Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Nine months had now passed since that dark September night and the bitter confrontation between father and son. Benjamin still felt sickened whenever he let his mind run over those few moments in Asa Lilly’s tavern—the angry words, Joshua’s mocking laughter, the stinging blow Benjamin had given his son. His mind always stopped at that point, freezing the imagery of the crazed blankness in Joshua’s eyes as he had grabbed the pistol and come within a hairsbreadth of killing his father. They learned later that from the tavern he had gone to the boardinghouse and cleaned out his room, then disappeared.

  Since he took the horse with him, technically he had stolen it, a charge even more serious than attempted robbery. But Benjamin, using some of their last cash reserves, had paid for it, and the charges were quietly dropped. The men of Palmyra keenly felt Benjamin’s shame and let him know he had done all that was expected of a man.

  Since that time, there had been no direct word from Joshua—no letters, not even as much as a note. There were only the rumors—he was fired from a job in Buffalo for drunkenness; he had made it to Pittsburgh and lost the horse gambling; he was working the keelboats along the Ohio; he had been in a brawl and nearly killed a man in Cincinnati. His mother had grown more despondent with the passing months, and they rarely spoke openly of Joshua anymore. But each time a rider came into the yard she would step quickly to the window, her eyes lighting with momentary hope, before she saw who it was and slowly lowered the curtain once again.

  The latest report, brought in just three days before, was the closest they had come to hard news of his whereabouts. A teamster on his way east to pick up a train of wagons and take it back west reported that Joshua was working for a freight outfit in a little town called Independence, Missouri, on the western borders of the United States. Trailhead for both the Oregon and Santa Fe trails, it was a town with a bawdy reputation and wide-open opportunity. Ben had not told his wife the part about the bawdiness, only that the word about Joshua was positive, or at least it seemed to be, for a change. She had immediately sat down and written a letter and insisted Nathan take it into one of the stores and have it posted.

  Swatting at a horsefly buzzing past his ear, Benjamin frowned. He understood Joshua’s hurt and the pride that kept him from writing. Had it been strictly directed toward himself, he could have forgiven his son’s silence. But Joshua’s quarrel was not with his mother or the rest of the family, and it only galled Benjamin further that he wouldn’t give in and write his mother a letter.

  Benjamin had never been one to give credence to the idea of bad blood, but with Joshua he found himself wondering. At first he had been filled with a deep guilt. If he had treated Joshua more gently, not always jumped with both feet on his stubbornness, would things have been different? But he had finally put it aside. He had treated Joshua no differently than he treated the other children. Nathan had never reared back like a rebellious colt fighting the halter rope. Melissa spoke her mind freely enough, heaven knows, but it had never brought her into open battle with her father. And no Steed—not in all the eight generations since the first one stepped off the boat in Boston almost two hundred years earlier—no Steed had ever been taught to go after another man’s property, be it gold plates or whatever.

  Benjamin was jerked out of his brooding as a movement off to his right caught his eye. He was heading for Palmyra Village and was just passing the Martin Harris home. A man came out of the side door and started around the house. Benjamin yanked sharply on the reins, pulling the mules up. “Ho, Martin! Is that you?”

  The well-dressed man turned and one arm came up instantly. “Benjamin Steed. How are you?”

  “Fine, Martin,” Benjamin called. He clucked at the mules and turned the wagon into the yard.

  Martin strode over and stuck out his hand. “Ben, good to see you again.”

  “And you as well,” Benjamin responded, returning the firm grip. “Heard tell you been away.”

  “I was, I was.” Martin noted the sweat on his brow. “You look like you could stand a spell out of the sun. Come on, I’ve got some wine cooling in the icehouse. Or are you in a hurry?”

  Benjamin shook his head and swung down.

  Martin nodded, glancing up at the sun, brassy now with the haze which filled the air. “It’s a scorcher today. Too hot to do much of anything.”

