Harp Webb had his father’s funeral at the Methodist church in town, although Turner had offered the Temple of Community. “It’s up to him,” he told Charlotte. “I never heard George express any wishes.” Charlotte hadn’t either, although she also knew that George had neither set foot in nor mentioned the Methodist church since she had known him. But they dug his grave in the Daybreak cemetery, just up the hill from Lysander Smith’s.
Everyone turned out on a chilly Saturday morning for the service, except Charley Pettibone, who had disappeared into the woods before dawn with a squirrel gun, speaking to no one. The church was packed. Charlotte felt more like an outsider than ever when she saw the line of elderly men and women trooping up to shake Harp’s hand at the front of the church. On her shoulders she could feel the weight of the gazes and whispers of the old settlers as they pointed toward the Daybreak group. She didn’t know any of them. The sheriff was there, as were other dignified-looking souls in heavy black suits, people from Webb’s political days. A murmur went around the church when the circuit judge came in, a somber, silver-haired man who placed his wide-brimmed hat over his heart and held it there throughout the service.
The Methodist preacher had much to say, but the words washed over her as she sat in the ranks of mourners from Daybreak, three full rows at the back of the church. She was lost in her own thoughts. Lord knows she would miss George, not just the man who had given the community its start, the man who knew so much more about farming than any of the rest of them, but a man whose simple, firm beliefs in their ideals reassured her that the community did indeed have a purpose. They would have to make their own way now, and she could only hope that some among them would have the wisdom, or at least the common sense, to take his place.
She studied the hard-faced men and women in the rows ahead, old settlers who sat impassively through the service, their expressions solemn but unmoved. Pinched faces, thin noses, set jaws, people for whom hardship was the normal way of life and sudden death no surprise. Would she become one of these oak-hard Ozarkers? She looked down at her calloused hands and ragged fingernails. Apparently she was well on her way.
Her husband, sitting beside her, wore the bland expression he always brought out for public occasions. He was looking more and more like a country politician himself these days, not the restless lecturer she had fallen in love with. Perhaps that lynching had done its work, brought him into line, knocked down any thought of changing the world outside of Daybreak. True, the idea had always been to perfect the community and let it serve as a beacon to the world, but lately it just seemed as though simple survival was all they were after. What good was it to be idealists if all it brought them was struggle? She looked again at his face. What was he thinking, really? She could no longer tell where his thoughts were, and that was troubling.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she glanced behind her. Adam Cabot was one pew back, his cow eyes fixed on her. She turned away quickly. Now there was someone whose thoughts were all too easy to discern. He should behave with more discretion.
Then the funeral was over, and they stood as the casket was carried past. Now for the long wagon ride to Daybreak. She took Turner’s arm.
On the steps of the church, Turner signaled to Cabot with a flick of his hand. “Let’s go last,” he said. “We need to talk.”
Charlotte thought briefly that he had noticed Cabot’s gaze as well, but when they were on their way home, the two of them in the wagon and Cabot on a horse alongside, he said simply, “We are going to have to elect a new treasurer.”
She looked at the line of wagons ahead, most of the village. Who could do the job? Her father, of course, but he was not a member and showed no interest in becoming one. Emile Mercadier was committed to the cause, but getting on in years, and hardly a practical man. Marie was sharp enough. Would the colony accept someone that young? Not to mention a second female. And then there was—
“John Wesley Wickman,” Cabot said.
“That’s who I was thinking, too,” said Turner. He wiped his face with his palm, a nervous gesture she had noticed more often lately. “And something else we need to talk about. We need to find what George did with the treasury.”
Cabot reined to a stop. “You don’t know?”
“He never told me. Never told anyone, as far as I know.”
“You’re joking.”
“No. He didn’t believe in banks, we all know that. Whenever we needed money, he would show up the next day with the exact amount, always in gold and coin. And the books were always square, down to the penny.”
“But where are those pennies?” Charlotte said.
“I wish I knew. He’s got to have a strongbox someplace close.”
They rode in silence for a mile, digesting the news. Charlotte fought back panic. What had been hidden could be found. Surely George had left instructions.
“We’ll have to talk to Harp,” Cabot said.
Turner nodded. “I know. But I wish we didn’t.”
“He could try to keep it for himself.”
“I don’t think so,” Charlotte interjected. “He’s a strange one, but he has his own sense of right and wrong. Just up and stealing something is not his way.”
“You should go,” Turner said. “He likes to talk to you.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “But I need at least one of you to go along.”
“You’d better do it,” Cabot said to Turner. “I can’t stand the man. I’ll just get his back up.”
