The Work and the Glory (350 page)

“We take a silver-plated sheet of copper, polish the silver side so that it’s bright like a mirror, and treat that same silver surface with certain chemicals to sensitize the plate to light. Then we put it in this box here.” Pickerell turned and pointed to where a box about as big as a good-sized hatbox was perched atop one of the tripods. Will saw that in one end it had a glass lens. “When we take the cover off the lens, light is let into the box and strikes the silver side of the plate. It takes about half a minute, sometimes more, but—”

“He had to clamp my head in position,” Alice broke in, “so I wouldn’t move.”

“That’s right. The person must remain perfectly still until the picture is taken. Once the plate has been exposed, we treat the exposed side with fumes made by heated mercury, and the image forms on the plate. Then finally we treat it with a salt solution. That fixes the image—makes it permanent—on the plate, and voila! you have a daguerreotype.”

Joshua turned to his partner. “You were right, this is incredible. I wouldn’t have believed it if you hadn’t let me see it.”

“I still can’t believe it,” Will admitted.

“Oh,” Alice exclaimed, “Mama is going to be so surprised.”

That brought Joshua around with a jerk. “Mr. Pickerell, did I understand correctly that you move from place to place with this . . . process of yours?”

“Indeed I do, sir. I have been in St. Louis now for over a week. Before that, I was in Cincinnati.”

Joshua took him by the arm and turned him away from the crowd. “That’s wonderful. I think I have a business proposition for you.”

Kathryn McIntire looked up in surprise. She was at a table in the schoolroom in Jessica Griffith’s home. She was counting out papers, ten for each student, that would have to last for the better part of the school year. Peter Ingalls was standing at the doorway, hat in hand, looking around.

Slowly, she laid the papers down. “Hello,” she murmured.

“Hello, Kathryn.”

She smoothed her dress down and fought the temptation to brush at her hair. “You’re not at work?” It was the only thing she could think of to say.

He shook his head. “Don Carlos asked me to take some papers to Heber Kimball. I saw you through the window.” He stopped, looking around wistfully.

Kathryn sat silently, watching him. She guessed what was going through his mind. Peter Ingalls loved to learn. He took to books like a young colt to a bucket of oats. He couldn’t consume them fast enough. And for the first time in quite a while, he wouldn’t be sitting in Jessica’s class, wouldn’t be helping her as her teaching assistant. Kathryn would be doing that this year.

He sensed her watching him and forced a quick smile. “So it starts again in about a week?” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded, feeling suddenly awkward. “I . . . I wrote a poem, Kathryn.” His hand moved toward the pocket of his trousers, then dropped back again.

One eyebrow came up. “Oh?” And then she couldn’t hold it back. “You seem to have been doing a lot of that lately.”

It was said evenly enough, but he still flinched. He knew full well what she was referring to. “Yeah,” he finally said lamely.

She knew she had hurt him, and somewhere inside her a tiny voice chided her for her pettiness. But it wasn’t as though he had been particularly mindful of her feelings, was it? “Is this another something for Jenny?” she asked, as though she were only marginally interested anyway.

For several moments he looked at her, then he shook his head. “Not really.” And then, looking quite dejected, he raised one hand. “Well, I’d better get back, I guess.” He put his hat on and, without another word, turned and left.

Few people in Nauvoo knew that Rachel Griffith was Joshua Steed’s natural daughter. Joshua and Jessica had married in Jackson County, Missouri, in 1829. Joshua Steed had been a different man back then—bitter, hard-drinking, smoldering with resentment—and the marriage had been rocky from the start. They divorced when Rachel was only a year old, and she had never known Joshua as her father. But by then Jessica had joined the Church and met the Steeds. Though technically she was no longer part of the family, they had taken her in as though she were one of their own.

Then, after years of separation, Joshua and his family were reunited. By that time Jessica had married John Griffith, and Joshua had married Caroline Mendenhall. John had two boys from a previous marriage, and so while there had been no legal adoption of Rachel, it was only natural that she took the Griffith name along with her stepbrothers so there was no distinction between them. Given these arrangements, Joshua’s return created an awkward situation. So by mutual agreement Joshua and Jessica decided that the best way to deal with the whole matter was to put aside the past. It wasn’t a denial that the past had happened; it was just a determination not to let it intrude into the family structure now. They made a pact that Joshua would become “Uncle Joshua” to Rachel and just another one of the brothers-in-law to Jessica. It had been a little strained at first, but gradually all of the Steed family settled into the new role definitions. Even after John Griffith was killed at Haun’s Mill and Jessica was left a widow, that did not change. Now, three years later, family members rarely thought about what once had been.

