American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  Thirty-Three

  When the visitor called at the door of the Beaumont home, neither Veronica nor her mother had any idea that their chaperone for the evening had recently returned from playing a role as intricate as any they would see on the stage of Ford’s Theater this evening. Indeed, his acting resume could have stood up favorably against any in the city.

  “Are you ready, my lady?” said Cecil Hirsch with a smile and a slightly affected bow as Veronica opened the door.

  “Oh yes, I am so excited… I can hardly wait. Mother is upstairs, she will be down in a minute. Come in.”

  “Thank you,” nodded Hirsch, following Veronica inside. “Is your father at home?”

  “No, he’s at some Senate thing.”

  “You couldn’t persuade him to join us?”

  “He thinks Shakespeare is stuffy.”

  “We shall have to interest him in a good British comedy the next time one is playing.”

  “He says the theater is for the intelligentsia, whatever that is.”

  “The president is often seen at Ford’s. And the man Lincoln, who may be our next president, they say, is a great enthusiast of the theater.”

  “My father hates him. He says it will ruin the country if he is elected.”

  “The country may ruin itself, with or without his help,” commented Hirsch wryly.

  They were interrupted by the appearance of Lady Daphne descending the stairs.

  “Ah, Lady Daphne, you are radiant this evening!” said Hirsch expansively, walking toward her. “It is a pity the lights will be low in the theater. Otherwise all eyes would be on you.”

  “You are a charmer, Mr. Hirsch. But I fear a lying one!”

  “Never!” he laughed. “Shall we go? Our carriage awaits on the street.”

  Forty minutes later, the three were shown to their seats in Ford’s Theater by a uniformed usher. Still chatting amiably and spreading blandishments on unsuspecting Lady Daphne thicker than the fog in Charleston Harbor, Cecil Hirsch took his place between the two Beaumont women. The curtain rose fifteen minutes later. Fifteen minutes after that, concealed in the darkness, Hirsch had located Veronica’s palm and was gently massaging both hand and heart with the same subtle cunning that he brought to all his affairs, foreign and domestic. The fact that she was in one of Washington’s most famous theaters, surrounded by diplomats and dignitaries and congressmen, and being wooed by a man she took to be far more important than he was, caused Veronica’s pulse to pound rather more rapidly than she could control, and it was with great difficulty that she tried to follow the somewhat confusing dialogue of King Lear. She was flushed with more emotions than she knew what to do with as they emerged into the cool night air some two hours later. She edged closer to Cecil Hirsch’s side on the way home than she had on the ride into the city, telling herself that it was merely to stave off the chill. But deep down she knew the real cause. Being near Seth Davidson had never made her feel like this!

  As the carriage slowed in front of their house, the intoxication of her fanciful passions had nearly reached a climax. This had been absolutely too lovely an evening to end now! Cecil felt the heat from her body next to his as they bounded gently to a stop, and shared her sentiments exactly.

  “Lady Daphne,” he said, stepping down, hurrying around the carriage, and helping her to the ground with his hand, “I cannot thank you enough for accompanying me.”

  “Oh, Mr. Hirsch, this was everything I had hoped for in coming to Washington. It is I who am indebted to you!”

  He offered his arm to lead her to the house. In the corner of his eye he saw Veronica scoot toward the edge of the carriage seat to step down. With the slightest motion of his head, he turned to catch her eye, then checked her motion with an imperceptible shake of his head. She saw and divined his meaning. Heart pounding anew, she sat still… and waited.

  “Lady Daphne,” said Hirsch as they reached the porch, “you know, I’ve promised to show Veronica the lights of the moon and street lanterns reflecting off the water of the Potomac. It just occurred to me, as there is nearly a full moon tonight and the air is mild, that this would be a perfect—”

  “Say no more, Mr. Hirsch,” said Lady Daphne. “I am tired and not so young as you and Veronica. Denton is probably home by now and I would be happy for you young people to see the city together. Go on, and think nothing of me. I had a most lovely time. Thank you so much!”

  “The pleasure was all mine, Lady Daphne,” replied Hirsch. He took her hand, raised it to his lips, kissed it lightly, then tipped his head in a slight bow as she opened the door. He waited until she was inside, then returned to the carriage, where Veronica sat waiting with apparent patience but with face and neck warm with anticipation.

