A Lively Stone

By Ferron A. Olson

It is October of 1838 as a volunteer cavalry of Mormons gather in the woods. Ill-prepared for battle, they organize as best they can to face hundreds of mobbers who, with the governor’s support, have besieged the people of DeWitt, Missouri. With supplies running low, members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are starving. But there is a bright light amid the darkness of despair: the cavalry’s distinguished leader, Seymour Brunson. As Major Brunson leads his nervous soldiers into battle with the mobbers, he reassures them that God is on their side. Buoyed by courage and determination, the soldiers defend the DeWitt Saints—until they are all betrayed. But all is not lost as Brunson evades his captors and bravely helps the Saints find safety in Illinois. A Lively Stone is an engaging story of action, heroism, and love based on true events that chronicle the life of an important leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Aug 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483412092

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OLSON

Copyright © 2014 Olson Productions LLC.

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ISBN: 978-1-4834-1210-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1211-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1209-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908389

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 06/20/2014

CONTENTS

Chapter 1    Siege Of Dewitt

Chapter 2    Daviess County

Chapter 3    Errands Of Mercy

Chapter 4    Betrayal

Chapter 5    Harriet

Chapter 6    Escape

Chapter 7    Exodus

Chapter 8    Quincy

Chapter 9    Nauvoo

Chapter 10    Crown Of Life

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

Note Notes : Historical and by Chapters

Colonel Seymour Brunson… has always been a lively stone in the building of God and was much respected by his friends and acquaintances. He died in the triumph of faith, and in his dying moments bore testimony to the Gospel that he had embraced.

—Joseph Smith, History of the Church 4:179

To my wife, Donna Lee,

and our children, Kandace, Randall, Paul, Jeffery, and Richard

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CHAPTER 1

SIEGE OF DEWITT

In the woods of northern Missouri, forty-one horsemen formed a loose circle around their leader. A volunteer company of Mormon cavalry, they stood or squatted there, horses in check to keep them quiet. In a few minutes they would make a charge against the Missourians. It was Friday evening, the fifth day of October 1838.

The Mormons in one respect didn’t look like cavalrymen; they looked like farmers: loose pantaloons, blouses, and well-worn felt hats. In another respect most of them did look like cavalrymen with their sabers, loaded two single-shot pistols, and loaded single-shot carbines. With the exception of their leader, none had faced combat before. Ill prepared for it, even the well-armed men who had undergone cavalry drills did not expect the day would arrive when they would fight someone. They didn’t want to kill or harm anyone, and yet in a few minutes that could happen. Of course, some of them could also be injured or killed. All were acutely aware of both possibilities.

They faced about four hundred Missouri mobbers who had placed a small group of Mormon Saints under siege at the small town of DeWitt. The mobbers planned to drive the Saints out and had said driving them about fifty miles west to Caldwell County would satisfy their demands. Most of the Saints at DeWitt were happy to go there, their planned destination. They had recently come up the broad Mississippi by boat and disembarked at the river port at DeWitt. Until their arrival, they had been oblivious of a darksome change that had recently taken place in the hearts of many settlers in northern Missouri. The non-Mormon settlers had a new concern about the Mormon problem: the rapidly increasing number of recent arrivals spilling over beyond Caldwell County, the county formed for Mormons. The new arrivals, caught in a confrontation between the mobbers and their fellow Saints who had purchased property in DeWitt, now paid a terrible price: they faced starvation at the hands of the Missourians. The Mormon property owners at DeWitt saw the siege as a more fundamental issue. Would the Missourians continually drive them from their homes? The newcomers supported their fellow Saints, even as they now huddled in their tents and wagons behind the barricade they had built to protect themselves.

Rescue by fellow Saints was the only hope the besieged of DeWitt clung to, and on this day they had reason for optimism. Word of their plight had reached the Saints at Far West, Missouri, the Mormons’ central city, and a scout had slipped through enemy lines with word that a company of cavalry would soon charge through those lines to help them. The scout had given this information to John Murdock, a Mormon resident and current leader at DeWitt.

The charge will take place just before sunset, the scout said. Captain Brunson wants the sun in the eyes of the mobbers when he and his men make the charge.

