The Work and the Glory (75 page)

Within an hour they had transformed the place. The men lifted the tables and stowable bunks while the older children swept under them, and the women followed right behind them with mops and buckets of water. Younger children scrubbed at the table tops and wiped off the chairs and benches. Before they were through, even the grumblers had relented and pitched in. By the time they went back up top, the group was in high spirits again.

Chapter Ten

Nathan brought up a chair for Lydia so she could be on top as the boat cast off. A ragged cheer went up as the captain waved to the mule skinner at the head of a team of three mules. He popped a whip above their heads and the animals started forward. The canal boat gave a small lurch, then began its slow movement forward. The excitement quickly died as they left the village of Waterloo and moved out into the open countryside at a steady four miles an hour.

Waterloo, which was three or four miles north of Fayette, was situated along the Cayuga-Seneca Canal. From here the group would travel east on the canal to the head of Lake Cayuga, then turn north to eventually join the Erie Canal. There they would turn west again and head for Buffalo. As the farmland slipped slowly and silently by them, a deep sense of melancholy settled over Lydia.

To be actually on the boat, moving slowly but inexorably farther and farther away from home, hit her hard. She knew what it was. With the finality of a woman’s intuition, Lydia knew she would never be returning to Palmyra. She would never see her parents again. She would write—she had already decided that—but would they answer her letters? She wasn’t sure. Would this child (she still felt it was a boy) now in her womb ever know his grandparents? Not likely.

Just as intense were her feelings about the Steeds. There was at least some hope there, but really, when she was honest with herself, how much? Images filled her mind: Matthew, with his blond rooster tail that couldn’t be tamed and his ever inquisitive nature; sweet Rebecca, with her dimples and solemn eyes; and Melissa and Mary Ann and Father Steed...She felt her eyes start to burn, and she blinked quickly, fighting for control. She didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not with Nathan so excited. Not with all the Saints so filled with hope and enthusiasm.

“Low bridge!” the captain bawled from behind them. “Everybody down.” As they ducked low they saw a wagon, on which were seated a father and two sons, crossing above them. The children on the boat and the boys on the wagon exchanged excited calls. Lydia smiled briefly, turning her head around to watch them drive on as the boat moved away. As she turned back and her smile faded, Nathan reached across and began to rub her back. He took a deep breath. “Lydia,” he started. “It will be all—”

But just then they heard the voice of Mother Smith. She was at the front of the boat again, calling everyone to order. Parents called to their children; people turned their chairs to the front; those who were standing found a place on the top of the cabin area.

“Brothers and sisters,” she said again. “As we begin this journey to Ohio, I would remind you that we travel by the commandment of the Lord, just as Father Lehi in the Book of Mormon did, just as Moses and the children of Israel in the wilderness did.”

“Amen!” It was one of the teenage boys in the back. Several turned and smiled at him. He went a scarlet red and ducked his head.

“If we are faithful, just as Father Lehi and the prophet Moses were faithful, we have every reason to expect the Lord’s blessings to follow with us. It is a solemn thing to leave our homes”—Mother Smith’s eyes caught Lydia’s for a moment—“and, in some cases, our families, in order to keep the commandments of God. We must therefore lift up our hearts to God continually and ask him to bless us on our journey. Without those blessings, I think we shall not prosper.”

Now many of the adults were nodding, their faces sobered and thoughtful. For the moment, even the children seemed subdued. Lydia, who had been looking out across the fields as Mother Smith talked, finally turned to watch her.

“We shall ask Sister Catherine Folger to take the lead as we sing the hymn ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.’ After that, Brother Porter, could we ask you to offer a prayer for our safekeeping?”

Porter Rockwell, nearly sixteen years of age, was sitting just behind the Steeds. He nodded. “Be pleased too.”

Those few who were still standing found a place and sat down cross-legged on the roof of the cabin. Sister Folger, a young mother from Farmington Township, stepped forward, lifted her arm, and briefly hummed a pitch.

