Chapter Twenty-One

William W. Phelps was obviously frightened. “We do not represent the full leadership of the Church in Zion,” he said quickly. “Brother Oliver Cowdery, the leading elder here in Missouri, is out at Kaw Township.”

The six Mormons had evidently known of the gathering at the courthouse, for they were huddled in conference in the office of the Evening and Morning Star when the delegation of twelve Missourians stormed into the building.

Colonel Simpson turned to Joshua. “Is that true?”

Joshua had thought carefully about this moment every day since the big gathering in April had degenerated into a drunken brawl. Shortly after that, he had met Oliver Cowdery on the streets of Independence. Joshua had the widow Martin on his arm and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to parade her before Cowdery a little, knowing it would get back to Jessie. In actuality, the widow was much more serious about marriage than Joshua was, but Cowdery didn’t have to know that. He also took the opportunity to let Cowdery know about the meeting and the sentiment against the Mormons. But his little moment of triumph turned sour when Cowdery informed him that the Mormons had heard of the gathering of the Missourians and had fasted and prayed. In their minds, the breakup of the meeting was a direct result of God’s intervention and not the result of some fool’s miscalculation about the effects of too much whiskey.

From that point on, Joshua set about to know everything he could about the hated sect. He became an active voice in the committee that was formed to drive the Mormons from the county. He learned the names and faces of the Mormons’ leadership. On a county map he charted the places where every Mormon had settled. He made note of which houses were isolated, how many people were known to be living there, what arms they had, and so on. The next time, he vowed, he and the other Missourians would be ready, and the Mormons would learn which God could save them and which could not.

Now that time had come. He looked on the six men with contempt and answered Simpson’s question. “Not quite. Joseph Smith appointed seven high priests to direct them out here. Oliver Cowdery is the leader of the seven, and it is true that he is not here. But the other six who join with him are here.” He pointed at each of the men in turn as he said their names. “William Phelps, who publishes the Star and operates the printing establishment; A. Sidney Gilbert, owner of the mercantile store across the street; John Corrill; John Whitmer”—his lips curled in disgust—“he’s one of those that signed his name to the Book of Mormon; Isaac Morley; and Edward Partridge. Partridge here is the so-called Mormon bishop. He’s the one who assigns out the land and gives the people their ‘inheritances.’”

“And you’re Nathan Steed’s brother,” Isaac Morley said with a touch of contempt of his own. He was the oldest of the six, but not cowed at all by the delegation of Missourians. Joshua’s head came around, his eyes narrowing, but Morley went right on. “Your brother and his wife now live on my farm back in Ohio. He would be shamed to know of your role in this.”

“My brother is a fool!” Joshua snarled. “And his wife’s no better.” He turned to the others. “These men represent six of the seven leaders of the Church here. They can speak for the Mormons.”

Simpson stepped forward, holding the same sheets of paper from which Robert Johnson had read to the crowd. “We have been appointed to inform you of the following resolution which has been adopted by the will of the people.”

John Corrill snorted in derision, and Lucas stepped forward menacingly. “You’re to listen,” Lucas warned, “nothing else.”

Simpson read the statement through, slowing down at the end to emphasize the final demands of the group for the exodus of the Saints from Jackson County. Joshua watched with a deep satisfaction as he saw the shock and numbness spread across the faces of the six Mormons.

“This is an outrage!” Gilbert cried when Simpson finished. “We are not guilty of those vile and ridiculous—”

“Enough!” Simpson roared. “We are not here to listen to your defense, but only to take your answer back to the people who await us. What is your response?”

“But...” Phelps stammered, “but we can’t answer a demand like that. Our leader, Joseph Smith, is in Ohio.”

“You lead here!” Joshua snapped. “That’s good enough.”

“Please,” Gilbert broke in again, “you’ve got to give us some time. We will need to send word to Joseph Smith and ask for his counsel. May we have three months to consider these demands?”

Joshua reached out and grabbed the man by his shirt. Gilbert was an older man, small of stature, and Joshua was almost a full head taller than he. Joshua pulled him up close until they were nose-to-nose. “We don’t want none of Joe Smith’s counsel out here,” he hissed. “Do you understand that?” He released him, giving him a hard shove backwards. Gilbert stumbled into Corrill and they both nearly fell.

