American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “Toward what end?”

  “We are looking to the future, to potential national candidates.”

  The secretary of war, who had remained mostly silent throughout the latter portion of the discussion, now spoke up.

  “To put all our cards on the table,” said Davis, “I intend to run for the Senate again myself next year, preparatory to a presidential bid in 1860. To win the nomination I will likely have to defeat Douglas or Breckinridge. I know it is five years away, but our strategy is a long-range one. What interested me in Frederick’s plan when Hargrove told me of it was this, that I will need a vice-presidential candidate on the ticket with me who has earned respect and loyalty throughout the North. In short, Davidson,” he said, “we think you could be that man. That is why we want to place you in the Senate next year, and then begin advancing you slowly into the national limelight.”

  It was silent for a moment as Davis waited for the weight of his potential offer to sink in.

  “My name, of course, may be controversial,” Davis went on. “But with the right man on the ticket with me, speaking as we have noted, with moderation, a man with ties to the North as well as the South, we believe that we could win two or three of the Northern border states and carry the election. I need hardly tell you what having a Southerner in the White House would mean. And after my own term,” he added, raising an eyebrow, “who is to say how high you might eventually rise.”

  Ten or fifteen minutes later, when Carolyn Davidson returned from visiting every one of the small homes in the village, her large basket now empty, she poked her head again into the cabin where Nancy and Malachi Shaw lived with their three children. A girl of about fifteen turned to face her.

  “Hello, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Davidson. “I was looking for your mother. Where has she gone?”

  “Yonder… tards da big house,” answered the girl with a nod.

  From the porch, Carolyn glanced in the direction of her home and saw Nancy walking slowly in the distance. She left the village and made her way back up the slight incline she had come down earlier, and quickly overtook Phoebe’s mother. They walked along together in the direction of the plantation house.

  “It’s ’bout my Phoebe, Miz Dab’son,” said the black woman after a minute. “She’s gettin’ ter be a fine-lookin’ girl an’ she’s at dat age, you know….”

  “I understand, Nancy. She is a very lovely young lady.”

  “Thank you, Miz Dab’son. An’ she’s worried ’bout what Massa’s gwine ter do wif her.”

  “Worried… about my husband, about Mr. Davidson?”

  “Yes’m. She’s already older’n da time w’en mos’ girls is dun sumfin wif. She’s feared dat he’s gwine ter bed her down an’ make her git married, or maybe eben sell her.”

  “He would never do that without talking to you and Malachi… and to her too, of course. Surely you know Mr. Davidson better than that.”

  “Yes’m. Master Dab’son, he’s a kind man, but Elias, he say—”

  “Elias,” interrupted Carolyn. “Is that what all this is about?”

  “Yes’m,” replied the black woman, glancing down at the ground.

  “It’s jes’ dat he’s been on other plantashuns, an he’s seen more’n da res’ ob us. He knows—”

  “What are you listening to him for?” said Carolyn, more than a little perturbed. “You should know better, Nancy. You can trust us. And so can Phoebe. Mr. Davidson will do nothing but what he thinks is best for you all.”

  “Elias, he say massas always jes’ do what’s bes’ fo dem.”

  “Well that’s not the way we run this plantation, Nancy. We’re a family, and you are part of it.”

  “I knows dat, Miz Dab’son. You an’ da massa, you’s ’bout as kind as kin be.”

  “Then you oughtn’t to listen to what Elias says.”

  “Yes’m. I’s try, Miz Dab’son. You be comin’ down ter read us from da Good Book ternight?”

  “Of course, Nancy. I’ll be down right after supper.”

  Five

  Elias Slade was a big hulking black man, with rippling shoulders and biceps and a look of danger on his face. He was only twenty-three but had been bought and sold so many times before and after the several years he had spent on the McClellan plantation, that there was no one place over another that he considered home. Whether the word home would ever be used in connection with someone of his temperament was doubtful. Whatever family he had was lost to the distant memory of his infancy.

  The scars that crisscrossed his back, as well as his rippling shoulders and biceps, were all the evidence needed that the white man’s whip had been used to greater effect to curb his insolence than understanding or deprivation. That he was finally learning to hold his tongue did not lessen the silent rage fermenting beneath the surface that had been responsible for the whippings. In truth, Slade hated more deeply in his silence. Though his present master had recognized him on an auction block in Richmond, had bought him and brought him back to the area and attempted to befriend him, Slade only despised him the more for his kindness.

  Slade kept to himself, slept in a cabin with several other single men, but never entered into the singing or other social activities that bound the Davidson slaves together in a familial bond tighter than most. By this time most of the slave men on the Davidson plantation had learned to leave him to himself. At the same time, however, his talk about the wider world, and what he had seen and heard on other plantations fascinated them strangely. Most of them had grown up on the Davidson plantation and they could not help listening to him with eager curiosity.

  Slade was on his way back from the creek where he had been cooling himself from the hot day in the sun. Bare chested and dripping, he heard the sound of a woman’s voice ahead of him. It was a white voice.

