Mary Ann was too tired to protest further. The exhaustion seeped through every cell of her body. She let her daughter and daughter-in-law lead her to the sofa, and they all sank down heavily onto its threadbare cushions. The clock on the fireplace mantel showed ten minutes after five. It would start to get light in just over an hour. That meant they had been working quietly but steadily for almost eight hours.
Ever since the coming of the army to the outskirts of Far West the previous evening, the city had been in an uproar. The Steed men, including Peter, were out with the brethren. Barricades were being hastily thrown up all around the city to prepare for a siege. The women stayed at home, making their own preparations—packing up essentials, hiding valuables, consolidating meager food supplies, separating out needed clothing, folding enough bedding to see them through cold nights if they were forced from their homes.
“There’s still so much to do,” Mary Ann said, looking around the cabin.
“It can wait for five minutes,” Lydia replied. Lydia’s face was deeply lined too, though it was difficult to tell whether it was from weariness or worry. By unspoken agreement, they had avoided discussing what might be awaiting them with the coming of the sun.
Mary Ann stifled back a sigh, not wanting them to know how delicious it felt to be off her feet. She reached out and took their hands in hers. There was a fleeting smile. “I guess I’m getting old.”
“We’re all very tired, Mother,” Rebecca said. “It’s not just being up all night,” she murmured. “It’s the fear and the worry. It’s being sick about Jessica and John not being here. It’s . . . it’s wonderin’ if sometime today Derek is going to have to . . .” Her lip started to tremble and she looked away quickly.
Mary Ann squeezed her hand tightly. There was nothing to say to that. Putting words to the circle of pain in which each of them was enveloped only made it the more unbearable. From time immemorial, women had sat together like this, trying to comfort one another as their sons and fathers and husbands and brothers went off to war. So they sat quietly, shoulder to shoulder, content not to speak.
* * *
Five minutes later Mary Ann, Lydia, and Rebecca were still sitting together when the door opened. Peter and Derek came in first, rubbing their hands together to warm them from the cold. Benjamin followed, taking off his coat even as he came through the door.
All three women were up instantly. “Where’s Nathan?” Lydia demanded.
“Him and Matthew are down with Parley Pratt, working on the last of the barricades,” Benjamin answered. “They should be along in a few minutes.” He hung his coat on a peg.
Mary Ann went to Benjamin. “How has it gone?”
There was a slow shake of his head. His face was smudged and his hands were dirty. “We’ve used about everything we could lay hand to. But if they’ve got cannon, like they say . . .” There was no point in finishing the statement.
“Come,” she said, slipping one arm around his waist. “We’ve got half a dozen eggs. There’s no sense trying to save them. We’ll have some breakfast. It should be light in about an hour now.”
But as she turned toward the fireplace, there was a heavy clunk on the porch outside. Even as they turned toward it, the door flew open. Nathan stood there. His eyes were wide and filled with horror. Matthew was beside him. In the lamplight, Mary Ann saw that there were streaks through the dirtiness of his face. He had been crying.
“What?” Lydia cried. “What is it?”
For a long moment Nathan just stared at them, his eyes moving from face to face. Then his gaze dropped and he stared at his hands. “A rider just came in from Haun’s Mill.”
Mary Ann was to him in three steps, grabbing at his shirt. “What, Nathan? What happened? Was there trouble?”
He looked up, his eyes stricken. “They were attacked yesterday afternoon. It was a massacre.”
Mary Ann gasped. Rebecca’s hand flew to her mouth. Lydia gasped and fell back a step.
“Half the men are dead. Even some children were killed. I guess . . .” He swallowed, and turned away, not able to finish.
Mary Ann reached out and took Nathan’s shoulder, turning him back around to face her. “Jessica?” she whispered. “John?”
“The messenger doesn’t know,” Nathan answered. “There was so much confusion. He’s not sure who—”
There was a scream from behind them. “Mama! Mama!”
They spun around. Six-year-old Rachel was standing at the edge of the curtain that sectioned off what served as a bedroom. Her hair was tangled from sleep. The large blue eyes that were usually so sober and thoughtful were filled with terror. “What happened to my mama?”
