Last in a Long Line of Rebels (15 page)

I moved a stack of notebooks, and a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and the name Mayhew caught my eye. It was a copy of a receipt, dated 1932. I read down the list of items, mesmerized. Furniture, books, candlesticks, horses, wagons . . . the list went on and on. Scribbled in the margin were the words
Mayhew auction inventory
. I was still holding it when I heard a cough from outside the door.

Panicked, I looked around for a place to hide. Dropping to my knees, I scrambled for the bed. I'd just gotten underneath when the door opened. I lay still, my heart racing. The door closed softly, and I could hear low mutterings: “Silly questions, never even heard of the Nashville Historic Activist Committee.”

I raised my head an inch and peered through the lace bed skirt. Right at the pajama-clad legs of George Neely.

From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew
December 1862

We are cold. For days, the enemy has camped in town, and we are trapped in our own homes. They have seized all the wood for themselves,
leaving us to burn corn husks and twigs.

T
his was the type of thing grown-ups always said would be funny years later. Like that was supposed to make you feel better—that one day, when you were a hundred years old, you'd be able to look back and laugh. But right then, hiding under George Neely's bed, I felt like the world was coming to an end.

My options buzzed through my brain like a mosquito trying to find a warm place to land. One, I could stay hidden until he went to sleep and then try to sneak out without waking him. Of course, in less than an hour, it would be ten o'clock. At that point, Mama would start looking for me; if I wasn't on our doorstep, I might as well stay where I was—life would not be worth living.

Secondly, I could make a run for it—scramble out from under the bed, throw open the door, and sprint for the exit.

I chanced another look at where Mr. Neely had planted himself. I could hear him shuffling papers at the desk and see his legs. He was sitting right between me and the door.

“Honestly, I do believe I'm losing my mind,” he said. “I know I just had the blasted thing.” He walked back and forth in front of the desk.

I lay there holding my breath. In my hurry to hide, the book had fallen out of my shorts, and now a corner of it peeked out from beneath the bed. That corner was clearly visible in the room. If he looked under the bed, I was done for.

He coughed again, and I could see his rubber-soled house shoes pacing back and forth. Suddenly, he crouched down on the carpet, one knee just a few inches from my face. He put a hand on the bed skirt, and I was about to burst into tears, when frantic knocking sounded on the door.

“What in the world?” he asked, and raised himself with a huff.

The knocking continued—
rat-a-tat-tat
—hard and fast. A loud wailing was coming from the other side.

“Please, Sister, please, open the door.”

It was Patty's voice, yelling like there was no tomorrow.

Mr. Neely slid back the bolt, and Patty burst into the room. I could see her shoes flying across the carpet.

“Where is she?” she cried. “Where's my sister?”

I could only imagine Mr. Neely was as flabbergasted as I was, for all he did was stammer, “Wh-who, who? Young lady, please calm down!”

“I'm looking for my sister,” Patty continued. “Daddy found a note saying she was going to a party here tonight to meet a boy! Please help me, mister. Daddy's gonna kill the both of them, for sure!” Patty began crying even louder.

I lay under the bed and tried to understand what she was doing. I wasn't sure how this was going to help me get out of his room without us getting caught, but it was an exciting effort. Patty sounded really freaked out.

“I assure you, young lady, your sister is not here in my bathroom or closet, and you can see there's no party. I must insist that you leave immediately.”

Patty's skinny knees dropped to the carpet, and she raised the bed skirt. Her eyes widened for a moment as they met mine, then she was gone again.

“Okay, mister, if you say so,” Patty said, sighing. “But when my daddy turns up, you might want to talk to him a little nicer. He chased her last boyfriend off with a baseball bat, and you don't look like you can run very fast.”

I put a hand over my mouth. As nervous as I was, a giggle was fighting hard to escape my lips.

“Now, just hold on a second. What makes you so sure he's coming here?”

I could hear the smile in Patty's voice. “Oh, well, he told Mama to go ahead and get the bail money ready 'cause he was gonna burst into room number three ‘fists flying.' Daddy's kinda protective of his girls.”

“Good God. What kind of town is this? We're going to have to get the police.”

“No!” Patty screamed. “You can't. If the police show up, there will be big trouble. Daddy's already on probation.”

