The Work and the Glory (51 page)

Joseph’s eyes were shining, and there was a radiant sense of excitement about him. “The Lord has made it known that we are to organize his kingdom again upon the earth.”

Again he had caught several in the room completely by surprise. Samuel leaned forward eagerly. “You mean a church?”

“Yes, Samuel. The Lord’s church.”

“But—” Nathan stopped, overwhelmed. “And it’s to be done on that day?”

“Yes. The Lord has specified it.”

“The exact day is to be April sixth,” Oliver said.

“A church,” Samuel said again in awe. “We’ll have a church.”

Joseph smiled. “Now the Book of Mormon is finished, the Lord wants us to move on. There is a great work yet to do.”

“Will it be done here, Joseph?” Nathan asked.

“No. It will be at the Whitmers’ in Fayette. We have much less opposition there. Can you come? Will you come?”

Nathan looked into the blue eyes that seemed as deep as eternity. “Even as strong as you are, Joseph, I don’t think you could keep me away. May I bring Mother?”

“Of course. Melissa too.” He paused. “How will your father feel about it? Will he let them come?”

Nathan frowned, and once again his thoughts leaped backwards to his last meeting with Lydia. “He’d better,” he finally said in a low voice. “I’m getting a little tired of people telling others what they can or cannot believe.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Nathan finished shaving in the icy water of the watering trough, without benefit of mirror, then toweled himself dry and walked back inside the barn. Since the interior of the cabin was yet to be finished, Nathan had been sleeping in a pile of meadow hay he had cut, dried, and put in the barn last fall. Above his bed he had tacked a rough set of shelves where he kept most of his personal belongings. He set the straight razor and the shaving mug on one end, then turned to the other. There sat two of the books he had purchased the previous day in Palmyra. The top one had a bookmark at page 54, the spot where Nathan had stopped reading the previous night. The second one lay new and unopened as yet.

He set the top one aside and picked up the other. For a long moment he held it, staring at it vacantly, his thoughts on what he was about to do. Then, chiding himself for vacillating, he thrust it under his arm. Moving quickly now, he gathered up the other items he needed and put them into a small wooden box. There was the crow-quill pen, a small inkwell hollowed from soft stone, the bottle of butternut ink he had made three days before, a small jar of fine sand, a carefully folded sheet of wrapping paper saved from one of his mother’s purchases in town, a small roll of string, and, finally, four or five sheets of writing paper.

He took a small detour as he came out of the yard and walked to the area behind the barn which served as his small lumberyard. There he found a discarded cedar shingle. It was not serviceable for the cabin, but it was smooth enough to make a good lapboard.

Since there were no furnishings inside the house, he carried his things to the front step of the cabin. The morning had dawned bright and cold. The overcast, rainy skies that had hung over the eastern United States for the past two weeks had finally moved out over the Atlantic. By afternoon the temperature would probably reach into the high forties. Now, just an hour after sunup, the air temperature was still hovering around the freezing point, but the first rays of the sun bathed the south-facing porch of the cabin with warmth, and he walked there, moving swiftly now that his mind was set.

He put his things down, poured a small quantity of ink from the bottle into the inkwell, then sat himself down. Taking the lapboard and a sheet of paper, he leaned back against the supporting post, then reached for the pen.

My dearest Lydia,

He stared at the words, momentarily stumbling at his own boldness. Did he yet dare refer to her in such endearing terms? His lips pressed into a tight line. That was how he felt. If she did not, then she would have to deal with it. Writing slowly, carefully trying the words out in his mind before he committed them to paper, he began.

I write to you with the heaviest of hearts, for I know the distance which separates us and the depths of pain I have caused you. Would to God I could somehow reach out and heal the breach that lies between us.

