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news from the South. I’ll help you finish up Saturday’s issue and start printing it. With or without a story about Nell Gramercy.”

Chapter 7
    Friday, April 12, morning
    I didn’t see Pa or Ma Thursday night. The only one waiting up for me was Trusty, so I didn’t know if Pa had told Ma he’d gone to Nell Gramercy’s session, and what she’d said. ’Course, he didn’t know I was there, so I couldn’t have said anything anyway.
    I feared I’d blurt out something I shouldn’t, so I got up even earlier than usual and headed for the
Herald
office, straightaway. With the paper due out Saturday afternoon, and having spent more than two days on the broadside and the bulletin, I reckoned there was plenty to do in the next twenty-four hours.
    â€œC’mon, Trusty. Today you can come with me to the office.” Despite his words last night I knew I couldn’t count on Charlie. Trusty would be good company.
    The early morning was cool, but the sun was beginning to lighten the sky. Piles of drifted snow remained where shadows of trees and houses kept them from the direct rays of the sun, but the ice was out of the river, finches were chirping mating songs in bushes along the road, and above me Canadian geese honked as they headed north for the summer. An eagle flew downriver. The day was full of April’s promise.
    Trusty sniffed every horse and ox turd, every stagnant puddle left from the week’s rains, and joyfully chased a gray squirrel up a greening tree. He was so happy to be out of the house and yard that I took thelong way around, walking down by the shipyards and wharves and then along Water Street. All was peaceful.
    Until we reached Main Street.
    Despite the hour, a crowd was gathered outside Mr. Johnston’s store. Miss Mary Averill, the telegraph operator, worked in an office in back of the counter there. To be truthful, a part of me didn’t want to know what the other part understood had happened. But news has got to be faced, especially if you’re a newsman. I ran to join the others. Trusty ran with me, barking excitedly at the crowd.
    Mr. Colby was holding his wife, who was sobbing. Several knots of men were deep in conversation. Others stood alone. Then I saw Charlie.
    â€œThere you are!” Charlie said. “I wanted to get you, but I didn’t want to miss any new wires. Miss Averill slept at the store last night so as not to miss any messages, but they didn’t start coming in until an hour ago.”
    â€œWhat’s happened?”
    â€œYesterday the Confederate general, Beauregard, ordered Major Anderson at Fort Sumter to surrender and leave the fort. Of course Major Anderson refused. Then, at 4:27 this morning, the Confederate battery at Fort Moultrie fired at Fort Sumter. And Major Anderson’s men fired back.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œThat’s all we know! That’s why everyone is standing here. Waiting.”
    â€œHow long does it take to find out?”
    â€œA telegraph operator in Charleston is sending messages north along the wires to relay stations. I don’t know how many stations are between South Carolina and Maine, but messages are sent to Portland,and then to Yarmouth, Brunswick, and Bath. The Bath office sends them here. The telegraph is an amazing invention, but it can’t send messages hundreds of miles at once.”
    â€œIf the first office is in Charleston, could be that it’s only tellin’ the Southern side of the story.”
    â€œTelegraph officers are said to be honest.”
    â€œI suppose.” It seemed almost impossible. Here we were, standing on a street in the State of Maine, waiting to hear what a man or woman in a Southern city tapped out in dots and dashes on a telegraph key. “Men could be dying in Charleston right now, and we’ll know about it in only three or four hours,” I said. “That’s never happened in a war