  “Well, my lady,” said Hirsch, bounding up again beside her. “What would you say to a midnight tour of some of the lesser-known sights of our magnificent capital!”

  Veronica said nothing, only edged yet closer to his side, slipped her hand through his arm, and gently laid her head against the side of his shoulder. Hirsch urged the horse into motion. He was in no hurry as they went. He had no real destination anyway other than a ride along the shoreline. After that it would depend on Veronica.

  They returned sometime after three in the morning. If the lovely face of Veronica Beaumont he had seen at the ball several weeks earlier had developed into that of a woman rather than a girl, that womanhood had now given the ultimate of itself to a man she scarcely knew.

  But she was a mere trophy to him, one that lost its luster almost immediately in that it had been so easy a prize to win.

  Thirty-Four

  The new cabin at the worker’s village had progressed rapidly. Its joists and roof rafters were now in place and ready for cross boards. Shingles would follow.

  With nail pouch and hammer strapped to his waist, Malachi, bare-chested and perspiring freely, climbed the ladder, worked his way precariously across the joists then onto the rafters up to the crown of the small building. Once in place, he called down to Josaiah Black and the other men to begin handing him the twelve-foot cross boards to nail in place.

  All went smoothly enough until Malachi was forced to shift his position. Suddenly his left foot gave way from the rafter supporting it. He slipped with a loud cry. Unable to catch himself, he toppled down, bounced dangerously off one of the joists and fell through down onto the floor, completed the day before. A roar of pain sounded that could have come from none but Malachi’s throat, bringing everyone running in alarm.

  “Somebody go git da master!” shouted Josaiah.

  Richmond came running minutes later from the big house. He sent Carolyn and some of the men for ice from the ice house. He and two of the men lifted the groaning gentle giant and carried him home. In ten minutes Malachi lay, more angry with himself for his carelessness than concerned for his obvious pain, on his pad in his own house, surrounded by fussing black women adjusting and readjusting the compress of ice that had been crushed and bagged around his ankle. Already it was swollen to twice its ordinary size, which was saying something, for he was a large and muscular man.

  Richmond confessed himself unable to determine for certain whether leg or ankle were broken. At the very least Malachi had suffered a major sprain and would not walk for days, if not a week. That same afternoon, Carolyn and Nancy set about devising a splint and tearing lengths of strong cloth to hold it in place. Richmond went in search of a pair of old crutches that had been in the family for years but had not been used for as long as he could remember and had been lost track of in some storage room or another.

  By evening, aided by the ice, the pain had subsided. Malachi, however, was obviously agitated. When their supper was over he asked Phoebe to take her little boy outside for a while, then told Isaac and Aaron that he wanted to talk to their mother alone. When they were gone, having no idea what it was about, Nancy sat down in some trepidation and waited. Malachi still lay on his pad, his left leg, ice bag surrounding the ankle, elev
ated on two pillows.

  “Wha’chu need ter talk ter me ’bout?” said Nancy, never one to beat around the bush.

  “Jes’ dis,” said Malachi. “Dere’s a family er railroad passengers dat’s gotter be met—dey’s gotter be met tonight, up dere on da ridge, an’ I can’t go no how. So I wants you ter go an’ git dem safe ter da conductor what’s planning ter take dem ter da nex’ stop.”

  “Me… why me?” said Nancy. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “You’s got ter go. Dere ain’t nobody else.”

  “I ain’t goin’, I tell you,” she shot back irritably. “I din’t approve ob what you been doin’ before, an’ I don’t approve ob it now. An’ it’s God’s truf dat I ain’t gwine git involved in all dat mysel’. It’s yor doin’ not mine. We gots enuf ter do keepin’ our own moufs fed an’ our own chilluns cared fo’ ter be goin’ ’bout doin’ what nobody oughter have ter do fer nobody else.”

  She crossed her arms with a gesture of finality and an unspoken humph, indicating clearly enough that in her opinion there was nothing more to be said on the matter. The expression on Malachi’s face as he heard the tone of her voice was one of mingled shock and dismay.

  “Wha’chu sayin’, Nancy?” he said. “Why you talkin’ like dat? Mistress Dab’son’d neber say such a thing.”

