Not Quite Dead (19 page)

In Pennsylvania, however, the first settlers happened to be Dutch Quakers and English Utopians, for whom religion was a quest, not a proclamation from above. When William Penn toured Europe with guarantees of religious liberty as part of his “holy experiment,” it inspired a rate of immigration to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania that would not be surpassed until the Irish famine.

Around 1690, forty colonists (the biblical number did not go unnoticed) established a community in an area south of Philadelphia, in what would come to be known as Germantown. Land was purchased with the patronage of Augustin Herrman, a landholder in Bohemia, and named Economy Manor, after the abstemious ethic that prevailed among members at the time.

At first, the physical plant consisted of two forty-foot-square dormitories to house the members and separate the sexes. These rectangular buildings stood on an angle to face a third structure known as the Tabernacle of the Women of the Wilderness—a meeting hall topped by the tower, maintained by anointed priestesses whose purpose was to perpetuate the essence of the colony despite time and change.

Shunned and reviled by Protestants, Catholics, and Anglicans alike, the original sect lasted approximately twelve years; in that time they developed a creed—an eclectic blend of occultism and apocolyptic Christianity—that had nothing to do with the one they arrived with, at which point their Bohemian patron abruptly repudiated the sect and withdrew all support. However, he was unable to reclaim the Pennsylvania property, whose value had appreciated to upward of five hundred dollars an acre. And so the settlers continued to await the coming of the rebirth of the world, watching through telescopes all night long.

In the center of it all remained the Women of the Wilderness, whose knowledge drew increased veneration the more incomprehensible it became, until the sisters were credited with supernatural feats of all kinds.

Economy Manor languished in obscurity until 1720, when Conrad Beisel arrived, a vigorous, practical man, thanks to whom the colony was reborn. By the early part of this century, Economy Manor included a gristmill, a community barn, carpenter and blacksmith shops, a sawmill, a cannery, a woolen mill, a distillery and wine cellar, and five hundred and fifty acres planted in wheat, rye, tobacco, and hemp.

Upon Beisel’s demise, the colony again languished until 1847, when it fell under the leadership of a Swede named John Root who had been recently discharged from the army of the Mexican War, and had somehow demonstrated an ability to influence the weather. Root immediately abolished the vow of celibacy, causing particular bitterness among elders who had passed the age of fertility.

By the end of the year Root was accused by a fellow Communist named Jensen, of murdering a Jewish peddler. At the trial, Jensen was standing by a courtroom window when Root appeared in the doorway, called his name, shot him dead, and escaped.

Into the leadership role stepped one Lieutenant Dougal O’Reilly, under whom John Root had served in the Mexican War, and with whom Root had made a private arrangement.

O’Reilly, however, harbored different ambitions. After inspecting Economy Manor and noting its potential as a defensive position for the Irish Brotherhood, he prepared to claim the property for himself, in perpetuity. Immediately he set about getting rid of its remaining cult members—the sisters excluded, for his army of street orphans drew benefit from their cooking, sewing, and nursing skills.

In the months following, male Communists died at an accelerating rate, until within a year the residents consisted of O’Reilly, Devlin, the
Na Coisantiori
and, in their crumbling tabernacle, the Women of the Wilderness.

The Women of the Wilderness seemed to take their new role in stride. Economy Manor had seen so many changes of personnel and doctrine that they had long ago ceased to differentiate between regimes. What they themselves believed was a mystery they were not prepared to answer, if indeed they knew themselves.

Surprisingly, they continued to accept single women from outside the commonwealth as new members. By what process and to what creed these conversions took place was, like everything else about them, a mystery.

By 1849, Economy Manor was a ruin. The only buildings standing (and only just) were the dormitories and the tabernacle. Of the rest, all that remained were foundations—massive, medieval-looking edifices made of stone, out of all proportion to the makeshift wooden buildings they had supported. When the remaining structures collapsed as well, it would appear as though a race of supermen once occupied the land.

