“That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, maybe not for you, but for Joseph.”
“Exactly. Joseph needs to see to the ministry. He can’t even find time to work on the translation of the scrolls of Abraham. He is so filled with new ideas, new doctrine to reveal to us, new insights into what we already have. And he can barely get to it. Every day people line up on his doorstep, sometimes with the most trivial of problems. The business of running the city, being the commanding general of the Nauvoo Legion, trying to get his new store built so he and Emma will have a reliable source of income—it’s a wonder he gets anything done.”
“As President of the Twelve, being given such responsibility to help in Church affairs must seem a little daunting to you though, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” Brigham said. He laid down the plane and leaned back against the bench top. “I find it very daunting. I am unlearned and unschooled.”
“Not in the ways of the Lord, you’re not,” Matthew said quickly. “Look at the experience you had in England. It was as if you were President of the Church there. And Joseph had full confidence in you and the rest of the Twelve.”
“Yes,” Brigham mused. “That was a wonderful experience.”
They were both quiet now, remembering their mission to England. Then Brigham straightened. He reached around behind his back and undid his apron. “Come on,” he suggested, “let’s go across the street and get a dipperful of water out of Sister Parson’s well. It’s so much better than drinking out of that old bucket here.”
Matthew followed him out and across the street. The Parsons had one of the best wells in this part of town and Sister Parson had invited them to partake of its cooling waters at any time. Brigham dropped in the bucket and then reeled it up, handing Matthew the first dipperful. Then Brigham drank deeply, his eyes nearly closed with the pleasure of it.
“May I ask you a question, Brigham?”
“Of course.”
“If it is inappropriate, you can tell me.”
There was a quick, mischievous grin. “I will.”
“Well, a minute ago you said Joseph has new doctrines for us. Related to that, I’ve been wondering about something Lydia told me. She said at a Sabbath meeting last spring, before we all returned from England, Joseph was speaking on the restoration of all things in this last dispensation. He made reference to the patriarchal order, when men such as Abraham and Jacob had more than one wife.”
There was a sudden guardedness now in the Apostle’s eyes. “Yes?”
“From what Lydia said, he implied that someday that practice would be restored again.”
Matthew was concentrating on making sure he remembered how Lydia had said it, and he didn’t notice the change in Brigham’s expression. “I guess it caused quite a stir among the congregation, according to her. In the afternoon meeting, Joseph said he deemed it wisdom to modify his statement. He said perhaps the Spirit’s whisperings had made the fulfillment of that restoration seem nearer than it was.”
“Perhaps,” Brigham said noncommittally. Then he dropped the dipper back in the bucket and made as though he was going to start back across the street.
“Do you think that’s really true, Brigham? Do you think there would ever be a time when God would ask us to . . .” He faltered. “I mean, when he would expect men to . . . I don’t know. Take more than one wife, I guess.”
“Let me ask you a question, Matthew.”
“All right.”
“You mentioned that Abraham and Jacob had more than one wife.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think they were men of God?”
“Well, yes, but—”
Brigham laughed and started away, motioning for Matthew to follow. “No buts. Either they were or they weren’t.” He laughed again. “But that’s far too heavy a subject for a young lad who has work aplenty to do on a summer day.”
“Yes, but—”
Brigham waved him to silence. “There is no such word as
yesbut in the English language.”
He was smiling and half teasing, but Matthew also sensed that there was another message behind the lightness. Brigham was telling him he had asked an inappropriate question.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly.
“I’ll have to talk to Jennifer about that, see if she can’t teach you some new vocabulary.”
And then, as they walked back across the street together and approached their little shop, Brigham stopped. He turned and looked Matthew squarely in the eyes. “You just remember this one lesson, Matthew Steed. If the Lord were ever to require such a thing of us, he would let us know, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose. Yes, of course.”
“And he would do it through his prophet. You just remember that, Matthew Steed. Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. If you ever start feeling doubts, you just hold on to that fact, tight as you can hang on, and you’ll be all right.”
