Belonging to Heaven, page 4
Chapter 2
Wailuku, Maui
November 1850
The feeling of suffocation came again as Jonathan Napela struggled out of a nightmare. The kahuna held him by the back of the neck and forced him under the moonlit ocean waves. The rumble of the kahuna’s voice swirled within the black water. “Moe malie i ke kai o ko haku.” Lie still in the sea of your lord. “Do not struggle because you are the sacrifice—you are bound to die.” The water filled Jonathan’s ears, his nose, his mouth. He forced his eyes open. In the predawn gloom, he could barely make out the koa wood dresser, the high-back chair, and the lace curtains at the window. This is my house, my dresser, my window. I breathe air. I smell ginger flowers in the garden.
Jonathan pushed himself into a sitting position. He leaned his head back against the hard metal of the brass headboard and drew in several breaths. His lungs burned from the imagined drowning, and angry tears came freely. Jonathan dashed them away and reached over to apologize to Kitty for waking her, but his hand found only empty space. He looked to her abandoned place and worked to clear the sleep from his brain. Many mornings his wife fled from uneasy sleep into the oblivion of movement. Jonathan thought of all that had filled their lives in the seven years since their wedding: his work and success as a district judge, the building of a large two-story home in Wailuku, their many social commitments in the community. He and Kitty had also planned for children to bless their home, but in this they found it necessary to take life as it was given. As Wiwiokalani often told them, “Wae aku i ka lani.” Let the selecting be done in heaven. Life and death had woven themselves into the fabric of the young couple’s existence, and a recent sorrow shredded their sleep with nightmares and restiveness.
Jonathan heard Kitty’s footsteps in the downstairs parlor, the creak of the floorboards. He envisioned her movement as she left the parlor and padded down the hallway to the kitchen—the closing of a cupboard door—the scraping of chair legs—the thump as the chair found its new home—the opening and closing of the kitchen door—the footfalls moving back to the parlor where the whole cycle began again.
Jonathan rubbed his hands briskly across his face, threw off the coverlet, and got out of bed. He put on a pair of pants and went down the stairs to comfort his wife.
Kitty was pacing around the sofa in the parlor when Jonathan stepped to the doorway. She looked at him, but did not stop walking. She had on her white nightdress, and in the moonlit room she looked like a ghost. Her waist-length hair was bushy and snarled—her features pulled into a frown.
Jonathan did not speak to her. He did not reach out to touch her as she passed close. He watched her fingers clench and unclench and heard the soft whimpering in her throat. Kitty stopped at the parlor window. She pushed back the lace curtain and laid her forehead on the cool glass.
Jonathan stepped into the room.
Kitty pressed her hand against the windowpane. “Perhaps they are wandering together in the dark world. Perhaps the Lord Jesus will at least give them that comfort.”
There was a forlorn longing in her voice that made Jonathan shut his eyes to steady his emotion. The sun had risen over the great mountain Haleakala eighty-five times since the death of their infant son, but the pain lingered in every room of the house—the rooms that held one day of his son’s breathing. They had named him Kapo, and had laid his body in the graveyard beside his brother, Enocha, who had walked the rainbow two years earlier. Enocha, the stronger of the two, had breathed for three days.
Kitty looked over her shoulder at Jonathan. “I know what a person has to do. You have to walk carefully so that the gods do not see the imprint of your foot on the path, and you cannot dance in the sunlight, but must hide in the shadow of the kukui tree.” She looked back to the dark window. “It is my fault.”
“No. There is no fault in this.”
“Perhaps Pele saw me when I raised my chin too high. Perhaps she was jealous of our fine sons.”
Jonathan moved to stand beside his wife. “Keliikuaaina, we are Christian children now. We do not fear the old gods.”
“Then I do not understand Jesus. Why would he take our little ones from us, and why would he make them wander about in a wilderness?”
“What do you mean?”
“Reverend Conde told me that our babies have gone to an intermediate place. A place where they will wait for the resurrection.” She turned abruptly. “But how will they exist for so long a time without someone to hold them and care for them?”
Jonathan’s heart held the same question, but his mind fought to formulate a reasonable answer. He shook his head. “I do not know. It is a mystery we do not understand at this time.”
Kitty’s next words were bitter and filled with loss. “But I want to know. I want a better answer. I want to know where they are!” She pushed past Jonathan and moved out of the house into the garden. The sky was beginning to pale at the eastern horizon, and the first notes of birdsong were sounding. “Ka hale ko‘eko‘e o ka po.” The cold house of darkness. “They have gone to the cold house where Milu is the master—Milu the uncaring god of the underworld. Will he hold my babies? Will he keep them warm?”
Jonathan heard the words of his wife as he stepped out onto the porch. The sorrowful sentiments clashed with the peaceful stillness of the morning. He tried to offer soothing words, but Kitty’s grief had been awakened and would not rest.
“Perhaps there is no hope for them because they were not baptized. Perhaps we will never see their little faces again.”
Jonathan took her gently by the arms. “Please, dear one, you are breaking my heart.”
