Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I cannot believe what is happening,” Father Smith said, his voice trembling. “This is the house of the Lord. This is a place of reverence and worship. Have we lost all respect for God? Have we no shame?”

  Benjamin saw Parrish stir, but Father Smith overrode him, his voice like the thunders of heaven, his eyes raking the group in the eastern pulpits. “You make this house a den of robbers and thieves and armed thugs! You are all rabble-rousers. And you, Warren Parrish—you are a known adulterer. How dare you come into the Lord’s house and demand to be heard!”

  Parrish screamed out one foul obscenity and was out of the pulpits, running up the aisle toward Father Smith, his hands outstretched, his fingers formed into claws. Boynton leaped to his feet, brandishing his pistol. “I’ll blow the brains out of any man that moves!” he shouted. The other men around him were up now too, pistols out, knives drawn.

  The effect was just the opposite of what Boynton demanded. Women and children screamed. A man on the far aisle leaped up and dove out of the nearest open window. People were ducking down between the pews, husbands were grabbing for their wives and children, people were stampeding for the doors.

  Benjamin turned to Nathan. “Let’s get them out of here! You take Lydia.” He grabbed Mary Ann, then leaned forward to see beyond her to Rebecca. “Take your mother’s hand,” he cried. “Come on!”

  As they pushed out into the masses of people frantically fighting their way up the aisle, Benjamin glanced up. On the first level of the Melchizedek Priesthood pulpits, Warren Parrish had reached Father Smith. He had him by the lapels of his coat and was screaming into his face. Father Smith had his head turned and was shouting over his shoulder. “Oliver, Oliver! Help me!”

  Benjamin raised his eyes a little higher. Oliver Cowdery was in the row of seats just behind Father Smith. For a moment Oliver stared at the old patriarch, then dropped his eyes and looked at the floor. Benjamin felt a great surge of anger. Oliver Cowdery was a justice of the peace. Oliver Cowdery had been appointed to act in just such cases of lawlessness. But Oliver Cowdery was among the number who had become disaffected, and now he did nothing.

  “Nathan!” Benjamin yelled.

  His son turned around. He had his arms around Lydia, shielding her against the press of the people. Benjamin elbowed a man aside roughly and pulled Mary Ann and Rebecca forward next to Lydia. Rebecca was sobbing openly now. Mary Ann was pale, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Take your mother and your sister,” Benjamin shouted. “I’m going to help Father Smith.”

  He turned. It was a scene from a nightmare. Screams rent the air. People crushed forward. For a moment, just in front of the pulpits, the crowd parted and Benjamin saw the face of Mother Smith. She was reaching out for her husband, crying piteously for help. Then the crowd pushed in again.

  Roaring for people to make way for him, Benjamin thrust his way forward. In a moment he was to her. He threw up his arms to shield her, blocking off the pushing mob. “Father Smith! Father Smith!” she cried over and over.

  Benjamin leaned down. “To the pulpits, Mother Smith. We’ve got to get out of the way.”

  She looked up. There was a flash of recognition and then a quick nod. Again using his body as a shield, he moved forward, shoving people out of his way. Finally they reached the western pulpits, which had largely emptied now. With a surge of relief, he helped Mother Smith up on the risers. Almost instantly she turned and began searching the crowd for her husband. Benjamin did the same.

  Joseph’s father was about ten feet away, still in the grip of Warren Parrish. But at that moment a great cry rent the air. Down the aisle, bumping people out of the way like a horse shouldering his way through tall weeds, came William Smith, one of the Prophet’s younger brothers. William was a large young man, nearly as big as Joseph, and he had a fiery temper. Parrish was so intent on his task of dragging Father Smith back to his group that he did not see or hear William coming. William was like a man possessed. He lunged forward, throwing his arms over Warren Parrish, breaking his grip on Father Smith and grasping him in a huge bear hug. Stunned, Parrish tried to see who his attacker was. But William lifted him clear off the ground. Parrish’s feet and hands flailed wildly but harmlessly in the air. Walking backward with heavy steps, William moved down the aisle, intent on getting Parrish out of the building altogether.

