The Work and the Glory (93 page)

We had a most interesting experience during that conference. As you know, in writing, my grammar is poor and my spelling far short of perfection. Fortunately, I have grown wise enough to use Brother Sidney and others as my scribes. In any case, some complaints were made about the language and style of the revelations. The Lord was displeased, and I received a revelation from him challenging the brethren to pick what they considered to be the “least” of the revelations and see if they could do better. William E. McLellin, a recent convert and a schoolteacher, was the wisest man present (in his own sight), and having more learning than sense, endeavored to write a commandment like unto one of the least of the Lord’s. But he failed miserably. He learned that it is an awful responsibility to write in the name of the Lord. Thereafter, the brethren’s faith in the revelations was renewed, and a testimony to that effect was written which will be placed in the front of the new book. Brothers Oliver Cowdery and John Whitmer have now carried the revelations to Missouri for printing.

In February, we received one of the most glorious revelations thus far. Brother Sidney and I were continuing our work on the translation of the New Testament. From sundry revelations already received, it was obvious that many points touching the salvation of man had been taken from the Bible, or lost before it was compiled. It appeared self-evident from what truths were left, that if God rewarded every one according to the deeds done in the body, the term “Heaven,” as intended for the Saints’ eternal home, must include more kingdoms than one. I know this is at strict variance with the doctrines of Christianity as now taught, but the Spirit seemed to testify that such was the case.

When we came to the twenty-ninth verse of the fifth chapter of John, which speaks of the resurrection of life and the resurrection of damnation, a vision burst upon our view. I can tell you without hesitation, Nathan, that nothing could be more pleasing to the Saints upon the order of the kingdom of the Lord than the light which burst upon the world with the opening of that revelation to our view. Every law, every commandment, and every promise touching the destiny of man, from Genesis to Revelation, witness that this revelation was in very deed a transcript from the records of the eternal world. Any honest man who reads must be led to exclaim, “This came from God!”

I have not the space to give you all the details—I shall let you peruse it at your leisure when you return. But suffice it to say that in that vision—or better yet, that series of visions, for different scenes were presented to our view—God’s great plan for the salvation of his children was unfolded and we saw that there are differing kingdoms of glory to which men are sent after their sojourn in this life. As the Savior said, men are rewarded according to their manner of living and there are indeed many mansions in the kingdom of his Father.

I had to smile a little. There were close to a dozen men present in the translation room, here on the upper floor of the Johnson home, but only Sidney and I were privileged to see the vision. When the vision finally closed, poor Sidney was as pale and limp as a rag. The experience had totally drained him. I fear that he is not as used to this process of revelation as I.

Now for darker news. Satan continues to rage against our work. Just as the Savior foretold in the parables of the gathering, the gospel net brings in many kinds of fish. Some are stalwarts, like Oliver and Parley and Sidney and yourself. Others are as weak as a castle made of sand. Simonds Ryder, converted through the prophecy of a young girl about a great earthquake in China, apostatized when I misspelled his name as “Rider” instead of “Ryder” in a call for him to serve a mission. If the Spirit could not even spell his name correctly, he reasoned, then perhaps he had been mistaken about its promptings when he was converted. We lost another brother when I came down one day from the translation room where Sidney and I had been working, and immediately began to play with some children. It wasn’t how a prophet should act, he said. Others leave because of economic difficulties, or because I do this or that which does not please them. Some of the Johnsons’ own sons have turned bitter against me because I warned them that they must start living the gospel more diligently.

If it was simply a matter of them leaving the Church and kingdom, it would be a sad case; but they cannot simply walk away. The same spirit which leads them into apostasy drives them to fight against us.

Just about a week ago now, the opposition of these apostates came to a bitter and most tragic head. On the night of the 24th of this month, I suggested that Emma retire to her rest. Our twins, little Joseph and Julia, had been quite ill for a time with the measles and we had finally separated them, since the moment one would finally get to sleep the other would cry and wake the other. In the evening I told her I would watch with the sicker child so she could sleep. Later, when both babies finally took some sleep, she told me I had better lie down on the trundle bed also. I did so, and due to my state of exhaustion, quickly fell asleep.

The bedroom in which I slept was near to the front door. I awoke to the sound of Emma screaming murder from her room as about a dozen men came pouring into the house. I found myself going out of the door, in the hands of the men, some of whose hands were in my hair, and some who had hold of my shirt, drawers, and limbs. The men smelled of whiskey and were in an infuriated state.

I made a desperate struggle to extricate myself, but only cleared one leg. I kicked out with all my strength and connected with one of the men. He went sprawling and fell on the doorsteps. I was immediately overpowered again; and they shouted and swore at me. “By——, “ they screamed, “we’ll kill you sure if you don’t hold still.” Frightened, that quieted me.

As they passed around the house with me, the fellow that I kicked came to me and thrust his hand, all covered with blood, into my face and with an exulting hoarse laugh, muttered: “————ye, I’ll fix ye.” He then seized me by the throat and held on till I lost my breath and lapsed into momentary unconsciousness.

When I came to, we were about thirty rods from the house. I turned my head and saw a horrible sight. Elder Rigdon was stretched out on the ground, whither they had dragged him by his heels. I supposed he had been killed, and immediately began to plead with them, saying, “You will have mercy and spare my life, I hope.” To which they replied, “————ye, call on yer God for help, we’ll show ye no mercy.”

