“What is the matter with you, soldier?” Smith barked.
“Ague, I think, sir.”
“Have you taken any medicine for this illness?”
“Yes, sir.”
“By whose orders?”
“Doctor McIntire, Lieutenant.” Doctor William McIntire had been assigned by Brigham Young and approved by Colonel Allen to serve as assistant surgeon to the battalion. With the arrival of Doctor Sanderson, Lieutenant Smith had issued an order that McIntire could not minister to his fellow Mormons without the express approval of the chief surgeon, Doctor Sanderson.
Doctor Sanderson seized on that like a bird on a beetle. “Ha!” he cried. “I told you so.”
Smith looked at the surgeon. “And Doctor McIntire did this without your permission, Doctor?”
“He certainly did. In spite of your orders, Lieutenant.”
By now several other men had gathered around, and the lieutenant was aware of the grim resentment in their faces. Livid now, he whirled on Dunham. “It is expressly forbidden to take treatment from anyone other than Doctor Sanderson, soldier. You have disobeyed a direct order.”
“Sir—,” Sergeant Williams began, but Smith was in a rage now and cut him off sharply.
“I will not have my orders disobeyed,” he screamed. “Do you hear me? I am in command of this battalion now. My orders must be followed.” He turned on the men gathered around him. “Are you listening to me? If I hear of one more man who takes medicine from Doctor McIntire without Doctor Sanderson’s permission, I will take that man and cut his throat.”
The men gaped at him, not sure that they had heard him correctly. Captain Jefferson Hunt, the senior Mormon officer, stepped forward. “Lieutenant, what—”
Smith spun around and grabbed Private Dunham by his shirt, jerking him up to stand straight. The lieutenant’s face was mottled with red splotches and his voice was shrill, almost hysterical. “And you, Private, if I hear of you taking any more medicine without my permission, I shall personally tie a rope around your neck and drag you behind this wagon. Do you understand me?”
Dunham gulped, looking very frightened. “Yes,” he murmured.
“
Do you understand me?
” Smith screamed.
“Yes, sir!” Dunham cried loudly.
Smith let go of Dunham’s shirt, and Dunham slumped and almost fell. The officer’s hands were trembling. He stepped back, glancing sideways at Doctor Sanderson. “All right, Doctor,” he said, as if nothing untoward had happened. “We have some sick men here. I suggest that you give them some medicine so that we can continue.”
With a gleeful look, Sanderson stepped forward. He had a black bag and quickly withdrew two large bottles, one containing a white powder, the other containing something dark brown. He also withdrew a large spoon, and Josh saw that it was rusty and tarnished. Josh turned toward the wagon. Derek was awake now, as were the others, watching anxiously. Rebecca clutched Leah to her breast, her eyes wide and frightened.
“Now,” Sanderson said, “you first.” He was looking at Derek.
“I’m fine. I don’t want any medicine.”
“You want to be left here on the prairie?” Lieutenant Smith yelled. “I swear to you that any man that doesn’t take his medicine as the doctor prescribes will be dumped where he is and we’ll go on without him.”
Sanderson had filled the spoon with calomel powder. Now from the other bottle he dropped on several dabs of molasses. Muttering curses under his breath about the stupid Mormons and wanting to see every one of them in hell, he held it out for Derek. Derek started to turn away, then saw Josh nodding at him. Surrendering, he opened his mouth, and the doctor shoved the rusty spoon into it. Derek gagged, gasping for breath. Quick as a flash, the doctor had another bottle out and poured a thin, dark liquid into the spoon. Again he held it out. “A little arsenic is good for the soul,” he chuckled wickedly. He thrust it out, and Derek took it down. Again he choked and sputtered as the bitter liquid hit his throat.
Mumbling curses in a steady litany, Doctor Sanderson treated each of the men in the wagon exactly as he had Derek, using the same spoon without even bothering to wipe it off. When he finished, he looked at Rebecca.
“She’s not sick,” Josh blurted. “She’s just tending to those who are.”
Doctor Sanderson glared at Josh, clearly irritated, but then, without a word, turned again to his bag. In a moment he had two smaller bottles. He poured from both into the spoon. “You look ill, young lady. Here’s some bitters of bayberry bark and some tincture of camomile flowers.”
