American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

While traveling in Scotland several years ago with our friends Josanna Simpson and Julia and Grace Yacoubian and my sister Janet Stanberry, and—as was our frequent custom!—browsing in secondhand bookstores, Josanna spied on the shelves an old volume by Janet Whitney entitled John Woolman, Quaker. Not only did the discovery turn out to be a pearl of great price in illuminating the life of John Woolman, in its opening chapter I also read about the first landing on American shores of my own Quaker great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather John Borton. I had known of the name as an abstract fact all my life. Suddenly here he was, family and all. What an exciting discovery!

  It had been my intent all along in this series to use Judy’s and my Cherokee and Quaker lineages—weaving into the story what facts I could from our ancestries—as a springboard from which to tell a fictionalized early history of the United States, using the Civil War and the three interwoven races of this continent as backdrop.

  Judy and I soon forgot trying to connect our two genealogies. I simply intended to use them independently to tell different aspects of the American story—as I did with hers in the previous volume, Dream of Life, where the focus was the “Old Books” of Cherokee history.

  But now we discovered a fact that had escaped us earlier. The Ellis Harlan who married Cata’quin Kingfisher (Judy’s great-great-great-great-grandfather and -grandmother), daughter of Nanye’hi Ward, was the son of a Quaker minister from Pennsylvania—just across and down the Delaware River from the first Borton homestead in New Jersey!

  Our two ancestral families had emigrated from England just nine years apart and had landed within thirty miles of each other, both arriving in the formative years of two closely linked Quaker communities.

  Our joint Quaker heritage provided the link we had been looking for!

  Now obviously these particular names are of interest to Judy and me because they are our ancestors. They will not hold the same interest for you other than as characters in this series. I go into this background, not to bore you with personal anecdotes, but because something larger is at stake. Out of such specifics a more encompassing historical tapestry emerges. The story takes on grander scope, not because of these details, but because these people typify a universal story that has been played out a million times in the lives of millions of other men and women. In a very real sense, our ancestral background which I have woven into this story (an intermingling of different races, from different places and of different religions, traveling and migrating from England to Pennsylvania to North Carolina, then to Oklahoma and Ohio and Illinois, then to Washington and Oregon and California, continuing to marry and spread out and have sons and daughters and grandchildren and great-grandchildren) is a story, in miniature, of this entire wonderful country and how it was explored, peopled, settled, and populated.

  All you who are reading have a similar story to tell! Anyone truly can write “the great American novel.” Each of us possesses a heritage that could provide the raw material for a moving tale of brave and interesting men and women and their personal histories.

  The names and places and specifics would change. But at root it would be the same story… a story of people who came to this land of many nationalities and from distinct origins, who married and intermarried and sent down roots, and had families… and who gradually made this their homeland.

  The drama of the courageous men and women who came before us is a priceless heritage we all share. It underscores a truth woven through the entire fabric of the Old Testament: Genealogy is intrinsic to the history of God’s people. I take it therefore to be something God values—to know whence we came.

  That is why American Dreams is a story of genealogies and roots and people—because God values the ongoing life of the generations. As Americans we share a unique bond of a fused and intermingled unity of races that combine to make up our heritage.

  There is another reason why focusing on individual men and women is the best way to get at this universal story—individual people can be remarkably courageous. The bravery of the people who came before us is truly remarkable. Can you imagine setting sail on a treacherous journey of two months across a dangerous ocean in a ship the size of a modest yacht of today, accepting the fact that you would not bathe for two months or eat fresh food, knowing that a squall could send you and your family to the bottom of the sea, or that smallpox could break out onboard and you could do nothing about it? The courage of our ancestors is astonishing.

  And when they arrived, they would have no homes, no electricity, no running water, no food waiting for them, no shelter, no stores, no towns, no roads, no vehicles, no animals for either food or transportation, no means of contacting the world they had left behind. Isolation does not even begin to describe the aloneness our predecessors experienced. The scope of what it meant to start an entirely new life is beyond our imagination.

  Through the years, this courage upon which our nation was founded manifested itself in a thousand ways—the courage to explore, continually to meet new challenges. And what of the courage of the slaves to endure their suffering until the day of their freedom, the courage of those who stood against the times and fought for that freedom.

  The history of this land is filled with dark moments and scoundrels and contemptible men who sought their own gain. The unconscionable evil of religious persecutions, of hangings and witch burnings, the horrors of the slave trade and the evil perpetuated by the plantation owners of the South, are grievous sins against humanity for which the collective conscience of America will forever, to some degree, be continuing to atone in new ways.

  Yet too, we are a nation of heroes. Bravery takes many forms. Not to be overlooked along with the courage to face physical fear and suffering is courage in eternal matters of spiritual import. It takes courage to face untruth and stand against the prevailing orthodoxies of one’s time—be they social or political or doctrinal. Such heroes in the spiritual realm look to God as the Light of eternal truth. With their example before us, we can draw strength from the brave men and women of the Kingdom who have come before us. With them we can be bold to say to a timid and cautious and small-believing world, “Our God is a higher God. The Light of his truth shines out on a more lofty plane than you can at present perceive. But one day you will see it, for the Light of God’s being will grow stronger and brighter to all eternity.”

