The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  Joshua chortled. “Oh, you may get some strange looks, but other than that, I think you’re safe.”

  “Good.” He struck the match, held it to the tip of the cigar, and puffed until it glowed an orange red. He tipped back in his chair, blowing the smoke into the air, savoring the moment, his eyes narrowing as the smoke billowed around his face.

  “So?” Joshua asked after a moment.

  “What?”

  “You were going to be honest with me, remember?”

  “Oh, yes. That.”

  “So what is it?”

  Samuelson took another deep draw on the cigar, then turned his head and blew the smoke to one side. To his surprise, Joshua found the smell of the smoke annoying. It had once been something he enjoyed, even just the smell of a cigar or pipe. But it had been several years now since he had last smoked one, and he didn’t miss it anymore.

  “You remember Clemson Harwood from Quincy?”

  “Of course.” Clemson was one of their jobbers and served as an important link in their shipping back and forth between Nauvoo and St. Louis.

  “He was the one who brought the news of Olivia’s death to St. Louis. It was a real shock.”

  “Yes.” It came out more abruptly than he intended. They had gone over that at supper last night. He didn’t want to talk about Olivia anymore.

  “He told us how it all happened, why you were in Warsaw in the first place.”

  “Yes, so?”

  Samuelson let the chair come down again, then took the cigar out of his mouth and set it on the ashtray that Joshua kept on one corner of his desk for his foreman. “Joshua, Alice and I would have been here four days sooner, but I stopped in Quincy and Warsaw and made some inquiries.”

  “Inquiries? About me?”

  “No. About the situation.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re the one who’s always saying a man needs to get the lay of the land before he sounds the call either to charge or to retreat.”

  “Yes.” Joshua was trying not to show any irritation. This was a chapter in his life which he was not ready to discuss, and he particularly did not feel like having it analyzed for him.

  His partner seemed to sense this and so began cautiously. “What is your assessment of what is going to happen here, now that Joe Smith is dead?”

  “Joseph Smith,” Joshua corrected him without thinking. “I think you’ll see the Church gradually break up and fall apart.” At Samuelson’s dubious look, he pressed on earnestly, using some of the same arguments he had used with his family. “Joseph was the force that held this people together. Oh, they’ve got other leaders, all right, but no one with Joseph’s vision, no one with his leadership ability or appeal.”

  “So what does that mean for Nauvoo? For you?”

  He shrugged. “Nauvoo is a thriving city. I expect the Church will collapse of its own weight in a year or two, just kind of fade away. But the people will stay on and do whatever they’re doing now. I think Nauvoo has real potential for the river trade.”

  “And you think the people who killed Joseph will be satisfied with that?”

  “Why shouldn’t they be?” He thought of Robert Foster and the Higbee brothers and John C. Bennett. The depth of their hatred for Joseph was substantial, but they had their wish now. Joseph was dead. He smiled, half to himself. What was it that Joseph had called them? Dough heads. That about summed it up. Full of hate and not two ounces of intelligence between the lot of them. “Joseph’s gone,” he concluded. “That’s all they were after.”

  Samuelson shook his head gravely. “Joshua, I think you ought to give serious thought to moving your family to St. Louis.”

  Joshua hooted. “You’re not serious!”

  “I’m not just talking about Caroline and the children, Joshua. I mean your whole family. Your parents. Your brothers and sisters and their families.” He was leaning forward, his eyes earnest, almost pleading. “The mills and the warehouses are doing well. We can find employment for all of them, houses for them. I’ve even been thinking about some new opportunities you and I might consider. I remember you said your brother Nathan has got some good business sense.”

  Joshua was shaking his head before Samuelson had finished the last sentence. “My family will never leave. Not now, anyway. There’s a great feeling among the Mormons that now, of all times, they have to stick together.”

  “Will you just listen for a few minutes? I didn’t just spend my time in the saloons in Quincy and Warsaw listening to the rabble. I have been questioning men that you and I know and trust. I’ve talked with the civic leaders, newspaper editors—”

  “Like Thomas Sharp?” Joshua exploded in disgust.

  “Among others,” Samuelson admitted evenly.

  “I hold that man responsible for Joseph’s death as much as anyone.”

  “He would be pleased to hear you say that,” Samuelson said dryly. Then again he asked the question. “Will you just listen for a few minutes?”

  “All right,” Joshua said reluctantly. If Walter had come this far and had concerns, the least Joshua could do was hear him out.

  “Now, here’s what they’re saying. I know you think this whole thing is religiously motivated, that Joe Sm—Joseph Smith—was viewed as a fanatic and his teachings were not only blasphemous but dangerous. But it’s much bigger than that, Joshua. I was told that your governor came to Nauvoo on the day of the killings. What’s his name again?”

  “Thomas Ford. Yes, you heard that right. He gave his word to Joseph and Hyrum that he wouldn’t leave them there unprotected, then broke his promise and came here with the one militia which had enough honor to protect Joseph.”

  “Did you know that the plan was that he would be killed here?”

  Joshua frowned. “You mean Joseph?”

  “No, Governor Ford!”

  “What?”

