Chapter 6

In Which Jemma Recalls an Old Goat

September 17, 1859

Dear Cornie,

Mama and me are sorry to hear about your daddy passing away. It’s gotten me to thinking about him and my papa and our days in Chemung County. Even though your daddy was not a shining example of Christian virtue, I recall he was still a good man. I remember that Christmas when he gave you the goat you named Daffodil. When your mama learned he’d won it in a poker match, she was angry as a hornet. But you loved Daffodil so much, nobody could take that goat away from you.

It used to be that Mama checked every one of my letters to you. She doesn’t want us saying anything about your daddy’s business or what happened to your family. Or to mine. Mama worries all the time, saying lots of folks could get into trouble if we say too much, if we write down names and places.

She doesn’t talk about it, but something bad happened to Mama’s friend a few years back. Down South—in Georgia, I believe it was. Mama and her friend were writing letters about folks who were running to freedom here in Canada. And the next thing Mama knows, her friend’s neck is in a noose hanging from a tree.

She says it was the letters to blame. Someone read them who shouldn’t have.

Mama doesn’t have time to check my letters anymore now that the babies are a handful. But we should use a cipher, just in case. Like writing 1 for A, 2 for B, on through the alphabet. Or secret names and such. That way nobody but us will understand who we’re talking about. Just use your imagination, and I will do the same.

Mama and the babies are fine, but I miss the dear Maple Tree. He’s been moving around from place to place these past few years. Mama’s so afraid for him staying safe from harm. But I will tell you this. He never did settle down here in Saint Catharines with us. The Maple Tree is a conductor in a big city now. We only hear word about him now and again from folks who make it through.

I wonder if you might get news of him. You must tell me if you do, please. Do you still keep up with the papers? Mama’s not one for listening to gossip, but that’s the only way I know what’s going on. I say gossip is just like a newspaper, only written in whispers instead of ink. Sure you can’t always believe everything you hear, but isn’t that the same with the newspaper?

I am praying this letter finds you good, and that the Right Reverend was able to track down your long-lost kin in Chicago. I hope it’s a rich old granny who wants to spoil you silly. And that she has lots of family there—then you’ll never be alone again.

My candle’s burning out. I will write later.

Your friend forever and ever,

Jemma