The Work and the Glory (70 page)

“Where are these men?”

She hesitated. “Well, they were down by the courthouse.”

“No, I mean where can I find them?”

“I don’t know. I heard a lady say afterwards that they’re staying out in Kaw Township, but two of them have opened a tailor shop here in town so’s they can support themselves.”

Joshua grabbed his boots. “That must be that new shop down by the mercantile store.” He stuffed one foot into a boot and began to pull hard.

“You’re goin’ there now?” Jessica asked in surprise. “It’s after nine o’clock.”

“Joseph Smith used to work for my family in Palmyra. If these men know Joseph, they may also know my family. I’m goin’ now.”

He pulled his other boot on, strode out of the bedroom, and grabbed his coat. In a moment he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

Jessica didn’t move. The flickering light of the lamp reflected in her eyes, now wide and filled with hurt. After several moments, she stood slowly, blew out the lamp, and crawled into bed. But for a long time she lay there, staring into the darkness.

“Yes,” she finally said, speaking to the ceiling, “and if they know about your family, they may also know about your precious Lydia.”

It was only fifteen minutes later that Joshua returned. He slipped into the bedroom without lighting a lamp and undressed quietly.

“Did you find them?”

“No. The storekeeper next door thought they were out in Kaw Township. Either that or back across the line in Indian Territory. They don’t stay in town every night.”

“Oh.” She tried to keep the relief out of her voice.

“I’ll try again in a day or two.”

Of course!
But she did not answer him, and in a minute he slipped into bed beside her, turning his back to her. Five minutes later he was snoring softly.

In the northeastern corner of what would eventually become the state of Ohio lay an area known as the Western Reserve, so called because when the various colonies relinquished claims on their western lands, Connecticut compromised. They gave up all but a parcel in what would become Ohio, holding that reserve, which they then sold to a group of investors. One of them, General Moses Cleaveland, was sent to survey the land. Seven years later, the same year that Ohio was made the seventeenth state of the Union, Thomas Jefferson negotiated another of history’s great land acquisitions, the Louisiana Purchase. Now the Mississippi River belonged to the United States, and suddenly Ohio had water access to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. By 1825, the year the Erie Canal was finished, work on the Ohio Canal was begun. When completed to the Ohio River, it opened up an extensive system of internal waterways. One could ship goods or travel by water from New York City to New Orleans or from the East Coast to Independence, Missouri, halfway across the continent. Ohio lay at the center of that vast network.

When first purchased, Ohio was one massive forest of trees—oak, maple, black walnut, locust, wild cherry, sycamores, and many more—with a thousand varieties of bushes and undergrowth that went with them. Settlers quickly learned to “head for the tall timber” as they discovered that the highest trees, the nut-bearing trees such as oak or beech, marked the best soil. Two years after that initial survey by Cleaveland, Judge Turhand Kirtland, one of the land agents for the Connecticut Land Company, came to Geauga County, Ohio, and surveyed two of the townships. The first family moved in and built a log cabin in 1811. Others quickly followed. By 1818 Judge Kirtland was selling some of his land for two and three dollars per acre, a handsome profit on land that had been purchased from Connecticut for about twenty-five or thirty cents an acre.

At first, agriculture was the primary occupation of Kirtland’s residents. But the village was situated on the east branch of the Chagrin River, a meandering stream with several smaller tributaries. In an area near the river, known as Kirtland Flats, various mills and small factories began to develop. A sawmill was constructed in 1819. A year later a gristmill was added. There was a tannery, and an ashery which took wood ashes and turned them into the potash used in making soap. Grandison Newell started a factory to manufacture chairs, stands, beds, tables, candle boxes, and other wooden items.

In 1823 Sidney Gilbert and his partner, Newel K. Whitney, built a store near the riverbank and near the junction of the Chardon and Painesville roads. A brick kiln was begun nearby. In 1827 Peter French, who owned most of the land in the flats, built the first brick building, a two-story hotel across the street from the Whitney store. Kirtland had become a full-fledged village and was rapidly becoming an important location in northern Ohio.

