The leader pulled back his coat to reveal a silver star pinned on his jacket. “My name is Thomas Horne. I am the United States deputy marshal for the state of Illinois.” He withdrew a folded paper from inside his jacket. “I have a writ here for the arrest of one Brigham Young, and others of his associates, on charges of counterfeiting United States coin.”
When Benjamin said nothing, the marshal turned and gestured toward the others. “I have brought a posse of militia with me so there will be no trouble. We have the writ and we mean to have our man.”
Benjamin looked around the circle of men surrounding him. “Brigham Young is not here,” he said.
Horne let his eyes gaze up at the tower of the temple. “I know he is not here. I was told he is in the temple. Is that true?”
“I have not been inside,” Benjamin said truthfully.
The marshal started forward, trying to push around Benjamin. “Then I shall go in and look for myself.” The Mormon men instantly closed ranks around Benjamin, cutting off any path to the temple doorway.
“The temple is the house of God,” Benjamin explained, still amiable enough. “Only worthy members of the Church are allowed to enter.”
Horne’s eyes narrowed, but there was something in the determined look of the men in front of him that told him that he would not go through them easily. “All right,” he said, stepping back, “but you send word up immediately to Mr. Young that we are here. I know he’s up there.”
Benjamin turned, catching the eye of the man nearest the door. “Brother Babbitt, would you go upstairs and if President Young is present tell him that he has someone who wants to see him down here.”
Brigham was in the small room on the southeast corner of the temple which served as his office. There was a knock on the door and it immediately opened. Almon Babbitt was standing there, hat in hand. Through the open doorway, Brigham saw Heber and John Taylor and others of the men who were in the larger outer room. They stared at Babbitt, concern clearly written on their faces.
“President, there is a federal marshal outside the front doors of the temple.”
Brigham’s face fell. There were audible gasps from the men outside his door. “A marshal?” Brigham said slowly.
“Yes, sir. He is the deputy federal marshal for Springfield. He has a company of state militia with him. He has a warrant for your arrest and the arrest of others of the Twelve and says he must take you to Carthage for arraignment.”
Brigham sat back slowly. “Thank you, Brother Babbitt,” was all he said.
Brother Babbitt stood there for a moment in confusion, then nodded and backed out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him. For almost a full minute, Brigham Young sat there in silence, staring at nothing. Outside, he could hear the anxious whisperings, but gave them no heed. Finally, he pushed his chair back and fell to his knees. His head bowed, his eyes closed.
After several minutes, Brigham got back to his feet and sat down heavily in his chair. In a moment, the door pushed open again. This time it was George D. Grant, his carriage driver. “President, what shall we do?”
As the door opened wider, out in the hallway, beyond Brother Grant, Brigham saw William Miller—a seventy, and a faithful member since his baptism eleven years before—leaning against a pillar, looking greatly dejected. There was something about his pose, something about the way that he was standing.
Brigham stood abruptly. “Brother Grant, is my carriage at the front door?”
Grant’s mouth opened in dismay. “Yes, President, but—”
“Just do as a I say,” he said gently. He turned his head slightly. “Brother Miller, will you come in here for a moment?”
William Miller was at the doorway in an instant. “Yes, President?”
“William, as you heard, the marshal is downstairs waiting for me. But I have an idea. Will you do exactly as I tell you? If you do, we shall play a little trick on our marshal friend.”
“Of course, President.”
When the door opened, every head swung around. George D. Grant blinked at the brighter light, seeming not at all surprised at the assembly of men. “Excuse me, brethren,” he called. “Please make way.”
Marshal Horne stiffened, watching carefully. He was about to grab Grant’s arm, when a second figure stepped out of the doorway. The militia were alert now, hands on pistols or swords. It was Brigham who came out of the temple. Nathan felt his heart drop. Once before he had watched as their prophet surrendered to the officers of the state. The results had proven to be unbearably tragic.
Then suddenly, Nathan leaned forward, staring. Brigham wore his long cloak tied around his neck and wrapped around his body. The hat that was Brigham’s peculiar trademark was pulled down low over his eyes. But . . . there was something strange . . .
