CHAPTER V.
_Giles Rae Beautifies His Inheritance_
By eight o'clock the next morning, out under a cloudy sky, the Raes wereready and eager for their start to the new Jerusalem. Even the sickwoman's face wore a kind of soft and faded radiance in the excitement ofgoing. On her mattress, she had been tenderly installed in one of thetwo covered wagons that carried their household goods. The wagon inwhich she lay was to be taken across the river by Seth Wright,--for themoment no Wild Ram of the Mountains, but a soft-cooing dove of peace.Permission had been granted him by Brockman to recross the river on someneedful errands; and, having once proved the extreme sensitiveness, notto say irritability, of those in temporary command, he was now resolvedto give as little eclat as possible to certain superior aspects of hisown sanctity. He spoke low and deferentially, and his mien was that of amodest, retiring man who secretly thought ill of himself.
He mounted the wagon in which the sick woman lay, sat well back underthe bowed cover, clucked low to the horses, and drove off toward theferry. If discreet behaviour on his part could ensure it there would beno conflict provoked with superior numbers; with numbers, moreover,composed of violent-tempered and unprincipled persecutors who werealready acting with but the merest shadow of legal authority.
On the seat of the second wagon, whip in hand, was perched Giles Rae,his coat buttoned warmly to the chin. He was slight and feeble to theeye, yet he had been fired to new life by the certainty that now theywere to leave the territory of the persecuting Gentiles for a land to bethe Saints' very own. His son stood at the wheel, giving him finaldirections. At the gate was Prudence Corson, gowned for travel, reticulein hand, her prettiness shadowed, under the scoop of her bonnet, the toeof one trim little boot meditatively rolling a pebble over the ground.
"Drive slowly, Daddy. Likely I shall overtake you before you reach theferry. I want but a word yet with Prudence; though"--he glanced over atthe bowed head of the girl--"no matter if I linger a little, sinceBrother Seth will cross first and we must wait until the boat comesback. Some of our people will be at the ferry to look after you,--and becareful to have no words with any of the mob--no matter what insult theymay offer. You're feeling strong, aren't you?"
"Ay, laddie, that I am! Strong as an ox! The very thought of being freeout of this Babylon has exalted me in spirit and body. Think of it, boy!Soon we shall be even beyond the limits of the United States--in aforeign land out there to the west, where these bloodthirsty ones can nolonger reach us. Thank God they're like all snakes--they can't jumpbeyond their own length!"
He leaned out of the wagon to shake a bloodless, trembling fist towardthe temple where the soldiers had made their barracks.
"Now let great and grievous judgments, desolations, by famine, sword,and pestilence come upon you, generation of vipers!"
He cracked the whip, the horses took their load at his cheery call, andas the wagon rolled away they heard him singing:--
"Lo, the Gentile chain is broken! Freedom's banner waves on high!"
They watched him until the wagon swung around into the street that fellaway to the ferry. Then they faced each other, and he stepped to herside as she leaned lightly on the gate.
"Prue, dear," he said, softly, "it's going hard with me. God must indeedhave a great work reserved for me to try me with such a sacrifice--somuch pain where I could least endure it. I prayed all the night to bekept firm, for there are two ways open--one right and one wrong; but Icannot sell my soul so early. That's why I wanted to say the lastgood-bye out here. I was afraid to say it in there--I am so weak foryou, Prue--I ache so for you in all this trouble--why, if I could feelyour hands in my hair, I'd laugh at it all--I'm so _weak_ for you,dearest."
She tossed her yellow head ever so slightly, and turned the scoop of herbonnet a little away from his pain-lighted face.
"I am not complimented, though--you care more for your religion than forme."
He looked at her hungrily.
"No, you are wrong there--I don't separate you at all--I couldn't--youand my religion are one--but, if I must, I can love you in spirit as Iworship my God in spirit--"
"If it will satisfy you, very well!"
"My reward will come--I shall do a great work, I shall have a Witnessfrom the sky. Who am I that I should have thought to win a crown withouttaking up a cross?"
"I am sorry for you."
"Oh, Prue, there must be a way to save the souls of such as you, even intheir blindness. Would God make a flower like you, only to let it belost? There must be a way. I shall pray until I force it from the secretheavens."
"My soul will be very well, sir!" she retorted, with a distinct trace ofasperity. "I am not a heathen, I'd thank you to remember--and when I'm awife I shall be my husband's only wife--"
He winced in acutest pain.
