The Work and the Glory (235 page)

He waved his hand in the direction of the dead man on the floor. “This is bad. Very bad. We’ve got to get out of here. Where can we take you?”

“To our house,” Lydia cried. “There are two other families there, but it’s a place where we can hide.”

Joshua straightened. “Get the children. I’ll get Peter. Come on! We don’t have much time.”

* * *

Joshua moved cautiously, pistol in hand, wishing desperately that it was night. He half laughed at his own irrationality. It was not even noon yet. There would be no covering darkness for him this time. He stopped at the corner of a barn and carefully peered around the corner. There were some men looting a home down the street about half a block away. He stepped back, wanting to be sure he could cross without being seen.

He would head west out of the city. Go four or five miles, enough to give Lucas’s camp a wide berth, then head south. He had no plans to try and get back to his horse. That would be certain suicide. He would find a place to hole up, along a creek maybe, and wait until it was dark. Then he would head for Independence. Given half a break he might find a homestead. He’d buy a horse—or steal one if he had to. It was critical he get back to Independence and to Caroline, before the news could precede him. It would be close, but Cornwell had the wagon and emergency supplies all ready and waiting. They would go to St. Louis. Farther if they had to. He nodded at that. He suspected that anywhere in Missouri was not going to be safe for him now. Not for a very long time.

He cursed at himself.
I should have shot the other two as well!
That way there would have been no witnesses, no one to identify Captain Joshua Steed. But he pushed that thought aside almost as quickly as it had come. He couldn’t just shoot a man down in cold blood. Besides, if he had shot them and gotten away clean, they would think the Mormons had done it. And there would be a heavy price to pay for that. A price that would fall on the heads of his own family.

He peeked around the corner again. The men were still at it, but they were running in and out of the house. He let out his breath, his mind racing, knowing it was dangerous to stand still too long. He had to move.

One more quick look. He jerked back, his heart pounding. A man had come out of a house just three buildings down. He was coming toward him. Joshua couldn’t tell if he was Mormon or Missourian. With almost all the Mormon men still held outside of town under guard, it was probably a Missourian, but Joshua sure wasn’t going to wait to find out. He started backing up, lifting his feet carefully so as to make no sound.

He never heard the sound of the rifle shot. He just felt the terrible blow to his back and the instant, searing pain that cut right through his entire body. He half fell, staggering, caught only by the wall of the building. Clutching at his chest, Joshua stared down at the blood splattered on the wall.
Someone’s been shot!
It didn’t register that it was his own blood he was seeing.

Dimly, through a roaring in his ears, he heard a voice shouting from somewhere behind him. “I got ’im! I got ’im!”

He turned slowly, his knees starting to buckle.
I know that voice!
The pain was making him gasp now, and he slid slowly downward until he was sitting down, his back against the barn.
Where have I heard that voice!
It seemed like a problem of immense importance. And then with a great sense of relief, he remembered. It was the voice of the man back at his mother’s cabin. The little man. Joshua shook his head, vastly troubled.
But he left his rifle on the table. He doesn’t have a rifle.

Joshua let the pistol slide out of his fingers. He was glad he had talked to Cornwell. So everything would be ready for him and Caroline to quickly flee. There wouldn’t be much time once he got there.

He was aware of the sound of running feet, but he couldn’t make his eyes focus. The fire was blinding him as well as deafening him. He toppled over onto his side. Somewhere it registered that his face was in the wetness of prairie grass. “I’m coming, Caroline,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

Chapter Notes

The surrender of the Mormon arms was the key to giving the Missouri militia and mob free rein to loot and pillage. Lucas made no effort to control or restrain them. (See
Persecutions
, pp. 243–45.) The descriptions of what followed as seen through Joshua’s eyes are based on contemporary accounts of the fall of Far West (see
Persecutions
, pp. 243–45;
CHFT,
p. 206).

Chapter 22

   No!”

Derek and Benjamin had come around the smokehouse, approaching the cabin from the rear just to be certain it was safe. There were still a few of the militia in town, and so the returning men were taking no chances. Lucas had marched the brethren back into town, then finally released them around noon, warning them that the city was surrounded and that no one was allowed to leave. But as the Mormon men raced homeward it was obvious they were too late to make any difference. Now as Derek and Benjamin rounded the cabin, they came face-to-face with the reaping machine. Benjamin stopped in midstride, gaping at the wreckage before him.

