Accordingly, word began to spread throughout the Southern corridors of power that the Davidson affair must be put to rest and further news of it silenced, except where the facts could be twisted and Davidson made to appear a misguided simpleton. Influential newspapers and editors were contacted, certain pressures applied, and within weeks little more was heard of it in any of the pro-slavery newspapers. At the same time, a discreet campaign was subtly set in motion to discredit Davidson and render his actions those of a fringe figure, even a lunatic, rather than a man of conviction. Word was cleverly leaked to certain sources that he was not all he appeared, that he held radical religious views, and that his wife conducted strange observances with their former slaves and held them in the grip of cultish teachings ostensibly based on the Bible. How many of these rumors originated with Davidson’s neighbor and longtime friend, and how many were based on conversations with the few slaves who had left, was impossible to ascertain. Though all the slave reports were favorable, they were also capable of being distorted to yield almost any impression desired.
Within a few months, the hubbub over the affair had died down. As nothing more came of it and little more was heard of it, most people gradually forgot about it. The only memories that lingered had little to do with slaves, but rather Davidson himself and the odd things they had heard about him.
Twenty-one
Richmond Davidson walked slowly through the garden and arbor in deep reflection. It was finally time to come to terms with and reach a decision concerning his cousin’s demand.
The question before him was a simple one: To fight or give in?
That dilemma came to him not in terms of right and wrong. He knew well enough that any man can persuade himself that he is right about anything, and yet base a string of faulty choices on that mistaken view. So he did not come to the decision before him from that vantage point. He knew his own fallibility too well. Rather, the only answer he sought was: What did God want him to do?
He could pray anywhere. But he preferred the garden to anyplace else on the property, with the possible exception of Harper’s Peak, although that was not so much a place to gain solitude with God as to relish in his majesty.
He and Carolyn had planned and developed, cultivated and refined the walkways and hedges and small theme gardens within the arbor all to provide a place of prayerful retreat that would, in its very essence, remind them that they had a good Father watching over them. Just as they could enter the arbor at any time, so they could enter the Father’s care and seek his loving and perfect counsel at a moment’s notice.
Now was such a time. He never wanted to rush his Father, and always chose, even when he had a sense in which direction the divine will was likely pointing, to give God time. He was all too well acquainted with the human tendency to rush. He thus tried to counter that tendency within himself whenever large decisions were at hand, knowing that, if he were indeed hearing truly, time would only confirm the still small Abba-Voice yet the more distinctly.
His petitions on this occasion were neither specific nor audible. He had been here before, to this throne—or was it an altar?—of personal relinquishment. Though it was a familiar place to which his heart often returned, nonetheless it hurt to walk the well-trod, invisible pathway each time he felt the divine prompting to revisit his inner Gethsemane.
In truth, the stones of that invisible seat of worship comprised both a throne and an altar. For in relinquishment of the will is worship perfected, and out of the ashes of sacrifice is born the childlike nature that can approach the King.
At no other moment did Richmond Davidson feel so weak. Yet at no such moment did he approach so closely the true character of his name.
The heaving of his soul as he walked on this day reflected no resistance, merely the anguish of difficult obedience as it battled the final death throes of self. That he would not do other than put his very self to death in whatever ways he was able did not make his old Adam any less vigorous an adversary. It was a sacrifice given willingly—even eagerly, to the extent that mortal man is capable of desiring to become the executioner of its own flesh—yet agonizingly rendered.
“God… oh, God!” he sighed as the dam of months-long prayer burst from his lips. Then he slipped to his knees beside the first magnolia he and Carolyn had planted shortly after their marriage, and a few quiet tears began to fall from his eyes.
When Carolyn found him seated on the stone-wall edge of the bridge over the small creek an hour later, she knew from the look on his face that the final battle within himself had been waged and the decision made.
She sat down beside him. He glanced up with a sad but peaceful smile.
