American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “Come to think of it, Seth,” he said, “we should record this. Why don’t you get your equipment set up and we’ll photograph Mrs. Fitzpatrick handing me the envelope, and then me looking at the documents.”

  “Right,” said Seth, rising and leaving the room. He returned a minute later and began setting up his camera and tripod. When everything was ready, Veronica and McClarin stood behind the editor’s desk, with Veronica handing the editor the packet.

  With a flash, the moment was preserved on film. Seth pulled his head out from under his black cloth-hood as McClarin immediately sat down at his desk. He broke the seal on the envelope and removed the documents. He looked them over briefly then gave a low whistle.

  “This is dynamite,” he said. “If the Confederacy gets its hands on this, it could mean disaster for Grant’s Richmond campaign. We’ll need to continue to document everything we are doing with photographs. We have got to have an irrefutable photographic trail showing the travels of this envelope and its contents. When we go to the authorities, we have to have solid proof both of the spy operation as well as Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s full cooperation. Okay… well, it looks like we have some work to do.”

  When Cherity came to herself, with no notion how much time had passed but realizing she was getting cold, she found herself seated on a bench in a small park.

  Again came the tears. She made no attempt to choke them back, but sobbed in bewildered and uncontrollable grief.

  The morning following their meeting with McClarin, Seth and Veronica again sat in the editor’s office. He returned the envelope to Veronica. It looked exactly as it had the previous day when she had given it to him.

  “Here you are,” he said, “complete with fake documents. Seth, make sure you get evidence of the transfer, then bring whatever they may give you back to me and we will again photograph the contents.”

  “Good… I think we’re ready, then,” said Seth. “We’ve got a train to catch.”

  Forty-Four

  Cherity’s final night in Boston, the train ride to New York, and her visit with Mary, comprised the most miserable days she had ever experienced in her life.

  All the way south she sat staring out the window expressionless… unthinking… unfeeling… dead to everything around her. After two days with Mary and her family, her natural exuberance—never to be kept down for long—again began to stir into life. It did not, however, in its customary fashion, bring a cheery smile and laughter to her lips. She began to wake again, it is true, but she awoke as a very different person, as if something had died inside her that would never come to life again.

  As her brain again began to function with something of its previous energy, a host of new questions now presented themselves that she had not encountered before. Till that fateful, horrible, shattering moment in Boston outside the Herald offices, Cherity had hardly distinguished her responses to Seth, to his parents, to Greenwood, and to God. It was because of all three of the Davidsons, as well as Greenwood and what it represented in her life, that she had come to a belief in God in the first place. Even her love for Seth could not be separated from God and his parents. It was a complete response of belief and love.

  All at once everything had changed.

  If Seth could be duplicitous, so unlike what she thought him… what about the others? What about his parents? What about God?

  If Seth’s words of affection on Harper’s Peak were lies… was it all a lie? Was everything she thought Greenwood and the Davidsons represented—truth, goodness, integrity, honesty, sincerity… had it all been a sham?

  Where did that leave her new faith? She had so believed in Carolyn and Richmond, and by extension in Seth, that… if they were not true… what did that say of their God?

  Doubts began to flood Cherity’s mind, doubts not only about the foundations of her own faith, but about what she had just done in Boston. God now seemed very, very far away.

  Everything seemed far away.

  Suddenly came the dreadful thought: What if her future in Virginia was not as secure as she had assumed? If she and Seth had no future together… what did that say about her future at Greenwood? She was certainly not going to stay under the same roof with the future Mrs. Seth Davidson, if that Mrs. turned out to be Veronica Beaumont! Could Greenwood ever be home to her again?

  She would need someplace to live when Seth returned from the war. If her future at Greenwood was in doubt… perhaps she shouldn’t sell her father’s Boston house.

  Question followed question, doubt followed doubt, until Cherity’s brain became a quagmire of confusing dilemmas.

  The train trip from New York back to Washington, then Dove’s Landing, resolved nothing. By the time she reached Greenwood and Carolyn came forward to greet her with a warm hug, all Cherity could do was burst into tears. But she could not tell Carolyn why.

