The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Until they get that wagon out of there,” the driver’s assistant replied, sitting back in his seat and pulling his hat down low over his eyes.

  “They’re not going to get that wagon to move even if they do unload it,” Brigham said. “Look at them. The oxen are like frightened children.” Suddenly he straightened. “I’m going to go talk to them.”

  Heber jerked up in surprise. “But you don’t speak Nor—”

  Brigham was already bent over pulling off his boots. He turned his head enough to give Heber a jaunty grin. “I know,” he said, cutting off Heber’s protest.

  The driver climbed down now to stand beside Orson Pratt. He was half-amused, half-disgusted. Up on the coach’s seat, the assistant had lifted his head enough to watch from beneath the brim of the hat.

  Handing his boots to Heber for safekeeping, Brigham strode forward into the water. Swarms of gnats and mosquitoes rose in black clouds. In moments, Brigham’s trouser legs were wet to his knees, and he moved with a sloshing, sucking sound through the muck and the water. The Norwegians saw him coming and stopped what they were doing. One of the oxen gave a low bellow, which sounded like a great sigh of relief. Brigham raised his hand briefly in greeting. There were cautious grunts in return. They were watching him warily, curiously, even a little resentfully, as if they had dealt too frequently with these brash Americans who felt like they could do anything and everything.

  “Would you stand clear, please?” he said to the Norwegian who seemed to be their leader. Without waiting for an answer, Brigham took the whip from the man’s hand and motioned for him to step back. He walked to the head of the first span of oxen. He stood there for a moment, letting the animals eye him warily. Then he began to speak to the animals, his voice low.

  Heber moved forward slightly, peering at his friend.

  “What’s he doing?” the assistant driver said, sitting up straight now and staring ahead. “What’s he saying?”

  “Shhh!” Orson Pratt commanded. “Listen.”

  Brigham reached out and scratched beneath the wooden yoke on the neck of one of the oxen. It half closed its eyes, lowering the head in sudden contentment. And all the time, he kept talking to them. His voice carried clearly back to the others, but they could not understand a word he was saying. All six animals were watching him now. It was clear that they were calming down. The nervous stomping in the mud and water stopped, and their tails were no longer switching wildly back and forth.

  “What’s he saying?” the assistant driver asked again.

  “He’s speaking Norwegian to them,” Pratt said in awe.

  “No,” the assistant corrected them. “That’s not Norwegian. I know Norwegian when I hear it.”

  “Well, it sure isn’t English,” Lyman Wight retorted.

  “Look!” Heber commanded.

  Reaching out, Brigham took hold of the yoke on the first span. He said a few more words, then gave a sharp, “Hee yaw!” He pulled on the yoke, urging them forward. With the other hand he raised the whip and cracked it, but it was high above their heads. Now as though they were one, the oxen lunged forward. Lines tightened, singletrees snapped upward, coming out of the water with a muddy spray. At first there was nothing as the animals pawed and snorted, churning the water into a froth, finding little footing in the thick goo beneath their hooves. Brigham did not use the whip again. His voice rose now, crying out to them, urging them forward, still speaking words the watching men could not understand. The men in the water with Brigham stared in amazement for a moment or two; then their leader shouted and they ran around to the back of the wagon and began to push.

  With a great sucking sound, the wagon started to move. There was a collective gasp, then a ragged cheer. The wheels were turning now, slowly, the rims coming up black and dripping. They moved forward, faster now. Brigham walked alongside the animals, shouting into their ears, waving his hand forward. The men pushing let go, not able to keep up now as the wagon rolled ahead more quickly. Forty feet, fifty feet. And then there was no longer a question. The wheels were flinging mud and water in a circular spray. The wagon was across the muddy slough and onto dry land again.

  Without a word, Brigham waded back into the water to where the leader of the Norwegians stood, eyes agog, staring at his wagon. The Apostle handed him his whip and smiled.

