Saints (32 page)

Only Robert had not gone. He stayed to plead for understanding. “I’ve never meant anything but good for you,” he said. She did not answer, and her silence goaded him. “You’re truly Father’s daughter, Dinah. You and he are just alike. If there were a God, he would have made you barren, for your children’s sake.” And then, those word said, her silence made him ashamed. “I swear to you, Dinah, if you ever want to come back, write me and I’ll come for you, no matter what the cost, as fast as ships and trains and horses and my own two feet can bring me.” And then he, too, broke against the coast of her indifference and weakly fled from her to the edge of the deck, down the ladder into the shadow of the ship.

Dinah did not move, did not watch them out of sight. She only stared inside herself at the face of a terrible God who seared her with a vision of hope. She saw a gentle young woman weeping, handing her an infant child; she felt her own arms reach out and take it, and draw the little one to herself; she felt the tiny, sharp-nailed fingers scratch her face and pierce her cheek. And as the blood flowed from the small wound the dream-child gave her, so the light seeped from her body. She felt it going, and in terror whispered, “You can’t leave me alone
now
.” But he could. God could do what he liked. No, no; God must do what he must. He had been there to help her at the moment of her choice, but now came the time of sacrifice. Now she must bleed.

So she let the light leave her, and let the grief come and brood heavily in a crooked place in her heart. She walked to the gunwale just as the little boat passed out of the shadow of the ship, into bright sunlight. That was the picture she would hold in her memory: the small boat like a stain on the dazzling water, the faces of two children bright with moonlight, both of them crying, both of them reaching toward her. She watched them until they were so far that she could not distinguish child from man. That was when they finally let Charlie go, and he came to her, and embraced her, and wept for her, and she comforted him.

Behind them the sailors resumed their work, but soberly. Charlie and Dinah were only passengers to them, and so beneath notice as a general rule, but such a scene as they had witnessed transcended the barriers between them, and Dinah had their awe. Respectfully the seamen picked their way around Dinah, as if she were a mast, immovable in her place on the deck. Captain Lower had the tact not to offer condolences. And soon the ship began to move under tow from a harbor steamer, steadily out of the Mersey into the Irish Sea.

Word spread from the sailors to the company of Saints below decks. Dinah’s choice had been a terrible and heroic one, and no one dared to talk to her, though to each other they spoke of nothing else. Anna came on deck and joined Charlie in silent vigil with Dinah; John Kirkham knew that the kindest thing that he could do was stay away.

At midmorning, the sailors drew up the cable from the steamer, and the harbor craft put alongside the
North America
for the last time. Captain Lower came to her then.

“Madame, if for any reason you’d like to forego this voyage, the steamer is the last opportunity. I’ll gladly have my sailors carry your boxes for you, and we’ll refund your passage money, under these circumstances.”

Dinah managed a courteous thank you, and refused. The captain stood there helplessly. “They had a court order. I was forbidden to give you any warning, or the ship would have been impounded and I would have lost my place. There was nothing I could do.”

“I don’t blame you,” Dinah said. She touched his arm, comforting him enough that he could go away.

Brigham Young and the other two apostles who had spent the night below with the Saints were going ashore now with the steamer. They had heard of Dinah’s sacrifice already, and for fear that they would try to speak to her, Dinah walked away to the bows of the boat the moment they came on deck. She wanted no foolish speeches from them, no meaningless comfort from cocky Brigham Young or gaunt and distant John Taylor or even the fat little doctor, Willard Richards. Apostles they might be, but they had families waiting for them in America, and they would someday return. They knew nothing of what she felt, and their sympathy would be no help to her.

She could have guessed that Brigham would not be put off. He came to her just the same, so damnably sure that he knew best that even her desire for solitude meant nothing to him. She found herself angry at him before he even spoke. Yet the anger was a sort of relief; it was better than the agony of grief that she was barely holding at bay through her rigidity.

“Sister Dinah,” Brigham began. She was sure that he would say something foolish, like, “I know what you’re feeling” or “you have our deepest sympathy,” something to prove once again that he had all the sensitivity of a jackass.

But he did not say that. He took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You are not what I thought you were,” he said. “I thought you were stubborn and rebellious, but by damn you’re the truest Saint I’ve ever seen among women. It’s little help to you now, but I tell you God has a work for you to do, and he’s putting you through the refiner’s fire to prepare you for it. With all my heart I honor you.” He bent and kissed her cheeks, twice each, tenderly, almost worshipfully. Then he turned and left her, and to her surprise she found that he had soothed her last fear. It was not a lie. God had designed this, and truly wanted her sacrifice. The light was in her again, dim now but unquenchable, and all would be justified in the end, whenever the end might be.

And so her rigid posture bent. She sat on a coiled cable and embraced the grief that now took her; she wept in her mother’s arms for an hour. When the weeping was done, she felt better. She could go on. There was hope ahead, and Zion would be worth the price of her dark passage there. In a way it disappointed her. Shouldn’t true grief last forever? But it could not last, not without changing. Soon it became gentler, and she did not weep so easily or often, and gradually all those tears dried. This remained: In all her life she would never hear the word
mother
without feeling a tiny, almost unnoticeable prick of grief; and in all her life, if she were ever tempted to condemn someone, there would come to her mind that vision of two children in a distant boat, reaching for her, weeping, and she was compassionate, for she had also done evil in her time.

Before Dinah and Anna could come below decks again, Charlie repacked all their boxes to put the children’s clothing deep in the least accessible place. He rearranged the bedding, for Dinah and Anna would sleep together now, and the Corbridges willingly moved to fill the place where Dinah had slept before with Honor.

He was just finishing when Elder Turley, the leader of the company of Saints, came to him.

“You have our deepest sympathy,” he said.

Charlie thanked him.

