Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  To their dismay, they went only another mile west before reaching a steep hill leading up out of the river bottoms. Again they had to double and triple the teams. Oxen bawled and bellowed as they slipped and clawed their way up the steep slope. Men burned hands and arms on the rough ropes as they gave what help they could to the struggling teams. It was tedious, backbreaking, utterly exhausting work. Once up on the top, oxen stopped without urging, heads lowered and foam dripping from their mouths.

  Brigham was right there with the rest of them, pulling ropes, driving oxen, helping women and children across the shallow river and up the hill. As the last wagons reached the top after sundown, he turned to Heber C. Kimball. “We’ll have to stop here and rest the teams, Heber,” he said in a low, hard voice. “There’s no way we can move out again tomorrow.” And then, mouth tight, he added, “When we get to Miller’s encampment, we will organize. If Bishop Miller moves again before our arrival he will be disfellowshipped from the camps, unless he repents.”

  The next morning, Monday, March twenty-third, 1846, a messenger rode into camp from the west. He carried another letter from Elder Parley Pratt to Brigham. The frustrated Apostle wrote that even though the main camp was now only six or seven miles behind them, Bishop Miller had decided he and his company were going to move on and not wait.

  When Brigham finished reading the letter, he never said a word, but from the set of his jaw and the hardness of his lips, Heber C. Kimball knew full well that George Miller was heavily on his mind. Finally, Brigham looked up. “I’d like you to come with me to Matthew Steed’s tent.”

  This time there were no promises of a quick return. There was another letter to take—one filled with sharp rebuke and a command for Miller to wait where he was, Matthew guessed—but it was more than that. Brigham was calling other men besides Matthew. “I’ve told Miller in no uncertain terms that his job is to prepare the way for us,” he said, glowering at the tent canvas. “We cannot spend this kind of time and effort at every river crossing. We’ve got three choices. Dig down the banks. Make a ferry. Or build bridges.”

  He turned to Jenny and there was sadness in his eyes. “That’s where your husband comes in, Sister Steed. We’re not just talking about getting ourselves across; we’ve still got thousands of people coming behind us. We have got to prepare the way for them too.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Jenny said, fighting to not show her disappointment.

  “Matthew is a skilled carpenter, a natural builder. I’m sorry to have to ask this of you, but I need him out there with that advance company. And it could be weeks before you see him again.”

  Jenny’s head came up. “President Young,” she said, her voice calm but firm now, “our whole family is hoping and praying that Melissa and Carl will change their minds and come west. If that happens, and Matthew has made it possible for them to reach us more quickly, then you’ll not hear one word of complaint from me or anyone else in our family.”

  For a long moment, Brigham sat there, looking at this young Irish woman who would now have two children to watch over on her own. Then he got up slowly, walked over to her, and took her in his arms. He never said a word, just held her close and closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair.

  Monday, March 23, 1846

  It has been more than a week since I have been able to write in my journal. The midday meal is over. Many are sleeping now, including my Will. The weather has been beautiful since crossing the equator, and with the southeasterly trade winds, we are making good time. I should be sleepy too, what with the heat, and a full stomach—from the food, I mean. I am growing noticeably now and thought I felt the first stirrings of life yesterday. Perhaps it is thoughts of the baby that keep me from sleeping. I still cannot believe that I shall be a mother. However, since I am awake, I thought I would catch up in my journal.

  We are now in what are called the tropics, that zone which lies both north and south of the equator and which is always warm and pleasant, warm being a relative word, of course. When the sun is at its zenith it can beat down unmercifully. During the doldrums, when there was no wind and no movement to stir the air, the crew had to rig canvas awnings before we could even bear to be on deck. In the morning and again in the evening, it is perfectly delightful. I love to be out on deck with Will and let the wind catch my face.

