by Marian Wells
He added, “There’s a bunch of us who grew mighty fond of the land. We’d a been glad to keep our mouths shut and work our hands to the bone just to get to stay there.” His voice trailed away. When he spoke again his voice was matter-of-fact. “We left gentle, rich acres and growing towns. Our homes and farms we had to give up for unplowed prairie and barren wastes. A mighty price to pay because we believed the revelation and spoke out our belief. Now I hope we keep our mouths shut and live like any other man on this earth.” He paused for a moment, and in the silence the last of the fire sputtered and snapped. His voice was filled with sorrow, and Jenny shivered as he said, “If we don’t we’ll be a running again. Only this time, could be we’ll all pay with our lives.”
During the following day, Jenny lined up the comments and questions, sorting and discarding the nerve-tender ones and pushing others at Mark. “It’s nothing but rumbles; we’ve been hearing them all winter,” she remarked, ignoring Mark’s somber expression. “Missouri problems. Back then, back in the beginning, how could Joseph be expected to keep things moving smooth as stirred gravy when he wasn’t around to tend to the stirring?”
Mark’s smile was tentative as he said, “At least the fellows feel free to chew over the facts.”
“That’s because Joseph and the twelve aren’t around to thunder at their grumbles.” She saw his expression and regretted her words. She tried to smooth them over. “No one has a right to dispute when the Prophet has the keys of the kingdom and his word is scripture.”
He ducked his head, but not before Jenny saw the white line around his mouth and heard him say, “Jenny, my dear, remember that statement. I’m certain I’ll have occasion to remind you of it. But for now, there are problems. All the rumbles I’ve heard about the difficulties in Jackson County back in the beginning points to a rocky road once we reach Caldwell County.”
“You’re referring to the treatment the Saints had when they first went into Jackson. Well, that’s persecution.”
“Can you call it persecution when a fellow balances an apple on his head and dares his buddy to knock it off?”
“Meaning?” Jenny asked.
“For one thing, the articles Phelps published. For another, the Saints going around telling the people of Missouri God has given them the land, and that He’d promised the riches of the Gentiles would be theirs.” Jenny opened her mouth to reply and Mark said, “How would you feel if someone told you all your work was for naught, that the Lord was going to pass it all on to someone else?”
“They pushed them out of Jackson. Now, up north the land isn’t fertile.”
“Don’t forget what Miller said. Also, consider, they’ve found a home—and from all reports, they’ll be welcome to stay if they try to get along with their neighbors.” Mark was silent a moment, then thoughtfully said, “I think I’m going to make it a point to get acquainted with Phelps.”
“Why?”
He was frowning slightly as he looked up. “I think I want to find out what makes the man tick.”
“Mark,” Jenny said slowly, recalling the troubled man she had lived with that first year of their marriage, “I’m thinking you’re back to carrying the whole lot on your shoulders again. Some call it trouble-making, and the Prophet doesn’t abide that.”
His voice was sober as he replied, “Call it as you wish. I’d be less than a—a man if I didn’t try to help those around me.” Mark flicked the reins along the backs of the horses.
Suddenly Mark lifted his head and grinned. “Hey, you’re talking about the they’s. Do you realize we’re going to be some of the they’s? Think you’ll like being a farmer’s wife?”
“Mark!” Jenny looked down at his smooth hands. “Have you ever milked a cow in your life?”
“When I was about six.”
Jenny laughed. “Finally, there’s something I know better’n you. I’ll be your teacher. I even know how to clean a pig sty.”
But it wasn’t the discontented rumbles, or the uneasy questions Jenny was thinking about that first evening they stopped on the border of Missouri. Jenny was remembering that star-studded night and the misty moonlit bath they’d had in the Wabash River in Indiana. What had there been about that time to make her think back wistfully? Was it the isolation of that spot and Mark all to herself? Why did that scene make her think of peace and restoration?