Derek was staring too. The wood panels that formed the sides were splintered and scarred. All but one of the crossbars on the paddle wheel were broken, some in three or four places. Even the seat had deep, ugly scars in the metal.

Half-dazed, Benjamin walked slowly to the battered and broken machine. The place where his name had been burned into the wood had become a particular focus of the axman’s rage, and only one or two letters were even legible. Shaking his head, he reached out his hand, gingerly, slowly, as if he were afraid to touch it.

Frightened now, both of them moved quickly to the back door of the cabin. They stopped, shocked by the shambles that lay before them inside. “Oh,” Benjamin said. It was a low sound filled with immense pain.

Derek felt his stomach twist. “Look!” he whispered. He was pointing to a congealed reddish brown puddle on the floor near the table. Someone’s boot had stepped in one edge of the puddle, then tracked across the floor.

In three steps Derek was to the root cellar. He yanked back the door that covered it. It came as no surprise that it was empty. Grimly, he turned to survey the room. But at that moment, they heard a child’s cry. Both of them jerked around. It had come through the front door of the cabin.

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” The front door flew open and young Joshua burst into the room.

“Joshua?” Benjamin’s cry was a strangled sob of joy.

The boy flew into his arms, nearly bowling him over. “Grandpa! Grandpa!”

“Joshua, where’s Grandma? Where’s your mother?”

The head tipped back and the dark eyes looked up. “At our house.”

The rush of relief almost made Benjamin giddy.

“Are they all right?” Derek demanded. “What about Rebecca?”

“Yes. Everyone’s there.” He took his grandfather’s hand. “Come on, Grandpa. They sent me to get you.”

“What happened here, Joshua?”

A look of terror flashed across the young face. Then he shook his head. “Come home, Grandpa. Come home.”

* * *

“If Joshua hadn’t come . . .” Mary Ann shuddered and looked down at her hands. She took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. “But he did, thanks be to God.”

Benjamin was standing over Peter. He had the boy’s head tipped back and was examining the monstrous lump over his eye. It was brown and black and greenish blue. “You’re gonna have a whoppin’ headache for a while, son,” Benjamin said softly.

Peter managed a fleeting smile. His face was still as pale as the bleached buffalo bones one found on the prairies. He looked very sick. Suddenly Benjamin reached out and pulled the boy to him, crushing him to his bosom with a fierceness that made Peter wince. “You were a man today, Peter. You . . .” He couldn’t make his voice say it. He just shut his eyes against the burning in them and clung to his foster son. “Thank you,” he finally whispered. “Thank you, dear Peter.”

Benjamin stepped back and turned to Jessica. Rachel was standing next to her mother, holding Jessica’s wounded hand as if to comfort her. Benjamin moved to her. She too had a dark lump, but hers was high on her left cheek. “As if you had not already been through enough,” he seethed. “What kind of animal was he?”

“An animal,” Lydia said simply. “And if Joshua hadn’t come . . .” No one seemed to be able to finish that thought. The rest of it was too horrible to put into words.

“Did Joshua get away, then?” Derek said. He was on the small sofa, which had been ripped and slashed until the fabric barely hung together. Rebecca sat beside him, her head on his shoulder. He held her tightly.

Mary Ann’s shoulders rose and fell in a quick shrug. “We hope so. He left here once he was sure we were all right. He said he was going straight back to Independence. He’s going to get Caroline and the children and head for St. Louis.”

“That may not be far enough,” Benjamin said. “Not after what he’s done to his own people here.” He looked around the room. Nathan and Lydia’s cabin was not nearly as vandalized as Benjamin’s, but it was still a mess. “We’re going to have to let Joshua worry about himself right now. It will be dark in an hour. We’d better start straightening up, see if we can find any food, and enough bedding for all of us. And no one goes back to our cabin. No one!”

Suddenly remembrance dawned with Derek. “Where are the Haddocks and the Godfredtsons?” These were the other families who had been staying in Nathan and Lydia’s cabin.

