The lectures at Galesburg and Peoria went well. Decent crowds, good halls. But in Princeton, the Converse Hall was practically empty, except for a group of Swedes who came up from Bishop Hill. Large, rough, mournful men, they sat silently through his lecture and then filed out at the end as if on command.
“What’s going on here?” Turner asked the janitor, the only man remaining in the room.
“They’ve never been the same since their leader got killed,” the man said. “They thought he was going to rise from the dead. Guess what, he didn’t.”
“No, I mean everybody else,” said Turner. “Where is everybody?”
“Gone over to Ottawa for the candidates’ debate tomorrow,” the janitor said. “Bad time for you, sorry about that. But nobody don’t want to talk about nothing else all week than the candidates’ debate.”
So Turner found himself riding a hack to Bureau Junction the next morning to catch the train for Ottawa, a slow choker that never got up enough speed to outrun its own cloud. They crept along the river until they got to La Salle, where the train stopped for no apparent reason for a half hour. By then the August day had turned scorching, the train was packed with passengers quarreling over the election, and Turner thought for a moment he would just get out and walk. Since Springfield, he had been keeping the proceeds from the lectures in a pouch strapped to his chest to ward off pickpockets. In the crush of the crowd, it galled him miserably.
But after La Salle they made better time, stampeding from the train as soon as it slowed. Everyone else seemed to know where they were going, so Turner fell in with the stream and soon found himself in the city square along with five or six thousand other people.
The candidates were seated on a wooden platform at one end of the park, mopping their faces as other speakers heated up the crowd. Judge Douglas sat upright on a straight-backed chair with the air of an experienced politician, acknowledging the heat only by wiping his face occasionally with a large handkerchief. The challenger, Lincoln, sat more like the farmers who used to hang around the newspaper office. He shifted from ham to ham and jiggled one leg, and dust seemed to gather on his charcoal suit even as he sat there.
Douglas spoke first and went straight to the attack. Turner had generally voted Democratic in the past, and he had to admire the senator’s debating skill. He gave Lincoln enough rhetorical questions to answer that he would have to spend the rest of the afternoon on the defensive. And sure enough, Lincoln took the bait, replying and replying and replying, unable to get to his points until nearly an hour had gone by.
The crowd looked to be Republicans mainly. They cheered Lincoln at every turn, finally carrying him away on their shoulders awkwardly after the whole thing was over. Two of the men holding him up were short, so Lincoln’s legs dangled halfway to the ground. But as Turner stood in the trampled square, watching the throng disperse, he didn’t feel like cheering for either candidate. The whole debate had seemed to devolve into you’re-a-liar-no-I’m-not, and he-loves-niggers-no-I-don’t. The train was headed back to Princeton. He needed to get back to the hotel and pick up his things, but he stopped at the post office long enough to send a note to Hiram Foltz back in Quincy.
From there he went north to Dixon and Galena, then crossed into Wisconsin for stops in Janesville and Milwaukee. “You should go to Chicago, friend,” said a man in Milwaukee. “That’s where things are going on.”
“I thought that place was a swamp,” Turner said.
“Swamp it was,” said the man. “They decided to raise the city. Brought in more dirt than you ever seen, dirt by the wagonload. They’re putting jackscrews under the buildings, crank ‘em up, fill in underneath. Never seen nothing like it.”
Turner’s return train went through Chicago, but he had not reserved a hall. Besides, it was getting close to harvest time. So he didn’t try to stay, but stood on the platform and gazed east, looking at the glints of the lake that he could see between the roofs of houses and hotels. The city was just as the man said, booming and noisy, excited conversations in strange languages passing between people who rushed past him on their way to somewhere important. Sure enough, some houses and buildings, even whole blocks, had been raised up seven or eight feet. Others were up on jacks, and the streets were a crazy patch of heaved dirt and brick, ramps and sudden drop-offs, planks pitched out into the streets across gaping holes where the dirt had settled unevenly.
Between trains a man sidled up. “Where you headed, friend?”
“Quincy.”
“We’re bigger’n Quincy now. Quincy’s the past, we’re the future.” He gestured out at the city, where Turner could see a two-story brick house creeping down the street, rolled on logs by a straining team.
“So it appears.”
“Spending the night?”
