American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “Well then, I shall let the two of you continue on to town, and I will be on my own way—Good day, Carolyn.”

  “Good-bye, Denton. It was good to see you again. Greet your wife and daughter for me.”

  “I will, thank you, Carolyn.”

  “How is Veronica?”

  “She will be fifteen in a couple of months and precocious enough to pass for several years older.”

  “I am not surprised! She always seemed older than she was. And your sons?”

  “Chips off the old block!” laughed Beaumont as he began to swing his mount around.

  “Let’s get together again!” Richmond called after him. “Next time you go riding, come by Greenwood on your way and I will join you!”

  “And race again to the top of Harper’s Peak?”

  “You’re on!”

  The two men laughed, then Beaumont rode off. Within seconds, however, for vastly different reasons, the smiles faded from both their faces. Davidson was aware that he had not been altogether forthright with his friend, and the realization stung his conscience. On Beaumont’s part, his thoughts turned to the real reason he had strayed across the former boundary between Brown’s land and his own. After leaving Richmond and Carolyn, he continued to ride about the old Brown tract for another hour, as he often did when he had the time. The broken fence at the edge of his plantation’s holdings had in truth been but a thinly disguised ruse. His actual business did not lay on his land at all. He had come out specifically to snoop about on that portion of the Davidson acreage they had been discussing, which he would have given almost anything to purchase.

  “I feel bad that I didn’t tell him where I was going,” said Richmond as he and Carolyn continued on their way. “I suppose all along I had been hoping he would be in attendance too. Obviously, though, if he is out riding at this hour, he won’t be. I should have said something, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. I have the feeling, though it is nothing I can put my finger on, that he was not invited for a reason.”

  “Were you and your brother as close as you and Denton seem to have been?” asked Carolyn.

  “Not really,” replied Richmond. “It was actually the two of them who were close. I was the youngest and I suppose I looked up to the other two. I thought they could do no wrong. I was more like the tagalong younger brother. No doubt they led me into a few scrapes I would have been better to avoid. I’ve never quite forgiven myself for being overseas when my brother died.”

  “Surely you don’t think you could have prevented it?”

  “How can you not wonder such things?” rejoined Richmond seriously. “The possibility of it haunts me. If I had been there, Clifford might not have been out riding, or perhaps he and Denton and I would have been together. In any event, I cannot help but think the accident might have been prevented had he not been riding alone.”

  “You cannot blame yourself.”

  “I know. But my father was so devastated by Clifford’s death, he was never the same afterward. I just wish I had not been so far away.”

  “You were obviously embroiled in difficulties enough of your own at the time. You came as soon as you heard.”

  Richmond nodded reflectively, then flicked the reins and urged the horse on. He had been over this same ground in his mind too many countless times already, and always with the same inconclusive result. It was time to think of the future, not the past.

  Four

  The gathering at the North Carolina plantation of Congressman Jeeves Hargrove proved smaller and more intimate than Richmond Davidson had anticipated. He arrived in Burlington on the 1:17, where a buggy and two silent and formally attired Negro attendants were waiting to transport him the three miles to Cedar Grove. There he would spend the afternoon and evening, before returning home the next morning.

  As they emerged from the winding, tree-lined drive, Davidson saw Frederick Trowbridge standing in front of the white-columned home of the congressman.

  “Richmond!” he exclaimed, walking forward with outstretched hand as Davidson stepped to the ground. “I am so glad to see you. Come, come… most of the others are enjoying drinks on the back lawn. All but one or two have already arrived.”

  They walked through the house chatting freely. As he emerged into the enclosed garden behind it, Davidson was surprised to see only eight or ten others spread about the grassy expanse, all men.

  “I am anxious to introduce you,” said Trowbridge as they went. “There is one very special guest I know you will want to meet—Gentlemen,” he said loudly as they approached the group, “our guest of honor is here! May I present Richmond Davidson.”

  Not having an idea what the appellation could possibly mean, the newcomer quickly found himself swallowed in smiles, introductions, well-wishes, and handshakes.

  “And if you have not recognized him already,” said Trowbridge, beaming with pride as they made their way around the small coterie of influential politicians, “I would like you to meet your fellow Virginian, John Tyler.”

  “Mr. President,” said Davidson respectfully, shaking the elderly former president’s hand, “this is indeed unexpected. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

  “And I am pleased to make yours,” rejoined the nation’s tenth president. “Frederick has told me a great deal about you.”

  “And,” Trowbridge continued, “Secretary of War Jefferson Davis.”

  “Mr. Davis,” said Davidson, “again… this is an honor.”

  An hour later, though the conversation had been pleasant and the food and drink, set out on two tables in their midst, superb, Richmond Davidson still knew no more the purpose of the gathering than he had when the invitation had arrived, nor why he, a humble Virginia plantation owner, had been accorded such a show of respect by men far more well-known in national circles than himself. Gradually they began to take chairs about the lawn and, as cigars were produced for most of those present, their host at last began to steer the discussion in the direction of the day’s business.

