“It’s in the corner by your feet,” Lydia said, lying back down again, grateful that she did not have to try to get up herself.
“Hurry, Josh,” Joseph wailed, “it’s coming faster.”
“Coming,” Josh soothed. He brushed past his father, got the small cooking pot, and made his way carefully between Josiah and Elizabeth Mary. There was silence for a moment, then a new plinking sound as Josh located the drip and put the pan under it. It added to the tiny symphony of sounds as water dripped into the various pots and pans scattered around the tent.
The other children were silent for the moment, but Lydia knew they weren’t asleep. No one in the Nathan Steed tent was asleep, even though they had been in bed for over an hour. Thus far they had six pots, two pans, and three serving bowls scattered around the tent, catching the water that was oozing through the saturated canvas in one place after another. And with the rain still roaring like water over a millrace, she knew it was not going to get any better. So much for the promises of the merchant who sold them the canvas and assured them that it would shed rain like the back of a goose. Instantly she was repentant. The man had been honest. He had just never envisioned anything like what was pouring down upon them now.
“We’re going to have to move your bed, Joseph,” Josh was saying.
“Where?” Emily muttered. “There’re no more empty places that are still dry.”
“Yeah,” Elizabeth Mary joined in. “My quilt is wet around my feet.”
“And I’ve got a rock where I’m sleeping,” Josiah mourned. “Right where my bottom wants to be.”
“Children,” Lydia called out. “What am I hearing right now?”
There was a deep silence except for the dripping water; then, meekly, Joseph answered. “Murmuring?”
“Yes. Remember when we talked about this? What was it that caused the children of Israel to lose the Lord’s blessings? And what did Laman and Lemuel in the Book of Mormon keep doing that got them in trouble?”
The tent went silent and Nathan smiled to himself. They had read some of those passages just the night before.
“Why is it called murmuring?” Lydia asked.
There was an instant response from all five children. “Mur-mur-mur-mur-mur,” they sang out in low, melodious, singsong voices.
Now Nathan chuckled aloud. Lydia had given the family a lesson before they ever left Nauvoo, and as part of that lesson she taught them a great big word she had learned as a schoolgirl back in Palmyra, New York. The word was onomatopoeia. She had described how proud she had been when she had learned to pronounce that huge word without hesitation, and soon had all the family repeating after her, “O-na-ma-ta-pee-a, o-na-ma-ta-pee-a.” Then she explained that onomatopoeia referred to using words that sounded like what they described, such as gurgle or cuckoo. To that point, Nathan had been perplexed, not sure why his wife had felt compelled to gather them around to teach them this one unusual word. Then she made her point. Taking them into the Old Testament and the Book of Mormon, they read together several verses that talked about the people murmuring. “Why do you suppose they call it murmuring?” she asked. They shook their heads. “Because this is what it sounds like. Mur-mur-mur-mur-mur. It isn’t raising your voice and making your complaint known. It’s muttering under your breath, whispering behind someone’s back, lowering your voice and barely getting the sounds out.”
She then made them mimic the sound, which had brought peals of giggling. Now each time one of them started to complain, or heard someone in the camp start to complain, Lydia would cock her head, put her hand to her ear, and whisper, “What was that I just heard?” Back would come the chorus, “Mur-mur-mur-mur-mur,” and in a moment the complaining would be gone and they would all be laughing.
“Come, Joseph,” Lydia called out. “There’s room for you between Papa and me. You’ll be warm here.”
Nathan got to his knees and began making room on the canvas floor beside his bed. In the darkness a hand touched his. “You didn’t really think you were going to sleep, did you?”
“I had hopes,” he said forlornly, squeezing Lydia’s hand back. And then Joseph was there, crawling awkwardly around his mother. Nathan laid a hand on his head and guided him so that he wouldn’t knee Lydia’s stomach as he made his way to his new place. “But if I’m not going to get any sleep,” he mourned, “is it too much to ask that we at least be dry?”