Chapter Notes
Don Carlos Smith was ten years younger than the Prophet Joseph. He died, probably of pneumonia, on 7 August 1841. He was a member of the Nauvoo City Council and a brigadier general in the Nauvoo Legion, and was the first editor of the Times and Seasons, putting out thirty-one issues of the same before his death. The story told by George A. Smith about the confrontation with General Wilson comes from Don Carlos’s own journal account (see HC 4:394–95). Of him, the Prophet wrote, “My youngest brother, Don Carlos Smith, . . . was one of the first to receive my testimony, and was ordained to the Priesthood when only 14 years of age. . . . He was universally beloved by the Saints.” (HC 4:393, 399.)
The sermon delivered by William O. Clark and Joseph’s response to that sermon take place here in August of 1841, about three months earlier than they actually happened (see HC 4:445). Though some details of Joseph’s talk are given in his history, other parts of it are only summarized there. The author sought things that Joseph said on these themes at about the same time period. The “happiness is the object and design of our existence” portion comes from a letter that was written by Joseph probably sometime in early 1842 (see Joseph Smith, The Personal Writings of Joseph Smith, comp. and ed. Dean C. Jessee [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co. 1984], pp. 507–9; also HC 5:134–35).
One cannot help but wonder how William Clark responded to such a public and pointed rebuke. Joseph’s history does not say in the entry for that day. But two later references to Clark in historical sources are interesting. Under date of 9 March 1843, Joseph notes in his history, “William O. Clark gave me a load of corn, and Sanford Porter gave me a hog” (HC 5:300). It is also reported that Clark, a seventy, served a mission in Iowa and Illinois in 1844 (see Joseph Smith, The Words of Joseph Smith, comp. and ed. Andrew F. Ehat and Lyndon W. Cook [Provo, Utah: Religious Studies Center, Brigham Young University, 1980], p. 99). Both references would indicate that Clark did not allow the correction to turn him from the Church.
In his journal entry for 10 August 1841, Joseph says that he spent the day in council with five of the Apostles (not all of the Twelve were in Nauvoo at the time) and requested them to take the burden of the business of the Church in Nauvoo from him (see HC 4:400).
There is some evidence that Joseph began teaching the Twelve the doctrine of plural marriage shortly after their return from England (see American Moses, pp. 100–101). Heber C. Kimball’s daughter records Joseph’s early attempt to teach the doctrine to the Saints and the resulting dismay which was felt by the Saints (see LHCK, p. 328).
Chapter 10
It was a glorious Sabbath day morning, the fifteenth of August. Lydia had risen early and fixed breakfast for her family. Then, with Nathan’s encouragement, she left him to go for a morning walk. This had become the pattern, him cheerfully giving her this time to be alone while he would clean up the dishes, maybe read the children a story or two, and then start to get them ready for the worship services that would begin at ten. As usual, she had not paid much attention to the time, and now was hurrying back.
She
was moving up Granger Street, still about two blocks from Steed Row, when she saw a figure coming toward her. She slowed her step, peering more closely in the bright sunshine. It was a small person, more of a child’s height, but then Lydia could see it was an older woman. She wore a sunbonnet and had a white shawl around her shoulders.
Suddenly the woman saw her and began waving her arms. “Lydia! Lydia!”
Surprised, Lydia recognized the voice immediately. It was Mother Smith, Joseph’s mother. Obviously she had been to the house and was now headed back to Joseph’s, where she was living since her husband had died. Lydia increased her step again, raising her own arm to acknowledge that she recognized her. “Yes, Mother Smith. I’m coming.”
Lydia smiled to herself. She had been right. It was a person of a child’s height, just not of a child’s age. Lucy Mack Smith was about four feet eleven inches tall. She was thin of frame and on first appearance seemed frail and vulnerable. But anyone who knew her knew better than to suggest in her presence that she was frail. Mother Smith—as virtually everyone, including her own family, called her—had been born on the eighth day of July in the year 1775. Five weeks ago she had celebrated her sixty-sixth birthday. The Latter-day Saints streamed to her door to express their love and admiration for this remarkable woman, mother of the Prophet. She was as tough and resilient as a lot of men twice her size and half her age. She was a woman of indomitable faith, unflagging good cheer, and endless energy. And she had played an enormous role in Lydia’s own life.
