“What hath God wrought?”
Samuel Morse assumes that the message was meant to underscore the revolutionary nature of his technological achievement. Jalal would have seen quite another meaning.
Chapter 44
On Thursday evening, June 7, the Nauvoo Expositor press begins to churn out its very first weekly edition, a collection of virulently anti-Mormon articles and scathing attacks. A month earlier, William Law and his brother Wilson had hauled the old press to Nauvoo after buying it with a few dollars of their own and a larger sum invested by confirmed Mormon haters. The Law brothers had not always been critics of the Prophet; until recently, William had been one of Joseph Smith’s counselors, but he and his brother could no longer tolerate the Mormon practice of polygamy and the increasingly political nature of Smith’s “Kingdom of God.” In a shouting match, William had called out the Prophet and declared war on the movement he now believed was a public menace. He chose the printed word as his weapon, and this set the stage, he believed, for a duel of newspapers in Nauvoo. He could not have been more wrong.
The smell of ink and newsprint is thick at the Expositor office as William inspects the first sheet to come off the press. His black-smudged fingers flip the page over, leaving a thumbprint in the corner. “That old type you bought is a bit worn out. Look at the “i” and the “t” in particular,” he says to his brother, handing Wilson the page.
“What’ya expect for the price?” Wilson replies.
A noise startles them—footsteps just outside the side window, which is covered by layers of newsprint. William turns, frightened. “You lock up?” he asks his brother.
“Tight as a drum.”
“All right, then. We keep makin’ papers tonight. Tomorrow the whole area will see the dark side of Joseph Smith.”
“As if they haven’t already.”
“I take Nauvoo and Quincy. You head out early and drop off stacks in Carthage and Warsaw. Mr. Sharp over there in Warsaw’ll give you a hand, he said. Good man.”
“Ol’ Joe is gonna be spittin’ tacks… like the way he did when you testified against him over in Carthage and they brought him up on charges of adultery.”
“I swore under oath, Wilson. Had to tell the truth as I saw it. Way I see it now is there’s over three hundred of us former Mormons right here in Nauvoo who want to get things cleaned up, and that’s only the ones who’ve raised their hands. Lots more behind them, you can bet on it.”
The Law brothers do their job. The towns within horse wagon range are flooded with the first edition of the Nauvoo Expositor. Joseph Smith is one of the first to read it; five different people bring it directly to his home.
He doesn’t like what he reads.
Right there on the front page it says that the newspaper’s chief purpose is to explode the vicious principles of Joseph Smith, and those who practice the same abominations and whoredoms which we verily know are not accordant and consonant with the principles of Jesus Christ and the Apostles. The first inflammatory articles go on to charge Smith with bringing innocent females to Nauvoo under the pretext of religion, but in reality to add them to his harem. Another piece castigates Smith’s candidacy for president by saying, You are voting for a man who contends all governments are to be put down and the one established upon its ruins. We cannot believe that God ever raised up a prophet to Christianize a world by political schemes and intrigue.
And there is more. The Expositor faults the political system of Nauvoo, criticizes specific church doctrines, and advocates in strong language widespread reforms.
John Taylor, a city councilman and high-ranking church leader, is the first to have brought the newspaper to Smith’s home, and he now watches the Prophet’s stormy reaction. To calm the Prophet-mayor-general-presidential candidate, Taylor tries to make a joke: “Looks like the Law brothers have found themselves a writer. Much better English than they speak.”
Joseph Smith is not amused. His response, which carries with it the weight of religious and Nauvoo law, is succinct. “Call a meeting of the council for tomorrow morning!”
And so on Saturday morning, the Nauvoo city council convenes with one item on its agenda: the Nauvoo Expositor. “It stinks in the nose of every honest man,” John Taylor says in one of the council’s more even-handed exchanges.
