Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  He spun on his heel and stalked away, glaring at the guards who were watching him. “Thank you, sir,” Joseph called after him. “Thank you for your integrity.”

  Ten minutes later the sound of wagons brought the prisoners to the alert again. From the direction of the center of camp, two wagons were approaching. General Lucas and another man with general’s stars walked just ahead of them. A full company of militia marched behind the second general. Joseph watched for a moment, then spoke without turning his head. “Do you know who that is?”

  Sidney and Parley and the rest of the prisoners were staring, but it was Parley who spoke. “Moses Wilson.”

  “Exactly,” breathed Joseph. “This is not good.”

  They knew Moses Wilson from Jackson County. Wilson had owned the store on the Big Blue River that had been the site of a major clash between the Mormons and the Missourians back in 1833. He often boasted of his role in driving the Mormons out of that county. He was only marginally behind Lucas in his hatred of the Mormons.

  Lucas marched directly to the brethren. His mouth was pulled into a sneer. “All right, Smith,” he said. “Into the wagons. You’re being taken to Jackson County.”

  There was a momentary flicker of surprise. “I understood we were to be shot, general.”

  “You are. However, the court-martial has changed your sentence. General Wilson is going to take you to Jackson County. You will be tried and executed then.”

  “So Doniphan prevailed?” Parley said in amazement.

  “General Doniphan will be dealt with,” Lucas snarled. “He’ll learn not to disobey a direct order.”

  Wilson leaned forward and grabbed the sleeve of Joseph’s coat. “You’ll be shot soon enough. Now, into the wagons.”

  “Sir,” Joseph said, “two days ago we came here, thinking we were to only speak briefly with General Lucas. We brought nothing with us. We have no other clothes, no bedding, none of our toilet articles.”

  “What is that to us?” Lucas retorted. “You are prisoners.”

  Joseph ignored Lucas. “General Wilson, will you give us leave to return to Far West to bid our families farewell and get some of the supplies that we will need for this journey? If we can obtain our own supplies, your men will not have to give us any of theirs.”

  “Absolutely not!” Lucas shouted. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  Joseph’s face remained calm. Lucas was furious, but it was obvious that Wilson was wavering. Joseph went on earnestly. “And if we are truly to be executed, have we not the right to see our families one last time? Would you deny us that fundamental privilege?”

  Wilson looked at Lucas. Lucas was staring at his fellow general in disbelief. Then he threw up his hands and snorted in disgust. “Do what you wish,” Lucas said. “Just get them to Jackson County. Send me an express when they are all dead men.” He spun on his heel and stalked away.

  Wilson turned to Joseph. “All right, we’ll go into the city, but only long enough to get what you need.”

  He swung around to the lieutenant who stood at the head of the company of men. “I want a heavy guard on every one of these men. They may go to their homes and get essentials only. See to it that they are not allowed to speak or say anything. Two minutes at their homes. Then I want them on their way immediately. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Wilson nodded and the lieutenant waved the first rank of men forward. But as they approached the prisoners, there was a shout from behind them. Everyone whirled. “No! Kill them! Kill them all!”

  Five men had broken from the back ranks of the surrounding troops. They raced toward the wagons, waving pistols. They were howling with rage now, breaking through the few men who stared at them in amazement.

  Sidney fell backwards into the wagon. Hyrum Smith and Parley Pratt, already in the wagon box, threw themselves to the floor. Joseph had one foot on the rail that provided a step up. He was closest to the attackers. He threw up one arm and fell back against the canvas. There were screams, and some of the Missourians whirled away, seeing they were in the line of fire.

  There was the snap of pistol hammers. The pistol pointed at Joseph’s head flashed brightly, but there was no explosion. The powder had ignited in the flash pans, but the main charge in the chamber did not catch. Nothing happened. Every one of the five weapons misfired.

  Swearing and cursing, the men fell back a step. Now Wilson sprang into action. “Seize those men!” he roared. The guards leaped forward, rifles high. In moments the five men were corralled. “Idiots!” Wilson screamed. “What are you trying to do?” He grabbed the nearest guard. “Put these men in chains and keep them there until tomorrow morning.”

