He and Carolyn were riding back from Dove’s Landing one afternoon when Richmond’s prayers from that morning came up in their conversation.
“I could not help being struck as I read,” said Richmond, “with the affinity that exists between how the Lord has led us in our outlook and priorities, and old John Woolman. He so often puts into words, even if the style is a little outmoded, exactly what I feel. It is not only in the matter of slavery, but in matters of business and personal relationships, in the balance between money and possessions and spirituality. I now begin to see why I feel a spiritual camaraderie with many of the Quakers we meet—Brannon and Mueller and others.”
“Perhaps you should convert,” suggested Carolyn. “Perhaps we should all become Quakers.”
Richmond laughed. “I do not think the external brand of church or affiliation is so important,” he said. “It is Woolman’s outlook on life that I admire and would hope in some small way to emulate.”
“He was indeed a remarkable man,” said Carolyn.
“Of all the sects that contributed to the founding of the country, from the Puritans to the Baptists to the Moravians and Brethren, the Quakers really seemed, at least in those formative years, to get it right. They were so nonsectarian, so principled, so open, and such rounded and balanced individuals—at least, knowing no more than I do, so it strikes me.”
“There were certainly no stories of Quakers burning people at the stake!”
“It would have been helpful had we known of Woolman’s writings when we were struggling with our own decision about what to do with our slaves years ago.”
“Perhaps the Lord wanted us to make that decision entirely within ourselves.”
As they drew up in the buggy in front of the house they found Nancy Shaw approaching from her house.
“Another family jes’ arrived,” she said as they stepped out and to the ground. “Dey seem like real nice folks. Dey talk like w’ite folks. Dey came right ter da big house but I took ’em down ter my place an’ fixed ’em sumfin’ ter eat.”
“Thank you, Nancy,” smiled Carolyn. “That was kind of you. We will put our things away and be right down.”
Ten minutes later Richmond and Carolyn walked into the Shaw house. The newcomers were seated around Nancy’s table. One of the family, a young black boy, was clearly taken with Nancy’s two older sons. And what they took to be his sister was stealing an occasional glance in the direction of the Shaw boys as well.
“Here are da Dab’sons I wuz tellin’ you about,” said Nancy.
A lanky black man rose from the table and offered his hand to Richmond.
“I’m pleased to meet thee, Mr. Davidson,” he said. “I am Aaron Steddings, and this is my wife Zaphorah and our three children, Mary, Moses, and Suzane.”
“I am happy to meet you too, Mr. Steddings,” said Richmond, shaking his hand warmly. “Please meet my wife Carolyn, and consider yourselves welcome here at Greenwood for as long as you need to stay.”
“I thank thee, Mister Davidson.”
“Well, we shall let you finish up here,” said Richmond. “We will have the chance to visit a little later. Nancy,” he added, “when they are through, would you please bring them up to the house.”
Carolyn put their new guests in two of the second-floor rooms of the main house.
It did not take long in conversation later that day for Richmond to realize that they had opened their home for the first time to a Quaker family who had found it necessary to escape slavery on the very Underground Railroad their fellow Friends had begun.
But it was not until some time later, as they discussed their plans and where they were bound that they were in for their greatest surprise.
“I don’t suppose thee would have heard of it,” said Aaron, “but we are from a little town in New Jersey just on the other side of the Delaware River. It is called Mount Holly.”
“Mount Holly!” exclaimed Richmond. “You don’t say!”
“Thee has heard of it?” asked Zaphorah in surprise.
Richmond jumped from his chair and strode across the room, where he picked up a small volume next to his reading chair. He returned and handed it to Aaron Steddings.
“It is one of my most prized books,” he said. “I’m afraid in the last year my copy of Woolman’s Journal has become as thumb worn as my Bible! I am a great admirer of your humble tailor.”
“Then let me read you a passage from it,” said Zaphorah with a smile, “and tell you a little story.”
She took the book, found the passage in which Woolman had been instrumental in the freeing of Betsy Ferris, and read it aloud to them. When she had finished, Zaphorah put the book aside.
“That black lady happens to have been Aaron’s great-grandmother,” she said.
Now did Richmond Davidson’s astonishment mount to yet greater heights!
“But this is incredible!” he exclaimed. “I was just reading that section again yesterday! And suddenly here you are with us. The legacy of John Woolman himself has stepped off the pages into our own lives!”
Aaron laughed. “Well, I am not the kind of spiritual man he was,” he said. “I am just a simple man trying to take care of my family and live by the Book as best I can.”
“I can hardly think of a more fitting description of Woolman himself.”
They continued to talk and share late into the evening, as freely and spontaneously as had they known one another for years.
When Richmond and Carolyn returned together to their room, few words passed between them. Both had been moved by the events of the day. These were no ordinary runaways whom the Lord had brought them. More than ever before they saw his guiding hand in this present circumstance in their lives. Both sensed that in Aaron and Zaphorah Steddings they had discovered true friends of the Spirit.