Ah—good. Seymour’s company. That is excellent. He is a good man, and his company is trained.

It’s not his regular militia company. Most are, but all of them are coming as volunteers. Captain Brunson will fire a pistol shot and immediately another shot will follow to initiate the charge.

But with all the shooting?

I know. We’ll have to be alert—all along the barricade. We must watch for the charge.

Yes, I’ll spread the word so we can immediately tear down part of the barricade for them—get it down enough so they can get in.

With that cavalry charge just about to begin, Captain Seymour Brunson, now two months shy of forty, stood surrounded by his troopers to give them last-minute instructions and encouragement. As he surveyed his men, his great love for them welled up, and he realized his deepest fear— that he might not return them all to their wives, mothers, and, for some, their children. Most were very young, a few only seventeen, and some of them had not received training. None of them had experience in hand-to-hand combat as Captain Brunson had. He could see the fear in their eyes, the tense way they clenched their jaws and lips so that whiteness showed around them. The crack of rifle fire not far away didn’t help ease those fears. Some twisted and re-twisted their horses’ reins in their hands, and a few squatted on their heels to disguise their trembling. Seymour could relate to that.

A prayer flashed through his mind that these men would never face what he had faced in the War of 1812, as he helped defend his beloved country. He remembered his first battle at Sackett’s Harbor on the eastern end of Lake Superior. On that day in May 1813, he, as a fourteen-year-old artilleryman, along with his father and sixteen-year-old brother, Lemuel, helped achieve victory over the British. He recalled the death of his father from wounds he had received. There were later battles in which he and Lemuel fought in Canada: the hard-fought Battle of Lundy’s Lane in July 1814 and the one at Fort Erie a month later, the battle where Lemuel was wounded and Seymour himself faced hand-to-hand combat.

He shuddered at those memories and then quickly swept away those ugly, brutal scenes of carnage from his thoughts, scenes he had tried so hard to forget. Now, not as a follower, but as their leader, he again faced battle. He would now lead his fellow Saints in the first battle of what the citizens of Missouri would later call the Mormon War.

All eyes of the forty-one men focused on their captain, and those eyes showed the tremendous faith they had in him. Even those standing had to look up to six feet four inches of a lean muscular body, a truly commanding presence even though not in his captain’s uniform. Seymour held a commission, signed by Governor Lilburn W. Boggs, as captain of a company in the fifty-ninth regiment of the second brigade of the third division of the Missouri militia—simply called the second company of cavalry in the Mormon Regiment.

Captain Brunson removed his hat to make a gesture and revealed a full head of well-groomed straight brown hair. His clean-shaven face was bronzed but of light complexion, and he was lean in appearance with high cheekbones and a straight nose, which augmented his presence. His eyes, though, those eyes the color of the clear blue sky, immediately drew attention to him. When those eyes centered on a person, they seemed to probe the depths of his soul.

When Captain Brunson was in full uniform at a party, one couldn’t help but give him a second look. He was a handsome man; some would even describe him as dashing. In a French court he could have been a lady’s man, but Seymour Brunson would never have considered himself so, nor was he even a truly military man. A high priest in the Church of Jesus Christ, he had been a devout missionary for the Church not many months earlier. He had figured prominently in affairs of the Church at Far West, even drawing up the charges that led to the excommunication of Joseph Smith’s former stalwart, Oliver Cowdery. He was a farmer, or cattleman. He was also the husband of thirty-six-year-old Harriet Gould Brunson, with four sons and another child on the way. He dearly loved his wife and children.

Seymour surveyed his good men. As he spoke softly in his well-modulated voice, his Vermont origins showed in his accent. Brethren, he said, pointing to a rather steep hill just east of them, our fellow Saints are behind the barricade at the top of that hill—Mormon Hill as the locals call it. They are isolated there from the Missouri settlers, so the mobbers have been able to surround them, and their siege has been very effective. Our purpose is to break through the Missourians’ battle line and help defend our dear Saints against our enemy.

He paused then and faced them to see if anyone had questions. Seeing none, he continued. We are very fortunate. Our scouts have found that the Missourians between the barricade and us are not alert. They have imbibed considerably and seem to not be apprehensive about an attack from outside—feeling safe in their large numbers, I suppose. Surprise is in our favor, and fortunately, the clouds have cleared away so we’ll have the setting sun on our backs and in their eyes.

