“You are forgiven,” Joseph said without the undue irritation he indeed felt. He kissed his dutiful spouse on the forehead and graciously helped her up from her chair and into the bedroom.

The manuscript was coming along painfully. Emma—resentful of Joseph’s actions on the night she had glimpsed ever so quickly the golden plates—had permitted the translation work to suffer. She never once considered herself a hindrance to the God-ordained work, however. She genuinely felt that she was easily fatigued by the long hours of sitting and writing in her ever-growing-more-delicate condition.

Besides her own physical exhaustion, Emma was growing weary with the stories themselves. Somehow, they seemed so familiar. The first prophet, Nephi, had two older brothers and three younger ones—very much like Joseph’s own family, as Joseph’s eldest brother, Alvin, had died several years prior to Emma’s joining the clan. The Nephites had grown into a race blessed by God with white skin, while the evil Lamanites were cursed with the red skin of bloodthirsty savages. These two races fought amongst themselves for a thousand years, Nephi said, and built small forts made of earth and timbers—exactly like the palisaded Indian forts found throughout western New York. After the battles, the dead were heaped in great piles and covered with dirt in very much the same way as the ubiquitous Indian mounds. Emma felt that she was taking dictation of a travelogue, as so little of the Almighty was apparent in the tales of war and intrigue.

In late February, Martin Harris finally arrived. He was both apologetic and enthusiastic, conditions Joseph gratefully admired. Now Emma could concentrate on her housework and the baby preparations in peace—or as much peace as one could expect with Martin Harris in the house.

“How marvelous the details inscribed upon these holy plates,” Martin gasped, quickly scanning the notes that Emma had written. “Now we know for certain that the wild savages of our great land are the descendants of the Lost Tribes of Israel. I have heard tell of this before—once in a sermon long ago. I believe it was a Reverend Jonathan Edwards who compared the natives’ tongues with that of the Hebrews and found them of a similar nature. And now,” he added with a triumphant grin, raising the manuscript above his round head, “we have actual proof.”

“We do indeed.” Joseph smiled at his loyal patron. He was amazed how easily Martin could be convinced of the validity of the fiction, just because it was claimed to have been discovered by the help of angels. The book was destined to become a best-seller. It would save the farm and allow him and his kinfolk to live a more comfortable life.

“But Joseph, there is one little thing that I have forgotten to mention—until now,” the sad-eyed, middle-aged man hesitantly admitted. “I—I promised my wife that I would not finance the publication of the text of the plates until I had actually seen them with my two eyes.”

Emma thought she could smell the sour scent of fear growing inside her husband, eating at his soul and innards with a caustic fury. But his face or manner did not once betray him. He put a finger to his lip and nodded gently towards her. Emma excused herself to fetch some water from the well for supper.

“Dear Martin,” he began in a serious, firm tone, “you know that is impossible. No matter how much I wish for you, my dear friend, to gaze upon the golden plates, I cannot sanction it since it would mean your certain death.”

“I know, I know,” Martin agonized, “but Lucy—she is insistent that I have proof that these texts are authentic. She wishes for me to take them to a professor in New York to verify your translation.”

Now this was something Joseph had never considered—that anyone would take his manuscript so seriously that they would actually pay some linguistic expert to determine its veracity. It took a bit of quick thinking for Joseph to untangle the web he had woven.

“But you see, Martin, the plates are not written in a language such as Hebrew. Mormon had little time and space upon which to write his epic tales. He used a language known as ‘Reformed Egyptian’ that no scholar of our time has the knowledge thereof.”

“Reformed Egyptian?” Martin echoed the words with solemnity and awe. “I didn’t realize that. But, still, can you not copy just a small fraction of the inscriptions down on paper so that my wife will be satisfied?”

The men argued over dinner, over card playing, over pipe smoking, and late into the night. Emma longed to tell Martin Harris that she had seen—and touched—the sacred plates and lived, but she knew to do so would incur Joseph’s wrath. Finally, Joseph agreed to make a copy of some of the inscriptions for Martin to take to a professor at Columbia University.

The house was quiet while Martin was gone. Joseph busied himself with fence mending, log splitting, reading, and taking long walks in the woods by himself. Emma patiently sat and knitted by the fire, wondering what would become of her, her baby, and the enigmatic man she had married.

everal weeks later Joseph could stop holding his breath. Martin had returned. But at first, things did not appear to be going Joseph’s way.

“Joseph, I am still somewhat confused.”

“In what way, Martin?”