At first the hymn sounded a little ragged. They, of course, had no instrument to accompany them. And there were no hymnals. There was also no attempt at harmony. There were just thirty or forty voices, including those of several of the older children, singing in near unison. Without prompting they immediately began again when they had finished.

The first time through, Lydia sang softly, her mind only partly on the song. But the music began to stir in her. She had always loved the majesty of Martin Luther’s hymn, and now, as they started again, the words began to sink deep into her soul. She lifted her head and this time sang the hymn in full voice.

A mighty fortress is our God, A tower of strength ne’er failing.

The sound floated across the water and then out across the fields just coming to life with spring’s gentle touch.

A helper mighty is our God, O’er ills of life prevailing.

For the past three months, every time she and Nathan had talked of making this journey she had brushed aside his expressions of concern for her and the baby. It would be all right, she would laugh. The baby wasn’t going to come before its time. Stop being such an old brood hen, she would tell Nathan. But down deep inside she felt a cold knot of anxiety. What if she were wrong? If this were her second or third child she would better know how to predict, what to expect. Secretly she was terrified.

He overcometh all.

He saveth from the Fall.

She felt a little chill start up the back of her neck, and tears sprang to her eyes. In that instant, the knot inside her was loosed. She felt the fear and the sorrow and the loneliness begin to dissipate, as though all of that were a morning mist blown away by a freshening breeze, leaving nothing but a crystal clearness in its place.

His might and pow’r are great.

He all things did create.

It was not just a hymn any longer. It became a prayer, a song of supplication. This little band of Saints—perched on the roof of a well-worn canal boat, newly embarked on their journey to Ohio—were part of God’s kingdom once again restored to earth. They were leaving their homes in direct obedience to God’s command. He would be their fortress and their protection.
No,
she corrected herself.
Not their fortress.
My
fortress.
My
strength ne’er failing.

She leaned back against Nathan, lifting her voice even higher, tears streaming unashamedly down her face now.

And he shall reign forevermore.

It rang out, echoing as though they sang in some great and grand forest glade, hushing everything across the landscape.

Even as the last of the notes carried out across the water, she turned to Nathan, leaning up to whisper in his ear. “Thank you.”

His eyes widened a little. “For what?” he mouthed.

She pulled close again. “For not giving up on me. For writing me that letter. For sending me the Book of Mormon.” Her voice caught. She smiled through her tears. “For loving me enough.”

It was clear that Martin Harris had not been doing farm work this morning. But then, he rarely did anymore. He mostly supervised the help he hired from the surrounding townships. But even then, he was dressed a little more to the nines than usual. He looked like he had come directly from church. He wore a coat with tails; a vest with gold chain across the front and a watch tucked in the pocket; a linen shirt with ruffles down the front; breeches puffed at the sides and tucked into the kneehigh, highly polished brown leather boots—or at least they had been highly polished before he had left his horse and walked across the plowed field to join Benjamin Steed. The earth was still damp, and globs of it clung to his boots. But if he was bothered by it, he gave no sign.

“Guess you’ve heard nothing from Nathan and Lydia?” he asked.

Benjamin shook his head. “It’s only been three days since they left. Don’t expect we’ll hear much for another two weeks or so.”

“Hope all goes well with the baby.”

Benjamin looked at him sharply. Martin knew his feelings about his son and daughter-in-law packing up and leaving with her almost ready to deliver. Was he rubbing it in a little, the fact that this new faith of theirs—and Martin’s—took priority over family? But Martin was chewing on the stub of a weed, looking out across the fields of their two farms, his eyes far away. Benjamin decided the comment had been one of sincere concern. He relaxed a little. “Thank you. Do you still plan to leave at the end of the month?”

His friend and neighbor finally looked around, coming back to Benjamin. “Yes. As I mentioned to you before, Joseph wrote to me a while back and asked me to close things out here. I’ll be taking the rest of the copies of the Book of Mormon, and it looks like we’ll have about forty or so people.”

Benjamin felt a little flash of irritation. “I still don’t understand why Nathan and Lydia couldn’t have just waited and gone with you.”

