American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “If you returned him now, there would probably be no charges brought against you for giving him a meal and a few hours sleep. But for us to keep him for even a day…”

  “Carolyn, you’re not suggesting that we return—”

  “No, not at all. I was only thinking out loud. Obviously, we know what Denton is liable to do. Neither do I like the idea of my husband in jail.”

  “It won’t come to that.”

  “Men have been jailed for less. The times we live in now can easily drive men to great evil. I do not like to think what could happen.”

  It fell silent a moment.

  “Why didn’t you tell Thomas?” asked Carolyn, glancing toward her husband.

  He did not reply immediately. “I’m not sure,” he said at length. “Until you and I decide what is to be done, I had a feeling that the man’s safety could be jeopardized further by Thomas being party to it. I would rather he didn’t know at all than for us to make him promise to keep it from anybody else, especially Jeremy and Cameron. That might be intolerable for him.”

  Carolyn sighed. “I know what you are saying. Sometimes I think Thomas is more in sympathy with Denton’s views than ours.”

  “I’ve noticed it too,” nodded Richmond. “Yes… somehow Thomas complicates this whole thing.”

  “Is that why you sent Seth down to the colored village before Thomas was up?”

  “One of the reasons. I knew Seth would say nothing until we decide what to do.”

  “We’ll have to talk to him before Thomas gets back from town. Do you think he will understand us not wanting him to tell his brother?”

  “He is the older and more mature of the two. It is an unfortunate position to put him in, but he will see that it is for the best.”

  “He trusts us—that counts for a great deal.”

  “Well,” said Richmond, “we had better make some preparations while Thomas is away.”

  “What are we going to do, Richmond?”

  “I don’t know. But I am not going to send him back to Denton.”

  “We cannot keep him here and hope he blends in with our Negroes. Word would leak out eventually. Denton would come and claim him and probably bring charges of theft against you, and there would be nothing we could do.”

  “No, we can’t keep him. He’s got to go… but where?”

  “The only place he would be safe is in the North, and even there not absolutely safe as the runaway of a Commissioner.”

  They contemplated Carolyn’s words for a minute or two.

  “That is probably the only solution,” said Richmond at length. “We will have to try to help him get to the Pennsylvania border. I’ll ask him if he knows anyone up there, or has any free relatives.”

  “Until then?”

  “He will have to stay in the cellar, and we will have to have Moses sneak food down to him when Thomas is in another part of the house or outside.”

  “I don’t like the sound of acting behind our own son’s back.”

  “It’s for the man’s safety, and we’ve got to keep him here long enough to get him healthy enough to travel.”

  “What about…?” Carolyn’s expression said clearly enough what she was thinking.

  “I’ll set up a chamber pot and stool down there,” replied her husband, rising.

  “Not very sanitary,” grimaced Carolyn, “though I don’t know what else to suggest.”

  “My main concern is keeping the man alive and news of his presence limited to Moses, Maribel, and Seth and the two of us. It will only be for a few days.”

  A week later, under the light of a three-quarter moon, a white man and a black man quietly led two horses away from Greenwood’s stables. When they were far enough away that the sounds of their hooves would awaken no light sleepers, either at the big house or in the Negro village, and invite unwanted inquiry, they mounted and rode quietly away.

  Keeping to little-known back roads, they pursued a generally northerly course for most of the night, until they were well beyond the point where anyone connected with the plantation called Oakbriar might see them. By then the greatest danger was past. Anyone seeing them now would assume the Negro to be the slave of the white man accompanying him.

  When one of the men returned midway through the afternoon, a day and a half later, both man and his beast were fatigued from their journey of nearly two hundred miles. Yet as anxious as he was to get home, he made sure to take the long way around so that he would approach his own plantation from the west and thus avoid the risk of being seen by anyone from neighboring Oakbriar.

  PART FOUR

  FALL, 1858—SUMMER, 1859

  RIVER JORDAN

  Thirty-nine

  Fear and uncertainty accompanied Lucindy Eaton’s every step during her first week away from the only home she had ever known. She and her three young ones walked to a new destination every night, she carrying the youngest as much as she was able, the two older ones, though only four and six, like their mother, on foot.

  People whose names she never knew led them from station to station, sometimes alone, sometimes with others. On some nights only one conductor appeared. Occasionally there were others to help with Calebia. Sometimes the toddler was given a warm milky potion. Lucindy didn’t know what was in it, but it made her sleepy and, more importantly, quiet. Lucindy could not help wondering if she had made a mistake and ought to turn back. By the time two weeks had passed, she went forward as if in a dream.

  By night, they traveled from station to station. By day, they slept—in barns, cellars, haylofts, many times under the stars. Food and water were provided by unseen hands of ministration which she never saw again.

  Night faded into night until the weeks became a sleepy and confused succession of new people and places—of cold and dirt and dampness and smells and hunger and fatigue. She could not now have found her way back to the plantation of Miles Crawford in South Carolina even had she wanted to. She knew so little about the larger world of which the slave states of the American South were a part, she had no idea when they passed into North Carolina nor would even have known what the words meant had she been told.

