Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  His head came up slowly. “I’m not one of them who did this to me.”

  “How can you still stay a Mormon?” she burst out. “The Church is falling apart. You’re fighting amongst yourselves. Even three of the Quorum of the Twelve have turned against you.”

  “You claim to be the only true Church,” Carl snorted in derision. “But look at what’s happening. Bickering, infighting, one group turning against another.” His eyes were hard and challenging. “Beating up one another.”

  Benjamin watched his son-in-law steadily for a moment, and then spoke slowly, choosing his words very carefully. “That’s true, Carl. And I can see why that would upset you and Melissa. But I assume, then, that you’ll want to give up on Christianity altogether.”

  Carl’s eyebrows lifted sharply. “Why would you say that?”

  Reaching over to the table, Benjamin set down the copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and picked up the Bible. “I told you I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately. I’ve always mostly read in the Gospels when I’ve read the New Testament. But these past two weeks I’ve been reading a lot in the book of Acts, and in the writings of the Apostle Paul. It’s been most interesting.”

  Carl was wary now.

  Benjamin pressed on. “After the Resurrection, the church Jesus organized saw fantastic growth both in numbers and in the areas where the Church went. But all was not wonderful. Over and over there were challenges. Some were challenges from the enemies outside the Church.” He gave Carl a sharp look. “But some were challenges within the Church. For example, Paul warned Church leaders from Ephesus to watch out for ‘grievous wolves’ who would enter in among the flock, leading away many. He even predicted that some among the leadership would arise and lead away disciples after themselves.”

  Carl said nothing. Melissa was looking at the floor. Benjamin sighed, not liking what he was doing, but knowing it had to be done. “Again and again Paul talked about false teachers in the Church who went around trying to deceive people. Almost every one of his letters was sent to correct problems among the Saints.”

  Subconsciously he let one hand steal up to rub at the spot where his ribs had been broken. “Paul was beaten and stoned and scourged. And sometimes that was done by members of the Church.”

  Now he looked directly at Carl, challenging him openly. “So with all that, Carl, I just hoped you’d be fair. If you’re going to reject the Mormon church because it has these kinds of problems in it, then I assume you’ll reject Christianity altogether, for the early Church had exactly the same kind of problems.”

  Carl was breathing heavily. His face had turned sullen, but he had no answer. Melissa watched him and her father for a minute, then stepped forward. “Papa, I don’t know what is right and wrong anymore. I don’t like what I see happening in the Church. But I don’t know who or what is to blame. All I know is that Carl and I can’t go on like this, fighting among ourselves, jerking the children back and forth.”

  Benjamin turned to his daughter, his eyes dark and filled with an immense sadness. “I understand, Melissa.” He turned to Carl. “Did you ever pray about finding a church that you both could be united in?”

  “You mean did I pray about whether the Mormon church is true or not?” Carl said, almost sneering.

  “That’s not what Mary Ann suggested you do. What she said was—”

  “You don’t pray about something you already know the answer to,” Carl cut in bluntly. “No, I didn’t pray about it.”

  “I see.” There was a great weariness in him.

  Melissa stepped between these two men whom she loved. Now her cheeks were wet, and she was fighting hard to keep her voice under control. “Papa, I’ve started going to Carl’s church. It’s . . .” A slight shudder shook her body as she fought back her emotions. “It’s just easier.” She tensed, waiting for his reaction.

  But to her surprise, he did not get angry. Instead, he opened his arms and took her into them. He pressed her head down against his shoulder, wincing for a moment, with the movement. Then he began to pat her shoulder softly. “I understand, Melissa,” he whispered. “I understand.”

  “Don’t go, Papa. Please don’t go.”

  He pulled back, reached out and lifted her chin, looking deep into her eyes. “We have to, Melissa.” He stopped. His Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and then to everyone’s shocked surprise, there were tears in his eyes. Benjamin Steed was crying! “We have to. We just have to.”

