The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  He looked away.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “All right, but I was just being cautious.”

  “Well, if you are worried about that, how do you think I feel?” His mouth opened, but she went on quickly, fiercely now. “You forget. I saw those men who shot you! They sat across the table from me with their leering grins and their terrible breath and told me in detail how you died. They sat across the table and looked at me in a way that made me feel like I needed to bathe. Then they burned our house down around us. They followed us all the way to St. Louis.” She looked away suddenly. “They drove our son away from us.”

  “Those men are dead, Caroline,” he said. “We’re safe now.”

  She just looked at him and shook her head in disbelief.

  Nathan knew it was not directly his affair, but he couldn’t help siding with Caroline on this. “What would the people in Jackson County do if they did know you were still alive? After all, you did kill a man, a member of the militia. Isn’t that worthy of a court-martial?”

  Joshua turned on Nathan, angry, but before he could speak, Olivia leaned forward. “Papa?”

  He barely glanced at her. “What?”

  “I still have nightmares about somebody finding us.”

  It was as if she had punched him. He turned to gape at her. “You do?”

  She nodded slowly. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

  For several moments they all sat there. Caroline had dropped her head and was staring at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. Nathan was studying the pattern that had been painted on the wall so as to resemble wallpaper. Olivia was watching her father with imploring eyes.

  Finally Caroline looked up at Nathan. “We got a letter from Melissa a few days ago.”

  “You did? How are they?”

  She glanced quickly at her husband, then away again. “Fine.” There was a moment’s hesitation. “She hinted that Carl might consider coming out west and going into some kind of business partnership with Joshua.”

  Nathan’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

  She nodded, but Joshua jumped in on that. “Don’t make more of that than what it is. That could just be Melissa talking.”

  She started to answer that, but he went on quickly. “But even if Carl were willing—a very big if, I think—the best place for us to set up would be right here in St. Louis. So let’s stop talking about moving. I’m not about to move up in the middle of twelve thousand Mormons. We’re happy here.”

  “No!” she said wearily. “You’re happy here. That’s all.”

  Nathan decided a little lightness was in order. “So that’s it. You’re worried that you might come up there with all those Mormons and get converted.”

  Joshua snorted in disgust.

  “Look,” Nathan said, serious now. “Why don’t you just come back to Quincy with me for a visit. Mother would be so pleased to see you again. Then you can look the situation over. Maybe you could operate out of Quincy. That would still take you out of the state of Missouri.”

  Joshua’s look was still hard, but finally he turned to Caroline. “You never told me you were unhappy here,” he finally said.

  She sighed. “Joshua, how many times have you and I talked about the possibility of moving north to be closer to your family? Doesn’t that tell you something?”

  He sat back. He looked at Nathan. Then he looked back at his wife again. Finally, he shook his head and turned to Nathan once more. “You know, brother, every time you come it seems like all you do is cause me grief.”

  Nathan looked at him steadily, then slowly smiled. “I can’t think of a more deserving man.”

  Again the room fell silent as Joshua looked at his wife. Then after several moments had passed, he turned to Olivia. “Did I ever tell you about your Uncle Nathan, Livvy?”

  “No, what?”

  “He’s got a lousy sense of direction. Gets lost at the drop of a hat. I was always having to find him when we were kids.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Nathan said, surprised at this sudden attack. “I don’t ever recall your having to find me.”

  Joshua went right on as if Nathan hadn’t spoken. “If we send him up north by himself, he’ll probably miss Quincy by a hundred miles if he misses it by a yard.”

  Nathan was staring. Caroline’s head had come up and her face registered shock.

  Now at last, Joshua turned to Nathan. “If the Mormons are moving out of Quincy, I suppose you’re going to need more wagons, aren’t you? The Steed clan is getting to be pretty substantial.”

  Nathan nodded gravely. “Couldn’t possibly do without them.”

