“Steady,” Anderson called again in a low whisper. “Let them get in range.”
The main body was down to about a hundred and fifty yards now, but the scouts were just fifty or sixty yards away, coming slowly on their horses. One of the scouts had a spyglass and was scanning the landscape ahead of him. He turned toward Carl and the others, then pulled his horse up, standing in his stirrups, looking directly at them.
“Uh-oh,” Anderson said.
Suddenly the scout shouted and started waving his hands frantically, pointing in their direction.
“Fire!” Anderson shouted.
Fifteen repeating rifles blasted out in a ragged volley. One of the scouts was knocked violently off his horse and hit the ground. Carl cursed as the man in his sights didn’t drop. He had pulled the muzzle up slightly, anticipating the recoil, and missed cleanly. He levered another round into the chamber and swung the muzzle. He saw that two men were down in the dust of the road. The column was in wild panic as men dove for cover or turned and ran. A man ducked behind one of the artillery pieces. Carl squeezed off a shot and saw a puff of dust and smoke as the round hit the barrel of the cannon. The man yelped and took off running at full speed.
“Fire! Fire! Take your aim, boys!” Anderson was on his feet, urging them on.
Now puffs of smoke were exploding all up and down the line, and Carl realized the mob was returning fire. He heard a ball whip through the leaves above him and all at once he understood they were vulnerable. Fire. Move the muzzle a few inches. Find target. Fire again. This time the man he had in his sights stumbled and his rifle went flying. Another target, this time a man on a horse. Fire. He missed.
Suddenly he became aware that the man behind him was pounding on his shoulder. “You’re out of bullets,” he shouted. Only then did Carl realize that his last pull had brought him only a loud click. He rolled away, letting the man take his place.
At first it sounded like the popping of firecrackers. After the constant boom of the cannons, the light-arms fire seemed harmless, but Melissa knew better and felt a clutch of fear. She glanced at the clock. It had been one hour and a half since young Carl had gone. “Where is he?” she muttered to herself. “He promised me half an hour.”
She looked down at her two daughters. Sarah was awake and was lying beside Caleb, who was reading her a story. She seemed to be feeling much better. Mary Melissa was another matter. She was asleep in the trundle bed, but it was not a deep sleep. Her hands would twitch involuntarily, or she would moan softly from time to time. From the flush of her face, Melissa could tell without touching her that the fever was still ravaging her.
David was at the window, staring eastward up toward the temple. He could see the smoke rolling slowly toward the river. He had watched the men and teams take up five cannon in wagons, and so when deeper booms sounded, he told his mother that they came from their own weapons. Suddenly he jerked forward. “Here comes Carl,” he cried over his shoulder.
She went quickly to the window and felt a great shudder of relief as she recognized Carl’s figure running down Mulholland Street toward them. “Caleb, watch the baby,” she said. Then she raced out of the bedroom and down the stairs, with David hard on her heels.
The moment Carl stepped through the door, Melissa grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, more roughly than she intended. “Where have you been? You promised you wouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
“I know, Mama. But we don’t have enough ammunition. The captain asked us to pick up some of the enemy’s cannonballs so they can use those. It seemed pretty important, Mama.”
“You promised you wouldn’t go where there was danger.”
“I didn’t, Mama. We just took the cannonballs to a wagon, and then they took them up the hill.” He decided not to tell her how a cannonball had hit a barn just a few rods away from him and blown out the whole end of it.
“I told you—”
He cut in quickly. “Mama, they want us to leave.”
Her eyes widened. “Who wants us to leave?”
“The commanders of the forces defending Nauvoo. They say the cannonballs are falling right in the city now. They can’t promise the women and children that they’ll be safe. They want everyone who can to go across the river and wait there.”
She looked blank for a second as she tried to consider what that meant for them. “I can’t, Carl. Mary Melissa is too ill and—”
“I know, Mama. But the cannons are starting to hit some of the houses. We’re all right for now because we’re on the west side of the city, but if the mob gets any closer . . .” He didn’t finish that sentence. He didn’t have to.
