The man smiled, enjoying Whitney’s perplexity. “I am Joseph the Prophet. You’ve prayed me here. Now what do you want of me?”
If Whitney was surprised before, now he was stunned. His mouth dropped open and he gaped at his visitor. “You’re Joseph Smith?”
“Yes. We have just arrived from New York, a cold and arduous journey.” He smiled even more broadly. “Did you not pray for me to come?”
“I...well, yes, my wife and I have been praying that...” His voice trailed off. “But how did you know?”
Joseph grew more serious now. “While yet in New York, I had a vision in the which I saw you praying. The moment I saw you just now, I recognized you instantly.”
Carl Rogers, who had been watching the stranger and Mr. Whitney intently, was startled. The whole interchange was most peculiar, but with the talk of visions and prayer his eyes really widened. He had heard that both Mr. Whitney and Mr. Gilbert, partners in the store, had become Mormons some months previously when a group of ministers had come through preaching. He wasn’t sure what that implied, or even what the term Mormon meant, but now his curiosity was piqued.
“Have you a place to stay?” Mr. Whitney asked.
The man who called himself the Prophet Joseph shook his head. “No. I see the hotel across the street, perhaps we can find a room there.”
“Nonsense. My wife and I have a commodious house.” He pointed out of the west window. “Just right across the street. You shall stay with us.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—”
“I insist.” Whitney peered out of the window to where the sleigh still sat waiting. “Are there four of you?”
“No,” Joseph answered. “My two traveling companions are from this area, one from Mentor, one from Painesville. They will be returning to their homes. It is just my wife and I.” A look of concern crossed his face. “My wife is seven months pregnant and not in good health. This is most kind of you, Mr. Whitney.”
Newel Whitney suddenly realized that Carl Rogers was still standing nearby, looking awkward but watching the proceedings with interest. “I’m sorry, Carl,” Whitney apologized. “I got carried away. Mr. Smith here surprised me so.”
“That’s no problem, Mr. Whitney. In fact, I’m in no hurry. Why don’t you go get your guests settled. I’ll wait here.”
Joseph’s face split into a wide smile. “Well, how thoughtful of you, young man!” He extended his hand. “Joseph Smith is my name. What’s yours?”
Carl took the hand, surprised by the firmness of the grip. “Carl Rogers.”
“Carl’s father owns the livery stable here in town,” Whitney explained.
“Then I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you,” Joseph said.
The directness of his gaze was disconcerting, and Carl looked away, a little embarrassed. “I hope so, sir.”
Chapter Eight
It took Joshua over a week before he finally found the missionaries alone in the small apartment over the tailor shop. Twice he had seen them on the street preaching, but he had no desire to talk to them in the presence of any of the local Missourians. He had also found the one called Frederick G. Williams alone in the tailor shop one day, but Williams was from Ohio and had only joined the other four men when they came through Kirtland. Joshua immediately left. It was the ones from New York that he wanted.
Finally, on a Sunday evening, much later than callers usually came, Joshua climbed the stairs and banged on the door. There were three of them there—an Oliver Cowdery, a Peter Whitmer, Jr., and one called Parley Pratt. Though they had obviously been in the process of preparing for bed when Joshua knocked, they seemed eager to talk with him and quickly invited him in. He ignored their invitation to remove his coat, but he did sit down.
“How may we help you, sir?” the one named Cowdery asked when he was settled. Oliver Cowdery was a small man, no more than five feet five or six, but he was clearly viewed by the other two as the natural leader, and so Joshua turned his full attention to him.
“It is my understanding that you men might know Joseph Smith.”
The blunt directness of his statement shocked them all a little. “That is correct,” Cowdery said. “Do you know Joseph?”
Joshua ignored the question. “Do you know any of the families around Palmyra Township?”
“Of course,” Cowdery said, smiling broadly. “I myself taught school in the village. That’s how I came to meet the Smith family.”
“Do you know of the Benjamin Steed family?”
Both Cowdery and Whitmer lit up. “But of course,” Whitmer said. “I have not personally met the father, but Mrs. Steed and the children have been in my father’s home on numerous occasions. We live down in Fayette Township.”
“I know Nathan, the oldest son, very well,” Cowdery broke in eagerly. “In fact, I baptized him with my own hand. I was also there the evening he baptized his mother and sister Melissa.”
“Baptized them?”
“Yes.” Cowdery was elated, and the words came out in a torrent. “The authority to baptize was restored to the earth through angelic ministration. Joseph has organized a church—Christ’s church—on the earth again. The Steeds were one of the first families to join.”
“My—” Joshua caught himself. “The father? Did he join this church too?”
“No.”
Joshua grunted inwardly. Well, at least that was something.
Whitmer spoke up again. “Sadly, Mr. Steed has not as yet seen fit to believe. But he has permitted his family to join. The two younger children were baptized a few weeks after the rest of the family.”
Joshua felt a sudden pain shoot through him. “The youngest. Tell me about him.”
Cowdery gave him a sharp look, reading more in Joshua’s face than Joshua wanted to show. “Matthew is going on eleven now. He’s sharp as an ax blade fresh off the grinding wheel. A delightful young man.”
