by Dean Hughes
“No wonder I’m happy.”
“Really, though, are you happy? Because, for a long time, I didn’t feel like you were.”
“I guess that’s all it takes for me, a few cardinals singing in the morning and a plate of cookies.”
“Be serious for a minute. Tell me what’s changing.”
Jeff wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and he seemed to consider for a time. “I have everything I need, Ab. You and Will. Good friends. Good ward. But I think I’ve told myself all my life, I have to be somebody. I have to leave my mark on the world. Maybe I’m just growing up, but I don’t think much about that lately. We had a chance to do something for Sister Doherty, and in a way, we saved her life. If I hadn’t been involved, Malcolm still would have gotten it done. But I got to be there. And Linda, at work, she needed a guy to solve a little problem for her, and a lot of people could have done it—but I got the chance. That is sort of making your mark on the world. You know what I mean?”
“It’s being a nice person.”
“Yeah, I guess. But I never knew that was what I wanted to do when I grew up. When people tell you to dream big, they never mention ‘becoming a nice guy’ as a particularly lofty achievement.”
“They should. It’s what I want to teach William.”
“Yeah. Me too, actually. It’s funny you say that, because I’ve thought a lot about that lately. I don’t want to be one of those dads who pushes his kids to feel like they have to win everything. I don’t want them to feel like life’s a contest and they have to compare themselves to everyone else all the time.”
Abby liked that. She had worked hard in school, but sometimes her mother had made her feel that nothing she did was quite good enough. She wanted to believe that life could be simpler than that, less pressured. She wanted William to do good things with his life, but she didn’t want him to feel that he had to be the best at everything.
“Jeff,” Abby said, “this weekend, could we look around and see what houses are for sale in Nauvoo?”
“Sure.” Jeff smiled, as though he understood the logical connection Abby was making. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that, too. But I don’t know how we can come up with a down payment.”
“I think my parents would help us.”
“Yeah, they probably would. But I don’t want to ask them.”
“Well, let’s at least see what’s available.”
“Okay.”
Abby liked all of that. But later, when she had a little time to think, she wondered whether she wasn’t asking too much of Jeff. He did have things he wanted to do in life, and there was nothing wrong with that. All winter, during her worries about William, and then caring for him once he was home, she had centered her life on herself and her baby, and Jeff had done everything to support her. She had to think more what he needed now.
And there was something more she wanted to do. She wanted to do something for someone other than herself. It was time for her to give back to some of the people who had kept her going all these months.
Chapter 23
A week had passed since the murders in Carthage. Will kept telling himself to move forward, but he found no joy in his work—or in anything else. Will’s wound was healing and he wanted more than anything to work, to feel normal. But Jesse had made the long walk into town to get his horse back from Will, and he had told Will there was not much to do at the moment, with the corn crop still young and rather sparse. Will certainly shouldn’t show himself out at the farm, where the danger would be much worse.
Will had hoped for a better harvest this year, but that was unlikely. For that matter, nothing looked promising right now. The Saints were worried that they would be at war at any time, so no one would hire him to open new fields, and he certainly couldn’t ride over to Carthage to bid on county roadwork. He had not heard a word from George Samples, but every day he wondered when Harmon Wilson might show up to arrest him.
Most of the Apostles had been traveling across the nation campaigning for Joseph Smith for president, and they had not yet returned. Those still in Nauvoo—Willard Richards and William Marks, the stake president—kept advising the Saints to go on with life. Peace could still be established. But Will had a hard time imagining that that could happen. As soon as people in the county had realized that the Mormons were not attacking, they had returned to their homes and begun their threats again. Will had seen another of Thomas Sharp’s diatribes in his newspaper. Sharp claimed all sorts of righteous reasons why the men who had killed Joseph were only carrying out the will of the people. He had dropped his claim that the jail had been attacked by Mormons, but he expressed no regret for what had happened. In fact, he had begun once again to call for the expulsion of all the Saints from the county.