There was desperation in her eyes when she looked at him. “Then tell me where they have gone. I will find some peace if you can tell me. You are a learned man. You have studied under the American missionaries. Open the holy book and tell me the truths of the Christian faith. Tell me! Tell me, Jonathan! I cannot have our sons waiting in the dark!”
He gathered her into his arms. “I cannot tell you.” She began weeping. “But I will pray for an answer. Every day I will pray. Every day. And I promise that an answer will come to us.”
The light nod of her head was all the assurance Jonathan needed. Together they would get through this loss, and he would pray until an answer was revealed.
Chapter 3
Honolulu, Oahu
December 12, 1850
The wish of all the missionaries standing along the railing of the Imaum of Muscat was that they could get off the cursed ship and onto the shore. They did not detest the ship itself, but the memories she held of rolling waves, storms, and seasickness. Being held out of Honolulu harbor until safe passage through the dangerous channel could be accomplished had left the men anxious and restive. Like his fellow shipmates, George was trying to take in the beauty of the towering green cliffs, the sparkling blue water, and the quaint look of the town itself with its palm trees and thatched houses. It created a scene that he could not have imagined. He knew that even those who grew up in the green of England or Ireland were mystified by the lush vegetation and the soft warm air that brushed their skin.
“What did I tell you, Brother Cannon? Could you ever dream of an adventure such as this?” William Farrer asked. He took in a huge breath of air. “I think a piece of heaven has fallen from the sky and dropped into the ocean.”
George nodded. “It’s beautiful.”
William scoffed. “Beautiful? Is that the best you can do?”
“I actually can’t find the words. I just want to get onshore and walk around.”
“Well, the captain has hoisted the signal for a pilot and he should be coming out soon.” William took in another deep breath of air. “It’s a miracle that we’re here, isn’t it? I mean the gold strike and everything?”
George nodded. “It is.” He thought back on the days after the call from Brother Rich, as the men worked diligently for hardly any profit. The weather was cold and rainy and they were all discouraged—hundreds of buckets and they were only bringing out thirty dollars a day, and then a strike! They hit a rich vein of gold that ran on for five weeks, the prospects running out just when they’d garnered enough money for passage to the islands, their own personal needs, and even some to send back to the Church. To George it was a miracle. He smiled. He was especially grateful for the personal money to buy some new clothing as his pants and shirts were so worn that one could see his skin through the threadbare areas. He looked down at his light-colored suit and felt glad it wasn’t covered with the mud of California.
A whistle blew and a voice rang out. “Stand ready for the pilot!”
The missionaries moved back as the captain and his first mate came forward to meet the pilot.
All eyes looked off the port side of the ship and saw the whale boat approach. Four men were at the oars, the pilot sitting grandly in the stern. He was a squat man with square shoulders and a heavily lined face. His look was serious, and George was glad he was not the captain.
“Are you all well?” the pilot shouted as the whale boat came alongside.
“We have no sickness here,” the captain shouted back as the crew lowered the ladder.
“What be your last port of call?” the pilot called as he hoisted himself up the ropes.
George was amazed at the agility of so thickset a gentleman.
“The port of San Francisco,” the captain replied.
The pilot climbed onboard. “And is it your wish to make port?”
“It is, sir.”
“For what purpose?”
“To offload goods and passengers and to take on stores.”
The pilot reached out his powerful hand and the captain took it. “Welcome back to Honolulu, Captain Ritches,” the pilot barked, a broad smile splitting his face. “How was the crossing?”
The captain smiled back. “Rough, Mr. Carter.”
“It usually is in this season.”
George thought of the rolling waves and the days and nights of sickness, and figured there had to be harsher words to describe the four-week crossing.
“Some of the passengers will be staying as missionaries and need their permits,” Captain Ritches said.
The pilot looked around until he found the most likely candidates. “No wives?”
The captain smiled. “These are not Protestant missionaries, Mr. Carter. They are Mormons from the Utah Territory.”
The pilot’s face took on a look of interest as he approached the group. “Who then is in charge of this bunch?”
Hiram Clark stepped forward and extended his hand. “I am, sir. I am Hiram Clark.”
“Good to meet you, Mr. Clark. A few years back I met another group of Mormons under the direction of a Mr. Sam Brannon. Are you familiar with the man?”
Brother Clark smiled. “Indeed we are, Mr. Carter. Our prophet, Brigham Young, sent Brannon’s group out to see what might be made of the west coast of California.”
Mr. Carter laughed. “Gold’s what’s to be made there, Mr. Clark! Gold nuggets as big as your fist!”
Brother Clark did not correct the man’s perception.
“This prophet of yours is a shrewd businessman, I reckon. Gold nuggets as big as your fist, I tell you!” He shook his head. “Why, if I wasn’t so attached to the sea, I’d go and make me a fortune.” George and William looked at each other and thought only of buckets of dirt. “Well, Mr. Clark, we’ll work hard to get you into the harbor by noon. You’ll have to make it to the custom house before four of the clock if you want your permits today.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carter.”