  Caroline reached out and grabbed her husband’s hand. “Do you mean it, Joshua? Can we go back with Nathan?”

  He nodded. “But don’t be getting your hopes up about moving there permanently.” Then, in spite of himself, his face grew thoughtful. “But it is an interesting business opportunity. It might not hurt to look around a little.”

  She threw her arms around him and kissed him soundly. “Thank you, Joshua.”

  Olivia went to them, trying to get her arms around her mother and father. “Oh, thank you, Papa. Thank you.”

  Joshua pulled a face. “It’s really not fair, you know.”

  “What?” Caroline asked.

  “Nathan I can handle. Knock him around a bit if he gets too pushy. But when my three girls all gang up on me . . . You telling me you’re not happy. Livvy and her bad dreams.” His eyes registered disbelief. “Even Savannah, asking to see her grandpa.” He shook his head helplessly. “Trying to stand up against the three of you—I might as well try to spit on a prairie fire.”

  Will stopped for a moment outside the captain’s cabin. He tugged at his shirt, stuffing it down inside the rope belt that held his pants up, keenly aware that the pants—the only pair he owned—were nearly worn through at the knees. They were bleached out to a pale gray by the combination of sunshine, wind, and salt spray that had also bronzed his face and arms to the color of dark honey. His shoes were scuffed and the little toe on his right foot poked through the thin leather.

  He spit on his hands, rubbed them together quickly, and then smoothed down his hair as best he could. The last time he had cut his hair was while he was on the Montague plantation back in December, five months before. It was long and shaggy and grew as thick as the mane of one of his father’s Conestoga horses. He had no mirror to look at. It would have surprised him to find that if he passed by any but his closest friends or family, they probably wouldn’t recognize him.

  Finally, as ready as he could be, he lifted a hand and knocked firmly.

  “Enter.”

  Opening the door, Will stepped inside. “Mr. O’Malley said you wanted to see me, sir.”

  The captain was sitting in the big chair next to his bunk reading a large, old-looking book. He stood, moved over to the desk, and set the book down. “Yes, Steed, I did. Come in. Have a seat.”

  Will looked around, then took a small four-legged stool beside the table. There was a padded chair in the corner, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to assume too much and sit in that. He pulled the stool out and sat down across from the captain.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you, sir. I just had breakfast in the galley.”

  “Oh. Fog lifting at all?”

  Will glanced out the small porthole in the bulkhead. Outside, it was a uniform gray. “No, sir.”

  “Ever have fog like this back in Missouri?”

  Will looked up, a little startled. The captain had never made any reference to Will’s home. For that matter, he had never made reference to anything about Will’s former life. Will shook his head. “No, sir, not like this.”

  “In England they call it pea soup. Nothing quite like it anywhere else in the world.”

  “We’ll have to wait for it to lift, then?”

  “Yes, but it’s still early. It’ll burn off in the next hour or two so the steamer can come out and take us into Liv
erpool. It’s up a river, you know, and we have to have an escort.”

  “That’s what Jiggers said.” Will kept his face expressionless, still puzzled by the chitchat. He kept stealing glances at the captain, who was absently pushing a paperweight around with the tip of his thumb. He did not see any anger in the captain’s eyes, which made him all the more curious. Normally, only serious infractions of the ship’s rules brought a man to the captain’s cabin. Will thought he was clean, but he was still nervous. One could never be sure.

  The captain stopped playing with the paperweight. He folded his hands across his stomach and leaned back, studying the boy before him. “How old are you, Steed?”

  “Sixteen.”

  One eyebrow came up.

  “Well, I will be on my next birthday.”

  “Which is?”

  Will looked away. “Next March.” That was still ten months away.

  There was a hint of amusement in Sperryman’s eyes. Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of paper, folded in thirds. Will recognized it instantly. It was the letter he had written to his mother several weeks before. Then his eyes widened. The last time the captain showed that letter to him, it had been tied with a string. Now the string was gone.

