The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  Brother Williams faced Benjamin. “Maybe the Lord’s hand is in this. After all, it was building his house that got us partly into this debt in the first place. Maybe he will bless us now for it.”

  “And maybe my crop of peas will produce pansies.”

  Hyrum, still standing by Joseph, sighed. “Maybe it is a wild-goose chase, Brother Steed, but we would like to go to New York City and talk to some creditors anyway. Salem is not that much farther.”

  Nathan gave his father a sidelong look, not wanting to offend him but clearly troubled by his sudden negative turn. “Joseph, I think it would be foolish not to see if what Brother Burgess is saying is true. It could be such a simple solution. It could be the answer to our prayers.”

  “There are no simple solutions to this!” Benjamin shot back, giving his son a hard look.

  “I think we have to try,” Joseph said quietly.

  “Amen,” two or three called out.

  Benjamin started a retort, but when he saw Joseph watching him steadily, he pushed it back down and just shook his head slowly. Buried treasure? He couldn’t believe it.

  * * *

  By the time they came out of the temple, it was into that time of twilight when the sky was gray-violet and the forms of the trees and the buildings were becoming muted and soft.

  “Benjamin, may we speak with you a moment?”

  Benjamin turned. Martin Harris was with three members of the Quorum of the Twelve—Luke and Lyman Johnson and John Boynton. Warren Parrish was also with them. Parrish was serving as Joseph’s personal secretary, but recently he had started to display a critical attitude about some things Joseph was doing.

  Nathan touched his father’s arm. “I’d better get on home and help Lydia get the children to bed.”

  “All right.” Benjamin watched for a moment as his son strode off, then turned and walked to the group. He didn’t like Parrish at all, and he found the Johnson brothers and Boynton a little too emotional for his tastes. They evidently sensed his hesitation, for they chose to let Martin speak for them.

  Martin took his arm and turned him away from the temple, where the last of the brethren were still exiting. “Well, what did you think of the meeting?” he asked abruptly.

  Benjamin hesitated, not sure yet what was on Martin’s agenda.

  Martin didn’t wait for an answer. “What do you think about Joseph going to Salem?”

  “I thought I made myself quite clear on that matter. I think it’s an exercise in foolishness.”

  “I agree,” Martin said darkly. “I don’t know what has gotten into Joseph lately.”

  Benjamin looked at his old friend more closely. “Joseph is worried. Can you blame him? Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of debt. That’s a lot to worry about.”

  “Then why doesn’t he let those of us who can help do something about it instead of chasing off after buried treasure?” The others were nodding now, but still kept their peace.

  “Before I say what I’m going to say,” Martin went on, lowering his voice, “let me make one thing clear, Ben. No one is questioning Joseph’s spiritual leadership. We all know he has been chosen by the Lord.”

  “Yes,” Benjamin said warily.

  “But when it comes to financial matters . . .” He shook his head.

  “What?” Ben asked. “When it comes to financial matters, what?”

  Martin shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. It was full cut and well tailored. Martin Harris was prospering, and it showed in the way he dressed. “Joseph was called by God to restore the gospel and the Church to the earth. His job is to build up the kingdom.”

  Parrish finally spoke. “A prophet is a prophet. That doesn’t make him a financial genius.”

  Martin’s hand shot out and grasped Benjamin’s arm. “His strengths lie in spiritual things, Ben, not temporal things.”

  Ben felt a flash of irritation. At them. At himself for making them think he might be one of them. “Seems to me he hasn’t done too badly so far. Sure, we’re in debt, but most of that has come from building the temple.”

  Martin hooted softly. “Do you think the Lord’s inspiring him to go look for buried treasure?”

  Ben opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again.

  “Neither do I,” Martin hissed. “That’s what I mean. Joseph needs to stick to the spiritual things. Let some of us with better business sense take charge of the other side. You’re one of those, Benjamin.”

  Benjamin didn’t answer. He felt a great sense of loyalty to Joseph, but he had been shaken by Joseph’s determination to follow after this Burgess fellow. It was pure foolishness, in Benjamin’s mind.

