Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Benjamin remembered that revelation well. “To you,” he answered softly.

  “Yes. It came not long after I gave the one hundred and sixteen pages of manuscript from the Book of Mormon translation to Martin Harris and he lost them.”

  He looked down and picked up where he had left off. “‘Behold, you have been intrusted with these things, but how strict were your commandments.’” His eyes skipped further down the page. “‘Behold thou art Joseph, and thou wast chosen to do the work of the Lord, but because of transgression, if thou art not aware thou wilt fall.’”

  He closed the book and lay back against his pillow. “There is hardly a day that goes by that I don’t remember that warning, Benjamin. It is a heavy burden to act as God’s servant. I do not take it lightly.”

  “I have never thought that of you, Joseph,” Benjamin said firmly. He meant it. His questions were of a different nature.

  “I know, Benjamin. Don’t you think I know what’s bothering you? Is Brother Joseph still a prophet of God or is he not? Isn’t that it?”

  Benjamin’s head came up slowly. Count on Joseph to hit something head on and not try to dodge.

  “Has God rejected Joseph? Oh, he’s a fine fellow and all that, but has he lost it? The power? The calling? Isn’t this at the nub of your problem, Ben?”

  Benjamin swallowed quickly, trying to collect his thoughts, to come up with an appropriate response. “Joseph, I—”

  “No, I don’t want you to try and answer that. I just want to say this to you, Ben. I’ve sensed your doubts. I know the whole Salem experience raised many questions in your mind.” He laughed briefly. “And you’ve always thought I was such a wonderful businessman.”

  Benjamin laughed in spite of himself. “Especially when it comes to being a storekeeper.”

  Joseph smiled in agreement, then slowly sobered. He lifted the book he still held in his hand and turned it over slowly. “When I gave Martin that manuscript back in the summer of ’28, the Lord had told me two different times not to do it, but I did not listen. I would not follow his will. That’s why I lost the power to translate.”

  Now he turned his full gaze on Benjamin, and his eyes seemed to pierce right through to the very soul. “I have never claimed to be anything but a man, Benjamin. I am more keenly aware of my weaknesses than any five of my bitterest enemies. But I tell you with all the candor of my soul that this time it is different than it was back in ’28. I have been”—he smiled that sad smile again—“human. But this is the Church of Jesus Christ. He is my Master. It is him I have to please. Not Warren Parrish. Not the clamoring voices of men blinded by their own greed and wickedness. I tell you, I have not been unfaithful to my Savior. So I care not what others may say. I have not been unfaithful!”

  Benjamin was deeply moved. He had never seen Joseph speak so frankly of himself and of his calling. “I . . .” He shook his head. “Look, Joseph, I don’t know what I feel anymore. I’m not trying to be difficult. I just—”

  Joseph reached out and laid a hand on Benjamin’s knee, stopping him. After a moment he spoke very slowly. “Benjamin Steed, I want you to listen to this carefully. Some who have stood by my side in the most holy and sacred of experiences are now turning their faces away. Even some of the Twelve and the Presidency are wavering. But all that matters not one whit to you. There is only one thing you must deal with. There is only one issue for Benjamin Steed. Is Joseph still God’s chosen?”

  He pulled his hand away, but his eyes never left Benjamin’s. “And no one can answer that for you. Martin Harris can’t tell you if God is pleased with Joseph. Oliver? Frederick Williams? David Whitmer? Brigham Young?” He shook his head. “None of them can. Not even Joseph can tell you if God is pleased with Joseph.”

  For a long moment the room was silent as the two men looked at each other. Then Joseph, suddenly weary, lay back on his pillow. “Only God can tell you that, Benjamin. Only God.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Nathan looked up in surprise. He and Lydia were sitting on the grass in front of the house of the Lord. They had gotten Emily and little Nathan to sleep, then gone out for a walk, leaving young Joshua to watch them. It was an evening in early July and nearly full dark now. The air was pleasant, still carrying some of the heat of the day but cooling off quickly. So they had stopped to talk, neither one anxious to return to the stuffiness of their little house. Now across the street from them Nathan saw a man walking along slowly. His head was down, and his hands were behind his back.

