Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Sister Smith,” the man called, his voice thin with desperation. “Please!”

  “I’m coming.” It came out with a touch of sharpness. Then she looked back to Lydia. “I’m sorry, Lydia. Others have asked too, but Joseph can’t even rise from his bed.”

  Lydia finally looked up at Emma, the pain etching deep lines into her face. “Would you ask him if he could at least pray for us? Would you ask him to pray for my babies?”

  Emma nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. He can do that.” She looked around, gave a long sigh of total weariness, then turned and followed the man through the sea of bodies that filled the yard around them.

  The fever broke shortly before eleven p.m.

  It was as though he had been walking in those clouds of heavy black smoke that belch from the great cotton mills of New England. Now suddenly he was in the clear and the darkness was gone. He inhaled deeply, drawing in air slowly, savoring it as though it were the breath of life itself.

  Reaching up, he laid the back of his hand against his cheek. It was cool and dry. Marveling at the change, he let his senses explore. He could feel the wetness beneath his head where his sweat had drenched his pillow. His nightshirt was equally wet, and he could feel the scars on his back pressing against it. Beside him, he could hear Lydia’s soft breathing, though she was turned away from him and faced the wall.

  Moving very slowly, so as not to wake his wife, Nathan slipped out of bed, and stood up. He could feel that his body was weak and in need of food and water, but there was no dizziness, no waves of nausea, no blurred vision that made him feel like he was going to pass out again. His spirit soared in exultation. This was not just another brief respite, which was so typical of the ague. It had passed! He could sense that throughout his body. The fever was passed.

  He padded silently over to where a bucket of water sat beside the small cupboard that held their few dishes. Careful not to bump anything, he took the cup beside the pail, dipped it in the water, and drank from it deeply. The water was lukewarm and stale, but he didn’t care. He filled the cup again and drained it. He could feel his body welcoming the liquid, as a dry patch of ground welcomes a stream turned onto it.

  Satisfied, he turned and moved into the smaller room on one end of the cabin. Through the feverish haze that was his memory of the past few days, he remembered the baby’s piteous crying, little Nathan’s moaning, Lydia and Jessica bathing the small body, trying to stem the raging fever as little Nathan writhed back and forth in pain.

  He moved to the small bed where his son lay, and listened. The breathing was labored and intermittent. Twice it stopped and Nathan held his own breath for what seemed like minutes until it started again. The boy half turned in his bed and there was a soft whimper of pain. Nathan reached out his hand and gently laid it on his son’s forehead. He jerked back in shock. It was as if he had touched the bottom of a hot frying pan.

  Deeply alarmed now, Nathan went back out to the pail of water. Feeling in the darkness, he found a rag, then poured a cup of water on it. As he was wringing it out, he heard Lydia stir behind him. He turned.

  “Nathan?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  She sat up. “What are you . . . Are you all right?”

  He moved toward her. “Yes. It’s left me. I feel fine.”

  “Thank the Lord,” she breathed.

  She reached out for him, but he only touched her hand briefly. “Little Nathan is burning up again. I’ve got a wet cloth.”

  In an instant she was out of bed. She walked swiftly to the fireplace, took down the candle, and knelt down on the hearth. The small bed of coals they used to cook still smoldered dully. Leaning over, she blew softly on the coals as she held the wick of the candle to them. It began to smoke, then burst into flame.

  When she came into the room, Nathan was kneeling beside his son’s bed, gently touching the cloth to his forehead. The boy’s eyes opened and for a moment he looked up into his father’s face, not comprehending what he saw. Then a fleeting smile touched the corners of his mouth and one hand feebly lifted to touch his father’s arm.

  Lydia put the candle in a pewter holder and set it on the floor behind them. She knelt beside Nathan and reached out for her son. The eyes fluttered open again as she touched his cheek. “I hurt, Mama,” he whispered. “I hurt.”

  Tears were trickling down her cheeks as she took his hand. “I know, darling. I know.” His eyes slowly shut again, the effort of keeping them open too much for him.