“And Melissa? Tell me about her.”
“A wonderful girl,” Whitmer said warmly. “Very lovely. A strong spiritual testimony of the work.”
Parley Pratt had been watching Joshua closely, though to this point he had not spoken. Now he stirred. “You obviously know the Steeds well, sir.”
Joshua only nodded.
Pratt was not about to be put off so easily. “May I ask how you know them? Are you from New York State?”
Joshua looked at him steadily for several moments, then turned back to Cowdery. “You said Nathan is the oldest son. That is not true.”
“He isn’t?” Whitmer asked.
“No.”
“No, that’s right,” Cowdery said. “I said oldest son, but I do remember that Nathan had an older brother, name of Joshua, as I remember. He left home some years back.”
“Of course,” Whitmer agreed. “Now I remember. Sister Steed prays for him in every prayer she offers.”
Joshua’s eyes came up to meet Cowdery’s. “Still?” he asked in a strained whisper.
Cowdery nodded, looking perplexed by Joshua’s sudden show of emotion. “Yes. They’ve not heard from him since he left. He was supposed to have come—” He stopped, his eyes suddenly widening. “West.”
Joshua nodded slowly.
Cowdery was staring at him in wonder. “You’re Joshua,” he said in amazement. “You’re Joshua Steed.”
“Yes.”
Cowdery jumped up and came over and pumped Joshua’s hand vigorously. “Of course. I should have noticed. I’ve only met your father once or twice, but the resemblance between you is strong.”
For the next ten minutes they talked, Joshua eagerly probing for every detail he could draw from Cowdery and Whitmer. Pratt indicated that even though he was originally from New York, he had most recently been living in Ohio. He had met the Steeds but did not know them well, and therefore said little.
Finally, Oliver Cowdery held up his hands, warding off further questions with a laugh. “I’m sorry we can’t be more helpful, Joshua, but remember, we’ve been gone almos
t four months now. We’ve been told that most of the Saints are gathering to Ohio, but we haven’t specifically heard which families. Perhaps your family—”
“My father will never leave that farm.”
“That’s what Nathan said too,” Whitmer volunteered. “But I’ll wager four bits that Nathan and Lydia will go.”
Joshua looked down at his hands quickly. This was the question he had specifically avoided asking. “So they did marry?” he asked slowly.
“You knew Lydia too?” Cowdery asked.
“Yes.” He kept his voice flat and dispassionate.
“She’s a wonderful woman. It almost didn’t happen, you know. Lydia was dead set against Joseph Smith, and when Nathan wouldn’t turn his back on what he believed, she broke off their engagement.”
That startled Joshua considerably. “When was that?” he demanded, quickly calculating. It had been last summer—no, summer a year ago, summer of ‘29—that he had been making plans to start east early the following spring and see if Lydia might still have him. Then had come the news from a man passing through Independence that Lydia and Nathan were promised to each other.
Cowdery seemed puzzled by the sudden interest in details.
But Joshua couldn’t help it. He had to know. “Do you remember when it was that Nathan and Lydia broke the engagement?” Joshua asked again. “Think.”
The dark eyes were half hooded as Cowdery tried to remember. “Well, I baptized Nathan in late May or early June.”
“Of ‘29?”
“Yes. Joseph and I were well along with the translation of the Book of Mormon by then, so yes, it would have been ‘29. Nathan wrote Lydia about being baptized.” He looked up. “She had gone to Boston.”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“It was the letter about his baptism that really upset her. She came right home. So by the time Nathan’s letter got to Boston and she made it back home it would have been July, maybe early August. They broke off the engagement a short time after that when it became clear that their differences over Joseph Smith were too deep.”
Joshua felt a great emptiness inside him. “So that would have been July or August of ‘29?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes.”
It hit him like a blow. He had planned to return to New York in the early spring of ‘30. By then, he told himself, he could be a successful freight operator and return in triumph to make reconciliation with his family. He was also filled with thoughts of Lydia and hopes that they could pick up again where they had left off when he had fled. “So when did they get back together?” He didn’t want to hear it, but he couldn’t bear not knowing.
“That one I do know, because Nathan and your mother had come to Fayette for the organization of the Church. That was April sixth, not quite a year ago now. When Nathan returned from there, Lydia had had a complete change of heart. She was baptized the next day, and they were married a few days after that.”
Joshua stood and walked to the window, his fists clenching and unclenching, trying to calm the sickness spreading through him. He should have gone. He should have followed his instincts and gone back East. He would have left in late February or early March and been in Palmyra before April when Lydia had finally decided to marry Nathan. Instead, when he heard that Lydia was getting married, and to Nathan, something had snapped in him. That had been the night he drank himself into a stupor, then dragged a minister out of bed and took him to the house of Clinton Roundy, where he asked the saloon keeper for the hand of his daughter, Jessica, in marriage.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Steed?”
Joshua felt the eyes of the three men boring into his back. He took a quick breath and turned around. “Yes, everything’s fine.”
“They’re expecting a baby, you know.”
Joshua swung around to Peter Whitmer, the pain knifing through him. “No, I didn’t know that.”