  “Is that Brother Parley?” Lydia asked, noting that Nathan’s attention had been diverted.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  As they watched, the man stopped. He had just passed the Sidney Rigdon home. The next home on that side of the street, another few rods further north, was that of the Prophet Joseph. The man seemed to be staring in that direction. He took another step or two, moving even more slowly now. Again he seemed to be peering at the spot some yards ahead where the lights of Joseph’s house were burning.

  “What’s he doing?” Lydia asked softly.

  The man had stopped again, turned, and started back the way he had come. Then he stopped again, obviously agitated.

  “I don’t know,” Nathan said, standing to get a better look. “It is Parley. There’s no mistaking that walk of his. Maybe we should go over and speak with him.”

  Lydia stood now too. “He seems exercised about something.”

  “Let’s go across and see if everything is all right.”

  Lydia nodded, and slipped an arm into her husband’s, but after a few steps she pulled him to a stop. “On second thought, you’d better just go.”

  Nathan was surprised for a moment, but then quickly he saw the wisdom of it. Since Parley’s disaffection with Joseph, Parley’s relationship with Nathan had been strained. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “No, I’ll just go on home. You take what time you need.”

  He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, grateful for her sensitivity. “Thank you.” With a quick wave, he bid her farewell and cut across the street. Parley had moved forward again, still slowly, but was now some yards ahead of where Nathan and Lydia had been sitting.

  Nathan strode out quickly, and as he approached, the sound of his footsteps on the path brought Parley around with a start.

  “Parley, it’s me. Nathan.”

  There was a quick look of surprise, followed by one of relief. “Oh. Good evening, Brother Nathan.”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, but I was across the street. I saw you pacing. Is everything all right?”

  The heavy brows that covered those normally piercing eyes lowered quickly. “No. I don’t think that is how I would choose to describe my current situation.”

  “What is it, Parley? Can I help in any way?”

  There was a short exclamation of disgust, aimed at himself—a characteristic that, Nathan had learned while they were together in Canada, was typical of Parley’s personality. “You tried once and it didn’t seem to take,” he muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You and Brother John Taylor. Surely you have not forgotten that night the two of you came to my door and tried to help me.”

  Nathan understood now. “No, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Nor have I,” Parley said in a low voice, his eyes on the ground. “Do you remember what Brother John said to me that night?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “‘Parley Pratt, when you were in Canada you bore a strong testimony to the fact that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I was deeply touched by your testimony. That, more than anything else, convinced me the gospel was true. And you gave me a strict charge to the effect that though you or an angel from heaven was to declare anything else than that to me, I was not to believe it.’”

  He finally looked up and peered into Nathan’s face. “Thomas B. Marsh has been laboring with me and Orson.” There was a short, mirthless laugh. “I guess as senior Apostle he thought the Pratt brothers might need a
call to repentance.”

  “Maybe he thought the Pratt brothers were not as far gone as they thought they were,” Nathan corrected him softly.

  “How could I have been such a fool, Nathan?” It came out in a burst.

  Nathan felt a peculiar thrill as he saw the look in his friend’s eyes. It was a glimmer of the old Parley—the Parley who stood undaunted and unflinching in the face of a large crowd hurling insults and epithets, the Parley who could open the Bible and preach a two-hour sermon on the prophecies of the Restoration. And then, to his surprise, Nathan thought of that night—so long ago now, it seemed—in a room above a saloon in Independence, Missouri, when he had flung angry words at his brother, trying to goad him into repentance. “Most of us are fools about one thing or another at some point in our lives, Parley,” he said, smiling sadly.

  “But to turn against Joseph . . .” Parley’s voice was heavy with anguish. “I am one of the Twelve. How could I have been caught up in the lyings and railings so easily?”

  Nathan reached out and grasped his hand. “Does that mean you are convinced of your folly?”

  “Aye,” Parley murmured, “and tormented by it.”

  “Then go to Brother Joseph. Tell him.”

