American Dreams Trilogy

by Michael Phillips

  And thus the slow black exodus from the South grew. As it did, so also grew the anger of white slave owners and bounty hunters. They no longer had the Fugitive Slave Law to back up their efforts with the law of the land. If a slave now made it to the North, he had no fear of being returned. But in the South something even more powerful than the Fugitive Slave Law had taken hold—hatred.

  Before the war, though slavery was the curse of every Southern Negro, slavery had also been their protection. Their owners may have looked down on their slaves, whipped them, even despised them. But they did not hate them. Slaves weren’t worth hating.

  But now freedom brought with it hatred to the South. A new kind of hatred. Slaves had always been beaten. But former slaves were now being hung. Revenge now replaced restitution as a motive for capturing runaways.

  No one of black skin wanted to go back to how it had been before. Freedom was better than anything. But how free would the emancipated slaves be if hatred and prejudice created an invisible bondage as deep as that once enforced by the slave-chains of their white masters?

  Thus the efforts of the thousands who had been helping slaves for years, most notably Quakers, continued, and brought with it even more complexities. For with a war on, and with chaos everywhere as the Confederacy gradually disintegrated, the danger to those trying to get out of the South was in some ways even greater than before.

  Considering how he had felt through most of the winter months, Thomas Davidson might just as well have been dead as his captain had tried to pretend. There were times he thought he was dead!

  Had it not been for the kind ministrations of their Quaker hosts and his rescuing black angel, he would surely have made Cameron Beaumont’s letter to his parents a prophetic one. The strain of the escape, the cold, the exhaustion, along with the inflammation of his broken ribs, all combined with a fever to enter his lungs. The resulting pneumonia had indeed put his life in danger. Many a long night after their arrival at the safe house, Deanna sat gently wiping his burning face and forehead and arms and praying desperately that he would live for one more day… and one day after that.

  By the time his fever and delirium began to subside, Thomas was so weak and had lost so much weight that no one imagined that he would be able to travel anytime soon. Under the best of conditions, broken ribs take months to heal. And in its state, Thomas’s body was slow to recover. The winter set in and still he lay in bed too weak even to stand.

  Thomas’s months as an invalid gave fertile opportunity for many long talks with Deanna at his bedside. They learned much about one another, without realizing the full extent of the similarities between their two upbringings. Thomas found it easier to tell facts about his family than to dwell on the spiritual foundations of his parents’ lives. Though Deanna was obviously proud of the Quaker faith of her parents, and shared it herself, and looked upon her father as nothing less than a hero for what he had done, Thomas felt far more conflicting emotions. Thus, even in such a setting as where he found himself—in a Quaker home, in a station on the railroad—and learning of Deanna’s similar spiritual background, he said nothing about the activities or faith of his parents.

  But such things were occupying his thoughts. And he found himself in no little turmoil over them.

  These people who had opened their home to them were just like his parents. He had come into their home as a complete stranger. Yet here he was staying in one of their bedrooms like he was part of the family, and Deanna in another room of the house even though she was black. What made them care so much about helping people? It was exactly what his parents would have done.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” said Thomas from his bed one day.

  “Of course not,” said Deanna.

  “What actually are Quakers?” asked Thomas. “I’ve heard about them, of course, but what do Quakers believe?”

  “I don’t know… we believe in God, that Jesus was God’s son and died for our sins.”

  “Everybody believes that. What is different about what Quakers believe?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just how I grew up.”

  “And you believe everything your parents taught you?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Did it never bother you to have your parents try to make you believe like them?”

  “No, of course not. They didn’t make me. They just taught us what was true and what wasn’t. That’s what parents are supposed to do, isn’t it? Why would that bother me?”

  “I don’t know. It bothered me about my parents.”

  “Why?” asked Deanna.

  “Actually… I don’t know,” replied Thomas. “Maybe it seemed like they were trying to force it on me or something.”

  “Do you think they were really doing that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I just thought they were. I guess I’ll have to think about that some more.”

  “I always admired my father and mother for their convictions. Even if they had tried to make me believe like you say, I don’t think I would have minded because they are a good man and woman.”

  That night Thomas thought about Deanna’s words. Why had he not been able to admire his father and mother? Seth had. Deanna admired her parents. Why had their beliefs and convictions bothered him? Now that he thought about it, it didn’t make much sense.

  Gradually Thomas was able to get out of bed, and then began to venture outside. He and Deanna were walking and talking outside near the house on a snowy afternoon in February.

  “What comes to mind when you think of your parents?” he asked. “Are they happy thoughts?”

  “Of course. They are so happy that—”

  Deanna turned away and began to cry. “I miss them so much!” she said. “They are happy and sad. What about you?”

  “I don’t know,” smiled Thomas thoughtfully. “Yeah… I guess mine are happy and sad too.”

