Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Yes,” Emma prompted when he paused a little, trying to remember all that his mother had told him.

  “Mother listened to him for a moment, and then surprised the bishop and Brother Morley when she said something like this to them, ‘It is all right. The Spirit, which has so often comforted my heart, speaks peace to my soul now. The Spirit whispers that I shall see Joseph and Hyrum before the sun sets tomorrow.’ ”

  Emma shot forward. That was the part that had stunned her before. “Are you sure that’s exactly how she said it?”

  Don Carlos nodded emphatically. “I asked Mama specifically. She said, ‘I shall see them before the sun sets tomorrow.’ ”

  Emma sat back, feeling her pulse racing again.

  “Brother Partridge was visibly upset, according to Mama. ‘No, Mother Smith,’ he said, ‘I am perfectly discouraged. I fear we shall never again see your sons in this life. I have always believed you before, but I cannot see any way this prophecy could be fulfilled.’”

  “And what did Mother Smith say to that?”

  “She told me she just smiled. Bishop Partridge was ready to leave and go find out for himself, but Mother made him promise he would at least wait until tomorrow to see if her words were true or false. And he did agree to do that. It was just a while later that I arrived. Mother told me all about it and asked me to come and tell you.”

  Emma nodded, her hands clasped together, her eyes glowing. “Before the sun sets tomorrow. Oh, Don Carlos, could it possibly be true?”

  Don Carlos was twenty-three and had two children of his own. He understood her longings. “One part of me wants to respond like Bishop Partridge, Emma. I think, could this possibly be true? Is it just a mother’s yearnings for her missing sons? And then, I think of my mother. She is a woman of great faith. We have all seen that faith exercised again and again. And when I think of that, then I say, how can it possibly not be true?”

  Emma was nodding slowly. He had captured her own tumult of feelings perfectly. It was too wonderful to be true. They had not the slightest shred of evidence that it could be true. But if Mother Smith said it . . . From the day of Joseph’s betrayal and imprisonment, rumors had jerked Emma’s emotions back and forth like a wild horse dragging a sack of straw. She had received letters from Joseph since he had been taken to Liberty Jail, and those had cheered her immensely, but the rumors still persisted. Joseph was dead. Joseph was free. Joseph had been shot. Joseph was deathly ill. The governor had given him a pardon. The governor had sentenced him to death. Emma knew full well the bitter disappointment that followed when, after reports of good news, she let her hopes rise and then learned that the reports were false.

  But this. This was something more than rumor. She stood and held out her hands to her brother-in-law. “Thank you, Don Carlos. And thank Mother Smith for being kind enough to send me word of her feelings.”

  Dimick B. Huntington was at the Quincy ferry by seven o’clock in the morning. Just three years younger than the Prophet, Dimick was a trusted friend to Joseph and Emma Smith. About seven months before when the troubles in northern Missouri were just beginning, at a time when testifying for the Mormon leaders was a deadly risk, Dimick had gone to Daviess County, Missouri, and served as a witness for the defense of Joseph Smith and Lyman Wight. And just two months earlier when Emma had come across the ice with her four children, Dimick had learned of her arrival and was instrumental in helping her find a room at Judge Cleveland’s house a few miles east of town. So it had come as no surprise when Emma sent for him the previous afternoon and asked if he would come down to the Quincy ferry and spend the day. There was perhaps news coming out of Missouri, and she was anxious to learn of it and if it was true.

  Dimick sat on the grass a few yards from the riverbank, chewing on a blade of grass. To the casual observer, it might have looked like he was dozing. But from beneath the hooded eyes, he watched the first ferryload from Missouri approaching. It came slowly, the ferryman and his son pulling steadily on the rope. On board there was only one wagon and team, but there was a small crowd of people and two horses at the back. Dimick sat up straighter and squinted his eyes. One or two of the people might be Quincy folk, gone across the river for trading purposes, but some were unmistakably Mormons. A father shepherded four children while a mother held a baby to her breast. Their clothes were caked with mud and torn in two or three places. And they had that haunted look that Dimick knew so well.

