Morning Star
Page 35
As instructed, the men grouped and fell in behind Governor Ford and General Deming. Tom watched the dapper young governor stride toward the first line of troops. With a slight bow he said, “Gentlemen, I present to you the Prophet, General Joseph Smith and his brother, General Hyrum Smith.”
So they proceeded down the line until they reached the Carthage Grays. As Governor Ford started to deliver his introductions, a ripple of unrest swept through the troops—a sneer, a shout, then cat-calls were thrown at the men. Under the blast of sound, Tom heard the Governor’s mild rebuke, but General Deming wheeled and approached the men.
“Men, you have shown conduct unworthy of the uniform you wear. I hereby place you under arrest!” he barked.
As Joseph, followed by Hyrum, Porter, and Tom, returned to the hotel, the Prophet used the cover of noise to say, “I’ve retained two Iowa attorneys to represent me. They should be here by the time we appear before the Justice of the Peace. Tom, you keep your eyes on the street. I want Porter inside.”
Just before noon, Porter appeared, his face long. “Nearly made it home scot-free for now. The case got set up for next court, and Joseph and the other city council fellows were released on bonds. But lo and behold that fella Bettisworth, the one turned loose on Joseph by the apostates, well, he slapped Joseph with a warrant charging him with treason and rebellion against the state of Illinois.
“They were sayin’ the charge was for calling out the Legion to make war on the citizens around the county and then for puttin’ Nauvoo under martial law.”
Late that evening Constable Bettisworth appeared again, this time with an order to transfer Joseph and Hyrum to jail.
“No good talking,” Porter grumbled to Tom who was again posted in the hallway. “Governor Ford agrees it’s outta line, but he’s saying they’ll all be safer in jail overnight. Joseph’s wrung a promise outta Ford, so it looks like Ford’s going to take Joe into Nauvoo tomorrow.”
Porter paused, looked at Tom, and added, “Seems the governor’s been getting reports of counterfeiting and other crimes going on in Nauvoo, so he’s taking men and going to investigate.” He paused and said, “Don’t bring up a fuss if you don’t see me no more. Hang in with the Prophet unless it looks like you need to go for help.”
That night, on mattresses spread on the floor of the jail, the men restlessly tossed and talked in low voices until one by one they drifted into sleep.
Even Tom’s eyes were growing heavy when he heard the Prophet turn. “Tom—” In the darkness Joseph’s voice seemed thin, without its usual vigor. “Tom, are you afraid to die?”
Slowly Tom said, “Joseph, do you really think the time has come?” There was silence and Tom thought about all Mark had said to him about being saved by grace. He thought about his own decision to trust in God through Jesus Christ. He thought, too, of the peace that had come to dwell in his heart. Peace—was it peace? More than peace, it seemed like a happy confidence telling him that he’d taken the only possible course.
“Joseph, seems a body ought to be at peace inside even if he’s going to die. I read in the Bible that the Apostle Paul said he’d rather go be with Jesus Christ than to just keep on living. I’m not certain right now that I wouldn’t rather go on living, but I’m not scared. A bullet can take a man mighty fast.”
In the morning, Joseph told Tom about his dream. “There was mud, rising up to my ankles, clinging, like chains, holding me fast.” Tom saw the sweat beaded on the Prophet’s face.
“Joseph, seems from reading the Bible that I get the idea, no matter how bad a body is, God will forgive him if he’s just willing to go it Jesus’ way.”
Joseph was silent a moment and then he turned. “Here’s what I want you to do. Get out on the streets, listen. Find out what’s going on. If there’s a plot, I want it uncovered.”
As Tom started down the stairs, the guard followed him. Coming close to Tom he murmured, “You look like a nice lad; why don’t you just take off? There’s going to be trouble. Too much has been wasted to let old Joe escape now.”
For a few minutes Tom hesitated as he stood in front of the jail. Finally he turned and loped down the road toward the center of town.
