The Work and the Glory (546 page)

I love the prairie. Now that spring is coming, it is so beautiful. We walk for miles and miles and see nothing but grass and flowers waving gently in the wind. It is like being on an ocean, with the hills rolling gently like waves, and the breeze rippling through the grass. When we reach a high spot, you can look forward and back and see wagons and oxen and horses and sheep and dogs and pigs and children and women all strung out along the trail. It is a grand sight and never fails to make me stop and look. At the creeks and rivers, we pile up like sheep trying to get through the narrow gate to the sheepfold. And as we cross, it is all pandemonium. Men holler, the oxen bellow, the wagons rattle and splash, the children squeal as they have water fights, the women hike up their skirts and wade across if it isn’t too deep.

I won’t say any more about the mud and the rain, I have talked a lot about that already. It is part of our trip, but now that spring is here, it won’t be a problem nearly as much anymore.

Well, back to the news. That same afternoon—Thursday—Pres Y. and the others returned to camp. They found the place on the Weldon River where we shall build a settlement for those who are still coming. They are going to call it Garden Grove. We all came here yesterday. Everyone is excited. This will mean we can stop for a while. We will build fences and cabins and plant grain for those who are still to come. Also there is a mill on the river. Pres. Y. says the local settlers are willing to hire some of the men and they will pay us in flour and seed grain. Oh, a piece of warm bread with butter and honey sounds more heavenly than I can express in words.

Uncle Matthew is back with us again, at least for now.

Garden Grove Camp—April 29, 1846 (Wednesday)

What a beautiful place. It is like a garden here on the Weldon River. I’m glad they’re calling it Garden Grove. It has rained a lot since we arrived on Friday. The camp is a great bog, just like so many times before, but work goes on anyway. Rain or not, everyone seems happier. More people are coming every day now. Papa, and all my uncles—Joshua, Derek, Matthew, and Nathan—and my cousin Josh (Emily’s older brother) have been working for local people or splitting rails to fence in land for plowing. But we haven’t gotten any grain yet. The river has risen so much with the rain that the gristmill can’t work. So we will have to wait a little longer for bread. One sad thing. Pres. Y. told the men that they have decided to try and sell the Kirtland Temple and the Nauvoo Temple so they can get enough money to help the rest of the Saints come west. Everyone knows it had to happen, but it still made everyone gloomy. Mama says it is like they are selling a piece of us. I wanted to cry but didn’t because I didn’t want the little ones to think something was wrong.

Speaking of the little ones. Miriam is better now. She was sitting up and laughing this afternoon. Thank you, Heavenly Father, for answering our prayers.

Melissa Rogers was in the back room of the Steed Family Dry Goods and General Store, taking inventory of the bags and boxes and barrels. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much that was left. For that matter, the shelves out front had a lot of empty space as well. The store was just a shadow of what it had been a year ago when it had been one of the hubs of Nauvoo, drawing many people in to visit and talk as well as to shop.

She closed the ledger book and sat down on a stool. Was it her? Was it the fact that she and Carl were known to have turned their backs on the Church? Did people resent the fact that they had kept the Steed family name on the store even though there were no more Steeds in Nauvoo?

Immediately she shook her head. No, it wasn’t that. At least it wasn’t a major factor. People were still friendly and kind. People still greeted her pleasantly on the street and treated Carl with respect. It was just the times. The population of Nauvoo was emptying quickly now. Since the weather had turned more pleasant, the ferries across the river were running full almost every trip. And the demand for supplies had been so heavy for the last six months that they simply could not keep up with it. That had started a vicious downward spiral. Much of what Lydia and Caroline had done prior to their leaving had been to buy and sell by bartering. Cash was a rare commodity nowadays. Unfortunately, the things most commonly taken in trade were things which those leaving for the West did not need. To turn around and sell or trade them off again in a city whose whole focus was going west was not a highly profitable way to run a store. And without profit, without cash in hand, there were very few suppliers who were extending credit to businesses in Nauvoo. So the supplies dwindled and the customers with them.

