The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  Much to his good fortune, it had only been a simple fracture. Compound fractures almost invariably brought on infection, blood poisoning, and gangrene, and so most doctors simply amputated the broken limb immediately and avoided the complications that followed. One-armed or one-legged men were a common sight in most parts of the country, and Benjamin knew he was fortunate not to be one of them. As it was, the doctor had simply bound the arm tight with a heavy splint and told him to wear it for five or six weeks until it healed.

  Yesterday, Benjamin had finally passed the point of patience and took the splint off. It galled him deeply to have to be dependent on anyone, even Nathan, who, on the day that word reached him, quit his job with Mr. Knight and returned to the farm. That irritation had only deepened in the ensuing days as he had to watch Nathan do all but the most humiliatingly simple tasks. He had brushed aside the protests of his family. The arm was healing nicely. He would be careful. He didn’t need their mothering.

  That had been yesterday. During the night, he had turned in his sleep and laid on it. Now it throbbed incessantly. But there was no way he was going to put the splint back on while Mary Ann was still here to point out the folly of pride.

  The front door burst open and Matthew stuck his head in. From its earlier combing his blond hair had burst loose into disarray. Now nearly eight years of age, he looked like a young gentleman, except for that one stubborn lock of hair. “Mama,” he said, “Nathan’s got the wagon hitched.”

  “We’ll be right there.”

  As the door slammed again with a sharp crack, she turned. “Melissa, Becca. It’s time.” She shut the valise carefully and fastened the straps. She took a bonnet from the bed and stepped to the mirror, placing it upon her head.

  Begrudgingly, Benjamin watched. She was not an especially handsome woman, not in the way the world looked at things—not anywhere near as striking as that flighty Lydia McBride whom Nathan had chosen. And yet he found himself very much taken with her, even after twenty-three years of marriage. She had an inward beauty and serenity that had, over the years, permeated her outward countenance as well. He knew every line in her face—the ones that showed when she was tired; others, around the mouth, that showed some inner sorrow; and those, like now, which gave evidence of the stubborn determination deep inside her that made her so unbendable.

  Quickly he took another drink, angry that he found himself softening toward her. She finished tying the ribbon around her chin and turned, catching him watching her.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”

  Normally she allowed no liquor in the house, especially in front of the children, and he sensed her stern disapproval. But she also knew she had pushed him into a corner already and would not dare challenge his drinking, not now at any rate.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll be home before dark tomorrow. There’s some soup in the pot. Just swing it over the fire. Nathan’s cut plenty of wood. The bread’s in the—”

  “I said I’ll be fine,” he snapped. “Ain’t no need for you to start worryin’ ‘bout me at this point.”

  Mary Ann sighed. “Ben, we’ve been over that. After yesterday’s rain it’s too wet to do much around here. And tomorrow’s Sabbath, so we wouldn’t be working anyway. Nathan can start cutting the barley on Monday.”

  “Nathan’s got his own farm now. I’ll be doing my own harvesting.”

  Before she could answer, Melissa came down the stairs from the upper bedrooms with Becca right behind her. Both were dressed in pinafore dresses made from the same bolt of material which Mary Ann had found in the village. Melissa, now eighteen, looked so much like her oldest brother, Joshua, that it sometimes hurt Benjamin to look at her. She had her mother’s gentle temperament mixed with a generous helping of Joshua’s impetuousness and her father’s hardheaded practicality.

  Eleven-year-old Rebecca was much more like her mother in outward appearance, and had Nathan’s quiet strength of will. A deep dimple on her left cheek was always startling in its abruptness when she smiled, which she did now as she saw her father watching her. Her cheeks were aglow with excitement, and she fussed nervously at the bow in her dark hair.

  Since their move to Palmyra Township almost three years ago, the younger children had traveled no farther than the village. So the prospect of the twenty-mile trip to Fayette Township was as exciting to her and Matthew as going to a place like New York City or Boston. Benjamin felt a sudden prick of guilt for stubbornly opposing the trip. For the children, it was a welldeserved outing.

