The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg by Rodman Philbrick Page A

puffs of gray smoke tooting out of the ferryboat smokestack reminds me of Uncle Squint’s clay pipe. Makes me wonder if he misses us. Most likely he misses all the work we did.
    Strange as it may seem, I sort of miss the farm. The barn that was our home, and Bob the horse, and Bess and Floss the milk cows. Can’t say as I miss Squint himself in particular. No surprise there. The real surprise is waiting on the dock in New Jersey, standing tall in his new blue uniform.
    My brother, Harold, big as life.

 
     
    S OON AS THE FERRY BUMPS the pier I’m off and running, thinking this surely is my lucky day. My adventures have barely begun and already I’ve found my big brother! It wasn’t so bad, just an abduction or two, and being robbed and thrown in with the pigs, and joining the Caravan of Miracles, and being boiled by Indians.
    Already I’m improving the story in my mind, with the purpose of making Harold laugh. He don’t laugh that much, being a serious-minded person, but when he does, it feels like someone gave you a silver dollar, because it’s bright and shiny and rings true. I come all this way just to hear it.
    “Harold! Harold! It’s me, Homer!”
    I fight my way through a sea of young men in new uniforms. Dark blue, four-button coats and sky blue trousers and forage caps, and each man with a black canvas haversack to carry his food. Most of the Union Army seems to be milling about, waiting for trains to take them south. It’s like a blue wool forest that smells of sweat and boot polish.
    Figure if I can get to Harold before he gets on a war train we can fix it so he don’t have to go. We being me and Professor Fleabottom, since he knows men in the army and can maybe help us.
    “Harold! Harold!”
    At last he turns to my voice.
    Up close, the face is wrong. My stomach flip-flops something awful and I nearly trip and fall, because it ain’t Harold. It’s another boy who could be him, on account of his size and the way he stands.
    “You’re … not … Harold!” I say, stopping to catch my breath.
    “Private Thomas Finch, Fifteenth Massachusetts,” he says, voice cracking.
    “Sorry. Looking for my brother. Harold Figg. Of Pine Swamp, Maine.”
    Private Finch shakes his head. “I believe the Maine regiments that mustered here have gone ahead. Your brother may be among them.”
    “Okay,” I pant, blinking the sweat from my eyes. “Thanks.”
    I’m about to go find Professor Fleabottom and the wagons, when I’m struck by inspiration. “Private Finch,” I say, turning back to tug at his stiff woolen sleeve. “If you happen to come across Harold Figg of Pine Swamp, Maine, would you please tell him to get on home? His little brother, Homer, is dying. Will you tell him that?”
    “If I meet him, certainly,” says Private Finch. “But it is a big war. How will I know him?”
    “Looks a lot like you, except Harold is slightly taller and stronger and better looking.”
    “Is that a fact?” says Private Finch with a toothy grin. “I’ll see what I can do, Homer. You are Homer Figg, right?”
    I shrug. “Maybe I am.”
    “I must say, my young friend, that you look remarkably healthy for a boy who is dying.”
    “Never mind that. Will you tell him?”
    “Of course.”
    After glancing around and grinning to himself, he snaps me a fine salute. “Thank you, Homer Figg. I am reminded to write a letter to my own dear little brother, who is slightly taller and stronger and better looking than you, and who would no doubt fake his own death to have me safe at home.”
    He melts away into the blue wool forest.
    A moment later the tattooed lady has me by the collar. She’s puffing like I am, from fighting her way through the crowd.
    “Thought we’d lost you, boy!” She tips up my chin, looks me in the eye. “What’s this, have you been crying?”
    I shake my head and she knows enough to say no more.
     

     
    T HAT EVENING THE C ARAVAN of Miracles puts on the first show since I joined the