Morning Star (9 page)

Jenny flipped the pages, looking for the messages Joseph had been preaching. Words caught her eyes and she lifted the Book to study the pages. “
I am
.” Jenny thought back to Springfield and the woman who had said those words. Why did they still make her shiver? She moved her finger down the page and read, “Stand now with thine enchantments and with the multitude of thy sorceries, wherein thou hast laboured from thy youth. . . . Now let the astrologers, the stargazers, the monthly prognosticators, stand up, and save thee from these things that shall come upon thee. . . . They shall not deliver themselves from the power of the flame: . . . None shall save thee.” She shivered and flipped more pages.

Another word caught her eye:
blood
. She went back. “But your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you, that he will not hear. For your hands are defiled with blood. . . .”

She remembered that dream after the day at Haun's Mill. “But I didn't shed blood!” she cried, and then was caught by more words: “Your lips have spoken lies, your tongue hath muttered perverseness. None calleth for justice, nor any pleadeth for truth: . . .” Could other things be as bad as shedding blood when God looked at the sins?

Carefully Jenny folded the page so that the words were hidden.

She was still sitting beside the stove when Mark came. Jenny had returned the Book to the parlor table. She had combed her hair and washed her hands, but the words were still there.

Chapter 8

Mark noticed Jenny standing at the parlor window as he rode out of the yard, past the puddles in the road. The rain had flattened March's dandelions, and the road was a mirror reflecting sky and clouds.

As soon as the horse had cantered beyond Jenny's vision, Mark tightened the mare's reins. “Hold it, girl, there's no sense getting to Nauvoo a minute sooner than necessary.”

He slumped in the saddle, grateful for his lonely ride into town. For the past two months his face ached continually from the cheerful grin he forced himself to wear.

This morning bone-weariness, his constant companion, helped him discount the misery of the moisture hanging in the air. Once again, as he rode, he found himself reviewing all the facts and considering the two options open to him: stay and endure, or leave Nauvoo.

It had been a year since Joseph Smith had first laid all his cards on the table. In the beginning, Mark had been grateful. It had signaled a change in their relationship and indicated a chance to help Joseph.

From the beginning, Mark had been uncomfortable with Joseph's role. This feeling, coupled with the tension created by the man's “prophet” image, had grated against his nerves. The image was supported by all those around Joseph, reminding Mark that
he
was the sore thumb in Nauvoo.

Mark had become tired of tiptoeing around in deference to Joseph and yearned for the relationship they had shared in Missouri. Open warfare seemed preferable to some of the pussy-footing he was seeing. Mark thought of Clayton, the man who had recently begun serving as Joseph's recording secretary. He wanted to tell the fellow it was all right to sneeze once in a while.

Mark winced. Open warfare? That left no alternatives—it was an all-or-nothing situation. But he couldn't help feeling that either all or nothing merited the same results.

With a sigh Mark acknowledged a showdown in the offing. But could he explain this to Jenny? There was too much forbidden territory in their marriage.

She wouldn't tolerate talk about Jesus Christ and all the Bible had to say about a personal relationship with the Lord. But was her dabbling in the occult a constant statement of her need for God? She evidently found no satisfaction in Joseph's church.

As Mark rode, he reminded himself that he should be rejoicing in this fact. But for some reason he couldn't identify, knowing only this much left him shaking with fear for Jenny, and this unknown made him fearful of leaving Nauvoo.

With a sigh, he murmured, “Oh, Lord, I know I'm to be leaving this in Your hands, but I must admit, I'm shaking in my boots. There's just too much going on that I know nothing about.”

Mark went back to mulling over Joseph's problems. From the Kirtland and Missouri years, Mark had known of the chaotic state of Joseph's financial affairs. He also knew the step Brigham Young had taken just after returning from his mission to England.

Mark had heard of Brigham's despair back in 1840 when he saw the condition of the church finances. Young had immediately set himself to the task of convincing Joseph he must turn over the financial affairs of the church to the twelve apostles.

Brigham's success had encouraged Mark when he received Joseph's offer of a position in Nauvoo as his attorney. But a complicating situation had now surfaced.