Desperate, she turned toward the stairs. “I can’t take Mary. If she’s out in the cold tonight . . .” She turned away, feeling the burning of the first tears. Oh, dear Lord. What shall I do? Help me!
And in that instant her mind was suddenly calm. She turned back to her two oldest sons. “David, you know the boxes we started to pack yesterday?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Get what you’ll need for a few days. Take whatever food you can find. And blankets and warm clothing. The nights are getting cold now. You won’t be able to carry a lot.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Carl, I want you to run back to where you were. Find someone who can take a message to Papa. Tell him that all of you have gone across the river but that I’m still here with Mary Melissa.”
“Mama, I—”
“Carl, I know you want to stay and protect me, but I need you with the children. Find Mary Fielding Smith and her family. They just went over last night, so they should be there somewhere. Tell her what’s happened and that we’ll get there as soon as possible.”
“I will, Mama. I’ll take care of them.”
She reached out and touched his face, the tears trickling down her cheeks now. “I know you will, Carl. I’m so glad I’ve got you.”
“What about Sarah?” David asked.
“Sarah goes too. She’s a little better now. But be sure and keep her warm tonight. Don’t let go of her. Not for one minute.”
They both nodded.
“Go, Carl. Then come back as quickly as you can.”
By Saturday morning the sheer weight of numbers was proving to be decisive. The little band of defenders, numbering no more than one hundred and fifty, was making it costly for the larger force to advance, but advancing they were.
The three companies of the defenders had retreated down Temple Hill and taken up positions along the defensive wall they had thrown up along Mulholland Street. The Spartan Band retreated as well; then they quick-marched through the West Grove, a thick stand of trees where Joseph Smith had so often preached to his people, and took up their positions in a cornfield that gave them a commanding view of Mulholland where it came past the temple and dropped down the bluffs. They hoped that their enemies saw this as a rout and would come after them.
They had only half an hour to wait. They could hear the opposing forces coming before they saw them. Somewhere just beyond the temple, cannon were booming constantly, and Carl could hear the screech of the cannonballs passing overhead. The mob forces had received another wagonload of ammunition from Quincy during the night and were making Nauvoo pay for it dearly.
Carl forced himself not to think of Melissa and Mary Melissa each time there was a loud explosion behind him and he knew one of the balls had found another mark. A few minutes earlier, as they were coming up the hill, he had looked back and seen the large puffs of dust appear where the cannonballs fell into one of the fields. He didn’t have to look hard to see that they were falling beyond Granger Street. That meant Steed Row was now within range of the guns.
“Here they come!” someone hissed, and Carl leaned forward, peering through the green stalks of corn.
They were marching four abreast, with their officers in the lead. A man on a horse just behind the officers carried a banner on a pole—a banner for the Carthage Greys, Carl suspected. Thoug
h they were not in uniform, they had every other appearance of an army on the march, and had they not been the enemy, it might have been a stirring sight. He smiled. It had worked. They were coming on as if they had conquered the city and were now ready to claim their spoils.
“Cannon ready?”
He turned. The Spartan Band had been given one of the steamboat-shaft cannons. That was an important concession because one of the five homemade cannons had stopped working after only three shots, and another one was being repaired. But William Anderson’s band was out front and would be the first to meet the oncoming enemy, and so Colonel Johnson had sent one up to them. It was now placed in front of the men, hidden behind only one row of corn. William Anderson stood behind it, eyeing down the barrel, then leaning over to judge the angle. They had no way to aim it accurately. Even the cannonballs they had collected from the bombardment didn’t fit snugly. There was a quarter-inch space all around as they put the ball into the muzzle. That would significantly lessen its velocity and distance. Their chance of hitting what they were shooting at was remote if not impossible. But they had learned something in these last two days, as Colonel Johnson put it: Accuracy was no more critical than effect.
