Nauvoo: A City Set on a Hill

By Jeffery W. Olsen

Brigham Young was the American Moses who led pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. Colonizing vast tracks of the arid West, they made the deserts bloom. Few know of the beginnings and the crucibles forced upon early Mormons. And what of the drivings in the east and Missouri? What of Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, and new revelations from God, spreading across two continents, energizing thousands to leave their homes to build Zion, gathering to Nauvoo for the end of times? 1842 was an axial year. In England, Queen Victoria oversaw the industrial revolution that enriched some but unemployed millions. In America, people wrestled with slavery, Manifest Destiny, relocation of Native Americans, and religious awakening. Principled men and women rose to proclaim their vision, sacrificing reputations, lives, and wealth on the altar of convenience. Milena Stuart and her brother Diomedes were captured in the net of dreams, choosing to immigrate for opposing reasons, witnessing for themselves the turbulence erupting on the broad frontier. Would God allow this Camp of Israel to be driven from the States or would divine protection be manifest? Would that providence come in a timely fashion or in the form of isolating rag-tag refugees from the growing inferno that would soon consume the nation in the Civil War? Nauvoo is a victorious tale of joy and hope, fear and despair, sinners and saints. And the story goes on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647501488

Jeffery W. Olsen

Jeffery W. Olsen was born in 1954 in Salt Lake City, has six siblings, and enjoys a rich and varied heritage. After a botched Ulpanim trip to Israel in 1972, underestimating the effects of the Munich Olympics, he served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for two years in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil. He returned home and married Sylvia Lee Rost, a native of Nevada, in 1976, and they are the parents of five children. Most of his life has been spent in western Nevada, where he graduated from UNR, then at times ranged through the deserts and mountains, the benefactor of celestial tolerance and erudition.

Book preview

Nauvoo: A City Set

on a Hill

Jeffery W. Olsen

Austin Macauley Publishers

Nauvoo: A City Set

on a Hill

About the Author

Dedication

Copyright Information ©

Acknowledgment

About the Author

Jeffery W. Olsen was born in 1954 in Salt Lake City, has six siblings, and enjoys a rich and varied heritage. After a botched Ulpanim trip to Israel in 1972, underestimating the effects of the Munich Olympics, he served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for two years in Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil. He returned home and married Sylvia Lee Rost, a native of Nevada, in 1976, and they are the parents of five children. Most of his life has been spent in western Nevada, where he graduated from UNR, then at times ranged through the deserts and mountains, the benefactor of celestial tolerance and erudition.

Dedication

To Sylvia Lee Rost Olsen

Oh, be mine thou Princess of Peace

Learn patience with me and be my wife.

Then we together shall hear, after heartbeats cease,

Ye shall have eternal life.

Copyright Information ©

Jeffery W. Olsen (2021)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Olsen, Jeffery W.

Nauvoo: A City Set on A Hill

ISBN 9781647501471 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781647501464 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781647501488 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021909700

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

Years ago, when I was in Brazil, Sylvia was my pen pal and suggested that I write a book. She has backed me ever since. I am eternally indebted to her. Our children have endured my mood swings and put up with my time away from them as I attempted this effort. As a family, and me in particular, we have been showered with privilege because of persevering ancestors who hailed from Ireland, Britain, Scandinavia, and Europe. We have also been blessed through descendancy, adoption, marriage, and proximity with a sublime intimacy of African-Americans, Eastern European Jewry, Native Americans, Asians, Latins, and Polynesians, whose personalities and cultures herald their own sacred relationships with God, underscoring the multifaceted, talented, and beautiful kaleidoscope of relationships we share and with our conjoined family in heaven. This literary magnum opus of my life is the result of kindness, inclusion and instruction we have felt from a myriad of brothers and sisters, past and present, near and far. We pray its message brings hope and light into a worn and tarnished world.

Chapter 1

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings.

–Isaiah 52:7

Manchester, England

3 May, 1842: I met with Fergus O’Connor today before leaving Leeds. He has three-million signatures to present the parliament. A number of cabs will be needed just to transport the petition. And who can tell? Perhaps the government will listen to the Chartists. Then again, British bluebloods have seldom listened to the poor.

I found a letter from Sergeant William Anderson awaiting me at home. He will be in Manchester soon and wants a word with me. Urgent, says he. Service with the company in India has done him in, I believe. Now, he’s bound for Glasgow. Anderson was with Father when he was killed. I don’t care much to dredge up the past, but I suppose it’s my duty to hear the man out.

Milena has not been home in more than a fortnight. How does one intercede between sister and mother when both are decidedly wrong?

Diomedes Stuart

Muffled roars of laughter from the tavern below seeped into the darkened room. Following a pattern, the laughter evolved back into singing. Coarse, vulgar verses that found acceptance along this and a myriad of other waterfronts around the world.

Milena Stuart lay on her back, awake, and staring at the ceiling. The man next to her turned in his slumbers to scratch vigorously before slipping back into his dreams, oblivious to the profanities of his mates beneath.

It disgusted her. How could a person sleep with that racket all about? She frowned, then tried again to tune out the disturbance, thinking back on the day’s events, and, more particularly, the fight she had had with her mother. Unpleasant memories held a fascination as of late. At first, she pushed it back, but it kept returning again and again until she got tired of the exercise and allowed the inevitable.

The vision of her mother’s face, distorted in rage, appeared in front of her. "Porne! she yelled, both shocking and enraging Milena. Get out of my house!"

This is England, Mother! We don’t speak Greek here! She didn’t hide her bitterness. Besides, if there’s a whore here, it’s not me! Milena ducked a fraction of a second before the porcelain pitcher cartwheeled past her, shattering against the wall.

Now, unblinking, she watched as the memories faded into the blackness, leaving her with a pounding heart rate. Well, then. I’m out. She blinked and recovered from her stagnant stare. And I’ll be damned if I ever go back.

The whispered words helped focus her mind on the present. What to do? Diomedes should be home by now. He will help me get away. France. Sardinia. Anywhere on the continent; it doesn’t matter, just as long as it’s away from her.

An expansive feather quilt covered the lower half of her naked body, draping over the bed and onto the wooden floor. A thousand, tiny, down quills pricked her skin, becoming more and more irksome.

The mental debate continued. Wait until morning? Claire should be home this evening. If I wait until morning, I might miss her. I’ll stay with her for a while, at least until some arrangements can be made. Then, Diomedes can set his mind to rest. Poor fool. Always so worried about the rest of us. Good brother, wrong family.