During the summer of 1841, Congress had passed a personal bankruptcy law; then just two months ago, Joseph threw all his financial problems before Mark.

As Mark shuffled through the pile of debts with a sinking heart, Joseph's countenance had become more cheerful. Quickly Mark realized that Joseph was depending on the new statute to work a miracle in his finances.

Last week the situation had climaxed in a heated argument between Mark and Joseph. Unfortunately, it had served only to remove the last polite hedge between them.

On that morning, Joseph had dumped the pile of paper on Mark's desk and declared, “See here, this is what I intend to do. I'll declare total bankruptcy. I'm insolvent.”

“No, you are not!” Mark had snapped back. “Let me show you. See this and this?” His finger flicked through all the items. “To begin with, you've taken upon yourself the position as sole trustee of the church, which you know is illegal. In the State of Illinois the church act requires a board of five trustees. Besides that detail, which is bound to be questioned, you've set yourself up to handle all the real estate dealings in the community. According to the books, you've made yourself a bundle.”

Joseph had opened his mouth to protest when Mark interrupted. “Your words are working against you. More than one man in the state can point to the statement you made recently, remember?”

“Yes, I shot my big mouth off, saying I own a million dollars worth of property hereabouts.”

“Joseph, I've seen the books. I happen to know that you've acquired city lots for a few dollars and are selling them for a thousand. And you expect
me
to be party to this fraud?”

“I'll transfer the titles. My young'uns will inherit it all anyway—might as well do it now.”

“Joseph, need I remind you that the bankruptcy law will allow no transfer of goods to take advantage of this law? You can't transfer the property to the church either. The state law allows a church to own only five acres of land.”

Shaking his head as he recalled that interview, Mark straightened in the saddle and took a deep breath. Jenny was right—he was prone to carry everyone's load on his own shoulders. He tried to shove away the oppressive feeling that he must do something—and quickly.

The rain clouds had moved on. Looking around, noting the signs of spring, he dug his heels into the mare's ribs and tightened his grip on the reins.

This road between Warsaw and Nauvoo had been a lonesome road just last year, but now with the influx of the English settlers as well as the addition of more Canadians, the countryside was becoming dotted with farms. Neat fences bordered the road. Trees had been cleared and the plow had been set to the virgin acres.

As Mark studied the landscape, he thought of his Gentile neighbors. At times when Mark listened to the grumbles and studied the hostile stares of the Gentiles living around the area, he wondered where the discontent would lead. What he saw and heard made him uneasy.

Back in 1839, that first traumatic year of the exodus, the people of Illinois, living close to the old town of Commerce, had welcomed the Saints with compassion and tolerance.

But the feeling was fast disappearing, for several reasons. One was the disappearance of prime farm land from the market. Nearly all the prairie land had been purchased. And the fact that the deeds were in Joseph's hand, waiting for new converts to claim them, didn't help.

But Joseph chose to see only the pleasant side of life right now. Mark writhed under the Prophet's arrogant confidence, even though he realized he should have expected it. How could he have forgotten even for one minute Joseph's reaction to the hordes of visitors streaming into Nauvoo?

The rapt audience of strangers listening to him, and the admiring throng of people there to watch the Nauvoo Legion parade through the streets, worked like blinders on Joseph. Finally, with a sigh, Mark tried to dismiss Joseph from his thoughts.

The early morning sun slanted light across the plowed acres. Mark watched it tunneling under the cluster of clouds capping the forest. Birds pecked at the fresh-turned soil, while across the meadow a thin spire of smoke marked a cabin. The trees showed fresh color, splashing yellow-green, pink, and white against the dark pine.

Mark's appreciation was forming into a prayer when he heard the creaking wagon wheels behind him. Pulling the mare aside, he turned as the wagon reached him.

“Mornin',” said Daniels, the Gentile who lived across the ravine. The old man pointed his whip toward the sky. “Right pretty with the clouds and sunshine. God's in His heaven, all's right down below.”