The two of them walked over to Webb’s house after lunch the next day, when they felt sure that Harp would be up. He seemed to keep completely irregular hours; some days he would be out before dawn, and other days he seemed to lie in bed till the late afternoon.
He was awake and waiting. “You’re here about your strongbox. Well, didn’t take you long, I’ll give you that.”
“You know about that, then.”
“I know he kept one. Not sure where he kept it. His room is over there.” Harp gestured to a bedroom at the end of the house. “Help yourself.”
Charlotte hated the feeling of walking around in the dead man’s room, only days after she had seen him die. All the little things—the bedsheets, the razor and mug, the stack of worn books by his bedside, the reading glasses—seemed shabby and inadequate to the man she knew. The room seemed as impersonal as the cell of a monk, but at the same time she could feel George’s presence in everything.
“Well?” Harp called.
Turner looked under the bed, between the mattresses. Nothing. He checked the wardrobe for a false bottom. He worked his way around the walls, looking for flaps in the wallpaper or hollow spots behind furniture.
“Not yet,” he called back.
They looked for loose floorboards, flaps in the chairs, hidden shelves in the ceiling. Finally they emerged, unsuccessful, into the front room.
“No luck, huh?” Harp said. “Don’t surprise me. The old man was a crafty sort. Didn’t give you a hint or nothing?”
Neither of them answered. They were looking around the room. “I’d be surprised if he hid it anywhere else in the house,” Harp said. “Too much chance for any old somebody to find it.”
Turner took the poker from the mantel and stirred the fireplace ashes. “Here,” he said. “There’s a loose stone.”
Charlotte and Harp watched as Turner pushed the coals to the back with the fireplace shovel. Sure enough, the stone directly beneath the andirons wiggled in its bed; there was no mortar around it. Turner pried it up with the poker.
Under the stone was a heavy metal plate.
“Son of a bitch,” Harp said. “I’ve spit tobacco on that rock many a time.”
Turner flipped up the plate with the poker, revealing a deep square hole, its sides trimmed, and a bound metal box at the bottom.
“I take it that’s not yours?” he said to Harp.
“Hell, no,” Harp said. “I keep my money up in my cave.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to have our third director present when we open it,” Turner said. “So we all agree on what we see.”
“Suit yourself,” said Harp.
Turner stepped onto the front porch and waved to Cabot, who was sitting on the Turners’ doorstep holding the account book. He walked over.
The box had a clasp but no lock. Turner balanced it on the porch railing, made sure all four of them could see, and opened it.
There were three cloth bags in the box, each with a number of gold pieces. Turner counted them out.
“Two hundred dollars,” he said at the end. Cabot did not even bother to open the account book. They all knew there should be at least three thousand.
“That ain’t much,” Harp said. “You people been working for three years and that’s all you got?”
“Let me think,” said Turner. “I need to think about this.”
“In case you want to ask,” Harp said, “I’m fine to tell you that money ain’t mine. It’s yours.”
“Thanks,” Charlotte said.
“I ain’t no thief.”
“I know that.”
“While I got the three of you here, there are some things I want to tell you,” Harp said. “First, let me ask you this. You know the difference between a warranty deed and a quitclaim deed?”
“No,” Charlotte replied. Turner and Cabot looked at them curiously.
“Well, you might ought to find out,” Harp said. “‘Cause what you got over there is a quitclaim deed, and now that the old man is dead you might find out other people got claims. Just ‘cause the old man signed off his interest in the property don’t mean you own it clear.”
“Is this true?” Turner asked.
“You ever seen your deed?”
“No.”
“Then go on up to the courthouse and take a look. And another thing. I own this house now, and that little fartknocker that’s been living here needs to go. You people want to take him in, fine. But from me, it’s time for him to root hog.”
“But surely your—” Charlotte began.
“Oh now, ma’am, you’re going to tell me what my father would have wanted? Here’s the thing. My daddy don’t live here any more. This is my house now, and I’ll run it how I want. “
Charlotte shivered. “I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“Here’s the thing,” Harp said again. “The old man was your friend, he liked people with big ideas, he brought you all here and cheered you on. But that dreamy shit is not for me, and you all just need to stay out of my way.”
Turner tucked the strongbox under his arm and stepped down from the porch. Charlotte and Cabot followed. But then Cabot turned, stepped up one step, and extended his hand.
“No hard feelings,” he said.
“Right,” Harp said dubiously, shaking Cabot’s hand.
“I hope you wouldn’t mind if we came back for a second look sometime.”
“Suit yourself.”
