He sensed her watching him and forced a quick smile. “So it starts again in about a week?” he said.
“Yes.”
He nodded, feeling suddenly awkward. “I . . . I wrote a poem, Kathryn.” His hand moved toward the pocket of his trousers, then dropped back again.
One eyebrow came up. “Oh?” And then she couldn’t hold it back. “You seem to have been doing a lot of that lately.”
It was said evenly enough, but he still flinched. He knew full well what she was referring to. “Yeah,” he finally said lamely.
She knew she had hurt him, and somewhere inside her a tiny voice chided her for her pettiness. But it wasn’t as though he had been particularly mindful of her feelings, was it? “Is this another something for Jenny?” she asked, as though she were only marginally interested anyway.
For several moments he looked at her, then he shook his head. “Not really.” And then, looking quite dejected, he raised one hand. “Well, I’d better get back, I guess.” He put his hat on and, without another word, turned and left.
Few people in Nauvoo knew that Rachel Griffith was Joshua Steed’s natural daughter. Joshua and Jessica had married in Jackson County, Missouri, in 1829. Joshua Steed had been a different man back then—bitter, hard-drinking, smoldering with resentment—and the marriage had been rocky from the start. They divorced when Rachel was only a year old, and she had never known Joshua as her father. But by then Jessica had joined the Church and met the Steeds. Though technically she was no longer part of the family, they had taken her in as though she were one of their own.
Then, after years of separation, Joshua and his family were reunited. By that time Jessica had married John Griffith, and Joshua had married Caroline Mendenhall. John had two boys from a previous marriage, and so while there had been no legal adoption of Rachel, it was only natural that she took the Griffith name along with her stepbrothers so there was no distinction between them. Given these arrangements, Joshua’s return created an awkward situation. So by mutual agreement Joshua and Jessica decided that the best way to deal with the whole matter was to put aside the past. It wasn’t a denial that the past had happened; it was just a determination not to let it intrude into the family structure now. They made a pact that Joshua would become “Uncle Joshua” to Rachel and just another one of the brothers-in-law to Jessica. It had been a little strained at first, but gradually all of the Steed family settled into the new role definitions. Even after John Griffith was killed at Haun’s Mill and Jessica was left a widow, that did not change. Now, three years later, family members rarely thought about what once had been.
Rachel Steed Griffith was nine now. She had more of her natural father’s physical characteristics than her mother’s. Her hair was a dark brown, almost black in subdued light, and had a natural curl to it. Worn long and down her back, it tended to fall into natural ringlets. But in temperament, she was more like her mother, quite serious and reflective by nature, often content to sit quietly while her noisier cousins jabbered around her. But that didn’t mean she was a melancholy child in any way. A favorite of her Grandfather Steed, she had a subtle but quick sense of humor, often making quiet comments that would startle the listener for a moment before bringing an appreciative smile. She was bright and learned very quickly, proving to be one of Jessica’s most promising pupils in school. She was also a willing worker and was fast becoming surrogate mother to her three brothers—Luke and Mark, her stepbrothers, and little John Benjamin, her half brother.
Rachel also had two foster sisters now. Widow McIntire and her two daughters had been drawn into the Steed family circle when they joined the Church at Far West just about the time when the Saints were being driven from Missouri. Thus they had become part of that tragic exodus. The mother never quite recovered, and when ague swept through the ranks of the Mormons in the summer of 1839, Nancy McIntire was one of the casualties. Jessica took Jennifer Jo and Kathryn McIntire as her own, and Rachel gained two “sisters” on a permanent basis. Kathryn and Rachel had become especially close, in spite of the six years’ difference in their ages.
Rachel was in the schoolroom too. She was supposed to be sorting the reading books but, as usual, had opened one and in a moment was deeply engrossed. Kathryn had forgotten she was there, and so when Peter came to the door, Rachel became a silent witness to the little interchange that followed. Now she watched her sister closely as she stared at the door where Peter had been standing just a few moments before.
