Clark was already there, sitting astride his horse at the head of his troops, as imperious and arrogant as an Oriental emperor, sneering with barely disguised contempt at the assembly of the vanquished. His men stood in ranks along the streets, weapons at the ready, moving in behind the last of the Saints to form a circle around them. Mary Ann was disgusted. Clark had brought over a thousand men with him, as though the disarmed and demoralized Mormons were some kind of threat to be reckoned with. She started to say something to Ben, but there were soldiers close by and he warned her off with his eyes.
Precisely at twelve noon, Clark stood up in the stirrups and began, without preamble, to speak to the crowd in a loud voice. “I am General John B. Clark. I have been appointed by His Excellency, Lilburn W. Boggs, governor of the state of Missouri, as commander-in-chief of all militia forces in northern Missouri.”
There was an undertone of angry rumblings at the mention of the governor’s name. He it was who had issued the extermination order.
Clark’s voice went up a note in shrillness. “The Mormon war is over. You are defeated. Several of your leaders are in jail awaiting execution. But . . .” His eyes swept up and down the lines of men, women, and children, who were watching him intently. “There are others who are likewise responsible for this outrage.” He punched out every word now with harsh anger. “
And they must be punished too!
”
He spun around to the officer seated on the horse closest to his. “Major Crosby, you may proceed.”
Crosby nodded, threw Clark a quick salute, and prodded his horse forward a few steps. “All men between eighteen years of age and fifty-five years of age, please step forward and form a line.”
There were audible gasps. Then quickly these turned into angry mutterings, cries of alarm, moans, and the first whimpering cries of children. Husbands and wives stared at each other. Someone even had the temerity to shout at Clark and demand to know what was going on.
“Come on! Come on!” Crosby shouted. “Move forward or we’ll drive you out of there at the point of a bayonet.” Encouraged by their officers, the first rank of troops took a step forward, their weapons coming up slightly. Slowly at first, but then more rapidly as some of the other officers started shouting at them, the Mormon men moved away from their families and began to form into lines.
“Benjamin, no!”
Benjamin turned to his wife and grasped her hand for a moment. “Be strong, Mary Ann. It will be all right.” He stepped out and joined the others.
Crosby watched until he was satisfied. Then he took a paper from his tunic. “The following men are under arrest. As I read your name, move foward one step.”
“Arrest?” someone down the line from Benjamin shouted. “On what charges?”
Clark whirled as though a sniper were hidden in the trees and firing at them. “Put that man in chains!” he roared. Four soldiers leaped foward and dragged a struggling figure forward. Now the crowd was too stunned to do anything except stare.
Crosby let his eyes sweep across the assembled line of men. “Anyone trying to hide will be shot. Step forward smartly the instant I read your name. You will be taken to the camp tonight, and then taken by forced march to Richmond on the morrow, there to be tried for your crimes.”
And so the “roll call” began. Women cried or dropped to their knees as their husbands’ names were called. Children began to wail, and Major Crosby had to shout loudly now.
By the tenth name, Benjamin knew exactly what was happening. This was not a random list. Someone had furnished the Missourians with the names of the remaining leadership of the Church. And he thought he knew who had done so. He went up on the balls of his feet, trying to see beyond Clark and his officers to where a group of men were gathered in a tight knot behind them.
Then he came back down. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth to the brother standing next to him. “It’s all of our old friends.”
“Who?” the man beside him asked.
“William McLellin—all the old stalwarts.” Benjamin’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. The apostates would have their revenge now on their former friends and associates who had kicked them out of the Church.
“Quiet!” Crosby roared. “Or I’ll have every one of you standing out here. Quiet!”
The noise dropped off sharply, though the children could not be totally quieted. Somewhat mollified, Crosby continued.
Benjamin Steed was twenty-first on the list. It came as no shock. What
did
catch him by surprise was that the name of Nathan Steed was thirty-seventh. Benjamin had hoped desperately that Nathan and Derek would be spared, since they were younger and weren’t in prominent positions at the moment.
