Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  The people immediately obeyed and began to push forward. In a moment, there was a tightly packed crowd of a hundred or more. There was much murmuring and whispering as the people got a closer look at the army officers. Then Elder Woodruff raised his hands for silence.

  “Brothers and sisters, as most of you can see we have visitors today. They have come from Fort Leavenworth, in Indian Territory. They come on assignment from the president of the United States.”

  That sent a ripple through the group, and it was not purely a favorable one. There was some grumbling and a few angry mutters. Elder Woodruff ignored them. “President Huntington and I have listened to what they have to say. We think you need to hear it for yourselves. I therefore introduce to you Captain James Allen of the United States Army. Please give him your kind attention.”

  He stepped down and one of the officers took his place. Solomon could see the two gold captain’s bars sewn onto his shoulders. Once up, he looked around. It was clear that he had sensed the mood of the crowd and was not entirely comfortable. He glanced quickly at Wilford Woodruff, smiled, though it seemed a little strained, then turned back to the crowd.

  “Thank you, Mr. Woodruff. I appreciate your willingness to let us speak directly to your people.” He straightened to his full height, then reached inside his jacket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you all know now, as of May thirteenth of this year, the United States of America is at war with Mexico. It is that circumstance which brings me to you. As your leader has indicated, I am Captain James Allen of the First Dragoons of Fort Leavenworth, which is the headquarters of the Army of the West. I come under authority of my commanding officer, who received his orders from the secretary of war in Washington. I am told that these orders originated directly from President James K. Polk himself.”

  He stopped, but no one moved. No one spoke. Three or four hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on him. Three or four hundred impassive faces waited to see what was coming. He unfolded the paper. “I have drafted a circular explaining things. I should like to read it to you, and then we shall leave you to consider it. We understand that your leader, Brigham Young, is at Council Bluffs, and we shall take this matter on to him. Mr. Woodruff and Mr. Huntington concur in that action, and Mr. Woodruff has agreed to send a letter of introduction with me.”

  Again he paused for a moment. Again there was no response. So he lifted the paper and began to read. “ ‘Circular to the Mormons. I have come among you, instructed by Colonel S. W. Kearny of the U.S. Army, now commanding the Army of the West, to visit the Mormon camps, and to accept the service, for twelve months, of four or five companies of Mormon men—’ ”

  That did get a reaction. At the mention of companies of Mormon men, a buzz of surprise and dismay swept across the audience. Allen stopped, not surprised, and waited until it died out again. “ ‘To accept the service,’ ” he started again, “ ‘for twelve months, of four or five companies of Mormon men who may be willing to serve their country for that period in our present war with Mexico; this force to unite with the Army of the West at Santa Fe, and be marched thence to California, where they will be discharged.’ ”

  Now the crowd was alive with sound, and Wilford Woodruff stepped up beside the captain. “Quiet, brothers and sisters,” he shouted. “Please let Captain Allen finish.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Woodruff.” He waited a moment, then lifted the paper again. “ ‘They will receive pay and rations, and other allowances, such as volunteers or regular soldiers receive, from the day they shall be mustered into the service, and will be entitled to all comforts and benefits of regular soldiers of the army, and when discharged, as contemplated, at California, they will be given, gratis, their arms and accoutrements, with which they will be fully equipped at Fort Leavenworth.

  “ ‘This is offered to the Mormon people now. This gives an opportunity of sending a portion of their young and intelligent men to the ultimate destination of their whole people, and entirely at the expense of the United States, and this advanced party can thus pave the way and look out the land for their brethren to come after them.

  “ ‘The pay of a private volunteer is seven dollars per month, and the allowance for clothing is the cost price of clothing of a regular soldier. Those of the Mormons who are desirous of serving their country, on the conditions here enumerated, are requested to meet me without delay at their principal camp at Council Bluffs, whither I am now going to consult with their principal men, and to receive and organize the force contemplated to be raised. I will receive all healthy, able-bodied men of from eighteen to forty-five years of age.’ ”

  He looked up. “The circular is signed by myself, Captain J. Allen, and marked as being drafted at the Camp of the Mormons, at Mount Pisgah, one hundred and thirty-eight miles east of Council Bluffs, and dated with today’s date, Friday, June twenty-sixth, 1846.”

