Crossing the Deadline by Michael Shoulders

confines of the tent make the horn sound louder than I expect. It startles me. Midway through the first verse, men from nearby tents come in to see who’s playing. After I finish one verse and a chorus, a round of cheers erupts.
    Captain Northam stands and claps the loudest. “That was absolutely wonderful,” he says. “Just wonderful.”
    Uncle Clem reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. “Here’s a letter stating that Stephen’s to enlist as a bugler.” He lays it on the desk and pushes it across to the captain. “It’s written by Governor Morton. He knows of the family’s situation.”
    Captain Northam opens the envelope and snaps the paper crisply to unfold it. He reads the note carefully andlooks up at me. “You know Governor Morton?”
    â€œYes, Captain,” I say. “The governor and I talked about the war in his living room just a while back.”
    Captain Northam folds the paper and hands it to me. He dips a pen into a bottle of ink and asks for my name.
    â€œStephen M. Gaston,” I say.
    Captain Northam writes my name in the ledger with “Bugler—Company K” beside my name. “Sign here,” he says, spinning the book around. “You’re Major Lilly’s personal bugler. Welcome to the war, son.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    Captain Northam hands me a slip of paper and explains I’m to get on the morning train to Indianapolis. “Give this ticket to the conductor. We send rosters to Major Lilly on a daily basis. He’s in the capital, training men as we speak,” he says. “You’ll arrive the same day as he gets his new list of names.”
    Uncle Clem grabs the shoulders of my coat and pulls me close. He hugs me as if seeing me leave is the hardest thing he’s done in his entire life. He’s never hugged me before, so I know it’s a show for the captain’s benefit. He fishes in his pocket and hands me a dollar. “I can’t stay and see you off in the morning, so use this to get a room for the night.”
    * * *
    We walk to the livery, and I watch my uncle mount his horse. “Give the man a dollar for taking care of the horses,” he says.
    I take the same coin he gave me ten minutes earlier and hand it over to the man at the livery. Uncle Clem grabs the rein of my horse and heads toward Centerville without so much as a look back or a good-bye.
    I collect my linen duffel bag and bugle case and head to the saloon. The cost of a soda water is a bargain in exchange for a few hours of warmth until it’s time to sleep. There are a few dollars in my pocket, enough to get a room for the night, but I don’t want to spend it on that. I need to save every penny I can to send home to Mother. Knowing I’m providing a place for her to live so she won’t have to take charity from the poorhouse brings a wide smile to my face.
    I don’t want to take a chance on missing the morning train for Indianapolis, so just after dark, I walk to the train station. Few people are on the street at this time of evening, and the depot’s empty. The trains have stopped running for the night. There’s a place in the back, facing the tracks, where two wide walls come together to form a right angle. I sit on my blanket and lean against the wall.
    I open my bag and eat a piece of salt pork, bread, and a slice of apple pie that Mother baked last night. After I finisheating, I lie down with my back to the wall and use my bag for a pillow. The blanket doesn’t keep me warm enough, so I sit up, pull all the clothing out, and put on anything I can wear. Multiple layers plus the blanket do the trick. I finally drift off to sleep.
    I have a horrible nightmare:
    Sweat runs down my forehead and off the tip of my nose like it did on August afternoons at the livery. I swipe my face quickly with the sleeve of my shirt, only now, my white shirt has been replaced with a blue