His voice dropped almost to a whisper, tinged now with horror. The crowd leaned forward together, as if they were one man, as they strained to hear his words. “Think for a moment, my good friends. What would be the fate of our lives and our property in the hands of jurors and witnesses who do not blush to declare, and do not hesitate to swear, that they have wrought miracles, that they have been the subjects of miraculous and supernatural cures, that they have conversed with God and his angels, that they possess and exercise the gifts of divination and of unknown tongues?”
He lifted his head and screamed out the next question, causing many in the crowd to jump in surprise.
“Is that what you want?”
The answer was an animal roar, and the sound battered at the speaker. “No! No! No!”
Johnson nodded, breathing hard, his face showing the depths of his own outrage at such prospects. Finally he lifted the papers again. “Then, be it resolved,” he read, “one, that no Mormon shall in the future move to or settle in this county; two, that those now here, who shall give a definite pledge of their intention, within a reasonable time, to remove out of the county, shall be allowed to remain unmolested, until they have sufficient time to sell their property and close their businesses without material sacrifice; three, that the editor of the
Star
be required forthwith to close his office, and discontinue the business of printing in this county; four, that in the case of all other stores and shops belonging to the sect, their owners must, in every case, strictly comply with the terms of this declaration; five, that upon failure to do so, prompt and efficient measures will be taken to close the same; and finally, six, that the Mormon leaders here are required to use their influence in preventing any further immigration of their distant brethren to this county, and to counsel and advise their brethren there to comply with the above requisitions.”
Virtually every head in the crowd was going up and down now as each phrase in the resolution was read. Johnson stopped and raised his head. “All in favor?”
It was a thunderous response. “Aye!”
“Those opposed, if there be any?” His eyes swept the crowd, daring any to raise a contrary voice. There was not a sound.
“Then I propose that a committee of twelve men, led by none other than our chairman, the honorable Colonel Richard Simpson, immediately and forthwith take our demands to the Mormon leaders and that we wait here for their response. All in favor?”
“Aye!”
He swung around, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.
Boggs nodded his approval, then turned to Joshua and the others. “Go. You have your mandate from the people.”
Chapter Twenty-One
William W. Phelps was obviously frightened. “We do not represent the full leadership of the Church in Zion,” he said quickly. “Brother Oliver Cowdery, the leading elder here in Missouri, is out at Kaw Township.”
The six Mormons had evidently known of the gathering at the courthouse, for they were huddled in conference in the office of the
Evening and Morning Star
when the delegation of twelve Missourians stormed into the building.
Colonel Simpson turned to Joshua. “Is that true?”
Joshua had thought carefully about this moment every day since the big gathering in April had degenerated into a drunken brawl. Shortly after that, he had met Oliver Cowdery on the streets of Independence. Joshua had the widow Martin on his arm and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to parade her before Cowdery a little, knowing it would get back to Jessie. In actuality, the widow was much more serious about marriage than Joshua was, but Cowdery didn’t have to know that. He also took the opportunity to let Cowdery know about the meeting and the sentiment against the Mormons. But his little moment of triumph turned sour when Cowdery informed him that the Mormons had heard of the gathering of the Missourians and had fasted and prayed. In their minds, the breakup of the meeting was a direct result of God’s intervention and not the result of some fool’s miscalculation about the effects of too much whiskey.
From that point on, Joshua set about to know everything he could about the hated sect. He became an active voice in the committee that was formed to drive the Mormons from the county. He learned the names and faces of the Mormons’ leadership. On a county map he charted the places where every Mormon had settled. He made note of which houses were isolated, how many people were known to be living there, what arms they had, and so on. The next time, he vowed, he and the other Missourians would be ready, and the Mormons would learn which God could save them and which could not.
