The Undaunted : The Miracle of the Hole-In-The-Rock Pioneers Page 27

  “Remember when we were in St. George? There was a lot of talk about sending a mission to the Four Corners area?”

  He leaned forward, interested now. “I do remember. You think that’s what this is about?”

  “Daddy thinks so. Elder Erastus Snow, one of the Twelve Apostles, will be there. He lives in St. George but has responsibility for all of the settlements in southern Utah. The speculation is running wild. We do know that Elder Snow wrote a letter last summer to President Taylor.” She stopped. “That’s John Taylor, president of the Church.”

  He gave her a reproving look. “I may not be much of a Mormon, Abby, but I do read the newspapers. I know who the president of the Church is.”

  She flushed a little. “Sorry. Anyway, Elder Snow recommended that a colony be sent to the area around the San Juan River.1 Rumors are flying that he is here to make that official.”

  “Hmm. When would they go?”

  “Don’t know. Nothing’s official yet. May still be nothing but rumors.”

  He saw the dejection on her face. “You don’t think it will affect your family, do you?”

  Her eyes raised to meet his. They were nearly black in the lamplight, but they were clearly troubled. “I don’t think so. Father hardly qualifies as a frontiersman, Mother even less so. He was raised in Boston. Started as a hotel janitor at age twelve. Worked his way up to manager by the time he was twenty, and owned the hotel when he was twenty-seven. So he’s a gifted businessman, but I don’t think there’ll be much need for a hotel in San Juan country for a long time.”

  “Dunno,” he observed. “All them rustlers have got to stay somewhere.”

  There was a soft snicker. “I can just see the sign now: McKenna House—Rooms half price for outlaws and reprobates.”

  “Steel bars at no extra charge.” His humor was partially to hide his huge relief. Having the McKennas leave would be a real blow. He liked working for Patrick. And with the extra jobs he kept pushing David’s way, David had added another hundred dollars to his ranch fund. There was also Billy Joe. He would miss the boy’s crooked grin and unabashed exuberance for life almost as much as he would miss Molly. He laughed softly to himself. And, of course, there was Molly. That would be a real loss.

  He saw that Abby was watching him steadily. A wisp of dark hair had escaped down across her forehead. Fetching, he thought. It was a good word.

  The Angel’s Landing experience had significantly altered their relationship. To David’s surprise, Abby did not tell the others that she had gone across the spine. She just smiled as Molly told her how wonderful it was and how sad she was that Abby hadn’t made it across. That had puzzled David at first, but then he understood. This was her victory, her personal conquest, and she didn’t need to share it. As far as David could tell, he was still the only one who knew what she had done.

  “Did you have a good Christmas?” Abby had been watching his face, wondering what was going on behind those pensive eyes.

  “We did,” he said. “Dad and I had a really good visit. I was delighted when he agreed to retire from the mines this summer and come down here to live.”

  “Really? Wonderful. I’m anxious to meet him. I plan to be really impressed by him.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say.”

  She was a little embarrassed. “I’ve watched your face when you talk about him. I have decided he must be a remarkable man.”

  “He is remarkable. Simple. Plain-talking. Uneducated. But very wise.” He paused for a moment, then decided to tell her about his gift to his father. “He actually cried,” he said when he was finished. “The only other time I’ve ever seen him cry was when my mother died, then again at her funeral.”

  She was touched. “So he never went to school at all?”

  He shook his head. “He started in the mines when he was five.”

  “Five?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes. “I cannot begin to fathom how horrible that would be. When I was five and six, all I had to do was play with dolls and make my own bed in the morning.”

  His eyes had a faraway look in them now. “It was the only thing I ever remember me Mum and Dad fighting over. All the boys started at five. Families were anxious for them to do so because they needed the money so desperately.”

  “You almost sound like you were disappointed that your mother made you wait.”

  “I was then. Terribly so. All my friends were working and getting paid. It was a pittance, of course. Only a few pence per week, but still. . . . Instead, Mum kept me home and taught me to read and write.” There was a scornful laugh. “You can bet that won me a few black eyes. They called me a sissy. Little Davee-Do-Good. Couldn’t get my hands dirty.”

  She was nodding slowly. “So that’s why you wouldn’t let Billy Joe just walk away from Sammy that day.” It was not a question, but an expression of her sudden insight.

  “Yes. I knew what would happen. Sammy’s kind always come back until you show them you’re not a weakling.”

  Silence filled the room as both were lost in their thoughts. Finally, he gave her a wry look. “Thank you for calling him Billy Joe. It really was pretty cheeky of me to jump in like that, with a boy I didn’t even know.”

  She laughed. “We all call him that now. Even Mother.”

  “I know. But you were the first.”

  “The first time I caught myself doing it, I was mad at you all over again because it came out so natural for me. You were right. Patrick suddenly didn’t seem to fit. And it made me angry that you saw that before I did.”

  “If you get mad every time I’m right,” he said lazily, “you’re always going to be angry.”

  To his surprise, she laughed, openly and with delight. “You are something else, David Draper.”

  “Which reminds me,” he said. “You owe me an apology.”

