She straightened slowly, her eyes red, her face haggard and drawn. When they had started from Springfield, Mrs. Reed had not been in wonderful health herself, but she had thrived on the regimen of the trek. Now the death of her mother had set her back visibly. She leaned heavily on his arm as they started back toward the wagon.
Peter turned to Kathryn. She sniffed, wiping at her eyes with the back of one hand, then bent down and laid a small bouquet of wildflowers on the mound. They were already withered and dying in the heat. “Good-bye, dear Mrs. Keyes,” she whispered. “I shall miss you. And when we get to California, I shall plant flowers around the house for you as I promised.”
She straightened and reached out for her crutches. Peter handed them to her. “She so wanted to see California,” she mourned.
“I know, but now she can rest.”
To his surprise, Kathryn let him take her arm as they started away, falling in behind the Reeds. When they reached the wagon, Peter saw Kathryn up safely inside, then went immediately to the oxen. They turned their heads at the sound of his voice. “Hello, Bully Boy,” he said to the nearest of the wheel team, a brindled two-year-old that was his favorite. He scratched him behind the ear. “Did you think I’d forgotten you?” He reached across his back. “Hey, Dan, I know you’re thirsty, old boy, but we’ll be back to the river shortly. You’ll have to be careful, though. You can’t be drinking too fast in this heat.”
From her seat in the wagon, Kathryn watched him move alongside the four yoke. It amazed her to see the affection he had developed for them. To her they were but brute animals, valued because they kept the wagon moving, but all the same in temperament and looks. To him they were individual children, to be encouraged and praised, wheedled and coaxed, and occasionally scolded. Once, when old Bully, as he called him, had eaten something that left him lowing painfully throughout the night, Peter had sat beside him and stroked his neck until morning.
Mr. Reed appeared beside her. He gestured toward his wife, who was lying down nearby. “Margret is resting, Kathryn. I’m going to ride ahead and help the others. If there are any problems, have Peter fire one shot with the rifle and I’ll come back.”
“Yes, Mr. Reed.”
He walked to the side entrance, hopped down, and walked to where his horse was tied. “All right, Peter. Let’s move ’em out.”
The ferry was completed the following day, Saturday, and the company christened it the Blue River Rover. But they were able to get only eight or nine wagons across the river by the end of the day, and so they would have to spend all their time Sunday getting the rest over. The wagons belonging to the Donner and Reed families were among those that would have to be ferried across tomorrow.
When Peter came back from watering the oxen and then hobbling them for the night, the Reed family were all together in the wagon and the flaps were drawn. He could see their shadows on the canvas as they moved about and talked quietly. He stopped, seeing if he could distinguish a shadow with crutches, but he could not. About fifteen yards away, behind the Reeds’ lead wagon, the two supply wagons were parked side by side. There was a blazing fire in front of them, and Peter could see Eliza Williams, the hired woman, sitting beside her half brother, Baylis. Eliza was very nearly deaf, and Baylis had his head close to hers and was talking loudly to her. But Kathryn was not there either.
Peter moved to the back of the family wagon and prepared to knock and ask Mr. Reed if Kathryn was inside, but as he came around the wagon, he saw her there before their own cook fire, which was now low and nearly gone, sitting on a log by herself.
He stopped for a moment, watching her and smiling to himself. She was staring into the embers, the profile of her face etched in the faint light of the glowing coals. As he had so many times before, he marveled that he, Peter Ingalls, bumbling, unlearned factory worker from Preston, England, had been lucky enough to have this winsome Irish lass agree to be his bride. Smiling more broadly, he stepped forward. “Hi.”
She turned, her face instantly breaking into a joyous smile of her own. “Hello, Peter.”
He moved over and sat down beside her.
“Are you finished?” she asked.
“Yep. They’re settled for the night.”
“And no guard duty?”
“Not tonight.”
“Wonderful.”
He put an arm around her. “What were you thinking about? You looked very contemplative.”
She laughed. “Contemplative? You ought to be a writer, Peter. Maybe work for a newspaper or something.”
Her comment struck a tender chord and his face sobered. “That would be nice again.”
She snuggled against him. “It will come, Peter. You heard what Will and Alice said in their letter. The Brooklyn is carrying a printing press. They’ll bring it to California and then on to wherever the Saints settle. That’s how strongly President Young feels about having our own newspaper.”
“Yes, I know. It seems like it will never happen, but someday we will find a home and then . . .” He sighed, then remembered his news. “Guess what.”
“What?”
“You know that group that caught up with us this afternoon and joined us?”
“Yes.”
“I told you about the two brothers-in-law—Pike and Foster—who are traveling with their mother-in-law, who is a widow.”
She was puzzled now. “Yes?”
“Guess who the mother-in-law is.”
She shook her head. “Someone we know?”
“Yes! Sister Murphy. Sister Levinah Murphy.”
For a moment she was blank; then it hit her. “Sister Murphy from Tennessee, who was in Nauvoo for a time?”