Rachel Steed Griffith was nine now. She had more of her natural father’s physical characteristics than her mother’s. Her hair was a dark brown, almost black in subdued light, and had a natural curl to it. Worn long and down her back, it tended to fall into natural ringlets. But in temperament, she was more like her mother, quite serious and reflective by nature, often content to sit quietly while her noisier cousins jabbered around her. But that didn’t mean she was a melancholy child in any way. A favorite of her Grandfather Steed, she had a subtle but quick sense of humor, often making quiet comments that would startle the listener for a moment before bringing an appreciative smile. She was bright and learned very quickly, proving to be one of Jessica’s most promising pupils in school. She was also a willing worker and was fast becoming surrogate mother to her three brothers—Luke and Mark, her stepbrothers, and little John Benjamin, her half brother.

Rachel also had two foster sisters now. Widow McIntire and her two daughters had been drawn into the Steed family circle when they joined the Church at Far West just about the time when the Saints were being driven from Missouri. Thus they had become part of that tragic exodus. The mother never quite recovered, and when ague swept through the ranks of the Mormons in the summer of 1839, Nancy McIntire was one of the casualties. Jessica took Jennifer Jo and Kathryn McIntire as her own, and Rachel gained two “sisters” on a permanent basis. Kathryn and Rachel had become especially close, in spite of the six years’ difference in their ages.

Rachel was in the schoolroom too. She was supposed to be sorting the reading books but, as usual, had opened one and in a moment was deeply engrossed. Kathryn had forgotten she was there, and so when Peter came to the door, Rachel became a silent witness to the little interchange that followed. Now she watched her sister closely as she stared at the door where Peter had been standing just a few moments before.

“Kathryn?” Rachel asked quietly.

Kathryn jumped and turned. “Oh, Rachel. You’re so quiet.”

“Why are you angry with Peter?”

Kathryn came slowly over to join her. The book Rachel had been reading was forgotten now. “I’m not angry with Peter,” Kathryn said slowly. “Why do you say that?”

It was not Rachel’s nature to be disingenuous. She was only nine, and maybe she didn’t fully understand when adults were angry, but it certainly looked to her like Kathryn was angry. “You acted angry.”

Kathryn sat down wearily. “I’m not angry, Rachel. It’s just
that . . .” Her eyes drew away, remembering. “Ooh! He’s so transparent! He’s blind, and insensitive, and, and—” She stopped, frustrated that she couldn’t think of any other appropriate words.

Just then the door opened and Jessica came into the room, carrying several books in her arms. Right behind her was Jennifer Jo. Peter was immediately forgotten. Rachel leaped up and ran to Jennifer Jo and gave her a hug. “Hi, Jennifer Jo.”

“Hello, Rachel.” She bent down and kissed Rachel on top of the head, then turned. “Good morning, Kathryn.”

“Hello.” It came out as little more than a growl.

Jennifer Jo gave Kathryn a sharp look, then turned to Jessica, who just shrugged. Finally, she looked back down at Rachel. “I thought I’d come help you all get ready for school. What needs to be done?”

“You could help me sort the books,” Rachel answered. Then, looking at her mother sheepishly, she admitted, “I started reading a story and I haven’t gotten very far.”

Jessica smiled, not at all surprised.

“Are you excited for school?” Jennifer Jo asked Rachel.

“Oh, yes.”

“Do you think you will be able to stand Kathryn as a teacher?” Jennifer Jo said, watching her sister out of the corner of her eye. “Your mother tells me that she’s going to let Kathryn teach the reading groups.”

Rachel giggled. “Mama says that Kathryn will get all the bad students, and she’ll take all the good ones.”

“That’s right,” Kathryn murmured, moving back to where she had been counting papers. “Jessica knows my capabilities well.”

