Bertie sipped her coffee. “Are you crazy? The gold is in fine shape. All thirty-seven pieces look like they were minted this morning.”
He gasped loudly. “That many pieces? Oh, my goodness, I’ve got to call the museum. They are never going to believe this. But that’s not what I am talking about—please, tell me about the diary.”
I stared at him, puzzled. “Wait. Weren’t you looking for the gold?”
“Oh, heavens no. I would have never believed it was still around, not after all these years. I would have thought it had been spent ages ago.” He looked around the table at our confused faces. “No, I’ve been searching for the diary.” He pulled a worn piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and held it up for us to see. “This is a copy of a letter written by Miss Olivia McDonald to her colleagues at Vanderbilt in the year 1884. In it she mentions quite clearly a diary kept by her cousin, Louise Duncan Mayhew. I did my doctorate on Olivia McDonald, you know. Quite the forward thinker for her time.”
I leaned back in my chair and pulled the diary off the buffet. “Do you mean this diary?”
Mr. Neely let out a high-pitched squeal. “Can I see it?” he asked breathlessly.
Without a word, I handed it over.
“Is he gonna cry?” Benzer whispered.
“Shhh,” Mama said, kicking him under the table.
It wouldn’t have mattered what we said, since he wasn’t listening. He was staring at the diary like he’d found his long-lost love. He turned the pages carefully. “Oh, just look at this. It’s in wonderful shape.” Looking at me across the table, he asked, “Where did you find it?”
“It was in the old chest we got at the Tate Brothers auction.”
“My goodness, right under my nose,” he said, stroking the pages. “After all this time, here it is.”
“If you wanted to know about our family, why didn’t you just ask?” Mama said.
“I did make inquiries the night of the museum opening,” Mr. Neely said. He looked at Daddy. “But I was told your family didn’t want the past revisited.”
“Oh,” Dad said, grinning sheepishly. “I guess in hindsight that wasn’t so smart.”
“Dad!” I reminded him. “Didn’t your grandfather say it was important to remember our history?”
“You’re right, Lou. You should never be afraid of the past. It’s how we learn.” He shook his head. “I should have known better.”
I smiled. “It would be nice to learn things every now and then without having to hide in a closet!”
Mama nodded. “I agree. Lou is old enough to be told the truth, even when it’s not particularly pleasant.”
Bertie stood and held out a plate to Mr. Neely. “You might as well eat something while you’re here.”
“Oh, I couldn’t eat a thing,” he replied. “I’m much too excited. Have you read it? Did it mention anything about the Underground Railroad?”
Bertie dropped the plate with a thud. “The Underground Railroad?”
Mr. Neely nodded. “We know that Olivia McDonald was heavily involved in helping slaves, and since she stayed here for a time, we were hoping to prove she used this house as a station.”
I shook my head. “It mentions her trying to help slaves, but I didn’t see anything about using the house.”
“That’s unfortunate. Not surprising, as most people were too careful to write about it, but still one can dream,” Mr. Neely said.
“May I see Olivia’s letter?” Bertie asked. “I’d love to have a copy for our museum.”
“Of course.” Mr. Neely handed the worn piece of paper across the table, and Bertie picked it up, reading silently.
Patty had recovered enough that I could almost see her whole head. She pointed to a picture on the back of the letter. “What’s that?”
“Oh, those are some of my research notes. That is the mark of Samuel Bunting,” Mr. Neely said. “One of the slaves Olivia helped escape.”
“Why would he need a ‘mark’?” Benzer asked.
Mr. Neely smiled as Mama handed him a biscuit. He said, “Slaves weren’t taught to read or write, and that mark is how he signed his name. After he was freed, he became a renowned silversmith, and the bunting is how he marked his pieces. Some of his earlier ones are quite valuable.”
I leaned in closer to look. “I’ve seen that mark.”
Everyone turned to stare at me.
“You’ve seen that particular mark, Lou?” Daddy asked. “Where?”
“In a couple of places, I think. C’mon, I’ll show you.” I pushed my chair away from the table and stood. Everyone stood with me and followed me down the hallway. I led them into the parlor, where my slave chest was.
Mr. Neely gasped. “So here’s the famous slave chest!”
I pointed to the carving. “Isn’t that the same bird?”
“My word. Look at the detail!” Mr. Neely exclaimed. “If this is a real Bunting, it has to be one of the oldest pieces I’ve seen.”
“I thought he was a silversmith,” Isaac said.
“Yes, later. But he was a talented furniture maker as well.”
Mama ran a hand across the top of the chest. “I can hardly believe it. You said you’d seen it a couple of places, Lou. Where else?”
“Here.” I moved to the bookcase and tugged on the corner to reveal the room behind.
“Has that room always been there?” Aunt Sophie asked, wide-eyed.
Daddy laughed. “It’s why we can’t keep secrets in this family. We figure it’s where the family hid valuables during the Civil War.”
I turned on the light and pointed to the corner. “It’s over near the floor.”
Mr. Neely moved forward and knelt as everyone crowded around him, blocking out most of the light. “I’d have to take an impression and have it authenticated, but it looks like his mark to me!”