  Martin seemed to sense he had pushed far enough. “Let’s wait and see what happens. If Joseph comes home from Salem with a wagon full of treasure, I’ll be the first one to say I was wrong. But if not . . .”

  He let it hang there a moment, then nodded at the others. They murmured their farewells and walked away, leaving Benjamin alone with his thoughts.

  Chapter Twelve

  The prairie north of the Missouri River rolled in gently undulating swells for about as far as the eye could see in any direction. Occasionally it would flatten out for some distance, but only from the highest knolls could you see very far. There were no trees, except along the occasional stream bed; mostly this land was an oceanic expanse of waving green grass and clumps of wildflowers.

  It bothered people from the East, this mind-bending openness, but Jessica loved it. Though she had to admit that the forestlands of Ohio had their own beauty, they were more confining than she liked. Her father had brought her to Missouri from Kentucky in 1826. So in many ways this felt like home to her.

  As she crested a small rise, the darker line of trees and shrubbery that lined Shoal Creek greeted her eyes. She stopped, letting her knapsack drop off her shoulder. She squinted against the afternoon haze. Quickly she identified the gentle bend in the stream that signalled the location of the settlement of Haun’s Mill. Though there were no telltale columns of smoke—in this mid-July heat there would be no fires except for cooking the evening meal—she quickly found the squat dark shapes of the cabins and the larger block shape of the blacksmith’s shop.

  She stood motionless, enjoying the moment of pause. Without conscious thought, she began to wiggle her toes, liking the feel of the powdery, hot dust of the wagon track on her bare feet. She had shoes in her knapsack, but they were far too costly to wear out on long empty roads where there was not another person to be seen for hours at a time.

  Jessica looked up at the sky and smiled. She was pleased with herself. Immensely pleased. It would give her great satisfaction to return to the settlement and report on her success. Everyone—including Sister Lewis, with whom she was staying—had tried to dissuade Jessica from setting out to find families that needed a tutor for their children. Even the few scattered settlers in this part of northern Missouri knew about the Mormons. They were resentful of their coming and suspicious of their motives. But after two rather sharp encounters, Jessica decided to acknowledge right up front who she was and get to the point of her coming. “Good morning, sir (or ma’am),” she would say. “My name is Jessica Steed, from the new Mormon settlement over on Shoal Creek.” And then before they could react, “I’m going to be coming through here twice a month, teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic to children.”

  Her instincts had been right. Though these families lived in the most simple—sometimes the most wretched—of conditions, they wanted something better for their children. Upon her solemn promise that there would be no talk of religion, the deal was struck. She had gotten commitments from ten families, usually clustered in groups of two or three cabins. It meant she would be gone four days at a time, twice a month, boarding overnight with the families on a rotating basis, leaving Rachel with neighbors and friends. It would involve a circuit of about sixteen miles, all told. On the even months she would walk it. On the odd months she would borrow a wagon from the Lewises and
collect her “payment.” There was very little cash money in these parts, so her salary would be paid in trade—chickens, wheat, corn, perhaps a small hog; whatever she and the particular family settled on as fair payment.

  Now she knew why she had felt so compelled to return to Missouri. Jessica Roundy Steed—saloon keeper’s daughter, divorced wife of a mule-skinning teamster, uneducated illiterate who had taught herself how to read and write and do figures—was now a teacher. No, she corrected herself. Not just a teacher. A paid teacher! She threw back her head, wanting to laugh right out loud. But of course that was something Jessica rarely did, and so she just smiled up at the greatness of the blue sky. Finally, she hoisted the canvas sack again and started off, walking with long, sure strides.

  * * *

  Caroline Mendenhall Steed had steeled herself for this moment for seven weeks now, but nothing could have prepared her for what she saw as their carriage moved down the main street of Independence.

