by Dean Hughes
“I’m Sister Lewis. I met you at the—”
“I know you, Sister Lewis. But what is it ye’re doing?”
“Will promised to help you with the garden, but he hasn’t come very often. I thought I could weed just a little this morning before the heat comes on.”
“But you shouldn’t ... be doing that.”
He didn’t mention her condition, of course, but she knew what he meant. “It’s good for me,” she said. “I’ve been so indolent lately, I feel as though I’m losing my strength.”
He continued to stare at her as though he were struggling to think what to say. “The garden’s not been looked after,” he said. “We’re all down sick. Every one of us.”
“I’m so sorry, Brother Johns. Have you food and water?”
“We’ve gotten by. One of us can most often make it to the well. And our neighbors have brought us food.”
“Let me speak with your wife. I can help you. I have time these days.”
He didn’t answer, just stood as he had before, his mouth gaping. “Are you a lady?” he finally asked.
Liz laughed. “No. Not at all. I’m a common person—the same as everyone here.”
“But you talk like a lady—so fine. I thought you was a angel when I first seed you out here. I had to rub my eyes.”
“I’m far from being an angel, I fear, but may I speak with your wife?”
“Aye. Surely. But she’s down this mornin’. Do you mind comin’ inside?”
“No. Of course not.”
So the two walked inside the dark little cabin. Sister Johns seemed as surprised as her husband had been to look up and see Liz standing over her. Liz knelt by the bed and took hold of Sister Johns’s hand. “Is your fever bad this morning?” Liz asked.
“Not as bad as yesterday. I must get up today. I must look after my little ones.”
“Let me make breakfast for you. And I’ll see how the children are faring. You rest some more.”
Brother Johns had built a small fire. Liz mixed up cornmeal with a little salt and water, kneaded it into dough, and then set the dough, in lumps, on a board in front of the fire. While the cakes cooked, she changed the baby’s diaper, and she washed the little girl, Eliza, who was shockingly hot to the touch and seemed comforted by the cool water. Afterwards, Liz hoed again, and by the time she climbed up through the woods to her own house, she was exhausted but feeling much better than she had felt for quite some time.
All the next week Liz walked to the Johns’s house each morning, and Brother Johns always called her “our angel.” Liz told him not to talk so, but she liked that she could help them. She was needed, and that was important to her. She hadn’t known until this summer that she could work, even work hard. She liked to think she could serve. She didn’t want to be a weakling. She wanted to be part of this place.
• • •
On Sunday, September 11, Will and Liz walked to the grove, arrived early, and found themselves a place to sit on a split log in the shade of an old burr oak. It was a nice place, only thirty or forty yards from the wooden stand at the top of the hill, but as a large crowd gathered, Will gave up his seat to an older sister, Mother Greene, and sat a little aside on the grass. Liz wanted to do the same, but he told her she needed to have a seat and convinced her to stay where she was.
Will hoped that Joseph Smith would attend again, but not long after he had spoken to the Saints the last time, sheriffs had arrived in Nauvoo and searched for him. William Clayton had told Will the story: A visitor at Joseph’s house had answered the door when the lawmen had knocked. The visitor had delayed the lawmen while Joseph slipped out a back door, ran through a cornfield, and made his way to safety upstairs in the brick store. Since then, Joseph had been in hiding again.
Hyrum Smith, Joseph’s older brother and Patriarch of the Church, was presiding at the meeting this Sunday. He called the Saints to order. It was a meeting like the camp meetings Will had sometimes attended as a boy among the United Brethren. Thousands of members sat on the hillside or in their wagons or oxcarts.
Will never felt more a part of Zion than when he saw the assembled Saints and heard Apostles and other leaders preach the gospel. They would often proclaim a new understanding they had received on doctrine and eternal matters. It was never a matter of showing up to hear the same old sermons the way Will had been used to in his growing-up years.
What Will loved most about meetings in the grove was the sense he felt that “the gathering” really was taking place. Good people from many parts of the world had been caught in the gospel net, and they had given up all they had to come here and build the temple at the top of the hill. The walls were not very high yet, not even visible from farther down the hill, but the work was going on every day except Sundays, and people were sacrificing to pay tithes so the temple could be completed. It was true that Joseph sometimes reprimanded the Saints who failed to offer their tithes of income and labor, but Will knew how many had been ill lately and how difficult it was for most people merely to sustain themselves.
The Saints sang “Redeemer of Israel” in strong voices, and then Brother William Marks, Nauvoo’s stake president, offered a mighty prayer. Brother Hyrum asked for a sustaining vote for several men who were to be advanced in the priesthood, and then he read a recently written letter from the Prophet Joseph explaining that his enemies, on the basis of lies “of the blackest dye,” were pursuing him relentlessly. He had left Nauvoo for his own safety and for the safety of “this people.” Hyrum’s voice was like Joseph’s, and so was his stature. Will felt a thrill, as though Joseph were speaking these strong words himself.
Joseph explained in his letter that he would return when the troubles had passed. Such trials were not a new thing to him. “But nevertheless,” he wrote, “deep water is what I am wont to swim in. It all has become a second nature to me.”