  Now that she was a runaway, she could never turn back. At every station, there was talk about the increasing number of bounty hunters scouring the countryside for slaves to return to their masters. Though she had never heard of the Fugitive Slave Law, she knew that runaways had even fewer rights than regular slaves and that they were punished severely when they were caught. She had watched too many mothers silently endure the terrible agony of seeing their children sold away from them, never to set eyes on them again. She would die before turning back, knowing that to be caught would surely mean lifelong separation from her three precious ones for whose freedom she was risking all four of their lives.

  The months of the summer on that invisible nighttime railroad passed both slowly and quickly in an endless blur. On some evenings Lucindy now began to feel a chill in the air.

  How far was the promised land called Pennsylvania?

  It already felt like she had been walking forever. In fact, her journey had still only just begun. In the first four months, zigzagging across the map, she had only progressed a hundred and seventy-five miles toward the North. How many miles more than that had she actually walked she had no idea. There were over three hundred miles ahead of her, and as the U.G.R.R. moved anything but as the crow flew, she might have to walk more than twice that far before she reached her destination. A single man might take an express train and travel much faster. But no passengers were slower than young mothers and children without husbands. Progress was always slower in winter.*

  As their steps took them farther north, she had a difficult time understanding the speech of some of the white people helping them. Instead of the rough shouts of her master and his men, these whites spoke slowly and softly, using strange expressions and words like thee and thy and thou. But the language of kindness is universal, and she soon learned that these gentle people c
alled themselves Friends, while others referred to them as Quakers.* Black freedmen usually guided them through the night, but often the homes they were led to were those of these “Friends.” Sometimes they traveled for several nights without a station or depot to sleep in at all when the previous night’s conductor left them, huddled alone with blankets out of sight. Lucindy was told at such times that they were in unfriendly country where depots were far between. The children had an easier time sleeping during the day than did their mother. Though exhausted to tears, Lucindy often sat wide eyed all day, jumping at every sound, terrified they would be discovered by dogs. When another conductor appeared the following night, handing them hard biscuits and getting them to their feet to lead them stealthily away into the night, she hardly knew whether she could face another long trek.

  Ever the waking dream began anew, night after night… walking… walking… walking through the blackness. But whenever the voice whispered, “Follow me,” Lucindy did not hesitate, but rose and obeyed. They were the words that led to freedom.

  Lucindy awoke suddenly after a long day hidden in some bushes where she had been told to wait.

  Something had awakened her out of a sound sleep. Now she knew what it was—the stink of a polecat. It smelled like it was close!

  The sound of baying hounds seemed to be coming from three directions at once!

  Quickly she picked up little Calebia and put her to her breast to keep her quiet. But the little girl sensed her mother’s terror and could not settle down. By now, Broan and Rebecca were stirring.

  “What dat stink, Mama?” said Broan, rubbing his eyes.

  “Shush!” she said in a loud whisper. “Dat’s a blamed skunk—but dere’s houn’s out dere too… we got’s te be still as er mouse!”

  Rebecca and Broan crept closer and huddled to her side. Eyes wide, they waited.

  Suddenly a rustling sounded next to them. The smell of skunk became almost intolerable. Out of the brush appeared the arm of a black woman. Lucindy nearly lept out of her skin at sight of it. The woman reached for the baby, and before Lucindy could object, placed a rag over the tiny nose. Immediately Calebia quieted and conked out.

  “Lor’, protec’ us here from dose confound dogs,” prayed the newcomer, sitting down beside them and handing the two older children hard biscuits. She gave Lucindy a chunk of roast turkey to eat with hers.

  The sounds of the dogs gradually receded in the distance. Lucindy and the children remained silent. Broan slowly put the fingers of one hand to his nose and squeezed his nostrils shut. They were accustomed enough to bad smells. Traveling as they did, they knew that people smelled bad. But never had they known anyone to stink like this woman!

  “Dey’ll likely be back,” said the black woman as she rose from the ground. “Dem houn’s is a real nuisance. We gots ter git cross da stream an’ confuse dere noses so dey don’t know w’ere you been. You git goin’—dat way dere,” she added, pointing. She handed Calebia, who had gone out like a light after one sniff of the woman’s rag, back to Lucindy. “I’s jes’ got a little bizness ter ten’ to firs’.”

  She disappeared back into the woods, returning a few seconds later clutching a burlap sack by its neck.

  “I brung along dis ol’ dead polecat,” she chuckled. She began rubbing it about the ground where they had been sitting. “Y’all keep goin’, I’s tell you w’ere, an’ jes let me foller behin’.”

  They did as she said, following her instructions as they went while she brushed the smell of skunk back and forth over the trail behind them. Finally they came to the creek and waded across. The chill of the water woke up whatever of their senses the polecat hadn’t.

  “Now, jes’ walk straight up da water,” said the woman, “’bout a quarter mile, den by sum rocks, turn inter da woods. Dere’ll be sum folks ter meet yer by’n by. Meantime I’ll move ’bout on dis side wif my bag er tricks. Now git goin’.”

  Lucindy did as she said. Two or three minutes later, she glanced back. There was the old woman, grinning from ear to ear, still dragging the skunk behind her all about the shore of the water in both directions from where they had been.