“I'm sorry, I'd like to help, but it's highly inappropriate for you to even be in this room, and I refuse to wait here and be chased by a crazed father.” He strode to the door and opened it. “You're going to have to come downstairs with me and get this straightened out.”

“Fine,” Patty said, “but you'd better let me walk in front, in case we meet Daddy coming up the stairs.”

I heard the door close behind them, and I scrambled out from under the bed. I waited for what I hoped was enough time for them to turn the corner, then flew into the hallway. I opened the sliding door and raced onto the balcony, immediately colliding into a body.

“Aiiee!” I screamed.

“Shh, Lou, calm down, it's me.” Benzer put a finger on his lips.

“How'd you guys get up here?” I whispered.

“By risking our lives. We stacked a chair on top of two tables and prayed from there. I almost fell three times.” He looked pale in the moonlight. “Let's go.”

We jumped over the railing, grabbing onto trellis, vine, whatever we could find, and half climbed, half fell to the bottom, where Franklin was waiting. He grabbed my hand and pulled me, running through the dark, to the antique shop's door. I flung it open, then waited until they were inside to slam it shut. We raced down the aisles of the shop. Benzer missed a shelf full of Depression glass by a hair, but we made it to the exit without incident. We stood on the gravel, breathing heavily, listening for the sound of Mr. Neely or Mr. Kirby in pursuit. Franklin found his telescope from behind the Dumpster, where he'd hidden it earlier.

“I think we made it,” Benzer said, wiping his forehead with a bare arm. A trickle of blood was running down his forearm from a deep scratch, but he didn't seem to notice. He kept glancing over his shoulder. “Remind me not to do that again.”

Franklin smiled. “I agree. Too close for comfort.”

I gave them my best grin, but still couldn't speak, my heart was beating so hard.

“Hey!” a voice called from the dark.

The three of us jumped. Patty strode past us, cool as a cucumber. “Y'all forgot I have to lock the door.”

We were staring, openmouthed.

“What?”

“Patty,” I said, “you were awesome. How in the world did you know which room I was in?”

“Franklin figured it out. There was only one room upstairs that had the lights on.”

“How'd you get out of there? I was scared to death the police were going to show up.”

“Nah,” Patty said, smiling. “It was nothing. I just took a good look at the sign behind the counter and realized I was at the wrong bed-and-breakfast. He was so relieved to see me go that he didn't ask questions. I walked right out the front door.”

Benzer looked me over. “Where's the book?”

I slapped my forehead. “Oh, no! It's still on George Neely's floor.”

“You mean we did all that for nothing?” Benzer looked as dejected as I'd ever seen him.

“Well,” I said, digging my hand into my shorts pocket, “I did find this.”

The three of them gathered around me to read the piece of paper.

“That says
Mayhew
in the margin,” Patty said with wonderment. “That's just creepy.”

“I told you he was after the gold,” I said. “Why else would he have this?”

“Let me see it.” Benzer held it up in the glare of the street lamp and began reading. “
Carriage, twenty-one dollars; cookie press, fifteen cents; organ, eleven dollars; slave chest, two dollars. . . .
What is all this?”

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

Franklin's watch beeped, signaling it was almost ten o'clock.

“Darn,” I said. “We've got to run for it.” I folded the paper and put it back into my pocket. We took off like our tails were on fire. Mama and Aunt Sophie were on the porch when we came barreling into the yard.

“You'd better hurry.” Mama laughed. “We were just about to call in reinforcements.”

“How was the meteor shower?” asked Aunt Sophie.

We all answered enthusiastically and, claiming bathroom emergencies, rushed inside.

“What do we do now?” Patty whispered.

“Yeah,” Benzer said, “the list proves George Neely is interested in the house, but we still don't have the book!”

“Shh,” I said, and pointed to the hallway. Mama and the rest of the ladies were saying their good-byes. “Maybe there's another way. We'll work it out at church on Sunday.”

“Don't forget about the list,” Franklin whispered. “George Neely had it for a reason.”

I put my hand on my back pocket. I could feel the edges of the paper where it was folded. “I won't,” I answered. “He's a part of this. I don't know how, but we're going to find out.”