“Kathryn?” Rachel asked quietly.
Kathryn jumped and turned. “Oh, Rachel. You’re so quiet.”
“Why are you angry with Peter?”
Kathryn came slowly over to join her. The book Rachel had been reading was forgotten now. “I’m not angry with Peter,” Kathryn said slowly. “Why do you say that?”
It was not Rachel’s nature to be disingenuous. She was only nine, and maybe she didn’t fully understand when adults were angry, but it certainly looked to her like Kathryn was angry. “You acted angry.”
Kathryn sat down wearily. “I’m not angry, Rachel. It’s just
that . . .” Her eyes drew away, remembering. “Ooh! He’s so transparent! He’s blind, and insensitive, and, and—” She stopped, frustrated that she couldn’t think of any other appropriate words.
Just then the door opened and Jessica came into the room, carrying several books in her arms. Right behind her was Jennifer Jo. Peter was immediately forgotten. Rachel leaped up and ran to Jennifer Jo and gave her a hug. “Hi, Jennifer Jo.”
“Hello, Rachel.” She bent down and kissed Rachel on top of the head, then turned. “Good morning, Kathryn.”
“Hello.” It came out as little more than a growl.
Jennifer Jo gave Kathryn a sharp look, then turned to Jessica, who just shrugged. Finally, she looked back down at Rachel. “I thought I’d come help you all get ready for school. What needs to be done?”
“You could help me sort the books,” Rachel answered. Then, looking at her mother sheepishly, she admitted, “I started reading a story and I haven’t gotten very far.”
Jessica smiled, not at all surprised.
“Are you excited for school?” Jennifer Jo asked Rachel.
“Oh, yes.”
“Do you think you will be able to stand Kathryn as a teacher?” Jennifer Jo said, watching her sister out of the corner of her eye. “Your mother tells me that she’s going to let Kathryn teach the reading groups.”
Rachel giggled. “Mama says that Kathryn will get all the bad students, and she’ll take all the good ones.”
“That’s right,” Kathryn murmured, moving back to where she had been counting papers. “Jessica knows my capabilities well.”
“Kathryn!” Jessica exclaimed in dismay. “You know I was only teasing about that. You will make a fine teacher. And I’m going to give all of the teaching of reading—good and bad students—over to you.”
Jennifer Jo was watching her sister carefully. This was not Kathryn. Kathryn’s disposition was more sober than her own, but still she was usually sunny and cheerful, a legacy they had both inherited from their mother. So Jennifer Jo knew what to do. Both of them had long ago perfected the ability to pull each other out of blue moods.
She turned and looked at Jessica. “Maybe she just needs some help, Jessica. What if you got her a teaching assistant?”
Jessica caught on immediately. “Oh, now there’s an idea for you.” She smiled broadly at Kathryn. “But it would have to be someone who already has experience.”
Kathryn’s head came up for a moment. She knew what her sister was doing and she clearly didn’t appreciate it. Then she looked down at the papers again. Jennifer Jo was still looking at Jessica and didn’t see it. “What about that one boy? Let’s see, what was his name?”
Kathryn kept her eyes down. “Jenny . . .” It came as a quiet warning.
Jessica’s smile slowly died and she pulled back, sensing this was not the time for teasing. But Jennifer Jo was determi
ned to bring her sister out of whatever it was that was bothering her. “Oh, yes,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Ingalls, I think. Peter Ingalls. Wasn’t that his name? Maybe he could help her out.”
Kathryn whirled away, slamming the remaining papers down on the table. With an angry toss of her head, she stomped from the room. Jennifer Jo stared at her in disbelief. “Well,” she said after a moment of awkward silence, “I didn’t expect that to happen.”
“Something’s wrong,” Jessica agreed.
Rachel quickly told her mother and Jennifer Jo what had happened.
“Oh, dear,” Jennifer Jo said, deeply contrite. “This was not the time to try and cheer her up, I guess.” She started for the door. “I’d better go make my peace with her.”
