Chapter 2
Trials and Tribulations
Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it…
He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord’s anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood; and so has his brother Hyrum. In life they were not divided, and in death they were not separated!
John Taylor, Third President of the Mormon Church
1813
Lebanon, New Hampshire
My trials and tribulations began in earnest when at seven years old I was afflicted with typhus fever.
For many weeks I lay in the pine slat and straw mat bed that normally served for me and two of my siblings. Pain from the fever sore throbbed in my lower left leg as if something had pierced my flesh and stayed lodged there. Mother sat next to me day and night, dabbing my fevered forehead with a damp cloth. “Curse that typhus,” she murmured under her breath. “So cruel to afflict my young Joseph.”
Doctors visited occasionally to lance the wound or apply poultices. On one such occasion, I woke from fever-sleep to voices somewhere near the front of our small log cabin. Soon, my elder brother Hyrum was in the doorway, a man with graying hair at his shoulder. He was dressed in rough woolens against the winter weather and smelled of horses. Several others filed in behind them. Some I had seen before.
“My poor boy, we have come again,” one of them said, pity crowding his eyes.
“You’ll remember Doctors Stone and Perkins,” Hyrum said in a hushed voice as several men crowded the small bedroom. “This is Doctor Nathan Smith from Dartmouth Medical College, and these are his attendants. He practices a novel procedure that might be able to save your leg, Joseph.”
Doctor Smith approached me, lifted my sweat-soaked shirt to inspect the incision in my shoulder before moving to my left leg. I cried out in pain as he prodded the hot, swollen leg all about the nearly healed incision another doctor had made weeks prior in an attempt to drain the corruption from it. The doctor had cut into the leg twice already with no improvement.
“You haven’t come to take off my leg, have you, sir?” I asked, delirious with pain and fever.
The new doctor, Smith, looked me in the eyes for the first time, oddly hesitant. “No. It is your mother’s request that we should make one more effort, and that is what we have now come for.”
Doctor Smith turned to the men who had come with him. “How long since the previous procedures, Doctor Stone?”
Another of the doctors standing nearby replied, “Nine weeks since a Dr. Parker lanced his shoulder, six since I made the first incision in the leg, three since the second attempt on the leg, Dr. Smith.”
Dr. Smith took a deep breath, nodding and murmuring to himself. He continued to inspect my leg with sharp prods of a finger, taking down a note when I recoiled or whimpered with pain. “The poor boy has nearly wasted away. He must be going mad with the pain. Thank you, Dr. Stone.”
He turned to where Hyrum and Mother hovered just inside the doorway. “The infection does not seem to affect the knee joint, so there is still some hope. I suspect that due to the time elapsed and severity of the symptoms, the affected bone will be of the third stage, meaning that much of the bone and soft matter may be dead. It would be easier, and kinder, to amputate.”
“No!” I cried out feebly, at the same time my mother protested similarly.
“You’ll not take his leg,” I remember her saying. Should they have gone through with it, I surely would have been a drain on the limited resources of my family. My only prospect for adult life would have been on some special farm for invalids, until I was deemed worthless enough to become a ward of the state and taken to an asylum. The prospect horrified Mother worse than my death, and I am grateful to her for it.
Father and Alvin joined the men at the doorway. “Aye. You’ll not take my boy’s leg and make a cripple of him,” Father insisted, his speech slightly slurred, a green glass bottle in one hand. My eldest brother Alvin stood next to him, serious, arms folded.
The doctor looked from my father to my mother. “The state he’s in, he may not survive the operation. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.”
Mother began sobbing into her hands, and Hyrum protested quietly. “We’ve done all we could, Doctor Smith. He can’t keep down much more than broth of late.”
Doctor Smith nodded again, his hazel-brown eyes filled with compassion. He put a gentle hand on my forehead. “I will try, then. I will try.” He looked to my father, who still loomed in the doorway with his customary bottle in hand. “Have you any strong liquor left in that bottle?”
