There was no answer but the silence and the darkness. She reached for the book again and began to thumb idly, hoping that her eye would catch something that might be an answer. After ten minutes, she shut the book again, as deeply in turmoil as when she began. She set the book in her lap and bent down, putting her face in her hands.
Then a thought came to her. It came from a long time ago in her past. She remembered sitting around the fireplace one night back in Palmyra. They had been reading the Bible. Her head came up slowly. It had been something about women. She opened the book again, striving to remember. Was it something Jesus said? She slowly shook her head. She didn’t think so. One of the Apostles, then. Peter, James, Paul. She began to think of them one by one. Peter maybe. Or was it Paul? Paul had written so much more. She began to flip through the pages, holding the book closer to the light now, feeling a sudden eagerness.
There was no way to know exactly what she was looking for, and so no way to know where to find it. But she saw that there were brief one- or two-line summaries at the head of each chapter. With that, she turned to the book of Acts and slowly began to read every summary. It took her over half an hour, and she had about decided that her memory was playing tricks with her. Then the words seemed to jump out at her.
It was the introduction to the third chapter of the First Epistle General of Peter: “Wives to honor their husbands. Obedience brings blessings.”
Pleased and surprised, she leaned more closely to the candle and began to read to herself. “Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands.”
She stopped, half frowning, half smiling. Subjectionwas not what she was looking for. Thus the frown. But the smile came from a memory that came stealing in as softly as a kitten’s footsteps. She had been maybe sixteen or seventeen. They were gathered around the fire—it had been a winter’s night, she thought. Her father had been reading in this very chapter. “I don’t like that word,” Melissa had blurted out. She could remember his annoyance. He had stopped reading and looked up. “What word?”
“Subjection.”
For a moment he had seemed confused. She rushed on. “Why should a woman have to do what the man says?” she demanded. “Why can’t both have a say?”
A flash of irritation had darkened her father’s face, but to her surprise it was her mother who spoke up. “Do you think subjectionimplies that you are inferior?” she asked.
“Well,” Melissa had answered, “it sure sounds like it.”
“Do you think your father views me as inferior to him?” Mary Ann persisted.
“No.” That had come from several of them at once. There was no question about that. Benjamin Steed treated Mary Ann as if she were a queen in the home.
“Some men abuse their position as head of the home, and that is wrong,” Mary Ann went on. “But the evil is in the abuse, not in the fact that he is the head and the wife is subject to him. There has to be a head, Melissa. That’s all that Peter is saying here.”
The remembrance brought a sharp pang—how she missed the sweet wisdom of her mother and the gentle love of her father! She sighed, then continued reading.
“. . . that, if any obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by the conversation of the wives; while they behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear.” She stopped and read that again, puzzled by the awkward language. “If any” had to refer to the husbands, she decided. Then her mouth rounded and there came out a soft, “Oh.”
“If any obey not the word . . .” That had to mean husbands who didn’t accept the gospel. She was almost startled by that. That was Carl! She stared, reading it again to make sure she was correct. Then the next concept hit her. “If any obey not the word, they also may without the wordbe won by the conversation of the wives.”
“Conversation” was no difficulty to her. This was a word used in several places in the New Testament. As a child she had been taught that it was an old English word which did not mean “talking to one another” but rather “conduct, behavior, or the way a person acts.”
She began to speak aloud now as she put it into her own words. “So if there are husbands who don’t accept the gospel, they may be won without the word—” She stopped again. Without the gospel? That seemed strange. Then again, understanding flooded in. “Oh,” she cried softly. “They can be won without preaching to them. The husband can be won—or changed—by how the wife lives or by her conduct.”
Marveling at what was happening, she read the next verses. “While they behold your chaste conversation coupled with fear. Whose adorning let it not be that outward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wearing of gold, or of putting on of apparel; but let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of God of great price. For after this manner in the old time the holy women also, who trusted in God, adorned themselves, being in subjection unto their own husbands: even as Sara obeyed Abraham, calling him lord: whose daughters ye are.”
With a growing sense of wonder, she read the whole thing again, slowly and carefully. What was Peter saying? Not that the word, or the gospel, wasn’t important, but that a woman could win a man in other ways—not the ways of the world, through outward beauty and adornment, but rather through being more like Christ, by following his example of patience and faith and meekness and obedience.
She was nodding now, feeling a rush of light and joy that pushed back the gloom which had so enveloped her this night. Melissa set the book down and for a long time sat quietly in the chair, lost in her thoughts. Then she read through the scripture one last time before she blew out the candle, got down on her knees, and once again began to speak softly to the Lord.
When she heard Carl get out of bed, she immediately ran up the stairs. When she opened the door, he was standing there waiting for her, looking a little unsure as to what he should do. She smiled and went to him, putting her arms around him.
“I’m sorry, Carl.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. Where were you?”
“In Mama and Papa’s house.” She put her finger to his lips as he started to say something else. “It’s all right. I got an answer.”
“To what?”
“To what I should do.”
“And?” he asked slowly.
