While brother George A. Smith was referring to the circumstance of
William Miller going to Carthage, it brought to my mind reflections of
the past. Perhaps to relate the circumstance as it occurred would be
interesting.
I do not profess to be much of a joker, but I do think this to be one
of the best jokes ever perpetrated. By the time we were at work in the
Nauvoo Temple, officiating in the ordinances, the mob had learned that
"Mormonism" was not dead, as they had supposed. We had completed the
walls of the Temple, and the attic story from about half way up of the
first windows, in about fifteen months. It went up like magic, and we
commenced officiating in the ordinances. Then the mob commenced to
hunt for other victims; they had already killed the Prophets Joseph
and Hyrum in Carthage jail, while under the pledge of the State for
their safety, and now they wanted Brigham, the President of the Twelve
Apostles, who were then acting as the Presidency of the Church.
I was in my room in the Temple; it was in the southeast corner of the
upper story. I learned that a posse was lurking around the Temple, and
that the United States Marshal was waiting for me to come down,
whereupon I knelt down and asked my Father in heaven, in the name of
Jesus, to guide and protect me that I might live to prove advantageous
to the Saints. Just as I arose from my knees and sat down in my chair,
there came a rap at my door. I said, "Come in," and brother George D.
Grant, who was then engaged driving my carriage and doing chores for
me, entered the room. Said he, "Brother Young, do you know that a
posse and the United States Marshal are here?" I told him I had heard
so. On entering the room brother Grant left the door open. Nothing
came into my mind what to do, until looking directly across the hall I
saw brother William Miller leaning against the wall. As I stepped
towards the door I beckoned to him; he came. Said I to him, "Brother
William, the Marshal is here for me; will you go and do just as I tell
you? If you will, I will serve them a trick." I knew that brother
Miller was an excellent man, perfectly reliable and capable of
carrying out my project. Said I, "Here, take my cloak;" but it
happened to be brother Heber C. Kimball's; our cloaks were alike in
color, fashion and size. I threw it around his shoulders, and told him
to wear my hat and accompany brother George D. Grant. He did so. I
said to brother Grant, "George, you step into the carriage and look
towards brother Miller, and say to him, as though you were addressing
me, 'Are you ready to ride?' You can do this, and they will suppose brother Miller to be me, and proceed accordingly," which they
did.
Just as brother Miller was entering the carriage, the Marshal stepped
up to him, and, placing his hand upon his shoulder, said, "You are my
prisoner." Brother William entered the carriage and said to the
Marshal, "I am going to the Mansion House, won't you ride with me?"
They both went to the Mansion House. There were my sons Joseph A.,
Brigham, Jun., and brother Heber C. Kimball's boys, and others who
were looking on, and all seemed at once to understand and partake of
the joke. They followed the carriage to the Mansion House and gathered
around brother Miller, with tears in their eyes, saying, "Father, or
President Young, where are you going?" Brother Miller looked at them
kindly, but made no reply; and the Marshal really thought he had got
"Brother Brigham."
Lawyer Edmonds, who was then staying at the Mansion House,
appreciating the joke, volunteered to brother Miller to go to Carthage
with him and see him safe through. When they arrived within two or
three miles of Carthage, the Marshal with his posse stopped. They
arose in their carriages, buggies and wagons, and, like a tribe of
Indians going into battle, or as if they were a pack of demons,
yelling and shouting, they exclaimed, "We've got him! We've got him!
We've got him!" When they reached Carthage the Marshal took the
supposed Brigham into an upper room of the hotel, and placed a guard
over him, at the same time telling those around that he had got him.
Brother Miller remained in the room until they bid him come to supper.
While there, parties came in, one after the other, and asked for
Brigham. Brother Miller was pointed out to them. So it continued,
until an apostate Mormon, by the name of Thatcher, who had lived in
Nauvoo, came in, sat down and asked the landlord where Brigham Young
was. The landlord, pointing across the table to brother Miller, said,
"That is Mr. Young." Thatcher replied, "Where? I can't see anyone
that looks like Brigham." The landlord told him it was that fat,
fleshy man eating. "Oh, hell!" exclaimed Thatcher, "that's not
Brigham; that is William Miller, one of my old neighbors." Upon
hearing this the landlord went, and, tapping the Sheriff on the
shoulder, took him a few steps to one side, and said, "You have made a
mistake, that is not Brigham Young; it is William Miller, of Nauvoo."
The Marshal, very much astonished, exclaimed, "Good heavens! And he
passed for Brigham." He then took brother Miller into a room, and,
turning to him, said, "What in hell is the reason you did not tell me
your name?" Brother Miller replied, "You have not asked me my name."
"Well," said the Sheriff, with another oath, "What is your name?"
"My
name," he replied, "is William Miller." Said the Marshal, "I
thought
your name was Brigham Young. Do you say this for a fact?" "Certainly I
do," said brother Miller. "Then," said the Marshal, "why did you
not
tell me this before?" "I was under no obligations to tell you,"
replied brother Miller, "as you did not ask me." Then the Marshal, in
a rage, walked out of the room, followed by brother Miller, who walked
off in company with Lawyer Edmonds, Sheriff Barkenstos, and others,
who took him across lots to a place of safety; and this is the real
pith of the story of "Bogus" Brigham, as far as I can
recollect.