The letter also admonished the Saints to continue their work on the temple, and then Joseph demonstrated that he was continuing to lead the Church, even in exile. He taught the Saints that each baptism for the dead must be performed before a witness and carefully recorded.
Will was reassured to know the Prophet was still guiding the Saints, and he enjoyed the sermons that followed. But when the meeting ended, having lasted three hours, he could see that Liz was weary. She had begun to shift and squirm about halfway through. She had finally moved over to him, seeming to find more comfort on the softer surface. He helped her up after the closing prayer and she laughed at herself. “I feel like an old milch cow when I try to get up on my feet,” she said.
“Maybe you should have stayed home—and had yourself a real day of rest.”
“No. It’s good to see everyone and remember how many of us live here.”
“The truth of it is, I wish some of the people had left their boys home.”
“Now, Will, you were a boy once yourself, you know.” She wagged a finger at him and gave him a sly smile.
“I know. But my father didn’t let me run about during the sermons. I had to sit and listen.” He laughed. “Or at least, sit.”
Just then Will heard a voice behind him. “Will and Liz, hello. It’s good to see you.”
Will turned around and saw Jesse Matthews. He was striding up the hill, and Ellen, with their children, was not far behind him. “It’s good to see you,” Will said, clapping his arms around Jesse. “It’s been weeks. Are you faring well enough?”
Jesse’s smile died away. “In truth ... I can na’ claim that we are. We’re livin’ with the family that took us in at the beginnin’—the Lovelesses. We’re crowded up into one room. I have na’ had much work—surely not enough to keep us thrivin’.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jesse.” Ellen was approaching now with Jesse Junior and Mary. Liz hurried to them and embraced Ellen. But Ellen looked tired. She was still very thin and her clothing looked worn, th
e blue of her cotton dress now almost gray, her shawl tattered.
But Liz was already inviting them home for Sunday dinner, and Ellen seemed cheered by that. Will saw young Jesse’s eyes come alive as well, and he wondered whether the family had had enough to eat.
“Did you walk into town or—”
“How else can we go about?” Jesse asked. “We ha’ no horse, no cart. Nothin’.”
Will heard something in Jesse’s voice—a hint of resentment—and that worried him. But he decided not to ask too many questions for now. “I bought an old mare,” Will said, “and I ride her out to my work, but we walked here today. Let’s go as far as our place, and then you can rest and eat before you start your walk home.”
So they all walked toward the crest of the hill. Many members had gathered at the stand to greet the Church leaders, but Jesse showed no interest in doing that, so Will didn’t stop either. They walked on past the temple, and Will commented on the slow progress lately with all the sickness in town. Jesse said, “Aye. ’Tis true. I work on the temple oft. Work for pay, that is. But the wages is na’ much—and it’s a mighty long walk comin’ and goin’.”
“I only put in my one day in ten. But I like to think what it is we’re building. You heard what Joseph said about it in his letter today.”
“Aye. It’s a fine thing, I ha’ no doubt—but na’ the kind of work I need.”
They continued along Mulholland through the little business area east of the temple. A number of stores and shops had opened there on the bluffs, although some of the Saints said that it was taking business away from Main Street, which Joseph had intended as the commercial part of the city. Shop owners, however—some of them settlers who had lived in Commerce before it had ever been called Nauvoo—liked this area near the temple, away from the wet ground near the river.
Will and Liz’s place was about a mile from the temple. Will picked up little Mary after a time, and she leaned her head on his shoulder and soon fell asleep. Young Jesse tramped along as best he could. He was five now, but small for his age, and his boots were falling apart. As they walked south on Rich Street through a gulley between Mulholland and the hill where the Lewises’ house was, Will expected Jesse to pick up the boy and carry him through a muddy area at the bottom, but Jesse hardly seemed to notice—which wasn’t like him. So Will picked up Jesse Junior in his other arm and carried him halfway up the hill.
As they neared the house, Jesse did say, “It’s a fine spot you chose here, Will. Did you build the house yourself?”
“No. I ne’er could have. I was still too weak. Some brothers helped me finish getting the logs ready, and then they raised the house. When you’re ready to build, be certain to let me know. I learned a good deal about building a block house. I can help you—and other men will do the same.”
Jesse nodded, but it was Ellen who said, “An’ how should we do that, Will? Brother and Sister Loveless tell us we can have a parcel of their prairie land and they will na’ ask us nothin’ for it. But where do we get timber out there on the prairie, and how can we feed our family ’til we harvest a crop?”
“We need to talk that over,” Will said. “I have some thoughts on it.”
“It’s too late for that, Will,” Jesse said. “We’re pullin’ out. We walked to the grove this mornin’ just hopin’ someone would say somethin’ that might change our thinkin’. But it was what we’ve heard afore. Back in England it was all tol’ ta us like we was comin’ to the Garden of Eden.”
“Maybe that’s more the way we wanted to think of it than anything anyone actually told us. And this is good land, Jesse.”
“It is if you can afford it—and pay someone to plow it the first time. An’ that I can na’ do.”
“Well ... let’s sit down and have a cool drink of water. Liz started a stew this morning, and we only have that and some cornmeal to make johnnycake. We have no wheat flour just yet, but there’s plenty of stew, and that ought to make us all feel better. Then we’ll talk.”