With the danger of attack still hanging over Nauvoo, it was hard for Church members to believe that the hope of a Zion in Illinois was still reasonable. Much of the talk around town was about migrating west. But Will still didn’t want to leave. He could only think that this was the first land he had ever owned, and he had put so much work into it. He still wanted to stay, somehow, and still wanted to build a fine house for Liz. He was a different man from the one who had arrived in Nauvoo, and his ultimate purposes in life had certainly adjusted, but the dream of land and a comfortable house for his family had pushed him for a long time, and he was not ready to give it up. This, however, would probably be another year merely to survive. If the Saints somehow avoided expulsion and remained in Nauvoo, and if he managed not to be arrested—or attacked by George Samples and his friends—he wasn’t sure that any brighter hope was ahead. And yet, in spite of all of that, he knew that he must carry on—for Liz and his boys.
The trouble was, all day every day, a presence in Will’s head kept saying, “The Prophet is gone.” At first he had felt overwhelming sadness at the loss of both Joseph and Hyrum, but what he hated more was a sort of despair that seemed to be settling into his mind as part of who he now would be. He felt it not only in himself but in everyone he talked to.
Something else was bothering Will, even though he tried to push the thoughts from his head. He had read the complaints published in the Nauvoo Expositor by the dissidents, and some of their arguments were hard to dismiss. He really didn’t doubt that Joseph had been a prophet, but he wondered why God hadn’t directed His people somewhat better. Gathering to one place in such great numbers really did present a problem, just as William Law and the others argued. Such a mass of people, most of them voting the same way, and building up a large army, did threaten neighboring communities and create some of the hatred that had erupted.
Joseph had also taught principles that were always going to create difficulties. Will knew by now that there were some in the community who had not only accepted the doctrine of plurality of wives but were living it. No one openly admitted to such arrangements, but so many people in town reported that it was happening that Will knew it had to be. William Clayton had more or less admitted that it was so. Will understood why the dissidents would resist the practice. When he tried to imagine such a life, it seemed adulterous, and he knew he could never embrace it.
Will knew that the Expositor had been a nuisance—designed to entice people of the county to attack the Saints—and he understood the legal arguments that Joseph and the city council had used to justify its destruction. But how could Joseph not have known what wrath those actions would bring upon him and all the Saints? It seemed as though God should have warned Joseph not to do something that would seem so un-American to most people. It just seemed to Will that Joseph could have denounced the lies in the paper without destroying property and interfering with the dissidents’ rights to express their own opinions.
Maybe Joseph and Hyrum did need to seal their testimonies with their blood, as many were saying, and surely Joseph had accepted the Lord’s will in those final days. But that didn’t change the way Will felt, the way
everyone felt: that everything would be more difficult now that the voice of inspiration they loved so much had been taken from them.
In spite of everything, however, Will was trying to move ahead. He didn’t go to the farm, but he had begun to put in some full days around his own place. He built a better fence around his corral, finished the cistern he had dug but had never bricked up all the way, finally plastered the outside of the house, and started work on a smokehouse. Work had always been the one thing he turned to in times of difficulty—to give his all, all day, sunup to sundown. The last thing he wanted to do was wait and worry. So he prayed with Liz each morning, tried to trust in the Lord, and they both kept themselves busy.
One morning, not long after sunup, Will was outside feeding his animals when he heard a wagon approach. His first reaction, as always, was that he was about to be arrested. He waited and watched to see who was driving the wagon. It took him a moment to remember the man and realize that he was looking at Oscar Clarkston, Jacob’s father. There was a young woman sitting in the wagon with him.
“Hello, Will,” Oscar said, and Will heard a nervousness in the man’s voice that frightened him. He knew immediately what this was about.
“How are you, Brother Clarkston?”
“I’m aw right, Will. This is my wife, Amanda. We’ve been married two months now. I said before I would na’ marry again, but time can change a man’s mind ’bout such things.”
