The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them softly. “You know what this means?”

  She looked away quickly. “More sharply than you can dream.”

  “If Caroline has left Independence, it could take weeks to find where she has gone. I . . . I don’t know how long the militia is going to let us stay here. What if they make you leave the state before I get back?”

  She put her arms around him. “That’s why Derek cannot go with you. I’d feel much safer about it if he did, but with Father Steed so sick, we must have Derek and Matthew to be the men of the house.”

  “I know.”

  She pulled up tight against him and her hands began to rub his back, feeling the old welts and scars beneath his shirt. “It absolutely terrifies me to think of you going back into Jackson County and . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. She changed the subject to make her mind go on to other things. “How will you ever find him? You don’t even know which way he went?”

  “I’ll start in St. Joseph.”

  “St. Joseph? Why there?”

  His brow furrowed. It was obvious he had thought this through already. “He won’t head straight south. Not when the militia is all over the place. And St. Joe is only forty miles from Gallatin. It’s the closest city. And remember, he takes freight there all the time. He’ll have people there he knows, people who can help him. I’ll go west from here, then take the road that goes up in case he’s already started down.”

  She nodded. “He’s got two days start on you, but Matthew says he can’t move very fast.”

  He put his hand under her chin and tipped her head back. “Lydia, I love you. There is nothing else except my family that would make me leave you again.”

  She was crying openly against him now. “You must go immediately, Nathan. Every hour you are delayed will make it more difficult for you to find him.”

  He leaned down and kissed her very tenderly, but for a very long time. Then they straightened, turned around, and walked quickly back to the cabin.

  * * *

  Nathan left Far West within the hour of his farewell to Lydia. Late that afternoon, a fourth unexpected event occurred with the Steeds. A letter arrived from St. Louis from Caroline Steed addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Steed. Unfortunately, Nathan had gone and was not there to know of it. The reading of it brought a great pall to the Steed household.

  * * *

  “But I don’t understand, Derek,” Rebecca said. “It can’t be the Danites, can it?”

  Derek shook his head. “No.” It came out flat and hard. There was no question in his mind about that. “First of all, the group was disbanded the moment Brother Joseph learned what Avard was doing. Secondly, Avard has gone over to the Missourians. That sniveling coward wouldn’t dare continue to function now.”

  “But the note that was on Caroline’s door . . .”

  That had really shaken Derek too. Caroline had sent the note along with her letter. It was her way of trying to tell the family why there were some bitter feelings in the Joshua Steed family right now toward the Mormons, why a fourteen-year-old boy was consumed with a desire for revenge. Derek had read it over several times.

  “Did you notice anything peculiar about that note?” he asked.

  Rebecca thought for a moment, then shook her head.

  “One of the things it said was, ‘You have our prophet, Joe Smith, in your jail.’”

  Her eyes widened.

  “That’s right,” he went on. “There’s not a Latter-day Saint who doesn’t know how strongly Joseph feels about his name. None of us call him Joe. Not even those who’ve left the Church. We just naturally call him Joseph.”

  “So . . .” Now her mind was racing. “If it wasn’t one of us who wrote it, then who did?”

  He shook his head in discouragement. “In Jackson County? It could be any one of a hundred people. Especially if they heard about what Joshua did for us.”

  “But they’ve followed her to St. Louis!”

  “I know, and that’s frightening.”

  “We’ve got to let Nathan know,” Rebecca said with sudden determination.

  “But how?”

  “If he finds Joshua, they’ll go to Independence, right?”

  “Yes, but Caroline won’t be there.”

  “So then where will they go? Very first, who would Joshua go see?”

  Derek thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “To Joshua’s partner, the one he asked to get a wagon ready for Caroline in case there was trouble.”

  “Right,” she said, turning on her heel. “Let’s go write a letter. We can tell Joshua’s partner everything. If we send it immediately, it should get there before Joshua and Nathan do.”