After a lengthy discussion, Joseph Smith becomes visibly frustrated with the pace of the deliberations and stands up. “Such men and newspapers,” he says, “are calculated to destroy the peace of the city, and it is not safe that such things should exist, on account of the mob spirit which they tend to produce. I would rather die tomorrow and have the thing smashed, than live and have it go on, for it is exciting the spirit of mobocracy and bringing death and destruction upon us!”
Upon finishing this tirade, unfortunately, it is dinner time and the council decides to postpone further discussion until Monday.
By Monday morning, Prophet Smith is even more agitated. He dislikes having to argue his points to a council that would not exist if he had not created it.
“I am uncomfortable with destroying this business,” Councilor Warrington, a non-Mormon, confesses to the assembly. “I strongly suggest that we fine the Expositor $3,000 for every libel published in these pages. And if this does not curb its slander, then we should declare it a public nuisance.”
“A ridiculous proposition,” Joseph Smith counters. “Mormons would then have to travel to the county seat at Carthage to prosecute these cases, and their lives would be endangered. I urge all of you to agree that the best remedy is to declare the Expositor a public nuisance without a troublesome judicial process. As the city council, we have that right.”
By six-thirty that evening, the council diffidently passes an ordinance declaring the Nauvoo Expositor a public nuisance and issues an order for the mayor to have it destroyed. The mayor, Joseph Smith, duly agrees to fulfill his obligation.
Less than two hours later, a mob of citizens, assisted by the Nauvoo Legion under the command of the major general, march to the unstaffed office of the Nauvoo Expositor. They smash the press, scatter the type throughout the street, and set the building on fire. The duel of the newspapers had lasted four days.
Inside the Expositor’s office, in a wooden file cabinet, one of the last items to burn had been an official Nauvoo Expositor stock certificate in the name of Oliver Chadwick, now the owner of 50% of the ashes.
The Prophet’s actions that evening galvanize the non-Mormons of Hancock County, who view this sanctioned vandalism as a final act of contempt for their laws.
Upon hearing the news, Oliver catches a train for western Illinois. The Ellsworths, particularly Annie, having taken a liking to Isaac and graciously offer to look after the inquisitive boy until Oliver returns.
Chapter 45
The June humidity paints Ollie’s face with a wet brush. Loosening his moist collar, Ollie peers over a shot of whiskey at Thomas Cole Sharp. “I want to see him with my own eyes,” he says. “I want to see this person who claims to speak with angels.”
Just an hour earlier, Ollie had arrived in Carthage, the Hancock County Seat in western Illinois. He had quickly learned that Sharp’s prophetic skills were a match for Prophet Joseph Smith’s, for the Mormon leader—as Sharp had foretold—had surrendered with his brother Hyrum on charges of inciting a riot by burning the offices of the Expositor. It seems the gentiles were out to get the Prophet.
“Just about everyone in these parts wants to catch a glimpse of him,” Sharp replies. “He’s being held over there in the Hancock House, same place as where Governor Ford is staying.”
“Sounds more like he’s a celebrity than a prisoner.”
“Both, I’d say. The governor pledged to keep them safe if they surrendered themselves.”
A hot breeze wafts through the stuffy Carthage Saloon bringing little relief to the twenty or so damp and dour faces huddled over wobbly tables. A thick tobacco haze like a swamp fog hovers in layers, stinging the eyes and sniping
at the nostrils.
“Will the charges stick?” Ollie asks Thomas Sharp.
“Don’t know. My main concern right now is bail.”
“How so?”
“Whatever amount of bail they set, these Mormons have the money to pay. I worry that Smith will be released before noon.”
“If your account of the riot at the Expositor is accurate…”
“Of course it’s accurate!”
“Yes, of course. And based on that account, there may be a way to keep these imposters in custody.”
“Then tell me at once!”
“Who is the primary judicial officer in Carthage?”
“Well, umm… tonight?”
“And tomorrow.”
“I suppose that would be the Justice of the Peace, Robert Warner. He’s also captain of the Carthage Greys.”
“That’s very good. The Greys are vehemently anti-Mormon. And where might I find Mr. Warner?”