“I don’t know why it is difficult to lay down what your flesh fights so hard to preserve,” he said softly. “I don’t want what my flesh cries out for. The selfishness of my old man is abhorrent to me. Yet there is a stubborn part of my being that doesn’t want to have to give in. It is such a dichotomy. One would think the battle could be fought once and be done with.”
“That is not the walk of faith,” said Carolyn softly.
“Of course… I know. But it is frustrating. It seems my progress is so slow.”
“But if I know you… you prayed the prayer. You always do.”
He smiled and nodded.
“You always come back to not my will in the end,” Carolyn added. “It is the path you walk. I know that whatever you face, that is where your steps will lead.”
They sat for several minutes in reflective silence.
“What course of action do you feel we are to follow in the matter of Stuart’s claim?” asked Carolyn at length.
“Only to wait,” replied her husband. “Wait, pray for my cousins, and pray for God’s will to be done.”
“You have always said that in God’s economy, to wait is one of the foundational pillars of wisdom.”
“I suppose the Lord is giving me a chance to practice what I preach,” laughed Richmond lightly. “If Stuart’s claim is truly unfair, God will see to it. That is no doubt one of the reasons he would have us relinquish our grip on such matters, so that we might give him opportunity to work in ways that are not possible so long as we try to control our own affairs. Our responsibility is to relinquish our hold and then to wait, with a willing and self-denying heart, for God to work.”
“And if Stuart presses the suit?”
“Then we trust God to be our advocate.”
“Then I trust you,” smiled Carolyn. “I am not quite as willing to see you taken advantage of. If I had my way, I would fight your cousins tooth and nail. Not because of what they would take from me, but that they have accused you, and your mother and father, of being unfair. It makes my blood boil if I let it. But I trust you. As I said before, that you can lay it down only makes me love you more.”
They rose and hand in hand left the arbor and walked back toward the house.
Twenty-two
A knock sounded on the front door at Greenwood. A gray-haired Negro man ambled toward it. Too old to do much good in the fields, with rheumatism in his knees, he had been brought to the big house, provided a room of his own on the ground floor, and given a few duties about the place. He also ran errands for the master.
“Mo’nin’, Moses,” said the visitor as the old man answered the door.
“Mo’nin’ t’ you, Rev’rund,” said Moses respectfully.
“Yo’ mistress be ’roun’ ’bout an’ hab a minute er two t’ speak wif me?”
“I reckon, Rev’rund,” said Moses. “She’s out back t’ da garden wif Mistress Cynthia. Come in an’ sit yo’ se’f down in da parlor an’ I’ll fin’ out direckly.”
He turned and led the second black man, who was as old as he, into the house. Neither of the two hesitated or commented on the peculiarity or presumption of thus making themselves at home in a white man’s plantation house. Though every black man, woman, and child at Greenwood had been trained from the day of birth to show what amounted to grovelin
g deference to any white person, the changes at Greenwood had quickly and thoroughly taken root within its black community. That these former slaves could so quickly learn to walk with their heads high was daily testimony to how well they knew their beloved master and mistress, as they still thought of them, and trusted in the goodwill of their hearts.
Carolyn and Cynthia returned to the house three or four minutes later a good way ahead of Moses.
“Hello, Reverend Jones,” said Carolyn warmly. As he rose, she shook the hand of the minister of a small, unofficial, and clandestine congregation of slaves from around the area, a free black man from Ohio who had come to the area about three years before. He lived in Dove’s Landing and did odd jobs around town without arousing too much suspicion or drawing undo attention to himself.*
“Good day, t’ you, Missus Dab’son… Miss Cynthia,” he said.
“How nice to see you,” said Carolyn as they all took seats. “Would you like something to drink… lemonade, tea?”
“Lemonade soun’s right nice, thank you, Missus Dab’son. But I’s wonderin’ if it’s so good fer you ter be callin’ me da Rev’rund. Dere’s a heap er folks wouldn’t take kindly t’ know dere’s a black man what used ter be a preacher roun’ dese parts.”