He found Governor Ford in his office. As Tom related the whispers of the guard, the governor’s frown deepened. “Nonsense!” he snorted. “There’s no possibility of any such thing happening. The troops from Warsaw are being sent home. Don’t worry; your Prophet will live to stand trial. Go home to your people—there’s nothing you can do here.”
Tom wandered through the town, trying to listen to the fragments of conversation coming his direction, all the time looking for one familiar face.
In the late afternoon, a chance conversation slipped the news to him that Governor Ford had left for Nauvoo, and the Prophet wasn’t with him.
Tom started for the jail at a fast walk. Suddenly he stopped. Porter had seeded his mind with an idea. Joseph needed his men to defend him. Last night one of Joseph’s visitors had slipped both Joseph and Hyrum pistols, but that wasn’t enough.
Tom turned and headed for the stables. Getting his horse, he rode casually beyond the outskirts of Carthage and then he dug his heels into the mare’s sides. Tom was an hour out of Carthage when he saw the cloud of dust billowing above the trees. With instinct born of fear, he pulled his horse aside into the woods and waited.
The group of horsemen swept silently past him. They were moving rapidly, but Tom had time to see their faces. For precious minutes Tom sat in the saddle and puzzled over the spectacle he had seen. All of the men were wrapped in rags, their faces painted in grotesque patterns of red and yellow. Some were crudely painted, smeared with black.
Their hard, swift passage clamored for Tom’s attention. Suddenly he whipped around and headed back to Carthage. As he rode he was filled with the sense of the futility of his mission. But he also knew there was no alternative.
Long before he reached the jail, Tom heard the shouts, the gunfire. As he pulled up in front of the jail, Tom threw himself from the horse and ran. Abruptly there was a lull in the firing. For a moment, while all action was suspended, Tom’s feet slowed and he looked up.
He saw the Prophet outlined in the window, watched his hand come up in a familiar Masonic gesture, and heard the cry, “Is there no help for the widow’s son?” Overlapping the cry was the blast of gunfire, and Joseph pitched forward through the window.
Tom had seen dead men before; he turned away and climbed back on his horse.
****
“Listen!” Jenny straightened in her chair and cocked her head. Beside her Mark stood, caught, listening with one hand outstretched. Jenny crossed her hands and pressed them to her throat. The thunder of the cannons seemed to come from all directions, and the concussion struck her heart, filling her with terror.
Wildly she looked around, “Mark, it’s everywhere!”
“Warsaw, Quincy, Carthage, Montrose,” he named them as the explosions continued.
She saw his face and threw herself into his arms. “My husband, is it war?”
He shook his head and held her close. They stood together, holding their breath and listening. Suddenly a new sound burst upon their ears. Distant, dim, then picking up new voices, the bells tolled.
She searched his face, not knowing the question to ask. In wonder he said, “Those aren’t sad bells; they’re rejoicing!”
“But Nauvoo hasn’t a bell,” Jenny protested. His answer came slowly.
“I don’t think Nauvoo has a reason to rejoice.”
In the morning Tom came. His face was ashen as he dropped into the rocking chair and told his story. Finally he sat at the table and ate the breakfast Jenny prepared for him, saying, “If you want to pay homage, we best start soon. I came during the night to carry the news and alert the Legion. They will be bringing the coffins to Nauvoo House soon.”
“He was a friend—of course we will go,” Mark said, and Jenny listening nodded her approval. Their eyes met. Many things
still lay unsaid between them. But she understood the expression, and felt the same deep emotion as their hands stretched toward each other.
Long before they reached Nauvoo there was the sound of muffled drums, the clink of horse’s hooves on stone. And then they heard the weeping Saints and the shuffle of the Legion’s feet.
On the street leading to Nauvoo House, Jenny and Mark, holding the baby, stood close together, watching as the wagon carrying its burden of black-draped coffins slowly creaked past.
While dust powdered upward behind the horses, Mark turned to see the masses pressing in waves of black toward Nauvoo House. “Jenny, I would like to express my condolences to Emma, but let’s slip around the back way.”