  Parley’s head snapped up and he stared at his friend. Then he turned and looked to where the windows in Joseph’s house were alight. “That was the very thing on my mind,” he said. “But I am so ashamed. How can I face him after what I have done?”

  Nathan gripped his hand tighter. “But you must, Parley. You must!”

  For a long moment, Parley stared into the eyes of the man who had gone with him to Toronto and with whom he had shared so many incredible experiences. Then a great shudder shook his body. He fell on Nathan’s shoulders. “You’re right, of course,” he cried in relief. “Of course you’re right. Will you come with me, Nathan?”

  Nathan held his friend in a crushing grip. “Of course, Parley.”

  It was Joseph who came to the door. He was barefoot, and his shirt was pulled out of his trousers. It was past nine-thirty, and he had obviously begun his preparations for bed. When he saw who was at the door, his eyes widened, then immediately a smile crossed his face. “Brethren, come in, come in.”

  He invited them into the sitting room, and for several minutes Joseph chatted warmly about nothing of consequence, mostly talking to Nathan. Through it all, Parley remained subdued, saying little except when asked.

  Finally, Joseph turned to Nathan, then to Parley. “I sense this is not simply a social call,” he said with an encouraging smile.

  Nathan shook his head. “No, Joseph, it is not. Parley wanted to come to you. He has some things to say. He asked if I would accompany him.”

  Joseph turned to Parley, his clear blue eyes curious but also open and supportive. “Yes, Parley?”

  Parley’s hands were twisting around and around. His head was down, his eyes on the floor. Finally he looked up. A great sob welled up inside him, then burst out in one anguished cry. “Oh, Brother Joseph, can you ever forgive me for what I have done?”

  * * *

  The two of them stood outside the front gate to Parley’s house. To the east of them the dark shape of the temple loomed against a moonlit sky. Each seemed lost in his thoughts, but then at last Parley spoke.

  “He easily could have removed me from the Quorum.”

  Nathan gave a quick shake of his head. “That is not Brother Joseph’s way.”

  Parley’s voice was tinged with wonder. “Instead he frankly forgave me. No bitterness. No recriminations. Just that wonderful, sincere ‘I forgive you, Brother Parley. Thank you for coming back with a sincere heart and a contrite spirit.’”

  “You did that, Parley,” Nathan said, his heart filled with gratitude. This night had relieved a terrible burden from his shoulders. His friend’s near defection had troubled him deeply. “You have shown a broken heart and a contrite spirit.”

  Parley nodded, looking at Nathan. “My dear friend,” he began, but his voice caught and he had to stop. Finally, swallowing hard, he went on. “How can I ever thank you for caring enough to come with me? The feelings of darkness and oppression are gone. I am filled with light and joy. I see now so clearly the contrast between the spirit that has been over me these past weeks and the spirit I now feel. I shall ever more be able to discern more clearly between those two spirits.” He sighed, and it was a sound of happiness, relief, and regret all at once. “I think now, because I myself have been tempted in all points in this matter, I shall be better able to bear with, excuse, and succor those who are tempted in a like manner.”

  Nathan looked at his friend sharply, but Parley did not see his reaction. They shook hands and said good night. Then Nathan started towards his home. He walked slowly, troubled by his thoughts. There was one in his own family who was “tempted in a like manner,” as Parley had put it. That was Nathan’s own father. Martin Harris, Parrish, Boynton, and the Johnson brothers were all wooing Benjamin Steed incessantly. It would be a great coup if they could persuade him to throw in with them. And the fact that his father had thus far refused to totally repudiate them infuriated Nathan. It was a source of considerable tension between father and son.

  Could he, as Benjamin’s son, say as Parley had just said, that he was able to bear with and succor those who were tempted as Parley Parker Pratt had been? It was a question Nathan could not immediately and honestly answer, and that troubled him deeply.

  * * *

  There is an old but hallowed saying in England. “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

  On the twentieth day of June in the year of our Lord, one thousand eight hundred and thirty-seven, William IV—king of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and king of Hanover—closed his eyes in death. He was in the seventh year of his reign and the seventy-second of his life. In this case, the saying had to be slightly modified. “The king is dead. Long live the queen.”

