Suddenly, Turley turned to Whitmer. “John, you have heard John Corrill testify in times past that he knew the Book of Mormon and Mormonism were true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Now he has changed his tune. So I call on you, John Whitmer. You say Corrill is a good and moral man. Do you believe him when he once said the Book of Mormon was true, or do you believe him when he now says it is not true?”
Whitmer was taken aback by Turley’s going on the offensive. “I . . .”
“Well?” Turley demanded. “There are many things that are published which some men say are true; then they turn around and say they are false.”
“Do you hint at me?” Whitmer said hotly.
“If the cap fits, wear it!” Turley retorted with equal tartness. “All I know is that you have published to the world that you saw the plates given to Joseph Smith. What do you have to say about that now?”
The silence hung in the room like a pall. Every eye had turned to John Whitmer. His head was down, his eyes half-closed. Finally he spoke in a voice so low it was barely audible. “I did handle those plates,” he mumbled. “There were fine engravings on both sides of each leaf. I touched them. I personally handled them.” There was another long pause, then, “They were shown to me by a supernatural power.”
“So,” Turley said triumphantly, “why is it that the translation is not true now, then?”
“I . . .” The head ducked even lower.
“Well?” Turley bored in.
“I . . .” He took a quick breath, darting a glance toward Bogart, whose mouth was a hard, tight line. “I couldn’t read those plates in the original,” Whitmer finally said, “so I cannot say whether or not the translation is true.”
Bogart seemed relieved, but he had also had enough. He snatched up the paper from the table. “Let’s go,” he snapped. They turned and started filing out. As Bogart reached the door, he half turned, his face a mask of hatred. “You tell ’em, Turley. You tell the Twelve that if they try to come back here and take their leave from Far West, we’ll kill every last man jack one of them!”
Turley stared at the door for several seconds after it closed again; then he dropped into his chair, aware that his heart was pounding as heavily as if he had run a race. Then his eyes blazed and his jaw tightened with determination. “They will come,” he murmured. “You wait and see.”
They were seven days north of Savannah and still a day out of New York City when Jiggers, the bosun, found Will lying on the bunk in the sleeping quarters. Will looked up in surprise. The ship’s officers never came down to the crew’s quarters. He sat up quickly.
“Steed, the cap’n wants to see you,” the man growled.
Will came to his feet slowly. He had stood watch through part of the night and had been dozing now to make up for it. “The captain?” he asked, his mind still not grasping fully.
“Come on, mate,” Jiggers snapped impatiently. “Move sharply, now. He’s in his cabin.”
As Will came out into the daylight and moved toward the captain’s quarters, he saw the furtive looks his fellow crew members gave him. They were mostly filled with pity. Angry now, he straightened his back and marched toward the ladder that led to the captain’s quarters. He took the steps in threes, walked to the door, knocked sharply, then stood back, head up.
“Enter.”
Opening the door, he stepped inside. There were only two small portholes in the cabin, and after the bright daylight, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. The captain was seated at a small writing desk. He was facing Will, watching him with steady eyes. He said nothing. Will shut the door, standing at attention, determined not to speak first.
Jonathan Sperryman was young for a sea captain, no more than forty or forty-five. Thin—almost sparse—he had a shock of hair that probably once was brown, but now was mostly bleached blond by the sun and salt spray. He was tough and hard, and could flay a man with his eyes when he was angry. But he was also fair and didn’t mind passing out praise when it was well deserved. After being in several ports of call and seeing the other captains and their crews, Will knew he could have done a lot worse.
The captain stirred and, still without speaking, opened a drawer. He took out a folded paper and laid it on the desk. A string was tied around it to hold it closed. Will glanced at it, then suddenly lurched forward. It was his letter, the letter he had written so laboriously to his mother, the letter he had paid Petey such a dear price to take off the ship in Savannah for him. He couldn’t help it. He simply gaped at the letter, trying to comprehend all that its being there on the captain’s desk implied. Petey had sworn he had delivered the letter. And he had. To the captain!