"You have no right to taunt me so. Else you can't know what you havemeant to me. Oh, you were all the world, child--you, of your own dearself--you would have been all the wives in the world to me--there aremany, many of you, and all in a heavenly one--"
"Oh, forgive me, dearest," she cried, and put out a little gloved handto comfort him. "I know, I know--all the sweetness and goodness of yourlove, believe me. See, I have kept always by me the little Bible yougave me on my birthday--I have treasured it, and I know it has made me abetter girl, because it makes me always think of your goodness--but Icouldn't have gone there, Joel--and it does seem as if you need not havegone--and that marrying is so odious--"
"You shall see how little you had to fear of that doctrine which God hasseen fit to reveal to these good men. I tell you now, Prue, I shall wedno woman but you. Nor am I giving you up. Don't think it. I am doing myduty and trusting God to bring you to me. I know He will do it--I tellyou there is the spirit of some strange, awful strength in me, whichtells me to ask what I will and it shall be given--to seek to doanything, how great or hard soever, and a giant's, a god's strength willrest in me. And so I know you will come. You will always think of meso,--waiting for you--somehow, somewhere. Every day you must think it,at any idle moment when I come to your mind; every night when you wakenin the dark and silence, you must think, 'Wherever he is, he is waitingfor me, perhaps awake as I am now, praying, with a power that willsurely draw me.' You will come somehow. Perhaps, when I reach winterquarters, you will have changed your mind. One never knows how God mayfashion these little providences. But He will bring you safe to me outof that Gentile perdition. Remember, child, God has set his hand inthese last days to save the human family from the ruins of the fall, andsome way, He alone knows how, you will come to me and find me waiting."
"As if you needed to wait for me when I am here now ready for you,willing to be taken!"
"Don't, don't, dear! There are two of me now, and one can't stand thepain. There is a man in me, sworn to do a man's work like a man, andduty to God and the priesthood has big chains around his heart draggingit across the river. But, low, now--there is a little, forlorn boy inme, too--a poor, crying, whimpering, babyish little boy, who dreamed ofyou and longed for you and was promised you, and who will never get wellof losing you. Oh, I know it well enough--his tears will never dry, hisheart will always have a big hurt in it--and your face will always be sofresh and clear in it!"
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into the face underthe bonnet.
"Let me make sure I shall lose no look of you, from little tilted chin,and lips of scarlet thread, and little teeth like grains of rice, andeyes into which I used to wander and wonder so far--"
She looked past him and stepped back.
"Captain Girnway is coming for me--yonder, away down the street. Hetakes me to Carthage."
His face hardened as he looked over his shoulder.
"I shall never wed any woman but you. Can you feel as deeply as that?Will you wed no man but me?"
She fluttered the cherry ribbons on the bonnet and fixed a stray curl infront of one ear.
"Have you a right to ask that? I might wait a time
for you to comeback--to your senses and to me, but--"
"Good-bye, darling!".
"What, will you go that way--not kiss me? He is still two blocks away."
"I am so weak for you, sweet--the little boy in me is crying for you,but he must not have what he wants. What he wants would leave his heartrebellious and not perfect with the Lord. It's best not," he continued,with an effort at a smile and in a steadier tone. "It would mean so muchto me--oh, so very much to me--and so very little to you--and that's noreal kiss. I'd rather remember none of that kind--and don't think I waschurlish--it's only because the little boy--I will go after my fathernow, and God bless you!"
He turned away. A few paces on he met Captain Girnway, jaunty, debonair,smiling, handsome in his brass-buttoned uniform of the Carthage Grays.
"I have just left the ferry, Mr. Rae. The wagon with your mother hasgone over. The other had not yet come down. Some of the men appear to bea little rough this morning. Your people are apt to provoke them bybeing too outspoken, but I left special orders for the good treatment ofyourself and outfit."
With a half-smothered "thank you," he passed on, not trusting himself tosay more to one who was not only the enemy of his people, but bent,seemingly, on deluding a young woman to the loss of her soul. He heardtheir voices in cheerful greeting, but did not turn back. With eyes tothe front and shoulders squared he kept stiffly on his way through thesilent, deserted streets to the ferry.
Fifteen minutes' walk brought him to the now busy waterside. The ferry,a flat boat propelled by long oars, was landing when he came into view,and he saw his father's wagon driven on. He sped down the hill, pushedthrough the crowd of soldiers standing about, and hurried forward on theboat to let the old man know he had come. But on the seat was anotherthan his father. He recognised the man, and called to him.
