Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Here they come,” Carl said tightly, and then he shut the window again and returned to his packing with renewed determination. After almost a full minute, he looked up. “That settles it, Melissa. We’re going, and we’re going now.”

  Melissa didn’t say anything. She just nodded and kept on rocking the baby, singing to her softly now.

  When they reached the ferry landing at the end of Parley Street, the riverbank was jammed with people. There were only a few who had wagons or carts. The rest were people with nothing but what they carried on their backs. Some had small handcarts. One or two had a child’s wagon piled high with bundles. The lack of wagons was a blessing in a way. That meant the ferry could take that many more people on each trip. Even then, Carl’s heart sank when he saw the number waiting. It would take until long after dark to get them all across.

  He strode down the line and went up to the ferryman. “Look,” he said, “I can see that you have a very difficult challenge here, but I’ve got a little baby that is desperately ill. Is there any way we can get her across before it gets dark and turns cold?”

  The captain of the flatboat straightened slowly. He looked very tired. “Do you know how many other sick people there are here? And most of them are women and children too.”

  Carl didn’t fight him. “I can see that. We’re not asking to be first. Just to get across before dark.”

  The man sighed, then pointed to a group on the other side of the landing. “Bring ’em up here,” he said. “If the baby’s as sick as you say, we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Thank you.”

  By five-thirty, Carl was getting worried. The air had already noticeably cooled, and Melissa had a blanket over Mary Melissa’s face. For the past two hours Carl had been calculating the time it took for each trip of the ferry—about twenty-five minutes for the trip over, fifteen to come back across. There were still more than a hundred people, and most of them had been there before him and Melissa. At forty to forty-five people per load, it would probably be an hour, possibly an hour and a half, before it would be their turn. He looked up at the sky. They had maybe another hour before sundown. It was going to be very close.

  He turned as there was a stir behind them. What he saw made his blood run chill. Down Parley Street a group of some fifteen or sixteen militiamen was approaching. A few were on horseback. Most swaggered along with rifles over their shoulders. Carl shrank back, pulling Melissa with him deeper into the crowd. “Don’t look,” he cautioned. “Just keep your eyes on the ferry.”

  Word went quickly down the line about what was happening. The men had come to search for contraband weapons, or at least that was the ostensible reason. In reality they had come to add one last shot of misery with which to afflict the escaping refugees. They ripped wagons apart piece by piece, throwing everything into the dust and leaving it for the owners to repack. They shouted at the men, leered at the women, mocked the little children. They crowed about their great victory, promised to thoroughly desecrate the temple, and vowed to kill any Mormons who were left in the city by the following day.

  No one contradicted them. Most would not even meet their gaze, which only caused them to roar with laughter.

  Suddenly four of them split off from the rest and came walking to where the group stood next to the ferry dock. At the moment, the ferry was about halfway across the river, coming back for another load.

  “And what have we here?” the first man sneered, looking with contempt on the miserable group that stood before him.

  The ferryman’s assistant—perhaps his son—spoke up. “These are the sickest and the weakest. We’re taking them across first.”

  “You a Mormon?” another one demanded, speaking to the boy.

  “Nope,” came the easy reply. “We’re just making money off them.”

  The man laughed, pleased by the boy’s pluck. Then he turned to the people. “They don’t look that sick to me.”

  “They look like Mormons,” another one exclaimed. “That’s pretty sick, ain’t it?”

  They guffawed.

  “Don’t look at them,” Carl whispered to Melissa. “Keep your head down.”

  “You there!” the first man said, jabbing his finger at an elderly man. “You a Mormon?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, his voice trembling. Carl peered between the heads of the people, careful to watch if any of the men turned in his direction. The elderly man was shrunken and bent. He looked to be in his seventies, maybe older.

  “It’s Brother Stiles,” Melissa whispered. “He used to come in the store all the time.”

  “Why you running with yo’ tail between yo’ legs?” the man from Carthage said insolently.

  “I was told I had to leave,” the old man replied, looking very frightened.