Thomas Sharp swivels his wiry body on the hard wooden chair and cranes to look at a pudgy fifty-year-old man with a misbuttoned vest, thick spectacles, and stringy gray locks that curl over a sweat-stained collar. Robert Warner is seated at a table with three finely attired companions.
“Right there,” Sharp says.
“I think another criminal charge is in order,” Ollie replies. “One for which no bail need be set.”
“What charge is that?”
“Treason—for declaring martial law at Nauvoo.”
Thomas Sharp’s eyes widen as Ollie stands and walks over to the Justice of the Peace. He watches as Ollie introduces himself, cordially shakes hands, is offered the last remaining seat at the table, then leans closer to Warner. The older man’s smile disappears as Ollie speaks. He listens intently for several minutes and then his smile returns. Warner pats Ollie on the knee and grasps his hand, pumping it vigorously. Ollie stands up and returns to Thomas Sharp.
“It’s done,” Ollie explains
“Well done, my good man,” Sharp says, patting Ollie on the shoulder. “If I might add… you seem to be rather enjoying your role as…”
“Instigator?”
Thomas Sharp nods.
“Mr. Warner wants me to meet a few of the other prominent residents of the community to discuss tactics.”
“That’s good. While you’re at it, perhaps you can stir the coals a bit. Now that Joseph Smith is in custody, the boil seems to have come off the pot.”
Oliver drains his whisky glass and sets it down loudly on the table. “We can keep this so-called Prophet in jail until the trial, but if he and his lawyers are clever enough, they stand a chance of evading justice.”
“You know how I hate these Mormons, Oliver, but that’s the best we can do. It’s in the courts now—”
“—where politics can hold sway,” Oliver reminds his friend. “I’m thinking of another form of justice.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
“Thomas, ‘an eye for an eye.’ Is there a more perfect form of justice?
Sharp shakes his head. “I still don’t understand,” he says.
“Joseph Smith is in custody for inciting a riot which burned down the Expositor. Perhaps an act of civil disobedience might balance the scales.”
Sharp sits back in his chair, alarmed. His voice rises as he says, “My God, man, are you talking about a lynch mob?”
“Keep your voice down!” Oliver leans toward Sharp and whispers, “If someone stirs the pot…”
“You?”
“If this “Prophet” is an imposter and a threat to property and lives, as you claim, then he deserves to be punished for his blasphemy and deceit. And if he is in truth a Prophet, a spokesperson for God, then in my opinion that is even worse. He and his Nauvoo Legion have taken up arms. I say, let the battle come to him.”
“And how do you propose to…”
“At ten o’clock this evening I am meeting with a number of prominent citizens to discuss ‘tactics.’ I intend to remind them that this is a unique opportunity to remove the source of their despair. If they choose to take the logical course of action, then it is out of my hands.”
“A reasoned plan to lynch a criminal is not a mob action. It’s… it’s a conspiracy.” Thomas Sharpe is feeling the sting of his scruples awakening.
“Semantics,” Oliver says dismissively. “If the majority this evening votes to ensure that justice is carried out, you could also call it democratic. Majority rules. The rightness of a deed, as you know, usually determines the term that defines it. Surely, as a newspaperman, you understand that words have a power to change the character of a thing. This evening a jury of Joseph Smith’s peers will reach a verdict in his case and perhaps carry out their sentence at once. Who’s to say that a politically-charged courtroom governed by rules that place the preponderance of power in the hands of the cleverest attorney is a fairer forum for administering justice?”
“I do believe you’ve gone mad,” Sharp says. He sighs, jiggles his shot glass and downs the last few drops of whiskey. “I want to hear no more of it.”
“Understood. All I ask is that you report what happens. I’m sure you will choose the most appropriate words.”
“You seem confident in your ability to persuade these citizens to…”
“Not persuade, Thomas. Individually, I’m sure they’re of a like mind. All I have to do is unite them. Their unity will be all the permission they need to see justice done.”