  * * *

  Joshua was staring into his mug of beer, deeply depressed. It was past ten o’clock. In a few minutes, the saloon keeper would come over, trying not to stare down at the crutch, and tell him it was time to close. Joshua would drag himself up, hobble out and across the street, and climb up the stairs to the filthy hotel, with its tiny room and blanket that reeked from having too many alcoholics sleep on it and cockroaches scurrying away when he lit the lamp. And then he would lay there all night long, just as he had the night before, trying to figure a way out of the mess he’d put himself in.

  He slapped at his leg angrily. How was a man to function when he could barely hobble? The first night crossing over open countryside in the dark with his crutch had been an endless hell and showed him how low his reserves of strength were. He would have turned back if he hadn’t been so afraid that there would be men waiting for him back at the McIntires’ house. It took him all that night and all the next day to make ten miles, and then he had collapsed in exhaustion and pain. But on the second day he had pushed on and finally reached the main east-west road that cut across the state. He hitched a ride with a teamster headed west and reached St. Joe on the afternoon of the third day.

  Trading his sixty-dollar watch for the driver’s ragged overcoat and ten dollars in cash, Joshua got off the wagon on the outskirts of town. On the three-day trip across the state, he had come to the same conclusion that Nathan and Lydia had, and that was that he had an identity problem. Joshua did a lot of business in St. Joe and knew several people he could call on for help. But then it hit him that it was not totally unlikely that news of him had come this far north from Independence. If the word was that Joshua Steed was dead, his appearance would be a sensation, and Joshua wasn’t interested in being a sensation. On the other hand, if word had come that he was alive, then there would be a price on his head. Frustrated, he had found this flea-infested hotel, and holed up while he tried to think of a way to solve his problem.

  And so for the last twenty-four hours he had sat and temporized. He had no Obadiah Cornwell up here whom he could totally trust. And worse, with the crutch, he was as conspicuous as a pup in a litter of kittens. He drew stares every time he ventured out. He hated it. He hated the looks—the sickly pity in the eyes of the women, the openmouthed stares of children, the men who were embarrassed for him. But more than that, he knew people would remember him. And so he had spent most of his time holed up in the hotel, trying to figure out what to do, watching his tiny reserves of cash dwindling at an alarming rate.

  He lifted the beer and drank deeply. So much for the great Joshua Steed. Off to save his wife and children. Can’t even get his own pants on without it taking half an hour.

  Suddenly his head came around. A man had appeared at the door to the saloon and was looking around. Joshua tensed as the man turned in his direction. Then Joshua swore under his breath. The man was coming toward him. His hat was pulled down low over his face, the collar of his coat turned up. Here was a man who, like Joshua, was not looking to be identified easily. Then suddenly Joshua jerked forward, staring.

  Nathan came up to the table, stopped, and looked down at him with a sardonic smile. “I’d ask you to buy me a drink, stranger, but fortunately for you, I don’t drink.”

/>   * * *

  “All right, brother,” Joshua said in a low voice. “You’re in my country now. We see anybody, you just let me do the talking.”

  “Gladly.”

  They were just coming up on Independence from the south. Joshua had circled them around the outskirts to the west so that they didn’t have to pass down Main Street. It was nearly midnight, and there were hardly any lights showing anywhere, but Joshua was in no mood to take chances. Nathan hadn’t argued with him on that one.

  “As you may remember, our house is one of the last ones on this side of town.”

  “I remember. And I also remember that it looked like it was the biggest one in town.”

  Joshua laughed briefly. “It’s pretty big. I wanted Caroline to be happy.”

  “She was happy, Joshua,” Nathan said softly. “You could see that in her eyes.”

  Joshua considered that and accepted it as true. He clucked softly and snapped the reins, moving the horse forward. Joshua stood up in the stirrup with his one good leg, peering carefully at every place that was big enough to hide a man. The moon was out and half full, and they made an easy target if someone was waiting for them. He reached down, letting his hand rest on the butt of the new Sharps rifle Nathan had purchased in St. Joe.

