Solomon nodded. Isaac Morley’s barrels were renowned for being some of the best made in all of western Illinois. He had a brisk business selling them down at Quincy for the river trade.
“There’s the granary, the livestock, my crops. I decided if I could just get things in order first . . .” He looked away. “Tomorrow. We planned to leave tomorrow.”
“We
are
leaving tomorrow,” his wife said firmly. “First thing, we are packing the wagon and following President Young’s counsel.”
He brightened a little at that. “Yes,” he said, looking at her gratefully. “Yes, tomorrow. Good.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing more to do now than wait. Keep our guard up. Be prepared for whatever tomorrow shall bring.”
They all nodded at that. The gentle old man turned to Solomon. “Will you stand with us, Brother Garrett? We know this isn’t your problem, but we need every man we can muster.” There was no hesitation. “Of course. If the mob heads north for the other settlements, I’ll have to go for my family, but I don’t think that’s their intent.” His mouth pulled down. “At least not yet. So I shall stay here with you and see it through.”
“Thank you.”
He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “And I thought I was coming down here to talk about schools.”
They were up early. Sister Morley fixed them a quick breakfast, and then Father Morley called for a short meeting with the leading brethren of the town. There were eight or ten present. As they gathered, grim faced, in the yard in front of the cooper shop, Solomon Garrett saw that while there was determination in their eyes, there was also a great sense of foreboding. One or two carried rifles, but for the most part the Saints had no weapons. And if they had, they were not sure if they were expected to use them or not.
Morley waited until the last of the men had come in, and then raised one hand for silence. “Brethren, thank you for coming.”
There were solemn nods all around.
“Last night a mob attacked and burned two homes of our brethren. Perhaps they will be back today. We have sent to President Young for counsel. Until then we need to be wise—on our guard and yet wise in our response. We know what happened in Missouri. We do not want another Haun’s Mill here.”
He motioned for Brother Solomon Hancock to step up beside him.
“Brethren, though it is a time of peril, I feel that I must leave you. This is not out of fear, but out of determination to accept the counsel of one of God’s servants, which I should have done some time ago.”
There was no surprise at that, and Solomon Garrett realized that Father Morley’s situation was known to all.
“I shall be loading the wagons with my furniture and goods this morning and leaving you. As you know, President Young has designated Brother Hancock to be the new branch president.” He laid a hand on Hancock’s shoulder. “I need not tell you that you are in good hands with Brother Hancock.”
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.