American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  He had traveled widely in his youth, and had been enamored of Europe and its culture and history. He was well read and spoke tolerable French and German. His knowledge of history was far reaching and had law not drawn him to Oxford as a young man, he would surely have become a distinguished professor of history. But in recent years he had been content to work the land. That he was well off was clear enough. But until his mother’s death two years before he had rarely given finances a second thought. Though his own knowledge of law was vast, since his formal education had been cut short and he had never passed the bar himself, he used his uncle’s son in Richmond to handle the family’s occasional legal matters, such as had become necessary in view of the fact that his mother had died without leaving a will. Like this lawyer-cousin, there were several other relatives who viewed him as an irritating anomaly in the Davidson lineage, and would have done anything to worm their way into the Greenwood bank accounts. Indeed, they had already set a plan in motion to do just that.

  None of them would have dared call Richmond Davidson a simpleton, for, though soft-spoken and unambitious according to their worldly standards, five minutes’ conversation with him revealed a wise, knowledgeable, and refined man of undisputed character, intelligence, and integrity. Neither did his relatives consider their cousin a fool, only an enigma whom they both envied and despised. They would have been shocked had they known what had driven him away from England in addition to his brother’s death. It is doubtful they would have used such knowledge to move against him in other ways than they were attempting. Still, it might have been a lever to bring against his otherwise spotless reputation, which, if shrewdly wielded could be used to undermine if not outright blackmail him, and thus wrest from him control of the family estate.

  Had they known what gnawed away at his soul, not only would his cousins have been stunned, his political associates would almost certainly never have asked him to represent Virginia in the Senate.

  But for now his secret was safe. No one but Carolyn knew of it.

  When he reached home, the weariness was immediately evident on his face. His wife recognized the look, and that it had not been caused by mere travel fatigue.

  “Your mind is heavy,” she said as they walked from the station to the buggy she had brought to pick him up. “It is written all over your face and sagging shoulders.”

  “You know me well,” he laughed wearily as they climbed up and began the three-mile ride back to Greenwood.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing much… only that President Tyler, Jefferson Davis, and Frederick Trowbridge and a few others asked me to run for the Senate next year, with the hope of a vice-presidential bid in five years when Davis makes a run for the White House.”

  “What!”

  “I told you it was nothing much.” He laughed and shook his head, reaching his arm around her to pull her next to him. “The implication was even around the edges,” he added, “that I might one day occupy the White House myself.” As he spoke, he sounded as if he himself did not believe what he had just told her any more than she did.

  “But, Richmond… that’s an enormous opportunity!”

  “Which is precisely why my thoughts are weighed down.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously we need to pray. It came so unexpectedly, I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Was Denton there? I would have thought him a more likely choice.”

  “Exactly what I said to them. But he wasn’t in attendance. As I suspected, Denton knows nothing about it.”

  “He’s liable to be jealous, Richmond. He is far more ambitious than you. For them to offer such a thing to you, while ignoring him—I cannot imagine he will be pleased.”

  Davidson nodded, an expression of concern passing over his face.

  “I will have to talk to him,” he said, “though I admit I am not looking forward to it. He has to be told… whatever we decide.”

  “We?”

  “This is an important decision, Carolyn. It is one we must make together.”

  As their conversation continued, she explained what Nancy had told her about Elias.

  “He is spreading rumors and gossip,” she said, “and creating division. I fear his words will sow distrust.”

  “I am afraid he is a troublemaker. It was a mistake to buy him. But Malachi and Moses and the other men needed help with the heavier chores and machinery. I thought we could make him content here.”

  “It’s always useless to try to reform people who don’t want to change.”

  “It’s a lesson my father tried to teach me when I came back from England to take over the plantation,” sighed Richmond. “The first lesson in buying slaves, he always said, was to look for signs of trouble and not to involve yourself with one who has the signs—a man with too many whip scars, a flirtatious girl, an angry or lazy or contentious spirit. It’s a lesson I never learned very well. I always think we can help them. But there are some people you just cannot help.”

  “You have too kind a heart.”

  “As do you, you must admit. But why should kindness be a problem, Carolyn? I don’t understand it.”

  “Because people do not always respond to it. There are those who despise it as a sign of weakness. It is obvious that as hard as we have tried to treat him with kindness, Elias does not respect us.”

  “What can we do? Should we sell him?”

  “So that he can cause some other plantation owner even more trouble than he has caused us, and then be beaten within an inch of his life?”

  “You’re right. I would sooner sell an ill-tempered horse than an ill-tempered slave. Of course, we can do neither. But we cannot have him creating dissension among our people.”

  “Denton would probably take him off your hands. He seems to like such types.”

  “Whatever our differences, I could not do that to him.”

  Davidson paused and a strange light came into his eyes, followed by a curious smile.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “the best solution would be to set him free.”

  His wife stared back at him, wondering if she had heard right.

  “Are you serious, Richmond?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he laughed. “I said it half in jest. We would lose the money we paid for him. But at least we would know that we had not passed along our troubles to someone else.”

