Brigham’s blue-gray eyes were filled with a soft amusement as he began to hum again, and Matthew wondered if he was thinking of the same thing. Though Brigham was often of sober demeanor, Matthew had learned that the Apostle had a keen sense of humor and a smile that flashed easily and quickly when he was around his friends. He was clean shaven and had broad, pleasant features. He wore his reddish hair combed straight back and at shoulder length. He was four years older than the Prophet Joseph, which made him around thirty-seven. He was almost four inches shorter than Matthew’s six foot two, and had a tendency to be a bit stoop-shouldered, which made him seem even shorter. But he was solidly built, with broad shoulders, and would tip the scales at close to two hundred pounds, Matthew guessed.
Matthew’s father and mother had a great deal of respect for Brigham Young and spoke very warmly of him. Matthew knew that he had been a staunch defender of the Prophet during those last harrowing months in Kirtland and had finally fled for his life even before Joseph had left. Benjamin had also told Matthew about the time that Brigham had spoken in tongues while offering the prayer in a meeting with some of the brethren. Afterwards, Joseph had told a few of them that someday Brigham would lead the Church. Matthew wondered if Brigham was aware of that. If so, he seemed totally unaffected by it.
Matthew cleared his throat as he turned back to the bench and began to work. “May I ask you a question, Brother Brigham?”
“Of course.”
“How did you first come to hear about the Church?”
Brigham sat back, laying the lapboard and paper down for a moment. His features softened as his mind went back. “Samuel Smith, the Prophet’s brother. Haven’t you ever heard the story about how he went out trying to sell copies of the Book of Mormon?”
“Oh, yes. That’s right. He gave one to your brother-in-law or something.”
“Well, he gave one to John Greene, husband of my sister Rhoda. And then my brother Phineas also ended up buying one from him.”
“And that’s how you got it?”
“Yes. They started passing them around. After my older sister Fanny read Phineas’s copy, she gave it to me. Heber also read the same copy.”
“You and Brother Kimball are related too, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my sister Fanny is Heber’s mother-in-law.” He leaned back, bringing his knee up and holding it. “Before we were through, those two books went through quite a few hands.”
“Did you believe it right away?”
“Well, yes and no. I knew this was a very unusual book. It felt like scripture to me. Just as the Bible feels like scripture. But you got to remember, I was born in Vermont. Us Yankees are pretty hardheaded. I actually took about two more years before I was absolutely sure I accepted the doctrines found therein and whether the Saints—those that followed Joseph—really acted like they had been converted to Christ. But once I was sure, there’s been no turning back.”
Matthew nodded. That was for sure. He had seen the confidence that Joseph had in Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball. They were two of his staunchest defenders. Matthew made a determination to corner Heber C. Kimball the next time he saw him and hear his version of how they had come to join the Church.
Brigham picked up the charcoal and the lapboard and the paper and set back to work again. Matthew turned and began to smooth the wood again too. About five minutes later, Brigham spoke.
“Matthew?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about taking on an apprentice here in my shop.”
Matthew set the plane down slowly, not daring to hope. “Yes?”
“I have more work than I can handle. I need someone who’s a good worker and dependable.” He grinned. “And one who likes to listen to my stories. You ever be interested in that?”
Matthew was staring now. “Do you mean it?”
There was a full-bellied laugh. “Of course I mean it. If you agree, I’ll speak with your father about it this evening.”
For a moment Matthew fought down the temptation to whoop right out loud. “I would like that, Brother Brigham,” he said slowly. “I would like that very much.”
Chapter Notes
The liberty pole, which played an important part in the Fourth of July celebration, was struck by lightning a day or two later and was completely destroyed. Parley P. Pratt later wrote that its loss “seemed to portend the awful fate which awaited that devoted city, and the county and people around” (in Redress, p. 74).
Brigham Young was a renowned carpenter and glazier (see American Moses, pp. 13–17). He supervised or did much of the finish work in the Kirtland Temple.
