American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  “Not a sound. Now come with me.”

  He led the way through the night. In another ten minutes they heard a voice in the night.

  “Dat you… dat you, massa Paul?”

  “Who’s Paul, Papa?”

  “That’s me, son,” replied the boy’s father. “Yes, it’s me, Silas, we’re all here now.”

  “Why he call you dat, Papa?” asked the eleven-year-old.

  “Because I didn’t want him to know who I was in case we were caught. But there’s no turning back now. I’ll explain everything as we go. Silas, this is my family. Come, all of you… we must hurry!”

  “Where are we going, Papa?” asked the youngest, a girl of seven.

  “To the river.”

  Forty minutes later, now and then casting an anxious glance toward the east to see whether night was beginning to wane on the horizon, the leader of the small band of runaways led his troop to the river landing. A barge, connected by ropes and pulleys to the opposite bank, joined the roads of the two sides of the river and made access possible to what limited commerce was required across it. The landing was not heavily used and was unguarded.

  “Come, Silas,” he said. “You and I will cut the barge from the ropes. Leave the overhead rope and pulley secure—just cut those attached to the platform.”

  He produced two knives from the bag he was carrying, handed the bag to his wife, then slid into the cool water. At last sensing his own freedom within grasp, Silas leaped onto the barge and set vigorously to work. In the darkness it was difficult work, especially where the ropes were submerged. But one strand at a time gave way until at last they felt the platform float free.

  “That’s it… good work, Silas!” cried his savior from the water.

  “Children, jump on board.”

  The baying of a hound sounded somewhere in the distance.

  “Dey’s comin’ after me!” cried Silas.

  “That dog’s miles away, Silas, don’t worry!”

  Even as he said it, however, the daring slave suddenly realized that a thin glow had become visible on the horizon. “Sit down, everyone, in the middle of the barge,” he said, remaining in the water to steady it. When all were in place, he began gently shoving the platform toward the middle until the shoreline sank below his feet and he had to swim.

  “Pull, Silas,” he said, “pull on the upper rope.”

  Silas did so. Gradually the barge eased farther from the shore.

  “Papa… get on!” cried one of the children.

  “I will, don’t worry, just as soon as we’re in the middle of the river.”

  He pushed as he swam from behind, while Silas pulled the rope attached by pulley to the opposite shore. Slowly the barge continued toward the center of the river.

  “All right, Silas—that’s good! We’ll give ourselves to the current now. Help me up!”

  He struggled aboard and sat down dripping beside his family. Already he felt their little craft picking up momentum. The waters of the Flint were not swift but steady. Slowly the landing receded from sight in the dim light of dawn.

  “We should be six or eight miles away before we are missed, and well out of reach of the hounds’ noses.”

  “What will we do then, Papa?” asked the man’s twelve-year-old daughter, the oldest of the four children.

  “We will find a place to go ashore and hide out for the day, Azura. After that, Silas will be our guide.”

  “But won’t they find the barge?” asked his wife.

  “They will find it all right. But it will be miles downriver by then. Once we land, I’ll haul it back out to midstream and send it on its way without us. Then we’ll keep under cover through the day, and after that, hope the directions Silas was given to the safe house are reliable.”

  “What’s a safe house, Papa?” asked the man’s nine-year-old son.

  “It’s a place where folk like us can find help,” he replied.

  Forty or more hours later, not daring approach until the cover of darkness had well settled over the Georgia countryside and the lights in the place were mostly out for the night, a black man stole from his hiding place where he had been keeping his eye on the front porch of a two-story blue farmhouse for several hours.

  The directions that had been passed to the young man called Silas had proved accurate thus far—leave the river at sharp right bend where rapids give way to wide slow water, head straight east approximately two miles from the river, look for hill covered in scrub oak in center of four cultivated fields, climb to top, look north where several farms and one large plantation house will be visible. The safe house is a farmhouse facing east, painted blue, with three chimneys on roof of main house. Do not approach, the directions had concluded, until after nightfall.

  “You sure that’s all they told you, Silas?” the man asked one last time.

  “Dat’s all, massa Paul—dat be it.”

  “All right. But if anything happens to me, if you see danger, you get my family away from here.”

  “You kin depend on Silas, massa Paul.”

  The runaway slave kissed his wife, then left the security of the trees and walked toward the house in the darkness. Slowly he crossed the yard, then climbed the steps and knocked on the door.

  From somewhere inside he heard footsteps. A moment later the door opened.

  A white man stood expressionless, holding a lantern and looking him over carefully.

  “I understand a man can book railroad passage here,” he said.

  “What kind of passage?” asked the man.

  “Second class, though coloreds can’t be too particular.”

  “You alone, son?”

  “No, sir. There’s seven of us—my family and a single man.”

  “You from nearby?”

  “The Addison place, six or seven miles upriver close as I can figure.”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, I know the place. How long you been gone?”

  “Two days.”

  The man was silent a minute, thinking to himself. Then he called back over his shoulder.

  “Marjory,” he said, “better stoke the fire and warm up the stew. We got travelers—and hungry ones by the sound of it.”

