The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  His eyes narrowed a little. “So?”

  “They’re also the ones bringing in groggeries all over the city. Is that what you want for Nauvoo, Carl?”

  “No, I—”

  “There’s hardly a night that goes by now that you can’t hear the drunkards going up and down the street, whooping and hollering. We never had that before, Carl. Is this what your group is going to protect?”

  She stepped back, a little surprised by her own vehemence.

  Carl watched her for several seconds, still taken aback by the strength of her feelings. Finally he decided it was safer to stick to the original question of safety and security. “The enemies of the Church just want the Mormons out, Melissa. That’s what they’re after. They just want the Mormons out.”

  “I’m a Mormon,” she retorted. “Does that concern you at all?”

  “Come on, Melissa. You know what I mean.” He felt a touch of anger of his own now. “Having that temple dedication the other day didn’t help. The enemies of the Church are saying that’s proof that the Saints are not leaving, that they’ve reneged on their promise to leave.”

  “Their promise to leave? No, Carl!” She flung it back at him. “You make it sound like we are leaving for a trip somewhere. It makes it sound like we got tired of Nauvoo. My family didn’t ‘decide’ to leave. They were driven out, Carl. And some of those men who will be making up this little group of yours are the very ones who are glad to see them go because they have profited from their leaving.”

  “I don’t know what’s got you so worked up all of a sudden, but—”

  She stood, pushing back her chair. She leaned forward, hands on the table. “I want to say this, Carl. I know that I am largely to blame for how you feel about the Church now. I—”

  “I’ve never felt wonderful about the Church,” he shot back.

  “I know. But I’m the one who turned you so bitter over plural marriage, because I hated so much what was going on. I’m the one who said I didn’t want to go west, even when the family was leaving. I know all that, Carl, and so I’m not blaming you. But you need to know. I’m scared, Carl! I’m afraid that Wilford Woodruff is right. I don’t think we’re safe here.”

  “I—”

  She rode over him, wanting it done, wanting it said clearly this one time. “I won’t bring it up again, Carl. I made my bed the way I thought it should be. Now I’ve got to sleep in it. But just so you understand, if you ever change your mind, if you ever have second thoughts about leaving, you don’t need to ask me. I’ll be ready.”

  “What if I say we’re leaving but we’re going back to Kirtland?”

  Her face was filled with weariness and sorrow and surrender. “You know I’ll go wherever you decide to go, Carl. I will go with you.”

  “But that’s not where you’d like to go?” He was feeling a little sick. He had known that something had been eating at her for some time now. But he had no idea it was this deeply felt.

  “No, Carl. If you’re asking me, I want to go west. I want to find my family and be with them.” There was a long pause. “I want to be with the Church.”

  Alice Samuelson Steed stopped as she and Will reached the beginning of the makeshift dock that ran a short distance out into the harbor. The large rowboat from the ship had just arrived to take the last load of the passengers back out to where the ship lay at anchor. They were fourth or fifth in line, but she suddenly stepped aside and let the others pass. Surprised, Will followed suit. “What?”

  “Oh, Will,” she said, turning and letting her gaze sweep up and up the verdant peaks that rose like green-shrouded fingers thrust from a pool of perfect turquoise blue. For one born and raised for her entire life in St. Louis, Missouri, the sight was still completely overwhelming to her.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Will murmured.

  She let her eyes drop to the metal and palm frond huts along the curve of beach. This was where the few permanent inhabitants of Robinson Crusoe Island lived. She pulled a face. The small settlement was like a scab on otherwise healthy flesh, a bruise on a perfect piece of fruit. Man’s part of this island was shabby and dreary and rundown, but God’s part . . . Ah! She lifted her eyes again. God’s part was incredibly fine. “More beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen,” she said, remembering that Will had spoken to her. “I wish we could stay longer.”

  “I do too. But they say that the Sandwich Islands are just as beautiful.”

