Chris And Louisa 2w444z

CHRIS AND LOUISA

Ralph P. Vander Heide, Ph.D. and Judith H. Vander Heide

Copyright © 2012 by Ralph P. Vander Heide, Ph.D. and Judith H. Vander Heide. Library of Congress Control Number:2012900648 ISBN:Hardcover978-1-4691-5160-1 Softcover978-1-4691-5159-5 Ebook978-1-4691-5161-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Chris and Louisa, based on a factual historical timeline, is a work of fiction. However, most locals are authentic. Some names, characters, places, conversations, speeches, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination while others are real. Most readers will recognize that Joseph Smith really existed as did Brigham Young, Josiah Quincy, Thomas Ford, Charles Francis Adams, Porter Rockwell, Tom Sharp, Francis Higbee, and other characters. However, Louisa, Chris, the families of Chris and Louisa, Tom Edwards, Mark Spencer and his wives, Merrill Fenner, Daniel Howe, and many others are fictional.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, : Xlibris Corporation 1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com [email protected]

Contents

What Those Who Have Read Chris And Louisa Are Saying

On Polygamy, Politics And Latter-day Saint Doctrine

Dedication

Acknowledgment

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

What Those Who Have Read Chris And Louisa Are Saying

“A beautifully written, fascinating fictional story--but historically accurate--of two related women dealing with their Mormon faith, but separated by a century in time. The first in the early days of Mormonism, and the second in contemporary times”. Bruce Jackson, Engineer

“The authors have accomplished a highly credible work. This novel spans the years from early Mormon to the present, following the changes in moral value systems as well as historical progression.” Adele Horwitz, Editor-in-Chief Presidio Press

“Many here commented on the quality of the writing.” Thomas L. Dunne, Executive Editor, St. Martin’s Press

“The authors’ novel has considerable merit.” Aaron Asher, Editor-in-Chief, Farrar Straus & Giroux

“The general scope of what the collaborators are trying to do is certainly interesting—alternating storylines between early Mormon characters and modern Mormon descendants.” Randall E. Greene, Editor Doubleday

On Polygamy, Politics And Latter-day Saint Doctrine

A national public opinion poll of over 900 people around the country reveals a considerable percentage of people are confused about Mormons and polygamy —Suntimes

Mitt’s (Mitt Romney) great-grandfather, Miles Park Romney, originally had five wives, although one eventually left him and the church. Overall, Romney’s family tree contains six polygamous men with forty-one wives—Archives

Polygamist Parley P. Pratt is Great-Great Grandparent to both Jon Huntsman and Mitt Romney, 2012 presidential candidates

“There are as many as 30,000 practicing polygamists in Utah. Most are lawabiding…but the polygamists are a secretive and mutually protective lot.” Pamela Abramson writing for Newsweek”

“These people are bound together by blood. They are protecting their brothers, sisters, wives and husbands.” Dick Forbes, Utah detective.

“Polygamy thrills woman,” Utah newspaper

”As many as 100 groups may exist in the western United States, Mexico and Canada.” Ogden Standard

“20-year-old woman charged in slaying of 71-year-old father of 40.” Utah newspaper

“…the doctrine of the plurality of wives revealed, that the noble spirits which are awaiting tabernacles (earthly bodies) might be brought forth.” Brigham Young, Discourses

The most important single thing that any member of the LDS church can ever do …is to marry the right person by the right authority in the right place since “celestial marriage” i.e.temple marriage, is for eternity and assures that the couple will dwell forever in the celestial Kingdom of God. Mormon Doctrine

“The Book of Mormon created a new mythology for America.” Richard S. Van Wagoner in Sidney Rigdon.

“When the Constitution of the United States hangs, as it were, upon a single thread, they will have to call for the Mormon Elders to save it from utter destruction.” Brigham Young in his Discourses.

“Mormon leaders tried to sustain morale in the community by elevating polygamy to an essential church doctrine—to the enbarrassment of later generations of Mormons.” William J. Whalen in The Latter-day Saints in the Modern Day World

“What many don’t know, is anything that the prophet says in official capacity is considered official canon.”—Wikepedia

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the authors’ deceased parents; all four of whom repeatedly inquired of us, “Why don’t you two write a novel?”

Acknowledgment

The authors perused numerous sources in order to create this work of fiction. We most gratefully acknowledge all for teaching and guiding us. We also thank all who read, advised, and criticized. Many valuable changes were incorporated due to readers’ insights.

As Ralph’s Dutch grandmother repeatedly declared, “Makkelijker gezegd dan gedaan.” Yes, indeed, it was truly easier said or discussed than accomplished.

I

Just Who Was She?

On a May evening in 1966, Chris sat at the bar in a pub on Caroline Street, making the scene in Saratoga Springs, New York, home of Skidmore College, old mansions with fabulous carriage houses, and every summer the superrich who race their million-dollar horses. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Just who was she? She asked the image. And why was she always one to see herself through someone else’s eyes? Dropping out of the University of Utah had been the first step toward independence and selfdiscovery—or had it? She jammed her cigarette into an ashtray and wondered if little Chrisie from Salt Lake City had trotted all over the country only to find nothing of herself or her origins. What had the morning in Charlton proved? She had found in a cemetery a simple stone marker with her great-grandmother’s maiden name on it, Bidwell—Seth Bidwell. Who was that? A great-great-grandfather? A great uncle? Louisa Bidwell had once lived in Charlton—of that she was certain—then was converted to Mormonism and moved westward, fleeing persecution. Where were they—all those earnest folks, who moved from the East, traipsed about the Great Plains, and built their Zion in Utah. Pity Great-grandmother could not communicate with her from the world beyond. Did she feel affinity for Louisa only because of their physical resemblance? The face in yellow daguerreotypes was uncannily like her own. Questions, so many questions, she thought. What would life in Louisa’s day have been like? Chris ran her fingers through her long brown hair as she tried to envision the nineteenth century—no cars, no movies, no TV, no booze, certainly no pot, and strict rules about sex—no comparison to 1966! Of course, if anti-Mormon stories were correct, Joseph Smith was one hell of a stud, but the official church denied sexual desire in his polygamy.

“Hey, oh, bearded one,” she called to the bartender, “I’d like another Genesee, man.” She sighed and turned around to study the contemporary scene in front of her. Before long some guy would come up, start talking, offer her a drink, and try to put the make on her—and maybe, just maybe, she’d let him.

II

If You Will Have Me in This World, I Will Have You in That Which Is to Come

A gentle breeze wafted inland from the Mississippi as Louisa stealthed past the congeries of dwellings that formed the nucleus of the rapidly growing settlement renamed by the Latter-day Saints, Nauvoo, the Beautiful. She was hurrying to meet Joseph on that salient point of land that juts into the river opposite the Iowa town of Montrose. In back of her stretched the wide rectilinear streets, which had swallowed Dr. Isaac Galland’s “paper town,” originally dubbed Commerce. Galland, a dishonest land shark, boasted that he had outwitted the adherents of the strange religious creed when he unloaded on them during the financial panic of 1839 the tract to which he held dubious title. He was confident that Commerce faced a bleak future, for the Illinois land boom had collapsed in 1837. But the sedulous folk proved themselves to be neither land speculators nor fools. They wanted a home where they could dwell unmolested. By now, in 1844, their Nauvoo was the biggest city in Illinois; and on this morning, so portentous in Louisa’s life, sights and sounds of industry permeated the scene. The tapping of hammers, teams of horses pulling logs, the wheezing of the smithies’ bellows, wagons heavily laden with goods, and the slaps of mortar from the brick layers’ trowels affirmed prosperity and expansion. She was pleased that most of the citizens were occupied; any erby might have wondered what drew her to the swampland bordering the river. Thus confident that her path was deserted, she relaxed a bit and breathed deeper the soft, humid air. Spring comes early to the Midwest, she thought. It was only the end of March, and already vegetation was bursting through the alluvial soil. A vivid comparison came to mind: Charlton in distant New York State would surely still be locked in winter. How complete was her contentment at being

here, and yet why did doubts mar her bliss? Joseph was waiting on the old wharf, his face turned eastward. Louisa knew he was iring the nearly completed temple, which stood, its white and gold limestone walls gleaming in the hazy morning sunlight, atop the highest bluff in town. Good, just as she had expected, he was partially concealed by the reeds; they could be seen only from the river where traffic was still sparse. She had chosen the isolated meeting place. Louisa was astute about human nature and recognized her people’s love of gossip. There had been enough scandal attached to the prophet Joseph’s name. “You were right,” he greeted as he drew her close. “We’re quite well hidden here. I’ll have to commission a work detail to drain and clean the bogs again, or we’ll have another epidemic of the marsh miasma.” He kissed her and stood back holding her hands in his. “I have news. It must be next week. After the conference, Emma will be going to St. Louis.” Her brow furrowed, and she smiled sympathetically. There were too many demands upon the prophet for his time. He was in the thick of the daily activities of his flock. The tall figure, virile and imposing, commanded natural respect; since adolescence he had attracted the iration of the ladies. Latter-day Saints bragged that their leader was no sanctimonious, puny, wild-eyed preacher. Joseph Smith was truly a populist prophet: fine athlete, estimable marksman, first-rate horseman, businessman, statesman, and militarist. He had platted their city and designed their temple. Their sins he readily forgave—if they sincerely repented, for he knew, he told them, that Satan was constantly tempting mankind. His meager schooling bothered few; for many it was even a source of pride. What Joseph lacked in formal education, he compensated for with a vivid imagination. Would she always have to share him with so many? Louisa studied his innocent, nearly beardless face. The chimerical blue eyes soothed her. The smooth features and light brown hair belied his thirty-eight years. Only the prominent nose dissuaded a comparison with Apollo. “Brother Brigham has promised that he will be there to officiate.” “But, dear prophet, are you sure it is right? When I’m alone and think of it, I’m frightened. People … whisper things.”

“My little one, do you heed false rumors? I have been maligned throughout my life. I’ve suffered sorrow and oppression because I beheld God, the Father, and his son, Jesus, the Christ.” He was never more persuasive than when intoxicated by his own rhetoric. She nodded. In her nineteen years, she too had known misfortune and grief. Leaving Charlton, the flight from Kirtland, Ohio, and the slaying of her parents in Missouri had been endured for the restored gospel this man espoused. “I know you are alone, but I shall care for you and comfort and love you—not just for your unparalleled beauty, but for that part of you, your soul, that is noble in the eyes of the Lord, for you are blessed above all women, Louisa. What we are about to do is sanctioned by him. But it can’t be for others in the church, still spiritually unprepared for the revelation, nor for the profane world, to know. You have been chosen by God to be sealed to me for time and all eternity. always that if you will have me in this world, I will have you that which is to come.” Her comprehension of the intertwined concepts of eternal marriage and sealing was imperfect, but she adored Joseph and wanted to trust him. A disciple, truly attuned to the authentic gospel, should never question the teachings nor the methods of him who was in direct communication with supernal beings. She blushed at the force of his fervent flattery and the shame of her doubts as she bluntly changed the subject to a matter of temporal concern. “But the Nauvoo Legion, my prophet, aren’t we strong? Satan rules the hearts of men in Warsaw and Carthage. Will gentiles persecute us again?” She knew that recent political wrangles between the Saints, Mormons, or Mormonites, as they were variously nicknamed, and the state of Illinois had aroused the animosity of certain journalists and politicians. Many held that the Mormons had become unfit for democratic society when in December 1843, Joseph petitioned the U.S. Congress to make Nauvoo an independent federal territory. In January of that year, an Illinois court had freed him on a long-standing Missouri charge of treason; in the summer, Missouri attempted to extradite him. To stem further interference with the Lord’s work, he requested that his legion be made part of the U.S. Army and himself, as mayor, empowered to call out federal troops as needed. After that, the acerbic writings of Tom Sharp, editor of the Warsaw Signal, were unflagging in demeaning Holy Joe as a “demagogue,” “soothsayer,” “thief,” and “lecher.” Thomas Gregg in the Warsaw Message applied

“charlatan,” “libertine,” and “murderer” to the “false prophet.” He was inciting anti-Mormons to drive the sect from the state. Louisa knew that many citizens of Illinois were disavowing their earlier protection of church . Was there something inherent in Mormonism that invited detestation? Only a few years before, Illinoisans had welcomed the Saints after barbarous gentile mobs in western Missouri had pillaged and burned Mormon homes, raped several women, and devastated fields of crops in a series of attacks prompted by misunderstandings that the church would attempt to enforce abolition of non-Mormons. Then leading newspapers deplored the depredations and championed the Mormons’ constitutional right to religious freedom. Moral outrage intensified at reports of the heinous Haun’s Mill massacre, where Louisa’s parents and fifteen other men, women, and children were butchered. However, widespread weakening of began following the Saints’ lessthan-saintly retaliation launched from Illinois soil. One vengeful act was particularly rankling because it was said that Joseph had commissioned it. Allegedly in May 1842, the Mormon prophet sent Porter Rockwell, reputed leader of the avenging Danites, to kill Lilburn Boggs, former governor of Missouri, who at the height of the persecutions had consorted with the Missouri mob and issued an infamous extermination order. Suspicion pointed to Rockwell as the crack shot who dutifully put two bullets in the governor’s brain. The allegation was never proved, but Port did little to dispel it. Miraculously Boggs survived, doubly committed to preventing the Saints from returning to their Eden, Jackson County, Missouri. A story circulated that some of the bullets had narrowly missed the governor’s six-year-old daughter and a sleeping infant. This softened hearts and prompted some non-Mormons to fear that Rockwell’s secret vigilantes might embark upon a course of mass murder. Public opinion swung from contempt for Boggs to reserved sympathy. A few publications like the Signal were now airing sundry charges relating to the prophet and his church and even asking how Illinois had inherited the Mormon mess. Fleeing Saints were first received at Quincy in January 1839, three years before the failed attempt on Boggs. In April, Joseph bought his way to freedom from the Liberty, Missouri, jail. It was then, to the relief of most Missouri officials, who, unlike Boggs, were loathe to create a martyr by lynching him, that the prophet took the entire Mormon problem east of the Mississippi to Illinois.

When Commerce was purchased from Isaac Gallant, old zealots with some new converts, who were most welcome to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, moved fifty miles upriver from Quincy to found their beautiful city in which for some time their political strength grew relatively unmolested. Nauvoo prospered during the longest period of peace Joseph’s church had experienced since its founding in Palmyra, New York, in 1830. Mormon missionaries ranged eastward to the Atlantic and north into Canada, bringing the restored gospel as revealed through Joseph Smith and in the Book of Mormon, which he had translated under angelic guidance. Proselytism was especially effective in the British Isles. To the hundreds of Britons who emigrated, the enticement of land and the allurement of a rewarding life were conceivably more appealing than the promise of eternal salvation. Sometimes an entire congregation, eager to escape the miseries of the Industrial Revolution, was baptized. Most converts had few skills necessary for survival in the new world, but a few practiced trades Nauvoo desperately needed. All were impecunious. Established Mormons opened their arms to the steady influx of new arrivals and shared with them food and shelter. Some of their progeny were destined to become wealthy citizens of Utah; but renewed antipathy to the contrary, only of the inner circle yet suspected that it would mushroom, forcing a final hegira westward to shelter beyond the Rocky Mountains. At this moment Joseph did not want to be troubled by his church’s present problems and stormy past. He was in the midst of preparations for the annual conference; there he would divulge one of the Lord’s most vainglorious schemes. Why tell the girl that he was contemplating moving the entire church somewhere to the west? Only yesterday he had sent to Congress a petition asking for authority to raise a private army of one hundred thousand volunteers to “open the vast regions of the unpeopled west and south” and to “extend the arm of deliverance to Texas” as well as to “protect the inhabitants of Oregon from foreign aggressions and domestic broils.” There was also his presidential candidacy; so far 1844 had been eventful, but he had not rendezvoused with the girl for a political discussion. “The legion, four thousand strong, is the largest military body in the nation next to the U.S. Army. We can rebuff any attackers.” Hoping that would do, he groped for words to dissipate her doubts concerning celestial marriage. “The ceremony must be performed next week”—he was repeating himself—“in secret because … because it’s opportune. Emma has yet to humble herself before the

Lord and submit to his will. She will learn to accept you and the others in his time.” How convincing the prophet was when he invoked the authority of the deity! For an instant Louisa visualized Joseph’s wife, grim visaged and prematurely aged. Could the elect lady ever accept other wives half her age? Later, as Louisa walked away from the river up Parley Street toward the Howe residence, she longed to share her happiness. If only her parents could have lived! She was certain that they would have enthusiastically embraced the new covenant, for the Bidwells had been among the earliest converts to the church. Joseph had consulted with the Lord and promised her that her parents who had died “steadfast in their faith” knew that their daughter was to be a plural wife of the prophet himself. They would be pleased there “on the other side of the veil,” where they were preparing for Louisa’s eventual arrival and where the faithful would know “joy eternal.” Her thoughts conjured up an image of her father.

**********

In 1823 Jerome Bidwell uprooted his wife, Mary, and two small sons from New Paltz on the Hudson and moved to the tiny community of Charlton, formerly Queensborough, in Albany County. The sale of the New Paltz farm, combined with a small inheritance, financed the purchase of eighty acres in the gentle foothills of the Adirondacks. Jerome’s land in that desolate part of New York comprised several cleared fields and some ponds, but the greater portion was wooded with virgin stands of white pine and hardwoods. As was customary in this area, the rocks had been laboriously removed from the cleared sections and used to construct low walls marking the property boundaries; deeply embedded boulders were left protruding through the thin layer of topsoil. From the plentiful lumber, Jerome and his neighbors built a serviceable singlestory house. Mary accepted it as a temporary home, but she was determined one day to be mistress of a fine stone dwelling of the type she had ired since girlhood in New Paltz. It was in the small house that Louisa was born and spent the first nine years of her life.

This upstate New York was a finite world, tidy and precise. To the south stretched the smoky blue Helderbergs rising in peculiar flat layers above the Mohawk Valley; to the north arose the higher Adirondacks, an immense wilderness of numerous lakes and still unexplored valleys. The environment was desolate and hostile; winter stubbornly reigned five months of the year, and the waters of the lakes never warmed. Louisa was most fond of the village of Charlton, of the pristine white of the Episcopal Church, and of the simple lines of the white frame houses. And if her mother complained gently about the reticence of the people, their lack of gaiety, Jerome reminded her that these were sober Englishmen, not the French Huguenots of her birthplace. In Charlton there was a feeling of solidarity and eternity. More than his wife, Jerome was content. A big man, gruff but tender and quiet, he labored conscientiously throughout spring and summer until the crops were gathered in the fall harvest. Then, each year, he took Jeb and Seth hunting. Bears, mountain lions, and wolves along with less ferocious animals inhabited the Adirondacks; game abounded. Louisa’s face brightened at the recollection of the excitement the family shared when the men returned. Jerome would immediately satisfy the curiosity of my girls (as he affectionately referred to Mary and Louisa) and unpack the big sacks crammed with meat. With fatherly pride, he never failed to credit his sons with their share of the kill. Both were becoming adroit at woodcraft, and as a marksman, Jeb vied with Jerome. These pleasant reminiscences invariably led Louisa’s thoughts to a memory that would always pain her—to that afternoon in early summer when she and the two boys were playing by the largest of the ponds. It was the season of the black flies, and the day was unbearably hot. The unmerciful insects relentlessly crawled under the children’s hair and burrowed behind their ears to sting tender skin. She had relived it so many times … “I’ll race you to the pond, Sethie,” the fifteen-year-old taunted his chubby younger brother. “Mother says you’re not to swim when no one is here,” Louisa interjected primly. “Even in summer it chills.” “Well then, Louisa, you’re here, so you watch.” Seth was never one to forgo a

challenge. They plunged in—Jeb a few seconds ahead of Seth. The older brother’s strokes were swift. He swam with the surety and grace of the natural athlete. Steadily he drew away from Seth, who seemed to be tiring; his shorter arms flailed and churned the water. “Jeb, Jeb, I can’t get my breath. Help me! Jeb!” Louisa ran into the water, the skirts of her long muslin dress heavy about her legs. She shielded her eyes from the sun and searched the surface anxiously. Seth had disappeared near the middle of the pond whose waters appeared smooth, murky, and threatening. Hampered at being a girl and wearing a cumbersome dress, she could do little more than watch Jeb dive again and again until finally the age of time precluded any hope of Seth’s survival. She assisted the exhausted Jeb onto the shore and looked on helplessly as he lay there sobbing. All the neighbors attended the funeral services. She ed how pleased her parents were that even Gideon Hawley, the renowned educator who spent most of his time at the state capitol in Albany, expressed sympathy. Mary Bidwell, stout and blonde, so much like her dead son, made no attempt to disguise her anguish. Jerome and Jeb stood grim and uneasy as the women sobbed. Louisa did not dare to look at Jeb. He had regained his composure that inexplicably was more frightening to her than his grief. Although no one had accused him, it was understandable that he felt responsible for his brother’s death; he seemed so resolved. Two days later Jeb was gone. The note he left on the kitchen table expressed doubt that his family would or should ever forgive him. The hearts of Louisa, Mary, and Jerome were doubly wounded. In the midst of the family’s mourning at the loss of both sons, a missionary from Kirtland, Ohio, hundreds of miles to the west, arrived in Charlton. He told a bizarre tale of Joseph Smith’s heavenly visitants and visions, spoke of restored evangelic truths, and mentioned a history of Indians written on golden plates known as the Book of Mormon. He bore personal testimony that baptism in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints would privilege the Bidwells to see Seth, for after death Saints were reunited with their loved ones in eternal life. Throughout several evenings, Charles Brown taught his exotic potpourri. Louisa

ed her father saying that he could make little sense of it, but the promise of seeing one of the lost sons again held an irresistible appeal—and where could Jeb be now?

**********

“Hello, Louisa.” The cheery salutation abruptly returned her to the dusty street. “Oh, Tom, I was just daydreaming and didn’t notice you.” She tried to put the awkward, shy youth at ease. He was a few years younger than she, but obviously —what had Nancy Rigdon called it?—smitten. “Are you going to attend the conference, Tom?” She knew that the Edwardses, recent English converts to the church, were some of the most dedicated Saints in Nauvoo. Why was she making chitchat with this mere boy when she had just come from a rendezvous with the prophet? “Well, Tom, I’m already late for dinner.” She hastened up the remaining block to the two-story redbrick house of the couple that had adopted her after Haun’s Mill. How she ired it, so different from the house in Charlton! Would the Howes’ home have satisfied her mother’s longings? It wasn’t stone. Upon hearing Louisa enter the kitchen, Sara called to her. “It’s past twelve o’clock and dinner is ready.” She grinned at the girl and gave her a hug. The press of the stout body was comforting. Sara had been her mother for some years now; she was so warmhearted and hardworking. It would be impossible to repay her kindnesses. If only she could tell Sara the secret today! Daniel Howe, in from his blacksmith shop, sat at the kitchen table awaiting the large midday meal. The work of the burly smithy was in demand; he appreciated the noon respite. “Afternoon, young lady.” He studied her as she sat down opposite him. Didn’t she seem skittish?

“I was at the Female Relief Society,” Sara began casually as she ladled out some soup. Louisa and Daniel exchanged glances. It was during the meetings of the women’s auxiliary organization that Sara picked up the most scandalous tidbits of town gossip. “Buckeye. You those disgusting poems from the Signal—why, yes, I believe I did save one.” She put down the soup tureen and fumbled through a stack of papers piled on the far end of the cabinet. “This one, Buckeye’s Lamentation for Want of More Wives, it’s … it’s terrible!” She read aloud:

I once thought I had knowledge great, But now I find ’tis small. I once thought I’d religion too, But now I find I’ve none at all— For I have but ONE LONE WIFE, And can obtain no more; And the doctrine is I can’t be saved, Unless I’ve HALF A SCORE.

“I won’t read the other twelve stanzas; they’re just as bad.” Louisa cringed in her chair, hoping that her cheeks were not flaming. Daniel silently spooned soup to his lips. “Don’t you want to know?” Sara demanded. “Buckeye is William Law! And … William Marks may apostatize.” Daniel looked up sharply. “That’s ridiculous, woman, and dangerous.” As a

member of the recently selected Council of Fifty, known to insiders by the code name Ytfif, another of the Mormons’ arcane societies, Daniel well knew that the Law brothers, William Marks, and others were disaffected of late by the prophet; but he wanted to silence his wife. “These are not riverboat gamblers or vile flotsam from that half-breed tract across the river, Sara; they are two of the most respected men in the church. William Law is a member of the First Presidency, first counselor to the prophet Joseph.” “Exactly,” she triumphed, “and William Marks is president of the Nauvoo High Council. It’s rumored that they are ready to form another church. You see, it’s not the gospel they attack but the prophet himself. Brother Law will bear testimony that the Saints have been taught the true gospel of Jesus Christ but that Joseph Smith is disgracing the church. Sister Sherman said they are claiming that Joseph is not a false, but a ‘fallen’ prophet.” Louisa did not dare to look up. Her clandestine betrothal was being sullied. The room was quiet, but the rancor of Sara’s tone reflected the doubts that many good Saints shared with the Warsaw Signal. In all of Nauvoo, the doctrine was never spoken of aloud; the practice that many feared might rend the church asunder was treated only in whispers: polygamy!

III

The Whole America Is Zion Itself from North to South

The population of Nauvoo swelled to twenty thousand as Latter-day Saints and curious gentiles converged at the beginning of April for the annual conference. Some traveled overland in wagons and carriages, braving the rutted, muddy roads from Galena, Springfield, and Quincy; others came by river. Only experienced steamboat captains could contend with the vagaries of the Mississippi: treacherous sandbars, menacing log snags, and prodigious quantities of silt, and even they were baffled at her predilection for suddenly changing her course. Whimsically she shortens and lengthens herself or surges over her banks to cut off an entire loop, thereby relegating many a town to the backwater. The Des Moines rapids, extending from Montrose south to Keokuk, presented an especially hazardous challenge to steamers arriving from down river; often engers were transferred to keel boats and towed by horses through the formidable currents and rocks. Joseph’s steamer, the Maid of Iowa, carrying engers for profit, daily labored up the recently widened channel to dock at the Nauvoo landing. Strangers were astounded at the attractiveness of the young city and the aesthetic beauty of its setting. A first impression from the bluffs was unforgettable, arousing iration for nature and respect for the labor of the Saints. Surrounding the city with water on three sides, the Mississippi lay below like a giant silver sickle. To the west, beyond the river, stretched the rolling landscape of Iowa. To the east fecund fields of grain encroached upon ancient forests. Neat brick houses gave Nauvoo an aura of permanence; only a handful of log cabins remained to remind sightseers of less secure beginnings. On Main Street and Mulholland Street, mushrooming merchandise stores and several three-story

buildings bespoke a thriving commerce. Like a benevolent monarch, the roofless temple, one of the largest edifices west of the Alleghenies, dominated all the structures at its feet. For the edification of visitors, Dr. Theodore C. Isaacson, renowned in Nauvoo as a “former professor at an eastern university,” conducted tours, which included a lecture on the history of Nauvoo, at twenty-five cents per person. “Long before the crude shacks of Commerce and the splendor of our holy city,” he droned, “Indian tribes inhabited this here place. We can assuredly reckon that the Sac and Fox village of Quashquema had over five hundred inhabitants.” Rubes gawked at the ancient tumuli and then were marshaled to a room in the Nauvoo Museum, where they paid another twenty-five cents to Lucy Mack Smith, Joseph’s mother, to see Egyptian artifacts. In comparison to other towns of the frontier, Nauvoo had an unmistakable veneer of civilization and culture! Sometime in 1843, the enterprising Smith family expanded their sumptuous twostory Mansion House into a hostelry, reserving for themselves ample quarters on the upper floor. For the people of Nauvoo, it had become the focal point of their social life, and for the Smiths a source of income. Now mattresses were being dragged in to accommodate an overflow of guests. In the less pretentious private homes and other hotels, every possible space had been rented. A decorous Porter Rockwell was jubilant at being free after a nine-month sojourn in Missouri jails, where he had been held for the Boggs’s matter. With his shoulder-length hair neatly braided, he tended his new bar in one corner of the Mansion House; for the follower of a sect that espoused temperance, he exhibited surprising expertise. The Nauvoo Council had granted the prophet the sole right to dispense liquor in the city, but the prospering tippling shops openly ignored the ordinance. Paradoxically consumption of wine, a common pastime in Nauvoo, was not a violation of the Word of Wisdom, the revelation forbidding alcohol, tobacco, and coffee. Viticulture was, in fact, one of the town’s incipient industries; it competed with the brewery. “We’ll sell ya anythin’ ya kin find in St. Louie, ’n a helluva lot better’n them Missouri Pukes,” Port chortled in his peculiar high-pitched voice. “Ya know the brew is from our own brew’ry!” Joseph was in his glory, refulgent in a uniform of his own design befitting the nation’s highest-ranking officer since Washington. Lieutenant General Smith, a

title some said he preferred even to President of the Church and Prophet, Seer, and Revelator, was frequently seen astride his splendid black stallion, Charlie, galloping through the streets of the city. To the perturbation of the more pious among the Saints, he impetuously swooped many a delighted child into the saddle for a ride on “the finest steed in Hancock County.” Many visitors wondered at the earthiness of the prophet and these Saints, who drank, danced, sang, and invited traveling theater companies and circuses to their city. Mesmerists they forbade. Malcontents grumbled that normal prices, twentyfive cents for a meal, twelve point five for a night’s lodging, twenty-five for boarding a horse for one night, and twenty-five cents for a pint of whiskey, had been doubled for the conference. It was with an air of conviviality and sound Yankee business sense that the Saints of the Last Dispensation of the Fullness of Times were observing their most important gathering.

**********

On Monday morning, April 8, sunlight reflected through the quiescent burr oaks in the grove near the temple where the conference was being held. Thickets surrounding it flourished with hickory, maples, and cottonwoods; curious papaws with their delicate purple flowers contrasted with the myriad greens of the hardwoods. Dense undergrowth of clover and violets carpeted the forest floor where some of the twenty thousand spectators sprawled on blankets; others competed for the rough wooden benches. Crowds had begun gathering early on this fourth and final day of meetings, for hearsay had it that the prophet would make an earthshaking pronouncement. A hush fell over the audience as Joseph arose to speak. He strode majestically to the pulpit surveying the thousands of eyes fixed upon him. The sight was exhilarating, and the prophet magnetic. His stentorian voice easily reached the farthest corner of the grove as he began with the usual chastisements and onishments. “There are among us thieves, adulterers, fornicators, harlots, and hypocrites. Behold, I say unto you, unless these abominations cease, the Lord shall condemn you to eternal damnation.” He paused theatrically then boomed, “The church

must be cleansed! Some of you have degenerated from God by taking a second wife and have said that Joseph Smith told you to do so. I call such men abominable liars. Be it known throughout the land that I proclaim against adulterers and all forms of iniquity.” Louisa sat with Daniel and Sara in the middle of the grove. She thrilled as the prophet inveighed against sinners. How could people disobey and engage in illicit and unsanctioned behavior? Then, reaching new heights of grandiloquence, the prophet disclosed a divine conception, breath taking in its sweep, heretofore known only to the apostles and the Ytfif. “You know very well that the Lord has led this church by revelation. I have another revelation to the economy of the church—a great, grand, and glorious revelation.” He paused theatrically. “There has been great discussion in relation to Zion, where it is, and where the gathering of the dispensation is, and which I am now going to tell you.” All were quiet, curious, anticipating; only the chirp of insects and birds interfered with Joseph’s delivery. His voice increased in volume as he slowly enunciated: “The whole of America is Zion itself from north to south.” The prophet went on to explain that the Lord had instructed him to have the Elders of Israel build up stakes of Zion throughout the United States of America in Boston, New York, and all the great cities. Clearly, Mormonism was the little stone, spoken of in the Book of Daniel, dominating the world with the Kingdom of God. “It is a glorious proclamation,” he concluded, “and I reserved it for the last.” The prophet sat, wiped his brow then turned to receive congratulatory handshakes from several church leaders with whom he shared the stand. Saints turned to one another to discuss the invincibility that would be theirs once the gospel was spread throughout this greatly enlarged Zion encoming much, much more than their little Nauvoo, which, they understood, would remain the center stake of Zion forever. They submitted again to self-enforced silence when the Church Patriarch, Hyrum Smith, announced the closing song. “The congregation will sing ‘Now Let Us Rejoice.’”

Today the favorite hymn had acquired new meaning, and the Saints rendered it with unprecedented fervor.

Now let us rejoice in the day of salvation No longer as strangers on earth need we roam, Good tidings are sounding to us and each nation, And shortly the hour of redemption will come. When all that was promised the Saints will be given, And none will molest them from morn until ev’n, And earth will appear as the Garden of Eden, And Jesus will say to all Israel, Come Home.

Apostle John Taylor capped the meeting with a thunderous and lengthy benediction. Daniel could now discuss more openly with Sara and Louisa what he had been privileged to know for several weeks. Never had it been better outlined than by the prophet today! With the blacksmith in the middle, the three walked from the grove, their arms linked in affection. He was uncharacteristically loquacious. “Ladies, I tremble with awe at the thought of it. Zion includes the states, the territories, North and South America! Stakes of Zion will exist in all cities of this nation. Isn’t it a sublime plan? Of course, as Brother Hyrum, Apostle Young, and the prophet have said, we must first finish the temple. The washings, anointings, and endowments to be received upon its completion will invest the chosen with heavenly powers to establish Zion; after we are endowed, we can overthrow all opposition. The gathering shall continue here to Nauvoo until the elders can get their endowments in the temple. Then as our leaders have explained, the elders shall spread and build up branches in the west—in Mexico—it’s all Zion! We are

a peculiar people, a kingdom set apart from the world, and we stand on the verge of the greatest happening since the birth of our savior! We shall have governors, congressmen, and the prophet Joseph head of all. I only fear that Lucifer will work harder now to block completion of the temple, the gathering, and the establishment of the kingdom.” To one limb of Satan, a Missouri sheriff, leaving the grove at the same time, the prophet’s speech sounded like “some goddamned Mormon plan to set up ’n empire. Hell,” he added to his companion, a prominent member of the Illinois legislature, “as long as them fanatics leave here who cares? They are gonna leave. Ain’t that what the faker said? They kin have anythin’ that’s north, south, west, or east of Missouri.” “Well,” the politician replied, proud of his superior diction and grammar, “we’re east of you. We’ve got ’em and don’t want ’em. Did you know that old Peepstone Joe declared his candidacy for president of the United States.” “Shir, I knowed it. He’s jest a nutty power hungry sonabitch. Wants ev’rythin’ at once. Ain’t nobody kin git along with them bastard Mormons. They’re all takers. That prophet is only in’rested in profit.” He slapped his knee in amusement at his homespun pun. “’N all them jackasses follow him like slaves.” “Yeah, yeah, that’s all true. He sure is getting far too big for his britches. We’ve thought for a couple of years now that he’ll have to be stopped if he keeps flouting the law. Even Governor Ford would like to boot them out. Holy Josey is a”—why not impress this Missouri nigger driver with a sophisticated term —“despot.” What Daniel did not reveal to his ladies were what the sheriff and politician were guessing. One of the first acts of the Ytfif, only three weeks before, had been to ordain and crown the prophet King of the Kingdom of God. For several years he had discussed the building of the Kingdom of God upon earth, but to most it seemed like an idealistic kingdom of the Saints, a brotherhood of spiritual affinity. Now, he was ready to make his kingdom temporal reality. of the Ytfif would be the princes destined to help rule. For the time being most were content to campaign for the prophet in his race for the presidency of the United States; a handful were on exploratory expeditions to the northwest, west, and southwest, seeking a possible site for a Mormon nation.

**********

That afternoon and throughout the following day Nauvoo returned to normalcy as visiting Saints and strangers departed. Among them was Emma, who, on the next morning, requisitioned the Maid of Iowa to carry her in some style to Saint Louis where she planned to purchase silk stockings, three dresses, and new furniture for the Mansion. Spruced up for the occasion in her plumed hat, her large hazel eyes sparkling, she projected a touch of her former haunting beauty. She was accompanied by one of Joseph’s business aides and was taking little Alexander with her. Joseph saw her off at the steamboat landing. “Take care, dear Emma. St. Louis is a city of many iniquities. With the water so high you should have little trouble with the rapids today. The river is rising faster than usual this spring. Some of our families may be flooded out.” He embraced his son and kissed Emma on the cheek. He watched the small paddle wheeler slowly move south along the channel and waved at the gleeful Alexander for several minutes before walking with his two body guards (a frequent precautionary measure; enemies were everywhere) south on Marion Street then up Parley Street to pay a visit to Daniel Howe at his blacksmith shop.

IV

And If He Have Ten Virgins Given unto Him by This Law, He Cannot Commit Adultery, for They Belong to Him

After pushing a repaired wagon outside, Daniel had left the large doors on the south side of his shop open; he welcomed the breeze at the forge where he stood holding long tongs in which a horseshoe was tightly gripped. When it was whitehot he turned to walk to his anvil and saw the prophet entering. “Brother Joseph, excuse me. I’ll just shape this horseshoe while it’s heated.” With a few blows of his hammer Daniel was finished and motioned the prophet to a bench. “No, no, Brother Daniel, you sit down. You’ll welcome the rest. Listen carefully to what I tell you, for I speak of the Lord’s work, of the law of Father Abraham and of Jacob.” The familiar voice was authoritative; this was no social call. “The prophets of biblical days had many wives. You, a member of the Ytfif, should know that it is the illustrious duty of prophets of the modern dispensation to do likewise.” Joseph had taken lessons in English, foreign languages, and elocution—from the look on Daniel’s face he would have to bring it all to bear. The smithy was stunned. Only yesterday the prophet had berated adulterers and polygamists. Since Kirtland days vehement denials had always followed the persistent rumors of plural marriage. Didn’t this doctrine vitiate the reputation of the church? Was this merely another trial of faith? Would he ask for Sara? It was

repeated in the Ytfif that Joseph had once demanded the wives of the twelve apostles. After each had reluctantly agreed to yield his mate, the prophet, with tears in his eyes, commended their dedication and assured them that he had only been testing them. Yes, Joseph had a playful side to his character. Daniel did not know that long since permission had been given to the Twelve to seek the blessings of the everlasting covenant, a right granted by God (and Joseph) to a privileged few. The rewards were intoxicating. Each man would become a God himself; he was to populate his eternal Kingdom. God eschewed all but the pure in heart, the quixotic, for the scheme. Joseph was their example. Over the years he had wed in stringent secrecy at least eleven young, unattached girls and many married women including the charming Louisa Beaman, the intellectual Elisa Snow, the spunky Lucy Walker, the Partridge sisters, and the orphaned Lawrence sisters, some of whom for a short time had shared the Smith household. However, faced with the rapid accretion of his harem and Emma’s reluctance to accept revelation, it became imperative for him to see to it that his wives had lodgings in Nauvoo or on neighboring Mormon farms; some of the single girls lived at home. “My servant Daniel Howe, because thou art one of the Lord’s chosen, thou mayest participate in the covenant.” The Lord was authorizing Daniel through Joseph right in his blacksmith shop! Joseph closed his eyes and placed his hands upon the smithy’s head before continuing. “Thee,” or should it be thou, Joseph wondered had Sidney Rigdon not told him that thee was something called the objective case?—not to be used to begin sentences. Well, the Lord would surely guide him as he continued in mock biblical speech, “And thy helpmate, Sara, saith the Lord, hath not children yet thy years are more than thirty in the land. If thou art to obey the everlasting covenant to multiply and replenish the earth, thou must take unto thyself another wife, and thou shalt reveal the covenant to no one except thy brethren in the order. Thus saith the Lord, thy God.” It was the sacred speech of the Lord, familiar to Daniel from the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and Joseph’s modern-day writ, the Doctrine and Covenants. The blacksmith vigorously shook his head attempting to clear it; he could hardly believe what he was experiencing. He had been nonplussed at the forthrightness of the prophet in itting the practice, especially after yesterday’s denials, and

now he, Daniel, was to participate! He longed for time to fast and pray about it. Then it was true that Joseph and others were polygamists. He knew Sara well; her reaction would coincide with that of Emma Smith, who often denounced John C. Bennet and his ilk, the excommunicated adulterers. The blessing finished, Joseph expounded for a few moments on the order. First, he told Daniel that it was known by two names: The Patriarchal Order of Marriage and Celestial Order of Plurality of Wives. “The Lord wants his best servants in the order. A man who has been called and doesn’t practice is in danger of losing his priesthood and being cut off from him. Some have suffered for their disobedience. Faithful Brother, I refused to believe the Lord myself until he sent an angel to me three times. The last time the angel appeared with a drawn sword and threatened my life, explaining that the gospel could not progress until I accepted Our Father’s commandment.” Daniel noticed a linguistic change. Thy’s, behold’s, and saith’s had almost vanished from Joseph’s speech (although the prophet always laced his pronouncements with a few). It was Joseph Smith the prophet speaking, not the Lord still using Joseph as Moses had Aaron. “This is not adultery, Brother Howe. The Lord has revealed a marriage ceremony that we must strictly adhere to. Those who are not called—those who take wives outside of the true order—are fornicators and adulterers, wicked above all in God’s eyes, and I have often exposed and denounced them.” He took from his pocket a sheet of paper. “Let me read to you part of the revelation as dictated to me by Our Father, ‘If any man espouse a virgin, and desire to espouse another, and the first give her consent, and if he espouse the second, and they are virgins, and have vowed to no other man then he is justified; he cannot commit adultery, and if he have ten virgins given unto him by this law, he cannot commit adultery, for they belong to him.’” He returned the paper to his coat pocket and continued the explanation. “For you know, trusted brother, that what we with our priesthood bind on earth is sealed in heaven. Sister Sara shall be yours in the next world, but you shall have your other wives as well. You may beget children here and continue to procreate beyond this mortal existence and have offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven. You shall inherit thrones, kingdoms, principalities, and powers, dominions, all heights and depths. For, , Brother Howe, God was once

as mortal as we are, but he has perfected himself, and we through obedience and good works may become like unto him.” The prophet was outlining the way to Godhood! “If you give me the names of elected sisters you want to take in celestial marriage, I shall visit those sisters with you and tell them that the Lord has called them, for he shall do so through the power of your priesthood. Some brethren have been given time to think and to pray about the covenant, but knowing the strength of your faith and devotion as I do, I am certain that you will accept the Lord’s will right here and now, for he has blessed you and set you apart.” Joseph leaned against the wall, satisfied with his explanation. He (and the Lord) had bestowed upon Daniel God’s greatest right—to become a God himself. The smithy had been prepared for the more important selfish purpose of his visit. “Brother Howe,” he abruptly announced, throwing his shoulders back and rising again to his full imposing height, “I must tell you that Louisa Bidwell is one of the chosen maidens. Do I have your approval?” Daniel was aghast. There were no words to describe his conflicting emotions. He had been shocked, flattered, lectured, and now insulted. Why did the prophet bother with mortal approval? He spoke up to Joseph protesting the youth and vulnerability of the girl. The prophet answered each objection before stating his case decisively. “Quite simply and irrefutably we have affection for each other and long to consummate our love for time and all eternity. The Lord has commanded me to take her. I see there is no logical reason for delay. The marriage will take place this evening in accordance with his will.” Daniel was resigned but unconvinced—the girl seemed so fragile. He hoped that Joseph would temper his lust, and consoled himself that the rumors must be true —Louisa would not be his first. There was that scandal with Martha Brotherton, who told her parents a story about the prophet—or was it Brigham Young—and then she wrote that expose which many Saints had read in the St. Louis Bulletin. By now the prophet must be adept at the art of deflowering virgins.

**********

As she pinned up her long hair Louisa studied her image in the mirror. Tonight she was to be married; suddenly she felt alone and far from home. Ruefully she recalled childhood dreams—she, Louisa, radiant in a white brocade dress, escorted by her father down the aisle of St. Paul’s Church in Charlton. The organ thundered, and the bell from the tower extolled the news over the countryside. How different tonight’s ceremony would be. Impatiently she pulled on her best blouse and then stepped into her everyday brown skirt, standing back to note the effect. Thank heaven for the solicitation of the prophet—Joseph! For an instant she wished it could be different—that she could be his only wife. She would never want another husband. She could make him happy, answer all of his needs, so strong was her love. Why did so many of her people, Sara included, hate plural wives? Could she be ostracized? Maybe she had just imagined being snubbed by her former teacher, Eliza Snow—she, Louisa, who was such a serious student and of whom her mentor had been so proud. Of course there could be no friendship with Emma, nor with that other Louisa, whom Nancy Rigdon said was jealous of everyone. Resolutely she squared her shoulders. No time to think of what it would be like to be alone with the prophet—to lie with him—Daniel was waiting. She was serene as she walked with Daniel to Joseph’s store. The flood of concerns forgotten, she dwelled only on the prophet’s promise, “If you will have me in this world, I will have you in that which is to come.” The short, stocky figure of Apostle Brigham Young greeted them at the entrance to the store and ushered them to the Masonic Hall on the second floor where unbeknown to Louisa and Daniel, many plural marriages had been performed. Louisa thought the president of the twelve apostles seemed unusually solemn. As they ascended the stairs, he spoke. “Sister Bidwell, I suppose you understand the Covenant of Celestial Marriage? You have consulted with one of the Sweet Mothers in Israel?” “Yes, Brother Young, Sister Sessions explained it to me, and so did the prophet.” “Yes, yes, well the Sweet Mothers are to make certain that maidens entering the

covenant understand it.” “I think … uh … know I do.” Did she?—always the doubts—the doubts. Wasn’t it enough just to love the prophet as she did? Joseph awaited them in the hall. Daniel and Apostle Young would be the sole witnesses. The ceremony was short. Joseph’s strong right arm embraced her as Apostle Young read the sacred vows, and she affirmed eternal love and obedience only to the prophet (if he died first, she could be married again for time until her death when she would again be his “on the other side”; celestial wives became the property of the men to whom they were bound on earth, and that which was bound on earth was sealed in heaven through the power of the Melchizedek priesthood). Joseph promised to love and care for her, but there was no mention of one wife. The favored apostle then pronounced them married to each other “in heaven and on earth for time and all eternity.” He assured Louisa that her name would be entered in the Book of the Law of the Lord so that she could be sealed to Joseph in the temple upon its completion. It had taken only six minutes to become Joseph’s bride. Daniel muttered congratulations and departed, his shoulders stooped and his head bent. Brigham Young accompanied him, extolling the principle. The newlyweds left the room, and Joseph led Louisa down the hall to a bedroom that had been readied for them by Sister Bessie Chandler. Bessie herself had been married to Joseph for eternity while her husband was on a mission; she had provided the prophet the opportunity to enjoy privacy with several of his celestial wives. Louisa glanced furtively around the chamber making certain that they would be alone. A bouquet of lily of the valley decorated the nightstand; an oil lamp flickered on the corner dresser, and a plain quilt covered the four-poster bed. Next to the bouquet a bottle of wine awaited them. The night hummed with the familiar sounds of insects. In the distance revelers sung one of Eliza Snow’s stirring verses. Joseph put his hands on Louisa’s slim hips and seated her gently on the bed. “Louisa, my beautiful Louisa, I should like for you to have a small reminder of my love for you.” He placed a picture of himself, taken at Foster’s

Daguerreotype Studio, in her hand. “Thank you, thank you. I’m afraid I brought you nothing.” “No, you’ve brought me so very much—you.” She blushed. Joseph decanted the bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. “I drink to you, my chosen of the Lord.” He sought her hand to quiet its trembling. “Never has there been a bride fairer; never have I loved a woman as I do you.” He released her hand, stroked her cheek, and then lifted her chin. “Someday you will bear me a son—I should like to live to see him.” His foreboding words were to ring in her ears for the rest of her life, but on this night, overwhelmed with her conflicting feelings of desire and modesty, she hardly noticed Joseph’s premonition of martyrdom. In the semidarkness her brown eyes, luminous and beguiling reassuringly sought his. “Don’t fear, my love. I know you are, uh, a maiden. May I take down your hair?” Carefully he pulled out each of the long pins until the thick, brown hair tumbled over her shoulders. “I thank God that you were given unto me. You are so … precious … so beautiful. I wish I were twenty again.” “But you are young, blessed prophet, and I shall love you throughout all time.” She shivered involuntarily as his practiced hand deftly unbuttoned her bodice. Was he noticing that her breasts were mature for a girl so slender? His touch upon the virginal nipples was electrifying. Joseph placed her head on the soft pillow. As she lay there supine, her eyes closed and her cheeks flushed, a sudden flood of ion engulfed her body in anticipation of new delights. Lovemaking had been a forbidden topic; she had little preparation for this night, but awakening to womanhood under Joseph’s patient guidance dispelled anxiety and misconceptions; he caressed her neck, her arms, her legs; his mouth left no part of her supple body unkissed. “Oh, my most cherished, sweetest Joseph!” Their bodies simultaneously reached the zenith of rapture, and they slept.

**********

“We’ve come a long way from Kirtland.” Joseph was first to break the silence of dawn as they still lay close. “I you—long braids, messy dress—a tomboy sledding down the hill from the temple with Brother Rigdon’s daughter, Nancy.” He fondled a lock of her hair. “You couldn’t have been more than ten. Your mother was determined to make you into a lady.” “The days must have been very sad for her. After my brother drowned, it seemed our family was never the same again; Jeb, my older brother, ran away—it was guilt about the drowning, but it wasn’t his fault at all. When Brother Brown came to our house in Charlton it was as if Mother and Father had been waiting for something—a sign. We wanted to find new hope. I, only a child, was suddenly alone; how I longed for my brothers. After we were baptized, Father sold the farm to move to Kirtland. I think he got very little for it.” Joseph winced. So many trusted; thousands had given up so much for the truth— for him. “Your father once told me about the drowning—the faithful shall see their departed loved ones again. When I was a boy in the east, I was very sick one time—might have died too, but it wasn’t God’s will. The doctor wanted to amputate my leg, the fool, but, of course, he was ignorant of my calling. Mother pleaded with him, and he was content to remove only a section of bone. The Lord works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. He has worked through Mother so many times.” He pointed to the long scar. “Does it hurt?” She inquired like a curious schoolgirl. “No, no, but the slight limp always reminds me. The Lord left a sign of his might. Did you go by boat to Ohio?” “Yes, it was a packet on the Erie Canal. The trip was exciting.” “You ed Palmyra then.”

“My father was anxious to get to Kirtland. The gospel gave him new hope. He just wanted to plant wheat and build us a house—maybe a stone one. I think the idea of having to board with others that first winter was very embarrassing for him. But he said it would all be worthwhile; the soil would be rich, not rocky and barren like Charlton.” “Yes, both Sharon, Vermont, where I was born and Palmyra were rocky. Folks really just eke out a living there. I despised the hard labor—we had so little to show for it. Kirtland was different; we all loved that place, chosen of the Lord, but the hearts of so many were turned from the path of righteousness. There was more than one Judas in our midst and Old Beelzebub had hardened the hearts of our enemies that they closed their minds to modern revelation.” Joseph rarely broke his prophet’s facade. Even abed with his loveliest wife, he spoke in occasional biblical phrases. For him Old Testament wrath and New Testament forgiveness were reality. Like Isaiah he could curse the enemies of righteousness, but like Christ rejoice at the return of a contrite sinner. “Once a mob even beat you, my blessed, dear, kind (was it truly all right to address him by his given name?) Joseph. It makes me shudder. We were told about it shortly after we arrived in Kirtland. They said that under the cover of night gentiles broke into your home and dragged you into the street. They beat you, scratched you, and coated your body with tar and feathers. Didn’t they knock out a tooth?” “No. One tooth was chipped. For several years I whistled my S’s like this: MiSSiSSippi. I had it fixed only last summer.” Louisa giggled, ing the prophet’s whistled speeches. “Did that German dentist, Dr. Neibaur, repair your tooth?” “Yes, Alexander Neibaur; sometimes I study Hebrew with him, German too, of course. He was our first Jewish convert.” Abruptly he strayed from the subject. “The church splintered into various factions in those Kirtland days, but Sidney Rigdon remained stalwart. Now he is the candidate for vice president of the United States on my ticket.” He was weary of the factions, the Judases, the anti-Mormons, the politicians, Ohio, Missouri, plundering, murder, the chains of jail, writs of habeas corpus, trials, and attempts on his life. He would soon have to leave this delectable child,

but for now … They made love with even more ion than the night before.

V

Why Was She Always Drawn to Such Types?

Chris did let a college boy buy her a drink, but she did not go to bed with him. Sex never solved any of her problems either—nothing did—not even skiing, which had always refreshed and stimulated her and cleared her mind; it too had become boring. She told the boy to visit her if he were ever in Salt Lake City and excused herself early. In her comfortable motel room she slept long and deeply, determined to continue her journey of self-discovery and travel to Sharon, Vermont, birthplace of Joseph Smith. It was a sunny, humid morning in Saratoga Springs as Chris, thoroughly refreshed from her night’s sleep, turned her silver Porsche 911 on to Interstate 87, the Adirondack Northway; she was glad that she had slept alone. Men could be bothersome—hard to get rid of in the morning. Sharon was not far; the sports car purred along at seventy to ninety miles per hour over the attractive, symmetrical highway, which curves east of Lake George, cuts through the lush, deep green of rocky hills and low mountains, and stretches out nearly flat as it approaches Plattsburgh, New York. But she would not go to Plattsburgh. Near Lake George she turned east to cross Vermont via Rutland and Woodstock. The avid skier sees challenge as well as beauty in the hazy, purple and green mountains that watch over Rutland. Chris’s muscles tensed, and she thought of rhythmically weighting and unweighting to carve garlands through a field of knee-deep Utah powder snow. A June morning— strange time to think of skiing. She put the Porsche through its paces on sharp bends and hills, shifting down, accelerating in the turns, taking the road as fast as possible—skiing with a machine on the twisting highway. To call Sharon, Vermont, a sleepy village is to flatter it; hamlet is more fitting. If it is sleepy, it is because there is very little to do there. In 1817 the Smiths discovered that the rocky soil was virtually impossible to farm and left; the rocks

are still there. The hamlet sports a granite monument provided by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints commemorating the birthplace of Joseph Smith; a plaque tells the visitor that it is “the world’s largest polished shaft” (thirty-eight and one half feet—one foot for each year of the martyr’s life). There is also a visitors’ center at the old Mack farm, where literature on Mormonism is distributed and short lectures and slide presentations given on the founding of the sect, its basic history, and tenets. Young missionaries with clean shaven, scrubbed faces, wearing conservative suits with polished shoes, greet visitors and encourage them to help themselves to free brochures and tracts. (The missionaries know that this may be the only chance God will give the guests to hear the restored truths—and what dreadful fate befalls those who have had the opportunity and not listened!) Once missionaries were blunter about warning gentiles; the invitation to see slides and view the paintings of an idealistic, angelic-faced Smith is a more subtle lore to baptism by immersion. One of the visitors at the center contrasted sharply with the others. He had a full beard, and his gray shirt jacket and Levis were ragged and dirty. The backpack Chris spied in one corner near the entrance must belong to him, she thought. Was he hitchhiking in those huaraches or did he have sturdier shoes? His face was open, friendly; Chris determined that he was a few years older than she. She approached him to study him a little more while he scrutinized a facsimile of the golden plates. Why was she always drawn to such types? Plenty of wellgroomed persons stood in the room, but he looked more interesting than they. He did not notice Chris’s approach. The explanatory sign at the side of the golden plates held his attention, and he reached into his shirt pocket for a small notebook and stubby pencil. Why copy such dogmatic bullshit? Chris wondered. Was this guy a gung-ho Mormon? Dressed like that, probably not. Such dress showed disrespect. The youth of the church were repeatedly preached to about proper appearance—no long hair, no minis, no beards (never mind that many of the early leaders of the church and Christ himself wore them). He suddenly stepped backward and his right huarache caught the corner of Chris’s right sandal. “Sorry. Excuse me. I didn’t know anyone was behind me.” “No, it’s my fault,” she answered. “I was standing too close, I suppose. No harm done anyway.” Chris looked directly into his blue eyes. “May I ask what you found so intriguing on the sign?”

“Oh, it says there that writing on golden plates was common in the ancient world of Egypt, etc. I thought I’d check that fact.” He was about to add something, but seemed to think better of it, and inquired, “Are you LDS?” “Well, yes. Born into the church, but I’m afraid I’ve strayed.” That statement should test him—if devout, he would be horrified. “Oh, in that case I can finish what I was going to say.” He placed the notebook and pencil in his pocket, buttoned it and said, “So much of what the modern church teaches is either an elaborate rationalization of what Smith taught and did, or simply lies. To some extent I-I accept the early church—the teachings of the prophet Joseph or at least some of them—I agree with him that a glass of good wine enhances the beauty of a day, and I also accept polygamy.” Was this guy a weirdo? Chris had known others in Utah who practiced polygamy, but then he didn’t say he practiced it. Some were former Mormon missionaries to who somehow got all screwed up with fundamentalist Mormon teachings. Others were older. There were several in Davis County—in Farmington and Bountiful—but not just there. Salt Lake had a few—Bluffdale. They were scattered around. Of course the modern church didn’t recognize the practice— known fundamentalists or polygamists—were excommunicated. The principal had been taken from the earth for the time being confusing like most Mormon doctrine. “You don’t seem shocked by my statement of beliefs. That rattles the teeth of most Mormons.” “I told you I’ve strayed,” she replied in an annoyed tone. “Anyway, I’m from Utah—from Mecca itself—Salt Lake City. I’ve known both boozers and polygamists there. Are you just a believer in polygamy or a practitioner?” He shrugged off an answer and introduced himself. “By the way, I’m Mark Spencer, and I’m also from Utah.” “Well, Mr. Spencer, I’m Chris Howe.” She felt drawn to this tall, soft-spoken heretic. He had such charisma! “What brings you so far from home?” Chris asked. “Are you hitchhiking?” “Answer to the question is yes, and I’m far from home because I’m doing personal firsthand research on Mormonism. It interests me that much.” He paused for a moment to ire her attractiveness; his eyes fixed on the sheer, white blouse and surveyed the rich tan of her soft throat. The top button on the

blouse was unfastened, revealing a deep cleavage between her full breasts. “I might ask you the same.” “I’m not hitchhiking. I have a car, and I’m sort of doing personal research too, I suppose—I like your term. But I’m just trying to learn more about my family— of course Mormonism is all tied up with it—to better understand who I am.” “A true child of our age—busy at self-discovery.” A broad smile broke across his face. “Let’s stroll outside, mademoiselle. The grounds, insects, chipmunks, and squirrels around here are more interesting than this propaganda.” “Okay.” She wanted to learn more about him. How “holy” was this serene dude? Maybe he could become a traveling companion. Tooling around alone was getting boring.

