Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  Directing his attention to something concrete was exactly what Matthew needed. He leaned forward, trying to see. The riverbank was in almost total darkness. But the campfires—two or three, maybe more—could be clearly seen now. Flashes were winking at him here and there, appearing simultaneously with the crackle of gunfire.

  Then Matthew understood what Nathan had been trying to tell him. Against the dark background of the trees and the far bluff, they could see no one, only an occasional blur of movement and the flashes of the muzzles of their enemies. But the Mormons had the eastern sky directly at their backs, making them perfect silhouettes for Bogart’s men to fire at.

  “Charge!” It was Patten’s voice, rising above the shouting and chaos like the roar of a lion. Nathan yelled something at Matthew and grabbed his arm. Only then did Matthew remember that he too had a rifle in his hand. He raised it to his shoulder, watched for a muzzle flash, adjusted quickly, and fired. He heard a scream, but wasn’t sure if it came from the direction in which he shot. On the run now, he began pulling at the leather pouch that held his lead balls and powder.

  Beside him, Nathan had his pistol out, holding it in his left hand. He also wore their father’s sword in a scabbard. With the chilling sound of steel sliding against steel, he drew it out and raised it over his head, yelling like a banshee. To their right and left, men were running down the hill to join them, firing as they came. Captains Rich and Durphey had joined the battle.

  Bogart was shouting at his men as wildly as Patten and his two captains were shouting at theirs. The Missourians were running from their campfires, forming a skirmish line along the riverbank. Suddenly it was too close for firearms and the battle was hand to hand. Though the Mormons were severely handicapped by having the light behind them, they outnumbered Bogart’s men by about two to one. As they rushed forward, shouting, slashing with their swords, swinging rifle butts, the line broke. In a moment, a dozen Missourians were in the shallow ford of the river, racing for safety. It was a retreat but not a rout. The Missourians would run a few yards, then whirl and shoot, then fall back further to reload and fire again.

  Matthew stopped at the edge of the water, still struggling to get his own rifle reloaded. He dropped to one knee, muttering angrily as he tried to jam another ball into the breech so he could fire again. Suddenly a shape loomed over him. The man was cursing. Both hands were high in the air, gripping something. Matthew saw the glint of light on steel. He threw himself to the side, tucking his rifle under him. There was the sickening sound of a sword slamming into empty ground and burying itself in the earth. It was close enough that sand was kicked up into Matthew’s face.

  Matthew grabbed his rifle by the muzzle and swung it like a club. It caught the man just at the knees. He howled in pain and went down hard. Scrambling like a man possessed, Matthew tried to get to his feet before the man could recover. But the man was coming up too, raising the sword again. Another figure came slashing in with blurring speed. He kicked hard at the man’s arm. The man screamed and the sword went spinning away. A pistol rose and fell so fast that Matthew barely saw it. There was a heavy grunt and the cries instantly stopped.

  Nathan dropped into a crouch beside Matthew and grabbed his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” It came out in one strangled gasp.

  Suddenly David Patten was standing over them. “Come on,” he shouted. “They’re crossing the river.” He darted to the left, running along the riverbank, moving downstream from the two brothers.

  Men were running everywhere now. Most of the Missourians were across the river and sprinting toward the opposite bluff. Nathan was up, heading straight into the river. He stopped and yelled something back at Matthew. Chagrined that he still did not have his gun loaded, and suddenly finding that his feet felt like great wooden blocks, Matthew waved a hand. “You go,” he shouted at Nathan. “I need to reload. I’ll be all right.”

  Nathan darted away. Matthew concentrated on the process of reloading again. His fingers were trembling, and the ball seemed three times larger than the opening it was supposed to fit in. A cry brought his head up with a snap. Two men had dashed out from the cover of the underbrush and were running hard for the river crossing. Patten and Captain Rich were in hot pursuit. Nathan, who was midway across the river, had heard it too. He swung around; then, seeing what was happening, he started splashing downstream to intercept them. In the half-light, the figures were almost like ghosts, phantoms flitting across a cloth screen in a dressing room. Matthew’s hand stopped in midair as he watched the tableau unfold.

