A Death in Utopia Page 5

  "Now that Rory O'Connor is not being charged with the murder of the Reverend Hopewell, I'd like to look into the story further and write it up for the paper. If you could give me a letter saying I was working for the Transcript that might encourage people to talk to me."

  "Are you thinking of going out to talk to people in that Community, young man? That won't get you anyplace. I'm sure George Ripley and his friends have nothing to do with a crime like this. You'd better look for the disreputable elements in the city. Talk to those Irish laborers down by the docks or maybe the freedmen at the African Baptist Church. They would be more likely to have heard about troublemakers coming into the area." Mr. Cabot's thin lips twisted as he spat out the word "troublemakers".

  "I'll talk to everyone I can, sir, but I'd like to look around the Farm first and see whether anyone saw strangers lurking about."

  In the end Mr. Cabot had his clerk write a short letter which he signed it with a bold flourish. As he handed it to Daniel, he said, "I am trusting you not to bring disgrace on the Transcript, so you had better watch your behavior."

  Daniel forced himself to smile and he kept his thoughts to himself as he thanked Mr. Cabot and took the letter. He decided to walk over to the jail to see whether Rory was still being held. He turned into an alley to take a shortcut to City Hall, but stopped abruptly when he saw a scuffle up ahead.

  "Leave me be!" shouted a voice. Daniel knew he should turn back, but instead he hurried ahead. "We don't need troublemakers like you here," yelled another voice. "Go back where you came from!"

  Daniel recognized Rory facing off against three rough-looking workmen. He couldn't turn his back on him. "Leave him alone." His voice startled the fighters.

  The three attackers turned and saw they were caught between him and Rory. They pushed past Rory toward the end of the alley and disappeared. Daniel glared after them, but was just as glad he didn't have to get into a fight. Not with his good clothes on.

  "What was going on?" he asked.

  Rory wiped a bit of blood from a cut on his face and answered, "My cousin came to say a good word for me and the sheriff let me out of jail on her say-so. These men would rather see me hang for something I didn't do. Sure they're afraid the Irish are taking over their precious city."

  The story was all too familiar to Daniel. Another reason he was determined to work out who was really responsible for the young minister's death. Someone must be held accountable for a terrible crime like that. Otherwise there would always be suspicions about Rory, about all the Irish. Besides, if he could figure what had happened, what a feather in his cap that would be! No one would sneer at him then.

  The walk out to the Farm was a long one, but the weather was bright and sunny and there was a lot to think about on the way. The stands of maple along the road were blazing with color, red and gold leaves tossing in the air. That was one thing Massachusetts had over Galway, the color of its autumn. Daniel remembered looking out the cottage door at home at the rocky fields leading to the cliffs. As soon as the green of summer was gone, everything looked gray—the barren fields, the rocky cliffs and the gray-green water battering the shore. Here there was a month of fiery leaves to brighten the landscape until winter came and the snow.

  As he tramped along the road Daniel hummed to himself the song his father used to sing so often:

  A nation once again, a nation once again

  And Ireland long a province be a nation once again

  Ireland might become a nation, but Daniel wasn't waiting around for it to happen. His father had talked a lot about the glory days of 1798 when he had fought against the British, but Ireland had lost. American won its fight and formed its own country. Daniel would take his chances with the new world and let poor old Ireland sink or swim on its own. His father had grown withered and bitter with the years. He died waiting for justice, but Daniel was determined to prosper. His dreams were bright. He'd bring his mother and sisters over to a new country. How surprised they'd be when they saw him in a suit and wearing a cravat—a respected newspaper man.

  Ahead on the road he could see the farmer who had been in the barnyard at the Farm last time he was there. When he caught up with him, Daniel wished him a good day and walked along next to him. The farmer nodded but didn't say a word of greeting.

  "You must be a great help to the people in the Brook Farm Community," Daniel said, trying to get him talking. He didn't take the bait, but just grunted.

  "They could hardly get along without you, I'd think, because none of them are farmers, even though some of them are very well-known people."

