Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  She was starting to tremble again. “They’ve been to my house for tea. They’ve sat around this very room, smiling and fawning up to me because my husband is the richest man in Independence. But when he leaves . . .”

  She couldn’t finish, and turned away, dropping her head.

  Cornwell reached out and tentatively touched her shoulder. “Caroline, I need to tell you something.”

  She bit her lip, fighting to maintain her control, then slowly turned back to face him.

  “That day Joshua was here last, when he only had a couple of hours before he had to get back to Richmond?”

  “Yes?”

  “He came and talked with me after he left you.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “He did?”

  “He was afraid something like this might happen. He had me get some things together. A wagon. Supplies. A good team. He said he wanted them ready at any moment.”

  She was looking at him incredulously. He went on doggedly. “Maybe you ought to consider going to St. Louis for a time, until—”

  “No!” she said sharply.

  “Caroline, this is only the beginning.”

  “No, Obadiah! This is my home. If they think they can drive me away, they’re wrong.”

  He was shaking his head at her, getting a little angry himself. “Caroline, listen to me. Everyone’s talking about this. There’s a lot of emotion building. They know about Joshua’s family. They know he asked to be on General Atchison’s staff so he didn’t have to ride against them.”

  He hesitated, trying to decide how to explain it to her. “You don’t understand. When the trouble with the Mormons started here in Jackson County, Joshua was one of the leaders. He was in the forefront. No one did more to drive them out of here than Joshua, even though his wife was one of them. And now . . .”

  “I know that, but that has all changed now.”

  “Exactly!” he shot back. “Joshua was a hero. Now they see him as a traitor. A coward.” Her head snapped up, but he hurried on. “You know and I know what’s really happened, but the town doesn’t. The whole county is talking about this, Caroline. I think you ought to seriously consider—”

  “I won’t go, Obadiah.”

  He caught his breath, staring at her, exasperation twisting his face. Then finally he nodded. “I understand. But just know, that wagon is packed and ready. The team is stabled right next door. Anytime, day or night—”

  “I won’t go!” she said again in a fierce whisper. “I won’t go!”

  * * *

  Many fourteen-year-olds were interested in possessing things. But Peter Ingalls had never been one to take pride in what he owned. What he wore. Where he lived. What belonged to him. They made little difference to him.

  And then Derek and Rebecca had received a horse as a wedding present. And all of that changed.

  Peter had always been fascinated with horses—the muscular and powerful dray teams that brought the huge bales of cotton to the textile mills; the leaner and finer carriage horses that carried the gentry and their ladies around town; or, most exciting because he had seen them only once or twice, the sleek mounts used in England by the wealthy as they hunted fox across the open countryside.

  The horse that Rebecca and Derek had received was not that fine a breed. He was a sorrel gelding, about seven or eight years old. His winter hair was thick and shaggy, and he was not particularly swift. But Peter didn’t care. He adored the horse, and brushed and curried it every morning. He begged the neighbors for every scrap of carrots or even their apple cores to feed to him.

  So on the evening of October twenty-seventh, when Peter walked out to the small paddock behind their sod hut and saw that the horse was gone, it was instant catastrophe. For a moment, he stared in disbelief, then with a howl he turned and ran for the house.

  * * *

  “Peter,” Rebecca said sternly. “You stay here until I can find Derek.”

  “Then hurry,” he pleaded. “We’ve got to find the horse before it gets dark.”

  “I mean it, Peter,” she warned as she pulled on her coat. “I’ll get Derek, but you’re not to go off looking alone.” She wanted to say more but didn’t; she just gave him one last severe look and left.

  Peter waited for over five minutes at the window, holding the blanket back so he could see the road that led to Lyman Wight’s place, where Derek was meeting with some of the brethren. His eyes kept lifting to scan the sky, which seemed to be growing darker at an alarming pace.

