“Where will you put them?” asked Richmond, turning again to his wife.
“I am thinking that the two center rooms of the second floor would suit their needs perfectly, with its double windows looking south onto the fields in the distance. It will be bright and cheery and spacious and has the smaller adjoining room where James can sleep. It should be a roomy and comfortable little apartment away from home.”
“And the girl?”
“Next to his, the corner room with the window looking east upon the great oak. They can use the room between as a common sitting room.”
“It sounds like it should be ideal.”
“Maribel and I will get started with preparations today. With Lucindy and her young ones gone, it has seemed too quiet. It will be nice to have guests again!”
With the coming of August arrived a warm and fragrant season in the cycle of life in Virginia, when the harvest gets under way and the humidity at times seems to rise straight out of the fertile ground, bringing with it odors of grass and honeysuckle and pine needles, and, after a rain shower and return of the sun, the warmth of the earth itself. It was a good time to be alive, and to feel the life of the world all around. It was a different life than nature exuded in springtime, when all is bursting anew and the streams and rivers rush cold and full. Now the streams ran low and the rivers warm and lazy. Now the earth, rather than breaking out with buds and leaves of new growth, yielded instead its bounty, having turned the hopefulness of spring into the wheat and corn that fed, the cotton that clothed, and the tobacco that gave men pleasure. All around life was being gathered into barns, as slaves and free blacks poured out their sweating energies for their masters, who gathered the profits of their labors into the storehouses called banks.
It was just this latter phenomenon that was the subject under consideration between one Stuart McCloud and his cousin Harland Davidson where they sat in private counsel in the latter’s office in the state capital of Richmond.
“It would seem,” McCloud had just commented a little peevishly, “that your plan has had anything but the desired results.”
He handed back the papers he had been perusing, which amounted to a current review of the finances of Greenwood Acres, the disputed estate of their mutual cousin Richmond Davidson.
“We all agreed to it, Stuart,” replied his cousin testily, pausing to drain the contents of his glass of scotch and pour himself another from the bottle that sat on the desk between them. “As I recall, you were just as enthusiastic as I was, singing the praises of it to Peggy and Pam. How could any of us foresee that the fool would actually make a go of it with a parcel of freedmen to care for. The thing is beyond me… but these numbers don’t lie.”
“By the way, how did you come by these figures?” asked Stuart, pouring himself out another liberal libation from the bottle. “They seem remarkably detailed and up-to-date.”
“The banker in Dove’s Landing, a man by the name of Perkins—he and I have, shall we say, a discreet arrangement. I assist him with his occasional legal affairs for the most nominal of fees. In exchange, from time to time he does certain favors for me.”
“I see,” smiled McCloud. Whatever their differences, he couldn’t help liking this one of his Davidson cousins. They thought alike. “But the point is,” he went on, “our gambit failed. We did not press the suit at the time and now more time has gone by. It was three years ago that we decided to sit on it… and look at his bank account. I say we act. It is time to press the suit forward and formally contest the estate.”
“You’re sure a suit is the course you want to follow?” asked Harland. “I am afraid the passage of time weakens what would probably already have been a weak case. In that light, I have been mulling over another option, one that is not dependent on the courts, but on Richmond’s own ridiculous sense of ethics.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“What if, rather than press the suit, we put a settlement before him as an out-of-court arrangement?”
“Such as?”
“We agree to drop the contestation of the will in exchange for four promissory notes, one to each of us.”
Stuart nodded his head, turning the thing over in his mind.
“What would induce him to agree?” he said after a moment.
“The fact that he is a fool,” rejoined Harland.
“Do you think he might really do it?”
“I don’t know. Who can predict the response of such religious types. I admit, it is a gamble. But I do not think the lawsuit would stand up after all this time. So what do we have to lose?”
“How much do you suggest we make the notes for?”
“Ten thousand each… or five. What do you think?”
“Ten thousand apiece… that is a great deal of money,” said Stuart. “I would rather ask for ten and get it, than to aim too high and get nothing. If he refuses, we are left holding blue sky.”
“I think you are right,” rejoined Harland. “And I will slip in a clause, in fine print of course, guaranteeing each of the notes by a one-fourth interest in the land and assets of Greenwood. It is perfectly standard in such cases. Perhaps he will sign without noticing and then we’ll have him.”
“I do like the way you think, Harland. Well done!”
“We won’t file a formal lien and call his attention to it. If he fails to comply with the terms of the notes, we will file a suit of nonperformance and foreclosure against him and take it to the courts. With his signature on the notes, I think we would win hands down.”
“Just make sure the notes you draw up are ironclad and that there is no way he can weasel out of them later.”
“My dear Stuart,” smiled Harland, “I am an attorney. We earn our weekly envelope making sure people don’t weasel out of things!”
The two men raised their glasses to one another. At last their plans seemed ready to fall into place.
Ten
For the month prior to their planned visit to Virginia, the Waters household in Boston had been abuzz with excitement. No matter that there were but two of them to fill the huge house, most of which was vacant, Cherity’s enthusiasm was as the enthusiasm of ten.
“Do you think I will be able to ride, Daddy?” she asked one morning.
