Joseph Smith
The President Elect
Book One: The Prophet
Copyright 2011 Kurt F. Kammeyer
Smashwords Edition
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Introduction
This is a book about what might have been. Nearly all the characters depicted in this book were real people, and their actual histories are a matter of record. There are only a very few instances where the characters are completely fictitious. Since I am dealing with real people, I have tried to respect the memory of the many greats and not-so-greats mentioned in this novel. The actual heroes, for the most part, remain heroes, and the villains are still villains.
Most of the scenes in this book are based on real events that took place in America around the years 1844-1845. However, in many cases the dates have been changed to improve the flow of the narrative. In some cases, actual statements made by one person are “quoted” by another. For example, in a few places Joseph Smith “says” things which in reality were said by Brigham Young or others. The recurring theme of this book, so to speak, might be: “History precedes itself.”
This book uses an entirely different approach than any previously used by LDS authors who have written about Joseph Smith. Instead of just fictionalizing the Prophet’s short life, I have “extended” his life into a work of fiction that explores what could very well have happened, if only he had survived Carthage.
Since the 1930s a discipline has grown up under the name of “Counterfactual History” – the study of what might have been, if only small events were changed at certain key turning points in history. What if Hitler had repulsed the Normandy invasion? What if William the Conqueror had lost the Battle of Hastings? What if Annie Oakley had missed her shot and killed Kaiser Wilhelm II in 1889, when he challenged her to shoot a lighted cigar from between his teeth? In my estimation, Joseph and Hyrum Smith’s presence in Carthage Jail was just such a turning point in history. I have no doubt that if they had survived, our nation and the world would be a very different place today.
I have gone to great lengths to make this book as true to life as possible. In particular, I have tried to make these people speak and sound the way they actually did in 1840s America. A quotation from Mark Twain in his introduction to Huck Finn best says what I have attempted:
In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri Negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary “Pike County” dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding.
(Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn)
Would that I were as conversant with these dialects as Mark Twain was! In addition to some of the dialects he mentioned, I have sometimes made use of the broadest, most flap-jawed southern patois of all, as found in the writings of “Sut Lovingood” (George Washington Harris), a contemporary and inspiration to Mark Twain.
Many of the early leaders of the Church came from New England, including Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, and they no doubt spoke with a rather strong West New England “twang” which I have not attempted to imitate here. However, I have tried to mimic the following accents, with varying degrees of success: Southern English, Irish, Cockney, Welsh, Yorkshire/Cumbrian, Yiddish, German, and French. The accents of persons such as William Clayton, Charles Lambert, and Dan Jones were not written haphazardly, but are based on their place of origin in the British Isles.
Writing in dialect is an imprecise business at best, and the overusage of it can get in the way of the narrative. After awhile, the many dropped h’s and apostrophes can become a liability. Unfortunately, there are simply not enough letters in the alphabet to portray the subtle nuances of all the English dialects used here. I found that certain dialects were fairly easy to render (Welsh, Cumbrian), while others were nearly impossible (Received Southern Pronunciation, the “Queen’s English”). Unless you have actually heard a Yorkie or a Lankie’s speech patterns, much of the effect of this dialect may be lost on you. Also, the use of written dialect can mislead us into thinking that the less “proper” (i.e., 21st century American-sounding) a person’s speech was, the less educated they were. While this is certainly true of some of the characters in this book (Prudence Bigelow, for instance), it was not generally the case, then or now.
As a final check on the accuracy of this book, I have carefully compared it against Webster’s 1828 Dictionary, in order to weed out any 21st-century anachronisms. Whether these efforts have made this a better yarn, I shall leave to the reader to decide.
To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever succeeded in fictionalizing Joseph Smith’s life while still respecting his character. How could they? To the non-Mormons, he was and is a complete mystery. At the other end of the spectrum, Latter-day Saint authors tend to treat him with such reverence (and rightly so) that it is well-nigh impossible to explore his true personality.
Those who have written about Joseph Smith – and they are legion – have generally used two approaches. They either turn him into something he was not (a charlatan, a clever but lazy oaf, or a modern Mahomet) or, if they are more honest, they simply write “around” him. In the latter category are several extremely popular series written recently by Latter-day Saint authors, which I would prefer not to mention here by name.
No novel about Joseph Smith can surpass the true history of his life. As he said of himself,
“You don’t know me; you never knew my heart. No man knows my history. I cannot tell it; I shall never undertake it. I don’t blame any one for not believing my history. If I had not experienced what I have, I would not have believed it myself.”
Since this book is an historical extrapolation, no one should assume that it represents the official views of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed here are solely my own. I have tried to tread lightly when it comes to Church doctrine or sacred matters, and I have relied heavily on historical records concerning polygamy, the Nauvoo temple, Church organization, Joseph Smith’s campaign for President, and slavery. In addition, most of the miracles portrayed here are based on historical accounts – they actually happened.
The first chapter of this book is a meticulously accurate depiction of the actual events leading up to the instant of the martyrdom. As near as we can tell from the many written accounts, it really happened this way. After that, all kinds of amazing “alternate timelines” unfold, as Joseph Smith pursues his campaign for the Presidency.
For the record, these are the historical facts: Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were incarcerated in Carthage Jail, Illinois, where on June 27th 1844, they were both killed by an armed mob. John Taylor was severely wounded in the attack; Willard Richards escaped with just a nick on his left ear. The campaign to elect Joseph Smith President of the United States died with him. In February of 1846, Brigham Young led the first company of Saints out of Nauvoo, and in 1847 the first pioneer company made the long journey to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. The rest, as they say, is history...
Kurt F. Kammeyer
CHAPTER 1
CARTHAGE, Thursday, June 27 1844, 10:30 a.m.
“Joseph, look!”
“What is it, Hyrum?” said Joseph, as he joined his elder brother at the south window of the Carthage jail.
“‘Tis Governor Ford, an’ he’s leaving town without us!”
John Taylor and Willard Richards came to the window and looked out.
“But ‘e promised t’ take you an’ Joseph wi’ ‘im”, Taylor said in surprise.