Louisa

VI

He Had Been Chosen by God to Guide Them as He Saw Fit

So did you and Nancy have a good chat last night?” Sara asked when Louisa returned home. “I suppose you had breakfast there.” “Yes,” she replied, hating the deception. She ed Daniel at the big oak table but could not face him. She knew what he was thinking. At least he would cover for her, and the Rigdons were moving to Pittsburgh. Sara wouldn’t find out. “You’ll have tea with us, I guess.” Sara stoked the wood stove to boil water. “Yes, maybe a cookie too.” “It seems breakfast was light at the Rigdons’ home. How is everyone there? The campaign is going well, I hear. Daniel tells me that Brothers Joseph and Sidney are already ahead in the—there is a word for it—when they ask people on the riverboats.” “Steamboat election,” Daniel supplied. “They are proceeding in earnest. Very soon most of the apostles will be campaigning. Just image: Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon, president and vice president of the United States! The Saints will be safe forever.” And what would she be as a wife of the prophet? “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, my dear,” Daniel reminded. “Realistically speaking I see no chance that we can win this election. What Joseph is trying to do is to compel the rest of the country to respect our desire to create a sovereign state and to recognize the intrinsic danger of mobocracy. He deplores the violence in this land and would have what he calls a theodemocracy,

thus eliminating the two-party system.” “We all know how worthless politicians are.” Louisa was bitter. “After the Missouri expulsion the prophet even went to Washington to appeal to President Van Buren, who was sympathetic, but of course said he couldn’t do anything. It might have lost him a few votes. We’ve never received one penny in reparations from the state of Missouri.” “I think it’s a good deal more than the loss of a few votes Mr. Van Buren feared, namely, repercussions from Missouri. Slavery is a very sensitive issue there since so many are slaveholders and want to preserve their property. Joseph’s feelings about the black man are very much in agreement with the abolitionists.” “Still, Daniel, Brother Joseph is in favor of annexing Texas, which is slaveholding,” Louisa reminded him. “True, but he has no desire to give the southern bloc more control. It is his plan that the states on the Mason–Dixon line should abolish slavery thus maintaining the balance of power. Apparently the Whig candidate, Henry Clay, also has some reservations about the Republic of Texas. It’s my hunch that these views may hurt him with the electorate, which seems to favor expansion, and this would be to our benefit.” “I hear that Lyman Wight and others are partial to moving there, Daniel, if things worsen a good deal,” Sara said as she poured the tea. “Then there’s talk of Oregon.” “I can’t believe Joseph would approve of it. Most of those going to Oregon are from Missouri,” Daniel replied. Had he revealed too much of the secret Ytfif doings? Oh, well, it was becoming more and more open, especially since the prophet’s conference proclamation on Zion. “I, for one, shall stay right here,” Sara stated firmly, surveying the roomy kitchen. “This house is to my liking, and we’re getting a little ahead now after losing nearly everything in Missouri. Louisa is of an age to be thinking of marriage, and maybe she’ll want to go pioneering. Nauvoo is good enough for me.” Louisa heard Sara’s last words distantly; she was reliving her night with Joseph. Her spirits sank. She was a married woman but was to continue life very much

as before in the home of her benefactors. She treasured the moments with Joseph and longed to be near him. “I can’t leave you alone very long,” he had said when he kissed her goodbye that morning.” In a day or two we’ll meet; I must see you.”

**********

Joseph had much to consider that morning. After seeing Louisa to the door, he returned upstairs to his office, giving little thought to breakfast as he sat musing over events of the past few months. He had barely greeted his secretary, Apostle Willard Richards, his brother, Hyrum, and Apostle John Taylor to whom he had turned over the editorship of the Times and Seasons. What were the priorities? Which problems should he face first? Had it all started when John C. Bennett ed the Saints in 1840? He should have seen through Bennett—not let him become mayor, nor to drill the legion—too powerful. Why had he promised the congressional candidate, Cyrus Walker, the vote last summer and then let his people the Democrat in the August election? Ford, that tiny, pinched-faced, book-learned governor, got his way again. The Latter-day Saints put him in office in ’42, and what had he done for them? Turned on them—worse than Van Buren! And why all the fuss over celestial marriage? Maybe the revelation shouldn’t have been written down last July, but then the Lord had revealed the principle so many years before. Not many besides Emma and the trusted had read it, but things always leaked out, and anyway it was the Lord’s commandment, not his. Sidney—was he truly the best candidate for vice president?—always so sickly and advocating strict temperance, not accepting the principle. That other Bennett, John A., the New York lawyer, had been the first choice. He owned property in Illinois. They corresponded—never met him, but so bright, writes for the New York Herald sometimes. He thinks the Saints should go to Oregon. Maybe someday he would meet that Bennett—too bad he was foreign born. Hadn’t helped matters any to slug that tax collector. If he could get Tom Sharp, that long-nosed, skinny, disciple of Lucifer and his antiMormon party to cease their agitating—Sharp was fit only for catfish bait. Was he really organizing a militia? Couldn’t the Danites do something about him? Were twenty thousand Missourians ready to raze Nauvoo? At least John C.

“Skunk” Bennett’s history of the Saints hadn’t had the negative impact of its potential. Folks were disgusted at his exaggerations. And what was John C. but a lecher and … and bugger! But he was in league with enemies in Missouri and Illinois—always denouncing, exposing the political ambitions and debaucheries of Joseph Smith. So what was wrong with wanting a sovereign state for his people? He had been chosen by God to guide them as he saw fit. Mormonism would eventually overrun the earth; and he, assisted by the Fifty, would rule the world. If Congress would not grant Nauvoo the status of a federal territory, then it would be wise to move the church west—but where? He was awaiting reports from Orson Hyde in Washington and from Lucien Woodworth from Texas. How would Congress react to his position? He would rather not leave Nauvoo, the center stake of Zion, but he should be ready with a plan—just in case. The citizens of this nation must see that he controlled a political force subordinate to none! The most pressing matter now was the rebellion of the Laws, Higbees, Dr. Foster, and their followers. Why would his second counselor become a Brutus, a Judas? William had always been so loyal, and his brother a general in the Legion. Satan never quit working, not for one second! Suddenly he pushed himself out of his chair, leaped forward, nearly bumping his leg on the desk, and began pacing. “Brethren, what are we to do about the Laws and the others?” Willard Richards, after taking a long draught on his clay pipe, was first to venture a response. “Excommunicate them; they’ve gone too far now. Such presumptuousness! Expecting to present their grievance to the conference gathering! Good you did not allow that, Brother Joseph; you’ve tolerated them quite long enough.” “Still their foul accusations have reached too many ears,” Hyrum broke in. “Possessed of evil,” John Taylor added. “William Law organized his church with himself as president—preposterous! To think I was the one who converted him!” “When I consulted with you and the rest of the Twelve before conference, all of you agreed that a date should be set to try them for their hip. I suggest that we set that trial for ten days from today on April 20.” Making the decision relieved Joseph’s tension; for a moment he reverted to his normal good humor. “And, Brother Willard, you must stop offending the Lord and First Counselor Rigdon with that pipe.”

The fat man could not repress a chuckle. “I shall, Brother Joseph, I shall.”

**********

Daylight was almost gone; Louisa put down her knitting, stood up, stretched, and walked to the south window of her upstairs bedroom. She looked out past the sodden orchards toward the Mansion. Was he there? Bulbous black clouds veered toward the west; a gray mist obscured the river. It had been raining steadily for two days since her marriage, and there was a chill in the air. The storm had begun with crackling thunder followed by lightning flashes; one of the shallow-rooted cottonwoods at the back of the property had been felled. She watched idly as a team of horses strained to extricate a carriage mired in several feet of mud on Granger Street. One good rain and the streets of Nauvoo become quagmires. Someone was riding west along the edge of Parley Street, a man hunched in the saddle and swallowed by a large cape. He stopped at the front gate, and she recognized Brother Porter Rockwell. She ran down the stairs and flung open the front door. “Joseph is waitin’ at the store.” He peered at her from under his heavy cape. “I’ve come ta fetch ya.” What luck! Sara was with Daniel in the shop. She grabbed her coat from the hall closet and ed Port who assisted her around the puddles on the front walkway. He arranged his cape about her head and over her shoulders; carefully he lifted her onto the horse, placing her sideways on the saddle. Then he took the reins and led the horse down Granger Street. What a strange person, Louisa thought, watching the short, stocky man with his slightly faltering walk. The limp was a personal bond between him and the prophet; he was so fiercely loyal. She knew that Joseph had set Port apart as his chief bodyguard following Port’s ordeal in Missouri jails. Joseph had blessed him, promising that enemy blades and bullets could never injure him if he left his hair and beard uncut. His usual costume these days was an immaculate white suit, symbolic of his position. Louisa studied the baby face and the small hands.

Could he be as skilled at fighting with any kind of weapon, as dangerous as everybody said? Joseph was working in his office when he heard her coming down the hall. He rushed out to meet her. They embraced long and ardently. “Those two days were twenty years, my dear Joseph.” He brushed water from her hair and face and with his fingers traced the high cheek bones, petite, straight nose, and small mouth. “Look at you, Port didn’t keep you dry.” “He tried.” “Let’s go into the bedroom; never know when someone may drop in to speak with me in the office. We’d best get out of sight.” Back in the familiar room they lay side by side listening to the rain splashing on the roof. Joseph patted the soft tendrils that crowded the nape of her neck. “The weather makes your hair curl.” She caught his finger and bit it delicately “Do you know, Louisa, sometimes I feel as if I’m carrying the whole world on my shoulders.” Why was it so stimulating talking with this girl? They had gratified their ion and now it was relaxing just to be with her, to talk politics, tell about his life, his troubles, to pour out his soul. He had never done this with the others, not even with Emma in the beginning. How was this Louisa, this nineteen-year-old different? “I have this dream—always the same dream—that I’m back in jail.” “My dear.” She sought his hand. “It’s always the jail in Liberty, Missouri, 1839, the rotten pigsty. My brother Hyrum, I, Apostle Lyman Wight, and others were to be tried on a charge of treason. It couldn’t be proven of course, so they just held us without bail or habeas corpus. Our quarters were cold and cramped and our jailers bloodthirsty dogs. You know we were poisoned and nearly died. That would have saved Missouri some trouble. From then on we scarcely dared eat the food. Once they found it humorous to serve us meat that was the flesh of a Negro—dastardly! I

was violently ill, retching, but we got our little revenge—tunneled our way through stones and timbers in their new escape proof jail. Must have cost Clay county a goodly sum to fix it, but we were caught before we finished. Then the power of the Almighty worked on the sheriff, who accepted a bribe and let us escape. “I’ve made it a plank of my presidential platform that prison reform is past due in this land. This travail should be eliminated. Prisoners, except murderers, should be reeducated and given the chance to make something of their lives, poor devils. They should work on roads and projects for the good of the public.” “Will they never leave you in peace?” He shook his head wearily. “Five years of writs, legal entanglements, lawyers’ fees. It never seems to end. I thought last summer that they had me. We were up in Dixon visiting Emma’s sister and the Saints there when I was detained along the road by two men claiming to be Mormon elders. Of course you know the story already.” “Yes, I was with the crowd, the brass band and the martial band that welcomed you back, but I don’t know the details, and I do want to know everything about you.” She snuggled close. She was his wife! “Well, Brothers Markham and Clayton had ridden the two hundred miles from Nauvoo in something like sixty hours to warn me, but I was tricked. One elder was a Missouri sheriff and the other an Illinois constable, who were in cahoots to take me downriver to Missouri. While I was in their custody, Sheriff Campbell of Dixon took them into custody. It became confusing. I was able to hire Cyrus Walker, who was in Dixon to make a speech, for $10,000—robbery even for an attorney as great as he is. The case was scheduled to be heard at Ottawa; but Judge Catton was away, so Walker pulled off a coup: he obtained a change of venue to the Fifth Judicial District, leading Sheriff Reynolds, the Missourian, to believe that I would be tried before Stephen Douglas sitting in Quincy. He helped me once before. It was a brilliant stratagem, for our Nauvoo, also in the fifth district, lay in the direct path to Quincy. We went no further. I wish you could have seen their faces when Wilson Law with a posse of l50 of my boys intercepted us. Then all you folks and the bands marched out to meet me. Do you how the crowds cheered? Cannons fired and several brothers shot off their muskets; every bell in town was ringing. The Nauvoo court discharged

me immediately.” “Was this when Cyrus Walker asked you to turn out the Whig vote for him?” “Yes, he had made it a condition of his services. What choice was there? Later Hyrum had a vision that the Saints should vote for the Democrat, Hoge. I felt Hyrum should announce it to the people. I explained that I had never known him to err in these matters, but personally I had to vote for Walker, although I had no revelation on the matter. It was an untenable position I found myself in. Should the vote have gone to the Whig, Governor Ford would have allowed Missouri to extradite me. Of course Walker was furious, but he had received payment enough for his labors. I tell you, Louisa, it isn’t over yet, and I long to be rid of Illinois politics for good. It was never my intention to become embroiled in their local shenanigans, and it has cost me dearly. I care not a fig for the Democrats or the Whigs, and Governor Ford is a polecat.” “They won’t come for you again will they? I went with Daniel to that meeting in the grove last fall where we signified by raising our right hands that we endorsed the new city ordinance. Any person who tries to arrest you on that old Missouri charge again can be imprisoned for life here in our jail. Enough is enough! Not even the governor could pardon him without consent of the mayor. And you are the mayor!” “That ordinance caused much excitement downriver and in Springfield with Tom Sharp leading our enemies as usual. The Signal and the Message screamed about abuse of power. Don’t they know who I am? The Lee County Observer made charges—all those little newspapers did. I usually don’t bother with them; I like the New York Herald.” Again, as every time he had been with her, even last year before he had spoken to her of the principle, he was discussing such serious things, matters he should properly discuss with the Twelve and the Council of Fifty. It was always the same. Maybe he would spend most of his free time with her and less with the others, the Lord wouldn’t object. “But let’s speak of more pleasant things. Next month during the political convention we are going to have a party at the Mansion. I’ve learned that we’ll have distinguished guests from Boston. You must come with Daniel and Sara, and if the young bucks allow it, save some dances for me.”

“My husband, I would dance every one with you.” “So late I have found you, my lovely. Pray it is not too late. Come, Port will escort you home. Sara will have missed you by now. The next weeks will be very busy, but I’ll see you as often as possible; the agony of separation is as great for me as it is for you.” He kissed her on the brow and helped her with her coat.

**********

Nearly two weeks had ed since conference and spring rains continued to threaten farms in the Mississippi bottomlands with flooding. Anti-Mormon sentiment was mounting. Saints feared that others would share the fate of David Holman of Ramos, who in December had been burned out, an event ominously reminiscent of New York, Ohio, and Missouri persecutions. From Warsaw Tom Gregg stepped up his attacks upon the Saints, describing Joseph as “that hoary monster who rules at Nauvoo, whose black heart would exult in carnage and bloodshed rather than yield what power he has obtained by his hellish knavery.” In the Warsaw Message he had written “… many in our midst contemplate a total extermination of that people; that the thousands of defenseless women and children, aged and infirm, who are congregated at Nauvoo, must be driven out— aye, driven, scattered—like the leaves before the autumn blast!” In the home of one of Nauvoo’s most substantial citizens animosity toward Joseph was deepening. William Law complained to his brother, Wilson, while the latter shook the water from his broad-brimmed hat, hung his coat in the closet, and followed William into the Parlor. “I do not doubt that we’re being persecuted right here in this community we’ve helped to build,” William said motioning his brother to sit down. “The failure of Joseph to air the case before the congregation proves how low he has sunk.” He settled his heavy frame on a straight-backed chair. “To excommunicate us without our defense is un-American, hardly democratic, and certainly not the way he wishes to be treated,” Wilson replied. “First he set up April 20 as the date for a church trial, and then he has Porter Rockwell inform

us today, two days early, that we are excommunicated. It’s exactly this total power of the church—or rather Joseph’s power—over so many lives that is worrying gentiles. And now Joseph’s odious campaign pronouncements that the church is the government, ignores the very foundations of this nation—the separation of church and state.” He folded his arms defiantly and crossed his legs. “Nauvoo has become a theocracy. I fear Joseph misunderstands the times in which we live. As a former general of the Legion, you know its existence as a unit of the Illinois militia is a sham. Multiply it by several thousand—the converts keep pouring in—and the government itself is threatened. So I perceive the danger in autarchy.” William paused as his pretty, brunette wife, Jane, ed them. “What I cannot tolerate is Joseph’s use of the power of the church to stifle all enterprise other than his own, to actually dictate where business will be done.” “Do you believe, William, that he has appropriated funds from the Nauvoo House, that hotel he is as anxious to see finished as the temple?” “Yes, to buy lots, which he resells at inflated prices. You both know that Joseph has never had a head for business, has never bothered to keep his s straight. He has fought our enterprises around the temple in an attempt to keep trade in the river section. We’ve bought a sawmill and a gristmill and developed the lumber industry, yet he fails to grasp that this town must develop commerce, and I mean something other than the forced labor on the temple that he pays for in that worthless script. Some of those men don’t get enough to eat.” “Didn’t Joe promise that Emma could cook for all who were hungry?” Jane interjected. “That woman has endured humiliations beyond the limits of human endurance.” “I still believe that it was John Bennett’s influence,” her husband replied, “and from what I hear of Emma she would agree with this—that has so misled Joseph; I do wish Bennett had never come here. Certainly Joseph’s early revelations and visions and the restored gospel itself are true. Do you both when we first heard the preaching of Almon Babbitt and John Taylor in Canada? There was an enthusiasm, a purity they brought us; I’ve never known such elevation of the spirit. Only a few months ago I was still defending Joseph. I recall one public speech in which I termed him a ‘good, moral, virtuous, peaceable, and patriotic

man,’ and now”—he shook his head sadly—“it has come to this.” “Bennett’s insinuation into the confidence of the prophet was the work of the devil himself,” Jane agreed. “I understand that in his book he has called you, Joseph, and John Taylor the Holy Trio.” “I credit Bennett with tempting Joseph with plural wives, although I understand Bennett didn’t always bother to marry his women. He’d left one wife and scandal in Ohio,” William added. “A pity. Mayor Bennett was a man of many talents: lawyer, doctor, college professor, military strategist.” “You neglected to mention opportunist, profligate, abortionist—pardon me, Jane. Although he’s been excommunicated, I’m sure his book is doing the Saints no good, and Joseph continues his path to tyranny.” “Surely this so-called everlasting covenant, celestial marriage, is a work of infamy,” William declared angrily. “I wonder if there’s a household in Nauvoo in which the women haven’t been approached. When that man sought my good Jane I could not contain my rage. I pleaded with him to repent, to abandon this madness, this canker which will destroy us all.” “If a woman refuses him as I did,” Jane added, “he then simpers that he was ‘just testing’ us.” “Yes, always the playful Joseph. Perhaps if we are successful in reestablishing the true church based upon the early teachings, and repudiating plural marriage and the notion of polytheism attached to it, we can still bring the prophet to his senses,” Wilson proposed. “What we lack is a forum for discussion. We had forty witnesses willing to speak on the twentieth, yet we won’t be given the opportunity. It was a high-handed action, but we should have expected it. Joseph has never tolerated dissenters.” “I do not intend to give up,” William replied in a tone they recognized as final. “Don’t forget I once bested Joseph at throwing a bar of lead, and I may be the only man to have ever thrown him in a wrestling match. If the Nauvoo newspapers will not give us space, the Warsaw Signal will. And Dr. Foster and I have ordered a press; it should be here soon. What the Times and Seasons and the Neighbor need is a little competition. I’ve always wanted to be in the

publishing business; I think I’m going to get my chance.”

VII

The Learning of Schools and Universities Is as Nothing Next to the Power of the Lord

Mormons, the holy city, and their charismatic prophet intrigued many intellectuals and notable citizens of the day. The Massachusetts educator, Josiah Quincy, and his relative, Charles Francis Adams, included Nauvoo on their tour of the Midwest in the spring of 1844, arriving on May l4 in the midst of excitement and tension: delegates were gathering for the political convention that would officially launch the Mormon ticket; William Law’s press had arrived, and on May 10 a shocking prospectus of his forthcoming newspaper, the Expositor , had appeared; on the same day in a public speech Joseph had stated that he planned to lay a foundation that would “revolutionize the whole world.” However, as busy, perplexing, and perilous as the times were for him, the prophet had been looking forward to the visit of the distinguished Bostonians, and when he learned on the morning of the fifteenth that they had spent their first night in a cockroach invested mill, dispatched his carriage to bring them to the Mansion House. He did not don his white beaver hat and finest suit for the occasion, but awaited the erudite travelers unshaven in striped pantaloons and a soiled linen jacket at the white picket front gate of the hotel. Quincy grimaced in discomfort as Joseph gripped his right hand. “We welcome you and Mr. Adams to our city, which we call the lush garden, and apologize for your first night’s lodging and for all the rain that continues to plague us. You’ll be quite well-accommodated here at the Mansion.” Jovially he added, “We thank you for the sunshine you have brought.” The pained expression on the face of the portly Quincy changed to a smile in anticipation of stimulating conversation enhanced by hearty food and drink. “We docked at midnight, sir, and did not wish to trouble you.”

“Please, let one of my boys take your bags and come in to breakfast.” Several of the prophet’s cronies, who had been milling around, ed Joseph and the easterners in the long, spacious kitchen of the Mansion; they sipped coffee and nodded affirmation as Joseph regaled his guests with particulars of his teachings. “This Book of Mormon, Mr. Smith, is it true that a resurrected Indian gave it to you? What is it exactly?” Adams inquired. “I’ll explain it straight from the horse’s mouth, Mr. Adams. People get things so confused. I never communed with resurrected Indians.” The chorus of Mormon hangers-on hooted. “You see, when I was merely fourteen-years-old, gentlemen,” he began, turning very solemn, “God decided that the time was ripe to restore his true gospel to the earth. It had been taken from mankind even before the close of the ministry of Jesus’s apostles. Christ’s teachings had been perverted, and, as you know, there were countless Christian religious denominations throughout the world but none was his church. I was chosen by our Lord as the instrument for the restoration of the original Apostolic Church.” Joseph paused, fixed his deep-set hypnotic eyes upon the Bostonians, and recited the of his first vision, “I went to a grove near my family home in Palmyra, New York, to pray for truth as the first chapter, fifth verse of James onishes, for indeed God giveth wisdom to all men liberally and upbraideth not. I began to pray and was at first overcome by the power of the evil one, but just at the moment of greatest alarm, I saw a pillar of light, brighter than the noonday sun descending gradually until it fell upon me. Immediately I was released from the dark force, and I beheld two personages standing above me in the air. Their brightness and glory defy all description. One spake unto me saying, ‘Joseph, this is my beloved son, hear him!’” The prophet’s face paled, his voice trembled, his eyes glazed. Adams reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch; Quincy took a sip of coffee and shifted his position in order to cross his legs. The Mormons sat enthralled. “The Son of God explained that in due time I was to restore his church, for none

on earth was true. It wasn’t until September 1823, three months before my eighteenth birthday, that I had a vision concerning the Book of Mormon. I was supplicating the Almighty for a manifestation that I might know my standing before him, and while I was engaged in the act of calling on God, a light illuminated my room. When it became brighter than daylight, a personage appeared at my bedside; his feet did not touch the floor, and he wore a loose robe of a whiteness beyond anything earthly. His countenance truly was like lightning and the greatest brightness of all shone around his immediate person. He called me Joseph and said his name was Moroni; he explained that the Almighty had work for me to do. He told me that there was a book, written upon golden plates, deposited in the earth; the plates gave an of the former inhabitants of North and South America. The Angel Moroni said the record contained the everlasting gospel because the Savior himself had visited those so-called Indians and taught it. Also, with it were two stones in silver bows fastened to a breastplate; they were called the Urim and Thummim. The possession and use of these stones were what constituted seers in ancient times. God had prepared them for the purpose of translating the book—the golden plates—from Reformed Egyptian.” “Why is it not called the Book of Moroni?” Quincy interrupted; his mouth puckered and eyes squinting as he searched his memory for possible knowledge of Reformed Egyptian. “I’ll get to that, sir. While I spake with the angel, he told me many great and glorious things and quoted to me Old Testament prophecies, and the vision was opened to my mind, and I beheld the place where the golden plates were deposited. The Lord sent Moroni to me two more times during the night; each time he repeated his message. I awoke exhausted, but arose as usual to attend to the necessary work of the day. My father, who was laboring along with me, discovered that I was without strength and told me to go home. In attempting to cross the fence to exit the field, I felt helpless on the ground and was quite unconscious. The first thing I can recollect is hearing a voice speaking unto me, ‘Joseph, Joseph,’ it called. I looked up and beheld Moroni again, standing over my head surrounded by brilliant light as before. For the fourth time he related the information and told me to tell my father. When I did, my father instructed me to go where the plates were buried as commanded by the stranger. “In the most elevated hill near the village of Manchester, New York, that we now know as the Hill Cumorah lay the plates, deposited in a stone box. I removed the

earth, obtained a lever, and with some exertion raised the stone cover of considerable size. I looked in and beheld all that Moroni had described: the plates, Urim and Thummim, and the breastplate. Being curious, I made an attempt to remove the plates but was forbidden by the messenger, who appeared again. The time for bringing them forth had not yet arrived, he said. He told me that I should come to that place precisely in one year from that time, and that he would meet with me. I went at the end of each year for four years as instructed, and each time received intelligence from him respecting what the Lord was going to do, and how and in what manner his kingdom was to be conducted in the last days.” He paused, filled with emotion, to quickly assess the effect his words were having on the learned visitors, took a deep breath, and continued. “When, gentlemen, I was finally able to take the plates on the twenty-second day of September 1827, and begin the work of translating, I learned that the history had been compiled and engraved upon the plates by Moroni and his father, Mormon, who were the last survivors of their people. After his father died, Moroni roamed around the vicinity of Manchester and Palmyra, New York—in the area of what has been named Wayne county—for many years alone. When he was about to on to the next world, he buried the plates, that they might be brought forth in our day—400 years later—in the fullness of times.” Joseph emitted a prolonged sigh at the majesty of it all. Some of the other Saints had tears in their eyes. “You were schooled in this Reformed Egyptian?” Adams inquired as Joseph paused to take a biscuit and refill his coffee cup. “No, Mr. Adams, I translated through the Urim and Thummin—I looked through the special stones—directed by the Almighty. The learning of schools and universities is as nothing next to the power of the Lord, for he is intelligence perfected.” “I see. I see,” Adams responded like a reprimanded schoolboy. “I or one of the brethren can tell you much more about the restoration of Christ’s church and our doctrine, but if you’ll come with me now, I’ll personally show you around Nauvoo and take you to my mother’s collection of ancient treasures and mummies. Brother Rockwell and a few of the brethren will us.”

**********

“Well, what do you make of him? The golden plates, the godly King James Bible ‘spakes’ and ‘untos’ the temple, the mummies, of Nauvoo, of all the wild talk that we have listened to?” Adams asked his cousin when their host finally left them alone in their room that afternoon to “refresh themselves before dinner.” “Pray God, what is Reformed Egyptian?” he shouted. “My dear, Charles, I do not have the faintest notion about any of it; right now I stand helpless before the puzzle. I am afraid it has to filter through the gray matter and settle into my brain a bit. I am, however, sure of one thing: this Joseph Smith like none other of the multitudinous Smiths before him has won human hearts and shaped human lives. Let me suspend further judgment until this evening when, I trust, he will agreeably reveal more of himself. He seems to delight in that!”

**********

After an early dinner, Louisa sat in the parlor reading again the prospectus of the Expositor, issued five days before over the signatures of Charles Ivins and three sets of brothers: the Laws, the Higbees, and the Fosters. Gentile persecution was bad enough. Why did highly placed brethren misunderstand? Could Joseph weather the crisis? She perused the vituperative phrases “repeal of the Nauvoo City Charter,” “union of church and state,” “facts as they really exist in the city of Nauvoo, fearless of whose particular case the facts may apply.” They would strip Joseph of his authority as mayor and chief justice of the municipal court. They promised the first issue within four weeks. In disgust she threw the sheet on the floor. Her Joseph would show the wretches! In a few moments she would see him. Louisa was meeting with Emma and several other sisters at the Mansion to make final plans for the party and dance on Friday evening. She had seen Joseph only three times since their marriage. Why didn’t the time ? She looked at the grandfather clock—six thirteen. Maybe by walking slowly—but it was only five

minutes away—slower in this mud though. The meeting was scheduled for seven o’clock. She had been dressed since that afternoon—her hair loose, the way he liked it, the new dress she and Sara had made. What else could be done to make herself attractive? She walked to the hall mirror and removed the large comb from its rack. How foolish! She had already arranged her hair three times! She replaced the comb and called to Sara in the kitchen, “I’m leaving now for the meeting.” “So early?” “Yes, some of us decided to go a little early to … to decide on the proper decorations. Maybe some banners with political slogans.” She commended herself upon becoming a more convincing liar and rushed to get her coat, a bonnet—detestable thing—in case of rain, and her black boots. Prepared for the weather, she launched herself through the front door, along the walk, and into the street, repeating almost audibly, “Only one block east on Parley then two blocks south on Main and I’m there—with Joseph.” The prophet’s eldest son, Joseph III, showed her in and went for his mother. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a bit early,” she stammered to Emma. “Sister Edwards suggested coming early. I-I wanted to discuss some things with her. Is she here?” “No,” Emma replied coldly, surveying the youthful pink face and noting the new dress. Why was Ms. Louisa Bidwell always mooning over Joseph? Was she one of them? “Emma, young Joseph says Sister Bidwell is here,” the prophet called from the kitchen where he, Emma, and some convention delegates had been dining with Messrs. Adams and Quincy. “Bid her us for dessert and coffee; we want as many citizens as possible to meet our illustrious guests.” Hesitantly, she followed Emma into the large kitchen. The prophet sat at the head of the table; to his left was an empty chair; to his right two strangers very properly attired. Joseph motioned to her to take the vacant space near him. She feared she was blushing. Didn’t the men stare at her? Was Emma scowling? “Gentlemen, I would like for you to meet one of Nauvoo’s fairest flowers, Sister Louisa Bidwell. As you can see, the climate here is most beneficial to maidens.”

Her cheeks burned; now there could be no doubt that she was blushing. Emma dropped a handful of forks and mumbled an apology. Joseph continued expansively, hardly noticing the clang of the silverware. “Sister Bidwell, I have this day taught these gentlemen the basic principles of the restoration whilst they sojourned with us and viewed our city. I have not wrestled nor pulled stakes with either, but those are not the sports of learned easterners, and should I win, might embarrass and alienate them. That would be a pity, for we have grown most fond of each other. I think on the morrow I may baptize them in the Mississippi.” Under the table he pressed his knee against hers. The image of a wrestling prophet and the prospect of being dunked in the swollen, muddy great river offended Quincy’s sensitivities. He cleared his throat and said, “Ms. Bidwell, we are pleased to meet you, indeed. We find your people friendly, and this City of Joseph, as I have this very day heard it named, lovely enough in its location to furnish a site for the utopian communities of Plato or Thomas Moore. Prophet Smith was just explaining that you have, in addition to the Bible, other books of holy writ.” “We have the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, the Book of Abraham, and other revelations and writings that have not been published, including an inspired translation of the Bible,” Louisa said, eager to display her learning. “The Doctrine and Covenants are your revelations, Mr. Smith?” Adams asked. “That’s the idea! Modern-day commandments and instructions of the Lord,” Joseph answered. “And this Book of Abraham?” Quincy queried. “It has something to do with those mummies we paid to see, if I am not mistaken.” “It is a translation made from ancient papyri (had she pronounced the word correctly?) by the prophet Joseph, and it—they—were found with the mummies. Those writings reveal many great and marvelous things about the creation of the earth, and the planet Kolob where eternal spirits reside. God measures time from it—one of Kolob’s revolutions takes a thousand of our years, and—” “That’s correct, Sister,” Emma interrupted, towering possessively between

Louisa and Joseph at the prophet’s left. “Do you want chocolate cake or apple pie?” Quincy plunged his fork into his huge slice of warm pie. “Could you please, General Smith (during the visit to the temple, he had observed his host’s fondness for this title when a worker addressed him with it), succinctly relate the contents of the Book of Mormon? I thank you for the copy you presented me with and shall read it thoroughly.” Having leafed through it, the scholar had already decided that reading it would be a task far too laborious even for a man accustomed to dry texts; the book appeared to be lethally dull, clumsy pseudepigrapha written in imitation of biblical style, and—in a word— incomprehensible. “Son,” Joseph addressed his namesake, “fetch Sister Bidwell a copy of one of our tracts that she may read its concise statement and enlighten all interested parties.” Louisa read slowly, distinctly, conscious of Sister Snow’s lectures on the importance of proper diction:

In this important and interesting book the history of ancient America is unfolded from its first settlement by a colony that came from the tower of Babel at the confusion of languages to the beginning of the fifth century of the Christian era. We are informed by these records that America in ancient times has been inhabited by two distinct races of people. The first were the Jaredites and came directly from the city of Jerusalem about six hundred years before Christ. They were principally Israelites of the descendants of Joseph. The Jaredites were destroyed about the time the

Israelites came from Jerusalem, who succeeded them in the inheritance of the country. The principal nation of the second race fell in battle toward the close of the fourth century. The remnants are the Indians, who now inhabit this country. This book also tells us that our savior made his appearance upon this continent after his resurrection; that he planted the gospel here in all its fullness and richness, and power and blessing, that they had apostles, prophets, pastors, teachers, and evangelists; the same order, the same priesthood, the same ordinances, gifts, powers, and blessings as was enjoyed on the eastern continent; that the people were cut off in consequence of their transgressions, that the last of their prophets who existed among them was commanded to write an abridgement of their prophecies, history, etc., and to hide it up in the earth and that it should come forth and be united with the Bible for the accomplishment of the purposes of God in the last days.

“Thank you, Sister,” Joseph said. He took the tract and squeezed her hand in appreciation of her performance. “I should add that the second group, the Israelites, grew in number and riches. However, with the death of Lehi, who led this tribe from Jerusalem, it split into two factions, one headed by Nephi, the son of Lehi, the other by Laman, his brother, and known respectively as Nephites and Lamanites.” The Nephites developed into a peaceful, prosperous, and cultured people, inhabiting Central America, Mexico, and South America. The Lamanites became wild and warlike. They moved northward spreading over the southern and eastern sections of what is now the United States and the territories.

Because they forgot the God of their fathers, the Almighty cursed them with dark skins to correspond with the darkness of their hearts. About the AD 400 the Nephites and Lamanites met in a great battle at the Hill Cumorah, and—I have told you some of the rest—all the Nephites save Mormon, and his son, Moroni, were slain. Moroni received the records of his tribe from his father, added to them, and buried them. I testify to you in the name of Jesus Christ that it was so. And now you must read it for yourselves, for the book has caused the scales to fall from the eyes of thousands.” “Yes, it does sound informative,” Quincy replied. “I thank you both, and to you, Ms. Bidwell, I might well apply a line from Keats, ‘A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:/ Its loveliness increases; it … “‘… will never/ into nothingness; but still will keep/ A bower quiet for us, and a sleep/ Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing,’” Louisa finished. Emma rose brusquely to get Quincy, clearly moved by the frontier girl’s familiarity with poetry, another piece of pie; she informed Louisa that it was soon time for the meeting of the dance committee. “We shall convene upstairs, Sister, because the gentlemen will no doubt repair to the parlor.” “We shall,” Joseph affirmed. “As soon as Mr. Quincy has finished eating, let us seat ourselves comfortably upon one of the new ottomans my good wife recently purchased in St. Louis, and I shall tell you more concerning my presidential campaign and God’s plans for the guidance of this nation. Perhaps Brother Rockwell could bring us a glass of our finest Nauvoo wine.” He nodded to his bodyguard. “I have one last question, if you don’t object, sir, in regard to the Book of Mormon—to its language,” Adams said, playing with his spectacle case. “I shall give you one example, Mr. Adams, which for now must suffice—the very word Mormon itself. We say Saxon, good; the Dutch, goed; the Latin, bonus; the Greek, kalos; the Hebrew, tob; and the Egyptian, mon. Hence with the addition of more, or the contraction mor, we have the word Mormon, which, if you have followed me, you must conclude means more good. Such is the nature of Reformed Egyptian—straight as a loon’s leg.” Had he impressed these scholars that his inspired learning was greater than theirs? “Now, please, let us

continue in the parlor, but pursue another subject.”

**********

Past midnight the group broke up, and in their room Adams and Quincy began analyzing all they had heard. “Josiah, I have not yet any recollection of a language called Reformed Egyptian. When we return I shall ask one of your colleagues at Harvard to enlighten me. What do you make of that short lecture on linguistics we were treated to? It is true indeed that a little learning is a dangerous thing, even when it is inspired.” “The prophet’s juxtaposing of vulgar phrases with proper English rather offends me, but, Charles, I should think that linguistic matters are minor compared to the whole body of illogicalities.” “Smith’s astrology—Kolob and all that—is reminiscent of Thomas Dick’s Philosophy of a Future State. The fool contended that in all likelihood the systems of the universe revolve around the throne of God. I suspect that Smith knows it well; it was published in Massachusetts in the thirties and has gained notoriety among the unsophisticated.” “Possibly correct. However, I can assure you that Nauvoo is no Boeotia; the food here is original and incomparable, and that Ms. Bidwell is a beauteous addition worthy of Boston itself. Why she knew Keats! A very bright lass, I must say, with a little more polish she could grace our finest homes.” “ on the steamer, the gent who denounced Smith as a libertine, a polygamist? You don’t suppose there is any truth to that? I thought I noted something more between Smith and Ms. Bidwell than mutual interest in her spiritual salvation.” “Yes, yes, so did Smith’s wife. It’s hard to say, Charles. He is an ingenuous fellow, even artlessly frank at times. Crude, yet quite intelligent; serious, yet humorous. Do you suppose he really believes his yarns and unexampled absurdities? When I was trustee of the McLean Asylum for the Insane, I spoke

with many inmates who were victims of the sad delusion that each had received the appointment of vice-regent of the deity upon earth. They invariably thought themselves to be sane and the rest of the world against them. Here the claim of one such pretender is respectfully acknowledged. Are all here as mad as he? Smith is endowed with a-a kingly faculty, which directs as by intrinsic right, the feeble or confused souls, who are looking for guidance.” “He is a product, you know, of that eastern religious revival of the 1820s and thirties in the so-called Burned-over District. Along the Erie Canal and throughout the hill country of Central New York, religious fervor—Pentecostal beliefs, numerous sects, evangelism—swept the area or scorched it repeatedly, so to speak.” “That has not yet completely died out. Smith’s group appears to be outlasting many of its competitors; perhaps because he left New York. By the way, did you pay careful heed to his words and manner when I expressed concern that he may well have too much power to be safely trusted to one man? Slowly, almost comically, he replied, ‘In your hands or that of any other person it would, no doubt be dangerous. I am the only man in the world who it would be safe to trust with it. , I am a prophet!’ Who can wonder that the chair of the National Executive has its place among the visions of this self-reliant and selfassured man? He has already traversed the roughest part of the way to that coveted position—born in the lowest ranks of poverty without book learning and with the homeliest of human names. At the age of thirty-eight he has made himself a power upon earth! I confess to you, Charles, that I agree with several points in his presidential platform.” “A pity that we cannot stay until the weekend; I should like to attend the political convention and the ball. I am certain that we would learn much more about these Mormons and more about the opposition to Smith which we have perceived in some quarters.” “To all appearances the prophet is little affected by his detractors. Applying one of his ugly, trite expressions to them, he said, ‘The curses of my enemies run off me like water from a duck’s back.’ Of course, I perceive that to be merely more Smithian braggadocio.” “Yet, Josiah, I am convinced that he sincerely ignores bona fide research or documented studies in any of the disciplines upon which he pontificates. I am

thinking, for example, of Stephen’s and Catherwood’s Incidents of Travel in Central America, Chiapas and Yucatan. It was published at least three years ago, and with his apostles and missionaries all over the United States, the work has most certainly been brought to Smith’s attention.” “Anything in the Stephen’s that contradicts Smith’s Book of Mormon he would blatantly refute as human error, and data that he finds compatible, employ to substantiate his imaginative concoction. Facts do not deter those who listen only to the voice of the deity and angels. I shall from now on be following the invincible prophet and general most attentively.”

VIII

Ours Is Such an Exclusivist Society

Chris and Mark walked past one of the missionaries at the visitors’ center. He smiled at them condescendingly and inquired, “Have you signed the guest book?” “Yes, indeed,” Chris replied. Her lie might spare them a visit from missionaries. She knew that the address of each guest was torn out of the perforated sheets and sent to missionaries in the visitor’s hometown, and weak Mormons in Salt Lake City were not exempted. But how could they know that she and Mark were Jack Mormons? They had ways. The constant mutual vigilance of Mormons in Utah upon each other left few secrets. In fact, it was nice during her days of travel to be free of the hassle. No one nagging about her occasional cigarette, her fondness for a Bud or a Coors (or the Genesee she had now discovered). No one sincerely concerned about her salvation because she did not attend church. Mark picked up his pack, and she followed him outside where behind some shrubbery he rested it against the building. “This was really out of place in there, Chris,” he said. “These centers are always so immaculate.” “Yes. What do you think of their whole Hollywood approach to religion, their art, their architecture?” They strolled slowly along the sidewalks through the manicured grounds. “A friend of mine at the U it all Disneyland. He speaks of Disneyland temple design and Mormon romantic idealism in art. You know, as a genre, like socialist realism is a genre.” “Yeah? Teach me more,” he said sarcastically. She felt foolish. Of course he had perceived all of this. “I’m sorry, but coming from a strict Mormon background, some of these concepts—these criticisms of the church—were enlightening for me and extremely heretical. We are never to

question. Only disciples of Satan teach the Socratic principle of the unexamined life being not worth living. When a professor of philosophy at the U threw that one at me, I thought it to be the most beautiful and meaningful statement I had ever heard. I’ve been examining ever since.” “Six months maybe? Or even a whole year?” he gently chided. “Lay off, will you?” she snapped. “I don’t like being ridiculed. To me all of this is important.” “My turn to be sorry, Chris,” he said. They stopped walking and faced each other for a moment. “I always wonder what anyone not born into the church learns at these centers. Ours is such an exclusivist society. Think of all the concepts that comprise our frame of reference. We know that a ward is the smallest unit of organization and that several wards make up a stake. Of course out in the missions the term branch is used instead of ward, and outsiders must learn that each ward has a bishop with two counselors who are inferior in authority to the stake president and his counselors as well as to the legislative, istrative, and judicial body of twelve men comprising the stake high council. Without a bit of explanation, who would ever understand the concept of stake patriarch—that high priest chosen in each stake to give us patriarchal blessings when we reach puberty?” “Those blessings are really lectures telling us how to conduct our lives, but disguised as being prophetic of how we shall conduct them, just wishful thinking in some cases. ‘You’ll grow to be an influential mother in Zion,’ etc. etc.” “The church organization is really tight, irable. Business leaders and dictators should take note. Think of all the auxiliary organizations we have. We begin as children with Primary then graduate to the Mutual Improvement Association. Women have their Relief Society. Mormonism is a way of life. Not just a Sunday ritual.” He shuffled his weight from the right to the left foot. “The two priesthoods are another baffling concept. To my knowledge no other church has such a thing. Imagine hearing for the first time the term Melchizedek—the name of our higher priesthood, which is neatly divided into three ranks: elders, seventies, and high priests—and then there is the lower, Aaronic priesthood, comprised again of the magic number three: deacons, teachers, and priests.” “As to the doctrine, I don’t think most of us in the church understand that.”

He smiled. “It makes me laugh to see how Mormon intellectuals—if there is such a thing—have taken Joe’s teachings, which have about as much substance as cotton candy, and organized and codified them. They’ve been careful to omit, smooth over, or play down some of his wilder ideas, and they’ve searched the Bible or somebody’s philosophy. They can be amazingly eclectic in trying to substantiate and justify those wacky notions.” His brow furrowed. “Yeah, maybe Emerson, maybe Kierkegaard, anybody. They just pull a statement or paragraph out of context.” He paused and sighed. “Our prophet would have fit right in with Tieck, Keats, Coleridge, or the Spaniards, Bécquer and Larra, except that he would not have measured up intellectually. Too much of the bullshitter even for them.” “We also have a unique vocabulary such as restored gospel, our special meaning of Zion, and—” “Sure,” Mark broke in, “and the dispensation of the fullness of times, the gathering, set apart, consecrated oil, endowed. There are so many.” He touched Chris’s shoulder. “Let’s sit on that bench over there under the maple. I’ll tell you some of my interpretations and beliefs, and you’ll learn that I sincerely appreciate your doubts, opinions, and search.” They sat for over an hour while Mark clarified his conviction that a return to simpler ways assured mankind a better existence. He despised the materialism and intellectual shallowness of modern Mormons. They were unquestioning dullards led by sanctimonious old men in Salt Lake City who preached morality, thrift, and other Christian principles while enriching themselves and the church through the shrewdest business practices. Mark had served a mission to the Netherlands for over a year when the disillusionment overwhelmed him. Nearly at the point of a complete nervous collapse, he returned to his home in Kaysville to be shamed, shunned, and denounced by the very Saints who had sent him forth to preach the restored and everlasting gospel. He buried himself in libraries and enrolled in college courses to study religions, anthropology, and philosophy to lead the examined life, to find the true way. The Egyptians, American Indians, writers, and philosophers of the near and far east, Whitehead, Niebuhr, Jaspers, the Greeks, all the great thinkers were subjected to

his diligent scrutiny. He took something from each and then settled for an eclectic philosophy of life, ironically including some of the teachings of Joseph Smith whose doctrine he also ridiculed. For several months he had been operating a leather shop in Salt Lake City. At the end of his lengthy explanation Chris asked him to her in her travels. The Porsche beat hitching, but Mark declined the invitation. He wanted to make his way back across the country as he pleased meeting people, tracing the westward movement of the church, sleeping in forests and fields. He too would have fit well in the Romantic Age as would have so many youths in the turbulent l960s. Chris did not linger to beg him. She was accustomed to having men jump at the snap of her fingers. To have one refuse such an invitation annoyed and angered her. Did he know what he was refusing? What was implied in an offer to travel with her? Well, to hell with Mr. Mark Spencer. He really was different. Maybe a celibate polygamist! She didn’t ask. “Maybe I’ll see you in Utah, Chris. Good luck in your quest.” Those were his farewell words.

IX

You’ll Find in General Smith, the Man

The meeting of the state convention of delegates for Smith–Rigdon will come to order.” Early on the morning of May 17 crowds formed inside and around the small Seventies Hall to witness the proceedings. The new two-story building designed as a meeting hall and library for the Seventies, a priesthood group assigned to conduct missionary work, was still under construction, but, although for three days torrid sun had been caking the mud created by unprecedented spring rains, it had been deemed more suitable than the grove because of the unpredictability of the weather. Convention goers could sit inside or follow the activities from outdoors through the unglazed window casements and gaping doorframes. The meeting was brightened by Nauvoo’s comeliest maidens, Louisa among them, who attended wearing white dresses with scarlet sashes embroidered: Smith– Rigdon. Joseph had been nominated in Nauvoo on January 29, and today delegates would merely sustain his candidacy. Since he had sent copies of the platform to eastern newspapers, which had disseminated his views through the United States, no innovations or significant changes were expected in his established positions; however, Saints hoped at least to influence the few gentiles among the delegates to more assiduously pursue restitution from Missouri and to further enlighten them regarding the designs of the Lord for the development of the nation. William Wines Phelps, a one-time apostate turned bitter in Missouri and now contritely returned to the fold, had edited several Mormon publications and was responsible for much of Joseph’s high blown rhetoric. He introduced the candidate by reciting the words of a campaign song and ening all to sing it:

Kinderhoos, Kass, Kalhoun or Klay, Kan never surely win the day, But if you want to know who kan, You’ll find in General Smith, the man.

After much banging of his gavel during the third repetition of the refrain, Phelps succeeded in quieting the enthusiasts sufficiently to scream, “Now let us hear from the next president of these United States, Territories, and yet unexplored regions of the continent, Gen. Joseph Smith Jr., Prophet, Seer, and Revelator of the true Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” While the crowd in its acknowledging exuberance again became unruly, Joseph, standing at the lectern smiling and ebullient, drew himself to his full six feet one inch, to exhibit in partially accurate memorized phrases from several languages the linguistic skills with which Phelps had insisted he should introduce his speech and with which the prophet was so intrigued. “Were I a Chaldean I would exclaim: Keed’nauh ta-meroon lehoam elauhayau dey-ahemayaua veh aur’kau-lau gnaubadoo, yabadoo ma-ar’gnau comeen tehoat sheamyau allah, which means, ‘Thus shall ye say unto them: the gods that have not made the heavens and the earth, they shall perish from the earth, and from these heavens.’” At least he had that longest phrase out of the way. Now for the rest! He was pleased that some began to listen and continued, omitting the “were I.” “… An Egyptian, Su-h-eh-ni, translation, ‘What other persons are those?’ A German, Sie sind unverständig!, ‘What consummate ignorance!’ A Grecian, Diabolos bssileuei, ‘the Devil reins.’ A Frenchman, Messieurs sans Dieu, ‘gentlemen without God.’ A Turk, Ain shems, ‘the fountain of light.’ A Hebrew, Ahtau ail rauey, ‘Thou God, seest me.’ A Dane, Hvad tidende!, ‘What tidings!’ A Polander, Nay-yen-shoo bah pon na Jesu Christus, ‘Blessed be the name of Jesus Christ.’ A Roman, Procul, O procul este profani!, ‘Be off, be off ye profane!’ But as I am I, will only add: when the wicked rule, the people mourn.” Such dazzling philosophy silenced the onlookers, who were either puzzled or

overwhelmed by it, and then this most impressive polyglot addressed them seriously, varying little from his Views on the Powers and Policy of the Government of the United States issued in February. First, he denounced “Democracy, Whiggery, and Cliquery” and declared that since the greatness and glory of the country under the early presidents, the “fathers had fallen asleep” and “wicked and deg men had unrobed the government of its glory.” “Turn unto the Lord,” he urged, “and reform this nation.” His captivating oratorical tones pleaded for a one party system because the world was “governed too much,” but without “acknowledging Almighty God as the lawgiver.” Therefore, he entreated, “Let us go emphatically, virtuously and humanely for a theodemocracy, where God and the people hold the power to conduct the affairs of men in righteousness.” Concrete reforms included reduction of the number of congressmen by twothirds, “Two senators from a state and two to a million of population will do more business than the army that now occupy the halls of the national legislature. Pay them two dollars and their board per diem—except Sundays. That is more than the farmer gets, and he lives honestly.” Under a Smith istration prisons would become “seminaries of learning” and inmates taught “more wisdom and virtue.” Abolition of slavery could be accomplished by 1850, if every slaveholder were paid a reasonable price for his slaves out of the revenues from the sale of public lands and with money deducted from the pay of congressmen. The prophet encouraged cessation of the practice of trying men by court-martial for desertion. If he would tell jailed men, “Go thy way and sin no more,” he would instruct deserters that they had forfeited their honor and could never again be trusted by their countrymen, “If we make honor the standard with all men, and render good for evil,” he explained then, “the whole nation, like a kingdom of kings and priests will rise up in righteousness.” He pounded the lectern as his listeners applauded in concurrence. Planks with wide appeal included advocating fewer taxes by achieving greater economy and establishing greater equality among the people. ing the embarrassing failure of the church’s bank in Kirtland in 1837, he deplored Jackson’s war on the Bank of the United States and (agreeing with Henry Clay) argued for a national bank with branches in the states and territories; the revenue from the bank would be applied to government interests. His thoughts harkened

back to Missouri days when he said that the president should have “full power to send an army to suppress mobs,” and not be required to wait for a governor’s request because “the governor himself may be a mobber.” A chorus of “aye’s” issued from the throng. The term Manifest Destiny would not be coined until 1845, but Joseph anticipated its intent when he proclaimed that the Oregon Territory by right (ignoring British claims to it), and with the “Red Man’s consent” (he always had the conversion of the Lamanites at heart), should belong to the United States. “Let the union spread,” he pleaded and invited the contiguous territories (Texas, Canada, and Mexico) to the sons of liberty. Two pet annoyances, lawyers and false religions came in for severe criticism. Unwisely, but understandably Joseph first chided the legal profession, “Like the good Samaritan, send every lawyer as soon as he repents and obeys the ordinances of heaven to preach the gospel to the destitute, without purse or script.” This was followed by a swipe at rival churches, “A learned priesthood is certainly more honorable than a hireling clergy.” “Yes, siree, Brother Joseph. Yes, siree,” a voice screeched approvingly from the middle of the hall. In his concluding remarks the candidate refreshed memories, reminding his ers that he was running for the nation’s highest office because only two of the five presidential aspirants to whom he had written in 1843 soliciting an “immediate, specific, and candid reply” to what their “rule of action relative to us as a people” would be if they were to ascend to the “chief magistry,” had replied, and those two responses, from Clay and Calhoun, were so unsatisfactory that the Saints had decided instead of voting for either to nominate Joseph Smith. “Clay,” the prophet said, learning forward and pressing his outstretched hands on the lectern, “wrote that he had viewed our sufferings under injustice with sympathy and that we ought to enjoy the protection of the constitution. Nevertheless, if he ever entered that high office, he must go in free and unfettered with no guarantees but such as were to be drawn from his whole life, character, and conduct. And Mr. John C. Coward Calhoun wrote that candor compelled him to repeat what he had said to me in 1839 in Washington: the case of Missouri does not come within the jurisdiction of the federal government which is one of limited and specific powers. I say unto you, none of the

candidates is fit as a dog to be president of these United States!” He paused and pointed his finger, waiting the cessation of shouts of agreement. “If the government has no power to reinstate expelled citizens to their rights, there is a monstrous hypocrite fed and fostered from the hard earnings of the people—a real bull beggar upheld by sycophants. I say to Calhoun, although you may wink to the priests to stigmatize, wheedle the drunkards to swear, and raise the hue and cry of ‘Imposter! False prophet! Goddamned old Joe Smith!’ Yet , if the Latter-day Saints are not restored to their rights and paid for all their losses according to the known rules of justice, and judgment, reciprocation and common honesty among men, that God will come out of his hiding place and vex this nation with a sore vexation. I onish Coward Calhoun to read the Constitution of the United States: the eighth section and first article, the first, fourteenth, and seventeenth ‘specific’ and not very ‘limited’ powers of the federal government. And God, who cooled the heat of Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace or shut the mouths of a Daniel, will raise Calhoun’s mind above the narrow notion that the general government has no power, to the sublime idea that Congress, with the president as executor, is as almighty in its sphere as with Jehovah in his!” The delegates and Mormon spectators applauded and whistled. Joseph began to pace back and forth behind the lectern, pondering a caustic public reply to Clay. Then, holding up his right hand for silence, he returned to his former position to deliver a verbal attack on the Kentucky senator, in which he avoided references to his own plans for possible removal of the church to the Oregon Territory. “Oh, frail, little piece of Clay,” he punned. “Can anything be drawn from your life, character, and conduct that is worthy of being held up to the gaze of this nation as a model of virtue, charity, or wisdom? Are you not a lottery prize?” He left the lectern and walked to the edge of the stand as though to take the audience into his confidence, “After the Saints have been plundered of three to four million of land and property by the sovereign state of Missouri after they have sought redress and redemption from the county court to Congress, that great plenipotentiary, the senator, and Whig candidate for the Presidency, Henry Clay, the wise Kentucky lawyer, advises the Latter-day Saints to go to Oregon and set up a government of their own!” Waiting for another round of applause to subside, the prophet moved to the very edge of the stand, and punctuating his final words with thrusts of his right arm, he terminated the speech in one pithy sentence, “We—silence, please, silence—we have had democratic presidents;

Whig presidents, a pseudodemocratic-Whig president; and now it is time to have a president of the United States.” The crowd applauded, whistled, whooped, and stomped. Most rushed to shake hands with the candidate or to slap him on the back; two considered carrying him on their shoulders through the center of town and bent to grab his legs, but thought better of it as they tried to hoist his bulk onto their shoulders and got no cooperation from their fellows. Louisa, at Joseph’s side, watched the spectacle with pride and amusement. She envisioned herself as his wife in the nation’s capital. They would ride to the inaugural ceremonies in a polished black coach, made of the finest wood, steel, and glass, and pulled by three matched teams of white oriental horses wearing red, white, and blue plumes. She, Louisa Bidwell Smith, would wave to the multitudes lining the streets, and Joseph would take the oath of office with his right hand placed on a Book of Mormon. Not all spectators endorsed the Mormon ticket. Five gentile newspaper reporters, representing the Sangamo Journal of Springfield, the Warsaw Signal and the Messenger, the Quincy Herald, and the Hawkeye of Burlington, stood outside of the Seventies Hall under a huge papaw tree analyzing the prophet’s latest audacity and commiserating over common grievances as Joseph, unacquainted with any of them (he would have recognized Sharp or Clegg), sauntered past merrily chatting with Louisa and a reporter from St. Louis; he gave them an amiable “hello” and a broad smile. “The silly ass will draw just a few votes from non-Mormons, even after the big New York convention they’re planning for July. What in the hell is he up to?” “He’s just pushing his weight around our state, that’s all. I’d bet a half eagle that the sweet young thing with him is one of his concubines.” All snickered in agreement as they ogled Louisa. “As I see it, he just wants to increase his power and get federal recognition of Mormon claims and of that goddamned Nauvoo City Charter, which should never have been granted in its present form. Lincoln and those other legislators in Springfield must not have read it before they approved it. In a way it’s comical as hell because Lincoln wants Mormon votes so bad that he ed it even though he was the only Whig unendorsed by the Mormons in the ’40

election.” “That charter gives Smith more power than his god and shining angels combined.” This evoked more laughter. “The government here is manipulated as an instrument of church—that is Smith —policy. It is incredible that such a result could proceed from an innocuous document. Hell, it’s based on Springfield’s. But that is exactly what has happened. The city government is a legalized adjunct of the Mormon priestly organizational structure because the Mormons have bent, stretched, and twisted its provisions to their ends.” “And Smith is president, prophet, mayor, and chief judge. And also president of the incipient University of Nauvoo. Professor Smith. Doctor Smith!” “Yes,” came the amused reply, “and much more: number one stud with a community of whores, wives, or whatever, but he can’t hurt us as a university president. Or can he?” “He can indoctrinate his bullshit there.” “Let’s see if I have this straight: in practice, God’s privileged few here in the Christian City have created a kind of cooperative theocracy—a quasi-sovereign government shaped to fit their unique requirements; there is little separation of the religious and the secular.” “‘Quasi-sovereign’ and ‘little separation’? There is no ‘separation’ and no ‘quasi’!” “All right, all right! Let me continue. Concerning legal matters, I understand that the mayor or aldermen are authorized to act as justices of the peace, but their decisions may be appealed to the municipal court.” “That’s correct, but those hearing the appeal are the same men, sitting as the municipal court, with the mayor, Josey Smith, as chief justice! And for a citizen of Nauvoo to resort to the circuit court ensures him reprisals because the church frowns on that.”

