Was that what awaited her? Lydia wondered. Or would she have to find some willows or a clump of brush along a creek somewhere? If she had calculated correctly, the baby was still two or three weeks away, but the farther west they went, the fewer would be the signs of civilization. Now at least there were a few villages within riding distance. They saw isolated farms from time to time. But three weeks would take them—what? Another two hundred miles? Then what would there be? A tepee or a wigwam if she was lucky; nothing but a jolting wagon and a thousand square miles of mud if she wasn’t.
She sighed. Something in her mind told her to stop this gloomy train of thought. But she brushed it aside. It was a wonderful night for despair, what with the rain pounding down and the creeks on the rise again and a friend trying to find a dry place to die. And in a way, it was a luxury to feel sorry for oneself. Tomorrow that luxury would be gone. Tomorrow there would be children to keep occupied and entertained, there would be food to cook, bedding to air out, the relentless grime and mud to combat.
She sighed again and closed her eyes. She began to pray for Catharine Spencer and her husband and children. And then, in the midst of praying, a terrible thought struck her. It chilled her and she shuddered involuntarily.
Nathan turned in the darkness. “Are you still awake?”
“Yes.” She reached out, needing to touch him.
“How come?”
“I was thinking about Catharine Spencer.”
“Oh.” She didn’t have to say more. That explained a lot.
“Nathan, if I—”
He saw it coming and cut her off quickly. “Don’t!” he whispered, then slid closer and took her into his arms. “You’re not going to die, Lydia.”
“I know, but what if—”
“No buts. No what ifs. You are going to be fine, Lydia. Remember your patriarchal blessing?”
That caught her by surprise. Her blessing? the one given so many years before by Father Smith back at Kirtland? And then she understood what Nathan meant. It hit her with more of a jolt than had the sudden thought of death. “Yes,” she said slowly, feeling immense relief wash over her. Her patriarchal blessing. She closed her eyes. She had read it so many times she knew it by heart. Father Smith had talked about her motherhood, promised her that her children would be blessed by her influence. And then came the promise: “In your old age, your children and their children and their children shall rise up and, with a joyful noise, shout praises unto your name.”
In your old age! She would be thirty-seven come August. That was getting older—and she certainly felt every year recently—but did it qualify as old age? She could have shouted. No! Not yet. It was as if a soothing balm had anointed her soul.
Realizing that he had settled her mind, Nathan went on. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve already talked to Patty Sessions. She said to get her any time, day or night. She’s only minutes away.”
“I know. Thank you, Nathan. I know I shouldn’t worry. I really do feel good, better than with the other children.” She laughed softly in the darkness. “Maybe this being a pioneer and trudging through the mud every day is good for motherhood.”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “It must be. I know this—you are more beautiful than you have ever been.”
Startled, sudden tears sprang to her eyes. “Why, thank you, Nathan.”
He came up on one elbow and kissed her softly. “And you’re going to be the most beautiful grandmother and great-grandmother this world has ever seen.”
She didn’t trust her voice to answer. She just moved in closer against him, loving the peace and security that being in his arms brought to her.
Chapter Notes
Originally, Brigham Young’s plan was to camp for two or three days at Richardson’s Point so as to rest and to repair wagons. When a prolonged and heavy rain set in, departure was delayed. Eventually it proved to be almost a full two weeks before they moved west again. (See CN, 9 March 1996, p. 12; Wallace Stegner, The Gathering of Zion: The Story of the Mormon Trail [New York: McGraw-Hill, 1964], p. 53.)
An unexpected and very welcome source of income for the Saints crossing Iowa came when William Pitt and his brass band went into the surrounding settlements and gave concerts. The response of the locals to this unexpected touch of culture as described here is recorded by William Clayton in his journal. Clayton was a member of the band. (See CN, 16 March 1996, p. 7.)