Will glanced at Amanda, noticing that she was very young. She wouldn’t look at Will. “I suppose that’s true,” Will said, but he was trying to think how he should react, what he should do to head this off. He would not let this man carry Jacob away. The boy was Will’s son, not Oscar’s.
“How’s little Jacob doing?” Clarkston asked.
“He’s fine. He’s happy. We’ve raised him as our own, and that’s how we think of him.”
“I ’preciate that. I heerd you have another son now. Is that so?”
“Yes, we do. It’s good for Jacob to have a little brother.” For a moment Oscar looked directly at Will—which he had been avoiding—and Will let him know with his eyes that he was resolute.
“Could we na’ see ’im?”
“Of course you can. But it’s very early. I don’t think he’s awake yet.”
“It is early, but we needed a good start. We’re a-goin’ back to St. Louis today.”
Will hoped that the man only wanted a glimpse of the boy, and then he would travel on. But he didn’t believe that. “I’ll see if he’s awake,” Will said, and he walked into the house. Liz was actually dressing Jacob, kneeling in front of him. “Oscar Clarkston is here,” he said.
“I know. What does he want?”
“He says he wants to see Jacob. I don’t know what else he’s thinking. He’s got a wife now.”
“I saw her.” Liz had pulled on her housedress quickly, and her hair was still loose and disheveled. Will noticed that the color had gone from her face. She hardly had breath enough to speak.
“Do you mind if he sees the boy?”
“No. Of course not.” She picked Jacob up and carried him outside, but Will noticed how tightly she was gripping him. And outside, she didn’t put him down.
Brother Clarkston had gotten down from his wagon. His wife was seated as she had been, but she still wouldn’t look at Will, didn’t even look at Jacob.
“Hello, Sister Lewis,” Oscar said. “My goodness, he’s a fine, good boy. You ha’ taken good care of ’im.” And then, in a softer voice, “His eyes is like his mum’s, same color zactly.”
“People say he looks like Liz,” Will said. “He has the same coloring.”
Liz didn’t speak. And she didn’t hand him over.
“Hello, Son. I’m yer dad.”
Surely those words made no sense to little Jacob. He didn’t seem troubled, or even very curious about this man who was speaking to him. But he did twist a little, struggling to get down. Liz set him on his feet, but Will could see how tightly she was holding his hand, even when he wanted to wander off.
“After I lef’ him here,” Brother Clarkston said, “I went down to St. Louis. I got mysel’ some good land down there, so I hope ta stay. I ’spected to be a bachelor aw my life, but I met Amanda at church.” He gestured toward her. “We ha’ plenty o’ good members down there.”
He was trying to sound cordial, but Will still heard his nervousness. And he thought Amanda looked ashamed. She was neat and clean, simple in appearance, and quite plain. What struck Will was that Oscar had been lonely, and he understood all that—even understood what he wanted—but Jacob was Will’s son. That was the whole of it.
“When we heerd about Joseph and Hyrum, we come to be with the Saints, but we’re a-goin’ back now. My thought is, anythin’ could happen. The Saints could be scattered ever’where before long.”
“It looks more all the time like we’ll manage to stay.”
“I’ve been thinking ’bout everythin’,” Clarkston said, and now he stared past Will, past Liz. “I know I axt ye ta keep Jacob, but now, with everythin’ a-goin’ on, and me with a wife ... it’s better if he come with me now. I do ’preciate what you ha’ done and everythin’, but now it’s time for ’im ta be with his real dad.”
Will took a step toward Oscar. “He is with his real dad,” he said, and there was no hiding the anger in his voice. “I asked you two years ago whether something exactly like this wouldn’t happen, and you stood right there in our house and told us no, that you would never come back for him.”
“I do na’ recall that I used zactly them words. I—”
“That is what you said. I questioned you on it because I knew what it would do to my wife if you went back on what you were telling us.”
