Chapter 1
Nashville, Tennessee
Present Day
Jessica Dalton, who most people called Jessie, sat cross-legged on her dorm room bed. The 18-year-old college student twisted a strand of long dark hair around a finger as she frowned at the laptop screen in front of her. When no ideas were forthcoming, she closed the computer and called her mother.
Linda Dalton smiled when she saw her daughter’s name on the phone’s display. “Hey, Jessie. What’s up?”
“Hi, Mom. I have a problem.”
“Oh?” Linda responded. Then, trying to keep the worry out of her voice, she asked, “What kind of problem?”
“All the freshmen have been assigned a huge project for two of our classes. My American History professor has hooked up with my English professor. We have to read a historical fiction novel and then interview someone with actual knowledge to see if the history part of the book was true to the time. Then we have to do a presentation on our findings for history AND write a paper for English class.”
“Wow. That’s a lot. When are the assignments due?”
Jessie climbed off the bed and began pacing the small room as she spoke. “Not til the end of the semester, but we have to pick our books this week.”
“What did you pick?”
“My first choice was The Women by Kristin Hannah.”
“Isn’t that the one about Army nurses serving in Vietnam during the war?”
“Yes. I thought I could interview Nana. She doesn’t talk about the war much—”
Linda interrupted, “Other than the story about meeting my dad.”
“She loves to tell that story.”
“Even more so—” Linda’s voice caught in her throat, “—since he died last year.”
“I know. She’s not the same since Papa passed,” Jessie agreed, her voice softening. “That’s why I wanted to interview her about being a nurse during the war. I thought it would be good for both of us.” After a short pause, Jessie continued in a rush, “Anyway, another student already picked The Women. I have to do something else.”
The two fell silent as Linda mulled over the problem. “What about Uncle Tom’s Cabin?”
Jessie let out a small laugh. “Uhm—and who would I interview with personal knowledge of slavery?”
“Well, I’m sure your college has a professor who studies the Civil War, but I have a better idea.”
“Great. Tell me.”
“When my mom was growing up, she had a Black nanny—”
“Thomasina,” Jessie interrupted. “Nana loved her. That’s who taught her to cook.”
“Yes. And according to my mother, Thomasina said she was named after Uncle Tom because she was his granddaughter.”
“No, that can’t be. Uncle Tom’s Cabin is fiction.”
“If I remember correctly, Thomasina said that because of when the book was written, the author”— Linda paused as she searched her memory for the name —“Harriet something? Anyway, according to Thomasina, the lady who wrote it couldn’t get it published unless she said it was fiction.”
“Hmm,” Jessie murmured. “I doubt my professor would believe that.”
“Maybe not, but you could check. It could be an interesting report.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Jessie sat on the edge of her bed as she considered the idea a little longer. Then she asked, “Wasn’t Uncle Tom a bad person? Isn’t calling someone an ‘Uncle Tom’ an insult?”
“Unfortunately, yes. But if you read the book, you’ll realize how wrong that is. Tom was a devout Christian and believed that to honor God, he had to be an honorable person. Since God made him a slave, in his mind, he had no choice but to be the best slave he could be. Some people today think he was a traitor to his own race because he was a ‘good slave.’ But the way the book tells it, Tom was just an incredibly moral person. He always put other people’s needs above his own. I think over the years some have confused his loyalty to God with loyalty to the slave owners.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“Call your grandma and see what she has to say. If she’s game, I would ask your professor permission to do your report on Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Chapter 2
Ohio Valley
1845
In the summer of 1845, Harriet Beecher Stowe was not yet famous. Instead, she was a struggling, young journalist fighting for newspaper space. Two years prior, she had published a book of short stories, The Mayflower, in which she told historically accurate, but fictionalized, tales about the descendants of the original American pilgrims. Although it had not been a huge commercial success, the book had a few ardent admirers. One such admirer was Mrs. Emily Ratcliff of Kentucky. Emily had written to the author to offer effusive praise of The Mayflower. Furthermore, Emily invited Harriet to visit the Ratcliff Plantation at her earliest convenience so that they might discuss the novel.