So they all went inside. Will carried Mary to the back room and laid her on their bed; Jesse Junior soon joined her and fell asleep too. Ellen looked as though she would like to do the same. But she talked with Liz while Liz began to mix up the cornmeal dough. Will stoked the fire a little to make sure the stew would be hot. Then he walked out to the well, dropped a wooden bucket down, and cranked the winch to bring up the water.
Jesse and Ellen seemed to enjoy the cool drink, and the four talked quietly and let the children sleep for a time. Each had news from various friends and family back in Ledbury, and they shared what they knew. Will thought he saw their spirits rise a little, and when they finally gathered around the table to eat, Will was surprised just how much all of the Matthewses could gulp down. Even little Mary awakened to the smell of the johnnycake and stew and ate as though she hadn’t had a good meal in a long while. Jesse Junior ate almost as much as Will did. After dinner, he seemed greatly revived, and he and his sister walked outside to look about.
It was Jesse who came back to the subject that Will had delayed. “I can na’ say that any’un lied to us back in England, but they painted the picture too rosy,” he said.
“But you can own land here, Jesse, and you never could have back in Ledbury.”
“It’s true. A man wants to give me a piece of land for nothin’. That sounds too good to be true. But I don’t have a farthin’ to my name. How can I build a house? For a true farm, I need a bigger section of land. And then I need animals to plow with—and everythin’ else it would take to get started. Before we left England, I was tol’ ever’one would work together and make such things possible. But we’re all so poor, who can help som’un else get a start?”
Will knew what Jesse was saying. He didn’t try to talk Jesse into anything. He took his time and just asked a few questions. Jesse described what had happened since he and Ellen had arrived. John Benbow had encouraged them to come to the prairie, by the “Big Mound,” a bump in the prairie beyond Joseph Smith’s farm at the east end of Parley Street. Out there they could be close to the Saints from the Malvern Hills. The Lovelesses had given Jesse and Ellen a place to live, but that had been intended as a temporary solution. Jesse had assumed he could work for someone and build up a nest egg to buy some farmland. But the little work he found did no more than keep his family fed, and sometimes not that.
Will sat across the little wooden table from Jesse. He listened and kept nodding and saying, “I know what you mean.” Finally he asked, “What about the Big Field that you can plant for free? You live not far from it.”
“But I have no equipment, no oxen or horses. And my children need to eat now—not next year. What am I to do all winter?”
“What are you thinking of doing? If you leave, where would you go?”
“I wish we could go home,” Ellen said. “But I can na’ face the ocean again. I can na’ bear to lose another child.”
“Aye. I understand. I’m sorry we didn’t do more to help. We didn’t know things were so bad.”
“We’ve been able to get by. And many a one has brought us cornmeal and potatoes, e’en table and chairs. But a man likes to stan’ on his own legs. All I want is work. Some people we knowed in Herefordshire is leaving here and heading to St. Louis, down the river. There’s work there, they say, an’ a good many Saints live there besides. We will na’ ever leave the Church. We on’y want to go where we can find a way to live.”
“But this is Zion. The temple is here.”
“That’s all well and good. But if it’s such a fine place, why can na’ the Lord bless His people? I hate to say such words, Will, but the Lord—or Joseph Smith—chose a sickly place. An’ some of the people here is not so righteous as they pretend. They act about the way people do anywhere—and we was told they would be better.”
Will knew all too well what Jesse was talking about. He still hadn’t received a single
dollar of the forty that Brother Lancaster owed him. He had seen men as drunk as sailors, and he knew for certain that one of his neighbors on the flats had struck his wife and blackened her eye. “But Jesse, people did bring you food,” Will said. “And someone did take you in. That wouldn’t happen everywhere. Most people do try hard to live the gospel. We have to look down the road a little and imagine what Nauvoo will be—and not be too disappointed by what it is so far. So many have come here, so fast, that the city can’t keep up with all the demands.”
“That’s true enough. Too many has come. An’ maybe some needs to leave.”
“Maybe. But before you make up your mind, listen to what I’m thinking.” Will wanted to say this right. He set his elbows on the table and looked into Jesse’s eyes. “Here’s our situation. I have six yoke of oxen. I’ve been plowing farmland for people and I’ve started grading roads. I’m also farming at the Big Field, out on the prairie by you. But I cannot get everything done. I hired a man, but he’s down with the ague now, and he won’t be much help to me during the harvest. I’m thinking, you and I could work together—join up as partners—and both be better off.”
“I do na’ see that. What could I bring to a partnership?”
“For one thing, I’m boarding my oxen with a farmer out east of town, but that only cuts into my profit. Maybe I could board those oxen with you, at this place Brother Loveless wants to give you. I’ll return the favor by opening up some land for you at the Big Field. It’s too late to plant this season, but right now I could use a man to work with me to get these county roads cut before winter sets in. Plowing—or grading, either one—with that many oxen, is too big a job for one man to handle. Three men would be best, and maybe that’s what we’ll have by next spring.”
“Do you need me, Will, or are you only wantin’ to—”