  Finally he could bear it no longer. He checked to make sure his pocketknife was in his pocket, then pulled on his coat and went out the door and around to the corral. It took only a minute to find the problem. At one corner the rail was shoved away from it’s supporting post. It didn’t look to be a big enough opening for a horse to squeeze through, but as he looked more closely he could see tufts of red hair wedged in the grain of the wood. He stepped through the opening. They were faint, but they were there—the impression of hooves in the soft, grassy earth.

  Head down, peering intently in the fading light, Peter began to follow the prints up the hillside toward the top of the bluff.

  * * *

  It would be some time before word of Governor Boggs’s extermination order would reach Far West, but Joseph Smith didn’t need any formal notice to know that the incident at Crooked River was a major turning point for the Saints. After returning from Stephen Winchester’s home with the body of David Patten, he called a meeting of all major priesthood leaders and each of the captains responsible for home defense.

  They started with prayer at Joseph’s home, but immediately after that, Joseph took them out for a walking tour of the city. As they went they were besieged by anxious residents and the numerous refugees that filled every vacant lot and empty spot in the city. Rumor had now become a major combatant in the struggle, and anxieties were running high. The governor was activating every militia group within a hundred miles. Two thousand armed men were gathering at Richmond. Night riders were sweeping across the countryside in murderous revenge. Governor Boggs was out of the state and could not be reached to stop the coming carnage. The troops had mutinied against General Parks and were on their way northward.

  Joseph seemed indefatigable in his patience. He soothed without being patronizing, encouraged without building false hope, chided where necessary but without giving offense. He was Brother Joseph, the prophet and seer. His people loved him, but more, they trusted him. It was as though the party were on a boat moving through roiling waters, but with their passage the waters smoothed and became calm again.

  “I want two wagons ready to go in there,” Joseph said, pointing to where there was an empty space between some cabins. George Robinson, the clerk of the Far West City Council, nodded, writing swiftly in a ledger book. Joseph turned to Brigham. “We may need some barricades there as well.”

  “I agree, Brother Joseph,” Brigham said. “I’ve got some of the brethren gathering materials right now.”

  “Good.” Joseph turned to Hyrum and Sidney. “What about the men we sent out to gather the last of the people in? Any reports?”

  “Yes, Joseph,” Hyrum answered. “We haven’t heard how the gathering to Di-Ahman is going yet, but as you can see, they’re coming into Far West in droves. I think they’re finally convinced it’s too dangerous out there.”

  “It’s about time,” Joseph growled. “What about Haun’s Mill?”

  Hyrum shook his head. “I don’t think we’ve seen anyone yet from there.”

  Joseph threw up his hands. “What does it take? I guess I’m going to have to ride out and talk to Jacob Haun myself.”

  As one of the captains in the army of Israel, Benjamin Steed was part of the group making the rounds. He raised one hand to catch Joseph’s eye. “But Jacob Haun is in town right now,” he said.

  Joseph stopped. “Are you sure?”

  “I saw him not half an hour ago down by the courthouse. He came in last night to get some supplies.”
<
br />   “Haun’s Mill is especially vulnerable,” Joseph said gravely. “They’re small—fifteen or twenty families—and they’re right in the path of any force coming up from the south.” He turned to his brother. “Hyrum, you finish with the brethren. Brother Ben and I will go find Jacob Haun. I want to talk to him personally.”

  * * *

  Jacob Haun was a man of German stock—stubborn, hardheaded, independent. When the Church was first looking to come north to the mostly unsettled areas of northern Missouri, he had been one of the first to move. He founded a settlement on Shoal Creek in 1836 and built a small gristmill, hoping to provide milling service to the old settlers as well as the swelling population of Mormons.

  Joseph and Benjamin found him at the store putting into the back of his wagon the last of some things he had purchased. Without preamble, Joseph laced into him, his voice showing some of his exasperation. But it made no difference. As Joseph spoke, Haun’s jaw set and his eyes took on a hooded look. “Brother Joseph,” he finally said, not unlike a father speaking to a child who didn’t listen well, “I understand your worry, but we are fine. The local people have agreed that if we promise not to take arms against them, they’ll leave us alone.”