  "Not farmers indeed!" Mr. Platt finally exploded. "Do you know that no one on the place will slaughter a pig for themselves, though they're happy enough to eat the pork? They don't even like to wring the neck of a chicken. Humpf! My ten-year-old boy can do that much!"

  "They have lots of strange ideas. No doubt about that."

  "Lots of crazy ideas, I call them" Mr. Platt was getting red in the face now and he shook the hoe he was carrying as though he'd like to hit someone with it. "What right have they to come in and tell us how to live? Everyone should milk their cows in the morning and then go off and write a book for the rest of the day they say. That's nonsense! I milk my cows and then tend to my oats and corn. With grain prices the way they are these days there's no time for writing books."

  He was scowling now and not giving Daniel a chance to get a word in edgewise. "And then they're saying we should let those African freedmen come in and work our land. And the slovenly Irish! They'll take the land away from honest Americans. They're a menace to the state."

  "Why do you help the Brook Farmers then?"

  "They're neighbors. Can't let 'em starve. Besides, they pay me for the use of my wagon and tools. Or they used to. Now they're short of money they say and old George Ripley keeps putting off the paying." Once again he scowled. "Lots of people come out here to see them, but I don't think there's many putting any money into the Farm."

  When Daniel got to the farm, the noon dinner was just over. The washing-up group was in the kitchen making quick work of the dishes. He asked about Mr. Ripley and was told he was closeted in his office talking with Charles Dana and some of the other men. When he caught a glimpse of Charlotte in the dining room, he walked over to talk with her. She was standing at a table fussing with some dried leaves she was arranging in a vase. Two other women were with her; one he recognized as the cross-looking woman who had shooed him out of the kitchen the other morning and the other one was a lovely young woman he'd never seen before. She was dressed in black and had glossy black hair gathered in a bunch at the back of her neck. When she looked at him, her eyes were bright blue and her cheeks so pale and smooth she reminded him of the picture of the Madonna he'd seen in church. Charlotte introduced her as Abigail Pretlove.

  "Did you know that Margaret Fuller was coming to visit us today?" Charlotte asked, pushing her hair back from her forehead. "She is one of the most famous women in Massachusetts,"

  "We all admire Margaret Fuller," added Mrs. Pretlove. Her voice was soft but firm. "She's so clever she inspires us all. And she thinks women ought to speak up for themselves."

  Charlotte chimed in. "You can hear her speak this afternoon. And then you can write a story about her for your newspaper, that is, if people in Boston are interested in what we are doing out here."

  "They are more interested in how the Reverend Hopewell died." Daniel decided not to mention the men who had roughed up Rory. "Everyone in Boston is wondering who to blame. They certainly swooped up the papers yesterday with my story in it." Daniel tried not to sound boastful saying that.

  "We all care deeply about Mr. Hopewell's death," Abigail spoke again. "But we are trying to carry on as he would have wished. He was a friend of Margaret Fuller's too. She published one of his essays in her new magazine, The Dial. He would have wanted us to welcome her to the Community."

  "Come into the parlor, Mr. Gallagher. She will be speaking in a few minutes,"
Charlotte urged. She led the way into the parlor. About a dozen men and women sat in chairs around the room talking quietly to one another, while some of the older students sprawled on the floor. Mr. and Mrs. Ripley came into the room through the large, double doors. Between them walked a small woman holding a stick with eyeglasses on it and peering around the room. Miss Fuller was not beautiful, but she walked as though she were. Her glance swept the room, friendly and yet impersonal. As she took her chair at the front, she arranged her flowing dark red skirt around her and draped her black silk shawl gracefully across her shoulders. No one could look at anyone but her.

  After taking her place at a table in the front of the room, Margaret Fuller leaned forward and began to speak.

  "You have all suffered a dreadful loss," she said. "The unexpected death here at Brook Farm has shaken us all. In a community dedicated to building a better world, no one would expect such a terrible thing to happen. What could have brought such evil into our world?"