  “It’s a ruse.” “A pack of lies.” “How can we trust them?” “What has the United States ever done for us?” “I think they’re spies, come to search out our camps before they attack us.” “I say we don’t let ’em go.”

  At that point Elder Woodruff finally raised his hands. “Brethren, brethren,” he soothed. “Let’s keep our emotions in check here. Our purpose is to decide what to do, not get ourselves in a lather.”

  The venerable William Huntington, who had been appointed by Brigham to serve as president of the Mount Pisgah settlement, turned to the Apostle. “What are your feelings, Elder Woodruff? What shall we do?”

  Wilford Woodruff sat back in his chair, his piercing gray eyes thoughtful, his mouth twisted slightly in concentration. Finally, his shoulders lifted and fell. “Well, to be honest, I am inclined to wonder if they are not spies from the army. It’s barely been six weeks since the Congress declared war on Mexico. I find it hard to believe that the government could move that swiftly. I also have doubts that the president of the United States is really in this.”

  “That’s right,” someone shouted. “They are spies.”

  “I’m glad that the United States is at war with Mexico,” another one muttered. “It’s God’s hand in it, and I hope the government will be utterly overthrown in retribution for what they allowed to happen to us.”

  Wilford Woodruff shook his head slowly. “On the other hand, I am also inclined to believe that Captain Allen is a man of integrity and of his word. I trust his honor as an officer and believe that he is sincere.”

  “Didn’t President Young have someone in Washington trying to talk to President Polk?” Solomon asked.

  “That’s correct, Brother Garrett,” the Apostle agreed. “Brother Jesse Little, who presides over our Eastern States Mission, was asked by the Twelve to see if he couldn’t get a contract from the government for us to build forts along the trail. That’s why we cannot act too hastily here, brethren. We must be wise in our response. This all may be part of Elder Little’s doing.”

  Huntington wasn’t convinced. “Why would we send our best young men off with the army? We need them now more than ever.”

  Elder Woodruff looked around the room until his eyes stopped on Thomas Grover. He motioned him forward. “This decision is not in our hands, brethren,” he said thoughtfully. “We need to take the matter before President Young. As you heard, I’m sending Captain Allen to meet with President Young.” Grover was up beside him now. “Thomas, would you be willing to take a swift horse and ride for Council Bluffs ahead of our military delegation and take a letter to President Young?”

  Grover nodded. “I would be happy to, Elder Woodruff.”

  “Good. Be prepared to leave first thing in the morning. I’ll have a letter prepared.” He looked around. “Brethren, please send word through the camp that our visitors are to be treated with courtesy and respect. I want no provocations while they’re here. Understood?”

  There were nods throughout the group, and he was satisfied. “Thank you. We shall just have to be patient and see what this latest development shall brin
g.”

  When all but David and Carl were asleep, Melissa left them in charge and slipped out of the house. She told them she needed some air, which was only partially true. When she reached the street, she turned left, or south, knowing exactly where it was she wanted to go. She walked swiftly, not lifting her head. The sun was down now, but it wouldn’t be full dark for another ten or fifteen minutes. In the softening light, she couldn’t bear to look to either side. This block had once brought her so much joy. Now it was a never-ending source of painful memories and poignant longings.

  Due to the fact that all six of the houses along both sides of the street once belonged to members of the Steed family, it had come to be known all over town as Steed Row. Now she and Carl were the only remnants of the Steeds left in Nauvoo. Directly to the west across from her own home was the house and school that Jessica had run along with Jenny and Kathryn McIntire. Then Solomon had come, and it became Solomon and Jessica’s house. Now it was owned by a man from Peoria who had opened up a tavern down on River Street. The yard was weed infested, and the fence had several slats missing.

