Uncivil Acts, page 3
Clearly Hammond was using Ms. Waters like a shield to prevent me from asking more questions. But if he thought that would work, he didn’t know Nancy Drew. “The thing is, Mr. Hammond,” I said, raising my voice, “at the bazaar this afternoon, a friend of mine saw you and he swore you were a guy he knew named Martin Halstead.”
“Well, he must have me confused with someone else!” Hammond snapped over his shoulder. “Someone who happens to look like me maybe.”
“My friend’s name is Todd Willetts. Sound familiar?” I pressed on. Ned, embarrassed, gave me a warning nudge with his knee, but I ignored him.
“Never heard of him,” Hammond replied, turning his back on me again.
“Guess I’m not scoring points with Ms. Waters’s old boyfriend,” I muttered to Ned.
“Old boyfriend? What makes you say that?”
Really, guys can be so clueless. “Come on, Ned, watch their body language,” I said. “See how they lean toward each other? See how she tilts her head down to give him that upward gaze with all the eyelashes working? Classic flirting behavior.”
Ned looked puzzled. “But they must be in their sixties!”
Now it was my turn to smack his knee. “So what? People don’t stop liking each other after they turn thirty! You know, I’ve always wondered why Ms. Waters never married. Maybe Marcus Hammond was her long-lost love.”
“That’s romantic mush. You’ve been hanging around Bess too much,” Ned teased me.
That was a sore point. “No, actually, I haven’t,” I admitted. “I’ve, uh, been avoiding her. I’m not sure how she’ll take the news about the Drew brothers being Confederates.”
“Why should she care?” Ned asked.
“Because she and George are all worked up about being related to the Union hero Gabriel Marvin, that’s why,” I said. I tried not to sound bitter, but the way Ned crooked one eyebrow told me I hadn’t succeeded.
“Don’t get me involved, Nancy,” Ned said, raising his hands in surrender. “I refuse to take sides.”
“Why? What about your ancestors, Ned?”
“They were Quakers,” Ned said proudly, “the original pacifists. They were totally against war, any war. And I plan to follow their example.”
“You’re just weaseling out of the argument,” I teased him. Still, I felt frustrated. I wouldn’t have Ned’s partnership on the battlefield.
“So you’ve made up your mind to fight as a Southerner?” he asked.
“Oh, it’s all just playacting,” I said, repeating what my dad had said that afternoon. “Somebody has to show up to play the Confederates—it might as well be me. It’s like a part in a mystery play—someone has to play the murderer, someone gets to be the detective.”
“And someone else has to play the victim, and lie like a corpse midstage for most of the play,” Ned added with a grin.
“Order, please. Order!” the reedy voice of Agnes Mahoney quavered into a microphone. The excited crowd gradually fell silent. Once the room was quiet, Mrs. Mahoney, looking elegant in a peach-colored wool suit, launched into a speech about the role of River Heights in the Civil War. I’d caught bits and pieces of the story over the last few weeks, but the whole tale was fascinating.
Like all the old towns in our part of the country, River Heights is pretty far from where most of the Civil War fighting took place. Still, when war broke out in 1861, the local men, all excited, began to meet for drilling and target practice. There were maybe a hundred men at first. But as weeks went by and news trickled in, they began to argue politics. It became clear that their “company” couldn’t even agree on which side of the war to fight for.
Finally they split in two. Fifty or sixty men marched off to join the Seventh Illinois Regiment of the Union army. About a dozen others went to join a Michigan regiment. But a band of thirty or forty soldiers straggled several miles to offer their services to the Confederate States of America. And in 1864, by coincidence, all three regiments showed up in West Virginia at the Battle of Black Creek.
“I first knew of Black Creek because of my late husband’s forefather Josiah Mahoney,” Mrs. Mahoney continued. “Their family had always treasured the medal he won for his bravery there. Josiah was a raw young man of twenty-six when he joined up with the Seventh Illinois—”
“Josiah Mahoney never enlisted in the Seventh Illinois Regiment,” a clear voice rang out. The crowd gasped.
