American Dreams

by Janet Dailey

  As they strolled among the strutting peacocks on the lawn, she shared her recent triumph with Nathan Cole—her success in persuading the Gordons to let her teach the two slave children— and her trials, particularly her current situation with Kipp.

  "His resentment of them borders on hatred," Eliza admitted. "I never expected to encounter such prejudice from ... well, Indians."

  "The attitude of the Cherokees is no different from many of the Southern whites'. They regard themselves as superior to the Africans. Although sometimes I think the Cherokees are slightly more arrogant."

  "The entire practice of slavery is one I find intolerable. It should be regarded as a mortal sin."

  "I know. In my heart, I cannot believe God intended for men to own other men. Yet when one reads the Scriptures, there are a number of passages that relate to slavery. Some of the missionaries hire slaves from their masters and then pay them a little extra so they can earn money to buy their freedom. The number is insignificant, though."

  "But the gesture is a statement in itself." Eliza considered it a noble and laudable act, one that she quite admired. She had always believed one person could make a difference. It was that belief, more than any other, that had brought her to this place.

  "I suppose it is."

  The peacocks set up a noisy cry, ceasing their vain swagger to scramble about in alarm. Automatically, Eliza glanced toward the road leading to the plantation's manor house. A horse and rider cantered into view.

  "They are more reliable than dogs in warning you of some one's approach," she said to Nathan, raising her voice to make herself heard above their racket.

  "Such a terrible sound to come from such beautiful fowl." He smiled ruefully at their noise, then turned to gaze at the approaching rider. "More company?"

  "The Blade Stuart. He comes regularly to court Temple." She tried to sound matter-of-fact about it, but the very subject of Temple and The Blade made her uncomfortable. Nathan Cole was a minister and she found it impossible to discuss her concern for Temple's virtue with him. She started walking again, angling away from the house so they wouldn't witness the meeting between Temple and The Blade, meetings that always seemed to be marked by the throb of passion just below the surface. "Tell me what you have been doing. You said you went into the mountains."

  "Yes. There are many Cherokees who live in isolated cabins, venturing out one or two times a year." His glance swept their surroundings, taking in the bricked paths, the lawn, the ornamental shrubs, the numerous outbuildings of the plantation, and finally, the imposing brick mansion itself. "Not all Cherokees are as affluent as your Mr. Gordon. Many live in humble log cabins and farm a small patch of ground, raising only enough to feed their families. These are the ones we seek to reach now."

  The living conditions he described were what she had expected to find when she arrived here, Eliza recalled. "And were you well received by them?"

  "Yes." A musing smile curved his mouth, giving a roundness to his thin cheeks. "They have names for the missionaries from the different religions. The Presbyterians are called the Soft Talkers. The Baptists are known as the Baptizers. And the Methodists are called the Loud Talkers." Eliza laughed, finding the descriptions aptly matched the representatives that she'd met of the various sects. Encouraged by her reaction, Nathan Cole went on. "At one farm where I stopped, an old Cherokee by the name of Buffalo Killer asked me to tell him a story from the talking leaves—that's their phrase for a book. You should have seen him, Eliza ... Miss Hall," he quickly corrected himself, a flush of red creeping up his neck at his inadvertent familiarity.

  "You may call me Eliza."

  "If you call me Nathan," he offered with a touching hesitancy.

  "Very well, Nathan," she replied.

  "Yes ... uh . .. well, as I was saying, I wish you could have seen Buffalo Killer. He had snow white hair down to his shoulders, and he wore a red-and-yellow-striped turban on his head with a feather plume sticking out the back. His shirt was made of homespun and he wore buckskin breeches and beaded moccasins that came all the way up to his knees. He smoked a pipe continuously while I was there. Anyway, I told him the story of Christ and explained to him about the Bible and the teachings of Christ. When I finished, he was silent for a moment, then nodded very solemnly and said, 'The things you have told me are good. But my mind wonders—if the palefaces have known the message of the talking leaves for this many winters, why have they not become good?' "

  Considering the current situation between the Cherokees and the Georgians, Eliza regarded the question as a sadly accurate observation. "How did you answer him?"