It was like what the French called déjà vu. Will Steed rolled over in the bed, turning his head away from the window where the drapes blocked the direct rays of the sun but did very little to keep the light out. It was the same hotel room in Warsaw where they had stayed on their way to St. Louis. One difference was they had got in much later last night—or earlier this morning, to be more exact—than they had on the trip down. Just after dusk, their boat had run aground on a sandbar. No damage was done, but even with all of the power of the boiler put into the paddle wheel, they couldn’t back off. Finally, a little after nine, another boat came by and threw them a line. That worked, but the captain was all the more cautious as they continued upriver, and it was almost two o’clock in the morning before they reached Warsaw. It took them another ten minutes to roust the hotel clerk from a deep sleep, and so it was past three before father and son finally were in bed.
Will cracked one eye open. Sure enough, the bed beside him was empty. His father had gone again. Well, that was just too bad, he thought, turning over and burying his head beneath the pillow. They were taking that wagonload of goods back to Nauvoo. This time there was no boat to miss. His body felt as if he had been dragged behind the boat. His mouth was dry and foul-tasting. Behind the closed lids his eyes burned. If he overslept, he decided, his father could just darn well wait.
But five minutes later, he knew it was futile. He was awake and there was going to be no changing that. Grumpy as a bear kicked awake in mid-December, Will dressed, shaved in the bathroom down the hall, and then went downstairs. It was ten-fifteen, he saw, and he was famished again. He started up the street for Callahan’s, but then, remembering what had happened before, he slowed his step. Hungry or not, he would wait for his father. He stopped altogether now, trying to decide what to do.
Without realizing it, he had stopped directly next to the window of the newspaper office. As he looked around, his eye was caught by the editions of the Warsaw Signal that had been posted there. Absently, still wondering where to look for his father, he noticed that the nearest issue was dated with today’s date. Down the window a little, four earlier editions were posted with a notice that copies were still available for sale. The one dated July 21 caught his eye and he backed up a little.
After ten minutes of moving back and forth reading snippets from the paper, Will was positively seething. He knew about Thomas Sharp’s helping to form an anti-Mormon political party here in Warsaw. That had been the talk of Nauvoo a few weeks before. So it was no surprise that the paper contained announcements and propaganda related to this party and its objectives. That was not what made Will angry. Most newspapers in America were strongly partisan in one way or another.
First there were several sarcastic attacks on Joe Smith. In one place, Sharp challenged Joseph Smith to bring forth the gold plates so they could be retranslated by a local expert. Will shook his head in disgust. Did Sharp think that was an original idea? In another place, an article called the Prophet the “Presiding Great Devil” and the “Superior Ugly Devil.” It said that “Nauvoo” in “reformed Egyptian,” the language of the Book of Mormon plates, meant “a dwelling place for Devils, or where their evil deities delighted to dwell.”
Will hooted in open derision. This was like a spoiled child who, when he doesn’t get his way, reverts to petty name-calling.
He almost walked away then, thoroughly put off by the blatant bias. But then another article in the earliest posted edition caught his eye. Sharp had printed something from an Eastern newspaper, a piece that claimed to expose the real story of what had happened to the Saints in Missouri. As Will read the article—along with another of Sharp’s own editorials on
the same page—one of Sharp’s purposes became clear in Will’s mind. No doubt he intended, among other things, to convey the message that people in Illinois, and particularly Quincy, had been duped into extending food, housing, and sometimes even financial help to the Mormon exiles. While offering such aid was a noble thing, Sharp was suggesting it was misled.
Whoever had written the article for the Eastern paper claimed that his information came from an official U.S. report on the Missouri wars and was based on testimony of eyewitnesses. The only problem was, the ones interviewed were those who were enemies of the Church—members of the mob, generals who had directed the militia, the old settlers who had, Will knew, personally profited from the expulsion of the Saints from their farms. There were also several interviews with people Will knew were former Mormons who had turned against their own. Some of it was obviously downright fabrication.