  He stood up and sauntered toward the ferry as it came in close to the shore. But even before he reached it, he saw that there were no familiar faces, no eyes suddenly widening in recognition. He hung back, disappointed a little, even though he wasn’t exactly sure what he was supposed to be waiting for. As the team drove off and the people disembarked, they were barely aware of him. The Quincyites simply moved off the ferry and up the street, eager to get home. The others were too excited and filled with enthusiasm to pay him any more than a quick, sidelong glance. They had left Missouri. They were safe at last.

  Dimick was about to go back to his place and wait for the next ferry when he abruptly stopped. The last three getting off the ferry were men. They were leading the two horses. All bearded, with clothes even more filthy and tattered than those of the rest, they moved slowly, as though they were infinitely tired; nevertheless their eyes were filled with a quiet joy.

  The first was dressed in an old pair of boots, scuffed and with several holes in the toes and along the sole. The pants, tucked into the boots, were torn in several places, one hole large enough to show bare leg. The man himself wore a dark blue cloak with the collar turned up around his neck. A wide-brimmed black hat was jammed upon his head, the sagging brim putting his face in shadow. He had a growth of light beard, the same color as the hair beneath the hat. He wasn’t looking at Dimick. He was staring up to where the city of Quincy filled the bluffs behind him. His eyes were a startling blue against the full beard and the haggard face.

  Dimick stepped forward slightly, staring keenly at the man. It was the eyes that drew his gaze.

  The second man was a step or two behind his companion, coaxing one of the horses off the boat. He turned and saw Dimick gazing at them. With a slight smile, he reached out and touched the first man’s arm. The first man turned and looked at his companion; then, following the slight inclination of the second man’s head, he turned and looked at Dimick. Slowly a weary smile broke through the growth of beard. “Dimick? Dimick Huntington?”

  Dimick was barely breathing, his eyes gaping at what his mind refused to accept. “Brother Joseph?”

  The morning had surely been the longest of Emma’s life. She stood at the window of the Cleveland home, peering down the road that led to the city. For the hundredth time, there was nothing, and the disappointment pierced her through again.

  Before the sun sets tomorrow.

  She hadn’t had the heart to tell the children, for if it proved not to be true, it would be devastating. So she had thrown herself into a frenzy of activity to help pass the time.

  With desultory strokes, she began sweeping the floor for the fourth time in an hour. But in a few moments, as inexorably as if pulled by a rope, she moved back to the window.

  Emma started slightly, then leaned forward to peer through the thin curtain. There were two men approaching, one on horseback, the other walking beside him. She couldn’t see the one on foot, because he was half-hidden behind the horse. The man on the horse was shabbily dressed, wore a beard, and slouched down as though he had had too much to drink. She felt a quick stab of discouragement and started to turn away. But at that moment the horse lowered its head, reaching out for a spear of grass along the roadside, and Emma saw that the man walking beside the horse was Dimick Huntington.

  With a quick intake of breath, she leaned forward, staring now at the man on the horse. Her hand flew to her mouth and instantly there were tears in her eyes. She dropped the curtain and turned and yelled. “Julia! Joseph! Come quickly. Bring the boys.”

  And
then she was out the door and running down the walk, her hair flying, her arms outstretched. “Joseph! Joseph! Joseph!”

  Joseph was dismounting the horse and reaching for the gate when Emma came exploding out of the house. He looked up in surprise, then dropped the horse’s reins. In two great strides he met her halfway, catching her up, whirling her around, then crushing her to him. There was a great sob of joy, a sound wrenched from the depths of his being. “Oh, Emma!” he cried. “My beloved Emma!”

  Without a word, Dimick Huntington took the reins, turned, and moved quietly away.

  “Papa?”

  Emma pulled free and turned. Julia would turn eight years of age in a week. She was one of the twins (her twin brother having died seven years back) whom Joseph and Emma had adopted when Emma’s twins died at birth. She was holding baby Alexander, born the previous summer in Far West. Julia was staring at her father, not quite sure who this tattered-looking stranger was who was hugging and kissing her mother.

  Emma laughed through her tears. “Julia, it’s your father.”

