The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  There was not an instant’s hesitation. “A dress!”

  “Done!” he laughed.

  “Emily!” Lydia said in dismay.

  “Now, Mother,” Joshua said, “you stay out of this. This is between me and your daughter.”

  He straightened, and in doing so came up to face Lydia. Neither moved for a moment, then she opened her arms. He stepped into them and hugged her tightly. “If my brother doesn’t treat you right,” he growled, loud enough for Nathan to hear, “you let me know, and I’ll set him straight.”

  She laughed. “I will.” Then she was instantly serious. “We’re so glad you’re back, Joshua. This has been a wonderful three days.”

  He nodded. Then at last it was time for his parents. They were standing together now, watching him. Mary Ann was still weeping quietly, but there was no sadness in her eyes, only joy. Joshua swept her up, lifting her off her feet. “Oh, Mama, forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me for all those stupid, terrible years.”

  When he set her down she took his face in both hands, pulled his head down so she could whisper in his ear. “All what years?” she said.

  They hugged again, then Joshua stepped back. The hesitancy was evident in his eyes. Benjamin saw it too. Three days before, when they had stood like this, facing each other across the room in Nathan’s cabin, Benjamin hadn’t had the courage to move until Joseph prompted him. Now, however, he did have it. He simply stepped forward and put his arms around his son. For almost a full minute, they held each other like that, not speaking, not moving, just holding each other.

  Finally they separated. Benjamin stuck out his hand and Joshua gripped it hard. “Thank you, Pa.”

  “No. Thank you, son. Thank you for coming home.”

  “It felt like home,” he said softly. “It really felt like home again.” He stepped back and looked around. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. He scanned the faces of the family forming a half circle around him; then he turned and smiled up at his wife, who was crying openly now. “I think we’d better get out of here before we’re all bawling like babies.”

  * * *

  They were about two hours out of Far West. The team was moving steadily southward, not needing much urging, for they seemed to know they were on the way home. Caroline, Olivia, and Savannah had stretched out on the mattress in the back of the wagon and were asleep. Joshua sat beside Will, who held the reins lightly in one hand. They had not spoken for several minutes. Then Will looked at his father. “Pa?” He spoke softly so as not to wake the women.

  “What, Will?”

  “When is Grandma’s birthday?”

  One eyebrow came up.

  “I’d like to get her something for her birthday.”

  Joshua looked at his son, not trying to hide his pleasure. “What a fine idea, son!”

  “But when is it?”

  He thought for a moment. “October. October third.” He was nodding. “We could get her something nice, then come up to Far West and throw a real birthday party for her.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Will. We’ll talk to Mother when she wakes up.”

  “What about Grandpa? When is his birthday?”

  This time Joshua had to search his memory a little more diligently. It had been a lot of years. “It’s in May,” he finally said. “The eighteenth, I think.”

  Will’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “What’s the matter with that?”

  “We missed it, then.”

  “Ah,” Joshua said, seeing the problem. Then he brightened. “But what if we celebrated it with Grandma’s? I think that would be all right, don’t you?”

  Will was instantly relieved. “Yes. What shall we get them?”

  That was not an easy question to answer, and Joshua thought about it for a minute. “For your grandmother, I think we’d better trust your mother’s judgment. For Grandpa?” He shook his head. “That’s a more difficult question.”

  They fell silent as they considered it.

  It was almost five minutes later when Joshua straightened with a jerk. “That’s it!”

  Will’s eyes had started to droop, and his father’s voice startled him. “What?” he said in confusion.

  “I know what to get your grandpa for his birthday.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. It’s perfect.”

  “What is it?”

  Joshua smiled slowly, savoring the idea. “Next week, how would you like to make a trip to St. Louis? Then you and me will pick out a gift that will make Grandpa’s eyes pop right out of his head.”

  * * *

  Late the following day, just before sundown, Rebecca stuck her head in the door of the cabin and called to her mother. “Mother, it looks like it’s going to rain.”