As the two men started for the carriage, Horne leaped forward, peering at Brigham, who had his head half-turned away. Grant climbed up into the carriage. Then Brigham lifted his head to look up at Grant, and Nathan gasped in shock. It wasn’t Brigham Young at all. The clothes were those of the President of the Quorum of the Twelve, but the face was that of William Miller.
The marshal laid a hand on Miller’s shoulder, turning him around. “Mr. Young?” he demanded in a harsh voice.
Miller looked calmly into the man’s eyes, but said nothing. George Grant looked down with some impatience at the substitute Brigham. “Are you ready, sir?”
That was enough for Horne. He clamped a hand on Miller’s shoulder firmly. “Brigham Young, you are my prisoner.” He turned and motioned. The other man not in uniform who had come with the marshal came forward. “Benson,” said Horne, “is this the man we’re after?”
Benson, who had been introduced to the crowd at the doorway as being from Augusta, had evidently been brought along for this very purpose. He stepped forward, peering at William Miller, who stood without flinching. There was momentary uncertainty, but then a quick nod. “Yes, that’s Brigham Young.”
Miller climbed into the carriage, which was surrounded now by the militia. “Marshal, I shall come with you, but I must stop at the Mansion House first for a moment. You may accompany me in the carriage if you’d like.”
Pleased that this had gone so easily, the marshal nodded. “I shall indeed.”
Suddenly Benjamin stepped forward. “I should think there would be some value in President Young’s having someone to accompany him. I would be happy to do so, if invited.”
Miller looked surprised, then pleased. Nathan leaped forward. “Father, no!”
Benjamin smiled. “It will be all right,” he said.
The marshal, noting that Benjamin was older and not very threatening, nodded. “That will be acceptable,” he said.
“Then, Brother Grant,” Miller said comfortably to the carriage driver, “let’s be off to the Mansion House.”
It was after dark when the marshal’s party rode up to the Hamilton House in Carthage, Illinois. They came into town with a large crowd of jeering, yelling citizens lining both sides of the road. That was thanks to Horne’s decision to pause at the outskirts of town, then send his jubilant riders ahead yelling, “We’ve got him! We’ve got him! We’ve got him!”
Benjamin felt a little shudder. This was exactly the kind of greeting Joseph and Hyrum had received when they came to Carthage. And the Hamilton House had been the place the bodies of Joseph and Hyrum were taken after the martyrdom.
William Miller seemed to sense his feelings and laid a hand on his knee. “It will be all right, Brother Steed. Let us have faith.”
On horseback beside them, Marshal Horne gave them a look of disgust. In his mind, faith had nothing to do with this. He swung down. “We shall stay here for the night and have you arraigned in the morning.”
“Whatever you say,” Miller said with equanimity.
Once they were settled comfortably in a corner of the main room of the hotel, across the room from their captors, Benjamin leaned over to William Miller. “How did you do it?” he asked.
“It was President Young’s idea.”
“But at the Mansion House?”
He shrugged. “The Youngs and the Kimballs have some very bright children.”
Benjamin nodded. When they had arrived at the Mansion House, Brigham’s two sons, Joseph A. and Brigham, Jr., were playing outside with some of Heber’s sons and other friends. There had been a momentary look of surprise as the carriage and its military escort drove up, but then instantly the young men had sensed what was happening and played along. They followed the carriage up to the Mansion House, crying and pleading. “Oh, Father,” Brigham, Jr., wailed, “where are they taking you?” “President Young,” some of the others cried, “what is happening?” It had been so convincing, that Benjamin had fought the temptation to look at his companion to make sure it was still William Miller.
“So what shall become of us now?” Benjamin asked.
“We shall be fine. Sooner or later, someone is going to come in who knows Brother Brigham, and then I think we shall have one very embarrassed deputy marshal on our hands.”
It took nearly half an hour before Miller’s prophecy was fulfilled. A steady stream of people came into the hotel, wanting to see the infamous prisoner. They would cluck their tongues, shake their fists, mutter imprecations, then file out again. For a time, Marshal Horne beamed with pleasure; then, tiring of the game, he went to another room to rest. As Benjamin and Miller were eating a meager dinner served by the Hamiltons, another man entered. “Where is Brigham Young?” he said in a loud voice.
