The children returned with arms full of flowers. “That’s wonderful, Sarah. Grandpa will be so pleased.” She took them and laid them carefully across the mound, now grass covered.
Surprisingly, she was not crying. She felt a deep peace and understood now the urgency of her need to come here.
“I miss him, Mama,” Sarah said.
“I know. I miss him too,” she whispered. Mary Melissa nodded gravely, though her memories of her grandfather were already dimming. Melissa looked up at Sarah. “We’ll have to be starting back soon. Why don’t you and Mary Melissa play a little more. I’ll call you.”
“Yes, Mama.” She took her sister by the hand and moved away, understanding her mother’s need to be alone.
Melissa turned back to the gravestone. “I’m reading the Book of Mormon again, Papa. I wanted you to know.” She brought her knees up and hugged them tightly. “Carl is a little dismayed. He doesn’t know exactly what’s happening.” There was a soft laugh. “To be truthful, neither do I.”
She closed her eyes, letting the memories of days gone by wash over her. How she longed for one more chance to move into those wonderful arms and feel his breath upon her hair as he told her that she would always be his little Melissa. Then she decided that if that was not possible, then this was second best. She looked up. “I’m back, Papa. I don’t think Carl will ever leave Nauvoo, so you’ll have to tell Mama if you can. I’ve been away from the Church, and from my testimony, but I’m back now.”
Chapter Notes
When Elder Parley P. Pratt returned to his camp and announced to the others that he had found the Grand River, he jubilantly reported what he wanted to call their new settlement there. They agreed, as did Brigham, and thus the name of the second way station along the trail became Mount Pisgah. (See Parley P. Pratt, Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, ed. Parley P. Pratt, Jr., Classics in Mormon Literature [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1985], pp. 307–8.) Mount Pisgah was about 191 miles from Nauvoo. Elder Pratt found Mount Pisgah on 16 May 1846. Brigham Young’s company arrived there two days later on 18 May.
Once the temple was publically dedicated on 1 May 1846, a great urgency to remove from Nauvoo swept the remaining Saints. That urgency was partly driven by the rising tide of opposition from the enemies of the Church. On 10 May, Wilford Woodruff spoke to three thousand Saints at the temple, his last public address in Nauvoo. He used a text from Ecclesiastes (see 3:1), “There is a time to all things; and for every purpose under heaven there is a season.” (See Wilford Woodruff’s Journal, 1833–1898, typescript, ed. Scott G. Kenney, 9 vols. [Midvale, Utah: Signature Books, 1983–85], 3:47.) The Saints interpreted that as a call to leave immediately. Large numbers responded, and the second of three major departure waves (in what would come to be known as the spring exodus) took place. (See Iowa Trail, p. 64.) By the end of June, over twelve thousand Saints would be gone and on the trail somewhere between Nauvoo and the Missouri River, leaving less than a thousand behind.
Chapter 20
I have another question.”
Nathan looked up. He had a small mirror propped in the fork of a tree and was shaving. Joshua was bent down in front of their small morning fire, stirring a pot of mush. “We didn’t get a chance to finish answering your first one,” Nathan said to him.
“That’s all right,” Joshua replied. “This one kind of goes along the same lines.”
“All right. I’m about done here.”
They had gotten to the Grand River the previous afternoon about an hour before sundown, but there had been little chance to continue their discussion. Matthew, who had gone ahead with the advance party of Parley P. Pratt, was there and they were able to have supper with him. They invited him to come and camp with them, but his group was charged by Brigham Young with other assignments, including finding a suitable place and getting a bridge across the Grand as quickly as possible, and so he felt that he needed to stay with the rest of his group.
