American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “I came to talk to you about something, Denton,” he said. “Perhaps this might be that opportunity for us to take a ride together.”

  “May I come with you?” asked Wyatt eagerly.

  “I’m sorry, Wyatt,” replied Davidson. “There are some important things I need to discuss with your father… political matters that would probably bore you anyway. But tell you what—I’ll come back with Seth and Thomas one day this summer and we’ll ride up to Harper’s Peak together. I’ll show you the stretch your father and I used to race.”

  Without speaking and obviously unmoved by the reminder of happier times, Beaumont drained what remained in his glass, stood up, and walked toward the door. Davidson rose also, and, after final words of appreciation to Lady Daphne for her hospitality, followed him outside.

  The two Virginia landowners rode away from the white plantation house of Oakbriar a few minutes later with considerably less verve than had characterized their discussion of the joys of riding together as they had envisioned them to Carolyn two and a half months earlier. No words had been spoken since leaving the kitchen.

  When they were well away from the last of the outbuildings, at last Davidson ventured to bring up the topic he had come to discuss.

  “There is something I need to talk with you about, Denton,” he began. “I’m sorry to have waited so long, but I wanted to have my own mind made up before I—”

  At last out of earshot of wife and children, his neighbor’s suppressed fury could hold itself back no longer.

  “Don’t you ever do something like that again, Richmond!” interrupted Beaumont, seething. “My slaves on my property are my business. If you forget it, by God next time I will take the whip to you!”

  “I am very sorry, Denton,” said Davidson. “I enjoyed that no more than you did. But it was clear you had lost control. I believe the time will come when you will thank me for what I did.”

  Beaumont did not reply, except to mutter an expletive or two under his breath about how soon his neighbor might expect said word of thanks, and under what conditions.

  “All right, then,” said Beaumont curtly, “get on with it. What do you have to tell me?”

  The sounds of their horses’ hooves were for several seconds the only reply that came to his question. As long as he had deliberated about what to say, now that the moment had arrived, Richmond found himself at a loss for words.

  “As I said,” he began at length, “I am sorry to have waited so long to tell you this, Denton. It has been especially difficult knowing of your own interest in politics. But there are some men who spoke to me a while back about the possibility of my running for Congress.”

  The unexpected words at last succeeded in helping Beaumont forget, for the moment, what had occurred back at his house. He turned and gaped at Davidson with a look of incredulity.

  “You?” he said in a tone of disbelief. “I had no idea you had political aspirations.”

  “I don’t. But as I say, there are certain men who approached me and expressed their desire to support my candidacy.”

  Beaumont’s initial surprise quickly gave way to annoyance. “What men?” he asked.

  Richmond had debated whether or not to divulge the men’s names.

  But since all would likely come out in the end, he judged it best to hold nothing back.

  “Frederick Trowbridge was the chief mover in the affair,” he replied.

  “What about Smith?” queried his neighbor.

  “The senator is apparently stepping down. He plans to retire and is not seeking reelection.”

  Beaumont nodded, doing his best to hide his mortification at this humiliating news. He prided himself on knowing all there was to know about Virginia politics. To discover that his apolitical neighbor was privy to such an important development, while it had been kept from him by those in the know, added all the more insult to his sense of injury.

  “I must say I am more than a little astonished,” he said, trying not to divulge his chagrin. “Frederick and I are old friends. I can hardly imagine that he would stab me in the back like this. I am surprised at you too, Richmond. How could you betray me like this, after all we have been through together?”

  “I am sorry, Denton. I certainly did not intend to betray you. That is why I have come to you now, so that you and I could talk about it like old friends.”

  “Friendship would not appear to count for much in politics,” said Beaumont acridly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Richmond—you know well enough what I mean.”

  “I… I’m sorry, Denton, but I don’t.”

  “I have been laying the groundwork for a run of my own for years. Had I been apprised of Senator Smith’s retirement, this would give me an ideal opportunity. Yet now I find you sneaking in and undermining all I have worked for.”

  “Denton, how can you say such a thing? I told you how it came about, that they—”

  “You could have come to me sooner,” interrupted Beaumont in rising vexation. “You could have declined their offer. You could have thrown your support behind me instead.”

  “That is exactly what I did, Denton. I brought your name up immediately and told them you were far more qualified than I. In all sincerity I still believe that.”

  Wondering if he had heard correctly, Beaumont sent a questioning glance toward his neighbor.

  “And?” he said slowly.

  “They continued to try to convince me to run myself.”

  “I take it they were successful.”

  “I felt I had a duty at least to pray the matter through in order to find out what God wanted me to do.”

  “Did you?” said Beaumont cynically.

  “I think so.”

  “I thought as much. Your prayers hardly disguise your ambitions. I would respect you more, Richmond, if you simply told me you had decided to run for the seat you knew I had been eying myself.”

  Davidson smiled thinly. It was not for the relinquishment of worldly prestige that the words saddened him, but that after all these years his neighbor knew him so little.

  “The result of my prayers, Denton,” he said, “is that I have decided not to run.”

