Chapter Eleven
My dearest Millicent,
I am writing this on a dark day, in the midst of times such as you and I would not have been able to imagine before—cruel, benighted scenes belonging to the dark ages of man’s ignorance and savagery. There is a state of open warfare here in Missouri. Troops have been raised to drive the Mormons en masse from their homes. Hundreds of men, thousands in some companies, thirst for the blood of helpless and innocent people. Can such a thing really be so? I see it, and yet my mind seems unable to grasp the horrifying reality of it. Until today. Today I have been forced to accept an abomination under the guise of law that has sealed our fate (I say “ours” Millie, for though not a baptized believer, I am one of these people, and their fate is mine). On this day, the 27th of October, 1838, Governor Lilburn W. Boggs signed an order stating that “the Mormons must be treated as enemies and must be exterminated or driven from the state.” He authorized his generals and captains to increase their forces to any extent they deemed necessary. So, there you are. We are beset by cruelty and evil on every side. In DeWitt the people were shut up, held captive, as it were, by an armed mob of men. If their stock wandered outside the perimeters they were shot, as were any people who went too close to the outskirts of the settlement in search of food. Their provisions gone, some died of starvation and exhaustion. They were at last allowed to leave with what goods they could carry, leaving all else to the mob. They arrived here in Far West two weeks ago and have been welcomed into the city and cared for here.
But that is not all. Many homes in the outlying settlements have been burned, their contents ruined, their occupants forced out at gunpoint. Don Carlos, younger brother of the Prophet, is away on a mission. When his house was razed his wife, with two helpless infants, was driven out into the night. Somehow she made her way to a nearby settlement, carrying both children and wading the Grand River where the water was waist high. But now—oh, Millie! I tremble to think what power this order gives to our enemies. What shall they do now, with nothing to temper or stay them? And, how are we to leave, with winter coming on? And where are we to go?———
There was a pause, a long line drawn as if to stop the painful outpouring of Verity’s soul. Millie shuddered. It was impossible to believe what she read. Her mind could not imagine the things Verity had described to her. What an evil day when Judith had invited the Mormon preachers into her house. Come home! Millie cried from the depths of her compassion. Flee such madness and come safely home again! Surely not even the most sacred of duties could require this of you! But the next words she read changed everything.
Leah is with child and is due to be delivered sometime in May, we think. Such joyful news—or so it would be under conditions of peace and sanity. But here, and now? Nor has she been well—honestly, Millie, can you fancy Leah a young matron preparing for motherhood? ’Tis but another charmed picture in the fantasy of marriage which she draws for herself. Mother abets her by spoiling her as outrageously as in the old days, or at least to the full extent of our now limited powers. And Edgar Gray does the same. But the toll tells on him. He worked long hours in the fields until the harvest was in, and he continues to work in the blacksmithing shop he shares with two other brethren.
Millie scowled at the picture Verity’s words drew and at her friend’s easy adoption of Mormon speech and Mormon ways.
Of course, Edgar fears for Leah’s safety. But he will not burden his darling with that. All effort is made to keep the mother-to-be nurtured and protected. If I sound a bit bitter, I am. For it is me Edgar unburdens his fears to, and I must be sister, mother, and in some ways, yes, even wife to him—for is true companionship and comfort and sustaining not the natural function that husband and wife provide for each other? Oh, Millicent, I know not what to think. I am always tired, and I am always frightened. But Mother thrives! She becomes more and more Irish every day that we live here. What was it you used to call it, Millie—our “touchy Irish blood”? Well, it has become her salvation. She seems to thrive on the challenge and even the hardship. And now that she has Simon Gardner to order about, she is in her element. No, I am unfair. She is a good wife to him; she learned that well with Father, for he brought out all that was gentle and generous in her nature. When the refugees from DeWitt came, Mother set up a kitchen in one of the old deserted barns and organized the women, some to make soup, others bread, others to care for children to spell their tired mothers—she enlisted the young girls to do that. You know how she is; all ran smooth as clockwork, and she rolled up her sleeves and worked for twelve hours straight until several of the other women took her by the arms and marched her home. Brother Gardner laughed at her, with his hands on his hips, but there was such pride in his eyes! He does fuss over her at times, much in the same way that we all fuss over Leah. And she lets him! And, of course, it is good that she does.
Millie, I do not wish you to think ill of Leah on the strength of my petty and somewhat unkind report. She does possess her own virtues, as well you know. She has such a patience with children—perhaps, with that quality, she will make a good mother, despite her own immaturity. Several times she has tended little ones whose mothers are ill. She is able to soothe them somehow and lessen the loneliness they feel for mothers who lie sick in their beds and are unable to see to their needs. In such a way she blesses the lives of many. Indeed, her work is far more noble and humane in nature than mine. For the burden of my contribution lies largely with my skills as a seamstress, learned from you in that happier time which is lost to us now. I have callouses on all my fingers, and at times the light by which I sew is so weak that my poor eyes burn in my head. But I am doing my part, and that pleases me.
