Zions Promise Volume 2: Will Mercy Rob Justice?

Zions Promise Volume Two: Will Mercy Rob Justice?

By Chris Jefferies

First Copyright 2002 by Chris L. Jefferies

Second Copyright 2005 by Chris L. Jefferies

E-Book copyright 2012 by Chris L. Jefferies

© 2002 by Chris L. Jefferies. All rights reserved.

Published by Jefferies Books

Cover design by Jeanette Andrews

Cover Illustration by Jay Bryant Ward. Used with permission.

Internal artwork used with permission and licensed through vectorstock.com

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Introduction and Volume One Summary

The year 1861 is one of the most turbulent and exciting times of the 19th century. Amidst the cross-currents of an emerging civil war, a rapidly-growing westward expansion, and the planned and organized colonization of the west by Brigham Young and the Latter Day Saints, Volume One of Zion’s Promise the traces the emigration and adventures of a young English Mormon family as they leave England and begin their search for opportunity, prosperity, and the freedom to practice their religion among the Mormon Saints in Utah Territory.

William Jefferies, his new bride Mary Frances, her mother Mary Ould, and Mary’s younger brother James and sister Laura, leave England on the Manchester in April, 1861. Arriving in New York harbor in the midst of Civil War preparations, they travel by train and river boat to the frontier Missouri River town of Florence, now part of Omaha, Nebraska. There, they await the formation of wagon trains sponsored by the Mormon Church to cross the 1000 miles of prairie, desert, and mountains, to Zion, the promised land, in the Salt Lake valley.

In 1860, William, a four-year convert to the Church, is serving as a full-time missionary for the Church in his native England when he concludes he should marry and emigrate to Zion where he can worship without fear of opposition or discrimination. He marries Mary Frances, the daughter of Mary Ould, a Mormon woman in Bristol who had long opened her home to missionaries. William had long nurtured a secret love for Mary Frances, finally discovering she reciprocated his feelings. In April, 1861, they marry amid unusual circumstances despite the opposition of Mary Frances’ tyrannical, non-member father, and prepare to emigrate. When they leave Bristol, the couple is joined by Mother Ould, her son James, and daughter Laura. They travel by train from Bristol to Liverpool to await emigration. Arriving in Liverpool, the new family prepares to depart the bustling seaport. They board the Manchester, an American packet ship configured to carry passengers, and the ship moves to anchor in the Mersey to await departure. Here, Father Ould, discovering his family is fleeing his tyranny, brings police officers to try to find his wife and children. The family narrowly escapes.

Finally setting sail, the Manchester begins a four-week voyage of excitement and adventure. Living in steerage, William and his family experience the monotony of life tween decks, participate in activities organized to prepare them for the wagon journey ahead, endure seasickness, violent and terrifying storms, tragic deaths, and the growing bond of fellowship between them and their fellow Saints. They land in New York, only to be met by hostile US army troops mustering on their way to war.

Clearing immigration through Castle Garden, Ellis Island’s predecessor, the family departs by train with their fellow emigrants on an adventure-filled ten-day journey by primitive rail to Florence, Nebraska Territory. On the journey they encounter and experience the Civil War first hand, narrowly escaping attack by a hostile mob. After a perilous train journey to St. Joseph, the family boards a steamboat for the final three-day trip to Florence.

Florence grows from a small village on the Missouri River a few miles north of the frontier town of Omaha to become a bustling frontier town of four thousand as the Saints converge to prepare for the wagon trip across the plains. Among the first to arrive, William and his family are soon at the center of the planning and preparations required for the arduous and hazard-filled trek westward by wagon train to the Salt Lake Valley.

PROLOGUE

PORTER AND WELDON

September 1845

PORTER

Lieutenant Frank Worrell of the Carthage Greys Militia rode at the head of a small detachment of volunteers along the road that would take them to Carthage, Illinois, about twelve miles further east. On Worrell’s right rode Sergeant John Wills, and on his left, Corporal William Gallaher. Following a short distance behind the three leaders rode five other militia in a small wagon and a light buggy, the wagon carrying the eight men’s muskets. After raiding Mormon farms in the area during the night, the group had spent what remained of the night in Warsaw. They were approaching the Hamilton Crossroads just two miles ahead. This stretch of road ran alongside the Mississippi, and the river added to the hot late-summer morning’s humidity. Perspiring, the men had unbuttoned their tunics, but left them on to ensure being identified clearly as Carthage Greys. Sgt. Wills ruminated about the previous night’s activities.