Several minutes passed before Milena decided to leave for Manchester immediately. It’s the best course, she assured herself. Gently prying the arm of her snoring lover from her waist, she slipped free. The snoring stopped, but the man gave no other sign of abandoning his dreams. Milena could still feel the lingering sensations of their lovemaking finished all too soon.

Here’s to love’s sweet repose,

Belly to belly and toes to toes.

One quick moment of sheer delight,

Then it’s back to back for the rest of the night.

An ancient toast. All too true for men. She regarded the man and scowled. Love has such a relaxing effect on them. So easy to satisfy; so quick to fall asleep afterward.

Stepping from the bed, she tiptoed across the room to where her clothes lay. Dark and disheveled hair cascaded about her shoulders and down her back. Finding her discarded hairpins, she quickly braided, twisted, then piled the array on top of her head. A few deft moves and the pins held the stack securely in place. Making out her silhouette in the mirror, she smiled. It could pass the rigors of fashion, but she doubted anyone of consequence would be out on the streets at this late hour. It wasn’t until she had put on her undergarments that she felt comfortable enough to light a candle. The weak yellow glimmer struggled in the gloom against the musty odor of soiled linen and whiskey.

Milena looked down at her breasts; not too big or heavy. Still, they were well-formed and generous. Certainly helpful in attracting suitors. She noticed some rosy blotches where her amorous companion had pawed her unmercifully. She would be sore for a week.

Rogue! she snapped, casting an angry glance at the hairy blond mariner. He stirred only enough to resume his snoring.

Holland! Maybe I’ll go to Holland.

The room had two doors. One opened into a hallway and a creaky landing above the tavern. The other led to an outside flight of stairs; the night and the streets of Liverpool.

Milena guessed it to be near midnight. Her dressing finished; she listened at the inside door. Too much activity in that direction. She didn’t care to face drunken sailors or unemployed papist Irishmen.

Extinguishing the candle, she looked out the sooty window for any vagrants. All was clear. She closed the door softly behind her and descended the stairs to the street below. The air felt cool and damp against her face, wafting in from the Mersey Channel. The moon lay half concealed on the western horizon, its dying light overcome by the flashes of the competing, rhythmic beacons set far out in the harbor. Blurry outlines of mighty ocean vessels at anchor floated quietly against the backdrop of the waterfront. 50 yards away, waves lapped at the rows of pilings as the tide slowly receded.

With the tavern behind her, Milena breathed the salt air deeply, detecting the faint odor of coal-fueled boilers nearby. Her shoes tapped sharply on the cobblestones, echoing against the row of waterfront buildings and resisting her efforts to walk noiselessly. She was now aware of her vulnerability, something that hadn’t cluttered her thoughts while in the room above. Simpson Street was well-lit, several lamps being placed every block along both sides of the street. She could also see a patrolling constable in the distance. Rising anxieties subsided as she assured herself that going back to Manchester now would be much better than waiting for the morning. And a cab is always stationed at the corner of Blundell. It would be a small matter of money to get her the distance to Manchester. Milena shook her purse and heard the welcome response of jingling coins.

Her route led across the unmarked boundaries of Liverpool’s Irish town. She couldn’t see anyone now, but candlelight filtered from closed shutters together with the gists of Celtic brogue. The rows of disintegrating buildings that housed the hosts of impoverished were depressing. She tried not to think about it.

The corner of Blundell. No cab in sight.

Milena caught her breath. Now what? She stared back at the gauntlet just negotiated. A swelling emotion churned within her, combing fear, anger, and panic with uncertainty. What to do?

Squinting into the darkness, she made out a horse standing quietly hitched to a wagon in an alley several yards distant. No one was tending it; no one that she could see. Sidestepping the curbside clutter, she entered the passage. Walking closer, she scrutinized the contents of the vehicle. Behind the driver’s seat, the flatbed was piled high with books and reams of paper. Maybe a ride can be coaxed from the owner. Hopefully a gentleman. The lateness of the hour and the present location didn’t offer much encouragement. Her thoughts wandered for just an instant.

The door behind her burst open with startling abruptness. Milena spun around, unnerved. Caught!

Two men crowded the door’s dimly lit outline. She sensed more than saw their features. The one speaking seemed stooped with age. The other, younger, strapping, more threatening and dangerous.

…to be sure, Tobias, the older man spoke, his deep Irish voice invading the night, and don’t. He stopped as he discovered the wide-eyed woman leaning backward against the wagon. Well, now, lad, what ha’ we here, but a lady aboot to make off wi’ your ride?

Oh, no! Milena blurted, fumbling for an excuse, furious that her mind and tongue refused to work in unison. I…I didn’t know…want to take…anything. She knew the words lacked substance, as the men glared at her. Likely excuse. A woman dressed as she was at this hour, at this place, and alone.

Ain’t it jus’ like the English, the old man muttered in disgust. E’en their wenches rob us.

What little poise Milena possessed, vanished. Nerves snapped. She turned and fled up the alley, dodging piles of litter, wanting only to get away.

Wait! the younger man’s voice boomed after her, spurring her on.

Na’. Le’ her go, growled the first. C’mon and le’s finish up here.

Milena Stuart ran as hard as she could, as fast as her clothing would allow. A nameless street opened at her right, affording temporary shelter. The bricks of the sagging edifice were chill as she stopped and leaned against them, her chest heaving.

Stupid! Why did I run? Why couldn’t I have been calm? An acceptable explanation could have been proffered. They might even have been willing to help. But, no. Like a convicted pickpocket, I ran!

After several minutes, a more composed Milena stepped back into the alley and peered down the way she had come, suddenly impressed with the distance she had covered. The wagon was nowhere to be seen. A sick feeling swept over her. Stranded, wandering around Liverpool at this ridiculous hour. She wanted to knock on a door, any door, and beg for help. Too risky. The streets around weren’t as well-lit as Simpson, nor could she see a constable. She drew in a deep breath. There must be a cab station somewhere around here.

Five minutes later, she was hurrying past the slum shanties of Bridgewater, berating her luck. She was lost. The twisting streets all looked the same. Narrow and poorly lit. Heaps of foul-smelling refuse forced her to step carefully. She wished that she had spent more time in the city. At least, then, friends could be called upon and the forbidding alleys wouldn’t wind past so many strange lairs.