In a few weeks you shall leave for Boston. Though it tears at the roots of my very being to think of that day, I understand now what it is that drives you to do so. This place, this little homestead over which I labor, once filled me with joyous anticipation because I saw in my mind’s eye the day when you and I would share it together as man and wife. Now, the labor is drudgery. I drive myself with ever-increasing intensity to complete the tasks, but it is only so I can keep you from my thoughts. But it is to no avail. I am filled with a dark and heavy gloominess when I realize you shall never brighten these walls with your smile.

More and more of late I am possessed of the idea I shall sell the land, perhaps to my father, and head west. It would be a great boon to mother to learn of Joshua’s whereabouts and if he is safe. We have long since given up hope he will write, so perhaps it is my mission to locate him and put my mother’s heart at rest.

He leaned back, letting his eyes sweep across his little domain—the barn, the smokehouse, the split-rail fences. He felt a sharp pang. It was the work of his own hands, and it was good. But…He dipped the pen into the inkwell. Not without Lydia. Not here.

But my purpose in writing is not to dwell further on the pain we both share. What stands between us is centered around the person of Joseph Smith. I believe Joseph is a man called of God to bring about a great work in our time. You believe he is a charlatan and fraud, the devil’s own servant.

I suggest there is a way to determine which of us is correct. It was given by the Savior himself in his great Sermon on the Mount. He said, “By their fruits ye shall know them.” Oh, Lydia, that is the key! The Master said a good tree brings forth good fruit, and an evil tree, evil fruit. Well, there it is. If you would truly judge Joseph, you must examine his fruits.

With this letter, I am sending you a copy of the Book of Mormon. It is the fruit of Joseph’s labors. It is a way to judge for yourself whether he is what you and your parents see him to be, or what I and my mother have come to believe he is.

Near the very last of the book, on page 586, I have marked a passage for you. It was written by Moroni, the last scribe of the Book of Mormon and the man who Joseph claims came as an angel and told him of the sacred record. Moroni gives each reader of the book a personal test and promise. Here are his words:

Nathan stopped and picked up the book. He opened it to the back, found the testimonies of the three and the eight witnesses, backed up three pages, and let his eyes run down the page till he found the place which Oliver Cowdery had pointed out to him the night before. Carefully he drew a bracket in the margin. Then he began to copy the words to his paper.

“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, and he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”

My dearest Lydia, I ask no more of you than that. Read the book and take the matter to God. Trust in his will and wisdom. I pray daily—nay, a dozen or more times each day—that he will somehow intervene in our behalf and heal the breach between us. But with faith, I shall leave all in his hands.

The other day, as I was reading in the Bible, I found a verse that expresses the deepest feelings of my heart. If you would know how I truly feel, read the words of John as found in his second epistle, first chapter, fifth verse.

Yours, with a love beyond measure, Nathan Steed

He read it over again slowly, finding his loftiness of language a little surprising, even to himself. It was another evidence of the power of the emotions that drove him.

Taking the small jar of sand, Nathan sprinkled it carefully over the page. He let it sit for a moment, blotting up the ink, then tipped the paper and blew the sand away. He read through the whole thing once more. Satisfied, he folded the paper carefully, placed it inside the front cover of the book, then reached for the wrapping paper and string.

Nathan didn’t want his pa to think he was sneaking behind his back, so he did not go straight to the house. He turned into the barn. It was empty. The milk cow was still tied in her stall, her tail switching lazily as she chewed her cud in a slow, contented rhythm. One look at her udder, now shriveled and half its normal size, told Nathan his father had already finished the milking. He walked through the barn and around to the toolshed. He checked the icehouse and the smokehouse, then the small chicken coop. The hens were pecking at the wheat scattered on the floor, but there was no one there.

Puzzled, Nathan stopped and turned around. Once his father came out for chores, he rarely went back in the house before he was called in to eat breakfast. And that would likely not be ready for another half hour. He lifted his eyes to scan across the fields. About a quarter of a mile away there was a movement down by the trees that lined the creek. He shaded his eyes against the rising sun. The figure of a man with a rifle under his arm was just entering the woods.
After a squirrel or maybe a raccoon,
Nathan decided. For a moment he considered going after him, then shrugged and turned and headed for the house.

