The Work and the Glory (270 page)

“He’s not dead, Joshua.”

He turned, half-startled. “I never said he was.”

She didn’t respond to that. Couldn’t respond to that. But she had known his thoughts. “I know he’s alive,” she whispered fiercely. “I can feel it!”

“Of course he’s alive,” he said, pulling her into his arms and letting her bury her head against his shoulder. She began to weep openly now. “Will is a very resourceful young man,” he said, stroking her hair. “At fourteen, he was already half running the freight yard for me. He’ll be all right.”

“Then why haven’t we heard from him?” she cried. “Why haven’t we gotten even one letter?”

Joshua just held her tight against him. “I don’t know,” he finally whispered. “I don’t know.”

They were a full two hours out into the open sea before the door to the storage locker opened. Will sat up, putting up his arm to shield his eyes from the bright light. Jiggers stepped back. “You got one hour to get something to eat from the mess. Then you’re on duty again.”

Will nodded, still squinting. It was a beautiful clear day, and the sunlight off the water was blinding. “All right,” he said. He was grateful to be out, and he was grateful for the chance to eat. The food they had brought him during his confinement was cold and greasy.

He saw that several of the crew were watching him, but as he glared at them they looked away guiltily. Will walked slowly, letting the stiffness in his legs work itself out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jiggers turn around and head aft. As soon as he was out of sight, Will immediately changed his direction slightly and crossed over to the port side of the ship, where Petey was splicing a line.

The young man, only two or three years older than Will, saw him coming and busied himself intently with his work. Will slowed his step. “Did you do it?” he hissed.

Petey glanced up at him in panic. “Blast it, Will!” he said in a low voice. “You’re going to get us both thrown in the brig.”

“Did you deliver it?” Will demanded, stopping a foot or two farther on, as though he saw something out over the water. “Did you deliver the letter?”

Petey still would not look at him, but after a moment, there was a soft reply. “Yes,” he said. “I delivered it.”

Will’s shoulders lifted as he walked away. So it was done. The letter hadn’t reached anyone in time to get him off the ship in Savannah, as he so desperately hoped, but it was done. Now at least his mother would know what had happened to her son.

As he started down the ladder to the mess kitchen, he felt buoyed up. There would be other chances. Maybe his mother and Abner would have someone waiting in New York. The ship still had to stop there before turning east and sailing for England. There would be other chances.

Heber C. Kimball raised his head, and his plodding footsteps slowed. They were just entering the outskirts of what remained of Far West, Missouri. Though he was accustomed now to the scenes they were entering, it was still depressing. Far West was but a shell of its former glory. There were only about forty families left now, less than two hundred people out of some five thousand. The city still bore the grim evidence of that day in November when the legions of hell had been turned loose in its streets. Many of the cabins had no roofs. Others still had the rafters, but they were open to the afternoon sky, like the gaunt ribs of long-dead buffalo one saw from time to time on the prairie. Sod huts lay in heaps. Here and there a blackened mound bore silent witness to the torching of a haystack or the burning of a barn. Bleak, barren, almost totally deserted, it was a mournful and depressing sight.

The mental and spiritual weariness added to his physical exhaustion. In February, word had come from the south that the Missourians had released Sidney Rigdon from the Liberty jail. He had made his way east and was now in Illinois. Rigdon had been ill, and the brethren surmised that his release was a thinly disguised way for the Missourians to make sure they didn’t end up with a dead man on their hands. But it had still nevertheless raised the Saints’ hopes that something might be done for Joseph and Hyrum and the others who were still incarcerated. The Prophet and others had written petitions to the state supreme court judges, and so the Committee on Removal decided to appoint Theodore Turley to accompany Heber C. Kimball to the state capital to present the petitions and see if something could be done for the prisoners.

The two brethren had mostly walked on their journey, spending a little time in Ray County in order to obtain important papers related to their fellow brethren’s imprisonment, papers they also wanted to show to the supreme court judges. From there they went on, stopping only occasionally to curl up on the ground, cloaks clutched tightly around them, snatching a few minutes of sleep before the cold drove them up and on again. They arrived in Jefferson City and met with judges of the state supreme court as well as with the secretary of state—the latter because Lilburn W. Boggs, the “honorable” governor of the state of Missouri, was out of town. These visits, as well as one to Judge King, who had presided at the Richmond hearing back in November, proved to be fruitless efforts. Now they were about to end their journey back in Far West, a total trip of nearly three hundred miles.

