Palmyra

by Susan Evans McCloud

  “They are out for blood,” Eugene whispered. The expression chilled me. The town fathers, perched on the raised platform above us, called for a resolution—that the good citizens of Palmyra pledge themselves not to purchase a copy of the Book of Mormon.

  “If it comes off the presses we must ban it! It is our duty to stop this imposter, to protect our friends and our neighbors, to do our part in this worthy endeavor. It is our duty to keep others from touching this pack of lies, this devil’s work. We will work tirelessly against him—we will expose him and destroy him!” Wilder and wilder the words grew, wilder and wilder the mood of the crowd.

  “I care not to listen to any more of this,” I said to Eugene, tugging at his arm.

  “I will take you home, then.”

  We walked out into the cool, starry night. I drew the clean air into my lungs, wishing I could expunge the poison that had been breathed all around me, wishing I could erase the words that were ringing in my ears still and making my head start to ache.

  “ ’Tis an ugly business, Esther, but it will blow over.”

  “And will Joseph Smith’s book be printed?”

  “I cannot tell you that. Mr. Grandin is a man of integrity. If Joseph and his friends give him security that the printing will be honestly paid for—we shall just have to see.”

  We were nearly home before I worked up the courage to say, “I am glad you’re not one of them, Eugene. I’m glad you are not that kind of a man.”

  If those words were difficult for me to say, it was that much more impossible for him to form a reply to them. Instead he took me into his arms. Right there on the front steps. If there had been eyes to watch us, they would have seen him bend down to kiss me. But they would not have known how delicious was the tenderness of him, the touch of him.

  My father has always said that the March winds are rascals. They mean no harm, but their ebullient spirits spill over into mischief they cannot control. After weeks of buffeting us about, they have stopped to catch their breaths, and I think the spring has snuck in.

  “At least they have blown winter out,” Eugene says. He is eager for fine weather to come, and so am I. I have some fine plans for my gardens, both the new ones where we now live and the old ones at home. School will be dismissed soon, so the children can help their parents with the planting, and we shall have Georgie to ourselves again.

  “Once summer comes, I can grow as fat as I like,” she teases, “and not one person dare criticize.”

  I am ready for sunshine. I am ready for slower days when the light in the sky lingers into long, gentle hours and the darkness is short.

  Today is the 27th of March. Eugene came home from the printing office last evening and told me that the completed Book of Mormon, comprised of six hundred pages, is now off the presses and for sale, wholesale and retail, at the Palmyra Book Store by Howard and Grandin.

  So Joseph Smith has won. At least this round. I am happy for him. I wonder what this strange book contains. I believe I shall ask Eugene to bring home a copy so that I can find out for myself.

  Chapter 19

  Palmyra: April 1830

  It happened the same night as the town meeting, though I do not believe Eugene wanted me to know that. They were courting trouble, as the saying goes, those men who rode the Canandaigua road out of town, rode hard into the darkness bent upon an errand of malice, with hate in their hearts. Georgie’s father was one of them. He sat a big bay who was fast and spooked easily; surely he should not have chosen to ride him that night. There was a wind to stir the shadows, to raise lonely sounds from the old Indian grounds the horsemen rode through. They rode too fast, they rode too carelessly. And at one point Warren Sexton’s tall bay reared and shied, and plunged away from the shadows, out over the uneven ground. When his foot turned and plunged his body hard forward, Sexton hit the ground with an impact that jarred his whole body. The leg twisted and, pinned beneath his body, took the full force of the fall. When the men found him and picked him up from the cold ground he cried out loud. He cried like a child all the way to Doctor Ensworth’s, where half a bottle of whiskey quieted him some.

  Once begun, Eugene spared me no details. It was a gruesome affair. The doctor feared the bones would not set properly and, as with Randolph’s arm, there had been damage to nerve and ligament. “He will always walk with a limp,” Eugene concluded. “That is, if he walks at all.”

  “He and the others, I suppose, accepted the accident as a sign of God’s punishment.” I made my voice sound light, but the question was in dead earnest.

  “Quite the opposite. Some claim the horse was bewitched. Some were determined upon returning before daylight and burning the Smith family out.”

  I shuddered. “Have we no law and order in these parts?”

  “I believe at the last that’s what stopped them. But Sexton is terribly bitter and black against Joseph Smith now.”

  If I tried to see things from his view I could understand, I supposed; but there was no way to do that. It disturbed me to think that Georgie had not told me herself. Things must be bad indeed if she hadn’t. I knew I must respect her silence and not mention the matter, though my curiosity burned.

  Spring brings out the playfulness in Nature, and I felt myself respond to it. Because the weather was fine I used it as an excuse to ride out to Josephine’s. I found conditions much altered there.

  Randolph, it appeared, had fallen out of grace with his fair young mistress. She pouted or outright ignored him whenever he came into our ken. I noticed a difference in him as well. He continued to be respectful to her, but he was no longer under her power. Unable to help herself, she began to complain.

  “Alex fairly dotes on the boy, Esther. It is disgraceful.”

  “I would think it would be good for Randolph. He needs encouragement, even a little praise.”