  “Wouldn’t you know,” Mary Ann moaned. They had spent most of the day doing the laundry and had finished getting it all hung out on the line only a couple of hours previously.

  “It’s coming fast,” Rebecca said. “And it looks like it’s going to be a real gully buster.”

  Mary Ann put down the dish of peas she had been shelling and walked to the door. As she stepped out on the porch and looked to the west, her eyes widened. There had been a few clouds when they had started hanging the wash, but now the whole western sky was one solid mass of black, punctuated by rippling flashes of light. The great mass was moving toward them even as she looked.

  “Get Matthew and your father,” she commanded. “We’re going to have to hurry.”

  They barely made it. The first big drops came slashing in as Matthew ran in with the last of the sheets. Any vestiges of daylight were gone. Then the heavens opened. The rain came in horizontal sheets, pounding against the windows like bird shot. For the first few minutes, the lightning would flash, then six or seven or eight seconds later the thunder would crackle and roll across the prairie. But then the interval between flash and sound began to narrow rapidly.

  Matthew stood at the front door. When the lightning flashed, he would begin counting slowly. “One, two, three. . . .” A rule of thumb was about one mile away for every five seconds counted.

  “For heaven’s sake, Matthew, get away from that door.”

  He turned to face his sister, grinning. “Ain’t gonna strike here. I’m just counting to see how close they are. I love a good thunderstorm.”

  But as he turned back, there was a tremendous flash of light. Every detail in the cabin was thrown into brilliant relief. Matthew jerked violently, but even before his mind could react, the sound hit them. It was like a giant tidal wave smashing against the walls. Even the logs seemed to rattle with the blast of the thunder. Instantly there was the smell of ozone in the air.

  Matthew fell back a step, half-blinded. “Heavenly days!” he cried. “What was that?”

  Benjamin was up and to the door. He too was a little dazed. “That hit somewhere close. Real close.” He moved quickly to the back window and peered out to see if the outbuildings were all right.

  Matthew stepped back inside. He gave Rebecca a long look. “Maybe you’re right. I think I will shut the door.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Rebecca and Mary Ann were about halfway through hanging the wash out to dry again when they heard someone calling. Rebecca turned, squinting a little in the bright sunlight. Then she smiled. “It’s Lydia.”

  Nathan’s wife was in a hurry. She was coming from the direction of town and had her skirts held up enough to stop them from dragging through the puddles. Mary Ann put the wash back in the basket and turned. She raised one hand to wave, then dropped it again slowly. She could see Lydia’s face more clearly now. It looked frightened and filled with concern.

  Alarmed, Mary Ann dropped the clothespins into the basket now as well and started walking toward her daughter-in-law. Rebecca had seen it too and joined her mother. “Lydia,” Mary Ann called as they approached each other. “Is everything all right?”

  Lydia only qui
ckened her step until she came up to the other two women.

  “What is it, Lydia?” Rebecca asked anxiously.

  Lydia had to stop for a moment and catch her breath, but finally she turned and looked back over her shoulder. “I’ve just been to the main square.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know that terrible lightning strike we got last night?”

  “Yes, we heard it,” Mary Ann said. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Lydia shook her head, still breathing heavily. “It hit the liberty pole.”

  For some reason, that news jolted Rebecca as hard as if Lydia had said it had struck someone’s home. “The liberty pole?” she echoed.

  “Yes. It shivered it from top to bottom. There’s nothing left but a few splinters.”

  “But—,” Rebecca started. She stopped, not even knowing what she was going to say.

  The liberty pole had been more than just a flagpole. The Saints had come to Missouri and tried to settle in Jackson County. They were driven out with whip, gun, and bayonet. They crossed the river into Clay County, only to be asked to leave two years later or face a similar fate. They fled from Kirtland in the dead of winter, robbed of their land and homes, hated by their neighbors and former friends. So they had come to northern Missouri, to the open, unsettled prairies. They had built their cabins and their barns and their settlements and tried to mind their own affairs.

