The Bennetts were living not a great distance from us. Sam, as the
younger brother was called, had married a young lady from Detroit, a
Miss Sullivan. Thomas now boarded at his brother's home, and was still
very sad over the loss of his wife and children. I had been visiting a
week with Mrs. Bennett and returned home in the morning. In the
afternoon a message came to our house saying that Thomas Bennett was
dead. The Mormons had shot him. It was hard to believe, yet it was true.
The Gentiles were very much excited and sorrowful, too, as Bennett had
been a favorite with us all. Could it be possible they had killed our
friend and neighbor?
My three brothers were dressed in their Sunday suits and walked to the
harbor, grandpa going with them, fearing something might happen to the
boys. Bennett had always been very fond of my brothers and they loved
him. Now, they must see him buried. It was long after dark before they
reached the harbor. A Mormon family, who had some boys about their age,
kept them all night. The next morning they went to where the body was.
It had been put in a blacksmith's shop. Dr. McCulloch opened the body to
see which of the seven bullets had proved fatal. One had pierced the
heart. The body was put in a plain pine coffin and buried without prayer
or ceremony of any kind. The grave was near the water in a little grove
of cedar trees where the sound of the waves never ceased their solemn
murmurings. When my brothers visited the grave soon after it was piled
high with great rocks, meaning that every Gentile would be served the
same unless they obeyed the king's commands.