  On her left she was passing the house once occupied by Joshua and Caroline. Now the families of Calvin and Jacob Weller lived there. Two months ago they had driven up with a written bill of sale from Joshua and Caroline saying the house had been taken in trade for their wagons and ox teams. They were nice enough people, but Melissa didn’t see them much. Now they had sold the house and would be leaving for Tennessee in the next few weeks.

  On her right, the house that once belonged to Lydia and Nathan stood empty. She had tried to keep the flowers weeded and the grass trimmed somewhat, but with running the store—at least up to a few days ago—and trying to keep her own house and yard up, she had let it slip. She was grateful in that one small way, that Lydia wasn’t here to see it.

  She hunched down, walking faster. There was the home where her mother and father had first lived. Here was the place where Rebecca had given birth to her last two children. Both now stood empty and forlorn. Everywhere there were memories—of warm summer nights out on someone’s porch, the children playing night games and the adults talking lazily; of winter romps and snowball fights; of sitting around the fire with her father as he told the grandchildren yet another Bible or Book of Mormon story.

  Where was the Nauvoo they had known before? Where was the laughter, the smiling couples out for a walk, the children playing tag or kick the bucket in one of the paddocks? Where was the utter sense of safety, even alone on the streets at midnight? It wasn’t just the fact that house after house sat empty, that here and there windows were broken or boarded up, or that once rich farmland lay unplowed and unplanted. Gardens were laid waste, fences were down, loose stock wandered through the city at will. It was as if the city itself had fallen. Everywhere you turned, taverns, pawnshops, tenpin alleys, tobacco stores now met the eye. There were even five or six houses of ill repute down on River Street, if the rumors were true. Drunkards reeled up and down the boardwalks; the scum from the river boldly whistled and jeered at women who passed by.

  Finally she reached her destination. Across the street from where she stood was the two-story log house known as the Homestead, the original home of Joseph and Emma Smith in Nauvoo. It was nearly dark now, and for that she was glad. Maybe Emma was up visiting with Mother Smith or at the home of one of the neighbors. She turned, looking up and down the street to make sure she was alone, then moved quickly across the street and into the shadows of another tree that filled the corner of the Homestead’s yard. She stood there for a moment, letting her eyes move slowly and the memories come swiftly. There on the east side of the house was the well. More than once she had stood there with Joseph or Emma and drunk from the cool, sweet water. She and Carl had eaten supper in that home on more than one occasion.

  “Oh, Joseph,” she whispered. If only she knew where he and Hyrum were buried . . . She had thought about bringing flowers, but in the first place she was afraid someone might see her and ask what they were for. In the second place, where would she put them? The Saints had gone through the elaborate deception of burying two coffins up at the temple block, but from her father and Nathan she knew the two martyred brothers were not in them. Fear that the enemies who had slain them would try to disturb the graves had caused a few trusted friends to bury them secretly. She suspected her father had known where that was and that he had told Nathan, but neither would discuss it, even in general terms.

  It had been two years ago now. She glanced at the sky, now showing only lingering traces of light. It was almost eight o’clock, she guessed. John Taylor’s watch had taken one of the balls fired through the window of the jail and stopped at sixteen minutes after five o’clock on the afternoon of June twenty-seventh, 1844. Two years and not quite three hours ago Joseph and Hyrum had been martyred. How many in the city would remember that today? How many would come to spend a quiet moment of memoriam?

  She took a step closer to the old house. “I’ve come back to the faith, Joseph,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I faltered. I’m sorry I was so blind. Now the family is gone. My father is dead.” She looked up guiltily. “But you would know that, wouldn’t you?”

  She heard men’s voices, barely a murmur, coming from up the street. She stiffened, peering into the darkness, straining to hear. It seemed to come from around Joseph’s stables, another half block up Water Street.

