No list of sources used in writing the novel is provided herein. For those who wish to read more on the history of the Church, I recommend Church History in the Fulness of Times, prepared by the Church Educational System of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and available at LDS distribution centers or LDS bookstores. It is a highly readable and well-researched one-volume history of the Church, and has more than adequate bibliographic references for those who wish a more in-depth study.
Pillar of Light is the first volume in a series titled The Work and the Glory. In future volumes readers will follow the Steed family as the Church moves to Ohio and Missouri, as they are driven to Illinois and eventually to the Rocky Mountains. Zion’s Camp, the Kirtland apostasy, the horrors of the Missouri persecutions, and the move to Nauvoo will all have a continuing impact on the family. New generations of Steeds will face the exodus across the plains to the Great Basin, the colonization period, and the plural marriage years. Benjamin and Mary Ann’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren will continue right up to the last decade of the twentieth century, entering a new era for the Church and facing new challenges as Latter-day Saints.
Today over seven million Latter-day Saints are found throughout the world. Each has to decide for himself how he will respond to the legacy of Joseph Smith that is part of Church membership. Each year an army of some forty thousand missionaries in nearly a hundred countries tells and retells the story of Joseph Smith to hundreds of thousands of nonmembers. Pillar of Light begins the story of the Steed family, who—through a chance decision to move to Palmyra, New York, in the fall of 1826—encounter Joseph Smith and the events of the Restoration. While the Steeds are fictional, the choices they faced, the emotions and conflicts generated by that encounter with Joseph are not fictional—not for them, and not for their children and their children’s children.
In the spring of 1820, Joseph Smith went into a grove of trees and emerged bearing witness that he had seen, in a pillar of light, the Father and the Son. To everyone who hears that story, whether at mother’s knee or sitting across the table from two young men with short haircuts and missionary name tags, the question is essentially the same as that faced by the Steeds in 1827: What will be my response to Joseph Smith and his story of a pillar of light?
Clearly a project of this size and scope involves the talents and efforts of many people, and it is appropriate that they receive recognition, though that recognition can never be commensurate with the significance of their individual contributions.
Foremost, thanks belong to Kenneth Ingalls Moe and his wife, Jane. It was “Kim” who first fired me with his dream of telling the story of the Restoration in fictional form so that readers could feel more intensely its reality and the personal drama that comes with it. His commitment to the project has never lagged. His support—financial, emotional, and spiritual—has been unfailing. His suggestions have been thoughtful, full of insight, and have brought a dimension to the project that would have otherwise been lacking and sorely missed. It can honestly be said that were it not for Kim and Jane, there would be no Pillar of Light today. How can one offer adequate thanks for that kind of contribution?
My wife, Lynn, has been now, for almost three decades, not only my eternal companion but also “an help meet” in the fullest sense of that expression. She is always the first to read the manuscript, and I have tremendous confidence in her sense of when it is working and what needs to be done to in prove it. Along with Kim, her vision of this project and its potential has been one of the sustaining forces in bringing it to fruition.
To the numerous others also go my deepest thanks: To Deena Nay, for her invaluable help in setting up files, indexing, cataloging, and computerizing the manuscript. For Frederick “Rick” Huchel, who provided a unique combination of editing and research talents; his meticulous and impeccable research is felt throughout the book. Calvin Stephens, whom I consider to be one of the finest historians in the Church, read the final manuscript and corrected several important details. The staff at Bookcraft were a pleasure to work with, for they were as excited and enthusiastic about the project as was the author: Russell Orton and Cory Maxwell gave their immediate and total commitment to the series; Garry Garff struck that difficult balance which always faces editors—adjusting and polishing the work without imposing his own style or preferences upon it; Jana Erickson is responsible for the overall design and feel of the book, a final but lasting contribution to the finished work.
Finally, while we recognize that the Lord needs no recognition, both Kim and I have felt his continuing presence and help in this project. If there be any praise or honor due, let it be to the Father and the Son, for when all is said and done, it is their work and their glory that is described herein. Our hope is that they find it an acceptable offering of thanks to them.
GERALD N. LUND
Bountiful, Utah
July 1990
Characters of Note in the Novel
The Steed Family
Benjamin, the father.
Mary Ann Morgan, the mother.
Joshua, the oldest son; about twenty as the novel begins.
Nathan, two years younger than Joshua.
Melissa, oldest surviving daughter; sixteen.
Rebecca, “Becca” to the family; age nine.
Matthew, youngest child; six as the story opens.
The McBrides
Josiah, Lydia’s father and owner of a dry goods store.
Hannah Lovina Hurlburt, Lydia’s mother.
Lydia, eighteen and the only child of her parents.
Bea Johnson, Lydia’s favorite aunt.
The Smiths
*Joseph, Sr., the father.
*Lucy Mack, the mother.
*Hyrum, the oldest surviving son; age twenty-seven as the book begins.
*Joseph, Jr., age twenty-one as the novel opens.
*Emma Hale, Joseph’s wife.
*Samuel Harrison, about nineteen as the story opens.