Through the south and east windows of the jail the four men had a panoramic view of Carthage and the surrounding countryside. Scattered about the streets of the town were small groups of Carthage Greys, conspicuous in their light blue-gray shirts. A mile to the south, about a hundred Warsaw militiamen were milling aimlessly about. The Governor had ordered them to disband, but about half of them had refused, saying they would “use up ol’ Joe Smith first”. And directly in front of the jail entrance, on the south side, were seven more Carthage Greys with orders to “guard” the jail – but only against anyone attempting to leave, not enter.
Joseph observed that a company of cavalry was forming up at the west end of Main Street. The four men watched from the upper room of the jail as Governor Thomas Ford took his place at the head of the Augusta Dragoons. Ford drew his sword and gave a signal, and the fifty horsemen started slowly moving in a double column down the road towards Nauvoo.
“It appears we’ve been left to our own devices”, Joseph remarked, as he retreated from the window.
“I would prefer to say, thrown to the wolves”, Willard Richards replied. “The only troops we could half trust our lives to are those Augusta militia. The Governor is leaving our worst enemies here to ‘guard’ us. I find that extremely disquieting.”
For the past three days, Joseph and Hyrum had been detained in Carthage by one of their most bitter enemies, Justice of the Peace Robert F. Smith, who was also Captain of the Carthage Greys militia. There was not a shred of legality in their imprisonment, but since Justice Robert F. Smith was also the town judge, jailer, and coroner, the prisoners had little choice but to submit to the outrage. Willard Richards and John Taylor were free to go, and possibly Hyrum too, but they all chose to risk their lives by staying near their prophet and brother.
The morning had been overcast and oppressive, with a light drizzle, which perfectly matched the mood of the prisoners.
“Well”, said Hyrum, as he withdrew his head from the window. “We must fend for ourselves as best we can.”
They heard footsteps on the stairs. A few moments later, Cyrus Wheelock, John Bernhisel and Stephen Markham entered the room. Joseph’s countenance brightened noticeably when he saw his old friends.
Markham spoke. “Brethren, you are well, I hope?”
Willard Richards replied, “The jailer, Mr. Stigall, treats us fairly. I wish I could say as much for the mobocrats that surround us here.”
Stephen Markham pondered this for a moment, then he turned to Joseph and said,
“Brother Joseph, I say we put an end to this affray, and quickly! If you wish, I can instantly raise two cohorts of the Nauvoo Legion to guard you home. Why must you submit to this abuse?”
John Taylor exclaimed, “Aye, Stephen is right, they’s nae use t’firtlen aboot it! Joseph, if tha’ll pairmit, an’ say t’ word, ah’ll have ye out o’ this gaol in five hours, e’en if we hesta’ tear it doon. We can easy raise enow force t’ free thyssen an’ Hyrum! If ye ask me, t’ whole affair, ‘tis a legal farce, an’ a flagrant ootrage upon oor liberty an’ rights!”
Joseph sat down on the corner of the bed and replied with a sigh,
“Stephen, John, I dare not call out the Legion. Were I to do so, it would be all the excuse the Governor needed to disband the Legion. Or worse, it would ignite the flames that would engulf this town, and all of Hancock County, and finally this whole nation. I’m determined to see this ‘legal farce’ through to the end. I intend to engage counsel to defend us here in Carthage, and writs are being drawn up to release us from this jail. There’s nothing more to be done.”
Joseph smiled faintly. “You know brethren, I’m somewhat conversant in the matter of these ‘legal farces’, having been arraigned some forty times, by my count.”
A voice echoed up the stairs. It was the jailer, Mr. Stigall.
“Time’s up, gen’lmen”, he shouted.
Cyrus Wheelock glanced quickly around, then he drew a small Ethan Allen “pepperbox” pistol from his pocket, remarking softly at the same time,
“Would any of you like to have this?”
Joseph held out his hand. “Yes, give it to me.”
He took the pistol and put it in his pocket. Joseph then took a single-shot flintlock pistol which had been given him previously by John S. Fullmer, and gave it to Hyrum, saying,
“Here, you may have use for this.”
Hyrum took the pistol, looked down at it glumly and replied,
“I hate to use such things or to see them used.”
He pulled the cock back one notch and carefully lifted the pan cover to check the priming.
“So do I”, said Joseph, “but we may have to, to defend our lives.”
Joseph handed several letters to Cyrus, including one addressed to his wife which read in part:
CARTHAGE JAIL, June 27th, 1844.
20 minutes past eight a.m.
DEAR EMMA:-
I am very much resigned to my lot, knowing I am justified and have done the best that could be done. Give my love to the children and all my friends, Mr. Brewer, and all who inquire after me; and as for ‘treason’-I know that I have not committed any, and they cannot prove an appearance of anything of the kind, so you need not have any fears that any harm can happen to us on that score. May God bless you all. Amen.
There was a sense of urgency in Joseph’s voice as he handed the letters to Cyrus and said,
“Brother Cyrus, I want you to instruct the commanders of the Legion to avoid all military display or any other movement likely to produce excitement during the governor’s visit to the city. And also, tell all my friends, if they value the feelings and welfare of their Prophet and Patriarch, to remain perfectly calm and quiet.”
Hyrum then took Cyrus aside and said,
“And make certain that the City Council receives Captain Singleton’s certificate for the Legion arms, and make sure that O.H. Browning is agreeable to defending Joseph and myself next week... And remember us to my dear Mary.”
John Taylor chimed in. “An’ also Leonora an’ me bairns...”
Willard approached Cyrus and said, “Brother Cyrus, are you sure you won’t forget all this?”
Hyrum glanced at Willard, then he fixed Cyrus with a fierce gaze and said,
“Brother Wheelock will remember all we tell him, and he will never forget the occurrences of this day.”
Cyrus left the jail with his letters and messages. A short time later, Willard Richards was taken sick with vomiting. He stumbled over to the bed and sat down heavily, with his head between his knees.
“I’ll be alright in a moment”, he mumbled, reaching for the chamber pot. “It must be something I had for breakfast.”
Joseph looked at him anxiously, then turned to Stephen Markham and said,
“Brother Stephen, you have a pass from the Governor to go in and out of the jail. Would you go and get the doctor something to settle his stomach?”
