American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

“I didn’t bring it here to return it to you, Denton. I am not altogether sure it rightfully belongs to you at all.”

  “Now you’re calling me a liar!” exploded Beaumont.

  “I think you heard me, Denton, and I said nothing of the sort. I only said that I am not sure this paper is rightfully yours. Where, may I ask, did you come by it?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “It may be both of our business, Denton.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just this—that this piece of paper once belonged to my father. He told me that it had been given to him by Mr. Brown. Then suddenly it disappeared. I would like to know how it came into your possession.”

  “Your brother gave it to me. What of it? How he came by it I didn’t ask.”

  “What was his purpose in giving it to you?”

  “He said he thought Brown had buried something and this was the map to it.”

  “So naturally you and he considered stealing it your prerogative… since he was an Indian?”

  “He and I were young, for God’s sake! What of it? We smelled adventure and thought we would dig up buried treasure. All boys have such dreams. By heaven, I’ll warrant you’ve had them too! It’s hardly worth making such a fuss over.”

  “You and Clifford were hardly boys at the time.”

  “So, what of it! The man was an old fool of an Indian. We were just having a little fun. Why shouldn’t we have looked for whatever it was?”

  “Did you and Clifford look for the treasure… together?” asked Richmond pointedly.

  “I told you we did!”

  “You looked for it together… using this map? I thought you said Clifford gave it to you. Why did he give it to you to keep if you were searching together and if it wasn’t yours?” Richmond’s early legal training and logical mind were still keen.

  Beaumont began to squirm slightly. He realized that Richmond was by degrees drawing the noose closer around his neck and that he must be a little more guarded with his words.

  “That’s… that’s a good question,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I should have asked him. Unfortunately, it did not occur to me at the time. And it is too late to go back and ask him now.”

  “So he gave you the piece of map, you went searching for what you thought was Brown’s buried treasure together, then you kept the map and went home, and… what then? Did you ever see my brother again?

  “No. You know as well as I do that he was found after he fell off his horse.”

  “What do you suppose he was doing back out there?”

  “How the devil should I know! Maybe he went back to search again. Maybe he was trying to cut me out.”

  “But by then he didn’t have the bit of map to search from.”

  “How should I know what he was thinking!”

  “Strange, doesn’t it seem, if he planned to continue his search, that he would give you the piece of map?”

  “I can’t read his mind! I always maintained that Brown had something to do with it. I’ve said so publicly. I have no idea what happened.”

  Richmond sat a moment quietly thinking.

  “All right then, Denton,” he said. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very patient with my questions. I think I have a clearer understanding of things now.”

  He glanced across Beaumont’s desk where lay a rolled leather skin. “You, uh… won’t mind,” he added, pointing toward it, “my taking that skin painting that you borrowed from the Brown house?”

  Taken by surprise at the directness of the accusation, Beaumont erupted in anger.

  “Go to the devil!” he shouted.

  “I hope to avoid such a contingency,” replied Richmond calmly. “I would, however, like to restore Mr. Brown’s painting above his mantel where he left it.”

  “Take it then and be off with you!”

  Richmond rose, picked up the rolled skin from Beaumont’s desk, then left the office and showed himself downstairs and out of the house.

  Sixty-Four

  The night after her visit to the site of the crash, Cherity lay awake in Mrs. Walton’s bed, clean and finally warm again and reliving the events of the day. Even before she drifted off to sleep, her mind was made up.

  She told Mrs. Walton of her decision the next morning as they were dishing bacon and porridge and biscuits onto tin plates to serve the wounded men lying in Mrs. Walton’s parlor.

  “I’ve decided to go home,” she said. “I’ve looked everywhere. There’s no place else. I feel so helpless. I have a dreadful feeling that Seth is dead. I don’t think I can bear to be alone when I find out for sure.”

  Mrs. Walton opened her arms and gave Cherity a hug.

  “I hope you find him, dear. You’re too young to have to face the kind of tragedy I have. Thank you for your help.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Walton. You’ve helped me feel at home while I’ve been away.”

  “When will you go?”

  “Today.”

  “I think I will miss you, Cherity,” said the woman kindly. “Some of these poor men will too. I know you came to find your own young man, but in these two days you’ve given them a ray of sunlight and a reason to hope.”

  Cherity smiled. “When does the eastbound train come through for Augusta?”

  “Both east and west come through about two o’clock,” replied Mrs. Walton. “There’s two lines that run for several miles so the trains can pass.”

  Cherity nodded. “Then I suppose two o’clock it is.”

  An expression came over Mrs. Walton’s face, as if she had something more to say but wasn’t sure whether to say it.

  “Have you spoken with Reverend Wilcott?” she asked at length.

  “Only briefly,” replied Cherity.

  “I haven’t wanted to mention it, dear, but… well, he’s kept a list of all the dead whose families he’s tried to contact. You might…”

  She did not finish.

  Cherity understood her meaning well enough.

  “I will talk to him on my way to the station,” she said.