  "I had to admit there were many white men who failed to follow the teachings of Christ. I had the impression Buffalo Killer thought I should be carrying the Word of Christ to them."

  "Sometimes I think a good thrashing is what these members of the so-called Georgia Guard truly deserve."

  "Eliza." Nathan stared at her, surprised by the violence inherent in her remark.

  "It's true," she asserted. "They are behaving like greedy little bullies trying to take something that doesn't belong to them. I would not tolerate such behavior in my classroom." She looked at him. "Does that shock you?"

  He paused, then shook his head. "I agree disciplinary action should be taken by the proper authorities."

  "That is what the Cherokees are doing." Eliza went on to tell him about the efforts being made by Chief Ross and the National Council to bring their plight to the attention of the Supreme Court. The recent murder conviction of a Cherokee named George Corn Tassel had provided attorney William Wirt with the test case he needed.

  It troubled Nathan that Eliza was becoming embroiled in the legal maneuverings going on. Such things were the province of men. It was embarrassing and unbecoming that she should take such an interest in them. He found it most uncomfortable himself.

  When Will Gordon returned from the fields shortly before the evening meal, Eliza was obliged to introduce him to her visitor. Will immediately insisted the young missionary stay the night and continue his journey in the morning, an invitation Victoria quickly seconded. After mildly protesting the inconvenience to them, Nathan agreed.

  When the meal was finished, they withdrew as usual to the family parlor. Will Gordon poured a measure of brandy for himself and another dinner guest, The Blade. Nathan abstained.

  Eliza sat at the rosewood piano as she did most evenings. Instinctively, she began playing her favorite nocturne. One song seemed to flow into another. Eliza was only vaguely aware when Victoria Gordon excused herself to tuck the children into bed.

  After several selections, she finally paused and glanced at Nathan. He sat in a wing chair facing the piano. "Is there a particular song you would like to hear?"

  "No." He shook his head. "You play like an angel, Eliza."

  "I have thought that myself," Will Gordon agreed, glancing up as his wife rejoined them.

  "I have a request," The Blade inserted. "Do you know any music suitable for a quadrille, Miss Hall?"

  Eliza hesitated a moment. "I believe so, yes."

  "Temple says she has never danced it." He cast a challenging look at Temple. "This would be the perfect opportunity to teach her. You know the steps, do you not, Will?"

  Briefly taken aback, Will Gordon frowned. "It has been years, but... Do you remember them, Victoria?" He turned to his wife.

  "I think so." She laughed hesitantly. "I am not sure."

  "Doesn't it require four couples to form the square?" Will frowned.

  "Temple can learn it with two." Without waiting for them to agree, The Blade began moving furniture to clear a space in the center of the room. Everyone joined in to help except Eliza. She tentatively played the tune, trying to refresh her memory of the melody.

  When all was in readiness, The Blade nodded to her, and Eliza struck the opening chord. She partially turned to watch, keeping the tempo slow as The Blade led Temple through the pattern.

  The second time through, she pla
yed the song at its normal tempo and smiled briefly at Nathan when he came to stand beside the piano. Laughter accompanied the moments of confusion by the dancers. Eliza smiled along with them, never losing a note.

  Soft as a murmuring breeze, the music drifted from the parlor into the night, its melody faint, too faint for Deuteronomy Jones to recognize. He waited on the hard wooden bench that ran along the outer wall of the detached kitchen, well within earshot of the house should his master call. Pale amber light streamed from the windows of the big house, laying a long trail on the ground and holding the darkness at bay. Deu was beyond its reach, sitting in the shadows.

  The evening breeze, redolent with apples, whispered around him. It was harvest time in the apple orchards of Gordon Glen. The sheds bulged with crates of red, ripe apples ready for shipment to southern ports. For now, the cider mill was silent, but come morning, it would be running again, crushing more apples and releasing the sweet smell of their pulp into the air; the ketties in the plantation's kitchens would be bubbling with more fruit being cooked into applesauce, apple butter, and preserves.

