A Many-Splendoured Thing Read online

  ‘No! No!’ his wife pleaded, grabbing his arm. ‘You cannot shoot at them, husband! Vengeance is the Lord’s prerogative! We cannot become murderers because they are!’

  Nephi Spencer paid her no heed. He had been forced to flee once that night and he knew he would rather be dead than flee again.

  Stones smashed the windows, one of them hitting Sister Schulster on the temple and sending her reeling, blood pouring down her face.

  Polly rushed across to her and as she did so musket fire splintered Lucy’s piano and rained on the walls. The women screamed, huddling for safety behind the sofa, shielding the terrified children with their bodies.

  ‘Shoot high!’ Tom Marriot was shouting to his son. ‘Don’t shoot to kill! Shoot high!’

  Susannah Spencer was praying, her eyes tightly closed. Lucy was clutching her heart. Eliza Cowley was half insensible with fear and the children cried piteously as the noise and shots increased. As Polly tended Sister Schulster, a burly figure leapt through the shattered kitchen window, and rushed into the room behind her. With a cry of pain and terror, her arms were wrenched behind her back and she was dragged to the far side of the room as her captor shouted.

  ‘One more shot and I’ll blow her brains out!’

  She had a dazed recollection of Nephi and Tom turning in horror and dropping their pistols. Of Jared’s face, white and contorted with helpless rage.

  There was the sound of breaking wood as the door was forced and then the mob poured into the little parlour, laughing and jeering, smashing all they could lay their hands on while Tom and Jared and Nephi were herded outside, muskets at their backs.

  With her arms held cruelly high behind her Polly watched, appalled, as crockery and books, mirrors and pictures, began to fly through the open windows and smash on the hard-packed snow.

  ‘Oh no! Please God, no!’ she protested, her heart feeling as if it would burst.

  Lucy was pathetically reaching restraining hands to an oaf who was ripping down her carefully-stitched curtains. Sister Cowley was lying prostrate on the floor. Sister Schulster, oblivious of her injury, was vainly attacking a man who had lascivious hold of Lydia Lyman. Sister Spencer was clutching the Marriot Bible to her breast, her eyes wild, her sobbing children clinging to her skirts. As Polly watched, grimy hands forced the children aside and wrenched the Bible from her grasp. Furiously, Polly writhed free of her captor and hurled herself forward, grabbing the Bible, drumming booted feet into rock-like legs, overcome with a rage that was murderous.

  There was a crescendo of fresh screams and a rushing, roaring sound as burning brands were tossed into the middle of the parlour. A sheet of flame leapt across the room, its heat searing her face. Lydia Lyman broke loose from her captor and seized Sister Cowley, hurling her from the room. Polly grabbed Lucy, sparks catching at her hair and skirt. Outside their tormentors whooped and cheered, feeding the flames with anything they could lay hands on.

  ‘Heathens! Infidels!’ Susannah Spencer sobbed, clutching her children in her arms.

  Tom Marriot had fallen to his knees in prayer. His son stood, his fury that of a man demented as he was held by the mob and forced to watch as his home was devoured by flames. Lucy’s sobs were uncontrollable.

  ‘What shall we do? Where shall we go?’ she cried pathetically.

  Polly felt the rage inside her grow cold and hard. She knew what they would do and where they would go. They would travel West. Far away from the thugs who burned and looted for the sheer sport of it.

  ‘Fetch the tar bucket, boys,’ cried the brute who had half wrenched her arms from their sockets. ‘There’s a feather tick saved and t’would be fool to waste it.’

  Polly felt her face drain of blood. Sister Spencer screamed and kept on screaming. Lydia Lyman threw herself physically at the ringleader and was rewarded by a blow that sent her reeling to the frozen ground.

  The men laughed and one said regretfully, ‘We’d best content ourselves with one of them. These flames will bring the militia down on us within the hour!’

  With pistols at their heads, Tom and Nephi were forced to watch impotently as Jared’s shirt was stripped from his back and despite his crazed struggles he was bound hand and foot.

  The older women turned their heads away, weeping, as the feather tick was ripped open and a rag was thrust in Jared’s mouth. Lucy gave a low moan and collapsed insensible on to the snow. Polly gathered the crying children around her, feeling as if she had been transported to hell as she pressed their faces to her skirt, and Jared Marriot was tarred and feathered by the light of his burning home.

