Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  He looked over to the table in the corner where four of Jackson County’s leading citizens sat. The most important of these was Lilburn W. Boggs, Lieutenant Governor Lilburn W. Boggs. This was a coup of the highest order, to have Missouri’s second highest government official present for the events of this day, and Joshua was justly proud of his role in it. Joshua and Judge Lucas had made a trip to the capital of Missouri, Jefferson City, specifically to persuade Boggs to come back for the meeting. It had not proved to be a difficult task. The lieutenant governor was a resident of Independence and one of Jackson County’s largest landowners. Joshua also knew that the old fox was interested in buying additional land owned by the Mormons, who were refusing to sell. A hint that the land might become available at “a very reasonable price” was sufficient to convince Boggs to lend his support. He kept saying he wanted to “keep a low profile,” which, as near as Joshua could determine, meant he was willing to do everything needed except stand before the public. That was fine, for the word was out that Boggs was there and in full support. It would be enough.

  The other three men had been selected to lead out as catalysts in the day’s events. Colonel Richard Simpson was to serve as chair, and James Flournoy and Judge Samuel Lucas as secretaries. Simpson had appointed seven men to a committee whose task was to draft a statement that would be read to the public, then presented to the Mormon leaders. The committee had finished and brought the statement to Boggs for his approval. Boggs finished reading it and sat back, obviously pleased.

  Joshua caught the eye of the lieutenant governor and lifted a questioning eyebrow. Boggs shoved the papers back to Simpson, then pulled a pocket watch from his vest pocket and looked at it. He said something to the others, then abruptly pushed his chair back and stood, giving Joshua a quick nod.

  Joshua swung around. “Gentlemen,” he shouted.

  It took only a moment for quiet to sweep across the room. Every eye turned to Joshua, the expectancy lighting their faces. He let the silence hold for a moment, feeling the tension building like smoke billowing from a blacksmith’s bellows. Then, raising his fist, into the hush he cried, “To the courthouse! Let’s deal with the Mormons once and for all!”

  The crowd exploded with a roar and made a rush for the door. Boggs and the other three came over to join Joshua.

  “Who’s going to read the statement?” Joshua asked.

  Colonel Simpson glanced at the others and they nodded. “Robert Johnson,” Simpson said. “He was chairman of the committee that wrote it. He’s quick with words and well respected.”

  “He’ll do the job,” Lucas said flatly.

  “Good,” said Joshua. He turned to watch the men clogging the doorway, almost fighting each other to be the first out.

  Simpson clapped Joshua on the shoulder. “This time, Steed, there ain’t no one going to stop us.”

  “That’s right,” Boggs said with satisfaction. “Gentlemen, let’s be off. You have business to attend to.”

  They poured from every saloon and tavern along Main Street, every shop and business. Farmers had come from as far away as twenty miles. For weeks now a “secret constitution” had been circulating. The document denounced the Mormons and called for all concerned citizens to meet at the courthouse on July twentieth. The Mormons were going to be removed, “peaceably if we can, forcibly if we must.”

  In moments, the fifty or so from Roundy’s saloon swelled to a hundred, then two hundred, then five. They milled about the new brick courthouse, talking angrily, shaking their fists, filling the air with their threats. It was evident that the liquor had done its job. The crowd had been transformed into a mob. All that was needed now was someone to crack the whip and point them in the proper direction.

  Robert Johnson was that man. As he stood on an overturned crate, the crowd instantly quieted.

  “Citizens of Jackson County,” Johnson cried, waving the sheaf of papers he had received from Colonel Simpson, “we are gathered here together to deal with a problem of the greatest magnitude.” He paused for effect. “I speak of the problem of the Mormons.”

  The crowd erupted with jeers, catcalls, angry insults. Johnson did not try to stop it. He nodded, letting the noise of the crowd rumble outward.

  “As you know, we have formed a committee to deal with this problem. You know us, the men on that committee. We consider ourselves to be loyal, concerned citizens of Jackson County.”

  He raised a hand, acknowledging the smattering of applause and a cry or two of good-natured acceptance.

  “We have done our work.” He tapped the papers with his other hand. “This is our statement.”

  Joshua watched the man with open admiration. It was not hard to see why Simpson had recommended him. Johnson knew people, and played to a crowd like one of those traveling dramatists that went through the countryside from time to time. He read slowly, pronouncing the words distinctly and carefully, sometimes dropping his voice for emphasis, but never to the point where the men on the periphery of the crowd could not hear him.

  The document started with a catalog of all the evils which the Mormons represented. They were a lazy and an indolent people. They came to Missouri in the most abject poverty, wishing to get their “inheritances” without money and without price. They were interfering with the practice of slavery, stirring up trouble like that which had occurred in the East, inviting free people of color to settle in Jackson County.

  At each charge there was an answering cry from the crowd, but at the last one the rage exploded, and for almost a minute Johnson had to let it run its course. This was a particularly sensitive issue, and the committee knew it. The statement had been deliberately calculated to capitalize on it.

