Through Cloud and Sunshine

by Dean Hughes

  Will considered for a moment. He thought of pronouncing the word of the Lord, loudly and forcefully—no matter who tried to interrupt him—like Samuel the Lamanite calling sinners to repent. But he knew better. He would only satisfy himself and win no one over to his point of view. So he merely said, “That’s fine. I thank you for letting me say a few words.”

  Will felt good about that. He hadn’t taken offense. He had behaved as a true Christian should, humble and willing to accept this man’s disdain. But still, he wanted to salvage something from the evening if he could. “May I simply add,” he said, “that if any of you do want to hear my entire message, I would be happy to visit you in your homes or in any—”

  “You’ll not lead my people astray,” Reverend Fields growled. “Calvin, throw him out.”

  A big man, built like a workhorse and dressed in a heavy, worn-out coat, stood up and approached Will, clutching him by the arm. “Out with you,” he said.

  Will grabbed his Bible and his Book of Mormon and stuffed them into his valise. He began moving toward the door, but Calvin seemed to think that Will ought to walk faster. He pushed him from behind. Then a man opened the back door and Calvin gave Will a hard shove. Will stumbled forward. Just as he caught his balance, he felt two big hands slam against his back again, driving him, off balance, into the door frame. Will stayed on his feet, but he had dropped his scriptures, which he bent to retrieve. “I’m leaving, sir,” he said. “You need not push me.”

  “I’ll poosh yuh if ah choose to,” Calvin said as Will stepped onto a front step. There was a muddy path ahead, and when the big man’s hands landed on his shoulders, Will knew immediately that he was about to be shoved face-first into a puddle of water not far ahead.

  Will responded by instinct. He suddenly ducked down, broke Calvin’s grip, dropped his valise on the ground, and then twisted and came up facing the big man. “I’ll make my own way from here,” he said.

  Calvin tried to lunge at Will, but Will dodged quickly to one side, and then, as the man lost his balance, gave him some help with a hard shove on his back. Calvin went sprawling into the puddle, on his chest, and floundered in the mud.

  By then Reverend Fields had come to the door. “What kind of man are you, Lewis?” he was shouting. “How could you act this way at the very door to my church?”

  “It was your man who tried to push me into the mud. I only moved more quickly than he did.”

  “And you pushed him from behind. I saw that.”

  It was true, and Will couldn’t deny it. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that. But he was after me—and I simply reacted to his charge.”

  Calvin was up by then, his face and coat splashed with mud, but he appeared surprisingly unwilling to take Will on again.

  “I really am sorry, Calvin. I shouldn’t have done that. But you shouldn’t have pushed me that way. I told you I was leaving.”

  “Clear out,” Fields was barking, sounding almost wild with anger. “The devil take you, Mormon. Blasphemer. Agent of hell!”

  So Will picked up his valise and walked around the puddle and then on down the road. But he did glance back to see the young man who had expressed some interest—Jake Winthrop. He was standing near the door watching, and Will told himself that somehow he would find this man and teach him and his wife.

  Chapter 10

  By the beginning of March, 1843, Liz had begun to hope that Will would soon return from his mission. Still, she had done well by herself—better than she had expected. She had liked what Sarah Kimball had told her, and after their conversation, she had read and studied the gospel and the scriptures almost every evening. She had also made excuses to visit Sarah more often than she actually needed to. The two were becoming friends, and Liz loved the strength she gained from the time they shared. Sarah told her one day, “It’s right that we should miss our husbands when they’re called away, but it’s also good that they find out we can take care of ourselves.”

  Female Relief Society meetings hadn’t been held during the winter, but they would be starting up again now, and Liz looked forward to meeting with all the sisters again—and hearing from Emma and the other leaders.

