American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “What you said does not trouble me,” rejoined James seriously. “But the reality does. I am not ready to die.”

  Seth did not know how to reply. “I’m… I am sorry, sir,” he said. “I suppose no one is ever completely ready.”

  There was another pause.

  “I loved her, Seth,” said James a little sadly after a minute or two. “My wife, I mean… Cherity’s mother.”

  “I know you did, sir.”

  Seth paused, wondering if he dared say what had just come into his mind.

  “But… but did you love her enough,” he added, “to trust God when he took her?”

  “What are you talking about?” said James, startled at the bluntness of Seth’s question.

  “Forgive me for being bold, sir,” said Seth. “But you said yourself that this was no time for niceties… and as I understand it, you turned your back on God because you were angry with him for your wife’s death.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “My father.”

  “What right had he to discuss my affairs—,” James began irritably, then calmed again. “I’m sorry,” he added. “Why shouldn’t he have told you? Yes, it’s true—but did I have no right to be angry? My wife was dead.”

  “I am not sure we ever have a right to be angry with God.”

  “Why not?”

  “He gave us life.”

  “That gives him the right to take it away?”

  “I don’t know… but it seems likely.”

  “Will he send me to hell, then?”

  “I doubt that. You have made your peace with him by now, I hope.”

  “I am trying. But it is hard, Seth, my boy. I am not sure he will listen to me.”

  “He listens to everyone.”

  “I have neglected him too long.”

  “Then don’t continue to neglect him.”

  “It is too late to make right a wasted life.”

  “Not altogether wasted, sir. You have done much good by your writing. And you raised one of the loveliest of daughters. That is surely a wonderful legacy to leave the wife you loved.”

  At the word legacy, James seemed to start briefly where he lay. His brain spun off in an unexpected direction. But soon his thoughts returned to the more recent past.

  “I should have given Kathleen more,” he said.

  “You gave her what you could, Mr. Waters.”

  “I’m sure Kathleen wished for better.”

  “She will forgive you—I am sure she already has.”

  “If only I could see her again face-to-face.”

  “You will, sir.”

  “Ah, but that implies I will go to heaven. To get there, God will have to forgive me too.”

  “Do you think his forgiveness, which created hers, will be less? He will forgive you, sir. All his forgiveness requires is a humble heart.”

  “A humble heart,” James repeated with a long sigh, as if puzzling over the simplicity of it. “That is all, you say…” he added softly as if about to fall asleep again, “a humble heart.”

  He closed his eyes and continued to ponder Seth’s words. For the moment death was easier to face than the condition of his heart.

  He opened his eyes again.

  “Are you there, Seth?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I had nearly forgotten about the errand… go into the city. I want you to fetch my lawyer, a Mr. Glennie. He lives in Paul Revere Court, anyone can tell you the way. Tell him to come at once… I must dictate a will. I know it is Sunday… tell him he can bill me double if he likes, as if he is not already rich enough.”

  A brief spasm of chest pains followed, which rendered him too weak to speak further.

  Seth left him. Cherity resumed her place by the bed and Seth left the house in search of Paul Revere Court.

  Fifty-Five

  Seth returned in the thin light of dusk an hour later with Mr. Glennie, who was shown immediately into the sick chamber. He was instructed to close the door behind him.

  Seth went to his own room and fell dozing onto his bed. He was aroused by the sound of Cherity’s voice. He turned on his bed and saw her standing in his doorway. The light of evening had fallen. It was a little after seven-thirty. He must have slept longer than he intended.

  “My father wants you again,” she said.

  “How is he?”

  “He is weak…”

  “And his lawyer?”

  “He left half an hour ago.”

  Seth rose and followed Cherity from the room. He found James much the same as before, though his skin, if anything, looked even paler, and his eyes stood out from a face grown gaunt.

  “Ah, Seth…,” he whispered as Seth approached. “You do not mind leaving us again… do you, my dear?” he said to Cherity.

  Cherity turned and walked from the room, handkerchief to her eyes, and once more closed the door behind her. Seth sat down at the bedside.

  “I have… thought hard about… some of the things you said,” began James. “You were right… I have much to answer for. I have tried to make a beginning… but they are difficult matters to face.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have proved yourself worthy of my trust, Seth, my boy,” James went on. “I asked you direct questions about my condition… you gave me direct answers. You had the courage even to tell me what I did not want to hear. I knew you were made of good stuff.”

  He drew in a deep breath, summoning the last strength his body possessed for what he must do.

  “Now I am going to trust you even more, Seth, my boy,” he said. “If I am dying, there are things I need to tell you, things I have never told another soul in my life.”

  “Wouldn’t you… uh, I don’t know, sir—rather speak with Cherity?” asked Seth.

  “She is the last one who must know,” rejoined James. “But someone must, in the event it becomes important for reasons I cannot now see. What I have to say is not in my will, or anywhere. But it must be known, and you are here with me. There is no one else. More importantly, I know I can trust you. I know you care for Cherity and will guard this information and do with it what is best.”

