Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “One of the main problems,” Mercy explained, “is that Emma feels that Brigham and the other Apostles did not come immediately to see her and pay their condolences when they arrived back in Nauvoo last August.”

  “But Matthew says they did go to see her.”

  “Yes, but only after some time had passed.”

  “We understand why,” Mary interjected quickly. “As you know, the very moment Brigham and the other four stepped off the boat, they were caught up in the crisis with Sidney Rigdon. The Twelve barely had a chance to get a full night’s sleep before Brigham had them in council trying to determine what was to be done. President Marks had already set the meeting to call for a vote on Brother Rigdon’s guardianship.”

  “I know,” Mercy sighed. “And to be honest, Emma was not reluctant to express her feelings about who should replace Joseph. She was clearly in favor of it being either President Rigdon or else President Marks.”

  “A lot of people took unfair advantage of her, I think,” Mary added. “She was the widow of the Prophet and had great influence. So men who wanted to take over the reins sought her support as they jockeyed for position. Claims were made publicly by them that I’m not sure Emma ever said privately.”

  Rebecca nodded. “As you know, Matthew is very close to Brother Brigham, and Brigham was upset by what was going on. He felt strongly that this was not Emma’s choice, nor anyone else’s, for that matter. This was the Lord’s decision.” She took in a deep breath. “There’s something else,” she said slowly. “Matthew shared this with Lydia and me when we told him that we planned to speak to you today. We’ve not spoken about it to anyone else, but I think it is an important factor.”

  “What?” they both asked together.

  “Matthew says Brigham wonders what would have happened if Emma had not sent that letter across the river, begging Joseph not to flee to the West but to come back and face his accusers.”

  “Yes,” Mary said very quietly, and there were just the tiniest lines of bitterness now around her mouth. “Joseph and Hyrum would have been gone by that afternoon otherwise. The letter was one thing, but then when the men who brought the letter called Joseph and Hyrum cowards . . .” She shook her head slowly. “Who knows how things might have been different?”

  “Well, in Brigham’s mind, that decision to return sealed their fate.” Then Rebecca sighed. This was such a twisted and complicated problem. “Lydia attributes much of all this to Emma’s emotional state. She has seen so much tragedy in the last few years—the horror of Far West and Joseph’s imprisonment, little Don Carlos dying, then shortly after that giving birth to a silent child.”

  “No question about it,” Mary said, the bitterness gone as quickly as it had come. “She was terribly frightened to think she might have to face another birth alone.”

  They were quiet now for a time, each lost in her own thoughts of tragedy and how slim were the hinges upon which it swung.

  Finally, Mercy straightened, looking at Rebecca. “What has happened most recently is the deep disagreement over the properties of the Church and Joseph’s own private properties. This is what is widening the rift between Emma and Brigham now. And these are complicated questions, Rebecca. I am glad that I am not the one to have to sort them out. One can see justice on both sides of the issue. For Brigham’s part, he believes that while some things were put in the name of Joseph Smith, that was done only because Joseph was the trustee-in-trust for the Church. For example, many tithing funds went toward the purchase of land or the construction of certain buildings, including the Mansion House. Therefore, in Brother Brigham’s mind, they clearly belong to the Church. Emma, on the other hand, claims that these things were done by Joseph for his family.”

  “And,” Mary said, “Emma has one strong point. She often worked alongside Joseph in certain endeavors in order to make them a success. For example, look how many hours she spent getting the store built and stocked. Joseph was there sometimes, but with his duties, she was the one who basically ran it. And at the Mansion House, she took in boarders, cooking and washing for them. Is she not entitled, then, to some remuneration or part title to these properties?”

  “So that’s it,” Rebecca said. “Lydia said that Emma keeps making comments about Brigham trying to rob her.”

