by Diane Noble
“Prepare to burn the midnight oil. I couldn’t put this book down. The Veil revealed a shocking early Mormon practice that chills the blood, but makes it much easier to understand the grip of fear that still holds Mormons today.”
—Francine Rivers, author
“Diane Nobles thoughtfully paced, cant-put-down narrative is filled with characters I cheered for, cried for, grieved for. Historical research and spiritual insights underpin this stunning work by one of Christian fictions finest writers.”
—Liz Curtis Higgs, author
“The Veil is a tender, yet fascinating novel that reveals the truth about a little known part of American history—the early years of Mormonism in Utah. Diane Noble has written a beautiful story about God’s unconditional love and the way he shows himself to those who earnestly seek his face.”
—Robin Lee Hatcher, author
“Diane Noble has done her part to shine light through the veil of secrecy and misunderstanding surrounding the early days of the Mormon movement. I was spellbound as I read—you will be too!”
—Angela Elwell Hunt, author
“From the moment Lucas Knight battles the downstream creek, the reader is plunged into a maelstrom of deceit and man-made edicts. I couldn’t put it down.”
—Don Pape, president, Canadian Signature Group
“The Veil is … a fine piece of writing that tells a foreboding and compelling story of power and spiritual searching within the lives of ordinary people.”
—Jane Kirkpatrick, author
“Nobles work is a tour de force, a compelling story of romance, courage, and enduring love set against a tumultuous backdrop of prejudice and fear on the Mormon frontier.”
—Ronald Woolsey, author/historian
Other Books by Diane Noble
Tangled Vines
(written as Amanda MacLean)
Westward
Stonehaven
Everlasting
Promise Me the Dawn
Kingdom Come
To Tom
With all my love
‘This hope we have as an anchor of the soul,
both sure and steadfast, and which enters
the Presence behind the veil
Hebrews 6:19, NKJV
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to offer thanks to the following people for their support during the writing of The Veil.
My husband, Tom, a historian, was my partner in the intensive research that provided the foundation for this project. Together we visited the Mountain Meadows Massacre site and traveled much of the Utah portion of the trail taken by the wagon company. Early on, we had the opportunity to interview descendants of those involved in the massacre as well as descendants of relatives of the wagon train families. My husband’s belief in this story and in my writing prodded me along even when other projects threatened to interfere. His love and encouragement never wavered.
A decade ago Carolyn Coker, writing teacher extraordinaire and friend, took my first storytelling attempts seriously—long before I did. It was in her class that the first seeds of The Veil’s story took root. I am grateful for her belief in me and for her always well-placed words of wisdom. Other past-and-present members of what has become Carolyn’s lively literary critique group also provided wonderful insights: Jim Brown, Paul Hawley, Barbara Hoffman, Billie John’son, Donna Sanders, Kim Sarchet, and Anna Waterhouse.
If one person could qualify as The Veil’s midwife, that person is Liz Curtis Higgs. Liz provided much of the day-to-day prayer and loving support—mostly long distance by e-mail—that brought forth this work. Through my final months of intense writing, rewriting, and editing, she “listened” thoughtfully and gave generously of her time to encourage and advise. Her own keen sense of the art of fiction writing provided me an invaluable sounding board for characters and plot.
Several years ago, when I first met Lisa Bergren, I had no idea what an impact this chance meeting would have on my life. Yet God knew, and he knit us together as editor-author and also as friends. Lisa’s astute, enthusiastic, and sensitive editing direction significantly helped define The Veil.
I am happily in debt to each.