  She wrapped the summer shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you, Joseph. But I wanted you to know I’m back.” Tears welled up suddenly. “If you see Papa, will you tell him for me?”

  This time there was a bark of a man’s laughter. She wiped at her eyes, then turned, moving swiftly now for the lonely desolation of Steed Row.

  Chapter Notes

  The arrival of Captain James Allen and a few other officers at Mount Pisgah near the end of June was the first word the Church had that the United States was interested in forming a Mormon battalion. Elder Jesse C. Little knew this was an official request, but he was still on his way west with the news. The orders to the army preceded him, and thus Captain Allen’s proclamation, reproduced here in its entirety based on published versions of the original, came as a tremendous shock to the Saints. (See MHBY,pp. 196–98; David R. Crockett, Saints in Exile: A Day-by-Day Pioneer Experience,vol. 1 of LDS-Gems Pioneer Trek Series[Tucson, Ariz.: LDS-Gems Press, 1996], pp. 396–97; CHMB,pp. 112–15.)

  Chapter 5

  Somewhere on the Oregon Trail

  Dear Family,

  Greetings from Peter and Kathryn, the old bullwhacker and the itinerant prairie schoolteacher. Hello to all of you. We have no way of knowing if this letter will ever reach you, but Peter and I decided we must try to get word to you. I know that you will be worried about us and we are also worried about you. Several times each day I ask myself if we were wise to leave you and find a way west with another group, but it is a great satisfaction to me to know that I am earning my own way by tutoring the children and not being totally dependent on others to care for me. Peter too is proving his value, as he has now become an experienced “bullwhacker.”

  I am pleased to report that trail life has been good for me. Peter and I are as brown as a couple of Indians, and getting quite used to traveling all day. With this regimen, I find myself getting a little stronger with every passing day. I can now move about the campsite with only a cane. I still use my crutches for longer distances, but I have feeling in both of my legs now and I even had some tingling in my toes the other day. The Lord has been merciful to us.

  What is not good is that we recently learned that you are not out ahead of us as we have thought all along. A few nights ago, a party of trappers and mountain men coming from Oregon and headed for St. Louis arrived in our camp. They told us that there are no Mormons on the trail west of here. So the rumors we heard that you were still in Iowa are likely true. This is very disheartening, since our plan has been that once we caught up with yo
u I would leave the Reeds and join you while Peter went on with them to California. Now it looks as though I shall have to go on to California as well until we learn where you are. I have thought about writing to you many times but despaired of finding a way to get a letter to you. But today we arrived at a well-known stopping place along the trail. It is called Ash Hollow. There is an abandoned cabin here, left by some previous trappers. It has been turned into some sort of a general post office by the emigrants. The whole outside wall is covered with notes and bulletins announcing lost horses or cattle. Inside, a recess in the wall is filled with letters which have been deposited there in hopes that someone going east will pick them up and carry them with them. That got us to thinking that maybe we could write to Melissa in Nauvoo, then ask her to send it on to you.

  I was determined to write a letter and leave it at Ash Hollow, but then Mr. Reed suggested we would meet others going east, and that would be more sure than leaving it at Ash Hollow. This will give me more time to write to you.

  Since you shall soon be following behind us, I should like to talk about life on the trail. I don’t mean to discourage you, but out here there is a saying, “I have seen the elephant.” At first I didn’t know what it meant. Now I understand. Crossing the continent is like meeting a huge elephant which blocks the way. It always seems to be in your path, no matter what you do. This is not child’s play out here and only the hardy seem to survive. Some in our party have already turned back or just stopped at some creek or another and said, “This is far enough.”

  I am sure we are experiencing things that you will not. Our wagon train consists of different parties who have banded together more for protection than out of a sense of unity. Out here where the elephant lives, contention is easily come by. Our group is constantly bickering and fighting over trivial things. It reached a state some time back where we finally split off from one another. How this happened gives much insight into the character of our group.