They waited until they were home before asking Cabot what he was up to.
“Simple deduction,” he said. “Think about it. George Webb was a smart man and an honest man. Agreed?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said.
“He didn’t trust banks, because he’d seen them fail too many times. But he knew that keeping your money at home would attract robbers. And robbers could force him to show them where he hid the money.”
“Right.”
“So the money in the fireplace is for the thieves. The rest of the money is hidden somewhere else.”
Charlotte saw the sense in what he was saying.
“He didn’t tell Harp about the hiding places because perhaps he didn’t have the same level of confidence in Harp’s honesty that you do, Charlotte. And he didn’t tell us because, well, I don’t know.”
“So you think—” Turner began.
“I think there’s another box somewhere nearby with the rest of our treasury. It has to be close enough to get to, but not where it could be accidentally or easily found. Like I said, George Webb was a smart man.”
Turner nodded. “A little too smart for his own good, or ours at least. But at least we know what we have to do.”
“This news isn’t going to go over well with the community,” Cabot said.
“Let’s not tell them,” Turner replied.
Cabot grimaced. “I have to say this. George and I had grown quite concerned about the way decisions are being made. Too much keeping in the dark, too many things done without votes or discussion. And I have to say, I agreed with him.”
Turner cast a look toward Charlotte. “Is this what you were trying to tell me about this spring? This is your talk-among-the-women?” She looked away. “Well, you can complain all you like about secrecy, but perhaps you should stop having private conversations with my wife.”
“I’m sorry,” Cabot stammered. “We meant no—”
“And don’t tell me you meant no harm. Those are words I don’t care to hear. Meaning harm and doing it are separate things.” Cabot turned to leave. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Turner took his arm. “Please,” he said. “Give me a day or two to find this other box, and then if I haven’t found it, we’ll lay it out for the community. I just don’t want to create a panic.”
“Very well,” Cabot said, embarrassed. “And please understand, George and I didn’t want to involve Charlotte in our discussions. She just stumbled on us one day.”
“Yes, your secret discussions. Let’s save that for another time.”
When Cabot opened the door, Charley Pettibone was sitting out on the stepping stone, his bag on the ground beside him. He stood up.
“Guess I’ll be on my way,” he said. “I ain’t had much success at sticking, I guess.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Cabot said. “You’ll share my house, if you don’t think it’s a bad omen to sleep in a dead man’s bed.”
“Don’t believe in ‘em,” Charley said. “A man makes his own luck, good or bad. That feller didn’t want to get hung, he shouldn’ta been stealing people’s niggers, is my opinion.” He paused and looked nervously at Cabot. “Um, I guess you must be some kind of abolitionist, then.”
Cabot smiled. “I suppose I am.”
“Wellsir,” Charley said. “I don’t see why we can’t just keep politics out of it. People don’t have to agree on everything.”
“Charley, you’re a philosopher,” Turner said. “Who would have thought it?”
“Don’t know nothing about that,” Charley said. “But if you’ll put me up, sir, I’ll work off whatever rent you charge.”
“That’s just it, Charley,” Cabot replied. “In this community, we all hold everything in common. I don’t own that house. We all do. And you’re going to be one of us.”
Charley looked suspicious. “Do I gotta take a pledge or something?” Charlotte stepped into the yard and embraced him. “Just work hard and look out for the others.”
Turner went to the barn after dark and found a slender iron rod, which he carried back to the Webbs’ house. Harp let him in without a word. For an hour he poked at the walls and floors, listening for hollow sounds, feeling for anything loose. Then he came outside with a shaded lantern and probed with the rod under tree roots and bushes. Nothing.
Naturally, someone saw him, and two days later he had to admit to the community meeting that their savings had gone missing. Immediately half the men were on their feet, calling out questions and recriminations.
“Harp Webb stole it, is what happened!” one man cried out.
“We ought to just burn his house and then sift the ashes,” said another.
“So we’re ruined? Is that what you’re telling us? We’re ruined?”
Turner tried to calm the frenzy but the angry buzz continued.
“Here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “We’ll keep looking for the money. It can’t be lost forever. And in the meantime Grindstaff will keep us on his ticket at the store. We don’t need the cash—”
“And what about our taxes?” someone interrupted. “Think the county collector will keep us on a ticket?”
The quarreling started again. Turner waved his arms in the air, vainly seeking quiet. Then Emile Mercadier stood up and walked to the front of the meeting. Except for Newton Carr, he was at least twenty years older than anyone else in the room. Everyone fell quiet.