Partridge stepped forward now, not frightened by the numbers confronting them. “You must give us time. Even if we decide to leave, you must realize that it takes time to close down a printing shop and a store, to sell our land and houses. We have twelve hundred people. We can’t just wave our hands and make them all disappear.”

Simpson was shaking his head even as Partridge spoke. “Three months is too long.”

“Then, ten days. We must have at least ten days,” Phelps pleaded.

Simpson turned to his party, waving the papers. “Do you think it takes ten days to agree to a reasonable demand such as this?”

There were raucous bursts of laughter and angry rejections. “No!” “Ten days is too long!” “They’re stalling for time.”

Simpson spun around. He looked at the six men haughtily. “You have fifteen minutes. We’ll await you’re decision at the courthouse.”

And with that they turned around and trooped out.

“What’d they say?” men called as the delegation returned to the crowd milling around the courthouse. “What happened?” “Are they going?”

Simpson and Lucas walked directly to Lieutenant Governor Boggs and began to report quickly and quietly on the meeting. The other members of the delegation began mingling with the crowd, muttering quick reports of their experience. Joshua, emboldened by the rage that was smoldering in him, moved up to join Boggs and the three leaders of the citizens’ committee.

“Ten days is out of the question,” Boggs was saying.

“That’s what I told them,” Simpson nodded. “We gave ’em fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes is too long,” Joshua said quietly.

All three men snapped around. “But we said—,” Lucas started.

Joshua cut him off harshly. “In fifteen minutes these men will start wandering off to find another beer or put their backs up against some building and fall asleep. The time is now or you’re gonna lose ’em.”

“He’s right,” Simpson said, turning to look at the men. Timing was important when it came to whipping a group into action, and he could sense that the conditions were right.

Lucas was still wavering, but Boggs for the moment seemed content to hear both sides. Joshua threw up his hands in disgust. “You want another farce like that one we had in April? The Mormons are already saying we ain’t good enough to fight anyone but ourselves.”

That hit a soft spot in Lucas, as Joshua knew it would. Lucas had been decked by some drunken bum that night and spent three days at home with a swollen jaw. Now his lips tightened into a hard line. “That ain’t true.”

“Then, let’s show ’em!” Joshua urged. “Now’s the time. They ain’t gonna give us an answer. They’re stalling.”

Boggs gave him an appraising look, then laid a hand on his shoulder. “All right. Get up on that box and tell ’em that.”

In an instant Joshua was up on the crate, his hands raised high in the air. The silence swept across the crowd like a stiff breeze moving through a field of grain. He waited for the last voice to die and every eye to fix on him.

“Men,” he shouted, “we’ve been to the Mormons and we’ve given ’em our demands.”

“What’d they say?” someone called from the back.

“They said they wanted three months”—his voice mimicked that of a woman—“to think about it.”

“No!” came the cry; it was ragged and scattered, but the anger in the voices was clear.

“Then they asked for ten days!” Joshua shouted. He clenched his fist and jammed it skyward. “You want to give them ten days?”

“No!” They were quickly getting the idea, and this time almost three-quarters of the men roared their answer in unison.

Judge Lucas jumped up beside Joshua. “They’re just stalling,” he shouted to the crowd. “They wouldn’t give us an answer.”

Joshua watched their reaction, exulting in the power he suddenly felt. The crowd was like the ground in an earthquake zone. The underlying forces were there, starting to strain and rumble as they ground together. It just needed the right moment, the proper trigger.

“You’ve seen these Mormons come in here and take away our business, haven’t you?” he shouted.

“Yes.” “That’s right.” “They’re stealing us blind.”

“And you’ve seen them come in here and take up the best land, haven’t you?”

“Yes!”

Joshua’s voice rose in both volume and pitch. He hurled the words at them like missiles flung from a catapult. “And you’ve read their newspaper that calls on colored people to come in and take over our state, haven’t you?”

This time the roar was deafening. “Yes! Yes!”

“Well, that place where the article was printed is no more than one block from here. That store that is taking away our business is no more than one block from here.” He was pointing, and the men turned as a body, eyes riveted on the two buildings up the street from them. Together the men were like a hound with the smell of blood in its nose, straining at the leash, baying to be set free.

Joshua looked down at Boggs, whose nostrils were flaring in and out with the excitement. The fever pitch was in his eyes too. He caught Joshua’s look and nodded curtly. “Do it!” he mouthed.

