The Work and the Glory (163 page)

Parley’s head snapped up and he stared at his friend. Then he turned and looked to where the windows in Joseph’s house were alight. “That was the very thing on my mind,” he said. “But I am so ashamed. How can I face him after what I have done?”

Nathan gripped his hand tighter. “But you must, Parley. You must!”

For a long moment, Parley stared into the eyes of the man who had gone with him to Toronto and with whom he had shared so many incredible experiences. Then a great shudder shook his body. He fell on Nathan’s shoulders. “You’re right, of course,” he cried in relief. “Of course you’re right. Will you come with me, Nathan?”

Nathan held his friend in a crushing grip. “Of course, Parley.”

It was Joseph who came to the door. He was barefoot, and his shirt was pulled out of his trousers. It was past nine-thirty, and he had obviously begun his preparations for bed. When he saw who was at the door, his eyes widened, then immediately a smile crossed his face. “Brethren, come in, come in.”

He invited them into the sitting room, and for several minutes Joseph chatted warmly about nothing of consequence, mostly talking to Nathan. Through it all, Parley remained subdued, saying little except when asked.

Finally, Joseph turned to Nathan, then to Parley. “I sense this is not simply a social call,” he said with an encouraging smile.

Nathan shook his head. “No, Joseph, it is not. Parley wanted to come to you. He has some things to say. He asked if I would accompany him.”

Joseph turned to Parley, his clear blue eyes curious but also open and supportive. “Yes, Parley?”

Parley’s hands were twisting around and around. His head was down, his eyes on the floor. Finally he looked up. A great sob welled up inside him, then burst out in one anguished cry. “Oh, Brother Joseph, can you ever forgive me for what I have done?”

* * *

The two of them stood outside the front gate to Parley’s house. To the east of them the dark shape of the temple loomed against a moonlit sky. Each seemed lost in his thoughts, but then at last Parley spoke.

“He easily could have removed me from the Quorum.”

Nathan gave a quick shake of his head. “That is not Brother Joseph’s way.”

Parley’s voice was tinged with wonder. “Instead he frankly forgave me. No bitterness. No recriminations. Just that wonderful, sincere ‘I forgive you, Brother Parley. Thank you for coming back with a sincere heart and a contrite spirit.’”

“You did that, Parley,” Nathan said, his heart filled with gratitude. This night had relieved a terrible burden from his shoulders. His friend’s near defection had troubled him deeply. “You
have
shown a broken heart and a contrite spirit.”

Parley nodded, looking at Nathan. “My dear friend,” he began, but his voice caught and he had to stop. Finally, swallowing hard, he went on. “How can I ever thank you for caring enough to come with me? The feelings of darkness and oppression are gone. I am filled with light and joy. I see now so clearly the contrast between the spirit that has been over me these past weeks and the spirit I now feel. I shall ever more be able to discern more clearly between those two spirits.” He sighed, and it was a sound of happiness, relief, and regret all at once. “I think now, because I myself have been tempted in all points in this matter, I shall be better able to bear with, excuse, and succor those who are tempted in a like manner.”

Nathan looked at his friend sharply, but Parley did not see his reaction. They shook hands and said good night. Then Nathan started towards his home. He walked slowly, troubled by his thoughts. There was one in his own family who was “tempted in a like manner,” as Parley had put it. That was Nathan’s own father. Martin Harris, Parrish, Boynton, and the Johnson brothers were all wooing Benjamin Steed incessantly. It would be a great coup if they could persuade him to throw in with them. And the fact that his father had thus far refused to totally repudiate them infuriated Nathan. It was a source of considerable tension between father and son.

Could he, as Benjamin’s son, say as Parley had just said, that he was able to bear with and succor those who were tempted as Parley Parker Pratt had been? It was a question Nathan could not immediately and honestly answer, and that troubled him deeply.

* * *

There is an old but hallowed saying in England. “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

On the twentieth day of June in the year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven, William IV—king of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and king of Hanover—closed his eyes in death. He was in the seventh year of his reign and the seventy-second of his life. In this case, the saying had to be slightly modified. “The king is dead. Long live the queen.”