  “It is no secret,” said Congressman Hargrove, “that, notwithstanding last year’s Kansas-Nebraska Bill, things in Washington are not, viewed in the long term, moving in our favor.”

  It was Watson McNeil, a prominent North Carolina plantation owner, who next spoke up. “With most of the South already in the Union,” he went on, “and all the new territories coming from the North and West, the situation can only grow worse as time passes.”

  As he listened, Davidson could not avoid the sensation that many of the remarks had been scripted for his benefit, and that this was not so much a discussion of where events stood, but a series of preliminaries leading to some as yet unforeseen conclusion.

  “It is still possible,” now added Upton Byford, a federal circuit judge in the District of Columbia, who, though presumably impartial on the bench, was a Southerner through and through, “that Kansas and Nebraska could come in under the terms of the compromise, and vote for slavery. That would return the majority to us.”

  “Or they could vote against it,” countered McNeil.

  “Watson’s point is well taken,” put in their host. “Even if we do manage in the near future to regain a one-state majority with Kansas and Nebraska, Oregon and Minnesota are waiting in the wings to wrest it from us… with other new states beyond them in areas completely opposed to slavery.”

  “And we have to admit,” nodded Trowbridge, “that Nebraska is as far north as Pennsylvania. The North would not cede to our interests there without a bitter public fight. I think it highly unlikely that we could win Nebraska with a public vote.”

  “The point is,” said Hargrove, “we are all in agreement that something must be done, that measures must be taken. That is why we are here, to discuss alternate strategies.”

  It was silent a moment. A few glances strayed in the direction of Richmond Davidson.

  “What, if I may ask,” said former president Tyler, the elder statesman of the group, “is your perception of the future, Mr. Da
vidson?”

  Davidson glanced around. Every eye was on him.

  “In what regard, Mr. President?” he replied. “With regard specifically to the balance of power between free states and slave states… or with regard to the prospects of the South in particular?”

  “Both,” answered Tyler. “Or either question you may choose to address. I am simply curious how you see the nation’s future, and the future of the South, in a general way.”

  Davidson nodded. “A sweeping question,” he said, then added with a slight smile, “and one which might easily entrap an unwary man in unguarded words.”

  A ripple of good-natured laughter filtered around the group. As it grew silent again, however, it was clear from the expressions on the rest of the faces that they expected an answer.

  “I suppose I would say, then,” Davidson began, “that it seems to me that we can regard neither time nor circumstances as static. Times change and circumstances change. My feeling is that we must be prepared to meet the challenge of change on both fronts, and have the courage to face it….”

  He paused thoughtfully, reflecting on his choice of words. His tone made it clear that he had stopped in midsentence, and had more to say. The silence about him was palpable. The others waited patiently.

  “I would add,” he went on after a moment, “that we must pray for the courage to face change with dignity, honor, and character.”

  A few nods went around the circle. Frederick Trowbridge glanced about at each of his friends and colleagues, eyes aglow as if to say, Did I not tell you!

  At length Trowbridge smiled. “I assured you, did I not,” he said, raising his glass as if in triumphant toast, “that he was our man!”

  Prominent Maryland landowner Abraham Seehorn wore a more cautious expression.

  “You mentioned prayer, Mr. Davidson,” he said. “Tell me, are you a religious man?”

  “I try not to be,” answered Davidson.

  “I’m sorry… I don’t think I understand you. You mentioned that you pray.”

  “I do.”

  “But you are not religious?”

  “I hope I am a praying man, but not a religious one.”

  “And what would be the distinction?”

  “There are too many to go into now,” replied Davidson. “I would not bore you with my ideas on the matter. I would only say, in brief, that it is the distinction between obedience and dogma.”

  Even as he said it, Davidson sensed that his answer was lost on most of those present. But he did not exacerbate the problem, as is the normal custom when discussing matters of faith, by trying to explain further. Rather he let his words stand.

  “Be all that as it may,” said McNeil, bringing the discussion back to the point at hand, which was the future of the South, “how would you put your words into practice if change does come to our region, unexpected change that could hurt you economically?”

  “I suppose, like everyone else, I would do my best to adapt.”

  “You own slaves, of course,” asked Seehorn, “as do most of the rest of us here?”

  “I do,” replied Davidson.

  “They are vital to the prosperity of your plantation?”

  “Absolutely. I could not get by without them.”

  “You are concerned about the economy of the South?”

  “Of course. I am a businessman.”

  Seehorn took a long puff from his cigar and seemed satisfied.

  There was a momentary lull as two black slaves came from the house with trays. A few of the men stood to replenish their drinks or relight their cigars.

  As her husband was engaged in the eventful discussion concerning his own outlook and the future of the nation, that same afternoon Carolyn Davidson walked from their plantation house the three-quarters of a mile to the slave village where their thirty-four black slaves lived in a collection of eight small one- and two-bedroom cabins. She was carrying a large basket of vegetables.