In front of us Evaline Waters stood up, waving a handful of papers. “There is no record of his enlistment,” she announced. “I have here, however, a photocopy of his enlistment papers—in the Sixty-ninth New York Regiment.”
A wave of murmurs washed over the room.
“The Sixty-ninth New York Regiment was made up of poor Irish immigrants,” she went on. Everyone was listening so hard, you could have heard a pin drop. “They’d just stepped off the boat in New York Harbor. They had no jobs or places to live, so they joined the army. They were promised American citizenship if they’d fight for the Union. And as the war went on, the Sixty-ninth New York was distinguished by one statistic—the highest desertion rate in the Union army.”
Evaline swallowed and went on, her voice beginning to tremble. “They were part of the Union forces at Black Creek, all right. But Josiah Mahoney wasn’t going to fight with them. The night before the battle, he skipped camp. A few fellows from the Seventh Illinois caught him stealing bacon before dawn the next morning. They stuck a gun in his hands and forced him to fight with them.”
Mrs. Mahoney gripped the edge of her lectern. I was afraid she was going to faint. “But the medal—,” she began faintly.
“The medal may be real,” Evaline Waters said. “But there’s no record of one ever being awarded to Josiah Mahoney. Maybe he picked it off a dead soldier in battle.” The crowd gasped again.
“It is true,” Ms. Waters said, “that he was wounded in the leg at Black Creek and discharged. But I have here a letter from an army surgeon who claims Josiah cut himself in the leg to get out of having to fight anymore. He marched back to River Heights with other wounded men, all right—because he was afraid to go back to his own troop. He settled down here, and the rest is history.”
As Ms. Waters sat down a flood of excited whispers rose. “Why would Ms. Waters dig up such information, and then make it public here?” I whispered to Ned. “She had to know it would embarrass Mrs. Mahoney.”
Ned looked stumped. “Stirring up trouble like that isn’t Ms. Waters’s style at all,” he agreed.
Mrs. Mahoney raised her voice over the crowd’s murmurs. I could hear the angry voice of Arthur Jeffries in particular. “However that may be,” Mrs. Mahoney insisted, trying to cover her embarrassment by moving on to a new topic, “we all agree that the real hero of the River Heights troop was their leader, Colonel Gabriel Marvin.”
I glanced over at Bess and George, standing by a side wall. Bess had a big grin plastered on her face. So did George.
As Mrs. Mahoney went on, I realized that this Colonel Marvin really was some big deal. Bess had every right to be proud of being related to the guy. But did she have to show it off so much?
The minute the lecture was over, people popped out of their seats and gathered in buzzing clusters. It wasn’t every day you saw a Mahoney getting shown up. I hopped over the row in front of me to get to Evaline Waters. “Wow, Ms. Waters, how did you find out all of that stuff about Josiah Mahoney?”
Ms. Waters looked flushed and confused. “Oh, I just did some online research. It’s amazing what you can find online. Right, Marcus? My friend Marcus here showed me how to do it. As you may know, he runs his own historical Web site—www.yourhistory.com.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Really? The Web site everybody in town used to trace their genealogy?” I had to admit, that impressed me.
Marcus Hammond crossed his arms tightly and looked down, as if the attention made him uneasy. “Evaline did a lot of the research. I just showed her where to look.”
Now it made sense. Revealing the truth about Josiah Mahoney was a perfect advertisement for YourHistory.com. Ms. Waters was doing her old friend a favor. But was it worth shaming Mrs. Mahoney for that? And what made Marcus Hammond start digging around Mahoney family history in the first place?
With so many people crowding around Ms. Waters, I was soon pushed aside. I scanned the crowd and found Ned talking to Bess and George. I figured it was as good a time as any to spring my news on them.
As I got closer, I heard Bess saying, “Well, we always knew the Marvins had been leaders. They had their own village, Marvinville, before the town was incorporated. Gabriel Marvin was promoted all the way to major in just a few months! The Seventh Illinois was a very strong regiment—we won most of our battles.”
“Sure, but it’s easier when you’re equipped with Henry rifles.” Todd Willetts stepped forward and broke in. “Lots of Illinois regiments had big Chicago money bankrolling them—fighting against ragtag Tennessee and Virginia kids with old shotguns and squirrel guns in their hands. By that point in the war, it was more about financing than military skill.”
