by Marian Wells
A week later Jenny came home from school to find Mrs. Harris sitting at the table, her eyes red from weeping.
Jenny hesitated just inside the door. As she studied the face of the one who had befriended her, she wanted to throw her arms around the woman and comfort her. But shadowy things lurked in Jenny’s mind. She was not quite fourteen and just a hireling—that alone was a difficult position to be in.
And how could she admit she knew about those sounds in the night? The angry voices, the bumping, and the smack of flesh against flesh. Could she admit hearing those cries from Mrs. Harris and at the same time admit that she had crouched, fearful and trembling, not daring to go to the rescue? Just thinking about those sounds plunged her back into the memory of last year—the picture of her father’s face looming over her, twisted with anger.
A fly filled the silence with its buzzing. Jenny’s gaze, riveted on the flushed face of the woman, was caught by the noise. She dashed for a newspaper, attacked the offender, and then walked to the pail of water beside the door. Still mute, she filled the dipper and carried it to Mrs. Harris.
With a nod, Lucy Harris drained the dipper, wiped her mouth and spoke. “He’s gone. Flew in here, grabbed up a few things and left. I’m certain he’s followed that Joe Smith and his wife to Pennsylvania. Seems there was too much persecution goin’ on around here for Joe to settle down and get his translatin’ done.” Bitterly she added, “Martin’s got more money than anyone else in this town, and is more gullible. Give him a flight of fancy, and he’s off. God only knows what will happen. The Smiths all have glib tongues. If it’s like in the past, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit to see Martin separated from his money. He’s lookin’ for truth, and truth for Martin is always what tickles his fancy at the time.”
Jenny searched for words of comfort. Finally she straightened up and said, “Mrs. Harris, if this is from the Lord, we can’t be hinderin’ it.”
“You’re soundin’ like that Smith woman,” she returned. “Truth is, Martin’s always gone huntin’ after any new idea for makin’ money. Dear Lord, if only he could see!”
Chapter 9
Martin didn’t stay long in Pennsylvania. However, Jenny’s curiosity about the whole affair scarcely had time to be satisfied before a visitor provided some distraction.
Just after Jenny’s fourteenth birthday, January 1828, Abigail Harris, Martin’s sister-in-law, stopped by. She was there when Jenny came back from school; Jenny studied her with awe.
From her regal tower of graying hair to her bright, all-seeing eyes and her rustling black taffeta frock, she seemed the embodiment of authority. Whether it were skeletons or spiders hidden in the closet, Abigail Harris would be the one to find them.
Just after dinner, Lucy Smith and her husband Joseph also paid a visit to the Harris farm. As Mrs. Harris opened the door to the Smiths, Jenny had finished washing the dishes, and she crept into the parlor. Watching and listening, she winced. Lucy Smith was talking freely and eagerly, her little sparrow head bobbing about. “We’re calling it the Gold Bible Business.”
She scarcely gave Abigail time to ask a question before the details were spun out. Jenny squirmed with chagrin as she watched the sharp-eyed woman measure Lucy Smith’s flow of words. The astonishment and surprise that swept across Abigail’s face made Jenny cringe. When that expression changed to speculation and Abigail leaned back in her chair with her arms folded across her bony front, Jenny began to listen to Lucy’s words.
“ . . . It was a spirit of one of those saints already living on the continent back before Columbus discovered it. He revealed to Joe all about the plates and told him where to find them.”
Abigail leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t seen a spirit. What did he look like?”
“Well,” Lucy said, wrinkling her brow, “I’m thinking he must have been a Quaker.” Without even noticing the trap, she hurried on, “He was dressed very plain. At the time, he told Joe the plates he was to have first off were only an introduction to the gold Bible. All of the plates on which the Bible was written up were so heavy, it would take at least four stout men just to load them into the cart to haul them home.”
She continued, “It’s interesting that Joseph was able to discover through looking in the stone the exact vessel the gold was melted in. He also saw the machine that rolled out the plates. At the bottom of the vessel there were three balls of gold left over, each the size of his fist.”