  She frowned slightly. “Do we have to go there, Will? It’s so far out of the way. Can’t we just sail for Upper California now that we’re resupplied?”

  He shook his head. “There’s an old saying among sailors. You follow the wind and you follow the cargo. The southeast trade winds blow all the way across the Pacific from here. If we head straight up the coast we’ll be bucking the northeasterlies. And part of what is paying for our voyage are those five hundred crates of freight we have to deliver at Honolulu.”

  “Hono-what?”

  “The port there in the Sandwich Islands. It’s on the island of Oahu.”

  “If you never came this way, how come you know so much about it?”

  “The Sandwich Islands are one of the major stops on the China route from America. Many of the men I worked with had come this way before. They say that almost six hundred ships a year stop at the islands. It’s also the base for the whaling crews that hunt in the North Pacific.”

  She gave him a teasing look. “So if we can’t buck the northeasterlies, how do we get from the islands back to California?”

  He chuckled. She had become half a sailor herself. “If you sail a northern route from the islands, you pick up the westerly trades.”

  “Oh.” She should have known better than to challenge him. She understood that—the winds and the cargo and the way of sailors—but it still meant another long detour from their destination. They had sailed almost all the way to the coast of Africa, then all the way around South America, then four hundred miles out from Chile. Now they were going even farther out into the Pacific.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?” Will said, bringing her out of her thoughts.

  “In what way?”

  “We all felt so bad about the storm, about being blown back from Valparaíso.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, understanding perfectly now.

  Valparaíso might mean the Valley of Paradise in Spanish, but it could not possibly be any more paradisiacal than this. And that was not the only blessing that had come from their second-choice landfall. In Valparaíso they would have had to pay port fees and shell out top dollar for whatever supplies they needed. Here they had found fresh water just two rods from the beach. The crew had cleaned out the large hogshead water barrels, then filled them with eighteen thousand gallons of fresh water. They had picked tons of fruit and laid it out to dry. From the sea they caught, then salted, hundreds of barrels of fish. Cords of firewood—driftwood picked up along the beaches—were bundled and brought aboard. In short, they had resupplied at a fraction of the cost and had been privileged at the same time to stay in this beautiful setting. Valparaíso might be beautiful, but it couldn’t match this, of that she was certain. Will was right. The Lord had truly blessed them through what they had first thought was a tragedy.

  It was a lesson to be learned, she told herself. As it said in the Doctrine and Covenants, “You cannot see with your natural eyes what the Lord thy God has in store for thee.” And elsewhere in that book it said, “Be still and know that I am God.” In the future, when the storms blew and she became deathly sick, she would remind herself of that: “Be still and know that I am God.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s time for one more bath in the stream,” she said dreamily.

  He laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  On the day following their landing, after they had buried Laura Goodwin, the whole company had trekked the short distance to the stream gushing down from the mountains. The men and boys formed a line in the thick
trees to stand guard and the women and girls went on another hundred yards where there was a deep pool. There they washed off the filth and grime and sweat and seasickness with which they had lived for three months. There had been the water basins on the ship, the washing of the body as best one could with rags, but no chance for a real bath. Alice could not remember anything in her life that was comparable to feeling clean again. They bathed and swam and washed their clothes and frolicked like children. Once they were done, the women returned to the beach and the men had their turn. By nightfall, when they gathered around a large bonfire on the beach, it was as if the whole company had been reborn. They sang and danced and offered prayers of rejoicing.

  “Well,” Will said, reaching for her elbow, “this is the last boat. I think we’d better get on board.”

  They turned and walked onto the dock where the boat was waiting. Samuel Brannan, who was supervising the loading, had seen them stand aside. He smiled as he took Alice’s hand and helped her down into the boat. “If you didn’t know the Lord was calling us on, it would be right down tempting to stay, wouldn’t it?”

  She nodded vigorously. “I could have stayed here fifty days instead of five.”

  “At least,” Will agreed.

