American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  She sat contentedly on Cadence’s back absorbing every ray of warm sunlight, every sight, smell, and sound of God’s beauty in his creation. Nothing was to be heard but the gentle rhythmic breathing of the great horse lungs beneath her and the birds in the nearby woods. It was a lovely peaceful silence. The ground, still wet, seemed covered with a blanket of sparkling diamonds that seemed silently to say, “We come from above where the glory far surpasses the beauties of this world.”

  Cherity drew in a great breath of the fragrant afternoon. The cold, crisp air enlivened her lungs with its purifying chill and a sense of peace. It was a peace that said, everything will turn out good in the end.

  By now the sun was lowering in the sky above. A few puffy clouds wandered in front of it, sending a sudden shadow over the meadow. It reminded Cherity that she did not want to be gone too long, or tax Cadence beyond what was comfortable on this first ride. She glanced up at the cloud. Its edge was illuminated with a rim of light from the sun behind it.

  “All right, Cadence,” she said, bending low against his brown neck, “you have done well today. But it is time to go home. Good boy,” she added with a loving pat on his neck.

  A gentle snort sounded from the big fleshy lips as Cherity gently turned him and began to return to Greenwood the way they had come.

  Thirty-Two

  Veronica Fitzpatrick sat on the train returning from Atlanta with a pit in her stomach that would not go away. After all this time doing Cecil’s bidding… suddenly she was terrified.

  She needed help! But where could she turn?

  If Richard found out what she had done… would her marriage survive?

  How could he possibly understand? Especially if he had actually been the source of information she had unknowingly passed on. Cecil was always asking questions, and she had not been guarded in her answers.

  It was too awful! How could she not have seen his duplicity? He had just been using her like he used everyone!

  She took out a book she had brought along. But trying to keep her mind on a story was impossible. She set the book aside with a sigh and took out the newspaper she had picked up and absently began thumbing through it.

  Her eyes came to rest on a small article titled: PHOTOGRAPHY CHANGES FACE OF WAR.

  New developments in photographic reproduction, she read, have brought this present war between the North and the South, for the first time in the history of wartime, into the lives of average citizens on both sides. No longer is it possible to gloss over the horrors of the conflict. The accurate images brought from the battlefield by photographic reproduction are at once breathtaking and horrifying in their realistic detail.

  All around the country, displays and exhibitions of war photographers are drawing huge crowds. The images by such brave men as Matthew Brady, Alexander Gardner, Timothy O’Sullivan, and Seth Davidson of the Boston Herald—

  A gasp of astonishment sounded from Veronicas lips.

  Seth!

  A hundred childhood memories flooded through her. With them the image of a face rose in her mind’s eye—the face of a friend, one of the few true friends she had ever had… Seth Davidson—a young man true enough to tell her he did not love her.

  Slowly tears rose in Veronica’s eyes at the thought of her neighbor and friend. She loved Richard, but Seth would always hold a special place in her heart. She had been fond of him, even thought she loved him. But she had been too selfish back then to love anyone but herself. If she was not quite yet aware of that truth, the reminder of Seth was even more special now that she had begun to realize that she was perhaps not all she ought to be.

  She had been angry at him. Yet even before this moment she had come to recognize that what he had done had taken courage. Suddenly a new sensation arose within her—a newfound respect for Seth… respect for him even for rejecting her.

  Where was Seth now? she wondered.

  She stared down at the article again, reading its words over and over. Her eyes flew over the articles and pictures and advertisements until suddenly another caption caught her eye, this time as the heading of a small article: JEFFERSON DAVIS TO APPEAR BEFORE CAMERAS.

  Quickly Veronica read what followed.

  Confederacy President Jefferson Davis is set to speak in Raleigh, North Carolina next month, at which event photographers from several major newspapers are scheduled to be on hand to take photographs of the president that will be seen in both North and South for the first time by many Americans.

  Veronica set down the paper, her brain spinning.

  With a new set of civilian clothes provided by their winter’s Quaker hosts, Thomas and Deanna at last set out again for the North, joining a group of four fugitives who had arrived two days before. Thomas still stood out like a sore thumb. But at least he was no longer wearing a Confederate uniform. Thus far he had not seen another single white person on the Underground Railroad, as why should he? It was a secret network for escapees. Whites had nothing to escape from, unless they too were runaways… like him.

  The first few nights and days passed wearily but without danger. Thomas and Deanna accompanied the others northeast through the Great Smoky Mountains along the border between Tennessee and North Carolina. When their companions turned north, bound for a series of stations that led toward Ohio, they left them. For two nights they walked alone, then were taken by a conductor, not to a lonely farmhouse as usual, but into a town where he led them through a succession of back alleyways and deserted streets. Wondering if the man planned to turn them in, Thomas was about to object, when their guide stopped in a deserted part of town where they were surrounded by old dilapidated brick warehouses. He turned toward them.

  “Dere’s gwine be an ol’ man comin’ along here by’m by,” he said. “He’s be pullin’ an ol’ rickety wagon full er crates an’ barrels an’ boxes. He ain’t gwine slow down or look fo’ nobody, but when he cums, you jes’ jump up an’ get in dem containers. He’ll take you where you’s goin’.”