Abigail’s skepticism was lost on Lucy in her enthusiastic recounting of the tale.
Early the next morning, Jenny was at work in the kitchen, mulling over the conversation which had kept them all up so late that the Smiths too had decided to stay overnight. Abigail soon joined her. As Jenny prepared breakfast, Lucy Smith entered the room.
Lucy closed the door quietly behind her and, standing close to Abigail, spoke in a low voice. “Have you four or five dollars you could spare until our business is producing?” She added, “The spirit has promised you’ll receive fourfold.”
Abigail clattered the cutlery to the table. “And why do you need it?”
“Joe is in Pennsylvania, and he wants to return to see how things are going with us all.”
Abigail continued to set the table, her face expressionless. “If Joe needs to know, I would think he’d look in his stone and save his time and money.”
Jenny watched a perplexed frown creep across Lucy’s face. Without a word, she turned and left the room.
During the following days, Jenny was glad to escape to school. At best, life on the Harris farm had settled into monotony as the snows outside deepened.
In the evenings, Mrs. Harris and Jenny sewed and knitted, while Martin and Tom talked constantly. Struggling with the knitting needles and tangled yarn, Jenny’s attention wandered toward their conversation. She noticed it always seemed to circle back to the mystery of Joe Smith.
As she listened to Martin talk, Jenny decided that just like the winds of winter, first calm, then swirling in indecisive fury, the winds of Martin’s passions swept him freely about. She guessed his restless feet would soon carry him east and south to Harmony.
Eventually his reasoning surfaced, “I’ve put a whole lot of money into this so far, and I aim to protect my investment.”
Mrs. Harris’s reply was similarly predictable. “It’s chasin’ the wind, nothin’ but a dream. You’d best forget the fifty dollars before it costs you more.”
But he left in midwinter, and a month went by before he returned. Coming in from school, Jenny discovered him pacing excitedly around the kitchen table and immediately noticed a new undercurrent in his voice. He was telling his Lucy how wife Emma was acting as Joe’s scribe, taking down the words as he gave them to her. Word by word, the plates were being translated.
“What did they say? Did you see the papers?”
While he described it all, Harris’s eyes danced. Finally Mrs. Harris demanded. “I know there’s something more you haven’t said—what is it?”
“Well, all your doubtin’ and fussin’ made me struggle with my faith, and I finally decided to do something about it. Joe gave me a copy of some of the characters, and I took them to New York to see a Mr. Mitchell. I was thinkin’ he could decipher some of this for me and tell me more about the characters. He didn’t know nothin’. But he sent me on to a Professor Anthon. This fella was a mighty smart man, but he sure is an infidel. First he was real excited about it all until he found out where I got the information. Even if he wouldn’t give me a written statement, he did admit lots, and it’s all stored right up here.” He chuckled and tapped his head.
Tom leaned forward and asked eagerly, “And what did he say? Did he think there was something to it?”
Martin chuckled contentedly, “Yes, sir! He said the characters were ancient, shorthand Egyptian. So Joe was right all along. He also admitted they were Chaldaic, Assyriac, and Arabic.”
By April, Martin Harris could endure the suspense no longer. He announced his intentio
ns after breakfast. “You, Tom, you can handle the plowin’ and plantin’ evenings. There’s Jake and Amos to help, too. I’m goin’ to Harmony.”
And Lucy Harris announced hers. “If you’re going down there for months, I’ll be goin’ with you. Jenny is able to keep up the little that needs to be done around here and see that her brother is fed.” Martin looked dubious, but realizing there was no sense to arguing he shrugged, and they departed.
At school, since the brothers and sisters of Joe Smith were seldom present, it seemed to be Jenny’s lot to endure alone the curious stares and questions.