After supper, assignments had been given out. Nathan and Joshua, along with several other pairs of men, were given the task of splitting rails for fencing. With that, and since they did not have a wagon to put in a circle with the others, they decided to move their campsite closer down to the river where there was a promising stand of trees. They set to work with axes and hatchets to build them a small lean-to, and worked feverishly until after dark to get it completed. By then it was time for lights out and they gratefully collapsed onto their bedrolls. Nathan wanted badly to remind Joshua that he hadn’t finished answering his question, but Joshua seemed to have forgotten the whole matter, and Nathan, determined to be faithful to his promise to let Joshua set the pace on all of this, said nothing. So having Joshua raise the topic now this morning was pleasing to Nathan.
He finished scraping off the last of the shaving soap below his neck, then wiped the straight razor on the small towel. He folded it up and put it in its case, retrieved the mirror, then walked back to the fire. “All right, I’m ready.”
Joshua nodded, but got out two bowls and the small can of sugar. They had no milk, but with water from the little brook that gurgled nearby and some bread, it would be all right. Once the food was served, Joshua inclined his head toward Nathan, who offered a short prayer of thanks. Only when they had settled back and were eating did Joshua begin. “All right, here’s my question. As I said, it’s related to the one I asked yesterday.”
“I’m listening.”
He paused, the spoon midway to his mouth. “The Book of Mormon speaks a lot about God’s mercy, about Christ’s mercy.”
“Yes, it does.”
“So what is that supposed to mean? Tell me about mercy.”
Nathan thought for a moment. “Well, mercy is one of God’s attributes. One of the reasons I love the Book of Mormon is that it reminds us that God is not just some strict, autocratic deity who destroys anyone who dares to disobey him or sends people to someplace where they will burn in hell for all eternity. I think he wants us to know that he is a merciful God, a Father who loves his children and wants what is best for them.”
“And how would you define mercy?”
“Love. Compassion. I guess, in a way, the very idea of mercy is to receive something we don’t deserve.”
“All right, here’s my question. If God is merciful, as you believe, where was mercy on that sunny October afternoon at Haun’s Mill?”
Nathan hadn’t seen it coming, but it really wasn’t a great surprise to him.
“You think about it. Why was John Griffith caught in the blacksmith shop that day? He was about as good a man as I’ve ever known.”
“Yes, he was.”
“And that little boy? the one that tried to hide under the bellows—”
“Sardius Smith?”
“That’s the one. Would you like to tell me how merciful God was when he let that man reach in with his rifle and blow that boy’s head off?” He was getting a head of steam now. “I wouldn’t expect God to step in and wipe out the whole mob riding in that day, but couldn’t he at least have warned John? You people talk a lot about listening to the promptings of the Spirit. So why didn’t the Lord tell them to get out of there?”
Nathan set his bowl aside, no longer hungry. Joshua had ridden into Haun’s Mill the day following the massacre. He had seen the bodies laid out for burial in a newly dug well. He had seen Jessica’s shattered hand where a ball had passed through the door panel and then her palm. He had seen the body of ten-year-old Sardius Smith.
Joshua’s voice was heavy with bitterness now. “Where was mercy that day on the ferry? Tell me that. Tell me why a piece of river scum is allowed to spit tobacco juice into the eyes of your oxen and drive them mad with pain. Why wasn’t it that man who got knocked off and drowned instead of Pa?” He stopped and looked away. “Why not me, even? That would make some sense at least.”
“Joshua, I—”
“No, I’m not just feeling sorry for myself. You’ve got to admit it. When you compare my life to P
a’s, it would have been more merciful if I had drowned and not Pa.” He set his half-empty bowl of mush down and reached beside him. What he brought up was Lydia’s Book of Mormon. Nathan was a little surprised, for he had not seen it there in the grass. Joshua tapped the book now with one finger. “You want to know what’s ironic, Nathan? How’s this for irony? You all are so excited to have me read the Book of Mormon, but it’s the Book of Mormon that is raising all the questions in my mind.”
Nathan sighed wearily. “No, it’s not, Joshua. It’s your life that’s raising the questions; the Book of Mormon is just helping you find words to express them.”
There was real anger now. “So, is that your answer?”