“Professor Anthon refused to decipher the inscriptions you copied. When I explained to him why I could not let him see the actual plates upon which they were written, he looked at me as if I were the oddest man in the world.”

“Oh, I see,” Joseph said, stifling a giggle.

“Then he said, ‘I cannot read a sealed book.’”

A sealed book. Joseph vaguely remembered a passage from Isaiah written upon those very lines. He leapt from his chair by the fire, grabbed Emma’s old and worn Bible from the shelf, and read aloud from the twenty-ninth chapter: “‘And the vision of all is become unto you as the words of a book that is sealed which men deliver to one that is learned, saying, read this, I pray thee. And he saith, I cannot; for it is sealed. And the book is delivered unto him that is not learned, saying, read this, I pray thee. And he saith, I am not learned.’”

Martin Harris stared, dumbfounded.

“Martin, do you know what this means?” Joseph cried with a greatness of spirit that lifted the older man from his chair. “You, my friend, have fulfilled prophecy.”

“Hallelujah!” Martin Harris danced a jig of joy. “God be praised! Joseph—we must finish the translation immediately and publish as quickly as we can!”

“God be praised, indeed!” Joseph replied. The source of his livelihood was now assured.

It was April before Martin made his final move to Harmony to take over the dictation duty from Emma. And Emma was more than glad to give it up except for the price she had to pay: Namely, a Mrs. Lucy Harris who had accompanied her naïve husband, determined to halt this crazy plan of publishing Joseph’s manuscript.

“Where is it?” Lucy Harris demanded, as Joseph politely helped his patron’s boss down from the carriage. “Where is this infernal ‘Golden Bible’ of yours, Mr.Smith?”

“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Harris.” Joseph smiled at the corpulent nag without replying to her direct questioning. “You remember my wife, Emma—”

“Yes, I do. How do you do, dear?” The hard lines around Lucy’s mouth softened as she noticed the pale tiredness of Emma’s face. She firmly grasped the younger woman’s hand with an understanding look of sadness. She was genuinely sorry for Emma’s lot in life, but her sympathy towards the baby’s father was virtually nonexistent.

“Come into the house and rest, for your journey must have been a long and trying one over these muddy paths we call roads.” Joseph could charm a snake if it was necessary, and it was more than necessary in this situation.

A light supper, a drink of Isaac Hale’s best brew, small talk of farming and the weather—Joseph deftly led the conversation in ever-widening circles, straying ever farther afield from the real business of why Lucy Harris had come to Pennsylvania. The Harrises were then tucked up into bed early, and Emma let out a long sigh of relief.

But the worst was yet to come.

It began early the next morning. Emma, who was most proud of her housekeeping skills, the orderliness of her abode, burst into tears upon awaking as she viewed the remains of their ransacked home—every cabinet opened, every container’s contents spilled upon the floor.

Lucy Harris was searching. Searching for the damnable golden plates on which her husband had wasted so much time and money with nothing to show for it. Searching for anything to prove to Martin, and to the world, what a fraud Joseph Smith really was.

Emma did her best to straighten her domicile. Martin and Joseph did their best to keep Lucy from badgering the neighbors and Emma’s family—who were completely ignorant of the whole manuscript affair—for answers as to the whereabouts of the plates. But she would not be contained.

“You have a shovel, Mr. Smith, no doubt?”

“Why, of course, Mrs. Harris,” Joseph replied courteously, yet cautiously. “What farmer would be without a useful tool?”

“What farmer indeed!” she sneered. “Though I suppose you are some help to your father-in-law now and again. Tell me—do you like to walk in those lovely woods over near the creek bed?”

“Oh, yes, most days I walk along the creek, often stopping for a quiet meditation period and prayer.”

“Prayer? I guess even those who converse with angels in the flesh must communicate with them on most days in the manner common to us mere mortals.” Lucy Harris laughed, her double chins flapping, and turned toward the path leading to the woods.

Joseph knew exactly what she was up to—and he had long ago found a more secure hiding place than a hole in the ground. Tonight, he would assist Martin in sending his bothersome witch-woman back to New York so they could get on with their work.

ucy Harris had left in body, but not in spirit. As long as there were those who were out to discredit his character and thwart his plans, Joseph knew he would never be safe. And neither would Emma, nor the baby. He would show them, yes, he would show them all when his book became the biggest best-seller of all times.

Martin Harris was a willing scribe, but one with little talent. If Emma had struggled with punctuation and capitalization, and keeping up with the sheer volume of verboseness spewing from Joseph’s mouth, then Martin was even more lost. He did the best he could, however, and cheerfully sat long hours into the night taking dictation on one side of a divided room. A blanket had been hung across a rope, creating a wall between secretary and translator, effectively shielding Joseph and the plates from unwanted stares.