“The habeas corpus feature fascinates me most. The municipal court can issue writs in all cases arising under the ordinances of the city council. This means that habeas corpus is freely granted to all arrested Mormons, chiefly Joe, no matter under which jurisdiction they were apprehended!” “Right, and therefore, state and county law officers are never able to seize accused persons in Nauvoo if the church wants to protect them.” “Jesus Christ! I really wasn’t clear on all of that.” “Just yesterday a citizen of Carthage complained to me about it. He claimed that Mormons have committed many inequities there, listing thievery—from diapers to oxen—and even murder. Among the Mormons exists the worst set of outlaws that ever congregated together.” “And there is more, my friends. Consider how the Mormons so obtrusively enlarge the boundaries of Nauvoo to make room for all the newcomers—this damned gathering they talk about. And what other city in the entire United States has a huge militia to enforce its laws and to repel outside opposition?” “There must be a legal way to stop all of this.” “We’ve tried to repeal the charter for the last two years. That having failed, I’m about to throw in with the more militant of my colleagues. This presidential crap is the last straw.”

**********

“Louisa, my dress fits you perfectly, just as I suspected,” Sara said. “I was about your age when I sewed it for my wedding. I was slender in those days, so we need no alterations. It’s as fashionable today as it was years ago.” The neckline of the gown was high and, like the long, tight-fitting sleeves, trimmed with lace; a row of tiny pearl buttons at the back accented its demure line. The form-fitting bodice flattered Louisa’s petite waist, and the whiteness of the airy cotton voile accentuated her dark hair and eyes.

Wistfully Sara touched one of the buttons then brushed back a string of hair that had escaped from her bun. “Once I was as small around the middle as you, Louisa. Since I’m not quite as tall, there’s a hint of your ankle showing, but no one will notice. You’re very lovely, my dear.” Her ample arm encircled Louisa’s waist. “Perhaps the Lord will see fit to give me a daughter like you.” The sun’s rays reflected obliquely through the parlor windows, leaving reddish glow on the dark mahogany furniture. The only sound, other than the customary ticking of the clock, was the irritating buzzing of a large black house fly spinning helplessly on its back, its many legs writhing in the air, on the marble top table by the fireplace. “It’s going to be a beautiful sunset,” Louisa observed. “A perfect night for a ball.” They heard Daniel’s step on the stairwell. He paused in the doorway under the wainscoting, a little sheepish in his freshly pressed suit and starched collar. “You look so handsome, Daniel,” Louisa said impulsively; I’m used to seeing you with your leather apron.” “And you both are right pretty,” he responded. “I can still see Sara in that bridal gown back in Harmony. I got me the best looking girl in all Pennsylvania. Well, Tom Edwards has the horse and buggy out front. Shall we go?” He followed them out the front door, locked it (caution against thieves from the half-breed tract who occasionally plundered Nauvoo) and tucked the keys in the pocket of his waistcoat. Tom doffed his hat, and then helped the ladies into the rig. Having spent the past hour polishing harness, he exuded the pungent aroma of good leather. Aware that Louisa was watching him, he masterfully flicked the long whip over the horses flank, and the buggy lurched forward. Daniel had resolved that tonight they would travel the two blocks to the Mansion in style. The ts of the buggy creaked stridently as the horse settled into a steady trot. “I’ve oiled everything,” Daniel explained. “But it has to get circulating. With all this recent rain, nothing works without protest.” They waved gaily at friends walking along the path by the street. “Looks to be quite a gathering,” Sara said as Tom drew the horse up to the front gate of the Mansion. Other rigs were parked along main; the horses hitched to them stood docilely awaiting the end of the ball, their heads half hidden in feed bags as they searched for elusive kernels of corn.

Light shone from every window of the inn, but without it the walk was clearly visible from the luminosity of the air, left by the last pink glow of sunlight. In the parlor a fiddler had struck up the chorus of the Erie Canal, and many who had traveled that route ed in nostalgic song. The words floated out over the yard drowning the incessant chatter of insects:

Oh the E-ri-ee was a-ris-in’, the gin was a-git-tin’ low, and I scarce-ly think we’ll git drink till we git to Buf-fa-loo, till we git to Buf-fa-lo.

Preparation for the fête had been in progress for several weeks, both at the Mansion and in the homes of Nauvoo socialites. The walnut ing on the walls and staircases of the inn had been buffed until lustrous, so that its mellow brown shade created a mood of cordiality. From St. Louis Emma had brought for the parlor a red carpet and a sparkling chandelier of imported crystal. In the middle of the kitchen a massive pine table groaned under the weight of the culinary accomplishments of many Nauvoo women. Turkeys, chickens, hams, and beef had been roasted over green hickory wood; many succulent varieties of cakes, pies, breads and garden-fresh vegetables adorned small serving tables. To drink there was wine, beer, and applejack. Prized china and silver had been borrowed from various households for the use of the two hundred and sixty-four guests who would dine at what the Neighbor termed “a sumptuous feast.” This evening the lavish hospitality of the Mansion rivaled the grandeur of any more imposing eastern or southern residence. After dinner Louisa danced with Daniel, Tom, and half a dozen others, but was thwarted in attempting to speak with Joseph, for crowds of irers thronged around him, jostling one another in drinking toasts to the “next president of the United States”; raising a glass of applejack and honey, he returned all salutes with a flourish. Finally, when the fiddlers swung into The Ball That’s Rolling on, for Tippecanoe and Tyler Too, he caught her eye; knowing his feeling of kinship with the hero of the famous Indiana Indian battle, she had for the umpteenth time looked his way.

Old Tippecanoe, William Henry Harrison, although scarcely a backwoods illiterate, had set a trend, which, if one were not born in a log cabin, would make it difficult to be elected president. Didn’t Joseph’s inauspicious beginnings in Vermont presage appeal to the electorate? From across the room Joseph continued to observe her: spirited, graceful, high breasted. Abruptly he pushed his way through the throng and extended to her his arm. “This has to be our dance.” Spermaceti candles flickered on the windowsills, commodes, sideboards, and red, white, and blue Smith–Rigdon banners cast gigantic shadows from the ceiling. The heavy maple furniture had been stowed against the walls to make space for the dancers. As the caller took his position, Joseph led Louisa to the front of the line for the traditional Virginia reel. “I’d say it’s shameful the way young girls throw themselves at Mr. Smith,” Sarah Pratt derisively observed to Eliza Snow, who seemed preoccupied in studying the burnished copper pots, which adorned the fireplace. The attractive poetess turned to Sarah, mustering her chilliest tones, “Indeed?” She was herself married to Joseph and recognized in Louisa a rival whom she assessed to be naive, but also the possessor of a rational and probing mind. If the prophet did not reciprocate Louisa’s feelings, it was unlikely the girl would make a fool of herself over him; perhaps she was the latest addition to his patriarchal order. Eliza’s first allegiance would always be to Joseph. She adored him and was committed to the gospel, and she would defend both against slurs and innuendoes by Sister Pratt about whom considerable denunciatory talk concerning her alleged promiscuity with Joseph and John C. Bennett had rocked Nauvoo only a few years previously. “Let’s slip outside for a breath of air, Louisa,” Joseph suggested, swathing his forehead with a handkerchief. “Too many Epicurean delights and not enough rail splitting. I’ve taken on poundage around my middle.” He had an adolescent preoccupation with his appearance and affected various styles of dress. Tonight he wore his best church suit, black with a long coat and vest, and new white stock with a costly gold pin in the center; his left middle finger sported a flashy gold ring. “Here, out the door while Emma is in the kitchen.” To keep out mosquitoes he swung it open quickly, narrowly missing Major, his beloved dog, who was lying on the porch totally disinterested in the human festivities.

“Hey, look out there, old boy,” Joseph cautioned. “Want to us for a short stroll?” With Major panting behind them, the lovers ambled arm in arm along Main for one block to where the river completes its bend around the peninsula and straightens itself to flow almost due south again. The foundations and partially completed walls of the Nauvoo House bordered the water’s edge, and in the light of the gibbous moon Louisa thought it looked eerie, like one of Europe’s crumbling castles of which she had read. “This hostelry will be a church enterprise, Louisa, not my own as some accuse. We need it. The Mansion, superb as it is, does not have rooms enough for all our guests, and there is money to be made from such a business. The Almighty has instructed that it should be speedily completed, but though I exhort the brethren. The work drags.” “Joseph, there is too much to occupy you; I fear at times for your health—but if you were ill, I would come and care for you.” “So, my radiant bride, you would have me incapacitated to be near me? Maybe you’ll get your chance. At a dinner we gave last summer someone poisoned me —I was mighty sick for a few hours—” “No, no Joseph,” she broke in. “I only mean that—” “I know, my little one—I know. What you mean is that we have been together so seldom, but those moments have been precious to me. How proud I was of you on Wednesday—with the Bostonians. Didn’t the two of us quite well teach them a thing or two?” “Yes, Joseph, when I am near you my testimony doubles. I feel that I could convert the world by myself, or die for the gospel. Alone I am sometimes weaker and must petition the Lord to remove all doubts, for what man teaches confuses me. It is so at variance with God’s truths.” “Louisa, let me kiss you—hold you to me now—that my testimony and strength may fill your heart and soul and be everlasting.” He kissed her tenderly then nuzzled the nape of her neck and her eyelids and playfully bit her ear. “I have come to love you so, that it is I who get courage from you. I long just to speak with you—to share my thoughts and troubles, and I know what I say, for I have

seen much and endeavored many things.” Releasing his embrace, he made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. “In New York I saw Charlotte Cushman perform on the stage and visited that great city’s Wall Street where the power of money rules.” Staring blankly into the night, he contemplated the advantages and privileges of wealth before continuing. “I have conversed with politicians of Tammany Hall, seen horses race on the turf at Union Park, Long Island, and visited the Academy of Fine Arts in City Hall Square, where I spoke with John Trumbull, who founded it and is famous for his painting, Battle of Bunker Hill.” He scratched his head while recalling other experiences. “I met Samuel Morse, who has invented a way to send messages along a wire—a system of dots and dashes, and now the telegraph that he is having constructed between Baltimore and Washington must be nearly finished.” Savoring the image evoked by his next statement, he said, “Louisa, there are gas lights in New York, Philadelphia, and Washington. Someday we shall have them here, and Morse’s telegraph as well. How about that!” He clapped his hands together then pointed his left hand in an easterly direction. “I have inspected the city water system of Philadelphia, said to be the cleanest large city in America. Its Chestnut Street is also a financial stronghold, but the concentrated might of god money there has been greatly undermined by Wall Street since Jackson’s war on the Bank of the United States.” Without warning his thoughts leapt to other subjects. “I have wondered at the portage canals of Pennsylvania, traveled the Cumberland Road, and fired the Colt Equalizer. In Washington I spoke with the influential, and ired Horatio Greenough’s statue of George Washington.” As though these recollections were one more public speech, he paused to gather his thoughts for a summarizing, concluding clincher, and said, “Yes, Louisa, I have beheld masterpieces of art and architecture, scientific wonders, great works calculated to make men comfortable, wise, and happy; but never have I known a woman who makes me feel as you do.” He grasped her hands in his and stood facing her. “Joseph, I am truly your wife; I ire all you are and have done. Wasn’t I on the first row this morning to hear your address to the delegates?” Meekly she added, “When I was a girl in Charlton, it was said that a man named Joseph Henry had discovered an electromagnet in Albany; I once saw him with our friend, Dr. Hawley, a famous educator.” After all she had seen a little of this world as well.

He kissed her forehead. “It was on an evening walk last autumn that I first spoke to you of the principle, wasn’t it? You wavered, yet others have been more reluctant.” “I prayed and fasted for three days in accordance with your instructions. You had told me that if I rejected the Lord’s message, the gate would be closed forever against me. In my heart I already loved you, Joseph, but it conflicted with my upbringing. We were standing almost here when a beautiful expression brightened your countenance and you said, ‘God Almighty bless you.’ You told me that I would have a manifestation of the will of God, a testimony that I could never deny—joy and peace that I had never known. On the third day of my supplications the Lord fulfilled your prophecy. My soul was swollen with supreme happiness, and I accepted celestial marriage.” “We must continue to deny the principle to the gentiles and the wicked, Louisa, but more of the brethren are accepting it. The Almighty has given Daniel permission to take another wife, for Sara’s womb remains barren. Without children he will be denied his rightful position among the gods.” Daniel? How could Sara share him? She brushed some of her hairs from the front of his coat and did not respond to the news; she changed the subject. “Joseph, tell me, what will you do about the Expositor?” “About two years ago I was in Montrose—though we have renamed it the Land of Zarahemla, the gentile name persists—for the installation of the officers of our Masonic Lodge there, and I prophesied that the Saints would be driven to the Rocky Mountains. I saw then as I see now that enemies within and without would make this necessary. Perhaps the time is near, on the other hand our campaign may generate more respect for us. Do not fret. If I were to flee, I should be sure to take you.” He did not mention that he had strengthened the night watch and the police force, doubled the number of guards at the Mansion, and added to his spies. Of course, she and everyone had seen one new security precaution, the cannon mounted on the lawn of the Mansion. “We would journey to a fertile valley surrounded by tall mountain peaks. There I see broad pasturelands speckled with wild flowers, and in the mountains, brooks flowing through ferns, moss, and shrubs and turbulent cataracts cascading over

rocks. Deer, buffalo, elk, and all manner of living things abide there, and I would raise up a city greater and more beautiful than any mortals have known. To the Lord we would erect a temple of marble, gold, and carmelian, and encrust its walls with precious jewels. And he would smite all enemies who would dare to try to come against us, as long as we would walk in righteousness.” Suddenly, cognizant of reality at the touch of her hand upon his face, he said, “But mobocrats shall not destroy me here. I cannot lie down until my work is finished.” Impulsively he reached down, picked up a stone from the edge of the lapping waters, and hurled it far out into the swath of moonlight, which like a flat luminous road reached from the opposite bank to where he stood. Once, as a young man in Palmyra, he had contemplated walking on water, on a lake—those early days and the miracles. Now frequently he thought of the concealed recess behind the closet wall in an upstairs bedroom of the Mansion. There was a ladder. He could climb to the roof, jump to the great oak and escape. A fox always had a backdoor. These days he had an omnipresent realization of his danger. Any crackpot who disagreed with his teachings, a Missourian, an Illinoisan, the Laws, the Higbees might seek his life. A prophet was an isolated person who could not afford a single misstep. Yet how could it be helped? Always someone would take offense at the Lord’s teachings. For Louisa, for so many, he tried to mask the diverse effects that the conundrum of his circumstances had upon him; he was alternately melancholy, temerarious, cautious, humble, fearful, and defiant. He knew his presidential campaign might well increase, rather than diminish the number of his enemies. Other towns along the river were jealous of the industry and ambition of the Saints in Nauvoo and the Mormon satellite communities, and the gathering angered gentiles because the influx of converts intensified the church’s hegemony in the region. Why did outsiders oppose the charter so? As he interpreted it, Nauvoo was federated with Illinois as Illinois was federated with the United States. There should be strong patriotic and legal ties, but his city must have rights and immunities of its own. “Major, stay out of the river. We don’t want you shaking water on us. That would not do at all for Mrs. Smith’s wedding gown.” He dried his hand with his handkerchief and returned to her side. “Look at it, Louisa, the heavens, the stars. This magnificent father of waters the Lord hath created.” As the two of them

contemplated the vast expanse of the universe, he wondered what God would do about the legal charges. Francis Higbee had accused him of slander and was suing for five thousand dollars; William Law persuaded a grand jury in Carthage to indict him for adultery and polygamy, and Dr. Foster had secured a similar bill for false swearing. But Law’s statements could be easily refuted. Joseph could in detail for all he had said and done since the founding of Nauvoo. His clerks had followed him everywhere, writing it all down, and hadn’t all references to the celestial order been ingeniously disguised? Higbee he had counterattacked in the Times and Seasons—perjury, adultery, seduction—according to Brigham Young’s affidavit, Francis once contracted the pox from a French harlot in Nauvoo. “We shall be missed, sweet bride. Let us return to the festivities. Man is that he might have joy.” They did not hurry. Perhaps Joseph had not well enough concealed his preoccupations; Louisa sensed his brooding, which added to her worries, and she slowed the pace to prolong their time together. “Husband,” she said, liking the possessive connotation of the term, “I could not bear to lose you. There was Seth. And in Missouri—I witnessed it, you know—the mob of two or three hundred encircled us, leaving only a gap by the stream. I ran down and crossed it on a plank then dashed up the hill into the bushes. Bullets pelted the shrubbery all around. One girl fell near me wounded. I looked back to see old Brother McBride hacked to pieces with a corn-cutter. Father rushed to his aid, and, oh, Joseph, if it hadn’t been for Sara and Daniel! For a long time I could not speak of it and still try to put it from my mind, but now you are in danger. To be with you. To love you is all I live for. If you were taken from me I-I-I don’t know. Please, please, take care!” He pressed her head to his chest and smoothed her hair. “Don’t speak of tragedies now; it’s too upsetting. I shall be careful, for I love life, Louisa. I love living.” He bent to her ear and whispered, “You are my favorite.” Their return was well timed; during an intermission between dances a group started singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and the revelers were looking for the object of their song when he entered the long back kitchen. Discretely, Louisa went to the front of the Mansion and for a few minutes spoke with

Brother Orin Porter Rockwell, who with several other brethren patrolled the grounds; all could be trusted to keep silent about the prophet’s stroll with a celestial sister. As Port accompanied her inside, Joseph, his tumbler held aloft, was proposing a toast, “To the mobocrats. Here’s wishing that all the mobocrats of the nineteenth century were in the middle of the sea in a stone canoe with an iron paddle, that a shark might swallow the canoe, and the shark be thrust into the innermost depths of hell, the door locked, the key lost, and a blind man sent to hunt for it.” “Three cheers for General Smith,” Port shrieked. “Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!” The shouts from hundreds of throats shook the room. Buoyed up by the applejack, Joseph challenged the strongest man among them to an arm wrestle; ostentatiously he removed his coat and rolled up both shirtsleeves. “Left or right, who will it be?” Most of the men had been beaten several times; the prophet’s invitation was familiar, and they were not about to be humiliated here in front of their wives and sweethearts. Daniel felt his large biceps twitch. He was confident that he could overpower Joseph; doubtlessly he was the “strongest man among them,” but the image of defeating the prophet on his night of glory was repugnant. Everyone exchanged glances and waited for a competitor to step forth. When none came, Joseph, rolling down his sleeves, said, “And so shall it be with mine enemies, for they shall be powerless against me. Now who will come to the piano and play the campaign song, “Smith for President,” composed by Apostle Parley Pratt?” “I shall, Brother Joseph,” Louisa volunteered. Was it she herself speaking? Why was she so brazen? She crossed the parlor to the piano; Joseph walked to her side and requested all to in.

Come, then, O Americans, rally to the standard of liberty, And in your generous indignation, trample down The tyrant’s rod and the oppressor’s crown

That yon proud eagle to its height may soar And peace, triumphant, reign forever more.

On into the early hours of morning the celebration continued. Elsewhere, Satan was at work.

X

We Shall Silence Them!

On midmorning, June 7, Hyrum, short of breath and red faced from a long run, burst into his brother’s office to confirm their worst fears of the depth of treachery within the inner circle. “Joseph, look at this damned thing!” He flung a newspaper on the desk. As pledged, the prominent schismatics had published the first (and last) issue of the Expositor. Joseph unfolded the paper and read its slogan, “The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing but the Truth.” Then with blanched face, his thin lips taut, he hurriedly scanned the preamble which began, “We all verily believe … that the religion of the Latter-day Saints, as originally taught by Joseph Smith … is verily true.” However, continuing, it claimed that many new items of doctrine, some “taught secretly and denied openly, considerate men will treat with contempt.” The authors of the preamble called upon Joseph and others “who practice abominations and whoredoms” to repent of “vicious principles.” In striking a blow at “tyranny and oppression,” the publishers were, they wrote, aware of “hazarding earthly blessings” (“particularly property” and even “life itself”). With studied attention, Joseph read an affidavit from Jane Law stating that he attempted to seduce her into polygamy, and sighed, “Hyrum, Hyrum, why doth the Lord try me so?” He let the paper fall onto the desk and for a moment buried his head in his hands then, enraged, cried, “Listen to this.” He picked up the Expositor and read aloud, “We do not believe that God ever raised up a prophet to Christianize a world by political schemes and intrigues.” “What,” he asked rhetorically, “does William law, the president of this new travesty of a church, know of the ways of God? The scurrilous son of a harlot, disciple of Lucifer!” Gentle Hyrum had never before heard Joseph rant so vehemently.

“My rule in Nauvoo is compared to the Spanish Inquisition! The doctrine of multiple gods is blasphemous. Fifteen resolutions. Fifteen resolutions!” He breathed deeply, arose, and walked to the windows. “They denounce my political and real estate activities. The gathering is a scheme for selling lots. I should not ister church business. The Laws and Fosters want all the profit, I suppose. They imply that Joe Smith misappropriates missionary and temple funds.” He turned to face his older brother. “Can you believe this iniquitous el of blacklegs? They have made fortunes in Nauvoo, yet ask that our charter be revoked. They must be cultivating gentile friendships.” He walked back to the paper spread out on the desk and ran his right index finger along some of the most offensive lines, reading aloud, “How shall he, who has drank of the poisonous draft, teach virtue? Lo! The wolf is in the fold, arrayed in sheep’s clothing.” He sighed deeply. “They want me dead, Hyrum, as sure as evil forces are loose on earth, they want me dead.” He was in a frenzy. “Bastards, bastards, egregious, whoring bastards! The Judases refer to me, the only authentic prophet, seer, and revelator of Christ’s church that this world has known for nearly one thousand nine hundred years! They must be silenced, Hyrum!” He tore the paper and threw it on the floor. “We shall silence them!”

**********

Louisa was in the kitchen churning butter when she heard a timid knock at the front door. Upon opening it, she was flabbergasted to see two Sac Indian women on the porch, stretching out their hands in a supplicating gesture and murmuring unintelligible words. A little boy of about six peered at her from behind his mother’s skirts, then timorously, he too reached out to beg. She scrutinized the trio. The squaws wore beaded moccasins and were dressed in what appeared to be pieces of dirty calico rags sewn together. A streak of red ochre, signifying long life, colored the part in the center of their hair, which was neatly plaited in two long braids, and with rawhide thongs they had securely strapped on their backs reed mats and different types of pottery vessels with carved bone handles. The child’s frail body bespoke unfeigned hunger.

Louisa knew that there must be Indian braves somewhere nearby; she had often seen them on Main Street, clad in buckskin hunting shirts and leggings with curious bear claw necklaces around their throats. Daniel said it was a pity that this former proud people, accustomed to the plentitude of game in the wilderness, had been reduced to begging, although they had received their just dues; for first they had turned from the Lord and ultimately had annihilated the Nephites. She motioned the squaws to wait on the porch and returned to the kitchen where she hurriedly filled a basket with some leftover corn bread, sunflower seeds, gourds, and generous slices of ham and beef. The Indians had spread out a blanket and were chattering excitedly as Louisa knelt to place food on it. One greedily thrust a piece of bread in her mouth, chewing noisily with crumbs dribbling out of her mouth and down her chin. Louisa had heard that many Sacs still lived in wigwams in the small village of Keokuk at the foot of the rapids. Joseph had told her about his visit with its eponymous founder, Chief Keokuk in Nauvoo back in ’41. It had been an amicable meeting; the chief, actually a half-breed, had been a wise and courageous leader and staunch friend of the whites; he told Joseph that he was impressed with the great thing his white brother had accomplished on his side of the big river, but the Indian stated with finality that he was not to be converted. As to the New Jerusalem to which they were all going to emigrate (a misunderstanding of convoluted Mormon doctrine), so far as Keokuk was concerned, it depended very much on whether there would be any government annuities. The milk and honey, which was to flow over the land, did not entice him. His braves were not great milk drinkers, and they always found plenty of honey in the woods; he preferred whiskey. Perhaps Keokuk should have accepted the prophet’s offer to baptize him. In not too many years hence, he and the remnants of his tribe were removed to Kansas where disease and starvation decimated them nearly to extermination. While the women folded up the blanket, the boy shyly presented Louisa an exquisite, small rosette sculptured in silver. At first she hesitated to accept it; then seeing his sincerity, she took it from the grimy hand. To receive charity must be denigrating. She perceived that the Indians preferred their ancient custom of bartering, and the piece of jewelry represented, in their way of thinking, partial payment. One aspect of Mormon life in Nauvoo wasn’t really

that different from Indian ways, since trading was a common practice. As the women and child sidled off across the lawn, Louisa looked up to see Sara scurry along the walk. “I gave them some food. They seemed to be ravenous.” Sara watched the departing threesome with distaste then experienced a moment of guilt for Mormons preached donation of alms to the Indians who were, as the Book of Mormon said, cursed remnants of one of the ten lost tribes. Nonetheless, she found them not only filthy but also shiftless, and had heard that river hamlets up and down the Mississippi were filled with these pathetic squatters, stuporous with alcohol, waiting dully. For what? Joseph would not tolerate their tepees in Nauvoo; although many of his people were poor, all must be productive. “Come inside quickly, Louisa. I have the Expositor.” They rushed into the kitchen where Sara spread the paper out on the table. “They have dared to blaspheme the prophet beyond all limits of human decency!” Louisa’s eyes caught a sentence on page one, “It is a notorious fact that many females in foreign climes have been induced by the sound of the gospel to forsake friends and embark upon a voyage across the waters, as they supposed, to glorify God, that they might thereby stand acquitted in the great day of God Almighty.” Louisa nodded agreement, so far nothing derogatory, but the next sentence portended a knife thrust, “But what is taught them on their arrival at this place?” She gasped, feeling suddenly nauseous. “They are requested to meet Brother Joseph, or some of the Twelve, at some isolated point, or at some particularly described place on the bank of the Mississippi, or at some room, which wears upon its front Positively No ittance. The harmless, inoffensive, and unsuspecting creatures are so devoted. To the prophet and the cause of Jesus Christ that they do not dream of the deep-laid and fatal scheme, which prostrates happiness and renders death itself desirable; but they meet him, expecting to receive through him a blessing and learn the will of the Lord concerning them.” With concentrated effort she repressed the powerful urge to sit down and sob. But that isn’t at all like it is. It wasn’t so for me, she reflected, reading on through the tears that were now welling up in her eyes, “In the stead thereof they are told, after having been sworn in one of the most solemn manners never to divulge what is revealed to them with a penalty of death attached, that God Almighty has revealed it to him that she should be his (Joseph’s) spiritual wife;

for it was right anciently and God will tolerate it again; but we must keep these pleasures and blessings from the world, for until there is a change in government, we will endanger ourselves by practicing it.” She clinched both fists so tightly that the knuckles turned white. She would not cry, but she would finish reading! They would not intimidate her! “The prophet damns her if she rejects. She thinks of the great sacrifice and of the many thousand miles she has traveled over sea and land that she might save her soul from pending ruin and replies, ‘God’s will be done, and not mine.’ The prophet and his devotees in this way are gratified. The next step to avoid public exhibition from the common course of things, they are sent away for a time until all is well, after which they return as from a long visit.” Only one last lying paragraph, she thought. “Our hearts have mourned and bled at the wretched and miserable conditions of females in this place; many orphans have been victims of misery and wretchedness through the influence that has been exerted over them under the cloak of religion, and afterward, in consequence of that jealous disposition, which predominates in the minds of some, have been turned upon a wide world, fatherless and motherless, destitute of friends and fortune and robbed of that which nothing but death can restore. It is difficult, perhaps impossible to describe the wretchedness of females in this place without wounding the feelings of the benevolent, or shocking the delicacies of the refined, but the truth shall come to the world.” She could not proceed to other charges; each paragraph was worse than the preceding one. Joseph would never, never do these things to her. She could contain herself no longer. The tears that had slowly been trickling from her eyes suddenly became torrents. “Sara,” she sobbed, letting the Expositor slide to the floor, these are lies, such malicious lies about our devoted prophet. This isn’t how it is. Maidens are not left uncared for, thrown upon the world, coerced. They are invited to participate in the covenant that has been revealed by God to Joseph.” Was she trying to convince Sara or herself? She knew only that she belonged to him; Joseph was hers, be the covenant of God or man. She must control herself. Already Sara had heard too much. Alarmed at the girl’s hysterical reaction, Sara clasped her arms protectively around Louisa’s shoulders. “There, there, you mustn’t take it so much to heart, although I do fear that this exposé will be believed by many in Nauvoo and that

a number of Saints will the new church; there were schisms in Ohio and in Missouri too, Louisa, and, as then the truth will come out. The church has never been stronger, but this has been brewing for a long time. Good it’s at last in the open.” “But, Sara, it isn’t like that. They are not left in the family way—alone.” Louisa struggled to suppress her misery as Daniel came in from the shop. “What is it?” he asked sharply. “What’s happened?” “It’s the Law’s newspaper, Daniel. I brought home the Expositor; it’s so ugly about Brother Joseph and most explicit—maybe wrong—about plural marriage. Louisa is very upset over it.” Maternally she stroked back the hair, which had fallen in the girl’s eyes. Daniel stared at Louisa’s wan, teary face and then at his wife’s puzzled countenance. This thing with Joseph and the principle had gone too far; it was not going to cause dissention in his family. To continue to deceive Sara about Louisa would be cruel. Still, it probably was unwise to reveal right now his authorization to practice the principle. No point in it. He hadn’t even given thought to choosing another. He drew a long breath and exhaled slowly while gathering his thoughts then with his arms around both of the women, he spoke deliberately and distinctly. “Sara, it is time to tell you that the prophet has revealed the principle of plural marriage to Louisa. She was sworn to secrecy, but now I feel that it is wrong for you to be excluded. Louisa and Joseph were married after the annual conference.” He awaited Sara’s disapproval. Momentarily she was nonplussed. Plural marriage was no longer a rumor. It was confirmed fact! But she would not be disloyal to her adopted daughter. “Oh, Louisa,” she cried, “I don’t know what to say. Then it’s true. God has restored the covenant in modern times. Of course it’s a great honor for you.” She took the girl in her arms, and both women half laughed, half wept. Despairingly Daniel shook his head. “Now what?” he implored. “I feel so much better with Sara knowing. We’ve—I’ve—wanted to tell you for so long. She sniffled and patted her eyes with the corner of her apron then picked up the Expositor from the floor. “But, Daniel, you must read this … this … heinous document. Poor Joseph; it seems that now my place is to be with him. I wonder what he’ll do?”

**********

Joseph acted swiftly and with little consultation; ten of the Twelve and most of the Ytfif, his personal living constitution, were out stumping the country for him. He called for a civil trial of the transgressors on the following morning, Saturday, at the City Hall. The jury consisted of the City Council, of the church High Council of Nauvoo, the presidency of Nauvoo Stake, of the Ytfif, including Daniel, and the two apostles who were not electioneering, Willard Richards and John Taylor. The body tried the culprits quickly, establishing through witnesses that the publishers were counterfeiters, adulterers, and oppressors of the poor. One man testified that he had been offered $500 to kill Joseph. The Expositor’s charge of revelation on polygamy was too well documented to go unanswered, but testimony was not used to refute it. Instead, Hyrum faced the matter squarely, explaining that such revelation had indeed been read to the High Council, but it referred to ancient times and had nothing to do with modern church practices. Tried in absentia, the heretics were found guilty of sundry charges. On Monday morning, June 10, another meeting was held, and William Clayton, one of Joseph’s scribes, introduced a resolution denouncing the Expositor as a public nuisance and proposed its suppression. Hyrum made a motion that in consideration of jeopardy to public safety, the press be destroyed and its typed pied. The motion carried by acclamation, and over the signature of George W. Harris, president pro tempore of the City Council, the mayor was instructed to “cause said printing establishment (in the basement of the Foster and Higbee grocery) and papers (copies of the Expositor) to be removed without delay, in such a manner as he shall direct.” Joseph took over the chair of the meeting and with alacrity issued to John P. Greene, Marshall of Nauvoo, an order dooming the Expositor. After the council adjourned, he dictated another ominous order to the acting major general of the Nauvoo Legion, Jonathan Dunham, “You are hereby commanded to hold the Nauvoo Legion in readiness forthwith to execute the city ordinances and

especially to remove the printing establishment of The Nauvoo Expositor, and this you are required to do at sight under the penalty of the laws; provided the Marshall shall require it and need your services.” The fate of the opposition press in Nauvoo was sealed. The prophet had only to await nightfall.

**********

At sunset Louisa ed the swarm that fell in behind Joseph, a company of the Legion, and Nauvoo policemen marching north on Main through the lower town. At the corner of Mulholland Street, the sergeant bellowed, “To the right, harch,” and curious citizens, excited children, and dogs followed the cadences of the legionnaire’s boots up Mulholland, past the temple to the store, which harbored the Devil’s press. Louisa was pushing through the crowd to get nearer Joseph when City Marshal Greene, his chest thrust forward and sizeable stomach pulled in, stepped prominently out in front of the Legion to face Charles Foster, Francis Higbee, and other excommunicates who had locked the building and were standing on the front steps. Greene cleared his throat, and affecting an authoritative voice, read the mayor’s official order, “You are hereby commanded to destroy the printing press from whence issues The Nauvoo Expositor, and to pi the type of said printing establishment in the street and to burn all copies of the Expositor and all libelous handbills found in said establishment, and if resistance be offered to your execution of this order, by the owners or others, to demolish the house, and if anyone threatens you or the mayor or the officers of the city, arrest those who threaten you and fail not to execute this order without delay, and make due return thereon.” Greene cleared his throat again, “And that is by order of the City Council, Joseph Smith, Mayor.” As he folded the order to replace it in his jacket pocket, he demanded the keys from Charles Foster. “You have no right to enter here,” the small man defied, “with your illegal order.”

Greene pointed to two policemen brandishing sledgehammers, “Boys …” “Just one moment, John.” It was Francis Higbee speaking, “You’d better not be rash.” Higbee looked at the prophet. “I warn you, Joseph, if you lay hands on that press, you will date your downfall from this hour!” The hulking policemen waited for a response from Joseph. He nodded to them, and they pushed up the steps, past Francis and the others. They were raising their sledges when the store guard, six-foot-four-inch John Eagle, known as Big John and The Giant, sprang in front of them. “Not as long as I’m around, you dirty sonsabitches,” he roared, knocking one from the porch with a short right to the jaw and smashing a mighty left into the stomach of the other, who sunk to his knees in pain, dropping the sledge near his prostrate companion. Three untried policemen rushed the giant whose fists crashed into their faces and bodies, sending them running from the porch. He grappled with a fourth, hoisted him above his head, and threw him into five more, who were approaching. “Try me, Big John,” Joseph yelled and lunged at him, hoping to wrestle him to the ground, but the giant sidestepped the move and brought his fist up from knee level aimed at the prophet’s chin. Joseph ducked the blow and drove his head into his opponent’s stomach. John crashed against the front of the store, and Joseph closed in, landing a right hook to his jaw then followed with a left and a right to the weakened midsection, and Big John crumbled. “All right men, get on with it,” the prophet commanded. Port and Hyrum with several willing policemen and legionnaires applied their sledges to the door and windows; a dozen of the strongest rushed into the building, lifted the press up the stairs from the basement, and hurled it into the street where others demolished it. Type cases with copies of the Expositor flew from the broken windows onto the scraps of the press; a legionnaire poured cleaning fluid on the heap, and another struck a locoforo match to ignite it. While the pile burned, the sympathizers shouted approval and cursed the rebels who were already fleeing to Carthage. As so many times before in her life, Louisa longed, just for a few minutes, to have the strength and privileges of a man. Why did Daniel just watch? She would have applied his vigor to stand at Joseph’s side and strike hardest of all at

Satan’s representatives!

**********

Sitting alone in one corner of his parlor late that night, Joseph thought over the succession of events of the last three days. He had carried out God’s will. Yet, ittedly, he was unduly agitated. Why all this trouble now? On top of everything else, news had come from Washington that Congress would not deign to read his proposal concerning protection of the western and southern territories, nor was that legislative body about to make Nauvoo a federal territory with him as governor; then too he missed the of the Twelve. He would have liked the counsel of Brigham Young, of the Pratt brothers, of Heber Kimball, maybe even of Sidney, who in direct defiance of revelation had moved to Pittsburgh. He, Joseph, had abhorred the treatment of the abolitionist, Elijah Lovejoy, whose press at Alton, Illinois, mobs had twice thrown into a river before murdering him in ’37, and how quick and vehement his anger had been when he received news in Kirtland that a gang had wrecked the press of the church’s Evening and Morning Star in Independence, Missouri, in ’33. But this action today was different. It was righteous. No one had been killed. He would not have permitted the shedding of blood. And why did he need advice from the Twelve when God worked through him? There had been other crises in the past. The Almighty had always seen him through. And he had certainly been with him today when he bested big John Eagle!

XI

I Am Going Like a Lamb to the Slaughter

In Springfield Governor Ford was incredulous when he heard of the violation of a fundamental right guaranteed by the Constitution, and his doubts regarding the prophet’s sanity were confirmed. Smith wasn’t the first on the frontier to destroy an unfriendly press, but he was unique as far as Ford knew in using the machinery of a city government to incite and justify the deed. The Expositor had, as Joseph insisted, printed libelous allegations about him, but that did not give a man the right to make of a city council, a police force, and of an arm of the state militia, an avenging gang. There were mobs enough in Illinois, and the prophet’s voice had been the loudest in decrying their existence. Now Smith and several of his highly placed associates in the church had written to explain and justify the deed, but it could not be vindicated. The act was criminal. The governor’s work was cut out for him, for he abhorred brutality and did not want Joseph murdered, but all reports from the western border indicated that under intensifying obloquy his death was avidly being planned. Tom Sharp and most citizens of the river towns were in a frenzy. The journalist had printed a letter by Charles Foster describing the illegal destruction of property and attack on a basic freedom, and observed editorially that war and extermination were inevitable; there was no time for comment. “Every man will make his own,” Sharp’s incendiary pen wrote. “Let it be made with powder and ball!” In Warsaw business was almost entirely suspended, and in Clark County, Missouri, men were ready to march on Nauvoo. Citizens were in arms in Rushville, Missouri, Keokuk and Keosaqua, Iowa, and in many other hamlets. The Sharp forces had ordered a six-pound cannon from Quincy, and volunteers flooded Walter Bagley’s group of Mormon haters in Carthage; some were followers of William Law, who out of fear of more reprisals had quickly sold their houses in Nauvoo and fled. In the Holy City rumor had it that all enemy

marauders were uniting to storm it, and in the gentile towns the canard spread that the Mormon temple was being fortified (the uninitiated had always thought it to be a fortress). This most virulent outburst of animosity that the church had known had been kindled by Joseph’s foolhardy action in attacking the Expositor, and then been fanned by the rebel’s exaggerated recounting of it and his further flouting of jurisprudence. On the complaint of Francis Higbee that Joseph Smith and seventeen others committed a riot in smashing his press, Carthage Justice of the Peace, Thomas Morrison, on June 12 issued a warrant for Joseph’s arrest and sent Constable David Bettisworth to seize him. The prophet was served at 1:30 p.m. but by 2:00 p.m. had obtained a writ of habeas corpus from a Nauvoo Justice of the Peace, who by curious reasoning decided that since Joseph had demolished the press in an orderly manner, he had not contravened the law. In arriving at his judgment the justice considered the immoral character of the publishers, Francis Higbee’s pox, and the evil threats of the miscreants. Furthermore, he found that the arrest of Joseph was “a malicious prosecution,” and, therefore, Higbee “should pay all costs of the suit.” Rationalizing in his letter to the governor the refusal to appear before the Carthage justice, Joseph emphasized that there was a “large assembly of persons” at Carthage who were making threats of hostility, and he implored Ford to “disperse all uncalled for assemblies” in order that the law could proceed without interference (i.e., Joseph’s interpretation of the law). Urging the governor to investigate the matter in person, the prophet stated, “And I know not but this will be the only means of stopping an effusion of blood.” The governor was mulling over Joseph’s request for inspection of the situation when he got news that Tom Sharp’s troops, the Quincy Greys, and 1,500 Missourians armed with five cannons planned to combine their strength with the Carthage banditti and march on Nauvoo. Promptly Ford ordered his carriage for a trip to the region.

**********

About midday on June 21, the Nauvoo Legion assembled on vacant lots near the Mansion House facing the framework of the small structure intended to house a new bar and barbershop for Porter Rockwell; Joseph had marshaled his troops for a pep talk. Planks had been laid across the ceiling joists to construct a temporary rostrum. The prophet climbed to the makeshift platform in the full uniform of the lieutenant general of the Nauvoo Legion: a dark blue double breasted tailcoat with gold trim and gold braided epaulets, shiny buckle, and double rows of brass buttons; tight-fitting buff tros; high boots, polished to a mirror finish; and a shako topped with an ostrich plume. A large saber hung from his belt on his right hip. Hortative speeches had affected favorable results in the past in rallying his people behind him; once again he would put his powers of eloquence to the test. Turning ashen (some believed the familiar pallor engulfed his face when the prophet was inspired by the Holy Ghost), he harangued the troops and the populace that had assembled behind them for an hour and a half, beginning with his version of the crisis and its precipitating causes. He repeatedly made the point that the Legion must be ready to defend, not him, but their homes and loved ones. Downhearted as he was, his old charisma returned at the sight of 15,000 followers. It was almost like the old days, Fourth of July celebrations and the day the cornerstone of the temple was laid. He began: “It is thought by some that our enemies would be satisfied by my destruction, but I tell you, as soon as they have shed my blood, they will thirst for the blood of every man in whose heart dwells a single spark of the spirit, of the fullness, of the gospel. The opposition of these men is moved by the spirit of the adversary of all righteousness. It is not only to destroy me, but every man and woman who dares believe the doctrines that God hath inspired me to teach to this generation.” Apparently seeing no inconsistency between championing democratic rights for the Mormons and suppressing the free press of others, he reminded: “We are American citizens. We live upon a soil for the liberties of which our fathers periled their lives and spilled their blood upon the battlefield. (Both the Smiths and his mother’s family, the Macks, had distinguished themselves in the Revolutionary War.) Those rights, so dearly purchased, shall not be disgracefully trodden under foot by lawless marauders without at least a noble effort on our part to sustain our liberties.” He removed his shako and handed it to an aide;

then subtly assuring his people that God would grant him a long life (and perhaps warning enemies of his invulnerability), he prophesied that before Christ returned to earth he, Joseph, would be eighty-five years old. “I am,” he gasconaded, “like a huge rough stone rolling down from a high mountain, and the only polish I get is when some corner gets rubbed off by coming in with something else, striking with accelerated force against religious bigotry, priestcraft, lawyercraft, doctorcraft, lying editors, suborned judges, jurors, and the authority of perjured executives, backed by mobs, blasphemers, licentious and corrupt men and women, all hell knocking off a corner here and there. Thus, I will become a smooth and polished shaft in the quiver of the Almighty who will give me dominion over all while these smooth polished stones with which I come in shall be marred. I am a rough stone.” On and on Joseph condemned his enemies and cajoled and exhorted the faithful until at the end of his speech, he dramatically drew his saber, and pointing it heavenward, challenged, “Will you stand by me to the death, and sustain at the peril of our lives, the laws of our country and the liberties and privileges which our fathers have transmitted unto us sealed with their sacred blood?” “Amen,” “Aye,” “Hosanna,” “Praised be the Lord and the prophet Joseph,” the legionnaires and other Saints roared. “So be it then. Oh, ye true and faithful servants. I call upon God and the angels to witness that I have unsheathed my sword. These people shall have their legal rights or my blood shall be spilt upon the ground like water, and my body consigned to the silent tomb. While I live, I will never tamely submit to the dominion of the cursed mobocrats!” He did not linger to shake hands, smile, or bless the infirm and sick, but hurried into the Mansion where Apostles Taylor and Richards were drawing up his defense. Immediately, he dispatched them with a handful of trusted guards to Carthage to present his case to the governor who had arrived the previous evening; the adversaries were already there to argue theirs. Why, Joseph wondered, had Ford gone to Carthage instead of Nauvoo? Was he walking arm in arm with the Lawites?

**********

The next day his men returned to report that they had been treated with contumely. Both sides had made accusations and submitted written documents; confusion, disorder, exaggerations, misunderstandings, and hostility clouded logic. The Mormons were not granted the courtesy of a private interview, and both followers of the Laws and apostate desperadoes, harboring old hatreds, had made threats on their lives. He quickly read the letter from Ford that the apostles had brought him. His excellency stated that Joseph’s “conduct in the destruction of the press was a very gross outrage upon the laws and liberties of the people.” He required all who were accused to submit themselves for arrest by the same constable, and to be tried before the same magistrate whose authority had been resisted. “Nothing short of this,” Ford clarified, “can vindicate the dignity of violated law and allay the just excitement of the people.” Because the whole country was up in arms, he feared that the smallest indiscretion might bring on civil war, and if the state militia needed to be called out that he could not control it. The letter concluded, “I would say that your city was built, as it were, upon a keg of powder which a very little spark will explode.” Dejectedly, almost inaudibly, Joseph observed, “There is no mercy here.” In spite of the legionnaire’s pledged loyalty and his conviction yesterday of the Saints’ invincibility, he hastily decided there was only one course of action open to him: to flee westward. On the evening of the twenty-second, he held a meeting for several intimates at the Mansion and explained that too much blood would be spilled if he stayed; and in fact, it was only he and Hyrum whom Ford and the courts wanted. Wouldn’t the rest be safe? He agonized over his family and the celestial wives, concluding that Emma and the children must be sent to Ohio accompanied by Hyrum’s family; Louisa would go with him, and the others must be temporarily abandoned. Brigham Young, who in Missouri had demonstrated such genius in obtaining supplies for the Saints and organizing their evacuation while Joseph was jailed in Liberty, would have to be ed to take over the leadership of the church. Perhaps, Joseph thought, he would enjoy having all the burdens lifted from his shoulders for a while. He and Louisa could live a nomadic existence, carefree and unfettered.

**********

Louisa had gone with the Maid of Iowa’s regular afternoon ferry service to Montrose to await Joseph at the home of a Mormon family that lived the principle and were zealous ers of the prophet. He had told her that she could send for some of her personal things later; for a day or two while wagons were being loaded with supplies, they would take refuge in the isolated farmhouse surrounded by an apple orchard. It was the custom to share, however meager the provisions, and Louisa was fed and bedded like a member of the family. But comfortable as she was, she had not slept the entire night, thinking of the long journey to the Great Basin of the Rocky Mountains that lay ahead and worrying for Joseph’s safety. What was delaying him? “Bail with yer boots!” Port commanded, his tireless shoulders and arms straining at the oars of the flimsy skiff. He, Joseph, Hyrum, and Willard Richards were surreptitiously crossing the Mississippi after midnight in a blinding downpour. Already they had been on the water for more than two hours and, judging from a near capsize at Dundee Island, were little more than half way across; with the rain and blustery winds, the boat had several times been close to swamping. Only instinct and the experience of many crossings were guiding Port, for eyes could not pierce the wall of water and the darkness. The drenched figures spoke little as they bailed for their lives and prayed that a floating tree would not sink their craft. When they reached Montrose safely at dawn, Joseph pronounced it a miracle. Louisa heard footsteps outside. They were arriving! She leapt out of bed, pulled on her dress, and smoothed her hair as she rushed into the kitchen where the muddy, partially undressed men were sitting. Sister Jordan was already hanging articles of clothing out to dry in the morning sun; soggy boots stood on the earthen floor near the stove. “Joseph, oh, I thank our Father in Heaven that you are here at last.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him; then laid her head on his bare chest. They had never shown affection to one another in public, but she need not be apprehensive. All here knew about their relationship. “I’ll help Sister Jordan

with the coffee and breakfast,” Louisa said, looking forward to cooking and caring for Joseph. Hyrum and Willard Richards were exhausted, but Joseph had regained his usual vitality. He had sent the indefatigable Port directly back across the river with instructions to obtain horses and bring them over that night. Louisa brought Joseph coffee and noticed that he was composing a letter to Emma. He may not have been uxorious in his relationship with the elect lady, but he was solicitous of her well-being, his mother, and the four children. Joseph wrote to encourage Emma to get money by selling property and collecting debts. He looked up to see Louisa watching him. Although she knew wives in the order should master envy and jealousy, she could not be comfortable in thinking of Emma who had spent so many years with Joseph. “Come, little one,” he said, “Pay no mind to what I am writing. me here.” He pushed aside the pair of saddlebags lying on a chair. “Humble families like these are the backbone of the church. And no one makes a better breakfast than Sister Jordan. Look at it—bacon, beans, and flapjacks.” Seeing that her trusting eyes were iring him, not the flapjacks, he added buoyantly, “This is the first day of our new life together.” She smiled and slid her chair closer to his. Everything was happening so quickly. Joseph would be all she had now; their destinies were linked. She knew the Howes were thinking of her this morning and worrying. When Port came to convey Joseph’s request that Louisa him in flight, Sara cried and protested that the wilderness was no place for a young girl; to her Louisa seemed bright but naive, and in the back of her mind she suspected Joseph of a cavalier attitude toward his plural wives. Daniel understood better than either of them the dangers of a westward trip, but contrary to his custom, gave no advice. Joseph had already survived so many crises and Louisa was proving strong in her love; perhaps this was the best course. “I guess you’re a woman now,” Sara had relented. “So go on with your Joseph. We’ll always love you, Louisa. You’ll always have a home with us.”

**********

After the meeting at the Mansion, word spread quickly in Nauvoo that the prophet was abandoning the Saints. Two stalwarts, Dr. John Bernhisel and Reynolds Cahoon, made the Nauvoo–Montrose crossing early in the morning and were at the Jordan home before 10:00 a.m. to inform Joseph of the disillusionment and pandemonium his decision had incited and to warn him of the posse that Ford had commissioned to arrest him. They spoke while Hyrum, Joseph, Louisa, and Apostle Richards were arranging supplies in a shed. “The wildest of rumors are rocking the city,” the scholarly Bernhisel said. “Since last evening we’ve run into several Saints who say they will sell their property as soon as possible. Merchants have closed their shops and are loading up their goods to evacuate. Terror is spreading rapidly.” “You see,” Cahoon added, his long face more serious than Joseph had ever seen it, “a posse led by a man named Yates came for you shortly after dawn. Maybe they were hoping to surprise you under the cover of darkness.” “The Lord warned me,” the prophet said with a grin, “that’s why we left in the night.” His sense of humor had not yet completely abandoned him. “Yes. Well, Yates stayed in Nauvoo; the rest of the posse supposedly returned to Carthage to report to Ford. Of course, some may be lingering near. The Saints are frightened, Brother Joseph, because Yates insists that Ford will send troops to occupy Nauvoo until you are found. No matter how long it takes.” “And he will order the Legion to surrender their arms,” Bernhisel broke in. “At least that will save lives,” Joseph responded. “I am guided by the Almighty in my decisions and will not be persuaded to return.” He was most earnest now. These mercurial changes of mood were more frequent of late. “Please, take this epistle to Emma.” He reached out the letter to Bernhisel. “All right, Brother Joseph, I’ll deliver it to her.” Understanding the implication that they should leave, he and Cahoon turned and walked from the room.

**********

In the afternoon Cahoon returned with Port, Hyrum Kimball, and Lorenzo Wasson, Emma’s nephew. They entered the kitchen where the fugitives were just finishing lunch, and Port crossed the kitchen to where the prophet sat while the other three stood by the door. “I ain’t of a mind with them, Joseph,” he asserted in a half whisper, motioning to the other three. Thus forewarned of dissension, Joseph cheerily welcomed the visitors, hoping to avoid unpleasantness. “So sit down, brethren, what news do you bring me from our beautiful city?” Shunning amenities, the lanky Kimball spoke for the trio, “We prefer to stand. You see, Joseph”—his tone now irascible—“the people are leaderless, and if the governor disarms the Legion, we shall be at the mercy of the banditti. Even as we talk, many are evacuating the city.” “And to return, Brother Kimball, as I have said before, is to submit to massacre.” “Ford has given written promises that he will protect you, the codefendants, and all witnesses,” Cahoon said. “Protect me with what? The militia that runt jackal presently commands have vowed my death.” Wasson was blunt, “It is cowardly to invite holocaust in Nauvoo to save yourself.” Was this fat-faced, presumptuous Wasson another budding heretic? Louisa wondered. Joseph was wounded and angered; before answering he glanced at Louisa, sitting next to him, ran his fingers through his hair, and then very slowly said, “If my life is of no value to my friends, it is of none to myself.” All three sputtered and half apologized that Joseph had misunderstood their intent; it was simply that he need not be apprehensive. Ford had pledged his faith as chief executive of the state that Joseph would receive impartial justice.

The prophet had grown annoyed that the men towered over him like three inquisitors, and he stood up. Hyrum, Louisa, Willard, and the Jordans ed him, and Sister Jordan sent the children outside to play. Limping pronouncedly, as always occurred from fatigue, Joseph walked over to where Rockwell leaned against the wall. “Brother Port, should I return,” he asked his old friend, ignoring the others. Taken aback by Joseph’s uncharacteristic indecision, Rockwell answered, “You’re a prophet and ought to know best. But, like always, as ya make yer bed, I’ll lay with ya.” “Hyrum,” Joseph turned, looking his slightly taller and heavier sibling in the eye (the five Smith brothers and their father were all tall and well-proportioned). “You are the church patriarch and the eldest. What is your advice?” Since Joseph’s first vision Hyrum had believed in him implicitly. Why waver now? Surely God would shield them both from harm. “Let us go back and give ourselves up, and see the thing out. By so doing we’ll prove to the adversaries the divinity of our mission. We shall be invincible if we put our trust in the Lord, for he is in it. If we live or have to die, we will be reconciled to our fate.” “Hyrum, I feel this is my Gethsemane, but if you are convinced that it is right to go back, I shall go with you.” He sat down again, closed his eyes, and with his elbows on the heavy oak table, ed his head with his hands cupped under his chin. Louisa could not determine if he was praying or thinking. Perhaps both. She thought better of embracing him in front of Emma’s stern nephew. After several moments, he stood up and divined, “Hyrum, we shall surely be butchered.” Having issued this caveat, he turned to Cahoon and said calmly, “Ready a boat for us. We shall return.”

**********

Back in Nauvoo at six thirty the next morning, June 24, Joseph, Hyrum, and the other codefendants named in Francis Higbee’s complaint, departed from the Mansion for the fifteen mile ride to Carthage. The evening before Joseph had

sent a rider with a letter to Ford, agreeing to meet his conditions and accepting his protection. The governor replied that if the prophet did not report to him in Carthage by 10:00 a.m., he risked destruction of Nauvoo and its populace. With his advisors, Joseph worked through the night preparing for the confrontation with Carthage justice. The party of thirty, comprising witnesses and lawyers in addition to the accused, galloped up Mulholland. At the temple Joseph signaled them to halt, and for some time approbatively studied the sanctified edifice and viewed his city below. He posed a rhetorical question, “Who among you was with me five years ago when I named this spot?” and answered, “I came to inspect the site and beheld a lush garden where others saw only trackless swamps and woods, and I said, ‘Here shall we build up a city, and it shall be called Nauvoo, which means in Hebrew a beautiful plantation.’” (It did not faze the prophet that his more scholarly adherents had never been able to find the term in a Hebrew lexicon.) “I tell you all this day that this is the loveliest place and the best people under the heavens.” Spurring Charlie on, he added, “Little do they know the trials, which await them.” Joseph’s mind groped for and discarded solutions to his dilemma as he rode on through the dust and muddy puddles. How to extricate himself this time? It was obvious that Ford was edgy because of last year’s congressional election. It had been stupid to promise votes to both sides, but the governor’s democrats had won. Still, that brought Ford grief, allegations of deals with the Mormons. With his brother, William, in the legislature Joseph kept abreast of Ford’s thinking. A pity that William did not exhibit the filial loyalty characteristic of Hyrum. He would be of little use in this crisis. The whistling-whittling boys had helped in protecting him from ill-disposed law in the past, but this predicament was too big for that, far too big. He chuckled aloud, recalling the terror that those whittling boys had instilled in the hearts of three Missouri lawmen some weeks after the Dixon affair. He was giving a speech to the Saints on a week day evening when the ruffians appeared in town. A couple of the youths fell in beside them; softly whistling and whittling on pine sticks with large hunting knives, they accompanied them to the grove where several other whistlers thronged close around the three strangers, took out their razor-sharp knives, and began cutting. Wordlessly, their long knives slicing ever closer to the men, the whittlers ushered them straight

back to the landing. But such tactics could not be effective with an entire armed posse. Nothing should be done now that would lose a pogrom on the people. A few miles out of town, Hyrum disturbed Joseph’s reverie, “Look, troops ahead.” Joseph leaned forward in the saddle to better survey the approaching riders. As they drew closer he said, “Appears to be militia from McDonough County under Captain Dunn. We can see what they want when we water our horses up ahead at Brother Fellow’s place. Ford refused to send a platoon to escort us. Maybe he’s changed his mind.” Captain Dunn, commanding sixty mounted soldiers and a baggage wagon was en route to Nauvoo to repossess the state arms of the Legion. While the horses were being watered, the captain and the prophet went inside Albert Fellow’s home for a parley. Joseph knew what it meant to deprive his troops of their weapons, but seeing no other way to ensure pacifism, he countersigned Dunn’s order to expedite the surrender of state equipment. Joseph dictated a letter to Ford explaining that he would proceed to Carthage as soon as the transfer was complete; then he emerged from the farmhouse and commented to his associates, “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am as calm as a summer’s morning.” He did not add that he yearned to see Louisa. At midnight the Mormons, escorted by McDonough Company, rode into Carthage with most (some had been hidden in cornfields) of the state-issued muskets and three cannons; and in a crescendo of excitement, the multitude of militiamen and schismatics, long awaiting in various stages of inebriation the group’s arrival, went berserk. Xenophobia had always been characteristic of the farming towns; and the Saints, with an aura alien, exotic, and condescending, had induced implacable enmity and hysteria in the rustics. Their anger had been fueled by the Mormons’ recent evasions of their law courts until it had reached white heat. Every vulgarity in popular usage and some new variations were hurled at the Saints in general and the prophet in particular as Joseph’s party halted in front of the Hamilton Hotel. “Stand away, you McDonough boys.” “Let us shoot the goddamned sonsabitches.” “Old wild-eyed Joe has seen the last of Nauvoo. We’ll use him up now and kill

all the shithead Mormons.” “Please, quiet down there,” a voice called good-naturedly from a second-story window of the hotel. “All right, Gov’ner,” a soldier answered. “Let’s hear it for Thomas Ford, gov’ner of the great Mormon-hatin’ state of Illinois.” “Ford, help us chop their goddamned heads off,” another implored. “Silence now, boys. Let the law work here.” The governor had leaned over the second-floor balcony in an effort to silence the commotion. “I know your great anxiety to see Mr. Smith, which is natural enough, but it is quite too late tonight for you to have the opportunity. But I assure you, gentlemen, you shall have that privilege tomorrow morning, as I will cause him to before the troops upon the square, and I now wish you, with this assurance, quietly and peaceably to return to your quarters.”

