Emma’s Baptism at Colesville
Chapter Four
Would you give your name and place of residence please?”
“Mr. Josiah Stowell of South Bainbridge.”
“And your occupation, sir?”
“Farmer and owner of a lumber mill. I also trade in wheat and other farm goods in the upper part of the state.”
“And how long have you known the prisoner?”
Josiah Stowell leaned back in his chair and pulled at his lip thoughtfully. “I think I first hired Joseph Smith in the summer of ‘25. So about five years now, maybe six.”
The prosecutor, who had to that time had his back to the witness, addressing the court, suddenly whirled and jabbed a finger at Stowell. “Did not the prisoner, Joseph Smith, have a horse of you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he not go to you and tell you that an angel had appeared unto him and authorized him to get the horse from you?”
Stowell smiled patiently. “No, he told me no such story.”
“Well, how, then, did he have the horse of you?”
“He bought it of me as any other man would.”
“Have you had your pay?”
Stowell straightened, his face tightening. “That is not your affair.”
Justice Joseph Chamberlain frowned. “Please answer the question, Mr. Stowell.”
The prosecutor openly sneered in triumph. “I ask you again, Mr. Stowell. Have you had your pay from the prisoner?”
“I have his note for the price of the horse,” Stowell retorted tartly. “I consider that as good as cash, for I am well acquainted with Joseph Smith, Junior. I know him to be an honest man.” He turned and surveyed the hostile faces that filled the room. “And if Mr. Smith wishes, I will give him another horse this very day on the same terms.”
That did not please the prosecutor. “You may step down, Mr. Stowell.” He turned and looked at the crowd. “Mr. Jonathan Thompson, please.”
A man near the back rose and walked slowly forward to the chair that sat to the side of where Justice Chamberlain was seated. Clearly he was not excited about being part of the proceedings. He sat down, looking at the prosecutor warily.
“Mr. Jonathan Thompson?”
“Yes.”
“Occupation and place of residence please?”
“Farmer. My place is a short distance east of here.”
“Did not the prisoner, Mr. Joseph Smith, have a yoke of oxen of you?”
“He did, sir.”
“Did he not obtain them of you by telling you that he had a revelation to the effect that he was to have them?”
A momentary look of disgust crossed the farmer’s face. “He did not. He did not mention a word of the kind you have stated concerning the oxen. He bought them of me as any other man would.”
Frustrated, the prosecutor immediately dismissed Thompson and called on several others. The results were the same, and for the first time, Nathan felt his hopes begin to lift.
About noon the court was detained while someone was sent off to fetch the two daughters of Josiah Stowell. When they appeared, the lawyer lit into them with unabashed directness. Nathan couldn’t believe some of the questions that were put to them. The innuendos were unmistakable, and several men in the room leered at the two young women when they were asked most specifically about Joseph’s behavior toward them, both in public and private. But again the prosecutor was denied whatever it was he had hoped to achieve. Firmly and without the slightest hesitation, both of the girls testified that Joseph’s behavior had been circumspect and appropriate in every situation and setting.
And so the day dragged on, the heat in the room becoming oppressive as the afternoon reached its peak. There were innumerable delays while additional witnesses were sent for. It soon became clear that the prosecutor and those who had hired him were scouring the countryside near and far to try and find someone whose testimony would convict Joseph. But it was to no avail. Some swore to things which were so patently absurd that even the prosecutor seemed embarrassed. Others contradicted each other on every hand.
Amazingly Joseph seemed unmarred by it all. He sat quietly in his place next to his two defenders, watching with interest, sometimes smiling in amusement at the absurdity of the testimony, but always calm and unruffled.
Evening came, and finally the two men Joseph Knight had secured for Joseph’s defense were allowed to present their case. This time the witnesses were in agreement and spoke with great conviction. James Davidson and John Reid were obviously well known, even in South Bainbridge, and Justice of the Peace Chamberlain listened carefully as they brought forth those who testified of Joseph’s integrity.
