A Death in Utopia (6 page)

"Timothy is such a curious boy and always eager to learn. He's a good example to the other children in the class," she said. She paused and then added, "Not like the politicians we've been sending to Congress I must say."

"What have they been up to?" Abigail asked. "Is that a recent paper you have?"

"My sister sends it to me every month. Her husband is a Congressman from Salem. Do you know what has been going on in Washington? President Tyler and Congress can't seem to agree on anything. When the president vetoed the bank bill last month his entire Cabinet resigned and walked out on him. All except Daniel Webster that is."

"How can the government go on?" Abigail was truly alarmed.

"I don't know," Fanny was almost wailing now and her voice trembled. "We must save ourselves. The whole country seems to be falling apart with banks failing and states unable to pay their bills. My uncle put all of his savings into Pennsylvania bonds and now they are worthless. Will Massachusetts be next? Those of us who
have come together in our Community must work to make it strong so we can maintain ourselves without depending on banks or governments." She sounded so desperate that even Timothy and John looked at her.

Fortunately the supper bell started chiming and they had to hurry downstairs. It was good to get away from the gloomy light of the schoolroom.

The lamplight in the dining room flickered on the long tables and reflected off the white napkin laid beside each plate. Abigail sat next to Charlotte who would be a more cheerful companion than Fanny Gray. Charlotte told Abigail about her trip to Boston to see the sheriff.

"I think we convinced Sheriff Grover that Rory O'Connor is not a murderer. The sheriff is still suspicious of him though. It sounds as though he doesn't trust anyone who is Irish. He says he's going to keep an eye on Mr. O'Connor. There will always be suspicions until the real culprit is found."

"Oh, and Abigail," she added, "I met someone you know. Someone who worked for your aunt and knew you when you lived in Boston. What was her name? Maura O'Malley. She seemed a friendly woman and asked to be remembered to you."

"Maura O'Malley?" Abigail echoed. Charlotte was startled to see her cheeks flush as she looked down at her plate

CHAPTER EIGHT

Daniel Has an Idea

October 14, 1842

Daniel was proud of the story he wrote about the mysterious death at the Brook Farm community. Mr. Cabot ran it on the front page of Thursday's paper and had more copies printed than usual. Sales were brisk. As he walked to the newspaper office Daniel saw a newsboy on almost every corner peddling the papers and they were going fast.

One of the young Harvard boys caught up with him as they got to the office. His wire-rimmed eyeglasses glittered as he sneered, "I guess you're used to getting up at dawn and running around the docks chasing stories. I only write about gentlemen."

Mr. Cabot came into the office about 10 o'clock. With him was a stout man wearing a top hat and with the largest, heaviest looking gold watch chain Daniel had ever seen across his vest. As he walked past the clerks he pulled his watch out and Daniel caught a glimpse of the heavy gold case with a flashing diamond set in the center. Was it cotton or molasses that had earned all that wealth? The man stayed in the office a long time, but when he came out at last Daniel grabbed the chance to say a word to Mr. Cabot.

"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
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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
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, 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."