  Liz enjoyed being called on by the Necessity Committee to help sisters in her ward. Liz’s food was holding out well, so she gave a good deal of it to those who had not been able to put as much away. Even though she had her schoolchildren to teach and Jacob to look after, it was a rare week when at least once she didn’t march through the cold and snow to visit someone. She prepared meals for families, carried in water, chopped wood. The winter had been extremely cold and hadn’t let up yet, and she had worried about carrying Jacob out into the weather, but he was thriving, and he was a good-natured boy who seemed to accept a little discomfort as part of life. She knew she left him to himself a great deal when she was teaching school, but he was good about playing with whatever wooden spoon or rolled-up stocking she gave him.

  It was on a bitter spring day when a dirty-faced boy in homespun trousers and wool coat came to her door. “Ma’am, are you Sister Lewis?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “Sister Goodrich axt me to carry this here letter to yuh.” He was holding a folded sheet of paper, which he extended toward Liz.

  “Thank you very much. And did Sister Goodrich pay you something for your efforts?”

  He grinned, showing teeth the color of smoke. “Yes, she did, and she tol’ me you shouldn’t pay me a penny more. So now I’ve said it.” But he waited, as though to test her resolve.

  “All right, then,” Liz said. “Thank you.”

  The boy doffed his cap and then ran off, as though in a hurry to stop somewhere to spend whatever Martha Goodrich had given him. She was the leader of the Necessity Committee, and was surely writing to let Liz know of someone in need.

  The letter explained that a woman on the bluffs, Hannah Murdock, had lost a child to whooping cough the week before, and now she had lost a second child. Sister Goodrich thought that Liz might be able to help her through some hard days.

  Liz didn’t know Sister Murdock, but there were directions to her house in the letter, and it wasn’t far away. What Liz didn’t like was carrying Jacob into a house where he might catch whooping cough. Still, she knew she had to help, so she took off her apron and tidied her hair, and then she wrapped a heavy shawl around herself and a blanket around Jacob, and she hurried down to Nelly’s house. Nelly agreed to watch Jacob for a time—“not more than two hours,” Liz promised. She handed him over to Nelly and then set out with her bonnet tied tight and her shawl close around her. She found the house close to Mulholland Street. It was a log cabin, but one that had never been properly chinked, and it had animal skins stretched over the windows, no glass.

  Liz knocked at the door. No one answered for a time. Finally, a boy of seven or so opened the door and looked out. “My ma ain’t well and cain’t come to the door,” he said.

  “May I come in for a moment and speak to her?”

  The boy shook his head and was about to shut the door, but Liz stepped forward, and he gave way. There was only one room in the cabin, with a bed in the corner, and Liz saw a face, gray as the bedding around it, looking out but not seeming to see anything.

  “Sister Murdock, I’m Sister Lewis. I heard about your grief. Tell me what I can do for you.”

  The woman didn’t answer, so Liz stepped closer to the bed. “Could I cook something for you and your family?”

  It was only then that Liz realized that someone else was in the room—a man in a dark corner, sitting hunched over in a chair. “She don’ wanna talk,” he said. “She won’t say a thing to me neither. When we lost our son las’ Wednesday—our second oldest—she kept on a-goin’ all the same. But then our li’l girl give out too, early this mornin’, an’ that was the end of it. Hannah went to bed, an’ she ain’t said a word all day.”
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br />   Liz knelt by Hannah’s bed, took hold of her hand, and held it to her face. “I lost a daughter last fall,” she said, and she thought to say, “I know how you feel.” But she remembered what Emma had told her, and she said instead, “It’s the worst pain I’ve ever known, and it only goes away a little. I’ll never be the same person I was; I know that.”

  Liz saw Hannah’s eyes move, angle toward her without her head moving at all. But she didn’t speak.

  “I must say, though, Sister Murdock, I’ve learned from the pain. I hope I’m a better person. I’d trade the lessons I’ve learned to have my Mary Ann back, but there’s something to gain from it all the same.”

  “But it’s two,” Brother Murdock said. “One was bad enough, but two was too much for ’er. We thought when we come here, God would carry us along on the wings of angels, but it’s been nothin’ but hardship since the day we set foot on this ground. I built this cabin quick, when winter was comin’ on, but it’s not held out the cold. That’s what’s brought on the sickness. We come too late to put in a garden an’ we had no ready cash to buy animals. So food’s been short all winter.”