  Chapter Two

  It was noon the following day before the combined ministrations of the women had removed the blistering tar and the feathers. Jared’s skin was inflamed and burned, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. Only the rag in his mouth had prevented the tar choking him to death.

  ‘Heathens and ruffians!’ Sister Schulster said vehemently as she applied salve to Jared’s raw skin. ‘Not one more day will I stay! I’ll leave for the West and the Promised Land if I have to leave alone!’

  ‘I doubt you’ll be alone, Sister,’ Tom Marriot said wearily. ‘There can be no future for us here.’

  ‘We should have gone with Brother Brigham,’ Susannah Spencer said tearfully. ‘I told Nephi that we should have gone with the others, but he urged that we wait till spring. Now see what has happened! We have no home! No shelter!’

  ‘We had the Governor’s promise,’ Tom Marriot said gently. ‘Brigham Young would not have left one single soul behind if he had thought that harm would come to them.’

  ‘The Governor cannot control the thugs of St Louis,’ Lydia Lyman said flatly. ‘Sister Schulster is right. We must go, and the quicker the better.’ Sister Lyman was a formidable woman of forty years or more. She had made her own wagon with the help of a neighbour, and was a lady of such awesome capability that it wouldn’t have surprised Polly if she had felled the very timber for it herself.

  Jared eased his shirt on gingerly, his expression frightening. ‘We go, but not until I have exacted revenge.’

  The jug in Lucy’s hand clattered to the floor. ‘What do you mean, son? There can be no revenge against men who are mad and will stop at nothing, not even murder.’

  Jared seized his pistol and rammed it down his belt. ‘I’m riding for St Louis. I’ll find that mob if it’s the last thing I do!’

  Lucy’s face was grey. ‘No, Jared! Wait!’ She clutched his arm restrainingly.

  ‘Revenge is not the way,’ Tom Marriot said quietly.

  ‘Then what is?’ Jared’s eyes blazed with frustration. ‘Are we women, to stand by while our homes are burned and looted?’

  ‘We are Christians,’ his father said. ‘We defend our own whenever possible, but we do not seek revenge. It is not the Lord’s way. Put down your pistol, son, and help us make plans for joining Brother Brigham.’

  Their eyes held for a long, silent moment and then Jared’s shoulders sagged and he removed his pistol from his belt.

  Lucy gave a cry of relief and her husband looked across at her queryingly. ‘Do we go too, wife?’

  Lucy nodded. She had pleaded with Tom that they stay behind when their friends and neighbours had left. The prospect of the hazards of the journey West had daunted her. Now she had no more doubts. Anything would be preferable to seeing her son hanged for murder.

  All that day and through the next night, by lamplight and candlelight, houses were evacuated and wagons loaded.

  Sister Schulster was to travel with the Spencers. Sister Lyman would be travelling alone. The Marriot wagon was furnished with bedding from neighbours and Lucy thanked her maker that her store of grain and preserves had been locked in the storehouse and had been kept safe from the flames.

  Sister Schulster’s friend, the elderly Sister Fielding, insisted that she, too, accompanied them and it was arranged that she would travel with the Cowleys.

  ‘Where are we going, young man?’ she asked the white-ha
ired Tom Marriot.

  ‘Across the Great Plains to the Rocky Mountains. There, at least, no one will follow us.’

  ‘Except Indians,’ Eliza Cowley said, fighting back tears. ‘We’ll be travelling deep in Indian country and how a small party like ours will survive, the Lord alone knows.’

  ‘The Lord will be with us,’ her husband said firmly, ‘and He’s more than a match for any Indian. Come, wife, there’s work to do.’

  Jared, young and strong, had recovered from his ordeal with amazing resilience. Despite his mother’s pleas that he rest, he worked with the others, packing their sturdy, home-built wagon to the brim with provisions. As Polly handed him an armful of preserves, he halted in his task and took her hands in his.

  ‘Let’s travel West as man and wife, Polly. Brother Spencer can baptise you and we can be married before sundown.’

  His eyes were pleading and Polly felt her resolve weakening. Jared’s suffering at the hands of the mob still burned in her mind like a red-hot brand. Perhaps she was foolish waiting for a love that she could barely imagine. Perhaps she should marry Jared with his quiet devotion and steadfast loyalty.