  And then, just three days before, they had gathered in the central square around the liberty pole. On it they raised the Stars and Stripes to fly over their fledgling city. Sidney Rigdon had spoken with passion of the liberties that that flag stood for. When he had finished, some five or six thousand voices had shouted hosannahs and collectively vowed that they would defend those liberties, even to the death if necessary.

  And now the liberty pole was in splinters.

  Lydia was very subdued. “Some of the people are saying this is an omen, that this is God’s way of saying we strive in vain to maintain our liberties in a state where law is set by mob rule and where those who govern care nothing for the rights of the Mormons.”

  Mary Ann looked startled for a moment, then her jaw set. “The liberty pole was a symbol of our freedom and independence. We’ll put up another one.”

  Rebecca shook her head slowly, feeling a great sense of desolation sweep over her. “The liberty pole is gone, Mama. It’s gone.”

  * * *

  By Eastern standards, the lumberyard at Far West left much to be desired. The selection was limited, and much of it was unfinished beams or just plain logs. On the Great Plains, where the almost endless forests that covered much of the continent east of the Mississippi were nonexistent, lumber was always at a premium. And to make matters worse, Far West was in a building boom. Even Kirtland at the height of its greatest boom time had not rivaled this.

  The smokehouse Benjamin and Matthew Steed were building behind their cabin was small and it was nearly finished. But they still needed some good, solid hardwood for the smoke racks on which they would hang the long strips of bacon or the fat and heavy ham shanks. Benjamin went to the lumberyard nearly every day to see what might have come in. Finally, in mid-July, he found what he was looking for. Or rather, Matthew found it for him.

  “Pa, come look at this.”

  Benjamin walked around a pile of logs and joined his son. Eight or ten planks lay on the prairie sod.

  “It’s ash,” said Matthew. “Probably white ash, I’d guess.”

  “Hmm. Sure is.”

  “It still looks pretty fresh. It will probably take a week in the kiln to get it cured properly, but it looks like good wood.”

  Benjamin raised his head. Brother Thomas Billings, manager of the yard, was already watching them. “How much for the ash?” Benjamin called.

  Billings came over and looked down at the lumber. “Oh yes, this stuff. Lucky to get it. Came up river to DeWitt, then one of the newcomers brought it the rest of the way in to help pay his way once he got here.” His mouth twisted a little as he concentrated. “How ’bout four dollars fifty for the lot?”

  Benjamin blew out his breath. “Really only need about half of it, actually. Just need to finish a rack in the smokehouse.”

  The lumberman frowned. “Hate to break up the lot. It’s the only ash I’ve got right now.”

  “I’m going to have to take it to the kiln and have it dried some more. Can’t wait for it to cure out by itself. Expect that will cost me another dollar at least.”

  Billings nodded. “All right, tell you what. Take the bunch and I’ll let it go for three dollars even.”

  Now it was Benjamin who was thoughtful. It was more than a fair price, but with the kiln fees his total cost would be four dollars, and that would be a hefty hit on his cash reserves.

  “Pa,” Matthew broke in, “I could make Ma that dish cupboard she’s been wanting with the rest of it.”

  “And I’ll help him do it,” a voice boomed from behind them.

  They all turned, and Benjamin immediately smiled. “Brother Brigham. Good mornin’.”

  “Mornin’, Brother Ben. Matthew.” Brigham Young turned and shook hands with Billings as well. Then he dropped into a crouch and picked up the end of one board. He ran his hand along the grain of the wood. “Very nice,” he murmured.

  “Needs some more curing,” Matthew volunteered.

  “Yep. It does that,” Brigham agreed. “Two days at most, though. You don’t want to overdry this. Especially if you’re gonna put it into furniture.”