  She fled to her room, but it offered no comfort now. It was as cold and dreary and unfriendly as had been her former room in Boston. She looked out her window at the hills and fields and pasturelands, and the high bluff in the distance, once the very land of her dreams. But the life had gone out of them, because the love in her heart had gone out of them.

  Everyone at Greenwood recognized that there had been a change. Cherity was different. Everyone assumed it had to do with the house and estate and fresh grief over the loss of her father. None suspected the real cause.

  It was with enormous difficulty that Cherity went through the motions of life without telling Carolyn, to whom she had previously confided everything, about the stone of ice that lay in her heart. She was not very good at pretending, though Carolyn did not pry or push.

  Long walks and rides were part of every day. To say that Cherity prayed as she went would convey more direct conversation with God in her mind and heart than was really the case. Prayer, however, is more complex than those suspect who would define it by rigid ways and means and words and expressions. Men and women cry out to God in a thousand subtle ways that they would never define by the word. What is prayer but the lifting up of the total human consciousness, and subconsciousness, to the Creator and Maker of our humanity. Even the honest atheist, though he would be the last to admit it, engages in prayer, in those quiet moments of aloneness deep in his heart when he humbly wonders about the truthfulness of his creed.

  Cherity thought, she wondered, she questioned, she cried… and altogether, therefore, her heart found itself in almost constant prayer. But the words, Please, dear God, help me and show me what to do, did not yet form specifically on her lips. Had she been asked during this time of sojourn through the valley of the shadow whether she still believed in God, her answer would have been a tearful, “I don’t know… I’m not sure of anything anymore… I don’t know what I believe.”

  Nevertheless, her Father in heaven had not forgotten her. As her heart wept and her confused brain cried out, he was closer than she imagined, beside her, within her, whispering gently unheard words of comfort that would blossom within her in time like fragrant healing flowers. He cared for his hurting daughter as would the gentlest and tenderest of fathers. He would not allow her suffering to exceed what she was able to bear, nor allow her to suffer in ways that would not work to the ultimate strengthening and deepening of her character and faith. All his ways, indeed, everything in life, if we have eyes to see it, combine to work toward his ultimate purpose—which is the perfecting unto Christlikeness of his sons and daughters to the salvation of all the world. Thus, all would be well, for all would work together for good in the life of this precious one of God’s own.

  At last a day of insight and revelation came. Cherity was returning from a long, solitary, thoughtful ride with Cadence. She had been pondering whether to notify Mr. Glennie to delay sale of the house until such time as she had resolved within herself what she ought to do. She came out of the woods on a rise that looked down a long slope at the house and barn and other buildings of Greenwood, with the oak wood and wonderful garden spread out to one side. She
reined in and sat looking at the panorama before her.

  How she loved this place!

  Suddenly the horrifying image came into her mind of Greenwood and all it represented passing into the hands of Richmond Davidson’s grasping cousins. Richmond and Carolyn would be displaced and forced to move. All the good they were doing in so many lives would come to an end. Probably all the workers who lived here would be sent away… no doubt sent away with nothing.

  Suddenly she realized that it didn’t matter about Seth and Veronica. It didn’t even matter whether she still believed in God. She still loved this place, and she loved Richmond and Carolyn! Nothing could take that away. Alongside all that Greenwood was, even her own future didn’t matter. She could go elsewhere. She could live with one of her sisters.

  But she had to do her part to save Greenwood!

  What came after that… she would worry about when the time came.

  “Let’s go, Cadence,” she said, then dug her heels in and galloped down the sloping hill toward the house.

  In the vegetable garden, Carolyn looked up to see Cherity dismount and run toward her. Suddenly she found herself nearly knocked off balance by a great embrace as Cherity burst into tears.

  “Carolyn, I’m so sorry,” faltered Cherity, sobbing on Carolyn’s breast. “I know I’ve… I haven’t been… I’m sorry… I just haven’t known what to do… but I think… I don’t even know what I’m saying… but I love you and…”

  Just as suddenly, Cherity turned and ran off again, leaving Carolyn more perplexed than ever.

