“Crap.” Stepping over Morton, Abby gathered together the remnants of paper and gently deposited them on the dresser. “Now look at what you’ve done. This had to be important, and now it’s trash.”
Morton stood, his face flushed and his eyes wide. “Abs, oh man, I’m like the worst friend ever. Total klutz, loser … ”
“Enough.” Abby blew out a breath. “It’s too late now.”
Morton shook his head. “Nope. Never too late. I know about this stuff ’cause I watch reruns of CSI, crime scene investigation to you. We got this. Get glue and a piece of cardboard. It’s all good.” Under his breath he muttered, “I hope.”
It took patience Abby lacked and perseverance Morton had to spend the next hour gluing together the fragile shreds in order.
“Phew.” Morton stood back when they finished putting the puzzle together. “Ta-da!”
Abby surveyed their work. “I’m glad it’s still readable. I recognize the writing. It’s Leticia’s.”
Thoughts about Lisa and Jack became inconsequential. Abby took a deep breath and scanned the fine cursive across the bits and pieces:
Judge ye not harshly. There is a truth that lies beyond the Good Book, in slumber forever. My Silas, I love him. Leticia Munroe.
Abby put the paper down. “What does that mean? And what kind of truth would be more than the Bible? Everyone read the Bible back then. What does she mean by ‘truth that slumbers forever?’”
“It’s weird.” Morton shrugged.
Abby picked up the oilskin. “Some of the answers must be in here.”
With trembling fingers she unwrapped the protective layers, revealing a small, blue booklet. The cover gave no indication of its title or author. She opened it and almost dropped the packet.
On the front page in bold, slanted cursive it stated: Diary of Pvt. Silas J. Munroe, 103 PA Volunteers. This is the truth, I swear.
“It’s Silas’s diary.” Abby sat back on her heels and ran her hand over the notebook, her finger tracing the signature. “Now we’ll know why he should be a hero, but died in shame. I can clear his name. You know what that means?”
“It means we won’t have any more questions to answer. And you’ll come swimming with me instead of spending the summer doing research.”
Abby’s eyes filled with tears. “No. It means we solve the mystery, and I do something for my Silas. This isn’t just an adventure to me. It’s a—quest.”
She hesitated, journal in hand.
“What do you mean, ‘my Silas?’” Morton chuckled. “Are you looking for a boyfriend in a cemetery?”
“You wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand either. But I wonder, do I even have the right to pry into Silas’s and Leticia’s lives?”
Abby moved the diary to her left hand and chewed on her right thumbnail. She noticed the quiet—no wind, no birdcalls, Morton sitting on the bed without making a sound, like the world held its breath. What about Silas? He, too, was silent. Maybe it would be better to walk away, leave it alone. What if Silas turned out to be a bad guy? She touched Silas’s name and closed the diary.
“You can’t be for real,” Morton sputtered, spitting a half-chewed M&M out of his mouth. It skittered across the floor. “You have to read the diary. You have to. If you don’t, I will. And I might get chocolate all over it.”
Abby whirled around. “Keep your sticky hands off of it. I just need a minute to think. This is a big deal. We might be discovering a secret the whole world will want to know. Or we might find out something that’s better off hidden. What if Silas isn’t a hero after all? I couldn’t take it. I’m not as tough as you think I am.”
“Abs, history is history. You can’t change it anyway. It’s not like they’re your relatives, so why worry?”
“I guess. But Silas is, well, important to me. I don’t want to read it, not now.” Abby went to the window, hoping the sight of the big oak tree, the river in the distance, and the flower garden would somehow calm her, help her to make sense of her feelings.
Instead she felt a trail of soothing cool on her burning neck. In place of the scene she expected to see, Silas’s face appeared in the old glass, his shock of dark hair dipped over his wide, hazel eyes. His mouth opened, and a plume of white mist drifted between his lips. “Abigail … have faith in me.”
Any uncertainty about opening the diary vanished, as Silas’s precious face also faded.
“Abs? Where’d you go?” Morton shook her shoulder.
Abby blinked and looked at the window. Outside, the leaves on the oak tree rustled in a breeze, the ribbon of river gleamed in the sun, and a riot of colors surrounded the white fence around the yard. She wished Silas would return and read his journal to her. But he’d made it clear she had his permission to go through his private words.
“I’m ready now.” She sat in the rocking chair. After closing her eyes briefly, she picked up the diary, turned the page, and began to read out loud.
“December 10, 1861
I been thinking on this war. William argues with me all the time. He sez the South shud be left alone. Folks here are startin’ to get angered at him. I showed him a book Miss Elizabeth lent me. It was writ by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, along about 1852. I agree with her: ‘slavery is the most cursed thing in the world.’ I will fight for this, no matter what William thinks. I know right from wrong. He took leave of his senses, I reckon.
December 15, 1861
I leave today to fight for my country. Ma is angered that I go with Christmas near. But Dewey Long says if we bring a man with us, we git 10 days furlough. Jeb Chambers is joining us so I plan to come home for the holidays. Ma’s afraid to tell William I fight for the North. Guess we call him Johnny Reb now. Priscilla wished me God speed and writ me some poem. Abigail is sad but understands I do this for her.”