It was as though Will had been hit in the stomach by a swinging block and tackle. He wanted to reach out and grab something to steady himself. Sperryman, watching him closely, was satisfied. He swept the letter back into the drawer and pushed it shut again. “I don’t make a habit of reading other people’s mail, Steed. I don’t know whom you were writing to, or why, though I have an idea.”
Will said nothing. The disappointment was too crushing. If he had opened his mouth, all that would have come out was a strangled sob.
The captain’s mouth hardened. “But whatever the reason, that doesn’t change things,” he said gruffly. “I paid two hundred dollars for you. When your two years of service have paid that back, you’ll be free to go.”
Will’s lips set into a tight line.
The captain continued, more kindly now. “I’ll be having to put you in the locker again while we’re in New York, just to be sure. But if you behave yourself, you have my word that I’ll mail the letter when we reach Liverpool.”
Will finally nodded. Whether he would or wouldn’t behave himself remained to be seen, but he knew that trying to beat this captain would be very difficult. “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes.”
Will turned and moved to the door.
“Steed?”
He stopped, not turning around.
“If you were of a mind to accept reality, you’ve got the makings of a good sailor.”
Will stood there, his back to the captain. Then finally he spoke. “Is that all, sir?” he asked again.
There was a long pause, then, “Yes. Dismissed.”
Will opened the door and stepped out. He didn’t look back as he went up the ladder and onto the main deck.
Chapter Notes
Heber C. Kimball’s and Theodore Turley’s trip to the state capital was not successful in the sense of their being able to get the prisoners released. However, their efforts probably facilitated a change of venue, from Daviess County to Boone County, for the prisoners’ trial. The Prophet had petitioned the Missouri state legislature for a change of venue as early as January of 1839. As will be seen in subsequent chapters of this novel, the granting at last of a change of venue in the spring of 1839 would have a significant effect on future events.
On the same day that Heber C. Kimball and Theodore Turley returned home, a delegation of eight Missourians confronted Turley in the office of the Committee on Removal. The conversation—including the warning against the Twelve’s trying to return to Far West, and John Whitmer’s reluctant testimony—is reported in Joseph Smith’s history. The vow to kill the Prophet was also apparently spoken in Turley’s presence on this day, though it may have been a separate incident from the visit of the eight men. (See HC 3:306–8.) The revelation which told the Twelve to take their leave from Far West on 26 April 1839 is now section 118 in the Doctrine and Covenants.
Chapter Three
Matthew! Sister Steed!”
Mary Ann and her son were just coming out of the Quincy store. Matthew’s arms were loaded with a box filled with sugar, flour, honey, and other staples. Both of them turned at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Brother Brigham,” Mary Ann said warmly, shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun. “Hello.”
He strode up, sweeping off his hat and jamming it under his arm
. He took both of her hands in his, his face filled with pleasure. “Good afternoon, Sister Steed. How good to see you.” He half turned. “And Matthew. Hello, my young friend.”
“Hello, Brother Brigham.”
Brigham reached out and took the box from Matthew’s hands and lowered it to the boardwalk. “Set that thing down, boy. We need to talk.”
Matthew smiled, not protesting. That was Brigham Young. Cheerful, booming, and immediately taking charge of things. But Matthew didn’t mind. Brigham always did it with cordiality and warmth, so that people naturally accepted his leadership.
“I’m glad I caught you. I was just on my way out to your place.”
“You were?” Mary Ann asked.
“Yes. How is Benjamin?” His eyes were filled with genuine concern.
“Still weak, but much recovered and getting stronger each day.”
“He’s back to being grumpy again because we won’t let him do anything,” Matthew added.
Brigham laughed heartily. “That is a good sign.”
