American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  But he was on foot and she on a horse, and, though she was moving slowly, when she turned and started down the far slope of the ridge, he lost her from view. He followed another ten minutes, failed to get sight of her again, and at length returned to Oakbriar.

  Making her way down from Harper’s Peak by a different path than her ascent, consciously or unconsciously Cherity found herself following the same route that she and Seth had taken when they had first ridden here together. Before long she approached the old Brown farmhouse, by now familiar to her yet at the same time as mysterious a place as when she had first laid eyes on it. She had been here numerous times since then with Seth, with Carolyn and the black women, and several times with Carolyn or Richmond or Nancy Shaw to retrieve runaway slaves hiding out in the woods or in one of the caves that had become known among fugitives. But she had not come here alone.

  As she approached the Brown house on this day, dismounting and walking slowly toward the porch and front door, peculiar sensations stirred within her similar to what she had felt at first sight of the place years before.

  She knew the stories of mysterious Mr. Brown well enough by now. But though she did not know of her own Cherokee roots, she nevertheless felt the compelling pull of her native heritage every time she drew near this place. She did not yet know why she felt such things, yet they drew her.

  The woods and hills grew still with what seemed a preternatural silence. Cherity climbed the steps and walked inside the home that had once belonged to the enigmatic Mr. Brown. Nothing had changed. Yet her whole being tingled with expectation. Slowly she walked about, as if hoping to lure from the very walls the secrets they contained. And they did contain secrets, for these walls had been silent witness to two conversations on two different nights many years before which to know would unlock more mysteries than Cherity had any idea even existed. The one had been a night when four of Brown’s Cherokee brothers had come to see him stealthily in the night and they had discussed the future of their people and the protection of their heritage. The second had been a meeting between Brown and Richmond Davidson’s father concerning the protection of that heritage and the disposition of Brown’s house and land.

  But the walls remained silent. Cherity would not learn its secrets on this day. What she would in time discover about her heritage would be divulged by other means.

  As she left the house five or ten minutes later, a movement in the woods caught her eye.

  She took several steps toward it. Slowly a lanky black man stepped out from behind the trunk of a thick pine.

  “Who are you?” asked Cherity.

  “Please, missus,” he said, taking off his soiled hat and crumpling it nervously between both hands, “Is jes’ a hungry trab’ler lookin’ fo’ shelter, ma’am.”

  “How do you come to be here?” asked Cherity, slowly approaching.

  “Dey tol’ us dere be a place roun’ ’bout here what’s kindly disposed ter folks seekin’ freedom. Dey tol’ us ’bout a cave where effen a body waits long enuf sumbody’ll cum ter help an’ dat’s where we been.”

  As Cherity walked toward the tree, her eyes were momentarily diverted to something odd on its trunk. A portion of the bark had been torn or cut away down to the surface of the sapwood, and a peculiar set of lines and circles had been carved into the surface of the wood. It was obviously man-made, though not recent, for the subsequent growth of the surrounding bark had all but obliterated it. At first glance, she took it to be some youngster’s initials carved long ago, maybe even Seth’s, she thought. But as she continued to stare at it, she saw nothing resembling an S or a D or any letter of the alphabet for that matter.

  A shuffle of the man’s feet brought her out of her brief reverie. She glanced back toward him.

  “How many of you are there?” she asked.

  “Four, ma’am,” said the man.

  “And what if I’m not someone who is friendly to runaways? Aren’t you speaking rather freely with a stranger? What if I am a bounty hunter?”

  A wide grin of humor spread across the man’s lips revealing a wide set of pure white teeth.

  “I reckon you jes’ had da look ob sumone I figgered I cud trust, ma’am. I reckon you looked like a frien’.”

  “Well then, why don’t you take me to the rest of your people,” said Cherity. “And I will see what we can do to find them some better quarters than a cold damp cave.”

  That evening at dusk, one of the Greenwood wagons, filled with seven blacks and with Sydney LeFleure at the reins moved slowly away from the precincts of the plantation toward the isolated hill region to the east. Their journey would take them half the night. By morning the travelers would be safely in the hands of the Davidson’s Quaker neighbor, who would see to the next stage of their long trek.

  Yet there was no respite for the weary hands of ministry, for these seven had already been replaced by the four brought down the hill from the cave by Cherity—two men and their wives, one who was so exhausted by the journey from Florida that she seemed nearly unable to take another step.

  Richmond came into the house that evening at about eight o’clock and sat down wearily in the parlor where Carolyn was waiting for him.

  “Are they all settled?” she asked, pouring him a cup of tea from the pot on the sideboard.

  “As well as can be expected,” sighed Richmond. “Honestly, I don’t see how these people do it. They want freedom so desperately. We take it for granted, yet they are willing to risk their lives for it. One cannot but admire their courage. But one of the women is tired and weak. She needs a long rest.”

  “When will Sydney be back?”

  “In the morning sometime,” replied Richmond, taking a drink from his cup and lapsing into thought.

  “Where will it end, Richmond?” asked Carolyn at length. “Will this war solve anything?”

