“I’m not experienced in these things,” Joshua said, throwing up his hands. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
“I know,” Nathan persisted, “but when it’s all said and done, what do you feel about it?”
For a long time, Joshua sat silently, staring out across the fields. Then he looked at Nathan. “I think it’s more than worry,” he said slowly.
Nathan nodded. “Then I think we’d better call a family council tonight and talk about it.”
When they returned to camp just before sunset, there was already a family council of sorts under way. As the four men approached, they saw the whole family gathered around the cooking fire. At the sight of their fathers, Emily and Rachel both jumped up and went running to them. “We got a letter from Kathryn,” Emily bubbled as she reached Nathan.
“We got a letter from Melissa,” Rachel called to Solomon.
“Two letters?” Joshua asked in surprise.
“Well,” Rachel explained, “actually Kathryn’s letter went to Nauvoo; then Melissa wrote her own letter to go with it and sent them both on to us.”
“Girls, girls,” Jessica called. “Let your fathers come in and get some dinner. Then we can tell them all about it.”
It was almost ten p.m. and time for lights out when Nathan stepped outside the tent to uncrick his back and saw Joshua sitting by the dying fire. He moved over and sat down beside him on the log. “We got another long day tomorrow. Aren’t you tired?”
“I am.”
Nathan waited, sensing that something was troubling Joshua. When his brother didn’t speak, Nathan decided to make conversation. “That’s wonderful news from Kathryn, don’t you think? We’ve worried about them all this time. Now they’re halfway across the plains, while we sit here and wait.”
“They’re probably to California by now,” Joshua observed. “It was the end of June when she wrote. That’s more than two months ago.”
“True. Makes you kind of envious, doesn’t it?”
“More than kind of.”
“And Melissa’s letter was sure positive. It sounds like she and Carl have worked out this whole problem of what to do.”
“Maybe,” Joshua said somewhat hesitantly.
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“Oh, there’s no question that Melissa has come to terms with Carl’s unwillingness to bring her here to join us.”
“Yes,” Nathan said, sensing there was more.
“Remember our conversation today?”
“I do.”
“When you asked me how I felt and I told you I thought it was more than worry?”
“Yes, what about it?”
“I was so sure that I finally understood. Then in a matter of hours we come back here and there’s a letter waiting and the whole problem is solved. Carl has promised to get the family out of there if things get too bad.”
“And that makes you think you were wrong?”
“No,” he said shortly, “it doesn’t make me thinkI was wrong; it proves I was wrong. So much for learning how to recognize the voice of the Spirit.”
“Joshua, that’s one of the hardest things there is about living the gospel. The Spirit doesn’t shout at us or pound us on the shoulder. The scriptures say the voice of the Lord is still and small and it whispers. It takes time to learn how to recognize it.”
“Yeah,” he said glumly. “And it takes a lot more time with some than with others.”
When Nathan came out of his tent, sickle in hand, he was surprised to see that his mother was still sitting by the breakfast fire. He changed direction and went over to sit beside her. “You all right?” he asked, searching her face.
She nodded. “I’m just thinking.” She glanced at the sickle in his hand. “How much hay do you think you cut yesterday?”
“A couple of tons, I would guess.”
“That’s good.”
He nodded. “Two or three more days like that and we should have enough to see us through the winter. Then we can start on building our cabins.”
“Did you hear that President Young has changed his mind about Cutler’s Park?”
Nathan raised one eyebrow. “He has?”
“That’s what Sister Kimball told me yesterday. The Twelve are afraid this isn’t quite right for the main settlement.”
“Hmm,” Nathan said.
“They’re going out in a couple of days to scout for a better place. Vilate says President Young wants something a little closer to the river.”
“Well, there are plenty of good places around here. We’re lucky that there is so much grass. We’ve got a lot of cattle to feed.”
“Yes.” She fell silent, looking steadily into the fire.
She seemed pensive, and Nathan sensed that there was something bothering her. “Are you sure you’re all right, Mama?”
She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “What did you think of Melissa’s letter yesterday?”
He hadn’t expected that question, but answered immediately. “I was very pleased. It sounded much more positive than the one before that.”
“Yes, it did, didn’t it?”
He peered at her more closely. “You don’t sound convinced.”
Her shoulders lifted and fell. “It wasmore positive. Since she told us about the store being burned I’ve been worried sick. So yes, this was encouraging.”
“But?” he prompted.
She shook her head slowly, her mouth pulling down. “I don’t know what it is, Nathan, but I’ve not been able to get Melissa off my mind these last few days.”
He pulled back a little, staring at her.
“I know that everything sounded fine, but I just have this feeling.” She stopped at his look. “What?”
Turning, Nathan cupped his hands. “Joshua?” He waited for a moment, then called again. “Joshua, can you come out here for a second?”
The flap to Joshua and Caroline’s tent opened, and Joshua stepped out. He blinked for a moment at the brightness of the early-morning sun and then, seeing the two of them, came over. “What?” he asked.
“Tell him, Mama. Tell him what you just told me.”
