CHAPTER 11

From “Greenhorn” to “C. W. Buff”:

“Thanks for suggesting the Andersonville prison records. Turns out my man was listed! And it appears he walked out alive! But when, and to where, there’s no record. I’ve learned that they started moving prisoners out of there in wholesale numbers in late 1864. Maybe because of the conditions. Any thoughts as to where to go from here?”

= = = = =

= = = = =

It took little time for Steve to confirm what “Buff” had to say about the records at Florence. No lists of survivors. There was a list of some of those who had died there, about 1,800 confirmed names. But they estimated that the deaths totaled about 3,000.

Steve reached the conclusion that Florence was little improvement over Andersonville. It was a similar design – upright timbers sunk into the ground surrounding an area of maybe 30 acres, some of it swampy and, like Andersonville, with a stream running through the center of it.

From September, 1864, through the following February, 15,000 or more Union soldiers inhabited the place. And any advantages to being at Florence as opposed to Andersonville were quickly negated by the fact that many of the men were in deplorable condition by the time they had reached the stockade.

The prisoners had just survived a brutal summer exposed to the Georgia sun. Now they were facing the cold and wet winter months, most of the men with little in the way of clothes or blankets.

Why did the Confederacy pick Florence? Steve noted it was an important railroad junction. But the area was sparsely populated. It must have been a shock to the village when 15,000 Union prisoners began limping in. Limping for sure – those who made the trip from Andersonville to Florence in a cross-country forced march.

Steve was disappointed that he didn’t find Gideon’s name but at the same time relieved that he wasn’t on the short list of those who had perished at the Florence Stockade.

Looking at the list, Steve remembered something “C. W. Buff” had told him. In an earlier message he had said, “When you’re looking for a man, look for his regiment. Through thick or thin, the men stuck with their unit. And when something caused a soldier to be dislocated, such as being taken prisoner, he always looked for his comrades. So look for the regiment. That can put you on the right track.”

Steve “Googled” the Oneida County Historical Society, which was located in Utica, New York, and found their phone number. Did they have a list of those who served in the 146^th Regiment, New York State Volunteers? It took two phone calls to learn that they did not. But they thought the main library in Oneida did have such a list. It had been painstakingly put together some years after the Civil War from company muster rolls.

The library had it. And it was available for copying. A list of over a thousand names of those who had served in the 146^th. Steve arranged for a high school student named Rodney to copy the list and mail to him. This for $50 plus the cost of copying and mailing. Was this an adequate reimbursement? He gathered after a couple of calls to Rodney that it was.

Originally, Steve had requested a list only of those in Company F of the 146^th Regiment.

But the list, he found, was alphabetical by name, the only breakdown having to do with whether a soldier had enlisted in the fall of 1862 as one of the “Original” members of the regiment, or whether he had enlisted at a later date.

The list, on its arrival, was fairly quick to provide clues. The first name on the list furnished a glance at the major ill fortune to befall so many in the regiment:

= = = = =

AGNE, FREDERICK J. – Age 21 years. Enlisted. August 27, 1862, at Utica, to serve three years; mustered in as private, Co. F, October 10, 1862; promoted corporal, no date. Killed in action, May 5, 1864, at the Wilderness, Va.

= = = = =

Moving through the names Steve soon found the clue he was looking for:

= = = = =

BROWER, LORENZO – Age 22 years. Enlisted August 29, 1862, at Lee, to serve three years; mustered in as private, Co. F, Oct. 10, 1862; captured in action, May 5, 1864, at the Wilderness, Va.; died of disease, November 26, 1864, at Florence, S.C.

