Bogart let the paper lie, as though it would serve as evidence if he left it there before them. “Then surely you will now give up the idea of Joe Smith being a prophet. As a rational man, you have no other choice.”
Turley gave him a look of amazement, but Bogart rushed on. “Joe Smith is in prison. The Twelve are scattered all over creation. April twenty-sixth is now only three weeks away. They will not come. They cannot come.”
Dr. Laffity jumped in, eager to drive the point home. “Let them come, if they dare. If they try it, they shall all be murdered.”
John Whitmer stepped forward, his face grim and lined with concern. “They’re right, Theodore. The revelation cannot be fulfilled. This proves Joseph is a fallen prophet. Now will you give up your faith?”
Turley shot to his feet, nearly knocking over the chair on which he had been sitting. “I tell you in the name of God,” he thundered, “that revelation will be fulfilled!”
To his surprise, his response did not anger them. Instead, they roared with laughter, utterly scornful. The only one who did not was John Whitmer. He looked away, head down.
Turley didn’t budge, nor did he back down in the face of their ridicule. His head jerked up and down in hard, emphatic motions. “It
will
be fulfilled,” he said again.
One of the other men spoke up now. “Turley, you’d be wise to follow the example of John Corrill. He’s decided to publish a book that will expose the Mormons for what they are.”
Bogart latched on to that eagerly. “Yes, Corrill is a sensible man. Perhaps you could help him. Add your name to the work. Admit that you were wrong.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Turley looked calmly at the men who faced him. John Corrill had been one of the early converts to the Church in Ohio. He had been called to Missouri and there had served as a counselor to Bishop Edward Partridge. He had remained faithful through the expulsion of the Saints from Jackson County and been one of the founders of Far West. Then things had soured. He, along with so many others, had turned against the Prophet the previous fall and left the Church. He had testified bitterly against Joseph and the other Church leaders at the hearing in Richmond. Turley had heard about the book he was writing that viciously attacked the Church and its beliefs.
Suddenly, Turley turned to Whitmer. “John, you have heard John Corrill testify in times past that he knew the Book of Mormon and Mormonism were true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Now he has changed his tune. So I call on you, John Whitmer. You say Corrill is a good and moral man. Do you believe him when he once said the Book of Mormon was true, or do you believe him when he now says it is not true?”
Whitmer was taken aback by Turley’s going on the offensive. “I . . .”
“Well?” Turley demanded. “There are many things that are published which some men say are true; then they turn around and say they are false.”
“Do you hint at me?” Whitmer said hotly.
“If the cap fits, wear it!” Turley retorted with equal tartness. “All I know is that you have published to the world that you saw the plates given to Joseph Smith. What do you have to say about that now?”
The silence hung in the room like a pall. Every eye had turned to John Whitmer. His head was down, his eyes half-closed. Finally he spoke in a voice so low it was barely audible. “I did handle those plates,” he mumbled. “There were fine engravings on both sides of each leaf. I touched them. I personally handled them.” There was another long pause, then, “They were shown to me by a supernatural power.”
“So,” Turley said triumphantly, “why is it that the translation is not true now, then?”
“I . . .” The head ducked even lower.
“Well?” Turley bored in.
“I . . .” He took a quick breath, darting a glance toward Bogart, whose mouth was a hard, tight line. “I couldn’t read those plates in the original,” Whitmer finally said, “so I cannot say whether or not the translation is true.”
Bogart seemed relieved, but he had also had enough. He snatched up the paper from the table. “Let’s go,” he snapped. They turned and started filing out. As Bogart reached the door, he half turned, his face a mask of hatred. “You tell ’em, Turley. You tell the Twelve that if they try to come back here and take their leave from Far West, we’ll kill every last man jack one of them!”
Turley stared at the door for several seconds after it closed again; then he dropped into his chair, aware that his heart was pounding as heavily as if he had run a race. Then his eyes blazed and his jaw tightened with determination. “They will come,” he murmured. “You wait and see.”
They were seven days north of Savannah and still a day out of New York City when Jiggers, the bosun, found Will lying on the bunk in the sleeping quarters. Will looked up in surprise. The ship’s officers never came down to the crew’s quarters. He sat up quickly.
