To be a full five feet tall, Lucy Mack Smith, mother to the Prophet Joseph, would have to go up on tiptoes, and stretch at that. She was not only tiny in height, but she was also small in frame, a wisp that would easily blow away in any kind of serious windstorm. But the spirit that lived inside must have been big enough to fill two or three bodies of that size. With a mixture of amusement and amazement, Lydia Steed watched her getting everything and everyone settled on board the canal boat. So did the captain of the boat.
He was a big, dirty man, with a foul-smelling cigar stub jammed between yellowing teeth. Normally berth assignments on a canal boat were done on a first-come, first-served basis, often accompanied with ugly bickering and sometimes open fights for the best positions. With a group as large as this, the latecomers would end up sleeping on the floor, or on the tables that were set up and taken down each day. But immediately upon the arrival of the group of Saints, Mother Smith took things in hand and began assigning places based on need and circumstances. The captain had sneered at her attempts at first. Now he seemed content to let her put things in order.
“How many children?”
“Four.”
“Sex and ages?”
“Three girls and one boy. Uh...ages? Let’s see.” The man turned to his wife.
She shook her head as though this was no surprise. “Girls, twelve, nine, and three. A boy, seven.”
“All right,” Mother Smith said, pointing down towards the opening that led into the covered area of the boat. “There are four berths in the ladies’ section. Next to the Shurtliffs. Brother Griffin, you’ll have one in the men’s section. Your boy will have to sleep on the floor next to you.”
“Personal belongin’s go in the space near the stern,” the captain said. “That’s the back of the boat to you.”
“But...” The man stepped to the doorway and peered into the gloom of the inside cabin area. “Do you have a larger bunk?” he asked. “I’m a big man—”
The captain cut in. “All the berths are the same size. And by the way, you take a bottom one. Don’t want you crashin’ down on someone if the braces break.”
The man jerked around, his face darkening instantly.
Mother Smith stepped between them, ignoring the captain. “It’s all right, Brother Griffin,” she said cheerfully. “Pay him no mind. Just hope you get to sleep next to someone that don’t kick much. The beds are pretty close together.”
There were several good-natured chuckles around her, but Lydia saw that Brother Griffin was not mollified. In a huff, he gathered up the two valises and a large burlap bag stuffed to the bursting, and followed his wife and children into the inside cabin.
About eighty people had gathered in Kingdon, a small community not far from Fayette, to make the journey west, but one canal boat could never hold a group that size, so they had split the party. Mother Smith took charge of the larger group—twenty adults and about thirty children. They had the larger boat and so could accommodate more. Thomas B. Marsh, a convert who had been baptized in September of the previous year, would lead the second group and follow close behind the first.
It was fascinating to Lydia to watch Mother Smith. She was in her midfifties. She was tiny, and rarely raised her voice in anger. Yet she commanded respect, even from the men.
Mother Smith made the assignments for three more families, including her own children, then turned to Lydia and Nathan. If the task had wearied her, she gave no sign. She smiled kindly. “Now, dears, we have just the place for you two.”
“Anywhere is fine for us,” Lydia said quickly.
“There’re two bunks back by the captain’s cabin,” Mother Smith went on, as though Lydia hadn’t spoken. “They’re not in either the men’s or women’s section. That way, Nathan, you can stay close to your wife.”
“Normally, I put the crew there,” the captain spoke up. He grinned, the cigar bobbing like a cork in a washtub. “But I wouldn’t want no babies bein’ born halfway between here and Buffalo.”
“Mother Smith, I don’t want any special treatment. Nathan and I—”
A finger came up and waggled at her. “Now, you listen to me, young lady. You’ve got the baby to think about.”
“Really, Mother Smith—”
“Shush you, now,” she said sternly. Then with a twinkle in her eye she turned to Nathan. “Is she always this sassy?”
Nathan chuckled. “From time to time.”
Lydia dug an elbow into his side, but Mother Smith just reached out and patted Lydia’s arm. “It’s probably a little stuffier back there, but it’ll be better that way.”
Lydia took her hand. “Thank you, Mother Smith.”
Nathan reached out also and shook her hand gratefully. Then he picked up their things and they started for the cabin.
Canal boats were typically about fifty to fifty-five feet in length. They looked a lot like a drawing Lydia had seen once of Noah’s ark—only on a much smaller scale, of course. Blunt nosed, low in the water, and with a shallow draft—most places along the canal system carried only four feet of water—they were more scow than boat. They definitely were not things of beauty like the sleek ocean-going schooners she had seen lining the docks of Boston.
Instead of open decks, the major part of the boat was filled with the long, wooden cabin area that ran from stem to stern. No higher than four feet above the deck, it had a flat roof where the passengers could come out in the day and sit or stand as the journey progressed. On this particular boat, the cabin was painted a bright yellow. Others were painted with garish reds, blues, greens, and oranges, or combinations of those colors. Having grown up just a block away from the Erie Canal, Lydia had always wondered why the boats were painted with such bright colors. Perhaps they were painted to match the bawdy reputations of the canawlers that captained them and the women who cooked on them.
