Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Lyman Wight—general commander of the camp, and a man of considerable courage—stepped out from the line, his rifle cradled in one arm. “That’s far enough,” he said.

  “This the Mormon army?” one of them sneered.

  “What do you want?” Wight demanded.

  The man looked up and down the line with contempt. “You mean this is it? This is what we’ve been hearing about for over a month now?” He threw back his head and laughed raucously.

  Joseph stepped between the line of men and came forward to stand next to Wight. “If you have business with us, I suggest you get on with it. If not, I suggest you leave.” He spoke with mildness, but there was a hardness along the line of his jaw that Nathan could clearly detect.

  The man’s face twisted with anger. “Oh, we got business with you, all right,” he said. “Our business is to see you in hell before morning.”

  Another man leaned forward in his saddle and spit a stream of tobacco juice at Joseph’s feet. “Know this, Mormon,” he muttered. “We’ve got two hundred of the best boys of Jackson County at Williams Ferry. They’re coming across the river now. We’re goin’ to meet them, then we’ll bring them back here.”

  “And there’s seventy men coming from Liberty, and sixty more from Richmond,” cried another one of them. “Before mornin’, we’ll have four or five hundred men here. Then we’ll show ya a thing or two.”

  Nathan felt his stomach plummet. Four or five hundred! That was double their number.

  The one who was apparently the leader of the five horsemen grinned evilly. “We got cannon too! That’ll let hell know you’re coming.”

  Lyman Wight looked up at them calmly. “When you think about it, I guess you boys would know a lot about hell, now, wouldn’t you?”

  The man next to the leader uttered a curse, and his hand grabbed for the pistol jammed in the belt of his trousers. Instantly a hundred rifles and pistols jerked up. There were several sharp clicks as hammers were pulled back.

  The leader’s hand shot out and he grabbed the man’s arm. “That’s all right, Eb. Let it go. We’ll have our fun soon enough.” He wheeled his horse around. “Come on, boys, let’s go get the others and show these Mormon boys how to die.”

  Howling with glee, they set spurs to horseflesh and went hurtling down the hill. For a long moment, no one moved. The riders crossed the river ford in a grand spray of water, disappeared for a few moments in the trees, then reappeared again. They skirted a cornfield, then cut south toward the dark line of green that marked the bottomlands of the Missouri River.

  “Joseph,” somebody finally said, “we can’t fight them here. We’ll all be killed. I say we march quick time to Liberty.”

  Lyman Wight whirled around. “Liberty, my fat eye!” he cried. “Let’s follow that scum to the ferry, and catch the lot of them while they’re crossing the Missouri.”

  Another man turned and looked toward the east. “If there’s men comin’ from Richmond, we could be trapped. Ambushed.”

  Brigham Young snorted in disgust, as several men swung around and anxiously scanned the prairie. “Don’t matter much which direction they come from. We’ll be ready.”

  The camp erupted. Everyone started talking at once, some calling for action, others for prudence, others for full retreat. Suddenly Joseph raised his hands. “Brethren,” he called. “Brethren, please.”

  Immediately the noise died away and the group fell silent.

  “Brethren, let us remember that we have come here in response to God’s commandment. We are here on his errand. We have a right to his protection, and protect us he will.”

  He turned and gazed out over the broad expanse of prairie, his eyes grave and his face filled with solemnity. “Brethren, stand still and see the salvation of God.”

  For several moments, the men stood around, a little bewildered, expecting more from the Prophet than that. But he finally turned to them, smiled, and walked back to his tent. After a moment, others began to disperse, and the tension started to die.

  About five minutes later, as Nathan was cleaning his rifle, there was a cry off to the left. He looked up. One of the pickets was standing near the edge of the bluff and pointing toward the south. With a lurch of fear, Nathan leaped up and ran, along with others, to join the man. What he saw sent the adrenalin pumping through him all over again. From the Missouri River bottoms, about two miles away but clearly seen in the bright sunshine, a large group of riders had broken out of the trees and were coming directly toward them. There were thirty men, maybe forty. Instantly, the fear was back. The first ferryload of men was across the Missouri!