  “What for?”

  “Dunno. Remember in Zion Canyon you started to apologize, then we got interrupted.”

  “Oh.” She looked embarrassed. “I . . .” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter now.”

  “Are you kidding? You think I’d let an apology from Abby McKenna go to waste?”

  There was a slow smile. “They come so seldom because I am so seldom wrong, just like someone else I know.” Then she grew serious. “I . . . I just wanted to say that some of the things I said that morning at the campfire—about you always trying to get girls . . .”

  “All atwitter was the word you used, as I remember.”

  She nodded. “That was unkind. You do have a gift for getting under my skin, but all of that was uncalled for.”

  “Apology accepted, and I shall try to be more circumspect when I am around you.”

  She openly hooted at that. “That will be the day.” Then, very uncomfortable now, she quickly changed the subject. “Billy Joe wanted to wait here until you came. Molly too, but where Dad and Mother—” she gave him a quick smile—“he and Mum were out visiting, Molly had to stay with Billy Joe. They were both grumping about the house when I left.” Now her eyes met his. “He really thinks the world of you, David.”

  “He’s great,” he laughed. “He tickles me. Reminds me of myself when I was a kid.”

  “Was it awful?” she asked softly. “When I try to picture Billy Joe in those tunnels—” A shiver ran down her spine.

  “Back then I didn’t think of it as being awful,” he said. “It was just life.”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Pretty boring stuff.”

  “Please.”

  And so he did. He started from the beginning, talking about being a trapper, about the terrible darkness, the loneliness, the tedium, the rats. He told her about his mother giving him the extra candle and getting him books. He described life as a hurrier, bent over double pulling the coal tubs through the monkey heads, and about his contest with Sean Williams for the position of spragger. And then, he did something totally unexpected. He told her about
Bertie Beames and his part in his death. He suddenly wanted to unburden himself of it.

  “That was really the only thing about the mines that was truly awful,” he finished, his voice a bare whisper, his eyes dark and hooded. “Even now, sixteen years later, I can picture his body lying there beside that shattered coal car, nobody even bothering to put a blanket over him. They didn’t care. Not the mine boss. Not the mine owners. Just keep the money coming so they can live in their castles and palaces and look down their haughty little noses at the dirty, unwashed, black-faced coal miners and their kids.”

  “Have you ever heard of Elizabeth Barrett Browning?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Her father made a fortune in sugar in the West Indies, and bought a large estate in Herefordshire.” She pronounced it HUR-furd-shire. “Is that how you say it?”

  “More like HARE-ah-furd-shur.”

  She nodded. “As a girl, Elizabeth had everything. But she was very sensitive to the evils of the world around her. She became one of England’s most famous poetesses.”

  “Sorry. Never heard of her.”

  “Somehow, she learned of the appalling conditions in the mines, especially for children. She once described a mine as a dark and ruthless place where a child sacrificed not only his innocence but also his claim to childhood.”

  “Amen,” he murmured.

  “She wrote a poem called ‘The Cry of the Children.’ When I was sixteen, our teacher made us choose a more lengthy poem to memorize. I chose that one.”

  He studied her face. Though her eyes showed no tears, he could tell she was having a hard time with her emotions. “Will you tell it to me?”

  “That day at Aunt Rachel’s house, when you were so angry, and you told us about working in the mines, I was horrified. As soon as we got back home, I went to the library and found it, and memorized it all over again. It’s very long. I’ll only do a few portions of it.” She closed her eyes.

  Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, ere the sorrow comes with years?

  They are leaning their young heads against their mothers—and that cannot stop their tears.

  The young, young children, O my brothers, they are weeping bitterly!—

  They are weeping in the playtime of the others in the country of the free.

  But the young, young children, O my brothers, do you ask them why they stand

  Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, in our happy Fatherland?

  “For oh,” say the children, “we are weary, and we cannot run or leap—

  If we cared for any meadows, it were merely to drop down in them and sleep.

  For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, through the coal-dark, underground—

  Now, tell the poor young children—

  David’s head came up as Abby stopped. The tears had finally come and she was trying vainly to blink them away.

  Now, tell the poor young children, O my brothers, to look up to Him and pray—

  So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others, will bless them another day.

  They answer, “Who is God that He should hear us, while the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?

  Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, hears our weeping any more?

  “Wait,” David blurted. “Say that last again.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Please. Where it talks about God.”

  She finally nodded, and started again.

  Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, hears our weeping any more?

  His eyes were stricken. “Those could be the very words of my own mother.” He dropped his head in his hands. “Go on.”

  “But no!” say the children, weeping faster, “He is speechless as a stone;

  Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving—We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.”

  And well may the children weep before you; they are weary ere they run;

  They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory which is brighter than the sun:

  “How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation, will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,

  Our blood splashes upward, O you tyrants, and your purple shows your path;

  But the child’s sob curseth deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!”2

  Neither spoke. Nor did they until Abby’s father returned with Carl ten minutes later.

  Notes

  ^1. Erastus Snow sent a letter to President John Taylor discussing the situation in the Four Corners area. It was dated June 11, 1878 (see Miller, Hole, 6).