Joshua swung back around. “Let’s make a new resolution,” he screamed. “I resolve we tear that print shop apart! Now!”

He leaped off the box and plunged into the crowd, his fist raised high like a banner of attack. A howl went up, like some primal scream of rage, and the men surged in behind Joshua, Simpson, Lucas, and the other delegation members. In a rush, they made their way straight for the two-story brick building that housed the offices and print shop for the Evening and Morning Star and the residence of W. W. Phelps and his family.

Phelps and the other Mormon leaders evidently had been watching anxiously out of the windows, for as Joshua and his army approached, the six men came stumbling out, hands raised high, as though to ward off a blow. Phelps was in the lead. “No, no!” he pleaded. “Please!”

It was like using a twig to stop a flood. Joshua shoved him roughly aside, and in a moment the six men were swallowed by the crowd. “Don’t leave anything,” Joshua shouted.

Miraculously, Phelps broke free of the encircling crowd. He hurled himself forward enough to clutch at Joshua’s shirt. “No!” The man was stricken with panic. “My wife and children are in the house. My baby’s sick. I beg of you, please don’t hurt them.”

Joshua reached out and grabbed the collar of the man next to him. “You!” he shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the shrieking of the crowd. “Get the family out of there.”

The man darted ahead.

Coming to the building now, Joshua leaped over the low picket fence and up onto the small porch. There was a sharp crash as the picket fence went down beneath the feet of the mob. Joshua raised his hands again and the crowd quieted momentarily. Emerging from the front entrance of the building was Sally Phelps, escorted by the man whom Joshua had sent inside and by Colonel Simpson, who had also gone in. She was holding a screaming infant, and two other small children, also crying, were clutching at her skirts. She was white faced, terrified almost into immobility. Simpson shoved her roughly into the arms of her husband, who had finally burst through the crowd to reach her side. Phelps led his family stumbling and sobbing across the yard and out into the street.

Joshua now turned to the crush of men that surrounded him. “All right,” he shouted in triumph, “I don’t want to see anything left standing. Do you hear me, boys! Nothing!”

He jumped back to get out of the way of the surging mass that poured into the building.

Mary Elizabeth Rollins was fifteen years old. At age ten, she with her widowed mother moved to Kirtland, Ohio, to live with her uncle, A. Sidney Gilbert. There, in October of 1830, she listened to the testimony of four missionaries who had come from New York. She, along with some of her family, was baptized.

Even at twelve, this was a remarkable young woman. When her family learned that Father Isaac Morley had a copy of the Book of Mormon in his possession, the only one in that part of the country at the time, Mary Elizabeth determined she wanted to see the book for herself. She went out to the Morley farm one afternoon to see if she could at least look upon it. When she saw it, she was so filled with a desire to read it that she begged Father Morley to let her take it home with her.

At first he refused, but she was so persistent, he finally agreed, on the condition that she return it before breakfast on the following day. She ran all the way home. “Oh, I have got the ‘Golden Bible,’” she exclaimed to her uncle. The family stayed up long into the night, taking turns reading the treasured book. At first light, Mary Elizabeth was up again. She set out in time to return the book to Father Morley as promised.

When she appeared at the Morleys’ with the book, Father Morley was kindly but a little condescending. “I guess you did not have a chance to read much in it,” he said to her. She opened the book and showed him how far they had gotten, then handed it to him. “Oh,” he said in surprise, “but I’ll bet you cannot tell me one word of what you have read.”

“To the contrary,” this little twelve-year-old said, and she proceeded to quote to him the first verse of the book, which she had memorized that morning, and then outlined for him the history of the family of Nephi. When she finished, Father Morley was staring. He held the book out to her. “Child,” he said with a new respect, “take this book home and finish it. I can wait.”

The Rollins family were among the number of Saints who emigrated to Missouri in 1831. They chose to build a small home in Independence rather than move out on the surrounding prairies. So it was that Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her twelve-year-old sister, Caroline, were on the streets of Independence this day as the mob of five hundred angry men stormed the printing offices and home of William W. Phelps. As the Saints scattered before the mob, there was no time for the two sisters to find their family. Like the others, Mary Elizabeth and Caroline fled in terror before the blind, mindless fury that had been unleashed upon them.