PREFACE
The events that provide the historical backdrop for The Veil are true. But to understand their unfolding, the reader must be aware of the emotional and political climate that existed in Utah Territory in the mid-nineteenth century. Prior to 1857, the Mormons had been persecuted and evicted from Kirtland, Ohio; Far West, Missouri; and Nauvoo, Illinois. They suffered terrible atrocities in all these places but none worse than in Far West in the late 1830s. A few years later, their founder and leader, Joseph Smith, was murdered as part of the Mormon exodus from Nauvoo. In the mid 1840s, their new Prophet, Brigham Young, led the beleaguered Saints west to the Salt Lake Valley, where they fervently determined never again to be chased from their promised land. But in 1857, word reached the Saints that U.S. government troops were heading west to take over the Territory and replace Young as governor. The result was a frenzy of outrage and fear that spread like wildfire throughout the Territory.
It was no coincidence that the same year Brigham Young stepped up preaching his theology of blood atonement—the necessity of killing ones enemies in order to save their eternal lives. If anyone—apostate or enemy—could hope to reach heaven, Young and his elders taught, it could be only through the spilling of that persons blood. Therefore, killing one’s enemies became a sacred duty. It also became a license to kill. Non-Mormons were obvious targets. Such was the mood when an innocent wagon company, known in this work as the Farrington Train, headed west … straight into the heart of the brutal, warlike atmosphere of Utah Territory.
The characters in The Veil are largely fictional, although many are based on participants on both sides of the events at Mountain Meadows. Quotes attributed to Brigham Young and other Mormon leaders are taken from actual sermons, writings, and Mormon newspaper accounts of the period.
PROLOGUE
Lucas
Haun’s Mill, Missouri
October 1838
Lucas Knight fled through the woods, his breath coming in short, painful pants. The boy was too scared to think, too numbed by what he had just witnessed, to consider anything but shoving through the tangle of wild berry vines and scratchy brambles.
From a ways down the trace, from the compound that had been his home, the terrifying shouts of the hunters carried toward him. Lucas stopped and cocked his head, listening carefully, his chest heaving.
The hunters were still after him. He could hear their horses crashing through the brush and their hounds howling as they followed his trail.
Sobs of fear caught in his throat. His heart pounded as he waited. He knew the woods better than anyone. Since he and his ma and pa and baby brother had moved to Haun’s Mill a year ago, he had roamed the hillsides. He knew every secret hiding place, every cave, every lookout, every oak best for climbing.
He set his lips in a straight, stubborn line and lifted his chin, gulping back his sobs. They wouldn’t catch him. He was smarter than they were. He would get to safety. Somehow.
He remembered a cave just beyond the creek up ahead. If he made it to the water, the hounds might lose his scent. Then he could climb up the steep trail on the other side to the point of rocks.
The horses and hounds and hunters drew nearer. Lucas could feel the vibrations from pounding hooves beneath his feet, and his ears ached from listening to the dogs trailing his scent. He imagined their bared teeth, their panting breath. The image made his knees weak with fear.
He was the lone witness to what the hunters had done. They wouldn’t let him live if they caught him. He ran faster.
Lucas spotted the creek, barely visible through a stand of alders, and stopped t
o catch his breath. The soft neigh of a horse followed by a rustling in the brush caused the hair on the back of Lucas’s neck to stand tall. Halting cautiously, he squinted into the dense wood. No one was in sight, and he breathed easier.
He crouched low in a thicket of ferns then moved silently toward the water, gingerly making his way across its moss-covered stones. His gaze skimmed the brush for the presence he had earlier felt, but again he saw no one.
Lucas pushed off from a rock, and half-swimming, half-crawling over the slick and muddy creek bottom, he slowly made his way upstream. The current was swift in some places, so he figured the men would suppose he’d headed downstream because it was safer and easier.
Behind him, the hunting dogs were howling at the water’s edge, yipping, crying, braying, digging, snorting where they had lost his scent.
But Lucas, now beyond a deep bend in the creek bed, didn’t stop, figuring it wouldn’t be long until the hunters reckoned his direction. He had just reached a small waterfall beyond another bend when he heard a rider coming through the brush directly ahead.
His heart caught in his throat. He couldn’t return downstream. The brush on the far side of the creek was too sparse for hiding. He was trapped.