  Forty-Five

  Five days later, Veronica left her Columbia hotel room after a brief conference with Seth, who had a room just down the hall. Leaving the packet from Cecil Hirsch containing the replaced documents in her room, she walked to the address, an office building only a few blocks away, where she was to meet a certain Mr. Smythe.

  “I have come to ask about the weather in New Orleans,” she said when the door opened to her knock.

  “Fitful with rain expected,” replied the man inside.

  “I have come from Washington.”

  “You are two days late,” said Smythe, looking Veronica over without expression.

  “The war makes the train schedules not as reliable as one might wish,” said Veronica.

  “You’re here now, that’s the important thing… Where is the information?”

  “In my hotel room,” said Veronica, desperately trying to keep her voice from trembling. “Are you ready to come with me now?”

  “What are you talking about!” exclaimed Smythe. “You didn’t bring it with you?”

  “I didn’t want to carry it through the streets. I thought you would pick it up there.”

  “That is never the arrangement. You were to bring it to me here!”

  “I am sorry. I must have misunderstood. Shall I go back and get it?”

  “No, too much time has already gone by,” he replied irritably. “Let me get my hat and coat.”

  The man called Smythe turned into his office and came back out a moment later. He and Veronica walked to the stairs and outside to the street in silence. Veronica led the way back to the hotel.

  “My room is on the third floor,” she said as they entered.

  “Just lead the way and let’s get this done,” snapped Smythe.

  Veronica walked to the stairs, with Smythe at her side, and up to the third floor. They emerged into the corridor. As they went, Smythe glanced ahead of them and saw a man fumbling with a black apparatus standing on a three-legged stand of some kind. Before he had a chance to wonder what it was, Veronica stopped and pulled out the key to her room.

  “You will have to wait here, Mr. Smythe,” she said. “I refuse to have a man come into my room. I am sorry, but it is a matter of principle. I will bring the packet to you here.”

  Shaking his head in yet greater annoyance, Smythe waited while Veronica disappeared inside. When she returned she was holding the envelope from Hirsch, via Boston, in her hand.

  She handed the packet toward him but did not let go of it. Instead she turned to face the end of the hall. Momentarily confused, Smythe turned also.

  A sudden flash of light and faint explosion sounded from ten feet away where the man and his strange contraption stood.

  “What was that?” exclaimed Smythe, now grabbing the envelope out of Veronica’s hand.

  “Hello, sir… madam,” said Seth, coming out from behind his camera and walking forward with a bright smile. “I am a photographer taking photos of tourists to our fair city. For only five dollars—”

  “I am no tourist, you imbecile!” exclaimed Smythe. “Keep your photographs to yourself. Get out of here and leave us alone!”

  Seth returned to his camera, where he hurriedly set one more charge of powder and quickly changed plates.

  “I understood, Mr. Smythe,” said Veronica, “that you would also be giving me something to take back to Mr. Garabaldi.”

  “Keep your voice down!” said Smythe in a low whisper, handing her another envelope. “We don’t use names. Did they tell you nothing!”

  Again a poof and flash of light came from the end of the corridor.

  Smythe spun around and stormed toward Seth.

  “I thought I told you to get out of here!” he cried. “If you aren’t out of here in seconds, I will destroy that thing!”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Seth, quickly grabbing his camera and tripod in both arms. “It won’t happen again.”

  He hurried past Smythe and down the hall and was soon out of sight.

  Smythe returned in a huff to where Veronica stood.

  “All right,” he said, “we each have what we came for. Tell Roberts next time to send someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  “What about the money, Mr. Smythe?”

  “Good heavens! It’s in the envelope—what did you think?”

  He turned and strode away. Veronica watched him until he turned around a corridor and disappeared from sight, then breathed a sigh of relief and went into her room to sit down and wait for Seth.

  Forty-Six

  Any decision, and the subsequent doing of one’s duty in the common exchanges of life as that decision is put into daily action, is the most direct way out of any mental or emotional desert. Doing one’s duty, no matter how seemingly insignificant the activity, because of duty’s other name, obedience, is the surest antidote to gloom.

