Chapter Twenty-Three

It was now nearly sundown on November fourth, the day that would come to be known as the “bloody day,” and Joshua Steed was highly frustrated and in a foul mood. Early that morning, he and Colonel Pitcher had led another group of men out from Independence. They had taken the Mormon ferry at the Whitmer settlement on the Big Blue without firing a shot. All they had done was wave their pistols and the Mormons who were operating it fled.

Once the ferry was secure, they moved on to a small store run by a Missourian named Wilson, about a mile west of the river. There they stopped to rest and refresh themselves. But unbeknownst to the Missourians, marching up the road toward them were the nineteen volunteers from the Colesville settlement. Before these volunteers reached the store, however, they met some Saints who reported that while the ferry had been lost, the rumors about the rampages east of the river were false. They also told the Colesville group that the mob was at the store. Upon hearing this news, the nineteen men decided to return home and avoid a confrontation.

Unfortunately, two small boys caught sight of the band of retreating Mormons. They ran pell-mell to the store and reported to Colonel Pitcher that the Mormons were on the road west of them. Eager for action, the Missourians dashed for their horses. When the Mormons saw forty or fifty men thundering across the prairie towards them, they fled in every direction. That had been in the afternoon, but it provided only a temporary diversion. When Pitcher’s men had seen the Mormons scatter, they had gone after them with relish, driving their horses back and forth through the cornfields, hoping to flush them out. When that failed, they began to break into the houses of the nearby Mormons, terrorizing the women and children. That had been going on now for more than two hours.

Disgusted and tired of it all, Joshua walked to his horse and swung up into the saddle. He walked it over to where Pitcher was talking with several of the men. The deputy constable looked up. “What do you think, Steed?”

“I think I’m going back to Independence and getting a beer.”

Some of the men chuckled, nodding. One stood up. “That’ll be the first good thing to happen today. I’m goin’ too.”

“I guess you’re right,” Pitcher said in disgust. “There ain’t nothin’ goin’ on—”

A cry from off to their right brought them all around sharply. A man was gaping, his arm pointing toward the west. “It’s the Mormons!” he shouted.

Joshua stood up in the stirrups, peering into the low-lying sun. He felt a leap of exultation. Sure enough, there was a whole body of men—thirty for sure, maybe more. They were coming toward them; the sun was at their backs, and Joshua could see several rifles silhouetted against the horizon. The Mormons had come to fight!

“To arms! To arms!” Pitcher was shouting. Joshua dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and sent it leaping forward. All around him pandemonium erupted. Men were scrambling for their weapons, shouting and yelling. Some, he noted in disgust, ran for cover.

As Joshua pounded past the few men standing amidst the dried, brown cornstalks, he yelled at them. “Form a line! Form a line!”

“Fire, fire!” Pitcher was screaming. He had one foot in the stirrup of his saddle, but his horse was frightened and the colonel had to keep hopping on one foot to keep his balance as the horse kept skittering around in a circle. Off to Joshua’s left, someone fired a rifle. The explosion sounded muffled and distant as it rumbled across the open fields.

“Hold your fire!” Joshua screamed, racing toward the men nearest the road. “Let ’em get closer.”

But panic was the commander now, and no one gave Joshua heed. He saw a man throw his rifle to his shoulder and fire. One of the Mormons in the lead file jerked backwards, slamming into one of his companions, then crumpled to the ground. A cry of triumph went up from the Missourians.

They were firing wildly now as Joshua joined them. He saw a flash across the fields, followed instantly by a puff of smoke. The Mormons were firing back.

“Take your aim!” he screamed at the men. “Make your shots count.” Joshua pulled out his own pistol but didn’t fire. They were in good rifle range now, but a pistol was still useless.

He reined his horse around to see if Pitcher and some others were mounted yet. A good charge would send the whole lot of them scattering. But just as his eye found the colonel, his horse stumbled and Joshua went flying. Instinctively he rolled as he hit, trying to hold his pistol away from him. For a moment he lay there, dazed, shaking his head, letting his mind register that there was no serious pain. He swung around. His horse lay flat, one hind leg kicking weakly in its death rattle. It had taken a ball just below its left eye, and the ball had gone straight into the brain.

Joshua leaped up, a rage seizing him. He had bought that horse from a breeder in Kentucky and brought him all the way out to Independence. He fired at the men, now no more than fifty yards away, then fired again. The Mormons had spread out now and formed a skirmish line. Flashes of rifle fire were coming fast now. He instinctively ducked as he felt a ball whistle over his head.

