The Loves of Leopold Singer (17 page)

They both cried huzzah with the crew. Leopold put his arms around her, and they watched the land grow larger. “This will be our own New Jerusalem.”

She leaned back against his chest. She should have had her courses twice during the voyage. For so long, she’d prayed that the monthly sign of infertility would not arrive. And now? A child was all she wanted—Leopold’s child.
I am not like the dove
, she thought, corrupt in her husband’s arms.
I will never be free again
.

Leopold sent word of their arrival to Zehetner in Shermer Landing and they stayed at a hotel near Rowe’s Wharf while he met with his new banker. Two cheerful Zehetner boys came to fetch them late the next afternoon. They drove a carriage, leading two men with a wagon.

“You won’t believe the carriage’s ride, Leopold!” Willie Zehetner said. “Its springs are made here in Boston. The bays are matched geldings, the finest pair in the Commonwealth.”

Little red-headed Josef said, “Is the
Maenad
still here?”

He looked so eager that Marta said, “Why don’t we take the boys down to the harbor to see the ship?”

As they arrived at the gangway, Josef ran to the two men coming ashore.
“Well, young Josef.” Mr. Mills scooped up the boy and swung him in a circle.

“Zehetner.” Captain Dahms and Josef exchanged solemn salutes, but the captain lost his reserve and tousled that red hair. “It’s fine to see you, boy.”

“And you, sir,” said Josef. “And the Maenad.”

Mr. Mills took Josef to see the ship, and Captain Dahms tipped his hat to Marta. “Those boys will both turn out well, I wager.”
 

“Their father is an excellent man,” Leopold said. “I’m fortunate to have him with me.”

“Lay on the best crew possible and chances for success rise accordingly. Your father said that. He wasn’t much of a seagoing man, but he knew a thing or two.”

“He did,” Leopold said. “He always spoke highly of you, Captain Dahms. I’ll miss knowing you better, but like my father I’m also not for the sea.”

“I don’t like to say a bad word about my ship’s remaining owners, but…well, I shall not. The
Maenad
is a lucky ship after all, and some say it’s on account of one of those two.”

Captain Dahms didn’t say who he meant, and Marta prayed Leopold wouldn’t ask. She’d tried to push all thoughts of England, and Sir Carey, from of her mind.

It was late when they arrived at what Leopold called “the farm” seven miles southwest of Shermer Landing, and without disturbing the Zehetners they went directly to their room. Lying in bed, Leopold mused about the future.

“Willie Zehetner is a bright boy, the kind who will do a lot of good in this new country.”

Marta watched the night sky through their window. After so many beautiful nights on the ocean, she didn’t want to close the curtains. It was odd to think how the same stars would have also shone on Gabby sometime today. They would always still have the same moon, though never again at the same hour.

“He should be sent to school,” Leopold continued. “Dieter will be a farmer like his father. Josef shows some spark, but with him it’s too soon to tell.”

“This is what I love about you,” Marta said. “You’re always devising new ways to make life better for all, even other people’s children, like a sacred duty. I’m surprised you’re not more religious.”

“It’s not a sacred duty to care for the young,” he said. “It’s only common sense. Don’t we all want to live in a better world?”

He was so good. She had to be good for him. Maybe she was a daughter of Eve, as Reverend Haas had said. But as Leopold had said, this would be their New Jerusalem. “Dearest, have you considered attending church here in our new country?”

“No.” He was quiet, but she could tell he was thinking. “I suppose we should do things properly.”

“I am glad to hear it. Our baby will not want a heathen for a father.”

This child would be Leopold’s no matter where it came from, and it was wonderful to give him such joy. He praised her and kissed her, and she pushed the thought of Sir Carey down, down into the darkest recess.

Jonathan showed Leopold the town. They passed The Shermer Post and went into The Snowy Owl Inn. Word went out that the man who bought the Smythe farm had come to town, and soon the place was full.

Leopold was surprised to find hatred for Napoleon was not universal in his new country. He heard stories of the civic feast held in Boston just ten years earlier to celebrate the French “war of all peoples against all kings.” He devised that there were two main political factions, the Hamiltonians, or the Federalists, and the Jeffersonians, which most of his new neighbors seemed to be.

“Somebody had better stop that Hamilton,” said Grasmere, the publisher of The Post. “He’ll have another George on the throne in America if he gets his way.”

“More likely an Alexander the Great!” said the tavern keeper.

“Jefferson’s no better,” said another man. “He’s a heathen for sure.”

“Don’t see what’s wrong with heathens,” Jonathan mumbled, but loud enough for all to hear.

The Federalists had taken to calling these men Jacobins and democrats as an insult, suggesting that rule by the people would lead to Terror-like mayhem. Leopold thought they had a point.

It had been right to quote Benjamin Franklin at The Green Owl. The new country’s need wasn’t for the aristocrat but for the practical genius: the farmer, the carpenter, the blacksmith, woodcutter, stonecutter, the candle maker.

And the printer. Citizens wanted to know how to make this new government work. The unmarried daughters of prosperous men devoured the English novels brought over on ships, but American literature was made up of pamphlets and editorials about the messy work of self-government.

The political talk was exhilarating. Leopold was sympathetic to Jefferson’s suspicion of organized religion, yet he distrusted his admiration of France. Self-rule could only go so far. After the Terror, it was obvious that a free country was best governed by a well-educated gentry.

Leopold’s politics were not so much pro-democracy as anti-royalist on the one side and anti-ignorance on the other. One thing clearly in Jefferson’s favor, he’d reduced the residence requirement for citizenship from fourteen to five years.
 

It was a heady thing to live in a country where a man’s opinions mattered. What a good thing it would be to own a newspaper like The Post and really influence the discourse of men. It was already clear that farming was not to be Leopold’s great work.

