Three days after Luther left, Thomas Erwin, the schoolteacher, returned, earlier than he had expected. He had buried his mother and was prepared to resume his duties. Millie was not prepared, but she had no choice in the matter. The immediate emptiness in her life was not of hours only but of purpose and pleasure as well. She was suddenly reduced to the bare essentials: herself and her garden. That was no longer enough. Last year at this time she was just returning to Gloucester. Last year at this time a stranger stopped to ask her directions, a stranger with eyes the color of the sea and hair like a raven’s wing. But he existed no longer. The sea had borne him away from her, just as it had borne Judith and Leah and Verity away from her. Yet she dwelt cradled in the arms of the sea, knowing no other life, wanting no other life than this.
One week to the day after Luther’s departure a letter arrived. It was postmarked “Liverpool” and addressed to “Miss Millicent Cooper.” Almira Fenn set it aside until the place was clear of customers; then she tore it into small pieces and stuffed it into the cooking stove fire. She had promised Luther she would look after Millie while he was away, but she and the girl had never got on well together. She didn’t know exactly what Luther had in mind when he asked her, but this was her idea of keeping her word to her absent son. That doing so brought Almira pleasure and a sharp awareness of her power was simply a bonus thrown in.
* * *
By early April Millie had planted sweet peas and spaded and prepared the ground for her various gardens. The soft spring rains had already coaxed out the fragile white snowdrops, with their delicate sea-green markings. By May the daffodils, jonquils, and tulips, the long purple bubbles of the crocuses, and the crimson splendor of the peonies all splashed the dull, sandy landscape with color and promise. As Luther left, the barn swallows and martins came, the bobolinks laughed in the spring sunlight, and the sandpipers called, “Sweet, sweet, sweet,” in the still, tide-brimming coves. Millie had always loved the cool days of May, full of work and warm possibilities. But Luther was out harvesting the sea, Nicholas was harvesting souls, and Judith and the girls were harvesting the bitter fruits of hatred and jealousy, while Millicent planted and tended, waited and hoped.
Chapter Fourteen
They told him it was May, and the mildness in the air seemed to prove it, though he still felt chilled to the bone and as weak as a newborn kitten. He remembered the past several months through a haze, fevered and painful.
At first he had refused to admit he could be ill. Yet if this was the price heaven exacted for the healing of the Williams children, he would not complain. But as the chills, headaches, and loss of appetite progressed into a raging fever and a throat constricted and on fire, oozing with yellow streaks of infection, he knew a wild time of sheer panic, when the nightmare seemed too large and too black for him and he struck out in sheer terror against his powerful tormentor. Only with eventual acceptance came the ability to fight back with intelligence: forcing himself to lie still; forcing himself to swallow when Sister Parker—who was accustomed to mothering him—or Elder Howlitt attempted to get liquids down his swollen throat; forcing himself to believe, through the chills, through the waves of heat that left his head ringing and his body soaked in sweat, that he could survive.
Then the first crisis passed, and with progress his youthful high spirits returned to sustain him. In foolish confidence, against the advice of both the doctor and Sister Parker, he got up from his sickbed to attend the baptism of Laura Williams and her three children, Ann, Paul, and Ben. He had to be there; it was only right. Wasn’t it he who had befriended them, taught them, healed them? It was a wonderful day as the men testified of the divinity of the work, and all hearts felt the soothing balm of the Spirit and the quickening power of testimony. He would not have missed it, though he did not know at the time that it nearly cost him his life. In fact, he wrote an optimistic letter to Millicent Cooper, making light of the illness which had kept him confined for more than two months, and expressing his appreciation for the strength that had been given him to rise, to attend the baptism, and to will himself back to health.
After that the disease dug in its claws in earnest. Nicholas sank into a state of delirium. The doctor feared paralysis of the heart, and for many weeks the strictest watch was kept over him, day and night. He knew nothing of it; he did not despair, he did not even dream. When he awoke one May morning to hear the warble of a wren in the tree outside his window he had no memory of his illness or of the cold hold of Death that had clutched him so fiercely and nearly possessed him.
He was weak and exhausted and still in danger, for the doctor was concerned over symptoms of paralysis in his muscles. The general concern did not lessen. He was still carefully watched. The brethren in charge of the Liverpool area were consulted, and they pronounced their verdict: As soon as the young man was able to travel safely, he was to be sent back. The work did not require a man’s life, surely, and with the state of things in Missouri he would certainly be needed at home.
So it was decided. When Elder Howlitt told Nicholas, his white face grew a shade more pale.
“I have done nothing here. Don’t send me away a failure,” he entreated through thin, chapped lips, as colorless as his skin.
He would not reconcile himself, despite arguments and importunings. He improved, but slowly, because the spirit was lacking. They had detoured around him; the work was progressing while he lay limp and helpless. He had no place here anymore, no plan, and no purpose. But he did not wish to go home.
