American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  Again it was silent a long while as husband and wife considered the question Carolyn had posed.

  “Are you asking me what I think?” said Richmond at length.

  “I suppose I am,” replied Carolyn.

  “He would be to her just like the father of the prodigal. He would open his arms to her as our Father will one day welcome all his lost, wayward, tired, and fearful children into the bosom of his home.”

  “But practically, Richmond… what would Jesus actually do—here and now, if he were in our shoes?”

  Richmond thought a moment.

  “Well then,” he said, “I think he would take her in his arms, wipe away her tears, say, ‘Fear not, my child, you are safe now. You have a Father who loves you, and I love you, and I will always do my best for you.’ Then I think he would bathe her and bathe her children, put them in clean clothes, give them something to eat, and put them to bed between warm blankets where they could sleep and not be afraid. After that,” Richmond added with a smile, “I don’t know what he would do.”

  Carolyn Davidson returned to the Shaw home about an hour after leaving the four vagabonds in Nancy’s charge. She found the situation much as she had left it, though Nancy had gradually begun to warm a little more to her temporary guests.

  “All right, Lucindy,” said Carolyn, “I would like for you and your children to come with me. Here, hand me the youngest,” she added, taking the sleeping little girl in her arms.

  “Where’s you takin’ dem, Miz Dab’son?” asked Nancy.

  “To the big house, Nancy,” replied Carolyn. “Just for now.”

  Carolyn led the way with Lucindy following, each of her hands clutching the small trusting hands of her big-eyed silent youngsters.

  Nancy watched them go. As much as she had wanted to get rid of her unwelcome visitor such a short while ago, the dear woman’s old nature now came to the fore and feared what the master might do.

  Nancy had never in her life seen the master be other than kind to anyone, white or black, horse or dog. Yet all too easily does the serpent tell us that he who planted the tree of life is evil. And how readily, against all evidence to the contrary, does the old Adam believe it. Thus, the race of men has still, after all this time, refused to look up and behold the face of its Father in every loving provision that is made. But Carolyn knew both the Father and the heart of her husband, whose earthly agent he was for the transmission of that truth to these simple people. Like the Son before her, she would take the hand of this little one, as that Son takes ours, and lead her to him whom she could trust to do his best for her. And Nancy, too, would find again, as she had so many times in the past, that her master would always choose the way of kindness.

  “What are your children’s names, Lucindy?” asked Carolyn as soon as they were away from the Negro homes, where twenty sets of eyes were still staring at their backs wondering what “Massa Dab’son” would do.

  “Broan an’ Rebecca an’ Calebia,” she answered.

  “They are lovely,” said Carolyn. “Did you give them their names?”

  “Yes’m. What gwine happen ter me, missus?”

  “I don’t know, Lucindy. Right now I am taking you to meet Mr. Davidson.”

  “Is he gwine whip me—,” began Lucindy, trembling.

  “He whips no one, Lucindy. He is a good man.”

  “But he’s da massa.”

  “Yes he is. He is the owner of this plantation.”

  “He must be sum fearsum, den.”

  Carolyn could not help chuckling. “Why would you say that, Lucindy? My husband is like a good father to his people, not a cruel master.”

  The black woman stiffened. Images of her own cruel father filled Lucindy’s mind to such an extent that she could scarcely fathom what Carolyn was talking about—using the words good and father to describe the same person. “You sez he’s like… a father?” she said.

  “Yes—he is a father,” smiled Carolyn.

  “Den he can’t he good.”

  Carolyn saw terror in the poor girl’s eyes at the thought of encountering what to her mind was an unknown terror, as God must seem to those who do not know his true character. She looked deeply into Lucindy’s eyes.

  “Do you think I would whip you, Lucindy?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, missus. You’s bout as nice as you cud be. You an’ dose ladies called Frien’s is ’bout da nicest w’ite ladies I’s dun eber met.”

  “What if I was to tell you that Mr. Davidson was just as kind as I am?”

