The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  Instantly Parley was on his feet, tears streaming down his face. Thankful was up too, her cheeks stained as well. Husband and wife embraced, hugging each other tightly, not speaking. Then finally Parley pulled away and turned to Heber. He stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Brother Heber,” he whispered huskily. “Thank you so much.”

  He looked at Nathan, then threw his arms around him. “Thank you, Brother Nathan. Thank you for coming.”

  * * *

  Heber and Nathan walked slowly, both of them still fired by the thrill of what had happened. Heber had his hands behind his back, his head down. He was lost deeply in his thoughts.

  “That was a marvelous blessing,” Nathan finally said.

  He could tell that Heber nodded, but the Apostle said nothing.

  “I’m glad I was there to hear it.”

  For several moments Heber still said nothing. Then he stopped, turning to peer at Nathan. Nathan saw in the man’s face the intensity that was so characteristic of Heber C. Kimball. He waited, sensing that Heber had something to say. But he was not prepared for what came next.

  “You know why you are here, don’t you?”

  Nathan started a little. “Because you asked me.”

  Heber chuckled. “There are a lot of elders in Kirtland, Nathan. Why should I specifically feel impressed to seek you out?”

  “I don’t know. Why did you?”

  For a long moment he just looked at Nathan. Then he laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Because you are to accompany Brother Parley on his mission to Canada.”

  Nathan went stiff as a rod. “What?”

  “That’s right. I will discuss it with Joseph tomorrow, make sure he confirms it, but I feel it strongly. Parley will be pleased to know he will have a traveling companion.” He clasped his hands behind his back and started walking again.

  For a moment Nathan stared after him, his mind racing. Canada? What would Lydia say? What about the farms? But even as the thoughts tumbled wildly in his mind, he felt something else. He recognized it instantly. He had felt this deep inner peace before. Yes, he thought. Canada. Of course. He quickly fell into step beside the Apostle.

  Heber gave him a sidewards glance. “And that is not all, Nathan.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No. I don’t know how, but your going on this mission will prove to be a great blessing to your own family. You shall live to see it, and you shall rise up and thank the Lord you were privileged to be part of it.”

  He laughed softly at the look on Nathan’s face. They had come back out to the main street that ran in front of the temple. Heber lived to the north, Nathan to the south. “And now, my friend, I must say good night. I am very weary and should like to reach home as quickly as possible.” He stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Nathan. It was wonderful to have you with me.”

  And with that, he turned and walked off, not waiting for a response, leaving Nathan to stand there in the dark, filled with wonder and not a few questions to which he would have very much liked to have answers.

  Chapter Five

  The office of Richard Wesley, Savannah’s most preeminent cotton factor, was conservatively furnished, but everything about it spoke money and class. The chairs and sofa were of fine leather, the pictures on the wall obviously more than the common prints lesser folk bought. The moldings around the doors and ceiling were thick and polished to a soft gleam. Even the secretary’s desk was as fine as anything Joshua had seen west of St. Louis.

  “Do you have an appointment, sir?” The secretary, a tall thin man with a nose like a rooster’s beak, peered at them over half-cut horn-rimmed glasses.

  Joshua shook his head. “I just arrived yesterday by ship. I am from Missouri. I am looking to buy cotton. Mr. Wesley has been highly recommended to me.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Joshua saw that Will never broke his expression, though he could sense that the boy was nearly bursting with pride and excitement. He was dressed to the nines with waistcoat, well-tailored breeches, and low-cut boots that showed some wear but which Joshua had noticed had been highly polished as though by a bootblack. His shirt was of cotton, neatly pressed and with a small black tie at the throat. He looked every inch the young businessman, and Joshua was strangely proud to have him with him.

  The secretary frowned, his mouth pinching down into a tiny circle. “It is most unusual to come without an advance appointment.”

  Joshua smiled patiently. “When a man has come almost two thousand miles, it is most unusual if he has an advance appointment.”