Heber turned his head and saw that his companion was looking at the ruins around them. Heber smiled, a humorless, ironic smile. “Do you know what day it is today, Brother Theodore?”

Turley was surprised. “It’s Friday.”

“Yes, the fifth of April.” There was a long pause, then, “Nine years ago tomorrow the Church was organized.”

Turley nodded soberly. He had completely forgotten about that.

Heber slowed his step for a moment. They were passing the house of Hyrum and Mary Fielding Smith. The windows were smashed out. The door was completely gone. Someone had tied a rope to one of the logs on the southeast corner and yanked it loose, collapsing the front wall. There was a crumpled chair visible in the darkened interior. A remnant of a blanket was a sodden spot in the trampled mud.

Heber raised a hand in a forlorn salute. “Happy anniversary,” he murmured softly.

“You didn’t even get to see the governor?”

Heber’s head moved back and forth slowly.

“He was out of the city on business somewhere,” Turley supplied, wanting to lessen the disappointment on the faces of the four men who sat in a half circle around the table. “But we did get to see the secretary of state.”

“So it was all for nothing!” Stephen Markham said bitterly. Stephen Markham was the man Joseph had entrusted with the task of taking Emma and her family east. It was he who had seen her and the children safely across the ice of the Mississippi River and into Quincy. Though it would have been easy to just stay in Illinois and rest for a time, he had come back to help with getting the last of the Saints from Missouri. He, of all the Committee on Removal, had felt the most strongly that Heber and Turley would be bringing back good news.

Alanson Ripley leaned forward eagerly, ignoring Markham’s moroseness. “How are Joseph and Hyrum and the others? Brother Markham tried to visit them yesterday but was turned away, and it’s been three weeks since I visited them.”

Heber’s answer showed his weariness and dejection. “Not good. We weren’t allowed in to see them either. We could only talk to them through the window grate. As you know, that hole they call a jail is unbearable. There’s no heat. The conditions are filthy. They can’t even stand up straight, the ceiling is so low.” He couldn’t keep the discouragement out of his voice. “They’ve lost a lot of weight. You can see it in their faces.” Then, suddenly remembering something, he brightened. “However, as Brother Joseph bid us farewell, he made a most peculiar statement.”

“Like what?” Markham asked.

“He said, ‘Be of good cheer, brethren, for we shall be delivered.’ ”

“He did?” Ripley blurted eagerly. “He said that?”

Markham’s countenance brightened only momentarily, then fell again. “That’s just Joseph,” he muttered. “Always trying to be hopeful. Not wanting anyone to worry.”

“No,” Heber retorted, his spirits lifting. In his weariness he had almost forgotten this. “It was more than that. We told him the news about our failure in Jefferson City, of course. He didn’t seem too surprised, or discouraged either. ‘We shall be delivered,’ he said, ‘but only the arm of God can deliver us now.’ ”

Turley was nodding thoughtfully. “That’s right. That’s exactly what he said. ‘Only the arm of God can deliver us now.’ ”

Heber stood up, all business now. “He also said that we are to get the rest of the Saints away as fast as possible.”

Back in January, when a council of the brethren had taken a solemn covenant that they would not leave anyone behind who wished to leave Far West, Theodore Turley had been one of the seven men appointed to serve on the Committee on Removal. A quiet man, a British immigrant of some years before, he was known by all as a man of complete integrity and full dependability. He was widely respected by neighbors and friends—member and nonmember alike.

Turley was physically exhausted, emotionally spent, and spiritually drained, but he stayed behind in the office of the committee after the others had left. There were a few things that needed to be done, and in keeping with his nature, he determined he would do them before he went home to greet his family.

