At that moment, from behind them, there was the sound of a gunshot. Joshua and Pitcher whirled around. It had come from a cabin down near the edge of the settlement. They broke into a run, the men falling in behind them. As they came pounding up to the cabin, two men came out, one jamming a pistol back into the belt of his trousers. Through the open door, Joshua could see a woman kneeling at the side of a man in a low bed, sobbing hysterically. As she swayed back and forth, Joshua saw that the man’s head was covered with blood, as was the front of the woman’s nightdress where she had held him to her.
“What happened here?” Pitcher demanded.
The man with a pistol, a farmer who lived south of Independence, swung around and glared belligerently back into the cabin. “We told him to get up and come out, but he wouldn’t.”
The woman whirled around. “My husband is very ill,” she sobbed. “He can’t get up.”
The other man laughed, a little nervously. “In bed or out—if you’re gonna get a beating, I guess it doesn’t make a lot of difference where.”
“We heard a shot,” Joshua said. His eyes kept being drawn to the sight of the man’s head.
“I told him to get out of that bed or we’d blow his brains out,” the man with the pistol growled. “He didn’t, so I shot him.”
“Don’t look like you killed him,” the Reverend Mr. Pixley said. And with that the men quickly lost interest. Pitcher turned and started back toward the horses. The men followed him.
For a moment Joshua stood there, listening to the shuddering sobs from the woman. Finally, he stepped inside the cabin. “Get back,” he commanded.
Frightened, the woman moved away from her husband. “Don’t hurt him!” she cried. “Don’t hurt him.”
Joshua bent over, peering at the man’s head. He grimaced, then felt his jaw relax. The man with the pistol had been standing just a few feet away, but fortunately he was a lousy shot. The ball had grazed the top of the sick man’s skull, taking the hair and the flesh with it, but it had not pierced the bone.
Straightening, Joshua was surprised by the intensity of his relief. His hatred for the Mormons and his desire for vengeance burned as hot as anyone’s, but he stopped short of murdering a sick man in his bed while his wife watched.
He turned and strode to the door. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he said gruffly. “He’ll be all right.” He plunged out of the door and into the night.
As he headed back toward the main body of men, he stopped. Pitcher had his horse backed up to Hiram Page’s cabin. A rope snaked upward to the topmost pole that formed the roof. The horse strained as the rope tightened and the animal took the full load, hooves clawing for a grip on the frozen ground. There was a tortured screeching sound, then an explosive crash. Even in the darkness Joshua saw the clouds of dust billowing upward. When the other men saw Pitcher’s success, they darted to their own horses, whooping their approval.
Joshua nodded in satisfaction. Now, this was more like it. Let the Mormons dig out their furniture and personal belongings from that mess and maybe they’d start getting the message.
Ten minutes later, as they reached the same spot where they had stopped earlier, Joshua turned back to look. There were no lights now, and he could not make out any of the cabins in the darkness. But he knew there were ten or twelve of them unroofed, and at least eight men who were likely to be wiser and more amenable to counsel. He smiled faintly toward the darkness. It was not a bad night’s work for this Halloween.
In spite of the noise that filled the room, Rachel had finally fallen asleep in the corner along with three other of the smaller children. Jessica watched her for a moment, her eyes warm with love. The last four nights had been hardest on the children, and it was good to finally have them feel secure enough to sleep soundly.
The night after the Halloween raid against the Whitmer settlement, the leaders of the Church counseled the members living in isolated homesteads to come to where there were greater concentrations of members. In Kaw Township the main settlement was the Colesville Branch. Though the Joshua Lewis family lived no more than a mile from there, Brother Lewis still decided to heed the call. They moved to the settlement that next afternoon, taking Jessica and Rachel with them. Though circumstances were challenging—three or four families in one- or two-room cabins—Jessica did not regret their decision. The previous night they had stood outside and watched the night sky lit up with the eerie glow from burning haystacks and barns. One of the fires came from the Lewis homestead.
She turned away from Rachel as Parley P. Pratt raised his hands. “All right,” he called, “let’s have a little order here.”
