American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

Mother, mother, whispered Cherity silently, how I wish you were here! I have so many questions to ask you. Just imagine all the things we could talk about and everything you could tell me. What were you like? How did your voice sound? What did your face look like when you smiled? If only this picture could move and come to life! What did you think when you held me in your arms before you died?

  As she continued to flip through the pages, several words caught her eye. They were underlined. She paused to read them. “‘The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  She continued slowly to turn the pages, reading more underlined passages and an occasional note in the margin. Some of the words she read sounded like another language. It was so old-fashioned and contained so many odd words she didn’t understand that she could make little sense of its meaning. It was just like the readings in chapel at school—so hard to understand.

  She reached the end of the book. Before she closed it, her eyes fell on several blank pages which were full of handwritten notes that her mother had added. She began to read some of them.

  “Christ is coming… behold, he cometh!”

  “Deepen my faith, dear Lord, that I might understand thy ways.”

  “Bless thy church, Lord, where thy saints worship in order that they be kept spotless from the sins of the world. Convict the world of sin and judgment.”

  Even her mother’s own handwritten words were written in the same old-fashioned language the Bible used.

  Then unexpectedly Cherity’s eyes fell upon words that plunged straight to her heart: “A prayer for my daughters.”

  Thank you, dear Lord, she read, for my wonderful daughters. I love them so much. They are truly a gift from you. May they grow in wisdom and in stature and in favor with God and man. Most of all, may they come to know you as their Savior and Lord, and may you reveal yourself ever more fully to them all the days of their lives.

  Cherity knew that the words had been written for her older sisters. But had her mother felt the same thing, and perhaps uttered a similar prayer for her before she fell asleep for the last time? It felt so warm and full of love.

  The poignant words of a mother’s prayer, in a language of the spirit she hardly understood, reached out as from the grave, stretching across that invisible barrier of death and linking the present with eternity, and touched the heart of the motherless girl. She was reminded of Seth Davidson’s confident assertion about heaven. If only she could know for sure that her mother was still alive and in heaven right now.

  She felt a tremble in her heart, and unbidden, a tear rose in one eye. Unconsciously she brushed at it, but found more following in an increasing flow.

  Cherity sat for several minutes quietly weeping, though she knew not why.

  A seed of determination began to sprout, invisible yet, for its growth would be slow, to understand this strange thing her mother called faith, and to know what her mother had discovered in this Bible, seemingly so unintelligible, and in the church her father said he and she had attended every week without fail.

  Cherity Waters seldom cried. Hers was too upbeat a personality to remain thoughtfully melancholy for long. After a few minutes she brushed back the tears that remained in her eyes and rose to her feet with a deep breath and a smile.

  She could go out to meet the rest of the day now. But she would not forget her resolve to find out more about what had given her mother’s life such meaning in the pages of the big black book. When the right time came, she would try to learn more.

  Twenty-eight

  A good ticket mistress for the U.G.R.R. had to resort to subterfuge. Amaritta Beecham had been part of the invisible slave network so long she knew just about every trick in the book.

  Her mysterious errands through the years, cleverly disguised under a cloak of affected mental density, had only confirmed to Amaritta’s mistress that her housekeeper was ignorant and slow of mind. Mrs. Crawford never had a suspicion that Amaritta could read as well as her own children, or that the woman she so looked down on as her racial inferior was contributing a vital chapter to the history of her people, and that it was being written right under her own unseeing eyes.

  That the ticket on this occasion had come for one of Master Crawford’s own slaves made the housekeeper’s job easier. It was not difficult to manufacture a pretense to walk to the slave quarters the day following the arrival of the soap letter. Without drawing suspicion to herself, for the activities of her ticket office must remain concealed even from their own slaves, she gradually drew Lucindy Eaton aside. Confused by the furtive manner of the mistress’s house slave, Lucindy followed with her two year old. When they were out of earshot, even from Lucindy’s two older children, Amaritta put her lips close to Lucindy’s ear.