It was to the Gilbert and Whitney store that Carlton Rogers came on the afternoon of February first, 1831. Carl, as all but his mother called him, was the oldest son of Hezekiah Rogers, owner and manager of Kirtland’s largest and most prosperous livery stable. At twenty-two, he looked younger than his years. That was largely due to his red hair and the generous sprinkling of freckles that came with it. His skin was fair and prone to sunburn whether it was midwinter or the dead of summer. But he had a ready smile and a pleasant disposition, and Newel K. Whitney, the store’s proprietor, was always pleased to see him come in the store.

“Good afternoon, Carl.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Whitney.”

“What can we do for you today?”

Carl removed his gloves and pulled a long paper from his trousers pocket. “I’ve got a whole list here.”

The storekeeper took the paper, reached behind the counter, and pulled out a set of reading glasses. He perched them on the end of his nose and scanned the list. “Hmm. Looks like your pa is going to start that new carriage shed he’s been talking about.”

“Yep. Spring’s coming. He’d like to get started on it.”

“All right. Make yourself comfortable there by the stove. This will take a few minutes.”

Five minutes later Carl looked up as Whitney brought a large coil of hemp rope and dropped it on the growing pile he was making in the center of the store’s main room. “Hope you brought something to carry all this stuff in.”

“I’ve got the wagon.”

Whitney started to turn, then turned back. He lifted the glasses from off his nose and peered out of the window that was behind Carl.

Carl turned to see what had caught his attention. A horsedrawn sleigh had pulled up. There were four people in it, bundled up heavily in blankets and robes. The two men in front had scarves covering the lower part of their faces, and so it was difficult to tell who they were. The man in the back, the one closest to them, jumped down lightly, then turned to the person who had been sitting next to him. Carl could see now that it was a woman. Her face was red and she looked very cold.

“That someone you know?” Whitney asked.

Carl shook his head. “Ain’t never seen him before.”

“Hmm. Must be strangers in town.”

The man outside turned, looked up at the sign on the storefront above the porch, then bounded up the steps. The bell on the door tinkled as he opened it, then shut it again firmly. He was a tall man, a good six feet. As he unwound the scarf from around his neck and face, he looked at the two people watching him. Carl noted that his hair was light, his complexion fair, and that his eyes were a startling blue.

The man nodded and smiled briefly at Carl, but then his gaze fixed on Newel Whitney. In three steps he strode across the room, extending his hand. “Newel K. Whitney, thou art the man.”

It was as if he had hit Whitney with a stone. Newel stared at the newcomer; then, bewildered, took the proffered hand. “Sir, you have the advantage of me. I could not call you by name as you have me.”

The man smiled, enjoying Whitney’s perplexity. “I am Joseph the Prophet. You’ve prayed me here. Now what do you want of me?”

If Whitney was surprised before, now he was stunned. His mouth dropped open and he gaped at his visitor. “You’re Joseph Smith?”

“Yes. We have just arrived from New York, a cold and arduous journey.” He smiled even more broadly. “Did you not pray for me to come?”

“I...well, yes, my wife and I have been praying that...” His voice trailed off. “But how did you know?”

Joseph grew more serious now. “While yet in New York, I had a vision in the which I saw you praying. The moment I saw you just now, I recognized you instantly.”

Carl Rogers, who had been watching the stranger and Mr. Whitney intently, was startled. The whole interchange was most peculiar, but with the talk of visions and prayer his eyes really widened. He had heard that both Mr. Whitney and Mr. Gilbert, partners in the store, had become Mormons some months previously when a group of ministers had come through preaching. He wasn’t sure what that implied, or even what the term
Mormon
meant, but now his curiosity was piqued.

“Have you a place to stay?” Mr. Whitney asked.

The man who called himself the Prophet Joseph shook his head. “No. I see the hotel across the street, perhaps we can find a room there.”

“Nonsense. My wife and I have a commodious house.” He pointed out of the west window. “Just right across the street. You shall stay with us.”

“That’s very kind of you, but—”

“I insist.” Whitney peered out of the window to where the sleigh still sat waiting. “Are there four of you?”

“No,” Joseph answered. “My two traveling companions are from this area, one from Mentor, one from Painesville. They will be returning to their homes. It is just my wife and I.” A look of concern crossed his face. “My wife is seven months pregnant and not in good health. This is most kind of you, Mr. Whitney.”