Crosby glanced up, then down again, ready to read the next name, but when no one stepped forward, his head snapped up. “Nathan Steed!” he said more loudly.
When nothing happened, Clark spurred his horse forward a step or two. “I’m warning you,” he cried, “come forward now or risk being shot.”
“Nathan Steed was one of those who fled north to Iowa Territory,” a voice called.
A neighbor who lived a few houses down the street from the Steeds had been the one to call out. Benjamin gave him a quick look of gratitude.
“Nathan Steed!” the adjutant roared. “Step forward.”
“He’s gone,” Benjamin said. “He’s my son, but he’s gone.”
Suddenly McLellin was pushing through the crowd. He came to Clark’s horse and said something up to him. Clark frowned, then nodded. The former Apostle walked swiftly down the line. Benjamin shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Mary Ann was white. Lydia had her hand to her mouth.
McLellin stopped directly in front of Benjamin. “Steed? You are known as being a man of integrity and honesty. I want you to look me in the face and answer two questions. Swear to them.”
Benjamin did not answer.
McLellin took that as agreement. “Did your son Nathan Steed ride north with those who were at the battle of the Crooked River?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And he is not here now? Not anywhere in Far West? Swear it!”
“I swear it,” Benjamin said evenly.
The former Church leader stared at him for a long moment, then finally turned away. “His son is gone, sir,” he called to Clark. “He’s not here.”
Chapter Notes
A few months before the fall of Far West in 1838, Joseph Smith prophesied in a public meeting that before the year was out, one of the elders of the Church would preach a public sermon in Jackson County (see
HC
3:201;
PPP Auto.,
p. 165). The prophecy seemed incredible at the time, but it was fulfilled when Joseph preached in chains to the assembled crowd outside Independence.
Five days after Far West fell, fifty-six of the most prominent men of Far West were taken prisoner and marched off to Richmond. Contemporary accounts report that identification of the Church leaders was aided by former members of the Church. In addition to thus being enabled to satisfy old scores, some of the apostates were paid handsomely for the information. (See
LHCK,
p. 223.) The intent of General Clark was to strip the last vestiges of leadership from the Saints. But two notable and very important omissions from the list of prisoners should be mentioned: Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball. Brigham was by then the senior Apostle, and with all the members of the First Presidency in bonds, he was the most important leader left to guide the Church. But his name was not on the list. Heber C. Kimball said it was because Brigham lived three or four miles outside of Far West and wasn’t well known to the mob. Heber himself was the second in seniority in the Twelve, but he had been gone a year to England and had just returned to Missouri a few weeks before. So he too was overlooked. Heber said Colonel Hinkle came looking for him but could not remember him. (See
LHCK,
p. 222.) These oversights would prove to be of critical importance as Joseph Smith languished in Liberty Jail until April 1839 and the Saints were driven from the state of Missouri.
Chapter 25
Will Mendenhall Steed came into the bathing room just as Caroline and Olivia were finishing Savannah’s bath. “Oh, good,” Caroline said when she saw her son. “Can you and Livvy finish with Savannah? I need to—” She stopped at the sight of Will’s face and his heavy panting. “Will, what’s the matter?”
“Mother, come quick. Mr. Cornwell needs you at the freight yard.”
Caroline stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He gulped in air hungrily, gasping out the words. “He wouldn’t tell me. Just said to fetch you real quick.” He half turned. “Hurry, Mama. I’ve never seen him like this.”
* * *
Joshua’s business partner was waiting for Caroline and Will in the main yard. Caroline rushed up to him. “What is it, Obadiah? What’s wrong?” He took her by the elbow, but to her surprise he did not start toward the office. Instead he steered her toward the long shed where they kept the wagons out of the weather.
“Caroline, there’s been some news from up north.”
She stopped dead. “About Joshua?”
He gently pulled her forward again. “There are two men in the office,” he said slowly, obviously careful of what he was saying. “They’ve come down from Caldwell County just this morning.”
“Do they know anything about Pa?” Will blurted, looking over his shoulder to see if he could see them through the window.
“Please,” Cornwell said. “This isn’t the place to talk.”