  “Yes. The men responsible for the murders hate Governor Ford almost as much as they hated Joseph Smith. The plan was that he would be here in Nauvoo when word came that Joseph had been murdered. They were hoping that the Mormons would be so outraged, they would rise up and massacre the governor and his entire party.”

  Joshua’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you hear a crazy thing like that?”

  “From men who know,” came the even reply. He was pleased that the skepticism was now erased from Joshua’s face. “As near as I can determine, what you have are three separate parties working here, Joshua. You have what I call the religionists. These are the preachers and their congregations who hate the Mormons for what they claim to preach and teach. Then there are the politicians. And by this I don’t just mean the ones running for office. The politicians are the ones to whom the political situation is important. And they see this huge voting block of Mormons as a direct threat to their goals. That’s why Thomas Sharp created a whole anti-Mormon political party. And he’s got Democrats and Whigs alike to support him. There are powerful forces at work here, Joshua.”

  “And the third group?”

  Samuelson shook his head. “These are the most dangerous, and what’s really frightening is that the other two groups—both the religionists and the politicians—are willing to use this third group to further their own ends.”

  “And they are?”

  “The lawless,” Samuelson said slowly. “According to my sources, there’s a whole group of scoundrels—blacklegs, counterfeiters, horse thieves, murderers—who are being brought into this because they have no qualms about using violence to achieve their ends. Their motivation is clear. They see a city ripe for the plunder, and so they’re willing to throw in with those who want to see the Mormons driven out of the state. They are violent. They have absolutely no scruples, and they can be very dangerous.”

  Joshua was thinking of Joseph Jackson, who had nearly shot Joseph Smith once. He was a known murderer, a violent and frightening man. And yet Robert Foster and Chauncey Higbee and others—all so-called stalwarts in the community—had created an alliance with
Jackson because they knew he would do what they did not have the courage to do.

  Joshua finally nodded. “I agree with you, Walter. There is reason for concern, but I think we can handle it.”

  Samuelson was clearly frustrated. “Joshua, listen to me. I didn’t go around telling people who I was. I didn’t mention my partnership with you. I just asked questions and listened. And I’m telling you, your name came up again and again. They thought you were going to be their ally, then you turned against them. You are not just some invisible man in a crowd here, Joshua. I’m telling you, it is a dangerous situation. You have got to leave.”

  Joshua just shook his head. “You saw Caroline last night and this morning. She’s doing much better now, but she’s still not well. And in her heart . . .” He shook his head slowly, sadly. “I insisted that we leave once, Walter, and it cost us our daughter’s life. I could no more talk to Caroline about leaving right now than I could—” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Does Alice know any of this? Is she going to be talking to Will?”

  “No. When I was in Warsaw I left her with friends or associates while I was investigating things. She thinks I was simply transacting business.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for not bringing this up in front of my family. You are a true friend, Walter.”

  The man of wealth and influence in St. Louis knew he had lost, but he had to make one last try. “Will you at least consider it, Joshua? Will you think about it? Keep your ear to the ground?”

  “Yes, I will do that.”

  Samuelson leaned forward and stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. “Joshua, you know I’d love to have you down in St. Louis with us. That would be wonderful. But I’m telling you all of this for your sake, not for ours.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. But I’ll be careful.”

  Samuelson looked down at his hands, unable to let it go completely. “I’m telling you, Joshua, it is not over. And if you and your family throw your lot in with the Mormons, there’s going to be bad trouble. Bad trouble.”

  “Oh, my!”

  Will slowed to a halt, letting Alice go a step or two farther before she too stopped.

  “It’s huge! Papa said it would be no more than the size of a small store or something.”

  He laughed aloud. “A small store? Why would he say something like that?”

  Alice Samuelson glanced at him momentarily; then her eyes were pulled back to the temple which dominated the bluff ahead of them. In the morning sunlight, the building gleamed grayish white, the walls looking more like marble than limestone. Against the deep blue eastern sky it did seem to loom much larger than it really was, like a full moon just as it rises above the horizon. She slowly shook her head, still staring at the temple, and he could tell she had already forgotten his question.

  “Why did your father think it would be small?”

  “Papa said building a temple was just another wild notion of Joseph Smith’s and that the Mormons were nearly destitute. I didn’t expect much more than a shack or a tin shanty or something. Can we go up there?”

  “Yes. I thought you might like to see it.”

  “Oh, yes, Will. I would.”

  She hadn’t turned to look at him. She was riveted to the spot, staring with openmouthed astonishment.

  He suppressed a chuckle, took her elbow, and started forward. Alice and her father had come in after dark last night, and so he knew that she hadn’t seen the temple. As they left the house, he deliberately walked on the east side of the street, close to the houses, so that they would block her view eastward. Any time they came to a break where the temple would be visible, he had peppered her with questions to keep her gaze drawn to him. It had worked superbly well. When they rounded the corner of Steed Row, turning east on Mulholland Street, it was as if the temple leaped out of nowhere and assaulted their eyes.