Upon receiving Emily’s letter with the invitation to visit, Harriet penned a response:
Dear Mrs. Ratcliff,
Your kind words regarding my compilation of short stories lifted my heart. I would be delighted to visit you at your home in two weeks’ time so that I may express to you in person how much I appreciate your letter.
In Christ,
Harriet Beecher Stowe
While it was true Emily had enjoyed reading the fabricated antics of the original pilgrims and that Harriet was quite pleased to find a fan of her novel, it was also true that both women had ulterior motives in their desire to meet.
Chapter 3
Near Nashville, Tennessee
Present Day
Olivia Henson reached for the ringing phone. “Hello,” she said in a soft but surprisingly strong voice that belied her 80 years.
“Hi, Nana.”
“Oh, Jessie,” Olivia said with a smile. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner. Just been busy.”
“Well, you’re calling now. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
Jessie obliged her grandmother with stories about her first week of college.
When Olivia asked how classes were going, Jessie didn’t hesitate. “Actually, Nana, that’s the main reason I’m calling.” After explaining the history assignment and her mother’s idea to use Uncle Tom’s Cabin, she asked, “Do you remember much about Thomasina, your nanny?’
Although Jessie couldn’t see her grandmother’s eyes light up, she heard the joy in her voice. “Yes, I remember her. Oh, how I loved that woman.”
“Do you really think it’s possible Uncle Tom was an actual person—and that Thomasina was related to him?”
“She certainly believed it. I have no reason to doubt her.”
Jessie started to ask another question, but her grandmother continued. “She kept a journal—I would see her writing in it sometimes.”
“A journal? Really?”
“Yes. When she was young, she wanted to be a journalist.”
“Oh, the journal would be amazing to read. I don’t suppose you know where it is?”
The line went silent for so long, Jessie thought the call had been dropped. “Nana? Are you there?”
“Yes. I was just thinking. I had completely forgotten about her journal—Thomasina left it to me when she died, but I’ve never read it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I was in Vietnam at the time, so my mother put it away for safekeeping. As soon as I got home, your grandfather and I eloped. That was very upsetting to my parents, so Eddie and I didn’t see them for a few years. It wasn’t until your mom was born that things smoothed out with them. Life was busy and I guess I forgot about the journal.”
“Do you know where it is now?”
Olivia let out a long, slow breath. “There was an old steamer trunk Thomasina had. My mother put most of her things in it after she died. I’m guessing it’s in there.”
“Any idea where that trunk is?”
“Well, I suppose it’s still in the attic.” Olivia’s voice grew quiet. “None of Thomasina’s relatives ever came to claim her things.”
“Why?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Olivia said with an unnatural sadness.
“Are you okay, Nana?”
“Yes, of course. I just haven’t thought about Thomasina—I called her Tommy when I was little—in a long time.” Olivia’s voice brightened and she added, “I would love to know if her journal is up there, but this old girl can’t get up those stairs anymore.”
Jessie smiled, “And I am pretty sure that’s your not-so-subtle way of asking me to come visit.”
Olivia laughed. “Saw right through that, did you?”
“Can I come by later today? My last class ends at three, so it might be close to five by the time I get there.”
“Well then, plan on staying for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 4
Ratcliff Plantation, Kentucky
1845
It was mid-afternoon on a Wednesday when Harriet Stowe’s carriage arrived at Ratcliff Plantation in Pruett, Kentucky. Her driver, William, was a former slave who had been granted his freedom several years prior after he saved his master’s toddler from drowning.
William pulled the carriage to the front of the Ratcliff home, climbed out, and then turned to assist his mistress. The pair were greeted by a large Black man whose balding head made him look older than his 28 years.