  They reached the bend in the creek beside a big pile of boulders. Before they even were out of the water, two black men appeared. Without a word, they scooped up Rebecca and Broan and walked away from the creek, while Lucindy struggled to follow. Not a word was said for five or ten minutes. The men walked fast through trees and around big rocks. Gradually their way opened out of the woods where a small river flowed by. The men did not slow their step. Still holding the two children, they plunged into the water and waded across. A little frightened, Lucindy followed, her arms tiring but holding Calebia up out of the water as best she could, even as it came up to her own waist.

  Climbing cold and dripping out on the other side, from somewhere one of the men produced dry clothes for her and the two older children and told them to change into them. The men disappeared and returned in five minutes. They took the wet clothes, stuffed them into a burlap sack, threw a few big rocks into it, tied its neck, and heaved it into the middle of the river.

  “Follow me,” said one of the men as the other now disappeared for good.

  They followed him for the rest of the night and reached their destination sometime when the moon was high. Lucindy was so exhausted she hardly noticed the ministering hands that cared for them. She was nearly asleep even before she lay down on the floor in a corner where several blankets were waiting for them.

  As the small band slowly moved in a general northeasterly direction following the contour of the coastline and the Appalachians, and as the months of fall progressed, gradually the weather began to change. Rain came now more frequently and the nights grew colder. Progress slowed too. Conductors did not come every night.

  A dreadful storm in late November, followed by the flooding of every river and stream in North Carolina, made travel impossible. Lucindy and her three children found themselves living for a month in a Quaker barn. Mercifully, it was a warm storm and they did not suffer much except from boredom. The kindly Quaker mistress of the place did what she could to make their prolonged stay comfortable, gave the children candy at Christmas, and when they finally left in the first week of January gave Lucindy a waterproof oil cloth that they could huddle under if caught in the rain.

  Two weeks and several stations later, again they found themselves waiting in a barn without a conductor. The following night more passengers arrived. When the conductor finally came several days later, a black woman from the North, and walked into the barn, exclamations of joy accompanied her greetings of the others, by which Lucindy gathered that he was her brother, and this was the family she had come for.

  “Well, den, let’s go,” she said.

  Lucindy gathered up her children and things to follow. The woman glanced at her, then over at her brother.

  “Who dis?” she asked.

  “She wuz here w’en we cum.”

  “What she thinkin’? Dis weren’t da cargo I came fo’. I cum ter bring you out, not every slave in da Souf.”

  “She gots no conductor ob her own.”

  The woman sighed. “More chilluns,” she said to herself. “Dey’ll slow us down fo’ sho’.”

  “We can’t jes’ leab’ em, sis.”

  “All right, den—come along. But you gots ter keep up.”

  Lucindy remained with the same party and its conductress for the next six weeks, moving northeast along the southern ridge of the Appalachians through North Carolina, eventually passing into southern Virginia. Imperceptibly winter now began to loosen its grip on the land and give way to spring.

  Forty

  Malone Murdoch sat staring into a cold, half-empty, bitter cup of coffee.

  Most nights were the same. As the flames of his campfire slowly died into embers, their haunting shades and movements drew his memory back to that horrible night that had marked out his fateful destiny. In spite of the ghastly images it always brought back, he e
njoyed peering into the flames. For the searing pain of that night had long ago found relief in hatred, as unresolved personal agonies often do. That hatred grew to feed on itself, and in a twisted way became its own reward. Now he almost looked forward to each night’s campfire, for it caused the morbid pleasure of hate to burn the hotter in his heart.

  A rustle of wind in the leaves above him disturbed his reverie. He glanced up and about him, his hand unconsciously seeking the revolver at his side, then slowly returned his attention to the sheaf of papers in his hand. Descriptions of runaways were always sketchy at best. Nevertheless, he went through the complete list every night. It was uncanny how often one particular detail led to apprehending one of the runaways. He made his living by knowing how to use the details, and he mustn’t overlook a single one.

  Here was one, for instance. He perused the description a second time:

  Runaway from Phillips plantation in central Georgia near Macon. Answers to Jack or “Pig.” Male, 38 years old, approximately six feet, medium build, strong arms, ugly wide face, mule-headed, easily provoked, last seen wearing stolen riding boots and white man’s leather jacket. Reward $125 alive, $75 dead.

  On the surface, it didn’t seem like much. But to a man like Malone Murdoch, this brief notice was fraught with opportunity. Within minutes of an encounter with a group of runaways, he might recognize half of them from just such an outline. They were such an ignorant lot. Most never knew him for a bounty hunter. A few questions to get them blabbing and he might easily be able to secure half of them on the spot from the descriptions in his hand. That’s why he went over the pages every night beside his campfire.

  The loneliness of such an existence did not occur to Malone Murdoch, nor the eternal effects of hatred upon his own soul. This was the life he had chosen for himself—a life of vengeance, to atone for the sins visited upon the fathers. White fathers. His father. The money was all right. He had several thousand stashed in a bank in Atlanta. He would have quite a bit stored away someday. It wasn’t the money that lured him. He did it to feed his hatred, but it was a hunger that could never be satisfied.