Mark had called it an Ebenezer night and when she tried to get him to explain, he’d grinned and said it was like climbing a hill and passing a post marking the halfway place. Then he added softly, “It means we’ve come thus far.” She searched his face and that light in his eyes reassured even more than the strange words. Thus far. She hugged the words to herself and hoped.
It was soon evident that they were inside Missouri’s borders. Here there weren’t any tidy clusters of homes decorated with borders of flower gardens. Instead, tiny log cabins marked towns where there were nearly as many saloons as homes.
There were other things, too. She saw black men working the fields, while white men bunched around the saloons. She also saw the number of men was far greater than the women and children. While Jenny was still adjusting to this, she became aware that it was commonplace to find in every hamlet curious lines of people gathered to watch their wagons move through.
Sometimes there were friendly waves and children shouting, but often there were hostile, suspicious stares. On one occasion an old man called, “Be ye Mormons?” At Jenny’s nod, he called, “Weren’t Jackson enough? Bogg is too lily-livered about stopping ya, but we know some who will.
“We ain’t forgettin’ the past when yer men marched in with arms. ’Tis ’gainst the law. We ain’t forgettin’ yer men said the Lord gave them this land. Well, we get different information from the Lord.”
Jenny murmured, “They aren’t very friendly.”
Mark replied, “But that woman waved and smiled.”
“Then I should make friends of the women?” He nodded, but for a moment she wondered at the shadow in his eyes.
The wagon train pressed deeper into Missouri, heading farther north and west. The terrain was changing nearly daily. Jenny saw the mountains flattened into prairies of luxuriant grass. While trees clustered the valleys and bordered the creeks and rivers, the dense forests had disappeared.
On the days that it was their turn to ride near the lead of the wagon train, Jenny could watch the deer leaping away in the distance as the wagons approached. The quail and partridges would seek cover in the tall grasses until at last their courage failed. Too often they would rise to confront musket fire, and that night there would be fresh meat for supper.
The night talk around the fire became excited chatter when it was circulated that they were now close to the place where Joseph Smith had settled. Jenny felt contentment in the cozy talk of the women, suddenly happy with life and sure of the future.
While the men talked about this new land they would settle, and about the crops they would plant, the women had their heads together. Jenny listened to the news. Emma Smith had produced another boy child. “My, the Prophet’s outfitting his farm proper-like.”
A tart tongue added, “Likely those young’uns ’ll have life easier than ours.”
Once again the women rehashed the old story of the conflict in Jackson. As they weighed the chances of success in this new endeavor, some of the men joined their group. Jenny heard the derision in one voice as the man said, “After being turned out of Jackson County, the big-hearted Missouri legislature thought they were doing us a favor by giving all the Mormons Caldwell County. They don’t know it, but Saints will be swarming over the whole state in a year or so.” Jenny and Mark’s eyes met, and she watched him turn away. For some unknown reason the June night seemed suddenly chilled.
Now, around the fire, the men who knew chortled, “They drew a line, but Joe’s already stepped over it. Saints have moved into Daviess and Carroll as well as Ray counties.”
The answer given was smug, and Jenny mentally squ
irmed over it, even as she acknowledged the truth of it. The woman sitting beside her said, “’Tis true. The Lord’s promised the land to us. Zion it will be, and already we’re knowing that it’s going to have to be taken, most likely by the sword, since they’re resisting. ’Twill be a difficult time for us, but the promise of the lands and houses being ours as well as the gold and silver, well, that helps.”
Jenny felt Mark stirring restlessly, but wisely she chose to hold her tongue.
Chapter 6
Jenny had been asleep when the stealthy rustle reached through her dreams. With eyes wide, she listened. In the silence of the camp, she was aware of the freshening air. The last of the smoke was gone and the circle of wagons was dark. She guessed it was very late. Again the rustle came. Slowly she reached for Mark. At the quick pressure of his hand she allowed herself a sigh of relief.
As Mark left her side she heard a clink of metal and a muffled curse. There was Mark’s low voice and an answering voice. It must be just one of the men. After listening a moment longer, Jenny snuggled into the blankets. Her eyelids had begun to droop when she realized the tenor of voices had changed, and another voice was added.