As the animal roar of the mob filled the air, the two girls darted around a building and across a vacant lot. A stand of corn, now four or five feet high, provided safe haven, and they ducked into it. For several moments they huddled there, shivering with fright, listening to the foul oaths of the shouting men, growing ever more horrified as they heard windows being shattered and the crash of furniture being smashed to pieces.

“Come, Caroline,” Mary Elizabeth said, taking her hand.

“Where are we going?” her sister cried in fear.

“I just want to see.” Mary Elizabeth crept forward to where the cornfield ended. A short distance away was a wooden slat fence. Two boards had been knocked out, providing a gap large enough to slip through. The grass along the fence line was knee high and thick enough to hide them. “Come on.” Mary Elizabeth, with her sister in tow, ran in a low crouch to the fence, where they dropped to the ground and peered through the gap at the chaos before them.

It was as if the very doors of hell itself had been thrown open and every demon set free to rush out. Fiendish shouts rent the air. Sister Phelps stood with her husband and children, guarded by several men and forced to watch as piece after piece of their furniture came flying out of the windows and doors of the building that served as their home and as the printing offices for the Evening and Morning Star. Any piece of furniture that survived that treatment was instantly destroyed by the men outside. Men with sledgehammers were battering at a side door of the building, splinters of wood flying in every direction. In one of the upper-story windows the figure of a man appeared. The glass had already been ripped away. He held a long wooden tray, and Mary Elizabeth groaned. She loved the print shop and had been there many times to watch Brother Phelps set type. This was one of the trays that held the thousands of pieces of lead type used to print the newspaper. She watched, feeling physically sick, as the man at the window began to scoop handfuls of type from the tray and fling them across the yard.

At another large upper-story window, an object that nearly filled the entire opening was teetering on the sill. “Push!” came the faint cry from inside. There was a terrible screeching sound, and in a moment, the press, bought in Cincinnati and carried to Independence at great cost, came out of the window. With a thunderous crash it hit the ground. There was a cry of triumph from several men at the window from which the press had fallen. Like men possessed, those surrounding what was left of the machine fell upon it with axes, shovels, hammers—anything they could lay hands on.

“Oh, look Caroline!” From where they sat, the sisters could see the west side of the building. There was a flash of white at one of the windows. A man was carrying armfuls of large sheets of paper to the opening and tossing them out onto the ground.

“What is it?”

“It’s the Book of Commandments,” Mary Elizabeth cried. Brother Phelps had been working on the printing of the revelations for more than six months now, and it was nearly ready for binding. Now the unbound sheets were being dumped into a pile. For burning! The thought flashed into Mary Elizabeth’s mind like a jab of a knife. They were going to burn the Book of Commandments!

“We’ve got to save those sheets, Caroline.”

“No,” her sister cried. Her eyes were wide and filled with terror. “They’ll kill us, Mary Elizabeth.”

Mary Elizabeth swallowed hard, her heart pounding as though it would burst. Caroline was right. There was no question about the fury of the mob. Even as they watched, they saw a group of men on the roof. They began to rip off the shingles and smash at the ribbing underneath them. Two men with horses, having attached ropes to the front wall of the building, now only waited for the signal to pull it down. Other men had crossed the street and were smashing their way into the store of their uncle, Sidney Gilbert. Boxes, tools, cloth goods came flying out, one after the other, into the ankle-deep dust of the roadway.

But something inside Mary Elizabeth would not give way to the fear, as terrible as it was. These were the revelations that were being tossed out of that window. These were words that had been given to the Prophet. It was God’s word. Could she simply sit and watch them burn?

The fifteen-year-old Mary Elizabeth reached out and took both of her sister’s hands. “Caroline, I’m going to try and save some copies. Will you help me?”

For a moment Caroline was about to shake her head—her lips were trembling and her hands shaking violently—but she didn’t. She merely closed her eyes and nodded her head.

Mary Elizabeth turned back. The man brought one more load of sheets and tossed them onto the pile. She waited for a moment. He did not reappear. “Let’s go!” she cried.

In a moment they were through the fence and running low, hair flying, skirts dragging through the long grass. They circled out and around the back of a nearby house, pausing only long enough to see that the man had not come back to the window.

“Grab everything you can carry!” Mary Elizabeth hissed. In an instant they were to the pile, scooping up bundles of the large sheets into their arms. Caroline turned and started away. Mary Elizabeth began to follow, then swung around to add another handful.