  I understand better now Will’s love of the sea. For the first few weeks, especially during that horrible four days of storminess that nearly drove us against the rocky shores of the Cape Verde Islands, I hated the sea and everything about it. But lately, unless Will is standing watch, or helping the crew, or working for Elder Brannan, we walk around the ship and he teaches me what he knows. It has opened my eyes to what is happening and that helps pass the time more easily. It also helps to reduce my fear as we continue south toward Cape Horn, the name given to the southernmost tip of South America.

  This is good because Will says Cape Horn will be the most challenging part of the voyage. The crew almost whisper whenever they speak of what lies ahead. It is truly the graveyard of ships, according to them. It will be about the first week of April when we reach there, but in the Southern Hemisphere, that is like November. Will says that where the warm waters of the Pacific and the colder waters of the Atlantic meet, the weather is often violent. He says the wind can change direction on you at any moment. Often there will be hail and sleet storms that can even tear the sails. The waves can seem like mountains cresting all around you. This leaves me a little anxious but, surprisingly, not filled with dread as I would have been before.

  Well, to more pleasant things. For the last week or so, we have seen some of the creatures of the sea. Often we have porpoises, or dolphins, for company. This is wonderful. They race alongside the ship, jumping in and out of the water with great zest. The children on board line the rails and find great delight in them. They think they can even recognize some with distinctive marks and have given them names.

  Even more delightful are the “flying fish.” Yes, you read that right, dear reader. Flying fish. This is truly an amazing sight. They leap out of the water, usually just ahead of the prow of the ship, and fly for great distances through the air before returning to the sea. Some of the sailors told me that if I watched closely I could actually see them flap their wings, but Will explained it differently. He said that they don’t actually fly, but sail.

  Day before yesterday, one of our number caught one for us all to see. It was quite wonderful. They are a large fish—at least by normal standards back home in Missouri—being almost two feet in length. They have two fins folded up alongside their bodies, but these are not ordinary fins. They extend out like the wings of a dragonfly. They are almost as thin and transparent as those wings too. Once I understood that, then I saw that Will was right. They use their powerful tails to shoot up out of the water, then they extend their “wings,” or fins, and sail like kites through the air. Usually it is for short distances, ten, twenty, or even fifty feet. But last evening, just before sundown, we were running nearly into the wind—I’m even starting to talk like a sailor—and a whole school of flying fish started leaping. It was wonderful. Some stayed out of the water for what seemed like a full minute, sailing a hundred, two hundred yards or more. They are so beautiful. As I said before, I am beginning to understand why Will has such a love for the sea.

  Some do not share my enthusiasm, however. We have been over six weeks now at sea, and many are finding life more and more monotonous. In a way, they are right, but some do not do anything to try and fight it. For example, the night before we left New York City, at our farewell party, a Mr. Van Cott, who was the president of the local literary society, surprised everyone by presenting Brother Brannan and Captain Richardson with a set of the Harper Family Library. This is a wonderful set of one hundred seventy-nine volumes on just about every subject under the sun—adventure stories, poetry, popular science, travel, history. They are much in demand and have provided a wonderful way for us to pass the tim
e. We read them aloud to each other while sitting up on deck when the weather permits. But some will not bother to read them.

  Which reminds me. I did not formerly mention our losses and our gains since departing. We sorely miss the two cows which were brought along to furnish us with milk, butter, and cheese. They were always kept tied up on deck near the stern, but during the terrible storm, they did not survive the pitching and rolling of the ship. I shall never be able to erase from my mind the picture of them being hoisted up and over the side of the ship with block and tackle and dumped into the sea to become food for the sharks.

  Speaking of sharks—I know, I know, I promised to speak of losses and gains, and I shall return to that in a moment, but the mention of sharks reminded me. We have one of our passengers, a young man with a new wife, who has found a most unusual way to deal with the boredom. We often have sharks following the ship to consume the garbage that is thrown overboard. This young man lowers himself over the edge of the deck until he hovers just barely out of the reach of the sharks, to see if he can tempt them to snap at him. This sends his wife into a near faint, but he seems not to be concerned overly much about her fears. I think Captain Richardson may put an end to it, for the sailors are mostly superstitious about sharks and find this quite disturbing, as they think he is tempting the fates.