While Jonathan showed Leopold the town, Marta learned about the house from Gisela Zehetner. Marta’s previous life provided no guide to her new one. Quite different from the house in town the Schonredens had been so proud to own, The Farm was an estate of 2560 acres. A 640-acre tract of it would belong to the Zehetners one day.

The Smythes had built an American version of an English manor home, a three-story Federalist with servants’ quarters in the house and over the stables. Jonathan and Gisela took two rooms on the second floor, as did the Singers. The Zehetner boys shared a large nursery on the third floor facing the front of the house. The household servants slept on the third floor at the back. The hired farm hands lived in rooms over the barn, and the groom lived with his wife, who was the cook, and their two children in an apartment over the horses in the carriage house.

Marta wondered how she’d manage when the Zehetners left to run their own place. Gisela was a wonder of organization and industry. Her midwife skills had already been called upon, and through her new connections in town she found day servants and apprentices to fill out the household staff—no easy accomplishment in this time of short labor supplies.

Marta plunged into her new duties, but the events in the London garden wouldn’t let her go and she receded into a pit of self-doubt. She wanted to believe the August encounter couldn’t have resulted in her present condition, but the timing was against her. It was all true. She was a daughter of Eve and destined for the torments of hell.

She’d hoped to find a different answer in an American church. She’d daydreamed that Haas’s harsh theology would dissolve in the light of a more enlightened pastor’s ministry. But the farm’s assets had included a pew at the Congregational Church which sadly they therefore attended.

Sadly for Marta and for George Grim.

All his eighteen years George Grim had watched men treat his talented father not much better than a servant, and George had recently accepted that this would be his fate. Landowners and wealthy merchants all sang songs about freedom and equality on founders’ day, but it was clear that some men made good sons-in-law and others never would.

He was well-made for the smithy, a large boy becoming a massive man, already six feet tall with a broad arm span and huge hands. He loved the horses he shod, and he had a spiritual affinity with the iron, brass and copper he worked into various forms. He was happiest when he rendered some new object with equal measure of beauty and utility. Like today.

Mr. McCarty had ordered a candelabrum for the dining hall in his great new house. He’d tried to buy a pair of candlesticks George had made, but George refused the sale, as they were for his mother. The bold McCarty had merely laughed and commissioned the larger object.

George Grim the elder, McCarty, Grim’s two apprentices, and Corvin the pamphleteer had all gathered to see the finished candelabrum, covered by a tarp. After a dramatic pause, George whisked away the covering. The murmurs were as appreciative as he’d expected.

The oval candelabrum was five feet long and three feet wide, meant to hang from the ceiling. He’d decorated the twenty-four candle bowls with symbols of McCarty’s prosperity. The entire thing was brass and copper, the brass polished so that it shone like gold, and the copper hammered in a way to make it sparkle.

George received the prize he had hoped for: an invitation to the McCarty house to supervise the installation.

Mary McCarty was sixteen and very silly, and on the day George Grim came to install his masterpiece, she was at home with two friends hoping for a sight of the suddenly famous young blacksmith. George had completed his task and was searching for Mr. McCarty when he overheard the girls’ chatter.

“I think Mary is in love.”

“She dreams of those strong arms.”

“And large hands.”

George smiled. He was aware that he was large. It was gratifying to know that girls approved.

“Not so.” Mary protested through giggles. “My father would never consent to my loving a blacksmith, for goodness’ sake!”
 

George’s heart was in his throat. With the black-and-white certitude of youth, he saw his future. Joyless, open to ridicule, certain to meet no woman’s approval as a husband. He left the McCarty house without a word.

For the next week, he worked in depressed silence or stayed inside the house staring into his bleak vision. On Sunday, his mother was so distraught over his melancholy that she wouldn’t let him stay home from church in peace.

As Providence would have it, a guest was in the pulpit that day, Lyman Beecher, a 25-year-old evangelical from the east. To George, he was a revelation.

His voice rose to sublime heights then descended to soft, inclusive whispers, conjuring a wild ride into the mystery of Christ’s love and sacrifice. He railed against Tom Paine. When he came to the deists, he was nearly apoplectic. He assured his listeners that the time of the world’s turn to Christ was at hand. He had answered his calling, though his father and grandfather had been blacksmiths.

George’s head popped up.

Mary McCarty was smiling at him, but he could only blush and look away. At the end of the service, McCarty was the first to invite Reverend Beecher to dine. The son of a blacksmith was welcome if he himself were no blacksmith.

George rushed away, unwilling to speak to anyone—especially Mary McCarty. He walked. He walked without knowing where he was or what he was about. Thought and emotion corrupted each other. No organizing principle presented to him. A crazy-quilt of images played upon his understanding. Shards of the day’s sermon. The sound of Mary McCarty’s laughter. His father’s greedy pride in the candelabrum. The blessed voice of Lyman Beecher:
my father and grandfather were blacksmiths
.

At the McCarty house, Reverend Beecher declared the candelabrum “certainly fashioned by one of the elect” and asked to meet its maker. The next morning, as McCarty and Beecher came in to town, Grim’s two hired men passed their wagon nearly breathless, supporting a stumbling George Grim. Beecher and McCarty followed the men into the smithy.

“I was gripped,” George sputtered. “By what, I don’t know. I wandered through the dark until dawn when a voice called me. ‘Pick up and read!’ it said.” George was literate, but not learned. He looked to Beecher. “What can it mean?”

“It’s a sign,” Beecher said with awful solemnity. “Those were the very words that filled the heart of Augustine when he was called.” Beecher announced to gathered crowd: “I see a glorious future for this young man yoked to the chariot of Christ.”