= = = = =

So, here were two members of Gideon’s company who had met ill fortune at the Wilderness. And one of them had reached the Florence stockade. And there were more names of men who had “died of disease at Florence, S. C.”, all of them late in 1864. Then he found a listing that might provide another piece of the puzzle:

= = = = =

GOFF, JOHN W. – Age 19 years. Enlisted August 30, 1862, at Augusta, to serve three years; mustered in as private, Co. G, October 10, 1862; promoted sergeant, no date; captured in action, May 5, 1864, at the Wilderness, Va.; paroled, March 2, 1865, at Wilmington, N. C.; mustered out, July 22, 1865.

= = = = =

Had this man by any chance gone from the Wilderness to Andersonville to the Florence Stockade to Wilmington, North Carolina? Was this the route taken by others in the regiment who were captured at the Wilderness? Perhaps including Gideon Glenn?

Steve went to the internet and clicked on Wilmington. Two substantial sources of information, the Cape Fear Museum and the New Hanover County Public Library in Wilmington, had much to say about the Civil War. But from the titles the subject matter appeared to be all about the Confederacy. And no mention of any Union prisoners having been there.

What about Fort Fisher? The port of Wilmington, Steve learned, was considered “the lifeline of the Confederacy” for much of the war, and the Confederate-held fort overlooked the Atlantic and the Cape Fear River that passed Wilmington on its way to the sea. Thanks to the fort, Union ships were unable to prevent vital supplies from reaching Wilmington, and from there via railroad to Lee’s forces in Virginia.

It was the last Confederate fort not taken by Union forces, protecting the only port still open to blockade runners. It fell in mid-January of 1865, a huge blow to the Confederacy. And, Steve realized, the fort was just about the last place they would be holding Union prisoners. The Rebels at the fort had all they could handle keeping the Federal gunboats at bay.

No mention anywhere of Union prisoners in Wilmington. But Steve had now found names of several members of the regiment who had been “paroled” there, all in 1865. He decided to consult with “C. W. Buff”:

“Have traced several members of my ancestor’s regiment from the Wilderness to Wilmington, N.C. Possibly by way of Florence. But why Wilmington? I find no Confederate prison there. And no mention of any Union men having been in Wilmington. Any ideas?”

= = = = =

A rapid reply was forcoming from “C. W. Buff”:

“Union prisoners probably left the Florence stockade for the same reason they departed Andersonville. Sherman. He was heading north through Georgia, so it was decided to move the prisoners to North Carolina. They sent all able-bodied prisoners to Greensboro and sick and wounded prisoners to Wilmington. The last of the prisoners left the stockade in February of 1865. By that time, though, Wilmington was in Union hands. Fort Fisher had fallen in January. (I looked it up.)”

C.W. Buff

= = = = =

Steve had hardly digested this information when he received another message from his Confederate pen pal:

“Why don’t you come down here for a look-see? I could introduce you to a couple of folks who might be of help. My name is Barney Pollard, and I live in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and it’s just a hop, skip and a jump up the coast to Wilmington. Let me know if you’re interested.”

C.W. Buff

CHAPTER 12

Steve viewed the scene from his ocean-front room in North Myrtle Beach. What a great spot for a land-lubber! He had visited the ocean infrequently in his lifetime. It was late afternoon, almost time to meet Barney Pollard.

He made the drive in short order, entered Thoroughbred’s, on Restaurant Row in North Myrtle Beach, walked up to the two girls behind the desk, and said, “Barney Pollard?”

He was escorted to a table where sat a man who could easily fit the picture Steve had in his mind of “C. W. Buff.” He was maybe just a little older than Steve would have guessed. Before Steve could say anything, Barney jumped up and said, “Steve Glenn, I betcha!”

Steve smiled, and extended his hand. “I’m glad to finally meet the man who seems to have read most everything written about the Civil War.”

“That’s not true. You know, they say that for each day since Grant and Lee met at Appomattox there has been another book published on the Civil War. It remains a hot subject. How about a drink?

“I wouldn’t mind a martini on the rocks.”

Barney glanced around for a waiter. “Good. You strike me as an easy-going guy, from the sound of your telephone messages. E-mail, too.”

