by Marian Wells
As she faced the west, behind her the water of Grand River crashed and roared, while before her the dark trees whispered in the gentle breeze. Even now, in the beginning days, she felt she knew it all as a soul-deep experience.
“Oh, Mark,” she whispered, “may we stay forever?”
When he turned she saw first his puzzled expression and then as he looked across the water, the deepening quiet began moving into his eyes. Looking out over the tumbling river he said softly, “It seems like heaven; but, my dear, we will be hard-pressed to make it so.”
As if loathe to move away from the spot, for the two weeks which followed, Mark and Jenny stirred about their acres, learning it all, loving each tree and bush.
One day, watching Mark in his beginning efforts to clear land for a cabin, Jenny giggled, and when he looked at her, she said, “I was thinking, we’re making a nest as if we’re reluctant to move a twig out of its precious spot.”
Mark wiped perspiration out of his eyes and nodded. His only answer was a kiss pressed quickly against her cheek as he reached for the axe.
While Mark continued to cut trees and tried to hide the crime, Jenny stacked river stones into a beehive of an oven. She reordered her wagon into a home while Mark removed its wheels and fashioned them and part of the box into a reasonable buggy.
And then it was Independence Day. From the first day of their arrival in Far West, they had been regaled with the glory of the celebration planned for Far West.
Jenny and Mark took a holiday from their house building, and early the morning of July Fourth, they joined the crowd moving toward Far West.
“Mrs. Cartwright, how festive you look!” Mark grinned down at her as he guided the crude buggy on its maiden voyage. “You look fresh out of Harper’s Bazaar. No one will guess you’ve bathed in river water, with a laundry tub for a bathtub.”
“And despite your calluses, you look more the fine gentleman than a bumbling farmer.”
“I’m not even a bumbling farmer yet. And I won’t be that for long if I can help it.”
“You think there will be a place for you with Joseph?”
He shrugged and eased the buggy onto the main road heading toward Far West. They were silent until the road smoothed and then Jenny asked, “Have you heard about the program for the day?”
“Only hints. I know the ground-breaking for the temple is to take place. I know there will be speeches and food and quite a little horsing around. I’d almost guarantee you that Joseph will start a wrestling match and that someone will grease the new flagpole and wager against anyone climbing it.”
Jenny patted the bundle covered with a tablecloth. “I hope this cake is good. I’ve never before baked a cake in a stone oven.”
“I doubt you are alone in that. At least you have the sugar and flour—some don’t have that.”
“Seems strange to see stores so empty of food—and everything else except shovels and scythes, harnesses and ammunition. Joseph must plan for us to kill our daily bread.” She leaned forward to look at Mark’s face. “Mark, are things bad for people?”
“Of course, but then what would you expect? Many have expended themselves completely in order to make this journey.”
They had nearly reached the outskirts of Far West when Jenny realized the line of buggies and wagons in front of them had slowed. “What is the problem?” she asked, stretching to see ahead.
“People,” Mark replied. “In this one spot there’re more people than we’ve seen in a long time.”
“All Saints?” Mark didn’t answer; he was leaning over the edge of the buggy to talk to the man who had run forward.
“You people Saints?” At Mark’s nod, the man continued, “Joseph’s having us all in the parade. Join the group ahead and go to the edge of town. We’re marching to the temple site for the laying of the cornerstone. There’s a pack of Gentiles here, and he’s set on giving them an eye- and earful. Let no man doubt the strength of the Saints after today.”
When Mark and Jenny joined the crowd, Jenny began eagerly scanning the group, looking for Kirtland friends.
Then she saw the trio of dark-coated men and unexpectedly her heart quickened its beat. While she was seeking out Joseph’s face, she frowned, dismayed by the unexpected response of her errant heart. But her attention was quickly captured as Joseph turned his face toward her.
She studied the tall figure and bright hair. Beside him stood his brother Hyrum, and Sidney Rigdon. As she watched, a group of men stepped in front of the trio. She looked them over and asked, “Who are those men standing just in front of the first presidency? Those ragged-looking fellows with the guns?”
