Now Rachel was curious. “What kind of Church property, Mama?”
Beside her, Emily giggled. “Who gets to bring the temple?”
That brought a chuckle from around the fire. That was Emily, always looking for a way to bring a smile.
Jessica, still smiling, spoke to both of the girls. “Well, there are lots of things. The sacred manuscripts, records that have been kept, Joseph’s history of the Church—”
“The records of the temple ordinances,” Derek broke in.
“I thought Emma kept the sacred manuscripts,” Rebecca said.
For some reason, they all looked to Lydia at that, knowing of her deep and close friendship with Emma Smith. She nodded slowly, and with just a trace of sadness. “Yes, she did keep some, the ones that she brought out of Missouri when Joseph was in prison. She felt very strongly that they were part of Joseph’s possessions and not the Church’s. She has the manuscript of the work Joseph did in translating the Bible and—”
Growing impatient now with the detail, Joshua broke in abruptly. “So, you think that Clayton’s coming means Brigham will finally move out now?”
“That’s what Brother Clayton said,” Mary Ann explained. “He thinks we’ll leave tomorrow.”
Nathan spoke up. “I heard that a few already left today.”
Jessica nodded. “That’s what Solomon heard too. Brother Shumway’s company. Also Daniel Spencer and others. So that could mean we’ll leave tomorrow. I don’t think President Young would let them go off by themselves.”
They were all nodding at that. Now, that would be good news.
Matthew stood behind Jenny, holding his coat partially around her but letting her get the benefit of the fire. “Before we left, Brigham told me he plans to have Brother Clayton keep a journal record of the trail.”
“He’s got fine literary skills,” Lydia supplied in agreement.
Derek grinned. “He’s English, you know.”
That brought a hoot from Rebecca, who poked at her husband. “And that’s the reason, you think? Just because he’s English?”
Now Jenny spoke up. “Aye,” she said, letting her Irish accent roll out broadly. “There’s something about the British Isles that gives a person a special gift of wisdom, don’t you think, now, Derek?”
“Aye, indeed,” Derek agreed. This was followed instantly by a sheepish grin. Here was the man who was a notoriously bad speller and who did just about anything to get his wife to write whatever had to be written. “However, in some cases, the talent may trickle down to the youngest member of the family.”
Rebecca laughed lightly. “I’d say that in Peter’s case that was sure true.”
The mention of Peter’s name brought a sobering moment around the circle. No one spoke their names, but all thoughts turned to Peter and Kathryn. After a moment, Rebecca spoke again. “I wonder how they’re doing.”
“Well,” Nathan said, trying to keep his voice cheerful, “sounds to me like traveling with this Reed fellow is going to be a lot more comfortable than traveling with us. That wagon Peter described in his last letter sounds unbelievable.”
Emily looked puzzled. “If they go with someone else and go a different way, how will they ever find us?”
Surprisingly it was Joshua who spoke up, wanting to comfort. “They’ll be taking the same trail as we are, Emmy,” he explained. “They’ll go to Independence, Missouri—that’s the jumping-off point for the Oregon Trail—and we’ll be going across Iowa, but the trails are likely to join somewhere out beyond the Missouri River. We’ll find them.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so,” Nathan said firmly. “They’re not going to leave until April, so we’ll be ahead of them. But we’ll just leave word along the trail so they’ll know where we are.”
“And while we’re speaking of the family who are not with us,” Lydia said softly, “where do you suppose Will and Alice are by now? Do you think they’ve left New York City yet?”
Mary Ann’s head came up. “Oh, that’s the other thing Brother Clayton said. I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you that. The Twelve got a letter from Samuel Brannan a few days ago. He said that Will and Alice had arrived safely in New York City and were proving themselves to be of great value. He said they planned to set sail on February fourth.”
“Really?” Joshua said, completely attentive now. “That means they’re well on their way, then. I’ll have to write to Caroline.”
Mary Ann shook her head. “Brother Clayton stopped and told Caroline before he came across the river. So she knows too.”
“That was thoughtful of him,” Lydia said.
