Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  There was already a crowd, as though they had come for a parade. But there were no bands, no marching soldiers, no clowns to run up and down and amuse the children. Except for the creak of the wagons and the soft plopping of oxen hooves on the frozen ground, and now and then a muted cry of farewell, there were hardly any sounds at all. Those in the wagons waved a limp hand from time to time when they saw someone they knew. Those lining the road watched mutely, knowing that this day signaled the finality of what was coming for each of them.

  “Who is it?” Joshua finally asked Nathan quietly. “Who leads out?”

  “Charles Shumway and his company.”

  Joshua didn’t know him and said no more.

  “How far will they go today, Papa?” Emily asked in a subdued voice.

  “The first camp is at a place called Sugar Creek. It’s about nine miles west of here.”

  “Is your departure date set for sure?” Melissa asked her father.

  Benjamin nodded once. “Yes. We leave on the ninth. Five more days.”

  The family fell silent again. When the last of the nearly two dozen wagons passed and the sound died away, the people silently turned and started back towards their homes. A heavy gloom seemed to settle over the city. It was February fourth, 1846. The exodus of the Camp of Israel had officially begun.

  Wednesday, February 4th, 1846

  As I write these lines with pen and ink by candlelight, I, Alice Samuelson Steed, sit alone in a tiny cabin down in what is called the “passenger deck” of the sailing ship “Brooklyn.” I am alone because all the rest of our company, two hundred thirty-eight Saints—seventy men, sixty-eight women, and one hundred children—are up top lining the rails and saying farewell to the United States of America. For a time I was with them, standing beside my beloved Will, but as I saw the white mounds of Staten Island and the bristling guns of Fort Lafayette pass slowly by, and knew that I was leaving my country behind, I could not bear the sight any longer. Who knows what this beginning day portends? Shall we land in six months’ time in Upper California or shall we perish in the sea? I feel that the Lord will watch over us, but it is a long and perilous voyage, and one cannot say with any certainty what the future holds.

  I have decided to keep a daily journal of our experience. Perhaps someday I shall send it to my parents. I have written them every single week since our departure from St. Louis. There has been no response. So whether they read it or not, I shall write it as though I write to them.

  We leave New York City about a fortnight behind schedule. The outfitting of the ship and the task of changing her from a merchant ship to a passenger packet took more time than at first was proposed. Sadly, the refitting has left conditions quite uncomfortable. Our quarters are terribly cramped, the floor of the deck above being no more than four feet above the floor of the deck below. We cannot so much as stand up straight, and have to scuttle about like crabs whenever we are down here.

  I must say a word or two about Elder Samuel Brannan, who is the “first elder”—his choice of titles—for our company. I shall keep this journal secreted away, as I wish no one except for Will to read it. Elder B. is not yet twenty-seven years old, which makes him young to lead such an enterprise as this. He is only five years older than Will. He is dashingly handsome and dresses like a dandy. Always his clothes are meticulously cut and cared for. His hair is black; his eyes are dark and flash with enormous energy. When he speaks he tends to roar like an orator and can be very compelling, though I find him somewhat pompous and arrogant. He definitely holds an exalted opinion of himself.

  However, I must also admit that he does have some remarkable leadership qualities. He is strongly faithful in believing we carry out the will of the Lord. Will says he is shrewd and quite beyond other men in managing detail and arranging things. He has the vision of a man possessed and the courage to carry it out. While others might have worried only about foodstuffs and other essentials needed on our journey, he has planned for the time when we arrive in California. In addition to the five-ton printing press we carry in the hold below us, he has collected enough agricultural and mechanical implements for a company about three times the size of ours. There are scythes, plows, hoes, forks, shovels, nails, glass, blacksmith’s tools, carpenter’s tools, millwright’s and cooper’s tools. We have seeds of numerous kinds, enough to plant our first crops when we arrive. He has brought books and slates enough to start a large school and food sufficient to keep us healthy for a year. We have two milk cows on board along with forty pigs. There are also crates of chickens and ducks to provide us eggs on the journey and a start of fowls in our new home.

