The Wedding Dress (36 page)

“Mrs. Morgan has asked me to stay with them.”

“I heard you say you'd move to Fort Harmony.”

She glanced at Priscilla, wondering how much more he had heard. “Yes, Andrew, I'll come as soon as you're ready for me.” From outside came the sound of laughter and the clanging of metal.

Andrew glanced toward the door. “The fellows are gathering for drill.”

“They're going to put a hole in that water bucket if they don't leave it alone,” Priscilla said heavily as she took the child from Andrew.

“Come, I'll take you to the Morgans.” Andrew got to his feet and Rebecca nodded.

They were walking toward the gate of the fort when Andrew cocked his head. “Someone's riding a horse awful hard,” he muttered.

A cry came from the street, “Is Brother Jacobson around?” Rebecca hurried to keep up with Andrew. A red-faced man jumped off his horse.

There was a sharp edge of anger in the man's voice which revealed more than his muffled words. As they reached him, he said, “They're heading this way. They're bound for California, and it sounds like Hamblin had given them permission to graze in Mountain Meadows. What's the matter with him? Let's speed them on their way.”

Andrew's voice cut in. “Calm down and tell me what's going on.”

“It's a bunch called the Fancher party. Gentiles from Missouri way.” There was a low growl, and Rebecca thought of the play she had seen.

A chill touched her as she heard, “There's no way we can sell them grain or anything without Brother Brigham gettin' down on us.”

Another voice cried, “Well, the train's come through every town looking for grain and grazing. The Saints are keeping them moving right sharp.”

“Tell Jacobson about them namin' their oxen Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball.”

“Maybe our prayers are about to be answered.”

“What do you mean?”

“Haven't we been asking for the Lord to avenge the blood of the Prophet?”

“But these are emigrants!” Rebecca cried out; “they didn't have anything to do with the Prophet's death.” The men turned to look at her, and there was silence.

The rider spoke up. “Don't be too sure. They said they're from Missouri. Some's boasting about being around when the Prophet was murdered.”

“I heard a guy over the other side of the mountains gave a bunch of onions to one of them, and a brother took a board to the side of his head for doin' it.”

“We gotta listen to council. Brother Brigham says he'd rather see the grasshoppers get the grain than the Gentiles.”

Rebecca turned and walked away from the fort. When she reached the cabin, Sister Morgan exclaimed, “Law, girl, you look as if you've seen a ghost!”

While Rebecca rested, she told all she had heard, slowly concluding, “I've never seen men like this. It was like they were building up to a frenzy.”

“Rebecca, 'tis a fever and there's no calming a man when he's in it.”

“How do you get them to stop and understand how those people must feel?”

“Rebecca, you best be quiet and not say another word about it. There's been enough going on around the territory. If there's the slightest whisper of people not being together—” She awkwardly patted Rebecca's shoulder.

Rebecca was thinking about Andrew, remembering the tender moments, the tender touch. “He can't do it,” she whispered. “It isn't in Andrew to be harsh with anybody.”

“You don't know what's in a man when he must live his religion.”

“Living his religion! There's all those things that's been whispered—”

“Blood atonement? avenging the Prophet?”

“They've got to be made to think.”

Mrs. Morgan took Rebecca's arm. “I'll not let you waste yourself—that's what you'd be doing. Stay here and we'll take care of that little babe.”

Rebecca's arms circled the roundness. “You're right. I must think of my baby. I've risked him too much today.”

“Besides, they'll be out in the fields with their guns; then they'll be at the ward listening to more talk. Just stay out of it, Rebecca, or you'll get us all in trouble.”

Later that last sentence drifted through her thoughts before Rebecca slipped into sleep, tucked securely under a soft quilt in the far corner of the Morgans' loft.

When the rumble of voices from the street below awakened Rebecca, it was very late. She lay listening. A thin, angry voice rose above the others.

“I've been shoved from my home for the last time. I'm suspicious of anything that smells Gentile, and I don't feel inclined to sit around and wait. We know the army's moving this way. How do we know this bunch isn't sent to feel out the country and see how we're prepared?”