  When Richard and Veronica Fitzpatrick had walked into what had been Garabaldi’s Restaurant in Washington over a month earlier, Richard knew from Veronica’s demeanor that something serious was on her mind. She had given all the money from her private bank account to Union authorities to be used for the care of war wounded, keeping back five dollars to take Richard to dinner and try to explain everything that had happened.

  “You know my friend from back home, Seth Davidson,” began Veronica when they were seated with a bottle of wine on the table between them, “and that man Mr. Hirsch whom I don’t think you liked too well?”

  Richard nodded.

  “Well, it all began on my eighteenth birthday when my parents threw me a huge party. At the time I thought I loved Seth, but he had the good sense to realize that he didn’t love me. And somehow Cecil Hirsch had managed to wrangle himself an invitation….”

  The story she unfolded was as incredible for the change it had wrought in Veronica as for the events themselves. She was humbled, contrite, embarrassed, and apologetic, and Richard could hardly find it in his heart to be angry with her.

  “I am so sorry, Richard,” said Veronica, with even a few tears spilling out of her eyes. “I cannot believe how foolish and stupid I was. Please forgive me.”

  Richard smiled and reached across the table and took her hand. “You did the right thing in the end,” he said. “I think I need to offer you an apology too.”

  “You… what for?”

  “I allowed myself to become far too busy. I was away too much and did not stop to consider the effect on you of suddenly being in a strange environment and being alone. So I too ask your forgiveness.”

  “Oh, Richard, you were just doing your job, but… thank you.”

  Veronica was thoughtful a moment.

  “I want to make up for what I have done somehow,” she said. “I have been thinking of volunteering in the h
ospitals and clinics, wherever I might be useful with the wounded. What would you think?”

  “I think that is a fine idea,” replied Richard. “But… that sort of thing has not exactly been your forte… could you do it?”

  “I don’t know, but I would like to try. I’ve changed, Richard. Or at least I want to change. The old Veronica couldn’t have worked with the wounded but I hope the new Veronica will have the courage and good sense to put the needs of others ahead of her own.”

  Veronica returned again to Oakbriar during Cherity’s time away, this time accompanied by Richard. When he returned to Washington Veronica went instead to Richmond where she served on and off throughout the rest of the war in the city’s hospitals.

  Meanwhile, Cecil Hirsch remained at large and Union authorities had not been able to lay their hands on him.

  However, a man in a white suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat, sporting an outsized mustache and speaking in a thick Southern drawl, had been seen stepping off a train in St. Louis answering to the name Cyrus Hunt.

  He had gone by many names in his time, but that for which he was most widely known he would probably never be able to use again.

  Sixty-Five

  Cherity had been away from Greenwood now for a week. It was with a heavy heart that she said her final good-byes several hours later and, again with carpetbag in hand, walked from Mrs. Walton’s farmhouse back into town and to Rev. Wilcott’s church. Neither Nurse Beech nor Dick Garr were anywhere to be seen.

  “You’re the young lady who’s been helping out with the wounded?” said the minister as she walked in.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered. “I’ve been looking for a young man I have reason to think might have been involved in the train accident. But I’ve searched all the wards in Bend and Jefferson’s Crossing and there is no trace of him. I… uh, Mrs. Walton told me that you’ve been writing to the families of those who were killed…”

  “Those I could locate.”

  “She said you’ve kept a list of the dead.”

  “That’s right,” nodded Rev. Wilcott.

  “I wondered… I mean, may I look at your list?”

  “Of course.”

  He disappeared into his office and returned a few moments later holding two sheets of paper.

  Cherity took a deep breath, then took them from him. Fearfully and with heart pounding, she began scanning the list of names. The minister waited patiently, half expecting for one of the callings of his office soon to be required of him—consoling the bereaved.

  He was relieved when he saw Cherity reach the end of the second page of names and exhale a sigh of relief. She looked up, smiled weakly, and handed the papers back to him.

  “I take it his name is not here?” said Rev. Wilcott.

  “No,” replied Cherity. “I am desperate to find any news of him, but I’m glad I found nothing here. I suppose, then, that it’s time for me to go home.”

  “Have you been to the hospital?” asked the minister.

  “Uh… what hospital?” said Cherity.

  “Further east… in Jonesborough. It’s where they sent the worst of the cases.”

  “The… worst. There were worse than I’ve seen here?”

  “Oh, much worse. Some needed operations… gangrene, infection… cases where we thought amputation was needed… Dick Garr had his hands full as things were. He wasn’t equipped for the most severely wounded… brain injuries when men didn’t know who they were. You can imagine how impossible it was to notify families when a wounded man didn’t even know his own name. And,” he added grimly, “there were many we knew we couldn’t save no matter what we did.”

  Cherity gulped. “How… this hospital,” she asked, “how far is it?”

  “Eight or ten miles east… it’s in Jonesborough, next stop along the line west.”

  Cherity sighed. “It is the last thing I want to do… but maybe I should take one more day and look there too. I won’t be able to rest if there’s someplace I haven’t been.”

  “Prepare yourself, miss,” said Rev. Wilcott. “It’s no place for the faint of heart. It can be a terrible shock if you’ve never seen such sights before.”

