American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

He took two strides toward the door, then stopped and turned toward Thomas.

  “Come on, Thomas,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m staying,” said his brother.

  “No you’re not—you’re coming home with me.”

  A tense moment followed as both brothers stared at each other.

  “Thomas,” said Seth in a voice of command. “Come with me.”

  Thomas hesitated only a moment more, then shuffled toward the door, seething with silent fury, and followed Seth outside. They galloped away separately. Seth did not see his brother again that evening.

  Seth went straight to his father’s study after arriving home. He found Richmond just preparing to retire. He recounted every word spoken at the gathering as nearly as he could recall. Richmond’s expression as he listened, especially knowing that Thomas had also been included, was grave. He was reasonably certain Thomas would not betray them. But they would have to be even more careful from now on.

  The delivery he had made to Greenwood last week had rekindled the flame of resentment in Scully Riggs’s brain toward Seth Davidson. How could he act carefree and content, like nothing had happened, not even caring how deeply he had hurt poor Veronica?

  And all of them pretending to be so friendly toward him!

  But he knew their kind… thinking they were better than everyone else, looking down their noses at people like him.

  He had heard about Wyatt Beaumont’s meeting at Oakbriar, overheard two of them talking about it. Those high-and-mighties were all the same, the Beaumonts, the McClellans—they would never invite him. But he would show them that he knew how to take care of nigger lovers too.

  Almost as if in response to his own thoughts, he looked up to see Wyatt Beaumont across the street. He ran over to meet him.

  “Hi, Wyatt,” he said. “How’s Veronica?”

  Wyatt glanced up but kept walking.

  “She’s all right,” he said with obvious disgust.

  “It’s terrible what Seth Davidson did to her. I’d bust his face if I got the chance.”

  “Keep out of it, Riggs. Veronica doesn’t want you doing anything for her. It’s none of your concern.”

  “But we still want to teach Seth Davidson that he can’t go around—”

  Wyatt stopped and turned.

  “We?” he said. “Who’s going to teach what to Seth Davidson?”

  “You and me, Wyatt… you and me and Brad and Miles—you know, the guys who were at your place last week.”

  Beaumont’s eyes narrowed. He looked Scully hard in the eye. “What do you know about that?” he said.

  “Nothing, Wyatt.”

  “Then why’d you bring it up?”

  “Just because… I thought if you needed some help taking care of Seth Davidson—”

  “Look, Scully,” interrupted Wyatt. “It’s none of your affair, just stay out of it. It had nothing to do with Veronica or Seth Davidson… and it’s got nothing to do with you. Got that?”

  “But, Wyatt—”

  “Go crawl in some hole, Riggs. We don’t need your help. And you keep your mouth shut or it’ll go worse for you than it does for Seth.”

  Scully slunk back across the street.

  Well, he didn’t need Wyatt Beaumont, he thought to himself. He’d get his own revenge. He’d show them all!

  As much as Scully Riggs hated being looked down on by other whites, he hated people like Seth Davidson all the more. The only thing that gave Scully Riggs what little status he could scrape together in the world was the knowledge that he was better than any colored man. The notion that the Davidson slaves had been made his equal, and now had the same rights as he did, filled him with silent rage. The desire for revenge that burned in his soul was not primarily about Veronica Beaumont, it was about his own warped and injured dignity. The fact that people like Veronica and Wyatt Beaumont looked down on him made him all the more determined to look good in their eyes. To earn Wyatt’s favor, and thus, by his twisted logic, Veronica’s, he would kill Seth Davidson if he had the courage. He little suspected how low on the scale of humanity Wyatt considered him, and that all his bravado only made Wyatt despise him the more.

  There were other people in town, thought Scully as he returned to work, who might find it interesting to know that the Davidsons were improving their colored quarters. There were others, like him, that Wyatt Beaumont didn’t consider good enough to ride with and hunt with, who never got invited to their parties and socials and whom their sisters never looked twice at. Maybe guys like Scully and his friends could take care of a few things too!

  Over the next few days, with every errand and delivery he made, Scully dropped little hints about things he had seen and heard “out at that Davidson place.”

  His dropped comments circulated from mouth to mouth and store to store and house to house, not only about new quarters for the blacks, but coloreds walking about giving white men orders. What Scully had actually observed during the unloading of the wood, at a moment when Richmond Davidson had gone inside briefly with his wife, was Malachi Shaw asking Thomas to send his father to him when he had the chance for a question about one of the fences. Scully did not go into such details when recounting the incident. He also spoke freely about black women walking in and out of the big house like they owned it, again omitting the fact that he had seen nothing more than Maribel—whom everyone for miles knew had lived in the big house for twenty years—carrying a laundry basket inside.

  Through innuendo and exaggeration, by week’s end, Scully succeeded in stirring up old resentments sufficiently that when added to his stories and personal observation that the Davidson blacks got better treatment than many whites, the disgruntled gossip about the Davidsons and the goings-on at Greenwood began to take on a life of its own.