  With that the man hurried off and disappeared.

  Thomas and Deanna scarcely had time to look at each other with questioning glances when behind them they heard a wagon clattering slowly toward them along a side street. Before it reached them, suddenly from the surrounding buildings what appeared to be a dozen blacks of all ages poured out and swarmed toward the wagon. Thomas and Deanna ran to join them, scrambling up in the confusion. Thomas helped Deanna into a large empty barrel and set the lid down on top of her, then himself squeezed into a big wood crate along with a teenage black boy who was not pleased to have to share his hiding place with a white. Neither said a word and the wagon continued to rumble along.

  Gradually they heard the sound of voices and machinery and iron train wheels grinding slowly along their tracks and could tell they were approaching a rail yard.

  The wagon stopped. The heavy footsteps of several men approached and they felt themselves being lifted onto a flatbed train car. Not a word was spoken. Outside they heard what sounded like the arrival of army troops, who also loaded into the train.

  Twenty or thirty minutes later, slowly the train began to pull out of the station.

  For what seemed like hours they clattered along, so cramped that arms and legs and everything else went numb.

  “Where are you going?” Thomas finally said to his crate companion.

  “Anywhere, massa… jes’ norf. What ’bout you?”

  “Me too.”

  “What’s a w’ite man doin’ on dis nigger railroad?”

  “I ran away from the army,” said Thomas. “I was afraid they were going to kill me, so I ran away.”

  Thomas tried to shift his position for the fiftieth time. Would he ever be able to stretch his legs again! On and on the rhythmic clickity-clack of the wheels hummed along. The boy’s question sent his mind drifting back over the terrible sights he had seen… men strewn across muddy trenches… bodies without legs… and the ceaseless roar of artillery in his ears. And the face of the boy he had en
countered in the woods and later found dead on the battlefield.

  Slowly he fell into a trancelike sleep… woke… slept again… and woke again. Still the train clattered on. He felt nothing. His whole body was numb.

  Then came a slowing. How long had they been moving… six hours… twelve… a hundred?

  Gradually the train came to a stop. All was silent. There were no sounds of town or station.

  Thomas heard someone jump onto the flatbed and begin rapping gently on the sides of the containers.

  “Effen der be any passengers boun’ fo’ liberty here,” said a voice, speaking softly, “dis here train’s cum ter da end er da line an’ I’s passin’ out tickets fo’ da nex’ station. Come on, git out. Time ter go. Hit’s a water stop, but hit won’t las’ long.”

  A great scurrying followed. Lids came up and one by one dark faces and white eyes peered out of their cramped quarters. It was night. All was black. The train stood in the middle of open countryside, steam puffing from its engine and water pouring into the huge tanks of the water car up ahead of them.

  Struggling to stretch out their limbs and stand, bodies began jumping off the side of the flatcar and running into the blackness. Almost as soon as the commotion had begun, all fell silent again. Thomas had barely climbed out and to his feet when he found himself standing alone. For all he could tell, there never had been anyone else. Everyone had vanished into the night.

  “Deanna,” he said softly. “Deanna…?”

  He walked amongst the barrels and crates, but all were empty.

  “Deanna!” he said a little louder.

  Thomas turned about, squinting into the darkness. Beneath him the train jerked into motion.

  “Thomas… Thomas, where are you?” he heard a voice call from out in the field.

  He jumped to the ground and ran toward it.

  “Deanna… I’m here,” he called. “Deanna!”

  Suddenly he felt arms around him.

  “Thomas!” panted Deanna out of breath, “I couldn’t find you and was afraid—”

  Suddenly she stepped back, realizing what she had done.

  “Where did everyone go?” asked Thomas.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “They ran off so fast.”

  Behind them the train clattered away. The lights from its two passenger coaches slowly disappeared in the distance, and they were left alone in the night.

  Thirty-Three

  Though summer on the calendar was still a couple weeks away, the glory of a Virginia summer had come to Greenwood with the color and greenery and fragrance that distinguishes the summer of June from the high summer of a hot dry August. Roses were in bloom. Indeed flowers of infinite variety, both cultivated and wild, were springing out of the ground everywhere.

  A more perfect day could not be imagined as Richmond and Carolyn walked together in the arbor. But these were not happy times. Carolyn’s heart especially was heavy.

  Only a month before, the war had come very close as the Union army led by General Ulysses Grant slashed down through the wilderness of central Virginia. A great battle had been fought less than thirty miles away at Spotsylvania. Richmond and Sydney and many men from Dove’s Landing had gone with wagons to help transport wounded to homes and hospitals in Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, both cities still suffering from their own battles. Grant, meanwhile, had pushed on and was, even now, at the very threshold of the Confederate capital. Though the fighting thus far between the two titans, Grant and Lee, had proved inconclusive, it seemed that at last Robert Lee had met his match. It was doubtful how much longer the Confederacy could hold together with Grant now at the helm of the Union army.

  But more pressing and personal concerns were on their minds. Both knew that they might well be enjoying their final months at their beloved Greenwood.