  Captain Sperryman was looking at Will steadily. “I told you before, I don’t read other people’s mail. I think that’s a man’s own affair.”

  Will looked at him sharply. But the string was gone. The letter had been opened.

  “Until this morning,” the Captain added, seeing the disbelief on Will’s face, “I was going to mail it from Liverpool today, like I promised. But then”—he shrugged—“I thought it best to know more about you.”

  Will’s lips set in a hard line. He had poured out a good deal of his heart and emotions in that letter to his mother. “You could have asked,” he said tightly.

  Sperryman seemed unperturbed. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  Will was staring at his hands, which were in his lap. He was both embarrassed and angry to be uncovered like this.

  “Who killed him?”

  Will hesitated; then, strangely, he wanted the captain to know. He had held it in for months now. He looked up. “The Mormons.” There was an instant tinge of guilt for that. Hugh Watson and Riley Overson were Missourians, not Mormons, and it was they who had killed his father. He had learned that in a warehouse in St. Louis. But going into all that required such a convoluted explanation, it was easier to just say it was the Mormons. Besides, if it hadn’t been for the Mormons and the problems they created in northern Missouri, his father would never have been up there in the first place. So in a way . . .

  “Mormons?” the captain said, pronouncing the word tentatively.

  “A group of religious fanatics,” Will said shortly, not wanting to explain further.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sorry.”

  There was another pause, this time longer, but the captain’s eyes never left Will’s face. “How’d you come to get sold down the river?”

  “I was stupid,” Will said without hesitation. He would not be soft on himself. “I trusted a man that I should have known wasn’t trustworthy.”

  “And your mother has no idea what has happened to you?”

  “You took my letter, remember?” Will retorted, not trying to hide the bitterness in his voice.

  “That I did.” It was said without either rancor or regret. He reached in the drawer again and pulled out a pipe. The bowl was carved in the shape of a dragon. It was very Oriental-looking, and Will wondered if it had come from China. He stared at it as Sperryman pulled over a tin of tobacco, stuffed the pipe, then put it in his mouth without lighting it.

  Shoving the pipe to one corner of his mouth, Sperryman began talking as though Will weren’t there. “I wasn’t shanghaied and sold off to a ship’s crew. I ran away and became a stowaway on a warship. The War of 1812 had just begun. I wanted to be in it. I was just barely thirteen.”

  Thirteen? Will leaned forward, surprised by this sudden turn in the conversation.

  “It took me fifteen years to make first mate. Another seven to make captain.” Finally, he looked directly at Will. “But I loved it from the first. I was born for the sea.”

  Will nodded slowly, his mind calculating quickly. If Sperryman was thirteen at the beginning of the War of 1812, that meant he was forty now. Will had not thought much about his age before. He seemed timeless. His face was like untanned leather and the blue eyes perpetually squinted. But he was right. It showed in every part of him. He was born for the sea.

  “So were you, Steed.”

  Will jumped a little.

  “You were. You’ve taken to sailing like you’ve been walking the deck of a ship since you were a toddler.”

  That was an exaggeration, Will thought. For the first three days out of New Orleans the weather had been rough, and he had been as sick as he could ever remember being. But that had passed, and he had found himself exulting in the freedom of the ocean’s vastness. He was fascinated by the intricacies of the rigging and determined he would quickly master how it all worked. And though he missed his family fiercely, being on the rolling deck of a ship felt like he had returned to something that was second nature to him.

  Sperryman reached in the drawer and pulled out a long self-strike match, scratched it against the side of the table, and touched it to the tobacco. As he puffed the pipe into life, he watched Will steadily through the smoke. When he had it going to his satisfaction, he pulled it out of his mouth and jabbed it in Will’s direction. “I can save you five or six years,” he said bluntly.

  “What?” Will blurted.

  There was a hardness now, a challenge in the line of his jaw. “You come with me and I’ll make you a ship captain by the time you’re thirty.”