  ‘I …’ she began and got no further.

  ‘Come along you two,’ Sister Schulster said briskly. ‘There’s work to be done and no time to be tarrying in idle chatter.’

  With an agonised expression in his eyes Jared released her hand and Polly returned once more to the store-house. She had nearly said yes to his proposal of marriage. Why then did she feel no elation? No disappointment at Sister Schulster’s intervention?

  The Saints’ anger had changed first to despair and then to optimism. Despair that they had tried to live amicably with their neighbours and failed. Optimism for the new life that lay ahead of them.

  Tom Marriot began to hum a hymn, and then to sing, and gradually his companions joined in and their spirits lifted. By the time dawn broke their desolation had turned to zest.

  ‘Will there be Indians?’ little Serena Spencer asked as her mother wrapped her up in blankets and lifted her aboard.

  ‘None that we can’t deal with,’ her father said confidently.

  ‘And buffalo?’ little Jamie Spencer asked. ‘Will there be buffalo?’

  ‘Buffalo in plenty, son. Now you stay quiet while we finish loading up. The ground is frozen and we’ll have only the nourishment we can take with us.’

  ‘That’s the last,’ Tom Marriot said with relief as he heaved a sack of grain into the back of his wagon. ‘What isn’t loaded now will have to be left behind. There’s not room for so much as an extra tinderbox.’

  Polly, struggling to wedge in a final jar of preserves, agreed fervently, not knowing how she and Lucy were going to find room to sit once they set off. Tom had already harnessed up his four finest horses. Two oxen and two goats were tied complainingly at the rear, and a coop, full of hens scattering feathers left and right, was perched precariously on top of the baggage.

  ‘How long will it take us to catch up with Brother Brigham?’ Lydia Lyman asked, as the Cowley wagon, driven by oxen, creaked ponderously towards them.

  ‘Only a matter of days if we drive hard,’ Tom replied optimistically. ‘Brother Brigham is making for Council Bluffs and then continuing West on the north side of the River Platte. If we follow the same route we should have no trouble catching them up.’

  The snow that had fallen intermittently all through the night now fell with fresh vengeance, whipping into their faces and freezing their hands.

  ‘How many miles do you reckon we can cover in a day, young Jared?’ Lydia Lyman asked as he climbed into the teamster seat, his buckskins tucked tight into his boots, a heavy cape around his shoulders and a gleaming clasp knife in his broad leather belt.

  ‘In this weather, seven or eight miles,’ he shouted, the wind whipping his words away.

  ‘And how far is it to the Rocky Mountains and the Promised Land?’ Sister Schulster asked from the interior of the Cowleys’ wagon.

  ‘A thousand,’ Brother Cowley said, his face grim as Tom Marriot yelled:

  ‘Are we ready to roll, then?’

  There came a roar of assent. With a whoop of exultation, Jared flicked the reins and led the way through the deserted, snow-clad streets.

  Tom Marriot wore his brown felt hat at a jaunty angle and began to sing lustily as the little caravan of wagons and livestock teetered precariously down the banks of the still-frozen river.

  ‘I hope the ice holds,’ little Serena Spencer said anxiously to Polly. For lack of room in her own family wagon she was travelling with the Marriots.

  ‘The ice will hold, never fear,’ Polly said, holding her hand as she joined in the singing.

  They were off on a great expedition and her adventurous heart was revelling in it. She wished she could sit up front, but there was only room for Tom and Jared and she had to remain inside with Lucy and Serena. The jolting of the wagon was uncomfortable; the cold—despite their warm clothing and blankets hugged around their knees—piercing. Eventually Serena fell asleep, her hand held tightly in Polly’s, and even Tom Marriot ceased to sing as the raw wind froze his breath.

  It was a long, hard day with everybody suffering from lack of sleep. By the time dusk fell and they made camp at Sugar Creek, it took all of Polly’s strength to help Jared shovel away snow with numbed fingers, so that they could light a campfire. The older women huddled around the fire, grateful for hot food and drink, and then buried themselves deep beneath their blankets and their respective wagons and tried not to think too longingly of the comfortable homes and soft beds a day’s travelling behind them.