  “I don’ see how dat cud be, missus.”

  “Why?”

  “Cuz he’s a man… a w’ite man. He’s da massa, an’ my own father whupped anyone who wuz bad.”

  “Well, you shall find Mr. Davidson just as I say, Lucindy, and more besides.”

  So thoroughly foreign, however, was anything in Lucindy’s experience resembling a loving father that she could not grasp the existence of a loving Fatherhood at the heart of the universe. Despite all Carolyn had told her, she still trembled as they walked up the steps, into the veranda, and through the front door into the house. She had never been inside a plantation house in her life. Though some might have taken one look inside such a lavish home and concluded that they had been given a glimpse of heaven itself, poor Lucindy was still terrified of the awful presence who dwelt within.

  But like Lucindy, many will one day enter that Presence to discover something quite different from the fearsome Almighty whom they envision anxious to wield bolts of vengeance against them. Instead, on that day they will indeed meet a Father—and what a Father… the Father of Jesus Christ himself!

  A tall man came from somewhere within to greet them. Contrary to every expectation of fierce judgment, he approached with wide smile and outstretched arms.

  “Is this Lucindy?” he said in a great welcoming voice.

  “This is Lucindy, Richmond—Lucindy, I would like you to meet Mr. Davidson. And these three dears with her are Broan and Rebecca and Calebia.”

  Davidson stooped down and gazed first into the little boy’s face.

  “Hello, Broan,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “Almost seven?” answered the boy timidly.

  “Well, that is a fine age. And how about you, Rebecca… how old are you?”

  “She’s five,” said the boy.

  “I see,” said Richmond. “What do you think, Rebecca… is Broan right? Is that what you are?”

  “Yes’suh,” said the girl shyly, then hid her face in her mother’s dress.

  Davidson stood and once again faced the mother. “You seem to have a fine young son and daughter, Lucindy. I want to welcome you all to my home.”

  He opened his arms again, and, not with standing her hesitation, stretched them around Lucindy’s thin shoulders and bony frame and embraced her warmly. When he stepped back, there were tears of wonder in her eyes. What kind of man was this who would treat slaves like his own children!

  He took a clean white handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes with it. Then he gazed earnestly into her eyes.

  Carolyn handed him the youngster, who was coming awake. He took the child in his arms. “And this seems like a fine young daughter,” he said, “who will soon be as big as her sister!”

  “I want you to try not to be afraid, Lucindy, my child,” he went on. “You and your little ones are safe now. You have a Father in heaven who loves you, and because we are his, we love you too and we will try to do our best for you. Now while Carolyn was fetching you, I have prepared a room for you, with clean white sheets and a white robe for you to wear. I prepared it just for you, so you mustn’t be afraid or nervous. While you are with us, this will be your room. And Maribel has been warming water on the stove and pouring out a nice hot bath and finding some clean clothes for your son and daughter. After Carolyn and Maribel have helped you bathe, we will give you something to eat and then put you to bed between warm blankets where you will be able to sleep and not
be afraid.”

  The morning was still relatively early and neither Seth nor Thomas had yet made an appearance. As it was, Thomas was the first to walk into the breakfast room. He found Maribel bustling about and his parents seated at the table with four coloreds he had never seen before.

  “What are they doing here?” he asked.

  “They are traveling, Thomas,” answered his mother. “They came to the Shaws sometime during the night. We thought they would be better off here.”

  “Why here? Why can’t the Shaws keep them?”

  “We thought this was best. But we have to keep anyone from knowing. People have different ideas about blacks, you know, and it could be unpleasant for all of us if word of it spread. Would you like some breakfast?”

  “No… I’ll get something to eat later.” He turned and left the room.

  Ten or fifteen minutes later, Seth appeared.

  “Good morning, Mother… hi, Father,” he said. “Hi, Maribel.”

  “Massa Seth, you want sum eggs an’ hot biscuits?”

