The details of the imprisonment at Richmond and the sham trial under Judge Austin King are documented in numerous sources (for example, see Restoration, pp. 410–11; Persecutions, pp. 255–60; HC 3:208–12). Before the trial began, Sampson Avard told Oliver Olney, a former member of the Church, that “if he [Olney] wished to save himself, he must swear hard against the heads of the Church, as they were the ones the court wanted to criminate; and if he could swear hard against them, they would not (that is, neither court nor mob) disturb him. ‘I intend to do it,’ said he, ‘in order to escape, for if I do not, they will take my life.’” (HC 3:209–10.)
Joseph F. Smith, born to Hyrum and Mary Fielding Smith on November 13, 1838, later became the sixth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Chapter 27
Caroline approached the boardinghouse wearily, almost too tired to take her usual precautions. She had been down by the Mississippi River docks most of the afternoon, working with one of Joshua’s partners on business affairs. She always made the carriage driver drop her off in a different place—three or four blocks from where she and the children were staying—and walked the rest of the way. Then she could watch to make sure she was not being followed. It was a strain that wore her down, yet she was still too thoroughly frightened by what had happened in Independence to take any chances.
But it had been a long day, and she was anxious to be home and off her feet. She made one last check around to see if there were any strangers, then walked up the stairs and inside the rooming house.
“Hello, Miz Naylor.” The landlord was always at the door of his own room, and monitored the comings and goings of his guests meticulously. He was a strictly conservative man and allowed only the most respectable of boarders to stay in his building. He would have been shocked to know this woman had given him a false name.
“Hello, Mr. Jenson.”
He glanced toward the stairs. “The children are kind of restless.”
She felt a flash of irritation. She was paying top dollar for this room and had specifically asked for one on the third floor where there were no other rooms. She didn’t need monitoring. She started to say something to him, then bit back her retort, too tired to really care. She nodded again, perhaps a bit too curtly, and went up the stairs.
By the time she reached the third level, she knew what Jenson meant. She could hear Olivia’s voice coming through the door and clear down the hall. There was the deeper rumble of Will speaking. The sound was angry and sharp. As she approached the door, she could hear Savannah crying.
Grimly Caroline started fishing in her purse for the key. But as she found it and reached for the door, her hand stopped. Olivia’s voice had risen sharply. “Matthew’s not that way.”
“Matthew’s a Mormon too.”
“He is not. Not in that way.” Caroline could tell that her daughter was on the verge of tears.
“He may be one of the better Mormons,” Will said stubbornly, “but he’s still a Mormon. And Mormons killed our pa.”
“Grandma Steed’s a Mormon!” Olivia cried. The anguish in her voice tore at Caroline’s soul. “So is Grandpa. And Aunt Lydia and Uncle Nathan. Do you hate them too?”
There was no answer, and Caroline leaned forward, listening intently, so caught up in what was happening on the other side of the door that there wasn’t even a thought about eavesdropping. Then finally there was a low, pain-filled voice. “They aren’t really our grandparents.”
“They are too!” There was a scuffling sound, then the sound of hands slapping against something.
“Stop it, Livvy!”
“They are too!” she sobbed. “You stop saying that!”
Caroline fumbled quickly with the key, feeling a sharp desolateness shoot through her.
“They’re Mormons, Livvy!” Will shouted. “And Mormons shot our pa.”
Caroline had the door unlocked and threw it open. Olivia whirled. Will’s head came up with a jerk and his eyes flew open as he saw the look on his mother’s face.
Livvy gave one strangled cry and hurled herself at her mother. “Oh, Mama! Mama!”
Caroline pushed inside and kicked the door shut with one foot. She held on to Olivia tightly as the girl sobbed against her. “It’s all right, Livvy! It’s all right.” She leveled a withering glance at Will. “Are you proud of yourself?” she snapped.
Will’s eyes dropped, unable to meet the piercing glare of his mother. “I just said they aren’t our real grandparents,” he muttered.
