They embraced, holding each other for several moments without speaking. Finally Mary Ann pulled back. “You’ll write as soon as the baby comes?”
“Yes.”
“It will seem strange to be called Grandma.”
Lydia smiled and wiped at the tears. “Will you come and see him?”
“You’re so sure it’s a him?”
Lydia laughed. “I think so.”
“Yes, we’ll come see him.” Her eyes darted to Benjamin, then back. “I don’t know when, but we’ll come.”
They both turned, and Lydia walked slowly to Benjamin. She stopped, looking up into the weather-hewn face. “Father Steed?”
“What?” He didn’t turn, just kept staring out across the fields, but Nathan saw his Adam’s apple bob once, then again.
“Will you come with Mother Steed and see your grandson?”
He finally turned and looked down at her. “I’ve got to get the crops in. Then there’ll be the summer’s work to do.”
It had come out curt, almost abrupt. But Lydia only smiled all the more warmly. She laid her hand on his arm. “By late fall he’ll be crawling. There isn’t anything much better than seeing your first grandson crawl.”
He chuckled in spite of himself. “We’ll see.”
“Good.” Then in one moment her lips were trembling. She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “I’ll miss you, Father Steed. You’ve been awfully good to me.”
He patted her shoulders awkwardly, like a man afraid to touch a skittish colt, but wanting to nevertheless.
And then it was over. Nathan helped Lydia into the wagon. There were last-minute cries of farewell, and promises to write, and fierce attempts to hold back the tears. Then Nathan snapped the reins, and the horse flicked its ears and leaned into the harness. In a few moments they turned out of the lane and onto the main road to Palmyra Village. Nathan reached out and clasped Lydia’s hand. She took it, squeezing it hard in return, but neither of them spoke as they made their way south toward town. From there they would be traveling to the home of one of Lydia’s friends, where they planned to stay before departing with Mother Smith’s group.
As they drove down Main Street and past McBride’s dry goods store, Nathan saw Lydia’s eyes follow the storefront for as long as they could without her turning her head.
“Do you want to stop and try again?”
She shook her head. She and Nathan had gone in a week ago to tell Lydia’s parents they were leaving. Josiah McBride would not even let them cross the threshold of his store. When she had asked if she could come by on this night to say good-bye to her mother, he had shaken his head emphatically, back stiff, mouth tight. Hannah McBride had no wish to say anything to a daughter that had so deeply and fully betrayed her. Later Nathan had tried to tell Lydia that that was her father speaking, not her mother. In either case, Lydia had no recourse but to write a letter and send it in with a friend. Whether they had opened it, she would probably never know.
“I will, Lydia,” Nathan said softly. “I’ll tell them you only want a minute to say farewell.”
“No.”
He sighed and drove on past, his eyes smoldering, a deep anger hardening inside him. For the first time in his life, Nathan had an overwhelming desire to walk up to a man and punch him squarely in the nose.
“Do you know what it is?” she suddenly asked.
“What what is?”
“Papa’s hurt?”
“He hates Joseph Smith.”
“That’s part of it, but no. It’s having to face the people.”
“Face them about what?”
“About me. No one in the village blames him. After all, I’ve always been”—her voice dropped as she quoted sarcastically—“a ‘willful and headstrong girl.’ In a way, it would be better if they did criticize him. He could deal with that. But the oozing sympathy every time he and Mama go to church, the sidelong looks of pity, the women clipping off their conversations when he and Mama enter the room—that’s more than he can handle.”
And that was why what was at first white-hot anger had now solidified into something as rock-hard and unbendable and cold as the depths of a mountain glacier. Over the past year Lydia had finally come to accept that. It still hurt, so much that she had to force herself not to dwell on it, but at least she understood.
She sighed, fighting back the burning beneath her eyelids. “We’ve got a big day tomorrow, Nathan. Just take me to Caroline’s house.”
To be a full five feet tall, Lucy Mack Smith, mother to the Prophet Joseph, would have to go up on tiptoes, and stretch at that. She was not only tiny in height, but she was also small in frame, a wisp that would easily blow away in any kind of serious windstorm. But the spirit that lived inside must have been big enough to fill two or three bodies of that size. With a mixture of amusement and amazement, Lydia Steed watched her getting everything and everyone settled on board the canal boat. So did the captain of the boat.