“Yes, it was,” Joshua agreed. “Maybe I’ll try and find him tomorrow and thank him.”
They fell silent for a moment, and then Mary Ann stood slowly. Her face was lined with weariness, but there was satisfaction in her eyes. “If it is true that we leave tomorrow—and it sounds like it is—then perhaps we had better go to bed.”
Joshua stood now too. He was nodding soberly. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready. I hate this waiting.”
“Yes,” Nathan agreed. “I think we’re all ready.”
Caroline Steed slipped out the door and onto the front porch, pulling the door shut with great care. Young Livvy, now a robust twenty-month-old toddler, was like a cat when it came to sleeping. Even the faintest noise would bring one eye open, and if she saw anything of the slightest interest, that was it for the remainder of the night or morning, as the case might be. Caroline had left a brief note on the table for Savannah, who at nine years of age would be responsible enough to care for Livvy and her brother until Caroline returned.
She looked around. The sky in the east was light now, though it would be another three-quarters of an hour before sunrise. The sky was clear, the air cold. But even as she felt it touch her cheeks, she knew that the biting, bitterly frigid temperatures of the previous week were gone. Even yesterday it had finally reached near to forty degrees. And today was going to be a beautiful day. Once the sun was up, the temperature would likely move into the forties again and it would start to thaw.
Pulling her heavy woolen shawl more tightly around her, she tiptoed off the porch and walked to the front gate. Once again, she opened it carefully, holding the weight up slightly so that the metal hinges did not screech as they had started to do in the past few days.
“Good morning, Caroline.”
Caroline gasped and whirled around. “Oh!” she cried softly.
Melissa Rogers waved her hand sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I thought you saw me here. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
One hand came up to Caroline’s throat. “No, I didn’t. I . . . My goodness, what are you doing out here so early?”
Melissa’s head dropped slightly. “Same as you, I guess.”
Caroline understood immediately. “You heard?”
There was a mute nod. The rumor was all over Nauvoo. Brigham Young was starting west today.
Melissa looked up and smiled wanly. “Were you going down to the river?”
Caroline nodded. “Would you like to come?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“I would like that, Melissa.”
They turned and started south along Granger, walking slowly, glad for each other’s company, but not speaking until they turned west on Parley Street and reached the landing that marked the main departure point for crossing the river.
The river was still a solid sheet of ice, but if Caroline’s predictions that the warming trend would continue were correct, today might be one of the last days one would dare venture across the river on the ice bridge, especially with loaded wagons. From this point on, those leaving Nauvoo would have to wait for the ice to break up enough for the ferries to start running again.
On the far shore, a quarter of a mile away from them, the light was brighter. The sun was just touching the bluffs as it crept slowly toward them.
“Can you see it?” Melissa asked softl
y.
Caroline turned. “The camp? No, that’s seven or eight miles inland along Sugar Creek.”
Melissa was staring westward, her head averted enough that Caroline couldn’t see her face. There was a quick shake of her head. “Not the camp.”
“Oh.” Caroline turned away and peered in the direction Melissa was looking. “It’s by a solitary oak tree,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she too searched. Then her hand came up. “There! There’s the tree. And if you look closely, I think you can even see the headstone.”
Melissa leaned forward, going up on the balls of her feet, as if she might break and run for it. “Oh, yes. I see it.” Then after a moment, “Yes, I think you’re right. That is the headstone.” It came out in sorrow and pain.
Melissa turned now to look at Caroline and tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I miss him so much, Caroline.”
“We all do,” Caroline answered, putting an arm around her. When there was no response, she went on. “I found Savannah crying in her bed the other night. When I asked her what was wrong, she said that she was thinking of Grandpa and just started to cry.”
“She and Papa had something very special between them.”
“Yes, and . . .” Suddenly it was Caroline’s throat that closed off and her eyes that were burning. “And if it weren’t for that, Savannah would not be here now.” She could not repress a shudder. Even now, after three weeks, whenever she closed her eyes she had to fight back visions of the cold blackness closing in around her daughter.
“I wish Mama had buried him on this side of the river. Then we could visit the grave whenever we want.”