  “Dere’s a message come ter me yesterday, Lucindy dear,” she whispered. “Hit’s a message sent here jes’ fo’ you.”

  “Wha’ chu mean… fo’ me?” said Lucindy, confused. “What kind er message?”

  “I gets messages, Lucindy dear. Dey come ter me from all ’roun’. But afore I tell you ’bout it, you gots ter promise not ter say a word, no how.”

  Lucindy eyed her with a little remaining suspicion, but saw how serious Amaritta was.

  “I’s promise,” she said slowly.

  “Den hit’s dis,” whispered Amaritta, “—dere’s a black man by da name er Eaton who’s dun excaped to da Norf.”

  Lucindy’s eyes shot open and she stared at the housekeeper with sudden curiosity.

  “Excaped!”

  “Shush—keep yo’ voice down.”

  “He ain’t at dat place no mo’,” whispered Lucindy excitedly, “where massa dun sol’ him to?”

  Amaritta shook her head. “He dun take dat railroad all da way ter Zion. An’ he sez dat he’s jes’ like one er dose twelve spies like his name say. He been spyin’ out dat lan’ er milk an’ honey, an’ he’s ready fo’ you ter join him cross dat ol’ Jordan. So he dun sent fo’ you an’ da chilluns.”

  “Sent fo’us—how kin dat be!”

  “Dat was da message dat I got.”

  “But how’s we gwine git ter him… how we know where he is?”

  “You leab dat ter me. But you gots ter leab in da middle ob da night.”

  “Why?”

  “Cuz nobody kin know—not whites, not coloreds. Ain’t nobody kin know but me.”

  “When I gotter go?”

  “I’s tell you what’s ter do. You jes’ gotter be ready wif yo’ chilluns, ready da minute I come fo’ you. An’ you can’t blab a word ter nobody.”

  “How I know where’s ter go?”

  “Da railroad’ll take you. You jes’go from station to station. Dey’ll tell you what ter do.”

  “What effen we’s caught?”

  “Den you’s likely git whupped bad. But effen you don’go, ain’t long afore da master’s gwine bed you down wif sumbody. You don’ want dat?”

  Lucindy shook her head vigorously.

  “An’ you wants ter see Caleb agin?”

  “Yes’m. I’s been waitin’ fo’ dis chance long enuf,” said Lucindy. “I’s ready ter run ter freedom effen I kin. I dun tol’ myself dat I’d git dese chilluns er mine ter dat ol’ riber Jordan effen I cud. So I’s ready. I’s go.”

  “Den you be ready w’en dat train ter Zion cum. Wen I cum fo’ you—you an’ da chilluns gots ter go right den. Dat train ter da promised lan’ don’t wait fo’ nobody. An’ when you gits ter dat las’ station, you jes’ ’member dese words from da message, Look fo da win in da horse’s head.”

  “I don’ know what it means.”

  “Neither duz I, chil’. But you will when da time cums.”*

  Twenty-nine

  How an important man like Senator Hoyt heard of him, Cecil Hirsch didn’t know. But he wasn’t asking too many questions. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. If he could just make good on it, there was no telling where it might lead… Washington, London, Paris, Rome
!

  He had never thought of himself as particularly ambitious, just a guy trying to make two bits however he could, or a buck if his luck was on a hot streak. He had started in the information game as a kid hustling tourists in New York City, passing himself off as an expert on local history and gossip and architecture. This he supplemented by hanging around hotels and grabbing bags from outside in hopes that he’d get thrown a nickel or two by carrying them in for somebody. If he had a few newspapers to sell, so much the better.

  As he got better at it, he moved toward nicer hotels, learning to spot the most likely marks by studying their faces for a few minutes, or listening in on conversations between husband and wife. All he had to do was hear a chance comment about wanting to see the city, or wondering about something they had noticed, and then walk up as the pleasant, polite, and cute little local tour guide.

