The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  She stood. “Yes, son?”

  “There’s a man out front asking for you.”

  “Oh? Do you know who he is?”

  “No. He looks familiar but . . .” He shrugged.

  “All right.” She followed him out of the storeroom and down the narrow hall. To her surprise, Wilford Woodruff was standing near the counter. He turned at their approach.

  “Good morning, Sister Rogers.”

  “Good morning, Brother Woodruff. Have you met my son, Carl?”

  “Met him, but didn’t introduce myself.” He stuck out his hand. “Wilford Woodruff, Carl. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Carl shook his hand, then took the book from his mother’s hand. “I’ll finish the inventory of what’s upstairs, Mama.”

  “Thank you.”

  They watched him leave again; then Melissa went around behind the counter. “How can I help you today?”

  “Phoebe is hoping that you might have some red thread and a packet of small needles.”

  “I think I do,” she said, moving down the counter and sliding open a glass door. She fought the temptation to watch him as she walked, to see if his face gave any clue as to what this was all about. If he had simply wanted needles and thread, he could have gotten them from Carl.

  She brought out a small ball of red thread and a package of three needles. “Are these small enough?”

  He took them and looked at them, then smiled sheepishly. “She said small. If these are small, then I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. The thread is five cents, the needles, fifteen.”

  He fished in his watch pocket and brought out some coins. “You wouldn’t have any licorice candy, I suppose.”

  “Actually, I do have a few pieces left. Would you like them?”

  “Yes. I’ll surprise the children.”

  She got them, wrapped them in some waxed paper, and laid them down beside the needles and thread. “That will be twenty-five cents altogether, then.”

  “Good.” He slid the money across to her. But he made no move to pick up his purchases. He was looking down at them, not meeting her gaze.

  “Is there anything else, Brother Woodruff?”

  He looked up. “Melissa, you’ve been on my mind a great deal since you and I and Carl talked the other day.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I understand Carl’s feelings perfectly, and I understand why he wants to stay.”

  “He feels pretty strongly about it,” she admitted, keeping her face impassive.

  He decided to change the subject. “I heard that he just got word that his mother passed away.”

  “Yes. A letter came from his brothers a couple of weeks ago. We knew her health was failing, so it was not a great shock.”

  “But still a loss, I’m sure.”

  “Of course.”

  “Will Carl be going back to Kirtland, then?”

  Her eyes flickered momentarily, betraying her surprise at the question. “No. We had planned to make a visit there this summer to see his mother. Now that she’s gone, Carl says there’s not much there for us anymore. His brothers are running the business. Carl would only be a complication.”

  “I see.”

  She waited, sensing there was more than that on his mind.

  “Melissa”—he was suddenly all business—“we, the Church leadership, received a letter from Governor Ford a few days ago.” She saw that his hands were very still now. “He wrote to inform us that he can no longer send out state militia to keep the peace here in Nauvoo.”

  She felt her heart drop. “What does that mean?”

  His head came up. Anger flashed in the eyes that were so pleasantly blue and usually filled with kindness. “It means,” he said flatly, “that he is washing his hands of the whole situation. It means that he’s giving notice to our enemies that there will be no more interference.” His brows knit together in a deep frown. “It means that the situation here could grow worse very quickly.”

  She nodded, feeling a little numb. “Is that why so many are leaving all of a sudden?”

  “Yes. There’s great fear among our people. Memories of Carthage and Yelrome are heavy on everyone’s minds. The men responsible for those depredations are still out there and they’re still howling for blood.”

  “Carl says we’ll be all right.” It came out woodenly, as if she were forced to say it.

  “I know that he thinks that.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Melissa, hatred against our religion is only a cloak for deeper motives here. Don’t get me wrong. The hatred is real, all right. But there’s something much deeper, and for you and Carl, more threatening.”

  “What?” she asked in a small voice. She had been lying awake every night for the past week, long after Carl was asleep, worrying about this very thing.

  “It happened in Kirtland. It happened in Jackson County. It happened in Far West. And it’s happening again here now. Our people come in and begin to settle a place. We are industrious and orderly. We take pride in doing things right. We build homes and barns, we clear and plow the land, we plant crops.” His voice turned suddenly bitter. “And if we’re driven out, well, what a coincidence. There’s all that valuable property just left behind. If you have no scruples whatsoever, you can pick it up for nothing. If your conscience is pricked a little because you know that you’re engaged in highway robbery, then you may be willing to pay ten cents on the dollar.”

  “You’re lucky to get ten cents on the dollar,” she murmured.

  “That’s right. And all the while the state and county governments either stand by and refuse to help, or else they become part of the mob.”

  “And you think that’s what is coming here?”

  For a long moment he looked at her, his eyes sad and filled with compassion. “I am certain of it,” he finally said.

  She had a sudden thought. “What about Emma? I saw her day before yesterday. She absolutely refuses to follow Brigham Young. And she’s certain that she will be fine.”

  “So am I.”

  Her head came up. “But . . .”

