The Work and the Glory (76 page)

“You’re leaving because Joseph Smith left,” Benjamin said bluntly.

“Yes,” Martin acknowledged honestly. “Yes, I am. But I was ready, Ben. I’m looking forward to starting again, seeing what I can do.” He changed the subject with sudden swiftness. “Have you had any luck in selling Nathan’s farm yet?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” He looked away, this time to the south, across Benjamin’s fields to the line of trees that marked the creek that served as property line between their farms.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m leaving for Newark this afternoon.”

Benjamin turned, realizing that this was what Martin Harris had really come to say.

“I’m meeting with the man who purchased my land. He has others with him. Developers from the East. Boston, Springfield, Providence.”

Benjamin still waited, letting Martin take it at his own pace now.

“He says they’re looking for prime farmland. Big parcels. Thirty or forty acres at a cut. They’re looking to hire men to run them for them.”

Gradually it dawned on Benjamin what Martin was saying. “You mean—”

“Yes.” His voice rose in excitement. “Suppose I told them about both yours and Nathan’s farms being for sale. They say they’re paying good money.”

Benjamin was stunned. Sell the farm? Just when it was paying off in rich dividends? What would Mary Ann say? What would the children think? Then it hit him, as though someone had jabbed him with an ox goad. He wasn’t asking questions about how
he
felt about doing it. “Where would I go?” he asked slowly, his eyes narrowing with quick suspicion.

Martin threw back his head and laughed. When he straightened, his eyes were full of amusement. “Ben, Ben,” he said, still chuckling, “you can go anywhere you want. There’s a big country out there.”

“But you’re going to Ohio?”

“That’s right.”

“And Mary Ann and Melissa, they’ve got their hearts set on Kirtland too.”

“I’ve heard the reports, Ben. There’s worse places than Ohio for a man who’s looking for a new start. Besides which, there’s a lot to be said for a man being close to his grandchildren.”

Surprisingly, Benjamin was not angry. He laughed now too, ruefully. “You and Mary Ann. You never give up, do you?”

“Not on a good man like you.”

Benjamin shook his head, sobering. “Leave the farm?” he mused, now half speaking to himself. “For Ohio?”

“It’s not Ohio that’s troubling you,” Martin said with quick shrewdness. “It’s the idea of following after Joseph.”

Benjamin didn’t answer. He and Martin had been over this ground many times before.

“Let me ask you two questions, Ben.”

Benjamin nodded.

“That first spring you were here, you hired Joseph and Hyrum as day labor. Since then, you’ve hired a lot of other men to help you with this or that. Have you ever had better workers, more honest help, than the Smith boys?”

That was easy. Benjamin still felt shame when he thought of his decision to fire Joseph and Hyrum because the townspeople were wagging their tongues about Benjamin Steed hiring Joseph Smith. He shook his head firmly. “No.”

“All right. Second question. Since your family decided to follow Joseph and join the Church, aren’t they the better for it?”

The silence stretched on for several moments.

“Come on, now, Ben. You’re an honest man. Be honest with yourself for a moment.”

Benjamin began to kick the dirt, fighting his personal feelings about Joseph, making himself consider Martin’s question honestly. It had been about a year now since they had been baptized.

“Well?”

Benjamin slowly nodded. “I’ve got to admit that things have not turned out to be as bad as I feared.”

Martin laughed. “You stubborn old fool. I didn’t ask you that. I asked you if things were better since they joined the Church.”

Ben tried to take offense at his friend’s directness, but they knew each other too well for that. Besides, Martin had him. “Yes, I guess I’ve got to admit that things have been better.”

“How?”

That was a harder question, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Well, Mary Ann and me, we’ve always had a good marriage, but...I don’t know. She seems so much happier now, so much more willing to try and please me. It’s just been better.”

“What about the kids?”

He sighed, giving up in total surrender now. “All right, all right. At first I thought all this scripture reading and having family prayer every night and going to Sabbath services was pushing too much religion on them.”

“But?” Martin prodded.

“But,” he finally admitted, “they have been better. There’s less fightin’ now, and they seem more willing to help without complaining about it.”

