The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I shoveled coal twelve hours a day for four years.”

  There was a quick nod. “All right, tell you what. I’ll give you twenty-five cents a day as a deckhand. Figure eighteen days passage, two days unloading the cargo. That’s five dollars. I’ll lower passage for the two of you to thirty dollars. Make it an even ten pounds.”

  Derek’s face was impassive. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but he sensed they were still in the bargaining phase. “My brother, he’s thirteen. He’s been working in the mills since he was seven. He’s very quick.”

  The American shook his head. Then when Derek didn’t flinch, he finally laughed. “Can he cook?”

  “He’s been cooking for us since he was ten.”

  “All right, all right. Ten cents a day for him being a cabin boy. That’s”—he calculated quickly—“about two dollars more. Eight pounds for the two of you. But if you’re seasick and can’t work, you owe me that many more days on arrival. Fair enough?”

  Derek felt an immense rush of relief. “More than fair, sir.”

  “Do you think she’ll ever learn to crawl like a normal baby?” It was said not as a criticism but with evident pride. Joshua was watching Savannah scoot across the woolen carpet that covered all but the outer edges of the parlor. He had rolled a ball across her line of vision, and she had immediately changed directions and gone after it, pulling herself forward rapidly by her elbows, but not pushing with her legs at all.

  Caroline laughed. “For a child who is barely six months old, this one has a mind of her own. I think she will do what she darn well pleases, whether it’s the traditional way or not.”

  As though she had understood exactly what her mother said, Savannah stopped and turned her head to gravely survey her parents. Her eyes were a deep blue, like the surface of a lake in the afternoon sunshine. Her cheeks were losing their baby chubbiness, and she was becoming quite a beautiful little girl. She had never lost her baby hair, and new hair was coming in thick and fast. And it was as red-orange as the leaves on the maple trees behind their home.

  Joshua stood. “Thanks for dinner. I’d better be getting back. We’ve still got that load of fabric from St. Louis to unload. I’ll be—”

  A knock on the door cut him off. “I’ll get it,” he said. As he moved to the entryway, Caroline stood and retrieved Savannah from the floor.

  “Hello, Joshua.”

  Joshua blinked in mild surprise. “Well, hello, Clint.”

  Clinton Roundy had his hat in his hand and was fidgeting nervously. He looked past Joshua. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Steed.”

  “Good afternoon, Clinton.” She was obviously surprised too. Feelings were still quite awkward between her and the father of Joshua’s former wife, and so Clinton Roundy had come to their home only once before.

  Joshua stepped back. “Come in, come in. Would you like some johnnycake?”

  Clinton shook his head quickly. “No, thank you anyway. I’ve only a minute.” He reached inside his jacket and withdrew an envelope. Again he shot a nervous glance in Caroline’s direction before turning to Joshua. “I got a letter from Jessica this morning.”

  “Oh?” Joshua watched him closely, also wanting to see Caroline’s face but not daring to turn around and look. Jessica still occasionally wrote to her father, and from time to time Clinton would get someone to help him write her back. Sometimes when Joshua was at the saloon, Clinton would tell him what was going on with her. But Joshua had strictly forbidden Clint from saying anything to Jessica about him. Somehow Jessica had heard about his trip to Georgia and thought it was permanent. That suited his purposes fine, and he hadn’t let Clint correct her thinking.

  One time Clint had tried to suggest that Joshua come north with him to see Rachel. They could even look up Joshua’s younger brother Matthew. Joshua had cut him off bluntly before the suggestion was half finished. He often thought of Rachel—she would be six in January—and there was something deep down inside him that ached to see her, but seeing Rachel meant seeing Jessica, and that was not appealing at all. There was too much pain. He was glad that Jessica had married again. Glad for her. Glad that it put a bad chapter in his life to rest. And the idea of seeing Matthew was equally unappealing. Sometimes when he thought of his little brother—still six and towheaded in his mind—he physically hurt inside. But seeing Matthew or Rebecca or any other family member meant all kinds of other complications as well, complications he was not willing to face.

