by Marian Wells
Tom looked up surprised. “Well, certainly, man. I’ve never doubted that. You know I’ve always respected your mind. Why do you ask?”
“There’s a couple of things I came up with in my reading that just won’t let me alone. One is that God is unchangeable. The Book of Mormon says that. Another is that the Bible says Jesus Christ is really God, come to this earth and born just like any other man except that His conception was a miracle from the Holy Spirit—not the result of a union of Adam and Mary. But here’s the rub. The Bible teaches that sin caused separation between God and man, and the only way the separation can be bridged in a decent and honorable way is by the blood sacrifice provided by God himself.”
Tom’s face was thoughtful, and Mark added, “Mormonism teaches Christ’s death does not bring righteousness, but instead only another chance at life for everyone. It teaches that righteousness and holiness are to be earned. It says man can work his way into good standing with God simply by following Joseph’s new church with its rules and regulations. I don’t get the idea from watching people that this church is all that holy.”
Tom sighed and sat back, “Now you’ve hit the nail on the head. There’s stuff goin’ on that even an ignorant blacksmith like me can figure out as bein’ all wrong.” His forehead puckered and slowly he spoke again. “If you’re feelin’ like this, what caused the big fight between you and Jenny that sent her runnin’ to Missouri?”
Mark sighed and for a moment he dropped his head into his hands. “Tom, can you believe that I love your sister with all my heart and that I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with her?” He paused. “First, I tried to make her understand all I’ve told you and she rejected it. Then, like a complete dummy, I put my foot down and announced we were leaving the church and Kirtland. That did it. If I’d left well enough alone instead of trying to push my way on her, everything could maybe have been settled between us.”
“So what happened?”
“She said she was scared to death of not going. That the second coming of Christ is so near, she didn’t dare risk changing her belief. Tom, I could see she was running on account of fear. I just didn’t know how to handle it.” He looked imploringly at his brother-in-law and waited.
Tom slouched back in his chair and pushed his hat over his eyes. Mark waited while May’s sweet perfume drifted through the door, reminding him that life was moving on. Finally Tom straightened and tossed his hat in the corner. “You say she’s scared? I suppose you’re just as scared God’ll get you for not being in the right place at the right time.”
“Tom,” Mark protested, “that’s not it at all. There’s not one thing I can do to earn righteousness, but I don’t see—”
“It’s simple. Go to Missouri and wait this out. Seems if you’re followin’ God while the others aren’t, you ought to be around to pick up the pieces when Zion falls apart. Besides, Jenny needs you—even if she won’t admit it. Mark, she needs you more’n I can let on right now.” Mark watched the troubled expression settle down across Tom’s face, and as he pondered the heaviness of Tom’s statement, new hope made him straighten up in his chair.
He was beginning to grin when Tom stood up and asked, “Gotta horse?”
He blinked, “Well, yes, but—”
“You can catch up with that wagon train if you hustle.” He was addressing Mark’s back. “Better take your duds. I’ll pack up the rest of the furniture and see you in a couple weeks.”
The wagon train was curving its way slowly out of Kirtland like a serpent, its tail still touching the edge of town while the head stretched in a cloud of dust south and west toward the prairie. He paused only a moment to measure the line of wagons and pick the one with the billowing top pressing toward the crest of the hill.
Mark rode his horse hard, pushing through the line of wagons and the surge of cattle. Winding out of the trail, spurred by impatience, he cut through the trees and headed for the spot where he knew Jenny’s wagon would crest the hill.
He winced as he put the whip to the horse’s flanks and leaned into the wind. That billowing top would blow loose before the week was out. What poor excuse for a driver had she found, a tad who couldn’t even fasten a canvas?
Now Mark was beside the wagon, shrouded in dust, watching it lurch through the ruts. The driver was indeed a boy, straining at the reins. Jenny, tense and pale, clung to her seat.