Newel Whitney suddenly realized that Carl Rogers was still standing nearby, looking awkward but watching the proceedings with interest. “I’m sorry, Carl,” Whitney apologized. “I got carried away. Mr. Smith here surprised me so.”

“That’s no problem, Mr. Whitney. In fact, I’m in no hurry. Why don’t you go get your guests settled. I’ll wait here.”

Joseph’s face split into a wide smile. “Well, how thoughtful of you, young man!” He extended his hand. “Joseph Smith is my name. What’s yours?”

Carl took the hand, surprised by the firmness of the grip. “Carl Rogers.”

“Carl’s father owns the livery stable here in town,” Whitney explained.

“Then I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of you,” Joseph said.

The directness of his gaze was disconcerting, and Carl looked away, a little embarrassed. “I hope so, sir.”

Chapter Eight

It took Joshua over a week before he finally found the missionaries alone in the small apartment over the tailor shop. Twice he had seen them on the street preaching, but he had no desire to talk to them in the presence of any of the local Missourians. He had also found the one called Frederick G. Williams alone in the tailor shop one day, but Williams was from Ohio and had only joined the other four men when they came through Kirtland. Joshua immediately left. It was the ones from New York that he wanted.

Finally, on a Sunday evening, much later than callers usually came, Joshua climbed the stairs and banged on the door. There were three of them there—an Oliver Cowdery, a Peter Whitmer, Jr., and one called Parley Pratt. Though they had obviously been in the process of preparing for bed when Joshua knocked, they seemed eager to talk with him and quickly invited him in. He ignored their invitation to remove his coat, but he did sit down.

“How may we help you, sir?” the one named Cowdery asked when he was settled. Oliver Cowdery was a small man, no more than five feet five or six, but he was clearly viewed by the other two as the natural leader, and so Joshua turned his full attention to him.

“It is my understanding that you men might know Joseph Smith.”

The blunt directness of his statement shocked them all a little. “That is correct,” Cowdery said. “Do you know Joseph?”

Joshua ignored the question. “Do you know any of the families around Palmyra Township?”

“Of course,” Cowdery said, smiling broadly. “I myself taught school in the village. That’s how I came to meet the Smith family.”

“Do you know of the Benjamin Steed family?”

Both Cowdery and Whitmer lit up. “But of course,” Whitmer said. “I have not personally met the father, but Mrs. Steed and the children have been in my father’s home on numerous occasions. We live down in Fayette Township.”

“I know Nathan, the oldest son, very well,” Cowdery broke in eagerly. “In fact, I baptized him with my own hand. I was also there the evening he baptized his mother and sister Melissa.”

“Baptized them?”

“Yes.” Cowdery was elated, and the words came out in a torrent. “The authority to baptize was restored to the earth through angelic ministration. Joseph has organized a church—Christ’s church—on the earth again. The Steeds were one of the first families to join.”

“My—” Joshua caught himself. “The father? Did he join this church too?”

“No.”

Joshua grunted inwardly. Well, at least that was something.

Whitmer spoke up again. “Sadly, Mr. Steed has not as yet seen fit to believe. But he has permitted his family to join. The two younger children were baptized a few weeks after the rest of the family.”

Joshua felt a sudden pain shoot through him. “The youngest. Tell me about him.”

Cowdery gave him a sharp look, reading more in Joshua’s face than Joshua wanted to show. “Matthew is going on eleven now. He’s sharp as an ax blade fresh off the grinding wheel. A delightful young man.”

“And Melissa? Tell me about her.”

“A wonderful girl,” Whitmer said warmly. “Very lovely. A strong spiritual testimony of the work.”

Parley Pratt had been watching Joshua closely, though to this point he had not spoken. Now he stirred. “You obviously know the Steeds well, sir.”

Joshua only nodded.

Pratt was not about to be put off so easily. “May I ask how you know them? Are you from New York State?”

Joshua looked at him steadily for several moments, then turned back to Cowdery. “You said Nathan is the oldest son. That is not true.”

“He isn’t?” Whitmer asked.

“No.”

“No, that’s right,” Cowdery said. “I said oldest son, but I do remember that Nathan had an older brother, name of Joshua, as I remember. He left home some years back.”