A Perilous Proposal

by Michael Phillips

  They kept to the road toward town. About halfway to the Oakwood road, a horse trail wandered off to the right and up a fairly steep incline toward a thickly wooded slope that led to a place called Shenandoah Summit. They slowed as they reached the path. Could the riders have turned off?

  The torches were no longer visible. They stopped to listen. But with the breathing and movement of the horses, it was impossible to hear anything.

  Henry dismounted and ran a short distance from the others, cocked his head, then hurried back and jumped onto his horse again.

  “Dat’s dem,” he said. “Dey’s headin’ fo da summit!”

  They swung their horses off the road and followed the faint sound. They had to pick their way more carefully now, for the footing was uneven. But they pushed through the night as fast as they dared. About halfway to the summit, gradually the lights of burning torches again began to glow in front of them as they caught up with the mob. Two or three minutes later they halted. They could see better now. The riders had stopped. Several of them had taken their hoods off and were looping a rope above a high branch of a huge oak. Jeremiah was sitting helplessly on a horse’s back beneath it.

  There was some low talking, but most of the men were just waiting and watching. None had participated in a hanging before this night and possibly the long ride had jostled a few of their consciences out of their slumber. If so, they had not come awake enough to make themselves heard. No one spoke a word of objection.

  “What you want to do, Ward?” whispered Templeton.

  “All I need is to get close enough to have a few good shots,” replied Mr. Ward. “I think I like that direction over there,” he added, pointing to his right. “I’d rather be on the uphill side.”

  “What you want us ter do, Mr. Ward?” asked Henry.

  “I want you to stay out of sight, Henry,” replied Mr. Ward. “If they see you, you’ll be in the same fix as Jeremiah. You stay here and be ready to get Jeremiah’s horse if it goes wild.”

  “I kin do dat.”

  “I know you can. But keep your gun ready too. They may try to shoot Jeremiah if they see their hanging spoiled. You’ll have to shoot anyone who turns a gun on him first.”

  Henry did not reply. He had already shot a man to save Mayme’s life. There wasn’t much doubt he would do so again if he had to, to save his own son.

  In the meantime, Ward was thinking hard to come up with the best plan.

  “Templeton,” he said, “it’s a big gamble, but how’d you like to risk your life by walking out there and distracting their attention?”

  “I don’t think this is one I’ll be able to talk my way out of with my silver tongue, Ward, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “All I want is for you to buy me a minute or two. If I can sneak closer from up there while they’re watching you, I just might be able to do it. The light’s bad, but it’s the only chance we got.”

  “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

  A few seconds later they parted, Ward toward the uphill side of where the riders were gathered, Templeton in the opposite direction, and Henry remaining where he was trying to keep the horses quiet and watch. By now the rope was tied up over the branch and they were tightening the noose around Jeremiah’s neck. There wasn’t much time!

  When Templeton thought he had waited long enough, suddenly he walked out from among the trees straight into the lights from the burning torches.

  “Hey, look who’s here!” called out the man who first saw him, “—it’s the nigger-lover!”

  All the heads turned to see Templeton Daniels walking out of the woods toward them.

  “And look,” added another, “he’s got him a gun! Maybe he’s after some trouble himself!”

  “Now look, boys,” said Templeton, “I followed you out here to appeal one last time to your good judgment. You don’t need to do this. Do you really want murder on the conscience of this town? I’ll talk to the boy. I’ll tell him that he’s got to be more careful and watch—”

  “Look, Daniels,” interrupted a voice. “It’s too late for all that. He had his chance.”

  “Let’s string him up with him!” shouted a voice.

  “Shut up, Deke, you fool. We don’t want a white man’s blood on our hands.”

  “Watch what you call my boy, Sam,” now said the man who had led the charge into Rosewood.

  “Take it easy, Dwight, all I meant—”

  The brief argument went no further. Suddenly a shot rang out from the darkness behind them.

  Several of the horses whinnied and reared as everyone spun around. None had yet noticed the half-frayed strand of rope two feet above their captive’s head.