By the time Jenny and Mark had walked through the trees and approached the Nauvoo House through the back trails, the queue of Saints extended through the streets, beyond the mill, the newspaper office, Joseph’s store, and beyond the stables into the temple grove.
Mark took Jenny’s hand as they started down the steps toward the coffins. As they neared, a woman in black rushed forward. Jenny watched her convulsive weeping as she made her way to the coffin.
When she extended one trembling hand to touch Joseph’s coffin, Mark said slowly, “That’s Lucinda Morgan Harris.” Strange that she seems so very—”
“Yes, I know,” Jenny murmured. Her attention was caught by the man approaching Emma Smith.
She watched him bend over Emma’s hand, press something into her palm, and then move away. When Jenny and Mark reached Emma, her reddened eyes were staring at the circle of metal in her palm.
Hesitantly Jenny moved forward, wondering whether to kiss that icy woman or merely shake her hand. But the sight of the disk stopped her.
Shuddering but fascinated, Jenny stepped close to Emma and looked down at the talisman. “Oh, Emma,” she whispered. “Please, please throw it away!”
The bowed woman in black straightened and looked at Jenny. “I shall not; it belonged to my dear husband.” Slowly she added, “Dr. Richards recovered it for me. It was in his pocket.”
Clasping the medal to her bosom, she said softly, “Little I have to remember his greatness, but always I shall have this precious token. And it was precious. You see, for as long as I can remember he’s carried this medal.”
Dread filled Jenny as she clasped the woman’s hand. Jenny knew she was shivering. “Believe me,” she pleaded, “the powers of darkness work through such items. I would be amiss if I didn’t warn you. Don’t let the powers reach out and taint you and your children.”
Emma pulled her hand away from Jenny, and with a touch of her usual spunk she snapped, “Powers of darkness! My husband was a virtuous man. Don’t think to deprive me of the last link I shall ever have.”
As Emma turned away the tears stung Jenny’s eyes, blurring into one mass of blackness—the woman, the covered coffins, and the line of weeping Saints.
Mark’s hand was on her arm. She covered it with her own as they turned to go. Back in the shadows they passed another black-clad woman. As she turned away, Jenny recognized Eliza Snow.
Jenny shivered again, this time for the Jenny who very nearly joined the ranks of these dark-clad wives.
Silently they walked back through the trees again. When they found the path, Jenny stopped and turned. She looked back at the Nauvoo House and the coffins. “Poor Joseph.”
Thoughtfully Mark said, “It’ll be the legend of Joseph which will live on. At the hands of his people history will be kind to him. Soon even these Saints will forget the pain and bondage he has inflicted upon the seekers of the truth.”
“Mark, I’m so grateful.”
“Jesus Christ?”
She nodded. “Why did He allow us to be blessed with truth? Why did He allow us to escape? After all the ugliness of my life, why did He care enough to just give me a gift so precious? Gladly I would have worked my fingers to the bone for the rest of my days, just to earn it.”
“To earn salvation, to earn His love? Jenny, my darling wife, there’s no way you could have earned it, even working your fingers to the bone. You received it because you wanted it. Salvation is a free gift, but it isn’t cheap. It cost God’s life.”
Jenny nodded and linked her arm through Mark’s. She couldn’t speak for the tears that rose in her throat, but Mark understood her silence. He smiled and squeezed her hand, and together they walked toward home.
MARIAN WELLS and her husband live in Boulder, Colorado. A well-known author, her research and background on Mormonism provided the thrust for her bestselling STARLIGHT TRILOGY, the Wedding Dress and With This Ring.
Books by Marian Wells
The Wedding Dress
With This Ring
Karen
THE STARLIGHT TRILOGY SERIES
The Wishing Star
Star Light, Star Bright
Morning Star
THE TREASURE QUEST SERIES
The Silver Highway
Colorado Gold
Out of the Crucible
Jewel of Promise