The day before he was due to depart he wrote to Millicent, with a solemn promise from Sister Parker that she would see his letter safely and carefully mailed. He had little to tell; he did not wish to frighten her with the facts, and he hated to tell her that they were sending him home. The aura of failure clung to him, as distasteful as the toxins of the diphtheria. Now the slightest effort left him weak and trembling, but he would get on his feet; he would grow strong. Perhaps he would return to complete his mission more honorably. Perhaps he would travel East again, by way of Boston, by way of Gloucester, by way of a girl with hair like ripe wheat and eyes like the warm, honeyed browns of the earth, and a voice that held the sweet secrets of earth and sky and sea all together.
They carried him onto the ship. He was surprised at how many people were gathered to bid him farewell. Sister Parker wrapped her big, freckled arms around him and gave him a noisy smack on the cheek, her skin smelling of a faint mixture of rose water and the garlic she loved to put into everything she cooked. Without her he would not be here, flaccid, useless, and miserable as he was. How could he thank her? How could he thank any of them, tell them the depth of his feelings?
Joshua Howlitt had tears in his eyes. He had his part in wrestling Nicholas from death’s grasp. Months ago, a lifetime ago, in that pleasant, dreamlike place by the sea, Nicholas had done the same thing for him.
Laura Williams, thin but not as pale as she used to be, was crying openly. She had a son by each arm—fine boys, with shocks of thick brown hair and large, intelligent eyes; boys well worth saving indeed.
Ann Williams, the ten-year-old daughter, came up close and pressed her forehead against Nicholas’s arm. She felt like some frail, frightened creature trembling momentarily there. “We won’t forget you,” she whispered.
Nicholas could not control his own trembling. He must not give way to tears, he must not!
The faces blurred, growing more and more distant. This was not how it should be. This was not the farewell he had cherished in his imaginings these long, dreary months.
The ship’s whistle sounded. Elder Howlitt let go of Nicholas’s hand. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again there was nothing but an emerald stretch of sea, with the sun dancing in sparkles along its glossy surface. It made his eyes ache, deep in their sockets, to look at it. He closed them again and sat in a small pool of silence and pain for a long, long time.
Chapter Fifteen
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In midsummer the earth slows to the pace of honey-replete bees and sluggish brooks; of boughs laden with berries, still and ripe and unpicked; of shady coves brimming with fish, sleek and silver and uninvaded. In midsummer the earth holds her breath and savors the wide array of her glorious wealth before the frenzy of autumn and harvest and the inevitable regression toward winter’s denuding and decay.
Millie gave way to the sweet lethargy. She thought of nothing, questioned nothing, desired nothing. Then Verity’s letter came.
It was dated July 7, 1839, Quincy, Illinois. Millie could feel the beat of her heart quicken in her breast. She sought her mother’s rocker and sat down with deliberate care.
Millicent, dearest, calm your heart and read what I have written without anguish or anger. I can picture all too well your beautiful eyes, golden brown like a fawn’s, grow wide, and the lines around your sweet mouth grow tight. Please don’t, Millie. We are delivered, we are well, we are in God’s hands.
Shortly after I wrote my last letter to you, on the thirtieth of October, a large mob force approached Far West. Our militia drew up in a line just south of the city and exchanged flags of truce with the mob. This allowed us to communicate with the enemy and learn their intent, which was to obtain three persons out of the city before they massacred the rest.
That day, Millie, they had done just as they threatened to do to the little community of Haun’s Mill. Our minds were incapable of imagining the scene: men and boys shot down mercilessly, wives and innocent girls defiled, children’s brains dashed out against the sides of buildings or their heads shot off in view of their suffering fathers and mothers—all in broad daylight! All under the protecting banner of law! Was this to be our fate as well?
At such a time one does not think or question; one prays and does what must be done. Hostilities were postponed until the next day, and during that dark night none of us slept. The men and many of the women worked to construct some fortifications, rude though they were, south of the city. Under cover of night, new groups of men, one group dressed and painted like savages, added their strength to the invaders. Comstock’s men, their hands red with blood from Haun’s Mill, boldly joined the rest.
How gray was that new dawn, Millie! Through the tense and interminable day negotiations went on back and forth between the mobbers, and we knew not our fate. Sanity lay in keeping busy. Sister Shumway requested that Mother accompany her to the home of several women who were in the delicate confinement of childbed; they helped bring three babies into the world—and under such conditions! Leah cried when she heard. “I don’t want to have my baby here like this. I want to go home, Verity, I want to go home!” I could do nothing but comfort her, for I shared her feelings and longed to fly out of this place. When Mother found us in such a state you can imagine the scolding she gave us. But when she went so far as to say, “Count your blessings,” Leah burst into tears again—bitter tears for one so young. “We are not yet as the Haun’s Mill Saints,” Mother said. “You have a fine, strong husband who loves you, and a child on the way to bless your union. God has not yet allowed our enemies to overpower us, and if he does, then we go to his rest.”
“I don’t want to die, even if I go to heaven,” Leah sniffled. “What is it all for, anyway?”
Mother stiffened at that. “For the truth, for the sake of truth, Leah!” There was a light in Mother’s face, Millie. I wish you could have seen it. “To live a purposeless and ignorant life and then die—that is tragedy, dear heart. To live and die for the truth’s sake . . .”