  The Mormon officers were gaining on the two men. Patten was screaming at them to stop or he would shoot. Then, almost as if it were happening at half speed, the man closest to Patten wheeled around. There was no time to bring his rifle up—Patten was closing on him like a stag hound—so he fired from the hip, not ten feet away from the charging Apostle. Patten grunted as the ball caught him full in the body. He stumbled, his own rifle slipping from his grasp, then went down to his knees.

  “No!” Matthew was on his feet. Then he was running. “No! No! No!”

  Nathan was out of the river and coming fast now too. The first man had not stopped and was safely away now, but the man who had fired at Patten saw Nathan and Matthew coming. He raised his rifle, then realized it wasn’t loaded. Swearing, he flung it away and clawed at the sword in the scabbard at his belt. Without breaking stride, Nathan raised his pistol and fired. The shot went wide, but it had the desired effect. The man dropped his sword and turned tail and ran.

  The two Steed brothers and Captain Rich all reached David Patten at about the same moment. Patten was still on his knees, hands clutching at his bowels. With a soft groan, he looked up at them, eyes beseeching them for help, then he toppled slowly sideways and fell to the earth. Blood was pouring out from between his fingertips.

  For a long, horrible moment, Matthew stared, not able to take his eyes away from the sight of the fingers digging at the stomach, trying to stop the pain, trying to stop the life from gushing out. And then something inside Matthew broke. He turned, hand over his mouth, and stumbled away, barely reaching the nearest bush before he started to retch.

  * * *

  What would become known as the Battle of Crooked River took place at dawn on the twenty-fifth of October. The Saints were successful in freeing the three prisoners whose abduction had precipitated the pursuit of Bogart’s company, but not without cost. Three members of the Mormon company were mortally wounded. Brother Gideon Carter, a man of about forty who had a wife and children, was shot in the face and killed instantly. His face was so disfigured that at first the brethren did not realize he was one of their own.

  Patrick O’Banion was not dead when the Mormon men came back to find him, but he died before they could get him back to Far West.

  Elder David W. Patten, President of the Quorum of the Twelve, was placed on a litter by his brethren, and they started the return trek. But he was in such excruciating pain that finally he begged them not to take him farther. They stopped at the home of Stephen Winchester, who lived about three miles outside of Far West. By then, advanced riders had returned to Far West with the news. Joseph Smith, Heber C. Kimball, Lyman Wight, and several others came out to meet the returning brethren. Benjamin Steed was with them, and openly wept when he saw that both of his sons were not harmed.

  Bathsheba Patten, David Patten’s wife, was also with the group. Her weeping would be for another reason.

  * * *

  The group that gathered around the bedside of David Patten was a small one. The main body of those who had fought at Crooked River went on home to Far West, to nurse the wounded and to let their families know they were safe. Parley Pratt, a fellow Apostle, stayed, as did Heber Kimball. As Nathan and Matthew mounted up and prepared to leave, Joseph surprised Benjamin by asking him to stay with him.

  David Patten was made as comfortable as possible, and then Joseph administered to him, praying with great feeling for his recov
ery. Then they settled in to wait. Now, half an hour later, Sister Patten sat beside her husband, her eyes red and swollen, but she was no longer weeping. The others stood in a circle around the bed, watching their friend and brother slowly weakening. Joseph stood at the head of the bed, opposite Sister Patten.

  “Brother Joseph?” It came out as little more than a croak.

  The Prophet leaned down closer to the Apostle. “Yes, Brother David.”

  “Do you remember my prayer? That I might be a martyr for my Savior?”

  There was a long pause; then with a trembling voice, Joseph answered. “Yes, David, I most certainly do. The Lord has granted you your wish.”

  “I know. Don’t weep for me,” David said, laboring to keep his voice steady through the pain. “If you wish to weep, weep for Brother Marsh. Weep for David Whitmer and Oliver, and all the others who have fallen from their steadfastness.”