The men showed some relief. He again turned and pointed up toward the hill and the barricade. Don’t worry about the barricade. It will soon be torn down sufficiently for us to leap over once we start the charge. He then turned back toward his men. We will ride our horses as quietly as possible through the woods. Follow closely behind me.

Seymour then told them that when he reached the enemy line he would signal their charge by firing one of his pistols, and the lieutenant would immediately fire his. That is the signal for us to charge and for an opening to be made in the barricade, he said. Fan out as we charge through their line so you are not waiting for any of our men ahead of you. The instant you hear that signal you give spurs to your horses. Speed and surprise—remember. Get through their line before they have a chance to react. Those of you with two pistols, as you charge them, fire one shot over their heads but close enough to scare them and drive them down for cover. Thereafter, shoot sparingly. You’ll have no chance to reload before we get inside the barricade. Is that clear?

They nodded their heads, showing that they understood. Then he added, Crouch down over your horses’ necks, especially after we’ve broken through their line. Present them as small a target as possible. He said this mainly for the few volunteers. His regular militia already knew it. Still, a last-minute reminder to the well-trained but frightened men seemed appropriate. He paused then, his eyes searching for theirs before continuing.

Remember it isn’t our purpose to kill or injure them. However, again he studied them, if one of them gets you or one of our men in his sights, don’t hesitate to shoot him. This is war. Never forget that. It may be your life, or theirs.

The words your life, or theirs reverberated in his mind, and, seeing the fear and apprehension of his men, his mind once again went back twenty-five years, not to his own fears as a private, but to the courage his officers had shown then, and how that had inspired him. He remembered the great leadership of his battery commander, Captain Thornton, in the Battle of Sackett’s Harbor, and how kind Captain Thornton had been to the two Brunson brothers after their father died. Then he thought of the bravery and leadership of his lieutenant in the fighting in Canada in 1814. Now he had to be to these fearful young men what those officers had been to him such a long time ago.

Men, there’s no dishonor in being afraid. We face a fearsome task, but used well, fear can be an advantage. He paused to let that sink into their minds. You will all perform admirably and, in the future, will look back on this day with well-deserved pride. Besides, we have God on our side. Let’s invoke his blessing.

Following the example of their leader, the men all dropped to their knees, and Seymour offered a short but fervent prayer. They arose with courage and determination.

After they mounted their horses, he had them check their weapons to make sure they had primer caps placed on tightly, and for those with flintlocks, powder in the flash pans. Have all of your weapons uncocked, he said. You can cock them quickly when needed. Then, following the well-understood motion of their leader’s hand, they moved forward, toward the enemy.

They picked their way through the woods for a few hundred yards. There, Seymour found a group of Missourians sitting around a small campfire. They jumped up like scared rabbits on seeing him with other armed men close behind. Seymour’s shot rang out, followed immediately by another. The company charged. Simultaneously, one of John Murdock’s men behind the barricade recognized the signal and, in a flurry of action, that part of the barricade came down.

Seymour rode his big black mare forward at full speed, holstered his spent pistol, and quickly drew out his other one. He then fired a shot right in the middle of the surprised group of men. Holstering his pistol, he drew out his saber just as he reached them and whipped the blade down as if to cut them to pieces, yelling as loudly as he could, Scatter for your lives, savages! Scatter, you predators of innocent people!

Scatter they did. With cries of terror, the cowards dove for cover under trees and bushes, completely forgetting their weapons. Others of Seymour’s company followed their leader. Those of the regular militia had charged in practice many times.

The setting sun flashed off the shiny saber blades, and the Missourians thought for a few moments that hundreds of Mormons had attacked them as they cowered down in fear, their alcohol-laden minds preventing them from clear thinking. As a result, not a single shot rang from a Missourian’s weapon during the charge.

Once Seymour’s troopers cleared the enemy lines, however, a few of the more alert Missourians quickly reacted. The danger to them had passed. Mormon cavalrymen were racing their horses away from them, through the woods, and toward the barricade. The woods gave much cover, but the Missourians still fired at the Mormons as they rode their lunging horses up the hill. Once the men rode through the barricade, it closed behind them, and the frustrated Missourians could hear the cheers and excited voices of the beleaguered Saints.

