The Work and the Glory (583 page)

“Get back. Drop the sack!”

The voice came from out on the porch, beyond the light, and though it was gruff-sounding, Melissa recognized it instantly. It was the voice of young Carl, and with that realization, the instant relief that had washed over her fled.

Levi peered at the door. “We dropped the sack, mister. Show yourself.”

“Keep your hands high.” Now it was unmistakable. It didn’t matter how hard he was trying to sound older; this was a young boy’s voice. “I’ve got a shotgun on you.”

“It’s my neighbor,” Melissa managed, standing now, her voice shaky. “I told you he was coming.”

Jeb and Levi looked at each other. “Ain’t no more than a boy,” Jeb whispered.

Levi nodded. “Bet he ain’t even got a gun.”

The blast of the shotgun caused both men to yelp in fear and jump wildly. Melissa also gave a startled cry. Dust and wood chips rained down from the ceiling. She looked up and saw the tight pattern of buckshot peppered into the ceiling.

“Next one’s for your britches, mister. Now, git!” There was no attempt to disguise the voice now. The roar of the shotgun had suddenly made Carl old enough. “Get out of there before I lose my temper.”

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” Jeb raised his hands even higher and started shuffling toward the door. Levi was right behind him, using Jeb as a shield. They eased out the door, then took off running.
Bam!
Another shot blasted off. There was a cry of fear and the fading sound of men running hard.

Melissa felt her knees go weak and had to reach out and steady herself against the chair. “Carl?”

“Mama,” came the hoarse whisper. “Turn out the lamp so they can’t see nothing.”

She obeyed, fighting the trembling in her hands. The moment the light was out, she heard his footsteps on the porch. “Lock the door, Mama. We’ll put the stuff away tomorrow.”

She did so, still half-numb with the shock of it all. “How did you know, Carl?”

He stepped beside her, holding his finger to his lips. He double-checked the door, then took her by the elbow and guided her off the porch in the opposite direction that her invaders had fled. Only then did he answer. “Papa said I was to keep you safe.”

“But how did you know there was trouble?”

He seemed puzzled. “I just suddenly had this really bad feeling, Mama. And something told me to get the shotgun.”

She reached out and took his arm, suddenly unable to speak. She glanced up at his face in the dim light. He had turned fourteen in April. At twelve he had caught and then passed her in height. In the last year, whiskers had started to show—surprisingly red and soft, much like his father’s, though his hair was dark. But not until this moment had she really considered him a man.

“Did they hurt you, Mama?” he said, suddenly anxious.

“No, Carl. I’m fine. Thank you for coming. I . . .” She couldn’t finish, and she had to look away. Her shoulders started to shake.

He shifted the shotgun to his other hand and laid his arm across her shoulders, patting her gently. “It’s all right, Mama. They’re gone now.”

Melissa shot up, grasping at the bedclothes, thinking for a moment that the sound was part of the nightmare she had been having—a nightmare no doubt prompted by the ordeal she had experienced earlier at the store. But now as she stared around wildly in the darkness, seeing the square of window only slightly less dark than the walls, she heard the sound again. There were three sharp bangs, then three or four more. Someone was pounding on her front door.

As she swung out of bed and groped for her robe, she heard young Carl’s footsteps go past her door, moving swiftly. The pounding started again, this time followed by the faint cry of a man’s voice. “Mrs. Rogers! Wake up!”

Fully awake now, heart pounding with a sudden clutch of fear, she threw her robe on and stepped out in the hallway. They kept a small candle burning there during the night because Mary Melissa was terrified of the darkness. To her surprise, the clock on the wall showed half past three. Another door opened and David looked out, eyes wide, hair wildly tousled. “What is it, Mama?”

She shook her head. “Stay here, David. Watch the children.”

By the time she started down the stairs, she saw that Carl was moving across the main room toward the door. She also saw that he had the shotgun in his hand again. Melissa moved quickly and reached the door just behind him.

“Mrs. Rogers. It’s Jeremiah Ogletree. Wake up!”

She recognized her neighbor’s voice and motioned to Carl. He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping aside enough for his mother to move up beside him.