“Of course not. I’m just saying that the Book of Mormon is only helping you give voice to your questions.”
“Well, it is doing that for sure. So, where are the answers?”
“In the Book of Mormon as well. And in the Bible. All of the scriptures actually.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Look,” Nathan said. “We’re supposed to be ready to work here in a few minutes. What do you say we clean up breakfast, then we can talk while we work?”
Joshua nodded. “That’s fine.” He got his bowl again, quickly ate the last few bites of bread and cereal, then washed it down with water. Nathan ate more slowly, considering the implications of what Joshua had said. If Joshua had not been there, he would have lifted his eyes to heaven, or bowed his head. But he could not, so he simply looked at the porridge before him and deep within let the words ring out. O Lord, help me.
They didn’t get to talk until midafternoon. When they reached the stand of trees they had selected the night before, they found two teams of men there already working. Brigham Young and Heber Kimball were anxious to get the first acreage fenced, plowed, and planted, so they had reconsidered the assignments and pulled men off the crew for building cabins and sent them down to help split rails. Joshua was amused by Nathan’s obvious frustration at not being alone. But they set to work without comment, working just a few yards from the other teams.
At the midday meal break, they all ate together, so there was no chance to talk then either. Joshua’s amusement deepened. At about two o’clock Heber came down to the site with the wagon that was hauling the rails up onto the bluffs. Nathan waved him down.
“Yes, Nathan,” Heber said when he joined them.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “there is another good stand of trees about a half mile downriver from here. Joshua and I could start there. Then, as the fence moves south, we’ll have a second location that’s closer to where the rails will be needed.”
Heber turned and looked, pulling on his lower lip. “That’s not a bad suggestion. You want another team to come with you?”
“Oh, no,” Nathan said casually, “we’ll get it started at least, see how it looks.” He looked away from Joshua’s smirk. “If we need help, we’ll send word.”
“All right. We’ll come back in a few hours and see how it looks.”
As Heber went back to the wagon, Joshua turned and went by Nathan. “You are one sly dog,” he said under his breath. Nathan merely smiled.
Splitting rails was not a job for weak men. After picking one of the straightest trees, they had to hew it down. Then they went along the trunk, making it “clean,” or trimming off all the branches. They would prop up one end with a thick branch to give them room to cut it, then go to work with the two-man saw. Once the first log was cut, they worked separately. One man would continue felling trees and cutting lengths of logs, while the other did the actual splitting. Currently, Nathan was acting as splitter. In a while they would trade positions, in order to give a particular set of muscles a rest.
Splitting rails off a green tree trunk was hard work, and no good woodsman would ever try to do it with an ax alone. For one thing, the ax blade could get bound up so tightly in the green wood that it was almost impossible to pull it free again. Second, eight feet of green wood didn’t simply split off with a single blow. So a series of wedges—“gluts,” as they were called—were driven into the log along a straight line. This was not done with the ax. Hammering the wedges with the head of an ax was a quick way to destroy a valuable tool. Instead they used a “beetle.”
The beetle, which derived its name from the Old English word meaning to “beat,” was a long-handled hammer with a heavy wooden head shaped like a miniature barrel. The head was made by sawing off a thick piece of oak limb and then binding it fast with iron hoops, banded on while they were red hot, then doused in cold water to make them shrink and cut tightly into the wood and hold it tight enough to stop it from splitting. A hole was then drilled through the center of the head and a handle tapped into it, and the beetle was ready. Weighing ten to twelve pounds, the beetle was a powerful tool.
Nathan moved along the length of the log, holding the beetle right up beneath the head as he tapped in each of the gluts along a straight line, about a foot apart. Once he had the gluts in, he stood and started in earnest, swinging the beetle again and again, hitting the gluts with solid thuds, moving down the log and smacking them each in turn, then starting over again.
