“Yes, poor Willard. He’s had the full burden of keeping things together here. I was shocked to see Elder Taylor. It is a miracle that he is alive.”
“In more ways than one,” Nathan agreed. “Lydia saw Leonora yesterday. She invited us to have supper with them in the next week or so. She said that Elder Taylor enjoys having someone to talk to.”
“He does.” Parley turned toward the window, looking through it to the city beyond. There was a soft sigh, and then he began to speak again. “There is more to my story, Nathan.”
“Tell me,” he replied.
“Landing in Chicago I found great excitement there as well. The press had issued extras announcing the triumph of the murderous mob in killing the Smiths. Yes, that’s the word they used. Triumph. It chills the blood, doesn’t it, to think that they could rejoice in such terrible deeds.”
“The whole world seems to be rejoicing, Parley. Except for here. It has been almost two weeks now, and here there is still only sorrow.”
“Yes. I knew that would be the case. And that brings me to the rest of my story. Leaving Chicago, I now hastened on to Peoria, and, staying overnight, I started the next day on foot across the country. During the two or three days I spent traveling between Chicago and Peoria, I felt so weighed down with sorrow and the powers of darkness that it was painful for me to converse or speak to anyone or even to try to eat or sleep. I really felt that if it had been my own family who had died and our beloved prophet been spared alive, I could have borne it, and the blow would have fallen on me with far less weight. For fourteen years I had loved Joseph with a warmth of affection indescribable. I had associated with him in private and in public, in travels and at home, in joy and sorrow, in honor and dishonor, in adversity of every kind. With him I had lain in dungeons and in chains; and with him I had triumphed over all our foes in Missouri and found deliverance for ourselves and people in Nauvoo, where we had reared this great city. But now he was gone, gone to the invisible world, and we and the Church of the Saints were left to mourn in sorrow and without the presence of our beloved founder and prophet.
“As I walked along over the plains of Illinois, lonely and solitary, my thoughts were somewhat as follows: ‘I am now drawing near to the beloved city; in a day or two I shall be there. How shall I meet the sorrowing widows and orphans? How shall I meet the aged and widowed mother of these two martyrs? How shall I meet an entire community bowed down with grief and sorrow unutterable? What shall I say? How can I console and advise twenty-five thousand people who will throng about me in tears and, in the absence of the President of my quorum and the older members of the now presiding council, will ask counsel at my hands? Shall I tell them to fly to the wilderness and deserts? Or, shall I tell them to stay at home and take care of themselves, and continue to build the temple?’ With these reflections, I walked onward, weighed down as it were unto death.”
Nathan wanted to say something, to express in words the sorrow and numbing shock which had come over him, but he did not. He did not want to break into Parley’s reverie, for that was what it was. He seemed barely conscious of Nathan’s presence now.
The pain laced his face, deepening the lines, drawing the mouth tight. “When I could endure it no longer, I cried out aloud, saying: ‘O Lord! in the name of Jesus Christ I pray thee, show me what these things mean, and what I shall say to thy people.’”
Finally he turned his head to look directly at Nathan. “And then it happened. On a sudden, the Spirit of God came upon me and filled my heart with joy and gladness indescribable. The spirit of revelation glowed in my bosom with as visible a warmth and gladness as if it were fire. The Spirit whispered unto me: ‘Lift up your head and rejoice, for behold, it is well with my servants Joseph and Hyrum. My servant Joseph still holds the keys of my kingdom in this dispensation, and he shall stand in due time on the earth, in the flesh, and fulfill that to which he is appointed.’”
Without being aware that he had moved at all, Nathan had leaned forward, as though by his being closer the words could reach him more quickly.
“‘Go!’ whispered the Spirit, ‘go and say unto my people in Nauvoo that they shall continue to pursue their daily duties and take care of themselves. They are to make no movement in Church government to reorganize or alter anything until the return of the remainder of the Quorum of the Twelve. But exhort them that they continue to build the house of the Lord which I have commanded them to build in Nauvoo.’”