“Aye, plenty here. Good whiskey from Boston.”
Mother, who stood near me, pursed her lips as she looked at Father, though she kept her peace.
Doctor Smith looked to Mother. “May I administer some to your son before we strap him down? The pain will be unbearable without it. Enough to damage the mind of such a young child.”
My stomach roiled with nausea as the doctor held the bottle near my lips. The smell of the stuff seared my nostrils and set me to retching weakly.
“No,” I protested. “No drink. No straps. Just do what you must. I’ll hold still, I promise.”
Doctor Smith favored me again with a look of profound pity but sighed. “Very well. Doctors Stone, Perkins, attend me closely please. Ready the surgical instruments.” He looked to where Hyrum still sat at my head, stroking my hair. “You, boy. Hyrum, was it? Can you hold him still and quiet? This will be quite gruesome.”
Hyrum nodded silently, and I looked to the doorway to see my father shepherding my mother and the others from the cabin. When my mother had gone, my father cradled my head in his lap tenderly while Hyrum placed a stack of fresh folded linen beneath my bad leg, massaging the swollen limb with his kind hands as he had often done in the preceding weeks.
Panic gripped me as the doctors retrieved bags and opened leather rolls full of the cruelest instruments one could imagine. Knives, wicked drills, prongs, piercing spikes. One of them propped my stricken leg in the air with some pillows before strapping my ankles and thighs to the bed with long leather belts. Another did the same around my arms and chest. I pulled at the restraints, fighting in a wild daze, but young and stricken as I was, it was to no effect. When I tried to pull my corrupted leg away from the doctors, I nearly fainted from the pain and sank back to rest my head in Father’s lap in a powerful delirium. I thank our almighty God for granting me this measure of peace, as what followed was beyond mortal man’s ability to withstand.
One of the doctors placed a small bit of padded leather in my mouth with instructions for Father to keep it between my teeth no matter the pain. Last, a doctor applied a tourniquet high on the afflicted leg, pulling so tight I thought they meant to tear the limb from my body.
A cold, wet sensation crept up the lower portion of my leg as the doctor parted the flesh with his razor, the third time I had suffered this same incision. Despite the obvious pain of the gruesome new wound, the pain in my leg lessened to an almost tolerable level, as it had during the previous surgeries. That is, until the doctors pried the flesh open to expose the corrupted bone within.
The doctors drilled into the bone of my leg, then forcibly broke pieces of it away with their pincers. Blood and pus dripped liberally from the site of the surgery to soak the linens and the bed. The pain overcame me despite the gift of comfort from the Lord. I screamed. Mother rushed back into the cabin at the sound of my despair.
I cried out at seeing her face stricken with grief at the sight of my grievous wounds. “Oh, mother, go back, go back. I do not want you to come in. I will try to tough it out, if you will go away.”
She left again, pulled away by my eldest brother Alvin. All had eyes red and swollen with grief at my tribulation, even the doctors attending the surgeon. The doctors resumed their labors, drilling and prying away at the bone of my leg until I thought there must be nothing left. How long the ordeal lasted I could not say, but I remember most vividly the way my dear father and my sweet brother Hyrum held me, stroking my face as tears flowed freely down theirs.
1814-1816
New Hampshire | Vermont | Palmyra, NY In the weeks that followed, fourteen additional pieces of bone worked themselves out of my leg. I was reduced so very low and had withered to such a degree that my mother could carry me with ease. The Lord God had guided the hand of Dr. Smith and spared me the loss of my leg, but I suffered grievously for it.
Shortly after the sickness left our family, my parents decided to seek better fortunes in the town of Norwich, Vermont. I was so slow to heal and regain a healthy form that they sent me to live in Salem, Massachusetts with my father’s eldest brother, Jesse Smith. I benefitted from the sea breezes there for a time before rejoining my family in Vermont some months later.