  Will is at times greatly concerned about Elder B.’s judgment, however. Elder B. can be brash and quite unreasonable, especially if he feels he is right. The refitting of the ship and the stocking of it took about $16,000. Somehow he managed to raise this staggering sum. Will learned just a few days ago that while he was in Washington, Elder B. made a deal with Amos Kendall there. Kendall is the former postmaster general of the United States. Elder B. agreed to sign a contract—in the name of the Church, mind you—with Kendall and his agent. The contract states that once we get wherever we are going, every evennumbered unit of land or town building lot acquired by the Mormons will be deeded over to them.

  We’ve only been married a short time, but this was the first I had seen Will truly angry. It was frightening in a way, but also I loved him all the more when I saw how indignant he was. He told Elder B. that he had no right to bind the Church to such an outrageous contract. Elder B. just pushed it aside, claiming that it was the only way to get Kendall to use his influence in our behalf. Kendall claims to have the president of the United States as a silent partner in this contract, and, according to Elder Brannan, if we had not signed, the president would stop the Mormons from leaving Illinois. Will does not believe that, but Elder B. airily dismisses any objections.

  Enough about Elder B. Things shall be fine. He is good to the people and has inspired us all to undertake this “grand adventure,” as he calls it, in the name of the Lord. And the people are wonderful. Most are from New England, but some are from the southern Atlantic coast states as well. There has been some murmuring—especially when people saw the conditions under which we must live for the next six months—but all in all our spirits are high.

  Will has astonished me and many others in another way. He has come alive with the thoughts of being at sea again. In some ways he is like a young boy. He amazed the sailors as he scrambled up the rigging like a squirrel and helped them secure the sails. He is—

  I must close now. Will is calling down and saying that we are passing Sandy Hook, the last spit of land before we head into the Atlantic Ocean. He wants me to come and be with him and bid farewell to our beloved country.

  James Frazier Reed was an aristocrat, not only by bearing, which was plain for anyone to see, but also by blood, if there was any truth to the tales told about him. When Peter casually asked about him at the office of the Sangamo Journal, where Peter now served as copy editor and typesetter, he quickly got an earful. The Reeds were wealthy, Mr. Reed having prospered greatly as a merchant, railroad contractor, and furniture manufacturer. Though he had been born in the north of Ireland, they said he descended from Polish nobility and that the family name had originally been Reedowsky. He had come to America as a boy, and when he was in his twenties he had moved to Illinois. He served in the Black Hawk War with another of Sangamon County’s more well-known citizens, the lanky and affable lawyer and state legislator Abraham Lincoln.

  There were two primary reasons James Reed was talking about joining the Donner brothers and going to California, according to the town gossip. First, the whole of the Mississippi Valley was undergoing economic hard times and his business ventures had faltered somewhat. Second, his wife was in ill health (a semi-invalid, some said) and he hoped that California’s wondrous climate—“even in December and January vegetation is in full bloom,” the accounts claimed, “and Decem
ber there is as pleasant as May here”—might improve her health.

  The semi-invalid part worried Peter a great deal. If that was true, having another person along who was limited in physical capacity might be seen as too much of a burden to deal with. On the other hand, perhaps someone who had physical challenges of her own might be more inclined to show understanding and favor toward Kathryn.

  Peter had been tempted to try and get an interview with Mr. Reed alone, to see how he would respond to the idea of a tutor before introducing him to Kathryn. But that seemed underhanded to Peter, and, more important, it made him feel like he was being disloyal to Kathryn. So they came together.

  As they approached the gate of the Reeds’ home, a finely built two-story brick Georgian, Peter let the wheelchair roll to a stop. The yard was fenced with wrought iron and had what in the spring must have been spectacular flower gardens.

