The Work and the Glory (443 page)

There was a soft hoot. “I hadn’t planned on it.” He took out a pocket watch and held it up to the light. “Well, I suppose I’d better get you back. I wouldn’t want your father and mine to come looking for us.”

She didn’t move. “Thank you for a wonderful week, Will.”

“Thank you for coming.”

They stood there for a moment, awkwardly, and then Alice reached out and took his hand. “We’d better start back,” she said.

“Yes,” Will agreed, squeezing her hand and keeping it in his. “I suppose we’d better.”

Mary Ann was in the backyard of their home, taking down the clothes that she had washed and hung out this morning. She moved methodically, not minding the heat of the afternoon but also not moving too quickly. She took down a blouse, then pressed it against her face. She loved the smell of newly washed clothes, dried in the sun.

She half turned as she heard the gate at the front of the house give its customary creak. From here, the house blocked her view of the front yard, so she listened carefully as she folded the blouse to see if someone knocked on the front door or if it was just one of the grandchildren going in and out. To her surprise, a moment later Benjamin came around the house, followed closely by Nathan and Lydia. She laid the folded blouse in the basket, then turned to greet them. At the look on Lydia’s face, she stopped.

Lydia came forward and took her hands. “Mother Steed, it’s Samuel Smith.”

She felt a sudden lurch, pain down deep inside her. “No,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Benjamin said, coming to put an arm around her shoulder. “He passed away earlier today.”

She wanted to sink to the ground. Instead, she squeezed Lydia’s hands. “We’d best go see Mother Smith,” she said softly. “See if there’s anything we can do to help.”

“After all she has lost,” Benjamin said, “now to lose another son.”

Nathan raised his head slowly. “How much can one mother be expected to bear?”

“There it is! I see it! I see it!” Sarah Rogers started jumping up and down, pointing over the railing of the
Natchez Queen.
“That’s Nauvoo, isn’t it, Mama? Isn’t it?”

Melissa smiled at her daughter. “Yes, Sarah, that’s Nauvoo.”

Sarah would be six in November, and usually her two older brothers—Caleb, who was nearly eight, and David, who was going on ten—didn’t put much stock in anything she had to say. But now they pushed forward, in between their parents. “Where? Where?”

“On the hill. There. See it?”

Caleb squinted. It was barely past noon and the sun was high, glinting off the river and leaving the air gray blue with the haze. “I don’t see anything,” he said in disgust.

Carl leaned over and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Look, Caleb. See where the river turns to the left up ahead of us? That’s where the city is.”

Now young Carl moved up beside his brother. “Look a little to the right, Caleb. There’s a low hill there. See the big white building?”

David started wiggling, his arm thrusting forward. “That’s the temple, isn’t it, Papa?”

“Yes, that’s the temple.”

“I see it!” Caleb chortled, looking at Sarah with begrudging respect.

“We’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” Melissa said. “You’d better go pack.”

The three of them darted away, leaving only young Carl standing with his parents.

“Don’t wake the baby!” Melissa called after them. “Papa and I will be there in a moment.”

She moved closer to Carl and put her arm through his. “There it is,” she murmured.

There was a slow nod, but no response beyond that.

“Papa?”

Carl turned to his namesake. “What, Carl?”

“Are we ever going to go back to Kirtland?”

One eyebrow came up. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t want to.”

Melissa now turned, as surprised as Carl. Young Carl had turned twelve in April. Though he was much like his father in temperament—quiet, thoughtful, choosing his words with care—he was Melissa in every other way—dark hair, fine features, slim of body. He was getting his growth slowly and hadn’t yet started into puberty, but he had always been mature in his thinking and in the way he assessed the world around him. “But why?” she asked.

“Because this is home,” he said simply.

“Didn’t you like being with Grandma Rogers?” his father asked.

“Yes. And I miss that part of our family already. But this is home.”

“I know,” Melissa whispered, looking up at Carl.

He held her glance for a minute, then looked at his son. “You go help your brothers and sister now, Carl.”

“Yes, Papa.” He gave one last glance out ahead of them, then turned and walked away.

“That was a strange thing for him to say,” Melissa said when he was gone.

“Was it?”

She gave him an odd look, tilting her head slightly. “You don’t think so?”