  Melissa began to sob openly now. Benjamin shook his head, trying to shake away his own emotions. Failing in that, he pulled her to him again and held her tightly to him. He buried his face in her hair. “But I want you to know that the thoughts of leaving you and your family behind—” His voice broke, and he had to stop for a moment. Finally, he took a deep breath, and in a strained whisper finished his sentence. “That will be the hardest thing your mother and I have ever done.”

  * * *

  Jessica Roundy Steed Griffith was softly humming one of the hymns to herself as she moved about the small, one-room cabin picking up after Rachel and the boys’ hasty departure to go out with their father for a load of firewood. The early September sunshine came through the south window, filling the room with brightness. This was her favorite time of the year. Indian summer was in its full strength on the Great Plains, and she loved its warmth and golden brightness.

  Suddenly she stopped and dropped a hand to her stomach. She probed carefully. Had she felt something there? But instantly she shook her head. At most she could be only three months along. It was too early to feel life. Much too early. And yet she thought about it every day. Ever since she had realized she was with child again, she had anxiously awaited the time when she would feel life. She was growing, swelling slowly but steadily now, and that encouraged her. But she had grown in those first times too, back with Joshua in Independence. But there had never been any stirrings of life, and eventually she had miscarried.

  But while she lived daily with the worry, somehow it was not the same as back in those times with Joshua. There was a feeling of peace, of steadiness. It was as though the Lord were comforting her, telling her that the days of lost babies were past.

  And there was something more. The losses back in those days when she had been married to Joshua not only had been bitter personal tragedies but also had brought a great strain into the marriage. If she did lose this baby—heaven forbid!—she knew it would be different with her and John. They were still developing their relationship. The awkwardness had not yet fully disappeared between them—they had been married for only four months—but to her constant surprise and wonder the marriage had brought her a joy that she had never known to this point. John Griffith was a gentle and kindly man. He treated her with respect, and she could sense that something was developing between them. It would take time, but when it fully bloomed it was going to be a source of great joy to them both.

  A sharp knock sounded at the door. A little surprised to have company this early in the day, she walked over to it. She opened it, then stepped back in pleased surprise. “Matthew?”

  “Hello, Jessica.”

  * * *

  “No,” Matthew said firmly, looking John Griffith straight in the eye, “I’ve thought this over very carefully. My mind is made up.”

  Jessica’s husband shook his head. “It’s not a fair trade. You get a cabin no bigger than what you already have, smaller maybe. And I get a cabin and five acres of land.”

  “So, I’ll sell the land to you. Two hundred dollars. You pay it off whenever you can. No interest on the mortgage.”

  Griffith was a small man, not more than an inch or two taller than Jessica, but he was strong and wiry. And while he was a quiet man, he was not of a weak mind by any means. “You would make a terrible businessman, Matthew. You are far too generous.”

  “You are a farmer, John, not a day laborer. You also have three children to care for, with another one on the way. I’m single. I can do what you’re doing here and ear
n more than sufficient for my needs. But I can’t do that in Haun’s Mill. The work is here in Far West.”

  “I know all that—”

  Matthew held up his hand. “Now, listen to me. I don’t want to be that tied down. I want to do missionary work. This will give me that freedom.”

  “I can’t do it. Your father got the land for you.”

  “No, my father got that land for Jessica and Rachel. I just came along to help Jessica.” He turned to Jessica. “Tell him, Jessie. What will Pa say when he finds out what I’ve done?”

  Jessie smiled, her eyes shining. “He’s right, John. You didn’t get to meet Benjamin Steed. He’s one of the most generous men you’ll ever meet. He’ll put an arm around Matthew’s shoulder and tell him he did right in this.”

  John Griffith sat back, obviously still very uncomfortable. Matthew grinned at him. “Then it’s settled. I brought my stuff with me in the wagon. I’ll help you pack tomorrow.” He turned to Rachel and the two Griffith boys, who had been watching the proceedings with wide, curious eyes. “Get your stuff together, kids. You’re going to Haun’s Mill.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Morris wants to see you in his office.”