As the group gradually quieted, Jessica looked on this gentle and humorous man with admiration and respect. Over the past two years she had watched “Brother Parley” cheerfully bear sickness and hardship, walk barefoot six miles to teach the School of the Prophets in Zion, preach sermons that made her cry, and tell stories that left her sides aching with laughter.
As Parley waited for the crowd to quiet, one hand absently stole to his forehead and rubbed gingerly at the ugly red scab that was there. That was yet another thing which added to Jessica’s immense respect for this man. Three nights before, the guards posted to watch the settlement had discovered two armed Missourians. A fight erupted, and when Parley, who was unarmed, stepped forward to help, one of the Missourians whipped out his pistol and struck Parley a savage blow to the head. Parley staggered back, blood streaming down his face, as the other men angrily seized the mobber and pinned his arms. The next morning, at Parley’s urging, the two men had been given back their guns and released without harm.
Finally, as Parley now called for order again, the group quieted. Newel Knight, who was the branch president for the settlement, stood next to Brother Parley. “Brothers and sisters,” he said, “we have some news, but there is still no report from our brethren who went to aid the Whitmer settlement.”
There were murmurs of disappointment, and instantly the tension in the room shot up. About midmorning, more than four hours ago now, a brother from the Whitmer settlement, which was three or four miles east of their location, had ridden in to raise an alarm. The mobbers had returned. A ferry on the Big Blue River operated by the members there had been seized and the owners driven off. Rumors were also flying that the mob was on the rampage, destroying homes and property located east of the river. Brother Knight had called for volunteers and nineteen men had left immediately. It was not hard to tell which women were wives or daughters of the volunteers, for their faces were deeply etched with concern now.
“We do have news from Independence,” Brother Parley spoke up. Immediately the murmuring stopped and the room went quiet. “As you know, three nights ago in the city, the brethren drove away a mob who were in the midst of destroying the Gilbert and Whitney store. One man was captured in the very act of brickbatting the store, a man by the name of Richard McCarty.”
There were some mutterings from some of the men. This was something that chafed at all of them. Sidney Gilbert and others had taken the man before the justice of the peace and asked for a warrant against him. Though McCarty had been caught in the very act of destroying the store by three or four witnesses, the justice blandly refused to act and released the man.
“Well,” Parley said, grim faced and angry, “guess what happened today? Mr. McCarty went to that same justice of the peace this morning. He has obtained a warrant for the arrest of Brother Gilbert, Brother Corrill, and others. They have been placed in the county jail and will be tried this afternoon.”
A gasp of shock swept through the room. “On what charges?” someone cried.
“Assault and battery, and false imprisonment.” Parley shook his head in amazement. “We cannot get a warrant against a man for breaking into the store, but he can get a warrant against us for catching him at it!”
Newel Knight spoke up. “The brethren are—”
He was cut off as the door flew open and a man burst into the room. It was one of the nineteen men who had left earlier. “We’re under attack!” he cried. “At the Big Blue! The mob are after our men!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was now nearly sundown on November fourth, the day that would come to be known as the “bloody day,” and Joshua Steed was highly frustrated and in a foul mood. Early that morning, he and Colonel Pitcher had led another group of men out from Independence. They had taken the Mormon ferry at the Whitmer settlement on the Big Blue without firing a shot. All they had done was wave their pistols and the Mormons who were operating it fled.
Once the ferry was secure, they moved on to a small store run by a Missourian named Wilson, about a mile west of the river. There they stopped to rest and refresh themselves. But unbeknownst to the Missourians, marching up the road toward them were the nineteen volunteers from the Colesville settlement. Before these volunteers reached the store, however, they met some Saints who reported that while the ferry had been lost, the rumors about the rampages east of the river were false. They also told the Colesville group that the mob was at the store. Upon hearing this news, the nineteen men decided to return home and avoid a confrontation.
Unfortunately, two small boys caught sight of the band of retreating Mormons. They ran pell-mell to the store and reported to Colonel Pitcher that the Mormons were on the road west of them. Eager for action, the Missourians dashed for their horses. When the Mormons saw forty or fifty men thundering across the prairie towards them, they fled in every direction. That had been in the afternoon, but it provided only a temporary diversion. When Pitcher’s men had seen the Mormons scatter, they had gone after them with relish, driving their horses back and forth through the cornfields, hoping to flush them out. When that failed, they began to break into the houses of the nearby Mormons, terrorizing the women and children. That had been going on now for more than two hours.
