The Work and the Glory (200 page)

Lydia only quickened her step until she came up to the other two women.

“What is it, Lydia?” Rebecca asked anxiously.

Lydia had to stop for a moment and catch her breath, but finally she turned and looked back over her shoulder. “I’ve just been to the main square.”

“Yes?”

“You know that terrible lightning strike we got last night?”

“Yes, we heard it,” Mary Ann said. “Was anyone hurt?”

Lydia shook her head, still breathing heavily. “It hit the liberty pole.”

For some reason, that news jolted Rebecca as hard as if Lydia had said it had struck someone’s home. “The liberty pole?” she echoed.

“Yes. It shivered it from top to bottom. There’s nothing left but a few splinters.”

“But—,” Rebecca started. She stopped, not even knowing what she was going to say.

The liberty pole had been more than just a flagpole. The Saints had come to Missouri and tried to settle in Jackson County. They were driven out with whip, gun, and bayonet. They crossed the river into Clay County, only to be asked to leave two years later or face a similar fate. They fled from Kirtland in the dead of winter, robbed of their land and homes, hated by their neighbors and former friends. So they had come to northern Missouri, to the open, unsettled prairies. They had built their cabins and their barns and their settlements and tried to mind their own affairs.

And then, just three days before, they had gathered in the central square around the liberty pole. On it they raised the Stars and Stripes to fly over their fledgling city. Sidney Rigdon had spoken with passion of the liberties that that flag stood for. When he had finished, some five or six thousand voices had shouted hosannahs and collectively vowed that they would defend those liberties, even to the death if necessary.

And now the liberty pole was in splinters.

Lydia was very subdued. “Some of the people are saying this is an omen, that this is God’s way of saying we strive in vain to maintain our liberties in a state where law is set by mob rule and where those who govern care nothing for the rights of the Mormons.”

Mary Ann looked startled for a moment, then her jaw set. “The liberty pole was a symbol of our freedom and independence. We’ll put up another one.”

Rebecca shook her head slowly, feeling a great sense of desolation sweep over her. “The liberty pole is gone, Mama. It’s gone.”

* * *

By Eastern standards, the lumberyard at Far West left much to be desired. The selection was limited, and much of it was unfinished beams or just plain logs. On the Great Plains, where the almost endless forests that covered much of the continent east of the Mississippi were nonexistent, lumber was always at a premium. And to make matters worse, Far West was in a building boom. Even Kirtland at the height of its greatest boom time had not rivaled this.

The smokehouse Benjamin and Matthew Steed were building behind their cabin was small and it was nearly finished. But they still needed some good, solid hardwood for the smoke racks on which they would hang the long strips of bacon or the fat and heavy ham shanks. Benjamin went to the lumberyard nearly every day to see what might have come in. Finally, in mid-July, he found what he was looking for. Or rather, Matthew found it for him.

“Pa, come look at this.”

Benjamin walked around a pile of logs and joined his son. Eight or ten planks lay on the prairie sod.

“It’s ash,” said Matthew. “Probably white ash, I’d guess.”

“Hmm. Sure is.”

“It still looks pretty fresh. It will probably take a week in the kiln to get it cured properly, but it looks like good wood.”

Benjamin raised his head. Brother Thomas Billings, manager of the yard, was already watching them. “How much for the ash?” Benjamin called.

Billings came over and looked down at the lumber. “Oh yes, this stuff. Lucky to get it. Came up river to DeWitt, then one of the newcomers brought it the rest of the way in to help pay his way once he got here.” His mouth twisted a little as he concentrated. “How ’bout four dollars fifty for the lot?”

Benjamin blew out his breath. “Really only need about half of it, actually. Just need to finish a rack in the smokehouse.”

The lumberman frowned. “Hate to break up the lot. It’s the only ash I’ve got right now.”

“I’m going to have to take it to the kiln and have it dried some more. Can’t wait for it to cure out by itself. Expect that will cost me another dollar at least.”

Billings nodded. “All right, tell you what. Take the bunch and I’ll let it go for three dollars even.”

Now it was Benjamin who was thoughtful. It was more than a fair price, but with the kiln fees his total cost would be four dollars, and that would be a hefty hit on his cash reserves.