  Mary nodded. “Even Brother Brigham agrees that the line between personal and Church ownership was rarely, if ever, clearly drawn by Joseph. Particularly galling to Brigham,” she went on, “is Emma’s insistence that the sacred manuscripts—particularly the notes from Joseph’s work on translating the Bible—belong to her and not to the Church. In Brigham’s mind, this is one area where there should be no question. But as you know, during those terrible days in Far West, at great risk to herself, Emma preserved those manuscripts by carrying them about beneath her skirts. When she fled from Missouri to Illinois, she even carried them across the frozen Mississippi with four children hanging on to her. So in her mind, they were Joseph’s private property, and by saving them she earned full rights to them.”

  “That is a difficult question,” Rebecca said softly, not sure exactly how she would rule on that if it were put to her. Finally she looked at her two friends. “Thank you. That will help Lydia as she tries to help Emma.”

  “Tell her we appreciate her concern very much,” Mercy responded.

  “How is Mother Smith taking all of this?” Rebecca asked.

  “Mother Smith is Mother Smith,” Mary answered with a warm smile. “She is strong, wise, caring. She tries to negotiate peace between all of us.”

  “Does she side with Emma or Brigham?”

  “She is careful to try and not to appear to take sides,” Mary replied, “but there is no question but what she believes Brigham and the Twelve are the ones to lead the Church. I suspect Joseph said enough to her before he died that she knows Brigham’s claim that the Twelve hold the keys is correct.”

  “And the Twelve have been wonderful to her and to us,” Mercy added. “They have announced that they are building Mother Smith a home of her own. Brigham also has given her unlimited use of one of the carriages that belong to the Church. She is obviously getting older now, but she is still the wonderful, tireless, ever-cheerful Mother Smith. What a dear woman! What an inspiration to all of us!”

  “What dear women you all are!” Rebecca exclaimed. “I was counting the other day. With you two, and the wives of Samuel and Don Carlos, and, of course, Mother Smith and Emma, there are six widows now in the Smith family. And numerous fatherless children as well. And yet you go on in faith and good cheer.” There was a sudden shininess in Rebecca’s eyes. “You are all an inspiration to the rest of us. How can I complain about having Derek gone for only four months when I know what each of you faces?”

  Chapter Notes

  The story of how the penny fund started by the Fielding sisters in the winter of 1843 was used to stave off a financial crisis for the Church is told in Mary Fielding Smith’s biography (see Don Cecil Corbett, Mary Fielding Smith: Daughter of Britain [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1966], pp. 177–78).

  For a thorough discussion on the conflict between Emma and Brigham, see American Moses, pp. 117–18.

  Emma never did surrender the manuscript of Joseph’s work on the Bible to the Twelve. This work is known now by the RLDS Church as the “Inspired Version” of the Bible and by the LDS Church as the “Joseph Smith Translation” of the Bible. Emma married Lewis Bidamon, a non-Mormon, in December 1847 and lived with him until her death in 1879. At her death, the manuscript passed to the Reorganized Church through Joseph Smith III, who was the first president and prophet of that church. That manuscript is still held by the Reorganized Church today.

  In a similar manner, the properties which belonged to Joseph’s family—namely, the Homestead, the Red Brick Store, the Mansion House, and the Nauvoo House—eventually became the property of the Reorganized Church. These buildings—with the exception of the Nauvoo House, which is not open to the public—are prese
rved and maintained in an excellent fashion and are available to visitors today. Most of the other restored sites in Nauvoo are the property of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

  Lucy Mack Smith turned sixty-nine less than two weeks after her two sons were killed in Carthage. She remained faithful to the Church throughout her life and publicly declared that she was satisfied with how the Twelve were carrying out its affairs.

  Chapter 12

  Matthew Steed was cold. The rain had stopped now, but there was a stiffening breeze blowing out of the west straight into their faces. The rain had not been heavy enough to soak them through, but he could feel the damp clamminess even down to his long johns. He pulled his coat more tightly around him, letting his eyes sweep the thick forest and undergrowth around them. They were in a range of mountains known as the Ouachitas, a range south of the Ozarks. There was not even a flicker of a light to break the darkness on every side. They could barely see the wagon track they were following, and had it not been for the break it made through the thickness of the forest on either side they could easily have lost it.