  She looked at Nathan, stricken. “This is the worst he’s been,” she said. “What are we going to do?”

  Nathan shook his head. Both of their heads jerked around as little Nathan’s breathing suddenly stopped. His chest was fully expanded, his back arched slightly. They stared at him in horror; then after a moment, the breath went out of him in a long sigh. There was another heart-wrenching delay; then finally, his chest lifted and he started breathing again.

  “Go get your father,” Lydia said, rocking back on her heels. “I want you to administer to him.”

  Malaria came and went in cycles varying from one to four days. It had three distinct stages in each cycle—the teeth-chattering chills which lasted from ten to thirty minutes a bout; the extremely high fevers, some as high as 105 degrees, which brought accelerated pulse, shallow breathing, and then severe headaches, vomiting, and diarrhea; and finally the drenching sweat when the fever broke.

  Fortunately, Benjamin Steed had finished a cycle earlier that day. He looked terrible—his hair was disheveled, his chin was stubbled with gray whiskers, his eyes were dull, his energy was drained—but he was at least functioning again. Mary Ann had started in with the chills as she was preparing for bed a few hours before. Now she was fully into the second stage of fever. When Nathan woke them up and told them about little Nathan, Mary Ann tried to get up and come with them, but Benjamin absolutely forbade it. She sank back on the bed, too ravaged to carry through with her wish.

  In the New Testament, the Apostle James instructed the early Church in this manner: “Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord.”

  Benjamin led out, putting one drop of the olive oil from Nathan’s bottle on top of little Nathan’s head. He handed the bottle to Nathan, then laid his hands on his grandson. “Nathan Joseph Steed,” be began softly, “as an elder in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I put this holy oil upon you, oil that has been consecrated by the power of the Melchizedek Priesthood for the purpose of healing the sick and administering to their needs. And this I do to the end that you may receive a blessing by the power of the priesthood, and in the name of our Savior and Redeemer, Jesus Christ, amen.”

  He lifted his hands, and Nathan leaned forward now. He placed both hands on little Nathan’s head, and Benjamin then laid his hands back on top of Nathan’s hands. For several moments, Nathan knelt there, looking inward, searching his soul for faith, silently pleading with the Lord that he might speak His will.

  Then he began. “Nathan Joseph Steed, as your father and grandfather, we lay our hands upon your head and by the power of the priesthood which we hold, we seal upon you this anointing.” He paused, taking a quick breath. “Nathan, we bless you now by the power of this priesthood. We bless your little body that is racked with sickness and pain. We pray for the Lord to look down upon you and have mercy and to heal you if it be his will. We bless you that this fever which torments you may be lifted and taken from you. You are a great treasure . . .”

  He had to stop and swallow hard. “You are a great treasure,” he went on more slowly now, his voice husky, “to your parents and to your grandparents. You have brought joy into our lives with your sweet and gentle spirit, and we thank our God that he has sent you to our home.”

  Lydia could not hold it in and began weeping.

  And then suddenly, Nathan’s prayer of administration became something else. “O Lord,” he continued,
his voice low and filled with pleading, “we know of thy great wisdom. We trust in thy great love. We know that thou hast watched over and blessed us richly with thy blessings.” He had to stop again, and now tears were coursing down his cheeks as well. “We know that this precious child is a gift from thee, that he was thine before he was ours. We see so little of thy purposes and plan, but we know that all that thou doest is for our best good. We know that thy will is what will bring us the greatest joy. So if it is thy will . . .” He stopped, not wanting to say what he was feeling, but feeling it too strongly to push it aside. “If it is thy will that this son of ours should return to thee, then . . .”

  Lydia started to sob beside him. She clenched her hands together and began to rock back and forth as the pain washed over her.

  “Then may we accept thy will, O Father, and be strengthened in our determination to live so that we may see this precious son again with thee and thy Son in the holy resurrection.” Barely above a whisper, he finished. “And this blessing we give, and this prayer we offer thee in the name of thy Beloved Son, who gave all that we might live with thee and have eternal life, amen.”