  As they walked around the back of the house to where a table sat beneath a large hickory tree, Martin called toward the house. In a moment a girl in her late teens appeared at the door. “Lucy, bring Mr. Steed and me some glasses.”

  As they settled back, Benjamin took off his hat and wiped at his brow. “Heard tell you were down in Pennsylvania.”

  “Yes. Just got back a few days ago. Hold on. Let me get the wine.”

  As Martin walked toward the icehouse, Benjamin felt a quick rush of envy. He looked around at the solidly built home and the outbuildings. According to reports in the village, Martin had left in mid-April. That meant he had been gone about two months. Someday, Benjamin vowed, he would bring his farm to the point at which he could leave it in the hands of hired help for two months if he chose. That was what it meant to be a gentleman farmer.

  The door to the house opened and the girl came out carrying a small tray with two glasses. Martin also reappeared, a bottle of wine in his hand. “Benjamin, this is my daughter Lucy.”

  Benjamin nodded as the girl smiled and curtsied slightly. Mrs. Harris was also named Lucy, and Benjamin could see the resemblance between mother and daughter. “Thank you, Lucy.” Martin uncorked the bottle and poured each man a glass as the girl went back into the house.

  “You been gone on business?” Benjamin asked, sipping the cool wine, letting it roll on his tongue so he could savor its cool tang.

  Martin leaned back, took a drink, then another, then reached for the bottle and refilled his glass.

  Benjamin sensed his sudden reticence and was embarrassed he had seemed to pry. He turned and gazed out across the cornfields to the south of the house. The corn was now over a foot high and had the deep green color which foretold a bounteous harvest. “It’s a good crop you’ve got comin’, Martin,” he said quickly.

  Martin nodded. “It’s going to be another good year.” He sipped at the wine, watching Benjamin over the top of his glass. “Your place is looking right smart now too.”

  Benjamin swung around to look to the north. The tree line along the creek mostly hid his property from view, but he nodded nevertheless, not trying to hide the satisfaction he felt.

  “How many acres do you figure you’ve got cleared now?”

  He calculated slowly, though he already knew the answer. “Well, we finished off about forty acres last season, and between last fall and this spring Nathan and I cleared thirty or thirty-five more.”

  “It’s a right handsome farm.”

  “It’s good land. A place where a man could be happy to sink down his roots once and for all.”

  “Yes.”

  Both men fell silent. Martin stroked his beard thoughtfully. Although it was very much in fashion, Benjamin had never much cared for the Greek-style beard Martin chose to wear. It ran from ear to ear, but the chin and jaw were kept clean shaven so the beard looked somewhat like a bandage one wrapped around the face to cope with a toothache. Benjamin himself was clean shaven, and preferred it that way.

  Feeling Martin’s eyes upon him, Benjamin concentrated on his wine. In the heat it was quickly losing its chill. Benjamin drained his glass, now suddenly anxious to be on his way.

  “I went south to help Joseph Smith translate the Book of Mormon.”

  Benjamin set the glass down slowly. “The what?” he finally said when the words sank in.

  “I wasn’t on farm business. I went down to Harmony to help Joseph translate the sacred record. It’s called the Book of Mormon.” He picked up the wine bottle and motioned toward Benjamin’s glass.

  Benjamin pushed it toward him, trying to keep his face impassive. After the events of that night nine
months ago, Palmyra Village and the surrounding township was a turmoil of wild rumors and “confirmed” facts: Joseph for sure had the gold Bible. There was no such thing as gold plates. It was a hoax. It was absolute truth.

  Several men swore they had seen the stone box at the top of the hill owned by Pliney Sexton. In fact, the hill south of town was pockmarked with holes dug by hopeful treasure-seekers. Benjamin had seen that for himself. One man claimed to have actually peeked through a window and seen the plates in Smith’s hands, though the man was a known liar and no one gave him much credence. Reports of Joseph being shot at by unknown assailants were more likely true. The whole countryside was in an uproar, and more than one group was determined to get their hands on the gold.

