Nathan put his hands on the table and leaned over until he was looking right into his brother-in-law’s eyes. His voice went from anger to pleading now. “John, the whole countryside is aflame. I don’t know if we can even make it back. But we’ve got to try. Please, come home with us.”
John Griffith was staring at his hands. “Did you see those wagons and teams outside?”
“Yes.”
“Some new families arrived about noon yesterday, right after church services. Joseph Young, one of the seven Presidents of the Seventy, is the leader. They barely made it this far. A mob stopped them and turned them back. They also took their weapons.”
“That’s no surprise,” Nathan muttered.
“They want to rest up here a few days before pushing on to Far West.” Nathan started to shake his head, but John finally looked up. “There was a meeting. It was decided that, for now at least, we’ll all stick together and defend ourselves.” Now his eyes were pleading for Nathan’s understanding. “We were all party to this agreement. If I go now, it looks like . . .” He took a quick breath. “I can’t just leave my brethren. If they’re staying, I have to stay too. I’ll talk to Haun. See if he’ll reconsider.”
“He won’t!” Nathan said flatly. “John, I understand how you feel. But you’ve got to listen to the Prophet. And Mother and Father Steed are worried sick about you. Please come back with us.”
John’s head turned slowly and he searched Jessica’s face. Finally, he spoke. “Why don’t you and the children go with them? I’ll see if I can’t talk some sense into the others—”
She was shaking her head firmly. “I will not leave you, John. If you are staying, I’m staying.”
Nathan felt like screaming. He and Matthew had had about four hours of sleep in the last thirty-six hours, and it was as if he were walking in a thick fog. He fought down the temptation to reach out and shake them both violently. Then suddenly he knew it was no use. And he knew they had to settle for second best. “Then let us take Rachel and the boys,” he said quietly. There was no use asking for the baby. John Benjamin Griffith was just seven months old and still nursing.
Husband and wife looked at each other for a long moment, and something passed between them. Jessica stood up. “I’ll get their things.”
John stood now too. “I want you to take our wagon.”
Nathan nodded, too weary to protest. “Matthew and I are going to try and get a few hours of sleep. We don’t dare go until it’s dark.”
Chapter Notes
The tying of Mormon men to trees and flogging them was happening frequently during this period (see CHFT, p. 198).
There was a treaty struck on the twenty-eighth of October between a Colonel Jennings of Livingston County and the Saints in Haun’s Mill (see HC 3:183). This seems to be part of what gave the members at Haun’s Mill courage to stay where they were.
Chapter 17
Jessica Roundy Steed Griffith stopped shucking corn for a moment and let her eyes sweep across the little settlement of Haun’s Mill. It had been one of those late Indian-summer days. The sky was clear and blue, and the sun was warm—warm enough that many of the children were barefoot. But it had none of the oppressiveness of July or August. In the meadows across the creek, half a dozen horses and cows stood lazily in the sun, motionless except for the occasional twitch of their tails. Directly south of where Jessica sat, about a hundred yards away, two men were in a field digging potatoes. Further on, her husband, John, was in their cornfield. She could see the steady rise and fall of his arm as he slashed at the dried stalks with the corn knife. He was too far away for her to hear the crackle of the dry stalks, but just by watching him she knew that by tomorrow there would be several more bushels of corn to husk.
From the open door of the cabin a few yards away a woman was singing softly to herself. Down by the creek and the small millpond the children were playing some game or another, and their squeals and shouts provided a music of their own. Though pleasant, it brought a pang to Jessica. Missing was the voice of Rachel and the giggling of Mark and Luke. It had not even been twenty-four hours since they had gone with Nathan and Matthew, but she already missed them fiercely.
From another direction there was the steady ringing of the hammer and the anvil. Several of the families who had arrived two days earlier had problems with their wagons. So their menfolk had taken the wagons to the blacksmith shop for the repairs they would need before the families could continue their trek to Far West.
“Sure is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Jessica looked up at Amanda Smith and smiled as she nodded. “Lovely. This is my favorite time of the year.”