It made her sad. Not for the money. Lydia and Caroline had given them the store on the promise that someday she and Carl would pay them something for it. In a way, they were out nothing so far. Rather, it was that she had found a strange fulfillment in the store. She wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe it was being able to account for each thing and to have a place for it until it was sold. Maybe it was being out of the house and meeting people for part of each day. Maybe it was pure nostalgia, a way to keep in touch with the family that were now gone. There had been many happy hours spent in this store on the corner of Knight and Main Streets.

“Mama?”

The door pushed open and her oldest son was there. Carl had just turned fourteen yesterday. Like his mother, he loved the store and had become her mainstay in running it. With all the schools closed—Melissa was teaching all of her children at home now—there was nothing else to take his time. Except the brickyard. To his father’s great disappointment, young Carl did not care for the brick business at all. David and Caleb were there almost every day. Carl would go only if his father specifically asked him to. But he reveled in the dry goods business and was meticulous in helping his mother make it work.

She stood. “Yes, son?”

“There’s a man out front asking for you.”

“Oh? Do you know who he is?”

“No. He looks familiar but . . .” He shrugged.

“All right.” She followed him out of the storeroom and down the narrow hall. To her surprise, Wilford Woodruff was standing near the counter. He turned at their approach.

“Good morning, Sister Rogers.”

“Good morning, Brother Woodruff. Have you met my son, Carl?”

“Met him, but didn’t introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand. “Wilford Woodruff, Carl. I’m pleased to meet you.”

Carl shook his hand, then took the book from his mother’s hand. “I’ll finish the inventory of what’s upstairs, Mama.”

“Thank you.”

They watched him leave again; then Melissa went around behind the counter. “How can I help you today?”

“Phoebe is hoping that you might have some red thread and a packet of small needles.”

“I think I do,” she said, moving down the counter and sliding open a glass door. She fought the temptation to watch him as she walked, to see if his face gave any clue as to what this was all about. If he had simply wanted needles and thread, he could have gotten them from Carl.

She brought out a small ball of red thread and a package of three needles. “Are these small enough?”

He took them and looked at them, then smiled sheepishly. “She said small. If these are small, then I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Okay. The thread is five cents, the needles, fifteen.”

He fished in his watch pocket and brought out some coins. “You wouldn’t have any licorice candy, I suppose.”

“Actually, I do have a few pieces left. Would you like them?”

“Yes. I’ll surprise the children.”

She got them, wrapped them in some waxed paper, and laid them down beside the needles and thread. “That will be twenty-five cents altogether, then.”

“Good.” He slid the money across to her. But he made no move to pick up his purchases. He was looking down at them, not meeting her gaze.

“Is there anything else, Brother Woodruff?”

He looked up. “Melissa, you’ve been on my mind a great deal since you and I and Carl talked the other day.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I understand Carl’s feelings perfectly, and I understand why he wants to stay.”

“He feels pretty strongly about it,” she admitted, keeping her face impassive.

He decided to change the subject. “I heard that he just got word that his mother passed away.”

“Yes. A letter came from his brothers a couple of weeks ago. We knew her health was failing, so it was not a great shock.”

“But still a loss, I’m sure.”

“Of course.”

“Will Carl be going back to Kirtland, then?”

Her eyes flickered momentarily, betraying her surprise at the question. “No. We had planned to make a visit there this summer to see his mother. Now that she’s gone, Carl says there’s not much there for us anymore. His brothers are running the business. Carl would only be a complication.”

“I see.”

She waited, sensing there was more than that on his mind.

“Melissa”—he was suddenly all business—“we, the Church leadership, received a letter from Governor Ford a few days ago.” She saw that his hands were very still now. “He wrote to inform us that he can no longer send out state militia to keep the peace here in Nauvoo.”

She felt her heart drop. “What does that mean?”

