The Ghost Wore Gray by Bruce Coville Page A

of it by reading these pages.
    Despite the thief’s failure, I am not sure that another attempt would not succeed. What if, in frustration, the thief simply smashed the trunk? I may be worrying needlessly. But I think I should hide the jewels elsewhere.
    M AY 31, 1863
    It has been two weeks since I have written a word in this journal. The reason is simple: I have been unconscious that long.
    On Tuesday night I buried the treasure in a secluded spot. It was good fortune that I took this action, for later that same evening my unknown enemy attacked me in my room.
    I suspect that someone has betrayed me. Although I have let slip no word of my mission, after I was knocked unconscious, my assailant ransacked my room. I wonder now if someone has trailed me all the way from South Carolina, waiting for the right moment to steal the fortune they knew I was carrying. Or perhaps someone who was aware of my mission wrote ahead to unscrupulous allies to tell them what they might find in my room.
    The kind of people I am dealing with is indicated by the fact that, finding nothing in the room to steal, they left me for dead.
    I am alive today entirely due to the kindness of two men: the innkeeper, who discovered me, and a black man whom he called in to treat me. The latter is a remarkable person, and I will write more of him tomorrow. I must stop now, for even this little exertion has exhausted me.
    J UNE 1, 1863
    According to the innkeeper, my “doctor” is named Sam. He either doesn’t know, or isn’t willing, to give me his last name.
    The strange thing is, I feel as if I have seen the man before. I find I am eager for him to arrive today, partly because I know that I am still very ill, and partly because he seems to carry with him a kind of calm, as if he had some personal source of peace and happiness. I find it a remarkable thing.
    J UNE 5, 1863
    Bad news. I lost consciousness after writing the last entry, and I have been asleep for another three days. According to the innkeeper, Sam was beside me almost night and day.
    For the first time I fear that I might not recover. I seem to see the shadow of death hanging over me.
    I worry, too, that my Canadian contact may have come and gone while I was unconscious.
    J UNE 6, 1863
    What a strange situation this is! I have finally recognized my doctor. He is none other than Samson Carter, so well known for his work on the Underground Railroad. What strange fate has put my life in the hands of this man?
    I called him by name. He looked surprised, and even a little frightened. And no wonder. At one time there was a reward of $10,000 on his head, available to anyone who could catch him and carry him to the authorities of any slave state. That was why he looked familiar to me, of course. I had seen his face on wanted posters throughout the South.
    I am in a great deal of pain now, and it is hard to sleep. Carter sat with me through the day and well into the night. To pass the time, he told me stories of his adventures with the Underground Railroad. I am impressed by the man’s bravery. I know many white men who would not risk half so much for their own freedom as he has risked for people not known to him.
    J UNE 7, 1863
    Weak and exhausted. Two men came looking for me today—claimed they had heard there was a rebel officer being sheltered here.
    Carter took me down to the kitchen, where he hid me in a little room that he told me was once used by the Underground Railroad.
    â€œThis wasn’t made for white men,” he said. “Least, not any that had slaves. But I guess it don’t matter now. The important thing is to keep you from being skinned alive, Cap’n Gray.”
    I looked at him in astonishment. “How do you know who I am?” I asked.
    â€œOh, I knew a lot of white folk around Charleston,” said Carter. “Did a lot of work down there when I was younger.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you turn me in when you first saw me?” I