  He stopped and listened, then crept slowly toward the clearing where the women gathered with the master’s wife. He knew of the meetings but ignored the invitations. Even some of the men occasionally joined their wives. As he looked through the trees he saw a few of them sitting there. They were women too, thought Slade spitefully, listening to such fool talk.

  “‘Heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them,’” came Carolyn Davidson’s soothing voice as she read. “‘Otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven. Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth: That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly.’”

  She paused briefly. Before she could continue, one of the black women spoke up.

  “I knows well enuf what a hipokrit is, Miz Dab’son,” she said. “But what’s dat alms dey’s always talking ’bout?”

  Carolyn smiled. “That is money given to the poor,” she said. “The Lord is telling us to do good deeds, and to help the poor, but secretly, without letting everyone else know about it.”

  “What ’bout us, Miz Dab’son? We’s da poor folks ourse’ves. We don’t got none ob dem alms ter gib nobody no how. I neber had no money in my life. What’s we surpozed ter do?”

  Chuckles and laughter spread through the group of slaves.

  “The Lord understands that well enough,” she replied. “Alms can be anything you do for someone, any good deed. It doesn’t have to be only money.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for instance, Mary—what if you were to help Nancy with her washing tomorrow when you had plenty of your own to do? That might be a form of alms—a good deed, an act of kindness. And to obey what the Scripture teaches, you would want to help her without telling everybody else about it and bragging about how good you had been.”

  “I’s neber do dat, Miz Dab’son!” laughed Mary.

  “Of course you wouldn’t. I know that. Jesus teaches us
to do good secretly so that we won’t become proud and puffed up about it.”

  She looked around at the fifteen or twenty black faces, all listening intently. “Do any of the rest of you have questions?” she said. “The Scriptures can sometimes be very puzzling, and the only way to understand how God wants us to live is to ask questions.”

  She glanced about the group and waited for a few seconds.

  “All right, then,” she said, “I will continue reading. ‘And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut the door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.’”

  She paused again. “Do you understand what the Lord is saying?” she asked, glancing about the group.

  “Dat we’s supposed ter pray in secret too?” said one of the men.

  “That’s right, Moses. Jesus says in many different ways that we are not to make a show of religion, but to live it. And one of the best ways not to make a show of it is not to try to impress other people with our good deeds or our prayers, but just do them quietly. That’s what this whole Sermon on the Mount emphasizes—practical faith rather than showy religion. Jesus was a very practical and down-to-earth man.”

  “Is dat why you’s always talkin’ ’bout jes’ doin’ what he says, Miz Dab’son?” asked another of the women.

  “Exactly. People who make it into a complicated religion don’t understand what Christianity is. It’s a way of life. Jesus taught us how to live, how to treat one another, how to think. It’s something a rich man can practice, or a poor man, a beggar or a banker, a white man or a black man, a plantation owner or a slave. That makes it a beautiful thing, don’t you think? Christianity is for everyone.”

  “You make it soun’ simple all right, Miz Dab’son, but I wonder effen you’s makin’it a mite too simple.”

  “It is simple, Wilma. It’s not always easy. Following Jesus and doing what he says is hard… but simple. It’s not complicated, though it’s hard to lay down your own wishes in order to obey what he wants you to do. But you and I all read the same words and can do them. Anyone can obey Jesus. That’s why in him we are all brothers and sisters. I am your sister and you are my brothers and sisters. None of us is any better than anyone else. You are my equal in Christ, and I am yours.”

  Elias Slade had heard enough. He had not paused because he cared for the Word of God or the words of a rich white woman. Something else was on his mind. Where he stood among a clump of trees at the edge of the clearing beside the stream where the Scripture readings took place twice weekly when the weather permitted it, the big man’s eyes scanned the gathering.

  Sensing eyes upon her where she was seated on the ground beside her mother, Phoebe Shaw turned and saw Elias staring at her. Their eyes met. He gestured with his hand. Imperceptibly she shook her head and turned away. She did her best to listen but was too distracted by her awareness of Elias.

  A minute or two went by. Phoebe turned and again caught his eye. This time Slade gestured urgently, motioning for her to come. Again Phoebe shook her head. When this time she turned again to face the mistress, she kept her face forward and did not glance back again.

  Annoyed, the big man turned and tramped away through the trees.

  Later that evening, as dusk gave way to night, Nancy Shaw left her cabin in search of her daughter. When inquiry at most of the other slave homes resulted in the same answer, that no one had seen her, she began to grow genuinely worried.

  Half an hour later, Phoebe walked into the small house. Her mother glanced up, relieved. Almost instantly, however, the look on her daughter’s face filled her with suspicion.

  “Where you bin?” she asked.

  “Nowhere,” answered Phoebe. “Jes’ out.”

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere. Jes’ out fo’ a walk.”

  “Wif who?”

  “Jes’ Elias, Mama.”

  “Why him?”