  “Nathan’s got the wagon hitched,” Mary Ann said. “Melissa, you take the bag out. Becca, make sure Matthew got his and Nathan’s bag in.”

  “Yes, Mama.” They both came over. “Good-bye, Papa,” Melissa said. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “I hope your arm doesn’t bother you too much.”

  “I’ll be fine. You have a good time.”

  “Good-bye, Papa.” Becca’s eyes studiously avoided the bottle on the table as she kissed him.

  He swatted her affectionately across the bottom. “You keep Matthew out of trouble.”

  “I will, Papa.” She moved quickly to the door, with Melissa and the valise right behind her. As they went out, he finally looked up to his wife, who was watching him steadily.

  “You could still come, you know. Nathan can drive. You can’t do anything with that arm, anyway.”

  “Someone’s got to milk the cow and feed the stock.”

  She nodded, a quick, weary acceptance of his petulance. “You know Nathan’s got Mr. Harris’s hired man to come over both tonight and in the morning. You’re just going to get your arm hurting all the worse.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ in Fayette Township that interests me.”

  She turned and walked slowly to the door, but stopped before she opened it. Finally, she turned around to face him. “You know this is real important to me, Ben. I don’t ask for much. Why are you so dead set against it?”

  “Joe Smith-”

  “He prefers to be called Joseph,” she cut in quickly. He knew that, and knew it galled both her and Nathan when he used the shorter form. The townspeople usually added a third word, making it “Ol’ Joe Smith”—which was always said in open derision.

  “Joe Smith has done nothing but bring trouble to this family. First Joshua and his madness, now Nathan, running after him like he was some kind of holy king or something.”

  “Ben—”

  But he was not going to be stopped. “And now you, leaving off like this when there’s work to be done. Taking the children. Filling their heads with all kinds of spiritual mumbo jumbo.” He snorted his disgust. “I won’t stop you. I believe in letting people make their own way in life. But you know how I feel. You’re going against my direct wishes, so don’t ask me to smile and pat your cheeks, because I ain’t about to do that.”

  He picked up the bottle and, turning his back on her, took a deep swig, ignoring the stab of pain that shot through his arm. He heard the door open, then shut again softly. He didn’t bother to turn around.

  Fayette Township lay south and east of Palmyra Township about twenty miles, almost midway between Cayuga and Seneca lakes. In the township, but north and west of Fayette Village, was the farm of Peter Whitmer, Sr., and his family. It was to the Whitmer cabin, a solidly built two-story structure, that Mary Ann Steed and her children came late that Saturday afternoon.

  As they drove into the yard, hot, tired, and hungry after a six-hour wagon ride, Mary Ann felt her heart sink. Joseph’s request that Nathan bring his mother to see him had included an invitation to stay with the Whitmers overnight. But the Whitmers had seven children. The oldest daughter had recently married and moved out, but that still left eight people at home, counting the parents. Add to that number their permanent houseguests—Joseph, Emma, and Oliver—and the Whitmer cabin had to be bursting at the rafters.

  “We should have stayed in Waterloo and just come tomorrow, Nathan,” she said. �
�They must already have more people than they have room for.” Waterloo was the village about three miles back. There had been an inn there that looked comfortable and respectable, and the rates were within the amount Mary Ann had brought with her.

  But before Nathan could answer, the door opened and Joseph came bounding out. “There you are,” he boomed, waving. In four strides he was at the wagon. “Mrs. Steed, how pleased I am you would come.” He held out his hand to help her down.

  “Hello, Joseph. It is good to see you again.”

  He turned as Nathan jumped out of the wagon and clasped his hand. “Welcome, Nathan. And how is your father?”

  Nathan shook his head. “You know Pa. He took the splint off yesterday. The doctor said two more weeks, but Pa won’t hear of it.”

  “That’s no surprise. One thing to say for Benjamin Steed, he’ll not easily be beholden to any man.”

  “That’s the truth,” Mary Ann said.

  Joseph laughed, then turned back to the wagon. His face instantly registered surprise. “But Nathan,” he cried, “I thought you were bringing your family. All I see here are strangers.”

