The house in which the Smiths lived was small. Susannah crossed a
field-path, led by a light in their window. In the living room a truckle
bed had already been made up. By the fire Joseph and Emma were both
occupied with two sick children. These children, twins of about a year,
had been taken out of pity at their mother's death, and Susannah was
told as she entered that they had been attacked by measles.
Susannah found that the fact that she had been to the meeting had not
irritated the Smiths, although Mrs. Rigdon had called to make the most
of the story. Emma, absorbed in manifold cares for the children, was
only solicitous on Susannah's account lest a night's rest in that house
should be impossible. Smith, pacing with a child in his arms, seemed to
be head and shoulders above the level whose surface could be ruffled by
life's minor affairs. With the eye of his inner mind he was gazing
either at some lofty scheme of his own imagining, or at heaven or at
vacancy. All of him that was looking at the smaller beings about him was
composed and kind.
One of the twins, less ill than the other, had fallen asleep in Emma's
arms. The other was wailing pitifully upon the prophet's breast.
"Do you and Mrs. Halsey go in and lie down with that young un, Emmar,
and rest now for a bit while ye can."
"I can't leave ye, Joseph, with the child setting out to cry all night
like that."
But he had his way. Long after they had lain down in the inner room
Susannah heard him rocking the wailing babe, or trying to feed it, or
pacing the floor. Emma, worn out, slept beside her. Upstairs the owners
of the house, an old couple named Johnson, and Emma's own child, were at
rest.
Susannah lay rigidly still in the small portion of the bed which fell to
her share. Her mind was up, wandering through waste places, seeking rest
in vain. The wail of the child in the next room at last had ceased. The
prophet had lain down with it on the truckle bed. Long after midnight
Susannah began to hear a low sound as of creeping footsteps in the
field. Some people were passing very near, surely they would go past in
a moment? She heard them brushing against the outer wall, and gleams of
a light carried fell upon the window.
In a minute more the outer door of the house was broken open. Emma woke
with a cry; instinct, even in sleep, made her spring toward the door
that separated her from her husband.
The two women stood in the inner doorway, but the coarse arm of a masked
man was already stretched across it, an impassable barrier. The prophet
lay on the child's bed, so heavy with sleep tardily sought that he did
not awake until four men had laid hold of him. All the light upon the
scene came from a smoking torch which one of the housebreakers held.
Some twenty men might have been there inside the room and out. The women
could barely see that Smith was borne out in the midst of the band. He
struggled fiercely when aroused, but was overpowered by numbers.
The owners of the house came down from above, huddling together and
holding Emma, who would have thrown herself in the midst of the mob.
Susannah had not undressed. She threw her cloak over her head and ran
out, determined to go to the village and demand help in the name of law
and a common humanity. She was in a mood to be reckless in aiding the
cause she had espoused.
By the glow of the torch which the felons held she saw the group close
about the one struggling man as they carried him away. She fled in a
different direction.
She had gone perhaps sixty rods in the darkness out of sight of Smith
and his tormentors when she was stopped by three men and her name and
purpose demanded. When she declared it in breathless voice they laughed
aloud. In the darkness she was deprived of that weapon, her beauty, by
which she habitually, although unconsciously, held men in awe.
"Now, see here, sister, you jest sit quietly on the fence here, and see
which of them's going to get the best of it. Your man's a prophet, you
know; let him call out his miracles now, and give us a good show of them
for once. He's jest got a few ordinary men to deal with; if he and his
miracles can't git the best of them he ain't no prophet. Here's a
flattish log now on top. Git up and sit on the fence, sister."
While she struggled in custody another group of dark figures came
suddenly at a swinging trot round the dark outline of one of the nearer
houses. They brought with them the same kind of lurid torch and a
smoking kettle or cauldron carried between two. The foremost among them
were also carrying the body of a man, whether dead or alive she could
not see. When he was thrown upon the ground he moved and spoke. It was
Rigdon's voice. She perceived that he was helpless with terror. The
prophet had certainly struggled more lustily.
"Now you jest keep still, sister," said the loudest of her three
companions. "Kill him? not if ye don't make a mess of it by interferin'.
It's only boilin' tar they've got in the pot."
Susannah covered her face with her hands; then, too frightened to
abstract her mind, she gazed again, as if her watchfulness might hinder
some outrage. The group was not near enough, the light was too
uncertain, for her to see clearly. The shadows of the men were cast
about upon field and wall as if horrible goblins surrounded and
overshadowed the more material goblins who were at work. They were
taking Rigdon's clothes from him. Their language did not come to her
clearly, but it was of the vilest sort, and she heard enough to make her
heart shiver and sicken. They held over him the constant threat that if
he resisted they would kill him outright. If Smith, too, were exposed to
such treatment she did not believe that he would submit, and perhaps he
was now being done to death not far off.
When they began to beat Rigdon with rods and his screams rang out,
Susannah could endure no longer. She broke madly away from her keepers,
running back along the road towards Emma's house. They essayed to
follow; then with a laugh and a shrug let her go, calling to her to run
quick and see if the prophet had fetched down angels to protect him.
Susannah ran a long way, then, breathless and exhausted, found that she
had missed a turning and gone much too far. Afraid lest she should lose
herself by mistaking even the main direction in which she wanted to go,
and that while out of reach of any respectable house she might again be
assailed by members of the mob, she came back, walking with more
caution. She had no hope now of being the means of bringing help. She
had come farther from the village instead of nearing it, and what few
neighbours there were, having failed to interfere, were evidently
inimical.