Benjamin looked up. “Uh-oh,” he said softly. It was a man by the name of Thatcher. Benjamin recognized him as a member of the Church who had once lived in Nauvoo but had apostatized and moved to Carthage.
“He is over there,” one of the militia said, pointing.
“Where? I don’t see anyone that looks like Brigham.”
The landlord, Artois Hamilton, looked irritated. “There, at the table eating. The fleshy man. That’s Brigham Young.”
Thatcher leaned forward slightly, staring. Miller, by now, had laid down his fork, and looked back at the man with a calm expression. Suddenly, Thatcher gave an incredulous hoot. “That’s not Brigham Young. That’s William Miller. And Benjamin Steed.”
That brought everyone up short. Hamilton, swearing, ran out of the room, and a moment later came back in with the marshal. Horne’s face was bright red. He ran up to William Miller and thrust his face into Miller’s. “Come with me,” he sputtered. Smiling now, Benjamin and William Miller stood and followed him down the hallway to a small room. He slammed the door and spun on them.
He swore bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me your name wasn’t Brigham Young?”
“You never asked me my name,” Miller answered calmly.
“But . . . well, what is your name?”
“William Miller.”
“I thought you were Brigham Young. You swear this is a fact, that you are not him?”
“I do.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he roared. His face was a flaming red now. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t Brigham Young?”
“You didn’t ask me who I was, and I was under no obligation to tell you on my own. I am William Miller. I am not Brigham Young.”
For several moments, the marshal stood there, his mouth working, no words coming out. Then, cursing bitterly, he spun on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Even through the closed door, they heard the great roar of laughter that went up in the dining room. Miller looked at Benjamin and smiled, like a fox that had just eluded the cleverest of the hounds. “I think it could be said that we have done a good night’s work here,” he said. “Don’t you?”
Chapter Notes
Mother Smith’s address to the Saints in the October 1845 conference is found in the official history (see
HC
7:470–73; also Ronald W. Walker, “Lucy Mack Smith Speaks to the Nauvoo Saints,”
BYU Studies
32 [Winter and Spring 1992]: 276–84). By spring, due to her growing age and failing health, she determined that she needed to stay in Nauvoo with her children and grandchildren. She still maintained that she believed Brigham led the people west under direction of the Lord. She lived with her daughter Lucy for some time, and then spent her final years with Emma. She died shortly before her eighty-first birthday on 14 May 1856. (See
Encyclopedia of Mormonism,
s.v. “Smith, Lucy Mack”; also Gracia N. Jones,
Emma’s Glory and Sacrifice: A Testimony
[Hurricane, Utah: Homestead Publishers and Distributors, 1987], pp. 167–71.)
Once the endowment work began, a great urgency seemed to grip the Saints. The records show how quickly the work progressed. Between 10 December and 20 December a total of 561 men and women received the endowment. Plans to cancel ordinance work on Saturday the twentieth so that the clothes could be washed were changed, and instead many sisters spent the night laundering temple clothing. On Friday the nineteenth, Brigham Young called twenty-six elders to help officiate in the temple. (See
HC
7:542–48;
Women of Nauvoo,
p. 152.) The names of those, both men and women, who received their endowments on the first and second days of the ordinance work are listed in the official history of the Church (see
HC
7:542–44).
In his journal entry for 11 December, Brigham mentions the letter from Samuel Brannan which contained the report of the federal government’s opposition to the move of the Saints. However, he states that he read it to the brethren that morning at their eight o’clock meeting. This means he would have had to receive it the previous day—which would have been the very day the endowment work began. (See
HC
7:544.) Brigham’s statement about the bells of hell starting to ring whenever the Saints began to build a temple was made after the Saints arrived in the Salt Lake Valley (see
Journal of Discourses,
26 vols. [London: Latter-day Saints’ Book Depot, 1854–86], 8:355–56).
Later events indicate that there was no truth to the rumors of imminent action by federal troops. The stories seem to have been started by enemies of the Church in hopes of hastening the departure of the Saints. (See
American Moses,
pp. 126–27.)