“Mine too.”
As she tossed the bare ear into the wooden bowl and took another unhusked ear from the basket, Jessica reflected about the woman who sat beside her and the depths of their friendship that had developed in such a short time.
Jessica Roundy had grown up in a saloon. She had been around men—and certainly not the best of them—for her entire childhood and adolescent years. She had never had girlfriends. She had never sat around and giggled or whispered secrets or played house or talked about boys. And so as a woman she had found it somewhat difficult to make friends with other women. That was one of the reasons why the Steeds meant so much to her. Lydia and Rebecca and Mary Ann had been wonderful to her and for her.
She did much better now. She felt more comfortable with the women in the settlement, but there was none that she could really call a close friend. Then on Sunday the group of families led by Elder Joseph Young—an older brother of Brigham Young’s, and senior President of the Seventy—had arrived in Haun’s Mill. They had left Kirtland on July first, a few days before the main body of the Kirtland Camp departed, but they took a longer route and had been delayed several times.
Jessica and John had gone down to meet the new families after dinner. They came across the Smith family just setting up their tent down near the gristmill. It was one of those times when there was almost instant bonding. John Griffith and Warren Smith were quickly immersed in conversation about the area, about the goodness of the land, and about the seriousness of the situation that was confronting them. And in what seemed like a matter of just moments, Jessica and Amanda Smith felt as though they had been friends and close neighbors for years. Jessica had never experienced anything quite like it, and before half an hour had passed, she and John had persuaded the Smith family to bring their wagon and tent to camp near the creek a short distance behind their cabin. The previous evening, after Nathan and Matthew had left with the children, the Griffiths and the Smiths had talked long into the night. They had agreed that as soon as the company was ready, Jessica and John would go with them to Far West. Then, once things were more settled, the Smiths would come back out to Haun’s Mill and make it their home. The prospects were thrilling to Jessica, even more than she expected they would be.
Amanda looked up. “Looks like Warren has finished at the blacksmith’s.”
Jessica turned to follow her gaze and saw Warren Smith and his three young sons coming toward them. She started to nod, but a sound from behind cut her off. They turned. A man was running hard toward them from the direction of the creek. He was yelling and half turning to point behind him as he ran.
“Oh, dear Lord!” Amanda gasped. “Look!” She was pointing now too at something she saw across the creek and through the trees.
Jessica felt a sickening lurch. A large body of horsemen was coming toward them at a hard gallop, no more than a hundred yards away. It took only an instant to take it all in, and the images would ever stay frozen in her mind: Horses stretched to their limits, necks lathered, nostrils flaring. Chunks of dirt and sod flinging upward from the thundering hooves, then falling again like rain. Men bent low in their saddles, rifles in one hand, reins in the other, spurring their horses forward ever faster. The wild yells of two hundred men, rending the air with a chilling savagery. Startled children jumping up to stare, then shrieking with terror and scatt
ering like baby chicks before the darting fox.
Jessica swung around, the shout tearing from her throat. “John!”
He was too far away to hear her, but he had evidently seen it too. The corn knife went sailing, the armload of cornstalks dropped at his feet. And then he was running hard toward her, joining the two men who had been digging potatoes. He was waving his arms frantically. And then his voice came to her, barely loud enough to hear. “Get the baby! Get the baby!”
The baby! She whirled around, darted inside, snatched the infant from his crib. John Benjamin instantly began to howl. Jessica barely heard it. She dashed back to the doorway and out onto the porch. In the large meadow around which Haun’s Mill was built there was widespread pandemonium. Women were running, hair and skirts flying, shouting and screaming the names of their children. Children shrieked and howled. Men were dropping tools and racing back towards their families. Amanda was at the end of the porch, leaning over the railing, yelling at her two girls who were down by the creek playing. She turned back and shouted at her husband and sons.
Jessica’s head jerked around and she looked toward the creek. The company of men had split into a three-square formation and the lead riders were just crossing the stream, sending out great sprays of water. With a sudden chill, she realized that many of the men had painted faces.