  Getting the money had been shamefully easy, and Joshua realized that his physical state had affected his ability to think clearly. Once Joshua explained his fear about being a wanted man, Nathan had hit on a simple solution. At precisely nine o’clock the morning after his arrival, Nathan walked into the bank where Joshua did business in St. Joe. He introduced himself to the president as a business associate of Joshua’s and asked if he was in town. He watched closely the man’s reaction. No, the man said, he hadn’t seen Joshua for over a month. There was nothing unusual in his reaction to the question. If word of Joshua had come north, this man hadn’t heard it, Nathan was sure of that.

  So Nathan had thanked him and left. Ten minutes later, Joshua walked in, told the man about having his leg crushed between two horses, and accepted his condolences. Half an hour later Joshua had walked out with five hundred dollars. By noon, Nathan had purchased two horses, two saddles, bedrolls, food, weapons, and ammunition, and they were on their way south.

  The day-and-a-half ride had taken a toll on Joshua, but the excitement of being near to their goal had rejuvenated him. He was alert and poised for action. Then he reined in sharply, leaning forward in the saddle. “What the . . . ?”

  Nathan peered into the darkness in the direction Joshua was looking. “What? What’s the matter?”

  But Joshua didn’t answer. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and sent him trotting forward. Nathan drew the rifle from its scabbard, the hairs on his head suddenly prickling, then kicked his horse forward too.

  Joshua stopped at a large pile of rubble that was barely visible in the dark. As Nathan reined up beside him he could smell the faint odor of burned wood. Confused, he looked around, then back to Joshua. “If I remember rightly, isn’t your house close by? Why are you stopping here?”

  Joshua swung gingerly down from the saddle. Only when he was down did he look back up at Nathan. “This was my house,” he said flatly.

  * * *

  Cornwell was shocked to see Joshua at his door. And yet it was a great relief to him as well, for the letter from Derek Ingalls explaining about Caroline had left him deeply disturbed. He locked the door tightly behind them, then pulled down the blinds and lit a lamp. He let Joshua and Nathan read the letter. It was a bitter blow. Nathan had feared they would have to go to St. Louis to find her. Now she wouldn’t be there either.

  There was a brief argument about Nathan’s going back so Far West, which Nathan ended by finally yelling at Joshua that if he said another word he would kick his crutch out from under him. They rested through the day, not daring to let Joshua be seen, then rode out shortly after dark. They turned the horses east. Caroline was no longer in St. Louis, but that’s where she had been last, and that’s where they would pick up the trail.

  Chapter 29

  Caroline stepped up on the veranda of the big plantation house, removed her bonnet, and wiped at her brow. She had forgotten how wonderful the winters were in Savannah—bright sun, balmy days, the breeze off the ocean. And being out in it had been a wonderful tonic for her desolated soul.

  She had not wanted to go out, had fought it even when Julia Montague insisted that she needed some sun. Her loss of Joshua was still searingly real, and the plantation carried too many painful memories for Caroline. It was here that she and Joshua had walked one night, and he had openly declared his intention to court her. Even now, a month after his death, the memory of that night brought pain so sharp it made her clutch at her throat.

  Julia Montague knew all of what was going on inside Caroline but still had the wisdom to push her friend out of her shell. First she had asked that Caroline come to town with her and Abner, but that gave Caroline the chills. Though Caroline was almost certain that no one, not even Mormons driven by fanatical hatred, would follow her clear to Georgia, she had taken no chances. When she reached Savannah, she came straight out to the Montagues and asked for their help. The plantation was far enough outside of town that Caroline and her children could stay there for a time without anyone in town knowing about it. She felt foolish, felt like she was being too paranoid, but then she had also been sure that those who had killed Joshua would not follow her to St. Louis. And she had been wrong.

  So when she refused to go into town, Julia had extracted a promise from Caroline that she would at least go out. Now Caroline was grateful she had agreed. The pain was still there, as it was almost every waking moment, but as she walked there came the sweetness of the memories as well, and she felt the first signs of healing. And that had felt so good, she had stayed out almost twice as long as she had first intended.

  Behind her, the door opened and Olivia came out in a rush. “Mama! Mama!”