  “I will try to be worthy of your trust, Mr. Waters,” said Seth solemnly, “if you truly think I am the one to tell.”

  “I do. Your being here is no accident. Perhaps you were sent to us for just this purpose. But first, bring me some water. I am very thirsty. Then I will tell you my story.”

  Seth left the bedroom, found an anxious Cherity waiting distractedly downstairs, told her that her father wanted to talk to him about something, he didn’t know what, but had requested a drink first. Then he returned to James’ room.

  With effort he helped James prop his head on two pillows, then drink about half the glass of water. James lay back as Seth resumed his seat, closed his eyes for several long seconds, then drew in a deep breath and spoke.

  “My name is not actually Waters,” James began as Seth listened in amazement, “—that is, originally,” he added. “It is Waters now, and is the legal name of my daughters, for I have been going by the name Waters for more than forty years. But I was born Swift Horse Brown. Neither am I a native New Englander. I was born in Georgia as a three-quarter-blood Cherokee.”

  As he listened, Seth’s astonishment grew.

  “I was orphaned at twelve,” James continued. “My uncle brought me north to protect me from times of danger that had come upon our people. I was enrolled in a boarding school, my name was changed, and I was cut off from my roots. My father’s name was Swift Water, and my uncle, in filling out the necessary forms, listed the name “Water” as my family name—which was somehow mistakenly copied later to Waters. He gave me the first name James, and that was that. Our family had descended from the great chiefs Moytoy and Attacullaculla. My grandmother, Nakey Canoe, daughter of the warrior Dragging Canoe, married an Englishman by the name of Alexander Brown. Their son, Swift Water Brown, was my father. In time I almost forgot that p
ast altogether, aided by my surroundings and my uncommonly light complexion. Those were not good times to be an Indian in this country back in the teens, twenties, and thirties. A great rift threatened our tribe. My uncle made every effort to make sure my heritage would not be learned. My mother and father, you see, were killed by our own people when I was twelve. The danger to my life was also great.

  “But I did not quite forget my roots, as you can see by Cherity’s name,” James went on, gathering strength as he spoke. “She does not know that her name is a reminder of the Cherokee blood that flows in her veins. The name on her birth certificate, though she has never seen the document, is Cherokee. Our visit to you brought to the surface many long-forgotten memories. Since then, especially as my health has failed, those memories have become important to me.”

  “But Cherity should know,” said Seth.

  “It is not yet time,” replied James. “Dangers remain. This is still not a time when people of dark skin, whether colored or Indian, are looked upon with favor. Persecution is widespread. You will know when the time is right, but I do not think that time is yet.”

  Though his voice was soft, it seemed to summon one final surge of strength as he spoke. In some strange and mystic way, Seth felt that he was in the presence of an ancient heritage he scarcely understood but that called to deep places within him.

  “I kept my Cherokee past from my daughters for the same reason that my uncle kept my identity from those at the boarding school to whom he entrusted me. When Andrew Jackson was president, Cherokees were treated as are Negro slaves today. I did not want such a fate to befall my daughters. I thought it in their best interest never to know. And I was the last descendant in my family line since my uncle never married.”7

  James paused and smiled. “I always wondered if Cherity’s fascination with the West and Indians originated with her Cherokee blood.”

  Again he paused briefly, thinking.

  “And yet… times are changing,” he went on. “I want you to know. If the right time comes… you will know what to do with the information I will share with you.”

  “I know Cherity would treasure her heritage,” said Seth.

  “Perhaps that day will come. But there remain forces in this country determined to prevent our people laying full claim to their birthright. If her true identity were known, her life could be in danger. There is much at stake. The Cherokee future as Americans is in doubt, as is that of the Negro race. There are three races of Americans, but at present two of them do not share in the dream of life enjoyed by those of pure European ancestry. What I have done, for good or for ill, I did to protect my daughters from the hatred I have seen toward our kind. You must promise me, Seth, not to tell Cherity unless—”

  A fit of mild coughing stopped him briefly.

  “Unless what?” asked Seth.

  “Unless… you are sure the time is right.”

  “I will do my best to be faithful to your request,” nodded Seth.

  James continued for another thirty minutes, telling Seth of a rich legacy of an ancient people, and his own part in it. By the end of that time, his voice had again begun to weaken. The effort was taxing him. But he was determined to see it through.

  “So you see, Seth,” James concluded, “the visit to you and your parents rekindled much because of your strange Cherokee neighbor called Brown. Ever since I have wondered if he and my uncle could be the same man. Imagine it—my uncle your own grandfather’s friend, and then your father and I meeting coincidentally after all that time! Of course there is no way now to know. But what your Brown told your grandfather, that Brown was not his real name, may tell us something, or it may not. Both my father and uncle were Browns by birth, though they were simply known as Long Canoe and Swift Water. After my uncle brought me to New England, he disappeared from my life for fourteen years. But the moment I heard about your enigmatic Mr. Brown, I had my suspicions.”

  “But you said nothing?”