Her head whipped back around, eyes searching frantically for John. He wouldn’t make it. Couldn’t make it. The riders were moving too fast. Then she spotted him and felt a great rush of relief. He and the other men had concluded the same thing and changed directions. They were in a desperate sprint for the blacksmith shop. And they would make that.
Closer to her, Warren Smith and his three boys were frozen in midstride. Warren was staring—gaping—at the men who were thundering toward them. Behind him, from the blacksmith shop, Jessica saw Captain David Evans come running out. He was the commander of their home defense forces. He had his hat off and was swinging it back and forth wildly. “Peace! Peace!” he shouted. “Give us quarter!”
A rifle cracked sharply behind her. The dirt in front of Warren Smith kicked up, and there was the angry whine of a ricochet.
“Warren!” Amanda’s cry was so shrill it was barely comprehensible. Her hands were clawing at the porch railing.
“Get back,” Warren cried hoarsely. Then grabbing his two youngest sons by the arm, he started falling back toward the blacksmith shop again, half dragging them as he went. But Willard, at eleven the oldest of the three boys, stood rooted to the spot, petrified by the sound of gunfire that was crashing all around them now.
“Willard!” It was a scream of pure terror.
Amanda’s shout got her husband’s attention. He looked over his shoulder and realized what had happened. “Run, Willard!” he bellowed. “Run!” That broke the spell and the boy turned and raced after his father.
“Mama! Mama!” Amanda’s two girls were screaming in terror as they came running to the house. In one leap she was over the railing and gathering them into her arms.
Rifle fire was resounding like ever-recurring claps of thunder now. Without thinking, Jessica dropped to a crouch, holding the wailing baby tightly to her breast. A bullet slapped into a log just above her head with a vicious thud. A rider went hurtling past, firing on the run. Somewhere back in her mind her eyes registered the savagery of the man’s face—skin darkened with lampblack, eyes wild and filled with ferocity. And yet he was a white man.
An exclamation of relief was torn from her throat. John had reached the blacksmith shop and disappeared behind it on the far side, where the doorway was. Coming right behind him was Amanda’s family. They too disappeared around the building, and Jessica knew they had made it. Amanda had seen it too. Dragging her sobbing girls with her, she came up on the porch. Jessica grabbed her arm. “Inside!” she hollered into her ear. “Hurry!”
* * *
“Run! Faster! Come on!”
John Griffith and Captain Evans stood at the corner of the log building, frantically waving at the men and boys who were darting and dodging from every part of the village towards them. It had been determined two days before that the blacksmith shop was the most solid structure in Haun’s Mill, and that if an attack did come, the men would go there to defend the village. Now those who were anywhere in its vicinity were retreating toward it. Elsewhere, men, women, and children were bolting for the trees and brush that lined the creek and for the high ground beyond it. Horsemen wheeled off from the main party, trying to cut them off or ride them down. The gunfire was one continuous roar, and bullets were flying like a swarm of angry yellow jackets.
About twenty yards away, John saw a man run out of his cabin, hands in the air. He watched in horror as the nearest horseman reined around and fired at him from almost point-blank range. The man slammed backwards against the hitching rail, then went down. From inside the cabin a woman screamed.
With a start, John realized that Warren Smith and his three boys were coming toward him now. Ducking down, he ran out to meet them. He grabbed the youngest by the hand. “Run, Alma!” he blurted. “Come on, Sardius! Run!” He backpedalled now, pulling Alma with him. He swung the boy around and gave him a shove, propelling him toward the open doorway. Evans caught the boy as he nearly stumbled. He dragged him inside. Warren and Sardius were next. The father literally picked his ten-year-old son up and dove through the open doorway. Seeing that the last boy was right behind him, John darted inside the doorway.
“We’ve got to shut the door,” Evans bayed into John’s ear.
John stepped back. “This is the last one.”