The room was just as hot as ever, so as soon as Mr. Neely had finished looking around, we moved back into the parlor.
“So if this Bunting fellow was here, scratching birds in our hidden room, surely that points to this house being used on the Underground Railroad,” Bertie said. “Right?”
Mr. Neely took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. “It takes a lot to prove these things, but if the bunting can be authenticated, I believe in time we’ll be able to say yes with a great deal of confidence.”
“Time is the one thing we don’t have,” I said, frowning. “The county is planning on tearing down the house.”
“Tear down this house? I don’t understand,” Mr. Neely said.
“Yeah, me neither,” I said dejectedly. “But they’re stealing it through eminent domain.”
Mr. Neely shook his head. “Oh, no, this won’t do. Destroy a house of such historical significance? Never!”
Franklin cleared his throat. “I’ve been hoping to get Lou’s house onto the National Register of Historic Places. Perhaps that would be easier now, in light of the recent discoveries.”
“I should say so. I am an official Tennessee review board member for the National Register. If this house doesn’t qualify, I don’t know what would!”
“Would that really be enough to stop them?” Mama asked.
“My good lady,” Mr. Neely said, “I’d camp on the governor’s lawn before I’d let them tear down this house!”
“Wow, Mr. Neely,” I said, “you’re the best! This means I get to stay!”
“And I’m going to get my badge!” Franklin crowed.
“And Isaac is going to play for Tennessee!” I said.
“Best summer ever!” Benzer said. “And Pete Winningham can stick it—you won, Lou!”
“Lou,” Isaac said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to talk to you about. I can’t take all that money!”
Everyone got quiet, and I stared at Isaac in disbelief. “What are you saying? You have to. It’s the plan!”
He smiled. “What I mean is, I’d like to just use part of the money.”
“Part?” Daddy asked.
“But how will you pay for school?”
“I figure with some of the money, and by working at the university, I can afford tuition for one year without too much trouble.”
“But what about the next year?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I’m giving myself one season to show Coach Fuller what I can do. If I can’t get a scholarship after that, I’ll transfer.”
“Oh, you will definitely get a scholarship, but the money is yours. I’m happy to give it all to you.” I grinned. “Especially now that the house is saved.”
“Well, what do you think about donating the rest of the money to the new minority scholarship fund? I’m not the only person in town that could use help. The town’s actually raised a lot of money, and with this, it will go a long way in helping other kids get to college.”
“That would be awesome!” I said.
“Whoo, if that don’t get your fire started, your wood is wet,” Bertie said. She smiled at Isaac for a moment, then came to give me a hug. “Child, what kind of prayer was that, anyway?”
I hugged Bertie, then Sophie, Daddy and Mama, Isaac, and even Mr. Neely.
“I’d better get back home,” Isaac said. “My mom’s calling everyone she knows to tell them I’m playing in the SEC. I keep telling her I’m just a walk-on, but she’s convinced I’m their new star player.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Daddy said.
The grown-ups asked us to clean away the breakfast dishes while they got more coffee and went into the den to make plans.
Benzer punched my arm lightly. “You must be feeling great—Isaac’s going to UT, and you saved your house.”
“Me?” I asked. “Don’t you mean we?”
“Yeah,” Patty said, helping herself to a leftover biscuit. “I believe I helped. Without me, you’d still be stuck under George Neely’s bed.”
“I agree,” Franklin said. “It was an excellent team effort.”
“We did it,” Benzer corrected himself. “And now we’ll still have this house to hang out in. Cool!”
I looked around the kitchen. The counter had a small scar from where I’d tripped once and hit the corner with my tooth, and a portion of the wallpaper was peeling. It was where my high chair used to sit, and Mama said I’d skinned half the wall before they got me eating solid foods. Bertie’s mugs, all with funny sayings, hung on hooks behind the sink. It was the most beautiful kitchen I’d ever seen.
“Hey,” said Franklin, piling a stack of plates into the sink, “let’s go outside where the stump used to be. Come on, Lou. Maybe you missed some gold.”
“I’ll meet you out there,” I said. “I’ve got something to do first.”
They laughed and ran out the door. I stopped at the entry to the den and listened as George Neely read from the diary, the words of Louise Mayhew drifting through the air. Bertie interrupted him to ask a question, and Aunt Sophie snored softly in a chair. I saw Mama and Daddy leaning against each other on the couch, seeming happy just to watch everyone.
I walked quietly past, into the parlor. The morning light reflected off the gold lettering of the Bible’s spine as I pulled it from the shelf. Kneeling, I opened it to the front page where Silas Whittle’s name was still legible.
“God,” I whispered, “thank you for saving my house, for giving me a new brother, and for letting Isaac go to UT.” Wow, this had been some summer, after all. I sat, thinking. “I’m sorry I thought you were a fuddy-duddy, and don’t take this the wrong way, but if my brother ever says a stupid prayer, could you just let it slide? Amen.”
I turned to the back and pulled out Walter’s letter to Louise, then placed the Bible as high on the shelf as I could reach.
“I thought I saw you come in here.” Bertie leaned against the door frame. “Don’t hide that Bible. I may need it sometime.”