Lydia stepped forward. “We don’t know. When we came back here, they were nowhere to be found. Brother Haddock came a few minutes ago looking for them. That’s how we learned you were free.”

Benjamin nodded briskly. If the other families came back, they’d worry about what to do then. Derek touched Rebecca’s cheek softly. “I’m going to see if I can find any food they missed.” He shook his head, the anger burning inside him as he looked around. “The city is sealed off,” he said gently. “We’re going to have to make do with whatever we have.”

* * *

It was shortly past midnight when Hyrum Smith felt someone shaking his shoulder. He was lying on the cold, damp grass with nothing but his cloak for a covering, hugging himself tightly, trying to keep warm. His body was racked with chills and fever, and he felt very weak.

“Brother Hyrum!”

He sat up with a start, peering into the darkness. “Colonel Hinkle?”

“Shhh!” The colonel pressed a finger to his lips and leaned closer. “I don’t want to alarm the guards.”

“What? What is it?”

“I have some unfortunate news.”

Hyrum was totally awake now. “What news?”

“I’ve just come from the court-martial.”

“Court-martial? What court-martial?”

“For you and the other prisoners.”

Hyrum stared. “But we’re not in the army.”

“Lyman Wight is.” Then Hinkle waved the objection aside and went on. “Lucas called for a trial to determine what to do with you. We’ve been meeting for several hours now. There are a dozen or so officers, a judge, a district attorney, and a lot of other men. Lucas wants to have you all executed.”

There was a gasp from behind them, and Hyrum realized that Joseph was sitting up now too, as were Parley Pratt and Sidney Rigdon. Hinkle looked around, irritated that they had awakened. “I can do nothing for Joseph, but I’ve tried to speak in your behalf.” He shook his head. “But I fear I have not prevailed. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry, Colonel Hinkle?” Parley asked bitterly.

Ignoring that, Hinkle reached out and dug his fingers into Hyrum’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’re all to be shot this morning.”

And with that, he turned and hurried away, disappearing into the darkness. Hyrum felt as though he had been struck a blow. He turned and looked to Joseph, eyes wide and frightened. The other prisoners crawled closer, their faces white now too. Joseph looked at his brother, then at the others. “Brethren,” he finally said calmly, “perhaps we should pray.”

* * *

“General Doniphan, sir?” The aide spoke even as he stepped inside the tent. He clasped a piece of paper tightly in one hand.

Alexander Doniphan was on his feet instantly. “Ah, there you are, Johnson. What is it?”

“General, I’ve just come from the court-martial proceedings.”

“What! Are they still holding that farce?”

“Yes, sir.” The man licked his lips nervously. “There’s been a verdict, sir.”

“Verdict!” Doniphan exploded. “Confound it, man, how can there be a verdict? These men are all civilians except for Wight. They must be tried by a civil tribunal.” Doniphan was a lawyer. On two different occasions now, he had represented Joseph Smith and the Mormons against the trumped-up charges filed against them. Lucas was a fool. A court-martial? It was pure lunacy.

“Sir,” the man said, stepping forward and holding out the paper. “Here’s an order. I was asked to deliver it to you.”

“An order?” Frowning deeply, Doniphan took the paper. He half turned so that the light from his lantern would catch the paper more fully, and began to read aloud. “‘Brigadier-General Doniphan. Sir: You will take Joseph Smith and the other prisoners into the public square of Far West, and shoot them at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning.’” He looked up, shocked. “It’s signed, Samuel D. Lucas, Major-General, Commanding.”

“Yes, sir,” Johnson said in a trembling voice. “That was the decision of the court-martial, sir.”

Doniphan was appalled. “They can’t do that! There’s been no trial. No formal charges. The prisoners have had no chance to defend themselves.” He swore. “As if any of that matters to Lucas.”

For a moment Doniphan stood there, fuming. Then rising to his full height, he turned to his aide. “Take a note.”

The man jumped to the small table and sat down, reaching for the pen and inkwell. “Ready, sir,” he said when he had the pen in his hand.

“To Samuel D. Lucas, Major-General, Commanding. Sir: It is cold-blooded murder. I will not obey your order. My brigade shall march for Liberty tomorrow morning, at 8 o’clock; and if you execute these men, I will hold you responsible before an earthly tribunal, so help me God.”