But Jenny was as confused as the other students as she faced their speculations: “I hear tell it was a spirit giving out the place of the plates.” “I hear they are saying a divine one handed out the plates.” “Jenny, does Martin get to see the plates?” Jenny could only shake her head. One thing she did know: they assumed she knew secret things. Deeply conscious of the tide of feeling, Jenny recognized a chasm widening between herself and the other students. Their questions made clear that she was seen as part of the inner circle, along with Martin Harris and the Smiths. They expected her to know.
It troubled her, not because she was suddenly marked as belonging to the money-digging group, but because of the barrier caused by the questions. She sensed from those glances and the whispers that the line was impossible to cross. Jenny was very lonely.
She had only begun to relax into the dream of being mistress of the house for a few weeks when Lucy Harris returned. “Rode in on the stage,” Lucy announced as she moved about the house putting her possessions in order. She eyed Jenny sharply. “He’ll never get away with it.”
“No, ma’am,” Jenny replied meekly, wondering what she meant.
“I searched the place over and didn’t find a thing to indicate to me there were gold plates or even copper ones around. Tore through every cupboard, looked under the beds, and even scratched around in the woods lookin’ for a place where they might be hid.” Mrs. Harris concluded wearily, “Martin’s been duped again. How that man can fall for such a line . . .” She settled down in her rocker, and Jenny brought her a cup of tea from the boiling kettle.
As the woman sipped she studied Jenny thoughtfully. “My, a few weeks away from home, and I see the change in you. I’ve neglected my duty to your mother long enough. She was right insistent that I make a lady out of you. She hadn’t the opportunities I’ve had of education, and I aim to see you learn a little more’n her.”
Jenny nodded. Mrs. Harris was beginning to sound like Lemuel Searles, saying she should be talking right and learning. She didn’t voice her next thought. Lucy, after all, didn’t talk much better than anyone else in Manchester.
She looked around the room, eyeing the books, the fancywork, the china. Jenny sighed wistfully. Yes, there was much more to learn, but she wasn’t sure Mrs. Harris was the one to teach her.
Later Lucy had more to tell. She talked about Emma, and Jenny was aware of strange stirrings inside as she listened. “Pregnant she is, and Joe’s sayin’ that the plates couldn’t be opened under penalty of death by anyone except by his firstborn, and that his child will be a boy. Some say this little fella will be the one to translate the plates when he’s two or three years old.”
“When is Mr. Harris coming home?” Jenny asked.
“I don’t know,” she replied slowly. “He’s takin’ over the transcribin’ from Emma. Mighty important he’s feelin’, writin’ down the Lord’s words as Joseph is seein’ them in the stone, one by one. I don’t know . . .” she repeated slowly, “I just don’t know.”
As she stared at Jenny, her eyes darkened. She looked around the room, sighing. “He’s taken so, I’m wonderin’ if he’ll ever be back.”
But he was. In June Martin returned in triumph. He wore his air of excitement and mystery well, but his secrets were only for his household.
Jenny was there when he took out the papers and spread them on the table. Mrs. Harris leaned over to read them, mouthing the words slowly. She lifted her head. “What is this?”
“You wouldn’t believe me, so I talked Joe into lettin’ me bring all we’d translated so’s you could see and read for yourself.”
She jerked her head. “You mean this is the translation from the gold plates?”
He nodded, “The words that Emma and I’ve been takin’ down while Joe translated.”
Slowly she sat down to the table and pulled the sheaf of papers toward her. Martin got to his feet. “I’ll do the chores, and we’ll talk about it later.” He was chuckling to himself as he took up his hat and left the house. Jenny watched him walk to the barn. His shoulders were squared, and he strode along as if he owned the earth.
Turning back to the table, Jenny settled down across from Mrs. Harris and watched her read. The paper rustled and Mrs. Harris sighed with exasperation. Now her brow furrowed and her finger traced down the page. “It’s all so—”
“Can I see?” Jenny asked. Mrs. Harris lifted her face, her eyes snapping. She stared at Jenny without seeing her. And then suddenly she jumped to her feet. With quick movements she rustled the papers together and dashed to the stove. Another quick movement and she had shoved the papers inside. Immediately the flames shot up, engulfing the pages.