  A second shot followed.

  “What the—” yelled someone. But he was drowned out by more shouts of anger and confusion. No one yet realized that at the first shot, Templeton Daniels had sprinted back for the cover of the trees. He now lay on the ground with his own rifle cocked and ready.

  A third shot split the rope at the same moment the horse bearing Jeremiah bolted, leaving him dangling momentarily from the tree.

  Suddenly frightened and angered as well as confused, some of the men tried to fight back. But they could see nothing of their enemy. They peered into the night as they drew their pistols. But no sooner had they lifted their guns from their holsters than—

  Bang! one, then . . .

  Bang! two . . .

  . . . and guns were flying from their hands!

  “I’m hit!” cried one of the gunmen. His torch fell to the ground as he grabbed the wound. “My hand’s broken! I’m not waiting around to get killed!”

  Five shots had now been fired from the woods. Two more sent another pistol and one rifle to the ground. More yells mingled with the echoing explosions. Then came a volley of shots from Templeton’s rifle on the opposite side. The riders realized they were caught in the crossfire of a gunfight they could not hope to win.

  “Let’s get out of here!” cried three at once. They bolted after the first rider, who was already disappearing down the trail past Henry without even seeing him.

  As their lights bounded away, the torch that had fallen still flickered enough to give a little light. Ward, Henry, and Templeton hurried out from different sides of the woods.

  “That was some shooting, Ward!” said Templeton.

  Mr. Ward nodded. “Don’t remind me,” he said. “I just hope I never have to use one of these again.”

  But Henry ran past them and stooped to the ground to see if they were in time.

  DECISION OF LOVE

  58

  How long we waited back in the kitchen at Rosewood, I couldn’t say. It seemed like ten hours!

  Finally it was Josepha who cried, “I hear sumfin— dey’s comin’!”

  We all ran out the door and looked out. As the riders gradually came into view I realized with sickening horror that I only saw three horses.

  No! I cried, and ran out into the night. My heart was in an agony of grief. Had I found love only to lose it like this? I was sobbing as I ran. Gradually the forms of the three riders came into clearer focus. It was my papa, Mr. Ward, and Henry. There was no sign of—

  But then Henry stopped and began to dismount.

  Another rider sat on his horse! He had been sitting behind him!

  “Jeremiah!” I shrieked.

  Henry had barely managed to help him to the ground when I pushed past him and threw my arms around Jeremiah’s shoulders.

  I was so deliriously happy at that moment that if the question of marriage had come up right then I would have married Jeremiah in an instant! I was so relieved and happy and excited and full of love, nothing else mattered.

  And actually, the subject did come up again. You’ll probably be surprised when I tell you that it was me who brought it up. I don’t suppose it was too ladylike for me to be so forward. But who cared about being ladylike at a time like this! I was just so happy Jeremiah was safe.

  The firs
t chance I got, after a couple days when he had recovered and felt better and we could talk alone, I told Jeremiah what I was thinking.

  “Jeremiah,” I said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

  “About what?”

  “About not marrying you yet. If you still want me to, I’ve decided that I am ready to marry you whenever you want.”

  Now it was Jeremiah who didn’t say anything, but looked away. He had a funny expression on his face. Suddenly a terrible thought struck me—maybe he didn’t want to marry me now! Had I just made a big fool of myself for saying what I had!

  All I could do was wait to find out what he was thinking.

  “I .. . uh,” Jeremiah began. “I, uh . . . don’t know exactly how ter say dis .. . but I been thinkin’ about it eber since da other night . . . an’ now it’s me whose changed my mind—”

  Jeremiah saw the look of shock and dismay on my face.

  “It ain’t like dat!” he said. “I hope you’s not mistakin’ my meanin’. I ain’t changed my mind about you. I want ter marry you more den eber. It’s jes’ too perilous, Mayme. So now it’s me who ain’t ready yet. I’m thinking dat it jes’ ain’t safe yet wiff all dis.”

  Finally I understood. I should have realized how shaken he had been by what had happened.