“So,” Martin said triumphantly, “there you go. Look, Ben, no one’s going to force you to be baptized if you move to Kirtland. But if Joseph Smith and the Church of Christ have blessed your family, why are you so dead set against them?” Before Benjamin could answer, Martin went very serious. “You think about selling your farm, Ben. You think about making a new start somewhere. And if you decide to do it, maybe Kirtland is as good a place as any.”

Well over a thousand miles to the west of where Martin and Benjamin stood talking, Jessica Steed was walking down the streets of Independence. She slowed her step as she saw the three ladies coming down the board sidewalk toward her. Immediately she stopped to look in the window of the small dress shop she was passing. She didn’t want to have to face them—with their curious looks; with their whispered asides; with their eyes that stared, then darted away the moment Jessica looked in their direction. The display in the shop was meager and provided little to keep her attention so captured, but she didn’t care. Let them think what they wanted.

“Good morning, Mrs. Steed.” It came almost as a chorus.

She turned slightly, managing to look a little surprised. “Good morning.”

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” They moved on, and in the reflection of the window she saw them looking back at her over their shoulders.

“Do you think she’s expecting again?”

Jessie couldn’t tell for sure which one had whispered it, but she was pretty sure it had been done deliberately so she would hear.

“So soon?” came the hushed answer.

A third voice chimed in, and this time the dripping sympathy made Jessie want to gag. “She does look very pale.”

Jessica turned and hurried on, away, not wanting to hear any more.

Expecting again? So soon?
She laughed bitterly to herself. From
whom, pray tell?
After their bitter confrontation over Doc Hathaway, the tension had become a palpable thing between her and Joshua, exploding into open confrontation at the slightest provocation. For a time, Joshua had taken to sleeping at the freight office. When he finally came back home, they both settled for an unspoken truce. That had lasted for about a week. Then he had come home from his visit with the missionaries from New York.

At first, she tried to keep her questions casual, as if it were of no more than passing interest to her. She asked about his family. Did the men know them? How were they doing? What had he learned? But Joshua had come home cold and sullen. He was in no mood to talk, and if he answered at all, it was with little more than noncommittal grunts or murmurs.

Angered, she began to push. He warned her off with his eyes, but now she sensed that Lydia was behind this. Something had been said about Lydia, something that had hurt him. And that in turn hurt her so deeply that she lashed out at him, demanding to know. He swore at her, cursed her jealousy. And finally, after she had goaded him into a fury, he told her. If he had waited, he could have married Lydia.

That was the last time she had let him into her bed. He was still coming home at nights, but usually late, often drunk, and he slept on a cot in the second bedroom.

Ten days ago he had come home long enough to gather his things before he left with a mumbled good-bye to take a load of freight to Fort Leavenworth and St. Joseph.
Expecting? Hardly.

Jessica had had a life of loneliness—all those years waiting on men in her father’s saloon—but she had never known hurt like this. Not even her beloved reading had dulled it. Two days after Joshua left with the wagon train she went back to her father and volunteered to help behind the bar. Shocked, frightened of what Joshua would say when he returned, Clinton Roundy had finally agreed only because his daughter adamantly refused to take no for an answer. To his great relief it took Jessica Steed, housewife, less than half a day to realize that Jessica Roundy, barmaid, had died long since.

She shook her head, angry that she kept letting these emotions churn inside her to the point where she could think of nothing else. Too bad she couldn’t follow Joshua’s example and find her solace in the bottom of some whiskey bottle or a jug of rum. Or maybe poker. That seemed to bring out the same glassyeyed stupor in most of the men she had known.

Jessica stopped, suddenly realizing what she was doing. She felt a wave of revulsion. Which was the stronger liquor—whiskey, or self-pity? Was this what she had come to? An embittered, mean-spirited woman who sought and imbibed personal hurts like a derelict wino begging for a drink at every bar and saloon he passed? One hand came up and she touched her face. It was burning. With fever? No, with shame.

She shook her head, shocked that she had not seen it sooner. No wonder she slept alone. No wonder Joshua avoided her eyes anymore and would rather sit at a table until his vision blurred. What was there to see at home?