  “He ax’ed me ter go fo’ a walk wif him.”

  “I wan’chu ter keep away from him, Phoebe.”

  “Why, Mama?”

  “Because I don’ like him, dat’s why. He ain’ up ter no good no how.”

  Further talk was cut short by the entry of Nancy’s husband. She did not want to involve Malachi for fear of what he might do. He may still have been a strong man for his age, but Malachi Shaw was no match for Elias Slade. And Nancy considered it best to keep this incident between herself and her daughter.

  Six

  Richmond Davidson sat in the northbound train gazing out at the passing countryside reflecting on yesterday’s discussions, which had lasted long into the evening.

  A journey away from Greenwood, whatever the occasion, inevitably sent him into a flurry of wide-ranging emotions. And now the return to his plantation and country estate, especially given what had transpired the day before, could not help but turn him pensive.

  It was not just his absence from home. The inner conflict came from the dissonant chord he felt in his soul between the many divergent paths of life and the one he personally had chosen. He had been the obvious center of attention at the gathering just past. Yet in some ways he had felt like a stranger in their midst. It was clear none of the others present knew him at all. They were just looking for someone to act as a stand-in for their plans. The question boiled down to a simple one: Given the life choices he had made, could he ever really fit in with their world?

  Finding himself in settings like yesterday’s always deepened his reflective bent. The result of such soulful wanderings was usually the same—a great sigh of relief as he neared home, and a continued thankfulness for the life and family God had given him.

  Davidson gazed outside at the passing North Carolina countryside. They would cross into Virginia any mile now. His would probably not be called the most scenic state in the American union. There was no romance of gold in Virginia as in California, no flowing of milk and honey as were the claims about Oregon. But it was the birthplace of nationhood. The soil was as rich as Virginia’s heritage and the climate temperate. It was a good place to live, to grow things, to raise a family… and to seek to be God’s man.

  “Ticket, please.”

  Davidson pulled his gaze back from the window. There stood the conductor in the aisle.

  “Oh, yes… sorry,” he said, digging into his pocket. He handed his ticket to the man, who then moved on down the center of the coach. Davidson again turned toward the window.

  If Virginia represented the cradle of America’s democratic origins, that history was in danger of being forgotten and swept aside. The nation of thirteen colonies was no longer in its infancy, but had grown rapidly. The whole world was watching what happened in America. And forces within it were threatening the very fabric of the freedom that had been born here.

  He was a Virginian, from a respected family in America’s history. What role did destiny have for him to play at this critical hour of crisis and decision? Was that role to be a political one? As much as he recoiled from city life, did the nation’s Capitol beckon him?

  In his heart lay not only questions about his own future, but anxieties for his beloved nation. It was changing rapidly. Too rapidly, he sometimes thought. With westward expansion that had begun with a few handfuls of wagons now becoming a tidal wave, new states were bound to keep entering the Union. The powerful men of the South were not about to let their way of life fade into the past without a fight.

  He prayed the result would be peaceable. Yet he could not still the tremors in his breast. With those anxieties came the question, Might he be able to do something to prevent a conflict which seemed to him almost inevitable? If so, was Washington, D.C., the place in which to do it?

  “Hey, mister… like to buy a newspaper?”

&
nbsp; Davidson turned. There stood a boy looking at him, carrying a satchel of newspapers and a few sandwiches.

  “What paper, son?” he asked.

  “Raleigh Gazette, sir.”

  “Any good news today?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I can’t read.”

  “Well, I will take one and see,” said Davidson with a smile. “What else do you have there?”

  “Sandwiches, sir.”

  “How much?”

  “Two bits.”

  “Well then, young man, why don’t you give me a newspaper and a sandwich… and here is an extra two bits for you to keep for yourself.”

  “Gee, thanks, mister!”

  With an inward smile the traveler watched the boy go, then gradually resumed his reflections.

  Richmond Davidson’s predecessors had fought in the War of Independence, as well as the War of 1812 only two years after his own birth. They had helped tame the land and had occupied it since. His father had been involved in state politics, and had been grooming Richmond’s older brother Clifford toward yet more lofty objectives. But neither politics nor plantation life had been among his own goals. He was a student, and had traveled to England to study law and had begun to make a life for himself there. But his own personal crisis, and the near simultaneous unexpected death of his brother back home had changed all that. Suddenly he found himself on a ship bound for the States, divorced, devastated, and alone, with his plans for the future shattered and his aging father depending on him to step in and take over in his brother’s stead.

  He had resisted at first. But then he met Carolyn, found new purpose in the Lord, and everything changed. The new life they discovered together was not what either had anticipated or planned. Yet out of such unexpected beginnings they had built a good life. Twenty years later this life that had at once seemed foreign to him was so natural that he could envision nothing else. Notwithstanding the estate pressures being brought to bear by certain grumbling relatives since his mother’s death, all he needed to find satisfaction was here, in the hundred and ninety acres of the family plantation known as Greenwood.