  The pressure on Joseph and Emma had finally gotten so intense that they had moved back to Harmony to live with her parents. That had been over six months ago, and gradually the furor which always seemed to surround Joseph Smith had died down a little.

  Suddenly, Benjamin realized Martin had refilled his glass and the stern blue eyes were surveying him carefully. He cleared his throat. “And how is Joseph doing?” he said carefully.

  “He’s fine. Emma was big with child when I left. They should have a baby by now.”

  Not sure what to say, Benjamin just nodded. The whole tragedy with Joshua had been triggered by the business with Joseph and his gold Bible, and Benjamin wanted no part of it. Feeling the silence stretching out to the point of discomfort, he picked up the glass and gulped it down. “Well, I’d best be going.”

  Martin looked at him steadily. “He does have them, you know.”

  In spite of himself, Benjamin leaned forward. “Have you seen them?”

  With a deep sigh, Martin shook his head. “The angel has forbidden him to show them to anyone.”

  Of course. But Benjamin kept his face expressionless.

  “But Emma’s felt them under a cloth.” Martin reached across and grabbed Benjamin’s arm. “And I got to write for Joseph as he translated. He would set on one side of a table, I would set on the other. There would be a curtain between us—”

  Benjamin fought the temptation to openly scoff. “How can he translate anything? He’s barely been to school.”

  “But that’s the miracle of it,” Martin burst out. “He translates by the gift and power of God. He has the sacred stones, the Urim and Thummim, that were buried with the plates. These help him.”

  Benjamin made no attempt to disguise his skepticism. It only heightened Martin’s excitement. “Do you believe the Bible, Ben?” he asked eagerly.

  “Of course, but—”

  “In the Old Testament, the high priest had a Urim and Thummim, Ben. It was something God prepared to help men receive revelation. That’s what the angel gave Joseph. They help him translate the record. God hid them up with the gold plates so Joseph could translate.”

  Benjamin sat back, feeling cornered. He had great admiration for Martin Harris and he had no desire to offend him, but magical stones?

  Martin rushed on, leaning forward now, his wine forgotten. “Joseph would study the plates, then give the translation. I would write as Joseph read from the plates.” His eyes were shining. “Oh, Benjamin. It was a marvelous experience. We’ve written a hundred and sixteen pages so far.”

  That startled Benjamin a little. He had never thought about the record as being real, so the length of it had never crossed his mind. A hundred and sixteen pages was—

  “Benjamin, I’m telling you, it’s true.” Martin had leaned across and grabbed his arm. His grip was hard, the fingers digging into the flesh. “It’s true.”

  Benjamin cleared his throat. This would have to be done delicately, but words didn’t come.

  Martin sat back. “I gave him fifty dollars, you know. To help him and Emma get down to Harmony.” He pulled a face. “Lucy—Mrs. Harris—still hasn’t forgiven me for that.”

  Fifty dollars! Ben sat back, a little dazed. That was two months’ wages for a working man.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Ben. But I didn’t go into this with my eyes closed.” He turned toward the house. “Lucy!”

  In a moment his daughter appeared at the door again. “Bring me the Bible.” He turned back to Benjamin. “I had my doubts, too. Joseph is a good boy, but I was getting lots of pressure from Mrs. Harris and others. Everyone thought I was crazy.” He sighed. “So I asked Joseph if he would copy some of the characters from the plates for me.”

  “And did he?”

  “Oh yes. Joseph is very anxious to convince people he’s really got the plates. He wishes he could show the plates to people, but the angel has absolutely forbidden it. It’s been hard for him.”

  Or smart of him!

  Martin’s daughter came out carrying a large family Bible and handed it to her father.

  “Thank you, dear.” A slip of paper stuck out about midway in the book, and Martin opened the book at the place. He took the paper out and handed it across to Benjamin. Lucy leaned forward trying to see it better. Martin looked up sharply. “That’s all, Lucy.”