  Not that anyone had ever paid much attention to Scully Riggs or would give two cents for anything he said. But rumors care little for where they originate. Once implanted in the public ear, they take on a momentum that cannot be stopped. Scully’s words produced exactly such effect. Before long most of the town’s youths from lower station than those on Wyatt Beaumont’s vigilante guest list were ready to run the nigger-loving Davidsons out of town by any means possible. In spite of how low he may have looked in the eyes of Veronica’s brother, to the seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds in town who came from the same side of the tracks as he, twenty-two-year-old Scully Riggs soon took on the luster of spokesman and hero. More and more of the town’s teenagers and troublemakers could be seen clustered about him as they walked the streets in the evening or on a Sunday afternoon, the unspoken general of a growing band of young hotheads.

  The opportunity Scully was waiting for came a couple weeks later. He saw Seth Davidson in town, and from that moment did his best to keep an eye on his movements. The moment he left town for home, Scully dropped what he was doing and ran to the livery stable.

  “Come on, Digger!” he said. “We’re going to teach that nigger-loving Davidson a thing or two! Grab some burlap feed bags to put over our heads, then go tell the others. I’ll meet you at the fork just out of town on the road west!”

  Five minutes later the small mob had grown to eight strong as it galloped away from Dove’s Landing in the direction of Greenwood.

  Seth had taken one of the larger carriages into town to pick up supplies. On his way home he was not moving rapidly. The eight riders quickly overtook him.

  He heard them coming behind him. Before he could look around to see who it was, eight horses surrounded the wagon and forced it to a stop.

  Seth had no chance to utter a word. One of the hooded riders was quickly off his horse and onto the wagon. He yanked Seth from his seat, and threw him to the ground. Within seconds six bodies were on top of him, kicking and beating and pounding at his face and body.

  “Nigger lover!” they yelled, and worse. “Maybe this will teach you the difference between black and white!”

  The damage was quickly done. Leaving Seth moaning
beside the road, the carriage overturned, its leather roof and seats slashed, all the supplies spilled and strewn on the ground, Scully and his fellow thugs fled.

  And so it was that Richmond Davidson found his son just coming to himself an hour later, after the two horses, broken loose from their harnesses, had slowly made their way home, and sent their owner to learn the cause.

  Word of the incident reached Elias Slade at the Beaumont Plantation. He had been awaiting his own opportunity for revenge against Seth Davidson for the blows he had received in the Oakbriar barn a year earlier. Slade’s plans, however, involved more than a mere beating.

  He intended to kill him.

  Thirty-Two

  The hour was late. Fog hung thick and wet in Charleston Harbor. A man of age and race difficult to determine from a distance, with wide-brimmed hat pulled almost over his eyebrows, made his way slowly across the Ashley River.

  From the opposite side another stealthy figure stepped out from the blackness next to an empty brick warehouse and began walking in the opposite direction over the bridge to meet him.

  They stopped in the middle above the slow black current and stood face-to-face, or rather, silhouette-to-silhouette.

  “Are you the one they call the Sleuth?” asked the one in broken English and an accent not native to these shores.

  “I am called by many names,” answered the other in a noticeable southern drawl.

  “Do not play game with me. Have I or not found the one I was told about?”

  “I deal in information and resources that are difficult to come by. Does that answer your question?”

  “For now. My client is European.”

  “I have no qualms as to nationality. As long as he can pay, I care nothing for his home or his tongue.”

  “He can pay. He is wealthy man. He concerned about supply of bulk cotton to factories should hostilities break out between states. He hear rumors of possible blockades against South and trade with foreign markets. His business need raw material. Are rumors true?”

  “It may come to that. My sources in the North intimate such a possibility.”

  “Then my client’s fears are well-founded, no?

  “Possibly so. But you need have no worries. I represent a consortium of plantation owners. We have high-placed contacts who are dedicated to keeping supply lines open.”

  “How will you do this?”

  “We are working to establish trade connections in Latin America, and with Northern shipping interests. We will make certain that commerce with European markets is not jeopardized.”

  “My client will pay handsomely for such guarantee. How will I contact you?”

  “You won’t. I will contact you. Tell me where you can be reached. When the time comes, your client will be instructed how to proceed.”

  The foreign accent nodded.

  “When I make contact next time, you must do what I say without hesitation. You may not recognize me.”

  “How will I know?”

  “You will be told, the Sleuth is ready. You must be too.”

  As the two men parted, the younger tipped his hat back slightly on his forehead and watched the European disappear into the mist. Though he was but twenty-six he had risen rapidly in a game that had already taken him high into the centers of finance, influence, and power. At last his years of preparation in an endless string of two-bit street hustles was paying off.

  This trouble between the states could make him a rich man before it was done!

  In Denton Beaumont’s absence, Leon Riggs had not been able to stop Elias Slade from sneaking out at night.

  Wyatt was certainly no help. He was gone half the time. Riggs was more than half certain that Slade was sneaking over to the Davidson plantation.

  That was all he needed!

  Beaumont would fire him again if Slade proved unruly or troublesome.

  Meanwhile, in the aftermath of Seth’s beating, things calmed down around Greenwood. Scully and his hotheads had tasted victory sufficient to satisfy themselves for the present. Wyatt Beaumont was biding his time. Even Thomas had been helpful and cooperative in the aftermath of the incident.