  Savannah, Georgia, had been laid out with straight streets and pleasant squares and parks placed strategically throughout the city. Independence, Missouri, had been laid out by mountain men and teamsters following buffalo and deer trails. Savannah was street after street of well-designed, neatly built, well-cared-for brick homes. The businesses had attractive, neatly lettered signs, often done with gold-leaf paint. Independence was raw bawdiness. There was no order to the structures that they were passing, just a random tangle of sod huts, tin shanties, Indian tepees, canvas tents, packing-crate lean-tos, and log cabins, with only an occasional frame home. And the businesses, if that was what they were, carried hand-lettered signs at best and barely legible scrawls at worst.

  She felt her heart drop. What have I done?

  “Joshua! Joshua! Is that a real Indian?” Will, in the backseat behind his mother, nearly jumped out of the carriage in his eagerness to point at an approaching figure.

  The man was tall and dressed in buckskin shirt, pants, and moccasins. His hair was black as fireplace soot and pulled back in a braid. He turned his head slowly and eyed the passing carriage. His eyes were dark and hooded, the expression impassive and unreadable. Caroline felt a little shiver go up and down her back.

  “Yes, Will,” Joshua said with a chuckle, “that’s a real Indian. Osage tribe, I would guess. Maybe Choctaw.”

  “Really?” Olivia breathed.

  “Really,” Joshua said. “Indian Territory is just a few miles west of here. Some of them come into town from time to time.”

  Olivia dug her fists into her eyes, and leaned forward so as to see better. She had fallen asleep on her mother’s shoulder during the hour-long carriage ride from Westport, the river landing located a few miles up the Missouri River from Independence. Will’s cry had brought her up with a jerk, and now she looked out on this strange new world, eyes wider than the sand dollars they used to find on the beach when they went down to the ocean.

  Suddenly Caroline was aware that Joshua was watching her closely out of the corner of his eye. The grin he had given Will a moment before had faded. His eyes were anxious. He was waiting for her response. She managed a quick smile and reached across and touched his arm. She knew he was hoping for more than that, but she also knew if she spoke now, even to say something halfway encouraging, her voice would give her away.

  It had taken them over a month and a half to come from Savannah. They were married the night before Joshua’s shipload of cotton left for New Orleans with them and the children on board ship. They had stayed three days in New Orleans while he arranged riverboat passage for them and the cotton. That had been exciting. The wharves along the riverfront stretched on forever, the hundreds of oceangoing vessels making a veri-table forest with their masts and rigging. And then there were the dozens of great paddle-wheel riverboats, nuzzled up to their berths like a litter of pigs snuggling up to their mother’s belly.

  She had been pleasantly surprised at St. Louis. It was definitely not Savannah, but it was a growing, bustling city with row after row of businesses along the river and some very adequate shops on its main streets. They had stayed there for about a month while Joshua worked with his partners to get the mill up and running. They had stayed long enough to see the first bolts of cloth come out of the great looms they had shipped in from New England.

  But once they left St. Louis and started up the Missouri River, it quickly became evident they were leaving civilization behind. And the vastness of the prairie both surprised and bothered her. As the great riverboat chugged its way slowly upstream, Joshua seemed to sense her growing despondency. And the closer they got to Independence, the more nervous he became. Yesterday he had been worse than a raccoon in a shed full of hound dogs. She had tried her best to put on a brave face, but she had never been one to gush enthusiastically when she didn’t really feel that way. Now she could tell he was openly worried as he waited for her to say something. She felt a rush of relief when her son burst out again.

  “Look!”

  “Look at what?” Joshua said, turning to see where Will was looking.

  “Is that your wagon?”

  A big Conestoga wagon, its canvas top stretched high and tight over metal hoops, was just passing them on the left. Six massive draft horses trotted slowly, their harnessing jingling, their hooves flipping little chunks of dirt into the air. The driver raised a hand as he saw who was in the carriage. “Welcome home, Mr. Steed.” He tipped his hat toward Caroline, trying not to stare. “Congratulations.”

  Joshua acknowledged that with a nod, then turned to Will. “Yes, it is. So are the next two.”

