Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  At one point during the mobbings at Independence, Lyman Wight had been chased by the mob who had vowed to kill him. For seven days and seven nights he had eluded them, sleeping in the open, living on little or no food. Lyman Wight was not an easy man to intimidate. He stepped forward, his chin thrust out, his mouth twisted with anger. “You have no right to stop us,” he yelled into Peniston’s face. “We’re citizens of the United States. We have every right to vote.”

  “I’ll see you in hell before we let you vote,” Peniston screamed. “I led a mob that drove the Mormons out of Clay County and I can do it again.”

  Dick Welding, the town bully, had had enough. “Mormons are not allowed to vote,” he muttered loudly, “no more than the Negroes are.” He started to swear, cursing and raging, and then lumbered forward. The first Mormon he faced was Samuel Brown, a small man from Georgia who had just arrived in Di-Ahman no more than a week before. One arm cocked back and the fingers tightened into a massive fist.

  Alarmed at the sight of this mountain bearing down on him, Samuel Brown backed up hastily. He carried an umbrella and lifted it to defend himself. “I don’t want any trouble,” he blurted. “Liar!” Welding screamed. He swung at him. Brown jumped back, parrying the blow with the closed umbrella. Welding was just drunk enough that his movements were slow and cumbersome. “Liar!” he shouted again, throwing one blow after another now but only connecting with the air.

  The sudden action had frozen both the Missourians and the Mormons. They were all staring at the two men—Brown backing away from the crowd, Welding stumbling after him, his arms flailing. Then Perry Durphy, who stood next to Derek, jumped into action. He darted forward and grabbed Welding’s arm as it came back in a swing. “Leave him alone!” he shouted.

  Welding roared like a bear that had been stuck with a pike. He swung around, throwing off Durphy’s grasp. That broke the spell that gripped the crowd. With a shout, five or six Missourians swarmed at Durphy, clubs and boards swinging. “Kill him! Kill him!” they screamed.

  Instantly it was a melee. Lyman Wight swung an uppercut from below his waist and caught the man nearest him full on the chin. The man slammed backwards against the saloon wall and collapsed with a groan. But Derek didn’t see the end of that, for a man leaped at him and rode him to the ground, pounding at his face, trying to get through his guard.

  Derek Ingalls had shoveled coal twelve hours a day, six days a week for four years in the boilers of old Mr. Morris’s factory. For the past month, he and Peter had been cutting and hauling fifty- and sixty-pound slabs of sod and heaving them up to make walls. Any softness he might have developed since leaving England was completely gone again. With a cry of his own, he lunged upward, sending the man on top of him hurtling away. In an instant he was on his feet, backing up to get into the open.

  Now the greater numbers of the mob began to pay off. The Mormons were being separated and lost the advantage of staying together. As Derek swung around, he saw Abraham Nelson knocked to the ground by half a dozen men. In an instant they were all over him, ripping at his clothes. The Nelson family lived two plots over from Derek and Peter, and they too had been very kind to the two English lads. A great anger welled up inside Derek. Roaring like a bull, he shoved forward, aiming at the men who were pounding and kicking at Brother Nelson.

  But before he had gone two steps, he was caught from behind in a great bear hug. Even as he fought to break the grip that held him, he watched in horror. The Missourians backed away from Nelson momentarily. He moaned once, then pushed himself up on his knees. His face was bloody, his eyes dazed. When they saw he wasn’t finished, the man closest to him raised his club and stepped in again. Then there was a shout of rage and Nelson’s younger brother, Hyrum, came running in full tilt. He lowered his head, catching the man full in the chest, and sent him sprawling.

  Derek gave a shout of his own. He reached back over his head and grabbed the hair of the man that had pinned him. He yanked hard. There was a scream of pain and then he was free. He raced forward again, determined to help his neighbors. But he didn’t make it. Someone grabbed Derek’s arm. He spun around, a fist coming up to strike at his attacker. He was too late. He saw the flash of the club. The blow caught him just below the elbow. He screamed as the pain shot clear through his body. Stumbling backwards, he fought to keep his balance in the sucking mud. In doing so, his arms flew out to catch himself, leaving his upper body unguarded. The second blow caught him right at the hairline. White lights and flashes of red exploded before his eyes. He went down hard, barely aware of the soft plopping sound he made as he hit the mud and slid backwards a foot or two.

