The Work and the Glory (6 page)

They all stood quietly for a moment, savoring the memory of better times. Then finally Benjamin looked up at the sky. “Well, living off the land nowadays ain’t what it used to be. We don’t get enough wheat and corn in this season, it’s gonna be a lean winter.”

Harris nodded again, then pulled at his lower lip as he looked at Benjamin. “Ever thought about hiring help?”

Benjamin looked surprised.

“Spring’s coming hard on us now. You’ll be wanting to plant within the month.” He stopped, watching Benjamin for a reaction.

He nodded gravely, keenly aware of the implications of what Harris was saying.

“You had some money left over from the sale of the farm, Pa,” Nathan said. “I know we’ve been saving it, but we do need to get more land cleared.”

“Know a family a mile or so south of town,” Harris went on. “Name of Smith. They’ve got two boys who hire out doing farm work. I’ve used them before. Been right pleased with their work.”

Benjamin leaned down and plucked off the stem of a dried weed. For several moments he chewed on it silently, looking once again out across the small area they had cleared, then at the stands of trees and brush yet waiting for them. Finally, he turned. “Maybe you’re right, Martin. Tell me how to find these boys. I’ll go on down there tomorrow and have a talk with them.”

Chapter Two

By the second decade of the nineteenth century, Palmyra Village, lying near the western edge of Palmyra Township about twenty miles south of Lake Ontario, had grown from a primitive frontier outpost to a prosperous, bustling town of nearly three thousand people. Much of the growth could be directly attributed to the Erie Canal. Governor De-Witt Clinton’s “big ditch”—considered to be America’s greatest engineering feat—ran just two blocks north of Main Street and paralleled the entire length of the village. The full three hundred sixty-three miles of the canal had finally been opened just eighteen months before the Steeds had arrived in Palmyra Township. Twenty-eight feet wide at the bottom, forty at the waterline, and carrying four feet of water, the canal represented a project as prodigious as any Egyptian pyramid. But with its completion one could travel from Lake Erie to the Atlantic Ocean without leaving the waterway. The time it took to transport goods from Buffalo to New York City was reduced from twenty days to six, and the cost dropped from a hundred dollars a ton to eight.

Joshua Steed loved the dock area along the canal. So instead of going on to Main Street, he would always turn left just after crossing the waterway and drive along Canal Street. It was a world of its own, sharply separated in many ways from the village life which lay just one block south. There was a constant stream of barges moving both upstream and down. The mule and horse teams plodding slowly along the canal banks kept the boats moving at a steady pace of four miles per hour—as good as any stagecoach on the rough, muddy roads of the time. Surprisingly, the barges were a splash of color meant to assault the eye. Most carried passengers as well as freight, and their captains painted the topsides with the gaudiest shades of reds, greens, and yellows imaginable to attract business.

Most villagers looked down on the canal boatmen, or “canawlers,” as they were called, with the utmost disdain and not a little fear. Smoking a tobacco strong enough to choke a goat, driving their animals with language not even found in the barrooms of America, unashamedly fraternizing with the sluttish, hard-looking women who slept with them as part of their jobs as “cooks” on the barges, they would send the genteel women of Palmyra scurrying just at the sight of them.

“Low bridge! Everybody down.” The bawling cry of a canawler brought Joshua around. A large boat, hold filled with potash and salt pork, was approaching the bridge he had just crossed. The deck was already lined with the passengers, anxious to be off the boat for a time. This one, coming from the west, was almost certainly from Buffalo, which meant the women and their businessmen-husbands were headed for a visit to Philadelphia or on to New York City. Dressed in their finery, hooped skirts swishing, the women would come mincing down the gangplank, tippy-toeing so as not to step in any of the droppings along the wharf, holding their noses against the smell of the mule, horse, and ox teams backed up with their wagons to either load or unload freight.

Joshua pulled on the reins lightly, turning the mules and the small wagon he was driving to move out of the way of one of the great Conestogas moving toward him, its canvas top looking like a ship’s sail. He let his eyes sweep the busy scene. Stevedores, in their sweaty shirts and smoking foul-smelling cigars, manhandled bales of cotton, sacks of grain, and boxes of dry goods on and off the barges. Young boys from the village darted here and there, bringing messages from businessmen in the city, carrying jugs of rum for the dockworkers, or just generally making pests of themselves. It was a constant bedlam of sounds—donkeys braying, dockworkers cursing, heavily laden wagons creaking across the planks, dogs snarling over some discarded scrap of food, wheat brokers shouting at each other for a better price.