“I say let's sic the Indians on 'em,” came another voice. “They've been spoiling for a good fight, and all they'll want is the cattle.” The voices dropped to a whisper.

Now there was the sound of boots moving down the boardwalk. Rebecca had just turned to sleep when she heard, “I don't think Irving's with us. Too much a Gentile lover.”

“There's ways to bring him in line.”

“I've my doubts, too. Don't know's I've got the knowledge of it yet. But I know I can't go against the council. I'll have to let them be my conscience for me.”

“Brother, you're seeing right.” More steps rang against the boards. Beneath her a door closed, and the floor squeaked under Brother Morgan's weight.

Sleep was gone. While the moon moved slowly, Rebecca found it impossible to silence her mind. There was the picture of the wagon train, those innocent faces and cracking whips. Heber and Brigham. Hasty words, wasted lives.

While she shuddered against the straw tick and wished for daylight, new thoughts widened in their circles, overlapping the first thoughts and painting smooth lines of responsibility against the outer edges of her being.

She nearly regretted the Word of God which she had fed into her mind with tireless efficiency. Twisting her head against the pillow, a moment's bitterness questioned,
Did you ever guess that, once placed, the Word would never leave you? To ignore it now, after having taken of that grace eagerly with both hands wide and grasping is to ignore not only responsibility but it is to ignore God—that God with the searching eyes and the loving touch. Jesus with the scars on face and hands.

“There is a glory,” she whispered, contemplating that face. The words of Jesus came through her lips. “The glory thou gavest me, I have given them.” She took a deep breath and whispered, “Jesus, I can't risk losing that glory. Now I think I know how the Whitmans felt.”

At breakfast the next morning Brother Morgan said sharply, “Sister Jacobson, you've picked at the problem of the wagon train with more appetite than you've hit your porridge. Can't you get it through that pretty little blonde head that you're not to fuss yourself about this? You just leave it to the men to get council from their leaders and handle the whole situation.”

Mrs. Morgan served her another scrap of bacon. “What's gotten into you that you can't leave this to the men?”

“I keep thinking about those people.”

“What about Haun's Mill?” Brother Morgan wiped his mouth and shook his finger at Rebecca. “One of the men gunned down a little boy, saying ‘nits make lice.'”

“I know,” she whispered, “I know we've been wronged, but another wrong won't make it right.”

“We've vowed to avenge the Prophet's blood,” Sister Morgan said simply.

“But if we do it on the innocent, won't that make us worse than them?”

“We won't—the innocent will be saved.” He bent his head to the bowl while the shock of his words spread through Rebecca.

Last night she had comforted herself, believing her imagination was running wild. Now she watched Brother Morgan calmly eat his breakfast while the horror built inside of her. Her guesses were confirmed.

There was a tap on the door behind her, and Andrew pushed it open. “Morgan, I'm heading for Pinto. I'll be back by nightfall. Rebecca, finish your breakfast and come along. I'll take you home. What did you do about the cow?”

“Cora's milking her. I told her to keep the milk in return. Andrew,” she took a deep breath, and her resolve hardened, “I'm not going back with you.”

“Yes, you are. You're in no condition to tarry this far from home.”

“Andrew, all those things I said to you. I meant them all. I'm convinced this Jesus Christ isn't just a brother to us. He's God. Telling Him I believed that brought Him close to me. I find myself in the position of having to oppose you. I'm sorry, Andrew. I must listen to Him first of all.”

“Rebecca,” Mrs. Morgan said slowly, “I'd never expect you to rebel against your husband. You're mighty close to being an apostate.”

Apostate. The word swirled around Rebecca and Andrew. His eyes burned down into her, questioning. She took a step backward, but the word was pressing against her, demanding an answer. Was the word pressing against him also? The anger faded from his eyes. As she continued to study his face, she saw the color fade from his sun-bronzed skin. His lips were a tight white line. For just a moment he closed his eyes. One groping hand nearly touched her.