  “Dis danger ain’t gwine go away,” he went on. “Ter git married now wud mean puttin’ you in da middle ob dat danger too. I can’t do dat. I love you too much.”

  By now I was crying. For someone who didn’t used to think I was emotional, I sure cried a lot!

  Slowly Jeremiah took me in his arms and held me. How can I possibly describe all the feelings that were going through me at that moment! In a strange way I almost felt a quieter joy than when he had asked me to marry him. I felt so content and safe in his arms. He was looking out for me. He wanted to protect me. He was thinking of me even more than of himself.

  I felt loved!

  Jeremiah loved me enough not to marry me. He loved me so much that he would rather not marry me to protect me than to marry me and have it be dangerous for me. What a lucky girl I was to be loved that much.

  “I love you, Mayme,” he said softly in my ear.

  “I love you too, Jeremiah.”

  “Our time’ll come, an’ it’ll be da right time.”

  I stepped back, wiped my eyes, and smiled. “You’re a good man, Jeremiah Patterson,” I said. “I’m sure glad you found Carolina, so I could find you!”

  ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

  59

  Jeremiah talked to my papa again the next day and told him what he’d decided and what he’d said to me and that we’d decided to wait.

  “I’ve been thinking about it all too,” said my papa. “You’re right about the danger not going away. And I’m not altogether comfortable with you and Henry so far away from us and in town by yourselves.”

  “But what kin we do, Mr. Templeton?”

  “Ward and I have been thinking that maybe it’s time you went to work for us.”

  “I ain’t sure I knows wha’chu mean, Mr. Templeton.”

  “What I’m saying is that you’re working for Rosewood from now on. And if you’re going to work here, you ought to live at Rosewood too.”

  “You mean it, Mr. Templeton!”

  “Ward and I’ve already got it figured out. We’ll fix up the best of the old slave cabins. You and your pa can use it like it’s your own. You can stay here, or at Henry’s place in town, however you like. You’re also going to each have a horse of your own, so that if you need to get here fast, you’ll be able to.”

  “But won’t all dat put you in more danger too?”

  “We’ll handle it together,” said my papa. “If you’re going to marry my daughter someday, I need to keep an eye on you!”

  When I heard about it, of course I was happier than I could be.

  And that’s how two more boarders came to stay at Rosewood, though Henry kept his quarters and job at the livery in town too.

  Even though Jeremiah and I weren’t married, I got to see him and work with him and talk with him every day. That couldn’t help but make us all the more ready to be married someday.

  I hadn’t thought my little family at Rosewood could get any better.

  But it had! Jeremiah was now part of it too!

  EPILOGUE

  MRS. ELFRIDA HAMMOND, OWNER OF THE GENERAL store in Greens Crossing, North Carolina, and keeper of the town’s post office, took her responsibility seriously.

  If the United States government, now that there was only one government again, entrusted her with so sacred an obligation as to distribute its mail, then it was her solemn duty to know everyone in the community so that the mail went where it was supposed to.

  Along with that duty, she also tried to know everything about everyone.

  Whether or not the government would have felt it important, that was the greatest benefit of her job. It was certainly more rewarding than the small fee she received each month for her services. Her deepest satisfaction came from the knowledge that her gossip-loving mind managed to pick up from day to day. It gave her the delicious power in the community she imagined she held.

  She gained her information any way she could. It might be from snatches of overheard conversation or the memory of a return address—and she read every one the moment the mail was delivered and had a brain that never forgot such details. Or it might be from a letter held up to the light to see what she could see through the envelope. Or she might learn something from all the informal questions—seemingly innocent but each calculated to add to her storehouse of information on every resident for miles—she made part of her transactions with every man, woman, or child who walked through her door. However she did it, Mrs. Hammond’s devious mind was in a constant state of activity concerning everyone else’s affairs.

  But it was not merely possessing information that fed her obsession. She must do something with it. Thus she doled it out in whatever circumstances would add to her own supposed stature in the minds of those she chose to share her secrets with. She liked to be seen as the one “in the know.” To hold such influence placed her at the center of the life of the community.