Joshua loved it. He loved being in the city, for that’s how he thought of Palmyra Village. He knew it was nothing compared to New York or Boston, but he had never been to those cities, and after the quiet hill country of Vermont, Palmyra seemed wonderful enough.

Then, glancing up at the sun, Joshua snapped the reins, moving the mules into a little faster walk. If he was to meet the Smith boys by ten o’clock, he’d better get moving. He had one more stop to make, and there was no way he was going to miss that.

Once on to Main Street, Joshua let his eyes scan both sides of the street, savoring the differences between this part of the village and Canal Street. For the most part, the log huts of earlier times were gone now. One- and two-story frame homes lined the street, with picket fences surrounding neatly tended yards and tall poplars shading the residential properties. In the heart of the village, business thrived. There were now thirteen dry goods stores, three apothecaries, the three-story Eagle Hotel and two other inns, two tailor shops, several saddler and harness shops, a law office, three blacksmith shops, and the print shop and bookstore where the
Wayne Sentinel
was printed each week. Local elementary schools around Palmyra and surrounding townships contributed students to the well-kept grammar school within the village itself. And the Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists all had churches in town, as well as the Roman Catholics, who had been one of the first to come west with the settlers.

Joshua stopped in front of a two-story frame building. Over the door was a neatly lettered sign which read, “General Dry Goods Store—Josiah McBride, Proprietor.” He swung down, tied the mules to the hitching rail, then stopped. With one sweep of his hand, he took off his cap and jammed it in his back pocket, smoothing his hair back as best he could. With a final tuck of his shirt into his trousers and a quick intake of breath, he went inside. A bell nailed to the inside of the door tinkled softly.

Even though the day was overcast and cold, coming out of its brightness into the dimness of the store left him momentarily blinded, and he stopped next to a large keg filled with nails. He absently ran his fingers through the nails, feeling the sharpness of their points against his flesh. He marveled for a moment. As a young boy he had helped his father make nails in the forge behind their house. Now the large foundries in Boston and New York churned them out by the thousands.

“Good morning. Mr. Steed, isn’t it?”

Startled, and with a quick stab of disappointment, Joshua turned around. A short, balding man in a leather apron was peering at him. “Good morning, Mr. McBride. Yes, I’m Joshua Steed.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well…” Joshua’s mind was racing, trying to find a way to stall. “I’ve got a list of things, but I need to look over some of your tools first.”

McBride nodded. “Help yourself. Tools are on the back wall. When you’re ready, let me know.”

As he started to turn, Joshua thought of something. “Oh, Mr. McBride.”

“Yes.”

“Do you happen to know the Smiths that live down on Stafford Road?”

Josiah McBride turned back around very slowly, peering over the top of his glasses at Joshua. “Why do you ask?”

Joshua fumbled a little, surprised at the sudden coldness in the storekeeper’s voice. “I…uh, my father has hired two of the sons, Hyrum and Joseph. I’m supposed to meet them across the street at ten o’clock. I’ve never met them before…” His voice trailed off, stopped by the look in McBride’s eyes.

“Your family’s new here.” It was not a question, just a blunt declaration.

“Yes.” Joshua was wary now.

“That would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

But just then the bell tinkled as a woman entered the store. McBride suddenly became all business. “It’s none of my affair, but you may want to tell your pa to think about that.” With that he spun on his heel and went to greet the woman.

Joshua stood there, bewildered and a little bit angry. What had brought that on? Finally he shrugged it off, moving to the back of the store. He studied the rows of tools hanging from wooden pegs hammered into the wall, moving slowly, taking his time. He felt foolish and awkward, noting the curious looks McBride kept shooting his way from time to time.

Just as he was ready to give it up and bolt for the door, the bell on the door rang softly again. A woman and a young girl entered and exchanged greetings with McBride. The storekeeper turned and called up the stairs. “Mother! Lydia! I need some help down here.”