  As men jumped for their weapons, and pandemonium broke out in the camp, there was another shout. This time it was Orson Hyde who was pointing, only now it was to the west. “Look!” he cried, his voice tinged with awe.

  Nathan swung around. In the western sky, where just minutes before there had not even been so much as the wisp of a cloud, a small dark cloud was forming. Even as they watched it billowed upward and outward, doubling in size in less than a minute, then doubling again.

  No one moved. The riders to the south were forgotten. Every man, woman, and child in the camp stood rooted in place, watching the heavens darken with a speed that was both frightening and eerie. In less than five minutes the sun was blotted out. In ten, the dark clouds filled the entire western sky and rolled toward them with astonishing swiftness.

  A little chill shot up and down Nathan’s spine as he watched. The thunderheads were literally exploding upwards, towering mass building upon towering mass, the underside as black as night itself. The band of clouds was spreading in every direction, and coming toward them rapidly, unrolling like some massive black scroll. He had never seen anything quite like it before.

  Several men jumped as a jagged shaft of lightning streaked downward, forking out to hit the ground in several places. A moment later there was an ominous rumble of thunder. “See to your tents, men,” Lyman Wight hollered, “there’s a real gully buster coming.”

  Joshua Steed had his back to the west as he helped the ferry operator get the lines straightened out and the raft ready for the return trip. He cursed steadily and passionately, including in his tirade every Missourian who lived south of the river in Jackson County.

  They had ferried across the first load of men and wagons with no problems. But five men who had already been to the Mormon camp were waiting for the new arrivals, and began hollering and bellowing about where the Mormons were camped and how few they were. Before Joshua could stop them, the men from Jackson County had jumped on their horses, whipped the wagon teams into action, and thundered off, leaving him and the ferry operator shouting after them.

  The raft was a big one, made of long logs lashed together, with boards nailed over them to provide flooring. It had brought across the river two wagons and more than thirty men, so it was heavy enough that one man couldn’t get it launched again without help. It would be no easy task for the two of them, Joshua and the ferry operator. But no one had thought of that. Not one of the stupid idiots had paused long enough to consider that if they didn’t get the raft launched again for the next group, there wouldn’t be enough men to cause the Mormons any more than a minor sweat. And so he cursed as he tugged and shoved the big raft.

  “What the...?”

  He straightened. The ferry operator had turned and was looking across the river where a dark shadow was moving swiftly across the face of the muddy water. It was moving faster than a man could run.

  Joshua whirled around to the west, and his jaw dropped open. Now it was he who was stunned. A massive thunderhead darkened the whole western sky, like a wall thrown up by some fantastical giant. Even as he watched, a shaft of lightning flickered between two of the massive thunderheads, lighting up the dark underside of the cloud mass for a moment.

  Joshua stared, dumbfounded. As the ferry was coming across, some of the men had been bragging about having the “Mormon business” done by nightfall. Joshua wa
s more realistic than that and had looked to the west to check the sky, thinking in terms of a night battle. He had grunted in satisfaction when he saw that the sky was perfectly clear. That had not been more than five minutes earlier. Maybe ten. He passed a hand across his eyes, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes were telling it.

  “Balls afire!” the ferry operator gasped. “Would you look at that!”

  That jerked Joshua out of his trance. He whirled. “There’s a storm comin’!” he shouted. “Get that ferry back across the river.”

  The man backed up a step, still staring towards the heavens.

  Joshua grabbed him roughly. “Hurry, man! We’ve got to get the rest of the men across before it closes in.”

  Finally the man leaped into action. He raced to the tree where the line secured the raft, undid it, then jumped onto the raft and began to pull on the rope with all his might. Joshua waded in to his ankles, giving the ferry one last shove so that it cleared the grassy bank. Across the river—which was close to a hundred yards wide at this point—a man leaped to that end of the rope and began to pull in rhythm with the first. The raft slid out into the water, it’s tail swinging around slightly as the current caught it.