The man with the small torch stood beside Anderson, waiting for the command. Anderson, satisfied with the position of the gun, was now staring at the column as row after row of men came over the top of the hill. “Look at those cocky fools,” he muttered. Then he looked at the man beside him. He hesitated only another second or two, then dropped his arm. “Fire!”
With a roar that shook the ground, the cannon belched smoke and flame ten feet out from the muzzle. Off to the left of the column, a spurt of earth and bushes flew into the air. They had shot wide by almost three rods. But it was all right. If it had hit the column directly, it couldn’t have created greater pandemonium. The officers wheeled their horses around and dug their spurs into their flanks. Men were screaming and running hard back toward the top of the bluffs. Carl and the others leaped to their feet and began firing as fast as they could pump shells into the chambers. Johnson was right, he thought joyously. Their accuracy was nothing to brag about, but the effect was terrific.
Carl trotted steadily down Mulholland Street, past Partridge and Hyde and Main Streets, then turned south on Granger. He had only a few minutes. William Anderson was reluctant to let him go once the firing stopped, because they all knew that the mob forces would regroup and come again. Only when Carl showed him the message he had received, that Melissa was alone with a very sick child, did Anderson agree to let him go.
Now Carl threw open the gate and ran up the walk and into the house, searching for any signs of damage. “Melissa!”
“Up here!” There was a muffled cry of joy.
By the time he started up the stairs, she had burst out of the bedroom and was waiting for him. She threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking them both down the stairs. “Oh, Carl, you’re safe!”
“I’m fine,” he said, holding her tightly. “How’s Mary Melissa?”
She stepped back into the bedroom, taking his hand. “Not good. I’ve used the last of the quinine. Nothing seems to help.”
“What about the rest of the children?”
“Across the river safely,” she reported with gladness. “One of the ferryman’s boys brought a message from Mary Smith. They’re all safely with her.”
“Good. We’ve got to get you across, Melissa. I don’t know how much longer we can hold them off.”
“I don’t dare move her, Carl. She’s so sick. If the balls start landing close, we can go down in the cellar.”
He hesitated, not liking it but not seeing any choice. “Promise?” he said. “Even if they’re anywhere close?”
“Promise,” she said.
Suddenly the crackle of rifle fire could be heard to the east of them. He looked up in alarm. “They’re coming back, Melissa. I’ve got to go.”
“I know. Thank you for coming, Carl. I’ve been so worried.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She followed him out to the head of the stairs. “I’ll be praying for you.”
He gave her a strange look. “And I’ll be praying for you and the children,” he said. Then he was gone.
Melissa listened to his footsteps through the house and then she heard the door shut. She went back into the bedroom and sank slowly to her knees at Mary Melissa’s bedside. She bowed her head and began to pray in earnest.
To Nathan’s surprise, when they returned to camp from cutting hay on Friday evening, there was a message waiting for him from Brigham Young. There was to be a high council meeting at six the following morning. Nathan wasn’t sure why he was invited, but decided perhaps some of the bishops were wanted as well. When he told Joshua about the meeting, Joshua decided he would go too. He wasn’t invited to the meeting, but he would wait for Nathan and then afterwards they could talk to the President. As it turned out, that proved to be unnecessary.
“Brethren, we have two items of business to discuss this morning. The first has to do with a new site for our primary settlement.”
Nathan looked around. There were about twenty men gathered around Brigham’s wagons. There were a few members of the Twelve and the men of the high council for Cutler’s Park—those he had expected. But there were three or four others, including himself. He was the only bishop. He wasn’t sure why. It had surprised him when Brigham saw Joshua and insisted that he come to the meeting as well.
