The Heart that Truly Loves

by Susan Evans McCloud

  The Lord is extending the Saints’ understanding,

  Restoring their judges and all as at first.

  The knowledge and power of God are expanding;

  The veil o’er the earth is beginning to burst.

  How many times must Verity and Judith and Leah have sung these same words, and what comfort the exultation of this song must have brought to their hearts! Millie listened to the sermons; she listened as she never had back in Judith’s house. She understood, but she shunned the understanding, because it still brought her pain and even the old sense of confusion.

  When the meeting ended Elder Forsyth found her quickly. He placed his hand on her arm and smiled at her gently. “You need to talk to someone, Millicent Fenn. Is it yet time?”

  She shook her head. Then, deciding suddenly, she asked, “Do you have any word of the people who left Nauvoo—where they might be now?”

  His expression did not alter. “They have crossed Iowa and are making a temporary camp—Winter Quarters, they call it—in the territory of Nebraska. They hope to be able to move on by the spring.”

  Millie nodded, afraid or unwilling to ask more.

  “Will you return next week for the special Christmas service?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose that I might.”

  Others spoke to her before she left the building, and some of them seemed genuinely interested in her and why she was there. She did not know if their attentions pleased or angered her; she could not decide.

  Though the weather was cold, she walked around the Common with Adria, pointing out to her places of interest that brought back floods of memory too painful to hold. She had not the courage to approach the house on Walnut Street; perhaps in time. Altogether, the day was too much for her. She arrived home exhausted and shaken in body and mind.

  As it happened, she did not return to Boston for the Christmas services. A huge storm blew up that made the prospect of travel impossible. Millie was secretly glad. She felt as if she had escaped something unpleasant and strangely imperative.

  On Christmas Day Almira came with the boys, as she had last year. But the ordeal with Adria had bound the two women in a way neither had expected, and much of the old reserve between them was gone. Thus a feeling of true gladness and festivity, like a fine sifting of snow, brightened the day for them.

  Late that night, long after her guests had departed and Adria had fallen asleep, Millie reluctantly drew out the Book of Mormon and opened to the place that told of the Savior’s visit to the Nephites. He seemed more real to her in that setting than anywhere else.

  “For you I read this, Verity,” she whispered, because the reluctance that sat upon her was real. But something, deeply hidden yet uneasily stirring, disclosed a more profound intent to her heart. Surely, in some way yet mysterious to her, God had healed her loved child. How ungrateful she would be to not thank him, to not spare him one thought on this, the most sacred day of the centuries. She did not understand, and she knew not what she was afraid of in attempting to try. But the reading brought some of that warm, strong feeling back to her. And the last words that went through her mind that Christmas Day before she, too, slept were the words Albert Forsyth had spoken to her in her fear and anguish: “God believes in you, Millicent Fenn. He loves you as much as he loves any of his children.” For the first time in her life she desperately wanted to believe that those words could be true.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  1 March 1847, Winter Quarters, Nebraska Territory

  Dearest Millie,

  I write this in hopes that it will indeed reach you, intending to send it back with a rider to one of the Iowa cities that is on the mail line.

  We have experienced a most interesting and trying winter in this place. The Omaha and Potawatomi Indians, whose land this is, have been generous and kind to us. Not so the whites, who have tried to cause trouble, even with the friendly Indians. Yet we have survived and have even built a gristmill at this place to grind our wheat into flour. Those who are here left Nauvoo in various stages of preparation, and now it is essential that we all build up our supplies in order to preserve our lives as we begin the longer trek westward. So there is much work to be done here, despite the cold and thick, sticky mud and the general dreariness, accentuated by bellies that are hungry more often than full. It has been difficult for the children, and many have suffered from scurvy and malaria and other troublesome diseases. Indeed, I fear there have been hundreds of deaths in the camp. Leah’s Jenny grew ill enough to frighten us, but Edgar and Giles laid their hands on her head and healed her of the sickness that threatened her life and her mother’s sanity, and God was merciful to us, though many others have not been spared this deep trial.

  This letter, written so many weeks before, did not reach Millie’s hands until late in the spring. She held it lovingly, understanding for the very first time what Verity was talking about. He spared me, too, she thought, a wild joy surging through her. He spared me and my child. And gently the seed of belief sprang up in her; Albert Forsyth’s words could indeed have been true. Eagerly she read on, longing to bridge the dark gap between Verity and her and to speak face to face with this beloved woman who still called her her friend.

  There are always new births, at least among the Saints, to soften the sting of death and parting and to reawaken the promise of life. Patty Sessions and the other midwives in the camp are kept busy day and night. Mother cheerfully assists in the births and then in caring for the mothers and their little ones. She has even recruited Maggie to go with her sometimes. Indeed, I find myself looking upon Maggie as another sister, and so, I think, does she regard Leah and me. I do my share, as you can guess, by sewing, though there is little new cloth in the camp and sometimes even a scarcity of thread. When Mother finds a sister who is too ill to care for her little ones she brings them back to Leah, and Leah reads them all stories and organizes little games and activities. Quiet as she is, they behave for her and appear to relish her company. And so we get on, day after day, moving closer to the time of departure toward our unknown destination.

