The Work and the Glory (429 page)

“The deed?” Joshua asked. “What deed?”

“I don’t know,” Rockwell admitted. “The moment they saw me they cut off any further talk. But they all looked as guilty as a bunch of boys caught smoking a pipe out behind the barn. Now the governor is warning us not to strike back. I don’t like it, Joshua. Not one bit.”

Joshua’s mind was racing. Then he came to a decision. He reached out and gripped Rockwell’s arm. “I’m going to Carthage, Porter. I’m not leaving Nathan and Joseph down there without help. Will you come with me?”

There was instant relief on the younger man’s face. “Yes. Gladly.”

Joshua reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his watch. “It is half past four now. I’ll meet you at my place at five o’clock. If we ride hard, we can be to Carthage by dark.”

“I’ll be there.” He turned and strode away.

The one hundred and fifty men with blackened faces were about a quarter of a mile west of the outskirts of the city now. They were all on foot, having left their horses in a grove of trees a few hundred yards back. Their leader raised his hand and the group came to a halt, not in any rank-and-file order, but milling about him like a flock of goats. They looked like caricatures of children in Halloween masks. The mud-and-gunpowder mixture left only round circles of white showing around the eyes, the nostrils, and the mouth. Here and there, white streaks had been cleared by beads of sweat running down from beneath their hat brims. Some had painted their faces to make themselves look like Indians. It only added to the macabre, surreal appearance of the whole assembly.

“All right,” the leader bawled. “It’s five o’clock. Form up on me.”

The leader faced forward as the men fell in behind him. Then as he moved them out with a wave of his arm, he looked over his shoulder and cried out in a singsong voice:

Where now is the Prophet Joseph?

Where now is the Prophet Joseph?

Where now is the Prophet Joseph?

Safe in Carthage Jail!

The men took it up instantly, and in moments, it was a throaty, chilling chant.

Where now is the Prophet Joseph?

Where now is the Prophet Joseph?

Where now is the Prophet Joseph?

Safe in Carthage Jail!

At five p.m., the four men in the bedroom heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and then there was a knock at the door. John Taylor was standing next to the door, and on a signal from Joseph, he opened it. Mr. Stigall, the jailer, was standing there, hat in hand. “Mr. Smith?”

Joseph, who sat on the edge of the bed, stood and came over. “Yes?”

“I thought you should know. The two men that you sent out for medicine earlier this afternoon, well, they were driven out of town by the guard. I’m sorry.”

Joseph’s head dropped. “I see,” he finally said. “Thank you for telling us. We’ve been greatly concerned.”

“I’m feeling much better now,” Willard Richards said, as if it might help. “I’ll be all right.”

The jailer turned to go back down the stairs, then stopped again. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Smith, but it’s my opinion that you’d be safer in the cell tonight.”

Joseph was surprised and then touched. “Thank you, Mr. Stigall. That is most considerate of you. And I think you are right. We shall go in right after supper.”

“All right.” He turned and went back down the steps.

As Elder Taylor shut the door again, Joseph turned to Richards. “Willard, when it is time to go into the cell, will you go in with us?”

Willard Richards looked surprised and a little offended. “Brother Joseph, you did not ask me to cross the river with you. You did not ask me to come to Carthage. Do you think I would forsake you now?”

Joseph didn’t speak, just watched his friend steadily.

Suddenly, Elder Richards had a thought. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. If you are condemned to be hung for treason, I will be hung in your stead and you shall go free.”

Joseph’s eyes widened, then were instantly glistening with tears. “You cannot, Brother Willard,” he said in a husky whisper.

“I will!” the Apostle said emphatically.

Joshua was giving the girth on his saddle one last jerk, when the door to the barn crashed open and Will came running in.

Joshua looked up in surprise. “Is Porter here already?”

“Pa, it’s Nathan!”

Joshua whipped around. “What?”

“Nathan just came home, Pa. He and Brother Markham were driven out of Carthage.”

“No!” He sagged back. “What about Joseph?”

“He’s still there.”

“But—”

“You’d better come, Pa. Nathan’s legs are all bloody.”