  “I remained concerned for Cherity’s safety. It was only two years before her birth when three Cherokee leaders were assassinated in Oklahoma, two of them, John Ridge and Buck Watie, my own cousins and childhood friends. That is how close the treachery comes. It is not that long ago. There remain bitter rivalries. My other cousin, Stand Watie, has grown to be an important man. Yet why should Cherity know?”

  “Did you ever see your uncle again?” asked Seth.

  “Only once, long after I was out of school and married to Kathleen and both of Cherity’s sisters already born. Out of nowhere he appeared one day. How he knew where to find me, I do not know. Tumultuous times were again on the horizon for our people, he told me. He counseled me to continue as I was, not to divulge my identity because of possible repercussions. My home, my possessions, could be taken from me. My identity must further be kept secret, he said, because he had things to give me that I must safeguard if something should happen to him.”

  “What kinds of things?” asked Seth.

  “It is all safely hidden away… in a packet, in the bottom drawer of my desk over there. I want you to take it… make sure Cherity gets it all when the time is right. Go… get the packet.”

  Seth walked across to the desk. After a few more instructions from James, he located the packet and brought it to the bedside.

  “Open it,” said James.

  Seth did so.

  James took it with a feeble hand and turned the envelope upside down. Something heavy plopped into his hand. He held it out. There Seth saw a thick ring of pure gold.

  “This will belong to Cherity one day,” said James. “It is one of seven ancient rings that were once in the possession of Chief Attacullaculla. It is all explained in the letter my uncle left me when he brought me the ring. I am leaving all this with you. Give it to her when the time is right, when our people do not have to fear for their lives or that what they have may be taken from them.”

  He replaced the ring and handed Seth the packet.

  “Keep it for her, Seth.”

  “I will, sir. But what happened after that?”

  “I never saw my uncle again. Your Mr. Brown apparently disappeared about the same time. Perhaps they are indeed the same man. And there is the matter of your uncle’s strange death, also about the same time. Is it possible that your uncle and my uncle were involved in something together that your grandfather knew nothing of that resulted in both their deaths? Is that why your Brown and my uncle were never heard from again? I have puzzled over it ever since I was with you and am no nearer a solution in my mind than your father. Yet I do not see how we will ever know the full story now, after all this time.”

  James closed his eyes, and laid back on the pillows. To all appearances he was soon asleep.

  Fifty-Six

  Stuffing the packet into his shirt where Cherity would not see it, Seth rose and left the room. He nodded to Cherity, who came and took his place at her father’s side.

  He did not see her for thirty or forty minutes, when she again walked out and smiled sadly. Her eyes were red but she seemed at peace.

  “We had a good talk,” she sighed. “But I am tired and he is dozing.”

  “Why don’t you have something to eat?” suggested Seth. “I’ll sit with your father again.”

  Cherity went wearily downstairs and Seth reentered the bedroom. James glanced over from the bed.

  “Oh… Seth,” he said, “you’re back… good. Sit down.”

  Seth did so, and after another minute James began to speak again.

  “There are some things I want you to tell your father,” he said. “He had a more profound impact on me than he probably knows.”

  “In what way?” asked Seth.

  “He and your mother are the most thoroughly Christian man and woman I have ever known,” rejoined James. “After Kathleen’s death, the more I looked back on our church life together, the more I saw cliché and dogma rather than living reality. It wasn’t really her death that made me lose my faith, it only brought
to the surface the flaws in what I thought I had believed up till then. And as you said… yes, I became angry at God.”

  “Perhaps your wife’s faith was more real than you knew,” suggested Seth.

  “You may be right. But after she was gone, I made the mistake—God forgive me—of discarding the reality because of my inability to see it in those I knew from the church. Your parents helped me realize, as you yourself have too, Seth, my boy, that the worst hypocrisy wasn’t in others, it was in myself. Instead of seeking reality beyond the dogma, I discarded the whole thing. I hid my anger so deep under an affable exterior that even I didn’t know I had anger toward God lurking in my heart.

  “Your father had the courage to speak the truth to me, as you have. And I finally see myself for what I have been. I have much to apologize to God for, much to ask forgiveness for. And now,” he added with a wan smile, “I feel a little like the thief on the cross. There is so much I want to make right. But it is too late.”

  “It is never too late, Mr. Waters.”

  “Please, Seth… we are going to be men together, remember. I am dying and we both know it. Don’t begrudge a dying man the right to feel like a fool. That is the prerogative of the dying, to wish they had made more of the opportunities of life when they had them.”

  The words pierced Seth’s heart.

  “I hope I have made my peace with God about it by now,” James continued, “or at least in the last hour I have tried to make a beginning. I look forward to being able to make my peace with Kathleen too, and tell her I was not the husband I wish I had been, or the father to her daughters I should have been after she was gone. I can only hope, like he did to the thief on the cross, that he will welcome me though repentance for my folly has come so late.”

  “He will,” nodded Seth.

  James smiled. “You are a good young man, Seth Davidson,” he said, reaching his hand toward Seth. Seth took it and held it firmly in his own. “But even your kind words cannot keep me from feeling like a fool for waiting so long. Why does it take the deathbed to awaken the soul?”