The street broadened, and the garbage thinned. Perhaps she was leaving the worst behind. Voices. Men’s voices were coming from up ahead. Stopping, she thought briefly before deciding to press forward, toward the voices. Perhaps they are gentlemen. The suggestion sounded lame and without hope. The rumbling conversation crept into her ears as she drew nearer. Her spirits sank.

Abrasive, the talk came from a building on her side of the street. By their manner of speech, she guessed the men were Chartists. And in an ugly mood. One of them caught sight of her but kept quiet. It was too late to turn around, and so she marched forward, head high, eyes straight ahead as if it had been midday.

Damn, bloody Queen.

She’s a bitch. Like all the rest. Don’t care a ha’penny about us, she don’t.

Go on wi’ ye, mate. Ain’t ‘er. She don’t count none. It’s ’em bloody lard asses in parliament, an’ I says we gotta kill us a brace to show ’em we mean serious wot we says.

Aye. Kill some o’ the upiddy bastards.

A low whistle from the man who had spied Milena warned the others against further treasonous remarks. An outsider was near.

Oh God! Why did I wear this dress!? She knew the reactions a display of wealth might have on resenting Chartists.

Walking briskly past the deep porch where the half-dozen malcontents congregated, from the corner of her eye, she could see hate etched in their faces. Heavy furrows accentuated by the sallow light of an archaic lamp told the pathetic story of men’s lives wasting away, choices dictated by chronic unemployment or beggars’, refusing them the joy and satisfaction of providing for their families. Her eyes flashed away. She held her breath while trying to escape their field of vision as unobtrusively as possible.

The silence was broken by a wolf whistle closely followed by a barrage of obscenities. Milena hurried on, ears tingling with sensitivity. A breeze brushed her face, spiriting away any telltale sounds behind her. It was impossible to hear if anyone had decided to follow her. Milena stopped and spun around. There! Was that movement? Someone stalking through the urban carnage? Her eyes strained into the deeper shadows. It was maddening. Heart racing, she turned and quickened her pace.

On the verge of tears, she tried to clear her mind and reason out her situation. The cab. It should have been there. And Diomedes! Championing the likes of those! Where am I now? Please, God. Please help me. Tiredness spread throughout her body like a sudden disease as she realized how long it had been since she slept. Nausea tightened her stomach.

The clip-clop of a horse’s hooves sounded from a block away, stark in contrast to the deadness of her surroundings. Desperation clutched at her as the wagon emerged from a side street and turned onto Bridgewater, heading away from her. Her heart jumped as she recognized the outline of piled books and papers. The same wagon she had come upon half an hour earlier, now driven by the younger man. It was like seeing an old friend. Please. I’m so tired. The wagon was too far away to chance raising her voice. What if he’s a smuggler? What other types keep these hours? She dismissed the thoughts as quickly as they surfaced. After all, didn’t he call after me to stop? He probably wanted to help. Glancing back over her shoulder, she was certain it was a man’s form she saw skulking in a doorway!

Hiking her skirts, Milena kicked off her shoes and ran after the wagon, hoping to close the distance before it was too late. 80 yards. 60. 40. She was gaining but didn’t know if her endurance could hold long enough to overtake the wagon. Breathing was labored. Her throat burned. Gone was the fresh breeze. Now, only heat, dizziness, and perspiration.

A sudden and violent crashing from a shadow at her side spurred her to greater efforts. My pursuer? She didn’t look back. Trying to catch me before I can reach the wagon? And safety? What was the man’s name? Tobias? Yes, Tobias!

Her legs were rapidly losing their strength, becoming strangely leaden. Her lungs were screaming within her chest, trying to fuel the frantic sprint. 30 yards to go. I’m not gaining anymore! I can’t make it. I can’t do it.

Tobias! she shouted desperately.

The man driving the wagon tugged the horse to an immediate halt and looked around toward the alarm. Seeing the fleeing woman, he jumped down and started toward her. Milena could see a puzzled expression on his face as he glanced from side to side, trying to ascertain the reason for her flight.

A large cat busily sorting through scraps of trash dumped from an overhanging window suddenly found himself trapped between the closing man and woman. He shot from his cover, racing for the opposite side of the street.

Not fast enough.

Milena’s churning feet caught him, sending him squalling in an angry fit of fur and claws while she lost her footing and tumbled head over heels to land in an unceremonious heap at the feet of her would-be rescuer.

She was out cold.

Chapter 2

4 May, 1842, Wednesday: Interesting day. Spent most of it with Claire and as far away from The Guardian as possible. I lied and told Mr. Johnson that I’d be at Engels’s bleach factory, preparing a new story, but once I succeeded at getting Claire away from her desk, we somehow became distracted and wandered off.

She wants to go with me tomorrow to see Sgt. Anderson.

We happened onto two Mormon missionaries by the rail station. Amusing. They referred to one another as ‘elder,’ which they weren’t, and spoke to the crowd of God’s dealings with mankind in today’s age. Prophets, revelations, preparation for the end of the world, and Christ’s millennial advent. The Yankee ministers were quite unrefined.

Do I detect a note of social exclusivist in my ramblings? I must admit that I find all this talk of heavenly discourse in the age of the railroad ludicrous.

Diomedes Stuart

****

The meadowlark’s song delighted Hyrum as it rolled down the knoll, carrying with it an exuberance for life. The man felt similarly as his eyes searched the length of the bowing split-rail fence that lined the pasture to his left, trying to discover the songster.

The yellow-breasted lark warbled again, and Hyrum spotted him. The bird looked the part of a gentleman. A distinguished V below his throat could well pass for a dress tie. Why shouldn’t he sing creation’s song? It was a beautiful spring morning, and all felt its warmth. Blue sky paraded a small army of fleecy clouds whose whiteness absorbed the sun’s brilliance. Effortlessly, they soared above the rolling plains, stretching off for miles in every direction.

The meadowlark pleased Hyrum even more by refusing to fly at his approach. Instead, the bird gripped his perch and returned the smiling man’s gaze.

Hyrum returned to his thoughts as he descended Mulholland Street, the main artery of Nauvoo, Illinois, his eyes taking in the scene before him where the Mississippi’s broad expanse wound lazily around the elevated point on which Nauvoo was built.

The city was a living miracle. In barely three years, the marriage of Mormon efforts and God’s blessings had transformed fetid, malarial swampland surrounding a barren knoll into the largest city in Illinois and the third most influential on the banks of the Mississippi after New Orleans and St. Louis.