Just behind him there was a sharp cry, and Joshua whirled around in time to see a man five or ten yards from him drop his rifle and clutch at his stomach. He had a shocked look on his face as he slowly sank to his knees, then pitched forward on his face without a sound. The man next to him stopped, gaping in horror.

Now things were happening so fast that it was impossible to follow them. An inhuman shriek rent the air, and Joshua knew that another horse had been hit. Somewhere behind him, he heard Pitcher screaming, though whether to attack or retreat he could not tell. Men were cursing and yelling. Clouds of smoke from the gunpowder hung like little puffs of cumulus in the still air, swirling wildly when men ran through them, otherwise just slowly dissipating.

Directly in front of Joshua a man was running towards the Mormons, firing blindly as he ran. Then, as though he had been hit at knee level with some giant scythe, he went down, sending up little clouds of dust as he hit the dry soil. For a moment there was a violent twitching, then he lay still.

“Oh no,” someone screamed hysterically. “Hugh’s down.”

“We can’t hold ’em!” another cried. “Run! Run!”

“No!” Joshua tried to scream the word, but it came out as a hoarse cry, barely more than a croak. But it wouldn’t have mattered either way. The man who yelled had already done the damage. Everywhere he looked, men turned and ran. There was no attempt to stay low, no attempt to dodge back and forth. They ran blindly to their horses with no thought but escape. It was not a retreat, it was a rout, and Joshua stood there shaking with rage as he watched the battle evaporate before his eyes.

He swung around, suddenly realizing he was vulnerable, unhorsed and standing straight up in the open as he was. But the Mormons, seeing their opposition in flight, had also had enough. They too were moving backwards, more cautiously, but nevertheless eager for disengagement. The sound of gunfire had ceased.

Joshua watched the retreating Mormons until they were well out of rifle range, then he put his pistol away, trying to ignore the keenness of his disappointment. Slowly he walked to the body of the first man who had fallen. He knelt down and felt at his neck for a pulse, then stood slowly. The man was dead. He walked to the second man, the one whose fall had been the turning point for the Missourians. He knelt down beside him and turned him over. He didn’t even check for a heartbeat. The bullet had caught the man squarely in the left side of his chest.

Joshua straightened slowly. The irony was not lost on him. This man’s name was Hugh L. Brazeale. That very morning, after they had taken the ferry, Brazeale had been one of the most vocal in the spate of braggadocio that followed. “Give me ten fellows,” he boasted, “and I will wade to my knees in blood and drive the Mormons from Jackson County.”

Joshua turned his head and watched the last of his men whipping their horses at full flight for the line of trees along the river. “There’s your ten men, Hugh,” he said bitterly. “Go get ’em.”

Jessica Steed pulled back the curtain and tiptoed quietly into the sleeping area that the curtain separated from the main room of the cabin. It was about half an hour before sunset on November fifth, and the late autumn sunlight streamed through the shuttered windows in narrow shafts. She stopped, her eyes softening. Sister Dibble sat beside the still form of her husband, Philo Dibble, who was stretched out on the one bed in that corner of the room. Her head had dropped to her chest and she was breathing heavily, still clinging to her husband’s hand.

Thankful Pratt, wife of Parley, was standing near the window, gazing at nothing. She sensed Jessica’s presence and turned around, quickly lifting a finger to her lips. Jessica motioned to her and Thankful tiptoed quietly across to her. They both moved out of the sleeping area, letting the curtain drop again.

“Did you find any medicine?” Thankful asked.

Jessica held up her hand. She had a wad of clean rags. “No, I found some more bandages, though, and Sister Anderson and Sister Lewis are checking some of the other families for medicine.”

Thankful had spent most of the previous night and all this day helping Sister Dibble and attending to Philo’s needs. She looked as if she could easily fall asleep even as she stood there.

Jessica closed her eyes for a moment. “By the way, I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier. Brother Barber died early this morning.”

“Oh no!” Tears sprang to Thankful’s eyes.

“Yes,” Jessica said, fighting her own emotions. “He was such a fine young man.”

When the Missourians opened fire on the approaching Mormons at what would come to be called “the battle of the Big Blue River,” Andrew Barber and Philo Dibble had both been hit almost instantly.

Jessica reached out and took Thankful’s hand. “The brethren wanted to administer to him, but he wouldn’t let them.”

Parley’s wife looked up in surprise. “Why not?”

“He said—” Jessica’s voice caught and she had to swallow quickly. “He said there were angels in the room waiting to take him home.” She managed a smile through her tears. “He was a little put out with us that we couldn’t see them too.” Jessica had spent the better part of the day with the Barbers, helping to comfort them, assisting in preparing the body for burial. It had been emotionally draining. Only when that was done had she and two other sisters come to see if they could help at the Dibbles’.

Thankful had a faraway look in her eyes. “He is the first martyr killed in battle defending the kingdom in this dispensation.”

Jessica’s eyes widened a little. She had not considered it in that light before.

There was a noise behind them, and they turned to see that Sister Dibble was standing at the curtain. “Will my husband be the second?” she cried in an anguished whisper.

Jessica and Thankful rushed to her side. “No,” Thankful said fiercely, “no, you mustn’t lose faith.”

“But you heard what the doctor told us,” she said, fighting to stop her voice from becoming a wail of despair. “He said Philo was a dead man.”

Philo had taken a ball and two pieces of buckshot squarely in the abdomen. Amazingly he had grabbed his rifle and powder horn and walked away, in spite of the excruciating pain. He had finally found his wife and children in a cabin not far from the Whitmer settlement. Since the mob was threatening to kill anyone who aided the Mormon militia members, they had tried to hide him, but he was in such agony that they were able to take him no more than a short distance to another cabin. As the night passed and the day wore on, his condition worsened.

When Jessica arrived, both Sister Dibble and Sister Pratt were nearing exhaustion. She and the two sisters who came with her set about cleaning the cabin, cooking a meager meal. Then the doctor had come. Jessica went in to watch. She had gasped when the doctor pulled down the blanket and revealed Philo Dibble’s horribly distended stomach. There was little question but what he was steadily bleeding to death internally, for his abdomen had swollen to the size of a bread basket. His face was mottled and his breathing shallow and labored. Grimly, the physician had finally stepped back and made his terrible pronouncement: Philo’s death was certain. Brother Dibble, still conscious at that point, writhing back and forth in agony, had heard the diagnosis. It was as if he had accepted the inevitability of the verdict and surrendered to his fate. The writhing had stopped, and in moments he lay deathly still, his face a ghastly gray against the pillow.

That’s when Jessica and two of the other sisters had gone to the house of David Whitmer looking for medicine, leaving Thankful to stand watch with Philo’s grieving wife. Now Jessica reached out and took both of Sister Dibble’s hands. “I told Brother Whitmer what the doctor said. He said to tell you that Philo shall not die. That he should live.”

For a moment Sister Dibble brightened, but almost instantly her face twisted again. “How can he?” she moaned. “He is nearly dead now.”

There was a sound on the doorstep, and all three women turned as the door to the cabin opened. In burst one of the sisters who had gone with Jessica. She quickly stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Look,” she said. “Brother Knight has come.”

Newel Knight stepped into the room and immediately crossed to Sister Dibble. “I have come to help,” he said quietly. “With your permission I would like to give your husband a blessing by the hand of the priesthood.”

Her voice broke and she choked back a sob. “Oh, yes, please.”

Jessica stepped to the curtain and held it back, and the five of them entered the small area where Philo Dibble lay. Newel Knight spoke not another word, but he moved to the bed and sat down carefully beside Brother Dibble. There was a soft moan, then nothing more. Newel glanced at the women for a moment, then reached out and laid his hand on Philo Dibble’s head. Again he said nothing, just sat there in great solemnity, his eyes half-closed, his hand resting gently on the wounded man’s forehead.

Suddenly, Philo Dibble’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing, but his chest started to heave up and down, his stomach distending and extending with it. His wife was so startled, she just gaped at him in shock.

“The chamber pot!” Newel Knight cried, jumping up. “Get him the chamber pot.”

Jessica leaped to the bed, reached under it, and grabbed the unused chamber pot. As she pulled it up, Philo groaned and rolled over on his side, grabbing at his stomach. His wife snatched the pot from Jessica and jammed it in front of him just as a violent spasm shook his body. There was a gagging sound, then he vomited, and vomited again. Time after time his body convulsed and expelled great quantities of a dark and bloody liquid.

Jessica was dumbfounded. The chamber pot could hold several quarts, and by the time Philo collapsed back on his bed, his body finally at peace, the pot was better than half full. Beneath the blanket, his stomach was flat again. Jessica stared at him in amazement. His face was still very pale, but even as she watched the grayness was swiftly taking on color.

Thankful took the pot from Sister Dibble, who was gazing at her husband in wonder. He smiled weakly and reached out for her hand. With a sob of joy, she threw her arms around him, burying her head against his chest.

He touched her hair, then turned to face Brother Knight. “When you laid your hands on me?” he said. He stopped for breath. “I felt...” Now his eyes filled with tears and he could not finish.

Newel took his other hand. “What, Brother Philo?”

“I don’t know how to explain it. It was like fire, only not terrible. It was wonderful. I could feel it flowing all through me, purifying every part of me. It was like I was being purged of the corruption that filled my body.”

Newel nodded soberly as Sister Dibble straightened. “Your mission on earth is not yet completed, Brother Philo,” he said. “The Lord has chosen to spare you so you can fulfill your mission in life.”

Philo Dibble considered that for a moment; then, turning to his wife, he managed a wan smile. He merely nodded as he clasped her hand to his breast.

While the Colesville settlement spent the night of November fourth watching over their wounded and their dying, the news of the battle of the Big Blue spread through Jackson County like a prairie fire fanned by high winds. And with each telling the story grew more horrible. Two Missourians had been killed, but by morning, in the telling that number had swelled to more than a dozen. The Wilson store, only a temporary stopping place for Pitcher’s men and totally untouched by the action, now figured into the expanded accounts. The Mormons had attacked it. Wilson’s young son had been shot down in cold blood.

In reality, the Mormons had returned to their homes to mourn their loss; in rumor, they had ridden into Indian Territory and persuaded a massive war party to join them. They were on their way to put Independence under siege.

By ten o’clock on the morning of November fifth, Independence was at a fever pitch. Armed men from every part of the county poured into town, looking for whiskey, trouble, and Mormons. A hasty war council was called. Lieutenant Governor Boggs decided this was a perfect opportunity. He formally called out a unit of the Missouri militia to “preserve the peace.” “Formally called out” in reality meant that he deputized the armed crowd who flooded the town. Colonel Thomas Pitcher, deputy constable of Jackson County, was named militia commander.

From mob to militia, from lawlessness to legitimacy, in one stroke Boggs had turned the citizens of Jackson County into the law. The Saints were outmanned, outgunned, and outmaneuvered. Pitcher demanded that the Saints surrender their weapons. They agreed on the condition that the militia do the same. Pitcher cheerfully accepted and pledged his honor, along with that of Lieutenant Governor Boggs, that the Saints would be left unmolested and given ten days to leave the county. The Saints gave up what few weapons they had in trade for peace.

It was a brilliant move on Pitcher’s part, a coup of the highest order. He had no intention of disarming his own followers, didn’t even so much as make a show of doing so. Within hours of the “treaty” he unleashed his men on the countryside with orders to drive the Mormons from the county. Disarmed now, the Mormons were powerless to stop them.

“Listen!”

All heads in the room, women’s and children’s, instantly jerked around. Conversation, already hushed and filled with tension, was cut off as sharply as though severed with a knife.

“There’s a rider outside!”

Sister Lewis gripped Jessica’s arm, her fingernails digging into the flesh. It had been Newel Knight’s wife who cried out. She was nearest the door, dressing a small child for bed. Now every head was half-tipped, listening intently. Earlier a sleet storm had raced across western Missouri, leaving the ground covered with a thin sheet of slush. But the sky had cleared and the slush had frozen into ice that covered everything. It was impossible for anything to move across the prairie without a sharp crackling sound. And there was no mistaking it now—a horse was walking slowly outside, each step echoing sharply in the stillness of the night.

“Blow out the candle!” Jessica hissed as she sprang to her feet. Jeremy Lewis, just turned twelve, leaped across the room and blew sharply. Instantly the room was plunged into darkness, and several of the children started to whimper.

“Hush, children!” Sister Knight hissed.

Jessica reached out in the darkness toward the bed. “Rachel?” She felt a little hand come up from the bed. “Mama’s right here. You stay with Martha. I’ll be right back.”

In a moment she stumbled across the room to the window, barking her shin on a footstool near the table. Jessica pressed her face to the glass, aware of the sounds in the cabin—mothers shushing their children, trying to calm them, ready to throw their hands over their mouths if it became necessary. Outside, the moon shone, but clouds were scudding across the sky, and the landscape was, for now, in dark shadow. Her field of vision was too restricted to see much, and for a moment she could make out nothing. Then she jumped as a large, dark object crossed her view. It stopped, about thirty feet from the cabin. It was a man on a horse.

She swung around. “Shhh!” she urged. “There is someone out there.”

There were soft gasps, and a choked sob from one of the women. There were about six women and perhaps eighteen or twenty children crowded in the little cabin. The scene was the same in half a dozen other cabins in the Colesville settlement. Earlier that afternoon, all able-bodied men—all but three old men, too frail to be of assistance—had left the village in search of wagons and carriages sufficient to move their families and belongings from the county. The women had banded together in small groups, no one wanting to be alone once darkness came. Now they waited anxiously for their men to return.

“Jessica!”

The faint cry spun her back around and she stared at the shuttered window.

“Jessica Roundy Steed.”

“Who is it?” one of the sisters whispered.

Jessica straightened slowly. “It’s my father.”

“I’m telling you, Jessica, you’ve got to get you and little Rachel out of here.”

Jessica hugged herself against the bitter cold. She had grabbed only a shawl to wrap around her shoulders before walking out of the cabin, and had nothing more on her feet than a thin pair of moccasins. The clouds had temporarily blown away from the face of the moon, and the night was filled with a soft, silvery glow, so she could see her father’s face clearly. There was no mistaking the fear she saw in his eyes.

“Joshua can’t hold them back much longer,” he went on when she didn’t answer. “Supposedly he’s in command of this company, but they’re headstrong and thirsting for blood.”

“What are you saying, Pa? That I can’t expect Joshua to do anything to protect his own daughter and wife?”

“Former wife,” he corrected without thinking.

“And former daughter?” she said bitterly.

He shook his head, unable to cope with this kind of feminine stubbornness. “Jess, I’m tellin’ you that Joshua can’t stop them. They nearly mutinied when he told them I was comin’ in to check things out.”

“How many are there?” She had never felt so bleak in her entire life.

“Close to a hundred men. All of them armed.”

She wanted to grab him by the shoulders and scream, “But the Missourians promised us ten days to get our things together and leave.” But she didn’t. The two days following the so-called treaty had been filled with one depredation after another.

She shook her head. “Pa, there are no men here. They’ve all gone after wagons. There’s only women and children.”

“You think that will stop them!” he asked incredulously. “Their orders are to drive the Mormons from the county. All Mormons!”

“I’m a Mormon,” she cried. “Is that what you want?”

He took a step forward, his face twisted with pain. “You don’t have to be, Jess. Get little Rachel and come with me now, before it’s too late.”

“And deny all that I believe in?”

He shook his head in frustration. “No, just say you don’t believe Joe Smith. That’s what’s got ’em all riled up. You can believe in Jesus and all that stuff if you want.”

Her head came up slowly. “I can’t do that, Pa.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “Tell Joshua I’m grateful that he would care enough to try.”

He flung an arm outward. “Did you hear what I said?” he shouted. “These men don’t care about women and children. You’re in danger. You’ve got to get out of here. Now!”

Suddenly there was a sound behind them, off to the east. Clinton Roundy jerked around, his eyes wide. Across the prairie, from a dark mass of trees, a line of horsemen was thundering toward them in a hard run.

“Oh no!” Roundy breathed. “Here they come!” He whirled back to her. “Run, Jess, run!”

The next few minutes would ever remain a nightmarish blur of horror in Jessica’s mind. She darted back toward the cabin as her father ran for his horse. Inside it was utter chaos—women screaming in terror; children shrieking and running blindly in the darkness; infants, torn from sleep, wailing and howling; people bursting out of the cabin into the night, some with enough presence of mind to grab a coat or pull on shoes, but most bolting madly, like fawns before a charging grizzly.

She found Rachel still sitting on the bed with little Martha Lewis, both of them screaming hysterically. Someone knocked against Jessica, groping wildly in the darkness. “Martha! Martha!” It was the voice of young Jeremy Lewis.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Jeremy, it’s me, Jessica. Martha’s right here.” She guided his hand and heard him sob in relief. “I’ve got Rachel. You get Martha.”

She felt him reach out and sweep the three-year-old up in his arms. Jessica did the same with Rachel, then leaned down to yell in Jeremy’s ear. “Where’s your mother?”

He started to cry. “I don’t know. She had baby Ellen. She told me to get Martha.”

The sound of horses was deafening now, and she knew that their time was gone. “Hold on to my dress, Jeremy. Don’t let go!” She leaped for the square of light that was the open door, hesitated only a moment when she thought she heard Joshua’s voice, then slipped outside and started to run.

Dawn came quickly that morning. The clouds had moved east during the night and left the sky crystal clear. Once first light pierced the eastern horizon, the landscape quickly began to lighten and reveal the pitiful column strung out across more than a half mile of prairie. There were nearly a hundred and fifty women and children plodding along, heads down, spirits broken. The crying and the whimpering had long since ceased—it took energy to protest, and energy was too precious to be wasted now. Behind the column, two men slowly rode escort, one on either side. Their bullwhips were now looped around their saddle horns, and the men sat silent and low in their saddles, huddled in their warm woolen coats and scarves. But earlier those whips had cracked like pistol shots over their heads as the men herded the refugees into a line and pointed them toward the northeast and the Missouri River. That had been somewhere around nine o’clock the previous night. Now it was just past six o’clock in the morning.

Jessica swung Rachel down, grimacing as the pain in her back shot through her like fire. “Rachel, I’m sorry, you’ve got to walk, just for a minute, so Mama’s arms can rest.”

Rachel clung to Jessica’s arms, refusing to put her feet down. “No, no! Mama!”

Jessica groaned with the pain. “Just for a minute.” She forced Rachel’s hands from her arms and set her down, the wailing cry of her daughter as painful to her as the ache in her body.

Rachel dropped to her knees and buried her face in her hands. “Mama, no! Mama!”

Behind them, Jeremy Lewis was coming with Martha. His eyes were open, but it was as though he saw nothing. He almost bumped into them before he blinked and something registered. Without a word, he swung Martha down beside Rachel. She didn’t even look up, just collapsed into a heap and started to cry softly.

Jeremy sank to his knees slowly, his arms hanging at his sides like wooden stumps. In the last nine hours this twelve-year-old had passed from boyhood to manhood. He had run out of the cabin without shoes. Sometime early in the night, Jessica had torn her shawl into two pieces and wrapped them as best she could around his feet. Now, in the light, she could see that the cloth was wet and filthy and shredded in places. The prairie grass, stiffened by the thin sheet of frozen sleet, had ripped at their feet all during the night. As she looked closer, she could see that Jeremy’s ankles were a mass of scratches and cuts. The bottoms of his pant legs were dark with blood.

Jessica sat down beside him and reached out to touch his face, tears welling up in her eyes. “How are your feet?” she asked softly.

His eyes came open and he looked down. He shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied with simple honesty. “I don’t feel much down there right now.”

She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Everything below the knees was a dull, fiery pain, but it had long since taken second place to the exhaustion and the pain of carrying Rachel. But her eyes dropped now to her own feet. In spite of what she expected, she gasped, shocked by what the morning light exposed. Her moccasins had long since split open, and her feet were a mass of raw, bleeding flesh.

As they sat there in the snow—Rachel now barely whimpering, Martha curled up on the icy prairie grass—they looked at each other. Jeremy’s eyes were grave. Finally, he gestured with his head behind them, down the trail where they had come. Most of the prairie glistened under its covering of ice, but a broad path marked where the column had broken through as they walked along. Soon the sun would be up and melt the ice, and their trail would disappear. But there was one thing that would not disappear. Here and there, clearly seen against the light brown of the prairie sod, were spots and streaks of bright red. They would darken quickly in the cold air, but they would not go away.

Jeremy smiled sadly. “I don’t think Pa and the other men will have much trouble following us,” he said.

Joshua Lewis was shaking his head even before he was fully inside the makeshift home, which was part tepee, part tent, part lean-to. His hair and beard glistened with drops of water. It had been raining steadily all day and the water still came down in a dreary drizzle. His clothes were wet, and his cheeks red with the cold.

His wife looked up in alarm. “What?”

“The ferryman will not take us over unless we have the fare.”

Jessica did not look up. It was exactly what she had been told, in no uncertain terms, by the same man. She had not expected anything less.

“But the Missourians are threatening to whip anyone left on this side of the river,” Sister Lewis blurted out, her voice strained to the breaking point. “We can’t stay here another night.”

“It’s fifty cents, or there’ll be no crossing,” Brother Lewis said flatly. He moved to the boxes that were serving as their table and chairs, and sat down heavily. He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands.

Jessica watched the two of them for a moment, her heart heavy. They had done so much for her. If she had owned one thing of earthly value, she would gladly give it to them now, but she did not. They did not. That’s why they were facing a crisis with no solution in sight.

Jessica glanced over to the blanket in the corner where Rachel’s dark hair shone dimly in the candlelight. The little girl’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, so Jessica stood up. “I’m just going to step outside for a moment. If Rachel wakes up, call me.”

“It’s raining,” Brother Lewis mumbled, not looking up.

“I know. I’ll be all right.”

She moved outside gingerly, hobbling on her battered feet. The night was hushed and still, the only sound being the soft plunking of the raindrops in the myriad puddles that filled the now practically empty campground. It was very dark, and she stood still, feeling the coldness of the rain on her cheeks, letting her eyes gradually adjust to what little light there was.

It was so quiet now. The first two nights had been chaos. The straggling column of women and children from the settlement, having been driven across twenty to twenty-five miles of prairie, finally reached the river shortly after sunup. There they huddled, lost and frightened, until their men finally found them later that day. By then, the river bottoms were a teeming mass of humanity. Refugees poured in from every settlement in Jackson County. Many families had been separated in the panicked flight, and there was the constant call from men looking for wives, women searching for their husbands or children, and children with wide and forlorn eyes desperately looking for any family member. Dogs barked, oxen lowed, cattle bellowed, hogs squealed.

Some families had been fortunate enough to escape with their household goods and even managed to save their livestock and bring it with them. Others had grabbed food and tools and shelter of some kind. But many, like the Lewises, fled with nothing but what they could carry. Makeshift shelters were erected by cutting down long branches and stacking them together in tepee form, then covering them with whatever could be found. Some camped around open fires, taking whatever the weather chose to send them. The Lewises had spent the first two nights out in the open, then moved into one of the shelters vacated as the Saints were ferried across the river.

During that first night after they reached the river, in one makeshift tent a woman gave birth to a baby boy as water dripped down upon her. Exposed to the cold and damp, she lived for a short time, then died quietly. The next day the camp had stopped to watch in somber silence as another sister was carried onto the ferry, stiff and still. There had been no pitched battle with rifles firing and balls flying this time, but these two were casualties of battle as surely as had been Andrew Barber. Jessica had looked away, not able to bear her sorrow. Two more names had now been added to the roster of the martyrs.

Jessica turned and looked north. Across the river, now jet black in the darkness, she could see the faint gleam of lamp or candlelight. There were hundreds of Saints still camped along the river bottoms on the north side, waiting for an opportunity to move inland into Clay County. That was something, she thought; one bright spot in an otherwise dismal landscape. The residents of Clay County were not in sympathy with their cousins across the river, and offered some degree of hospitality to the Mormon exiles. They made it clear that they did not want the Mormons making permanent settlement there, but in the meantime they responded with true Christian charity to their plight. Empty slave huts, barns, sheds—whatever was available—were offered as shelter. Men were given work so they could earn money or food for their families. Some provisions were just given outright to the destitute Saints.

Jessica hugged herself, looking with longing across the river. There, at least, lay some semblance of peace and refuge. That was why it was so frustrating—and so frightening—to still be camped here on the south side. There were only three families—the Lewises and two others—left now, and none had the necessary fare to cross. And none of those who had crossed could help now. Their own resources were exhausted, or they knew not that others were stranded.

A sudden movement off to her left caught Jessica’s eye. Someone was there. She felt a start for a moment, but then saw the dark shape and could see it was a woman. Jessica walked across the open area toward the riverbank, stepping carefully to protect her tender feet.

The figure ahead of her stopped and whirled around. Jessica called out softly. “It’s Jessica Steed.”

“Oh.” There was tremendous relief. “Mary Elizabeth Rollins.”

Jessica smiled to herself and moved over to join the girl. Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her sister, Caroline, were heroines among the Missouri Saints. Word had spread quickly of their courage on that July day when they had braved the mob to save several copies of the Book of Commandments. Since then, Jessica had gotten to know Mary Elizabeth better and had come to love her pluck and her persistently positive outlook on life.

“Evenin’, Sister Steed.”

“Evenin’, Mary Elizabeth. What are you doing out on a dark and rainy night like this?”

“Putting out some lines for catfish.”

“You’re fishing? Tonight?”

“Brother Higbee suggested we might catch enough to give to the ferryman tomorrow. Maybe he’ll take that as payment.”

“Oh.” Jessica felt bad that the thought had not occurred to her.

“If we have faith, the Lord will provide.”

Jessica laughed softly. “You really believe that, don’t you, Mary Elizabeth?”

“Yes’m.” There was not the slightest hesitation in her voice.

“There are some who are saying the Lord has abandoned us.”

Mary Elizabeth tossed something and there was a soft plop. “I know,” she said matter-of-factly. “They’re some of the same ones who refused to humble themselves when Joseph told us that we in Zion would have to repent or suffer.”

She walked another few feet down the riverbank, Jessica following, and looked for a proper spot. Again she leaned over, tied a line to a tree, then tossed the hook and bait out into the river. She stepped back, wiping off her hands on her dress.

Jessica had a sudden thought. “Would you mind if we prayed together? Before we go to bed?”

Mary Elizabeth nodded emphatically. “I wanted to pray anyway. We need some fish if we’re goin’ to get across this river tomorrow.”

Jessica reached out gratefully and touched her hand. It was so refreshing to stand in the presence of such simple and direct faith. They both bowed their heads, unmindful of the rain, and Mary Elizabeth began to pray.

“Sister Steed! Sister Steed! Come quick! Come quick!”

Jessica stooped down to glance out through the low opening to their shelter. Mary Elizabeth Rollins was coming on the dead run, pigtails flying, hands waving frantically.

Sister Lewis gave Jessica a questioning look, but Jessica could only shrug.

“Watch the children, Jeremy,” Sister Lewis said. Then she and Jessica both ducked through the door and went outside. Brother Lewis was out chopping wood. He moved over to join them as Mary Elizabeth came running up.

“What is it?” Jessica asked.

“You’ve got to see this. Come on.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and hurried back in the direction from which she had come. Still puzzled, the three of them fell in behind her.

Suddenly Jessica understood. “Did you catch some fish?” she asked eagerly, catching up to the girl now.

Mary Elizabeth just smiled and shook her head. “You’ve got to see it.”

They came to the lean-to where the Higbee family was staying. Brother Higbee was standing with a huge catfish in his hands. It was easily two feet long, and Jessica guessed it weighed close to fifteen pounds. She had never seen one quite that big.

As they came up to Brother Higbee, Jessica was awestruck. “You did it!” she said to Mary Elizabeth. “It’s a miracle.”

Mary Elizabeth’s eyes were wide as she shook her head slowly. She stepped to Brother Higbee, who lifted the fish higher as she did so. Now Jessica could see that the fish had been slit up the gut. Brother Higbee had started to clean it. Curious, she and the Lewises stepped closer too.

Mary Elizabeth reached out and put her hand on the fish’s stomach where it had been slit. “No, Sister Steed,” she said triumphantly, “this is the miracle!” She lifted the skin.

For several seconds Jessica just gaped, not believing what her eyes were seeing. She heard a gasp behind her and realized that Sister Lewis was staring too, as dumbfounded as she was. There in the midst of the blood and entrails, lying in what had been the stomach sack, were three bright, shiny silver half-dollars. At fifty cents per family, it was exactly enough to get the Lewises, the Higbees, and the Rollinses across the river to join the rest of the Saints.

Joshua Steed looked up as Clinton Roundy entered the saloon. Roundy gave him a quick glance and motioned with his head. Joshua took a drink from his glass, then stretched. He laid down his poker hand. “Count me out of this one,” he said to the others seated at the table.

Casually he got up and walked to the bar. After a moment, Roundy sidled over to join him.

“Well?” Joshua asked.

“They’re gone.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. The ferryman said he took the last three families across this afternoon.”

“And Jessica was with them?”

Roundy shrugged. “He said there was a single woman with a little dark-haired girl.”

Joshua nodded, finally satisfied. For a long moment they stood there in silence. Then Joshua looked at Roundy, his eyes darkly bitter. “I hope I live long enough,” he said softly.

“Long enough for what?” Roundy asked.

“Long enough to see every Mormon rotting in hell.”