The excited chatter on the boat suddenly hushed. Even the children were awed into silence. Then, as the canal boat slipped into its berth and they saw the chaos that reigned on the docks, a deep gloom descended over them all. No one spoke as they filed off the boat one by one, carrying their belongings, to join the crush of people that jammed Buffalo harbor.
By the time the group reached the dock and found an empty place to set their belongings down, Lydia Steed was ready to cry. She looked up at Nathan as she placed a hand on her back. “I need to sit for a minute or two,” she said.
Nathan leaped to her aid. He grabbed an empty wooden crate and turned it over, brushing it off, then helped her to it. “Are you all right?” he said, peering at her closely.
“I’ll be fine.”
He looked dubious, but finally nodded. “I want to say good-bye to Captain McIntosh. I’ll be right back.”
She watched him go, envying him the ability to stride off like that so quickly. As he moved away, Mother Smith disembarked—the last, as usual, to do so. She stood for a moment and looked at the crush of people around them, then stopped a man who was passing by. “Excuse me, sir, might you know where we could find passage to Fairport Harbor in Ohio?”
He looked at her as though she were daft. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but every ship and boat and scow in this harbor is booked solid.”
For the first time, Mother Smith looked alarmed. “How long have you been here?”
“Not quite two weeks.”
Two weeks!
Lydia felt her heart plummet. She turned her face away quickly, not wanting anyone to see that her lower lip had suddenly started to tremble.
Lydia was exhausted. Three days ago she had started to cough. The days were warming, but the nights were still cold, and by morning even the inside of the little room she and Nathan shared was like an icehouse. At first the cough was just a minor irritation; then it had deepened, going down into her chest. Now it even hurt when she breathed deeply. Then the pains had started. She had not said a word to Nathan. She was sure part of it was the coughing, which tore at the weight of the baby even though she would grab her stomach and try to cradle it each time the coughing began. The previous two nights had been awful. The pains started in the late afternoon or early evening and continued intermittently until about midnight. She was fairly certain it was false labor. The pains were very irregular and weren’t terribly hard. But how hard was hard enough? And what if this were prelude to the real thing? Between the coughing and the labor pains and the worrying herself sick about both, she was worn to the breaking point.
She lifted her eyes to the blue-white wall of ice that loomed as high as some of the big steamers. Two weeks? And how much longer before that wall opened? July, if they were lucky.
Stop it, Lydia.
But she couldn’t stop her eyes from staring at that impenetrable wall. Even a week could mean disaster for her.
“Well, just what are we supposed to do now?”
Lydia turned, feeling a quick flash of irritation. Sister Durfee again, from Canandaigua. She was a bride of less than a month and was traveling with her husband and parents. She had barely gotten on board before she started complaining. The quarters below deck were filthy. They smelled awful. Her berth wasn’t long enough to get comfortable in. The food was inedible. The mules were not moving fast enough. At that one, the captain had carefully explained that he was not allowed to move faster than four miles an hour because otherwise the wake from the boats washed out the canal banks. It made no difference to Sister Durfee. An extra mile or two an hour wouldn’t make that much difference. Her husband hovered around her continually, patting her hand, trying to soothe her, obviously embarrassed by her continual whining.
Lydia felt like jumping up and screaming at her.
Try being pregnant. Try being sick. Then you can complain if you wish.
“How are you doing?” Nathan had returned to stand by her side.
How am I doing? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to be brave? Do you want me to smile and say this is all for the gospel’s sake and it’s wonderful? Well, I’m sorry, but right now the gospel seems pretty remote.
She fought the bleakness, fought the urge to let it all come pouring out. But she couldn’t look up and bat her eyes and tell him everything was wonderful, either. Fortunately, at that moment she was seized by another coughing spell, and she was saved from having to answer. Nathan reached out and took her hand, trying to comfort her but not knowing what to do.
As the coughing gradually subsided, suddenly Don Carlos Smith jumped up and pointed. “Look!” he cried.
They all turned to where he was pointing. About fifty yards further on down the dock there was a group of people.
“It’s Newel Knight,” Nathan exclaimed.