What d’you think, Frank? With the five we burnt out last night, think we got fifty yet?

Hard to say for sure, the Lieutenant replied. From all reports, I’d say we’re close to it. You’d think the stinkin’ Mormons would get the message by now. I’m sure your in-laws did.

Wills grew somber at the reminder. Yeah. I hope so. Hated to do it, but no way the wife an’ boy will ever give up bein’ Mormon long’s her folks’re here. Damn people should’ve left after we got Joe Smith!

For sure the trial should’ve convinced ’em! Not guilty! laughed Gallaher. And that turncoat, Backenstos! Couldn’t raise a single volunteer to come after us! All three men laughed.

Well . . . I’ll tell you what, continued Worrell after the men rode on a few minutes. If I ever catch the bastard, I’ll do him in, sure!

Illinois, at first, had welcomed the Mormon refugees who had been driven out of Missouri in 1839 after Missouri Governor Wilburn Boggs issued his infamous extermination order, and encouraged them to settle. Finding inexpensive and undesirable marsh land on a bend of the Mississippi in Hancock County, about seventy miles north of Quincy, the resourceful settlers purchased the land, drained its swamps, and under the leadership of their prophet, Joseph Smith, created Nauvoo, a remarkable, cultured city of fifteen thousand on America’s frontier. But the city’s prosperity and the Latter-day Saint’s distinctive, clannish religion were its undoing once again. Fearful of the Church’s growing economic and political influence, and feeling threatened by the four-thousand-strong Nauvoo Legion militia, many prominent state leaders and groups conspired to discredit the Mormon Prophet and destroy Nauvoo.

In 1844, they succeeded. Joseph’s and the Church’s enemies conspired to have him arrested. While he was in jail under the protection of Illinois Governor Ford and the State Militia, the local Carthage Greys militia brutally murdered Joseph and his brother, Hyrum. The Governor subsequently ordered the Nauvoo Legion to disband, confiscated its weapons, and the State Legislature revoked Nauvoo’s charter.

The next year was filled with despair and turmoil for the Saints. Emboldened by the Legion’s disarming, and a not-guilty verdict in the sham-trial of the Carthage Greys leaders accused of the two murders, local anti-Mormon militias began a campaign of terror and destruction among the Church’s outlying settlements. Chief among the militias was a resurgent Carthage Greys Unable to defend themselves, the Saints finally abandoned Nauvoo and emigrated west to Mexican territory under Joseph’s successor, Brigham Young.

But the Church had non-Mormon defenders, chief among them the sheriff of Hancock County, Jacob Backenstos. Horrified at the growing lawlessness and the Saint’s defenselessness, Sheriff Backenstos tried in vain to raise a posse to defend the Mormons. All he succeeded in doing was making the Church’s enemies his own.

Porter Rockwell and his companion, Return Redden, pulled up at a watering hole adjacent to a railroad siding two miles east of the Hamilton Crossroads. Several freight wagons were there ahead, and Porter and Return nodded to the teamsters as they waited their turn at the water. The two were weary after riding through the night to the aid of the Saints who had been burned out. It had been another long, difficult night. Too many of them. Twice they had caught sight of the marauders, but by the time they had stopped to assist the victims, the men were too far gone to be caught. Both Rockwell and Redden hoped fervently they might run across them again. Wouldn’t be difficult to identify the pillagers. They were Carthage Greys.

The murder of his close friend and mentor, Joseph Smith, had transformed Porter. He had tabled his inclination for retribution while the Prophet was alive, not wanting to complicate the Prophet’s already difficult life, but now all constraints were off. The Gentiles be damned! he thought, and his actions matched. A skilled tracker and marksman, Porter had set out to find and punish as many of the Carthage Greys as he possibly could from the list of participants on that terrible day. And he had succeeded. A number of times. If the Greys were frightened of any Mormon, they were frightened of Porter Rockwell.

The teamsters finished and moved their wagons away from the water hole to give Porter and Return room to approach. They knew Rockwell and his reputation, and although none thought they had anything to fear from the man, they gave him all the space he wanted. The two men nudged their horses up to the water, dismounted and allowed the animals to drink deeply. The horses, like their riders, were tired and thirsty.