  The secretary’s eyes widened, not sure whether to take offense or not at such brashness. “I’ll have to confer with Mr. Wesley. Who shall I tell him is calling?” His eyes darted to Will, then flitted back to Joshua.

  “Mr. Joshua Steed, from Independence, Missouri. And my young associate here is Master William Donovan Mendenhall, originally from Maryland but most recently from Savannah, Georgia.”

  * * *

  Richard Wesley took the pipe out of his mouth and knocked out the ashes against the metal railing. When he spoke it was with the same deep Southern accent Joshua had found prevailed here along the coast of Georgia. “I shall call for you, suh, at the hotel at nine a.m. on Monday, two days after tomorrow.”

  They stood on the narrow metal catwalk that ran from his suite of offices across Factors’ Walk to the bluff that bordered Bay Street. Joshua nodded. “I shall look forward to meeting Mr. and Mrs. Montague. I’m also looking forward to seeing my first cotton plantation.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find it most impressive,” Wesley said. “And if you find the cotton acceptable, as I have promised, then we shall draw up the papers, and you, suh, shall be loaded and on yo way back to St. Louis”—he pronounced it Lou-ee—“by the end of next week.”

  Joshua was pleased. “Very good. It’s a pleasure doing business with a professional, Mr. Wesley.”

  “May I say the same to you, Mistuh Steed. I like a man who knows what he wants and is prepared to see that he gets it.” Wesley turned to Will. “And I must say, young Mr. Mendenhall, yo knowledge of the cotton trade is very admirable for one of yo age.”

  Joshua thought Will would nearly pop every button on his tailored double-breasted waistcoat. “Thank you, sir.”

  Wesley leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait a moment. Mendenhall. Mendenhall.” He pulled at his lip. “Was yo fathuh Donovan Mendenhall, by chance?”

  “Yes, sir, he was.” Will had perceptibly straightened.

  Joshua’s head came up. Was?

  “Ah,” said Wesley thoughtfully, “that explains a great deal. Give my best to yo lovely mothuh. Mrs. Wesley asks about her often.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you kindly. And our best to Mrs. Wesley.”

  “Thank you.”

  Joshua was watching Will with new interest now. He had been most impressed with Mrs. Mendenhall yesterday, but because he had assumed she was married, he had not allowed himself to let his thoughts dwell on her.

  Wesley was suddenly struck by an idea. He gave Joshua a quick, appraising look, then turned to the boy. “Say, if I remember correctly, yo mama and yo daddy were good friends with the Montagues.”

  “That’s right,” Will responded eagerly. “My daddy and Mr. Montague worked together for a time.”

  “I remember now.” He pulled at his lower lip. “Tell you what. I’m gonna drop over and see yo mama and have y’all come out to the Montagues too.”

  Will couldn’t believe his ears. “That would be wonderful, Mr. Wesley.”

  Joshua tried not to look too pleased. He could think of few things that would give him more pleasure than to spend a couple of days in proximity to Caroline Mendenhall.

  “Don’t y’all be sayin’ anything, now,” Wesley warned Will. “I don’t want her thinkin’ up no excuses. It’s time she starts getting out again.”

  “No, sir, I won’t, sir.” There was no way Will was going to jeopardize what was developing.

  Wes
ley turned to Joshua. “You won’t mind, will you, Mistuh Steed? The Montagues have plenty of guest rooms.”

  Joshua nearly choked. “Not at all,” he managed. “Not at all.”

  As Joshua and Will walked away, they moved quietly and sedately until a row of dogwood trees screened them from the view of Wesley’s offices. Joshua turned his head to make sure they were no longer in view, then stopped and looked down at Will. “Well, Master Mendenhall,” he grinned, “you’ve just been part of your first cotton deal. What do you think?”

  Will’s smile nearly split his face in two. “Great!” he said, all traces of the mature young gentleman gone. “Thank you so much for taking me, Mr. Steed. And to get to go out to the plantation—that’s terrific!”

