Ghost Writer

[Written for the Secret Writer Challenge, hosted by Real Poetic.]

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Mr. Jacobs sat in his winged back chair, reading the newspaper, cursing aloud. Another of those letters had appeared in a paper up North. Yankees lapped it up.

The letters were supposedly written by a slave. Jacobs didn't think so. Probably some white abolitionist stirring the pot. Any fool knew a slave couldn’t write like that.

Whoever wrote them was causing trouble. The letters were the talk of Memphis. This sort of thing could rile up the slaves.

It wasn't only the planters worrying. Townsfolk like Jacobs were, too. The stories of abused slaves were far-fetched, in his opinion. His slaves were better off than they deserved.

Old Thomas was the most faithful servant in the household. In his younger years, he worked in the Jacobs’ wheelwright business. Thomas’s age and loyalty eventually earned him a place in the house.

These days Thomas spent his time tending his master's grand library. That’s where they were at that moment. Jacobs in his chair, smoking a pipe and reading. Thomas dusting off the mantel.

“Thomas,” Jacobs said. “You got it good here, right?”

“Oh, yes, Master.”

“Damn straight,” Jacobs said. “Them rabble-rousers don’t know nothin’. Ever heard anything so ridiculous? A slave writing letters.”

“No, sir. I sure ain’t.”

The sun hung low in the February sky and cold crept in around the window sills. Mr. Jacobs tapped his tobacco into an ashtray and tossed his paper onto the ottoman. It was almost dinner time.

“I’ll be back later. Stoke the fire up. It’s going to be a cold one.”

The sound of Jacobs' footsteps faded into the recesses of the house. Thomas peeked out into the foyer. No sign of anyone. He went back over to the high bookshelves and climbed up on the footstool. Reaching behind some of the wider volumes, he pulled out some blank sheets of paper.

Thomas took another look-and-listen before sitting at a little table in the corner shadows. Smoothing out the paper, he retrieved a fountain pen he stashed inside a vase. Just enough light reached him from the lamp on Mr. Jacobs’ desk.

The slave's weathered hands began to write in his simple cursive.

Dear Editor,

Another slave was beaten to death in Memphis.

He stole a loaf of bread for his hungry children.