American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  Slowly he rose. He would have to go himself to make sure she was safe.

  He stood and walked into the light.

  When men, like males of all species, first meet—the instinct of guardedness, skepticism, and latent suspicion usually rises to temper the encounter with wariness.

  Women more readily approach one another on the common ground of shared humanity. Men, however, cannot so quickly ignore the face-off in which every other male is in a primal way his rival in an invisible contest for supremacy. The silently concealed inborn rooster of masculinity must subtly strut about to discover relative strengths, weaknesses, flaws, and insecurities to exploit, while hiding its own vulnerabilities behind a facade of self-assurance. Women interact, men spar.

  Thus, true humility is more immediately apparent within the female of the species. Meekness is rarer within the masculine temperament than it ought to be, than it was intended to be—the humility of seeking not one’s own and counting others better than oneself. The Man who was the supreme example of that manhood—God’s design when he infused his own Spirit into the Adam of the race—has sadly been neither Master nor relational paradigm for the greater part of the humanity he came to seek and to save.

  There are, however, a few rare man souls who count the meekness of Christlikeness the only worthwhile life-ambition. When such ones meet on the foundation of manly humility, their shared masculinity rises to the high realm of personhood, a realm where rivalry and ambition give way to love as it was meant to flow among strong men.

  The black man and white man first saw one another some fifty feet from the large redbrick plantation house. The one was approaching from a wooded region of trees, the other had just rounded the wall of the adjacent barn. Each paused momentarily in his step. Neither had seen the other before that moment.

  Their eyes met.

  Though the color of their skin was noticeably distinct, each somehow recognized neither opposition nor enmity… but the universal brotherhood of humanity.

  The pause lasted but a second or two. A smile spread over the white man’s face and he continued toward the stranger.

  “Hello,” he said with outstretched hand. “I am Richmond Davidson. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Taken by surprise at the man’s obvious cordiality and welcoming countenance, the black man forgot the affected slave dialect with which he spoke to whites, and unconsciously reverted to the more polished tongue of his youth.

  “I am… uh, Sydney LeFleure,” he replied as Richmond walked toward him. “My family and I are… traveling. We were hoping perhaps to find food.”

  “You are a stranger here, I take it?” said Richmond as they shook hands.

  “Yes, suh, massa, suh,” replied Sydney, recovering his surprise and adopting the deferential speech of a slave. “We’s on our way norf, an’ we wuz jes’ hopin’ ter git us sumfin ter eat. I gots me four chilluns an’ dey’s parful hungry, massa. We’d be much obliged ter you, suh, effen you cud see yo way ter help us wif sum food.”

  As Richmond listened, the smile returned to his lips.

  “Do you think I am more likely to help you if you talk like a slave?” he asked.

  “No, suh, massa, I wuz jes’… dat is, I waz forgittin’ my place afore, dat’s all.”

  Richmond laughed lightly. “Have no fear, Mr. LeFleure,” he said. “There is no place of station or race around here. We have no slaves anyway.”

  “Dere ain’t no colored folk here, suh?” said Sydney, in shock from hearing the white man call him Mister. “Who be dose blacks we saw workin’ ober yonder?”

  “I said we have no slaves,” replied Richmond. “Those are our hired workers. They are free blacks, and you may talk any way you like around me, or say whatever you like without fear of reprisal. I suspect that you are not a slave either.”

  “I was, Mr. Davidson,” said Sydney, unable to keep from smiling now himself at how easily this man had penetrated his deception. “I have been a slave for sixteen years, since I was eighteen, though I was not born into slavery.”

  “And you say your family is with you?”

  “They are hiding in the woods,” Sydney replied, nodding behind him. It felt good to speak in the voice he had used but rarely since his youth. Already he was feeling more relaxed. “We sent my daughter to the door a few minutes ago. When she went inside and did not come out, I became worried and was on my way to the house myself.”