  Matthew’s face fell. “I’m Matthew, Joseph, remember?”

  Joseph fell back a step. “No!” he breathed. “This can’t be. The Matthew Steed I knew was only this high.” He held up his hand at belt level.

  “He’s just teasin’ you,” Becca said, poking her brother in the back. Matthew looked startled for a moment, then his face split into a grin which nearly cracked his cheekbones.

  Joseph swung around to face Rebecca. “And this must be Melissa,” Joseph said, bowing low. Her mouth dropped and for a moment Becca was perplexed. Then realizing she too was being teased, she started to giggle, ducking her head and blushing furiously.

  Melissa stood up. “Hello, Joseph.”

  Joseph looked up at her, shaking his head. “Just look at you.” Melissa colored as she took his hand and hopped down from the wagon. “You have become a lovely young woman, Melissa.”

  “Thank you.”

  Joseph swung around, grabbed Matthew, and with a flip that left him squealing had him riding piggyback across his shoulders. He glanced again at Melissa, then turned to her mother. “I think I’d better go tell Father Whitmer to lock his boys in the barn,” he said solemnly. “When they see this daughter of yours, they’ll be smitten speechless as pillars of salt.”

  If Melissa had blushed before, now her face turned bright scarlet. Nathan laughed out loud. This was Joseph. How could anyone help but like him? His unbounded joy and enthusiasm was like a tonic that cleansed the soul. It had been a little over two years since he had been at the farm helping the Steeds clear their land. And yet in no more than a few moments, the time was brushed away and he was one with them again. Matthew hugged him tightly; Becca watched him with unabashed adoration.

  “Have you heard from Lydia yet?” Joseph asked Nathan.

  There was a quick shake of the head, accompanied with a soft sigh. “No. I told you I wrote to her about being baptized. But I haven’t heard anything back yet.”

  “It will be all right,” Joseph said with confidence. “She’s a fine woman.”

  “I hope so.” He paused for a moment. “Where’s Oliver?”

  “He and Martin went down to the village to get some things.”

  Mary Ann looked up. “Martin Harris?”

  “Yes. He’s been here for a few days. But he has to go back to Palmyra after supper.”

  Nathan smiled. Martin too. This was good. It would be an evening with much to listen to.

  With Matthew hanging on to his neck, Joseph put out his arms and swept Melissa and Rebecca in front of him. Motioning with his head to Nathan and his mother, he said, “Come on, I want you to say hello to Emma and meet the Whitmers.”

  It had been almost four months now since Oliver Cowdery had gone to Pennsylvania to meet Joseph Smith for the first time. A day or two before leaving Palmyra, he had become acquainted with a young man come to Palmyra from Fayette to do some business. A quick friendship was struck, and Oliver had told David of his intent to go to Harmony and learn for himself whether there was any truth to the account of gold plates and angelic visitations.

  Oliver, in company with Joseph’s brother Samuel, stayed overnight at the Whitmers on the way south, and once again Oliver spoke of Joseph. David made Oliver promise that once he arrived there, he would write and tell David what his conclusions were. Oliver had written not once but twice, telling David about the sacred record and his new calling as scribe to Joseph. The Whitmers were impressed enough that they began to pray about the matter.

  Meanwhile in Harmony, problems began to get worse. Emma’s father, who had softened somewhat toward Joseph and had agreed to help them while Joseph translated, had cooled again as opposition from the locals began to increase.

  Joseph suggested Oliver write to his friend and see if the Whitmers could provide a place for them to live until the translation was finished. The Whitmers had agreed immediately and sent David with a wagon. And so the Whitmer family had been increased by three more adults.

  “How is the translation coming?” Nathan asked eagerly as they approached the cabin.

  Joseph stopped, grinning almost as boyishly as Matthew. “It’s done, Nathan.”

  Mary Ann stepped forward and touched his arm. “Really, Joseph?”

  “Yes. Completely done. Finished three weeks ago. July first, to be exact. One month to the day from when we arrived here.”

  “That’s wonderful, Joseph,” Nathan exclaimed.