  ^2. A full copy of Browning’s poem can be found on www.bartleby.com/246/260.html.

  ^q.“Half eight” is the British way of saying eight–thirty, or half past eight.

  Chapter 25

  Sunday, December 29, 1878

  The first session of the conference at the Parowan meetinghouse was scheduled to start at ten o’clock Sunday morning, but by nine-fifteen, when David arrived with the McKennas, the fields around the Old Rock Church were already filling with carriages, wagons, buggies, and a few carts. Patrick had been right to suggest they go early. In spite of the bitter cold, people had come in from the surrounding towns and settlements that constituted the Parowan Stake.

  Since the hotel in Parowan was just a block or two from the church, the McKennas had walked. As they came up to join the throngs moving toward the doors, Sarah exclaimed, “Oh! There are the Nielsons.” She waved and called a greeting.

  David looked over and saw a family group walking toward the chapel. They looked familiar. The man leading the small group was older, quite tall, and walked with a rather severe limp. “Who’s that?” he asked. “I’ve seen him around town, I think.”

  “That’s Jens Nielson and his family,” Sarah explained.

  Molly got a dreamy look in her eyes again. “See the young couple in the back? That’s his daughter, Mary. She and her husband, Kumen Jones, were married in the St. George Temple just a week ago. He’s a rancher out west of town. Oh, doesn’t she look just radiant?”

  “She just looks cold to me,” David observed.

  Billy Joe sniggered, but Molly kicked David in the shins. “Oh, you!”

  “What happened to Brother Nielson’s foot?”

  “It got frozen,” Billy Joe blurted.

  “Not so loud,” his father shushed. Then he looked at David. “The Nielsons came across the plains with the Willie Handcart Company. His feet were badly frostbitten one night.”

  Molly moved in and lowered her voice. “Sister Nielson—everyone calls her Aunt Elsie—she’s the little tiny woman beside Brother Nielson.” She sighed. “Aren’t they cute together? She probably only weighs half of what he does. Anyway, when Brother Nielson couldn’t go any farther, Aunt Elsie put him in the handcart and pulled him the rest of the way to Salt Lake City.”

  “Not to Salt Lake,” Abby corrected her. “Just to the camp where the rescue wagons were waiting for them.”

  “Whatever. It was still a long ways, and tiny as she is, she wouldn’t let him die. She made him get in the cart. That is so romantic.”

  “I think courageous is the better word.” Abby was clearly peeved with the starry-eyed fluff.

  “Oh,” Sarah cut in, “there’s Brother Francis Webster from our ward. He’s another handcart pioneer. He and his wife were in the Martin Company that lost so many people.”1

  “Bishop Nielson and Aunt Elsie are two of my favorite people,” Molly continued, refusing to be deflected from her story. “And—”

  “Bishop?” David asked. “I thought Bishop Arthur was the bishop in Cedar City.”

  “Brother Nielson’s not the bishop now, but he was over in Panguitch.” She was losing patience with all the interruptions.

  Her father broke in. “And I think we’d better keep moving or we aren’t going to get a seat.”

  The Parowan meetinghouse was packed to the rafters. One could almost tast
e the excitement as they sang the opening hymn and had an opening prayer. With that done, the stake president, Henry Lunt, finally stood and came to the pulpit. Instantly the hall went quiet.

  “Brothers and sisters, we are so pleased to have Elder Erastus Snow with us again this morning in our conference. We so appreciate his willingness to come up from St. George and—” he paused for effect—“brave a real winter.”

  There was a ripple of laughter at that. It became a roar when Elder Snow, clearly visible on the stand, hugged himself and feigned a shiver. The “upper settlements,” the ones north of the Black Ridge and therefore of considerably higher elevation than St. George and its surrounding settlements, enjoyed poking a little fun at their brothers and sisters to the south. They called them hothouse plants whose leaves got nipped with the first sign of frost. The lowland St. Georgians answered that by saying jealousy always makes the tongue a sharp critic.

  “We shall be pleased,” the stake president continued, “to hear a discourse from Elder Snow later in the program, but he has an item of business to conduct before that. Since this is a rather unusual item of business, Elder Snow should like to offer a brief explanation before it is presented to you for your consideration. Elder Snow.”

  A buzz filled the hall. Mothers started shushing their children. It was hardly normal to have anyone—let alone an Apostle—explain an item of business before it was presented.

  The president stepped back, and Elder Snow rose and came to the pulpit. “Thank you, President Lunt.” He paused and let the buzz die down. Then a slow smile stole across his face. “I have to say that there is some validity to President Lunt’s comment. Just the other day, I had an elderly sister come up to me. ‘Elder Snow,’ she said, ‘can you tell me if they named that fluffy white stuff I remember seeing as a little girl after you?’”

  The laughter exploded in waves now. He had them totally with him.

  While they had waited for the meeting to begin, Patrick had briefly filled David in on Elder Erastus Snow. He was ordained an Apostle just two years after the Saints had come to Utah and was one of the pioneers to the southern part of the territory. He was much beloved and respected by the Saints, according to McKenna.