By Linda Ibbitson-Hurd
Special to the Express
[When last we met up with Linda and ner new friend, Linda, they were exploring her friend’s family barn, much to the grandfather’s objection.]
“You both come down here – slowly!,” my friend Linda’s Grampa Joe shouted to us.
“Okay Gramp!” Linda shouted down.
He was waiting for us at he closet door. He didn’t raise his voice but was very stern when he looked at us, saying, “This won’t happen again and we’ll never speak of it, agreed?”
In unison, we said yes. He looked weary as he said goodnight and that he’d see us in the morning.
The next morning when we came downstairs for breakfast, Linda’s parents and sisters were up and Grampa Joe had just finished eating. He smiled when he saw us and said, “Sometimes all a body needs is a little sleep.”
When he got up to leave he gave us each a nod on the way out. Everything was back to normal.
When summer came that year we explored the woods near Linda’s house looking for an Indian burial ground that our sixth-grade history teacher told us was supposed to be in that area.
One hot, humid day we were walking across the driveway and as we passed by the corner of the barn, I noticed rocks that looked like they had been part of a building. Linda said when the house and barn were built there had been a carriage house there.
I noticed a door that was slightly ajar and pointed it out.
“Oh my gosh, the tunnel!” she said. “I forgot all about the tunnel. Follow me.”
When she opened the door I realized it was the cellar underneath the barn.
“This is usually locked,” she said, “No one is supposed to be in here, it’s dad and Gramp’s workshop.”
When we went in, there were stationary drill presses, lathes and saws. We walked past them until we came to a dark opening. It was a tunnel.
We rushed to the house to look for a flashlight, to no avail, grabbed a book of matches, ran back to the tunnel and started walking.
The dirt floor was solid and we were surprised there was no trash or clutter other than an occasional stick, some paper, a few mouse remains and no graffiti.
We were determined to find the end to see where it came out. There were places we felt fear, even danger. We had no doubt this had been a tunnel to hide and help keep slaves and possibly others, safe. It got darker in the tunnel and we both lit matches. They went out. We lit two more. They went out again. We realized we were were running out of oxygen. We turned around and headed back, dying of thirst.
We knew we were getting closer to the entrance of the tunnel when it became easier to breathe.
We heard someone yelling.
“I can see them, they’re okay!” Linda’s sister Joan helped us the rest of the way out. We could see that Linda’s mother was quite shaken as she gave us water, telling us to take small sips.
“I was just about to call the Fire Department when Joan saw you, do you realize you could have died in there?,” she said. “I’ve been a nurse for a long time, I’ve seen it happen; let’s get you both into the house where it’s cool.”
We sat around the dining room table. Linda’s mother was still upset as she looked at us.
“What do you have to say for yourselves?” Linda and I looked at one another, I could see her thinking: “We’re really sorry, we didn’t know we could die in there,” but I’m glad we did this, we could feel a little bit what it felt like for those people and I’m proud of our house and the owner during the Civil War who helped people.”
Even though we were aware of the Civil War and slaves, we thought the tunnel was to help hide them until the War ended and then they’d be taken to a place where it was safe for them to live. It was soon after this that we learned about the Underground Railroad and the tunnel’s true purpose.
[Editor’s note: We apologize for the agonizing cliff-hanger last week when we neglected to indicate it ws the first of two parts, and we hope this week’s installment made the anticipation worthwhile.]