  No sooner, therefore, had Cherity decided to proceed as planned with the sale of the house than her spirits began to brighten. The next morning she was down again at the black cabins—greeted by shouts of rejoicing by some of the children and becoming acquainted with a few new arrivals—telling stories and making herself helpful in whatever ways presented themselves with the needs of the underground community.

  Almost as if in response to her brighter outlook, a telegram arrived four days later from Mr. Glennie with surprising news:

  UNEXPECTED RESPONSE SHOWING INTEREST YOUR HOUSE. PRELIMINARY OFFER NEIGHBORHOOD EIGHT THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED. WITH CASH AND INVESTMENTS, NOT SUFFICIENT ACHIEVE STATED NEED TWELVE THOUSAND. PLEASE ADVISE PROCEED OR HOLD OUT HIGHER OFFER.

  R. GLENNIE.

  BOSTON.

  Cherity let out a long sigh as she read the message a second time. It was really happening. And far more quickly than she had thought possible. But if, as Mr. Glennie said, it wasn’t enough, would it do any good? And how urgent was the Davidsons’ need? Should she take this price or hope to get more? Eight thousand dollars seemed like a fortune, but it was not near the twelve thousand they said they needed.

  It took a day or two for Cherity to find Sydney alone.

  “I need to talk to you about something, Sydney,” she said. “Something serious.”

  “Of course, Cherity,” replied Sydney, “what is it?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you this or not, but… I don’t know what else to do. Maybe Mr. Davidson has told you all this, but… do you… are you aware of Gr
eenwood’s financial problems?”

  “Indirectly, I suppose,” answered Sydney. “I mean, Richmond and I have been struggling to find workers, and the crops aren’t bringing in as much as they should. I know he’s concerned. Beyond that… what exactly do you mean?”

  “Sydney… they are about to lose Greenwood,” Cherity blurted out.

  “Lose… what do you mean?”

  “Lose it, Sydney—the house, the land, everything.”

  “But why… how?”

  “They are behind on the payment of some loans. That’s all I know. Papers came about a month ago from a lawyer cousin of Mr. Davidson’s. Sydney, we can’t let it happen… not after all they have done for so many.”

  Sydney let out a long sigh, obviously stunned by what Cherity had told him.

  “Sydney,” added Cherity, “do you have any money?”

  “Not much,” replied Sydney, shaking his head, “only what Richmond has paid me since I’ve been here. We arrived at Greenwood penniless. I’ve probably saved fifty dollars. But it is theirs if they need it. Do you know how much they need?”

  “Not exactly. But it’s over twelve thousand dollars.”

  A low whistle sounded from Sydney’s lips. “That’s a fortune! Where would any of us come up with money like that?”

  “I think I can help with most of it,” said Cherity. “But do you think there is any way to find, say, a thousand dollars?”

  “I don’t know,” sighed Sydney again. “I know Richmond pays all the other workers. I can talk to them. Whether they have saved anything, or would be willing to pitch in… I don’t know… but… a thousand dollars!”

  “A little bit at a time… Who can tell? Maybe we need to ask God to turn what I have and your fifty dollars into twelve thousand.”

  “If you say so,” laughed Sydney. “So you pray, and I’ll talk to some of the others.”

  Cherity did pray.

  And because her thoughts were now focused away from her own confusion about Seth and Veronica and toward helping others, faith came in to bolster her prayers. As it bolstered her prayers it also bolstered her spirits. And as faith to believe on behalf of her friends blossomed within her, so too did her faith in her own faith. She began to realize afresh that she did believe. She did not believe in God because of Seth or even because of Richmond and Carolyn Davidson. They had been instrumental, of course, in helping her see things in new ways. But she believed in God because she believed in him—because she had come to know him, and knew that he was good and loving, knew that he cared about her and all men and women, and knew that he was a good Father and that she was created in his image to learn to be a good and trusting and obedient daughter.