Rebecca opened her mouth and took it without protest. It was terribly bitter and she pulled a horrible face.
“What about the baby?”
Rebecca clutched her tightly, turning her away from the doctor. “The baby’s fine.”
Sanderson looked dubious, but then turned to the commanding officer. “All right, Lieutenant. With your help, I think we can treat the rest of the men now.”
They retrieved their horses and led them away, heading back to the next wagon. As soon as they were out of earshot, Sergeant Williams stepped forward and shut the wagon’s tailgate. “There is as corrupt a sample of a Missourian as any of those who shed the blood of the Saints while we were among them,” he said quietly.
Carl Rogers was furious. He leaped to his feet and leaned over the table, his ruddy complexion beet red now. It was a meeting of the new citizens committee in Nauvoo, but some Mormons had also been invited because of the importance of what was happening. Carl banged his fist against the table. “You call this a treaty?” he shouted. He slammed the papers down and pounded his fist on them. “This isn’t a treaty. This is a sellout.”
“Now, Rogers,” Major James R. Parker said, his own face reddening, “settle down and let me explain.”
“Let you explain what?” Carl shouted. “How you’ve made a deal with the devil?”
Abner Colfax leaned forward. “Carl, getting angry isn’t going to solve anything.”
Carl spun around on his fellow committee member. “So what is, Abner? Major Parker was called by the governor to help us, to maintain the peace. He is the state’s authority in Hancock County.” He swung back to Parker. “What happened to your proclamation that everyone was to return to their homes? What happened to your promise to raise volunteers to help us protect our homes and families? Tell me that, Mr. Parker.”
Now Richard Steele jumped up. “Carl is right,” he cried. “The state is supposed to be helping us, not giving in to the mobs.”
Parker was a big man, balding and with a sallow complexion, but he was a decent man in a difficult spot. He took a deep breath, fighting for control. “Colonel Singleton, the leader of the posse from Carthage, and I tried to work out an agreement that was fair to both sides. They have warrants for the arrest of many of the men in the city.”
“Posse?” Carl exploded. “Mob, you mean. Singleton is not an officer of the state. Why are you negotiating with him?”
The major leaned forward over the table, thrusting his face right up against Carl’s. “Because posse or mob, he is in command of over seven hundred men, Mr. Rogers. Most of them are members of the Carthage Greys. Do I need to remind you about the Carthage Greys?”
That stopped Carl. No, he didn’t need to be reminded of that. It was primarily the Carthage Greys who had painted their faces black and stormed the jail in Carthage, leaving Joseph and Hyrum Smith dead and John Taylor severely wounded. They were virulent Mormon-haters and had no qualms about expressing that hatred through violence. The Carthage Greys had also teamed up with the citizens of Warsaw and Green Plains in the attack on Yelrome and the cold-blooded murder of Edmund Durfee. And now they were the number-one factor behind the call for more “wolf hunts,” the cry for extermination of the Mormons, and the demand for the expulsion of the last of the Saints from Nauvoo.
“But that’s why Governor Ford has given you authority to raise volunteers,” Steele said, jumping in at Carl’s hesitation.
Carl picked up the papers and shook them in Parker’s face. “These are not acceptable conditions. Sixty days for the Mormons to get out of the city. In the meantime, a force of twenty-five members of the mob—or posse,” he said sarcastically, “—to be stationed in the city, with the citizens of Nauvoo paying for half their board. The Mormons are to surrender their arms. What kind of conditions are those?”
“The arms would be returned to them as soon as they left the state,” Parker broke in, but it came out lamely and even he knew it.
Daniel H. Wells, one of the few Mormons who were in attendance at this meeting of the new citizens committee, spoke for the first time. “The last time the Mormons surrendered their weapons, Major Parker,” he said grimly, “it led to the fall of Far West in Missouri. It was all that the mobs were waiting for. Once they knew we couldn’t defend ourselves, they sacked the city, shot down innocent people, ravished our women. We will not agree to that again.”
Carl turned to his fellow committee members. “I say that we do not agree to any of this.” He flung the papers down again. “I don’t care if you have signed the agreement, Major Parker. This is not acceptable.”
“Then there will be war,” Parker said ominously.
