This narrative involves a story which I must stress is not my own. It is at once sad and joyful and (I am convinced most assuredly) not true. Although…well, I'll leave that for you, the reader, to decide. All that I can say is that there rings some truth to it, as fanciful as it seems to me.
I will start this narrative with a little information about myself. Three years ago, my husband of seven years passed away in the battle against the south. He claimed that his principles had little to do with the decision to fight against the Gray; it was more of a political move on his part. He claimed that since the north seemed to be the stronger force, he simply wanted to be on the winning side. Although he proclaimed not to care whether blacks were kept or freed, I often caught his face draw down with a look of sadness when we passed a black man, woman, or child badly used by their owner. I felt proud of him for that at least.
As I said, it had been three years since his passing and I was left to fend for myself. It would have been even more of a task had I a child to care for as well. A child, I thought wistfully, that Robert and I never had the time or fortune to conceive. I would have gladly taken on that burden. If only I had a charge of my own, a smiling face that looked at me with 'his' eyes, I would have had the drive to live a better life than I do now.
As it stood, I needed a place to stay that I could afford. So it came to pass that I moved into a small abandoned house in Philadelphia. The creditors there were willing to let it go for far less than its worth. After collecting what little I owned, I moved into this house several months ago and was greeted by broken lumber, broken windows and a large dark haired German Shepard sitting on the front porch. Sam, as I later learned was his name, had been left behind by the previous residents of the house.
After a good long cry and a heartless attempt at going through my papers, I resigned myself to my current state and began to clean up. Luckily for me, the war left a need for warm clothing and so, as a seamstress, I was employed before I ever set foot in Pennsylvania. I put my sewing basket and my bag of clothing in the living room and began cleaning. Before long, the house was nearly livable, apart from the broken walls and windows. Over the next few months, it really began to improve.
Why do I tell you this
, you may ask,
and what does it have to do with someone else's story
? It is important to understand the origins of the house because it goes toward explaining the events that followed. You see, two weeks ago, I was renovating the back part of the sitting room and found something that frightened and fascinated me. I was making repairs to a large hole in the wall which I had managed to cover up by strategic placement of a high backed chair when Sam, who I had adopted as my own, entered the room. He actually pointed it out to me first by sticking his nose into the hole, which had been uncovered by the chair. I pulled him back and took a candle to look. I spotted something in the shadows that looked like the spine of a notebook, so I reached in and pulled out a large but slim tome that had been rolled up and apparently placed there some time ago. It revealed that the past tenants were a family of three, the child being a young woman of seventeen. The notebook was actually the young woman's diary and this, in part, is what it said. I've chosen to include only relevant entries.
- Abigail's Diary, begun May of 1858
December of 1860
…We have been in this house for three days now and I cannot see myself becoming very fond of it. We moved immediately after my fiancée left for a dispute down in Virginia. I truly hate the fact that Robert went off to prepare for the war and left me behind. I dreamt about our upcoming marriage but I suspect, by the eagerness he expressed in leaving, that he is not going to return to me either way the fighting goes…
May of 1862
…This infernal war rages on and I have seen casualties already, pouring in from the South. I wonder often where my Robert is and what he is doing. Father was called away to serve in the local militia today and Mother is sick. I think it very unfair that they split up a family like that and left me to fend for the two of us. Thank the Lord I have Sam to talk to or I would go mad…
June of 1862
…The weather is warm but Mother is still ill. She has been bedridden for two weeks now and the doctors are too busy treating the injured to help her. I do not know how her sickness affects animals so I have seen to it that Sam sleeps in my room now. With all the men off to war, and many of the women treating the wounds of the injured men sent home, it is starting to seem that I shall remain friendless and alone until I am too old to attract a husband. I am very lonely…
