Goodbye, Nauvoo Read online

  Samuel pulled Sarah up onto his shoulders so that she could get a better view, then pointed out another man with white hair and beard. “His name is William Player,” Samuel explained. "He is a Master Stonemason. He helped build chapels in England, one being the famous St. James Chapel. He helped build this temple, too.”

  The little girls stared up at the white-headed man, who began to spread mortar onto the corner of the temple in perfectly thick, grey globs. He handed President Young a corner of a large, white flat stone. Together, they raised the stone then lowered it into place on the corner of the temple.

  President Young stood up onto the stone to set it into place, then closed his eyes and bowed his head down in prayer. “The last stone is now laid upon the temple, and I pray the Almighty, in the name of Jesus, to defend us in this place, and sustain us until the temple is finished and we have all got our endowments! Amen.”

  At the end of his prayer, the crowd cheered and whistled.

  Once the merriment subsided, President Young began to speak again. “As the Lord completed his work in six days and on the seventh day he rested from his labors, so shall it be with us. We have finished the temple, and now we complete it. This is the Sabbath day, and now I do not require any man to work on the temple, or anywhere else, but you may do as you please.” President Young paused as the laborers shouted with joy for the news of the holiday, then continued once their noise had subsided. “You can now go home and pray that God may bless the labors on the temple that you may get your endowment and exaltation.”

  President Young took off his hat, signaling to the crowd that it was time to commence in a Hosanna shout. Martha took out a white handkerchief and Samuel raised his hat. Other women and men waved their handkerchiefs and hats passionately side to side, following President Young as they shouted triumphantly, “Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna! To God and the Lamb! Amen!” The band began to play a march, and the crowd roared in excitement once more.

  An angry “boo” erupted from somewhere behind Martha, and she turned to see a group of ruffians a good distance away. Some of the men carried pitchforks and one person manned a cannon. Other men were armed with pistols worn on their belts. She gripped Samuel’s arm tightly and pulled him to her side. “Samuel, there are mobbers here. What shall we do?” she whispered frantically.

  Samuel strained to see where they were, his eyes lingering on the group when he found them. “Draw the children close to you, but do not worry. It doesn’t look like they’re advancing,” he replied gently, taking hold of her by the hand. “They only mean to scare us.”

  Martha focused her attention back on President Young as best as she could. He was still present at the top of the temple, speaking down toward the congregation. Martha strained to hear his speech; the ruffians were laughing and chattering loudly, paying no respect to the ceremony at hand.

  The sun’s light shone more brightly now, its rays illuminating the temple, causing its limestone walls to glitter brilliantly. To Martha, it seemed as if this was an act of God, a sign that he was pleased with what work had been completed so far. Inspired, Martha’s eyes began to fill with tears. She looked up at her husband, who was still staring up at the temple, his eyes glistening.

  A spindly man Martha recognized as Brother Kay, a singer, stepped forward onto the top of the temple.

  “May we rejoice this occasion through music. I will be singing a song written by W.W. Phelps called ‘the Capstone,’” he announced. He nodded to the band to start playing, then sang out, his voice resonating over the noise of the mob. Halfway through the song, Martha noticed that President Young and the other men besides Brother Kay had descended from the temple’s roof and were nowhere to be seen.

  The brethren left just in time because all at once, a mobber came forward defiantly holding a white-colored parchment high in the air.

  “Where are these Twelve Apostles?” the man shouted. “I have writs of attachment for each one of them. Tell me where they are!”

  “A writ of attachment?” Martha asked Samuel as she held their children closer to her. “What would they need that for?”

  “It allows the mobocrats to seize the property of the Twelve, or perhaps to make them appear in court,” he replied.

  Martha scoffed. “Have they come to arrest them then? If they want the Twelve’s property, I’m sure they would have just taken it by now. They haven’t needed a writ so far to take what they want.”