  “What’s dat ter me! Maybe I jes’ want ter min’ my own biz’nes an’ let other folks min’ dere’s, dat’s all.”

  “But you help folks all da time. Why you don’t want ter help now?”

  “Dat’s different. Dat’s wiff folks I know.”

  “But you gots ter help!” Malachi persisted almost in a pleading voice. “I’s got no one else ter ax.”

  “Why? Why shud I do your work fo’ you? You gots yo’sel’ inter dis. Den you kep’ it from me an’ din’t trust me enuf ter tell me, so I don’ figger I owes you nuthin now.”

  To Malachi the words felt like a slap in the face.

  “Nancy, wha’chu talkin’ ’bout,” he said. “Hit ain’t dat I din’t trust you, I wuz tryin’ ter proteck you an’ da others, so dat ef sumthin happened ter me, hit wudn’t cum close ter none er you. Dat’s why I din’t say nuthin. Hit ain’t got nuthin’ ter do wiff not trustin’ you. You’s got ter know dat.”

  Nancy was silent. Already she was feeling foolish for her outburst. In her heart she knew that Malachi was right. But knowing oneself in the wrong, and having the courage to admit it, are two different things.

  It was silent several minutes. Malachi was not a man given to many words, still less to preaching, still less to instructing his wife. But the last three years had changed him. They had changed how he thought about life. Most importantly, they had changed how he thought about himself.

  Learning to think about oneself correctly is one of the most fundamental processes of growth in which humanity can engage. Coming to grips with who we are as beings created in the image of God provides the fundamental truth root of all human experience. That so few discover the reality of that truth stems from shadowy images of God that humanity has devised out of the mists of prehistoric superstitions. How can we rise into the dignity of what it means to be made in God’s image if we do not know who he really is?

  But Malachi Shaw had begun to discover the worth and value of his own personhood because he had an image—an incomplete one, it is true, but nevertheless a real one, pointing toward the full truth with partial yet growing reality—of God’s nature in the person of his former master.

  Richmond Davidson had helped Malachi embark on this inward journey. From the moment it had begun on the day his master and mistress had called their slaves to the big house and announced that they were giving them their freedom, Malachi had no way of realizing the full implications of the change. Nor even today was he aware of all the changes taking place within him. He still looked the same. He still spoke the same. But in the depths of his heart Malachi Shaw was no longer the same man he had been as a slave. He had become a man of worth in his own eyes, not for the strength of his muscular frame, but for the character of his heart. That worth was now measured by what he thought of himself, and by what Richmond, and thus, by extension, what God thought of him.

  He was a man of value. His soul was of eternal significance. For the first time in his life he knew it. Richmond Davidson valued him. And if Richmond Davidson valued him, and told him that God valued him too, then Malachi could value himself as well.

  It was a stupendous transformation—to be valued for who he was… as a person… as a human being.

  At last he spoke, and Nancy had never heard the like from the mouth of her husband before.

  “Eber since we’s been free,” he said, “I can’t help but watch Mister Dab’son, an’ dat’s taught me sum mighty big things. He an’ da mistress, dey treats us wiff respeck. Dey treats us like we’s folks dat matter. Dey gib us our freedom as a gift. Dey din’t hab ter free us. Nobody made dem do it, dey jes’ done it. An’ it’s likely da bes’ gift dat one man cud gib anuder. We din’t earn it, dey jes’ gab us da gift ob freedom. So I figger we’s got ter pass on dat gift ter whoeber we can, in any way we can. Dat’s what makes da gift so par’ful—’cause we kin pass it right on ter other folks. An’ dat’s what I’m doin’. I’m tryin’ ter help folks dat ain’t been so lucky as ter hab a master like Mister an’ Mistress Dab’son. Desperate folk on dat railroad, dey be needin’ our help, Nancy, an’ since we’s free, we gotter help dem.”

  Nancy had no reply to make. Malachi’s words had already pierced her heart.

  “My daddy an’ mama used ter tell me dat we’d cum from kings,” he went on, “an’ dey tol’ me neber ter forgit da five ribers an’ dat da blood ob kings ran in my veins. It neber meant nuthin’ ter me. We wuz all slaves, so what could we hab ter do wiff kings. But now I’m learnin’ ter see dat maybe we did cum from dat Ol’ king, cuz nobody dat’s got freedom in dere heart can eber be a slave through an’ through. If you’s free inside, den you kin walk tall cuz you knows what freedom really is. An’ I’m thinkin’ ’bout dat blood er kings more dese days cuz er Mister Dab’son, an’ dat he treats me wiff respeck almost like I wuz a king. I ain’t one, but he treats everybody like dey’s as worthy er respeck as a king.”

