Goodbye, Nauvoo Page 2
“Did the shopkeeper make that man mad?”
“Well, yes, in a way.”
“How’s that?” Malinda asked.
Martha sighed. “Well, that bad man didn’t like the shopkeeper because Brother Hugh’s a Latter-day Saint, like you and I. Some people don’t like the Saints. They don’t want us to be here.”
“Why? What have we done?”
“Nothing, honey. Some people just don’t understand us.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem right. Maybe if they got to know us a little better, then we could all be friends.”
Martha smiled gently at her daughter. If only it was that easy.
Malinda thought for a moment. “Mama, if we could all be friends, do you think we could stay here in Nauvoo? I don’t want to leave.”
“I don’t want to leave either, but I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. You see, people like that bad man, they don’t want to be friends. Never, ever. That’s why we have to leave. You remember what happened to the Prophet Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum last year, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Well, we don’t want that to happen to us.”
Thinking about the Prophet’s martyrdom caused Martha’s heart to swell in sadness. She had loved Joseph Smith Jr. as if he were a brother or father. When little Sarah was born, the Prophet laid his hands upon her head and gave her a name and a blessing. Nine months later, when Sarah developed a terrible fever and Martha was sure the child would die, the Prophet came and blessed the child once again. Sarah had survived, and Martha felt indebted to the late Prophet for Sarah’s life.
As Martha walked down the dirt path toward her home, she could hear the Nauvoo Legion band playing military tunes somewhere in the distance. The sound was low and distorted, but eventually she could make out the song, “Hail to the Prophet.” Her eyes began to water. The song was her favorite hymn ever since the Prophet’s death, but Martha could not hear it without crying. So much had changed in Nauvoo since she first arrived six years ago in 1839, and it only seemed to be getting worse.
Chapter 2
The Birthing
The spring wind and rain bellowed outside as Lucy helplessly watched as her daughter Martha lay in bed writhing in pain. After hours of labor, Lucy hoped a miracle would bring about the birth of her newest grandchild. Instead, it seemed as if the baby was content where it was and refused to come out. Martha was growing weaker and weaker by the hour.
Lucy held tight to Martha’s white-knuckled hand. She hoped it would bring Martha some comfort until Margaret Wilcox could arrive. Margaret, Martha’s mother-in-law, was their last hope. If anyone knew how to birth a baby, it would be her. Lucy only regretted not calling on her sooner. She had thought she could handle the complexity of Martha’s delivery, as she had done the times before.
“The baby?” Martha groaned.
“It’ll come when it's ready,” Lucy assured her. "Margaret is on her way. Lydia’s already sent for her. Margaret’s delivering another baby but will be here soon. Don’t you worry.” But what the deceivingly frail-looking woman with weathered hands didn’t tell Martha was that she feared for her life.
Downstairs, the sound of Martha’s cousin Lydia’s footsteps echoed up through the wooden rafters. She was busy washing rags, although Lucy had another reason for sending her downstairs, away from Martha. If Martha died, Lucy didn’t want Lydia to see it. The poor young woman already carried the fresh, heavy burden of witnessing death. It changed her in ways that could never be undone, weakened her spirit so that she was a ghost of her lively, youthful self. It just didn’t seem right to Lucy to subject her to more of it so soon.
The time waiting for Margaret to arrive passed slowly. Finally, a heavy knock on the door announced her presence. Lucy listened as the front door creaked open downstairs.
“Hello, Sister Wilcox,” Lucy heard Lydia say politely.
“Take me to the girl,” Margaret’s low voice uttered. “There’s no time to waste.”
Within seconds Margaret stepped through the door carrying a big, black leather bag of supplies. She dropped it on the hardwood floor and removed a dripping wet shawl from around her shoulders, then uselessly wiped away the rain from her gold spectacles on her soaked dress. She replaced her glasses onto a crooked nose and peered down at Martha through steely gray eyes.
Martha’s condition was quickly deteriorating. Lucy sat close by her daughter, dabbing beads of sweat from Martha’s forehead.