“Hurry!” Caroline wailed. “They’ll catch us.”

They made it halfway back to the fence line before they heard the startled cry. “Hey! What are you doing?”

The girls looked over their shoulders even as they redoubled their speed. A man near the Phelps home and printing office was pointing in their direction. “Hey, come back here!”

“Quick, into the cornfield,” breathed Mary Elizabeth.

“They’re taking the book!” the voice shouted. “Stop them!”

Just before they ducked through the fence, Mary Elizabeth’s heart plummeted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some men break into a run toward them. One had something in his hand, and with a lurch, she realized it was a rifle.

Like two prairie dogs being chased by a hawk, Mary Elizabeth and Caroline scampered into the welcoming thickness of the cornstalks. “Don’t stop!” Mary Elizabeth cried. “Go in deeper. Stay close.”

When they were twenty or thirty yards in, Mary Elizabeth suddenly stopped, holding her finger to her lips. Both were gasping for breath, hugging the unbound sheets of paper to their bodies. Behind them they heard muttered oaths, then the crashing sound of men entering the corn.

Mary Elizabeth dropped to the ground, throwing her body on top of the papers. Caroline instantly followed suit, her head touching her sister’s feet. “Pray, Caroline, pray!” Mary Elizabeth whispered hoarsely.

They did, faces buried in the soft, warm earth, eyes pinched tightly shut. They prayed with a fervency known only to those in deepest need. For ten minutes they listened in terror as men crashed back and forth through the cornfield, crossing and crisscrossing as they looked for the girls. Twice, Mary Elizabeth’s heart almost stopped beating as one of the men came so close that she could see his legs and feet just a row or two away. But then he moved away again.

Finally, to their immense relief, the two sisters heard one of the men call out. “Those little nits have got away. Come on, we’re missin’ out on all the fun.”

Slowly the sounds of the men died away, and all became silent except for the distant cries of angry men and the noises that accompanied a two-story building being totally razed to the ground. Then, and only then, did Mary Elizabeth and Caroline Rollins sit up. They threw themselves into each other’s arms, and began to cry.

Like blood lust that cannot be satiated, the mob’s desire for action was not spent when the printing office and home of W. W. Phelps was completely leveled. They fell to destroying the goods being hurled from the Gilbert and Whitney store and only desisted when a frantic Sidney Gilbert promised that he would close the store, pack the goods, and be gone within three days.

They swung around, like a pack of wild dogs looking for their next victim. Someone cried out, “Let’s find the leaders!” They fanned out, shouting and cursing. The Saints, who had watched the destruction from shuttered windows or from a distance with frightened faces and pinched lips, now scattered like sheep before a coyote. Women grabbed their children and ran screaming. Men ducked into buildings or fled for the cornfields and the wheat fields.

Bishop Edward Partridge, who had watched from his home in numbed shock as the Church properties were demolished, had no time to react to the swift change of targets. Suddenly his house was surrounded. The door burst open and men poured into the room. He was dragged out at the point of a rifle, leaving a sobbing wife and terrified children. Across the street, Charles Allen, a twenty-seven-year-old convert from Pennsylvania, was also caught.

“To the square!” Joshua shouted.

The two men were driven through the crowd toward the public square. People leaned forward to scream in their faces. Men clutched at their clothes or clawed at their bodies. A woman, her face twisted like some demented and pathetic hag, leaped forward and slapped Partridge across the face. Someone threw a clod of fresh horse droppings and hit Allen alongside the head. A thirteen-year-old boy stuck out his foot and tripped Partridge. The crowd roared its approval as he went down hard, tearing open his trousers and badly skinning his knee.

Dragging, shoving, cursing, swearing, spitting, and threatening, the mob moved their two captives to the square. In an instant, the crowd gave way enough to make a circle around the Mormons. Joshua stepped into the circle and raised his hands. The noise level dropped, but there were still angry mutterings and cries for action.

“Friends,” Joshua yelled, letting his eyes sweep the crowd, “here we have two of the Mormon leaders.”

“Yes!” “Stone them.” “Don’t let them get away!” “Somebody get some tar and feathers.”

A neighbor of Joshua’s, named George Simpson, pushed through the crowd and stepped out beside Joshua. He had been one of those who led the mob to seize the two Mormons. He looked at the two men now with utter disgust as he walked around them slowly, eyeing them up and down. Their clothes were now soiled and disheveled. Allen had a dark smear where the foul missile had hit his cheek. He looked frightened, but Bishop Partridge stood straight and tall, calm and serene. The people, sensing that something was about to happen, gradually quieted.

