American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  These poor, poor people! thought Nancy. And she had resisted coming to help them! What had she been thinking! The memory of her argument with Malachi made her so ashamed of herself, she suddenly felt a choking of remorse in her throat.

  And as she sat in the night with six strangers whose lives were now in her hands, new wells of compassion opened deep in the heart of Nancy Shaw.

  “All right, den,” she said, her voice soft and just a little shaky. “Hit’s time ter go… so foller me.”

  An hour later, aided by the light of the glowing gray moon, Nancy still led the ragtag group of weary runaways from Tennessee, through a densely wooded region of hills that ran nearly parallel with the ridge crowned by Harper’s Peak. Their course was almost due west. As Malachi had explained where the rendezvous with their next conductor would take place, she had known the place almost instantly. Having grown up under lenient conditions at Greenwood under the old master, and being unusually adventuresome for a youngster, there were few places for miles she had not explored or hiked with the other slave and occasionally white children. Sometimes young Richmond himself led the romp of youngsters for an all-day adventure of many miles. She had not been in these woods and on these hills for years. But she remembered them fondly, and well.

  As they went, Nancy now carried a sleeping child of two in her arms. The moment she had laid eyes on the mother, even in the moonlight she had perceived sheer exhaustion. How the poor thing could continue walking herself, much less manage her baby, Nancy could not imagine. The dream of freedom indeed inspired strength beyond the impossible. As they had risen from their meal, Nancy had taken the child, to a weary smile of gratitude, and led the way toward their next destination.

  After a walk of five or six hours, daylight began spreading across the Virginia countryside, they reached their destination.

  “I’s leave you here now,” said Nancy. “Anuder conductor’s gwine cum fer you here.”

  “Please, missus,” said one of the women, “don’t leab us alone. What ef one er dem bounty hunters fin’s us here?”

  “Dey won’t. My husband, he say dis place be good an’ safe. But I reckon I kin stay a spell.”

  “Thank you, missus. You’s been mighty good ter us.”

  Nancy smiled and sat down. The woman’s words strangely warmed her heart.

  Forty minutes later a white man appeared. Even Nancy started visibly at sight of him. Though Malachi had said nothing, she had assumed every conductor on this peculiar railroad was black.

  “Ease thyself of concern,” said the man in odd tones. “I am thy guide. You will be asleep in my barn and safe before noontide. Follow me.”

  Nancy rose from the ground where she had been sitting.

  The travelers also stood. One by one they embraced her warmly.

  “We can’t thank you enuf,” said one of the women. “You saved our lives. We wuz jes’ ’bout ready ter gib up an’ let dem catch us. We wuz so tired er runnin’. But you wuz so nice, so lovin’, you gib us food, you risked yo own life jes’ fo’ us—”

  The woman began to cry. Nancy took her in her arms again and held her for several seconds. The other mother now spoke.

  “Thank you, missus,” she said. “What she said is right. We wuz plumb outer strenf an’ hope. You’s gib us hope agin. I hope dat sumday I kin help people like you’s doin’. You’s been so kind ter us. You’s so wonderful. I dreamed ob bein’ free all my life. An’ now you is free, yet you’s doin’ dis fo’ us, fo’ people you don’t eben know. You’s jes’ an angel, missus.”

  The words smote Nancy’s heart. She stepped back and glanced away. Another brief silence followed. The women hugged again. Nancy stooped down, kissed each of the children, and then they were gone with the white conductor, whose Quaker network would see them across the border. Nancy’s eyes flooded with tears as she watched them disappear in the distance.

  As she made her way home, weeping for the first hour of the way, like her husband, Nancy Shaw knew a change had come. It was the flowering of compassion in a human heart, shedding its fragrance of tenderness slowly and invisibly into many hidden corners of character. For the first time in her life she began to think about herself not as a black and a former slave, but as a true woman, and as a child of God.

  Thirty-Five

  The sounds of horses outside stirred Seth from sleep. Seconds later he heard his name called from outside the window of his bedroom.