  He turned again to the open door.

  “Bring the rest of them in, son,” he said. “We’ll get some food inside you, then find you a place to sleep in the barn.”

  Nine

  When Scully Riggs heard the rumors of Veronica Beaumont’s engagement to Seth Davidson, he went mad with suppressed rage. Whereas he had once vowed to make Veronica his own, now he vowed that she would never become the wife of Seth Davidson.

  Seth accepted the news stoically, doing his best to don the chivalrous pride of a Southern gentleman who would never let humiliation or embarrassment fall upon a woman. He still wasn’t quite sure how it had come about. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, he tried to tell himself. Veronica was pretty. He had always enjoyed being with her as they grew up. And it could not be denied that it felt good to have her depend on him. It made him feel like a man. He had always figured to marry her anyway.

  In his quieter moments, pangs of disappointment went through him to realize that he would never enjoy a marriage like the one he had been part of every day of his life—that of his parents, where friendship, sharing, laughter, communication, and common objectives and spiritual values lay at the heart of it. Did he really want to spend the next forty years of his life in a marriage like Lady Daphne’s and Denton Beaumont’s rather than one like that of his own father and mother?

  But, he said to himself, the gentlemanly thing was to press on without complaint. He had somehow let himself get into it, and he would either find a way gracefully to get out of it or see it through like a man.

  Every time Seth saw Veronica now, she was more forward. Every day that passed made it more and more difficult to talk to her about some of his concerns. Veronica was one of those kinds of people who deflected serious conversation rather than encouraged it. Every ti
me he tried to bring the conversation around to spiritual things, she flitted off into trivialities, usually having something to do with herself. Did she ever think seriously about anything? Seth wondered. Was her whole life nothing but dresses and hairdos and fashions and perfume and, up till now, what every boy in the neighborhood thought about her?

  Seth’s parents, meanwhile, also hearing the rumors of Seth’s engagement, assumed from his silence that he had made his decision and that this was the outcome of it. They could hardly be happy about it. But if this was what Seth wanted, they must do their best to show support. For the present, therefore, they kept whatever thoughts they had on the matter between themselves, and waited for him to tell them whatever he chose to.

  As the summer passed, Seth and his parents remained oblivious to how far the discussions, goings-on, and wedding preparations were progressing just a few short miles over the ridge to the east. Seth squirmed from silent embarrassment at not coming altogether clean with his parents and about his subsequent misgivings, while trying to resolve what was the gentlemanly thing to do. Richmond and Carolyn prayed and discussed privately what ought to be their position with regard to Seth’s dilemma, as they perceived it. At Oakbriar, meanwhile, the mood concerning the future of the two young people could not have been more upbeat.

  Veronica and her mother had already been to the city to gather fabric samples for the dresses. They were looking at several patterns and had ordered several more from Paris. And they were settling on names for the guest list, for which Lady Daphne’s prior efforts in regard to their failed Washington plans proved enormously helpful. She could not, however, prevent pangs of disappointment at sight of it. Veronica was also making her own list for bridesmaids. Sally and Marta were obvious choices. And she simply had to include Julia along with the other two. Poor Brigitte would be disappointed to tears to be left out. But she was younger than her other friends. She would get over it.

  In the end Veronica settled on three bridesmaids and three attendants—six in all to stand with her. The more lavish her adoring train the better! She doubted that Seth even had six friends—but his brother and her two brothers made three… surely he could scrape together three decent-looking boys to stand with him.

  A wicked smile crossed Veronica’s lips.

  Perhaps she could suggest that Scully Riggs be one of them, as a favor to an old friend of her father’s. He wasn’t at all good-looking. But the thought of it was absolutely too delicious—it would drive Scully insane with jealousy!

  None of these plans and machinations did Veronica mention to Seth. She continued to visit and invited him often to Oakbriar. Now that his sling was off and he was mostly back to normal, he went around most often on horseback like before. That made rides by buggy together more difficult. Nor had she failed to notice that he seldom came to Oakbriar on his own as would seem to be the customary tradition for an engaged young man. He seemed distracted and distant. It was obvious he was not completely comfortable in the role she had thrust upon him. He would get used to it, she told herself confidently. And she would help him do so.

  Out of necessity, therefore, Veronica’s visits to Greenwood became even more frequent than the other way around. Thus, whenever they were seen together, which it served her purposes to be often, it was in her father’s most expensive carriage. And such sightings confirmed yet the more in the minds of the residents of Dove’s Landing what the observant townspeople had heard.

  As to an actual date, Veronica and her mother had been looking at the social calendar for the remainder of the year. The Christmas season looked to be a logical choice. A lavish wedding ball could be substituted for the annual Christmas ball. Their discussions took place beyond the ken of Veronica’s father. No sense stirring up old wounds until the plans were so thoroughly set in motion that it was too late for him to do anything about them. He would go along. Men always did. Left to themselves, they bungled everything anyway. How badly were affairs managed without the delicate influence of a woman to guide them!

  At last Veronica thought it time to tell her three friends so they could begin helping her with plans for hair and dress, and with the music and the dance cards and all the rest.

