by Marian Wells
Intently, patiently, she fed bits of bark into the fire. When there was a glow and a touch of warmth, she got to her feet. Sally still stood beside the door with the sleeping toddler in her arms.
Jenny found she must ignore those haunted eyes and concentrate on Tamara. Slipping her arms under the wonderfully warm, limp child, Jenny carried her to the cot tucked back in the corner. There was a streak of dirt on the child’s cheek, marked through with the water-course of tears.
As Jenny pulled the coverlet over her, Tamara curled one hand across her forehead. The blood on her hand must have come from Jenny’s own. She winced as she looked down at herself and wondered whose blood it was.
Sally knelt beside the fire, shivering and weeping silently. The kettle of water was beginning to steam, and Jenny went to her precious store of herbs. Mindlessly she murmured the chant, stirred the herbs together and poured the hot water over them.
When Sally had drunk the last of the pungent mixture, color returned to her face. She placed the cup on the table and whispered, “What’s to happen to us all? Will we be next?”
“Laney said no, that they have gone.”
Sally shivered again, and from the horror in her eyes, Jenny knew she would talk. “I’ll never forget the smell of blood, those cold, limp bodies. Why did those men shoot that little boy?” Jenny shook her head and closed her eyes against the memory of the backsmith shop and the smell of death. Her spirit shrank in horror even as taunting voices bound her thoughts and sent prickles of meaning into the scene at Haun’s Mill.
The words had to be said, and Jenny gave them voice. “Good and evil. The one is wrapped in the other, and never can they be escaped. The spirits laugh with glee. How can I believe in anything good when such horror abounds?”
Jumping to her feet she dashed for the jar of herbs. Pouring a handful of the mixture into the skillet, she bent over the fire and waited until the dried leaves began to smolder and smoke. Shivering with fear and urgency, Jenny began the chant against death and disaster. When the leaves spiralled into flame, she slowly stood and, holding the skillet high, walked about the room, lifting the purifying smoke into every corner of the room.
From her place on the hearth, Sally watched. When the last wisp of smoke had dissipated, she whispered, “You really believe those charms work, don’t you?”
“They are working on you—see how calm you’ve become?”
“I thought it was the drink.” She paused and then asked. “What will the smoke do?”
“Dispel the bad spirits and give us peace.”
“If that is so, why does your hand still shake?” Soundlessly Jenny shook her head. With new horror, she felt the tears rolling down her face.
Later, when the fire had burned to coals and Jenny slept, the dreams came. She awakened in terror. Sitting up in bed she stared at her hands in the pearly light of dawn. In her dream they had dripped with blood. Everything she touched became tainted with human blood, even Mark. And he had slipped from her grasping hands, disappearing in darkness.
As she huddled in her bed, trembling at the memory scent of blood and wondering why the herbs hadn’t dispelled the spirits, she recalled the rest of the dream. Jenny had been wearing the crown of a high priestess. It had been shiny, glittering with jewels, but when she had stretched out her regal hand to confer blessings and power, the hand dripped blood. Looking down at her robe, she discovered it filthy and covered with blood.
Jenny and Sally dragged themselves about their morning tasks, and then at high noon, Andy came.
Seeing their faces, he slowly sat down and pulled Tamara to his lap. After listening to their experiences, Jenny saw their own horror reflected on his face. She saw the concern as he looked from her to his wife. It was an expression she couldn’t understand.
It was several days before Andy began to talk about all that had been happening. Jenny learned about the siege in Far West and Adam-ondi-Ahman. He described that final disheartening scene when the men yielded their arms and their Prophet was marched away under guard. “It makes a person wonder and question. Especially when all the promises seem to be failing.”
Sally’s reaction forced Jenny to grasp the seriousness of it all. “No!” Sally cried, clasping her hands against her face. “That cannot be. He is the Lord’s anointed in this dispensation. God’s will and promises to him must not fail. Oh, where have we failed the Prophet?
“We must not allow his hands to be tied. He assured us that if we were faithful to obey, then the blessings of the Lord would shower upon us. Blessings from heaven!”