  He struggled out of bed, turned up his lantern, then opened his window.

  “Seth… come on, get down here!” It was Brad McClellan sitting on his horse looking up at the house. “Be quick about it… we’ve got to go!”

  Sleepy and bewildered, Seth dressed hurriedly and stumbled his way out of his room. He met his father in the corridor, lantern in hand.

  “What’s going on, Seth?” he said.

  “I don’t know, Dad. It’s Brad McClellan. I have no idea what it’s all about. I’ll find out.”

  He returned to his room, pulled on his boots, and rejoined his father in the hallway.

  “Whatever you do, Dad,” he said, “don’t let Thomas leave Greenwood. I do not want him involved until I find out what’s going on.”

  “Do you think he’s mixed up in something?”

  “I don’t know, Dad,” said Seth heading for the stairs. “I’m thinking of that gathering at Oakbriar.”

  A minute later he walked out the front door into the darkness. Brad sat holding the reins of two horses—his own, and Seth’s Malcolm, saddled and ready.

  “Let’s go!” said Brad.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll see—come on.”

  “Look, Brad, I’m not going anywhere until I know what it’s about.”

  Brad looked down at him with a piercing gaze. “You have to come, Seth,” he said. “Wyatt told me that if you objected to tell you that there could be repercussions.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just that what happened to you the other day could happen to others around here—your father, maybe your mother or brother… some of the darkies you are all so fond of.”

  The two young men stared at each other in the chill night air.

  “Now, like I said,” repeated Brad, “let’s go.”

  He threw Seth the rein, spun around and galloped away down the drive. With reluctant forebodings, Seth climbed onto Malcolm’s back and followed.

  There was enough of a moon to ride by once they cleared the wood. It was some minutes, however, before Seth caught up and could move alongside his companion.

  “What’s going on, Brad!” he called out.

  “A runaway! Spotted on the Beaumont place!”

  “But I told you—”

  Brad lashed his mount and again sped ahead. Before long Seth became aware that they were not alone. Three or four horses had joined them, when or where he didn’t know. His misgivings mounting, Seth continued on. Whatever was going on, he told himself, he needed to know of it not only because of Brad’s threats but to protect their own secrets.

  They reached Dove’s Landing and thundered through the deserted streets. A few more riders joined them. By now there were six or eight in all. Windows and street lanterns gave Seth enough light to recognize most of his companions. All had been at Oakbriar the night of the fateful meeting. No one spoke. The only sound was the pounding of a steadily growing number of hooves on the hard-packed dirt of the streets and the road out of town.

  Ten minutes later Seth was certain they were somewhere on the Beaumont plantation. In the darkness he couldn’t tell where. Four or five lanterns gave off flickering light ahead. Hounds were baying at the moon.

  They began to slow. In front of him Brad reined in. Seth found himself suddenly surrounded by ten horses pawing, prancing, and snorting in the night. Four or five burning torches, flames dancing into the night sky, flickered toward them. In the lead walked Wyatt Beaumont.

  “All right… everyone here?” he said. “Good. O
kay, the dogs chased him into this wood here,” said Wyatt nodding behind him. “Now that there are enough of us, we want to surround it then close in so he can’t slip through. We don’t want him getting across the river where the dogs won’t be able to track him. So fan out around the edge of the wood. Leave your horses here, we’ll go on foot—Brad, you go east. Cam, you west, till you meet at the river, then spread word back that the circle’s been closed. Stay seventy-five to a hundred yards apart. If he breaks between two of you, give a holler. Between us and the dogs, we’ll run that nigger down and teach him that this is the wrong place to come looking for freedom. All right… you all know what to do—”

  Wyatt glanced up at Seth where he sat on Malcolm’s back. In the light from his torch, their eyes met. A wily smile parted Wyatt’s lips. Suddenly the truth dawned in Seth’s brain—he’d been set up!

  His only hope was to find the runaway before anyone else did. If he could slip him into the river, he would be able to come back for him later somewhere downstream and get him safely to Greenwood.