She and Nathan had been in the group Mother Smith led from New York to Ohio via the Erie Canal. That had been in the spring of 1831 while Lydia was pregnant with young Joshua. Lydia had been standing by Mother Smith’s side when she called on the people to have faith so they could get out of the icebound Buffalo Harbor. Almost in an instant, the ice had split open, and the ship had gone through. It was a lesson in faith Lydia sometimes neglected but never forgot.
“Oh, Lydia, I’m so glad I found you,” Joseph’s mother said as they closed the last of the distance between them.
Lydia saw the weariness and the sorrow that lined her face and felt quick alarm. “Mother Smith, what is it? What’s the trouble?”
“You didn’t stop by Emma’s as you came by?”
“No. I was just out walking.”
“Then you don’t know?” Mother Smith whispered.
“Don’t know what?”
“About Don Carlos.”
That really surprised Lydia. “Well, yes, but . . .” She was fumbling in her confusion. She and Nathan had been at the funeral the previous Sabbath. In fact, Lydia had spoken with Mother Smith personally to console her over the loss of her son. Had she so soon forgotten all that? “I was to the funeral, Mother Smith, remember?”
Lucy gave her a puzzled look. “The funeral? But the funeral won’t be until tomorrow. How could—” Then it dawned on her. “Lydia, I’m not talking about my Don Carlos. I’m talking about Emma’s Don Carlos. I’m talking about my grandson.”
A chill shot through Lydia, and she felt her knees go weak. “Emma’s Don Carlos? I knew he was ill, but—” Oh, dear Lord. Not another of Emma’s children. Oh, please! No!
There were full tears now in those wise, mature eyes that had seen and suffered so much. “Last night he took a turn for the worse, and then this morning . . .” She couldn’t bear to say it.
There was a great hollowness inside Lydia. Don Carlos had celebrated his first birthday just two months before. For any child, fourteen months was a delightful stage of development. Children at that age were walking and talking. They loved life; they loved people and gave that love without reserve. And Don Carlos had been such a precious little boy, so loved by his father, and so dearly treasured by Emma. Suddenly Lydia’s vision blurred and she swayed, feeling the pain lance through her. “Oh, Mother Smith,” she said softly.
“Joseph sent Julia round to tell you, but Nathan said you had gone walking. Could you come, Lydia? You and Emma have always been such dear friends.” There was a momentary hesitation. “And with you having lost your own baby, Joseph thought you could be of special comfort to her.”
She nodded numbly. “I’m so sorry, Mother Smith.”
Lucy Mack Smith’s hands were trembling slightly. “Go,” she said softly. “Go to Emma. She needs you.”
They walked slowly, shoulder to shoulder, neither one speaking. Lydia sensed that Emma didn’t need words right now—not words of comfort or condolence, not words of encouragement, not promises of the resurrection or talk of her child being with God. When she was ready for words, she would let it be known. And so they walked, communing in a way that only women seem to achieve with one another.
Lydia had stayed at Joseph and Emma’s house through the rest of the morning and all of the afternoon. Joseph didn’t go to worship services, and for a time it was mostly the family coming to see the bereaved parents. But once worship services were concluded, the house was thronged, of course. Family, friends, neighbors, well-wishers. Word of the tragedy spread quickly. Joseph was their beloved leader and prophet. His loss was a community loss, and the expressions were numerous, well meant, and never-ending. But Lydia sensed that all of that only made the day more difficult for Emma. Part of Emma’s burden in life had been to shoulder the task, whether welcomed or not, of accepting the public adulation and obligation that encircled her husband. Privacy was something rarely found and therefore all the more to be treasured.