One of the claims was so blatantly false that Will read it three times in total disbelief. Part of the tragedy was caused by Joseph Smith himself, it read. In a desperate attempt to win sympathy for his cause, Joseph had sent his own secret henchmen out to burn Mormon houses so the Saints would be enraged and rise up against the Missourians.
Almost before he knew it, Will was through the door and into the more subdued light of the newspaper office. He stopped, blinking a little to let his eyes adjust. There was a long counter that ran almost the full length of the room. Behind it, in the far corner, he could see the printing press. A movement to his right caught his eye and he turned. A man was at a table. In front of him, attached to the table, were cases that held thousands of pieces of type in tiny square dividers. Mounted on the wall directly in front of the man’s face were other cases; these held the capital letters. Peter had taken Will to show him a similar layout in the Times and Seasons offices and explained that this was where the terms “upper case” and “lower case” letters came from.
The man turned at the sound of the door opening and closing. He stood. Will saw that he was carrying the line of type he was working on in one hand. “Yes? May I help you?”
He was a big man, with biceps like a blacksmith’s—probably from pulling the press lever thousands upon thousands of times. His features were porcine, his eyes narrow slits in heavy cheeks.
“I want to speak to the editor,” Will barked, only now realizing where his anger had carried him.
The man set the line of type down carefully. He scowled darkly at Will across the counter. “Mr. Sharp is not here at the moment.”
“When will he return?”
“I’m not sure. Is there a problem?” It was not spoken with the slightest touch of cordiality.
“Yeah,” Will spat out. “I’ll tell you what the problem is.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the window behind him. “Your paper is nothing but a pack of lies.”
The eyes narrowed even more. “You a Mormon?” he rumbled menacingly.
Will wasn’t cowed at all. You didn’t stay bosun on a sailing ship for long if you couldn’t hold your own with whatever kind of man had been hired as crew. “No,” he snapped right back, “I’m not a Mormon. Never have been. But I know enough about them to know that what you’ve got here is not news. It’s nothing but the most damnable lies.”
For a moment, there was nothing but the glittering dark eyes behind the rolls of flesh. Then the man jerked his head toward the door. “Mister, I suggest you just turn yourself around and get out of here. You don’t like what Mr. Sharp prints, don’t buy Mr. Sharp’s papers.”
“I didn’t
buy one of these rags,” Will said evenly.
The man gave a short laugh of derision. And then, with open contempt, he turned his back on Will and returned to the typesetting table, sitting down heavily. “Then you got no cause for sniveling, do you?” he tossed over his shoulder.
For a moment, Will stood there, breathing deeply, his fists clenching and unclenching. Then he knew what to do. “Only one,” he responded. “I don’t like passing open garbage on my way to breakfast.” He spun around and walked to the window where the papers were pasted.
“Hey!” the man yelled as he saw Will’s hands go up. “Get away from there!”
Will ripped one edition off the window with a brisk, downward yank. There was a crash as the man shot up, sending his chair flying. “What the—”
Will tore off another, then turned calmly, crumpling the paper in one hand while he reached in his pocket with the other. He found a coin, not caring what it was, and flipped it at the counter. “Tell Sharp that one of his paying customers doesn’t like his newspaper, all right?” He spun on his heel and moved toward the door.
With a roar, the man darted down the counter. Will had expected no less and backed out the door swiftly, not wanting to be caught inside the narrow confines of the office. He shut the door calmly in the man’s face; then, as the man ripped it open again, he moved out into the center of the street, nearly knocking two women off the sidewalk as he did so.
The man stopped for just a moment, dazzled by the bright sunlight. Then, seeing Will waiting for him, he lumbered out into the street, swinging the hamlike fists even as he came. Will didn’t have time to entertain any second thoughts about the wisdom of what he had just done. Nor did he try to sidestep the rush. Instead, at the last second, he dropped into a crouch, as the first mate on his ship had once taught him, and let the man trip on him and hurtle over the top of him. There was a solid thud, and clouds of dust billowed up around them.
The Work and the Glory Page 274