  Earlier in the month, the Evening and Morning Star, a newspaper printed by the Mormons in Missouri, had run an article on “free people of color.” Free people of color were Negroes and mulattos who had either purchased their freedom somehow or been freed by the kindness of their masters. The article, written by W. W. Phelps, editor and proprietor of the paper, outlined the laws of the state concerning these freed slaves and counseled the Saints to use prudence in dealing with them. Instantly, the populace of Jackson County interpreted that as a call for all free people of color to settle in Jackson County.

  On the sixteenth of the month, a special issue of the Star was printed which denied the charge and tried to explain that just the opposite was true. But the damage was done. The emotions had been triggered, and the retraction fell on deaf ears.

  Johnson stood silent and majestic as the rage vented itself. His expression managed to convey sympathy, outrage, understanding, and determination all at the same time. When the noise finally quieted, he lifted the papers again, but now he didn’t bother to read; he knew what was written on them.

  “It is further obvious,” he cried, “that the evils which threaten our community, brought on by the rapid influx of these Mormon settlers, could not have been foreseen. Therefore our laws are not prepared to deal with these problems.” His face hardened. “And if we wait for legislation to resolve them, the delays will put the mischief beyond all remedy.”

  Again the muttering and cries from the crowd began to rise, but this time Johnson rode over them, his voice rising sharply with indignation. “If the migration of these Mormons to our community is not dealt with forthwith, the day will not be far distant when the civil government of this county will be in the hands of the Mormons.”

  He dropped his arm to his side. “Is that what you want?” he shouted.

  The answer was instantaneous. “No!”

  “Do you want your county judges to be Mormons?”

  “No!”

  “Do you want your sheriffs and your constables to be Mormons?”

  “No!”

  His voice dropped almost to a whisper, tinged now with horror. The crowd leaned forward together, as if they were one man, as they strained to hear his words. “Think for a moment, my good friends. What would be the fate of our lives and our pro
perty in the hands of jurors and witnesses who do not blush to declare, and do not hesitate to swear, that they have wrought miracles, that they have been the subjects of miraculous and supernatural cures, that they have conversed with God and his angels, that they possess and exercise the gifts of divination and of unknown tongues?”

  He lifted his head and screamed out the next question, causing many in the crowd to jump in surprise. “Is that what you want?”

  The answer was an animal roar, and the sound battered at the speaker. “No! No! No!”

  Johnson nodded, breathing hard, his face showing the depths of his own outrage at such prospects. Finally he lifted the papers again. “Then, be it resolved,” he read, “one, that no Mormon shall in the future move to or settle in this county; two, that those now here, who shall give a definite pledge of their intention, within a reasonable time, to remove out of the county, shall be allowed to remain unmolested, until they have sufficient time to sell their property and close their businesses without material sacrifice; three, that the editor of the Star be required forthwith to close his office, and discontinue the business of printing in this county; four, that in the case of all other stores and shops belonging to the sect, their owners must, in every case, strictly comply with the terms of this declaration; five, that upon failure to do so, prompt and efficient measures will be taken to close the same; and finally, six, that the Mormon leaders here are required to use their influence in preventing any further immigration of their distant brethren to this county, and to counsel and advise their brethren there to comply with the above requisitions.”

  Virtually every head in the crowd was going up and down now as each phrase in the resolution was read. Johnson stopped and raised his head. “All in favor?”

  It was a thunderous response. “Aye!”

  “Those opposed, if there be any?” His eyes swept the crowd, daring any to raise a contrary voice. There was not a sound.

  “Then I propose that a committee of twelve men, led by none other than our chairman, the honorable Colonel Richard Simpson, immediately and forthwith take our demands to the Mormon leaders and that we wait here for their response. All in favor?”

  “Aye!”

  He swung around, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.

  Boggs nodded his approval, then turned to Joshua and the others. “Go. You have your mandate from the people.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  William W. Phelps was obviously frightened. “We do not represent the full leadership of the Church in Zion,” he said quickly. “Brother Oliver Cowdery, the leading elder here in Missouri, is out at Kaw Township.”

  The six Mormons had evidently known of the gathering at the courthouse, for they were huddled in conference in the office of the Evening and Morning Star when the delegation of twelve Missourians stormed into the building.

  Colonel Simpson turned to Joshua. “Is that true?”

  Joshua had thought carefully about this moment every day since the big gathering in April had degenerated into a drunken brawl. Shortly after that, he had met Oliver Cowdery on the streets of Independence. Joshua had the widow Martin on his arm and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to parade her before Cowdery a little, knowing it would get back to Jessie. In actuality, the widow was much more serious about marriage than Joshua was, but Cowdery didn’t have to know that. He also took the opportunity to let Cowdery know about the meeting and the sentiment against the Mormons. But his little moment of triumph turned sour when Cowdery informed him that the Mormons had heard of the gathering of the Missourians and had fasted and prayed. In their minds, the breakup of the meeting was a direct result of God’s intervention and not the result of some fool’s miscalculation about the effects of too much whiskey.

  From that point on, Joshua set about to know everything he could about the hated sect. He became an active voice in the committee that was formed to drive the Mormons from the county. He learned the names and faces of the Mormons’ leadership. On a county map he charted the places where every Mormon had settled. He made note of which houses were isolated, how many people were known to be living there, what arms they had, and so on. The next time, he vowed, he and the other Missourians would be ready, and the Mormons would learn which God could save them and which could not.

