The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  There were smiles and nods from the assembly. Hancock was as well respected as Morley.

  “All right, brethren,” Morley concluded. “Let’s be alert. Go about your work. Remember to stay calm. This is not a time for hotheadedness. We must—”

  “Look!”

  They spun around. One of the brethren at the back of the group was staring northward, pointing.

  Solomon felt his stomach drop. Once again a column of smoke was rising into the sky a mile or so to the north of them.

  “It’s Durfee’s place,” someone cried. “They’ve fired Durfee’s place again.”

  The shock was deep and profound. It instantly dispelled any hope that last night’s raids were a minor skirmish and that the mob was satisfied.

  “Listen!” Brother Hancock commanded. In the silence that followed, they could hear the faint popping that signaled the sound of rifles.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” one of the men breathed, “watch over our brother and his family.”

  “Shall we ride out to help?” someone asked.

  Father Morley was staring at the smoke, the sickness of his heart written clearly in the lines of his face. “No,” he finally said, “that’s what the mob will be hoping for. Just pray that the Durfees will be all right. You’d better see to your own homes, brethren.”

  “And you’d better get your things loaded, Isaac,” Brother Hancock said firmly. “You must leave before they come here.”

  “Yes,” he said, half-dazed. “Yes.”

  And then as they turned round and started to disperse, there was another cry. “No!”

  As one, they gaped across the fields to the south. A pall of smoke filled the sky to the south of them. This was not one isolated column, but fire after fire.

  “It’s Lima!” someone shouted. “They’re burning Lima!”

  “Heaven help us!” Sister Morley cried softly.

  Solomon turned and ran for the barn where his horse was stabled. A moment later he returned with his spyglass. With a great hollowness inside him, he raised it to his eye. It was hard to tell how many fires there were, for one pillar of smoke seemed to blend with another. After a moment, he lowered the glass and looked at Father Morley and Solomon Hancock. He shook his head. “I’d say seven or eight homes. Maybe more.”

  He heard the soft gasps and the low murmurs of shock, but no one said anything. They were too horrified by what lay before their eyes.

  “Rider coming!”

  They swung around as one. Lima was another settlement made up largely of Mormons which lay about three miles to the south of Yelrome. As they looked, they saw a solitary horseman, coming at a hard run up the road that led to Lima. They watched in silence as the rider approached the Morley farm and finally pulled into the yard and reined up hard. He was off the horse and running to Father Morley. “They’re burning Lima, Father Morley,” he shouted.

  He was a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He wore no hat. His face was flushed with excitement, his eyes wide and frightened. Brother Hancock went to him immediately. “John, how bad is it?”

  He brushed a hand over his eyes. “Bad, Brother Hancock. They’ve set fire to eight homes now.” He looked south, then looked away again. “They came in just after sunrise. There must be a hundred of them. Levi Williams is their leader.”

  “Williams?” Father Morley cried. “This is not good.”

  “They made us come out of our houses. Men. Women. Children. They drove everyone outside. Some are barefoot or in nightclothes. It made no difference. Ma is real sick right now, but that didn’t matter either. They drove us outside at the point of a rifle. They carried our stuff out of the house and set it in the yard. Then they stuffed the corners of the house with straw and set it on fire.”

  He had to stop for a moment, swallowing hard. “Our house is gone. Our sheds are burning. As soon as they left to go to the next place, Pa sent me to warn you.”

  Father Morley reached out and placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Thank you, John. Go back to your father. Tell the people not to fight them. That’s what they’re hoping for. They’ll gun us down like ducks in a pond.” He turned to the other men. “It’s begun,” he said softly. “Brethren, I suggest you return to your homes and prepare for the worst.”

  Chapter Notes

  At this time in the Church’s history, the term Jack Mormon referred to nonmembers who were either friendly with the Mormons or sympathetic to the Mormon cause. Jacob Backenstos, a well-known Jack Mormon, was elected sheriff of Hancock County largely with the support of the Mormon vote in August of 1845. Thus he was bitterly hated by the anti-Mormons (which, incidentally, was their name for themselves).