Next in the line of succession was an eighteen-year-old girl. She was the only child of Edward, duke of Kent, and Princess Victoria, daughter of Francis, duke of Saxe-Coburg.

At the time she came to the throne, the monarchy was neither liked nor respected. The royal family had spawned a succession of weak and selfish leaders, and most Britishers held the crown in low esteem. But this young woman would go on to rule England for sixty-three and a half years, the longest reign in the history of the British monarchy. She would usher in an age so shaped by her influence that it would be named after her. She would preside over Great Britain when it was at the apex of its power. She would hold herself so much above reproach and prove to be such a wise and capable monarch that the throne would once again be raised to a position of veneration and respect. Few queens in England’s history would die more beloved than Queen Victoria.

On the twentieth of June, 1837, England lost a king and gained a queen. Exactly one month later, on July twentieth, after eighteen days and eighteen hours on the Atlantic, the British packet ship
Garrick
anchored in the Mersey River, opposite the city of Liverpool. On board were seven elders of the Church of the Latter-day Saints. Soon they would be standing on the pier at Prince’s Dock.

* * *

It was two days before Election Day in Preston, England. The new queen had ordered a general election for members of Parliament, which would be held on Monday. By midafternoon on Saturday, the 22nd of July, the streets of Preston were thronged with thousands of people. It was overcast, but the temperature was in the low seventies, and the day was quite pleasant—more pleasant than staying in the sweatboxes that passed for houses. The factories had declared a half-day holiday—something almost unheard of—and the population had turned out to celebrate. Candidates from the two parties were noisily vying to call attention to themselves. There were flags flying everywhere. Ribbons and posters were in abundance. Here and there, hastily erected booths offered the populace a chance to talk face-to-face with the hopefuls.

But the pubs outdrew the booths ten to one. They were islands of pandemonium in a sea of chaos, and it was obvious that, for the most part, the people had turned out because of the holiday and not because of a great interest in the elections. For those not in the pubs, vendors worked their way through the crowds, adding their shouts to the bedlam. They offered candy, nuts, apples, dried plums, or, most commonly, fish and chips wrapped in newspaper—the fish cooked whole with the heads and scales and fins still on, the potatoes cut in thick wedges and deep-fried in boiling oil.

As Derek and Peter Ingalls pushed their way through the sea of humanity, Peter’s eyes were wide and shining with excitement. Derek smiled, but not without a touch of sadness. He hadn’t seen Peter this excited since he had been a little boy waiting for a spoonful or two of Christmas trifle, too little to understand how desperately poor they were and how long it would be before there would be another. Derek, who would be twenty in October, had long ago lost his capacity for getting excited over things like today’s festivities.

“Oh, look, Derek,” Peter breathed, pointing eagerly. Derek turned. A group of nearly a hundred children were marching toward them down the middle of the street. Some of them clutched upside-down pots and pans against their stomachs and banged away on them with spoons. They had been told that they were to get the attention of the crowd, and they had set themselves to the task with great enthusiasm. They were making a most wonderful racket, and most of the crowd stopped what they were doing to watch them pass. Behind the percussion section some older children held up hand-lettered placards, all of which read: “Mr. James Cogglesworth, Tory, House of Commons.”

“What do the Tories believe again, Derek?”

“The Tories—or, as they now prefer to be called, the Conservatives—want to keep the power with the Church of En-gland and with the crown. The Whigs want to give more power to the common people.”

Derek tried not to look smug. Three months ago he knew little more than Peter about English politics, but then Derek had noticed that at the end of each week Mr. Morris, the factory owner, took all the newspapers he had accumulated out to the trash. It took several days, but Derek finally worked up his nerve and asked if he might have them. Morris seemed pleased and gave him his blessing. Derek now spent a good part of each Sabbath day voraciously reading them while Peter played with his friends. It had been a wonderful boon, not only because it helped satisfy his natural hunger for knowledge but also because it was polishing his reading skills at a rapid rate.

Peter looked up at his brother. “So we’ll vote for the Whigs, then?”

Derek gave a short, bitter laugh. “Poor folk like us aren’t allowed to vote, Peter. We’re too ignorant to know anything, don’t you know? Only the gentry and the lords and the ladies have enough savvy to do that.”

