American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “‘Why don’t you ask him?’ I suggested.

  “‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose because I would rather hear it from you. I would rather find out from someone like myself, a regular person who had to discover God for himself, or herself,’ he added with another smile. ‘I would rather hear it from you than from a preacher who gets paid to believe it, if you know what I mean.’

  “‘But I already told you,’ I said, ‘I don’t know. I’m struggling with the same thing myself—whether it’s true or not.’

  “‘Yet here you are in church from week to week, playing the hymns and picking up the hymnals. That seems a mystery to me. Why are you here if you don’t believe it?’

  “‘I suppose I would say because I have to be,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose I really have to be, it’s just that I’ve got nowhere else to go.’

  “‘What do you mean?’

  “‘Actually, Reverend Peters is my father, and… I lost my husband about a year ago.’

  “‘Oh… I am very sorry.’

  “‘It happened suddenly and tragically, and threw me into such a depression that all I thought I had believed was suddenly gone. I haven’t known what to believe ever since. I really had nowhere else to go but to come back here.’

  “‘I understand,’ he nodded. ‘My own life’s circumstances of the past year have thrown me into a tailspin as well, though not a spiritual one. I have no spiritual beliefs to speak of. For months I have been wondering what is to become of me.’

  “‘That is exactly how I would describe it!’ I said.

  “‘In my case,’ he said, ‘my wife turned suddenly into a different person than I had married…’

  “A far-off sad look came into his eyes as he spoke as if he were reliving the pain.

  “‘Then I received papers of divorce and there was little I could do to contest it. I was shattered. And, still shattered, I walked into this little church a week ago and heard that startling statement about God.’

  “We sat for a few minutes, just the two of us together in the front row of the church. Then I heard the door open and my father come back in.

  “‘By the way,’ said the man beside me, ‘my name is Richmond Davidson.’

  “‘I am Carolyn Peters,’ I said, and we shook hands.

  “And that,” Carolyn added, smiling at her son, “is how I met your father.”

  “That’s quite a story, Mother!” said Seth. “And then after that, did Dad get his question answered?”

  “You know your father,” laughed Carolyn. “What do you think!”

  “I see what you mean!”

  “We both got our questions answered. We started seeing more of one another, going on long walks and talking and talking and talking. We became friends… best friends. We shared our questions and doubts, and I shared with him about the fundamentals of the Christian faith. Just being around him helped my own faith gradually come back. I guess you would say we searched for God together. After a while we started praying together, asking God to reveal himself to us and help us in our search to know him. Eventually we fell in love with each other. I certainly never expected to marry a twenty-five-year-old divorcé, and your father never expected to marry a twenty-three-year-old widow, but that’s what happened.”

  Carolyn sighed contentedly and smiled.

  “Thanks for sharing all that,” said Seth. “I never knew exactly how it came about before. That’s the kind of romance I’d like to have—friendship. I think I should talk to Veronica about these kinds of things, don’t you think? I need to know what she thinks about God and everything.”

  “I think that is a good idea.”

  “In fact, I think I will ride over and see her today or tomorrow.”

  Before Seth had the chance to do so, however, an unexpected turn suddenly came to Greenwood that would postpone his plans a few days.

  Forty-seven

  It had been nine months since the Beaumont slave, fleeing for his life, had appeared on the doorstep of the Greenwood plantation house. Once getting him safely over the Pennsylvania border, with ten dollars in his pocket and an aging horse to get him wherever he needed to go, as nothing further had come of the incident, Richmond Davidson found it gradually receding in memory. Fortunately his neighbor had not come asking if they had seen his runaway, for that would have presented Richmond Davidson a very difficult ethical dilemma indeed.

  Just when the episode seemed about to disappear into the forgetfulness of the past, suddenly it seemed that the runaway Nate Gibbons had sprouted human roots that had begun to grow more runaways just like himself.

  Nancy Shaw appeared at the house one April morning not long after daylight. Richmond and Carolyn were in the parlor reading their Bibles and chatting as they enjoyed a second cup of coffee together. An urgent knock sounded on the front door. Maribel was in the kitchen and Moses still slept. Richmond rose to answer it.