Inside, the cabin area was partitioned off into two sections, one for the men, one for the ladies. Each wall was filled with wooden berths that were now folded up and attached to the wall with leather straps. The forward section was for the women. The only toilet facilities consisted of a common hairbrush, a single towel, and a bucket of water—drawn by rope from the canal whenever necessary. That made Lydia frown. Long stretches of the canal were stagnant and filled with refuse and the occasional body of a cat or chicken.
With over four dozen people crowding into the limited space, finding their places and getting settled, the air was close and stifling. As Lydia and Nathan picked their way down the main passageway between the people, the smell almost made Lydia gag. She was now long past the queasy time of her pregnancy, but this was like an open assault on the nostrils. The air reeked of stale tobacco smoke, human perspiration, rancid lard from the big cooking kettles, stale perspiration from stacks of blankets that had seen too many hot and humid summer passages, and the peculiar sharpness of whiskey. Every canal boat had a small bar for its gentlemen passengers, alcohol seeming to be the universal anodyne to help dull the “ecstasies” of canal travel.
The men’s section was unbelievably filthy. The floor was fouled with the remnants of the tobacco chewers’ spittle, and beneath the tables she could see scraps of bread, fried bacon, and other remains from previous suppers. Come night, there would be roaches and perhaps a rat or two to contend with. She gave a little shudder, and Nathan reached out and took her hand and squeezed it.
Thankfully, the cramped crew quarters were near the rear door, and as Nathan put their things away as best he could in the limited space, Lydia stepped to the door and inhaled deeply. They would leave the door open once everyone settled down. It would be cold tonight, not far above freezing, but she decided she could bear that more than trying to sleep with the door shut and letting the smell from the men’s section creep through the walls.
“This is disgraceful,” she said after they got their things stowed and she stepped back out into the cabin area. “It’s like pigs have been living in here.”
Nathan stepped ba
ck out and surveyed the cabin area. She was right. It was a disgrace. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Up on top, he found Mother Smith watching the captain getting the last of everything situated. “Sister Smith?”
“Yes, Nathan?”
“Have you been downstairs yet and seen what the cabin area looks like?”
She wrinkled her nose, the blue eyes, which were so like Joseph’s, suddenly crackling with indignation. “Yes, I have. And I gave the captain a piece of my mind too. He promised me faithfully he’d have it all clean for us. He just got back from taking a group to Syracuse.”
“Would you mind if I organized a few of the brethren and sisters and we cleaned it up a little?”
She looked up at him quizzically for a moment.
“What’s the matter?”
“Most everybody’s mad at me for not putting them in the right bunk or getting their children close enough to them.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Can you believe it? Some of these families didn’t even think to bring any food. A week or more at least until we’re in Ohio. What did they think they were going to eat, manna from heaven?”
Before he could answer, her face softened and the eyes began to twinkle. “To tell the truth, Nathan, I don’t think I can handle you comin’ to me with a solution to a problem. All I know how to do is handle people without solutions.” She patted his arm. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. The captain said he’s got a mop and some brooms.”
He laughed. “You’re wonderful, Mother Smith. I know there are a few who grumble, but we all love you for what you’re doing.”
“Thank you, Nathan. That’s very kind.”
“I’ll go see what we can do.”
He walked back to Lydia, told her what he was doing, pushed her gently back down on the bunk when she tried to get up, then went from person to person. Most agreed immediately to help, though some snapped at him that they had more than they could handle just getting settled.
Within an hour they had transformed the place. The men lifted the tables and stowable bunks while the older children swept under them, and the women followed right behind them with mops and buckets of water. Younger children scrubbed at the table tops and wiped off the chairs and benches. Before they were through, even the grumblers had relented and pitched in. By the time they went back up top, the group was in high spirits again.
Chapter Ten
Nathan brought up a chair for Lydia so she could be on top as the boat cast off. A ragged cheer went up as the captain waved to the mule skinner at the head of a team of three mules. He popped a whip above their heads and the animals started forward. The canal boat gave a small lurch, then began its slow movement forward. The excitement quickly died as they left the village of Waterloo and moved out into the open countryside at a steady four miles an hour.
Waterloo, which was three or four miles north of Fayette, was situated along the Cayuga-Seneca Canal. From here the group would travel east on the canal to the head of Lake Cayuga, then turn north to eventually join the Erie Canal. There they would turn west again and head for Buffalo. As the farmland slipped slowly and silently by them, a deep sense of melancholy settled over Lydia.
To be actually on the boat, moving slowly but inexorably farther and farther away from home, hit her hard. She knew what it was. With the finality of a woman’s intuition, Lydia knew she would never be returning to Palmyra. She would never see her parents again. She would write—she had already decided that—but would they answer her letters? She wasn’t sure. Would this child (she still felt it was a boy) now in her womb ever know his grandparents? Not likely.
Just as intense were her feelings about the Steeds. There was at least some hope there, but really, when she was honest with herself, how much? Images filled her mind: Matthew, with his blond rooster tail that couldn’t be tamed and his ever inquisitive nature; sweet Rebecca, with her dimples and solemn eyes; and Melissa and Mary Ann and Father Steed...She felt her eyes start to burn, and she blinked quickly, fighting for control. She didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not with Nathan so excited. Not with all the Saints so filled with hope and enthusiasm.