I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I'd probably been out for a good two hours when a noise from outside my window woke me. Groggy, I climbed out of bed and peered down through the oak branches. Bertie was standing on the sidewalk, digging into her purse for something. She glanced up as the car that had dropped her off pulled away, and I jerked back, hiding behind the sheer curtain.

I climbed back in bed and lay looking at the cracked ceiling. Our family was so strange. Whose grandmother has two different dates in two days? Both sides of my family tree must be nuts. I wondered if it had always been this way. Maybe Walter Mayhew was just the tip of the iceberg. Maybe if I knew the whole story, I'd find out he was fairly normal for a Mayhew.

I bolted upright in bed. The Mayhew auction list—it had to be from the auction Daddy had told us about—when all of our stuff was sold to the Wilsons. I pulled the paper out from under my pillow.

Carriage, twenty-one dollars; cookie press, fifteen cents; organ, eleven dollars; slave chest, two dollars; iron skillet, one dollar, twenty-five cents; bed, eight dollars. . . .
I read the list, twenty-seven items total. I looked closer. The slave chest had a thin, penciled line around it.

Suddenly, it all clicked into place. George Neely had been at the Tate Brothers auction looking for the slave chest that the Wilsons had bought years ago! But he didn't find it because it was just an ugly old painted-over box mildewing in the basement. I sat back against the pillows as the truth hit me. The slave chest that was listed in the auction was sitting downstairs in Daddy's workshop, where I'd been refinishing it for weeks!

For the second time in a matter of minutes, I got out of bed. Standing with my ear against my bedroom door, I heard Bertie's light footsteps go past. I counted the seconds in my head—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—until five whole minutes had passed. Then I started downstairs and made a beeline for the slave chest.

From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew
January 1863

As if Mr. Lincoln's war has not taken enough from me, Mother has died. Olivia grieves with me as she knows too well what this pain is like, having lost her own only two years ago. I feel as if I'm trapped in a nightmare with no end.

D
addy's shop was locked, but I found the key easily and pushed open the door. Since my parents' room overlooks the backyard, I couldn't chance turning on a light. Instead, I dragged the table with the chest on it over to the window. The moonlight streamed through the window, and I could see well enough.

I eyed the chest carefully. While I had been working on it, my mind was always somewhere else. So even though I'd spent hours cleaning and staining it, I'd never really examined it.

I opened the lid and looked inside. Everything seemed normal. I grabbed a metal file off of a shelf, and taking a deep breath, I began to poke and prod the wood. Every bird, every piece of fruit was given the once-over, until I reached the portion of the chest with the odd leaf I'd noticed earlier. It was the only flaw in the carving, due to what looked like a wormhole on the edge. I put the tip of the file deep into the space and pushed. A small
click
sounded in the dark room, and I watched, mesmerized, as a panel of the inside wall shifted slightly. Barely daring to look, I tugged at the wood panel. It swung open to reveal a hidden compartment.

I'm not sure what I had expected—maybe gold coins or a treasure map with a red X to mark the spot—but when I put my hand inside, I found a dusty leather-bound book.

“Whoa,” I whispered.

I blew the dust off the front cover and found a spot on Daddy's workbench to sit. I leaned against the sill and opened the book.

The diary of Louise Duncan

If you find this, my dear friend

The heartfelt musings I have penned,

Know they belong to me alone,

Until I lie beneath cold stone.

Louise Duncan

As in Louise Duncan
Mayhew
, my namesake! I felt like jumping up and calling Benzer to come over, but it was three o'clock in the morning, so that was out. I read through the pages, stopping occasionally to figure out the handwriting. I was finding it hard to believe that this was my ancestor. My heart sank as the word
slave
jumped off the page at me.

Father does not own many slaves, just Jeremiah, Dode and Singer for the outside work, Molly and Lainey for in the house. Our farm is not large enough to be called a plantation like the Sims' or Johnsons', but still I am proud of its nete appearance. Father had the house painted a month ago and it gleams a beautiful white.

It took a moment for me to realize she was talking about our house! I wondered if the Sims and Johnsons were related to the ones I knew. From that point on, I read slower, looking carefully for anything that sounded familiar. She mentioned Walter several times—his hope that the conflict could be avoided, then when it wasn't, enlisting to fight. My heart was racing; these people were real!