  Joshua saw a man, near the landing, waving frantically at the others on that side. Several leaped to the rope and began to pull now too. There was a soft sighing above him, and Joshua looked up. The air had been perfectly still until this moment; now the leaves and branches above his head were starting to stir. Even as he watched, the breeze stiffened and started to blow, bending the branches back.

  He swung around, amazed at how rapidly the wind was rising. Even as he did so, it picked up in velocity again. It was blowing straight out of the east, which caught the raft broadside. Now the wind and the current fought for dominance over the ungainly craft.

  “Pull!” Joshua screamed. “Hurry!”

  The ferryman’s hat went sailing out over the water. He made a wild grab for it just as a heavy gust caught the raft and jerked it around sharply. The man lost his balance and nearly pitched into the water before he was able to steady himself on the ropes.

  Across on the far side, Joshua saw someone cup his hands to his mouth. There was a faint shout, but it was snatched away as quickly as Joshua heard it. Above him now, the wind was howling through the treetops, and the great trunks creaked back and forth in protest. The water was fast getting very choppy, and the wind was starting to whip the tops of the waves into a fine spray. As Joshua turned to check the western sky again, the first raindrops stung his cheeks. They came slashing in, nearly horizontally, feeling like pebbles being hurled against his face.

  Pulling his own hat down hard, Joshua darted for the place where he had tied his horse. The horse reared as lightning flashed again, followed almost instantly by a deafening clap of thunder. Joshua fought to control the horse’s head, and finally got the animal calmed down enough to mount it. It was insanity to ride out onto the open prairie in a storm like this, but he had no choice. He had thirty men riding hell-bent for a confrontation with the Mormon army, thinking they had four hundred and fifty more coming as backup.

  He didn’t even bother to look back over his shoulder. He knew there would be no one else coming across in this weather.

  They sat in the old Baptist meetinghouse, some on the rough-hewn benches, others on the floor. No one tried to sleep, though many were near exhaustion. The whole canopy of heaven was one continuous series of lightning flashes, often one coming so hard on the heels of another as to keep the room lit bright enough to see by. Nathan had long since stopped flinching at the terrible claps of thunder. It was as if they had moved inside the center of a huge bass drum that someone now beat on constantly with a vengeance. So they talked quietly, or sang hymns. One or two had candles lit and were trying to write in their journals, but it was a hopeless task.

  The door flew open, bringing with it a blast of cold, wet air. The figure, dressed in a long black slicker, had to lean against the door to get it closed again. Every head came up as the man turned around and pulled off his bedraggled hat. Joseph shook the water from his coat, then grinned at them. “I’m telling you, boys, there is some meaning to all this. God is in this storm. We have nothing to fear from our enemies this night.”

  Nathan looked up. Water streamed underneath the doorway and across the floor and out again. For a moment he listened to the pounding roar on the roof. “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “if the Lord used anything like this with Noah, I don’t see why it took forty days to get that ark launched.”

  Brigham Young laughed from the bench where he sat whittling on a stick. “I like that idea,” he said. “Here we are in the ark. And out there are all the wicked, wishing they could get in.”

  Joshua had no idea where the “wicked” were at that moment. Nor did he care any longer about the Mormons. He only had one thing on his mind, and that was finding refuge from the storm. As the lightning flashed again, he scanned the country around him, trying to get his bearings. More than once he had hunted deer and elk along this side of the river. He knew the country fairly well. But he saw nothing familiar now.

  Wiping, or rather washing, his bloody hands on his shirtfront—he was as wet as if he were standing in a river—he stumbled off again. He had lost his horse over an hour ago. Lightning had struck the ground no more than fifty yards away from him as he rode, blinding and stunning him. Neighing wildly, the horse reared back. Joshua grabbed for the saddle horn, but missed. The saddle was soaked, his clothes were soaked. He slid off like an otter going down a mud slide. He had managed to hold on to the reins, and fought desperately to keep control of the animal. It nearly cost him his life as the horse bucked and fought wildly to free himself. With one sharp jerk of the mighty neck, the horse had pulled the reins through Joshua’s hands, making him scream as the searing-hot pain tore at the flesh.