  Martha could feel Samuel’s fingers tighten in her grip. A scowl appeared on his face, his brows deeply furrowed. His reaction frightened Martha more than the mobbers. Samuel was usually calm and collected. Had he sensed that a riot might ensue? Pangs of anxiety began to stab through Martha’s body.

  “Come now, let’s go home,” Samuel said quickly. Within a few seconds, he grabbed Johnnie up in his arms and led Malinda and Sarah by the hand away from the temple. Martha followed close by his side with Asenath in her arms. Other Saints were also dispersing, afraid of what the mob might do. The jubilant, peaceful scene before was now fraught with commotion.

  As Martha and her family hurried away from the temple, as quickly as they could with little children, Martha turned back to see temple guards entreating upon the mobocrats. They were just about to clash with the mobs, but Martha looked away in time to miss it. Martha could still hear the men shouting behind her, but she didn’t dare turn back to look; she didn’t want to see the violence that might ensue. She didn’t want the memory of such a wonderful morning to turn sour.

  Chapter 10

  Brother Clark

  Lydia stepped daintily around the ashes of the cabin she and Danny once called home. The charred remains of furniture and Danny’s metal tools were scattered amongst the sooty mess. She didn’t understand why exactly Faddy wanted to bring her back to the farm. For closure, perhaps? And yet, she thought that her last day in her cabin was closure enough. Now, her last memory of the cabin would be of its singed skeleton in front of her.

  She crossed her arms and stared out at the mess. With the cabin’s walls reduced to rubble, Lydia could see what was left of the barn in the distance. From what Faddy told her, there wasn’t much worth seeing there.

  In front of her, Faddy was picking through the burned remains, looking for anything that he could salvage. Having no luck, he gave up and cleared his throat, dusting his blackened hands off on his trousers. “It was a blessing you came to live with us when you did. Who knows what would have happened to you if you stayed,” he said.

  Lydia didn’t want to think about what would have happened to her. She shut the thought out of her mind and bent over to pick up some sort of metal object that had melted into the earth. She flipped it over, convinced it wasn’t anything of value, then tossed it away from herself into a pile of rubble as if she were skipping stones into a lake.

  “I can imagine what you’re thinking Lydia. I know this was yours and Danny’s place and you were expecting to get more for it with the buildings. This isn’t how you imagined it would end up.”

  Lydia shrugged, turning away from her uncle to hide the tears that had begun to flow from her eyes. “What can you do? That’s the way of it. Nothing ever happens the way we imagine it.”

  Faddy and Lydia stayed for awhile near the cabin, sifting through the rubble. For Lydia, it was like sifting through memories. The bed where Danny died would have been there, and the empty cradle there next to it. Now, they were mere sacrifices to the mobs.

  Lydia could hear the sound of someone approaching on horseback. Clippity-clop. Clippity-clop. Faddy and Lydia turned to see a man galloping toward them. Lydia dried her eyes on her dress sleeve before the stranger drew too close.

  “Ah, Lydia, this is Brother Clark. He is the one who’ll be appraising your land,” Faddy explained as the man pulled up to them. “Hello!”

  “Hello, Brother Parker. Ma’am.” The stranger removed his hat and tipped his head at Lydia, who returned his hello with a quiet nod.

  Brother Clark lumbered
off his horse and tied the creature to the oak tree nearby. “This is a splendid property,” he said, looking all about the land. “You’re lucky to have such a pretty view of the Mississippi from here. The river is quite a beauty.”

  Lydia looked out toward the Mississippi. Some evenings she and Danny would sit outside and watch the giant river as it snaked through the land, its waters shimmering like a thousand glistening diamonds in the setting sun.

  “It's unfortunate she has to sell it,” Faddy replied for Lydia. “Circumstances being what they are.”

  Brother Clark dug into the leather bag he carried over his broad shoulders and pulled out a pad of paper and a piece of charcoal.

  “Are you an artist?” Lydia asked, motioning to his tools.

  “I am. In a certain way. I was hoping to map out your property now, if you don’t mind. Just a rough sketch, since I assume it's already been surveyed. But you can be the judge as to my artistry when I’m done,” Brother Clark answered.