Chapter Notes

The events described in this chapter are told in great detail in various sources (see
HC
6:575–616;
CHFT,
pp. 276–81). Dan Jones served a mission in his native Wales from 1845 to 1849, during which he helped to bring into the Church about two thousand people in only a couple years’ time. He served a second successful mission in Wales from 1852 to 1856. Thus was fulfilled Joseph’s remarkable prophecy. (See
CHFT,
p. 280; Andrew Jenson, comp.,
Latter-day Saint Biographical Encyclopedia,
4 vols. [1901–36; reprint, Salt Lake City: Western Epics, 1971], 3:659–60.)

The evidence that Governor Ford had a good idea of what was about to happen in Carthage is pretty strong, and, in fact, there is testimony that would imply that he (1) deliberately went to Nauvoo and left Joseph in Carthage; (2) discharged all of the militia except for the Carthage Greys, the most violent of all the groups opposed to Joseph; and (3) took Captain Dunn’s company, the only truly impartial troops on the scene, with him so as to clear the field for Joseph’s enemies to operate without restraint (see
HC
6:587–90).

Having Thomas Sharp with the group from Warsaw is supposition. However, he was later indicted by a grand jury for participating in the murder of Joseph and Hyrum, so it is very likely he was there. As with the others indicted for the work of that day, Sharp was never found guilty or punished in any way. (See Dallin H. Oaks and Marvin S. Hill,
Carthage Conspiracy: The Trial of the Accused Assassins of Joseph Smith
[Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1975], pp. 36–38.)

Chapter 43

   The jailer had been gone only a few minutes when once again the four men in the upper bedroom of the Carthage Jail heard footsteps on the stairs. Willard Richards, who was closest now, opened the door. It was one of the guards from outside. He carried a bottle of wine.

“Yes?” Elder Richards asked.

“You need to taste this wine before I’ll drink it,” the man said gruffly.

There was no way that the prisoners could have bought poisoned wine while in a jail cell, but Joseph smiled and came over to the door. Half an hour before, the jailer’s son had brought them a pitcher of water and told them that the men outside were demanding that the four prisoners buy a bottle of wine for their guards. There was just reason for protesting such gross inequity, but Joseph did not. He simply told Willard to give the guard a couple of dollars to buy some wine. Now the man was back, evidently suspicious of Joseph’s abilities to influence others.

Joseph brought one of the water glasses over and Willard Richards uncorked the bottle. He poured in about a finger full, which Joseph tasted. He handed the glass to John Taylor and he sipped it too. Then Elder Richards did the same. The man grunted, took back the bottle, and corked it, satisfied that it was safe. As he backed out the door onto the upper landing of the stairs, a voice from below began calling. “Frank! Frank! Get down here! Quick!”

Willard—half-amused, half-disgusted—stood at the head of the stairs and watched the man go out again. But then as the main door to the jail shut behind the man, there was a rustling sound outside, and muffled voices could be heard urgently crying out to one another. Startled, Willard leaned over the railing to hear better, then quickly stepped back inside the bedroom and shut the door. He turned to Joseph with a puzzled look.

But before he could say anything, from outside, they heard the sound of running feet, then a loud cry. “Surrender! Surrender!” As they swung around to stare toward the open window, a rifle fired, making them all jump. It was just outside their window. Then another exploded and another. Now men were shouting and yelling loudly. “Lay down your arms! Get out of the way!” Someone swore and there was the crash of metal on metal.

In two leaps, Willard Richards reached the window that looked down on the entrance. What he saw shocked him deeply. A hundred or more men were running toward the jail from every direction. Their faces were blackened and horrible to behold. All had rifles and were brandishing them wildly. Even as Willard watched, eyes widening in horror with the realization of what was happening, the guard directly below him raised his gun and fired it harmlessly into the air. Another did the same. The eight guards were laughing and shouting, falling back to make way for their oncoming brethren.

“We’re under attack!” Joseph yelled. He darted to the bed where he had laid his coat and grabbed for the pepperbox he had hidden in the pocket. Hyrum leaped to his feet, pawing for the single-shot revolver in his coat.

