Mumbling curses in a steady litany, Doctor Sanderson treated each of the men in the wagon exactly as he had Derek, using the same spoon without even bothering to wipe it off. When he finished, he looked at Rebecca.
“She’s not sick,” Josh blurted. “She’s just tending to those who are.”
Doctor Sanderson glared at Josh, clearly irritated, but then, without a word, turned again to his bag. In a moment he had two smaller bottles. He poured from both into the spoon. “You look ill, young lady. Here’s some bitters of bayberry bark and some tincture of camomile flowers.”
Rebecca opened her mouth and took it without protest. It was terribly bitter and she pulled a horrible face.
“What about the baby?”
Rebecca clutched her tightly, turning her away from the doctor. “The baby’s fine.”
Sanderson looked dubious, but then turned to the commanding officer. “All right, Lieutenant. With your help, I think we can treat the rest of the men now.”
They retrieved their horses and led them away, heading back to the next wagon. As soon as they were out of earshot, Sergeant Williams stepped forward and shut the wagon’s tailgate. “There is as corrupt a sample of a Missourian as any of those who shed the blood of the Saints while we were among them,” he said quietly.
Carl Rogers was furious. He leaped to his feet and leaned over the table, his ruddy complexion beet red now. It was a meeting of the new citizens committee in Nauvoo, but some Mormons had also been invited because of the importance of what was happening. Carl banged his fist against the table. “You call this a treaty?” he shouted. He slammed the papers down and pounded his fist on them. “This isn’t a treaty. This is a sellout.”
“Now, Rogers,” Major James R. Parker said, his own face reddening, “settle down and let me explain.”
“Let you explain what?” Carl shouted. “How you’ve made a deal with the devil?”
Abner Colfax leaned forward. “Carl, getting angry isn’t going to solve anything.”
Carl spun around on his fellow committee member. “So what is, Abner? Major Parker was called by the governor to help us, to maintain the peace. He is the state’s authority in Hancock County.” He swung back to Parker. “What happened to your proclamation that everyone was to return to their homes? What happened to your promise to raise volunteers to help us protect our homes and families? Tell me that, Mr. Parker.”
Now Richard Steele jumped up. “Carl is right,” he cried. “The state is supposed to be helping us, not giving in to the mobs.”
Parker was a big man, balding and with a sallow complexion, but he was a decent man in a difficult spot. He took a deep breath, fighting for control. “Colonel Singleton, the leader of the posse from Carthage, and I tried to work out an agreement that was fair to both sides. They have warrants for the arrest of many of the men in the city.”
“Posse?” Carl exploded. “Mob, you mean. Singleton is not an officer of the state. Why are you negotiating with him?”
The major leaned forward over the table, thrusting his face right up against Carl’s. “Because posse or mob, he is in command of over seven hundred men, Mr. Rogers. Most of them are members of the Carthage Greys. Do I need to remind you about the Carthage Greys?”
That stopped Carl. No, he didn’t need to be reminded of that. It was primarily the Carthage Greys who had painted their faces black and stormed the jail in Carthage, leaving Joseph and Hyrum Smith dead and John Taylor severely wounded. They were virulent Mormon-haters and had no qualms about expressing that hatred through violence. The Carthage Greys had also teamed up with the citizens of Warsaw and Green Plains in the attack on Yelrome and the cold-blooded murder of Edmund Durfee. And now they were the number-one factor behind the call for more “wolf hunts,” the cry for extermination of the Mormons, and the demand for the expulsion of the last of the Saints from Nauvoo.
“But that’s why Governor Ford has given you authority to raise volunteers,” Steele said, jumping in at Carl’s hesitation.
Carl picked up the papers and shook them in Parker’s face. “These are not acceptable conditions. Sixty days for the Mormons to get out of the city. In the meantime, a force of twenty-five members of the mob—or posse,” he said sarcastically, “—to be stationed in the city, with the citizens of Nauvoo paying for half their board. The Mormons are to surrender their arms. What kind of conditions are those?”
