“Behind the counter, over there,” she answered, pointing.
As Peter watched, the fellow moved across the main room of the store to the spot indicated and set the box down. Peter noticed that he did so with relative ease, barely making a bump as the box was placed. Then he straightened, brushing off his hands. He was tall, half a hand taller than Peter at least, and strongly built. His hair was almost as fair as Jenny’s, and deep blue eyes were set amid striking features. Peter guessed he was twenty or thereabouts. As he came toward them, he eyed Peter curiously.
“Andrew,” Jenny said, “come meet a fellow Britisher.”
He came across the room in long, easy steps, then stuck out his hand. “Andrew Stokes,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Herefordshire,
Peter thought as he took his hand. The accent was definitely that of a person from Herefordshire. “How do you do?” he said. “I’m Peter Ingalls.”
Like Jenny, and many other children of the poor in England, Peter had started working in the cotton mills at the age of nine. He had not progressed out of the cutting rooms, and so had never done any of the hard-labor jobs as Derek had done. Peter was not solidly built. He was slender, and his shoulders stooped slightly—also a product of the cutting room. Suddenly he was keenly conscious of that fact as he stood beside this broad-shouldered Stokes fellow. He was also aware that his hair was ragged and needed cutting, and that his apron had ink stains from the latest edition of the paper. Without thinking, he wiped his free hand against his trousers.
“Ah, yes, Jenny’s childhood friend. She’s told me about you.”
Peter flushed a little at that. So that was how she described him to others.
“That means you must be a Lancashire lad too.”
“Yes,” Peter replied, noting the use of the word
lad
with faint irritation. “And from what part of Herefordshire are you?”
Andrew released Peter’s hand and stepped back. “Very good. You have a quick ear. I’m from Castle Froome, about fourteen miles south and west of Worcester.” He pronounced it “Woos-ter,” as the British do.
“You lived near Brother Benbow?”
The young man was surprised. “That’s right. So you know Herefordshire?”
“Not really. My brother was with Elder Woodruff on his mission there, and I’ve heard him talk about Castle Froome. That’s all.”
“Your brother?” Then he snapped his fingers. “Of course, Elder Ingalls. Yes, he was there when my family and I were baptized. We lived just a mile or so from the Benbows. We were some of the first to hear the gospel.”
“Andrew has just recently arrived from England,” Jenny said. “He came in the store just a few weeks or so ago and we’ve already become fast friends, haven’t we, Andrew?”
“Most assuredly,” he said, smiling at her and showing evenly spaced teeth.
“And of late, he’s been coming in early to help me lift the heavy stuff. It’s been very nice.”
Peter, watching the light in Jenny’s eyes, realized that she was positively glowing with excitement. And with a lurch, he realized that it had nothing to do with him. She was looking up into Andrew’s face, watching his every expression.
Finally she turned back to Peter. “So what brings you to the store at this early hour?” she asked.
Suddenly flustered, Peter stammered for a moment. “Uh, I
was . . .” He thought about the folded paper in his pocket and knew there was nothing in the world that could make him tell her about that now. “I was just on my way to work and thought I’d stop by and say hello. Caroline said you’re almost always here by this hour.”
She laughed lightly, her eyes teasing him. “Isn’t this kind of the long way to work?”
“Not really,” he managed. “It’s a beautiful morning, and I . . . uh . . . I wanted to drop something off for Nathan at the city council office.” Then before she could pin him down further, he stuck out his hand toward Andrew. “It’s good to meet you. I suppose we’ll be seeing you again.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Give my best regards to your brother.”
“I will.” And with that, he turned and made himself stroll casually to the door. He stopped one more time. “We’ll see you later,” he called, and then he was outside.
“Fool!” he muttered under his breath as he stepped off the porch. “Stupid dolt!” As he walked swiftly away, he reached in his pocket and withdrew the paper that was there. He didn’t open it. He didn’t have to. He knew every word by heart. He had pored over them for hours. There was no hesitation, even though this was the only copy. He simply tore the sheet in half, in half again, and then again a third time. Then he tossed the pieces over his shoulder, not turning to watch them flutter to the ground.