  “But you mustn’t tell a soul,” she said. “Not yet. Seth, bless his dear heart, is still getting used to the idea of being married, you know. I don’t want him to have to agonize over such details. No word of any of this must reach him until I am ready. And poor Brigitte will be hurt, but it cannot be helped.”

  “But Veronica,” said Julia, “now that it is so close, aren’t you… having any second thoughts? You know how they all get once they’re married—all fat and boring and pregnant… ugh!”

  “Remember Jessica Whitman,” nodded Sally. “She was one of us too. But the minute she was married, she changed. I never see her anymore.”

  “They live near us in town,” added Marta. “Whenever I see her, she is chasing those two brats of hers around. She looks like she’s thirty. It’s dreadful!”

  “That won’t happen to me!” laughed Veronica. “I do not intend to get fat, and I intend to maintain just as full a social life as I do now.”

  “But what about… babies?” said Sally.

  “There are ways to avoid such inconveniences,” smiled Veronica cunningly. “There will be certain times when Seth will just have to cool his heels and sleep in another room.”

  “Oh, you are a sly one!” said Marta as the other two tittered in embarrassment. “But how do you know all about it—did your mother tell you!”

  “No, silly. My mother doesn’t know the first thing about such things as that. I have a book.”

  Gasps of wonder escaped the other three almost in unison.

  “Can… we see it?” asked Julia.

  “It’s hidden away,” answered Veronica. “And it’s private. So you see, being married won’t change a thing. I intend for no children to complicate my life. And besides,” she added, “Seth will be twenty a month after the wedding, and I will turn twenty next summer. If a girl isn’t married by the time she’s twenty, people start thinking she’s an old maid! It’s time for me to be married… it’s expected.”

  She glanced at Marta and realized her words had stung.

  “Oh, Marta, I’m sorry! I forgot that you just turned twenty. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right,” laughed Marta. “I’ve nearly got Walter’s mind made up for him too. I may not be far behind you!”

  Meanwhile, at Greenwood, an unexpected but enthusiastically received letter had just arrived by mail. It was addressed,

  Richmond Davidson

  Greenwood Acres

  Dove’s Landing, Virginia

  “Dear Richmond,” Richmond read aloud at the breakfast table the morning after it had been received,

  “It has been some time since we saw one another. I now find myself in the awkward, yet I hope not too unseemly, position of writing to ask of you a favor, which is simply to say that the time has come when I would like to presume upon your kindness and take you up on the kind offer to visit which you have now twice extended me, and which your lovely wife reiterated so warmly. The fact is, my work has been suffering of late and I have found it necessary to take a brief leave of absence from the paper. I hope that the peaceful surroundings of your village of Dove’s Landing might restore not only my vigor, but my desire to write again with something of the force that I flatter myself I once possessed when I took pen in hand.

  “I realize the presumption in thus “inviting myself” as it were, yet I trust between friends, as I hope to some degree we are, that such forthrightness is not outside the bounds of decency.

  “I am,

  Sincerely yours,

  James Waters

  Number 42, the Larches

  Constitution Common, Boston.”

  “Who is this guy anyway, Dad?” asked Thomas.

  “You remember,” answered Richmond. “He’s the man I met in Boston several years ago who put me up for two
nights. He and his daughter came for a brief visit three years ago.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What are you going to tell him, Dad?” asked Seth.

  “Why, that he is welcome, of course, and that we are delighted! This great house of ours has so many rooms we don’t know what to do with them all. We can give him the entire south wing. He can recuperate to his heart’s content—why he can stay at Greenwood and write a whole book if he wants to!”

  “He makes no mention of his daughter,” commented Carolyn. “You must tell him to bring her along.”

  “I shall write back this very day.”

  A return letter from Boston arrived at Greenwood, in response to Richmond’s, fourteen days later.

  Dear Richmond, it read,

  You are so kind with your words of invitation and welcome—thank you very much. Please greet and thank your wife also. Having guests underfoot, I realize, falls more to a woman than a man. The invitations of a man are cheap—it is the woman whose hospitality must back them up!

  Your inclusion of my daughter is generous indeed. She, of course, has begged to accompany me. She has not forgotten your horses! I considered sending her to one of her sisters, but of course we are happy and grateful to accept your invitation and the warm offer of your hospitality to us both.

  You asked about my health. In short, it has not been of the best. My doctor, who is constantly fussing, an occupational hazard for his profession, insists that I need to get away from the city to regain my strength. He agreed that the Virginia countryside might suit such a need admirably. As long, he says, as I have nothing to do but relax and sleep and walk about in the country air and absorb its sunlight, he will be happy. It sounds rather tedious to me, but in the pastoral countryside of Greenwood, with cows and horses and growing crops about me, perhaps I shall be able to endure it.

  I am, again,

  Warmly and appreciatively yours,

  James Waters

  PS—My daughter adds her greetings.

  “Well,” said Carolyn, smiling broadly, “Maribel and I had better air out those rooms and set out fresh linen. This is exciting—it will be nice to have a girl in the house again! I can hardly wait!”