“Very well, Joseph”, said Stephen. “I’ll return instantly… Here, you mought find this useful as well.”
He handed his large hickory cane, called the “rascal-beater”, to John Taylor for their protection; then he went out for the medicine.
Stephen made his way to the Carthage general store and purchased some laudanum. Just as he was arriving back at the jail, elbowing his way through the crowds, a man by the name of Stewart recognized him and called out,
“Old man, you’d best leave town in five minutes!”
Markham replied stoutly, “I shall not do it!” This drew the attention of several Carthage Greys nearby, and before he knew it he was surrounded by a group of drunken, hostile militiamen.
“Damn’ wife-stealin’ p’ligmast”, one of them sneered. “Let’s run ‘im out’a town!”
The soldiers gathered around him, lifted him up and put him on his horse. Markham resisted, but the soldiers poked him and his horse with their bayonets, driving him away from the jail and out towards the road to Nauvoo. He decided that despite what Joseph had said, the best course of action was to ride to Nauvoo and raise the Legion to rescue the prisoners. He thought,
I know what the Prophet said about not raising the Legion, but I refuse to let him die without a fight.
As he reached the western edge of town, Stephen Markham glanced back along Main Street. In the distance, he thought he could just see Joseph gazing sadly back at him from the upper window of the jail.
NAUVOO, June 27, 2:00 p.m.
The road between Nauvoo and Carthage was a very busy place on June 27, 1844.
The “road” itself was little more than a muddy, rutted path through the Illinois woods, studded with stumps, boulders and branches. Messengers were riding all day along its 25 crooked miles, carrying letters from Carthage and news from Nauvoo. All morning long, militias from Appanoose, Green Plains and Warsaw converged on Carthage along the road. Early in the day, Captain Singleton’s state troops took the road to Nauvoo to collect the state arms that were on loan to the Nauvoo Legion. Then they carted them off toward Springfield along the same path.
As he rode along the Nauvoo-Carthage road with his troops, Governor Thomas Ford thought about the turmoil that had flared up in Illinois since he had succeeded Governor Thomas Carlin in 1842:
Carlin was a fool to invite these damn Mormons into the state, and then dump the whole ruckus into my lap. Our treasury is empty, and the state is broke. There is scarcely two hundred thousand dollars in hard currency in all of Illinois. We can ill afford to raise militias, only to have them blow each other to smithereens.
Governor Ford had several reasons for riding to Nauvoo on this day. His official purpose was to look into the events surrounding the destruction of the Nauvoo Expositor press. He planned to warn the Mormons not to try any rash moves while their leaders were in Carthage Jail. Ford also planned to search the city for counterfeiters. If there were other, private reasons for the visit, well, he kept them to himself.
A soggy tree branch slapped him in the face. He wiped the leaves off his face and continued on down the path.
The people of this state should be out plowing and planting, not fighting each other. This spring has been so damp, I would venture to say scarcely an acre of crops has been planted in all of Hancock County. All the streams and rivers are full to overflowing. If the crops aren’t in the ground soon, there’s a better than even chance of famine this fall.
As the Governor and his troops approached Nauvoo from the east, he noticed that a “marquee” had been erected by the side of the road – a small canvas tent with no front. Two Nauvoo Legion soldiers, a private and a general, stepped out of the marquee and blocked Ford’s path.
“Halt! Who goes there?” cried the young private as he brandished his musket. “Present your pass!”
Ford leaned over his saddle, his face even with the sentry’s, and sneered,
“I’m Thomas Ford, Governor of this God-forsaken state, and this is Captain Dunn, of the state militia. And just who in damnation do you fancy yourself, you country jake?”
The private backed away, suddenly a little less certain of himself, and his officer stepped in, saluting smartly.
“Governor, sir, you know me – I’m Hosea Stout, Brigadier General of the Nauvoo Legion. I apologize for the delay. As a precaution, we’ve been asking all those entering Nauvoo to show a signed pass.”
“I’ll see you in Halifax first, Stout, and then I won’t!” Ford growled, spurring his horse forward. His dragoons followed him, brushing by the two foot soldiers.
As Ford and his troops approached the temple, he noticed that the Nauvoo Legion was busy assembling on the parade ground. He recognized many of the Legion officers, who were directing the assembly from Joseph Smith’s preaching stand east of the temple. The Governor quickly ran his eyes over the huge assembly and estimated that between two and three thousand armed men were milling about. Horses, wagons, piles of provisions, and stands of muskets told his practiced eye that this was no routine parade-ground drill.
What the devil, he thought, shaking his head in astonishment. When we passed the Nauvoo Charter, we never anticipated this. We foresaw perhaps a few hundred militia here, not Napoleon’s “Grande Armee”. The Carthage Greys only number about 30; the Warsaw Militia, about 150. With an army this size, Joe Smith could make himself the first American Emperor. Why, the entire U.S. Army has less than 8,000 men.
As Ford’s little band rode past, the Legion began forming up in grim silence along the road by companies. Ford noticed a general lack of “spit and polish”; few of the men save the officers had uniforms. Many of the troops were equipped with flintlocks such as the old Harper’s Ferry 1816 model, or the even older Charleville musket.
A motley but well-disciplined band, Ford thought. If in nothing else but sheer size, there is not a militia in the State that could whip these ragamuffins, including my Augusta dragoons here.
Ford heard a muffled “Hurrah for Tommy Ford!” from the back of the Legion, followed by catcalls. He ignored them and guided his horse up to the stand near the temple, where several officers were leading the muster. He recognized Major General Jonathan Dunham and John P. Greene, the Nauvoo City Marshall.
“General, what is the meaning of this muster?” Ford said sternly.
Dunham nervously replied, “Why, Governor, your own Captain Singleton called us out for review just this morning. This is but a regularly scheduled drill to maintain our proficiency...”
“Drill, my eye! Do you think I don’t know how to spot troops preparing for the field? I have dismissed the Carthage and Warsaw militias, and I hereby order the Nauvoo Legion to do the same! Return to your homes!”
Dunham scowled at Ford for a moment, then he reluctantly signaled to his Lieutenants, who passed the word down the ranks, and the companies slowly began to dissolve, grumbling as they went.