The confrontation between Mary Fielding Smith and William Smith described here only led to further estrangement between Joseph’s branch of the Smith family and Hyrum’s. While Mary Fielding Smith and her sister, Mercy, maintained a warm relationship with Mother Smith, Emma and the others in Joseph’s family were disappointed that Mary would not reconsider her decision to follow Brigham Young to the West. (See Don Cecil Corbett, Mary Fielding Smith: Daughter of Britain [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1966], pp. 185–86.)
Catharine Curtis Spencer, wife of Orson Spencer, died on 12 March 1846. The day before, a man who lived near the Indian Creek Camp (which was not far from Keosauqua, Iowa Territory) had allowed Catharine to be brought to his house because of the wet weather. She was nine days short of her thirty-fifth birthday and left six children. (See Susan W. Easton, “Suffering and Death on the Plains of Iowa,” BYU Studies 21 [Fall 1981]: 435–37.)
Orson Spencer was called to labor in England not long after this event and presided over the British Mission for about two years until 1849. When the University of Deseret was founded in 1850 (later to become the University of Utah), Orson Spencer was appointed as chancellor, a position he held until his death in 1855. (See LDSBE 1:337–38.) He died in St. Louis, where he had been called to serve as a stake president. Today there is a building named for Orson Spencer at the University of Utah. One of Catharine’s daughters, Aurelia Spencer Rogers, later generated the idea for the Primary organization in Farmington, Utah, in 1878.
Chapter 9
The rain continued all through the night, and by the following day the creeks were once again running swift, muddy, and frightening. Not that there were plans to move out. With the return of the rain, Brigham Young again postponed the departure, and the Saints settled in to endure the cold, wet misery that had become so much a part of their lives now.
By morning the rain stopped, but it was cold and windy. Some people stayed in their tents and wagons to wait for better weather to return. Jenny was one who did not venture out much that day because baby Emmeline was showing signs of a cold. By afternoon Matthew had finished his chores and joined her. So it was with some surprise that late that afternoon Matthew and Jenny heard footsteps outside that stopped in front of their tent. There was a sharp rap on the main tent pole. “Matthew Steed? Are you in there? Do I have the right tent?”
Matthew, who was reading a story to Betsy Jo, who was not quite four yet, sprang up. “Yes. This is Matthew Steed. Come in.” He looked at Jenny in surprise. They both knew that voice and knew it well.
The tent flap pulled back and Brigham Young stepped in beneath it. He dropped the flap immediately but Matthew felt the cold air sweep through the tent.
Jenny was on her feet now too, smoothing her apron and hefting little Emmeline onto her hip. Matthew went over to greet him. “Brother Brigham, this is a surprise.”
Brigham removed his hat and smiled. “Thought it might be. Afternoon, Sister Jenny.”
“Afternoon, President Young.”
Betsy Jo got up and came over behind her mother, shyly peeking out from behind her skirts. “And how are you, little sister?” Brigham said, dropping down to a crouch. “Do you remember me?”
There was a moment’s hesitation, then a slow nod.
“Sure you do,” Jenny said, reaching down to touch her head. “Papa used to work with President Young.”
Brigham hooted softly. “More like your papa used to do President Young’s work for him.”
“Only because you were running the Church,” Matthew said. Then he gestured. “Won’t you sit do
wn?”
“No, no,” came the quick reply. “Can’t stay but for a moment.” He frowned. “Actually, I’m sorry to have to come. Wish it could be under better circumstances.”
Jenny felt her heart drop a little. Matthew and Brigham Young were good friends, though there was nearly twenty years’ difference in their ages. They had run a cabinet shop in Nauvoo for a time until Brigham had taken over the leadership of the Church and simply had no more time for the business. But with the press of leading a company of several thousand Saints into the wilderness, it was not like him to simply drop in for a social call. That meant he had something for Matthew to do.
Seeing her face, Brigham laughed. “Now, Sister Steed, I’m not going to be calling him to go back to England again.” He looked suddenly wistful. “Though I might be tempted to do so if we could return there together. Those were simpler times, my friend, weren’t they?”