“E-mail? I didn’t know e-mail messages made sounds.”

“Oh, sure they do. If you listen to the tone of a few e-mails, you can pick it up. So, you’re able to spend some time down here tracking your mystery man. Are you very familiar with our part of the world?”

“I’ve vacationed more than once in Florida,” Steve said. “But I suppose I flew right over this nice spot. I would say I have yet to soak up much of the culture of the Deep South.”

Barney gave a snort. “You’d better not soak up too much of our culture all at once. It’s not fat-free. ‘Culture’ down here means deep fried. Like fried okra. Deep-fat dishes were invented in the South.”

“Like hush-puppies?”

“A classic example. Around here they’re so good you could make a meal out of them. That may be why the South lost the war. Too weak from clogged arteries stuffed with saturated fats. The soldiers had no choice but to surrender.”

Steve smiled. “Strange. I don’t remember anything about saturated fats in Longstreet’s memoirs. Anyway, I love what little I’ve seen of this area. Love at first sight.”

“We’ve got a lot going here. Did you know there are more than 120 golf courses in the Myrtle Beach area? And there’s a bit of history to the place, too. The first English colonists arrived here in 1730. Don’t know when they built the first golf course. Did you bring your clubs?”

“I didn’t inherit any golfing genes. But I’m not going to run out of things to do here, even without a tee time.” Steve looked around at the growing crowd of patrons. “How did you happen to wind up in this golfer’s paradise?”

“Well, it goes back a ways. After I got out of Clemson with an engineering degree I found myself peddling specialty lubricants – technical service work, really. Textile mills. And in the textile industry this area is where the action is. The work was habit forming, I guess. Stayed with it until I retired.”

Barney looked away. “My long-suffering wife was anxiously awaiting retirement days. She’d grown tired of all the travel time I put in on the job, and had big plans. And then she came down with cancer and died shortly after I left the workplace. We only got a couple of retirement trips in. You married?”

“Divorced. My wife and I couldn’t find the time to be married. Or so it seems, looking back on it.”

“Too bad. I sure missed Marge those first few months after she was gone. Still do, but now I’m back to where the time just disappears. Right now I’m working on a speech for a luncheon club on Jeb Stuart’s life and times. And a couple of days ago I led a discussion at a Civil War Roundtable on the subject of Guerilla Warfare. Civil War history keeps me hopping.”

“Guerilla warfare? I believe there was a bit of that in my home state. Reminds me of a story about Mark Twain and how folks thought he had deserted the Confederate army when he went west.”

“Mark Twain? Was he involved in the guerilla movement?”

“Well, he may have come close. They say he briefly joined a rag-tag outfit of volunteers before he apparently thought better of it. He later wrote about it and said the group was ‘ready to fight on either side.’”

Barney laughed. “Well, those rag-tag outfits were no joke. There were plenty of them, and they caused much death and destruction. People think they were a big help to the Confederate cause, but in fact, most guerilla activity backfired. Managed to do more harm than good for the people of the South.”

“Oh? How did that happen?”

“Union troops had a certain respect for Confederate forces, but they had no use for guerillas. They didn’t view them as soldiers. Saw them as outlaws. Which they were. Or hoodlums.”

“Troops resented their masquerading as soldiers, I suppose,” Steve said.

“Yeah. And when a Union soldier was ambushed by a guerilla band, his comrades were eager to retaliate. They’d take their anger out on the people who lived in that area, often destroying everything in their path. That added up to a lot of damage.”

Barney prepared to attack his filet. “So, I mentioned that friend of mine who might be of help to you in your search. His name is Frank Dillard, and he’s going to be in town tomorrow. He has his home here, but he’s gone a lot. I’ve set it up for the three of us to have lunch, if that’s okay.”

“I’m looking forward to it. By the way, what does Frank do?”