Mary Ann laughed too, watching Brigham with some admiration. Brigham was four years older than Joseph, but he was two or three inches shorter than the Prophet and of a much stockier build. This made him seem even older than his years. Like Joseph he was clean shaven. He wore his reddish brown hair to the shoulders. One lock of it now rippled slightly in the steady breeze blowing from the west. His eyes were blue-gray and often reminded Mary Ann of the morning sky just before the sunrise. They could dance with humor, sparkle with delight, or flash in anger at some idler who didn’t want to make his own way in life or when someone dared to criticize his beloved Joseph.
“I’ve been meaning to come out and see Brother Benjamin, but . . .” He let it die and turned to survey the town quickly. Then he sighed wearily. “There is so much to do. More coming every day. And now they are some of our poorest.” He shook his head, his mouth puckering down into a frown of concern. Then he seemed to come back to them. “There’s been some bad news, I’m afraid.”
Mary Ann tensed. “Bad news?”
“Yes. Brother Henry Sherwood arrived from Far West last night. The militia in Daviess County has given the brethren in Far West an ultimatum. Everyone has to be gone by Friday, April twelfth, or be killed. Everyone!”
“No!” Mary Ann gasped.
“The twelfth?” Matthew asked in alarm. “But that’s tomorrow.”
Brigham’s face was grim. “Yes. Brother Sherwood rode for help immediately, but they were only given a week’s notice. So the situation is urgent. Heber and the Committee on Removal will get the families out of Far West and as far as Tenny’s Grove to escape the edict, but they are going to need help to come any farther.” Now the blue-gray eyes were like polished steel—angry, determined, unbendable. “Well, we shall show them that we do not abandon our own.”
He straightened. “We’re going to organize a train, send as many wagons as we can to get them out. We must get teams started immediately. We haven’t a moment to waste.”
“You will use ours,” Mary Ann said promptly and firmly. “The horses are in fine shape.”
Brigham started to answer, but his voice failed him for a moment. He took Mary Ann’s hands, swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “God bless you, dear Mary Ann. I knew you and Benjamin would say exactly that. God bless you.”
“Is that why you were coming out to see us?” Matthew asked.
Brigham nodded.
Matthew had a sudden thought. “Do you need drivers?”
Mary Ann’s head snapped around, her eyes instantly bright with fear. They lifted to Brigham’s face, wanting to plead for a negative answer. Brigham read her expression perfectly, but there was little choice. He looked at Matthew and slowly nodded. Matthew was not yet nineteen, but he had been doing a man’s work for some time now. Besides that, Brigham had great confidence in this youngest son of the Steeds. Without taking his eyes away from Mary Ann, he answered. “Yes, Matthew, we do.”
Matthew turned to face his mother. Nothing was said, but after a moment she bobbed her head ever so slightly, just once. Matthew hugged her quickly and fiercely, then spoke to Brigham. “I’ll bring the team in. Where and when shall I meet you?”
“At the ferry. We’re going to try and get as many wagons across the river today as we can. We’re hoping to get two drivers for every wagon and some extra teams, so they can push into the night. What about Derek? How close is that baby to coming?”
Mary Ann answered for Matthew. “Not until June. Rebecca will be fine. Derek will want to go.”
“And I’ll bring Peter too,” Matthew said eagerly. “He’s still young, but he can spell us off from time to time.” He looked at his mother. “What about Nathan?”
Brigham shook his head. “With Benjamin still recovering, we can’t send every Steed. You tell Nathan to stay and care for the family.”
Matthew nodded, then reached down and grabbed the box of food and started away.
“Matthew?”
He stopped, turning around to look at his mother.
“Put that box in the wagon,” she said. “They’ll need it worse than we do. We could also spare some of that flour Joshua purchased for us.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“May the Lord bless you both,” Brigham murmured huskily. His shoulders seemed to lift perceptibly. Then he swung around to Matthew. “When this is over, Matthew, we need to talk. Are you still interested in working with a crusty old New Englander in setting up a carpentry business?”
