Joshua had opened his mouth. Now it shut again. Matthew had met his gaze now and held it calmly but steadily. Then finally a fleeting smile appeared on Joshua’s face, a smile that dissolved quickly into mock severity. “You’re getting to be kind of an insolent little pup, aren’t you?” he muttered softly.
“I’m eighteen,” Matthew beamed, relieved that his tactic had worked. “Eighteen-year-olds have a natural gift for insolence.”
* * *
On Tuesday, the thirteenth of November, the Mormon prisoners went on trial. Judge Austin King, one of the Saints’ most bitter and dedicated enemies, was appointed to preside. There is an old Chinese proverb that states: “Where there is a will to condemn, there is evidence at hand.” Judge Austin King may not have known the proverb, but he certainly knew how it worked. Within minutes of the opening gavel, he made it clear how things were to be. Witnesses were called and sworn at the point of a bayonet. Either they would give the testimony the court was looking for or their lives would be forfeit. One man, who dared to testify that it was the Mormons who had been wronged, had to jump out of the witness box, dive out the window, and flee for his life rather than be shot. No papers were read against the prisoners, and no formal charges were outlined.
Ironically, the first witness called for the prosecution was Sampson Avard, the man who had organized the secret society of the Danites in Far West to kill Missourians. Other disaffected brethren came in to swear against their former leaders and associates. Colonel George M. Hinkle; Reed Peck, Hinkle’s adjutant and co-conspirator in the betrayal; John Corrill, a former counselor in the Presiding Bishopric—one by one they swore that Joseph and the leaders of the Church were intent on building a worldly kingdom, by conversion if they could, by bloodshed if they must. This was treason, the prosecution argued, if ever there was a case of it.
Benjamin came with the others each day. He moved slowly, and Parley Pratt supported him on one arm. He looked emaciated and drained, but he was walking. And he knew that that was no small thing. In the hours immediately following the blessing, he had stabilized. The fever was gone, as were the violent chills. The cough still felt as if it were ripping his lungs apart and left him trembling and hunched over, but he was alive, and that was nothing short of miraculous.
At one point, after days of false testimony and a continuous stream of invective aimed at them, Benjamin leaned forward to Joseph. “When did we leave the United States of America?” he whispered.
Joseph turned around, shaking his head. “There will be no justice here, Brother Benjamin. No justice at all.”
* * *
On the afternoon of Tuesday, November thirteenth, Mary Fielding Smith had a baby. Still confined to her bed, with a serious illness, and still suffering from the shock of seeing her husband brutally torn from the family circle, she nevertheless gave birth to a healthy, squalling baby boy. Mary had already decided on a name for the baby, pending Hyrum’s approval when she could get a chance to discuss it with him. She wanted to name the boy after her brother who was still in England on a mission.
When anyone asked about his name, Mary would manage a wan smile and say, “If Hyrum approves, we’re going to call him Joseph Fielding Smith.”
Chapter Notes
The two-day snowstorm discussed in this chapter struck while the prisoners from Far West were on the march to Richmond and greatly added to their suffering (see
HC
3:204).
The details of the imprisonment at Richmond and the sham trial under Judge Austin King are documented in numerous sources (for example, see
Restoration
, pp. 410–11;
Persecutions
, pp. 255–60;
HC
3:208–12). Before the trial began, Sampson Avard told Oliver Olney, a former member of the Church, that “if he [Olney] wished to save himself, he must swear hard against the heads of the Church, as they were the ones the court wanted to criminate; and if he could swear hard against them, they would not (that is, neither court nor mob) disturb him. ‘I intend to do it,’ said he, ‘in order to escape, for if I do not, they will take my life.’” (
HC
3:209–10.)
Joseph F. Smith, born to Hyrum and Mary Fielding Smith on November 13, 1838, later became the sixth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Chapter 27
Caroline approached the boardinghouse wearily, almost too tired to take her usual precautions. She had been down by the Mississippi River docks most of the afternoon, working with one of Joshua’s partners on business affairs. She always made the carriage driver drop her off in a different place—three or four blocks from where she and the children were staying—and walked the rest of the way. Then she could watch to make sure she was not being followed. It was a strain that wore her down, yet she was still too thoroughly frightened by what had happened in Independence to take any chances.