  Caroline lifted her eyes and saw two more wagons coming, both identical to the first. Then, as the second team passed them, she saw what had triggered Will’s cry. Along the side of the wagon box was neatly stenciled “Joshua Steed, Freight and Portage.” She turned to look at Joshua, this time wanting him to see she was impressed.

  He smiled, trying to be casual about it all, but he was obviously pleased. “They’re on their way to Westport. They’ll get our stuff.”

  “But how did they know we’re here? We are just now arriving.”

  “Remember the man I spoke to briefly when we came off the boat?”

  She thought for a moment. “Not really.”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s Mr. Cornwell, my yard foreman. He’s met every boat for the last ten days just to be sure he didn’t miss us. He’s the one who brought the carriage. He rode on ahead to let them know we were coming.”

  “Oh.” They were into the main part of Independence now, and Caroline noted with some satisfaction that here things looked a little better. Some of the storefronts were actually presentable, one or two even sporting window displays. She also noted that there was a high proportion of saloons for a town of its size.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Steed.” Two ladies were on the sidewalk in front of a dress shop. They gawked at Caroline with unabashed curiosity.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Johns. Afternoon, Miss Charity.”

  Now Caroline became aware that they were causing no small stir as they passed. Men stopped to wave and call out. Women pointed when they thought she was looking the other way. Word of the arrival of Joshua Steed’s new bride had definitely preceded them.

  Will thrust his head between his mother and stepfather. “And you have twenty wagons like that?” he said with suitable awe.

  “Actually, I have about thirty wagons. But no, they’re not all like that. Conestogas are very expensive. I have to buy them in Pennsylvania and have them brought out. And those horses. They’re called Conestogas too. They run about a hundred dollars a head.”

  “A hundred dollars!” Will echoed. Caroline genuinely smiled at Joshua now.

  He smiled back at her, then looked down at Will. “Do you know what we’re gonna do once we get your mother settled?”

  “What?”

  Joshua looked at Caroline. The nervousness was gone from him now. Without taking his eyes off her he answered Will’s question. “We’re gonna pai
nt a new sign on the side of every one of my wagons. Know what it’s gonna say?”

  Will was fairly dancing in his seat. “What?”

  “From now on, every wagon I own is going to say ‘Joshua Steed and Son.’ ”

  “Yea!” Will said, punching the air. “Can I learn to drive one?” Joshua looked appropriately grave. “You ever hear of a partner in a freight business who couldn’t drive a team by himself?”

  Caroline watched her son nearly explode with joy, and suddenly she felt a lump in her throat. Independence was going to take some getting used to—a whole lot of getting used to!—but Caroline Mendenhall’s children had a father again. And they both adored him. That could make up for a lot of Savannah in her heart. At that moment, she made up her mind about something she had been debating now for over a week.

  She reached out and laid her hand on Joshua’s knee. “You may want to wait a little bit before you change those signs.”

  “Mama!” Will exploded, not believing she would betray him like that.

  But Caroline ignored Will and just kept looking at Joshua, who was looking puzzled. “You may want it to read, ‘Joshua Steed and Sons.’ ” She gave soft emphasis to the plural.

  For a moment he stared at her, then he jerked on the reins, stopping the team and carriage right in the middle of the main street of Independence. “Do you mean that?” he said in half a whisper.

  “I think so,” she laughed, deeply pleased with his reaction. “It’s still too early to know for sure. Once we’re settled, maybe we can find a doctor.”

  “A doctor!” he exploded. “I have a doctor. Not just some horse doctor either. One from the East. I brought him here myself.” He reached out and took both of her hands. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What’s the matter, Mama?” Olivia cried in alarm. To an eight-year-old, any talk of a doctor was alarming. “Are you sick?”

  Will punched his sister on the arm gently. He was grinning like a kid who had just discovered a tree trunk full of honeycombs and no bees in sight. “No, Olivia,” he beamed, “Mama isn’t sick.”