“I know. But Mother Steed felt so strongly that he would have wanted to be buried on that side of the river.”
There was a sudden edge of bitterness. “Yes, to prove that he was faithful to the end.”
Caroline said nothing. This was Melissa’s struggle and she would have to work through it herself. It was not a time for pointing that out to her.
“Maybe after the ice clears, we could take the children across and visit the grave.”
“We would like that,” Caroline answered. “That’s a good idea.”
“I would give anything to see him again,” Melissa whispered in anguish. “There’s so much I wanted to say when we were saying good-bye.”
“I know.”
Her voice dropped even lower. “I want to see Mama again, Caroline.”
Turning, Caroline wrapped her arms around her sister-in-law. “Do you want to go across and try and find them before they leave?”
Melissa’s eyes were wistful, but her mouth pulled down. “No. Carl would not be pleased. It’s . . .” She stopped and then slowly shook her head. “No.”
Caroline felt a sharp pang of disappointment. She already missed Joshua with an intensity far greater than she had ever expected. If Carl and Melissa wanted to go across and say good-bye, it would have been all right. But she couldn’t go over there alone. It would only make things harder for Joshua.
“No, you’re right,” she said in a tight whisper. “We’ve said our good-byes. It’s better not to have to do that again.”
And with that, Melissa’s shoulders began to tremble. She laid her head against Caroline’s and began to sob softly.
Chapter 2
Brigham Young stood alone on a small knoll overlooking the camp on Sugar Creek. From there he had a commanding view of the camp below him. In one way, it was a stirring sight and left him thrilled to the point of being unable to speak. In another way, it was terribly discouraging and left him heavy with anxiety. He had not felt well all morning, and what he saw before him was not helping his sense of well-being.
The bugle had blown at five a.m. It had still been pitch-black then, and one could know the great camp was coming awake only by the sounds starting up all around. Mothers called their children awake. Men stumbled out of tents and wagons to start chopping wood or start their fires. Others went to the creek to break through the ice for water. Soon small fires dotted the darkness, reflecting a dull light off mud and snow. Gradually, as dawn lightened the sky, the activity increased. Breakfasts of johnnycake or porridge were cooked on skillets or boiled in kettles over the fires; children raced back and forth, squealing and shouting, always quick to find excitement in the simplest things.
At eight a.m. the decision was made. Today was the day. He called for a meeting of the captains at ten o’clock. They would move out at noon. But just as he had so many times before, he learned again that it was one thing to make a pronouncement, and it was something else to have it carried out. Everything moved with such agonizing slowness.
Brigham reached in his vest pocket and withdrew his watch. He lifted the cover, then let out his breath in exasperation. It was ten minutes to noon. Almost four hours now and still there were many who were not ready. From where he was, he could still see men out in the trees trying to find their stock. Directly below him he saw a family squatting around the fire, just finishing a midday meal as though there were not another care in the world. Next to the creek, he could hear a man yelling at his wife as they tried to take down their large tent in an orderly fashion. Almost noon, and they were just trying to strike their tent. He blew out his breath, fighting to keep his irritation in check.
He turned as a horseman approached. It was Heber C. Kimball. His wagons and family were directly behind Brigham’s fifteen wagons and the thirty-plus people who would be with him. Heber’s group was all hitched up and ready to roll. Brigham sighed. He was ill enough that he had sent to Nauvoo for his carriage so that he could ride and not have to delay his departure further. But the carriage had not arrived yet, and Heber would start out the camp without him. If only there could be a hundred Heber Kimballs, how much simpler life would be!
Heber wheeled his horse around and pulled it up alongside his longtime friend and fellow Apostle. He swept off his hat and wiped at his brow with his sleeve. “How are you feeling, President?”
Brigham just shook his head. “I’m going to have to wait for that carriage. But I don’t want you waiting. You lead them out.”
Heber nodded. “It’s really something, isn’t it?” he said, inclining his head in the direction of the scene below them.