Dear Millie, I reach the end of my paper and other duties call me, yet it is painful for me to say farewell to you. For, while I sit here and write, in fancy I am with you once more, and we are innocent girls yet, untouched by the solemnities of life. Though you, poor dear, knew more of life’s realities than we did. How gentle and kind you were, Millie, despite being motherless and, to some degree, fatherless, and thrust upon our poor mercies! There were times, I am sure of it, when we were most hard to bear. Yet how pleasant you were with us, and how patient! I shall never forget. I shall never cease loving you and praying for your happiness. Indeed, it does my heart good to think of you being safe and well away from this horror which has become our lot. I do try to pray to understand the purposes of heaven in trials such as these. The Saints have immense faith in this God they serve and, with childlike submission, take all things from his hand in humility—even in gladness.
The trapped, angry feeling, that choked resentment, rose up in Millie again. To hear Verity speak so! Verity, with her high spirits and clear, fearless mind! Obviously this oppression she suffered had subdued her fine spirit, perhaps irrevocably altering her. But then, even Verity had been unable to stand up to Judith, who was obviously the stronger of two and would manipulate others without qualm, which Verity would not. This was all Judith’s fault. The Mormons had become her cause to fight for. She had never really belonged in Boston high society; her Irish blood was too raw and untamed for it. But Verity belonged. Verity had the gentleness of spirit and the disciplined perception to excel among the brightest and most privileged. Now she was wasting herself—indeed, endangering herself—because of her mother’s eccentric and insensitive ways.
With indignation in her heart Millie read the last remaining portion of the letter:
By the way, Millie, I believe you would like Mormon men. They appear to be more sensitive to the needs and feelings of women than most and are admonished by the Prophet to appreciate the good wives they have. He is an exceptional man, this Joseph Smith, and he conducts himself with great dignity, despite the terrible calumnies which are forever hurled at his name, and despite the persecution he and his suffer.
I bid you a fond farewell for the time being, Millie. Pray for me and mine as I pray for you.
Love,
> Verity
Oh, Verity! Millie could feel a blush spread over her skin. What would you think if I told you of Nicholas Todd? She collected her working gloves and big wicker basket and went out to the garden, mostly put to bed for the winter, though a few late marigolds—fading splashes of gold against the deep purple of the privet berries—gave a feeling of life to the scene.
As she gathered seed pods, which she would share with the birds, she still mused upon what Verity had written. Dare she tell her friend of her encounter with the young Mormon? She had a sudden, intense curiosity to know what advice Verity would give her. Surely she would never sanction a serious interest in a Mormon, which might lead Millie to share in her own wretched fate! After all, Verity had not adopted their religion nor married one of them.
Millie shaded her eyes to watch two golden flickers swoop playfully against a patch of blue sky. What was the point of all this, anyway? Nicholas was nothing to her. And, even if he had been, she could never live the life of a Mormon. So why torment herself further?
She stood up and stretched her back. A figure was walking along the high ledge above the sand through the hawkweed, which was shimmering in waves of pale yellow. She did not recognize the cut of the man, nor his gait. Even when he came close he remained a stranger to her. She pushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ear and straightened her apron. The man turned in at the stone walk and approached her.
“Miss Cooper,” he said, touching his hat to her, “I am Thomas Erwin, the schoolteacher here in Gloucester. Might I kindly have a few moments of your time, ma’am?”
Millie invited him in, wondering at the reason for his visit.
“How long will you be away?” she asked after he had explained his errand. “And why did you come to me?”
“This is most probably my mother’s last illness,” he said, “and I should like to be with her until the end. That may be several weeks, or several months. But I have permission from the city fathers to sublet my teaching contract through the end of the spring term, if necessary.”
“And why select me as your substitute? I have never taught school before, Mr. Erwin. I don’t know if I can.”
He smiled. He was a man of medium height, medium build, medium age, extremely ordinary in appearance, but he had a most winning smile that made his eyes sparkle and his face wrinkle into lines of pleasure. He would be good with unruly boys, for he looked much like one himself.
“Actually, your name was suggested and most highly recommended.” He arched an eyebrow, assuming his words would please her. “And, in all honesty, Miss Cooper, your experience in Boston along with your excellent education fit you exceptionally well for the task.”
Boston. Of course. She had been to the city, which few others had. And she had learned much from the lectures and plays she had attended while there.
“What do you mean, my excellent education?”
“Why, at the hands of your mother. She was a schoolteacher before her marriage, or so I am told. Those I have spoken to say she was not only educated but refined in her way. And she poured everything into the willing head of her daughter.”
Millie was alarmed to feel tears gathering behind her eyelids. How long it had been since she had given any thought to that aspect of her mother’s life! Through the years she had taken for granted the advantages her mother gave her, overlooking them in her constant yearning for better and more.
“Miss Cooper! I am sorry.” Thomas Erwin was on his feet and had his large, nicely laundered handkerchief out of his pocket. “Allow me, please,” he insisted, holding it out to her. “I face the loss of my own dear mother, and I know how tender your feelings on the subject must be.”