  "It's all the outsiders we're letting into the neighborhood," interrupted the farmer. "It was one of those Irish tramps that killed the reverend. I don't care what the sheriff says. They're lazy, shiftless people who would rather lie than tell the honest truth."

  Margaret Fuller frowned at the interruption, but she plunged ahead. "What do you expect of a people who have been oppressed for centuries? These are the faults of an oppressed race, which must require the aid of better circumstances through two or three generations to eradicate. Can you not appreciate their virtues? They have strong family ties, they are generous, and have indefatigable good-humor and ready wit. They are fundamentally one of the best nations of the world."

  She paused and looked around at the audience, but no one said a word. Then she continued:

  "If only the Irish were welcomed here, not to work merely, but to find intelligent sympathy as they struggle patiently and ardently for the education of their children! No sympathy could be better deserved, no efforts better timed. Will you not believe it, merely because that bog-bred youth you placed in the mud-hole tells you lies, and drinks to cheer himself in those endless diggings? You are short-sighted; you do not look to the future; you will not turn your head to see what may have been the influences of the past. You have not examined your own breast to see whether the monitor there has not commanded you to do your part to counteract these influences; and yet the Irishman appeals to you, eye to eye."

  Mr. Platt didn't have any answer for that flow of eloquence. Daniel smiled to think how this little woman had silenced him, but he knew the farmer wasn't convinced. He still thought Rory O'Connor or someone like him had killed the Reverend.

  For a while the ladies in the parlor listened to Miss Fuller and asked a few questions about Irish servants and the best way to educate them and help them learn to read and write and to act like Americans. Daniel became restless waiting for a chance to talk with Mr. Ripley, but there was no opening.

  When Mr. Ripley declared the meeting over, he walked out of the room with his wife and Margaret Fuller and Daniel had no chance to talk to him. Gradually the group broke up into small clumps of women talking with one another. Charlotte and Abigail walked toward Daniel.

  "Are you going to write the story up for the newspaper?" asked Charlotte.

  "Not too many people in Boston want to read about how to be good to your servants," he answered. "Not much excitement in that."

  "Mr. Platt's interruption disturbed me," Abigail Pretlove added. "That man is full of anger."

  "What's he worried about? No one is trying to take away his farm."

  "But he's afraid nonetheless," insisted Abigail. "I met him on the road yesterday and he was talking about how the country is falling apart. His brother has lost a lot of money because Pennsylvania repudiated their bond debt. Maybe Mr. Platt thinks it will happen to him."

  "He'd fight back if anybody tried to take anything away from him." Daniel responded, thinking about how fierce he had looked on the road shaking his hoe and talking about the Brook Farmers. "I'd hate to meet him on a dark road some night."

  Thinking about darkness made Daniel realize he wouldn't have a chance to talk to Mr. Ripley today. He had a good two-hour walk ahead of him and if he didn't watch out, his boarding house would be locked for the night. There was a lot to think about on the way to Boston.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Abigail Tells a Story

  October 16, 1842

  Sundays at Brook Farm were busy and noisy. Sometimes a visiting preacher gave a sermon to a small group in the parlor; other days John Dwight would gather some of the students together to sing hymns. Always there was talking and music and singing. It was all very pleasant, but at times Abigail missed the quiet of the Sunday mornings when she was a child in Philadelphia.

  She used to walk with mother and father to the Quaker Meeting House for First Day worship. How proud she was when her father decided she was old enough to sit and be quiet with the grown-ups for the service. The silence might be broken when one of the adults stood up and said something odd, "I saw a red-winged blackbird spring from her nest by Foxglove creek this morning and my heart was filled with the wonder of God's grace." Abigail would look at the sun streaming into the small worship room and wonder whether that was God's grace, or whether she would ever really know if it was. The silence was mysterious, but comforting and when the service was over she felt strangely contented.