For a moment more she strained to hear the muffled words. Finally she slipped out of the blankets and crouched behind the wagon wheel. Although she couldn’t understand the words, she recognized that voice.
Crawling out from under the wagon she moved toward the men and whispered, “Oliver Cowdery, whatever are you doing here?”
Mark turned to pull her close, saying, “Be quiet and just listen. These men have come from Far West.”
“Far West? That’s in Caldwell County where we’re headed, isn’t it? What do they want?”
“Food for their families and anything else we can spare. They are destitute.”
“There’s bread and cold beans, dried meat and apples. We still have flour and—” Mark’s words began to sink. She turned to Cowdery. “Destitute! Whatever has happened?”
Now she became conscious of other dark shadows in the background.
Cowdery sighed deeply and wiped a hand slowly across his face. Impatiently Mark said, “Jenny, don’t we have extra quilts and dishes?”
“Quilts! It’s nearly July. Dishes . . .” Mark’s hand urged her toward the wagon and the men followed.
Inside the wagon Jenny tumbled through bundles, her mind in as much confusion as the jumble before her. The men pressed into the wagon. “Four of you,” she said in surprise. Slowly she reached for plates and forks and found an extra skillet. Her mind was busy bringing up facts about the men while their haunted, lined faces were giving out information that bewildered her. She paused to peer at the men. Surely she was mistaken—they couldn’t be fleeing Zion!
There was Oliver Cowdery, schoolteacher and newspaper editor, but most importantly, one of the witnesses to the Book of Mormon. What could have forced him to leave? And Johnson. She knew nothing about him. Could he possibly be the brother of the Nancy Miranda whose name had been linked with Joseph’s? They said the man Eli had led a mob against the Prophet. Jenny bit her lip. What trouble was being raised against the Prophet now? The man beside him, David Whitmer, was also a witness to the Book of Mormon. His brother John was the fourth member of the group. At their father’s home Joseph had completed the translation of the golden plates. She ventured a peek at the stony faces, and her questions grew.
As she pulled out the flour and bacon, she cast a bewildered glance at Mark.
“They haven’t had anything to eat since early morning,” Mark said. “They’ve obtained wagons, but not much else. Whitmer says that now the word’s passed, some are afraid to be seen talking with them, let alone give help. That’s why they’ve come at night.”
“Like common criminals,” Cowdery said bitterly. “Rigdon’s been after my neck since I came to Missouri. Just once too often I aired my feelings. Said I blamed him for the troubles the Saints are in. He’ll never forgive us for being disheartened when the bank failed in Kirtland.”
One of the Whitmers said, “I can see him gloating now that we’ve been reduced to running like rats, and begging like the scum of the earth instead of Israel’s chosen.”
Jenny studied the lined faces as the men talked. She was conscious of the germ of uneasiness growing inside. When she turned, Mark’s serious face multiplied the feeling.
Mark gathered up the quilts and food. “You’ve told me enough to convince me the whole lot of us need to hear your story first thing in the morning. For now, let’s take these things to your families and have you settled for the night.”
As the group filed silently out of sight, Jenny was remembering the last time she had seen Cowdery. He, David Whitmer, and Martin Harris had been watching the black-robed girl as she had whirled on the streets and promised to read their futures. For a time the three men had been leaders in the group that followed the seeress with her black stone—the dissenters, as they’d been called.
Everyone knew how Joseph Smith had shaken them loose from their folly. Shortly after the Prophet returned to Kirtland, he had sent Whitmer and Cowdery to Missouri; Martin Harris had left the church completely.
When Mark came back to the wagon and crawled into bed, he murmured, “They’ve told me little. I know only that they’ve been run out of Zion on threat of their lives. I could see they were exhausted. I’ve promised to listen to their story tomorrow.”