He was a big, dirty man, with a foul-smelling cigar stub jammed between yellowing teeth. Normally berth assignments on a canal boat were done on a first-come, first-served basis, often accompanied with ugly bickering and sometimes open fights for the best positions. With a group as large as this, the latecomers would end up sleeping on the floor, or on the tables that were set up and taken down each day. But immediately upon the arrival of the group of Saints, Mother Smith took things in hand and began assigning places based on need and circumstances. The captain had sneered at her attempts at first. Now he seemed content to let her put things in order.
“How many children?”
“Four.”
“Sex and ages?”
“Three girls and one boy. Uh...ages? Let’s see.” The man turned to his wife.
She shook her head as though this was no surprise. “Girls, twelve, nine, and three. A boy, seven.”
“All right,” Mother Smith said, pointing down towards the opening that led into the covered area of the boat. “There are four berths in the ladies’ section. Next to the Shurtliffs. Brother Griffin, you’ll have one in the men’s section. Your boy will have to sleep on the floor next to you.”
“Personal belongin’s go in the space near the stern,” the captain said. “That’s the back of the boat to you.”
“But...” The man stepped to the doorway and peered into the gloom of the inside cabin area. “Do you have a larger bunk?” he asked. “I’m a big man—”
The captain cut in. “All the berths are the same size. And by the way, you take a bottom one. Don’t want you crashin’ down on someone if the braces break.”
The man jerked around, his face darkening instantly.
Mother Smith stepped between them, ignoring the captain. “It’s all right, Brother Griffin,” she said cheerfully. “Pay him no mind. Just hope you get to sleep next to someone that don’t kick much. The beds are pretty close together.”
There were several good-natured chuckles around her, but Lydia saw that Brother Griffin was not mollified. In a huff, he gathered up the two valises and a large burlap bag stuffed to the bursting, and followed his wife and children into the inside cabin.
About eighty people had gathered in Kingdon, a small community not far from Fayette, to make the journey west, but one canal boat could never hold a group that size, so they had split the party. Mother Smith took charge of the larger group—twenty adults and about thirty children. They had the larger boat and so could accommodate more. Thomas B. Marsh, a convert who had been baptized in September of the previous year, would lead the second group and follow close behind the first.
It was fascinating to Lydia to watch Mother Smith. She was in her midfifties. She was tiny, and rarely raised her voice in anger. Yet she commanded respect, even from the men.
Mother Smith made the assignments for three more families, including her own children, then turned to Lydia and Nathan. If the task had wearied her, she gave no sign. She smiled kindly. “Now, dears, we have just the place for you two.”
“Anywhere is fine for us,” Lydia said quickly.
“There’re two bunks back by the captain’s cabin,” Mother Smith went on, as though Lydia hadn’t spoken. “They’re not in either the men’s or women’s section. That way, Nathan, you can stay close to your wife.”
“Normally, I put the crew there,” the captain spoke up. He grinned, the cigar bobbing like a cork in a washtub. “But I wouldn’t want no babies bein’ born halfway between here and Buffalo.”
“Mother Smith, I don’t want any special treatment. Nathan and I—”
A finger came up and waggled at her. “Now, you listen to me, young lady. You’ve got the baby to think about.”
“Really, Mother Smith—”
“Shush you, now,” she said sternly. Then with a twinkle in her eye she turned to Nathan. “Is she always this sassy?”
Nathan chuckled. “From time to time.”
Lydia dug an elbow into his side, but Mother Smith just reached out and patted Lydia’s arm. “It’s probably a little stuffier back there, but it’ll be better that way.”
Lydia took her hand. “Thank you, Mother Smith.”
Nathan reached out also and shook her hand gratefully. Then he picked up their things and they started for the cabin.
Canal boats were typically about fifty to fifty-five feet in length. They looked a lot like a drawing Lydia had seen once of Noah’s ark—only on a much smaller scale, of course. Blunt nosed, low in the water, and with a shallow draft—most places along the canal system carried only four feet of water—they were more scow than boat. They definitely were not things of beauty like the sleek ocean-going schooners she had seen lining the docks of Boston.
