetting to take off his hat like a gentleman does when entering a house, and he looks like he wants to leave the room and try again.

“Never mind the hat, Webster,” says Mr. Brewster impatiently. “The hat is of no consequence. Come in, come in. I want thee to meet Homer Figg. He will be in thy charge.”

“Splendid, wonderful, how do you do, sir,” he says, grabbing my hand and shaking it without actually looking at me. “Wonderful opportunity! Splendid!”

He fidgets nervously with his dented hat while Mr. Brewster explains that we shall journey by train to Portland, and from there take an overnight steamship to New York.