But it had been a long day, and she was anxious to be home and off her feet. She made one last check around to see if there were any strangers, then walked up the stairs and inside the rooming house.
“Hello, Miz Naylor.” The landlord was always at the door of his own room, and monitored the comings and goings of his guests meticulously. He was a strictly conservative man and allowed only the most respectable of boarders to stay in his building. He would have been shocked to know this woman had given him a false name.
“Hello, Mr. Jenson.”
He glanced toward the stairs. “The children are kind of restless.”
She felt a flash of irritation. She was paying top dollar for this room and had specifically asked for one on the third floor where there were no other rooms. She didn’t need monitoring. She started to say something to him, then bit back her retort, too tired to really care. She nodded again, perhaps a bit too curtly, and went up the stairs.
By the time she reached the third level, she knew what Jenson meant. She could hear Olivia’s voice coming through the door and clear down the hall. There was the deeper rumble of Will speaking. The sound was angry and sharp. As she approached the door, she could hear Savannah crying.
Grimly Caroline started fishing in her purse for the key. But as she found it and reached for the door, her hand stopped. Olivia’s voice had risen sharply. “Matthew’s not that way.”
“Matthew’s a Mormon too.”
“He is not. Not in that way.” Caroline could tell that her daughter was on the verge of tears.
“He may be one of the better Mormons,” Will said stubbornly, “but he’s still a Mormon. And Mormons killed our pa.”
“Grandma Steed’s a Mormon!” Olivia cried. The anguish in her voice tore at Caroline’s soul. “So is Grandpa. And Aunt Lydia and Uncle Nathan. Do you hate them too?”
There was no answer, and Caroline leaned forward, listening intently, so caught up in what was happening on the other side of the door that there wasn’t even a thought about eavesdropping. Then finally there was a low, pain-filled voice. “They aren’t really our grandparents.”
“They are too!” There was a scuffling sound, then the sound of hands slapping against something.
“Stop it, Livvy!”
“They are too!” she sobbed. “You stop saying that!”
Caroline fumbled quickly with the key, feeling a sharp desolateness shoot through her.
“They’re Mormons, Livvy!” Will shouted. “And Mormons shot our pa.”
Caroline had the door unlocked and threw it open. Olivia whirled. Will’s head came up with a jerk and his eyes flew open as he saw the look on his mother’s face.
Livvy gave one strangled cry and hurled herself at her mother. “Oh, Mama! Mama!”
Caroline pushed inside and kicked the door shut with one foot. She held on to Olivia tightly as the girl sobbed against her. “It’s all right, Livvy! It’s all right.” She leveled a withering glance at Will. “Are you proud of yourself?” she snapped.
Will’s eyes dropped, unable to meet the piercing glare of his mother. “I just said they aren’t our real grandparents,” he muttered.
“Make him take it back, Mama! He’s been saying awful things about the Mormons.”
“I won’t take it back!” he shouted at his sister. “
They killed our pa!
” Tears sprang to his eyes and he whirled, brushing angrily at the corners of his eyes. With a cry of rage or pain—Caroline couldn’t tell which—he plunged across the room and into the bedroom where Savannah was crying.
The breath came out of Caroline in a long sigh of desperation.
What am I going to do? What ever am I going to do with him?
* * *
Will sat with his head in his hands. Twice Caroline had asked him to look at her, but he had refused. That frightened her more than anything, for while Will had always been independent-minded, he had never been willfully disobedient.
She took a breath, wanting to weep for the pain he was nurturing down inside him. “Will, remember when we were in Savannah? Remember how folks always called the black people niggers?”
There was still no response, but she saw his eyes dart away from her.
“What did we say about that?” She waited a moment. “Didn’t we say it was wrong to judge people just because they had dark skin? We talked about that, didn’t we?”
He finally looked at her, but there was still defiance and bitterness in his eyes.
