Time Probe

By Bette Jackman LoBue

Time Probe is a spy thriller set in Washington, DC, and its environs. Themes include commitment, unity, loyalty, betrayal, and self-discovery. The Project Archives team consists of four very diverse people who must learn to work together for the survival of all and the security of the national treasures entrusted to them for use in a special project with NASA. Team members are pushed beyond capacity when they encounter SACHO, a terrorist-centered spy ring in pursuit of the special formula in holographic technology that will enable interstellar projections at the speed of light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524510992

Bette Jackman LoBue

About the Author Bette Jackman LoBue was born and raised in the Tampa Bay area of Florida’s west coast. She was educated at St. Petersburg College and the University of South Florida, where she received a double baccalaureate in education, literature, and creative writing, and a master’s degree in English in arts and letters. She worked as an educator in Pinellas County, Florida, for twenty-two years, teaching middle school English and drama and high school junior and senior American and British literature and creative and reportorial writing. She is a former editor for the Florida Clubwoman, a publication of the Florida Federation of Women’s Clubs, and has written various articles for newsletters, newspapers, and magazines. Her hobbies include music, art, and languages. Ms. LoBue divides her time between the beautiful mountains of North Carolina and the sunny shores of the St. Petersburg gulf beaches.

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Copyright © 2016 by Bette Jackman LoBue.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016910115

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-1101-2

                Softcover        978-1-5245-1100-5

                eBook             978-1-5245-1099-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/19/2016

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CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

This book is dedicated to the loving memory of my husband, Frank Russell LoBue, and to our children, Michael and Susan.

I

Anne Holloway needed a better plan if she were to successfully engineer Project Archives, a top-secret program cosponsored by the Department of Archives and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. She trembled slightly as she thought of the mysterious space probe and the myriad questions that flashed though her mind like miniature comets. The details surrounding the actual space probe were shrouded in such secrecy that only Chief Carter and his top assistant knew what was going on. Anne had received only a skeleton of the overall plan, and found herself fleshing out the details for herself. Because of the high level of confidentiality involved, she did not rule out the possibility of international interest in Project Archives. But because no mention had been made of any risk possibility, the thought that she and her colleagues might be in some type of mortal danger never entered her mind. As her associates were unaware of the true nature of the project, Anne dreaded the prospect of their inevitable questions. The answers she gave would determine in part the success of the entire enterprise. It would be her job to gauge how much to tell them and what to keep in reserve, pending completion of the space probe. There was no way that any of them, including Anne herself, could hope to understand the magnitude of the overall plan. Directing the project under these conditions would indeed prove a challenge, and Anne did not feel totally prepared for the task. Perhaps she should check with Chief Carter, who orchestrated the Project, and ask him just how much information she should divulge.

*      *      *      *

Anne, Jack Bolle, and Lewis Mills had been assigned to Project Archives, a top-secret endeavor involving high-level government offices, the Smithsonian, and the National Aeronautics and Space Agency. Janet Root, a former investigative reporter for a major law firm in the area, had passed security clearance two weeks before and had been hired for research and clerical duties for the project. Anne had read Janet’s rather impressive credentials, so she had some inkling of her abilities. The team had been given access to the Potomac’s office and lab facilities, and its vast library and staff. The Archives Team also had at their disposal an advisory council from the Smithsonian. Their task: to select the most representative archives of the current century for entombment in a time capsule, which was to be located in a designated area other than Washington, DC, or its environs and placed in a secure and clandestine vault through the auspices of NASA. The capsule was to be resurrected in the event of a major holocaust or during future archaeological studies, perhaps a century or so in the future.

*      *      *      *

Anne Holloway had been a history major with a minor in archaeology in a small but prominent eastern college, where she met and married a promising young professor from a nearby university. The marriage had been ill fated at best, with Anne never measuring up to Robert’s scholarly expectations. She completed both her master’s degree and her malfunctioning marriage the same spring and secured a job in Washington, DC, through the placement services of the university. Her first year alone had been a rough one. She had floundered like a stunned fish flopping futilely at the water’s surface, struggling for balance and direction. Having worked five hard years to prove her ability in a hierarchical pyramid predominantly structured by men, Project Archives would be her proving ground. She anticipated problems with only one of her team-members, Jack Bolle. Anne had worked with Jack once before and had found him to be brilliant in his field, but rather intolerant of female opinions. She hoped that their association with Project Archives would go much more smoothly than their projects had gone in the past. Anne did not anticipate any problems at all with Lewis Mills. He had seemed eager to embark on the project and even seemed to regard it as an opportunity to connect with the future.