  Gasping frantically for breath, Father Smith turned and stumbled back to where Benjamin and Mother Smith stood waiting. Mother Smith threw her arms around him and buried her face against him.

  The aisle between the pulpits had cleared almost magically when William started carrying Parrish toward the doors. While there were some people still trying to get out of the doors or crawl through the windows, those inside the hall saw what was happening and a sudden hush fell over them. Then at the far end of the aisle, near where the doors to the entry hall were opened to the outside, a group of men moved forward to block the aisle again. In the forefront was John Boynton, flanked by Lyman Johnson and another man.

  “William, watch out!” Benjamin yelled.

  Boynton had drawn his sword out of its cane holder, and it gleamed in the light from the windows. William dropped Parrish and whirled to face the new danger. In one swift movement, the tip of the sword was touching William’s chest. “One step further,” Boynton screamed hysterically, “and I’ll run you through.” Instantly the other men had William surrounded, yelling and shouting at him, warning him that if he lifted so much as a finger to harm Parrish further it would go most severely with him.

  Then from the other side of the hall there was a shout. “The police! The police are here!” Benjamin turned around in time to see several men pouring through the entryway. A cry went up from Parrish’s group as some panicked and fled for the door. The Saints still in the hall tried to seize them, while others shouted, pointing out the offenders to the incoming officers. As one officer made a dive for a running figure, he slammed into the potbelly stove that sat in one corner. The stovepipe jarred loose and came crashing down, sending clouds of black soot billowing up.

  Feeling a great sorrow and a great rage, Benjamin turned back to the couple next to him. “Father Smith, Mother Smith, I think it might be wise if we got you out of here.”

  * * *

  For a long moment, Benjamin Steed stood at the front gate to the Warren Parrish home, located two doors north of the Newel Whitney store. It was past nine o’clock at night. How like them to hold their meetings so late, after most decent men had gone to bed. Benjamin’s heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. Twice he nearly changed his mind and went back to accept Nathan’s offer to accompany him. But then, as he had when Nathan made the offer earlier that afternoon, he shook his head. This wasn’t Nathan’s problem. And it wasn’t Nathan who needed to clear things up once and for all.

  Suddenly the door opened. Benjamin straightened and stepped forward. “Martin?”

  “Benjamin, is that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I expected you before this. Come in. Everyone is waiting for you.”

  Benjamin walked forward to the edge of the step, then stopped. “Martin?”

  “What?”

  “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

  Martin’s face twisted with concern. “Now, Ben, don’t be hasty. What happened today got out of hand. Just come in and listen to what they have to say.”

  “I heard what they had to say today,” he said bitterly.

  “I don’t cotton to that either,” Martin said, suddenly morose. “I told Parrish to get a grip on his temper, but . . .” He shrugged, as if there were nothing more that could be said.

  “A sixty-six-year-old man!” Benjamin exploded. “He attacked a sixty-six-year-old man. How can you excuse that?”

  “I’m not excusing it, Ben,” Martin snapped, irritated that Benjamin was being difficult. Instantly his voice softened. “Look, Ben, I don’t like everything that is going on. Some of the people inside there are even suggesting that we
throw out the Book of Mormon. I won’t stand for that.”

  “But as long as they’re willing to throw out Joseph, you’re willing to crawl in bed with them.”

  “Joseph is the real issue here,” Martin said angrily. “Don’t forget that. Joseph has fallen, and we have to do something about it. You even said that yourself, Ben.”

  Benjamin’s head shot up. “No, I didn’t, Martin. I never said that. I said I had questions, that I wasn’t sure. But I never said Joseph is fallen.” He looked away. “And I don’t appreciate you twisting my words.”

  That seemed to hit the older man hard. His eyes narrowed. “We’ve been friends a long time, Ben. Are you going to turn your back on me now?”

  Benjamin gave him an incredulous look, then saw that his task was hopeless. He took a deep breath. “Martin, I’ve been struggling with this a long time. But this morning things started to fall into place. I found a scripture. I thought it might possibly be the answer I’ve been looking for, but I wasn’t sure. Then I went to the meeting.” He shook his head, still shocked by the events of the morning. “Now I’m sure.”