Mary Ann and Benjamin were to her instantly. Benjamin gathered her up in his arms, holding her tight to him as Mary Ann soothed her. “It’s all right, Rachel. It’s all right.”
Nathan watched for a moment, then turned to his wife. Lydia had never seen a look of such terrible anguish on a man’s face. Holding out her arms, she gathered him in. He crushed her to him, clinging to her desperately. Then great shuddering sobs began to rack his body. “I told them to come back with us,” he cried hoarsely. “I told them. I told them. I told them.”
* * *
“General Lucas isn’t going to like this, Captain.”
Joshua didn’t even turn his head. He looked at the rest of the men. Fortunately they had no love for Lieutenant Carter and were grinning a little at the fact that their captain kept putting him in his place. But Joshua could also see that they were nervous about what he was about to do. “Keep the horses quiet,” he said confidently. “If I need you, I’ll fire one shot. Then come in quick and hard.”
“Captain!” Lieutenant Carter’s voice had risen to a whine. Joshua didn’t glance back. He moved away in long strides, headed for the line of trees and undergrowth that marked the streambed of Shoal Creek. Beyond that line lay the village of Haun’s Mill.
* * *
“There’s a man coming!” “Who is it?” “It’s a Missourian!” “He’s alone.”
Only gradually did the ripple of panic that was sweeping through the group finally register in Jessica’s mind. Fighting for control, she finally looked away from the corpse that lay at her feet—the cold, gray body that until yesterday had been her husband. Women were huddling together nervously, pointing. Children started to whimper. A couple of the men ran for their rifles.
Jessica turned, looking to see what was causing the stir. And then she was leaning forward, staring. “Joshua?” She took one step forward. She rubbed at her eyes quickly, then slowly lifted a hand. “Joshua?” she said again, only then realizing that she had spoken in a bare whisper. She started waving. “Joshua!” she shouted. “Joshua! I’m here.”
He broke into a quick walk, pushing his way through the gathered crowd. “It’s all right,” he said as he passed them, “I’m Joshua Steed. I’m her brother.” He lied without hesitation. This was no time for a complicated explanation of relationships. He was focused on one thing, and one thing only, and that was getting Jessica and her family out of Haun’s Mill.
* * *
They stood together, looking down at the body of John Griffith. Jessica wept silently while Joshua stared at the work of yesterday’s mob. The bodies were lined up along the ground. A few feet away there was a pile of dirt and a hole where someone had started to dig a well. Then he understood. The well was to be the common grave for those who hadn’t survived. There was no time for funerals or going to the cemetery with freshly made coffins. These people had no guarantees that the mob would not be back. And Joshua couldn’t give them any either. He was nearly as frightened by the possibility as they were, not for himself but for Jessica.
He reached out and touched her shoulder, bringing her back to him. His eyes widened. For the first time now he saw her bandaged hand. He moved to her and took it gently. The rag that was wrapped around it was dirty and bloodstained. “What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll
be fine.” She spoke woodenly, without looking at him.
He had to bring her out of her stupor. He shook her gently. “Where’s Rachel?” he asked. “Where are the boys? Are they all right?”
Jessica’s head came up. A momentary flicker of relief crossed her face. “Nathan and Matthew came day before yesterday. They took Rachel and the boys to Far West.” She bit her lip. “They wanted me and John to go.” Her eyes flooded with tears. “We didn’t,” she whispered. “We were going to but . . .”
Joshua closed his eyes for a moment, wanting to find a way to lessen the pain for her. But the time for solace was going to have to come some other time. “What about the baby?”
There was no answer.
He shook her more firmly. “Is baby John . . . ?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Her eyes finally focused and she shook her head. “He’s all right. Amanda’s children are watching him. Over at the cabin.”
The relief washed over him, making him weak. “All right. Let’s go get him.”
* * *
As they crossed the board bridge that spanned the millrace, Joshua stopped and looked at Jessica. “Jessie?”