  “Please, Mister Dab’son, is da missus here?” said Nancy. “I gots to talk ter her.”

  Carolyn heard Nancy’s voice from where she sat and detected an unusual tone of urgency. Her first thought was that some crisis with Phoebe’s two-year-old little girl had arisen.

  “Hello, Nancy,” she said, approaching behind her husband. “What is it?”

  “I’s got ter talk to you, Miz Dab’son,” said Nancy. “You gots ter come wif me.”

  “Right now, Nancy?”

  “Yes’m. Dere’s somefin’ you gots ter see.”

  Carolyn glanced at Richmond, then disappeared for a moment, returned with her shawl, and walked outside. Nancy led the way back toward the Negro homes, walking so quickly Carolyn could hardly keep up with her. None of Carolyn’s questions succeeded in drawing out answers that shed any further light on the reason for Nancy’s early morning visit.

  When they arrived, Carolyn greeted five or ten others who were gathered around the Shaw home, waiting. Nancy led her up the porch and inside. There sat a black woman and three children whom Carolyn had never set eyes on before. Malachi, Phoebe with her baby, Isaiah, and Aaron all stood silently waiting to see what the mistress would say. On the woman’s face was an obvious expression of trepidation. She did not know this mistress and had no idea what to expect. Despite reports to the contrary which had driven her here, Carolyn was white, and this was not like the many Quaker stations where she had found refuge in her long journey. This was a plantation with a white mistress and a feared white master. That was enough to cause any black to tremble who was doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

  “Dis be what I wuz tellin’ you ’bout, Miz Dab’son,” said Nancy. “Dey jes’ ’peared ’bout an hour ago. I kep’ ’em here till it wuz light an’ I knowed you an’ da massa’d be awake. I din’t want ter cum sooner, though I di’nt know what to do wif her. Dey gots no place ter go. She said dey come here cuz dey herd you help black folks what’s in trouble. I don’ know what she mean by dat, Miz Dab’son, but dere she be, big as life, wif dem three chilluns dat’s somebody’s gotter feed cuz dey look like dey ain’t been eatin’ nun too much. I tol’ ’em dey cudn’t stay here—we ain’t got room fo’ da likes er dem. But dey got no place ter go, Miz Dab’son.”

  Carolyn listened attentively, then turned to the black woman.

  “What is your name, dear?” she asked.

  “Lucindy, missus,” she answered.

  “Are these your children?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Can’t rightly say, missus. I think sumfin’ like twenty-five er sumwhere ’roun’ dere.”

  “Are you from nearby here?”

  “No, missus.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Souf Car’ lina, missus.”

  “What are you doing so far from home?”

  “My man, he got sol’ an’ da massa was gwine marry me ter sumbody else an’ den a message dun cum dat my man had excaped ter da Norf an’ den dey cum ter take us too.”

  “Who came?�
�

  “Conductors, missus.”

  “Were you the master’s slave, or are you a free woman?”

  “No, I’s jus’ a slave, missus.”

  “How did you happen to come here?”

  “I wuz on da railroad fo’ mumfs an’ mumfs an’—”

  “What railroad? Did you have money to actually—”

  “No, missus, da undergroun’ railroad. Hit don’ cost nufin’. But den I gots los’ an’ no conductor cum ter fin’ us, an’ we jes’ follered da Norf Star, an’ by’n by I ran into sum other coloreds, an’ dere was talk bout a nigger man dat sumbody named Dab’son helped git ter da Norf… a slave man dat run away on account er his massa was gwine kill him. An’ he run ter dat massa Dab’son an’ he helped him.”

  “I told her dere weren’t nuffin’ like dat wif our massa,” said Nancy. “I tol’ her she dun got da wrong place effen she’s lookin’ fo’ dat kind er help. Dere ain’t been no nigger cumin’ here gittin’ rescued like dat. Tell her, Miz Dab’son.”

  Carolyn was still reeling from the young runaway mother’s story and hardly heard what Nancy said afterward.