*      *      *      *

Her associates had not yet arrived when Anne raised the lid of the rusty, mud-encrusted container that had been unearthed several decades earlier and filed away in a forgotten corner of the Smithsonian Institute. It had been rediscovered during a search for historic items for the space probe, and in a spirit of cooperation, the Smithsonian gladly reassigned the archaic box to the Archives Committee.

Dust from the antique time capsule diffused through the early morning sunlight that beamed down from the cantilevered skylight in the conference room of Project Archives. Anne lifted a cracked and yellowed scroll from the timeworn strongbox and squinted as she deciphered the message from the past.

TO ALL THOSE PRESENTS:

Be it therefore known that we who reap from our nation’s Fight for Freedom do hereby project our thoughts and philosophies by way of this portal to the future. We the under-signed do herein enclose a selection of documents from the time of our nation’s crusade for independence and thus give honor to those our predecessors by the inclusion of these special artifacts in this, our legacy to you.

Anne laid the parchment aside and gently lifted a sheaf of official-looking documents and a nineteenth-century newspaper that had shared the airtight tomb. Beneath the documents were two packets of letters. Anne picked up the smaller one, tied with a pale blue ribbon whose bow nearly concealed the faded inscription. Pulling the satin strip aside, she examined the vanishing chirography. She had to peer closely to make out the name that seemed to be receding into the page.

Anne blinked from the strain, her lashes sweeping across the surface of her reading glasses. Pushing back a lock of hair that had slipped from its twist, she began placing the documents and letters in a row down the center of the conference table. She paused as her slender research assistant, Janet Root, rushed into the room.

Sorry I’m late, Janet apologized off-handedly. I missed my early connection. I have to depend on the metro for the time being, she added. She glanced at the items from the strongbox with little interest. Is there any coffee?

I put some on when I came in, Anne replied, hiding her irritation. Right now, we need to get going on the inventory. She indicated the items that were already laid out on the table. A copy of the master list they sent is on my desk. Be sure to add any author names that are legible.

Sure. Janet poked through her purse for her E-pad. After punching in a notation, she reluctantly bent over the stack of parched and brittle papers. Her dark-brown hair, long and straight, brushed against the sides of the letters, and as Janet lifted them from the box, she scraped her hand against the metal side.

Anne looked up in time to see traces of flesh and blood descend toward the books in the layer below. She stiffened as she watched the red droplets disappear into the leaves of a small black diary.

Better put something on that, she said. You’ll find a first aid kit in the cabinet by the coffeemaker.

Resurrecting the book from its strongbox crypt, she noted a page marked with a pink ribbon, faded almost white. A mist of dust arose from the dried pages of the diary. She could barely make out the name inscribed there, with its letters curving gracefully in browned and faded ink: Lois Priscilla Alden. The date was nearly obscured: 21 December 1775.

Anne examined the cracked leather binding, similar to an Old Testament she had once seen in a museum. The last few pages had loosened, and it was those that drew her attention. Smoothing them back into the binding, Anne noted the last entry in the diary:

Dearest Diary and Confidante:

At last, the treasured day approaches. Tomorrow, I become the bride of M. Louis La Paix and commence my Heaven-ordained purpose. Poor Louis is quite the nervous one. Je suis heureux de recommencer à vivre.

Toujours,

L. P. A.

Janet, how’s your French? Anne indicated the final page.

I minored in languages. Let me see that. Janet perused the last line. I am very happy to begin life again, she translated. That’s strange! Is there any more French? She quickly thumbed through the book, skimming the Edwardian-like script for foreign words. There’s quite a bit here. It must have been a fad in her time. Janet returned the book to Anne. Would you like me to locate a French-English dictionary? Or I can see if I can find a good app.

Anne gave an affirmative nod. Either one, there’s no hurry. Anne closed the cover and carefully set the diary down on the conference table. How are you doing with the cataloging? she asked over Janet’s shoulder.