  “I’m over here, Livvy. What is it?”

  The face that looked so much like her mother’s suddenly crumpled. “Will’s gone, Mama!”

  It was as though Olivia had slapped her. She fell back a step. “Gone?”

  Olivia nodded, crying now. “He left a note. He said not to try and find him. He’s gone back to look for Papa’s murderers.”

  Caroline leaned back against a pillar, her knees suddenly going weak. “Are you sure?” she whispered.

  “Yes, Mama. He’s gone. I looked everywhere.”

  Caroline swung around, her mind racing wildly. If she had the servants hitch up the carriage, maybe . . . Then as quickly as the idea came, she rejected it. Her hands dropped to her side as she realized how carefully Will had planned this. Abner and Julia had gone to town to see off a packet ship loaded with their cotton and headed for the mills in St. Louis. It was to depart at one o’clock, more than half an hour ago now.

  Then suddenly she straightened. “You go back in with Savannah,” she commanded Olivia. Caroline walked swiftly into the house and up the stairs to her bedroom. She went straight to the large chest of drawers in the corner and opened the bottom drawer. Pawing back the clothes, she uncovered the back corner. She stared for a moment, then sat back on her heels. It was gone.

  A week ago she had hidden a small purse with one hundred dollars in it. Then she had told the Montagues about it. She was saving it for Christmas, she said. She had waited until she was sure that Will was in the next room within earshot. The decision to do it had come dearly, for in a way it was like giving him license. But nothing Caroline had said or done in the past days had lessened the iron-hard determination that raged inside her son. His desire to avenge his father’s death was like a cancer consuming him. And if she couldn’t stop him, then she decided it was better that he have some resources. A fourteen-year-old trying to make his way back to Missouri with nothing was as frightening as the thing that was eating at him. And so she had “hidden” the money.

  She folded her arms
around her knees and buried her head against them as the enormity of it all hit her. There was a stifled sob. “Oh, dear God,” she cried. “Take care of my boy!”

  * * *

  The length of time that a candle burned was determined by how many times it was dipped into the hot tallow and allowed to cool and then dipped again. The stub that now sat in the small pewter candleholder near Mary Ann’s elbow had been a thirty-six dipper, one of the thickest made. But it had already burned for nearly seventy hours, and there was no more than an inch left—maybe an hour, perhaps less.

  The flame flickered slightly as a cold draft stirred the air in the cabin. Outside, the wind was blowing across the northern Missouri prairie, and she could hear the branches of the bushes rubbing against the cabin. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the tiredness behind the lids, reaching up with her fingers to massage them gently. Then, finally, she opened them again, picked up the quill pen, and dipped it into the ink made from lampblack, a touch of pine gum, and boiled water. She had only two sheets of paper, so she wrote slowly, keeping the letters small and the lines tight.

  Dear Melissa, Carl, and children,

  We received your letter dated November 4th just today. Mail service in Far West has been greatly delayed and is still spotty at best. I know not when I shall have another opportunity to reply, so am writing this while your father and the others sleep.

  I wrote you of your father’s imprisonment and his return in a previous note. I hope it has reached you. His health continues to improve, but he is still very frail. With our freedom of movement outside town still restricted somewhat, wood is becoming scarce. We keep a fire only to cook and the nights in the cabin become quite chilled, which seems to slow his recovery.

  Things in Far West have settled down into a numbing routine. Food is very short and limited in both variety and quality. General Clark supposedly granted a few permits for some of the brethren to pass in and out of town freely for purposes of gathering food, but that is merely a fantasy. He has withdrawn almost all the militia forces now, leaving the countryside open to roving bands of ruffians who fall on any who are found away from town. Homes are still plundered. Stock is driven off or butchered. The only thing we have in any abundance is parched corn, and we try to find various ways to serve it to break the monotony of our diet. More and more it looks like the promise that we can stay until spring will not be honored. Many of our number—those with the means to do so—have already left. For those who have lost almost everything, such as ourselves, we do not know how we shall effect a trip across many miles of prairie in wintertime.