  As she listened, Carolyn’s words from the meeting at the Brown house returned to Nancy’s mind:

  “You ladies are descended from another king—Christ the king…. The Bible calls us heirs with him and children of the Father. Just imagine, we are children, not just of an earthly king, but of God himself.”

  “An’ bein’ free, an’ bein’ treated wiff kindness an’ respeck,” Malachi continued, “hit’s changed me deep down like. Cuz hit ain’t enuf ter jes’ be free on da outside. We’s got ter be free on da inside too. We’s got ter learn not ter be low down niggers wiff stooped backs an’ shufflin’ feet who ain’t got no self-respeck. We got ter stan’ up tall an’ be free black folks dat’s got worth an’ value. We’s Americans too. But we can’t stan’ tall like dat effen we don’ know inside dat we’s got value an’ worth cuz we’s people dat God’s made. He’s made us like we is cuz he figgered we wuz worth makin’. All dat’s what Mister Dab’son helped me see sum ob, an’ I figger I can gib sum ob dat feelin’ ob self-respeck ter others.”

  Realizing how long he had been talking, surprised to hear what was coming out of his mouth, suddenly Malachi stopped.

  He glanced over at his wife where she sat. She was staring down at the table with a solemn expression.

  “I’ll go,” she said softly. “Jes’ tell me where you want me ter go an’ what ter do.”

  Nancy found the refugees waiting, huddled beside a small pool of mountain run-off beneath the overhang of a gigantic boulder that jutted out from a steep slope down which the stream trickled before finding its way into the pool and, two or three miles lower down, into the river. It was a remote place, far from any farm, plantation, or habitation. Though miles from anywhere, Nancy knew it immediately from Malachi’s description.


  The travelers perceived movement and heard her approach. As Nancy came into view, though they had been expecting her, the terror in their eyes was plain to see. Two young mothers, huddled with their three children. An older brother of one of the women stared up at her with question.

  “I’s here fo’ you,” said Nancy.

  Sighs of relief sounded.

  “I brung sum food,” said Nancy. She set the bag she had been carrying on the ground and opened it. The six famished travelers tore into the cold provisions of bread, cheese, and hard-cooked eggs as if they hadn’t eaten for a month.

  “Thank you, missus,” said one of the women. “Dis tastes like jes’ ’bout da bes’ meal I eber had in my life. We ain’t had much fer most er a week. We got off da tracks we wuz supposed ter be on an’ we wuz skeered real bad. Den anuder conductor, he foun’ us an’ brung us here ter dis big rock. But we wuz skeered nobody wuz gwine cum.”

  Except for the one talkative mother, the others ate in silence, stealing an occasional glance in Nancy’s direction, looking at her with something like awe.

  “Is you a free black, missus?” asked the other woman.

  “Dat I is,” Nancy answered.

  “What it like?”

  “Jes’ like anythin’ else… I reckon it’s sumthin’ a body gits used to.”

  “I hope we’s be free sum day.”

  “You ain’t got too far ter go,” said Nancy, “effen what dey say is true, an’ dat’s dat the Norf’s only ’bout a hundert miles from here.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I ain’t neber been in da Norf. I ain’t no regular conductor. But dey say hit’s not much farther from here.”

  As Nancy watched them gobble down everything in the bag down to the last crumb, she could hardly imagine what it must have been like to travel whatever long distance they had come. Their clothes were shabby and torn. Though the night was cold, they had no jackets or overcoats, only a few dirty ragged blankets to protect them from the elements. Their faces were drawn and lean, their expressions filled with fear, doubt, and defeat. Not a trace of what Malachi had spoken of was visible upon them—self-respect. Suddenly in Nancy’s mind’s eye, she beheld something she had never herself known even as a slave on the Davidson plantation—the terrible worth-killing scourge of slavery. In that moment she saw how fortunate she had been. Yet in how many ways had she taken it for granted.