Walter is home! It does not seem possible, yet it is. He rode in with the 8th Calvary yesterday, ate everything Molly and I could put in front of him, and locked himself in the library with Silas Whittle who was visiting. I admit I feel a bit confused and shy in his presense. Walter only took a moment to hold my hand, and said nothing of why he was able to come home. I was only able to ascertane his mission by hiding in my usual space behind the bookcase.

I leaned back against the wall. Holy cow!
My
bookcase! Goose bumps broke out across my arms, and I slowly turned the page.

Oh Diary, he is a hero! A Company traveling nearby have captured a well-known abolitionist. He is wanted in Nashville for helping slaves escape, and while he had none hidden in his carriage, he was carrying a large bag of gold. General Dibrell and his troops are suffering greatly, and need supplies and munitions. Walter has been tasked with guarding the gold until Dibrell arrives and asked Silas to pray for their success in the mission. They are bringing the gold tomorrow and will hide it in the courthouse. I heard him say there is a trapdoor in the judge's chambers, put there in case a judge needed to make a hasty departure. I'm beside myself with excitement. Imagine! I am betrothed to a bonafide hero. I won't sleep a wink!

Some hero! I could hardly wait to see what she thought of her precious Walter once he stole the gold. I stopped and hugged the book to my T-shirt. Closing my eyes, I offered up a quick prayer. “Lord, please let there be some information in here. Please! If this is another dead end, I'll just die!” It was no more dramatic than most of my other prayers, but a strange feeling began to creep up my spine. I found myself feeling almost giddy. I laid the book on my lap and began to read.

Dear Diary,

I can barely write this, as my heart is heavy with sorrow. Indeed, my entire body feels weighted down by grief and I can scarce get my hand to move. But share this I must, or go mad from the deceet. Because of my willfulness, two people are dead and my betrothed is facing imprisonment. I will try to pen this as truthfully as possible, sparing myself no quarter.

The last few weeks had been more bearable than usual. Walter was home, although I understood he could be asked to report to his unit at any minute, and we spent every available moment together. Olivia and I set ourselves to fattening him up, as we were most shocked at his appearance. He had lost a great deal of weight due to a bout of dysentery that I suspect was more horrid than he conveyed. He was very appreciative and a most attentive beau. Still, there was a small part of my heart that I was unwilling to give completely. I told myself it was Walter's serious demeenor that gave me pause, for he had changed much since the last time we spoke. When he and Olivia discussed the deplorable conditions of slaves, they ignored me as if I was a child and if I had had less patience we might have quarreled.

But this was not the entire reason for my reticence. I was reluctant to end my friendship with Brody Kimmel. We'd known each other since childhood, and I was fond of his mischievous antics. I cannot explain why, when engaged to a man of Walter's character, I'd be drawn to a man who's reputation was the subject of much contempt, but I was. I would add that we'd done nothing improper, but that would be a lie and I've promised that I would be truthful. Yes, Brody had kissed me on two occasions, and I had allowed it. I do not deserve Walter for that reason alone, but there is more.

A few days ago, after the floors had been cleaned and the windows (what few still had panes) had been washed, I took a moment to sit on the front porch and rest. Walter had received news that General Dibrell's regiment was approaching and went to greet them. I acted unconcerned, but knew what this news brought. Walter would be surrendering the gold soon and most likely departing thereafter. I was unsure of how that made me feel, and I looked for something else to occupy my thoughts. Perhaps it was fate, or maybe the devil, that caused Olivia to choose that moment to sneak out the backdoor for one of her “errands,” but I decided that it was high time I found out what she was up to. I began to follow her at a discreet distance. She walked down the dirt path away from town. It wasn't long before she disappeared into the thick woods of the Stanton property. Had I been walking a bit slower, I would have missed her entirely, but I saw the flash of her bonnet through the trees. The cattle path she followed was familiar; it was the very one I had used many times to meet Brody. That thought had barely passed, when he stepped out into the open. For a moment I thought I had conjured him, and forgetting all about Olivia, was about to shout out a greeting. I was spared that humiliation, when she greeted him instead! They embraced briefly and I felt a pain as deep and as sharp as if they'd taken a knife to my breastbone. I quickly hid among the thick pines.