  As winter relaxed its grip and spring set in, Thomas slowly regained his strength. Though his ribs were still painful if he turned wrong or tried to lift something, he was nearly well enough to travel.

  “Now that I am better,” he said to Deanna one day, “we need to think about moving on, getting north, and getting you home. What part of New Jersey are you from again?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” replied Deanna. “I was so young, but I think it’s somewhere near Philadelphia. The town is called Mount Holly. That’s one thing my father told us never to forget.”

  “Then we need to start making plans to get back on the railroad and get you there.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Some awakenings of conscience explode like a thunderbolt from a clear untroubled moral sky. Others begin so invisibly their gentle naggings in the region of the soul slowly cause but a faint new sensation—the undefined sense of being ill at ease. The reasons may be nebulous at first. But gradually they coalesce around two stark and unmistakable realizations: I am not the person I ought to be, and I have done wrong.

  The first is the fundamental truth upon which all spiritual development, and all true human growth, is based. But it is too enormous a realization for many to take in. It lies utterly outside the realm of previous conscious thought. The idea of becoming other than one is, of attempting by whatever means to make oneself better, is neither taught nor recognized as the primary objective of the human race. Individual growth toward betterment is scarcely acknowledged as a possibility, still less an imperative and eternal necessity, by the larger percentage of humanity. How should the individuals of that humanity, then, be capable of recognizing that they are less than what they must one day become?

  The second realization, however, is a tangible truth that circumstances may make undeniable. It is therefore a wonderful starting point for the waking of conscience. And when I have done wrong leads to repentance rather than self-justification, and therefore to the greater realization, I am not the person I ought to be, then at last does God get a foothold in the soul. Real growth and change at once begin t
o be possible.

  All human activity affects character—every choice, every friendship, every deed, every word. Especially do our associations affect what we are in the process of making ourselves. Relationships change us. Associations with men and women of truth pay dividends of light, kindness, wholesomeness, and goodness. Associations with those whose motives are self-interest and personal gain exact an opposite tribute, taking their toll by pulling one down into the darkness of greed, ambition, selfishness, and untruth.

  For all his appeal and personality, Cecil Hirsch had spent a lifetime seeking his own gain, and using people to get what he wanted. So too had Veronica.

  But Veronica Beaumont Fitzpatrick was slowly beginning to sense that possibly something was amiss within her. She had ignored the first naggings of her conscience by trying to convince herself that she was not really being untrue to Richard, only trying to bring some interest into her life.

  And yet… gradually she began to have regrets. She began to suspect that she was living a lie—a lie against Richard, a lie against truth, a lie against right.

  In short, she was at last coming face to face with the unfamiliar and unpleasant realization that, just possibly, she had done and was doing wrong.

  Why had the pangs of conscience begun to stir in her heart? What is that invisible distinction within human beings that at some crossroads of life causes one to reflect personally on right and wrong, while another continues thoughtlessly on the well-trod path where self-interest is the only guide to action, attitude, and response?

  The Spirit of Truth is constantly attempting to enliven and quicken toward humble self-reflection. Some hear, some do not. Who could have foreseen, knowing her as a child or a youth or a scheming young woman, that Veronica would be capable of becoming such a Spirit-listener? As yet she was hearing but faintly, for her spiritual ears were plugged with a lifetime of disuse. But that a few strains of self-reflective truth were penetrating her heart, that she was allowing them to get through without dismissing them, and that she was heeding them, would speed her capacity to hear more and greater truth when it came.

  Veronica was to meet Cecil at one of the obscure Washington parks. As she approached she saw him sitting on a bench waiting. He was holding a large leather packet. She walked toward him. He stood, kissed her, then handed her the packet along with a sheet of further instructions.

  “Cecil,” she said, “do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Of course not,” he said.

  Veronica hesitated and looked away. She did not speak for several long seconds. At last she drew in a breath and sighed.

  “What is this all about?” she said.

  “All of what?” laughed Cecil.

  “Everything—Mr. Garabaldi and all the people we meet in strange places?… What about Congressman Wyler?… What about—there was a lady I met once coming out of Mr. Wyler’s office… what was her name?—Mrs. Greenhow, I think. What about her? Do you know her too? Does she do the same thing that I do?”

  Cecil seemed perturbed. It was clear that he was not interested in talking about it further. Veronica asked no more questions. But his manner at mention of the woman’s name made Veronica all the more curious.

  That evening at home she summoned her courage to ask Richard about her, though she didn’t dare tell him about the packet she had hidden upstairs with her things. She was already having enough trouble accounting for her trips out of town and knew he was suspicious.

  “Have you ever heard of a Mrs. Greenhow?” Veronica asked as they were finishing their dinner.

  “You mean Rose Greenhow?” said Richard, glancing up and lowering his eyebrows slightly.

  “I don’t know her first name.”

  “What about her?”

  “I heard her name today. I was just curious who she was.”