Chapter Notes
The mock grave and the satirical headstone of John C. Bennett’s “final resting place” were referred to in the
Wasp,
a Nauvoo newspaper (see
Wasp
1 [23 July 1842]: 2; Andrew F. Smith, “The Saintly Scoundrel: The Life and Times of John Cook Bennett” [unpublished ms., Brooklyn, N.Y., 1994],
pp. 118–19).
Chapter 6
Walter Samuelson’s office was on the fourth floor of one corner of the huge cotton warehouse that faced the Mississippi River. From his window, Will could look upriver and downriver and watch the heart of what made St. Louis one of the thriving new cities in the American West. There was hardly a time when he couldn’t count five or six boats moving upstream or downstream. Dozens of the great steamers lined the docks and wharves on both sides of the river. Hundreds of stevedores—Negro slaves, Irish immigrants, Chinese coolies, Indians from the Caribbean—ran about as though someone had just kicked their anthill. This was American commerce, and while it might not have the elegance and grace of the great ocean ports, it certainly had the same bustle and pulsing energy. And Will grudgingly had to admit he found it exciting.
It was grudging because he was still disgruntled about how things were going for him personally. Two nights ago Will and his father had gone to the dinner at Samuelson’s house. The dinner itself hadn’t been too awful—awkward, but not awful. Alice Samuelson, though not as pretty as Jenny, had proven to be witty, charming, and understanding of Will’s cautious reserve. Before the evening was over, the two of them had gone for a walk. When she began telling him of her own response to “this arrangement,” as she referred to the dinner, she had Will laughing uproariously. He guessed that given half a chance, they would become fast friends. But she was no more interested in being matched by her parents than he was in having his father work out something for him.
But when they returned to the house, they realized they had made a strategic mistake. What had been merely the desire of two young people to escape a boring evening with the old folks had been seen by the parents as something quite different. It was working!
Joshua started in on him the moment they left the house, pressing him to know how he felt about Alice now, suggesting they could prolong their departure a little if he wanted, and how would he feel about another dinner on their last evening here? They hadn’t gone halfway back to their hotel before Will was glowering and had his father muttering to himself. Why couldn’t he understand? he thought. All Will wanted was to make his own way in these matters.
And then this morning, the worst had happened. Alice appeared at the office with her father. She needed a ride to her violin lesson, Samuelson explained innocently. Mrs. Samuelson’s carriage driver had suddenly taken ill and couldn’t take her later in the day. She would just have to stay at the office until noon, when her father would take her. Perhaps Will might join her for a sight-seeing trip around the city.
The girl was mortified, totally humiliated, but neither father seemed aware of that. However, Will flatly refused to leave the task he had been given, which was to run an inventory on the cotton in the warehouse. Instead he invited Alice to join him, best dress and all. That had won him Samuelson’s dismay, his father’s fury, and Alice’s gratitude. Finally, a couple of hours ago, Samuelson, still clearly in a huff, left with Alice in tow to take her to her lesson. That left Will and Joshua to share the office with nothing but an icy wall between them.
Will turned around as the door to the office opened. He nearly groaned aloud. Samuelson was back, and right behind him was Alice again. But Samuelson didn’t even look at Will. He walked right over to Joshua. “Steed,” he said in a commanding voice, “put that pen down and come with us. We’ve got something to show you.”
Joshua was surprised by the enthusiasm on his partner’s face. “What’s that?”
Samuelson grabbed his arm and started to tug him out of his chair. “There isn’t any way to describe it. You’ve got to see this for yourself.”
Alice went straight to Will. “Will, you too. It’s wonderful. You’ve got to come.”
He looked at her suspiciously. Was she in on the conspiracy now too?
Seeing his expression, she slugged him on the arm as if he were her little brother, which was the best thing she could have done to and for him. “It’s not what you think,” she said. “Come on.”
“All right,” Samuelson said. “This is it.”
Will looked around in surprise. They were on a vacant lot in the heart of downtown St. Louis. Correction, he thought. It was normally a vacant lot. Now there was a medium-sized white canvas tent pitched just about in the center of the lot. A crowd was gathered around the front of it in a semicircle. Even from the road they could hear the excited rumble of voices.