But as eleven-year-old Willard reached the door, his hands flew out horizontally, catching the two side beams and instantly arresting his progress. His mouth dropped open as he bounced back two or three feet. Again he dove for the doorway and again his hands flew out, stopping his entry.
“Willard!” Warren Smith screamed.
“Come on, Willard!” John urged.
The boy tried it a third time, but again it was as though he hit some invisible force at the doorway. John lunged forward to grab him, but Willard, terrified at the sounds of horsemen right behind him, gave it up. He leaped away, running hard for a woodpile a few yards away. He scampered behind it and disappeared.
“No!” Warren shouted as David Evans started pushing the door shut. “Willard!”
John caught Warren and dragged him back. Evans gave them both a hard shove. “Get out of the way! We have to shut the door!”
Warren Smith was flailing at both of them now, desperate to fight his way outside. Then he stiffened with a jerk. There was a heavy grunt. His head turned, mouth agape, and he stared at John Griffith for a moment. Then his knees buckled and he sagged downward, pulling free from John’s grasp and sliding to the floor.
John was stunned. He stared down at Warren, not comprehending. Evans shoved John hard and slammed the door shut, dropping the latch.
“Watch out!”
John would never know who yelled the warning. Someone behind him. He swung around in time to see the muzzle of a rifle poke through a crack between the logs. There was a blinding flash, and simultaneously a searing pain ripped through his gut. He staggered back, smacking against the wooden cupboard that held the blacksmith’s tools. As things spilled off the shelves he felt them bounce off his shoulders. Then slowly he dropped to his knees, clutching at his stomach.
He screamed in agony as his body took another ball, this time high in the shoulder. It felt like his arm had been torn out of its socket. He went down to the dirt floor, gasping in shock and pain, rolling over on his back and coming up against the east wall. Grunting as the waves of pain began to roll over him, he saw bright flashes directly above him. And then he realized what was wrong. The blacksmith’s shop was a fortress, but it had one primary flaw. The gaps between the thick logs had never been chinked. Some were two or three inches wide. Now a dozen guns, maybe more, were jammed through the cracks and were pouring a withering fire in
to the narrow confines of the shed. The fortress had become a death trap.
No longer sure if the roaring in his ears was from the gunfire or the pain, John Griffith turned his head. A body lay just in front of him. Another man was hunched over the anvil, blood pouring from a wound in his head. “I am shot! I am shot!” he moaned over and over.
John blinked. He wanted to rub his hands over his eyes, clear his vision. But though his brain gave the command, nothing happened. With a curious sense of detachment, he realized he could no longer feel his hands.
John turned his head slowly, as the rifles kept exploding above him. Sardius Smith was huddled under the bellows, his face twisted with terror. Beside him, lying very still, was little Alma. The side of his trousers, up high near the hip, was a mass of blood. Dimly, and with a faint feeling of outrage, John realized that Alma had been shot. He wasn’t sure if the boy was dead or unconscious, but his face was very pale and he wasn’t moving.
“We’ve got to make a break for it, or we’re dead men!” It sounded like Captain Evans’s voice, but John couldn’t be sure. He saw the door flung open and dark figures race across the sudden brightness. And then, though he fought it back with frightened desperation, the blackness slipped across his line of vision, and John Griffith closed his eyes.
* * *
Young Willard Smith could hear men running behind him as he made a leaping dive for cover behind the small woodpile that belonged to the blacksmith. He burrowed in between the boards and logs, momentarily hesitating at the thoughts of black widow spiders, centipedes, or other horrible things that might be hiding in there. But those thoughts left him instantly. A bullet hit a board right over his head with a solid thwack. Splinters sprayed into his hair, some with enough force to sting his head. Another ball thudded into the split log right in front of his face.
Heart racing, Willard peeped out through a small opening. There were men everywhere. Most of them were running up and jamming their guns up against the wall of the shop—an action that struck him as being an odd thing to do. But two of the men had their rifles trained on the woodpile. A third joined them. One of the men pointed and the third one threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired directly at Willard.
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