Suffering was the constant theme of my youth, in every respect. Our financial tribulations continued unabated for our next several years in Vermont. In our first year there tending a farm owned by one Squire Murdock, our crops failed, and we scraped a meager existence by selling fruit that grew wild on the land. The second year was exactly as the first, a nearly perfect failure. When in 1816 an untimely June frost destroyed our harvest for a third consecutive year, Father considered the matter settled. I recall the day that Father resolved to travel to New York in search of better land for our family to farm.
“We used to be well off, you know,” Father raged one night as we gathered around the hearth after a meager supper of wheat porridge and dried apples. “We had a large farm in Tunbridge, next to the farms of my father and brothers. We had your mother’s dowry from her brother Stephen besides, a thousand dollars! All lost when that foul man by the name of Stevens and his son stole my ginseng shipment. Chased him all the way to Canada for the money he stole. I was a fool to trust him. And now we are at the mercy of this God-forsaken weather.”
It was a story we children heard often, usually when Father was in his cups.
Soon thereafter, Father left in the company of a Mr. Caleb Howard to seek better fortune in the state of New York where, word around those parts had it, much fertile, untilled ground was still to be found. Father soon found a suitable place in the town of Palmyra near Lake Ontario, and sent Mr. Howard back to Vermont to fetch us.
Some weeks later in the early months of winter, I found myself in the back of a wagon driven by the same Mr. Howard, bound for Palmyra with my family, our meager possessions all in bundles. My grandmother on my mother’s side, accompanied us in a cutter of her own and shed many tears of sorrow when the time came for her to return to her home in Royalton, Vermont. “I’m so sorry my dear, that we can’t do more to keep you,” she sobbed. “Look at you, a babe in your arms and no husband to care for you on the journey. How can I let you leave like this, never to see you again?”
“It’s not so far,” my own Mother said, placating her mother. “When we’re settled we’ll have you and Father for a visit. And I’m sure we can make the journey back here at some future date. You see if we don’t.”
Grandmother Mack was an old woman already, and I have no doubt that Mother knew very well that she was leaving, never to see her beloved parents again. I, however, had little premonition that this would be our last sight of Grandmother Mack, as her sled would overturn on her return journey, and she soon passed from her injuries. Mother nor any of the rest of us ever did make it back to Vermont to see our relatives, not in our childhood years anyway. This journey would take us to a new life, a great and marvelous calling from God that we could hardly have imagined when we set out for better land to sustain our large and growing family.
I was unable to walk without crutches due to my crippled leg even now, years after my surgery. I kept a special place on the wagon bench with Mr. Howard while the rest of the family walked, even Mother with little Don Carlos, who had just been born that spring. Sweet Katharine being but three years of age and little William five, they could not be expected to walk with the rest and so either took turns riding with me on the crowded wagon or more often were carried by Alvin and Hyrum, them being nearly men by that time. Mother had fashioned slings of sorts for her and the older boys to use in carrying the young ones, but even still it was quite a burden considering the length and speed of the journey. Alvin in particular had grown to be a strong lad, and he carried one or both of the young ones for miles and miles each day with no complaint, though I could see the weariness in his face.
I rode the wagon, that is, until we were joined by one Mr. Gates, who had two daughters to whom Howard took an immediate liking. Caleb Howard, who had not lent a hand to my mother despite her obvious travails on the journey, and who liked to gamble and drink any chance he got, quickly banished me from the wagon despite my injury as soon as we began travelling with said Gates family, who was headed to nearly the same destination as we were.
“It’ll do the runt some good to exercise that leg,” he said, waving a dismissive hand at me when I complained about the poor treatment to my mother. “He’ll be a cripple for the rest of his life if you coddle him so. Why, I’ve seen men injured in the war either die or become stronger for their wounds, and I’ll tell you right now that the ones who work through the pain are always the ones who end up better for it.”