The next morning, Thomas Sharp breakfasts alone at the Carthage Eatery. Oliver is nowhere to be found. A commotion in the street brings Sharp to his feet. He sweeps aside a frilly curtain to peer out the single dusty window. A group of Greys with rifles are escorting Governor Ford, Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum down the rutted trail that carves through Carthage.
Sharp reaches into his pocket and plucks out a couple of coins, flings them onto the table, and races from the eatery.
The road is suddenly lined with people yelling and taunting the Smiths as they walk solemnly toward the south side of the town square. Sharp follows, and within several minutes they are standing before two long lines of militiamen.
A decorated soldier in the uniform of the Greys steps forward. Sharp recognizes this man by his enormous grey handlebar moustache; it is General Minor Deming, commander of the Hancock militia units.
In a voice that is too thin and nasal to have the ring of authority, Deming introduces the governor to the militia, and then presents the Smith brothers. The Carthage Greys, on the far end of the formation, begin to raise their rifles and shake their fists menacingly.
Pushing his way nearer to Joseph Smith, Sharp believes that he can detect a look of terror on the self-declared Prophet’s face, and is pleased by it.
General Deming orders the men to stand down, but the Greys hiss and shout obscenities at the prisoners, ignoring the orders of their commander. Governor Ford raises his hands and pleads for silence and discipline, but is insulted by cries of “Down with all imposters!”
Three of the Greys fire their rifles into the air.
“I’ll have you all arrested for insurbordination!” the governor fires back.
He is greeted by jeers and a loud voice saying “While you protect the imposters!”
At last the constable, David Bettisworth, himself a longtime Grey before retiring into his new position, and a brave man deeply respected by the militia, walks to the center of the chaos, looks down at his boots, and spits a brown stain of tobacco juice into the street. As he looks up at his former mates, everyone grows silent.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the constable says. “Nice to see you this mornin’. Now if you’d be so kind as to let us finish our little ceremony here, I’ll be takin’ the Smith brothers off to jail. I know you don’t wanna be missin’ this now.”
The constable turns to the Smiths and motions for them to walk toward him. Sharp is now standing five paces from Joseph, and he can see the fury in the man’s face. It must be humiliating, he imagines
, for a Prophet of God, the mayor of Nauvoo, the commander of the Nauvoo Legion, and such a powerful political figure, to be ordered around by this common constable—to publicly obey a civil authority he does not respect, in fact despises, like a trained puppy.
Joseph and Hyrum reluctantly step forward and slowly walk the fifteen paces to the constable.
“What have we here?” the constable says to them. “Ya have something to say to me?”
Joseph looks at Hyrum. Their agreement is to surrender to the constable. But Joseph cannot force the words from his lips.
“Ya waitin’ for a Revelation from God or what?” the constable says.
The two columns of militiamen burst into laughter.
Joseph looks up at the clouds, then back down at the constable. He says, “My brother and I surrender.”
Spontaneous applause echoes throughout the town square. The Greys throw their hats into the air, and more rifles are fired in celebration as the constable takes Joseph by the arm and leads him and his brother toward the small two-story Carthage jail.
Sharp turns around and sees Oliver for the first time today. Ollie is chatting with the Justice of the Peace Robert Smith and General Deming. Their conversation seems intense, and then both of these men begin to nod as Ollie speaks. Once during this dialogue Ollie catches Sharp’s eye, but turns away quickly.
That afternoon, Joseph and Hyrum are taken before Robert Warner in the stuffy stone courthouse. The Justice of the Peace sets bail at $500 each on the riot charges, and this amount is quickly posted by the Mormons. As Joseph and Hyrum rise to leave, however, Warner orders them arrested on charges of treason.
Stunned, Joseph glances at his attorney, who approaches the bench. After an angry exchange, the attorney walks over to Joseph, whispers a few words, shrugs in a gesture of futility, then turns back to the bench as Warner speaks.
“I am issuing an order to have the prisoners committed without bail until June 29th when a material witness for the charge of treason, Francis M. Higbee, can appear in court,” Smith announces.
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