“Yes.” And it was that. Brigham had to remind himself of that. The scene below was discouraging, especially when he felt as unwell as he did now, but if he turned his head to the left, what he saw there was much better. The line of wagons snaked down from where the two of them sat all the way to the creek and beyond. Here were the ones who were ready. In camp it might still be chaotic, but that did not represent everyone. Here there were drivers sitting in their wagon seats or standing by the heads of their oxen, waiting for the signal to move. Wives sat or stood beside them. Young children poked their heads out of the wagon covers, faces shining with anticipation. Older children stood alongside, holding the lead rope on a milk cow or ready to herd the few head of sheep or cattle their families might have.
It was true that more than a third of the wagons were not in line yet. It was true that many would likely have to wait until tomorrow before they started. It was true that many families unable to purchase or procure sufficient draft animals had sent their wagons on ahead to Sugar Creek, then returned with the teams to Nauvoo to get other wagons. It was true that, by Stephen Markham’s estimate, there were nearly eight hundred people in camp who had barely enough supplies to last them another week. It was true that way too many had no tents and had insufficient winter clothing and bedding. And all of that truth was like a great burden resting on Brigham’s shoulders.
But there were the hundreds—no, thousands—who had followed counsel. In line now there must have been nearly three hundred wagons. They had their teams. They had food. They had tools and blankets and clothing. There were the Kimballs and the Stouts, the Whitneys and the Steeds, the Pratts and the Rockwoods, and a hundred other names. They stood ready now, eyes turned to him, hearts prepared to follow wherever they were a
sked to go. And that was enough to make his heart soar. With these kinds of people, it would be enough. It wouldn’t be simple, but it would be enough.
Beside him, Heber seemed to sense his thoughts. “President, I think we’re ready. The others will come as they can.”
Brigham nodded. “Yes.” He smiled broadly at Heber, feeling a sudden burst of exhilaration. “Yes, we are. Give the signal.”
Heber went up tall in his stirrups, lifting his hat high above his head. “Attention, Camp of Israel!” he shouted loudly.
All down the line heads lifted and turned towards him. Mouths clamped shut, mothers hushed their children. Men moved closer to their oxen.
He waved his hat in a big circle above his head. “To the west! Roll ’em out!”
When Alice Samuelson Steed woke up, Will was already gone. She lifted her head slightly and looked around the tiny cubicle walled in by canvas dividers. She sank back with a soft moan. The sound was half in protest at knowing that while she slept Will had risen and cleaned their small space so that it would be ready for seven o’clock inspection. It was also half in pleasure knowing that she could now lie here for another ten minutes. That was her Will, she thought with a sleepy smile. Up at the crack of dawn, cheerfully doing her work for her. He was probably up on the prow of the ship now, face in the wind, hair blowing freely, and laughing in sheer joy to be at sea again.
Pulling the blanket up around her chin—not for warmth but for comfort—she turned her attention to the rolling motion of the ship. The deck was moving up and down perhaps as much as two feet, but it was gentle and smooth, signaling that the ship was still moving through the swells of a calm sea. With a start, she realized that once again she had slept clear through the night without waking. She could not even remember hearing reveille blown at six o’clock. She stared up at the bulkhead above her, surprised and pleased. That was four nights in a row now. She was finally getting used to the never-ceasing motion of the floor beneath her feet.
She wiggled her body slowly, feeling the strength that the rest had restored to her, feeling a great sense of gratitude that the weather was still calm. If there were not ever one more moment of the violent pitching and yawing, it would be too soon for her. Within a week of the ship’s passing Sandy Hook at the eastern edge of New York harbor and moving out into the Atlantic, the weather had turned violent. For four days and four nights, they had been gripped by the howling gale. It had been the most terrifying experience of her life. The “passenger deck” became like something in a nightmare. Luggage, clothing, pots, pans, boxes, barrels, benches, stools—anything that was not either part of the Brooklyn or nailed down firmly to her decks was thrown about as if by some petulant child. People were hurled from their bunks. Terrible seasickness became everyone’s lot. The smell within the confined and closed quarters was unbearable, but no one dared open the hatches to the fury of the storm.
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