Janet shrugged. It’s difficult to make out most of these names and dates, especially those from the 1700s, she complained. You aren’t actually going to read through all this stuff, are you? Janet looked contemptuously from the row of relics on the table to Anne.

I’d like to, Anne mused, but I doubt if I’ll have time to read anything in its entirety. We’ve got to get on with Project Archives. It will take time to select what we feel would be most representative of our grassroots culture. We have ventured so far from that way of life that most of us cannot even imagine it! I hope to get some ideas from these items though. She nodded toward the table. And I do plan to read Lois Alden’s diary. It caught my curiosity.

Lois Priscilla Alden? Janet wrinkled her nose. That is strange. Her name sounds familiar. I think I may have heard that name somewhere before.

You are probably thinking of John Alden and Priscilla, Anne offered.

No, it was somewhere else, a long time ago, when I was still living at home. Janet shrugged, continuing to catalog the items on the table. Say, just how long will we have access to this time capsule?

I’m not sure, Anne replied, reaching down to the bottom layer of the strongbox. However, the government removed several of the documents before they released the capsule for Project Archives, so I imagine that what we have here is not exceptionally valuable. These are just bits and pieces. Orts from the past, you might say. She picked up a musty green velour book without a title and opened it. Janet, here’s another diary, she said excitedly. "The name inside is like yours—Janet. I can’t make out the last name."

Does it matter? Janet mumbled without looking up.

Ignoring her, Anne turned the page and continued. This diary begins in March of 1870. You know, Janet, I think I am going to read both of these. Surely they’ll offer a clue as to why someone marked the last entries in each diary.

21 December 1867

Dearest Diary,

This, my final entry, will end our somewhat lengthy communication. This is also my last evening on the island I have come to love. Although it is distasteful to leave these familiar and beautiful surroundings for a new and different home, someone very precious and caring awaits me. His love is worth the separation from family and friends, and he promised to help me through the uncertainties that lie ahead. It is a voyage I must embark upon to free me from the past, so I can yield to the future.

In sad farewell,

Janet O’Brian

Janet, listen to this. Anne read the entry to her. What do you make of it?

Janet stopped recording. She’s obviously getting married, just like the Lois person, and she is unsure of the future. The part about her past could be anything. I don’t think it’s too important.

Well, whatever she plans to do, something in her life apparently caused some doubts. I would have to read the diary to find out what it was and why someone thought these diaries were important enough to include in the capsule.

That’s really strange, Janet commented. Usually the last page in a book solves a mystery instead of creating one! Stifling a yawn, she resumed her task.

Anne set the moss-green diary down on the conference table and peered down into the darker reaches of the strongbox. Ancient but impressive books projected a musty odor toward her nostrils. A copy of The Last of the Mohicans lay exposed. Anne lifted out a second book with the title The Sketch Book by Washington Irving and looked inside. A color plate of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow caught her eye. Words were spelled out in twisted curlicues, and the beard of Rip Van Winkle flowed into a border of lilies and wild flowers, which extended up the side of the pages, back across the top and over the sleeping figure propped beneath a Dutch Elm. Beneath The Sketch Book Anne found a copy of Poor Richard’s Almanac. Anne laid the books on the conference table and plowed through a layer of obsolete household artifacts. Laying them aside, she uncovered an early edition of the Atlantic Monthly, which lay at the very bottom of the strongbox. The old magazine was dated June 1876. A black ribbon hung limply from its leaves, marking a hymn by John Paine. The text, she noted, was by Whittier.

Our father’s God, from out whose hand the centuries fall like grains of sand.

We meet today, united, free, and loyal to our land and Thee, to thank Thee for the era done, and trust Thee for the opening one.

It was followed by a notation that Centennial Hymn had been written for the International Exhibition of Arts and Industries in Philadelphia the month before. These are certainly valid, she thought. But what about the diaries? What relevance would they have for Project Archives?

Setting the magazine down on the table, Anne selected a few loose documents at random. "We hold these truths to be self-evident, she read. In Congress, July 4, 1776, the Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America."

It almost looks authentic, she said aloud.

"Maybe that is the original, Janet smirked. Who knows? We could have been paying tribute to a copy in the Smithsonian all this time."

