by Dean Hughes
“Listen to me, Liz,” Will said. “We’ll be all right somehow. We will.”
But Liz didn’t want to hear that. She knew that nothing would ever be the same. Everything the Saints had tried to build in Nauvoo felt meaningless, lost. She tried to stop herself, tried to accept this new pain the way she had accepted the others, but all she saw ahead was darkness, and her response was to cry all the harder.
Daniel had been crying since the first shout at the door, but Liz had not let the sound register until now. She knew she had to go to him—was even relieved to have something she had to do. She slipped away, picked him up, and held him close to her. She needed to nurse her baby, protect him, keep him safe. And she needed to comfort little Jacob, who was grasping her leg now, obviously frightened. These were the things that made sense to her now, but she wondered what the day would bring, what attacks might follow, whether anything would ever feel normal again—and how many more might die before the mob was finished.
Will got dressed, but he couldn’t think what to do. What was going through his mind was that the war had only just begun, and now he would have to defend his family. The pain in his wound was throbbing now, after his quick run to the door, but that was not important. His wife and two little boys could be in danger, and he would have to keep them safe.
Warren Baugh came by before long. He had learned a few of the details. The murders had happened the day before—around five o’clock in the afternoon—at the Carthage Jail. John Taylor was badly wounded. Willard Richards had also been in the jail when it had been attacked, but he was all right.
Will knew that two good men had died—men he loved—but so much more than two lives had been taken away. Will and Liz had come to Nauvoo because of a prophet, because of Zion, because of the restored gospel, and now it wasn’t clear whether any of that would go forward. It was possible the Church itself would die. There seemed no doubt that mobs would come next, and the Saints may well be scattered. Joseph Smith had always been the strength of the Church. His vision, his authority, were the forces that kept the Church together, made the connection from heaven to earth. There were fine men in the Church, great men, but they weren’t the Prophet. No one galvanized the membership as he did; no one inspired them as he did.
• • •
Friday was the strangest day of Will’s life. He kept going back to Liz, holding her, and each time she would cry while Will fought against his own tears. He wanted to stay with Liz, but he felt crazy to know how this had happened and what to expect now.
“I want to talk to Brother Clayton,” Will finally told Liz. “Will you be all right if—”
“Yes, go. But find out what we’re to do. Find out if mobs are coming.”
“All right. I’ll see if anyone knows.”
But Will was unable to find William Clayton. Everyone seemed to know something, and at the same time, certain information contradicted what others were saying. Willard Richards had written to Emma, and the content of the letter was being quoted widely. Brother Richards seemed to think a band of men from Missouri had attacked the jail and might be heading for Nauvoo next. But so far there was no sign of mobs moving toward the city.
Everywhere around him, Will found a kind of grief that he had never witnessed before. Everyone looked the same—overcome with sadness and clearly turning inward to ask themselves what would come next. Time and again, he heard people say, “The Prophet. They’ve taken the Prophet.” He saw burly men say the words and break down in tears; he saw women embrace other sisters, cling to one another, and sob. And he knew what they were feeling. No matter how dangerous the situation had become lately, it always had seemed that Joseph would be protected by heavenly power.
Word came after a time that the bodies of Joseph and Hyrum were being brought back to Nauvoo and would arrive early in the afternoon. Will walked home, and then he and Liz walked to Mulholland to wait—with hundreds and gradually thousands of others. It was after three o’clock before the sad procession moved down the street toward the temple. An escort of eight state militia soldiers preceded a pair of white horses. The horses were pulling a wagon covered over with limbs and greenery, which Will understood was to shade the coffin. The rough wood of the pine box became visible under the brush as the wagon neared. Will assumed that Joseph was in the first wagon. It was driven by a man Will recognized: Mr. Hamilton, the proprietor of the Hamilton Hotel where Joseph and Hyrum had stayed in Carthage.
Just as the wagon passed, the reality of it all struck Will. His friend Joseph was in that box. Joseph was not just a Church leader, he was a man Will had laughed with, offered to pull sticks with. Joseph had believed in Will, had called him on a mission, and Will had looked into his blue eyes and had known that he was a prophet of God. He thought of Joseph’s big hand clamping down on his shoulder, pulling him back when Will had wanted to go after the enemy. And now his body was lying in a pine box, all that life simply gone.
Will had been holding on since that morning, trying to be strong for Liz and the boys. But something broke in him now. He tried to hide it all, to gulp down the sobs, but he choked, and then he couldn’t hold back. He was holding little Jacob, and he pulled him tight against his face and cried into the little boy’s chest. Jacob kept patting Will on his head, his cheek, as though to console him. Will only cried harder. And when Liz wrapped one arm around the two of them, still holding Daniel in the other, they all cried together.
Will glanced up to see the other wagon with the same covering, the same kind of coffin. This one was driven by William Smith, Joseph and Hyrum’s brother, who looked broken himself. Will thought of Hyrum, who had consoled Will when Mary Ann had died. He thought of Hyrum’s wife and children, thought how much pain was compounding itself today.