Howard was a big man, and mean. Mother and my brothers did not dare push the matter, depending on the man as we did at that stage in the journey to drive the wagon and ward off any others who might mean us harm. I was forced to walk near forty miles per day though snow and muck. Each step I took was agony. My crutches soon became as much a hindrance as an aid, and I cast them aside for the first time to attempt walking on my own.
My older brothers Alvin and Hyrum finally confronted Mr. Howard later that day, on account of his cruelty toward me. He had again refused to allow me in the wagon in place of Gates’ daughters, even when I sobbed with the pain in my leg.
“Mr. Howard!” Alvin shouted that first day I was forced to walk mile after mile. He had seen me faltering and falling behind the party. He handed little Katharine to my eldest sister Sophronia, who would have been but thirteen at the time, before picking me up to carry my slim form in his arms, as I did not fit in the slings used to carry the younger children. “My father paid you for transport, and poor Joseph requires a seat on the wagon. This will not do!”
Caleb Howard, a large and fearsome man, turned aside from where he conversed with the Gates girls on the seat of the wagon. “Is that so?” Mr. Howard asked, lips twisting around rotten teeth in a cruel smile. “These fine girls can’t be left to walk in the snow. The boy will be stronger for it. Your coddling has obviously left him weak.”
Alvin set me down near my mother and stalked toward the man. “Now see here,” he shouted. “This boy has endured a gruesome operation on his leg. Nearly the entire bone was pried from the flesh. You will provide the spot my father paid for at once.”
As my brother approached, Mr. Howard slipped his hand down to where he kept his bull whip under the seat of the wagon. The brute struck without warning, knocking poor Alvin to the ground with the butt of his whip. Blood streamed from Alvin’s scalp where Howard had clubbed him.
Hyrum and I moved to help him up, but Alvin regained his feet quickly, a grimace of anger on his face. Together with the rivulets of cherry-red blood on his forehead, my brother made quite a sight. I clung to my brother’s wet and muddy jacket, not wishing to see him hurt further on my account. Mr. Howard was a man grown, Alvin still but a boy of eighteen. “No, Alvin. I’m alright, truly. I can walk, and if I need to, I’ll ride on the back of the wagon from time to time.”
Mr. Howard smirked. “See there? He’s become braver already. Get on with you.”
He cracked his whip at the oxen pulling our large wagon, and away we went. Mr. Gates and their entire family had watched on as we endured the outrage, some of them even laughing at our misfortune. I was left to endure excruciating pain and suffering as we walked all the long way from Vermont to northern New York State.
At last, we arrived in the town of Utica, New York. The streets were full of impoverished migrants just like our family, desperately seeking salvation from the inhospitable conditions that had befallen Vermont and the greater regions thereabout. Many had faces dirtier and more gaunt even than my own.
Wagons and other traffic had churned the unseasonable snows to a thick mud that stank of feces and urine of every sort. Traversing the crowded roads was particularly difficult for me on account of my afflicted leg. The mud threatened to steal the boots clean off my feet with every aching step. Had it not been for the kind, strong arms of my brother Alvin, I might have been left behind entirely.
We stopped in front of a ramshackle lodging house. Mother, with infant Don Carlos still tied to her, and Hyrum went inside to barter for a meal and a room to share for the lot of us while Alvin tended to the rest: me, Sophronia, Samuel Harrison, William, and Katharine. No sooner had Mother entered, however, than that scoundrel Howard began throwing our belongings from the wagon into the street. Chests full of pans and clothing, and our table and chairs hit the ground with a great crash. Within moments, most of our precious things lay in the mud and filth, many broken beyond repair.
I shouted, and my eldest brother Alvin turned from where he was watching over our younger siblings to jump in the wagon and tussle with the man. I watched helplessly as Howard shrugged off Alvin’s blows to tackle my brother to the ground, pressing his face into the mud. When Alvin struggled free, Howard dashed to secure the reins in an attempt to flee with our wagon and horses.
