Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Yes, Lydia?”

  “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Rebecca looked surprised. “What?”

  “I would like your permission to give your husband a great big hug, and maybe even be so bold as to kiss him on the cheek.”

  Rebecca smiled, then turned to Derek. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair back away from his eyes. “I think that would be most appropriate, Lydia. You have my permission.”

  * * *

  This is madness! It can’t work! Benjamin felt like throwing up his hands and screaming into the air. The time for praying had passed. The children had been sent behind the curtain to play school with young Joshua and Rachel. Now it was just the adults and Peter. In a few moments Benjamin and Derek would have to report to the square with the rest of the Mormon men and prepare to surrender their arms. And when they set out, there would be twelve women and children—two of them infants not yet a year old—left here with a fourteen-year-old.

  Benjamin’s shoulders lifted and fell. Weariness and worry etched deep lines into his face. His eyes were pinched and bloodshot. He had never felt so totally desolate in all his life. He stepped forward and took Peter by the shoulders. “Son?”

  “Yes, Father Steed?” Peter’s dark eyes were wide and intent, but there was no sign of fear.

  Benjamin reached down and took the pistol from the waistband of his trousers. “I’m not going to surrender this one, Peter. You need to hide it. They’ll probably search for other weapons. Hide it good, but you’ve got to be able to get at it quickly if you need to.”

  “Benjamin—” Mary Ann started, but he held up his hand, cutting her off, not moving his eyes from Peter’s face. “Do you understand, Peter?”

  “I understand.”

  “I . . .” He glanced over at Mary Ann, trying to reassure her with his eyes. Then he came back to Peter. “I don’t want to do this, Peter. But you’re the safest bet. The women are too . . .” He couldn’t finish that thought. The women are too vulnerable. He took a quick breath. “The women need to hide with the children and keep them quiet. If the mob comes, they’ll be looking for grown men. They shouldn’t bother a boy.”

  “Yes, sir.” Peter licked his lower lip, his mind flashing back four days earlier when two evil-smelling men had tied him to a tree and prepared to whip him into unconsciousness. The fact that he was a boy hadn’t seemed to deter them. But he only nodded. “Don’t worry, Father Steed. I’ll be fine.”

  Benjamin straightened, the corners of his mouth pulling down. “I know. Colonel Hinkle says Lucas has promised that once our arms are grounded he’ll let us return to our homes. So I hope we’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  Derek came forward one step to stand in front of his brother. “The moment Father Steed and I are released, we’ll come right back here.”

  Peter nodded, fighting to keep his eyes calm. He could already feel his pulse start to race a little at the thoughts of being alone, the only man left in the family, but there was no way he was going to show his feelings of nervousness.

  Benjamin was very tired. He glanced at the front window. “Watch closely. If you see anything, Peter, any sign of trouble, you get everyone into the root cellar.”

  “I will, Father Steed.”

  “Good.” Benjamin took Peter’s shoulder, turning him around. He pointed to the large, round rug Rebecca and Mary Ann had woven from rags the previous winter. “That’s big enough to cover the door to the cellar. Once everybody is inside, pull it over and put something on it. A chair, a table . . .”

  “I understand. I will.”

  Benjamin slowly straightened, looking first at his wife, then at his daughter and daughters-in-law. “God be with you,” he said softly.

  * * *

  At 8:00 a.m. on the morning of November first, the militia of Caldwell County—called by their enemies “the Mormon militia,” and by themselves “the armies of Israel”—marched out of Far West under the command of Colonel George Hinkle. Not all the Mormon men were in the militia and a few remained behind, but there were about four hundred men, formed into companies, and this left the city largely unprotected. Benjamin and Derek were assigned to the company of Brigham Young and marched directly behind him and Heber C. Kimball. No one spoke. Ahead, about half a mile away, the prairie was black with men, four or five thousand of them, marshalled by companies of cavalry and infantry. Near the front, one brigade had formed into a large, hollow square—a prison compound of human flesh.

