Peter looked up at his brother. “So we’ll vote for the Whigs, then?”
Derek gave a short, bitter laugh. “Poor folk like us aren’t allowed to vote, Peter. We’re too ignorant to know anything, don’t you know? Only the gentry and the lords and the ladies have enough savvy to do that.”
“Oh.” In a moment any thoughts of politics were gone from Peter’s mind. The children were passing them now, and the racket was actually painful to the ears. But Peter didn’t care. He wiggled his way in so that he was right up next to the passing parade. Derek moved up behind him, amused and pleased. It was little enough pleasure a thirteen-year-old factory worker got out of life. Let him enjoy the moment, no matter how brief.
Peter’s eyes were dancing with excitement as the rows of children trooped past. These were obviously the children of Preston’s upper and middle classes. They were all in school uniforms. There was not a dirty shirt or dress or a bare foot among them. A handsome lad of about Peter’s age was looking at the faces of the people. His eyes came to rest on Peter for a moment. Peter’s nature was to be cheerful and friendly. He smiled broadly at the boy and sang out, “Afternoon, mate.”
A look of distaste instantly darkened the boy’s face. He turned his head, studiously avoiding looking further in Peter’s direction, and banged all the harder on his steel kettle.
Derek saw the crestfallen look on his brother’s face as he stared at the boy’s retreating back. He reached over the shoulder of one of the boys and touched Peter’s shoulder. “Come on, Peter. I have tuppence in my pocket. Shall we have a go at a candy stick?”
They crossed the street and plunged into the throngs on the far sidewalk. Derek caught the eye of one of the candy vendors. In a moment they both were sucking on sticks of peppermint candy.
The two brothers fell in with the crowds, letting themselves be carried along for a minute or two. As they turned and moved down another street, a clatter behind them drew their heads around. “Make way! Make way! Stage is coming! Clear the way!”
A black carriage, drawn by four horses whose necks and flanks were flecked with sweat, was making its way slowly toward them. The people in the street were giving way but not fast enough, and the driver had his team reined in tightly. The press of people was making the animals nervous. Their eyes were wide behind the blinders, and their hooves struck an occasional spark off the cobblestones as they danced their way slowly forward.
“It’s the stage, Derek.”
“Yes.” He glanced up at the sky. Through the overcast he could see that the sun was down about halfway toward the sea. That meant it was about four o’clock in the afternoon.
“From Liverpool, I’d say,” Peter said knowingly.
Continuing another half block down the street, the carriage approached the front of the building where it made its usual stop. The driver pulled the horses over to the curb and reined them to a halt. “Preston!” He leaned down to call into the coach. “This is it, gentlemen!”
Peter and Derek continued up the street until they reached a spot near where the carriage driver had stopped. There had been seven men inside the coach. Now they had gotten out and were standing around and stretching, waiting for the driver and his assistant to get the luggage down from the carriage. Half-
curious, Derek stopped to watch. The men were different, a little peculiar in a subtle way, but he couldn’t decide why.
One of them, a balding man built somewhat along the lines of a large barrel of rum, turned to the driver. “We seem to have come on a holiday, sir,” he said. “What’s the occasion?”
Derek leaned forward. The man spoke strangely, his voice flat and nasal sounding. It was not a Lancashire accent, that was for sure.
“Election Day is coming up, day after tomorrow,” the driver said. “The new queen has called for general elections for members of Parliament.”
“Oh.”
Another man, slightly younger than the first, shook his head. “And I thought elections in America were a wild affair.”
Peter clutched at Derek’s arm. “Did you hear that, Derek? They’re from America.”
That was it, Derek realized. Their dress was different, their boots, the way they brushed their hair, their bearing—nothing dramatic, but definitely not British. He had seen an American or two before, but he had never been this close to one before. He and Peter edged a little closer.
Return passengers had come out from the coach station now, and the driver and his companion were loading their luggage on the top of the coach. Finally they were loaded and the carriage moved off. For a moment the seven men stood around, looking a little confused. Then the barrel-chested man looked up. As the coach had pulled up, two men on ladders had been unfurling a large banner and hanging it over the entrance to the building. Preston was the hub of a significant temperance movement that fought the excessive drinking problems so common to Britain’s working classes. They were taking advantage of the holiday crowds to put up a temperance banner. It was that banner that caught the American’s eye now. The others, seeing him, tipped their heads back as well.
Derek looked up too. The banner was made of canvas, and on it, in large gilt letters, three words had been painted: “Truth Will Prevail.” The Americans seemed transfixed by it.
The large man read it aloud. “‘Truth Will Prevail.’” He turned and looked at his companions, his eyes filled with amazement. “Do you see that, brethren? Truth will prevail!” He turned to the younger man standing next to him. “Brother Hyde, can you think of anything more seasonable? Could there be any sentiment more appropriate to our arrival here than this?”
“No, Brother Kimball, I cannot think of anything more fitting.”
The first man, the one they called Brother Kimball, looked up again, his face infused with joy. “Amen!” he cried aloud. “Thanks be to God! Truth will prevail!”
