Free Last in a Long Line of Rebels by Lisa Lewis Tyre

cents.”
    We walked from room to room, passing displays of quilts, arrowheads, even a room set up like a 1950s kitchen. A large cabinet in the hallway held antique guns and swords. Benzer and Franklin stopped to read the sign.
    â€œWhat does ‘Rebel Relics’ mean?” asked Benzer.
    â€œRebels was what the Yankee newspapers started calling folks fighting for the Confederacy,” Bertie said. “Course, they didn’t expect them to wear the label with pride, but they did.”
    â€œBecause they were rebelling against what they thought of as a tyrannical government,” Franklin said.
    â€œIf
tyrannical
means ‘bossy,’ then you’re exactly right. That’s why you find Southerners still using the term today. We’re not big on having the government tell us what to do.”
    I thought about Pete Winningham. “I can see why.”
    â€œOf course, it would have been better if they weren’t rebelling over slavery,” Benzer said.
    Bertie smiled. “So true. You got me on that, Benzer. But if the cause is right, being a rebel can be a good thing.”
    The last room we entered held hundreds of black-and-white photographs under a large piece of glass.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Benzer asked, leaning in close.
    â€œThis is a Who’s Who of the town. It was a great idea—mine, of course. Everyone that donated money to the museum could place a picture of their most esteemed relation in here. Everyone wanted to be included. This room alone paid our expenses for six months.”
    The photos were labeled underneath. A sour-looking man in a black coat and high white collar caught my eye. “Silas A. Whittle,” I read aloud. “Hey, that’s the guy that owned our Bible!”
    â€œThat’s him, all right. He was one of the first preachers in town,” Bertie said, “and a close friend of the Mayhews.”
    I frowned at him.
And the owner of the magic Bible that brought trouble,
I could have added.
    I walked along the wall, reading names. “Here’s a Jackson and a Weldon—hey, Franklin, here’s a Kimmel.” I stared at the old photograph. There were four young people standing together. “Brody Kimmel, Louise Duncan, Olivia McDonald, and Walter Mayhew,” I read. I elbowed Benzer. Walter Mayhew! “So Franklin’s ancestor and mine were friends?”
    â€œThere are actually two Mayhews in that photo,” Bertie said. “Louise Duncan married Walter a few years later.”
    â€œThat’s
the
Louise? The one I was named after?”
    â€œThe very one.”
    â€œWow! And who’s Olivia McDonald?” asked Benzer.
    â€œA cousin on Louise’s side, I believe.”
    â€œBertie, how do you know so much about Daddy’s side of the family?”
    She shrugged. “I’ve always loved history, and the Mayhews are fascinating.” She smiled. “Also I’m a bit of a snoop. Just because they’re long dead doesn’t make their lives any less interesting.”
    â€œBertie,” Thelma Johnson called from the doorway, “the museum in Sparta’s on the phone. They say they never got the books you were supposed to send.”
    â€œTell them to call the post office. I sent them a week ago.”
    â€œYou tell them,” Thelma said. “It’s your doing, not mine.”
    â€œMercy. That woman is as useless as a milk bucket under a bull!” Bertie followed Thelma out, stepping aside as George Neely walked into the room.
    We smiled politely and then went back to looking at the pictures.
    â€œFranklin, can you take a picture of them for me?”
    He nodded and held out his camera. “I’ll drop the film off at the drugstore later this week.”
    I leaned in for a better look at the photo of my ancestors. “Walter said Louise had a sweet smile in the letter I found, and she does have a nice one.” Louise was standing in