“So you are the leaders of the vaunted Mormons?” Simpson sneered.

Allen started to protest—he was not actually part of the leadership—but Partridge warned him to silence with his eyes.

“Well, where’s your God now?” Simpson cried. He pointed over the heads of the crowd toward the spot where the print shop once stood. “There won’t be any more newspapers calling for rebellion amongst the slaves.”

Angry muttering rippled through the crowd. Joshua stepped up to Simpson and whispered something in his ear. Simpson looked surprised for a moment, then pleased. He clapped Joshua on the shoulder and turned to the two men.

As the noise died out again, he spoke loudly. He wanted all to hear. “We don’t want to seem unreasonable in these matters, but”—his voice rose sharply—“you Mormons have done us irreparable harm.”

“Yeah!” “That’s right!” “Make ’em pay!”

He smiled—an evil, leering smile that would have sent chills into the heart of any normal man. “But there is a way you can now make restitution.”

“What is that?” Partridge asked quietly.

Simpson swung around, calling to the crowd. “What if these men were to renounce their ridiculous faith and tell us they were sorry for being Mormons? Would we forgive ’em then?”

The question caught the crowd by surprise, but only for a moment. The thought delighted them. “Yes!” someone shouted. Others nodded. “Yes. Let them renounce their faith.”

Partridge started to shake his head. Joshua was to him in two strides and thrust his face close to the bishop’s. “Deny the Book of Mormon,” he cried, “and you shall go free this moment. Refuse, and we shall drive you from the county.”

“I cannot do that,” Partridge answered, almost in a whisper.

Joshua grabbed the front of his shirt. “What?” he screamed into his face. “What did you say? I don’t think the people heard you.”

Bishop Partridge’s chin came up. “I said I cannot deny the Book of Mormon,” he said loudly and firmly.

Charles Allen swallowed twice, staring straight ahead at nothing, not daring to meet the eyes of either Joshua or the crowd. But the courage and serenity of Bishop Partridge had obviously strengthened him, for he spoke with the same conviction. “Nor can I,” he said.

Simpson swung around. “Did you hear that, people? Is that the answer you wanted?”

“No!”

Suddenly there was a cry from the back of the crowd. “Let us through! Let us through!”

Heads turned and people inched back to make a passageway. Two men came pushing through and entered the circle. The first carried a wooden paddle in one hand and a large bucket of tar in the other. The other had two pillows tucked under his arm. “I say we tar and feather them!” the first shouted.

Here was something tangible, some way for the group to express their rage. Instantly cries of acclamation rent the air.

Simpson raised his hand and waited for quiet. He turned back to Partridge. “You have two choices. Either you deny the Book of Mormon or you leave the county. And if you choose the latter”—he gestured toward the two men—“we shall see that you leave us in style. Which shall it be?”

Edward Partridge took one step forward. When he spoke it was loud enough for all to hear, but his voice was perfectly clear and calm. “I cannot and I shall not deny that which I know to be true, nor can I agree to leave the county. The Saints of God have suffered persecution and mockery in all ages of the world, and I am willing to suffer for the sake of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”

His head swung around and his eyes met the sullen and angry stares of the crowd. “I have done nothing to offend anyone here, and if you choose to abuse me, you abuse an innocent person.”

That brought an instant response from the crowd. Someone near the front began to curse and swear at anything Mormon. Another man shouted, “Tar and feather him, then let him call upon his Jesus.” Others were crying, “Let him speak. Let him speak. We can’t hear him.” In a moment the noise had swelled to the point that it drowned out Partridge’s words.

Bishop Partridge stepped back, his head high, his arms at his sides. Joshua just stared for a moment. He didn’t like the sudden cries of sympathy Partridge’s courage and demeanor were eliciting. Raw anger surged up inside him. This man before him exhibited exactly the kind of blind fanaticism he saw in Jessica now. Their attitude was: “I’m the faithful. I have done no wrong. Let me suffer for my Jesus.” This was the end product that Joseph Smith and his wild stories produced. This was the final result. When he thought of his own daughter being raised to this—

He whirled around. “Strip them of their clothes!” he commanded.

