“It’s been a very long time since I’ve written anything,” I say. “I’d like to start by practicing my letters, if you’ve pen and paper to spare.”
“I do,” he says.
I sit at the table and roll up my sleeves to keep them out of the ink while he rummages through his desk for paper, pen, and inkwell. He opens the back of the pen and pours several drops of ink inside before closing it back up.
“This is costly,” he says, setting everything on the table beside me. “So write small. And that is my only spare pen, so be gentle. I’ll pick up more stationery when I can, along with extra nibs and more ink. But this will have to do for now.”
“I wouldn’t mind a slate,” I say. “To practice with until my penmanship is no longer a disgrace.”
“That’s a good idea,” he says.
It’s a fabulous idea. One of my best. I could write messages and simply erase them, if I had a slate and some chalk. That would give me a much better way to communicate with Jefferson.
“Go ahead and get started. I’ll check with the headman. He just might have a slate in stock. Lots of miners use slates for signage.”
“The headman?”
“The leader of the Chinese. He acts as a peddler here in camp. Has a tent full of oddities. Surely you’ve seen him?”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves the cabin, and I set to work pretending to care about penmanship. The ink is slow to reach the nib, and I scratch a tiny hole in the paper with my first few attempts. I lick my fingers and pinch the resulting moisture against the nib, and a few tries later the ink flows nice as you please.
Starting at the very corner of the sheet and writing small, I begin scripting the uppercase alphabet. I do a terrible job of it, smearing my B and my H badly. I press on doggedly, but it’s hard to concentrate. A slate! Please, please let the headman have a slate in stock.
Writing has always seemed a useless task to me. It’s hardly something that puts food on the table or a roof over your head, and it requires the kind of stilled focus I’d rather save for bagging a nice fat deer. But now that I’ve spoken the lie, I have to live with it.
I’m finishing off my X with a swirling loop—which looks too much like an accidental blot—when Hiram returns.
In his hand is a dark green slate inside an oak frame and several pieces of chalk. “Look what I found!” he says.
I don’t have to fake my smile. “Thank you so much.”
He glances down at my sloppy alphabet and gets a pained expression.
“I told you my penmanship is a disgrace, and it’s worse for lack of practice. But I’ll get better, I promise.”
“I know you will,” he says, and his gaze on me is so fond and proud, you’d think he actually cared.
Hiram takes up the paper, pen, and ink and puts the slate and chalk in their place on the table.
I start my alphabet over again, writing as slow as I can to preserve my chalk, because I’ll need all of it for tonight. It’s going to be a long, long day.
I lie in bed forever, listening to the night noise of camp—a few distant conversations, some laughter, a snorting burro, a crackling fire. Gradually it all fades. It’s too late in the season for crickets and frogs, and I find the silence odd. Maybe even frightening. I like knowing there’s some kind of life outside these walls.
I listen, too, for my uncle. The scratch of his pen, the scrape of his chair. He always stays up late, and the light from his lantern edges my quilt-covered doorway.
I hold the slate to my chest. Hiram didn’t put up a fight when I brought it to my bedroom, didn’t even raise an eyebrow. And now I’ll use it to talk to someone. Maybe even Jefferson.
Please, let it be Jefferson.
Then again, talking to him might put him at risk. It would be best if he stayed far away from me right now.
My uncle’s lantern goes dark. The floor creaks. I slide my slate beneath my bed quilt and close my eyes tight. Air whispers across my face when he lifts the quilt in the doorway and stands there awhile, staring. I will my muscles to stillness, to keeping my breath regular.
The floor creaks again when he walks away, and I hear the soft clunk of his bedroom door as he finally retires for the night.
I lie awake a long time, hoping I’ll see Jefferson, hoping I won’t see Jefferson, wondering what I’ll say to whoever shows up.
A light tap sounds at my window.
I lurch up off the bed before I can tell myself to be slow and silent. I grab the slate, step onto the chest, peer outside, and all the breath leaves my body—from both relief and dread, because it is Jefferson, grinning like a madman.
The moon is barely a thumbnail sliver, and a single lantern sways from one of the Chinese tents, giving shape to his silhouette. My legs twitch with the need to run outside and throw my arms around him and have a real conversation, but last time I sneaked out, someone saw me.
Instead, I write on my slate: How did you get out? And I put it up to the window.
His eyes widen at the sight of my slate. Then he fogs the window with his breath and uses his forefinger to write:
I gape at the word, spending a precious moment making sure I’m parsing it true. To the slate, I add: A foreman is helping you?
Jefferson nods.
Why?
He hesitates a moment, then writes:
And I guess that’s part of the problem. Bad men are never all bad, and good men are never all good, and it makes it hard to know up from down. I erase the slate with the side of my hand and write: Is it a trap? Is he a spy?
Jefferson shakes his head emphatically no.
What’s the plan?
He makes an O with his lips and leans toward the window. I want to lean forward and kiss him through the glass. Then it becomes clouded, and his fingertip scrawls a new word.
I nod. I knew this already. What do you want me to do?
Get laudanum from Wilhelm?
He nods.
My heart races. How?
He shakes his head and gestures with his hands, a giving motion, from him to me.
I erase the first half of my board and start writing: You give me gunpwdr?
He nods.
That’ll be a distraction, for sure. Why me?
That makes sense. I’m not searched. In fact, I might be the only person who leaves the mine without being searched. What do I do with it?