“I’m not going to leave you, Carl. We’re going to see this through together.”
For a moment, he just stood there, not sure what to say. Then finally his arms came around her and he put his face against her hair. “I couldn’t bear it if you did leave.”
“Neither could I,” she whispered. Then she pulled back and looked at him, her eyes wide and beseeching. “But you have to promise me something, Carl.”
“What?”
“You have to promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll put the safety of our children first.”
There was no hesitation. “And yours too.”
She laid her head against his chest. “Yes.”
“I promise,” he murmured. “I promise that with all my heart.”
Chapter Notes
Edwin Bryant’s party reached Fort Bridger late on the night of 16 July. The Donners would not reach it until 27 July. Since their last visit with the main party on the Fourth of July at Beaver Creek, the pack mule party had gained eleven days on the wagon companies. On 18 July Bryant wrote in his journal: “We determined, this morning, to take the new route, via the south end of the great Salt Lake. . . . Although such was my own determination, I wrote several letters to my friends among the emigrant parties in the rear, advising them notto take this route, but to keep on the old trail, via Fort Hall.” (What I Saw,p. 144.) We know from other sources that one of those letters was written to James F. Reed (see Chronicles,p. 108). There is no existing copy of that letter, and so the contents as written here are speculative. However, the details shared here by Bryant come from his journal account of this time. (See What I Saw,pp. x, xi, 133, 135, 142–44.)<
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The scripture Melissa reads is 1 Peter 3:1–6.
Chapter 17
Peter walked steadily alongside the oxen. Even though it was past five o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was beating down with merciless power, baking everything living and dead underneath its powerful rays. Peter took off his hat and swiped at the gritty dust along the inside rim. Then he took out a bandanna and wiped his forehead. It came away dark and grimy.
“It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”
He turned and smiled up at Margret Reed and her oldest daughter, who were riding on the spring seats inside the wagon and who had the canvas sides of the wagon rolled up to let in at least some air. He could see dark rings around the rims of their bonnets and knew that they were as hot as he was. He smiled ruefully. “We didn’t know how sweet the Valley of the Sweetwater really was, did we?”
Margret pulled a face. “Oh, what I’d give for an evening’s bath in those wonderful waters!”
“At least we’re going downhill now,” Peter observed.
Ironically, it had taken them almost half a day to realize that fact. Two days before, they had camped at the last crossing of the Sweetwater. Not far from where they stopped, the Sweetwater turned north toward the Wind River mountain range, which was the source of its headwaters. They knew they were close to South Pass at that point, and a general excitement swept through the company at the thought of seeing that famous dividing point along the trail. There they would leave the Atlantic watershed and enter the Pacific. But to their great disappointment, they couldn’t find it.
Yesterday they nooned in a gentle swale between two buttes, then about a mile farther on found a spring. Some thought it was Green Spring, or Pacific Spring, as it was also known, but others argued that since they hadn’t crossed the divide, it couldn’t be. They stopped at the spring for their evening meal, but decided to push on until they reached South Pass. After they had gone several miles, it was clear that the small creek spawned by the springs was headed west and was not going to circle around and join the Sweetwater. They also reached a place where they could see the land ahead for some miles, and it was all on a gentle downhill slope to the west. That’s when they realized the gentle swale between the two buttes had been South Pass.
Now Patty, the Reed’s eight-year-old daughter, poked her head out from beneath the roll of the wagon cover. “Will it be downhill all the way now, Peter?”
He laughed merrily. “I wish that were true, Patty. No, we’ve still got some high mountains to cross.”
Another head appeared beside hers. It was young James. He was five but bright enough to be two or three years older than that. “But how, then, can the water reach the Pacific Ocean?” he asked.
Peter hadn’t thought about that. “I don’t know, James. Perhaps it goes around the mountains on one side or another.”
“Then why don’t we go around the mountains?” he shot right back. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”
Margret laughed and tousled her son’s hair. “Easier, yes, but not necessarily shorter. And if it’s not shorter, then it may not be easier.”
“Oh.” And with that he was satisfied and pulled his head back inside.
Patty withdrew hers as well, and Peter turned back to watch the road ahead. Thinking they were not yet to South Pass, they had stayed on the road until long after dark the previous night, going on about thirteen miles beyond Pacific Spring. That had been a serious mistake. The only water was a few brackish pools in a dusty riverbed known as the Dry Sandy. To Peter’s horror, Balley, one of Mr. Reed’s best oxen, died a day after drinking that water. George, another of the better oxen, was now exhibiting similar symptoms. To lose two of the best oxen was not only a costly loss but a personal one to Peter, who had come to think of the oxen as friends.
They rose early this morning and pushed on, heading for the next substantial water source, which was the Little Sandy. The rest of the oxen were terribly thirsty and hungry and were wearing out quickly. Peter peered ahead, trying to see any sign of green in this vast expanse of sage and rock outcroppings. Ahead he saw a jackrabbit, startled out of its hiding place by one of the Donner wagons, race away in a breathtaking burst of speed, its huge ears marking its darting path through the sagebrush. Then he saw a small cloud of dust up ahead, off to the left of the main train, and after a moment could make out the dark figure of a man on horseback. He turned back to Mrs. Reed. “I think I see Mr. Reed coming.”