  Joshua chuckled at his excitement, then he sobered a little. “Actually, I was glad I had you. When he started asking questions about whether I wanted Sea Island cotton or American Upland, I suddenly realized how little I knew.”

  Will was instantly serious. “Sea Island cotton was first grown off the southern Atlantic coast. It’s kind of like Egyptian cotton. It has long, silky fibers and makes wonderful textiles. But it’s very costly because it grows more slowly and the yields are smaller. But Upland cotton, now that—”

  Joshua threw up his hands, laughing helplessly. “All right, all right. Where do you learn all this stuff?” Then he remembered their previous conversation. “From books, right?”

  Will shook his head slowly, his eyes dropping. “My daddy taught me.”

  Suddenly Joshua understood. “Your father was a cotton factor?”

  “Yes. Not a big one. He was still learning when he died. But he would have been as good as Mr. Wesley.” The last was said with fierce intensity.

  “What happened?” Joshua asked quietly.

  Will was twisting a corner of his coat, staring down at it without really seeing it. “He got yellow fever.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two years next September.”

  Joshua fell silent, feeling the boy’s grief, but also feeling his own heart skip a beat. In the South a widow was expected to stay in mourning for a year. Wesley’s comment that it was time Will’s mother start getting out indicated that enough time had passed. Feeling guilty for his soaring thoughts, he reached out and laid a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Was your father planning to teach you to be a cotton factor too?”

  Will nodded glumly. “He said when I turned eighteen we’d be partners.” He dropped the part of his coat he was holding and smoothed it out, his face struggling to hide the pain. Then he started to walk again. Joshua watched him for a moment. He had been pleased to have his young friend with him. In fact, it had given him as much pleasure as anything Joshua could remember in a long time. And then on top of that, the boy had proven his worth. Not only had Joshua been pleased, he had been grateful. And that, he was happy to recognize, had nothing to do with his growing interest in Will’s mother.

  Joshua walked quickly to catch up with the boy. “I think you are going to make one fine cotton factor, Will Mendenhall.”

  He looked up, brightening. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  The ear-to-ear grin suddenly erupted again. “Thank you, Mr. Steed. Today has been the best day of my whole life.”

  Joshua took hold of Will’s arm and turned him so that the boy was facing him. “My friends call me Joshua,” he said soberly. “I’d like it if you called me Joshua, Will.”

  Will’s shoulders came back proudly. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, I’d better get you home for your studies”—he dropped into a deep drawl—“or yo mama will skin us both and hang us out to dry.”

  * * *

  Arthur Wilkinson’s eyes were gray, nearly the color of a winter sky. When he was angry they changed color, becoming like the underside of a heavy thunderhead. Also, his jaw would tighten, his mouth would draw into a slight pout, and a tiny cleft in the center of his chin would appear. He always looked a year or two younger than his twenty-one years, but the changes that anger caused in his appearance made him seem all the more boyish.

  Rebecca Steed watched those changes in his face now, feeling a deep sadness that it had come to this. She was tempted to reach out and smooth the cleft with her fingertip as she had done so often before, but she forced herself to keep her hands folded in her lap.

  “Rebecca, I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “Of course it means something. You know that.”

  They were sitting on the grass behind the Kirtland Temple. It was a clear Sabbath afternoon, the air clean and cool, with no hint of the summer heat that would soon be coming. The sunlight filtered through half-formed new leaves on the beech tree above them, dappling their faces and arms and clothing with soft patterns of light and shadow. This was Rebecca’s favorite spot in all of Kirtland, and she and Arthur often came here to talk.

  “Do you love me?” he demanded.

  For a moment she hesitated, considering all that those words implied, everything he would assume was included in their meaning. His eyes flashed even more darkly when she didn’t immediately answer. But finally she nodded. “Yes, Arthur,” she said softly, “I do.” She did not try to hide the pain she was feeling.