“The very same. Can you believe it? Foster and Pike married her daughters. I thought their names sounded familiar when they introduced themselves today. I’m pretty sure she mentioned them to me in one of her letters. But it didn’t all click in my mind until I had a chance to talk with them. The Pikes, along with Sister Murphy and her unmarried children, got an outfit together in Tennessee, then headed to Missouri and met the Fosters in St. Louis. When they all got to Independence they heard that Colonel Russell’s big wagon train had already left and so they hurried along to join it, just like we did.”
Now, there was a coincidence, Kathryn thought. It had been Sister Murphy who, in a letter, had first planted the thought in Peter’s mind about going west with someone else so that he and Kathryn wouldn’t have to try to outfit themselves.
“They took me to see her. It was her, all right. She was as flabbergasted as I was.”
“So, are Pike and Foster members of the Church too?”
“I didn’t dare ask. I don’t think so. Sister Murphy didn’t even mention the Church, and so I didn’t either.”
He sat back now. “It’s not much to make a difference, but at least we won’t be the only Latter-day Saints going west with this group.”
Kathryn nodded. It was a strange coincidence. And she had been a little worried about being in the same company as ex-Governor Boggs and other Jackson County mobocrats, who had joined up with the Russell train a few days before the Donners and Reeds had. Not that one widowed woman would make a lot of difference if the Missourians decided to make trouble.
So far, fortunately, she and Peter had had little to do with Lilburn W. Boggs and his group, and that was just fine with her. There had been a recent incident, however, that had left an impression on her mind. The other night, while many members of the company were sitting around a central campfire, one of the men mentioned hearing that groups of Mormons were heading west on the trail this season. Kathryn had glanced at Boggs at that moment, and she could see that he had become visibly nervous at the man’s comment. It reminded her of what she once heard Joseph Smith say: “Those who have done wrong always have that wrong gnawing them.” It was apparent to her that what Boggs had done to the Latter-day Saints back in Missouri gave him the face of a guilty man whenever he heard the word Mormons.
Peter
seemed to sense the direction her thoughts were going. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Well, I see the Reeds have already started preparing for bed. Are you ready?”
She nodded. “I was just waiting for you.”
“I’m glad.” He stood up, holding out his hand.
She pushed it aside. “Watch, Peter. I want to show you something.” Her crutches were propped on the log beside her. She picked them up, but only to toss them away from her. Then she straightened, bracing her hands on the log on which she was sitting.
To his amazement, after a moment she pushed herself up, her body straightening slowly. He could see that she trembled a little, but she was steady and there was no danger of her falling. In a moment she was fully erect and looking at him triumphantly.
“Bravo,” he said softly and started toward her.
“No, no,” she cried. “Stay there.”
He stepped back again.
Biting her lip, concentrating fiercely, she lifted one foot and moved it ahead. Now he tensed, suddenly anxious that she might fall. But he willed himself to remain where he was. She shifted her body weight to that foot, steadied herself, then came forward five or six inches. Now her other foot was lifted slowly and placed ahead. Again there was the momentary steadying of herself, and then she stepped forward. Laughing quietly, she repeated it one more time. This time she started to wobble, and Peter took one step forward and let her fall into his arms. He was astonished. “You walked, Kathryn! Without your crutches!”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Can you believe it?”
He pressed her to him. “No, I can’t. That’s wonderful!”
“I know. Being out here is making me stronger, Peter. I can feel it.”
He took her face in both of his hands and now saw the wetness on her cheeks. He kissed them both softly. “I love you, Kathryn McIntire,” he whispered.
“No,” she whispered back. “Kathryn Ingalls, Peter. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Thirty-year-old Jesse C. Little, president of the Eastern States Mission, strode along the boardwalk of Pennsylvania Avenue, gazing across the broad lawns to the building that stood shimmering white in the noonday sun. It was as if it were lit from within and glowed of its own accord. Jesse had seen this building before, but its appearance was still impressive. After all, this was not just a white house; it was the White House.
Walking beside him was Amos Kendall, former postmaster general and current advisor to the president. During the past several days since Jesse’s arrival in Washington, D.C., Kendall had proven to be very helpful, offering information and advice and acting as an intermediary between the Mormon leader and the president. Jesse had written a letter to President James K. Polk two days ago, June first, earnestly appealing for the government’s help in the Saints’ westward migration. In response, the president had asked Kendall to bring Jesse to the White House today, June third, for a meeting at noon.
Realizing that his efforts were, it seemed, finally going to pay off, Jesse now found himself remembering the letter he had received some months before from Brigham Young. He had read it enough times by now that many parts of it were committed to memory. The letter had set forth Jesse’s appointment as president of the Eastern States Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In addition to noting his ecclesiastical duties, it instructed him to use “whatever means were at hand” to obtain from the government of the United States “those things which would be of mutual benefit” to Washington and to the Saints. It went on to say: “If our government shall offer any facilities for emigrating to the Western coast, embrace those facilities, if possible. As a wise and faithful man, take every honorable advantage of the times you can. Be thou a savior and a deliverer of that people, and let virtue, integrity and truth, be your motto—salvation and glory the prize for which you contend.”