December 18, 1861
The trip to Armstrong County made a long one. I thought to git a warm meal and blanket when we reached Kittanning, but Camp Orr mor like prison. We passed thru a high board fence from snow outside to hell inside. There is much sickness and suffering. All are cold. But if our Lord cud suffer for me, I kin suffer for a just cause.
December 19, 1861
Ma knit me woolen gloves or my fingers would be too freezing to write. I ain’t getting no furlough after all. Jeb done changed his mind once he saw this place, and he took off for home.”
Abby paused. “He and Leticia had to spend Christmas apart; that sucks. I’m dreading the holidays this year without Dad.” She flashed back to tromping through the snowy woods each December with him, finding the perfect Christmas tree and chopping it down. Crisp air, snowflake tongue warmed with hot chocolate—all gone.
Morton shrugged. “I haven’t had Christmas with my father, like, forever. He took off when my mom got sick, and I was just a little kid. At least you had your dad for a while and now your mom is with you—and healthy.”
With effort, Abby pushed her mother out of her mind. She yearned for Silas’s calming influence, but it seemed obvious he came and went on an agenda she didn’t understand. Taking a deep breath, she continued to read from the diary.
“December 25, 1861
Christmas. I miss home, but we are busy even on this day. I learn to be a soldier and even got a uniform. No one knows where we are going or what we will be doing after training, but I hope to git some of them Rebs real good. Priscilla sent me a poem, hardly fit for a soldier, but she bein’ a decent sister I forgive her. One part sounded good, but I won’t tell the fellers: ‘Pretty little robin, With your scarlet breast, O may tormentors never find, The way into thy nest.’ I pray those Reb tormentors do not come to our nest.
January 1, 1862
Dewey got so sick, with the shakes and vomiting up even weak beef tea. He don’t want to go to the camp hospital. One feller from Westmoreland County says if you git sent there you may as well say good-bye. Some other soldier heard they call a hospital in Alexandria Camp Misery. Hope Dewey gits better for the New Year.
January 12, 1862
Thank the Lord, Dewey is well again. I know war and death dance together, but we don’t want to die before seeing battle. I don’t want to die at all. Got a box from home with socks, sausages, bread. Christmas came late for me, but I am grateful.
February 4, 1862
Got our orders, we leave on February 24 for Washington. I hope I git to see President Lincoln there, but maybe not. He is a busy man. Some folks in the newspaper say he is weak and ‘spilling precious blood.’ Some say he should resign and let Vice President Hamlin take over. Me, I know nothing. But I think the president is a great man and kin git the job done.
February 24, 1862
We left Camp Orr at sunup to travel to Pittsburgh. From there we go to Harrisburg. I feel like a real soldier. People wave to us when we pass by. Charlie got a letter, said Jonathan Whitlach is in prison in Dixie. Guess no one waves to him now.
February 26, 1862
Today we got our flag from the governor. We leave Harrisburg for Baltimore, in Maryland. Then on to Washington, the Capitol of the Union.
March 3, 1862
Arrived in Washington today. We set up camp on Meridan Hill, between 14th and 16th Streets. We have time here to rest and git ready. We leave on March 28 and join the Peninsula Campaign in Virginia. I’m a tad worried of battle, but tired of marching for nothing and don’t much like this city. It smells bad, people are everywhere, and even at this time of year flies are everywhere, too.
March 6, 1862
President Lincoln reviewed our Regiment today. He is a tall man, but stooped over. Maybe he seems weak to some, because of his thin shape and worried look, but to me he is brave. I would rather fight a war than be in politics.
March 10, 1862
I got called in to headquarters and figured on some trouble or other. But no! Ma’s prayers worked. God must be smiling on me. President Lincoln wants to meet a common soldier. A group of us drew straws and I git to be the One to stand for the Federal troops. Ma will be so proud of me. Even if I die in Virginia it will be worth it, since I git to meet the president first.
March 12, 1862
I came to the White House to meet President Lincoln. They brought me to the outside under a tree. Senator Zachariah Chandler is waiting here with me. I am so excited my hands are wet with sweat. This is the best day of my life. Me, Private Silas Munroe, nineteen years of age, from the County of Allegheny in the great State of Pennsylvania, git to put my sweaty palm in the president’s hand on this day. Praise be!”
Abby stopped reading. “He skipped some pages; that’s weird.”
“Who cares?” Morton said. “Besides, if you keep reading maybe you’ll find out. This is getting good.”
“I hope we find out why he’s a hero. I still think it’s bizarre what Leticia wrote in her letter. Is he a hero just because he got to meet the president?”
“What about the ‘shame’ part?”
Abby closed her eyes and could see Leticia’s letter in her mind. “It said something like, he lies in shame when he should be a hero.” She opened her eyes. “It’s gotta be in here somewhere.” She flipped past blank pages and found one more section. She read the final entry in Silas’s diary.
“March 13, 1862
This is the truth, and I bear no false witness. On March 12, in the year of our Lord 1862, I did try to kill President Lincoln with my own hand. I failed. Senator Chandler is eyewitness to this event. May the Lord have mercy on my soul.
Pvt. Silas Munroe.”