She forced her eyes away. “I'm not rebelling,” she said slowly; “I'm only believing God's Word. It tells me that I'll know I've really passed from death to life by loving the brethren. With all the things God's pushing into my heart through His Word, I guess I'm having to risk facing your anger and being called apostate. I can't turn my back on Him.”

“What are you saying?” Mrs. Morgan persisted while Andrew and Mr. Morgan waited.

“Isaiah says that the grass withers and the flowers fade, but the Word of God lasts forever. Joseph Smith says avenge; God says love. Do I reject the Bible to be a Latter-day Saint?” She faced Andrew and lifted her chin.

“You'll reject the Prophet's revelation just on the basis of a pile of words?”

“It was only a pile of the Prophet's words that I was asked to believe at the beginning of it all.”

“There was the manifestation through the spirit.”

“Jesus said,” Rebecca spoke softly as if she were focusing on words printed on her mind, “that in the end many would approach Him, claiming to have driven out demons and saying they've performed miracles in His name. His reply was that He didn't know them. See, He's requiring more'n what we do in the name of religion—He's wanting our hearts to run along after Him.”

“And you'll still risk the wrath of God?”

She opened her eyes wide. “Oh, no. I've accepted the atonement of His blood. There's no greater way to be made right with God than through God's sacrifice for my sins. There's no wrath for me when I'm saved by that blood and wearing the righteousness of Jesus Christ. I don't have to work for my salvation. It's been bought with Christ's blood.”

She continued to watch Andrew, and there was a sadness welling up in her. She couldn't think through to the end of all that she was saying to him; she dare not.

The sun was hot and placid when she stood beside Andrew's horse. “Go, Andrew. I'll be back in Pinto by tomorrow night at the latest. There's fresh bread and buttermilk in the spring house. There's plenty of eggs, and there's vegetables in the garden.”

She was aching for understanding and acceptance as she pressed against him. The horse moved restlessly under her weight, and she stepped away. One part of her said that he would soon forget her resistance to his will—he always did.

When the dust cloud hid his figure, she sighed and turned. Sister Morgan was watching her with a curiously detached expression. “Now, what'll it be?”

“Why,” Rebecca said slowly, only then accepting the burden that was lying heavy upon her, “I'll ride toward Beaver. They'll listen to me.” There was a perplexed expression on Mrs. Morgan's face, so she explained, “The wagon train. I'm not a threat, and with this,” she gestured toward her pregnancy, “my message will carry a weight that mere words wouldn't give.”

Across the valley Rebecca could see the wagon train approaching. Heat waves distorted the line of wagons and cattle, making them appear to move more quickly than they did. Rebecca nudged the horse, “Come on, old dear. I know you're tired, but there's no water here, and just standing in the heat won't help at all.”

She caught up with the wagons, bisecting the train as she crossed ravines and cedar-covered hills. She wiped the alkaline dust from her face and waited.

A woman sitting beside the driver of the first wagon stared and pointed. Rebecca watched the driver drop from the wagon and come toward her.

“Lost?” She shook her head. He was noting her condition. “Need a midwife?”

“No. I need to talk to someone in charge of the wagon train.”

His face darkened. “I take it you're a plural wife running away from home.”

“No, no. It isn't that at all, but it is terribly important.”

He hesitated and then turned to point to the next wagon approaching. “Charles Fancher's in that wagon. Best talk to him. I'll call him out.”

Rebecca watched him lope toward the wagons; then a man on horseback cut toward her. “Lady, Mac says you wanna talk.” His dusty face was closed and polite. “I'll ride along beside you and listen to your story.”

“I've just come from Cedar,” she started slowly. “I think there could be trouble ahead for you.”

“What kind?”

“The Indians are—”

“Being riled by the Mormons?”

“It's been a bad year, and they're never above thieving. It's best you get on out of the territory without stopping.”

“That's impossible. The livestock have been on short rations and bitter water for a week now. We're just able to keep them moving. We've been given permission to camp on Mountain Meadows until the livestock have enough strength to get them across the desert.” He started to turn and then asked, “Where's the nearest water?”