I
N THE MEN’S
dormitory candles had been extinguished early, as was the usual practice after hard fighting. Bunked in their Spartan quarters like schoolboys at Eton, those members of the
Na Coisantiori
who remained awake tended to their injuries with the assistance of three sisters, keen for a taste of motherhood after a lifetime of pointless celibacy.

From the kitchen below could be heard a low rumble of conversation, a meeting of high command.

Blur-‘an agers!

Devlin pushed the torn shred of newsprint across the table after reading the article for the fourth time; this he swapped for the half-empty bottle of Old Pepper.

“You wonder at the cheek of the man,” replied Lieutenant O’Reilly. To Devlin, in the meager light of a single candle, O’Reilly’s empty socket was like a bottomless hole.

DICKENS COMING TO AMERICA
by Sanford W. Mitchell,
The Philadelphia Inquirer

America’s reading set is all a-twitter over the planned reading tour of Mr. Charles Dickens. Already appearances by the literary lion have been scheduled in Boston, Worcester, Harvard, New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond, and Washington. The Young Men of
Boston have announced a public dinner in his honor, and a “Boz Ball” will take place at the Park Theatre in New York, where Mr. Francis Alexander has been engaged to undertake his portrait. In Washington, he will attend a levee with the president.

T
HE LIEUTENANT HELD
the scrap of newsprint to his good eye and pretended to read, though in truth he could barely discern his own name. But by the way Devlin had harped upon this man Dickens during speech after speech, O’Reilly suspected that Devlin had something in mind, should he appear close at hand.

As an American for whom personal advancement was the whole purpose of life, the lieutenant could never see the point behind his partner’s eruptions. Nor did O’Reilly comprehend the depth of Devlin’s anger. Why would a man waste his wrath on a man he had never met—and a writer of books? No doubt it was the same inner rage that inspired him to stab a publisher in the mouth with a marlin spike.

There are two ways to disguise a conspicuous crime—by cleaning it up, or by making it worse. As always, O’Reilly made the best of a delicate situation, and proceeded to turn Topham’s demise to his own material purpose.

Though Irish by race, there existed a gulf between the two men that would only grow wider—between an American citizen looking to his future in the New World, and a new immigrant, still seething over injustices that had driven him there in the first place.

Despite his allegiance to the spirit of America, O’Reilly continued to pay lip service to the auld sod: in America as in Europe, to be an accepted member of a race and religion could mean the difference between prosperity and death. Only a fool discarded bonds of blood and history out of hand.

In recent weeks, however, the first cracks had begun to appear in what had been a solid partnership, along the fault line between pragmatism and idealism. Whereas on the surface the ambitions of the two men meshed nicely, their inner reasons for attaining their objectives were as different as Ribbonmen and Orangemen.

For Finn Devlin, the imminent American tour of the eminent British author rekindled deep, ancient grievances that could not possibly be satisfied other than by the violent and painful death of its object.

Lieutenant O’Reilly on the other hand, as in the case of the late Henry Topham, had begun to see in the Dickens matter a material advantage to himself—although in this case the victim must remain live and kicking.

After all, O’Reilly had lost an eye for America, and the debt would be paid in full.

A man’s ambition is binary in nature. One part seeks immediate satisfaction, the other part focuses on more lofty goals. The two objects are not simultaneous, however. For the fulfillment of the highest ideals, much depends on a good horse and a full stomach.

The immediate goal the lieutenant had in mind was simple. He wanted fifty thousand dollars. With that amount in his possession, a man could afford to keep a carriage, to display sufficient turnout to be invited to the better homes. Political influence would follow, higher purposes and greater advancement—witness McMullin, leader of the True Blue Americans, who took over the Moyamensing Hose Company and was about to run for office in the Fourth Ward.

O’Reilly regarded Devlin’s idealism as a dangerous asset, to be watched carefully. Having squandered his young life in a doomed battle for an imaginary Ireland, the younger man could not be trusted to act in his own interest. At the same time, it was Devlin’s grand foolishness that lent him his silver tongue—the grand crack that it takes to move men, that would one day talk O’Reilly into a position of political power.

