The bedroom in which I slept was near to the front door. I awoke to the sound of Emma screaming murder from her room as about a dozen men came pouring into the house. I found myself going out of the door, in the hands of the men, some of whose hands were in my hair, and some who had hold of my shirt, drawers, and limbs. The men smelled of whiskey and were in an infuriated state.
I made a desperate struggle to extricate myself, but only cleared one leg. I kicked out with all my strength and connected with one of the men. He went sprawling and fell on the doorsteps. I was immediately overpowered again; and they shouted and swore at me. “By——, “ they screamed, “we’ll kill you sure if you don’t hold still.” Frightened, that quieted me.
As they passed around the house with me, the fellow that I kicked came to me and thrust his hand, all covered with blood, into my face and with an exulting hoarse laugh, muttered: “————ye, I’ll fix ye.” He then seized me by the throat and held on till I lost my breath and lapsed into momentary unconsciousness.
When I came to, we were about thirty rods from the house. I turned my head and saw a horrible sight. Elder Rigdon was stretched out on the ground, whither they had dragged him by his heels. I supposed he had been killed, and immediately began to plead with them, saying, “You will have mercy and spare my life, I hope.” To which they replied, “————ye, call on yer God for help, we’ll show ye no mercy.”
Now there were men coming from the orchard in every direction. About thirty rods further on, they stopped, and one said, “Simonds, Simonds,” (meaning, I supposed, Simonds Ryder,) “pull up his drawers, pull up his drawers, he will take cold.” Another replied: “Ain’t ye going to kill ‘im? ain’t ye going to kill ‘im?” A group of mobbers collected a little way off, and said: “Simonds, Simonds, come here”; and “Simonds” charged those who had hold of me to keep me from touching the ground (as they had done all the time), lest I should get a spring upon them. They held a council, and as I could occasionally overhear a word, I supposed it was to know whether or not it was best to kill me.
They returned after a while, when I learned that they had concluded not to kill me, but to beat and scratch me well, tear off my shirt and drawers, and leave me naked. They ran back and fetched the bucket of tar, when one exclaimed, with an oath, “Let us tar up his mouth,” and they tried to force the tar paddle into my mouth. I twisted my head around so that they could not, which only infuriated them the more. Another one cried out, “————ye, hold up yer head and let us give ye some tar.” They then tried to force a vial into my mouth, and broke a part of one of my teeth. (You’ll note upon your return that I now have a slight whistle when I pronounce certain words.)
All my clothes were torn off me except my shirt collar. At that point one man fell on me and scratched my body with his nails like a mad cat, and then muttered out: “————ye, that’s the way the Holy Ghost falls on folks!”
Finally the fiends left. I attempted to rise, but fell again. I was having difficulty breathing and realized that tar was covering my mouth. I pulled the tar away from my lips so that I could breathe more freely. I made my way back to Father Johnson’s home. When I came to the door I was naked, and the tar made me look as if I were covered with blood. Emma, who was in a state of terror anyway, took one look at me and fainted dead away. In the poor light she thought it looked like I was all crushed to pieces.
My friends spent the night in scraping and removing the tar, and washing and cleansing my body; so that by morning I was ready to be clothed again. This being the Sabbath morning, the people assembled for meeting at the usual hour of worship, and among them came also the mobbers; viz.: Simonds Ryder, leader of the mob; one McClentic, who had his hands in my hair; one Streeter, son of a Campbellite minister; and Felatiah Allen, Esq., who gave the mob a barrel of whiskey to raise their spirits. Besides these named, there were many others in the mob. With my flesh all scarified and defaced, I preached to the congregation as usual, and in the afternoon of the same day baptized three individuals.
Oh, Nathan, how it burdens me to share this next piece of bitter news with you. When I was dragged into the night, with Emma screaming after me, the door to the house was left open, allowing the cold night air to pour into the room where little Joseph was resting. Because of that, our son contracted a severe cold in addition to the measles he already had. Nothing we did seemed to help, and he finally passed from this life yesterday, leaving Emma shattered and completely distraught. This is the fourth child we have lost.