  He stopped, his chest rising and falling, watching as the five men were shoved forward roughly and marched away. Wilson turned to Joseph Smith. “Fools!” he muttered. “No one’s gonna cheat me out of the chance to march you up the streets of Independence. Now, get in the wagons, before I change my mind and shoot you myself.”

  Joseph nodded and climbed up into the wagon bed. He sat down between Hyrum and Parley. Sidney was white and shaking. Parley looked sick. In the next wagon they could see only Amasa Lyman, who had his head down and his eyes closed. Lyman Wight and George Robinson were not visible.

  Joseph said nothing, just folded his manacled hands in his lap. In a moment, the teamster climbed up into the wagon seat in front of them and snapped the reins. As the wagon lurched forward, Joseph’s head came up. “Brethren,” he said, speaking just loud enough for them to hear over the creaking of the wagon, “be of good cheer. The word of the Lord has come to me. Our lives are to be given us.”

  The heads of those who were in the wagon with him jerked up. His brethren stared at him in disbelief. He nodded and gave them a thin smile. “Whatever else we may suffer during this captivity, the Lord has promised that not one of our lives shall be taken.”

  Chapter Notes

  Speaking of that day when the brethren were forced to sign over their property, Heber C. Kimball would later write: “We were brought up at the point of the bayonet and compelled to sign a deed of trust, transferring all our property to defray the expenses of this war made on us by the State of Missouri. This was complied with, because we could not help ourselves. When we walked up to sign the deeds of trust to pay these assassins for murdering our brethren and sisters, and their children; ravishing some of our sisters to death; robbing us of our lands and possessions and all we had on earth, and other similar ‘services,’ they expected to see us cast down and sorrowful, but I testify as an eyewitness that the brethren rejoiced and praised the Lord, for His sake taking joyfully the despoiling of their goods. . . . Judge Cameron said, with an oath, ‘See them laugh and kick up their heels. They are whipped, but not conquered.’” (Quoted in LHCK, p. 219.)

  There is no question that Alexander Doniphan’s courageous refusal to obey the order of General Lucas saved the lives of Joseph and the others that morning of November 2, 1838. The note he wrote back to Lucas and the words he spoke to Joseph before his departure are quoted in the novel essentially as given in several sources (see HC 3:190–91; CHFT, 205–6; Restoration, pp. 405–6; Mack Hist., pp. 274–75). Alexander Doniphan visited Salt Lake City in 1873. He was warmly received and shown every regard by Brigham Young. He was also welcomed in the streets as a hero by the Latter-day Saints. (See HC 3:191n.)

  The story of the misfiring of the pistols comes from Hyrum’s account of these events (see Mack Hist., p. 275). Though weapons were much less reliable back then, to have all five pistols misfire at point-blank range is more than quite remarkable.

  Joseph’s prophecy that none of their lives would be taken is placed here in the novel to facilitate the narrative. In actuality, he uttered this prophecy about twenty-four hours later, while the prisoners were en route to Jackson County (see PPP Auto., p. 164).

  Chapter 23

  Hyrum Smith’s first wife, Jerusha Barden, died in Kirtland eleven days after giving birth to a baby girl
on October second, 1837. Hyrum was in Missouri at the time. He returned to learn of his wife’s death and to face the formidable task of caring for five children, ages ten, five, three, twenty-three months, and a newborn just two months old. Joseph ached for his brother’s loss and pondered how best he could help. A short time later he came to Hyrum with the answer. “Hyrum, it is the will of the Lord that you take the English girl, Mary Fielding, to wife without further delay.” And so the day before Christmas of that same year, Mary Fielding became Mary Fielding Smith and an instant full-time mother.

  Now she was less than two weeks away from delivering her own first child. Eight and a half months pregnant, five children to care for, her husband a prisoner, their home plundered along with everyone else’s—just contemplating that kind of load was enough to make one reel and want to swoon. So Rebecca Steed Ingalls had come to Mary’s house to help.