Turner looked at the man more closely. He was small but muscular, balanced on the balls of his feet like a boxer, but with the practiced smile of a pimp.
“No, just catching the next train.”
“I got a girl in a wagon down here, entertain you till your train comes.”
“No thanks.”
“Nice wagon, wooden sides, nobody peeks in. Pretty little gal too.”
“Thanks, but—” Something about the man didn’t seem right to Turner, and suddenly he stopped what he was about to say and backed away, turning abruptly and running toward the station end of the platform without another word.
“Hey!” shouted the man, but Turner didn’t turn around until he reached the station door. Then, feeling momentarily foolish, he looked back to see the man running about ten yards behind him. Another man had come out of nowhere and was running alongside, a heavy cudgel in his hand. When they saw that Turner had reached the door, they leaped off the platform and disappeared down the tracks.
Turner stayed inside the station house until the Quincy train was called.
That night the train pulled off without notice on some siding somewhere, and everyone had to sleep in their seats. They reached Quincy about noon the next day; Turner walked to Hiram Foltz’s cigar factory on the riverfront, dodging another herd of cattle destined for the slaughterhouse next door. The factory floor was filled with men, some black, some white, sitting at wide tables covered with stacks of tobacco leaves, more tobacco leaves in their laps. One of the men glanced up as Turner entered.
“Upstairs,” he said, indicating the stairway with a nod of his head.
Foltz’s office was on the third floor, where the noise and smells were less. He came out from behind his desk and shook Turner’s hand. “So you’ve decided to help us out.”
“I have my doubts,” Turner said. “But I have to admire the firmness of your convictions.”
“Those opposed to us are equally firm in their convictions,” Foltz said. “Regardless, I am glad to have you on our side.”
“I didn’t say I was on your side. I just said I’d take in your man.”
“Good enough.”
They set off for his home, walking as quickly as Foltz’s limp would allow. His wife, a lean, serious-looking woman with her hair pulled back tightly from a center part, met them at the door.
“Your fellow is out back,” she said.
In a kitchen chair propped against a shade tree, a young man in his early twenties was reading a book of poems. He was wearing a derby hat and a bright yellow vest. He was slender and pale, and he absently picked a tooth with his little finger.
“May I introduce you,” Foltz said. “James Turner, this is Lysander Smith.”
“Ah,” said Smith, standing to greet him. “The rustic utopian.” Before shaking Turner’s outstretched hand, he plucked a blade of grass and stuck it in his book to keep his place.
“So do you know anything about botany?” Turner said.
“God, no. Does anyone? Linnaeus, I suppose, but he’s dead, thankfully. Fear not, I am a masterful faker.” Smith gave him a mischievous smile.
“So how do you propose to pass as a botanist?”
“Oh, my good fellow! I have my books, and my sketchbook. And my little glass. And I shall press leaves.”
Turner spun and walked inside, beckoning to Foltz. He stopped inside the door to Foltz’s summer kitchen.
“Does this man realize what he is embarking on?” he said, half angry.
“He has been thoroughly instructed. He comes from a fine line, the Philadelphia Smiths.”
“I don’t care about his line. That man will stand out like a wart. I can’t believe you would send him on this task.”
Foltz pursed his lips. “Mr. Smith is a free man. He chooses what to undertake and what not to.”
“He’s a young fool, from what I can see.”
“I’m not this boy’s father. Neither are you. He wishes to offer himself to my cause, and I’m willing to take him at his word.”
They stepped back outside. Smith had returned to his book.
“Let me tell you about Daybreak,” Turner told him. “We are building it with our own hands, house by house, acre by acre, based on principles of equality and shared wealth. It is an experiment in living, and people are investing years of their lives into it.”
“Ooh, I hit a nerve. Very well, it’s not a rustic utopia. It’s an experiment in living.”
“I’m not going to endanger this community for your noble cause or anyone else’s.”
“Oh, dear fellow, it’s not the noble cause that interests me. Foltz here is the noble cause man. I am seeking—” He paused dramatically. “Ad-venn-ture.”
“Please be serious. This is not a game.”
The mocking expression dropped from Smith’s face. “Different people are serious in different ways, friend. What’s a man like me to do if he wants to break out of the cage? I am looking for something large, something to throw myself into. And do I look like the military type? The National Anti-Slavery Society will work as well as anything else.”