  Faddy led Brother Clark around the perimeter of the property. Lydia stayed behind, curiously watching the men as they traversed over her land. She didn’t want anything to do with the business of liquidating her property, whatever was left of it. When the men were finished, Brother Clark returned to Lydia while Faddy helped untie the horse.

  “What do you think?” Brother Clark asked, holding out his paper to her. The outer perimeter of the land was drawn in a haphazard square, and inside the square were intricate drawings that designated certain landmarks. Lydia stared at the paper. Even her big oak tree was drawn there. Standing under the tree Brother Clark had drawn Lydia.

  “This is wonderful, Brother Clark. I would say that you are an artist,” Lydia said sincerely.

  “Your father tells me that you are an artist, too.”

  “Oh, he’s not my father,” Lydia replied bashfully. “He’s my uncle.”

  “I apologize. Your uncle. Was he telling the truth?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t consider myself an artist. I just draw what I want to remember.”

  “Isn’t that what art is for? To remember. Whether for ourselves or for others. Art captures a moment in time so that we can always remember it.”

  “I suppose you are right.”

  “Here, now that we agree, show me your art,” the man insisted. He flipped over the picture of Lydia’s property, then handed her his supplies. “Take this.”

  Lydia stared down at the blank paper. She had not drawn since Danny’s death, and frankly did not know what to draw. Then, she looked up at Brother Clark and found her muse. “Alright, I’ll draw for you,” she said finally. “Hold still.”

  Lydia touched the charcoal to the paper and worked quickly, lines appearing here and there until they formed the figure of a man’s long face. Lydia looked up now and then, catching the details of Brother Clark’s features. On her paper, ovals appeared for his eyes, then the irises and pupils. If only she had colored chalk that she could color in his striking blue eyes. Then, she drew his long nose, ears, mouth, and short, brown beard. Lastly, upon the man’s head she drew curly hair peeking out from under a floppy hat.

  “There. All finished,” Lydia announced, handing back the drawing to Worthy.

  “You forgot one thing,” he said.

  “What is that?”

  “You forgot to sign it.”

  Lydia laughed. “Only real artists sign their work. This is nothing.”

  “You are a real artist. Truly. This is wonderful. I will treasure it always. Here, sign it.”

  Lydia took the paper back, glared at him suspiciously, then signed: Lydia Leonard 1845.

  “May I keep it?” the man asked when she was done.

  Lydia was taken aback. No one ever complimented her art that way before. Not even Danny. “Of course you may,” she said. "I believe that is your paper, after all.”

  Brother Clark held Lydia’s drawing as if it were a masterpiece too fragile to handle and delicately tucked it into his bag.

  “Thank you,” he said, tipping his head again to her. “Well, I must be off, but it was a pleasure to meet you, Sister Leonard. Perhaps one day I can see some more of your art.”

  He swung his pack over his shoulder and mounted his horse. “I will be in touch with your uncle in regards to the value of your land. Have a good evening. Goodbye, Brother Parker. I will call on you shortly.”

  Lydia watched as the silhouette of Brother Clark and his horse became a little speck on the horizon as they galloped away into the sunset. All the while, Lydia imagined what a lovely drawing it would be to capture him on his horse. The brilliant oranges of the sky stretching across an emerald valley. A lone horseman, dark and mysterious, riding off into the unknown. There was something beguiling about Brother Clark that made Lydia want to see him again, to know more about him. Would she see him again? Lydia’s thoughts turned to shame. She was still in mourning. It hadn’t been but a few months since Danny died. She pushed her thoughts away from her, turning her attention instead to the piles of ash that covered her property, swept up by the wind into clouds of black and grey.

  “He’s a good man to do business with,” Faddy announced suddenly. He had been standing not too far away, watching them. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and swatted away a mosquito.

  “I can’t say that I know him well enough to judge his character,” Lydia replied, “but he seems nice enough.”

  “Yep. He’s had a hard life, but then haven’t we all?”