Angry, sick at heart, Jessica turned and started back the way she had come. She had been on her way to take a walk down to the river. It was a long walk, several miles. She had chosen it particularly so it would fill the day. Now, determined to throw off this creature she had made of herself, she started for home. She wanted to take a long look at herself in the mirror.

Chapter Eleven

Captain Patrick McIntosh chewed steadily on the stump of his unlit cigar even though it was starting to come apart in his mouth. The light from a half-moon was enough to show the flecks of tobacco on his lower lip or at the corners of his mouth. Nathan watched him and reflected. Many of the company of Mormons felt uncomfortable around this hard-muscled canawler who smoked tobacco strong enough to fumigate a barn and sang bawdy songs to himself. But Nathan had come up on deck that first night after Lydia had fallen asleep. He wasn’t tired and couldn’t bear to spend any more time than was absolutely required in the cramped berth. The captain had been up top, smoking his cigar. On impulse, Nathan sauntered over and began to visit with him. It had turned out to be such an enjoyable experience, that it had now become their nightly ritual.

The air was cold, and their breath left little puffs of silver in the moonlight. It would take two or three weeks of good warm weather to bring out the hordes of insects that were common to these parts. Off to the left, about a quarter of a mile away, a lamp-lit window glowed warmly in the darkness. It was the only light to be seen in any direction. Below them a young child began to fuss. There was the creak of someone walking on the wooden deck, then the sound of a mother soothing the child.

The captain began to hum softly, a tune Nathan had not heard before. His voice was deep and had a remarkably good timbre to it. Then he began to sing softly, as though he were alone and singing to himself.

Buffalo gals, won’t ya come out tonight, Come out tonight, come out tonight? Buffalo gals, won’t ya come out tonight, And dance by the light of the moon?

He sang it again, then lapsed back into humming it. Finally, Nathan spoke. “Buffalo gals?”

The man stopped and took the cigar from his lips, spitting out a piece of tobacco that had stayed on his tongue. “Yeah, Buffalo gals.” He shook his head, his eyes closing. “Now, there’s a place for you.”

“Buffalo?”

“No, Goose Island. Just this side of Buffalo. It’s where all the canawlers stop. The song suggests that the gals from Buffalo come out and join them.”

“And do they?” Nathan asked, guessing the answer already.

“Yeah. The ladies”—he gave a short bark of laughter, amused by his own choice of words—“they’re always willin’.” He flipped the cigar away, and there was a soft plop as it hit the water. “We’ll see Goose Island once we pass Lockport.”

“Lockport? Those are the big locks that go over the Niagara ridge?”

“Aye, and what a sight to see! A double staircase, five stories high. One for ascending, one for descending boats. Gates big as a barn. In the height of the season, canal boats line up for miles. You gotta fight for your place, or you’ll lose two, maybe three, days.” He spit out over the deck and into the water. “This early in the season, you’ll miss most of that, but that’s all right. It ain’t always pretty.”

“I’ve noticed that most of the teams are mules. Why not horses?”

“No, thank you.”

“Why not?”

“Mules rest less, and they can eat rougher food. Besides, a mule’s smarter.”

“Smarter than a horse?” The Steeds had a team of mules and a horse. It was much easier to like the horse.

“Yes, sir. A horse’ll walk right off a bridge if you’re not watchin’ him real close. Mule’ll never do that.”

“Hmm.” That surprised Nathan, but he saw the wisdom of it immediately. Whenever the canal came to a ravine or creek or river, aqueducts carried it across the low spots. Narrow plank bridges for the teams ran along both sides of the aqueduct. They had no railings of any kind.

Captain McIntosh fished another cigar from somewhere inside his jacket and jammed it into his mouth. He made no effort to light it. Finally, he gave Nathan a sidelong glance. “You a Mormon too?”

Nathan nodded.

“You know this Joe Smith personally?”

“Yes. Very well.”

“Is it true what they say? That he’s seen angels?”

For a moment, Nathan considered the question, remembering his own reaction when he had first heard Joseph’s account. “Well,” he said slowly, “there’s those that think he’s lyin’ straight out. But I know Joseph well. He’s an honest man. He says he did, and I believe him.”