The Letter Writer

by Rinaldi, Ann

• ISBN13: 9780152064020
• ISBN10: 0152064028
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2008-11-01
• Publisher: Harcourt Childrens Books

Summary

Eleven-year-old Harriet Whitehead is an outsider in her own family. She feels accepted and important only when she is entrusted to write letters for her blind stepmother. Then Nat Turner, a slave preacher, arrives on her family's plantation and Harriet befriends him, entranced by his gentle manner and eloquent sermons about an all-forgiving God. When Nat asks Harriet for a map of the county to help him spread the word, she draws it for himwanting to be part of something important. But the map turns out to be the missing piece that sets Nat's secret plan in motion and makes Harriet an unwitting accomplice to the bloodiest slave uprising in U.S. history. Award-winning historical novelist Ann Rinaldi has created a bold portrait of an ordinary young girl thrust in to a situation beyond her control.

Author Biography

ANN RINALDI is an award-winning author best known for her ability to bring history vividly to life. She lives in central New Jersey.

Excerpts

One ~ Dear Uncle Andrew: My name is Harriet, and depending on how much you can abide my chatter, I am going to be writing to you a great deal over the next year or so. My brother, Richard, demands it, and when he demands something, the angels concur. He says you are a very intelligent man, and though Mother Whitehead says you are touched in the head, you suffer that malignancy no more than most of us in this family. At any rate, he says you are also an art dealer. And the engraving we have in our center hallway of Mary Wollstonecraft was given to Mother Whitehead by you many years ago. Good grief, I have been passing by it for years! I am eleven years old, love to ride horses and read books. My best friend is my "girl" Violet, who somehow came to be half white and almost part of the family. I dont know how, but this family is so confused it is like Mother Whiteheads crochet yarn after Piddles, the cat, gets finished fussing with it. Oh, I must go now, they are calling me for Sunday dinner, and if there is anything Richard hates it is one being late for prayers before meals. Your servant, Harriet Whitehead ~ Violet was at the edge of the pond in water up to her knees, cutting the cattails. "Oh, look at this one, Miss Harriet," and she snipped it off expertly with a scissor. "This ones a beauty." Her skirt was hitched up between her legs showing her light brown thighs. She didnt wear ruffled pantalets like I did. Slaves didnt wear pantalets. I took the cattail in my hands with the three others. It was a good one. I could cut a sharp point and it would prove to make a good pen when dipped in some lampblack. Id use it to write my next letter, I decided. Maybe this afternoon. Neither of us paid mind to the rider approaching on the fat white horse until he was nearly on top of us. "What are you doing there in that pond?" Richard demanded. "Getting cattails again? Violet, get out and put down your skirts. Harriet, give over those cattails." He reached out his hand. I gave them over. "Going to use these for writing, are you?" he asked. "Yes," I answered. "Theyre known around as slave pens," he said. "Look on the back of any barn wall and youll see their scratchings. Or messages, made from cattails and lampblack. You know what lampblack does to your clothing, Harriet. And how Mama hates it. Yet you do persist. Why?" "Theyre more of a challenge to use," I answered. He sighed deeply. "Havent you enough challenges in life? Violet, havent you anything better to do with your time?" "It be the Sabbath, Massa Richard. I done went to church. An ifn I must say so, you did preach a fine sermon, yessuh." She used the special voice she always used with my brother, the subservient one with the humble tone. "Such a fine sermon that you come home and raise your skirts in front of everybody, hey? Youre not a child anymore. How old are you now, Violet?" She was untwisting her skirt and pulling it down. "Fourteen, suh." "Thats right, I k

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Excerpted from The Letter Writer by Ann Rinaldi
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