The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I wasn’t. Now I am.”

  Her look chided him a little. “What if I don’t like it?”

  “You will.”

  She laughed. “All right, if you’re so sure, let’s hear it.”

  “Savannah.”

  That startled her. They had discussed several girls’ names—Elizabeth, Margaret, Belinda—but not once had that possibility come up.

  He brought the baby back down and tucked her into one arm, then began to rock her gently, still looking down into her face. “Savannah Steed. What more appropriate name could there be?” His voice went suddenly tight. “It’s where everything important to me started.”

  Tears sprang to Caroline’s eyes. It touched her more deeply than she could say that he was responding in this way.

  He looked up, saw that she was crying. He met her gaze steadily. “Is that all right with you, then?”

  She swallowed, smiling through the tears. “I think Savannah sounds absolutely perfect, Joshua.”

  He came back to her, handed her the baby. “Hold her for a minute. There’s something I need to get.”

  “All right.” A little puzzled, she took the baby and watched him as he knelt down beside the bed. He reached underneath and pulled out his valise, the one he had taken to Savannah. He looked up at her, his eyes grave, then quickly undid the buckles. She heard the rattling of paper. Finally he stood. In his hands was the porcelain doll he had purchased in New Orleans.

  Her eyes widened as he held it out for her to see. “Joshua,” she breathed, “what an exquisite thing!”

  He glanced down at it, then smiled slowly. “It’s for her, Caroline. I bought it in New Orleans, when I was on my way to Savannah. Thank you. Thank you for giving me this beautiful daughter.”

  * * *

  “Do you think it’s a boy?” Lydia asked.

  Thankful Pratt nodded. “I know it is.”

  Rebecca, standing on the opposite side of the bed, cocked her head to one side, looking a little surprised. The doctors were estimating that Parley’s wife was still two weeks from delivery.

  Mary Ann saw the look and spoke up. “Remember? Brother Heber’s blessing upon Parley?”

  Rebecca’s head bobbed. “Oh, yes. I forgot.”

  “Yes,” Thankful said. “Brother Kimball promised Parley that I would conceive and bear him a son and that he should be named after his father.”

  “That was a remarkable blessing,” Lydia said. “You were so sick back then, and ten years without child. Now look at you.”

  Thankful laid her head back on the bed. They were standing around her in the small bedroom of the home in which the Pratts lived. Parley was off at a meeting with some of the brethren, and Mary Ann, Rebecca, and Lydia had brought her some chicken broth and some warm biscuits. Thankful’s recovery from a six-year bout with “incurable” consumption had left her healthy and filled with energy. When she had accompanied Parley back to Canada the previous June, she had seemed like an entirely different woman than the frail wraith they had known. She was fairly tall and quite slender, though now she was heavy with child. But evidently the reserves of strength were thin, for the pregnancy seemed to have drained much of them. The strain of her and Parley’s return from Toronto the week before had also taken its toll. She looked fragile and weary. That was partly what had triggered the women’s visit.

  Lydia smiled at her friend. “Maybe this boy of yours will grow up and be one of the missionaries who take the gospel to England, like Brother Kimball promised would happen.”

  To Mary Ann’s surprise, Thankful’s countenance fell. “Perhaps, but I shall not be here to witness it.”

  All three of the Steed women looked up in dismay. Lydia was the first to give voice to their shock. “Thankful, whatever on earth makes you say that? Of course you’ll be here.”

  She shook her head, but now the sadness was mixed with a strange look of joy. “It’s all right, Lydia. Everything is all right.”

  Mary Ann reached out and took one hand. “It’s natural to worry at this point, especially with your first baby. But everything will be fine, Thankful. You’ll see. We’ll be praying for you.”

  Thankful turned to Mary Ann, her eyes wide and glistening. “You are sweet to say that.” Her eyes moved to Lydia and then to Rebecca. “This shall be the other difficult thing for me. I shall miss you all terribly.”

  “Thankful,” Lydia said, quite sternly now, “you must stop speaking in this manner.”