* * *
Derek was sitting on the front step of the two-story red brick house, the cellar of which he and Peter shared with two other men. In foul weather he would have been forced to stay in the cellar, squinting to read in the dim light that came through the two narrow and filthy windows. But on this Sabbath day the morning overcast had burned off by ten, and now it was a bright, clear, wonderful day in Preston. Derek was methodically working his way through the newspapers he had brought home from Mr. Morris’s office the day before, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his arms and head.
“Derek! Derek!”
He lowered the newspaper and looked around. Peter was coming down the street at a dead run, eleven-year-old Jenny Pottsworth in tow behind him. They slid to a stop at the bottom of the step. Peter’s chest was rising and falling in great gasps. Jenny was panting like a winded puppy.
“What is it, Peter?”
“The Americans!” He gulped in a quick breath. “At Vauxhall Chapel.”
“What?”
“Those men we saw yesterday.”
“Yes, what about them?”
“The Rev’rend Fielding . . .” Jenny pitched in, but then she too had to catch her breath.
Derek nodded, trying not to smile at their excitement. The Reverend James Fielding was the pastor of a congregation that met in the Vauxhall Chapel. Mrs. Pottsworth, Jenny’s mother, had recently started to attend the reverend’s church. “Yes, I’m familiar with Mr. Fielding. What about him?”
Peter was starting to get his breath. “Those men are preachers,” he blurted. “Mission’ries.”
Derek’s eyebrows lifted. “You mean the Americans?”
“Yes. Except they ain’t all from the United States. Some are from Canada.” He had to stop for breath before plunging on. “One of them is the Rev’rend Fielding’s brother.”
“Hmm,” Derek said, still not seeing what had got the two children so worked up.
“Me mum and me went to church this morning,” Jenny said, obviously proud to be the source of their information. “Those men were all there. Mr. Fielding had invited them. At the end of the servi
ces, he stood up and—”
“Who stood up? The rev’rend or one of the strangers?”
She realized Derek was teasing her a little. She put her hands on her hips, jutting out her lower lip. “The Rev’rend Mr. Fielding,” she said, shocked that he could jest about something this important, “stood up at the end of the services, and he said there was gonna be a meetin’ this afternoon at three o’clock. And one of them elders from America would be doin’ the preachin’.”
Derek feigned surprise. “They didn’t look that old to me.”
Both children looked blank. He fought to hide a smile. “You said he was an elder. They looked pretty young to me.”
Peter looked offended. “Derek! It ain’t funny.”
“Sorry.” He was fast losing interest. He lifted the paper again.
Peter came up the steps and grabbed his arm. “Can we go, Derek? Can we, huh?”
That brought Derek’s head up. “What for?” he asked bluntly.
“I want to hear them,” Peter said in exasperation.
Derek shook his head firmly. “I’ve told you before, Peter. Church ain’t for no poor people like us.”
“Yes, ’tis,” Jenny burst out. “Me family and me go all the time now.”
Mrs. Pottsworth had always been inclined to run after this church or that, but Derek didn’t say anything, just shook his head again.
“Tell him about the dreams, Peter,” Jenny urged.
“Oh, yeah,” Peter said, relieved that there was something more to revive Derek’s interest. “Mrs. Fielding told Mrs. Potts-worth that her husband’s brother—the one from Canada, Joseph Fielding is his name—and others have written letters to them from Canada during the past year. In the letters they claim they’ve found a new church that’s just like Christ’s church in the Bible. It has prophets and Apostles and everything.”
Jenny darted up the steps and slugged Peter on the arm. “Tell him about the dreams!”
“I am, Jenny, I am.” He took a deep breath. “When Rev’rend Fielding got the letters, he read them to his congregation. They decided they would pray for these men to come and bring them the gospel.”
The newspaper lowered again.
“Since they started praying, some of the people have had dreams. In the dreams they saw men coming from across the sea to give them the gospel.”
Derek was impressed in spite of himself. “And?”
Peter’s eyes grew wide and filled with awe. “Well, the people are saying these men are the same men they saw in their dreams. Especially the big man who’s the leader. The one we saw yesterday.”
“The one they called Kimball?”
“Yes, that one. A lot of people say they recognized him the moment they saw him.”
Derek leaned back, the doubt heavy on his face.
Jenny’s right hand jerked up to the square. “Swear it!” she said solemnly. “Me mum heard the people say that with her own ears.”
“It’s true, Derek.” Peter was pleading now. “That’s why I want to go hear them preach. Can we go, Derek? Oh, please.”
For a long moment Derek looked at the two innocent, excited faces. Finally, he shrugged. “I suppose it can’t do any harm.”
* * *
By quarter of three the chapel was packed, and Derek and Peter had to wiggle their way forward through the crowd—winning themselves several nasty looks—before they found seats on the edge of one of the side pews where they could slip out easily if this proved to be what Derek expected. Twice in the next fifteen minutes Derek nearly changed his mind and got up and left. He felt completely out of place. While many in the assembly were obviously factory workers—more than one from his own shop—there was also a generous sprinkling of the middle classes. Neither Derek nor Peter had any kind of Sunday best. They had been hard-pressed to put a little polish on their shoes, wash their faces, and run a comb through their thick hair. Derek had even gotten a sliver from a stick and tried to clean out the dirt from beneath his fingernails. But now when he looked around at some of the others in their Sunday finery, he felt as conspicuous as a beetle on a tablecloth.