“You did last time—why should it be any different now?”
“How many boots do you think I should pack?” Cherity went on without answering. “Maybe I should buy a new pair. What about clothes—I won’t need a dress, will I?”
Again Waters laughed. “My dear,” he said, “contrary to what you might think, you are a lady now, and about as beautiful a young lady as I have ever set eyes upon… since your mother, of course. Yes, I think you should take a dress, or two or three. Most young ladies of your age do wear dresses.”
“But I had to wear dresses every day at school and I’m tired of them. Besides, I’m not like most young ladies, am I, Daddy?”
“You certainly are not! But you won’t be riding horses every minute.”
“All right… maybe I’ll take two.”
Cherity rose from the table and started toward the stairs. “Well,” she said, “I think I will start packing.”
“We’re not leaving for a month!”
“It doesn’t hurt to be ready early. By the way, Daddy,” she added, “I thought you might like to know, I’m not going to go to that church again. In fact, I’m not going to go to any church again.”
“Is your brief search to find the meaning of life at an end?” asked her father.
“I didn’t expect to find the meaning of life, I only wondered what Mother found about it that was so interesting. In the meantime, I’ve decided that I am an atheist.”
“What!” He laughed. Even in James Waters’ own loss of belief, the word atheist from the lips of his own daughter shocked him.
“That’s right. I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no God.”
“How did you arrive at such a notion?”
“I�
�ve been thinking about it ever since that Sunday. I finally decided that if people who believe in God are like those three women, then God couldn’t possibly exist.”
“What about your mother?”
“I don’t know, Daddy. That still confuses me. The only conclusion I can come to is that she must have been mistaken. I hate to say it, but I don’t see how it could be any other way.”
The visit had been arranged to begin during the third week of the month of August. Under any other circumstances, Richmond would have ridden to the station himself for their guests. But the weather being such as it was, with rain to all appearances on the way and the wheat harvest begun, an urgency existed to make what progress was possible as quickly as they could. He felt his presence, with Seth and Thomas, was imperative in the fields every minute that could be spared.
Thus it was that Carolyn and Moses stood on the landing at the Dove’s Landing station to meet their new arrivals as the train pulled in, white steam screaming in great bursts from its iron wheels, and slowed to a stop.
Almost the moment the door opened and the conductor stepped onto the platform, a young lady of nearly eighteen, clad in men’s trousers and boots, bounded off and came hurrying toward them almost at a run, her auburn-blonde hair bouncing as it reflected the sun, her face radiant and alive with joyful expectation. She was several inches shorter than Carolyn, perhaps five feet or five-two by now. At the moment she was not wearing a hat.
“Hello, Mrs. Davidson!” she said exuberantly, her boots echoing across the platform boards as she came forward. “I am so happy to see you again!”
She slowed and extended her hand, gazing deeply into Carolyn’s eyes with all the eagerness of mother-hungry daughterhood.
“I am happy to see you again too, Cherity,” said Carolyn, smiling and shaking hands but, as the first time they had met, with a peculiar sensation in her throat.
“I can’t believe we’re finally here!” said Cherity. “I am so excited!”
Carolyn now saw Cherity’s father step, a little gingerly she thought, from the train. As he walked toward them smiling, she could not help noticing how much his appearance was altered in the years since she had seen him. His hair had noticeably grayed and thinned, and his cheeks, in spite of a general dark complexion, were pale and drawn. He was carrying a white cowboy hat, which appeared in distinct contrast to the brown business suit.
“Hello, Mrs. Davidson—,” he began.
“Please… Carolyn.”
“Thank you. It is so good to see you again,” he said as they shook hands. “My dear,” he added to Cherity, “in your haste, you left this on the seat.” He handed her the hat.
“We are happier than we can tell you that you have come,” said Carolyn. “My husband and the boys are in the fields. You remember Moses, who works for us.”
“Yes, of course… hello, Moses,” said Waters.
The New Englander and free Southern black man shook hands.
“I’ll go fetch yo’ bags, Mister Waters,” said Moses, ambling toward the train where a porter was unloading their luggage onto the platform.
“I think we were the only passengers to get off here,” said Waters, following him. “It should be those two right there… here—let me help you.”
Two or three minutes later they were leaving the station together and walking toward the carriage. The men loaded the bags in back, then Moses stepped up and took the reins. Waters climbed up beside him, while Cherity and Carolyn seated themselves in the leather-padded seat behind them. Moses called to the horses and the carriage bounced into motion.
As they made their way through Dove’s Landing, Cherity looked this way and that with wide-eyed pleasure, every sight a renewed adventure.
As she chanced to glance in Carolyn’s direction, she saw tears in her eyes. Not one to keep her thoughts inside, she spoke up.
“What is it, Mrs. Davidson?” she asked. “Are you ill?”
Surprised in the midst of her reverie by the object of it, Carolyn glanced over and smiled.
“Oh, no… Cherity, dear,” she said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping at her eyes. “I was just thinking about your name.”
“My name?”