  Fortunately his attacker did not attempt to assault Derek further but whirled and went after another Mormon. Moaning with the pain, conscious of the cold wetness through the back of his clothes, dazed by the incredible pain in his head and arm, Derek staggered back to his feet. Blood streamed down his face, and he wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

  He stood there for a moment, gasping at the pain. Then a movement off to his right caught his eye. It was John Butler, running hard. For a moment, Derek felt a sharp jab of bitter disappointment. Butler was running away, leaving his brethren to the mob. But the disappointment lasted only for a moment, for even as Derek watched, the gentle giant of a man reached a nearby woodpile. He picked up one piece of wood, hefted it, then hurled it away. The second piece he brought up was a two-foot length of oak. In three leaps he was back into the fray, swinging the club like an Indian warrior with his tomahawk.

  It was like watching a master reaper going through a wheat field. The club flashed. One man was knocked rolling. The next one raised his club to defend himself and had it knocked flying out of his hand. A second blow to the side of his head took him down without a sound.

  Derek straightened, feeling a surge of pride. Just in front of Butler, another Mormon was down with eight or ten men swarming over him, hurling blows and kicks at his face and ribs. Butler gave one mighty roar, and waded in. He gave the first man a blow across the back that sounded like an ax hitting a tree stump. The man screamed and dropped writhing to the ground. The next two Missourians swung around. He caught them both with one sweeping blow that sent them sprawling. A fourth man, then a fifth were cut down, helpless before the onslaught. The rest turned and ran.

  That didn’t stop Butler. He jumped to the next group. Down went another, then another. A cry went up. Peniston was running down the muddy street, his coat flying, screaming for others to follow him. A few men tried to regroup enough to face this slashing fury. Like a lion attacking a flock of sheep, Butler went after them. With a yell, they turned tail and fled.

  Wincing, Derek wiped at his head. His sleeve came away a bright red, and only then did it register that he was seriously injured. Awkwardly, unable to use his left arm—it was totally numb now—he fished in his pocket for the rag he used as a handkerchief. As he pressed it to his head, he could feel the long gash in his scalp. He looked around. It was a scene to chill the blood. Men were down everywhere, Mormons and Missourians alike. There was a brief flash of satisfaction as Derek saw that one of them was Dick Welding, the loudmouthed bully who had started the whole thing. Lyman Wight had a cut on his cheek, and his face was bloody. Reynolds Cahoon was holding the back of his head. He grimaced as he waved his other hand. “Brethren, we’d best move out of here.”

  With the townspeople who had not joined in the fracas looking silently on, the battered group began to move out. John Butler came to Derek and took his elbow. As they moved slowly up the street, Derek looked up at his friend in awe. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  Butler held up the piece of oak in a bit of a daze, then turned to Derek. “Neither did I,” he murmured. He dropped the club in the mud, and took Derek’s arm. “Come on. We’d better get out of here. You know they’ll be coming after us as soon as they find their courage.”

  Derek felt his heart drop. He hadn’t thought about that. Di-Ahman was a scattered settl
ement and not easily defended. If the Missourians really gathered their strength, it could prove to be a very long and difficult night.

  * * *

  By midnight, the rain was coming down in sheets, slicing through the thicket of hazel bush and drenching all those trying to hide in it. The temperature had dropped to the mid-sixties, and there was a stiff wind blowing. With clothing, shoes, and blankets completely soaked and the ground as sodden as a swamp, the Saints could do little more than huddle together in misery. Children whimpered pitifully; women hunched over tiny babies, trying to keep them dry; older youth hugged themselves tightly, trying to get warm.

  Peter Ingalls had turned fourteen in May and was now almost as tall as Derek. That left him too young for guard duty but too big to be treated as a child anymore. And he had no family but Derek. So he stood alone, shivering violently, feeling the water running off his cap and down the back of his neck. Any thought of sleep was completely insane.