Seymour’s big black mare abruptly stopped as he reined her in and swung around to survey his troopers. Forty, forty-one, he counted. He breathed a sigh of relief and quietly exclaimed, Thank you, Lord. He then rode through his exuberant troopers to see how they fared and overheard some excited comments.

Look at the rear brim of my hat, one man exclaimed to his friend. Then, sticking his finger through a hole, he said, Look at this, shot right through it. I was crouched so low it went through the brim instead of my head! And you know what? I heard it—sure was scared right then.

Hey, another trooper exclaimed, look at this. A hole through the side of my blouse.

His fellow trooper responded with, Did the bullet nick you at all—any blood?

Not a drop, he replied.

Seymour’s face showed relief as he realized that the Missourians had done no more to his men than put bullet holes through hat brims, blouses, trousers, and equipment.

With concerns for his men past, Seymour next considered the men’s horses, realizing that all forty-two horses in the company were on their feet. But were some wounded? Dismount, men, and look to your horses. Look for wounds—even slight ones. Then turning to his lieutenant, he said, It appears no horses are seriously wounded, but surely some got hit. Be sure and doctor them. Report back to me. I see Brother Murdock. I’ll find out where he wants to place our men.

The lieutenant found that several horses were nicked, but none seriously, and the wounds were easily treated.

Back at the Missouri siege line, the local mob leader, who had just let the Mormons through, heard a horse charging through the trees toward him. He trembled slightly, knowing that the rider would be Doctor Austin, the leader of the entire Missouri mob at DeWitt. Austin swung out of the saddle and confronted the officer, yelling, What happened? I heard lots of shooting over here.

Mormons, sir. A bunch of them just broke through and made it into the Mormon camp.

That’s what I figured. Did you get any of them?

Don’t know, sir. Didn’t shoot until they got through—trees made it hard. By the time they got out of cover—charging up the hill—they were too far away for accurate shooting.

Why didn’t you shoot them as they charged you?

Well, sir, he said as he lowered his head, swore a little, and stammered, We—we didn’t have much of a chance to shoot. They came at us like crazy men—yelling—sabers flashing in the setting sun. I thought they were going to cut us into pieces, sir.

But I heard lots of shooting early on—then a lull before your men started shooting at them as they rode away.

Yes, sir, he answered. They shot at us when they charged. Terrible shooters, though—missed all of us.

If they had sabers, they were regular trained militia and damned good shots. They just shot to scare you—sounds like they succeeded. He glared then asked, Didn’t your sentry warn you—prepare you for this?

Well, sir—well—

Didn’t have one posted—you drunken bum. Now Austin really swore at the cringing man and demanded, Who led them?

Tall, thin man on a big black horse—didn’t get a good look at him.

I did, sir, another of the Missourians said as he got Austin’s attention. Austin turned to him as he continued. He’s a captain of one of the Mormons’ cavalry companies. I saw him last July fourth. He led a company in their parade. I recognized him—tall and thin, golden brown hair, blue eyes, clean shaven—don’t know his name, though.

Hm-m, one of their cavalry officers, Austin said. Tall and thin—not Hinkle. Let’s see—not Wight or Patten. Ah, yes, Brunson. Never met him, but I’ve heard of him. He is a smart one—very smart. He fought in the last war, knows about warfare firsthand. I don’t like having him up there with the Mormons. He swore as he mounted his horse and said as he rode away, Stay off the bottle and be alert. There may be more of them.

Seymour, leading his horse, greeted John Murdock. Dear Brother John, I thought my men and I would come and join you.

His cheery greeting didn’t even raise a hint of a smile in big, raw-boned John Murdock, who showed every one of his forty-six years in his tired and care-worn face. He replied with a burly hug and then said, You have no idea how good it is to see you, old friend.

Good to see you, too, but I’d prefer it not be under these circumstances. They talked about the disposition of Seymour’s men and care of their horses, and then they considered the dilemma facing them.

John said, We’ve kept the mob out so far. They seem more or less content to just keep us from getting supplies—starve us into submission.

Yes, the fiends.