She straightened, peering forward. “I think you’re right, Peter.”
The rider was coming at a steady lope, and it took only a minute or two to confirm that it was Mr. Reed on his mare. He slowed for a moment as he passed the lead Donner wagon, calling something to them, then spurred on to his own three wagons.
“We’re almost there, Peter.” He looked up at his wife. “Margret, the Little Sandy is only about two miles ahead.”
“Wonderful. Is it really a river?”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Well, if you’re thinking in Illinois terms, no. If you’re thinking in terms of where we camped last night, it’s marvelous. It’s a stream of clear water about three feet deep and forty or fifty feet wide.”
“Really?” She clapped her hands in sheer anticipation.
Reed looked down at Peter. “There are several companies already there,” he said. “Boggs and his party, the Campbell group, Dunbar and West. We’ll have plenty of company.”
“Is there enough grass?” Peter asked, always concerned about his oxen.
“Oh yes.” He glanced at his wife, who had turned around to tell the children. He lowered his voice to a bare murmur. “The place where the routes separate is just a few miles beyond there. The Greenwood Cutoff leaves just west of the Little Sandy and heads for Fort Hall. We’re having a meeting tonight to decide which way to go.”
Peter nodded. “I don’t think our stock could take a long, dry stretch right now, Mr. Reed. But even if we don’t take the Greenwood Cutoff, we can still decide to go by way of Fort Hall once we reach Fort Bridger, can’t we?”
“That’s what I understand. Going that way is longer but has more water.”
“Are you still of a mind to take the Hastings route, sir?”
Reed nodded emphatically. “Without a doubt, Peter. Without a doubt.”
In the end it wasn’t much of a debate. The minds of most of the emigrants were already made up one way or the other. James Reed was the most enthusiastic supporter of the Hastings Cutoff and kept hammering at the idea of saving three hundred to four hundred miles over the Fort Hall route. He had made a copy of the Hastings letter brought east by Bonney and quoted from it liberally. “Listen,” he would say whenever it seemed appropriate, “the road around the Great Salt Lake is much nearer and better than the one via Fort Hall. Why extend the journey unnecessarily?”
But to those who had serious reservations about the new route and weren’t sure that Hastings was a sure guide, his words carried little weight. After half an hour of vigorous discussion, the vote was taken. Ex-Governor Boggs would lead the group going north to the Big Sandy, where they would rest a day to recruit their stock, then make the long, dry run to the Bear River. Several other companies agreed to accompany him.
Others decided that they didn’t want to risk the fifty-mile drive without water and determined to go to Fort Bridger. Then they would turn back north and head for Fort Hall. That was the more traditional Oregon Trail route.
On the other hand, James Reed, the two Donner brothers, Charles Stanton, Patrick Breen, the Murphys, and several of the German emigrants voted to try the new route. They would leave first thing in the morning and go straight for Fort Bridger to meet Hastings, who would then take them across his cutoff.
The two companies withdrew from each other to elect their new captains. Boggs was elected captain of those taking the Greenwood Cutoff. James F. Reed should have been chosen as leader of the group following Hastings. He was the natural choice; that was clear to everyone. But he was also the
wealthiest member of the party, and with his lavishly equipped wagon and his thoroughbred mare, some resented him. He also made no secret of the fact that he was descended from Polish aristocracy. This too did not set well with good old-fashioned American democracy and those who mistrusted anything that smacked of being too European.
In the end George Donner was elected captain. It was a disappointment to Peter, but not unexpected. The younger of the two Donner brothers was sixty-two. Though he was also well-to-do, he was a farmer, not an aristocratic and wealthy businessman. Everyone called James Reed “Mr. Reed.” Everyone called George Donner “Uncle George.”
Peter’s employer was disappointed too but took it in stride. In reality, the Donners still depended heavily on his counsel, and he would take a leading role in the train’s government. But from henceforth their little group would be called after its captain and would be known as the Donner Party.
As the meeting broke up and they started back for their wagons, the Reeds were together, walking a short distance behind the Donner group. Peter watched Tamsen Donner, wife of George Donner, carefully. She had sat back during both the meeting and the voting. There was considerable excitement in the air, with the division of routes soon to be upon them. People spoke in animated tones to each other and speculated on what this meant for their arrival date in California. But Tamsen Donner, a woman of unusual grace and learning, was strangely quiet and said little. Now she walked alone and said nothing.
Margret Reed noticed her and moved out ahead to slip an arm around her waist. “Well, Tamsen,” she said brightly, “what do you think of our decision tonight?”
Tamsen turned to look at her. She was frowning deeply.
Margret smiled, though it seemed a little strained in the face of such gloom. “What? What is it, Tamsen?”
“I don’t feel good about this,” she muttered.
“Why not?” Margret Reed had been infused with the enthusiasm of her husband and this came as a complete surprise to her.
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