The translation work struggled along at a snail’s pace. Two months into the project, only one-hundred and sixteen pages had been written, and Joseph knew that much more would be expected of such a divinely inspired epic. Martin was tiring, and whining about returning to New York to show his dear Lucy all they had accomplished so far. Joseph, of course, forbade Martin from taking the manuscript away. But as their firstborn’s arrival date drew nearer, Martin’s arguments proved stronger. Joseph finally agreed.

“You promise to take good care of the manuscript, Martin,” Joseph warned as he helped his eager colleague into the saddle. “You will not leave it an instant alone with your wife, nor with any of her friends—”

“I promise, I promise you, my boy! You do not take me for being such a fool as that, do you?”

Joseph bit his tongue. “Of course not, Martin. Godspeed—return to us soon.”

“God’s blessings on your and your good wife, Sir. May she have an easy delivery and a healthy child,” Martin said, as he waved good-bye and spurred his horse down the lane.

Now Joseph could turn all his attention to Emma. Poor Emma. So young, yet so old and tired she felt as the time approached for her delivery.

It may have been a blessing that their son did not live to see the dawning of his first new day.

Joseph was nearly hysterical in grief for his wife lying near death and the child that was not meant to be. He dutifully stayed at her side, and, as she recovered, Emma inquired how his life’s work was coming along.

“It is not important, dearest Emma. Thou art.” He stroked her pale forehead and took her frail hand in his.

“But it is, Joseph. You have been commanded of God to finish the plates’ translation. Have you heard anything from Mr. Harris?”

“No, not yet.” She noted the concern in his voice.

A week later they discovered why Martin had long been silent.

Lucy Harris had promptly stolen the manuscript and wouldn’t tell where it was. It most likely had become the fuel for the breakfast fire upon which Martin had eaten his salt pork and mush that first morning upon his return home. Martin had been too horrified to write to them about the grim news until now.

The death of his son—and now the death of his dream!

In later years, Emma could never remember which tragic event had brought about in Joseph the most tears.

“oseph, you must go to New York and confront that awful Harris woman,” Emma commanded from her sick bed. She was able to sit up now, and the color had returned to her cheeks. Joseph was restlessly pacing the floor.

“But I can’t. I need to be here—to look after you and to show your father that I am not a lay-about.”

“Surely he won’t say wrong of your going to visit your family for a brief spell?” Emma suggested.

Joseph’s smile sent a ray of warmth through her entire body, like sunlight on bare skin. He was a most loving and gentle husband. He had not faulted her for the death of their child, nor for the fact that the doctor had warned her to be wary of having any more.

“All right. I shall be but a few days gone,” Joseph promised. He left Emma in the good care of her concerned kin and headed north.

It was during his visit that Joseph realized the full implications of Martin Harris’ folly. The manuscript was apparently gone forever, but what if it—in whole or in part—should suddenly and inconveniently show up later after the book was published? To re-dictate those first hundred pages would most certainly invite unwanted comparisons.

“If this be a divine communication, the same being who revealed it to you can easily replace it,” Lucy Harris had taunted him. Yes, it would take a divine being to duplicate those exact same words—

Or a divine revelation.

“God has forbidden me to retranslate the first part of the text,” Joseph explained to family and friends, gathered at his parents’ home, who still believed in the sacred nature of the golden plates. “The devil is using this unfortunate circumstance to thwart the publication of this divinely inspired manuscript. He would have the stolen text altered and perverted and see to it that it would be printed so as to confuse the hearts and minds of true believers.”

“Oh, yes! Don’t do it then, Joseph!” his loved ones commanded. He was amazed how trusting—how easily lead by the nose—these dear people could be.

“But fear not, for the Lord has provided for just this sort of tragic circumstance. He has revealed to me the location of yet another set of golden plates whereupon the history of which the brave Mormon spoke may be found. God’s words to the Lost Tribes of this continent shall be heard again!”

“Hallelujah! Amen! Praise God!” they shouted in communal ecstasy.

Joseph, thus burdened with his newly discovered “Plates of Nephi,” returned several days later to his Emma with quite a different sort of plan:

Almost anyone could write a book, a divinely inspired epic tale for that matter, but not everyone could start his own religion.

liver Cowdery was just twenty-two when he first encountered Joseph and his Golden Bible. Joseph himself was but a year or so older than the schoolmaster from Palmyra, New York—who had been boarding with the Smith family—but somehow Joseph seemed much wiser to the ways of the world than did young Oliver, and so much the better.