  Young Joseph came out the door, holding Frederick’s hand. He too stopped to stare. Young Joseph was six now; Freddy, as his siblings called him, would be three in June. Young Joseph recognized his father instantly. There was a cry of joy. Joseph dropped to one knee and held out his arms. His namesake left his brother standing in the doorway and ran pell-mell to leap into them.

  Now Julia believed. She came as quickly as she could, handing the baby to her mother, then fell on top of her father and brother, laughing and squealing as Joseph lost his balance and they all went tumbling.

  “Come, Frederick,” Emma said, beckoning with an encouraging smile. “It’s Papa.”

  Gingerly, very tentatively, he moved toward her. Joseph sat up, sobering. He reached up and stroked the beard. “Don’t let this fool you, son,” he said. “It really is Papa. Come on.”

  With a gentle shove from his mother, Frederick finally gave in. Emma watched through her tears as father and children were reunited. He laughed and tickled and hugged and kissed, stood them back away from him to marvel at their growth. They were jumping up and down, all speaking at once, trying to tell him of all that happened since they had last seen him.

  Finally Joseph stood, looking at the baby. He came forward slowly, young Joseph holding on to his coat, Julia on the other side, Frederick’s hand in his. Alexander saw him coming and turned to bury his face against his mother’s shoulder. “I can’t believe it,” Joseph said softly to Emma. “Can this really be my little Alex?” Alexander had been five months old when Joseph was arrested and taken prisoner. Now he was a husky toddler. “Is he walking yet?”

  Emma smiled. “Not yet, Joseph. He’s only ten months old. But watch.” She stepped back and lowered the baby to the ground, holding on to one hand to steady him. “Show Papa how strong you are, Alex.”

  His fear forgotten, the baby began moving forward, tugging against his mother’s hold. Joseph watched for a minute, tears streaming unashamedly down his cheeks. Then he reached out and swept the baby up in his arms. Alexander gave a startled howl, then began wailing, hands outstretched toward his mother in desperation. Joseph just spun him around, laughing and crying all together. “I’m back, Alex. Papa is back.”

  Except for a brief visit to see their parents—a visit, incidentally, which took place in the afternoon, thus fulfilling Mother Smith’s prophecy that she would see her sons before the sun set—Joseph and Hyrum spent the first night of their return with their own families in a sweet and joyous reunion. The next day, while word of their return spread like a fall prairie fire, the entire Smith family—Mother and Father Smith, young Lucy, Sophronia and her family, Catherine and her family, Don Carlos and his family, William and Samuel and their families, and, of course, Joseph and Hyrum and their families—gathered at the home of Father and Mother Smith. More than thirty people were there. Children were everywhere. There were four under a year. Several were still toddling. Hyrum had both the oldest in Lovina (now almost twelve and born of his first wife, Jerusha) and the youngest in Joseph Fielding (born to him and Mary the previous November while Hyrum was in jail). To an outsider, the gathering at the Smiths’ might have seemed like a cross between chaos and pandemonium, but to the family it was a time of rejoicing, the likes of which they had not seen in a long time.

  Joseph’s time alone with his family didn’t last long. By afternoon a long line of well-wishers snaked its way from the house out through the front gate and half a block down the street. Still pale and visibly weak, Joseph greeted them all. It was as though their presence rejuvenated him, and rather than tiring, he drew strength from each one. Soon he was laughing and joking with them, sweeping younger children into his arms, dropping to one knee to solemnly shake hands with some of the older ones, slapping a brother on the shoulder, taking a sister’s hands in his and sharing a joyful tear or two together. Joseph was back, and it was as if a great pall had been blown away in an instant. The Steeds were there by midafternoon, waiting their turn to greet their prophet.

  “Brother Benjamin,” Joseph said, reaching out to take Benjamin’s hand in a firm grip, “how wonderful to see you again.”

  “How wonderful to see you!”

  “How are you, old friend?” Joseph said, concern filling his eyes.

  “Good, good!” Benjamin replied. He tried to answer in a booming voice, but it came out considerably less than that. “I’m getting stronger all the time.”

  Joseph looked over Benjamin’s shoulder at Mary Ann. She nodded tentatively, but no one had to tell Joseph that it was not the old Benjamin Steed standing before him.

