Margret Reed stepped in quickly. “It’s all right, Peter. We have some lemonade for you and Kathryn and the children.”
She poured quickly while the awkward silence stretched on. Then, when they were ready, Reed turned solemnly. “My friends and I promised each other that I would look to the east and drink to them, and they would look to the west and drink to us.” He raised his glass high, pointing it toward the east. “To America.”
“To America,” they all joined in.
As Peter lowered his glass, he saw James F. Reed watching him. His eyes were dark and hooded, and Peter couldn’t tell what thoughts lay behind them.
Joshua did not return to the bluffs until about three in the afternoon. He had gone down to the ferry to see how soon it would be the Steeds’ turn to cross. There he had found John Taylor, and they ended up spending the next six hours helping the brethren find more efficient ways to get the wagons loaded and unloaded.
When he came back to camp, Savannah and Charles, with little Livvy in tow, were playing near the back of the wagon. When Savannah saw him approaching, she waved. “Hi, Papa.”
“Hi, kids. Where’s your mother?”
“She and Aunt Lydia went to visit Brother and Sister Hendricks.”
“Oh. I’ll go find her.”
He didn’t have to go far. James and Drusilla Hendricks were camped on Mosquito Creek a little farther upstream from where they were. But he had gone only about half the distance when he saw Caroline and Lydia approaching. He stopped and waited for them to reach him.
“Hello, dear,” Caroline said. “When did you get back?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
He turned and they started walking back. “So how are Brother and Sister Hendricks?”
To his surprise, the two women exchanged a quick glance, and then Lydia looked away quickly. Something had passed between them, and it had been painful. He decided to let it lie.
“They’re fine,” Caroline finally said. “James can get around pretty well with crutches now, and that helps.”
He nodded. James Hendricks had been shot in the back of the neck at the Battle of Crooked River back in the fall of 1838 and been paralyzed from the neck down. Over the intervening years he had gradually improved, but he was still far from being able to care for his family, especially out here on the trail. Drusilla had simply taken over, lifting him when necessary, though he was probably a hundred pounds heavier than she was, taking in laundry, knitting mittens and scarves, doing whatever it took to sustain the family. Joshua had come to have tremendous respect for her.
“Well, at least she’s got that oldest boy,” he said. “What is he, sixteen now?”
Again there was a silent exchange, only this time Joshua saw the stricken look on Lydia’s face. She dropped her head. “I’d better see what my children are up to,” she murmured, and with a little wave to Joshua, face still averted, she hurried away.
He looked at Caroline. “What did I say?”
She slipped an arm through his. “Nothing. Lydia’s just having a hard time right now.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Josh wants to enlist in the battalion.”
He stopped, eyes widening a little. “He does?”
“Yes. Both Lydia and Nathan have told him he’s too young, but it’s like he’s obsessed with the idea. He won’t let it go.” She took a quick breath. “Drusilla is having the same problem with her William. She and Lydia were having a good cry about it, actually.”
“Oh.” And he had to bring up the subject. That really helped. They started walking again. “But surely William won’t go. I mean, he’s all his mother has to help drive the team and get things done around the camp. No one would expect her to let him go.”
“Drusilla is like Lydia. Both boys are too young, and both mothers are convinced that they shouldn’t go. For Drusilla it’s not just the fact that she needs William. Remember, she sent her man off to war once, and look what happened. James came back paralyzed. As she puts it, ‘The burned child dreads the fire.’ ”
He didn’t say anything more to that. What was there to say? They walked on. Then suddenly Caroline looked up at him and smiled. “By the way, happy Independence Day.”
When all of the passengers aboard the Brooklyn gathered on deck, along with the majority of the crew, there was little room left for moving around. Fortunately for all, this morning was a clear, beautiful day, and the ship moved up and down smoothly on the long swells. After many weeks on the water, the people adjusted to that motion without conscious thought and had no problem keeping their balance. As much as possible, they were gathered near the bow, all facing forward.
The call from Captain Richardson for an assembly came as a surprise, and there was much interest as he climbed aboard a large chest near the bow where everyone could see him. Now he raised his hands, and the Saints fell silent.
“Friends and fellow shipmates,” he began, “this is our fifth day out from the Sandwich Islands, and we are on our way to California.”
“Hallelujah!” a man behind them shouted. That brought a ripple of laughter and considerable applause.
Richardson laughed too. “Yes, I agree. Hallelujah to that idea.” He took a quick breath. “It was exactly five months ago today that we left New York Harbor and began our voyage. Since we left on February fourth, that means today is . . .” He let it hang in the air.
“Independence Day,” they all called out.
“Yes, it is the Fourth of July, Independence Day. And while we are a long way from America, we are all still Americans. Therefore, while there is much to do, and while we cannot spend the day in celebration, neither can we simply let it pass unnoticed. I wanted us to take an opportunity to remember our heritage, to remember who we are and whence we came.” He looked over the heads of the assembly to where the first mate and two other ship officers stood waiting. “Gentlemen, you may proceed.”