Nauvoo, the Mormon Mecca, was constructed after they fled the persecutions in Missouri. Its population rounded off at about 12-thousand, but numbers increased weekly as converts to the 12-year-old religion flocked to be near their prophet, Joseph Smith. Along with them, they brought a rich diversity of interests and skills. A match factory, several ironworks, a budding university, and numerous other enterprises flourished in the agricultural setting.

At Hyrum’s back stood the foundation of the temple which, when finished, would be the largest building west of Cincinnati. Beyond that lay the municipality’s commercial district. Zoning codes in Nauvoo limited businesses to the central section of the city or crown of the hill, maintaining a comfortable division between it and the residential areas.

As his strides carried him farther away from the bustle of the city hub, the number of pedestrians diminished as did the carriages that wove through the slower-moving, oxen-borne traffic.

Hyrum neared a log cabin which, like all of the other homes, was built a considerable distance from the street. Besides giving an openness to the community, this gave everyone a front yard; a place where flowers and trees could be cultivated and where people could socialize at their leisure.

The cabin was the type first built by the Mormons when they settled in 1839. Its initial owners had since moved into one of the city’s growing number of brick homes. Consequently, the cabin was taken over by Eliza Snow to be used as a schoolhouse.

The man paused and listened. Her voice came to him softly from inside the low structure as she conducted class. Remarkable woman, he thought. Energetic, talented, attractive; the best teacher in Nauvoo—the children certainly love her. A pillar in the newly formed Relief Society, the Mormons’s women’s organization. At 38 years old, she was still unmarried. Hyrum knew some of the reasons surrounding her decision. He shook his head and continued on his way.

A few moments later, the schoolyard’s serenity was shattered by a pack of teenage boys as they tumbled from behind the schoolhouse, thrilled at being finished with their morning lessons. Spotting the lone man, the half-dozen students vaulted the picket fence, purposefully colliding with Hyrum.

Oh, excuse us, one of the boys begged in an exaggerated tone. The others hooted gleefully. Hyrum was one of their favorites.

Yeah, we’re awful sorry to bother you, said another. Twinkling eyes and mischievous grins suggested they weren’t. One of the lads began circling Hyrum as if preparing to grapple with him, then bounded nimbly away when the man called his bluff. Hyrum was a wrestler of renown, and the few young men who had cared to test his prowess knew why.

I’ll just bet you’re sorry, he taunted in return. Every one of you, leave peaceably, and I won’t report your ill manners to Sister Snow—this time.

He chuckled as the boys bowed and doffed their caps in mock deference, then exploded into a continuation of their freedom-from-school antics. Hollering and whooping, they turned a corner and disappeared from view.

The man sighed. He knew the children of Nauvoo understood that education was a luxury for any who lived on the western frontier of the United States. He also knew that they worked hard under their teachers’ direction. All boys that age, if not all children, with their inherent responsibilities, deserved a respite now and then, however brief; a respite he often wanted to claim for himself. The thought made him chuckle again. After all that he had been through in his 40 years, who would guess that his greatest urge at the moment was to chase after them?

Hyrum! a woman’s lyrical voice called him from behind. Hyrum! I need to speak with you. Pivoting, he saw Eliza Snow leaning out over the fence and waving to attract his attention. Ah, Eliza, today, you look like a schoolteacher. Her dark chocolate hair was braided into a tight bun and set just so. An oval face displayed two well-set brown eyes, sparkling and intelligent. Yes, you have many good qualities, but best of all is your friendship, a very loyal one indeed. He retraced his footsteps.

I just had a run-in with some of your more promising pupils, he teased. I hope they’re finding the materials you present as interesting as the quantities of food they consume. His laugh was muffled as a heavily laden wagon rumbled by, enveloping the two of them in a dusty cloud. Both coughed and fanned their faces.

They’re good students, she blurted before she needed to cough again. I heard you talking with them. Are you heading down to the dock? He nodded. Good. I need to share something with you.

Hyrum nodded again. He enjoyed listening to her speak, the way she constructed sentences and then enunciated every syllable, a habit which attracted many wisecracks. Eliza accepted the jesting without compromise in her delivery. This was only one quality that contributed to her notoriety.

There’s something that needs your attention.

Hyrum resisted making a joke about her schooling, sensing a seriousness in her voice. Certainly.

If you hadn’t come by, I was going to send one of the students to find you. She opened the gate to the schoolyard and let him in.

Sounds important enough. What’s up?

In a moment, she promised.

A dozen pairs of eyes turned to look as Hyrum and Eliza stepped across the threshold of the single-room schoolhouse. These were the younger students. Eliza’s revolving schedule allowed the older students to attend to their chores, minimizing the baiting of the younger children. Faces brightened to see him, and he noticed the group boasted a score of missing teeth.

Placing her hands on the shoulders of a red-haired boy and a girl who appeared to be his sister, Eliza announced, Class. Sister Snow needs to talk quietly with Brother Hyrum. You may all take a 15-minute recess outside. Quietly. The young faces brightened even more. I don’t want anyone going home. We’ll have our spelling lesson as soon as I’m finished, so be prepared. Now, class dismissed.

With Hyrum present, the children avoided mimicking their older counterparts and skipped orderly from the room. A few waved. Only the red-haired boy and his sister remained behind.

Hyrum, this is Michael and Cynthia Washburn. Their family arrived a month ago from London.

Hello, he said, bending down to their height. He enjoyed children. These two had bright blue eyes and their peaches-and-cream complexions were embellished with freckles. They shook his proffered hand with youthful enthusiasm.

Eliza praised them as two of her more diligent students. They beamed.

Now, she said, why don’t you tell Brother Hyrum what you told me earlier this morning? Tell it just the same please.

Michael was the oldest, and it was he who spoke first, his face clouding with gravity. Well, you see, Cynthia and I have been doing a lot of exploring around the city. His accent was pronounced. Especially for the past for’night, we being new here and wot not. Well, we followed the river to the rock quarry. No one was about, and we played there the whole afternoon. It was jolly fun. His sister nodded in agreement. Michael glanced over at Eliza. She smiled and urged him to continue. He shifted nervously to the other foot. It got late, and we left to go back to our house. We followed the river back again. We like to play in the willows and with the lilies, you see. Anyway, we heard two men speaking. We pretended to be Indians and went sneaking up to them. We didn’t tend to hurt them. We were only playing. They swore awful.

When they saw you? Hyrum inquired.

No. They didn’t see us.