“I hope that is so,” Mark said soberly. “If it isn't, I expect we've been responsible.” The man considered, nodded his head, and passed on.

At the next break in the fence, another rider met Mark—Orson Pratt. He pulled his mount even with Mark and turned a worried frown on him. “What do you think about this getting the Lodge in Nauvoo?”

Mark studied the apostle for a moment before replying, “Seems a bad time to be taking a poll. The installation is to be next week. Pratt, you know my feelings, and I haven't backed down. I expressed my view last fall when things first started rolling that direction. I'm against the secret societies in general. However, I'm not the best informed about masonry because I've never considered it.

“The
Book of Mormon
talks enough about the Lord being against secret—is it called murderous combinations? Can't believe Joseph would go against the gold book.”

Pratt's frown deepened. “That's what bothers me. Seems I can't reconcile Joseph allowing it, either.” He shot Mark a quick look, and for a moment Mark felt as if he were being measured by some unseen rule.

****

Jenny had returned to her kitchen and was washing the dishes when the tap came on her window. Tom was grinning at her and she went to unlatch the door. “Am I in time for breakfast?”

She gave him a quick hug and pulled him into the room. “I'll have some ready immediately. Eggs?”

He nodded. “Mark left?”

She sighed. “Yes, 'twas awfully early, but he acted as if he couldn't wait to get out of the house. Tom, there's something troubling him. I wish he'd feel free to talk it out.”

She turned from the stove and saw the curious expression on Tom's face. “Now you look a dark brown study yourself. Tom, what's going on? No one's said a thing to me—won't, in fact, though I've tried to find out. Seems I've no friend to trust me with a lick of gossip.”

He snorted. “With Joseph starting up that Relief Society meeting this month, there's bound to be lots of loose gossip floatin' around.”

“Well, there isn't,” Jenny sniffed. “However, I'm put out at him. In the first place, we women would like to do the organizing. Most of us were well content with having a small sewing group so we could share a little refreshment and the latest stitching patterns. But no, Joseph's pushing every woman in town to be a part of it.”

“Aw, that's it. He found out you ladies were sipping tea and breakin' the word of wisdom, so he's had to sic Emma on you.”

“Mind your tongue,” Jenny said with real irritation. “Emma's nice enough if a body doesn't cross her. It's just the bossiness of it all.”

“Now, Jenny, you know a female isn't goin' to make it to heaven at all without a man to take her there. No sense in buckin' the word of the Lord. We've got the priesthood, and there's no sense in wanting the old ways.”

“Tom, did you just come to fuss? Besides, when are you going to do your part and get married?”

She watched the play of expression on his face—fear, puzzlement, then embarrassment. He ignored the question. “Not to fuss. Wanted to ride in with Mark.” He was silent for a moment. Turning, she was surprised to see the scowl again. “I've been over Warsaw way, listening to more of the rumbles. Sure's discontent when they talk about things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, to start, the Nauvoo Charter. Seems they're thinkin' we Mormons are uppity. The rumbles over the charter makes me believe Missouri's tossing out information. I heard talk about wantin' to see Joe go back for trial. Also there's the prophecy he gave out last year, about Boggs and Carlin both dying.”

“Well, I guess they can take that with a grain of salt unless it comes true.”

“Jen, the way you said that surprises me.” Tom paused for a moment to scratch his head. Slowly he said, “Seems in the past you shivered over all the prophecies; now it's ‘wait and see.' Are you not believing anymore?”

“In Joseph? Of course. I have to believe; there's nothing else. It's just . . .” Her voice trailed away and she chewed at her lip for a moment. “It's just that I've been counting up in my mind all Joseph's said that hasn't come to pass.”

“What possessed you to do that?”

Slowly she said, “I've been reading the Bible.” His eyebrows went up. “Joseph's been urging me to read the Scriptures, so I do. One day it's the
Book of Mormon
and the next it's the Holy Bible. Just yesterday I read about God telling how to distinguish a true prophet. The Bible says if a fellow is a prophet from the Lord, then all his prophecies come to pass, and if they don't, well, then he's a false prophet and he's to be taken out and killed.”