  “I was just reading Woolman’s words this morning,” said Richmond. “Do you remember when he speaks of not being easy in his mind with what he calls ‘cumbering affairs,’ and his being able to be content with few possessions and a simple way of life?”

  “You have read it to me before. It is one of the striking passages.”

  “I earnestly hope and pray that we have been able to live to some degree by the same principle,” said Richmond. “Yet, Carolyn, even with our present troubles, there is no denying that we have much in the way of this world’s goods. It strikes me that perhaps a time is coming when the Lord would have us less encumbered by them, as it did for Woolman when he closed his shop. I think that we must be prepared to let go of Greenwood.”

  “I know you are right,” said Carolyn sadly. “We have always tried to keep in the forefront of our prayers whether there exists anything in our lives we cannot let go of. Oh, but how I love this place. It would be very difficult for me to say good-bye.”

  “If you knew the Lord was requiring of us to lay Greenwood on the altar,” said Richmond, “you would do it in a moment, and with a heart of gratitude.”

  “But that is just it, Richmond—it isn’t the Lord requiring it, but your conniving cousins!”

  Richmond chuckled. “Of course,” he said. “But you know as well as I do that God usually works through circumstance, and often through people whose ways may not be committed to him, in order to accomplish his will in our lives.”

  They heard a horse galloping in the distance, and glanced toward the sound. Cherity and Cadence were just coming into the pasture after a long ride.

  “She is absolutely in love with that young stallion,” said Carolyn. “How did Seth know he would be so perfect for her?”

  “Men know things about the women they love, my dear,” said Richmond.

  “And by the same principle, I think Cherity knows something is wrong with us. She has noticed our quiet talks together. We cannot keep Harland’s action from everyone too much longer, especially not from Cynthia, Cherity, Sydney, and Chigua. We have to tell them soon.”

  “I suppose you are right,” sighed Richmond. “But I have not had clarity about when or how to do so.”

  Cherity found Richmond and Carolyn ten or fifteen minutes later seated on one of the benches in the garden. Cherity knew her spiritual mother well enough by this time to recognize that she had been crying.

  “I know I really don’t have the right to ask,” she said approaching, “but… is something the matter?”

  Carolyn stood and embraced her.

  “Oh, Cherity, dear—you have every right to ask!” said Carolyn. Even as she spoke she began crying again.

  “Oh, Carolyn,” said Cherity in a voice full of tender sympathy, “what is it?”

  Carolyn led her back to the bench where Richmond still sat. Cherity sat down between them.

  “Do you remember when your father was here,” said Richmond, “when we were having some difficulty with one of my cousins?”

  “Vaguely,” answered Cherity. “Though I was never quite sure what it was all about.”

  “Those troubles have escalated to a rather more serious level recently. They have now issued proceedings against us, which, if carried as far as is possible, might mean that we could lose Greenwood altogether.”

  “What! No… that’s awful! But why?”

  “I’m afraid we have fallen behind in our payments on several loans resulting from my father and mother’s estate. Our finances have been something of a struggle since the war began, and… the long and the short of it is that they are threatening to take the house and land if we do not pay off the notes in full. Unfortunately, it amounts to something over twelve thousand dollars and we have nowhere near that kind of reserves. Actually,” he added with a sardonic laugh, “our reserves, if you could call them that, are completely gone.”

  “Oh, Mr. Davidson, I am so sorry!” said Cherity. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “Have no worry,” smiled Richmond. “It will sort itself out in time.”

  “How imminent is all this?”

  “It may actually not be that far away
. We may be packing our bags by late summer or early fall.”

  “My goodness! You mean… just two months from now!”

  “We hope it will not come to that.”

  Thirty-Four

  As Jefferson Davis wound down his remarks, the crowd applauded, then began to disperse. Seth, however, worked against the tide, moving toward the platform.

  A small crowd of reporters was clustering about the president. The other half dozen or so photographers were also climbing up onto the platform and beginning to set up their tripods and cameras for the long-awaited session to photograph the Confederate president.

  A remnant of the crowd stayed to watch, curious about the new technology; one stood for another reason, patiently—and a little nervously—waiting for the session to be completed.

  At last, the president stepped away, then walked down the steps and off the platform. Seth and the other photographers gathered and disassembled their equipment and began packing their things in several waiting carriages.

  Some instinct caused Seth to turn and look down. Two familiar eyes were staring straight into his. A momentary disbelief froze him in his tracks.

  “Veronica!” exclaimed Seth.

  She smiled, a little timidly. It was an expression he had never before seen on her face. Clearly some change had taken place within her.

  “But… what are you doing here?” he said, now breaking into a great smile. He set down his things and bounded off the platform and rushed toward her.

  Whatever Veronica had been expecting, it was not for Seth to greet her so exuberantly. He came toward her, gave her a warm hug, then stood back looking her over, still smiling broadly.

  “I can’t believe it… I can’t believe it’s really you!” he said. “You look great.”

  “So do you, Seth,” she said, at last finding her voice.

  “It is so good to see you again!”

  “And you. As for what I am doing here… I came hoping to find you.”

  “Me… how could you possibly have known I would be here?”