Mark’s yell was a mixture of triumph and anger. He had the reins in his hands before the youth could move. With one leap Mark was on the seat, dropping down between Jenny and the boy. “Here.” Mark shoved some silver coins into the hands of the youth. “Now, get that horse and take it back to the stables. Tell Tom Timmons I sent you.”
His hand urged the startled lad into action, and Mark settled into the seat and straightened the reins. He dared not glance at Jenny. “Didn’t like the looks of that top. Decided I’d better come along and do the driving myself.”
Mark leaned over and carefully wrapped the reins around the seat bracing. There was still no sound from her, but their silence shattered the first stone in the wall between them. For a moment he shivered with fear. What if she wouldn’t have him back? When he turned, Mark was conscious only of amazement as he looked into her face. It took a while before he summoned the strength to draw that deep, ragged breath he needed, but when he did, Jenny moved and blinked. Slowly color began to touch her cheeks.
He could only whisper; even then he felt words were unnecessary. And over the creaking and groaning of the wagon, the lowing of the oxen and the crack of the canvas, they both knew the miracle. “Jenny, I’m here to go with you—all the way.” Her eyes were speaking back, saying she could accept and there would be no questions. But he must say it. “Remember those words? I promised to love you as long as we both shall live.”
Her lips moved stiffly and he leaned closer to hear, “Mark,” she was pleading, “I know it is a strange love, but truly I do love you.”
He couldn’t speak, but when he bent to kiss her, he caught a glimpse of the shadows in her eyes. She didn’t know that his lips moving against hers were promising, “In sickness, in health, I pledge you my love.”
Chapter 5
It was hot in the Cartwright wagon. Jenny brushed at the dampness on her face and shifted on the wagon seat. She glanced at Mark, studying the new beard and the wide-brimmed hat shading his face. Instead of his usual white shirt and silk tie, he was wearing the coarse homespun of a frontiersman. She touched his sleeve, enjoying the feel of the hard muscle tightening as he flicked the reins across the back of Sammy. “Get along there, girl, do your part of the pulling,” he urged mildly.
Jenny smiled as she watched the errant mare quicken her step. “Poor dear,” she said, “this is beneath their dignity, pulling this creaking wagon with all that canvas popping behind them. They’re much more suited to cantering down a country lane with nary a rut, pulling a smart little buggy. But then I suppose you would have fitted me out with oxen like the rest of them had you known at the time that—” Her voice trailed away as she was caught up in the memory of that last fearful day when she had left Ohio, thinking that never again would she see Mark. She shivered even as she dabbed at the moisture on her forehead.
Mark’s hand quickly clasped hers. When he looked at her, she saw the dark expression, but his light words bore no relation to that shared memory. “Might yet,” he said with a grin, flicking the reins. “Do you hear that, gals? Might trade the two of you for one good ox.”
His hand still cuddled hers and they rode in companionable silence. When Jenny finally stirred, she turned to Mark and commented, “They told me it was eight hundred miles to Missouri.” She was feeling the late afternoon sun press against her like a heavy hand, blotting out all except the weary heat.
Mark shoved his hat back from his eyes and grinned at her. She studied his face, thinking she had never seen him so tanned. There was a band of white across his forehead and below it his face was mahogany brown. Rivulet
s of moisture drew lines through the dust on his cheeks and dampened his beard. With a sigh, she pushed her heavy hair away from her forehead, rubbing at the sweat, guessing that dust streaked her own face as well.
Jenny tried to stifle the weary yawn rising up within her even as she searched his expression looking again for some indication that he regretted being here on this lonesome road to Missouri. How constantly aware she was of the tiptoe feeling in her heart. Knowing how close she had come to forfeiting forever Mark’s presence beside her was a memory that would be with her the rest of her life. She twisted her hands in her lap and felt the talisman snugged securely in the pocket of her dusty frock.
For a moment her lips trembled with a half smile. How much she would give to know just what power had won her husband back when she had given up all hopes of ever seeing him again!
