“It’s not stupid, you know,” Ella said as the door clicked shut.
Oliver shuffled around on the bed. “I know.”
“Everyone’s life matters, no matter how they died.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.” Her words had a jagged edge to them. “And start acting like it.”
—CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO—
THE COOLEST TEACHER YOU NEVER KNEW
“Make room at your tables for Mrs. Mason’s students,” Mr. Carrow said as his classroom overfilled. “Today is gonna be a little different.”
“No kidding,” Kevin said to Oliver, sitting down next to him. “Scoot. I’m majorly cramped here.”
“Can’t,” Oliver said, with a quick glance at Ella.
“I can see there’s room,” Kevin said.
Oliver bumped into Ella as he scooted. “Sorry.”
No response. Things were still a little icy post-death-by-dysentery incident.
“So how come your class is even here?” Oliver asked.
“Some sort of combined English–social studies thing on slavery—stations and stuff. Kids in second period said Mr. Carrow cried.”
“What?”
“Just what I heard.”
Some of Mrs. Mason’s students carried in the old- school wooden lectern she taught from and set it next to the projector screen. She and Mr. Carrow whispered to each other, then Mr. Carrow stood up and waved his hands wildly for everyone to quiet down.
“Good to have you, Mrs. Mason’s students. A little tight, yeah, but we’ll make do. Ian, hit the lights.”
The room went dark and an image came into focus on the screen: a drawing of an African American man on one knee, his chained hands raised like he was praying. The text above him read Am I Not a Man and Brother?
“Before this unit we talked about slavery— origins, the slave trade, an enslaved person’s experience, and how it divided the nation and caused the Civil War. But what about the impact that slaves had on the war effort, like when they slowed their work or ran away to Union lines? And what about free African Americans in the North? Did they join the Union Army? Did they fight in battles? These are important questions we’re gonna think about today as we continue to examine the war from all angles.”
Oliver snuck a glance at Mrs. Mason. He couldn’t help it. He wondered if talking about slavery made her feel awkward. It would make Oliver feel awkward if he was the only black person with a bunch of white people and he had to talk about slavery. Then again, maybe she was used to it. She’d been working here since pretty much the dawn of time.
Mrs. Mason caught his eye. Oliver froze. He waited for her to bore holes into his soul.
She smiled.
Yeah—this day was bonkers.
“We’re going to rotate through a couple stations that explore the African American experience during the war,” Mr. Carrow said. “But first a very special guest is going to share a very personal story. You know her already, but let’s give her a nice welcome: the one and only Mrs. Mason.”
At first nobody clapped, but Mr. Carrow really hammed it up, so everyone joined in.
“That’s too kind of you, Mr. Carrow,” Mrs. Mason said. She cleared her throat. She fiddled with her notes on the podium like she’d forgotten what she was going to say. The silence dragged.
Finally, Mrs. Mason fingered a silver locket hanging around her neck and took a breath. “Social studies is not my area of expertise, not exactly. But I am part of a story that has its roots in the Civil War. Today I’d like to share that story with you.”
Mr. Carrow moved the PowerPoint slide ahead to a newspaper ad with big block lettering.
TO COLORED MEN
54TH REGIMENT!
Massachusetts Volunteers,
African Descent!
$100 Bounty!
At the expiration of the terms of service
Pay of $13 a Month!
And State Aid to Families.
Recruiting Office,
Cor. Cambridge & North Russell Sts. Boston
“On January 1, 1863, Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation,” Mrs. Mason said. “Mr. Carrow has told you how this freed slaves in the Confederate states; but it also called for the enrollment of black soldiers into the Union Army and Navy. The Governor of Massachusetts, John Andrew, began recruiting black troops from all parts of the Union to form the 54th Massachusetts Regiment using broadside posters like the one pictured here. And it was probably a poster like this that my great-great-grandfather saw while he was working on the loading docks in Philadelphia.”
Oliver heard it happen—the air left the room as everybody sucked in breath.
Mrs. Mason was descended from a Civil War soldier?
“No way,” Oliver whispered.
Mr. Carrow moved to the next slide: an image of an African American soldier in full uniform, sitting for a photograph in front of a canvas painted with hills and trees. Oliver thought he looked calm and happy—hands folded in his lap, tiny smile on his face, cap a little crooked. Proud.
“Linus was born a slave on a small Maryland farm around 1845, we think,” Mrs. Mason said. “I can’t be certain, as he communicated this story orally to his children, who then wrote it down for their children—including my grandfather.” She rubbed the silver locket again. “He escaped as a teenager, before the war, and made his way to Philadelphia, where he got a job in the shipyards.”
“Her ancestor was a Civil War soldier and a runaway slave?” Oliver whispered.
“Mrs. Mason is officially the coolest teacher I never really knew,” Kevin murmured.