  I might, in truth, be quite wretched here if it were not for the sisters and the love they bear one another. We hold many meetings where we sing and pray and encourage each other. And when the spirit is strong, we remember who we are and what we are doing here and whose work this is.

  Words, only words. But this time they had a faint meaning for Millie as she read them, and she knew what it was the women were feeling. Had not the same Spirit whispered to her own heart?

  Next month President Young will head out with the first group, and the remainder of us, organized into companies of hundreds, fifties, and tens, will follow as we are ready. I want to leave early. I would rather get on with this than sit here and wonder and fret. Giles promises we will be ready in good time, and he is a man of his word.

  I shall try to write more before we leave, and as we travel, though who knows how many months may pass before my letters reach you. We are in the wilderness, but we have no enemies to harry us. We are homeless, but we have God to guide us, and the promise of peace and prosperity in a land of our own. Thus we feel blessed indeed. May God bless and keep you also, my dearest Millie.

  Love,

  Verity

  With the coming of spring and good weather there was no excuse for Millie not to travel up to Boston. She found herself going to the Mormon meetings, not regularly, but often enough that she became accepted as a known, recognizable face, and before she knew it she was being included in sewing projects and quilting bees. She brought produce from her gardens to distribute among the poor, and crocks of flowers to adorn the meeting rooms.

  One Sunday in June Sister Turner gathered several of the ladies together to ask their assistance with a matter that had just come to her attention.

  “A little family of orphans lives not far from here,” she explained. “As I understand it, the father was lost at sea a year
ago and the mother has been ill ever since. She died last Monday, and no one knows what to do with the little ones. They will go to the poorhouse, I fear.”

  “Are they members of . . . your church?” Millie asked in a small voice.

  “Heavens no, my dear. But we must not let them suffer if we can find any means to prevent it. Poor innocent things.”

  “How many are there?” asked another.

  “Two boys and a girl, I believe.”

  “I could take one of the boys, perhaps,” a sister offered tentatively. “What ages be they?”

  “You know, I’m not sure. I only peeked in at them once myself. Huddled miserably in a heap on the bed, they were. Probably not a one over ten.”

  “I’ll take them all.” Millie was surprised at the strength of her voice. But she trembled as the other women all turned to her, amazement plain in their faces.

  “Oh, are you certain, my dear?” Sister Turner asked after a long pause.

  “They can share Adria’s bed, and she can sleep with me.” Millie was thinking out loud. “That way we’ll have room. And I’ve work in plenty for them to do: helping in the garden, picking berries, catching fish for their supper.” The others were listening intently now. “I’ve the sea and woods, all the great outdoors for them to run and play in. And, at least for the time being, with fresh vegetables and fish from the nearby cove, I’ll be able to feed them, too.”

  “But that’s a handful for a little thing like yourself,” one of the ladies ventured.

  Sister Turner placed her hand over Millie’s. “She can handle it, this girl can. I’ve no doubts of that.”

  It was Sister Turner’s husband, Jed, who had come with Albert Forsyth that first night and laid his hands upon Adria. Millie met the woman’s eyes and smiled deeply. “Let me try it, at least for awhile. It would give them a respite, a chance to build their strength up.”

  “All right, but if it’s too much for you . . .”

  “And let us come, once a week at least, and help with the washing and mending . . .”

  Somehow it all was arranged. Millie knew, listening to the women and watching their faces, that they held her in great respect now. She liked the feeling that gave her. She could justify their respect, she knew she could; and she was anxious to try.

  Nicholas felt the July sun burn hot through the dark felt of his hat, but he didn’t mind. It seemed he never got warm the whole ten months he was in Winter Quarters. He liked being out on the trail. Every turn of the wagon’s wheels brought them closer to freedom and the home Brigham and the first company of pioneers had found for them. Even Helena seemed to bloom under the touch of fresh air and sunshine. She had been very ill most of the winter, and at times he had feared for her life. Perhaps the demands of the trail would harden both of them. He had been tickled to find that stout Gerry Hines and his new wife had been assigned to their same company. Nights by the campfire had certainly proved amusing with Gerry there.

  The creak of leather, the drone of flies round the oxen’s forelocks, the distant sound of someone singing in one of the wagons up ahead, made Nicholas sigh in contentment. He caught Helena’s eye and tried to convey, in the brief exchange of expression, his deep love for her.

  “We’re approaching the Sweetwater a couple miles ahead.” It was Gerry himself calling to him, riding up on a fat little mule whose gray sides bulged beneath the short Englishman’s legs. “Brother Hall wondered if you’d ride up and have a word with him.”

  Brother Hall was their captain of fifty. He probably wanted help taking across some of the widows and their wagons. Gerry fell into place where Nicholas had been riding, seeing as his wagon traveled right behind theirs, and Lizbeth and Frederick’s right ahead.

  “I’ll take care o’ the ladies.” The little man winked at Helena and doffed his limp cap. Nicholas rode off with a warm feeling of peace and well-being—not knowing how long it would be before he felt that way again.