  “No, Ben,” Martin said, grabbing his arm. “Come inside. Just listen to what they have to say.”

  “I don’t care what they say,” Benjamin said wearily. “All that matters is what they do. All I’m looking for anymore is fruit.”

  Martin stared at him blankly. “Fruit?”

  Benjamin gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Yes. Remember the promise? ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I wasn’t sure at first. I mean, Joseph has produced some remarkable fruit, wouldn’t you say? The Book of Mormon. The restoration of the priesthood. A church that is like the one Christ organized on the earth. A temple. The Doctrine and Covenants.” He shrugged. “How much time do you have? I could keep going.”

  “That’s beside the—”

  “No, let me finish,” Benjamin rushed on. “And what fruit does this group have to show me? Threatening a sixty-six-year-old patriarch? Pistols in the house of God? Foul language? Rejection of the Book of Mormon?” He snorted in disgust. “Girls with black rocks giving you your revelation?” He passed a hand before his eyes. “I can’t believe I’ve been so blind. It is so simple, and I couldn’t see it.”

  “Benjamin, you’re oversimplifying things. You have to—”

  “Martin!” The voice from inside the house was sharp and angry. It was Warren Parrish’s voice. “Are you bringing him in here or not?”

  Martin turned around, his face flashing momentary anger. “We’re comin’, we’re comin’. Just hold your horses.”

  Benjamin moved right up to the step. “There’s nothing more to say, Martin, except to them. I need to let them know it’s over for me. No more questions about where I stand.”

  A look of genuine panic flitted across Martin’s face. “Ben, you can’t go in and tell them that. They’re expecting you to throw in with us. They’re mad, Ben. Real mad.”

  Benjamin just nodded and started for the door.

  Martin grabbed at his arm. “I’m warning you, Ben. As your friend. It’s not wise to go in there like this.”

  For several moments Benjamin searched his friend’s face. “It’s got to be done, Martin.” He pulled free and stepped to the door. He hesitated for only a brief second or two, then squared his shoulders and walked inside.

  * * *

  Ben had finished his task at Parrish’s house and was on his way home. It was as though a great burden had been lifted from him, and he walked slowly, savoring the feeling. He had been under the cloud for so long, it was as if he had been given new life. Now he had only two desires, both of them so keen that they burned inside him. The first was to get back to Mary Ann. He had told her of his decision this afternoon, and she had wept with joy. Now he wanted to lie beside her and talk it all through. His second wish was nearly as strong. He wished that Joseph were in Kirtland. If he were, he would go to him this very moment, late as it was, and beg for his forgiveness.

  Benjamin stopped. He was passing a vacant lot filled with high weeds, now dry and brown in the late summer. There was a rustling sound a few yards off, as though something large were passing through the undergrowth. He peered more closely, but almost immediately the sound stopped.

  After a moment, when it wasn’t repeated, he moved on. Almost immediately he heard it again. Again he stopped. “Hello,” he called. “Is someone there?”

  But once more there was no other sound but the chirping of crickets and the soft rustling of the breeze. Feeling a sudden uneasiness, Benjamin started again, no longer dawdling. He passed one house that was darkened, then approached another large open field. Even though this was the side of the street his house was on, he considered crossing the street where there were other houses.

  Smiling at his own childishness, he pushed the thought aside. Suddenly his heart jumped. A dark figure had stepped out from behind the hedge that separated the yard from the open field. It was a large man, but he had a hat on, pulled down low so his face was in blackness. Benjamin slowed his step. His heart was suddenly pounding in his chest like a bass drum. “Good evening,” he said, peering at the man.

  “Good evening.” It was a deep voice, soft but menacing. There was a noise behind him. Benjamin whirled. Two figures had stepped out. They could have come only from the vacant lot. They were still ten yards away, but were walking swiftly now toward him.

  “What do you want?” he demanded, his voice harsh with the fear that had swept over him.