Caroline’s stomach was suddenly as tight as a bowstring, but she said nothing more and she and Will followed Cornwell into the shed. Obadiah stopped beside one of the big flatbed wagons they used to haul lumber. He was trying to meet her eyes, but he couldn’t quite do it. “Has Joshua been hurt?” she asked.
His mouth opened, then shut again. Finally he looked away. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I’m so sorry.”
* * *
It was more than a quarter of an hour later when the man called Hugh hurriedly stepped back from the window of the office. “Here they come,” he said. He looked at himself quickly, to see if he was presentable. Any trace of the war paint he had worn just days before was now gone. He had changed the buckskin shirt and moccasins for white man’s clothing. He had even trimmed his beard and spit out his chewing tobacco before he had come to the building that housed the company of Joshua Steed and Son, Freight and Portage.
He leaned forward again, peering at the three figures who had just emerged from the shed and were coming towards the office. He whistled softly. “Now, there’s a looker!” But then he remembered what he was about and moved swiftly back against the wall. “You let me do the talking, Riley.” He swore softly. “We’ll teach that uppity captain not to mess with Neil Gilliam’s boys.”
The other man grimaced as he moved around the desk to join his partner. His left arm was in a sling, and his hand hung useless from out of it. “We already taught him one lesson,” he chortled. “Best shot you ever made.”
“Well, the debt ain’t paid yet. Not by a long shot. So you just let me do the talking.”
* * *
As the three of them stepped up to the porch of the freight office, Cornwell stopped and touched Caroline’s arm. He spoke very gently. “Caroline, I’m not sure this is the best time for you. The men said they can stay until tomorrow if they have to.”
Caroline’s fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. She had finally mastered the tears, though she knew her eyes were red and puffy. She still felt as though huge waves of blackness were washing over her, but the trembling in her body had mostly stopped. Fighting the temptation to bite her lip, she turned to her son. “Will?”
He looked awful, as if he had been struck by some terrible force that had knocked the life from him. But instantly his shoulders straightened. “I want to talk to them, Mama.”
She nodded and looked back to Cornwell. “Me too, Obadiah. I need to hear it for myself.”
Cornwell started to say something else, then finally nodded. “All right.” He opened the door and stood aside.
There were not many people that Caroline took an instant dislike to, but as they stepped into the office and the two men straightened, there was an immediate sense of revulsion. The first man was small, with a narrow face and tiny round eyes that glittered like those of a ferret or a weasel. His beard was trimmed and his clothes were presentable enough, but they weren’t enough to overcome the evilness of his face.
“This is Mr. Hugh Watson,” Cornwell said, “from over in Carroll County.”
The man had his hat in his hand. He grinned, showing crooked teeth and a tongue brown from chewing tobacco. The smile was more like a grimace and only heightened the feral characteristics of his features. “Pleased to meet you, Miz Steed,” he said. He had meant to keep his eyes downcast, but she saw that he was startled by her beauty and had to pull his gaze away from her with some effort. It only made her want to shudder.
Hugh turned to the man beside him. “And this is Mr. Riley—”
“Riley Overson,” the other man said hastily. “I’m from Ray County, ma’am.” He was bigger, fuller in the face, but also heavily bearded and with the kind of face that would make a woman shiver if she passed it on a dark night. She saw that his left arm was in a sling and that he was holding it with his other hand.
“How do you do?” she murmured.
Cornwell pulled out the chair for her, and she waved it aside. But Will took her by the arm and moved her to it. Too emotionally beaten to resist, she sat down. “Mr. Cornwell has told us that you were there when . . .” She fought back the surge of bile that rose in her throat. After a moment, she looked up again. “Will you tell us about it please?”
The one named Hugh stepped forward. He was twisting his hat in his hands as though he too were in pain. “Things were goin’ just fine, ma’am,” he said. “We had taken all the Mormon militia out south of town and had them surrender their weapons. General Lucas, he told us to go through the city, searchin’ from cabin to cabin, lookin’ just in case somebody had held some rifles back. There was three of us. Me and Riley here and a man named Caleb Scott.”