  “Emma Smith is the widow of the Prophet Joseph Smith. If she turns her back on the main body of the Saints, that is a real feather in the caps of those who hate us. As long as she doesn’t change her mind, I think they will leave her alone so she can serve as an example.”

  “But Carl isn’t even a member.”

  “Carl has a brickyard. You and he hold the deeds to two of your family’s homes. You now own this store.”

  She looked away. That was a compelling argument.

  When she finally turned back, he was picking up his purchases. “Melissa.” There was deep sorrow in his voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Come back!”

  Her eyes widened.

  “I know what’s bothering you, but you are not happy. Not really.”

  She flared, suddenly angry and defensive. “I am happy! Carl is a wonderful husband. I have wonderful children. We’re doing fine . . . we’re getting by all right. I am happy.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean that. Let me put it a different way. You are not at peace. Nor have you been for some time.”

  “I . . .”

  “You know that’s true,” he said softly. “I remember back in Kirtland how strong your testimony was. Come back, Melissa. Until you do you will not have peace.”

  She was faltering, finding it hard to collect herself. “Carl wouldn’t—”

  “This is not about, Carl, Melissa. It’s about you. You and the Lord.” He slipped the purchases in the pocket of his coat and started to turn. Then, on impulse, he reached out and laid a hand over hers. “I’m sorry, Melissa. It’s not my place to speak so plainly.” He took a breath. “But if your father were here—” He stopped as instant tears sprang to her eyes. His own eyes misted up. “If he were here, you know what he’d say, don’t you?”

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t face th
ose eyes now. She stared down at the money.

  “Don’t you?” he asked again, his voice so low she barely heard it.

  After a moment, she nodded slowly.

  He withdrew his hand and straightened. “Thank you for the needles and thread. And the candy. Phoebe will be pleased.”

  She still didn’t look at him. “You’re welcome.”

  He walked to the door and opened it. But he stopped again and turned. “We shall be dedicating the temple this evening.”

  That brought her head up. “What?”

  “Yes. In a private ceremony. But tomorrow there will be a public dedication.” There was a long silence. Then, “Will you come?”

  She looked up. Her cheeks were wet now and her vision blurred by the tears. “I’ll try,” she finally whispered.

  “Good.” He stepped through the door, shut it softly behind him, and walked away.

  “Carl?”

  He was seated on the chair by their bed, pulling off his boots. He looked up.

  “They’re dedicating the temple tomorrow.”

  He stopped and his foot lowered back to the floor. “Oh?”

  She nodded. She sat in bed, the covers pulled across her waist, leaning back against her pillow. She began tracing some of the stitching on the quilt with her little finger.

  “I thought they already dedicated it last fall.”

  “Only the part of it that was finished. This will be the whole building.”

  “Oh.” He waited, and when it became obvious she wasn’t going to say more, he went on undressing. He washed his face in the basin, toweled it off, then blew out the lamp. When he was in bed, he too sat up against his pillow. “Are you saying you want to go?” he asked.

  She wanted to hesitate, make it sound like she was still struggling. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t be dishonest with him. “Yes,” she said simply.

  “Why?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Not that I object,” he said evenly. “If that’s what you want, do it. It just surprises me.”

  “It surprises me too, Carl. But the temple has meant so much to my family. Papa and Nathan and Matthew and Derek all worked so long on it. I remember those nights when Mama and the rest of us sat around sewing, making curtains and chair cushions and other things for the endowment rooms.”

  “It’s fine, Melissa. If you want to go, go.”

  She thought she could detect disappointment, but no anger. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He burrowed down beneath the sheets, pulling the pillow down with him.

  “What about the children?”

  He thought about that for a moment. “If they want to, fine. But I wouldn’t like you forcing them, Melissa.”

  “I wouldn’t do that, Carl.”

  He reached out and touched her. “I know. I just wanted to say it.”

  “I guess that you—”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “You hauled a lot of rock up there, Carl.”

  “I’ve got a big day at the yard tomorrow.”

  “All right.” She too lay down now, staying on her back, looking up at the ceiling. They hadn’t had a big day at the brickyard now for six months. Almost a full minute went by before she spoke. “Thank you, Carl.”

  “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No, I’m not. But . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain, Melissa. I said it’s fine, and I meant it.”

  Chapter Notes

  The details of life on the trail as given in Rachel’s diary come from the various journal accounts for this time period (see CN, 20 April 1996, p. 12; 27 April 1996, p. 12; 4 May 1996, p. 10).

  With Wilford Woodruff back from England and the main body of the Saints preparing to flee Nauvoo, final work on the temple went forward at a frantic pace. Finally, on the evening of 30 April 1846, the temple was dedicated in a private ceremony for a small group of Church leaders. Brother Joseph Young—senior president of the Seventy, brother to Brigham Young, and the one who had been left in Nauvoo to preside over the people there—gave the dedicatory prayer. The following day, 1 May, the public was invited and a second dedicatory service was held. Elder Orson Hyde of the Twelve offered that dedicatory prayer. In his journal entry for 30 April 1846, Wilford Woodruff recorded: “Notwithstanding the many false prophesies of Sidney Rigdon and others that the roof should not go on nor the house be finished and the threats of the mob that we should not dedicate it, yet we have done both.” (See Church History in the Fulness of Times [Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1989], p. 317.)