  All this explains my emphasis on the individual lineages of the characters in the three books of American Dreams. Some of you may find yourselves thinking, “Why is he telling us the names of everyone’s parents and grandparents and great-grandparents? They have nothing to do with the story.” Without a doubt, no series of mine contains a fraction of the names that are mentioned in this series. The reason is simply to convey the importance of a great truth—we are a nation that has emerged out of the lives and stories and bravery of our forebears, millions of ancestors, most of whose names we do not even know, but who transmitted to us their life, their dreams, their love.

  We are a nation of people.

  Cherity’s search for her familial and ethnic roots, Seth’s search to discover truths long hidden and bring them to the light, Chigua’s search to reconnect with roots severed in childhood, Richmond and Carolyn’s discovery of spiritual roots and their connections to men and women of God who went before… these all contribute to Everyman’s story, a story continually being written in each of our lives. Thus, the Quaker contribution to this universal drama cannot be underestimated, and serves as the climax to the series in this third book. The emphasis of the early Quakers on the Light that lightens every man, the Light of the world, points to an eternal truth. For the history of the universe is the story of the gradual illumination of God’s Light into every human heart.

  We are indeed a melting pot of races and creeds and religions and backgrounds. Yet somehow we have become a single nation. This is the story American Dreams tells—how three races became one people.

  I truly hope that you are reading this series, f
ictional though much of it is, as your story too.

  I would like to add one final word of acknowledgment and appreciation. This series, by its historical complexity, has required more research than any project I have ever undertaken. That process was made enormously more manageable with the help of my two wonderful research, brainstorming, and all-around assistants, my wife Judy—as always!—along with our friend Josanna Simpson. And also thank you to Rebecca Kraemer for her contribution. Thank you all!

  Michael Phillips

  Eureka, California

  PROLOGUE

  From the Old Books

  —England—

  1603-1861

  Crisis in England

  1603-1689

  The English sailing ship Shield under command of captain Daniel Taws had been at sea for eleven weeks when at long last it entered the wide mouth of Delaware Bay on the eastern coast of the northern of the two continents which for one hundred years had been known to the world as America.

  The final leg of its long journey would take the Shield up the Delaware River another ninety miles to its final destination. Excitement among the ship’s families was higher than it had been since the day of their departure.

  A bitter cold front had accompanied them to the coast. The blue of a cloudless sky above was thinning and growing pale. After rounding Cape May into the shelter of the bay, for the first time since the coast of England had disappeared from sight behind them, they heard shipmaster Taws give the order to drop anchor.

  Slowly the sun continued to set behind the thickly forested hills of the great land their eyes had longed to see for so long. Already the mercury had dipped below freezing. Candles and lanterns came to light throughout the ship as dusk deepened. It would be a cold but happy night on board.

  Land ho! had been shouted from the crow’s nest late that same morning some six hours before.

  The ship instantly erupted into a beehive of activity… men, women, children all standing at the rails peering at the thin outline on the horizon, watching it grow by degrees larger and more defined. All afternoon women chattered excitedly amongst themselves. Children scurried about pretending to be Indians. Men clustered in groups handing spyglasses around for a closer look at the virgin land suddenly so close.

  For two months the toll of the crossing had gradually wearied everyone aboard in both body and soul. The optimism and high hopes of departure had only lasted a week or two. Then the long loneliness had set in… along with the doubts… and the fears whether they would survive the crossing at all. Up and down in an endless succession of troughs and crests, rhythmically rocking from side to side, every creak and groan of the ship’s timbers in the night, every crashing of wave against her hull, every whine of wind through her masts and rigging, reminded the Shield’s passengers of nature’s power, in the midst of which they seemed suddenly so small and helpless. They also reminded the mothers among them that in the sixty years since the Dutch and English had been colonizing the northern portions of the New World, the bottom of the watery passageway between the two continents had become strewn with vessels that had not reached their destinations.

  Many unknown graves lay below them. Not all survived the power of these waves and this wind.

  They had set sail late in September. The chill of autumn had already begun in England. It was late to begin, but they could not wait another twelvemonth.

  As the weeks passed, that chill gradually bit more deeply into their bones. The sky and the sea turned the same dreary gray. Waves whipped higher and higher sending salt spray crashing frighteningly up over the prow. Winds rose with increasing insistence. Two relentless storms battered them for days on end, whipping sails into rags and sending more than half the passengers retching to their beds. Yet the Shield bore bravely forward into winter’s teeth, forward toward an uncertain future.

  Yet suddenly today all the pent-up fears had evaporated. Two months of suppressed optimism had broken out in cheers and laughter and back slapping and congratulations at the sight of land stretching as far north and south as they could see in front of them. All afternoon the men spoke of felling trees for homes and about next spring’s planting. The women and mothers were already taking stock of what provisions remained on board and planning what they would feed their families through the cold winter months ahead.

