She lifted the hand that held hers and pressed it against her cheek. “Yes, of course. Immediately.”
When Joshua said as soon as possible, he meant it. There was much to do—a business to leave, things to pack, letters to write to his partner in St. Louis—but he threw himself into the tasks with a frenzy. His freight company in Quincy already consisted of twelve wagons, half again that many teams, and a stable and corral. His plan was to split the assets half and half between Quincy and Nauvoo. That left six wagons available for the move up. Caroline decided that that was ample for their needs, but Joshua shocked her by saying that she had only one for their household goods. The furniture would have to wait for a return trip. The other five would be loaded with lumber and other building materials.
Nauvoo was in a building boom, and supplies, limited to begin with, would be nearly impossible to get. With his typical foresightedness, Joshua didn’t want to be a burden on the family. He would bring his and Caroline’s new house with them. Labor would be no problem. Between his family and their Mormon neighbors, he expected a good turnout at the house-raising. He figured three days, maybe four at the most, and they would have the walls up and roof on. They could finish the inside at their leisure then.
They left on the fourth day of August. The wagons were heavily loaded, so their progress northward was slow. Normally the fifty-mile trip took about two days. But in this case, it took almost three. They arrived in Nauvoo on the afternoon of the seventh. This proved to be fortunate timing, for if they had been even a day later, they would have missed the chance to say good-bye to Derek.
The valise was pitifully small, but even then, Derek had barely enough to fill it. At the bottom was his Book of Mormon and four copies of the tract Parley Pratt had written a couple years before. It was called
A Voice of Warning
and had proven to be an effective missionary tool. These were a gift from Parley himself. On top of that was the ragged winter coat that had gotten him across the plains of northern Missouri. There was a woolen shirt, a pair of mittens Rebecca had knitted for him. He stuffed in the one extra pair of socks he owned, then carefully wrapped the package of food Rebecca and Mary Ann had prepared for him and placed it on top of his clothes. He buckled the strap of the valise slowly, straightened, and lifted it to the floor. Only then did he turn to face his wife.
Rebecca was sitting on the bed, holding Christopher. Her chin was up but quivering. Her eyes were steady but shining. She tried to smile at him, but the trembling spread to her lips, and then her face crumpled and she had to look away. Derek stepped to her instantly.
“I know, I know,” she said, angry with herself. “I promised I wouldn’t cry.”
Suddenly the reality of his departure hit Derek with tremendous force. He bent down and took Christopher. Rebecca had fed him while Derek packed, and now he was asleep again. He barely stirred as Derek carefully lifted him and then started to walk back and forth, cradling him against his body. He reached out and rubbed the short fuzz of hair with the side of his finger, and then in one great tide of emotions, he was battling his own tears.
Christopher would be two months old in two more days. Right now, he did little but eat and sleep. He seemed to visibly grow with every passing day. How big would he be when Derek finally returned? Now he did nothing more than goo at his mother and smile when he had a little gas. By the time Derek returned, his son would be eating solid food, and chattering like a squirrel.
Ever since Joseph had called him in May to go to England, Derek had known this was going to be a sacrifice of sorts. But he mostly thought in terms of leaving Rebecca alone to care for a house and a newborn child. He thought of ten acres of ground that would have to wait for the plow before it could produce. He thought of being separated from Rebecca and Christopher and the rest of the family. But he had not, until this very moment, thought about it in terms of sacrificing the other things—the changing of the blue-gray infant eyes to a permanent color, the hair coming out in its fulness, kissing a scraped knee, bouncing him until he giggled and Rebecca had to ask him to stop because he would start spitting up. It was as if he were given a perfect glimpse of all that he was going to miss. And it hit him hard. It felt like someone had grabbed his soul and was determined to wring it absolutely dry.
Vision blurring, he walked slowly to the small cradle and laid his son down. He put the blanket around him and tucked it in. Then turned back to Rebecca. She was up and into his arms in a second. Her shoulders began to shake convulsively against him. He pulled her to him and buried his face against her hair. “Oh, Becca,” he cried hoarsely, “how shall I ever do without you?”
