Free The Letter Writer by Ann Rinaldi Page A

him.
    "
So you've all thrown out a good set of clothes, have you?" he asked the house slaves. None of them
answered. "Well, then you can just do without a set of clothing for the rest of the summer and fall," he directed.
    They moaned and he went straight into the dining room for breakfast. And later, Mother Whitehead went into the kitchen to "address" the women who had burned their clothing. She would send to town for new fabric, she said, and each one of them could stitch up their own clothes. But she did not want them to think she was undermining her son, Richard. Richard was not himself this morning and, if not for pride, would take back the order. Did they understand?
    They said yes. Massa Richard was the boss, but they would still have new clothes. They understood. And you know what, Uncle Andrew? I believe they understood more than Mother Whitehead gave them credit for.
    The house was strangely quiet all that day. We scarce looked at each other, as if we were ashamed to acknowledge that we belonged to the white part of the human race.
    Emilie is staying with us for a while. Margaret went back to school, so now I have only Emilie and Violet to worry about. I spent the day trying to
convince Violet that Emilie is not to blame for what happened to the slave, even though it happened on her mother's plantation.
    Since Emilie doesn't want to go home yet, I am in charge of her. She, too, seems not to want to let me out of her sight. She even sat herself down next to me when I wrote letters for Mother Whitehead. I know Mother Whitehead wouldn't have wanted her there since all her correspondence is private, so I sat Emilie in a chair a bit away from us. I gave Emilie a book of poetry and told her not to move or speak, because then Mother Whitehead would know she was in the room.
    All went well. Except that Richard insisted, after lunch, on reading from the Bible. He must have known how upset we all were by yesterday's events, because he assured us that the master is not to blame for whipping his servant, but that
he is only doing his duty as a Christian!
    By the time he was finished, both Violet and Emilie were in tears. So I asked Connie in the kitchen if we could make some taffy and she said yes. And we spent the afternoon pulling taffy. Do you believe, Uncle Andrew, that such a simple task helped us? It
was more comforting than hearing those Bible passages of Richard's. Just as taking little William for a walk in his wagon helped. He fell asleep and it turned out that we were a help to Pleasant.
    So we gave the afternoon some sanity after all and I wonder, Uncle Andrew, is life sane, as we tried to make it? Or is it insanity, as it was yesterday on the Gerard plantation? And why don't more people try to make it sane?
    Or if it is full of sanity for them, why do they try to rip that sanity to pieces and impose their form of insanity? Can you help me understand?
    You have lived a very long time, Uncle Andrew, and you must know some of these answers. Perhaps someday you can answer them for me. Because you have survived to be such a respected gentleman as you are, I wish you every good thing there is.
    I wish you wonderful books to read and poetry inside your head and words there, too, that you may yet write and good afternoons filled with sunshine and laughter and a glass of wine that glimmers in the sun and peace and hope.
    Your loving niece, Harriet

Fourteen
    There is a grapevine of communication the negroes have that runs from plantation to plantation around here so that they know everything, sometimes before the white people know it.
    The word started going around two days after the Gerard slave was burned to death. You could see it in the faces of the negroes, both outside the house and inside.
    Usually there were good feelings between me and most of the negroes on the place. If not downright friendly, they always gave me a smile when we passed each other, or tipped a hat or nodded a head and acknowledged my