The Mostly True Adventures of Homer P. Figg by Rodman Philbrick Read Free Book Online

it will.
    “All I do is offer shelter for a night or two,” Mr. Brewster explains. “The real work, the dangerous work, is done by the likes of Mr. Reed.”
    The basement is fixed up real nice, with rugs on the floor and rows of sturdy bunks, and plenty of food, and special baffles to keep the lantern light from shining out the basement windows. It’s way better than the barn where me and Harold lived. But no matter how nice Mr. Brewster made the place, it’s still a kind of dungeon, even if there are no padlocks or chains. You can feel it in the air, the people wanting to get out, to be free of this place, or any place where they’ve got to be afraid.
    “I would have these poor folk in my own house, as honored guests, but there are many who would burn us out if we did so,” Mr. Brewster says, bringing me up out of the basement. “Burn us to the ground they would! Thee think runaway slaves are fearful? Their fear is nothing to the fear the white man has of the black. Abolitionists who preach against slavery will not let colored worshippers sit with whites in their churches. They think it unclean that light and dark should mix.”
    “How will they get to where they’re going?” I ask.
    “Same way they got here,” he says. “On foot and in wagons. But mostly on foot. With slave catchers lurking, they must travel at night, under cover of darkness. Especially on cloudy or moonless nights. Like this evening, for example.”
    He doesn’t say so, exactly, but he means the slaves will be on the move tonight.
    “What should I do?” I ask him.
    Mr. Brewster sets me down in the kitchen, where Mrs. Bean has put out steaming plates of beef and potatoes, slathered in gravy.
    “Thee must do whatever is true to thee,” he says. “It is not for me to force a thing upon thee, or to make thee believe as I believe.”
    I never had such a plate of food in my life — Squint wasn’t much for plates, for that matter — but what I saw in the basement has killed my appetite. Men and women and children and babies, all running from those who would chain them up, and buy them and sell them like cattle. Gets me thinking how much I hated it when Squinton Leach locked us up, or whipped us with his belt, or sold Harold into the army like he was something Squint owned.
    “Get a gun,” I urge Mr. Brewster.
    He shakes his great white head. “That I can not do. I am sworn to peace.”
    “Mrs. Bean,” I say. “Tell him to get a gun!”
    Mrs. Bean chuckles and gives me a sad smile. “Gave up on that years ago,” she says. “He will not stir from his beliefs.”
    “If you won’t get a gun, then tell me what to do,” I ask, pleading.
    He sighs so deep it almost makes the windows rattle. “Thee must decide,” he says again. “But I will say this much. It all boils down to this: A person has only two options in life, to do something or to do nothing.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means that if thee do nothing, thee may stay in this house. Thee will be safe and cared for and will never go hungry. Mrs. Bean will see to that. Or thee can do something. Something to help Mr. Smelt and his confederates, or something to help those who have escaped their chains.”
    “This isn’t fair,” Mrs. Bean admonishes him, shaking her gravy ladle. “He’s just a boy, and a scrawny one at that!”
    “I know,” says Mr. Brewster, sounding regretful. “But boys are fighting this cruel war. Boys are enslaved, and boys own slaves. None may escape. All must decide.”
    “If you won’t get a gun then give me one,” I ask, begging.
    “There are no guns in this house. Not for thy purpose.”
    I shake my head. Comes to me that Jebediah Brewster is crazy, and that’s like God Himself being crazy. As crazy as plagues and pestilence, as crazy as the tree that fell on my father, and my Dear Mother dying so young, and Squint being so mean. I can’t stand another minute of this, with all the questions in my head, trying to decide