She was holding the baby tightly against her body, looking down into the bright eyes that looked out from the blanket.
“Jessie!”
Her head came up slowly, and when he saw her eyes he realized that she was still in deep shock.
“Jessie, I’m with some other men.”
Her mouth rounded into an “oh” and there was instant fear.
“It’s all right. I’m their captain. No one is going to hurt you.”
She didn’t answer, but he was pleased to see understanding register on her face. “Jessie, this is very important. They can’t know we’re related. They can’t even guess that I know you. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. No matter what I say, don’t let on.”
“All right, Joshua.” She turned and looked back toward the village. “I . . . Should I be leaving Amanda, Joshua?”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. They had gone over this three times already. “Jessie, you have children in Far West. Rachel is there. Mark. Luke. You’ve got to think about them now. John is dead.”
“But Amanda—”
“She’ll be all right. The men said they’ll watch out for her.”
“Why can’t she come with us?”
“If she could, I would bring her. But she can’t move that boy. Not with his hip like that.” He shook his head, squeezing her shoulders with soft pressure. “She can’t come with us, Jessie. You know that.”
Finally she turned back. “I know, Joshua. I know.”
* * *
Joshua swore bitterly, then grabbed Lieutenant Carter by the lapels of his uniform jacket. Even the uniform infuriated him. Most of the higher officers bought their own uniforms, but the lower officers and the enlisted men rarely had them. This was a state militia. It was activated only in times of emergency. But Lieutenant Carter had bought himself a uniform. It was so typical of his pompous arrogance.
Joshua shoved his face right up against Carter’s. “You listen to me, Lieutenant. You can tell General Lucas any miserable thing you want. But we are not going to leave this woman here.” He let go of Carter’s jacket and gave him a little shove. The lieutenant, who was about four inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter than Joshua, stumbled backwards. The rest of the men stood in a half circle, watching their two officers closely.
Jessica stood just to Joshua’s left, holding the baby, watching the whole thing impassively. It was as if she were an onlooker to something that had nothing to do with her.
Carter was sputtering as he caught his balance. “You can’t do this! General Lucas will hear about this. He told you not to come here. He’ll have you court-martialed.”
Joshua decided to try a different tack. “You married, Lieutenant?” He knew the answer already.
Carter blinked. “Yes,” he said guardedly.
“Children?”
“Yes, four.”
“How old is the oldest?”
Carter was peering at him suspiciously. “He’s twelve.”
Joshua nodded and his voice dropped to a low rumble. “Well, this woman had a twelve-year-old son too. One of Comstock’s men laid a rifle up alongside his head and blew it half away. A twelve-year-old, Carter! They just tossed him into a common grave. You want to be party to that?”
Carter’s mouth opened, but Joshua bored in, not wanting to give him a chance to answer. “She had another son,” he lied shamelessly. “I saw him too. He was eight years old. Eight! Half his hip is gone. Another one of Comstock’s ‘heroes’ shot him at point-blank range.” Now he lowered his voice, letting all the horror he was feeling pour into it. “Her husband’s dead. She’s been shot in the hand. All she has left now is this baby.”
Joshua stepped forward, turning toward Jessica now, half whispering. “Look at her, Carter. She’s in shock. She barely knows where she is.” He turned to look at his men. “Is that what we stand for out here?”
Heads dropped or turned away. He saw two or three heads shake quickly back and forth. These men hated Mormons, but they weren’t the lunatic types that rode with Neil Gilliam or Nehemiah Comstock. They had not come out to slaughter women and children.
Joshua stepped back. “This woman has family in Far West, and I say we take her close enough to the city that she can go the rest of the way in safety.” He let his head swing slowly, staring down each of the men. “We’re gonna drive the Mormons out of the state anyway. Doesn’t this poor wretch deserve to be with them when we do? What do you say, men?”
Now he had them all, and Carter knew it. And it was also obvious that lumping Amanda Smith’s loss with Jessica’s had struck the mark with the lieutenant too. Carter straightened his uniform, not meeting Joshua’s piercing glance. “I’m still going to have to report all this to General Lucas,” he muttered.