“And you want me to help you play out this dream.”
“No, Mr. Foltz wants you to. If you don’t put me up, someone else will.”
Foltz cleared his throat. “As I said before, it seems to me you are both idealists. You both are looking to create something great.”
Smith’s amused look returned. “Mr. Turner here is the creator. I am just looking to play dans le forêt”
Turner turned to Foltz. “And how long would you expect this forest adventure to last?”
“I’d like to have Mr. Smith back here by June or July of next year. If this mission goes well, we have other places to send him.”
“And just so we’re clear—there will be no slave-stealing, no actions to bring suspicion to our community. He is just there to make observations.”
“Agreed.”
“You’ll have to buy and care for your own horse,” Turner said to Smith. “We are a working community, not a hotel.”
“Mr. Smith is well provided for,” Foltz said.
Turner looked at the two of them. He could hardly believe that he was about to go in league with them, the bedrock abolitionist and the young fop. But with the lecture proceeds and the subscriptions, Foltz’s money would cap this trip’s success. He shook their hands.
Adam Cabot’s eyes snapped open and he gazed into the darkness. He could discern dim shapes in his room. An hour to dawn, maybe, or a little more.
In the dream that had awakened him, he was back in Boston, somewhere in the Irish slums across the South Bay, walking from tenement to tenement on a benevolent mission of some sort. The people greeted him as he walked from room to room; he was known to them. But the buildings had no central stairs, so when he traveled he had to climb outside the walls and ascend on stone ledges that grew narrower as he ascended. This did not frighten him and seemed quite natural, although he was aware that he was in danger.
Some people thought dreams had special meaning. To him they seemed a jumbled mess of memory and fancy, a stew of impossibilities that only made sense in the retelling. Still, that sense of being at ease on a precipice—
He should get ready for his morning meditation. He was going to the river today and soon there would be enough light to see by. Generally he liked the river better than the hilltop, although a couple of times he had very nearly stepped on a snake as he followed the path in the dimness. There was something elemental about it—rock, river, trees. Movement and stillness. The high hill behind him, an uplift of the eternal earth itself, the river in constant motion before him, and the village perched between, so insignificant and temporary by comparison. It was a good place to gain perspective.
He dressed and stepped into the dark street. No lantern light could be seen from any of the houses. That was the way he liked it, walking through the village with everyone still asleep. He headed south past the houses of the Wickmans, Captain Carr, all the villagers one by one, until he reached the junction of the street with the main road, where the Turners’ house stood.
There was a figure sitting on the stepstone in front of the house. As he approached, it stood. He could tell it was Charlotte, dressed in her everyday brown shift and apron. He thought of turning around; he thought of walking past as if he didn’t see. But he slowed, stopped, lifted his hat.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said quietly. “I have a request for you.”
Cabot was startled but smiled. “Of course.”
“I’d like to see this contemplation spot of yours. Perhaps I will take up the practice myself.”
An uncertain look sped across his face. “Do you think that would be proper?”
“I can manage my own sense of propriety.”
“Of course.” He gave a slight bow. “This way.”
They continued down the road toward Webb’s house. Neither of them spoke for a while. The air was warm and moist already.
“You’ll be good to start your haying early this morning,” she said at last.
“I don’t know. George wants to wait till all the dew burns off.”
They were reaching the end of their valley, where the mountain curved back toward the river from the right. Soon they would be in the narrow passage where the road to French Mills traversed a slender spit of ground between high bluffs and the river.
But before they reached that place, Cabot veered off down a tiny trail—not even a trail, just a hint of easier walking through the underbrush—that led to the river. At the end of the path was a large slab of limestone that sloped at a gentle angle into the water. Half a dozen turtles plopped into the river as they approached.
“I’m afraid the turtles have had to learn to share their rock with me,” Cabot said.
He sat on the rock near the edge of the water and crossed his legs. The breezeless air closed them in.
“What do you do here?” she asked him. The quiet of the morning made them both speak softly.
“Usually I spend a few minutes in the river. Not today.” He reached forward and touched the water. “When it’s warm I immerse myself. If not, I just dip whatever feels right. Then I sit and contemplate for a while.”
“Contemplate what?”