  Maggie Stumps dropped her eyes as Derek looked up in surprise from the ledger book. “He does?”

  “Yes, immediately.”

  Surprised and a little flustered, Derek stood, putting the quill pen back in the inkwell. He brushed off his shirt and trousers and checked himself quickly. Mr. Morris almost always came out into the clerk’s area when he had something on his mind. Derek had been in the back office only two or three times.

  As he came out from behind his table, Maggie cleared her throat quickly. She was just two years older than Derek but already a mother of two. She worked at the table beside him, and they had become good friends. She was one of the people he had talked to about the gospel. “Derek?”

  He slowed his step. She glanced nervously in the direction of Mr. Morris’s office, then concentrated her gaze on her ledger book. “I won’t be comin’ to the meetings anymore.”

  He stopped, peering at her. “Why?”

  Again her eyes darted toward the back office. “I just won’t.”

  Derek was stunned. She would not look up again, and finally he made his way slowly toward the back office.

  Alexander Morris was looking at some papers on his desk when Derek stepped inside his office. He did not lift his eyes, though Derek knew he was aware of his presence. For almost a full minute he kept reading, leaving Derek standing there awkwardly. He kept frowning as he clamped his teeth on his unlit cigar.

  Finally, he pushed the papers aside and leaned back. His eyes were cold and his jaw set. “Ah, Mr. Ingalls.” It came out oozing, but beneath the veneer his voice was hard and challenging.

  “Yes, sir?” Derek tried to force himself to breathe normally.

  “How old are you now, Ingalls?”

  “I’ll be twenty next month, sir.”

  “You’re a strapping lad for twenty. How long did you work shoveling coal in the boiler rooms?”

  “Four years, sir.”

  “Did you enjoy that?”

  He smiled faintly. “Not especially, sir.” Where is this leading?

  “You prefer working here in the office?”

  “Yes, sir. I really enjoy what I’m doing.”

  “Good. You wouldn’t want to leave, then.”

  Derek felt his heart plummet. “No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

  Morris took the cigar from his mouth and laid it in the ashtray. “Then you’ll not be doing anything more with those Mormons, will you?” he asked softly.

  Derek rocked back, too flabbergasted to comprehend what he had just heard.

  “The stories are true? You have been listening to the Mormons?”

  “Uh . . . yes, sir, but—”

  “No buts, Ingalls,” Morris snapped. “Either you have or you haven’t. Which is it?”

  “I have, sir, but I don’t see what that has to do with my work. I—”

  Morris leaned forward, cutting him off. “I’m a deacon in my church, Ingalls. Our minister called us together yesterday. He told us what has been happening. We’ve already lost four of our congregation.” He shook his head in disbelief. “When he told me some of my own factory workers—”

  “Sir, it’s not what you think. I can tell you sure, sir, Mormonism—”

  “Silence!” the man roared, slamming his fist down against the desk hard enough to make the inkwell jump. “Do you think I brought you in here to preach to me?”

  “No, sir,” Derek stammered. His mouth had gone dry, and he felt his knees trembling.

  Morris leaned back, his tiny eyes glittering and narrow, his mouth pulled back into a grimace of a smile. “Tell you what, Ingalls. You’ve been a good worker. I understand how easy it is to be misled. Don’t let me hear any more about this, and I’ll forget the whole thing.”

  Derek’s jaw dropped. He didn’t know what to do except stand there and stare at the man.

  After a moment, the veneer smile faded away. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you, lad?”

  Derek felt dizzy, as if he might faint. He shook his head slowly.

  Morris leaned forward, his hands spread-eagled out on the desk top. “I’m saying you’ve got until lunchtime to tell me you’re going to stop this ridiculous flirtation with these Mormons. And by the way, there’ll be no more preaching to Mrs. Stumps or any of the other workers either. If that’s not to yer liking, then you’re out of a job. Now, is that clear enough?”