Behind him, the final piece of log fell off and Joshua straightened, letting the saw hang loose in his hand. Sweat poured from his forehead, and he wiped at it with a rag from his pocket. He stood there, legs apart, breathing heavily as he watched Nathan work. “You ready for a break?” he called when Nathan paused for a moment.
“Yeah. Be right there.”
Nathan moved to the end of the log and started again. The hammer swung back over his shoulder, and then in one smooth motion he would grunt and bring it up and over in a blur of speed. The gluts were in almost six inches now, and hitting the heads squarely took concentration.
Whumph! One step to the left. Hammer swings back. A low grunt. Up and over comes the head of the beetle. Whumph!
Nathan had developed a rhythm now and moved like a machine. As he reached about two-thirds of the way down the log, there was a sudden crack and a six-inch-thick piece of log snapped free, letting the gluts drop to the ground. He straightened, wiped at his brow with his sleeve, then let the beetle slip from his hands to rest against the log.
Joshua was at the wooden water bucket. He had the dipper filled and drank deeply. Then he refilled it and handed it to Nathan, who drank greedily, letting the water spill down his chin and onto his shirt. “Now, that,” he exclaimed, finally stopping for air, “that is good stuff.”
Joshua took the ladle, filled it once more, and drank deeply again. He filled it a fourth time and gave it to Nathan. Finally, both satisfied, they moved over to the log Joshua had just finished cutting and sat down beside it, putting their backs against it.
It was nearing four o’clock in the afternoon. In the two hours since they had changed locations, they had dropped and trimmed three trees and split almost three dozen rails off from them. They were ready for a break.
Joshua tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Nathan watched him for a moment, then ventured a question. “You want to talk, or would you rather just rest?”
There was a sardonic smile. “After you went to all that work to get us alone?” he said. “I think we’d better talk.”
Nathan was not feeling guilty in the least. “Good,” he said, and leaned back too. “I’d like to start with some basic concepts. Then, if they don’t answer your questions, we can pursue it further.”
Joshua nodded. “I still have this nagging worry that you’re getting your hopes up over all this, Nathan.”
“I do have high hopes,” Nathan agreed, “but I don’t have high expectations. If you choose not to become a member”—there was a sudden, boyish grin—“we’ll just tie you to the whipping post until you change your mind. Fair enough?”
Joshua laughed and shook his head. “Only a Mormon would think that was fair.”
“All right. You asked some questions about why God does things the way he does them—why he is
n’t more merciful, why life doesn’t seem fair, how we can talk about redemption if it doesn’t change anything. So I’d like to start by talking about God.”
“All right.”
“Let me ask you a question. When Walter Samuelson sold you out, he virtually ruined you financially.”
“Not virtually. He did ruin me.”
“Some people would have taken revenge on him—set fire to his warehouses, maybe beaten him up some night. I suppose that some men might have even set about to try and kill him.”
“I know men that would,” he agreed.
“But you didn’t. Why not?”
“Because . . .” He stopped, pondering that. “I thought about it actually. Not the killing, but I considered ways of getting even.”
“But you didn’t carry them out. Again I ask, why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess I understood his anger. I guess I didn’t want to stoop to become like him. Remember what Pa always used to say? ‘When someone does you wrong, there’s only one way to get even with them, and that’s to drop down to their level and become like them.’ It didn’t seem worth it.”
“But you could have, if you had wanted to.”
“Yes.” He knew Nathan was making a point here, but he didn’t see it yet.
“Would you agree that this is partly because of your nature? You are a man of integrity and goodwill, so even though you could have done terrible things to Samuelson, you chose not to because it was contrary to what you are.”
“I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
Nathan leaned back, looking satisfied. “That’s how it is with God.”
Joshua cocked his head. “Say that again.”
Nathan now being eager, his words came out in a rush. “It’s not that he can’t do all the things you would like him to do—strike down the mob coming to Haun’s Mill, stop the man with the rifle before he shoots Sardius Smith, shove that tobacco-spitting scum into the river instead of Benjamin Steed—but that he won’t.”
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