"What are you doing there, Brother Keaton? Where's my father?"
The man had shrunk back under the wagon-cover, having seemingly beenfrightened by the soldiers.
"I've taken your father's place, Brother Rae."
"Did he cross with Brother Wright?"
"Yes--he--" The man hesitated. Then came an interruption from theshore.
"Come, clear the gangway there so we can load! Here are some more of thedamned rats we've hunted out of their holes!"
The speaker made a half-playful lunge with his bayonet at a gaunt,yellow-faced spectre of a man who staggered on to the boat with a childin his arms wrapped in a tattered blue quilt. A gust of the chilly windpicked his shapeless, loose-fitting hat off as he leaped to avoid thebayonet-point, and his head was seen to be shaven. The crowd on the banklaughed loud at his clumsiness and at his grotesque head. Joel Rae ranto help him forward on the boat.
"Thank you, Brother--I'm just up from the fever-bed--they shaved my headfor it--and so I lost my hat--thank you--here we shall be warm if onlythe sun comes out."
Joel went back to help on others who came, a feeble, bedraggled dozen orso that had clung despairingly to their only shelter until they weredriven out.
"You can stay here in safety, you know, if you renounce Joseph Smith andhis works--they will give you food and shelter." He repeated it to eachlittle group of the dispirited wretches as they staggered past him, butthey replied staunchly by word or look, and one man, in the throes of achill, swung his cap and uttered a feeble "Hurrah for the new Zion!"
When they were all on with their meagre belongings, he called again tothe man in the wagon.
"Brother Keaton, my father went across, did he?"
Several of the men on shore answered him.
"Yes"--"Old white-whiskered death's-head went over the river"--"Overhere"--"A sassy old codger he was"--"He got his needings, too"--"Got hisneedings--"
They cast off the line and the oars began to dip.
"And you'll get your needings, too, if you come back, remember that!That's the last of you, and we'll have no more vermin like you. Now seewhat old Joe Smith, the white-hat prophet, can do for you in the Indianterritory!"
He stood at the stern of the boat, shivering as he looked at thecurrent, swift, cold, and gray under the sunless sky. He feared someindignity had been offered to his father. They had looked at one anotherqueerly when they answered his questions. He went forward to the wagonagain.
"Brother Keaton, you're sure my father is all right?"
"I am sure he's all right, Brother Rae."
Content with this, at last, he watched the farther flat shore of theMississippi, with its low fringe of green along the edge, where theywere to land and be at last out of the mob's reach. He repeated hisfather's words: "Thank God, they're like all snakes; they can't jumpbeyond their own length."
The confusion of landing and the preparations for an immediate startdrove for the time all other thoughts from his mind. It had beendetermined to get the little band at once out of the marshy spot wherethe camp had been made. The teams were soon hitched, the wagons loaded,and the train ready to move. He surveyed it, a hundred poor wagons, manyof them without cover, loaded to the full with such nondescriptbelongings as a house-dwelling people, suddenly put out on the openroad, would hurriedly snatch as they fled. And the people made his heartache, even to the deadening of his own sorrow, as he noted theirwobegoneness. For these were the sick, the infirm, the poor, theinefficient, who had been unable for one reason or another to migratewith the main body of the Saints earlier in the season. Many of themwere now racked by fever from sleeping on the damp ground. These badefair not to outlast some of the lumbering carts that threatened at everyrough spot to jolt apart.
Yet the line bravely formed to the order of Seth Wright as captain, andthe march began. Looking back, he saw peaceful Nauvoo, its houses andgardens, softened by the cloudy sky and the autumn haze, clusteringunder the shelter of their temple spire,--their temple and their houses,of which they were now despoiled by a mob's fury. Ahead he saw the roadto the West, a hard road, as he knew,--one he could not hope they shouldcross without leaving more graves by the way; but Zion was at the end.
The wagons and carts creaked and strained and rattled under theirswaying loads, and the line gradually defined itself along the road fromthe confused jumble at the camp. He remembered his father again now, andhurried forward to assure himself that all was right. As he overtookalong the way the stumbling ones obliged to walk, he tried to cheerthem.
"Only a short march to-day, brothers. Our camp is at Sugar Creek, ninemiles--so take your time this first day."