“Oh.” In a moment any thoughts of politics were gone from Peter’s mind. The children were passing them now, and the racket was actually painful to the ears. But Peter didn’t care. He wiggled his way in so that he was right up next to the passing parade. Derek moved up behind him, amused and pleased. It was little enough pleasure a thirteen-year-old factory worker got out of life. Let him enjoy the moment, no matter how brief.

Peter’s eyes were dancing with excitement as the rows of children trooped past. These were obviously the children of Preston’s upper and middle classes. They were all in school uniforms. There was not a dirty shirt or dress or a bare foot among them. A handsome lad of about Peter’s age was looking at the faces of the people. His eyes came to rest on Peter for a moment. Peter’s nature was to be cheerful and friendly. He smiled broadly at the boy and sang out, “Afternoon, mate.”

A look of distaste instantly darkened the boy’s face. He turned his head, studiously avoiding looking further in Peter’s direction, and banged all the harder on his steel kettle.

Derek saw the crestfallen look on his brother’s face as he stared at the boy’s retreating back. He reached over the shoulder of one of the boys and touched Peter’s shoulder. “Come on, Peter. I have tuppence in my pocket. Shall we have a go at a candy stick?”

They crossed the street and plunged into the throngs on the far sidewalk. Derek caught the eye of one of the candy vendors. In a moment they both were sucking on sticks of peppermint candy.

The two brothers fell in with the crowds, letting themselves be carried along for a minute or two. As they turned and moved down another street, a clatter behind them drew their heads around. “Make way! Make way! Stage is coming! Clear the way!”

A black carriage, drawn by four horses whose necks and flanks were flecked with sweat, was making its way slowly toward them. The people in the street were giving way but not fast enough, and the driver had his team reined in tightly. The press of people was making the animals nervous. Their eyes were wide behind the blinders, and their hooves struck an occasional spark off the cobblestones as they danced their way slowly forward.

“It’s the stage, Derek.”

“Yes.” He glanced up at the sky. Through the overcast he could see that the sun was down about halfway toward the sea. That meant it was about four o’clock in the afternoon.

“From Liverpool, I’d say,” Peter said knowingly.

Continuing another half block down the street, the carriage approached the front of the building where it made its usual stop. The driver pulled the horses over to the curb and reined them to a halt. “Preston!” He leaned down to call into the coach. “This is it, gentlemen!”

Peter and Derek continued up the street until they reached a spot near where the carriage driver had stopped. There had been seven men inside the coach. Now they had gotten out and were standing around and stretching, waiting for the driver and his  assistant  to  get  the  luggage  down  from  the  carriage.  Half-

curious, Derek stopped to watch. The men were different, a little peculiar in a subtle way, but he couldn’t decide why.

One of them, a balding man built somewhat along the lines of a large barrel of rum, turned to the driver. “We seem to have come on a holiday, sir,” he said. “What’s the occasion?”

Derek leaned forward. The man spoke strangely, his voice flat and nasal sounding. It was not a Lancashire accent, that was for sure.

“Election Day is coming up, day after tomorrow,” the driver said. “The new queen has called for general elections for members of Parliament.”

“Oh.”

Another man, slightly younger than the first, shook his head. “And I thought elections in America were a wild affair.”

Peter clutched at Derek’s arm. “Did you hear that, Derek? They’re from America.”

That was it, Derek realized. Their dress was different, their boots, the way they brushed their hair, their bearing—nothing dramatic, but definitely not British. He had seen an American or two before, but he had never been this close to one before. He and Peter edged a little closer.

Return passengers had come out from the coach station now, and the driver and his companion were loading their luggage on the top of the coach. Finally they were loaded and the carriage moved off. For a moment the seven men stood around, looking a little confused. Then the barrel-chested man looked up. As the coach had pulled up, two men on ladders had been unfurling a large banner and hanging it over the entrance to the building. Preston was the hub of a significant temperance movement that fought the excessive drinking problems so common to Britain’s working classes. They were taking advantage of the holiday crowds to put up a temperance banner. It was that banner that caught the American’s eye now. The others, seeing him, tipped their heads back as well.