Joseph’s prophecy that Brigham would one day lead the Church is true (see CHFT, p. 116).
Chapter 6
On July fourth, 1838, Sidney Rigdon gave his famous Independence Day speech. It was published a short time later. Supposedly it was meant for distribution only among the Saints, something to stiffen their backs and strengthen their will, but within days copies were circulating among the non-Mormons, and portions of the speech were reprinted in some of the Missouri papers. By mid-July, Sidney’s ringing cry for nonsubmission was being read by tight-lipped and angry men in the marbled halls of the state capital, Jefferson City.
Sidney Rigdon was a skilled orator. On that early July day he had hoped to fire the emotions of his people. As it turned out, as the month of August got under way, he helped fire far more than that.
* * *
The first white settlers in what would later become Daviess County were a family by the name of Peniston. They built a gristmill on the Grand River and called their little settlement Millport. That was in 1831. By 1836, there were still no more than a hundred settlers in the area, but the county was formed anyway and a town platted to become the county seat. That town was three miles west of Millport and was called Gallatin.
When the Saints began moving into northern Missouri in 1836 and 1837, they settled primarily in Caldwell County to begin with. But as they continued to pour in, they spread north as well. When the Prophet went north looking for sites for additional settlements in May of 1838, he quickly settled on Adam-ondi-Ahman. It was then affectionately dubbed Di-Ahman by the Saints who moved there. Branches, or small congregations of up to a hundred or more, began to form. Very soon there was enough for one branch, then a second. By the last of June, barely a month later, there were enough branches in the Di-Ahman area that Joseph came back and formed a stake—a collection of branches covering a larger geographical area. The Di-Ahman Stake was the second one to be formed in Missouri.
Thus in a matter of weeks the old settlers went from being the majority in the county to being a minority, by a ratio of about four or five to one. They watched the change with growing alarm. Eighteen thirty-eight was an election year. Daviess County set August sixth for its local elections, with the voting to take place in the county seat of Gallatin. There were two candidates running for state representative from the county. Neither were Latter-day Saints, but the Saints had a definite favorite. John Williams was known as a fair-minded and well-respected man. William Peniston was another matter altogether. A hard-drinking, hot-tempered man, he felt he deserved the office by virtue of being the earliest settler in the county. Many of the old settlers supported his bid because they wanted one of their own to represent them in the state legislature. The Mormons vehemently opposed the idea. Peniston was a colonel in the Missouri militia. During the mobbings of 1833, he had led a group of men from Clay County to help drive the Saints out of Jackson County. He made no secret about his bitter and violent hatred for the Mormons.
As election day drew near, Peniston began to lay his plans to make sure the Mormons did not spoil his chances for election.
* * *
“But you can’t vote, can you, Derek?”
“No, Peter. I don’t turn twenty-one until October.”
“But even if you were twenty-one, we’re not Americans.”
Derek sighed and turned
over on his side. The inside of the sod hut was nearly pitch black. The windows were small and covered with pieces of a blanket to keep out the mosquitos. They let in very little light. But even if they had, it had been cloudy and overcast for the past two days, and outside there was neither moon nor stars. There was no way he could see Peter in the darkness, but he could picture his face as clearly as if a candle were held right over his head. His blue eyes would be wide and innocent, not challenging what Derek was saying but curious, wanting to know.
He took a breath. “We are Americans, Peter, and don’t you forget it.”
“But—”
“Do we ever plan to go back to England?”
“No.”
“Do we own land here?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re Americans. And once I turn twenty-one, I will vote.” He said it flatly, not willing to accept any further argument. It was one of the few things of which Derek Ingalls was truly proud.
It was quiet for a while, then Peter spoke again. “Are the brethren going to take arms with them, then?”
“No!” It came out as a bark, betraying Derek’s own uneasiness about the whole situation.