“Pa,” Matthew broke in, “I could make Ma that dish cupboard she’s been wanting with the rest of it.”

“And I’ll help him do it,” a voice boomed from behind them.

They all turned, and Benjamin immediately smiled. “Brother Brigham. Good mornin’.”

“Mornin’, Brother Ben. Matthew.” Brigham Young turned and shook hands with Billings as well. Then he dropped into a crouch and picked up the end of one board. He ran his hand along the grain of the wood. “Very nice,” he murmured.

“Needs some more curing,” Matthew volunteered.

“Yep. It does that,” Brigham agreed. “Two days at most, though. You don’t want to overdry this. Especially if you’re gonna put it into furniture.”

Benjamin nodded. That would make a difference. It wouldn’t take a full dollar to dry it. He pulled at his lower lip. He trusted Brigham’s judgment. Brigham Young was one of the finest, if not
the
finest, of master carpenters and glaziers in all of Far West. If he said two days, two days it would be.

Benjamin turned to Billings. “Done,” he said. “Can I bring you the money this afternoon?”

“Of course.”

Brigham laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “I’ve already seen some of the things you’ve done, young man. You’ve got a gift for working with wood. But I meant what I said. I’d be pleased to help you with a cupboard for Mary Ann. I may have some tools you don’t.”

Matthew was beaming. “I’d be right pleased to have your help, Brother Brigham.”

“Good. You know where I live. Out about four miles on Mill Creek. Why don’t you bring the lumber over once you’ve got it out of the kiln.”

* * *

“You’ve got to remember that wood is a living thing, Matthew. Even after it’s been cut down and made into lumber, it’s still a living thing.”

“I’ve noticed that.” He was standing at Brigham’s side near the workbench. They were in the carpenter’s shed behind Brigham’s cabin. “The first door I made for Pa, I used a mitered joint on the corners. By the time summer was finished, the joints had big cracks in them.”

“That’s right,” Brigham boomed cheerfully. “And I’ll bet the cracks were bigger in some places than others, right?”

Matthew thought for a moment. That had been back in Kirtland, almost four years ago now. But he could picture the door in his mind. “That’s right. They were wider on the outside and inside corners.”

“Exactly. Wood either shrinks or swells
across
the grain. So a mitered joint pulls apart at the ends. That’s why a shiplap joint is best for doors. It holds the door at a ninety-degree angle to the grain.”

“Yeah,” Matthew said ruefully, “I learned that the hard way.”

Brigham had the first of the long boards of white ash on the bench and was planing it down smooth with long, even strokes. It was already hot in the shed, and beads of perspiration were forming on his upper lip. He stopped for a moment and looked at Matthew. “I like to think of it as breathing. It’s like the wood actually breathes.”

Matthew was nodding, knowing at once what he meant. “I never thought of it quite that way, but that’s really true.”

Brigham chuckled as he went back to work. “The softwoods do it much more than something like this, of course, but they all do. They breathe in, they breathe out. I remember back in New York we had barn roofs that you could see starlight through, but when it got stormy they’d swell right up, and by the time it actually rained you’d not get a single leak through them.”

“My grandpa died before I was very old, but Nathan says he used to teach him and Joshua about different kinds of wood. He said any man who wants to get along with nature needs to develop a reverence for wood.”

The stroking stopped for a moment as Brigham looked at him. “That’s a good way to put it.” One of the callused hands ran along the wood lovingly. “It’s like an old friend. Treat him with respect and he’ll give you his best.”

He stepped back and handed Matthew the wooden plane with its steel blade. “Here, you finish this. Do the others as well. Be careful you don’t get one thinner than the others. I’ll get some paper and a charcoal stick. We don’t want to be building something until we know what it will look like.”

When he returned, Brigham asked Matthew a few questions about what Matthew’s mother desired in terms of a dish cupboard, then began to sketch as Matthew continued planing the boards. As he worked, Brigham began to hum to himself; then he started to sing softly.

  There’s an old mouse chewin’ on my pantry door,

  He must have chewed for a month or more.