“I think you can see that this incident has cast gloom upon the whole company.” Turley said. “I wondered if there might be something you could do to help cheer us up. We should be rejoicing to be on our way to Zion.”

“Don’t look in my family for a source of cheer,” Charlie said coldly.

“Brother Charlie, what I’m asking is—would Sister Dinah mind if we had some celebration? If there was some rejoicing despite her grief?”

Charlie understood, and it was a gracious thing for Elder Turley to ask. In answer, Charlie dug into their box and pulled out a bottle of wine. “I brought this for us to celebrate landfall in America. But perhaps it’ll be better used tonight. Should be enough for a sip for all the adults in the company, don’t you think? And make sure they know it’s from us, to wish them joy.”

“Are you sure? This is more than I would have—”

“Tell them it comes from the Kirkhams, and tell them that we
all
are joyful to be on our way. No one should wear a long face for Dinah’s sake, Elder Turley.”

Turley clapped him on the back. “You’re a good fellow. I couldn’t have wished for a better as my clerk.” And then he was off, bottle in hand, to prepare the celebration.

It turned out to be not much of a celebration after all. Too many of the Saints were queasy from the movement of the ship, even though the water was calm; too many children were whining or crying in the misery of seasickness. Still, the wine worked its warm effect, and there were jokes and laughter, and the mood was good.

The next morning Charlie went on deck as they rounded Holyhead, their last glimpse of British soil. He was feeling pretty good, not least because he had not yet felt the slightest twinge of nausea. That boded well for the voyage; he might be one of those who was born to take sea travel well. The voyage would be pleasant. He felt as if his whole life had been shaped to get him to Zion, and now his effort was over; just sit aboard the ship, eat when fed, write in the journal, be civil to others, and eventually Zion would come into view and he would be home. It would be his first extended period of idleness since Heber Kimball had first invited himself for supper. He rather looked forward to it.

“Brother Charlie,” said a voice he knew. “Can we cheer you up?”

He turned. Sally Clinton smiled at him. Harriette stood right behind her,
not
smiling, but at least not looking quite so glum as usual.

“Just seeing you cheers me already,” he said. He was getting pretty good at gallantry, and Sally beamed.

“It was kind of you to share wine with us all last night, especially after your poor sister—”

“Sally,” Harriette said.

“No, it’s quite all right,” Charlie assured them. “It’s not a thing I want to speak of, but I’m not afraid to hear it.”

“We all love Dinah so,” Sally said. “And that’s why. None of us would have had such strength for the gospel’s sake.”

For the gospel’s sake. Charlie wondered how much of her decision was for the gospel’s sake, and how much because she was too proud to bend to Matthew’s will. The others would have no such question. Dinah had acted out of faith, and so these people would honor her all the more. Well, there was truth enough in that, and no reason at all to try to change their opinion. “No one knows her strength better than I.”

Sally touched the sleeve of his jacket. “Charlie, I’m so tired of seeing you hours and hours every day.”

Her irony was plain, and he winced comically. “All the eligible women on this ship keep me so busy, Sister Sally—”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“Making them wish they had a better selection of eligible men.”

Sally laughed at his joke, but then grew serious. “Why are you angry at me? What did I say?”

“Nothing,” Charlie said. “I’m not angry.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Sally said. “If you’re not angry, it would mean that you’ve been avoiding me because you don’t like me.”

“I have responsibilities,” Charlie said.

“To everyone but me?”

“Don’t be foolish, Sally. You don’t need me.”

Her face went hot with rage. “You’re right, of course. I don’t need you. And now you will not have to put up with my foolishness another minute.” She strode away across the deck, lurching awkwardly with the rolling of the ship.

Charlie turned to Harriette. “What did I do?”

“You don’t love her,” Harriette answered simply. Then she handed him something—a small book wrapped in a handkerchief. “It’s for your sister, Dinah. I thought this might bring her some comfort.”

He started to thank her, but Harriette hurried off. Charlie wondered about her—she seemed so unpleasant and sober, and yet she had the kindness to turn her sympathy for Dinah into a gift.

Charlie gave it to Dinah before supper, so she could thank Harriette for it. Dinah wasn’t even sure who Harriette was, until Charlie identified her as Sally’s sister. “Oh, yes, she’s like a shadow, isn’t she?”

“A bit,” Charlie answered. “But a kind shadow, I think.”

Dinah took the handkerchief from the book. It was the second volume of a collection of Wordsworth, quite an old book and well thumbed-over. The book fell open to a certain page, and Dinah saw it and gave a small cry.

“What’s wrong?” Charlie asked.

She shook her head. She handed him the book, and he knew from her look that she wanted him to read. So he sat on the boxes and began where she had pointed:

It was a melancholy little stanza, but Dinah wanted him to read on, and to Charlie’s pleasure a group of Saints began to gather, drawn by his voice. They crowded quietly into the aisle, and some lay or sat on the lower berths to hear.

The fifth stanza was the best. It seemed to speak to Charlie and the other Saints as a poet had no right to speak. Heber had taught them one of the Prophet Joseph’s more novel doctrines, the idea that God did not create man at birth, but rather that man had always existed as an intelligence before the foundations of the world. Wordsworth spoke almost like a seer, almost as if God had spoken through a poet, though surely that would never happen.

Charlie went on and finished the stanza, but he knew the reading should end; Dinah was in tears at this remembrance of her own children, and worse was coming: “Behold the child among his new-born blisses,” the poet cruelly said, and spoke of “sallies of his mother’s kisses.” That would be too much for Dinah to bear. He closed the book. There was some mumbled protest from those who had gathered to hear, but he shook his head with a small smile, and said, “If I read it all tonight, what will we do tomorrow?” They laughed ruefully at the reminder of how many weeks they would be together, and dispersed.