  “I will walk from here, Peter.”

  “Kathryn, I—”

  “I won’t try and hide the wheelchair from them, Peter. But I will not have you wheel me up to the door.”

  He nodded, knowing that her showing that she could get around quite well on her crutches would likely work in their favor. He untied the crutches from the back of the chair, braced his foot against the wheel, and helped her up. She got herself firmly planted, gave him a brave smile, then bowed her head and closed her eyes for just a moment. He saw her lips move slightly and heard a soft murmur. Then she looked up. “All right. I’m ready.”

  “Oh dear!” Margret Reed said softly as Kathryn and Peter entered the sumptuously furnished parlor. James Reed was frowning deeply and trying not to stare at Kathryn.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Reed,” said the woman servant who had answered the door, “may I present Mr. Peter Ingalls and his wife.”

  Reed stood swiftly, his face smooth again, and came across the room to shake Peter’s hand. “How do you do?”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Reed,” Peter said in his best voice. “Thank you for agreeing to see us. May I present my wife, Mrs. Kathryn Ingalls.”

  Kathryn shifted her weight easily and held out her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Reed. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Peter turned and looked at her in surprise. Her Irish accent had become suddenly distinct and pronounced.

  Mr. Reed’s eyebrows went up sharply. “Are you Irish?” he said, letting his own brogue roll out.

  Kathryn looked totally surprised. “Why, yes. And you also?”

  “I am.” He was smiling now. “From what part?”

  “South of Dublin, a small place called Kilkenny.”

  “Aye,” he said, enjoying himself now, “I’ve not been there. We were from the north, up near Londonderry, but I came to America as a boy.”

  “I too came when I was a child. My father had died, and my mother brought my older sister and me across and we settled on a homestead in western Missouri.”

  Turning to Peter, Reed inclined his head. “And did I hear a touch of English accent with you, Mr. Ingalls?”

  “Yes, sir. I was born and raised in Preston, just north of Liverpool.”

  Reed stepped back, considerably more cordial now than he had been when he first came across the room. “Please come in and sit down.”

  Kathryn sat down smoothly, without hesitation, and laid the crutches down beside her chair. She seemed perfectly calm and composed. Peter fought not to stare at her in amazement as he sat beside her.

  As Mr. Reed sat down again, he turned his head toward his wife. “Since this involves finding a tutor for our children, I’ve asked Margret to be present. She will be asking many of the questions.”

  “We very much appreciate your willingness to consider us,” Kathryn said with her prettiest smile.

  James Reed was in his mid-forties and was a handsome man with neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Margret Reed looked like she might be about ten years younger than him. She was a pleasant-looking woman with long dark hair, parted in the center and plaited into long circular braids on both sides of her head. She half reclined on the sofa, and her feet and legs were covered with a blanket. Though she appeared somewhat frail, her color was good and her eyes clear. Peter decided that the “semi-invalid” description was an exaggeration.

  “Well,” Reed began after a moment, “how did you come to hear about our little expedition? We haven’t posted the advertisement at the paper yet.”

  “A friend of ours had heard about the study meetings you and the Donners were holding, and mentioned to me that you might be looking for help as you go west. Then I was given a copy of the advertisement you plan to post with the paper next month.”

  “Ah. Well, we do plan to find eight or ten young men who can go with us. But you come not as a ‘bull-whacker,’ which is our primary need, but as a schoolteacher?”

  “Not only me, but my wife as well. We have both taught school. I currently work at the Sangamo Journal as copy editor and typesetter.”

  “Can you drive a team?”

  Peter had fully expected that one and didn’t hesitate. “It would be an exaggeration to say that I have a lot of experience in this area, Mr. Reed, for I have not. However, in anticipation of this possible employment, I have been availing myself of the opportunity to learn down at the Mueller livery stables.”

  There was a surprised look, then a touch of amusement. “And what have you learned so far?”