  Again the head dropped back against the bed pillow. She sighed deeply, but once more Mary Ann was struck with the fact that while there was sorrow, there was also a radiant joy that filled Thankful’s face. “I must tell you something,” she finally said. “Then perhaps you will understand.”

  She reached out both of her hands, taking Mary Ann’s hand with one, and Lydia’s with the other. She smiled at Rebecca, apologizing with her eyes that she could not touch her as well. Then her eyes left her three friends. She was looking at a spot somewhere behind Mary Ann, but her eyes were not focusing on anything in the room.

  “It was only a few days ago now. I was sitting in the other room just at midday.” Her voice dropped to an awestruck whisper. “Suddenly I was overwhelmed. I felt like I was immersed in a pillar of fire. It was all around me, and filled the room with light. I should have been frightened, I suppose, but instead I was filled with great joy. While I sat and marveled at what was happening, the Spirit whispered in my mind, saying, ‘Thou art baptized with fire and the Holy Ghost.’”

  “Really?” Rebecca breathed when she stopped. “How wonderful!”

  Thankful nodded, barely hearing. She was lost completely now in her recollections of the experience. “The Spirit then intimated to me that I should have the privilege of departing from this world of sorrow and pain.” Finally she looked at them, and her eyes were wide and luminous. “I am to be allowed to go to the paradise of rest as soon as I have fulfilled the prophecy in regard to my son.”

  Mary Ann, Lydia, Rebecca—they were all staring, so totally taken aback that they were left without words.

  Thankful went on more slowly now. “The experience was repeated the following day at exactly the same time and in exactly the same way.”

  “I . . .” Lydia’s voice betrayed her, and she had to look away.

  Thankful squeezed Lydia’s hand and Mary Ann’s firmly. “Do not be saddened. I am not. Oh, it grieves me to think of leaving my dearest Parley”—she pulled one hand free and rubbed her stomach—“and to think that I shall not be here to raise my son. But I have been filled with the most wonderful sense of peace and joy. I cannot describe it to you. I long to be gone. I count the days as though I were a hireling counting the remaining days of my servitude, or a prisoner the days until I am set free.”

  Lydia dropped her head and began to cry softly. Mary Ann was weeping too. Rebecca seemed to be in shock.

  “Weep not, my dear sisters,” Thankful said in a clear, steady voice. “We shall be apart for only a short time. Be faithful, so that we may greet each other again in the holy resurrection.”

  * * *

  In the early morning hours of March twenty-fifth, 1837, Thankful Halsey Pratt gave birth to an infant son. He was named Parley Pratt after his father. After the baby was cleaned and dressed, he was brought to Thankful. She embraced him tenderly for a short time, then passed away quietly about three hours after his birth. She was buried in the cemetery across the street from the Kirtland Temple, not far from Joseph and Emma Smith’s infant twins, who had died at birth.

  For a short time, the economic woes that were plaguing Kirtland were forgotten as the Saints turned out by the hundreds to weep and mourn the death of one of their sisters.

  * * *

  As the wagon moved slowly toward the main square of Far West, Matthew Steed stared in open-eyed wonder. It had been six months since he and his father and Nathan had made their way up the gentle slope to the site of the new city and spent the night on the ground around Newel Knight
’s camp fire. He had been back to Far West only one time since then. Shortly after Christmas he had brought Jessica and little Rachel over to join in the brief celebration held by the Saints when they learned that the state had organized two new counties in northern Missouri.

  There had been more people and more structures then than there had been in October, but not so many that it was surprising. Now he could scarcely believe his eyes. There were still tents and lean-tos aplenty, as there had been in October, but there were also dozens of permanent structures—log cabins, log and sod huts, even an occasional frame structure here and there. New buildings were under way everywhere he looked, and wagons filled with cut and uncut lumber rumbled past them almost continually. With a quick eye, Matthew counted, estimating what he couldn’t see from what he could. He guessed there were close to a hundred buildings either finished or under construction, including, as near as he could tell, six or eight stores or places of business.