I’m sorry, I cannot say more, for my heart is filled with sorrow. But I also rejoice in the work, good friend, and in your success. There is no need to write by return post, for as I said earlier, I will be gone to Missouri now for a time. I look forward to that time when we see each other face-to-face again, and you can tell me all that I long to hear.
Your dear brother,
Joseph
Opposition to the Work
Chapter Nineteen
Josiah, I would like to talk with you.”
The owner and proprietor of McBride’s dry goods store barely looked up. “Hannah, I have to get this stock put away and then take inventory of the tools. It can wait until tonight.”
“No, it can’t.”
He straightened slowly, his small mouth tightening into a line. “Hannah, I said it can wait until tonight.”
Hannah Lovina Hurlburt McBride would never be accused of wearing the pants in her family. Josiah McBride was a small man, but only in physical stature. He was a martinet in many ways, running his household with firm discipline and not much humor. Normally his wife, who tended toward austerity and primness herself, accepted his patriarchal role without complaint. But today was different. She stepped forward, hands on her hips, her eyes lowering like storm clouds scudding in from Lake Ontario.
“Josiah McBride, I said it can’t wait. I want to talk to you now.”
He blinked, taken aback. When he didn’t protest further, Hannah McBride looked over her shoulder to where their clerk was working behind the counter. “Let’s go upstairs.”
“Hannah,” he started, “I have...”
The look on her face was such that his voice trailed off. This was not the Hannah he was used to dealing with.
Wearily he wiped his hands on his leather apron and shook his head. “All right. But let’s hurry.”
He chose to go not to their living quarters, but upstairs to one of the stockrooms. He turned around. “Now, what is it that’s so all-fired important.”
She reached in her pocket and pulled out a letter. At the sight of it, his brows instantly furrowed and his eyes darkened. “I’ve told you before, until your daughter shows some remorse for the heartache and the hurt she has caused us I will neither read nor answer her letters. I wish you had the moral courage to take the same stand.”
Ignoring that, she opened the envelope and took out the letter. “Read it!”
He snatched the letter, crumpled it up in one furious clench of his hand, and hurled it away. “Did you hear what I just said?” he shouted. “I will not read it!”
Surprisingly, his fury did not cow her. She walked over to the ball of paper, picked it up, and smoothed it out against her dress. When she came back she walked right up to her husband and stood toe-to-toe with him. “Josiah McBride, there’s not much I’m ever asking from you, but this time I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Read this letter!”
If she had burst into tears or stomped off in a huff or responded in any kind of similar way, she would have lost. But as it was, her brashness totally stunned him. For a long moment he stared at her, his mouth working, then finally he grabbed the letter from her again—only this time he turned slightly toward the light and began to read.
It was short, less than a page, and he finished it quickly. He thrust it back at his wife, who took it calmly. “So? What do you want? Do you want me to feel sorry for her? Well, she should have thought about that a long time ago. I told her that Steed boy wa
s a no-good. He ran off right after their marriage and left her for a whole summer to work in Colesville. Then he was off to Missouri to look up that no-account brother of his. Now he’s left her again to go out and preach the devil’s gospel, leaving her and the child alone. It’s no more than she deserves.”
Hannah let him have his say without trying to stop him. When he finally finished, she simply folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. “I’m going to write her.”
For a moment he just gaped at her, but only for a moment; then he exploded. “I forbid it!” he shouted. He spun around and strode across the room, then whirled back, his chest rising and falling. “There will be no contact, Mrs. McBride! No word! No concessions! None! Do you hear me?”