  “Then let’s you and I go inside and see where she disappeared to,” said Richmond, leading the way toward the house. “You can bring the rest of your family out of hiding—you will be safe here.”

  Sydney turned toward the trees and waved.

  “Chigua… Silas… children,” he called. “Come—this is the place. We found it!”

  When Richmond and Sydney walked into the kitchen, astonishment spread over Sydney’s face. There sat his daughter at the table babbling away happily without a care in the world, a half-empty glass of milk in front of her and a large cookie with two bites removed in one hand.

  “Daddy!” she exclaimed. “Dis lady gib me milk an’ cookies, an’ I wuz tellin’ her ’bout dat barn we slept in wif dose goats an’ cows an’ horses all together. An’ she says I kin help her feed da chickens later—kin I, Daddy… kin I please help her?”

  Carolyn laughed and Richmond introduced her to the girl’s father. A minute later they heard footsteps following through the open door behind them. They turned to greet the new arrivals. There stood Sydney’s bewildered wife and three older youngsters, and their very bewildered traveling companion.

  “Chigua, dear,” said Sydney, “these are the Davidsons—Mr. and Mrs. Davidson, I would like you to meet my wife Chigua, and Azura, Darel, Milos, and you already know Laylie. And this is Silas,” he added. “He and I escaped together down in Georgia and have been moving north together ever since.”

  “We are happy to know you all,” said Richmond, thinking to himself what a stunning couple they were, though neither looked altogether like Negroes. Sydney’s wife, in fact, more resembled an Indian, and he could not exactly place the ethnic appearance of Sydney’s tan complexion.

  “Sit down!” added Carolyn, pulling out a few chairs and nodding to the newcomers. “You look hungry! We’ll get some food into you, and then you tell us how we can help you.”

  Within minutes nearly a gallon of milk had disappeared down the throats of the weary travelers, along with a dozen oatmeal cookies. Maribel, who had wandered into the kitchen at the first sounds of visitors, stood at the counter as she and Carolyn hurried a batch of biscuits into the cook oven to accompany a skillet of frying eggs and another of sizzling bacon.

  Their other guests had also joined the kitchen melee, almost as perplexed as the strangers themselves, yet delighted by the unexpected developments. To see such a mix of skin colors and bloodlines all talking and laughing together could not but warm any but the coldest heart.

  “James… Cherity,” said Richmond as father and daughter walked in, “meet Sydney and Chigua LeFleure… their friend Silas… and their four children. These are—let me see if I can get them all!—Laylie and Azura… and Darel and Milos.”

  Waters hardly heard the children’s names. At the sound of the woman’s, almost more than from the distinctive features of her face, an expression of astonishment spread over his countenance. He shook first Sydney’s hand, then hers, allowing it to linger a moment in his grasp.

  “You are… Cherokee?” he said, more as a statement of fact than question.

  “Yes—how could you tell?” said Chigua with a smile of curiosity.

  “I, uh… recognize your name.”

  “It is not a common one, even in my tribe.”

  “I have… uh, I have known several Cherokees in my life,” said James, his brain still spinning from the shock and implication of the uncommon name. “And I would… uh, like you to meet my daughter Cherity,” he added, turning and indicating Cherity.

  Cherity and Chigua shook ha
nds, each probing the other’s face for something neither could define. The two smiled, though neither spoke. It was a smile that went beyond words, different than when Cherity had first met Carolyn, yet touching places equally deep within her soul.

  “I am still confused how you found us,” said Richmond, bringing the conversation back to what Sydney had been about to explain before the interruption. “Perhaps I should explain, James,” he added to the Bostonian. “Sydney and Chigua and Silas are runaway slaves. I hope you will not be too shocked. They came here seeking refuge.”

  “Why here?” asked James, who had taken a chair and was still struggling to regain his equilibrium.

  “We been trablin’ on dat Underground Railroad, suh!” said Silas excitedly. “Dis be our nex’ stashun. We wuz sent here.”