Mother Smith peered down the wharf. “Bless my soul, so it is.”
“It’s the Colesville Branch,” Don Carlos said.
The group had spotted them at the same moment, and there were cries of surprise and gladness. Newel came rushing towards them, accompanied by his father.
“Mother Smith,” the senior Knight said happily as he took her hands, “how good to see you! We wondered how far behind us you were.”
“But,” Mother Smith said, trying to hide her disappointment, “you left a week before us. And you’re still here?”
“Yes,” Newel said glumly. “There’ve been no ships out of here in a fortnight.”
The older man turned, his face beaming. “Nathan! I wondered if you would be coming.”
They shook hands and embraced. Then Nathan turned to Newel and they clapped each other on the back. Nathan stepped back. “You remember my wife, Lydia?” he asked.
They nodded and stepped forward to shake her hand. Lydia stood with some effort. She must have looked as bad as she felt, for the face of Joseph Knight showed instant concern. He put his arm around her. “Are you all right?” he said softly.
She nodded, managing a wan smile, touched that he would care.
“Where is Mother Knight?” Nathan asked. “Is she with you?”
“Of course, of course,” Newel said. He turned to Mother Smith and the rest of the company. “Come, we have a place over here. It’s not much, but it provides some shelter from the rain and wind. There’s no housing to be found anywhere in town.”
Ten minutes later, as the two groups were renewing their associations, they received another surprise. This time it was Lydia that saw them first. Another canal boat was pulling up to the dock. Thomas B. Marsh was standing at the prow of the boat, waving to them. It was the rest of the group from Waterloo. The two companies had departed from Waterloo at the same time, and for the most part had stayed together; but the Marsh company had gotten behind Mother Smith’s group as they went through the Lockport locks, and they had not seen them since.
It was a happy reunion with all three groups coming together, and even Lydia felt her spirits lift a little. Martin Harris was still to come with another company, but here on the docks of Buffalo Harbor was virtually the whole body of New York Saints.
When things settled down a little, Mother Smith turned to the Colesville group. “Have you told the people hereabouts that we’re Mormon?” she asked.
Several looked startled, then horrified. “No!” one man said, dropping his voice to an urgent whisper. “We have not mentioned a word about our religion. Nor must you. If they know who we are, we shall not get a boat.”
“Or housing,” someone else added.
“Nonsense,” Mother Smith snapped, for the first time showing irritation. “If we are ashamed of Christ, how can we expect God to prosper us on our journey? We have had devotionals every day on the journey here.”
Thomas B. Marsh stepped forward. He was a tall, dour man, and he was shaking his head vigorously. “Do that here and we shall be mobbed before morning. Sometimes wisdom is the better part of valor.”
Mother Smith rose to the full height of her four-foot-eleven frame, her blue eyes snapping with anger. “Then mob it shall be. We shall attend to our prayers before sunset, mob or no mob. And if you do not do the same, then I shall not wonder if we get to Kirtland before the either of you.”
“We shall see,” Marsh retorted, quite agitated now. “But we shall not be party to our own demise.” He turned to his group. “Come, let us go into the city and see if we can find a place to sleep.”
There were hoots of derision from the Colesville Saints: “There is no room.” “There’s nothing anywhere.” “We’ve been here a week and haven’t found anything.” But Marsh was determined, and his group moved away. For a moment the remaining two groups stood around, an awkwardness now between them.
Finally, Mother Smith looked up. Clouds were racing across the sky and a stiff breeze was starting to blow. Way off to the west the bottoms of the clouds looked ominously gray. She turned. “Brother Humphrey? Brother Page?”
The old gentleman who had joined them in Waterloo stepped forward along with Hiram Page, brother-in-law to David Whitmer. “Yes, Mother Smith.”
“I want you to go along the docks and inquire of the boatmen. Ask them if they know of a Captain Blake. He once captained a boat owned by my brother Stephen Mack. After my brother’s decease, Captain Blake purchased the boat from his family.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“If you find him, tell him that I ask for his kindness in memory of my brother. Tell him we have fifty people seeking passage to Fairport Harbor in Ohio.”
