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:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore; -- Turn wheresoeer I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
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.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar, Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home.
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.
As the Saints were drifting away, Charlie saw Harriette and Sally well to the back, and Sally waved at him. He smiled at her, wishing insanely that he could go with her wherever she was going tonight. That lustful desire passed quickly, though, when he saw Harriette also lift her hand to him. Charlie touched his brow to salute her and smiled, in thanks for her gift to Dinah. Harriette actually smiled in return. Then, to Charlie's delight, Sally quickly drew her sister away. I earned a smile from Harriette, and Sally's jealous of her sister. I'm not the only one mad with love.
A bit later the first mate clumped into steerage and loudly announced, "Storm comin' up, and captain says all's to be tied down fast. We're in for a good rocking tonight." There was an hour of bustle as the unprepared borrowed rope from those who could spare it, and then supper was cold bread and little of that, because fires were forbidden and many of the Saints had forgotten and tied down their food boxes. Charlie didn't mind. Hunger now and then was a sort of pleasure, and the prospect of a storm was exciting. He came alive in wind, and had long suspected that the pagans might have been right about God dwelling in sheets of rain and lightning. Snug inside the ship, the rainstorm should be invigorating.
Soon enough, however, he and all the company discovered that a good rocking was not the same as sitting indoors a tight little house listening to the howl of the wind outside. The ship did not sway, now it lurched from side to side, and you could never be sure which way it would move next in its incredible wandering through pitch, roll, and yaw. Being two decks down, they could not hear any rain or wind, just the agonized shrieking of the timbers and the whine of the rigging like a dream of hell. For Charlie, it was more excitement than he would have wished, and now for the first time he felt a touch of queasiness. However, many others who had already been ill were now violently sick, and soon the stench of vomit had Charlie cursing the first mate for not warning the Saints not to eat any supper at all.
Anna and John were sick enough that they had to lie down, but Charlie and Dinah were both much better off, and soon they were moving among the Saints, mopping up vomit, soothing the panicky, and carrying water for washing and drinking. The children had it worst -- there was not a one under the age of five who wasn't sick, and in their fear they had no patience. They screamed in terror until they vomited, then choked on it until they were able to start screaming again. There would be little sleep in steerage that night. It was not until well toward morning that the storm eased off enough that the exhausted, fevered children could sleep, and then the groaning adults began to doze. Charlie made Dinah lie down then, while he and Elder Turley and William Clayton drew seawater and brought it down into steerage and washed the vomit from the deck.
At dawn, Elder Turley ordered the whole company on deck to wash. If they were to survive the voyage, they would have to stay clean, and it was all the more vital when many of them were ill. The sky was still lowering, but the sea was calmer in the grey light. They washed in seawater, of course, since fresh water was for drinking. The men stripped down and bathed entire, but the women soon realized there was no preventing the sailors in the rigging from having a look at anything they did, so the women had to content themselves with washing face and hands and mopping at their dresses. The seawater took care of the sweat and oil and dirt, but it left behind its own residue of salt, which so itched and irritated that some of the Saints had to use some of their precious rations of fresh water to dab it off their faces. Then the men regretted that they hadn't followed the women's practice, for they hadn't fresh water enough to rinse their whole bodies.
By noon, however, the storm came up again and no one cared much whether they itched or not. The first mate brought them the dismal news that they were pretty much pacing the gale -- it would be with them for some days. Elder Turley led them in prayers for the health and strength of the company and the protection of the ship, and they went below again.
The second night was worse than the first. And now the condition of some of the children became serious. The Corbridges' infant son John, in the berth right across from Dinah and Anna, cried without ceasing all day and all night. He couldn't even keep water in his stomach, and retched in dry agony when there was nothing left in him. He had a high fever by evening. Dinah stayed with the Corbridges most of the night, trying to give the child water from her own ration -- and Anna's and John's and Charlie's as well. Charlie even had a turn standing in the aisle holding the boy, trying to outguess the movement of the ship to give the child something close to a steady berth. Little John did not sleep, did not drink, did not eat, and his fever did not break.
It was not just steerage that suffered. They heard at dawn that a little girl in second-class had gone insane from fear, screaming constantly; she died before morning, though whether from fear or the extreme vomiting could not be determined. The storm abated the next day, and the girl was quickly buried at sea. But now several children were very ill, despite the calmer waters, and Charlie watched as Dinah became something of an angel, always at the berth of a crying child, comforting the parents, who knew that some children were bound to die on the voyage and were terrified that their own would be among that number. And when in calmer moments the children had some peace, Dinah still did not rest, but brought water and thin broth to the many adults who lay helpless and groaning in their stinking berths. Some of the adults could not bring themselves to leave their berths even to make water or move their bowels, and so new stenches were added to the smell of puke. And pouring seawater across the floor would not be enough now -- some had defecated in their clothing, and many had left night soil in their berths.
The worst of it, to Charlie's mind, was that many of the Saints were not behaving like Saints at all -- there was a good deal of grumbling, and some who even said quite openly that they doubted God would have commanded them to bring their children out to die. Elder Turley called the Saints together and tried to smoothe things over, but some refused to cooperate. One man said right out that he expected the Corbridges' son to die. Sister Corbridge began to cry; it was a dreadful night, and Charlie was hard-pressed to find anything uplifting to write in the journal. So he wrote about Dinah, who, despite near sleeplessness night after night, still held little John Corbridge until at last, fevered and frantic and utterly worn out, he finally cried himself to sleep. Then she laid the infant in Sister Corbridge's arms and all were asleep in a few minutes.
The child died in his sleep before morning. At dawn Sister Corbridge held the little body while Anna and the child's father sewed a length of sail cloth to hold him. The captain ordered that all dead were to be put into the sea within the hour -- it would do no good to have corpses around to cause worse gloom, and perhaps spread disease. It was very wise of him, but the hurry of it made the poor Corbridges frantic with grief.
Dinah embraced Sister Corbridge as they watched the child being committed to the deep, as Captain Lower called it. The sea was so rough that they couldn't even hear the splash. Sister Corbridge wept bitterly, and Dinah held her as her husband looked helplessly on. Charlie went to the man, if only because no one else did. "I'm sorry," he said.
James Corbridge managed a little smile in return. "I have no lack of faith," he said. "And it says in the Book of Mormon, doesn't it, that little children who die unbaptized are taken straight to the arms of Christ?" Charlie nodded, marveling that the man could take such comfort from words in a book, even if the book was true.
After the burial, going down into steerage again was a shock. They had known it smelled bad before, but not how bad until now, when they came from the fresh air of the deck. "It's unliveable," Elder Turley said to William Clayton and Charlie. "The
y've been shitting in the berths."
"Well," said William Clayton, "if they won't take care of themselves, we've got to take care of them."
Turley pondered for a moment, and then said, "All right, William. Boil some seawater. Some folks will have a bath this morning on deck, and while they're up here, we'll have their berths scrubbed down. We won't become animals, and that's final."
Charlie and Elder Turley went down to steerage and began following their noses, an infallible guide to those who needed washing. There were protests, of course, as they carried grown men and women onto the deck, where others stripped them and washed them. But those too weak to get up and put their night soil where it belonged were generally too weak to struggle much. Clothes were washed, berths were scrubbed out, and by nightfall, though the storm was still with them, it became clear that the worst was over. The sheer activity had helped those who did the work, and the cleaner air helped all the rest. Sailors came through steerage burning oil to clear the last of the odors, and then Elder Turley insisted that they have a prayer meeting and sing all the cheerfulest hymns they could find.