  As he stumbled on through the alternating blackness and flashing light, slogging through the mud and water, Joshua suddenly realized that something had changed. Now the rain, which had been pelting him unmercifully, began to sting sharply. With a moan, he realized the rain was changing to hail. Even as he focused his mind on this new threat, he felt the pellets go from tiny, stinging darts to sharp missles the size of his thumbnail. He threw his arms over his head and began to run, feeling as if he were running through the line of fire of a thousand young boys slinging rocks at one another.

  There was another flash of lightning. Off to his right, about a hundred yards away, there was a black line against the horizon. Trees! It had to be the river. Now he ran with the pain driving him faster and faster. The hailstones were the size of plumbs now, and they slashed at him relentlessly.

  Joshua plunged into the shelter of the trees, arms outstretched now against the blackness. Above him the sky was lit again, and in that moment of light he saw the dark mass of a cottonwood tree. With a cry of joy, he dove to its leeward side and out of the pounding hail. Never had anything seemed so wonderful.

  For several moments he lay there, savoring the respite. Then he forced his mind to begin to think again. These trees had to be along the river, probably the Big Fishing River, judging from how he thought he had come. That meant that if he crossed it and followed it upstream, he would come to the bluff. He knew that there were two old buildings up there somewhere—a church and an old school. He was not proud; in this storm he would take any refuge.

  But then gradually his ears became aware of a new sound. It was nearly drowned out in the din of thunder and the pounding of the hail that was cutting branches from the trees around him and sending them crashing to the ground. He focused, concentrating. It was a dull and steady roar, like that of a herd of buffalo stampeding across the plain. Puzzled now, he straightened a little, turning toward the sound. He waited for the next flash of lightning, straining to see.

  When the lightning came, what he saw was so startling that his eyes refused to believe it. He waited for another flash of lightning, this time
going up on his knees, leaning forward. When the next lightning flash came, he fell back. There was no mistaking it. The Big Fishing River, which normally about this time of year ran a foot or two deep and maybe five or six across, was now a raging torrent that filled the thirty- or forty-foot gully that contained it. He slumped back. It was the final blow. Cursing the storm, cursing his luck, cursing the stupidity of his men, and most of all cursing the Mormons, he curled into a ball against the trunk of the big cottonwood, and settled in for what he knew was going to be the most miserable night he had ever spent.

  When the people of Zion’s Camp came stumbling out of the old church house the next morning, they stopped and gaped. It was as though they were standing in the center of a ring, around which the furies of hell itself had been unleashed. There were a few tree branches down here and there around the church, and the ground was muddy and covered with puddles. But the area had had no hail. Now, in the light of morning, the group saw that this was the only place that hadn’t. In the distance, cornstalks that were green and lush the night before, now stood like stripped willow sticks stuck in rows. Grainfields were flattened. Tree limbs were broken and shattered. It was like a scene from the Apocalypse, and it chilled them to see it.

  “Look,” Parley Pratt cried.

  They all swung around to where he was pointing. Below them the river was a churning caldron of brown. Logs, parts of trees, debris of every kind hurtled along in its grasp.

  Joseph came over to stand by Parley. Lyman Wight came to join them. For a moment all were silent, then Joseph turned to the men. Unconsciously, they came to some semblance of attention before him.

  “Brethren,” he said. “I think we can pick up camp and move out. I think it safe to say that the men whose purpose last night was to find Joe Smith and see him dead found other things to worry about.”

  There were no chuckles or smiles. The landscape before them, the roar of the river were too real, too awesome to be treated lightly.

  “We’ll find a safer place to camp,” Joseph concluded. “Then I’d suggest you get out your journals and record what you have seen here this night.”