Now that time had come. He looked on the six men with contempt and answered Simpson’s question. “Not quite. Joseph Smith appointed seven high priests to direct them out here. Oliver Cowdery is the leader of the seven, and it is true that he is not here. But the other six who join with him are here.” He pointed at each of the men in turn as he said their names. “William Phelps, who publishes the
Star
and operates the printing establishment; A. Sidney Gilbert, owner of the mercantile store across the street; John Corrill; John Whitmer”—his lips curled in disgust—“he’s one of those that signed his name to the Book of Mormon; Isaac Morley; and Edward Partridge. Partridge here is the so-called Mormon bishop. He’s the one who assigns out the land and gives the people their ‘inheritances.’”
“And you’re Nathan Steed’s brother,” Isaac Morley said with a touch of contempt of his own. He was the oldest of the six, but not cowed at all by the delegation of Missourians. Joshua’s head came around, his eyes narrowing, but Morley went right on. “Your brother and his wife now live on my farm back in Ohio. He would be shamed to know of your role in this.”
“My brother is a fool!” Joshua snarled. “And his wife’s no better.” He turned to the others. “These men represent six of the seven leaders of the Church here. They can speak for the Mormons.”
Simpson stepped forward, holding the same sheets of paper from which Robert Johnson had read to the crowd. “We have been appointed to inform you of the following resolution which has been adopted by the will of the people.”
John Corrill snorted in derision, and Lucas stepped forward menacingly. “You’re to listen,” Lucas warned, “nothing else.”
Simpson read the statement through, slowing down at the end to emphasize the final demands of the group for the exodus of the Saints from Jackson County. Joshua watched with a deep satisfaction as he saw the shock and numbness spread across the faces of the six Mormons.
“This is an outrage!” Gilbert cried when Simpson finished. “We are not guilty of those vile and ridiculous—”
“Enough!” Simpson roared. “We are not here to listen to your defense, but only to take your answer back to the people who await us. What is your response?”
“But...” Phelps stammered, “but we can’t answer a demand like that. Our leader, Joseph Smith, is in Ohio.”
“You lead here!” Joshua snapped. “That’s good enough.”
“Please,” Gilbert broke in again, “you’ve got to give us some time. We will need to send word to Joseph Smith and ask for his counsel. May we have three months to consider these demands?”
Joshua reached out and grabbed the man by his shirt. Gilbert was an older man, small of stature, and Joshua was almost a full head taller than he. Joshua pulled him up close until they were nose-to-nose. “We don’t want none of Joe Smith’s counsel out here,” he hissed. “Do you understand that?” He released him, giving him a hard shove backwards. Gilbert stumbled into Corrill and they both nearly fell.
Partridge stepped forward now, not frightened by the numbers confronting them. “You must give us time. Even if we decide to leave, you must realize that it takes time to close down a printing shop and a store, to sell our land and houses. We have twelve hundred people. We can’t just wave our hands and make them all disappear.”
Simpson was shaking his head even as Partridge spoke. “Three months is too long.”
“Then, ten days. We must have at least ten days,” Phelps pleaded.
Simpson turned to his party, waving the papers. “Do you think it takes ten days to agree to a reasonable demand such as this?”
There were raucous bursts of laughter and angry rejections. “No!” “Ten days is too long!” “They’re stalling for time.”
Simpson spun around. He looked at the six men haughtily. “You have fifteen minutes. We’ll await you’re decision at the courthouse.”
And with that they turned around and trooped out.
“What’d they say?” men called as the delegation returned to the crowd milling around the courthouse. “What happened?” “Are they going?”
Simpson and Lucas walked directly to Lieutenant Governor Boggs and began to report quickly and quietly on the meeting. The other members of the delegation began mingling with the crowd, muttering quick reports of their experience. Joshua, emboldened by the rage that was smoldering in him, moved up to join Boggs and the three leaders of the citizens’ committee.
“Ten days is out of the question,” Boggs was saying.
“That’s what I told them,” Simpson nodded. “We gave ’em fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes is too long,” Joshua said quietly.
All three men snapped around. “But we said—,” Lucas started.
Joshua cut him off harshly. “In fifteen minutes these men will start wandering off to find another beer or put their backs up against some building and fall asleep. The time is now or you’re gonna lose ’em.”
