deeply, and there’s nothing that will change this fact.
With deepest gratitude,
John
December 25, 1863
Dear Hannah,
I received your response letter. It’s clear that you wish to have nothing further to do with me. It wounded me to the core, but I appreciate your honesty. I suppose I deserve this. I want to let you know that I’m in the abolitionist movement. I left the army and joined the abolitionists. My father is dismayed, disappointed, and finds ill favor upon me. He’s sent correspondence alerting me of such. Though he sympathizes with the poor treatment of many who are enslaved, he does not believe that the entire institution needs to be eradicated. I’m baffled by his stance. He taught me that the slaves deserved fair and equal treatment and for me to never believe I was above them – above you – in any fashion. I followed that philosophy, and now he disapproves. I’m terribly confused by his repeated mixed messages. He also does not believe that I have deep, earnest love for my country. The fact that I love my country is the very thing which compels me to do this. I love this country, Hannah. That’s why I want it be great, not just good. We can’t be great if we continue to utilize slavery. Either pay the negro a livable wage or let him or her go. No one should be forced to labor against their will and then go uncompensated for their diligence.
As a child, I must admit, I didn’t understand the severity of the situation. Even when I left to fight, I didn’t fully grasp what this has done to us as a nation. I’ve had a great deal of time to think, write, and develop my ideas. I’m discovering by each second of the day what I believe and stand for, especially now that I’m not under my father’s firm thumb. He’s concerned that, upon my arrival, I won’t be welcomed at the university. This is highly unlikely. He’s attempting to scare me into submission. Nevertheless, I hope you’re well, Hannah. I miss you. I’ll keep to my promise and never trouble you again.
Always with love,
John
Hannah flipped through the rest of the letters as she wiped the tears flowing from her eyes. “I never wrote him a letter,” she thought to herself, horrified. She knew Master Stewart responded on her behalf. She clenched her jaw and swallowed her hatred that slowly grew inside her as she envisioned Master Stewart creating the counterfeit letter and signing her name. She wrapped the ribbon around the stack of letters, placed them back into the large yellow box, slid it neatly under the bed, and placed the candle back in its original location before carefully exiting the bedroom. As she headed down the stairs, she saw her mother looking out of the window. Mary suddenly spun around.
“Hannah! Where you been, girl? I been lookin’ all over for you!” Mary yelled.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I had gotten ill and needed to rest.”
“I was just up there and didn’t see you!” Mary insisted.
“I wasn’t in the bedroom. I had went out back to get fresh air before the storm arrived.” Hannah hated lying to her mother. She quickly hid her face, trying to disguise the recent crying that had wrapped her up in extreme discomfort. Mary grabbed Hannah and held her close to her large bosom.
“Don’t scare me like that again. It’s time we serve dessert. Help me pour milk and cut up the bread pudding.” Hannah walked behind her mother, entering the kitchen, her heart heavy and full of silent grief.
* * *
CHAPTER 3
June 1864
“Hannah, wake up.” Mary shook her daughter’s fragile shoulder, her nightgown falling delicately off her smooth shoulder. Hannah’s eyes fluttered open. Her brain scattered, full of muddled thoughts.
“I need to speak to you,” Mary continued to whisper. “Master Stewart’s hostin’ a large gala tomorrow night. He doesn’t want you there. I need you stay up here. I’m tellin’ you now because we start
With deepest gratitude,
John
December 25, 1863
Dear Hannah,
I received your response letter. It’s clear that you wish to have nothing further to do with me. It wounded me to the core, but I appreciate your honesty. I suppose I deserve this. I want to let you know that I’m in the abolitionist movement. I left the army and joined the abolitionists. My father is dismayed, disappointed, and finds ill favor upon me. He’s sent correspondence alerting me of such. Though he sympathizes with the poor treatment of many who are enslaved, he does not believe that the entire institution needs to be eradicated. I’m baffled by his stance. He taught me that the slaves deserved fair and equal treatment and for me to never believe I was above them – above you – in any fashion. I followed that philosophy, and now he disapproves. I’m terribly confused by his repeated mixed messages. He also does not believe that I have deep, earnest love for my country. The fact that I love my country is the very thing which compels me to do this. I love this country, Hannah. That’s why I want it be great, not just good. We can’t be great if we continue to utilize slavery. Either pay the negro a livable wage or let him or her go. No one should be forced to labor against their will and then go uncompensated for their diligence.
As a child, I must admit, I didn’t understand the severity of the situation. Even when I left to fight, I didn’t fully grasp what this has done to us as a nation. I’ve had a great deal of time to think, write, and develop my ideas. I’m discovering by each second of the day what I believe and stand for, especially now that I’m not under my father’s firm thumb. He’s concerned that, upon my arrival, I won’t be welcomed at the university. This is highly unlikely. He’s attempting to scare me into submission. Nevertheless, I hope you’re well, Hannah. I miss you. I’ll keep to my promise and never trouble you again.
Always with love,
John
Hannah flipped through the rest of the letters as she wiped the tears flowing from her eyes. “I never wrote him a letter,” she thought to herself, horrified. She knew Master Stewart responded on her behalf. She clenched her jaw and swallowed her hatred that slowly grew inside her as she envisioned Master Stewart creating the counterfeit letter and signing her name. She wrapped the ribbon around the stack of letters, placed them back into the large yellow box, slid it neatly under the bed, and placed the candle back in its original location before carefully exiting the bedroom. As she headed down the stairs, she saw her mother looking out of the window. Mary suddenly spun around.
“Hannah! Where you been, girl? I been lookin’ all over for you!” Mary yelled.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I had gotten ill and needed to rest.”
“I was just up there and didn’t see you!” Mary insisted.
“I wasn’t in the bedroom. I had went out back to get fresh air before the storm arrived.” Hannah hated lying to her mother. She quickly hid her face, trying to disguise the recent crying that had wrapped her up in extreme discomfort. Mary grabbed Hannah and held her close to her large bosom.
“Don’t scare me like that again. It’s time we serve dessert. Help me pour milk and cut up the bread pudding.” Hannah walked behind her mother, entering the kitchen, her heart heavy and full of silent grief.
* * *
CHAPTER 3
June 1864
“Hannah, wake up.” Mary shook her daughter’s fragile shoulder, her nightgown falling delicately off her smooth shoulder. Hannah’s eyes fluttered open. Her brain scattered, full of muddled thoughts.
“I need to speak to you,” Mary continued to whisper. “Master Stewart’s hostin’ a large gala tomorrow night. He doesn’t want you there. I need you stay up here. I’m tellin’ you now because we start
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