Shortly after sunup on the morning of 4 May 1846, exactly three months to the day after leaving New York Harbor, the Brooklyn came in sight of the Juan Fernández Islands. They reached the harbor and dropped anchor about one p.m. of that same day. The main island had only two Chilean families (eight people) who lived in primitive huts in a leisurely subsistence style of existence. “The island abounded in untended fruit trees, continually reseeding vegetables, and animals (goats, hares, and pigs) which ran wild from previous settlements.” (“Voyage,” p. 58.)
During the storm that drove the Brooklyn back from Valparaíso, Laura Goodwin, who was carrying her eighth child, lost her footing on slippery wood and was thrown down a companionway. She went into premature labor, developed complications, and finally died. She begged her grief-stricken family not to bury her at sea. The captain complied with her wishes and she was buried on the island soon after their arrival. (See “Voyage,” pp. 58–59.) She was one of the eleven passengers who died before the journey was completed.
Chapter 17
Garden Grove Settlement, May 4, 1846 (Monday)
It has been five days since I last wrote in my journal. Emily says it has been even longer for her. Today we promised each other we would write no matter what. This morning the sun was shining when we came out of the tents. It has been sunny and warm all day. The sky is still clear, even in the west. Wonderful! It has rained much since we arrived at Garden Grove. Yesterday during worship services President Young spoke to us. He said that it is the word of the Lord that we should plant crops at this place, and that some should go ahead and start another settlement so those still coming will have food to eat. Today, Papa and the other men split rails most of the day. The north field is all fenced now. Hardly any food left in camp.
Garden Grove Settlement, May 6th (Wednesday)
Rained most of the night again. It stopped raining in the morning though and the men went right back to work. If it is the word of the Lord to build this place, they want to be obedient, even though Papa worked on an empty stomach. He wasn’t the only one. The bridge over the river is coming along fine. Pres. Y worked with the men on it. Afternoon, stormed again—very hard! Many trees were blown down, one fell on a cow and another on a mule. Almost everyone in the camp had to hang on to their tents with all their might, the wind was blowing so hard. There was hail too. I started to complain about the weather at supper time but Emily gave me a lesson on murmuring. “Rachel,” she said, “do you know why they call it murmuring?” Then she told me that it is a word that sounds like what it describes. And that’s what we do when we murmur. We mumble under our breath and it sounds like mur-mur-mur. I don’t want to murmur. It was very miserable today though. That’s not murmuring, that’s just recording the truth.
I just had a strange thought. I wonder if Noah ever murmured.
Garden Grove, May 7th, 1846 (Thursday)
Joy! Joy! Joy! Some of the brethren returned from northern Missouri where they had gone to trade. They brought 35 bushels of wheat and 4 bushels of cornmeal. Much rejoicing in camp. One of the horses which was bit by rattlesnakes died.
Garden Grove Camp, May 8, 1846 (Friday)
Wheat and meal given out this morning. Mama and Grandma and Aunt Lydia baked bread in the Dutch oven. It was so good! The camp commissaries (the men who get supplies for us) loaded up wagons with furniture, beds, saddles, harnessing, and anything else that could be spared for trade. Brother Brigham says to get rid of our feather beds and get something more practical. The wagons left for Missouri again. Fence around the south field done. Saw Jeremy Barker today. He smiled at me!!!!
Garden Grove, May 9. (Saturday)
No rain! Four more log cabins were raised for those coming behind.
Melissa Rogers waited until supper was over; then, as the children got up to clear the table, she spoke to her oldest. “Carl. I’d like to speak with your father. Would you take the children outside for a while? You can do the dishes later.”
He looked surprised, but nodded immediately. “Yes, Mama.”
The other children whooped with pleasure and shot away.
Once they were gone, Melissa turned to her husband. She jumped in without preamble. “A woman came in the store today. She told me about what happened to Andrew Ray yesterday.”
He nodded but said nothing.
“Did you know about that?”
He nodded again. “I heard word of it.”
“Were you going to tell me about it, Carl?” Now there was a slight bite to her voice.