  Next in the line of succession was an eighteen-year-old girl. She was the only child of Edward, duke of Kent, and Princess Victoria, daughter of Francis, duke of Saxe-Coburg.

  At the time she came to the throne, the monarchy was neither liked nor respected. The royal family had spawned a succession of weak and selfish leaders, and most Britishers held the crown in low esteem. But this young woman would go on to rule England for sixty-three and a half years, the longest reign in the history of the British monarchy. She would usher in an age so shaped by her influence that it would be named after her. She would preside over Great Britain when it was at the apex of its power. She would hold herself so much above reproach and prove to be such a wise and capable monarch that the throne would once again be raised to a position of veneration and respect. Few queens in England’s history would die more beloved than Queen Victoria.

  On the twentieth of June, 1837, England lost a king and gained a queen. Exactly one month later, on July twentieth, after eighteen days and eighteen hours on the Atlantic, the British packet ship Garrick anchored in the Mersey River, opposite the city of Liverpool. On board were seven elders of the Church of the Latter-day Saints. Soon they would be standing on the pier at Prince’s Dock.

  * * *

  It was two days before Election Day in Preston, England. The new queen had ordered a general election for members of Parliament, which would be held on Monday. By midafternoon on Saturday, the 22nd of July, the streets of Preston were thronged with thousands of people. It was overcast, but the temperature was in the low seventies, and the day was quite pleasant—more pleasant than staying in the sweatboxes that passed for houses. The factories had declared a half-day holiday—something almost unheard of—and the population had turned out to celebrate. Candidates from the two parties were noisily vying to call attention to themselves. There were flags flying everywhere. Ribbons and posters were in abundance. Here and there, hastily erected booths offered the populace a chance to talk face-to-face with the hopefuls.

  But the pubs outdrew the booths ten to one.
They were islands of pandemonium in a sea of chaos, and it was obvious that, for the most part, the people had turned out because of the holiday and not because of a great interest in the elections. For those not in the pubs, vendors worked their way through the crowds, adding their shouts to the bedlam. They offered candy, nuts, apples, dried plums, or, most commonly, fish and chips wrapped in newspaper—the fish cooked whole with the heads and scales and fins still on, the potatoes cut in thick wedges and deep-fried in boiling oil.

  As Derek and Peter Ingalls pushed their way through the sea of humanity, Peter’s eyes were wide and shining with excitement. Derek smiled, but not without a touch of sadness. He hadn’t seen Peter this excited since he had been a little boy waiting for a spoonful or two of Christmas trifle, too little to understand how desperately poor they were and how long it would be before there would be another. Derek, who would be twenty in October, had long ago lost his capacity for getting excited over things like today’s festivities.

  “Oh, look, Derek,” Peter breathed, pointing eagerly. Derek turned. A group of nearly a hundred children were marching toward them down the middle of the street. Some of them clutched upside-down pots and pans against their stomachs and banged away on them with spoons. They had been told that they were to get the attention of the crowd, and they had set themselves to the task with great enthusiasm. They were making a most wonderful racket, and most of the crowd stopped what they were doing to watch them pass. Behind the percussion section some older children held up hand-lettered placards, all of which read: “Mr. James Cogglesworth, Tory, House of Commons.”

  “What do the Tories believe again, Derek?”

  “The Tories—or, as they now prefer to be called, the Conservatives—want to keep the power with the Church of En-gland and with the crown. The Whigs want to give more power to the common people.”

  Derek tried not to look smug. Three months ago he knew little more than Peter about English politics, but then Derek had noticed that at the end of each week Mr. Morris, the factory owner, took all the newspapers he had accumulated out to the trash. It took several days, but Derek finally worked up his nerve and asked if he might have them. Morris seemed pleased and gave him his blessing. Derek now spent a good part of each Sabbath day voraciously reading them while Peter played with his friends. It had been a wonderful boon, not only because it helped satisfy his natural hunger for knowledge but also because it was polishing his reading skills at a rapid rate.