His head came up. Anger flashed in the eyes that were so pleasantly blue and usually filled with kindness. “It means,” he said flatly, “that he is washing his hands of the whole situation. It means that he’s giving notice to our enemies that there will be no more interference.” His brows knit together in a deep frown. “It means that the situation here could grow worse very quickly.”

She nodded, feeling a little numb. “Is that why so many are leaving all of a sudden?”

“Yes. There’s great fear among our people. Memories of Carthage and Yelrome are heavy on everyone’s minds. The men responsible for those depredations are still out there and they’re still howling for blood.”

“Carl says we’ll be all right.” It came out woodenly, as if she were forced to say it.

“I know that he thinks that.”

“But you don’t?”

“Melissa, hatred against our religion is only a cloak for deeper motives here. Don’t get me wrong. The hatred is real, all right. But there’s something much deeper, and for you and Carl, more threatening.”

“What?” she asked in a small voice. She had been lying awake every night for the past week, long after Carl was asleep, worrying about this very thing.

“It happened in Kirtland. It happened in Jackson County. It happened in Far West. And it’s happening again here now. Our people come in and begin to settle a place. We are industrious and orderly. We take pride in doing things right. We build homes and barns, we clear and plow the land, we plant crops.” His voice turned suddenly bitter. “And if we’re driven out, well, what a coincidence. There’s all that valuable property just left behind. If you have no scruples whatsoever, you can pick it up for nothing. If your conscience is pricked a little because you know that you’re engaged in highway robbery, then you may be willing to pay ten cents on the dollar.”

“You’re lucky to get ten cents on the dollar,” she murmured.

“That’s right. And all the while the state and county governments either stand by and refuse to help, or else they become part of the mob.”

“And you think that’s what is coming here?”

For a long moment he looked at her, his eyes sad and filled with compassion. “I am certain of it,” he finally said.

She had a sudden thought. “What about Emma? I saw her day before yesterday. She absolutely refuses to follow Brigham Young. And she’s certain that she will be fine.”

“So am I.”

Her head came up. “But . . .”

“Emma Smith is the widow of the Prophet Joseph Smith. If she turns her back on the main body of the Saints, that is a real feather in the caps of those who hate us. As long as she doesn’t change her mind, I think they will leave her alone so she can serve as an example.”

“But Carl isn’t even a member.”

“Carl has a brickyard. You and he hold the deeds to two of your family’s homes. You now own this store.”

She looked away. That was a compelling argument.

When she finally turned back, he was picking up his purchases. “Melissa.” There was deep sorrow in his voice.

“Yes?”

“Come back!”

Her eyes widened.

“I know what’s bothering you, but you are not happy. Not really.”

She flared, suddenly angry and defensive. “I am happy! Carl is a wonderful husband. I have wonderful children. We’re doing fine . . . we’re getting by all right. I am happy.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean that. Let me put it a different way. You are not at peace. Nor have you been for some time.”

“I . . .”

“You know that’s true,” he said softly. “I remember back in Kirtland how strong your testimony was. Come back, Melissa. Until you do you will not have peace.”

She was faltering, finding it hard to collect herself. “Carl wouldn’t—”

“This is not about, Carl, Melissa. It’s about you. You and the Lord.” He slipped the purchases in the pocket of his coat and started to turn. Then, on impulse, he reached out and laid a hand over hers. “I’m sorry, Melissa. It’s not my place to speak so plainly.” He took a breath. “But if your father were here—” He stopped as instant tears sprang to her eyes. His own eyes misted up. “If he were here, you know what he’d say, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t face those eyes now. She stared down at the money.

“Don’t you?” he asked again, his voice so low she barely heard it.

After a moment, she nodded slowly.

He withdrew his hand and straightened. “Thank you for the needles and thread. And the candy. Phoebe will be pleased.”

She still didn’t look at him. “You’re welcome.”

He walked to the door and opened it. But he stopped again and turned. “We shall be dedicating the temple this evening.”

That brought her head up. “What?”

“Yes. In a private ceremony. But tomorrow there will be a public dedication.” There was a long silence. Then, “Will you come?”