Chapter 7 #4
Mercy carefully lifted the journal from the trunk and brushed a finger across the worn cover. The cloth had faded with age and the corners had softened from handling, but it appeared remarkably well preserved.
“May I?”
This was it, his last chance to keep this part of his history private. But he knew, in truth, his last chance had expired when he brought the trunk here. “Of course.”
She opened the front cover and he watched as she read the name he knew was written there—Eleanor Porter. She met his gaze, brows raised in question.
"Eleanor was my great-great-grandmother"
She nodded and turned the page. Then she stilled and her eyes took on that familiar brightness he'd seen when she found some little piece of history.
"Wilson." The excitement in her tone didn't surprise him, but the touch of accusation did. "Why didn't you tell me this was here?"
She'd seen the date on the first entry, of course—March 12, 1778. "Didn't want to spoil the surprise."
Mercy smiled. "You succeeded." She looked back down at the page for a long moment.
Then she looked up again. "Is it okay if I read some of this?"
Always so careful not to overstep. "Of course."
She turned back to the journal and began reading.
Wilson resisted the urge to say anything. Most of the entries didn’t contain anything dramatic. They concerned weather, chores, neighbors, crops, and the endless practical matters of daily life. But of course, that would appeal to her every bit as much as stories of battles and national events.
A minute passed. Then another. Finally, Mercy turned a page and drew in a small breath. "Her husband was away."
Wilson nodded.
"Serving with the Continental Army?"
Again, he nodded.
"Do you know what this means?"
He mentally cringed at her excited tone. He had a feeling he knew what was coming.
She didn’t wait for his response. "If this account is accurate then your family qualifies for Revolutionary War Patriot descendant recognition. I’ll add you to the list."
There it was. Wilson folded his arms. "No."
Mercy's expression shifted from excitement to confusion. "No?"
"No."
She closed the journal but kept one hand resting atop it.
"I am speaking of your family."
"I know."
"This has nothing to do with your Civil War service."
If she only knew. Mercy saw two separate subjects. Wilson saw only one.
Recognition. Honor. Standing before a crowd while people applauded a version of events, of him, that never felt complete.
That wasn't the problem. The problem was what came with it. A family listed on the board would be expected to participate in the celebration. To stand and be acknowledged. To represent those who had come before.
Mercy might be talking about Charles Porter. The town would see Wilson Porter standing as his representative.
"The family belongs there.” Her tone was firm. “Whether you like the idea of it or not, your great-great-grandfather was a Revolutionary War patriot and you are his descendent so the Porter family qualifies for recognition."
Wilson rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
He’d expected her to push back but he was determined to stand his ground.
Just as he had when Colonel Briggs asked him to join the other veterans in the parade.
“Maybe so, but I’m comfortable with the truth of their valor and service.
Trumpeting it to the world won’t make it any more honorable. ”
Mercy studied him as if trying to make sense of his words and he had to fight the urge to shift under her gaze. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”
"No. I won’t participate in any of the ceremonies, standing in front of the town like a prize bull at the county fair.”
Her shoulders sagged. "Is that how you really see what we’re doing?"
Wilson wished he could take back that last sentence. He hadn’t intended to hurt her feelings. “I know everyone wants to celebrate our heritage as Americans and as citizens of Hawthorn, and most folks are flattered to be among the honored. But it’s how it would make me feel.” Among other things.
From the expression on her face, he’d only partially redeemed himself.
Wilson considered what she'd said about his family deserving the recognition. About how proud his pa would have been. About the fact that this was the country's centennial.
And about the disappointment he'd seen in Mercy's eyes.
Then an idea occurred to him, a compromise of sorts. "What if we recognized my ancestor’s accomplishments without my participation?”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Use my father's name on the recognition board. Instead of The Wilson Porter Family, use The Orson Porter Family. And accept the fact that I’ll stay in the background."
She studied him for several moments.
"Why?"
Because Orson Porter had never doubted his place in the world. Because honoring his father felt right in a way honoring himself never could.
But he couldn’t say any of that, at least not without having her ask a lot of questions he didn’t want to answer. So instead, he settled for a simpler answer. He crossed his arms. "Because that's what I'm willing to agree to."
