American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  He continued to stare into the fire, the reflection of the flames playing upon the hard angles of his chin and cheeks and dark eyes that knew neither remorse nor love. A wide, bushy brown mustache was the chief characteristic of a face that might once have been handsome. Instead, it had grown permanently expressionless. Malone Murdoch had not smiled in years. In his face one saw only silent fury and the slow burning lust of unrequited vengeance.

  The year had been 1831. Malone Murdock was eleven when the slave uprising led by Nat Turner broke out in Virginia.

  Turner’s own master at the time, by all accounts, had been a good man who had treated his slaves with more than ordinary kindness. Nevertheless, Turner felt commissioned by God to lead the slaves out of bondage. His spiritual fervor grew as he preached to Negroes, while he himself was sold from owner to owner, about rising up against their white taskmasters.

  After murdering his own master, Turner then moved from plantation to plantation gathering more black followers as they went, killing and burning and calling upon slaves everywhere to unite in the insurrection for freedom.

  Malone’s mother was in the final stages of pregnancy and had taken to her bed only two days before the slave rebellion reached his own father’s plantation. The first he knew of it he was being shaken awake from a sound sleep.

  “Get up, boy!” cried his father. “Get up… on with your trousers!”

  Waking up, all he heard at first were ominous shouts coming from somewhere. He saw strange lights from outside eerily playing upon the walls of his room. A faint smell of smoke was in the air though he hardly noticed it at first. He did not know that his home had already been set ablaze, only that his father’s voice contained a fear and urgency he had never heard before.

  “Run, Malone!” said his father, hurrying him into his boots. “Down the back stairs, into the cellar, out the coal door, then make a dash for the woods.”

  “What about you, Papa?” said the terrified boy.

  “I’ve got to get your mother. I’ll have to carry her. She can’t make it down the stairs alone. We’ll meet you in the woods. Now go!”

  Emerging into the night air a minute later, smudges of coal on hands and knees, eleven-year-old Malone could not imagine why it was so light out. But he did not hesitate as he tore across the open space behind the house. When at last he turned from the cover of a tree to look back toward the house, his mouth and eyes gaped open in stunned disbelief. Fire already engulfed the barn and rose fifty feet in the air. The entire building was consumed in bright red and orange as the flames shot high into the night sky. The house he had just left was not far behind.

  A mob of twenty or thirty blacks was running about and shouting wildly, carrying torches aloft and setting everything alight that would burn. Half he recognized as his father’s most decent and trusted slaves.

  What was happening! Hadn’t his father always been kind to them? Why were they doing this!

  In terrified panic he watched helplessly as the flames slowly took over more and more of the house.

  The mob now spread around back by the way he had just made his escape, eventually surrounding the house. He crept farther back into the shadows, watching in confused horror, the triumphant and frenzied faces of the wild black mob forever etched in his memory.

  Suddenly he heard a woman’s scream. He knew it was his mother.

  Choking down his own sobs, still he looked on.

  His father appeared briefly in an upstairs window. He knew he was looking for him, to see if he was safe. He stepped from behind the tree and raised one hand in mute appeal. That his father saw it was evidenced as he began to raise his hand in reply.

  An explosion of gunfire sounded and one of the black men emptied his rifle into the window. His father’s silhouette slumped over and disappeared below the window frame. Within seconds the house was swallowed in flame. A few more screams in a woman’s desperate voice drifted across the night, and then were gone.

  Only the shouts of triumph from the black men remained, and the crackling of the huge conflagration that lit up the night sky for five miles in every direction.

  A few faces stood out in his memory from that night, glistening, sweating, black faces, the reflection of the flames dancing in their wild eyes as the light of his campfire flicked in his own at this moment. Malone Murdoch had vowed to track them all down if it took him the rest of his life. Ever since, he had devoted his life to the capture of runaways, and in the process had gradually, one by one, hunted down some half dozen of his father’s former slaves. All were now dead.

  Murdoch tried to tell himself that he didn’t hate all blacks. He had no quarrel with law-abiding, obedient, submissive slaves who knew their place. But the distinction of his prejudice was not always easy to draw. In his eyes all coloreds were related, and all slaves would revolt if given the chance.

  Here is an interesting one, he thought as he continued to sift through his papers:

  Runaway slave mother, light complexion, late 20s, thin of build, medium height, two children, boy 6 called Broan, girl 3 called Rebecca, and 2 year old. Woman answers to name Lucindy Eaton. Reward for return of all three—$95, offered by Miles Crawford, Aiken, South Carolina. No reward for baby.

  They would be easy to spot, said Murdoch to himself. Mothers and kids usually were, though the rewards often weren’t worth the trouble. He usually didn’t bother with kids unless he had several bound for the same place and could tie them all up as a group in a wagon. Whether this $95 would be worth trying to haul a couple black brats and their mother back to South Carolina, he’d decide that at the time. If they were too far north when he caught them, he’d probably just kill them. But if he had more cargo going the same direction, he might bring them along for the extra hundred.