Now there were men coming from the orchard in every direction. About thirty rods further on, they stopped, and one said, “Simonds, Simonds,” (meaning, I supposed, Simonds Ryder,) “pull up his drawers, pull up his drawers, he will take cold.” Another replied: “Ain’t ye going to kill ‘im? ain’t ye going to kill ‘im?” A group of mobbers collected a little way off, and said: “Simonds, Simonds, come here”; and “Simonds” charged those who had hold of me to keep me from touching the ground (as they had done all the time), lest I should get a spring upon them. They held a council, and as I could occasionally overhear a word, I supposed it was to know whether or not it was best to kill me.

They returned after a while, when I learned that they had concluded not to kill me, but to beat and scratch me well, tear off my shirt and drawers, and leave me naked. They ran back and fetched the bucket of tar, when one exclaimed, with an oath, “Let us tar up his mouth,” and they tried to force the tar paddle into my mouth. I twisted my head around so that they could not, which only infuriated them the more. Another one cried out, “————ye, hold up yer head and let us give ye some tar.” They then tried to force a vial into my mouth, and broke a part of one of my teeth. (You’ll note upon your return that I now have a slight whistle when I pronounce certain words.)

All my clothes were torn off me except my shirt collar. At that point one man fell on me and scratched my body with his nails like a mad cat, and then muttered out: “————ye, that’s the way the Holy Ghost falls on folks!”

Finally the fiends left. I attempted to rise, but fell again. I was having difficulty breathing and realized that tar was covering my mouth. I pulled the tar away from my lips so that I could breathe more freely. I made my way back to Father Johnson’s home. When I came to the door I was naked, and the tar made me look as if I were covered with blood. Emma, who was in a state of terror anyway, took one look at me and fainted dead away. In the poor light she thought it looked like I was all crushed to pieces.

My friends spent the night in scraping and removing the tar, and washing and cleansing my body; so that by morning I was ready to be clothed again. This being the Sabbath morning, the people assembled for meeting at the usual hour of worship, and among them came also the mobbers; viz.: Simonds Ryder, leader of the mob; one McClentic, who had his hands in my hair; one Streeter, son of a Campbellite minister; and Felatiah Allen, Esq., who gave the mob a barrel of whiskey to raise their spirits. Besides these named, there were many others in the mob. With my flesh all scarified and defaced, I preached to the congregation as usual, and in the afternoon of the same day baptized three individuals.

Oh, Nathan, how it burdens me to share this next piece of bitter news with you. When I was dragged into the night, with Emma screaming after me, the door to the house was left open, allowing the cold night air to pour into the room where little Joseph was resting. Because of that, our son contracted a severe cold in addition to the measles he already had. Nothing we did seemed to help, and he finally passed from this life yesterday, leaving Emma shattered and completely distraught. This is the fourth child we have lost.

I’m sorry, I cannot say more, for my heart is filled with sorrow. But I also rejoice in the work, good friend, and in your success. There is no need to write by return post, for as I said earlier, I will be gone to Missouri now for a time. I look forward to that time when we see each other face-to-face again, and you can tell me all that I long to hear.

Your dear brother,
Joseph

Opposition to the Work

Chapter Nineteen

J
osiah, I would like to talk with you.”

The owner and proprietor of McBride’s dry goods store barely looked up. “Hannah, I have to get this stock put away and then take inventory of the tools. It can wait until tonight.”

“No, it can’t.”

He straightened slowly, his small mouth tightening into a line. “Hannah, I said it can wait until tonight.”

Hannah Lovina Hurlburt McBride would never be accused of wearing the pants in her family. Josiah McBride was a small man, but only in physical stature. He was a martinet in many ways, running his household with firm discipline and not much humor. Normally his wife, who tended toward austerity and primness herself, accepted his patriarchal role without complaint. But today was different. She stepped forward, hands on her hips, her eyes lowering like storm clouds scudding in from Lake Ontario.

“Josiah McBride, I said it can’t wait. I want to talk to you now.”

He blinked, taken aback. When he didn’t protest further, Hannah McBride looked over her shoulder to where their clerk was working behind the counter. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Hannah,” he started, “I have...”

The look on her face was such that his voice trailed off. This was not the Hannah he was used to dealing with.

Wearily he wiped his hands on his leather apron and shook his head. “All right. But let’s hurry.”

He chose to go not to their living quarters, but upstairs to one of the stockrooms. He turned around. “Now, what is it that’s so all-fired important.”

She reached in her pocket and pulled out a letter. At the sight of it, his brows instantly furrowed and his eyes darkened. “I’ve told you before, until your daughter shows some remorse for the heartache and the hurt she has caused us I will neither read nor answer her letters. I wish you had the moral courage to take the same stand.”

Ignoring that, she opened the envelope and took out the letter. “Read it!”

He snatched the letter, crumpled it up in one furious clench of his hand, and hurled it away. “Did you hear what I just said?” he shouted. “I will not read it!”

Surprisingly, his fury did not cow her. She walked over to the ball of paper, picked it up, and smoothed it out against her dress. When she came back she walked right up to her husband and stood toe-to-toe with him. “Josiah McBride, there’s not much I’m ever asking from you, but this time I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Read this letter!”

If she had burst into tears or stomped off in a huff or responded in any kind of similar way, she would have lost. But as it was, her brashness totally stunned him. For a long moment he stared at her, his mouth working, then finally he grabbed the letter from her again—only this time he turned slightly toward the light and began to read.

It was short, less than a page, and he finished it quickly. He thrust it back at his wife, who took it calmly. “So? What do you want? Do you want me to feel sorry for her? Well, she should have thought about that a long time ago. I told her that Steed boy was a no-good. He ran off right after their marriage and left her for a whole summer to work in Colesville. Then he was off to Missouri to look up that no-account brother of his. Now he’s left her again to go out and preach the devil’s gospel, leaving her and the child alone. It’s no more than she deserves.”