But Will had to get control. He knew he couldn’t worry Jacob this way. “Daddy’s all right,” he said. “Everything’s all right.”
He turned and watched the procession as it continued down Mulholland. People stood quietly, their hats off, watching and then bowing their heads after the wagons passed. Some joined the procession and followed the wagons. A man turned to Will and said, “Apostle Richards will speak at the Mansion House as soon as the coffins arrive.” The man’s eyes looked vacant, but they were red from crying. He was someone Will had seen before, but he didn’t know his name. Still, he felt a kinship, as he did with everyone he saw.
“I don’t know what Brother Richards can tell us that will make any difference,” Will said.
“It doesn’t matter what he says. It never should have happened. I don’t know why God has abandoned us. I don’t understand anything anymore.”
“We’ll be all right. We’ll ... move forward.”
“I can’t do it. I can’t start over again,” the brother said, and tears spilled onto his cheeks. He walked away.
Will turned to Liz. “Do you want to follow the wagons down to the Mansion House?” he asked.
But that was a mile and a half, or more. “No, Will,” she said. “I need to get the boys out of this heat—and me, too. You shouldn’t walk that far either.”
“I can walk well enough. And I do want to hear what our leaders have to say.”
“Then go. I know you want to be there. Are you all right? I know what Joseph meant to you. You were—”
“Let’s not think about that. We have to ... make the best of things.”
But the look on Liz’s face worried Will. She looked as hopeless as the man he had just talked to—as hopeless as Will felt inside.
Will didn’t follow the procession. He walked back along Rich Street and carried Jacob, who fell asleep in his arms. Leaving Liz and the little boys at home, he walked through the woods to the flats, arriving before the wagons did.
He watched from a distance as the wagons reached the Mansion House and the coffins were carried inside. Willard Richards struggled to heft his weight up the ladder onto the platfo
rm where others had spoken lately. Once the members had gathered close, he spoke in measured, careful language, like the physician he was. He told the people that he had promised Governor Ford that the Saints would not seek retribution. He asked everyone to think carefully before they acted, and then he asked for their sustaining voice to promise to preserve the peace. No one seemed to disagree with his sentiment, but Will found that there was nothing consoling in what he said. Will wanted the Spirit to speak peace to his soul, but he felt no solace.
What Will had heard by now was that while the Saints were grieving, word had spread through the county that the Nauvoo Legion was on the march. Panic had spread through all the towns, but especially Warsaw. Thomas Sharp had put out a sheet that in a hasty paragraph urged the citizens of Warsaw to prepare for attack, and he invited men from other towns to hasten to help them. He had also explained what had happened at the jail: Mormons had attacked the jail, he claimed, and the guards had been forced to protect themselves. Will was almost certain that Sharp was behind the attack on Joseph, and his claims were unbearable to read. It was one thing to claim the murder of Joseph and Hyrum as somehow justifiable, but it was quite another to invent such an egregious lie.
On Saturday the Saints gathered again at the Mansion House. A long line extended well up Main Street. All day the people waited patiently to walk through the house and view Joseph and Hyrum, lying in repose. The two had been placed in caskets with glass windows on top, hinged but kept closed, and those who walked by could look down through the glass and see the faces of the men they loved. Joseph looked pale but natural; Hyrum’s face had been mutilated by a ball that had penetrated just to the side of his nose. Something was burning in the room, certainly to mask the smell, but the odor of death was still what Will would always remember. He carried Jacob, but he didn’t let him look, and he only glanced at the faces himself. He remembered instead the good men he had ridden with at the beginning of the week. That was the memory he wanted to keep.
As Will and Liz were leaving, Will glanced into the parlor of the house to see Lucy Smith, her face pale, her eyes fixed, and Emma bent over her, saying something in a soft voice. Will had never seen such a picture of grief. But it was young Frederick who touched Will’s heart. The boy was only eight—old enough to understand what death meant, and yet too young to grasp why his father had been taken. He was standing near his grandmother, staring straight ahead, as much confusion as sorrow in his eyes. Will had seen the boy with his father the previous winter, both of them out sliding on the ice on the frozen river. It was that sort of thing that he was surely missing already, that kind of father.
Thousands passed through the house. The procession continued all day until an end had to be called, and a funeral was held in the old grove west of the temple. W. W. Phelps gave a fine tribute to the Prophet and the Patriarch, and he said that the Church would go forward. The work of the Restoration had not ended. The words were easy to assert—and just as easy to doubt—but Will was comforted by the calm confidence that he heard.
As the funeral was still in session, horse-drawn wagons passed the assembled congregation. Everyone watched as the coffins were hauled up the hill and past the temple. They were heading in the direction of the cemetery east of town. It was a moment of final grief, and Will could feel the pain in the air, hear people crying. But even though the worst had happened, Will’s breath came a little easier as he realized that the Saints were not in a panic, not being attacked, not running for their lives. Maybe Zion wasn’t lost.