  Rebecca had labored steadily for almost two hours, putting Lovina, now eleven, to work helping her. She let six-year-old John play with and watch the younger ones. Now finally the cabin was back into some semblance of order, and Rebecca was grinding some corn into cornmeal with a samp-mortar. It would be a meager meal that would be common to many families in Far West this day. Mary lay in her bed where Rebecca had insisted she stay. She was talking softly to baby Sarah, who lay beside her. The other four sat cross-legged on the floor, listening to whatever it was she was telling them.

  Rebecca looked up. There was the sound of horses and a wagon outside. She leaned forward to where she could see out the window. She gasped in astonishment and fell back. Through the rain she saw a wagon pull up. Uniformed men jumped out, and then another man climbed down. He was shackled and in leg irons. “Mary,” Rebecca cried. “It’s Hyrum!”

  “What?” Mary jerked up into a half-sitting position, then cried out and fell back down again, holding her stomach. Rebecca whirled. “Don’t you dare get up, Mary Smith! Lovina, don’t let her get up.” She tossed the mortar aside and stood up fully now. “He’s under guard.” One hand came up to clutch at her blouse. The man behind Hyrum was prodding him forward with a bayonet.

  “It’s Hyrum!” Mary exclaimed. She closed her eyes. “I have feared for his life, and now shall I really see him? Oh, just to hear his voice and know that he is safe will be like the balm of Gilead to my soul.”

  “Children,” Rebecca cried, truly frightened now but not daring to speak it. “Come over to me. Quickly!”

  They all jumped to obey except for John, who had started for the door to meet his father. He cried out and jumped back as the door suddenly slammed open with a crash. There was no knock, no call to those inside. Two men with rifles plunged through the door, muzzles up, looking around quickly to assess the situation. Then the one seemed satisfied. He stepped to the door and waved those outside forward.

  Hyrum stepped through the door, blinking in the reduced light after being outside. The man with the rifle at his back came right behind him. Another man, with officer’s stripes, followed.

  “Hyrum!” Mary cried.

  “Papa!” Two of the children shouted it out together.

  Hyrum’s mouth opened, but instantly the guard jabbed him with the bayonet. “You heard me, Mormon! Not a word or your life is forfeit.”

  Hyrum’s mouth clamped shut, and all he could do was look at his wife and children with eyes overflowing with anguish.

  The officer stepped around him, glancing around the room and taking it all in. His gaze stopped on Rebecca. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Rebecca felt the terror rise in her throat. Yesterday, in all its horror, was back with paralyzing power. “A friend,” she finally stammered. “I’m helping with the children.”

  “All right. Stay out of the way and you won’t get hurt.”

  Little John was staring at his father, his lower lip quivering. “Papa?” he whimpered.

  Rebecca started toward him, then stopped, giving the guard a beseeching look. He nodded. She hurried forward, her hands out wide. “Come, John, we will wait over here in the corner.” Little Jerusha was crying now, and even Lovina was trembling with fear. And little wonder. There stood their father, chained and guarded, his clothes rumpled and mud stained, his hair plastered flat against his skull from the rain. More frightening was how pale his face looked behind the stubble of his whiskers and the hopelessness in his eyes.

  The lead guard turned to Mary on the bed. “You his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “General Wilson said the prisoners can get a few things before we move out. A change of clothes, a blanket, maybe a few personal things. You better hurry, the other prisoners are already at their houses.”

  Mary raised up on one elbow. “Where are you taking him?”

  “To Independence,” the man snarled. “Now, move!”

  Mary moaned and fell back, her face etched with shock. “Independence?”

  Rebecca stepped forward. “I’ll get them for him.”

  The closest guard whirled on her as if she had pulled a gun. His rifle swung up to point directly at her stomach. Lovina shrieked, and John fell back, his hands over his eyes. The baby began to wail.

  “I told you to stay out of the way!” the man shouted into Rebecca’s face. In an instant his voice was a menacing whisper. “Now, don’t you move.”