“It is one of the most beautiful names I’ve ever heard. The moment I saw your face again, I thought how perfectly your countenance and the meaning of your name were one. Whoever named you did so perfectly and must have loved you a great deal.”
“Why were you crying then?” asked Cherity.
“I was thinking how much God must love you too, and how very special you are to him. It made me so happy that it brought tears to my eyes.”
Cherity remained silent. She recalled her father making occasional remarks about Mr. Davidson’s odd religious views and how he brought God into everything. Apparently it ran in the family. Her father smiled as he overheard Carolyn’s explanation.
Still, as they went, she found herself warmed by Mrs. Davidson’s words, and strangely moved that a woman could shed tears on her own behalf. What could account for such a thing?
They reached Greenwood twenty-five or thirty minutes later.
Once Carolyn got over her tears and Cherity the unaccountable feelings from being in Carolyn’s presence again, the two women began to chat freely. Within minutes they were laughing and talking and sharing like Cherity had never done with an older woman in her life. They were true friends before reaching Greenwood.
In the front seat, an exchange almost as vigorous but far more humorous was taking place. Having never had the captive audience of a former Negro slave to himself, the reporter in him had filled James Waters with curiosity brimming over so full that he could hardly contain himself. His interest in the man was prompted, too, by the pride Waters took in considering himself a progressive and free-thinking liberal. He was anxious to canvass the old black man’s views, in particular concerning his former master and boss, who at once so confused and also intrigued the former Christian and present agnostic Bostonian.
But the two men could scarcely understand a word the other spoke. Moses’ broken and slurred Negro tongue was as great a mystery to Waters’ ear as was the moderate New England to the black man’s. Half their time was spent in repeating and interpreting what had already been said.
“Moses,” Carolyn said from the backseat, “please take us by the field where everyone is working.
“Yes’m, Miz Dav’son,” said Moses, turning aside on a narrow dirt road instead of continuing on up the driveway.
Glancing through the trees, Cherity was just able to catch sight of a few portions of the red brick and tile roof.
“There’s your house?” she said, still peering through the trunks of oak and beech.
“Yes,” replied Carolyn. “We’ll be there shortly.”
“I don’t remember it being so huge!”
Carolyn laughed. “There is a lot of work that gets done here,” she said. “There are several barns, some for animals, others for equipment, others for storage of grain or drying tobacco. And at one time the house was used to house field hands and white laborers, then with the increase of slaves, houses were built for them. See over there. That’s what we call the Negro or colored village. The big house is not used so much for workers now but only family. There are many rooms that are scarcely used. There are just the four of us, now that our older daughter Cynthia is married and gone, along with Moses and Maribel who live in the house and help us there. The others, our black workers, mostly work in the fields and with the animals, and of course the mothers raise their children and that keeps them busy.”
“It is a different world than Boston. There are certainly no slaves there.”
“And you will see none at Greenwood either,” said Carolyn. “We set our slaves free three years ago. They now work for us and receive wages like other hired workers.”
“I remember, and I think your setting your slaves free was simply a wonderful thing to do.”
“Thank you. “We have never regret
ted it for a second,” nodded Carolyn.
“Where is your daughter?” asked Cherity. “I was so sorry she was away visiting her future in-laws when I was here last. I have always wanted to meet her.”
“She and her husband are in Maryland right now, but their future is uncertain. Robert just graduated from Annapolis and has yet to be assigned.”
A few minutes later they came to a field of wheat, about a third cut, where to one side Richmond and Seth and Malachi, in that order—the latter two following as Richmond led, all bare-chested and the two Davidsons, father and son, brown from the summer sun and with blisters and callouses on their hands to match—were moving through the standing grain wielding razor-sharp scythes with which they made great swinging semicircular arcs that laid the ripened grain down with such skill and precision that the stalks simply fell softly to sleep on the ground. The three reapers were followed by Thomas and ten or twelve black gatherers, who picked up the sleeping stalks, tied them in bundles, and stood them as tents, each bunch leaning together toward a common center. Behind them eight black women carted the bundles to two wagons sitting at opposite sides of the field for transport to the threshing barn where the grain would later be separated from the stalks and chaff.
Moses led the carriage along one side of the field until they had drawn even to the lead reaper. Richmond glanced up, then set down his scythe and with a great smile walked toward them.
“James!” he exclaimed with outstretched hand. “You made it at last! I am so glad!”
Behind him, Seth walked toward the wagon, chest and shoulders and face dripping with sweat, for the day was hot.
“Seth, my boy!” said Richmond. “You remember James Waters—”
“Yes… hello again, Mr. Waters,” said Seth as they shook hands.
“—and you remember his daughter Cherity.”
“Hello, Miss Waters,” said Seth, extending his hand. For one of the few times in her life, Cherity was speechless. The scene before her—grain being harvested before her very eyes, a field full of Negro men and women just like she had read about, spread out in front of her against a golden backdrop of wheat, green trees behind them, and haze covered hills in the distance stretching to the horizon where they met the dark gray of a sky that looked menacing somewhere far to the north—it might as well have been out of a picture book. In combination with the approach of this smiling, handsome, shirtless boy… it took her breath away.
American Dreams Trilogy Page 53