**********

“So this is the morality Ford condones,” Joseph complained to John Taylor, Willard Richards, and Hyrum as the four sat after supper in their cramped room at the hotel discussing the arrest and hearing. “He wrote that we must be tried before the ‘same magistrates.’ One would be Morrison. But instead, he let us be brought up before another—and also allows them to heap on new accusations. Ford is more conscientious in keeping promises to villains than to us. Imagine the way he paraded us through the middle of the Greys! If it hadn’t been for the double row of McDonoughs on either side of us, they would have torn us apart.” All eighteen Mormon defendants had gone to the courthouse that morning to surrender to Constable David Bettisworth, who, on the complaints of two apostates, arrested Joseph and Hyrum on an additional charge—treason— rationalized on the grounds that at the time the Carthage lawmen were trying to apprehend them in Nauvoo, the Smiths had placed the city under martial law. “Bettisworth was bad enough,” Richards said grumpily. “But that Robert Smith,

who one moment is a captain in the Greys and in the next metamorphoses into a justice of the peace, is satanic.” “It’s ironic that a man named Smith should sit in judgment on us,” Hyrum added. “He’s been a leader in stirring up resentment against the Saints for a long time.” “It’s just a trumped-up charge to let them hold Brothers Hyrum and Joseph here,” Richards accused. “Since Smith heard their case this afternoon, the sixteen others are free. Yet you two won’t be tried on the second charge until the next term of the circuit court.” “For now we’re released on $500 bail, but it does not auger well, brethren,” Joseph pronounced despondently. “Joseph,” Taylor pleaded, “let me send for the Legion. Dunn collected only 250 muskets. Our men have hidden some, and each has a hunting rifle. The loss of the cannons will make little difference in our fighting effectiveness.” “Not yet, Brother John. Now we are here, we’ll give Ford a chance.” “There is someone at the door,” Richards said as he stood up to go open it. Constable Bettisworth stood grinning at the Mormons. In a tone of undisguised triumph he said, “I’ve a mittimus here that’ll commit them Smiths to jail tonight.” “Let me see it, Brother Willard,” Joseph requested. Richards took it from the constable and handed it to Joseph. He read the last line aloud, “There to remain until discharged by due course of law.” He dropped the hand holding the mittimus to his side and sighed, “Signed by Robert F. Smith.” Captain Dunn and a detail of McDonoughs conducted Joseph and Hyrum to the jail through throngs of riffraff, who jammed the streets. Eight other Mormons went along as bodyguards and were allowed to sleep on the floor. Of all the smug observers, none was more complacent than a cluster of men who had known the prophet intimately, supped with him, prayed with him, and, finally, betrayed him: William and Wilson Law, Chauncey Higbee, and Charles Foster.

**********

On the early evening of June 25 Louisa stood wringing her hands as she looked out the parlor windows near to where Sara was mending Daniel’s socks. “Sara, I can’t stand it another minute. It’s been two days. Since we returned from Montrose, I’ve heard practically nothing of Joseph. I want to help him to do something. Why do we put up with such treatment of our prophet?” “Louisa, we women have our opinions, but this is an affair for menfolks to handle.” “Oh, men, phooey! They’ll get my husband killed. I am going to Carthage, Sara. No one will stop me. I’ll speak to that governor myself.” “Why, Louisa, you can’t. You mustn’t. It isn’t your place. There’s Emma and …” “She’s doing nothing, Sara. Nothing!” She whirled around, her cheeks flaming and her head high. “I know what it’s like to lose those I love, and I love him so, Sara. If it were Daniel, you would understand.” Seeing Louisa’s determination, Sara suggested, “Maybe Daniel could go with you. You cannot go alone, Louisa. We hear that every kind of vermin is on the roads and in Carthage.” “But Daniel is so busy with folks getting their wagons fixed and horses shoed in anticipation of flight. And if he knew, he would try to stop me. Please, Sara, don’t tell him. I have a plan. I won’t go alone. I’ll go ask Tom Edwards if he will take me down the river in the morning. That way we will avoid the Carthage road, and it won’t be obvious that we are Mormons, for we shall go from Montebello by stage.” Sara’s brow wrinkled; she was reflecting on Tom. He was of medium height and weight, pink English complexion. Daniel said the boy worked conscientiously and was strong for a sixteen-year-old. He was certainly trustworthy. “Well, child (Sara still could not quite face the fact that Louisa was a married woman), go ask

Tom then, but I don’t like it at all.”

XII

Joseph, I Must Tell You Something

On normal summer days the Mississippi, warm and muddy brown, meanders quietly south from Minnesota with little discernible direction of current to show that it has embarked upon an awesome journey to New Orleans and the Gulf of Mexico. In stormy weather the river becomes a formidable foe, awakening savage whitecaps, swirling currents and undertows, and tossing watercraft capriciously about with inhuman malevolence. Today was oppressively quiet and the great expanse of water sluggish and nonmenacing as Tom guided the tiny skiff around sandbars, log snags, and floating debris. Much of the low lying shore and some of the cultivated fields, which ran up to the perimeter of the bluffs, lay beneath the gentle flow, and tall, straight cottonwoods with silver backed leaves shimmering in the sunlight gave the illusion of growing in the middle of the channel; at peak flood stage the river was effortlessly reclaiming its bottom lands. Except for the occasional cries of playing children and the smells of noonday meals that drifted out to them, Louisa and Tom felt disunited from humanity. Listlessly pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Louisa fought the lassitude brought on by the intense, muggy heat. At least on the river there was respite from the fetid stench of Mayflies, which hatched by the trillions to infest the banks of the Mississippi for a few hours; in places the lifeless diaphanous bodies of the ephemerids lay piled six inches deep. For a moment she laid back and, gazing up at the sky, saw a flock of blackbirds whose neat formation was disrupted by two huge eagles soaring on air currents. “Those are bald eagles. They nest in the rushes by the Hamilton farm,” Tom told her, resting the oars a moment and wiping his broad forehead with the back of his hand. “Some of my friends come down to hunt them. I’m as good a shot as any, but I think the eagles are too beautiful to kill.”

“They are, Tom, so wild and majestic.” At the inlet by Crooked Creek he pulled hard on the left oar and continued upstream. “Over there,” he jerked his head in the direction of the south shore of the slough then jumped into the shallows dragging the boat over the slippery rocks and moored it in a clump of reeds. The stagnant swamp abounded with life. Dainty water lilies on plump green pads bobbed on the surface of the shoal, and on the mud flat a white heron, perched in the midst of detritus on one long, delicate leg, pecked assiduously at a blue tail fly trapped in the green slime.” “Walk up those planks, Louisa,” Tom directed her. “I want to leave the boat hidden here. It’s not far to the Dike Road and the stage stop in Montebello.” A welcome breeze blew off the river clearing the air of the putrid smell of dead and decaying matter, and a host of limicoline birds, cranes, egrets, and herons shrilled angrily at the human invasion of their estival territory. Louisa removed her shoes and stockings and, holding them in one hand, clamored off the skiff into the shallow water. The mud sucked at her feet and oozed through her toes as she walked down the shore; near a large clump of hazel brush she found an inviting, flat rock and sat down. Why couldn’t she shake this sensation of nausea? She looked down at her ankles, brown with sand and mud, and noticed a trickle of blood crusting on her foot. “Oh,” she said shuttering, “something’s stinging me.” Tom knelt beside her and inspected her leg. “A leech; you must have just picked it up. I’ll have to pull it out before it bores any deeper.” Expertly he steadied her ankle with his left hand and with the right twisted out the black, sucking worm and tossed it into the bushes. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.” She shook her head. “It didn’t bother me. They’re just so repulsive.” He turned his head as she pulled on her stockings and shoes, and then helped her to her feet. “Do you think anyone will take particular notice of us, Tom?” she asked anxiously. “No, your plan is wise. We are really taking a roundabout route to Carthage. Montebello has a large steamboat landing and a ferry stop to Iowa as well. With our little boat hidden here above the town, we’ll just walk on in, and nobody will suspect that we came from Nauvoo.” He noted that her tawny visage was pale

and that gray circles had formed under her eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right? We have at least an hour until the stage leaves.” “I’m ready,” she replied, resolutely straightening her shoulders. They set out for the mile walk to Montebello.

**********

It was midafternoon when the stagecoach rattled into the Carthage Square. Louisa wondered that the carriage held together, for each jolt from the deeply rutted road threatened to splinter it into pieces. With several other engers they climbed out in front of a two-story brick building, Hancock County’s new courthouse. Except for a few stray dogs snoozing in the sun, old men tilted back against storefronts in splint-bottomed chairs, and perhaps a sow with a litter of pigs running through the streets, Carthage was normally deserted on a blistering summer day. The nearly thirteen hundred militiamen assembled in town to subdue the Nauvoo Legion had stimulated unprecedented activity. Groups of mounted soldiers wearing the uniform of the Carthage Greys cantered across the street, their horses kicking up billows of fine, brown dust. Ununiformed riflebearing farmers and tradesmen swarmed over the grass of the tree-studded square chewing tobacco or smoking Jimpson weed. Louisa pulled up her bonnet, which had been hanging carelessly down her back, and tied it squarely beneath her chin. Her face was already too tanned from the summer sun in an age when skin like alabaster was the fashion; today she wanted to look like a farmer’s wife. Tom stretched himself to his full five feet, nine inches, and walked up to a soldier to ask directions then returned and took Louisa manfully by the arm. “I told him we’ve come from Fort Madison,” he said. “If they suspected we are Mormons …” He stopped. “It’s several blocks this way to the jail.” Although the positions of the loiterers did not change, Louisa could feel every eye watching her as they headed toward Walnut Street. Her heart pounded in anticipation of seeing Joseph. She felt revived, the hardships of the morning faded. She determined that they must let her in, but beyond just meeting him she

did not dare to speculate. The Carthage jail was not the grim fortress she had imagined, but rather a plain, two story, red sandstone building. A line of wet wash, probably strung out by the jailer’s wife, hung limply on a rope secured between two trees on the side lawn. Louisa and Tom walked up to the front door and knocked. It appeared to be bolted, although most of the windows, freshened with white curtains, were ajar to catch any breeze on this still, hot day. She peered through the nearest window into the jailer’s comfortable front room. Abruptly they heard the sliding of the door bolt and the door was pushed open; a plump, middle-aged woman with a not unkindly, yet not amiable face, stood in the doorway. “We have come to visit Br-eh-Joseph and Hyrum Smith,” Louisa blurted. “Well, you can’t do that now,” the woman answered shortly, redistributing the weight of a large stack of bed sheets in her arms. “All day long they’ve been pourin’ in here. We—my husband—has to have a letter from Governor Ford himself before we can let you in.” “But … but how?” Louisa faltered. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem,” the woman replied a little less harshly. “You can find his Excellency lodged at the Hamilton House.” She started to close the door, and then added chattily, “A fine mess this is for us. Carthage is a decent town without all these brigands with nothin’ on their minds but riotin’ and lychin’.” She noticed Louisa’s eyes widen. “Your Joe Smith is safe enough here,” she asserted a little more graciously, observing the girl’s desperation and the concern of the boy beside her. “They’re not downstairs in the cramped debtor’s cell anymore but have been moved to the big upstairs bedroom next to the criminal cells. There’s no bars on the windows, and the door don’t lock. George thought they’d be safer there. Are you related to Smith?” “Yes,” Tom stepped backward, “We’re the prophet’s brother and sister.” (This wasn’t really a lie, for they were related in the gospel.) “We’ll be back,” Louisa broke in, “with a letter from Governor Ford.” The heavy door of the jail slammed shut behind them, and they retraced their steps through the center of town to the Hamilton.

For several days the bar at the hotel had been doing a lucrative business. Of the multifarious militia companies in Carthage only the McDonough troops maintained a semblance of propriety; the Carthage Greys and the Warsaw Regiment, randy and combative, lusted for action. They were jubilant in having snared their prey, and repeatedly vowed to see to it that the trap in which Joseph found himself would not be sprung. Louisa and Tom walked across the unpainted, wooden planks that served as a porch and into the hotel lobby. The room was threadbare and the rug worn from continued assaults by hobnailed boots; tattletale stains on the wall in back of a brass spittoon attested that many customers had missed their aim. Louisa cleared her throat as she approached the dumpy, spectacled clerk who was writing at the reception desk. “I’d like to see Governor Ford. It’s … ah … very important.” He peeped at her over his smeared eyeglasses and pointed upstairs, “Second floor, miss, 201.” Harried form the unusual invasion of business, he bent back down to his calculations. From the bar came a chorus of cat calls and whistles; over the din a voice shouted, “Let’s get all the goddamned Mormons!” The pair walked to the narrow stairwell around the corner from the desk and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The beams of the upper story creaked as they directed themselves to the open door of the governor’s suite at the end of the hall; in the anteroom several bearded soldiers sat playing cards. Tom walked in front of her. “We’d like to see Governor Ford, please,” his voice cracked. “Yeah? You and everybody else.” The large, heavyset man leaned back in his chair, the buttons on his shirt straining to hold the material together, and stared insolently at Louisa. “Please,” she implored, “I must see him.” “I’ll tell the great man,” another soldier readily offered. “He ought to thank me; she’s a helluva lot better lookin’ than anyone who’s come into this pigsty today.” He shuffled into the governor’s room and returned shortly to motion Louisa to enter.

“Wait here, Tom. I shan’t be long” A small, balding, wisp of a man sat at a desk in the corner. For the first time since coming to Carthage, Louisa experienced dread. Was this unprepossessing person all that stood between Joseph and his tormentors? “Well, come in, my dear,” he beckoned at her hesitation. “Sit down, sit down, please. What have you to petition?” She walked toward him and sat in the chair he offered her. “I understand, Your Excellency, that your permission is needed in order to visit Joseph Smith. He’s our … our brother.” She gestured back toward Tom who was sitting in the anteroom. Thomas Ford sighed wearily. “Yes, I can give you that permission. I might add, young lady, that I am not here to personally oppress your Mr. Smith but to secure his safety. It is for his own protection that he stays at the Hancock County Jail until the adjudication on Saturday.” She gazed levelly at him then said quietly, “The men we’ve seen in Carthage today—your bodyguards included—are not very reassuring, Governor Ford.” “I am a man of law, Ms… . Smith. The court is bound to rule fairly and impartially on the additional charge of treason for which your brother is being held, as it has on the first. I do wish that Mr. Smith had not personally condemned and then led the attack upon the Expositor. You see, the press in the United States is looked upon as the great bulwark of American Freedom,” he lectured her. “And its destruction in Nauvoo was represented and looked upon as a highhanded measure, and manifests to the people a disposition on Mr. Smith’s part to suppress the liberty of speech and of the press. He has put himself—and me—in a most precarious position. Now he must show obeisance to the rule of the court.” Louisa studied the governor. He was perhaps indecisive, even cowardly, but he did not appear vindictive like Governor Boggs of Missouri. She measured her words carefully. “The prophet has been tried for treason before in Missouri by a kangaroo court. This is yet one more in a long line of barbaric persecutions of Joseph and our people. Perhaps you have never seen the cruelty of mob violence, Governor Ford.”

“There is a great deal more at stake here, my dear. I grant you that many of the old settlers are what one might call hard cases, but you must acknowledge that from their viewpoint the Mormons are interlopers here. We could have civil war. We both know that there are those who, even as we speak, agitate for it. I cannot let that happen, not as long as I am governor of this state. I have no personal militia at my disposal, and the troops here are certainly partisan in nature. The state government was bankrupted by my predecessor, and now with problems caused by the greatest spring flood in memory, I see no prospect that our insolvency will be ameliorated.” He realized he had strayed from her specific concern, “But to your problem …” His reedy voice cracked with fatigue. “I visited Mr. Smith this morning. He asked to accompany me on my trip to Nauvoo in the morning. I have not made up my mind about that, but I fear I cannot seriously consider allowing you to visit today. Wait”—he held up his hand upon seeing her expression of disappointment—“tomorrow.” He dipped his quill into the inkwell and scratched a quick note. Louisa suppressed the retort, which came to her mind, realizing that an emotional outburst might discomfit the governor. “You say that you are a man of law, sir, then surely you must concur that this country was founded, at least in part, as a haven for the religiously oppressed. Yet our church continues to suffer indignities despite the very precepts of the Constitution which enfranchises us.” Ford contemplated her with respect. After his absurd conversation that morning with Joseph Smith, whom he regarded as an imposter and charlatan, he had despaired of finding a Mormon with a rational bent of mind. “You should study law, Ms. Smith. Have you attended school?” “Sister Snow’s academy,” she replied. “I like to read but,” she pressed her advantage, “freedom of worship is an inalienable right, and ours is being threatened. And Hancock County has imprisoned a United States presidential candidate.” “I cannot interfere with the ruling of the justice of the peace and the constable, even if they are humble in office; they have acted in a high and independent capacity, far beyond any executive power I possess. My province is simply to aid them with the force of the state,” he concluded lamely. “In essence you are saying that the state of Illinois is sovereign in its demands above the federal government then our liberty, as guaranteed by the Constitution,

becomes a sham.” “I have attended circuit courts here myself as state’s attorney from 1830 until ’34 when this county was first organized. I think I know these people. There are, of course, the butcher boys, but there are also the affluent, responsible citizens. Let’s not give in to panic yet, my dear.” Silently she picked up his letter from the desk. Making certain that the ink was dry, she folded it and slipped it into her pocket. “Thank you, Governor Ford, and good day.” “Good day to you. And one word of advice: I would not mention your relationship to the prisoners.” As Louisa was exiting the room, he reached into his desk drawer for the bottle of whiskey from which he had been seeking solace more and more of late. As Louisa and Tom walked from the suite and back down the hall, she had the distinct feeling that a part of her had been altered or lost; from some inner recesses had come new strength and self-knowledge. The bashful, diffident girl with the pretty chestnut curls bore the same exterior, but inside a transformation had taken place. She was becoming a woman.

**********

Realizing that they had not eaten since morning, Tom and Louisa ordered a meal in the hotel dining room where the fare was plain but nourishing. Luckily, after dinner they were able to secure lodgings in the hotel, Tom in a large room where some twenty-five to thirty besotted male guests had been crammed, and Louisa in tiny quarters, shared with a serving maid. Tom was apprehensive of the mood of the town and suggested that they retire early; he did not mention to her his dread that the indecencies perpetrated upon Mormon women in Missouri would be repeated here in Carthage. A girl as lovely as Louisa could not help attracting attention; she could be in jeopardy, and he would be powerless to protect her against armed hooligans. Louisa was relieved to be alone in the small, dank room behind the kitchen. She

took off her bonnet and dress and hung them on a nail in the corner then poured water from the white porcelain pitcher into the washbowl, splashing her face, neck, hands, and finishing with her feet, letting herself dream of sinking into the Howes’ zinc-lined bathtub and soaking in the cool water. Gingerly patting her face then her feet, dry, she noticed that the towel she had been given was dirty. Some hotel! Since she had not brought a change of clothing, her chemise and petticoat would serve as a nightgown. She extinguished the kerosene lamp, which stood on the three-legged wooden table, and then stretched out on the rickety cot that had been brought in for her. Her mind was jumbled with thoughts of the day’s journey and the confrontation with Governor Ford. How loyal of Tom to brave this for her. How considerate to suggest an early bed. He must have heard the stories of the Mormon community in Missouri where girls were tied to benches in a schoolhouse and repeatedly raped. Was it their religion that people so hated? Or simply envy for what the Saints had accomplished? How was Joseph bearing his ordeal? She knew he detested imprisonment. Perhaps they should have continued on together. But she must be honest with herself. As much as Joseph loved her, he would never dishonor his duty to Emma and his four children. The problems were too many for her to contend with now. She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the sound of raucous voices that floated over the transom.

**********

“Sergeant Worrell, ma’am. Can I help you?” The corpulent, mustachioed figure behind the jailhouse door was in the uniform of the Carthage Greys. “I would like to see Joseph Smith. Here is a letter from Governor Ford.” Louisa handed him the note, holding her chin high and refusing to acknowledge the jailer’s smirk. “Up there.” He pointed at the stairs opposite the door.

At the top of the staircase she turned right toward the open door of the large bedroom. Joseph, Willard Richards, and John Taylor sat around a small pine table drinking a glass of wine; Hyrum stood by the window gazing disconsolately outdoors, and a few other Mormons sat on chairs or on the large four-poster bed. Joseph looked up at the sound of the footsteps. “Louisa!” He rushed to her, oblivious of the others and took her joyously in his arms. “Just to see you again makes me a fortunate man,” he whispered. “But how in the world did you ever get here?” “Tom Edwards and I came down river then overland by stage yesterday. I couldn’t get permission to see you until today.” Discreetly the Mormon friends and Hyrum picked up the jug of wine and excused themselves to the ading room containing the two small cells. Joseph closed the door. “There’s no lock, but we’ll be alone. They’ve allowed friends to come and go freely, and all have brought us things.” He hugged her tightly. “What do you think of our quarters? Apostle Richards slept on that cot last night; others have made their beds on the floor. At least it’s roomier up here. The night of the twenty-fifth, ten of us slept in the small debtor’s cell downstairs. I have some true friends. Come, behold our view! We look out upon the perfidious Carthage Greys.” They both sauntered to the window. “I have sent a letter to General Dunham asking him to bring the Legion. Governor Ford, the craven, lying scoundrel has left for Nauvoo. He met with me yesterday and promised that I would accompany him, but had I gone, your journey would have been in vain. To see you, to hear your voice, to feel your touch upon my flesh is all I ask. There is so much more I want to say to you, Louisa. Often I have become exasperated at the inadequacy of words.” His eyes devoured her. “Joseph, I’ve something important to tell you. Something wonderful. Come, let us sit side by side on the bed.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his long eyelashes then pulled him to the bed. “What is it that causes such ceremony?” he inquired amusedly, yielding to her urgings. “Joseph, oh, Joseph. I am going to have a baby,” she blurted.

Joseph was uncharacteristically dumbfounded. He very much wanted a child from his favorite wife to add eternal glory to his name, but he had not expected it quite so soon. They had been together so infrequently. “Why … why … you can’t be certain.” “I’m sure, Joseph.” She was composed, radiant in the first bloom of her pregnancy. “Then … then … we should celebrate. We should have a dinner fit for a king. But what can we do here?” He paused, thinking. “Oh, Louisa, what pleasure it would give me to lie with you now in this four-poster bed I shared with Hyrum last night.” Easily, gently he stroked the curve of her waist, his fingers lingering on her hips; then he put his arms around her shoulders and kissed her ionately. “Joseph! We can’t do that here. You’re smothering me!” Laughing softly, he said, “No, never would I harm you. You must understand my exuberance. What a girl you are. So soon. You are able to give me a son so soon. He will have your dark, indescribably beautiful eyes.” Again his hands ed delicately over her breasts and hips, his desire surging. “But he will be strong and tall like you, my husband.” She turned to kiss him and stroke his hair, “And if it is a girl?” He hesitated, “Well, she would be warm like you, and you could teach her to play the piano and sing.” They giggled and kissed as though life held no perils, as though there were no tomorrow. But after the initial joy at the news, Joseph grew remote and morose, for with the governor out of town, he knew too well the danger he was in. Twice the Carthage Greys had been put under guard because of threats on him, and now two companies under Captain Robert F. Smith were assigned as his protectors. Was Ford mad? It gave the prophet some comfort to know that the rest of the Greys had been disbanded along with Sharp’s predatory ragtag and bobtail Warsaw troops, but one spy had reported rumors that they boasted of plans to return to murder the confined Mormons as soon as the governor was well on his way to Nauvoo. Why had Ford taken the McDonoughs with him? They hadn’t

shown Joseph great animosity. Ford should have taken Greys and left McDonoughs. Well, he had sent for the Legion. He could do no more. “We are not completely unarmed, Louisa,” he said, shifting abruptly from talk of love and her pregnancy. “Two pistols have been smuggled in. Hyrum has a single shot, and I have an Allen six-shooter. It’s a rather unwieldy gun with its six barrels.” The sudden change in his mood alarmed her. “Joseph, you won’t need weapons will you? What is going to happen here? The governor himself told me that I needn’t worry.” “Hey, up there,” Sergeant Worrell called. “When is that sweety pie comin’ down?” “We know how to treat Mormon women, Josey boy,” another soldier yelled. “We can send her to hell with you Smiths,” came a second threat. “Course we’ll make sure she ain’t no virgin first. Don’t you Mormons like ’em prepared?” There was wild mirth at these witticisms among the dissolute guards hanging around the entrance. “Piss on all of ’em. That’s what we should do. Hang ’em by the balls then piss on ’em,” a fourth soldier shrieked, trying to top the previous obscenities. His face sanguine, Joseph walked to the open window and like an Old Testament prophet censured, “Silence ye fiends of the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still. Have you no respect for womanhood? Cease such talk, or you or I die this instant!” He stood framed in the window erect, dignified, prepotent. He remained there for three or four minutes after his last word, looking at the quailing guards. One or two dropped their weapons, all were silent. Satisfied, he returned to Louisa and clasped her hands in his. “You must leave Carthage now in daylight. I fear for you at night. You know what happened in Missouri. Far west, Independence, Gallatin, Adam-ondi-Ahman, DeWitt, Crooked River, Haun’s Mill—always the same. Here both depraved fanatics along with the detestable apostates may repeat those atrocities.”

“Joseph, I cannot leave you.” “Need I command you as a prophet of God? Things shall come to here, which you must not witness, my love. These curs are quiet now, but nothing except my blood will truly satisfy them,” he said fatally. “Joseph, no, no!” She took his forlorn face in her hands. Tears ran down her cheeks and across the lips that were bestowing wet, salty kisses. “I would keep my suspicions from you, but perhaps only if you know the gravity of my predicament will you go. They want me as the Romans wanted Christ, Louisa, for in no age can mankind graciously accept God’s truths. What I have done, what the Almighty has commanded me to do, who I truly am, no one comprehends. They just don’t know me, they never knew my heart. No man knows my history. I cannot tell it. I shall never understand it. I don’t blame anyone for not believing my history. If I had not experienced what I have, I could not have believed it myself.” He paused then rushed into a defense of his innocence. “But I tell the world that I have a conscience void of offense toward God and toward all men. What I have taught is verily of Our Father. The gathering, the patriarchal order, the building of temples, all is from him. If they take my life, I shall die an innocent man, and my blood shall cry from the ground for vengeance, and it shall be said of me, ‘He was murdered in cold blood.’” Louisa’s lips quivered. She did not want him to know the hopeless despair his prescience provoked in her. Gently he embraced her and said sotto voce, “Sweetest Louisa, I promise you on my word as a prophet of God and as he is my witness that I will have you in the world that is to come.” She sat sobbing, her face averted. “Please, please, my little one,” he entreated. “You can do no more here. Let some of the brethren accompany you back to the Hamilton to get the stage.” He paused, slowly swallowed and with a choked voice added, “Take care of our son, Louisa. You are both so dear to me.”

Louisa

XIII

For a Scant While Their Lives Had Touched

The five hundred militiamen from Warsaw and their commander, Col. Levi Williams, were furious at the order to return to their homes. They had planned to meet the governor at Golden’s Point, where they were encamped halfway between Warsaw and Nauvoo and march on with him and the McDonoughs. They had resolved in a meeting in Warsaw to “forthwith proceed to Nauvoo and exterminate the city.” The Saints were so reviled that all officers of the body had ed this extermination resolution (reminiscent of Boggs’s order), even though some among them were educated men and prosperous leading citizens. Reluctantly, yet with relief (for many feared the Legion), the troops were breaking camp at Golden’s Point and loading up their equipment when Captain Mark Aldrich sprang onto a baggage wagon and urged, “Men of Illinois act now! Don’t allow sister Tommy Ford to intimidate you.” The militants among the troops scoffed. “We lose a fine opportunity to finish our task if we don’t continue now. Who will volunteer?” At least forty voices responded, “me,” and silent sympathizers nodded. To further incite discord, Captain Tom Sharp jumped on the wagon. “Let us not be puppets of old namby-pamby Tommy. He has sent an appeal to our Warsaw Committee of Safety, which I have here with me.” His thin right arm waved the document. “We are advised that the loony Mormons came to our state in misery and want. Our sympathies were awakened at their tales of wrongs and persecution, His Excellency writes. Well, gutless Fordie boy, I’ll state our candid conviction: nobody can abide Mormons when he gets to know them. There is only one way to quiet Hancock County, and that is to remove one or the other, either they must go or we must. Now I put the question to every man here: is it possible for the two classes of population, who regard each other with feelings of the most venomous hostility, and who have no confidence in each other, to remain in the same county? We say it is impossible! The remedy, the only

remedy, is apparent!” In the midst of cheering, rationalizations, and bravado, a messenger from Carthage galloped into camp to speak alone with Colonel Williams. The two men stood aside while Williams listened to the rider’s words. A smile broke over the colonel’s features, and he strode into the middle of the group to announce, “Boys, Captain Robert Smith of the Greys has sent word that if some irate, but law-abiding citizens, fed up with the Smiths and the holyfolk were to storm the Carthage jail. They would meet no resistance from the Greys who are guarding it. Men, while Tommy’s making his speech in Nauvoo, we can do the state a real service. We’ve discussed it before. I say let’s ride to Carthage!” “Yahoo, save the prophet for me,” and “They’re as good as dead,” jeered the rabble as most picked up pieces of red and yellow clay and charcoal for use as face paint. Then raising their rifles above their heads and twirling them in a show of unity, they dashed for their horses.

**********

Louisa told the four brethren and Tom who escorted her to the hotel that she was exhausted from her meeting with the prophet and wished to rest before returning to Nauvoo. They took her at her word and, after eavesdropping around town, returned to the jail only to have the jailer, George Stigall, under the urging of Sergeant Worrel and some Greys refuse them ittance. “No matter that you’ve been in and out several times,” the sergeant said. “Things is different now with the little gov’ner out of town. Them two that’s up there with the Smiths can stay, but no more’s goin’ in.” By afternoon the muggy second floor bedroom had become a steam bath. Apostles Taylor and Richards and the Smiths, one prophet, the other patriarch, of the church sat around in their shirtsleeves, enervated and sweating profusely. From time to time they heard the far off rumble of thunder. Grey clouds were forming; soon the storm would break over Carthage. Joseph contemplated his devoted disciples. Brother John moved from his chair at the pine table, where he had been reading

scriptures, to the windowsill. Maybe he would catch a breeze there, Joseph thought. Lean, slightly shorter than the prophet, strong features, distinguished with his chin whiskers, thirty-five years old; the man had a first-class intellect and was a fine addition to the church leadership. And poor Brother Willard suffering from lack of tobacco for his pipe (smoking settled his stomach) was idly tapping the table with it, thinking. He had been a faithful amanuensis to Joseph and accompanied him through all of his recent trials, in spite of his great bulk and semiparalyzed leg. As tall as Joseph, forty years old, excellent mind. Another good man to have in the high councils. Joseph’s eyes turned to Hyrum, who was resting on the bed. That was wise. It was best to make no movement at all on this stifling, otiose day. No air moved. To look at Hyrum was almost like looking in a mirror—blue eyes, nose not quite as prominent as Joseph’s. Always the idealist, always benevolent. Of his four brothers, two still lived—Don Carlos, the tallest of all at six feet, four inches, died in 1841 at age twenty-six. He was editing the Times and Seasons and was strongly opposed to the principle. His father was also on the other side with Don Carlos, who died in 1840. He was the church patriarch before Hyrum. He gave the brothers their height—over six feet himself. And how he could wrestle and fight! William was so uncooperative. Once it had come to blows between them in Kirtland. That was embarrassing. Too many had witnessed it. But of late they had got along. Would his mother be all right with Emma? His mother had never doubted him, not even once. Joseph saw lightning in the distance, maybe over Quincy. Here they sat—the four of them—with frayed and anxious nerves. Yet no one made recriminations against another. They waited and waited. He had sent for the rest of the Twelve. It would be good when they returned. All were needed in this time of trouble. Near five o’clock Joseph decided a song might relieve boredom and apprehension. The Legion did not come. The Greys remained quiet, too quiet. Friends could no longer visit. What hellish plans were being laid somewhere out there? “Brother John, kindly render for us ‘A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.’” “I’m happy to comply, Brother Joseph. I only hope my vocal cords don’t melt.” All four laughed nervously, their mouths dry.

A poor wayfaring man of grief Had often crossed me on my way Who sued so humbly for relief That I could never answer, Nay

They opened a bottle of wine, brought to them by their last visitor shortly after Louisa left and sipped as Taylor progressed through ten verses of the song recently introduced in Nauvoo.

**********

Louisa’s exhaustion was not feigned. In the tiny maid’s room she fell asleep, firm in her conviction not to return to Nauvoo without Joseph and resolved to speak with the governor again upon his return; he was the only reasonable gentile in Carthage and espoused a belief in justice. When she awoke it was after four o’clock. Deciding to risk Joseph’s displeasure and visit him again, she arose, straightened her dress, and inspected herself in the mirror—terrible!— tearstained cheeks, bloodshot eyes, messed hair, disheveled. She carried the water pitcher to the kitchen, where she pumped it full of water and returned to the room to freshen up as best she could. A pity that she did not have another dress—Sara’s, her wedding dress to wear for Joseph. He liked it so much. So many had left town that she did not completely share Joseph’s anxieties for her safety; the Greys, who were not guarding the jail were confined to one area, and hadn’t the prophet reprimanded some of them? Without looking for Tom or other Saints, she walked happily toward the jail. About half a block from it, she heard a rich baritone singing the eleventh verse of a new hymn:

In prison I saw him next—condemned

To meet a traitor’s doom at mourn; The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, And honored him ’mid shame and scorn.

She looked across the yard of the jail and stopped, horrified, for while John Taylor was singing the last three verses con brio, a gang of horsemen rode up, dismounted, and began turning their coats and smearing something on their faces as they cursed the Saints and the prophet. They sang a parody of the “Hebrew Children”:

Where now is the prophet Joseph? Where now is the prophet Joseph? Where now is the prophet Joseph? Safe in Carthage Jail!

Then came Taylor’s last verses:

Then in a moment to my view The stranger started from disguise; The tokens in his hands I knew, The savior stood before mine eyes.

He spake—and my poor name he named—

“Of me thou has not been ashamed; These deeds shall thy memorial be; Fear not, thou didst them unto me.”

The chanting of the parody came again and again, nearly drowning out Brother Taylor’s lyrics. “Is the son of a bare-assed, stinking whore safe?” a painted-face Sergeant Worrell asked. “He won’t escape you good citizens this time,” came the reply, “unless his angels step in and pull him through the roof.” Realizing she must stay out of sight, Louisa pressed close to a big maple tree. What was happening? Was this real? They couldn’t. Oh, God, don’t let them harm my Joseph. A rescuer must come—maybe Brother Rockwell. There would be a miracle, the Legion. She heard a footstep behind her and whirled to face a friend. “Oh, Tom, it’s you.” “They said you left the hotel.” His green eyes moistened. “It’s terrible, Louisa.” Stunned, they watched. From the window the four Mormon leaders followed the activities of the amorphous body of approximately one hundred as it fomented itself into a paroxysm of madness. The jailer fled, and the Greys protecting the prisoners fired over the heads of the attackers, crying, “We surrender.” At that, some mobbers encircled the small building; others knocked a guard aside and surged up the flight of stairs to fire indiscriminately into the empty cells and the bedroom. All growled and hooted as they went about their madness. From below balls showered through the open window, peppering the ceiling. Joseph sprang to where his coat was hanging and grabbed the six-barreled pistol; Hyrum reached for his single shot, and all four men braced themselves against the door. The cutthroats outside thought it was locked, and someone sent a shot blasting through the keyhole; it whizzed past the Mormons. Slowly, the door was being forced open until a crack appeared. Joseph, John, and Willard jumped to

the left to knock aside the muskets that were beginning to protrude through the opening. John swung at them with a heavy walking stick and Willard with a cane while Joseph kicked and pushed. Hyrum stepped back facing the door and was snapping his pistol when a ball and flying splinters struck him on the left side of the nose. He fell on his back, crying, “I am a dead man.” Four more balls slammed into his body; one ed through his pocket watch with such force that it broke it to pieces; another tore through his throat and lodged in his head. Joseph dropped to his knees beside the body, lamenting, “Oh, dear Hyrum!” Then in a rage, ignoring the hail of bullets that was pouring into the room, he rushed to the door, reached his pistol left around the casing, and pulled the trigger six times; three barrels misfired, but he knew others hit their mark, for he heard screams of pain. Momentarily the mob fell back at this evidence of armed resistance, but in a moment the bloodthirsty throng came on stronger and wilder than ever as depraved men competed in the jammed space of the stair landing for a clear shot. John and Willard continued to parry the musket barrels. “Git the bastards,” came a shout from without. “Finish ’em off.” “Ain’t the sonsabitches dead yet?” “Christamighty, kill ’em, kill ’em, kill ’em.” Ascertaining the overwhelming odds against him, Taylor abandoned his post and ran to the front window; he was preparing to leap when a stream of bullets from the rifles of the charcoal-faced mob below was directed at him. With a heavy thud he fell back into the room and rolled under the cot. Joseph defiantly flung his empty pistol at the men entering the door and made for the side window; all guns were aimed at him. He surveyed the blackened faces below and the Greys with bayonets fixed, ready to assist the butchers. He uttered the Mason’s signal of distress, “Is there no help for the widow’s son?” In that instant two balls pierced his back, and from below another reached his right breast. He toppled forward, gripped the window ledge, and, in a last display of great strength, momentarily hung there. Then, twisting as he fell, he screamed, “Oh, Lord! My God! Lou … i …” His last word died on his lips, June 27, 1844. “He’s jumped out. He’s escaped us,” one of the assassins yelled as he led the retreat down the stairs.

Willard Richards, incredulous that he was only grazed on the ear, thought himself to be the only one of the four still alive; then he heard a moan from under the cot. Brother John would live to one day become the prophet, seer, and revelator. Fearing the mob’s return, Willard dragged him into one of the ading cells, ripped open a mattress, and covered him with straw. He noted Taylor’s watch had stopped the ball meant for his heart at sixteen minutes and fifty-six seconds past five o’clock; four other bullets found targets in less vulnerable spots. The prophet lay beneath the window with blood gushing from the three fatal wounds. A barefoot man with blackened face dragged the limp body to the well and propped it against the cement curbing. To make double certain that Joseph would not escape them this time, Colonel Williams commanded four of the painted faces to fire into the body. They executed the order quickly, perhaps already sensing the depravity of their deed. The same shoeless fanatic who dragged Joseph to the well unsheathed his bowie knife and ran up, intending to cut off the head of the Mormon prophet. The knife was poised at Joseph’s throat when the sun broke through the storm clouds, and a pillar of light illuminated his face. In panic the would-be decapitator fled with the others to resume their roles as farmers, laborers, businessmen, newspaper editors, idlers, criminals. Behind the shield of anonymity they had carried out the resolution taken in Warsaw and Carthage, “We hold ourselves at all times in readiness to cooperate with our fellow citizens in this state, Missouri, and Iowa, to exterminate, utterly exterminate, the wicked and abominable Mormon leaders, the authors of the trouble.” As the assassins scattered, Louisa broke away from Tom and ran to where Joseph lay. Kneeling, she cradled his head in her lap and carefully brushed the dirt from his hair. The ground was sodden with his blood, which now covered her hands and dress. Silently repressing her sobs, she shielded his mutilated body with hers. For a scant while their lives had touched, never mundane, often sublime and filled with joy. Resolute in her love, she must now live without him, and yet his influence upon her would remain forever profound and unalterable. Finally, relinquishing herself to grief, she wept then retched at the sight of blood, which continued to ooze from the martyr’s wounds. A primordial stillness had encomed them; the neighing of horses, the wanton jumble of voices, the retorts of gunfire, the carnage, seemed an incredible

hallucination. With a prismatic brilliance of light and shadow, the low rays of the western sun dazzled the leaves of the trees. Willard Richards descended cautiously from the second floor and approached Louisa, unabashed at the tears, which coursed down his cheeks. Gently he lifted her to her feet then turned to Tom who was watching helplessly. “You’d best get her away from here, son. They could come back. I’ve got to see to Brother Taylor. He’s alive but seriously wounded. Brother Hyrum is dead. I’ll carry the prophet’s body upstairs and lay it next to him. We’ve horses stabled at the Hamilton. Take them and ride to Nauvoo. Hurry!”

XIV

I’ve Always Sensed an Affinity

Aunt Melissa, I don’t think that I accomplished anything on my trip east. Well, I learned more about these United States, I guess. I talked with a few interesting people, saw some respectable ski areas—although inferior to ours—and met some screwed up, monk-like ex-missionary, but I’ve learned more about our family from you than I did in Kirtland, Ohio; Nauvoo, Nebraska, Iowa, or in Charlton, New York.” Chris had been close to her maiden aunt since infancy. She thought of Melissa as a salty old gal, who had done a bit of living—even tried cigarettes. And it was she said had “rolled in the hay” with more than one man in her day. She had never married because it was said that the only man she ever truly loved had been killed in World War I. She had great comion for human beings—and a keen intellect—even now at the age of seventy-five. She had managed her small book store until a year ago. Selling it had nearly broken her heart, but she had soon developed other interests, devoting herself to reading, to helping other senior citizens less fortunate than she, and to writing some family history. Melissa was the sister of Chris’s father, Moroni, four years her junior. Longevity must run in the family, Chris thought. At seventy-one her father was as vigorous as most fifty-year-olds. Still controlling the family enterprises with an iron hand. No aspect escaped his acumen. Her poor brother, Charles, was nearly thirty and still treated like a youngster, who would one day grow up and take over. Melissa took a sip of coffee, replaced the cup on the saucer, and with one of her delicious brownies in her hand, settled back into her rocking chair to ire and study her favorite grandniece sitting opposite her. A confused child—bright, well-read, pretty, but so undisciplined. Physically she more resembled Jerome Howe, Melissa’s father, than she did the

Edwardses on Chris’s mother’s side. Maybe her beauty came from Jerome’s wife, Kristina Petersen. Yet she also had something of Louisa in her—Louisa Bidwell Howe—Melissa and Moroni’s grandmother. The mother of Jerome to whom Chris was related both through the Howes and the Edwardses. Louisa too had had lovely brown hair as a girl. She too had been a striking beauty, but Chris’s blue eyes were those of Jerome and of his father, Joseph Smith. Melissa chuckled to herself. She had been so close to Louisa in her old age. Her relationship with Louisa was similar to Chris’s with her. Melissa was nineteen when Louisa died in 1910, and the old lady had confirmed to her the quiet rumor that had always lingered in the family. In the veins of Jerome Howe and his descendants—in Chris’s veins, in hers—ran the blood of the prophet Joseph, of him who started all the nonsense so long ago. Could Chris’s search for her origins somehow be connected with the hearsay? Melissa had pledged to Louisa that she would never reveal the secret, not even Moroni knew. But maybe now— to help this disturbed girl—it was time. Louisa would like Chris. She would agree. “That Porsche give you any trouble?” Melissa asked. “I was older than you when I got my first car—Model T Ford. I thought it was marvelous.” “The car ran fine, Aunt Melissa. But I don’t know if I did.” “Did you find any evidence of Bidwell’s back there? That was one of your goals wasn’t it?” “Who was Seth Bidwell? Seems familiar. In Charlton I found a plain grave marker dated 1834. That’s all I ever found.” “That was old Louisa’s brother. I’ve told you the story of the drowning.” “Right, right. That was Seth. Now I . There are so many family tales. All those Howes, Bidwells, Petersens, Edwardses, and all their relatives.” Her small mouth puckered, and she wrinkled her forehead, making her high cheekbones more prominent. “I don’t know why, but I guess I tried to find something of Louisa herself. It was silly because most of her life was spent right here in Utah, but I’ve always felt that her complete story was never told. That there was a personal tragedy in her life far greater than the drowning of a brother, or even the butchering of her parents.” Chris reached for the pot of coffee to pour herself a second cup. She

would get none in Moroni’s strict Mormon household. “She had been dead about forty years when I was born, and yet I’ve always sensed an affinity. Now at least I’ve walked where she walked. I can share with her the scenic beauty of Charlton and Nauvoo. I bet she visited Joseph Smith or his family at the Mansion. Now I’ve also been in that home—impressive for its day.” “It was a hotel too, you know.” “Oh, sure. Of course, I know.” Abruptly she changed the subject. “Aunt Melissa, why am I different? Why can’t I be a Mormon goodie-goodie, a party liner, like my sister Claire and Charles?” “Lots of reasons, Chrisie. Who knows, maybe you’ve just associated with this old renegade too long.” They both laughed. “Really, I think it’s because of your intellect, temperament, honesty, and courage. One needs all four to question or to defy their truths. The older I get, the more amazed I become at what Smith started. And that even in our enlightened age, gullible converts can be found. Most of those born into the church are ensnared for life. They simply don’t know any better, apparently don’t give the doctrine much thought. Just go along with things. That makes life in Utah simpler.” “Some of my generation are freeing themselves. Sex is freer—with girls too. Many of us are doing worse than drinking coffee. We’re even smoking a little pot.” Would these revelations shock Melissa? “I know, Chrisie, I know. Oh, to be young again and to indulge in the latest evils. I dared to drink Coca-Cola, coffee, tea, and even beer in my day. In fact, I still find a cold beer refreshing on one of our torrid Salt Lake summer afternoons.” They laughed together again. “Are you sure that those beers are resorted to only on a very hot day?” Chris teased. “All of this Word of Wisdom stuff was much less rigidly enforced in the early days, you know. Grandma—Louisa—used to tell me of the pipes, the tea, and the alcohol. Here in Utah, in isolation behind the Rockies, old Brigham Young and his successors cracked down on the Saints. Joseph Smith was much more understanding of human weakness, especially his own. his adage that is pounded into us in Sunday school? ‘Man is that he might have joy.’”

Both women smiled, and Chris reflected momentarily on the naughty references among some of her friends concerning having Joy—good that wasn’t her name. “Louisa must have given you the straight dope on early polygamy,” she blurted. “Even the church its that Joe was the first to practice it. Only for the holiest of purposes, of course. Did Louisa speak of any ittance of lust, of sexual appetites, and ions? Did any of the men it enjoying it?” Had she been too coarse? After all, even with Melissa there were limits—and the old girl was not afraid to put her in her place. Melissa was silent for a moment. She reached for the coffee pot, poured half a cup then adjusted her position in the soft chair. “Child, are all modern girls so plain spoken? Are there no restraints at all today?” “I’m sorry, Aunt Melissa. But why the hell not say it like it is?” Was it childish to make shocking statements? “Sometimes, Chris, it’s better not to. But maybe you’ll learn that. As to your questions, I think the obvious answer is yes. Men are men and people are people with biological drives and needs, no matter where or when they dwell on this earth. Why even in my day at the U we learned that. If your interest is great enough, you might read something about John C. Bennet or the other so-called lechers of the early church. It is my personal belief, however, that many of those who participated in the covenant of plural marriage did so contrary to their feelings because they truly believed that it was a divine order—naive they were —but sincere.” She reached for her coffee and settled back with the saucer and cup in her hands. “As for Smith himself, it is my opinion that he was a ladies’ man that he thought up the revelation to legitimatize his desire for women. But romantic, psychotic, or whatever he was, perhaps he actually believed that he had been given a revelation. There are those who are convinced that Smith was in some way deranged that he could not distinguish between reality and his personal fantasies.” “Melissa, do you give any credence to the family rumor that he fathered your dad? That Louisa was one of his wives?” She waited. Was another reprimand forthcoming? Melissa placed the cup and saucer on the table and leaned forward. “I really can’t decide whether or not you are mature enough for a truthful answer to that question, but I’m going to assume that you are in hopes that the truth will help

settle you down so that you can get on with more important things in life.” She paused and folded her hands in her lap before continuing. “Chrisie, Louisa herself told me—and only me—that she was married and sealed to the prophet Joseph. She loved him as much as any woman has ever loved a man, and she cherished and believed his promise to her which she mentioned to me more than once, ‘If you will have me in this world, I will have you in that which is to come.’” Melissa wiped her mouth with her napkin. “The prophet Joseph Smith, not Daniel Howe, is our common progenitor.”

XV

A New Leader Was Come to the Saints

After Willard Richards had advised Tom and Louisa to return to Nauvoo, Tom led the dazed girl through the deserted streets of Carthage back to the Hamilton Inn, where he secured a cart and a horse. Overcome by grief and exhaustion, Louisa lay in the back of the cart on a bed of straw during the seemingly interminable journey. The paroxysm of sobs was spent; her mind was empty, drained of sorrow or feeling. Life without Joseph was valueless to her, but he had wanted their child, and from somewhere deep in her subconscious grew the determination to survive for the sake of their unborn son. It was past midnight when Tom and Louisa arrived in Nauvoo. Daniel and Sara had been waiting up; few slept in the Holy City, for news of the murders had shocked the populace, and many feared that the enemy would return to ravage the city. The blacksmith carried the girl upstairs where Sara undressed her and put her to bed. Mercifully, her fatigue was so severe that Louisa was able to sleep that night and most of the following day, but by the morning of the twentyninth she felt stronger and asked to attend the funeral at the Mansion. Louisa well knew that sudden, violent death was commonplace on the frontier. Its specter had haunted Joseph. Often during the last years he had told his followers that he would not live to celebrate his fortieth birthday. Her closet family had been taken earlier, and now, her husband, but being fatalistic and mature beyond her nineteen years and having a testimony of her faith, she did not rail at the Almighty over the harshness of his judgment. With the flinty tenacity of her French and Yankee ancestors, she determined to bear her bereavement, if not stoically, at least with dignity. In the dining room of Joseph’s home the badly bloated decomposing bodies of the martyred brothers lay side by side. Hyrum, who had been shot in the brain, was swollen beyond recognition while from Joseph’s body blood continued to

ooze through the cotton, which plugged the bullet holes, and drip through the coffin onto the floor. A kettle brewed a mixture of sugar and vinegar with a touch of tar to stanch the odor of putrefaction, so that the thousands of mourners could say their farewells. It will never be known how many women sealed to Joseph ed his coffin in silence, masking their sorrow and their relationship to the prophet, forever condemned to oblivion. Only Emma, Joseph’s conspicuous and public widow was entitled to display uxorial grief, and soon she would claim in indisputable triumph that she had been his only wife, a sweet revenge over the many who had clandestinely coveted Joseph and known his favor. With Daniel and Sara on either side of her, Louisa, pale yet composed, was able to through the room without fainting as Emma had done when she first saw her husband’s decaying body. The girl’s personal goodbyes had been spoken earlier in Carthage. The rituals of the viewing and the funeral, society’s coping mechanisms for assimilating the wantonness of death into the community consciousness and render it comprehensible, eased her transition to widowhood and carried her a small step forward in the realm of the living.

**********

Following the martyrdom of the LDS community, fortified by their strong sense of brotherhood, drew closer to one another, and the divisions of the past few weeks were temporarily forgotten. An article in a Quincy paper inflamed ions, “The money-digger, the juggler, and the founder of the Golden Bible delusion, has been hurried away in the midst of his madness to his final .” But John Taylor, recently returned to Nauvoo and recovering from his wounds, advised temperance, and the retaliatory bloodbath the gentiles had feared was not forthcoming. The people’s apocalyptic spirit was dissipated, and leaderless. They awaited the return of the apostles to give them direction. Many remained firm in their belief that the messianic Joseph would rise again from the cosmos to appear in the temple riding a white steed. Gentiles were jubilant. The unthinkable had occurred. A city of over ten thousand inhabitants, possessors of a disciplined military force, the most unified

spiritual and political group in the otherwise anarchical state of Illinois had been brought to its knees by a handful of rednecks. The city was disorganized and among the Mormons already the race was on to see who would appropriate the keys of the kingdom. To Louisa the first few weeks following Joseph’s death were an uninterrupted blur. Perfunctorily she ate, slept, and gradually reassumed her role in the household, helping Sara with the cooking and sewing. Gone was the nausea, which had accompanied her early pregnancy, and when she consulted Dr. Bernhisel he found her to be slightly anemic but otherwise healthy. Although contemplation of the birth of her child brought the only contentment she now knew, the reality of her predicament was a constant worry. A girl of her age with her education might expect to teach school, earning a meager stipend and boarding with a family, but society did not provide for women in her situation, pregnant and apparently unmarried. Bluntly appraised, her subsistence depended upon the continued charity of the Howes. With the increasing number of plural marriages and the issue of these unions, it was typical of a Mormon family to announce that a wedding had taken place at an earlier time to a man who subsequently (and conveniently) had gone on a mission, but Louisa would not consider sullying Joseph’s memory with such a deception. And what of Daniel and Sara who had adopted her lovingly, never asking repayment? Could she expect them to welcome her child? The issue must be faced; her waistline was thickening, and her condition could not be concealed much longer.

**********

By midmonth the ordinarily torrid heat of July had cooled so that Louisa and the Howes were able to enjoy a cup of tea in the parlor without suffering from the humidity. A breeze from the river stirred the curtains as it carried the scent of roses from the garden. Wearily Daniel settled his large frame into his favorite chair. “There’s more business than I can handle, even with Tom and his cousin Jim working full time,” he said, rubbing his hands through his hair. With his full-face beard, darting black eyes, and high cheekbones he reminded Louisa of the Old

Testament patriarchs. “Seems everyone wants a wagon just in case we have to leave suddenly.” “The blood of the martyrs wasn’t enough for Tom Sharp,” Sara said, smartly rapping her teacup on its saucer. “Now he’s demanding that we leave the country.” “Maybe that makes sense,” Louisa replied. “Perhaps we can never live in harmony with the gentiles. The mob that murdered Joseph and Hyrum will never be prosecuted.” She hesitated a moment before adding softly, “It was Joseph’s dream to go west. I even think he saw the place, for he spoke to me of a fair valley surrounded by mountains.” Daniel and Sara were silent as she continued. “Nor is it right that I stay longer and burden you, dear friends. You must know that I am carrying Joseph’s child. I told him in Carthage. Knowledge of this might have brought him some happiness in his last hours. You’ve both been so kind, and I don’t wish to bring you shame or disgrace. I will understand if you want me to leave.” “Louisa,” Daniel’s tone was comforting, “your home is with us for as long as you care to remain.” “A baby!” Sara exclaimed, “I-I was wondering, how wonderful for you to have something of Joseph. This house has been childless too long.” Sara’s longing for children saddened Louisa. But how characteristic, she thought, was Sara’s lack of envy at the good fortune of another. “Emma is now declaring that Joseph had no plural wives,” Louisa said. “To have Joseph’s baby nameless is so difficult for me to accept.” Daniel’s thoughts returned to that afternoon when Joseph had told him of the principle and authorized him to take another wife. The irony of his contemplating marriage to the prophet’s widow did not escape him, but his decision was made swiftly. The girl was like a daughter to him; he would not subject her to scandal. If Sara agreed, marriage would bind Louisa’s relationship firmly into the family and give a name to the child.

**********

The months of July and August were punctuated by the arrival of various aspirants to the leadership of the church. Two early believers now long apostatized, David Whitmer and the scribe, Oliver Cowdrey, eagerly offered their services to the Saints, claiming that in Kirtland Joseph had appointed them his successors. A bid was presented by James Stang, a church member for little more than one year and leader of the Voree, Wisconsin, branch of the church, who stated that he possessed a letter from Joseph that entitled him to assume the presidency. Perhaps most brazen but certainly in character, was the effrontery of the apostate, John C. Bennett, still the opportunist, who insisted that Joseph had empowered him to lead the flock. Understandably, Emma Smith pressed a suit for hereditary leadership, asserting (with the corroboration of two reliable witnesses) that while incarcerated in the Liberty, Missouri, jail Joseph had bestowed upon his eldest son the successorship of power; Mother Smith and Joseph’s brother, William, concurred that the choice of prophet should be a family prerogative, and young Joseph’s uncle viewed himself as the logical trustee for the boy. Most formidable of the claimants was Joseph’s vice presidential candidate, Sidney Rigdon, who had once been a powerful force in shaping policies of the fledgling church and who still commanded a following. Some claimed he was the real brain behind Joseph all along. Though his body was thin and weakened by ill health, Rigdon remained a fiery, imioned orator. Conservative in philosophy, he was aligned with William Marks and others who had opposed Joseph and the Twelve on such fundamental tenets of the faith as the gathering, the welding of church and state, and polygamy. Unfortunately, Joseph had not been consistent in his statements regarding succession, but Sidney presented a logical claim. Many agreed that as First Counselor the authority was his to unify the church and save it from the divisions that now were threatening to engulf it. He could thwart the Twelve whose intent was to dissolve the First Presidency and usurp control for themselves. Surely, his ers said, he would be the next prophet, seer, and revelator. A meeting was planned for Tuesday, August 5 then postponed until Thursday in order that Brother Sidney might have more rest. Some in Nauvoo welcomed the delay. Desperately, Parley Pratt, Willard Richards, and John Taylor, the only apostles in the city, had striven to prevent the appointment of a trustee such as

Rigdon. They insisted that only the Twelve led by Brigham Young would perpetuate Joseph’s doctrines. On the seventh nearly ten thousand Saints assembled at the Grove, their somber task this day to sustain a new leader. As she pulled her skirts above her ankles to avoid stumbling on the rocky pathway, Louisa thought back to the joyous mood of the April conference when Joseph had made his glorious pronouncement. In just three months her life had been drastically altered; first widowed and now remarried to Daniel, her friends had given her sanctity, and again she was a plural wife. It was a bond, which drew them closer to one another, and it was clearly understood by all three that life in the Howe household would continue as before: the marriage would not be consummated. In deference to Louisa’s condition Daniel spread the blankets on the edge of the crowd. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to hear Brother Sidney from so far away. There’s quite a strong wind today.” As they turned toward the speaker’s stand, they saw that Rigdon had also considered the howl of the wind. He and his advisors were abandoning the rostrum and climbing into a farmer’s wagon from which they might better be heard. Weary of politics and feeling no personal involvement with the struggles the church was undergoing, Louisa viewed the proceedings imively. Noting the quarrelsomeness of her people, she understood that they were in part guilty for the vendetta that had been waged against Joseph; some of the gentile charges against them must be true. As a little girl she had already known Sidney Rigdon in Kirtland and become good friends with his daughter, Nancy. Today she reviewed his virtues and weaknesses: impeccably moral, faithful and loyal to the church (or his definition of it) but humorless and fanatic. Several times she and Joseph had laughed at Sidney’s sobriety. From him she turned to study the distant, solitary figure of Brigham Young, stolidly waiting on the abandoned platform. How could this plain and nearly illiterate carpenter hope to match Brother Rigdon’s learning and eloquence? What a quirk of fate that he and several other apostles had arrived in Nauvoo on Tuesday in time for this meeting. As Rigdon began speaking his reedy voice quavered, but then rising to the moment, he found new strength and held sway over the audience with a fervor of old. For one and one half hours he appealed to the people to abandon Nauvoo; the Latter-day Saints, he said, should spread out to live in harmony among the

gentiles, and he onished that all wickedness, intemperance, and venality be cast out. When he stepped down Louisa whispered to Daniel and Sara, “A fine speech. No one can challenge him!” But suddenly from the distant speaker’s platform another voice rang out, powerful and deliberate, easily carrying above the rustlings of the wind to the ears of every listener. Brigham Young was chiding the audience for its eagerness to replace Joseph who, he reminded them, would always be the prophet of the church. Only Joseph, he told them, had received divine revelation and communicated with God; to ensure that his teachings were followed, it was the duty of the Twelve to assume the keys of leadership and enforce the canons of Joseph’s church. How often, Brother Young reminded them, had Joseph said to his apostles, “I have laid the foundation, and you must build thereon, for upon your shoulders the kingdom rests.” Humbly he protested that he sought no personal gain but was exercising his duty as laid down in Mormon law by God himself. Louisa had never seen Brigham Young so articulate and inspired. She knew him to be of quick intelligence, but he usually concerned himself with the more mundane and practical workings of the church. In the eyes of many other observers a greater transfiguration had taken place: the voice they heard was Joseph’s voice, preaching to them once more! Over the years the story of how Brigham Young miraculously assumed the very shape and bearing of Joseph would be retold and magnified. In the farmer’s wagon Rigdon slumped, tired, and defeated. A new leader was come to the Saints of the Latter-days.

