Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  She stopped and looked around. She had been almost asleep when Joshua finally came to bed. That had been almost eleven. There had been problems down at the freight yard and he had worked through supper. But Joshua had settled down beside her and gone quickly to sleep, even beating her, since his coming to bed had brought her awake again.

  She moved to the fireplace mantel and peered at the clock. It was twenty-two minutes past three a.m. She turned. Surely he would have said something to her if he had decided to go back down to the office.

  And then, through the window, she saw a movement. Peering through the curtain she saw Joshua’s dark shape rocking slowly back and forth in the porch swing. With a rush of relief, she felt herself relax. For a moment, she debated about whether or not to let him know she was there, but then, wondering what had driven him out here, she made her way to the door and stepped outside.

  He started and looked up in surprise. “Oh,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t. How long have you been out here?”

  “About an hour.”

  She heard a soft buzzing sound around her ear. “Aren’t the mosquitoes eating you alive?”

  “I guess I’ve got too tough a hide. They don’t bother me much.”

  “Well, they love me. Can we go inside?”

  He shrugged and stood. “Let’s just go back to bed. I’m sorry that you had to get up.”

  “No, I’m awake now. Let’s sit in the parlor. It’s cool in there.”

  Joshua nodded and followed her into the room. She sat down on the sofa, but he took the chair across from it. She looked at him sharply, but he seemed not to be even aware of what he had done.

  “Did you get the problem at the stables solved?”

  “Not completely. I’m going to have to send one of the men to Peoria, I guess.”

  “Is that what woke you up, worrying about that?”

  He shook his head and turned away so she couldn’t see his face. She had a fleeting impression of great agony.

  “Olivia?” she asked softly after a few moments.

  He nodded.

  Now she was glad it was dark, for the emotions rose up in her with a sudden, unexpectedly sharp surge and she found herself blinking quickly to stem the tears. In four days, it would be exactly one month. In a way it seemed unreal that so much time had passed. It seemed like only this morning, the horror of the wagon ride—her, heavy with child, hiding in the back under a tarp, hearing the voices of the men who were taunting Will, terror striking when the horses bolted, feeling the wagon box start to turn over, hearing the wheel beneath her snap like a dried stick. And yet in another way it was as though it had been years ago. It was as if she had not heard Olivia laughing with Savannah or Charles, or at the piano, filling the house with music, or arguing amiably with Will over some scripture they had been reading together. How could the sweetness of those memories fade so quickly? she asked herself. She bit her lip and wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand, trying to ignore the terrible ache inside her.

  “This morning, a wagon came in from Chicago.” He spoke in a low voice, barely above a whisper. She had to strain to hear him over the sound of the crickets outside. “It was that Knabe piano from New York that Jonathan Williams ordered a few months back.” There was a sudden choking sound, and now his voice was strained and filled with anguish. “I never told you, but I was going to surprise Olivia and get her a Knabe for her seventeenth birthday.”

  Caroline got to her feet and hobbled over to stand beside him. Setting her cane against the chair, she leaned against him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He reached up and took it. “She had read all about them in a catalog,” he went on. “They say they are the finest piano made in America.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “She talked to me about it a lot, wondering if she ever dared ask you. How she would have loved it!”

  He pulled his hand away. “Why is it that you don’t hate me?” he suddenly burst out.

  “Hate you?” She was astonished.

  “Yes. If I hadn’t been so pigheaded, if only I would have listened to her. To you! She could be here now and . . .” He couldn’t finish and dropped his chin against his chest. “If only I had believed her.”

  “I read where a man once said that the two most terrible words in the world are ‘if only.’” She reached down and took his hand again. She brought it and pressed it softly to her lips. “How can I hate you, Joshua? You were trying to protect Olivia from what you thought was a terrible thing.”

  “But if I would have listened. If I would just have believed her, Caroline,” he cried. “She never lied to me. Not ever. If only I had believed her.”

  “And if only I had been up on the wagon seat with her,” Caroline intoned in a dull voice. “If only we had gone another way out of town that day. If only I hadn’t been so eager to leave and we had waited for dark.” She squeezed his hand. “I have gone over it again and again, Joshua. ‘If only’ will not ever bring you comfort. It will only drive you mad.”

  There was a deep intake of breath, then a long, tortured sigh. “I know. But I can’t stop. I can’t stop the dreams.”

  “The dreams?”

  “Yes.” He pulled his hand free and lifted his head to look at her now. Gently he brought her around to sit on his lap so she didn’t have to stand. His voice was wooden and lifeless, like a schoolboy reciting lessons which have been memorized but not learned. “Like tonight. Olivia and I are walking in a meadow. Everything is beautiful. We are laughing and talking. She picks me a bouquet of wildflowers. And then we come to a raging river. I can hear the boulders rumbling as they are pushed downstream. The rapids are swift and dangerous.”

  He paused. With his head up, he was facing the window, and the moonlight illuminated his face with a pale, delicate silver, smoothing the harsh angles, softening the twisted mouth, lessening the torture in his eyes.