  There was a meeting held on 9 September in Green Plains, Hancock County. Green Plains was six miles southeast of Warsaw, which is about fifteen miles south of Nauvoo. Yelrome, or the Morley Settlement, was about five or six miles south of Green Plains. Levi Williams, one of the most bitter and violent of the antis, lived in Green Plains and was at the meeting. No specific mention is made in the records as to whether Thomas Sharp was there, but his role as shown here is true to his character, his motives, and his leadership role. (See Thomas Gregg, History of Hancock County, Illinois [Chicago: Chas. C. Chapman and Co., 1880], p. 340; CHFT, p. 301; Edmund Durfee, pp. 14–15.)

  As shown here, the meeting was fired upon, which the crowd took to be an attack by the Mormons. This precipitated the march the next day against Yelrome. Governor Ford, who was no friend to the Mormons, later said in his history of Illinois that “some persons of their own number,” meaning of the number of the mob, and not Mormons, fired the shots into the meeting (Thomas Ford, A History of Illinois [1854; reprint, Chicago: Lakeside Press, 1946], 2:293–94).

  Chapter 17

  They had about two-thirds of the furniture out of the house and into the waiting wagons by nine o’clock. Though the morning was still cool and the air fresh, Solomon was sweating heavily. They were working as swiftly as possible. An uneasy silence lay over all of them as they kept glancing to the south where the smoke was dying now but still clearly evident. Ten minutes before, to everyone’s great relief, Edmund Durfee and his family arrived and came to report to Father Morley. The good news was that they were all safe. The house and barn they had saved last night were total losses, but none of them had been harmed. That was the good news. The news that sent a shiver through everyone was the report that the mob had fired on the family—including the children!—as they scurried for safety. The night before, the riders shot only in the air to intimidate the Durfees. They were obviously deeply shaken. Brother Hancock took them to his home, where they could rest and be safe for a time. Those that stayed to help Father Morley dug in with renewed energy.

  Ten minutes later, as they were loading one of the last large pieces of furniture onto the wagon, once again the cry of “Riders coming!” jerked everyone’s head up. Instinctively they all moved in closer to each other, because this was not just someone coming to report. A band of horsemen, fifty or sixty strong at least, were cantering down the road toward them. Every man had a rifle out of its scabbard and held at the ready.

  Isaac Morley glanced at Solomon. The horsemen had reached the lane that led to the Morley farm and were turning in. “The lead rider is Levi Williams,” he said grimly. “Murderer of the Prophet.”

  The riders trotted up, horses blowing, bridles jingling, stirring up clouds of dust in the yard. A dozen or so had large burlap bags tied to their saddle horns. Solomon could see that they were stuffed with straw. They immediately spread out into a circle surrounding the wagons and the Mormons who stood by them.

  “Well, well, well,” Williams said with a sneer. “Old Father Morley. Just what is going on here? You planning to take a trip?”

  Morley stepped forward, his head up, his eyes calm now. “Hello, Williams.” He inclined his head briefly toward the south. “I thought you might be behind all this.”

  Levi Williams was a big man, going somewhat to paunch
now, but with broad shoulders and thick torso. His face was hard, blunt, brutal. There was no life in his eyes, though they glittered with dark anticipation. He shoved his rifle back in its scabbard and swung down. His men did not follow suit. The rifles lay easily across their legs now, but every muzzle was pointing in the direction of the men around the wagons. Williams moved to the lead wagon and walked around it slowly. When he made the circle he came back to Father Morley. “I asked you a question, Morley. You taking a trip somewhere?”

  “I am moving my family to Nauvoo, as directed.”

  “As directed?”

  “Yes. I was asked to move there by Brigham Young.”

  “Smart move on his part,” Williams said with an insolent grin.

  “Look,” Brother Hancock said, stepping forward. “We haven’t done you any harm. Why are you doing this?” He looked around at the men, recognizing some of them. “You. You’re from Lima. How can you do this to your neighbors? They haven’t done anything to you.”

  Williams looked incredulous, then grinned up at his men. “He asked you boys a question. Could it be because you don’t like your neighbors? Could that be it?”

