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Authors: Rodman Philbrick
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underage soldier who was taken into the army on a ruse. Thee will secure his release by legal means.”
Mr. Brewster makes it sound pretty easy. All we have to do is go someplace and ask some questions and my brother will be released from the army.
T HE NEXT DAY, AFTER a long carriage ride to the station, me and Mr. Willow find ourselves in a Boston and Maine Railroad car, bound for Portland. While the locomotive sits at the station building up steam, we wait on seats made from varnished oak. Everybody is dressed up like they’re on their way to church. Women with long starched dresses and bonnets tied under their chins, and men in black wool suits, storing their tall hats in a special rack above their heads, and a conductor in a fine uniform, collecting tickets.
“Steam up in ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out. “Steam up in ten! Take your seats! Take your seats, if you please!”
Mr. Willow is feeling a bit nervous and confides that he has never been to Portland, let alone New York. “Truth is, I have never been on a train and have never seen a steamship with my own eyes.”
I tell him not to feel bad — until a few days ago I had never been anywhere but Pine Swamp, and once to Skowhegan for the state fair.
“How far is it to Portland?” I want to know.
Mr. Willow has no idea, so I ask the conductor. “Thirty-eight miles, station to station,” he announces, sounding very pleased with himself. “Time of travel, approximately one and a half hours.”
Almost forty miles and we’ll be there in less than two hours! That’s faster than a racehorse can run flat out, and a horse can’t run but a few miles before it needs to rest. But when I try to discuss the subject of speed and horses and trains, which is really quite interesting, Mr. Willow says he feels faint.
“I am distinctly indisposed,” he complains in a sickly voice. “I must be ill from the motion. Rail sickness, they call it.”
“We’re not moving yet, Mr. Willow,” I point out.
He does look pale, but when the whistle blows and the train lurches forward Mr. Willow recovers some of his good spirits. Buildings and trees and telegraph poles begin to rush by the windows, and the wheels start ticking against the rails in a kind of pleasant, peaceful way. “Not so very bad,” he says, looking pleasantly surprised. “Indeed not.”
Now that he’s feeling better Mr. Willow wants to talk about himself. He tells me all about the little school where he pursued his Bible studies, the prizes he won for quoting Scripture, and how he had the good fortune to meet Jebediah Brewster at an abolitionist rally, and how Mr. Brewster has taken him under his wing and is helping to find him a position. “I am not presently affiliated with any particular congregation,” he confides. “I am open to possibilities. Indeed, indeed.”
The way he talks, Mr. Willow believes that helping me rescue my brother is a kind of test, and if he passes, Mr. Brewster will find him a congregation.
“A great man has given me his trust and I shall not let him down,” he announces, very solemn.
After a while Mr. Willow’s voice kind of blends into the sound of the wheels clicking against the rails. It’s amazing what goes by the windows on a train. Farms and fields and forests, and rows of wooden houses, and big brick mills. Like we’re floating through a storybook and each turn in the track is a new page, and it’s a story I never heard before so I don’t know how it will end. Page after page, picture after picture, and always something new around the corner, and the chugging of the locomotive belching black smoke, making its own dark clouds against the sky, and the steam whistle sounding alive somehow, like the whole train is saying,
Here-I-am, make-way-chugga-chugga-woowoo! Here-I-am, make-way-chugga-chugga-woowoo!
and rocking me to sleep.
When I wake up we’re in Portland, and that’s where the trouble really starts.
A N OLD
Mr. Brewster makes it sound pretty easy. All we have to do is go someplace and ask some questions and my brother will be released from the army.
T HE NEXT DAY, AFTER a long carriage ride to the station, me and Mr. Willow find ourselves in a Boston and Maine Railroad car, bound for Portland. While the locomotive sits at the station building up steam, we wait on seats made from varnished oak. Everybody is dressed up like they’re on their way to church. Women with long starched dresses and bonnets tied under their chins, and men in black wool suits, storing their tall hats in a special rack above their heads, and a conductor in a fine uniform, collecting tickets.
“Steam up in ten minutes, ladies and gentlemen!” he calls out. “Steam up in ten! Take your seats! Take your seats, if you please!”
Mr. Willow is feeling a bit nervous and confides that he has never been to Portland, let alone New York. “Truth is, I have never been on a train and have never seen a steamship with my own eyes.”
I tell him not to feel bad — until a few days ago I had never been anywhere but Pine Swamp, and once to Skowhegan for the state fair.
“How far is it to Portland?” I want to know.
Mr. Willow has no idea, so I ask the conductor. “Thirty-eight miles, station to station,” he announces, sounding very pleased with himself. “Time of travel, approximately one and a half hours.”
Almost forty miles and we’ll be there in less than two hours! That’s faster than a racehorse can run flat out, and a horse can’t run but a few miles before it needs to rest. But when I try to discuss the subject of speed and horses and trains, which is really quite interesting, Mr. Willow says he feels faint.
“I am distinctly indisposed,” he complains in a sickly voice. “I must be ill from the motion. Rail sickness, they call it.”
“We’re not moving yet, Mr. Willow,” I point out.
He does look pale, but when the whistle blows and the train lurches forward Mr. Willow recovers some of his good spirits. Buildings and trees and telegraph poles begin to rush by the windows, and the wheels start ticking against the rails in a kind of pleasant, peaceful way. “Not so very bad,” he says, looking pleasantly surprised. “Indeed not.”
Now that he’s feeling better Mr. Willow wants to talk about himself. He tells me all about the little school where he pursued his Bible studies, the prizes he won for quoting Scripture, and how he had the good fortune to meet Jebediah Brewster at an abolitionist rally, and how Mr. Brewster has taken him under his wing and is helping to find him a position. “I am not presently affiliated with any particular congregation,” he confides. “I am open to possibilities. Indeed, indeed.”
The way he talks, Mr. Willow believes that helping me rescue my brother is a kind of test, and if he passes, Mr. Brewster will find him a congregation.
“A great man has given me his trust and I shall not let him down,” he announces, very solemn.
After a while Mr. Willow’s voice kind of blends into the sound of the wheels clicking against the rails. It’s amazing what goes by the windows on a train. Farms and fields and forests, and rows of wooden houses, and big brick mills. Like we’re floating through a storybook and each turn in the track is a new page, and it’s a story I never heard before so I don’t know how it will end. Page after page, picture after picture, and always something new around the corner, and the chugging of the locomotive belching black smoke, making its own dark clouds against the sky, and the steam whistle sounding alive somehow, like the whole train is saying,
Here-I-am, make-way-chugga-chugga-woowoo! Here-I-am, make-way-chugga-chugga-woowoo!
and rocking me to sleep.
When I wake up we’re in Portland, and that’s where the trouble really starts.
A N OLD
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