Chapter 22
President Crowe opened the door to his office, looked out, and spotted Jeff. “Come on in, Brother Lewis,” he said. “Thanks for waiting.”
Jeff shook the stake president’s hand and stepped into his office. It was April now and a perfect day outside. Jeff had helped Abby get William strapped into his car seat and then had told her to drive home and he would walk. As he’d waited in the hall, he had become increasingly curious to know why the president had asked to see him.
“So what’s your situation now, Brother Lewis?” President Crowe asked. “Are you going to be here a while yet, or will you be leaving?”
“We might be here quite a while, President. My job’s working out quite well.”
President Crowe smiled and nodded. “The Lord’s been listening to your bishop’s prayers,” he said. “I know he’s really hoping that you and Abby will stay here forever. I feel the same way.”
“Well, it’s been great for us to be here. We’ve enjoyed teaching together.”
President Crowe let his eyes slip upwards as he smiled. Jeff knew immediately that everything was about to change. But the president only said, “My daughter keeps telling me how much she and the other young people in your class love the two of you. She told me that her dream in life is to find a husband like you—and have a marriage like you and Abby have.”
That touched Jeff more than he wanted to let on. He looked down at his hands and said, “I’m not sure Abby would recommend me quite so highly. Those kids in the class only see me at my best.”
“Well ... that’s true for all of us. But you’ve been a blessing to them.”
Jeff didn’t really know President Crowe all that well. He knew his family somewhat better. The president always seemed a pleasant, thoughtful man. He had dark hair that was graying a little, quiet eyes, and a calm way of speaking. One thing Will loved about him was that he seemed to remember everyone—or at least he had always called Jeff by name since the first time they had met.
“Your baby is looking great,” President Crowe said. “I think the whole ward has adopted him. Melanie comes home from your Sunday School class talking about little William every week—and how she got a chance to hold him.”
“I don’t know how we could have received more help or support—from the entire ward. That’s one of the reasons we want to stay.” And that was certainly true. Jeff did want to stay in Nauvoo. It was only his job that he still had reservations about.
President Crowe sat back and folded his arms. “I know you like teaching with your wife,” he said, “but we’ve decided it’s time to reorganize the elders quorum. Yesterday, we called Malcolm McCord to serve as president. Malcolm talked things over with Bishop Harrison, and this morning the bishop submitted your name to serve as Malcolm’s first counselor. Would you be willing to serve in that position?”
“Sure. But would I have to give up the Sunday School class?”
The president laughed. “I talked to your bishop about that. He thinks it might be good to have Abby teach by herself—and step out from under your shadow just a little.”
“I think she’s done that already. The kids in the class absolutely love her. But I do talk too much. It probably would be good for her to know that she had the whole lesson to herself. Would it hurt anything if I still went to class with her, though? I’ll miss those kids.”
“I think I’d let her be on her own for a few weeks. Just let her establish herself as the teacher, and then, if you wanted to go in sometimes, that might be good. I still want our young people to have couples like you as their role models.”
“Actually, that’s better. I can take William during that time, and then she won’t have that distraction. That’ll help her more than anything.”
“I think that’s right.” But the president still had his arms folded, was still watching Jeff. “What about serving under Malcolm? Are you all right with that?”
“Of course. He’s my best buddy.”
“That’s what I understand. But Malcolm told your bishop that you should be the president. He thinks you’re more of a leader than he is. He says you’re a teacher and speaker, and he’s just a working man.”
“That sounds like Malcolm. But he’s got it wrong. Malc’s the best guy I know. He’s perfect for the job. All the guys in our quorum respect him—and the truth is, they consider me a bag of hot air. I spend most of m
y time in quorum meetings telling myself to shut up.”
“So you don’t have any trouble playing second fiddle to a guy who isn’t nearly so well educated as you are?”
“Here’s what you need to know, President. Malc’s actually smarter than I am, and he knows the ward a lot better. He’s really reliable, too. He’ll be better than I could ever be.”
President Crowe leaned forward. He looked more relaxed now. “You’re too humble, Jeff,” he said. “I think, at first, your bishop wasn’t quite sure how to take you. But he tells me that you’re a solid man. He said that when you spoke in sacrament meeting, you bore a strong testimony and at the same time you raised questions that made people think. We need that.”
“Well, I hope so. But I won’t try to dominate Malcolm, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Malcolm’s the one who thought you might have some doubts about him.”
“I’ll tell you what Malcolm is, President. He’s good. He’ll always be ahead of me in that department.”
“He is good, Brother Lewis. But don’t underrate yourself.” He nodded, seemed to think for a time. “Here’s the other thing I’m wondering. Bishop Harrison told me about all the work you two are doing on your homes. Will you be able to find time for a busy calling like this?”
“We’ll just have to put first things first. But our projects are winding down a little, so we should be all right. Besides, I know how much time Bishop Harrison puts into his calling. If we elders do our job right, we can take some of the pressure off him.”