The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg

  “Hole in the dirt don’t mean nothing,” he says. “It’s a mine, there’s lots of holes in the dirt.”

  “Heard a baby crying,” I tell him.

  That gets his attention. Probably he knows the fugitives have a child or two. “Baby cryin’, you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He presses the knife harder. Another twitch and he’ll be drawing blood. “Tell me the truth now. Why’d a man like Jebediah Brewster show you where he’s hid them fugitives? Why’d he trust a lyin’ boy like you?”

  “Said it was up to me, whether I wanted to help or run away.”

  Smelt makes a face, nods to himself. “Sounds like that Quaker fool.”

  “So now you know, right?”

  “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t.”

  “I did what you wanted. Give me back my horse.”

  That makes him laugh. “It’s my horse now, for sparin’ your worthless life.”

  “You promised to let me go,” I insist. “I’ve got to find my brother before he gets to the war.”

  In the dark he looks like a jack-o’-lantern with one snaggle tooth, grinning me for a fool. “That wasn’t the deal. The deal was, do like I say and I might let you live. It’s still a ‘might,’ boy. Show me this door in the dirt and then we’ll see who is lying and who is dying.”

  Then he stuffs a rag in my mouth, whips a rope around my wrists, and drags me off into the night.

  WHEN I WAS LITTLE, and we first went to live with our uncle Squinton Leach, the thing I was most scared of, other than the dark, was my brother, Harold, disappearing. Our father was gone and our Dear Mother, too, and it seemed like my big brother would be next and then I’d be all alone in the world. I’d wake up crying and afraid, and to soothe me Harold told stories about pirates and Indians. The pirates and Indians wanted to get us, but couldn’t, no matter how hard they tried. Harold always made me the one who saved us. I’d trick the pirates and we’d get away. Or I’d show him how to hide from the Indians, and he’d tell me how clever and brave I was, only it was him making up the story, not me.

  Harold never believed in pirates, not real pirates, and the only Indians left in Pine Swamp worked for the timber company, felling trees. It was only made-up stories to make me feel safe. We never had a story about someone like Ebenezer Smelt because we never knew a man that bad really existed. A man that’ll hunt innocent people like animals and drag a boy through the dark of night and threaten to kill him.

  Some things are worse than the worst kind of nightmare, and it turns out the only thing worse than Ebenezer Smelt is his partner, Stink Mullins, who’s waiting for us in the woods.

  The moment we get there Stink grabs the rope, throws me to the ground, and kicks the air out of me.

  “You was thinkin’ something bad,” he says, satisfied. “That’ll teach you.” Then he grabs the rag from my mouth and dabs at his empty eye socket. Lucky for me he decides to keep the rag, and jams it in his pocket.

  “Where they hid?” he asks Smelt. “The boy find out?”

  “Says they’re at the mine, in a secret tunnel.”

  “You believe him, do you?”

  “I don’t believe nothing till I see it with my own eyes. Where’s Festus?”

  “In the lean-to, trussed up like a turkey,” Stink says with a chuckle. “That darky is too scared to move, let alone get himself free.”

  I don’t know why they call Samuel Reed, the conductor, Festus. I figure he’s got about as much chance of seeing the sunrise as I do, once they figure out I’m lying about the mine. Unless I can come up with a better lie, one that will set us both free.

  “They on the move tonight?” Stink asks, prodding at me with his boot.

  Best I can do is nod. That’s enough to get us up and moving again. There’s no moon in the sky, and only a few dim stars showing through the clouds, but the two men know where they’re going. Before long we’re on the trail up to the mine, following the wagon ruts. The dark feels heavy, like a thick blanket that won’t let you breathe, and the ground is hard and sharp under my feet.

  Suddenly Smelt holds up his hand and stops us. “You hear that?”

  Pebbles skitter down from the hills around us.

  “Ground is always moving here,” says Stink. “All that scavenge from the mine.”

  “Something’s out there,” Smelt complains. “Something alive.”

  “Raccoon or a skunk,” says Stink with a laugh. “What you afraid of?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Afraid of an old Quaker man that won’t lift a hand to defend himself? ’Fraid of a bunch of scared-to-death darkies?”

  “Shut up.”

  The strange thing of it is, the closer we get to the mine, the calmer I feel. Doesn’t make sense, because I still don’t know what to say when they find there’s no door in the dirt. Maybe the strange calm feeling is what happens when a man stands up for the firing squad, or climbs the gallows to be hung. Like you’re calm because the waiting part is almost over, and you’re tired of being afraid.

  Only difference, it’s so dark I won’t need a blindfold.

  We come at last to the old tin shed, in a place so empty even the ghosts have gone away.

  Stink pulls me up short on the rope. He smells worse than the cesspit. Worse than rotten eggs, or a dead cat. “No sense waiting,” he says to Smelt, unsheathing his knife. “The slaves are here or they ain’t. Either way, Homer Figg has outlived his usefulness.”

  I’m trying to decide should I close my eyes or not, when all of a sudden the darkness moves and takes the shape of a man.

  Samuel Reed, freed from his bonds, is swinging a six-foot iron bar like it’s a baseball bat, and Stink Mullins is a cheap home run.

  THE FIRST SWING DROPS Stink like a bag of smelly potatoes. He’s out cold, not moving.

  If I was Ebenezer Smelt and saw what happened to my partner, I’d hightail it and run for my life, but old Smelt decides to stand his ground.

  “Put down that weapon!” he screams. “You’re my lawful prisoner!”

  Smelt drops into a fighting crouch, jabbing away with his big blade, looking for an opening, but he can’t get close enough to Samuel Reed to poke him with the knife.

  Reed doesn’t say a word. He just swings that heavy iron bar like it was a twig. The hiss of it cutting the air sounds like a cold steel snake eager to strike.

  “You’ll hang for this!” Smelt promises, but he’s starting to sound afraid.

  Samuel Reed takes careful aim, and when Smelt gets too close, the iron bar smacks his hand and his knife goes flying into the dark.

  Smelt scrambles after it, cursing, and the iron bar catches him hard in the butt, knocking him down flat. When he tries to sit up — big mistake — Mr. Reed whomps him on the head and his eyes roll white and he falls back unconscious.

  Then a strange thing happens. Samuel Reed drops the iron bar like it’s burning his hands and covers his eyes and starts to weep.

  “But you won,” I tell him, confused. “You got ’em good!”

  Mr. Reed takes a deep breath and stops sobbing. “I was a dead man,” he says in a husky voice. “Dead man has nothin’ to lose, nothin’ to be feared of. Now I’m back among the living and scared to death about what happens next. Does that make sense?”

  Only thing makes sense is taking care of those two villains before they wake up and try to kill us. Reed helps me get the rope off my wrists and we use it to lash Stink and Smelt together, hands behind their backs. Seems like Samuel Reed has lost all his strength and it’s up to me to make sure the knots are good and tight.

  When we’re done we start the long walk back to Mr. Brewster’s house. Samuel Reed has started to limp from his efforts, and has to lean on me for support.

  “Used up everything I had,” he explains, panting. “No food for three days, precious little water.”

  “How’d you manage to get free?” I ask him.

  “Jebediah found me in the woods,” he says. “You told him ab
out me, and he had a good notion of where to look. Knows these lands like the back of his hand, does Jebediah.”

  “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.

  THE 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.”

  THERE 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 tran
sported 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.