“Make him take it back, Mama! He’s been saying awful things about the Mormons.”
“I won’t take it back!” he shouted at his sister. “They killed our pa!” Tears sprang to his eyes and he whirled, brushing angrily at the corners of his eyes. With a cry of rage or pain—Caroline couldn’t tell which—he plunged across the room and into the bedroom where Savannah was crying.
The breath came out of Caroline in a long sigh of desperation. What am I going to do? What ever am I going to do with him?
* * *
Will sat with his head in his hands. Twice Caroline had asked him to look at her, but he had refused. That frightened her more than anything, for while Will had always been independent-minded, he had never been willfully disobedient.
She took a breath, wanting to weep for the pain he was nurturing down inside him. “Will, remember when we were in Savannah? Remember how folks always called the black people niggers?”
There was still no response, but she saw his eyes dart away from her.
“What did we say about that?” She waited a moment. “Didn’t we say it was wrong to judge people just because they had dark skin? We talked about that, didn’t we?”
He finally looked at her, but there was still defiance and bitterness in his eyes.
“Just because a few Mormons do bad things, doesn’t make them all bad,” Caroline said.
He leaned forward with a jerk, startling her a little. “You read them newspapers, Mama.”
She sat back, the color draining a little from her face. “Yes, I did.” Yesterday a riverboat had come into St. Louis from up the Missouri River. It brought papers from Ray County and news of the trials going on against the Mormon prisoners. The whole front page was filled with Sampson Avard’s testimony about the Mormon Danite band. The Danite band! The very name had sent a chill up her back. It was the same name that had been signed to the note nailed to her door. It was the same name that had Caroline’s own feelings of bitterness churning like a flash flood down a narrow gorge.
Avard’s description of the Danites had answered all kinds of questions for Caroline. Why Joshua was dead. Why someone had come all the way to Independence to try and kill her and her family. And she was all the more frightened now, because one of the things Avard said was that these people swore with an oath that they would go to the ends of the earth to avenge themselves. And St. Louis was nowhere near the ends of the earth.
“Joseph Smith is their leader,” Will said hotly. “He’s the one who told them to go out and kill. And Matthew and Grandpa and Uncle Nathan believe in Joseph Smith. They think he’s a great man.”
“Will, we don’t know for sure—”
“Their own people are saying it, Mama! You read it. It’s not just their enemies. It’s their own people.”
Now Caroline looked away. Yes. She knew Joshua’s family didn’t condone it. But Will was right. By standing fast with Joseph, in a way that meant they were part of it. At least, they were not part of stopping it.
Will saw that his shot had hit home. He sat back, pouting, defiant, and a little triumphant. Finally, she looked up. She didn’t know how to fight this cold core of anger and hatred and bile that had lodged somewhere deep in her boy. She had enough of a struggle fighting her own loss, her own growing bitterness towards the Mormons. “It isn’t good to hate, Will,” she said, with little conviction in her voice.
But before Will could answer, there was the sound of footsteps outside in the hall
and then a soft knock on the door. Caroline turned her head, startled. It was nearly half past nine now. Will started across the room but she waved him back. “Go in with Livvy and Savannah,” she said softly. “Make sure they’re asleep.”
She walked to the door, cautious now. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Samuelson.”
There was a quick release of breath. Walter Samuelson was the business partner with whom she had spent the afternoon. She unlocked the door and opened it quickly. “Good evening, Walter. Come in.”
He removed his hat and stepped inside. Will had gone to the bedroom door but had not gone in. Samuelson nodded a greeting to him, then looked back at Caroline. “I apologize for coming at such a late hour, Mrs. Steed, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
She felt a sudden premonition. One hand fluttered nervously at the buttons on her dress. “What is it?”
His eyes looked away for a moment, then he shook his head. “I just learned that two men came in on the boat from upriver yesterday. They’ve been going around town asking questions about you.” His head moved slowly back and forth in discouragement. “I thought I’d better warn you.”