  “That horses are the most expensive way to pull a wagon, selling at one hundred fifty to two hundred dollars per head for a good workhorse. They are the fastest but also the weakest of draft animals. They need costly grain, they are prone to get distemper from bad water, and they are most likely to be stolen by Indians. A mule runs about fifty to ninety dollars per head. They too are fast, but are given to mayhem, especially at river crossings. They tolerate alkaline water the best of the three choices, but are likely to bolt for home if not watched carefully. They have one other advantage. If a wagon breaks down they can be used as a pack animal.”

  He smiled fleetingly at Kathryn, who was now staring at him with wide eyes. “Oxen, which are favored by about sixty to seventy percent of all emigrants, cost only fifty to sixty-five dollars per yoke. They are stronger and have great endurance but are considerably slower than either horses or mules. They do very well on prairie grass but have low tolerance for alkaline water. If things get desperate, they can be eaten, but I am told that they are the most difficult to shoe. I don’t know if Mr. Mueller was trying to pull my leg, but he claims that you even have to turn them upside down to do it.”

  Mr. Reed was nodding as Peter finished. “That’s exactly right. Shoeing oxen is not a job for the fainthearted.”

  “I also have learned from my own personal experience that a soft voice is the best ox goad.”

  “Well,” Reed said, obviously impressed. “Are you that thorough with your teaching as well?”

  “He is,” Kathryn answered for him. “He also keeps books and accounts, if you have a need for that on the trek. He is very good at numbers, sir.”

  Reed stood up suddenly. “Come with me, young man. I’d like to show you something.” He smiled at Kathryn. “That will give you and Margret a chance to visit as well.”

  He took Peter through the back of the house, stopped at the pantry near the back door to get a lantern and light it, then led him across the yard to a large barn. He opened the big doors and they stepped inside.

  There in the center of the large, open area was a larger than normal wagon. Peter stared curiously. It was slightly higher than usual and had odd extensions on each side. There was also a set of steps extending out of one side.

  “What is that?” Peter exclaimed in surprise.

  That seemed to be exactly the response Reed was hoping for, for he smiled broadly. “This is what I have heard my daughter call the ‘pioneer palace car.’ I’ve had it specially constructed for our trip. Come, let me show you.”

  As they moved around the front of it, Peter ex
amined the wagon carefully.

  “As you may have surmised, my wife is in ailing health. That’s one of the reasons we are anxious to make a new home in California. Her mother, Mrs. Keyes, who is an aged widow, shall also be traveling with us. Her health is most certainly not good, and so I have had this wagon built to my specifications. It is designed to make the trip west as comfortable and trouble free as possible.”

  Peter was no expert on wagons, but he knew that this creation would have impressed even someone with as much experience as Joshua. The wheels were oversized on both front and back, and the tires—banded with steel—were wider than the width of a normal wagon wheel.

  With evident pride, Reed reached down and pulled the steps up. They folded flush with the side of the wagon box. Then he lowered them again. “Go on up. I want you to see inside.”

  The first thing that was evident to Peter’s eye was why he had called it the “palace.” The whole center of the wagon was a sumptuously fitted room, much like a miniature parlor or sitting room. In the center was a small table, its feet bolted to the floor. Along both walls were padded benches for sitting. Only they were not attached to the sides of the wagon box but to the floor.

  “Look,” Reed said, sitting on one of them and bouncing up and down. There was a soft squeaking noise. “These are spring seats, just like you find in the finest of stagecoaches.” He patted the seat beside him. “Try it.”

  Peter did so, amazed at how comfortable they were. Most wagons had no springs at all, and often those traveling with them found it more pleasant to walk than to endure the jolting ride.

  Turning, Reed gestured toward the far corner. There was a sheet-iron stove there, with a stovepipe going straight up and through the canvas cover. It was not a full-size stove, but about half-size. “It will likely get cold on some nights,” he said. “I didn’t want my wife and mother-in-law to get chilled.”