“Frank heads up a publishing firm called Dillard News. He owns a few newspapers and some radio property. Frank and I have been friends forever. Maybe you’ve heard of Dillard News.” “Yes, I’m familiar with them. They have some good properties up and down the East coast, don’t they?”

“Well, most of their business is right here in the Carolinas. All healthy, I understand. Just like him. We’ve been friends forever.

Barney looked up from his dessert. “Incidentally, Frank’s not out there re-fighting the Civil War like I am. What he brings to the party – some of his people are heavy on research. And they know the territory.”

CHAPTER 13

They met the next noon at The Sea Captains House, an oceanfront restaurant on Ocean Boulevard. Barney and Frank Dillard had much to talk about, but it wasn’t long before Frank peeked at the lunch menu, then dropped it and glanced over his reading glasses at Steve.

“Barney tells me you’re searching for a lost ancestor,” he said, “and I think this is as good a place as any to start.”

Steve smiled. “I quite agree. You and Barney, I see, are men of good taste. Actually, I’m searching for anything on my great-grandfather, who disappeared during the Civil War. Captured in the Battle of the Wilderness, and the trail ended there. Until recently, that is. I just the other day learned that he was one of the ones who wound up in Andersonville, and the prison records indicate he left there alive.”

Barney chimed in. “There’s reason to believe he may have found his way into this area, possibly reaching Wilmington. At least, some members of his regiment did. Paroled at Wilmington near the end of the war. We thought maybe your research people could uncover something, for instance, about Union soldiers who made it as far as Wilmington but no farther. Their names. Maybe they were buried in that area. Steve can’t find anything in the records he’s uncovered.”

“No, as a matter of fact, information from local sources I’ve encountered, the Union often isn’t even mentioned,” Steve said. “At Florence, for instance, there’s a memorial in honor of the Confederate guards who served at the stockade, but not one mention of the thousands of Union prisoners who were held there.”

“Yeah, that’s always a sticky wicket,” Barney said. “The people who put up a memorial want to remember the boys on their side. That’s what all the home folks want. They’re kind of uncomfortable talking about the other side. Some of those boys starved to death while they were “visitors” in their town. You gotta be a helluva politician to come up with the right words about something like that.”

Frank nodded. “Then we’re all agreed with Barney’s ‘sticky wicket,’ right? But Steve, you’ve got to remember the area you’re talking about is dotted with graves from that era – some graves well identified, some graves of unknown soldiers and who knows how many unknown graves of unknown soldiers. But I’ll ask our folks to see what they can find.”

With that, Frank jotted a note on a pad and placed it in his pocket. “I’m still amused at how you and Barney got together,” he said. “Or, should I say you and ‘C. W. Buff’?”

“I’d vote for either one,” Steve said. “Hearing from ‘C. W. Buff’ has been a joy. And educational, too.”

“I can see how it would be,” Frank said. “Barney’s learned a lot about the so-called late unpleasantness. He’s still investigating – looking for that winning formula that would have brought victory to the South.”

“Well, I may have found it,” Barney said. “I know a guy who claims the South would have won if they’d had more mules.”

“An interesting thought,” Frank said. “Maybe this area should have more statues of mules and fewer of generals on horseback. So, what are you and Steve going to do next?”

“Well, I plan to show Steve some of the sights,” Barney said. “I think he likes this area.”

“What’s not to like?” Frank said. “Other than the traffic. Steve, what do you do when you’re not searching for lost relatives?”

“Advertising, most recently,” Steve said. “But I’ve also had some enjoyable years on the news side of the fence.”

Barney shook his head. “Oh man, I’m surrounded by newshounds.”

Frank laughed. “Barney, you don’t seem to appreciate the importance of a free press in your way of life. I’ll bet you agree with the pundit who said, ‘The most important service rendered by the press is educating people to approach printed matter with distrust.’”

“The quote I remember was what Sherman had to say on the subject.”

“What was that?”

He said, ‘If all the newsmen were taken out and shot, there’d be news from hell by breakfast.’”