  “Well, he gets it in excess; you can be certain of that.”

  “Are you not glad the two get along so well, Josie? I thought you were fond of the lad.”

  How she winced at my words, so innocently spoken that she could not bring herself to attack the implications that were couched beneath them. She could merely sit and bristle ineffectually.

  “You do not have to live with it,” she whined. “Why, you would think the boy were his son. In fact, he has been mistaken for just that a time or two.”

  Ah, here was the rub! “That is only natural,” I replied in a calm, even manner. “Being older than you, as he is.”

  “Heaven preserve us, Esther! Will you never show me a shred of sympathy?”

  When you sincerely deserve it, I thought. Then I was immediately pricked in my conscience. How smug I am, I lamented, to think I might pick and choose whom to bestow my favors upon!

  One danger was diverted, but there were others lurking like rats in the woodpile, or in the shadowy entanglements of Josephine’s mind.

  I made it a point to contrive some errand for Randolph to perform for me, and he promised to come out the following day. When I had him alone it was not as easy as I had thought it would be to broach the subject with him. At length I began by expressing my pleasure at the sympathy that had grown between himself and my brother-in-law. When I saw him hesitate and appear a little uncomfortable I took the risk and said, “Josephine nearly destroyed any chance of that, didn’t she?”

  “She nearly put my head on the block!”

  It was out. I sighed and added, “I am sorry she is like that. I should have warned you, but I did not think—” I nearly said, “I did not think she would turn her attentions on you.” But he might have taken that wrongly, seeing it as proof of his inferiority. Fortunately he finished the thought for me in a slightly different direction.

  “She is not easy to resist, you know.”

  “Oh, I believe you, for I have watched men fall prey to her machinations for years.” That made us grin at each other, and the tension was broken, but Randolph became thoughtful again.

  “From the beginning I prized
Mr. Hall’s opinion. He is a good man, Esther, and I wanted him to know he could trust me.”

  “What a dilemma she put you in!”

  “Turned out all right.” He shook his head, as if dislodging the memories there. “Of course, she is angry as a hornet now—as though her husband was not mindful of the cause of it all.”

  “Does he suffer terribly, Randolph?” I winced; I had not meant to ask it.

  “She tries him sorely. But he loves her enough that he chooses to endure it.”

  “Precisely as I feared. Can he do nothing with her?”

  “You know the answer to that!”

  How good it was to talk about it, though! To bring it all out in the open, like hanging wash on the line for the sun to bleach. I felt I could bear the unchangeable a little more easily now. And how I enjoyed being in Randolph’s company! I wanted to say, “You are a changed man.” But I think he knew it already. As he left he hugged me, the way he used to when he was a little boy, when he and Peter were to me the brothers I’d never had. I was glad I had sent for him, grateful he had resisted Josie and chosen a higher path.

  If only his mother could see him, how proud she would be, I thought, savoring the warmth of his affection. It is a constant sorrow to me that one man’s narrowness of spirit can imprison and starve an entire family. I look upon it as one of the most tragic injustices of life.

  Babies, babies! But nothing stirring with me or Phoebe yet. Tillie’s second was due to arrive now in a matter of weeks. She had pulled out of the worst of it, and spring itself would no doubt ease her sufferings. Georgie puckered her impish face in mock consternation whenever the subject came up.

  “What ill judgment I have! I must wait out the hot, unbearable months before this child within me will ripen and become something tangible, while you shall have your little one to coo over the whole summer through.”

  She seemed her old self, as far as I could judge. But she surprised me entirely when she pulled me aside and whispered, “I have something to tell you. Arrange to walk home with me.”

  Once we were alone, I prodded her eagerly. But there was no lightness in her when she turned and said, “On April sixth there is to be a special meeting.”

  “Whatever are you talking about, Georgie?”

  “Listen carefully, Esther, and promise you will not speak of the matter to anyone, for I am telling this to no one but you.”

  This was unlike Georgie. “All right.”

  “Joseph Smith and some of his friends are gathering to form a new church, and Nathan and I intend to be there.”

  “Is Nathan seriously interested?” I remembered suddenly their friendliness with the Smith family. She mentioned it only now and again. Was there much that I did not know? “How is he so different, Georgie? What kind of things does he teach?”

  She waved her hand as if dismissing a silly question from a schoolchild. “I cannot answer such a question in ten minutes on the street corner.”

  “Is he as strange as people say he is?”

  “There is nothing ‘strange’ about Joseph or his teachings at all.”

  “You are going for certain?”

  “Yes. We are decided.”

  “What if your father finds out?”

  I may as well have struck her as to have asked that question. For the first time I could remember she snapped back at me. “It is none of his business! Nor do I intend to suffer for my father’s ignorance, not any more than I already have.”

  I hoped she was right. I hoped with all my heart that she would not regret the step she was planning to take.

  “Absolutely not, Esther. You are going too far with this. I will not condone it—I will not allow it.”

  “Eugene, you make too much of it!”

  “I know more of the matter than you do. And I wish you to leave it alone, dear.” I had never seen him like this! “You are my wife; therefore you represent both of us. I cannot afford to be . . .” He searched for words. “To be labeled as a Joseph Smith sympathizer.”