“Steed, the cap’n wants to see you,” the man growled.
Will came to his feet slowly. He had stood watch through part of the night and had been dozing now to make up for it. “The captain?” he asked, his mind still not grasping fully.
“Come on, mate,” Jiggers snapped impatiently. “Move sharply, now. He’s in his cabin.”
As Will came out into the daylight and moved toward the captain’s quarters, he saw the furtive looks his fellow crew members gave him. They were mostly filled with pity. Angry now, he straightened his back and marched toward the ladder that led to the captain’s quarters. He took the steps in threes, walked to the door, knocked sharply, then stood back, head up.
“Enter.”
Opening the door, he stepped inside. There were only two small portholes in the cabin, and after the bright daylight, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust. The captain was seated at a small writing desk. He was facing Will, watching him with steady eyes. He said nothing. Will shut the door, standing at attention, determined not to speak first.
Jonathan Sperryman was young for a sea captain, no more than forty or forty-five. Thin—almost sparse—he had a shock of hair that probably once was brown, but now was mostly bleached blond by the sun and salt spray. He was tough and hard, and could flay a man with his eyes when he was angry. But he was also fair and didn’t mind passing out praise when it was well deserved. After being in several ports of call and seeing the other captains and their crews, Will knew he could have done a lot worse.
The captain stirred and, still without speaking, opened a drawer. He took out a folded paper and laid it on the desk. A string was tied around it to hold it closed. Will glanced at it, then suddenly lurched forward. It was
his
letter, the letter he had written so laboriously to his mother, the letter he had paid Petey such a dear price to take off the ship in Savannah for him. He couldn’t help it. He simply gaped at the letter, trying to comprehend all that its being there on the captain’s desk implied. Petey had sworn he had delivered the letter. And he had. To the captain!
It was as though Will had been hit in the stomach by a swinging block and tackle. He wanted to reach out and grab something to steady himself. Sperryman, watching him closely, was satisfied. He swept the letter back into the drawer and pushed it shut again. “I don’t make a habit of reading other people’s mail, Steed. I don’t know whom you were writing to, or why, though I have an idea.”
Will said nothing. The disappointment was too crushing. If he had opened his mouth, all that would have come out was a strangled sob.
The captain’s mouth hardened. “But whatever the reason, that doesn’t change things,” he said gruffly. “I paid two hundred dollars for you. When your two years of service have paid that back, you’ll be free to go.”
Will’s lips set into a tight line.
The captain continued, more kindly now. “I’ll be having to put you in the locker again while we’re in New York, just to be sure. But if you behave yourself, you have my word that I’ll mail the letter when we reach Liverpool.”
Will finally nodded. Whether he would or wouldn’t behave himself remained to be seen, but he knew that trying to beat this captain would be very difficult. “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes.”
Will turned and moved to the door.
“Steed?”
He stopped, not turning around.
“If you were of a mind to accept reality, you’ve got the makings of a good sailor.”
Will stood there, his back to the captain. Then finally he spoke. “Is that all, sir?” he asked again.
There was a long pause, then, “Yes. Dismissed.”
Will opened the door and stepped out. He didn’t look back as he went up the ladder and onto the main deck.
Chapter Notes
Heber C. Kimball’s and Theodore Turley’s trip to the state capital was not successful in the sense of their being able to get the prisoners released. However, their efforts probably facilitated a change of venue, from Daviess County to Boone County, for the prisoners’ trial. The Prophet had petitioned the Missouri state legislature for a change of venue as early as January of 1839. As will be seen in subsequent chapters of this novel, the granting at last of a change of venue in the spring of 1839 would have a significant effect on future events.
On the same day that Heber C. Kimball and Theodore Turley returned home, a delegation of eight Missourians confronted Turley in the office of the Committee on Removal. The conversation—including the warning against the Twelve’s trying to return to Far West, and John Whitmer’s reluctant testimony—is reported in Joseph Smith’s history. The vow to kill the Prophet was also apparently spoken in Turley’s presence on this day, though it may have been a separate incident from the visit of the eight men. (See
HC
3:306–8.) The revelation which told the Twelve to take their leave from Far West on 26 April 1839 is now section 118 in the Doctrine and Covenants.