  With a sinking feeling, Cherity walked out of the church building and made her way again through town to the train station where she had arrived three days before.

  All the way as she went the minister’s words sounded in her brain, It’s where they sent the worst of the cases… terrible shock if you’ve never seen such sights before… men didn’t know who they were… many we knew we couldn’t save no matter what we did.

  After what she had already seen, she could not imagine how much worse it could be! She wasn’t sure she had the courage to face the truth if Seth were among them.

  Why not just go home as she had planned? Get a ticket east for Columbia and go home! But… what if Seth was one of those who couldn’t remember who he was? She had to find out if he was there.

  Cherity walked to the ticket window. There stood the tall thin boy she had seen when she arrived.

  “Where to, miss?” he said, glancing up at her.

  “When does the eastbound for Augusta and Columbia arrive?”

  “’Bout an hour… just before the west.”

  Cherity thought a moment longer.

  “Give me a ticket…” she began, then hesitated again, “—a ticket to Jonesborough.”

  “That’s the westbound, miss. I thought you said you was heading east.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “All right, if you say so… that’ll be four bits.”

  Cherity paid him, took her ticket, then turned and walked out onto the platform. As she waited, doubts again assaulted her. A terrible sense of foreboding came over her that maybe the hospital in Jonesborough might indeed contain the answers she had come to find. But did she really want to know?

  Was she brave enough to discover the truth?

  A whistle sounded in the distance. She glanced along the line and saw a few puffs of white smoke amongst the trees from the approaching train.

  The station boy walked out onto the platform and glanced eastward, then down at his watch.

  “Hmm… that’s some peculiar,” he mumbled. “Here comes the westbound, miss,” he said. “That’s your train. Looks like the eastbound’s late. You might have to wait a spell after you board till it gets here so’s the trains can pass.”

  A few minutes later the train came into the station, slowed, and came to a screeching stop amid a great blast of steam from under the wheels. Two or three passengers got off, then Cherity boarded the last of three cars. She walked in and set her things on an empty seat and sat down to wait.

  After about five minutes a whistle sounded from the opposite direction. The eastbound was finally pulling in. With a few final lingering doubts that she should have taken the other train, Cherity sat waiting. But it was too late now. Her fate, at least for what was left of this day and tomorrow, lay at the hospital in Jonesborough.

  A few seconds later she felt the wheels jerk into motion beneath her. She looked out the window again as slowly the train began to inch its way out of the station, then stood and walked to the back of the car. She opened the door and went outside and stood beside the rail looking out at the town she was leaving.

  Her gaze went to the spire of Rev. Wilcott’s church in the distance. Then on the adjacent track, the two trains met. The engines passed. A few seconds later Cherity’s gaze was interrupted by the movement close beside her. First the engine rumbled slowly by, then one by one the passenger coaches.

  As brakes ground the incoming locomotive to a stop, her own eastbound gradually accelerated out of the station. Absently Cherity stared into the windows of the train slowing next to her, vaguely seeing people seated inside but hardly able to focus on them.

  She turned her gaze again out toward Jefferson’s Crossing. Though it had only been three days, she felt like she was leaving a piece of her behind in this place. If she found nothing in Jo
nesborough and returned in the opposite direction through here tomorrow or the next day, would she stop or just stay aboard the train and travel through?

  Clattering along now, she drew even with the last car of the eastbound, as it screeched to a final stop.

  A lone figure stood at the railing on the back rail just like she stood… he looking out in one direction, she in the other.

  Her eyes unconsciously flitted toward him. He was a young man, like so many others she had seen, arm and shoulder bandaged, leg bound and wrapped, leaning on a single crutch. Her eyes drifted up to the wounded man’s face and his blond hair. It seemed like he was trying to say something, but the train on the tracks beneath her were too loud for her to hear him.

  And why was he suddenly waving his hand so frantically? Someone must be meeting him at the station.

  Absently she smiled to herself. Her brain was playing tricks on her… it almost looked like—

  A sudden gasp sent Cherity’s brain spinning. She opened her mouth… she tried to shout… nothing came out. She was breathing hysterically… her mouth was dry… she began to feel faint.

  The man was waving his good arm and shouting… he was shouting at her!

  Cherity… Cherity! But they were unreal dream words. They sounded far off… mingled with the clanging of iron upon iron beneath her.

  Her brain swam in light. A dream… only a dream. Her head swirled in dizzying confusion.

  Cherity stood paralyzed. She could not move nor speak. Slowly the dreamy frantically waving figure spinning in light grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

  But then suddenly she woke from her stupor. She turned and hurried back into the coach. She grabbed her carpetbag from the seat and dashed back out the rear door. The station of Jefferson’s Crossing had disappeared from her sight.

  She stood for a moment again at the rail.

  “Oh… oh, God… help me!” she stammered in a frenzy of confusion.

  Not pausing to think, she unlatched the bar across the platform. She stepped down the two stairs where the tracks were speeding beneath her, then threw her bag from her. Mightily summoning more courage than she thought possible, Cherity drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and leapt.