The Governor turned his horse back to the west and continued slowly down Mulholland Street, passing townsfolk and small groups of Legionnaires along the way. Then he turned left on Main Street, rode by the Masonic Hall and the half-finished Print Shop, and finally reached Joseph Smith’s Mansion on Water Street.
As he dismounted Ford said, “Captain Dunn, we will bivouac here for now. I have a few things to say to these bumpkins.”
By now, a large crowd of curious citizens had gathered near Main and Water Street. Governor Ford and his aides climbed onto the foundation of an unfinished building on the southwest corner. It was the very place from which Joseph Smith had addressed the Nauvoo Legion just nine days before.
A light drizzle began falling as Ford cast his gaze over the crowd. He could see that they were mostly poor, many of them shabbily dressed. He thought,
Just the sort of sincere dupes who would give their all to a man like Joe Smith. Well, here’s hark from the tomb for them.
He began speaking:
“Citizens of Nauvoo! A great crime has been done by destroying the Expositor press and placing the city under martial law, and a severe atonement must be made, so prepare your minds for the emergency.”
There was a stir in the crowd, and people glanced at each other in bewilderment.
“Another cause of excitement is the fact of your having so many firearms. The public are afraid that you are going to use them against the government!”
Loud boos and expressions of denial followed.
This isn’t working, Ford thought, but he plowed ahead anyway:
“I know there’s a great prejudice against you on account of your peculiar religion, but you ought to be praying Saints, not military Saints.”
He paused for effect, and then shook his finger in the air.
“Depend upon it, a little more misbehavior from the citizens, and the torch, which is already lighted, will be applied, and your city may be reduced to ashes, and extermination would inevitably follow; and it gives me great pain to think that there is danger of so many innocent women and children being exterminated!”
There were a few gasps from the crowd.
He paused again, then he spoke slowly with emphasis.
“If anything of a serious character should befall the lives or property of the persons who are prosecuting your leaders, you will be held responsible!”
By now the crowd was becoming openly hostile. This is hopeless, thought Ford. No sense bullyragging this rabble, and anyhow, the fuse is already lit.
A man separated himself from the back of the crowd and trotted across the street to the Nauvoo Mansion. Ford noticed he had long, scraggly black hair, a full beard, and walked with a limp.
It’s that damned Rockwell, Ford noted to himself. He turned his attention back to the now-dwindling crowd.
“I propose to take a vote on the question, whether you will strictly observe the laws even in opposition to your Prophet and leaders. Do I hear yea or nay?”
A halfhearted “Yea!” arose from the crowd.
Good enough, Ford thought.
He stepped down and made his way across the street to the Nauvoo Mansion, followed by his aides. He rapped on the door with the hilt of his sword. Emma Smith met him at the door.
“Such a brave speech, Mr. Governor”, she said with contempt. “Just what do you want from us here?”
“Mrs. Smith, we’ve had a long ride from Carthage, and would like the use of a room for a short time to refresh ourselves”, said Ford, as he scraped the mud from his boots. “If you wish, we can reimburse you for it.”
“Come in”, she said wearily, motioning them in. Dark circles under Emma’s eyes showed she hadn’t slept for many days. She was also four months pregnant, and not feeling very chipper.
“The bar is on your left”, she said with a dismissive wave. Ford’s officers entered the bar room, but Emma grabbed Ford’s arm as he turned. “Not so fast, Your Excellency, we should like to have a word with you.”
Ford and Captain Dunn reluctantly entered the parlor on the right. Emma had been holding vigil there with several of her Mormon sisters: Eliza R. Snow; Mary Elizabeth Lightner; John Taylor’s wife Leonora, Willard Richards’ wife Jennetta; and Mary Fielding Smith, Hyrum’s wife.
Emma looked closely at Governor Ford. She saw a small man, about 110 pounds she guessed, with unremarkable features; a narrow face, and a thin nose that bent a little to one side.
How was this man ever elected? she wondered.
When the Governor and Captain Dunn were seated and introduced, Emma spoke.
“Mr. Ford, why are our husbands still holden against their will in Carthage? They went there, not to satisfy any broken law, but to answer your unjust demand. They have now been remanded to jail at the hands of those who most strenuously seek their death. Why do you persist in this horrid persecution?”
Emma watched Ford look down at his boots for a moment; then he looked up and said,
“Mrs. Smith, the occasion dictates that I explain my course of conduct in this matter. I’m placed in peculiar circumstances and seem to be blamed by all parties. No public officer ever acted from purer or more patriotic intentions than I have. I’m narrowly watched in all my proceedings in this State. I’m supposed by some to have the powers of an emperor to suppress dissent, exile thousands of citizens from the state, et cetera. I assure you, I have no such authority. I cannot, nor would I interfere in a purely judicial matter, such as that in which the two Smith brothers are involved at this time. I must let the law take its course.”
Mary Fielding Smith spoke up from across the room. “Gov’nor Ford, we repeat, ah husbands ah guilty of noo crime! The Nauvoo Expositor affair ‘as been settled by a non-Mormon Justice of th’ Peace, Squire Daniel H. Wells. Joseph an’ Hyrum ‘ave satisfied the law in every whit. Must they now submit also t’ lynch law, courtesy of Judge Robert F. Smith?”
Jennetta Richards turned to Emma and said, “Emma, why don’t tha’ read that letter from Joseph?”
Emma retrieved a letter from the side table and read:
Carthage, June 25th, 1844.
2:30 o’clock p.m.
Dear Emma. – I have had an interview with Governor Ford, and he treats us honorably. Myself and Hyrum have been again arrested for treason because we called out the Nauvoo Legion; but when the truth comes out we have nothing to fear. We all feel calm and composed.
This morning Governor Ford introduced myself and Hyrum to the militia in a very appropriate manner, as General Joseph Smith and General Hyrum Smith. There was a little mutiny among the Carthage Greys, but I think the governor has and will succeed in enforcing the laws. I do hope the people of Nauvoo will continue pacific and prayerful.
Governor Ford has just concluded to send some of his militia to Nauvoo to protect the citizens, and I wish that they may be kindly treated. They will co-operate with the police to keep the peace. The Governor’s orders will be read in the hearing of the police and officers of the Legion, as I suppose.