  He raised his head from the pillow, looking around at the faces above him. “Oh, that they were in my situation!” he exclaimed. “For I feel that I have kept the faith, I have finished my course, henceforth there is laid up for me a crown.”

  Joseph dropped to one knee and took David’s other hand in both of his. “You have indeed kept the faith,” Joseph cried softly. “You have earned your crown, my dear brother.”

  “My time is nearly come,” David said, falling back. His breathing was labored now, and his wife began to weep again. A glaze came over his eyes, and Benjamin realized that sight had now left him.

  Heber Kimball leaned forward. “Brother David,” he said softly, “when you get home, I want you to remember me.”

  “Is that you, dear Brother Heber?”

  “Yes, it is me.”

  “I will remember you, and all the members of the Quorum.”

  The effort had exhausted him, and his eyes closed. For several minutes there was no sound in the room but the sounds of his breathing and his wife’s quiet grief. Then he startled everyone when he spoke again. But he was not speaking to them. “Father, I ask thee in the name of Jesus Christ that thou wouldst release my spirit, and receive it unto thyself.”

  His eyes opened again and he looked around, though he saw no one. “Brethren,” he whispered, “brethren, you have held me by your faith, but do give me up, and let me go, I beseech you.”

  Joseph was stricken, but as he looked around the circle, one by one they nodded. His eyes finally stopped on Sister Patten. She was looking at her husband. Finally, she too nodded, even as a silent sob made her whole body shudder.

  Joseph straightened. He bowed his head, and everyone immediately followed suit. “Dear God, our Heavenly Father, we hear the request of our dear brother. We accordingly commit him into thy kind keeping, O Lord. Receive him unto thyself.”

  There was a great sigh, and a peaceful expression now settled over the pale and previously pain-filled face. It was only a moment or two later that he reached out, groping blindly for his wife. She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her cheek.

  “Oh, my beloved Bathsheba, whatever you do else, oh, do not deny the faith.”

  His hand dropped. His eyes closed. And without another sound, Elder David W. Patten died, the first Apostle in the dispensation of the fulness of times to be martyred for the cause of Christ.

  Chapter Notes

  The description of the night march to the Crooked River comes from Parley P. Pratt’s record (see PPP Auto., p. 153). Three of those on the side of the Latter-day Saints were fatally wounded in the battle, and while there are conflicting reports, indications seem to be that only one Missourian was killed, though several were wounded.

  David W. Patten had his prayers answered and became the first apostolic martyr of this dispensation. The novel’s account of Patten’s dying words is based on the account given in Heber C. Kimball’s journal (see LHCK, pp. 213–14).

  Chapter 15

  Samuel Bogart and his band clearly and decisively lost the Battle of Crooked River, making the Mormons the victors. But rarely has there been a more dramatic case of winning the battle and losing the war.

  Richmond, county seat of Ray County, was already in an uproar. Many of the old settlers from the north had fled there to escape the “Mormon uprising.” Along with them, some of those who had left the Church were also expressing horror at what the Mormons had done. A messenger had already been sent to Jefferson City with the affidavit of Thomas B. Marsh swearing that Joseph Smith was going to bathe northern Missouri in blood.

  The reports from Crooked River arrived in Richmond later in the day on which the battle took place, and from there the rumors spread to other counties. That same night, word of the battle reached the town of Carrollton, Carroll County, and the ears of the Reverend Sashiel Woods, the fiery preacher whom Joshua had heard in DeWitt. The next day Woods and the county clerk, Joseph Dickson, dashed off a letter to Governor Boggs.

  “Sir: We were informed last night by an express from Ray County, that Captain Bogart and all his company, amounting to between fifty and sixty men, were massacred at Buncombe, twelve miles north of Richmond, except three. This statement you may rely on as being true, and last night they expected Richmond to be laid in ashes this morning. We could distinctly hear cannon, and we knew the ‘Mormons’ had one in their possession. Richmond is about twenty-five miles west of this place, on a straight line. We know not the hour or minute we shall be laid in ashes—our county is ruined—for God’s sake give us assistance as soon as possible.”