Oh Diary, why didn't I just confront them? But no, I stayed, listening to them talk quietly to themselves, my heart growing darker and more bitter by the second, even though I could hear nothing of their conversation. Me, with a betrothed, jealous of my cousin and a boy I wasn't even sure that I cared for.

I ran home in tears, thinking the blackest of thoughts regarding Olivia. Not long after, I heard her come upstairs. She paused for a moment at my door, and called my name, but I refused to answer.

Finally, I could stand it no more; I had to see him. I walked (a full hour, Diary, I was insane with jealousy) to where he was building a home. Mr. and Mrs. Kimmel had been so shamed by his refusal to join the war that they had immediately given him a piece of pastureland at the furthest end of their property. His house was almost finished and I found him on the porch, inspecting the handiwork.

“Isn't this a nice surprise?” he said, smiling at me. “In broad daylight, yet? Won't your betrothed be scandalized by your behavour?”

I gave him my most scornful expression and told him, “My betrothed has nothing to fear from my behavour ever again.”

He smiled and I could see that he was not taking me seriously. “Louise, I swear you've got a real bee in your bonnet. May I ask what's caused your sudden change in demeanor? Has your future husband been upset by the war's turn and made you the recipient of his frustrations?”

I was indignant. “It takes a great deal to upset Walter, and he certainly would not lay his frustrations at my door. He is of a most sturdy character.”

Brody laughed. “Sturdy? My, that is high praise indeed.”

“You are just jealous that Walter is of such fine reputation, while you are nothing but a flirtatious ne'er do well. Walter has proved himself throughout this horrible conflict.”

If I thought I could hurt his feelings, his loud laugh proved otherwise.

“A flirtatious ne'er do well? I suppose that's as good a name as any. But I have to question your portrayal of Walter. If he has proven himself as you claim, why would he be sent home? Perhaps the military is not as taken with Walter as he has led you to believe.”

Diary, that was the moment. The moment I would give my life to take back. You see, I stood there, seeing his arrogant face, and was overcome with fury.

“You, sir, have gall talking to me about misleeding someone. If anyone has misled me it was you! I admit that I have been too free with my affection, but do not stand and belittle my betrothed. Walter has been entrusted with a true heroic duty. Under the very noses of the Union, he has been guarding a delivery of gold for General Dibrell.”

That gave him pause, but then he shook his head. “I doubt that, Louise. The Union has been over every inch of this County. If Walter had any gold to guard, it would have surely been found by now.”

I was so infuriated and told Brody, “You have never given Walter his due, and even now, you refuse to. Walter knows just the place—a trapdoor in the judges' quarters at the courthouse—where they would never think to look. Would you have found such a place? Never!”

Yes, Diary, I betrayed my fiancé and his duty. My temper had gotten the best of me. I did not believe my disclosure would hurt Walter; after all, Brody lived so far from town, and had no interest in the war. Still, a small voice whispered that I should not have done it.

I consoled myself with thoughts that it would all be over soon. Walter soon informed me that his meeting had gone well, and that he would be leaving in a fortnight.

The first sign of trouble came two nights later, when the church bells began to ring. I threw on my robe and went into the hallway. Olivia emerged from her room, a frightened look on her face that I imagined must reflect my own. The thought of Union troops invading our home was never far away, and I could see Father at the door, preparing a weapon. We heard a horse at full gallop enter the yard, and the voice of John Stanton calling out. Olivia and I lit candles and rushed downstairs as Father threw open the door.

“The courthouse is on fire!” Mr. Stanton yelled.

Father hurried to dress, and Olivia, determined to help, followed after him. Coward that I am, I could not go. Muttering that I would stay and watch over the home, I huddled like a scared child in my room. There was no doubt in my mind of what was happening. I had told Brody about the gold, and he was steeling it. That or he had sold the secret to the Union. Either way, it made no difference, I was at fault and Walter would never forgive me. I stayed at my window and stared at the glow coming from town, praying that all would turn out well. At some point I fell asleep for the next thing I knew, the morning sun had made its appearance. Figures slowly appeared in the yard. Father first, then a weary Olivia. I met them at the gate, and they both leened on me, smelling of smoke and sweat.