As he considered his plight, a tall, black horse broke into the clearing and halted abruptly in a patch of late-afternoon sunlight. It struck the burly rider across the face, making his dark hair gleam and his ice blue eyes look startlingly pale against his swarthy skin. The rider didn’t seem at all surprised to see Lucas.
The boy stood, water streaming from his clothes. Around him the shin-high water bubbled and swirled. He felt like crying but kept himself from it, thinking how ashamed his pa would be if he let even one tear fall. Biting his lip, he mutely acknowledged the man with a nod.
“Lucas,” the man said gently, “you did right by coming this way. I hoped you’d pick the creek.”
Lucas tried to keep the tremble out of his voice. “You been the one watchin’ me?”
“Yes, son. I’ve never been far. I was just waiting until you put more distance between you and the posse.”
The boy waded through the water to the creek bank. “They’re still comin’, Brother Steele,” he said. The cool air struck his wet clothes and his thin body, and he shivered.
“You lost them, at least for now, boy. You did it better than most men I know.”
In spite of what he had been through, Lucas felt proud. “You know, then, what’s happened?”
“Yes, son, I know,” John Steele said, his voice grim. “I know.”
The hounds bawled again from someplace downstream. Steele narrowed his eyes, squinting in that direction. Still astride his mount, he removed his wool coat and tossed it to Lucas. “Here. Put this on and climb up. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Lucas slipped his arms into the sleeves, reached up to take Steele’s big, callous hand, then swung onto the horse behind the saddle. A few minutes later, as the black mare carried them deep into the woods, the boy leaned his cheek against Steele’s broad back.
Before long, dusk settled around them like a shroud, and fog laced among the alders and pines and oaks, dripping a heavy mist from the branches. The woods seemed filled with the smell of damp, loamy soil and decaying leaves. The mare thundered along the trace for hours, it seemed to Lucas. He clung to John Steele, his arms circling the man, afraid to let go.
At last Steele halted the horse in front of a log house, and Lucas rubbed his sleepy eyes with the back of his fists. Several horses were tied to hitching posts, and the glow of lantern light spilled through the windows out into the darkness. John Steele dismounted then reached up to take the boy from the horse.
The big man strode to the house, Lucas in his arms. He didn’t stop until he reached a worn horsehair chair near the fireplace. After he had kicked the chair closer to the crackling fire, he placed the boy on its cushion, his manner gentler than his size bespoke.
“Get some blankets,” Steele ordered one of the men who had trailed after them into the room. “And he needs food. What this boy’s been through …” His voice faltered, and he didn’t go on.
Lucas could hear the sound of voices from an adjoining room. Then the first man returned with two heavy, faded quilts. He handed them to Steele, who then knelt before the boy, enclosing him in the covers, tucking them around him as gently as if Lucas were his own son. By now several other men had moved into the room and stood nearby. One of them drew closer, holding out a crockery bowl with steam curling into the air above it.
Lucas reached for the bowl and dipped in the tin spoon that had been brought with it. Squirrel stew. It reminded him of his ma’s cooking, and quick tears stung his eyes. He pushed the crock back toward the man, who exchanged glances with Steele then withdrew it.
“What’s happened?” A tall man with an angular face and shoulder-length silver hair stepped forward. The others—seven all together—moved aside for him. His name was Porter Roe. Lucas had heard him speak at a Sunday meeting once. He remembered his pa saying that Brother Roe was a holy man, maybe nearly as holy as the Prophet himself. Holy and dangerous. A man you would want to have on your side. Those were Pa’s exact words, he remembered.
“What’s happened, John?” Porter Roe said again to Steele. His voice was flat, as if containing some hidden anger. Lucas figured he knew what had happened back at the mill. Roe glanced at the boy; their eyes met briefly before he turned again to John Steele.
“Another settlement attack?” he asked Steele.