* * *
“Don’t wake Savannah up. Be as quiet as you can, but pack everything. I must write to your father’s family. I have put it off long enough. Now there is no choice.”
“Where will we go, Mama?” Olivia had not been asleep and had come out immediately after Samuelson had left. Now she was moved past her tears and was acting more like her mother—discouraged, tired, worried, but resolute and determined.
Caroline stopped emptying the small chest that held their few dishes and things. “There’s only one place far enough away that they can’t find us. Tomorrow is Tuesday. That means there is a boat going downriver, leaving at noon. Mr. Samuelson will pick us up at eleven tomorrow in a closed carriage and take us right to the boat. He’ll have other men with him to make sure we’re all right.”
“Why can’t we just arrest them?” Will demanded. “Mr. Samuelson said he knows which hotel they’re in.”
“Because we can’t prove anything.” The despair sank in on her heavily. “We don’t even know what they look like, Will. Until they do something . . .” She shuddered. “We’re not waiting for that. We’re going.”
“To Savannah.” Will didn’t make it a question. He already knew.
“Yes,” his mother said. “We’re going back to Savannah. We’ll go to the Montagues, see if we can stay with them on the plantation for a time.”
Without a word, Will turned and walked to the door of the second bedroom, where he and Olivia slept. When he reached it, he stopped. “Mama?” He spoke without turning around.
“Yes, Will?”
“I’ll see you and Livvy and Savannah safely to Georgia. Then I’m coming back.”
Caroline nearly dropped a knife. “You’re what?” she blurted.
“If those men can find us, then I can find them. You heard Mr. Samuelson. He’s going to try and find out all about them. When I come back, he’ll know something.”
She laid down a dish very carefully, still staring at him in utter amazement. “He’s doing that so he can send word to Obadiah Cornwell, Will. Obadiah will know what to do. These are dangerous men, Will. And you are only fourteen! Don’t be insane.”
His back only stiffened. “By the time my first father was fourteen, he had sailed back and forth to England three times.”
“Will . . .” She couldn’t finish. He had shocked her so deeply the words wouldn’t come.
“Come on, Livvy,” Will said quietly. “Let’s get things packed.” And with that, he walked into the bedroom without looking back at his mother.
* * *
“Jenny, I can’t do that without asking your mother.”
Her head bobbed back, the light brown hair bouncing softly. “My mother?” Her mouth twisted in puzzlement. “I just want to read your book, Matthew. Why should you ask my mother about that?”
Matthew looked over at Joshua for help. But he was not paying any attention to either of them. He was in a chair in front of the fireplace, his bad leg stretched out so that it caught the fulness of the heat. He had been staring steadily into the flames for the last ten minutes.
“Tell her, Joshua.”
He looked up. “Tell her what?”
“She wants to read my Book of Mormon. I told her I can’t let her do that without asking her mother.”
Joshua frowned immediately. “That’s right, Jenny.”
“But why? I just want to see what it says.”
Matthew blew out his breath. This dealing with a woman’s mind was a new experience for him. So he started again, slowly and patiently. “Being a Mormon in Missouri right now is not a wonderful thing. And—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Matthew, I don’t want to be a Mormon. I just want to read in your book.”
“And,” he continued stubbornly, “your mother has taken a great risk by taking us into her home. We owe her a great deal, and I won’t be doing anything behind her back.”
“Matthew’s right, Jenny,” Joshua said, coming fully back to their company now. “Your family is—”
She threw up her hands, blue eyes flashing angrily. “Oh, what’s the use? I don’t want to read your old book anyway.” She stood and flounced angrily off into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Kathryn stood up and sidled up to Matthew. “She really does,” she said in the kind of conspiratorial whisper only a twelve-year-old was capable of. “She’s just like that when she doesn’t get her way.”
Joshua reached down and picked up his crutch. He hauled himself up and hobbled over to the front door. He took his coat down. “I’m going to take another turn around the house,” he said, “get some fresh air.”