  The poor black man was so anxious to get North that he had fled without getting full instructions. He knew only the name of the town nearest his destination. That partial information had been his undoing. For he had been seen snooping too close to Oakbriar. He was not to be so fortunate as to run into a friend among so many enemies. As Seth searched frantically and whispered in hopes that the man would hear him, ten minutes later he heard the shouts he had feared.

  “We’ve got him…. Wyatt, over here—we’ve got him!”

  A sinking feeling of dismay sickened Seth’s heart. He turned and rushed toward the voices. By the time he reached the others, lanterns and dogs and ten boys he had grown up with, half younger than himself but old enough for evil to have turned into men before their time, were taunting and beating and kicking and cursing at a helpless black figure on the ground.

  “Stop… what are you doing!” cried Seth, running into the middle of the fray. “You’ve found him, isn’t that what you wanted? You don’t need to beat him to death!”

  “You got a problem with what we’re doing, Davidson?” said a voice behind them. The small crowd of well-bred thugs parted to make room for their leader. Wyatt walked forward and looked with apparent satisfaction at their quarry where he lay half unconscious.

  “Look, Wyatt,” said Seth, “you caught the man. If he’s a runaway, then send him back to his owner. Collect the reward—fair enough. I’ve got no problem with that. But you don’t need to bash his face in.”

  Again Beaumont looked at his boyhood friend.

  “So… you think we’re being a little rough on him?”

  “It’s not necessary. If you’re trying to stop runaways, send him back.”

  “Oh, we’re going to stop them all right,” said Wyatt, “by teaching their kind a lesson!” He broke out in an evil laugh. “That’s right—a lesson. Maybe it’ll teach you a lesson too, Davidson! Who’s got the rope?”

  Four or five voices answered at once. There seemed to be no shortage.

  “Somebody find us a tree.”

  “No… you can’t—Wyatt!” cried Seth. “There’s no need for anything like—”

  “Would somebody shut him up!” yelled Wyatt.

  Several blows at Seth’s face and stomach sent him to the ground beside the black man.

  “While you’re at it,” said Wyatt. “Tie him up too. I don’t want him running off. And put a gag in his mouth.”

  Dazed from the blows, Seth hardly realized what was happening. A few minutes later, he gradually came to himself sitting against the trunk of a tree, feet bound, hands stretched behind the tree. A piece of his shirt had been ripped from his chest and stuffed into his mouth. He could barely move and couldn’t utter a sound. The scene in front of him would haunt him as long as he lived.

  The runaway slave, weak but conscious, sat on Seth’s own Malcolm, whimpering and pleading for his life. In a circle around him, Wyatt Beaumont’s accomplices laughed and shouted taunts and accusations, ridiculing the condemned man with the crude humor of their kind. A rope was stretched tight around his neck and up over an overhanging branch of the same tree at whose base Seth sat helpless.

  “Please, massa,” whimpered the man, “I’s serb you all ma born days effen you jes’ gimme er chance. I’s be a gud slave, yessuh—”

  Wyatt could contain himself no longer.

  “You’ll be a good slave, all right,” he said, bursting into a great laugh. “Because you’ll be a dead slave!”

  With superhuman effort, Seth tried to cry out. But he succeeded only in producing a faint gurgle. Wyatt sensed that an objection had been voiced. He turned, walked toward Seth, and knelt down.

  “Did you have something to say, Davidson?” he said, spitting out the name with revulsion. He yanked the cloth from Seth’s mouth. “I’m waiting!”

  “Wyatt…,” said Seth, his voice now pleading just like the black man’s, “don’t do it! It will be on your conscience forever. There’s no reason—”

  A blow from the back of Wyatt’s hand filled Seth’s mouth with blood.

  “Save it, Davidson!” he retorted. “It’s you and your kind who caused all this. People like you and your father are making these niggers so uppity they think they deserve to be free. Just remember—you caused this! And when you’re lying in bed at night you can remember that this fool of a nigger was sitting on your horse when he died!”