XVI

A People in Flight

January’s late warming thaw was followed now in early February 1846 by a severe frost. Clouds as black as flying cinders shuttled across the sky, occasionally belching forth a shower of snow, which melted on an earth totally saturated with moisture. The winter sun gave no warmth but glowed with a frosty, glassy brilliance as it cast a flat, cheerless light upon the landscape. Since before sunrise wagons and teams had lurched down the frozen streets of Nauvoo to the dock. It had begun as a planned and orderly procession, but already impatience and exasperation were spreading as many waited the entire day to be lightered across the river. At the ferry landing the refugees huddled close to one another, their backs to the wind, the men’s beards studded with tiny crystals of ice, hoarfrost, formed by the still, cold night. Despite the sun it was freezing, and they jumped on one foot and then the other, and pounded their fists against their sides to start the blood flowing. Even the beasts must have found the day an inauspicious one on which to begin a pilgrimage, for the oxen lowered their heads and bellowed indignantly while the horses strained against their hobbles to turn their rumps into the wind for protection. Numbed fingers tugged at harnesses and whips lashed out amid shouts of encouragement as men loaded the stock and wagons onto flat boats. More than once, terrified animals plunged over the side, dragging with them all of a family’s possessions and perishing in the icy waters. The exodus had begun; eventually twenty thousand persons would be traveling in wagon trains or alone, strung out like some ancient caravan the length of the territory of Iowa, a people in flight, reminiscent of their biblical antecedents exiled from Egypt. The modern children of Israel were seeking a new home. On the evening of this day at the Howe residence Louisa was in the kitchen wearily finishing a hastily prepared meal. Daniel and Tom were still working in

the shop, and upstairs Sara had gone to bed. Only the baby, Jerome, who sat at the table enthusiastically banging two spoons together and crooning to himself, had any energy. Louisa smoothed back a lock of his blond hair, more like Joseph’s than hers, and wiped his mouth. He was such a fine boy, large for his one year, radiating health, and generally good humored, although possessed with a lusty set of vocal cords, which he exercised when things didn’t go his way. Daniel’s voice at the kitchen door interrupted Louisa’s thoughts. As she opened the door she saw that Daniel was accompanied by a tall, thinly clad man who nervously pressed his cap into his hands. “Maybe you can find some extra dried squash for this man, Louisa. They’re leaving tomorrow and are short of supplies.” Daniel turned to leave then stopped to add, “Guess we’ll be working through the night.” For months now, and especially since the departure order had gone out for February 4, theirs had been one of the most frequently visited homes in Nauvoo. Daniel and Tom had begun in early fall to accumulate oak in order that it might be kiln dried to build wagons. Additional help, including Tom’s cousin, Jim Edwards, had been hired so that they might service the entire phase of wagon construction from the hickory used for the axles to the forging of iron for hubs, wheels and rims. Some customers paid cash, but more bartered or exchanged goods, and the Howe’s brick home overflowed with dried squash cakes, pickled vegetables, corned beef, jugs of honey, and other staples that Daniel had taken in exchange for his labor. In the barn were several milk cows, a riding horse, and three yokes of oxen, which would pull their three wagons. “Beggin’ your pardon, sister. Only supplies that you won’t be a needin’,” the man implored. “My wife is expectin’ any day now, and some of the other children is poorly. We’re a fixin’ to head fer the camp at Sugar Creek tomorrow, but we’ll never make it through without more food. I’ll be lookin’ fer work along the way to earn a little money.” Louisa motioned him into the warm kitchen. The devotion of many of the faithful was pathetic in its simplicity. The ordeal of childbirth was not one she would care to repeat in a covered wagon somewhere on the trail. She shuttered. During the past few nights the weather again had turned cold with the thermometer often dropping below zero. It seemed to her as if some almost had the desire to suffer, for of the many pregnant women approaching their term,

there were none who could not wait and bear their babies at home, and follow the main company later, just as Daniel lingered to be certain that all who would the exodus had some kind of transportation. (She was later to learn that nine babies had been born in a single night at Sugar Creek, many in no more shelter than a wind-torn tent.) She directed the needy brother to the well-stocked shelves, helped him pick out some essential supplies, and sadly sent him on his way. What, she asked herself, would be the fate of him and his family, and of the Howes? Brother Brigham had decreed that flight should begin that day, not so much that an attack was imminent, but to placate the opposition and show by his gestures that the Saints planned to abandon Nauvoo, although earlier, in September of 1845, he had promised not to leave until “the grass grows and the water runs.” The increased severity of gentile persecutions, the early thaw in January, and the subsequent breaking up of ice on the river indicated that it was merely a question of time before the federal troops garrisoned in New Orleans could negotiate the river; Young could not wait for the “grass to grow.” Skirmishes with the gentiles had increased during the one and one-half years since Joseph’s death, and enemies persisted in agitating for removal of the Saints, but the ruffians had not attempted an all-out assault upon Nauvoo. For the most part they contented themselves with harassment of Brigham and the other apostles, which took the form of tangled lawsuits, and the dredging up of the familiar charge of making bogus of which they had often accused Joseph. The latter accusation would more correctly have been applied to the underworld of Nauvoo, which had indeed circulated some of its counterfeit currency, for as the departure west loomed imminent, the lawless element in the city became more brazen. God-fearing citizens sensed that since the Illinois state government had revoked their charter in December of 1845 any authority or legal basis of the city was defunct. They were powerless to stop the influx of the seamiest riffraff of the Middle Border. After bidding the visitor farewell, Louisa lifted Jerome out of his high chair and started up the stairs to his bed. Already he was getting too heavy to carry; squirming impatiently in her arms, he grabbed a lock of her hair and gave it a yank. “Ouch,” she said, tossing her head, “Your daddy was a tease too, young man. We’ll be leaving so many memories behind.”

She tucked him in the trundle and put another blanket around him, for the heat from the wood-burning stove and the fireplace downstairs had never been sufficient to warm the second floor on a cold winter evening. Shivering from the dampness that penetrated the room, she drew her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Some nights were more difficult than others. “Joseph,” she sighed, “how I miss you.” And, as so often before, she recalled his promise to her, “If you will have me in this world, I will have you in that which is to come.” Now Joseph could keep that promise if she remained pure in the gospel, for only last week her name had been taken from the Book of the Law of the Lord, and she had been sealed to him in the hastily dedicated, still unfinished temple. As many Saints as possible were to get their endowments before departure, who could tell how long it would be before a new temple could be erected to the Lord in the tops of the mountains? How sacred, yet how strange the ceremony was. With a few other sisters she had been led into a room, where she unclothed in order to become purified. Sisters, who had volunteered for temple work, washed her entire body and anointed it with consecrated oil. The cleansed initiates then donned white temple garments with special markings over both breasts, the navel, and the right knee, which would remind them daily of the sacred vows they had taken and the horrible punishments (throat cutting and disembowelment) that awaited those who broke the covenants or revealed the secrets. Over the garments they wore white temple robes with green aprons, symbolizing the fig leaves used by Adam and Eve to cover their nakedness. The ladies then ed brethren, who had also been prepared, and together they were taken to a room under the temple dome that had been temporarily divided into sections with factory cloth hung on wires where several white-robed church leaders, including Sister Snow, reenacted the story of the Garden of Eden. The different sections represented the three degrees of glory on the other side of the Veil of Death; the Terrestrial was the lowest, Telestial next, and the highest to which all Saints, who rigidly followed the teachings, were assured entrance, the Celestial. The groups witnessed enactments of life in each kingdom. In the Celestial, Brigham Young himself, complete with a white crown upon his head, represented God. It was he who gave Louisa a new name to be revealed to no one, which he assured her, Joseph would know and by which he would call her on the morning of the First Resurrection; then Brother Brigham sealed her to Joseph for all eternity. Louisa pulled up a chair to watch Jerome until she was sure he was sleeping

soundly. Had she understood the ceremonies completely? Several sisters could be sealed to one man who held the proper higher Melchizedek priesthood. Temples were also used for baptizing the dead, to give the millions who had perished between the time of Christ’s church and the prophet Joseph’s restoration of it—the period known as the Great Apostasy—a chance to be saved. They would accept or reject the gospel. But for all who heard the true message preached in the Next World, the necessary rite of baptism by immersion would have to be performed here. All men who went on missions were to take out their endowments first, whether married or not. The sacred garment reaching from neck to below the knees was to be worn at all times. Some part of it should touch the body even during bathing, for it offered protection. Why had Joseph not been wearing his temple garment on the day of his murder? Doubtlessly he did not want to subject himself to gentile derision should the garment be seen. But would it not have protected him against their knives and balls? Jerome emitted a long sigh and turned in his bed. “Yes, yes, my little son of Joseph. Sometimes the gospel and the ways of the Lord are confusing. Your daddy is dead, yet the lies of Tom Sharp go unpunished. He has written in the Signal that we are frantically working to complete the temple in order to use it as a fortress and that men and women frolic naked together within its rooms. Such untruths and filth. Such filth! Why does Joseph from his heavenly realm not strike the demon?”

**********

Because they had waited so long (it was April 4), Daniel could not find a buyer for the house; gentiles had learned that they could acquire property merely by waiting for the Mormons to flee. Furniture and other household goods, which could not be accommodated in Daniel’s three wagons, were given away. The Howe’s outfit exceeded what had been described by Apostle Heber Kimball as ideal, “One wagon, 1000 lbs. flour and twenty pounds sugar, rifle and ammunition, one tent, and poles.” In the first two wagons to be driven by Daniel and Tom were their immediate supplies; the third to be driven by Jim Edwards was reserved for storage including staples, feed for the stock, and several crates of chickens with a milch cow and Daniel’s riding horse tied on behind.

Daniel looked out at the loaded wagons parked in front of the house on Parley Street. From force of habit he had pulled out the keys and was about to lock the door. He grinned wryly then slipped the key into the lock, murmuring to himself, “If this keep one gentile out or gives him a moment’s trouble, it’s worth it!” Abruptly he turned, leaving the home he had built himself in which he, Sara, and Louisa had so much pride. As he climbed up on the wagon seat, he could see that Sara was crying, and before taking the lines he put his arm around her to comfort her and promised, “I will build you a finer house, my dear. We shall know a better life.”

**********

Safety! Unknown hazards might lie ahead, but at least Lee County offered protection from persecutors from the eastern side of the river. What ed for a road to Sugar Creek were two traces of black mud. Several times the Howe’s lead wagon plunged in so deeply that the hubs were covered, and it took all three men and one of the other teams to free the wheels. Progress was so slow that in spite of a very early start, daylight was nearly gone when they reached Sugar Creek, a scarce seven miles from Nauvoo. To their amazement the Howes encountered many wagons, a village on wheels, encamped around the field. The first wave, nearly 3,000 in number, had departed on March 1, to be augmented by an ever-flowing stream from Nauvoo. The many refugees, bushwhacked for nearly two months at the creek, rechristened Brook Kedron, had exhausted most of their supplies of flour and sugar and had been reduced to feeding their stock the bark of cottonwood trees. Primitive wooden markers indicated the shallow graves, which had been laboriously dug in the frozen ground. Now there was no grass, only mud, for it had rained every day during the past month, creating unsanitary conditions that spawned disease and despair. As she glanced about her, Louisa sensed that many Saints showed open hostility to the new arrivals. Even brothers and sisters to whom Daniel had earlier extended charity viewed the Howes’ wagons and ample supplies with sullen cupidity.

“We’ll spend the night, can’t take the oxen any farther,” Daniel told them as Tom began to unyoke the first team. “Tomorrow I want to make Bonaparte’s Mills.” Although his tone was harsh, Daniel was not without charity, having given away more supplies than he could afford, and it would take far more than his three wagons to alleviate the misery around them. “I hear some of these people were farmers who were burnt out,” Sara told Louisa as she struggled to find a pan to cook the supper. “A mob would ride up to an outlying farm, and while the family watched, set fire to their home and barns. There aren’t many who didn’t decide to leave after a burning. Some of them have no change of clothes, and those flimsy wagons will never last to get across Iowa.” Daniel and the Edwards boys had constructed their wagons the preceding summer; they were similar to the Conestoga with white covered tops, twentyfive feet in length, and weighing over 3,000 lbs. The next morning a faint light shone in the eastern sky, and the ground was covered with frost, but ignoring the early hour and the cold, Daniel and Tom had already hitched the first team when Louisa awoke. She threw off her warm blankets and shivered at the chill of the morning fog. The baby’s diaper would have to be changed, but he was sleeping so soundly that she decided not to wake him yet. She saw that Sara had rekindled the fire, and was brewing a welcome pot of tea. The women spread some butter and honey over bread. Daniel hastily blessed the food, and they ate standing up around the fire. All were eager to be under way, and they quickly cleaned up and packed the kitchen utensils. Sara seated herself on the first wagon, and Louisa took her place on the second, which Tom would drive. Jerome, now changed but disgruntled, sat securely on her lap. By the time Daniel had clambered aboard the lead wagon and cracked the bullwhip, calling “hi up, hi up there” to the team, the fog had dissipated into thin rags of mist that floated upward like steam. They were the first to depart the camp. In the beginning the road ed through densely wooded forests and led them across small gullies and swollen brooks. Farther away from the Mississippi, the land flattened out; here efforts had been made at cultivation, and the country was populated, however sparsely. The original settlers had clung to the rivers and wooded areas, shunning the vast meadows that abounded in perennial grasses and herbaceous plants but lacked wood for shelter and often had little water. They had not yet learned that the dark

gooey sod composed of soils called brunizems was different from that beneath the eastern forests. When a plow was finally invented which could penetrate its mantle of roots and still be scoured of the viscous earth, the area would produce some of the richest farmlands in the world. The English language lacked appropriate nomenclature for the grasslands, but French explorers who penetrated the interior of the continent called them prairies, and all settlers readily adopted the term that described the region as akin to the veld in Africa, the pampas of South America, and the steppes in Eurasia. In 1846 they lay pristine and dormant; later generations would strip them of trees and cultivate them. No sign indicated the juncture of Lee and Van Buren counties, but Daniel knew they had reached that point when by following the traces of the prairie schooners that had preceded them, they arrived at the eastern bank of the Des Moines River where the road angled slightly northward. Reaching a rise above the river, the little party paused to survey its unnavigable waterways and canals, its wild tangle of snags and sandbars, and the malarial swamps that fanned out over the land. Daniel estimated they might have come as far as six miles, much slower than he had hoped for. By the time they reached Bonaparte or Meek’s Mills (as it was sometimes called after the old down-easter who had settled it), the afternoon sun shone obliquely across the river. Daniel had planned a crossing here, somewhere below the crude brush and rock structured dam, where Meek operated grist and grain mills; but checking with a talkative shopkeeper in town, he learned that some later wagons were taking the higher, northern route, staying east of the Des Moines until they reached the town of Bentonsport. As there was daily travel between the two settlements, he was told to anticipate the best stretch of road in this part of the territory. “We’ll push on for Bentonsport this afternoon,” Daniel told Tom and Jim. “The teams are fresh enough, and we can ford the river there, maybe even catch some fish, for I’m told that they’re there for the picking as they try to reach the headwaters.” “Bentonsport,” Louisa read the sign aloud which stood where the road improved, suddenly widening to allow the ing of two wagons. Small houses clustered along the road, and in what appeared to be the center of town was a square with a crude bandstand. They halted at the far end of the green next to a brick

building under construction; a hand-painted sign indicated it would house the Phoenix Hotel. “Are you Mormons?” Louisa looked down and saw a towheaded boy standing beside the wagon; she surmised that he could not be more than eight. “Yes,” she answered. “Did some others through here too?” He shook his head affirmatively. “Yes, lots. Is the band going to come back?” “I don’t think so,” she replied. “That was probably Captain Pitt’s Brass Band you heard.” “Yes, ma’am.” He did a quick little jig in the street. “There was dancin’ half the night in the square when they was here. ’Course I had to sneak down ’cause my ma thought I was home abed. Everyone come to hear and dance quadrilles and reels, and all the Mormons was dancin’ too.” Before the Howes departed Nauvoo, information had trickled back that Captain Pitt’s Brass Band, recently converted in England, had performed great service along the trail, playing in many of the river towns for money or whatever provisions the populace could spare. Other Saints hired out to farmers to pick up additional wages while Brigham Young instructed some to settle and plant crops to help feed the steady influx of refugees who continued to swarm across Iowa. Several colonies and way stations were established so that exhausted travelers could rest for a few days, replenish supplies, and make repairs to the wagons. During their sojourn at Sugar Creek, Louisa had learned of some of the parties held on the trail during which the resilient pioneers had danced until the late hours. While she had been talking to the boy and thinking of all the Saints on the trail and their activities, Tom had jumped down from the wagon to check with Daniel on the evening’s campsite. “We’ll stay near the hotel here,” he called over to her. She glanced at its sturdy brick foundation and thought back to Joseph’s grandiose dreams of a hostelry in Nauvoo—now abandoned, perhaps never to be completed. Well, it belonged to Emma now. The elect lady, angry that her son was not chosen to lead the church, had stayed in Nauvoo gloomily nursing her pride and refusing to travel west. Standing up, Louisa lifted Jerome down to Tom

then stretched her back. She would be glad when the roads hardened; walking would be preferable to jolting for hours on the seat of a prairie schooner. She took the hand Tom extended to her; it was time to help Sara with supper. She looked around to say goodbye to the towhead, but he had vanished.

**********

Mid-April brought a few days of pleasant drying weather, but did not hold. Soon after the Howe family had forded the Des Moines at Keosaqua, the rains began again, pelting them in savage, unrelenting streams until all of their clothing was wet and their shoes moldy and misshapen. Nights inside the tent they struggled to keep a fire going, and Louisa conscientiously dried Jerome’s diapers by stretching them between two sticks stuck in the ground near the comforting flames. Their progress slowed to an average of four to five miles per day. Often they had to resort to double and even triple teaming to extract schooners bogged down in mud holes or mired in streambeds. The prairie stretched unending, unyielding, vexing them with hundreds of minor discomforts, testing their spirit and faith. Because of Daniel’s providential planning he was able to perform the necessary repairs to the wagons, and when they arrived at the Garden Grove Station toward the end of May, they had journeyed approximately two hundred miles without loss of stock or a major hardship. Indeed, God had amply compensated the Howes for their steadfastness: Sara was pregnant! Garden Grove was a town founded by the Mormons for the express purpose of serving their wagon trains that would cross Southern Iowa. Located a safe distance from the dreaded state of Missouri, it provided a haven, especially for the ill or destitute who could travel no farther. Crops planted by the earlier pioneers were left to be harvested by later trains of emigrants. As a blacksmith Daniel found his services in demand, so they pitched their canvas tent and stayed nearly one week. Humid summer-like weather had dried the roads and sniveling noses, eased arthritis, and cured dysentery, but it brought a host of new afflictions. A scourge of rattlesnakes descended on the improvised camp; impudently sunning themselves on rocks or in the grass, they were a

greater menace than the mosquitoes, which delighted in feasting on human flesh. Malnutrition weakened many Saints and made them subject to a plethora of illnesses, including the black canker and malaria. Already the cemetery accommodated more bodies than the camp. When they struck out again, Louisa left Jerome with Sara in the first wagon and walked along side it. She learned to carry a basket and pick the delicious wild strawberries, black walnuts, and plums, which she found along the way. In this season wildlife was plentiful, and the Howes enriched their previous monotonous diet of squash cakes, dried beef, and pork when Tom, a superb marksman, picked off deer, quail, or prairie chickens (Louisa had found nests of the latter plump, brown birds with yellowish orange discs on their necks and realized when she heard their challenging mating calls that it was their chirping that awakened her in the morning). Although the western territory had been surveyed and Iowa was in this year petitioning to become a state, there were no settlements or farms in the areas through which they were now traveling. They felt alone, dwarfed by the high grass and the boundless sky, as ant-like the schooners lumbered on. It seemed to Louisa that out here the atmosphere had lightened making it possible to see for longer distances across the undulating prairie. Both of the women had learned to drive the teams when the wagons became stuck and the men, assisted by the milch cow, were needed to haul them out. Like the other Mormon women along the trail, they became ingenious at performing household tasks in transit, letting cream churn to butter and bread rise by the jolt of the wagon so that the dough could be baked in an earthen oven as soon as they stopped to pitch camp. As her muscles firmed, her cheeks reddened, and her skin browned, Louisa began to feel a joy in living that she had not experienced since before Joseph’s death. She took pride in walking and cursed her discomforting cambric skirt (resolutely she had removed her petticoats), nursing a secret envy for man’s muslin pants. Occasionally each member of the little party had been plagued by dysentery, but the healthier diet and arid weather had so lifted their spirits that when they reached the way station, dubbed by earlier groups Mt. Pisgah, they decided to rapidly press on the final one hundred forty miles to Council Bluffs. There they

would the main group under the leadership of Brigham Young.

XVII

Mark Living with Three Girls?

Chris drove straight home after her talk with Melissa, musing about her aunt’s divulgement. It was no great surprise—but interesting, somehow comforting—to know Louisa had been a plural wife of the founder of Mormonism. More disconcerting was the fact that Smith was her great-grandfather. The Howes weren’t Howes at all. She was comparing the world of Louisa with her comfortable existence as her parent’s sprawling motel-modern two-story house came into view. It was watched over by Mt. Olympus, one of the craggy peaks rimming the Salt Lake Valley that so awed tourists and inspired Mormon pride in their mountains. She parked the car in front of the white brick residence, stepped out, and stood for a moment viewing the Great Basin that had, as Brigham predicted, “blossomed as a rose.” A plane seemed to hover in the air upon its approach to the airport which lay west of the city. Across the valley the Oquirrh Mountains and the monstrous, round gape of the Bingham Open Pit Copper Mine were partially obscured by the smoky haze drifting south from the Magna-Garfield smelters of the Kennecott Copper Corporation; giving little thought to her family’s several thousand shares of Kennecott, Chris had ed a student march to protest the pollution. Was that silly? Childish? Didn’t someone have to challenge the exploitation of America by Big Business? A short distance to the north lay the southern shore of the steely blue Great Salt Lake. The valley was worthy of Mormon pride. Had it changed all that much from Louisa’s first view? Chris never tired of its stark beauty. But, my God, how did the early settlers bear the summer heat? She hurried inside to benefit from air conditioning. Chris felt the coolness as soon as she opened the heavy oak door. She walked into the kitchen to get a Coke (the refrigerator was always well-stocked with it)

and smiled to herself. Ironically the church objected to caffeine in coffee, but not in Coke. Some said it was because the Coca-Cola company once threatened a law suit concerning the church’s preaching against the beverage. Melissa had told her more than once of the rantings against Coke that had gone on when it was first marketed in Salt Lake City. Chris was resting against a kitchen wall taking a sip when her mother walked in. Sister Jane Howe seemed to go with the house. She was a part of its decor, always well dressed, prim, and well coifed. “Chris, it’s good to have you home again. Now and then you seem to where you live.” There was no sarcasm in her voice; she was making every effort to be the understanding, patient, and wise LDS mother that the church romanticized. Her tone was sugary. “Where were you, dear?” The church taught that parents should always know where their children were; it pained Jane that she usually had no idea where Chris was. She had vehemently protested her daughter’s solo eastward journey. “Mother, I was visiting Aunt Melissa. And that’s the truth.” Since this was one of the few times that her answer to the persistent query was honest, she emphasized the point. “Oh, well. How is she doing? Doing more in the church, I hope.” Why does she say the bit about the church? Chris thought. She knows damned well that Melissa has been an inactive Latter-day Saint (a church euphemism) throughout her adult life. Chris had always felt that her mother was jealous of her close relationship with her aunt. “Your father is sitting by the pool, dear. Come on out and us. I think he would like to speak with you. He’s hardly seen you since your return. Come, I baked a cake this morning. Moroni says it’s scrumptious.” Reluctantly Chris followed her mother out through the backdoor to the swimming pool to where her father sat reading the Deseret News, organ of the church. Chris observed that Moroni’s long legs reached far under the glass topped patio table. Of course, she reasoned, that’s where he gets his height. Joseph Smith was a tall man too. Moroni folded the paper on the table and looked at his approaching daughter. The face of American business, Chris thought: stern features, cold eyes, square chin.

“Chrisie,” he called out, smiling. “It isn’t good that I’ve seen so little of you the last few months. We used to be so close.” She pulled up a chair and ed him while Jane was cutting her a slice of cake at the serving cart. “My, oh my. How my baby daughter has grown up.” “Oh, Moroni,” Jane interjected, “before I forget, Claire phoned this morning. She’s been set apart as president of her stake Relief Society.” “Wonderful, wonderful. And Chris?” He reached over and patted her hand. “When did you last attend any kind of church meetings?” “Oh, Daddy, think of all the LDS history I learned on my trip.” Jane sat down and ed Chris the cake. Oh, for another cup of Melissa’s coffee! “I’m truly concerned about you, Chris. Here I just heard this good news about Claire’s activity, and Charles is one of the youngest bishops in the church. I’m one of the Seven Presidents of the Seventy, a guiding force among the Saints, and my daughter is embarrassing me and dooming herself. Are worldly teachings more attractive to you than the guidance of the priesthood?” Chris swallowed a piece of cake. “Do we really have to get into this now? Daddy, you know I appreciate all you’ve done for me, but … but I need some time to figure things out for myself.” “With the help of beer and cigarettes?” Jane asked. “Dear, your father and I can’t stand to see you ruin your young life.” “The Lord has blessed our family,” Moroni continued. “We’ve progressed from poverty to our present level of existence only through perseverance in the gospel. Even in the face of the most trying adversity.” What horrible trials has he faced, Chris wondered, and when was the family truly impoverished? She would have to check with Melissa. Daddy often resorted to hyperbole. It seemed to go hand in hand with Mormon gospel.

“If we forget the Lord, as the Lamanites did, He will forsake and curse us. Just as he marked them.” “Oh, shit,” she said to herself, the poor cursed Indians again. Didn’t it occur to the heads of the church that the Indian liked his skin color, or that he was dark because of inherited genes that affected skin pigmentation? She knew how it rankled her father that she was close to her distant cousin, Susan Astete, who boasted of her Indian and Mexican blood, and worse still was more inactive than Chris. Those stories of Indians accepting the Mormon gospel and then miraculously being rewarded with a light skin drove Susan up the wall. Of course, were Susan a devout Mormon, Moroni wouldn’t object to their friendship. A converted Lamanite was a prized possession. “Chris, you’ve had every advantage: private tennis, golf, skiing, and swimming lessons, your horse and riding instruction, vacations to Hawaii, Bermuda, Mexico, Europe.” He paused and crossed his legs. “I needn’t go on with that, but you should consider it perhaps. You know I’m on the boards of several major corporations in the west—and in this nation. Maybe you should consider that too.” He looked away for a moment and licked his lips, thinking. “Your mother is known throughout the church for her work with the Mutual (Mutual Improvement Association) presidency. Every time you break the Word of Wisdom, run with the wrong crowd or condemn the evils of businessmen you are shaming all of us. Please, consider who we are and the Lord’s commandment to ‘honor thy father and thy mother,’ and don’t forget, my little one, that we want you with us for eternity in the Celestial Kingdom.” She was angry, but did not feel like arguing with him today. And, as he said, they had been very close when she was a little girl. Appeasing him always worked to her advantage anyway. “I’ll think over your words, Daddy, and if you’re here Sunday, I’ll attend sacrament meeting with you.” “Thank you, Chris, but you can go with your mother on Sunday. I’m assigned to a meeting in Provo.” “I’m speaking at a stake service in Ogden,” Jane added. “Well, you can go alone, Chris. If you found New York, you can find our ward.” Chris excused herself from her parents on the pretext of wanting to sleep a bit and went upstairs to her bedroom. The mention of Indians that had led her train

of thought to Susan prompted her to phone her cousin. It was time to learn what was going on in town. She picked up her blue princess phone and dialed Susan’s apartment. “Susan, it’s me, Chris.” “Oh, ya? How long have you been back?” “About five days.” “See any Iroquois, Delaware, or Mohawks back there?” “Sorry, Susan, I really didn’t. What’s going on around here these days? With the U not being in full session, it seems rather dull.” “Hey, Chris baby, my life is never dull. Man I’ve been tripping and loving and having a hell of a time. Some of us are getting together this evening here at my place. Kind of a lawn party or should I say a grass party? Want to come?” “Give me a time, and I’ll be there.” “About seven is all right. Say, a dude who knows you, a guy named Mark Spencer, who has been asking about you is coming. He’s kind of square on pot, but he’ll be here. How do you know him? Word is that he’s living with three broads.” “I’ll tell you, Susan when I see you.” Chris put down the phone and went into her light blue bathroom to shower. The hard force of the spray was invigorating, and she lingered, thinking about Susan, thinking about Mark. Susan was a descendant of the family’s famed Mountain Man and his first wife, an Indian squaw. Moroni and others in the family worried about him because he’d never ed the church. He was hardly cold in his grave, Melissa had told her, when someone was baptized for him by proxy in the temple. That would give him another chance on the other side. He was Louisa’s other brother, that much she had very straight. According to Melissa, Louisa had been very fond of him and had always defended his marrying an Indian. How did the line go from Jeb’s wife? Maybe it was Jeb’s half-breed daughter who had married the

Mexican. Anyway Susan had just enough Indian blood, although very watered down, to champion every Indian cause in the nation. Was that why she was into the drug scene too? Just to be different? She was such a nice, open, and loving person. Mark living with three girls? Certainly no celibate!

XVIII

With Joy Wend Your Way

When he was still at Sugar Creek, Brigham Young had written to the governor of the Iowa Territory asking permission to traverse it and then proceeded to move the wagons westward. (An affirmative reply was to arrive in September after most of the Saints had already crossed.) Now he was stymied on the eastern bank of the Missouri River as he waited approval from the U.S. government to move across the river onto what had been designated “Indian territory;” anticipating that Washington would agree, he had assigned workmen to construct a huge flatboat which would transport the wagons over the river. Astutely, Young had cultivated friendships with the Pottawattamie upon whose lands they were now residing, but what he urgently needed was some stroke of good fortune, something that would prod the U.S. government into allowing the Saints to occupy those tantalizingly empty lands. At that moment, unbeknown to anyone in the Mormon camp, the President of the United States, James K. Polk, desperately needing soldiers to pursue his aggressive expansionist campaign against Mexico, was about to requisition the services of the Mormons, a fortuitous twist of fate which would, for once, put the church and the national government on the same side. On June 25, 1846, the Howes established their camp beside many others at Indian Creek on the bluffs overlooking the river where unification with the main party of refugees brought renewal of friendships and news of former neighbors and acquaintances. Sara, now three months pregnant, was especially happy to be settled in one spot, for she suffered from the heat and malarial fevers and could not comprehend how Louisa had experienced physical exhilaration in walking beside the wagons. Jerome remained a healthy, well-nourished boy while the mortality rate for children during the crossing had been devastating because the milch cow too had survived the journey and faithfully supplied him with milk. However, the animal’s hoofs were splayed from so much walking, and on this

first evening at the creek Daniel, rasp in hand and with one of the cow’s front hoofs held tightly between his knees, was trimming her when a messenger came with the word that he was wanted immediately to attend a meeting called by Brother Young. Forthwith he ceased the trimming and walked through the camp to the hastily built meeting hall. The small structure was jammed with apostles and many of the Fifty (Ytfif). The most prominent men in the church had been assembled for an emergency conference. Daniel noted that President Young, surrounded by apostles, was about to make a speech. Seeing that the room was filled, the president cleared his throat and held up his hands for silence. “Some of you here today know of the consideration that the Twelve have given to sending forth an exploratory force of the younger men of the church. Because of the hardships so many of our people have experienced, it has become increasingly clear to me that it would be impossible to plan a move of all of our people to the West during this year.” There were a few murmurs among the audience, and Daniel sensed that most knew of the contention Brother Brigham had had with his apostles several days before—of their insistent opposition to his plan, of the controversy that he had firmly quashed. “We shall winter here,” he continued. “I am hopeful to be able to move many families to the territory across the river by the end of summer.” Again some dissenting whispers were exchanged, and Daniel saw the shrewd eyes of the speaker narrow for an instant, blink, and blandly survey the assemblage, giving no indication that he had heard their dismay. What a contrast this man afforded to Joseph Smith, whose transparent expounding of the celestial joys of plural marriage Daniel had always believed masked his personal desire for Louisa and other young virgins. “Others of you may know of the spokesman sent by the U.S. government, a most agreeable and cultivated gentlemen, young Captain Allen, who said to me—and these are his words—‘I have fallen in love with your people.’ He has delivered a most welcome and useful proposition from President Polk himself. It seems we can be of service to the nation.” So this was it! Speculation had been rife when the feared uniformed soldiers, led

by Captain Allen, had ridden into camp only days after the Saints had mourned the second anniversary of the martyrdom of Joseph Smith. “We have been requested to raise for Mr. Polk’s army a battalion of five hundred able-bodied men who will march to the West and assist in the fight with Mexico.” As was his custom, Brigham Young did not mince words but spoke positively. Incredulous hoots and shouts greeted this announcement. The U.S. government had been represented to the Saints as an enemy only slightly less heinous than the Missouri and Illinois rabble. Looking around him, Daniel saw that most of the prominent apostles like Heber Kimball and Willard Richards were silent. This is the way Brother Brigham works, he thought. The issue had already been decided. When the jeering had died down, President Young continued to outline his plan. “I do not need to tell you that the bulk of our people are too ill to continue the migration. It is urgent that we secure food and other goods to last us through the winter and to supply us for our trek to the western valleys in the spring. The hard money to be paid to the Battalion can make the difference between life and death to many of our people. Battalion may take with them ‘laundresses.’ Thus many will be transported west without cost to us. And I’m hoping for certain other … uh … advantages which may accrue.” With a flash of insight Daniel understood what most in the audience, agitated at the concept of aiding their avowed enemy, did not perceive in the wisdom and farsightedness of Young’s vision: he had cast a covetous eye on those vacant “Indian Lands” west of the Missouri River, and who else other than President Polk was powerful enough to circumvent the Bureau of Indian Affairs? In exchange for the service of five hundred of their man Polk would be likely to grant permission to the Saints to settle there temporarily. “I say we should move to Vancouver, far away from the U.S. government. It’s not our war,” a truculent voice called out. “Brethren,” Young entreated them solemnly. “Is it not possible that if we scorn this request, as well we might after the contempt the government has shown for the sufferings of our people. It could well be taken as an excuse to inflame the government more against us and thereby accomplish their hellish purposes upon

an innocent people in their utter extinction?” Daniel nodded his head slightly, his respect for President Young growing. The man would have his way, for he was cunning and not prone to act in haste as Joseph had often done. On July 20, five hindred men, the Mormon Battalion, commenced marching toward Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.

**********

Before the freezing rains and sleet swept down from the Canadian plains in November, Daniel and Tom had been able to complete a primitive wooden oneroom structure in a place on the western Omaha Lands the Saints named Winter Quarters. With the permission of the U.S. government the main body of refugees, some 3,500 persons, were living in what had aptly come to be known as Misery Bottoms where they shivered in sod houses or huddled in caves and dugouts. The more affluent church were able to construct flimsy yet serviceable shelters, so that out of the exodus from Nauvoo another town had sprung into existence. The disease and mortality, which were so rampant here were even worse on the Iowa shores and at the camps strung out across the territory. In them were marooned the sorriest and most penurious of the Mormons. Persistent fever and ague had kept Sara in bed much of the fall, but as the weather turned colder and the holidays neared, she rallied and was able to work several hours a day and to visit her neighbors. She expected the baby in January, and Daniel had left much of the smithy work to Tom as he labored to make the surroundings more comfortable for the birth of their child. Gift giving that holiday season was simple, confined to one remembrance for each, except for Jerome who received several packets of sweet meats from Tom; young Edwards considered himself to be an uncle and spoiled the child, always delighted when he stretched out his hands for “moe.” The Howes invited a few neighbors to share Christmas eve, and Daniel provided a jug of wine mixed with honey. Tom had spent several days’ wages at Brigham Young’s newly

established storehouse and bought molasses candy. In the sandy river bottom he had even found a bush with red berries that Louisa used to decorate the room. “It looks very festive,” Sara pronounced, pleased as she surveyed the fire and candlelight, which give the illusion of warmth and hominess. Fellow emigrants, Tom’s parents and four brothers were invited along with Willard Richards, who had been such a good friend to the Howes. Hosea Stout, former Police Chief of Nauvoo and still principal law enforcer of the Saints, who had experienced tragedy in crossing Iowa having lost one wife and three children, was also there not because he was well-liked but because generous Sara hated to think of him alone and grieving at this time of year. They and other guests poured in, good-natured, ruddy-cheeked, and merry; the room was so packed it seemed inconceivable that there could be space for dancing. The women embraced and then held one another at arm’s length to inspect each other’s dresses. Most of them had only two outfits, their every day, now faded and patched from so many washings, and their piece of finery (elected for this evening) appropriate for a fancy ball or wedding; the irony of the contrast between their attire and the humble surroundings dissolved them in fits of laughter. For the second time in her life Louisa wore Sara’s wedding dress (at the latter’s insistence), although the material was far too summery, and she felt a little frivolous and overdressed. At her throat on a thin, black ribbon she had fastened the silver rosette that the Indian child had given her in Nauvoo. It pleased her when Tom, now a grown man sporting a mustache, told her, “You are so beautiful, Louisa. So very beautiful.” When three fiddlers struck up a hoedown Daniel extended his arm to Sara who groaned with laughter as he pulled her to her feet. “Daniel, I’m too fat to dance,” she weakly protested. “I’ll dance with none other.” “What a determined man.” Sara’s step was light as ever, but soon her lips parted to ease breathing, and her cheeks glowed scarlet. At the close of the dance Daniel bent and lovingly kissed her on the forehead. “Well, you’re not so bad,” he joked.

“Go on now!” she half scolded, “I may be big, but I can still dance.” She coughed a few times before continuing. “But, Daniel, I’ll just sit the next one out. My breathing comes a little slower these days. We should dance more often.” Watching them Louisa was reminded of the great party at the Mansion House in 1844. Were she and the young girl who had combed her chestnut tresses, danced and later strolled along the river with the prophet Joseph—her husband—the same person? She glanced down at Jerome, asleep in her lap with a comforting sticky thumb in his mouth. So like Joseph’s were the long lashes curling on the baby’s cheeks. Sometimes she felt very old as if she never again would know deep joy. Later in the evening a small group came caroling, and the songsters were invited in to share in the food and drink. When they sang some of the traditional hymns, memories returned to favorite Christmases of years past: a New England farmhouse, pines sagging with snow, a crackling fire and Yule log, sideboards full of turkeys, vegetables, puddings, and pies. Many had buried loved ones on the Iowa prairies, and all shared the premonition that several more would die before their wanderings ceased. Celebrating the birth of the Lord Jesus together seemed to have special meaning for them, and men as well as women wept unashamedly as they ed the carolers in singing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” To properly end the evening’s festivities Daniel asked the senior Edwards to pronounce a benediction who in solemn tones beseeched the heavens to bless them and all the Saints; he thanked God for his mercy and sought his protecting hand to guide them. Then as the group was donning wraps and boots, several voices spontaneously struck up a chorus of a final song, William Clayton’s new hymn, composed on the trail at the commission of President Young. Its words, symbolic of the Mormons’ struggles and determination, echoed into the cold night:

Come, come ye Saints, no toil nor labor fear, But with joy wend your way; Though hard to you this journey may appear

Grace shall be as your day.

**********

With blasts of snowy winds screeching from the wintry sky, January settled in, dark and gloomy. Although Daniel kept a fire going, the chill penetrated the one room with its damp, earthen floor. For the Howes this was the worst period they had known since their migration from Nauvoo had begun, due not so much to the cold as to the stale diet, which depressed and enervated them. Luckily, there had been enough extra sugar so that the women could make preserves of the wild plums they had picked in the summer, thereby avoiding the scurvy that was plaguing others in the camp. But the worst affliction was the worsening state of Sara’s health. What at first seemed to be a mere cold had developed into a devastating lung disorder evidenced by a persistent, fierce cough, symptomatic of pneumonia. The comfortable flesh had fallen away from Sara’s face, neck and arms, leaving her protruding stomach to contrast grotesquely with the frail body. Too weak to walk unassisted, she lay shivering beneath a stack of quilts while Louisa tended her, but despite the conscientious care, her condition worsened. For several days prior to parturition, inhaling in hoarse, belabored gasps, she struggled to breathe. When the first labor spasms wrenched her lower abdomen, she cried out in pain. Praying silently, Louisa gripped in her the hands of the woman, who had become her dear mother. “Sara, oh, Sara. What can I do?” There was no physician in Winter Quarters, only women skilled in midwifery. Daniel hastened to summon the nearest. “Just stay by me, Louisa. I’ve—we’ve—loved you so much. You are so precious to me.” The barely audible words came slowly. “You must promise me. If I and the baby should die. Don’t protest, dear daughter, but hear me—that you will be kind to, even love, my Daniel.” She gasped. “He would not know where to turn. I’m so grateful the Lord has given you to him for this life and in the Celestial Glory you will have your Joseph, and I my Daniel.”

“Sara, I would always stay by Daniel. You do not need to ask it, but you must get well. We all need you. “I did so much want a child for Daniel. I pray God it will live.” She stopped as another spasm caught her breath and racked her body. Into the night the midwife and Louisa istered to Sara with herbs and prayers, but she could not muster the strength to expel the fetus. Louisa saw the agony on Daniel’s face as each cry rendered him more and more helpless, until she could stand his anguish no longer. “Please, Daniel, go to the Richards; there is nothing for you to do here.” “Yes, but only to ask Brother Willard to come. Perhaps the laying on of hands …” When the apostle arrived, he anointed Sara’s head with sanctified olive oil and invoked the evil spirits to leave her body. “, Brother Daniel,” he said, turning to the smith, “if she should be taken from you, it is the will of the Almighty, and his wishes must be obeyed. You will be united in the Celestial Kingdom.” It was near sunup when the still, cold form was taken from her. Because of her delirium and exhaustion, Daniel did not tell his wife that the baby was dead. Just at daybreak Sara died in his arms.

XIX

I Will Come to You, Daniel, When It Is Right

Goodbye, dearest Mother,” Louisa whispered as she knelt to place the little bundle of prairie golden alexanders and pink shooting stars on Sara Howe’s grave. With his head bowed, Daniel stood beside the two crosses; Louisa arose and turned to him, placing her arm in his. A gentle June breeze caught her hair, and the sun, which had just slipped out from behind a cloud, glistened on the grass of the knoll. “A part of us will always linger here, Daniel, but I shall not be sorry to leave this place—such a harsh, cruel land.” She looked out at the treeless expanse of grasslands, at the blue stem grass interspersed with purple clover and pale lavender pasqueflowers bent by the wind. He nodded, and they walked down the path toward the road. “Sometimes these last months since they died, Louisa—and I’ve no shame in saying it—if it were not for you and baby Jerome, I should not have cared about living.” As was his custom, Daniel had contained his grief, scarcely speaking of his deceased wife and son, and with the understanding born of her own losses, Louisa, not wishing to deepen his saturninity, had patiently waited for the day when he would, of his own volition, speak more freely of it. “Sara, would want you to live, Daniel, to see and settle Zion. I believe that you will be together once again, just as I believe that I will be with Joseph. There is not a day when I do not ache for him—but we live on.” He did not respond immediately but silently pressed her arm to his side. “And now he continued, “with Jim Edwards in the battalion, I must ask you to drive one of the teams—Tom and I can’t handle three wagons, and within the hour, we’ll be moving on.” He sighed. “It is somehow unseemly, Louisa, when a man can’t provide for his own family—I could leave a wagon here.”

She turned to face him and said incisively, “That’s nonsense, Daniel. You are not responsible for Jim’s leaving. I’d like to see anyone oppose Brother Brigham once his mind is made up. The more equipment we can take with us to the Rocky Mountains, the easier it will be for us to start a new household. We must not consider abandoning a wagon now, not as long as the stock is healthy, and we’ve teams to drive it.” She smiled at him. “My only regret is that I won’t be able to walk, for I do confess that the exercise makes me feel healthy. My brothers always called me a tomboy.” “There will be plenty of walking, Louisa, as you prod the oxen. I hope it will not greatly tire you.” He frowned with concern. “There is so much work—you’ll be cooking, mending, and doing other chores besides driving a wagon—Jerome will be neglected.” “With hundreds of our men in the battalion, many women will be driving teams and keeping up their other chores. Jerome can stay inside the wagon or maybe sometimes I can give him to a sister who has several little ones whom he can play with. He has to start learning to be independent, you know.” She reached for his hand and held it as they strolled into camp. Having said their farewells to Sara and her baby, the Howes departed that morning; their immediate destination was the confluence of the Elkhorn and the Platte rivers. There, they would await the mass gathering of what was to be the largest of the Mormon emigrant trains, over two thousand persons with five hundred wagons, the so-called Big Company. At the end of May, they had been called for this early June departure. President Young and selected apostles had been gone for over a month, traveling in what was known as the “Pioneer Company.” The wagons were strictly organized in companies of tens, fifties, and one hundreds. Daniel had been appointed a captain of fifty, which pleased Louisa. Although it meant he could devote less time to their own wagons, she felt he needed the responsibility in order to take his mind off the two wooden crosses at Winter Quarters. Thanks to the wages that had been advanced to the of the Mormon battalion, Young was able to secure urgently needed provisions prior to the exodus from the banks of Missouri. Food supplies had improved, especially for those able to afford them, and beef cattle were available. Daniel purchased four

along with several more horses. All over Winter Quarters and the other camps there had been a bustle of activity as wagons were readied for the journey. Only one-third of the ten-to-twenty thousand saints who had trekked across Iowa would continue; so pervasively had death and apostasy atrophied their numbers. Those who remained to tackle the final thousand miles were the nonpareils of the faith. Again, Zion was on the march!

**********

On their fourth day at the Elkhorn, Louisa looked up from the pot of stew she was tending to see a group of about thirty Indians, accompanied by a white man, riding into camp. From behind the wagon, where he had been chopping up some branches, Daniel too was observing them; he called to Louisa, “Looks like a Mountain Man with those Indians.” “What are they, Daniel? Omaha? Pawnees? Crows? Sioux? Need we fear them?” “They’re probably Sioux. Last evening, some of us saw tracks of moccasins, and a scout said they were Sioux because the tracks were pointed and the moccasins shaped for both left and right feet.” He laid his axe in the back of the prairie schooner. “I’m going to the other wagon captains in welcoming them.” Daniel hurried because the white man and several of the Indians had already dismounted. A few minutes later, he returned with the stranger whose face was covered with a full beard; he was taller than Daniel and wore buckskins. “Louisa, we’ve a guest for supper—I was first to offer Steady Jeb here, as he is known—an evening meal.” Turning to the stranger, he said, “Please let me present my wife, sir.” “Pleased ta meetja, mam.” “Louisa, what he doesn’t know about these western plains and mountains and the Great Basin isn’t to be known—he’s a walking library.” The Mountain Man traced a pattern in the dust with his right moccasin. “I’ve lived out here a long time—married to a Sioux squaw—ya learn a lot always

roamin’ en livin’ with the red men or scoutin’ fer whites.” “Please, your wife must eat with us too,” Louisa suggested upon hearing of the squaw. “No, mam, she’ll eat with her people and our daughter. They’re campin’ ta the west of you folks.” Louisa had heard several stories of the Mountain Men, but this picaresque individual was the first one she had met. They were supposed to be as good as the Indians at tracking, living off the land, hunting. They could find water where none appeared to be and could fight with the skill of Brother Rockwell—nearly all had one or more descriptive nicknames. “Word has come to us that Jim Bridger and Moses Harris don’t think we’ll be successful in growing crops in the Great Basin—what do you think?” Daniel asked. “I’ll tell ya—Old Gabe Bridger talks too much, and Black Harris tells the biggest lies I’ve ever heard, but I suspect that what both of ’em was referrin’ to was the cold nights in the valley. I’d worry ’bout growin’ corn there myself—but it might be all right.” “A man named Goodyear has had crops mature several miles north.” “Yeah, that’s up in what we call the Bear River Valley—the Old Redhead has a cabin there and does a little tradin’. Like me, he’s married to a squaw—the daughter of a Peteetneet, a Ute chief. The Snakes call Miles Inca Pompe—that means redhead. He has a few crops, but he’s not much of a farmer—he’s a trapper and a scout.” He stroked his beard. “None of our breed is too big at farmin’—I’ve rode ’n trapped with lots of ’em—’n knowed some others—some French, others half Indian ’n half French.” Amused at himself, he added, “Ya kin figger out which half was Indian.” Noticing that he was awing them, Steady threw out some names. “Yep, I’ve knowed Cut Face Sublette, Kit Carson, he’s knowed as the Little Chief, Broken Hand Fitzpatrick, he’s the best of the lot, Jim Clyman, Peter Skene Ogden—’course he’s mostly a fur trader, Etienne Provost, Basil, and Francois Lajeunesse, Bill Williams, Peg Leg Smith—he cut off his own leg to save hisself.” He noticed Louisa wince. “And whittled hisself a new one.”

He paused to let his listeners ponder the great names. “Then there’s Louis Vasquez, Old Gabe’s partner, Joe Walker, e’s one of the bravest, big feller from Tennessee, and Hugh Glass, he took on a grizzly once.” Louisa grimaced. “Edward Rose was a little of everythin’—Negro, Cherokee, and White—Crows made him a chief. Only one who ever told lies bigger than Moses was the mulato, Jim Beckwith.” He stopped to consider any omission. “There’s many more, ya know, many many. I only wish I’d knowed Jedediah Smith. As a young feller Jedediah tramped all around that big salty lake where you folks is goin’, way back in ’26 or ’27, ’course Old Gabe and Carson sailed around it too. I guess Gabe was the first, says he was, but Smith explored more of this country than any man of his day, had his whole skull laid open by a grizzly.” Some of the names Steady Jeb mentioned had left the mountains before his time, or he had met them only in ing, but it enriched his list and heightened his prestige to have known all the great Mountain Men and hundreds of lesser ones. He spit a gob of tobacco juice in the dust, and his tone turned a bit mournful as he continued, “I guess the days of us Mountain Men is drawin’ to a close. Fur trappin’ ain’t been much good for several years now—and more ’n more settlers is pourin’ in.” Truthfully, he added, “Even by the time I come out this way in the late ’30s, things was slowin’ down—missionaries comin’ into the West—and more ’n more civilization.” He shook his head. “Can’t even find Buffalo west of South anymore.” “I’ll be right back,” Daniel broke in, “I have to see about some more firewood.” He walked toward the middle of the camp. “Not much wood, but at least we’ve got plenty of water here—two rivers,” Louisa said. “The Platte’s a funny kind of river,” Jeb mused, “sluggish ’n ugly, twistin’ back on itself, but always goin’ somewhere—reminds me in a way of the Kayaderosseras, a fast movin’ little stream up in the Adirondack foothills where I lived as a boy.” Louisa glanced up sharply. The familiar name, Kayderosseras, jolted her, and in her mind’s eye, she saw the creek that flowed through a corner of her father’s farm in Charlton. A presentiment she could not suppress overwhelmed her. “You were born in upstate New York?” she asked cautiously.

“Wasn’t born there, but I got me some schoolin’ there, ’n from my pa learned ta hunt ’n trap almost as soon as I could walk. We moved there from farther down the state.” He spit tobacco juice again. “Excuse me, but that’s real juicy tobbac’.” He wiped his chin with the back of his left hand. “When I was fifteen, I went out on my own—ran off to the higher Adirondacks, worked in a lumber camp on North Creek, ’n after a few months went to Canada. Up there I heard of trappin’ ’n scoutin’ out west, so I headed fer the Rockies.” Louisa barely heard his last words. Timidly, scarcely daring to hope, she searched his face for an answer, hesitated, then asked, “Is your Christian surname Bidwell?” The Mountain Man, known for his steady nerves, was uncharacteristically nonplussed. “Why—how’d you know?” “Jeb, oh Jeb. Don’t you recognize me? I’m your sister—I’m Louisa!” “But … but … once I went back and … and … everyone had moved out … gone west I was told—with a religious group—but … now … yes … it makes sense. Why, you’re all Mormons.” He stared at her. “And you’re little Louisa.” He came nearer, still controlling his emotions lest it be a deception. “Please, let me study your features. My God, I believe I can see that brave little child in you.” They embraced, and Louisa began to cry, unleashing all the weariness, the heartache, the sorrow of the eleven years since Seth’s drowning. The pair did not see Daniel, who had thrown down the wood he had found, and stood watching in consternation as the stranger clasped Louisa in his arms. “In God’s name, stop! What are you doing?” he shouted, advancing toward them threateningly. Louisa turned toward him and began to laugh. “It’s all right, dear Daniel. You’ll find this as hard to believe as I do—but this is my brother, Jeb. It is he who left us so long ago—I’d given up hope of ever seeing him again.” “There was a reason to leave the family, Louisa. Seth’s death still weighs upon my mind, but there is so much to speak of … so many years to catch up on. Why did you depart from Charlton so suddenly? Are Mother and Pa here in this camp?”

“No no, Jeb. They ed Seth long ago. I’ll tell you all about it.”

**********

When Jeb learned that Louisa was driving one of the wagons, he changed his plans and insisted upon helping the Howes with at least part of the crossing by taking on teamster responsibilities. He saw no disloyalty in leaving his wife, “Little Wing.” and daughter, Amy, to ride his horse and lead the pack animals. From the Elkhorn which they forded on rafts, they proceeded north up the Platte to where it turns west and, from there, followed the trail set by the Pioneer Company along the north side of the river. Moving such an enormous number of people overburdened the grass, the water supply, and the campsites. The rolling wagons and the lumbering stock stirred up screens of dust that choked Louisa, who had resumed walking, occasionally hand in hand with Jerome and often accompanied by Little Wing and Amy, who shyly trailed along at a distance. Conditions improved after John Smith, a relative of the dead prophet and head of Big Company, wisely determined to break the party down into groups of fifty separated by a mile or more in order to minimize unwieldiness and reduce the dust. As the migrants followed the westward-meandering Platte, they came to appreciate it, if not for its beauty, at least for the water and shady cottonwoods it provided in the expanse of buffalo grass and sky. When they crossed the imperceptible line that distinguishes East from West, they found the air to be drier, more invigorating, and the landscape treeless and brown, having been scorched by prairie fire. Now spread out, having taken their assigned place behind another company, the Howes were a few miles from the nearest train; yet their own party caused enough disturbance that resulted into big rolls of dust sweeping over them periodically, eventually driving tumbleweeds that pitched about the land. Daniel’s eyes were red and swollen, for they were subject to constant irritation as he urged his horse back and forth among the wagons. The solidarity of the Saints and their unquestioning acceptance of leadership provided a vivid contrast to gentile trains, which were also moving West in the summer of 1847. Naturally, some grumbled and complained, but the Mormons

knew camaraderie and all felt superior to the individual families they occasionally encountered who were also pioneering the trail but without the same commitment to a brotherhood or community. Unlike most gentile migrants, they reserved each Sabbath for a day of worship, confirming their conviction that they were a “peculiar people.” At the Wood River campsite, the company rested for several days in order to repair wagons and to nurse boils, blisters, bruises, sprains, and broken bones. Daniel set up his forge and was busy with wagon repairs; some had been constructed from wood too green or intemperately aged, and it split and cracked. One day, Tom picked off a buffalo calf that Louisa roasted on a fire she had made from “buffalo chips.” Generously they shared the succulent, tender meat with their group of fifty. “My skin is as dark as Amy’s,” Louisa said to Daniel the last evening at Wood River as the Howes and other pioneers sat around a campfire. It was her favorite time, after supper, chores finished, enjoying the majestic sunsets which these western lands produced in an infinite variety of colors. The stock had been herded to a grazing area and the wagons prepared for the night, wheels interlocked and tongues turned outward as prescribed by Brigham Young. Daniel turned to look at her. “Women and fashion, Louisa—I see nothing wrong with your color—you are yet more beautiful with brown skin.” He lifted her chin and looked steadily into her eyes, then touched the hair above her temples. “Daniel, oh my dearest.” Gradually their father-daughter relationship had changed since Sara’s death. Louisa often found him watching her as she did her tasks or helped him yoke up the oxen. Actually, she was his wife, if only for time, and she could not reasonably expect him to forgo the privileges that marriage implied—not in a society that venerated children and commended those who had large families. She recognized in Daniel’s eyes the expression of desire she had once known in Joseph’s. She took his hand and kissed the callused palm. “Please be patient with me. Let me have a little more time.” He turned away. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “I will come to you, Daniel, when it is right.”