  Chapter 11

  The Traveler

  When the children were in bed fast asleep, Martha sat with Samuel in their parlor. Samuel read the scriptures aloud, but quietly so that the children wouldn’t wake, and Martha sewed quilts out of old clothing and scraps of used fabric. Martha hated to waste any good, salvageable piece of fabric, so once Samuel wore out a shirt so that it could no longer be patched, she cut the fabric into strips and shapes and made it into something else. The sewing helped keep her mind away from the mobs, which plagued her thoughts from time to time.

  She had seen more ruffians in town lately. Violence between the Saints and anti-Mormons was growing, and President Young urged the Saints to withhold retribution. Lydia’s home wasn’t the only one to burn. Mobs targeted other farms on the outskirts of town. A night without smoke and flames in the air did not exist. Martha feared it was only time before her house was targeted, so when she heard a loud thump echoing from their door late that night, she feared it was a mobber.

  Like prey searching for a predator, Martha and Samuel glanced up, keeping as still and quiet as possible.

  The visitor knocked again. Thump, thump, thump.

  “Are we expecting anyone this late?” Martha whispered.

  Samuel shook his head, but rose from his chair to answer the knock anyway, picking up a sharp prodder from the fireplace before he warily unlatched and opened the door.

  On the doorstep stood a strange man, clearly a traveler. His clothes were bedraggled and his face unshaven. The man held out a lantern, its warm light casting a strange glow on his face, illuminating a sharp nose and scruffy, sunken cheeks. He was young, but his eyes spoke of an age that was much older.

  “What can I do for you?” Samuel asked, looking menacing with the prodder in his hand.

  “Do you not remember me?” the man replied. His voice was deep and somehow familiar.

  “What is your name, sir?” Samuel asked.

  “It is I, John Dingman.”

  John’s words hit Martha immediately and she gasped in excitement. Martha had not seen her cousin in years! John had matured drastically since she had last seen him. The short, smooth-faced, fourteen-year-old boy Martha remembered was replaced with a young man who now towered above her. He was practically unrecognizable.

  Samuel’s face relaxed into a beaming grin.

  “John! It is good to see you. You have turned into a fine young man,” Samuel declared, taking John by the shoulders. The men slapped each other on the back in a hug, then John gave Ma
rtha a peck on the cheek.

  “It is good to see you, cousin,” he said shyly.

  “Come in! You must be weary,” Martha said. She took John’s knapsack inside and offered him and Samuel a place at the family table. Before taking a seat herself, she placed in front of the men a plate of stale bread and a ball of butter, which John gladly devoured.

  “It is so good to see you in fine spirits, John,” Martha said. “We were so worried with all that has happened since you left.”

  “I came straight away from Warsaw. I am grateful to be here with good food and good people,” John said, as he grabbed another slice of bread and buttered it. “There is nothing quite as nice as a warm, welcoming home. There aren’t many in Warsaw. Not that want to take in a Mormon that is.”

  “Do you have as much persecution in Warsaw as there is here?” Samuel asked.

  “There is persecution everywhere, I’m afraid. But I was left mostly alone,” John said. “I have my youth to thank for that.”

  “I am glad you returned safely. We’ve been worried for your sake. Now with the Saints getting ready to leave,” Martha said.

  “So it is true!” John declared. “The Saints are moving away then? Picking up and going where?”

  “Somewhere out West,” Samuel replied. “Past the Rockies.” He gave a casual flick of his hand.

  “And has this move begun? Will you be leaving soon?”

  Martha and Samuel shared a glance.

  “As of yet, President Young has not given us direction as to where we are to go. The quorum is sending out a group to explore the West and find a spot suitable for us.”

  “The truth of the matter is that we aren’t ready to move yet,” Martha added. “I don’t think anyone is. We’ve expected something to change for the better, but it hasn’t happened yet. It’s just gotten worse.”

  “As I imagined,” John said shaking his head. “How is my sister fairing amongst all this tribulation?”