  “How cold do you suppose it is?” he finally asked, simply to break the monotonous silence.

  Derek looked up. The stubble of his beard in the darkness made him look as if he had only half a face, two eyes and a nose hanging there eerily, without chin or neck or body. There was a slight movement in the darkness as he shrugged. “Forty degrees, maybe forty-two.”

  “Is it possible to freeze to death when it isn’t really freezing?”

  “Yeah,” was all Derek said.

  “Thanks.” Matthew trudged on, suddenly filled with gloom. He hadn’t asked because he didn’t know. There were plenty of stories about men caught out in the cold who had died of exposure when the temperature was warmer than this. If the body’s core got too cold, a wonderful sense of warmth and euphoria swept over you, and if it was not fought vigorously, you would just lie down and die. He knew that there was a very good chance of that happening tonight if they didn’t find shelter soon. During a break in the clouds earlier that day, they had seen a dusting of snow on some of the higher ridges. It was going to be cold tonight.

  “They said that Caddo Gap was only fifteen miles or so from Bonnerdale,” Derek muttered. “It feels like we’ve come twice that.”

  Matthew didn’t say anything. There was no need to. In the past nearly four months, the two missionaries had learned that if the people of Arkansas knew anything about the Mormons, they had mostly learned it from their neighbors to the north, the Missourians. That was like asking a Democrat to give you an honest opinion about a Whig. Though the woman in Bonnerdale had seemed cordial enough, she clearly wanted no part of the Mormon missionaries. Perhaps she had lied to them about Caddo Gap. Perhaps she had sent them off on some nameless road that led to nowhere.

  Instantly he pushed that thought away, angry at himself. It was not a heavily traveled road, but neither was it giving out. They had not passed anyone since before dark, but with the weather and the temperature being what they were, it was not surprising that people were not out and about.

  His mind next tried to evaluate the wisdom of coming out this way, but once again he pushed the thought aside. It had been a week ago—February tenth—that John Taylor’s letter arrived general delivery at the post office in Little Rock. The Twelve were releasing them from their mission, they were informed. They should continue on no later than the first of March and then return home. It had been tempting to both of them to just start homeward then, but when someone told them there were two or three families of Mormons in a small town up in the mountains, they reluctantly determined to try and find them as their last official act as missionaries. So here they were, moving farther and farther away from any hope of a warm fire and food.

  They walked on in silence, the gloom of the night now made worse by the despondency they both were feeling. After five full minutes, Derek cleared his throat. “Matthew, have you ever wondered why the Savior asked missionaries to go without purse or scrip?”

  Matthew turned his head curiously. “Can’t say that I have. Why?”

  “No, I want you to think about it. Joshua offered to pay our way and send us money when we needed it. What would we have missed if we had accepted his offer?”

  There was a soft, rueful laugh. “We would have missed being cold and hungry. We wouldn’t have boots with newspapers in them to plug the holes in the bottom. We could have had a nice room, a warm bed, breakfast each morning.”

  Over Derek’s nodding he went on, warming to the question now. “Uh, let’s see. What else? Oh yeah. We wouldn’t have gotten to spend the night in that jail in Searcy because we didn’t have any money and couldn’t prove we weren’t vagrants. Have I missed anything?”

  Derek grunted. “How about that moldy bread and clabbered milk we had last night?”

  “That’s right. We would never have been able to buy something like that with money.”

  “So why would the Lord want us to do it this way?”

  After a long pause came the answer from Matthew. “I once heard a rumor that there is a direct relationship between being cold and hungry and being humble.”

  There was a half laugh, filled with longing. “I think you’re right, and I can’t ever remember being quite so humble as right at this moment.”

  “Same here.” Then Matthew got more serious. “We’ve been together too long, Brother Ingalls, sir, for me not to know that you’ve got something else on your mind with that question. What is it?”

