Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  He stopped for a moment to check his reflection in the glass of the window, seeing that, as usual, one lock of hair had slipped down over his forehead. He brushed it back, wet his fingers with his tongue, and tried to plaster it back into place. Peter Ingalls would celebrate his eighteenth birthday in three more months. Unlike Derek, who was stocky and heavily built, Peter was more slight of body and narrow of shoulders. Bending over the typesetting cases day after day hadn’t done a lot to broaden them either. His large blue eyes were usually thoughtful and inquisitive. His features, a legacy from his long-deceased mother, made him look younger than he really was. He made one more attempt to control the errant shock of hair, then gave it up and went on.

  To his surprise, it was not Ebenezer Robinson who was waiting for him, however. Instead it was two members of the Council of the Twelve, Elders John Taylor and Wilford Woodruff.

  Elder Taylor smiled at the sudden bewilderment on Peter’s face. “It’s all right, Peter. Come in and sit down.”

  Wilford Woodruff rose and shook his hand. “Come in, Brother Ingalls, come in.”

  Peter moved over to the proffered chair and sat down slowly. Brother Robinson was nowhere to be seen. Joseph’s brother, Don Carlos Smith, had been the first editor of the Church’s newspaper in Nauvoo up until his death the previous August. His assistant editor, Robert B. Thompson, had died a few weeks later. At that point, Ebenezer Robinson—who, since 1839, had been Don Carlos’s business partner in the printing establishment that, among other things, published the Times and Seasons—became sole owner of the print shop and editor of the paper. There had been rumors in the past month or two about a change. Peter knew that Brother Joseph had been negotiating with Robinson to step down as editor of the Church’s newspaper and sell the printing business to Willard Richards. But, as far as Peter knew, nothing had come of it as yet.

  Elder Taylor waited until he was settled and Elder Woodruff had come back to take the seat beside the desk. Then he smiled warmly. “Are you still reading, Peter?”

  Peter nodded immediately, knowing exactly what he had reference to. “Yes, sir, I am. Every chance I get.”

  Woodruff nodded. “John has told me how you’ve read about every book in his library, starting back in Far West. That’s wonderful,” he concluded. “As the revelations say, we should seek learning out of the best books.”

  “Yes, I firmly believe that,” Peter responded, still not sure what was happening here.

  Taylor began rummaging through some papers on the desk, his head down. Woodruff watched him, seeming to know what he was looking for. Peter’s eyes moved back and forth between the two men; he was feeling just a little bewildered.

  Wilford Woodruff was the shorter of the two Apostles, being probably no more than five feet seven or eight inches. Peter had heard that in his younger years Wilford had been a miller. That would account for his powerful build. Throughout Nauvoo, Brother Woodruff was known for being able to outwork most of the men around him. But it was his eyes that caught Peter’s attention. They were light blue, almost translucent, and they were the most piercing eyes he had ever seen. It was as if one glance from them and you felt revealed completely. He wore a Greek-style beard that ran from ear to ear beneath his jaw and chin but left his face clean shaven. The beard emphasized the fact that his cheekbones were high and prominent, almost making his face look gaunt. It made him seem stern and fierce-looking, but Peter knew this was deceiving. In addition to his reputation as a hard worker, Wilford Woodruff was renowned for his gentle temperament and naturally cheerful disposition. Derek, who had spent so much time with him during those miraculous missionary days in England, described him as being totally free of jealousy and as having a natural trust of others. He dressed simply and lived simply. Joseph called him “Wilford the Faithful.”

  John Taylor was a distinct contrast to his companion. They were nearly the same age—Taylor was about thirty-four, Woodruff two years older than that—but there the similarity ended. John Taylor was almost six feet tall. He had been born in England and immigrated to Canada when he was about twenty. He there married another English immigrant—Leonora Cannon. Peter knew that though he was a skilled cabinetmaker and wood turner, John Taylor loved literature and books. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. His British accent had softened little in his years in North America, and this, coupled with prematurely silvered hair, gave him a regal bearing. Dignity and grace and courage—those were the words that came to Peter’s mind when he thought of John Taylor. During the dark days of Kirtland, John Taylor had been absolutely fearless in defending the Church and the Prophet from the attacks of the dissenters. Peter admired him greatly and had felt a close affinity to him from that day he had first brought the books to him.