He considered that, then shrugged. “I probably would have mentioned it eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“There’s no use in getting yourself all worked up over this, Melissa. It was an isolated incident that happened outside of town.”
“Tell me what you heard.”
“I don’t think—”
“Tell me, Carl.”
He leaned back, seeing she was determined. “Evidently Mr. Ray has been trying to sell his farm so he can go west. He’s had some offers but nothing he would consider. So he’s been holding on. Yesterday some ruffians—riffraff from the river probably—came to his farm.”
“And?”
He could see there was no sense softening it. She probably had heard it all anyway. “And they dragged him from his home and beat him pretty badly.”
“With an ox goad?”
He sighed wearily. “Yes, they used an ox goad and jabbed his skin several times.”
She was angry now. “Several times? The word I heard was repeatedly.”
“All right, so they jabbed him repeatedly. But he’ll be all right.”
“And did you learn why they did it?” she pressed.
“They want to drive him off his farm before he can sell it.”
“So they can take it over?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you said they were riffraff from the river. Riffraff don’t know about taking over some Mormon’s farm.”
“You don’t know that.”
“And you don’t know but what they were some more of Illinois’s more upstanding citizens, do you?” The sarcasm was heavy in her voice.
He shrugged.
“This is just what Elder Woodruff said would happen.”
“Look, Melissa. It was outside of town. It was—”
“An isolated incident?” she finished for him. “Haven’t there been other reports of mob harassment in the past few days?”
He leaned forward, seeing that she had worked up a real head of steam over this. “Melissa, I know what you’re thinking. And I won’t say there is no cause for concern. But a group of us who aren’t members of the Church—including several of those who have recently purchased homes and businesses here—are talking about forming a group. It will give us a chance to stick together, to negotiate without it looking like we’re part of the Church.”
“Yes,” she snapped. “And these wonderful non-Mormons you’re talking about are the same ones who built a tenpin alley opposite from the temple.”
His eyes narrowed a little. “So?”
“They’re also the ones bringing in groggeries all over the city. Is that what you want for Nauvoo, Carl?”
“No, I—”
“There’s hardly a night that goes by now that you can’t hear the drunkards going up and down the street, whooping and hollering. We never had that before, Carl. Is this what your group is going to protect?”
She stepped back, a little surprised by her own vehemence.
Carl watched her for several seconds, still taken aback by the strength of her feelings. Finally he decided it was safer to stick to the original question of safety and security. “The enemies of the Church just want the Mormons out, Melissa. That’s what they’re after. They just want the Mormons out.”
“I’m a Mormon,” she retorted. “Does that concern you at all?”
“Come on, Melissa. You know what I mean.” He felt a touch of anger of his own now. “Having that temple dedication the other day didn’t help. The enemies of the Church are saying that’s proof that the Saints are not leaving, that they’ve reneged on their promise to leave.”
“Their promise to leave? No, Carl!” She flung it back at him. “You make it sound like we are leaving for a trip somewhere. It makes it sound like we got tired of Nauvoo. My family didn’t ‘decide’ to leave. They were driven out, Carl. And some of those men who will be making up this little group of yours are the very ones who are glad to see them go because they have profited from their leaving.”
“I don’t know what’s got you so worked up all of a sudden, but—”
She stood, pushing back her chair. She leaned forward, hands on the table. “I want to say this, Carl. I know that I am largely to blame for how you feel about the Church now. I—”
“I’ve never felt wonderful about the Church,” he shot back.
“I know. But I’m the one who turned you so bitter over plural marriage, because I hated so much what was going on. I’m the one who said I didn’t want to go west, even when the family was leaving. I know all that, Carl, and so I’m not blaming you. But you need to know. I’m scared, Carl! I’m afraid that Wilford Woodruff is right. I don’t think we’re safe here.”
“I—”
She rode over him, wanting it done, wanting it said clearly this one time. “I won’t bring it up again, Carl. I made my bed the way I thought it should be. Now I’ve got to sleep in it. But just so you understand, if you ever change your mind, if you ever have second thoughts about leaving, you don’t need to ask me. I’ll be ready.”
