Gohlke - William Henry is a Fine Name

FROM THE MOMENT IN CHILDHOOD that I learned of the Underground Railroad I have been fascinated by that daring race to freedom and inspired by the courageous stories of its runners, conductors, and stationmasters. Because of the danger and secrecy surrounding those journeys and safe houses, little information was documented at the time. But I am grateful for the oral stories and snatches of stories that abound in areas where the Underground Railroad was known to be active.

For believing in this book from the start, for walking with me every step of the wayfreely sharing writing and marketing expertiseI thank my dear friend and writing colleague, Tracy Leinberger-Leonardi. It would not have happened without you.

For choosing my book from the hundreds of books you read, and for working diligently with me to make it the best it can be, I thank my editor at Moody, Andrew McGuire.

For challenging me with questions, ironing out details, and fine-tuning, I thank Cheryl Dunlop, my copy editor.

For all manner of valuable contributions, from good advice and the careful critiquing of early drafts to the cheerful exploration of old churches, older cemeteries, and dilapidated houses, I am most grateful to my mother, Gloria Bernice Goforth Lemons; my sister, Gloria Delk; my brother, Dan Lounsbury; my sister-in-law, Randi Eaton; my daughter, Elisabeth Gohlke, my husband, Dan Gohlke, my pastor, Rev. Karen Bunnell; my writing teacher and mentor, Joan Hiatt Harlow, who pulled the title of this book from its manuscript, my friends and colleagues, experts in their fields, Kathy Chamberlin, Miriam and George Ackerman, Patricia Valdata, Nancy Jennings, and Joan Wilcox.

For help in researching historical details that brought this novel to life, I am indebted to the late Eva Muse, for first placing in my hands an original slave ledger for Cecil County, Maryland, and for introducing me to William Stills book The Underground Railroad, Michael Dixon and the dedicated volunteers of the Cecil County Historical Society, who guided me through old census records, maps, and original copies of newspapers; enthusiastic volunteers of the Chester County Historical Society in West Chester, Pennsylvania, and the New Castle County Historical Society in New Castle, Delaware, wonderfully helpful librarians of the Cecil County Public Library in Elkton, Maryland, and of the North Carolina Room of the Forsyth County Public Library in Winston-Salem, North Carolina; the Forsyth County Agricultural Center, North Carolina Cooperative Extension, gracious tour guides at Mendenhall Plantation, Jamestown, North Carolina, at Mount Harmon Plantation, Earleville, Maryland, and at the Hermitage, near Nashville, Tennessee, and Mount Pleasant Methodist Church in Tanglewood Park, Forsyth County, North Carolina.

Many thanks to my church, Elkton United Methodist, in Elkton, Maryland. You daily inspire me by your commitment to sharing Gods love through welcoming arms, mission, and social justice. Working on this book while in your fellowship has been a perfect fit.

Very special thanks to my uncle, Wilbur Goforth, for reminding me that a sure way to know if Im working in the will of God is to ask, Do I have joy? Is this yoke easy? Is this burden light?

Last but never least, I thank Dan, Elisabeth, and Daniel, my beloved family, for your love, support, and patience with my passion.

THE YEAR BEFORE I WAS BORN, our neighbor and my fathers employer, Mr. Isaac Heath, took up some of the notions of Quakers and freed all his sixty-two slaves, gave them fifty dollars apiece, and provided all that wanted safe passage into Pennsylvania or farther north, into Canada, if they were so disposed. Those who wanted to stay, he gave two acres and a two-bedroom frame house with plank floors and glass windows, ten chickens, one hog, a years worth of clothes, and hired them on at fifty cents a day. Mr. Heath built them a meetinghouse right on Laurelea so they could walk to church and never leave home. So its no wonder I grew up not knowing much about the meanness of slavery or the orneriness of greed until the summer I turned thirteen.

June 1859

THE JUNE SUN SMOLDERED uncommonly hot, so hot that William Henry and I chose to forget our chores, borrow hot cornbread and cold cider from Aunt Sassys kitchen, and take off for Tulleys Pond, home of the best smallmouth bass this end of Cecil County. By late afternoon wed swatted a million mosquitoes, snagged somebodys old wagon wheel, and hooked a few sunnies not worth the fat to fry. It was getting late and we were about to give it up and go on home to chores and supper when Jake Tulley showed up on the opposite bank. William Henry elbowed me in the side.

You boys be trespassing. Jake knew our names as well as he knew his mamas, but Jake was a year older and calling us you boys made him feel smug.

Trespassing? William Henrys eyes opened wide, showing all their white in his black face. He turned to me and in a voice that held all the shock of a September snowstorm, said, Robert Leslie Glover? Is we trespassing? Is that what were doing here?

I thought we was fishing. I kept my face straight.

Jake pushed a greasy hank of hair off his forehead and hitched up his pants. I guess whipping your pa for trespassing last week wasnt enough, William Henry. Well see who thinks hes funny when I tell my pa that darkies and white trash is stealing our fish.