At Jenny’s horrified gasp, Mrs. Harris responded. “Jenny, false teachin’ like this must be destroyed. If I’m wrong, if this is truly all divine, then it won’t be a bit of trouble to get another copy. Now, let’s you and me finish cleaning the kitchen and go to bed before he comes in. I’d rather he asked me about this in the mornin’ when he’s better tempered.”
Eager to win his wife over and supposing Joe’s translations were safe with her sewing supplies, Martin held off discussing the translation with her.
Now the July heat lay heavy upon Manchester, though not as heavy as the tension Jenny felt waiting for Martin to discover what his wife had done. In the garden it was especially hot. Jenny straightened her back and leaned against the hoe. Even on the willows bordering the stream that cut through Martin Harris’s farm, the leaves hung limp and dusty.
Her gleanings—carrots, beets, and onions—were also beginning to wilt. Glad for the excuse to return to the house, she dropped the hoe and gathered up the vegetables.
Jenny saw a strange horse tethered under the trees. Jenny had just reached the porch steps when she heard Martin. The agony in his voice stopped her and she caught her breath at the cry, “I have lost my soul!”
Overlapping it came another voice, familiar even though wrung with anguish. “Oh, my God, all is lost! What shall I do?” Heavy boots struck the floor, making Jenny shiver with dread. “Are you certain? Go search once more.”
Martin’s voice came through again, “I’ve ripped pillows and beds. I’ve torn the place apart lookin’. If they was hidden, I’d have found them.”
A chill swept through Jenny, for the visitor could be only one person. She hugged her arms to herself. It had been so long. Not since South Bainbridge and the trial had she been near him.
Curiosity overcame her dread of certain confrontation, and Jenny entered the house. Both men turned as she stopped in the doorway of the parlor, her apron sagging under the load of wilting vegetables. She realized she was gawking, but she must see if his hair was still bright as sunlight. Even as she studied his long arrogant nose and glowing blue eyes, she was reduced to shy trembling. With only the slightest nod to acknowledge her presence, Joe demanded, “Where is your mistress?”
Jenny shook her head numbly. “I don’t know,” she whispered, not having the voice to admit more. She glanced quickly at Mr. Harris and saw that his face was white. The roll of flesh under his chin trembled. Jenny ducked her head and backed toward the door. “Excuse me. These must go in water.”
In the kitchen Jenny moved quickly about her tasks, but she was straining to hear. The voices in the parlor continued their uneasy, troubled rumbling. Jenny’s fingers trembled in the biscuit dough as she thought about the evening be
fore them. If it were only possible to send thoughts warning Lucy Harris to stay away!
But when the back door opened and Lucy came in, Jenny watched in astonishment. Flying about the kitchen, frying the fresh pork, poking at the boiling greens, Lucy held them all spellbound as her words kept pace with her busy hands. She was totally in command.
The men had moved to the kitchen at the sound of Lucy’s voice. As the conversation continued, Joseph was reduced to being an awkward boy once again. He told of the birth and death of his baby son. With his heart in his eyes, with sorrowful words, he was weaving a picture of familial devotion that left Jenny awed and envious.
She crept closer to listen even as she wondered at the emotion that dug into her like tearing hands. But throughout the story of Emma’s confinement and near death, Lucy Harris remained in command.
Her words soothed and then reduced him. He admitted, “I’ll confess; I’m not a worthy husband or father.” His face brightened. “But I will be.”
“How?” Lucy’s voice was suspicious.
“Well,” he paused and then lifted his face. “I’m reforming my ways. I’m seeing how all the little things add up in my wife’s eyes. I’m aiming to please her.” He noticed Lucy’s suspicious expression and added, “I really mean it. Knowing the importance, ’specially to her, I joined the Methodist church there in Harmony.”
“You did!” Even Lucy was surprised and a pleased look crossed her face. “Well, there’s hopes for the likes of you yet. After gettin’ acquainted with your wife while I was there, I’m guessin’ she was terribly pleased.”