She dropped her hands and lifted her chin. “I have not failed him. I shall be obedient to the Lord’s anointed until death.” For a moment her face flushed and her eyes sparkled, but Jenny was caught by the expression in Andy’s eyes. It was disturbing to her, but she did not understand why until much later when she was to see that same expression in Mark’s eyes.
Chapter 23
“Tom Timmons, Lyman Wight’s sent for you. Hurry, they’re rounding up the men right now.” Tom dumped the handful of horseshoes he had been holding and turned. Mike looked at him curiously, “What have you been doing? Folks were beginning to think you’d left with the rest of the fellas.”
“Trying to salvage this bunch of old shoes. A body’s got to have something to do to keep from going crazy.” Mike nodded sympathetically, but Tom knew his concern was only skin deep. Mike was a Gentile, an easy-going fellow who liked everyone and refused to side with any.
Mike continued, “Joseph and all the other Mormon big shots are being pulled in. Wight sent me to find you. He wants you to be sticking as close to Joe as you can. Says follow the bunch, bend an ear and, whatever you do, watch out for Avard.”
Tom frowned, “Why did you say that? Is Joe fearing Avard will turn traitor?”
“I’m in the dark,” Mike said with a shrug. “I only know what Wight said. He was talking about a paper Avard didn’t dispose of. Joe had told him if the Gentiles got a hold of that paper, it would give them information about the Danites that would be grounds for charging him with treason.” Mike studied Tom thoughtfully before adding, “Looks like your bunch is knee-high in hot water right now.” He was still shaking his head when he left the stable.
Late in the day, following the orders he had been given, Tom eased through the militia lines and nosed around until he discovered the open area where the prisoners were bedded down. It had begun to rain about the time Tom left Far West. The cold drizzle continued all night.
Crouched close to the guards placed around the men, Tom shivered in his wet clothes. He couldn’t help wondering who was more miserable—Joe and the other prisoners, the guards, or himself.
Late that night, he heard the low murmur of voices coming from the guards. Cautiously Tom crept closer to listen. The rumble of conversation was punctuated by an occasional word and a mocking laugh. As Tom listened, he realized the guards were betting each other on the outcome of Joseph’s trial. Tom moved restlessly in his hiding place. Only his promise to Wight kept him quiet. All instinct demanded he attempt to rescue the Prophet.
He had nearly dozed when the clink of metal stirrups startled him. Inching forward, Tom immediately recognized General Lucas’ cold voice speaking to Wight. “You are sentenced to be shot to death at eight tomorrow morning,” he was saying. “You and the rest of the men.”
Just as Tom moaned and ducked his head into his folded arms, Wight’s voice thundered back, “Shoot and be damned.”
And Lucas admonished, “We were hoping you would come out against Joseph Smith. It would save your hide. I fear your fate is settled.”
When Lucas turned and strode away, Tom moved back in the shelter of the willows; the rain was dripping down his back. All talk had ceased, even the guards were silent except for sober monosyllables. Tom was left to his thoughts as he crouched, shivering, under the willows. He tried to imagine the Saints without Joseph, and could feel only despair.
Without a doubt, every person
in Israel’s camp would feel the rending. Tom tried to analyze his faith and compare it with some of the strong ones. His gloom deepened when he finally acknowledged his feelings. Without Joseph there didn’t seem to be anything to have faith in. Shaking with cold, he waited for the dawn.
The sky was just beginning to lighten when Tom managed to mingle with the men around the corrals. Later he discovered he had a ringside seat. When the restless milling of the crowd ceased, there was a roll of drums. General Doniphan and his brigade marched in and took formation.
Slowly the crowd parted. Tom watched the bedraggled prisoners being brought to face Doniphan. Tom studied the impassive faces of the dark-clad Joseph Smith and his tattered men. Remembering Lucas’ statement last night, he felt his heart tighten in horror and pity. He felt that somehow all life had been suspended. Even the early sunlight touching the faces of the men seemed to pause before moving on.