  “Indeed, that is remarkable!” rejoined James. “I’ve heard of the Underground Railroad, of course. Probably most informed Northerners vaguely know of its existence. But I never dreamed I would actually see it for myself! This is fascinating. And you say this is one of the stations?”

  “Dat it is, suh,” answered Silas. “Dey gib us direckshuns an’ den we cum here an’ hid in dose trees out dere where we wuz hidin’.”

  As Carolyn continued to talk to the chattering children and keep food, which was disappearing as fast as she and Maribel could replenish it, on their plates, Waters turned to his host. “Richmond,” he said, “you didn’t tell me this! Greenwood—a safe house for the Underground Railroad!”

  “How could I tell you, James?” laughed Richmond. “This is the first I’ve heard of it myself!”

  “What!”

  “Sydney,” said Richmond to their new arrival, “what is this that Silas is saying?”

  “He’s right, Mr. Davidson,” said Sydney. “We were given directions here. Our last conductor left us two nights ago and told us how to get here. We were told that there was a new house, a new station along the way where they knew about the wind in the horse’s head. We looked and looked all around here, but we didn’t see anything. But we were sure this was the right house. They said after we got here no more conductors would be sent to us because the people here would get us the rest of the way and over the border into the North.”

  Richmond listened with his mouth open in astonishment. By now Carolyn had overheard enough of the men’s conversation that she had stopped what she was doing. She stood with a plate of steaming biscuits in her hand, as shocked as her husband at what Sydney had just said.

  Husband and wife glanced at each other, both expressions silently saying, “Do you have any idea what he is talking about!”

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” said Richmond at length. “We did have a young woman and her children here a few months back. We helped her get to Pennsylvania. But we’ve seen no one since. I’ve never heard about the wind in the horse’s head.” He glanced with a look of inquiry at Carolyn.

  Suddenly she remembered.

  “Of course—that was the sign Lucindy was looking for when we reached the town in Pennsylvania! I thought I told you about it, Richmond. It was a weathervane on top of the Quaker farmhouse where Caleb was. But what does that have to do with us?” she asked, looking again at Sydney.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Davidson—only that it’s the sign of a place where runaways can be safe. That was the sign we were told to look for here.”

  “Dat’s why we wuz skeered!” said Silas. “We didn’t see no win’ in no horse’s head.”

  None of them heard the horse as it rode up to the front of the house.

  Moses, who had remained in the sitting room during the commotion, answered the knock and then walked into the kitchen. Richmond glanced up.

  “Mr. Davidson, suh,” he said, “Mister Beaumont’s at da front door.”

  A gasp escaped Carolyn’s lips. Every head turned toward her. The look on her face, suddenly pale, was enough to silence the entire room.

  “Denton… here?” said Richmond.

  “Yes, suh.”

  “He hasn’t called on us in years!”

  “He axed ter see you, Mr. Davidson.”

  Richmond thought a moment.

  “Get them into the basement, Carolyn,” he said. “Children, all of you—you must not say a word! Go with Mrs. Davidson. Maribel, you go down with them. Hurry… not a sound!”

  When Richmond Davidson opened the front door about a minute later after taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, there stood his neighbor and boyhood friend on the porch, beginning to grow impatient.

  “Denton… hello!” said Richmond, extending his hand.

  “Hello, Richmond,” said Beaumont, shaking his friend’s hand. “I wanted to speak to you before leaving for Washington. I may be away a good deal in the coming months.”

  “Yes, I heard of your appointment as assistant undersecretary in the War Department—congratulations!”

  “Thank you, Richmond—that is kind of you. The party leadership has requested an increase to my involvement in the nation’s affairs. It is possible I may run for the Senate again when Everett steps down—we shall see.”

  “I wish you every success, Denton.”