  At forty-three, Carolyn Davidson’s face and other features revealed the dignity of age along with sufficient lingering reminders of youth to make her a stately and beautiful woman able to command attention from anyone able to see her for who she was. The maturity in her gaze and the peace that shone from her countenance had, like her husband’s, not come without pain. Her hair was lighter than his, though not fully blonde, and thus showed no hint of gray. Eyes of emerald green looked out above a small, well-shaped nose, and wide and pronounced cheekbones that accented a rounded though strong chin below. Her mouth was not large, but contained well-formed teeth that revealed themselves readily in laugh or smile, and was framed by lips capable of much expression.

  She reached the village, where a half dozen or so small children were playing and running about. Several black women hanging laundry on their lines greeted her as she approached. Singing could be heard from one or two of the cabins. Though plain, the wood dwellings were in better repair and generally larger and more comfortable than the slave hovels that passed for homes throughout much of the South.

  She entered one of the buildings without knocking.

  “Hello, Nancy,” she said. “I brought you some vegetables.”

  “Dat’s right kind ob you, Miz Dab’son,” said a black woman of some thirty-five or forty years as she took a handful of greens and carrots from the basket. “Dese’ll cook up right fine in da stew I’s be makin’.”

  She set the carrots on the wood table in the middle of the room, picked up a knife, and began trimming off the tops. But within a few seconds her hand stopped and she turned back to her mistress with an expression of anxiety.

  “Does you min’ if I talks to you, Miz Dab’son…’bout sumfin ob a personal natshur.”

  “Of course not, Nancy. Let me just take some of these around to the other women, then I’ll come back.”

  “Thank you, Miz Dab’son.”

  “It is no secret,” said Congressman Hargrove, addressing Davidson after a momentary lull in the conversation, “that I am an outspoken states’ rights advocate. Such could be said for most of the rest of us. We have spent our careers articulating the interests of the South. We are attempting, however, to be realists. We see the handwriting on the wall. Changing times are coming, and, as you point out, we have to face them shrewdly. We are asking ourselves what can be done to preserve the Southern way of life, and especially the right of the Southern states to slavery. That is why we have asked you here, Richmond,” he went on, “to share with you a plan that some of us have come up with that we feel may, if successful, prove of great benefit to the South.”

  He took a sip from his glass, drew in a breath, then continued. “Our plan is simply this—to win new loyalties in Washington by putting up Southern candidates who will speak with a voice of moderation. The problem is that many in the North view men like us with suspicion because our views are so well-known and because the debate has become so contentious. We need new faces and new voices who will be able to bridge the gap with Northern voters. Otherwise the South will have no voice at all in a few years.”

  “The old ‘catching more flies with honey than with vinegar’ ploy!” laughed Trowbridge. “We’re trying to be wise as serpents, as it were, while coming across innocent as doves.”

  “Precisely,” rejoined Seehorn.

  “I do not see what all this has to do with me,” said Davidson.

  “There are those who think that you could become such a voice, and could gain widespread support, even in the North.”

  “Are you talking about me… in politics?” said Davidson, glancing around at the group with a smile of incredulity. “You men are the politicians. I am only a farmer!”

  “But one with a spotless reputation and known to be a man of reason,” said Trowbridge, “respected throughout the state. Your father was a well-respected moderate with strong ties to Pennsylvania. In short, you are exactly the kind of man we are looking for, and why I have lobbied so strenuously on your behalf.”

  “But what could I po
ssibly do?”

  “It is very simple, really,” said Hargrove. “We want you to run for the Senate next year.”

  “But I am a complete unknown!” laughed Davidson.

  “The Davidson name is hardly unknown in Virginia politics,” said the former president.

  “Perhaps. But my father’s involvement was years ago.”

  “True enough. So perhaps it is time for the Davidson legacy to resurface. I assure you,” Tyler went on, “with our backing, the seat will be yours if you want it.”

  “Senator Smith is stepping down,” Trowbridge went on. “The state committee will select the candidate and we are confident you can win.”

  “And I would, as you say, present a more widely acceptable public image,” said Richmond, “—innocent as a dove, as you say, than a known and more strident figure?”

  Laughter again circulated.

  “Your man is a shrewd one, Frederick,” chuckled McNeil. “He catches on quickly. I predict we will make a politician of him in no time.”

  The comment was not lost on Davidson, nor was he sure he altogether liked its implication.

  “But what about my neighbor Denton Beaumont?” he asked. “Surely he is far more qualified than I?”

  A few significant glances were exchanged.

  “To be truthful, Richmond,” said Trowbridge, lowering his voice in a confidential tone, “there are those in Washington whom he has already offended. He is far too outspoken for our purposes.”

  “Let me say, for the sake of argument, that I agreed,” said Davidson thoughtfully, “and even that I were successful, what is your objective in the proposal? I suppose what I am asking is, what could I do that would benefit… you… the South… the nation?”

  “You are a new face,” replied Hargrove. “We would hope that you would gain new support among Northerners as well as Southerners.

  By speaking with a voice of moderation, you would earn the trust of those even of different political persuasions and in time help give a new face to the interests of the South.”