  “I don’t know. There is talk that Lincoln may free the slaves by executive order. Jeffrey’s last letter to Cynthia spoke of the Union troops expecting a major push by the Confederacy as a result.”

  “Do you think that will change anything down here?”

  “I doubt it. The Southern states will recognize nothing he does anyway. And as Jeffrey thought, it will only increase anger against the president. So it seems the blacks will continue to come.”

  “Which president?” asked Carolyn. “I presume you mean Mr. Lincoln.”

  “We may be Virginians, Carolyn, but first of all I am an American loyal to our country—our whole country. Yes, Abraham Lincoln is my president. I cannot recognize a government founded on rebellion.”

  “Our whole nation was founded on rebellion against British rule.”

  Richmond nodded. “That is true, of course,” he said. “I confess I struggle with that concept from time to time. But that was a rebellion of our nation’s founders three generations ago and for which we living today cannot be answerable. What would have been my stand had I been living at the time, I cannot say. But this present rebellion is one for which we alive today are answerable. I therefore cannot endorse it.”

  “How long will Greenwood be able to keep up with those who come?” asked Carolyn. “We are already stretched to the limit.”

  Richmond nodded. “I miss the boys more than ever,” he said. “Sometimes the work is overwhelming. I despair of catching up. I’m not as young as I once was, Carolyn.”

  “What are you talking about? You are still remarkably fit, Richmond.”

  “That may be. But I confess I am tired—physically and emotionally. I feel like my spiritual reservoirs are running dry.”

  “I suppose I know what you mean. As much as I love dear Cherity, and as great a comfort as it is to have Cynthia with us, sometimes I find it hard to smile. I miss the boys so much.”

  Carolyn paused and thought a moment.

  “Cynthia seemed ready to be grown up. Maybe I should say I was ready for her to grow up. But I wasn’t ready to let go of the boys yet. It came too suddenly.”

  “
I think that is it exactly,” said Richmond. “The change came too suddenly. I miss them with all my heart.”

  “As hard as it is sometimes, I know we can’t stop living just because they are gone. Nancy has to keep living without Malachi. We have people who depend on us and work that God has given us to do.”

  “You are right, of course,” nodded Richmond. “I have to keep reminding myself that Seth and Thomas are men now. That’s hard to accept. Not recognizing that they are men—that’s not the hard part. It’s having them gone that is hard. I anticipated this time of life for years. I wanted to share in it with them. I hoped to be a father to them in their young manhood—a father of their manhood rather than their boyhood. That was one of the most exciting challenges I had been looking forward to. Then suddenly the moment they reached that wonderful age of maturity, they have been taken from us. Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I feel deprived, almost cheated in a way—not cheated by God or them, just by the circumstances of life—to have something I had been praying for and preparing for all their lives taken away. I don’t know if I will ever be in a position to be in active, daily, working relationship with them again. I hoped to work side by side with them at work that God had given us to do together. What a joy it would have been to be engaged in meaningful work and ministry with grown sons.”

  He smiled. “But perhaps that was my vision not theirs. I don’t know if they want such a thing even if they do come back. Young people don’t always share the same outlook on relationship with their parents that parents do.”

  Carolyn nodded thoughtfully.

  “Maybe that is the hardest part of all,” Richmond went on, “especially with Thomas, knowing that even if he were here, he would want to be independent from me. It is a knife in my heart every day… but you are right, dear wife—life has to go on. And we do have the blessing of being able to enjoy such a relationship with Cynthia.”

  He paused and a thoughtful look came over his face. “I wonder how things are getting on over at Oakbriar,” he said. “The war must be changing things for them too. I haven’t seen Denton since the attack on Fort Sumter.”

  “Has he been in Dove’s Landing?”

  “He must have come back when Congress wasn’t in session. To be honest,” said Richmond, “I’ve almost been afraid to see him again. With all the threats that were made, with Wyatt and that other fellow, and with everything that’s been going on here… it’s been a relief not to see any of them.”

  “I admit I don’t miss Wyatt either,” reflected Carolyn. “What evil got into that poor boy! Do you ever see Leon?”

  “Occasionally in town. He doesn’t say much. Although that reminds me, I meant to tell you… he said that Lady Daphne is back.”

  “Oh, I’ll have to go over for a visit.”

  “I’m sure she would appreciate it.”

  Four

  Vincent Locke was a virile twenty-four-year-old Southern boy who had never in his life been deprived of anything he wanted. He knew his father’s plantation would be his one day and he did everything in his power to enhance his future investment. He knew his father had sired probably twenty or thirty slaves in his day, and was probably not through yet. He saw it as his duty to carry on the family tradition. While most young men his age were off fighting the Yankees, he deemed it his higher duty to stay at home to keep the plantation prospering… and growing.

  The expression on Vincent Locke’s face when he eyed Mary Steddings had not been lost on her father Aaron. Even after eleven years as a slave, he still thought like a free man. The outrage he felt at seeing a man look that way at his daughter was nothing he could control. He might tell himself that he was a slave now and could do nothing about it. He might remind himself of his Quaker principles of peace and nonviolence. He might tell himself any number of things. But the indignation of a father protective of his daughter’s purity rose stronger within his breast than any arguments that could be brought against it.