Will stood up in the carriage so as to see better. And then, right in front of the tent, he saw a tall man in a black suit and high stovepipe hat. He was holding something up—from here it looked metallic—and that was bringing a chorus of oohs and aahs from the crowd.
Alice gave him a little shove. “Come on, Will.”
He jumped out of the carriage, then helped her down. Behind them, Samuelson and Joshua were also climbing out. They moved across the grassy lot, and Will saw that off to one side there was a collection of strange-looking equipment—four or five large wooden trunks, a padded bench, three padded stools, several tripods which held nothing except some curious-looking braces, and a white square of canvas, easily six feet by six feet square, mounted on a light wooden frame and braced so that it stood almost vertically.
“What is this?” he asked Alice.
She merely smiled and took his arm, pulling him forward. Evidently many in the crowd recognized Samuelson and viewed him as someone of considerable importance. When they saw his party approaching, they moved back to make an aisle for him. It led right to the man in the black stovepipe hat. When he looked up to see what had caused the crowd to shift, his face instantly became wreathed in smiles. “Ah, Mr. Samuelson.” He took Alice’s hand and curtsied slightly. “And Miss Samuelson.”
“Mr. Pickerell,” Samuelson said, “may I introduce my business partner and his son—Joshua and Will Steed. This is Mr. William Pickerell from New York City, but presently on tour of the West demonstrating a—” He caught himself and laughed. “Well, I’ll let him tell you that.”
The black hat was swept off and the man bowed deeply. “A pleasure, sir.”
“Is it ready?” Alice burst out.
The man smiled, pleased at her excitement. “It is. Just a moment.”
He turned and disappeared into the tent. The crowd went silent, obviously knowing what to expect. “What is going on?” Will whispered, pulling Alice around to face him.
“You’ve got to see it for yourself. But it’s better than anything you’ve ever seen,” she promised. “Even in China.”
“Most definitely,” her father agreed.
A moment later Pickerell reappeared. In his hand he carried a square of cloth. As the tent flap closed again, Will caught a whiff of something foul-smelling, something burning, as if some animal had been caught in a fire. No, he thought, as he tried to identify it. It had a chemical quality to it. More as if a printing office or an apothecary shop had caught fire.
Pickerell walked over to Alice and began to unwrap whatever it was he carried. By now the onlookers had closed in again. They craned their necks to see over and around Samuelson’s group as an almost reverential hush fell over them. As Pickerell dropped the cloth away, Will saw that what he carried
was
metallic. It was a copper plate, about eight inches square, and no thicker than a piece of heavy parchment. He held it up for all to see. Will peered at it, but it was just a plain piece of copper sheeting. But the crowd knew more than Will. There was no collective sigh of disappointment. If anything, the air of expectancy heightened even more.
Then, with a flourish worthy of a master magician, Pickerell flipped the copper sheet around. “Behold the daguerreotype,” he said grandly, holding the metal up for Alice to see.
A great “Aah!” went up, but Will was barely conscious of it. He stared dumbly at what he saw before him, not understanding. The side of the sheet now visible was apparently silver-plated, and etched into the metal was a tiny painting of Alice Samuelson. He leaned forward. No, not a painting. It was far too precise for that. It was her! Every detail was perfect. There was the thin tracing of feathers that lined her bonnet, the wide, teasing eyes looking directly at him, the eyelet pattern on the lace around her collar—even a wisp of hair plucked by a passing breeze. It was all there in absolute, exquisite clarity.
“Oh, it’s lovely!” she cried. She reached out and took it, carefully holding it by the edges.
Will turned to see his father staring openmouthed as well. “What in the world . . . ?” he finally breathed.
Pickerell was delighted with the effect he was creating. “It’s called a daguerreotype, sir. Da-
gehr
-o-type,” he pronounced slowly. “It’s named after the Frenchman who invented it. It’s a real picture. Pho-
tahg
-ra-phee, we call it.” Pickerell turned and took another plate from a small table next to the tent and handed it to Joshua. This was a picture of a young girl, about Savannah’s age. Again, the detail was stunning, and Will and Joshua leaned over to stare at it in wonder.