“Of course. But I would say that they are involved in politics as honorable citizens, not as Christians. If I choose to say yes to this offer, I would agree as a citizen trying to do good, not as a Christian trying to carry out Christ’s commission through what is essentially a worldly institution. The former, in my opinion, is a legitimate role for a Christian to occupy, while the latter I feel is an impossibility.”
“I had not thought of that distinction before,” said Carolyn.
“The Lord’s commission is to make disciples. That cannot be accomplished through worldly means, politics included. Though many nations have tried, like the Romans in the fourth century and the Russians in the tenth, spirituality cannot be legislated. As both the emperor and the tsar discovered, there is no such thing as a so-called Christian nation. What I have to decide is whether to run for office as a citizen who happens to be a Christian.”
“In that case, then,” said Carolyn, “I think you should say yes. I see no conflict at all. Your wisdom and compassion would be so valuable for our state in what are bound to be difficult times ahead. Your presence in the Senate could mean nothing but good for the whole country.”
Richmond laughed. “I am surprised to hear you talk so! I thought you would be apprehensive about the change my running for the Senate would bring to us, to our family, to the life we have here.”
“Of course I am concerned,” said Carolyn. “But you could do so much good. It would hardly be fair for me to keep you all to myself if the country beckons.”
“Have you considered the implications to you if I accept? Do you want to move to Washington and find yourself in the thick of the social vortex as a senator’s wife?”
“Ugh… no!” laughed Carolyn. “Couldn’t you just go by yourself?”
“And be away from you six or nine months of the year—not a chance!”
“If God is truly calling you to this, we will both have to make whatever sacrifices are necessary. I am certainly not eager to leave Greenwood. But we can adjust. Times change. Maybe we have to change too.”
“Don’t start packing yet,” laughed Richmond. “I am far from convinced that God is calling me to it. As much as the citizen half of me wants to jump at it, my Christian self carries the tie-breaking vote.”
“When do you have to give them an answer?”
“They didn’t set a deadline. The election is over a year away. There is no hurry. I just have to do the right thing. I have to choose between the good that I can do here in my own small sphere of influence, and the good that I might be able to do in Washington. Does God want me to widen my sphere? Or are the urgings I feel in that direction merely the urgings of men?”
“Why do you say that?”
“It was obvious from the meeting that they hadn’t selected me because of my wisdom and compassion, as you say, but rather for political reasons—to advance their own political agenda.”
“What agenda specifically?”
“That of the South—making sure that slavery survives and that the interests of the South are not swallowed up by Northern antislavery interests.”
“Could you promote the interests of the South?”
“To an extent, of course. I am a loyal Virginian. But how far I could do so… who can answer such questions in advance? I could tell that they were doing their best to appeal to my pride. So another question I ask myself is whether it would be dishonest of me to pursue it, knowing that my motives would be different from theirs. No doubt they would expect me to be a mere puppet for their aims, and yet I would have to follow my conscience.”
“Once in Washington, you would have to follow your conscience. I cannot see how they could expect otherwise.”
“I don’t know,” said Richmond. “If I were to go against the expectations of the very men who put me in the Senate, they would not be pleased. I would be assured of being ousted after a single term.”
“What is wrong with that?”
“Maybe nothing, but why not just avoid such a conflict altogether and say no from the outset? How honest am I being with them if I consider their political aims against my conscience?”
“Are their pro-Southern interests in conflict with your conscience?”
“I don’t know. Probably not yet. But what if that situation arose in the future?”
“You don’t know that it would.”
“You’re right. But I do know that they don’t care about me as a man, and about what I believe and stand for. They are only looking to advance the pro-slavery interests of the South. I am fairly certain that they would expect to dictate my every move.”
“Could you be comfortable with that?”
“I am not sure. In routine matters, of course. In larger matters that might come up… there again is the matter of my conscience, as well as what role Senator Hoyt, as Virginia’s senior senator, would occupy in the whole thing.”
It fell silent for a few moments.
“It is a complex decision,” said Carolyn at length. “I think my inclination is still that you should do it. The world needs more voices like yours to be heard.”
“I agree,” nodded Richmond. “But does politics represent the best means to be heard? It is certainly the most visible podium from which to speak. But might God have another and better—less visible perhaps—means for me to convey his truth? I don’t have the answer. But that seems to be the pivotal question before me.”
Twelve
High summer came to Virginia. The sun beat down, humid heat rose from the fields, and sweat dripped from the bare chests, backs, and foreheads of slaves throughout the South as they dug and tilled and hoed and reaped and gathered in endless fields of tobacco and cotton that made the largest of landowners wealthy. Whether their taskmasters were kind or cruel, the fields were hot. The work was long. The life was tedious. And none could envision an end to such a system where men of one color considered it honorable before God to own men and women of another race, and to do with them as they wished.
But there were men in the midst of this evil whose consciences had begun to stir. Times were changing, though all such change must advance one individual at a time.
