Ollie's Cloud (44 page)

Chapter 45

The June humidity paints Ollie’s face with a wet brush. Loosening his moist collar, Ollie peers over a shot of whiskey at Thomas Cole Sharp. “I want to see him with my own eyes,” he says. “I want to see this person who claims to speak with angels.”

Just an hour earlier, Ollie had arrived in Carthage, the Hancock County Seat in western Illinois. He had quickly learned that Sharp’s prophetic skills were a match for Prophet Joseph Smith’s, for the Mormon leader—as Sharp had foretold—had surrendered with his brother Hyrum on charges of inciting a riot by burning the offices of the
Expositor
. It seems the
gentiles
were out to get the Prophet.

“Just about everyone in these parts wants to catch a glimpse of him,” Sharp replies. “He’s being held over there in the Hancock House, same place as where Governor Ford is staying.”

“Sounds more like he’s a celebrity than a prisoner.”

“Both, I’d say. The governor pledged to keep them safe if they surrendered themselves.”

A hot breeze wafts through the stuffy Carthage Saloon bringing little relief to the twenty or so damp and dour faces huddled over wobbly tables. A thick tobacco haze like a swamp fog hovers in layers, stinging the eyes and sniping at the nostrils.

“Will the charges stick?” Ollie asks Thomas Sharp.

“Don’t know. My main concern right now is bail.”

“How so?”

“Whatever amount of bail they set, these Mormons have the money to pay. I worry that Smith will be released before noon.”

“If your account of the riot at the Expositor is accurate…”

“Of course it’s accurate!”

“Yes, of course. And based on that account, there may be a way to keep these imposters in custody.”

“Then tell me at once!”

“Who is the primary judicial officer in Carthage?”

“Well, umm… tonight?”

“And tomorrow.”

“I suppose that would be the Justice of the Peace, Robert Warner. He’s also captain of the Carthage Greys.”

“That’s very good. The Greys are vehemently anti-Mormon. And where might I find Mr. Warner?”

Thomas Sharp swivels his wiry body on the hard wooden chair and cranes to look at a pudgy fifty-year-old man with a misbuttoned vest, thick spectacles, and stringy gray locks that curl over a sweat-stained collar. Robert Warner is seated at a table with three finely attired companions.

“Right there,” Sharp says.

“I think another criminal charge is in order,” Ollie replies. “One for which no bail need be set.”

“What charge is that?”

“
Treason
—for declaring martial law at Nauvoo.”

Thomas Sharp’s eyes widen as Ollie stands and walks over to the Justice of the Peace. He watches as Ollie introduces himself, cordially shakes hands, is offered the last remaining seat at the table, then leans closer to Warner. The older man’s smile disappears as Ollie speaks. He listens intently for several minutes and then his smile returns. Warner pats Ollie on the knee and grasps his hand, pumping it vigorously. Ollie stands up and returns to Thomas Sharp.

“It’s done,” Ollie explains

“
Well
done, my good man,” Sharp says, patting Ollie on the shoulder. “If I might add… you seem to be rather enjoying your role as…”

“Instigator?”

Thomas Sharp nods.

“Mr. Warner wants me to meet a few of the other prominent residents of the community to discuss tactics.”

“That’s good. While you’re at it, perhaps you can stir the coals a bit. Now that Joseph Smith is in custody, the boil seems to have come off the pot.”

Oliver drains his whisky glass and sets it down loudly on the table. “We can keep this so-called Prophet in jail until the trial, but if he and his lawyers are clever enough, they stand a chance of evading justice.”

“You know how I hate these Mormons, Oliver, but that’s the best we can do. It’s in the courts now—”

“—where politics can hold sway,” Oliver reminds his friend. “I’m thinking of another form of justice.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Thomas, ‘an eye for an eye.’ Is there a more perfect form of justice?

Sharp shakes his head. “I still don’t understand,” he says.

“Joseph Smith is in custody for inciting a riot which burned down the
Expositor
. Perhaps an act of civil disobedience might balance the scales.”

Sharp sits back in his chair, alarmed. His voice rises as he says, “My God, man, are you talking about a lynch mob?”

“Keep your voice down!” Oliver leans toward Sharp and whispers, “If someone stirs the pot…”

“You?”