We were sneaking, Cynthia added, anxious to be part of the conversation.

We think they were evil men, Michael continued. That’s why we told Sister Snow.

Hyrum nodded with the understanding of a seasoned father. All right, what did they say to make you think they were evil?

Oh, awful things! Cynthia blurted. Terrible swear words and horrid oaths!

Fighting back a desire to smile, Hyrum touched the girl’s head reassuringly, his face remained solemn. Besides the swear words?

Yes, sir, Michael answered. One said that the Prophet Joseph said a governor was going to die in a vile manner because of the way he’d let the Mormons be driven from his borough. He stopped, uncertain of the American names for territorial divisions. Or province. Anyway, he said it was his plan to see that he did. Die, I mean.

Hyrum frowned seriously. Did they talk like friends of the Prophet?

Michael’s eyes went wide. Oh, no, not at all! They don’t like him. They sounded wicked. The one man said that he’d sent a message to a man in St. Louis and that he would know what to do with the governor. They don’t like Nauvoo either. The one man said that traps were being set about to catch the Prophet and destroy the city.

The two grownups could see that the Washburns were concerned. Hyrum waited a moment to be sure they had finished. Is there anything more?

Michael looked at his sister, then thought hard, wrinkling his eyebrows to demonstrate his mental exertions. Well, the one got into his rowboat and went out into the river.

To the other side?

I don’t know. It was quite dark by then, and the river is too wide. The other man had a big black horse and he rode away.

Have you ever seen either of them before?

They both thought hard again. I don’t think so, the boy announced at last while his sister nodded her agreement. It was too dark, and their faces were turned mostly away from us.

Looking at Eliza, Hyrum cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his thinning, light brown hair, then returned his attention to the children. You’ve certainly done the right thing by informing Sister Snow. We will notify Sheriff Green and make sure he keeps a close watch on things. In the meantime, don’t you worry. There are many enemies, but most are just full of talk. Chances are, that’s all these men were doing. Talking. Letting out their anger. I’ll make sure the Prophet hears about it too, and he’ll be happy to know that he’s got such good friends as you two looking out for him. Now, let’s not talk a lot about this to folks. We don’t want to worry others needlessly. Right?

Burdens eased and the Washburns nodded happily.

Fine, Eliza chimed. Thank you, children. You’ve been of greatest assistance. Now run along with you and tell the others that I’ll call for them momentarily. The children closed the door as they left. It was then that Eliza allowed a worried look to shadow her features. How serious?

Hyrum shrugged. Sounds like they ran onto something.

That’s why I thought you should know.

Why didn’t you just tell him yourself?

Who?

Come now, Eliza. My brother, Joseph.

Her composure flinched. He’s…been so busy, she stammered. You are the Patriarch of the church. I…I just thought you’d be a better judge as to whether or not he should be bothered with the matter.

Hyrum sat at a desk, removed a charcoal slate, and began doodling. It worries me. Too bad the children didn’t recognize them.

What do you think of this communication being sent to St. Louis? Do you actually think someone is planning to kill Governor Boggs?

It sounds sinister enough. Whoever is doing the plotting wants to tie us to the deed using Ol’ Joe’s famous prophecy. He looked up quickly at the schoolteacher. My brother never did say anything like that, Eliza.

Oh. I know.

He continued his silent doodling. Boggs has plenty of enemies. And some folks have awful long memories. But we got away. Now, maybe someone’s wanting to hitch us back to him.

Eliza struggled with the dilemma. Could it be a ruse? Idle chatter? Not likely. Even if he’s a criminal, Governor Boggs needs to be informed.

Yep.

A rider could get to Jefferson City rather quickly. Even if the governor doesn’t believe us, at least we’ll have done our part. He can look after himself from there.

Hyrum’s mutter was unintelligible as he continued focusing on his slate.

What did you say?

Independence. Boggs is in Independence. I think he’s been there since his term expired. His drawing ceased, and he looked suddenly up at Eliza, alarm in his eyes.

What is it?

Porter! Porter Rockwell, he said. He’s taken Luana to see her folks in Jackson County. If something happens, they’ll blame Porter!

Unconsciously, Eliza’s hand went to her mouth as the repercussions of such an event unfolded before her.

The baby, Eliza began, then paused a moment. Luana’s due to have her baby soon. Perhaps they’ve had to stop somewhere. Perhaps they’ve been delayed. Missouri’s a broad state. Perhaps they haven’t made it to Jackson County yet.

Perhaps…or not. Perhaps they’ll be arriving any day now. Hyrum bowed his head in thought, then stood and walked to the door. I’ll let Joseph know. I’m sure he’ll want to be aware and maybe he can come up with something. He flashed what he hoped would be seen as a reassuring smile, nodded a farewell, and left.

Outside of the schoolyard, Hyrum broke into a trot back up Mulholland Street. Now, a heaviness permeated his frame. Vanished was the gaiety of the morning. His focus was now on finding his brother. Hyrum failed to see the meadowlark startle at his passage, then fly across the street into the shade of an apple orchard resplendent with white blossoms.

Chapter 3

Men in dark tailored suits and silk top hats mingled with the tattered, the lame, and the wretched amid the activity on the narrow cobblestone streets of Manchester. Women in fine dresses reclined in cushioned seats of Brougham or hansom cabs being drawn about the city, content with their status and oblivious to their sisters scratching in the squalor.

Sunday was three days away. For the poor, it meant rest from the week’s struggles in the overcrowded, roaring, hot factories where they fought hour by hour, day by day, to meet their quotas, thereby retaining their jobs, thereby being paid, thereby having somewhat more than the common beggar. On Sunday, they could nurse aching bodies, divert themselves with sporting events, listen to hollow promises made by ministers whose discourses on ethereal matters floated above their flocks’ understanding. Or they could simply idle their time away. Eventually, all would have to face another week filled with pain, long hours, and despair.

What set the young couple apart from the other well-dressed gentry along Victoria Street was that they received friendly nods from the unemployed urchins and beggars instead of the epithets reserved for the upper class.

Diomedes Stuart was intent upon his lecture to the attractive woman on his arm. Manchester is the very core of the Industrial Age, he said, his free arm sweeping all before them into an encompassing arc. It draws investors’ money as easily as it does vagabonds. Just like a magnet.

Claire Jameson smiled and nodded. Diomedes was in his element. Philosophizing about the woes of the day was his delight. But she loved him and was content.