  “It’s more than wonderful,” Joseph agreed happily. “Oliver has been making another copy of the manuscript—” A quick frown darkened his features. “I’ve learned the foolishness of having only one copy.”

  Mary Ann nodded soberly, remembering Joseph’s devastation at the time Martin Harris lost the only copy of their work.

  Joseph instantly brightened again. “Now the task is to find a printer, but I think we may even have that problem solved.”

  Mary Ann felt her heart soar. “That is good news, Joseph.”

  He nodded, sweeping them up again. “After supper we’ll read some of it for you.”

  Mary Ann Steed had grown up with the Bible. Some of her earliest memories were of sitting in front of the fireplace and listening to the melodious voice of her mother reading from the pages of the Old and New Testaments. She had taught her own children to read from those same pages, tracing the lines with their stubby little fingers as she read aloud to them. She loved the word of the Lord and had come to recognize the power which flowed from the Bible into her life whenever she supped from its pages.

  Because of her own experience in searching for the right church, Mary Ann had not had any problems believing the story of Joseph’s visitation from God. Indeed, she had felt her spirit resonate in response to the story as Nathan had recounted it. After that, she had prayed mightily to know whether Joseph spoke the truth. She felt she had received confirmation of that thrice over.

  But as events with Joseph continued to unfold, other feelings began to trouble her. It was not really doubt. She still continued to pray about Joseph, about the sacred record, about his calling from God, and she still found peace each time she did so. On the other hand, she knew what people were saying about Joseph. She had listened to their gibes, felt their scorn for him. No small part of that scorn came from her own husband. And that created a sense of turmoil within her. It was as though she were standing in the midst of a violent storm. She did not question whether the place where she stood was right or not, but the winds which howled around Joseph buffeted those who chose to stand with him. She was willing to stand with him; more than that, she wanted to stand with him. But if she was going to do so, she needed something more tangible, more substantial than just subtle feelings of peace.

  She fully understood what had driven Martin Harris to go to New York City and seek out the professor of ancient languages. He didn’t really doubt Joseph. But when
everyone around you was incessantly battering at you, trying to cut the ground out from under you, you needed some kind of anchor point, something you could sink your roots into to help you weather the storm.

  Over the past several months, Mary Ann had gradually determined what the test would be, what would provide a sufficient anchor point for her faith. She had not spoken of it to anyone, not even Nathan, but that was one of the reasons why she had not backed down in the face of Benjamin’s anger that morning. She had to come. This was her chance to know. Standing with Joseph would not be without its costs. She was already paying some of them—Joshua was gone, Nathan and his father were experiencing increasing strain, and a coldness had crept into her marriage which left her with an ache in her heart. She was willing—more than that, determined—to pay those costs, but she needed additional confirmation.

  She loved the scriptures. She knew how she felt inside when she read the Bible. She knew why the Lord had called his words the “bread of life.” And this would be her test. If this record Joseph was translating was the word of God, as he claimed it was, she would know. She had no doubt of that. It would either produce the same feelings, give her the same power, nourish her spirit in the same way as the Bible, or she would put the whole thing aside and make her peace with Benjamin.

  The supper had been pleasant. The Whitmers were gracious hosts and seemed not to even notice the fact that five additional mouths had sat at their table. After supper, dishes were quickly cleared and washed and the older children sent out to play and tend the Whitmer grandchildren. Now the adults sat in a semicircle around the great stone fireplace that half filled the south wall of the cabin. There were eighteen of them in all, spread around the main room of the cabin which served as kitchen and main living room.

  In addition to Nathan, Melissa, and Mary Ann, Martin Harris sat near the west window. As usual, he was impeccably dressed and looking very distinguished. Next to him was Peter Whitmer, Sr.—or Father Whitmer, as all called him—and his wife, Mary. Hardworking, filled with integrity, expecting nothing from life but that which they earned by their own labor, they were of that stock found across the face and breadth of America. Come to New York State in 1809 from a colony of German immigrants in Pennsylvania, both still spoke with a pronounced German accent.