  He threw up his hands. “But if I don’t read the Book of Mormon, then it’s no deal. No marriage!” His words came out sharply, snappish.

  “I never said that, and you know it.”

  “You asked me to read the Book of Mormon. I said I’m not interested, now you won’t marry me.”

  “Do you really think I would use our love to blackmail you like that?”

  His anger faltered in the face of her challenging gaze.

  “Do you?” she demanded.

  He finally shook his head, but it was clearly acquiescence under pressure.

  “I hoped you would read the Book of Mormon because you wanted to. I hoped you would investigate the Church because you wanted to find out for yourself if it was true. I don’t want you doing it for me, Arthur. I want you to do it for you.”

  “And because I’m not interested, now you won’t marry me.”

  She looked away, saddened that this great gulf stood between them. And trying to tell herself they could make it work did nothing to lessen the anxiety she felt.

  “Rebecca, I don’t care what you believe. If you want to be a Mormon, that’s fine with me. If you want to believe Joe Smith—”

  “Joseph,” she corrected him automatically.

  “Joseph Smith,” he said with an angry shake of his head. “If you want to believe Joseph Smith got a Bible from some angel, I don’t care. So why can’t you give me the same freedom? That’s what’s so exasperating about you Mormons. Everybody’s got to believe like you do.”

  That made Rebecca’s head come up sharply. “My brother-in-law is not a Mormon. We haven’t kicked him out of the family yet. We even have him over for dinner. Right in my father’s house.”

  “All right, I didn’t mean it that—”

  In her anger she rode right over him. “As you know, I keep house for the Bradfords. They’re Methodists. I’m even tutoring their children a little. When the parents aren’t around, I tie the children to their beds and read the Book of Mormon to them, but they haven’t found out yet.”

  He threw up his hands. “All right, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out like I meant it to.” He sighed deeply. “But if it doesn’t bother you that they’re Methodists, why is it so important to you that I be a Mormon?”

  She shook her head. That was what frustrated her more than anything. He couldn’t even begin to understand what she was trying to say. She took a breath, wanting to try again, wanting to make him see. She did love him. The thoughts of being his wife left her a little dizzy with joy. But there was also the other part of her. Her heart couldn’t completely silence her head.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “I clean house for the Methodist family, Ar
thur,” she said, fighting to keep the impatience out of her voice. “They haven’t asked me to live with them for the rest of my life. They haven’t asked me to bear their children.”

  He shot forward. “Well, I have. That’s all that matters. I love you, Rebecca, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Don’t you understand that? I don’t care if you are a Mormon.”

  She closed her eyes, the pain inside her so sharp that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. It was like this every time. He would demand answers, and then when she gave them he would brush them aside without a moment’s consideration. Just one week before, she had sat inside the building that loomed above them. And there the Savior had appeared. Just feet away from her. She had thrilled to that. She wanted to share her feelings with Arthur. But she couldn’t. Not about what had happened a week ago. Not about many other things. She had come today, hoping against hope that this time they could break the impasse, that this time she could get through to him. She had also come with the determination that if they failed, there would not be a next time. It was too painful for the both of them.

  “May I ask you a question?” she said, looking up to search his face.

  “Of course.”

  “When our first child is old enough, I’m going to teach him about Heavenly Father. I’m going to teach him about Jesus. But I’m also going to teach him that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. I’m going to teach him that the Book of Mormon is scripture, just like the Bible. Will that bother you?”

  Now it was Arthur who hesitated. She was sorely tempted to pounce on his momentary discomfiture, but she didn’t want this to turn into a game of strike and counter-strike. Finally, he shook his head—a little begrudgingly, she thought. “I can live with it.”

  “And when our child is five or six and comes to you and says, ‘Papa, do you believe Joseph Smith is a prophet?’ what are you going to say to him?”

  Arthur suddenly grinned. “You keep saying him?” he echoed. “So it’s going to be a boy?”