*The other Smith children—Sophronia, William, Catherine, Don Carlos, and Lucy—are mentioned but play no major role in this volume.
*Designates actual people from Church history.
Others
Mark Cooper, cousin to the Murdocks.
*Oliver Cowdery, associate of Joseph Smith’s; local school master.
*Martin Harris, gentleman farmer from Palmyra.
*Joseph Knight, well-to-do farmer from the Colesville New York, area.
Will Murdock, rowdy from Palmyra.
David Murdock, Will’s brother.
Jessica Roundy, saloon keeper’s daughter in Indepen dence, Missouri.
*Josiah Stowell (“Stoal” in some historical sources), well to-do farmer from the Colesville, New York, area.
*David Whitmer, friend of Oliver Cowdery’s from Fayette, New York.
*Peter Whitmer, Sr., and other members of the Whitmer family are mentioned but play no major role in this volume.
*Designates actual people from Church history.
The Benjamin Steed Family
Pillar of Light
Just at this moment…I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me. It no sooner appeared than I found myself delivered from the enemy which held me bound.
—Joseph Smith-History 1:16-17
Chapter One
It was a frosty morning this early March day in 1827, and Matthew Steed could feel the chill permeating the cabin. His father, up half an hour earlier, had laid a new fire in the great stone fireplace below—he could hear the faint crackling of the logs and smell the wood smoke—but it would be another hour before the heat penetrated through the cabin and up into the attic loft.
Matthew burrowed more deeply into the “quilt tent” he had made to trap the warmth of his body and breath. The room was mostly dark, but the first light of morning was coming through the four glass panes mounted in the eastern wall of the cabin. At six, Matthew didn�
��t yet fully appreciate the value of having a “glass window.” The glass industry was still in its infancy, and glass was rare enough that a house with more than ten glass panes was levied a special tax. Most cabin owners, especially out on the frontier, covered their windows with inexpensive oil paper, or occasionally with glass bottles cemented side by side to form a glass wall. Though the bottle windows were strong enough to withstand arrows or even a bullet, the dark green bottles let in little light. These four panes had been a gift from Grandpa Morgan to Matthew’s mother on the day she had married Benjamin Steed. Such a valued possession was not left behind when a family changed homes, and when the Steed family moved from Vermont to western New York the previous fall, the panes came with them.
The hand-poured squares were filled with waves and bubbles of varied sizes and shapes which distorted the light in the most wondrous ways. It didn’t take much for a six-year-old’s imagination to transform the wavy images into living things. Now, for instance, the swaying branches outside—still without their leaves—became a circle of Indians in a frenzied war dance. Then almost instantly they transformed themselves into serpents of every imaginable shape, raising up to stand on their tails, all the better to strike at the closest victim.
With a little shudder, Matthew pulled the “tent” over his head, hiding the towhead of hair and the beetle-bright eyes. He stretched out his toes, reaching for the square block of soapstone his father had taken from the fire the previous night. Each family member had his own block which was wrapped in cloth and put at the foot of his bed under the covers. But that had been almost twelve hours ago, and the soapstone was nearly cold. For a moment he was tempted to drift off to sleep again, but he knew he’d be foolish to do that. His father had already called up to him once. If it happened again, Matthew would get an extra chore.
A noise below him caused his eyes to fly open. The Steed cabin, built hastily the previous fall before cold weather set in, consisted of one large, open room on the main floor. This served as kitchen, eating area, parlor, and as the main living space for the family. One corner contained a large brass bed. This was screened off at night and served as a bedroom for his parents. Near the west wall, stairs led to a second floor. This contained two bedrooms, only partially separated by a partition, where Matthew’s brothers and sisters slept. A notched log ladder just in front of the partition led up to the small attic loft which belonged solely to Matthew.
He pulled the covers back, peeking out, then instantly groaned. Rebecca, his nine-year-old sister, was clambering out of her bed, clothes clutched under one arm, tugging her nightshirt down with the other hand.
“Becca! I get to dress first.”
She looked up, startled for a moment, then shook her head, tousled hair bobbing, and darted for the stairs.
“Becca!”
But she was gone, and he knew he had lost his chance to beat her to the fireplace. During the cold months, no one wanted to change clothes in the chill of his bedroom, so a small fabric screen was placed in front of the fireplace to provide some privacy for dressing. Not only did it trap a little of the heat from the fire but it also allowed one to stand on the hearthstone, still warm from the previous day’s fire, and feel the heat through the heavy woolen socks. He sank back. He would wait until Becca was finished.
Below him, Matthew heard the cabin door open. “Matthew, are you up yet?”
He sat bolt upright. “Yes, Mama. I’m coming.”
The door shut again. With a sigh worthy of a grown man, Matthew groped under the covers at the foot of his bed. The night before he had neatly folded his cotton shirt and homespun trousers and placed them near his feet so they would be warm come morning. He jammed them under his nightshirt, then found his high-topped shoes and tucked them under one arm. Taking a quick breath, steeling himself, he exploded from his “tent.” Down the log ladder, past the partition, down the stairs, and out of the cabin door. He ran as fast as his short, six-year-old legs could move, determined to do as Pa always said, “Run so fast the cold can’t catch you.”