“Low bridge!” the captain bawled from behind them. “Everybody down.” As they ducked low they saw a wagon, on which were seated a father and two sons, crossing above them. The children on the boat and the boys on the wagon exchanged excited calls. Lydia smiled briefly, turning her head around to watch them drive on as the boat moved away. As she turned back and her smile faded, Nathan reached across and began to rub her back. He took a deep breath. “Lydia,” he started. “It will be all—”
But just then they heard the voice of Mother Smith. She was at the front of the boat again, calling everyone to order. Parents called to their children; people turned their chairs to the front; those who were standing found a place on the top of the cabin area.
“Brothers and sisters,” she said again. “As we begin this journey to Ohio, I would remind you that we travel by the commandment of the Lord, just as Father Lehi in the Book of Mormon did, just as Moses and the children of Israel in the wilderness did.”
“Amen!” It was one of the teenage boys in the back. Several turned and smiled at him. He went a scarlet red and ducked his head.
“If we are faithful, just as Father Lehi and the prophet Moses were faithful, we have every reason to expect the Lord’s blessings to follow with us. It is a solemn thing to leave our homes”—Mother Smith’s eyes caught Lydia’s for a moment—“and, in some cases, our families, in order to keep the commandments of God. We must therefore lift up our hearts to God continually and ask him to bless us on our journey. Without those blessings, I think we shall not prosper.”
Now many of the adults were nodding, their faces sobered and thoughtful. For the moment, even the children seemed subdued. Lydia, who had been looking out across the fields as Mother Smith talked, finally turned to watch her.
“We shall ask Sister Catherine Folger to take the lead as we sing the hymn ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.’ After that, Brother Porter, could we ask you to offer a prayer for our safekeeping?”
Porter Rockwell, nearly sixteen years of age, was sitting just behind the Steeds. He nodded. “Be pleased too.”
Those few who were still standing found a place and sat down cross-legged on the roof of the cabin. Sister Folger, a young mother from Farmington Township, stepped forward, lifted her arm, and briefly hummed a pitch.
At first the hymn sounded a little ragged. They, of course, had no instrument to accompany them. And there were no hymnals. There was also no attempt at harmony. There were just thirty or forty voices, including those of several of the older children, singing in near unison. Without prompting they immediately began again when they had finished.
The first time through, Lydia sang softly, her mind only partly on the song. But the music began to stir in her. She had always loved the majesty of Martin Luther’s hymn, and now, as they started again, the words began to sink deep into her soul. She lifted her head and this time sang the hymn in full voice.
A mighty fortress is our God, A tower of strength ne’er failing.
The sound floated across the water and then out across the fields just coming to life with spring’s gentle touch.
A helper mighty is our God, O’er ills of life prevailing.
For the past three months, every time she and Nathan had talked of making this journey she had brushed aside his expressions of concern for her and the baby. It would be all right, she would laugh. The baby wasn’t going to come before its time. Stop being such an old brood hen, she would tell Nathan. But down deep inside she felt a cold knot of anxiety. What if she were wrong? If this were her second or third child she would better know how to predict, what to expect. Secretly she was terrified.
He overcometh all.
He saveth from the Fall.
She felt a little chill start up the back of her neck, and tears sprang to her eyes. In that instant, the knot inside her was loosed. She felt the
fear and the sorrow and the loneliness begin to dissipate, as though all of that were a morning mist blown away by a freshening breeze, leaving nothing but a crystal clearness in its place.
His might and pow’r are great.
He all things did create.
It was not just a hymn any longer. It became a prayer, a song of supplication. This little band of Saints—perched on the roof of a well-worn canal boat, newly embarked on their journey to Ohio—were part of God’s kingdom once again restored to earth. They were leaving their homes in direct obedience to God’s command. He would be their fortress and their protection. No, she corrected herself. Not their fortress. My fortress. My strength ne’er failing.
She leaned back against Nathan, lifting her voice even higher, tears streaming unashamedly down her face now.
And he shall reign forevermore.
It rang out, echoing as though they sang in some great and grand forest glade, hushing everything across the landscape.
Even as the last of the notes carried out across the water, she turned to Nathan, leaning up to whisper in his ear. “Thank you.”
His eyes widened a little. “For what?” he mouthed.
She pulled close again. “For not giving up on me. For writing me that letter. For sending me the Book of Mormon.” Her voice caught. She smiled through her tears. “For loving me enough.”
It was clear that Martin Harris had not been doing farm work this morning. But then, he rarely did anymore. He mostly supervised the help he hired from the surrounding townships. But even then, he was dressed a little more to the nines than usual. He looked like he had come directly from church. He wore a coat with tails; a vest with gold chain across the front and a watch tucked in the pocket; a linen shirt with ruffles down the front; breeches puffed at the sides and tucked into the kneehigh, highly polished brown leather boots—or at least they had been highly polished before he had left his horse and walked across the plowed field to join Benjamin Steed. The earth was still damp, and globs of it clung to his boots. But if he was bothered by it, he gave no sign.
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