  He hoped and prayed that the master’s son would lose interest and that nothing would come of it. But in the meantime, he worked harder than ever on his secret plan. He began to stash a few supplies—water, candles, matches, dried meat—and stabilized the walls with boards as he widened them out as he went lower. And at every opportunity he continued to dig, now, when he knew it was safe, risking even four or five scoops of dirt at a time. He also began experimenting with methods for covering the hole back up from the inside—the two most important aspects of his plan of all—and for supplying air to the hole once it was covered over with the boards and dirt.

  For air, nature itself solved the difficulty. One day, pulling back the boards, he noticed a pile of loose dirt at the bottom, above which, about six inches up on the wall, was the perfectly round bore of a mole tunnel. After falling into his excavation, the mole had apparently dug down into the floor and made his way back into his network. But after licking his finger and holding it up to the hole in the side wall, Aaron detected a faint movement of air. If he could find where the maze of tunnels came up outside, and make sure the hole to the outside was kept clear, he would have a passageway for air to enter the cave that would be completely undetectable.

  Master Locke and his son left the plantation for a week. Aaron had to be just as careful about Mr. Roper, but with father and son gone, the overseer was longer in the fields and he was left alone for longer stretches of time. He was emboldened to dig furiously, widening the bottom of the cave, now five feet deep, to a width of about four feet square. He only hoped the depth along with the bolstering vertical planks he had put in place would prevent a collapse. He added more water, an empty bucket for refuse, another candle or two, and what matches he could scrape together.

  Once everything was in readiness, he thought, it would be best to wait no longer, especially with the master gone. He was just thinking through all the final preparations when out in the yard he heard the dogs barking and the sound of horses. His heart fell as he glanced outside and saw Master Locke and his son riding in.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. He had waited too long.

  It didn’t take long for the worst he had feared to come upon them. Two days later, from where he was at work rebuilding a wheel for one of the wagons, he heard a faint scream from the direction of the slave village. Though she had been out in the cotton fields with the others all morning, instinctively he knew it had come from Mary.

  Aaron dropped the iron he had been bending into shape and ran from the building. He was just in time to see his daughter being dragged by the wrist toward their small cabin.

  He glanced about. Neither Master Locke nor Mr. Roper were anywhere to be seen. Without considering the consequences, Aaron broke into a run.

  Reaching the slave village, he burst through the door and saw Mary crouching in terror where the master’s son had shoved her onto one of the beds. Vincent Locke already had half his clothes off and was just bending over her. At the sound of footsteps, he spun his head around.

  “Papa!” Mary cried out.

  “What are you doing here, Steddings?” said the master’s son. “Get back to work!”

  The words had hardly left his mouth when the strong grip of the black man’s hand grasped his shoulder and pulled him forcefully away.

  “Steddings, how dare you lay a hand on me!” he cried, jumping to his feet and turning to face the father. “This is none of your concern. Now get out of here—this girl and me has business, and it ain’t yours. If you get out of here now, I’ll ignore what you just did.”

  “She’s my girl, that makes it my business,” rejoined Aaron heatedly. “And you aren’t going to lay a hand on her.”

  “Who’s going to stop me!” laughed young Locke with derision.

  “If I have to, I reckon I will,” said Aaron.

  “You try and you know what’ll happen. Don’t be a fool, Steddings. You know how these things are. She’s marrying age.”

  “That may be, but she is not going to marry the likes of you.”
>
  Vincent Locke laughed again at the impudence of a slave to challenge his right to do anything he wanted. “Have it your way, then,” he said. “If you want to watch, then stick around. But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He turned back to where Mary half knelt on the floor. “Get your dress off, girl!” he said. “I ain’t got all day.” He grabbed her wrist and started for the bed.

  But again the strong grip of a blacksmith’s hand yanked him from her. Locke spun around again, and now his eyes were filled with fury. The fool slave had pushed him too far. He jumped up and ran toward Aaron with fists clenched intending to beat him senseless and then have his way with his daughter. He charged wildly, not expecting the man to fight back. Every slave knew the penalty for striking a white man. He did not expect even Aaron Stedddings to be that big a fool.

  But the black man was quick on his feet and Locke’s first blow missed his head by three inches. He swung again but again hit only air.

  “Go back out to the field, Mary!” said Aaron. “He won’t hurt thee now.”

  “But Papa—” she cried, realizing that his danger was now greater than hers.

  “Go, Mary!” he said. “There is nothing thee can do for me here. It is between me and this boy.”

  Infuriated yet the more to hear Aaron Steddings giving orders, Vincent Locke flew at Mary’s father like an enraged tiger. He rammed into his midsection and sent Aaron stumbling back against the wall. With a momentary advantage, Locke drew back his fist and sent a mighty blow toward Aaron’s face. But Aaron recovered himself and jerked his head sideways. Locke’s closed fist crashed into the wall.

  He cried out in pain and attacked with all the more fury. This time his fist found its mark and struck Aaron viciously across the face. At last Aaron Steddings’ Quaker creed left him altogether. The next moment Vincent Locke lay sprawled on the floor, blood oozing from his nose.