  Since her arrival, Alice had been tossing off one gentle barb after another—about Nauvoo, about the Mormons, about their religion. Little things like, “I didn’t know Nauvoo had a riverboat dock. I thought the captain would have to just toss us off as we steamed by.” Or, “Were those really brick houses we passed coming here? What happened, did you run out of mud and sticks?” There was nothing malicious in it. It was her way of gently teasing him, breaking down the first awkwardness of being together again. But it had revealed her conception of Nauvoo as being a backwater river stop. He had laughed at the little digs—Alice always made him laugh—but inwardly he had vowed he would get back at her. Now he felt joyously triumphant. Where were all the glib comments now?

  When they reached the temple site, they did not go inside the rail fencing. The stonecutters and the other workmen were already filling the air with the sounds of hammer and chisel, creaking winches, shouts of instruction, and the dozen other things that accompany a great building project such as this. So they simply stopped and leaned on the fence, Will saying nothing while her eyes ran slowly up the great expanse of wall before them.

  He watched her out of the corner of his eye, pleased with the awestruck look on her face, the silence that the temple had wrought upon her. To his surprise, the image of Jenny Pottsworth—now Jenny Pottsworth Stokes—suddenly popped into his mind, and he found himself comparing Alice to her. With a quick flash of insight, he realized that if Alice knew he was doing that, she would not be flattered. Jenny had a natural beauty that caught a man’s eye from across the street, or down the block. Long honey-colored hair, wide arresting eyes, a smile that melted a man like butter in the sunlight. Alice, who would be eighteen in December, was much different than that. The first time he had seen her down in St. Louis, he had thought her somewhat plain. She had been only fifteen then. She had worn her dark brown hair cut off squarely at the neck, and that, coupled with the slenderness of her body, made her seem a little boyish. Now she had let her hair grow longer and it spilled across her shoulders. It softened her face and made her look older. She had also grown another inch or two and now was taller than Jenny, being five foot four or five. And the boyishness was definitely gone. She had dark brown eyes that reminded Will of two bright buttons that danced with life. They could tease and cajole, plead or probe, rebuke or praise, all without a single word from her. Her nose was straight and nicely rounded, her chin firm, her mouth soft and given naturally to a smile that was slightly sardonic and yet warm and gentle at the same time.

  With a touch of surprise he realized that he couldn’t remember now exactly why he had thought her plain. She might find his comparing her to Jenny Pottsworth threatening, but in Will’s mind, she came out quite nicely in the comparison. That was a surprise to him, because for so long he had thought of her only as a wonderful friend. From the moment Will first went to St. Louis with his father on business, Alice’s parents got it into their heads that here was the future husband for their daughter. Will’s father heartily agreed with that prospect and began to push Will as hard as they were pushing Alice. Gratefully, Alice had resisted their matchmaking as strongly as Will had done, and that had opened up the opportunity for their friendship. With Jenny he had always felt awkward, bumbling, like an adolescent in the presence of an older woman. With Alice he was completely comfortable, feeling free to say what came to his mind, not fearing to contradict her if they disagreed. Their friendship was completely uncomplicated and that was a treasure indeed. Yes, he decided again, Alice Samuelson would compare very favorably to Jenny Pottsworth.

  She glanced at him, giving him a curious look, so he turned his head and looked at the temple. The walls towered above them. All but the last few courses of stone were done. Soon they would be placing the capitals on the pilasters, and then the roof would follow. For a time, during the disastrous events that followed the destruction of the Nauvoo Expositor, work on the temple had ceased. Now it was in full swing again.

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s wonderful, Will! Simply wonderful.” She turned and pointed. “Is that the sun carved on those stones there?” She w
as pointing to where several large blocks of stone were lined up in a row.

  “Yes, those are what we call the sun stones,” Will answered. He turned and pointed to the nearest pilaster—the pillar-like divisions between each vertical row of windows. “These will be the capitals that go on the top of each pilaster.”

  “But there are so many of them,” she said, clearly awed.

  “Well, there are something like thirty pilasters around the temple, if I remember right, and there will be a sun stone on the top of each one.”

  “But why?”

  He turned, pointing to the temple wall. “Look at the base of each pilaster.”

  “That looks like the moon.”

  “It is.” He pointed in another direction, to where a group of smaller stones was also lined up in rows. “And those are star stones. They’ll go above the sun stones.”

  “So the sun, the moon, and the stars.”

  He turned to face her squarely now. “As I remember, you and your family are Methodists, right?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “Well, our pastor sometimes wonders if Papa is, he goes so seldom, but yes. Why do you ask?”

  “I know what the Methodists and most other Christian churches teach about the afterlife. How many places are there you can go?”

  “Heaven and hell.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you a little?”

  “Only hell,” she said with a droll smile.

  He chuckled at that. “No, I mean—” He stopped, and now memories of his mission in England came flooding back. This was something he had worked out in his own mind as he tried to talk to the people there. “Do you really want to know?” he asked.

  She nodded firmly. “Of course.”

  He took her hand and led her across the street to a thick patch of grass. “Let’s sit down.”

  When they were seated, facing each other, he started right in. “Let me use a simple analogy to show you what I mean. I’ll simplify it to the point of being ridiculous, but that will help me make the point.”