  Alice grimaced. “I think I’ve never faced such supreme temptation in my life, Elder Brannan. I sure hope where Brigham Young is taking us is half as pretty.”

  Garden Grove, May 10, 1846 (Sunday)

  Still no rain. Spring is here! It’s wonderful!!!! Two Sabbath meetings were held today—worship services in the morning, sacrament meeting in the afternoon. Pres. Young says it is the first Sabbath since we left Nauvoo that wasn’t interrupted by rain. He also said that the camp here will soon break up. Some will go west looking for a new settlement site. Some are being sent back with teams to Nauvoo to get their families and bring them here. Garden Grove will be home for others, since some will have to stay and tend the crops and help the others when they get here. Don’t know what we will be doing. Uncle Matthew thinks he may be asked to go ahead with the others.

  Peter Ingalls undid the last yoke, waved to the boy who was herding the rest of the oxen so he would see they were coming, then slapped the animals on the rump and sent them on their way. He picked up the yoke and started for the wagon, checking it as he walked to see if there were any cracks in the heavy carved wood.

  As he came around the lead wagon of the Reeds, he saw that Kathryn was down on the ground, bracing herself against the fold-down steps, looking back up into the wagon. As he came closer, Peter looked into the wagon and could see that Margret Reed was struggling a bit to help her mother sit up. He laid the yoke against the wagon wheel and hurried up to Kathryn’s side. “Can I help you, Mrs. Reed?” he said.

  She looked down at him and nodded. “Yes, thank you, Peter. I’d like to get Mother so she can sit up.”

  He went up the stairs lightly, squeezing past Mrs. Reed to the old woman’s side. “Here, Mrs. Keyes, let me help you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said in a quavering voice. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Mother, let Peter help you. He’s strong.”

  There was a sudden, coy smile. “I know he is,” she said impishly. “And if I was about fifty years younger, I’d give Kathryn a run for her money.”

  They all laughed at that. “Why, Mrs. Keyes,” Kathryn said in mock horror, “I had no idea you had intentions for my husband.”

  Peter slipped an arm behind the elderly woman’s back. “Actually, I’ve been a little smitten with you as well, Mrs. Keyes, but we ought not to talk about that in front of my wife.”

  “Oh, you!” she said, delighted that he would play back with her.

  “Come on,” he said, taking most of her weight against his body as he got her into a sitting position. “I’ll bet you’re glad that we’re stopping over for a while, aren’t you?”

  “I certainly am.”

  They were all concerned about Mrs. Keyes. She had been in frail health when they began, and these first weeks on the trail had weakened her noticeably. And they were only now to Independence, Missouri. They still had over fifteen hundred miles to go! No one said it, but there was great fear that she would not last much longer. Peter wondered if she knew, and suspected the answer was yes. But she was a plucky woman, and he supposed that if death came it would be no more tragic out here than sitting in a rocking chair back home in Illinois.

  Surprisingly, Mrs. Reed was strengthening with each passing week. When Peter and Kathryn had first heard about the Reeds, they were told that Mrs. Reed was an invalid with an invalid mother. That had proven only half right as far as Margret Reed was concerned. She was in poor health, often suffering from headaches, and seemed ever fighting a cold or some other ailment. That was one of the reasons Mr. Reed decided to take her to California. Both of them—wife and mother-in-law—were also the reason he had ordered a special wagon built. He would see that their journey was as comfortable as possible. No one was surprised that the trail was weakening a woman in her seventies. But everyone, including Mr. Reed, was amazed that it seemed to be putting strength into Mrs. Reed. Her color was much better now. She sometimes walked alongside the wagon or would take Virginia’s pony and ride out ahead with her husband.

  “There,” Peter said as he propped two pillows behind Mrs. Keyes. “You just sit there and rest, and we’ll get some supper going.”

  “Thank you.”

  At that moment Margret’s daughters, eight-year-old Patty and twelve-year-old Virginia, came up to the wagon’s entrance. They’d been out walking, inspecting their new campsite. Looking up at her mother now, Patty said, “Mama, if you and Peter and Kathryn want to come outside, I’ll stay here with Grandma.”