The pilot turned his back on Brother Clark and got down to business. “Square the yards!” he called in a loud voice, and the crew jumped into action. There was no mistaking that the man was now in charge of preparing the vessel for its entry into the harbor and was masterful at his command. In a little over an hour he had the ship and crew ready for their attempt on the narrow passage. The pilot boat led out, and the man in the chains kept throwing the lead to measure the depth of the water.
As they neared the narrow channel the sea broke over the reef in a tremendous roar.
“Ah, George, look at that,” William said, pointing at shattered pieces of wrecked ships caught on the rocks. “I hope our pilot is as capable as he is loud.”
George smiled, in spite of his unease.
The pilot proved to be extremely capable, and soon the Imaum of Muscat was safely in the port of Honolulu and dropping anchor.
William squinted his eyes at a patch of sunlight on the water. “What’s that then?”
George shaded his eyes from the sun and focused where William was looking. “It’s a boat . . . well, more like a canoe heading toward us.”
The eyes of all the men now turned toward the approaching vessel. It was crafted from one long beautiful piece of wood and seemed to sit light in the water.
“That there’s an outrigger canoe,” one of the crewmen said in passing. “On account of the outrigger attached to the side.”
George found the canoe and the men paddling it singular. The Hawaiian men had strong physics, smooth brown skin, and dark hair. They had some sort of stiff patterned fabric around their waists, but their chests and arms were bare. The men smiled broadly when they reached the side of the ship. The missionaries smiled back, especially when the Hawaiians held up baskets filled with bananas, oranges, coconuts, and melons.
William Farrer whistled through his teeth. “Look at that, men. No more dried meat and hard tack.”
George smiled to himself as he thought about the letter he would write his sister Mary later that day. He looked again to the green cliffs and shook his head. How could he possibly describe that vista to her in a letter, or the scene opening up before him? Brother Clark bought each missionary a supply of fruit and paid the natives in coin. George watched the transaction with fascination, wishing he could understand the melodic and flowing language that passed between the Hawaiian speakers. He realized that learning their language would probably not be required as they were sent to preach to the white men who made their homes in the Sandwich Islands. Still, George felt drawn to the islanders’ easygoing ways and youthful demeanor.
When the Hawaiians moved on to other passengers, Brother Clark gathered the missionaries around him. “Go down and get your satchels. We’ll be in town for the afternoon, and then we’ll be back on the ship.”
George was disappointed that they wouldn’t be spending the night onshore, but he knew Brother Clark needed time to find them accommodations, and they needed time to clear things off the ship. George looked out over the dazzling landscape and was heartened with the knowledge that soon he would leave the dark, cramped quarters of the ship for the beauty of Eden.
As he went below to gather his satchel, emotions made a jumble of his thoughts. William had called it a wondrous adventure, but George knew he was a stranger. He felt a pain in his stomach that had nothing to do with the gentle rocking of the ship. He did not know the language, customs, or prejudices of the people who lived here. He was unfamiliar with the laws of the land and what restraints or lack thereof men placed on themselves. The streets of Liverpool may have been crowded and dingy, but even as a young man George knew the mind-set of the people he passed on the street, and the rules that kept the society generally on a level footing. And, in Nauvoo, although the net of the gospel had gathered in a variety of people from around the country and the world, he and his family had easily merged into the society because of the religious fervor shared by all. George smiled. He supposed it didn’t hurt to have a prophet at the helm.
George’s heart ached at the thought of the prophet. Would the world ever know how Joseph translated ancient records, preached the gospel of the primitive church, planned cities, and gathered thousands to Zion from all over the world? A smile crept onto his lips. If given the opportunity, he would tell them.
William clapped him on the shoulder. “What you smiling for, George? Are you anxious to get off this ship?”
George grabbed his satchel. “That I am, William. What say you and I go to see about this adventure?”
The wide grin on William’s face was answer enough.
***
They hadn’t spent much time in Honolulu that day. After securing their permits at the custom house, the group of missionaries had walked a few shaded paths, admired the profusion of flowers, and marveled at the variety of garden fruits and vegetables for sale in the marketplace. They were disappointed though by the squalid huts and unorganized way the town was laid out. Coming from the order and cleanliness of Nauvoo, Honolulu was a hodgepodge. From a distance the scene was pleasing, but up close one could tell that the rapid influx of foreign visitors had overwhelmed the planning. They had been back on board before nightfall.
The next day they moved into a set of rooms secured by Brother Clark not far from the custom house, and George’s spirits were high.
“It will be a bit cramped for a few days, brethren, until we figure out what the Lord wants done with the lot of you.”
George could tell that Brother Clark’s spirits were high too.
“Not to worry, Elder Clark,” William Farrer responded. “It seems like a palace after those quarters on the ship.”
Many voices heartily agreed.
Brother Clark nodded. “Stow your gear, and get your satchels and canteens, men. We’re hiking up into the mountains to have a prayer and to talk about our assignments.”
A short time later, the Mormon missionaries set off along the road that ran from the custom house up into the Nuuanu Valley. George could not take in all the new sights and sounds. There were trees with long flowing leaves, vines with leaves bigger than his head, unique flowers with luscious smells, and small birds with vivid red and black feathers. His head kept roving from side to side, and several times he stumbled for lack of attention to his footing.