  There was a burst of laughter, raucous and crude.

  “What do you want?” Morley asked.

  Now there was a sudden hardness to Williams’s jaw. “Why, we want to help you on your way.” He turned his head. “You men. Get in there and get the rest of that furniture out of the house. These brethren look tired.”

  As four men dismounted and ran into the house, Williams turned and looked toward the large shed that housed Isaac Morley’s cooper shop. “It seems to me that a man who’s moving to Nauvoo might be burdened down with worry if he were to leave too much behind.”

  Morley jerked forward a step. “No, not the cooper shop. I employ twelve men there. It’s their livelihood.”

  “Now, ain’t that a shame,” came the snarling reply. Williams jerked a thumb at some more of his men. Five more swung down, this time those with the burlap bags. Without waiting for further instructions, they darted toward the cooper shop. In moments they were stuffing huge handfuls of straw into every crack and cranny.

  “Seems to me,” Williams said with a wolfish grin, “that if something were to happen to your cooper’s shop, those twelve men might no longer have a livelihood. Then they just might have to move to Nauvoo along with you. And wouldn’t that be a shame.” He jerked his head at another man. “Burn it to the ground.”

  “No!” cried Sister Morley, lurching forward, her hands outstretched, imploring. Her husband grabbed her and pulled her back. The man got down, took a short length of tree limb from a saddlebag, and started fumbling in his pocket. The end of the tree limb had burlap wrapped around it and it smelled strongly of kerosene. In a moment, he withdrew a match, struck it on the leather of his saddle, and lit the torch. With a war whoop he was off and touching the flames to the straw.

  Sister Morley closed her eyes and turned to bury her face against her husband’s chest. Now more men were getting down with their bags. They moved swiftly. Others stayed astride their horses and jammed straw up under the eaves and in the higher cracks of the house.

  Sister Morley turned, weeping now. “Please. Not my house. We’re leaving. There’s no need to burn it.”

  But the forced joviality in Williams was gone now. His expression was stony, his body rigid and unbending. He watched as the men finished their work. The cooper shop was ablaze now, and the torch man came running to start on the house.

  “No!”

  Solomon jerked around. One of the men who had been helping them load the wagons was staring at the cooper shop, his mouth working. “No! Not the shop!”

  He suddenly darted away, racing for the shed.

  “Brother Hallett!” Father Morley shouted. “Come back!”

  “Get him!” Williams bellowed. Half a dozen rifles jerked up and there was a deafening roar as one after another fired. Clark Hallett darted back and forth, like a bantam rooster trying to escape the chicken hawk. Spurts of dust were kicking up all around him. Without hesitation he plunged through the door of the shop, grabbing at a sack that was not yet burning. He disappeared into the smoke, beating at the flames, shouting wildly.

  Williams swore, jerked a pistol from his belt, and took aim at the shadowy figure barely glimpsed through the smoke and the fire. Without a sound, and with no conscious thought behind the action, Solomon Garrett launched himself at Levi Williams. His shoulder caught him squarely in the back, knocking him sprawling. His mistake was that he did nothing more. He wasn’t trying to fight Williams, only stop the senseless shooting at Clark Hallett. But two of the men who had carried the furniture out of the house leaped on Solomon, clubbing him to the ground with their rifle butts.

  Williams got slowly to his feet, breathing hard. He came over to where the two men stood over Solomon, their rifles pointed at his chest. “Hold!” he said. He stepped closer, looking down at Solomon. Solomon was on his back. There was a deep cut over his eye and blood was streaming out of it. His nose was bleeding and his lower lip was also cut. He tried to stir and winced in pain, grasping at his ribs. Williams bent over him, peering more closely at him.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “You’re not from here.” He turned his head to Morley. “Is this a new family? Who is this?”

  Solomon heard the crackling of fire and felt the heat beating against his face now. The house was burning furiously and the flames were already eating into the roof. Isaac Morley deliberately did not look at it. He was staring at Solomon, debating what to do.