  Within ten minutes after Benjamin had returned to his bed, little Nathan’s breathing smoothed and then deepened. The soft whimpering stopped, and he fell into an undisturbed sleep. The fever did not break, but it cooled noticeably. Lydia experienced a burst of euphoria, sure that the Lord had chosen to spare their son. Nathan wanted to believe it too, wanted so desperately to have it be so. But wanting it didn’t dispel the strong feelings he experienced during the blessing of his son. His gloom quickly smothered her elation and she fell silent, moving a stool over beside little Nathan’s bed.

  Sometime after three a.m., little Nathan slipped into a coma. There was no distinct difference in his breathing, nor any other sign of the change, but Lydia knew it instantly. Without a word, she gathered him into her arms and carried him to the rocking chair out in the main room. She sat down and began to rock slowly, humming a children’s lullaby she had sung to him when he was a baby, staring across the room, seeing nothing.

  Around six-thirty, not long after the sun had risen above the eastern horizon, little Nathan opened his eyes for a moment. He looked confused and lost, but then he saw his mother. He reached up and touched her cheek with one hand, then let it fall back again. Nathan, sitting in a nearby chair, stood and moved swiftly to stand beside his wife. As he looked down, his son’s eyes closed again, and after a moment, his breathing just died away.

  Chapter Notes

  Details of the meeting in which Joseph gives the Twelve instructions, including the key about remaining faithful, can be found in the Prophet’s history (see HC 3:382–92; see also American Moses, p. 73, and MWM, pp. 59–60). The 7 July meeting in which the Twelve give their farewells to the Saints is also described in Joseph’s history (see HC 4:1–3).

  By mid-July 1839, malaria was a full-scale epidemic among the Saints. The scene around Joseph and Emma’s cabin is accurately portrayed, as is the fact that Joseph himself became very ill but would not turn others out of his house so that he would have a place to sleep (See CHFT, pp. 217–18; Women, pp. 41–42.)

  In the revelation known as “the law of the Church” (D&C 42), Joseph Smith received instructions similar to what is given in James 5:14. The Lord declared to the Prophet Joseph, “And the elders of the church, two or more, shall be called, and shall pray for and lay their hands upon them [the sick] in my name.” The modern revelation contains an important addition not found in James: “And if they die they shall die unto me.” (D&C 42:44, emphasis added.)

  Chapter Eleven

  They buried little Nathan late that same afternoon. Nathan chose the upper corner of the plot that was to become Derek and Rebecca’s farm. The land rose gently there and one could see the river and Iowa beyond. When he had asked Lydia about the site, she had only nodded numbly.

  There was no lumber for a coffin and no lining for the grave. There were no pallbearers, for, without a coffin, there was no pall, or cloth, that usually would be draped over a coffin. They wrapped the small form in a quilt, then laid him carefully in the hole Nathan and Matthew had dug earlier.

  There were only four present to witness the burial—Nathan, Matthew, Derek, and Lydia. The pestilence was everywhere now, sweeping the community like a besom of destruction. There were no others—no other family members, no neighbors, no friends, no Church leaders.

  There should have been only three. The sickness was on Lydia now too, and that, coupled with the shock of losing her son, had left her in terrible shape. With every step, her legs trembled and threatened to collapse. But there was no question about whether or not she would come. So Nathan asked Matthew to carry the body, and he steadied and half carried Lydia to the site.

  It was not a long service. While Lydia wept, Nathan gave a short prayer of dedication. Then he picked up a handful of dirt and let it trickle out of his hand and into the grave. For a long time he stared into it; then he turned and took Lydia by the elbow and turned her back toward the house. Matthew and Derek waited until Nathan and Lydia were several rods away, then slowly began shoveling the earth back into the hole whence it had come.

  “Joshua?”

  He stepped fully into the room, smiling broadly. “Hello, Mama.”

  “Joshua! How wonderful!”

