American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “Well, what shall it be, Veronica, my dear,” said Hirsch, glancing over the menu. “Ah, Pierre,” he said as a white-clad waiter approached.

  “Hello, Monsieur Hirsch,” said the man in a thick French accent, “it is a pleasure to see you again. Mr. Garabaldi asks me to convey his regards, and hopes that you will accept this bottle of wine with his compliments.”

  “That is very good of him, Pierre,” nodded Hirsch, taking the bottle and setting it on the table beside him.

  “Will you be having your usual, Monsieur?”

  “I think perhaps a change is in order, Pierre,” said Hirsch thoughtfully. “I think… hmm, let me see, I think we will have the nonnettes de poulet and ris de veau à la financière, and also bring us another bottle… say, the Rothschild ’56.”

  “Very good, Monsieur Hirsch,” said the waiter. “Mr. Garabaldi also asked me to convey his wish to speak briefly with you after your meal, on a matter, he says, of the utmost importance.”

  “Of course, Pierre,” nodded Hirsch.

  The waiter left, then returned a minute or two later with the second bottle of wine. He poured out two glasses, and again disappeared.

  “How do you know all these people?” said Veronica in a low voice. “One would think you were Mr. Lincoln or someone just as important!”

  Hirsch laughed good-humoredly. “I told you that the war has been good to me. I make no secret of that fact.”

  “It all seems very mysterious.”

  “Just business, Veronica—simple business. As I said that other day we met, I see nothing wrong in sharing my good fortune… with old friends.”

  He lifted his glass meaningfully in Veronica’s direction, then took a sip.

  “I remember you saying no such thing,” rejoined Veronica playfully, also drinking from her glass.

  “Well, I said something that amounted to the same thing. At least that’s what I meant.”

  Veronica glanced across the table and eyed Hirsch carefully. If she thought she would be able to read his thoughts she was badly mistaken. He was every bit her equal in the same way that she was his. Both were possessed of a lifetime of practice in divulging only what they wanted to divulge. In this case, Veronica had more than met her match. The fact that she did not realize it increased her danger tenfold.

  When the two had finished their meal, Hirsch rose and helped Veronica, slightly light-headed from the wine, to her feet. He offered her an arm to steady her legs, then picked up the unopened gift bottle with his other hand. Instead of moving toward the door, he led her to the back of the restaurant, through a short corridor, then stopped at a closed door, knocked, opened it, and walked inside.

  “Ah, my good friend Hirsch,” said a portly man seated behind a desk. “Good of you to come by.”

  “Hello, Garabaldi,” said Cecil. “Please meet Mrs. Veronica Fitzpatrick.”

  “Charmed, I am sure, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” said Garabaldi, rising and nodding toward Veronica. “Listen, Hirsch,” he went on, “I hoped I might ask a favor. I have an important letter here that I need to get to Congressman Wyler, in Richmond.” His hand fell on a sealed envelope on his desk which he tapped a couple of times. “Unfortunately I am unable to leave the city just now. I thought perhaps with your travels, that… that you might be going down that way.”

  “Richmond… that’s in the Confederacy,” said Hirsch, as if the idea of crossing into Virginia were too dangerous to consider.

  Garabaldi nodded. “Of course, that is the difficulty,” he said. “Wyler and I are old friends, but with this cursed war, him now being in the Confederate Congress… communication with him is difficult. I cannot simply use the mail, you see… people might get the wrong idea. And with the war, the mail is, as I am sure you know, so undependable. His wife is ill, you see…”

  His voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  “If only I could,” said Hirsch. “But I have no plans taking me down that way.” He glanced with an expression of helplessness briefly at Veronica, then back to the restaurant owner.

  “Hmm… that does make it rather difficult. I would go myself, but I am shorthanded here at the minute and I cannot leave. I would pay for your railroad ticket.”

  “I don’t know…” hesitated Hirsch, shrugging and again glancing toward Veronica.

  Suddenly Veronica’s face brightened. “Why don’t I take it for you, Mr. Garabaldi?” she said. “I would love to go down to Richmond for a day or two.”

  “You… why would you be traveling to Richmond?” asked Garabaldi.

  “Because I am from Virginia. It would be a good opportunity to see my parents again. My father is a Confederate senator.”

  “You don’t say! What a coincidence. Why that is a capital idea. You are certain you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I would enjoy the trip.”

  “It would certainly be a big help to me. I would be most indebted to you, Mrs. Fitzpatrick. But you would have to guard this envelope carefully. I would suggest you place it among your personal things so that it will be seen by no one.”

  “I will have to give it to my father to give to your friend—he will see it.”

  “Hmm… yes, I see what you mean. To be honest, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I think I would prefer you deliver it yourself… in person—that is if you don’t mind. It is a personal matter. The fewer people who know of it the better.”

  “All right. But how will I know where to find this Mr. Wyler?”

  “Come back and see me tomorrow, here, in my private office, and we will arrange everything. I will give you a train ticket, and a little extra for your trouble, and tell you everything you need to know.”

  After a few more pleasantries, they left the office.

  “He seems like a nice man,” said Veronica as they walked out of the restaurant.