I hardly think so! Irritated, Anne leafed through several bills of sale from 1876 and the century before. Most of the writing was barely discernible. Most of this is lost, she mumbled to herself.

Now here is something really condensed, Janet remarked, cataloging a brittle-edged newspaper. "However, I don’t think a paper like the Times would fit into this capsule, especially the Sunday edition. She affected a look of mock seriousness. You do plan to include the comic section, I suppose!"

I hadn’t planned on it, Anne retorted. Seriously, Janet, we’ll probably put everything in digital.

You are assuming there will be digital readers when and if the capsule is ever dug up.

There should be one in the Smithsonian, Anne replied, without thinking.

There may not be a Smithsonian. Janet’s eyes narrowed. And if there is, there really isn’t any need for a time capsule.

You’re missing the whole point. Anne picked up the stack of frayed and crumbing letters. We’ll just have to include a reader in the capsule.

You’ll have room?

Well, perhaps for a small one. I’m not really sure how much room we’ll have. A rather vague assignment, Anne thought. Would the others be content with that, or would they require something more specific? She knew it would be only a matter of time before they would begin to ask questions.

Let me know when Jack and Lewis get here, Anne requested. I’ll be at my desk.

Anne stepped toward the door of one of the tiny offices that opened onto the conference room on the third floor of the Potomac Building. I’ll be in here with some of my "fellow Americans," Anne mumbled to herself, placing the two parcels of letters and the diaries on her desk.

*      *      *      *

Janet Root continued the inventory, checking the remaining books on the table. Maybe I should catalog myself too, she thought. She yawned, widely this time. Tediously, she went through the remaining items in the strongbox. Next to a nineteenth-century apple peeler, in an obscure corner of the container, lay what appeared to be a parchment scroll. Janet fished it out and unceremoniously laid it on the table. She scraped back the cellophane tape that covered the original wax seal and unrolled it.

We, the undersigned, do hereby reaffirm the commitment of our fathers to our nation, united once again, and to the equality of all men created by Almighty God for the purpose of eternal brotherhood and everlasting peace. To wit, our signatures this fourth day of the month of July in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred Seventy and Six, on the occasion of our great nation’s Centennial observance.

Janet scanned the signatures of nineteenth-century statesmen. After cataloguing the scroll, she knocked cautiously on Anne’s partially open door and peered in.

I found something else in the strongbox.

Anne slowly looked up from the letter in her hand. Oh?

It’s a scroll with names reaffirming the Declaration of Independence. There must be about a hundred or so. She paused. All of the signatures are of men.

Of course, they would be! Anne shrugged. "Say, wait a minute. Back in Boston during the Bicentennial, it seems to me that a scroll with signatures of somewhere over three million women were presented in Washington. I don’t think we could use that for Project Archives, but there might be some similar incident we could use. You might see what you can find out. Oh, and would you please start a file of news headlines? Scan any interesting or controversial articles. Maybe we can put together a more representative newspaper of our own. The Times doesn’t always reflect the best of reality, or the opinions of the majority for that matter. Oh and, Janet, see if you can contact Chief Carter, who is in charge of this project. He is on staff at the White House. You’ll need your identification number and code."

I’ll see what I can do. Janet tapped out several notations on her e-pad as she walked to her own work center. This assignment was certainly off to a slow start, but you never know. Things might prove interesting down the road. Thankfully, she was finished with cataloging the past and she could get back to the present. She picked up the desk phone for her first attempt to get through to the White House.

*      *      *      *

Anne Holloway resumed her reading.

. . . The soldiers were not really rude, Aunt Win. They merely made one uneasy. It is most difficult to think of one whose dress and manners are similar to one’s own as the enemy, especially when exchanging a friendly smile.

Your affectionate niece,

Susan

Anne selected another letter, checking for significance of any kind.

Dearest Michael,

It is my fervent wish that you will soon be well enough to travel. Father is arranging for a carriage to meet you in Atlanta. Men who remain loyal to Father have been busy restoring the buildings. It is almost as you remember. We are most impatient for your return. It is so different without you and my dear, sweet John. But Father has said we must look to the future for our deliverance.

Awaiting your early return,

Your loving sister,

Susan

What possible meaning can these letters have? Anne wondered. Suddenly, the buzzer sounded. Janet was announcing the arrival of Lewis Mills.