Wise and faithful man? Well, that was what he had tried his best to be. Jesse appreciated and was humbled by the confidence that Brigham Young placed in his abilities. Now he was going to meet with the president of the United States. Though Jesse was no wilting flower—when he set his mind to accomplish something, he pursued it with great energy and determination—and though he had already met President Polk during a reception at the White House a couple of weeks before, he could not help shuddering just a bit as he contemplated meeting privately with the chief executive of the United States.
“Nervous?”
He looked up in surprise. Amos Kendall was watching him with some amusement.
“No, not at all,” Jesse answered. “I’m just trembling because of the cold.”
Kendall laughed easily. It was almost noon on a summer day and both men were perspiring lightly beneath their coats. “Come on, now. The president is just a man like you and me.” He motioned toward the gate. “He’ll meet us in the Green Drawing Room.”
When they got to the gate, a guard opened it for them and they stepped through. As they walked slowly up the long carriage drive, Kendall went on. “I think you’ll like the Green Drawing Room. As you know, John and Abigail Adams were the first to move into the White House in 1800. Dolley Madison, that incomparable hostess, started a major and elegant redecoration when she moved in in 1809, but all that was lost when the British burned the house in 1814.”
They had reached the steps now, and Kendall barely paused as he waved airily to the man posted there and walked straight in. “The Monroes were the first presidential couple to live in the White House after it was reconstructed. Mrs. Monroe decorated one small parlor room with green silks. It was very elegant. Then when John Quincy Adams was elected president, he began to use the room for small receptions or teas and called it the ‘Green Drawing Room.’ And through all the years since the Monroes were here, it’s been kept decorated in green.”
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “But they say that the color Andrew Jackson later chose was roundly disapproved of by the women as being ‘odious from the sallow look it imparts.’ ”
Jesse nodded, feeling a little sallow himself. If all of this historical patter was supposed to put him at ease, it wasn’t working very well.
They moved up one flight of stairs, then down a long hallway. Kendall stopped at a door and knocked softly. There was a muffled “Come in,” and he opened the door and motioned Jesse to go in.
The room was green, all right. And it was elegant beyond anything he had seen before. But there was no time to dwell on these impressions, for Jesse’s attention was soon riveted on President James K. Polk, who rose from a chair as soon as the two men entered. Kendall quickly shut the door behind them. “Good afternoon, Mr. President. I believe you’ve met Mr. Jesse C. Little from New Hampshire.”
For all Kendall’s brave front, Jesse noted with satisfaction that during the brief interchange that followed, even Amos Kendall’s demeanor changed when they were actually in the presence of the president of the United States. Not that Polk was a particularly imposing man. But the office that he held was imposing enough for any person. It was almost as though there were an aura surrounding it, and it affected Kendall too.
The president showed them to a sofa, and then sat down himself. Polk inquired briefly after Kendall’s family, then turned the conversation for a minute or two to some items that were now before the Congress. Finally he turned to Jesse. “Mr. Little, I’m glad for this opportunity to speak with you. From your letter, which I have read with interest, I understand that you come as a representative of your people, the Mormons.”
“Yes, Mr. President, I do.”
“And I take it that you can speak for the leader of your people, Brigham Young?”
In his coat pocket Jesse was carrying the letter he had received from President Young. Now he withdrew it and extended it out. “I have a letter from him if you’d like to read it.”
Polk waved a hand. “That won’t be necessary. From the information I’ve received, I have full confidence in you. Let’s move on to the matters you brought up in yo
ur communication. Please elaborate on what it is the Mormons want.”
“Well, as I explained in my letter, a large body of our people is currently leaving the United States and heading for the Rocky Mountains.”
“Yes, yes,” the president said impatiently, “I’ve known of that for some time now.” Jesse was a bit taken aback by the sudden exasperation in Polk’s voice. “In January,” the president continued, “I received a letter from Governor Thomas Ford of Illinois saying that the Mormons were planning to emigrate westward. A shameful affair. Where was the governor in all of this? Why didn’t he offer your people more protection?”
Jesse tried not to stare. So the president’s irritation was not directed at him but at Governor Ford. That was like a cooling mist on a summer’s day. It also confirmed what Kendall and others had told him about President Polk’s relatively sympathetic attitude toward the Latter-day Saints.
“Senator Semple of Illinois has likewise briefed me on the situation,” Polk went on. He looked at Kendall. “And, as I recall, Brigham Young offered to help when I made the proposal to Congress a few months back to build a series of stockade forts along the Oregon Trail, did he not?”
“That’s correct, Mr. President. The Mormons offered to build and man them.”
“Yes.” He turned back to Jesse. “Now, from what you say in your letter, Mr. Little, you are here to seek assistance for your people, correct?”
“Sir, I am here to learn the policy of the federal government toward our people and especially toward our migration to Upper California.”
The president rose from his chair and began to circle the room, studying the paintings on the walls as he spoke. “The Constitution of the United States of America requires that your people be treated as all other American citizens, without regard to the sect to which you belong or the beliefs which you may profess. What has happened in Missouri and Illinois is without excuse, in my eyes. But that can no longer be helped. I personally have no prejudices against your people that would induce any other form of treatment than that promised by the Constitution.”
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