Wait until you see the state of some of our Saints, he said, looking into Seymour’s eyes. You’ll say ‘fiends’ with more feeling than that!

Are none of our people here wounded?

None so far. We’ve been lucky—or better, blessed.

Have we wounded any of them?

Not that I know of. We haven’t really tried to—just shot close enough to make them stay low and leave us alone.

We do have an advantage over them, being up on this hill. Seymour glanced away, looking at Murdock’s men spread around the hill behind the barricade. He then looked at John and said, They really outnumber us, though. How much—about fourfold?

I’d guess that. Believe me, we’ve really been on our toes—mighty long nights, days too—not much sleep for any of us.

Seymour noticed his old friend’s drawn, haggard face and bloodshot eyes. You go get some rest. Let me take over. That’s why I’m here.

I’ll do that, dear brother. It’s so good to have someone I can defer to. Half of my men can rest now—the others later. He grasped Seymour by the arms and, looking directly into his face, said, Thank God, you’re here. You have no idea what a glorious sight it was to see you leading your men as your horses charged through that barricade.

Before leaving Seymour to take care of his tired men, Murdock added, By the way, I sent a messenger to Far West to get word to Brother Joseph of our situation. He knows we’ve been having a problem here, but I’m sure he doesn’t know of its seriousness—of how bad it has become.

Seymour replied, I’m sure he doesn’t.

They parted then, and Seymour, leaving his lieutenant in charge, went from tent to tent, covered wagon to covered wagon, and cabin to cabin. He soon appreciated what John Murdock meant. The more he saw, the more furious he became with the Missourians.

The children touched him the most—especially the tiny ones, with their distended stomachs, ribs showing through taut skin, spindly arms and legs, drawn sad faces, and pleading eyes. Those large eyes really unsettled him, looking to him for nourishment, something he couldn’t give them.

Seeing John Murdock, he joined him and said, I thought you were going to get some rest.

I am, now that my men are taken care of.

Good. Brother John, I have a question for you—something puzzles me. Why have some I’ve seen suffered so much? The siege is not more than several days along.

It’s because many of the newcomers—most of those in tents and wagons—arrived here hungry, with only scant sustenance on hand. They expected we’d take care of them once they got here. Usually we can do that, but immediately the mob hit us.

I see, so they had no chance to get their strength back, especially the little ones.

That’s right, and then the mob drove off our cattle, worst of all our milk cows. They did that first thing—terrible thing to do. Murdock shook his head in disgust. Of course, if their plan is to bring us to our knees, that’s a very smart thing to do. He mulled over his last statement and added, I fear they’ve nearly got us there, on our knees, maybe flat on our backs is more appropriate. We can’t hold out many more days.

Leaving John and walking toward a tent, Seymour heard the plaintive cry of a baby. There is nothing sadder than a mother with a starving baby, he thought, and she unable to give it food. He hoped not to see this and walked on past the tent.

He went to another one, knocked on the tent post, and then entered through the loose flap. At first he couldn’t see well. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he wished he couldn’t see what confronted him. A young mother with unkempt hair and a bedraggled dress held a small baby in her arms. Two little ones, about four and two, clung to her legs and looked up at him with their large, imploring eyes. Behind her, barely visible, lay her husband in a scant bed on the ground, his breathing raspy and his body shaking uncontrollably. Her bloodshot eyes stared at Seymour out of a pinched, sad face with a look of total despair. It seemed to him as if she had completely given up. She said nothing.

The baby in her arms had large, hungry eyes. It sucked on a wet rag, and that momentarily stopped its crying. It had soiled its diaper and the mother seemed incapable of changing it. A further look at her and Seymour realized the mother had given her all to provide milk for the baby, and that was not enough. The four-year-old sucked his thumb. The two-year-old whined in a cry so weak it could barely be heard, and then plaintively said, Mama, I’m hungry. I’m hungry, Mama.

Seymour turned his gaze on her suffering husband, and the wife spoke for the first time. He refused to eat any of our food when the siege started, insisted that the children and I eat it. Then it was all gone. One night while he was on guard, it rained. He got sopping wet, but would he come in and get dry? Oh, no! Seymour detected her bitterness. No, he’s so loyal, so—so determined to do his part—in his weakened condition he got sick. There was a long pause. Now he can’t help anyone.