  “Thank you,” the man said with a heavy accent. Brigham lifted one hand, then turned and started back across the swamp toward the coach. The driver walked to the edge of the water to wait for him. As Brigham reached him, he stuck out his hand. “Mister, I ain’t never seen anything like that before in my life.”

  “Me neither,” crowed the driver’s assistant. “How’d you do that?”

  Brigham just shrugged. “You want us in or out of the coach as you take her through?” he asked the driver.

  “Probably best if we went across empty,” the driver said, still looking at Brigham with undisguised awe.

  “Shed your boots, brethren,” Brigham said to his companions. “The water’s warm.” He slapped at the back of his neck. “There are enough mosquitoes to carry you across without getting your feet wet if you’ll let them.”

  As the driver and his companion climbed back up onto the seat and gathered up the reins, Heber handed Brigham his boots, looking at him with wide eyes. “How did you do that?” he asked softly.

  Again Brigham merely shrugged.

  “When you said you were going to go talk to them, you meant the oxen?”

  Brigham was trying not to smile, like a young boy who has just done a man’s job but who doesn’t want to talk about it lest he seem childish. “Figured talking to the animals would do more good than talking to the men.”

  “What were you saying?” Heber asked quietly. “It sounded like a completely different language.”

  Brigham just laughed and slapped at another mosquito buzzing around his ear. “Come on,” he said. “I can’t wait to get that stagecoach moving again. I’m going to follow Brother Orson’s example and see if it will rock me to sleep.”

  On the morning of Sunday, August fourth, it was no surprise to anyone that the grove was spilling over with people fifteen minutes before worship services were supposed to start. Word of Sidney Rigdon’s return had swept through Nauvoo and the surrounding communities like a hot summer wind. Word had also spread that President William Marks, president of the Nauvoo Stake and the man who presided over the worship services, had invited President Rigdon to address the Saints. That was news indeed, and everyone sensed that this was going to be a most significant meeting.

  Not all of the Steeds were there. Caroline was doing well in her convalescence but still wasn’t up to sitting through a two- or three-hour meeting. Surprisingly, Joshua came without her. He said it was because he didn’t think Will could handle the three children alone, but everyone knew he was keenly interested in what was happening in the Church’s leadership crisis.

  To no one’s surprise, Melissa and Carl did not come. Within a day of their return to Nauvoo five days earlier, they had specifically let the family know that they would no longer be attending worship services. Melissa later told her mother that that could change in the future, but for now they would stay at home. And so they had, in spite of the fact that Carl too was openly curious about what would happen.

  The grove itself had long since been filled by the time they got there, and so they lined up their carriages and used them for shade. Many others had done the same thing. But hundreds sat beneath parasols, hats, or bonnets in the sun.

  Lydia was looking around, nodding now and then to people she knew, when she suddenly rose up and waved. Nathan turned. George A. Smith was coming toward them. George A. saw her waving and changed directions, his large bulk moving lightly around the clumps of people seated on the ground.

  “Good morning,” he said pleasantly, including all of the family in his greeting.

  “Is Bathsheba not with you?” Rebecca asked.

  “She’s back with Emma and
Mary Fielding and Mother Smith. They’ve asked the Twelve to sit up front, so she said she would stay back with the family.”

  “How did this morning’s meeting with Brother Rigdon go?” Benjamin asked. Yesterday afternoon, in the meeting of high priests called by Willard Richards and Parley Pratt, it had been determined that what members of the Twelve there were in Nauvoo would request a meeting with President Rigdon before worship services began. They wanted a better idea of what he was going to say to the Saints.

  There was an answering frown. George A.’s eyes shifted to the front of the grove where the stand was located. Several men, including Parley Pratt, Willard Richards, and Sidney Rigdon, were seated on the row of chairs on the stand. George A. was looking directly at Sidney. “He was over an hour late,” he finally said.

  “An hour!” Benjamin exclaimed with dismay. “But I thought you were meeting at eight-thirty.”