3 o’clock. – The Governor has just agreed to march his army to Nauvoo, and I shall come along with him. The prisoners, all that can, will be admitted to bail. I am as ever,
Joseph Smith.
Emma dropped the letter in her lap and looked up. “Now, Your Excellency, where are our husbands?”
In the bar room, Orrin Porter Rockwell was reluctantly waiting table for the Governor’s aides.
This “bar” was actually the main room of the Mansion’s first floor, which Joseph had recently fitted out for Porter with a long counter, stools, tables and chairs. There were two advantages in this odd arrangement: It kept Porter gainfully employed, and it allowed him, as Joseph’s bodyguard, to keep a close eye on people as they came and went in Nauvoo. With Porter was Joseph’s scribe, William Clayton.
“Gentlemen, what’ll it be – malt beer, root beer, switchel, sarsaparilla, or lem’nade?” Porter said.
Colonel Buckmaster snorted. “Jist our luck, we fetch up in a dry town. Don’t you Mormons never have no fun?”
Porter’s gray eyes flashed, but he replied coolly,
“You bring your custom here, you git what we sell. This ain’t a dram shop, true, but then the town ain’t really all that dry. Sister Smith just don’t allow hard likker in ‘er house, that’s all. If this bar ain’t to your likin’, they’s always the pump house out back. An’ if that don’t quench your thirst, why, you kin go jump in the river. It’s all wheat to me.”
“Lemonade, hell”, said William Marr. “I could use a good shot o’ forty-rod whisky ‘bout now. But I’ll settle for a malt beer, I reckon.”
As Porter drew the men’s drinks, Mr. Coolie said mockingly,
“Why, Mister Rockwell, it jist ain’t like the ‘Destroyin’ Angel’ to meeky up to a woman, now is it?”
Porter thought for a moment and replied with a cold smile,
“You don’t know Emma. Anyway, you see that foundation ‘cross the street, where your numbskull Governor was raggin’ us? That’s my new barber shop an’ tavern, courtesy o’ Emma’s husband. You come back in six months, I’ll serve you a phlegm-cutter that’ll set y’ back on yer heels jist fine.”
William Marr shook his head and said, looking into his cup,
“You are a man of many talents, Mr. Rockwell: Lawman, liveryman, bar-keeper, fugitive from justice...”
Porter slowly set down the beer he was drawing.
“I didn’t shoot Boggs!” he said emphatically. “If’n I had, he’d still be dead now. You think I was court’n ‘round after a halter? My only mistake was lett’n them Missouri pukes git the bulge on me, whilst I was just pass’n through St. Louis. Then they throwed me in that blithesome Independence Jail for nine months, where I come nigh to starvin’. I wouldn’t set foot in Missouri agin, if they made me King of France.”
Mr. Marr looked around the room. “Last time I was in this room in April, it was fitted out as a ‘court of law’. Times sure do change, don’t they, Port? Tell me, what ever happened to that black boy, Chism, what ol’ Joe Smith accused me right here of whippin?”
Porter replied, “Don’t rightly know, Bill. He mought’a gone south, but then again, he mought’a gone north.”
Mr. Coolie fished out a wad of plug tobacco and bit off a chaw, then he looked around.
“Damn, no spittoons, neither”, he said. “C’mon, men, this is too various fer me. You got a private room we kin use, Port?”
“Upstairs, on your left”, said Porter.
After the men were gone, Porter turned to William Clayton and said quietly,
“What’s the drift here, Will? I don’t like the feel o’ this.”
“Port, in truth I dinna ken. Ah’m afeared aboot t’ brethren, as well.”
CARTHAGE, 3:15 p.m.
The skies had cleared, and the oppressive, steamy heat had forced the men to open all the windows, in the vain hope of catching the slightest cooling breeze.
Joseph looked down at the floor and remarked quietly,
“I’ve had a good deal of anxiety about my safety since I left Nauvoo, which I never had before when I was under arrest. I can’t help these feelings, and they’ve depressed me. I’ve not felt the powers of darkness to this degree, since the day I first called upon God near my father’s home in Palmyra. The Savior of the World must surely have experienced this same feeling of gloom and astonishment as he entered the Garden of Gethsemane…” His voice trailed off.
The other men stared back at Joseph in fear, but said nothing.
About this time the guards outside the jail began singing an old ditty called “The Hebrew Children”, which they set to their own vulgar words:
What shall we do with the Mormon Prophet?
What shall we do with the Mormon Prophet?
What shall we do with the Mormon Prophet?
Blow him straight to Hell!
Joseph bore this indignity for a few minutes, then he spoke up. “Elder Taylor, would you please sing that song that’s come lately into Nauvoo, ‘The Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief’?”
John was reluctant, but he began singing softly,
”A poor wayfarin’ man o’ grief
‘ad often crossed me on me way,
Who sued so ‘umbly for relief
That I could nevair answer, Nay.
I ‘ad na’ power ta’ ask ‘is name;
Whither ‘e went or whence ‘e came;
Yet there was somethin’ in ‘is eye
That won me’ love, I knew not why.”
When he had finished the song, the four men sat speechless for a time. An overpowering sense of gloom and foreboding continued to grow in the room. The guards outside continued their raucous song. Finally, Hyrum turned to John Taylor in desperation and said,
“Brother Taylor, would you sing that song for us again?”
“Ah donna’ mooch feel like it”, he replied.
“Oh, never mind”, said Hyrum. “Commence singing, and you’ll get the spirit of it.”
Elder Taylor reluctantly sang the song again, but the feeling of foreboding remained.
NAUVOO, 3:30 p.m.
Governor Ford had excused himself from the ladies and retreated to an upstairs room of the Mansion along with Captain Dunn. Leonora Taylor sighed with relief.
“I don’t trust that man”, she said.
“How could anyone trust him?” said Eliza. “He’s broken every promise he ever made to us. He’s a small man, with small ideas. I shall be glad when this whole Expositor affair is over and done with.”
Jennetta turned to Mary Elizabeth Lightner. “Mary, when th’ Goovernor arrived, tha’ ware just on to tellin’ us about how tha’ saved the Book of Commandments?”