It was nearing six o’clock as he prepared to finish up and go home. Suddenly his head came up. There was the sound of horses outside, several horses. He felt a cold chill. Horses were a scarce commodity among the Saints now. That meant only one thing: these weren’t Latter-day Saints. Heart pounding, he quickly swept the papers into the drawer and started toward the back door, but then as he heard footsteps on the porch, he knew he was too late. Calmly, he sat back down and took the papers out again, pretending to be busily engaged in reading them.

When the door opened, he looked up. He didn’t have to feign surprise. There were eight of them. He knew about half. Captain Bogart was a county judge and a man who hated the Mormons with total dedication. He had been one of the most deadly of the mob during the Mormon War. Doctor Laffity was a prominent resident of the county and also an avowed Mormon-hater. And finally there was John Whitmer.

That struck Turley the hardest. He had been close to the Whitmer family after they had moved to Missouri from Kirtland. He had always viewed them with a sense of awe he could never quite shake. David Whitmer had actually seen Moroni. John, Peter, Jr., Christian, and Jacob had all been privileged to handle the golden plates and see the writings that were engraved on them. Seven or eight revelations in the Doctrine and Covenants had been given directly to members of the Whitmer family. John Whitmer had been called as a historian to the Church. So when he and David had turned against Joseph and left the Church, it had hit Turley hard. Very hard! To have John Whitmer standing shoulder to shoulder with Bogart? It was a bitter jolt.

Theodore Turley kept his hands on the table to keep them from trembling. “Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

John Whitmer seemed to sense Turley’s keen disapproval, for he quickly averted his eyes when Turley looked at him.

“Ah, Turley,” Bogart said, his eyes narrow and glittering with animosity. “So you’ve returned.”

Theodore Turley let his eyes move slowly from face to face. He kept his expression impassive, even though he felt his pulse quicken sharply. It shouldn’t have surprised him that they knew of his arrival. They seemed to know everything anymore. “Yes,” he admitted, “I returned just an hour ago.”

Laffity leaned forward. “We heard that you were trying to get the prisoners released.” There was a quick, triumphant smile. “We also heard you had no success.”

Turley chose not to reply. One of the men pushed his way forward. “Is it true?” he demanded. “Is Joe Smith still going to be brought up to Daviess County for trial?”

There was little point in denying it. Turley nodded.

The man glanced at Bogart. “That’s wonderful!” he exclaimed. He turned back to Turley. “Be a real shame if me and my men couldn’t keep that vow we made.” There was a burst of obscene laughter.

“Vow?” Turley whispered. He knew the man was baiting him, but the menace in his eyes sent a shiver up Turley’s spine.

“That’s right. Fifty of us in Daviess County have vowed to each other that once we’ve seen Joe Smith, we will not eat or drink again until we have shed his blood with our own hands.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing down to tiny points, black, hard, glittering with ugliness and hate. “We’re looking forward to your prophet’s imminent arrival in our county.”

Though it took every effort of will he could muster, Turley did not flinch. He smiled slightly and said, “I should very much like to be there to see you eat your first meal and break that vow.”

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief for one quick second; then he lunged forward. “You dare to mock me?” he cried hoarsely, slamming his fist against the table.

Bogart stepped quickly between the enraged Missourian and Turley, shoving the man back. “You’ll have your day,” he snapped. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a single sheet of paper folded in thirds. He slapped it down on the table. “Are you familiar with this?”

Curious, Turley picked it up and unfolded it. He recognized it immediately, though the handwriting was not familiar to him. Some unknown person had made a copy of the revelation given to Joseph Smith in July of the previous year. It was a revelation giving instructions for the Twelve Apostles. One paragraph had been circled boldly with pen and ink. Turley looked up again. “Yes, I am.”

“Read it,” Bogart snarled. “The part that’s marked.”

Turley did so in a firm voice. “ ‘And next spring let them—’ ” He stopped, and looked at the men circling him. “By ‘them’ it means the Twelve. ‘Let them depart to go over the great waters, and there promulgate my gospel, the fulness thereof, and bear record of my name. Let them take leave of my saints in the city of Far West, on the twenty-sixth day of April next, on the building-spot of my house, saith the Lord.’ ”

Turley folded the paper slowly and shoved it back toward Bogart.