  By the time he was twelve, he could hop in the carriage of a visiting family or businessman and guide them all over the city and keep them entertained for hours, leaving them thinking themselves experts in most of what anyone needed to know about the great American metropolis. That much of what he fed gullible Midwesterners and Europeans, while perhaps based here and there on pieces of truth, was mostly fictitious was a fact that never bothered him and that most of his clientele would never know. They were happy, and he learned that it was a lot nicer to hear the jingle of coins in his pocket than feel the pangs of hunger in his stomach. It wasn’t a bad living for a kid who had grown up on the streets.

  As he had grown older, and learned to take on more mature mannerisms of sophistication, adding nicer clothes and more polished speech to his act, he had discovered that truth paid even better than fiction. Why bother making up stories when he could pass himself off as a legitimate expert and command yet higher prices?

  So he boned up on local facts, adding truth to his tales a little at a time. The next discovery proved the most important of all, a discovery that would set him on course toward his future—that the sort of truth that tourists found most interesting of all was truth about people. Gossip, to be plain about it. He could tell stories about what buildings were built when and about the city’s growth and how much the Dutchman Peter Minuit had paid the Indians in beads and furs for Manhattan in 1626, and they would be yawning in the aisles. But let him dish the dirt on this socialite or that wife of an important figure, or in low confidential tones disclose a rumor about such-and-such politician and his mistress, and they came awake and hung on his every word.

  At first it had almost been a lark to see what he could discover and then watch how tourists responded to the information. But gradually, young Cecil realized he was onto something big. People would pay for information. The juicier the information, the more they would fork over.

  By the time he was twenty-three, Cecil Hirsch had taken to wintering in the cities of the South—Charlotte, New Orleans, Birmingham. He brought a Southern air of refinement to the tour guide motif, frequenting now only the finest hotels where people could afford to pay greater amounts and where he cut a dashing enough figure to fit in just about anywhere.

  In Dixie, being a broker of local gossip made him all the more sought after, for the South loved its dirty little secrets. For one like him, who had been watching, observing, and listening to people all his life, and who had made a practice of moving in and out of character like a chameleon as circumstances dictated, to perfect the dialect of Alabama, Louisiana, or Georgia was the work of a mere week or two. Within no time he could affect with equal ease the drawl of the Deep South, or speak in flawless New York or Boston twang, as it happened to suit his purposes.

  Senator Hoyt’s message had been brief but tantalizing: Understand you have information about various people of importance, or know how to get it. Would like to discuss proposition.

  Now here he was on a train heading south to see what would become of said proposition. Hoyt had hired him to get the goods on a political opponent. If he succeeded, it could open his way further into the world of politics—the most dangerous, but lucrative, world of all.

  He still wasn’t quite sure whether to don his Northern or his Southern persona, thought Hirsch. He would dress appropriately for either, then wait until he arrived at the event and see how the thing felt. He liked making spontaneous decisions of character.

  It kept him on his toes.

  Thirty

  The morning was well advanced. Carolyn Davidson wondered where her men were.

  She walked from the house and glanced about just in time to see the back of her husband disappearing in the distance. She smiled, thinking to herself that if he found the slightest legitimate excuse, he would probably not keep the afternoon’s appointment at all.

  Closer by she saw Seth in the pasture with a pure black horse, the two walking slowly side by side almost as friends having a chat together. She sometimes almost wondered if the animals could understand him, as Alexander claimed. To all appearance, an earnest conversation was in progress. She walked down the porch and across the entryway.

  Seth was so engrossed with Demon that he did not see his mother in the distance. He had just extended his hand toward the long nose of his companion. A gentle snort of pleasure sounded as the horse took a piece of apple and chunk of sugar in the same motion of his fleshy lips.

  “You see, Demon,” said Seth, “you are happier now that you know that I am not only your master but your friend. I want to be to you just what God wants to be to us—master and friend.”

  He glanced up and saw Carolyn at the fence watching him. “Hi, Mother!” he said. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. I’m just making sure everyone is ready for this afternoon,” she said.

  “I’m all dressed.”

  “I can see that,” she laughed. “But why did you get dressed before going out into the pasture? You’ll get soiled. What will Veronica’s friends think?”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “You sound just like your father!”