After they broke camp, the wagons began averaging between fifteen and twenty miles per day along this best stretch of road. The country continued to grow harsher and more forbidding, with the grasses mixed and scanty. Impish prairie dogs burrowed everywhere, briefly regarding the travelers and then scurrying into their burrows for safety only to emerge again, seemingly astounded at the gigantic wheels that had rolled over them. The Saints marveled at Chimney Rock and other strange forms molded by wind, sand, and erosion that seemed like ancient buildings in a dream. The ground beneath them was hard and dry as they clung to the shores of the Platte, that peculiar river which behaved as no other they had ever known; in some places, it was swift flowing and treacherous, while in others it almost disappeared and was so shallow as to make navigation impossible. Animal life too was changing. The travelers spotted large herds of buffalo less frequently and, at night, were frightened by the heretofore unknown wailings of gray wolves. Wild turkey hawks, bob-o-links, and other fowl infested the ragged, thin line of cottonwoods growing along the sandy bottom of the Platte, and giant rattlesnakes sunned themselves on the dots of sandbars in its channels. Ever conscious that they were pioneering a route to be followed by Big Company and thousands more, Brigham Young’s Pioneer Company had left signposts indicating the best campsites and water holes. Young had also placed men in charge of the ferries his company built at the more difficult crossings of the river. Coins flowed into Mormon coffers as they charged all the market would bear to gentile trains bound for Oregon and California. Without serious hardship and with a feeling of pride and accomplishment, Daniel’s group reached what was roughly considered to be the halfway point from Council Bluffs, Fort Laramie. A stop at this oasis was anticipated eagerly by the emigrants, just as it had been by the Mountain Men in the days of their great rambunctious rendezvous when trappers, traders, and Indians of various tribes met to smoke the pipe, carouse, and debauch. (By 1847, the beaver was well on his way to being driven to extinction, and most Mountain Men earned their living as guides.) Located in a breathtakingly lovely setting, Fort Laramie stood surrounded by lush forests on a sandy bar a few miles from the confluence of the North Platte and the deep, clear Laramie River. Equally breathtaking were the prices charged for supplies, but there was a consolation: Here was a man who could always hear

the latest information about the trail and exchange stories with other travelers. “We’ll be traveling north from here,” Jeb told his sister after assuring himself that she would be able to handle the wagon for the remainder of the journey. True, the mountain country was still ahead of them, as well as that most difficult desert section with its corrupted water, a fifty-mile stretch between Last Crossing and the Sweetwater (as pure as its name implied), but Jeb had to leave in order to keep a meeting with Indians up north who had pelts to sell him. The arid portion, he warned Louisa and Daniel, was strewn with the corpses of cattle that had drunk the alkaline liquid. They would have to husband and apportion their supply of water; the precious commodity could not be wasted on washing off the grit, which would imbed itself in their skin and hair, and they would have to discipline themselves to suffer some thirst. From the Sweetwater, he added, the company would slowly climb ever higher, as if on an inclined plane, until they reached South , and beyond the bad stretch, they would crisscross many mountain streams, which would provide them with fresh water and fish. Jeb and his little entourage had just completed the trip from South in the reverse on their way east to the Elkhorn. He started at Fort Hall in the Oregon Territory and ed the Overland Trail by traveling along what was now called the “Sublette Cutoff”; east of Fort Laramie, Jeb had run into Pioneer Company. Since then, Brigham Young’s advance party had made improvements along the way west, grading some of the steep angles leading to stream crossings, felling trees, pulling stumps, and clearing out some of the largest rocks. He was confident that Big Company’s progress would be eased. “I’ve seen your new homeland myself,” Jeb told his sister, holding her hands in his. “It’s a fearful wasteland, although there is timber in the canyons ’n snow on them high peaks in summer. The huge lake is a devil, lookin’ so cool but more salty than the sea—I sure hope your Mr. Young knows what he’s about.” “If it’s as you say, Jeb, nobody else wants it. Maybe the gentiles will leave us in peace.” She put her head to one side, feeling selfish in her desire to have him stay. “You must come to see us, if you’re any place near—and bring Little Wing and Amy. Jeb’s wife, standing near them holding the bridle of the riding horse, regarded Louisa with her soft, brown eyes. Although she had learned a few words of English, she could not follow the conversation, unlike Amy who already chattered in English to Jerome and seemed to be losing her fear of the

strangers. “You’ll always have a home with me, Jeb.” Brother and sister embraced, clinging to one another, each hating the separation. “Next year, little sister, we’ll be comin’ that way.” Louisa stepped up to Little Wing, took her hand and squeezed it, then kissed Amy, thinking what a solemn little girl she was with her dark eyes and thick, bristling braids. Jeb turned to take the rope bridle, while Little Wing mounted the horse. She sat astride with her back straight and her buckskin clad legs hanging lightly against the animal’s sides. Still holding the bridle in his left hand, Jeb reached down with his right and easily lifted Amy up behind her mother. She sat smiling, clinging to Little Wing’s back. “Goodbye, Jeb.” Louisa was certain they would see one another again before too long. She was grateful that her brother had found a wife who loves him—and happiness. She knew that Jeb, for all his reputation as a hunter, scout, and man of cold nerves, needed love and trust; clearly, he bore great affection for his wife and daughter.

**********

Heeding Jeb’s warning, the Howes took extra care to prevent their cattle from drinking the poisonous water of the shallow, alkali lake west of Fort Laramie. The oxen moaned incessantly and drivers had to be alert to keep them from breaking away when maddening thirst drove them to approach polluted sinks. The party knew that in this region, the grasses too could be bad, and to compound their impediments, many rocks and boulders still lay on the trail. Pioneer Company could not remove all of them! Strewn among the carcasses of animals from preceding wagon trains lay evidence that earlier pioneers (both gentile and Mormon) had lightened their loads of treasured furniture, books, even food. The pungent odor of sage mingled with the putrid smell of the swamps, and swarms of mosquitoes enveloped the wagons. Although Louisa tried to keep Jerome covered, his arms, legs, and face were swollen with bites.

When at last Louisa spotted a signpost bearing the information that they were forty-four miles west of Last Crossing, her spirits soared, for the hellish portion was now behind them; she glimpsed the initials, “W. R.,” burned in one corner— Willard Richards. Momentarily, she reflected on the kindly fat apostle who had witnessed Joseph’s martyrdom and so willingly come out on a cold January evening to bless Sara—the crossing must be harder on him than on those as young and healthy as she.

**********

Jeb had told Louisa that the Sweetwater Mountains lay south of this point, and she was anxious to view them. After supper while there was still daylight, she urged Tom to her in climbing the dome-like granite outcropping known as Independence Rock. From its top, the pair looked out on snowcapped ranges to the South and West. “Those must be the Sweetwaters,” she said, gesturing with a sweep of her arm, “or at least some of them are.” “When I think of England—how small it was,” Tom reed, “and I see all of this—just here for the taking.” “Except for those past fifty miles, which I don’t think anyone wants,” she added. “My brother said that from here on, although the way is rough, the water is fresh, and there’s grazing land for the stock.” “And the trail is crawling with trains from Missouri,” he reminded her as he took a piece of wood from his pocket, which he was whittling into a whistle for Jerome. Louisa tucked her skirt behind her and sat on the rock, then pulled her knees up to her chest, clasping her arms around them and stared out at the panorama. “Sometimes, Tom, it’s as if Joseph is here with us. I feel he knows where we’ve been and where we’re going. Perhaps … perhaps … because this journey is a fulfillment of his dream.”

“Are you still so very lonely for him, Louisa?” Tom had never before spoken so intimately of her relationship with the prophet. “He was my love, Tom. Ours was a vow not lightly taken.” She bit her lip to stop the tears and then suddenly brightened as she noticed the whistle. “That’s nice of you to make Jerome a toy.” Her eyes turned to the surface of the rock. “Oh Tom, would you carve our names here? Many others have.” Tom poised his knife above the gray granite. “Louisa, we shall be immortalized —if my little pen can scratch it.”

**********

The numerous crossings of the Sweetwater were just as Jeb had predicted, and a few broken axles and wheels were claimed. After completing the journey over South , the company rested on the banks of the Green River for one day. Some were ill with a strange fever accompanied by aching ts and delirium. No fatalities resulted from the disease, and with the wagons hastily repaired, they again struck out on the trail. Under Daniel’s quiet-but-firm guidance, their group of fifty had avoided some of the bickering and dissent that characterized other divisions of Big Company. The Saints were a people inured to strong leadership, and if that quality was lacking in a captain, their discipline disintegrated. Reaching the agreeable valley on Black’s Fork where Jim Bridger had built his fort, they again took a day of rest but did no shopping—Old Gabe’s rates were even steeper than those at Fort Laramie. The company was delighted to discover that several of the Mormon battalion were camped within the walls of the fort. Having journeyed the Santa Fe Trail with Captain Allen, the battalion had finally reached California where it was disbanded. Many of the men were now traveling east in hopes of finding their families somewhere on the trail or in Winter Quarters. Just west of Fort Bridger gentile wagon trains either turned north to follow Sublette’s Cutoff or took another road toward Soda Springs and the Bear River. The trail to the Salt Lake Valley was a faint one; before Brigham Young’s

Pioneer Company followed it, it had been used with great hardship only by the Harlan group and later by the ill-fated Donner Party. Indeed, because the Donner-Reed group followed this short cut recommended by Lansford Hastings’s Guide (the author had never traveled it himself), they lost valuable days wandering through mazes of blind canyons and forcing their way through thick underbrush and arrived just one day too late in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Heavy snowfalls trapped them and doomed them to suffering and death. Former battalion were relating the horrifying details of the Donners’ cannibalism to the Howe’s company. “We heard that a Mrs. Murphy, who was with them, was a renegade Latter-day Saint—an apostate,” one of the bearded ex-soldiers told the Howes. “She and the rest got what they deserved,” another added sharply, “Almighty God punished them.” Louisa’s dark eyes flashed, and she put her hands on her hips, replying tartly, “I can’t believe that those people deserved to perish because one woman apostatized—it’s a dreadful tragedy.” “The Lord must have been with us on our journey,” Daniel said, putting his arm around her. “Our greatest danger has come from folks being run over by wagons or charged by stampeding stock—and some of the brethren have had accidents with their weapons.” (He did not mention those doleful days at Winter Quarters.)

The men left to express their point of view to more sympathetic ears and to seek news of their families.

**********

As the wagons rolled out the next morning, Daniel pointed south, and Louisa saw far-off high peaks, massive and covered with snow. The Howes had earlier learned that distances in these arid lands were deceiving, and although the mountains appeared to be within a day’s travel, they knew it would take several

to reach them. The scenery about them continued to be as bleak and wild as any they had ed through, and the trail was the roughest they had experienced, in spite of the considerable hacking away of the thick tangle of resilient and slippery willows that Young’s advanced party had undertaken (a major accomplishment, for they too had been stricken by the unfamiliar illness and fever with which Big Company had contended). Nevertheless, Louisa enjoyed the unique beauty of the fancifully shaped rocks that began to appear: reds, pinks, and chalky white carved by the elements. As Big Company traveled this last leg of the journey, days were sunny and hot, although the absence of humidity made the heat tolerable; while at night, there was already an autumn chill in the air. A few days out of Fort Bridger, at a point where the trail became steeper, tracks indicated that exploring parties had searched the bewildering array of canyons that often disappointingly led only to cul-de-sacs. Suddenly, as the emigrants slowly urged their oxen up a grade, several heard a loud, whooping cry reverberate off the canyon walls. “Inyuns,” little Jerome shouted, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. They had never experienced difficulty with Indians. Indeed, since Jeb and his little band of Sioux, the only red men they had encountered were a few Shoshone at Fort Bridger. Daniel, in the lead wagon, held up his hand to halt, and Louisa, driving in the second position in front of Tom, jumped down from the driver’s perch and ran to the first wagon. “It sounded like an Indian, Daniel.” Again, a piercing cry came from the west, and then they saw a horseman angling his way down a steep path. Daniel reached behind the flap of the wagon cover for his rifle and laid it across his knees. “Get back, Louisa,” he warned, then stared in dismay as she continued to run past the lead wagon. Pausing a moment, she turned to him, calling with delight, “It’s all right, Daniel. Can’t you see—it’s Brother P. O. Rockwell.” Port had come to lead them into the valley. With his customary insouciance toward travail, Rockwell did not elaborate upon the journey of Pioneer Company into the valley but, smiling slyly, did confirm

the rumor that Lilburn Boggs, their old Missouri nemesis, had traveled west the previous summer bound for Oregon with a train of Missouri Pukes. “I sure wouldn’t aminded encounterin’ his honor somewheres on the trail,” Port drawled. Despite the heat of the day, Louisa shivered as she looked into the smooth, guileless face, framed with its trim ponytail, and wondered, as she had so often, if Port was as dangerous as his reputation boasted. “The crops is in, and they’ve diverted a creek to water ’em—even laid out proper streets,” he bragged. “Unfortunately, Brother Brigham had the mountain fever and did not enter the valley with the first party. He was drove down in Heber Kimball’s carriage the next day. You’ll find a regular city waitin’ ta greet ya.” It was quite a speech for the taciturn man. “I only wish,” his eyes averted Louisa’s, “that Brother Joseph could of been with us.” He stretched his arm in the direction of the peaks and the fledgling city beyond. “I reckon he’d be proud we all come so far.” With Port in charge, Big Company was able to avoid the circuitous wanderings of Pioneer Company. He led them through the magnificent Weber Valley, then at the sign erected by Parley Pratt, directed the party through Reed’s Cutoff, the route taken by the Donners when they discovered that the Weber River was imable. (Amazingly the Harlan group had succeeded in floating their wagons on rafts down the stream, which ed between sheer granite cliffs.) They made slow-but-steady progress, and late one afternoon, just a few days after Rockwell had ed them, Louisa saw him and Daniel galloping their horses along the creek bed toward her. Still several hundred yards away, Daniel took off his hat, leaned forward in the saddle and waved to her calling. “Over that ridge you can see the valley!” Tired from scouting ahead of the party, the two men dismounted and rested before giving the order to continue to the campsite they had selected for the evening. The rest of the day, the wagons climbed higher and higher into the very spine of the great mountains until they reached a plateau beyond which stretched a panorama that caused Louisa to catch her breath. Flung out for miles to the West was a valley vaster and more desolate than anything of which she had ever conceived. Treeless, shadeless, and stark, it spread and, in its midst, gleamed the body of water Jeb had called “saltier than the sea.” South of the lake lay another

smaller range of mountains, relatively barren of vegetation, shimmering in the waves of heat. She would come to know that range as the Oquirrhs. The party made camp only a few yards from the highest ridge of the plateau. In the evening after campfires had been extinguished and Port and Daniel had mapped out the final descent from the mountains, an air of expectation still hung heavy on the Saints, and many found sleep impossible on this eve of the entry into their new homeland. From behind the wagon where she had just checked on Jerome, Louisa observed Daniel silently sitting on a large rock; she knew that, like herself, he was thinking of the trail behind and of those who would never see Zion. How well, she thought, did Brother Kaye’s verses express the sentiments of a host of Saints:

Outside of civilization, Far from the abodes of men, Where the cactus blows and the wild sage grows, In the haunts of the wild sage hen.

No trace in range of vision, No beautiful flowers bloom, But a waste of sand, In a desert land, Surrounds the little tomb.

“Tom and Jerome are already asleep, Daniel. Shall we climb up to look at the valley once more?” Louisa pulled her shawl over her shoulders as she

approached him. Never had she seen a sky so clear, with stars glittering like gems in a celestial crown. “Yes, I’d like that. Strange, but I’m feeling a bit melancholic.” He stood up, and she took his hand. From a knoll protected by spruce trees and smothered with needles, they peered down into the dark basin where the only light was the reflection of the half moon upon the great lake. Intuitively sensing Daniel’s ardor, Louisa turned to face him feeling a rush of affection for this man who had been both a father and a husband to her. The cool night was invigorating, and she let the shawl slide from her shoulders. Slowly, but without hesitation, she unbuttoned her blouse, then, kneeling, unfastened her skirt. The hands that reached down to hold her were trembling. “It’s all right, my dear,” she whispered, trying not to the ecstasy she had known with Joseph. The next day when they set foot in the valley, she was no longer a wife in name only.

XX

It Is Natural That We Should Share Complete Union

Anxious to get away from home, Chris arrived punctually at Susan’s party, but she was not the first. Already six or seven persons were milling around the large plot of lawn that went with the apartment located on the north side of the city in the avenues, not far from where Melissa lived in her new steel and glass structure. It had become fashionable for young people to move into this oldest area of the city where they repaired the stately, aged homes in order to rescue them from the demolition crews and the contractors who were building the cold, uninspiring high-rises. Chris saw Susan approaching from the back of the lot, her long blond hair loose and straight. As usual, she was wearing a Navaho dress and Indian jewelry: three rings, two bracelets. Her ears had been pierced in such a way as to accommodate three earrings. Such a fair complexion—pathetically amusing, Chris thought, because even the desert sun could not tan her deeply enough to be mistaken for a Native American. The cheekbones were wrong too. Hadn’t her mother been of Scandinavian descent? A pity for Susan. It must pain her constantly that she didn’t even resemble a Navaho, Ute, or Zuni—but at least the dress and jewelry helped. “Chris, come us,” Susan called upon reaching the kitchen door and noticing her. “There are some groovy people outside I don’t think you know.” She walked out on the lawn and, after speedy introductions, was soon deeply involved with a student who was working on a master’s degree in psychology and his fiancée, an intense would-be lawyer, in a conversation about the futility of war and the commitments of the Johnson istration in Vietnam. She learned from them that the University Student Society for Peace was planning to stage a massive protest march during the fall quarter; the trio snickered that students from Brigham Young University should be invited. Characteristically,

the church was backing the war, favoring maiming and bloodshed in order to stop the “atheistic communist hordes, the forces of the Antichrist.” “Well well, so we meet again,” a voice behind her was speaking, “Salt Lake is not all that big—I knew I’d run into you.” She turned to face Mark Spencer. His appearance had changed a little. The hair was in a ponytail, and he wore a red and yellow headband, the beard had been neatly trimmed. “Since my offer of free transportation was refused at our last meeting, maybe I should just buzz off,” she responded a bit hostilely. Sensing possible harsh words, the engaged pacifists excused themselves. “No, Chris, please stay … I’d love to talk … I’ve checked around about you, you know.” He looked sheepish. “I took my time coming back. On the way out I went straight to Vermont—hitched across interstates. After you left, I visited Palmyra, Kirtland, Nauvoo—and then hitched as close to the original Mormon route as possible up to Florence, Nebraska and on to Utah—across those muchdiscussed plains—along the goddamned, sanctified mythicized trail.” She laughed. “I did it the other way.” “Well, maybe you just do things backward.” “You know, Mark, I’m not taking any shit from you—none at all—you were making fun of me in Vermont too.” Why was she being so hypersensitive? “It’s not making fun—and once again—I’m sorry. You’re too thin skinned.” He paused and then announced: “I’ve got my own head together now—I’ve got it more together than I’ve ever experienced. It’s a good feeling to know exactly what you believe and where you’re going.” “Oh really? Tell me about it. Susan says you’re into some pretty heavy living all right.” Her right hand reached across her upper body to pull at the gold-hooped earring in her left ear. “She may be a member of the misunderstanding majority,” he smiled. “Told you about the three devoted ladies, I suppose.”

“Right.” “Of course, you’re bright enough to realize that there is a lot more to me than that. I arrived at my commitment to communal living after a long and tortuous period of study and self-analysis. No one can ever understand how I suffered. I wanted only to be a good LDS boy. Ironically, trying to prove the teachings of the church to myself is what led me to reject it.” “The true examined life?” “Sure. Any intellectually honest individual would, upon careful scrutiny of its tenets, abandon Mormonism. That’s why they tell us to have faith—too much truly open-minded study is dangerous.” His facial expression looked pained. “Hell, when I was on my mission in the Netherlands, one of the apostles flew over for a visit to all the European missions. He got the word that I was a diligent student. You know, that jerk asked me if maybe I wasn’t ‘pursuing the mysteries’ too deeply and ‘onished’ me to stick with the ‘simple precepts of the gospel.’” Mark began to chuckle. “He also asked me—honest to God—if … if … I had masturbated since accepting my mission call.” Chris ed him in uproarious laughter. “Man, oh man. I bet that most of the guys were so horny they were flogging away in secret.” “I really don’t know, Chris, but I wasn’t.” She looked astonished. “Honestly, I thought God would know—or worse still, my missionary companion—that maybe I’d talk about it in my sleep if I did it.” Chris was laughing harder than ever. “At least that should prove that I’m not a hopelessly depraved sex maniac—I can control my ions.” “Yeah, I know.” “Hey, it wasn’t you I rejected back there in the green mountain state.” He put his hand on her shoulder, then flipped her long, straight hair away from her neck. “I had to do my own thing in my own way. It was a time for being alone. You must know that you sorely tempted me.” She caught his humor and smiled at the biblical phrase. Turning serious again, he

dropped his hand to his side, leaned against the wall, and said, “Somehow, the hold of the church on these good people of Utah has to be broken. They are trained to follow implicitly. As soon as an individual develops like me, he—or she—is labeled at least a ‘stray sheep’ and, at worst, a ‘disciple of Satan.’ It’s virtually impossible to do your own thing—one hurts one’s parents, one can no longer have good Mormons as friends. It’s maddening for those of us who want to be objective thinkers. You end up sneaking around and lying—or making a clean break.” “I don’t think I’ve suffered as you have—hell, I’ve simply gone with a group who broke the rules.” “Sure, there are many like you. Most of whom settle down and become proper Mormons—even some of the most devout and fanatical. They’ve had their fun, so to speak, and then crack down on everybody else. It’s just too hard to fight the power of the church out there.” He motioned in the general direction of the temple to the south. “If you want to advance in the communities, get a better job, etc., you get that old ‘testimony’ of the truth quickly, then you might stand up in a ‘testimony meeting,’ maybe even it to a past sin or two—because it endears you to the folks even more to be a repentant sinner, a sheep returned to the fold—and tell how you love the gospel and appreciate Joe for having restored the truth.” He grinned wryly. “I especially like the ones who explain how being faithful has increased their income. You know, Chris, the only alternative is to develop a kind of double life as many do, hit the booze when you are away from home. You know that many hypocrites make pilgrimages to Las Vegas. Of course, another way out is to be very rich—the well-to-do can always behave as they please.” He began twisting his mustache. “So many Mormons are such very good, humble little people. They belong to the powerless and duped of the earth. I’m convinced that nowhere can harder working, more kindhearted souls be found, but the church—to use a vulgar expression of a friend of mine—has ‘fucked them all up’ … made them so damned offensively smug with that ‘chosen people’ bit, telling them they will ‘inherit the earth,’ etc.” He was becoming agitated as he warmed to his subject. “That guy I just referred to, the one who says the church has fucked us all up, is certainly screwed up himself. He learned as a missionary to despise the church and, in his search for a substitute, became like a ship lost at sea. He completely changed from a sweet, innocent, and devout young man—to a disciple of the drug cult. He has tried them all, and now, of course, he is a physical wreck. He is

drifting around Chicago. The shock of discovering that Mormonism was just one more man-made religion shattered his mental stability—with a little help from heroine and whatever.” “And, of course, the church has little, if any, sympathy for his condition,” Chris added. “He ended up as he is by ‘denying the Holy Ghost,’ ‘submitting to the power of Satan,’ or some such nonsense. The only kind of rehabilitation they would accept is one hundred percent devotion to the church. It’s so damned black or white! The world’s way or their way. Everybody who was ever born is to fit into the prescribed pattern. Your friend is right—they have fucked us royally, played with our minds.” “Right. And how about the many who half believe yet suffer continually because they stray, have doubts, etc. My uncle is a perfect example. The guy has a horrible guilt complex. At times he even wonders if he wasn’t the cause of his wife’s fatal stomach cancer. Was God punishing him by making him watch the slow death of the woman he cherished? Of course, a few of his good LDS neighbors have reminded him that he should throw away his cigarettes, clean himself up, and be sealed to her in the temple in order to redeem them both in that much-referred to next world—they think they are helping him!” “Okay, Mark I know all of this. One thing I enjoyed in being away from Utah was not having these daily, endless conversations about the church. It seems to be all we talk about out here—pro, con, questioning, rationalizing, whatever. You can’t escape it. Please let’s get off it now. Tell me what you are really into.” “Let’s sit down over here, and I’ll clarify all.” They walked over to the large portable cooler and got two cans of beer. “I’ve accepted some of Smith’s teachings, but rejected most—anything that impinges upon my personal freedom, my own right to think, I avoid. Never again would I wear that ridiculous underwear that bunches at the crotch and is so uncomfortable on a stifling hot day bicycling in the Netherlands. Chris laughed. “Women suffer more than men. You’re supposed to wear even your brassiere on the outside of those awful union suits. At least they’ve been modified in modern times—shortened and all.” “Yes, well, the holy garment is only one example of the mind control the church

exercises. I’ve decided to take them on!” “Oh Mark, why bother? Just live as you please. You really are a naive fool if you think you can break—or even weaken their grip on others.” “But I must try … this could go on for generations. The vast wealth of the church is increasing daily—I think it’s at least two million a day now—and no dollar is spared in its effort to tighten the vise and to drag in more suckers.” “It incenses me that more of their dough isn’t spent on hospitals. They maintain a few fine ones, I guess, but there could be more. They brag about their counseling centers and educational facilities, but no matter how they rationalize it or try to disguise it, their purpose is clear—teach the party-line doctrine, keep people in line or bring them to it.” “Indeed! They could have fine retirement homes for the elderly, excellent hospitals, rehabilitation centers for all kinds of human problems and illnesses, but all they do is waste money on temples and, of course, countless investments. No cost is too great for a piece of land they want. It’s truly horrible. All that money for such nonsense—baptizing dead persons and marrying for eternity— hocus-pocus, magic words, secret handshakes.” “Yeah, it is incredible. I’ll never participate in it, just be a black sheep, I guess. But, Mark, please—just what are you into?” “My leather shop, organic food, preaching an individualized philosophy of the simple life—peace, love, and understanding, denouncing the capitalistic, materialistic Mormon society, as well as its embarrassingly naive philosophy and —I’m into polygamy.” “So it’s not just belief … but practice.” “Right … but no fair maiden is coerced to be my companion. We try to avoid the term wife—and, of course, there are no promises of peopling kingdoms, salvation, and all of that. If a girl accepts my beliefs—shares my philosophy and truly loves me—then it is natural that we should share complete union, spiritually and physically. Many societies, as well as psychologists, anthropologists, and biologists have recognized that the male is polygamous, the female monogamous.”

“Hell, you really have a gigantic ego.” “I hope not, Chris. I hope that I would never force my way on another human being. I would never, for example, advocate opposing Mormonism with violent means—I follow Christ in that and oriental philosophers. Patience, love, and the truth will conquer. Unfortunately, the church thrives on violence. There is nothing pacific, contemplative, or spiritual about Mormonism.” Chris nodded in agreement as, abruptly, Mark stood up. “I have to go now.” A broad, kind smile made him look like a mischievous boy. “My leather shop and the three devoted ladies need my attention. Anyway, blowing pot is not my thing. Susan drops into the shop now and then, so to make her happy I swung by.”

XXI

Where None Could Molest Them from Morn Until Eve

The Saints’ first months in the Great Salt Lake Valley were trying ones as the Lord continued to test them. Rats, mice, and millions of black, swollen-headed crickets with bulging eyes (named black Philistines) combined with the burning rays of the sun (only two or three cottonwood trees and the canvas coverings of the wagons gave shade) to harass them. Gray-green sagebrush, interspersed with prickly pears and thistles, stretched in every direction. To the west lay bottomlands of alkali, and to the east, the towering, steep slopes of the Rockies —both worthless for agriculture. Those who complained that in this wilderness the Lord’s chosen would surely starve to death, Brigham Young rebuked with the retort that the basin would grow everything that thrived anywhere on earth at a corresponding latitude; like Nauvoo, it would become a garden spot of the earth, for the Saints would cause the great valley to “blossom as a rose.” And shamed, intimidated, or inspired by his vitality and enthusiasm, they cleared the sage from the hard soil and plowed it, laid out roads, hauled timbers from the canyons, hunted game in the mountains, and on the prairies, brought wagonloads of salt from the enormous inland sea; from poles, grass, and brush erected a bower for church services; with bare feet stomped clay to make sundried adobe bricks (an art battalion learned in New Mexico) to construct a stockade; and inside, against the protective walls, built their first homes, crude, poorly chinked log cabins with slightly slanting dirt roofs and earthen floors. A temple block was chosen, and from its southeast corner as baseline, Apostle Orson Pratt, the church scientist, began his survey of the planned city. Masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths wasted no minute of precious daylight. Yet another “gathering place,” the envisioned “metropolis of the Almighty,” the “sanctuary in the tops of the mountains” was born where, as one of their hymns promised, “none could

molest them from morn until eve.” By October, eleven companies of Mormons had crossed the endless valley of the Platte and the high plains of Wyoming, assisted their oxen in tugging the wagons through mountain es, and laboriously lowered the prairie schooners on ropes down ravines and gulches, finally to rattle down Emigration Canyon into the “New Zion.” Some Mormon battalion , discharged at the village of La Puerta de Nuestra Señora de Los Angeles, crossed the Sierra Nevadas from California to them, bringing their total number to some 1,700 souls. In spite of their journey and the most careful rationing, by the spring of 1848, few of the goods they had brought with them from Winter Quarters, or gathered from their first pitiful harvest of eighty-four acres of corn, beans, potatoes, turnips, and other vegetables, remained. President Young was in Winter Quarters directing preparation for the next migration, but he had left the pioneers in the able hands of Apostles Parley Pratt and John Taylor who onished prayer and resourcefulness. The Saints discovered that pigweed, thistle, and watercress were edible; and the Lord caused the Lamanites to take pity on them so that they told the settlers of the nourishing roots of the pretty sego lilies that blanketed the hillsides (in gratitude the Utah Legislature of 1911 made it the state flower). They were reduced to a diet of milk, beef, weeds, and, occasionally, soup made from boiled ox-hide, but no one starved. When melting snow or rain leaked into their temporary shelters, they held umbrellas over their sleeping infants. They listened to the exhortations of their leaders, found time to dance, and continued to plow and explore throughout the mild winter (which the Almighty granted them). Before falling exhausted into bed each night, they prayed and stoically waged war on hundreds of hungry rodents that swarmed into the fort seeking an easy meal, but they knew their hardships and privations would be amply repaid, for the hope of eternal life in the celestial glory was held out to those who sincerely loved the Lord and obeyed his will. In the spring of 1848, he would allow them to be tried yet again and most sorely. In the fall, the pioneers planted one thousand acres of wheat to which in the following early spring they added another four thousand acres and, by May, were proudly watching the growth of the healthy green shoots. Brother Young’s

assessment of the fertility of the soil was correct: the grain was well stooled. It seemed the harvest would be sufficient to assure ample supplies for themselves and the expected influx of emigrants from the Missouri (their “Egypt on the Nile”). Then, one morning in May, Satan sent swarms of the repulsive native crickets to devour the grain; millions arrived until they formed a cloud so thick that the sun was dimmed. Horde after horde of the black Philistines descended from the mountains. Some of the colonists fought the pests with brooms, shovels, and sticks; others dug holes into which they drove and buried them. Farmers hastily plowed ditches, filled them with water, and drowned thousands of the insects that were swept from the fields by the running stream. Desperately, they tried more ditches, even fire, but day after day, the plague augmented as minions of crickets replaced their dead brethren. Deciding that their fate was in the hands of the Almighty, modern Israel sunk to its knees in humble prayer, and the Lord of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob worked a miracle: A myriad of seagulls flew east from the islands of the Great Salt Lake to feast, drink, disgorge, and resume the banquet. For several days, the “white-winged angels of deliverance” flew to their islands at night but returned at sunrise each morning to gorge themselves on the repulsive pests until none was left (the seagull is protected in Utah by legislative enactment of 1897).

**********

By the summer of 1856, life in the valley seemed almost pacific. With the cold detachment of a historian, Louisa could look back on 1848 and the swatting of black Philistines and the suffering in the leaky log shelter. For the most part, the national government had left the peculiar people in peace (although the church’s first public acknowledgment of polygamy in 1852 distressed many in the outside world, and Mormons loathed some of the federal appointees who held office in the territory), and the community had not been greatly troubled by Indians, for President Young preached love of the Lamanites; with an eye toward conversion to Mormonism, they were “to feed” rather than “to fight” those who had been cursed of old. Only isolated skirmishes had marred peaceful coexistence, mostly in the south of the territory, and a few lives had been lost in the Walker War.

(During 1853 and 1854, the Ute Chief, Walker, futilely attempted to wrest his hunting grounds from the white “Americats.”) Prophet, Seer, and Revelator Young (also known as “president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints all over the world,” and “Excellency”) had sent groups of pioneering Saints to found hundreds of colonies throughout “Deseret” (the Saints’ name for their kingdom taken from a Book of Mormon word meaning “land of the honeybee”) that stretched west to the Pacific, east to Fort Bridger, and hundreds of miles to the north and south. Missionaries, some only in their teens, now worked throughout Europe and in many other parts of the world to send thousands of emigrants to the new homeland; many were coming by handcart. Between 1847 and 1856, fifty-nine companies of emigrants, seventeen thousand persons, most aided by the church’s Perpetual Emigrating Fund, sailed from the Old World. It was said that Charles Dickens was among the curious Britishers who had crowded the docks of London to gawk at the swarms of converts and contemplate the magnetic appeal of the sect. The wilderness was being tamed, even refined. The first law enacted in the territory provided for the building of roads and bridges, and the second for the establishment of the Parent School to be known as the University of Deseret. On November 11, 1850, it opened its doors at the home of John Park of the Seventeenth Ward on the northwest side of the temple block. Postal service began in the same year, and in 1851, the legislature created a system of common schools. In Brigham City, a hamlet sixty miles north of Great Salt Lake City, John Bynon started a dancing school in 1853. Many saints, including the Howes, had prospered beyond any expectations. Prophet Young had preached that more money could be made in Deseret than in the gold fields. He was proven correct. Greedy goldseekers hurrying to California had been anxious to trade most of their goods or dispose of them at a fraction of their value; three or four tired mules were traded for one fresh one, or a heavy, well-constructed wagon traded for a lighter vehicle. Daniel had recouped some of the losses from the costly exodus by doing an extensive business with the forty-niners; he bought or traded tools, horses, mules, wagons, even shoes and clothing. He also earned well from smithing to which, upon employing a young Swiss convert who was a saddle maker in his homeland, he had added harness and saddlemaking. In 1849, he invested in Livingston and Kindhead’s Mercantile Institution, and now he was part owner of

two gristmills and planning to invest in logging in the Weber (formerly Bear River) Valley where the city of Ogden had been founded in 1848. Wisely, he had put no money into Brother John Taylor’s sugar beet refinery which, in spite of the fine equipment the apostle had purchased in , produced only an inedible sharp molasses (it would be the next century before the industry became profitable). The prophet Brigham preached self-sufficiency, and Daniel obeyed. He was a member of the Salt Lake Stake High Council, a patient father to Jerome, now eleven years old, and delighted with Hyrum, born in 1850. Louisa’s principal concerns were domestic, although she did find time to teach occasionally at Ms. Nebeker’s school and carried out church duties (she preferred the school). She was pregnant again and, since the death of Jeb’s wife in 1852, had been rearing his daughter, Amy, who was nine when Jeb brought her to the Howes. At first Amy readily adapted to the Howe’s way of life, but lately she had been sullen, withdrawn, moody, overly sensitive about being a Lamanite. Jeb had allowed Daniel to baptize her, but the transition from gentile to Mormon had not improved her spirits. “Oh my,” Louisa sighed to herself. One could only do one’s best; the child could not be returned to her father, for he had not remarried, and his life was unsettled. Jeb still refused to become a Latter-day Saint, but perhaps to stay near Amy or maybe because he had tired of only eking out a living in the mountains, he was scouting and exploring, sometimes with Orin Porter Rockwell, in the service of the church. Jeb was most effective in working with the Indians. It was said that he was a tireless negotiator, but if need be, he could dispatch a Lamanite to the Happy Hunting Grounds quicker than any man in the territory. On this July morning, reflecting on the past nine years, Louisa stood, sausage gun in hand, looking out one of the small kitchen windows (glass was most expensive, not yet made in the city) of the Howe’s newly completed adobe house. Never mind the sausage—for a moment the work could wait as she continued to , to ponder all that had happened since the martyrdom of Joseph. What would he make of it? She was now mistress of the large two-story home (albeit only adobe—but the foundation was true stone—red sandstone) that her mother had so desired. Life was strange. Who would have thought that Louisa Bidwell of Charlton, New

York, would at age thirty-one be living in a new house in one of the West’s great deserts? But how neat the city was—in some ways—nicer than Nauvoo, much dryer at least—no fear of marsh miasma. The city was laid out in square blocks of ten acres, with the Temple Block also comprising ten. Houses were to be built on alternate blocks on the east and west sides of the squares and on the intervening ones on the north and south sides. No houses were to front each other, assuring ample garden space, room for stables and necessary outbuildings, and as a safeguard against fire. Main Street was 132feet wide, including the sidewalks, which were each twenty. Locust trees grew along each side of the street. Several wards existed; each presided over by a bishop. They were variously named such as Denmark, after the several Danes who populated it, South Ward, after its location, or Creek Ward, after the stream that ran through it. Streets were named for their direction to the Temple Block: East Temple Street, No l, East Temple Street, No. 2, South Temple Street, etc. Basically, Joseph’s plan, she thought, with some elaboration by Young and the others. Most large houses were built in the shape of a barn with wings and lean-tos; to most, a low verandah had been added, which provided welcome shade in the summer, and all had chimneys and heavy doors for protection against the piercing cold of winter. Humbler dwellings were little more than adobe huts or long stable-like structures with several entrances. The principal officials of the church and several gentile merchants lived on Main Street, which was also the center of business; its modest buildings supplied the chief wants of the inhabitants. The west side housed a vendor of Yankee notions—a bakery, a butchery, a saddlery, a watchmaker, a crockery and hardware store, a furniture business; and dry goods, grocery, and liquor stores. Jerome and little Hyrum liked best the ice cream restaurant where one glass of the delicious specialty cost 25¢! On the east side was a shaving saloon, Mr. Goddard’s Confectionery, Mr. Godbe’s apothecary and drug stores, and the establishment of the general dealers, Hockaday and Burr, where one could purchase almost anything. Only yesterday Louisa had bought there a yard of silk, a mousetrap, and a copper pot. An ambrotype and daguerreian room was located behind the stores of Messrs. Hooper and Cronyn. But the most impressive building was the office of the Mountaineer—forty-five square feet with two stories—it had cost $20,000! Built by the church and known as Council House, it had since been purchased by the territory and housed the public library and offices of the two weeklies, Deseret News and Mountaineer.

Joseph, who in righteous indignation had destroyed the presses of the Expositor, would approve of both these newspapers. The first had as its motto, “Truth and Liberty,” and the second, “Do what is right, let the consequence follow.” “Mama, mama.” Jerome’s call disturbed her reverie. “Yes?” He rushed nearly breathless into the room and shouted, “Are Indians as good as us? Amy says they are.” He then stood near his mother, impatiently awaiting a reply. She thought for a moment. Her words must be carefully chosen to satisfy his curiosity yet strong enough to defend Amy. “I’ve always considered them to be superior in some ways, dear, and I’m somewhat of an authority.” She paused. “I’ve had many dealings with various tribes—back in Nauvoo, the Sacs and Foxes, on the Great Plains, the Potawatomis, Omahas, Sioux, and some Blackfeet, and here in Deseret with our own Shoshones, Utes, and Paiutes—and you should hear some of your uncle Jeb’s stories of Indian intelligence.” “I mean—what does our Heavenly Father think?” Again she hesitated. Only through sincere repentance and baptism could they become equal. So Joseph had taught, so would the boy eventually learn in Sunday school or in a priesthood meeting, but she would not tell him yet. “He agrees with Amy, son, that they are our equals.” “Louisa.” “Yes, Daniel, I’m back here in the kitchen with Jerome.” Daniel ed them, entering from the parlor. His face expressed consternation, the brow furrowed, the lips puckered. “Where are the others?” “Hyrum is asleep, and Amy is out back playing. What’s wrong, dear? You look worried.” Anticipating that Daniel wanted to be alone with her, she told Jerome to go play. “I just ran into President Young, and as usual he began preaching the importance of the principle—questioning my reluctance to take more wives—to upbuild the

kingdom.” “Come, sit next to me.” She kissed him gently and rubbed her hand through his thinning hair. His temples were gray, almost white, and the beard streaked with gray. If he were going to obey the principle, he should not wait too much longer; he was forty-five, and they had been alone so long it would be difficult to adjust. “You must do as you see fit. How could I oppose it? I only know that it would be very difficult for me to share you, Daniel. But I am married to you in this life only. Sara died, her baby with her, Jerome is sealed to me and the prophet Joseph, and the children I bear you shall belong to Joseph as well, for all children a sister has in this life shall in the next world be with her and the husband to whom she is sealed for eternity—and that is what concerns Brother Young.” “I know the doctrine, Louisa, but only a handful of brethren are obeying the covenant although few of the most prominent have desisted. My dear, I want only you.” “Oh, Daniel, how I value your faithfulness, but you must do what is right. We are financially able to accommodate plural wives. I’m sure Brother Young is considering that as well. Poorer brethren are not granted the privilege.” “Yes … well … Perhaps if we had his huge dwellings. Imagine two new houses designed by architects with rooms enough for all his wives, office space for himself, a store where the spouses and children may obtain goods—even a school for his children.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “I shall have no part of it, though it may hamper my progression in the church—and though I shall one day have to answer to the Lord—I shall have no part of it.” He paused and shifted his position to face her. “I foresee much trouble concerning the principle, gentile opposition is growing. Sometimes I wish the church hadn’t made it public in ’52. Will Brother Brigham have a repetition of Nauvoo? Are we again to be driven from our homes?” He stood up. “I’d best eat now, Louisa. I have to leave shortly to ride to Ogden City to consult with some brethren about forming a logging company. The mountain valleys and canyons in the region abound with woods that we sorely need.” She prepared his meal and packed some food for the journey. He would stay overnight with Saints in Ogden. That would be just as well, for she had planned to devote the evening to Amy.

**********

Shortly after dinner, at least an hour before their customary bedtime, Louisa tucked the boys in for the night. Each complained about it still being light outside, but she paid little attention. She wanted plenty of time to speak with her niece. For a while they sat together in the kitchen, which was still adequately lighted by the last rays of the bright summer sun. Because church leaders were enforcing the Word of Wisdom and fiercely denouncing the stimulants, coffee and tea, Louisa had reluctantly prepared some hot milk. How could she encourage the child to tell her the reason for her latest sullenness? She decided to be direct. “Amy, did someone at school make an unkind remark about you?” The child sat silently, her two long braids of coarse, black hair hanging nearly to the middle of her back, the brown eyes mysterious and sad. She fingered the handle of the cup of milk but said nothing. If only she could have more resembled Jeb, Louisa thought. One would never suspect her father was white. “Amy, please tell me.” “It’s the same thing. The boys and girls don’t like breeds like me and Indians,” she blurted. She must be patient; the explanation was coming. “Ms. Nebeker was telling us about Indian customs. She said that the Book of Mormon teaches that we can become a “white and delightsome” people by accepting the gospel … and … and … well …” “Yes, go on,” she encouraged, “and drink some milk before it becomes cold.” “And Johnny Farr asked the teacher why I wasn’t white.” She choked and started to cry. “He said I was a baptized Saint now.”

Louisa stood up and took a handkerchief from her apron pocket to wipe Amy’s tears. “Don’t cry. Let’s dry your face.” She patted the bronze face with the handkerchief and kissed her on the cheek. “Let’s both finish our milk now. Tell me, what did Sister Nebeker say?” “She said that I was baptized only last year—and that maybe Heavenly Father meant that my children or grandchildren would be white. She said his ways are hard for mortal man to comprehend.” “Oh, Amy,” Louisa exclaimed, tapping the table with the tips of her right fingers. “You are such a very beautiful young lady.” “But,” she replied, suddenly starting to cry again, “why doesn’t Heavenly Father make me white like you?” Louisa again arose. She embraced the girl and then moved with her into the parlor where she lighted a kerosene lamp, which Daniel had purchased from a forty-niner. The homemade candles standing in the candlestick fashioned from buffalo vertebrae she left unlit; they could be dangerous. In the dim light, she sat for a moment thinking of words with which to comfort the distressed child, who chose to sit cross-legged facing her on the rag carpet. “Amy, I have great respect for your mother’s people. We have much to learn from all the Indian tribes. The Saints appreciate them. Our very territory is named after the Utes. You know, as a girl in Nauvoo, Indians used to intrigue me. Once I gave food to some who came begging. They weren’t like your people. They were deprived of their land and practically without means of sustenance. None had any pride in themselves.” “We never ate what some of the Indians here eat, Aunt Louisa.” Good, the child had found a source of pride. “They cook grasshoppers and crickets and mice, maybe ants too. We always had deer, buffalo, and rabbit—or sometimes a squirrel—and lots of pine nuts but never a black cricket!” “Certainly Sioux and Gosiute Indians are very different, Amy. Your people have produced some great leaders too.”

“And we never stole children and sold them to Mexicans like Walker’s tribe does.” Her defense of Sioux was encouraging; the child must develop a higher regard for herself—even if the longed for metamorphosis never came. “But the children don’t understand. They think all Indians are like these here.” “Maybe you should tell them that Shoshonis in the north of the territory are different too. Some are familiar with them. Their chief, Washaki, has ed the church.” “Is he white now?” Her face brightened with curiosity. “No. It’s like Sister Nebeker explained, someday in the Lord’s good time all the prophecies of the Book of Mormon will be fulfilled. There are many others, Amy, that have not yet come to .” The explanation didn’t seem to help; the child was disappointed. Louisa studied her broad nose, the prominent cheekbones, the smooth bronze skin, the girl’s chest, her thighs. She was filling out. Soon she would be a woman. Soon men, not boys, would pay attention to her—and for different reasons. “Amy, my little Amy. You are so very silly. Just think, you know two languages —and what white person has skin prettier than yours?” She said nothing but smiled and rubbed her hands together. Then the smile changed to a frown. “Why does my papa brag about killing Indians when my mother was one?” “Your father loved your mother as much as any man has ever loved his wife. Don’t white men shoot other white men too? Amy, there are good and wicked among all people. Chief Kanosh and Chief Washakie are fine men, but Walker was truly evil. Jeb is greatly ired and esteemed among the Indians.” “Well, I guess he only killed bad ones or to save his own life,” came the resigned response. “Come closer. I have something I want to give you that a small Indian boy in Nauvoo once gave me. I have cherished it and somehow not lost it during the

years of persecution. Now I want you to have it. If you are sad again, look at it to remind you that I love you and sympathize with the sufferings that your people have experienced at the hands of the white men. Believe me, Amy, the Prophet Joseph regarded Indians very highly.” She took the rosette from the pocket of her dress and handed it to the girl.

XXII

I Want to Kiss All Your Secret Places

Summer was nearly over, and what had she achieved? Did she know herself any better than when she dropped out of school? Her parents were pleading with her to enroll again, to finish her major in English. To do what—teach? Her father could get her a job at Salt Lake’s finest high school. Shit! Daddy believed that his children should know the joy of working for their own money, even though they were amply provided for through a system of trusts originally set up by her grandfather, Jerome. Why take a job from the needy? For Howes to lose their wealth the whole nation would have to go bankrupt. Family conversation was about evenly divided between the gospel and money, and she well knew that she would never have to work. Chris got out of bed, opened the sliding glass door that led to her deck, and walked outside to enjoy the cool morning breeze as it drifted down from the canyons of the Wasatch. Half of the rising sun clung to the top of Mt. Olympus. She inhaled deeply of the air that was causing her baby doll nightie to flutter. Was it so foolish to try to discover a close bond between herself and her greatgrandmother? If nothing else, the trip had been responsible for her meeting Mark. She had seen him once during the ten days since Susan’s party—three days ago at his shop. He was so handsome, so intelligent, so bitter, and so confused, in spite of what he said about having it all together. Life was so simple for the young people who just unquestioningly followed the dictates of the church and a horrible struggle for those who did not. Maybe the blind followers had the best life after all. She walked back inside and turned on her stereo. Bob Dylan singing of love, most songs were about love. So many decisions had to be made, especially concerning the future course of her life. It was evident that one needed commitments, firm beliefs, to stand for something. She wondered what Mark would think of the cabin at Alta. It would be nice to talk with him alone there to

learn to understand him better. She decided to phone him after breakfast to invite him up for the afternoon and evening. About work he hung loose. Maybe one of his ladyloves could mind the shop.

**********

The ride up steep, twisting Little Cottonwood Canyon, from which had come the granite for the temple, was refreshing on the stifling late August afternoon. Past the areas where in winter, without warning, avalanches can suddenly cascade down perpendicular slopes, and continuing past the new ski resort of Snow Bird, the Porsche carried the couple to the 7,000 ft. base of the back wall of the canyon where the Howe’s new A-frame cabin was located, only a few yards from one of the famed runs of the old Alta winter sports center. “Quite a layout, Chris,” Mark observed as he carried a box of food up the path through the underbrush to the kitchen entrance. “A humble little three-story, four-bedroom cabin, complete with garage, two-and-a-half bathrooms, and every modern convenience. I hope it will provide sufficient shelter against the icy blasts of winter.” “Always the smart ass.” “Smart ass? Me? No no, just iring the evidence of the diligence of Brother Moroni Howe who, though humble in spirit and thinking first of the Lord and his church, with no concern for amassing riches unto himself, has struggled to provide for his family. The Lord has amply rewarded his faithful servant.” “Don’t bitch, Mark, just enjoy it. Let’s put all this stuff inside, pack a couple candy bars, and then hike up to my favorite ski bowl. It’s not far, only a couple thousand feet from here, I think … maybe a bit more.” They started out on the service road that cut across the broad ski slope to the west of the A-Frame. At the far edge a path led sharply upward through the quaking aspens, scrub oaks, blue spruces, and white balsams. Halfway up, they stopped in a small flat meadow to drink from a spring and rest.

“Mark, is there really anything wrong with being wealthy? If my family didn’t have so much, another would. I mean there have always been rich and poor. That’s part of life.” “I suppose I don’t basically object to wealth. It’s just that life is so empty when the acquisition of riches becomes one’s whole objective, and I detest the rich who do not share their wealth.” He smiled. “I’m a Kennedy Democrat. Better keep that from your Republican daddy. Kennedys don’t cut themselves short, but they share with the have-nots.” He unwrapped his candy bar and took a bite. “And Mormons are ludicrous and annoying because they believe God should make them prosper simply because they are LDS. It is an intricate part of the religion. No other religious group believes such a thing. That’s why we have this sick ostentatious display of worldly goods here—huge campers, boats, houses, whatever. It is really an exhibit of blessings.” “I’m in a mood to learn today, oh wise one.” She playfully tugged at his headband. “You paint the church as something evil, really, why? It may be funny and old fashioned, but is it evil?” “Yes, and you should be getting the point by now, Chris. It—or they—is insidious. They enchain the most precious thing any of us has—the human mind. The childish fools warp minds!” He threw a rock far up hill. “Maybe I can say it like this: In the beginning, even during the trek west and the establishment of Salt Lake and all that, it wasn’t so bad. Joe’s gospel gave direction to what, for the most part, were poor, naive, God-fearing, half or completely illiterate people. They weren’t converting Europe’s intellectuals and aristocracy, you know. Just as today’s boy wonders can’t reach those stony hearts and informed brains of the intelligentsia. Even Brigham Young could scarcely read, but Mormonism gave them the strength to get up every day and carry out life’s chores, no matter how grim. And the rewards for the faithful were heady stuff, even eternal copulation.” “That’s cool.” “Then too, it was a cohesive force for settling and taming the raw, unknown lands—be it in Illinois or the Salt Lake Valley.” He put the last piece of the bar into his mouth. “Some of this is still true today, and I commend it, but why do they hold onto the tales of three afterlife kingdoms and all the other pseudotheology and ritual? Why doesn’t the present-day prophet, the seer, and revelator, get a quick vision or revelation which allows the church to participate

in enlightened twentieth century thought instead of twentieth century materialism?” He paused. “Of course, I know why. They have to hold their followers through the power of fear and guilt, through a medieval kind of belief in devils and burning brimstone. At least that holds the nondoubting intrinsic believers. Being cleverly aware, however, that some of the are extrinsic believers, they also try to prove—while paradoxically at the same time preaching that faith alone is enough—the truth of their patchwork quilt of doctrine, plagiarized from various religious and sectarian sources and Joe’s vertiginous mind. Threading it together so that it makes some kind of sense for their Doubting Thomases, those extrinsic followers who need some is an awesome task for the hierarchy, Mormon professors, and the few lay who write those hundreds of volumes of justifications and rationalizations.” He reached out his hand to pull her to her feet. “Come, let’s continue before we get stiff. Already enough people are finding out about me that I’m thinking of moving to a nearly inaccessible corner of southern Utah.” They spoke little as they narrowed the distance to the summit. At ten thousand feet, all their breath was needed for the climb. Chris was waiting to respond to his last remark, and as she nimbly avoided stepping on rocks that can twist an ankle, she pondered the possibility of giving Mark’s lifestyle a whirl. Could she be happy wearing a granny dress and cutting out patterns in leather? Working every day in a garden? Cooking for other wives? Cooking, period? Shortly after seven they reach the granite summit. A stiff breeze had come up, and it was almost cold as they stood looking down from their eleven thousandfoot perch on the straight, broad streets of the city, the freeways, and the square plots of farmland demarcated by fences, irrigation ditches, and various shades of brown, yellow, and green. Now with the sun beginning to set behind the lake, it had become a light blue mirror that reflected purple, barren islands and the sun; the salt-sand desert surrounding it glistened white. Slowly, the green and purple of the mountains became darker as the sinking, glowing sphere over the lake streaked the sky red, violet, blue, orange, and golden. Mark encircled her shoulders with this right arm. “Temperature drops quickly up here.” “Yeah, come closer, your body warmth feels good.” He held her tighter, and she turned and kissed him. “So you’re planning to take

off. I suppose you think I’ll follow … like the others.” “That would have to be your decision. Obviously I like having you around.” “Jesus! What a romantic statement!” She stepped back and looked across the mountain and down the canyon. “The shadows are deepening. It’s practically dark in the bottom now. Let’s run back in a zigzag across the bowl, good conditioning for skiing, wedeling down without skis.” “Okay, I accept the challenge. I’m not so bad on the old barrel staves myself, you know.” Laughing and whooping but paying attention to the terrain, they ran and jumped back and forth, weaving their way down to the chalet. Chris placed some snacks and a bottle of wine on the low, large, polished burr oak table near the fireplace, then sat cross-legged on the soft Peruvian carpet, made of hundreds of pieces of llama fur. “Come, Mark,” she beckoned. “You can leave the window now. How many times have you watched the appearance of the first stars? That’s one of the nicest things about the West, our open, endless heavens. It truly is big sky country. It seems to begin in Nebraska. The sky just isn’t the same in the East, is it?” “No, I noticed that too.” He walked toward her. “Any objection to my lying on the carpet? Suddenly I’m a bit fatigued, been thinking, talking, and hiking too much, I guess.” “Need you ask my permission?” “Well, maybe your people don’t lie on carpets. After all, you rich folks are different, as Fitzgerald observed.” “Scott, baby?” “Right.” “Stretch out, silly. Relax, have a tasty hunk of Greek bread, some cheese, and some vino, kraki in Greek.” “Jesus! Mormons are getting more learned every day, even speaking Greek

now.” “Are you being a wise ass again?” “No no, just observing,” he replied. “a il vino.” He gestured with his left hand in what he thought to be an Italian manner. “Is that pretty good Italian?” “Come here, Markie. Come, put your head in my lap. You need to relax. Let me give thee food and the juice of the grape.” He munched the bread and cheese slowly. For a few minutes neither spoke. They savored just being together—alone—at least twenty miles from the “blossoming” desert city. She would take a swallow of the Chianti, then the glass to him and his head while he drank. Mark was first to break the silence. “Look at us, true Greeks drinking Italian wine but leading the examined life.” “Oh God, Mark. I’ve fallen so in love with you, I guess. Nobody else has ever turned me on like you do, but … but … it’s so impossible. Shit! This weird life you’re into. I don’t want to share you, Mark.” He reached up and pulled her head down until their lips met. “Whew, that’s some kiss. Make yourself comfortable here beside me on this soft rug.” She stretched out and snuggled close to him. Lying on her left side, she reached with her right hand to stroke the back of his neck. He grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. Playfully, he bit her left ear. She responded with kisses on his throat. “This is where you belong, Chris, near me. You know I love you too. It sounds corny, but maybe we need each other.” She rolled onto her side again. “Yes, maybe, but let’s not talk about any of that heavy stuff now, about why we need each other. I’ve had enough philosophical conversation for today. I just want to make love to you.” She unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his chest. “Please take your clothes off, Mark. I want you so much.”

He undressed and sprawled full length on the carpet. Quickly, eagerly, she removed her blouse, brassiere and shorts, threw them in a corner and slipped her bikini panties to her ankles. She stepped out of them and ed him. “Oh God, Mark, Mormons can define heaven as they wish. For me, this is it. Please come to me. I want to kiss all your secret places and make all your troubles disappear. I could make love to you for at least a week on end—and better than any other woman.”

XXIII

Joseph! Please Don’t Let Him Die!

For five days in March of 1860, Jerome had lain as dead, and Louisa never left his side. Sisters from the Ward Relief Society had brought the family food; occasionally she had fallen asleep in her chair only to be jolted awake by frightening dreams of the boy’s demise and gratefully look again upon his ashen face and wipe his fevered brow. He had been given all the medicinal remedies the Saints knew (including sugar and sorghum which had worked with varying degrees of effectiveness in curing ague, black canker, and even phthisis). Each day, Daniel, with other brethren, had anointed his head with consecrated olive oil, then laid their hands upon it and, through their power of the Melchizedek priesthood, besought the Lord (“if it be his will”) to make him well. Brigham Young himself, accompanied by John Taylor and Daniel, had uttered the last blessing, and on this evening of the fifth day, while Daniel was seeing the brethren to the door, Louisa sat alone observing the labored breathing of the blistered lips. She could perceive no change in his condition. Terrible to be so powerless! She had to watch all her loved ones die! Why … Why! What had President Young pledged? From the depths of her tired mind, she dredged up his phrases, spoken only moments before, “… And I promise thee, Brother Jerome Howe, in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and through the power of the Holy Melchizedek priesthood vested in me that thy time to depart this existence hath not yet come, that because thou art a chosen spirit, the son of the prophet Joseph, the Almighty shall raise thee from thy sick bed to become a pillar of his church and a leader among men.” She looked again at the child—the chest heaved, the breathing slowed. She grabbed his wrist to check for a pulse and put an ear to his heart. Was it still beating? She could detect only the faintest sign of life. Brother Young’s promise could not countermand the will of our Father in Heaven. It would take a miracle to save him. Perhaps the boy was needed on the other side. Suddenly, the horror

of it struck her. Jerome too was ing from her life. Tears flooded her eyes and rolled down her cheeks and into her mouth. She tasted their saltiness as she heard herself scream, “Joseph! Joseph! Please don’t let him die!” Exhausted from grief and lack of rest and nourishment (for she had eaten almost nothing of what the sisters had brought), she collapsed into her rope-bottomed chair. Was she dreaming again? Could it be? Clearly, as though he were alive, she saw Joseph in the room with her. Dressed in white temple robes, he was smiling benignly at their son. He reached out and touched Jerome on the forehead. Then he turned as though to speak to her but only motioned silently toward the child. Louisa rose to face him. “Joseph,” she called, but he was gone. She felt the boy’s brow where Joseph had touched it. It was no longer flushed. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “Mama, oh mama,” he said. “I’m so hungry. Where I’ve been mortal nourishment is unknown.” Upon returning to the bedroom, Daniel was astonished to find Jerome sitting up in bed talking with his mother. Louisa never told Daniel of Joseph’s miraculous intervention; only as a very old lady did she relate it to her granddaughter, Melissa. The boy was up and playing within a day and returned to school the next morning; from that time on he seemed to become hardier, and throughout his life, he was never again to be seriously ill. He was, indeed, to become a “pillar of his church and a leader among men.” “Looks like he’ll soon be a partner in my businesses, Louisa,” Daniel commented. “Anybody who is so loved by the Lord and so hardy can certainly be trusted to make a couple of earthly concerns thrive.” “Oh, Daniel. Oh, Daniel. He was touched by the finger of … of … the Lord. He’ll live!” She cried and hugged him. Then she, with the resiliency so typical of the pioneer Mormon women, composed herself and announced, “Well, I must prepare some broth. Jerome says he’s hungry and so am I!”