Frank reached for the check. “Barney, let me toss in this quotation – from a wise, old politician of years gone by – ‘Never ever argue with somebody who buys ink by the barrel.’”

CHAPTER 14

Steve took a last look at the seaside view from his motel room and headed for the elevator. He was on his way up the coast to Wilmington, in North Carolina, with some notes from Barney as to what Frank Dillard’s researchers had found.

It wasn’t much. They had turned up no news stories of that era that even mentioned Union prisoners. A wealth of information about the war, and many interesting stories about Confederate soldiers’ adventures and misfortunes. But no mention of prisoners having been transported to a stockade, or stories about escaped prisoners in the Wilmington area, or about local folks having seen prisoners.

But in scanning the files, someone had found a tiny story of more modern vintage about a family that had discovered a diary belonging to a Union soldier. Someone in Holly Ridge, North Carolina, north of Wilmington. They had found it while they were going through some old papers in their home dating back some generations.

The soldier apparently had seen a vast amount of action, including Gettysburg, and had finally wound up in Andersonville following his capture at the Wilderness. The soldier’s name was Henry Miller, and the strange thing, according to Barney, the folks who found the diary had no idea who Miller was, or why the diary wound up in their belongings. In Barney’s words, “According to the news story, they’re good southerners. No Yankee ties, and at least two ancestors who were Confederates.”

The story had also mentioned work being done to transcribe the contents of the diary. Not easy. The pages were brittle. The diary and transcription were going to be turned over to a museum or library in the area for public viewing. Barney had suggested Steve try the Cape Fear Museum in Wilmington.

Steve had checked an internet site before leaving Myrtle Beach. The Cape Fear Museum, he noted, was the oldest museum in North Carolina, founded in the Nineteenth Century by the Daughters of the Confederacy.

The area’s history dated back to pre-Colonial times, Steve learned, with the name Cape Fear playing a prominent role. He found one mention of a voyage by a British explorer who referred to a treacherous sandbar at the mouth of the river extending through the area to the sea as “The Cape of Fear.” The river being known today as the Cape Fear River.

This would be an interesting area to explore, Steve figured, whether by land or sea. He headed down Market Street in Wilmington toward the Cape Fear Museum.

Steve moved past a group of happy school kids crowded around an exhibit of “The Lower Cape Fear.” They were obviously fascinated by the model sailing ships of yesteryear navigating the channel flowing by downtown Wilmington. The Cape Fear Museum was much larger than Steve had expected, modernized in recent years with add-ons to an earlier location more than tripling its size.

It was indeed spacious, complete with an auditorium and thousands of artifacts and photographs. And interesting exhibits. Steve paid particular note to a three-dimensional scene of Fort Fisher as it appeared in Civil War times. He would come back later, but it was time to move on because the Union soldier’s diary wasn’t there. Not a trace.

A museum employee had suggested the New Hanover County Public Library, which was already in his sights. The library had a splendid pedigree. State and local history was housed there, much of it handed down through former libraries dating back to the Cape Fear Library of 1760.

An earlier visit to the internet had brought up the library’s ground rules. All research must be done in the North Carolina Room from 9 am to 8 pm. Copy machines available for materials not too brittle. Pencils preferred to pens. “Write or call first.”

It was a short drive to the main library in downtown Wilmington. And, as expected, to a treasure-trove of information about Civil War days. But it appeared to be a dry hole as far as uncovering any information about a Union soldier named Henry Miller, or a Union prisoner in North Carolina, or a Civil War diary belonging to Miller. Regardless of the approach, no information surfaced that didn’t pertain to Confederate forces.

No information, that is, until the librarian at a nearby counter suggested Steve try the library’s Genealogy room. There, in the section cataloged under the letter “N,” as in New Haven County, with mention of the folks in Holly Ridge who found it, was a transcript of the diary he was seeking. A partial transcript, that is, of the pages that were legible. And a reference to the fact that the original pages were too brittle for viewing. And the title read, “Diary of Henry Miller, Private, Company G, 146^th Regiment, New York Volunteers.” The elusive “Fifth Oneida!”