“The arms would be returned to them as soon as they left the state,” Parker broke in, but it came out lamely and even he knew it.
Daniel H. Wells, one of the few Mormons who were in attendance at this meeting of the new citizens committee, spoke for the first time. “The last time the Mormons surrendered their weapons, Major Parker,” he said grimly, “it led to the fall of Far West in Missouri. It was all that the mobs were waiting for. Once they knew we couldn’t defend ourselves, they sacked the city, shot down innocent people, ravished our women. We will not agree to that again.”
Carl turned to his fellow committee members. “I say that we do not agree to any of this.” He flung the papers down again. “I don’t care if you have signed the agreement, Major Parker. This is not acceptable.”
“Then there will be war,” Parker said ominously.
Richard Steele stood up beside Carl. “Then let there be war,” he declared.
Carl made sure the windows were covered before he lit the lamp, and even then he kept the wick low. In the dim light he moved to the back of the shed, where normally he would lay out the rows of bricks after they had been fired in the kiln. He moved several boxes that had been stacked across one end, and looked around once more to be sure he was alone. Then he stepped through the small opening into the makeshift room he had created with his temporary wall. He stood there for almost a full minute, letting his eyes move up and down the wagon that he had hidden there and the boxes, barrels, and sacks with which it was slowly filling up. He wished again that it was a smaller, lighter wagon. This was meant for hauling bricks. It was heavy and long. A team could pull it, but it really would take two yoke of oxen to keep it moving over long distances. But at the moment, finding a wagon and two yoke of oxen in Nauvoo was virtually impossible.
He moved around the wagon, taking mental inventory of what he had gathered so far. It seemed woefully small for a family of seven people. And some of the staples—sugar, flour, salt—were still not where he wanted them to be. But it was a start, and it had taken a good share of the thousand dollars he had gotten from the lumber sale. He still worked on supplementing his little secret every day. That took some doing, for with the brickyard shut down now, Melissa was far more aware of his activities during the day than she had been before. He was doing this for her and the children, in keeping with his promise to her, but he didn’t want her knowing about it. At least not yet. He still had hopes that they would never have to use it.
He sighed, moving back out into the main part of the shed. After tonight’s meeting, his hopes were waning. That brought his mouth into a tight line. “Sixty days,” he muttered as he started moving the boxes back across the opening he had made. “Surrender our weapons. What kind of fools do they think we are?”
When he was finished he stepped back and surveyed his work again. To the casual eye, it looked now as if the whole end of the shed were being used for storing junk. But as he looked more closely, he could see that there was a large space behind the boxes. Enough to hide a wagon. He went to work again, moving several stacks of bricks over in front of the boxes and piling more boxes on top so that the space behind was not as obvious.
Finally, after more than an hour’s work, he blew out the lamp and left the shed, carefully locking the door behind him.
Melissa was still up, sitting in the living room sorting the laundry she had brought in from the clothesline earlier that day. She looked up as he entered. “Hi.”
He nodded and went over and kissed her on the forehead.
“The meeting went long,” she said.
It was
n’t a direct question, and Carl understood it for what it was—a probe for a report. He decided there was no point in trying to hide it from her. Word would be out in the city by morning anyway. “Major Parker signed an agreement with the mob in Carthage.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t acceptable. They asked for too much and gave too little.”
“So what does that mean, Carl?”
He avoided her eyes. “We don’t know yet. Parker has to take it back tomorrow and tell them it was rejected.” He turned and looked toward the stairs. “How’s Mary Melissa?”
Melissa shook her head slowly. “Maybe a little better, but not good yet by any means.”
“Did her fever break?”
“No. I gave her a sponge bath, and that seems to have brought it down a little. She is sleeping for a change.”
“Good.”
Melissa folded and then smoothed a pillowcase in her lap. “Sarah is starting in too, I think.”
He turned back toward her. “No, with the shakes?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. She said she was really cold tonight. The rest of us were sweating.”
“Were you able to find any quinine?”
“Mary Fielding Smith brought me about a quarter of a pint. Don’t ask me where she found it.”