  Blushing, she hurried back into the house. Benjamin took it, curious in spite of himself. It was a piece of foolscap, about six or seven inches long and four or five wide. On it was an assortment of strange characters arranged in columns. Benjamin was not a learned man, so all he could say was these looked like no writing he had ever seen before. He handed the paper back to Martin.

  “Well?” Martin asked.

  He shrugged. It looked like the scribblings of a child. “Who’s to say what those are or what they mean?”

  “That’s what I thought too, to be honest with you. So I wanted to test it, see if I could get some kind of proof for those who were saying Joseph was crazy.”

  And yourself. Martin was passing over it quickly, but Benjamin saw more clearly now that, for all his trust in Joseph, Martin had reservations too.

  “Once Joseph gave me a copy of the characters, I decided to find out for myself.” He tapped on the table with one finger, emphasizing his point. “Benjamin, I didn’t go into this blindly. I wanted to really know.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “I went to New York City.”

  Benjamin blinked. “You what?”

  “That’s right, I went to New York City. I wanted to find someone who could tell me if these were authentic or not.” Martin was lost in his own thoughts now, remembering. “I was referred to a Professor Charles Anthon at Columbia College. He is one of the leading authorities in ancient languages. So I got an appointment with him and showed him the characters. Then I showed him Joseph’s translation of the same.”

  He was looking off now, at a point somewhere behind Benjamin’s shoulder. Benjamin waited for a moment, then couldn’t stand it any longer. “And?” he prompted.

  “He studied it carefully, then pronounced Joseph’s translation to be correct.”

  Benjamin felt the breath go out of him a little.

  “I asked if he would write me a certificate stating his conclusions so I could bring it home and show it to the people of Palmyra. He agreed and did so immediately.” Finally, Martin’s eyes came down to meet Benjamin’s. “I thanked him and started for the door. He called my name, and when I turned back, he asked me how Joseph had found these gold plates. I told him an angel of God had revealed to him where they were. He nodded, then asked if he could see the certificate he had written. I accordingly took it out of my pocket and handed it back to him.”

  Martin’s mouth tightened in anger. “He took it and tore it up.”

  Benjamin leaned forward. “Tore it up? But why?”

  “He was angry and said there was no such thing as the ministering of angels anymore. He said if I would bring the plates to him he would translate them. I told him I was forbidden to bring them, and…” His eyes dropped to the Bible in front of Benjamin. “And I also told him part of the plates were sealed.”

  “Sealed? What do you mean sealed?”

  “About t
wo-thirds of the plates have a band around them so Joseph can’t read them. He’s been told he is not to translate that part of the book.”

  Benjamin felt himself reeling. There were so many twists, so many bizarre aspects to this whole situation.

  “Anyway,” Martin was continuing, “when I said that, Professor Anthon said, ‘Well, I cannot read a sealed book.’”

  He said it with such solemnity while gazing directly into Benjamin’s eyes. Benjamin began to squirm a little. There was some significance here, but for the life of him he didn’t know what it was.

  Martin reached across the table for the Bible, which still lay open to the place where the foolscap had been inserted. He turned the book around and slid it across in front of Benjamin. Benjamin looked down and saw it was opened to the book of Isaiah.

  “Read verses eleven and twelve, there in the twenty-ninth chapter.”

  Puzzled, Benjamin ran his finger down the page and found the place. “‘And the vision of all is become unto you as the words of a book that is sealed—’”

  Martin leaned forward eagerly. “That’s right, Benjamin. A sealed book. Keep reading.”

  “—‘as the words of a book that is sealed, which men deliver to one that is learned, saying, Read this, I pray thee: and he saith, I cannot; for it is sealed.’”

  Martin leaned back, his eyes half-closed. “Ben, do you have any idea what it’s like to be part of the fulfillment of a prophecy which is almost three thousand years old?”

  “You mean…” Benjamin was getting more troubled by the moment. “You think this scripture is talking about this Book…this Book of Mormon?”

  “Finish reading, then we’ll talk.”