The captain crouched on his knees in the dim light for a closer look at the sick man. The man’s wide-open eyes saw nothing. The man is dying, Seymour thought. He got up, turned to her, and said, Sister, we are doing all we can to get you folks out of this mess. She said nothing. He turned and rushed out of the tent. Oh, if only I could help her, he thought. Help her and all the others like her.

He walked slowly away, eyes downcast. Heavenly Father, what can I do for these poor, wretched people? He realized that help would not come soon. People would die. What, oh what can I do? He stopped, stood motionless for a few moments, and then quickly walked over to where a few of his men were at the barricade. Men, I’d like half of you to go over to those wagons. Those right over there. He pointed to where he’d witnessed a scene almost as bad as the one he had just left. Briefly survey the situation and then come back. The rest of you go over to those other wagons. Then counsel together and see if you should help. If you decide to give them some of the meager rations you brought with you, do so, but don’t give everything to them—just enough to help. Have them eat slowly and sparingly. As hungry as they are, they’ll throw it up if they don’t. He paused, thought over what he had just said, and added, I’m not ordering you to do anything. You decide.

He knew what his men would do once they experienced a little of what he had just gone through. Having assigned the rest of his men to the most wretched families as equitably as possible, he got most of his food and a blanket. He then returned to the tent with the young mother of the three little children, gave the food to the mother with the instruction he’d given his men, and placed the blanket over her husband. The sick man’s teeth-chattering chill gradually subsided, and he gave Seymour a barely perceptible smile.

Seymour left the family’s tent and made the rounds of his men to see how the military defense held up. He met a couple of his younger troopers, men of about eighteen. They had just returned from sharing their food. Quiet and tender-eyed, they saluted and said nothing. Seymour returned their salute. Although Seymour’s men rarely saluted, these two of his regular militia did to show him their respect and admiration. Because of Seymour’s encouragement, they had chosen to be generous, and they felt closer to Christ and his teachings than they had felt for some time.

That evening, with some stability settling in to the standoff between the warring parties, Murdock sought out his old friend from earlier years in Kirtland, Ohio. Seymour, he said. I’ve had some rest but wanted to chat with you a little before turning in for the night. I’m out of touch with things at Far West. Come over to my house for a few minutes, if your men can spare you.

Seymour did, glad to visit with a fellow Saint for whom he had love and great respect. After a few minutes of reviewing recent happenings, Murdock said, I notice that most of your men are very well armed, but several others have little more than an old musket. How’s that?

Seymour smiled and replied, We really are a disparate lot. You know that I have a militia company of cavalry?

Yes, the people of Caldwell County voted you in as one of their captains about a year ago. I believe George is your regimental commander. You know he has a home and property here?

Yes, he told me to use his house as our headquarters. I’ve not done so yet. And you are right, Colonel George Hinkle is our commander.

But, I thought that when you were voted in, Lyman Wight was chosen as colonel and George as lieutenant colonel.

That’s right, but then last spring Lyman moved out of Caldwell County to Daviess County, out to Adam-ondi-Ahman. Even though he still has his commission, he had to resign as our commanding officer. That’s when George became a full colonel.

But George lives here in Carroll County?

He still retains a home and property in Caldwell County. He told me a main reason he has done that is to retain his command of our regiment. Seymour paused then and, with a slight smile, added, Now he has command of much more than a Missouri militia. He is commander of an army.

Murdock’s eyebrows rose, and he asked, Army—how’s that?

Prophet Joseph instructed him to organize an army, the Army of Israel. Brother Joseph saw the necessity for this in view of what is now happening between the Missourians and us.

Very wise on his part. So is George now a general?

No, he prefers to remain a colonel. I remain a captain in the Army of Israel, although there is talk of me being a major. I prefer captain. I do have a militia company of seventy-eight cavalrymen, but many of them could not come on this volunteer action. Seymour smiled broadly and then added, Rest assured, I’m not here under orders as a militia captain.

Yes, I can understand that.

My orders are from Colonel Hinkle in the Army of Israel. I’m wearing a different hat today. Seymour lifted up his old felt hat. George told us we may wear one hat or the other until this situation is settled.