“But that judge said the people in Gallatin are gonna be waiting for you. He said if you did go, to be sure and—”
“I know what the judge said, Peter,” Derek snapped. “But we are not going up there looking for a fight. It’s election day. A few of the brethren are going to go up and vote. Then we’re going to turn right around and come back home.”
“But if you can’t vote, why are you going?”
Derek blew out his breath in exasperation. Peter was so blooming logical, always chewing on things, like a dog worrying over an old boot. “I’m going with them, that’s all. If there’s enough of us, no one’s gonna give us any trouble.”
There was no answer. Derek waited for the next question to come, but evidently he had finally satisfied his brother. After a few minutes, Peter’s breathing deepened and slowed and Derek knew he was asleep. Derek lay back again, putting his hands behind his head, and stared into the blackness above him. He had been there for the council that made the decision to go vote in spite of the rumors that were flying now. A friendly judge had told them that Peniston planned trouble. He counseled them not to go. If they did, he said, they should be sure and go armed.
The council had decided otherwise. They would go, but they would go south without arms of any kind. Derek had raised his arm to the square to sustain the decision. And when he was asked to accompany them—because he was young, and strong, and had no family besides Peter—he immediately agreed, proud that they had that kind of confidence in him.
He felt strongly that it was the right thing to do. But knowing that their cause was just did little to stop the feelings that were tightening his stomach into one large and very tight knot and driving any hope of sleep this night far from his mind.
* * *
The sixth of August was a dark, overcast day. It had rained off and on for almost a week, and the roads were muddy and difficult to travel. Gallatin’s main street—actually, its only street—was a rutted mud hole, with puddles everywhere and no boardwalks to escape to. It was hardly fit to be called the county seat. It was one straggling row of about nine or ten buildings. And three of them were saloons.
As the small group of Mormons—about an even dozen—trudged into Gallatin just before eleven a.m., their boots made soft sucking noises in the thickness of the “Missouri goo.” Several carried umbrellas in expectation of rain again later in the day. Two members of the Di-Ahman stake presidency led the group—Reynolds Cahoon, the first counselor, and Lyman Wight, second counselor. The stake president was John Smith, the Prophet Joseph’s uncle. He was an older man, and it was felt that it was not wise for him to come. The rest of them were just the fathers and husbands and brothers who had come in the last few weeks to make a home in Adam-ondi-Ahman. They weren’t violent men. The thought that it might come to that left them with a sick feeling in the pits of their stomachs. But they were citizens of a free republic. The Constitution guaranteed them the right to vote. They were determined to exercise that right on this day.
Derek walked between John D. Lee, a man of quiet strength, and John L. Butler, a large man about ten years older than Derek. John and his wife had befriended the two English boys when they came to Di-Ahman and on more than one occasion had shared tools and food with them. John was a soft-spoken man, often preferring to listen rather than to speak. Derek felt a sense of comfort being next to him.
As they approached the first of the buildings, Derek’s heart began to thump a little harder. There was a crowd of men already gathered on the steps of the first saloon. A shout went up, and several of them started pointing.
“Lookee there!” a raucous voice cried. “Here come the Mormons.”
“Steady, brethren,” Reynolds Cahoon said quietly. “We’ll just be going in to vote, then we’re going right back home.”
The man who had first cried out darted to the door of the saloon and shouted through the door. Jeers and catcalls were starting to fly now. Down the street, men were milling around the two other saloons. At the sound of the commotion, they started up the street to join the first group. Derek eyed them quickly. When they joined, there would be over a hundred, perhaps as many as a hundred and fifty. That meant the Mormons were going to be outnumbered ten to one.
As they got closer, any hopes Derek had for a quick in and out plummeted. There was a rough, hand-scrawled sign tacked over the door of the first saloon. “Polls,” it read. Derek knew that the polls had to be in a public place. The saloons in Gallatin were about as public as it got.
The doors to the saloon pushed open and a heavyset man in a long coat, ruffled white shirt, and string tie stepped out. John D. Lee turned his head. “That’s William Peniston,” he said to the others. “Let’s go easy now, men.”