“Report what you will,” Joshua said. He turned to Jessica. “Come on, ma’am,” he said gently. “You can ride with me.”
* * *
By seven-thirty on Halloween morning, October thirty-first, 1838, Far West was like a town waiting for a tornado to strike. The Missouri militiamen camped to the south of them now outnumbered the Saints five to one, and more were coming in hourly. Word of the horror at Haun’s Mill had ripped through the Saints like the bolt of lightning that had struck the liberty pole. Fear hung like a heavy fog over everything. The tension was as palpable as static electricity.
Shortly before eight, Colonel George M. Hinkle, the highest-ranking officer in the Mormon militia, sent a message to General Lucas requesting a meeting in which negotiations for some kind of truce might take place. Soon a message came back from General Lucas. He was too busy putting new troops into bivouac. He could not meet with the Mormons until 2:00 p.m.
And so the oncoming tornado was delayed for a time. It did little to change the mood in the town. The people knew that it was still coming, that it was headed straight for them with absolute inevitablity. But, for now at least, it stood off in the distance, dark, ominous, weaving sinuously back and forth, slowly driving everyone to the edge of madness.
Though no one knew it then, in actuality Hinkle had decided to take matters into his own hands. For some time now he had been chafing under Joseph’s leadership. Hinkle had been the one who had led the Saints at DeWitt and defied the mobs. But in spite of that, Joseph had not given him full rein. There was not the slightest doubt in Hinkle’s mind that the militia would roll over the Saints. Their poorly armed and virtually untrained home guard wouldn’t stand a chance. But Joseph wouldn’t listen. He was building the barricades, stiffening the will of the men. He was setting them up for a bloodbath. Being prophet was one thing, but this was war.
By quarter of two in the afternoon, the men and older boys from the city lined the barricades. A short distance away, on a small rise, the white flag fluttered on a staff al
ong with the banner of General Lucas. He had kept his word and come to negotiate. Colonel George M. Hinkle rode out of town, moving toward the general’s camp.
Benjamin, Matthew, Nathan, Derek, and Peter all stood together behind an overturned wagon. They watched somberly as the little party rode away from them. There was not a sound along the whole line.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Matthew turned to his father. “Pa?” he said softly.
Benjamin turned.
“What do you think is going to happen?”
Benjamin’s shoulders lifted and fell. Nathan and Derek were watching him closely too. He wanted to unburden himself, tell them of the dark cloud of oppression that seemed to fill his own soul, but he knew they were looking to him for strength, for hope, for courage. But then he was spared the need for answering. Behind them, there was a cry. Turning as one, they saw Rebecca running hard toward them, coming up the street from their cabin.
“Papa! Papa!”
Her hair was flying. Benjamin felt a lurch of fear, and he leaped forward to see what was wrong. But then he realized her voice was joyous and triumphant. “Jessica’s here! Jessica’s here!”
* * *
Colonel George M. Hinkle held a commission in the Missouri militia from the governor. So as he walked up and saluted General Lucas, he moved with confidence and boldness. He knew what had to be done. There came a time when a man had to take the reins and put things in order.
They went through the formalities quickly, then Hinkle went straight to the point. “General Lucas, as senior officer in the Caldwell County militia, I am here to negotiate surrender terms. This insanity has gone on long enough.”
General Lucas looked at him narrowly, then withdrew an envelope from inside the jacket of his uniform. “I think that is wise, sir, especially in light of the order we just received. It is signed the twenty-seventh day of October, just four days ago, by His Excellency, Governor Lilburn W. Boggs.”
“Order, General?”
“Yes.” Lucas took the paper out of the envelope and began to read, his voice hard and cold. Hinkle and his companions rocked back a little at the bluntness of the governor’s order, but when Lucas read the words, “The Mormons must be treated as enemies and must be exterminated or driven from the state, if necessary for the public good,” they went absolutely white. Hinkle barely heard the rest of what Lucas read to him.
The Work and the Glory Page 180