“What if I say we’re leaving but we’re going back to Kirtland?”
Her face was filled with weariness and sorrow and surrender. “You know I’ll go wherever you decide to go, Carl. I will go with you.”
“But that’s not where you’d like to go?” He was feeling a little sick. He had known that something had been eating at her for some time now. But he had no idea it was this deeply felt.
“No, Carl. If you’re asking me, I want to go west. I want to find my family and be with them.” There was a long pause. “I want to be with the Church.”
Alice Samuelson Steed stopped as she and Will reached the beginning of the makeshift dock that ran a short distance out into the harbor. The large rowboat from the ship had just arrived to take the last load of the passengers back out to where the ship lay at anchor. They were fourth or fifth in line, but she suddenly stepped aside and let the others pass. Surprised, Will followed suit. “What?”
“Oh, Will,” she said, turning and letting her gaze sweep up and up the verdant peaks that rose like green-shrouded fingers thrust from a pool of perfect turquoise blue. For one born and raised for her entire life in St. Louis, Missouri, the sight was still completely overwhelming to her.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Will murmured.
She let her eyes drop to the metal and palm frond huts along the curve of beach. This was where the few permanent inhabitants of Robinson Crusoe Island lived. She pulled a face. The small settlement was like a scab on otherwise healthy flesh, a bruise on a perfect piece of fruit. Man’s part of this island was shabby and dreary and rundown, but God’s part . . . Ah! She lifted her eyes again. God’s part was incredibly fine. “More beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen,” she said, remembering that Will had spoken to her. “I wish we could stay longer.”
“I do too. But they say that the Sandwich Islands are just as beautiful.”
She frowned slightly. “Do we have to go there, Will? It’s so far out of the way. Can’t we just sail for Upper California now that we’re resupplied?”
He shook his head. “There’s an old saying among sailors. You follow the wind and you follow the cargo. The southeast trade winds blow all the way across the Pacific from here. If we head straight up the coast we’ll be bucking the northeasterlies. And part of what is paying for our voyage are those five hundred crates of freight we have to deliver at Honolulu.”
“Hono-what?”
“The port there in the Sandwich Islands. It’s on the island of Oahu.”
“If you never came this way, how come you know so much about it?”
“The Sandwich Islands are one of the major stops on the China route from America. Many of the men I worked with had come this way before. They say that almost six hundred ships a year stop at the islands. It’s also the base for the whaling crews that hunt in the North Pacific.”
She gave him a teasing look. “So if we can’t buck the northeasterlies, how do we get from the islands back to California?”
He chuckled. She had become half a sailor herself. “If you sail a northern route from the islands, you pick up the westerly trades.”
“Oh.” She should have known better than to challenge him. She understood that—the winds and the cargo and the way of sailors—but it still meant another long detour from their destination. They had sailed almost all the way to the coast of Africa, then all the way around South America, then four hundred miles out from Chile. Now they were going even farther out into the Pacific.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?” Will said, bringing her out of her thoughts.
“In what way?”
“We all felt so bad about the storm, about being blown back from Valparaíso.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, understanding perfectly now.
Valparaíso might mean the Valley of Paradise in Spanish, but it could not possibly be any more paradisiacal than this. And that was not the only blessing that had come from their second-choice landfall. In Valparaíso they would have had to pay port fees and shell out top dollar for whatever supplies they needed. Here they had found fresh water just two rods from the beach. The crew had cleaned out the large hogshead water barrels, then filled them with eighteen thousand gallons of fresh water. They had picked tons of fruit and laid it out to dry. From the sea they caught, then salted, hundreds of barrels of fish. Cords of firewood—driftwood picked up along the beaches—were bundled and brought aboard. In short, they had resupplied at a fraction of the cost and had been privileged at the same time to stay in this beautiful setting. Valparaíso might be beautiful, but it couldn’t match this, of that she was certain. Will was right. The Lord had truly blessed them through what they had first thought was a tragedy.