^When the preacher questioned Fergus, he told them of our meeting and where he thought we might be headed. Winston and the preacher begged him to take them to the auction, and he agreed on the condition that they buy the chickens, pigs, and ducks he had meant to sell.
Winston held on to Jupiter now as if he would never let him go. We were laughing and crying and so relieved to see one another. Only when Winston asked about Darcy did we all quiet down.
I told him we hadn't seen or heard of her, and he sighed so heavy I had to look away. After the preacher and Winston had searched the yard once more, we left in Fergus's wagon. This was no place for Winston or Jupiter to linger.
Riding away from that auction yard was like riding away from a funeral, for we all knew that riding north meant that we were riding away from any chance of finding Darcy.
Jupiter closed his eyes as soon as -we got into the wagon. He didn't open them once till we were a mile or more away. I don't ever want to see or hear or smell the likes of that evil place again. I know Jupiter must feel the same, but I don't imagine he could ever forget it. The lash marks on his legs aren't likely to let him.
Your brother, Levi, heading home
October 30, 1853
Dear Austin,
I am writing you from the hayloft of our barn. I've been back in Sudbury for almost a month. Maybe by now you've gotten my letters from the Underground Railroad, which I sent when I came home. Miss Amelia was so glad to see me safe and sound, she didn't mention any chicken-plucking punishments until the day after I returned!
I've been coming up to the loft after school to work on a new walking stick for Reuben. Possum comes when he can, but it's not the same with Jupiter gone. He and Winston left for Canada two days after we got back. The preacher took them as far as New York State in his wagon. They most likely will never return, and I doubt that we shall ever meet again. Neither Jupiter nor his pa can read or write, never having been allowed to learn, so I don't expect a letter. There wasn't much of a good-bye. Miss Amelia says their hearts were too broken with losing Darcy.
Everything is different with them gone. I'm different, too, I guess. I can't pluck a chicken without sticking a feather behind my ear for luck. I can't look at the widow's summer kitchen without hoping to hear a song. I can't listen to the hoot of the barn owl at twilight without pausing to wonder. How are they all? How bitter cold is it way up in Canada? How punishing is the heat down south? Why is it that this had to happen? How will their hearts ever mend? How will it ever end?
Miss Amelia has decided to come out with me to Oregon come spring. She said she has to keep her promise to Pa to look out for us and that considering my disposition for poking my nose into troublesome places, she'd best keep an eye on me as I travel across the country. She is planning to return eventually to continue her work with Preacher Tully. Personally, I think Miss Amelia just wants to meet face to face the man whose recipe for gooseberry pie won her first place at the church social. So tell Reuben to look out for us!
Miss Amelia is already fixing to make me a new set of clothes for the trip, as I've outgrown most of my britches. I suppose I outgrew a lot of things this summer, and you might not even recognize me when I get off that -wagon train. Just like Miss Amelia predicted, I've outgrown my hiccup fits.
I was hoping that I'd outgrow being afraid, but I don't hope for that anymore. There's a lot to be afraid of in this world, Austin. I found that out this summer. But as much evil as there is out there, there's goodness, too, enough goodness to steady you and to keep the hiccups away, I guess.
Even my dreams are different now. I don't have such bad nightmares anymore, the way I used to. Each night as I lie in bed with my eyes closed, I call up the memory of a wagon heading north. Winston is at the reins with the preacher beside him. Jupiter and Whistle are sitting behind them. Whistle is the only one looking back. There isn't much baggage — just one basket, one trunk, and one little hickory stick poking up from between them, holding the likes of a small bird. Lately I've been dreaming about that little -wooden nightingale. I see its stiff feathered wings begin to flutter. I hear the soft, sad song it starts to sing. And I hear my own voice whisper, “Be still, oh, mah heart…Be still…”
Your brother, Levi
TWENTY YEARS LATER
May 16, 1873
Dear Mr. Levi Ives,
I am writing to you in hopes that you will be able to help me locate my father, Winston Hale, and my brother, Jupiter John Hale. I have written to the Hepple family of Sudbury, Pennsylvania, but all my letters have gone unanswered. I fear they are either dead or have moved away. I have also written to Miss Amelia Cole, only to learn that she passed away in ‘71. And I have finally found you, my last hope.
I doubt that you would remember me, it being twenty years since I lived in Sudbury, but I pray that you might remember my brother and father. They lived and worked for Sirus Hepple. My father was a tall Negro man with scars along the side of his face. My brother Jupiter was mute. I have not seen or heard from either of them these last twenty years and do not know if they are still alive.
I would be most grateful if you could give me any information on their whereabouts, as I am anxious to find them. I am living in the state of Alabama with my husband and three children. I have included my address on a separate paper.
If I may be so bold to tell you, Mr. Ives, while you probably have little memory of me, I remember you and your Miss Amelia quite well. I was sorry to hear of her passing. What I remember most is your friendship with my brother, and I must call upon that friendship now to aid my cause. If Jupiter is alive and you know his whereabouts, please write to me or send word to him that his sister, Darcy, is hoping to find him.
Yours truly,
Darcy Mellon
POSTSCRIPT
On July 1-4, 1873, in the town of Harper, Alabama, three little girls excitedly gathered around a wooden kitchen table as their mother tore open a package wrapped in brown paper. The postmark on the package read AUBURN, CANADA. Inside they discovered a letter and a small stick made of hickory. It appeared to be a walking stick, but quite short, as if made for a child. On the handle was carved a small birdf
Laughing and giggling, the little girls took turns holding the stick and walking around the room as their mother pored over the letter.
“What kind of bird do you suppose it's meant to be?” Neddy, the eldest girl, asked.
“Maybe it's a dove,” her sister Pearl suggested.
“Or could be a sparrow,” Etta May, the youngest, guessed.
“No,” their mother finally whispered as she dropped the letter into her lap and with trembling hands reached for the little stick. She ran her long fingers over the delicately carved wings. Then she looked back at her daughters, with their big dark eyes, their ribboned hair, and their smiling faces.
“It's meant to be a nightingale,” she told them as a tear rolled down her cheek. “Yes, a nightingale,” she said in a voice so soft and low none but she could hear.
For Ann and Morry,
two of my nearest and dearest
with a nod to Jonathan Weiss and Joshua Sabatine,
two friends in the creek
Text copyright © 1998 by Elvira Woodruff
Illustrations copyright © 1998 by Nancy Carpenter
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eISBN: 978-0-307-55553-3
November 2000
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Elvira Woodruff, Dear Austin: Letters From the Underground Railroad
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