A grin split Matthew’s face and pleasure danced in his blue eyes. “I sure am!”
“Good. When you get back let’s talk about it. I’m really serious about it.”
“Yes, sir!” Matthew cried. He turned and strode away, hardly mindful of the weight he carried in his arms.
For a moment, they stood there, watching Matthew walk away. Then Brigham put on his hat. “Thank you, Mother Steed. I knew I could count on you.”
Hyrum Smith leaned over and whispered into his brother’s ear. “Look, Joseph, it worked.”
Joseph didn’t turn his head, but Hyrum saw the quick nod against the firelight. The five prisoners were stretched out on the prairie sod, a few yards away from where Sheriff William Morgan and three of the four other guards were now asleep beneath their blankets. One of the sleeping men—probably Sheriff Morgan—was snoring loudly, sounding much like an old boar pig rooting through a garden patch.
In the faint light from the dying fire, Hyrum could see the whiskey jug. It was tipped over on its side now, all but empty. He smiled to himself. That had not been a bad investment. Earlier in the day, when the guards expressed a desire for a jug of corn whiskey sweetened with honey, the prisoners had chipped in some money to help pay for it. There had been broad hints from the sheriff and his men that their getting drunk might give the prisoners a good opportunity to escape.
The one guard who was still awake and who had not imbibed sat apart from the rest; he was the one who had probably been the most overt about his willingness to help the prisoners escape.
It was a strange set of events that had brought them to this place. At the conclusion of the Richmond hearing back in November, Joseph and the four men now with him—his brother Hyrum, Lyman Wight, Alexander McRae, and Caleb Baldwin—had been charged with treason committed in Daviess County, and Judge King had ordered that they be confined until they could be tried at the Daviess County court in the spring. Since there was no jail in Daviess County, however, Liberty Jail in Clay County had been chosen for their prison. After their having spent over four months in that miserable jail, about ten days ago Judge King had hurried the prisoners off to their trial before a grand jury in Daviess County. No doubt the bitter anti-Mormon judge was fearful that the prisoners might receive a change of venue, which the prisoners themselves anticipated would be granted them. A hotbed of anti-Mormon sentiment, Daviess County was hardly the place for a fair trial, and King knew it.
At the Daviess County trial, t
he grand jury had brought an indictment against Joseph and the others for “murder, treason, burglary, arson, larceny, theft, and stealing.” Joseph had dryly commented that only the Missourians didn’t know that larceny, theft, and stealing were all the same things. At last, however, the prisoners received a change of venue to Boone County, which was southeast of Daviess County some distance. The Daviess County sheriff, William Morgan, was put in charge of transferring Joseph and his companions to the new location. And then the rumors started. En route, the sheriff began to drop hints that he had been counseled to let the prisoners escape, since there was no chance they could be successfully prosecuted. The continuing imprisonment of Joseph Smith and the other Church leaders on such flimsy evidence was an embarrassment to the state.
Hopeful but cautious, the prisoners waited patiently for events to unfold. During the journey, with clothing and a promissory note they had bought two horses from the guards. Then, today, they had donated money for the purchase of the whiskey and after dinner had quietly watched the Missourians empty the jug. Sheriff Morgan openly told them that he was going to “take a good drink of grog and go to bed” and that he didn’t care what the prisoners did after that. No one said anything more, but both the guards and the guarded knew what was happening.
“What do you think, Joseph?” It was Alexander McRae, who was on the other side of Hyrum.
Joseph rose up on one elbow. He listened for a moment, as the sheriff snorted in his sleep. Then he smiled grimly. “What do I think?” he whispered. “I think we would be better suited to flee this land of oppression and tyranny and once again take our stand among a people in whose bosoms dwell those feelings of freedom and a love for the republic which gave rise to our nation.”
“Amen!” Lyman Wight breathed fervently.
“Do you mean—?” Caleb Baldwin started.
The Work and the Glory Page 212