Finally, at about eleven o’clock, John Reid stood and faced Justice Chamberlain. “Your Honor,” he said, not trying to hide his disgust at the day’s proceedings. “It is obvious that the defendant in this case is not guilty of the charges brought against him. We have seen the esteemed prosecutor bring forth the wildest collection of witnesses this county has ever seen. And what have they proven? Absolutely nothing!” He turned and shot the prosecuting attorney a withering look of contempt. “They could not even agree with each other on what Mr. Smith is supposed to be guilty of.
“On the other hand, we have brought witness after witness—honorable men and women of our community—who have testified that the defendant is an honest man, a man of integrity and industry who has done nothing to warrant these ridiculous charges. Therefore, Mr. Davidson and I move that all charges be dropped immediately and that Mr. Smith be released to go home.”
“Hear, hear!” James Davidson said clearly.
The prosecutor was on his feet instantly and began a lengthy and rambling rebuttal. As he went on and on, it became clear that he was stalling for some reason. Justice Chamberlain asked more than once if they were ready for a ruling, but the prosecutor begged for “just a little more patience” so the matter could be resolved once and for all.
It was shortly after midnight when a large, burly man slipped into the back of the room. Nathan’s concerns shot up instantly. Was this the man the prosecutor had been waiting for? He looked as hard as slate, like he had sipped more than his share of John Barleycorn in his day. But to Nathan’s relief, he merely glanced around, then stepped to the back wall and leaned against it, looking bored and disinterested. The moment the man was in place, the prosecutor turned to the justice of the peace and surprised everyone. “We are ready for a ruling, sir.”
It only took a few moments before Justice Chamberlain and the others returned. The low buzz of voices instantly ceased when the door opened. Joseph stood, straightening to his full height, and turned to face the justice. Constable Wilson had told Joseph that morning that they were fortunate to have gotten Chamberlain as the judge, for while he was a somber man, he was a fair and impartial one as well.
The judge cleared his throat, then spoke with gravity. He didn’t feel the need for any preamble. “Mr. Smith,” he said firmly, “the court finds you not guilty. The charges are dismissed.”
The courtroom exploded. There were angry cries, a burst of applause from the small group sitting behind Joseph, and Joseph’s own great sigh of relief. Joseph turned to the small group of his supporters, smiling wanly. In an instant they were gathered around him, shaking his hand or clapping him on the back in congratulations.
Oliver slipped an arm through Joseph’s. “Let’s go home, Joseph. Emma will be most anxious to learn of the results.”
But at that moment Nathan felt himself shoved aside roughly. “Mr. Smith.”
It was the large man who had entered the courtroom a few minutes previously. He clutched a paper in one hand and thrust it under Joseph’s nose, the hostility on his face as hard as a slap across the cheek. In that instant Nathan realized why the prosecutor had made that final delay. They needed time to get this man here before the verdict was given.
Joseph seemed to sense it too. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“I am Constable Boyd from Broome County. I have a writ here for your arrest on charges of disturbing the peace in Colesville Township. You’ll be comin’ with me, sir.”
“Mr. Boyd.”
The constable turned with a sneer, wiping the beer foam from his mouth.
“Do you mean to put me up here for the night?”
“What’s it to you?”
The other men in the tavern quieted, turning to watch. The tension in the air was almost as heavy as the cigar and pipe smoke.
“Now that we are back in Colesville,” Joseph said quietly, “we are very near to where my wife is lodged at her sister’s house. I would be easily accessible in the morning.”
Boyd looked at his prisoner in amazement. “Are you daft, Smith? You’ll not be escaping quite so easy from our clutches.” He turned and raised his beer. “Right, men?”
There was a raucous cry of assent, and once again the jeering started. It was nearly two in the morning, but the tavern owner seemed to have no reservations about serving liquor all night if need be. And the men were having great sport.
Suddenly, Boyd reached out and grabbed Joseph’s shoulder. “Sit down!” he bawled. He shoved Joseph hard toward an empty chair. Joseph stumbled, tried to catch himself, but went down hard on his knees.
He looked up at the constable. “I have not had anything to eat since yesterday. If you won’t let me go to my wife, then at least may I have something to eat?”
“The prophet’s hungry!” a man near the bar shouted. “Get the prophet some bread and water.”
The tavern owner tipped his head back and laughed uproariously. “Yes, bread and water. Food for the holy man.”