“The book says I should contemplate the emptiness of existence. I try, but more often I just let my mind rest on whatever it rests on. Then I push that out and let it rest on something else. Sometimes it finally gets empty, but not always.”
They sat on the rock about a foot apart. Sunrise was still a few minutes away. Cabot’s heart raced, although he tried to keep his manner calm. Surely she understood the impropriety of the two of them together, but there she was, inches away from him. And for what purpose? Did she mean to offer herself to him? Was there a secret she wanted to discuss? Propriety be damned. He was glad for the intoxication of her near presence.
What had she asked? Ah, yes, what he did here. “I don’t come here to learn about the wild creatures, but I do. The deer come down to drink at the other side, over there.” He made a small gesture. “And twice I have seen a black bear work his way through the woods across the river, sniffing and digging like a hog.”
He kept talking, despite Charlotte’s eyes, which were distractingly blue. His words sounded like nonsense to him. “The way I see it, this rock must have fallen off the bluff many years ago. It goes way out into the river, then there’s a deep hole right where the rock ends.”
“You should fish here sometime.”
He smiled. Always the practical one. “I suppose I should.”
Silence came over them again, and they sat as if listening, although there was little to listen to. Cabot found himself admiring Charlotte’s ability to be still, to remain quiet and do nothing. It was a skill rarer than it might seem; he had to work to attain it, and Turner surely did not have it. He thought about the journey to Daybreak that he and Charlotte had taken, and how they all had changed since then. Turner had gained an intensity and a sense of certainty that had no doubt always been there but now was less fenced in by social constraints. Charlotte had changed, too. Motherhood and the cholera battle had made her tough, but not in a harsh way, just tough in the sense that she knew more about the struggles of the world and was capable of looking them in the face. Perhaps his ideas about the benevolent influence of Nature were true, but not in the way he had imagined. Perhaps Nature showed you her teeth, and you gained wisdom from learning the severity of her bite, discovering your ability to withstand it.
“You look deep in thought,” she said. “Would you care to enlighten me?”
Cabot looked her full in the face. “I was thinking about how we have changed since we first met.”
“How have I changed?”
“You are stronger, more sure of yourself.”
She laughed. “If you only knew.”
“And have I changed?”
Charlotte lifted her hand from her lap and placed it on the rock between them, where Cabot could easily place his hand on it, should he desire to. He thought she would like for him to. But the thought of what might happen if he did frightened him. Could he be that kind of man? Could she be that kind of woman? In the yellow light of morning he observed how brown the back of her hand had become. She noticed his glance and read his thoughts.
“Yes, brown and spotted,” she said. “Nothing to do about it, I suppose. The price of a working life outdoors. Mother used to scold Caroline and me if we ventured outside without our hats and long sleeves. Caroline was always better at obeying that command.”
Her hand still rested between them.
“But we all lose our pale complexions and grow brown over time,” she said. “Yes, I think you have changed.”
He laid his hand on hers and felt its warmth. Then he curled his fingertips around her hand, knuckles scraping stone. Her fingers curled, too, and gave his hand a slight squeeze.
As if pulled by a single string, they stood up, hands still clasped. She was on the upper slope of the rock, her back toward the bank. He paused for a heartbeat, then leaned forward and kissed her.
The earth seemed to lurch under his feet. Trees swayed and the sound of wind filled his ears. But all he could feel was Charlotte’s lips beneath his. He held the kiss, held it longer, then released her hand, released the kiss, and turned away, embarrassed, his heart hammering.
He looked back. Charlotte was gazing at the river, where a muskrat swam by leaving a silent V in the water behind it.
“I should go see about Newton,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
She brushed off her dress. “Thank you for sharing your spot.”
Was this to be it? A single moment, a mere glimpse of what could have been? Better not to have kissed at all, then. He seized her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She tilted her face to him, eyes closed, and he kissed her again, more passionately this time. And she pulled him closer, arms around him, one hand on the back of his head, and kissed back. For a moment everything fell away, everything stopped. But then she broke off, her hand lightly brushing his cheek as she turned away and walked up the path. He didn’t try to stop her.
“This spot can be your spot too, you know. Come out and meditate anytime you like.”
She gave him a skeptical look and a smile, and they both knew that meditation was far from their minds.