Its influence is felt all over Britain and the continent, he continued. Even the United States feels the city’s import. This is an era of paradox for Great Britain. Our navy and army hold powerful sway throughout the world, governing over a score of colonies. Parliament sounds novel ideas around its halls, ideas that could grow and no longer leave the United States as the earth’s bastion of democracy. Trade’s up, our coffers are full. Our coal mines are giving us the capacity to lead America, France, and Prussia as well.

And who would ever guess at the potential if they were to stroll these very streets? Claire commented, knowing exactly where the dialogue was heading. She had heard it before.

Exactly! Diomedes emphasized. Despite the wealth and the efforts of our poets and social reformers, Britain is still a cruel taskmistress. Embers of sedition glow on English soil as well as Ireland and India. The selfish implementation of machinery has created thousands of jobless. The poor leave their parishes and come to the cities in search of work, and, once here, they find competition fierce and prospects of a decent life virtually hopeless.

They strolled past the monolith of Chatham’s Hospital.

Tall and lean, Diomedes cut a gallant figure. On the threshold of entering his 20s, he used his literary talents to battle social ills. His articles in the Manchester Guardian received widespread attention, giving both industrialists and Chartists food for thought.

Dark brown hair, eternally mussed, framed his olive-complected face. His features hinted at a lineage not totally British. Women found him attractive with his quick smile and accomplished charm. For many of his coquettish admirers, his money and holdings painted the perfect landscape for their dreams.

A brilliant academic record had won him a seat at Oxford University where, for two years, he poured over the literature and writings of western civilization. Tennyson, Wordsworth, Dickens, and Scott were not only his older contemporaries, they were his idols. And, recently, another name had appeared on the horizon; that of John Stuart Mill.

Diomedes shook his head sadly. To have to live in London, Manchester, or Leeds for the rest of one’s life…or Birmingham. It’s cruel. The poor have every attribute possessed by the rich except for the luxury of choice. They can’t afford to express themselves. An entire generation of our children, British subjects, are suffering the neglect of a society that has become Adonis, concerned only with outside beauty.

Even some of history’s greatest minds and treasures have come from the furnace of affliction.

Diomedes recognized the argument as one of his own. He shrugged. The disparity between the rich and poor, the landed and homeless, the haves and have-nots.

Onward crusade for humanism, Claire responded with a smile and a squeeze on his arm that told him he was overdoing it.

He cleared his throat. Humanism, enlightenment, Hellenism—they’re all the same to me, Claire. And since my mother’s a Greek, it’s my prerogative to draw from my maternal ancestry. He snickered, pleased at his wit.

The young woman smiled again. She held the role of Diomedes’s friend, confidant, and lover. Her golden hair shone in the morning sunlight. Her figure turned men’s head, whether rich or poor.

The Jameson family had seen that she was given a solid classical education. When she insisted on living in Manchester in order to be near her closest friend, Milena Stuart, her father had found her a clerical position in a bleach factory owned by one of his peers, a Prussian industrialist named Engels.

When did your Sergeant Anderson arrive? This morning? she asked, realizing that she hadn’t been paying attention when he had explained the situation earlier.

Yes, this morning. On a locomotive from Bristol.

After two years of friendship with Milena, a sudden awareness had developed between Claire and Diomedes. Over the past six months, while he had labored on a series of articles concerning a local Chartist drive, she had become infatuated with the young man and his lofty calling. Hovering at his shoulder, she became intent upon discovering why a wealthy man should give himself to such a foreign cause.

The articles were completed, and the two allowed their feelings to extend beyond passive affection. Disappearing into the countryside for a week, they had become lovers. Since then, few people were fooled by their efforts to keep a platonic façade around their relationship. But being the darlings of their acquaintances, their reputations remained intact.

Why couldn’t he stop at your house?

He had some other business to attend to. Something about a coal mine near Glasgow. I think that’s where he’s going to work. Besides, he’s a common man. I don’t think he’d feel comfortable. And if he knew my father as well as he says, he probably wants to avoid Mother. Army loyalty and all that rot.

Are we going to be spending the rest of the day listening to war stories in a smoky pub?

I really don’t think so. He has to be in Liverpool by tonight. There’s only one ship sailing for the Firth of Clyde in the next couple of days, and he wants to be on it.

A British warrior homesick?

Hardly. Poor chap lost his wife a couple of months back. He has a boy, and, from what I understand, he’s going back to look after the lad himself. At any rate, he wants to see me. Do you mind terribly?

Not at all. Claire looked at him intently. I’ve always been curious about your father. You haven’t spoken much about him. She paused, cautious. I met him, just once, when I first met Milena. He was a gentleman. You miss him a lot, even now, don’t you?

Diomedes was quiet.

What had gone awry?

Memories of the man bounded into view. His father had preceded Lord Byron to Greece more than 20 years before, following romantic whims that developed from his immersion in classical literature. He became enamored with a young, almond-eyed beauty named Sophia Psalidas and decided to stay and help the Greeks with their war of independence against the Ottomans. After seeing considerable action in the Peloponnesus, Stuart had returned to his home near Glasgow with his wife and three sturdy children. The spoils of war, coupled with the lucrative commission from the East India Company had encouraged him to move his residence to Manchester.

Yes. Sometimes, the silence at home is unbearable. Memories surged against the creaking door in his mind, a door behind which he stored all the hurt and confusion surrounding the disintegration of his family. Milty’s off at Sandhurst, practicing to become a soldier. Milena and Mother are always bickering. They don’t stay at home much anymore.

Milena wasn’t home last night either?

Diomedes shook his head. And it worries me. They’ve been fighting more and more. Milena blames Mother for my father’s death.

That’s what she said?

Not exactly, but she does. Sir Robert always demanded that we speak respectfully to Mother. He was worried we would blame her for their separation.

And?

I don’t know. I didn’t think so, but…well, I’ve learned a lot lately. It’s hard to see past her faults any longer. Maternity doesn’t deify her.

Claire looked at him crossly. Your mother loves you, obviously more than you know!

I’m sure.

She’s a human being too. She deserves the same freedoms as everyone else. I hope you don’t think she should be the Madonna simply because she’s Greek and married to your father.

I think she could use a little discretion with her activities, Diomedes answered, his voice rising. She doesn’t need to flaunt her affairs nor her fixation with the horse track.