  A ragged cheer went up and down the line as the Mormon militia marched into the square the Missourians had formed. Rifles were up and trained on the phalanx, but it was obvious that the Mormons weren’t going to give them a fight. The battle was won. The day was theirs. It was a triumphant moment.

  Colonel Hinkle raised his arm and the Mormons came to a ragged halt. “All right, men,” he shouted. “Ground your arms. General Lucas has promised to receipt them. Put them into stacks and then stand clear.”

  There was angry muttering that broke out now among the Saints as they moved forward and began to stack their rifles together. It was bad enough that Hinkle had betrayed them, but to have him act as if this capitulation were all being done in perfectly legal fashion infuriated them.

  They had just finished stacking their rifles, when one end of the square opened briefly and General Lucas rode in with a small entourage. He dismounted, then came over to the brethren, strutting arrogantly, nodding to the cheering troops as if he had single-handedly pulled off this entire coup. He walked around the stacks of arms, surveying them with satisfaction, then turned to Hinkle. “Good job, Colonel. You have met another of the conditions of our treaty.”

  Hinkle unbuckled the belt that held his sword and scabbard and a pistol. He handed them over to Lucas. “Thank you, sir. I promised we would not resist. May I release the men, then?”

  Lucas gave him an incredulous look. “I say not, sir! They will be held here under guard for a time while I send my men to the city to look for additional weapons. Then I will march them back to their homes.”

  Hinkle was stunned. “But, General—”

  Hinkle’s cry of dismay went unheard. Lucas had swung around. “Men! Hear me! Those in the square will stay and act as guard, but the rest of you, listen good. The Mormons are disarmed. Go to the city. Search every house. Look everywhere. I want every rifle, every pistol, every weapon of any kind confiscated before we let these men return to their homes.”

  The roar of acclamation was instantaneous and thunderous. Men turned and darted for their horses. Those in the companies of infantry broke ranks and dashed forward, moving up the gradual hill that led to Far West, like the foul backwash belched up from some primeval swamp.

  * * *

  Peter was standing on the porch when he heard the roar go up. He went up, standing on tiptoes, but he was nowhere near the south edge of town. He couldn’t see anything. A moment later, however, he heard closer cries and screams of alarm. A young woman came darting out from between two cabins, sprinting hard, her skirts billowing out and her hair flying.

  “What is it?” Peter yelled at her. “What’s happening?”

  She barely broke stride. “They’re holding the brethren prisoner and they’ve turned the militia loose on the city. They’re coming! Run!”

  Peter went white, then turned and darted inside the cabin, screaming for the women and children to get into the root cellar.

  * * *

  “He what!” Joshua yelled.

  But the man had no time for some slow-witted militia captain. He pulled free from Joshua’s grip, grabbed at the saddle horn, and leaped into the saddle as the horse bolted away.

  Joshua had stayed back in the main camp, fearing that if he went out for the surrender of arms, General Lucas or Lieutenant Carter might see him. He had heard the animal roar from the crowd and had come out of his tent on the run. Now men were racing back toward their horses, shouting and jostling for the best position.

  Joshua darted to
the next man. This one was trying to mount his horse, but the animal was skittish from all the commotion. The man had one foot in the stirrup and was hopping frantically as the horse kept prancing around in a circle. He made it into the saddle just as Joshua reached him.

  Joshua grabbed the reins, pulling the horse around. “Is it true?” he cried. “Has Lucas sent the militia into Far West?”

  The man nodded ecstatically. “Yes, we’re to look for any hidden weapons.” He jerked the reins out of Joshua’s hand and spurred the horse into a hard lope.

  Joshua stared after him. Or anything else you can lay your hands on! He swore. What Lucas had really given them was a license for looting. And every man jack one of them knew exactly what he was being told he could do. Joshua swore again and turned and ran for his own horse.

  As he reached his mount and started to untie the reins, a sharp voice cried out from behind him. “Oh no you don’t, mister!”

  Joshua jerked around to look into the muzzle of Lieutenant Jerome Carter’s pistol.

  “Get outta my way!” Joshua thundered. “I’ve been ordered into Far West.”

