Ghost Soldier (12 page)

I realized we were driving down city streets and had been for some time. “Is this Raleigh?” Rich asked, dubious. “I don't remember anything like this.”

I said in a low voice, “It's a city—it's changed a lot. I'm sure everything's changed, like the creek did.”

Rich shook his head. “Just as long as the courthouse is the same.”

It wasn't.

We stood looking up at it. The map at the bus stop said the Wake County courthouse was at this address, and the sign on the building said this was the courthouse, but Rich insisted it didn't look anything like the building he remembered. I had to agree—this building looked really modern. It fronted on a walking mall that used to be the main street downtown, but the street was closed to traffic now. Long stone benches and small trees covered the mall. It was almost lunchtime, and lots of people were sitting on the benches, eating and reading newspapers.

“This isn't where I enlisted,” Rich said flatly.

“Well, it's the county courthouse,” I told him. “We've come this far—we might as well see if they've got the records here.”

I climbed the steps to the entrance, walked past benches arranged around some planters filled with red and yellow tulips, and opened the door.

Inside, men and women wearing business suits headed down polished hallways, and a couple of police officers stood talking to each other in a corner. I saw an information desk and went over to it. The thin woman sitting there behind steel-rimmed bifocals didn't look too pleased to see me.

“What do you want?” She poked at her tight grey bun impatiently with a mechanical pencil. “You shouldn't be in here.”

“I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I was looking for the county courthouse, but this isn't the original courthouse, is it?”

She raised her eyebrows and her glasses slid down her nose. “Do you mean the original courthouse as in the colonial courthouse?”

I felt a flush burning up my neck. “No, ma'am. I meant the one from the—” Before I said “Civil War,” I remembered the argument between Dr. Seagraves and Dr. Knox, and finished, “—the War Between the States.”

The woman relaxed her eyebrows and smiled at me. “Well, as it happens, that building was finally torn down.” Beside me, Rich groaned. “This courthouse was built in the seventies.”

I sighed. “Oh.”

“Why did you want to see the War Between the States courthouse?” she asked, taking her glasses off and letting them hang on a chain around her neck.

I realized I should have thought up a story before. “I was looking for some county records—for a school project.”

She was already nodding. “Well, then that's not a problem. But you don't want the courthouse, young man. You want the State Library Archives on Jones Street. They've got original documents and microfilm records from every county, all the way back to when we were a colony.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and let her show me where the library building was on a map, only a couple of blocks away.

“Just go upstairs to the Search Room,” she told me. “They'll help you there.”

*   *   *

“That was quick thinking, Red,” Rich said as we crossed the mall. “Now we'll find out.”

My stomach growled. “First I've got to get some lunch.” I stopped at one of the mall vendors and bought a hot dog and a soft drink and sat on a bench to eat.

“Hurry up,” Rich said impatiently.

“Go on,” I told him around a mouthful of mustard and sauerkraut. “You know where it is—go check the place out while I finish.”

Rich shook his head. “So many out-of-timers here—I might lose you.”

I glanced at him standing there in his worn uniform with his musket and bedroll. “Well, I don't think I could lose you—you kind of stand out in a crowd.”

He didn't smile, and I thought maybe he'd waited so long to find someone who could see him that he really was afraid of losing me. I swallowed the sauerkraut and shook my head. “Don't worry. I won't disappear on you. But let me eat, okay? And I've got to think up a good story for the people at the Archives. I need to make that school project more specific.”

Rich looked a little confused, but relieved by my promise not to disappear. He sat down beside me, bringing his familiar chill along with him. Across the mall, people were sitting in shirtsleeves, fanning themselves with magazines and newspapers, and here I was with my own private air conditioner.

As I finished my hot dog, I worked out the details of what I was going to say. Then I pitched the wrappings and the can into a nearby trash bin and started off down the mall. “Let's go find those records.”

I had no problem finding the State Library. I
did
have a problem, however, with the sign on the Search Room that said it was closed Mondays.

“I can't believe it!
One
day out of the week it has to be closed, and we pick that day!”

“Could we come back tomorrow?” Rich asked. He was already peering into the room, certain that the answers he was looking for were inside its locked files.

“I don't know if I can get away from Dad again,” I told him. After messing up our lunch today, I was afraid Dad might make a big deal about spending time with me tomorrow. “Why don't you just—slip through, or whatever you do, and check the place out?”

Rich sighed, but he moved to the closed door. Maybe he'd see something from inside that could help us, like a door I could sneak in through.

“Hey, Rich—can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look around and see if there's a back door.”

I stood in the hall, staring at the card catalog drawers on the other side of the locked door, wishing there were some way I could get inside to flip through them. It was all I could do not to kick the door, like a little kid throwing a tantrum. I wasn't so great at research, according to my teachers anyway, but if I could get in there with Rich, at least I could open drawers and things and he could tell me what to look for.

“What are you doing?” a voice behind me called out.

I thought fast. I didn't think I'd said anything for a couple of minutes, so hopefully the person hadn't heard me talking to Rich. I slowly turned around.

Chapter Eleven

T
HE
A
RCHIVES

Just down the hall a little ways, a plump black man in shirtsleeves, with a tie dangling loosely around his neck, stood beside an open door, a potato chip in one hand.

“The Search Room is closed today,” he said, then popped the chip into his mouth.

Maybe the Search Room was closed, but his door was open. If the rooms all connected along a back hallway the way the school offices did, then maybe I could figure out some way to get this guy out of his room and I could slip in the back. I walked toward him, my mind racing.

“Yeah,” I said, “I can't believe it's closed! The lady at the courthouse sent me here, just twenty minutes ago. She never said anything about the Archives being closed on Mondays!”