“She’s an angel, isn’t she?”
That surprised Melissa a little, but she immediately nodded. “Yes, she is. In spite of all she has to worry about, she always finds time to help others.”
“I’ll go by and thank her tomorrow,” Carl said.
That surprised Melissa even more. Carl was politely friendly with some of the Mormons still left in town, but he didn’t go out of his way to associate with them. “That would be nice, Carl.” She took a quick breath, and then added, “She plans to leave in a few days.”
He moved to a chair and sat down. “I thought they didn’t have an outfit.”
“Joseph Fielding sold his farm.”
“Ah. And how much did he get?”
Melissa bit her lip. This was indicative of what was happening in Nauvoo right now. “Two hundred dollars. Or that’s what the buyer said he was giving him. In actuality, he got a wagon, two horses—one of which proved to be so balky that Joseph had to trade him for a yoke of small young oxen—a coat, some cloth, and four and a half dollars in cash.”
He exhaled wearily. “What a tragedy.”
“Twenty acres of cultivated land, fruit trees, a garden, a brick home, an excellent well—all of that for a wagon, two horses, a few bolts of cloth, and four and a half dollars in cash.”
“He was lucky to get a wagon,” Carl said, thinking of his own unsuccessful attempts to trade his brick wagon for something else.
Melissa only nodded. Mary had confided in her that after considerable wrangling in the probate court, she had finally gotten a settlement of seven hundred dollars on Hyrum Smith’s extensive properties. She had used all of that to purchase her own wagons and teams. In addition to her own family, she had Mercy Thompson and her child, and was caring for the children of Samuel Smith, whose widow, Levira, was seriously ill.
Carl came out of his thoughts and looked at his wife. She looked very tired and seemed quite discouraged. Then, as he looked more closely, he thought he detected a flush in her face. He stood up and reached out to touch her forehead. It was quite warm to the touch.
“You’re not starting in with this too, are you?” he asked in sudden alarm.
She shook her head. “No, it’s just hot in here.”
He felt his own forehead. The flesh was cool. He felt her again, then took the clothes from her lap. Fever was often one of the first signs of a coming onslaught of ague. “Come on, Melissa. You’re going to bed.”
“I’m all right.”
“I know. But it’s late. Let’s go to bed.”
She got to her feet, taking his hand and holding it. “Bed does sound good.”
Then, as they started toward the stairs, she stopped. “Carl?”
He stopped too and turned to look at her. “What?”
“You haven’t forgotten your promise, have you? about putting the safety of the children first?”
He wasn’t sure if he winced or not. “No, Melissa. I haven’t forgotten my promise.”
Chapter Notes
On 29 August, Lieutenant Andrew Jackson Smith, a career military officer, joined the Mormon Battalion and proposed that he take command. For the reasons listed here, the majority of the Mormon officers finally voted to accept him. Five days later, the men learned what kind of officer had taken over when Lieutenant Smith became furious at the refusal of the sick to report to the doctor and be put on the sick list. (See MB,pp. 48–49; CHMB,pp. 143–46.)
Though it seems incredible to modern readers that men could be so harshly treated, the details of the lieutenant’s threats and Doctor Sanderson’s treatment of the sick, even down to the rusty spoon, come from the accounts of those who had to suffer these things (see MB,pp. 50–51; CHMB,pp. 147–51). One needs to remember that in the army, discipline and the use of authority were often harsh and unjust. Also, battalion members were hundreds of miles from any higher authority to which they might appeal. It is a testimony to the faithful nature of the Saints that they submitted to such treatment without open mutiny.