  “We were supposed to,” the Apostle said tartly. “After waiting for an hour, Parley finally went looking for him. He found him engaged in meeting with a lawyer on personal business. By then it was too late for him to meet with us.” Then, shrugging that aside, he straightened, pulling out his watch from his vest pocket. “Well, it’s almost ten. I’d better get up there.” He waved and moved away.

  Emily Steed, Nathan’s second child, now twelve and rapidly turning into a lovely young woman, called after him. “Are you going to speak today, Elder Smith?”

  He looked back and shook his head. “Not today, Emily. I haven’t been invited.”

  As he went on, Emily looked at her father. “I was hoping he would speak. I love it when Elder George A. speaks to us.”

  “So do I, dear,” Lydia said.

  “Yes,” Nathan agreed. Then he leaned over toward his father. “So Sidney didn’t show,” Nathan grunted, his face clearly showing what he thought of that.

  “No,” Benjamin said shortly. “Convenient, eh?”

  Then, before Nathan could answer, George A. reached the stand, shook hands briefly up and down the line, and sat down. Immediately President William Marks stood up. It was precisely ten a.m. This caught more than a few by surprise because often some of the leaders, including the stake president, had a tendency to wait until the last stragglers were seated and comfortable before starting the meeting. Some meetings started as much as half or three-quarters of an hour late.

  The moment he stood, it was as if someone had thrown a blanket over the sound. In the almost instant quiet, the cry of a baby somewhere behind them sounded like the blast of a boat’s whistle, but the parents quickly silenced the child and all was quiet. Every eye was on the stake president now and he seemed keenly aware of that. With no more than a sentence or two of greeting, he announced the hymn number, named the tune to which it would be sung, called on a brother to give the invocation, and sat down. The moment the prayer was finished, he shot to his feet again.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he said in a loud voice, “it is not news to most of you that yesterday President Sidney Rigdon, a counselor in the First Presidency, arrived in Nauvoo from Pittsburgh. This was a most pleasant surprise for all of us. As you know, the tragic deaths of our beloved prophet and patriarch left President Rigdon as the sole surviving member of the First Presidency.” He half turned. “Welcome home, President Rigdon.”

  Rigdon inclined his head in recognition and smiled out at the people.

  “He’s the surviving member of the First Presidency only because we, the Saints, refused to follow Joseph’s counsel,” Nathan muttered under his breath.

  Young Joshua turned and gave him a puzzled look. “What did you say, Pa?” he whispered.

  Lydia poked Nathan, warning him with a silent shake of her head. But Nathan felt that this was an important lesson for his son to learn. Joshua had turned fifteen in May. He was a man now, doing a man’s work at the store. He was also very perceptive when it came to spiritual things. “Don’t you remember? Last October at conference Brother Joseph rejected Sidney as his counselor. He asked the Church not to sustain him. But the Saints wouldn’t listen and sustained him anyway.”

  Joshua was shaking his head slowly. He half remembered the conference, particularly the part where charges were brought forward against President Rigdon, but he hadn’t remembered that Joseph Smith specifically asked for the removal of his counselor. But Emily was nodding. “I remember,” she said in a low voice. “I remember how disappointed Joseph seemed.”

  “Yes, he was,” said Nathan. “Most of the people didn’t know all that Sidney had done—or had not done,” he added quickly.

  “Shhh,” Lydia whispered, noting that others around them were glancing with annoyance in their direction.

  Suddenly Nathan, still thinking back to October, straightened, staring at President Marks. “It was President Marks who recommended that Sidney be retained,” he said. “It was, I remember.”

  “Shhh,” Lydia said again, trying to be stern, but he saw that she was looking toward the stand now with a different expression than before. After a moment, she turned back. “And now he’s the one who’s rushed forward with this meeting so President Rigdon can speak to us.”

  Benjamin, who was following all of this, said softly, “President Marks has always felt like Sidney was treated badly by Joseph.”

  Nathan nodded, his mouth tight. He did not like what was happening here. The Twelve were being completely bypassed.