  “Would you come so close to defying the law?”

  “What about your teaching our slaves? You could be in just as much trouble as me.”

  “Then we will both go to jail together! But I justify what I do by saying that I read to them from the Scriptures, I don’t actually teach them.”

  “There would be some who would call that splitting legal hairs.”

  “Well, no one has bothered me about it yet,” laughed Carolyn. “And even if it is against the law to teach slaves, it’s a bad law and ought to be changed. So I will continue to read to them and answer their questions, and let the law take care of itself.”

  Seven

  Richmond Davidson awoke. It was dark and quiet. He had no idea of the hour.

  His mind had been plaguing him most of the night with thoughts about his conversation with Carolyn on the way back from the station.

  His own words haunted him. Perhaps the best solution would be to set him free.

  He had said it without thinking. Yet might it in fact be the best thing to do, the perfect solution to a difficult problem? On the other hand, what kind of precedent would it set? How would their other slaves respond? And what of the legal ambiguities? Virginia’s laws regarding freeing slaves may have been more lenient than those of some states in the Deep South. But they were not without their complexities.*

  It would be a relief to be rid of Elias, that could not be denied. The investment would seem a small price now to be free from the grief the big black man was causing. If he seriously intended to pursue the offer that had been ma
de two days ago, Davidson had to know things could run smoothly at Greenwood during the inevitable absences a Senate seat would necessitate. Why should he not simply give Elias a document releasing him and put him on a train anywhere he wanted to go? As far as reaction among the other slaves, he could simply send him away without telling the rest of them anything. On the political side of it, might such a move instantly ruin his political stand… or, if a national reputation of moderation was what they wanted, perhaps freeing Elias would enhance his standing rather than damage it.

  The wide range of potential implications was confusing!

  God, what do you want me to do? he sighed inaudibly.

  His mind full of the many decisions facing him, as well as those that might be forced upon him, Davidson drifted into an uneasy sleep. The rest of the night passed fitfully.

  Later that morning as he sat with coffee in hand perusing the newspaper, a caption caught his eye. He began reading the article beneath it with interest.

  “Listen to this, Carolyn,” he said after several minutes. “A symposium is being held in Boston on the spiritual pros and cons of slavery. Martin Wingate will be one of the featured speakers.”

  “The theologian from England?”

  “The very same.”

  “Haven’t I heard you mention him more than once?”

  “I met him as a young man when I was overseas. I would dearly love to see him again. There will also be representatives from both Northern and Southern states and several different church groups, all offering their perspectives on the basis of the pros and cons from Scripture. That should be quite a meeting.”

  “It sounds fascinating. Why don’t you attend?”

  Davidson laughed. “I told you… it’s in Boston.”

  “You could go.”

  “All that way?”

  “Why not? Maybe the break would be good for you. You always say that getting away once in a while helps clear your brain.”

  “Not always,” laughed Davidson. “The trip down to North Carolina sent me into a turmoil of reflection I have not been able to get out of.”

  “You know what I mean—when you go away alone, to think and pray and be with God. With this decision before you about the Senate, I think such a trip might be the perfect thing.”

  “I wonder what the weather is like in New England in April. Hmm… well I shall think about it,” chuckled her husband. “I must say, a trip to Boston is the last thing I anticipated when I awoke this morning!”

  Eight

  A knock sounded on the front door of a fashionable Boston home located in the exclusive district of Constitution Hill. The man who answered it was dressed in a business suit and appeared to be approaching fifty. His black hair had given way to about an equal proportion of gray, and the mingling of the two as it spilled down over the tops of his ears gave him the distinguished look of a diplomat, though his chosen profession was actually on the opposite side of the fence. He wrote about events rather than participated in them. In the South, today’s visitors might have been greeted by a tall, stately Negro butler. But though he could have afforded several servants, the man’s progressive views prohibited such a luxury. He would not have made a good Southerner, for equality lay as the foundation stone of his informal life’s outlook. A paid cook and part-time housekeeper had, out of necessity, helped him manage since the loss of his wife. But that was as far as he was prepared to go in bringing domestics into his home.

  Three women stood on the porch. He recognized them, though they would hardly have been termed acquaintances, much less friends. Their expressions were serious.

  “Good morning, Mr. Waters,” said one a little stiffly.

  “Hello, Mrs…. Foxe, isn’t it?”

  “Yes… and this is Mrs. Bledsoe… and you remember Mrs. Filtore?”

  “Of course—hello to you all,” he said, nodding to each of the others. “It has been a long time. It is good to see you ladies again. Won’t you come in?”

  He led them into a spacious and well-appointed parlor where they sat down.

  “Would you care for tea?” asked the impromptu host.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Waters,” replied Mrs. Foxe, the unofficial spokesperson of the committee. “We won’t be long. The purpose of our visit is not social,” she added as she glanced about the room as if unconsciously checking for dust.

  “Ah… I see,” said Waters. “Then what would be its purpose?”

  “We are concerned about your daughter, Mr. Waters.”

  “Cherity?”