“Well, the Archives are always open to the research staff,” he explained, leading the way into a room marked “Non-Textual Materials Unit.” At least he didn't just tell me to get lost. A suit jacket hung over the back of a desk chair, and he picked up another potato chip from a bag sitting beside a half-eaten sandwich on the desk. As an afterthought, he offered me the bag, and I took one to be friendly. “It's just the Search Room itself that's closed today—where the public can request archival documents.”

He sounded very precise, like he knew all about the Archives. I read his name tag: Jesse Temple, Assistant Archivist. Then I came up with a better idea than getting him out of the way. I looked around. “So what's Non-Textual Materials, anyway?”

Jesse Temple lit up. “This is where we keep photographs, original prints, postcards, posters—things like that.” He grabbed his sandwich, took a bite, and then swept it in a gesture to embrace the room around him. Sure enough, I saw another door in the back, and one on the side as well. Maybe that led directly to the Archives? He was saying, “We've got more than a million black-and-white photographs. That's before you count videotapes, sound recordings, and motion picture films.”

“So this is all pictures—images and stuff?” I asked. “You don't do anything with stuff that's in writing?”

He took another bite of his sandwich and shook his head, and I thought my great plan wouldn't work after all. But then he surprised me. “What do you think—you can make sense out of pictures without any words? Sure we use the text archives—all the time! We just separate out the rooms this way so people who want us to do research for documents or pictures know where to go.”

Bingo. Now let's see if my story would work. “So then, Mr. Temple—”

“Hey, call me Jesse.” He grinned and held out his potato chip bag again.

“Thanks, Jesse.” I smiled at him and took another chip. “I'm Alexander, from Indiana.”

“All the way from Indiana? Just to do research here?” He looked delighted.

“Yeah, and that's the thing, see? I'm only here for a couple of days. But I'm missing some school, and the principal wasn't happy about that, until my dad promised I'd see some battlefields and historical places—we went to Petersburg on Saturday. My history teacher gave me this assignment. My dad's in meetings today, and I'm supposed to get this research done—I'll get into trouble if I don't have it.”

“Well,” Jesse said slowly, “what were you supposed to research?”

I swallowed the rest of the potato chip. “My teacher assigned me this family that lived in Wake County during the War Between the States. I'm supposed to find out who survived, what happened to them, and whatever else I can learn, I guess.”

Jesse nodded. “Sure. They do that in the Archives Search Room all the time. People are always looking for their ancestors, you know? Look—I'm not supposed to do this for the public, but everybody else is off at lunch. If you tell me the family name, I'll see what I can find out.”

I wished I could get him a whole case of potato chips! “It's Chamblee. They lived on Stirrup Iron Creek.”

Jesse grabbed a pad and pen and began to take notes.

“Head of household? Or do you know?”

“Uh, the father's name was George,” I told him. “There were five children—well, grown-up children, and teenagers. George and Amalie were the oldest, then there was Jefferson, and Richeson and Louise were the youngest.”

Jesse nodded. “In the 1860s, right? Okay—you hold the fort here while I look in the back.” He disappeared with his pad and sandwich, leaving his bag of chips behind.

I couldn't believe my luck—an Assistant Archivist with a soft spot for kids! I sat down on top of his desk, swinging my legs, and helped myself to a handful of his chips, hoping that no one would come in and wonder what I was doing there. This kind of research really worked, just like Dr. Seagraves said it would. If I could only find out Mom's maiden name for certain, I could do the same thing with her. Could it really be Thomson? There must be some clues at home. I'd go through the attic when we got back, and I'd figure out what county to start with and what questions to ask. For now, I only hoped Jesse wouldn't sense Rich in the room with him, trying to read the documents over his shoulder. And what if the records didn't have any of the answers Rich was looking for? Too many things to worry about.

And too much time going by—I took another handful of potato chips. Listening to them crunch was better than listening for footsteps in the hallway. But when Jesse came back in, he was holding a piece of paper with some notes on it and smiling. Unfortunately, Rich, who was right behind him, was frowning.

“Okay—I've got good news and I've got bad news. First of all, a land deed was filed for a seventy-acre piece of land owned by George Chamblee right on Stirrup Iron Creek, and the Chamblees are shown in the 1860 Census and on the tax lists through 1865.” He shook his head. “But there's no mention of any of them in the 1870 Census, I'm afraid. I checked the Estate Records, and they don't show anything for the family.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, if the estate was passed on to someone, it would show up in the Estate Records,” Jesse explained. I must have still looked blank, so he added, reluctantly, “If you die without a will, that's how they process your estate.”

“Father must have died in the War,” Rich said bleakly. “But why didn't George or Jefferson inherit the farm?”

“Oh,” I said, wishing I could show him some sympathy. “So—what happened to the rest of the family?” I asked Jesse.

“Well, I also took a quick look through the land deeds between 1865 and 1870 to see what happened to the farm. The land was bought in 1868 by a Samuel Wheeler. He bought it from the state because they'd seized it for nonpayment of taxes.” Rich stiffened as Jesse shook his head. “That happened to too many people during Reconstruction. The carpetbaggers from up north came down and set the taxes so high that a lot of North Carolina farmers couldn't pay to keep their own land.”

He set the piece of paper down and looked at me. “I guess that's what happened to your Chamblees, Alexander.”

“But that doesn't tell us anything!” Rich cried.

“Where did they go?” I asked Jesse.

“Some people looked for family if they had any in states that didn't secede. Some people went west. It would be hard to find someone unless you had an idea of where they'd gone.”

I nodded. “What about,” I asked hesitantly, “if they died?”

Jesse sighed. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bag of caramels. He offered them to me, but I shook my head, and he took one out and unwrapped it. “That's a tough one, actually. If a soldier died during the War, we have good records, because the Confederate government was meticulous about casualty lists. But by the middle of 1865, records get pretty haphazard.”