  “Would such sympathy hurt you—really?”

  “Indeed it would.”

  “I am curious; that is all. I want to—”

  “Esther, please. For once can you not simply see a thing and do it my way?”

  Was I that bad? I scooped the cat up and began to smooth his fur with a vengeance. He meowed in protest and wriggled out of my arms.

  I am not accustomed to people opposing me. I am not used to others curtailing me when there is something I really want to do. I walked out of the house, but Eugene did not follow me. I led Tansy out of the barn and rode her, with nothing but a bridle, to my parents’ house. I found my father clearing ditches along his south field. I told him my dilemma and he listened with his usual patience.

  “Am I being unreasonable?” I ventured at last.

  “You are forgetting what it was like to live with your mother.” I thought that a strange reply! “Because you had to, you adjusted many of your ways to her . . . peculiarities.”

  “To keep the peace, to keep things running smoothly. You are right, Father, I have forgot. Is it much worse now, with both of us gone?”

  He took a long time in answering. “You could say that.” He thought on the matter a few more minutes. He was never one to be hurried. I helped him drag a few of the larger branches over to the pile that had been raked together for burning.

  “Fear has a terrible grinding power, like water,” he said. “Can wear a body down to the stump.” I nodded, pushed the hair out of my eyes, and continued to look at him. “That’s what it is with your mother. She won’t let go. Too busy protecting herself to enjoy what the moment brings her.”

  I put my hand over his. “Thank you, Pa. I didn’t mean to be so foolish.” I gave his cheek a quick peck, then scrambled onto Tansy’s broad back. “You don’t need to tell Mother I’ve been here. I’ll stop by to visit her Tuesday.”

  He nodded and went back to his work. As I rode the short distance to my own house—why could I not think of it as home yet?—I felt fairly chastened, even eager to apologize. I called out to Eugene the moment I came through the door.

  But he was not there. All the rooms were empty, and the remains of his cold supper sat on the drain board. Swallowing my pride I went out to the barn. There was no sign of his having been there. He went back to his father’s to finish a piece of work, or he is writing in the quiet of the Sentinel office, I reasoned. But I would not go after him this time. Even when things were fine between us, he did not like it that I followed him everywhere.

  I cut myself a piece of bread and a thick slice of cheese, and read my book while I ate. I did up the few dishes. I darned the last two stockings in my work basket. Then I pulled out my journal and wrote until the flame chewed my candle down to a stump and my eyes began to burn with the strain of trying to see the letters as I formed them.

  I would not start a new candle. I got ready for bed in the dark. Perhaps he will wait until he sees the light extinguished, I thought, before he comes home. I did not care. I would not allow him to hurt me like this over something so inconsequential! I closed my eyes. I knew it was not inconsequential, this matter of whose will would be adhered to. It became more than a difference of opinion when it came down to essentials. But I did not wish to think about it at all right now.

  Mid-day on Tuesday, April 6th, over fifty people gathered in and around Peter Whitmer’s house. Many of them were friends of young Joseph’s or members of his family: his father, mother, brothers and sisters, the Whitmer family, Oliver Cowdery and Martin Harris—the latter a man of some means in these parts who has financed the publishing of Joseph Smith’s book. A new church was indeed organized, and several were baptized into it right then, as Georgie reported to me. She said there was such a sweet spirit present that she felt as though heaven were very thinly veiled from her eyes.

  “They call themselves Saints of the Church of Christ,” she said.

  “You like that term?”

  “I do. I l
ike everything I learn about Joseph Smith’s teachings, Esther.”

  “Georgie—have you thought what this might lead to?”

  “Nathan and I have discussed it.”

  I did not wish to ask the final question—might you associate yourselves with them?—because I did not want to know.

  Five days later, on the Sabbath, this little band of Mormonites met in the home of Peter Whitmer. I know, because Georgie was there. Oliver Cowdery preached to them, and afterward several were baptized. Georgie’s face glowed when she told of it.

  “Read the Book of Mormon for yourself,” she said, for she knew just what I was thinking. “Then you will know it is neither frightening nor strange.”

  But I could not yet bring myself to it. As far as Eugene was concerned, we never spoke of the subject again between us. Joseph Smith and all his followers could have fallen off the edge of the earth. But it remained a sore spot to me, a little bruise marring the white surface of our happiness. I did not like having it there. I did not like knowing there was anything, however small, that my husband and I could not be at peace upon, even though we did not agree.

  Chapter 20

  Palmyra: June 1830

  After the trial comes the blessing. We saw one beautiful example of that when Theodora gave birth to a daughter during the last week of May. Gerard’s enthusiasm was much tempered, but ours was not. We celebrated with all the finery we could muster: our best dresses; flowers in our hair, on mantel, and on tables; blackberry cordial; the most delicate of cakes and cookies; and gifts for little May in profusion. Tillie splendidly ignored every suggestion Gerard put forward—“One must expect to suffer disappointments now and again; we cannot always have what we want”)—and named her daughter Cornelia, after her mother, and May, to mark the joyous time when she was born.