American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  He left the house to rejoin his men.

  “Show me your darkie quarters,” he said to Richmond, still following.

  When they were gone, Carolyn removed the tapestry, opened the door a crack. “Just a little longer,” she whispered down the cellar steps, then again closed in their fugitives and rehung the tapestry over the door.

  Almost the instant she did so, a scream sounded from below.

  “Hit’s comin’, Miz Dab’ son!” Mary’s voice called out. “Dere’s no stoppin’ dat baby now!”

  Carolyn flew down into the cellar and ran to the bedside.

  “Eliza, dear,” she said, “I know how badly it hurts, but there is a bad man outside who is looking for you. You must try to keep quiet.”

  Carolyn motioned to Mary and Eliza’s sister, and they came to her with obvious fear in their faces. “If she starts to cry out again,” said Carolyn, “clamp a cloth or towel over her mouth. It is the only way. That man must not hear her!”

  They nodded.

  “I am going to join them outside,” she added. “Richmond might need help.”

  She turned to go. Again Eliza started to cry out. Mary was beside her in a moment and stuffed a towel onto her mouth to muffle the sound.

  “I’s sorry, Liza dear, but dere ain’t no other way.”

  As Richmond and Murdoch walked away from the house, Murdoch hesitated at the faint sound of a cry. He turned back briefly, a look of question on his face, then continued on. He called out to his men to join them from where they were ransacking the barn, workshop, ice house, and other outbuildings.

  Richmond led the way to the black village.

  As they reached the workers’ quarters, immediately all activity about the place—talking and singing and laughter and sounds of playing children—ceased. Every set of black eyes turned to face their master and his unfriendly looking visitors.

  One of Murdoch’s men emerged from out of the woods, rifle in hand. Wyatt Beaumont and Scully Riggs followed. As they walked forward, neither acknowledged the presence of their father’s friend.

  “Scully… Wyatt… what’s this all about?” said Richmond. “You know our people are free, not runaways. What have you been telling this man?”

  “I told you, Davidson,” snapped Murdoch, “this isn’t about your people. You just keep quiet. Pete… Harv, Jesse, Beaumont, you see anything peculiar going on here?”

  “Nothing, Murdoch,” replied Pete. “Just lazy darkies and all these women and their brats.”

  Murdoch nodded as he looked around. Slowly a cluster of curious black children began to draw near, followed more slowly by the men who happened to be about. “Boys,” said Murdoch, taking no notice of them, “search every inch of this place. If anybody’s hiding, I want them found. Any of these coloreds get in your way, you know how to deal with their kind—Beaumont, Riggs, you two go along. If you see anybody that don’t belong, I want to know it.”

  Carolyn now approached from the direction of the house. She gasped in astonishment to see their two neighbors carrying out Murdoch’s orders along with his men.

  “Wyatt, how can you do this!” she said, walking toward them. “You’ve known us all your life. And what about you, Scully? I used to take care of you when you where a child after your mother passed away. How can you—”

  “We’re men now, Mrs. Davidson,” interrupted Wyatt rudely. “We’re not little boys. We got things we need to do, a way of life we’ve got to protect even if some people are bent on destroying it.”

  Carolyn was shocked at his cold and impersonal tone. “What are you talking about, Wyatt?” she said, “We’re not bent on destroying anything. Surely, Wyatt, you don’t think your father and mother—”

  “Look, Mrs. Davidson,” said Murdoch, taking two strides toward her, “like I told you, we have a job to do. If you get in our way, I’m going to have to ask you to go back to your house.”

  He laid a rude hand on her shoulder to pull her away.

  “Mr. Murdoch,” said Richmond in a tone of quiet authority. He walked forward and took firm hold of Murdoch’s forearm. “I am going to have to ask you to keep your hand off my wife.” With a determined grip he removed Murdoch’s hand from Carolyn’s shoulder. “If you have a request to make, either to my wife or myself, you may make it in a gentlemanly fashion.”