  Finally, he could bear it no longer. He straightened and stepped to where Sister Butler held two of the younger children in her arms, pulling themselves together to share what little body warmth the three of them had. A third child was lying in front of her on the ground, crying softly. “Sister Butler?”

  She looked up. “Yes, Peter?”

  “I can’t bear this waiting any longer. I’m going to find Derek and stand with him for a time.”

  “All right, Peter. Please be careful.”

  He nodded, and began pushing his way through the thick tangle of brush, feeling the branches scratching at his arms. As he came to the edge of the thicket, he stopped, peering into the darkness. It took a moment, then he made out the dark shape standing a few feet away. “Derek?” he whispered loudly. “Is that you?”

  “No, son,” came the answering whisper, “Derek’s the next man down.”

  Peter didn’t recognize the voice, nor could he make out any identity in the darkness. He walked slowly along the edge of the thicket until he saw the second shape. He called again.

  “Peter,” came the welcome answer, “I’m over here.”

  “Aye.” He went quickly to him, and for a moment the two brothers embraced.

  “No sign of them?” Peter finally said, pulling back.

  “None so far.”

  “What time is it?”

  Derek looked up, as if the lightless sky might reveal some clues. “I’m not sure. Around midnight, I guess.”

  The thicket was down in the river bottoms, about a mile from the main part of Di-Ahman. Peter was gazing in that direction. “Do you think they came?”

  Derek had wondered the same thing only about a hundred times in the past three hours. Di-Ahman was completely empty now. Before the men who had gone to Gallatin had even gotten out of sight of the town, they had seen the riders leaving to call for help. Rumors quickly spread. The old settlers were going to ride against Di-Ahman and have their revenge. So there had been no delay. When the Mormon men returned to Di-Ahman, they had gotten the few arms they had, taken their families to the thickets along the river, and posted guards.

  Derek’s mind kept conjuring up images of drunken men going from house to house, looting what little of value there was, vandalizing what couldn’t be carried away. It left him feeling hollow and empty inside. But he couldn’t share those images with Peter, so he tried to keep his voice cheerful. “I don’t think so, Peter. I know the rain is making us miserable, but I think it will discourage them too. They get wet and cold and it’ll sober them up. Then I’m sure they’ll think twice about comin’ after us.”

  “I hope so.”

  Peter moved close enough that their shoulders touched. He did not like the blackness of the night, not knowing what was out and about in it. For several moments he stood there, then finally he turned to his brother. “Derek?”

  “Yes, Peter?”

  He took a breath, shoving his hands deep into his soggy pockets. “Why do things like this happen?”

  How do you answer a question like that? Derek reached out with his good hand and touched the huge welt and the rough bandage on his forehead. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t know, Peter. I really don’t know.”

  Chapter Notes

  Election day at Gallatin is described by Joseph in great detail (see HC 3:55–58; see also CHFT, p. 194). Peniston’s speech against the Saints; the start of the fight by Dick Welding; John Butler’s courageous defense with an oak club; the Saints hiding all night in a thicket for safety—all these events really occurred and are accurately portrayed here, though of course fictional license has allowed the author to fill in some of the details and to sustain a smooth narrative flow. The names of both Saints and Missourians used in this chapter are the actual names of people involved in the events depicted, with the obvious exception of the novel’s fictional characters.

  Chapter 7

  Mary Ann brought a heaping plate of eggs and thin slices of ham over from the small cookstove and set them on the table. She turned. “I think the corn bread should be ready now, Rebecca.”

  Nodding, Rebecca opened the oven, reached in and touched the top of the bread lightly with her fingertip. “Yes, it’s done.”

  “Good,” Matthew crowed. “I’m starving.”

  Rebecca carried the heavy pan over and set it on a towel Mary Ann had folded and placed on the table, then both mother and daughter sat down. Benjamin looked around at his family briefly, then bowed his head. They all followed suit.