Martha’s eyes fluttered open at Margaret’s presence. She uttered a few unintelligible words, to which Margaret silenced her.
“Save your breath for pushing, dear,” Margaret replied as she cleared a table and set down her leather bag. She felt the temperature of Martha’s forehead with the back of her hand then lightly massaged the woman’s stomach. “The baby’s tilted to the side. Perhaps it can be coaxed back into place.” Margaret glanced up at the onlookers. “I’ll need your help. Both of you. Take her hands. This will be very painful.”
From her bag, Margaret pulled out a knife and stuck it under the bed, a superstitious midwife technique. Lucy frowned.
“This will help cut the pain in half,” Margaret explained. She washed her hands with lye soap in a basin by the bed and motioned to Lucy and Lydia to take their places at each side of Martha.
Margaret began massaging Martha’s stomach again, but this time harder. She pushed and pulled at the baby from outside the womb. Martha thrashed and cried for the pain to stop.
Unperturbed, Margaret’s hands rolled over Martha’s stomach as if she were kneading dough until at once she stopped and triumphantly stood back and wiped her brow.
“There, the baby should be in place to be birthed now,” she declared.
Martha’s labor moved quickly after that. Her energy was depleted, but somehow she found the strength to push when she was told.
“There’ll be a beautiful baby in your arms soon enough,” Margaret remarked. “One more push.”
Lucy grasped Martha’s hand as tight as she could, allowing Martha to brace herself against her as Martha gave one final push. At last, the baby was born. Martha fell back in bed and closed her eyes.
“It's a girl!” Margaret announced. She tied the umbilical cord with string and snipped it with scissors. With a clean rag, she wiped the child clean then placed her on Martha’s chest. The child’s reddened arms waved wildly and she wailed shrill, mewling cries.
Then came the delivery of the afterbirth, and like the passing storm outside, all went still. Martha, once cleaned and dressed, nursed the babe for the first time.
“Oh sweet child,” Martha whispered as she smiled weakly down at the little bundle she held tight in her arms. She began to shiver uncontrollably.
Lucy turned to Lydia. “She’s cold. Stoke the fire, then get the quilts from downstairs, will you please?”
Lydia obeyed her aunt and returned with an armful of colorful quilts, pieced strategically with scraps of old clothing by Martha. The women carefully unfolded the quilts and placed them over her. Lydia took a pick and stoked the fire, splaying glowing embers about the hearth. Soon, Martha’s shivering subsided.
Lucy crouched down to stare at her new granddaughter. “Awe, look, she’s got little dimples,” she said. Her thumb gently graced the cheek of Martha’s baby, which was soft, like the downy hair of a fresh peach.
“Just like Aunt Asenath,” Lydia chimed in.
“And she’s got her turned-up nose, too,” Lucy said.
Martha nodded. “Why she’s the spitting image of her.”
Aunt Asenath Boyd, Lucy’s sister, was closer to Martha and Lydia’s age than to Lucy’s. Martha and Asenath had grown up together in Mountain and had been dear friends.
Lucy thought of her sister. She had not seen her in what seemed like ages. Six years ago, Lucy left Mountain with her husband and daughters to join the Saints in Nauvoo, Illinois, a city established for the gathering of the Saints. Lydia, her niece, had come too with her
little brother John. All the rest of Lucy’s family had stayed behind.
“What will you name her?” Lydia asked. “She has rosy cheeks. Someone once told me that cheeks like that mean a baby’s been kissed by an angel.”
“Rose. That would be the perfect name for a rosy-cheeked lass,” Lucy echoed.
Martha looked down at her little child. “Asenath. I will call her Asenath Viola Wilcox.”
Margaret frowned. “That’s not a good, respectable English name.” She dropped a heap of quilts onto the bed and reached down to take back her knife from under the bed.
“No, but it is a biblical name,” Lucy argued, and when Margaret shook her head, she added, "It’s in there. Asenath was Joseph’s wife. She was an Egyptian woman given to him by the Pharaoh.”
Margaret placed her knife back in her bag. “Well, I’ve never heard of it before. What’s wrong with a name like Mary, or Eliza, or Patience? I don’t want my grandchild given such an obscure name.”