  On the Sunday after Winslow died Abigail decided to walk to Boston with Timothy. The news about Maura O'Malley had unsettled her. It was years since she had seen Mrs. O'Malley. What a godsend she had been when Timothy was born. What would have happened if Aunt Phoebe hadn't been able to call on Maura O'Malley at that terrible time? As Abigail walked along the quiet Sunday road she remembered driving out into the country with Maura and her nephew—Patrick, his name was. It was June and she was hot and sick and scared as the wagon jolted over the rutted road. Maura put her arm around her and rocked her as though she was a baby while her nephew kept singing to the horse.

  Patrick and his wife Clare were cheerful and the three little children running around kept Abigail occupied. Maura got her through the birth. She didn't remember much about that except the moment when she first held Timothy and realized he was going to be with her for the rest of her life. She watched him now, running a stick through the grass at the side of the road, looking serious as he searched for jump-toads and bugs. Tears stung her eyes—he looked just the way Winslow had looked when he talked about all those books he read. She didn't want to think about that. She had to keep going.

  When they reached Boston, she searched for the house where Maura used to live. What if she had moved? The house was so weather-beaten it was impossible to tell what color it had been originally and the front steps listed to one side like a derelict rowboat on the river. But the knocker was brightly polished and made a satisfying klunk when Abigail used it.

  Soon the door opened and there was Maura, a little plumper and a little grayer than she had been eight years ago, but her smile was as friendly as ever. "Abigail, child, it's a treat to see you. Sure you're as beautiful as you always were and don't look a day older than when all the young men were buzzing around you in your aunt's parlor. And this can't be Timothy, can it? Such a handsome boy!" She hugged Abigail close and reached down to hug Timothy, although he squirmed away shyly.

  She urged them into the house and led them down a dark hallway to the kitchen. "Sit down at the table and I'll make you some tea. I'm just back from mass and some tea and cakes will taste very good."

  In the kitchen a boy about Timothy's age was playing at marbles on the floor. "This is young Pat, one of my nephew's boys." And turning to him she added "Pat, why don't you and Timothy go out into the back alley and play with those marbles so you're not underfoot?"

  The boys darted out quick as a flash. Abigail sank into a chair gratefully, suddenly feeling how tired she was from the long walk. She could tell Maura was looking at her black dress and wonderin
g about it.

  "Still wearing black, are you?" Maura asked. "You were a widow when Timothy was born. That's a long time for a young woman to be in mourning."

  Her comforting voice melted something in Abigail and she felt tears threatening again. She wanted to tell her everything that had happened, to talk to her the way she used to talk to her aunt. Her voice quavered as she started, "I wasn't really a widow then. That was a story Aunt Phoebe and I made up for the world to know."

  "Well, don't worry about it. Many's the girl has to make up a story and there's none should ask too many questions. The great thing is that you have Timothy now and he's a fine boy you can be proud of." She poured out a cup of tea and put it on the table. "I never really thought you were a widow—and you so young. It's hard sometimes to wait for a wedding ring with a girl so beautiful that all the men are hanging around her."

  That really started Abigail's tears going. She was glad Timothy couldn't see her as she gulped them down. "I was married. I really was. But Winslow changed. He didn't believe in it at all. How could he say a marriage wasn't a real marriage?"

  Maura handed her a slice of bread slathered with jam. "A marriage is a marriage I would have thought. What in heaven's name was wrong with it?"

  "You know we're Quakers, my family. We don't have marriages in churches. If a man and woman declare before God that they are man and wife, then they are married. Of course, you're supposed to tell your Meeting about your plans and have the elders approve. We didn't do that. Winslow's father would have disowned him for marrying a Quaker. So we walked over to the river very early one morning when the sun was coming up. Winslow picked some violets and gave them to me. I remember a robin was bursting with song in the tree over our head. We held each other by the hand and affirmed that we were man and wife. That was marriage enough for us."

  "And did you not tell your aunt?" asked Maura as she poured more tea.

  "No, Winslow wanted it to be our secret and we were so happy for a while. Then his father started talking to him about taking a pulpit and being a preacher like all the men in the family. How could a Boston minister have a Quaker for a wife? I knew he was thinking that." She had to stop and blow her nose.