  Beaumont eyed Davidson for a moment, one eyebrow cocked upward.

  “Do the others know?” he asked.

  “I plan to write to Frederick this afternoon. I wanted to tell you before doing anything.”

  “Hmm… I see… well, I appreciate your consideration.”

  “So it would seem that the field is wide open for you to—,” Davidson began.

  He was interrupted by a bitter laugh. “You don’t think after all this,” said Beaumont, “that I would go crawling, cap in hand, to ask them to support me in your stead!”

  He spat out the words with derision. There could be no mistaking his meaning.

  “Believe me, Richmond,” he went on, “when I go to Washington it will not be as second fiddle to the party’s first selection.”

  “I only meant that if you do run, you can count on my support in any way I might be of assistance.”

  “I can manage just fine without any more of your assistance! In the future, I will thank you to keep out of my affairs and keep your so-called help to yourself.”

  Beaumont spun his horse around, lashed him viciously, and galloped back down the hill in the direction of Oakbriar.

  PART TWO

  1856

  ROOTS OF STRIFE

  Thirteen

  A thick, heavy mist from the nearby swamp had risen to meet the South Carolina December dusk as a large-framed black woman left the big house. The lantern bobbing in her hand sent uneven light bouncing along the path as she made her way toward the slave cabins about half a mile away.

  The woman called Amaritta did not tend every birth on the plantation. But poor Lucindy had been so despondent ever since the loss of her husband that Mistress Crawford was afraid the birthing might kill her. So she sent the housekeeper along to mak
e sure nothing went wrong. Lucindy was too young and too valuable to lose that way. Nine months before the master had insisted that Amaritta check on Lucindy almost daily, anxious to know the instant “the business was done” as he called it, so he could get Caleb Eaton on the block and gone. Now that the time had run its course, he would take out his wrath on every woman of the place if she died in childbirth.

  The black midwife from the slave village had already been inside Lucindy’s little shack for an hour when the housekeeper arrived. Even as Amaritta walked up the steps, another old black woman, one of the matriarchs of the slave community who helped hold together its family bonds, walked outside to meet her. The expression on her face did not bode well.

  “Ah be too late… hit already come?” asked Amaritta.

  “Dat it did,” answered the woman, “’bout ten minutes ago—but hit ain’t no man-chil’.”

  Amaritta shook her head. “Dat ain’t good,” she said. “Massa’ll be parful upset by dat turn ob events.”

  “’Deed he will,” assented the other. “He still got it out fo’ Lucindy on account er Caleb.”

  “He’s likely only leab her alone fo’ two seasons at da mos’ fo’ he’ll be wantin’ ter put sum other man wif her ter git her wif chil’ agin.”

  “Ah sure be glad dem days is dun gone fo’ me,” said the older woman, shaking her head.

  “What we gwine do fo’ po’ Lucindy?” said the housekeeper. “We’s got ter do sumfin.”

  “She ain’t strong enuf fo’ anuder baby dat soon, no how.”

  “We gots ter do what we can t’ protec’ her.”

  “Ah’m thinkin’ dat she’s be likely ter be gittin’ real sick long ’bout six months from now,” mused the matriarch.

  Illuminated by the lantern, a knowing look passed between the two women in the night. A few silent nods followed.

  “You know how it gits sumtime long ’bout den, wif nursin’ da baby takin’ all yo’ strenf, an’ how a woman gits weak an’ sick, an’ ain’t much good fo’ nuthin no how.”

  “Da massa, he’ll be makin’ me come down an’ check when she’s ready,” said Amaritta.

  “You kin check all right, an you’s boun’ ter fin’ her in a bad way, I’m thinkin’. Yes, sir… I’m thinkin’ dat it jus’ might be a sickness dat’ll keep her outta any man’s bed fo’a good long spell.”

  Fourteen

  James Waters had been looking forward to seeing his daughter for weeks.

  He had enrolled her in boarding school the previous fall, thinking she needed more socialization with other girls. She was a young fifteen, and not as physically developed as many her age. She seemed to enjoy school at first. Recently, however, her letters had contained hints that made him wonder if things were going as well as before. That was one of the reasons for his visit in early February of 1856. He had not seen her since Christmas.

  When he arrived at the Cambridge Boarding School for Young Ladies, he saw a troop of girls walking back from chapel toward the dining hall.

  He was reminded of his own early years after his uncle brought him north and planted him in a boarding school not very different from this one. As hard as he had tried to separate himself from his roots, a stab of ethnic nostalgia suddenly swept over him. For the first time he wondered if he ought to tell Cherity. Not even Kathleen had known. But with his daughter’s fascination with Indians and the West, it seemed only right that she know eventually.

  He shook the thought from his brain. Whether he decided to tell her or not, he would not do so today. He returned his focus to the present and scanned the group of girls looking for his daughter. She was not among them.

  He watched them go, then continued to the main building, where he found the headmistress in her office.

  “Hello, Mr. Waters,” she said as he entered.

