Dear Austin (8 page)

September 1853

Dear Austin,

I found this auction bill and so am writing you a letter on the back. Jupiter was about to be sold off, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“He's not a buck! He's a boy!” I shouted at the auctioneer. “He's a boy, and he's got a name. His name is Jupiter Hale.”

I felt my heart pounding against my chest as everyone turned to stare at me.

“Well, thank you, son, fer that powerful piece of information.” The auctioneer flashed a smile, but I could see his anger boiling behind his grin. “Truth is, this ain't no church social, so if you ain't biddin’, you best keep quiet, lest you get mixed up with those that are.”

They don't want to know him, I thought as two men beside me stepped forward to get a closer look. They don't want to know him at all.

He's Jupiter! I wanted to shout at them. He can talk without words. He's got a dog called Whistle and a sister named Darcy. He can dive off Widow's
Rock and whittle better than anyone I know. He's afraid of snakes, but he's brave enough to walk through a swamp full of them and gators, too.

But I didn't say any of those things. Instead I just stood there silent and helpless as the auctioneer started the bidding again. My eyes shot back to Jupiter, whose forehead was beading with sweat. His eyes were big and glassy with fear, and he was trembling badly.

If only we had stayed home, Jupe, I thought. If only we had stayed home.

But we were a long way from Sudbury. He was standing up there all alone, just as he had done at Widow's Rock. Only this was worse, much worse, because this wasn't going to end with one dive. This could go on and on for the rest of his life! I remem-bered Possum's brother telling us about the slaves sold to the cotton fields and how badly they were treated. How their entire lives were used up and spent under the lash of an overseer's bullwhip. I shuddered at the thought of Jupiter's life taken away from him like that.

A man beside me called out, “Three hundred dollars.” A voice in the back of the crowd called out, “Four.”

“I have four, do I hear five?” the auctioneer shouted.

Jupiter bit down on his lip as the overseer tugged on the rope that bound his hands. I felt a fit of hiccups coming on, but I shook them off. Jupiter was doing his best to stay strong, and I had to dp the same.

“Four going once, going twice…”

My eyes filled with tears, so that I couldn't see.

“Be still, oh, mah heart,” a voice suddenly sang out from the back of the crowd. “I'll give you five hundred dollars.”

“Sold!” the auctioneer declared, lowering his gavel on the wooden podium in front of him.

I climbed back up on the edge of a water trough and was able to see the crowd parting as men tried to steer clear of the latest buyer. A buyer wearing a corn-shuck hat and carrying a powerful stink on him!

“Fergus!” I cried, jumping off the trough.

For it was Fergus! Fergus T. McGrath himself, who had bid on and bought Jupiter for five hundred dollars! And you know, Austin, I didn't care how bad he smelled. He was the sweetest sight I ever laid eyes on, and I told him so.

We made our way up to the platform to free Jupiter, and while I used my knife to cut the ropes around his wrists, Fergus dealt with the auctioneer, who would not let go of Darcy's walking stick. I think the stink on Fergus was so strong that the auctioneer finally gave it up in desperation just to be rid of him. Just then a strong black hand reached out for Jupiter, and I looked up to see Winston standing afore us! Preacher Tully was at his side. That's when we discovered that it wasn't Fergus who had put up the money to buy Jupiter, but rather Winston and Preacher Tully!

The preacher explained it all. He told us how he and Winston had come down looking for us. They had made it all the way into the state of North Carolina when the axle on the preacher's wagon
broke. A short spell later Fergus stopped by to offer his help. But the axle was beyond anything they could repair, so Fergus offered to give Winston and the preacher a lift to the nearest town.

It wasn't until they had gotten into the back of the wagon that Winston recognized my old turnip head sticking out from behind the crate of chickens!

^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

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted m any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any mformarion storage and retrieval system, without the written permission
of the publisher, excepr where permitted by law. For information address
Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers.

eISBN: 978-0-307-55553-3

November 2000

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