The Wedding Dress (3 page)

Rebecca held up the white cloth. “What is it? Where did you get this?”

“Just put them on over your dress and quit fussin'.”

“Well, I should say. What are these funny little holes? It's big enough to fit the bishop—say, where did you get this outfit?”

Ebner's voice was indistinct. “Never mind. Undo your braids and come on.”

In the pale light the old barn seemed to droop with fatigue. Loose boards complained as they stumbled across them.

At the rear of the building, Ebner pulled them close. “Me and Matt'll wait out back. Becky, you get up that ladder and hide in the loft. Wait until they really get fired up, and then when the sun strikes that beam over there, just stand up and spread your arms out. You can say ‘peace,' or something to get their attention. Don't say more'n you have to. I don't think angels do too much talking.”

A dog barked. Ebner shoved. “Get up there, I think they're comin'.”

The fellows disappeared, and Rebecca grasped the crossbars and swung herself into the loft. Settling herself in the musty hay she heard the retreating rustle of the loft's occupants. She clamped her chattering jaws tight.

A twig snapped. There were muffled voices. From the creak and vibration of the building, she guessed the men had entered.

She chewed her fingernails and waited. The rumble of voices broke and then one lifted, smiting the rafters in petition. “O Lord, we know we are your people; we have followed your prophet back and forth across this land. Show us, like you did him, show us that you are with us.”

The sun broke through the trees and streamed into the skeleton of the barn. It touched the back of Rebecca's head and banded the rafters with light. That was the signal. She coaxed her feet under her.

“O Lord,” it was another voice, “show yourself to your people. If you did it for the prophet, won't you do it for the bishop?”

Rebecca stood and took a step to the edge of the loft. She raised trembling arms, and the long white sleeves flapped. The voices ceased. There was a whisper. “Peace.” Now louder, she cried, “Peace, my good men.”

“An angel,” the breathy sigh floated up to her, and she was courageous.

She took a step nearer the edge. “Do you have a message?” the voice wavered.

“My brethren. Within a year you'll be in the promised land—”

“Boom!” There was an explosion of dust, and the building vibrated. The men shouted, “An earthquake! Let's get out of here before the place goes.”

Rebecca stepped backward and felt a board break beneath her feet. There was a swish, and the contents of the loft poured through the opening. She was still gasping for breath as the thunder of feet faded.

Frantic burrowing hands found her and yanked her to air. While one pair of hands brushed away the straw, the other hands tugged at her costume.

“Let's get out of here; they may come back.”

Matthew and Rebecca ran for the trees, while Ebner with Rebecca's costume was a white streak disappearing down the road.

While Matthew tied worms to the fishing lines, Rebecca picked straw out of her hair. “Lucky I had that thing on, or I'd be straw all the way through.”

“Eb's going to have a hard time explaining the straw in that outfit.”

“What did you two do?”

“We rolled a boulder down the slope behind the barn. Worked better'n we expected. The whole place shook. We got to thinking they might figure you looked more like Rebecca Wolstone than an angel.”

“Well, if I didn't look like an angel, then I suppose we'll hear about it right soon.” Rebecca sighed heavily and tried to imagine the consequences.

“We're going to town. Pa says so!” Prudence flew out of the house and down to the chopping block where Rebecca was sitting. She seized Rebecca's pan of beans and pulled her to her feet. “Ma says forget the beans for now and get ready. They're going after supplies, and we all get to go.”

As Rebecca crossed the porch she heard Mr. Smyth say, “Smith's announced he's going to be runnin' for president of the United States. Nauvoo's in an uproar.”

Mrs. Smyth was tying her bonnet. “There's going to be shortages. Everything affects the markets. We could use another length of piece goods. Rebecca's growing out of everything. We need a sack of flour too.”

In this June of 1844, Nauvoo was a bustling city—the largest city in the state. Its wide streets and rows of neat red brick homes spelled comfort. There was an air of permanence, a settling-in-at-home feeling that marked not only the neat homes but also the markets, blacksmith shop, the two newspaper buildings, and the church offices. The limestone building being built on the hilltop lent an air of opulence and sanctity to the town. It seemed these Mormons were prospering.

As the Smyths drove slowly through Nauvoo, Rebecca looked eagerly around. “Becky,” Cynthia murmured, “you've no call to crane your neck. It's rude.”

“There's so much to see. Wonder whose pretty house that is?”

“Joseph Smith's. Looks like they're adding a few new touches.”

Matthew studied the group of workmen and the neat row of flowers and shrubs. “Pa, if you were a prophet, Ma could have flowers and someone to fix the roof.”

“And have six wives like Bishop Ellis does,” Prue added, glancing at her mother. “Then you could sit in the rocking chair all day while the younger wives fixed your dinner and ironed your clothes.”

“That's enough of that, Prudence!” Mrs. Smyth snapped. “You're repeating gossip.”

Prue continued, “I heard tell that the bishop had a vision. He told the Prophet that God's going to send them to the promised land.”

“And what did the Prophet say?” Matthew asked, leaning close to Prue.

“He told him that only the Prophet gets visions, and he just had a pipe dream.”

The penny was warm in Rebecca's pocket. “I'm going to spend a penny,” she announced. Would squandering that bit of money on candy ease her conscience?

As Mr. Smyth turned the oxen down Knight Street, they heard a crash of breaking glass. Tyler hauled back on the reins. “Sounds like a gunshot.” Again there was a crash and then the shouts of angry men. Smoke puffed above the trees.

A horse galloped toward them. The rider shouted, “If you're Gentiles, better not go down there. Joe's gang is on the rampage.”

A woman hurrying down the street called, “Don't you go blackballing the Prophet!” She waved the newspaper she carried. “Like as not Brother Smith had nothing to do with it, but those apostates deserve everything they get.”