As Joseph sat down, another man leaned forward, thrusting his face right up next to Joseph’s. His breath was foul, his beard stained with tobacco juice. The front of his shirt had stains from the stew he had eaten earlier. “How about some entertainment, holy man?”
Joseph did not answer. The man stared at him for a moment, his lips compressing into a tight line. Then he reared back. Joseph didn’t have time to react. The man’s hand was a blur. The open palm caught Joseph flat on the cheek, rocking his head backward.
There was a roar of approval.
A man with a bad limp got up from his table and sidled up to Joseph from behind. Joseph seemed to sense his presence, for he started to turn around. The man’s hands flashed out and he clapped them over Joseph’s eyes. Joseph tried to pull away, but the man was surprisingly strong.
“He says he’s a prophet,” the man cried to his companions. “Let’s see if he can prophesy.”
“Yes, let him prophesy.” This time it was an old man, nearing sixty or so. Grinning wickedly, he walked in front of Joseph, stopping within a foot of him. Unable to see but aware that someone had approached him, Joseph tensed, expecting another blow. The room fell silent. The man leaned forward. There was a sudden hawking sound, then the man spit directly into Joseph’s face. He jumped back and joined the others, and the small man lifted his hands from Joseph’s eyes.
Boyd laughed, watching the spittle trickle down Joseph’s face. As Joseph reached up to wipe it away with his sleeve, Boyd grabbed his arm. “No, no!” he said. “Before you do that, prophesy. Tell us who spit on you.”
The cry was instantly on every lip. “Yes, prophesy! Prophesy! Prophesy!”
The trial in Colesville lasted eighteen hours. When the prosecutors were unable to find a credible witness that could corroborate their case against Joseph, they sent runners out into the countryside and scoured every ditch and cranny and grog shop within ten miles. But time after time the witnesses contradicted one another so plainly that even the justices, who were clearly in sympathy with the mob, had to dismiss their testimony. Either that or, under cross examination by the men Joseph Knight had secured to defend Joseph, they admitted they were only repeating what they had heard from others and did not know anything from their own experiences.
The most notable thing happened just after midnight. Nathan Steed, Oliver Cowdery, David Whitmer, and Newel Knight were sitting behind Joseph and his representatives. Emma and the others had been sent home to bed hours earlier. Nathan was in half a stupor by then, his eyes feeling like blacksmith’s anvils. Then suddenly he jerked wide awake as Oliver reached out and gripped his arm.
Constable Boyd, who had been sitting across the room staring at Joseph for several hours now, suddenly stood and began to make his way toward them.
“What does this mean?” Newel whispered anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Oliver replied. “Be ready for anything.”
But they were not ready for what happened next. The man grabbed an empty chair as he passed it and set it down next to Joseph, winning himself a sharp glance of warning from the three justices of the peace who sat in judgment. Joseph eyed him warily as well, but didn’t flinch when the man sat shoulder to shoulder with him.
Boyd waited for a moment, until the eyes of those who had turned to watch him finally lost interest and turned back to follow the proceedings. Then he turned slightly and began to whisper in Joseph’s ear. Nathan and the others leaned forward so they could hear.
“Mr. Smith?” Even in a whisper the man’s voice sounded like a wood rasp being drawn across a pine board.
“Yes?”
“I have come to apologize and to ask your forgiveness.”
Joseph, who had remained completely unflappable through two days of abuse and calumny, was thunderstruck. He gaped at the man, dazed, as though he hadn’t understood the words. Nathan, Oliver, David, Newel—they were all staring at the man as well.
The man’s face, the one that Nathan had thought looked like a piece of slate, was truly contrite. He shook his head back and forth. “I was told some awful things about you, Mr. Smith, and I guess I was bound and determined to see justice done.”
There was a quick explosion of air, registering his complete disgust. He jerked his head in the direction of the riffraff that the lawyers for the prosecution had dragged in—what John Reid, one of Joseph’s defenders, had called “a company that looked as if they had come from hell and had been whipped by the soot boy thereof.”
“What’s happenin’ here ain’t justice,” the constable rumbled. “You’d have to be a blind man not to see that.”