“Just because a few Mormons do bad things, doesn’t make them all bad,” Caroline said.
He leaned forward with a jerk, startling her a little. “You read them newspapers, Mama.”
She sat back, the color draining a little from her face. “Yes, I did.” Yesterday a riverboat had come into St. Louis from up the Missouri River. It brought papers from Ray County and news of the trials going on against the Mormon prisoners. The whole front page was filled with Sampson Avard’s testimony about the Mormon Danite band. The Danite band! The very name had sent a chill up her back. It was the same name that had been signed to the note nailed to her door. It was the same name that had Caroline’s own feelings of bitterness churning like a flash flood down a narrow gorge.
Avard’s description of the Danites had answered all kinds of questions for Caroline. Why Joshua was dead. Why someone had come all the way to Independence to try and kill her and her family. And she was all the more frightened now, because one of the things Avard said was that these people swore with an oath that they would go to the ends of the earth to avenge themselves. And St. Louis was nowhere near the ends of the earth.
“Joseph Smith is their leader,” Will said hotly. “He’s the one who told them to go out and kill. And Matthew and Grandpa and Uncle Nathan believe in Joseph Smith. They think he’s a great man.”
“Will, we don’t know for sure—”
“
Their own people are saying it, Mama!
You read it. It’s not just their enemies. It’s their own people.”
Now Caroline looked away. Yes. She knew Joshua’s family didn’t condone it. But Will was right. By standing fast with Joseph, in a way that meant they were part of it. At least, they were not part of stopping it.
Will saw that his shot had hit home. He sat back, pouting, defiant, and a little triumphant. Finally, she looked up. She didn’t know how to fight this cold core of anger and hatred and bile that had lodged somewhere deep in her boy. She had enough of a struggle fighting her own loss, her own growing bitterness towards the Mormons. “It isn’t good to hate, Will,” she said, with little conviction in her voice.
But before Will could answer, there was the sound of footsteps outside in the hall and then a soft knock on the door. Caroline turned her head, startled. It was nearly half past nine now. Will started across the room but she waved him back. “Go in with Livvy and Savannah,” she said softly. “Make sure they’re asleep.”
She walked to the door, cautious now. “Who is it?”
“Mr. Samuelson.”
There was a quick release of breath. Walter Samuelson was the business partner with whom she had spent the afternoon. She unlocked the door and opened it quickly. “Good evening, Walter. Come in.”
He removed his hat and stepped inside. Will had gone to the bedroom door but had not gone in. Samuelson nodded a greeting to him, then looked back at Caroline. “I apologize for coming at such a late hour, Mrs. Steed, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
She felt a sudden premonition. One hand fluttered nervously at the buttons on her dress. “What is it?”
His eyes looked away for a moment, then he shook his head. “I just learned that two men came in on the boat from upriver yesterday. They’ve been going around town asking questions about you.” His head moved slowly back and forth in discouragement. “I thought I’d better warn you.”
* * *
“Don’t wake Savannah up. Be as quiet as you can, but pack everything. I must write to your father’s family. I have put it off long enough. Now there is no choice.”
“Where will we go, Mama?” Olivia had not been asleep and had come out immediately after Samuelson had left. Now she was moved past her tears and was acting more like her mother—discouraged, tired, worried, but resolute and determined.
Caroline stopped emptying the small chest that held their few dishes and things. “There’s only one place far enough away that they can’t find us. Tomorrow is Tuesday. That means there is a boat going downriver, leaving at noon. Mr. Samuelson will pick us up at eleven tomorrow in a closed carriage and take us right to the boat. He’ll have other men with him to make sure we’re all right.”
“Why can’t we just arrest them?” Will demanded. “Mr. Samuelson said he knows which hotel they’re in.”
“Because we can’t prove anything.” The despair sank in on her heavily. “We don’t even know what they look like, Will. Until they do something . . .” She shuddered. “We’re not waiting for that. We’re going.”
“To Savannah.” Will didn’t make it a question. He already knew.
“Yes,” his mother said. “We’re going back to Savannah. We’ll go to the Montagues, see if we can stay with them on the plantation for a time.”