  That her preoccupation with town gossip was but a disguise for her own loneliness was a sad fact Mrs. Hammond would not have guessed in a hundred years. Whether there was anyone she would have regarded as a friend, it was certain that no one in the town considered her their friend. She had not been invited to dinner after church except once, and that was years ago, by Reverend Hall and his wife. Whether she felt the aloneness of her existence during the long winter nights in her small sitting room above the store, no one could have said. But when every new day came, she was there to greet the morning’s first customer when he or she walked through her door with the optimism of her twin callings—to sell and to learn.

  But even Mrs. Hammond had her scruples.

  She was a Southerner through and through. She didn’t like all this business with colored people coming and going as if they were like everyone else.

  She couldn’t decide whether it was the war and President Lincoln who had changed everything in Greens Crossings, or those two girls out at the Rosewood plantation who went around like they were friends, pretending that skin color didn’t matter.

  There was no doubt—things had changed because of them. And those two Daniels brothers! They were the worst of the lot. They should know better.

  It seemed that there was always somebody new coming to town, and that it always had to do with those two girls! First it had been the dandy from the North, Rosalind Clairborne’s brother, God rest her soul. Then Mr. Clairborne’s brother from Charlotte, God rest Rosalind’s husband’s poor soul too. Then Rosalind’s other brother from California. Then that son of Henry’s.

  Would it never end!

  For all she was concerned, everyone at Rosewood could just stay away from Greens Crossing forever!

  Yes, Mrs. Hammond had her scruples. And most of them ha
d to do with black people and poor people. She had no use for either.

  So when the bell rang and Mrs. Hammond glanced up to see who was walking through her door early in the year 1869, her first response was to tilt her nose slightly in the air. No smile would greet this customer on this day.

  Whatever information he might either need or possess, she wasn’t interested. For he was a black man. She had never seen him before, and good riddance.

  “Morning to you, ma’am,” he said. “Might you point me in the direction of the livery?”

  “It smells like you just came from there,” she retorted. She sniffed once or twice with an unpleasant expression.

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’ve been traveling awhile.”

  “It’s down that way,” said Mrs. Hammond, pointing along the street, wrinkling her nose again.

  The man thanked her, turned, and left. From force of habit, she wandered to the window and watched him slowly make his way in the direction she had pointed. She muttered a few comments to herself, then returned to her counter.

  Hoping she had seen the last of him, Mrs. Hammond could not know that this stranger would cause a greater stir in Greens Crossing than all the rest.

  He did not yet know it himself. But his presence would bring mysteries to light that Mrs. Hammond herself could never have dreamed—secrets that would turn this community, and even the whole state, on its ear.

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  * * *

  CALIFORNIAN MICHAEL PHILLIPS BEGAN HIS DISTINGUISHED writing career in the 1970s. He came to widespread public attention in the early 1980s for his efforts to reacquaint the public with Victorian novelist George MacDonald. Phillips is recognized as the man most responsible for the current worldwide renaissance of interest in the once-forgotten Scotsman and is one of the world’s foremost experts on MacDonald. After partnering with Bethany House Publishers in redacting and republishing the works of MacDonald, Phillips embarked on his own career in fiction, and it is primarily as a novelist that he is now known. His critically acclaimed books have been translated into eight foreign languages, have appeared on numerous bestseller lists, and have sold more than six million copies. Phillips is today considered by many as the heir apparent to the very MacDonald legacy he has worked so hard to promote in our time. Phillips is the author of the most widely read biography of George MacDonald, entitled George MacDonald, Scotland’s Beloved Storyteller. Phillips is also the publisher of the magazine Leben, a periodical dedicated to bold-thinking Christianity and the legacy of George MacDonald. A Perilous Proposal is Phillips’ 48th original novel and 102nd published work. Phillips and his wife, Judy, alternate their time between their home in Eureka, California, and Scotland, where they hope to increase awareness of MacDonald’s work.