  Their underground network of supporters and routes and hiding places was still a mystery to him. If he could just crack it, he could put a stop to the whole thing. If his success curbed his livelihood as a bounty hunter, that was fine with him. He wasn’t doing this for the money. Malone Murdoch was on a mission of righteousness to put an end to slave rebellion.

  In the meantime, he would continue to follow what leads came his way. When necessary he usually rounded up half a dozen local thugs with the promise of ten dollars for a night’s work. But this fellow he’d been following for the last two days was apparently helping only small groups. He ought to be able to handle it alone. Six or eight runaways had been spotted three nights ago heading this way. He had no idea yet which descriptions they might fit. Once he had them tied up, he would figure out who they were and what to do with them.

  He tossed what remained of his coffee sizzling into the fire, then sat staring into its depths another thirty minutes until the flames had died away and only glowing coals remained.

  Still he sat… alone with his thoughts.

  Forty-one

  A few more travelers joined the brother and sister train as they went, mostly single men, though there was one aging woman who kept to herself. Occasionally they were met by other conductors, though the sister who had come for her brother seemed to know the way by herself, and know every station along the way. It was clear she had made this trip before.

  One evening just before dark, disaster struck. Having no idea his movements were being watched, a black freedman appeared as the shadows of night had begun to fall. The freedman and the sister who had come for her brother seemed to be acquainted. They spoke together a few minutes, then the party, now eight or ten strong, set out to follow him.

  They had not gone far before they heard the sound of horses’ hooves galloping toward them.

  “Scatter!” yelled three or four voices at once.

  Instantly they fled for the surrounding woods. Seconds later a single rider came into sight and bore down upon them. His eyes flashed with fire at the sight before him of fleeing runaways. In one hand a twirling rope was poised above his head.

  Lucindy dove into a thicket of thorns and brush, frantically pulli
ng and pushing Broan and Rebecca with her. Behind her the rider’s coiled rope found its prey. A cry sounded as he tugged on it and one of the single men toppled to the ground with a grunt and a thud.

  From her hiding place, Lucindy nearly crushed Calebia’s face to her.

  “Not a peep, Broan… Rebecca!” she whispered as they huddled close. “Dat man dere’s fearsome! He look like da kin’ er man dat’d kills us ef he fin’ us. So shush yo’ moufs!”

  Her assessment, though she had but caught a glimpse of his face, was accurate enough. For the first time since they had set out, they were truly in mortal danger. Lucindy watched through the brush as the white man secured the rope to his saddle horn, then yelled down at the black man.

  “Get up, nigger!” he cried. “Get up and face your betters!”

  Slowly the man climbed to his feet, the rope tight around his chest. He began trying to loosen it.

  “Hold on just a minute!” said the white man, yanking back viciously, nearly pulling the man to the ground again. “I don’t recall saying anything about that rope. You leave it just where it is until I ask you a few questions!”

  He sat on his horse looking the man over, squinting as he let his eyes wander up and down. He was obviously thinking.

  “Where you get them boots?” he asked.

  “Offen a dead white man, massa,” said the trembling black.

  “Mighty fine-looking boots for a colored man.”

  “I figured he din’t need dem no mo.”

  “You’re lying, Pig! I think you stole them from your master before you ran away, just like you did that coat.”

  “Why you call me dat?” said the black man.

  “That’s what folks call you, ain’t it?”

  “But how you know?”

  A grin spread over the bounty hunter’s face.

  “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he said. “You’re as stupid as you are ugly. Well, Pig, your running days are over.”

  He turned his horse around, then lashed him mercilessly. The sudden movement pulled the slave off his feet. Murdoch tore off on his mount the way he had come, dragging the man over the bumpy ground behind him.

  The instant he was out of sight, Lucindy heard a voice behind her.

  “Git da kids an’ cum… hurry. We gotter git deeper into da woods afore he’s back!”

  Struggling out of the thorny thicket, heedless of pricks and scratches on hands, face, and arms, they ran to follow.

  And not a moment too soon. In less than a minute they heard the horse galloping back toward them, their companion still dragging behind. They stopped and crouched low, a little farther away than before but still able to see as the poor man’s captor galloped back and forth several more times, pulling the man tumbling and twisting over the rocky and uneven ground.

  At last the galloping slowed. Lucindy moved a few leaves with her fingers. She could just barely see the black man’s broken body attached to the rope behind the horse. To her eyes the bloody and battered lump of humanity must surely be dead.

  “You see this, all you other niggers!” yelled Murdoch. “This is what is coming to you when Malone Murdoch gets his hands on you!”

  He dismounted and walked to where the black man lay on the ground. “All right, Pig, get up.”

  There was no response.

  “Get up!” he repeated, kicking the body over with his booted foot.

  “Well, don’t matter to me,” said Murdoch. “You’re worth seventy-five dead and it’ll make my job easier getting you back.”

  Suddenly a crack of pistol fire echoed in Lucindy’s ears. The black body jumped slightly at the shot then lay, if possible, more still than before. She leaned back into her hiding place, stomach lurching at the murder she had just witnessed.

  Five minutes later they heard the horse walking slowly away. They waited where they were until it was pitch black. Thirty or forty minutes went by. Then by means of a few low whistles and birdcalls, the group, minus one, managed to gather together some distance away in the woods and continue by a different route, in horrified silence. Death had touched them closer than ever and fear now guided their every step.