“What was that I just heard, children?” Lydia sang out clearly.
Back came the response, the children delighted that it was Papa who had just been caught. “Mur-mur-mur-mur-mur.”
By the afternoon of March eleventh, after two days of relentless rain, Richardson’s Point was a sea of mud. Nearby Chequest Creek had gone from a narrow stream of clear water to a roaring, angry, muddy torrent, too dangerous for fording in a wagon. It came as a surprise to no one when Brigham Young declared that they would not move on until the weather cleared. What they had thought would be a two-day rest stop was now becoming a full week, and no end in sight. Richardson’s Point had become the next Sugar Creek, a rest camp where the Saints could regroup and marshal their strength before moving on. With that in mind, Brigham ordered what work was possible on the sprawling campsite to make it more suitable for those who would follow, but there was not much that could be done in the continuing downpour.
“Utter misery” was the phrase that best described conditions during those two days. Families stayed mostly in their tents—crowded, wet, irritable, trying to catch the water seeping through the canvas as best they could, working desperately to keep children who were confined to a space no larger than ten feet by ten feet occupied and happy. Those who did venture out not only were quickly soaked through but also brought globs of mud back in with them and fouled the tents and bedding at every turn. Bedding was damp at best, soaked in many cases. Starting a fire was virtually impossible. Food consisted of whatever could be had cold—mostly biscuits and a thin gruel of flour and water—which did little to eliminate the growing frustration and shortening tempers.
Sometime well after dark on the night of the eleventh, the Steeds and their five wagons finally reached Richardson’s Point. They were drenched, filthy, exhausted, and utterly miserable. But they had Caroline and the family with them and the wagons and teams to carry them. As if in celebration, sometime during the night the skies began to clear.
In the morning, when the first heads began popping out of tents and wagons after the bugle sounded, there were cries of relief. The morning star shone brightly in a lightening sky that was perfectly clear. It was going to be a glorious day.
“They’ll be black in ten minutes.”
Caroline lifted her eyes and let them sweep across the endless mud that was the campground. Joshua was right. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining brightly. The black prairie soil was already starting to send up wisps of steam as the sun’s rays bored into it, and she could smell the rich aroma of the earth. But it would take a lot more than that before the mud dried sufficiently to make the camp livable again.
“They can’t get any worse than what they’ve been for the last two days,” she answered, “but I think I’d rather cope with that than try to keep them inside when it’s such a beautiful day.”
Joshua looked down at the faces of his two youngest children. They were standing before him and Caroline outside the entrance to their tent. Their eyes were wide and pleading, their faces twisted with anticipation. He turned and looked to where Lydia was standing at the door of her tent.
“What do you think?” he called.
“I say let them go,” Lydia answered. To her, as with Caroline, the thought of another day of mud-covered children was less horrifying than trying to keep them confined to the tents.
One campsite farther on, the flap to Derek’s tent opened and Derek stepped out. He was followed by Christopher, who was almost seven, and little Benjamin, who was nearly four. Both had their coats on and their heavy shoes, still caked with mud. Derek wa
s grinning. “You all can do what you want, but I’m not holding these two in for one more moment.” He swatted at Benjamin’s backside. “Get out of here,” he growled menacingly.
With a whoop of pure joy, the two boys plunged away, instantly sinking into the deep goo.
“Can I go, Papa?” Charles cried, tugging at his father’s coat.
Joshua glanced at Caroline, who nodded.
“Go,” he said, “but you hold onto Livvy’s hand. You watch her, all right?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And don’t go near the creek!” Caroline called after them as they took off after their cousins.
In a moment Lydia’s three were darting away and the five of them fell into line with Derek’s two. They trooped off first to Jessica and Solomon’s tent to collect their children, and then to Matthew and Jenny’s to make the gathering of cousins complete. Cajoling and pleading, they talked their grandmother into joining up with them and headed for a small copse of trees for a game of hide-and-seek.