  Joseph’s voice was suddenly husky. “We nearly lost you in that jail down in Richmond.”

  “If it hadn’t been for that blessing you gave me,” Benjamin said gravely, “I wouldn’t be here today.”

  “I was only the Lord’s mouthpiece,” Joseph smiled. “It was the Lord’s blessing.” He let go of Benjamin’s hand and moved to Mary Ann. “Dear Mary Ann, how good to see your face again.”

  Tears instantly sprang to her eyes as she took his hand. “Oh, Joseph, we can’t believe you’re finally free. We’ve prayed for so long . . .” She couldn’t finish.

  He gathered her into his arms. “I felt those prayers. I felt all of the prayers of the Saints for us. Well, obviously, the Lord heard those prayers. Without him, we would not have made it.”

  Now he turned to the others. “Lydia, how are you? Where is Nathan?”

  She took his proffered hand. “He went with Brother Brigham and the Twelve back to Far West.”

  “Of course,” he exclaimed. “How like Nathan.” He saw the quick shadow of fear in her eyes. “Do not despair,” he said. “They will be all right. The Lord is pleased with what Brigham is doing, and he will watch over them.”

  The relief washed across her face. “Thank you, Joseph.”

  The Prophet turned slowly to face Jessica. He stepped forward, putting his arm around her shoulder. “I heard about Brother John, Sister Griffith. What a loss for you, and what a loss for us. He was a good man.”

  Jessica could only nod.

  “I saw Amanda Smith earlier and learned of the marvelous things that you and she went through together. How is your hand?”

  She held it up. On the palm was a near-perfect circle of purple scar tissue. “It’s fine now, thank you. The ball went through cleanly and didn’t do too much damage.”

  His head bobbed slowly, acknowledging all that her simple statement entailed. “The Lord has not forgotten you, Sister Jessica.” She looked up at him, in surprise. “The Lord is well aware of your sacrifice and your faithfulness. And he has not forgotten you.”

  He greeted Rebecca and inquired about the coming birth. He asked about Derek and Peter. He turned back to Mary Ann when he learned that Matthew had gone west to help bring the rest of the Saints out of Missouri and gave her calm reassurances about her son’s safety. He greeted the children one by one, calling each by name
and inquiring after their welfare. He asked about Joshua and Caroline. Benjamin watched it all and marveled. It was as though there weren’t another person around or another demand on his time. This was Joseph. No wonder they loved him. Not only was he the Lord’s anointed, but this was a man of tremendous personal warmth and great charm. And the power of it lay in the fact that he cared. There was never any question about that. Joseph cared.

  “I’d say it’s gusting to seven or eight, Cap’n.” The first mate of the Bostonia was yelling into his captain’s ear to make himself heard.

  The captain of the packet ship looked upward, hunching his back against the droplets of salt water whipping in almost horizontally against his oilers. Had it been in their faces, it would have stung like pebble-size hail. The sails were as taut as the skin on a pig and strained to their limits. The wind sounded like a woman in travail as it howled across the spars and through the rigging. “Maybe even a nine or ten,” he grunted.

  “Shall we prepare to strike the sails?”

  “Not yet. Let her run, as long as it doesn’t get any worse.”

  The mate gripped the huge spoked wheel that controlled the rudder of the ship. The ship was just cresting a wave. It poised there for a moment, the bow pointing upward, ten feet of keel exposed to the open air. Then it plunged precipitously downward. It shuddered from stem to stern as the prow caught the next wave and dug in deep enough that for a moment it looked as though the whole ship would be buried in the boiling seas. But then the nose lifted, water cascaded across the decks, and she was running up the next massive swell.

  In 1805, Sir Francis Beaufort, rear admiral in the British navy, had developed the “Beaufort scale.” Ranging from zero to seventeen, the numbers were used to define the effects of various winds on a sailing vessel. Zero meant a perfect calm. The smoke from cooking fires rose vertically in that condition. Two indicated a wind defined as “that in which a well-conditioned man-of-war, with all sail set, and clean full, would go in smooth water from one to two knots.” Wind labeled with the number twelve meant a gale “which no canvas can withstand.” Twelve to seventeen were all hurricane-force winds.