Millie took it and blew her nose discreetly.
“Please consider the offer, my dear,” he pressed. “Clearly your gifts are wasted here and, with all due respect, you must at some times be bored—at least in an intellectual sense.” He smiled tentatively, and Millie got the impression of sun breaking through clouds in a thousand bright prisms. “It would fill the long, dark days of winter. Think of the challenge and satisfaction of it!”
“Challenge, certainly. Satisfaction is a less guaranteed conclusion, don’t you think?”
“I do not. You will do superbly, my dear. And the children here are not ruffians or troublemakers. Indeed, most carry the quiet, solemn ways of their elders and could take some livening up.”
Millie liked him. She could not help returning his warm smile. “I would like to do it,” she admitted, “if I can overcome my fears and feelings of inadequacy.”
With that the matter was settled. Mr. Erwin spent the next three-quarters of an hour explaining, instructing, and encouraging her, and promising more of the same. She would meet him at the schoolhouse every afternoon for the next three days. Surely that would suffice.
He was confident, and she felt strangely elated as she bid him good-bye at the door. After nearly reaching the end of the rock walk he turned and walked briskly back, digging his hand into his pocket and pulling out a thin envelope, which he handed to her.
“I’m sorry—I nearly forgot this,” he said.
She reached out to take it, her heart beating in her chest.
“I was collecting my own post and asked if there was anything for you, since I knew I was coming your way for this little visit.”
“How very kind.”
He made her a gallant little bow. “Your charm”—his wonderful smile broke forth—“as well as the stimulation of our conversation made me forget altogether.”
He started back down the path, whistling as he reached the end of it, cheering the very air around him. But Millie had already closed the door and forgotten him as she carefully opened the envelope with the Liverpool postmark, addressed in a hand she recognized.
Dear Miss Cooper,
It is with great pleasure that I take up pen and paper to inform you of my progress since arriving in this city. The work in Liverpool is hard and discouraging, largely because life in this place is wretched and grinding for the many poor who dwell here. You, with the luxuries of Boston in your memory and the cleansing beauties of Gloucester before you, could not imagine the extreme poverty and hopelessness here. A worker in this city, and those like it, earns roughly five shillings to two pounds a week. This will buy about seven four-pound loaves, enough to half-fill the stomachs of a family with two or three children—although typically most families have more than that. This means nothing is left for tea or a little piece of meat to offset the constant bread and potatoes, and certainly nothing left to pay rent. In fact, potatoes are much resorted to, since they are hot, cooked fare and cost but a shilling for twenty pounds. Subsisting on a diet of potatoes leaves enough in the kitty for tea and an occasional piece of pie or sausage for the working man at midday, and perhaps stew and pudding for the entire family on Sunday. A great many people live on this meager diet, but also a great many die.
I do fairly well for myself, and when hunger o’ertakes me I have the luxury of remembered pleasures—the delicacies you made for us. What I would not give for a taste of one now!
Millie’s brow wrinkled. This was too much—suffering everywhere! Did these Mormons attract suffering as honey does flies? If Nicholas knew what his own people were enduring in Missouri! With a frustrated apprehension she forced herself to read on.
Certainly the people here are sorely in need of what we have to offer them. But the only convert I seem to be making as yet is a little runt of a fellow named Gerry Hines. He has curly red hair growing all over his face and out of his ears. He owns a small grog shop near where we live and is always pleasantly intoxicated, I fear.
Though the work is slow, there are compensations. The spirit among the Saints here is sweet, and their simple, unquestioning faithfulness humbles me and makes me appreciate my blessings.
I think of you often and pray for you daily. Please believe
me to be your true and constant friend and admirer,
Nicholas Todd
Millie was in a turmoil. She threw the letter down and paced the room. How could he say, “the people here are sorely in need of what we have to offer?” What a trap he was working them into! If they thought life was difficult for them now, what would they do if they were suddenly transported to Missouri, to the horrors of burning houses and bloodshed?
You are a fool, Millie! she told herself. There is no conceivable reason for you to have anything to do with this young man, and every reason one could think of for you to shun him like the plague.
It was not until later that evening, as she walked alone by the sea, looking out at the leaden gray expanse stretching beneath the cold stars, that another question came to her. What did Nicholas mean when he said, “The spirit among the Saints here is sweet?” The sentence had a nice ring to it, but what did it mean? She sighed aloud. Her mind was tired of puzzles and problems. Could life never be simple and straightforward, without exhausting all of one’s resources? She pondered the question for a long time while the colorless waves washed at her feet.
Chapter Twelve
“I told Thomas Erwin I would take the position.”
“You told him what?” Luther’s mouth twitched up at one corner as he tried to control his anger. “Millie, what’s in your head? What are you thinking?”
“I want a way to support myself, and teaching is a good one, one I believe I’ll enjoy.”
“Millie—”
“No, don’t stop me, Luther. I’ve already told you that I’m not ready for marriage, not with you or anyone else.”
The Heart that Truly Loves Page 11