  The man who seemed to be the leader of this band of four turned to his companions. “Now, who do you think might do a cruel thing like that?”

  They hooted. “Probably them Mormons,” one of them exclaimed. “I hear the Mormons are driving out their own people down here.”

  The others roared at the joke. “I’ve got an idea,” the leader said, brightening suddenly. “We’re not sure this man is a Mormon or not. What say we baptize him, just to be sure?”

  “No,” Stiles began, half stuttering in terror. “I am a Mormon.”

  In one swift movement the leader swung his rifle off his shoulder, unclipped the bayonet, and stuck it into its place next to the muzzle. He stuck the bayonet point within an inch of the old man’s chest. “You ready to be baptized a Mormon, old man?” he cawed, half giggling to himself at his own joke.

  “No, oh please. No.”

  “Go,” the leader shouted, angry now. He prodded him with the tip of the blade, pushing him toward the water’s edge. “Mormons believe in baptism by immersion, you know.”

  Three additional militiamen, seeing what was happening, broke off and came to join in the fun. They were all shouting, encouraging their leader on.

  The old man was begging now, but each time he stopped moving, the sharp point of the bayonet pushed him on again. When he reached the water he stopped, trembling visibly. One of the other men stepped to him and lifted a foot. Carl jerked forward, but Melissa caught his arm. “No, Carl!” she hissed. “You can’t.”

  Carl stopped, torn. The man kicked out and Thomas Stiles was shoved hard. His feet hit the water and he tripped. He fell headlong into the river, sending up a great splash. He came up on all fours, spluttering. The leader, laughing merrily, stepped into the river beside him and planted a foot on the old man’s back. He lifted both arms, holding his rifle high above his head. “I hereby baptize this man—” He bent down. “What’s your name, old man?”

  “Thomas Stiles,” the man gasped.

  “I hereby baptize Thomas Stiles in the name of Mr. Thomas Sharp, one of our esteemed leaders and one of the best of all the Mormon-haters.” With that, he shoved down hard, pushing Stiles under the water again.

  “That’s enough!” Carl shouted, breaking free from Melissa’s grasp and pushing through the crowd.

  All of the men spun around, lifting their rifles. Carl walked past them and into the river. He took Stiles by the arm and helped him up. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  The old man nodded, wiping at his dripping face. Carl helped him out of the river and gave him a gentle shove back toward the group.

  The baptizer stood for a moment, too shocked to believe what he had just seen. But as Carl started out of the water, the bayonet swung up and pressed against his shirt. “Not so fast, mister.”

  “Leave him alone,” Carl said evenly. “Can’t you see he’s old and sick?”

  The man was incredulous. “Am I hearing this correctly? You’re telling me what to do?”

  Carl tried to go past him but the bayonet pressed firmly now.

  “Tell me who you are, Mister Crusader.”

  Carl looked up, aware that he was on very dangerous ground now, but still quite calm. “My na
me is Carl Rogers.”

  “You a Mormon?” one of the others demanded.

  He shook his head. “No, and I don’t ever plan to be.”

  “Well, well,” the leader said, peering at him more closely now. “Is that a fact? So why are you down here waiting for a ferry?”

  “I have a very sick child.”

  “Aw,” one of the men said with mock gravity. “Now, ain’t that too bad?”

  Suddenly an eighth man came striding up. As Carl looked up, his heart dropped. This was Ronald Granville. He had once been a member of the new citizens committee but had broken off his tie to that group when they refused to surrender to the anti-Mormon demands for surrender. “Do you know who this is?” he asked the leader.

  “Yeah,” the other one sneered. “He is the big and brave Mr. Carl Rogers.”

  “He’s also a member of the new citizens committee,” Granville said. “And if I’m not mistaken, he was one of the Spartan Band.”

  At that moment Carl knew he was in serious trouble. Word was already out in the city that the mob was looking for those non-Mormons who had fought against them. But the Spartan Band had caused the mob the most trouble and were the most hated by them.