“I don’t know,” Mark murmured.
“Them’s the infantry,” the old fellow beside Mark said proudly. “Gideon’s band, the Danites, whatever you want to call them. They look right ready to defend the Prophet, don’t they?”
Mark’s answer was drowned by the shouts of the horsemen cantering toward them. The old man added, “The cavalry’s to bring up the end, so’s we best be getting in line or they’ll go off and leave us.”
As they marched through the streets, Jenny was deeply aware of the line of men standing at the edge of the road. She knew they were not Saints. They not only looked rough, she decided, observing their scowling frowns; they also didn’t look as if they had come to enjoy the celebration. She noted several kept their hands fastened firmly around the guns they carried. Jenny’s uneasiness grew as they continued down the street.
Only a few of these Gentiles were women. She spotted them dotting the crowd. As she studied them, Jenny realized they varied from the weatherbeaten ones wearing homespun and bewildered faces, to hard-faced women, corseted and wearing flamboyant hats decorated with plumes.
Jenny was so caught staring at these women that she stubbed her toe on a rock. Mark grasped her arm and with a grin asked, “Haven’t you ever seen a fancy lady before?”
They had reached the end of the parade route and people clumped together. Jenny had only begun to recognize some of her Kirtland friends when the mass of people parted and Jenny saw they stood on the rim of a large hole.
She arched her eyebrows and Mark whispered, “The excavation for the temple.”
When the silence became oppressive, a solemn-faced Rigdon took his place and spread his crackling papers. “Better, far better,” he cried, lifting his face toward the sky, “to sleep with the dead than to be oppressed among the living.”
The shock of his words swept through the crowd. Jenny felt it and was caught by the expression and murmurs of those around her. Soon she realized that after his glorious beginning, she had nearly lost the thread of the speech until she heard, “Our cheeks have been given to the smiters—time after time, again and again. I advise you, this we will do no more. Let there be a mob come upon us to disturb us again and I advise you”—he paused and leaned forward to fasten the crowd with an unwavering stare—“that mob we will follow until the last drop of their blood is shed. It will be a war of extermination. We will carry the war to them, one and all. One or the other of us will cease to exist. We will, remember, my men, not be the aggressors, but we’ll stand for our own kind until death.” His voice was hoarse and cracking as he concluded, “On this day we proclaim ourselves free—our determination will never, no, never be broken.”
The crowd cheered and shouted, “Hosanna, hosanna to God and to the Lamb!” Jenny stood transfixed, watching as the Gentiles, hands on guns, melted away in the crowd and disappeared. For a moment, as she shivered and hugged her arms, Mark looked at her. She saw the darkness in his eyes and turned away.
But the shouting crowd had set the holiday mood. Joseph built upon it with his address, although secretly Jenny thought only his presence was necessary to bring his people to a state of adoring frenzy.
Nevertheless, there were his words, giving out the revelation in slow majestic tones that seemed to roll over the people, building in volume. He stood, hands clasped behind his black-clad fi
gure, his head thrown back, saying, “My beloved Saints, I want you to hear from the Lord just how precious in His sight are the events transpiring here today. First off, He has instructed me of a name change. Henceforth the church is to be known as the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints. His word to me is that the city of Far West is holy and consecrated land. It shall be called most holy. The very ground whereon it stands is holy. Next, He commands that we build a house to Him. Today we laid the cornerstone. In one year from last April 26, He commands that we commence building. From that time until it is finished, the work must continue. The counsel of men has been thwarted, but now is the appointed time. Saints from all over the world are commanded to assist in the building.”
He paused and looked over the crowd. “Our Lord instructs us in the manner in which He will allow His house to be built. This most holy place will be acceptable to Him only if we carefully follow His instructions in the building of it. He has laid careful plans for the financing of our building.”