  No bones were broken and Seth was himself again in a week. But the attack turned him thoughtful. The resentment against him brought unnecessary danger to Greenwood. He still could not understand the reason for the animosity. But it could not be ignored.

  Seth found his father on the floor of the new house at the Negro village. The cellar was complete, and Richmond was on his knees pounding nails through the last of the new floorboards.

  “Hey, Seth, my boy!” he said. “How goes the work at the house?”

  “Good, Dad,” he replied. “There are a few things I need to ask you about.”

  Richmond stood, set down the hammer, and the two walked away together.

  “This looks like it’s going well too,” said Seth, glancing over his father’s work. “It was a great idea to use weathered lumber for the siding. It looks like it’s been here a hundred years. You can hardly tell it from the other cabins. There’s no hint of a cellar beneath the floor.”

  “We have you to thank for that. The cellar was your idea… actually, the new staircase up at the house was too. How does your devious brain think of these things!” Richmond added with a laugh. “How is it progressing?”

  “It’s coming along. Thomas and I have just about got the false wall in front of the old door on the second floor finished,” Seth answered. “Once we plaster over and paint it, we’ll have a completely invisible second staircase all the way from the attic to the basement.”

  As they went, Richmond sensed from Seth’s countenance that something other than the new staircase was on his mind. Slowly they continued away from the collection of small black houses. It remained silent for several minutes.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Richmond at length.

  “I’m okay… well, physically at least,” replied Seth. “But I’m really confused about all this.”

  “It’s more than just the beating on the way home from town?”

  “Yeah… there have been a few other things too.”

  His father turned toward him with obvious concern.

  “Nothing serious,” said Seth. “No physical violence… just looks and comments and stares… a few threats.”

  “Do you think they’re serious?”

  “After what happened with Scully and the looks I got that night at Oakbriar, I suppose, yeah—they seem serious.”

  “Are you scared?” asked Richmond.

  “I’m not thinking about it every minute… but sure, the threats worry me,” replied Seth. “I can’t help it. I’m confused as well as a little scared. And still feeling stupid besides. If I’m going to town alone now I take either the Grey Laird or Malcolm because I know they can outrun any horse in the county. I don’t like having to look over my shoulder whenever I’m alone.”

  “I’m sorry, son… I didn’t realize it had gone so far. What are they saying?”

  “Oh, the usual… you know, about our slaves.”

  His father nodded. He knew that criticism well enough.

  “And there’s resentment about what I did to Veronica. I can’t tell whether that’s just Scully Riggs or whether the others genuinely think I besmirched her dignity or something by breaking off the engagement. Wyatt too—is he angry with me for what I did or is it because of freeing our blacks? Why do any of them care? What business is it of theirs? Veronica is long gone. I’m sure she has forgotten me by now. But along with the fact that our Negroes are free, they seem to think it necessary to teach me a lesson in what happens to young men who embarrass the pride of a woman whose good name they think it their duty to protect. As if Wyatt cares about Veronica’s dignity,” he added in a tone bordering on sarcasm.

  “I’m sure it will all blow over.”

  “I don’t know, Dad. Sometimes the threats are pretty ugly.”

  As Richmond listened, he grew more and more concerned.
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br />   “It’s reached the point where there is no logic in it,” Seth continued. “It’s got nothing to do with Veronica or our slaves—it’s just… me, Dad. They’ve got it out for me, that’s all. You know how Scully Riggs and his kind are. They want to fight. They are itching to fight. Sometimes I think they are trying to goad me into doing something stupid. And now it’s Wyatt and Brad too. I have tried to be nice to all of them, to befriend Scully. I have been trying for years to get past that chip on his shoulder. But nothing I do changes it. And Wyatt’s really changed. What is it with guys like that, Dad?”

  Again it was quiet. They were about halfway to the house by now. Richmond turned aside and sat down on one of the large stones that bordered this portion of the dirt road between the house and the Negro village. Seth took another.

  “To answer your last question, I don’t know, son,” said his father. “I have encountered people like that in my life too. Whether it’s boys settling things with their fists, grown men settling things with guns, or businessmen trying to get the upper hand through finances or politics, there is something in the flesh of man that wants to exercise power over others. It is exactly the opposite of how Jesus told us to live.”

  “So what do you do, Dad? Surely it’s not smart to put yourself in danger. I mean, I know there are times you have to stand up and fight for some principle. But for me to take on Wyatt and his ruffian friends, or Scully and his thugs so they can pulverize me… I’m not sure that would serve any purpose.”

  “Of course not,” said his father. “That is the kind of useless fight that is best avoided at almost any cost except cowardice, and we both know you are no coward.”

  “What do you do, Dad, when you know that people hate you for the stands you have made?”

  “You have seen what I have done,” replied his father. “I try as much as I can to ignore it.”

  “But how can I ignore it when they come after me?”

  “I don’t have an answer for you, son. This dilemma of yours requires some concentrated thought and prayer.”

  Unfortunately, before either Seth or his father had arrived at an idea of what they should do, circumstances took an even more malicious turn.