October skies

CHAPTER 72

1 November, 1856

Ben emerged from the trees and stumbled into the clearing illuminated by the flickering amber glow of flames. In several places around the barricade erected that afternoon, flames licked up from inside the tangle of branches and cannibalised lumber. He saw small faggots of kindling and flaming torches being hurled onto Keats’s defences by Preston’s people.

‘Stop! Stop it!’ he shouted. But his voice was lost amidst the sporadic crack of gunfire, the chanting coming from one side and the screams of fear from the other. Above all of that he heard the loud roar of Preston’s raging voice.

‘Burn them out! Burn out the servants of Satan, the evil imps, the evil ones in our midst!’

A musket fired through the flames from inside the barricade and he saw one of Preston’s men double over, grabbing his stomach. He looked back at the barricade again to see one of the Paiute frantically reloading a rifle. Several retaliatory shots rang out from amongst the Mormons. He saw half a dozen billowing clouds of blue-tinged smoke from the muzzle flash within, and showers of sparking gunpowder erupt from amongst them. The shots whistled through the smoke and flames and he heard the thwack and splinter of a shot finding wood somewhere inside the besieged enclave.

‘You’ll burn here and then in hell!’ He heard a woman’s shrill voice in a momentary lull.

This has gone too far to stop.

‘Surround them; don’t let them escape!’

It was Preston’s voice.

His followers began to move, thinning out in both directions, beginning to spread out around Keats’s small redoubt, dotted with small fires that were beginning to take hold of the dry wood and converge on each other.

‘Don’t let them escape!’ Preston called again.

This morning, he had made it clear they weren’t welcome in this place any longer. Now, Ben realised, Preston’s resolve had gone one step further.

Preston wants us all dead.

Standing where he was on the edge of the clearing, he realised that they were moving swiftly towards him and would soon be close enough that one of them might stumble into him and be sure to recognise his face by the increasing brightness of the dancing firelight.

Another couple of loud cracks signalled gunfire coming from the flaming middle. Both shots were aimed frantically and whistled high over their heads, lancing white-hot into the night sky like shooting stars. Above the increasingly ferocious flames amidst the barricade, the sky was filling with a host of bright embers climbing, fluttering and dancing like fireflies.

Ben slowly stepped back up the slope into the tree line, aware that any sudden movement would catch someone’s eye. Once there, he hunkered down behind the tall, straight trunk of a spruce, hidden enough for now, and watched with a growing sense of horror the fate that was awaiting all the others of his party out in the clearing.

They’ll burn to death in there, or die if they try to come out. ‘God help them,’ he whispered. ‘This is madness.’

The barricade was almost entirely alight now, a bright ring of flame whose heat he could feel on his face where he crouched. In the middle, the heat surely had to be unbearable, scorching. He could see a couple of the women — Mrs Bowen and Mrs McIntyre — shielding their young ones as best they could from the searing heat, scraping hard-packed snow from the ground with their hands onto the exposed, blistering skin of their children.

Then, inevitably, it happened: a section of the barricade collapsed amidst a shower of sparks. A few seconds passed, during which he heard the distinct bark of Keats’s voice shouting a string of commands from somewhere amongst the flames.

Then, through the burning gap, they emerged; a vanguard of the Paiute led by Broken Wing, their hand-me-down muskets from another era abandoned in favour of their tamahakan, now raised with savage readiness as they hurtled out towards the nearest, startled members of Preston’s party.

Keats, and several of the other men — he recognised Weyland, McIntyre, Hussein — fired a volley of shots past the Indians, a couple of which found a target, one knocking a woman to the ground, the other clipping the side of a young man.

The Paiute were almost amongst Preston’s people before the first crack of returning gunfire threw one of them off his feet and onto his back. Scrambling through the gap in the flames, the rest of the party tumbled out, some of the youngsters wrapped in smouldering blankets.

Keats and the menfolk emerged last, reloading rifles as they ran in the wake of their families, towards the ferocious melee being spearheaded by the Paiute.

Preston was quick to respond. ‘Over there! Stop them breaking out!’ he heard the man bellow. The Mormons, spread thin around the flaming redoubt, began to abandon the idea of surrounding it and instead converged on where the fight was happening.

Ben suddenly realised he was sobbing with grief, his cheeks stinging from the salt of his tears rolling down his winter-raw skin.