  Carrollton was over thirty miles away from Crooked River—some distance to hear cannon shot! Bogart’s forces were closer to thirty than to sixty. And one Missourian killed fell somewhat short of Woods and Dickson’s “massacre.” But, of course, truth wouldn’t count for much in the events being played out now.

  On October twenty-sixth, on the same day that Woods and Dickson were writing their letter, Governor Boggs ordered General John B. Clark to call out two thousand men and prepare them for battle. The next morning, two messengers from Richmond arrived in Jefferson City with letters and petitions as well as extremely exaggerated reports about what happened at Crooked River—the Mormons had killed ten, wounded many others, and taken prisoners, and they planned to sack and burn Richmond. That changed everything. Boggs drafted what would become the most infamous executive order in Missouri’s history. It was addressed to General Clark.

  “Sir: Since the order of the morning to you, I have received information of the most appalling character, which changes the whole face of things and places the ‘Mormons’ in the attitude of open and avowed defiance of the laws, and of having made open war upon the people of this State. Your orders are, therefore, to hasten your operations and endeavor to reach Richmond, in Ray County, with all possible speed. The ‘Mormons’ must be treated as enemies and must be exterminated or driven from the State, if necessary for the public good. Their outrages are beyond description. If you can increase your force, you are authorized to do so to any extent you may think necessary.”

  It was signed and sent by express rider. And with it went the last hopes of the Latter-day Saints in Missouri.

  * * *

  Caroline Mendenhall Steed was livid. Her chest rose and fell heavily as she sat on the sofa in the parlor. Her hands were still trembling. Her face was still flushed with the sheer effrontery of it all. She had been home for nearly five minutes now, but it was not going away. The longer she sat, the angrier she got.

  There was a noise above her, and Olivia came to the top of the stairs. “Mama, Savannah is waking up.”

  Caroline looked up. “All right, Livvy. I’ll be up in a moment.”

  Olivia was peering at her. “Are you all right, Mama?” She started down the stairs.

  One hand came up sharply. “I’m fine, Livvy! Please don’t come down.”

  Clearly dismayed, Olivia stopped, still staring at her mother. Caroline forced herself to give her daughter a quick smile. “Really, Livvy, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

  As Olivia turned
and went slowly back up to the landing, shooting one last glance over her shoulder, the front door opened. Will came rushing in, with Obadiah Cornwell right behind him. Will was to her in three long steps and dropped to one knee in front of her.

  “Mother, are you all right?”

  She felt a flash of anger. She had hoped that word of the confrontation would not get out, especially to her own family. She had instinctively known that it was a futile expectation, but she had hoped it nevertheless. Then her mouth softened, and she looked squarely into her son’s face. Will would turn fifteen in a few months. He was no longer a boy. He was doing a man’s work at the freight yard, and since Joshua had been called into the militia Will had been the man of the house. She reached out and laid a hand on his. “Yes, Will, I’m fine.”

  Joshua’s partner had come to stand over her, looking down at her with some anxiety. She took a quick breath and looked up at him. He motioned with his head, then looked at Will.

  Caroline stood up and saw that Olivia had stopped on the landing above her and was watching now too, fear clouding her face. “Will, Savannah is starting to wake up from her nap. I want you and Olivia to go up and watch her while I talk to Obadiah.”

  “Mama, I—”

  “Please, Will,” she said firmly. “Don’t fight me. Not now.”

  “All right,” he said dejectedly. He turned and went up the stairs three at a time. “Come on, Livvy,” he said.

  When they heard the door shut, Obadiah turned back to Caroline. “I heard what happened.”

  The anger came back in a wave, darkening the green eyes and drawing her mouth into a tight line. “What infuriates me the most, Obadiah, is that this wasn’t riffraff from the saloons. This wasn’t the stable hands that sweep the horse droppings out of the barns. These were”—her voice became heavy with sarcasm—“some of Jackson County’s finest women.”