At the same time just a little distance west, Lieutenant Worrell and his raiders came within sight of the Hamilton Crossroads. Approaching the intersection, they noticed to their left a light carriage coming to the intersection from the direction of Nauvoo. At first they paid little attention. But then, as they drew to within a hundred yards, Wills cried out.

Why, look there! That’s Backenstos’ rig!

The three men reined in their horses, staring intently at the approaching carriage.

I believe you’re right, John. responded Worrell. That damn traitor is just who I want to see. He won’t be a turncoat much longer!

The Lieutenant spurred his horse to a gallop and angled off toward the carriage. Wills and Gallaher followed closely behind. Backenstos, who had taken refuge with friends after being run out of Carthage the night before, saw the raiders about the same time as they saw him. He recognized Worrell, now in hot pursuit. Outnumbered and outgunned, the sheriff whipped his horse to a gallop and veered off to his left to intersect the eastbound road to Carthage, hoping he might find assistance at the water hole just a few miles beyond. Seeing his tactic, Worrell and his companions angled toward Backenstos in pursuit. The sheriff had about a two-hundred-yard lead, and after a few minutes, he disappeared from his pursuers over the crest of a hill. Before reaching the crest themselves, Gallaher’s horse stumbled and threw the rider to the ground. Worrell and Wills sped ahead.

Porter and Return had just finished watering their horses and were tying them loosely to nearby brush when they heard the clatter of Backenstos’ carriage as it topped the ridge about two hundred yards away. The sheriff headed directly for them. Looking up in alarm at the speeding carriage, Porter sensed trouble. He grabbed his Hawken from the saddle holster, then moved away from the brush to get a better view. As the carriage drew closer, Porter recognized the sheriff at the same time the sheriff saw him. The sheriff yelled out as he reigned in his horse in a cloud of dust.

Rockwell! In the name of Hancock County, I deputize you and your friend! Please help me defend against that mob! he said, motioning in the direction from which he had come.

Just then, Worrell and Wills topped the hill, Worrell in the lead. Porter knew Worrell well. He was the leading defendant in the Joseph’s murder trial, and any doubt that he had the wrong man was dispelled at the sight of Carthage Greys tunics streaming in the wind. Porter raised his rifle as the rider drew closer. Seeing the sheriff had help, Worrell slowed his horse. Sheriff Backenstos shouted loudly at the approaching horseman.

Go back! Go back peaceably!

In response, Worrell drew his pistol. Just as he raised it, Porter fired. The shot hit Worrell squarely in the upper abdomen, hurling him backward from the saddle. He landed in a lifeless heap several yards behind his horse. Seeing his lieutenant fall, Wills turned sharply and galloped back to the trailing militia now topping the hill. In stunned disbelief, all the Greys now slowly rode toward Worrell. While Porter, Return, and the sheriff continued to train their guns on the approaching party, the Greys picked up their leader and deposited him in the wagon carrying their muskets. Glancing anxiously toward the three, the militia turned and rode back the way they had come.

Aimed for his belt buckle, said Porter as he slid his Hawken back into the saddle holster. Couldn’t miss.

WELDON

Dick Weldon, his sixteen-year-old son Isaac, and two sidekicks sat on the rail fence enclosing Dabney Lipscomb’s livery stable corral and watched the last of a heavy-freight wagon train bound for Santa Fe pull out onto the deeply worn road. The four were dressed in rough, soiled clothing, and the faces of the older men showed several weeks of growth. Weldon had grown soft and florid in his mid-thirties, overweight despite spending most months of the year along the West’s commercial and emigration roads. His face and features were puffy and lined with myriad small blood vessels that identify a serious alcoholic. His son Isaac, on the other hand, was thin as a rail and tall for a lad of sixteen. The boy had a nervous energy that made it difficult for him to sit still, and his right eye twitched whenever he grew excited.

It was mid-morning of the third day Weldon and his band had been there, watching and waiting. Weldon had been particularly interested in the three lighter wagons left in the small settlement. They belonged to a trio of families headed for California through Santa Fe, and he learned they refused to travel with the coarse teamsters, instead remaining here in New Santa Fe, as this small settlement on the Missouri side of the Indian territory border was called, hoping to join an emigrant company for the long trip west.

The settlement was sparse: a blacksmith and livery shop, saloon, a trading post offering few domestic and trail goods at highly inflated prices, and a handful of rude log cabins. New Santa Fe had developed as a last chance stop, two days out of Independence. The road to Santa Fe from here entered Indian Territory, a treeless, gently rolling expanse of prairie, monotonous in its seemingly unbroken expanse, with settlements few and far between. This suited Weldon fine. Indeed, he rather enjoyed the saloon, particularly cheating the arrogant teamsters too drunk to notice he was dealing from a stacked deck.