Again she completely shocked him by the unexpectedness of her reaction. She shook her head slowly, calmly. “Josiah, listen to me.” She waved the envelope at him. “This is a cry for help. Your daughter is discouraged. She’s depressed. She’s lonely. For the first time since their marriage she is frustrated with her husband.” She took a breath, amazed at her own daring. “If you ever want to win her back, get her away from all Joe Smith stands for, there will never be another time. Not for us.”
Her husband had one fist raised, ready to shake in her face. Slowly he lowered it to his side.
“If we don’t answer her now, we’ve lost her forever. Is that what you want?”
He didn’t answer for several seconds, then stepped forward slowly. “Let me see that.”
She handed him the envelope and he opened it again. This time he read slowly, read it clear through once, then again. Finally, his head came up. “She don’t sound to me like she’s ready for any change.”
Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. He was thinking about it, and that was a major step in the right direction. “She’s not ready for a change. But she is ready to be loved.”
“You tell her if she’s ready to renounce that disgusting religion of hers, we’ll write to her every day. Otherwise no.”
His wife just shook her head, her eyes thoughtful now. “No, I won’t tell her anything like that. For now I’m just going to write and tell her we love her, that we miss her, and that if there’s anything we can do to make her feel not so lonely, I want her to let me know.”
Her head came up and her eyes caught her husband’s and held them, challenging, unflinching. “That’s what I’m going to do, Josiah. I just wanted you to know.”
Nathan Steed stopped in front of his father’s home late in the afternoon of April twentieth, 1832. He was footsore, dusty, weary beyond belief, and hungry for anything more than the hard wheat bread and stream water they had lived on for the past five days since leaving Kentucky. He had no money in his pockets, had cast away all his clothes but those he wore (they had not been worthy of saving), and had given his knapsack to a young lad they met in Columbus who was on his way west.
As he reached the small picket fence that lined his father’s yard, he stopped, blinking hard to fight the sudden burning in his eyes. He had left this spot during the first week of October of the previous year. He had raised a hand in farewell, then turned and walked away from his wife and his son. It had been almost six and a half months. Six and a half months!
He saw the curtain on one of the windows part slightly, then jerk back. A face was suddenly pressed up against the glass, nose squashing flat like a piglet’s, the blond hair a flash of white through the window. Then he heard the faint cry. “Nathan! Nathan!”
He grinned, and opened the gate. The front door burst open as if it had been blown inward by a cyclone. Matthew came exploding out, his legs pumping. “Nathan! Nathan! Nathan!” Becca was hard on his heels, pigtails flying, apron coming off one shoulder.
They nearly took his wind away, hugging him fiercely, jumping up and down, Matthew pounding his back. Then suddenly Nathan stopped. There were three figures in the doorway. His mother had her hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. His father, one arm around her shoulder, was nodding at his son, smiling broadly. But it was the third person who arrested Nathan’s eyes. Lydia, heavy with child, held a young boy in her arms.
Nathan’s heart lurched. When he had left, his son had been a baby. Now at eleven months, he was a little boy, with dark hair just starting to grow, light blue eyes, and his mother’s fine chin and perfect nose.
Matthew and Becca stepped back. Lydia was crying now too. She stepped forward, coming off the porch, and stopped again. Slowly, with an effort, she lowered the child. He stood, a little wobbly, holding on to her one finger, gravely looking across the distance at the stranger who stood before him.
“That’s your father, Joshua,” Lydia whispered. “It’s your father.”
Nathan went down on one knee and stretched out his arms, a lump in his own throat all of a sudden making it very difficult to breathe. “Come, Joshua,” he called softly, not wanting to frighten him.
Little Joshua turned, looking up, first at his mother, then at his grandmother.
“It’s all right, Josh,” Mary Ann smiled. “Go see your papa.”
Matthew dropped beside Nathan and held out his arms. “Come on, Joshua,” he called. “Come see Uncle Matthew.”
The blue eyes appraised Nathan once more, then shifted to Matthew. A smile broke through the somberness and his eyes came alive. Then his short, stubby little legs began to move, and step by very tentative step, he toddled his way toward them.