  The city was on the highest spot of land in the vicinity, and the prairie—boundless and in the full blush of spring—spread out green and lush in every direction the eye turned. To the north, about half a mile, the lighter green of the prairie was bisected by the darker line of trees, just now coming into full leaf, that ran beside Shoal Creek. About the same distance south of town, another tree line marked Goose Creek. Both streams flowed east, Goose Creek joining Shoal east of town, then together continued on past the bend where Jacob Haun had chosen to place his settlement and eventually into the Grand River.

  A soft breeze was blowing, moving the knee-high grass in slow undulations. Spring wildflowers were in evidence everywhere, and if one stopped for a moment, the soft drone of bees could be heard. Off to their right, a meadowlark was adding his cheerful song to the sounds of hammer and saw that were everywhere present.

  Jessica leaned back in the wagon seat. She closed her eyes and tipped her face up so as to catch the sun fully. Her long hair fell behind her, bouncing lightly with the movement of the wagon. Matthew glanced at her quickly, and felt a quick rush of satisfaction. He had been shocked when they first saw Jessica last fall. The ague had taken such a toll that he had barely recognized her. She had lost considerable weight, and her dress hung on her bony shoulders like rags on a scarecrow. But most frightening were her eyes. They were like the ends of two burned-out sticks, charred and lifeless from a long-dead fire.

  Now she had filled out again. Her cheeks were full and glowing with color. The gauntness was gone, and her eyes shone with health and life. More important, the coming of the three Steed men had worked miracles with her spirits as well. Using money Benjamin brought, they purchased five acres of government land for $1.25 per acre; built a cabin; bought a small wagon, a mule, a metal plow, and other basic tools; and purchased sufficient wheat and corn seed to plant their acreage. Jessica’s teaching brought in a little cash money and enough food to see them through until Matthew could get a crop in. In one swoop, she had become much better off than many of the other Saints in Missouri.

  Matthew’s satisfaction came from knowing that his coming had been a major factor in that change. Though she loved the Lewis family, living in a small cabin with someone else’s growing children had been more demanding on her and Rachel than she had expected. To have her own home again, no matter how simple, with beds for both her and her daughter, had buoyed her up. And when she had to be gone teaching, she knew that her daughter was in not only capable but also loving hands. Five now, and priding herself on becoming a young lady, Rachel was delighted to have her uncle tend her; her feelings for Matthew hovered somewhere between total adoration and complete infatuation.

  Matthew turned to look at his niece in the back of the wagon. He smiled. Her head was jerking back and forth, her sky blue eyes neither wide enough nor quick enough to catch sight of every fascinating thing there was to see. For a five-year-old, a trip to Far West was like a journey across the ocean to a new world.

  Jessica stirred, but didn’t open her eyes. “They said the meetings would be at the new schoolhouse.”

  “Yes,” Matthew answered. “We should be there in a few minutes.”

  * * *

  The sun was low, half-hidden by a scattering of fluffy cumulus clouds. Long shafts of light spread out from beneath the clouds like spokes in some vast, golden wagon wheel. In another half hour, Jessica realized, there was going to be a very spectacular sunset. She smiled slightly. How she loved the prairie! It had so many moods, so many faces, all of them clean and edifying and majestic.

  Though they had received half a dozen invitations to stay with various families, she and Matthew had decided to camp out—she and Rachel in the wagon, Matthew underneath with his bedroll. During this time of year, the days were delightful, the nights cool and pleasant. Now she was glad they had made that choice, for she did not feel like making small talk or putting on a face for people.

  “Look, Mama. Look what Uncle Matthew made for me.”

  Jessica turned to her daughter. She was holding out what had been, earlier that day, a stout length of tree limb, nine inches long and about three inches thick. Matthew had taken it from the small stack of wood that was feeding their cooking fire. Today was the sixth of April, 1837, and they had come to Far West to join the Saints in celebrating the seventh anniversary of the organization of the Church. The meetings had ended at about four o’clock. They had returned and had supper. Since that time, Matthew had sat on a short stump of a log and whittled away furiously at the tree limb with his pocketknife.