While my brother fought the thief, Sophronia had run to the door of the hostel, shouting for Mother, who handed Don Carlos to Hyrum as she hurried to the scene. Mother jumped to the wagon in a feat I’ve never seen her replicate, seized the horses by the reins, screamed and hollered. “Help! Help us! This man is stealing our wagon and team!”
Nearly immediately, a group of men standing nearby ran over, pulling Mr. Howard from our wagon.
“Git yer hands off me!” Howard roared as the men threw him into the freezing mud of the street where he had moments before pinned Alvin. Mother, bold as a bear, picked up a broken chair leg from the various effects that had been strewn about the street and marched right up to where he now scrambled to his feet.
She brandished the stick in his bearded face, emboldened by the kind citizens who had helped us. “That’s our wagon, Caleb Howard, as can be attested by the bill of sale I have on my person! Shall we involve the sheriff of these parts or will you abscond like a coward?”
At mention of the law and under the scrutiny of so many gathered persons, Mr. Howard scowled and promptly scurried away, quickly lost in the crowd. With the immediate danger passed, we were left to recover our meager belongings from the mud.
To make matters worse, Father had paid Mr. Howard in full, trusting him to care for us on the journey to Palmyra. Howard had in fact gambled or drunk most of it away, and what little may have been left was now with the fleeing scoundrel. Mother was forced to pay for our lodging and the sleighs that would carry us the rest of the way to Palmyra by selling our meager belongings: our wagon, clothing, bits of cloth, and other supplies prepared for our sustenance once we arrived in Palmyra. My sister Sophronia was even forced to part with the drops of jewels from her ears, a precious gift from our grandmother. Tears flowed from my sister’s eyes as she removed the only precious things she had owned her entire life. Mother and the rest of us cried as well for the whole of our earthly possessions now littered the muddy streets of Utica. I can feel the echoes of that shameful day even to this moment.
The next morning at daybreak, we ate a hasty meal of gruel before making for the arranged spot to meet our hired sleighs for the last leg of the journey. We arrived to find that our previous companions, the Gates family, had also arranged for sleighs to take them from Utica to Palmyra on account of the deeper snows we encountered there, and we resolved to continue on to Palmyra together despite the earlier ugliness with Mr. Howard.
Mother and the older children each had a younger child to tend to, so even crippled as I was, I was left to my own devices. I was to ride on the last sleigh in the company, but to my dismay, the driver of the sleigh was none other than one of Gates’ sons who had grown weary of my family’s complaints during the shared journey from Vermont. He had evidently taken umbrage with me personally, though I was but a child of ten years, for he hit me in the face with a gloved fist when I attempted to take my place in the sleigh.
I fell to the frozen ground, my face numb. I am nearly sure he broke my nose, for it bled something fierce. The pain was such that I could hardly see straight. That family of miscreants left me lying in the snow to wallow in my blood.
I pressed packed snow against my bleeding nose even as I sobbed for hours. I truly thought myself doomed to die alone in the snow outside Utica.
Praise God for sending me a Samaritan, a merciful stranger from another party traveling to Palmyra came along. I don’t recall so much as his name if he ever told me, but I do remember his long gray beard and striking blue eyes. He picked me up and settled me on his sleigh like I was one of his own. When we arrived in the next town, my mother was in a fit, thinking that I had been left to freeze to death. Alvin had confronted the Gates boy and whatever the outcome had been, I only knew that my brother sported a purple eye, split lip, and bruised knuckles. The trip had been unkind to me and worse to poor Alvin. My dear eldest brother was forced to step in for my father in our journey through an evil world, full of those who would take advantage of and do us harm at every opportunity.
At last, we arrived at what would become our home in Palmyra, known to some as Swift’s Landing, on account of having been founded only twenty-five years earlier by General John Swift. Little did I know that this small frontier town, all rough-hewn timbers and mud streets when we arrived, would become the site of a great and marvelous work the Lord would work through my hands.