"I'd like to think I have a glimpse of that city myself," Bennett said. "But I sure hope you aren't going to keep the name of Commerce, just because those scruffy houses on the shore are pretending to be a town."
"The name of my city is Nauvoo," Joseph said.
Bennett looked at him dumbly, and Joseph winked at Porter Rockwell. Rockwell grinned and took the opportunity. "That's Hebrew, Mr. Bennett. For city beautiful."
One thing about Bennett. He could take a joke. He laughed harder than either of them, and told the story a dozen times, even though the tale was a poke at his own vanity. Within a few days practically everyone in Nauvoo had met John Bennett, and the longer he stayed the more the people saw that Joseph liked him. Liked him a lot. Bennett was baptized after a reasonable amount of time to allow for a proper conversion, and no one was taken by surprise that even though he didn't hold any official position, he managed to get invited to the meetings of practically every governing body of the Church. The only reason he didn't attend meetings of the Twelve, some folks said, was because the Twelve were in England. And a few even muttered that if Brigham and Heber and the rest of the Twelve were here, Bennett would find out that he wasn't the second tallest man in Nauvoo after all.
Joseph noticed the resentment. He had seen it before, when other men rose higher in the Church than some who had been Saints longer. But the jealousy of weak people would never stop him from using every able man he could find to build the Kingdom of God. Besides, there was Joseph's dream. John Bennett was little like a squirrel, and he had won Joseph's heart among the trees at the river's edge, just like the dream. And so Joseph tested him one day, when the two of them were alone.
"Brother John," he said, looking Bennett in the eye, "where's your family?"
Bennett smiled. "That's a bliss that God has not seen fit to grant me."
"Mr. Bennett," Joseph said, "where are your children?"
Bennett looked at him sharply. He caught the change in Joseph's tone, and the change in the way the Prophet addressed him. "It's something I don't much talk about. I guess I've got in the habit of lying. But it doesn't do much good to lie to a prophet, does it?" Bennett turned away, as if to hide the pain of recalling such bitter memories. "Brother Joseph, I caught my wife in bed with another man, back in Ohio, years ago. I was like to kill them both on the spot. Thank God I wasn't armed, or I would have. But I prayed for wisdom, and I prayed and prayed, for hours, until finally my heart was at peace. I knew then that it was the will of God for me to forgive, to just walk away and forgive. I wanted to take my children with me, but that was during the Black Hawk War, and I was going to be a surgeon there. So I left, meaning to return. The war wasn't half over when I started getting my letters back. She hadn't the decency even to tell me where she'd moved my children to."
Bennett's voice went high, and the urge to weep was plain, but he manfully held back the tears in spite of his grief. "I searched for a year, until I had no medical practice, no money, no home, and no hope. And then I woke up one morning and knew that it wouldn't do my children any good for me to ruin myself trying to find them. God had given me certain gifts, and it wasn't my right to waste them. I was needed. To do things like -- like what I'm doing here." He touched the table where the plans for the Nauvoo charter lay. "Brother Joseph, I abandoned my children. Do you think you could pray to the Lord and find out for me where my wife has taken them, or even just tell me whether they're alive or not!"
Joseph embraced him and let the man weep against his shoulder. This was his little squirrel, all right. He had abandoned his children, all because God needed him here, in Nauvoo, to do a mighty work among the Saints. "Brother John," Joseph said, answering the plea of the little beast in his dream. "Brother John, here among us you will always have an inheritance."
"Thank you," Bennett whispered. "As God is my witness, I'll never let you down."
25
On the Ship North America Liverpool, 1840
If ever a town was calculated to make a man glad to leave England, it was Liverpool. It lacked most of the smoke of Manchester, though it had enough to keep you well in mind of the taste of coal. But what was missing in effluent from the chimneys was well made-up-for in the sheer squalor, the brazen poverty that flaunted itself instead of hiding in the shade of buildings. The only sign that God had a hand in the creation of Liverpool was a dismal little cathedral that hardly deserved the name. It was a seaport town, John Kirkham told himself, forgiving the place for being itself; all sorts of foul things are brought to shore by the lapping of the waves.
John Kirkham was a forgiving man. He forgave Liverpool for being Liverpool; he forgave his family for giving up safety and security in Manchester and dragging him off to a land of savages -- if he didn't win a soggy grave on the way; most of all he forgave himself for his whole life. He had tried anguish, and it worked for a time. Then he tried self-justification. That worked not at all. Now he merely accepted. Accepted himself as a weak man who hadn't talent or drive to succeed at anything. Forgave himself for the lies that had won him a sinecure in his discarded home. And last of all endured easily even the humiliation of his son Charlie treating him like a child.
Now he stood on the dock in Liverpool where the Mersey was devoured by the sea, listening to his son haggling with a carter; he felt like a canopy of seaweed, contouring himself with the waves, rising where the water rose and sinking where it fell, and, because of that flexibility, holding together and staying alive. He was content. Life or death, America or hell, it made no difference to him. All the burdens had been lifted from him. No one looked to him for food and shelter; no one looked to him even for advice. Anna expected ardor now and then, which he willingly supplied. Other than that, he might as well have been a tree.