There was a short, silent laugh. “That’s what I called it back in Kirtland, remember? Doesn’t it feel that way to you too?” he asked.

“You know it does. I’m like the children. My heart is beating a little faster just seeing it out there ahead of us. I’m so excited to see the family again. They’ll be so surprised.”

“I’m glad you didn’t write them. This should be fun.”

She half turned, then stopped. “So,
are
we going to move back to Kirtland?”

There was a long moment when only the great swishing of the paddle wheel behind them could be heard. Then he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. We’ll have to go back and visit, of course, but . . . No, I don’t think so. I think Carl’s right. This is home.”

“Yes.” She started away, a sudden lightness in her heart, but she only went three or four steps before he spoke again.

“Melissa?”

“What?”

“I’ll not be interested in having anything to do with the Church.”

Her chin rose a little; she was not really surprised. “I know, Carl.”

“You can do what you want. You know that.”

“I do, and I thank you. But—” She looked away, biting at her lip, surprised at the sudden rise of emotion in her. “But until there’s no more talk about plural marriage, I’ll not be doing much with the Church either, Carl.”

He watched her steadily, the sunlight off the water playing across the faint dusting of freckles on his cheeks, his green eyes grave and thoughtful. Finally, he nodded, clearly satisfied, then turned from the rail and took her hand. “Let’s go pack, Mrs. Rogers. We’re almost home.”

Joshua and Will Steed were working in the large barn behind the stables. They used this barn as a warehouse for goods that either were being prepared for shipment or had come in by wagon and were waiting distribution. They had four men with them, and they were all loading sacks of barley onto a wagon that was destined for Montebello, south of Nauvoo. It was shortly before noon, and Joshua was eager to get the wagon on its way so it could reach its destination before nightfall. The lawless element which skulked around the river towns was growing more and more bold, and they had lost a wagonload of durable goods the previous week. The driver was still recovering from being pistol-whipped for trying to resist. So Will and Joshua had shed their coats and come out to help speed up the process.

The air in the barn was thick with dust, and they had neckerchiefs tied around their faces. They were hot, sweaty, dirty, and tired. It had been some time since Joshua had helped load a wagon, and he was puffing heavily enough that he was a bit embarrassed by it. In that disgusting way that youth have, Will worked in what looked like effortless ease. He too was sweating, but Joshua could hardly tell that he was breathing hard.

Will paused for a moment, grinning wickedly at his father. “Pa, maybe you shouldn’t have backed out on the sale of the business.”

Joshua just grunted and tossed another bag up on the wagon bed. In February, he had put the freight business up for sale when he had jerked his family out of Nauvoo in order to “save” Olivia from Joseph Smith and plural marriage. Then the potential buyers had been unable to raise enough capital. That had delayed their leaving Warsaw and, in a way, was directly responsible for the tragedy that followed. Even after Olivia’s death, Joshua had been determined to sell and move to St. Louis, and found another group of buyers who acted interested. But the more he watched Caroline during her convalescence, the more he knew that if he tried to move his family out now, it would break her. So he had withdrawn the freight company from the market.

“If you had sold out,” Will said, leaning against the back of the wagon, “you could be sitting in some office now. You’d be in a white shirt. It would be cool. Maybe one of the secretaries could bring you a tall glass of iced tea.”

Joshua looked at the other men, who were smiling now too, though not too openly. “You know, after spending a week listening to you go on so, it’s no wonder Alice looked so tired when she and her father finally went back home.” He looked at the other men, who had stopped work now to listen, grinning at the interchange between father and son. “Maybe we’d best go to the office and have some iced tea and leave the rest of the job up to old Big Mouth here.”

That brought a laugh from the men, but Will was unruffled. “Listening to you blowing like a winded horse, that might not be a bad idea. I’d hate to have to carry you home tonight.”

“Look, you little pup—,” Joshua started, ignoring the guffaws of the others. But just then the side door to the barn opened. Joshua’s bookkeeper stuck his head in.

“Mr. Steed?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a gentleman to see you.”

“Who?” And then he knew it didn’t matter who it was, they had to finish loading the wagon so it could get off. “Can you ask him to come back in about an hour?”

“I did that, sir. He said it’s most urgent that he speak with you.”