  Kathryn smiled at Patty’s thoughtfulness. Ever since they had left Springfield, young Patty had taken it upon herself to look after her grandmother.

  “That would be nice, Patty,” said Margret. She turned to Mrs. Keyes. “Will you be all right, Mother?”

  “Of course I will—especially if I have my Patty here with me.”

  Patty stepped up into the wagon to join her grandmother, and Peter and Margret came down out of the wagon to stand by Kathryn and Virginia.

  Margret Reed looked across the campground that was filled with wagons and horses, oxen and mules, and carts and men. They could see the buildings of Independence about a half mile away. “Do you know how long we shall stay here, Peter?”

  It was said with longing. She was looking forward to a break from the trail. And she knew that her aged mother would appreciate having two or three days respite from traveling in the wagon, which, in spite of its elaborate springs, still provided a jolting ride.

  “I don’t, Mrs. Reed. I know Mr. Reed is over conferring with the two Mr. Donners right now. I suppose part of that will depend on when the larger train leaves. That’s their hope, to join the larger party.” He frowned. “Unfortunately I don’t see another train. Right now we’re the largest group here. Perhaps they haven’t arrived yet.”

  She nodded. “So we might have to wait for them?” she asked hopefully.

  “That’s a good possibility.”

  “That would be wonderful. And don’t we need to get more supplies? Isn’t this the last real outfitting place for a while?”

  “A long while,” Peter affirmed. “Independence is the end of civilization in this part of the world. From now on it’s strictly wilderness.”

  “What about Fort Laramie?” Kathryn said.

  “Oh, there’re trading posts along the trail,” he said, “but no more towns like this one. We need to get the essentials here. And that too could take some time.”

  Virginia spoke up. “Papa already sent Baylis Williams and Mr. Herron into town to see what they could buy.”

  “Good.”

  Kathryn reached inside the wagon and got a three-legged stool; then, using only one crutch, she brought it over to Mrs. Reed, who turned in surprise. “Kathryn, for heaven’s sake, I should be get
ting you a stool.”

  “I’m not paying you to help me, Mrs. Reed. It’s the other way around.”

  “Well, thank you. You come sit down too for a time. We’ll let the men get a fire started before we start worrying about supper.”

  It was nearly sundown. Walt Herron and Baylis Williams had still not returned from town, and the other two men were off somewhere helping Mr. Reed, so Peter had gotten the fire going, even though as a teamster, that was not part of his job. He didn’t mind, and often pitched in to help the others.

  Now he had a good bed of hot coals and was assisting Eliza Williams—sister to Baylis and the Reeds’ hired woman—in getting a kettle full of a rich, savory stew hung over them. Virginia Reed was also helping out.

  “Did you know we got others who want to join us?” Virginia said suddenly.

  Peter looked up in surprise. “For supper you mean?”

  “No. On the trail.”

  Mrs. Reed and Kathryn stopped and turned their heads. Peter sat back on his heels.

  “Where’d you hear that, Virginia?” Kathryn asked.

  “While I was getting water from the creek. I met some of the ladies.”

  Peter smiled. Virginia was a young woman who was full of life and energy. She always knew more about whatever was going on anywhere in the camp than anyone else. If she heard it, it was probably true. “How many?”

  “Don’t know for sure. There are at least two family groups. An Irishman—he’s got a passel of young’uns—and then there are some Dutchmen.” She lowered her voice at that, as though she were speaking of something dangerous.

  “Anyone else?” Mrs. Reed asked, amused at her daughter’s store of information.

  Virginia shrugged.

  “That’s interesting,” Peter said. Her information wasn’t really news, it was just interesting. There was safety in numbers out on the plains. And the more healthy working men in a train, the better the chances of moving forward at a good pace. The plan had always been to join up with a larger train. The fact that others wanted to do the same was not too surprising.