When the last speech was ended, the crowd broke, separated, and regrouped. For many of the new settlers, this was the first occasion for visiting. As they moved through the crowd, Jenny and Mark were seeing many of their Kirtland friends for the first time since the wagon train had divided. At the time, a hint of coolness in the reunion was overlooked in the excitement of being together again. Only in looking back was Jenny able to identify it.
Just as Mark had promised, there were all the foolish, lighthearted displays of valor. It was very late before Mark and Jenny started their return trip the thirteen miles home, and then Jenny mulled over the slight.
Mark answered her question with a short comment. “Could be, not that they were shunning, but that there’s a fear abroad of being labeled dissenter. You’ve heard the talk. There’s fierce and abiding loyalty demanded here. Jenny, already I detect a touch of cynicism in the Prophet.” Slowly Mark added, “He’s no longer the jolly Prophet I first met. I would say he’s felt badly used and will try his best to avoid being seen as soft.”
“Soft?” she repeated.
“The opposite of hard as nails,” he said in a teasing voice. In the twilight he looked at her thoughtfully and in a gentle voice he added, “Perhaps it’s just that Joseph has lost some of the stars in his eyes. Might be that now he sees himself and others in a more realistic way.”
Three days later a storm tore through Far West. Some said the Lord was hurling his thunderbolts at the city. Saints shivered in their cabins, wondering at the fury of the Lord’s actions. And when the storm was over, the liberty pole in the center of Far West’s town square was shattered on the ground. Some whispered it was an evil omen and they couldn’t help thinking it was signaling the end of freedom in Missouri.
In Adam-ondi-Ahman there was a rumor abroad. Mark reported it to Jenny. “They’re saying Joseph is getting ready to reveal revelations from the Lord regarding the new United Order. You know Cowdery and Whitmer predicted this. They’re giving out hints that indicate there’s a significant benefit for us all.”
Jenny looked up at him and said, “You’re not believing that, are you?”
“No, like the dissenters, I believe every man should hold his own land. Besides, I believe Joseph and Rigdon are assuming too much control. If this keeps up, we’ll all be wooden puppets.”
Far West had scarcely time enough to settle into the post-Independence Day routine when Joseph announced the new order.
On July 8, he called together the church members. Standing before the assembled people, he read the revelation, calling upon the Saints to deed their property to the church. As she listened, Jenny was thinking of all the land just purchased by the Kirtland wagon train.
From behind her came a mutter, “This is a fine time to pull that. The bunch from Kirtland’s just sunk a big bundle into land over at Adam-ondi-Ahman. The Saints pay Missouri for land and then turn around and give it to the Prophet.”
Jenny moved her shoulders restlessly and tried to ignore the man behind her. She glanced around the vast group, trying to pick out her friends in that sea of faces. Where were Sally and Andy? She hadn’t seen them on Independence Day. What had happened to those disgruntled foes of Cowdery, Johnson, and the Whitmers? What about old Mrs. Applewaite? Joseph surely wouldn’t be asking for the property of the old and poor!
Now the Prophet was explaining that in return for their deed of property, each Saint would receive a deed for an everlasting inheritance. “The real property,” Joseph called it. The surplus property—which was the Saints’ donation to the church—was to remain in the hands of the bishop, to be used in building the temple and for supporting the church presidency, as well as laying the foundation of Zion.
In front of Jenny a man in a tattered shirt snorted and said, “And then on top of that there’s the tithing we’ll be having to pay on the everlasting inheritance. I can’t give my family a decent life now, and look at the Prophet in his pretty black coat. He’s never had it so good. I remember when he was a barefoot boy like my young’uns. Propheting is good business.”
There was a low voice coming from behind Jenny. “Hansen, watch your complaints; even the ground has ears.” The complainer drifted away as Rigdon stood to speak.
Jenny was watching Hansen as he limped away, but she turned back as Sidney Rigdon’s voice rose. “I prophesy, just as surely as I stand here, those who fail to heed the warnings from the Lord will lose their property to Gentile thieves and robbers. I can assure you”—his voice dropped and he leaned across the podium—“sooner or later, those who refuse to comply will be surrendered to the brothers of Gideon.”