He stopped. There wasn’t a sound in the room. Even outside, the world seemed withdrawn beyond the reach of anything that might disturb this moment. Finally, Nathan released his breath, feeling the tension go with it. “That is what the Saints need to hear, Parley,” he said softly. “That is exactly what they need to hear.”
“Yes,” Parley said, smiling now for the first time. “You can imagine what I felt when this happened. This information caused my bosom to burn with joy and gladness, and I was comforted above measure. All my sorrow seemed in a moment to be lifted as a burden from my back.”
“It is wonderful counsel.”
“I know. Then I must confess, I began to doubt again. The change in me was so sudden, I hardly dared to believe my senses. One minute there had been this terrible despair and hopelessness, the next indescribable joy. I began to wonder if it were really from the Lord. Therefore, I prayed the Lord to repeat to me the same things the second time so that, indeed, if it was of him and the truth, I might be sure of it so that I might really tell the Saints to stay in Nauvoo and continue to build the temple.
“And as I prayed thus, the same spirit burned in my bosom again, and the Spirit of the Lord repeated to me the same message once more, exactly the same all over again. I then went on my way rejoicing, arriving late yesterday afternoon.”
“You must tell the people,” Nathan exclaimed. “We need to hear what the Lord’s will is for us now. There is much confusion, much speculation.”
“I shall, Nathan. Brother Taylor and Brother Richards said exactly the same thing.”
“Tell me when and where and the Steeds shall be present.”
The round face softened into a sad smile. “I just learned this morning of Joshua’s tragedy. I am very sorry, Nathan.”
“Yes, it has been a difficult thing. But it has brought Joshua and Caroline back to us, at least for a time.” Then he brightened. “You shall come and have supper with us tonight. Bring your family. We would be honored.”
Parley reached across and clapped a hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “No, it is we who shall be honored.”
Chapter Notes
Parley P. Pratt’s account of his experience at the time of the Martyrdom and on his return to Nauvoo is told here almost word for word as he wrote it in his history (see Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, ed. Parley P. Pratt, Jr., Classics in Mormon Literature [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1985], pp. 292–94).
Chapter 4
When Melissa Rogers opened the door to Carl’s office, he looked up in surprise, then stood up immediately. “Melissa, what are you doing outside on a day like this?”
“Hello, Carl.”
He quickly went to her and helped her across the room to the chair in front of his desk. He helped her sit down, holding her arm carefully. With the baby only a week or two away now, she moved awkwardly, heavily, like an old woman with lumbago. As she got seated, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Gratefully she took it and wiped at her face and neck, wishing she could somehow get at the trickles of sweat going down her back.
“It’s much too hot for you to be out walking, Melissa,” he said, his voice half-anxious, half-chiding. And then he peered more closely at her face. “What’s wrong? Is it one of the children. Or Mother?”
She shook her head quickly. And then, not trusting her voice, she opened her handbag and withdrew the folded newspaper and handed it to him.
Puzzled, he glanced at it, then back to her. “What?”
“Look at the front page.”
Even as he started to unfold the newspaper he saw from the masthead that it was not their local weekly but one of the Cleveland papers. He also noted that it had yesterday’s date—July 10, 1844. Then, as he opened it up fully, there was an involuntary gasp. The headline ran across the full width of the paper.
MORMON PROPHET SLAIN IN ILLINOIS.
He read swiftly, glancing up from time to time at Melissa. When he was through, he lowered the paper, folded it back up again, then walked over beside her. He let the paper slip from his fingers, then knelt down and took her into his arms. She turned her head to him and wept silently against his shoulder.
“You want to go home again, don’t you?”
It was past nine o’clock, and the children were all asleep. They sat in the kitchen of Carl’s mother’s house, where they had stayed since returning to Kirtland in March. Marian Rogers had watched them quietly during supper, saying nothing, her eyes saying everything. It was very much like her that she had gone upstairs to read, leaving them alone to sort this out.