The man introduced himself as Tom before addressing the slight woman standing before him, “Mrs. Ratcliff is ready for you.” He pointed to the pretty, light-skinned Negro woman on the verandah. “That’s Eliza. She takes care of the Missus, and she will see you to her.” Tom stroked the back of one of the horses tied to the carriage. “I’ll make sure the horses are fed and watered.”
“Thank you, Tom,” Harriet replied with a gentle nod of her head. Then she turned to her driver and introduced him. “Would you be so kind as to see that William is also provided with food and drink? And he’ll need a bed for the night.”
Tom raised an eyebrow and stole a glance at William before responding. “Of course, ma’am. You can count on me.”
Tom watched as the visitor climbed the steps to the porch where Eliza waited. Harriet greeted the house servant with a warm smile and said something that made Eliza laugh.
Tom’s head tilted to the side as he watched the unusual interaction but then pushed his curiosity aside and returned to his work. He helped William unhitch the horses from the carriage before leading them toward the barn.
Eliza escorted Harriet inside the Ratcliff home. They entered a spacious foyer that boasted two sets of French doors on either side of a wide, curved staircase. An enormous crystal chandelier sparkled from above. Harriet followed Eliza through the doors on the left and found herself in the parlor. A well-dressed woman was seated on an oversized couch next to a wall of book-filled shelves. The woman stood the moment her guest entered the room.
“Mrs. Ratcliff,” Eliza began with a slight curtsy to her mistress, “Mrs. Stowe is here to see you.”
“So wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Stowe,” Emily said, taking a step toward Harriet.
“And you as well, Mrs. Ratcliff. It was so kind of you to invite me for a visit.” Harriet looked around the room. “You have a lovely home.”
Emily beamed at her guest but spoke to Eliza. “Please let Chloe know Mrs. Stowe has arrived.”
Eliza acknowledged her mistress with a nod before disappearing through the doors.
Emily invited Harriet to sit. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
Harriet nodded as she took her seat near her hostess. She waved a hand toward the books lining the wall. “You have quite a collection.”
“I’ve yet to read them all, but I’m trying,” Emily laughed. She turned to Harriet. “I did have a question regarding your book, The Mayflower, if you might indulge me.”
“But, of course.”
“You may find me silly,” Emily began as she smoothed the fabric of her skirt. “I’m wondering if I might be a direct descendant of Samuel Eaton.”
“Oh?” Harriet tilted her head and waited for her hostess to explain.
“He’s one of the Mayflower passengers you described.”
“Yes,” Harriet agreed. “He was but an infant when the ship landed at Plymouth Rock.”
Emily leaned closer to Harriet. “My great-grandmother was Josephine Eaton. Her father, James Samuel Eaton, grew up in Boston—so not far from where the pilgrims first settled.”
The blank look on Harriet’s face prompted Emily to continue. “I’m wondering if you might have information on Samuel Eaton’s descendants. I’m quite curious to know if I’m related to him.”
Harriet had no information regarding Mrs. Ratcliff’s ancestors but was reluctant to disappoint her hostess. However, at that moment a heavyset Black woman wearing an apron and headscarf entered the room with a tray.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ratcliff,” the woman said with a smile before turning to their guest. “Welcome to Ratcliff Plantation, Mrs. Stowe. I’m Chloe.” She offered her a large glass of iced tea before adding, “If you need anything while you’re here, just ask for me.”
“Thank you, Chloe,” Harriet said as she accepted the glass. “Do you manage the kitchen?”
“Yes, ma’am. My husband—most everyone calls him ‘Uncle Tom’—is seeing to your horses.”
Chloe turned to Mrs. Ratcliff. “Dinner is ready, but our Mr. Ratcliff isn’t. I expect it won’t be long, though.” Then she turned and slipped from the room.
Harriet watched as Chloe departed, grateful for the interruption. She sipped her tea as she tried to recall what she knew of Samuel Eaton. He’d been an infant on the Mayflower and lived a long life. She glanced at Mrs. Ratcliff. I suppose there’s a chance the two are related.