  Rebecca stared at him in disbelief. “But she’s sick. And she’s in the time of her confinement. Can’t you see that?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “She looks fine to me.” His comrades cackled and hooted at that. He turned to glare at Mary. “Now, get up and get his things!”

  * * *

  Rebecca watched anxiously until the wagon pulled away from the house, then she grabbed her shawl. “Lovina, stay with your mother.” Then to Mary, “I’ll be back.” She threw the shawl around her shoulders and was out the door. She ran hard, her hair bouncing as she jumped over puddles or darted around the debris from yesterday’s looting. Twice she almost slipped, but caught herself and hurried on, ignoring the fact that the bottoms of her skirts were quickly getting soaked and filthy.

  As she approached Father Smith’s house, she could see the two wagons about a hundred yards ahead of where she was going. The street in either direction was packed with men. They bristled with weapons and were shouting and hollering, trying to get a glimpse of the famous prisoners.

  Rebecca was up on the porch and pounding on the door. “Mother Smith! Mother Smith!”

  There was a sound from inside, then the door opened a crack. Instantly it was pulled wide open. Joseph’s mother was there, looking quite frightened. A moment later, young Lucy, Joseph’s youngest sister, came up behind her.

  “It’s your sons, Mother Smith. In the wagons.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “What?”

  “Joseph?” young Lucy cried.

  “Yes. Joseph and Hyrum. Come quickly if you wish to see them. They’re taking the prisoners to Independence.”

  Mother Smith gave a cry of relief and despair. Lucy stepped back, then was instantly there again with a shawl in her hand. “Here, Mother.”

  “We’ve got to hurry,” Rebecca said. “It looks like they’re ready to leave.”

  They hurried down the walk and pushed into the crowd. The militia was the large majority of it, but the residents of Far West were coming out now too, craning their necks trying to see. For the first few yards, they were able to push their way through, but quickly the soldiers were packed in so tightly it was like a wall. They pushed and shoved, but to no avail.

  Finally, Mother Smith threw back her head. “I am the mother of the Prophet! Is there not a gentleman here who will assist me to that wagon that I may have one last look at my children, and speak to them before I die?”

  A large man, one of the Missourians, who was a good head taller than those around him, turned in their direction. There was a quick flash of pity, and then he moved to them, shouldering men aside. “Come,” he said, taking Mother Smith by the hand. He started toward the wagons
, shoving his way through the pack. Not knowing what else to do, Rebecca took Lucy’s hand and plunged after them.

  Many of the non-Mormons had heard Mother Smith’s cry, and now they turned and began shouting at her group. This was Joe Smith’s mother. They couldn’t pass up the chance to vent their feelings. Fists were shaken in Mother Smith’s face and the faces of those accompanying her. Threats, insults, and vulgarities were hurled at the little group from every side. The onslaught was so vile and so venomous that it terrified seventeen-year-old Lucy.

  As they reached the wagon, the man who had responded to the cry for help leaned around the canvas cover and looked inside. “Hyrum Smith,” he hissed, “your mother is here. Reach out your hand to her.”

  The canvas cover of the wagon was fastened down tightly along the edge of the wagon box. There was a push against the fabric, and Mother Smith reached out for it. But the canvas was tied so tightly that Hyrum was barely able to get his hand through. As his mother grasped at it, one of the guards in the wagon turned and saw what was happening. “Hey! Get away from there!” He raised his rifle. “No speaking with the prisoners.”

  Mother Smith was moaning now, clinging to Hyrum’s hand.

  “Get back, or I’ll shoot,” the guard started shouting.

  “Come,” their benefactor said. “Quickly.” He pulled Mother Smith around to the back of the wagon. Rebecca and Lucy followed, and the crowd pushed in around them again, cutting off the guard’s view of them. The man who was guiding them put his mouth up against the canvas. “Mr. Smith,” he called softly. “Joseph Smith. Your mother and sister are here and wish to shake hands with you.”