  Benjamin nodded. That would make a difference. It wouldn’t take a full dollar to dry it. He pulled at his lower lip. He trusted Brigham’s judgment. Brigham Young was one of the finest, if not the finest, of master carpenters and glaziers in all of Far West. If he said two days, two days it would be.

  Benjamin turned to Billings. “Done,” he said. “Can I bring you the money this afternoon?”

  “Of course.”

  Brigham laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “I’ve already seen some of the things you’ve done, young man. You’ve got a gift for working with wood. But I meant what I said. I’d be pleased to help you with a cupboard for Mary Ann. I may have some tools you don’t.”

  Matthew was beaming. “I’d be right pleased to have your help, Brother Brigham.”

  “Good. You know where I live. Out about four miles on Mill Creek. Why don’t you bring the lumber over once you’ve got it out of the kiln.”

  * * *

  “You’ve got to remember that wood is a living thing, Matthew. Even after it’s been cut down and made into lumber, it’s still a living thing.”

  “I’ve noticed that.” He was standing at Brigham’s side near the workbench. They were in the carpenter’s shed behind Brigham’s cabin. “The first door I made for Pa, I used a mitered joint on the corners. By the time summer was finished, the joints had big cracks in them.”

  “That’s right,” Brigham boomed cheerfully. “And I’ll bet the cracks were bigger in some places than others, right?”

  Matthew thought for a moment. That had been back in Kirtland, almost four years ago now. But he could picture the door in his mind. “That’s right. They were wider on the outside and inside corners.”

  “Exactly. Wood either shrinks or swells across the grain. So a mitered joint pulls apart at the ends. That’s why a shiplap joint is best for doors. It holds the door at a ninety-degree angle to the grain.”

  “Yeah,” Matthew said ruefully, “I learned that the hard way.”

  Brigham had the first of the long boards of white ash on the bench and was planing it down smooth with long, even strokes. It was already hot in the shed, and beads of perspiration were forming on his upper lip. He stopped for a moment and looked at Matthew. “I like to think of it as breathing. It’s like the wood actually breathes.”

  Matthew was nodding, knowing at once what he meant. “I never thought of it quite that way, but that’s really true.”

  Brigham chuckled as he went back to work. �
�The softwoods do it much more than something like this, of course, but they all do. They breathe in, they breathe out. I remember back in New York we had barn roofs that you could see starlight through, but when it got stormy they’d swell right up, and by the time it actually rained you’d not get a single leak through them.”

  “My grandpa died before I was very old, but Nathan says he used to teach him and Joshua about different kinds of wood. He said any man who wants to get along with nature needs to develop a reverence for wood.”

  The stroking stopped for a moment as Brigham looked at him. “That’s a good way to put it.” One of the callused hands ran along the wood lovingly. “It’s like an old friend. Treat him with respect and he’ll give you his best.”

  He stepped back and handed Matthew the wooden plane with its steel blade. “Here, you finish this. Do the others as well. Be careful you don’t get one thinner than the others. I’ll get some paper and a charcoal stick. We don’t want to be building something until we know what it will look like.”

  When he returned, Brigham asked Matthew a few questions about what Matthew’s mother desired in terms of a dish cupboard, then began to sketch as Matthew continued planing the boards. As he worked, Brigham began to hum to himself; then he started to sing softly.

  There’s an old mouse chewin’ on my pantry door,

  He must have chewed for a month or more.

  When he gets through he’ll sure be sore,

  For there ain’t a durn thing in there!

  Matthew laughed. “That’s one I’ve not heard before.”

  Brigham looked up. “An old New England folk song.” His head dropped again, and he chewed on his lower lip as he continued sketching. Matthew watched him, remembering. His father had once told him that during the early years in Kirtland, Brigham had spent so much time doing missionary work that he had been unable to earn money for his family. One winter he had gone to one of his friends, hat in hand, and begged for a loan so he could get enough food to feed his family until he could earn some money. Benjamin said he had wept in humiliation, for Brigham prided himself on making his own way in the world.