Harriet asked her hostess a few questions regarding her parents and grandparents, hoping for a bit of information that might be useful. Soon, Chloe returned. “Mr. Ratcliff is ready now. He is waiting for you in the dining room.”
The elegance of the formal dining room contrasted sharply with the conversation over dinner. Arthur Ratcliff was preoccupied with the long drought Kentucky was experiencing, and he shared his worries over the unrelenting heat and the stunted tobacco at risk of dying in the fields. Arthur assumed his two dinner companions were as interested in the topic as he was, and his worries dominated their discussions.
“Oh, my,” Harriet said as she tried to feign interest in her host’s weather concerns. She had hoped to discuss her next writing project with him, which was the real reason she had accepted his wife’s invitation, but she didn’t get the chance.
When Arthur excused himself after dinner, Emily and Harriet opted to enjoy the evening on the verandah. As soon as they were seated, Chloe bustled in with more tea and a plate of petit fours.
“Just a little something sweet I whipped up for y’all,” a smiling Chloe said as she set a tray between the women before hurrying away again.
Harriet watched as Chloe disappeared into the house, wondering whether she and Tom had any children. When she realized her hostess was once again talking about the Mayflower, she forced herself to pay attention.
“That’s why I am just so certain I’m related to Samuel Eaton.”
Although Harriet’s strong religious beliefs would not allow her to tell an outright lie, she decided her mission was righteous enough to justify bending the truth a bit. To Emily’s great delight, Harriet told her, “Records from the Mayflower passengers are rather scarce, but it is known that Samuel Eaton was twice married and that he had at least one son. Thus, it’s quite possible your grandmother, Josephine Eaton, was his direct descendant.”
Harriet tried to listen as Emily prattled on about her possible ancestors, but she was distracted by her own thoughts. If Tom and Chloe have children, they would be perfect for my story.
After publishing The Mayflower, Harriet had decided to turn her attention to the plight of the Negroes forced into slavery. She was a fervent abolitionist and felt the anti-slavery movement would only gain traction when slave owners realized colored men and women were no different from whites. They were intelligent, felt pain, and loved their families. And most important to the deeply religious Harriet, they had also been created in God’s image. Her goal was to write the words that would change people’s hearts.
Harriet was genuine in her convictions, but she would soon learn she was also quite naïve.
Chapter 5
Nashville, Tennessee
Present Day
After the phone call with her grandmother, Jessie left her dorm and walked across campus to the history department. She hoped to find Dr. Benning in his office and arrived to find his door slightly ajar. After a gentle knock, she called out, “Dr. Benning?”
She heard a chair squeak and then Dr. Benning’s voice. “Come in.”
Jessie pushed the door open. “I’m sorry to bother you, Professor.”
“Not at all, Ms. Dalton. Have a seat.” He half rose as he motioned to a chair opposite his desk. He returned to his own seat and asked, “What brings you to my little hole in the wall?”
Jessie took the chair he indicated as she glanced around the room. It was her first time in his office, and it wasn’t quite what she expected. Despite being fairly spacious, overfull bookcases lined every wall making the room feel cramped. When her gaze returned to Dr. Benning, she said, “Professor, it’s about the assignment.”
Dr. Benning nodded and gave her a wide smile. Jessie hesitated. Would her Black professor be offended by her request? Did he have a positive or negative opinion of Uncle Tom?
Jessie took a deep breath and forced herself to continue. “Well, you see—uhm—I’ve chosen a book—but—uhm—I’m not sure it will be acceptable.”
“Well, it never hurts to ask. What are you thinking?”
“I was hoping to do Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Have you read it?”
The man’s eyebrows raised. “I have. Have you?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
Dr. Benning leaned back in his chair making it squeak again. He pressed his fingers together and paused before saying, “It’s not an easy read. Written in a different time of course—it’s almost like a different language.” He sat up and rested his elbows on the desk in front of him. “Tell me, Ms. Dalton, how would you complete the interview portion of the assignment?”