“Yesterday,” President Young went on, “I went out with the Twelve. We have found a place more suitable for our winter settlement. It is a beautiful piece of flatland near the river, with some prairie hills directly behind it. We began a survey and have laid out Main Street. The survey will continue over the next week, and the lots will be divided out and assigned. We have decided to call our new city Winter Quarters.”
There were nods and a few murmurs of approval.
“We shall call on our people to move there immediately and begin building homes. It is now the twelfth day of September, and we cannot delay further without serious consequences.”
He stopped for a moment to let them know that that was all he would say on the subject. The lightness in his tone disappeared now. “There is a second matter. We have received additional dispatches from Nauvoo. Conditions there are not good.”
Nathan and Joshua exchanged surprised glances.
“The enemies of the Church grow more bold. Some of our number were kidnapped and held hostage for several days. The call for another ‘wolf hunt’ is being issued by the likes of Thomas Sharp and the Carthage Greys.” He sighed deeply. “We have seen these conditions before, and they do not bode well for our people.”
Joshua leaned over. “Maybe we won’t have to ask him what to do,” he whispered.
Nathan nodded.
“As you all know,” Brigham continued, “our brethren and sisters who still remain in Nauvoo are the poor and the sick and the helpless. They do not have the strength or the means to come on here by themselves. They must have help.”
He reached down and picked up a piece of paper from the table beside him. “Last night I directed that certain individuals in Nauvoo be sent for and helped to come here or to Garden Grove or Mount Pisgah.”
He began to read the names one by one. Nathan recognized some of them. Thomas Bullock had served as a clerk for the Twelve. Addison Everett had worked with them on the temple. Thomas Stiles was an elderly gentleman who often came in the store and visited with Lydia and Caroline. Truman O. Angell had helped on the design and construction of the Nauvoo Temple and was Brigham’s brother-in-law. When Brigham read the name Mary Smith, Nathan assumed that was Mary Fielding Smith, and that startled him a little. In a letter that had come more than a month ago, Melissa had mentioned that the longtime family friend would be leaving Nauvoo very soon. They had watched for her and waited for word of her, but nothing had come. That she was on Brigham’s list implied she might still be bac
k in the city or somewhere along the way.
Brigham laid the paper down again. “There are others, of course. All will almost certainly need our help. Some of you here have families still there.” He looked directly at Joshua and Nathan. “So we are asking for teamsters who will volunteer to take wagons back for these people.”
Nathan nudged Joshua’s arm, smiling at him. “I think from now on,” he whispered, “I’ll ask you how to recognize the Spirit.”
Joshua only smiled, seeming pleased.
Brigham went on. “So far, we have the following volunteers.” He picked up a second piece of paper and began to read. When he was through, Nathan and Joshua put up their hands as well. Brigham nodded knowingly. “And,” he added, “Nathan and Joshua Steed. Brother Orville M. Allen will serve as foreman of the company, and Pliny Fisher will serve as his counselor. We shall prepare a letter of instructions for you to carry with you. You have three hundred and twenty-five miles to go. We would like you to begin preparations for departure as soon as possible. Any questions?”
He looked around. No one raised a hand. He nodded curtly and the meeting was dismissed.
Chapter Notes
On 11 September 1846, Brigham Young and those of the Twelve who were with him selected a new site for their permanent settlement on the west side of the Missouri River, a settlement which was to be called Winter Quarters. It was a little north and west of Cutler’s Park, which had been selected previously. A week later another slight adjustment was made that placed the settlement a bit closer to the river, the site being in what is now called Florence, Nebraska. (See SW,pp. 155–58; MHBY,pp. 377–78.) There were also sufficient numbers still on the east side of the river that a settlement in Council Bluffs was also planned.
Though the Saints gathered at the Missouri had no way of knowing that a battle had already erupted in Nauvoo, Brigham Young was greatly concerned about the “poor Saints” still there. On 11 September he designated specific names of people either in Nauvoo or along the way that he wanted brought out, and the next morning in a high council meeting he called ten volunteers to go back and get them.
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