  “Rose Greenhow was in prison in the Old Capitol prison in ’62. She was a Confederate spy.”

  “A spy!” exclaimed Veronica as her face went pale.

  “They deported her to Richmond after a year or so in jail,” Richard went on. “That was a couple years ago, I seem to recall. She was greeted in the South as a hero. And why wouldn’t she be—she had betrayed our country… the Union I mean. There is nothing lower than a spy. They deserve to be hung.”

  Suddenly Veronica felt faint. She was going to be sick!

  Twenty-Eight

  Harland Davidson did not have to wait long for his schemes to come to fruition.

  In early spring the letter he had been anticipating arrived from Pamela. The brief note in her own hand was far less interesting to him than the letter she had enclosed from Greenwood. It was nearly identical to the one he had himself received only a week earlier.

  Dear Pamela, it read.

  It is with deep regret that I am writing to beg your forgiveness for not being able to enclose the payment for the past two quarters on your note. The war has unfortunately intruded upon us more closely than is comfortable. Though we remain grateful to God for our health and safety, our workforce and crop yields have so declined that finances are rather more difficult than we had anticipated. We look forward to better times ahead, however, and of course will resume payments as soon as we are able. Thanking you in advance for your patience and understanding, and wishing you and yours all the best,

  I am,

  Your cousin Richmond Davidson.

  A telegraph to Stuart, and Stuart’s prompt reply, confirmed that his first quarter’s payment, too, had not been made.

  Though Richmond did not necessarily expect cordial greetings when he saw the thick envelope arriving from the law offices of Harland Davidson, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw when his eyes fell on the top page of the series of documents inside.

  He found Carolyn in her sewing room with Cynthia and Cherity. One look at his face told all three that something serious had arisen. Carolyn had seen the envelope when it arrived, and she suspected it as the cause of her husband’s expression. She rose and they left the house together. They walked slowly toward the arbor and Richmond explained the gist of the sudden developments.

  “But how can he do that?” said Carolyn. Every other time Richmond’s cousins brought out their requests and threats, she had reacted angrily. But now concern was evident in her voice. For the first time she realized just how deeply serious this was.

  “There was a clause in the loan that I did not give enough thought to,” answered Richmond. “I thought striking out the guarantee clause gave us protection enough. I was wrong.”

  “What kind of clause?”

  “It states that upon delinquency of any payment, the balance of the loan becomes immediately due and payable in full. It’s not really so unusual… actually quite common. I simply did not anticipate the difficulties we would face. So Harland is now calling for full payment of all four loan balances.”

  “I cannot believe he could be so callous! Why would he do that? Isn’t he satisfied to get what you’ve already given which he had no right to anyway? I just don’t understand it!”

  “Not everybody in this world thinks according to the principles of the kingdom of God,” said Richmond softly. “Not that we do to the extent I hope we learn to before this life is over. But for some, self-motive is the only foundation for action they know. I am afraid my poor cousin Harland is such a one. He has never learned to think about others. But he will learn the lesson one day, even if it takes the fire of God to teach him what he was too stubborn to learn without it. Until then we must submit to look like, and be treated like fools in his eyes.”

  “You know I hate this, Richmond.”

  He smiled tenderly. “My dear, dear wife—you don’t hate it as much as you think,” he said. “You know as well as I do that we are under different orders than my mammon-blinded cousin. You teach your women the very same thing.”

  “Maybe you are right. But the unfairness of this grates on me.”

  “He has anticipated our failure to comply with notic
e that after ninety days proceedings will begin against our assets. That means Greenwood.”

  “Oh, Richmond!”

  “Harland cites a Virginia law saying that even in a case where there is no specific guarantee of collateral or assets, if two or more defaults are made by the same debtor in excess of five hundred dollars, then assets can be attached and seized to enforce payment. He quotes something about a double breach of contract enforcing seizure of collateral.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

  “Nor have I.”

  “Do you think Harland knew about it all along?”

  “I would assume so,” sighed Richmond. “Though I refused to comply with his attempt to guarantee the loans with Greenwood, he must have known that this obscure law would be an effective backup remedy in the event we ran into trouble. It is no doubt why he drew up the settlement as four separate transactions, so that if anything happened he could be able to prove, as defined by this law, multiple breach of contract against us.”

  “Why don’t we make the back payments to them all now and get caught up?”

  “We would probably still be legally liable,” replied Richmond, “though I doubt any judge would issue foreclosure proceedings against Greenwood if we did so. There is only one thing wrong with your suggestion, Carolyn.”

  “What’s that?

  “Harland knows if we haven’t been able to make the payments that there is no way in the world we can pay off the loans. We don’t have the money to make the back payments. We’re already a thousand dollars behind. We simply don’t have it. We are barely going to make it till fall when we can begin selling a few things before our bank account runs completely dry. To tell you the truth, my dear, I am not completely sanguine about our catching back up.”