  “What time do you suppose it is?” Derek said, looking up at the sky above, only barely discernible from the land around them. The sky was overcast and no stars were visible.

  “I don’t know. Nine-thirty. Maybe ten o’clock. Why?”

  “How much longer do you think there’s gonna be people up with a lamp on this far out away from nowhere?”

  There was a long silence; then in a low voice Matthew responded. “We could be passing by houses all the time right now and not even know it.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said glumly. “That’s what I was thinking. And that could go on until morning. So, what I’m wondering is, are we humble enough yet?”

  Matthew stopped, understanding now. “I’m feeling pretty humble, actually.”

  “Humble enough to stop and ask the Lord for his help?”

  “At least that humble.”

  Without a word they both turned off the road to the weed-choked shoulder. They dropped to their knees, shoulder to shoulder, and in a moment, Derek began to pray.

  Fifteen minutes later, as they stumbled along, shivering in the darkness, Matthew’s hand shot out and grabbed Derek’s arm. “Look!” he said, pointing off to their left.

  “What?”

  “Watch! Through the trees. ’Bout a hundred yards off.”

  “Yes.” The one word was spoken in a long, drawn-out sigh of relief. A flicker of light glimmered momentarily, then disappeared again as the wind blew branches across their view. Then it was there again. Derek gripped Matthew’s arm. “Yes, I see it too.”

  “We’re much obliged, ma’am. That was a fine breakfast.”

  The woman turned from the stone fireplace and looked at the two missionaries sitting at her table. “You’re welcome. Wish we had a bed for you too, but we’re simple folk here.”

  “Believe me, ma’am,” Matthew said, and he said it with deep fervor, “your barn was an answer to a prayer. I can’t think of a finer night’s sleep I’ve had since we left home.”

  That seemed to please her. She looked to be in her early forties, but judging from the ages of her seven children, and knowing that the hill-country people typically married quite early, she was maybe thirty-two or thirty-three, possibly less than that.

  “We are truly grateful,” Derek said, standing now and reaching for his hat. “As the Lord says in the Bible, ‘And whosoever shall give a cup of cold water to my little ones shall in no wise lose their reward.’”

  Th
ere was a sad smile that briefly played around her mouth. “We can use all the blessings we can get,” she finally said.

  Derek smiled at the children, lined up in a row along one wall, oldest to youngest. They were ragged, thin, smudged with grime that bespoke long weeks between baths. Their eyes watched the two strangers with great solemnity. “Bye, y’all,” Derek said with a smile.

  The oldest raised one hand and waved briefly. The others did not stir.

  “Ma’am,” Matthew said, standing now too. “We’ve come out this way trying to find Caddo Gap. Are we far from it?”

  “About two miles.” She pointed.

  “Oh, good. So—” And then suddenly it registered which way her hand was pointing. “It’s that way?”

  For the first time she laughed. It was a pleasant sound, like hearing the first bird on a beautiful morning. “You passed it in the night.”

  “Really?” Derek said. “Is there a sign on the road? We were watching real close.”

  “Yep!”

  At that the children started to giggle.

  “What?” Matthew asked, suspecting he and Derek were being teased now.

  The oldest boy, still chortling, said, “There’s a sign, all right, but it’s been knocked down now for nigh onto a year.”

  “Arrow points right to Caddo Gap,” the mother said, still enjoying their little joke.

  The two missionaries exchanged looks and then Derek had another idea. “Ma’am, we came out looking for a couple of families we were told about. Name of Webster and Scadlock. You wouldn’t know them by any chance?”

  “Know them both.”

  “Could you tell us how to find either one of them?”

  “Find one, find them both. They live just a stone’s throw away from each other.”

  “Oh. Could you tell us how to get there, please?”

  She wiped her hands on her apron. “Go back out to the road. Keep moving north. Go two sees and a holler and you’ll find a path that leads off to the right into the woods. Goes right to the Scadlock place.”