  But back to my original point. Sister Sarah Burr gave birth to a healthy baby boy about three weeks after our departure. Appropriately, she named him John Atlantic Burr. He is doing fine and that would be pleasant news indeed if it were not also tempered by tragedy. Two days ago, Sarah’s son Charles, who was fifteen months old and who had been ailing for some time now, finally passed away. I could not help but weep as I saw the small form carried beneath a blanket, lifted up above the railing, and allowed to slide into the sea as its final resting place. Sister Sarah is devastated. This is the fifth death we have suffered since leaving New York. This is partly because of the rigors of the journey, I am sure.

  But I would not close this entry on such a gloomy note. The deaths have been few. The spirit in our little group is still high. Mothers hold school for the young ones. Many a game is played on the decks, and we are adjusting to sea life. Though I miss Mother and Father terribly and often weep when I think of their bitterness, Will and I are so very happy and that helps make up for it. We spend most of each waking day together, something that I know will not happen once we reach Upper California. We have been greatly blessed by the Lord. We think every night of Will’s family and pray for them, wondering if they have reached the Rocky Mountains yet. How we miss them and will rejoice when we are reunited! We thank the Lord each day for life, for each other, and for the gospel of our Savior and Master, which brings us so much joy and peace.

  Peter Ingalls ran lightly around the south end of Jenson’s bakery shop to the small two-room apartment attached to the back. Even before he noted the wheelchair parked outside the door, he saw a slip of light through the curtains and knew that Kathryn had once again returned home before him. He frowned. That meant she had to get herself out of her chair, onto the crutches, and then inside the apartment. Not that he would have done it for her had he been here. He knew better than that. But he always felt better when he was close enough to catch her should one of her feet catch on the door jam or slip on one of the small rugs that covered their wood floor.

  He opened the door and stepped inside, shucking off his coat and hanging it on a peg. The entryway was small, no more than five by five, and had no furniture in it. But then, the whole apartment was only two small rooms—one a narrow bedroom, the other, no bigger, that served as their kitchen, sitting room, and parlor. Kathryn was in the kitchen, leaning up against the small counter, peeling some carrots with a small paring knife.

  “Hi,” she said cheerfully.

  “Hello.” He walked over and kissed her on the back of her neck.

  She set the carrot and knife down and bowed her head further. “Mmm, I like that.”

  He did it again. She turned, bracing herself against the counter with one hand, and lifted her head to him. He gave her a warm and lingering kiss.

  “That’s even better,” she murmured, and lifted her arms to put around him.

  “How long have you been home?”

  “Oh, quarter of an hour. No more.”

  “How was the tutoring?”

  “All right. The children are getting a little restless, what with the weather finally turning warm, but they are still wonderful. They love to learn.”

  Once Mrs. Reed had determined to hire Peter and Kathryn to provide schooling for her children on the trek, she had decided that Kathryn should start with them before their departure. Peter could not yet. Mr. Reed kept him busy with other preparations, but Kathryn had begun tutoring the children a week before.

  “So Mrs. Reed isn’t about to change her mind?” Peter said with relief.

  She laughed. He was such a worrier. “No. She seems very pleased. She said today that she is so glad that we came to apply for the position.” There was a momentary frown. “Though she did ask me straight out if I was . . .” She blushed a little. “Well, if we were going to be parents.”

  Peter nodded, but said nothing. James and Margret Reed had hired Peter and Kathryn over the protests of the Donners, who worried about having a crippled woman with them. Margret’s answer was that Kathryn’s handicap did not interfere with her ability to tutor the children. But if Kathryn were also with child, that would probably tip the scales in the other direction, even for the Reeds. Perhaps the Lord was taking that into account, because thus far Kathryn was not in a motherly way. This worried her a great deal because she feared that the lightning strike that had left her paralyzed may have damaged her internally as well. But for now, at least, there was no cause for concern that the Reeds would have to drop them.