“No way! I’m putting this Bible away. I don’t think you can be trusted.”
“You could be right.” She smiled. “And have you had enough excitement for a while?”
“Totally, although I can see now why you love history so much. It’s actually kinda awesome.”
“Now that you like it too, you can be the official family historian.”
I stared at her. “Is that a real thing?”
“If it’s not, it ought to be. Somebody’s got to make sure we don’t forget what’s important.”
I nodded. “That’s the only reason I can stand looking at slave quarters in the backyard. It’s our job to remember.”
“That’s my girl. You want to volunteer sometime at the museum with me? We could take turns driving Thelma Johnson crazy.”
“Sure,” I said. “It was fun learning about Walter and Louise. Daddy’s family was pretty cool.”
“Oh, that’s nothing. You should hear some of the stories about my side of the family.”
I laughed. “I can’t wait!” I handed her the letter. “This was in the Bible. I thought you might like it for the museum.”
She read it carefully. “This is remarkable. And it was in our Bible the whole time?”
“Yep. Maybe somebody should have opened it a little more often!”
Benzer yelled in to me from the front door. “Lou, are you coming? Franklin got word that Sally Martin and her friends are at the Piggly Wiggly. If we hurry, we can catch them. I can’t wait until you tell her about your summer. She might be shocked speechless for once!”
“I’ll be right there,” I shouted back. “Bertie, it’s so amazing to think this house was part of the Underground Railroad. Louise and Olivia must have been seriously brave.”
“Yes,” Bertie answered. “They ultimately rebelled against their own neighbors and the Confederate government. That took a lot of gumption.” She put a hand on my cheek. “You know, that sounds a lot like you.”
“I only rebelled against Pete Winningham.”
“And Coach Peeler,” Bertie said. “Girl, you come from a long line of rebels. If these walls could talk, you’d be one of their stories!” Bertie gave me a hug. “I’m proud of you, child! You’ve got more backbone than a peacock’s got tail.”
“Thanks, Bertie. But in case you haven’t heard, Mayhews are made of steel!”
She laughed. “They sure are. But I’m not a Mayhew, remember. My people are made of spunk, and it looks like you got your fair share of that too. We may be more alike than you think.”
I looked at where Benzer had been standing moments ago. “You know, I’m beginning to think that’s not such a bad thing,” I said, smiling. And with a wink, I raced outside.
From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew
July 1865
I can scarce believe the War has ended. I am much changed from the girl I was when this conflict started, as is this Country, but I’d have neither of us return. So many things I held to be true have been proven false. The desolation is all around us, in the ruined homes and broken families, yet I do not fall into despair for there is also hope. I see it in the lavender violet just beginning to bloom in the meadow, and on the faces of my resilient neighbors.
Yesterday, Mr. Harris delivered a crate addressed to Olivia and me. There was no name attached, but upon opening I knew immediately that it was from Samuel. Inside was a wood chest adorned with beautifully carved buntings. It contained a single piece of paper with drawn instructions on how to open a secret compartment. On the back, a drawing of a tree with three birds perched and singing from its branches. Olivia said I must keep it, as a “tangible symbol of my redemption and efforts toward the cause.” Yes, there is hope for us all yet.
Speaking of secrets, Diary, I do have one more to impart. I have not seen the doctor, but I know, a woman knows. We are going to have a baby! I will tell Walter tonight. Imagine, a baby of our own, to carry on the Mayhew name. God is so good.
This book would be nothing but a dream of mine without the wonderful encouragement and guidance of so many. I am eternally grateful to Deborah Osgood and Steve Bock, who have cheered for Lou from the beginning
; to Cay Drew and her sons, who gave Lou her first middle-grade stamp of approval; to Coach Matthan Houser (who is everything Coach Peeler is not) for sharing his vast football knowledge; and to Pastor David Eldridge for encouraging me to do my “deal.”
Thank you to the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators for their kind support and the Middle Grade Mafia for their friendship. The feedback from friends and fellow writers Debbie D’Aurelio, Alison Hertz, Kim Zachman, Kevin Springer, L. S. Bridgers, and Kristine Anderson was invaluable.
I am profoundly thankful to my agent, Susan Hawk. I’ve heard there is no such thing as a perfect agent, but, Susan, you are proof that there is! To my incredible editor, Nancy Paulsen, you have been a beautiful blessing on my life. Every round of edits made this book better, and it has been an honor to work with you. Thank you to Sara LaFleur and the entire team at Nancy Paulsen Books for your hard work behind the scenes to make this the best possible version of Rebels. Gilbert Ford, you are an artistic genius.
To Tania Stephens, Ellery Lewis, and the rest of my crazy family, your sense of humor has heavily influenced my life and this book. To my friends in Hog-Eye Country, your presence is in every line.
Thank you, JD and Rachel, for your unwavering belief that this day would come. I can’t imagine life without you by my side.
And finally, I pray every word of Rebels gives truth to Colossians 3:17.
Lou’s search through her history was painful, but in the end there was redemption. I’m thankful that no matter what our own pasts contain, there is hope for the same.
Thank you for reading.
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