Bess stared at Todd, two red spots burning in her cheeks. “Bravery is bravery,” she insisted.
“I’m not saying your ancestor wasn’t brave,” Todd allowed. “But Black Creek was especially unequal. Not in numbers—there were just as many soldiers on both sides—but in equipment. It’s a wonder that the Confederates did so well. That’s where true bravery comes in.”
George laid her hands on Bess’s shoulder. “Me, I’ve decided not to play Gabriel Marvin after all,” she began. Typical George—trying to change the subject to get her cousin out of hot water. “I did research and found another historical person, Callie McGee. She dressed as a boy so she could fight alongside her brothers in the Twelfth Michigan Regiment. Talk about brave!”
But nobody was listening to George. “Nancy, tell your friend he’s out of line,” Bess ordered me.
“I’m sorry, Bess, but I actually wouldn’t argue history with Todd,” I said. “He knows this stuff backwards and forwards. He’s an experienced reenactor, with the Eighth New York Volunteers.”
Bess tossed her head. “He wears a Union uniform—and he’s talking like that?”
Todd shrugged. “I won’t be wearing Union blue on Saturday. I’ve agreed to act in a Confederate regiment because so few people signed up for them.”
“Like Todd says,” I butted in, “the numbers of soldiers on each side were even at Black Creek. But I’ve heard that, so far, River Heights has seven hundred people signed up for the North—and only sixty-eight for the South. The reenactment won’t work if we don’t get the numbers balanced.”
I should have known better than to cross Bess in front of a cute guy like Todd. It was only later that I realized I had shamed her—kind of like Evaline Waters had just shamed Mrs. Mahoney.
Hands clenched at her sides, Bess gave me a deadly glare. “Is it true, Nancy Drew? Is it true what Deirdre told me—that you’re going to turn traitor and fight for the South?”
My face was burning too. “So what if I do? It’s just a big play. And the Drew brothers believed—”
Bess groaned. “Forget the Drew brothers, Nancy! The North stood for freedom—the South stood for slavery. If you can’t stand up for what’s right . . .”
I wish I could’ve remembered the history stuff my dad had explained to me. But I was so furious, I had to let it get personal. “Who are you to tell me which side to take?” I spluttered. I turned to George. “George, would you please talk some sense into your cousin?”
George squirmed. She looked over at her cousin. Bess practically had steam blowing out of her ears, she was so mad.
“Sorry, Nan,” George said slowly. “But I . . . I’ve got to side with Bess on this one.”
4
Words in Haste
Okay, I’ll admit it, I lost my temper. I probably could have said something sweet and soothing right then to get back in with Bess and George. But I just couldn’t make myself do it. All I could come up with was, “Well, Bess, if that’s how you feel—”
“Yes, that’s how I feel,” Bess shot back. You know, she can be as stubborn as me sometimes.
I shrugged like I didn’t care. I knew it would make her even madder, but I couldn’t help it. “Then I guess I’ll go ahead and sign up for the Confederate army,” I said. “If you’re going to be mad at me anyway. . . .”
“Oh, come on, Nancy—,” George started, but Bess cut her off.
“No, George, let her go do what she wants,” Bess said. She whirled around and stalked away, blue eyes blazing. And I guess mine were too!
That was that. I crossed the room to the sign-up desk and put my name down to join the Confederate army.
I slept later than usual the next morning. I’d been tossing and turning all night, feeling rotten about that fight with Bess. By the time I got up, I had only one thing on my mind: calling Bess and getting the whole dumb argument settled. I picked up my bedside phone and punched the speed-dial button for the Marvins.
Bess’s little sister, Maggie, answered. She recognized my voice right away. “Ooh, Nancy, what did you do? Bess said if you called, I was supposed to say she’s out.”
“Come on, Maggie, let me talk to her.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she really isn’t here.”
“Okay.” Maggie can be such a brat sometimes. “Then I’ll call back later.”
“Good lu-uck,” Maggie replied in a singsong voice, and hung up.