As summer ended and fall approached, the patience of the anti- Mormons in Illinois was wearing thin. Brigham Young had promised that the Saints would leave Nauvoo in the spring of 1846. The great majority of the Saints had complied with that agreement, but there were still several hundred of the poor and the sick left behind, and things began to fester again. On 21 August 1846, Governor Thomas Ford ordered Major James R. Parker, a member of the Illinois militia, and ten other men to go to Nauvoo and maintain the peace. But the antis far outnumbered this token show of force. Parker sent a proclamation asking all the citizens of Hancock County to return to their homes. When his men took the proclamation to Carthage, they were violently assaulted, then sent back with a message that the constable’s posse that was assembling near Carthage did not recognize Parker’s authority and would not disperse. Clearly intimidated, Parker finally signed an agreement with the posse’s commander on 3 September setting forth the conditions outlined in this chapter. The citizens of Nauvoo flatly rejected the proposal, and this set up the events that followed. (See SW,pp. 114–42.)
Chapter 24
Sunday, Sept. 6, 1846 — Pilot Peak
We have been through hell and have lived to tell about it.
I shall be brief, as I am thoroughly exhausted and must sleep. We began our journey across the Salt Desert one week ago. What was originally promised to be 40 miles turned out to be 80. The crossing was unbelievably harsh. Great wastelands of salt beds constitute this desert. It is as flat as a tabletop and as white as if it were new-fallen snow. There is not a single blade of grass or any living thing to be seen. The late summer sun beats down with merciless fury and reflects back into our faces as if we were traversing on the face of a mirror. For long stretches, the salt-soil is so compacted that even oxen and loaded wagons barely leave a mark upon it. In other places, a shallow depression has collected water beneath the crust and turned the hardpan into mush. The wagons broke through and mud as thick as bookbinders’ glue clung to wheels, feet, hooves, and everything else it touched. Should outer darkness ever become too crowded, God could banish Satan and his minions here and it would be sufficient punishment for them.
>As soon as we entered the desert, our company broke into segments as every family sought to fend for themselves. William Eddy forged ahead. We (the Reeds) and the Donners brought up the rear. We have the heavier wagons and our animals quickly fell behind. After plodding on for a day and a night and into part of the next day, our water gave out. Pilot Peak, green and shimmering in the distance, seemed no closer after thirty hours than when we started. The company prevailed upon Mr. Reed to ride ahead and bring back water. He left us reluctantly, instructing us to unhitch the ca
ttle and drive them on when they could pull the wagons no farther. After a time, even the Donners pulled ahead, and we were left seemingly alone in the bleakness that was everywhere around us.
By the morning of the fourth day, when Mr. Reed still had not returned, there was nothing to do but to unyoke the oxen and drive them forward. Milt Elliott and the other teamsters took them all. I stayed back with the wagons and the family. Mr. Reed returned just at sunup on the fifth day, telling us that he had passed Milt and instructed him to return for us quickly once the oxen were watered. We waited all that day and finally determined that we could stay stationary no longer. We left the wagons and began to walk. That night we caught up with the Donners and slept for a time with them. Mr. Reed and I went ahead to find the teams, leaving the family with the Donners.
When we finally reached the base of Pilot Peak and the springs that are there, we learned that disaster had struck. When Mr. Reed passed Milt and the teamsters bringing the cattle in, he warned them to keep them on the road, for once they smelled water they would bolt for it. But while they were going along, one of their horses gave out and they stopped to try and get it going again. They weren’t paying attention to the cattle. The cattle caught smell of the water, which was some distance away, and started for it. Milt, who certainly knows better, was not concerned, for he supposed they would stay on the road which led to the springs and to the camp. When they finally started again, the oxen were nowhere to be seen. They continued on to camp, assuming the cattle would be there. They were not.
Thirty-eight cattle were lost, including nine yoke of Mr. Reed’s oxen. Nine yoke! We have spent two days looking for them, but to no avail. This is disastrous beyond belief. In one stroke of bad luck—or better, of pure carelessness—Mr. Reed has gone from being the richest man in our party to being nearly destitute. He now has only two oxen left. Mr. Graves, Mr. Pike, and Mr. Breen have kindly consented to loan oxen to Mr. Reed, but even then he had to divide his food supplies up among the rest of the company and abandon two of the wagons. We cached much valuable material in the desert. Mr. Reed says we will come back for it next season. I have no such hope.
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