The screams of agony and the snarling of anger intensified.

He saw one of the Mormon women on her knees rocking back and forth, holding the still body of a teenage boy in her arms. He watched as one of the McIntyre children, Anne-Marie, the girl who had given Emily her doll, ran tearfully amidst the heaving bodies, calling out for her parents. She was suddenly caught by the vicious back-swing of one of the Indians. His tamahakan caught her neck as it swung, ripping a bloody chunk free before continuing its savage sweep and lodging itself in the face of a man he recognised as Mr Holbein, one of Preston’s quorum. Anne-Marie dropped to her knees clutching at her throat. Holbein spasmed, firing his musket at point-blank range, ripping a jagged hole out of the back of the young Paiute.

Ben saw Keats push through to join the other Paiute, forcing their way forward. Their ferocious struggle had opened a gap in the loose tangle of people, standing warily back from their flickering blades. He called out for the others to follow him, but his voice was lost amidst the cacophony.

Bowen, McIntyre and their families had coalesced into one tight pack, fighting tooth and nail, back to back, doing their best to fend off the lashing blows of a taunting, goading circle of men and women and some of the older children.

Ben spotted Hussein and his extended family in an identical predicament, a few dozen yards away. He watched as Stolheim, one of the elders, aimed a pistol and knocked Hussein’s eldest son, Omar, down with a point-blank shot in the chest. Hussein screamed with grief and swung the butt of his musket, catching the old man squarely on the chin. As he dropped to his knees, dazed, Hussein’s meek and shy wife stepped forward and stove his head in with a mallet.

More of Preston’s folk joined the churning mass of people. The swirling limbs, the dancing flames, the sporadic flicker of muzzle flash made the scene look like some bizarre occult square dance.

And Preston amidst it all, screaming encouragement, goading his people on. But no disguise. Not that it mattered. Perhaps Preston realised it was no longer necessary to play the avenging angel; his people were ready to do whatever he asked of them now.

They’re all going to die.

Then a thought occurred to Ben — a promise that he felt like he’d made a lifetime ago; a promise to Sam. He looked away from the fighting, towards the far end of the clearing, and there he picked out the mound of the Dreytons’ shelter.

Emily.

This is God’s will?

He felt the angel stir in a quiet corner of his mind as he watched from the edge of the clearing. Bloodied women wrenched out the hair of other bloodied women; children punctured each other over and over with sharpened sticks, the snow darkening with sodden patches of freshly spilled blood.

No. It is Preston’s will.

The fight was beginning to wane now. There were as many people squirming in pain on the ground as left standing and locked in the ugly struggle. Cries of anger, grief, pain and fear filled the night.

They kill in God’s name, like trained dogs.

He ignored the angel for the moment, scanning the bodies, the squirming wounded, those still standing, recognising the faces, but no longer knowing them.

Curious… what people will do in His name.

He nodded, holding on firmly to the tree branch and looking down at the scene.

Yes.

A child squatted on the chest of a dead man, screaming and slashing repeatedly at the face with a hunting knife, leaving just a bloody chaotic pattern of fleshy ribbons.

There is hate in them all.

Yes.

Not like you. I see only good in you.

I hope so.

These could never have been the chosen people.

Why?

They are sick with a sin. It is a poison in them. It is in everything they do.

He was unsure what the angel meant.

You know the name of the sin. You have had to live amongst it, breathe it all of your life.

He nodded silently, beginning to understand.

It is this sin that defines these people.

Is it pride?

He sensed the angel approving his answer.

For believing themselves chosen… they are guilty of pride.

He nodded. Nephi was right.

You were always different from them.

I was?

That’s why I let you take me away from him.

Preston.

His mind jumped to a certain matter, pending.

Preston! You promised me him.

Yes. This you deserve.

His eyes picked the man out, loading a rifle as he urged his people onwards. Three of the savages remained alive along with the guide, Keats. They now decided the fight was up, turned, and fled for the trees. They passed right below the branch he was crouched upon; any one of them would have seen him if they’d chanced to look up.

Preston called out to several of his people nearby. ‘Don’t let them escape! They must all be purged from here!’ he screamed, leading the pursuit into the trees, followed by half a dozen men.

He is yours to do with as you wish.

Thank you.