He bounded across the frozen dirt, little puffs of breath trailing behind him. Inside the barn, he paused only for a moment to assess the situation. The mules were already gone, but Old Boss, the milk cow, was lying in her stall, lazily chewing her cud.
“Come on, Bossie,” he shouted, darting in to grab at her halter. “Move!” With a low moo of protest, she lumbered to her feet. Leaning against the softness of her chest, Matthew pushed her backward. “Move, Old Boss!”
Good naturedly she backed out of the stall. Careful of where he stepped, Matthew moved instantly to stand on the matted straw where she had been lying. The results were immediate. The warmth from the big body seeped through his socks and spread across the bottoms of his feet. It also filled the air around him. With a little shiver of relief, Matthew shucked off his nightshirt and began to dress.
Melissa Mary Steed, oldest surviving daughter of Benjamin and Mary Ann Morgan Steed, smiled as she watched her youngest brother dash across the yard and into the barn. It was she who had first taught Matthew where to find a warm dressing place on a cold morning. She had learned it from her mother, who had in turn learned it from her grandfather. And so the generations went on. A sudden wave of sadness swept over her. The generations went on, but no longer in Vermont. She had loved the hill country and rich mountain valleys south of Rutland. In summer the green was rich enough to hurt your eyes, and in fall the blaze of reds, yellows, and oranges almost took the breath away.
The Steed homestead had been one of the finest farms around. There had been a fine frame home with a dining room, parlor, and spacious kitchen. Her father had even run a pipe in from the spring so they could lift a sluice gate and have the water come right into the large slate sink. The village was less than half a mile away, and with the prosperous circumstances the Steeds were in, Melissa and her mother had been regular customers in the several dry goods stores which the village boasted. There had also been more than one young man around, watching this fifteen-year-old girl who had suddenly blossomed into womanhood.
Then all had changed. Reports of the rich wheat land of western New York had touched some wanderlust in her father. Almost before the children were aware, the homestead was sold, and her father was off in midsummer to look for land in some township called Palmyra. A month later, with nineteen-year-old Joshua and seventeen-year-old Nathan acting as the men of the family, the Steeds packed up their belongings and headed west to join their father.
Melissa sighed, looking around. She could still remember the sick feeling that hit her as she looked out on the stand of virgin forest and heard her father’s pronouncement that this would be their new home. The surrounding farms were rich and prosperous looking, but the acres of trees, with only an occasional clearing or small meadow, which constituted their property seemed formidable beyond belief.
Grudgingly she admitted they had made significant progress since then. They had chosen a small meadow area near the creek with a small spring. Additional trees had been cleared, a cabin-raising with all the neighbors held. Next had come a small barn and a forge. Palmyra Village, only about a mile or so south of their new home, had three fine blacksmith shops, but like many other farmers who had been raised in the colonial era, Benjamin Steed made and repaired most of his own tools, and so a small forge on the homestead was a must.
Last had come the icehouse, with its double-thick walls of stone and mud. With the essentials completed, everything else was held in abeyance as the main task of clearing the land began. Clearing forest to make farmland was serious, backbreaking work, and Melissa understood its urgency. Come this planting season, if they didn’t have enough acreage cleared, there would be serious consequences the following winter.
But what it meant for Melissa was no time off, and no trips to the village. Actually, Palmyra was considerably larger than Rutland, with more than a dozen general stores, four dress shops, and even two hat shops. Her father or one of her older brothers we
nt in occasionally for supplies, but there was too much to be done at the farm for the family to go too. Berries had to be picked and dried, venison cut into strips and smoked, the huge blocks of ice—cut from Lake Canandaigua and hauled in by the teamsters—laid beneath thick layers of straw so they would last through the next summer. There was wood to be cut and stacked for winter. The dirt floor of the cabin needed to be smoothed, rolled, and tamped with logs, making it hard enough to see them through until winter snows stopped the field work and time could be devoted to cutting the wood planks.
Sighing once again, Melissa turned back to the quern. Here was another source of frustration for her. In Vermont her father had built a waterwheel on the creek and they had their own gristmill. Her parents kept assuring her a gristmill was part of their plans for the future, but in the meantime they didn’t want to spend what surplus cash they had saved from the sale of the farm to purchase cornmeal and wheat flour from town. So grinding meal at the quern became Melissa’s daily morning task.
The quern was a simple device. A hollow barrel, about three feet high and two feet across, provided the base of the quern. The first, or lower, millstone was attached permanently on the top of the barrel. The upper millstone was placed upon it and left free to turn. To make it functional, the upper stone had two holes cut into the rock. The first, near the outer perimeter, was only deep enough to provide a place for the quern stick, or handle, for turning the stone. A larger hole, in the exact center of the stone, was cut clear through. Here the corn was poured. As the upper stone was turned around and around, the corn was pulled between the two stones and ground into meal. The circular motion would also push the meal outward so it would fall into the barrel. The barrel had a hole on one side near the bottom so the meal could be collected.
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