  “Miss Baird,” he nodded with a smile, thinking to himself that her manner seemed a little cool. “I came to visit Cherity. I hope it is a convenient time for me to take her for a couple of hours—I did not see her with the other girls as they were coming across the yard a moment ago.”

  “No,” replied the headmistress, “she was not among them.”

  “There’s nothing wrong?” he asked in concern. “Is she ill?”

  “No, Mr. Waters, she is not ill,” replied Miss Baird. “But I am afraid there is something wrong.”

  “What is it?”

  “I am afraid she is in detention, Mr. Waters. We have found it necessary to discipline her.”

  “Discipline her!” repeated the journalist in disbelief. “My Cherity… for what? She doesn’t have a rebellious bone in her body.”

  “We find parents are often the last to know,” said the woman with a hint of self-importance.

  “Know what?” he asked, his perplexity mounting.

  “Of the misbehavior of their children.”

  “Misbehavior? I can hardly believe it. Tell me please… what happened?”

  “We found this in her room, Mr. Waters,” she said in a tone to indicate that the damning evidence was all the justification needed for strict disciplinary action.

  From a drawer in her desk, she removed a small book and handed it across to the concerned father. He took it, then broke out in a relieved smile.

  “Ah… Sarah Sacks!” he said. “I’m glad to see it is nothing serious.”

  “I take it you find your daughter’s infraction amusing?” said the headmistress, drawing herself up slightly in her chair.

  “Surely you don’t mean… she’s not being disciplined for this?”

  “It is a dime novel.”

  “I certainly see nothing sinister in it. Don’t you find it humorous?”

  “I do not.”

  “It is just a book,” chuckled Waters.

  “And one that is not on our approved book list.”

  “Is she not keeping up with the rest of her reading?”

  “No, she has done all her assignments.”

  “Then what is wrong with reading about the West in her free time?”

  “We do not encourage such fancies of imagination.”

  “What do you encourage instead?”

  “That our young ladies learn sophistication,” replied the woman. “Your daughter is extremely unladylike and this is the evidence of it. I thought that was your reason for sending her here, so that she could learn to be a lady.”

  “Of course, but not necessarily all at once, and not at the expense of reading and pursuing her own interests, for heaven’s sake.”

  “If she continually fills her mind with… with such trash as that, her attention will be distracted from the sort of behavior we try to instill here.”

  “She is only fifteen. There is plenty of time. I surely don’t see how reading such as this will prevent her from maturing.”

  “Perhaps you do not understand young women as I do, Mr. Waters.”

  “In any event, I presume you will have no objection to my visiting with her. You can carry out the remainder of her incarceration,” he added with a smile, though one that revealed a hint of annoyance, “later.”

  Waters found his daughter in her room.

  “Daddy!” she exclaimed after opening the door to his knock. “I thought you would never get here!”

  “Yes, I just came from Miss Baird,” he said laughing. “She told me of your many sins!”

  “She’s so stuffy! They’re all so stuffy. They want us to act all grownup. You should see some of the girls—trying to pretend they’re in their twenties. I hate it.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “I do my schoolwork, but act however I want to act, without trying to pretend to be something I’m not.

  “Good girl! Why don’t we get out of here and go for a ride and have a talk?”

  “Will Miss Baird let me?”

  “I told her you could complete your punishment for your unladylike behavior after we get back,” said her father with a smile.

  “To be honest, Daddy, I don
’t really mind so much. It gives me more time to read.”

  “But she took your book.”

  “Oh, Daddy, I have at least ten more I brought with me. Look!”

  She pulled a box out from under her bed, revealing a stack of biographies and adventure stories.

  “You are a naughty one!” laughed Waters. “Maybe you are more a rebel than I realized—let’s go!”

  A few minutes later they were out together in the spring air.

  “Do you dislike it here, Cherity?” asked Waters in a more serious tone as they climbed into his rented buggy and rode away from the school. “It doesn’t sound like…” He let his sentence go uncompleted.

  “I like some of the girls. I have a few friends. It’s not really so bad.”

  “They don’t think you’re ladylike enough.”

  “Who cares what they think!” she giggled.

  “You can come home any time you want.”

  “I want to finish the year out at least.”

  “And next year?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll have to think about that. We can talk about it when summer comes.”

  “What would you think of us taking a trip as soon as the term is done?” asked Waters.

  “Where—to Kansas!” exclaimed Cherity excitedly.

  “I’m afraid not,” replied her father. “Things are heating up there so much over the slavery issue that it’s becoming downright dangerous. I wouldn’t think of taking you out West now.”

  “Where, then?”

  “I thought we might go down to see Mary and her new baby. You are an aunt now, you know… Aunt Cherity.”

  “Oh, Daddy, that makes me sound so old. I’m just a girl.”

  “You’d better get used to it. That’s what Mary’s little boy will call you someday.”

  Fifteen

  Nearly a year had passed since Richmond Davidson’s visit to Boston. The fields of Greenwood again lay fallow for the winter to do its invisible work in making them ready for the approaching year’s ploughing and sowing, growing and reaping.