  He wasn’t even there to see it happen. The slope leading down to the river bottoms was rock-strewn and steep. One of their oxen caught its foot on a stone or in a rabbit hole and began to slide out of control, dragging the other ox and the wagon helplessly with it. It had been raining the day before, and the soil was tightly packed and scored with deep ruts and gashes. If Nicholas had been at the reins, not Helena with the baby in her arms, and weakened by her long illness . . .

  It all happened too quickly, Lizbeth explained to him after. The white bulk of the wagon rocked, then toppled over like a tent with the stakes pulled, throwing Helena and the baby hard against the unyielding earth. The back wheel of the wagon passed over them, crushing the baby’s light skull and pressing against her rib cage. There was nothing at all that could be done. Gerry Hines had jumped for the ox’s head when he first saw what was happening, taking a nasty fall himself as he tried to grab hold of the beast, and breaking his leg in the process. Abel had been riding in Lizbeth’s wagon, and thus he was spared. Gerry, his face red and spattered with dirt, insisted on carrying Helena’s body to safety himself, huffing like a little red engine and dragging his useless leg behind him.

  By the time Nicholas arrived they had laid her body out, with her child tucked beside her, on a clean rock slab, with a soft blanket to cushion her head. She looked peaceful, as though she were sleeping sweetly, and so she was. Nicholas threw himself over her body with a grief that overcame him, choking his breath and making his head rock with pain. No one could coax him away until long after dark when they let Gerry Hines try—Gerry, whose face was gray with his own suffering, blaming himself for letting the accident happen.

  “Come away, lad. We’ll cover her gently and put her in the wagon; then you can come and pick a nice spot with me—”

  “I won’t bury her here.”

  Gerry’s eyes blinked in his round, swollen face. “You must take care of her properly.”

  “Here on these low, ugly flats that claimed her life—I won’t do it.”

  Nicholas turned, yanked his horse’s reins, and mounted, all in one movement, and disappeared while Gerry stood blinking. He rode all through the night and did not appear again until three hours past sunup, when the company had crossed the river and was moving along level ground. He had located a site on a high knoll with an old elm tree bent above it. Here he had dug through the moist soil with a stick, with his hands, with the hunting knife that rode at his side, until he had an enclosure deep enough to hold and protect her.

  The company stopped and buried mother and daughter there. But when they pulled out Nicholas stayed, sitting stiff and silent beside the raw grave. It was two days before he caught up with the others and took his accustomed place. But he did not smile, and he spoke to no one, and his deep blue eyes were gray with a suffering that was almost too heavy to bear.

  “Follow me closely, now. Hold hands tightly, and I’ll show you the way.”

  Millie watched the three children march up the hillside, single file, in the wake of Adria, while the little white dog followed obediently behind. Both Adria and the puppy had been ecstatic when the children arrived, and things had worked as smoothly as clockwork ever since.

  All Adria needed was this chance to bring out the kindness and compassion of her nature, Millie reflected, thinking over the past weeks since the quiet, wide-eyed children had arrived. The little girl fussed over them, saving the tastiest morsels to fill their thin bellies, letting them be the first to take turns, making sure they had enough blankets to keep warm when the spring nights were chill. Millie had never seen her like this, and it thrilled her to discover the depth of perception and sympathy in the child. The amazed little family responded openly to Adria’s enthusiasm and kindness; she was another child like themselves. Her love threw the door wide open, and it was no task at all for Millie to walk straight through.

  The boys learned quickly, anxious to earn their keep and contribute their share. Under Amo
s’s tutelage they learned how to repair broken boards and hinges, how to fish in the shallows for haddock and summer flounder with shrimp and minnows for bait, and how to clean and gut the catch for eating when the fishing was done. David was the oldest, and he was an excellent weeder, sparing Millie hours of work in the garden. Samuel, only six, would stand on a stool at the sink, with a long apron on, rinsing dirt from the vegetables his brother picked.

  Eliza was three or thereabouts, and she was no trouble at all. Adria showed her how to pick flowers properly and which ones not to touch, and she would proudly present Millie with a fresh bouquet every day. They were an unlikely family, brought together in storybook fashion, but they were happy, and Millie felt more at peace than she had in a long, long time.

  Evenings when the work was done and they had eaten their fill of the day’s catch and the garden’s yield, the little ones stretched out on the cool boards of the floor and listened while Millie read story after story to them. Sometimes she would let Adria take a turn, and the boys were amazed at her skill.

  “Would you like to read as Adria does?” Millie asked David one morning when no one else was indoors. She doubted whether either boy knew much beyond his alphabet.

  “Nah, reading’s girls’ stuff,” he said.

  “I hardly think so,” she replied evenly. “All of those books we have been reading from were written by men. If you want to grow up and work in the city, you must be able to read. If you wish to go to sea like your father before you, you must still learn to read, my lad.” She put her hand on his shoulder, thin of both flesh and muscle. “It isn’t a hard thing to do. I’ll teach you myself, and then this autumn when school starts you’ll already know how.”