“What is it?” Melissa asked, alarmed now by the urgency in Ogletree’s voice.

He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out on the porch. “Look.”

She turned and looked up the street. For a moment she saw nothing because she was looking straight up Granger Street. Then suddenly she gasped. To the right, in a direct diagonal line through the block, she saw an orange-red glow against the black sky.

Her hand flew to her mouth. She couldn’t be positive. There were houses in between. But then she was sure, and she went as cold as death. With a cry, she plunged off the porch and began to run, her nightgown flying out behind her.

By the time they reached the store, there was nothing to be done. The flames had totally engulfed the building, crackling and roaring in the otherwise still night. People were running from everywhere, and someone shouted for a bucket brigade. But they were far too late for a bucket brigade now.

She jumped as one of the rafters collapsed into the inferno and sent up a towering ball of sparks and flames. She stared in numbed horror as flames licked the sign, which was now barely readable. The Steed Family Dry Goods and General Store. Even as she watched, the rope holding the sign burned through and it fell into the flames. With one great sob of pain, Melissa Rogers turned and buried her face against her son’s shoulder.

“Oh, Will,” Alice breathed, leaning her head against his shoulder, “it’s as beautiful as Robinson Crusoe Island.”

“I told you it would be.”

“I can’t wait to get off the ship and be on dry land again.”

“Well, don’t get too impatient. We’ll have to drop anchor outside the reef and wait for a pilot to come take us into the harbor.”

She groaned. “How long will that take?”

He glanced up at the sun. “It’s already almost midday. By the time we get into place and anchored, it will probably be too late for today. Hopefully tomorrow.”

Her mouth turned down and she looked away glumly. “Another whole day?”

He lifted her chin. “I know, I know, but after almost five months, we can stand one more day, can’t we?”

“You can if there’s no choice,” said a cheerful voice.

They turned to see Samuel Brannan, the leader of their little group of emigrants.

“Hello, Brother Brannan.” Will turned back to look at the lush green hills and the snow-white beaches that they could see beyond the breakers washing over the reef. “This is a welcome sight, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed it is. And what makes it all the sweeter is knowing this will be our last stop before we set foot on California soil.”

“Do you know yet how long we’ll stay here, Brother Brannan?” Alice asked.

Brannan shrugged. “Hard to say. The captain says we have five hundred barrels of freight down below that need unloading. Then, of course, we’ll have to restock the ship.” He shrugged. “A week. Maybe ten days.”

Alice smiled for the first time. Ten days would be a welcome boon. Their stop at the Juan Fernández Islands had given the group’s morale a tremendous boost, but six more weeks at sea had faded the memory all too quickly. “And then how long to California?”

Brannan turned to Will. “You’ll know that better than me.”

“Captain Richardson estimates four or five more weeks, depending on the winds.”

Alice turned back to look over the railing toward the approaching harbor. “It doesn’t seem possible that we’ll ever actually get there, does it?”

Suddenly Will leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “I think that’s a United States ship there,” he said.

Alice and Brannan turned to look at the ship that rode at anchor just outside the reef. It was still about a mile away, but there was no mistaking the Stars and Stripes hanging from its halyards at the rear of the ship.

“Well, maybe we’ll have some company of our own kind for a—”

“It’s a warship, Brother Brannan.”

If the Latter-day Saints had reservations about the sight of a U.S. warship anchored off the reef, Captain Richardson did not share them. To the dismay of his passengers, he brought the
Brooklyn
within a few rods of the USS
Congress
and dropped anchor there. Sailors lined the rail of the man-of-war and peered curiously, though for the most part silently, at the Saints who now filled the upper decks and peered back at them. The sense of misgiving was strong among the Saints, but like their captain, Will did not share it, though he understood it.

Back in January, as they prepared to depart from New York, there were growing rumors that the United States might go to war with Mexico. Because of that, there had been talk of government intervention to stop the Saints’ planned voyage. Having a colony of disgruntled Latter-day Saints sailing to Mexican California was seen by some as running counter to the interests of the United States. But nothing had come of such rumors, and they had sailed without incident. Was it possible now, after five months at sea, that they were to be stopped short of their final destination? That was the question on everyone’s mind.