Three men jumped forward and ripped off the Mormons’ hats, coats, and vests.

“All right,” Joshua hissed at the two men who had pushed their way through the crowd and stood ready with the tar and the feather-filled pillows. “Do it!”

Giggling wildly, the first man jumped to the task. He scooped from the bucket a large blob of tar, now sticky and oozing in the heat of the July afternoon, and gleefully smeared it on the left side of Bishop Partridge’s face. He had to lean hard to get the tar off the paddle, and the movement pushed Partridge off balance. But only for a moment. The Bishop planted his feet more firmly, clasped his hands behind his back, and turned his head so the man could more easily get at him.

This submissiveness caught the crowd by surprise. There were a few whistles, an oath or two, and some catcalls, but they had expected resistance, cries for mercy, or at the very least, anger and cursings in return. But Partridge stood without flinching as the tar was smeared into his hair, on his face, over his arms. He did not even so much as grimace, just stood there in calm repose, gazing out over the heads of the crowd, peace written across what little could now be seen of his face.

To Joshua’s dismay, the cries of the crowd quickly died. As the second man took out his knife and ripped open one of the pillows and dumped its contents over the head of Bishop Partridge, there was not a sound. Charles Allen submitted to the indignities in the same submissive spirit, as the somber crowd watched in silence.

The Mormons stood there together when it was done, two figures covered with black smears and chicken feathers, looking like some strange, unrecognizable bipeds taken from some child’s nightmarish dreams. They should have looked utterly ridiculous, but the effect was just the opposite. Their meekness gave them majesty, their resignation in the face of revilement a dignity that even Joshua could not deny.

In silence, one by one, the members of the mob turned away, some glancing back over their shoulders at the work they had wrought, the shame evident on their faces. Joshua and Simpson sensed that there was nothing more to be done here and walked swiftly away. In a few minutes, Edward Partridge and Charles Allen stood alone in the public square.

Three days later, the mob spirit exploded again. About five hundred men—waving a red flag and armed with rifles, pistols, whips, dirks, and clubs—gathered from every direction. On signal they went looking for the Mormons. This time their violence was not restricted to Independence. They spread out across the countryside, torching haystacks, setting fire to the ripening grain fields. Men were caught and threatened with whipping. Houses, barns, and businesses were ripped apart and their remains left scattered across the ground.

Six of the Mormon leaders offered themselves as ransom if the pillaging would stop. But it was not enough. Threatening to whip every man, woman, and child in the Church, the Missourians thrust an agreement before the six men. In the starkest of terms it outlined their demands. By April following, there would be no more Mormons in Jackson County. The choice was capitulation or terror, surrender or rapine. With heavy hearts, the leaders took up the pen and signed the agreement that declared they were to leave the land of Zion.

Ironically, on the very day the six men were putting their names to the contract of expulsion, in Ohio another group of Saints were gathered, this time under happier circumstances. Benjamin Steed, newly ordained as an elder in the Church, was privileged to be a participant. His wife and family looked on happily, Mary Ann with tears in her eyes. In great solemnity, led by Joseph Smith and following the order of the priesthood, the officiating elders grasped the ropes on the block and tackles and hoisted four large blocks of stone. These had previously been brought from the stone quarry south of town and carefully dressed and finished. Now the elders swung them into place and lowered them onto the four corners of the footings that had been completed a short time before.

The cornerstones for the house of the Lord, the first built in nearly two thousand years, were in place. A great shout of joy went up from the assembled throng.

A day or two following the outrages of July twenty-third, Oliver Cowdery was dispatched to Ohio to inform the leadership of the tragedy unfolding in Missouri. On August second, several days before Oliver would arrive in Kirtland with the terrible news, Joseph Smith received a revelation concerning the “brethren in the land of Zion.” Among other things it said:

Therefore verily thus saith the Lord let Zion rejoice, for this is Zion, THE PURE IN HEART: therefore let Zion rejoice,...for behold and lo, vengeance cometh speedily upon the ungodly, as the whirlwind, and who shall escape it:...for the indignation of the Lord is kindled against their abominations, and all their wicked works: nevertheless Zion shall escape if she observe to do all things whatsoever I have commanded her, but if she observe not to do whatsoever I have commanded her, I will visit her according to all her works: with sore affliction; with pestilence; with plague; with sword; with vengeance, with devouring fire.