  “There are reports coming to me,” Beaumont went on, “of increased runaway traffic in the county. I have been instructed to be on high alert and to spare no efforts in apprehending them and making sure they are returned to their owners. Are you aware of these rumors? Have you heard anything in this regard from your own blacks?”

  “I have heard nothing, Denton,” Richmond answered, truthfully enough. “If our own people are party to anything of this nature, I am unaware of it.”

  Beaumont eyed him carefully. “Well,” he said, “the reason for my call concerns the runaway problem. Because of my new duties in the capital, and in light of these reports of higher slave movement, we feel it imperative that I appoint a deputy commissioner to act in my stead during my absence. I felt perhaps, knowing of your background in law, that you might be interested. The remuneration, of course, is nominal, but there is the satisfaction of doing one’s civic duty for the South.”

  Taken by surprise, Richmond hardly knew how to respond.

  “I… appreciate your thinking of me, Denton,” he said at length. “But I really do not see how I could devote myself to the runaway problem. It is no secret that you and I view slavery differently.”

  “No secret whatever,” rejoined Beaumont a little testily. “Still, I felt it the neighborly thing to give you the first opportunity.”

  “I appreciate that. But I really must decline.”

  “Very well. On another matter—I would like to revisit our discussion of the Brown land one more time. If you would at least entertain it long enough to think the matter over, I would like to present you with a formal written offer. I have drawn up a document that I have here—”

  He pulled a thick envelope from the pocket inside his jacket.

  “—and which I feel is more than generous.”

  “Really, Denton, there is nothing that—”

  “Please, Richmond,” interrupted Beaumont, “just tell me you will consider it. You will see, in addition to an offer easily three times the value of the land, that I have enclosed a check in the amount of five thousand dollars. It is yours the moment you agree.”

  “That is a great deal of money, Denton… especially for a mere deposit.”

  “I wanted to get your attention and demonstrate once and for all how serious I am in this.”

  Richmond nodded. “All right, Denton,” he said. “As you have taken so much trouble about it, I promise to read your offer through.”

  “Thank you, Richmond. Good day.”

  Beaumont turned, walked down the steps, mounted his horse, and rode away without once looking back, full of as many emotions, though of a vastly different nature, as the man he had just left standing on the porch watching him ride back down the entryway and disappear into the trees.

  Twenty-Three

  Denton Bea
umont’s strange visit, coming as it did almost exactly on the heels of Sydney’s and Chigua’s arrival, sobered the entire Greenwood household and reminded them how close danger was.

  That the children were older than Lucindy’s in some ways lessened the risk, though seven-year-old Laylie was talkative enough for all the rest.

  But there were seven in all! What was to be done with them?

  Where were they to sleep? How were they to be fed? When and how were they to be gotten to the Pennsylvania border?

  The more pressing question that immediately occupied the minds of Carolyn and Richmond was how open should they be with the rest of their people about this sudden development? And what about Seth and Thomas?

  “I don’t know, Carolyn,” said Richmond later that day when the two had a chance to be alone. “From what Sydney says we may have inadvertently become part of something we know almost nothing about. How word about us has spread, and why we are associated with this secret sign of a weathervane because of some farmer in Pennsylvania, may remain a mystery. But if that is being said and people are actually being sent here, we may not be able to stop this. We could have a stampede of runaways seeking refuge before it’s over.”

  “How do they find us?” said Carolyn. “Over all those miles, through unfriendly country… it is a mystery.”

  “I have heard of a network of slave travel, hiding out, slaves helping slaves, moving at night from safe house to safe house. But I never expected Greenwood to become one of the regular stops!”

  They sat some minutes in silence.

  “What are we going to do, Richmond?” asked Carolyn at length. “We have Greenwood to think of, and the safety of our sons and our own blacks.”

  He nodded. “It is not as simple as being willing to help. Of course, we are willing to help any man or woman in need. But so much is at stake here. To help means continuing to break the law, and putting everything else here in jeopardy.”

  Richmond sighed and thought a moment.