  “It is kind of you to offer to help him,” said Hirsch. “I know it means a great deal to him. And to me as well—he is a good friend. I was only sorry I could not oblige him myself.”

  “It is the least I can do. You have been so kind to me, and he is your friend, after all.”

  “And your friend now as well. I could tell that he took a liking to you.”

  Eleven

  Richmond and Carolyn made every attempt to talk personally with each visitor to Greenwood, no matter how brief their stay. Some they got to know well. Others remained only long enough for a handshake, a meal, a night’s sleep, and a hearty “Godspeed” as they continued on their journey. The moment Sydney arrived with their most recent boarder, however, they knew they must hear the man’s story in detail. Richmond suspected the cause of his condition well enough.

  When he was informed that the man had regained consciousness, he walked down the steep stairs of the basement of the main house where they had taken him to wash him, clean and treat his wounds, and put him to bed until he was in condition to begin eating and drinking. He found him just coming awake, with Carolyn seated at his side trying to get a few sips of water into his mouth. Richmond sat down on the other side of the bed.

  “Hello, my friend,” he said. “I don’t know if my wife has told you where you are. One of our people found you out in the hills and brought you here. We were more than a little worried about you, but I am glad to see you coming back around. My name is Richmond Davidson and this angel beside you is my wife Carolyn.”

  “I knows who you is well enuf, Massa Davidson,” said the man in a weak voice. “Everybody roun’ dese parts knows who da two ob you is.”

  “Well, then you must know that I am nobody’s master.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you live nearby?” asked Richmond.

  “I’s from Oakbriar, Mister Davidson. I’s one ob Massa Beaumont’s slaves.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Jimmy… Jimmy Grubs.”

  “Did Mr. Riggs do this to you?”

  “No, Mister Davidson. He wudn’t neber do dis, though I ain’t sayin’ he don’ know how ter use a
whip well enuf.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Massa Beaumont, sir.”

  “What happened?”

  “He cum home an’ he was angrier den I’d eber seen him an’ he jes’ lit inter us like a wild man.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “I reckon he didn’t figger we wuz workin’ hard enuf. Dat’s why I ran away, me an’ two others. Dere’s lots er talk er freedom dese days an’ we figgered we didn’t hab ter take dat kind er thing from nobody, eben our massa.”

  “How did you get away without being seen?”

  “We waited till the middle of the night when Elias Slade wuz asleep an’ we run from da cabin, but I los’ my way. I wuz feared ob da dogs, so I kep’ runnin’ an’ runnin’ till I cudn’t no more. I think I fell down, an’ den all at once I woke up an’ I wuz here.”

  “Well you will be safe and well taken care of as long as you are with us,” said Richmond. “So drink and eat and get your strength back and then we shall decide what is to be done.”

  “Thank you, Mister Davidson. You an’ da missus is real kind ter our kind er folks.”

  Richmond rose, casting upon Carolyn a look of concern which said what they were both thinking—that they had been in this situation before.

  “Would you tell Moses that Mr. Grubs is awake,” said Carolyn as her husband walked toward the stairs, “and ask him to bring down some bread and soup?”

  When Chigua completed the restoration of the Cherokee skin painting, she said she would like to take it back to the Brown house alone.

  “I don’t know why exactly,” she said. “Working on it, seeing the old writing, seeing these images of the ring and the symbols of the chiefs… it has reminded me again of my heritage and made me realize what a treasure that heritage is. The heritage of being a Cherokee isn’t about the gold that was hidden that may never be found, it is about having Cherokee blood flowing in one’s veins. That is a heritage more priceless than gold. And knowing that your Mr. Brown was one of my own people… I don’t know, I would like to be alone up there to commune with the spirit of my ancestors and their legacy.”

  “Of course, Chigua dear,” said Carolyn. “We think that would be wonderful.”

  Before Richmond had resolved how to handle the newest situation that threatened to draw him again into conflict with his onetime friend, he received an even greater surprise than the appearance of Jimmy Grubs.

  Three days later, shortly after noon, Denton Beaumont rode slowly up the long drive into Greenwood. He was uncharacteristically thoughtful as he came, glancing this way and that at the condition of the Davidson plantation in comparison with his own.

  His pensive mood was not reflected inside the house when his approach had been announced. That he was alone and without a posse of bounty hunters was a relief. But his unexpected appearance nevertheless took everyone by surprise and sent Carolyn and Cherity scurrying about the house to hide evidence of their runaway guests, while Richmond sent Sydney to the black village to do the same.

  What had prompted the visit, even Denton Beaumont himself could not have said exactly. Was it a subconscious longing for what he perceived as the simplicity of former times, or perhaps the curiosity to know whether things at Greenwood were as precarious as they suddenly seemed at Oakbriar? Might it even have been something deep within him reaching out to that which he had not had for a long time… a friend?

  He had ridden back to the house three days ago, after whipping several of his slaves to within an inch or two of consciousness, sweating and breathing heavily as his fury subsided, and realizing something he had not realized very many times in his life, that he had gone too far.