  “Besides, who cares what her friends think?”

  “What about Veronica herself?”

  Seth laughed. “I’ve given up trying to predict that! When do we need to leave?”

  “In about an hour.”

  “I’ll be ready… and don’t worry, I won’t have manure on my shoes!”

  As Carolyn walked back to the house, her thoughts turned toward her youngest son. She wondered where Thomas was. A momentary cloud passed over her brow. She knew he was changing. Too fast, it seemed. It had only been a couple of months since Richmond and the two boys had laughed and roughhoused in the hay loft. She had not been able to keep from laughing herself as Richmond told her about it.

  But Thomas rarely laughed now. She could not imagine him laughing and having fun with his father in his present mood. Would such times ever come again when they would hear him laugh like a boy? What had come over him? Why was he drifting from them?

  If she was honest with herself, she realized that the change wasn’t as sudden as it seemed. There had been subtle signs of discontent for years. She had hoped he would grow out of them and learn to trust them more the older he became.

  But it was becoming all too obvious now… that didn’t seem likely to happen.

  Richmond Davidson smiled as the sounds of two dozen singing Negro voices raised in rich harmony over the cultivated fields faded behind him.

  They had always sung, he thought. Music was tonic to their soul. But the sound here at Greenwood was so much happier than before. The songs were not so melancholy. They truly seemed to enjoy their work these days.

  “We’ll be away most of the day, Malachi,” he had said a few minutes ago, after taking aside the great muscular black man who was now called his foreman. “I would like you to get as far with the western ten acres as you can. But don’t go past about six o’clock. I want you and your men to leave yourselves time to work on your houses. Do you have the lumber you need?”

  “Yes, massa, we’s—”
r />   Davidson held up an interrupting finger. The black man stopped abruptly.

  “I’ve told you, Malachi—it is no longer Master,” said the plantation owner, sternly but with obvious love in his tone. “You may call me Sir, or Mr. Davidson.”

  “Yes, sir… Mister Dab’son,” nodded Malachi. “Ah’s tryin’ ter mind, but it’s sum par’ ful hard fer me ter ’member.”

  “I understand, Malachi,” smiled Richmond. “That’s why I will continue to remind you. And I want you to take care that your people do not refer to me as master in your hearing. They have to learn to think differently about many things, themselves most of all.”

  “Much oblige, Mister Dab’son… sir,” replied Malachi, showing a smile that revealed sparkling white teeth.

  “Do you hear anything from Joseph?”

  “Not fer a mumf er two, sir, but his mama sez he’s gwine ter make out jes fine up dere in da Norf.”

  “Well, I am glad to hear it. Don’t work your people too hard today, Malachi—it feels like it will be hot.”

  “At’s mighty kind er you, sir. You en da missus hab a fine time, Mister Dab’son, sir.”

  “Thank you, Malachi.”

  Richmond continued on to the pleasant sound of the singing behind him, reached the house about five minutes later, and paused on the porch and glanced back and took in the scene spreading out before his eyes.

  The plantation was doing well under the changes they had instituted, better even than before. Whether it was because of God’s blessing or the simple effects of democracy and free capitalism at work, who could say. Nevertheless, the results could not be denied. For the half dozen or so who had left, Joseph among them, there had been an equal number of free coloreds, hearing about Greenwood, who had come asking for work, far more than they needed or could possibly hire. After the first year, they had instituted a moderate bonus system whereby the workers shared in the profits if the harvest was bountiful. And to encourage their women to spend as much time as possible with the children, they had begun paying the married men more, on the basis of how many mouths they had to feed, than the single men. The fact was, he required fewer workers now, even though they had cleared and begun to plant even more land than they had been able to cultivate before, simply because the men were working so much harder now that they had a personal investment in the plantation’s success. In two years neither he nor Carolyn had heard so much as a word of complaint from anyone, male or female, married or single. Morale had never been higher, as evidenced by the happy sounds resonating behind him.