  “How did you hear of this?” Carolyn asked, still looking at the girl. “Did someone on your plantation talk to the man?”

  “No, missus. Nobody knowed him. I tol’ you, hit wuz after I missed my train.”

  “If the man went North, how did you hear of it?”

  “Dere wuz jes’ talk, dat’s all. I don’ know where it cum from.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “We hid out out an’ kep’ walkin’ mostly at night, an w’en we’d see a group er niggers out workin’ in da fields wif no w’ite men, we’d go join ’em an’ dey’d gib us sumfin’ ter eat, an’ after I heard dat talk an’ den foun’ out dat folks said we wuz in Virginia, I ax’d where be da Dab’son plantashun.”

  “And what did people say?” asked Carolyn.

  “Everybody, dey’d herd da name an’ dey’d point dis way er dat ’cause dey all knew which direction ter tell us ter go, an’ den finally w’en we cum here dis lady, she say dis be da Dab’sons.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s right because we are the Davidsons. I am Mrs. Davidson. But whether this is the place you are looking for, I don’t know. You heard what Nancy said, that she knows about no runaway slave from here going to the North, do you, Nancy?”

  “No, Miz Dab’son. I don’ know what she cud be talkin’ ’bout, ’ceptin’ it be Joseph—he went Norf.”

  “You see, Lucindy,” said Carolyn, “some of our own slaves have gone North. But we let them go. They weren’t runaways.”

  “Dey said dese Dab’sons dun set dere slaves free,” said the girl.

  Nancy and Malachi looked at each other, and all the rest who had clustered around the open door also exchanged looks.

  “You understand, Lucindy,” said Carolyn, “that it is against the law for us to harbor a runaway slave?”

  “Yes, missus. But I had ter try ter fin’ my man. He ain’ neber even seen his own baby. An’ effen we’s from da kings er da ol’ books, I don’ want ter hab ter tell her ’bout dose five ribers where we all cum from in da ol’ days wifout my man.”

  At the words, Malachi’s eyes shot wide. Had he just heard what he thought he’d heard!

  He had completely forgotten about the five rivers and the kings and the old books. He hadn’t remembered those tales his mother used to tell them since he was a boy, not even realizing that his own mother had also passed along the legend to his wife!

  Unconsciously Malachi glanced down at his palm, not thinking what hearing the strange but familiar old words meant—that he and this pilgrim runaway who had landed on their doorstep came from the same ancient African roots.

  “Well, Nancy,” said Carolyn, interrupting Malachi’s thoughts, “do you think you and Mary and the other women can give Lucindy and the children something to eat and drink and make them comfortable until I talk to Mr. Davidson and we decide what is to be done?”

  “Yes, Miz Dab’son,” replied Nancy. “We’s do dat, all right.”

  Carolyn returned to the house with much to think about. Her husband took in the news with grave expression.

  “I don’t know that this bodes well, Carolyn,” he said seriously. “That Negroes five hundred miles away are talking openly about us having given comfort and aid to a runaway slave, when our own blacks know nothing about it—a slave belonging, technically by law still belonging, to Denton Beaumont… if this escalates, it could land us in a lot of trouble.”

  Carolyn nodded.

  “What did you tell them?” he asked.

  “I told her nothing other than that I would talk to you. I was vague about the Gibbons affair and didn’t address it. But how could anyone have found out, Richmond? No one knew but you and me and Seth. I’m pretty sure Thomas never knew.”

  “And Moses,” added Richmond. “But I’m confident he said nothing.”

  “Maribel didn’t even know,” added Carolyn.

  “There is only one other possibility,” sighed her husband. “Gibbons himself must have had a loose tongue. In all the haste and secrecy of that night and my ride north with him, I never considered that he might tell people what had happened once he was safely over the border, nor the implications. I said nothing to him about remaining silent. It simply never occurred to me.”

  “Well, it’s too late now. He must have talked. I sincerely hope Denton never hears of it. It would not be beyond him, Richmond, to bring charges against you.”