Nothing would have suited Richmond and Carolyn Davidson better than for Aaron and Zaphorah Steddings to have remained with them at Greenwood indefinitely. There was so much Richmond wanted to ask Aaron, so much about his Quaker faith, as well as life in Mount Holly, one of the very foundations of Quakerism in this country, that he was hungry to learn.
And in Zaphorah, Carolyn found one to share with on a level of the Spirit that she had never before shared with anyone but Richmond. As dearly as she loved Nancy Shaw, the cultural divide between herself and one who had spent most of her life as a slave, was simply too great to bridge completely. The distinction between them, mostly in Nancy’s mind rather than Carolyn’s, would always be present. In Zaphorah, however, though her skin was black and Carolyn’s white, Carolyn yet discovered a oneness of spiritual outlook, a depth of thought, and a breadth of awareness about life and the world that Nancy, as a simpler woman, could not share with her in the same way.
They spoke about children, about husbands, about the differences in a woman’s responses to matters of faith from a man’s. They spoke of intimacies, of secret longings, of disappointments, of hopes, of fears. They laughed together, they prayed together, and they cried as Zaphorah poured out her grief over their lost daughter. And they held one another as only two women can whose hearts have been knitted together as one.
As the time drew closer when Carolyn knew they must leave them, her heart quieted and she grew sad. She had not recognized within herself the need, or even the desire for a woman-friend of the heart. Richmond had always been everything for her. She had been satisfied and content. Now that such a friend had been given her, she did not want to let her go.
Yet she would treasure the memories of her long walks and talks late into the night with Zaphorah, and would know that wherever life took them God had kindled a love in their hearts for one another that would last a lifetime.
It was clear, however, that the Steddings’ situation was unlike that of Sydney and Chigua when they had first come to Greenwood. Aaron and Zaphorah had a place they had come from and friends they were anxious to see again. They had been away too long.
They just wanted to get home!
The predawn wagon ride from Greenwood over the hills west into the neighboring county was unlike the many former such trips that had been taken by Richmond or Seth or Malachi Shaw with a delivery of runaways for the next station. On this occasion, both Richmond and Carolyn accompanied their guests to see them safely into the hands of their Quaker neighbor Brannon.
Though the times were dangerous, with Lee’s army moving north and reports of Union troops not far to the west, they arrived without incident.
Brannon met them with some surprise, not having been informed in advance of their coming.
“Ah, friend Brannon!” said Richmond, getting down from the wagon and shaking the Quaker farmer’s hand warmly. “We have brought you some weary travelers who are more than mere refugees from the South, but rather true friends indeed. They have a story to tell that I am confident will interest you greatly. It is our hope that you will be able to get them safely to their destination.”
“Where is this destination?” asked Brannon.
“A small town in New Jersey,” replied Richmond with a twinkle in his eye. “It is called Mount Holly.”
Brannon’s eyes widened in astonishment. He glanced toward the wagon where Aaron was just stepping down, followed by Carolyn and Zaphorah.
“Let me introduce to you Aaron Steddings,” said Richmond, beckoning Aaron forward, “and his dear wife Zaphorah. We will leave them to tell you their story themselves.”
When Cecil Hirsch called at the Fitzpatrick home in early 1863 to invite Veronica to lunch, Veronica’s reaction was mixed, and more confused than she could herself account for. When she opened the door and saw him standing there, her heart leapt momentarily with pleasure. At the same instant, however, a sarcastic remark rose to her lips such as she might a few years earlier have given Seth Davidson for not coming to see her often enough, or failing to notice the new hat she was wearing.
Cecil observed the brief internal battle with amusement. His design was to keep Veronica, to a certain extent, off balance, and he realized he was succeeding. He just had to be careful not to make her too angry. That would serve no one’s interests, least of all his.
“My apologies for not seeing you in so long!” he said effusively. “I have been away a good deal, but am here to make amends and humbly request you to join me for lunch at the Ritz.”
He took off his hat and made a slight bow.
The annoyance died on Veronica’s lips. How could she be angry with a smile like Cecil’s? And she remembered the dress from Madame Rochelle’s.
“Garabaldi tells me you have been helping him out regularly,” said Hirsch after they had ordered. “I am glad it is working out well for you—that is, I assume it is.”
“I suppose so,” said Veronica. “He pays me well to go to Richmond for him—too well, actually.”
“You once asked how I was able to make so much money during a war. Now you know. There are people willing to pay for things, for information, for delivering letters for them, willing to pay to do things they do not want to do themselves. I told you the war had been good to me and I saw no reason not to let you in on my good fortune. My advice is, enjoy it and don’t ask too many questions. But tell me about Richard’s work. What is he doing these days?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me anything.”
“I understand he is now on the staff of the Senate Military Affairs Committee.”
“Then you know more about his job than I do!” laughed Veronica.
“I can understand his keeping his activities secret. After all, your father is in the Confederate Congress.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that he has to be careful not to share military secrets with you that could fall into the wrong hands.”