  “God in heaven,” he began, “we thank thee for this bounteous food which thou hast given us this day. We thank thee for the goodness of life and the beauties of the earth. We thank thee for the rain that has come and for the richness of our coming crops.”

  There was a momentary pause. “We are mindful of our family this day. We pray for Carl and Melissa and their children back in Kirtland. Bless them and keep them in our absence from one another. We rejoice again in the reuniting of Joshua and his family to us. We know that it was thy hand that brought that about, and we thank thee for it. Bless Jessica and John and their children and our two English boys in Di-Ahman. We ask thee to bless our food as we partake of it with gratefulness. In the name of Jesus, amen.”

  “Amen!” Matthew immediately reached for the plate of ham and eggs, winning a quick look from his mother. When he saw it, he was immediately sheepish. He handed the plate across the table to Rebecca. “Ladies first,” he said gallantly.

  Rebecca laughed and pushed it back. “Go ahead. I would hate to see you faint away before the food gets to you.”

  “Good,” Matthew said, pulling four eggs and several slices of ham onto his plate. Then he carved out a huge chunk of corn bread with his fork, steadying the steaming portion quickly with his hand to get it back to his plate.

  Mary Ann just shook her head. “I hope it is a bounteous harvest,” she said ruefully to Benjamin. “Otherwise we won’t have enough to feed this boy through November.”

  Benjamin just smiled, remembering when Joshua and Nathan had gone through the same cycle of voraciousness. “Good thing we get a little work out of him, or we couldn’t afford to feed him.”

  “Speaking of work,” Matthew said between mouthfuls, “do you think we can start cutting the wheat this week? Brother Brigham says I can take whatever time I need to help you.”

  Benjamin shook his head. “No, not this week. Maybe early next week.”

  “How about if we—”

  But Matthew didn’t finish. There was a sharp knock on the door. Benjamin looked at Mary Ann in surprise. It was barely seven o’clock in the morning. He got up and went to the door, opened it, then stepped back. “Well, Brother Joseph. Brother Hyrum. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Brother Benjamin,” Joseph said. He looked past him. “Morning, Sister Steed. Rebecca. Matthew. How are all of you this morning?”

  “Fine,” Mary Ann responded, standing now. “We’re just sitting down to breakfast. Will you join us?”

  Joseph smiled briefly, shaking his he
ad. “Thank you anyway, Mary Ann, but we’ve already eaten.” He turned back to Benjamin, his face sobering. “Brother Ben, we need your help.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you still have your rifle?”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Mary Ann.

  “Yes.” Benjamin was watching the Prophet very closely now.

  Hyrum stepped forward to stand beside his brother. “We have received some bad news. From Di-Ahman.”

  Instantly Rebecca was on her feet, her face tight.

  “A rider, Vinson Knight, came in about half an hour ago,” Joseph went on. “Some of our brethren went to Gallatin yesterday to vote.”

  “In spite of the warning they received?” Matthew blurted.

  “Yes,” Joseph said grimly. “We have a right to exercise our franchise. They didn’t want trouble, so they went without arms.” He stopped, the worry heavy in his eyes.

  “And?” Benjamin prompted.

  “There was a mob waiting,” Hyrum said softly. “Trouble broke out.”

  Rebecca came forward in three quick steps. “Derek?” she whispered. “Did Derek go with them?”

  Joseph hesitated, then finally bobbed his head once. “I knew that would be your first question.” The blue eyes clouded momentarily. “Vinson says Derek went with them.”

  A hand flew to her mouth.

  Mary Ann came quickly to her and put an arm around her. “How bad?” Mary Ann asked Joseph.

  Joseph sighed, obviously reluctant to share what he knew. “The report is sketchy right now. But not good.”

  “How bad?” Benjamin demanded, watching his daughter closely now.

  Hyrum also had an eye fixed on Rebecca. He looked at Joseph once, then back to Benjamin, avoiding Rebecca’s burning stare. “Two or three dead,” he said slowly.

  Rebecca gasped, then swayed as her knees gave way a little. Mary Ann steadied her, holding her tightly.