The other parents stood beside their tents, watching them go, relieved beyond measure. Finally, Matthew walked over to Nathan. “I thought I’d go out and check on the stock. Want to go?”
“Well,” Nathan said, glancing sideways at Lydia, “we need to do that, but I’ve got to get the bedding out and hung up to dry. I don’t want Lydia doing that.”
“I can manage just fine,” she retorted, but she was pleased that he had considered her before answering.
“I need to find Heber Kimball too,” Nathan said to Matthew. “He said he’s got something to soften that leather pouch I’ve been making.”
“You just go,” Lydia said. “I’ll be fine.”
Beside Joshua, Caroline spoke up. “I can help Lydia, Nathan,” she called. “We’ve got to get our bedding out as well.”
“Look,” Joshua said on an impulse, “it will do you and Lydia good to get away from here for a time too. You’ve been talking about visiting some of the ladies. Just go, and I’ll do the bedding for both tents.”
Caroline looked at him in surprise, then smiled. “Do you mean it?”
“I do.”
“Did you hear that, Lydia?”
Lydia was nodding. “I did.”
All the Steeds were out of their tents now, and in the tight half circle of their campsite all could easily follow the conversation.
“I’ll just do the bedding before we go check on the stock,” Nathan said, feeling guilty that Joshua was volunteering to do his work.
“Just get out of here,” Joshua snapped back at him in mock severity. “I’m capable of handling the bedding. All the bedding! So take Solomon and Derek and Josh with you. Those oxen could be scattered anywhere by now.”
Caroline hesitated for only a moment before turning. “Jessica. Rebecca. Jenny. Get your babies. Lydia, get your shawl. Mud or no mud, let’s go visiting.”
Getting the bedding outside and hung up in the sun was not as simple a job as Joshua had imagined. First of all, he had to remove his boots each time he went into a tent so that he didn’t drag in mud behind him. Then to free up the bedding he had to move around the chests and small items each family kept in the tent. The wet bedding itself was heavy and bulky. He would wad it up and move it over to the tent door. Slipping his boots on again, he would then take it outside. Then came the problem of where to hang it once he had it outside. The tents and wagon covers needed to dry as badly as did the quilts and blankets, so he couldn’t just hang the bedding there. The tent ropes were too steep to hold anything that wasn’t fastened down, and so he finally rummaged through various boxes until he found some hand-carved clothespins. Even then, one blanket took a full length of rope, and so they were quickly used up. Next he went to the wagons, using the tongues for the smaller blankets, careful not to let them drag in the mud, and the wagon boxes for the larger ones. From there he went to small bushes, tree limbs, barrels, boxes, and every other square inch of space that could hold something up to the air. All over the camp, he could see that he was not the only one struggling with the problem.
He decided to leave his own tent until last. He started on Matthew’s first, wanting to be sure that his mother’s place of sleeping would be thoroughly dry. Then he did Solomon and Jessica’s tent. That was the largest challenge because they had eight in their family. Derek and Rebecca’s went swiftly, and finally he moved to Nathan’s tent. By now, the inside of the tents were like the inside of a steam bath. That was good in a way, for it was proof that the sun was doing its work. But it left Joshua pouring sweat.
As he was gathering up the few items in Nathan’s tent and stacking them on Lydia’s small oak chest, Joshua stopped. Beside one of the pillows, in the very corner of the tent, a leather-bound book lay face down on the canvas. Curious, he picked it up and turned it over. When he saw the title on the spine, it came as no surprise. It was a Book of Mormon. Lydia’s Book of Mormon, he corrected himself, as he noted the dark stain on the back cover.
The stain identified its owner. The whole family knew the story of that book and how it had become scarred with coffee stains. Sent by Nathan in brown paper to Lydia’s store, it was Nathan’s last desperate attempt to help Lydia understand what the Mormons believed so that Joseph Smith would not stand as a great barrier between them. But when Melissa made the delivery, Lydia was not there, and her father, a bitter opponent of “Joe Smith” and his new church, threw the book in the trash barrel. When Lydia finally found it, coffee grounds had been dumped into the barrel and covered one corner of the leather cover. Furious at her father for interfering, still angry at Nathan for trying to convert her, she had taken the book and finally read it. The rest was history. Lydia was a Mormon now, she and Nathan had married, and . . .