  Joseph looked heavenward and rolled his eyes. “Brother Haun, after what happened at Crooked River we’ve got men gathering against us from a dozen counties. It is not just the locals we’re worried about. Your settlement is not safe.”

  “We will be fine,” Haun said obstinately. “We will post sentries and guards. We can use the blacksmith shop as a fort in case something does happen. It is made of logs. Very solid. But I don’t think we will need it.”

  “Brother Haun,” Joseph started, “I beseech you, for your safety and the safety of your community—”

  But Haun cut him off. “I have worked very hard for these past two years to build a home on Shoal Creek. I have valuable property there. I will not abandon it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get started so I can be back before dark.”

  As he climbed up in his wagon and snapped the reins, Joseph and Benjamin stepped back. They watched him swing the wagon around and head it eastward. Joseph said nothing, just watched Haun until he was gone, his blue eyes now almost gray with worry and sadness. Finally, he turned to Benjamin. “We’d better keep moving, Brother Ben. There is much to do.”

  * * *

  “Brother Joseph?” Benjamin said.

  The Prophet was deeply preoccupied as they walked back toward the group of brethren they had left earlier. He spoke without looking up. “Yes?”

  Benjamin hesitated for a moment. Then, in spite of his reservations about bringing it up, he plunged in. “Why is all this happening to us?”

  Joseph’s step slowed, but he continued to keep his eyes on the ground.

  “I know we haven’t always been perfectly obedient,” Benjamin continued, “but there are a great many of the Saints who are earnestly striving to do what God asks of them.”

  “Yes there are, Ben. A good many.”

  Benjamin shook his head slowly. “And if all of this trouble is punishment for our not being better people, what about those who are rising up against us? Compared to them, are we so bad?”

  Joseph Smith stopped completely now, looking at Benjamin straight on, the wide blue eyes open and probing, the features laced with touches of pain. Finally, he gestured toward a rail fence. “Let’s talk for a moment, Ben.”

  As they moved over and leaned on the split rails, Benjamin had second thoughts. “I’m sorry, Joseph. You have so much to worry about right now. Just ignore the ramblings of a worried old man.”

  Joseph chuckled. “How old are you now, Brother Ben?”

  “I was fifty-three in May.”

  “Well, I’m just coming up on thirty-three in another couple of months. If I’m in as good a shape as you in twenty years, I’ll be happy.”

  Benjamin did not smile back. He felt very old at the moment. More like he was seventy-three. Worry could do that to you.

  One of Joseph’s hands came up and removed his hat. The other followed, smoothing back his hair. He was staring out across the fields. To the south, about twenty-five miles, lay Richmond, where the armies were gathering. From the way Joseph’s brow furrowed, it was as if he could see them coming. Finally, he put his hat back on, though he still kept staring out across the countryside.

  “I wish you could have been with us when we first came to Missouri in ’31, Ben. It was glorious. I’ll never forget how excited we were when the Lord revealed that the center place of Zion was to be right there in Jackson County.”

  Yes, and within two years every last Latter-day Saint there was driven out of Zion at the point of a gun. But Benjamin didn’t say that out loud. Joseph had enough troubles without having to explain everything to Benjamin Steed.

  “And do you remember what he said at that time, Brother Ben?”

  Benjamin knew the revelations that had been given during that time, but he wasn’t sure what Joseph had reference to, so he shook his head. Joseph’s eyes half closed as he began to quote, “ ‘You cannot see with your natural eyes, for the present time, the design of your God concerning those things which shall come hereafter, and the glory which shall follow, after much tribulation.’ ” His voice became very soft. “ ‘For after much tribulation cometh the blessings.’ ”

  Benjamin felt a little thrill shoot through him as he often did when Joseph quoted the words of the Lord. Perhaps it was because Joseph had been the one to receive them, but he could quote them in a way that no other man could.