  Murdoch spun around and yanked himself free from Richmond’s grasp. Almost the same instant the gun from his holster was in his hand. Terrified, Carolyn jumped behind her husband.

  “Don’t you ever touch me, Davidson!” he spat in obvious threat, pointing the gun straight into Richmond’s chest from less than two feet away. “And don’t you try to stop me from doing anything I want to do. One word from me and every one of these shacks goes up in flames, and your own house with them. You watch your step, Davidson! I am a man you do not want to get in the way of.”

  Murdoch’s men took threatening steps toward them, their rifles inching higher in their grasps. They were ready to defend their leader at the slightest provocation. At the same time, all the Davidsons’ blacks tensed and also crept forward. Only shovels and hoes and rakes were in their hands. But every man among them would have not hesitated to use them to the death in defense of their master. From the gleaming looks in the eyes of Murdoch’s small outnumbered band, it was clear they hoped the coloreds would start something, so that they could finish it.

  The two men stood eyeball-to-eyeball without flinching.

  From the corner of his vision, Richmond saw Wyatt Beaumont staring straight at him. In his face he saw his father at a younger age. He wore an expression that said he would feel no compunction to kill.

  The standoff lasted but a few seconds.

  Richmond backed away, keeping a steady eye alternately on Murdoch and Denton Beaumont’s son. If they tried to hurt one of his blacks, he would interfere.

  “Carolyn,” he said, “you can go back to the house. These men are nearly done here.”

  Afraid to leave him alone, but knowing she must obey, Carolyn slowly backed away up the hill toward the plantation house.

  “Malachi… all the rest of you,” Richmond continued, glancing at the circle of tense black faces surrounding them, “get back to work… you women can go back to your homes and return to what you were doing. If these men want to search anywhere inside or outside your houses, you may let them.”

  Slowly his eyes drifted again toward Murdoch’s. “They will not hurt you,” he went on slowly, as if disguising a subtle command as he reassured his people. “As soon as they find that you have nothing to hide, they will leave in peace.”

  Slowly the circle of Negroes widened then backed away. Not a sound could be heard.

  Straining to hear in the dark underground room of the new cabin where he sat with Jackson Riles and his two companions and a half dozen other runaways he had hurried below, Seth could make out very little. He had no idea how near the incident had come to breaking into a major incident.

  “Now, Mr. Murdoch,” said Richmond. “Get on with your search. Wyatt and Scully will tell you these are all blacks they have both known for years. Then take your men off my property.”

  Murdoch lowered his gun and replaced it in the leather at his side. Again their eyes locked momentarily.

  Both men knew it would not be the last time they saw one another.

  Carolyn dashed for the house. The moment they were gone ten minutes later, she burst through the door, hurried across the floor, flung back the tapestry, then flew down the cellar stairs, expecting any moment to hear Eliza scream out again from her bed.

  Instead the cry of an infant met her ears.

  Thirty-Nine

  With a newborn now at Greenwood, additional complications had to be considered. If Eliza could not move on while pregnant, neither would either she or her new little girl be in any condition to travel for a good while, perhaps months. The three single men were taken west by Malachi to continue their journey. Others came to replace them, and also moved on.


  The Underground Railroad in central Virginia was doing a brisk business.

  After two months, with Eliza well enough to travel and her little girl gaining strength rapidly, and having received word that Wyatt Beaumont would be gone for two weeks, Richmond decided once again to make use of the delivery wagon with the deep bed and hidden compartment that had taken Lucindy and her family north. Their route on this occasion, however, would be almost directly west, where Richmond wanted personally to meet the Quaker man and woman who had already taken so many travelers from them as Malachi’s contact.

  He therefore drove the wagon himself with the youngsters and one adult, and was accompanied by Malachi leading a smaller wagon with the others.

  They were gone four days, made the transfer of cargo without incident, and Richmond returned excitedly to tell Carolyn that the man was none other than the cousin of Frederich Mueller of Hanover, Pennsylvania, at whose farm Lucindy had found her Caleb. The underground network, it seemed, was all around them, yet they had never suspected it.