“I only do so out of respect for your position with our people,” said Carolyn as she started to rise. “We will make sure the Reverend stays here with us.”
“I’ll get it, Mother,” said Cynthia. “You sit and visit with Mr.
Jones. What can I get for you?”
“Thank you, Cynthia… I’ll have a glass of tea.”
“I hope you’ll forgive da impertinence ob my call like dis—,” the former minister began as the young lady walked into the kitchen.
“That is the last thing I would ever call a visit from you, Reverend Jones,” said Carolyn.
“That’s right kind ob you ter say,” chuckled the minister. “To be truthful wif you, Missus Dab’son,” he went on more seriously, “I been a mite concerned lately ’bout our Sunday meetin’s in da woods. We’se been safe enuf up till now, but sumethin’s givin’ me an uncanny feelin’ ’bout hit. I can’t rightly say what it be, but hit’s almost like sumeone’s listenin’or watchin’ like. It ain’t dat I’s concerned fo’ mysel’. Gracious no, hit ain’t dat—”
“We need to be concerned for you,” interrupted Carolyn. “If certain people, as you say, were to find out that you are preaching to the slaves, they would have you arrested. We can’t have that.”
“I appreciate yo kindness, Missus Dab’son. But da good Lord’s given me a long an’ good life, an’ if I get throwed in jail fo preaching da Word ter dese precious brothers an’ sisters roun’ here, dat be a small price ter pay fo’ spreadin’ da Lord’s gospel. I’s worried fo’ dem, you see. An’ you’s so good wif yo’ people, readin’ to ’em from da Good Book like you does, I knows you’s as concerned fo’ dere spiritual welfare as I is.”
“Of course we are. And the people think a great deal of you as well.”
“Dat’s kind er you t’ say, Missus Dab’son.”
“So what can my husband and I do for you?”
“I ain’t altogether sure, Missus Dab’son, I jest reckoned as hit’s on your land where we’s meetin’, an’ as you’d likely get in some kind er trouble too if we’s foun’ out, dat I ought ter speak wif you ’bout hit.”
Cynthia returned with a tray and three glasses and handed one to the minister and one to her mother, then took one herself and sat down.
“Cynthia, do you know where Father is?” asked Carolyn.
“Last time I saw him, he and Malachi were hitching two horses.”
“Where were they going?”
“I think over to one of Mr. Brown’s old fields.”
“He’s been talking about whether some of that fallow land might be reclaimed,” nodded Carolyn, “and brought again under cultivation. They will probably be gone several hours. I shall talk to him about it this evening, Reverend Jones,” she said, turning again to the minister. “We shall see if we can think—”
Carolyn stopped. Slowly a smile spread over her face.
“Reverend Jones,” she said, nodding her head thoughtfully. “Being reminded of Mr. Brown’s land has put an idea in my head. I will most definitely talk to Richmond about it. We have wondered for a long time how to put his little house to use rather than continue to let it sit empty. This just may be the idea we have been looking for.”
“Dat’s good er you, Missus Dab’son.”
“What I’m thinking, if my husband agrees and we think you will be safe, will at least keep your people from having to worry about getting rained on during your sermons!”
Harland Davidson had been giving the matter a great deal of thought since his imbecile of a cousin had caused such a ruckus by setting his slaves free. He had originally been furious at having been drawn into the thing and made to look like he was part of it. Whether his own reputation had suffered he had no way of knowing. If so it didn’t seem to have affected his business. Upon reflection, however, he had begun to wonder if perhaps this gave them a far greater opportunity.
It was time he sat down behind closed doors and had a serious talk with the others.
It took three weeks to get his sister and two cousins to Richmond.
“What is all this about?” said his cousin Stuart once they were seated in his office with drinks in hand. “Your letter said there had been important developments. All I want to know is whether Richmond is inclined to settle out of court.”