  Brother Taylor found the paper he was looking for. He scanned it quickly, then looked up. “Well, Peter, some changes are going on that we wanted to talk to you about.”

  “All right.”

  He handed the paper across to him. “This is a revelation received by Brother Joseph just a week ago. It has to do with the newspaper here.”

  Peter reached over and took the paper and sat back. Centered over the few lines of writing was one word: Revelation. Then he began to read. As he did so, his eyes widened slightly.

  Verily thus saith the Lord unto you, my servant Joseph, go and say unto the Twelve, that it is my will to have them take in hand the editorial department of the Times and Seasons, according to that manifestation which shall be given unto them by the power of my Holy Spirit in the midst of their counsel, saith the Lord. Amen.

  He read it again, more slowly this time. Finally he looked up and handed it back.

  “That was given a week ago today,” Brother Taylor explained.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, as of yesterday, Brother Woodruff has been asked to superintend the printing office and I to take over the management of the editorial department of the Times and Seasons.”

  “Really?” Peter said eagerly. That was wonderful news. He had enjoyed working for Ebenezer, but to work directly under John Taylor, that would be a privilege indeed.

  Brother Woodruff spoke up now. “This morning, we closed the contract with Brother Robinson for the purchase of the printing office, the newspaper, the bookbindery, the paper fixtures, and the stereotype foundry.”

  Peter was a little dazed. This would surely mean significant changes. He looked at John Taylor. “It will be a pleasure to work with you, sir. You shall have my complete support.”

  The Apostle nodded, pleased with that. “Thank you.” Then there was a slow smile. “But actually, we were hoping for something a little more than that.”

  “What?” Peter responded immediately. “I am ready to do whatever you ask.”

  “Good. As things stand right now, it’s possible that Brother Joseph may step in as editor-in-chief of the paper. That hasn’t been decided for sure yet. But regardless, I have been assigned to take an active role in the editorial department. If Joseph indeed takes over as editor, I will be the associate editor.” He paused, looking intently at Peter. “How about becoming my editorial assistant?”

  Peter gasped softly, and both Taylor and Woodruff chuckled at that.

  “Do I take that as a yes or a no answer?” Taylor teased.

  “Do you mean that, sir?”

  “Of course I mean it.”

  “I . . . I would be truly honored to work with you, Elder Taylor. And for you, Elder Woodruff.”

  “Until we receive any different instructions from Brother Joseph,” explained Brother Taylor, “we can be making some plans. I would like you to begin thinking about editorials that need to be written, issues that we should bring to the fore. I’ll ask that you read and do a preliminary edit on all the articles submitted for publication before sending them on to me.” He leaned back, quite sober now. “As you know, Brother Joseph has placed more and more responsibility on the shoulders of the Twelve. Brother Brigham, as President of the Quorum, is
taking that charge very seriously. There will be times when both Elder Woodruff and I are out of the office, due to the call of our apostolic duties. We need someone who can keep things moving along during such absences.”

  Peter’s mind was reeling. “But . . .” Finally, he just gulped a little, then nodded. “I am honored that you would feel that much confidence in me.”

  Woodruff stood. “Then it’s done?” he asked Peter.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Peter stood now too, as did John Taylor. They all three came together in front of the editor’s large desk. They shook hands all around. “I will await your instructions,” Peter said.

  Lydia Steed was the only person at the Homestead who was not a member of the extended family of Lucy Mack Smith, which said a lot about the depth of the friendship between her and Emma. With the exception of a daughter and a daughter-in-law who lived in Plymouth, a settlement about thirty-five miles southeast of Nauvoo, all the other Smith women had come to help. Lucy Mack was there, of course, supervising all the others in her tireless way. Emma’s children had been sent over to Hyrum and Mary’s house, where Mercy Thompson, Mary’s sister, was watching them along with her own and Mary’s children.