From behind Jenny came the hiss, “The Danites.”
Later, when the vote was taken, the Saints had voted unanimously to consecrate their property to the church.
On the way home, Jenny broke the silence. “Mark, what do you know about these Danites, or brothers of Gideon?”
Quietly, he replied, “I don’t know, Jenny. But I intend to investigate the matter.”
Thinking of the dissenters, Jenny whispered, “Mark, be careful.” For a moment, as she continued to watch him, Jenny thought again of her resolve to see Joseph. With a sigh she turned away, wondering why she felt as if she were being pulled in two.
“What?” She questioned, realizing she hadn’t been listening to Mark.
He was shaking his head, and then with a frown he added, “I will be careful, Jenny, my girl.”
And then in another moment, she added with a sigh, “At least you voted to consecrate your property to the church.”
He chuckled, “I haven’t given a bride price yet—I think it will be worth it. Besides, right now, they aren’t getting much. I’ve done little to improve the place except to pull out a few trees to clear a place for our cabin.”
“It will be wonderful to have a cozy home before winter. That storm two weeks ago was an awful warning of what the winter will hold. Right now I just wish Tom would get here with the furniture. I’m worried about him.”
“I think Tom can take care of himself. It isn’t the first trip he’s made out here.” Mark was quiet for a moment and then slowly, thoughtfully, he said, “So the Prophet plans to acquire all land in a twelve-mile radius around each stake of Zion. That’s our property, in the name of the church.”
Chapter 8
When Tom pulled the heavily loaded wagon into Far West, the place seemed little like the sleepy western town he had left at spring planting time.
Tom had been in on the birth-pains of this village just one year ago when Jackson County Mormons had moved into the area. From a clearing marked with tiny, crude cabins, Far West had grown into a presentable town with sturdy cabins and acres of tilled land. Even the first season crops had been good.
Although it wasn’t until this spring that Joseph Smith had finally moved to Far West from Kirtland, Ohio, he had been responsible for the planning of the town. Wisely, Tom admitted with pride, Joseph had laid out the town with large lots and wide
streets.
Tom knew that initially the area had been settled with fifteen hundred citizens. Since the exodus from Kirtland, Ohio, had begun, he had lost all count of the emigrants who had moved into Caldwell County and subsequently settled in the surrounding counties.
Looking around, Tom decided any man would find Far West a town to be proud of. Tom knew the Saints’ industry had aroused the envy of Gentile neighbors. Besides the one large building serving multiple purposes and the scattering of little log huts, stocked with a goodly supply of every commodity necessary on the frontier, the Saints had also built a schoolhouse. Just this spring the basement of the temple had been excavated shortly before Joseph had moved his family to Far West.
Now Tom guided his team toward the town square, sawed on the reins, and scratched his head. The once-towering liberty pole in the center of the square was a splintery stub the size of a fence post. “Me thinks,” he said slowly, “that the town of Far West has had some interesting life lately.”
He headed for the long, low-slung log building which housed post office, saloon, and general store.
When he settled himself at the bar and ordered bacon and eggs, he said, “So, Mike, what’s been happening in Caldwell County since I left? Specifically, who tore the flagpole down?”
Mike shrugged. “They’re saying the Almighty. But ’twas lightning.”
When Mike went back to polishing glasses, Tom concluded his question had been answered and went on to the next. “Wagon train from Kirtland arrive?”
Mike nodded. “While back Joseph completed dickering for land over Adam-ondi-Ahman way. He sent them up that way to buy their lots. Some of the die-hards in the bunch objected to being pointed in the direction Joe wanted them to go. Seems they wanted to settle closer to Far West.”
“Spring Hill area, huh?”
“Don’t let Joe hear you call it that. He’s trying hard to get the Jackson crowd to calling it by its new name, seein’ the place has something to do with Adam building that altar up the hill aways.” His voice was dry.