  “I was with the Donners and Mr. Reed this afternoon,” Peter said.

  “And?”

  He pulled her in more tightly. “They’ve set the date.”

  Her face was instantly wreathed in smiles. “Really, Peter? When?”

  “Guess.”

  She slugged at him. “I’m dying to know, Peter Ingalls. Don’t you play with me.”

  “April fifteenth.”

  Her eyes widened. Today was the last day of March. That meant . . . She felt her pulse quicken. “But that’s just two weeks away.”

  “Two weeks from tomorrow actually.”

  “That’s wonderful!”

  “I know. Jacob Donner said they have already had several responses to the advertisement they’ve been running in the paper. They think they’ll have everything in readiness before too much longer. Also, there’s a big wagon train leaving Independence, Missouri, in early May. All are agreed that we must be there in time to join up with it.”

  Kathryn leaned back in his arms. “Two weeks. I can’t believe it could finally really happen.”

  “There’s more good news.” He reached in his trouser pocket and withdrew an envelope. He waved it beneath her nose. “Got a letter from Melissa today.”

  She reached for it. “Really? What does she say?”

  He held it just out of her grasp. “You know how we’ve been worrying that with us not leaving until mid-April we might never catch up with Brother Brigham and the family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Melissa says Nathan sent word back with a man who had to come back to Nauvoo for some teams. As of the twenty-second—that’s a week ago Sunday—they had just reached the Chariton River.”

  “Is that good?”

  He handed her the letter, jubilant now. “The Chariton River is barely a hundred miles from Nauvoo, Kathryn. A hundred miles! That’s no more than five good traveling days out. I guess the incessant rains have made the roads impassable. Nathan said they were camped at one place for twelve days instead of the one or two they had planned on. And when they do move, it’s terribly slow.”

  Kathryn was thinking now, not opening the letter yet. “
But even then, if we don’t leave for another two weeks, won’t they still be at least a month ahead of us?”

  “Maybe not. First of all, think about it. What was our weather like last week?”

  Her lower lip puckered slightly. “Wet.”

  “Yes, very wet. Remember, we even had snow last Tuesday. And rain most of the week. It’s been warmer the last two days, but assuming Iowa Territory got the same weather we did, I’ll bet they’ve not made more than another two or three days of progress since the twenty-second.”

  He stopped for breath, realizing he was sounding like a young boy in his excitement, but not caring. “Second of all, Melissa says that there are still huge numbers of Saints just preparing to leave. Carl thinks that Brigham has only about three thousand with him. He says there are thousands who are getting ready to leave now that spring is finally coming. If Brigham moves ahead too fast, he’ll have people scattered from the Rocky Mountains to the Mississippi.”

  “So you think . . .” She let it trail off. Ever since they had left the family and come to Springfield to try to find another way west, she had worried about being so far behind their family that they would never catch up with them on the trail.

  “I think this. If we leave here as planned, we’ll be in Independence about the first week of May. Say we take three or four days to rest up and get resupplied. Then we head west up the Oregon Trail toward the Platte River. Mr. Donner let me look at the big map that accompanies John C. Frémont’s work. The Platte is the most likely place where Brigham and our people will join up with the Oregon Trail. Mr. Donner thinks it’s about three hundred and twenty miles, or about two and a half to three weeks’ travel, from Independence. That means we’ll be there about the last week of May.”

  “And how long will it take our people to get there?”

  “Even assuming no more delays, it will take them at least four or five weeks to reach that part of the Platte River. That means they’ll be there about the first or second week of May, and that’s with the very best of circumstances.” His mind was fairly racing and his eyes were bright with excitement. “And if there are any delays at all . . .” Then his natural cautiousness took over. “I don’t think we ought to get our hopes up, but there is a slight chance we could actually cross paths with them, maybe even meet them once we reach the Platte.”