Peter spotted Jenny and Mrs. Pottsworth near the back and gave a little wave. Derek wished they hadn’t seen them. Mrs. Pottsworth could talk the tail off a monkey, and he was sure she would be over to discuss their mutual experience when the meeting was over.
Finally, the meeting began. The Reverend James Fielding led them in a hymn and offered a brief prayer of invocation; then, thankfully, he went right to the task at hand. “We have come to hear the mission’ries from North America. They claim to have the gospel restored to the earth. We shall now turn the time over to Elder Heber C. Kimball, from the land of Ohio.”
A man stood up and walked to the pulpit. It was the same man who had been so impressed with the banner yesterday at the coach stop. “‘Truth Will Prevail.’” Derek could still hear the joy in his voice as he read the motto.
Derek watched Kimball closely. He had a deep mistrust of those who claimed to be pious. Too often he found it only ran Sabbath-deep. During the rest of the week some of God’s most vocal “friends” were small and petty at best, mean and vicious at worst. But he was pleased to note that Kimball carried no air of haughtiness or arrogance. He was a plain man with an open face and wide, pleasant eyes that seemed to hold no guile in them.
“My dear brothers and sisters,” he began. His voice was deep and rich, and foreign-sounding to Derek’s ears. Kimball turned briefly and nodded to the pastor. “We—my companion missionaries and I—are most grateful to the Reverend Mr. Fielding for this opportunity to preach to you. Mr. Fielding, I can’t thank you enough. We hope to make this a most profitable hour and a half for all in attendance.”
As the pastor acknowledged the thanks, Derek was fascinated by the distinctness of the American’s voice. The short vowel sounds Kimball pronounced were flat and nasal. He said “can’t,” not “cahn’t,” and it was “Deehr brothers and sisters” instead of the softer “deahr.” And the way some of the words came out with more syllables was strange: it was “mish-u-nair-ies” rather than simply “mish-un-ries.” But what sounded the strangest of all, he breathed sound into his h’s, so that it came out “have” rather than “ahve,” and “half” rather than “ahf.”
But then as the American preacher continued to speak, Derek stopped listening to the sounds and began to listen to the words.
“We have come from across the sea to share with you a most important message. Mr. Fielding tells us that you have prayed with much faith that you might find the truth. Well, we have come to share the truth with you. In the Old and New Testaments we often read of angels ministering unto men. We are here to tell you that angels have again come down from heaven to restore truth and bring back the authority of the priesthood. The Church of Jesus Christ has been restored to the earth again. It is patterned after the church that Jesus founded while he was here on earth.”
There were one or two murmurs as people leaned over and whispered to each other. They seemed impressed.
Kimball reached inside his ample coat and withdrew a small brown book and held it up high. “We have come to tell you about a sacred book of scripture that has been translated by the gift and power of God. This book comes from ancient records, hidden up in the earth under the direction of God. They were brought forth by an angel, an angel come from the presence of God, and translated by a man named Joseph Smith.”
“Glory to God,” a woman behind Derek breathed. “Amen,” said the man sitting beside her.
Derek was mesmerized. He had heard probably only one or two sermons preached in all his life. The memories were dim and clouded now, but he could remember that he was frightened. He couldn’t recall now whether the fear came from what was said or from how it was said; he just remembered the feelings of being afraid. There was none of that now. Kimball did not pound on the pulpit or speak with great dramatics. He spoke simply. He spoke plainly.
He gave a brief history of the man he
kept referring to as Brother Joseph. Derek had not read the Bible. He knew virtually nothing about it except what he had heard others say in idle conversation. But he was deeply interested as Heber Kimball called their attention to what he termed the “first principles of the gospel,” and told of the restoration of the priesthood, which was the power to act in God’s name. He was intrigued as Kimball walked them through various New Testament passages which described what the Church of Jesus Christ was like in ancient times. Then he testified that this new church was organized following that same pattern. And when Kimball said that he and one of the other missionaries were two of the Twelve Apostles in the new church, Derek was very impressed.
When Kimball finished, Elder Hyde, the other Apostle, arose. Like Kimball, he was a young man, just in his early thirties. He didn’t add much new but spent his time bearing witness to the truthfulness of what Kimball had taught. The crowd was hushed and attentive, and Derek was amazed when he glanced at the windows to see that the sun had lowered noticeably. He had sat in church, had listened to two sermons for more than an hour, and had been scarcely aware of the passage of time.
Hyde stepped to “Brother Kimball,” as he kept referring to him, and took the book from him. “This book,” he said, holding it up high, “is called the Book of Mormon. It gets its name from the prophet Mormon, who wrote most of what we find in the pages of this book.” Still holding it high, he opened it with one finger so they could see the pages. “It contains the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It contains many things which have been lost or taken out of the Bible over the centuries since it was written.” He grew very sober. “Most important, it testifies of Jesus Christ. It contains a most glorious account of his visit to the people who lived in America, after his resurrection in Palestine.”
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