“Well, well,” Peniston sneered as the Mormons came up to the crowd and stopped. “Who let this sorry lot of misfits into town?”
“We’ve come to vote,” Lyman Wight said boldly, stepping forward and elbowing aside the first man. “We don’t want no trouble.”
“No trouble!” Peniston snarled. “Don’t fun me, boy! I read that speech about you waging a war of extermination against us. Is that your idea of no trouble?”
“I don’t know what you saw or didn’t see,” Wight said evenly, “but we’re not here for trouble today. All we want is to vote.”
Peniston turned. Beside the door to the saloon was a small nail keg turned upside down to hold the door open in hot weather. He leaned down and pulled it forward. The men around him pushed back. One held his elbow and he climbed up on the barrel. Wight had started for the door of the saloon, but instantly a wall of men closed in, blocking his way. For the first time Derek saw that several men were holding stout clubs or short lengths of boards in their hands. He felt his knees go weak. He had seen this kind of thing in Preston once or twice, when liquor fueled massive brawls in the streets. It was not going to be pretty.
The Mormons crowded closer together. Derek’s pulse was racing wildly now, and his senses were keenly aware of things around him. The smell of whiskey was ripe in the air. Several of the men were smoking cigars or chewing tobacco, and the acridness of that added to the foul odor. There was also the unmistakable touch of fear in the air, like the static electricity that precedes a violent thunderstorm. A large man with huge hands was half dancing in the front of the circle surrounding Peniston. His hands were up, his fists clenched like a pugilist’s.
John Butler leaned over to Derek. “Watch that one. That’s Dick Welding.”
Derek had already been watching him, feeling the open malice in the man’s eyes. Perry Durphy, a convert from Kentucky who was farming a plot of land down next to the river, was on the other side of Derek. “He’s the town bully,” he whispered. “Thinks he’s a real tough. And, as usual, he’s drunk.”
“Men,” Peniston sh
outed, raising his hands. “This is election day. And these here Mormons have said they’ve come to vote. Are we gonna let just anyone come into our town and vote today?”
There was an instant roar of response. “No!”
“You know and I know that the leaders of the Mormons are a set of no-good horse thieves, liars, and counterfeiters.”
Derek shook his head. If accusations fit your prejudices, truth is easily pushed aside. The crowd howled their agreement with Peniston’s words, one or two men shaking their fists or their clubs at the brethren.
“They claim to heal the sick and cast out devils,” Peniston continued. “Do you believe they can do that?”
“No!”
“Then does that make them liars?”
“Yes!”
“And Joe Smith, he’s the biggest liar of them all. He’s duped these poor people into thinking he’s got the truth. Does he have the truth?” Peniston roared.
“No!” the crowd roared back.
“Can you count on a Mormon to swear a false oath against us when it suits their needs?”
“Yes!” The crowd was stoking up now, and Derek sensed that if the men he had come with didn’t move now, it was going to get ugly. But the others seemed paralyzed by Peniston’s harangue.
“When the Mormons are around, is your property safe?”
“No!”
“Will they steal you blind the minute you turn your back?”
“Yes!”
“Is that the kind of people we ought to let vote today?”
“No! No! No!” The questions were coming fast and hard now, Peniston pausing only long enough to let the crowd grab a breath between each shouted response.
Suddenly his voice dropped and he turned directly to the Mormons, jabbing his finger at them. “We don’t want you here. Nobody asked you to come to Daviess County. Get out!”
“We own land here, same as you,” John Butler called out. “That gives us the right to vote, same as you. We came here in peace, and as soon as we vote we’ll be gone again.”
Such audacity only enraged Peniston all the more. His face was a mottled red now. His nostrils were flared, and his neck was swollen against his shirt collar. “You think we’re gonna let you take away our suffrage? If we let you vote, we’ll lose everything.”
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