He kissed Rebecca good-bye at the door, sending her back in to be alone with Christopher and her tears. As Derek came out of the house, only Mary Ann and Benjamin and Matthew and Peter were waiting. Wisely, Mary Ann had told the family that the farewell dinner the night before was the time for saying good-bye. That was good. He couldn’t bear much more. These were not his blood relatives, these Steeds, but he had never had family except for Peter, and the Steeds had filled that place about as well as any man could ask.
Nothing much new was said as he hugged Mary Ann and shook Benjamin’s hand one last time. When he and Peter embraced, though, he couldn’t have spoken if he wanted to. Peter was crying softly, and without shame. They had not been apart since Peter was born, these two brothers. This was another cost Derek hadn’t counted on.
Finally he straightened and stuck out his hand to Matthew. Matthew gripped it hard. “I wish I was going with you,” he exclaimed.
“Aye. But you’ll not be far behind us. If nothing else, we shall meet in New York.”
“Yes.” Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball were both deathly ill. So were their families, and Heber was determined to complete a home for Vilate and his children before leaving. So Matthew would not be leaving for a few weeks yet, and he was keenly envious of Derek.
Derek looked around. There was no sign of his two companions. He pulled out the watch Joshua and Caroline had brought as a going-away gift. It was ten minutes past eight o’clock. “You haven’t seen Elder Taylor or Elder Woodruff?”
Benjamin shook his head. “We haven’t seen anyone. Are you sure you were supposed to meet them here?”
A shadow of concern crossed Derek’s face. Reports had come across the river in the past few days that both Wilford Woodruff and John Taylor had illness in their families as well. Wilford was reported to be very sick. Derek had started worrying that they too might have to call for another postponement. But then late yesterday afternoon a note had been delivered. It was terse but to the point. “Derek. Leaving tomorrow sure. Meet you at your cabin, 8:00 a.m. sharp. JT.”
He peered up the street. Nothing. He looked towards the river to see if there were any boats coming across. Both Wilford and John lived in Montrose. But there was nothing on the river either. His heart fell. He couldn’t face another delay, another departure, another time of saying good-bye. He turned with sudden determination. “I’ll bet they meant the boat landing.” He reached down and got his valise, then lifted his hand. “Good-bye.” He turned quickly—to say or do more would have been beyond him—and strode away.
No one was at the boat landing, but as Derek looked out across the river, he saw a flat-bottomed rowboat just setting out from Montrose. With no other options in sight, he sat down to wait. Ten minutes later, he was gratified to watch John Taylor step out of the boat, reach for a small suitcase, then thank the man who had brought him across. As he came up the riverbank, he frowned, looking around. “Where’s Wilford?”
Derek shrugged. “I haven’t seen him.”
“But he left an hour or more before I did. Brother Brigham rowed him across in a canoe.”
“Was he coming to my house?”
John shook his head. “No, I told him I’d get you. I thought he was going to wait for me here, though.” He looked up toward town, openly worried. “He was feeling very poorly.”
“We talked about saying good-bye to Brother Joseph,” Derek suggested. “Maybe he went there.”
To their surprise, they saw Joseph coming swiftly toward them as they turned the corner onto Water Street. He saw them and waved, and increased his stride even more. “Derek, John.” As he reached them he looked at the cases in their hands. “Good. So you’ve started, then.”
“Sort of,” John answered. “But we’ve not been able to find Brother Woodruff. We were thinking that he might be at your house.”
There was a brief frown. “No, I haven’t seen him, but someone told me that you two were down at the river and that Wilford is at the post office. I was just coming down to find you.” He took Derek’s arm. “Let’s go to the post office and see what we can find.”
The report was correct. Wilford was at the post office, but he wasn’t there to transact any postal business. They found him out back of the building, lying on a side of sole leather. Though the temperature was in the eighties and climbing rapidly, Wilford lay huddled in a ball, shivering violently, hugging himself in an effort to keep it under control. His face was pale, his cheeks hollow, his eyes dull and lifeless.
As Joseph’s shadow fell across his face, Wilford opened his eyes. “Good morning,” he said, barely making a feeble croak.
“Well, Brother Woodruff,” Joseph boomed, “I see you have started on your mission.”