  “Yes. We saw her in the city two days ago… in trousers.”

  “Was she in some sort of trouble?”

  “She was in trousers, Mr. Waters. She was wearing men’s trousers.”

  “I understand, but I confess myself at a loss to see—”

  “We are concerned, Mr. Waters,” now interposed Mrs. Filtore, “that you are allowing your daughter to run wild. She is displaying habits that are anything but becoming to a lady.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” said Waters incredulously, beginning at length to get a sense of the conversation’s drift. “Is it because she was not wearing a dress that you have come to see me after all these years?”

  “Such things are indications of deeper matters, Mr. Waters. What is her standing with God?”

  “To tell you the truth, I have not asked her.”

  Almost in unison, the noses of the three women tilted imperceptibly into the air, as if the reply confirmed their worst fears and revealed all there was to say on the matter. They continued in another vein.

  “We never see either of you in church, Mr. Waters,” commented Mrs. Bledsoe.

  “That is true. We do not attend.”

  “Do you not care for your daughter’s salvation, Mr. Waters?”

  “It is not something I think about.”

  “Your dear wife certainly would have cared about it.”

  “And what good did it do her?”

  “She was saved, Mr. Waters, and is now with the Lord.”

  “Perhaps. But to me she is dead. And Cherity has had to grow up without a mother. So perhaps I should ask what good my wife’s religion did her daughter? I considered it my religion for many years too, and I could equally ask what good it did me. My prayers were answered with my wife’s death. From where I stand, he must be a heartless God who would leave an infant without a mother.”

  A barely audible gasp sounded from one of the women at the statement.

  “God’s ways are higher than man’s ways, Mr. Waters,” said Mrs. Foxe. “He cannot be understood by mortal souls.”

  “I agree with you completely. Therefore I have determined no longer to attempt to understand him.”

  “But what about your daughter, Mr. Waters? Do you not care about her eternal soul? Your dear wife was our friend. We feel it our duty, for the sake of her memory, to urge you to—”

  “I am sorry if I seem rude,” interrupted Waters, beginning to lose patience, “but where have you been all these years? You did not care enough to help me when Cherity’s mother died. Those were difficult years. But I heard virtually nothing from anyone in the church where my wife gave so much. And now you come here, all this time later, to accuse me of being a negligent father because you saw my daughter wearing trousers. It is people like you that made me leave the church.”

  “It is not only the men’s clothes, Mr. Waters,” said Mrs. Foxe, ignoring his words. “She has been seen by others as well as ourselves. It is said she rides a horse about Boston… unsupervised.”

  “She loves horses. What is wrong with that?”

  “She has far too much freedom for her age.”

  “I do not happen to see that as such a bad thing. In fact—”

  A sound on the stairs behind them interrupted him. Their heads turned as a girl of fourteen came bounding down two steps at a time, clad in trousers with her auburn hair tucked under a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and breezed toward the parlor in a rush.

  “
Cherity, my dear,” said Waters, “come in! I would like you to meet some old friends of your mother’s.”

  “Hi, Daddy!” she said, then walked to each of the women in turn and extended her hand as her father introduced them. Mr. Waters, on his part, could not help enjoying the discomfiture of his guests at both her appearance and boisterous nature.

  “Are you, uh… attending a costume party?” asked Mrs. Filtore.

  “No,” said Cherity with a merry laugh. “I always wear a cowboy hat. I’m going to be a cowgirl someday.”

  “A cowgirl… good heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Filtore.

  “That’s not very ladylike, my dear,” said Mrs. Foxe in a condescending tone.

  “But I don’t want to be a lady. I’m going to go back to the West when I am old enough and work and live on a ranch and be a cowgirl.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Bledsoe, rising. “I think it is time for us to be going. I hope you will consider what we have said, Mr. Waters.”

  He did not reply.

  “Good-bye, Cherity,” said Mrs. Foxe as he led them to the door.

  “Good day, ladies,” said Waters.

  “Who were they, Daddy?” asked Cherity as soon as the door had closed behind them. “What did they want?”

  “Your mother knew them from the church we used to attend. They do not feel I am raising you properly.”

  “Why, Daddy?”

  “Because you dress in cowboy getup and ride a horse, I suppose,” he laughed. “I think they are mainly concerned because we don’t go to church.”

  “Why don’t we, Daddy?”

  Waters did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice was reflective.

  “I used to be so active in church that you wouldn’t have recognized me,” he said at length. “I was what they call converted when a traveling evangelist came to speak at the boarding school where I lived. That was long before I met your mother. I threw myself into it with everything I had. I was as devout a young man as you could ask for. But when your mother died…”

  He did not complete the thought. “Let’s just say,” he went on, “that when I lost a wife I also lost my faith in whatever I had thought I had faith in up to that point. I lost all interest in church. Anne and Mary wanted to take you once you were old enough, but I did not want them to until you were old enough to make your own mind up about such things. That in a nutshell is why we do not go to church. And another reason is that Sunday is the only whole day every week that you and I get to spend together. I don’t want to give that up.”