“Well, she was last October when we left,” Pratt volunteered. “In fact, it was due sometime this spring. Maybe they’re already parents.”
“No,” Cowdery said, “I think it’s not due until May.” He watched Joshua’s face for a moment, then leaned forward. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Steed?”
“About Nathan and Lydia?” Absolutely not. But he kept his face inscrutable.
“No, about your family. I know it is not my affair, but why have you never written your parents?”
Joshua felt a quick rush of relief. This was not pleasant ground, but it was safer. “I did. I wrote several letters.”
“You did? They never got them, at least they hadn’t by the time we left.”
“I never mailed them.” It came out quietly, completely belying the churning storm going on inside him. He looked at Cowdery. “Did Nathan ever tell you why I left?”
“No.”
Good! He took a deep breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I planned to go back. I still do. Maybe this summer.”
Pratt stirred in his chair, still obviously intrigued by what was going on in Joshua’s mind. “We’ve decided that one of our number needs to return and make a report to Joseph. It’s been determined that I shall go. I shall be leaving at the first of next week. Would you like me to take a letter back with me? I’ll see that your family gets it.”
“No!” It came out short and hard. A letter now was not the answer.
Pratt seemed not to be surprised. “All right,” he said, his voice still mild. “Do you object if when I see your family I tell them I have seen you?”
Joshua considered that. It might be the easiest way. “No,” he said.
“Good. I’m sure your mother will be thrilled.”
Noting the play of emotions on Joshua’s face, Oliver decided to change the subject. “What do you do here in Independence?”
“I own and run a freight company.” He was going to let it go at that, then he remembered that one of these men might be seeing his family shortly. “I’ve got fourteen wagons and the teams to pull them,” he added.
From the look on their faces it was clear that they were suitably impressed. Well, let them be. Let the word go back that Joshua Steed had made his own way in life.
“So you knew Joseph, then?” Cowdery asked.
“Yes. He and Hyrum worked for my father when we first came to Palmyra.”
“Then you know about the angel Moroni and the Book of Mormon?”
“Yes,” Joshua answered, his voice suddenly curt, “but I’m not interested in that.” He stood up. “I never believed any of it then, and I’m not about to now.”
Oliver and the others also stood. Oliver smiled, not taking offense. “We’re sorry to hear that, but we believe every man has a right to choose his own faith.”
“Is that what you’re out here doing? Preaching Joseph Smith?”
“No,” Whitmer said quietly, “we’re preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ, which Joseph restored to the earth.”
“Your kind is always quick with the good answer,” Joshua retorted angrily. “Sounds like the same thing to me.” He felt a quick pang of regret as he saw the surprise in the men’s eyes. What had brought about this sudden anger? Well, let them wonder, he thought. He was angry—angry at himself, angry at the fate that had cheated him when he was so close to winning what he most longed for. And Joseph Smith was part of all that too. If it hadn’t been for his tales of the gold plates...
He brushed that thought aside angrily. What was done was done. And that had nothing to do with these men. They seemed decent enough, in spite of their foolishness. And they had kindly told him of his family. He forced himself to speak with more control. “I don’t want to discourage you, but you won’t have much luck here. People out here are too busy dealing with real-life things.”
“Oh, to the contrary,” Oliver said amiably, “we’re having good success. Many are listening to us, and we have already baptized enough to start a branch of the Church here in Independence.”
Joshua just shook his head and moved to the door.
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“When Parley returns we hope he can convince Joseph to come see for himself how the work is going.”
The anger was back instantly. Joshua’s voice went very cold as he turned to Pratt. “You tell Joseph for me that if he comes to Jackson County he might not find things to his liking out here.”
Oliver’s voice took on a firmness of its own. “Joseph goes where the Lord calls him, Mr. Steed.”
Joshua straightened to his full height, his eyes turning ominous. “This is the frontier, Mr. Cowdery. Law and order out here ain’t what you’re used to back East. This ain’t no place for the weak.”
Oliver’s eyes glittered with anger. He obviously did not like being threatened. “I came over a thousand miles to get here, a good part of that on foot. Being religious doesn’t make us weak, Mr. Steed.”
Joshua snorted in derision. “You got no idea what hard is, mister. So you tell him. You tell Joseph for me that if he tries to bring his angels and his gold Bible out here, these Missouri wildcats just might jam them right down his throat.”
With that he spun on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him.
Carlton Rogers hung back, looking at the displays behind the glass counters in the Gilbert and Whitney Store. Newel Whitney gave him a curious look once or twice, but seemed to sense that Carl was hanging back because he wanted to talk to him in private.
In about five minutes, the store was empty of customers. Newel wiped his hands on his apron and sauntered over to where Carl stood by the stove.
“Mornin’, Carl.”
“Mornin’, Mr. Whitney.”
“How’s your family?”
“Right fine. Thank you for asking.”
They both fell silent, and Carl started to squirm a little. He began to trace the line of the floorboards with his toe.
“Something we can help you with today, Carl?”
He looked up, glanced quickly out of the front window to make sure no one else was headed for the store, then finally turned to the storekeeper. “Would you mind if I asked you some questions? Not about the store,” he added quickly. “More personal-like?”
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