  Clinton had started to open the envelope and take out the letter. When he saw Joshua’s face, he thought better of it and pushed it back inside the envelope. He knew perfectly well what it said anyway. He cleared his throat, looked down at the address for a moment, then slowly raised his eyes. “Jessie got a letter from your family, Joshua.”

  Joshua’s eyes narrowed slightly. “My family?”

  “Yes, your mother.” He took a quick breath. “They’re moving out here, Joshua. They’re coming to Missouri.”

  Behind him, Joshua heard a quick intake of breath from his wife. But he was barely conscious of it. “When?” he asked slowly.

  “The letter was written the first part of September. They said they were leaving with some others the last part of the month.”

  Caroline came forward and stood by Joshua. She looked up at him. “That’s wonderful, Joshua.”

  He didn’t turn his head. “What about Nathan?” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Did they say whether my brother would be coming?”

  Clinton nodded. “His wife is with child, but Jessica said they would come in the spring. Your sister that’s married, she won’t be coming, but everyone else will.”

  Joshua suddenly felt more bleak than a prairie sleet storm. “Thank you, Clint,” he finally managed. “Thanks for coming to tell us.”

  * * *

  It was a biting-cold day in mid-October. The sky was a deep gray and was threatening snow. As Emma Smith hurried up the walk to the door of Nathan and Lydia Steed’s home, her breath puffed out in little explosions of mist. She knocked sharply, then knocked again almost immediately.

  There were the sounds of footsteps, then the door opened. It was Lydia. Instantly a look of concern crossed her face. “Hello, Emma. Is it Jerusha?”

  “Yes.” Hyrum Smith’s wife was very ill. With Hyrum gone to Missouri, the sisters in Kirtland had rallied around to help her.

  “Even worse than yesterday?” Lydia asked in alarm.

  Emma looked away. “Yes.”

  That was not good. “We’ll get our coats and meet you there.”

  Jerusha Smith had always been a favorite of Lydia’s. She had the same gentle and gracious disposition as Hyrum. She was cheerful and positive in her outlook. She never spoke meanly of others. And when Hyrum was gone—as he often was with Joseph, conducting Church business—she never complained. Like now. Joseph had requested that Hyrum accompany him and Sidney Rigdon to Missouri to strengthen the Church there. Hyrum had gone straight to Missouri while Joseph and Sidney stopped off to visit some of the branches of the Church along the way. That left Jerusha to care for five children by herself in a time of increasing tensions and grim economic conditions in Kirtland. Yet not once had Lydia heard her murmur about her lot. And then the week following Hyrum’s departure, Jerusha’s health failed.

  Rebecca hurried alongside Lydia as they turned into Hyrum’s yard and walked up to the door. “I hope she’s going to be all right.”

  Lydia was tight-lipped with worry. “She was terrible yesterday. Totally listless. She could barely lift her head off the pillow. The fever was raging inside her. If she’s gone downhill from there . . .” She didn’t finish, just raised the door knocker and rapped it sharply.

  After a moment the door opened. Mother Smith was standing there, a towel in one hand. She looked very tired and very small, as though life had finally beaten her down. “Hello, Sister Lydia. Thank you for coming.” She turned, looking a little surprised. “Rebecca. I thought you were going to Missouri with your par
ents.”

  “No. I was going to, but then we decided I should stay with Nathan and Lydia until spring so I can help her with the baby.” She stepped forward. “I thought maybe I could take Jerusha’s children for a time, Mother Smith.”

  The wrinkled but kindly face fell. “That’s very kind of you, Rebecca, but . . .” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “Jerusha has called for the children to come to her bedside. They’ve just gone in to see her.”

  That sent a jolt of alarm through Lydia. Was it that bad?

  Mother Smith ushered them in and started immediately down the hallway. As they came into the bedroom, they both stopped, struck by the scene before them. The five children, three girls and two boys, were gathered around the foot of the bed. Jerusha’s face looked as gray as stone against the whiteness of the pillow. The children ranged in age from ten down to a small baby which Lovina, the oldest daughter, held in her arms. Emma was standing by the head of Jerusha’s bed, her eyes red and swollen. She looked at Lydia, then away, shaking her head. All hope had gone from her face.