  Joseph’s eyes opened, and he turned to look squarely at Benjamin. “And we surely have seen the tribulation, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” Benjamin said. And now he couldn’t resist adding, “And it isn’t over yet.”

  “No, it isn’t. So why? Why are these things happening to us? What is this design of God that we can’t see with our natural eyes?”

  Benjamin was almost too startled to realize that Joseph was asking him questions. He had read that passage many times—it was now in the Doctrine and Covenants—but he had missed the impact of that one word. Design. And not just design. Divine design! It had not occurred to him before to think of it in that manner.

  But Joseph hadn’t expected him to answer. He was musing now. “I have pondered this question too, Benjamin. Very often. Oh, there is no question but what we have not been fully faithful as a people, but we surely have tried to keep the Lord’s commandments more than the men who are troubling us. So why isn’t the Lord punishing them?”

  “That’s exactly it. It seems so unfair.”

  “Well, I don’t want to dwell on this point—I want to get to the harder question—but I’d just like to remind you of something the Lord said on another occasion. ‘For unto whom much is given . . .’?” He let his voice rise, making the statement into a question.

  “ ‘Much is expected,’ ” Benjamin finished it for him.

  “Ah, no, Ben. I hear the Saints quoting it that way, but that is not what it says. It says, ‘For unto whom much is given much is required; and he who sins against the greater light receives the greater condemnation.’ ” He took a quick breath. “That is a very different matter indeed.”

  “So because we’re Saints, we—”

  “Not just Saints, Ben. We are the Lord’s covenant people. The Missourians are not. We have made solemn covenants that we will live his law and serve him. And he has given us so much in return. The gift of the Holy Ghost. New scripture. The priesthood.” His voice had risen with excitement; now it dropped to almost a whisper. “He has a right to require more of us.” There was a long pause. “And he does.”

  Benjamin finally nodded. “All right, I can see that, but—”

  Joseph raised one hand quickly, grinning now. “Let me get to your first question. How exactly did you say it again?”

  “Why is all of this happening to us? Do you have an answer?”

  The grin broadened, and there was a bit of
a teasing look in Joseph’s eye now. “I don’t, but I think the Lord does.”

  Benjamin smiled back at him. “I’d accept the Lord’s answer on this.”

  Joseph slowly sobered. “Well, for the past few nights I have been reading and rereading the revelations given during that time when we lost Jackson County. We seem to be in a similar situation again now, so I wanted to see if God had said anything that might give us some answers.”

  “And did he?”

  “You judge for yourself, Ben. I can’t quote it exactly from memory, but here is what the Lord said in ’33, at the very time our people were starting into all the troubles with the Missourians. He said, ‘Let your hearts take comfort, for all things work together for the good of them that walk uprightly, and to the sanctification of the church.’ ”

  He stopped, letting Benjamin digest that for a moment. “Think about that, Ben. All things, it says, work for our good if we live right. Could he possibly mean persecution and hardship? Does ‘all things’ include the burning of homes and the driving of our women and children out in the midst of winter?”

  “Do you think it does?”

  “I think when the Lord says ‘all things,’ he means all things. And he also said that those things work for the sanctification of the Church.” There was a soft sigh. “Think the Church could use some sanctification, Ben?”

  There was only one answer to that, and Benjamin gave it with a sober nod.

  Joseph smiled sadly. “And then the Lord said, and I think this is the key: ‘I will raise up to myself a pure people, who will serve me in righteousness.’ ”

  He brushed his hands back and forth together, as if dusting them off. “That’s not easy doctrine, is it, Ben?”

  “No.” Benjamin thought of what Jessica had been through in Jackson County. “Not easy at all.”

  “Let me ask you something, Ben.”

  “All right.”

  “Tell me, where is Thomas B. Marsh right now?”

  Benjamin’s head came around and his eyebrows lifted sharply. But Joseph went on swiftly. “Where are the members of the Twelve who betrayed us in Kirtland? And where are Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer and Martin Harris? Where have they all gone, Ben?”