Oliver arrived in Pennsylvania with Joseph’s brother Samuel in the spring of 1829 to find Martin Harris still hard at work with the dictation duties of the newest plates. Martin had been in Harmony all winter long—and good riddance, too, Lucy Harris had bade him when last they saw each other. Oliver had become a convert on the strength of the testimony of Mother Smith alone. Her dramatic renditions of the stories from “The Record” were becoming quite a popular entertainment in rural western New York. Joseph intuitively sensed that Oliver Cowdery would make a far superior secretary than Martin or Emma ever could. But not all the news Samuel had to tell was good.

“The farm has been lost,” Samuel told his brother with a sigh of resignation. “Those moneylenders couldn’t wait to get their greedy fingers on the land.”

“Damn them—damn them all!” Joseph cursed, the fears and worries of the preceding months accumulating into an outburst of hate and sadness. “Mother—Father—are they all right?”

“Hyrum has taken us in. It is not too big a place, but we are doing well enough.”

Now, Joseph knew the book must be finished quickly. He would regain his family’s land—he would regain their pride.

“Mr. Cowdery, you are a schoolmaster, I understand.” Joseph began his conversation casually, closely observing the dark-haired, thin and angular—yet bright-eyed—young man. He didn’t want to scare off his latest choice of secretary as a hunter with a lantern could frighten a deer away. He need not have bothered to be so coy.

“Yes, I am, Sir.” Oliver cleared his throat nervously, trying hard to appear calm and in control. It didn’t work. His enthusiasm could not be contained. “Mr. Smith—may I be of some assistance in the translation of the Golden Bible?”

“Saints above! I had the very same notion myself.” Joseph grinned, patting the eager young man on the back.

Hallelujah! Emma thought when she heard the good news. Maybe this whole thing would soon be over. Martin Harris could go back home to his acid-tongued wife, and their lives could go back to normal—

Or at least as normal as they could be with a prophet in the house.

avid Whitmer came all the way from Fayette, New York, to witness the miracle that his friend Oliver Cowdery had said was happening in a small cabin in the woods of northern Pennsylvania. A most odd letter, David thought, but he had nevertheless jumped into his saddle and headed south. When David arrived, the stern-faced young man found his friend, the schoolmaster, sitting at a table with pen and paper at hand across from a tall, blonde man. This most remarkable-looking man gazed into a hat which he held over his face. A black stone was contained therein, David was told (the Urim and Thummim hadn’t been much help after all), and as the divine words poured forth from the Prophet’s lips, David swore the man’s face grew pale and luminous with a heavenly light.

Emma wasn’t surprised that another admirer had come to pay homage at Joseph’s court. It seemed to her that either people vehemently raged against him and his holy mission or were wholeheartedly supportive of him and his book. There was no middle ground.

“Mr. Smith—Oliver tells me that you have been thinking of starting a church based on these newly discovered divine revelations,” David Whitmer said as the menfolk sat on the porch at dusk, smoking their pipes and watching the glory of the heavens glow red, then purple, as the sun sank below the horizon.

“I will let Oliver tell you of our discussions on that matter.” Joseph nodded politely to his newest and most devoted disciple. He could tell Oliver was bursting to share the news with his longtime friend.

“I had argued with Brother Joseph, that although he was a natural-born leader, he was not an ordained minister, and that to start a new church he should gain these credentials in the usual manner. He suggested that I fast for many hours and pray for guidance upon what God’s truth of the matter was, which I most certainly did.”

Joseph could sense the excitement, the thrill of the experience that Oliver had had that day in the woods when he was overcome with a vision—a vision of Joseph’s own making.

“So we went into the woods to pray,” Oliver continued, “and before long, a wondrous light from heaven parted the dense growth of branches and filled my eyes with the form of . . . the sight of . . . of John the Baptist himself.” Oliver’s countenance was one of true bliss.

“John the Baptist, you say,” David whispered in awe. Truly miracles were happening here. “How did you reckon it was him exactly?”

“Brother Joseph—he saw the same light, the same vision, and he interpreted the words of the Baptist for me,” Oliver explained, rising for dramatic effect. “The Baptist said, ‘You will be of the priesthood of Aaron. Now go and baptize each other into this holy order!’ And we did as we were told with great haste.” Oliver had related his tale with such a rush of joyous feelings that David Whitmer could believe he, himself, had been there and witnessed the same miracle.