“You mean that I might tell my father?”
“Maybe not even intentionally… sometimes things just slip out.”
“That’s not why Richard keeps his activities to himself… at least I don’t think so.”
“Where would your loyalties lie if you had to choose between your husband and your father?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“I mean if you had information from something your father let slip that might help, say, the Union army, would you tell Richard about it?”
“I don’t know—I’ve never thought about it. Let’s just hope it never happens. They would pay no attention to what I said anyway. Nobody cares what a woman thinks.”
“Don’t be too sure. What would you say if I asked you to try to secretly find out something from Richard that I needed to know—would you do it?”
Veronica looked at Cecil with an odd expression, not quite sure whether to take him seriously.
“I… I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I hope you wouldn’t.”
“But if I did.”
“I don’t know… I suppose it would depend on what it was, on whether it put anyone in danger, or whether anyone would get hurt. I would never do anything to put Richard in danger. Whatever you may think, Cecil, I do love him.”
“I am glad to hear that. I would feel sorry for you if you didn’t.”
“Do you feel sorry for me?”
“Not you, Veronica. You always manage to land on your feet.”
Hirsch sipped at his coffee and grew slowly more thoughtful.
“I understand your husband is leaving for Europe in two weeks,” he said at length, “to brief our English allies on the war effort.”
“How did you know that?”
“I have my sources,” smiled Cecil. “I once told you information is the most prized commodity in the world.”
“That is something else I do not remember your saying! Cecil Hirsch, I declare you make up half the things you tell me!”
Hirsch roared with delight. “Well maybe I didn’t use those exact words. But I said something like it. Whether I said it or not, information is the commodity that makes people rich. And that is why I make it a point to know as much about the people in this town as I can. The reason I mentioned your husband’s trip is that I thought perhaps while he is gone you would like to accompany me to Chattanooga, and then north to Chicago.”
Veronica stared back across the table expressionless, her mouth almost hanging open.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I must see some people in Chattanooga. After that I am going to Chicago for a few days before returning to Washington. I thought perhaps you would like to go with me.”
Slowly Veronica shook her head and smiled. “You are always full of surprises!” she said. “But I must say this takes the cake. How am I supposed to reply to a proposal like that!”
“Say yes, of course,” smiled Hirsch.
Richard Fitzpatrick could not help noticing that his wife was quieter than usual and seemed moody and out of sorts as the time for his departure for England drew near. He had never seen Veronica like this. The only thing that was different was her sudden interest in his work, asking him questions about who he was going to see in England and what he was going to tell them. She had wanted to help him pack his bags and kept looking at the papers in his briefcase even though they concerned things she could not possibly understand. By the day his ship sailed, it was almost a relief to be away from her.
As for Veronica, with Richard gone and the house empty, suddenly the enormity of her impending decision loomed all the more heavily upon her. She was both excited and afraid. What if she was seen by someone who knew Richard? What if word got around about her involvement with Cecil Hirsch?
Was this one of those moments when a small decision would alter the course of her whole future?
Was it a small decision?
True, there was the morality of the thing to be considered. She would simply insist on separate rooms. Cecil would agree or she wouldn’t go with him. She didn’t want to complicate her life sexually, only to put some adventure back into it.
Whether it was because of her anxiety abou
t being seen with him, or for the purpose of keeping their trip secret for reasons of his own, Cecil sat alone on the train, and allowed Veronica to do likewise, until the second day of their journey to Chattanooga. By then they were far enough into the South that there was little risk of meeting anyone from Washington D.C. Also by then Veronica’s nervousness over the impropriety of the thing had begun to diminish. She began to enjoy the adventure.
Signs of the war were unmistakable and all about them. The train had more soldiers than civilians, many of them wounded, with arms in slings or hobbling on crutches. In Washington she had been able to keep the war at a distance. Suddenly they were riding straight into the middle of it. She saw the fear and weariness on the faces of the young boys in uniform and thought of her own two brothers, Wyatt and Cameron. The sights were not pleasant.
Cecil seemed unaffected by it all. But as they went, Veronica grew quiet and thoughtful. It was a new sensation. But along with disgust, a distant cousin to compassion rose in her heart for the wounded. It was a cousin, however, whose acquaintance she had not before made—she was uncomfortable in its presence.
By the time they reached Chattanooga, soldiers were everywhere. The city was quiet and depressing as they rode in a rented buggy to their hotel. Veronica had expected a gay, lively, sparkling Southern city. Where had everyone gone?
They reached their hotel and Cecil said he had to go out.
“But we just got here, Cecil,” said Veronica. “I don’t want to be left alone.”
“I won’t be long. As soon as I get back, we’ll go out for dinner.”
He turned and left Veronica alone in her room.
On an impulse, after a moment or two, Veronica decided to follow him. There were so many mysteries about Cecil Hirsch. There had been from the first day she had met him. Why shouldn’t she try to learn more?
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