How can you be so compassionate and understanding with people you don’t even know and still be so hard on your own mother? Do you think she still owes you something? Where’s your compassion for her? She has no one left besides you. All of your letters and learning and logic won’t strip her of her love for you. If she ever suspects your feelings, Diomedes, I think it would kill her. Don’t deny her your love.

Feeling justly chastised, Diomedes smiled weakly. You’re right. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t called for. Claire was more than just a pretty face. She kept him honest, without divulging his secrets. We’d better hurry.

Victoria Street had recently been named in honor of the new queen. The citizens of Manchester hadn’t surrendered the entire street, however. A block beyond the cathedral, it assumed its former name of Deansgate, without the slightest hint or warning.

Beggars lined the street with their cups, imploring alms from the passersby while exposing their infirmities—sightless eyes, amputations, infections—hoping to instill a more charitable response.

Claire and Diomedes turned east on Peter Street and walked past a small chapel that marked the sight of the Peterloo Massacre where 12 people died in 1819, protesting factory conditions. The Royal Hussars’ officer had shown an unusual lack of restraint.

They crossed the street. Passing a number of shops, they finally stopped in front of a large oaken door studded with brass fittings. An unkempt sign identified the tavern in Gothic script as ‘The Norman Keep.’

Claire drew in a deep breath. I’ve never spent any time in a pub before. Are you sure it will be all right?

Diomedes feigned shock. Miss Jameson! Why this is the cultural hub of the British Isles! Nothing happens without its first being discussed in the likes of one of these.

The door creaked loudly as he opened it, and they stepped inside. It took a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Clouds of smoke wafted around tarnished lanterns scattered about the den. Two windows crusted with grime successfully filtered out all but the faintest amounts of daylight. Gnarled beams sprouted up the walls and beyond the lanterns’ reach, leaving the couple to wonder how high the ceiling actually was. With few exceptions, the tables were vacant, this being the time of day when most of the people worked or otherwise sought to make a living. The habitual patrons, merchants, constables, and others whose business brought them indoors, lined the bar. They interrupted their drinking and storytelling long enough to size up the young gentleman and his lady. It was a novelty to see a lady of such breeding in their lair. One of the men belched loudly, bringing a chorus of guffawing from his companions. Returning to their former activities, they left Diomedes and Claire to their observations. The tavern owner’s gangly son approached and asked if they wanted a table. The boy’s query was interrupted by a gruff voice, unmistakably shrouded by the effects of ale. Oolie! Stuart! Over ‘ere wi’ ye laddie. A hulking form rose from a table in a far corner. He had been sitting alone.

Taking a lantern from an unattended table, Diomedes led Claire to meet the brawny sergeant.

By Jove, ye look jus’ like the colonel said ye would, the Scotsman opened. His words echoed strangely in the dense atmosphere. I’m Sergeant William Anderson o’ ’er Majesty’s Indian Lancers. He extended a beefy hand toward Diomedes.

It’s our pleasure, sir, he replied. May I introduce my lady friend, Miss Claire Jameson.

Anderson bowed stiffly. ’Onored, Miss Jameson.

He sat down with an invitation for the couple to do likewise. The men at the bar calmed down, focusing their attention on the unlikely reunion.

A portly matron appeared out of the haze and took Anderson’s order for another pitcher of ale, then disappeared just as suddenly.

Sergeant Anderson’s weathered face gave the impression of advanced age, although Diomedes knew he wasn’t yet 40. The wide girth of his chest and shoulders gave him a squat appearance from a distance. He had the fighting man’s air about him, small traits of nervousness, and constant activity. At the moment, Claire and Diomedes saw the reason for Britain’s military supremacy: strong, disciplined men, willing to march into Hell for money and the glory of the empire.

I came ’ere for a reason, lad, Anderson boomed, an’ I don’t ‘ave plenty o’ time. He leaned forward on the table and patted Diomedes’s hand with warm familiarity. I loved your sire like me very own. I’ve known ’im since I was a laddie myself. He smiled, surprising them with a display of large, evenly set, white teeth. ‘E always took a sparkle to me, ’e did. Went out o’ ‘is way to speak wi’ me whene’er I was aboot. ‘E said that years ago, the Anderson clan and the Stuarts were best o’ allies in the ‘ighlands, and ’e wanted to keep on wi’ the tradition. We spoke oft o’ Caledonia an’ our longin’ to return.

The man’s speech reminded Diomedes of his own father, Sir Robert, who frequently revealed his heritage by reverting to Scottish idioms and accent when in familiar company.

Anderson’s voice lost its gentle quality, becoming callous. A story loomed. The change wasn’t missed by those at the bar.

Men die like clegs in India, laddie. Bad men an’ good men alike, an’ it’s not a new sight for these eyes o’ mine. But Colonel Stuart, he nodded respectfully to Diomedes, your daddy, ‘e was a special sort. ’E was an officer wot loved ’is men, an’ ’e was careful, never sending ’em to die when it wasn’t necessary. He drank deeply and refilled his mug from the pitcher in front of him.

An’ I was there, laddie, when ’e died. Another sip.

A few months ago, it was Janwar, just after the New Year. Colonel Stuart an’ ‘is adjutant rode into our cantonment near Peshawar. We’d been chasin’ bloody Sikhs for weeks, but they were everywhere, laddie. Kill one an’ ten more popped out o’ the rocks. It wasn’t a war, mind you, just a collieshangie. The Company didn’t want us startin’ anything big, but God knows it’s in the makin’. He blinked unconsciously.

Well, laddie, your daddy decided we’d given up enough o’ our lads to the screechin’ dervishes, and so ’e says we take some sepoys and give ’em eternity. Every man-jack in our column was proud to follow your daddy. ’E was the cream of the Company. Anderson sighed with the weight of his tale, took another gulp of ale, and continued. Like ‘appens so oft out there, you can’t tell friend from foe, an’ some bleedin’ bluntie betrayed us. We walked square into an ambush, an’ it looked to have all the markings o’ a first-class slaughter. Bloody ‘orrible, it was. Bullets flew thick an’ fast. You could smell death, he whispered, causing the men at the bar to strain their ears. He returned to his normal tone, Sickenin’ it was, laddie, enough to make a man bock ‘is guts if ’e ’ad time to think aboot it. An’ the fear. God, it was awful. Anderson scratched his cheek.

