The Wedding Dress (20 page)

Back in Cedar, Rebecca found herself living much the way she had lived that first year in Great Salt Lake City. From dawn until night, she and every available hand worked in the fields and gardens. Getting water to the crops was the prime concern. This year more ditches were dug and fences erected. For the women, each moment free from the fields meant busying themselves at the loom, weaving the wool of their sheep into the fabric from which every item of clothing must be made.

The isolation of these southern communities was apparent when news and goods did arrive from the north. In April, the people of Cedar were told that the cornerstone of the temple had been laid in February of that year. Rebecca was lost in homesickness as she listened to news from the valley and visualized those tree-lined streets, those ample shops, and the sound of music and laughter.

They also learned that when Franklin Pierce became President of the United States, it was rumored that Brigham Young would be replaced as acting governor of Utah Territory. They were informed Brigham's roar had reached Washington: “Until the Lord Almighty says otherwise, Brigham Young will be governor over these people.”

Later they heard President Pierce appointed Lieutenant Colonel Steptoe to serve as civil governor and military head. With friendly diplomacy, Steptoe stationed himself at a discreet distance from Great Salt Lake City. For all practical purposes, Brigham Young continued to act as governor.

Since spring, mail from the north had been coming through on a regular basis. In vain Rebecca waited for a letter from Joshua. She had finally sent a letter to California but it remained unanswered; she had nearly abandoned hope of reaching him. Still, there was that promise, and in this barren land, the promise shone more brightly.

July passed. Founder's Day in Cedar was a celebration of progress. There was a picnic on the grounds of the new ward. The spindly saplings didn't provide shade, but there was food and company aplenty. True, the food leaned hard to corn prepared a hundred different ways, and the company was largely Indian; but there was a spirit of celebration.

In August a new copy of the
Deseret News
arrived in Cedar. It carried part of Brigham Young's sermon about the Indian problems. The newspaper was passed from hand to hand, and its contents became the most important subject of conversation.

Rebecca was delivered the sermon in bite-sized servings every mealtime, and Mrs. Morgan served her own particular seasoning. “Brother Brigham has no real understanding of this,” she fumed. “It's well to fuss about us living together in harmony in the fort, but he doesn't know about things being so crowded that at night you all arrange to turn over at the same time to keep from knocking knees. He says we need to be baptized into the church again, and then get the Spirit of God. Then he goes fussing about the cattle again, wanting us to send every cow to Great Salt Lake. Maybe we weren't going to put them through the tithing office, but they're better off here. At least we'll have something to eat this winter.”

“If the Indians don't get them,” her husband replied, stabbing his pancakes with vengeance.

Sister Morgan watched him and replied, “Well, Brother Brigham has the right idea.”

“What's that?”

She referred to the tattered newspaper. “Says every man, woman and child get himself a butcher knife and be good for one Indian.”

“Oh, I don't believe he said that.” Rebecca reached for the newspaper. She read silently and then said, “Well, I don't know, but it seems hard when you remember they're part of the lost tribes of Israel.” She looked at the paper again.

“Read it aloud,” Brother Morgan instructed.

“It's saying we're to meet them with death and send them to hell if they come at us.” She shivered. “I hope I don't have to make that choice.”

“Does seem a little stout, considering he's just started the mission to them.”

“Goes back to the Prophet's new translation,” Brother Morgan said. He pushed away from the table and wiped his mouth. “In Matthew and Mark both it says something like this, that if our hand offends us, we're to cut it off because it's better to go into life maimed than to go to hell. Now this new translation tells us that the hand or foot talked about in this passage really refers to our brother and that God intends for you to do him in rather than to put up with his sinning. Then it says it's better for us to be saved alone than to be pulled down to hell with him.”

“That's pretty hard,” Rebecca said slowly.

“Yes, siree, but it's no mistake. It's in the other revelations, too.”

“You mean the blood atonement,” Sister Morgan said. “I hear tell”—Cyrilla Morgan's eyes were wide with curiosity as she stared up at her mother, and Sister Morgan got to her feet, brushing the child aside.

Summer slipped into fall. The harvest hadn't been good, the crops had been first drenched and then scorched. Now the Saints faced a hungry winter.

Coal was being delivered to the foundry on a regular basis, but the toil involved with producing a wagonload of coal was costly, and the route down the mountain was steep and dangerous. Each measure of crude nails seemed precious beyond price.

The spring of 1854 found discouraged and disheartened Saints, winter-whipped and hungry. Isolated from the man who in the past had chided, cajoled, and encouraged them into stiffening their backs and throwing their shoulders to the wheel, they moved at a halfhearted pace through the spring ritual of plowing.

As Rebecca watched her neighbors, a new uneasiness was born in her heart. It wasn't the fear of Indians or starving; instead, it was the hopelessness she was seeing in their eyes.

She watched helplessly, guessing her neighbors were beyond being lifted by a cheerful word. She, too, was becoming aware of her own inadequacy. She saw herself swept and battered by life, moving swiftly toward a poverty of spirit which offered no resource for herself and certainly no reservoir of sustaining grace to share.

In the midst of her anguish, there were those up-tilted faces of her students. Those questioning eyes, with fear pooled in their depths, were her salvation. She must be lifted beyond herself and, miraculously, she was. In forcing her eyes away from the elusive horizon of hope, she found sustenance in the activities that brought smiles and laughter to her pupils.

On this bright day, the last day of school, Mary Morgan watched Rebecca pack the picnic basket. “You're spoiling those young'uns with all the funning. Seems with the stories of Indian troubles still comin' in, you'd be more concerned with saving their hides.”