Pa! When can I get to her, huh? Pa, I got to have her. I want her so bad I can’t sleep at night! He was fairly bouncing on the rail, his right eye twitching.

Damn it, boy! Weldon replied, cuffing him severely over the head. I tol’ you and I tol’ you a hunnert times! Keep your mouth shut! Want to scare ’em off? I swear, boy, you’re as randy as your ma!

The other two men guffawed gleefully, one going into coughing spasms as he choked on part of his tobacco chew. Chastened, Isaac drew quiet and sullen. The boy was referring to a thin, dark-complected young woman in her late teens who seemed to belong to one of the three waiting families, but Weldon had already discarded her as a candidate, concluding she was too frail and thin to bring much from the Apaches. None of the wives looked promising, either. One was too old, another too fat, and the third looked just plain mean. Wouldn’t want her on a long trip! Might just have to reconsider the young one, he thought, especially if nothing better comes along soon. Getting late in the season. Want to be south of Santa Fe and close to Mexico before winter sets in. Too cold up here! But, we gotta have somethin’ to bargain with the redskins!

As he had watched the three families, Weldon finally concluded they had little of value except maybe some cash money. But that was risky. Most men would fight harder to protect cash than their women! That’d especially be true with the girl’s family, he thought. She sure didn’t seem to get on with her ma, if that was who the mean woman was, and only tolerably better with her pa. In fact, he treats her pretty poorly during the day. But at night, they get along real well, Weldon thought. Especially around midnight. I bet he’s pokin’ her, he thought.

The boy may have somethin,’ boss, said one of the other two men, interrupting Weldon’s reverie. Maybe it’s time we do somethin’ stead of jes’ sittin’ here. We sure ain’t getting no younger! The other man laughed.

Let’s wait one more day. Can’t hurt, Weldon replied.

The next day, one more family heading for Santa Fe arrived and the four families agreed to travel together. The new family had a passel of kids along, and looked as poor as the other three. But, Weldon noted the father was wearing a thick money belt. Weldon’s experienced eye picked that up after studying the man for just a short while. Things are lookin’ up, he thought!

At first light the short wagon train departed. Weldon and his two cohorts were sleeping off a late night drunk, but Isaac, his constitution more resilient, watched them go. He had a particular interest. That girl sure is looking nice! Damn! he thought. Been a long time since I had a woman!

Weldon and the others awoke midday, hung over and irritable. Isaac was anxious.

Pa, we gotta get goin’. We gotta get goin’! They’re gettin’ a fur piece on us!

Weldon looked at his son disdainfully and poured another cup of hot, black coffee, drinking deeply. We’ll be on our way soon enough. Get busy packin’ up and loadin’ the mule. And for God sake, settle down! Lord, you tire me out sometimes! He threw the dregs of his cup at Isaac and stormed away to relieve himself.

Late afternoon came before the four were able to get things together and be on their way. The outlaws strung out in single-file as they descended the slight slope leading away from the settlement onto the plains, the pack mule at the rear. They traveled light, carrying just enough to keep going between scores. Weldon had learned well; live off the land. That is, live off their victims. By sunset the wind had shifted to the north, bringing in the hint of a chill, a reminder that winter was not far away, and bowing the long prairie grass before them in undulating waves. The setting sun illuminated the western skies in a beautiful display of colors, but the four travelers paid no heed. They’d seen sunsets and sunrises a plenty. Just part of the nature of things.

Weldon planned to travel through nightfall until they came upon the four-wagon campsite. There were only a few places out this way suitable for camping, and after seven years working the trails, Weldon knew them all. Things had grown mighty dull for Weldon after he and his fellow hoodlums ran off the Mormons in ’39, and using the nefarious skills he learned by victimizing Mormons to prey upon travelers came easily to him.

Making better time on horseback than the cattle-pulled wagons, the four renegades came upon the camp just after midnight. Not good to attack at night, though, thought Weldon. Needed to know where everybody was. That way, no unwelcome surprises. He’d made that mistake once too often, and it had cost the life of one of his best shooters! No. They’d wait until first light when the camp was stirring.

