Letters from the Underground Railroad

Letter 1 – May 5, 1852

To my dearest Mama,

The day has come, and I am leaving. It is hard to write this without tears staining the paper, but I must be strong. Tonight, I will leave behind the plantation, the only life I have ever known, to seek the promise of freedom. The conductor, a kind man I’ve never met before, told me the route would be long and dangerous, but the risk is worth it. I overheard Mr. Turner, the overseer, say that there is talk of selling me to the South. They want to send me to a place where no one ever comes back. I won’t let that happen.

I remember how you told me stories of freedom when I was little—how you spoke of places where no man is shackled, where the color of your skin doesn't mark you as less than. Those words are all I have now, Mama. I hold them close to my heart as I make this journey.

The stars are out tonight, and I must go. Please pray for me, for us, for all those seeking the light of freedom.

With all my love,

Your daughter,

Eliza

Letter 2 – May 9, 1852

To Mama,

I have made it past the first stop. I am with a woman named Sarah, a conductor who runs the route through the woods. She gave me some bread, and I ate it slowly, savoring every bite, even though my stomach has been empty for so long. Her hands were steady as she held mine, leading me through the thick brush, as if she had done this a hundred times before. I wonder how many lives she has helped escape—how many souls she has guided toward safety. She never said much, but her eyes were full of kindness and understanding.

There was a moment when we stopped to rest, and I looked up at the sky, seeing the same stars Mama used to tell me about. I thought of you then, and how you used to sing songs of hope as we worked the fields together. I tried to remember your voice, the melody that once brought peace to my heart. It kept me calm during the long walk, the crunch of dry leaves beneath my feet, the constant fear that we might be caught.

But there’s something else in the air now—freedom. The thought that I could be free, that I might one day stand in a place where I am not owned by another, where I can speak my mind without fear, gives me strength.

I have to sleep now. We move again before dawn. I will write more when I can.

With all my love,

Eliza

Letter 3 – May 15, 1852

To Mama,

It has been nearly a week since I last wrote. I am tired, Mama. My feet are sore, and my body aches from the long days of walking, hiding, and running. But I cannot stop. I will not stop. Freedom is just beyond the horizon, and I can taste it on the wind.

We crossed a river yesterday, and I thought my heart might stop from fear as the water swirled beneath me. Sarah held me tight, telling me not to look down, that I was safe with her. The current was swift, and the night was dark, but we made it across. Afterward, we climbed into a small cabin where a family took us in for the night. They fed us supper—cornbread and beans—and I felt a warmth in my chest that I have not felt in years.

Sarah told me to sleep, but I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering about the others who had passed this way before me. I thought of the families who had helped them, risking everything for the sake of others. I thought of the dangers that lurk at every turn—the slave catchers, the wolves in the woods, the harsh weather. Still, these brave souls continue, giving all they have to help those like me find a place where we can be free.

I dream of that place, Mama. I dream of a home where no one will ever own me, where my children will not be born into chains.

But until I reach that place, I will continue to write, to hold on to the strength of these words.

With all my love,

Eliza

Letter 4 – May 22, 1852

To Mama,

It has been two weeks since I left the plantation, and we are so close now, so close to freedom. But the closer we get, the more afraid I become. I have seen men with dogs chasing us in the distance, and I know the danger is real. I worry about Sarah and the other conductors. I wonder how many of them have been caught, how many have sacrificed their lives so others could go free. I cannot bear the thought of what could happen to them if we are caught.

Last night, as we passed through a small town, we heard whispers of the Fugitive Slave Act. The law makes it even harder for those like me to find safety, and the risk of being caught is greater. But I will not turn back. I will not be made to live like an animal again.

I am so tired, Mama, so tired. My feet are raw, and my body is trembling from exhaustion. But when I close my eyes, I see your face. I hear your voice. It keeps me going, keeps me pushing through the pain, the fear, the longing.

I will make it, Mama. I swear it.

With all my love,

Eliza

Letter 5 – May 29, 1852

To Mama,

I am free, Mama. I have made it.

It feels strange to say those words, to write them down, but I have crossed the border into Canada. I am standing in a place where the sun shines on my face and no one dares to tell me who I am or where I belong. I am free.

I have found a home with a family who welcomed me without hesitation, and they have promised to help me build a new life. But I can’t help but think of all those still trapped, still struggling, still living under the weight of chains. I think of the women, the men, the children who never got the chance to escape. I think of the ones who were caught, who were taken back, who were broken by the system.

But I will not forget them, Mama. I will never forget where I came from or the sacrifices others made to get me here. I will continue to fight for freedom, for the freedom of all our people.

I love you, Mama. And I hope you know, wherever you are, that I am free.

With all my love,

Eliza