  “As you all know,” President Marks was saying, “since the terrible loss of our beloved prophet and his brother we have been without a leader. We have been awaiting the return of the Twelve, but thus far there has been no word from President Young and the rest of them who are in the East. Now, providentially, President Rigdon, the last surviving member of the First Presidency, has returned to us. President Rigdon has had some remarkable experiences back in Pittsburgh which may have great bearing on our circumstances today. We shall now be pleased to have him address us.”

  Sidney Rigdon stood and stepped forward, tugging at his coat to make sure the front was straight. He paused, letting his eyes move slowly across the large throng of people. He seemed energized by the response he was seeing in the eyes of some of them. It was no question that many were relieved and pleased to have him back.

  “You have to admit,” Lydia whispered to Nathan now, forgetting her previous warning to be quiet, “he is a striking man.”

  “Yes,” Nathan said immediately, “and a wonderful orator. One of the best in the Church.”

  They both turned back. Sidney was about thirty yards away from where they sat, but Nathan could see him clearly. Sidney was in his early fifties now but was holding his age well. His hairline had receded somewhat but his hair was still thick and wavy, though liberally streaked with gray. His face was thin, his dark eyes quick and perceptive, peering out from beneath equally dark brows. He had a patrician nose and a finely shaped mouth, though his lips, often pressed together as part of his sober demeanor, always seemed a bit thin to Nathan. He wore a full beard, but Greek style, with the chin and upper jawline shaved clean. The beard was thick as well and even more nearly gray than his hair.

  As he began to speak, expressing the deep shock and sorrow he felt at the loss of his friend and brother Joseph Smith and dear Hyrum, his voice was rich and carried easily across the crowd. Before becoming a member of the Church, Sidney Rigdon had been a highly successful Campbellite preacher in Ohio, and he was, Nathan had to admit, one of the finest preachers in the Church. On many occasions Nathan had sat mesmerized before him. He spoke with power and held his audience well. But now there was a very different feeling.

  For about ten minutes, Sidney rehearsed his association with Joseph Smith—his traveling to New York to meet the Prophet, his call to preach, his privilege to be present when many of the revelations had been given, the grandest of which was the vision of the degrees of glory. As he spoke, Nathan found himself caught up in the memories again. Sidney had been part of so much of those early days. Joseph had depended
upon him heavily.

  “As many of you remember,” Sidney was saying, “in eighteen thirty-three I accompanied Brother Joseph on a mission to Upper Canada. That was in October. It was while we were on that mission that Joseph received a revelation from the Lord directing me to act as a ‘spokesman’ for Joseph and to the Church. That was the Lord’s exact word, a ‘spokesman.’” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “That revelation is found in the Doctrine and Covenants today, and many of you have read it for yourselves.”

  Many heads were nodding, and there were a few murmured yeses and amens uttered audibly. Nathan shot Benjamin a quick look. This was not just Sidney reminiscing about the past any longer. There was a purpose in this recollection, and he did not like the feel of it. He bent over slightly and spoke directly into Lydia’s ear. “There was also another revelation, given just three years ago, where the Lord told Sidney that he was to remain with the people if he was to have the Lord’s blessings. Does going to Pittsburgh and abandoning Joseph at the most critical time of his life count as being obedient to that commandment? But I suppose that won’t be mentioned.”

  Lydia was staring at him. “The Lord really told him that?” she asked.

  Nathan nodded.

  “Brethren and sisters,” Sidney cried, his voice rising sharply, “we have lost Brother Joseph. The natural successor to our beloved prophet should have been Hyrum Smith, but we have lost him as well. What shall we do? Who shall lead the Church now?”

  Again he paused, but there was not a sound now. Every head was turned toward him; every eye, except those of the smallest children, was fastened on his face.

  “Brethren and sisters, I should like to take my text from the book of Isaiah. In the fifty-fifth chapter, verses eight and nine, the Lord declares, ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord.’ Think about that, brothers and sisters. The Lord does not do things in the way that we might do them. His ways are different than our ways. So it is today, as we try to decide what now must happen in the Church.”