Matthew pulled his head around, wanting to deal with something he could handle. “You’re getting pretty good with that,” he smiled. “Are you getting any more feeling in your leg?”
Joshua reached down and rubbed his hand up and down his left thigh. “Maybe a little,” he said hopefully. Instantly he sobered again. “Matthew? Don’t ask.”
Matthew’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Don’t ask what?”
Joshua spoke gently. “Don’t ask Mrs. McIntire about the Book of Mormon. That’s not going to help them. Not now. Not here. The McIntires are Catholics. They already have religion. You don’t have to make them into Mormons.”
Matthew watched him steadily for a moment, then finally nodded glumly. “I know,” he murmured.
Putting on his coat, Joshua gave Matthew a nod, opened the door, and stepped outside. He stood there for a moment, breathing in deeply the crisp afternoon air. One hand came up and rubbed at his beard. He would make ten circles around the yard and outbuildings today. Yesterday it had been six. Two days before that, only three. Day after tomorrow it would be exactly three weeks since he had been shot. And there was still no answer from Caroline. He couldn’t delay much longer.
* * *
Benjamin looked down at the weevil floating on the top of the watery stew. With hardly a second thought, he began to dip out the ones he could see and toss them aside. He was too tired and cold and hungry to care much anymore. The bread tasted moldy, but there again, he hardly hesitated. For the past three meals there had been no bread, and right now it tasted wonderful.
He looked up and Joseph was grinning at him.
Surprised, Benjamin stopped what he was doing. “What?”
“You’re becoming quite the expert at that, Brother Ben.”
Benjamin looked down in his bowl, then at the spattering on the floor where he had been tossing the unwanted portions. “I guess I am.”
“We all are,” Hyrum said. He rubbed his thick whiskers ruefully. “Straining things out of my soup is a talent I never knew I had.”
Benjamin didn’t laugh. The battle against despair was endless now, and humor had little place in it. It was Tuesday, November twentieth. They had been in jail
and undergoing “trial” for seven days now. They had spent another fruitless, spirit-crushing day before Judge Austin King and the mob that surrounded him. Now they were back in their “cell” in the vacant house. The guards were just outside, eating a decent meal brought by the towns-people. The prisoners welcomed the chance to talk freely.
They ate in silence for a time, then Joseph turned to Benjamin again. “Brother Ben, do you remember a conversation you and I had a few weeks ago, not long after Thomas Marsh left us?”
Benjamin lowered his spoon and nodded. He remembered it well, thought of it often. “Yes. I asked you why all of these things were happening to us. I also remember your answer. You said the Lord would have a pure people so that his work could be done.”
Benjamin looked around. Here they were in a makeshift jail cell, without proper facilities, bound together by chains and padlocks. And their families were forty or fifty miles away, facing who knew what after going through a hellish nightmare. “Is this what it takes?”
There was a short, mirthless laugh. “I guess it is, Ben. I guess it is.”
* * *
The guards assigned to watch the prisoners in the vacant house and also those in the unfinished courthouse building were under the direction of a Colonel Price from Chariton County. He and his unit had been picked by General Clark and Judge King because of their reputation. Some of the militia units who had fought against the Saints in Far West had been moved by the plight of the Mormons and tended to treat them more kindly. There was none of that in Price’s company. They were merciless enemies of the Mormons in general and Joseph Smith in particular.
As the trial progressed, Price and his men quickly saw that Judge King was giving them license for mistreating the prisoners. The slightest hesitation in obeying the guards’ commands—often deliberately vague or contradictory—brought a swift kick or a slap across the face. There was a stream of mockery, abuse, ridicule, profanity, and vulgarity. “Hey, Joe, I’m feelin’ kinda poorly right now. How ’bout a healing?” Or, “Joe Smith, why don’t ya get one of them angels to come in here and help you escape?” Or, “Ol’ Joe, close your eyes and prophesy which one of us will be the lucky one who gets to shoot you dead.”
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