Prelude

Ginny Cline needed to write a musical. The problem was, she didn't know if she could find the courage to do it. She lugged the heavy carton full of historic material from her car and up the steps to her little yellow bungalow. Scents of ancient paper, leather, and the past wafted from the box as she leaned it against the doorframe and inserted her key. Jezebel's anxious woofs sounded from the laundry room where the basset hound spent her day.

It had been a long one for the dog and Ginny, the hound's fourth grade teacher owner. Ginny's stop by the Forest Glen Historical Museum to pick up the artifact-filled box had turned into a brainstorming marathon with curator Annie. The energetic woman urged Ginny to try writing a Broadway style musical about Woodson House, a local Underground Railroad station site. Who would have thought that writing a short musical for her school children a year ago would offer the opportunity to try her hand once again at creating a larger musical for the community? Only Annie could have come up with the farfetched idea. She was one of the few friends who knew about Ginny's disastrous attempt at writing a musical during her college years.

Ginny set the heavy box down on the floor and headed for her hound. When she opened Jezebel's door, the slobbery beast brushed past her and ran for the box. Jezebel sniffed, and then clamped her teeth around a leatherbound book as she tugged it from the box.

"Oh no you don't!" Ginny pried the volume from the dog's mouth and sent her outside. She transferred the box's contents to the top of the large oak desk she'd inherited from her grandmother and started sorting through memorabilia that the Woodson family descendants donated to the museum.

Annie's words from this morning sang in her ears like a siren luring her to answer the call. "We took a step in faith to add the Woodson House to the museum's holdings. Now our budget is out of whack. We need something to increase donations and draw attention to the museum and the Woodson house connection to the Underground Railroad. With your God-given talent, you could write a fundraising musical for us to use at the museum." She'd paused and grabbed Ginny's hands. "I know you wrote a musical when you were in college and things went bad. This will give you a chance to right or should I say 'write' that wrong. Maybe even allow you to be free to love someday."

The challenge to create had stirred Ginny's heart and given her the courage to at least try. When it came to the love connection, she'd answered with a firm no. She received plenty of love from her fourth graders. Jezebel's scratch at the door brought her thoughts back to the present. After letting the dog in and filling up a bowl with chow, she reached across the desk and retrieved a ribbon-bound leather volume with letters and clippings poking out from its yellowed pages. As she loosened the ribbon, a letter near the front of the book fluttered to the desk's top. The letter bore the date of February 15, 1858. Ginny studied the epistle and the open page of the journal. She picked up her pen and started jotting information in a spiralbound notebook. Casting away her doubts, her mind bubbled with ideas of what the musical might look like.

Our nieces are in trouble. Yes, there is more than one niece, but I suspect you knew of the possibility. It’s time for you to assert yourself before the situation gets worse than it is already. The dear girls are maturing and our brother has taken on a new bride, along with her wayward son. My husband's nephew, Samuel, was passing through the south on a trip for the Cause. He attended our brother's nuptials in my stead and painted a grim picture of the danger our girls may be facing. I am enclosing Samuel's letter which describes the situation. I wish that one of us could have been there, but I understand you were still grieving your dear husband and attending to the last of your farm's business. Perhaps now, you will consider joining me in the north. We have several empty rooms now that our children are grown.

The widow Amanda and her son Sidney have a reputation among my southern contacts that does not bode well for the safety and health of either our brother or the girls. Since you are closer in proximity than I, please consider a visit, post haste. I fear that unless you take action the young women will be facing all manner of evil.

If you can convince our brother to allow our nieces a trip north to Woodson House, then we can make sure they find a way to live in the freedom they both deserve. I trust you will know what to do. There is a system of canals from north of Cincinnati to Toledo that pass not far from our Woodson House. Just beware of snakes along the way.

When we built our home, I had my husband build a little playroom, much like the dragon's den we used to have when we were small. The hidden room may provide a refuge for one of our nieces. I think you will understand when you meet the girls. If you and the young ladies do come north to live with me, you will find several features in my home bearing a resemblance to our old plantation estate, just not on such a grand dimension.

Your loving sister,

Mary Etta Woodson