  Several days after the killing, Lucindy awoke in the attic of the house where they had arrived the previous night. She heard voices below her. The man and woman she had been traveling with were talking about where they were bound and the rest of the family waiting for them there. She listened a while longer as they discussed the route toward their destination, which would soon take them eastward up into the mountains and across toward Ohio. She then climbed down the ladder to join them.

  “Where dis Ohio y’ all’s been talkin’ ’bout?” she asked.

  “Dat’s where dis train’s boun’,” replied the conductress.

  “I don’ want ter go ter no Ohio.”

  “Why not? Hit’s across da Jordan,” said the man.

  “What difference it make where you go,” added his sister, “jes’ so long as you be free?”

  “I gots me a man waitin’ fo’ me,” replied Lucindy. “He sent fo’ us.”

  “Where you gwine meet him?”

  “I don’ know.”

  “Den you ain’t neber gwine fin’ him no how. You can’ jes’ go fin’ somebody out in the middle ob the whole worl’ like dat.”

  For the first time the thought entered Lucindy’s brain, what if she never did find Caleb? What would she do then?

  “I’s gots ter go ter sumplace called Pennsylvania,” she said hopefully.

  “Den sumbody brung you ter da wrong station at dat place where we first met,” said the man.

  “Why you say dat?”

  “Cuz dis train’s boun’ fo’ Ohio.”

  “Dey’s right nex’ ter each other,” said his sister. “Where you gots ter go in Pennsylvania?” she asked Lucindy.

  “I don’ know, near a place called York,” Lucindy answered. “Dat’s what dey tol’me—sumplace called Hanober.”

  “Dat’s way ter da eas’. Den my brudder’s right—you don’ want ter be comin’ wif us. Dat be da other direkshun from where we’s boun’. Once we head ober dose mountains, we be goin’da wrong way altogeder. You gots ter take anuder train.”

  “How I gwine do dat?”

  “We’s talk ter da stationmaster at da nex’ depot an’ see what he sez.”

  When they did so two nights later, however, the man’s answer was not what Lucindy had hoped to hear.

  “No conductor comes through this station bound that direction, miss,” the man said. “You’ll have to get there on your own.”

  “But how I fin’ it alone?” she asked, her voice starting to tremble. “What ef dat white man be out dere—dat bounty hunter dat killed Jack? What ef he’s follerin’us?”

  “He ain’t or he’d er dun sumfin afore now,” said the woman.

  “Don’t worry,” added the stationmaster. “I’ll tell you where to go. You’ll be safe. It’s the only Quaker house for miles. You’ll find it all right.”

  Forty-two

  Two nights later, fearful but trying to summon courage from her travels thus far, Lucindy and the children set out alone.

  The stationmaster gave her food for a few days, but with the baby, the tarp, and their few other clothes, she couldn’t carry much. They were tired and weak and gradually growing thin. Broan was too small to be of much help.

  The first long night on their own passed safely. When daylight began to dawn, however, the farmhouse the man had described was nowhere in sight. Unknowingly they had already passed the station an hour before daybreak. Lucindy found a place to sleep and they passed the day safely, then continued on the following night in the same direction. But with every step they now moved farther and farther from the railroad. After three more nights, out of food and growing desperate, Lucindy knew they were lost.

  The train to freedom had derailed.

  At last she sat down and began to cry. All she could think of was the evil face of the white man she had seen pulling Jac
k behind his horse. If he found them he was sure to kill them all.

  The night was windy but clear. Maybe it was time to start praying, thought Lucindy.

  The words she had heard so many times came back to her. She would try to say them.

  Our Father, she began, dat art in heab’n, hallered be dye name. Dye kingdom cum, dye will be dun, on erf as hit is in heab’n. Gib us dis day are daily bred…

  She stopped and started to cry again. It was no use. What good did it do to pray to someone called Father? Her own father carried a whip and punished anyone who disobeyed. The words meant nothing but evil in her mind. Her father and the bounty hunter were just alike. Were all white men besides the Quakers cruel? How could she pray to someone like that for help!

  God was a white man’s God, the God of the plantation masters—a white master, a white father. When they went to church, the preachers preached from the pulpit that the only way to please God was to obey their masters.

  Was there a different God in the North? Lucindy wondered. Might there be a different kind of God who cared for people like her?

  God must not be like a father, he must be something else. Maybe the God for free people was a woman, like a great big mammy to everyone in the world. She wished God could be a mother instead of a father. Her mother had been so kind and good before she died.

  Finally she stood and gazed up into the sky. “Help us, God, whoeber you is!” she cried into the wind. “We’s los’ an’ we don’t know what ter do!”

  As if in answer to her desperate plea, Lucindy remembered Amaritta’s words: Effen you gits los’ you just keep walkin’ tard dat star like da ol’ song sez.

  She continued to look up into the cloudless sky. There it was, the shape of the stars just like Amaritta said.

  Softly she hummed the familiar tune, then slowly began to sing:

  Step by step keep-er-travelin’ on,