  Wyatt jumped to his feet and spun around. A great whack from his hand on Malcolm’s rump sent the startled horse bolting into the night.

  “No!” wailed Seth. His cry gradually faded into the blackness. No more sounds could be heard but the quiet flicker of flames from torches held by the surrounding circles of witnesses. A few momentary gurgles and gasps sounded from the black man’s throat, and then gave way to silence.

  Now that it had been done, the gruesome sight silenced all but the most hardened of the young men. They had been caught up in Wyatt Beaumont’s vendetta for so long that they had not anticipated what it would feel like to watch a man die. Not until this moment had the reality sunk in that with their own hands they had actually killed a man.

  The sobering thought sent more than a few chills around them as they gazed up at the figure swinging from the end of the rope. Each in his own way slowly realized that blood was on his hands. They were murderers.

  Wyatt returned to the base of the tree. Again he knelt down and stared into Seth’s face. “Hey, what do you know—poor Davidson’s got tears in his eyes! Crying, little Sethy… what’s the matter, Sethy! Ha, ha, ha!”

  But none of his cohorts were laughing now. Even Brad McClellan was desperately fighting a rising lump in his throat.

  Wyatt turned serious again.

  “This is why I brought you along tonight, Seth,” he said, looking hard into Seth’s face. “I wanted you to see what freeing your slaves has done… and what will happen if more runaways come through here. And one more thing, none of the rest of us are going to squawk. So if word of this leaks out, about who was here and what happened… we’ll know it was you that talked. You see, Seth—you’re part of it now. You’re one of us. You can’t escape. You were here tonight. If you talk… we’ll kill you next, or maybe one of your niggers. So you see, Seth—you’re either with us… or you’re dead.”

  He took a knife from his belt and cut the rope at Seth’s feet, then freed his hands. The instant he was free, Seth struggled to his feet. He staggered forward, blindly thinking to get the man down.

  “Somebody… help me!” he cried in desperation. “Help me… we’ve got to get him down before it’s too late!”

  They were still more afraid of Wyatt Beaumont than their own consciences. No one moved a muscle.

  Suddenly a great explosion shattered the stillness of the night. Blood squirted from the side of the black man’s head. What little struggle remained instantly ceased. His body shuddered briefly, then went limp at the end of the rope.

  Set
h turned to see Cameron Beaumont, at sixteen the youngest of the mob, pistol in hand, smoke yellowed from the light of the torches drifting lazily out of the barrel.

  Hot tears blurred Seth’s vision and he felt himself beginning to collapse. Hands grabbed him and he felt himself thrown over a horse’s back and tied across the saddle like a sack of potatoes. The horse began to move, then the other horses also set out, until the scene of death was deserted. One by one the other riders moved away through the night. At length he realized he was alone with one other who continued to lead the mount on which he lay.

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, Seth had no idea how long the journey lasted or its direction. At last he felt himself cut free and dropped to the ground. His captor rode off. Seth was left alone. A few minutes later he felt the warm breath and soft neigh of a friend near his face. Mercifully, they had brought him here on Malcolm, who would never leave him.

  Again he fell unconscious.

  When he woke, the dawn of morning was on its way into the sky. Hands and feet still bound, Seth struggled to sit up. He was somewhere halfway up the ridge on the Brown tract. Malcolm stood a few feet away nibbling on green patch of grass.

  Struggling to loosen his bonds, and aching nearly everywhere, Seth finally managed to get free and climbed onto the faithful stallion’s back.

  “Home, Malcolm,” he whispered in his ear. “Take me home.”

  Thirty-Six

  In the aftermath of the hanging, Seth was despondent. His father and mother were beside themselves with worry when he did not come home all night after his departure with Brad McClellan. One look when he rode into Greenwood the following morning told them that something terrible had happened. With difficulty he told them of the incident, breaking into tears more than once. By that same afternoon, after the stiff body had been found dangling from the tree by Leon Riggs, news of the hanging was spreading through the community like a brush fire.