With a sob, Nathan reached out and scooped him up, holding him to his chest, and burying his face against the small but wiry little body.
On April twenty-ninth, Melissa Mary Steed Rogers was delivered of a healthy, nine-pound baby boy. Though his hair was dark, almost everyone agreed that when the sunlight hit it, there was a definite touch of auburn in it. Predictions were common that he would be a redhead, most likely with freckles, like his father. They named him Carlton Hezekiah Rogers, being the first son for Carl and Melissa and the first grandson for the Rogerses.
Six weeks later, Carl Rogers traveled out with Melissa to the schoolhouse near the Isaac Morley homestead for a worship service. There Nathan, uncle to the new baby, named and blessed young Carl by the power of the holy priesthood.
The night before, Nathan went to Melissa’s home and spent some time talking with Carl about the ordinance. Carl stated that he had no objection to Melissa’s having the child blessed however she wished, but he resisted, amiably but firmly, when Nathan tried to talk with him about the Book of Mormon.
After the services were over and the blessing done, Melissa pulled Nathan aside and quietly suggested he not try and talk religion any further with her husband.
It was the fourteenth of June, and the mosquitoes swarmed in the lingering heat of the evening air. The horse kept its tail moving constantly, but Joshua Steed paid the insects no mind, brushing at them absently as he pulled to a halt in front of the small sod hut. “Excuse me, neighbor.”
The man was at a grindstone, his leg pumping on the lever to keep the stone wheel flying. Sparks showered from the ax blade that he was sharpening. He lifted the ax, but his foot kept moving up and down out of habit. “Good evening.”
“Could you tell me where I might find the home of Joshua Lewis?”
The man took his foot off the grindstone lever and let the wheel come to a stop. He stood, taking off his hat to brush at the sweat on his brow. “I’m Joshua Lewis. What can I do for you?”
Joshua swung off the horse and tied the reins to a small bush. He didn’t move any closer. “I’m looking for Jessica Steed. I understand she lives with you.”
The man, definitely a sodbusting farmer, nodded slowly, his eyes suddenly suspicious as they carefully took in Joshua’s trail garb, his heavy beard, and the tired, weary eyes. “And who might you be?”
Joshua’s eyes didn’t move from the man’s face. “I’d like to speak with her. Ask her to come out please.”
The man was half a head shorter than Joshua and probably weighed forty or fifty pounds le
ss, but if he was intimidated by Joshua’s size, or by the pistol that was stuck in his belt, his expression didn’t show it. Again he sized Joshua up and down, then stuck one hand in his pocket. “I’ll be happy to fetch her if I know who it is I’m tellin’ her to come out and see.”
There was a flash of irritation, but Joshua pushed it down. He had arrived in Independence around noon, taken time only to bathe and eat, then started out to find her. All the way out he kept seething over the fact that Jessica had become a Mormon. Somehow Joseph Smith was seeping into his life again, messing things up. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. But he kept promising himself he would keep his temper in check, so now he forced a brief smile. “My name is Joshua Steed. I’m Jessie’s husband. I’m just in from Santa Fe today.”
Lewis’s eyes narrowed. Whatever friendliness had been there was instantly gone. “I’m not sure she’ll want to see you, Mr. Steed.”
In an instant Joshua’s irritation flared into full anger. “She’s of age,” Joshua said coldly. “You just go tell her.”
The hostility was unmistakable now, but the farmer finally turned and went into the house.
Twice Joshua saw the door open a crack and small, curious eyes peer out at him, but it was almost five minutes before Jessica finally stepped out. He saw instantly that she had on her best dress and had hastily brushed through her hair. He also saw that she carried a little bundle in her arms.
Behind her, Lewis stood at the door. He glared at Joshua for a moment, a child peeking out from behind his legs, then touched Jessie’s arm. “You need me, Jessica, you just holler.”
The Work and the Glory Page 73
