The Latter-Day Prophet: History of Joseph Smith Written for Young People

by George Q. Cannon

The mob was still afraid to make an open attack, feeling it safer to starve the Saints out. They burned our people's houses and killed and roasted their cattle, while the owners were dying of hunger in the town. It was useless to hold out any longer, and the Saints agreed to leave, provided they were paid for their homes and property. They did leave, but received nothing. It was a terrible flight from De Witt to Far West, for the mob would not let them go in peace as they agreed. One poor mother, with a baby only a day old, tried to follow her friends, but the hardships were too great. Before they reached Far West she died and was buried, as were many others during that flight, without a coffin, at the roadside.

After they had gone the Rev. Mr. Woods invited his friends to go with him to Daviess county and drive the Saints from Adam-ondi-Ahman. He said that the land sales were near at hand, and if their luck was as good as at De Witt they could buy back for almost nothing the land they had sold the Mormons only a short time before. When Joseph heard they were coming he again sought the post of danger and was with the Saints when the attack was made.

The mob, numbering nearly a thousand, plundered the farms that were some distance from the town. Men, women and children were out in the terrible storms of the 17th and 18th of October, without any homes to shelter them. Agnes Smith was one of these. Her husband, Don Carlos Smith, Joseph's brother, was on a mission. After her house had been burned, she fled from the mob with her two babies in her arms, and waded Grand river before she stopped to rest. But now General Parks sent Lyman Wight, who was one of his colonels, to lead a company of brethren against the cowards. The mob fled but burned their huts as they went, and then spread the lie that the Mormons had done it. From this time on the people living in the scattered settlements made their way as soon as possible to Far West.

On the 24th of October, 1838, Captain Bogart, who was a Methodist preacher when the more important work of killing and plundering the Saints did not call him away, led his mob-soldiers into camp on Crooked river. They had taken three brethren prisoners from their peaceful homes, and spread the report that they would murder them that night. When this news came to Far West, Col. Hinkle sent David W. Patten with fifty men to the rescue. They reached Bogart's camp at daybreak, and as they marched down the hill, their forms, outlined against the sky, made a fine target for their enemies, hidden under the trees below.

Bogart's men suddenly opened fire. Three or four of the brethren fell. Captain Patten gave the order to shoot and then charge down upon the enemy. For a few minutes they fought hand to hand with swords, and then the mob, though larger in numbers, wheeled about and fled. As they ran, one turned and shot Captain Patten, giving him a mortal wound. That night he died, surrounded by the Prophet and his true friends. His last words to his wife were: "Whatever else you do, do not deny the faith!" Thus passed away Apostle David W. Patten, who had rescued friends and given up his life in doing so, and greater love than this no man hath.

This battle gave an excuse for the wild and terrible stories that set all Missouri in an uproar. Many good citizens were really afraid that the Mormons were about to march upon and destroy them. But surely Governor Boggs could not have been deceived, and yet he ordered out two thousand men with the command to kill off all the Mormons or drive them from the state.

This extermination, as it was called, began at Haun's Mill, in Caldwell county, on the 30th of October. The little settlement of Saints was at peace when suddenly two hundred and forty men rode up on horseback and began shooting without a moment's warning. They showed no pity, but killed men, wounded women, blew out the brains of children that were pleading for their lives, and even robbed the dead. Seventeen were killed that afternoon, but there was no time to dig their graves. Amid the groans and tears of widows and fatherless children, their bodies were thrown into an old well and there they lay, a foul blot upon the land of liberty.

Little Alma Smith, who was only eight years old, after seeing his father and brother shot, fell to the ground with his hip joint and all the flesh about it torn away He knew that if he cried out or asked for mercy, as his brother had done, the bad men would kill him. So he lay pretending to be dead until after dark, when he heard his mother call him. She placed him beside his dead father and brother and prayed that she might know what to do for her little boy. Our Father in heaven heard and answered her prayer. A voice told her to wash the wound clean with water in which the wood ashes from the fire had been soaked. She obeyed, although the cloth brought out each time mashed bone and flesh. After it was clean the voice told her to gather the roots of a slippery elm tree, make a poultice with them and fill the great hole in her boy's hip. Willard Smith, another son, who had escaped, gathered the roots and his mother made the poultice. Their prayers and faith were rewarded. Alma was healed and grew once more well and strong.

CHAPTER XXIX.

1838.