“The Lord’s name be praised!” David cried. “I must go and tell my kinfolk of the wonders that have occurred in our very own time, in our very own native land.”

“Yes, do tell them,” Joseph commanded. “Spread the word everywhere that God is not just speaking to his people as of old, but today as well!”

“I will!”

Several weeks later Emma learned that they would be moving again: To Fayette, New York, and David Whitmer’s father’s farm. Peter Whitmer would be honored to have the young visionary and his good lady wife stay with them while he finished the translation of God’s newest and holiest testament. He expected miracles of the kind Oliver Cowdery had witnessed.

And Joseph was loathe to disappoint him.

Emma felt like the poor relation with no place to call her own, being shifted from house to house whenever some kind soul was willing to take her in. She guessed that this latest escapade meant the end of ever becoming a farmer’s wife, as Joseph’s quest to finish the Golden Bible was now all-consuming. He didn’t seem to mind taking charity at all. If she hadn’t minded so much, she could have relaxed and enjoyed the trip. David Whitmer had arrived with his wagon to fetch them.

“It was a miracle, I’ll tell you,” David shouted as he pulled the wagon up to their front door.

“Whatever has happened?” Oliver wondered aloud. He stepped off the stoop while cradling the revered manuscript in his arm as if it was a newborn child.

“Seven acres of field were plowed by their very selves! Naught had plowed them when we retired to bed the night before, but in the morning—”

“God works in mysterious ways indeed.” Joseph smiled at his recent convert. “We shall soon be packed and on our way. Oliver, help Emma with the clothes trunk, would you my dear fellow"?

“Most certainly.” Oliver handed the papers over to their author and went inside. Stern-faced David looked unusually worried, Joseph thought.

“Is there something the matter, David?”

“It is the plates—the Golden Bible, as it were. We should pack them very carefully, shouldn’t we?”

“Oh, the plates,” Joseph said with a nod. “No need to worry. They have traveled on ahead of us by a special messenger. That way any opposed to our task of translating them will not know where to find them. Rest assured, David. They are quite safe.”

Safe in a hole in the ground, Joseph said to himself. Their presence wasn’t really necessary to finish the book. Joseph’s seer stone was a much more useful inspiration. They departed for Fayette as soon as Emma was seated in the wagon next to David. Martin Harris would meet with them at the Whitmers’ place. Joseph and Oliver sat in the back among the manuscript boxes and trunks and drank up the late spring sunshine.

It was a lovely day for traveling, but Emma was immune to the season’s charms. She sat moodily staring ahead, thinking of the miseries she had endured when last she had been in New York State, and prayed for a miracle for herself. Instead, it was David who received one.

“David, you see that bearded old man up ahead with the knapsack?” Joseph said as the wagon neared a solitary traveler. “That is the special messenger. He is but an angel in disguise.”

“Aye, you mean he has them.” David’s heavy eyebrows rose nearly half a foot in astonishment. A common vagabond, who appeared to have all his worldly possessions upon his back, was carrying the sacred golden plates to their latest home. A wondrously warm feeling flooded David’s heart—he had witnessed another miracle.

Emma would have laughed at the sheer audacity of her husband’s comments if her own heart had not been breaking.

hile Peter Whitmer was overjoyed to entertain a prophet in his home, his wife was not. It wasn’t as if she was a mean, stingy women—far from it. It was because, what with their own houseful of children, there just wasn’t room for visitors. So, when Mother Whitmer had a vision of her own one morning on her way out to milk the cows, it was doubly amazing.

“I’ve seen them! I’ve seen the golden plates!” she yelled, slopping the milk from her pails as she ran to the kitchen door. “I’ve seen the angel messenger you did tell me about on the road, David.”

“Was he a bearded old gent?” David asked, unconsciously leading her on.

“Yes, he was, and he held up the plates and said he was from God himself!”

“God is thanking you for being a good and generous host, my dear Mrs. Whitmer,” Joseph gently explained over a somewhat later-than-normal breakfast. “He is desirous that we soon complete their translation, and he wants you to be a part of that holy mission.”

“A part? How can I help?” she cried.

“By doing what you are doing now,” he said placing an arm around the hysterical woman. “By taking care of our earthly needs, you allow us to work on the spiritual ones.”

“Oh, aye,” she said in a curious tone. “You’d be wanting more sausages with your mush then, Brother Joseph?”

“Exactly, Mrs. Whitmer.”

Well, Emma thought as she took another bite of food, I never would have believed it, but miracles can have practical results.