Seeing her face, Brigham laughed. “Now, Sister Steed, I’m not going to be calling him to go back to England again.” He looked suddenly wistful. “Though I might be tempted to do so if we could return there together. Those were simpler times, my friend, weren’t they?”
“They were indeed,” Matthew replied. “Wonderful times.”
“Yes. And there’s still a lot of work to do there, but it will have to be attended to by different men than you and me, Matthew. But I do have something else I need of you.”
“Just ask it.”
His brows lowered and his mouth pulled into a thin line. “Have you seen the creeks today, Matthew?”
“Yes. Solomon, Derek, and I were down earlier trying to get some browse for our oxen.” By getting browse he meant pulling branches off the trees or cutting willows and letting the animals glean off whatever buds and leaves there were on them. With nothing but last season’s dry grass, the animals were not doing well. “We had expected the water to be some higher, but it must be up four or five feet. It is high, swift, muddy, and dangerous.”
“Exactly. We won’t be leaving here soon. Between the weather and the sickness, we’re going to have to stay here several more days.”
“Sickness?” Jenny asked in concern, looking down at the baby.
“Yes, it’s starting to break out everywhere. Fever, coughs, aches, and chills. Little wonder, what with all the wet and cold. We’re in no shape to be moving out. Nor are the roads in any shape for travel.”
In a way that was a relief, Matthew thought. Trying to move out in this weather would prove to be costly for both man and beast.
Brigham reached inside his coat and withdrew an envelope. “And if we stay here, we have a problem. As you know, we’ve got several small companies out in front of us. Bishop Miller’s is one of those.”
Matthew nodded. Miller, one of the general bishops in the Church, had been sent ahead with a pioneering company, supposedly under the direction of Stephen Markham. But rumor had it that Miller, always independent, was often on his own.
“I don’t like us getting all scattered out,” the chief Apostle went on. “I keep sending word for Bishop Miller to wait for us, but it has made no difference as yet. Sounds like the whole thing is in disarray to me. So I’d like you to take this letter to him for me.”
“All right,” Matthew said immediately.
“How much farther on is he?” Jenny asked.
“A day, maybe two. They can’t be making much time in this weather either.” He looked at Matthew. “Leave first thing in the morning. When you find them, learn what you can. Keep your eyes open. Then come back and report, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I already talked to Nathan. He said you can take his saddle horse.” He turned to Jenny. “I’m sorry to take your man away, Jenny, but this is important.”
“You know we’re ready to do whatever you need, President.”
His face softened and for a moment the lines of worry smoothed. “I know you are. That’s why I thought of you. He shouldn’t be gone for more than five or six days.”
Brigham Young’s estimate of how long Matthew would be gone proved to be quite accurate. On horseback it was a fairly easy task to stay off the roads and thus avoid the worst of the mud. Fording the streams proved to be a challenge on two occasions, but he made it. He caught up with Bishop Miller’s company about sundown of the second day. Miller was camped at the Chariton River, about forty miles west of Brigham’s location, where he was splitting rails for payment in corn. Matthew stayed the night and part of the next day, then headed east again. Returning just before sundown of the fifth day, he took a quick supper with the family and then went off to report to President Young and Heber C. Kimball. The report was not all that encouraging.
Miller had been sustained as a bishop of the Church in 1841 when Bishop Edward Partridge died. Converted personally by Joseph Smith, he was totally devoted to the Prophet and gave considerable service to him and to the Church. But after the Martyrdom, which hit him especially hard, things began to change. He did not have that same unswerving loyalty to Brigham Young, and sometimes the two strong wills clashed. As one of the general bishops of the Church, he had a major role in the exodus to the West. Brigham Young appointed him to be part of a “pioneer company” of about a hundred men who were to move out ahead of the main body of Saints. Supposedly led by Stephen Markham, another trusted friend of the Prophet, they were to find the best routes, smooth out the roads, locate fords for the rivers and streams, bridge them if there was no other choice, secure—through purchase or trade—grain and other needed supplies for the Saints. But Miller quickly struck out on his own, leading his own smaller company their own way.