  He came across the room to where she sat in the rocking chair, huddled in a quilt. He dropped to his knees in front of her and took her in his arms. “Oh, Mama,” was all he could say again, as he pulled her to him tightly.

  Matthew watched for a moment, then stepped forward. “Hello, Joshua.”

  Joshua stood, sorrow briefly darkening his face, and then they too embraced. “How’s Pa?”

  Matthew shook his head. “Not good. He’s sleeping right now.”

  “Your father is very ill,” Mary Ann said in quiet resignation. “Is Caroline with you?” she asked.

  Joshua turned and dropped down beside her again. “No, she couldn’t come.” He smiled proudly. “But we have some good news.”

  Mary Ann stared at him for a moment; then her face was wreathed in smiles. “She’s with child?”

  “Yes,” he said proudly. “A month or so after Christmas.”

  “That’s marvelous,” she said, greatly cheered by that news. “Is she all right?”

  “Yes. Olivia had the fever for a few days, but Caroline and Savannah have been fine, thank heavens.” Now he frowned. “Quincy is hit real bad with the sickness too. There have been a number of your people who have died.”

  “Here too,” Matthew said softly.

  Mary Ann’s head dropped. “We lost little Nathan.”

  Joshua leaped up. “No!” he cried.

  She nodded, swallowing hard. “Day before yesterday.”

  “How awful. How’s Lydia?”

  Mary Ann just shook her head.

  Joshua’s mouth twisted even more downward as he turned to Matthew. “I’m afraid I have more bad news.”

  Matthew straightened slowly, his eyes wide.

  “I’ll go with you to see Jenny and Kathryn.”

  “Oh, no,” Mary Ann cried, one hand coming up to her mouth.

  Joshua’s head went up and down slowly. “Mrs. McIntire died four days ago.” He turned away. “We tried everything, but there was nothing we could do.”

  Only gradually was Mary Ann aware that daylight had come. Her eyes were still closed, but through her eyelids there was no longer the deep blackness. With an effort, she opened them. Without moving her head she let her eyes take in what was directly before them. She was half-turned, lying on one side, so she was facing the window. Through the curtain she saw that it was daylight, but still not very bright. It was either heavily overcast or still very early in the morning. She suspected the latter, but didn’t care enough to turn over so she could see the clock. Her body was on fire again, and it burned every ounce of energy just to lie there.

  Beside her, Benjamin groaned and stirr
ed. She turned her head toward him. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. His hands had the blanket up around his face and clutched it tightly. She reached out and laid a hand on his arm and felt the slight trembling of his body. Her heart dropped. This meant the beginning of another cycle of the illness. In a few minutes he would fall into that bone-rattling, teeth-chattering chill that drained every drop of strength from the body.

  He turned his head slightly, and forced a crooked smile. “Mornin’,” he whispered.

  She squeezed his arm and forced herself to smile back. It was a feeble effort to hide her shock. Had he fallen so far since she had last been functioning enough to notice? His chin and jaw were covered with thick gray whiskers. His cheeks were sunken. His eyes were lifeless and had difficulty in focusing. His skin was pallid, with a sickly yellow cast to it. He had turned fifty-four in May, but now he looked more like eighty-four.

  “How are you?” he croaked.

  She nodded and lied. “Better.”

  “Good.” his breathing was shallow and rapid, and even that much talking seemed to exhaust him.

  His eyes closed again, and after a moment, she decided he had gone to sleep once more. But then he spoke. “Do you remember the dream?”

  “The dream?” she asked, not sure what he meant.

  “Yes. The plain.” Getting full sentences out was difficult, and he had to gasp out words between breaths.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. That dream. She hadn’t thought of it for months now. “Yes,” she finally said.

  “Tell me.”

  She closed her eyes, letting the images flood over her again. It had been a wonderful thing, and it had come at the most desolate time in Far West. She could still remember the great joy she had felt both during the dream and afterwards. It was a feeling that lingered for many days and was a great comfort to her during those dark times.