  From the woods near the mill, Deu could hear the grunts of hogs greedily rooting through the discarded mash and skins. He huddled deeper in his coat, knowing how good a mug of hot cider would taste right now.

  A dark figure hurried across the grass toward him, and inside himself everything tightened up. It was Phoebe, of the shy and dancing eyes. Forgetting the night's chill, Deu stood up, warmed by the gladness singing through him. When she stopped before him and gazed up with such timid eagerness, Deu wanted to look at her forever.

  "I brung—I brought you some hot cider. I spilled some, tho', and it's prolly just warm now, but. . ." Jerkily, she thrust the tin cup at him, along with an object in her other hand. "Here's an apple fritter, too. It's okay," she hurried to assure him. "Dat... that reverend didn't eat his and I hid it away when I was clearin' the table. No one'll know I gives—gave it to you."

  "I was wishing for some cider." When he took the items from her, Deu felt the coolness of her fingers, then noticed the way she quickly wrapped the old shawl more tightly around her shoulders once her hands were free. "Are you cold? Maybe you should drink this." He glanced at the thinness of her dress.

  "No, it's for you," she insisted, then looked over her shoulder in the direction of the slave quarters, as if she should go back.

  "Can you sit with me awhile?" Deu didn't want her to leave, not yet. It didn't seem to matter how many times he told himself she was too young. Each time he was around her it was harder not to touch her.

  "For a spell, mebbe." She tipped her head down, avoiding his eyes, but he saw her lips curve in a smile, and he knew she was glad he had invited her. Was she? Did she want to be with him? he wondered, conscious of the sudden leaping of his heart. She moved past him and sat down on the wooden bench. Deu gulped down a swallow of cider, barely tasting the tepid liquid, then sat next to her, careful not to sit too close. "You like de—the fritter?" she asked. "I made it m'self."

  "I like it fine." Deu quickly took his first bite of it, his teeth crunching through the crisply fried batter that enclosed the spiced apple mix. After a couple of hurried chews, he washed it down with another drink of cider. "How have you been? I haven't talked to you in a while. Lately, every time I've been here your mama's had you busy at something."

  "There's been lots of work to do, what with the apples and all."

  "I get the feeling sometimes that your mama's glad of that. I don't think she likes me much." He finished the rest of the fritter and wiped his hand on the leg of his pants, still thinking about her mother.

  "She likes you fine. It's just that. .. well..." She was reluctant to tell Deu that her mother blamed him for her interest in book-learning. "I guess you could say she's got a case of the grumps. She and Pa've been going round and round, and that's made her sharp with just about everybody."

  "I'm glad I'm not the cause of it."

  "Did you hear Master Will is letting me and Shadrach go to school in the mornings?" Phoebe saw his glance of surprise, and smiled proudly. "We's—we're learning how to read and write and do our numbers, and about geography and things like that. I can read real good, and I can write my name, too. I'll show you." She picked up a twig from the ground and, bending forward, began to write her name in the red clay at their feet, printing the letters with painstaking care as she spelled them aloud. "P... H... 0... E .. . B . .. E. Phoebe." She straightened to study the drawn furrows faintly visible in the light from the house windows, then turned her head to look at Deu, almost bursting with pride at her accomplishment. "See?"

  He leaned closer to look at her name. "That's very good, Phoebe." He nodded approvingly. She was almost certain that when he glanced at her, there was a new respect in his eyes. She wasn't a dumb nigger anymore; she was smart, like him. "Can you write my name?" he asked.

  Phoebe faltered for an instant. "I don't know how to spell it. But I could, if I did."

  "I'll help you." Deu crouched down on one knee and smoothed a long patch of dirt with his hand. "Come here."

  She hesitated briefly, then knelt beside him, trembling and half sick with excitement. "The first letter is D," he told her. Phoebe desperately wanted to impress him with her knowledge and skill, but when she tried to draw it, her hand shook, making the first line squiggly. Hurriedly, she wiped away her mistake, conscious of Deu shifting his position and moving to kneel behind her right shoulder. She was about to start again when his hand closed around her fingers, tightening her grip on the stick.