"I agreed in advance to a shilling one-and-a-half pence and that's what I'll pay!" Charlie was angry. It made his voice go high and weak.
"I didn't agree to that!" It was obviously a cheat: John had seen it often enough in London. The carter agrees on a price, and then at the destination the "owner" of the cart shows up and demands some outrageous fee, refusing to accept the earlier agreement. "You might as well kill my horse, you'll put me out of business in a minute that way!"
"You can't be doing too badly," Charlie pointed out. "After all, if you can hire a carter, you've got a bit to spare."
John cringed. If you started trying to be logical with these thieves, they'd have you every time.
"Well," said the owner, "I won't argue with you. I don't mean to be robbed on the open streets of Liverpool. We've had a bit of trouble with out-of-towners like you, and when I fetch a policeman you can plan on a day or so in the lock-up, and then a word with the magistrate."
"And I think the law will look more kindly on my agreement with this fellow than your claim for five times that amount. Shall we try the experiment? There's a policeman! Ho there! Officer!"
"Now don't go trying to cause me trouble -- it'll go harder with you. I'm willing to meet you halfway."
"And your carter here, he'll back me up in court, won't you, fellow? Under penalty of perjury?"
The carter would, and the owner instantly backed down, accepted the lower fee, unloaded the cart and quit the dock before anything worse happened. John smiled at his son in approval. The boy hadn't backed down before the threat after all. Charlie saw the smile and pretended not to notice it, but John was no fool. He knew that it made Charlie proud, to have his father -- even such a father -- approve of him.
Val and Honor were tired and out of sorts, and Dinah's patience had run out somewhere between the train station and the pier. Now the children were sitting on a box, their backs to each other, their hands folded, keeping quiet until their mother released them from the punishment. That was the theory. In fact they were squirming and crying and shouting at each other and their mother and the world at large. It was going to be a long voyage. Of course, a little seasickness would calm them down. It calmed a good number of children right to death, as
everyone knew, vomiting their lives out and dehydrating before their parents' eyes. After that thought John was willing to endure their noise. Nothing justified the deaths of little children. If anyone had asked him, which of course they hadn't, he would have said that it's better to leave your children behind than drag them off to die in a stinking little ship. But then, he was the expert on abandoning children, that's what they'd say to him if he tried to interfere. He knew the sound of contempt -- he had no desire to hear it again in their voices. So he held his tongue.
"Here comes the boat," Dinah said, and at that the children jumped up and ran to the edge of the pier. Anna screamed. John caught Honor six feet from the edge and Dinah took Val by the jacket right at the brink. Children were such damn fools it was a wonder any of them lived to adulthood. It was proof there was a God after all.
Everyone was in a flurry of fear, scolding the children and thanking God loudly that they had been quick enough. John said nothing. He usually said nothing these days. But it amused him. Their reaction was so out of proportion. This was just an excuse for them to let out the fear they had been keeping in for days.
How could they do it? he wondered. He was used to owning nothing -- this was nothing new to him, he liked it this way. But in their last few weeks as they sold off Anna's china and half Charlie's books, all their furniture, everything they could convert into cash, John had seen their anxiety growing. This was too much like poverty. They kept looking at John covertly, talking especially cheerfully when he was around. He knew what they said when he wasn't there: This is just like it was after Father left us. We're losing everything again. And yet they went ahead. One thing John had to admire them for -- they really had faith. Why, they were so damned Christian they had even forgiven John and taken him back, and that was a test he had never really believed they'd pass. Morinonism had made the difference. It was a sure bet that gentile Robert would never forgive him.
Dinah held her children tight, the scolding done. Val was writhing to get free, but John knew he wouldn't make it. Dinah clung to those children like a drunk to his cup. She was so afraid. John got a bit of pleasure out of that. Served her right, for thinking that she didn't need her husband.
The boat pulled up against the dock and the sailors started manhandling the boxes aboard.
"Careful," Charlie said.
The sailors stopped in mid-throw, long enough to glare with loathing at him, and then treated the boxes rougher than before. How interesting, John thought. There may be murders aboard this ship before we reach New York.
Their things were loaded on the boat, ready to be ferried out to the ship at anchor in the river, and they were just about to board themselves when another family of Saints arrived, Brother and Sister Corbridge from Thomly. They were farmers and had little luggage, so they were loaded aboard quickly. Val at once took possession of their oldest child, a two-year-old girl, Mary; they also had a babe-in-arms that squalled constantly, a boy named John. Plain names for plain people. The salt of the earth. The scum of the earth. All depended on your point of view. John Kirkham took a scanted view of mankind. He leaned a bit toward the scum opinion, and willingly included himself in that category.
There was a lot of terror and shouting and impatience as they clambered down into the boat. The tiny vessel rocked alarmingly as they got in, and from the pier it looked like they were being expected to jump into a bucket from a second-story window. The Corbridges were the worst -- the adults, not the little ones. When they were finally aboard, James Corbridge turned to John Kirkham -- apparently under the misconception that he was the head of the family -- and apologized. "Can't swim, you know, nor the missus."