Steve went to a table and, with some impatience, started leafing through the transcript. It seemed Henry Miller had been everywhere. The diary entries dated back to the fall of 1862 in his first days in camp at Rome, New York.

The first action described in the diary was in mid-December, 1862, in Virginia, at the Battle of Fredericksburg, although according to Miller his regiment was not in the line of fire when “so many lives were lost storming the Heights.” The regiment, he said, was most fortunate not to be among those called to advance on the Confederate positions. Most of their time was spent in rear guard action before the units were finally withdrawn from the area.

A dreary winter followed the Fredericksburg campaign at an encampment on the Rappahannock River, and the diary made occasional references to the camp routine – “drilling, drilling and more drilling,” and illness (the camp was known as “Camp Dysentery”). And cold, and lack of creature comforts, and occasional light-hearted moments but more often than not, boredom.

Then in April of ‘63 the diary entries picked up as rumors abounded that they were about to march, this time the army under the command of “Fighting Joe” Hooker, who had replaced Burnside following the Union disaster at Fredericksburg.

It was the start of the Chancellorsville campaign, where the 146th received its first full-blown baptism of fire, as Steve had noted earlier in a brief history of the regiment. The diary reported “several casualties in the regiment.” The diary also described their advance on Chancellorsville “on a night in which shells tore through the forest, and horses and mules ran in all directions, some pulling clattering wagons as troops advanced and others retreated in a moon-lit scene of utmost confusion.”

Another disastrous campaign. Steve moved on in 1863 to late June and the regiment’s hurried march north toward Gettysburg before it occurred to him he was running short of library time. He could come back to that. Maybe he could copy the transcript. But in the meantime, what happened to Private Miller? Steve leafed through the transcript until he came to some diary entries about “total chaos” at the Wilderness, then a time gap in the diary and then a mention of his capture. And then a few entries at Andersonville. Not many. The last entry in September, 1864. And then, a few pages later, some entries from Florence, South Carolina. Private Miller had indeed made it to the Florence Stockade!

Steve turned to the last few pages of the transcript, the entries dated in the early days of 1865. The prisoners, and guards, were on the move:

February 9, 1865

Not that the Florence Stockade was a great place to visit, but we all would
vote to go back there if we could. We can’t long endure this march,
if you can call it that. Some of our men can scarcely crawl. The guards seem
sympathetic, as they, too, are hungry, cold and tired, although they don’t
begin to resemble our pathetic bunch.

Where were they going? Steve turned to the next entry, and learned a bit more about their ordeal.

February 12, 1865

For a dollar, Confederate, bought a supply of gubers from a guard, and now
that I’ve got them what do I do? I’ve lost three or four teeth. Hard food’s a chore.
But I’ll try. I could eat a sow’s ear. The nights are terrible. Very cold But
it doesn’t discourage the lice.

The next item shed a little more light on the whereabouts of these unfortunates.

February 14, 1865

They say we’re in North Carolina now and heading for Wilmington, which is near
the Coast. Seem to be going easterly. Countryside isn’t as rugged. But every mile
is a mile too many. We need a rest. And my kingdom for a large helping of corn
bread and ham, or whatever else might be available in this country.

The next entry brought Steve up with a start.

February 17, 1865

People we meet stare at us with great curiosity, but are quick to look away
if we make eye contact. One of them told the guards that an old negro had
told him “Lincoln Men” had taken over Wilmington! The guards
were very upset. We’ve made a left turn. Away from Wilmington. Don’t know
where we’re going but we’d better get there soon. The fevers are going to
claim some of us. Don’t think Gideon will last much longer.