Jessie was relieved when he seemed more curious than offended, and she explained in a rush, “Nana—my grandmother—I know it sounds crazy, but she has a connection.” She went on to explain about Thomasina’s belief that she was related to Uncle Tom and that there might be a journal. She ended with, “I’m going to Nana’s tonight to see if we can find it.”
Dr. Benning said nothing. He just stared at her, his mouth agape.
Jessie bit her lip, again anxious she might have offended him. When the silence and his stare became unbearable, she asked, “Dr. Benning?”
The man blinked and shook his head as though her words forced him out of a daze. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before standing and turning to the bookshelf behind him. Dr. Benning pulled out a large, leather-bound book and held it up so she could see the cover. “My doctoral dissertation.” His eyes grew moist as he told her, “My family has been in the U.S. for at least five generations—so it’s fair to assume at least some of our ancestors were slaves.” He shook his head and looked away from her. “I had a chip on my shoulder about that for a long time.”
Dr. Benning went quiet, and Jessie tried to think of something appropriate to say. Before she could respond, he turned back to her and said, “I majored in history in college and, when I decided to go to graduate school, chose to do my PhD thesis on the history of slavery in America. I read many books written during that time but ignored Uncle Tom’s Cabinfor as long as possible. When I finally read it—well, it wasn’t what I expected. Many people, including Abraham Lincoln himself, credit that book with starting the Civil War because it opened people’s eyes to the reality of slavery. The year the book was published—in 1852—only the Holy Bible sold more copies than Uncle Tom’s Cabin. That book made a difference. No doubt, slavery is a terrible, terrible part of our history, but if it weren’t for people like Ms. Stowe, it might have been with us even longer than it was.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And why would you? Uncle Tom’s Cabin used to be required reading, but it hasn’t been for many, many years.”
Dr. Benning set his dissertation on his desk and flipped through pages until he found the passage he wanted. He tapped the book and nodded before turning his attention back to Jessie. “I interviewed many people for my research on slavery. Old Black men and women who were direct descendants of slaves. They told me the stories that had been passed down through the generations about those terrible times. I learned a great deal from them, and it’s all here, written in these pages.” He handed the open book to Jessie, pointed to a paragraph, and told her to read.
Jessie placed the book on her lap, cleared her throat, and read aloud:
On two separate occasions, interviewees insisted that one of their ancestors had known the man Stowe referred to as ‘Uncle Tom’ in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Jessie stopped reading and looked at her professor. His smile had returned, and he told her, “Keep going.”
She took a breath and continued:
These individuals provided markedly similar information that had been passed down to them from their ancestors. According to these interviewees, Uncle Tom was not a fictional character—
A gasp escaped Jessie’s throat. She looked up. “Are you saying…?”
Dr. Benning’s smile widened. “Keep reading. You’re almost there.”
Jessie started the sentence again:
According to these interviewees, Uncle Tom was not a fictional character. Both insisted a man fitting the description of Uncle Tom had been born in Kentucky around 1815. Tom was separated from his wife and children when he was sold to a slave trader and taken to New Orleans. Tom was said to be a good and honorable man with a strong Christian faith who was beaten to death when he refused to reveal the location of two female slaves who had escaped. Although there was nothing in Ms. Stowe’s writings to verify Tom was more than a figment of her imagination, I surmise that there is a strong possibility that he was, in fact, a real person.
Jessie’s voice fell silent, but her eyes remained fixed on the page. After taking a minute to digest what she had read—words her professor had written—she looked up at him and asked, “You believe Uncle Tom wasn’t just a character made up for Stowe’s novel?”
“I do.” Dr. Benning walked around to the front of his desk and sat on the corner. “And if your grandmother has that journal, and we can verify that it’s real, you’ll have something far more valuable than notes for a class project.
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