  Jerusha looked up as they entered. Her eyes smiled for a moment at Lydia, and there was gratitude there, but then three-year-old Hyrum—his father’s namesake and already destined to look like him—came forward. His lower lip was quivering, but he was trying fiercely not to cry. Behind him, little Jerusha, nearly two years old, started to whimper softly. That was too much for Hyrum, and he dove forward, burying his head against his mother’s arm.

  Instantly Lydia’s eyes were burning, and a great clutching sensation gripped her chest. Behind her, Rebecca stifled a sob. Emma was weeping silently, one hand touching her sister-in-law’s shoulder. Mother Smith stared at the floor, her body trembling slightly.

  For a long time, Jerusha just held her son, letting her hand caress his hair gently. Then she pulled him close and whispered for several moments into his ear. Finally he straightened, nodding. He squared his shoulders and stepped back, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. But his jaw was set, and he fought to look brave.

  “All right, children,” Mother Smith said softly, “I think we’d better let your mother rest.”

  Rebecca came forward. “Come children, come with me.”

  Jerusha pulled up slightly, straining desperately to make herself heard. “I’d like Lovina to stay for a moment.”

  “Here,” Rebecca said, “let me take the baby.”

  Lovina handed the baby over to Rebecca, who then gently shooed the children forward and out of the room. As the door closed, Lovina came forward to her mother’s side. Jerusha reached out and grasped her hand, holding it tightly. “Dear Lovina,” she whispered.

  “Yes, Mama,” she answered in a quavering voice.

  “Tell your father when he comes home that the Lord has taken your mother home and left you and the others for him to care for.”

  Lovina started to cry uncontrollably. “I will, Mama. I will.”

  Satisfied, Jerusha fell back, letting go of her daughter’s hand. “Come, Lovina,” Lydia said, putting her arm around the shuddering young body. “Let’s go out with the others.”

  Even as Lydia left the room, Jerusha Barden Smith closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Within the hour her breathing became shallow and labored. Finally, there was a great sigh, and then her body was still.

  * * *

  “Listen to this, Peter.”

  Peter rolled over on his side in the narrow bunk above Derek’s.

  Derek sat up a little straighter, adjusting his shoulder so that it did not block the light coming from the one lamp above their heads. “This is the one I was telling you about. The one I was looking for. It’s the book of Ether.”

  He opened the Book of Mormon wider and let his eyes run down the page, automatically letting them adjust themselves to the gentle rolling motion of the ship. “It’s speaking about the Jaredites.” He looked down and began to read. “‘And the Lord would not suffer that they should stop beyond the sea in the wilderness, but he would that they should come forth even unto the land of promise, which was choice above all other lands, which the Lord God had preserved for a righteous people.’”

  He leaned out of his bunk, looking up. “Did you catch that, Peter? It’s a land choice above all others.”

  “Yes,” Peter said dreamily.

  “Here’s one more part. I like this the best. ‘Behold, this is a choice land, and whatsoever nation shall possess it, shall be free from bondage, and from cap—’” He peered more closely, struggling for a moment with the word. “‘From cap-tiv-i-ty, and from all other nations under Heaven, if they will but serve the God of the land, which is Jesus Christ.’”

  “What does that mean, Derek? What is bondage?”

  Derek sat back, closing the book. How grateful he was to Elder Orson Hyde! When Elder Kimball had taken up the collection to help the Ingalls brothers make the journey across the sea, Derek had determined to use part of the money to buy his own copy of the Book of Mormon, even though they did not have the money to do so. But before he could even ask, Elder Hyde had stepped forward and given him a copy. Inside the front cover it was signed by each of the missionaries. It was the first time Derek could remember wanting to cry.

  He lay back, putting his hands up beneath his head. “Bondage is when . . . well, it’s like being a slave to someone. They’re your master.”

  “Like Mr. Morris?”

  Derek started to laugh, then caught himself. “Well,” he said, suddenly sobered by the idea. “I’d not thought about it that way, but yes, I guess in a way we were in bondage.”

  “And we won’t be in America?”