  Whether a man such as Denton Beaumont was capable of feeling what is commonly called remorse, he was feeling nothing like it after the whipping. He was only recognizing in some dim way that a merciless lashing was unlikely to get work done any faster or more efficiently. Part of him was still angry at Leon Riggs and Abraham Lincoln and all his slaves and the entire changing way of life that had infected people everywhere. But along with such thoughts, on the next day, hearing that three of the slaves he had beaten had escaped in the night under the imbecile Elias Slade’s fat snoring nose, and with nothing apparently that he could do about it, there began to awaken in his brain the hint of a stunning realization—if he kept it up, he could well lose them all and be on his way to bankruptcy.

  What was he going to do, go chase after them himself? Where was a man like Malone Murdoch when you needed him? Denton Beaumont felt powerless.

  It was not a pleasant sensation.

  His reflective mood throughout the day, after losing his temper briefly at Riggs when he told him of the escapes, stemmed from no compunction at having done wrong, only from the practical realization that maybe a gentler hand was required. Things were more straightforward in the old days. Everyone knew where they stood and what was expected of them. But if he could not stem the changes that new times were forcing upon him, gradually—and not without his annoyance flaring up—he saw that it behooved him to do what he must to ensure Oakbriar’s continued prosperity, even if it meant having to hang up his whip until this war was over and things returned to normal.

  Sometime during the day, as he reviewed the records of the previous harvest and continued his inspection of his property, he found himself wondering how things were going for his neighbor. Rumors had abounded about Greenwood ever since Richmond and Carolyn Davidson had freed their slaves six years ago and begun paying them wages. Tales had them prospering one moment and on the verge of financial collapse the next. There were also rumors—which he had always believed—that runaways were occasionally hidden at Greenwood on their way to the North. Richmond had always come in for a greater share of blame, in his mind, for the problem of escaping slaves than anyone but Abraham Lincoln. But now suddenly Beaumont found himself curious to know more, and for very practical reasons. In his heart of hearts, he was worried about Oakbriar and his own future. Was it possible that Richmond, fool that he still considered him, had seen the handwriting on the wall and—it galled him even to admit the possibility!—had stumbled on a revolutionary way to turn a profit and prevent his Negro workforce from slipping through his fingers?

  Beaumont looked around as he rode into Greenwood, taking everything in with newly interested eyes. There were a few blacks about in the distance, one walking in a hurry past the barn toward the slave village. The horses in the near pasture appeared well taken care of, as did the house. He saw two Negro women hanging laundry on a line and a couple of black children playing nearby. Everything appeared normal, just as he might have expected. At the moment, nothing could have been further from Denton Beaumont’s mind than that one of his own escaped slaves was recovering in a bed in the basement of Richmond Davidson’s plantation house.

  “Hello, Richmond,” said Beaumont, dismounting as his neighbor came out the door and walked down the steps toward him.

  “Denton!” said Richmond with a genuine smile of warmth and an outstretched hand. “It is good to see you again. It has been far too long.”

  Even as he shook his friend’s hand, Richmond detected a change, an expression in Beaumont’s eyes that he could not account for. Beaumont continued to look about, taking in the appearance of barn and stables and fields.

  “Things appear to be going well for you,” he said.

  “We have no complaints,” replied Richmond, leading his neighbor slowly away from the house. “That is not to say there aren’t challenges. These are difficult times for everyone. Not having my sons to help out adds to the burden of trying to get the work done—something I am sure you are aware of yourself.”

  Beaumont nodded thoughtfully. “But you have plenty of laborers?” he said in a probing tone.

  “Not as many as I would like,” said Richmond. “My workforce is down in the last year or two and I am having a difficult time finding men to work.”

  “Even with your policy of… ah, paying them wages like w
hite workers?”

  “A good number of my people have left, Denton. When we gave them their freedom, even with the offer of paid wages, quite a few decided to go north. And we must respect that decision. We gave them their freedom with no strings attached.”

  “What do they hope to find there?”

  “I think mostly an environment where they do not have to be afraid of reprisals against them. As great a thing as freedom is for a black man or woman, this is still the South. Now we are even a different country and at war with the North. They know they will never really be free as long as slavery remains the accepted norm here. They want to live where all men and women are free no matter what the color of their skin. They know the only place where that is possible, at least right now, is in the North. So yes, we are struggling with a diminished workforce. Every year we are able to plant less acreage.”

  “That darkie I saw over by the barn as I was riding up,” said Beaumont, “—a light-skinned black man… I don’t recognize him as one of yours, but it seems I have seen him before. Wasn’t he the fellow who spoke with me on the train, the man with the peculiar accent—though I must say he was well spoken and seemed intelligent enough.”

  “Yes—Sydney LeFleure… he is a French Jamaican Negro.”

  “I understood him to be on his way to Pennsylvania.”

  “He was. But he came back.”

  “Why?”

  “I offered him a job. He is my foreman now—a very resourceful and, as you say, intelligent man.”

  “Why did you offer the job to… a Negro?”

  “The color of a man’s skin has no bearing on his capabilities. Malachi Shaw was my foreman before your man Elias Slade killed him.”