  Spring advanced and the summer of 1860 approached. Though slavery had come up in 1852 and 1856, the election to be held in November of 1860 would be the first presidential election dominated by slavery and states’ rights. The nation watched with interest to see what stances the old Democratic and the young upstart Republican party would take.

  The first of three Democratic conventions was held in April. At that time the Northern Democrats nominated Illinois Senator Stephen Douglas as their presidential candidate. Neither Democratic President Buchanan nor his vice president could support Douglas, a longtime Buchanan foe over slavery. Southern Democrats demanded that the party adopt a platform in strong defense of slavery. Douglas could not agree. Some Southern delegates walked out. After fifty-four ballots, Douglas had still not received the two-thirds majority required for nomination. The convention adjourned, with plans to reconvene in Baltimore in June.

  The Republican national convention was scheduled for mid-May as another major barometer of the nation’s feelings on the issue of slavery.

  Richmond opened the morning newspaper of Saturday, May 19.

  “Look, dear,” he said as he perused the front page. “The dark horse Abraham Lincoln won the Republican nomination for the presidency last week. That’s astonishing—he was way down the list of favorites.”

  “I thought Senator Seward was the favorite,” said Carolyn.

  “He was. Apparently he won the first ballot, but didn’t get a majority—let me see…”

  Richmond continued to read the account. “Ah,” he said after a few minutes, “this explains it—it took three ballots before Lincoln gained a majority. After an unexpectedly strong showing on the first ballot, some backroom wheeling and dealing took place by Lincoln’s supporters. The Pennsylvania delegation switched its vote and Lincoln led on the second ballot. By the third vote the momentum was moving entirely his way. Suddenly a man whose only national experience was a single two-year term in the House of Representatives more than a decade ago has come from out of nowhere and is now the Republican candidate for the presidency.”

  “That’s remarkable. Who is his vice presidential candidate?”

  “Senator Hamlin from Maine.”

  “Who do you think they will run against for the Democrats?” asked Carolyn.

  “Either Vice President Breckinridge or Senator Douglas,” replied Richmond. “I see no other possibilities. Although after Douglas’s failure to win the nomination outright last month, I’m not sure what will happen. Maybe when the Democrats meet again, they will come up with a completely different candidate.”

  “Might the president himself run again?”

  “I doubt it,” replied Richmond. “President Buchanan has lost so much support, even among his own party, I don’t think he is even seeking the nomination. So though he tried to curry favor of the Southern party leadership, he didn’t satisfy them, and in the process lost favor with Northern Democrats as well.”

  “Who do you think will win in November?”

  “A good question. If Douglas is nominated, he has already beaten Lincoln once so I would say he would have to be considered the favorite.”

  “That was only for a state election. The national electorate might see things differently.”

  “True. And against Breckinridge, I would guess that the electorate would go along North-South lines, pro-slavery versus antislavery. In that case I would put my money on Lincoln.”

  Richmond chuckled as he continued to read. “Listen to this,” he said. “Here is a photograph of Lincoln… but the description is even better.”

  By now Carolyn had walked over and was looking over his shoulder at the paper as he read.

  “‘In personal appearance,’” Richmond read, “‘Mr. Lincoln, or, as he is more familiarly termed among those who know him best, Old Uncle Abe, is long, lean, and wiry. In motion he has a great deal of the elasticity and awkwardness which indicate the rough training of his early life, and his conversation savors strongly of Western idioms and pronunciation. His height is six feet three inches. His complexion is about that of an octoroon2; his face, without being by any means beautiful, is genial looking, and good humor seems to lurk in every corner of its innumerable angles. He has dark hair tinged with gray, a good forehead, small eyes, a long penetrating nose, with nostrils such as Napoleon always liked to find in his best generals, because they indicated a long head and clear thoughts; and a mouth which aside from being of magnificent proportions, is probably the most expressive feature of his face.