She did not complete her grand statement; she never does. We were duly subdued by her words, though Leah could not keep herself from sulking for the rest of the day. I nurse an anger, Millie, that at times turns to amazement. One moment I feel I despise my mother; the next I stand in awe of her. I never really understand her, despite her fiery Irish blood that runs in my veins.
I must proceed—I take up too much paper with my meanderings. Suffice it to say that Brother Joseph and some of the other leaders were betrayed that same evening into the hands of their enemies. The next day the mob was let loose upon the city. Our men hid us in the cellar and took turns standing guard. You will remember that both Brother Gardner and Brother Gray are large men and can be forbidding in appearance, especially with a gun in their hands. But our house is too small and humble to attract much attention, though it was ransacked like nearly every other building in the community, and the blacksmith’s shop was burned to the ground. They killed many cattle just for the sport of it, robbed us of any possessions of value, and did worse things, far worse things, that I cannot bear to tell.
On the 6th of November the Missouri militia assembled the brethren and read them the terms under which we would be allowed to retain our lives: namely, to give up our leaders (which had been done against our will, as all things were), to deliver up our arms (which again was forced upon us), and to sign over our property to defray the expenses of the “war.” It is ludicrous, yes, it is madness, but the final term explains it all: we were told that we must leave the state forthwith. I will quote you General Clark’s words, as told to us by one of the men who were present: ‘Whatever may be your feelings concerning this, or whatever your innocence, it is nothing to me. . . . The character of this state has suffered almost beyond redemption, from the character, conduct and influence that you have exerted.” Simon had to hold Mother back physically when she heard this. She was not for enduring such insolent lies. It does make the mind recoil in horror and incomprehension. Oh, Millie, Millie, I could go on and on, but I am weary and my heart faints to recollect these dark things we have so lately suffered. I must be more concise and brief.
Suffice it to say that we prepared with the others—the best we could in our poverty and with a harsh winter settling over us—to leave, as soon as the weather permitted us. Some did leave as early as February and March, but most of us tarried, for various reasons. Leah was ours. We kept lingering, waiting for the weather to become truly clement enough to risk her safety and that of her unborn child. But at last the decision was forced by the unmitigating harassment of the “citizens,” and we took our leave of the city, on foot, dragging one small cart and carrying bundles on our backs.
I am not yet able to recount that journey, even in my own thoughts. We had the aid of two strong men, or we would not have made it through the mud and the wet snow and damp cold of early April. When we reached the Iowa side of the Mississippi River it was strewn with hundreds of homeless families and the remnants of their belongings. We lay down on the ground that first night to take our rest, and waited there for days before the men could arrange for us to be ferried across the river. We obtained a means of shelter because Mother still hoards a precious supply of funds from the sale of our home and belongings back on Walnut Street . . .
Here a smudge of ink obscured the next two words and Millie did not have to guess at the anguish her friend had experienced at the mention of her home, now forever lost to her. With a little cry Millie smoothed out the page and continued to read.
We secured rooms with a family where the wife is a semi-invalid due to an injury she suffered several years ago. I do sewing for the woman and her friends, and Mother has become maid of all work to help alleviate the costs of our keep in any way we can. Our men returned to help the poor and needy leave the state, under Brigham Young’s able direction, so we were for some weeks alone. During this time Leah gave birth prematurely to a little girl. She was beautiful, Millie, with a fluff of fine red hair and a straight, well-formed nose, and the most perfect ears. She lived three days and expired peacefully in her mother’s arms.
Leah said nothing. Her eyes grew wide and empty. She held the baby out to Mother, who lifted her gently. Leah sunk back against the bed and closed her eyes. She refused to speak. She would not eat, she would not cry, she would not answer questions. At last, in desperation, Mother and I prepared the little body for burial, then took her in
for one last time to her mother.
“We are laying Miriam to rest (Miriam is the name Leah had chosen for her) in a lovely spot beneath the protecting arms of a young birch tree. Will you come with us, Leah?”
I have never heard Mother speak so meekly, so tenderly. Leah did not move her eyes or otherwise acknowledge our presence. Mother sat on the edge of the bed and held her baby out to her. “Kiss your daughter good-bye,” she said. Leah moved not a muscle. Mother leaned over and kissed the little one herself. Then she smoothed Leah’s tangled hair back from her eyes with her long, capable fingers and kissed the smooth white skin of her cheek. “Verity and I will take good care of her for you, dear heart.”
With that, we slipped out of the room. We buried Miriam’s body on a little knoll above the Mississippi, in a sheltered spot beneath a weeping birch tree. When Edgar returned Mother took him to see where his daughter lay sleeping, “until resurrection morning,” she told him. He is taking it very hard. Not to have been here, not to have even set eyes on his firstborn. He is such a simple, patient soul, and Leah’s behavior stymies him. He tried to talk with her concerning their child but met with the same emptiness we had encountered. Then one morning Leah arose early and came into the kitchen, appearing rested and normal. Perhaps we were all staring at her stupidly; I don’t know. She threw her head back and said, “Well, that’s that. It’s all over and done with. What’s for breakfast, Verity?”
The Heart that Truly Loves Page 14