She fingered the talisman again. Either this charmed metal with its secret spirit powers had done the trick, or praying to Luna and God had worked in her favor. For a moment, remembering Mark’s new beliefs, she was filled with shame. She moved uneasily on the hard wooden seat of the wagon and wondered at the feeling. Was it because she knew the powers had worked for her against Mark’s will?
Mark was speaking and she realized with a start how far afield her thoughts had wandered. “What did you say?” she asked, moving around to look at him.
“It is eight hundred miles,” he repeated, “and divided into the twelve or fifteen miles we’ll make a day, it’ll be a miracle if we’re there by Independence Day.”
“Is it important?” Jenny murmured, thinking now of the isolation this wagon and this dusty road had thrown about their lives. She lifted her head and grinned at him. “At least while you’re driving this wagon, Joseph can’t be sending you off to kingdom come.”
“That’s good?”
She searched his eyes for the reason behind the question, even as she nodded. He started to add more and then hesitated. Jenny realized how often nowadays he had been doing that. Impatience boiled up within her, but immediately she trembled, thinking of all the things he might say. It was those very things which had nearly torn them apart—his new beliefs that seemed at odds with everything the church taught. She felt his hand on her arm and covered it with her own.
The next day the wagon train left Ohio behind, and the road turned south. Each day now they watched as the land became more arid. Jenny noticed even the smallest villages were miles apart. Slowly they moved from one watering hole to the next.
Indiana was a short stretch, and across the flat lands, the wagon train sometimes pressed through twenty miles in one day.
Again the way became hot and dusty; tired animals strayed and bawled for water, fretful children quarreled, and the menfolk snapped at each other. When the food supply dwindled, the wagon captains chafed while a day was snatched by the women for laundry and bread-baking.
One evening in June, the wagon train circled late in the evening on the prairie close to the Wabash River.
Their camp was hot and dusty and it didn’t help at all, Jenny thought, to hear the distant crash of waterfalls and the shouts of the youths who had taken the cattle to water and then managed to fall in themselves.
Jenny sighed over her supper fire as she moved slowly about preparing a meal. She was recalling the day’s travel. Her memory was full of gentle scenes: the clear fresh water of a brook cutting through an orchard, a log cabin with the yard dotted with people waving at the wagon train. She recalled the parents and children—tousle-haired, in stairstep order. Later in the day there had been glimpses of refreshing color on the prairie, masses of flowers growing wild. Jenny yearned after them. She paused, and the memory of it all tilted and tipped, thrusting the components of the day into order and serving up a dream of a home that didn’t move every morning. And children.
She sighed and spread a cloth across rough boxes. Mark was watching and she asked, “Do you suppose we’ll ever have a family like that?” At his puzzled frown she explained, “Those young’uns who were waving as we passed.”
“I expect so.” His grin was intimate, and for a moment she forgot their home moved every morning.
After a supper of salty, tough meat and leathery potatoes, Mark disappeared. Jenny spread their blankets under the wagon while she slapped at the buzzing flies and gnats. Thinking longingly of a cool bath, she swished the water around in the bucket. It barely covered the bottom of the pail.
When the embers of the supper fires had cooled and the mosquitoes moved in, Jenny retreated to her bed. She seldom allowed herself the luxury of tears, but tonight they couldn’t be ignored. She dabbed at her eyes as she swatted insects and fanned away the heat and smoke.
Jenny heard Mark’s step, but before she had time to mop the tears away, he was beside her. “Come,” he whispered, pulling at her hand. “Don’t make a sound.” His hand urged her on as he guided her through the dark, sleeping camp.
When they were through the bushes she whispered, “Mark, they’ll think we’re Indians and shoot! Besides, you know we’re not to leave camp.” He tightened his grasp, and she silently followed.
They went up a slope and down a steep bank. In front of them the river shimmered in the moonlight. That dim gurgle of sound she had heard became a roar as they walked upstream toward the falls. Cool spray reached Jenny, and she lifted her face to the moisture. Beyond the mist, the moon was rising over the trees.