  “‘As a speaker he is ready, precise, and fluent. His manner before a popular assembly is as he pleases to make it, being either superlatively ludicrous or very impressive. He employs but little gesticulation, but when he desires to make a point produces a shrug of his shoulders, an elevation of his eyebrows, a depression of his mouth, and a general malformation of countenance so comically awkward that it never fails to “bring down the house.” His enunciation is slow and emphatic, and his voice, though sharp and powerful, at times has a frequent tendency to dwindle into a shrill and unpleasant sound; but as before stated, the peculiar characteristic of his delivery is the remarkable mobility of his features, the frequent contortions of which excite a merriment his words could not produce.’”3

  “It seems that it would be marvelous to see him speak in person,” said Carolyn. “He sounds fascinating.”

  “He claims not to be an abolitionist,” said Richmond, “but in trying to explain his position, Lincoln is quoted as saying from two earlier speeches: ‘I have always hated slavery, I think, as much as any Abolitionist. I have been an Old Line Whig. I believe I have always hated it, and always believed it in course of ultimate extinction. If I were in Congress, and a vote should come up on a question whether slavery should be prohibited in a new Territory, in spite of the Dred Scott decision I would vote that it should. I nevertheless did not mean to go on the banks of the Ohio and throw missiles into Kentucky, to disturb them in their domestic institutions.’”4

  “That sounds almost like the abolitionist position,” said Carolyn as Richmond set down the paper and she returned to her chair.

  “Similar to it,” nodded Richmond, taking a sip of his coffee. “He is clearly against slavery, and would fight tooth and nail against its expansion into new states and territories. But I think he still hopes to find a peaceful, negotiated solution in the areas where slavery presently exists.”

  Carolyn thought a moment. “Perhaps his position is a little like ours,” she said. “We have freed our own slaves because, like Lincoln, we have come to hate slavery, but we have not embarked on an effort to force Denton Beaumont or William McClellan do the same. It is a personal conviction that we are trying to live out in our lives without insisting that everyone share the same conviction.”

  “Well put, wife! I have the feeling such may exactly reflect something like the man’s views. However, if he becomes president he will not have the luxury we do of being
able merely to live out his personal convictions. He will then speak for the nation, and I fear it will be a seriously divided one if he is elected. But he sounds like a fascinating man. I wish I could sit down with him for an hour or two!”

  Carolyn, Nancy, and Mary went into Dove’s Landing to call on Reverend Jones, as was their custom. He lived in a run-down shack behind Baker’s store and, though she did not much care for Negroes, his usefulness with odd maintenance jobs to a widow like Mrs. Baker was more than sufficient to offset her discomfort with the arrangement. She did not exactly give him the place without charge, but he had been more than able to offset the rent she required with the work he did for her, supplemented by similar light jobs for others about town.

  During the last several months, as he had been ailing, Carolyn tried to see him weekly if not more often, and had been bringing him cold meals to sustain him from visit to visit.

  When they appeared in town on this day, Mrs. Baker spotted Carolyn and her two black friends the moment the carriage drew up in front of her store. She hurried outside to intercept them as they walked around the side of her shop to the little house in back.

  “Mrs. Davidson,” she said, “could I have a word with you?”

  Carolyn stopped and turned with a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Baker,” she said.

  The shopkeeper’s quick perusal of Mary and Nancy at Carolyn’s side revealed a condescension that she made no effort to conceal.

  “I feel I should tell you, Mrs. Davidson,” she began, glancing toward the basket of food in Carolyn’s hand, “since you obviously consider his care your affair, that Mr. Jones has not been able to do any work for me in more than a month.”

  “He has not been feeling well, Mrs. Baker,” replied Carolyn.

  “That is obvious. He does nothing but lie in bed all day.”

  “He is not a young man, Mrs. Baker. Last winter was a difficult one for him.”

  “Be that as it may, he is now a month behind on his rent.”