“They were indeed,” Matthew replied. “Wonderful times.”
“Yes. And there’s still a lot of work to do there, but it will have to be attended to by different men than you and me, Matthew. But I do have something else I need of you.”
“Just ask it.”
His brows lowered and his mouth pulled into a thin line. “Have you seen the creeks today, Matthew?”
“Yes. Solomon, Derek, and I were down earlier trying to get some browse for our oxen.” By getting browse he meant pulling branches off the trees or cutting willows and letting the animals glean off whatever buds and leaves there were on them. With nothing but last season’s dry grass, the animals were not doing well. “We had expected the water to be some higher, but it must be up four or five feet. It is high, swift, muddy, and dangerous.”
“Exactly. We won’t be leaving here soon. Between the weather and the sickness, we’re going to have to stay here several more days.”
“Sickness?” Jenny asked in concern, looking down at the baby.
“Yes, it’s starting to break out everywhere. Fever, coughs, aches, and chills. Little wonder, what with all the wet and cold. We’re in no shape to be moving out. Nor are the roads in any shape for travel.”
In a way that was a relief, Matthew thought. Trying to move out in this weather would prove to be costly for both man and beast.
Brigham reached inside his coat and withdrew an envelope. “And if we stay here, we have a problem. As you know, we’ve got several small companies out in front of us. Bishop Miller’s is one of those.”
Matthew nodded. Miller, one of the general bishops in the Church, had been sent ahead with a pioneering company, supposedly under the direction of Stephen Markham. But rumor had it that Miller, always independent, was often on his own.
“I don’t like us getting all scattered out,” the chief Apostle went on. “I keep sending word for Bishop Miller to wait for us, but it has made no difference as yet. Sounds like the whole thing is in disarray to me. So I’d like you to take this letter to him for me.”
“All right,” Matthew said immediately.
“How much farther on is he?” Jenny asked.
“A day, maybe two. They can’t be making much time in this weather either.” He looked at Matthew. “Leave first thing in the morning. When you find them, learn what you can. Keep your eyes open. Then come back and report, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I already talked to Nathan. He said you can take his saddle horse.” He turned to Jenny. “I’m sorry to take your man away, Jenny, but this is important.”
“You know we’re ready to do whatever you need, President.”
His face softened and for a moment the lines of worry smoothed. “I know you are. That’s why I thought of you. He shouldn’t be gone for more than five or six days.”
Brigham Young’s estimate of how long Matthew would be gone proved to be quite accurate. On horseback it was a fairly easy task to stay off the roads and thus avoid the worst of the mud. Fording the streams proved to be a challenge on two occasions, but he made it. He caught up with Bishop Miller’s company about sundown of the second day. Miller was camped at the Chariton River, about forty miles west of Brigham’s location, where he was splitting rails for payment in corn. Matthew stayed the night and part of the next day, then headed east again. Returning just before sundown of the fifth day, he took a quick supper with the family and then went off to report to President Young and Heber C. Kimball. The report was not all that encouraging.
Miller had been sustained as a bishop of the Church in 1841 when Bishop Edward Partridge died. Converted personally by Joseph Smith, he was totally devoted to the Prophet and gave considerable service to him and to the Church. But after the Martyrdom, which hit him especially hard, things began to change. He did not have that same unswerving loyalty to Brigham Young, and sometimes the two strong wills clashed. As one of the general bishops of the Church, he had a major role in the exodus to the West. Brigham Young appointed him to be part of a “pioneer company” of about a hundred men who were to move out ahead of the main body of Saints. Supposedly led by Stephen Markham, another trusted friend of the Prophet, they were to find the best routes, smooth out the roads, locate fords for the rivers and streams, bridge them if there was no other choice, secure—through purchase or trade—grain and other needed supplies for the Saints. But Miller quickly struck out on his own, leading his own smaller company their own way.