  “Let’s don’t add to our worries with concerns that aren’t there. From my impression of such things, Negroes tend to be tight-lipped and talk only amongst themselves.”

  “I just hope it stays that way. What are we going to do, now that our own people know? They may not know about Gibbons, but they know about this girl and the things she’s saying. If we help her, Richmond…”

  Carolyn’s voice trailed off. It was a difficult dilemma. They both knew well enough what happened to runaways who were returned. Denton’s role as local commissioner made him the chief legal authority against runaways. They were made examples of, often ruthless examples, to discourage further rebellion—women as well as men.

  “It would seem we need to seek the Lord’s mind,” mused Richmond thoughtfully. “And quickly. I know what I usually say about God moving slowly and the Spirit’s never being in a hurry. But there are times when one does not have a great deal of time and when one must act decisively. The woman and her children are sitting down in the Shaws’ house right now. So it would seem that this is one of those times. I know the Lord can reveal his will anywhere, but I fancy a prayerful walk in the arbor… care to join me?”

  They rose and left the house together. Within three or four minutes they were walking in the depths of their garden sanctuary, to all appearances silent yet inwardly lifting their hearts to the throne of divine will where they attempted, as much as they were able, to place all decisions until a direction was made known to them.

  They walked several of the pathways, tossed a few crumbs to the fish in the pond, smelled a few blossoms, wandered into the great oak and beech wood, encircled it, returned to the arbor, and then sat down on one of their favorite benches in its midst. Carolyn was the first to speak.

  “Two things occur to me,” she said. “The first is simply a reminder of the Lord’s words, ‘If any man asks of you… give.’ It is a simple enough principle that has helped us in many situations before. I know the woman hasn’t really asked anything of us as such. But we’re not trying to find some way to wriggle out of the spirit of the command by trying to find a loophole in its letter. We are seeking the Lord’s will. The fact is, she has come and, in a sense, placed herself in our hands. Is that how you see it?”

  “Clearly,” nodded her husband. “Like it or not, we are under divine orders concerning the woman—divine orders to help her, to do the best we can for her. What that best might be… that is the sticking point. Is it to follow
the law of the land, which says we must return her to her rightful owner… or to break the law of the land? This would seem to be one of those infrequent moments that occasionally come in life when God’s way may indeed be contrary to the law of the land. Even though we are told to obey the law of the land, when is it right to break that law?”

  “As you always do,” laughed Carolyn, “you take everything to its fullest possible implication.”

  “How else can we discern God’s mind than to look at it from all angles and ask him to reveal the direction we are to go? But you’re right,” he laughed, “I was going on and on, and you said you had two things that came to you. I am anxious to hear the second.”

  Carolyn was silent a long while before answering his inquiring gaze.

  “The second is simple enough,” she said at length. “It too is one that has many times shown us light in some darkness. The dilemma is difficult, as you say—the Bible commands us to obey those that are in authority over us, yet there are times when to do so places such obedience in direct conflict with some other scriptural command. Is this one of those occasions? I don’t know. Therefore, the only question I can think to ask that, in a sense, nullifies all other analysis and reduces every decision to its essence for anyone calling himself a Christian, is simply this: What would Jesus do if he were facing this situation that we are facing?”

  Richmond nodded, almost as if he had been expecting his wife to say exactly what she had said. In truth, the two thought so much alike that even as she was speaking, the very same words had come to him.

  “I know,” Carolyn went on, “of the common tendency to dismiss such an inquiry with absurd explainings away such as, ‘But Jesus was not married,’ or, ‘But Jesus would never have owned a plantation,’ or, ‘But Jesus never spoke to the social order of his time.’ All I am saying is this: If Jesus could come right here and now, and sit on this bench, and he were facing this precise dilemma, with a woman lost and afraid down there in Nancy and Malachi’s house, a slave woman with three innocent little children, a woman who is terrified and wondering what is to become of her, and if, with that woman to deal with, Jesus knew that a law existed in the land compelling the return of runaway slaves to their owners… were Jesus to face this exact situation, here and now… what would he do? What would Jesus really and truly do?”