  “But I’ve already been baptized,” he blurted.

  “Then renounce it!” he thundered. “You’ve got until lunch. I’ll want your answer by then.”

  Something snapped in Derek. He straightened slowly, squaring his shoulders. “I don’t need until lunch to make that decision, Mr. Morris.”

  Morris was starting to rise, to dismiss him. He froze in position. His face went almost instantly livid. “Then get your things and get out!”

  Derek didn’t answer, just spun on his heel and started for the door.

  “Ingalls!”

  He stopped but didn’t turn around. “On your way out, stop at the cutting shed and pick up your little brother. He’s fired too.”

  * * *

  The September mist was heavy in the air as dawn began to break over Preston. Peter came creeping up the cellar stairwell, looking cold and tired and frightened. Relief instantly crossed his face when he saw Derek sitting on the upper stairs.

  Derek slid over without a word and then put his arm around his brother’s shoulders and held him tight up against him.

  “Have you been up all night?” Peter asked.

  There was a quick nod.

  Peter’s lower lip started to tremble, and he bit down on it hard.

  “It’s going to be all right, Peter.”

  “What will we do? Mrs. Pottsworth says other factory owners are saying they won’t hire any Mormons.”

  “I’ve thought about it all night, Peter.”

  “And what have you decided?”

  Derek reached down and picked up a small leather bag. It was black with coal dust, and Peter knew it was the bag his brother had kept so carefully hidden in the coal bin below them. Derek bounced it up and down, and there was the soft jingle of coins.

  “How much do we have?” Peter asked.

  “Not quite ten quid.”

  Peter’s eyes went wide and round. “Really? I didn’t know we had anywhere near that much. We can live for quite a while on ten quid.”

  Derek immediately shook his head.

  “We can’t? Why not?”

  Derek raised his head, let his eyes run down the dingy row of workers’ housing that stretched on down the street for as far as the eye could follow it. “Do you remember when we were reading from the Book of Mormon, Peter? About how Lehi and his family left Jerusalem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did they go?” />
  “To the promised land.”

  “Yes.”

  Peter’s eyes widened. “But the promised land was in America.”

  “Yes, Peter, it was.” He tossed the bag up in the air and caught it neatly with a sweep of his hand. “It not only was in America, Peter. It still is in America.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  How much money do you have, lad?”

  Derek’s mind raced quickly. The captain of the American clipper ship seemed kindly enough. But after a week in the harsh environment of the Liverpool waterfront, Derek had learned that caution was required at all times. He also knew that human nature sought to make the best deal possible.

  “Not nearly enough, sir,” he finally said carefully.

  The captain eyed him for a moment, then chuckled. “Normal steerage-class passage is eighteen American dollars. That would be . . .” His head bobbed back and forth for a moment. “About six pounds each.”

  That didn’t surprise Derek. He had been asking around now for the past week about passage fare. Five to six pounds was about average. He had just slightly more than that. When the missionaries had announced Derek and Peter’s determination to go to America, Heber C. Kimball had asked for a collection from the branch. Even from their poverty the Saints had collected more than three pounds. That gave them a total of about thirteen quid. But since their arrival they had spent almost a pound for a place to stay and eat—a shocking price for the filthy room and awful gruel they were receiving—and Derek knew that every day they stayed in Liverpool took money from the purse. And besides that, if they spent it all on passage, there would be nothing on which to live when they arrived in New York. And there was still the problem of getting from there to Ohio.

  The captain was watching him closely. “Your family can’t help you?”

  “Both of our parents died of cholera.”

  The captain nodded, already expecting some such answer. His mouth softened. “My parents indentured me when I was eleven,” he said. There was a quick shrug. “They had eight mouths to feed. Boston was not a good place to do it. By the time I was thirteen I had crossed the Atlantic six times.” He eyed Derek up and down. “You a good worker?”