  The only men at the house were Joseph and Hyrum. The other Smith brothers were taking turns at the store so that Joseph could be here with Emma. The two brothers had fetched water or wood when necessary throughout the morning, but by midafternoon Mother Smith had grown tired of Joseph’s hovering and sent him and Hyrum outside.

  The kitchen had been crowded for most of the morning. The women worked shoulder to shoulder, boiling water, preparing clean sheets and towels, and cooking the food for the crowds that would surely come in the next few days to congratulate Joseph and Emma on their good fortune. But as the day wore on, things got done, food was finished and put aside, everything was washed and in readiness. By two p.m., except for Mother Smith and Hyrum’s wife, Mary, who were in Emma’s bedroom with the midwife, the rest of the women were sitting around the kitchen or the adjoining parlor talking quietly.

  When they heard the door above them open and then the sound of footsteps on the stairs, the room went instantly quiet and every head turned to the hallway. Mother Smith appeared. She stopped, surveying the room, then smiled. “We’re down to about three minutes apart now. It shouldn’t be long. Agnes, can you be sure the water is still boiling?”

  The widow of Don Carlos Smith nodded and stood immediately. Mother Smith looked at Lydia. “Why don’t you go out and let the boys know how things are coming.”

  “All right.” Lydia stood and went to the coatrack by the door. She took down her coat and scarf and put them on. Young Lucy—as everyone still called her, even though she was twenty years old and married now—came over and did the same. “I’ll go too,” she said. “I can’t stand just sitting here waiting anymore.”

  Lydia smiled at her. Lucy was Joseph’s youngest sister, and Lydia had always liked her a great deal. “Me too. I’m glad for anything to keep my mind occupied.”

  The two “boys,” as Mother Smith still called them, were standing out by the springhouse, which was on the south side of the home, near the river’s edge. Even though it was February sixth, it was a relatively pleasant day outside. The snow from a few days previous was all but gone. The temperature was in the low forties. As the door opened, both of the brothers turned around. Joseph started toward the women, his face anxious.

  Lydia shook her head. “Nothing yet,” she called.

  As Lydia and young Lucy went down the step and out to join Joseph and Hyrum, Joseph’s shoulders lifted and fell. “And Emma?” he asked.

  “Mama says things are progressing nicely,” Lucy answered. “How are you two doing?”

  Hyrum smiled. “Joseph and I are solving all the problems of the kingdom.”

  “Well, that’s good, then, isn’t it?” Lydia laughed.

  Joseph gave her a wry look. “Now all that’s left is to make it come to pass.”

  Lucy slipped an arm through Joseph’s. “And what wonderful things have you decided?”

  “Actually,” Hyrum answered, “Joseph was telling me the latest about Brother Hyde.”

  “Orson Hyde?” Lydia asked. “Have you heard from him again?”

  “Yes, I have received two letters in recent weeks. He has reached Jerusalem, dedicated the land for the return of the Jews—just as he saw himself doing in vision—and now is on his way home again.” A frown momentarily crossed his face. “Well, actually, at his last writing he was in quarantine at Trieste in Italy, but he expected to be released soon.”

  Lydia was nodding. “I remember now. He spoke of his vision in conference, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Hyrum said. “He saw London, Amsterdam, Constantinople, and Jerusalem. The Spirit spoke quite directly to him as he saw the peoples in those various cities. ‘Here are many of the children of Abraham,’ it said, ‘whom I will gather to the land I gave to their fathers, and here also is the field of your labor.’ And he saw himself in Jerusalem, standing on the top of a mount, with pen and ink, writing out a prayer of dedication.”

  “And from what he wrote in his letter, that is exactly how it happened,” Joseph went on. “It is a great thing he has done.”

  “Yes,” Lydia said. She couldn’t think of anything else that would say it better than that. “Yes, it is,” she repeated.

  “And how glad we are that you are here, Lydia. I am so appreciative of your coming.”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything, Joseph. You know how I feel about Emma.”

  “I know. And I know how she feels about you. She wanted you to be here for her.”