  Chapter 15

  Joshua poked his head inside the tent. “Caroline?”

  A muffled voice called from outside. “I’m back here.”

  He withdrew his head and walked around back of the tent. Caroline and Savannah were there but had their backs to him. They were bent over, and he could hear a wailing and knew it was coming from Livvy.

  When he came around enough to see what was going on, he smiled. Caroline had borrowed a small tub from Nathan, and Livvy was being given a bath. Not yet two, Livvy was small for her age, but she still filled up the tub, and her boney knees were jammed right up under her chin. Her mother was scrubbing at her neck and down her back, rubbing the flat bar of rough lye soap carefully across the skin.

  The wailing stopped as Livvy looked up and saw her father. Then there was a horrified howl. “Daddy! Not dressed!”

  “Oh!” Properly chagrined, he turned away and stared pointedly at the empty sky. “Sorry.”

  Caroline laughed at her daughter. “Don’t you think that your father has seen you without clothes before, Livvy?”

  “Not dressed, Mama.”

  “Oh, all right.” Caroline handed the soap to Savannah. “Here, you finish, and I’ll talk with your father so he doesn’t have to turn around.”

  Savannah took the soap. “Hold still, Livvy,” she said in exasperation. “You’re only making it last longer.”

  Caroline came over, wiping her hands on her apron. “That child,” she said, not without some pride. “Talk about a mind of her own.”

  “Just like her namesake,” Joshua said, grinning.

  Caroline tossed her head. “Olivia was never like this, not when she was this young, anyway. This one knows exactly what she wants and doesn’t want and you’d better not cross her.”

  “Maybe the Lord sent us a strong-minded one because of what she’s going to have to do in the next few years.”

  That brought Caroline up short, as much for the fact that he had said it as for what he had said. She gave him a long, searching look. “I suppose you’re right. I’d not thought of it like that before.”

  The thought had just popped into his head and he hadn’t meant it to be something profound. He got on with what had brought him in search of her. “Brother Ezra Benson came by a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Word has come in that there is a family mired down somewhere on the trail. They don’t have anyone to help them get out, so Nathan, Derek, and I are going to go out with Brother Benson to give them a hand.”

  “All right. Do you know how far back they are?” She was thinking about supper, which was still a few hours away.

  “Four or five miles is all, but they say they’re mired in deep. Don’t wait supper for us, we’ll probably be late.”

  “All right.” She reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you for being willing to help.”

  He looked surprised. “Do you think that only Mormons help their brethren?”

  A slow smile stole across her face. “No, but I thought it was only Mormons who called each other ‘brother.’ ” She went up and gave him a quick kiss. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” He turned. “Livvy, Papa has got to go out and help some people. Can I come kiss you good-bye?”

  There was a cry of horror. “No, Daddy. Not dressed.”

  “Can I blow you a kiss?” he ch
uckled, looking at Caroline.

  “Eyes closed?”

  He shook his head at Caroline. “I promise.” He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, turned around, and blew a kiss in Livvy’s general direction. Then he opened his eyes and looked squarely at her. “I think you’re kind of cute, actually.”

  “Daddy!”

  Laughing, he gave Caroline a quick hug, then walked away.

  They rode along at a leisurely pace. It had rained again for several days and was threatening even now, and the roads were still a mess, but the days were warmer and the air pleasant. Also, they were not anxious to tire the teams before they reached the stranded wagon. Ezra Benson and Nathan were on saddle horses and led two big workhorses on tethers behind them. Joshua and Derek drove a light wagon pulled by two other draft horses. In the wagon was the harnessing that would be used for the teams once they got there. They moved steadily but not briskly.

  For a time they talked about conditions in Garden Grove and about how slowly the work was going, what with all the rain. Then Nathan decided he wanted to learn more about this man whom he knew only casually. It was evident that Brigham Young held him in high regard and was relying on him more and more in various leadership capacities. Nathan was curious for himself, but he also had another purpose in asking. He wanted Joshua to hear stories about how others had come into the Church.

  “Ezra,” he began, “what was it that brought you out west? Aren’t you from Massachusetts originally?”

  Ezra nodded. He knew that his accent, with its flat nasal A’s and the adding of an r sound to words that ended in A, gave away where he was from, but he didn’t mind. He was proud of his New England heritage. Massachusetts was one of the original thirteen colonies and had been instrumental in the founding of the country. The independence, industry, and thrift that were all part of that heritage were nothing to be ashamed of, and Ezra knew they were qualities that had made him what he was. He was a man solidly built, with bold features and a direct manner. He was two years younger than Nathan’s thirty-seven years, and four years younger than Joshua.

  “So tell us how you came to Illinois,” Nathan persisted. “Unlike most of us, you weren’t a member then, were you?”