“If this “Prophet” is an imposter and a threat to property and lives, as you claim, then he deserves to be punished for his blasphemy and deceit. And if he is in truth a Prophet, a spokesperson for God, then in my opinion that is even worse. He and his Nauvoo Legion have taken up arms. I say, let the battle come to him.”

“And how do you propose to…”

“At ten o’clock this evening I am meeting with a number of prominent citizens to discuss ‘tactics.’ I intend to remind them that this is a unique opportunity to remove the source of their despair. If they choose to take the logical course of action, then it is out of my hands.”

“A reasoned plan to lynch a criminal is not a mob action. It’s… it’s a
conspiracy
.” Thomas Sharpe is feeling the sting of his scruples awakening.

“Semantics,” Oliver says dismissively. “If the majority this evening votes to ensure that justice is carried out, you could also call it
democratic
. Majority rules. The rightness of a deed, as you know, usually determines the term that defines it. Surely, as a newspaperman, you understand that words have a power to change the character of a thing. This evening a jury of Joseph Smith’s peers will reach a verdict in his case and perhaps carry out their sentence at once. Who’s to say that a politically-charged courtroom governed by rules that place the preponderance of power in the hands of the cleverest attorney is a fairer forum for administering justice?”

“I do believe you’ve gone mad,” Sharp says. He sighs, jiggles his shot glass and downs the last few drops of whiskey. “I want to hear no more of it.”

“Understood. All I ask is that you report what happens. I’m sure you will choose the most appropriate words.”

“You seem confident in your ability to persuade these citizens to…”

“Not
persuade
, Thomas. Individually, I’m sure they’re of a like mind. All I have to do is unite them. Their unity will be all the permission they need to see justice done.”

The next morning, Thomas Sharp breakfasts alone at the Carthage Eatery. Oliver is nowhere to be found. A commotion in the street brings Sharp to his feet. He sweeps aside a frilly curtain to peer out the single dusty window. A group of Greys with rifles are escorting Governor Ford, Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum down the rutted trail that carves through Carthage.

Sharp reaches into his pocket and plucks out a couple of coins, flings them onto the table, and races from the eatery.

The road is suddenly lined with people yelling and taunting the Smiths as they walk solemnly toward the south side of the town square. Sharp follows, and within several minutes they are standing before two long lines of militiamen.

A decorated soldier in the uniform of the Greys steps forward. Sharp recognizes this man by his enormous grey handlebar moustache; it is General Minor Deming, commander of the Hancock militia units.

In a voice that is too thin and nasal to have the ring of authority, Deming introduces the governor to the militia, and then presents the Smith brothers. The Carthage Greys, on the far end of the formation, begin to raise their rifles and shake their fists menacingly.

Pushing his way nearer to Joseph Smith, Sharp believes that he can detect a look of terror on the self-declared Prophet’s face, and is pleased by it.

General Deming orders the men to stand down, but the Greys hiss and shout obscenities at the prisoners, ignoring the orders of their commander. Governor Ford raises his hands and pleads for silence and discipline, but is insulted by cries of “Down with all imposters!”

Three of the Greys fire their rifles into the air.

“I’ll have you all arrested for insurbordination!” the governor fires back.

He is greeted by jeers and a loud voice saying “While you protect the imposters!”

At last the constable, David Bettisworth, himself a longtime Grey before retiring into his new position, and a brave man deeply respected by the militia, walks to the center of the chaos, looks down at his boots, and spits a brown stain of tobacco juice into the street. As he looks up at his former mates, everyone grows silent.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the constable says. “Nice to see you this mornin’. Now if you’d be so kind as to let us finish our little ceremony here, I’ll be takin’ the Smith brothers off to jail. I know you don’t wanna be missin’ this now.”

The constable turns to the Smiths and motions for them to walk toward him. Sharp is now standing five paces from Joseph, and he can see the fury in the man’s face. It must be humiliating, he imagines, for a Prophet of God, the mayor of Nauvoo, the commander of the Nauvoo Legion, and such a powerful political figure, to be ordered around by this common constable—to publicly obey a civil authority he does not respect, in fact despises, like a trained puppy.

Joseph and Hyrum reluctantly step forward and slowly walk the fifteen paces to the constable.

