Chapter 11 #6
A duplicate account of a welcome-home celebration could remain filed away in the archive.
Another local article, this one describing improvements to the soldiers' cemetery, might be better placed with the Fallen Heroes portion of the Veterans’ Honor Board.
The afternoon settled into a comfortable rhythm of reading, weighing, deciding, and filing.
Twice that afternoon someone appeared at the schoolhouse door.
The first time Mercy scarcely noticed until she heard Wilson greeting him. Their conversation remained too low for her to distinguish more than an occasional word before footsteps retreated down the porch.
The second interruption ended much the same way.
She smiled to herself without looking up.
Wilson had apparently decided defending the fort was to be taken quite seriously.
The afternoon wore on unnoticed as Mercy worked her way through Colonel Briggs' collection.
Some had been clipped neatly from the newspaper.
Others were preserved on the full news sheet, and a few remained inside the entire newspaper itself.
All were carefully folded and preserved.
Some carried stories of Hawthorn veterans who had built new lives hundreds of miles away.
Others recounted reunions where old comrades gathered once more beneath regimental banners.
Still others mentioned several Hawthorn men together, making it impossible to assign the articles to any one family display.
Those she laid in a separate stack for inclusion on that fourth board she hadn’t named yet.
The contents would include the summaries she had created from the letters, the articles that couldn’t be assigned to just one family and other items that belonged to Hawthorn's veterans collectively rather than individually. No one name seemed to capture its true purpose and she’d come to think of it simply as the board.
She’d have to name it soon though if she wanted Daniel to have time to paint it.
Shaking her head, she returned her attention to the stack of articles and once again lost herself in the stories she discovered, logging them properly, and in deciding their placement.
But as she worked through the stack, something else was impressed upon her with growing weight.
Each letter, each clipping, each item in this box represented years of quiet faithfulness on Colonel Briggs’ part.
Years of writing letters, maintaining friendships, answering correspondence, and convincing people scattered across the country that Hawthorn still cared what became of its sons.
Colonel Briggs had spent decades preserving Hawthorn's military history, asking for nothing in return. Had he not done so, many of the stories she was discovering today might have been lost forever. He deserved to be recognized for his efforts.
She reached for her notebook and began to jot down ideas.
Name the display board after him.
Use attribution cards for items from his collection
Put a sign in the annex recognizing his contribution.
Have the mayor add a tribute to his speech.
Ask him to unveil the board.
Ask him to cut the ribbon for the annex.
She looked over the list. There were a couple of good ideas there, but was it enough? It was a shame Wilson had already left for the day. He was always good at helping her figure these things out.
She closed the notebook. She’d just have to wait and talk to him when he joined her and her mother for dinner.
The thought brought a quiet sense of satisfaction. He’d be frank enough to tell her whether she was letting sentiment outrun good judgment.
The thought prompted her to glance toward his worktable. It stood empty. Only then did she notice his tools were put away.
A small pang caught her by surprise. She hadn't even realized he'd left. She'd missed the chance to wish him a good evening.
Then she smiled to herself. Of course. He'd promised to keep interruptions away from her that afternoon. Apparently, he'd decided his own departure shouldn't become one either.
The warmth of that realization lingered as she reached for the next newspaper.
She unfolded the browning pages, smoothed them carefully across the table, and began to read.
Colonel Briggs' familiar pencil notation appeared in the upper corner.
Received from Rev. Collins, Abilene. Thought Hawthorn would appreciate this account of their boys.
Mercy smiled. Just one more story returned home.
The article opened with the return of an Abilene veteran who had recently come back to Texas after several years in Colorado. Much of the interview centered on rebuilding his life after the war, but eventually the reporter asked which of his wartime memories had stayed with him longest.
The veteran's answer filled the next several columns.
Mercy read with quiet interest as he described a reconnaissance mission that had gone terribly wrong.
Their company had ridden into what was thought to be lightly defended territory only to discover they had been anticipated.
Within minutes the commanding officer had fallen, several men were wounded, and the remainder found themselves pinned down with no clear avenue of escape.
She continued reading, searching more from habit than expectation for some mention of Hawthorn.
Halfway down the next column, a familiar name caught her attention.
...our young Lieutenant Porter...
She paused. Porter.
The name by itself meant little. Porter was hardly an uncommon name. She continued reading, this time with a little more focused interest.
The veteran described how the lieutenant had taken command almost before anyone realized the captain had fallen.
Though scarcely older than many of the men he now commanded, Lieutenant Porter had somehow steadied the frightened survivors, reorganized their retreat, and repeatedly exposed himself to enemy fire to reach those who had been left behind.
Mercy's eyes slowed.
Lieutenant Porter...
She turned back to the beginning of the paragraph and read it again. This time details she'd skimmed over before began to settle into place.
Texas cavalry. The spring campaign.
A curious flutter stirred inside her.
She read on.
"I don't reckon any of us expected to see another sunrise," the veteran told the reporter. "But Lieutenant Porter wouldn't leave a man behind if there was breath left in him. Against every sensible expectation, he got all but one of us safely out."
Mercy stared at the words.
All but one.
Her pulse quickened. She read the remaining paragraphs more carefully than before. The veteran insisted that whatever courage he possessed had been matched many times over by the lieutenant who had led them through impossible circumstances.
Near the end came one final observation.
"I hope the folks back in Hawthorn know what manner of man they have among them and gave him a real hero’s welcome when he made it home. Those of us who made it back owe him more than we can ever repay."
Mercy lowered the newspaper.
Wilson.
Not another Porter.
Wilson.
Her gaze drifted back to the article, but the words blurred as scattered memories quietly began arranging themselves.
Charles Porter's heroic story.
The lack of an entry in Eleanor’s journal beyond Wilson’s father’s.
Wilson's refusal to be recognized for his tie to a Revolutionary War patriot.
His refusal to ride in the Centennial parade.
The unmistakable discomfort that crossed his face whenever anyone tried to praise his military service.
She looked back at the article.
All but one
Someone else had preserved a story Wilson himself seemed determined to leave untold.
Slowly, almost reverently, she folded the newspaper along its original creases. She instinctively knew there was far more to this story than a newspaper article could tell.
And for the first time, Mercy realized how much of Wilson's story still remained untold.