Looking a little puzzled, she did so. As she spoke, Joshua gave Nathan a sharp look, then slowly sat down. When she was finished, he spoke to Nathan. “So it’s not just me?”
“No,” Nathan said slowly. He blew out his breath in disgust. “And here I tried to talk you out of it. So much for my being the so-called expert in these things.”
“What things?” Mary Ann asked, thoroughly confused by their conversation.
“Tell her, Joshua.”
Joshua did so, going through the conversations of the previous day. When he was finished, Mary Ann was nodding slowly. “So what do we do?”
Without thinking, they both turned to Nathan. Ever since Benjamin’s death, that seemed like the natural thing to do. He met their gaze for several long seconds, then spoke. “Today is Thursday. I figure we have two more days of cutting hay, maybe two and a half. We have to do that before the weather turns on us. So, let’s get that done as quickly as we can. Then we’ll go talk to President Young and tell him what’s going on.”
Chapter Notes
The details of the Donner Party’s laborious trek along the Hastings Cutoff come from the various journal entries and later reminiscences of those who took that ill-fated journey in 1846. Most important of these would be the journal and later writings of James F. Reed himself and the writings of his stepdaughter, Virginia. Frank Mullen Jr. (see Chronicles,pp. 132–65) gives an excellent summary of what took place during this leg of the journey. George R. Stewart gives a more dramatic telling, but his historical facts are occasionally incorrect (see OBH,pp. 40–58). Copies of the original documents can be found, with excellent footnotes, in UE,Overland in 1846,and WFFB.
Chapter 25
Rogers?”
“Here, sir.” Carl stood up.
Colonel Johnson, leader of the Nauvoo forces, waved him forward. As Carl reached him,
he motioned to another man. “Do you know Bill Anderson, Rogers?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Hello, Carl,” Anderson said as he joined them.
“I understand you’re a pretty good shot with a rifle,” Johnson said.
“Fair, sir,” Carl admitted.
Anderson smiled. “I’ll take fair, Colonel.”
Johnson was grim. Their forward observers had already spotted the mob coming up the road from Carthage. The estimated count was very sobering—seven or eight hundred armed men and that many or more who came to back them up. They were now less than five miles out of town. The bluffing and sputtering were over. This was for real.
“Bill here is forming a company called the ‘Spartan Band.’ There’ll be thirty men. We have fifteen repeating rifles which can shoot up to eight shots before they need reloading. This group will be our primary strike force—mobile, deadly, hitting from ambush. Bill says he’d like you in it.”
“I don’t have a repeating rifle.”
Anderson waved his hand. “Give your weapon to someone else. You’ll be using one of ours.”
“I’d be honored, sir,” Carl said to the colonel.
He nodded curtly, then turned away and began barking commands to another group. The defenders were divided into three companies—three others besides the Spartan Band—who were now digging in along a line about half a mile from the old Hyrum Smith farm on the Nauvoo-Carthage Road. William Anderson motioned to where a group of men were standing separate from the others. They started walking toward them.
“Do you know who the Spartans were?” Anderson asked.
Carl shook his head. “Romans, I think.”
“Actually, they were Greeks. They were considered to be the fiercest of the Greek warriors.” He paused for a moment before he went on. “They had a saying that their mothers used whenever they sent their sons off to war.”
“What was that?”
“ ‘With your shield or on it.’ ”
Carl looked puzzled, and Anderson smiled thinly. “The Spartan shield was long enough to protect most of the body. If a man was wounded or killed, the shield was also used as a stretcher.”
Nodding slowly, Carl began to understand. “So . . .”
“So retreat, or flight with the shield, was not an option. You came back either carrying your shield or carried on it.” There was a short laugh. “I don’t expect we’ll be quite that grim, but we thought the Spartans offered a good model for us.”
Carl felt his stomach knot up a little as the implications of all that sank in, but he kept his face impassive. “It will be a privilege to be part of your group, Bill.”
“What are they doing?” someone whispered.
Carl lifted his head a little, peering through the bushes that hid their place of ambush. About five hundred yards ahead of them, just beyond the house where Hyrum and Mary Smith had once lived, he could see that the column of men had stopped. They were running around, obviously doing something, but the foliage was too thick for Carl and the others to see exactly what.
“Steady, boys,” Bill Anderson called back. “Don’t let them know we’re here.”
Carl jumped as there was a sudden explosion and a huge puff of smoke. These were instantly followed by a whistling sound overhead; then after a moment came a solid whumphfrom somewhere behind them.
“Cannons!” someone yelled, and immediately everyone hugged the ground. There was a second blast, and then a third. Carl raised his head again. Blue smoke from three separate sources billowed upward. After a moment, a cannon roared again, only this time the smoke came from another spot. “They’ve got four artillery pieces,” Carl called to Anderson.
Anderson waved a hand. “That was the report.”
Boom!Boom!The other cannons roared again, and the whistling filled the air. Again the men instinctively ducked, but the artillery was not aimed at them. It was shooting toward the city. There was another whumph,followed almost instantly by a loud crash.
Carl winced. That ball had found a target, probably a house or a barn.
“They’re not advancing,” someone cried. “I think they’re going to bombard the city for a time.”