  "Your hands are as cold as a mountain stream in winter."

  "I know," Phoebe whispered, but they didn't feel cold to her. His hand covering hers felt like a fire shooting up her arm and heating her skin. He was close, so close his body almost touched hers, his breath sweet with the smell of cider. She felt weak and all aflutter inside, afraid to move and afraid not to.

  "It goes like this." Although she continued to hold the stick,

  he guided it. "D...E... U... T. R ... 0... N... 0...M... Y. Deuteronomy. J... 0... N... E ... S. Jones. Deuteronomy Jones." He leaned back, and Phoebe could feel him looking at her. "It's a long name."

  "I'm glad," she said softly, surprised by her own boldness, and at the same time aware that his hand still loosely gripped hers. She liked the sensation and wanted it to go on and on. Slowly, she turned to look back at him, aching with the wish that he would feel the same way.

  Deu stared at her rapt face. The longing in her beautiful dark eyes was more than he could stand. A tightness constricted his throat, making it impossible for him to swallow or breathe. The tightness spread, gripping the rest of his body, knotting him up inside until he thought he would die with wanting her. His gaze inadvertently shifted to her lips, soft and innocently inviting. The sight pulled him.

  He didn't remember moving. He didn't remember anything until he felt the tentative pressure of her lips, warm and tantalizingly eager, against his own. He hadn't meant to kiss her, but now he couldn't stop himself. Hungrily, he tasted the ripe curves of her mouth as it melted against his like wild honey on the tongue.

  Deu felt the touch of a hand sliding inside his coat. The contact seared through his shirt. He stiffened, discovering that his fingers held the stick alone. An instant later, he felt the press of her body against his—and the childishly small mounds of her breasts. Abruptly, he pulled away and shot to his feet, hot with shame and guilt.

  "Deu?" Her questioning voice sounded small and faint. "What's .. . what's wrong?"

  "It's late ... and it's cold. You better get yourself home before your mama comes looking for you," he said curtly. The hurt in her eyes made him feel worse. "Don't look at me that way. Don't you understand, Phoebe? I shouldn't have done that."

  She scrambled to her feet, catching at the trailing ends of her shawl as she moved toward him. "But I wanted you to."

  "You shouldn't have." Deu was angry with her for saying that, angry because it made him want to kiss her
again. "You're just a girl, Phoebe. Too young to be ... letting a man near you."

  She stood before him, innocent and trusting, and so beautiful he wanted to groan with the ache he felt. "My mammy was only a year older than me when she had her first baby."

  He did groan. "Phoebe ... don't."

  "Didn't you like kissing me, Deu?"

  The simple question unleashed a whole new torrent of feeling. "You know I did," he murmured thickly.

  A wide smile split her face, revealing a set of teeth white as pearls. "So did I."

  When she swayed toward him, he started to reach out—to check her movement or to take her in his arms, he wasn't sure which. Before he could find out, a deep-voiced summons came from the front veranda of the big house. "Deu. Deuteronomy!"

  Recognizing the voice of Master Blade, Deu swung instantly toward the sound, a part of him relieved by the interruption. "Here, sir," he called in answer and cast one last glance at Phoebe before breaking into a run away from her.

  When he reached the bottom of the side steps leading to the columned veranda, he saw The Blade at the top. "Fetch the horses. It is time to leave." Behind him, the front door opened and Temple stepped out, a shawl draped over her head, one end flung over her shoulder.

  "Yes, sir." Deu backed up a couple of steps, then turned and headed off across the lawn to the stables.

  The Blade watched him disappear into the night's shadows. Although aware of Temple's presence behind him, he resisted the impulse to turn and continued to stare into the darkness instead. Breathing in the crispness of the air, he felt that old restlessness return, the urge for action, something that would challenge both his brain and his muscles. More than once this past summer he had toyed with the idea of returning to the gold fields. It wasn't the gold that lured him. It was the game of danger, pitting his skills and cunning against the Georgians. He missed it.