For a long time after Mark’s even breathing told her he was asleep, Jenny lay wide-eyed staring into the darkness, wondering what portent was being heralded. Certainly evil was stalking into her life again. She sensed that when the men had talked.
Tossing and turning on her hard pallet, Jenny became convinced that the hints of happiness she had felt for the past few weeks were again being threatened. She tightened her hands around the talisman and vowed to renew her search for power and success. Success? She rolled onto her elbow and looked down at Mark. She thought of those empty days just before she had left Kirtland. Never again would she risk losing him.
Jenny tightened her grasp on the talisman and silently her lips moved through the incantations, invoking peace, happiness, and safety. Now she was holding her breath, willing stillness, waiting for intimations of peace; but in the quietness, a new vision pressed itself across her mind. There was Jenny on a seesaw, rising high only to plunge earthward. But even as she swooped down, she knew she could scoot to the middle and ride both sides. With a pleased grin, she turned on her side and snuggled against Mark. Little did it matter that both sides of the seesaw were books, one green and the other gold; she would use them both.
The next morning the four men and their families trailed into the wagon train’s enclosure. Silent, questioning faces were turned toward them. Jenny was well aware of the tension moving through the group. The very air vibrated with it.
Early this morning, before breakfast, Mark had met with the men in command of the wagon train. She had watched that silent group as they had been called into council. She watched the hunched figures around the fire and listened to the low murmur of conversation. She saw the worried frown, the glances toward the strangers’ wagons, and she felt her own skin prickle with an unidentified apprehension. She knew others were feeling it, too. She saw it in the worried faces of the women as they tried to busy themselves around camp.
As Jenny went about her tasks, from the camp next to them, Libby Taylor straightened her back and groaned, “Why do we have to get mixed up with dissenters before we’ve even a chance to settle in this new land?” The woman who answered her in a murmur looked in Jenny’s direction. Libby said loudly, “I don’t care if she does. I intend to stay in the good graces of the presidency.” Jenny paused, towel in hand, thinking back to those statements Matt had made. It was while she still agonized over his concern that this same woman had skimmed over it all with her words, saying, “The Lord promised the land to us. Zion it will be—most likely by the sword.” This same woman’s husband had said, “They drew a line, but
Joe’s already stepped over it.”
Still staring at the woman, Jenny wrapped the towel around her shoulders and murmured, “Dear Lord, what are we getting ourselves into?” Immediately the incongruity of her statement swept over her. Jenny sighed as she turned back to the pan of dishes.
By midmorning the wagon train was still circled beside the trail. The group around the men had been growing since breakfast time. The men’s story had been repeated, analyzed, and passed around the group. Jenny watched as they shifted uneasily from one foot to another, while the women stood apart in a miserable group.
She watched Mark’s face. That furrowed brow made her uneasy. It held the expression she had seen often during the first winter of their marriage. Mark was being pulled asunder by things he didn’t understand.
Now Mark’s voice rose, “What started this? Was it talk over the Fannie Alger affair?”
Jenny looked at him in surprise. Mark wasn’t prone to listen to gossip, and since the incident Nettie had reported to her had happened while Mark was in England, she supposed he knew nothing of the affair. While the excited babble surrounded her, Jenny was studying Mark’s face, surprised by the play of expression, as his frown gave way to distaste, then anger.
The man spoke slowly, “I suppose it was partly to blame. You don’t question Joseph and stay in his good graces.”
Jenny couldn’t keep the hard note out of her voice as she walked up to the group and addressed Johnson. “You were making terrible accusations against the Prophet right there in the temple. Everyone knows that.”
Ignoring her, Cowdery said, “What really caused the problem was buying land here in Missouri and not deeding it to the church.”
“The United Order,” a knowing voice added. “Just like we had in Kirtland, only out here it seems the only takers were those who didn’t have anything to consecrate to the church.”
Another rough voice on the fringe of the group broke in. “I say, leave these men to their own devices. I’m feeling we’re picking up a quarrel we’ve no need to. All who’s for heading for Far West today, fall in behind me.”