“Nathan!” Matthew was at the table working arithmetic problems on a small slate board. He was up like a shot and threw himself at his brother. Nathan caught him and swung him around, nearly losing his balance. Come July, Matthew would have his ninth birthday, and he was starting to fill out rapidly now.

At the head of the stairs, Becca’s head appeared. “Hi, Nathan,” she called. She was still in her nightshirt, brushing at her hair.

“Hello, beautiful.”

She giggled and disappeared. Mary Ann stepped out from behind the sheet that curtained off the parent’s bedroom from the rest of the house. She had a stack of folded trousers and shirts. “Hello, son.”

“Good mornin’, Ma.”

“Had breakfast yet?”

He grinned a little sheepishly. “Not yet.”

“Good.”

“Pa go huntin’?”

“Yes. He saw three or four pheasants down in Mr. Harris’s cornfield last night.” She walked to the wardrobe and began to put the clothes away. Nathan reached inside his coat and brought out the book he had hidden there. When she turned around, he was holding it out toward her.

She stopped, squinting a little, then her eyebrows shot up and her mouth opened in a silent “Oh!”

He nodded and stepped toward her. “Yes, Ma. It’s done.”

She took it from him and, as though she were blind, let her fingers run over the title and the fine leather work of the cover.

“What is it, Nathan?” Matthew said, arching his head to better see the front cover.

“Yes, Nathan, what is it?” Melissa was coming down the stairs, her hands behind her, tying the belt of her dress.

“It’s the Book of Mormon.”

“Really?” She came to stand beside her mother, who opened the book to the title page. They read it together.

Matthew eyed it suspiciously. “Does it have any pictures?”

Nathan laughed. “Nope. No pictures.”

“But oh, Matthew,” his mother said softly, “a book doesn’t have to have pictures to be a wonderful book.”

“Where did you get it?” Melissa asked.

“Mr. Harris came to the house day before yesterday to show me his. I went right into town that very day and bought it from the Grandins’ bookstore.”

Mary Ann opened to the middle of the book and let her eyes read quickly. She turned to another place at random and did the same. Then slowly, almost as though it were an effort, she closed the book and held it out to him.

Nathan shook his head. “This copy is yours, Ma. I bought it for you.”

Her eyes softened. “How thoughtful of you!”

As she took it, Nathan drew a wrapped package from his jacket and handed it to Melissa. “Will you do me a great favor, Melissa?”

“What?”

“Will you go into the village today?” He paused, his brows pulling downward.

“For Lydia?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “If I so much as go in the store, her father will come running like a horse with a nest of hornets on its tail.”

“Of course. What if she doesn’t take it?”

“She’ll take it.” His frown deepened. “The question is, will she read it?”

His mother looked up slowly, a shadow darkening her face as well. “I can’t even take mine, Nathan.”

He was startled for a moment, then his jaw set. “Ma,” he said firmly, “this is my gift. Pa can’t be holdin’ that against you if it’s a present.”

She shook her head. “The night we came home from Fayette—” She looked down, noting Matthew’s wide eyes following every word. She let the book drop to her side. “Matthew, we’re going to need some eggs for breakfast. Go check the henhouse and the barn and gather up enough for the family.”

“Ma!” he cried.

“Go on with you now,” she said firmly.

“But I’m doing my ‘rithmetic.”

Melissa put both hands on his shoulders and turned him toward the door. “Since when are you excited about doing your arithmetic?”

With the exasperated sigh that only a child can give full justice to, he dropped his shoulders and walked to the door.

“I saw one of the hens behind the toolshed,” his mother called as he pulled it open and stepped out. “Start there.”

Once the door was shut she turned back to Nathan, her eyes filled with sadness. “Your father and I had a talk the night after we came back from the Whitmers. He was very angry. Mr. Harris had come earlier and told him about his experience as one of the three witnesses.”

“And he didn’t believe him?” Nathan burst out incredulously.