He just stepped into his office. He seems eager to go through the contents of the strongbox with you.

Thanks. Say, have you come up with anything we might be able to use on the Feminists?

Not yet. Janet’s voice garbled over the weak connection. And I still can’t get through to the White House.

Keep trying. Anne clicked off the intercom and acknowledged Lewis as he poked his head through the doorway.

Lewis was nearly six feet tall and had the build of a college football player. A humorous grin lit up his handsome dark features and his every step reflected confidence and pride. He spoke in a pleasant voice that sustained the last word of each sentence in a musical drawl. His eyes sparkled now as he regarded his associate.

Hey. I see you’ve laid out the treasures already. Find anything electrifying?

I’m afraid not, Lewis. We have a slew of old documents—or copies of them—and some personal diaries and letters. Not enough for any concrete ideas as to what we should include in the new time capsule. When Lewis looked disappointed, she added, However, I plan to go through the letters and diaries to see why they were preserved. Anne walked with him to the conference table. I thought we might jot down any ideas these artifacts might trigger and compare notes. What do you think?

That is fine with me. Lewis glanced over the collection. He picked up the century-old newspaper and skimmed through it. "What about editorials, Anne? There’s this guy that really writes with a wicked pen for the Sentinel. The Monitor might have something we could use as well."

I don’t know, Lewis. Maybe Letters to the Editor columns would be more representative. She grinned at his serious look.

Lewis laid down the newspaper. Have you pulled anything interesting out of those diaries or letters you mentioned?

Well, so far I’m not connecting anything in the letters, but maybe I’ll get something out of the diaries. Anne reached for the Centennial scroll and handed it to Lewis. It seems they paid more attention to their handwriting than to their women, she commented. Notice that there are no females represented here.

Lewis looked over the list of names. Most likely no minorities either, he thought. Not as well-schooled maybe? Well, perhaps they just couldn’t get the ladies to commit themselves, Anne, he said aloud.

She gave him a surprised look, searching for some hidden meaning in his remark. Placing the scroll back on the table, she continued. I’ve asked Janet to make a newspaper file, using interesting headlines, unusual events, and so forth. I thought perhaps we could put together something that would reflect our present-day mind set.

It will be darn hard to put together something unbiased, Anne, no matter how we work it, Lewis replied bitterly. Still, we will see what we can find.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Jack Bolle, who greeted them with a husky hello. I see you’ve laid out the effects already. Well, good. I’m eager to get started. Notice you have a girl typing up an inventory. Does anyone have any ideas, yet? Not pausing as he talked, he perused the table display.

Anne frowned. I’m trying to locate a microfilm of three million women reaffirming the Declaration of Independence to balance this. She handed him the scroll.

Jack looked puzzled as he scanned the signatures. What are you talking about? What is wrong with this list of names? He laid out the scroll on the table and flicked it shut.

Didn’t you notice they were all men? Anne asked pointedly.

So? It only reflected the times. You can’t change the past.

So at a later time the affirmation was made by women, she countered.

Well, times change. Women outnumber men anyway. Now, have you come up with anything important?

Nothing else. Anne remained on the defensive. "Lewis and I were just discussing the possibilities of preserving various news items from the Times."

Umm, that’s a possibility. Jack was rummaging in the strongbox. Now here’s what we need. He picked up the antique apple peeler. Artifacts. Something that shows how we live, what we know, what we’ve accomplished. He turned the handle, and the cylinder in the center slowly revolved. Now tell me, what kind of a fruitcake would use an apple peeler?

Lewis broke in impatiently. Seriously, Jack, what about using editorials? We can’t use machines to represent our thinking.

Listen, Lewis. What we don’t need in a time capsule is a bunch of opinions, although our decisions as to what goes in will be just that. Presents an ambiguous task, seems to me. Jack placed the apple peeler on the table and methodically examined the other objects.

I disagree, Jack. Lewis pointed a dusky finger at the books lying on the table. These are full of opinions.

What the hell are you talking about, Lewis? Those are just fictions, opiates for idle minds. We would have to pick out something damn good to really represent intellectual thinking. Something technical, like, you know, scientific journals, and maybe a couple of magazines dealing with psychology and electronics. It’s a shame that some of our ‘techy-toys’ wouldn’t survive in a time capsule. Maybe we …

Journals, Anne broke in. Why, you’ve given me an idea! A friend of mine—he’s a writer—keeps a journal notebook. It wouldn’t exactly be what you’d call a diary, but it would show some random thoughts from our own times. You know, stream-of-consciousness.