“Linus went up to Boston to join the 54th and survived the battles you’ll read about during your station activity today. He returned to Philadelphia after the war, got his old job back, met a girl at church, and a century and a half later, here I am.”
She smiled at that little joke, but got serious real quick.
“I think fighting in this war meant something different to black troops. It’s important for us to understand that. The Confederacy threatened to execute them if they were captured in battle, or worse, to sell them back into slavery. Men like Linus were risking something different from the white troops they were fighting alongside—they were risking their freedom to fight for a great liberation. And they were picking up a fight that had been started by their ancestors, who found pockets of happiness in the midst of bondage, or took part in work slowdowns, or ran away. These black soldiers were willing to lay down their lives alongside their white countrymen to prove that they were their countrymen.”
She lifted the silver locket off her chest and opened it.
“Linus bought a small portrait of himself in uniform and tucked it inside this locket as a birthday present to his wife. She passed it on to her daughter-in-law, and it made it all the way to me. I keep it to remember what he and other black soldiers were willing to sacrifice so that I might live free.”
She stopped. Oliver looked up at her. She looked different, softer. He felt proud and sad at the same time.
Kevin nudged him and pointed to Mr. Carrow. He was lost in something too, Oliver saw. More serious and solemn than a monk. Like he was underneath some heavy burden he wasn’t used to.
“How ’bout a round of applause for Mrs. Mason,” Mr. Carrow said. Students clapped, but softly. Oliver felt it too: This wasn’t really a celebrating sort of occasion. “Ian, lights please. I’m gonna pass out some folders with your table’s topic. I want you to dive into the reading and answer the questions at the end. Watch the timer on the screen so you know how much time is left in each station. Got it? Good.”
“That,” Kevin said, “was intense. Holy crap. My heart is pounding. Feel my heart.” He grabbed Oliver’s hand and put it on his chest. “Boom boom boom.”
“It’s pretty crazy,” Oli
ver said. “Really intense and really cool. Kind of the opposite of our guy.”
Ella shoved a reading in Oliver’s direction.
“Until we figure out this very cool love letter connection,” Oliver finished.
Kevin shook his head.
Oliver was really striking out here.
“Number one,” Kevin said. “In your own words, describe the 1863 Draft Riots of New York City.”
“A bunch of angry Irish people were mad that Lincoln was forcing them to enlist in the Union Army to fight a war that would bring even more African Americans north to take their jobs,” Oliver said. “They burned a bunch of buildings and started attacking people.”
“Nailed it.”
“You didn’t even look at the reading,” Ella said.
“Didn’t have to,” Oliver said. “I brushed up on the draft when I was finding H. Weller.”
“H. who now?” Kevin asked.
Oliver gave Kevin the lowdown. Ella rolled her eyes at least twice.
“That,” Kevin said, “is super cool. Continue exploring.”
“We have less than a week left,” Ella said. “We don’t have time for that kind of distraction.”
“We’re just waiting around for Mrs. Bolton to call us,” Oliver said. “And I already told you, it might be a whole new discovery about the war.”
“And I told you that you’re getting lost in a bunch of details that don’t matter instead of our actual project.”
The rebellion launched from his gut up to his throat. “And I’m telling you that you’re being kind of a—”
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Kevin cut in. “Let’s take this down a notch. We’re all a little emotional right now; I blame that on Mrs. Mason’s epic past. What we need to do is compromise.”
“I’ve been doing a lot for her whole love letter thing,” Oliver said. His throat felt tight and the words flew out like bullets. He wasn’t just mad; he felt a little hurt. “I think it’s time she gave in a little.”
“Ella, the man has a point,” Kevin said.
She scanned Oliver’s face and looked away. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Her voice was smaller all of a sudden. “I just really want to find the person Stone wrote this love letter to.”
A minute ago he wanted to scream at her; now he wanted to hug her.
How was this possible?
Who knew these things.
—CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE—
THE REPLY
To: [email protected]
Subject: Henry Weller
Dear Oliver,
A customer service representative forwarded me your email regarding our company’s president during the late 1800s and early 1900s, Henry Weller. I shared it with Mr. Eugene Weller, our current bank president and great-great-grandson of Henry Weller, who found it very interesting. While I can’t promise a response before your project is due, I will be in touch with any information.
Good luck.
Sincerely,
Amanda DeFrancesca
Senior Assistant
The Weller Group
—CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR—
THE SOCIETY OF PEOPLE WHO THINK WAR IS BAD
Oliver reread the email probably as many times as he’d read Ella’s/Stone’s love note. Was that weird—that a potential historical discovery made him as excited as a potential girlfriend?
Maybe. Probably.
Who knew these things.
Not that it really mattered. Without the love note, and considering her almost constant annoyance at his little side project, Ella’s Scorecard of Emotions was looking pretty disappointing.