  “My goodness,” Jessica exclaimed. She took the wooden figure from her daughter, peering at it closely. It was the figure of a girl, a child. Her feet and legs were together, her hands tight at her side as if she were standing at attention. Jessica turned it so she could see the face more closely. There was no mistaking it. The features were rough-cut and lacked precision, but they were the features of Rachel Steed. The hair, down to the shoulder and soft with curls, was also clearly Rachel’s.

  “It’s me, Mama. It’s me.”

  “I know, Rachel.” Jessica turned to Matthew. Her eyes were filled with surprise and wonder. “It really is marvelous, Matthew. I had no idea you could carve like this.”

  He shrugged, his cheeks coloring a little at the praise. “I always carve when I’m trying to get my thoughts away from other things.”

  She handed the doll back to Rachel. “When we get back home, perhaps we can make her a dress.”

  “Would you, Mama? Would you?”

  “Yes. Did you thank your Uncle Matthew?”

  Rachel nodded, but all the same, she whirled and in a moment had her arms around Matthew’s neck, hugging him with all her strength. “Oh, thank you, Uncle Matthew. Thank you. I love her so much.”

  “You’re welcome, Rachel. I’m glad you like her.”

  Jessica watched them for a moment, filled once more with gratitude that Matthew was with them. “Rachel,” she called softly, “it’s time to get ready for bed. Climb up in the wagon and get your nightgown on, then we’ll read in the Book of Mormon for a few minutes before we say prayers.”

  Rachel immediately complied, setting the doll down carefully against the side of the wagon box where it could watch her as she climbed up the wheel and into the wagon. As she disappeared behind the canvas, Jessica moved over and sat down on the log beside Matthew. “That was very sweet of you, Matthew.”

  He was looking up at the wagon. “It was fun for me.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Are you lonesome out here?”

  That brought his head around quickly, but he only looked at her in surprise.

  She reached down and picked up a branch that was half in and half out of the fire. For a moment she looked at the tiny flame consuming one end, then spoke again. “Do you wish you hadn’t come?”

  His eyes again registered his surprise. “To Missouri? Of course not. I have no regrets.”

  “None?”

  “Well, I miss my family, of course. But no, I like it her
e. I get to farm my own land.” He grinned. “I get to be the man of the house.”

  “I’m glad,” Jessica replied, “because we’re sure glad you’re here.”

  Matthew reached out and touched her arm briefly. “Well, so am I. And if you’d like to know the truth, I—” He stopped as he caught sight of a figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned, then stood quickly. “Brother Knight. Hello.”

  Surprised, Jessica stood quickly, brushing at the back of her dress. Newel Knight was smiling nervously as he came over and joined them, shaking hands first with her, then with Matthew. At that moment, Rachel stuck her head around the corner of the wagon’s canvas top. “I’m ready to read the Book of Mormon, Mama,” she called.

  “Just a moment, honey. We have company. You go ahead and play with your doll, and we’ll be with you in a minute.”

  When Jessica turned back, Newel was watching her closely. He had swept off his hat and was twisting it round and round in his hands. “I’m sorry to intrude like this.”

  “No intrusion at all,” Jessica smiled. “Matthew and I were just visiting. Won’t you sit down? We have a little corn dodger and stew left.”

  He raised a hand quickly. “No, Sister Knight and I just had our supper. I’m fine. I . . .”

  His discomfort was so obvious that Jessica felt embarrassed for him. “Is there a problem, Brother Knight? May we help you in some way?”

  He seemed relieved that she was that direct. “May I speak with you plainly, Sister Steed?”

  “Of course.” But his question surprised her. Brother Knight and Nathan Steed were such close friends, she had supposed he might have come to make sure Matthew was surviving all right without his family.

  Matthew started away. “I’ll see to Rachel, Jessie.”

  “No,” Newel blurted. “Please stay, Matthew.” He took a quick breath. “You’re kind of the head of the house now. I think you need to hear this too.”

  Puzzled, Matthew nodded and stayed where he was. Jessica was perplexed too. She peered at Newel more closely, which did nothing to relax him.