Often he had not bothered to send word back as to his whereabouts. President Young had sent more than one message asking him to hold up, but thus far the counsel had been ignored.
“He says you’re being too cautious, President,” Matthew reported. “He read the letter while I was there, and to my surprise he made no bones about the fact that it irritated him. When he learned we are still here at Richardson’s Point, he flew off the handle. ‘The man is much too cautious,’ he said. ‘He’s moving at a snail’s pace. This is no time for wavering. We’ve got to reach the Rocky Mountains, get crops in and harvested before first frost. At the rate he’s moving, we’ll be lucky to make the Missouri River by first snow.’ Those were just a few of the things he said.” Matthew shook his head. “I was surprised at how open he was in front of me. It was like he forgot that it was me who brought your letter to him.”
Heber C. Kimball snorted in disgust. “Don’t kid yourself. He forgot nothing. He wanted you to bring this report back to the President. What about Elder Pratt?”
Matthew shook his head. He had seen Parley Pratt, but he too had expressed frustration with Bishop Miller’s independence. He reported as much. “He was obviously embarrassed by Bishop Miller’s tirade. He tried to offer a balancing voice, suggesting that the problems you are facing in stragglers and broken equipment and lack of supplies—to say nothing of the mud—are real problems that can’t simply be ignored. I think he was terribly embarrassed by it all.”
“Good. And how did Miller respond to that?”
“It only irritated him the more. He said that what we need is decisive leadership, the kind that Joseph Smith had provided. He acknowledged that there were problems, but went right on to say that problems didn’t change reality. That didn’t delay the frosts or shorten the journey that had to be made.”
Matthew was embarrassed to have to report that to the chief Apostle. Miller was a restive man chafing under the restraint of someone else’s leadership. That was the real problem, in Matthew’s mind. Miller wanted to be the leader. And this was his way of showing that he was the better qualified.
Brigham listened to it all quietly, not seeming the least bit surprised. When Matthew was done, the President thanked him sincerely and dismissed him. And that was that, Matthew thought. He had done as Brigham wanted and now he was back with Jenny and the children.
They moved out of Richardson’s Point the following morning, Thursday, March nineteenth, 1846. It was a full twelve days after they had stopped there “for a brief rest and respite.” They caught up to Orson Pratt’s company, another part of the advance group, the following day, and pushed on. The weather was holding warm and dry, but there were still spots in the roads that were huge muddy sloughs. It took hours to get one company through. They made twelve or thirteen miles for each of those first three days. By Saturday, the twenty-first, they camped a few miles east of the Chariton River. Brigham was fuming, still trying to rein Miller in. The previous day a messenger had brought a letter from Parley Pratt, who wrote that they were waiting for the main camp to catch up with them but said that they thought it best to go several miles farther on to Shoal Creek, where corn was plentiful. Brigham sent the messenger back with permission to go that far but no farther.
When the main company reached the Chariton River the next day, about forty miles west of Richardson’s Point, Brigham’s irritation turned to open anger. The river itself was not a challenge. Although it was about four rods across—maybe sixty or seventy feet—it was only two feet deep and with a good, solid bottom. The banks, however, were steep and still quite muddy. They easily found the spot where Miller had crossed a few days before, but no effort had been made to cut down the banks and prepare a fording spot for those coming behind. He had several men. It was for exactly this purpose that they had been sent ahead.
The plan had been to make the easy four-mile trip to the Chariton—about an hour and a half’s drive—then cross to the western side and press on the final seven miles to Shoal Creek, where the advance party would be waiting—or should be! Instead they spent an exhausting four hours getting the wagons across. They did not have the manpower to dig down the banks, so they unhitched all but one yoke of oxen to each wagon, then roped up the wagons. Men and animals held the wagons back as they went down the precipitous bank. Once across the river, the wagons had to be double or triple teamed to get them out.
