Promises to the Dead

by Mary Downing Hahn Narrated by Kevin T. Collins

Overview

Mary Downing Hahn combines powerful characters, dark secrets, and breathtaking suspense in a compelling Civil War-era story listeners won't soon forget. Aiding and abetting an escaped slave is against the law, and it goes against everything Jesse Sherman has been taught. But he has promised a dying runaway slave that he will take her seven-year-old son, Perry, to safety in Baltimore. He can't break a promise made to the dead, no matter what the risks. More important, he must follow what he knows to be true in his heart. When the journey turns out to be far more difficult and dangerous than he anticipated, and he loses Perry on the riot-torn streets of Baltimore, Jesse comes face to face with the worst humanity has to offer. But he also witnesses examples of love, compassion, and courage unlike anything he's experienced before.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

Hahn's (Anna All Year Round) historical novel, set in a divided Maryland at the beginning of the Civil War, portrays an unconvincing tale of escape from slavery. The story begins with a tenuous premise: 12-year-old narrator Jesse stumbles on a desperate pregnant runaway captive (whom Jesse recognizes), Lydia, and her young son, Perry, fathered by her recently deceased master, Peregrine Baxter. She holds Jesse at knifepoint ("She'd just as soon kill you as look at you," Perry tells Jesse), yet as the woman is dying from childbirth, Jesse promises her that he'll deliver Perry to Peregrine Baxter's sister in Baltimore (though readers will question whether he'd find a welcome reception). While readers may suspend disbelief regarding Jesse's risk taking, they may not take the leap of faith that captives with even more to lose would help them so freely. For example, during a riot inspired by the influx of Union soldiers in Baltimore (based on actual events), the "meanest and most determined slave-catcher in Talbot County" nabs Perry and knocks Jesse, with a pistol, on the head; Jesse faints in front of Judge Baxter's (Peregrine Baxter's father) residence, and the judge's staff secretly nurses him for weeks. The connection between Jesse and Perry is not fully developed, hence their relationship--as well as Jesse's Herculean efforts--seems hollow. Ages 10-14. (Apr.) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|

School Library Journal

Gr 4-6-Despite some unlikely coincidences and superficial secondary characters, this is a reasonably exciting adventure story that integrates many historical details. When 12-year-old Jesse, a white Southerner, promises Lydia, a slave who dies while trying to escape, that he will take her young son, Perry, to relatives in Baltimore, he finds himself not only traveling farther than he's ever been, but caught up in the outbreak of the Civil War as well. The focus of the story is Jesse's realization about the evils of slavery, personified by the despicable Colonel Botfield, who is searching for the runaways. In the end, Jesse has learned to question much of what he has been taught. The African-American characters, while mostly brave and good, serve mainly to move the plot along. Some readers may find the facts that Perry's father was a white slave owner who seduced Lydia and that Colonel Botfield is indeed Lydia's father confusing. While these details add important historical information, they overload the plot at times. Still, the dangers that Jesse and Perry encounter, and the events they witness, from a riot in Baltimore to a skirmish with Union soldiers, make this an involving story that raises many of the issues that led to the Civil War.-Cyrisse Jaffee, formerly at Newton Public Schools, MA Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.|

Kirkus Reviews

In this fast-paced but flawed historical novel, Hahn (Anna All Year Round, 1998, etc.) recounts the harrowing story, told in the first person, of a journey undertaken by two young boys in the early days of the Civil War and of the bond that develops between them. Twelve-year-old Jesse Sherman is accosted at knifepoint in the woods near his home in rural Maryland by Lydia, a dying runaway slave, who implores Jesse to take her small son, Perry, to a white friend in Baltimore. Perry is the child of this friend's deceased brother, and Lydia believes that she is Perry's only hope for safety. After Lydia dies, the boys make their way to Baltimore, where they get caught up in a riot instigated by Confederate sympathizers against Union troops heading South. Jesse is brutally attacked by his nemesis, a vicious slave hunter, who kidnaps Perry. The boys are ultimately reunited—with great difficulty—but their troubles are hardly over. Through an unlikely coincidence, they easily locate Lydia's friend, but she proves unhelpful. Other setbacks include an armed skirmish; the reappearance of the slave hunter seemingly at every turn; and the ever-present dangers that beset other runaway slaves the boys meet (some of who turn out to be Perry's relatives). While the dialogue is frequently uneven and some plot details are not always credible, the action and suspense will keep readers interested, as will the touching friendship forged by the two protagonists and the startling revelation at the end that forces Jesse to keep yet other promises to the dead. Historical events are placed in context in an afterward. (Fiction. 10-14)

From the Publisher

"an involving story that raises many of the issues that led to the Civil War" —School Library Journal

"Hahn has a marvelous touch when it comes to manipulating her story and heightening the tension in a way that keeps readers on the edge of their seats." —Booklist, ALA

"fast-moving, exciting" —Children's Book Review Service —

Product Details

BN ID:	2940191382937
Publisher:	Tantor Audio
Publication date:	05/14/2024
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

If my great-uncle Philemon hadn't gotten a sudden hankering for turtle soup, the story I'm about to tell would have come out different. Or maybe it wouldn't have happened at all. But then who's to speak with any certainty about what might or might not have been? Everyone knows fate has a way of finding us no matter how well hid we may think we are.