Whenever truth begins to emerge onto a higher plane, there are those who close their eyes to the wonder of its possibilities. Strange to tell, many prefer a dead conscience to a live obedience. They will fight to the death to preserve an old order with self-will at the helm, or to prop up a stale theology where narrow dogma provides the ruling dictum. All God’s highest principles are wide-embracing truths, however, not constricting ones, as all hearts that love Fatherhood above the traditions of their elders must recognize before the light of eternity breaks at last upon them.
When the consciences of enough men and women come awake, the history of nations groans and trembles toward higher realms of decency and freedom. Yet it does not do so without conflict. The conflict of such an awakening of decency was even now on the horizon for this, one of the world’s youngest nations—a clash that would test whether its foundational pillars of freedom would endure… or crumble.
Richmond Davidson knew that it was finally time to tell his neighbor, Denton Beaumont, about the meeting in North Carolina at the estate of Congressman Hargrove. He had waited far too long. He had not wanted to cloud his own decision with his friend’s potential reaction. Now that his mind was made up, he was ready to face Denton. But he was not looking forward to the exchange.
Midway through one hot day in late June, he mounted his favorite mare, a white four-year-old Shagya Arabian of fifteen hands whom he called Moonwhite, for she had been born in the middle of the night of a full moon. He was in no hurry. He rode first northward from the stables, across the ridge toward that portion of his land that had once belonged to Mr. Brown, then circled back south, climbing the ridge again from a northerly direction, circling around below Harper’s Peak, then moving eastward toward Oakbriar.
His mood on this day suited itself to a long ride. He knew Denton would not be pleased
with what he had to tell him. That, along with reminders of the offer that had been made and what he had decided to do about it, made him thoughtful about many things.
As he went, he reflected on these byways he and his brother and neighbor had explored together. He had not consciously thought of it before, yet as he rode, many memories returned to him of the year or two prior to his leaving to study at Oxford. For the first time he saw that he had already begun to drift apart from the other two. Perhaps he and Denton had never really had as much in common as he once thought. It was not just the fact that he was younger. If anything, the slight differences in their years should have vanished as they grew older. That it did not revealed deeper divisions between them than mere age. The realization made the memories bittersweet and increased all the more today’s reluctance to tell his friend what had transpired.
Richmond Davidson rarely set aside specific seasons for prayer. His communion with his Father was unstructured and did not often form itself into specifically worded petitions. But that did not mean he was not a man of prayer. Quite the contrary. He brought God into everything, made the unspoken What do you think about this, Lord? the guiding principle to lead his mind wherever it went. Beneath the surface of active conscious thought, the continual prayer, God, infuse me with your perspective, your outlook, your purpose, and your desire for me, informed his every waking moment. His was an outlook that sought not its own will in the affairs of his life, but the will of Another.
Deep spiritual and mental activity had churned below the surface of the preceding months as Richmond wrestled with his decision on many levels. It only complicated matters that he and Carolyn had taken different points of view. They did not disagree often, and they never did so with vehemence. Yet his respect for his wife’s perspectives made going against them all the more difficult. At long last he had finally made up his mind just the night before.
By the time he descended the northeast slope of the ridge and began to clear the trees and move down into cultivated fields and pastureland, the roofs of Oakbriar at last materializing in the distance, he was calm, at peace both with his decision and what lay ahead, and looking forward to the discovery of what God might have for him in new directions of life’s adventure.
As he rode into the precincts of the Beaumont plantation, yells and shouts coming from somewhere jarred harshly against the quietness within Richmond Davidson’s spirit. Voices were raised in anger. He heard the crack of a whip followed by a cry of pain.
He dug his heels into his mare’s sides and galloped toward the fray.
As he came into sight of the stables, he saw several of Beaumont’s men standing in a semicircle watching some commotion in their midst. The plantation owner himself was in front of them, horsewhip in hand. The shouts Davidson heard came from the mouth of his friend.
“Get on your feet, you good for nothing—,” Beaumont cried.
A violent sting from the leather whip came crashing down, and another terrified howl of pain burst out. At Beaumont’s feet, a Negro knelt in the dirt, hands covering his face in desperation to keep the leather tongs from his eyes, bare back riddled with open, bloody wounds.
“Please, massa,” he whimpered, “I’s say nuffin no mo effen—”
Again the whip split the skin of the man’s shoulders with all the force his owner could summon. This time the man’s body shuddered, but he did not cry out, then at last slumped into the dirt, apparently unconscious.
Beaumont continued to whip fiercely at the lump of half-clothed humanity.
“Get up!” he cried. “Stand and face your punishment like a man! Get up, I tell you!”
Again and yet again the hard leather cracked down on the prostrate body. Even Beaumont’s men, who had all made free enough use of the whip themselves, were finding their stomachs growing queasy at the sight, though none dared utter a word in protest. Beaumont’s fury had risen to such a frenzy that he did not hear the horse ride up, nor see its rider swiftly dismount in a cloud of trailing dust and rush toward the scene.
He raised the whip again above his head to deliver another punishing blow. Suddenly he felt his arm arrested in midair. A strong grip took hold of his wrist and held it fast.
“For the love of God, Denton, stop!” cried a voice behind him. “The poor man is senseless!”