Instead of open decks, the major part of the boat was filled with the long, wooden cabin area that ran from stem to stern. No higher than four feet above the deck, it had a flat roof where the passengers could come out in the day and sit or stand as the journey progressed. On this particular boat, the cabin was painted a bright yellow. Others were painted with garish reds, blues, greens, and oranges, or combinations of those colors. Having grown up just a block away from the Erie Canal, Lydia had always wondered why the boats were painted with such bright colors. Perhaps they were painted to match the bawdy reputations of the canawlers that captained them and the women who cooked on them.
Inside, the cabin area was partitioned off into two sections, one for the men, one for the ladies. Each wall was filled with wooden berths that were now folded up and attached to the wall with leather straps. The forward section was for the women. The only toilet facilities consisted of a common hairbrush, a single towel, and a bucket of water—drawn by rope from the canal whenever necessary. That made Lydia frown. Long stretches of the canal were stagnant and filled with refuse and the occasional body of a cat or chicken.
With over four dozen people crowding into the limited space, finding their places and getting settled, the air was close and stifling. As Lydia and Nathan picked their way down the main passageway between the people, the smell almost made Lydia gag. She was now long past the queasy time of her pregnancy, but this was like an open assault on the nostrils. The air reeked of stale tobacco smoke, human perspiration, rancid lard from the big cooking kettles, stale perspiration from stacks of blankets that had seen too many hot and humid summer passages, and the peculiar sharpness of whiskey. Every canal boat had a small bar for its gentlemen passengers, alcohol seeming to be the universal anodyne to help dull the “ecstasies” of canal travel.
The men’s section was unbelievably filthy. The floor was fouled with the remnants of the tobacco chewers’ spittle, and beneath the tables she could see scraps of bread, fried bacon, and other remains from previous suppers. Come night, there would be roaches and perhaps a rat or two to contend with. She gave a little shudder, and Nathan reached out and took her hand and squeezed it.
Thankfully, the cramped crew quarters were near the rear door, and as Nathan put their things away as best he could in the limited space, Lydia stepped to the door and inhaled deeply. They would leave the door open once everyone settled down. It would be cold tonight, not far above freezing, but she decided she could bear that more than trying to sleep with the door shut and letting the smell from the men’s section creep through the walls.
“This is disgraceful,” she said after they got their things stowed and she stepped back out into the cabin area. “It’s like pigs have been living in here.”
Nathan stepped back out and surveyed the cabin area. She was right. It was a disgrace. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Up on top, he found Mother Smith watching the captain getting the last of everything situated. “Sister Smith?”
“Yes, Nathan?”
“Have you been downstairs yet and seen what the cabin area looks like?”
She wrinkled her nose, the blue eyes, which were so like Joseph’s, suddenly crackling with indignation. “Yes, I have. And I gave the captain a piece of my mind too. He promised me faithfully he’d have it all clean for us. He just got back from taking a group to Syracuse.”
“Would you mind if I organized a few of the brethren and sisters and we cleaned it up a little?”
She looked up at him quizzically for a moment.
“What’s the matter?”
“Most everybody’s mad at me for not putting them in the right bunk or getting their children close enough to them.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Can you believe it? Some of these families didn’t even think to bring any food. A week or more at least until we’re in Ohio. What did they think they were going to eat, manna from heaven?”
Before he could answer, her face softened and the eyes began to twinkle. “To tell the truth, Nathan, I don’t think I can handle you comin’ to me with a solution to a problem. All I know how to do is handle people without solutions.” She patted his arm. “I think that’s a wonderful idea. The captain said he’s got a mop and some brooms.”
He laughed. “You’re wonderful, Mother Smith. I know there are a few who grumble, but we all love you for what you’re doing.”
“Thank you, Nathan. That’s very kind.”
“I’ll go see what we can do.”
He walked back to Lydia, told her what he was doing, pushed her gently back down on the bunk when she tried to get up, then went from person to person. Most agreed immediately to help, though some snapped at him that they had more than they could handle just getting settled.