The crowd of Saints and crew turned as one to face the opposite direction. With great solemnity the first mate walked to a small locker and opened it. He bent over, then straightened again. What he held in his hand was easily recognizable as Old Glory, even though it was folded into a neat triangle. He moved to the rigging and, with the help of the bosun, unfurled the flag. They attached it to the lanyard and then raised it in one continuous motion.
The people fell silent. Some put their hands over their hearts. Men removed their hats. Some of the women were weeping at the sight of it. Out to sea, when there was no one around, they did not fly the flag, as the salt water and sun were very hard on it. To see it suddenly run up the lanyard and hear it start snapping in the breeze was a stirring experience, and the group stood silently enjoying it. Alice moved closer to Will so that their shoulders touched.
Captain Richardson straightened to his full height and slowly saluted the flag. As he held that pose, suddenly a woman began to sing. It rang clear and sweet above the creaking of the ship and the snapping of the flag.
Oh say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,
For a moment, the assembly was silent, but then others quickly joined in with her.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous
fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
Not all knew the words. There were a few who had recently emigrated from Europe. But those who did know the words sang them out with great enthusiasm. Many reached out and took one another’s hands, united in this simple and yet profound moment of remembrance. Will had to stop for a moment, for his throat had so constricted that he couldn’t get a sound out. He recovered enough to come back in on the last two lines. He threw his head back and, along with all the others, sang with full throat as they gazed up at the red, white, and blue cloth that crackled in the breeze above them.
Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
; O
’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Bringing a raft of logs that was the equivalent of fifty or sixty thousand board feet of lumber into shore was no easy task, especially when the current was running high and swift. But Jean Claude Dubuque was no ordinary lumberman and had brought in rafts that were much larger than this. Carl stood beside him, surveying the ropes and checking how the raft was snuggled into the shore. It was good. Jean Claude had done it again.
“You sure you have a place to stay?” he asked the Frenchman. “We’ve got plenty of room.”
“No, no,” Jean Claude replied. “I have a cousin who is expecting me.”
Carl nodded, not asking the other two lumbermen who had come down with them about needing accommodations. They were from Wisconsin Territory and would sleep on the raft and make sure it was safe through the night. “Then we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Au revoir.”
Carl suddenly stopped, smiling. “Do you know what day it is today, Jean Claude?”
“Oui.”
“Good.” He glanced up at the afternoon sky. “We’ve prob-ably missed all the celebrations, but at least we made it in time.”
“Happy America Day, Carl,” he said, lifting his hand.
“The same to you, Jean Claude.” And with that, he hitched his shoulder bag a little higher and started up the grassy hillside. On top, as he knew he would, he found a path that headed south. In the distance he could see the gleaming white tower and walls of the Nauvoo Temple. Somehow it seemed just the right thing to welcome him home.
They had beached the raft about a mile north of town, and at first he followed the path along the river, thinking he would cut over to his house once he passed the stone quarry. Then, as the deserted quarry came into sight, he changed his mind. With the Fourth of July, there would be more people out and about, so Melissa would likely be at the store to handle the increased business. He swung over to Hyde Street, then headed south. He found himself smiling in anticipation of beholding Melissa’s face when she saw him.
To his surprise, he passed no one as he walked briskly along. At one home there were two children playing in the backyard, and at another he saw a figure pass by a window, but the streets were deserted. His mood sobered a little as he realized how many more empty houses there were even since he had left three weeks before. The city was emptying out quickly.
As he rounded the corner of Knight Street and turned west, he stopped dead. For a moment, he thought he had not been paying attention and turned one street too soon. There was no store at the corner of the next block. He stared, recognizing the other houses on the street but not comprehending why there was nothing where the store should have been. And then he saw the pile of charred timbers and ashes where the Steed Family Dry Goods and General Store should have been. With a gasp of astonishment, he broke into a run.
Chapter Notes
Several diarists and contemporary letter writers, including Edwin Bryant and the Reeds’ daughter Virginia, speak of the Fourth of July celebration held on Beaver Creek near present-day Douglas, Wyoming. The details given here—including the dog drum, the lemonade, and Mr. Reed’s special bottle of brandy—are all drawn from those accounts. (See Overland in 1846,pp. 278, 427–28, 586; What I Saw,pp. 120–21;Chronicles,pp. 88–89.) Surprisingly, there was available at that time a lemon extract. The pioneers would mix it in water with sugar and vinegar or citric acid to make lemonade. (See Jacqueline Williams, Wagon Wheel Kitchens: Food on the Oregon Trail[Lawrence, Kans.: University Press of Kansas, 1993], pp. 90–91.)
In contrast, there is no known mention of the holiday by Latter-day Saints, either in Brigham Young’s official history or in such journals as those of William Clayton and Wilford Woodruff.