  “We want you,” the voice behind him said. Benjamin started to spin around, but before he could turn, a crushing blow sent him staggering to his knees.

  “We want the man who doesn’t know what’s good for him,” the same voice said again. There was a fiendish laugh from someone else, and then something slammed into the side of his head.

  Benjamin threw his hands up across his face as he went down hard. Protect your head, his mind shouted at him. He felt the toe of a boot catch him hard under his right arm. It sent incredible jolts of pain shooting through his body. Protect your head, his mind cried again, protect your head.

  And then mercifully, as the blows and the kicks began to come like pelting rain in a thunderstorm, the blackness took him, and he no longer knew what was happening to him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Peter took the stairs that led down into the cellar three at a time, his feet barely touching the cement. “Derek! Derek! Derek!” Derek was nearly asleep on the bed, the weekly newspapers from Mr. Morris draped across his chest. He sat up. “I’m right here, Peter.”

  Across the room, one of the men who shared the cellar with them came up with a jerk. He had been stretched out on the small bed, snoring heavily. Now he looked wild for a moment, trying to get his bearings. His chin was covered with black stubble, his eyes watery and red.

  “Elder Kimball’s back!” Peter screeched as he darted into their half of the room. “Elder Kimball’s back.”

  “Hey, you,” the man cried angrily, “shut yer bloomin’ trap. How’s a man supposed to sleep with you makin’ on like a banshee or somethin’?”

  Peter ignored him. “Come on, Derek. There’s gonna be a meeting at Mrs. Dawson’s house in ten minutes.”

  The man swore heavily. “Knock it off, kid, or it’ll be the toe of me boot connecting with yer backside.”

  Derek stood up. “Let’s go outside, Peter. Wouldn’t want to wake ol’ Charlie here until he’s had a chance to sleep off a hard day at the pub.”

  * * *

  The missionary work in Preston had gone so well in the little over two weeks since the arrival of the brethren from North America that on August sixth Heber organized a branch of the Church in Preston—the first branch to be organized outside the North American continent. The “dippers,” as all the townsfolk were calling them by then, had baptized twenty-eight souls in Preston. And many more were flocking to the meetings and listening
to their preaching.

  With that kind of success taking place, four of the missionaries were sent on August first to nearby communities—Willard Richards and John Goodson to Bedford, and Isaac Russell and John Snyder to Alston, in Cumberland. Then an unusual set of circumstances took Elder Kimball to Walkerfold, a small village about fifteen miles from Preston. A young woman by the name of Jennetta Richards had come to Preston to visit the Thomas Walmsley family. She soon met Elder Kimball and had a lengthy discussion with him about the gospel. At his invitation, she went to an evening meeting and listened to him preach. Much impressed, she came a second night and then, the next morning, requested baptism. She was baptized that morning, along with Peter and Derek Ingalls and Mrs. Pottsworth and her daughter, Jenny. That night, Heber C. Kimball penned a letter to Willard Richards in Bedford. “Willard,” he wrote, “it may interest you to know that I baptized your wife today.”

  The day following her baptism, as Jennetta prepared to return home, she burst into tears. Surprised, Heber inquired as to what was wrong. She was the daughter of Walkerfold’s most prominent minister. She was fearful at what her father would say when he learned she had joined another church without consulting him. Elder Kimball took Jennetta by the hand and said firmly, “Sister, be of good cheer, for the Lord will soften the heart of thy father, and I will yet have the privilege of preaching in his chapel, and it shall result in a great opening to preach the gospel in that region.”

  That prediction had created a small stir among the members. Word of the success of the Mormon missionaries was spreading among the English clergy, and opposition was mounting. But a few days later a letter came from Jennetta. With it was a letter from her father inviting Heber C. Kimball to come to Walkerfold and preach to his church. That had been over two weeks ago, and the Preston branch had been anxiously awaiting word ever since.

  Now more than fifty people were packed into Mrs. Dawson’s sitting room, listening eagerly as Elder Kimball reported on his labors. He had started by giving them the details of his trip there on foot and of how the Richardses had received him warmly and given him supper. He even began to tell them what the Richardses had served at the meal.