rest and to gather recruits, so I suppose that’s when your fellow joined up.”
“Oh, no! It was later because there were buds on the trees—”
Mr. Ancaster chuckled. “You sound as though you’d been there.”
Rose nearly said, “I was,” but she recovered herself. “We read it in a diary.”
“I’d like to see that diary. It might be helpful, fill in some of the blanks in our records.”
“Er … um.…” Rose shifted her weight fromone foot to the other. “You see, it was Susan’s diary, really, and it doesn’t say anything else about the war. Are there any lists that would say when Will came home?”
They looked through three more books of lists and did not find either Steve’s or Will’s name.
“Does that mean they were killed?” asked Rose in a small voice.
“Not necessarily. The lists are incomplete. In fact, if you or your aunt are researching this boy, I’d appreciate finding out for our records what did happen to him. All this means is that they didn’t muster out here when most of the regiment did.”
“What does muster mean?”
“It’s a military word. Means to gather troops. They’re mustered when they’re formed and they’re mustered for pay, sick call, and when they’re disbanded. Your boy might possibly have run off, too … skedaddled was the word used for that”—Rose did not think Will would have skedaddled—“but they may have been ill or wounded and, of course, they may have been killed. The 81st fought in some of the war’s worst battles after February ’64. They were at Cold Harbor and lost two-thirds of their number there. They were at Petersburg, Chaffin’s Bluff, and the siege of the Confederate capital at Richmond. They took a terrible beating. Your aunt can find the detailsof those battles in any history of the Civil War, but you can give her this.” He handed Rose a booklet titled
Oswego County in the Civil War
. “There’s a lot of useful information in it. And tell her to get in touch with me if she needs anything more. Would you like to take along a photocopy of the names?”
She left Mr. Ancaster’s office, her head full of the things he had told her, with the photocopy that said Will Morrissay had joined the Union Army in Oswego in 1864 held tight in her hand. She walked for some time, trying to imagine the town as it had been for Will. She sat down on a low stone wall and looked at the photocopy with Will’s name. Then she took the scrap of a song out of her pocket. She unwrapped it carefully, studying the notes she could not read.
“What’s that song?”
Rose went cold and crammed the song back in her pocket. Sam was standing in front of her, his hands behind his back.
“I didn’t see you.” Rose swallowed hard, trying not to show her nervousness.
“Can I sit down?”
“It’s not my wall.”
Sam didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.
“What for? That this isn’t my wall?”
“No, I’m sorry I’ve been such a pig to you.”
Rose looked up at him for a second. His face was almost as red as his hair and he was gazing steadfastly at his feet.
“Oh, well, I.…” Rose was trying to say with careless disdain, “I haven’t noticed that you’ve been a pig,” but her voice started to croak and she couldn’t get the words out. Sam’s apology was so unexpected.
“This is what happened,” said Sam, still not looking at her. “Mother and I were going to Italy—to Florence—so I could look at paintings and sculpture. She promised me we could go, ages ago, one time when I won a prize for a painting. She said if she ever got a big chunk of money all at once she’d take me, and ever since then I’ve read all sorts of books about Florence. Then this spring she won a prize and some money for a book she wrote, and she said we could go in the fall. She said it would be the best time, when all the other tourists were back home. I could stay out of school and we could go for a month. On purpose she
“Oh, no! It was later because there were buds on the trees—”
Mr. Ancaster chuckled. “You sound as though you’d been there.”
Rose nearly said, “I was,” but she recovered herself. “We read it in a diary.”
“I’d like to see that diary. It might be helpful, fill in some of the blanks in our records.”
“Er … um.…” Rose shifted her weight fromone foot to the other. “You see, it was Susan’s diary, really, and it doesn’t say anything else about the war. Are there any lists that would say when Will came home?”
They looked through three more books of lists and did not find either Steve’s or Will’s name.
“Does that mean they were killed?” asked Rose in a small voice.
“Not necessarily. The lists are incomplete. In fact, if you or your aunt are researching this boy, I’d appreciate finding out for our records what did happen to him. All this means is that they didn’t muster out here when most of the regiment did.”
“What does muster mean?”
“It’s a military word. Means to gather troops. They’re mustered when they’re formed and they’re mustered for pay, sick call, and when they’re disbanded. Your boy might possibly have run off, too … skedaddled was the word used for that”—Rose did not think Will would have skedaddled—“but they may have been ill or wounded and, of course, they may have been killed. The 81st fought in some of the war’s worst battles after February ’64. They were at Cold Harbor and lost two-thirds of their number there. They were at Petersburg, Chaffin’s Bluff, and the siege of the Confederate capital at Richmond. They took a terrible beating. Your aunt can find the detailsof those battles in any history of the Civil War, but you can give her this.” He handed Rose a booklet titled
Oswego County in the Civil War
. “There’s a lot of useful information in it. And tell her to get in touch with me if she needs anything more. Would you like to take along a photocopy of the names?”
She left Mr. Ancaster’s office, her head full of the things he had told her, with the photocopy that said Will Morrissay had joined the Union Army in Oswego in 1864 held tight in her hand. She walked for some time, trying to imagine the town as it had been for Will. She sat down on a low stone wall and looked at the photocopy with Will’s name. Then she took the scrap of a song out of her pocket. She unwrapped it carefully, studying the notes she could not read.
“What’s that song?”
Rose went cold and crammed the song back in her pocket. Sam was standing in front of her, his hands behind his back.
“I didn’t see you.” Rose swallowed hard, trying not to show her nervousness.
“Can I sit down?”
“It’s not my wall.”
Sam didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly.
“What for? That this isn’t my wall?”
“No, I’m sorry I’ve been such a pig to you.”
Rose looked up at him for a second. His face was almost as red as his hair and he was gazing steadfastly at his feet.
“Oh, well, I.…” Rose was trying to say with careless disdain, “I haven’t noticed that you’ve been a pig,” but her voice started to croak and she couldn’t get the words out. Sam’s apology was so unexpected.
“This is what happened,” said Sam, still not looking at her. “Mother and I were going to Italy—to Florence—so I could look at paintings and sculpture. She promised me we could go, ages ago, one time when I won a prize for a painting. She said if she ever got a big chunk of money all at once she’d take me, and ever since then I’ve read all sorts of books about Florence. Then this spring she won a prize and some money for a book she wrote, and she said we could go in the fall. She said it would be the best time, when all the other tourists were back home. I could stay out of school and we could go for a month. On purpose she
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