  “That’s bull, Steed! I talked to Lucas. You ain’t been ordered anywhere. I’m to arrest you and hold you for court-martial.”

  Joshua didn’t even think. He lunged forward, half spinning away from the line of the muzzle. There was a tremendous blast, and he felt something pluck at his coat. Instantly he interlocked his fingers, forming a club with his two hands. Driven by all the pent-up rage he had felt toward this idiot-playing-soldier, he swung at Carter’s arm. There was a sharp cry and the pistol went flying. Joshua raised his hands high again and chopped down viciously at Carter’s neck. He caught him right behind the ears. Carter’s head snapped sideways. He was thrown backwards against a tent pole. His legs tangled in the rope and he went down hard, face first.

  Joshua didn’t give him a second glance. He leaped for his horse and swung up. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Go!” he shouted into its ear. “Go!”

  Chapter Notes

  Sometime during the night of October thirty-first or the early morning of November first, someone did come to Far West to warn the Saints that the men who had fought in the Battle of Crooked River would be arrested, though records do not say who it was. Some sources indicate that it was Hyrum Smith and Brigham Young who, having learned of this threat, spread the word. About twenty brethren fled north to avoid being taken. (See CHFT, p. 205.)

  There is some discrepancy in the sources about exactly how long the men of the Mormon militia were detained by Lucas after they were forced to surrender their arms. Some say that they were released immediately. Lucas himself indicated that he placed them under guard to march them “back to Far West, and protect and take charge of them” (HC 3:198). Since it is difficult to imagine that the brethren of the Mormon militia were set free and were standing around in Far West while the Missouri militia ravaged the city, the author has chosen to have Lucas delay their return to the city until his men have done the damage, though allowance has been made to have some Mormon men in the city during the attack.

  Chapter 21

  I’m tellin’ ya, there ain’t nothing here.”

  The smaller of the two men, bearded and filthy with mud, swung around on Peter. “Shut up, ya British brat!”

  The man looked more ridiculous than frightening. Last night’s rain and the sweat of today’s looting had left his “war paint” streaked and grotesque. His buckskin shirt had large, ugly stains across the front. It was also too small and was barely able to cover the spread of his belly.

  But Peter was not tempted to laugh. The glittering eyes, the naked lust for spoils that twisted the man’s face were too terrifying. Peter looked away. “Well, there ain’t,” he mumbled under his breath.

  The man leaped across the room, swinging his fist. Peter jerked away, deflecting the worst of the blow. But even then, it nearly knocked him off the chair and onto the large round rug on which the chair sat. He ducked his head, pretending to be cowed.

  The larger man, dressed and painted in similar fashion, turned and looked only long enough to see that his partner was taking care of the situation; then he turned back and continued to systematically ransack the large chest that stood at the foot of Benjamin and Mary Ann’s bed.

  The cabin was a shambles. What dishes Mary Ann had not packed away and buried in preparation for this very eventuality had been hurled against the floor. The two men had fought over who got the dish cupboard Matthew had made for his mother, recognizing it as a valuable piece of furniture. But, like little children, when they couldn’t agree on who would get it, or how they would get it out of the city on horseback, they fell on it in a fury. Now it was a shattered hulk in one corner. Clothing, rags, bedding, straw, feathers, and broken crockery, were strewn everywhere. The windows were all smashed out. Chairs had been hammered against the log walls until they splintered. Mattresses were ripped apart in the men’s search for hidden valuables.

  Peter had nearly died when the larger man, the one named Caleb, suggested they tear up the floorboards to see if there was anything hidden beneath them. But he had started in the corner opposite the root cellar, and when he saw that the boards rested directly on the packed earth beneath them, he abandoned the idea. Peter’s heart was still pounding from that one.

  Caleb finished his ruination of the chest and its contents. “He’s right, Hugh,” he snarled. He swung around and kicked bitterly at a pan with a large dent in it. It clattered across the floor. “The kid’s right. There ain’t nothin’ here. Come on, let’s find another place before all the good stuff is gone.”