  “Brother Murdock, I’m so sorry,” Liz said. She looked about, now that her eyes were getting accustomed to the dark. There was bedding on the floor but only the one bed, and only one other chair—nothing else. There was not even a crane in the fireplace, or a kettle. She wondered how the poor woman had managed to cook anything.

  “We ain’t the only ones. I guess we can suffer for the truth. But I never thought it would be like this.” There was a flatness in Brother Murdock’s voice that seemed beyond grief—some version of wonder.

  “I can bring you some smoked pork,” Liz said. “And cornmeal. Should I go back and bring it now?”

  “No. We have a little bacon left from what our neighbors give us, and we make ash bread. I know enough to do that. We’ll get by for now.”

  “But I’ll bring some other things. You need pots and kettles, and a crane for your fireplace.”

  “Yes. An’ we’ll get all them things in time. But for now, I jist hope you could do something for my Hannah.”

  Liz looked at her again. She had no idea what to say, so she reached under the old quilt and pulled Hannah into her arms. She pressed her cheek against Hannah’s face and held her tight. “God hasn’t forgotten you,” she said. “He’s sent your sisters to help. We’ll be here as much as you need us, and we’ll help you every way we can.”

  Liz felt no response. Hannah’s thin body was stiff, and she didn’t speak, didn’t cry. Liz continued to hold her for a time, but she wondered whether she were only bothering the poor woman, so she slid her arms back from around her.

  Someone was crying. Liz looked back at the boy, who had stayed by the door. “She’s gonna die too,” he said. “She tol’ me this morning, she don’t want ta live.”

  Liz stood up and stepped over to the boy. When she embraced him, he grabbed her around the waist and clung to her. “She doesn’t want to die,” Liz said. “Not really. She only feels that way today. But she loves you, and she’ll get up tomorrow—or the next day—and she’ll look after you. And for right now, I’ll come with more food, and I’ll do everything I can for her—for all of you.”

  The boy continued to grip her, continued to cry.

  “Tell me your name,” Liz said.

  “Alfred,” he mumbled.

  A few more seconds passed, and then Liz heard Hannah stirring in her bed. “It’s all right, Alferd,” she said. “I’m gettin’ up.” She let her legs slide over the side of the bed, and she sat upright. “I need to wash Lucinda and get her ready,” she said to Liz. “Could you help me with that?”

  Liz hadn’t known the dead baby was still there, but the father stood. “It’s all right,” he said. “I can get her ready. I just haven’t wanted to—not just yet.”

  “Do you have a coffin?” Liz asked.

  “No. But I have wood. I’ll take care of that, too.’

  “Please. You build the coffin,” Liz said. “Let me help Hannah. We’ll get Lucinda ready. I prepared my own little girl. It was the last thing I had a chance to do for her, and it still feels right that I did it.”

  A long pause followed. Finally Brother Murdock reached for an old blanket coat that was hanging by the fireplace. “I’ll get some fresh water,” he said, “and I’ll bring in some firewood. We’ll warm the water a little.”

  “Yes,” Liz said. “Do you have something that she can wear for her burial?”

  “Only the little dress she wore every day. Nothing else.”

  “Then let’s wash her and wrap her up in a blanket for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll bring something we can dress her in.”

  “The ground’s froze. There’s no burying her ’til warmer weather comes on.”

  “I know. But Brother Huntington keeps the bodies at his place. Lucinda can be buried properly when the ground thaws.” She turned back to Hannah. “Let’s do what we can for now.”

  Hannah stood. She looked more dead than alive, Liz thought, but she was on her feet.