As Melissa watched Carl now, she could see the gentleness of his mother in his features, along with the hardheaded practicality of his father. Finally, a shadow of a smile touched her mouth. “Do you realize what you just asked me?” she queried.
“I asked you if you want to go—” He stopped. Then, softly, he finished his sentence. “Home.”
She didn’t push him further on it. “I can’t imagine what it must be like,” she murmured. “Joseph and Hyrum gone. I can hardly make myself believe it.”
“I know. Your family must be in a state of terrible shock.”
There were sudden tears. “I was thinking back as I came to see you today. Joseph and Hyrum came to our farm to help clear the land. I was just sixteen. One night we all went out to the barn. Joseph and Nathan pulled sticks.” She reached up and brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Joseph was much more than just the Prophet to us.”
“I know.”
“What will happen now?” It was as much a plea as a question.
He considered that, and finally just shook his head.
For a long time they sat there. The only sound in the house was the steady ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Finally, he reached out and took her hand. “I’ve been a little concerned about the brickyards.”
Her eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing.
“We couldn’t leave until the baby is born.”
Now she squeezed his hand back. “Carl, I won’t ask you to take me back. If you feel like we should stay here, I’ll not be saying anything more.”
“I know.” He was looking past her now, and though his face showed nothing, she knew he was thinking about his mother. The other Rogers sons were here in Kirtland with their children. She wouldn’t be alone. But Carl—or Carlton, as she always called him—was Marian Rogers’s favorite son. She tried to hide that, but they all knew it. Their return to Kirtland had meant a great deal to her. Having all of her grandchildren with her also meant a great deal to her.
“I’m not saying we’d stay there, Melissa.”
“I understand.”
“On the other hand, I’ve felt pretty useless here. Except for Mother, of course.” There was an ironic smile. “I’m not sure they need another brickyard here in Kirtland.”
“Probably not.” It was a wonderful understatement. The Kirtland they knew from years past—bustling, growing rapidly with the torrent of Latter-day Saints pouring in—was no more. It was a quiet town again of two or three thousand. It was certainly not dying, but another brickyard? Hardly. She knew Carl had been somewhat frustrated since their return. He was just an added hand at the livery stable. David and William, his two younger brothers, had done a good job with the family business and it was growing, but it didn’t need another family to support. And running the most prosperous brickyards in Nauvoo had been exhilarating as well as highly profitable for him.
He pulled his hand away and leaned back, his face thoughtful. “I’ll go up and tell Mother. She knows that’s what we’re talking about.”
“Are you sure, Carl? Really sure?”
“Are you?”
She looked at him for several seconds and then her eyes dropped. “Yes.”
“And what about the plural marriage thing?”
She didn’t look up. “I’m not going back for the Church, Carl. I’m going back for the family.”
That seemed to satisfy him, and he stood up. He turned and looked toward the hall where the stairs began. There was a soft sigh; then his shoulders squared and he moved toward the doorway.
“Thank you, Carl,” she said softly.
He turned back and smiled at her. “Are you sure that it’s not me who should be thanking you?”
Her chin lifted and there was a sudden happiness in her eyes. She was remembering a spring day in 1831. She was on the banks of the Chagrin River, just behind the Newel K. Whitney store, when a redheaded young man had introduced himself to her and offered to carry her groceries home in his cart. “If it weren’t for Joseph Smith, I would never have come to Kirtland,” she murmured.
His smile was immediate and filled with the same memories. “Yes, we do owe him that, don’t we?”
“And more,” she said sadly.
“Yes, and more,” he agreed. He then turned and went through the doorway, and she heard his steps going slowly up the stairs.
“I’ll get it.” Will rose from the table and went into the hallway. Through the glass of the front door he could make out two dark shapes, one tall and broad, the other smaller and more slender. Above him, he heard the floor creak, and knew that his mother was moving toward the head of the stairs where she could listen to find out who it was.