  Now that time had come. He looked on the six men with contempt and answered Simpson’s question. “Not quite. Joseph Smith appointed seven high priests to direct them out here. Oliver Cowdery is the leader of the seven, and it is true that he is not here. But the other six who join with him are here.” He pointed at each of the men in turn as he said their names. “William Phelps, who publishes the Star and operates the printing establishment; A. Sidney Gilbert, owner of the mercantile store across the street; John Corrill; John Whitmer”—his lips curled in disgust—“he’s one of those that signed his name to the Book of Mormon; Isaac Morley; and Edward Partridge. Partridge here is the so-called Mormon bishop. He’s the one who assigns out the land and gives the people their ‘inheritances.’”

  “And you’re Nathan Steed’s brother,” Isaac Morley said with a touch of contempt of his own. He was the oldest of the six, but not cowed at all by the delegation of Missourians. Joshua’s head came around, his eyes narrowing, but Morley went right on. “Your brother and his wife now live on my farm back in Ohio. He would be shamed to know of your role in this.”

  “My brother is a fool!” Joshua snarled. “And his wife’s no better.” He turned to the others. “These men represent six of the seven leaders of the Church here. They can speak for the Mormons.”

  Simpson stepped forward, holding the same sheets of paper from which Robert Johnson had read to the crowd. “We have been appointed to inform you of the following resolution which has been adopted by the will of the people.”

  John Corrill snorted in derision, and Lucas stepped forward menacingly. “You’re to listen,” Lucas warned, “nothing else.”

  Simpson read the statement through, slowing down at the end to emphasize the final demands of the group for the exodus of the Saints from Jackson County. Joshua watched with a deep satisfaction as he saw the shock and numbness spread across the faces of the six Mormons.

  “This is an outrage!” Gilbert cried when Simpson finished. “We are not guilty of those vile and ridiculous—”

  “Enough!” Simpson roared. “We are not here to listen to your defense, but only to take your answer back to the people who await us. What is your response?”

  “But...” Phelps stammered, “but we can’t answer a demand like that. Our leader, Joseph Smith, is in Ohio.”

  “You lead here!” Joshua snapped. “That’s good enough.”

  “Please,” Gilbert broke in again, “you’ve got to give us some time. We will need to send word to Joseph Smith and ask for his counsel. May we have three months to consider these demands?”

  Joshua reached out and grabbed the man by his shirt. Gilbert was an older man, small of stature, and Joshua was almost a full head taller than he. Joshua pulled him up close until they were nose-to-nose. “We don’t want none of Joe Smith’s counsel out here,” he hissed. “Do you understand that?” He released him, giving him a hard shove backwards. Gilbert stumbled into Corrill and they both nearly fell.

  Partridge stepped forward now, not frightened by the numbers confronting them. “You must give us time. Even if we decide to leave, you must realize that it takes time to close down a printing shop and a store, to sell our land and houses. We have twelve hundred people. We can’t just wave our hands and make them all disappear.”

  Simpson was shaking his head even as Partridge spoke. “Three months is too long.”

  “Then, ten days. We must have at least ten days,” Phelps pleaded.

  Simpson turned to his party, waving the papers. “Do you think it takes ten days to agree to a reasonable demand such as this?”

  There were raucous bursts of laughter and angry rejections. “No!” “Ten days is too long!” “They’re stalling for time
.”

  Simpson spun around. He looked at the six men haughtily. “You have fifteen minutes. We’ll await you’re decision at the courthouse.”

  And with that they turned around and trooped out.

  “What’d they say?” men called as the delegation returned to the crowd milling around the courthouse. “What happened?” “Are they going?”

  Simpson and Lucas walked directly to Lieutenant Governor Boggs and began to report quickly and quietly on the meeting. The other members of the delegation began mingling with the crowd, muttering quick reports of their experience. Joshua, emboldened by the rage that was smoldering in him, moved up to join Boggs and the three leaders of the citizens’ committee.

  “Ten days is out of the question,” Boggs was saying.

  “That’s what I told them,” Simpson nodded. “We gave ’em fifteen minutes.”

  “Fifteen minutes is too long,” Joshua said quietly.

  All three men snapped around. “But we said—,” Lucas started.

  Joshua cut him off harshly. “In fifteen minutes these men will start wandering off to find another beer or put their backs up against some building and fall asleep. The time is now or you’re gonna lose ’em.”

  “He’s right,” Simpson said, turning to look at the men. Timing was important when it came to whipping a group into action, and he could sense that the conditions were right.

  Lucas was still wavering, but Boggs for the moment seemed content to hear both sides. Joshua threw up his hands in disgust. “You want another farce like that one we had in April? The Mormons are already saying we ain’t good enough to fight anyone but ourselves.”

  That hit a soft spot in Lucas, as Joshua knew it would. Lucas had been decked by some drunken bum that night and spent three days at home with a swollen jaw. Now his lips tightened into a hard line. “That ain’t true.”