like soldiers on permanent guard. The grounds were neatly clipped and even in November still green. At the entrance a man was selling tickets. Rose paid her money and asked to see the person in charge.
“You can’t bother Mr. Ancaster. He’s a very busy man.” The ticket seller was shocked. Rose stood very straight. “I’m Rose Larkin and I have to see Mr. Ancaster. I’m doing some research for my aunt who’s writing a book. She can’t travel just now because she’s going to have a babysoon.” She said it with such assurance that the ticket seller went off, shaking his head, muttering.
In a very few minutes he was back.
“Come on,” he said curtly, and led the way into the nearest building, upstairs to a small, dusty office cluttered with old books and documents. A tall, thin, gray-haired man got up from his chair and introduced himself.
“I’m, Charles Ancaster, the curator here. What can I do for you?” He was clearly amused.
Rose told him where she came from and that Aunt Nan was writing a true story about a Canadian boy who had joined the army in Oswego during the Civil War. “She needs a list of the boys who went from the island.”
“My dear child,” said Mr. Ancaster, “there were over twelve thousand men from Oswego County who fought in that war and they were all mustered in the city of Oswego. Some of them were from across the lake, but they didn’t all say so. Can you be more specific? Do you know the name of the boy you’re looking for? Which recruiting station he might have gone to? Exactly when he joined up? What his regiment was?”
“His name was William Morrissay and he joined in 1864,” said Rose, catching her breath. It upset her to be talking about Will like this. It made such a stranger of him.
“Well, we can get out the lists and have a look.” Mr. Ancaster looked dubious, but hewent over to a cupboard and brought out three huge old leather record books and put them on the table that stood by the room’s only window. For a long while Rose and Mr. Ancaster scanned the lists of the names of the men and boys who had enlisted to fight in the Union army in 1864. The only sound in the room was the turning of the stiff old pages.
Then they found it. In the beautiful script that lists were written in in the 1860s, the ink brown with age, was the name William Morrissay, age fifteen, fifer, 81st Infantry. Just above it was Stephen Jerue, age fourteen, and the place of residence, for both of them, was given as the city of Oswego. Rose felt sudden sharp tears. There he was. There was Will. And Stephen Jerue must be cousin Steve.
“Isn’t that interesting,” said Mr. Ancaster. “William Morrissay. You say he came from across the lake. Of course a lot of them did and didn’t want it known in case their relatives might make a fuss about it. Not all Canadians were sympathetic toward our cause. After all, those people across the lake were refugees from the American Revolution and that was only eighty-five years before the Civil War. I’ll just note that name.” Mr. Ancaster got out a notebook and quickly wrote down the information Rose gave him.
“He was Steve’s cousin.”
“Stephen Jerue,” Mr. Ancaster read, “a drummer and a fifer.”
“Will played the flute.” Rose suspected the curator would not especially want to know that, but she was so eager to share with someone the knowledge that Will had really been there that she had to say it.
“Well, I suppose they would have been glad of a boy who had some knowledge of an instrument, although playing the flute and playing the fife are two very different things, you know. I see they both went with the 81st.”
“The 81st?”
“The 81st regiment. The regiment was home on leave in January of ’64. They’d been through some rough battles. They had first formed up in January of ’62, and they’d seen action pretty steadily right from the start—Bottom’s Ridge, Seven Pines, Malvern’s Hill. They came home for a
“You can’t bother Mr. Ancaster. He’s a very busy man.” The ticket seller was shocked. Rose stood very straight. “I’m Rose Larkin and I have to see Mr. Ancaster. I’m doing some research for my aunt who’s writing a book. She can’t travel just now because she’s going to have a babysoon.” She said it with such assurance that the ticket seller went off, shaking his head, muttering.
In a very few minutes he was back.
“Come on,” he said curtly, and led the way into the nearest building, upstairs to a small, dusty office cluttered with old books and documents. A tall, thin, gray-haired man got up from his chair and introduced himself.
“I’m, Charles Ancaster, the curator here. What can I do for you?” He was clearly amused.
Rose told him where she came from and that Aunt Nan was writing a true story about a Canadian boy who had joined the army in Oswego during the Civil War. “She needs a list of the boys who went from the island.”
“My dear child,” said Mr. Ancaster, “there were over twelve thousand men from Oswego County who fought in that war and they were all mustered in the city of Oswego. Some of them were from across the lake, but they didn’t all say so. Can you be more specific? Do you know the name of the boy you’re looking for? Which recruiting station he might have gone to? Exactly when he joined up? What his regiment was?”
“His name was William Morrissay and he joined in 1864,” said Rose, catching her breath. It upset her to be talking about Will like this. It made such a stranger of him.
“Well, we can get out the lists and have a look.” Mr. Ancaster looked dubious, but hewent over to a cupboard and brought out three huge old leather record books and put them on the table that stood by the room’s only window. For a long while Rose and Mr. Ancaster scanned the lists of the names of the men and boys who had enlisted to fight in the Union army in 1864. The only sound in the room was the turning of the stiff old pages.
Then they found it. In the beautiful script that lists were written in in the 1860s, the ink brown with age, was the name William Morrissay, age fifteen, fifer, 81st Infantry. Just above it was Stephen Jerue, age fourteen, and the place of residence, for both of them, was given as the city of Oswego. Rose felt sudden sharp tears. There he was. There was Will. And Stephen Jerue must be cousin Steve.
“Isn’t that interesting,” said Mr. Ancaster. “William Morrissay. You say he came from across the lake. Of course a lot of them did and didn’t want it known in case their relatives might make a fuss about it. Not all Canadians were sympathetic toward our cause. After all, those people across the lake were refugees from the American Revolution and that was only eighty-five years before the Civil War. I’ll just note that name.” Mr. Ancaster got out a notebook and quickly wrote down the information Rose gave him.
“He was Steve’s cousin.”
“Stephen Jerue,” Mr. Ancaster read, “a drummer and a fifer.”
“Will played the flute.” Rose suspected the curator would not especially want to know that, but she was so eager to share with someone the knowledge that Will had really been there that she had to say it.
“Well, I suppose they would have been glad of a boy who had some knowledge of an instrument, although playing the flute and playing the fife are two very different things, you know. I see they both went with the 81st.”
“The 81st?”
“The 81st regiment. The regiment was home on leave in January of ’64. They’d been through some rough battles. They had first formed up in January of ’62, and they’d seen action pretty steadily right from the start—Bottom’s Ridge, Seven Pines, Malvern’s Hill. They came home for a
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