No good, Jack frowned. We have limited space. There isn’t room for some guy’s private reflections.

It wouldn’t hurt to look, Jack. Technology isn’t all we’ve got going for us. Lewis gathered up the musty books. This writer you know, Anne. Do you think he’d be willing to let us see his journal?

I could ask, Lewis. I’ll see him tonight.

Janet appeared with a tray containing steaming mugs of coffee. I’ve put copies of the inventory on your desks, and a secretary over at the White House is trying to track down the microfilm. No one seems to know anything about it. She set the tray down on the conference table.

Thanks, Janet. Anne broke a sugar packet into one of the cups and picked up a plastic stirrer. I wonder if we should include these for artifacts? she quipped. You know, we really should preserve the all-American coffee break.

Is this job getting to you already? It’s only day one. Janet smirked as she turned away.

I wasn’t serious, Anne shouted to her disappearing back.

Lewis cleared his throat. You know, the best example of a time capsule is Pompeii. Those people were frozen in time—tools, clothes, food, houses, and valuables. Everything they had preserved in a capsule of lava.

But what about their thoughts, Lewis? Anne asked. Maybe that’s the reason for the letters and diaries. Thoughts preserved apart from artifacts. You know, surviving links with real people who existed just as we do now. Anne took a sip of hot coffee, burning her tongue.

Jack Bolle glanced over at them from the other side of the conference table. So that Centennial Committee played God and selected a handful of thoughts to survive. Is that what we’re supposed to do? Don’t you see, we’ve got to be more selective? Everything we choose has to be significant. He reached across the table and picked up the remaining cup of coffee. He drank it black.

*      *      *      *

Picking up the two packets of letters, Lewis Mills headed for the last cubicle. He carefully set the letters down on the desk and sat down in the smooth leather chair. With almost a feeling of desecration, he slipped the yellowed ribbon off one of the packets. But as he lifted off the first letter, it tore, each piece floating downward and outward from the piece in his hand. He retrieved one of the pieces from the highly polished floor near the doorway. A third piece had drifted between the chair and the desk and was wedged on end. Lewis pulled the heavy chair aside and leaned down to retrieve it. As he placed the crumbling pieces on the desk with the others, he noticed they were nearly covered with brownish stains. Fitting the pieces together as best he could, he attempted to decipher its message.

16 June 1775

My dearest Mary,

The sun is ebbing over Boston Colony as I pen these words to you. We are encamped here on Breed’s Hill to the north of Boston, where we hope to surprise the British; therefore, we will have no campfires or candlelight to brighten our vigilant night. Our muskets and powder are in readiness and we have much hope for victory over the King’s men. Should we fail in this endeavor, we have other colonials in wait at Bunker Hill yet to the north of us at the neck of the peninsula. This is a hard task we have set upon ourselves, but should death be our reward, these oppressive yokes must indeed be cast off.

The hour is late, O Mary, and I must encourage my fellows.

All my love forever,

~~~~~~ ~ ~~~~~~~

Lewis could not make out the blurred name. A man encamped on a sunset hill, sending a message to an unknown Mary. Did she ever receive the letter? Did her colonial lover survive? He lifted the stained fragment. Whose blood blurred the letter? Was it the colonial’s blood or maybe his messenger’s? That blood was shed he had no doubt.

Lewis laid the letter aside and picked up the next one. It did not crumble as the first one had, but its edges were ragged and frayed. The second letter was written on the third of July in 1775, and was written by a man to his son.

. . . and as thou go forth in the defense of these lands and these privileges to join our valiant men of the Continental Army, remember the teachings of thy childhood. Show respect for thy superiors and hearken to the wisdom they display. I will pray for thee and Mr. Washington. I will be with thee always in prayer, even in the darkest hours. Keep thee well, my son.

It was signed simply: Your loving father.

*      *      *      *

The members of Project Archives spent the balance of the day sorting through the selections made by the Centennial Committee, noting possible reasons for inclusion and drawing conclusions on the Centennials themselves