  “Sure, Maribel, that’d be great.” He sat down next to his father.

  “Seth,” said Richmond, “I would like you to meet Lucindy and Broan and Rebecca, and Lucindy’s littlest one who is Calebia. Lucindy, this is our son Seth.”

  “Hi,” said Seth, pouring himself out a tall glass of milk, giving no appearance to thinking anything out of the ordinary at all in seeing a kitchen full of blacks.

  The first order of business for the day, immediately after breakfast, was to talk to their black people. Richmond had gone down earlier, told Malachi that he and Mrs. Davidson would be back around ten o’clock to talk to all the adults about the runaway woman and her children. He asked him to gather everyone by the stream where Mrs. Davidson held her meetings. They could take the morning off from work to be there.

  A little before ten, Carolyn and Richmond left the house for the five-minute walk to the cluster of cottages where their people lived and on to the small clearing by the stream. They found them all seated on the ground and waiting. Richmond walked to the front of them.

  “Good morning,” he said. “As you know, something has come about that concerns us all—the appearance of Lucindy and her three children. Where and how she heard that she could find refuge here, none of us knows. It doesn’t matter now. The fact is, she is here. We have to decide what to do.

  “You all know that it is against the law to harbor a runaway slave. The mere fact that Lucindy and the children are up in the big house right now, sound asleep after a nice breakfast, is enough to put me in jail if the wrong people heard about it and decided to have me arrested.”

  At the word jail, the eyes of at least half of those black faces listening grew to twice their original size.

  “My concern is not so much for my own safety,” Richmond went on, “though I am not eager at the prospect of going to jail, but my main concern is for you. If I am arrested, things could go very badly here. There are many who are still angry with us for giving you your freedom. They could take Greenwood away and send you all away too, and perhaps even take away your papers of freedom.

  “The reason I am telling you this is a simple one: No one else must know about Lucindy and her children. No one at all outside Greenwood. That is going to be difficult. You see other blacks and slaves in town and at the church meetings. But you must not breathe a word of this. One chance comment, and rumors could spread, and the sheriff could ride in here and take me away. Some rumors about our plantation and your freedom have apparently already been spreading. You must all be very, very careful. I repeat, no one must ever know about Lucindy and her children.”

  He paused to allow his words to sink in.

  “Do you all understand?” he added.

  In unison, some twenty-five heads nodded vigorously and silently up and down.

  “I want you parents to talk to your children and make sure they understand. Those you are not sure you can trust to keep their mouths shut, do not take them to town and do not take them to the meetings until they forget about it. If we are not careful, everything we have begun here together, and the good life we all have together, could be destroyed.”

  “We understan’, Mister Dab’son,” said Malachi. “You kin count on us. We’s say nuthin’. Coloreds knows how ter keep dere moufs shut w’en dey hab to. But what’s you gwine do wif da girl, Mister Dab’son? You gwine sen’ her back where she cum from?”

  “I don’t know yet, Malachi,” sighed Richmond. “Mrs. Davidson and I will have to talk about it and pray about it and see what God wants us to do. But I do not think we will send her back. We will not knowingly turn away one who comes to us for refuge.”

  Forty-eight

  When Lucindy Eaton awoke the morning following her arrival at Greenwood she wondered if she was dreaming. In nine months of travel she had never felt the luxury of such a bed. The kindness and gentleness with which she had been treated the previous day was as foreign to her as if she had somehow passed into another country altogether.

  She stretched sleepily, relishing the pure pleasure of the soft clean bed. She felt relaxed all the way down to her bones. Then suddenly she remembered—she was in a white man’s house, and this was a white man’s bed. A renewal of terror seized her.

  Hurriedly she glanced about. Where were her children?

  Laughter and a few happy shouts met her ear from another room, and a second or two later Broan and Rebecca scampered in. They were followed by two of the ministering angels from her dream, a big black woman carrying Calebia, and a white lady whose face was smiling radiantly at her.