He opened the door. There was no lamp lit in the hallway and the light from the sitting room was faint. For a moment he didn’t recognize the two figures standing in the darkness. Then, as their faces registered, his mouth opened in stunned amazement. “Mr. Samuelson!”
“Hello, Will,” Walter Samuelson said gravely.
“Hello, Mr. Will Steed,” Alice said, clearly amused at the expression on his face.
“Alice? Hello. What are you—” Then he remembered his manners. He stepped back, opening the door wider. “Won’t you come in?”
They came through the door and stopped. “Is your father in?” Samuelson said.
But before Will could answer, there was the sound of hobbling footsteps coming down the stairs, and then Caroline was there in the hall behind them. “Walter? Is that really you?”
“Hello, Caroline.” He moved to her and took both of her hands. “We came the moment we heard the news. I’m so sorry, Caroline.”
Alice was nodding, looking at Will. “Yes, we only learned of Olivia’s accident a week or ten days ago. Papa wanted to come immediately. I insisted on coming with him.”
“Thank you,” said Will. “It’s good to see you again.”
Caroline came awkwardly forward and took Alice’s hands. “How kind of you to come, Alice.”
From behind her, Samuelson spoke. “As you know, Judith has been in poor health for some time now. She wanted to come as well, but . . .”
“We understand. You convey our best wishes to her. Your coming all the way from St. Louis is more than was required.” She turned to Will. “Go fetch your father while the Samuelsons freshen up a little.” Back to Samuelson. “Do you have luggage?”
Alice answered for her father. “We left it with a man at the steamer dock. He directed us how to find your house.”
Will didn’t wait for the command from his mother. “Father and I will pick it up and bring it here.”
He touched Alice’s arm. “It really is good to see you again, Alice. Perhaps tomorrow I can show you around Nauvoo.”
“I would like that,” she said warmly. “I’ve heard so much about it.”
He bowed slightly, then moved around her and went out the door.
“So,” Joshua began, once h
e and Walter Samuelson were comfortably seated in his office. “How bad is the flood damage?”
“Not terrible. We’ll have to do some repairs on the warehouses.” He shook his head. “The high-water mark was eight feet above flood level.”
Joshua blew out his breath in a soft whistle. “Eight feet! We got some flooding here, but not anything like that.”
“Fortunately, we had plenty of warning. I moved all of the cotton to some sheds up on the hill. We lost maybe a ton or so of wheat that we couldn’t get out in time, but all in all, it wasn’t bad.”
“Thank you for taking care of things. I wanted to come but . . .”
Samuelson waved it away. “Your place was here with Caroline.” He paused a moment, then asked, “Can I be honest with you, Joshua?”
They were sitting in Joshua’s office at the freight yard east of town. Samuelson had suggested they go for a walk after breakfast, and sensing that there was more on Samuelson’s mind than just offering condolences for Livvy’s death, Joshua had brought him here, where they could speak privately without interruption.
Joshua’s sharp look brought a quick grunt of apology from his business partner. “Of course I can be honest with you. We’ve always been honest with each other.”
“That’s why this partnership has lasted as long as it has, Walter. And I didn’t think you had come all this way just to report on the flood damage.”
The businessman from St. Louis reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out two cigars. He started to offer one to Joshua, then remembered. “That’s right,” he said. “I keep forgetting you’ve quit these things.”
Joshua pulled a face. “It’s done wonders for my marriage.”
As he put one of the cigars back in his pocket, Samuelson’s mouth twisted into a rueful expression. “Judith keeps reminding me that it would do the same in my house should I ever decide to quit,” he said. And then, as though in direct defiance of his wife’s wishes, he pulled a small penknife out of his vest pocket and carefully cut one end off the cigar. He took out a match. Suddenly his hand froze in midair. He looked around guiltily. “I’m not going to get arrested or something for smoking in Nauvoo, am I?”
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