“I have heard nothing from him.”
“Then let us proceed to—”
“Wait a moment, Stuart,” interrupted Harland. “Just hear me out.”
Stuart eyed him skeptically but allowed his cousin to continue.
“You all know that he freed his slaves?” said Harland.
“The whole world knows,” said Stuart. “The fool—I can’t imagine what he was thinking.”
“Exactly. It is a fool’s dream. Everyone knows it cannot but fail. Several of his slaves have already left. The others he is paying nearly a white man’s wage. I see nothing in our dear cousin’s future but increasing financial difficulties.”
“Which is why we have to act now, if you ask me,” said Stuart.
“Not necessarily, Stuart,” rejoined Harland. “Just hear me out.”
“What do he and his slaves have to do with us?” interjected Stuart’s sister Margaret.
“Just this,” replied Harland. “If we press the claim now, I have to say I consider our chances of winning a large settlement in court to be thin. However, if we wait until he has a failing plantation on his hands, we can then move in with a much better chance of success. My recommendation, therefore, is that we bide our time and see what events bring us in the way of opportunity.”
“Bide our time for what?” said Harland’s sister Pamela with a confused look. “I don’t understand any of this. I thought we were just going to sue him.”
Stuart, however, was beginning to catch on to his cousin’s thinking. Slowly a smile crept across his lips.
“Of course!” he said. “Harland, your scheme is brilliant! We wait for him to go bankrupt on his own, without us pushing him over the brink or risk losing in court. Then we move in with the lawsuit against Aunt Ruth’s estate, claiming that four-fifths ownership of the place should have been ours all along. We are not put in the position of causing his failure, but of coming in to rescue our misguided cousin from his own hopeless actions. If we play our cards right, we will wind up owning all of Greenwood and squeezing him out altogether!”
“Precisely,” smiled Harland with a cunning grin. “You have articulated the nub of the thing to perfection. After all these delays, we may thank Cousin Richmond for dragging his feet after all.”
“You see, Margaret,” said Stuart, turning to his sister, “when Richmond freed his slaves, he cut his own throat. There is no way he can make a go of it under such conditions. Every So
uthern economist and plantation owner knows it. For us to settle now… we would only wind up going down with him. His creditors, or possibly the three children, would be given whatever shambles Greenwood was left in.”
“I would still rather just get what we could out of him,” said Pamela.
“But you won’t get it. He has let go of his primary asset. He has given away the only thing that makes a plantation function—his workforce. Without his slaves, he has no hope of keeping the thing going indefinitely. The coloreds are lazy and greedy and, mark my words, will all leave him in time. The day he freed his slaves, he undercut our strategy. Harland is right to have rethought the thing along different tactical lines. What do you calculate Greenwood is worth, Harland?” he asked, turning again to his cousin.
“At present, functioning profitably—I should say six months ago and functioning profitably—I would say forty or fifty thousand, perhaps more. The monetary value of his slaves is gone. We could never hope to get that back. They are now, for good or ill, free. Richmond made sure the documents I drew up contained not the slightest potential loophole in that regard. But even if they all leave and the fields go to seed, the house and land has to be worth thirty thousand. When we come in, of course, we will have to make a modest investment to get it up and running again—an overseer who knows how to use the whip and a new stable of slaves—but then we will have a profit-making enterprise that should pay us all handsome dividends every year thereafter.”
“You see, Margaret,” Stuart went on, “all we have to do is wait him out, and then advance our claim to Greenwood after Richmond has nailed his own coffin shut. It’s brilliant, Harland. All we have to do is wait!” he said.
He raised his glass of Scotch to the others.
“To Cousin Richmond!” said Stuart. “May he receive everything he deserves!”
“Here, here!” laughed Harland. “Well spoken indeed, Stuart.”
All four now lifted their glasses toward one another in toast of bright hopes for their future.
American Dreams Trilogy Page 18
