I was tempted to suggest that if Joss really was planning a career as a historian, she should do her own research, but then—realized that wasn’t fair. She’d just turned her life inside out for hours, looking for information for me; the least I could do was ask around at bit for her. It would be months before I could afford any more expensive bribes to nieces and nephews, and I might need her help.
Especially if the undocumented Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge played a role in the upcoming Battle to Prevent the Outlet Mall. Besides, I still needed someone to take the twenty-three boxes off my hands. Maybe Joss.
“I’ll see what I can turn up,” I said. “Talk to you later.”
As I hung up, I realized I knew exactly whom to ask about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge. Someone I’d have consulted before now if Kevin and the Internet weren’t so temptingly available at the touch of a few buttons. Ms. Ellie, the town librarian.
“I’m going to town for a bit,” I said.
Just then, Dad came bounding up.
“Meg!” he exclaimed. “Can I use your computer?”
“What for?” I asked.
“I want to print out some pictures of poison ivy to show the boys,” he said.
“I’ll help,” Michael offered, standing up. Help, in this case, meant doing it himself, to prevent Dad from completely fouling up the computer as he had the last time he’d used it. “You go on to town.”
“Going to do some digging?” Dad asked.
“Don’t let Chief Burke catch you,” Michael warned.
“I just realized that we have library books due,” I said with great dignity. “I’m going to return them today, since we’re not playing croquet for the time being.”
“Ah, I get it,” Dad said, putting his finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word.”
He dashed off toward the garage.
“Good thought,” Michael said. “What Ms. Ellie can’t dig up isn’t worth finding.”
Chapter Nineteen
Eventually, I’d learn to call first, instead of assuming that everyone in a small town like Caerphilly would automatically be where I expected to find them whenever I felt like dropping in on them. Ms. Ellie was out of town at a library conference, according to Jessica, the teenage library aide. Unfortunately, Jessica couldn’t tell me how long the conference would last. All day? All weekend? All summer?
“Maybe I can help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for information about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge.”
A blank look.
“Something about town history? Around the time of the Civil War?”
“Well,” Jessica said, “there’s Mrs. Pruitt’s book … . We have a copy in the reference section.”
“Perfect.”
Actually, it was far from perfect. I suspected Mrs. Pruitt had gotten a discount on a large consignment of stale adverbs and adjectives and was trying to use them up as quickly as possible. But it had a chapter about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge.
Col. Jedidiah Pruitt’s long-suffering wife had just given birth to the fourteenth of their eventual seventeen children and he’d gone home to inspect the new arrival, accompanied by a small party of aides or adjutants, or whatever colonels drag around with them when they travel. Just east of Caerphilly, they surprised a numerically superior party of union soldiers looting nearby farms. The colonel led his party in a strategic retreat, then rallied the townsmen—presumably in June 1862, when this took place, the war hadn’t yet claimed every able-bodied male over twelve and there were still townsmen to rally. Colonel Pruitt and his impromptu force caught up with the invaders in a wooded area and achieved a resounding victory for the Confederate cause—Mrs. Pruitt’s words, not mine. To me, it sounded as if the colonel had chased off a few chicken thieves and called it a battle, but my niece Joss had often told me that I had no appreciation for the finer points of military history and strategy. Someone had agreed with Mrs. Pruitt, since they awarded the colonel the Distinguished Medal of Valor, whatever that was.
I studied the photographs accompanying the text. A 1954 photograph of the battleground, covered with grazing black-and-white cows. Was it our eXtreme croquet field? Possibly. Or perhaps one of a hundred other local cow pastures.
I flipped the page and came to a much older photo: a man with more beard than face, standing beside a petite woman in voluminous skirts, who was holding a baby so bundled up, you could only see a small part of his face. Her face; the caption told me these were Colonel and Mrs. Pruitt and Victoria Virginia Pruitt, the infant whose birth had brought the colonel home to achieve his glorious hometown victory. Mrs. Pruitt’s face looked vaguely familiar, so I supposed a few of the seventeen children had survived to help populate the town.