The Ghost Wore Gray by Bruce Coville Page B

asked.
    Carter shrugged. “I didn’t know why you was here. Maybe you was running away, just like so many of my folk. Maybe not. I don’t turn people in till I know what they’re about. Now, you just rest quiet till we get the mess out front settled down.”
    Then he closed the door on me. I was all alone in the tiny room. It was completely black. I was ill. I could hardly hold myself up. But I feared that if I fell it would make a noise that would attract the attention of the searchers.
    I thought of the stories Carter had told me, while sitting by my bed, and wondered how many frightened, sick blacks had huddled in this same hole, fearing for their lives, fearing they would be discovered.
    When Carter finally came to get me, I was shivering with fever.
    D ATE UNKNOWN; I have lost track of time .
    I have been lost in strange dreams. I have seen myself as a slave, in chains, beaten, placed on the block and sold. I cry out, but do not seem to be able to wake.
    Carter is here. When I rouse myself I see him. Sometimes in my sleep I can sense him laying a cloth on my forehead, or clutching my hand when the dreams are too terrible.
    Yet in a way I think the dreams are his fault. I dream of the things he has told me, of what it was like to be a slave. I knew those things, of course. But I never thought they made a difference. After all, they were only blacks. They weren’t the same as white men.
    Now I don’t know. I have rarely met a man as fine as Samson Carter.
    I am confused.
    J UNE 14, 1863
    I do not think I will live very long. I have asked the innkeeper to bring me paper.
    I have to make a map and a will.
    That was the last entry in the diary.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    Ruby Fire
    I looked up. Through the window I could see the first rays of dawn. My father was going to wonder why we were so tired, when we had gone to bed so early!
    I closed the diary and looked at Chris. I was still trying to figure out exactly what it meant. One thing did seem clear: we had an important tool for understanding what was going on at the Quackadoodle. If nothing else, we finally knew why a Rebel ghost was haunting a Yankee inn.
    â€œThe way I figure it,” said Chris, “old Captain Gray must have died before he could make the map and the will—”
    â€œWait a minute,” I interrupted. “He’s not old. He’s young!”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Chris. She closed her eyes and did a quick calculation. “The man has to be pushing a hundred and fifty!”
    â€œSure,” I replied. “But I’ll bet he wasn’t even thirty when he died. So he’s young.”
    That got us going on a discussion about how you should figure a ghost’s age. But since neither of us really knew, we finally decided to look it up when we got home.
    â€œAnyway,” I said, “I don’t see any reason why he couldn’t have made the map and the will. The only thing is, they wouldn’t have done him any good, unless he could have found some way to pass them on to his Canadian contact. He could hardly ask Samson Carter to help him do that! My guess is that the reason Captain Gray is haunting the inn is because the treasure is still here. It was his responsibility, so he feels he has to guard it.”
    Chris stopped to think about that. “Makes sense,” she said after a minute. Suddenly her eyes opened wide. “Did you hear what you just said?” she asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe treasure. It’s still here! What if we can find it?”
    â€œBut it doesn’t belong to us. It belongs to Captain Gray.”
    â€œWell, he can’t use it,” snorted Chris. “He’s dead!”
    â€œShhhh!” I hissed. I looked around nervously. I didn’t know if the ghost would like this line of conversation.
    â€œLook, if he doesn’t want us to have the treasure, why did he lead us to the diary?” Chris asked defensively.
    â€œI