Brother Clarkston took a glance at Will, obviously having heard the anger, but then he looked down at Jacob. “Will, my wife had on’y just died back then. I could na’ think right. I on’y knowed that Jacob could na’ stay alive more’n a few days if he did na’ have a woman ta feed ’im. But he is my son, and I ha’ longed for ’im since the day I let you take ’im. And now I got me a wife, and I do na’ want to be cut off from ’im all my life. It’s na’ right to split apart a man an’ his son, no matter what we said back then.”
Will felt the man’s pain. He really did. But he couldn’t let him walk away with Jacob. He looked at Liz, who reached down and picked up the boy again. He didn’t know if she was defending him or getting ready to hand him over. What he did know was that this was wrong—wrong for Jacob more than anyone, and deeply wrong for Liz.
“What you don’t understand, Oscar, is that Liz is the boy’s mother. She’s the only mum he’s ever known, and he won’t understand if you try to carry him off. It can’t be good, what that would do to him.”
“I’ve thought ’bout that, Will. I know what ye be sayin’. But he’s young enough, he will na’ remember in a while. And he’ll think of Amanda that way—as his mum.”
Will heard a little sob break from Liz, and he understood how deeply the thought cut into her—that Jacob would forget her, never remember the two years they’d had together. Jacob was surely understanding some of this now, and he had wrapped his arms around Liz and was clinging tight.
“You can’t have him,” Will said. He took another step closer to Brother Clarkston, let his greater size dominate the man. “You’ll have to fight me first, and you won’t win. You gave this boy to us, and we’ve done everything for him. How can you just come back and act like that won’t matter to us?” But Will’s voice had begun to break. He ducked his head and stopped.
“I understan’ aw that, Brother Lewis. I do. But I look at my son an’ I see Rosemary. I thank you for what you ha’ done, but how can I walk away from him one more time? He’s mine for aw eternity, no matter what you ha’ done for him. He’s my son.” He dropped his head down, and a little sob broke from him.
Will didn’t back away, but he was moved by the man’s pain. He and Oscar were facing the same agony; one of them had to give way. But this young girl in the wagon, she didn’t know the boy. She had nothing to lose in this, and Liz would never be the same, with one more loss of this kind.
Will felt Liz’s hand on his arm. She was pulling him back gently. “Brother Clarkston is right,” she said. “Jacob is his son.”
Will spun around. “By what right? He’s been our child his entire life.”
“It was our gift to Jacob,” she said. “But we can’t be selfish. He’s not property to fight over.” She looked back at Oscar. “He has some other clothes. And some little toys that Will made for him. Let me put his things together before you take him.” She seemed under control, but Will could hear how her voice was shaking. She turned and walked back to the house.
Will turned back to Oscar. “Do you know what she’s doing? She wants to hold him one last time—say good-bye to him. How can you do this to her?”
“I know how hard it be. I did it once mysel’. But aw will be right this way. I know’t, Will.”
Suddenly Will’s hands shot out and grabbed Oscar by the shirt. He pulled the man up to him and shouted into his face, “You’re a liar and a thief! You’re going to kill my wife. Don’t you understand that?”
And then he heard a voice. Joseph’s. That deep, soft voice. “No.” That was all it said. “No.”
It took Will another few seconds to let go, but he did. And then he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ...”
He spun away, bit down on his lip, bent forward, and strained with all his muscles not to cry. But this—this on top of all the rest—it was just too much.
• • •
“Jacob, Mummy loves you. Do you know that? Mum will always love you—and never forget you.” Liz was trying not to cry, but she could feel tears running down her face. Jacob was staring at her, obviously confused and frightened. “Do you love Mummy?”
Jacob nodded, and then he reached for her again. She had set him down while she had gathered a few things to put in a flour sack that she planned to send away with him. She picked him up and wrapped her arms around him, held him close. He was still a baby in her mind, the only hold on life she had clung to for such a long time after Mary Ann had died. She had always known that this could happen—had feared it—but she also knew she couldn’t fight for him the way Will had wanted to do. It just wasn’t right. Brother Clarkston had his claim, and she couldn’t deny it.