  “That right, Rogers?” the leader said ominously.

  “Of course it’s right,” Granville shouted. “This man probably killed some of our men.”

  Moving too fast for Carl to respond, the leader of the men flipped his rifle around and slammed the butt hard into Carl’s side. He screamed in pain, stumbling backward. Two more men waded in, rifle butts flying. Carl threw up his arms to protect his face and turned his back. He felt something snap as there was a terrible blow to his side. He went down, trying to reach out and break his fall. By then he was in the river and went under face first. It was such a shock that he gasped and took in a lungful of muddy water. He came up, gasping and choking and spitting out water.

  Somewhere far off he heard a woman’s scream. He stumbled to his feet and went down again as another rifle butt struck him, sending searing pain through his body.

  “Leave him alone!”

  Through the haze that filled his brain and seemed to block his vision, Carl saw Melissa, the baby in one arm, throw herself at the back of the soldier, flailing at him with her free fist. With a roar, the man swung around, grabbed her hand, and yanked it hard, pulling her in the direction of Carl. Totally unprepared for that, Melissa shot forward, stumbled once, and then went down. The baby flew out of her arms.

  There were several screams and two women raced to the water. One grabbed the baby just as it started to sink. The other helped pull Melissa to her feet.

  “Let her go,” the leader roared, starting to raise his rifle. “If she wants to be with her husband, then leave her be.”

  “No!” another voice shouted. “You leave ’em alone.”

  The leader turned in surprise. It was the boy on the ferry dock.

  “Stay out of this, boy.”

  Then a deeper voice boomed out from behind them. “I’d say you’dbetter stay out of it, mister.”

  They whirled. The ferry was now about twenty or thirty yards offshore. The ferryman stood with his feet planted and a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun held firmly in both hands. It was pointed straight at the militiaman’s chest. “I’d say you boys have had about enough fun for one day.”

  “This ain’t your affair,” another one of the men growled, but he stood very still.

  “And this ain’t part of your treaty,” the ferry operator snapped. “What kind of animals are you, throwing old men and babies into the water? Now, get out of here.” He lifted the shotgun and blasted off one of the barrels. The men jumped and started backing away hastily. “Git!” he shouted, “or you’ll be growing a new crop of hair on your chest.”

  They turned and ran.

  As the boy and his father pulled the ferryboat into the dock, a man and two women rushed down and took Carl by the arms. As they lifted him up he screamed out in pain. They stopped and others rushed in to help. They lifted him gently as he bit down on his lip to stop from screaming again. A few feet away, Melissa took the baby from one of the women who had helped her out of the river. “Is she all right?” Melissa cried.

  “Yes. But her clothes are wet.” The flatboat bumped up against the dock and the ferryman hopped out. “Get aboard,” he barked. “Your husband is in great danger. They’re arresting all the non-Mormons who fought against them.”

  “My baby,” Melissa said.

  “We’ll find her dry clothes once we’re under way,” he replied more gently now. “We’ve got to hurry.” He stepped to those who were holding Carl. “Easy, now,” he said. “Get him onto the ferry.”

  Chapter Notes

  The story of hiding a man in a barrel to escape Doctor Sanderson’s treatment actually happened to Sergeant Luther Tuttle of Company D (see MB,pp. 51–52).

  John Brown and six other men from the Mississippi company left Fort Pueblo on the first day of September and headed east to get their families. They caught up with a group of forty government teamsters going to the States. They were traveling with that group when they met the Mormon Battalion on 12 September near where the Cimarron Cutoff turned off the Santa Fe Trail. (See “Pioneer Journeys, p. 808; MB,p. 53.)