“Yes, well”, said Mary Elizabeth, brightening. “It was like this. I was a young girl, not fourteen years old, livin’ in Independence. Just before the troubles began there, I went to work for Peter Whitmer, who was a tailor by trade, an’ just married. He was crowded with work, an’ Lilburn Boggs offered him a room in his house, as he’d just been elected Lieutenant Governor, an’ wanted Peter to make him a suit for his inauguration ceremonies. Peter did make them, an’ I stitched the collars an’ faced the coat.”
“What! Thou stitched a coat for that ninny, Gov’nor Boggs?” exclaimed Mary Fielding.
“Yes’m, an’ Mr. Boggs often came in to note the progress of the work. As I was considered a good seamstress, he hired me to make his fine, ruffled bosom shirts, an’ also to assist his wife in her sewin’. I worked for them some weeks; during that time, they tried to induce me to leave the Church an’ live with them…
“But I digress. One day the mob began tearin’ down the printin’ office, a two story building, an’ drivin’ Brother Phelps’ family out o’ the lower part of the house an’ puttin’ their things in the street. They brought out some large sheets of paper, an’ said, ‘Here are the Mormon Commandments.’ My sister Caroline an’ myself was in a corner of a fence watchin’ ‘em; when they spoke of the commandments I was determined to have some of ‘em.
“Sister said if I went to get any of ‘em she’d go too, but said, ‘They’ll kill us!’ Whilst their backs was turned, pryin’ out the gable end of the house, we went an’ got our arms full, and was turnin’ away, when some of the mob seen us and called on us to stop, but we run as fast as we could. Two of ‘em started after us. Seein’ a gap in a fence, we run into a large cornfield, laid the papers on the ground, an’ hid ‘em with our persons. The corn was ‘bout five, six feet high, an’ very thick; they hunted ‘round considerable, an’ come very near us but didn’t find us.
“After we satisfied ourselves that they’d given up the search for us, we tried to find our way outen the field. Soon we come to an old log stable which looked as though it han’t been used for years. Sister Phelps an’ her children was carryin’ in brush an’ pilin’ it up at one side of the barn to lay their beds on. She asked me what I had, so I told her. She then took them from us, which made us feel real bad. They got them bound in small books an’ sent me one, which I prized very highly. I have it to this day.”
She fished a small, leather-bound book out of her work bag and showed it to them:
BOOK
OF
COMMANDMENTS
FOR THE GOVERNMENT OF THE
Church of Christ
Organized according to law, on the
6th of April, 1830.
==============================
ZION:
Published by W. W. Phelps & Co.
–––
1833
About this time, Porter went upstairs to retrieve his hat. As he stepped into the room, he saw Governor Ford and his aides seated there. Captain Dunn was standing behind a chair, speaking. Just as Porter entered, Dunn dropped his right hand and said,
“...The deed is done before this time.”
The room fell silent as all of them stared at Porter standing awkwardly in the doorway. He retrieved his hat from the peg, and then backed slowly out of the room, his mind racing. Then he tiptoed down the stairs and tore madly out the front door into the street.
As he stepped outside he noticed that some of the Augusta troops, camped across the street, were eyeing him curiously. Trying to act nonchalant, he hobbled as quickly as he could up Main Street in the direction of the Browning gun shop, until he was well out of earshot of them.
What to do, he thought desperately. He glanced wildly around Main Street, and suddenly spied Stephen Markham riding towards him. “They’ve killed them!” he screeched as Markham approached.
“Who? What?” said Markham.
Porter was caught between shouting and whispering to Markham, to avoid drawing attention. “The Governor and his flatheads, they’ve hived Joseph and Hyrum! Curse them! I catched them talkin’ ‘bout it upstairs jist now!”
“I don’t think so... They were safe when I last saw them, but I suspicioned something when I was run out of Carthage earlier today”, said Markham. “The Greys poked me with their bayonets ‘till the blood ran in my boots. I’m raising the Legion even now, so there may still be time to save them. We’re meeting on the parade ground.”
“I’ll get my horse”, Porter shouted over his shoulder, as he made a beeline for the stables behind the Mansion. He glanced briefly back at the Governor’s troops, still camped across the street from the Mansion. They seemed to have lost interest in him.
CARTHAGE, 4:00 p.m.
The jail guard was again changed, only eight men being stationed at the jail, whilst the main body of the Carthage Greys were in camp about a quarter of a mile distant, on the public square.
At about five p.m. Mr. Stigall returned to the jail, and said that earlier in the day Stephen Markham had been surrounded by a mob, who had driven him out of Carthage, and he had gone to Nauvoo.
Joseph replied, “That would explain why he never returned with the medicine for Dr. Richards.”
Mr. Stigall replied nervously, “Mr. Smith, you know I wanted no part o’ this! But I’m duty-bound to obey ol’ Justice Bob Smith’s orders. If my put was wuth anythin’ roun’ here, y’all’d be free now.”
He glanced nervously out the open windows at the distant mobs. “Y’know, jist a word t’the wise, I think y’all’d be safer in the jail cell, ‘way from these here open winders.”
Joseph thought for a moment and said, “After supper we’ll go in.”
Mr. Stigall went out, and Joseph said to Dr. Richards,
“If we go into the cell, will you go in with us?”
The doctor answered, “Brother Joseph, you didn’t ask me to cross the river with you – you didn’t ask me to come to Carthage – you didn’t ask me to come to jail with you – and do you think I’d forsake you now? But I’ll tell you what I’ll do; if you’re condemned to be hung for treason, I’ll be hung in your stead, and you shall go free.”
Joseph said, “You cannot.”
The doctor stoutly replied, “My free spirit cries, ‘I will.’”
NAUVOO, 5:00 p.m.
Governor Ford and his entourage left the Mansion and rode north up Main Street, with the Augusta troops following. While passing up the street, Ford turned to Captain Dunn with a grin and said, “Let’s give these clodhoppers a show.”
Captain Dunn spurred his horse, drew his saber and cried, “Company, present arms! Charge!” The dragoons drew their sabers in response, and the whole company went thundering up Main Street, cutting and thrusting, taking up the whole width of the street, until they passed Lyon’s Store. Men, women, children and animals scattered wildly to avoid the onslaught.