To their dismay, they went only another mile west before reaching a steep hill leading up out of the river bottoms. Again they had to double and triple the teams. Oxen bawled and bellowed as they slipped and clawed their way up the steep slope. Men burned hands and arms on the rough ropes as they gave what help they could to the struggling teams. It was tedious, backbreaking, utterly exhausting work. Once up on the top, oxen stopped without urging, heads lowered and foam dripping from their mouths.
Brigham was right there with the rest of them, pulling ropes, driving oxen, helping women and children across the shallow river and up the hill. As the last wagons reached the top after sundown, he turned to Heber C. Kimball. “We’ll have to stop here and rest the teams, Heber,” he said in a low, hard voice. “There’s no way we can move out again tomorrow.” And then, mouth tight, he added, “When we get to Miller’s encampment, we will organize. If Bishop Miller moves again before our arrival he will be disfellowshipped from the camps, unless he repents.”
The next morning, Monday, March twenty-third, 1846, a messenger rode into camp from the west. He carried another letter from Elder Parley Pratt to Brigham. The frustrated Apostle wrote that even though the main camp was now only six or seven miles behind them, Bishop Miller had decided he and his company were going to move on and not wait.
When Brigham finished reading the letter, he never said a word, but from the set of his jaw and the hardness of his lips, Heber C. Kimball knew full well that George Miller was heavily on his mind. Finally, Brigham looked up. “I’d like you to come with me to Matthew Steed’s tent.”
This time there were no promises of a quick return. There was another letter to take—one filled with sharp rebuke and a command for Miller to wait where he was, Matthew guessed—but it was more than that. Brigham was calling other men besides Matthew. “I’ve told Miller in no uncertain terms that his job is to prepare the way for us,” he said, glowering at the tent canvas. “We cannot spend this kind of time and effort at every river crossing. We’ve got three choices. Dig down the banks. Make a ferry. Or build bridges.”
He turned to Jenny and there was sadness in his eyes. “That’s where your husband comes in, Sister Steed. We’re not just talking about getting ourselves across; we’ve still got thousands of people coming behind us. We have got to prepare the way for them too.”
“I understand perfectly,” Jenny said, fighting to not show her disappointment.
“Matthew is a skilled carpenter, a natural builder. I’m sorry to have to ask this of you, but I need him out there with that advance company. And it could be weeks before you see him again.”
Jenny’s head came up. “President Young,” she said, her voice calm but firm now, “our whole family is hoping and praying that Melissa and Carl will change their minds and come west. If that happens, and Matthew has made it possible for them to reach us more quickly, then you’ll not hear one word of complaint from me or anyone else in our family.”
For a long moment, Brigham sat there, looking at this young Irish woman who would now have two children to watch over on her own. Then he got up slowly, walked over to her, and took her in his arms. He never said a word, just held her close and closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair.
Monday, March 23, 1846
It has been more than a week since I have been able to write in my journal. The midday meal is over. Many are sleeping now, including my Will. The weather has been beautiful since crossing the equator, and with the southeasterly trade winds, we are making good time. I should be sleepy too, what with the heat, and a full stomach—from the food, I mean. I am growing noticeably now and thought I felt the first stirrings of life yesterday. Perhaps it is thoughts of the baby that keep me from sleeping. I still cannot believe that I shall be a mother. However, since I am awake, I thought I would catch up in my journal.
We are now in what are called the tropics, that zone which lies both north and south of the equator and which is always warm and pleasant, warm being a relative word, of course. When the sun is at its zenith it can beat down unmercifully. During the doldrums, when there was no wind and no movement to stir the air, the crew had to rig canvas awnings before we could even bear to be on deck. In the morning and again in the evening, it is perfectly delightful. I love to be out on deck with Will and let the wind catch my face.
I understand better now Will’s love of the sea. For the first few weeks, especially during that horrible four days of storminess that nearly drove us against the rocky shores of the Cape Verde Islands, I hated the sea and everything about it. But lately, unless Will is standing watch, or helping the crew, or working for Elder Brannan, we walk around the ship and he teaches me what he knows. It has opened my eyes to what is happening and that helps pass the time more easily. It also helps to reduce my fear as we continue south toward Cape Horn, the name given to the southernmost tip of South America.