I blew out a sigh of total exasperation. Bess was taking this battle thing way too far. I speed-dialed George. “Fayne residence,” a kid’s voice answered. That was Scott, George’s pesky younger brother. “Hi, Scott, it’s Nancy. Put George on?”
“Sure thing.” Scott threw down the phone with a clatter and yelled “Georgiaaaaaa!” at the top of his lungs. Scott loves to tease his sister by calling her by her real first name.
I heard voices go back and forth, then clomping footsteps. “Just say I’ll call her back,” I heard George tell Scott in the background.
“You tell her yourself,” Scott shot back.
There was a dull clatter as George picked up the phone. “Nancy, I can’t talk right now, okay?” George pleaded, and disconnected the line.
I just sat there in shock. George had hung up on me! It was one thing to have Bess be in a snit, but George, too? Anything could bounce off that girl!
I pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt and went down to the kitchen. I wasn’t just hungry for breakfast—I wanted Hannah’s advice.
In the kitchen I found Hannah humming to herself, moving back and forth between the stove and the sink. “Morning, dear,” she called out. “Pancakes?”
“Mmm, yes please,” I said gratefully.
“I already have the batter mixed up. That lovely Mr. Hammond had a big stack earlier,” Hannah reported, beaming. Nothing makes her happier than feeding someone with a good appetite. “Such a charming man. So polite!”
I’d forgotten about Marcus Hammond staying with us. Last night when I came home, I was so steamed up about Bess and George, I’d walked right by the guest bedroom door and didn’t notice it was closed. “Oh, yeah, Mr. Hammond. Is he around?” I remembered now that there were things I wanted to ask him about—like why he’d changed his name, for starters.
“No. He said he had a million things to do around town,” Hannah replied, waving her spatula in the air. “Your dad and he went to rent uniforms for the battle on Saturday.”
Just thinking of the battle made me wince. “I signed up last night,” I said, plopping down on a seat in our breakfast nook. “But I might change sides.”
Hannah looked concerned. “Why?”
“Bess and George wanted me to fight with the Union troops instead,” I explained.
Hannah set her hands on her hips. “So? Since when do you do only what they say? You girls have always let one another be independent.”
“Usually,” I said, fiddling with a fork. “But Bess got worked up about it. She said some hotheaded things last night . . . and so did I.”
Hannah turned back to flip the sizzling pancakes. “I heard it was a spirited meeting, all right. But I’m sure when everybody’s cooled down—”
“I called Bess this morning to apologize,” I burst out. “She told Maggie to say she was out. And George hung up on me!”
Hannah stepped over to lay a hand on my hair. “Don’t get too upset, Nancy,” she said gently. “Give Bess some room, and she’ll come around. If you treat it like a big deal, it’ll turn into a big deal. You don’t want that.”
“I was willing to apologize—even though she was wrong and I wasn’t!” I argued.
“Forget apologies,” Hannah said with a shrug. “Stop worrying about who’s wrong and who’s right. Act like nothing happened, and then Bess will too.”
“But what about George—”
“Don’t hold it against George if she sides with her family. She has to do that,” Hannah said, hurrying back to the stove. “Oops. Hope you don’t mind if some of these got a little brown.”
Hannah’s advice lifted a weight off my shoulders. I actually felt upbeat by the time I got in my hybrid car and drove downtown.
My first stop that morning was the temporary office where the organizers of the Confederate army had set up headquarters. There was a short line out the front door. People coming out were carrying wads of clothing in plastic bags.
Just my luck—Deirdre Shannon was standing two people ahead of me in line. “Butternut or gray, Nancy?” she called, almost mocking me.
“Gray, I guess,” I said.
“Some of those gray uniforms have a red stripe down the leg,” Deirdre rattled on. “Very slimming. Ooh, and I saw somebody else had a jacket that had black cuffs with the most beautiful braid embroidery. I hope I get one of those!”
“The uniforms they rent out here are pretty basic,” the man in front of me told her, sounding as irritated by Deirdre as I was getting. “They give you a long gray jacket with a stand-up collar, a leather belt to go over it, and gray pants. If you want something special, you’ll have to buy it at the bazaar.”