Richard Steele stood up beside Carl. “Then let there be war,” he declared.
Carl made sure the windows were covered before he lit the lamp, and even then he kept the wick low. In the dim light he moved to the back of the shed, where normally he would lay out the rows of bricks after they had been fired in the kiln. He moved several boxes that had been stacked across one end, and looked around once more to be sure he was alone. Then he stepped through the small opening into the makeshift room he had created with his temporary wall. He stood there for almost a full minute, letting his eyes move up and down the wagon that he had hidden there and the boxes, barrels, and sacks with which it was slowly filling up. He wished again that it was a smaller, lighter wagon. This was meant for hauling bricks. It was heavy and long. A team could pull it, but it really would take two yoke of oxen to keep it moving over long distances. But at the moment, finding a wagon and two yoke of oxen in Nauvoo was virtually impossible.
He moved around the wagon, taking mental inventory of what he had gathered so far. It seemed woefully small for a family of seven people. And some of the staples—sugar, flour, salt—were still not where he wanted them to be. But it was a start, and it had taken a good share of the thousand dollars he had gotten from the lumber sale. He still worked on supplementing his little secret every day. That took some doing, for with the brickyard shut down now, Melissa was far more aware of his activities during the day than she had been before. He was doing this for her and the children, in keeping with his promise to her, but he didn’t want her knowing about it. At least not yet. He still had hopes that they would never have to use it.
He sighed, moving back out into the main part of the shed. After tonight’s meeting, his hopes were waning. That brought his mouth into a tight line. “Sixty days,” he muttered as he started moving the boxes back across the opening he had made. “Surrender our weapons. What kind of fools do they think we are?”
When he was finished he stepped back and surveyed his work again. To the casual eye, it looked now as if the whole end of the shed were being used for storing junk. But as he looked more closely, he could see that there was a large space behind the boxes. Enough to hide a wagon. He went to work again, moving several stacks of bricks over in front of the boxes and piling more boxes on top so that the space behind was not as obvious.
Finally, after more than an hour’s work, he blew out the lamp and left the shed, carefully locking the door behind him.
Melissa was still up, sitting in the living room sorting the laundry she had brought in from the clothesline earlier that day. She looked up as he entered. “Hi.”
He nodded and went over and kissed her on the forehead.
“The meeting went long,” she said.
It wasn’t a direct question, and Carl understood it for what it was—a probe for a report. He decided there was no point in trying to hide it from her. Word would be out in the city by morning anyway. “Major Parker signed an agreement with the mob in Carthage.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t acceptable. They asked for too much and gave too little.”
“So what does that mean, Carl?”
He avoided her eyes. “We don’t know yet. Parker has to take it back tomorrow and tell them it was rejected.” He turned and looked toward the stairs. “How’s Mary Melissa?”
Melissa shook her head slowly. “Maybe a little better, but not good yet by any means.”
“Did her fever break?”
“No. I gave her a sponge bath, and that seems to have brought it down a little. She is sleeping for a change.”
“Good.”
Melissa folded and then smoothed a pillowcase in her lap. “Sarah is starting in too, I think.”
He turned back toward her. “No, with the shakes?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so. She said she was really cold tonight. The rest of us were sweating.”
“Were you able to find any quinine?”
“Mary Fielding Smith brought me about a quarter of a pint. Don’t ask me where she found it.”
“She’s an angel, isn’t she?”
That surprised Melissa a little, but she immediately nodded. “Yes, she is. In spite of all she has to worry about, she always finds time to help others.”
“I’ll go by and thank her tomorrow,” Carl said.
That surprised Melissa even more. Carl was politely friendly with some of the Mormons still left in town, but he didn’t go out of his way to associate with them. “That would be nice, Carl.” She took a quick breath, and then added, “She plans to leave in a few days.”
He moved to a chair and sat down. “I thought they didn’t have an outfit.”
“Joseph Fielding sold his farm.”
“Ah. And how much did he get?”
Melissa bit her lip. This was indicative of what was happening in Nauvoo right now. “Two hundred dollars. Or that’s what the buyer said he was giving him. In actuality, he got a wagon, two horses—one of which proved to be so balky that Joseph had to trade him for a yoke of small young oxen—a coat, some cloth, and four and a half dollars in cash.”