There was silence and a hushed expectancy as Doniphan walked regally toward the line of prisoners. For a moment his figure outlined against the dawn seemed larger than life. His roar filled the arena. “You have been sentenced by court-martial to be shot!” He paused until the echo of his voice died away. “Your actions have not been the actions of honorable men. But I have indicated in the past that I will not disgrace myself or my men by sinking to mob tactics, and that is just what I deem today’s order. My brigade is here, not to carry out those orders, but instead to take up a line of march out of this camp. I refuse to be a part of cold-blooded murder.”
General Doniphan turned and held out a white paper. For a moment a vagrant pencil of sunlight touched the paper, and Tom was filled with a sense of good omen. With awe he watched the orderly run across the field carrying the paper, which he thrust into General Lucas’ hand. Tom watched the confusion of expression and sound as General Lucas quickly gathered his men about him and retired from the field.
Stealthily Tom made his way behind the line of tents, seeking a place to listen as Lucas called the court to order and read the paper to them. In addition to the declaration which he had made on the field, Doniphan had included his instructions, which Lucas slowly read aloud. “If you follow through with the execution of these men, I promise you I shall hold you responsible before the courts.”
Before Tom had a chance to bring his news to Far West, the message was carried by Lucas and his men. When Tom reached the town square, it was packed with Saints. He studied the tired, careworn faces gathered to listen as General Lucas delivered the verdict in a cold, passionless voice.
Tom was watching the people as the man delivered his speech in ringing tones that filled the square and echoed back, underscoring the finality of the situation.
It took another Saint to understand the quiet expressions on these faces—the softening of the men’s furrowed brows, the tears on the faces of Joseph’s parents, Emma’s tightly closed eyes. These things might not seem like high emotion to Lucas; but Tom knew what it meant.
These people were not only hearing that the lives of Joseph and his men had been spared, but they were hearing a vindication for themselves. Once again they were to be given an opportunity to pick up the staff of their religion; and through obeying their Prophet, they would give God a chance to fulfill His promises to them. That was hope reborn.
Tom turned away. Most surely there would be prison and trial, but that bridge would be crossed later. He grinned. Joseph had survived the death sentence; didn’t that prove the Lord was on his side?
Before the glad tears had dried on the faces of the Saints, there was another order. All of those who had participated in the war were to surrender their arms and prepare to yield their property to pay for the expenses of the war.
When Lucas paraded the prisoners through the streets of Far West, Tom was there. He had spotted Mark in the crowd and edged close. Together they watched the prison wagon move slowly through the streets, carrying Joseph Smith and his men.
Right at the last, in the confusion created as the wives and mothers of the prisoners pressed close to the wagon for a final word with their loved ones, Tom hissed in Mark’s ear, “Get Jenny and head for the state line. You won’t be in the wrong; that leg kept you out of the battle. But if you don’t leave, they’ll find some way to get to you. Be off, get my sister, and go.”
“Since Haun’s Mill I’ve been trying to reach her. Once Joseph’s men broke and ran, we were placed under heavy guard, and I can’t get out of town. But Andy’s been with the women nearly all the time, so they’re safe.”
“You don’t understand, Mark. It’s for you I’m fearing.”
“I’ll see,” Mark answered slowly. “You know Joseph asked me to keep a hand on the affairs around here until Brigham Young can help out. I’m about the only one of the bunch left. Brigham and Heber Kimball have left the state. Avard and most of the other Danites who didn’t get caught have left, too.” He paused and then asked, “What about you?”
“Right now I’m the only smithy around. I’m better known for hanging around the stable than for my Danite activities. If I’m lucky they’ll be concentrating on their list of names and leave me alone.”
Despite Tom’s warning, Mark lingered on, trying to reassure the bewildered people. But within the next week the town of Far West crumbled. With the surrender, rioting mobs freely entered the town, destroying and looting. Tom couldn’t help wondering if the Gentiles had gained new confidence since they knew the remnant of the army of Israel—those who had been forced to yield their arms and surrender property—were being held prisoner in Far West.