  ‘Could we not stay here awhile and let the women rest?’ Tom Marriot asked Josiah Cowley as they lingered around the heat of the fire.

  The other man shook his mane of white hair. ‘It would be senseless, Tom. We must keep going. Keep moving. Tomorrow we’ll start off for Richardson Point, following the Fox River.’

  Sister Lyman trudged wearily across to them, her high-buttoned boots sinking heavily into the snow. Her heavy woollen cloak was clutched tightly beneath her chin.

  ‘I have a loose axle, Brother Cowley. I’ve been struggling with it this last hour, but my hands are frozen.’

  Polly rushed to her side, her face horrified at the sight of the bloodless, swollen hands.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done so, Sister Lyman! You’ll never hold the reins tomorrow!’ Quickly she hurried her into the Marriots’ wagon and began feverishly rubbing the lifeless hands as Sister Lyman gritted her teeth and winced with pain.

  ‘Careful man!’ Tom Marriot’s shout was panic-stricken.

  There was an horrendous creaking and a loud cry. Lucy Marriot clutched her bedclothes around her and thrust her head out of the wagon and into the night.

  ‘What is it, Tom? Are you all right?’

  Polly dropped Sister Lyman’s hands and sprang to the snow-covered ground, running with Jared to where Sister Lyman’s wagon lay at an ugly angle.

  Brother Cowley was lying in the snow, clutching his shoulder, groaning with pain. Tom Marriot was breathing harshly, half dead from the effort of holding up the weight of the wagon so that his friend could roll free. Behind her, Polly could hear Lucy and Sister Lyman praying aloud. Jared had swiftly opened Brother Cowley’s coat and was feeling his shoulder and arm, saying grimly.

  ‘Tis broken all right. Help me get him under cover.’ And then, questioningly to Polly, ‘Will you be able to fix it?’

  She nodded. She was known for her skill at setting broken bones, but she had never had to do so in such terrible conditions.

  It was two in the morning before Josiah Cowley lay, pale-faced in his bed, his broken arm strapped in splints and an exhausted Polly was almost fainting with weariness and cold.

  ‘Who will drive us?’ Sister Cowley whispered, gazing from Tom to Jared with a helpless expression. ‘I cannot manage the oxen on my own.’

  Tom sighed. Of all women to be without a fit man, Sister Cowley was the most
vulnerable. She had been city bred and farm life had never come easy to her. She had still not mastered skills that girls of fourteen took for granted.

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ he said, patting her shoulder reassuringly. ‘Now get you some sleep. We’ve a hard day ahead of us.’

  ‘Should we turn back?’ Lucy asked her husband tentatively when he returned to their wagon. ‘Brother Cowley’s arm will take weeks to mend and there’s seven women and five children to take care of.’

  ‘We go on, wife,’ Tom said gently. ‘I doubt if we could return now, even if we wanted to.’

  He had no need to say more. At the thought of strangers invading her beautifully-kept parlour and cheery kitchen, Lucy turned her face away and prayed for strength. They had a thousand miles to travel and had travelled only seven. The expedition that seemed so viable when they had planned it around their kitchen table now seemed more and more impossible. She wanted to cry but would not, for Tom’s sake.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Polly said comfortingly as she slid at last beneath her blankets. ‘It was a bad start, but the morning will be better.’

  It wasn’t: it was worse. It nearly quenched even Polly’s optimism. First, it took several hours of struggling in the snow to mend Sister Lyman’s wheel and then Tom Marriot began to shake with a chill and Jared had to replace him at the reins of the Cowley wagon, leaving Polly to handle their own team. For hour after hour they journeyed through trackless wilds of snow, the bleak north-west wind blowing in their faces with a keenness that almost took the skin from their cheeks.

  Serena began to cry because of the cold and as dusk approached there was still nowhere suitable to make camp. Wherever they stopped they would be exposed to the merciless wind. It was then, when their spirits were at their lowest, that Nephi shouted;

  ‘A rider! Do you see?’

  Polly strained her eyes into the distance. The small blur became a definite shape; a rider and horse were galloping at full speed towards them.

  ‘The Lord be praised!’ Lucy Marriott said. ‘Can you see who it is? Is it one of the Kimball boys or the Romneys?’