Though it would not officially become the national anthem of the United States until 1931, by 1846 “The Star-Spangled Banner” had long been a favorite of Americans. During the War of 1812, Francis Scott Key, a lawyer, had gone to the British to negotiate for the release of a prisoner. The exchange was made, but the British warships had just begun an attack on Fort McHenry near Baltimore, and so they held Key on board a British vessel for a time so that he could not warn the Americans about the attack. Key watched anxiously as the poorly defended fort was bombarded for almost twenty-four hours. At dawn, when a break in the mists revealed Old Glory still flying proudly above the battered walls, Key was so stirred that he sat down and penned the first stanza of a poem inspired by what he saw. When he was returned to Baltimore, he wrote additional stanzas, and they were immediately printed as a handbill and distributed throughout the city. A few days later, an actor sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” in Baltimore, putting the words to a well-known English drinking song. The song became instantly popular and soon was felt to best epitomize the feelings of patriotism so many felt for America. (See World Book Encyclopedia, s.v. “The Star-Spangled Banner.”)
Chapter 10
Melissa spoke quietly, her voice flat and without emotion, as though she were telling him something that had happened to a total stranger. She finished, glanced up at him once, then looked down again. The children sat quietly around the sitting room, watching their father gravely. After a moment, he turned to young Carl. “I’m proud of you, son. Thank you for caring for your mother.”
Melissa’s head came up, and now he could tell she was close to tears. “If Carl hadn’t come . . .” She couldn’t finish and closed her eyes.
“If I’d have thought, Pa,” young Carl said guiltily, “I would have stood guard at the store that night. We just didn’t—”
“You did good, son. It’s not your fault. I’m real proud.”
“Thank you, Pa.”
“Why don’t you and David take the other children out and play for a time, Carl. I need to speak with your mother.”
He nodded and they trooped out, almost relieved to escape the pain in their parents’ eyes. When the door shut, Carl went over and sat down beside his wife. “Are you sure you’re all right, Melissa?”
She nodded.
“They didn’t . . . ?”
There was a barely perceptible movement of her head. “No. Carl came just in time.”
“Thank the Lord for that.” He reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “It’s all right, as long as you weren’t hurt. We can rebuild the store.”
Her head came up sharply. “With what, Carl? We don’t have any money.”
“We will, once we sell the lumber in St. Louis. If prices are good—and they say they are—I should end up with two or three thousand dollars.”
To his surprise, she leaned forward eagerly. “Let’s use it to buy a wagon and team.”
He sat back slowly, withdrawing his hand from hers. “What?”
“I mean it, Carl. There’s nothing left here for us. We haven’t had an order for bricks for over two months now. The store is gone. There’s more and more tension with our enemies. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”
“Look, Melissa, I know you are upset over this. I fully understand that, but—” Her look stopped him. “What?”
“Don’t patronize me, Carl. This didn’t happen last night. I was terribly upset after it happened—very upset—but that was almost three weeks ago, Carl. I’ve—”
He stood up, cutting her off in mid-sentence. “Look, Melissa, I’m very sorry about all this. I know it frightened you badly, but we can’t settle this now. I have to be back with Jean Claude at first light. I’d like to spend some time with the children before I have to go to bed.”
Her mouth pulled down. “I know. I’m sorry, Carl. The children are anxious to have some time with you.”
“We’ll talk about it when I get back from St. Louis.”
She looked away. “All right.”
He started toward the door.
“Carl?”
He stopped and turned his head.
“I believe it was the Lord who sent young Carl to help me.”
His head moved slightly. “Whatever or whoev
er it was, I am very thankful that it turned out as it did.”
She went on, half speaking to herself. “Young Carl was here watching the children. Suddenly he just had this strong feeling that things weren’t all right. He even brought the shotgun. And that made all the difference.”
He nodded slowly. That wasunusual, he agreed.
“I think it was the Lord’s way of blessing me for coming back to the Church.”
He straightened slowly. So that was it? Well, no surprise there. “We’ll talk when I get back,” he said, keeping his voice level. He started for the door again.
“Carl?”
He sighed and turned back.
“I’m not willing to stay in Nauvoo any longer.”
Though he tried to keep his face impassive, he felt himself stiffen and knew that she saw it. “And if I don’t want to leave?” he asked slowly.
“I don’t know.” She bit her lower lip and he saw that it was trembling slightly. “When you get back, we have to talk.”
“Kathryn?”
She looked up from the book she was reading. “Yes?”
“Would you like to go for a ride?”
She closed the book slowly. “A ride?”
“Yes. Mr. Bryant said there’s a wonderful surprise if we follow the creek upstream about a mile and a half. Mr. Reed has given me permission to take one of the horses.”
She was watching Peter closely now, the book forgotten. It was about two o’clock. The celebrations were done. The last of Mr. Reed’s fine liquor was long since gone. Bryant and Russell and their party had packed their mules and left shortly after noon. The rest had determined to stay here at Beaver Creek for another day. There was good water and plenty of graze for the animals and more than one hangover to be slept off. The Reeds were in their commodious wagon. Peter had just returned from checking on the oxen. They had about another five or six hours until sundown. All of this went through her mind as she considered this unusual offer.
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