Everyone’s except Will’s. In his years of sailing Will had seen more than one warship at close range, and at the moment this one was neither manned nor rigged for possible trouble. The sailors, notably subdued, showed no anger or hostility. There had been no flurry of activity when the
Brooklyn
pulled up within a few yards of the
Congress.
If they planned to give the Mormons trouble, it certainly wasn’t today. Of that, Will was confident.

The anxieties of the Latter-day Saints only deepened when a man in full dress uniform—obviously the ship’s captain—ordered a small boat prepared for launching, and then he and two other officers, accompanied by an armed escort, climbed aboard and were lowered to the water. Will and Alice were near the railing on the port side of the ship where they could see clearly what was happening.

Alice reached out and clutched at his arm. “What do they want, Will?” She unconsciously held the roundness of her stomach as she stared down at the approaching men. She was now just three months away from delivery of their child and worried constantly about anything that might threaten the baby. “Do you think they’re coming for us?”

“Well,” he said soberly, letting his voice broaden into the deep southern drawl he had mastered as a boy in Savannah, “if they ah, it sho nuff is gonna take a lawt of trips in that there little teeny boat to get us all across.”

Startled, she laughed aloud. Others nearby turned in surprise. In the tense atmosphere, her laugh exploded like someone dropping an iron kettle in a church meeting. Embarrassed, she immediately suppressed a smile, giving Will a sideward look. He had done it. His absolute calm settled her fears. He was not worried in any way, and that was a tremendous relief to her.

Captain Richardson appeared, also dressed in full uniform now, something they had seen only once or twice since leaving the East Coast. He pushed his way to the rope ladder where the small boat was tying up to the
Brooklyn.
The first mate and the bosun were also there with him, standing at attention. There was a definite air of excitement and anticipation.

A moment later, the rope ladder stretched taut and began to creak. Then a plumed hat appeared, and the man Alice had assumed was the captain climbed over the rail and dropped lightly to the deck. He snapped a crisp salute at Captain Richardson, who returned it just as smartly. “Welcome aboard the
Brooklyn,
sir. Captain Abel W. Richardson at your service.”

The naval officer nodded formally, then extended his hand. “Thank you. Commodore Robert F. Stockton, United States Navy, commander of the USS
Congress.
” He stepped back as the other officers climbed aboard, and he introduced each one as they did so. Only two of the armed escorts came aboard. To Alice’s relief, the rest stayed in the boat that had ferried them across.

Commodore Stockton looked around. “I understand you have come around the Horn with a load of emigrants from America.”

Captain Richardson nodded, then turned to where Samuel Brannan and his counselors stood nearby. “Yes, sir. Let me introduce you to Mr. Samuel Brannan, Commodore Stockton. He’s the leader of these good people and the one who organized the charter of the ship in New York City.”

They shook hands and Brannan introduced his two counselors, E. Ward Pell and Isaac Robbins. Then to Will’s surprise, Brannan motioned him forward. “And this is Will Steed, one of the leaders of our company and a sailor in his own right.”

The naval officer extended his hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Steed. Whom have you sailed with?”

“Jonathan Sperryman, out of Boston, sir, on the China trade route around the Cape of Good Hope.”

“Oh, yes, I know Sperryman. Met him in New Orleans a few years back. He has a fine sailing reputation.”

“He was a great sailor, sir. I learned a lot from him.” He turned his head. “And that’s a fine ship you’re sailing, sir. Forty-four guns?”

Stockton’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Exactly. You know your ships, son.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Stockton turned back to Samuel Brannan. “Mr. Brannan, our report says that you have about three hundred emigrants sailing for Oregon or Upper California.”

Brannan nodded slowly, obviously somewhat wary. “Not quite that many, Commodore. Closer to about two hundred forty, I’d say.”

“Well, Mr. Brannan, I have news that I dare say you have not heard as yet. We are at war with Mexico.”

There was a collective gasp from the crowd, who had pushed in closer to hear the interchange. “War, sir?” Brannan exclaimed.