Beaumont spun around, yanking his wrist free. In the same motion he raised the leather against whatever interfering fool dared come between him and one of his slaves. He was about to strike when his flaming eyes came to rest on the face of his friend standing less than two feet from him.
He paused, eyes flashing, whip poised, breathing heavily.
“Denton… please,” said Davidson in a calm voice and with expression—though worlds different at root—equal to Beaumont’s in intensity. “You don’t need to do this. There are other ways. Whatever he has done, surely you have punished him enough.”
Having spoken, he now walked slowly around Beaumont, whose arm was still upraised, and knelt beside the slave who lay crumpled on the ground. The man had not moved a muscle throughout the last several blows.
Recovering himself, mortified to appear weak in front of his men, Beaumont’s anger quickly boiled over again.
“With their kind, there are no other ways!” he yelled. “Now get out of my way, Richmond—this is none of your affair. If you don’t have the stomach for it, go inside until I am done.” He grabbed at Davidson’s shoulder to restrain him.
Davidson stood and faced him but did not move aside. “Denton, please,” he repeated in a yet quieter tone than before, “this man is unconscious. If you continue to whip him, he will die. Surely you don’t want murder on your conscience.”
“My conscience is my own affair!” shouted Beaumont. “As are my slaves! Now get out of the way, Richmond.”
“I’m sorry, Denton… I will not let your whip touch that man again. I cannot let you kill him, as much for your sake as his.”
“How dare you—,” began Beaumont, raising his hand to strike his neighbor. But the cool gaze staring back at him somehow prevented it. The two men stood facing one another for several long, tense seconds.
The look in his friend’s eye caused Beaumont to think twice about the advisability of bringing the leather down on him. His judgment was doubtless influenced by the fact that Richmond Davidson, though the youngest, had been the strongest of the three musketeers by the time they were teenagers, a fact Beaumont had just been reminded of by the pain in his wrist. Richmond, a year younger, stood four inches taller than Beaumont himself. Whatever chagrin he felt at being thus challenged and made to look the fool in the very sight of his own house, it would be far worse to be thrashed in an ill-advised dual of fists.
Slowly Beaumont lowered his arm and turned away in a wrath of impotence. The next instant Davidson was on the ground beside the unconscious man.
A few of the other slaves gathered around, while Beaumont’s men stood aside. “Get me some cool water and a towel,” ordered Davidson, glancing up at several of the black faces staring down at him. “Hurry!”
Within minutes, the man had begun to revive, though his injuries were severe. Some of the other slaves lifted him from the ground and carried him back to the shack that was his home.
Richmond rose. He glanced about but saw no sign of his neighbor, then walked toward the house.
Thirty minutes later, Denton Beaumont walked into the kitchen of his home where his wife and eldest son were seated with their guest, each sipping at glasses of cool tea. Beaumont’s temper had moderated but he still wore a gloomy countenance as he sat down.
“Would you like something to drink, dear?” asked Lady Daphne.
“Get me a julep,” he replied without expression.
“Wyatt here has just been telling me,” said Richmond, trying to sound as upbeat as possible under the circumstances, “that you and he and Cameron shot a nine-pointer up near the peak last week.”
“That’s right,” said Beaumont coldly.
“That must have been quite an adventure for little Cameron—how old is he now?”
“I’m twelve!” shouted a high-pitched voice, bounding into the room. “But I didn’t get to shoot the buck,” he went on enthusiastically. “Papa wouldn’t let me hold the gun.”
“There will be plenty of time for that when you get to be your brother’s age,” laughed Davidson. “And you, Wyatt—you’ve put on at least three inches since last time I saw you.”
“Yes, sir,” said the oldest of the three Beaumont children.
“And how is Cynthia?” asked Mrs. Beaumont as she set the mint julep down in front of her husband.
“Well, Lady Daphne,” replied Richmond.
“Is she still sweet on that naval man I heard about?”
“Indeed she is. There has even been talk of marriage, though she just turned nineteen. Carolyn and I don’t quite know what to make of it, though he is a very pleasant young man. Seth and Thomas hardly realize girls exist, while their sister is talking about being married. Girls do seem to mature sooner than boys, don’t they? And your Veronica—I imagine she is growing fast as well?”
“She talks of nothing but having a beau,” replied Lady Daphne. “You really must tell Carolyn and Cynthia to come for a visit before it is too late and they are all grown up and gone from us.”
“I shall do so, indeed. What about you, Wyatt? Any young lady friends on the horizon of your life?”
“Not yet, Mr. Davidson,” replied the sixteen year old.
“Well as I told Cameron about guns, there will be plenty of time later. Am I right, Lady Daphne?” he added with a smile to Beaumont’s wife. “Girls and guns—both dangerous for young men if handled unwisely.”
“I don’t know if I care for your characterization of the fairer sex as dangerous, Richmond!”
Davidson laughed good-naturedly. “Perhaps I should reserve my cautions for my own sons!”
All the time they had been talking, Beaumont had been sipping moodily at his julep, not once glancing up nor showing the slightest interest in the conversation. A lull now fell around the table. Cameron scampered off and Davidson looked across at his friend.
American Dreams Trilogy Page 13