  The details of the Battle of Nauvoo as they unfolded during the first half of September 1846 are summarized in several excellent sources (see, for example, Church History in the Fulness of Times[Salt Lake City: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, 1989], pp. 317–19; SW,pp. 138–71; “Battle of Nauvoo Was the Final Chapter in the Expulsion from the Beloved City,” Church News,14 September 1996, pp. 11–12). Sadly, a day or two before the treaty was signed William Anderson, captain of the Spartan Band, was killed when he was shot from ambush. Even more tragic, his fifteen-year-old son was killed the same day. These were two of the three fatalities that occurred among the defenders during the battle. (See SW,p. 160.) It is not known exactly how many of the mob forces were killed.

  Once the treaty was signed, in a pattern typical of other confrontations the Saints had had with mobs, the anti-Mormons largely ignored the conditions of the treaty. The “posse” immediately began to ransack the town, including the wagons and belongings of those waiting to cross the river. Thomas Stiles, an elderly man, was “baptized” as depicted here. Ironically, Thomas Sharp, the editor of the Warsaw Signal,was the name used in baptizing Stiles. It was Sharp who, more than any other man, was responsible for stirring up anti-Mormon sentiment to the point that it led to the Martyrdom. (See SW,p. 174.)

  Edwin Woolley, who was in Nauvoo at the time of its surrender, wrote: “Nauvoo is now like Babylon of old, a sink of iniquity, a place of foul spirits, and a gathering place for the damned. All that beauty, all the grandeur and all the loveliness that once was there has fled, it has gone and gone forever. Desolation and the cries of the damned are the only sounds that you hear, even in the hours of the night that should be still and quiet.” (Quoted in SW,p. 182.)

  Chapter 27

  By mid-September, Yerba Buena had taken on a considerably different look. The hills that rose upwards from the west shore of San Francisco Bay were still largely untouched by any settlement, except for the very north end not far from the entrance of the Golden Gate.

  As the small whaling boat that they were on passed Yerba Buena Island out in the middle of the bay and turned its nose directly toward the village of Yerba Buena on the far shore, Will Steed stood up, steadying himself against the single mast. When they had sailed into the bay on July thirty-first, there had been the Presidio (or the deserted fort on the bluffs), the new customshouse, and the old barracks. Scattered around those main buildings were a few small houses, some thrown-together shacks, and some willow-and-stick shelters. And that was it. Now at least two dozen homes were either newly completed or under construction. The hillside was still dotted with the white squares of tents, but a good many of the Saints who had come in on the Brooklynhad now found permane
nt shelter for the winter.

  “Beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

  Will turned. Sam Brannan had come over to join him.

  “I’ve only seen one to equal it, and that’s Hong Kong Harbor in China. But San Francisco Bay matches it.” Will had expected that when they came out of the Sacramento River and reached the bay that it would be shrouded in fog, but instead it was perfectly clear. A stiff breeze off the ocean had polished the sky to an unbelievable brightness. The bay was a deep blue dotted with whitecaps, and all of it framed by surrounding hills of green.

  “We’ve got to convince Brother Brigham that this is the place for his Saints.”

  Will turned in surprise. There had never been any plan to make California the final stopping place when they had left. When did this notion come into Brannan’s mind?

  The leader of their colony saw the look and rushed on. “I don’t mean here in the bay area necessarily, though this is a wonderful place for growth too. But you saw the San Joaquin Valley, Will. It’s a site to rival Kirtland or Nauvoo.” He gave Will a strange look. “I even wonder if it might not be the sight for the New Jerusalem.” He rushed on before Will could answer. “You could settle ten thousand people here and do very well.”

  “But . . . ,” Will began. And then he stopped. The site they had explored had been breathtaking. It was near where the Stanislaus River joined the San Joaquin River. There a broad natural valley lay at the base of the Sierra foothills. The land was almost perfectly level for as far as the eye could see looking north and south, and the few locals living there claimed that the soil was rich and very deep. They saw elk, antelope, deer, and signs of bear. There were thousands of geese and ducks along the rivers. And the climate was like that of southern Italy or some parts of Asia where Will had been. He didn’t think for a moment that the New Jerusalem would be built in California, but he did have to admit that if you were looking for a site for the Holy City, you might give serious consideration to the place they had seen.