  “There is a narrow bridge, not much more than one log. I go across, then turn back. I—” Now he faltered and had to look away for a moment. But his head turned again and he went on relentlessly, lashing himself with every word. “I call for Olivia to come. She tells me she cannot make it, that she’s afraid. I am angry. I tell her that even a child can cross. She shakes her head. She . . .”

  Now Caroline could feel his breath coming more quickly, as though he were caught up in the nightmare all over again. She laid her head against his shoulder, not trying to stop the tears now from spilling over and running down the side of her face. His hand came up and he began to stroke her hair, very slowly, very gently.

  “I am very angry now. I shout at her. I command her to come. She is crying, but I won’t listen. Then . . .” He took a quick breath, then another. Now his voice was heavy and thick. “Then, about halfway across, her foot slips. She falls. It is suddenly like the river is a thousand feet below her. I can see her falling, over and over. But I can see her face clearly, even though she is growing smaller and smaller. And she cries out to me, reaching out a hand, as though I could catch her.”

  Caroline had to take a breath of her own to clear the constriction in her throat. “And what does she say?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.

  “‘Why wouldn’t you believe me, Papa? Why wouldn’t you believe me?’”

  They sat there together for a long time, neither speaking. Over and over Joshua’s hand brushed softly against Caroline’s hair. Finally, she spoke. “How long does it take to get a Knabe piano out here?”

  His eyes widened slightly. “Two or three months, I would suppose.”

  “So you could have it here by November, in time for her birthday?”

  He slowly nodded. “I think so.”

  Her shoulders lifted and pulled back slightly. “The Lord saw fit to take our Olivia home to him,” she murmured. “But in return, he gave us another little Olivia. I want you to order that piano. And then, on what would have been Olivia’s birthday, we will give it to Savannah and little Olivia as
a gift from their older sister.”

  He began to nod slowly. “Yes,” he said.

  “And I will find a piano teacher for Savannah and start her on lessons.”

  “Immediately,” he agreed.

  He slipped his arms around her. Caroline looked into his face. “If Olivia thought that there would never be music in our house again, she would be very sad, I think.”

  Joshua’s head came up fully now. “And she would never forgive me.”

  Caroline took his face in her free hand. “She has forgiven you for what happened, Joshua,” she said with sudden fierceness. “Do you know that? She still lives, Joshua, and she does not blame you.”

  His head snapped up and his voice was suddenly sharp. “You believe that, Caroline. You believe that she still lives somewhere, but I don’t know if I do or not.” His voice dropped as suddenly as it had risen. “If I did, then maybe I could find some semblance of peace.”

  A great sadness came over her, but she said nothing further. She closed her eyes. It was almost a full minute before he spoke again, and then it was one brief, pain-filled sentence. “I shall write to the Knabe Piano Company first thing tomorrow.”

  Lydia stood on the porch, watching Nathan at the pump behind the house as he washed the dust from his face and neck. She carried thirteen-month-old Joseph in one arm, standing with her body bent slightly so as to carry the child’s weight mostly on her hip. He straightened, wiping the water from his eyes but not bothering to dry his face with the small towel that hung on the pump handle.

  “Did you get the survey finished?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Mostly. Pa wants to remeasure the three lots that butt up against Brother Llewellyn’s property on the east. He’s not sure they are really equal. But we’ll do that tomorrow. Mother wanted him to take her somewhere.” He moved across the grass and onto the porch. As he did so, little Joseph raised his arms and began to grunt. Nathan smiled and took him from his mother. “Hello there, you little scamp. What have you been doing today?”

  Joseph eyed his father gravely, as if to say, “Please don’t ask, at least not in the presence of Mama.”

  Lydia pulled a face. “I found him sitting on top of the dish chest.”

  “What?” Nathan said, pulling back a little to look at his son, the pleasure showing in his eyes. “How did he manage that?”

  “Pushed a stool over while I was in the bedroom. When I came out, he was sitting there just like he was the king of England or something.”

  “Well, you little character. You’ve barely been walking for three months and now you’re climbing on things?”

  “He is into everything now,” Lydia moaned. “I can’t turn my back on him for a minute.”

  Joseph started to squirm, his eyes fixed on something in the yard, so Nathan stepped off the porch again and let him down.

  “Someone from Ramus brought a note from Jessica,” Lydia said. “They got home safely that same day.”

  Nathan nodded. “Good. It was nice to have them here for that week. Jessica seems really happy.”

  “Very,” Lydia agreed, coming down to stand beside him. “Solomon is just wonderful. I think she’s happier than she has ever been, and she was very happy with John before he was killed.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. And there’s no one who deserves it more.”

  As he went to look away, he saw a sardonic smile on Lydia’s face. She was looking directly at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about the other news?”

  “What other news?”

  “That young Joshua brought back from the store.”

  “I didn’t know that he did.”

  “A wise husband is supposed to know these things.”

  “I haven’t seen Joshua since I got home. What is it?”

  “I don’t think I’ll tell you, since you weren’t even interested enough to ask.”

  He threw up his hands. “I didn’t know there was anything to ask about.”

  She laughed lightly, then went up and kissed him on the nose. “And you think that is an excuse?”