Joshua felt his hopes leap. There was the sound of two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs from the living quarters above the store. The first was heavier, measured and determined, followed almost immediately by a lighter, happier set. He fought the temptation to turn around, feeling a surge of excitement. He took a finely honed ax down and began to examine it closely, hoping against hope.

A woman’s voice floated back to him. “Hello, Mrs. Carlton. Hello, Miss Amy. What can I help you with?” Joshua felt his heart beat faster. McBride’s wife had taken the new customers.

Joshua ran his finger along the edge of the ax blade, keenly aware of the sound of Lydia’s footsteps coming up behind him, then of the soft fragrance of her perfume. Still he didn’t turn.

“Why, Mr. Steed.”

He set the ax back in its place and turned slowly, unable to suppress the smile of pleasure at seeing her. “Hello, Miss Lydia.”

She was considerably shorter than Joshua, and this difference was heightened now because her head was cocked slightly to one side, the dark brown eyes sparkling up at him mischievously. She was dressed in a white and blue pinafore dress with puffy sleeves and a shiny black belt which drew the eye to her waist—-a waist Joshua could easily surround with his hands and touch fingertip to fingertip. Her ebony hair was pulled back away from her face and fell softly across her shoulders. Her skin glowed like translucent porcelain in the filtered sunlight coming through the store window. People said Lydia McBride was the prettiest girl in the whole of the Finger Lakes region of New York. Joshua had met few single women in the months they had been here, but he had no reason to doubt that judgment.

“How may I help you, Mr. Steed?” It was said with gravity, even as her eyes teased him.

He always felt like a tongue-tied schoolboy in her presence, and now was no different. He fumbled quickly in his pants pocket and drew out the torn piece of foolscap. “Ma has some things she’s listed.” He thrust it at her. She stood motionless for a moment, leaving him standing there with his hand held out awkwardly toward her. Then finally she took the paper with a soft, husky laugh, letting her fingers brush briefly against his. “Of course,” she murmured. “It’s always a pleasure to help”—she paused, and looked up again, her eyes demure—“your mother.”

Joshua flushed, knowing she was toying with him, but sensing she found pleasure in him or she wouldn’t be doing it. Somehow the knowledge emboldened him. “You look right pretty today,” he blurted, darting a look to where her father stood behind the counter. He lowered his voice quickly. “Right pretty,” he said again.

To his surprise it caught her off guard. She dropped her chin, her cheeks suddenly touched with pink. “Why, thank you, Joshua.” She too shot a quick glance at her father, who was now looking at them sharply. Louder now and all businesslike, she went on quickly, “If you could get a basket and follow me, Mr. Steed, I’ll get these things together for you.”

Ten minutes later Joshua came out of the store, a sack of wheat over one shoulder and a jug of maple syrup tucked under his arm. Lydia followed him, carrying a box with the lighter things. He put the stuff in the wagon, then took Lydia’s load and put it in as well. “You shouldn’t carry that. I would have come back in for it.”

She tossed her head impatiently. “I do this all the time.” Then she smiled at him. “But thank you anyway.”

Joshua took his cap from his back pocket and jammed it on his head, feeling fumble-tongued and awkward again. Suddenly he remembered his primary purpose for coming to town. He swung around to look across the street. Sure enough, a few doors down in front of the Eagle Hotel stood two men. They had turned to watch him and Lydia.

“Do you know those two men over there?” Joshua asked.

Lydia turned to look. There was a soft intake of breath, a quick downturn of her mouth. “Why do you ask?”

“Would it be Hyrum and Joseph Smith?”

“Yes. What do you want with
them?”

Joshua gave her a sharp look. The last word was spat out with coldness and contempt. It was the same instant reaction he had gotten from her father. A little puzzled, he answered, “Pa has hired them to help us clear the land. I’m supposed to take them out to our place.”

“Oh.” She dropped her eyes.

He peered at her, but she wouldn’t look up at him. Finally, baffled, he turned and raised an arm, calling, “Ho! Hyrum, Joseph. I’m Joshua Steed.”

There was a nod, and the two strode quickly across the street toward them. Joshua stepped off the boardwalk and met them halfway. Both were tall men, dressed in working clothes with wide-brim hats. It took no effort to see the two were brothers. One was obviously older—though they were both in their twenties—and a little taller than the other, but both had the same general features, the same light brown hair.