When Brother Humphrey and Brother Page returned from their quest, they brought good news, in a way. But in another way, they brought just one more set of problems. The two men had quickly located the captain, and he did indeed still own the steamship he had purchased from Stephen Mack’s family. He also responded with warmth and kindness to the pleas of the sister of his former employer and offered her group passage. Unfortunately, like everything else in Buffalo, his ship was already fully booked, and all he could provide was deck passage. That meant camping out in the open with no shelter.
Mother Smith’s group had taken leave of the Colesville group the next morning and moved on board the steamship. Before they were fully settled, the rain began. It was a slow, steady, cold drizzle. Blankets and other makeshift shelters were quickly soaked, and water dripped steadily onto everything on the deck. That had been two days ago. It had rained off and on ever since. Lydia could not remember ever having been so cold and miserable.
Nathan had gone into town and, through some miracle—or, more likely, his sheer stubbornness—had found some wagon canvas and purchased it. It was not fully waterproof, but when he pitched it at an angle it kept all but the worst off her. But the cold dampness—partly from the rain, partly from the sea—penetrated everything. Her cough was now deep and frightening, and she could tell that she had started to run a fever. The previous night, Nathan had got one of the other elders and they had given her a blessing by the laying on of hands. It had helped with the fever, but the cough had not abated.
Nathan had been wonderful. She still hadn’t said anything to him about the false labor—if it was false—but she could tell he knew that she was in pain. He rarely left her side now, solicitously trying to meet her every need. But he couldn’t get her warm, and he couldn’t keep her dry. And he couldn’t make that massive wall of ice go away. As long as that was still blocking their way, there would be no end to the misery.
Now he sat next to her, holding her against him to keep her warm. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her and shut her eyes, trying to blot out the world around her.
“And how are you doing, my dear?”
Lydia looked up in surprise. Mother Smith was kneeling in front of her. She held a parasol over her head, but Lydia could see two or three points of light through it, and she noticed that the shoulders of Mother Smith’s dress were wet.
She forced a bleak smile. “We’re doing all right.” If there was one bright spot in all of this it was Mother Smith.
She laid a hand on Lydia’s. “Now, this baby knows we don’t want a New York baby, doesn’t it? We only want an Ohio baby.”
Lydia laughed in spite of herself. “I keep saying that every night.” The corners of her mouth pulled down again. “If we could just get the ice to cooperate.”
“It will. It can’t stay forever.”
Lydia just shook her head in amazement. Her admiration for Mother Smith soared higher with every passing day. Nothing daunted her. She was indefatigable, and equal to whatever challenge confronted her. At fifty-five, she should have been the one being cared for, but instead she was caretaker, leader, foreman, and midwife to the whole company.
“Mother!”
They all turned. It was William Smith, the twenty-year-old younger brother of Joseph and Hyrum. He came up to stand in front of his mother.
Mother Smith looked up into his eyes, since he was almost a full foot taller than she was. “Yes, William.”
“Do come see the confusion yonder, Mother. You must put a stop to it.”
“What is the trouble?”
“Some of the brethren and sisters are arguing in a most heated manner about whether we are wise to stay on the boat.”
Lydia’s head came up slowly. That was an argument that interested her.
“Some say we should seek overland transportation. Some are even suggesting we catch the next canal boat and return home.”
There was a lurch of hope inside Lydia. Home? Never had any word struck such longing in her breast.
“And some of the younger sisters are flirting with the gentlemen passengers—complete strangers—in a most shameful manner. People on the docks are gathering, watching. They’re starting to talk.”
Lydia saw the emotions play across Mother Smith’s leathered face: first the weariness, then the disappointment, followed quickly by a tightening of the lips and a flash of anger in those clear blue eyes. “All right,” she said grimly, “I’m coming.” She gave Lydia a quick kiss on the cheek, murmured her farewell, then followed after her son.
“Come on, Lydia,” Nathan said. “We’d better go too.”
Lydia shook her head. “Nathan, it’s not our problem. We’re not part of it.”