Now the crash of gunfire outside was coming so fast they could barely distinguish one shot from another. Out of the corner of his eye, John Taylor saw one of the curtains jump violently and a round hole suddenly appeared in it. Above his head another hole appeared in the ceiling and plaster rained down in a little puff of white. “They’re shooting through the windows,” he yelled.

Below, the front door to the jail crashed open and men pounded up the stairs. “The door!” Hyrum shouted. He leaped across the room to the closed door and threw his weight against it. Joseph went running toward it too. Elder Taylor dived for the corner where Stephen Markham and Dan Jones had left their walking sticks. His hand fell on Markham’s “rascal beater” and he tossed the smaller one to Willard Richards.

There was a solid thud as a body slammed against the door. Through the thin panel they could hear men swearing and shouting. “Get the door! Get the door! Get out of the way! Gimme a clear shot!” Both Apostles dashed across the room and threw themselves against the door too. Now the lack of a secure latch would prove telling. The gunfire outside the jail was one continuous roar now, and bullets were whizzing in through the windows like angry hornets.

Hyrum grabbed the door latch and held it fast. The latch rattled momentarily, then he jerked his hand back as someone on the other side put the muzzle of a musket right up against the latch and fired. It shattered and the door jerked open a couple of inches. The four men didn’t have a chance to slam it shut again before several rifle barrels were shoved into the narrow opening. Seeing the danger, Joseph leaped to the left side of the door, trying to pull it shut. John Taylor did the same and began striking at the muzzles with the rascal beater, knocking the rifles down to keep them from firing directly into the room. Elder Richards, pushing against the door from behind, flailed at them as well.

Outside the door they could hear the men who were farther back screaming profanities and yelling for the ones up front to go on through. Above their heads, holes were blossoming as if by magic in the ceiling, raining down a fine powdery dust into the room. The glass of one window shattered. The curtains were riddled with holes now. With more men crowding onto the landing, the attackers began hurling themselves against the door. Willard Richards was a big man, but he couldn’t hold it against that kind of force. The door opened another couple of inches and instantly more rifles were shoved through the gap. Now the men on the other side of the door began to fire. Inches from Hyrum’s nose, one rifle came up and fired, narrowly missing his face. He gasped and fell back a few steps, blinded and deafened by the near miss.

Backing toward the center of the room, Hyrum raised his pistol, preparing to fire. At that instant, someone, frustrated by his inability to get to the bedroom door because of the crowd, fired directly at the door. The ball tore through the thin panel, showering Elder Richards with splinters. It also caught Hyrum full in the face, just to the left of his nose. He staggered back. “I am a dead man!” he cried. At that precise moment, a ball was fired from outside by someone far enough away to give it a fairly flat trajectory. The projectile barely cleared the window sill and caught Hyrum in the left side of his back. It hit with such force that the bullet passed clear through his body and slammed into the back of the watch he carried in his vest pocket, totally smashing it. So many bullets were now being fired into the room that, even as he fell, another shot from the doorway caught him, entering his head through the throat.

With a great tortured cry, Joseph sprang across the room and knelt beside the fallen form. Bullets were flying all around them but he gave them no heed. He reached out and took his brother by the shoulders. “Oh dear brother Hyrum!” he sobbed. But there was nothing more he could do for him. With a cry of outrage, Joseph sprang to the door, right into the face of the muzzles. He shoved the pepperbox around the frame and pulled the trigger as fast as he could. Three of the six barrels failed to discharge, but the other three had the desired effect. There was a howl of surprise, a scream of pain, and then a heavy crash as someone fell.

Elder Taylor and Elder Richards were still frantically trying to parry the gun barrels, but there were too many outside trying
to force the door. It was almost half-open now, and the rifles were extending farther and farther into the room, giving the men who were holding them more control over their aim. Now John Taylor backed away from the door. There was no way to hold them. Maybe there were friends outside. If only he could get clear of the withering fire. He turned and raced to the east window. He climbed onto the sill, crouching so as to get through the opening. The well was right below him on the ground. He would have to jump clear of that. He saw that it was a leap of fifteen or twenty feet and wondered momentarily if he might break his ankle.