“He’s right,” Simpson said, turning to look at the men. Timing was important when it came to whipping a group into action, and he could sense that the conditions were right.
Lucas was still wavering, but Boggs for the moment seemed content to hear both sides. Joshua threw up his hands in disgust. “You want another farce like that one we had in April? The Mormons are already saying we ain’t good enough to fight anyone but ourselves.”
That hit a soft spot in Lucas, as Joshua knew it would. Lucas had been decked by some drunken bum that night and spent three days at home with a swollen jaw. Now his lips tightened into a hard line. “That ain’t true.”
“Then, let’s show ’em!” Joshua urged. “Now’s the time. They ain’t gonna give us an answer. They’re stalling.”
Boggs gave him an appraising look, then laid a hand on his shoulder. “All right. Get up on that box and tell ’em that.”
In an instant Joshua was up on the crate, his hands raised high in the air. The silence swept across the crowd like a stiff breeze moving through a field of grain. He waited for the last voice to die and every eye to fix on him.
“Men,” he shouted, “we’ve been to the Mormons and we’ve given ’em our demands.”
“What’d they say?” someone called from the back.
“They said they wanted three months”—his voice mimicked that of a woman—“to think about it.”
“No!” came the cry; it was ragged and scattered, but the anger in the voices was clear.
“Then they asked for ten days!” Joshua shouted. He clenched his fist and jammed it skyward. “You want to give them ten days?”
“No!” They were quickly getting the idea, and this time almost three-quarters of the men roared their answer in unison.
Judge Lucas jumped up beside Joshua. “They’re just stalling,” he shouted to the crowd. “They wouldn’t give us an answer.”
Joshua watched their reaction, exulting in the power he suddenly felt. The crowd was like the ground in an earthquake zone. The underlying forces were there, starting to strain and rumble as they ground together. It just needed the right moment, the proper trigger.
“You’ve seen these Mormons come in here and take away our business, haven’t you?” he shouted.
“Yes.” “That’s right.” “They’re stealing us blind.”
“And you’ve seen them come in here and take up the best land, haven’t you?”
“Yes!”
Joshua’s voice rose in both volume and pitch. He hurled the words at them like missiles flung from a catapult. “And you’ve read their newspaper that calls on colored people to come in and take over our state, haven’t you?”
This time the roar was deafening. “Yes! Yes!”
“Well, that place where the article was printed is no more than one block from here. That store that is taking away our business is no more than one block from here.” He was pointing, and the men turned as a body, eyes riveted on the two buildings up the street from them. Together the men were like a hound with the smell of blood in its nose, straining at the leash, baying to be set free.
Joshua looked down at Boggs, whose nostrils were flaring in and out with the excitement. The fever pitch was in his eyes too. He caught Joshua’s look and nodded curtly. “Do it!” he mouthed.
Joshua swung back around. “Let’s make a new resolution,” he screamed. “I resolve we tear that print shop apart! Now!”
He leaped off the box and plunged into the crowd, his fist raised high like a banner of attack. A howl went up, like some primal scream of rage, and the men surged in behind Joshua, Simpson, Lucas, and the other delegation members. In a rush, they made their way straight for the two-story brick building that housed the offices and print shop for the
Evening and Morning Star
and the residence of W. W. Phelps and his family.
Phelps and the other Mormon leaders evidently had been watching anxiously out of the windows, for as Joshua and his army approached, the six men came stumbling out, hands raised high, as though to ward off a blow. Phelps was in the lead. “No, no!” he pleaded. “Please!”
It was like using a twig to stop a flood. Joshua shoved him roughly aside, and in a moment the six men were swallowed by the crowd. “Don’t leave anything,” Joshua shouted.
Miraculously, Phelps broke free of the encircling crowd. He hurled himself forward enough to clutch at Joshua’s shirt. “No!” The man was stricken with panic. “My wife and children are in the house. My baby’s sick. I beg of you, please don’t hurt them.”
Joshua reached out and grabbed the collar of the man next to him. “You!” he shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the shrieking of the crowd. “Get the family out of there.”
The man darted ahead.