“When I was in France, I was a poor man,” he said. “I come to America a poor man. I come here a poor man. So what are you telling me? I’m a rich man now and I got to worry about losing my money? You all been rich men all this time?
“Mister Webb, he done his best by us. He knows the banks, they take your money and they give you their notes. You try to spend the notes somewhere, everybody look at it like you printed it yourself. So he doesn’t tell anybody where he hides the money. Well, nobody ever thinks they going to die today.” He shrugged. “But sometimes you die anyway. In France, we had a saying: ‘Life is an onion. You cry while you peel it.’“
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” a man shouted.
Cabot stood up. Since Webb’s death he had been tiptoeing around the community, rehashing his final angry words, blaming himself, tiptoeing around Charlotte, around Turner, afraid to meet their gazes for what he might see in Turner’s look and what he might not see in Charlotte’s. Who was he kidding? He was a thrown stone, a man already living on borrowed time. What power need he give to the looks and words of others? “It means we have had a setback, but we don’t just quit. We move ahead. Cry if you want, but peel the onion.”
Mercadier’s comments settled everyone down, although heads inclined together from time to time and the sound of whispers and low conversations continued. But at least there was no rush to leave, although a young man named Trimble, a recent arrival, packed up and left a week later.
On a late October afternoon, Charlotte was sweeping the yard when a wagon came up from the south, driven by a weathered man with a full beard. He stopped in front of their house, his gaze directed into the distance ahead, where the water wheel could be seen slowly rotating through the trees.
“I hear you all got a rope mill,” he said, tilting his head toward the bed of the wagon. In it was a full load of hemp stalks, well retted, ten feet long or more. Two children were riding the load to hold it down. “How much you pay for a load? I got four more wagonloads at least where this come from.”
Charlotte looked up at him. “We don’t have any cash to pay you right now,” she said, “but we’ll mill it on shares. We’ll give you half of whatever we get when we sell it up in town.”
The man looked at her suspiciously for a moment. She could see him calculating in his mind. “All right,” he said. “Fair enough.”
“Where are you from?”
“Coldwater.”
“Your neighbors grow any hemp?”
“Oh, some. Most everybody has a little. Farther south you get some good-sized patches.”
“Drive on up the road a little. There are some men in the field who’ll help you unload your wagon. And when you go back to Coldwater, tell all your neighbors about the deal you got from us. For every one who comes up here with a decent crop and tells me you sent them, I’ll add fifty cents to your settlement.”
The man grinned. “Name’s Atwell,” he said. “Just remember that when people show up and say, ‘Atwell sent me.’“
She reached up and shook his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Atwell.”
Atwell chucked his horses and drove off, the children bouncing in the back, and Charlotte waved at them as they rode away. About twenty feet down the road, the man stopped and turned around in his seat. “Hey, you remember that fellow Brown, caused so much trouble over in Kansas?”
“Yes.”
“Tried to start a nigger rebellion back in Virginia. Took over the arsenal and sent out a call to arms. It’s all over the telegraph.” He tried to think further. “Nothing to worry about, though. They got him cornered.”
Charlotte waved her hand at him but did not know what to say in return.
“Can you imagine a bunch of niggers with guns?” Atwell said. “What a world.” He started the wagon forward, but stopped and turned around again after another few yards. “Bet you’d get a better price if you took it to the railhead in Pilot Knob and shipped it to St. Louis,” he shouted back at her. “These local boys got some sharp teeth.”
“I’ll look into that!” she called back. “Thanks!”
Excitement grew in Charlotte as the wagon drove away. Of course! That was what they should have been aiming for in the first place. Not just making their own rope, but running a factory. There would be detractors, no doubt. She could hear them already, the men who would say that factory work was what they had left behind when they came to Daybreak, the ones who wanted just to live off the farm. And yes, it was hard work, harder than anything else they did. But James was right—their plot of ground couldn’t support a town. Once the money started rolling in, the criticism would stop.
She should tell James. He would want to know immediately, even though he was working on The Eagle and did not like to be disturbed. He would want to greet Atwell, add his welcome, ratify the deal. And he would want to know this news from back East.
She hurried to the print shed with the news and opened the door. And in the moment she saw everything—everything, the composing table with no type set out on it, the jobsticks still hanging from their pegs, Marie lying on the table with her dress up around her neck, and Turner above her, his pants thrown into the corner, the sound of his grunts, his bare legs tense and muscular, moving back and forth in that all-too-familiar motion—in that moment she felt her life, her world, her entire self turn as if on a pivot, a hard turn to the left and down, down into she knew not what. Then she turned away and shut the door behind her and ran back to the house.