As every businessman in Philadelphia knew, the easy money, gained through ownership of land and slaves, had been swallowed up by the great families; such was the level of competition today that no man could achieve advancement and remain entirely within the law. Ownership of a public servant had become essential to long-term success.

In Philadelphia County the American dream was still possible. Any man, no matter how low his birth, could attain success and honor and a house in the country—as long as he had an assemblyman in his pocket.

In the long term, Devlin would be the making of O’Reilly by attaining political office. Even in the short term, the man’s mouth earned a good dollar, though the purse remained well short of O’Reilly’s fifty thousand.

For the present, therefore, it was essential that their philosophical difference remain out of sight. This was not an impossible task, for Devlin remained so absorbed in his political preoccupation that he barely noticed the opinions of others. The mere fact that O’Reilly was of Irish ancestry, in Devlin’s mind, meant that the work of the Irish Brotherhood proceeded purely out of their shared aspirations for Ireland, their hatred for the imperial beast.

For O’Reilly, the challenge lay in restraining Devlin from undertaking suicidal, symbolic acts, destroying symbolic buildings and symbolic people. (Mayor Swift, having caught Devlin’s early notice as a Whig on an antiriot platform, escaped assassination only by the black of his nail.)

“You say Dickens was invited to a party with the president?” said O’Reilly with feigned outrage. “Scarce is the American author who has received such an honor.”

“Oh, you can be sure that there is more to it than that,” said Devlin.

“In what way are you thinking?”

“D’ye not see? Negotiations have taken place in secret rooms. Negotiation between nations always begins in the realm of ‘universal’ ideas. Once established as sentimental allies, reciprocity will follow, then reunification, and Britain will have it all, box and dice. And what then of the Irish in America? Will there be more coffin ships? And to what New World will we sail?”

“Be serious, man,” replied the lieutenant. “Britain and America are on the cusp of war as we speak.”

“A distraction,” said Devlin promptly. “You may be certain of maneuvers behind the scenes, in the map room.”

“If that is true, it is a bad picture you paint for certain,” said O’Reilly.

“It cannot go unheeded or unanswered,” said Devlin.

“Indeed, you can turn it into a fine speech.”

“A speech? Do you not see what is at stake?”

“The British beast again, is it? The theme has gone over well in the past, yet I fear it is wearing thin.”

“The coming of Dickens is a deeper provocation and must receive a resounding reply.” Devlin’s hand shook as he handed over the bottle.

“Well,
me auld segotia
, aren’t you the quare hawk? Revenge must be taken calmly, you must surely know that as an educated man.”

“I would be the calm man to see Mr. Dickens come away from his levee with the president stretched out on a board. And he would be calm as well.”

Inwardly appalled by the thought, O’Reilly strove to keep his objections on a practical level. “Such a feat would take more than the work of a shillelagh. It would take guns at the least and I do not think we have the marksmen for it.”

“A levee is a public occurrence, is it not? The smooth, confident bugger, out with the president on the lawn, mingling with the toadies. It would take no great skill to sidle up with a pocket iron and put one into him. Or better yet, there could be an explosion …”

By the far wall, forgotten in the intensity of the discussion, sat Sister Genoux, sandwiched between the stove and a small wooden table pulled up to one side. From this position she could stir a pot of stew while engaging in her primary occupation as a cigarette roller. With methodical smoothness she cut papers and Virginia plug, rolled shredded tobacco into the papers to form a tube, then glued them together with paste. With tobacco and papers prepared beforehand, she could complete the entire process with one hand, by the dozen, and smoke a cigarette herself while doing so—and stir a pot of stew besides. Later she would trim the ends and put them in a box and sell them to the shops on Chestnut Street.

It was said that she came from a family of Jacobins and that her grandfather had accompanied Paine on his return from France. Though there was no way to tell whether or not this was true, with such a revolutionary pedigree she had impressed Devlin mightily.

“There will be no explosion,” said the lieutenant, firmly. “The president led the Buena Vista charge. We will do no harm to Old Rough and Ready.”