  Derek let out his breath slowly. That was a constant worry, now that they were only one more day out of New York City. Had they left an intolerable situation merely to fall into something equally desperate?

  “That’s what it says,” Peter said, troubled by Derek’s lack of response. “It says if we serve Jesus Christ, we’ll be free from bondage.”

  Derek smiled. Everyone kept telling him what a good brother he was to Peter, what a blessing it was for the younger boy to have a brother to care for him. Few realized how often it was just the other way around. This boy with a heart as pure and unsullied as mountain air was constantly proving to be a great blessing to his older brother. “Yep,” Derek said finally, forcing a cheerful note into his voice. “That’s what it says.” He felt the slip of paper sewn inside the lining of his jacket. “We have the names Elder Kimball gave us of people in Ohio. I don’t think they’ll put us in bondage.”

  “It worked on our seasickness.”

  Derek reared up in surprise. “What?”

  Peter turned over on his stomach and leaned his head over the edge. “When the captain said we’d lose a day of work for every day of seasickness, I prayed that Jesus would bless us not to get seasick.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “I prayed for both of us. It worked.”

  Shaking his head, Derek stared at his brother in wonder. For the first six days out of Liverpool, Derek had fought a constant queasiness, but fortunately the weather had been almost perfect and the seas calm, and the nausea had not been sufficient to take him from his work with the crew. By the time the weather changed and they went through two days of stiff winds and rain squalls, he had developed enough of his sea legs that he saw it through with no more than an hour or two with his head between his legs. But from the beginning, Peter took to the rolling deck as if he had been born to it, and he never had a moment’s trouble. It had irritated Derek a little, but now he was strangely humbled. “I’m glad you prayed, Peter. It did work.”

  “Then all we have to do is make sure we serve Jesus Christ as long as we’re in America and we’ll be all right.”

  Derek went to speak, then suddenly couldn’t. He took a breath, then another, swallowing hard. Finally, he looked up at those large blue eyes so filled with innocence and excitement. “I think you’re right, Peter. I think you’re abs
olutely right.”

  Rachel Steed turned to the older of her two stepbrothers. “All right, Luke. Don’t start until I’m on top.”

  Luke Griffith screwed his five-year-old face into a look of pure disgust. “I know that,” he said.

  There were eight or ten children gathered around the wooden stile, or steps, that allowed human passage over the sturdy rail fence but kept animals from passing. This was the pasture where the Griffith cow and horse were kept. The children were seated in the dust, oblivious to the dirt that was clinging to their clothing. It was the last day of October, and the late autumn sunshine was bright and warm.

  Rachel took a cloth from her dress pocket and carefully pulled her long dark hair back, tying it with the cloth so that the cloth became a headband. She reached for a second prop, one she had gathered from the small chicken coop behind the cabin. With great care she stuck the point of the feather into the headband, just behind her left ear.

  “You’re an Indian,” one of the girls cried.

  “Pocahontas,” an older boy said, blurting it out even as he raised his hand eagerly.

  Rachel was most put out. “Just wait!” she commanded. “We haven’t even started yet.” Then, very solemnly, she climbed up the three wooden steps of the stile. Once on top, she turned around. “All right, Luke.” He stepped forward and instantly began making motions as if he were shooting a bow and arrow. Rachel ducked or flinched or twisted away as the unseen arrows flew past her. All the time she was moving her lips, raising her arms, or shaking her finger at her audience below.

  The children seemed baffled. They watched. The same boy tried again with Pocahontas. Rachel was thoroughly disgusted. “I’m not Pocahontas. Watch what Luke’s doing.” Again the two of them acted out the charade carefully.

  Suddenly from behind them a deep voice boomed out. “Samuel the Lamanite, preaching to the Nephites from the top of the wall.”

  The children swung around in surprise. A tall man with broad shoulders was standing near the edge of the toolshed. He wore a large hat and was smiling broadly. Rachel was startled by the new player but was nevertheless ecstatic. “Yes,” she cried, turning the heads of the children back around in her direction. “The Nephites are angry with me ’cause I’m telling them they’re bad. They’re trying to kill me.”