  Will rocked back, stunned.

  “But if I’m going to do that, you gotta be with me, Steed.”

  “I—” Will clamped it off. He was too dumbfounded to know what to say.

  The captain jammed the pipe back in his mouth, then picked up the letter. “I’m sorry about your family. And I don’t blame you for wanting to let your mother know where you are. I’ll mail this as soon as we dock.” He tossed it across to Will. “Add anything you want, then get it back to me.”

  Will picked it up slowly.

  The captain puffed twice, blew the smoke out of his nose, then moved the pipe to the corner of his mouth again. “Like it or not—legal or not—I paid good money for you, Steed, and I can’t throw that away. You fight me, and I’ll throw you in that locker every time we sail into port. You owe me two years and I’ll not have a day less.” Then his eyes softened a little. “If I had my way, I’d give you a couple of months leave, let you go look up your mother. But I don’t have my way, so that’s that.”

  “Are we going back to Savannah soon, sir? That’s where my mother is. That would only take a day or two of shore leave for me to see her.”

  Sperryman shook his head. “Life doesn’t always work out as neatly as we’d like.”

  “What are you saying, sir?” Will asked slowly.

  “Haven’t you heard? I told the crew they were not to say a word to you, but I never thought we’d go this far without your knowing. We’re taking this load of tobacco and shoes on to China.”

  The breath went out of him. “China?”

  “Yes. We’ll stop in France and add some wine to the cargo, then it’s on to Canton.” Suddenly his face was infused with excitement. “Ah, you’ll love China, Steed. And there’s a fortune to be made there. Last ship the company sent made a profit of three hundred percent.”

  Will barely heard him. China! China was an eighteen-month round-trip voyage out of America. Eighteen months! No wonder the captain didn’t want him to know. That would be enough to tempt a man to steal one of the lifeboats and see if he could make his own way to land.

  Now there was the slightest touch of sympathy around the captain’s mouth. “Look at it this way. When we’re back, your
time will be up. You can go home if you choose.” He was all business again. “You’ve got real promise as a sailor, Steed. And that’s why I’ve called you in. Jiggers wants to make you apprentice bosun.”

  “Bosun?” Will pulled away from his thoughts. The bosun (shortened by generations of English sailors from boatswain) was the officer in charge of all the rigging, anchors, and cables on a ship. Jiggers was the bosun for the Bostonia. It was an important position on a sailing ship.

  “Yes. And I concur.” Sperryman shook his head in amazement. “But at fifteen? That’s two years quicker than I made it. That ain’t bad.”

  “But, I—”

  “From your letter it sounds like your pa left your mother pretty well fixed.”

  Will was still dazed by it all—China, now an opportunity to be apprentice bosun. “Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose she is.”

  “Then it’s not like she needs you there to care for her.”

  He shook his head. Not in that way.

  Then as quickly as it had come, the kindness was gone. The captain’s voice became clipped and efficient. “It’s not like you’ll see her if you say no. But say yes, and you’ll not spend your days in port rotting in that storage locker.” He puffed furiously on the pipe. “Jiggers is due to become first mate on another ship when we get back. You prove yourself on the way to China and back and I’ll make you full bosun in his place.”

  He stood up abruptly, signaling that the interview was over. “But I’d have to have your word on it, Steed. I think you’re an honest man. Give me your word you won’t bolt, and you’ll have a chance to see Liverpool. Otherwise, it’s back in the locker before we start in.”

  Will stood slowly. “I understand.” He wanted to rub his eyes, see if he could make things come into focus a little quicker. “Can I have a little time to think about it, sir?”

  “You’ve got until the steamer arrives.”

  “Thank you.” He turned and started for the door.

  “Will?”

  He looked around in surprise. It was the first time the captain had used his given name. “Aye, Captain?”

  “I’m sorry about all that’s happened. I can’t do anything about that now, and neither can you. But I think you can make something good out of it, if you’re willing.”