She bore up bravely, fighting back the tears as she accepted the condolences. But it was difficult for her, and her responses were wooden and forced. It didn’t help that Emma was pregnant again, in her third or fourth month. Not many knew that. But Lydia knew, and as she watched Emma through the afternoon, she saw that her friend became more and more distant and withdrawn. The circles around her eyes deepened; her handshake became limp and lifeless.
Lydia finally went to Joseph. A few whispered words were enough. This was why he had sent for Lydia. He knew that she, of all of Emma’s friends, would be sensitive to her needs. “Take her,” he said. “I’ll stay and talk with the people.”
Emma had protested, of course. She took her role seriously and wore it well. There was no question why the Lord had brought these two together. Emma was a prophet’s wife—gracious, intelligent, patient, sharing. But there were limits, and this day had brought her up against them, and so the protests were feeble and easily pushed aside. And now they were alone and walking slowly together.
The ache Lydia felt for Emma was so deep it almost made it difficult for her to walk. Tomorrow Emma Smith would bury her fifth child. Her firstborn lay in a small graveyard near the banks of the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. That had been back in 1828, before the Church was organized, while Joseph was still translating the Book of Mormon. Emma had come very near to dying herself, according to Joseph, and was nursed back to health only after a long time.
Her second pregnancy only repeated and deepened the tragedy. This time she bore twins. Again, within hours, they both died. Fortunately there had been the Murdock twins, given to Joseph and Emma a day or so later. That helped immensely to fill the void. But tragedy wasn’t through with Emma Smith yet. One of those twins died after a mob broke into the house where Emma and Joseph were staying. The men dragged Joseph out into the night. In the terror of the moment, no one noticed that the door had been left wide open. Still recovering from the measles, the little boy, just eleven months old, caught pneumonia and died a few days later.
Now tomorrow, little Don Carlos would be laid to rest. This one was, perhaps, more bitter than all the rest because of his age. Emma had been able to keep him for so long. He was walking now, and saying “Papa,” and pulling down or knocking off or dropping everything in the house that wasn’t either nailed down or too heavy for him to move.
There were few women—be they mothers or not, be they married or not—who did not naturally and keenly feel the loss of another woman’s child. But that was not the same as h
aving actually experienced that loss. Lydia was behind Emma in numbers, but she too had lost a baby at birth—born in a cabin on the Isaac Morley farm on the outskirts of Kirtland. And two years ago, her little Nathan, as precious and endearing as Don Carlos, had been taken from her. He had been not quite four at his death.
That was part of the ache Lydia was feeling now. Her son would have been five now, six in October. She could close her eyes and picture him with perfect clarity—not as he was at his death, but as he would be now. He would look all the more like his papa, with the same grave eyes and quiet demeanor, the same fair hair that always seemed to escape containment. He would have that tiny little smile that made her want to laugh and cry and hold him tightly all at the same time.
Yes, she thought, Lydia McBride Steed might not be able to fathom the breadth of Emma Smith’s sorrow, but she fully understood its depth.
Without being aware of it, she slipped her arm through Emma’s and pressed it lightly, just to let her know she was there. Emma returned the pressure, ever so slightly, and then the two women walked on in silence.
Mary Ann stood and tapped her fork on the side of her tin mug. “The Steed family women’s council will now come to order,” she called.
It took a moment or two because they were all chattering away in the various small groups, but the first to hear her started shushing the others and the talk quickly died. All eyes turned to Mary Ann, and she could see the curiosity on their faces. She smiled, pleased with her little surprise.
It was the afternoon of September eleventh, the second Saturday of the month. They were gathered outside in Lydia’s backyard, seated in chairs and on benches and stools brought from all of the nearby houses. Normally, the monthly meetings of the Steed family “women’s council” were held on Sunday evenings inside one of their houses, but today was different. And that accounted for the feeling of expectancy in the air. When Mary Ann sent out word of the change, more than one had wanted to know why. But she would only give them an enigmatic smile and say, “Oh, you’ll see.”
The Work and the Glory Page 280