**********

Except for the frightening experience of Jerome’s illness, 1860 was rather uneventful for the Howes. While the states of North and South were preparing for civil war, the Saints were grateful for an interlude of peace and prosperity. Since 1856, the Howes had known renewed excitement and heartache enough. The baby, christened Daniel, had died only two weeks after his birth, and Hyrum was proving to be more difficult to rear than Jerome. He was quiet and pensive, very fond of music, but always questioning and doubting. It disappointed Daniel that the boy showed so little interest in his many enterprises and in hunting and fishing. Hyrum preferred reading a book, playing his violin, or attending productions of the Mechanical Dramatic Association at social hall to visiting a sawmill or casting a fishing line into a mountain stream. Rumors that a large theater was soon to be constructed excited the precocious youngster. And no matter how much love Daniel and Louisa showed Amy, she had never fully ed the family. Now a young Mexican, a Californio, was courting her. Jeb strongly objected to the young man; to him any Mexican was still an enemy. To further badger the Howes and their fellow Saints, President Buchanan had sent an army of 2,500 soldiers against them in 1857. Governor Young (he was acquiring more titles than Joseph) vowed he would burn every home in the valley rather than submit to the federal troops, for his people were not, as the government alleged, living in open rebellion (although it was true that they had bitterly disliked some of the federal authorities who had been sent to the territory). Because the Saints had “transgressed no law,” the Twelve made the grave decision to cache three years provisions in the mountains and to resist the invaders by force. They would leave the land as desolate as they had found it. The Howes had strewn the floors of their beautiful home with straw and removed the windows; most of their belongings had been packed. Louisa was to take the children to live in Ogden’s Hole, a mountain valley above Ogden City, where Daniel had a logging camp. He was to stay near their home until the First Presidency of the church gave the order to apply the torch. By the spring of 1858, most families had left the valley, the majority going to the southern settlements or living in hovels and camping on Utah Lake near Provo (from this lake the river which the Saints named Jordan flows north to the Great Salt Lake), when word came that the army would through the city leaving the inhabitants unmolested. True to their word, the soldiers quietly established Camp Floyd some forty miles to the south, there to remain for several years. Every

Saint knew the story of Col. P. St. George who led his command through the city with his hat off in deference to the men of the Mormon battalion who had marched with him to California ten years earlier. Negotiations between Young and Buchanan through the intermediaries, Capt. George Van Vliet, Thomas Kane, and the new governor assigned to the territory, Alfred Cumming of Georgia, whom the army was conducting to Utah as a kind of posse comitatus, had amicable results. President Buchanan had been severely criticized in the press for his blunder, and the prominent congressman, Sam Houston, denounced his actions on the floor of the senate. It was charged that the military action had been undertaken only for the benefit of the businessmen who profited from it, and of course, there were implications for the impending civil war. Buchanan was eager to extricate himself without losing too much face, and although the commander of the army, the inflexible Gen. Albert S. Johnston, and some of his troops were anxious to pounce on the incipient city (he to punish rebelliousness, and the soldiers for “beauty and booty”), many of his officers (witness Captain Cooke) wanted no part of the venture, Throughout the winter, the Nauvoo Legion (the church’s military arm had retained its original name) under Gen. Daniel Wells (now an apostle of the church, formerly Squire Wells, a gentile of Nauvoo) had waged guerilla warfare against the flower of the U.S. Army so effectively that it and Mr. and Mrs. Cumming had been reduced to eating mountain sheep (dog meat) purchased from the Indians. Mormon rangers stampeded cattle, set fire to supply trains and grazing grass, burnt Fort Bridger (which the church hierarchy had induced Old Gabe to sell them for $8,000 in gold in 1853), blockaded roads, and without shedding lives, harassed Johnston’s army with surprise night attacks. In the days of modern Israel, the Lord also caused the elements to cripple the foe, and furthermore, in the spring, should the army have carried out its original orders to occupy Great Salt Lake City, it would have met devastating resistance in the fortified steep defile known as the Narrows in Echo Canyon. In councils of the church, it had been decided that no longer would the Saints imitate Joseph and go as “lambs to the slaughter.” Though with numbers inferior to the enemy, here, like the three hundred elders of Sparta under King Leonidas at Thermopylae, a determined people would fight. Later, in calmer days the Howes could discuss the cause of the Utah War with some degree of objectivity and perspicacity and speak of the months of resistance from firsthand experience. Jeb had led several raids on the enemy’s

supplies, once driving off eight hundred head of cattle. Daniel’s smithing and harness-making were invaluable. Unbeknown to the martinet, Johnston, modern Israel suffered a severe shortage of firearms. Daniel and his several employees worked around the clock repairing and even manufacturing guns and small cannon (an art Daniel learned in Nauvoo from Brother Jonathan Browning, the famous gunsmith who now lived in Ogden). One cause of the armed farce had been continued hostile American opinion toward the Saints, fanned by an indictment read to Congress by Rep. Warner Underwood of Kentucky charging “sacerdotal tyranny,” plans to establish an independent nation, reprisals against the federal government for past treatment, and “enslaving polygamy”; it was penned by the prophet Joseph’s unprincipled, renegade brother, William. Similar reports from many disgruntled gentiles found their way to Washington and to the newspapers of the nation. At a distance of a thousand miles to the east and five hundred to the west, the sect was still an object of gentile scorn, ridicule, and fear; Mormons remained a “peculiar people” with peculiar institutions and bent of mind. Serenely, the Saints continued to assume that they would spread until the entire world acknowledged their restored church as the only one sanctioned by God. Their shipping of hosts of the lowest-class aliens to America was proof to the gentile that the converts were to aid in carrying out a diabolical scheme: the overthrow of democracy. Then too, 1856 was the year of a fervent reformation in the church, a frenzied religious revival spurned the Saints to heed counsel, search their souls, pray, and cleanse themselves of all gentile ways. They were to purge themselves of greed and not forget (as many were charged with doing) to observe the Sabbath. The problem had been compounded by the course of Manifest Destiny in which the Latter-day Saints were caught up between 1846 and 1850. When they left Nauvoo, their future Deseret belonged to Mexico; soon, however, in September 1850, Congress established there the U.S. Territory of Utah. Heeding the advice of Col. Thomas Kane, the hypochondriac champion of the Mormons, Pres. Millard Fillmore wisely let Brigham Young stay on as governor, and Franklin Pierce too opted not to replace the man who had the confidence of the people, but after 1851, several incompetent and even disreputable men, assigned to federal offices in Utah, were a cause of irritation to the Saints, not least among them Judge George P. Stiles, one-time Mormon, excommunicated for immoral conduct, and William Drummond, who left his wife and family in Illinois to bring with him to Utah a meretricious Washington courtesan whom he tried to

off as his wife. Drummond was wont to dispense advice to the Mormons on the immorality of polygamy. Both men sent to Washington exaggerated reports of Mormon opposition, including even murder among their charges. Repeatedly, the old accusations from Nauvoo, Kirtland, and Missouri days were rehashed; most of them false, some partially true. However, one charge of mass murder, although not (as some said) commissioned by the church, was all too horribly true. For decades, some would hold the church (i.e., Brigham Young) able. About the time that Johnston’s army was on its way to the territory in the fall of 1857, a company of thirty families, numbering 137 persons from Arkansas and Missouri was ing through Utah on its way to California. Part of the contingent, calling themselves the Missouri Wild Cats, were alleged to have torn down fences, insulted women, destroyed property, poisoned springs, and expressed a boisterous desire to help the advancing army destroy every last Mormon. Some cattle belonging to the Mormon settlers died from drinking contaminated water, and several Paiute Indians died after eating the body of an ox thought to have been poisoned. On the morning of September 7, the aroused Paiutes attacked the emigrants’ camp in the valley known as Mountain Meadows, three hundred miles south of Great Salt Lake City, and for the next four days, with the aid of several Saints who harbored old hatred for Missourians, butchered all but seventeen children. It was said that upon hearing of the atrocity, Brigham Young wept. If so, his tears were not dry before he excommunicated John D. Lee, the leader of the Mormons; however, it was not until 1877, after a federal investigation of the matter, that Lee was tried and executed. To many shocked Saints, it was not inconceivable that Brother Lee, for years an obedient stalwart, had been aroused during the reformation by the zealous, vitriolic rantings of Jedediah Grant, second counselor to Brigham Young, on the doctrine of the blood atonement. Referring to the Book of Mormon, Bible, and the Doctrine and Covenants, Apostle Grant preached of sins (such as murder) so serious that the atoning blood of Christ was not operative in cleansing the sinner. To atone for such crimes, the perpetrator must have his own blood shed. However, in helping them to atone Brother Lee and his Indians did not distinguish supposed Missourians from the Fanchers of Arkansa nor the guilty from the guiltless. After all, they knew little, perhaps nothing about any of these persons.

**********

The traces that ed at the base of the Wasatch between St. George and Great Salt Lake City were beginning to resemble a road as traffic increased in the Utah Territory. Various Indian tribes had established this primary north-south route before the settlers arrived and extended from Santa Fe in New Mexico to Fort Boise in Idaho. In the Rio Virgin region of southern Utah, the landscape was wild and forlornly beautiful. Sterile red rocks of the area, which would later be known as Zion National Park, formed chasms of strange shapes eroded by wind and sand. Farther to the west were those infamous meadows stained with the blood of the massacred Missouri pioneers. Porter Rockwell and Jeb Bidwell had ridden north on this April morning and were now a few miles south of Provo. The mountains to the east of them suggested in their rugged beauty the pose of a sleeping woman which seemed to substantiate the Indian legend that an Indian princess, Timpanogos, lay there awaiting to be awakened by her lover. To extol the grandeur of the view was alien to the character of both of these durable scouts, neither being given too much self-expression. “How’s the ranchin’ in Tooele?” Jeb broke a long silence. “able.” Port’s hair, untouched by shears and bound by a rawhide thong, now reached nearly to his waist. As Joseph had prophesied, Port had often escaped death, leading a charmed life in pursuit of his occasionally dangerous duties for the church. He and Jeb had been sent south by Brigham Young ostensibly to investigate rumors of Indian uprising but, in reality, on the most secret of errands. They had questioned eyewitnesses of the massacre of the Fancher party of emigrants from Arkansas, which was ing through Utah en route to California and tly concluded that whites had incited the slaughter. Both accepted the rumor that the Fanchers were from the loathed Missouri. “Them Indians was stirred up by John Lee and other farmers,” Jeb said bluntly. “And Brother Brigham knows that if the federal judges gets a hold of this, there’ll be more trouble with the government,” Port agreed.

“Killin’ men is one thing, but women ’n children I don’t hold with.” “Maybe,” Port responded vehemently, “but I reckon the best Missouri puke is a dead one.” Jeb knew of the months Port had spent in Missouri jails and from Louisa had learned the details of the murder of his own parents at Haun’s Mill. Still, Jeb felt that nothing positive could come from the virtual extermination of an entire wagon train. Undoubtedly, the climate of mutual mistrust and betrayal between Saints and outsiders, those they termed gentiles, had made the massacre possible. Nor did the old hatreds die easily. Port’s Danite activities were notorious, and it was said that recently this group of avengers had been reactivated. Several killings and disappearances were attributed to the Sons of Dan, but none of the suspects had stood trial, for the public position of Governor Young was to deny the existence of the organization. Nor did Port himself mention activities of the gang to a church outsider like Jeb Bidwell. Brother Brigham’s henchman seemed to prefer the role of gentleman rancher and polygamous husband who sometimes lent his services to the church. He and Jeb had been west to California, caroused in the gold fields, and stumbled through the saloons of Virginia City, but on this subject, Port was mute. Following the dry bed of an arroyo, the scouts rounded a low bluff and sighted the adobe buildings of Provo. The horses too sensed the journey’s end and broke into a trot at the increased pressure of the riders’ legs. As excellent equestrians, both men instinctively relaxed their lower backs, letting their pelvises absorb the rough jolts of the short-strided, two-beat gait. Jeb rubbed his eyes and peered in the direction of the Higbee Fort. “Too bad the folk in Provo is so religious and the town so dry! Do ya reckon the Indians at the fort still brew that wicked snort out of balsam plant?” “Whee!,” Port shouted. “It’s no wonder the Lord is agin alcohol if ’n ya drink that Indian poison, Jeb … but … then …” He stopped to ponder … “I think the Lord would be more sympathetic if he knew we come nearly seventy mile today.” Jeb nodded as he reined in on his horse’s bosal. He was long familiar with Port’s special arrangements with the Lord. “They’re all after me to convert, my sister, my daughter, but I’m anxious to see them again anyway. Won’t be but another

day or two now. No no, I ain’t gonna get dunked in the water by no Mormon right away Port, not even by you. The way I see it, I gotta lotta years yet, and I hate ta spend ’em abstainin’.” “What ya need is a woman, Jeb. Ya should think it over, and if ya bear yer testimony that what Joseph taught is true, ya kin have more ’n one. The country is changin’, the frontier’s in’. Someday ya gotta settle down, clean up, cut yer beard.” “And become a model choir boy like you, Port?” Port threw back his head and hollered with laughter, then dropped his heels to spur his horse. “Let’s head for the fort, Jeb. I’m thirsty.”

**********

“Mama, Mama,” Jerome called from outside. “It’s Uncle Jeb. It’s Uncle Jeb!” Louisa finished the last bars of the hymn she was practicing on the new melodeon, recently freighted in from Philadelphia. (On Sunday in her assignment as ward organist she would have to accompany the congregation on the ward’s reed organ.) Jeb was already entertaining the boy with an Indian story when Louisa met the two of them at the door. “Howdy there, little sister. Thought it high time that I pay a call to my folks here again.” “Jeb, it’s always so good to see you and to know you’re safe, but don’t start right off filling Jerome’s head with violent tales. He’s still recovering from an affliction that saw him on the point of death.” “Oh hell, Louisa … a … forgive the cuss word … I was jest a tellin’ him ’bout the time John Colter ran fer his life from the Blackfeet. Six miles he went, naked, his feet ’n face was bloody ’n …” “Jeb!”

“Ya … well … here, let me look ya over. Purdy as always ain’t ya.” “Oh, Jeb, you’re sweet, but how could anyone be pretty after what we’ve been through?” He patted Jerome on the head, then bent close to his ear and half whispered, “I’m goin’ ta talk with yer ma fer a while. We kin jaw later about old John Colter.” “Good good,” the excited youngster half screamed. “I’ll go find Hyrum.” “Jeb, I heard that. You’re incorrigible.” Louisa half smiled, unable to mask her deep affection for her brother. “Jerome and Hyrum are to become gentlemen. Maybe lawyers or apostles … or both.” He followed her into the house. “Can’t say as I care a lot fer either breed … but … I … heard Port said somethin’ once ’bout Jerome bein’ special.” She turned to face him, her face anxious, frightened. “Oh, Jeb, did he speak of me and … and …” She stopped. “Port never says nothin’ direct, little sister. He keeps his silence, but when yer with a man fer a long time, I jest figgered out from some things he said that maybe you and that Smith feller …” Why deny it to Jeb? There must not be secrets between them. He would not betray her. “Jeb, I trust you. Please never speak of it to anyone. The boy mustn’t know. It’s just better that way. Jerome knows only Daniel as his father.” He put both hands on her waist and in one continuous motion lifted her off her feet and set her down. “Ya have my word. I jest wanted to know if I was right.” When Daniel came home that evening they were sitting with Amy on the wide front porch that ran nearly the length of the house. Jeb, reclining in a rocking chair that Jerome had made from quaking aspen, was telling them of his latest encounters with the Indians and of his fear that Chief Black Hawk might make serious war on the settlers in the southern counties. Snakes and Bannocks under the chiefs Pocatello and Bear Hunter were waylaying Oregon-bound immigrants up north and becoming more aggressive in their raids on Cache County where Wellsville had been settled in 1856 and the city of Logan founded in 1859 in the very heart of the northern Indians’ richest hunting and fishing grounds. At the

direction of Brigham Young, the budding communities had constructed forts of thick adobe and stonewalls, which offered a measure of protection, but braves could still ruin crops, run off cattle, and burn homes. The irritation of the chiefs mounted as more and more Mormons ploughed and claimed ownership of lands that in Indian thinking were given to all men in common by the Great Spirit. Sporadic attacks had become commonplace. Jeb was now in the city to advise President Young, Governor Cumming, and the Indian agent, Dr. Garland Hunt, on the best course of action to take in keeping the Indians pacified. Horses, rifles, food, and clothing had purchased cooperation from some chiefs, and Peteetneet and his band of Utes had been induced to raise crops on 13,000 acres of land to which they were given title to called “the Spanish Fork Indian Farm” near Provo. But Jeb feared the resolve of Bear Hunter and Black Hawk could not be altered. Daniel ed them, and the conversation changed to a topic that up to now had been carefully avoided, Amy’s relationship with Rodrigo Astete Hernandez. It was as though the mountain man, shy in civilized society, had been waiting for reinforcements. “How old is that feller that’s been seein’ ya, Amy,” he suddenly inquired with all the tact he could muster. “I think he’s about twenty-five, Papa.” Why was she saying, “think?” She knew exactly how old he was, but Jeb would surely find him too old. “Mexican, ain’t he?” He leaned forward in the rocker. “He’s from California. He studied engineering in Mexico. His family has a huge ranch. He knows all about mines, Papa. Rodrigo thinks there may be a fortune to be made from silver and other minerals in these mountains.” “Ya know, Amy, you’ve become a mighty pretty young lady. Seems to me that there’d be plenty of fellers ’round here who’d take an interest in courtin’ ya. I’ve knowed Mexicans fer many years now. I’m sure yer aunt and uncle would agree with me that them Mexicans don’t make the best of husbands. They’re a lazy lot ’n a bunch of ’em trades in Indian slaves.” He stopped to scratch his cheek and added, “There’s some who thinks the only good Mexican is a dead one.” Hoping to dam the angry reply that she knew would be forthcoming from Amy, Louisa intervened. “Jeb, I don’t think that this young man deals in Indian

children. He’s very … very cultured and such a fine horseman.” But her words only delayed the expected ionate response. “Yes, Papa, white men look at me, especially the idlers at our grand hotel, the Salt Lake House, and the Mormon boys tell me how pretty I am, but do you think they want to marry a black Indian squaw like you did? No, dear Papa, there’s not a one who’d take me for eternity, even as wife number ten!” Jeb’s muscles tightened. He had never tolerated any insulting of his beloved Little Wing. His immediate reaction was to punish Amy’s insolence with a slap across the face, but he thought better of it and sat clenching his teeth and angrily pounding the palm of his left hand with his right fist. “Amy,” Daniel was speaking. “You owe your father, the memory of your mother, and us an apology. After all we’ve done for you, I will not tolerate such disrespect in my home.” The girl rushed past him to her room where she cried herself to sleep.

XXIV

He Had Found a Wife

On an icy January day in 1863 at that point near Franklin, Idaho, where Battle Creek flows through a deep ravine to enter the Bear River, four hundred U.S. soldiers from Fort Douglas slew nearly four hundred Indians, including ninety women and children. Bear Hunter’s tribe would never again threaten Mormon grain in Cache County. And between 1865 and 1868, three thousand men of Utah fought in the Black Hawk War which cost the territory over a million dollars in cash to say nothing of the losses in property. Chief Black Hawk and his followers refused to be driven off to the nearly inaccessible Uintah Reservation created by Congress in 1861 where they were to be instructed in the methods of husbandry. Instead, as Jeb had foreseen, they resisted. At least seventy white men and a greater number of Indians were killed in battles waged principally in Sanpete and Sevier counties. So tenacious and formidable were the Lamanites that at times the baffled Mormon colonists thought they might be compelled to abandon the region (that is until it was observed that Black Hawk had not successfully united the Indians). By cunningly persuading individual bands to sign treaties, hostilities finally ended; the Indians promised to move to the Uintah Valley and to be peaceful. In return, the United States government pledged protection, grist mills, schools, and houses; tribes were to receive $25,000 annually for the first ten years, $20,000 for the next twenty, and for the thirty years thereafter, $15,000. The red men were to dig roots, gather berries, fish, hunt, and cultivate reservation lands. The “Noble Savage” had been subdued; Utah would experience no more major uprisings. The final stand of the Indians and the definitive end to the short-lived relative isolation of the Latter-day Saints occurred almost simultaneously, for with the

driving of the Golden Spike at Promontory Point on May 10, 1869, the railroads from East and West were ed, and gentiles had easy access to “impregnable” Zion. The Saints had not, as their enemies warned, attempted to establish a kingdom independent from the United States; for that, the pragmatic Mr. Young (who probably entertained that objective before war with Mexico changed the ownership of the Great Basin) was too wise. In fact, his first message wired over the new telegraph line, brought to Utah from Omaha by Edward Creighton in the fall of 1861, assured the president of the Pacific Telegraph Company in Cleveland, Ohio, and whomever else received it, that Utah had not seceded; it was “firm for the constitution and laws of our once happy country.” Lincoln who had once voted for the Nauvoo Charter was repaid. (Saints mourned when four years later the telegraph tapped out news of their friend’s assassination. As president, Lincoln signed an antibigamy law on July 8, 1862, but he never enforced it.) The Mormons had made several pleas for statehood and even favored the iron horse that would bring income and emigrants. By the coming of the railroad, the peculiar people had known several years of freedom from persecution by armed militia and mobs. To be sure, at Camp Floyd, the federal government maintained troops who for the most part detested the Mormons, but they did not molest them; and it rankled the Saints that in 1862, Col. Patrick Edward Conner, with three hundred California Volunteers, established Fort Douglas (named in honor of Stephen A. of Illinois, another onetime friend but now a foe of the Mormons) whose cannons stood within range of Brigham Young’s residences. They were never fired. Brigham himself, ever mindful of Joseph’s fate, kept a rifle and a novel twelve-shot revolver hanging on a wall of his office and armed guards patrolled his property. He did not announce his daily schedule and went nowhere without bodyguards. There were reciprocal precautions, deterrents, threats, diplomacy, but no bloodshed. Modern Israel felt more secure than at any time since those six inspired men had founded the sect thirty-eight years earlier; at last the Saints had a stable, if still (in the Lord’s time) temporary Zion. (Permanent Zion was to one day be built in Missouri as Joseph had prophesied.) By 1869, they had established over five hundred communities, were cultivating thousands of acres of land with crops as disparate as grapes and cotton (in the semitropical south of the territory known as Utah’s Dixie where in the largest settlement, St. George, Brigham Young maintained a winter home), and making

every effort to develop self-sufficiency through home and commercial industry, even to the point of refining iron and importing silk worms and mulberry trees. Freighting, brick making, stonecutting, woolen mills, machinery manufacturing, smithing, carpentry, soap making, and shoemaking were among the flourishing industries. The cornerstone of the temple had been laid in 1853, and its walls slowly rising over the years, giving permanent employment to some and temporary work to hundreds of the new arrivals, still pouring in by prairie schooner, handcart, stage, and now by train. The shops of the Temple Block Public Works could always accommodate carpenters, painters, machinists, and other craftsmen until they settled in one of the new homes. During the years in which many regions of the North and South were decimated by civil war, Utah thrived and prospered. No Saint starved, and some, including most of the church hierarchy and the Howes, were rewarded with an abundance of this world’s goods. Being privy to judgments and decisions of the leaders, although not an apostle nor member of the First Council of the Seventy (the secret Ytfif had been disbanded), Daniel was able to continue to invest in several infant enterprises and to make wise purchases of real estate. Between 1865 and 1867, he helped to extend the church-owned telegraph line throughout the territory, and he turned a fat profit selling lumber to the troops at Camp Floyd. In 1863, Amy journeyed to California to marry her Rodrigo according to the customs of his culture. The couple returned to Great Salt Lake City the next year where she gave birth to twins, Alicia and Ramon. In that same year, Louisa and Daniel were thrilled to learn that Louisa was again pregnant but anxious lest she miscarry, for she had done so three times. Daily, they beseeched the Almighty to let the tiny spirit enter its earthly tabernacle, and in the spring of 1865, Louisa gave birth to a baby girl whom they named Jennifer. Now the year of the Golden Spike saw her frequently romping on the spacious grounds of the Howe’s remodeled and enlarged residence with Amy’s twins, for with Ramon frequently prospecting, Amy again lived with the Howes. In 1869, Hyrum was in his second year at Harvard University where he read law and (as the Howes feared) drank beer. The family’s firstborn, Jerome, had completed a mission to the German lands and studied business practices in Europe and at the territory’s own university. Most of his time was now taken up with helping Daniel manage the sprouting business empire, and all his free time and the Sabbath, given to the service of the Lord. He was pressured more and more by the family to marry, for at twenty-four, he was waiting far too long. The

church taught that a young man should take a wife promptly after completing a mission, and Jerome had been home two years. Louisa thought he would be a very fine catch. He stood a muscular six feet two inches tall with blue eyes and dark hair worn ear length and neatly parted on the side. Daniel had counseled him that his rise in the church would be hampered if he did not marry soon. Other prominent young men of his age were bishops or holding stake offices. The hierarchy had decreed that without at least one wife, a man could not be set apart in the higher positions. And now at last, even his Uncle Jeb had elected a settled life. He had asked the widowed Danish emigrant, Ingrid Petersen of Bear River City, to become his wife. She accepted when Jeb promised to study the gospel and consider baptism. Some doubted the sincerity of that promise.

**********

Louisa hastily caught a glimpse of her image and chuckled as she thought of the hours she had once spent in front of a mirror preparing herself for Joseph’s eyes. And what, she wondered, would he think of her now? The reflection stared back at her—a tall, still slender, still pretty woman with gleaming chestnut curls pinned conservatively at the nape of the neck, wearing the latest Salt Lake City fashion, an elegant, formfitting, black, silk dress. “Come, Louisa, Jerome, Amy. I wouldn’t want to be late for Jeb’s wedding, and we need most of today and tomorrow for the journey to Bear River City. It’s at least seventy-five miles.” “Oh, Daniel, always such a very early riser, 4:00 a.m., and we must be off,” Louisa replied. “We can’t depart before Sister Cochran comes to care for the children.” “If Uncle Jeb had embraced the gospel, the marriage could take place here in the Endowment House instead of being performed by a bishop so far away,” Jerome responded in righteous indignation. Missionary work had built his testimony and made him less tolerant of the wayward uncle whom as a child he had adored. “That will come, Jerome, that will come. Someday Jeb will be worthy to enter our temples. Be patient … be patient with our family Kit Carson. Why, I feel

responsible for making this match. If I had not asked Jeb to work for me, he would not have met Sister Petersen selling eggs up there in Corrine.” “And we would not be having breakfast so dreadfully early on this October morning,” Amy reed. Marriage and motherhood had so sobered her that Daniel was unprepared for the tartness of her remark. Throughout the morning, the blacktopped carriage lurched along the foot of the Wasatch over the dusty, flat road connecting the communities of Davis and Weber counties with Great Salt Lake City. They ed through Bountiful, Farmington, and on to Kaysville, where they rested and watered the horses and ate from the huge basket of food that Louisa and Amy had prepared. “Soon we can make this journey in comfort,” Daniel remarked. “Yes, indeed,” Jerome added, “by rail. Already workmen are building the line from Ogden to Great Salt Lake City, and we’ve invested a little in that church enterprise, you know. When the major companies showed no interest in the spur, President Young contracted for it.” “Yes, we know, Jerome,” Louisa said, “but for now we must continue in the carriage. I’m looking forward to spending the evening with the Proctors in Ogden.” The next morning, continuing on through Willard to Brigham City (named after “His Excellency”) in Box Elder County, they ed through orchards of peaches and cherries and, from there, journeyed west across bleak, whitish-brown soil that sustained only sagebrush to Corrine, the Gentile City, on the banks of the muddy Bear River, only a few miles from their destination. Gambling, prostitution, stealing, and murder characterized this boomtown, twenty miles from Promontory, where railroad workers had lived and which gentiles boisterously and hopefully announced would soon overshadow Salt Lake City as the commercial capital of the territory. At the sight of the many saloons and the raffish hangers-on, Louisa was reminded of the flotsam that plagued Nauvoo and the half-breed tract that spawned it. A few Chinese coolies, now no longer needed by the railroad, lingered in the community performing odd jobs; they were so exotic with their long braids, deceptively fragile-looking bodies, slanted eyes, and jaundiced skin. When the Howes stopped to water their horses and freshen up for the final short leg of

their journey, they learned that only the day before, a coolie in a fit of rage had stabbed to death one of his countrymen. The murderer was promptly shot, and for several hours, his body had hung on a pole as a lesson to others. Louisa shuddered at hearing of it and then became pensive as she tried to place these yellow people in God’s great scheme for humanity. They too had feelings, pride, and knew love, hatred, and hardships. She could no special word that Joseph had spoken concerning them. “Look toward the river, Mother, and you’ll think you are back in Nauvoo,” Jerome urged, She turned to see a paddle wheeler that plied the muddy Bear docking near the gambling casino. The name of a small steamer, Maid of Iowa, flashed into her mind and a rainy night twenty-five years earlier when a teenaged girl boarded it to the man she adored in Montrose, Iowa. “The boat is charming, Jerome, almost makes me homesick.” Her eyes ranged east over the flat land to where the Wasatch abruptly rise, now adorned with the multicolors of autumn leaves, then northwest and west where a lower range of peaks, known locally as Little Mountain, form the skyline: cracked mud flats, dry weeds, few trees. She breathed deeply of the crisp, dry air. “But there is only one Nauvoo, my son.” As the carriage pulled into the long driveway lined with Lombardy poplars (throughout, Utah settlers had created shade and windbreaks and marked boundaries with thousands of the tall, straight trees), both Jeb and Sister Petersen rushed out of her tiny adobe house to greet them. “Ve vas zo voreed dat yu koom tu late,” Ingrid said as she hugged Amy. “I knowed Daniel and Jerome’d be here to help us eat all them Danish pastries Ingrid and Kristina’s baked,” Jeb assured them. Authoritatively, Jerome shook his uncle’s hand and was reaching out to Ingrid’s when he noticed a beautiful blond girl emerging from a group of young persons at the side of the house to them. “Here koom meen daughter, Kristina,” Ingrid explained. “Yu never meet her before, ya?” “No, never, Sister Petersen,” Jerome replied. “Just you … once at our place. She’s a very pretty young lady.”

As had been expected, the Howes arrived too late for the simple marriage ceremony (for time only: Ingrid was sealed to her Knud in the next world) at the ward meeting house, but they were in plenty of time for the modest celebration and to participate in the seemingly endless consumption of food. The Scandinavian Saints of Bear River City had never disciplined themselves to reject coffee, and for the first time in years, Louisa and Daniel (in the face of the Lord’s and Jerome’s stern disapproval) washed down apple tarts with the forbidden aromatic stimulant. While Daniel and Jeb discussed the proposed extension of rail lines into southern and northern Utah and the development of silver mining in the territory, Louisa, Amy, and Ingrid served guests and of the ward (it was customary to invite the entire population of the ward), washed dishes, and chatted about quilting and preserving fruit. Although he felt a bit ashamed at being so drawn to a seventeen-year-old girl (after all, he was a man of the world, an elder in the priesthood, a missionary returned from Europe, and a young man of some substance, position, and knowledge), Jerome spent most of the late afternoon and evening talking with Kristina. The deep blue eyes; golden blond hair; impish, broad, freckled face; and her warm vitality and exuberance were irresistible. And, he rationalized, in some ways, she seemed older than her years. “Your home is nice, Sister Kristina, very cozy.” “It’s still too small, in spite of Jeb’s work, Brother Jerome, but a great improvement over the tiny log cabin where we dwelt inside the fort.” “You were a handcarter, I hear … I mean your parents. You probably rode in the handcart, got pushed from the Missouri River to Utah.” He laughed nervously. Soberly she replied, “No, I didn’t just ride. With Father so sickly, I walked and even pushed, while Mother pulled and he rode. God saved us, he pulled sometimes, I know. No mortal could have accomplished the task.” A motivating verse of the Handcart Song crossed his mind:

Some must push and some must pull

As we go marching up the hill. As merrily on the way we go Until we reach the valley—Oh.

“I assume then you came with one of the companies that met with tragedy.” “Yes, we were in the Martin Company in 1856. I was not yet five years old, but I’ll never, never forget. Sometimes Mother and I talk about it. Each time we crossed a river our legs and arms were cut by sharp cakes of floating ice, and it seemed like it snowed every day. Daily we threw more belongings away to lighten the load, but it got heavier as we got weaker and the food ran out.” “The leader of those companies that knew such hardship ignored the instructions of President Young. They left too late in the season and with handcarts made of green lumber,” Jerome announced officiously, proud of his knowledge of the official explanation of the matter. “We all know that now, but you should see what it’s like to be so cold that when someone dies, you huddle near the body until the warmth leaves it. That’s what we finally did. We found partial shelter in a thicket of willows and were awaiting our end when the rescuers were sent from Great Salt Lake City.” “Yes, how terrible. I know that of nearly six hundred Saints of the Martin Company, a fourth or so perished.” “Once, fifteen died in one night … and how many like my father were so weakened that they met an early death here in the valley?” “Later, handcarters strictly obeyed the instructions of the prophet, and (he must help her to see that all of this was the Lord’s will) your father was, I’m sure, needed on the other side.” “So Mother could rear me and the other two alone?” “Now, Kristina, don’t question the Almighty. God works in a mysterious way his wonders to perform.”

“I know,” she slowly replied, “wondrous things have happened. Would you like to hear my mother’s explanation of why all of us, but especially my father didn’t perish out there?” She nodded to the east. “Why, yes. I’d like that very much.” “You know of the Three Nephites?” she cautiously asked. Indignantly, he replied, “Kristina, I was a missionary, I know the gospel. We read of them in the Book of Mormon. They were three of Jesus’s apostles on the American continent to whom he granted the privilege of never tasting of death until his second coming. They are translated beings, like John in the Bible, who minister among us even now.” “Yes, I know. I wasn’t asking.” “I thought you didn’t quite understand.” “No, it’s about them that I want to tell you.” “You see there.” She pointed to the eastern mountains. “Beyond Fort Bridger, my father didn’t care if he lived anymore. It was just before we made a shelter in the willows. He half walked, half crawled away from the camp to die.” She gazed southeast as though she could see the spot. “But when he had lain there for some time and felt his legs going numb, an old man with a bare head and a long, white beard, dressed in a kind of light tunic stood before him for a moment and then rubbed my dear papa’s legs. Father thanked him but said he wanted to die, for soon not even one morsel of food would be left, and his strength was gone. The stranger answered that he had just been to the tops of the mountains to see if help was on its way and had seen that the prophet had already sent rescue parties. He chastised father for having so little faith in the president of the church. Whereupon he took a kind of gruel from a bag that he carried over his shoulder and gave my papa to eat. Father asked him how he could dress so lightly on a freezing winter night and from whence he had the gruel and how he had the strength to climb through deep winter snows to the tops of the mountains. He answered that he was an apostle of old who had roamed the width and breadth of the North and South American continents for hundreds of years. Papa struggled to his feet to ask forgiveness and to thank the stranger, but he had disappeared.” Kristina sighed. “Papa walked back to camp and told us to eat all the food that was left, for he had been nourished. Two days later, we were

rescued.” “Oh, Kristina,” Jerome said, taking her hand. “You see, the Lord does provide for his people. In he guided me daily that I converted seventy-three choice spirits in my three- year sojourn. I too once thought that one of the Three Nephites came to me in my sleep, but I am now uncertain, for when I recounted the experience to Mother, she thought I had received a visitation from the prophet Joseph. Whoever he was, he solved a great problem that I had at the time. Though my labors and prayers increased, I was harvesting fewer souls. The personage commanded me to move to a new town. I did so and found the inhabitants there more receptive.” She looked at him iringly. “I’ve always spoken Danish. Was German difficult to learn?” “No, the Lord put the words into my mouth that those who would listen were brought unto him. I had been in Frankfort only three months when I felt prompted to preach on a busy street corner. I spoke of this to my missionary companion who agreed that we should do so but, not knowing what the Almighty had in mind, suggested that he speak since I did not yet have adequate command of the language. ‘No,’ I told him, ‘the spirit has whispered that it is I who should speak.’ I opened my German Book of Mormon, laid my right hand upon it, and ed it with my left hand, whereupon curious citizens of that city speedily gathered, and as the mouthpiece of the Lord, for over one hour I called the crowd to repentance.” He gazed blankly for a moment, reliving the experience. “When I was finished, my companion told me that he had never heard such eloquent German from a missionary. To this day, I know not what I said, but out of that gathering, seven humbled themselves and were baptized.” “The gift of tongues,” Kristina surmised. “Here in Bear River City, in a testimony meeting, I once witnessed it. A brother rose and began exhorting us in an unknown language—certainly unlike Danish—and none understood. Then suddenly, a sister stood and interpreted for the congregation all he said. After the meeting, neither could explain their strange power, except to say that it must be of the Lord.”

**********

By the time the Howes left the next morning, Jerome felt like he had known Kristina all his life. She was born in DrumVeile, Denmark, an idyllic village set in a region of woods, lakes, and rivers. A little footpath through the forest, a trickling brook, and the call of a cuckoo bird were all she ed of the old country. Not being old enough at the time to appreciate it as did her mother (especially when the dust of the Bear River Valley dirtied her hair and caked her nostrils and throat); she had never shared Ingrid’s pangs of homesickness for that Hansel and Gretel world. On the way back home, Jerome drove the horses and spoke little. His thoughts dwelled on the devout and lovely Danish maiden. His parents would be pleased —he had found a wife.

**********

Why had he consented to go to the theater with Hyrum? Jerome rubbed his forehead in annoyance. Their mother kept trying to bring them closer. Of course his younger brother had hurried home from college for the wedding, a thoughtful act that deserved reciprocity. Perhaps part of their estrangement was caused by his dislike of Hyrum’s habit of never finding anything in Great Salt Lake City to measure up to Boston and Cambridge. Also, he would have to put up with the irritation of being called “Jerry.” Why did Hyrum so delight in that? “It’s totally in character that light comedy should be the only drama Brigham Young tolerates in his playhouse. Didn’t he decree that the theater should be as pure as a tabernacle?” Hyrum inquired in a sarcastic tone as they entered the foyer of the Salt Lake Theater. “That’s not entirely true, Hyrum.” Too late Jerome realized he had taken the bait; now he would have to defend his statement. “Some fine touring companies have played tragedy as well. You started attending the plays early on. Surely you Hamlet and The Lady of Lyons.” “Yes, I do, Jerry, but even better, I the comely Julia Dean Hayne who

performed at that time. Wasn’t it rumored that Brigham proposed to add her to his harem?” “Perhaps,” came the dry reply. “I seem to recall that he named his sleigh after her and seemed quite smitten, but why must you always view the president’s motives as concupiscent?” “After twenty, how many? Twenty-seven wives, isn’t that only logical? And you’ll have to it, as he grows older they get younger … and prettier. Take for example, Amelia Folsom, a most handsome woman. Our good prophet devoted three years of what is generally termed ardent courtship to winning her.” He chuckled. “Word is she’s a viper. Keeps the other wives in turmoil.” “I don’t know where you get your facts, Hyrum.” Hyrum shot his brother a quick smile and continued, “Were I to be in the prophet’s—shall we say peripatetic—shoes, I might best prefer the lovely Mary Cott to warm my…” “Enough, Hyrum,” Jerome interrupted. “Leave the gossiping to women.” “Your forthcoming marriage has made you more priggish than usual, Jerry.” Hyrum continued unperturbed as his brother stepped up to the box office. “I do enjoy the local traditions. Where else in this nation can a man pay for his theater tickets with a live chicken or a sack of grain?” Jerome avoided answering him. “There must be several thousand here tonight.” He paid seventy-five cents for each ticket, and they followed the crowd into the orchestra section. He had always ired the gilt decorations of the proscenium arch and the elaborate chandelier, which had been crafted out of a common cartwheel and tin candles and embellished with gold by President Young himself. Indeed, the entire seemingly opulent theater was inexpensively constructed, for the architect, Folsum (father of the tempestuous Amelia), had it built from supplies purchased at distressed prices from the U.S. Army’s dilapidated Camp Floyd. When the Salt Lake Playhouse first opened in ’62 with local Saints performing gratuitously, the fare was amateurish. However, in subsequent years, some of the most renowned performers of the day appeared behind the footlights of Brother Brigham’s theater. Over the years had come such notables as the irrepressible

Artemus Ward, satirical Mark Twain, Thomas Mast, Phineas T. Barnum, Buffalo Bill, Tom Thumb, Susan B. Anthony, and scores of others. The theater was immensely popular, and the local citizens were proud of the culture it offered them. Jerome shifted his gaze to the cane-backed chairs near him in the orchestra section. Often, the prophet sat there with some of his wives. This evening, he was accompanied by Emmeline Free, wife number eleven, a former favorite, and by his latest, the beautiful Ann Eliza Webb. Jerome caught Ann Eliza’s eye and nodded slightly. She was just his age and, like him, had been born in Nauvoo during the turbulent years which followed the martyrdom of the Smith brothers. One year after the Howes, she had crossed the plains with her father, Chauncey Webb, a wagon maker. She and Jerome had grown up together and often shared confidences. “Most attractive,” Hyrum sighed, intercepting the glances between the twentyseventh Mrs. Young and his brother. “I’m sure her social climbing mama is delighted to have her daughter married to the satrap.” “Life has not been easy for Ann Eliza despite her beauty,” Jerome countered. “She has told me that her former husband, Dee, terrorized her, and she complains openly that President Young is niggardly in his of her and her two children by Dee.” “Wasn’t she on the stage herself? I seem to her playing Emily Wilton in the Artful Dodge. I could not have been more than ten. She wasn’t a gifted actress.” As the house lights dimmed, Hyrum shifted in his chair, despite his pseudosophisticated demeanor clearly pleased to be at the provincial theater. Jerome continued to stare in the direction of Ann Eliza. At twenty-four, she had already been married twice; he felt callow and inexperienced. And yet although he could appreciate Ann Eliza’s beauty, he could never desire such a woman himself. She was too jejune, often prone to whining, and Jerome questioned the sincerity of her faith. He found his thoughts turning to his beautiful, wholesome Kristina; in less than one week, she would be his wife.

**********

“Yes, Mother,” Hyrum said, looking irritated as he stretched his legs beneath the kitchen table. “Of course I’ll attend Jerry’s wedding tomorrow, but I plan to be back in Cambridge soon. Nothing shall deter me.” He leaned back on his chair and placed his hands behind his head. “Quite frankly, I’m terribly bored.” “I’m not asking for Jerome’s sake, Hyrum, and you know it would be nice if you could desist from calling him ‘Jerry,’ which he so dislikes.” She paused to let the motherly advice sink in. “He’s so in love that I don’t think he’ll notice who is there, except for the bride herself. No, I ask for your father’s sake. The way in which you’ve elected to conduct your life is so very different from what he had hoped for you.” She saw that Hyrum was about to respond. “No, don’t interrupt me. Certainly I encouraged you to read, to contemplate, to study, and perhaps my tales of Mr. Adams inspired you to attend Harvard, but I never dreamed it would draw you away from the church.” She noted her son’s lean, rather aesthetic face with its hooded eyes, thin lips, and aquiline nose. He resembled no one in the family. “I’ve often wondered, Mother, how much of it you truly believe, but then …” He pushed his chair back with a characteristic impatient gesture, which always annoyed her. “… You pretty much have to believe it.” “That’s an inappropriate remark, Hyrum.” She fought to suppress the anger she felt, “not worthy of your self-image as the objective scholar.” “Nonetheless, have you no appreciation for the irony that Jerome is so very much more father’s son than I?” Seeing her hurt expression, he changed the subject and softly added, “I think I’ll elope when the time comes.” Louisa did not answer him, but as she had for years, combed her mind to try to pinpoint the time, if there was one, when Hyrum had grown apart from the rest of the family. Was it her devotion to Jerome that had so driven him from her? She had tried to love her children impartially, but her tenderness for Joseph’s son, her first-born, perhaps had wounded Hyrum, caused him to withdraw. Ignoring his remarks about parentage, her anger dissipated, and she said gently, “I hope all my children will marry here, Hyrum. This will always be your home.” “Maybe it’s just Jerome who vexes me. He simply panders to the church, to the

president, and the whole damnable Salt Lake hierarchy. The bride-to-be will have to live his kind of life.” “That is the fate of most women who marry,” Louisa observed tartly. “Kristina is quite devout in the church, as you will learn when you meet her. She is a girl with lots of vitality and courage. “But”—she shrugged—“what about you, my son? When you’ve finished your studies, will you not come home to our Deseret?” “I don’t know … I truly don’t.” The absence of banter in his tone startled her. He spoke simply. “I love this land, the grandeur of it, the great awesome wilderness and mountains. It is some humans that I abhor. Mormon vanity and hocus-pocus can be especially galling.” “Please, Hyrum, if you must feel these things, say them only to me. You could so wound your father. He does not understand you, nor am I certain do I.” Hyrum looked away and did not answer, perhaps deterred by the entrance of Jennifer. Louisa could many such discussions with him over the years. She was always exhausted afterward. Crisply she smoothed her apron and pushed a loose strand of hair back into its bun. Catching Jennifer’s hand, she pulled the little girl to her. She would not let Hyrum upset her. The merriest guest at Jerome’s wedding would be Louisa Howe!

**********

The wedding reception of Kristina and Jerome was the grandest in the city that summer. On June 3, 1870, Jerome took his bride to the Endowment House on Temple Square where the Lord had authorized holders of the Melchizedek priesthood to perform eternal marriages and sealings until completion of the temples which, in addition to the main one, were being erected in St. George, Manti, and Logan. Since he had blessed Jerome at the time of his dreadful illness and witnessed his speedy recovery, Brigham Young had felt a special fondness for him. Indeed, as he had prophesied, Jerome was developing into a true pillar of the church.

Therefore, the practical prophet of the wilderness, who had been involved at so many important junctures in the lives of the Howes, took time from his busy schedule to marry and seal the couple to each other for eternity. Louisa cried as the pair, dressed in temple robes, knelt on opposite sides of an altar upholstered in white silk, and in the middle of it intertwined their hands. The setting had been less inspirational when Brother Brigham ed her to Joseph, but the vow was just as binding, and she reminded herself that as Jerome would have Kristina, so would she have Joseph in “the world that is to come.” At the conclusion of the ceremony before Jerome changed from his temple clothing into the new black suit (made not at Poole’s but at the city’s “fashionable tailor”) he would wear at the reception, President Young asked to speak with him and Daniel. They agreed to meet with him in a corner of the sealing room. “Young Brother Howe, I am not a man to mince words,” the prophet began. “The Lord loves you, and because of that, I hope you will fulfill your obligation to take unto yourself additional wives. Millions of choice spirits dwell in the heavens eagerly awaiting earthly bodies. I onish you to do your part in providing them.” He paused and coldly surveyed Daniel. “Brother Daniel here has let his devotion to your mother prevent him from living the principle. I trust that you will not follow his example and, Brother Daniel, I remind you that it is not yet too late to augment your blessings in this world and your glory in the next.” Considering that a new surge of animosity was rising in the nation against polygamy and that there had been a federal antibigamy law on the books since 1862, Daniel questioned the prophet’s wisdom but spoke no words of rebuttal. The law defining plural marriage as bigamy had been presented to the House of Representatives by Justin Morill of Vermont, but all Utah knew it was instigated by the territorial governor of the time, Stephen S. Harding, who had wanted President Young to spend five years in jail and pay a fine of $500. Many leading legal authorities thought the law was unconstitutional, and President Lincoln had believed in letting the Saints alone, but what of this Grant and future presidents? Now with the railroad bringing more gentiles who found the practice curious, distasteful, or abominable, why urge it on the Saints? And why speak to Jerome about it on his wedding day? He had eyes only for his bride.

XXV

I Guess I Love Him

Her stiff ts compelled Melissa to walk slowly to answer the buzzer. Annoyed at the pain, she flung open the door of her apartment, then beamed with pleasure. “Chrisie, my word. You’re coming as frequently as the ward teachers.” “I don’t want to bother you, Aunt Melissa, but it would be nice if I could ask you some things.” “Child, you’re never a bother. Most of the family just leaves me alone up here, buried in my vertical cemetery. Anyway, with you I never have to feign devotion to the church nor hide my coffee pot. Come on in and find a place to sit.” Chris chose the sofa, knowing Melissa preferred the old rocker that her father, Jerome, had made as a boy. “They don’t make them like that anymore,” she always said. “Aunt Melissa, I may have mentioned this guy I met in Vermont. He—” “The Mormon monk,” she cut her off. “Well, I used to think that,” Chris reed laughing, “but I’ve got to know him a little better … and well … (better not say ‘intimately’) he’s apparently into polygamy and—” “One of those, huh?” “Probably not what you’re thinking. He’s intellectual.” “There are all kinds of justifications, Chris.” “You see, Aunt Melissa, you mentioned about Louisa Howe and Joseph Smith,

and I just wondered about others in the family and about that whole period of fighting with Washington after the Mormons came here. Of course, I’ve heard it at church, at mutual, at home, but I never paid all that much attention, and it’s always their version. Most Mormons are proud of polygamous ancestors, but we don’t seem to have any on the Howe side—except Louisa. Of course, my mother’s ancestors were super polygamists.” “That’s right, Chris. It just worked out that way. You know that Daniel Howe took Louisa as a plural wife while he was still married.” “Right, his wife died on the plains or something.” “You can imagine how frequently these matters were discussed when I was growing up. There were evenings when that was all your grandfather Jerome talked about, and in meetings they went on and on about it. The church was still getting out of debt from government seizure—escheatment—of its property.” “That’s weird. I mean to think of the church as poor.” Acknowledging Chris’s comment with a nod, she continued. “Father fully accepted and vigorously defended the principle, you know. It was only due to the firm opposition of his father that he never practiced it or because Mother was rabidly against it. For fourteen years after my eldest brother, Heber, was born, Mother was unable to conceive, and Father was panicky, but then the rest of us came along. Of course by the time he was in his mid-forties, the Lord had suspended temporal, and I emphasize, temporal polygamy.” She chuckled, “The family knew no financial setbacks as the polygamists did, and the men were spared jail sentences and fines.” “Okay. Now Pres. Wilford Woodruff had a revelation or something, the Manifesto, and that ended it, right?” “Yes, temporarily, not in heaven. That was in 1890, it read that the church would neither teach the principle nor allow new plural marriages, but those families already practicing it would be allowed to continue. Some ignored President Woodruff and fled to Mexico and Canada where they continued to perform the marriages.” “But pressure from Washington, congressional bills against the church, and all that pretty well ended, didn’t it?”

“Yes, after the Manifesto, much bad feeling remained but no more legal action was taken. Statehood finally came in 1896, and Mormonism without polygamy was recognized as a fait accompli because the church pledged again neither to teach nor to practice it.” She laughed and stretched her right leg straight out in front of her. “Legs get so tired, worthless things. It was ’94 or ’93 that the church for the first time tried to improve its image through the Tabernacle Choir. It performed at the World’s Fair but without great success.” “No kidding. And now everybody likes, or at least, respects the choir. But what set off all the animosity, just polygamy? I mean I know there was more than that to cause trouble in Nauvoo.” “Principally that was it, although other doctrines and also economics played a role. Of course, there were exaggerations on both sides. I’ve tried for years to examine it all objectively. The presence of our polygamous sect anywhere within the boundaries of the Unites States was anathema to millions of monogamous gentiles, not least among whom were those living right here. The last third of the nineteenth century brought intense persecution—not bloody, but legislative—I suppose no other creed or group in this land of guaranteed freedoms has had to bear the brunt of such a legal onslaught. Between 1866 and 1869, three or four bills that intended to disenfranchise Mormons were introduced in Congress. None became law, but seeds were planted for more stringent ones. The Craig Bill is typical. It made it illegal for any Mormon to solemnize a marriage. Both petit and grand juries were to be chosen by the U.S. Marshall, with the exception of $20,000, church property was to be taxed. Under these bills the governor of the territory would have become the fiscal head of the church. Some congressmen simply desired to destroy local government in the territory.” “Didn’t ZCMI have something to do with this?” “Yes yes, that’s part of the economic rivalry I referred to. A hated gentile attorney from Salt Lake, Robert Baskin, helped prepare some of those bills. Clearly, with the completion of the transcontinental railroad, equipment and all kinds of goods could be brought in, and minerals taken out. That threatened the self-sufficiency theory of Brigham Young. Sometimes I wonder why he so desired the railroad.” “1869 it was finished, right?”

“Yes … well, part of the church’s defense against people like Baskin and gentile merchants was to form the Zion’s Cooperative Mercantile Institution.” “You can even the full name.” “Certainly,” Melissa smiled. “Where was I? Oh yes. It was to be a cooperative store. Mormons were to take stock in it and trade with each other. The hierarchy proposed that a chain of such coops be organized throughout Utah to be known as United Orders. Gentile merchants would be forced out of competition through boycott.” “And now we still shop there.” “But the cooperative advantage disappeared long ago.” “It sure did. It’s just a church-owned department store, organized for profit.” “If you’re still interested, there’s more about those economic aspects, and I’ll get to more on polygamy.” “Oh yeah, I am.” “A man named Godbe, wealthy and prominent, both in the church and in business, along with some other Mormon businessmen and intellectuals, opposed Brigham Young and the First Presidency. They committed the heresy of suggesting that the Mormon economy be immediately accommodated into the greater national economy. They assumed, of course, that economic cooperation would lead to closer political and cultural ties with the rest of the union and put an end to anti-Mormon legislation. They were critical of a Young dynasty, and that sealed their fate. All were excommunicated for the sin of apostasy.” She reclined in her chair, and with a twinkle in her eye, added, “Daniel Howe was a member of the bishop’s court that excommunicated Godbe. They were rivals in business.” “So Godbe retaliated against the church?” “Yes, Chrisie, and because of this so-called Church of Zion, or Godbeite Movement, we ended up with two local political parties and the Salt Lake Tribune.”

“The Trib? It doesn’t preach the party line like the Deseret News.” “That’s right. But isn’t so anti-Mormon now as it was then. You see, it grew out of the Utah Magazine that Godbe published. The excommunicates ed with gentiles to form the Liberal political party. The church opposed it with the People’s party. Both were disbanded in the ’90s.” “This is very similar to the Expositor thing in Nauvoo. I was reading about it back there.” “Yes, it is, but in fairness to the church, I must say that the early Tribune was what the Expositor never had a chance to become—a true slander sheet, extreme in its deviations from truth. Godbe sold it, and it became even worse!” “Mark abhors all this kind of bickering.” “Mark?” “The ex-monk.” “Oh, he’s some kind of love-everybody hippie, I guess.” “He’s really down on the church, but a lot of what he says makes sense, but I’ll tell you about him later. I’m really into what you’re saying. Tell me more, you really know this stuff.” Pleased with Chris’s appreciation, Melissa continued. “Some soldiers from Fort Rawlins, that was close to Provo, rioted in Provo because the citizens wouldn’t sell them whiskey.” She blinked her eyes and added, “Why Mormons shouldn’t have had any anyway.” While Chris laughed, she continued, “A couple of governors and judges were despised and rightly so. Obviously they were out to get the Mormons, and it didn’t help matters any when Young’s prettiest and youngest wife, the former divorcee Ann Eliza Dee, sued him for divorce and exposed him about 1873. Later she went on the lecture circuit, and her exposé inflamed thousands. ‘His Excellency’ even spent a night in jail on her . Judge McKean, the most hated and prejudiced of all federal appointees to the bench, held him overnight for trumped-up contempt charges.” She looked away for a moment, thinking. “But Brigham died in 1877 before the worse came.” Again she stopped to gather her thoughts, and then

began slowly, “It was just about the time that Brigham died. My parents often discussed this one. It seemed so disgraceful in a country that prided itself on justice and the defense of basic freedom. Father said Bismarck’s Prussia was better, an old antibigamy law that had lain dormant since Lincoln’s istration was declared constitutional, and George Reynolds, one of the Seven Presidents of the Seventies, was sentenced under it to two or three years of imprisonment.” “Even to hard labor, I think. That’s one I hearing of too from Dad, I’m sure.” “Probably. We spoke of it enough. Things got progressively worse after that. A Reverend Talmadge in New York carried on about the depraved Mormons, even suggesting confiscating land. Evarts, Secretary of State in the Hayes istration, proposed that no more aliens be allowed to the law-defying Mormons. Anti-Mormon and Mormon women held meetings to condemn and defend polygamy, but little heed was paid by Washington to the Mormon ladies’ claims that they were not enslaved. Then Daniel Wells, who held all kinds of civic and church offices—” “Especially important as general of the legion,” Chris interjected. “You see, I some things from my seminary and Sunday school classes.” “That’s correct. He was also a counselor to Brigham. Anyway, Wells was imprisoned for a couple days for not revealing the sacred ceremonies of the Endowment House. That was a small, temporary temple located on the Temple Block.” “Yeah, I know about it, but weren’t others finished by then?” “I know the St. George temple was completed before Brigham died, but I think it was the only one, and of course, the Salt Lake temple wasn’t dedicated until after I was born, so they needed that Endowment House to perform temple ceremonies here.” “So why was he asked to tell about it? Enough have blabbed, already then you could probably read about the secrets.” “It had something to do with his being a witness in a divorce case. A man said he’d not married as a second wife, a woman who was suing him for bigamy. As

part of the defense she described temple clothing. Wells had supposedly performed the ceremony and could corroborate her description of the dress, etc. and he wouldn’t.” “So all the Mormons got real uptight over that one, huh? Even though it was just a couple of nights in the pokey?” “Indeed, they did. My father got reheated every time he retold it, often, but to make a long story short—believe me, there is much more—one or two missionaries were murdered, ministers all over the country were screaming, etc., etc. And it all led to the Edmunds Law of 1882 and the Edmunds-Tucker Law of 1887. I’ve had those two dates memorized all my life as something akin to Pearl Harbor.” “The two big polygamy laws.” “Those were the big ones—and they were severe. The Edmunds Act forbade the contracting of plural marriage and unlawful cohabitation, and it established heavy penalties—five years imprisonment, I believe, five hundred dollars, or both. Thousands of ‘cohabs,’ as they were termed, went into hiding from the federal deps, the deputies.” “Those are cool names.” “That may be, but those times were red hot. Families were torn apart, suffered financial losses. Women went to jail for refusing to testify against their husbands. Children were cajoled and coerced into talking and spying. Five federally appointed commissioners controlled most of the government of the territory, and hundreds of our people were disenfranchised because they were unable to a denigrating test oath that qualified voters had to sign. It was worded in such a way that men and women married by the church, but polygamous, couldn’t it. However, a person living with a prostitute, or simply a common-law wife, could, and that fired up the Mormons.” “Some of the guys disguised themselves as women, didn’t they?” “Yes, as you know, there are countless tales of those days … mostly sad, others comical.” “So what worse things could the second act impose?”