Often he had not bothered to send word back as to his whereabouts. President Young had sent more than one message asking him to hold up, but thus far the counsel had been ignored.
“He says you’re being too cautious, President,” Matthew reported. “He read the letter while I was there, and to my surprise he made no bones about the fact that it irritated him. When he learned we are still here at Richardson’s Point, he flew off the handle. ‘The man is much too cautious,’ he said. ‘He’s moving at a snail’s pace. This is no time for wavering. We’ve got to reach the Rocky Mountains, get crops in and harvested before first frost. At the rate he’s moving, we’ll be lucky to make the Missouri River by first snow.’ Those were just a few of the things he said.” Matthew shook his head. “I was surprised at how open he was in front of me. It was like he forgot that it was me who brought your letter to him.”
Heber C. Kimball snorted in disgust. “Don’t kid yourself. He forgot nothing. He wanted you to bring this report back to the President. What about Elder Pratt?”
Matthew shook his head. He had seen Parley Pratt, but he too had expressed frustration with Bishop Miller’s independence. He reported as much. “He was obviously embarrassed by Bishop Miller’s tirade. He tried to offer a balancing voice, suggesting that the problems you are facing in stragglers and broken equipment and lack of supplies—to say nothing of the mud—are real problems that can’t simply be ignored. I think he was terribly embarrassed by it all.”
“Good. And how did Miller respond to that?”
“It only irritated him the more. He said that what we need is decisive leadership, the kind that Joseph Smith had provided. He acknowledged that there were problems, but went right on to say that problems didn’t change reality. That didn’t delay the frosts or shorten the journey that had to be made.”
Matthew was embarrassed to have to report that to the chief Apostle. Miller was a restive man chafing under the restraint of someone else’s leadership. That was the real problem, in Matthew’s mind. Miller wanted to be the leader. And this was his way of showing that he was the better qualified.
Brigham listened to it all quietly, not seeming the least bit surprised. When Matthew was done, the President thanked him sincerely and dismissed him. And that was that, Matthew thought. He had done as Brigham wanted and now he was back with Jenny and the children.
They moved out of Richardson’s Point the following morning, Thursday, March nineteenth, 1846. It was a full twelve days after they had stopped there “for a brief rest and respite.” They caught up to Orson Pratt’s company, another part of the advance group, the following day, an
d pushed on. The weather was holding warm and dry, but there were still spots in the roads that were huge muddy sloughs. It took hours to get one company through. They made twelve or thirteen miles for each of those first three days. By Saturday, the twenty-first, they camped a few miles east of the Chariton River. Brigham was fuming, still trying to rein Miller in. The previous day a messenger had brought a letter from Parley Pratt, who wrote that they were waiting for the main camp to catch up with them but said that they thought it best to go several miles farther on to Shoal Creek, where corn was plentiful. Brigham sent the messenger back with permission to go that far but no farther.
When the main company reached the Chariton River the next day, about forty miles west of Richardson’s Point, Brigham’s irritation turned to open anger. The river itself was not a challenge. Although it was about four rods across—maybe sixty or seventy feet—it was only two feet deep and with a good, solid bottom. The banks, however, were steep and still quite muddy. They easily found the spot where Miller had crossed a few days before, but no effort had been made to cut down the banks and prepare a fording spot for those coming behind. He had several men. It was for exactly this purpose that they had been sent ahead.
The plan had been to make the easy four-mile trip to the Chariton—about an hour and a half’s drive—then cross to the western side and press on the final seven miles to Shoal Creek, where the advance party would be waiting—or should be! Instead they spent an exhausting four hours getting the wagons across. They did not have the manpower to dig down the banks, so they unhitched all but one yoke of oxen to each wagon, then roped up the wagons. Men and animals held the wagons back as they went down the precipitous bank. Once across the river, the wagons had to be double or triple teamed to get them out.
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