Light was just showing on the eastern horizon when the four crept slowly and silently through the thick grass toward the camp, spreading out around the south side along the creek to be downwind of the animals. The four wagons were arranged in a loose square with tents and lean-to’s pitched inside. The cattle were tied beyond the camp on the west side, and two horses stood hobbled in the square. The camp was just arousing. Sparks rose as cooks stirred the embers of campfires and added fresh wood. As day broke, the smell of coffee wafted toward the marauders. Damn, that coffee smelled good! So far, everything was working out perfectly! The tall, windblown grass had disguised their movement and they were able to approach within twenty yards, close enough for now. They’d wait until everyone was eating, then attack on signal.

Just then, a figure got up from before one of the campfires, passed between the wagons, and began strolling in their direction. It was a woman, most likely going to relieve herself. Damn! If she discovers us, we’ll lose the surprise for sure, thought Weldon. Now, if everyone just lays still . . . No such luck! The woman stumbled over Isaac, uttering a slight cry. Isaac, himself surprised, jumped up, knocking the woman down. She screamed. The camp was alerted. In a flurry of activity, the men reached for their guns and the women and children dove behind whatever cover they could find.

Who’s there! a man called out from the wagons. Stand up, or we’ll shoot!

Weldon crouched low and ran over to Isaac, now struggling with the woman. Reaching the two, he struck the woman with a hard blow to the side of the head, momentarily stunning her.

Isaac, you damn fool! Couldn’t you jes’ lay quiet like I taught you? he whispered.

But Pa! Isaac whispered back loudly. She stumbled over me! And she’s that little gal! The one I want!

Come on. Drag her back to the creek and let’s see what we can do, now you spoilt the surprise. The four men and the woman, half walking and half dragged, converged on the creek, taking cover behind its bank where Isaac struggled to hold the woman down and keep her from screaming. The man in the camp yelled out again.

Identify yourself! Identify yourself, I say, or we’ll shoot! To make his point, the man squeezed off a blast from his shotgun. The four flattened on the creek bank as the shot passed overhead. Weldon spoke up.

Hold your fire, damn it! We mean no harm! We smelt your coffee and hoped you’d give us some!

Then why’d you come skulking up on us? he replied. Weldon paused, then called back.

Why, we’s afraid you’d do just like you done!

The man grew silent. Isaac now had an arm-lock around the woman’s throat and held a hand over her mouth. Ignoring him, Weldon conferred with his other two accomplices.

Don’t think he’s buyin’ it, boss. Maybe we jes’ ought to rush ’em!

No! Not worth it. They’re scared. Likely’ll shoot at anythin’ that moves. We got the woman. He looked over at her. She stopped struggling. Let’s do a little horse tradin’.

Weldon called out. No sense bein’ difficult. Let’s make a trade. We got your woman here. We’ll give her back for a hunnert dollars. What’d ya say?

A few minutes passed as the camp members scurried around. Weldon could hear the mean woman, the one he took as the girl’s mother, arguing angrily with her husband. It grew quiet. Then the man called out again.

Sarah! You out there? Weldon prodded the woman to speak up. She took a deep breath as Isaac removed his hand.

Yes. I’m here! They got me! Weldon spoke right after.

See? Like I tol’ you. No harm come to her long’s you give us the money.

Another pause. Then a volley of gunfire erupted from the wagons. The fugitives fell flat again, covering their heads. Soon it stopped.

Now why’d you go and do that, for God’s sake! cried out Weldon. Want to get your girl killed? And us too?

Don’t care about the girl, was the response. She ain’t nothin’ to us. Just a stray we picked up. You take her. Git on your way. We give you three minutes afore we get serious about shootin’!

Well, I’ll be damned! said Weldon. Who’d a thought it!

Whatever else these farmers had, thought Weldon, they had guns. More than he wanted to face. Time to cut losses and get out. He issued instructions quickly to the others, then replied.

You win. We’re goin’. Jes’ don’t shoot again!

Not trusting the travelers, the four crept downstream, dragging the hapless girl with them. Reaching their tethered horses, they mounted up and headed due south at a gallop, the woman held securely from behind by Isaac.

By noon, the outlaws figured they’d have spotted anyone on their trail if they were being pursued. They stopped to rest in a grove of cottonwoods growing in a long, shallow hollow on the south slopes of gently rolling hills several miles south of the road. A narrow creek flowed from a spring, continuing about a quarter mile down the hollow through the trees before disappearing in the sandy soil beyond. This was a place away from the beaten track where Weldon came when