Disgusted and tired of it all, Joshua walked to his horse and swung up into the saddle. He walked it over to where Pitcher was talking with several of the men. The deputy constable looked up. “What do you think, Steed?”
“I think I’m going back to Independence and getting a beer.”
Some of the men chuckled, nodding. One stood up. “That’ll be the first good thing to happen today. I’m goin’ too.”
“I guess you’re right,” Pitcher said in disgust. “There ain’t nothin’ goin’ on—”
A cry from off to their right brought them all around sharply. A man was gaping, his arm pointing toward the west. “It’s the Mormons!” he shouted.
Joshua stood up in the stirrups, peering into the low-lying sun. He felt a leap of exultation. Sure enough, there was a whole body of men—thirty for sure, maybe more. They were coming toward them; the sun was at their backs, and Joshua could see several rifles silhouetted against the horizon. The Mormons had come to fight!
“To arms! To arms!” Pitcher was shouting. Joshua dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and sent it leaping forward. All around him pandemonium erupted. Men were scrambling for their weapons, shouting and yelling. Some, he noted in disgust, ran for cover.
As Joshua pounded past the few men standing amidst the dried, brown cornstalks, he yelled at them. “Form a line! Form a line!”
“Fire, fire!” Pitcher was screaming. He had one foot in the stirrup of his saddle, but his horse was frightened and the colonel had to keep hopping on one foot to keep his balance as the horse kept skittering around in a circle. Off to Joshua’s left, someone fired a rifle. The explosion sounded muffled and distant as it rumbled across the open fields.
“Hold your fire!” Joshua screamed, racing toward the men nearest the road. “Let ’em get closer.”
But panic was the commander now, and no one gave Joshua heed. He saw a man throw his rifle to his shoulder and fire. One of the Mormons in the lead file jerked backwards, slamming into one of his companions, then crumpled to the ground. A cry of triumph went up from the Missourians.
They were firing wildly now as Joshua joined them. He saw a flash across the fields, followed instantly by a puff of smoke. The Mormons were firing back.
“Take your aim!” he screamed at the men. “Make your shots count.” Joshua pulled out his own pistol but didn’t fire. They were in good rifle range now, but a pistol was still useless.
He reined his horse around to see if Pitcher and some others were mounted yet. A good charge would send the whole lot of them scattering. But just as his eye found the colonel, his horse stumbled and Joshua went flying. Instinctively he rolled as he hit, trying to hold his pistol away from him. For a moment he lay there, dazed, shaking his head, letting his mind register that there was no serious pain. He swung around. His horse lay flat, one hind leg kicking weakly in its death rattle. It had taken a ball just below its left eye, and the ball had gone straight into the brain.
Joshua leaped up, a rage seizing him. He had bought that horse from a breeder in Kentucky and brought him all the way out to Independence. He fired at the men, now no more than fifty yards away, then fired again. The Mormons had spread out now and formed a skirmish line. Flashes of rifle fire were coming fast now. He instinctively ducked as he felt a ball whistle over his head.
Just behind him there was a sharp cry, and Joshua whirled around in time to see a man five or ten yards from him drop his rifle and clutch at his stomach. He had a shocked look on his face as he slowly sank to his knees, then pitched forward on his face without a sound. The man next to him stopped, gaping in horror.
Now things were happening so fast that it was impossible to follow them. An inhuman shriek rent the air, and Joshua knew that another horse had been hit. Somewhere behind him, he heard Pitcher screaming, though whether to attack or retreat he could not tell. Men were cursing and yelling. Clouds of smoke from the gunpowder hung like little puffs of cumulus in the still air, swirling wildly when men ran through them, otherwise just slowly dissipating.
Directly in front of Joshua a man was running towards the Mormons, firing blindly as he ran. Then, as though he had been hit at knee level with some giant scythe, he went down, sending up little clouds of dust as he hit the dry soil. For a moment there was a violent twitching, then he lay still.