  • • •

  Will wasn’t having much success as a missionary. He had heard Wilford Woodruff’s stories, knew that opposition was part of the work, but he also knew that Brother Woodruff had baptized thousands in England. Almost all missionaries came home with inspiring stories of miraculous conversions. Will was contending either with people who cared nothing about religion or with fanatics who had been admonished by their ministers to consider all Mormons the offspring of Satan. He had spent one night in jail—for no reason other than that a local minister had accused him of preaching devil worship and the sheriff had taken the man’s word for it. In another little town Will had been chased by young ruffians who threatened to tar and feather him. He had run faster that night than he ever had in his life—as though God had given him wings—but it was not quite the inspiring story he wanted to tell when he returned to Nauvoo.

  But Will hadn’t forgotten the young couple back in Pleasant View, Alabama, the Winthrops. On the night that he had been cast from the church, he had made up his mind that he would teach them—since they had expressed an interest. He had stayed about the area in spite of Reverend Field’s warnings, and he had used two bits from his limited cash to pay for a night’s sleep in a local tavern. Then he had asked the proprietor on the following morning if he knew a young man by the name of Jake Winthrop.

  “What are you?” the proprietor had asked.

  Will wasn’t sure what the man wanted to know, but he doubted it was wise, in this case, to admit his purpose. “I’m an Englishman,” he said. “I’ve been in this country less than a year, but I consider myself an American now.”

  “And what is it you sell?”

  “I’m not a salesman. I met Winthrop at a church meeting, and he encouraged me to stop by his place so we could talk religion.”

  “Oh, yes, he’s religious, all right.”

  “Then you know him?”

  “Yes, I do. He and his young wife have a farm west of town. It’s a mile, maybe more, out on the road. It’s a little white house with a red barn, newly painted.”

  So Will had walked back that way, and he had met Jake Winthrop, found him outside feeding his animals. Jake had invited Will in for a good breakfast, and he had apologized for the behavior of Reverend Fields. By the time Will had left, Winthrop and his wife, Faith, had listened and asked questions for three hours. They had also accepted Parley Pratt’s pamphlet, A Voice of Warning, and promised to read it.

  Will had had other experiences of that sort, and he had even baptized three families in a little town in Georgia. There had been a small branch of the Church established there, and some of the members had been spreading the word to their neighbors. What Will had learned was that when he stood before a group that was willing to listen, he could profess the doctrines with considerable clari
ty, and even more, with conviction. He sometimes longed to tell the story of how he had commanded the winds to cease, but it didn’t seem right to do so. He didn’t want to make himself out to be a tower of strength. But the experience at sea had brought him confidence in the power of the priesthood, and he drew on that when he preached. What he loved to do was to tell of Joseph Smith—describe the kind of man he was, in contrast to the lies about him—and he loved to tell people that he had looked into Joseph’s eyes and the Holy Ghost had whispered to him that Joseph was, indeed, a man chosen by God.

  Will knew that he had changed a few hearts, that he had countered some of the lies about Joseph. The problem was, the evil of those lies had spread far and wide. Will realized more every day that hatred for Mormons was unreasonably strong. Only Satan could have stirred up such feelings, he felt sure, and Satan would never stop his work.

  By late March Will decided it was time to make his way back toward Nauvoo so that he would be there when the weather broke. He had felt the sting of a hard winter, even in the South, and Liz’s letters reported extreme cold in Nauvoo. He didn’t want to head too far north before warmer temperatures returned, but he also wanted to be home as soon as the planting could begin. More than anything, he wanted to be back with his wife and little Jacob, and he wanted to have a place to sleep each night and not be forced to ask strangers to take him in.

  But before he headed north, he wanted to see the Winthrops once more. So he worked his way west from Georgia, continuing to preach when he could, but often walking all day. When he reached Pleasant View, he knew that he might have trouble if Reverend Fields or Mr. Mikkelson knew of his return, so he looped around the town and made his way to Jake and Faith’s farm. He knew how these matters could go, however. If the Winthrops had become seriously interested, they may have shown Parley Pratt’s pamphlet to Reverend Fields and asked his opinion. Once that happened, many a person who had taken an interest at first pulled back and then told him, on his return, to keep going.