“Kathryn!” Jessica exclaimed in dismay. “You know I was only teasing about that. You will make a fine teacher. And I’m going to give all of the teaching of reading—good and bad students—over to you.”

Jennifer Jo was watching her sister carefully. This was not Kathryn. Kathryn’s disposition was more sober than her own, but still she was usually sunny and cheerful, a legacy they had both inherited from their mother. So Jennifer Jo knew what to do. Both of them had long ago perfected the ability to pull each other out of blue moods.

She turned and looked at Jessica. “Maybe she just needs some help, Jessica. What if you got her a teaching assistant?”

Jessica caught on immediately. “Oh, now there’s an idea for you.” She smiled broadly at Kathryn. “But it would have to be someone who already has experience.”

Kathryn’s head came up for a moment. She knew what her sister was doing and she clearly didn’t appreciate it. Then she looked down at the papers again. Jennifer Jo was still looking at Jessica and didn’t see it. “What about that one boy? Let’s see, what was his name?”

Kathryn kept her eyes down. “Jenny . . .” It came as a quiet warning.

Jessica’s smile slowly died and she pulled back, sensing this was not the time for teasing. But Jennifer Jo was determined to bring her sister out of whatever it was that was bothering her. “Oh, yes,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Ingalls, I think. Peter Ingalls. Wasn’t that his name? Maybe he could help her out.”

Kathryn whirled away, slamming the remaining papers down on the table. With an angry toss of her head, she stomped from the room. Jennifer Jo stared at her in disbelief. “Well,” she said after a moment of awkward silence, “I didn’t expect that to happen.”

“Something’s wrong,” Jessica agreed.

Rachel quickly told her mother and Jennifer Jo what had happened.

“Oh, dear,” Jennifer Jo said, deeply contrite. “This was not the time to try and cheer her up, I guess.” She started for the door. “I’d better go make my peace with her.”

It was like what the French called
déjà vu.
Will Steed rolled over in the bed, turning his head away from the window where the drapes blocked the direct rays of the sun but did very little to keep the light out. It was the same hotel room in Warsaw where they had stayed on their way to St. Louis. One difference was they had got in much later last night—or earlier this morning, to be more exact—than they had on the trip down. Just after dusk, their boat had run aground on a sandbar. No damage was done, but even with all of the power of the boiler put into the paddle wheel, they couldn’t back off. Finally, a little after nine, another boat came by and threw them a line. That worked, but the captain was all the more cautious as they continued upriver, and it was almost two o’clock in the morning before they reached Warsaw. It took them another ten minutes to roust the hotel clerk from a deep sleep, and so it was past three before father and son finally were in bed.

Will cracked one eye open. Sure enough, the bed beside him was empty. His father had gone again. Well, that was just too bad, he thought, turning over and burying his head beneath the pillow. They were taking that wagonload of goods back to Nauvoo. This time there was no boat to miss. His body felt as if he had been dragged behind the boat. His mouth was dry and foul-tasting. Behind the closed lids his eyes burned. If he overslept, he decided, his father could just darn well wait.

But five minutes later, he knew it was futile. He was awake and there was going to be no changing that. Grumpy as a bear kicked awake in mid-December, Will dressed, shaved in the bathroom down the hall, and then went downstairs. It was ten-fifteen, he saw, and he was famished again. He started up the street for Callahan’s, but then, remembering what had happened before, he slowed his step. Hungry or not, he would wait for his father. He stopped altogether now, trying to decide what to do.

Without realizing it, he had stopped directly next to the window of the newspaper office. As he looked around, his eye was caught by the editions of the
Warsaw Signal
that had been posted there. Absently, still wondering where to look for his father, he noticed that the nearest issue was dated with today’s date. Down the window a little, four earlier editions were posted with a notice that copies were still available for sale. The one dated July 21 caught his eye and he backed up a little.

After ten minutes of moving back and forth reading snippets from the paper, Will was positively seething. He knew about Thomas Sharp’s helping to form an anti-Mormon political party here in Warsaw. That had been the talk of Nauvoo a few weeks before. So it was no surprise that the paper contained announcements and propaganda related to this party and its objectives. That was not what made Will angry. Most newspapers in America were strongly partisan in one way or another.