  “Good morning, Lucindy,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes’m. I ain’t neber slep’ in no bed like dis afore.”

  “Well you shall sleep in it as long as you like,” said Carolyn. “While you are here, it will be your very own bed.”

  The arrival of the Davidsons’ unexpected guests temporarily pushed Seth’s resolve to talk to Veronica to the back of his mind. It was there fore not until the afternoon of Lucindy’s second day at Greenwood that Seth saddled Auburn Flame and rode toward Oakbriar.

  Elias Slade had been watching Veronica Beaumont’s none too subtle machinations to lure Seth Davidson into the center of her web with almost an inward grin of mocking humor. He knew the Davidson kid. He had spent enough time at Greenwood working under him to know that he was too soft for a girl like Veronica. He was already in over his head, and didn’t even know it.

  But watching Veronica play her game and spin her webs also aroused Slade’s passion. She was a beautiful and well-proportioned girl, whatever the color of her skin. The fact that she was the daughter of a wealthy plantation owner, and thus forbidden to a black man like him, only made her all the more desirable.

  Added to that was the fact that every female slave at Oakbriar between ten and forty was terrified of Slade and kept well clear of him. And further, after what had happened at Greenwood, their fathers, husbands, and brothers were all watching out for them vigilantly—for, if they would not willingly incur a whipping for crossing Slade while working in the fields, any one of them would fight to the death to protect the honor of their girls and women against such a beast.

  Thinking of Seth and the conversation with the girls she had been with a few days earlier, Veronica wandered out of the house and aimlessly made her way in the direction of her mother’s garden, passed leisurely through it and continued on. She had no particular destination in mind as she dreamed lazily how she might be able to awaken a little more of the beast in Seth and help to make up his mind for him, as she had said to Sally, Marta, and Brigitte.

  She rounded the corner of the barn, now considering a walk beside the creek, even perhaps dabbing her toes in it, for the day was warm. Suddenly she nearly bumped headlong into the mammoth form of Elias Slade, standing in the shadow of the building.

  “Oh!” she said, startled, “excuse me, Elias… I didn’t see you standing there.”

 
“No harm dun, Miz Bowmont.”

  Veronica paused and glanced up into the big man’s face. She saw well enough that he was looking down at her chest. But rather than turn away, she enjoyed the knowledge that men stared at her. Nothing gave her a greater thrill than to stir a man’s passion. It was part of the excitement. Strange as it might be to use the word in connection with one like Veronica Beaumont, in her own way she was actually a little naive. She had never been with a man and had no intention of letting her games go that far. It was only that to her—a game… a game of power, of control… of juvenile feminine seduction. She had been at it so long, making people take notice of her, that she almost couldn’t help herself. But she had never encountered one like Elias Slade before….

  She blinked demurely. “What are you looking at, Elias?” she said with a suggestive smile.

  “Nuthin’, Miz Bowmont.”

  “Come now, Elias,” she teased, “just because you’re colored doesn’t mean you can’t admit that you think I’m pretty.”

  Slowly she lifted her hand and touched one of his arms with the tip of her index finger, then let it move up and down toward his rippling biceps where the sleeves of his blue work shirt were rolled. Taking a step closer to him, feeling the heat of fear rising from her body and spreading the intoxicating aroma of her perfume, she continued to let her finger play across the outline of his muscles, while Slade stood still as a statue.

  “You’re a strong man, Elias,” she purred.

  She let her voice grow soft, stringing out the words slowly. By now she had come to sense that what she was doing was dangerous, even recognized that she was playing with fire. But she couldn’t stop herself. It was too delicious to toy with a man’s affections. She had been doing it since before she could remember, in childhood ways, and now in womanly ways. Unfortunately, she hardly saw the difference. She had never yet been in a situation she couldn’t handle. It never occurred to her that she would not be able to control one so far beneath her. In this present case, however, she underestimated how hot the fire inside a man like Slade burned, or how suddenly it could explode into flame.