“What's happening?” Cynthia asked as the woman reached the wagon.

“You don't know? Well, here. I've had enough of these lies. I wash my hands of the mess and you're welcome to it.” She thrust the newspaper at Cynthia. “That
Nauvoo Expositor
lies; 'tis set up to make the Prophet look bad. Now, how can the poor man say anything other than what the Lord told him to say?”

“Are you saying that the Saints are tearing up the newspaper office?” Tyler asked.

The woman's bonnet bobbed. Her lips were a grim line. “They scattered type from one end of Nauvoo to the other.” She added with satisfaction, “One edition was enough. There'll never be another.” She turned down the street.

Mr. Smyth was studying the paper in his hands. His lips moved as he carefully spelled out the words. “Those rascals said a mouthful.” He folded the paper and handed it to Mrs. Smyth. “They're accusing the Mormons of straying from the true doctrine of Jesus Christ. You tuck that paper in your valise. I wanna show it to Lank.”

“I reckon Lank's in no mood for more trouble,” Cynthia said slowly. “They say his missus is in a bad way, probably won't make it this time.”

“I heard.” He flipped the reins along the backs of the oxen. “Since we're here, might as well see if we can get a sack of flour.” He turned the team.

Wistfully, Matthew said, “I'd sure like to see what's going on. Bet it's good!”

Rebecca eyed the corner of the newspaper sticking out of Mrs. Smyth's valise. Finally she took a deep breath and whispered, “Could I read it, please?”

Cynthia studied her face. “I know you never get enough to read, but you're only a child and this is grown-up material.” Cynthia's eyes were compassionate but she was shaking her head, saying, “This is the beginnings of bad times. The less we get caught up in it, the better for all of us.”

Soberly, Tyler said, “They don't want us around any more than we want them. Almost since they've come, there's been one heap of trouble after another.”

“Seems they ought to be left alone,” Cynthia sighed. “A body can't be so bad that they can't be helped, but they sure can't be helped if others are running them out. Now take that Haun's Mill thing in Missouri. I say it's bad blood that makes a man kill his brothers with no call.”

Rebecca strained forward. “What happened?”

“A bunch of men just rode into that peaceful settlement, shooting it up. They say about thirty or so of the Mormons hid in a blacksmith shop, and the renegades got in and shot them. Even the little children. Said one little fellow begged for his life, and they shot him through the head. Wasn't no older than Matt.”

They rode down the hill to the gristmill. Within minutes after Tyler entered the mill, a dusty man with a heavy sack slung across his shoulders appeared. He thumped the sack into the wagon while Cynthia's forehead puckered into a frown. “That's an awfully big sack,” she said as Tyler paid the man.

The miller turned, “There's enough rumbling down there to start a fight right now. If'n the Saints ain't tearin' up the place, the others for sure are.”

“What's the problem?” Cynthia asked.

“Politics, and don't you think nothing else. After Joe got his Gold Plates and wrote up the Book of Mormon, then got himself a bunch of followers, things started happenin'. Every place they's been, they start pushin' and people push back. When things back in Kirkland, Ohio, were going good, they built themselves a temple. Things hotted up there and they pushed on to Independence, Missouri, and set up to do more temple building. Said this time that it was to be Zion. But people don't tolerate their pushin' and their strange beliefs. People don't take kindly to bein' put down as Gentiles and livin' with the rumors that they'll be Latter-day Saints yet. Seems most folks are set on makin' Joe's revelations come untrue. I'm guessin' they won't be too happy here in Illinois either.” He rubbed his dusty hands together.

“Smith's determined he's going to grease the political machine with Mormons, and the rest of us are supposed to be too dumb to know what's goin' on. Don't like havin' my religion served up and don't like seein' a church stick a long arm and a sharp nose into politics and try to call it democracy. Joe's doin' a good job of leadin' these people around by the nose. I sure don't want to see him doin' that with the whole country.” He paused and then added, “If'n a guy sets himself up as a prophet and people agree with him, then they are obliged to toe the lines set down and don't do no complainin'. Prophets don't make no mistakes.”

Prophets don't make no mistakes
—the words were still buzzing around in Rebecca's head that day only a fortnight later. All day the air had been heavy with a brooding storm. In the afternoon as the air chilled and a stillness gripped the land, the clouds dropped low over the hill. Rebecca and Prudence quickly gathered their corn and greens and ran for home.

They were on the porch when Jamie came flying across the road with the first raindrops pounding at his heels. “It's a bad sign,” he said as he huddled by the fire.

“Superstitious, you are,” Cynthia proclaimed, anxious and out of patience. “Did you think to look for your pa when you were up the way?”

“No, I came from Olsons'. They laid Mrs. Olson out today, and the poor little babe too. They said not to come, Ma. The house is bursting.”

The door banged against the wall. Mrs. Smyth's relief burst in irritation. “Oh, there you are, banging like a banshee and wet as a hog in the holler.”

Tyler dumped his burden on the floor and said, “Joe Smith's dead and Hyrum too.”

“Dead.” The words echoed around the room. Shock moved from face to face as they turned to him. Wonderingly, Rebecca watched. They had expected Lank's wife to die and had accepted it. But this fact was rending like tearing a dress, newly made. Even patched, it would be ugly forever.

“Didn't know things were workin' up so bad.” Tyler's voice was a low rumble as he stepped out to the bench to wash for supper. The Smyths clustered behind him.

“Cooper brought me up on it while I had the plow welded. Said things been gettin' hotter by the minute, since they put the
Expositor
out of business. Seems there's talk of war. The Illinois militia's been moving in pretty close. Governor Ford ordered Joe to disband the Nauvoo Legion and surrender their arms.