John nodded. “The worst you can imagine, Porter. Out at Haun’s Mill. We lost at least seventeen—children … women … babies. Some of our best men.” He hesitated. “The boy here is the only survivor. At least the only one I could find.”
“There’s no one else,” Lucas whispered. “I saw what happened ‘cause I played dead … until they got busy with the rest of the killin’. Then I—” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to go on.
Porter Roe pulled up a ladder-back chair and swung a leg over it to sit. The others sat as well, some on the rough-hewn pine floor, others on various stools or chairs. “Do you feel like talking about it, son?” Brother Roe asked.
The boy felt his eyes fill again and his chin tremble. He fought acting like a baby in front of these men.
“It might help us find those who did this to you—to your family, son. We need to act fast.”
Lucas nodded. He understood. Maybe he could help. At least then he wouldn’t feel like such a baby. Swallowing hard, he said, “They were on horseback, the killers, I mean. Maybe a hundred. Or more. They came fast. Seemed like out of nowhere. When I heard the horses, I ran to the blacksmith’s shop with my ma and little brother.” He paused. It had happened only a few hours ago, and already it didn’t seem real.
Ma. He pictured her soft, pretty face. The sound of her laughter, low and bubbly. It seemed he could still hear her voice telling him to get out of bed that morning, telling him his plate of warm bread and jam was on the table. And coffee with some sugar and cream, just the way she knew he liked. Now she was dead, along with his pa and all the others. And in place of her pretty face, he saw only blood. Her blood mingled with that of his little brother, Eli.
John Steele patted his shoulder. “Maybe tomorrow would be better.”
“It’ll never be better, Brother Steele,” Lucas said. “Never.”
“Did you hear any names? Did the killers say anything you remember?” Roe asked.
Lucas closed his eyes. Oh yes. He remembered their voices. Clearly. Too clearly. He looked at Brother Roe. “They were laughing, calling out to each other as they hacked up the people and shot their guns.”
In the room, the men had fallen silent. The only sound was that of the fire crackling and popping.
“I heard the killers shouting above the screams.”
John Steele’s hand still rested on Lucas’s shoulder. He was glad it was there. It reminded him of warmth and life, not death. He swallowed again. “They we
re laughing about being the Missouri Wildcats.
“Wildcats?” Porter Roe repeated, frowning.
“Yes sir. I didn’t hear any names other than that. Just laughing and talking loud about being Missouri Wildcats—like it was something to be proud of.”
“Any of you heard anything about wildcats?” Porter Roe turned to the others, but they were shaking their heads. “Wildcats,” he said, as if savoring the sound of the word in his mouth. “We’ll see how wild they are once we finish with them. And I tell you the honest truth, young man, we’ll find someone who’ll talk, someone who’ll tell us who killed your kin. And we’ll not stop until they’ve paid for their sins.”
There was fire in his eyes as he spoke, and Lucas couldn’t pull his gaze away from the powerful, angular face. Then he saw that the others’ expressions held the same burning fervor. These men would take care of him.
As they continued making plans to find the killers, John Steele pulled his chair closer. “I knew your pa well,” he said. “He was a good man, and you’ll grow up to bring him honor among the Saints.”
Lucas drew in a shuddering breath, feeling strangely calmed by the words.
“You’re not without family, Lucas Knight,” John Steele continued. “You’re one of us. You’ll mourn your ma and pa and little brother. The friends you saw die today. But you’re part of a bigger family. I’m sure your ma and pa told you that.”
“Yes sir. They did.”
“From the Prophet on down to the youngest baby, we care for our own.”
“Yes sir,” Lucas whispered. “I know.”
“From this day forward, you will be my son, though I know I’ll never take the place of your flesh-and-blood father.” Lucas nodded. No one ever could.
“But tomorrow morning I’m taking you home. My wife, Harriet, will welcome another youngun. And I’ll be happy to finally have a son.