“Let’s go get ’em,” someone else called out.
Anderson raised up to a crouch. “No. There’s too much open space between us and them. Just stay put, men. We’ll get our chance.”
With the sound of the first cannon, Melissa jerked around so sharply that she woke up Mary Melissa. The small dark eyes fluttered open and she started to whimper.
“It’s all right, honey,” Melissa soothed. “Mama’s right here.”
After a moment her eyes closed again and she relaxed against Melissa’s body. Melissa raised her finger to her lips as the other children came running up the stairs and into the bedroom.
“What was that?” David demanded, his eyes wide.
Before she could answer, two more explosions echoed over the city.
“What is it, Mama?” Caleb whispered, coming to stand beside her and hold her arm.
“It’s cannon fire,” young Carl said. “They’ve got cannons. Ten-pounders, I’d say, from the sound of it.”
“What shall we do, Mama?” Caleb wailed, clearly terrified.
“They’re not that close, Caleb,” Carl said confidently. “They can’t hurt us.”
Melissa looked at him in amazement. He was so calm. And her son’s courage was a steadying influence for all of them. She reached out with one hand and touched Caleb’s face. “If they get close, we’ll go down in the root cellar. But Carl’s right. We’re in no danger right now.”
On the bed across the room, Sarah stirred, and then sat up, rubbing at her eyes. Melissa was relieved to see that much of the flush had gone out of her face. At almost eight, Sarah was handling the fever and shakes much better than two-year-old Mary Melissa, but she was still not well yet. “What is it, Mama?” she asked sleepily.
David, who was twelve now and two years younger than Carl, went quickly and sat down beside her. “It’s nothing to worry about, Sarah. I’m right here.”
“Get her a drink, David.” Melissa said. She flinched as another explosion sounded, and then another.
“Do you think they’re shooting at Papa?” Caleb asked anxiously. Though he was ten, he was the most sensitive and tenderhearted of the three boys, and his eyes were wide as he stared out the window toward the sound.
The same terrible thought had already hit Melissa, but she shook her head. “No, Caleb. Papa will be safe.”
Carl took a step forward. “I’m going to go find out what’s happening.”
“No!” Melissa blurted.
“I won’t go anywhere near the fighting, Mama. But we need to know what’s happening.”
He was right, of course, but the fear was a bitter taste in her mouth.
“I promise, Mama. I’ll be careful. The mob hasn’t even come into the city yet.”
She nodded finally. “Half an hour, Carl. No more. Promise?”
“I promise.”
David stood up. “Can I go?”
“No,” Carl and Melissa said together. David sank back down in disappointment.
Melissa turned back to her oldest son. “Promise me you won’t take any chances, Carl. Not one.”
He nodded. “I promise, Mama.”
A runner came darting toward where the Spartan Band lay concealed in the woodlot near the Nauvoo-Carthage Road. He ran in a crouch, the natural reaction to the bombardment, even though the cannonballs were whistling high above his head.
“Captain Anderson! Captain Anderson!” he called as he entered the trees.
“Over here.”
“Colonel Johnson wants you to fall back.”
“What? Why? We’re in a perfect position when the mob starts to advance.”
Carl, who was just ten or fifteen feet away from his commander, noted that Bill Anderson didn’t say “if” they advanced but “when.”
“We’re bringing up five can
non of our own, sir. And we’re going to start giving answering fire in about quarter of an hour.”
Anderson and the men around him were dumbfounded. “We have cannon?”
“They’ve taken some steamboat shafts they had down at the foundry and converted them into crude cannons, Captain. They’re bringing them up now.”
“Wonderful!”
“The problem is, sir, no one knows how accurate they’re going to be. We’re not even sure they’re going to work yet. Colonel Johnson can’t guarantee that the cannonballs won’t fall short and drop on you.”
Anderson nodded, then looked around at his men. “I think we’re willing to take that risk rather than give up our position.” All around him the members of the Spartan Band were nodding vigorously. “Tell Colonel Johnson that if we see we’re in danger, we’ll fall back.”
The man looked dubious. “Are you sure, sir?”
“We’re sure. You tell them to start their answering fire as soon as possible.”
“Here they come!” William Anderson called in a hoarse whisper. “Shooters on the line. Backup line, have your cartridges ready to reload and take the second volley.”
Carl Rogers wiggled his arms, digging his elbows deeper into the soft earth so that they were firm and solidly set. He moved the rifle slightly to the left, finding the first rider on horseback in his sights. Then he decided that everyone else would take that target as well, and so he moved the muzzle more to the left, picking out one of the men who was following behind.
“Steady,” Anderson called out softly. “Let them come in range first.”
The men on the road were coming slowly, cautiously, looking around in every direction. Three men were out ahead, acting as scouts. The horses drawing the cannon had now come into view, and Carl decided the men there were more critical targets and readjusted yet a third time.
“Steady.”
Carl squeezed the trigger softly, taking up the fraction of an inch in slack. He had never fired one of these new repeating rifles, but he had been told they recoiled less than some of the muskets and long rifles he was used to shooting.
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