The troops slowed their horses to a trot as they made the turn onto Mulholland Street.
“There now, Governor, was that whoop-jamboreehoo enough for you?” Dunn said, grinning.
At the Mansion, the women were still sitting in the parlor talking softly. Leonora finally threw down her knitting in frustration and exclaimed,
“How do such despicable men always worm themselves into office? Why, if Mister Governor Thomas Ford had any sand in him, he’d end this whole charade right now!”
“At least he doesn’t openly pairsecute us, like Boggs and his extairminatin’ order”, said Jennetta. “We should be thank-worthy far that mooch.”
“Small comfo’t, I say”, said Mary Fielding Smith. “But I do think we sometimes bring these troubles upon ou’selves. Why, Sister Richa’ds, d’ you know why Gov’nor Boggs wrote that exte’mination ordah?”
“Why, did he need a raison t’ grind us down?” said Jennetta. “I thought he just plainly despised us.”
“Nay, t’was more ‘an that”, said Mary Fielding. “Things ware passing tense in Far West in thairty-eight. After Sidney Rigdon preached his famous ‘salt sairmon’, as ye know, many of th’ less faithful Saints left th’ chairch or waire shown th’ door, includin’ Oliver Cowdery an’ John Whitma’, for instance. Well, on July Fo’th, Sidney stood up on a stump and ga’e one o’ his famous stem-winder speeches, ye know ‘is style. He actually had th’ cheek to dare th’ mob to come an’ drae’ us out! He opened his ‘ead an’ said, as I recall, ‘It shall be between us an’ them a war of exte’mination, for we will folla’ them till the last drop of blood is spilled, or else they will have to exte’minate us…’
“I was fair tekken sick when I ‘eard Brother Sidney say those words. T’was all th’ excuse Boggs needed ta boot us out of Missouri and drag our ‘usbands off to that vile Libe’ty Jail.”
Mary Elizabeth Lightner spoke up.
“I’m certain this will all blow over”, she said, trying to sound cheerful. “The Nauvoo Expositor affair, and William Law an’ his tall tales ‘bout ‘spiritual wifery’ – We all know there’s no truth to them, agreed?”
The other women glanced at each other, but said nothing.
At about this time, Governor Ford reined his horse up at the west entrance to the temple and dismounted, saying,
“Gentlemen, as long as we’re searching Nauvoo for bogus, we might as well start here.”
He climbed the steps of the temple, secretly admiring the architecture as he went.
This would make ever so fine a state capitol, he mused. Even our unfinished capitol building in Springfield can’t compare with it.
Ford was met at the door by Hans Hanson and his brother Peter, who were the doorkeepers, and William Sterrett, a temple guard.
Hans and Peter Hanson were big men; their frames nearly filled the two arched doorways of the temple. That, of course was their purpose there.
“Vat do you vont here?” Hans said firmly. “I am sorry, but you vill not enter tis house mitout a search varrant.”
Captain Dunn cocked his pistol in Hans’ face. “Why, I have six warrants right here, sealed in lead. Does that satisfy you, you dumb Swede?”
“Dane”, muttered Hans, as he backed off.
“We have reason to believe there is a bogus printing press in this building, and we intend to find it”, said Ford. “Please stand aside.”
The walls of the temple were finished to the second story, but the third story and roof were still incomplete. Hans and Peter reluctantly led the way through the portico onto the temporary main floor. Great timbers and blocks of limestone lay about, but no workmen were evident.
Probably all playing tin soldier today, thought Ford. He looked up to the second story walls, and noticed the round windows. Port-holes in a building, he marveled. Well, that just bangs anything.
Just at that moment, there was a faint boom from the east, as if a cannon were fired from a great distance. Ford, Dunn, and the other aides glanced at each other without saying a word. Ford looked up and noticed the afternoon shadows slanting through the roofless building from the west. “No printing presses on this floor, obviously”, he declared. “Take us downstairs.”
They descended a spiral staircase in the southwest corner, and entered a large basement area, dimly lit by several oil lamps. What Ford saw in the gloom astonished him. In the very center of the room was what appeared to be a huge washbasin, perched on the backs of twelve full-sized wooden oxen. A flight of stairs led up into the basin, and on the inner edge of the basin a chair was attached. Around the outside of the basin was a gallery with several chairs and a table.
“Lookee here, a ducking pond!” Mr. Coolie said with glee, and everyone laughed.
“Nah, this is where they baptize new Mormons”, said Mr. Marr. “They holds ‘em under water till they signs away all their propity to Joe Smith.”
Ford stepped up to one of the oxen and laid his hand on it. Then he broke off one of the horns and passed it around. William Sterrett winced at this outrage, but said nothing.
“This is the cow with the crumply horn”, said Ford, in mock solemnity.
“That tossed the maiden all forlorn”, Coolie responded, giggling.
Captain Dunn looked around and said, to no one in particular,
“I daresay, this temple is a curious piece of workmanship, and it’s a damned shame Joe Smith will never finish it, so we can see what sort of a finish he would have put on it... But he’s dead by this time, and he’ll never see this temple again.”
Sterrett, shocked at his tone, said,
“They cannot kill him until he has finished his work!”
The Governor grinned broadly, while Marr said,
“Whether he has finished his work or not, by God he will not see this place again, for he’s finished before this time!”
Captain Dunn pulled out his watch and said,
“Governor, it’s time we was off, we been here too long already. Whether you go or not, I’m going to leave, and that damned quick.”
Ford replied, “Yes, it’s time for us to be going.”
CARTHAGE, 5:15 p.m.
Franklin Worrell was the commander of the seven-man guard detail surrounding the jail. Worrell and the guards were all members of the Carthage Greys, and these particular guards had been hand-picked by Worrell to make a pretense of “defending” the jail when it was attacked.
At about this time, Worrell saw the mob approaching from the south and west, their faces blackened with gunpowder. He smiled.
Right on time, he thought.
As the mob encircled the building and rushed the front door of the jail, Worrell cried halfheartedly,
“Halt or we’ll shoot!”