Chapter Three
Matthew! Sister Steed!”
Mary Ann and her son were just coming out of the Quincy store. Matthew’s arms were loaded with a box filled with sugar, flour, honey, and other staples. Both of them turned at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Brother Brigham,” Mary Ann said warmly, shielding her eyes from the late afternoon sun. “Hello.”
He strode up, sweeping off his hat and jamming it under his arm. He took both of her hands in his, his face filled with pleasure. “Good afternoon, Sister Steed. How good to see you.” He half turned. “And Matthew. Hello, my young friend.”
“Hello, Brother Brigham.”
Brigham reached out and took the box from Matthew’s hands and lowered it to the boardwalk. “Set that thing down, boy. We need to talk.”
Matthew smiled, not protesting. That was Brigham Young. Cheerful, booming, and immediately taking charge of things. But Matthew didn’t mind. Brigham always did it with cordiality and warmth, so that people naturally accepted his leadership.
“I’m glad I caught you. I was just on my way out to your place.”
“You were?” Mary Ann asked.
“Yes. How is Benjamin?” His eyes were filled with genuine concern.
“Still weak, but much recovered and getting stronger each day.”
“He’s back to being grumpy again because we won’t let him do anything,” Matthew added.
Brigham laughed heartily. “That
is
a good sign.”
Mary Ann laughed too, watching Brigham with some admiration. Brigham was four years older than Joseph, but he was two or three inches shorter than the Prophet and of a much stockier build. This made him seem even older than his years. Like Joseph he was clean shaven. He wore his reddish brown hair to the shoulders. One lock of it now rippled slightly in the steady breeze blowing from the west. His eyes were blue-gray and often reminded Mary Ann of the morning sky just before the sunrise. They could dance with humor, sparkle with delight, or flash in anger at some idler who didn’t want to make his own way in life or when someone dared to criticize his beloved Joseph.
“I’ve been meaning to come out and see Brother Benjamin, but . . .” He let it die and turned to survey the town quickly. Then he sighed wearily. “There is so much to do. More coming every day. And now they are some of our poorest.” He shook his head, his mouth puckering down into a frown of concern. Then he seemed to come back to them. “There’s been some bad news, I’m afraid.”
Mary Ann tensed. “Bad news?”
“Yes. Brother Henry Sherwood arrived from Far West last night. The militia in Daviess County has given the brethren in Far West an ultimatum. Everyone has to be gone by Friday, April twelfth, or be killed. Everyone!”
“No!” Mary Ann gasped.
“The twelfth?” Matthew asked in alarm. “But that’s tomorrow.”
Brigham’s face was grim. “Yes. Brother Sherwood rode for help immediately, but they were only given a week’s notice. So the situation is urgent. Heber and the Committee on Removal will get the families out of Far West and as far as Tenny’s Grove to escape the edict, but they are going to need help to come any farther.” Now the blue-gray eyes were like polished steel—angry, determined, unbendable. “Well, we shall show them that we do not abandon our own.”
He straightened. “We’re going to organize a train, send as many wagons as we can to get them out. We must get teams started immediately. We haven’t a moment to waste.”
“You will use ours,” Mary Ann said promptly and firmly. “The horses are in fine shape.”
Brigham started to answer, but his voice failed him for a moment. He took Mary Ann’s hands, swallowed hard, then cleared his throat. “God bless you, dear Mary Ann. I knew you and Benjamin would say exactly that. God bless you.”
“Is that why you were coming out to see us?” Matthew asked.
Brigham nodded.
Matthew had a sudden thought. “Do you need drivers?”
Mary Ann’s head snapped around, her eyes instantly bright with fear. They lifted to Brigham’s face, wanting to plead for a negative answer. Brigham read her expression perfectly, but there was little choice. He looked at Matthew and slowly nodded. Matthew was not yet nineteen, but he had been doing a man’s work for some time now. Besides that, Brigham had great confidence in this youngest son of the Steeds. Without taking his eyes away from Mary Ann, he answered. “Yes, Matthew, we do.”