  When he gets through he’ll sure be sore,

  For there ain’t a durn thing in there!

Matthew laughed. “That’s one I’ve not heard before.”

Brigham looked up. “An old New England folk song.” His head dropped again, and he chewed on his lower lip as he continued sketching. Matthew watched him, remembering. His father had once told him that during the early years in Kirtland, Brigham had spent so much time doing missionary work that he had been unable to earn money for his family. One winter he had gone to one of his friends, hat in hand, and begged for a loan so he could get enough food to feed his family until he could earn some money. Benjamin said he had wept in humiliation, for Brigham prided himself on making his own way in the world.

Brigham’s blue-gray eyes were filled with a soft amusement as he began to hum again, and Matthew wondered if he was thinking of the same thing. Though Brigham was often of sober demeanor, Matthew had learned that the Apostle had a keen sense of humor and a smile that flashed easily and quickly when he was around his friends. He was clean shaven and had broad, pleasant features. He wore his reddish hair combed straight back and at shoulder length. He was four years older than the Prophet Joseph, which made him around thirty-seven. He was almost four inches shorter than Matthew’s six foot two, and had a tendency to be a bit stoop-shouldered, which made him seem even shorter. But he was solidly built, with broad shoulders, and would tip the scales at close to two hundred pounds, Matthew guessed. 

Matthew’s father and mother had a great deal of respect for Brigham Young and spoke very warmly of him. Matthew knew that he had been a staunch defender of the Prophet during those last harrowing months in Kirtland and had finally fled for his life even before Joseph had left. Benjamin had also told Matthew about the time that Brigham had spoken in tongues while offering the prayer in a meeting with some of the brethren. Afterwards, Joseph had told a few of them that someday Brigham would lead the Church. Matthew wondered if Brigham was aware of that. If so, he seemed totally unaffected by it.

Matthew cleared his throat as he turned back to the bench and began to work. “May I ask you a question, Brother Brigham?”

“Of course.”

“How did you first come to hear about the Church?”

Brigham sat back, laying the lapboard and paper down for a moment. His features softened as his mind went back. “Samuel Smith, the Prophet’s brother. Haven’t you ever heard the story about how he went out trying to sell copies of the Book of Mormon?”

“Oh, yes. That’s right. He gave one to your brother-in-law or something.”

“Well, he gave one to John Greene, husband of my sister Rhoda. And then my brother Phineas also ended up buying one from him.”

“And that’s how you got it?”

“Yes. They started passing them around. After my older sister Fanny read Phineas’s copy, she gave it to me. Heber also read the same copy.”

“You and Brother Kimball are related too, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my sister Fanny is Heber’s mother-in-law.” He leaned back, bringing his knee up and holding it. “Before we were through, those two books went through quite a few hands.”

“Did you believe it right away?”

“Well, yes and no. I knew this was a very unusual book. It felt like scripture to me. Just as the Bible feels like scripture. But you got to remember, I was born in Vermont. Us Yankees are pretty hardheaded. I actually took about two more years before I was absolutely sure I accepted the doctrines found therein and whether the Saints—those that followed Joseph—really acted like they had been converted to Christ. But once I was sure, there’s been no turning back.”

Matthew nodded. That was for sure. He had seen the confidence that Joseph had in Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball. They were two of his staunchest defenders. Matthew made a determination to corner Heber C. Kimball the next time he saw him and hear his version of how they had come to join the Church.

Brigham picked up the charcoal and the lapboard and the paper and set back to work again. Matthew turned and began to smooth the wood again too. About five minutes later, Brigham spoke.

“Matthew?”

He turned. “Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking about taking on an apprentice here in my shop.”

Matthew set the plane down slowly, not daring to hope. “Yes?”

“I have more work than I can handle. I need someone who’s a good worker and dependable.” He grinned. “And one who likes to listen to my stories. You ever be interested in that?”

Matthew was staring now. “Do you mean it?”

There was a full-bellied laugh. “Of course I mean it. If you agree, I’ll speak with your father about it this evening.”

For a moment Matthew fought down the temptation to whoop right out loud. “I would like that, Brother Brigham,” he said slowly. “I would like that very much.”