Four of his men lowered their muskets and fired their blanks directly at the attackers, who ignored the shots and scuffled briefly with the guards. Then some of the mob rushed by the guards up the flight of stairs, burst open the door, and began the work of death, while others fired in through the open windows.
In the meantime Joseph, Hyrum, and John Taylor had been sitting with their coats off. Joseph sprang to his coat for his six-shooter, Hyrum for his single barrel, Taylor for Markham’s large hickory cane, and Dr. Richards for Taylor’s cane. All sprang against the door, the balls whistled up the stairway, and in an instant one came through the door.
Joseph, John and Willard sprang to the left of the door, and tried to knock aside the guns of the ruffians.
Hyrum was retreating back in front of the door and snapped his pistol which missed fire, when a ball struck him in the left side of his nose, and he fell on his back on the floor saying, “I am a dead man!”
A shower of balls was pouring through all parts of the room, many of which lodged in the ceiling just above the head of Hyrum…
NAUVOO, 5:16 p.m.
Lucy M. Smith, wife of George A. Smith, was visiting at the house of her brother-in-law David Smith, just up the street from the Mansion. At this same instant, there was a tremendous din as every dog in Nauvoo began barking and howling, and all the cattle began bellowing. Lucy tried to kneel down and pray for the Prophet, but she was struck speechless, for what reason she knew not.
At the Mansion, Joseph’s dog, Major, padded into the parlor and lay down, whimpering. The women eyed him curiously.
Eliza looked up suddenly in horror.
“Something dreadful is happening”, she said. “I have never felt such an awful presentiment before. I sense that our husbands are in grave danger.” She dropped to her knees, her arms upstretched, and cried, “Oh Lord my God!”
The other women followed her example.
Husbands? thought Mary Elizabeth Lightner, as she joined the other women in kneeling.
“Our Father, we beseech thee to spare the lives of our husbands”, Eliza prayed. “Encircle them in thine arms, and protect them from the hellish designs of those in Carthage who would do them harm. Help us to trust in thy almighty power, and spare the innocent blood of these noble men that they may return unscathed to us, we pray.”
“Amen”, the women said in unison.
CARTHAGE, 5:16:26 p.m.
When Hyrum fell, Joseph exclaimed, “Oh dear, brother Hyrum!” and opening the door a few inches he discharged his six shooter in the stairway, two or three barrels of which missed fire. There were several cries of pain from the stairway, and the shooting paused for a moment. Then several musket barrels began poking around the gap, and Willard threw his full three hundred pound weight against the door with a crunch. There were more cries and curses from the stairway.
Elder Taylor continued parrying the guns until they had got them about half their length into the room. Joseph shouted to him,
“That’s it, Brother Taylor, keep parrying them.”
But Taylor shouted back, “Joseph! Ah canna’ bray them off ennymore!”
He made a dash for the window opposite the door. Just as he reached the window, a ball fired from the doorway struck him on his left thigh, hitting the bone, and passing through to within half an inch of the other side. He lost all feeling in his left leg and fell on the window sill, which caught the full weight of his body on his pocket watch, smashing the face of it. Then he slumped back onto the floor.
After he fell into the room he was hit by two more balls, one of them traveling up his left wrist, and the other entering just below the left knee. He rolled in agony under the bed, which was at the right of the window in the southeast corner of the room.
Joseph, seeing there was no safety in the room, and no doubt thinking that it would save the lives of his brethren in the room if he could get out, turned calmly from the door, dropped his pistol on the floor, and sprang towards the window...
CHAPTER 2
CARTHAGE, 5:17 p.m.
...The door burst open again, and Dr. Richards retreated to the corner behind it.
John Taylor had rolled onto his right side under the bed, with his feet towards the door. Through the thick, choking smoke, he saw two men appear in the doorway, with their faces painted black. They glanced briefly at Hyrum’s outstretched body in the center of the room, then they trained their muskets on Joseph, who was facing the window. He turned calmly to face the door again, his hands raised.
If I can but spare the lives of my brethren here, then lettest thy servant go in peace, Joseph thought.
Dr. Richards saw the look of resignation in Joseph’s face. Then he saw the two musket barrels as they poked around the edge of the door, and he swung desperately at them with his cane. He managed to deflect one of the barrels just slightly as it discharged, and the ball struck Joseph in the right shoulder. He fell to his knees, his hands still upraised.
At the same instant, there was a flash and a boom from under the bed. In the confusion, John Taylor had retrieved Hyrum’s single shot pistol from the floor, which had misfired on the first attempt, and he felled the other ruffian who had not yet fired. This cooled the mob’s ardor for a moment.
As all the men at the top of the stairs had now discharged their weapons, there was a moment of confusion as they milled around the narrow landing, some trying to retrieve their fallen companions, others trying to pass more firearms up the steep, narrow stairs. Each time they tried to force the door open, Willard Richards would kick it closed again.
Suddenly, there was a cry from outside the window:
“The Mormons are coming!”
Instantly, there was a scene of utter bedlam at the top of the stairs, as the men trampled each other to obtain the outer door of the jail. Most of them landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, before fleeing in terror to the south and east.
Out at the edge of town along the Warsaw road, a signal cannon spoke with a thunderous BOOM.
As the smoke cleared in the upper room, Joseph rose to his knees and glanced cautiously out the jail window to the southeast. In every direction, men were scattering toward the woods like chaff before the wind. The blue-shirted Carthage Greys, who had been slow-marching toward the jail from the south, were now fleeing frantically to the east. A volley of fire was heard from the west, and Joseph and Willard observed several of the Greys fall to the ground. There was more firing, and then the prisoners heard at the bottom of the stairs,
“Halloo, the jail! Is anyone upstairs?”
“It’s Samuel!” cried Joseph, and a moment later the Prophet’s younger brother stuck his head cautiously around the ruined door casing. He was stunned by what he saw there.
The room was demolished – Bullet holes peppered the walls and ceiling, and the furnishings were all smashed and scarified. Chunks of plaster littered the floor. Sulfurous smoke still hung heavy in the room. Hyrum was stretched out on his back, his feet toward the door. John Taylor was lying under the bed on the south side of the room, bleeding from four wounds. Willard Richards came slowly out from behind the door, still brandishing John Taylor’s cane.
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