  Solomon saw instantly where this could lead. This was no time for bravado. “My name is Solomon Garrett. I’m from Ramus. I am the supervisor of common schools for Hancock County. I came here to talk about opening a common school.”

  “You a Mormon?” Williams sneered.

  Solomon licked his lower lip, then nodded. “I am.”

  “Want us to kill him, Colonel?” one of the men who had beaten him said hungrily. His muzzle moved up slightly to point at Solomon’s head.

  Not moving a muscle, Solomon continued to stare into the eyes of Colonel Levi Williams, knowing that he was only seconds from possible death.

  After a moment, Williams finally straightened. He waved the men back, his eyes never leaving Solomon’s face. “Mr. Garrett, this is your lucky day. Let me tell you why.” He glanced for a brief moment at Father Morley, then at Brother Hancock. “And you all listen and listen good to this. We know we aren’t strong enough to raise an army to go against Nauvoo. So our intent is to do just what we’re doing here. Move in on your settlements. Burn your houses. Shoot your livestock. Spoil your crops. You won’t have any choice. All of you will be like wise old Father Morley here and will flee to Nauvoo for protection. When others see that it’s working—that we are driving the Mormons out—then there’ll be enough support to get the state and the federal governments behind us, and we will drive you from the state.”

  Triumph was heavy in his voice now. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Garrett?”

  Solomon sat up, trying not to gasp with the pain. “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you? You tell me what I’m saying, then.”

  “You want me to go back to Ramus and spread the word among the other settlements. Convince them to move into Nauvoo immediately.”

  Williams looked at his fellow mobocrats with mock astonishment. “Well, I declare. This man must be a schoolteacher. He’s smart as a brand-new twenty-dollar gold piece.” The feral look was instantly back. He reached out with one foot and pushed softly at Solomon’s chest with the toe of his boot. “I wouldn’t leave until tomorrow, Mormon. The roads won’t be safe today. But then you’d better get. You go on back home and spread the word. Tell ’em in Bear Creek. Tell ’em in Plymouth. Tell ’em in Ramus. You tell ’em we’re coming.”

  Williams turned. The cooper shop was a mass of flames. The house was fully engulfed by the fire now. Giving one last contemptuous look at Solom
on, and then at Isaac Morley, he walked to his horse and swung up into the saddle. It was as if the Mormons had ceased to exist for him. He looked only at his men. “Come on,” he snapped. “We’ve got work to do.”

  It was a little past noon of the next day. They met inside one of the small sheds on the Morley property that had survived the fire. There were twenty or twenty-five of them—men, women, and a few children. They had come here because they assumed it would be safe. If they met where a house was still standing, it would put them all in danger. The Morley homestead was now nothing more than a smouldering set of ruins.

  Above them, the sky was overcast and the rain that had started during the night was still falling. The air had turned noticeably cooler, and one needed a coat if one was to be out in it for any length of time. Behind them, the rain fell softly on the cold and blackened heaps of burnt timbers and charred logs. The acrid, biting smoke that had stung their eyes and choked their throats yesterday was gone now, at least from the Morley farm.

  What hadn’t changed much in the last twenty-four hours was the situation. Less than gunshot range away, the mob was gathered in the yard of another member’s house. They could hear them shouting and yelling, firing off an occasional rifle. Great black pillars of smoke rose upward. Those who watched were almost past shock now. This had become such a common sight it was as though they could not assimilate any more horror or generate any more revulsion. All that was said were things like: “It’s Brother Whiting’s chair shop.” “That must be Azariah Tuttle’s house.” “It’s the Cox place.” At sundown the day before, when the mobbers had retreated to Lima to spend a second night with the antis who lived there, the count of destroyed homes and buildings stood at twenty-nine. With their return this morning, the count was approaching forty and still climbing.

  The Morleys were gone. Once it was clear that no amount of effort would save the house or the cooper shop, there was little point in staying. Solomon slept under their wagons with them—hardly the warm hospitality he had been planning on, Solomon thought wryly. They rose at dawn to salvage what little had survived the fire. By eight o’clock they were on their way north. As near as Solomon had been able to tell, they had not looked back even once.