A committee had been assigned to investigate the affairs of the Saints, to determine what property would be assigned to them in order to enable them to leave the state. But for now rioting intensified, and the spirit of lawlessness grew.
In the end, in the midst of the confusion, Mark simply walked out of Far West. He was only one more restless prisoner managing to escape.
That evening when he walked through the Morgans’ door, Jenny stood staring at him, unbelieving and without hope. When he held her, he knew the difference. With his hand under her chin, he lifted her face. “My dear, we are going to leave this place as soon as possible.” Studying her face, he saw all the horror of Haun’s Mill reflected in her shadowed eyes.
Mark turned and led her to a bench. She sagged helplessly against him. “Tell me all,” she said. “I know only Haun’s Mill and Andy’s view of the troubles. It isn’t that bad, is it?” He couldn’t understand the expression in her eyes. Had she lost all hope?
He was silent a moment, thinking of his hope and wishing desperately that she would listen to him. He sighed restlessly, trying once again to be patient.
“It is total. Jenny, Missouri has crushed us. All Joseph’s people are paupers. If we escape with our lives, it will be a miracle.” He couldn’t withhold the truth of the situation; Jenny was too intelligent to stand for anything except the truth. But at the same time, he clung to her hand and tried to reassure her with a smile.
“All because we would not obey the Prophet,” she said. Mark looked deeply into her eyes and saw still another shadow but could not name it, except to say that it resembled failure.
Their flight was aborted before it began. Andy brought the news. “General Clark is in town. Tomorrow every Mormon man is to be in Far West to receive orders.” He eyed Mark disapprovingly, knowing his plan to leave.
Mark saw that look, but there was nothing he could say. In Andy’s eyes he was apostate, another Judas to deny Joseph.
The next day Jenny, Sally, and Tamara went with Mark and Andy. While Andy drove the team, he told them that General Clark was the commander and chief of the Missouri Militia. Andy faced the women and said, “You see, this is getting to be very serious.”
“It’s snowballed,” Mark added. “The whole situation has just been getting bigger since Joseph moved to Missouri. First it was the run-in with the local justices; then it became an unpleasant game with the militia. That built until now we
have the commander and chief of the state militia out against us.” Mark saw Jenny shiver, and knew she was beginning to understand the seriousness of the situation. Mark himself began thinking of Tom’s advice. What possible evidences of guilt could be brought against him? Then he remembered the walnut clock at the cabin and winced.
In town there was an additional stir of excitement. Avard had been captured as he attempted to flee the state. When Mark heard, he carried the news back to Andy, saying, “Every man here is shaking in his boots. No one has the slightest idea what’ll happen now.”
“I don’t understand,” Jenny said slowly.
Mark said, “Rumor’s such that it’s looking like Avard had Joseph wrapped around his finger. It’s Avard who’s supposed to be responsible for the Danites. If they manage to pull out all the information about their activities, there’re many men who could be ruined.”
The air of dread and excitement was rising in the town as the people waited. All the Caldwell County Saints were in Far West, crammed into the town square when General Clark and his men arrived.
While their families huddled miserably, shivering in the cold wind, fifty-six men were separated from the others. Now prisoners of the state, they were advised they were to be sent to Richmond for trial.
As the charges were read against the group, General Clark paused to look out over the town. “The citizens of Daviess County are faced with the task of trying to restore a measure of order to their lives.” His voice was dry. “It has been ascertained that prior to his surrender to General Lucas, Joseph Smith ordered that the plunder taken from the citizens of both Caldwell and Daviess counties be gathered and stored in one area in order to avoid any one person being charged with the particular crime. This attempt to shield his people has expedited the recovery of goods. It has also enabled us to honor the request of some of your past churchmen, now referred to as dissenters. We have been able to recover some of the household goods belonging to David and John Whitmer, Oliver Cowdery, and a Mr. Johnson. These goods will be returned to them.” There was a stir among the people and for a brief moment, Mark grinned.