“What have we here?” the constable says to them. “Ya have something to say to me?”

Joseph looks at Hyrum. Their agreement is to surrender to the constable. But Joseph cannot force the words from his lips.

“Ya waitin’ for a Revelation from God or what?” the constable says.

The two columns of militiamen burst into laughter.

Joseph looks up at the clouds, then back down at the constable. He says, “My brother and I surrender.”

Spontaneous applause echoes throughout the town square. The Greys throw their hats into the air, and more rifles are fired in celebration as the constable takes Joseph by the arm and leads him and his brother toward the small two-story Carthage jail.

Sharp turns around and sees Oliver for the first time today. Ollie is chatting with the Justice of the Peace Robert Smith and General Deming. Their conversation seems intense, and then both of these men begin to nod as Ollie speaks. Once during this dialogue Ollie catches Sharp’s eye, but turns away quickly.

That afternoon, Joseph and Hyrum are taken before Robert Warner in the stuffy stone courthouse. The Justice of the Peace sets bail at $500 each on the riot charges, and this amount is quickly posted by the Mormons. As Joseph and Hyrum rise to leave, however, Warner orders them arrested on charges of treason.

Stunned, Joseph glances at his attorney, who approaches the bench. After an angry exchange, the attorney walks over to Joseph, whispers a few words, shrugs in a gesture of futility, then turns back to the bench as Warner speaks.

“I am issuing an order to have the prisoners committed without bail until June 29
th
when a material witness for the charge of treason, Francis M. Higbee, can appear in court,” Smith announces.

“Your Honor, that’s four days!” the attorney pleads.

“We are adjourned,” Warner replies. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Sharp can see the Justice of the Peace glance toward the corner of the room with a conspiratorial smile; this is where Ollie is seated next to Jacob Cunningham Davis, a 31-year-old Illinois state senator from Warsaw, whom Sharp knows blames the Mormons for his failure to secure a nomination for Congress. On Ollie’s other side is Levi Williams, a colonel in the 59
th
Regiment of the Illinois militia, and an occasional Baptist minister. Sharp knows that Levi, in his mid-thirties, is fiercely anti-Mormon and is not above using violence; six months earlier, Levi had ridden at the head of a mob that kidnapped a Mormon and his son near Warsaw, bound them with chains, threatened them with knives, and finally spirited them off to Missouri where the mob had the Mormons arrested on trumped-up horse stealing charges.

Ollie and his two new friends rise, pat each other in a congratulatory manner, and then greet another man on the way out of the courthouse. Sharp knows this man, too. Mark Aldrich is a land speculator and town promoter, one of the original developers of Warsaw. Now forty-two years old, his development schemes have frequently put him at odds with Mormon interests.

Thomas Sharp is amazed at how quickly Oliver has insinuated himself into this circle of influential, Mormon-hating residents of Hancock County. He does not have to ask Oliver how the previous evening’s meeting had gone; the conspiracy clearly is underway.

The next morning, Ollie walks to the Carthage jail with Davis and Aldrich. They speak in urgent whispers to Franklin Worrell, a ferret-faced man who commands seven guards. Worrell glances at the three visitors, accepts a fistful of currency, and ushers the men to the second floor where Joseph Smith is kept.

Ollie walks over to the Joseph’s cell and sees Joseph lying on a low cot; Joseph senses a presence and sits up, staring coldly at the Englishman.

“And who might you be?” Joseph asks.

“A Prophet,” Ollie says.

Joseph narrows his eyes, considering this. “Prophets bear messages from God. What message do you bring?”

“God wants you to know that he is thankful for your service, but now it is time for you to join him.”

Joseph looks nervously at his visitor; this sounds like a death threat. “Are you the messenger or the executioner?” he asks.

Ollie reaches into his coat pocket and removes a small pistol.

Joseph looks at it; this seems to answer the question.

Ollie handles the pistol carefully as he says, “In a short time, many will come for you. It will become very…
unpleasant
.” He stretches out this last word so the intended meaning is clear. “You may want to avoid the unpleasantness. This can be your key to the next world.” He passes the pistol through the bars.

With trembling hands, Joseph takes the gun. He looks up at his visitor, who is staring fiercely at him.