  The year was 1678.

  Most of the Shield’s passengers were of a growing religious sect in England called Quakers, come to the New World hoping to establish communities free from the persecutions they had suffered at the hands of the ruling authorities and religious establishments in their homeland.

  “Captain Taws,” said a nine-year-old boy to the man standing at the ship’s wheel an hour or so after land had been sighted. Taws had made this journey many times before, but the first sighting of land always sent a thrill through him. Like his passengers he was in exuberant spirits. He glanced down on the lad with a kindly smile from his weather-beaten face.

  “Yes, Master Borton, what is it?” he said.

  “Will we land today, sir?”

  “Not today, young John,” replied the captain. “We will be lucky to get inside the bay by nightfall. There we will anchor until daybreak. The remainder of our journey will take us upriver, so we must sail only when we have the light of the sun to navigate by. The stars will do us no good now.”

  “Why, Captain?”

  “The river is wide, son, but we must stay in the center and not run aground. It takes a man standing at this wheel who can see both shores to do that.”

  “When will we go ashore then, Captain?” asked young John Borton.

  “We will weigh anchor at morning’s first light tomorrow and sail into the river’s mouth, hoping that the tide and currents are favorable. I do not think we will reach New Castle even tomorrow. But by the next day for certain you will again see the sight of a civilized town.”

  “Will we go ashore there, Captain?”

  “Perhaps your father. But I think it best if you remain on board with your mother.”

  “I want to see Indians, Captain.”

  Taws laughed. “No doubt you will see as many as you wish in good time.”

  “When will we reach Burlington, Captain?”

  “In three or four days, Master Borton. It is a good way upriver. You must be patient a little while longer. But you will see your new home soon enough.”

  Twenty or thirty feet away a man and woman stood at the ship’s rail listening. The woman glanced at her husband and smiled.

  “Thy son is anxious,” she said.

  “No more than thee and all the rest of us, each in our own way,” replied the man.

  They stood a moment gazing out at the sea in front of them. It was suddenly not nearly so fearsome now that the horizon was no longer endless.

  “So, what think thee, Anne Kinton Borton?” said the man at length.

  “That perhaps we shall see thy dream after all… Oh, John, I can scarcely believe it—we have really made it to America!”

  “Did thee ever doubt it, Anne?”

  “It was a long voyage. There were times I was afraid.”

  Borton nodded. He understood. A man with a family is always more or less afraid.

  “But our eyes can at last see the New Jersey coast,” he said. “And as the captain said to John, tomorrow we shall sail upriver to our new home.”

  The movement of those who called themselves the Society of Friends in England was less than thirty years old when John Borton and his wife Anne, along with their six children, set sail with other families of like mind, including the Bortons’ friend, aging William Woolman, a weaver, and his son John, fiancé to their own fourteen-year-old daughter Elizabeth. Their number had grown so rapidly and was now so widespread as to be causing major upheaval throughout England in an era of great civil and religious strife. Persecution and imprisonment had been inflicted on many Friends, including one of its newest converts, nobleman William Penn the younger. As the Society had at fir
st drawn primarily from the working classes, Penn’s conversion not only outraged his aristocratic father, it drew increasing national attention to the movement.

  England in the seventeenth century found itself in the throes of social, religious, and political crisis. A battle had begun over control of the nation. For the present it was a battle between king and Parliament. But the struggle in the coming centuries would broaden in scope to become a contest between the entire aristocracy and the rising working and middle classes.

  At this point, in the early days of the struggle, those involved in England’s conflict came exclusively from the upper echelons of a society which in many respects was still feudal in nature. Outright serfdom was mostly a thing of the past, yet English society continued to be regulated by a strict hierarchy of class. All men may have worshiped the same God. But when they went to church, the nobles sat in their plush boxes, the working classes sat stiff-backed in theirs, and the peasants sat in rows at the back of the church or in the balcony where the nobles did not have to see them, mix with them, or perhaps more important on a hot summer Sunday, smell them. The Christian creed they shared was not a creed of equality.

  As religious division was then rife in England, religion became the tool Parliament used to clip the wings of the monarchy. Such a change would have been unthinkable a century before, when Henry VIII’s power was so unchallenged over state and church that he could lop off the head of Anne Boleyn on a whim without fear of reprisal. Now it was the heads of the kings themselves that were in jeopardy!

  All wars and conflict between peoples and nations have their roots in contests over power and religion. The desire of one man, one sect, one people, or one nation, to dominate another in rule or belief represents the foundational source of human conflict.

  Seventeenth-century England was engaged in a war within itself, a civil war, over religious authority and rule. While masquerading as a contest of true belief, at a more fundamental level it was a battle for power—for supremacy of church structure and allegiance, and therefore also of governmental supremacy. As the government controlled the church, the two could not be separated. The contest between king and Parliament for supremacy was equally a contest of religious sectarian dominance.