Near the head of the train were his own two wagons, and beside the firstwalked Seth Wright and Keaton, in low, earnest converse. As he came upto them the Bishop spoke.
"I got Wes' and Alec Gregg to drive awhile so we could stretch ourlegs." But then came a quick change of tone, as they halted by the road.
"Joel, there's no use beatin' about the bush--them devils at the ferryjest now drowned your pa."
He went cold all over. Keaton, looking sympathetic but frightened, spokenext.
"You ought to thank me, Brother Rae, for not telling you on the otherside, when you asked me. I knew better. Because, why? Because I knewyou'd fly off the handle and get yourself killed, and then your ma'd beleft all alone, that's why, now--and prob'ly they'd 'a' wound up bydumping the whole passle of us bag and baggage into the stream. And itwa'n't any use, your father bein' dead and gone."
The Bishop took up the burden, slapping him cordially on the back.
"Come, come,--hearten up, now! Your pa's been made a martyr--he'sbeautified his inheritance in Zion--whinin' won't do no good."
He drew himself up with a shrug, as if to throw off an invisible burden,and answered, calmly:
"I'm not whining, Bishop. Perhaps you were right not to tell me overthere, Keaton. I'd have made trouble for you all." He smiled painfullyin his effort to control himself. "Were you there, Bishop?"
"No, I'd already gone acrost. Keaton here saw it."
Keaton took up the tale.
"I was there when the old gentleman drove down singing, 'Lo, the G
entilechain is broken.' He was awful chipper. Then one of 'em called him oldFather Time, and he answered back. I disremember what, but, any way, oneword fired another until they was cussin' Giles Rae up hill and downdale, and instead of keepin' his head shet like he had ought to havedone, he was prophesyin' curses, desolations, famines, and pestilenceson 'em all, and callin' 'em enemies of Christ. He was sassy--I can'tdeny that--and that's where he wa'n't wise. Some of the mobocrats wasdrunk and some was mad; they was all in their high-heeled boots one wayor another, and he enraged 'em more. So he says, finally, 'The Jewsfell,' he says, 'because they wouldn't receive their Messiah, theShiloh, the Saviour. They wet their hands,' he says, 'in the best bloodthat had flowed through the lineage of Judah, and they had to pay thecost. And so will you cowards of Illinois,' he says, 'have to pay thepenalty for sheddin' the blood of Joseph Smith, the best blood that hasflowed since the Lord's Christ,' he says. 'The wrath of God,' he says,'will abide upon you.' The old gentleman was a powerful denouncer whenhe was in the spirit of it--"
"Come, come, Keaton, hurry, for God's sake--get on!"
"And he made 'em so mad, a-settin' up there so peart and brave before'em, givin' 'em as good as they sent--givin' 'em hell right to theirfaces, you might say, that at last they made for him, some of them thatyou could see had been puttin' a new faucet into the cider barrel. I sawthey meant to do him a mischief--but Lord! what could I do againstfifty, being then in the midst of a chill? Well, they drug him off theseat, and said, 'Now, you old rat, own up that Holy Joe was a dangedfraud;' or something like that. But he was that sanctified andstubborn--' Better to suffer stripes for the testimony of Christ,' hesays, 'than to fall by the sin of denial!' Then they drug him to thebank, one on each side, and says, 'We baptise you in the holy name ofBrockman,' and in they dumped him--backwards, mind you! I saw then theywas in a slippery place where it was deep and the current awful strong.But they hauled him out, and says again, 'Do you renounce Holy Joe Smithand all his works?' The poor old fellow couldn't talk a word for thechill, but he shook his head like sixty--as stubborn as you'd wish. Sothey said, 'Damn you! here's another, then. We baptise you in the nameof James K. Polk, President of the United States!' and in they threw himagain. Whether they done it on purpose or not, I wouldn't like to say,but that time his coat collar slipped out of their hands and down hewent. He came up ten feet down-stream and quite a ways out, and theyhooted at him. I seen him come up once after that, and then they see hecouldn't swim a stroke, but little they cared. And I never saw himagain. I jest took hold of the team and drove it on the boat, scared todeath for what you'd do when you come,--so I kept still and they keptstill. But remember, it's only another debt the blood of the Gentileswill have to pay--"
"Either here on earth or in hell," said the Bishop.
"And the soul of your poor pa is now warm and dry and happy in thepresence of his Lord God."
The Lions of the Lord: A Tale of the Old West Page 7