“Seems to me,” Rebecca answered tartly, “if their spirits aren't rescued pretty soon, there'll be no call to save their hides.” For the third time, she reminded, “We're only walking to the clump of trees behind the school. We'll only be gone for an hour. After all, it's May Day, and we must celebrate.”

Momentarily, an expression close to envy slipped across the woman's face, but she watched in silence as Rebecca finished the basket and swung out the door to the group waiting for her. “There's Miss Becky!” They added their bundles to her basket. She was guessing the picnic basket would yield a few raisins and dried apples, probably some cold cornbread. Her offering was a griddle cake drizzled with honey. No matter, the poor fare would seem special eaten out-of-doors and shared with the others.

Ruth Haight skipped ahead of the others. “Miss Becky, say the poem about larks.”

“I can't remember it all.” She knew they were referring to the poem by Wordsworth, and she tried the phrases she remembered: “‘I have walked through wildernesses dreary, / And today my heart is weary; / Had I now the wings of a faery / Up to thee would I fly.' There's more about having joy and being a happy liver.”

“I wish we were happy livers,” Anthony said wistfully.

“I think we might be with practice,” Rebecca said gently.

“Let's practice. Let's make Miss Becky into a fairy princess.”

Catherine darted ahead, and the others followed her into the trees. When Rebecca caught up with the children, they had collected tiny button bouquets of wild flowers and a long trailing vine. “There, sit on the rock,” Anthony instructed. “We must make you a fairy princess. Here's your wand. Turn us all into happy toads.”

“I want to be a happy lark,” Cyrilla protested as she pushed Rebecca to her rock and plunged her hands into Rebecca's hair.

As it tumbled down, Rebecca cried, “What are you doing?”

“Princesses have their hair down. Oh, that's pretty. You should wear it down always. Now, here are your flowers, and we must make a ring and dance and sing until we turn into larks.”

There was a shout, and a horse crashed through the underbrush. “Why are you children here?” The angry voice reached them as the rider plunged through the bushes.

Spilling flowers and vines, Rebecca jumped to her feet and straightened her shoulders. “I'm their teacher, and we're taking a nature walk.”

The man slid from his horse and pulled off his hat. Those blue eyes. Her hands fluttered to her tumbled hair. His dusty beard and rough clothing were a contrast to the spotless black broadcloth she remembered, but she knew him.

“We're being larks.”

He turned, and his voice gentled. “Weren't you counseled to stay in the fort?”

“But our school isn't even in the fort,” Anthony protested. “Miss Becky takes good care of us.”

He walked to her, and his eyes began to question, “Haven't I—”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, “in Nauvoo.”

“Ah, yes.” His grin lightened his sun-darkened face. “The lady in full sail.”

The group was ushered back to the fort. Mr. Jacobson walked beside Rebecca telling of the Indian troubles up the valley. “We found a house burned to the ground. No sign of anyone, but the Indian trail was fresh and they were leading cattle. These are the kinds of things that get Brother Brigham's ire up. Now, you stay in the fort,” he ordered swinging back into the saddle.

Throughout the summer, Indian attacks on the Saints' cattle kept the women and children close to the fort. The men worked in the fields in groups. In the evening the conversation was low and tense as everyone listened.

Brother Jacobson was a frequent visitor, and Rebecca learned he had been recently appointed by President Young to enforce his orders in the small towns.

It was during one of the unexpected times Andrew Jacobson appeared at the fort that Rebecca began to realize how much his visits were meaning to her.

Her tentative questions about him were met with a raised eyebrow and a shrug. They did say that he lived south of Cedar. He seemed to be a lonely man.

By mid-July the problems with the Indians abated, and the settlers began to relax. The wheat and corn crops were doing well. Just outside the fort the kitchen gardens were progressing nicely. Squash, beans, potatoes and yams promised a better winter.

Now the daylight hours found more Saints outside the adobe walls. There was talk of moving from the fort into more comfortable homes before winter.

One hot July evening, Rebecca went to the well for water. As she turned to leave she nearly bumped into the horse pressing eager lips toward her bucket. Andrew Jacobson's voice spoke out of the shadows, “Aren't Rebeccas known for giving drinks to weary servants?”

As she poured her water into the drinking trough, she replied, “Seems to me Rebecca was paid pretty well for her troubles.”

“Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have…” His voice trailed away and Rebecca caught her breath. She noticed her foolish hands were trembling when she raised the bucket. They were inclined to do so around him.

“More Indians?” she asked.

“No, this is a pleasure trip. I was hoping to entice a certain young lady into taking a walk in the moonlight.”

“We've been given strict orders not to leave the fort after dark,” she teased.

“I've just rescinded the orders. In fact, there's a new order. Pretty ladies with golden hair are hereby ordered to entertain tired travelers by taking them for a walk in the moonlight.”

Down by Coal Creek, the air was sharp with the scent of willows and damp earth. The water of the creek reflected restless silver in the moonlight, and its spray was a gentle benediction to the day. Rebecca lifted her face to the dampness while Andrew plucked at her sleeve and motioned toward the trees.

Following him, she realized the creek had all the conversation. “Noisy, huh?” She sat down on a stump, and he leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree. “You know you're nearly as mysterious as the priest Melchizedec, without beginning or end. No one seems to know anything about you.”

“Ah.” His grin was white in the darkness. “Then I have the advantage; even Brother Brigham knows you.” Rebecca winced. “Don't look like that, it wasn't bad; he just said you were a filly who needs to be tamed.”