  “It’s been difficult for her these last few months.”

  Joseph was very sober. “I worry about her.”

  Lucy spoke up. “We all try to get her to take it easy, but you know Emma. She’s always up and doing something, even when she ought to be resting.”

  “And unfortunately,” Hyrum added, speaking to Joseph, “at your house there is always something to keep her up and doing it.”

  Joseph blew out his breath in discouragement. “I know. It seems like there’s hardly a meal when we don’t have someone at our table. People coming and going all the time. And I fear they don’t pay much attention to the time.”

  Lydia nodded. Just a few weeks before, Joseph and Emma had taken four additional children into their home. A family by the name of Walker, who had been faithful members of the Church since the early days of Kirtland, and who had ten children, had lost their mother. Joseph and Emma immediately volunteered to take in the four oldest children for a time to help the grieving father cope with his loss.

  “But that’s why everyone loves her, Joseph.”

  He smiled, somewhat sadly. “I know, Lydia. But it is very difficult for her.”

  He turned and put an arm around his sister. “Well, shall we go in? I’m not sure that we can be of any use in there, but I want to be close for Emma when the time comes.”

  When Lucy Mack appeared at the door, everyone looked up. The instant they saw the look on Lucy Mack Smith’s face, they knew.

  Joseph shot to his feet, his face twisting in horror. “No!”

  Mother Smith looked exhausted. One hand passed over her eyes as she nodded dumbly.

  “Oh, please, no!” Joseph cried.

  Mary Smith and Hyrum were up now too. Every other person was frozen in place. Lydia felt as though someone had wrenched her stomach in a violent twist. Not again! Not another loss for Emma. Especially not now.

  Great tears welled up in the eyes of Joseph’s mother and her face crumpled. “It’s a silent child,” she whispered. “A little boy. He never took a breath. You’d better go to her, Joseph.”

  During the time that Nathan was in Wisconsin, Benjamin found a twenty-five-acre parcel of land just east of town and secured it with a hundred dollars earnest money. He had corresponded with two major banks in the state capital and arranged po
ssible financing, but they would not finalize such a major transaction through the mail.

  On Saturday, February nineteenth, Nathan and Benjamin left for the capital city. About a hundred and twenty miles southeast of Nauvoo, Springfield was approached by well-traveled roads; but a three-day thaw, followed by only mildly cold weather, had left the prairie highways a morass of mud and hub-deep ruts. It was a bone-jarring, teeth-rattling trip with delays and detours, and by the time they reached the city on the fourth day they were totally exhausted.

  After a decent night in a small hotel near the state capitol building, Benjamin and Nathan were ready to start the business for which they had come. They spent most of that day at the two banks with whom they were dealing. Though they had good collateral, their being from Nauvoo made the bankers a little nervous and neither was willing to lend the full amount they needed. Thus both banks were brought in on the arrangements. With sample contracts in hand, Benjamin decided they should have some legal counsel before actually signing the papers. They asked for a recommendation for a local lawyer from one of the bankers and readily got one, but Benjamin was leery. He suspected that the recommended law firm probably did considerable work for the bank and would be inclined to favor the bank in any counsel they gave. At the hotel that night, Benjamin and Nathan asked the proprietor for his recommendation. He confirmed their suspicions, and suggested the small but independent firm of Logan and Lincoln. “Stephen T. Logan is one of the greatest lawyers to ever practice law in Illinois,” the man affirmed solemnly, “but if it were me, I’d go for the junior partner. He gives legal advice for a reasonable fee. And he’ll tell you straight out if there’re problems you need to look out for.”

  “Sounds like exactly what we need,” Nathan observed.

  “Yep,” the hotelier nodded. “Don’t let his looks fool you. Mr. Lincoln ain’t much to look on, but he’s got a gift for knowing what matters and for saying things in a way that even a jury of twelve unschooled farm folk can understand. Not that you’re expecting any problems with this, but if it ever has to go to court, you’ll want Lincoln in the chair beside you.” He laughed. “Besides that, he’s one of the best darned storytellers in all of Illinois.”