“That’s enough now, Margaret,” Lucy scolded. “This is Martha’s baby, and she can name it whatever she wants.”
“You’re forgetting it’s Samuel’s baby, too, and that makes it part mine,” Margaret said.
“Asenath is a family name.”
“So is Margaret. And I birthed the baby. Martha would surely have died had I not been here to help. Samuel would be trading the cradle for a coffin.”
As Margaret spoke, Lydia’s face turned white. Realizing her mistake, Margaret closed her bag and snapped, “I don’t think I’m needed here any longer. I expect Grandpa Silas will be pleased with his new granddaughter.” Turning to Lucy she continued. “Although I implore you to reconsider her name. I will return in the morning, but until then, Martha needs sleep.”
When the woman was gone, Lucy released Lydia from her duties to rest, then turned to her daughter and whispered, “Martha, I think Asenath is a wonderful name. Your auntie would be pleased you named your daughter after her.” A bit of sadness colored her voice. Surely, she missed Asenath as much as Martha did, but Lucy wasn’t one for sentimentalities. If she missed any of her family they left behind in Mountain, Lucy didn’t talk about it. She wouldn’t even hint at missing them.
“If Aunt Asenath were here right now,” Martha replied sentimentally, “she would be so happy to hold her little namesake.”
Lucy frowned in consternation as a sudden realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Would she ever see her sister again in this life? Most likely not. Ever since Lucy had converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, her Boyd family had shunned her. The Boyds didn’t even say goodbye the day Lucy left for Nauvoo.
“We mustn’t dwell in the past, now should we?” Lucy said, straightening her back. “What’s done is done. May the memories last. It is time to rest.”
Chapter 3
The Confinement
Martha was grateful for the quiet, to be alone with her wee daughter for a spell. The child was sleeping soundly in the tight swaddle in her arms. Martha gently traced her daughter’s features, her nose, her eyes, her tiny ears. Each of her children was so marvelous to her. Each similar in appearance yet different and special in their own unique way. Even this child was miraculous and wonderful. What would this child accomplish? Who would she become? The questions swirled in Martha’s head like the cold outside her window.
The next few hours were spent trying to sleep, but being awoken by the sound of the rain outside. The storm, although it had stopped for a while, began again and was not letting up. For all Martha knew it would go on forever in a cycle of calm and chaos, much like her life here in Nauvoo.
She let herself listen to the sounds beyond the rain: the whinny of a horse, the bray of Old Meggie her milk cow, both animals upset their world had been turned into a wet, soggy mess. Eventually, Martha’s thoughts drifted to the sounds of home, of Canada. The wind whistling through the maple trees, the howl of wolves in the distance, the sound of babbling streams as they made their way through the grassy land. Before long, her eyes became heavy, until slowly, softly, they closed and dreams of home illuminated before her.
✽✽✽
Early morning sunlight burst through Martha’s bedroom window as Lydia pulled open the white lace curtains. Outside, the sky had cleared and the air was pure and fresh. Martha blinked herself awake and raised herself on her elbows. She stopped to peer down into the little cradle where Asenath lay peacefully sleeping.
“Oh, Lydia, I’m glad it’s you. I’ve been dreaming again of Mountain,” Martha said with a yawn.
Lydia mustered a grin. “Have you been dreaming of singing with the wolves again, dear cousin?”
Martha laughed. Only Lydia knew whether or not that tale was a myth. “Not entirely. I dreamt of the days in Faddy’s maple grove, and the sweet smell of the fresh grass in the spring, and the missionaries who converted us. Do you ever wish to be home?”
“No. No, I don’t,” Lydia replied curtly. Softer, Lydia added, “If I hadn't left, I wouldn’t have met Danny.”
Martha turned to her side to ease the pain from her delivery and watched Lydia move about the room. The woman’s golden blonde hair was tied in a loose bun on her head, with little glittering ringlets dancing near her ears. Martha had always envied her cousin’s hair. Martha’s was wavy, brown, and ordinary, but Lydia’s hair was like a hat of yellow sunshine. A verse in the Bible said a woman’s hair is her glory, but Martha had always felt Lydia’s hair brought her far more glory than her own did.
“Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like had we stayed. Truly, I’m glad we are here. But don’t you ever wonder?” Martha asked.
“I don’t have to wonder. We would have been sitting in that ‘good church’ with Mama hearing the minister preach fire and brimstone. I don’t think our family would have let us stay and live the gospel at the same time. They would have forced us to choose one or the other.”
Lydia and Martha’s family had once been devout Methodists. Every Sunday they would ride to the lone church building in the center of town, rain or shine. After their conversion to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they had stopped attending the Methodist Church. Soon after they were visited by Aunt Barbara, Lydia’s mother. She demanded an explanation as to their absence and threatened the family with eternal damnation if they didn’t go back to church.
“That sounds like Aunt Barbara. Had she been made general of the Canadian army, she would have domineered them to victory.” Martha giggled thinking of her aunt, picturing her wearing a general’s uniform and pointing a sword. The woman was strong-willed and highly outspoken, especially against the Saints.
“Oh Mama,” Lydia began with a frown as she shook her head. “Yes, had I stayed, Mama would have made sure I married Wilbur.”
Wilbur was a plump man with a nose the size and shape of a pear. But he was a Methodist and a lawyer, like Lydia and Martha’s grandmother. Those traits alone made Aunt Barbara assume Wilbur’s marriage to Lydia would have been suitable.
“Your intention is not to return and marry him one day?” Martha teased. “I’m sure he is still eligible, if it ever suited you to go back for him.”
“No, absolutely not!” Lydia laughed. “Not even if he achieved sainthood!”
Little Asenath started to fuss and gave a squeal of hunger. Martha proceeded to feed the babe, then eventually asked her cousin, “Do you think you will ever remarry?”
Martha regretted her question immediately. She didn’t mean to prod. Martha was genuinely concerned about her cousin’s ability to provide for herself. Many widows remarried after their husband’s passing, not for love, but for convenience. It was hard work taking care of a home all by one’s self, let alone a farm. And Lydia’s safety was at stake, living by herself when there were threats of anti-Mormon mobs about town. Lydia was clearly appalled by the idea of remarrying as she stopped dead in her tracks.
“I could never do that,” she replied softly, her eyes to the floor.
Lydia busied herself again, then added with assertiveness, “I could never remarry after Danny. He was my true love. I could never imagine loving another man. It would disgrace his memory.”
“But don’t you worry about the mobocrats being out on your own?”
The mobocrats, or mobbers, as the Saints called them, were groups of anti-Mormons that pillaged Nauvoo. The groups started harassing the Saints shortly after Martha and her family arrived in Nauvoo, threatening to set fire to the town if the Mormons didn’t leave. The mobs had grown more and more savage, even after the creation of a 500 man police force to contain the violence.
Eventually, the mobs’ aggression culminated in the murder of the Prophet Joseph Smith Jr. and his brother Hyrum. Despite their victory, the mobs had not let the Saints alone.
“Let them come after me,” Lydia replied. "I have two sharp knitting needles I would not be afraid to use against any intruders.” She gave a casual wave of her hand and smiled reassuringly. “Really, Martha, I am fine. If they set fire to my cabin, that wouldn’t be a sad day. I’ve been wanting to rebuild since Danny and I were newlyweds. Having that shack leveled would render a great service to me.”
Martha remembered the grand home Lydia lived in back in Mountain and compared it to the little home she lived in now. Lydia’s current dwelling was a drafty, one-room log cabin with only one window and a door. It was much like the cabin that Martha and Samuel lived in when they first moved to Nauvoo, before they had built their bigger house with the help of Samuel’s parents. Her cousin surely gave up a lot to be with the Saints. Martha understood how hard it must have been to live in riches one day and poverty the next. Martha had experienced it, too. The only difference was Martha had a husband who provided for their family and protected them from the mobbers, and Martha had children who kept her mind off such heavy matters. Now, Lydia had neither husband nor child.