Gideon? Was it a coincidence? Gideon was a common name in those days, Gideon Welles, Lincoln’s secretary of the navy, for instance. Steve hurried on to the next entry.

February 20, 1865

We said farewell to Gideon Glenn this morning. Left him behind on property
belonging to a Mr. Stearns, close to a family burial ground on his place. The
guards asked permission to leave him, and we asked if, on Gideon’s
passing, he could be buried in that cemetery. Mr. Stearns is a born Confederate
but was much moved by Gideon’s plight and seemed touched by our situation
as well. I hope he puts a marker on the grave. He said he would. We’re
off shortly to a hamlet up the road called Castle Hayne. Hope there’s something
there in the way of grub.

CHAPTER 15

Steve had pinpointed two Stearns families in the Castle Hayne area and was pulling up in front of the first of the two. Off route 117, about ten miles north of Wilmington. Not very promising. A small, unpretentious house inside the city limits of Castle Hayne. Not a large piece of property and there was certainly no place for a family burial ground.

Steve rang the bell and was greeted by Wilbur M. Stearns, a pleasant man. Steve got to the point as quickly as he could – a genealogy mission, attempting to find the grave of an ancestor who he believes may have been buried in a family burial ground in the area, on property belonging to a Mr. Stearns.

A smiling Wilbur Stearns said there was “no such animal” in his family. No, he and his wife had never lived in the country. Did he have any ancestors who were around here during the Civil War? No, his father was the first to settle in the Castle Hayne area. “He was in a war, though – World War II.” Did Wilbur Stearns know the family of Robert Wren Stearns, some distance northwest of here? No, but he was aware of them. “We got some of their mail one time.”

The home of Robert Wren Stearns turned out to be a farm house on what appeared to be considerable acreage. Urban sprawl had not yet approached this part of the world. Steve drove up the drive to a parking area to the left of the house, where he was greeted by two big, noisy dogs. Tails wagging. Noisy but happy. It was the only cordial reception Steve was to receive.

Robert Stearns was a cantankerous old man who viewed Steve with suspicion if not downright hostility. Steve’s questioning was cut short. He left without even learning whether there was a Mrs. Stearns he could talk to, and he wished he had called first. Maybe he would have reached someone easier to approach.

Steve decided to go into town to see if he couldn’t search out a relative. Perhaps a son or daughter. He had no trouble finding someone who knew Robert Wren Stearns. But had problems finding out much about the family. There was a Mrs. Stearns, all right, one shopkeeper said, but there was only one “kid” to his knowledge, and he lived “out west somewhere.”

Steve wasn’t sure he wanted to approach Mrs. Stearns as yet. He decided to look further, and entered a nearby coffee shop. The waitress who brought his coffee said, yes, she was familiar with Robert Stearns but knew nothing about the family. “But Sheila probably would. She knows everybody.”

Sheila, the other waitress on duty, finally arrived at Steve’s table. “You’re looking for the Stearns place?”

“I’m familiar with their location,” Steve said. “I’m wondering if there is someone in the Stearns family that I could talk to.”

Sheila put a coffee carafe back on the burner and returned to the table.” Mr. Stearns lives at the family place.”

Steve smiled. “Someone other than Mr. Stearns, if possible. He seems a little difficult to talk to.”

“Well, I went to school with a niece, lives in Wilmington now. The niece is named Linda Stearns. Do you have business with them, or something?”

“Not business,” Steve said. “I’m on a genealogy mission. The Stearns family and my family seem to have something in common, and I’d like to talk to her about it. Could you by any chance supply me her address or phone number?”

“No, she just recently moved to Wilmington,” Sheila said. “Not sure where she moved to, but she’s working for an insurance company there.”

“Linda Stearns.” Steve wrote it down. “Still carrying the Stearns name.”

“Yeah, she’s not married. I guess she and her boyfriend were pretty close to it. But he was in the aerial spray business and one day he clipped the power lines. Let me ask someone what’s the name of that insurance outfit.”