I understand, but I rather expected George would be leading men here. He was here just a few days ago.

He is bringing a company as soon as he can get other duties in hand. You see, the Army of Israel has companies organized for every emergency, not just fighting.

That sounds like a great idea. But does Brother Joseph have any role in the army?

No. He wants to stay above that—leave it to George.

I see. You may not realize that among all that riff-raff out there laying siege to us is at least one company of militia. Captain Samuel Bogart has a company of cavalry. Supposedly he and his men were sent here to establish peace. Big joke. They are worse than the other Missourians.

I’ve heard of him—never met the man.

That surprises me. He and his company are from Ray County—right next to Caldwell County.

I’m sure George, David Patten, and others of our militia officers have met him, but I haven’t.

Something else you may not know, Seymour, is that they have a small cannon.

Really. Have they fired it at you?

Not so far, but they made a point of letting some of our men see it.

I see—a scare tactic.

I guess so. Neither spoke for a few moments as they considered the dilemma they faced.

Murdock started yawning. Seymour bade him good night and returned to see over the men guarding the besieged Saints.

Just before dawn the next morning, the men at one section of the barricade heard shooting across a steep gully. They also heard answering shots. Seymour rushed over and said, Hinkle’s company. I fear we alerted the mob. They’re having a tougher time than we had. Keep me informed. Stay alert.

Firing continued for some time and then stopped. Later that morning, Colonel Hinkle slipped into the camp of encircled Saints.

Seymour greeted him, and Hinkle said, In the darkness we came up against a steep gully and the only way across was on a narrow bridge. They had it heavily guarded so I had my men withdraw. They poured lead at us. Bullets zapping into trees all around us, and a few got holes in their clothing—none wounded. Sure glad you got your men in here. My company will lay low and slip in another way tonight.

That afternoon, as Seymour checked the northwest sector of the barricade, his men told him they detected increased action in the woods. Keep a close eye and keep me posted, he instructed. He then went over to the part of the barricade where the sun would set. Again, as during the previous afternoon when his company made their charge, he could see that the clouds would allow the sun to shine before setting. He told the men there, They’re probably going to try the same thing on us that we pulled on them—a sunset charge with the sun right in our eyes. Keep me posted.

He reported to Colonel Hinkle and told him his plan in case of an attack.

I like it. You go ahead. I’ll continue what I’m doing here to try and help these poor, suffering people. You can get Brother Murdock to take command of the other men—concentrate on stopping their assaults.

As Seymour expected, the sun came out just before setting. Barely audible activity could be heard from the mob in the woods. Realizing that the Missourians might try a feint, Captain Brunson had all able men at the barricade and positioned Murdock’s men around to cover all but the western front. He placed the men of his militia company on that perimeter. Leaving a few of his company on guard at the barricade, he gathered the others around him, realizing this would be the first time they had ever faced a direct charge. He then said in a calm voice, Keep well behind the barricade. I don’t want any reckless heroics—just do your job. You’re an important part of the defense. Together we’ll stop them. I promise you that they won’t succeed. He paused to let that sink in.

Don’t try to shoot the men. You need a bigger target with the sun in your eyes. Shoot for the breasts of their horses. If we stop the horses, we stop them. They may outnumber us, but you’ll see that what I’m saying will succeed. I know what I’m doing. Again he paused and, still calm, said, Don’t shoot until I give the order, then all shoot at once with your carbines. Then use your pistols and keep shooting as long as a horse is standing—unless, of course, I yell ‘cease fire!’ Listen for that. I hope we kill none of them, but I’d much rather several of them die than a single one of you. Again he paused, searching their faces.

Check your carbines now. Make sure the caps are on, and then put them on safety. I’ll tell you when to cock them. You have your sabers to fall back on once you’ve emptied your guns, but you won’t have to use them—we’ll stop them before they’re needed.

The young men drew strength from his calm assurance. Their nervousness had markedly reduced.

You’re going to perform as brave men should. To your positions, men, and listen for my orders. When you hear my command and my shot, you shoot. And remember, God is with us. We will win this day!

They felt justification of the faith they had in their leader and began to realize they’d follow him anywhere.

A few minutes later, one