In the basement, Oliver turned on his computer and pulled up his research.
Theory #3: Stone enlisted in the 68th as a substitute for some guy named H. Weller.
How to prove:
Find more letters from H. WellerFind out who H. Weller wasGoogle the crap out of him
Search on Ancestry.comWeller Bank president was also named Henry Weller (says so on their website)
Society of Friends?
Find out if this is the same H. Weller who wrote Stone’s dad those letters (emailed)
Oliver stared at the phrase Society of Friends for a while and then started googling the term.
Society of Friends Also called Quakers
Christian group
Started 1650
Big on “inner light”?
Big on peace
Hate war
Oliver knew there were a ton of Quakers in Philly—the whole state of Pennsylvania had been founded by a Quaker, William Penn. But what did that have to do with Stone? Oliver stared at his notes and the letters H. Weller had written to Stone’s dad. He felt like a detective. The answer had to be here somewhere.
He called Kevin to talk about it out loud, like Mr. Daniels said real detectives do.
No answer.
Oliver hovered over Ella’s name for a second. No way she’d want to talk about this.
“I’d talk to you about it,” he told Stone, “but I really need an actual person this time. No offense.”
He went up to the living room to find his parents, but they seemed pretty into one of those police shows.
Okay, time for the last resort. Oliver went up to Addie’s room and listened to her do scales on the electric keyboard before he walked in.
“Hey.”
“You’re not allowed in my room,” she said. “No boys are allowed in my room, ever. Dad said so.”
“He didn’t mean me.”
“You’re a boy.”
“I need to talk out a problem with you.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you have a problem.”
“Is this about your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Ella.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Can I keep playing while you talk?”
“Uh, sure. Just turn down the volume.”
Oliver sketched out everything he’d learned so far about Stone, H. Weller, and the Quakers in about ten minutes. He felt like he was getting somewhere by just rehashing the details over and over—like those old gold miners who would sift through river mud looking for nuggets.
“That’s a good name,” Addie said. “The Society of Friends.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t even think she’d been listening. “Wait—what do you mean?”
“They want everybody in the world to be friends with each other, and friends don’t fight.”
“Sometimes they do,” Oliver said. “You fight with your friends.”
“Not argue—fight with weapons.”
“Yeah. They hated war.”
“We need people like that now.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We should all be friends. War is bad.”
Oliver decided that Addie had reached the end of her usefulness. “Okay. Thanks.”
He put one foot in the hall, then stopped.
He turned back to his sister. “War is bad.”
“I just said that.”
“. . . But what if you thought this war wasn’t?”
“What war? Iraq?”
“No, the Civil War,” Oliver said. “What if you thought the war was good? Not like good, but . . . important. What if you thought it was really important, and you wanted to fight, but you couldn’t because it was against your religion. What would you do?”
“War is bad,” Addie said.
For a second Oliver lost his train of thought. “But Weller could’ve hired anyone to fight for him . . . why Stone? How did they even know each other . . . ?”
“I need to practice,” Addie said.
A
nd then he had it.
Oliver ran over to his sister and hugged her hard.
“Dad said this is why boys aren’t allowed in my room. You’re a distraction,” Addie said.
Oliver raced downstairs to his computer.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Henry Weller
Dear Amanda DeFrancesca,
This is Oliver again. I’m not trying to bother you or anything, but I was wondering if your company had any archives from the 1850s and 1860s? If you do, could you search and see if a Raymond Stone or any Stone was maybe a customer of the bank?
I know you’re already looking for the contract thing, so I really appreciate it. I know you’re really busy, but I just wanted to remind you that my project is due in six days.
Thanks and sorry for bothering you again.
From Oliver
—CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE—
PRIVATE STONE’S DEATHBED CRUSH
“Three days and she hasn’t emailed me back,” Oliver said.
Kevin just barely finished chewing a meatball. “Rich people are always really busy. Like my aunt Mindy. She drives a Porsche and lives ten minutes away but always tells my mom she’s too busy to hang out.”
“I guess it’s too late now anyway,” Oliver said. “Ella will be happy, at least.”
“Would have been pretty cool if it all connected somehow.”
“Uh-huh.”
Oliver stared at the line of people outside the cafeteria waiting to buy tickets for the spring dance. It must have been twenty kids deep.
“Are you going to the dance?” he asked Kevin.
“Of course.”
“What?”
“What?
“Uh, nothing,” Oliver said. “I’m just surprised.”
“That I have a date.”
“No . . . just surprised that you’d want to go.”
“I don’t, really. But Cindy does.”
“Who’s Cindy?”
“The sixth grader I was telling you about. Artsy. Too busy being awesome to worry about being on the Honor Roll. Can sometimes be seen interpretive dancing during choir? I asked her yesterday.”
The Not-So-Boring Letters of Private Nobody Page 12