“Look,” he whispered, pulling her close. “There’re deer on the far bank. In a moment you’ll see them outlined against the moonlight.”
“After that terrible supper you’ll look at deer instead of shooting?” she hissed.
He turned to answer and instead bent close. His hand touched her cheek. “Tears. Is it so bad? You know we can always—”
Hastily she interrupted, “Mark, it’s the heat. I want to bathe.”
“Aw!” he exclaimed, “my next surprise. Come.” Down the next bend of the river she saw the inlet where the water was calm and shallow. “Perchance the sun has even warmed it,” he said with a mock bow. He dug in his pocket and held up a bar of soap.
After the first shock the water was nearly warm. Jenny soaped her hair, then dived and swam the width of the inlet, leaving a trail of suds behind. Mark was beside her. Moonlight gleamed on his wet bare arm. She watched the muscles knot and relax as he floated lazy circles around her.
When he circled her one more time, she touched his wet arm and said, “I’ve never seen a marble statue, but I’ve seen pictures. They always look wet and smooth like this. But not warm.” He slipped his arm under her shoulders and together they floated, gently rocked by the waves and lulled by river sounds. The moon was misting over with lazy clouds, and above their heads the stars became brilliant. Now center stage, they sparkled; occasionally one shot across the horizon.
Dreamily she said, “Mark, the Saints in Missouri saw a meteor shower. It came at a bad time. A good omen. Maybe tonight’s such an omen for us. Maybe—” He bent over her and kissed her gently.
“I don’t think we need an omen, do we?”
When morning came and Jenny rolled over in her nest of musty blankets, she couldn’t believe the dream of water and star-shot sky, with Mark’s wet shoulder against hers. She was ready with a sigh until she saw his smile; then she once more snuggled her face against his shoulder before the day began.
Just as the dusty miles piled up behind the wagon train and became greater than the miles that lay ahead, the sense of excitement began building. The Saints spent more and more of the evenings around the fire.
Some of the men had traveled this route before. Now they were the center of attention. In the evening, after Jenny and the other women washed their supper dishes, they joined the group around the fire, leaning close to watch as the men knelt on the ground and used a stick to draw maps in the soil. Eager questions were fired at them. “Are there mountains ahead?” “Are the Indians ornery in Missouri?” “When do we cross the Mississippi?”
As more miles passed beneath the wagon wheels, the questions changed. Jenny guessed from the anxiety in her own heart that the Saints were wondering as much she did. Finally the question was asked. “What will our new home be like? Will we have all the promises of Zion right off?”
Some of the answers given by the group captains were vague and left an uneasy feeling; she was especially aware of it in Mark’s restlessness. Again the fear of losing him crept upon her, as she listened while some of the old-timers compared Jackson County to the new land farther north. She couldn’t forget the night beside the fire when Matt Miller talked about Jackson.
The fire had burned down to sputtering coals and the figures about the fire were shadowy outlines against the star-filled sky. Old Matt had been one of the first group to settle in Missouri back in 1832. His voice was dreamy as he described the land. “Gentle acres, they was. Easy to set a plow to, and the seeds sprung up almost before you could get them settled and the soil patted down. Never had to worry about your next meal; the land was teeming with wild turkey, rabbit, deer and sage hen.”
A question interrupted his reminiscence. “We’ve heard how the Missouri settlers mistreated the Saints. Is that a fact?”
He sighed before he answered and he spoke reluctantly. “It’s a fact. Seems it hadn’t ought to have been. There’s room for all who want to work the land. With the Indian problems t’was to their advantage to have a few more around.”
“What was the problem?” Jenny recognized Thompson’s heavy voice.
Miller replied, “Ya got to understand the old settlers. They’s a rough breed, to be sure. But more’n anything, even more’n minding having us around, they objected to some of the lot informing them that the Lord had given the land to the Saints, and that no matter what, they’d get it all in the end.” He sighed and passed his hand across his face wearily.