He opened the book, curious as he saw a red ribbon serving as a bookmark. It marked a place about halfway through the book. At the top of the pages he saw the words “Book of Alma.” That meant little to him other than he had heard his family refer to Alma as one of the writers of the book. One part, beginning at the bottom of the left-hand page and going over to the right, was neatly bracketed with black ink. Curious as to what had struck Lydia’s interest, he held the book up closer, the light of the sun through the canvas turning the pages a yellowish white.
And now, my brethren, I would that after ye have received so many witnesses, seeing that the Holy Scriptures testify of these things, come forth and bring fruit unto repentance; yea, I would that ye would come forth and harden not your hearts any longer; for behold, now is the time, and the day of your salvation; and therefore, if ye will repent and harden not your hearts, immediately shall the great plan of redemption be brought about unto you.
He stopped, cocking one ear. He had heard some voices outside and now listened intently, poised to close the book and put it away if it was anyone in the family. But then he could tell that whoever it was they were not coming this way. His eyes dropped again. This time his lips began to move as he read silently to himself.
For behold, this life is the time for men to prepare to meet God; yea, behold, the day of this life is the day for men to perform their labors. And now as I said unto you before, as ye have had so many witnesses, therefore I beseech of you, that ye do not procrastinate the day of your repentance until the end; for after this day of life, which is given us to prepare for eternity, behold, if we do not improve our time while in this life, then cometh the night of darkness, wherein there can be no labor performed.
This time when he lowered the book he was irritated. A sudden thought leaped into his mind. Had Lydia somehow known he would find her book and marked a place in hopes that he would read it? He pushed that thought aside immediately. He had been standing there when she ducked back into the tent to get her shawl. She had reappeared almost instantly. There was no way she could have . . .
He started a little, realizing what the implications of his thoughts were. The scripture was too perfect. It was exactly the kind of thing his family would do, to plant some subtle
message that he would stumble upon and then to look innocent if he questioned them. And yet he knew there was no way they could have done so. It was purely coincidence.
He shut the book quickly, as though he might squelch the message emanating from its pages. Angrily he tossed it atop Lydia’s chest and started wadding up the wet bedding. Once he was done, he pushed the pile to the tent’s entrance and reached for his boots. His head turned. The book lay there like a gold coin in the sunshine. He opened the tent flap and looked out, making sure no one was coming back. Then he crawled back over to the chest. He opened the book to the same place.
He read it once, then again, more slowly now, trying to understand exactly what the words meant. He saw something he had missed before. One phrase was used twice. The writer talked about having “so many witnesses.” He read the first use, and then dropped down and found the second. The message was almost identical: “Since you have had so many witnesses, you ought to repent.” That was basically it.
For the second time he closed the book and put it on the chest, but his mind was working, chewing on the question that had been presented to it. A witness was someone who testified to the truthfulness of what he knew, generally in court. So many witnesses. He pulled a face. If that was what was meant, heaven knew he had plenty of those. Caroline, Will, Alice, Savannah, his mother, Nathan, Lydia—the whole family were witnesses in that sense, trying to tell him what they believed to be true.
Ah! That was a key word. What they believed to be true. In a court of law, one could not be convicted by what someone else believed to be true, only by what they knew for themselves. Strangely, that brought a great relief to him. There was no question about how strongly his family believed it, but they—
And then four words popped into his mind. What about the Wellers?
He was stunned. After that remarkable trade— No. He was too honest to simply call it remarkable. What had happened was absolutely incredible. One moment he had no hope of getting an outfit for his family; the next he had found all that he could have hoped for and more. It had been so simple, so natural. He grunted. “And so incredible,” he muttered to himself.
The Work and the Glory Page 414