There was a barely perceptible nod. “I came across the river this morning, but this is as far as I got.”
“Well, a start is a start.”
Wilford lifted his head, licking his lips. “If you ask me, I feel and look more like a subject for the dissecting room than a missionary.”
Joseph laughed. “What did you say that for? Get up, and go along. All will be right with you.”
Slowly Wilford uncoiled. Trembling and weak, he got to his knees. John Taylor reached out and helped him to his feet. Wilford steadied himself against his fellow Apostle.
“Good, Brother Wilford. Good. You’re on your way now.” Joseph shook their hands in turn. “Godspeed, my brothers. You are embarking on a great work.” The Prophet walked away. They watched him go for a moment, then Derek took Wilford’s other arm and they started off in the opposite direction.
Half an hour later, as they passed by the last home and started along the road that led south to Warsaw, then on to Quincy, Derek noted that John Taylor kept turning his gaze westward across the river. Montrose was hard to see from this point because the island in midriver mostly blocked their view. But Derek thought he knew what John was looking for. He had to fight his own urge to keep looking back over his shoulder to see if he could identify which rooftop belonged to his cabin. Wilford didn’t look anywhere but down. He was too occupied with keeping one foot moving in front of the other to even lift his head.
Derek turned. “You know,” he said, thoughtfully, “it is a good thing we all have a strong witness that this call is from the Lord.”
“Why is that?” Wilford asked feebly.
Derek’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Otherwise, one could find some pretty good reasons for just staying home.”
Lydia sat quietly, watching Nathan methodically packing the last of the children’s clothing into the small trunk Joshua had lent them. As Nathan folded Joshua’s and Emily’s winter coats, the guilt surged upward again and she had to look away. It was only August fifteenth. Was she really going to keep them in Palmyra until winter set in? She knew the question lay heavily on Nathan’s mind too, but he didn’t dare ask it of her.
Oh, my darling, patient Nathan. Forgive me. Please forgive me.
He put the last piece of clothing in, looked around, then straightened and turned. “Is that everything, then?”
She smiled wanly and nodded. “Yes, thank you.” She wasn’t even aware that tears had welled up and were trickling down her cheeks.
Shutting the trunk and lifting it to the floor, Nathan came to her. He took her hands and lifted her up. Without speaking he took her in his arms and held her tightly.
• “I’m sorry, Nathan. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t,” he said gently. “It’s all right.”
She pulled away, whirling around so her back was to him. “It’s not all right!” she said fiercely. “This is ridiculous. You need to be here.
I
need to be here now.” She realized the words were tumbling out of her and that she was nearing hysteria, but she couldn’t stop it. “The store was our idea, remember? And now we’re leaving, just when Caroline is ready to start on it.”
She spun back around, seeing a solution now, grasping at it. “Maybe you ought to stay, Nathan. Young Joshua’s eight now. He’ll be a big help with the baby, and Emily and—” She saw instantly how foolish she sounded and she bit down on her lip to cut it off.
Nathan pulled her to him with great gentleness. “Lydia, I’m not sending you to Palmyra alone. That’s settled.”
“Tell me how much our passage is going to cost.”
He sighed. She had asked before, and he had always managed to parry the question or tease her out of it. This time he sensed there was no doing that. The plan was to go by wagon down to Warsaw, about twelve miles south, and there catch a steamboat going downriver. They would book passage to Cairo, Illinois, where the mighty Ohio emptied into the Mississippi. The Ohio was navigable almost right to its source, north of Pittsburgh, so they would take a steamboat as far east and north as possible. From there, they would take a stage to Buffalo, then finish the final leg on the Erie Canal. It was a longer route this way, but much easier. But it wasn’t going to be cheap. “Joshua estimates it will be between twenty-five and thirty dollars each,” he said.
As her eyes widened, he rushed on. “That’s for you and me. The children should be only half fare, and he thinks they won’t charge us anything for the baby.”
So nearly a hundred dollars!
She felt sick. In Nauvoo right now, that represented a small fortune.
“I’ll pay Joshua back out of our share of the profits from the store. It’s all right.”