  “Normally I would have thought so, but—”

  “Parley’s home.”

  For a moment the words didn’t register. Then his face was infused with joy. “Parley Pratt?”

  There was a mocking smile. “Just how many Parleys do you know?”

  “Really? Parley here, in Nauvoo? When?”

  “I guess he got in last night.” She reached out and touched his arm, pleased that she should be the bearer of such news for him. “He came to the store, but of course neither of us was there. He told Joshua to have you come see him as soon as you returned home.”

  “Well, well,” Nathan breathed. “Parley is back. That is good news.”

  “Go,” she said, giving him a gentle push. “Knowing how you two like to talk, we’ll not hold supper for you.”

  “Where were you when you heard the news?”

  “Well, actually, I was nearly home. I didn’t hear anything until the steamer I was on stopped at a landing in Wisconsin. Some of the passengers who joined us there brought news that Joseph and Hyrum were dead.”

  “Wisconsin?” Nathan echoed. “You were already coming home, then?”

  Parley nodded solemnly, not explaining further. Parley Parker Pratt was born in 1807, which made him thirty-seven now. That was two years younger than Joseph Smith and two years senior to Nathan. He was built much like Heber C. Kimball—stout, heavily muscled from hard work—and he tended to roll slightly when he walked. His face was round, the dark eyes alert and always probing, and quick to light with good humor. His hair was almost black, thick around his ears and with a slight curl at the neck, but thinning rapidly on top. Normally he bore a look of immense energy and unabashed enjoyment of life. Now he looked tired. His mouth was drawn, the eyes filled with a deep weariness.

  He rose from his chair and began to pace. “I was in the Boston area. A day or two before the twenty-seventh of June, I felt a strong prompting that I should return home. I had no idea why. I thought perhaps it might have something to do with my family. But I immediately started west.”

  “That was surely the Lord’s doing,” Nathan said.

  “Yes, though I did not understand it at the time. But anyway, I was passing on a canal boat on the Erie Canal, near Utica, New York, when to my amazement, my brother William, being then on a mission in New York, happened, quite providentially, to take passage on the same boat. I was much pleased to see him again, and we spent some time telling each other about our labors. By now it was the afternoon of the twenty-seventh.”

  He took the poker that stood in its holder beside the cold fireplace and began to idly poke at the empty grate. “As we conversed together on the deck, a strange and solemn awe came over me, as if the powers of hell were let loose. I was so overwhelmed with sorrow I could hardly speak. I did not know what had come over me. After pacing the deck for some time in silence, I turned to William and exclaimed: ‘Brother William, this is a dark hour! The powers of darkness seem to triumph, and the spirit of murder is abroad in the land. It controls the hearts of the American people, and a vast majority of them sanction the killing of the innocent.’”

  He straightened, putting the poker back in its place, and turned to Nathan, who was watching him intently. Nathan had been with Parley on a mission to Canada. He knew of the spiritual depths in the man. But this was still an amazing story he was hearing.

  “‘My brother,’ I said to William, ‘let us keep silence and not open our mouths. If you have any pamphlets or books on the fulness of the gospel lock them up. Show them not. Neither open your mouth to the people. Let us observe an entire and solemn silence, for this is a dark day, and the hour of triumph for the powers of darkness.’”

  “And this was in the afternoon?” Nathan asked in a low voice.

  Parley’s head moved up and down slowly. “I didn’t take particular not
e of the time, but as near as I can judge, it was the same hour that the Carthage mob were shedding the blood of Joseph and Hyrum Smith and John Taylor, nearly a thousand miles to the west of where William and I then were.”

  Parley moved across the room and sat down beside Nathan again. “My brother bid me farewell somewhere in western New York, he being on his way to a conference in that quarter. I passed on to Buffalo, where I took steamer for Chicago. The steamer touched at a landing in Wisconsin, some fifty or sixty miles from Chicago, and here some new passengers came on board. They brought the news of the martyrdom. That was the first I knew of it, and then I understood what had happened on the canal boat that previous afternoon.”

  Nathan could only nod.

  “It was horrible,” Parley went on, his voice quite low now. “Great excitement prevailed on board the steamer. The people were filled with a spirit of exultation and triumph at this ‘glorious’ news. I could barely believe it. They received this news with much the same spirit as is generally shown on the receipt of the news of a great national victory in time of war. Knowing that I was a member of the Church and a member of the Twelve, many passengers gathered about me and tauntingly inquired what the Mormons would do now, seeing their prophet and leader was killed.

  “To these taunts and questions I replied that we should continue our mission and spread to all the world the work Joseph had restored. I pointed out that nearly all the prophets and Apostles who were in times of old had been killed and also the Savior of the world, yet their death did not alter the truth nor hinder its final triumph.”

  “And what did they answer to that?”

  “Oh, some seemed moved by it. They began to inquire as to who would be the new leader and some even asked if it might be me. I disabused them of that notion, telling them that no man would rejoice in the death of the innocent for personal gain. This served as a sufficient rebuke, and all were silent.”

  “Well, you’re here. I’ll bet Elder Taylor and Elder Richards were pleased to see you.”