It always was, Joshua thought. He picked up another sack of barley and heaved it up on the load. “Did he give you a name?”

“Yes. He says his name is Bennett.” The man had a strange look of distaste on his face. “Doctor John C. Bennett.”

All four of Joshua’s workers were Latter-day Saints, recent immigrants from England or the eastern United States looking for work in their new home. At the mention of the name of John C. Bennett they all swung around, anger darkening their faces.

“Bennett!” Will cried. “It can’t be. He wouldn’t dare.”

The accountant nodded vigorously. “I don’t know him, sir, but one of the others recognized him. It’s him, Mr. Steed.”

“I’ll wager that he’s riding a rail out of town by sundown,” one of the men growled. There were angry mutters of agreement from the others. Joshua was still staring.

“What do you want me to tell him, Mr. Steed?”

That brought Joshua back. “Tell him I’ll be right there,” he said.

“I’m going with you, Pa,” Will said immediately. He didn’t wait for an answer. He took the neckerchief from off his face and wiped at his forehead with it even as he started for the door. For a moment, Joshua thought about calling him back, then shrugged it off. Maybe it was just as well to have company when he faced this man again.

Bennett was waiting in the office, seated in a chair. Joshua stopped for a moment, studying the man through the window. He had not seen them yet. He was dressed even more impeccably than normal, and Joshua saw immediately that the rumors were true. John C. Bennett had prospered considerably by writing a book and going on the lecture circuit to denounce Mormonism. His suit was well cut and clearly came from an excellent tailor. His shoes were city shoes and polished to a gleaming luster. He wore a white shirt with a silk cravat at the neck. A beaver-skin top hat sat on the desk. A cane with a brass tip and polished ebony head lay beside it. The hair, just starting to gray now, was slicked back and recently barbered. He looked every bit the wealthy New York businessman or Boston dandy.

Joshua frowned at Will, then opened the door. Bennett shot to his feet, all smiles. For a moment, Will thought he was going to cross the room, hand extended, as though greeting a brother not seen for long years. But when Bennett saw Will come in behind Joshua, the smile stiffened a little and he held his place.

“Joshua,” he said, voice warm and welcoming, “how good to see you again!”

“Hello, John,” Joshua responded in a cool voice. “This is a surprise.”

“Thought it might be.” He looked more closely at Will. “Will Steed, isn’t it?”

Will nodded curtly but said nothing.

Bennett stepped back, the smile still unctuous, but strained now. “I heard about the tragic loss of your daughter, Joshua. I am truly sorry. I—”

“Don’t!” Will said in a clipped, harsh tone. “Don’t you even talk about Olivia. It’s you and your kind that are responsible for her death.”

Joshua reached back and laid a hand on his son’s arm, still watching Bennett, who had drawn himself up, his face showing deep offense. “That’s enough, Will,” Joshua warned. Then to Bennett, “It does seem a little strange that you would come back here.”

“Look,” he said angrily, “Joseph and I had our differences. I felt obligated to oppose some of the things he taught, but—”

“You felt obligated to weave a tangle of outrageous lies and slanderous half-truths,” Will said hotly.

Joshua swung on him. “Will, Doctor Bennett is well aware of your feelings. So am I. That’s enough said. If you can’t be polite, then excuse yourself and go back to loading the wagon.”

Will stood there, his feet planted, his fists clenched, as though he were facing a possible attack, but finally there was a brief bob of his head. “All right.”

“Thank you, Joshua,” Bennett said. He turned and, without asking, returned to his chair. “There are things that I must discuss with you.”

Joshua moved around and took the chair behind his desk. Will took one in the corner opposite Bennett.

“You have to believe me,” Bennett said, hands out as if in supplication, “I deeply regret that in the heat of my embittered differences with Brother Joseph, I strayed into a severity of expression of which my cooler judgment would not approve.”

There was a soft hoot of disgust from Will, but one sharp look from Joshua stopped it there. Bennett half turned in his chair so that he could deliberately avoid Will’s gaze. In his mind, there was only one other in the room now and that was Joshua. “You have to believe me, Joshua. I wanted to dethrone Joseph because I felt he was leading the Church astray, but I have never condoned or justified mob violence as the means of doing that.”