“It hit the pocketbook of the church. All of its assets and funds, except the wards, temples, and burial grounds were confiscated, and a government receiver was appointed to manage the holdings.” “And Howes were involved just through hiding the cohabs and …” “And in giving them food, clothing, money.” “But that’s it. I mean none of us were cohabs.” “No.” “Jerome and Daniel didn’t have any property taken or anything?” “There were some close calls, I understand, because they were aiding in the crime.” “Yeah, but they were too smart, hung on to the bread … ah the money, the property, and all that.” “Chris! Your tongue can be awfully sharp.” “No offense, Aunt Melissa, just thinking aloud, I guess. Gee, I’ve learned a lot from you like always, thank you, but I have to sort it all out for myself.” “Chris, can I ask you something personal? “Shoot.” “How involved are you with this radical?” “I’m not sure. I guess I love him.” “I see, I see. And he already has other … other … a … wives?” “Yes.” “Oh my little Chrisie. Please think … please be careful. You could make such a horrible mistake.” “I know.”

XXVI

I Could Save Her and Myself from Being Only istering Angels in the Next Life

Louisa! Aunt Louisa!” came a scream as someone ran into the house. “Yes … Amy? Is it you? Come in, come in.” “They say my Rodrigo, my Rodrigo …” “Yes, please. What is it?” “He’s dead. My Rodrigo is dead!” “Oh, Amy. Dear God … sit down.” “A …” Coldly now, shocked and dazed, no longer crying, she began to explain yet didn’t comprehend it herself. “A cave-in at Park City … at the mine.” Louisa’s mind began to race as she sat with her left arm around Amy. Now her half-widowed niece would be a full-time widow. For the last fourteen years since a few months after Jerome’s marriage, Amy had lived in a small, brick home at the mouth of Parley’s Canyon. There, Rodrigo was closer to Park City where he had given up prospecting to take an engineering position. Amy refused to live in the mining camp, and he was on constant call at the mines. Sometimes they did not see each other for weeks. The once-dashing caballero drank far too much. Rodrigo had never ed the church, clinging instead to his Catholic faith, and Amy had become inactive to please her husband after he conceded to let Jerome baptize the twins. Now what would she do? No money would be forthcoming from California; Rodrigo’s father was dead, and his family’s properties there had been greatly diminished. Alicia and Ramon were twenty. Ramon worked in the mines, and Alicia would soon marry. Lonely Amy would be still lonelier … and

what would become of her in the world to come? Perhaps … perhaps Daniel would consent to … On a bright, warm May morning, Rodrigo was laid to rest at the cemetery of St. Mary Magdalene. Reluctantly Daniel had attended the Catholic services; he felt uneasy in the presence of a representative of the “great and abominable church,” the “whore of all the earth,” and he was sad and angry that Rodrigo had so long ed up the opportunity to embrace the truth. But the family would not forget to perform the baptism rite for him and soon perhaps in the St. George Temple. Daniel addressed Jeb and Ingrid as they walked away from the grave. “Louisa and I have discussed Amy’s situation … and maybe you could talk to her. We are willing to have her live with us. I mean she is like a daughter. We’ve had her so often. She’s strayed from the church. Maybe we could bring her back.” “Den she could lead da fater to da vater. Yeb, you see how it vent met Rodrigo. It’s now fourteen yaar since ve marry and still …” “Never mind that now, Ingrid,” he requested, “just listen to Daniel.” He winced either from her words or from pain of the arthritis, which had given him a slight limp and gnarled his hands. “Jerome and his family won’t be moving in on us, not with their new large place. Why, he practically controls all our concerns now. Hyrum, married to that socialite gentile in San Fancisco, won’t ever live here again. His law practice is thriving. We rode the railroad to see them just a month ago.” “Yeah, I knowed that,” Jeb replied. “Amy be vilkoom by us in Bear River City. Yu know dat.” “She’s always lived in Salt Lake, and I’m sure she wants to stay here. Anyway, Alicia is here most of the time as it is. She and Jennifer have become quite the friends. We’ve been mighty proud of Alicia’s participation in the church. Yes, sir, I’d be proud to have that little girl for my own daughter. I’m told she never misses a dance and attends sacrament meetings faithfully. Of course she’s attending our ward, not her own. Makes it bad for their record-keeping.” He smiled. “Must annoy her bishop.” He paused for their reaction. “Well, that’s how it is. Now and then we hide a brother to protect him from this cursed Edmunds Law, but we’ve still plenty of room for Amy and Alicia. Ramon’s not in the city

much.” “No, he’s trinking and fighting in Park City. Doing little vorking.” “Yes yes, well well, we’ll try to help him too. It’s sure a shame these young men can’t comprehend what the gospel can do for them. We owe it everything we are.” He stopped walking. “In fact, maybe I haven’t done enough for the Lord. It’s because of that, well … uh … Ingrid, would you mind if I spoke with Jeb alone for a moment?” Ingrid walked toward Louisa, Amy, and Alicia, who were lingering behind them, and Daniel and Jeb continued. “You see, Jeb, Louisa and I have been talking. For years I have not wanted to participate in the principle of plural marriage, and to the day of his death, I had my disagreements with Brother Brigham about it, but Louisa is concerned, more than I am, Jeb, that in the next world I’ll have no children. I’ll deny myself the blessings of peopling my own kingdoms if this principle is truly of the Lord. My Sara gave me only a stillborn son before she died. Hyrum, baby Daniel, and Jennifer will belong to Louisa and Joseph Smith.” He paused to observe the look of surprise on Jeb’s face. “I know that you are aware of her sealing to the prophet Joseph and about Jerome, Louisa told me long ago. The church has openly practiced the principle for years, but in the beginning it was different. Some of Joseph’s marriages have never been made public, and we’d like to keep it that way for now. Well, Jeb, you see, if Amy is willing, I could save her and myself from being only ‘istering angels’ in the next life. Rodrigo was a Catholic, and even though we have him baptized by proxy now, who knows if he’ll accept the gospel on the other side, and anyway, they didn’t get along too well the last years. If Amy were sealed to me in the Endowment House, I would have her as a plural wife after death, and her twins would be mine. She would have a proper Latter-day Saint husband, and we could both enter the highest celestial glory. Of course, she’d be taken care of financially for the rest of her life.” He paused and rubbed his foot in the dirt. “There wouldn’t be any … any … knowing her as a wife, Jeb. I’m seventy-three, and with this new Edmunds Law, I’m not about to put myself, my holdings, or my family in jeopardy by cavorting around with a young wife. Anyway, Louisa means too much to me.” They had reached the gate of the cemetery and stopped there; Jeb leaned against the iron fence, and Daniel faced him. “It would be a secret.” He leaned on the fence next to Jeb. “Louisa is really encouraging me in this … I … I’ve always had my doubts, Jeb.”

Jeb spoke slowly. “Daniel, Ingrid, and all the rest, especially that Jerome, has been tryin’ ta baptize me for years, and well, I don’t know. You and Louisa will have ta do as ya see fit with my Amy, and I guess she’ll have some say so. As fer Rodrigo, well, I never knowed him real good, but we never hit it off.” He rubbed his knees with his right hand. “You folks has always been mighty good ta Amy and me, I’m glad ya told me about this plan. Ya know I won’t reveal it, but it all seems to me like so much horse shit. You’ll have to wait until I die ta baptize me too. Hell, Ingrid is already sealed to her first husband, so I can’t have her in yer Happy Huntin’ Grounds, and God knows what Little Wing would think about the church. Maybe ya kin baptize her too and then marry us good and proper fer eternity.” It was a long speech, indeed, for Steady Jeb. He walked away to the women.

**********

Amy accepted Daniel’s proposal, and she and Alicia came to live with the Howe’s, but Alicia didn’t remain long. The next year she married a prospering young emigrant from the Kingdom of the Netherlands who, with his father and brother, had just opened a furniture store in Ogden, the railroad city. She missed the Salt Lake Theater and her friends, but she compensated for her longing during the first year by riding the dummy train from Ogden fifteen miles north to Hot Springs at least once a week; in the second year she was pregnant. In 1886, Jennifer married Harry Edwards, son of Apostle Tom Edwards, Daniel’s former employee and Louisa’s loyal friend. The house became quieter than it had ever been.

**********

The trapdoor to the cellar closed with a soft thud, and Daniel quickly dragged the carpet across it and then replaced the table and chairs. Louisa thought of Tom Edwards, alone with no fire to ward off the November chill; one candle eased the

gloom of that tiny room under the kitchen that was little more than a large hole in the earth. Apostle Edwards had related that he had covered at least one hundred fifty miles in the past three days, sleeping few hours at a time and then moving on. He was certain that the trackers had followed him to Salt Lake, but although exhausted, he had been able to shake them because of his greater familiarity with the city and the help of friends. “We may be raided tonight,” Daniel told Louisa. “Very well,” she reed. “We’re ready for them. I never thought of our own Tom using the room, but it has served others well.” She considered the tangle of children upstairs: Jennifer and Harry Edwards’s newborn son, Michael; Alicia’s girls; and Jerome and Kristina’s baby, Ethel; all were visiting in preparation for the festive family Thanksgiving Day celebration. Understandably, deps sent to search and arrest cohabs complained they could never figure out the relationships in the large Mormon families, just who was married to whom and to which wives and daughters the children belonged. Lurking beneath Louisa’s fear for Tom was the possibility that their own secret would somehow be revealed. Amy had been sealed to Daniel in ’84; fortunately she was currently visiting Ramon and his Norwegian bride. Thus the appearance of the Howe residence as a polygamous household could be avoided, but still … To those who faithfully practiced their religion by embracing the principle, these were desperate times, reminiscent in many ways of Nauvoo. Men of substance and standing (most polygamous Mormons had sufficient means to afford the of several families) were forced to go underground, hiding their wives and families or disclaiming the very existence of these plural marriages. Even the president of the church, John Taylor, who had withstood the mob’s bullets in Carthage forty years earlier, had now been forced into hiding. In the smaller communities, heroism and great bravery prevailed as the strongly knit Latter-day Saint citizens rallied to hide the persecuted, but there was also chicanery. Opportunity was afforded to younger men, who chafed under the plural marriage system as they saw the most desirable maidens become plural wives of older, wealthier men, to reveal the whereabouts of the federal authorities’ prey. Tom Edwards, whose businesses had prospered, married four women for time

and eternity after his first wife, Pamela Morris, died in childbirth, and he was sealed to several women for eternity. In his desire to treat the families equally, he provided each wife with a separate dwelling. For Christmas this year (1887), he planned to give his younger children identical sleighs and each wife a sunbonnet with a long, flowing veil. Despite the increasing severity of antipolygamy legislation, Apostle Edwards refused to abandon a single wife and was forced into flight. Reluctantly he sent one of his spouses to England to visit her family, and another changed her name and moved to Cardston, Canada. Still, the deputies, perhaps for the purpose of making an example of the prominent apostle, hunted Tom. For over a year now he had been on the underground (an expression Mormons adopted from the abolitionists), his business affairs being carried on by his son, Harry. Jennifer had traveled from Ogden to Salt Lake with her baby, Michael, to visit her parents. She was fatigued from the train ride, and Louisa and Daniel had not told her that her father-in-law was in the house. The fewer who knew, the better; that way, no one could tell or be forced to reveal the hiding place. “I’ve seen quite a few buggies in town lately,” Daniel remarked to Louisa as they walked away from the trapdoor into the parlor. Still erect and vigorous at age seventy-six, he enjoyed walking each day from their home to the temple in order to perform rites for the dead. “The deps aren’t hard to spot, and they take a lot of tormenting from the boys in town who delight in pelting them with rocks.” “Daniel, is there any way they could get access to church records?” “We’ve taken care of that,” he replied, fondly patting her hand. “I know that you’re concerned for me and for Amy too, but you mustn’t worry.” They were interrupted first by the sound of footsteps and then by insistent pounding on the front door. “Open up, open up in there,” a voice demanded. “I’ll go,” Louisa offered. She slipped the latch and opened the door. “Yes?” Four men stood outside. The spokesman, a stout man wearing a holstered gun and a lawman’s badge, doffed his hat as he addressed her, “Deputy Briggs, ma’am.”

At the same time, his companions pushed past Louisa into the house. “We’re looking for Thomas Edwards, a so-called apostle. He’s been traced to this neighborhood. There’ll be no good in hiding him.” “He’s not here,” Louisa said firmly. Brigg’s reply was calm yet menacing. “We intend to find him.” Daniel walked into the hallway. With his white hair and dignified demeanor, he was the personification of authority. “Now look here. My wife has told you there is no one here by that name. Our daughter and grandson have come from Ogden for a visit, and some of our other grandchildren are here. We’re having a big family reunion at Thanksgiving.” As he spoke Louisa noticed that his powerful figure seemed to have grown frail of late. Suddenly they had both grown old, and a premonition told her she would not have him much longer. “You may search the house,” she told the deputies, fully aware that this was their intent. “Let’s have a look at them women and children,” one of them said. “Wouldn’t surprise me if the old buck didn’t have a couple of wives stashed upstairs.” The blood rushed to Daniel’s face, and he started forward violently. Louisa, placing her hand on his arm, quickly restrained him. “Leave it,” she whispered. “There are no laws but those of God to protect us. Go to the children, and I’ll go to Jennifer.” The deputies pressed past them and up the staircase. Once on the second floor, they separated, banging open the doors of the children’s bedrooms. Briggs looked in each, then shoved open the door to Jennifer’s room. Louisa stayed close behind him. Try to be civil, she urged herself. Shame him, make him be polite. “This is my daughter’s room. I’m certain you don’t wish to alarm her.” She lit the kerosene wall lamp. Jennifer was startled at being awakened by the deputy’s rude snatch of a handful of quilts from the bed. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and clutched at a

sheet. “In heaven’s name, Mother, what has happened?” “Shh, we’ll wake the baby,” Louisa said, gesturing toward Michael, who was asleep in the crib in the corner of the room. She caught Jennifer’s eye and nodded reassuringly, then turned to Briggs. “Are you satisfied there is no Mr. Edwards here?” she demanded. “Mother, they can’t be looking for Harry!” Jennifer jumped out of bed and donned her robe. “What is happening? This man can’t just come in here and do this!” “They’re looking for Brother Tom. I’m certain when they learn he isn’t here, they’ll depart quietly.” The two youngest deputies came into the room. “She’s a looker,” one said. He grabbed Jennifer’s arm and stroked her hair. “I think the old man does have a harem.” Jennifer wheeled around and, with her free right hand, slapped him in the face. “Don’t touch me, you filthy …” Quickly, Louisa stepped between them. She had to do something—bluff! Daniel would tolerate no abuse of his daughter. Were he to come in and struggle with them he could be killed. “Mr. Briggs,” she said evenly, her hands firmly on Jennifer’s shoulders, “I’m certain that if you are hunting Apostle Edwards, then you know that Jennifer is married to his son, and you also know that my husband is not a polygamous Mormon nor are any of our children. If any of your officers again touches my daughter or my grandchildren and does them harm in any manner, we shall seek redress from the courts. The U.S. government persecutes polygamists, but the laws do not extend to harassment of all Mormons. My husband is a wealthy man, Mr. Briggs. He can afford the finest of legal counsel, and my son is an attorney in San Francisco with many gentile connections.” She spoke slowly so he could absorb the weight of her words. “I am making no idle threats.” Briggs stared at Louisa. He recognized and respected courage. He had raided many a Mormon household; the look of hatred that flashed from her eyes was familiar. That’s where the girl got her spunk, and her looks, from the mother. All of his life, people with more will and conviction had told him what to do—and

he had done it. Snappishly he called to the young deputy. “Leave the girl alone. Search downstairs, goddamnit!” Daniel was entering the room as the deputies trooped down the stairs. “I’ll see them out,” Louisa told him hurriedly. “Are the children all right?” “They’re all still asleep.” “Please, Daniel, go to Jennifer. I think I have hastened Mr. Brigg’s departure.”

**********

Daniel suffered from pleurisy, lung congestion, and other ailments and was often confined to bed during the last two years of his life; it greatly perplexed and annoyed him to witness yet further persecution of his people. Silently, like a leaf falling from a tree, he died in his sleep on March 17, 1889, only a few months before the church bowed to federal pressure. In death, as in life, the devoted husband who had been loaned to Louisa only for their earthly sojourn, caused her no fuss.

**********

“Amy, there’s enough money, I see no reason why we can’t do it. Now with President Woodruff’s Manifesto forbidding plural wives, we won’t be spending our time hiding brethren, and we won’t need to purchase a building. There’s plenty of room right here in the house.” “But, Louisa, the church helps Indians and so do individual Mormon families.” “Surely, but I’ve always been kind of independent, and I love to teach … and you … with your language ability. You learned Spanish pretty well, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Rodrigo said I did, but …” “And have you forgotten the Sioux language?” “All but a few words.” “Well, it’s in your head some place, and there’s no reason why you couldn’t learn Navaho, Shoshoni, or whatever we need, or we’ll just talk to the children with love, they’ll understand.” “But a school for Indian children would take all of your time, and you’re not getting any younger.” “I’m getting old slowly, and you’ll help me with the work. All you’re doing these days is getting ornery. Anyway, I’m completely free now for the first time in forty-five years. We’re going to do it, Amy!”

**********

I guess I’ve tired you, Aunt Melissa.” “No, child, no. I’m happy to on what I know to someone who is interested. I’ll not be around too much longer.” “Oh, come now. You’ll see the big hundred.” “Maybe, I do know I’m feeling fit as a fiddle today. So if you want to ask more, go ahead.” “Just about Louisa and the Indian school … she had it in the house, right?” “Until she died, and then according to the of her will, it remained a primary school and home for orphaned Indians.” She thought a moment. “Something to do with insufficient funds. In 1939 or ’40, it was torn down, the money ran out, I guess, and the family wasn’t willing to give any more.” “Did she run it alone? Didn’t she have teachers?”

“She hired teachers later, but at first her niece, Amy, helped her run it. She was half Indian herself.” “Okay. Is that Susan Astete’s great something or other?” “Yes, Amy’s son was Ramón Astete who, for a time, was quite the rowdy at Park City. Later he moved to Price and settled down. Let’s see … he would be this Susan’s grandfather.” “It is confusing. Susan goes on and on about being a Mexican-Indian.” Melissa laughed. “Ramón would have been one-fourth Indian, one-half Mexican, and one-fourth blend of English, French, and what all. He married a Scandinavian woman, and none of their children married Indians or Mexicans— Susan came from one of those. She has a valid claim to that exotic blood, but it’s a very weak one.” “How in the world do you keep it all straight?” “It’s a hobby, Chris. It certainly is easy to be informed on genealogy if you live here in Salt Lake.” She chuckled. “I’m not baptized for any of them, but I keep track of them all.” “And was Louisa sick before she died? I mean for a long time?” “No,” she sighed and closed her eyes, ing. “One winter evening, January it was in 1908. She was eighty-three. She’d had dinner with us and complained of a pain in her chest, thought it might be indigestion. Everyone suggested that she go rest, and I offered to go with her, to watch her, of course. She lay down fully clothed on top of the bed muttering about being forced to go rest like a child, and I went to the closet to get a blanket. Just as I returned, she sat straight up in bed and said, ‘He’s calling my temple name. Yes, Joseph, I know you’ll have me. I’ll come to you now,’ and fell back on the pillow—dead.”

XXVII

I Want You and Your Way

Hello, Sister Howe. What brings you to my humble establishment?” Mark’s voice came from the work area at the rear of his store. “I just wanted to talk with you. It’s definite now? You’re heading south?” She looked sideways along her cheekbone at Jeneane, who was arranging some leather articles. Chris had thought it all over for a few weeks, too long to for fall quarter. Her parents were furious. She had seen Mark only four times since the evening at Alta; each time they got into a fiery argument about his wives, and each time she had stomped out. He was thoroughly committed. “I have to leave, Chris. The heat is on around here. I’ve been called to meet with a bishop’s court. I suppose they’ll excommunicate me, which is just fine. I may not even show up for their little ecclesiastical game. But the law is something else. I don’t care to sit behind bars. With the ladies having their own apartments, they haven’t been able to prove anything yet. Of course, Sandra has her baby, but that simply makes her an unwed mother, and you can’t be arrested for fathering a child, unless the mother complains, and she isn’t.” Chris felt a surge of jealousy at the mention of Sandra’s baby … Shit! Why couldn’t she control that? What she experienced with Mark was their thing— personal. It didn’t have a damned thing to do with the others. Each relationship had to be judged individually, situationally. It shouldn’t be compared or shared. That’s what Mark stressed, and that was one of the points of dissension between them. She exhaled slowly to calm down and then inhaled deeply, enjoying the fresh, pleasing smell of leather. It reminded her of saddles and bridles, of her barn, of her horse.

“The good brethren can’t excommunicate me for polygamy unless I it to it. Of course, they can get me on something else—blasphemy, denying the Holy Ghost, or some such crap.” He arose from the bench where he had been shortening and riveting a belt. “But maybe I’ll it to it, that is, unless a sheriff is among my inquisitors.” He leaned on one of the counters and laughed. “Now the former persecuted are the persecutors. Once, you could come close to excommunication for not having several wives, now you can get it if you do. The Mormon God sure can change his mind conveniently. The church has been bending over backward for seventy-six years to prove its loyalty to Washington.” “Even in the old days, Mark, you couldn’t do it with impunity unless you were authorized by the prophet.” “True, but I’m my own prophet, and I authorize me.” “Tomorrow evening I’m going to this guy’s missionary farewell.” “And where is this poor, earnest deluded chap off to?” “Peru.” “Ah-sí ? Es que yo estuve allí—en el Perú.” “Cuando? I picked up a little during all those trips to Mexico, you know. When were you there?” “Summer of ’64.” “Oh yeah, that was part of the grand hitchhike tour of South America.” “Right, with some help from trains and dirty buses.” “You were probably laying girls all over the place down there.” “Chris, you keep trying to make it dirty. You’re as bad as my good LDS persecutors. I never slept with a girl until I returned from Peru and met Sandra.” Jeneane motioned them to lower their voices—a customer was entering. “It’s barely two years now. Jeneane came into my life a few months later, only

after I was sure this was the right way did we consummate it, and Tammy came along only last spring, then I met you, Chris.” “Number four in the chain!” she half screamed. “Ssh, Chris. I was a virgin until I was twenty-three. Some of that famous Mormon above-the-waist-petting took place, of course, not that being a late bloomer is anything to brag about. I was just screwed up, but it’s more than you can say. How about your missionary? You make it with him?” “Last year we had a thing for each other … a couple of times, I guess.” “See, the jerk probably screwed half the girls in Salt Lake, all the willing ones, the kind good Mormon boys don’t want to marry, and now he is called by the Lord, lying to his bishop in the interview, like so many. He’ll return and have only a virgin to wife and sanctimoniously criticize all sexual perversions and excesses of his day, damn! Those little hypocrites piss me off!” He was getting too loud; the lady customer looked his way. “Mark, cool it, cool it.” He propped his elbows on the counter, rested his forehead on his palms, and stood motionless for a while, slowly grinding his teeth before concluding, “This is what the missionary thing has come to, just a rite of age.” “Funny that a question on practical matters is coming from Ms. Impractical here, but where is the money coming from for your venture? Can you all your ladies in one of those hick towns? They couldn’t get jobs. Is a leather shop going to be successful?” He looked up. “We’ll try. Maybe get into something else, but we want to be together, and we need space, Tammy’s pregnant.” Chris gulped. Taking no notice, he continued, “I want land to grow vegetables, have some animals. Have you ever read Thoreau’s Walden? How much does one need to sustain life? To be happy we don’t need all their materialistic trappings and toys. We’ll work with our hands and stimulate our minds, read literature, philosophy, write poetry, Somerset Maugham wrote that the crown of literature is poetry. ‘It is its end and aim,’ he believed, the ‘sublimest activity of the human mind’ and the ‘achievement of beauty.’ I agree with him that ‘the writer of prose can only step aside when the poet es.’” Without pause for her to consider this weighty

concept, he rushed on. “We’ll live close to nature and study her ways.” He sighed. “Jeneane has a little money coming in. Her father set up an irrevocable trust that brings her $400 per month. Needless to say, her family is incensed that she would so readily contribute that money to our cause. But to hell with all those blind people, warmongers, liars, hypocrites. We’ll share equally, live a contemplative existence, and teach love and peace.” The customer left without buying anything, and Jeneane ed them. “Have you decided to accept our life, Chris?” “Not yet.” Jeneane affectionately tugged at Mark’s beard. “If you can master thyself, the evil of jealousy, and give of thyself, you would never be sorry.” Clasping Mark’s hand, she continued, “He will guide us in correct thinking and living.” “Well, I’ll see you before you leave. I have to go now,” Chris reed, rushing from the shop wondering about Jeneane’s biblical thyself’s.

**********

The farewell of young Elder Richard (up to now Ritchie) J. Fields varied little from all the others Chris had attended. Elder Fields’s parents each spoke briefly, his cousin delivered the invocation, and his ten-year-old sister “favored those gathered” with a simple arrangement of Lizts’s Liebestraum with only three mistakes serious enough to make her frown. The ward bishop spoke of the young man’s intelligence and morality, his cleanliness and worthiness in body and soul. He had, the bishop assured the congregation, “been preparing himself for this moment all his life” and “stood chaste and pure before the Lord.” Nineteen-year-old Elder Fields, who for the past week had been living in the mission home in Salt Lake City where he had been set apart for his calling by an apostle, received daily instruction in the gospel and high-pressure methods of teaching it, attended testimony meetings, borne his own feeble witness to the truth of Mormonism (but he knew that testimony would grow, he said), been

initiated into the mysteries of the temple, and been granted the privilege of wearing for the rest of his life the sacred garment (sold only at Zions Cooperative Mercantile Institution [ZCMI]), addressed for twenty minutes the Saints of his ward, visiting friends, and family. He loved the congregation (“especially my parents for sacrificing to make this possible”) and the gospel, he said, and, as all expected, gave testimony of some things he “knew beyond the shadow of a doubt to be true” (and that he had heard during his lifetime hundreds of others say): (1) that Joseph Smith and all presidents of the church who had followed him were true prophets of God; (2) that the prophet Joseph had restored the gospel in this last dispensation of the fullness of times (he wasn’t sure he could explain that term); (3) that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the only true one; (4) that Jesus was the Christ (never mind that he didn’t know what that meant); and (5) that if he would be diligent in work and prayer, the Lord would reward him for his labors with baptisms. (He did not say that twice in the temple he had to suppress carnal thoughts of Chris Howe’s body and that, more than once, he had wondered if he would miss the drinking parties of his fraternity at the University of Utah.) Suddenly, flooded with confidence, even ecstasy (must surely be the workings of the Holy Spirit), that any worldly delights of the flesh would be far sured in intensity by the thrill of harvesting souls, he ended his remarks with a ionate (and standard), “And I say these things in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus the everlasting Christ, amen.” Like a Greek chorus, the congregation echoed a loud, “Amen.” As the audience stood singing the closing hymn, I’ll Go Where You Want Me To Go Dear Lord (“Over mountains, plain, or sea”), Chris pondered the Mormon matrix. How many other “little hypocrites” (to use Mark’s term) among them, no doubt the sincere, were sprouting the ingrained phrases this Sunday evening in wards all over the nation turned out like robots to perform their rites of manhood. Jews had their bar mitzvahs, Mormons their missions. She made a long-debated decision. She knew their way. Now she would try Mark’s … and Louisa’s.

**********

Chris had phoned Mark on Sunday after the missionary farewell testimonial. Now, three days later, as the two of them were entering the living room of the Howes’ residence, she recalled her words, “Mark, if you’ll still have me, you know the decision has been agonizing because of my family, my education. So much is involved, I want you and your way.” Nothing, nobody could stop her, but as a gesture of politeness and hoping to minimize the shock, she had decided to introduce Mark to her parents and announce that they were “getting married.” She had asked them to stay home around seven o’clock because she wanted them to meet “a special boyfriend.” She had told Mark a few things about her parents: Moroni was an upper echelon church official, her mother, Jane, a descendant of that pioneer apostle, Thomas O. Edwards, the one who had nearly as many wives as Brigham Young; Jane and Moroni were distantly related. Mark had known all his life of the prominent Brother Moroni Howe and his wife. He did not fear the meeting; he had met so many of the “General Authorities” of the church, but he disliked facing what would surely be an antagonistic encounter. He resolved not to begin any heavy discussion or arguments, but if challenged, he would “tell it like it is,” and Brother Howe was bound to challenge, maybe even in the courts. Moroni and Jane were awaiting them; neither suspected that Chris had been dating Mark, but Moroni knew that a young apostate was practicing polygamy and had been called before a bishop’s court. Once he and Jane had discussed the situation. “Terrible,” he had said, “how Satan tempts our finest and brightest young men and some of them follow his promptings. Why, Jane, why?” “Mother, Daddy, I’d like you to meet Mark Spencer.” Mark walked past the baby grand piano to shake the hands of his future in-laws, who both stood to greet him. Gingerly, Jane extended her small, white hand to the hirsute young man, hoping that the physical would not contaminate her. Moroni gripped Mark’s hand in the firm, finger-breaking Mormon manner. “How do you do, Mark?” “Fine, sir, I’m pleased to meet you. Chris has spoken of you several times and, of course, before I met her, I knew who you were.” He certainly wasn’t going to address them as “Brother” and “Sister.” “That pleases me,” Moroni answered. “Won’t you sit down?”

Chris ed Mark on a Mediterranean-style sofa. “I take it you are studying here at the university, Mark?” “Just a moment, Moroni dear,” Jane interrupted. “Mark, what would you like to drink? I baked cookies today. We have 7 Up, Coke.” “A Coke would be fine, Mrs. Howe.” “That okay with everybody?” Noting no disapproval, she walked to the kitchen. “No, sir, I’m not a student right now, at least a formal one, I always study. I took courses at the university, but now I have a leather shop.” “Where’s that?” “Down on Third South, not the best location, but it will do for now.” “No no,” Moroni responded, thinking of the sleaziness of that part of the city— drunks, prostitutes, drugs. “Please help yourself to the cookies,” Jane encouraged, returning from the kitchen carrying a large tray. “I always try to have plenty on hand for the grandchildren.” “How many do you have, Mrs. Howe?” “Our son and his wife have five. Claire, our daughter, has only three, but she’s just twenty-five and plans to have a large family.” She looked at Chris, hoping that she would not choose this moment to criticize again the church’s advocacy of big families and strong opposition to birth control. Why couldn’t Chris understand that celestial spirits needed bodies? “Claire Howe … Claire Howe … You know, that rings a bell. I her now. Claire was a cheerleader at Olympus High when I was in high school up at Davis, almost as beautiful as Chris,” Mark laughed weakly. “Yes, she was vice president of the student body too. We’ve always been so proud of her. She’s in the junior league and recently was made president of her stake Relief Society. She’s married to the son of Apostle Lyman Q. Siebs, you

know.” “No, I didn’t, but I met Apostle Siebs once in Holland.” “Yes. Our son-in-law is a member of his stake high council.” She bubbled on as though she had not heard Mark’s comment. “Yes, well, that’s very fine, Mrs. Howe. I’ve already told Chris what I think of Apostle Siebs.” Chris pinched herself to avoid laughing. “What ward do you belong to, Mark?” Moroni asked. “I moved here from Kaysville a while ago. I guess I’m in the Second Ward of the Westview Stake.” “You’re not very active, Mark?” Jane inquired. “I mean you’re not sure what ward you belong to?” It didn’t take long, Chris thought; soon it would all be over. She gripped Mark’s knee and awaited his answer. “No, Mrs. Howe, I’m not.” “They should have got you right out into the mission field, son, a few years ago. That’s the best testimony builder there is.” True to his self-avowal to give measure for measure, Mark replied, “I was a missionary in the Netherlands. That’s how I met Siebs, but I didn’t complete the entire thirty months.” “My goodness,” Jane sounded alarmed. “Did you become so ill?” “No, ma’am. I just could not believe most of the doctrine nor could I see how a twenty-year-old, half-educated boy could tell Europeans, most of whom had more knowledge and experience, how to live, to ‘call them to repentance,’ as our mission president was fond of saying.” Jane put her napkin and cookie in her lap. Moroni shifted in his chair to set himself for the conflict. He had argued it all so many times; this boy would be a pushover, and more than likely he could quickly bring him back to the straight

and narrow path from which he’d strayed. He relished arguing religion, a modern Cid conquering the heathen. “Mark, I vaguely recall your case now. We keep close watch on the missions, a principle function of the First Quorum of Seventy. Your president refused an early release, if I’m not mistaken, so you risked breaking your parents’ hearts and departed.” “Yes, sir, and we’ve all adjusted now. Of course, I know that judged by your value system one can’t be a fine, upstanding son unless he’s a good Mormon.” “Young man, had I been the mission president, I may well have beaten some sense into you.” Chris noticed Mark become tense. “Would you really have been so foolish, so childish, sir?” He paused momentarily, thinking. “I guess many in the church have always opted for violence.” Moroni threateningly moved forward on his chair. “Dear.” Jane arose, walked to her husband’s side, and put her left arm around him. “I’m sure Mark forgot to beseech our Heavenly Father about his dilemma. He hears and answers prayers, Mark. Did you to get on your knees and ask him?” “Night and day for a while, Mrs. Howe. It wasn’t my intention to leave the mission field, but there was never an answer.” He looked pensive. “Maybe God just wasn’t with me. Once I blessed a lady in the hospital, anointed her with consecrated oil, told her she’d get well, the next day she died.” “For your heart was turned to stone and your mind possessed by Satan,” Moroni thundered. “You were arrogant and lost the spirit of the work!” “Moroni dear, please don’t get so upset,” Jane pleaded. “You’re not as young as you used to be.” “I’ll always be young enough to combat Lucifer, Jane, wherever and whenever he sends his hordes against me. I belong to the legions of the Almighty Father.” “Mr. Howe, I didn’t come here to argue. In fact, I didn’t want to come, but Chris

pleaded, and so I’m here.” “Daddy, you see, Mark and I …” “No, wait, Chris, I want to know just which aspects of the truth this apostate cannot accept.” “I never know where to start to answer that one,” Mark replied, “but in a word, the theology is a pseudo-theology, extremely naive, ludicrous to a bona fide theologian.” “The ways of God are simple, not like the complicated sophistries of those Catholic priests and wordly philosophers. Truth is always simple!” The voice that had dominated so many board meetings, lectured U.S. soldiers, and onished countless gatherings of Saints, was at its domineering best. “Nor do I like the fact that the church is a dictatorship.” “Nonsense. Each year, every official from the president on down is voted on by every member in wards throughout the world, by voice vote, that’s true democracy.” “No, not voted on, in Mormon democracy, the slate of names is sustained. I never saw anyone raise his hand to object. They have the same system in Russia.” “How Satan has twisted your thinking that you could confuse communism with our Father’s perfect system of government. That’s how the Lord wants it, young man.” Moroni was calmer now. He felt the comforting glow of knowing the Almighty was on his side, no matter what the boy might say. “And the church’s position on blacks which seems to make God a bigot?” “Mark, you know as well as I do that the present status of the Negro is due to his vacillation in the preexistence, even before this world was formed. We read in the Doctrine and Covenants that there”—Moroni looked stern, assured; scripture authenticated what he was saying—“were various degrees of devotion manifested by the Lord’s spirit children. One-third of those spirit offspring were rebellious, and they were cast out, never to receive bodies. They are the devil and his followers who, as evil angels, have tempted mortals throughout the ages.

The other two-thirds affirmed their loyalty to Christ; the Negro belongs among those two-thirds.” Pleased with himself, he looked to his wife for approval; she nodded in agreement. “But the Negro was less valiant and obedient than others of those two-thirds such as the house of Israel or those who have become God’s true prophets, or even us who have been born into the church. Therefore, the Negro had spiritual restrictions placed upon him during mortality during his existence on this earth. As you know, the Negro spirits are sent to earth through the lineage of Cain and bear the Mark that God put upon him for slaying his brother, Abel—a black skin. He paused to emphasize the self-evidence of this simple truth. “The Negro is denied the priesthood throughout mortality. He may be baptized but can under no circumstances be ordained to the priesthood, and of course, we don’t seek out Negro converts. He is not, however, punished for all eternity. Our prophets have taught that in the next world the black man may inherit the Celestial Kingdom and be ordained to the highest order of the Melchizedek priesthood.” “That must be comforting to blacks,” Mark said in a sarcastic tone. “Several have sought us out, accepted the conditions, and ed the church. Now what are your other points of disagreement?” Moroni could not foresee that it would not be long before the church would again be forced to bow to pressure from Washington and from the citizenry of the country in general; the civil rights movement would affect it, along with the rest of the nation. A revelation would be forthcoming that the time had come to offer the black man not only hip in the church, but also in both priesthoods. Blacks would no longer have to wait for the next world, and the church would hear far fewer protests from civil rights organizations. God works in a strange way, indeed, his wonders to perform. “I could go on for some time,” Mark coldly replied. “There is the church’s of war, the second-class status of women, the bastardized Masonic rites of the temple, the …” “Now listen here, no woman in this church is in any way oppressed by any doctrine, by any church position.” “Can they hold the priesthood?” “Of course not,” Jane eagerly jumped in. “God has reserved that for men, but we

women participate in it through our husbands. They cannot reach the Celestial Kingdom without us, for they would be childless.” “That’s what I mean. You’re just baby-making machines.” “Mark, I have never felt that I was not a complete individual and much, much more of a participant than your crude comment implies.” “I see,” he answered heatedly. “Tell me, Mr. Howe, how you can justify the Vietnam War? You know, as a businessman exploiting the masses for your own enrichment and as a colonel ing war, I guess you symbolize the things I dislike most about America besides embodying my criticisms of the church.” Moroni was now incensed; Mark had hit some raw nerves. However, he controlled his temper. The impudent snot nose needed a thrashing, but he would see to it that he got worse. He would advise Mark’s bishop to excommunicate him. He had heard enough to give good cause. “Mark, how would you feel about losing your hip in the church, being excommunicated, cut off from all blessings?” Mark was laughing. “I’ve already been notified to appear before a bishop’s court. It must really get to them. To cut somebody off messes up those hip figures they brag about so much.” Suddenly Moroni realized who Mark was. “You’re the polygamist hippie, huh?” “That’s what some say.” “Oh no, dear God,” Jane cried out, gasping and holding her left hand to her mouth. “Chris,” Moroni yelled as he rose from his chair. “Why have you soiled my house with this depraved apostate fornicator?” The others stood up. “This is what you call a ‘special boyfriend’? I can’t believe that my daughter, brought up in the gospel and given everything would stoop so low as to crawl in the gutter with this … this …”

Mark stood silently, his eyes fixed on Moroni’s large fists. Then he heard Chris at his side, screaming. “Daddy, you really have guts. You damned hypocrite! Hypocrite! You’re the descendant of a polygamist yourself. You’re the grandson of Joseph Smith! I love Mark as Louisa loved him, and I’m going with him. I believe all that he says and despise everything you are!” She grabbed Mark’s hand and pulled him from the living room and out the door. By the time Moroni and Jane got outside, the taillights of the Porsche were rapidly moving down the street.

**********

“Chris, slow down. Slow down. You’ll kill us!” She released the pressure on the accelerator and took a deep breath. He leaned over and kissed her neck. “It’s okay. Relax now. We’re out of there.” “Aren’t they horrible? I tried to do it right … to introduce you.” “Chris, what did you expect? That whole generation is snakebitten, but especially Mormons are fucked up. They don’t know any better. Your parents have been led through the cradle to grave lockstep system, christening and baptism in the church, Sunday school, and midweek primary as children, then Aaronic priesthood for the boys at age twelve, and Mutual Improvement Association meetings for both sexes, along with a patriarchal blessing, during high school, released time classes at the church seminary conveniently located next to the school, then the higher Melchizedek priesthood for the boys and a mission, also for those girls who can’t get husbands.” Chris smiled. “Return from the mission, marriage in the temple, and creating more Mormons to be put through the same. Funny, really, that anyone here in Utah ever breaks out of the mold.”

“So what do we do now? If you want me tonight, Mark, I’ll come to you.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “No, Chris, you’ll have to go back home and get some of your things, smooth over this fuss a bit, tell them , or maybe just leave a note. I should do it. Maybe it seems cowardly, but you can see that it would be impossible for me to speak with them. Your dad might kill me, who knows? Then in a day or two, you and I can make our vows to each other.”

XXVIII

It Will All Work Out

In a candlelight setting at Jeneane’s apartment with Sandra, Jeneane, and Tammy as witnesses and sharing sisters in the pact, Chris and Mark pledged to love each other throughout the eons. All four women dressed in granny dresses, their hair hanging loose and straight, encircled Mark with their arms entwined while he read to Chris the oath he had composed for his ladies:

I promise thee, Mark Herbert Spencer, that I Christine Anne Howe, do pledge to thee love and fidelity throughout this life, and if there be existence beyond the grave, to remain thine in the world to come. I forswear the use of any drugs that might harm my body and shall devote my life to contemplation, creativity, and the pursuit of knowledge, truth, and love. I shall not pursue materialistic and frivolous goals and shall be a living symbol of love and peace. Ignorance, bias, and prejudice, I pledge to combat with

all my energy, and I shall cooperate with Mark Spencer and my sharing sisters in all things.

Chris repeated each line slowly. When she was finished, first Mark, then each of the girls kissed her. The sharing sisters escorted the couple to the bedroom they had prepared for them, kissed both Mark and Chris, then departed.

**********

“Let’s hope this VW bus holds together for a while,” Mark commented to Sandra. “We’ve always got Chris’s Porsche.” “Sure, but that’s worthless for transporting anything. She and Tammy are right behind us again. We present a comical sight—this wreck and that silver beauty traveling together.” “Yeah, the guy at the last service station was quite intrigued. I suppose the Porsche could be traded in on a new VW bus or some other kind of van.” “I’d hate to do that to Chris.” “She mustn’t be attached to material goods, Mark.” Jeneane spoke up from the back of the bus where she had just changed Sandra’s baby. “True.” On the late September day, the two-vehicle caravan had been traveling rather slowly since morning down US 89 from Salt Lake City to Provo and on through the little farming communities of Thistle, Mt. Pleasant, and Manti where the tenderly cared for temple and its impeccably landscaped grounds occupied a dominant location on a knoll. From there, they continued on to Gunnison, Salina,

Richfield, and Big Rock Candy Mountain where Tammy, who had never seen it, affirmed that the multicolored mountain did indeed look like candy. Now, in the late afternoon, they were nearing Dixie and thinking of stopping for the night. Mark motioned to Chris in the Porsche to follow him into a campsite that he saw just ahead. The vehicles pulled up near a picnic table and stopped. Chris and Tammy got out of the Porsche and stretched; Tammy hurried to help the VW crew who were already getting out the large three-burner Coleman stove and food. Was this really happening to Chris Howe? To the little rich girl who, once in the middle of a discussion about gas price wars, had stopped all conversation by arrogantly saying, “My daddy causes them?” Was she so humbled? Had she left her family behind forever? She looked at the girls bustling with dinner preparations: Sandra Mosse, at twenty-three, the eldest, slightly plump, rather short, maybe five feet three inches, blond, blue-eyed, a bit bossy, a mother, she came from a large middleclass family of devout Mormons; Jeneane Walter, just her age, nineteen, the darkest, the most beautiful, thin, tall, graceful, spirited, feisty, an only child with well-to-do parents; Tammy Erikson, blond like Sandra with big blue eyes and freckles, also very pretty, just a little taller than Sandra, a mild-mannered girl, gentle and sweet, four months pregnant, her mother widowed with two sons younger than Tammy. Did they all love Mark as much as she did? What were they doing here? How different had it been for Louisa? What would the future bring? “Chris, would you please get us some water? I see a hand pump over there.” Sandra motioned to the north near a clump of cottonwoods. As they sat eating the simple meal of hamburgers, potato salad, corn, melon and coffee, Mark asked, “Hey did everybody see that old chap hitchhiking back there by Circleville?” “Chris and I wished we’d had room. He was so cute,” Tammy answered. Very soberly Mark announced, “He was one of the three Nephites.” All laughed gleefully. “Listen, I tell you that down here we are really in the tall tale country of Mormondom. These hicks see the Nephites all over the place and still experience

glossalia. The farm boys from down here are something else in the mission field. In Holland, they were like bulls in a China shop—usually very good-hearted but so damned naive!” “Of course, most of the big Indian battles took place down here too, you know,” Sandra said. “And don’t forget that our most famous outlaw, Butch Cassidy, called this region home,” Chris added. “Should we call it home also?” Mark asked. “This is one of the two possible areas I had picked out. There is a hell of a tourist business here in the summer with Bryce and Zion National Parks being so close.” “But winter is nearly upon us already,” Jeneane said, “and they’re long and hard down here.” “Right, but I’ve checked this area out a couple of times, and it has two things going for it. First, an Indian lady who operates a jewelry and rug store on Main Street in Dixie is willing to sell out for very little down payment and carry us for a while. We can add leather goods to her stock and maybe do pretty well. Then too, there is a little old ramshackle farmhouse with six acres of land for sale only six miles east of here on the road to Bryce and Escalante. I’d prefer staying here instead of going on to the other place I looked at over on the Arizona border.” “I’d prefer a warmer spot,” Jeneane said. “How about the rest of you?” “I’ll follow your wishes, Mark,” Tammy spoke up. “I’m for staying here, at least for now,” Sandra said. “Chris?” “We’re only four or five hours from Salt Lake. That doesn’t put a great distance between us and persecution. I also wonder how the people here will accept us. Hell, the only non-Mormons they know are outsiders.” “We’re a kind of Mormons, I guess,” Tammy opined.

“I’ll follow your choice, Mark,” Chris finalized. “Good, we can camp here for tonight, and in the morning, I’ll go talk with Mrs. Brown. Can you image an Indian with such an unexotic name? I’ll also check again with the realtor on that farmhouse. I warn you, it needs a hell of a lot of work. I’m not even sure that the well works anymore, but what’s really important on both deals is that we don’t need much down payment. Obviously I’m not going to mention all of you, I’ll just say I’m married.” “Mark,” Jeneane inquired, “just how much money do we have?” “Chris sold those four $1,000 government bonds. They were worth just a little less than that, $3,700. She has more, but they’re in her father’s safe deposit box or with his attorney.” “Of course, we had a little over one thousand saved up, didn’t we?,” Sandra asked. “Yeah, $1,350. I also have a lot of leather goods and leather to work with.” “My four hundred will be coming in each month,” Jeneane added. “I have a trust that dear Daddy can’t touch,” Chris said, “that will add about two hundred and ten. I only wish I could get the other stuff in my name. Shit! He’ll probably go change it all. I have some General Motors, AT&T, Utah Construction, General Electric, and something else, but of course, he always handled all that, or at least our ant did. Now I don’t know what the hell will happen.” “We have enough to get into both properties,” Mark assured them. “We can put the whole $4,050 into them because we can live on Jeneane’s and Chris’s trusts until the shop starts making money.” “Yeah, but we have to fix that old dump up … and soon,” Jeneane reminded. “It will all work out, baby. It will all work out. Trust me. Now let’s clean this mess up and have our study session. I’ll get the Coleman light and Plato.”

**********

Mark and the sharing sisters worked very hard; by mid-October, they had made the farmhouse barely livable, and Mark had earned enough in the shop to cover the mortgage payment on it for that month. The girls lived together rather harmoniously, considering that the experience was new to them. Daily, they reminded each other of the vows of mutual love and devotion they had taken, and each evening, they studied and meditated under Mark’s guidance. By weeks they took turns cooking and tending little Jeffrey, and two always helped Mark in the shop. So far, Mark had successfully ed off Chris, Tammy, and Jeneane as friends of his wife, Sandra, who were staying with them. Until they were better established, they had decided to practice birth control. Only Jeneane caused them some concern; she had complained of hardships more than the others and once talked of returning to her parents’ home. They worried too that parents had not molested them, no court orders, no police problems. The quiet was disconcerting. Of course, they had not reported their whereabouts to anyone except Susan Astete, but how long could they remain here undiscovered? All had phoned home to report they were alive and well and to learn of a possible change of attitude by their parents. Mark’s and Sandra’s parents and Tammy’s mother were hurt and shamed but resigned. They had learned, however, from a phone conversation with Susan that the Walters and the Howes had ed forces to attempt to free their daughters from the clutches of the diabolical sex pervert. Mark had purchased a shotgun, a six-shooter, and a 30.06 rifle; for some time he had kept his .22 caliber rifle at the shop. As a man of peace, he had no intent to use any of them, but perhaps the sight of them would deter a foe.

**********

“So, Moroni, what can I offer you?” “Oh, don’t bother to get up, Melissa.” “Hells bells, man, I’m no invalid, you know. Just became my legs are a bit weak. How about some Halloween candy? I understand that some of the children of the

ward are going to be brought up to visit us isolated old folks tomorrow evening, so I laid in a supply, or better still, I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” “Melissa, don’t talk such nonsense; you know I don’t violate the Word of Wisdom.” “Oh, Moroni, I a time when you might have been tempted.” “Now, sister, you know I didn’t come over here to discuss the good old days or to drag old cows out of the slough about what you did, and I did, and all of that.” “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I’m wondering why you did come, concerns Chris, I guess. Have you heard from her?” “Yes, she has phoned. We know she’s just down in Dixie. I’ve informed the stake president down there about the mess. He says Mark, that’s the pervert …” “I know his name.” “Yes, well, he says that this Spencer has told people that Chris and two others are friends of the one he’s calling wife.” “Can’t really prove anything yet, then?” “No, but we’ll rout them soon. I sat in on the bishop’s court that excommunicated him a couple of weeks ago. I had much to say, much to say.” “I’m sure you did, Moroni.” “Look, I’ll get straight to the point.” He cleared his throat. “You have bequeathed your share of the family inheritance and whatever else you have to Chris.” He looked straight at her. “I think under the circumstances you should change that. You wouldn’t want that hippie fornicator squandering our family money.” Melissa didn’t reply immediately; she sat looking at her brother, studying him. “You and that little girl were as close as any father and daughter, Moroni. She came to you late in life, and you spoiled her. How you lavished love and money! And now you are going to withdraw both … when she has the greatest need?”

“That deluded disciple of Lucifer will not receive from me, Melissa! Chris has already given him bonds, and I can do nothing about an irrevocable trust. Another member of his harem, a Walter girl, has a similar income. He seeks them out!” “I’m not talking about him. I’m referring to Chris … to your flesh and blood.” “Don’t you see? He gets it! As to love, of course we still love her, and we are repaid with shame by her debasement.” Melissa could not control the shaking of her hands. “I’ll not change anything, dear brother, nothing!” The words came slowly, clearly enunciated, “What’s mine will someday be hers, and I’ll try to help her now too.” “Still as stubborn as always. It’s to spite me that you won’t change your will. You want to put the prominent businessman, a pillar of this community, in his place.” “Moroni, don’t be such an egotistical fool. Give her a chance. I give Chris credit for having a lot of good sense. She’s a very bright young woman, you know. If this Spencer is simply debauched and worthless, she’ll leave him soon enough, and if he is a sincere young man committed to his way of life, living with him may not be all that bad for her.” “Melissa, he’s been excommunicated!” he yelled, half rising from this chair. “He doesn’t accept the gospel. He ridicules it-. He ridiculed me!” “Oh settle down. I’m not much of a Mormon myself, and nobody ever mentioned excommunication to me.” “You’re just weak and ornery and stubborn.” “Delude yourself as you will about me, Moroni, but have you forgotten that our own LDS people lived in polygamy and were persecuted for it? Now you’re doing the same thing.” “That was different … with the sanction of the Almighty.” “Oh, poppycock! And what about our family?”

“I suppose you mean that Joseph Smith rumor again. Other familes in Salt Lake have the same legend.” He swallowed. “Did you tell Chris it was true? She screamed something to me about being the prophet’s grandson.” “Moroni, you are … Grandma swore it to me before she died, I thought it might help Chris. She was so confused, so I broke my oath to Louisa and told her.” “Be it true or the wishful thinking of an old lady is irrelevant right now, and the church records are not accurate on all of those early sealings. Your telling Chris probably encouraged her to run off!” “Nonsense. If she had not wanted the boy, she would not have left to marry him.” “Marry him?” “Yes, she phoned me too, Moroni. I should have told you. There was some kind of ceremony between them.” “Oh, a cover-up for fornication.” “You know, dear brother,” her tone was icy, “if you persist in this fanatical persecution of your daughter who is in no way evil, or criminal, there is much more I could tell her.” “About Grandpa’s marriage to the half-breed?” “Yes, but more importantly, I could tell her why you were so old when you married. Maybe many of your fellow big shots in the church don’t fully understand that either. I vividly those letters that came from some fifty years ago when the dough boy, Captain Howe, was writing of the ‘fine young woman,’ Evette Boissex, whom he was sure he could convert eventually, but perhaps would marry in a civil ceremony for the time being. Papa was fit to be tied. Jerome Howe’s son considering marriage to a gentile!” She paused to let her words sink in. “I don’t know what you and your mademoiselle did, but I suppose you’d have her today if Papa hadn’t threatened to cut you off from the family, and our money, and maybe the church for the suspected sin of—, Moroni— fornication.”

“Oh, Melissa,” came the quick reply, “the years have distorted your memory. Why, as far as any sexual misconduct goes, I’ve been true to the precepts of the gospel and loyal to my Jane.” “Only you, and Evette Boissex, will ever know, Moroni, but I do know that it took some years for that broken heart to mend and for you to start courting your Jane Edwards, long after your dashing days of wild oats.” She leaned far out in her chair toward him. “Now why don’t you think about that before you cast stones at Chrisie?” His response was immediate. “I never denied or blasphemed the gospel.” “Moroni, my dear brother, she’s your baby girl. I’ve spoken with Jane. She’s not anxious to change wills and financial arrangements. She’s deeply troubled about Chrisie’s soul. Here you are a general authority of the church and apparently chiefly concerned about money.” For a time he was silent; then he stood and walked to the large windows that gave Melisssa a view of the city to the south, west, and east. It was dark, and the lights of Salt Lake emphasized its rectangular streets. State Street extended broad and straight as far as the eye could see to the south toward Provo, toward Dixie, toward Chris. Moroni gazed out the window for a while and then turned to his sister. “I do worry about her. I suppose that hovel they’re living in doesn’t have adequate heat. She’s had an easy life. Of course she has that Howe flintiness in her. She’ll survive.” “Or Bidwell and Smith flintiness, Moroni,” “Um … yes … well … maybe I’ll hold off for a while on some of these changes. We’ll pray for her at home and in the temple. Often the disaffected return.”

XXIX

My Place Will Always Be at His Side

Already mid-December! I wish Daddy’s prediction that Chris would return by Thanksgiving had been fulfilled,” Claire said, “then we wouldn’t be making this little trip.” “She could make it by Christmas. I think the return of the Walter girl last week might inspire Chris,” Charles answered as he sat comfortably steering his new, dark blue Cadillac El Dorado along U.S. 89 South. “Chuck, you really don’t know Chris that well, do you? She is so stubborn! Even though, as Jeneane told Mother, they are going to freeze to death down there in Dixie, Chris would never it she was wrong. She’ll choose freezing!” “Maybe, but that one has abandoned the mess is a good sign.” “The least we can do is talk with her, but I don’t like leaving my children overnight, especially this time of year.” “We may return tonight.” “Good. I worry about snow storms. Why does Chris have to be such a problem? Must be the times we are living in. Satan tries the choicest spirits most.” “He certainly does. The gospel, the plan of salvation, are everything to me.” He paused, as though thinking for a moment. “I could never follow the path of unrighteousness that Chris is walking.” “Our Latter-day Saint concept of the family is sacred to me, Chuck. Chris must return to the family unit. Bob has placed her name in the temple for daily blessings in the prayer circles.”

“You married well, Claire. Bob’s future is bright. Through diligence and obedience he’ll attain high office, may even become an apostle like his father.” “Oh, that would be so grand. Such a great blessing that I don’t dare to dwell on it. Our Heavenly Father might think me too vain if I desire such a position for my husband too strongly, but I do pray that he’ll be worthy.”

**********

“She always bitched about the cold and what she termed ‘primitive conditions,’ Chris. Why do you keep wondering why she left? I’ve told you repeatedly that few can break out of the mold. Jeneane was an only child, spoiled, rich, and unable to be completely intellectually honest. She even started hating our study sessions.” “I’ll never desert you, Mark. I’m glad she’s gone, I guess, except for her money. After all, she was the prettiest.” “Chris!” “I know, I know we are to share, fight jealousy, and all of that, but I could take care of you by myself. With Jeneane gone, I enjoy the more frequent moments we have alone together here in the shop. Haven’t I surprised you? I mean for a little rich girl and all?” “Yes, I suppose you have.” He put down the leather tool with which he had just stamped a design on a belt and walked the few feet to where Chris was dying some leather barrettes. He bent and kissed her. “You are proving to be the most loyal, and you are the prettiest. That was true when Jeneane was here too.” Chris smiled. “Sandra keeps talking about going home just long enough to show Jeff to her mother, and Tammy’s immaturity concerns me, as well as the difficult pregnancy she’s experiencing.” He sighed. “You’re the one I can most easily talk to. Maybe it has to do with level of education.” He stopped talking and bit his lip. “I

shouldn’t have said that, makes me a hypocrite, untrue to my own theories on egalitarianism. Anyway,” he said pulling up a chair to sit near Chris, “I have something else to discuss with you, the opposition to us. The Walters’ coming to get Jeneane didn’t help matters. