Hinkle stepped up to stand by Joseph, raising his hands for silence. In a moment he had it. “Brethren, the danger to our city has not lessened. Bogart told Parsons we will have thunder and lightning by noon today. We must take that threat seriously and be prepared to defend our city. So I am hereby calling two companies of men, one to be under the direction of Captain David Patten, the other under the command of Captain Charles C. Rich. Captain Patten will have overall command.”
Elder David Patten, now the senior Apostle since Thomas B. Marsh’s desertion, was near Joseph too. He called out in a clear voice. “I accept that commission, Brother Hinkle.”
“Good. Brethren, we are calling for volunteers. Please line up in front of Captains Patten and Rich to enlist.”
Nathan hesitated. The first thing that popped into his head was the image of Lydia, holding Elizabeth Mary. Then he thought of Joshua, and Emily, the little miniature of her mother, and three-year-old Nathan. The thought of maybe not seeing them again was like acid in his bowels. And yet in that same instant came thoughts of the three prisoners, probably bound and gagged, in the hands of men like those who had whipped Nathan until his back was a bloody mass. Those prisoners would be desperately hoping that their brethren had not abandoned them.
Matthew was staring at his father, face hopeful. But Benjamin too was lost in his own thoughts. “Pa?” Matthew finally said.
Benjamin pulled out of them with an effort.
“I want to go.”
Nathan’s stomach lurched, and then instantly he knew Matthew was right. He stepped forward. “Matthew and I will ride with Captain Patten, Pa. You need to stay here and make sure Mother and Lydia and the children are all right.”
Parley nodded vigorously. “I agree, Father Steed. We need some wise heads to stay here and get the city prepared. Joseph could really use your help.”
Benjamin hesitated only for a moment. Something in his heart cried to push that suggestion aside. His blood ran as hot as Matthew’s when he thought of the three men facing possible execution. What if one of them were Matthew? Or Nathan? Or any one of his family? And yet he was past fifty now. War was a young man’s affair. And Nathan was right about Mary Ann and Lydia. If Bogart and Gilliam came against Far West, his family would be without a man if he went with the group tonight.
Finally, he nodded slowly at Nathan and Parley. Then he turned and looked at his youngest son, this fair-haired, blue-eyed son he had come to love so much. Benjamin’s eyes were filled with deep gravity. “Your mother is going to ask why I didn’t make you stay home too.”
Matthew’s face fell. “Pa, they need me. I’m eighteen now. I want to be with Nathan.”
There was no answer as his father searched his face. Then finally, Benjamin’s shoulders lifted and fell in resignation. “I know,” he murmured. With a quick step, he was to Matthew and gave him a fierce hug. “You be careful, son. This isn’t going to be a party.”
Matthew nodded, a lump suddenly in his throat. “I will, Pa. I promise.”
Benjamin turned to Nathan. “He’s a man now, Nathan,” he said in a husky whisper, “but he’s also our last born. If anything happens to him, your mother is never going to forgive me or you.”
Nathan nodded slowly, touched by his father’s emotions. “I know, Pa. I’ll stay with him. Close. Tell Mother. I’ll watch him. I promise.”
Benjamin started to turn, his mind made up now. “I’ll go and tell your mother and Lydia.” He stopped, then lifted one hand. “Go with God,” he said softly. Then he turned.
* * *
The column of riders was barely discernible in the darkness. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and a thousand stars filled the sky above them. About three a.m., a meteor shower began. Pinpoints of light went streaking across the sky until they disappeared in one final, blazing flash. Some were bright enough to make Matthew gasp inwardly. It was an awe-inspiring sight, and his neck grew sore from his staring upwards, for he did not want to miss a single one.
But if the heavens filled him with awe, the great prairie fires to the north of them left him with an eerie and uneasy feeling. The group of Mormon men was miles away from those fires, but even from this distance Matthew could see the flickering dance of the flames and the immense columns of smoke rising upward in awful majesty before they disappeared into the night sky. Vast areas of the grasslands of northern Missouri were ablaze with wildfires. Were they accidentally set, or was this the result of the mob’s torching some Mormon’s hay and grain stacks? Matthew didn’t know. Fires were not uncommon once the grass died in the fall, and in some ways they were welcomed by the farmers because they seared off the thick tangle of dead grasses and brush that choked the prairies. But either way, Matthew kept feeling a little chill crawling up and down his back. It seemed as if the very fires of hell were marking their path, holding out the promise of some coming consuming inferno.
Matthew rode just behind Nathan and Parley Pratt. There were riders ahead and behind, about sixty or seventy in all. No one spoke, not even in whispers. The only sound in the night was the soft thudding of the horses’ hooves and the occasional rattle of a sword against a saddle or the even softer chinking of a bridle chain. The breathing of men and horses sent out from their nostrils little clouds that hung white and ethereal for a moment, then almost instantly dissipated.
Matthew turned his head slightly, so that he looked directly east. Squinting, he peered at the point where land met sky. At first he wasn’t sure, but as he swung his head to the right, checking the horizon due south, it was more evident. The eastern sky was just starting to lighten. Dawn was no more than half an hour away now.
He felt his pulse quicken a little. And then the solemn voice of his father rang in his mind.
“You be careful, son. This isn’t going to be a party
.” A crawling sensation moved up and down his back. Subdued, Matthew pulled his coat more tightly around him and hunched deeper in the saddle.
* * *
About two miles from the river, David Patten raised a hand and brought the column to a halt. Speaking in hushed whispers, he gave the instructions. A few men would be left with the horses. The rest were to follow him on foot. There was to be absolutely no talking, no noise of any kind. They marched in silence for the next twenty minutes. Now the sky to the east was becoming noticeably lighter.
The Crooked River ran through Caldwell and Ray counties in a diagonal line from northwest to southeast. Over the centuries it had cut a deep, meandering path through the prairie land. But at one point, near the county line, there was a place where the stream was shallow enough to provide a ford. A road had been cut down the side of the bluffs to provide access to it.
It was at the top of the bluff that Patten stopped again and raised his hand. The men moved in as closely as they could. “We’re at the river,” he whispered, pointing. “The ford should be right below us.”
Matthew turned and stared into the darkness. They were looking west, and the line of trees was only the tiniest shade darker than the land beyond it.
Still talking very softly, but with authority now, David Patten began giving his orders. “Brother Rich, you take your division and go to the left. Captain Durphey, I want you to take another group. You go straight on down. My division will go to the right. Remember, the signal for attack will be, ‘God and liberty.’ ”
Matthew jumped as a hand was laid on his arm.
“Sorry, Matthew,” a dark figure next to him whispered. “It’s me, Patrick O’Banion.”
“Oh.” Matthew felt like a fool for being so jittery. “Hullo.”
Patrick O’Banion was not a member of the Church but was one of those few of the old settlers who were friendly to the Mormons. Because of O’Banion’s knowledge of the countryside, Captain Patten had asked him to serve as their guide. He was just a year or two older than Matthew. The Steeds had had the opportunity to get to know Patrick some, and both Matthew and Nathan liked him.
“Would you mind if I stuck with you and your brother?” O’Banion asked.
Nathan was right next to Matthew. He smiled warmly and clapped the young man on the shoulder. “Love to have you, Patrick,” he whispered.
“All right,” Patten commanded, “move out.”
To take the right flank, Patten’s unit turned so that they were moving almost directly west now. Even before they reached the bottom of the gentle hill, they were starting into the first of the low underbrush that marked the wider flood channel of the stream.
Nathan stepped close to Matthew. One hand came up to grip Matthew by the neck. He pulled Matthew’s head over until it was close to Nathan’s mouth. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “We can’t see a thing ahead of us. But we’re backlit against the dawn. If they’re waiting for us . . .” He shook his head. “Stay low. And be careful!”
Matthew nodded, swallowing hard. His mouth was as dry as a dirt road in August. He swallowed again, trying to force some saliva onto his tongue. He was also aware of the painful thudding inside his chest and of the fact that even though the stock of the rifle barrel was cold in his hands, his palms were sweating.
He turned to O’Banion, wanting to pass on the warning that Nathan had given, but just as he reached out to touch O’Banion’s arm, Matthew’s head jerked back to the front. A movement just ten or fifteen yards off to his right had caught his eye. He leaned forward, peering, bringing his rifle up. Something moved again. It was a man! In the brush.
Matthew swung around to warn Nathan, but at that instant a voice shouted out just in front of them. “Who goes there?”
It came out more as a frightened croak than as a shout of challenge. But the sentry didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s the Mormons!” he screamed. There was a brilliant flash and the crack of a rifle. After a night of silence the explosion sounded like a cannon. Men screamed, and dove for cover. A rifle just behind Matthew fired, nearly deafening him.
Matthew was frozen in place, so stunned that for a moment it didn’t register that something was pulling at his sleeve, dragging at his arm. Then the weight became too much to ignore. He swung around and found himself looking into the stricken face of Patrick O’Banion. The young man’s eyes were wide with shock. His face was twisted grotesquely. His mouth was working, but no sound came out. He stumbled a little, falling against Matthew.
“Patrick!”
There was a soft moan, and Matthew stared in stupefied horror as O’Banion’s knees slowly collapsed and he slid to the ground, his hand dragging downward against Matthew’s leg.
“Get down!” a voice said.
Matthew was distantly aware that someone had him by the collar and was wrestling him to the ground. He let his knees buckle and he dropped to the earth.
“Are you all right?” Nathan was lying beside him, his hand still on Matthew’s collar. Nathan was shaking him and shouting into his face.
Matthew tried to answer, but his mouth wouldn’t respond. Gunfire was blasting off all around them now. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Incredibly, amid the noise his ears caught the whip of a ball through the brush above him, and he felt a twig fall against his face.
“
Are you all right
?” Nathan repeated.
Matthew shook it off. “Yes,” he gasped. “Patrick—” He nearly gagged. “He’s been shot.”
Nathan let go of Matthew’s coat and leaped over him to kneel over the body of O’Banion. The young man was writhing and groaning. His eyes were wide open as he stared upward, seeing nothing. Nathan pulled O’Banion’s coat together as best he could, then he was back with Matthew. “He’s hit bad!”
“God and liberty! God and liberty!” Someone out ahead of them was shouting above the roar of the gunfire.
Nathan grabbed the front of Matthew’s coat. “That’s the signal. Come on, Matthew. We’ve got to stay with the others. We’ll come back for Patrick.”
They scurried through the brush, running in a half crouch, moving toward the line of men just in front of them. Matthew could hear David Patten shouting now. “Form up. Form a line. They’re on the riverbank. There, by the campfires.”
Directing his attention to something concrete was exactly what Matthew needed. He leaned forward, trying to see. The riverbank was in almost total darkness. But the campfires—two or three, maybe more—could be clearly seen now. Flashes were winking at him here and there, appearing simultaneously with the crackle of gunfire.
Then Matthew understood what Nathan had been trying to tell him. Against the dark background of the trees and the far bluff, they could see no one, only an occasional blur of movement and the flashes of the muzzles of their enemies. But the Mormons had the eastern sky directly at their backs, making them perfect silhouettes for Bogart’s men to fire at.
“Charge!” It was Patten’s voice, rising above the shouting and chaos like the roar of a lion. Nathan yelled something at Matthew and grabbed his arm. Only then did Matthew remember that he too had a rifle in his hand. He raised it to his shoulder, watched for a muzzle flash, adjusted quickly, and fired. He heard a scream, but wasn’t sure if it came from the direction in which he shot. On the run now, he began pulling at the leather pouch that held his lead balls and powder.
Beside him, Nathan had his pistol out, holding it in his left hand. He also wore their father’s sword in a scabbard. With the chilling sound of steel sliding against steel, he drew it out and raised it over his head, yelling like a banshee. To their right and left, men were running down the hill to join them, firing as they came. Captains Rich and Durphey had joined the battle.
Bogart was shouting at his men as wildly as Patten and his two captains were shouting at theirs. The Missourians were running from their campfires, forming a skirmish line along the riverbank. Suddenly it was too close for firearms and the battle was hand to hand. Though the Mormons were severely handicapped by having the light behind them, they outnumbered Bogart’s men by about two to one. As they rushed forward, shouting, slashing with their swords, swinging rifle butts, the line broke. In a moment, a dozen Missourians were in the shallow ford of the river, racing for safety. It was a retreat but not a rout. The Missourians would run a few yards, then whirl and shoot, then fall back further to reload and fire again.