  The small man’s hand shot out and grabbed Peter’s coat. He yanked him forward so that his face was right up against Peter’s. His breath was foul and rancid, his teeth stained yellow, his tongue a dark brown from the wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek. “You stay here, brat!” he threatened. “You so much as stick your head out the door, and I’ll blow it off. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter said meekly.

  Swaggering with power, the man turned and strutted out the door after his companion. “Let’s see what’s around back,” he hollered.

  Peter didn’t dare move, but he could hear their progress. They were first into the toolshed and then in the smokehouse. He could hear the large man cursing and swearing. The Steeds had left very little of value in either of the two small buildings.

  “Hey! What kinda contraption is this?”

  Peter straightened. He could see nothing out the back window. There was an unintelligible reply, then the same voice said again, “What is this thing?” There was a solid crack as someone struck metal against wood.

  Ducking down, Peter scooted over to the window, then came up slowly, peeking over the edge of the shattered sill. The big man named Caleb was standing in front of the McCormick reaper that Joshua had bought for his father. He had an ax in his hand. One of the paddle bars was already shattered. Caleb swung the ax again, and chips of wood flew. In a frenzy now, he fell upon the machine, swinging and cursing.

  Suddenly, Peter jerked around. There was a soft knocking sound. It was coming from under the floor. “Peter!” It was muffled, but clearly heard.

  In three leaps he was to where his chair sat on the large round rug. He kicked aside the debris from off one corner of the rug and dropped to a crouch. He lifted the rug up a few inches. “Be quiet!” he hissed.

  “Have they gone?” He couldn’t tell for sure whether it was Jessica or Lydia. Benjamin had been right about the root cellar being a safe place to hide, but it was just barely big enough to hold them all. It was not deep enough for the women to stand up in once the door was shut, so they had hunched over and the children had packed in around them. Peter knew it must be stifling and terrible down in the cellar, but it was also still very dangerous to be out of it.

  He knocked softly on the door, putting his mouth right down against the crack. “They’ve gone outside,” he whispered, “but t
hey’re still close by. Be quiet. I’ll tell you when it’s—”

  A noise behind him made Peter jump. He whirled around so fast he lost his balance and went sprawling. As he scrambled up, the large man stepped inside the door. His teeth were pulled back in a huge grin that split the painted face. “Well, well, well,” he leered. “Whaddya know about that?”

  * * *

  Hyrum Smith did not go out with the militia that morning to surrender weapons. He was sick. His wife was also sick—largely due to the terrible strain of what had happened and what was now happening, and to the fact that she was also eight and a half months pregnant. With the approval of the other leaders, it was decided Hyrum should stay behind, but he was to stay indoors and not come out.

  But Hyrum Smith was in the First Presidency. He was now the senior Church leader in Far West. And the Missourians were eager that the Saints should be leaderless. Colonel George M. Hinkle thus completed the circle of his treachery. Sometime during the morning of November first, as the Missourians were beginning their rampage through Far West, an unarmed Colonel Hinkle arrived at the home of Hyrum and Mary Fielding Smith with an armed contingent of men. Ignoring Hyrum’s weakened condition and Mary’s advanced stage of pregnancy, Hinkle placed Hyrum under arrest and delivered him to the camp of General Lucas to be placed in bonds along with his brother Joseph.

  Also arrested that day was Amasa Lyman, who was in the leadership of the high priests quorum.

  * * *

  Two years previous, Joshua Steed had gone to New Orleans to transact some business for his partners in St. Louis. He had arrived in the great river port three days after a hurricane had swept across the peninsula south of the city. He and a cotton factor had gone out to see how much damage had been done to the plantations. It had been a shocking experience to see what nature could do when fully unleashed.

  When Joshua reached the outskirts of Far West he was met by a line of sentries posted to stop anyone from escaping from the city. Deciding he would be less conspicuous if he proceeded on foot, he left his horse in the care of one of the men and crossed through the lines. Now as he walked swiftly across the city, memories of that Louisiana hurricane came flooding back—only this time it was human nature that had been unleashed on a town, and it was more devastating than any wind could ever have been.