All I can say is my particular story started when my great-uncle decided a bowl of Delia's soup was just the thing for his rheumatism, which was fearsome bad in damp weather. Since the old man couldn't go hunting himself, not with his stiff knees and aching back, he sent me to the marsh instead. A little spring rain wouldn't hurt a boy my age, he said. Nor the wind either.

Delia raised her eyebrows at this and said, "Age got nothing to do with it. I never knew pneumonia to spare a body, young or old." But she didn't waste her breath arguing. Once my uncle got an idea in his head, nobody could shake it loose. Not even Delia, who had more sense than me and him put together.

Uncle Philemon gave her a vexed look and said nothing. Delia was the only slave he owned, and he treated her good most of the time, fearing she might run away if he didn't. He'd told her more than once he planned to free her when he died; it was already written in his will, item two, right after the part where he left me, his great-nephew, all he possessed. Which didn't amount to much as he had gambled just about everything away long before I came to live with him.

"Go on now, boy," Uncle Philemon told me, "and fetch me the biggest old turtle you can find."

I knew better than to put up a fuss. Armed with along pointed pole to poke the turtle out of the mud and a basket to carry him home in, I headed for the marsh. If it had been later in the year, I would have had an easy time of it, but we'd had a long cold spell in February, worse than a normal Maryland winter, and the wily old rascals were still hibernating. I figured they'd burrowed clean through the earth to China by now. Most likely children on the other side of the world were catching turtles that by right ought to have been mine.

The wind blew across the Chesapeake Bay, straight through the tall grass, driving the cold rain before it. It pricked my face like icy needles and soaked right through my raggedy old jacket. I soon grew weary of prodding and poking the mud and finding nothing.

"Dang you, Uncle Philemon," I hollered, "and dang your everlasting rheumatism, too!"

I was sorely tempted to go home, but I didn't dare, not when my uncle had his belly primed for terrapin soup. If I walked through the door with nothing for Delia to cook, the old boy would throw a fit loud enough to scare the devil himself. Might even give me a thrashing, especially if he'd been into the brandy.

Despite his cantankerous ways, I must say I was normally right fond of my uncle. He'd done his Christian duty by me, sure enough, for he'd taken me in after Mama and Daddy died. I wasn't but four years old at the time and the most useless child you ever did see, but he agreed to be my guardian and teach me to be a carpenter. All he'd taught me so far was hammering, which you can't call a skill. I guessed it was a start, though. After all, I was only twelve. I had plenty of years to learn sawing and measuring and such.

Mostly what I did for my uncle was milk the cow, help the hired hands with the planting and harvesting, and provide Delia with things to cook for supper. Deer, squirrels, rabbits, oysters, crabs, turtles-whatever the old man wanted to eat I brung home. Without me, he'd most likely have starved to death long ago.

Other than that, and a few lessons in reading, writing, and figuring, Uncle Philemon allowed me to do pretty much as I pleased, which was often nothing but playing in the creek or climbing trees or making mischief of one kind or another. As for thrashings, all I had to do was stay out of his way when he'd been drinking. You can't ask for a much better life than that.

So I kept on poking the mud in hope of scaring up a turtle. Before long, the rain turned to a downpour so heavy I could hardly see. Truth to tell, the wetter I got, the better a thrashing seemed, mainly because it would be given inside, in front of a roaring fire. Let Uncle Philemon warm my britches — and the rest of me as well. If he wanted a turtle, he'd just have to drag his sorry old self down here and find one.

I took a path that led out of the marsh and into the woods, hoping to find shelter under the trees. If I hadn't been fussing about my uncle, I might have wondered why the crows were making such a ruckus, but I was just too mad to pay them any mind. In fact, I didn't notice a thing out of the ordinary till someone grabbed me from behind, pressed a knife against my throat, and clamped a hand over my mouth.

"Don't move or I'll kill you," a woman hissed in my ear. "Don't make a sound either. Stay right where you are, as quiet as you can be...

Promises to the Dead. Copyright © by Mary Downing Hahn. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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