"Neither can I," John said merrily. He could afford to be fearless. He didn't really much care at this moment whether the boat stayed afloat or not. All one to him.
"Only water I've ever been in was to baptize me," Corbridge went on. Then caught himself. "Oh, and bathing, too, but that don't count."
"No sir," John agreed. "Don't count at all."
The boat reacted seismically to every undulation of the water. Mrs. Corbridge looked a little ill. Her husband was quite solicitous. "Not so bad, Elizabeth. The little ship rocks but the big one'll stand still in the water."
When they got to the ship, it was harder than it had been at the pier -- the dock had at least held still. Dinah became quite timid about climbing up the ladder, especially holding Honor, so Charlie made the trip twice, once with each child. John was amused that it didn't occur to any of them that he could carry a child. But the Corbridges gave him their little John to carry -- strangers, he noted, valued him higher than his own kin. Well, he could forgive that, too. It was the Corbridges who were too trusting, not his family too suspicious.
Their boxes were winched aboard and dropped with a resounding thud on the deck. Anna grimaced. "I'm glad I sold my china after all." Then they manhandled the boxes down the hatchway, down the steep stairways, into the deepest, dankest portions of the ship.
Steerage. It was the only way most of the Saints could afford to travel, and Charlie and Anna had decided they would go steerage even though they could afford second-class cabins, because they belonged with the Saints. John might have offered advice to the contrary, but he went unasked. So he helped Charlie stack the boxes, leaving the ones full of food atop the pile, and then calmly accepted Charlie's decision that Anna would sleep with Val and Dinah with Honor, while Charlie and John shared a bed. It made no difference. In this unprivate place Anna would not expect any conjugal bliss for the duration. And Charlie didn't snore. He'd make a good husband someday.
When the Corbridges got their things down, it turned out there wasn't room for all their boxes to be in easy reach. So there was a general reshuffling as both families repacked their belongings to keep food and most-needed clothes in the accessible boxes. When it was done, everyone sat down on the edges of the lower berths and looked at each other.
"I've seen gaols with more room than this," John said. The joke fell flat. The family reacted with quiet disdain. The Corbridges laughed, but they didn't assume that John had really been in gaol.
John looked down the rows of berths, which were officially regarded as being wide enough for two persons. The berths were bunked two levels high, and the beams of the ceiling hung low enough that Charlie, at least, had to duck. John noticed that before Charlie learned to bend over all the time when walking, he bumped his head fiercely several times; and as was his wont, John cheerfully forgave the ship for doing it.
It took Charlie an hour or so of poking around and making himself obnoxious to the sailors, but by day's end he felt he knew the ship. Knowledge was ownership for Charlie. so the North America was his now; he was in charge. He presumptuously made friends with Captain Lower, and without anyone asking him to, he became the liaison between the Saints and the ship's officers. When Brigham Young, Willard Richards, and John Taylor arrived to hold services on the ship, it was Charlie who arranged permission to hold the meeting on the main deck. Charlie was brazen enough to ask Captain Lower to attend, and even though he politely declined -- he would be ashore at that time -- there was a palpable warming of relations. It was Charlie's greatest gift: strangers could not help but find him likeable.
At the meeting, Brother Brigham made official what Charlie had already done, and appointed him clerk of the company. Obviously this was going to be a fine and successful voyage.
Charlie even loved the gentle rocking of the boat. He quickly learned to walk on the swaying decks without lurching, and writing the official journal for the company of Saints he prided himself on the fact that his handwriting showed not a sign of the movement of the ship.
Others did not fare so well, though. More than one Saint complained of slight nausea and headaches. "You'll get used to it quicker than you think," Charlie encouraged them. It could be much worse." For once Charlie was being prophetic. None of the Saints yet had a notion of the difference between harbor and open sea. It was a figure of things to
come when the little Corbridge girl became sick with the sway of the boat at anchor, and vomited in the night. The acrid smell was annoying, but Charlie said nothing, just listened as Val complained to Dinah, "It stinks." Dinah hushed the boy, but for the first time Charlie realized that children might really have it worse than adults on the voyage. No adult had vomited, at least, and he heard the next day that two other little ones had been sick in the night.
"Fresh fruit, that's what we need," Anna assured Sister Corbridge. "That'll have your little girl fresh as a daisy in no time." Of course that meant Charlie would go into Liverpool -- there wasn't a chance in the world that Dinah or Anna would climb the ladder from the ship into that miserable little boat until they got to New York. Father looked bored, so Charlie invited him to come along. Without a word John got up and put on his coat. There wasn't a chance of him doing something so polite as saying, "Thanks for inviting me," or even, "Splendid idea."
The ladder was harder down than up, but Charlie handled it well and then shouted advice to his father as he climbed down after him. In the boat Charlie felt like an old sailor, and he asked the rowers questions, using ship's terminology as much as he could -- lots of fo'c'sle and mizzenmast and starboard and aft. He only quit when he finally realized the suntanned men found him somewhere between amusing and annoying.