Mercy continued watching him. He could almost see the questions forming behind her eyes.
Fortunately, she didn't ask them. But he didn’t fool himself into thinking she would let it drop entirely.
Instead, she nodded. "Very well."
The knot in his gut he hadn’t even realized was there loosened.
Mercy reopened the journal and resumed reading.
Several minutes passed in silence as she became absorbed in Eleanors story. Every so often she turned a page or paused over a passage. Once she smiled and shook her head.
"What is it?" Wilson couldn’t stop himself from asking.
"She spent nearly a page describing a fence repair."
He blinked. "A fence repair."
"Apparently it was a very important fence," Mercy said solemnly. “She devoted more space to it than she did finding a customer for her cheeses.”
The corners of his mouth twitched.
Mercy smiled and returned to reading, this time out loud.
A concern about seed corn. Notes about a neighbor's illness. Worries over a late shipment of supplies. Nothing remarkable. Nothing heroic. Yet she seemed fascinated by every line.
Wilson leaned a hip against the desk and watched her. His father used to read that way. Not quickly. Not hunting for the important parts. Taking his time as though every entry mattered simply because Eleanor had taken the trouble to write it down.
After several more pages Mercy finally closed the journal and rested both hands atop the cover.
"I could spend the rest of the week with this and still want more."
Wilson had no trouble believing that.
She hesitated. "Would you mind if I borrowed it for a few days?"
Wilson looked at the journal.
She would read every page. Eventually she would reach the entries in the back. Learn of Charles's heroism. Peek into the thoughts of generations of Porter men who had followed. His father's among them. And she would almost certainly admire them.
The difficulty wasn’t what she would discover in its pages. The story and inscriptions in the back were uplifting and inspiring. The difficulty was how it might inspire her to push even harder for him to participate.
Then there was the fact that his gut tightened at the thought of the journal being out of his control. "My father was fond of that journal," he said. “Never let it leave the house.”
Mercy's expression shifted. "I understand. It’s personal and irreplaceable."
The touch of wistfulness in her voice, the fact that she didn't push eased something inside him. This was Mercy after all. She would treat it with as much care and respect as any Porter.
So he nodded. "Go ahead."
Relief and excitement brightened her face. "Thank you."
She set the journal beside her notebook rather than returning it to the trunk. Then her gaze drifted over the remaining items spread across the desk.
"I'll prepare a Porter family file to go with the others," she said. "The stories you've shared. Information from the Bible. Maybe something I learn from the journal that's appropriate to include."
Wilson nodded. "I expected as much."
"As for the artifacts themselves, that's entirely up to you." She gestured toward the desk. "If there are any you'd like included in the display, I'd be pleased to have them. If not, the family history alone is worth preserving."
Wilson looked at the button box, the Bible, the pipe, and the small collection of ordinary things that somehow contained an entire family's story.
Not long ago he would have refused without hesitation. Now he found himself saying "I'll leave that to you since you're creating the displays. Pick whichever items you think will work best."
Mercy blinked, clearly surprised by the answer. "Are you certain?"
He glanced down at the collection again, then nodded. "You're the expert."
Her smile lit up her face as she turned to carefully repack the trunk.
The journal remained beside her notebook, waiting to leave with her.
For the first time since she'd discovered it, he found himself wondering not whether she would value what she found there, but how much.
That evening, after supper dishes had been cleared away and the kitchen put back to rights, Mercy carried the journal to her usual chair near the front-room lamp. Her mother settled nearby with a quilting hoop balanced across her lap while Mercy carefully opened the worn volume once more.
"I still can't believe Mr. Porter entrusted this to me."
Her mother glanced up from her stitching. "What?"
Mercy lifted the journal resting in her lap. "This. It's an actual Revolutionary War-era journal. Not recollections written years later. Not family stories passed down through generations. Eleanor Porter, Mr. Porter's great-great-grandmother, recorded these entries as events happening."
Her mother paused and sat up straighter. "Remarkable. A woman from one hundred years ago speaking to you through her writing. I can certainly understand your excitement."
Mercy had known her mother would understand.