The colonel was struck in the boot with the first volley and ‘is ’orse was killed underneath ’im. I thought for sure ’e was a dead man an’ that we’d all be afollowin’ ‘im soon. But ’e wasn’t. ’E gathered ’is wits aboot ’im an’ pullin’ ‘is face outta the dirt an’ ‘oolerin’ at me an’ the sepoys, ‘e ordered us to charge up the knowe. An’ there ‘e went, swingin’ ‘is saber and leadin’ us into the middle o’ the screamin’ demons. It was like runnin’ a brattle straight into ‘ell an’ that’s where most o’ us thought we was bound. It was do or die, laddie, know wot I mean? God, it was awful, an’ damn those murderin’ Sikhs to ’ell. Time to clear his throat.

The colonel went down a couple o’ times, but ‘e kept getting’ up an’ orderin’ us on, an’ before you know it, we were in the middle o’ a skirlin’ ‘orde o’ clooties. I got blood fever an’ forgot to watch anything else but the poor devil I was carvin’ on. He stopped and rubbed the mist from his eyes. I found your daddy later. ‘E was cut down by rifle fire, an’ I’m sure ’e died quick. I’m sorry ’e died so far away from ye.

Diomedes couldn’t speak. He nodded instead.

Anderson drank and wiped his mouth. ‘E was taken an’ buried outside o’ Delhi wi’ full ‘onors. Gallant man, ’e was, an’ it’s because o’ the likes o’ ‘im that me an’ a lot o’ other callans are kickin’ an’ breathin’ today. It wasn’t a major battle, mind you, laddie. The only important thing it really did was to kill one o’ Britain’s finest sodgers. ‘E was a ’ero all the way an’ I’ve known lots o’ brave blokes. Usually death comes quick. It’s boom and you’re dead.

The grizzled warrior patted Diomedes’s hand again. ‘E believed in the empire, and ’e worked to protect our sovereignty. But, laddie, somethin’ most unusual. ‘E seemed to know ’e was aboot to die. Before we left our cantonment, ’e called me to ’is tent and ’ands me a letter an’ says to give it to yourself if anythin’ should ’appen to ’im. I gave ’im me word, and ’ere I be, and ’ere’s the epistle. A soiled envelope appeared in his hand and he surrendered it reverently.

Diomedes stared at the letter in disbelief. From Father! The times he had wished for such a treasure. Diomedes moistened his lips and looked up at the Scotsman. I’m…at a loss, sir. I thought we had received all of his things. Thank you so much, sir, for bringing this to me personally. I’m forever in your debt. My father was a lucky man to be blessed by your friendship.

Another huge grin crossed Anderson’s face. Aye, laddie. An’ ‘e was a ’appy man wi’ bairns the likes o’ you. And so it goes. I’m only sorry I took so long to deliver. I ‘ope in the future that you’ll remember me kindly and not only my tale o’ that damned collieshangie.

Be sure that we will, sir, Claire said, happy that she had accompanied Diomedes.

Anderson leaned back and clapped his hands with finality. I’m a good one for bletherin’ but not goodbyes. I gotta get off an’ on me way. My regards to your brother an’ sister, and Mither? It was a combination question and statement. The couple nodded in unison. I wish ye me very best, laddie. An’ if I can ever be o’ any ’elp.

You’re too kind, sir.

The sergeant took one final draught and tossed a couple of pennies onto the table then rose to leave. Drawing Diomedes close to him with a handshake, the older man whispered his approval of Claire, A bonnie lass. Not a mere blinker. He winked and slapped Diomedes’s shoulder and left. A couple of giant steps later, and he vanished into the light and noise beyond the oaken door.

As Diomedes sat back down, the life sounds breathed once again into The Norman Keep.

Claire waited several minutes while he mulled over the sealed missive. Digging into his coat pocket, she extracted two shillings and placed them on the table. Come on, dear heart, she said, taking his arm. Your father’s letter deserves a better place than this to be opened.

The light outside the tavern made them squint. With no definite destination in mind, Diomedes and Claire walked away from the pub.

Diomedes oscillated in and out of his thoughts. Memories of a bygone life when he had been carefree, loving to walk with his father on the wintry beaches north of Liverpool. The Irish Sea churned green and white, and his father’s measured steps had always given the boy a sense of security. A sense of worth. In those days, formality wasn’t part of their lives, and little Diomedes never worried about protocol when with Daddy.

Claire interrupted gently, I’m glad you let me come along. Your father most certainly was a splendid man. I know you’ve got a lot to think about. If you want to be alone now, I’ll understand.

No. Please stay. I’ll be fine. And he slipped again into his sacred treasury. But there was a region in the treasury where precious memories became tainted. No longer did they sparkle, dazzling the fugitive from the present. Instead, they became disfigured, making the visitor feel uncomfortable, intruding into forbidden rooms.

What had happened?

When did the love, the laughter cease? Father? Daddy! So strong and pleasant. Dead? Is it possible? The man who lay by my side during the terror of thunderstorms, quieting the boyish sobs with his kind voice. Dead? Never to come home? Never again to boast with a father’s pride about his children’s accomplishments? Dead for months now. Yes, of course, I know. But no more hope of reconciliation? Never again to be a family?

Sir Robert Bruce Stuart. Born to poverty in the Crosshill Parish of Ballieston, Lanark County, Scotland. Orphaned. Joined the army at a tender age. Distinguished himself in the Napoleonic Wars. Self-taught classical scholar and hopeless romantic who found love in the ashes of war.

His firstborn was Miltiades to honor the Athenian hero of the battle on the beaches of Marathon. Tall, blonde, and British in every aspect, except his given name.

Then Milena. The exquisite daughter who, despite denials, mirrored her enchanting, stubborn mother.

And finally, Diomedes. Named after his favorite character in Homer’s Iliad. He was a reserved child, given to books and reflection. He shared his father’s sensitivity for poetry and, in a way known only to himself, confident that he was Sir Robert’s favorite.

Milty! You fight with coofs your own size. I’ll not have you bullying your little brother! Yes, Achilles and Heracles were great men, but not to be compared with the greatness of Socrates or Aristotle. The essence of God dwells within us. It’s necessary for all of us to search for their own ties to Him. Judge religions by their people’s achievements. Strive always to be right, but allow others to disagree.

What had gone wrong?

The fractures in the family. They came slowly and quietly at first. Traditional tuggings growing ever more important. Cultural differences? Presbyterian versus Greek Orthodox? Greater problems, incompatible dogmas. Is religion so important as to require the rending of the children’s hearts? Where is the love? The laughter? The father? The mother? The sister? The brother? Unity gone. Hopes dashed? Why? For what reason?