There was a long look of appraisal, then Martin finally nodded. “I’d have been happy to have them with me.” He smiled, but it was a sad, almost melancholy, expression. “But then, I’ve learned that some folk have their own mind.”

Benjamin looked away, knowing what was meant, embarrassed by the pain on Martin’s face. Martin and Lucy Harris had recently separated and were no longer living in the same house. From what little Benjamin could gather, the marriage had never been a wonderful one, but when Martin went off chasing after Joseph Smith, and especially when he mortgaged his farm to finance the publication of the Book of Mormon, it had been like throwing boulders in the bottom of an already sinking boat. Lucy Harris would definitely not be going to Ohio with her husband. And while Martin was turning his back on a lot in Palmyra, in some ways it was probably a relief to him as well.

“We’ve come a long ways, Ben,” Martin finally said.

Benjamin nodded. “You more than me.”

“Not really. You’ve made for yourself a fine place here.”

“I know, but you and your pa, you came when this was frontier.”

There was a soft sigh, tinged with an air of regret. “Yes, and now, it’s just not the same.”

Benjamin murmured an assent, watching his friend closely. Just last month Martin had sold a goodly portion of his land at public auction—about a hundred and fifty acres—and paid off the three-thousand-dollar mortgage he had contracted to pay for the printing of the Book of Mormon. All that land. Gone now.
And for what?
Benjamin thought. To
pay a debt that wasn’t really his.
Benjamin shook his head. No wonder Martin was in a reflective mood.

Martin was watching him closely, seeming to read his thoughts. “You ever think of leavin’, Ben?”

“What?” The question had caught him from the blind side.

“You ever think about selling out and movin’ on?”

“Of course not. Why should I? I got a good piece of land here. The price of wheat is good. It’ll be another successful season.”

Martin took the stub of weed out of his mouth, flipped it away, and turned to face Benjamin directly. “Exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Martin laid a hand on his shoulder. “You and me, Ben, we need more than success. We need to be succeeding.”

One eyebrow came up, and Martin laughed. “Sounds like I’m talking fool’s talk, don’t it?” He laughed again as Benjamin’s eyes answered his question. Then he slowly sobered. “Think back to when you first came, Ben. You and your boys clearing land, building that little cabin, digging a well, putting in fence. It was hard work. A lot of hard work.”

“Well, that we can agree on,” Benjamin said fervently.

“Now, look at you. You’ve got one of the finest farms in the township. You’ve tripled the size of your house. You hire your help now. You’ve even put some cash in the bank, I hear.”

“So? A man’s got a right to the fruits of his labor.”

“Of course, of course,” Martin said, “but that’s not my point, Ben. Think of it. Are you happier now than you were then, at the first?”

Benjamin turned and looked at him. “I...” He stopped, the question really hitting him. In the summer of ‘26 he had up and pulled stakes, leaving a beautiful farm in Vermont. Before that it had been a farm in Connecticut. The longest he and Mary Ann had stayed in any one place was five and a half years. They had now been here almost five years.

Martin was right. There really was something exhilarating about the contest between man and wilderness. He had left Vermont because he had beat it—the harsh winters, the rockstrewn countryside, the challenge of conquering the land. And now, in an instant, he realized that he was starting to feel those first feelings of restlessness again. He had pushed them aside, and they weren’t compelling. Not yet. But Martin was right.

Searching his face, Martin suddenly smiled triumphantly. “That’s what I mean. And that’s exactly where I am, Ben. The exciting things have been done. We’re a success, you and me. So why aren’t we happier?”

“I’m not unhappy,” Benjamin retorted, a little defensively now.

“No, of course not. Neither am I. Not in that sense. But it’s not the same, is it?”

Their eyes met and locked, but Benjamin didn’t answer.

“Is it?” Martin said, gripping his arm.

Benjamin finally let his eyes drop. “No, not really.”

“That’s what I mean. Success isn’t enough for us. What we need is the succeeding. We need to be doing things, and when they’re done, we need to move on and start again.”