When she found the right turning she again heard the shouts of some
assaulting party, and, creeping within the shadow of trees, she waited.
At length they passed her, straggling along the road, shouting and
singing, carrying with them some garments which, in rough horse-play,
they were tearing into fragments. When the last had turned his back to
where she stood she crept out, running again like a hunted thing,
fearing what she might find as the result of their work. To increase her
distress the thought came that it was more than possible that like work
had been going on at Kirtland that night. Tears of unutterable
indignation and pitiful love came to her eyes at the thought that Angel,
too, might be suffering this shameful treatment. Across some acres of
open ground she saw the Smiths' house, doors and windows lit by candles.
Thither she was hastening when, in the black space of the nearer field,
she almost fell upon a whitish form, grotesque and horrible, which was
rising from the ground.
"Who is it?" asked Joseph Smith.
He stood up now, but not steadily; his voice was weak, as if he had
been stunned, and his utterance indistinct because his mouth had
apparently received some injury. She thought of nothing now but that he
was Angel's master, and that Angel might be in like plight.
"What have they done? What is the matter?" she whispered tenderly, tears
in her voice.
"Is it you?" he asked curiously. He said nothing for a minute and then,
"They've covered me with the tar and emptied a feather-bed on me. If
ye'd have the goodness to tell Brother Johnson to come out to me, Mrs.
Halsey--"
"They have hurt you other ways," she said tremulously, "you are
bruised."
"A man don't like to own up to having been flogged, ye see; but Peter
and Paul and all of _them_ had to stand it in their time, so I don't
know why a fellow like me need be shamefaced over it. But if you'd be
good enough, Mrs. Halsey, to go and tell Emmar that I ain't much hurt,
and send Brother Johnson out with some clothes or a blanket--"
He stopped without adding that he would feel obliged. As she went she
heard him say with another sort of unsteadiness in his tone, "It's real
kind of you to care for me that much."
In her excitement she did not know that she was weeping bitterly until
she found herself surrounded by other shuddering and weeping women in
Emma's room; for other of the converts in Hiram, hearing of the violence
abroad, had crept to this house for mutual safety and aid.
It is the low, small details of physical discomfort that make the
bitterest part of the bread of sorrow. Now and afterwards, through all
the persecutions in which she shared, Susannah often felt this. If she
could have stood off and looked at the main issues of the battle she
might have felt, even on the mere earthly plane, exaltation. Yet one
truth her experience confirmed--that no human being who in his time and
way has been hunted as the offscouring of the world--no, not the
noblest--has ever had his martyrdom presented in a form that seemed to
him majestic. It is only those who bear persecution, not in its reality
but in imagination, who can conceive of it thus.
All night the women were crowded together in the small inner room with
the two sick babes, while Emma and two of the brethren performed the
painful operation of taking the tar from Smith's lacerated skin. The
prophet bore himself well. Now and then, through the thin partition the
watchers heard an involuntary groan, but he was firm in his
determination to be clean of the pitch, and to preach as he had
appointed the next day.
At dawn Susannah went to get her horse at Rigdon's house. The animal was
safe. When she had saddled it she inquired after the welfare of those
within the house. Rigdon was raving in delirium. He had, it seemed, been
dragged for some distance by his heels, his head trailing over stony
ground. They had not been able to remove the tar and feathers. He lay
upon a small bed in horrible condition. His wife, with swollen eyes and
pallid face, was sitting helpless upon the foot of the bed, worn out
with vain efforts to soothe him. His mother, a thin and dark old woman,
vibrating with anathemas against his tormentors, led Susannah in and out
of the room silently, as though to say, "This is the work of those whose
virtue you extolled."
The village, the low rolling hills about it, lay still in the glimmer of
dawn. The men of violence were sleeping as soundly, it seemed, as
innocence may sleep. The famous preacher, and all those souls that he
had thrilled through and through for good and evil, were now wrapped in
silence. Susannah rode fast, guiding her horse on the grass by the
roadside lest the sound of his hoofs should arouse some vicious mind to
renewed wrath. Her imagination, possessed by the scenes of the past
night, presented to her lively fear for Halsey's safety. She gave her
horse no peace; she thought nothing of her own fatigue until she had
reached the Chagrin valley, and the walls of the Mormon temple which was
being reared upon Kirtland Bluff were seen glistening in the sunlight,
with the familiar outline of the wooden town surrounded by gray wreaths
of the leafless nut woods. It was high day, and the people were
gathering for morning service when Susannah rode her jaded horse through
the street of the lower village and up the hill of the Bluff.
As she lifted the latch of her own door Angel was about to come out to
preach. His face was very white and sad. Susannah's glad relief,
fatigue, and excitement found vent in tears.
"You are safe!" she cried. "Oh, my dear, I will never leave you again
while danger is near--never, never again!"
In the evening of that day further news came from Hiram. The prophet had
preached long and gloriously in the open air. New converts had been
made, and he himself, scarified and bruised as he was, had gone down
into the icy river and baptized them in sight of all. The mob had
shrieked and jeered, but had been withheld by God, as the messenger
said, from further violence.
Susannah made no further effort to find new life in the old doctrines.
All her sentiments of justice and mercy combined to make her espouse her
husband's cause with renewed ardour.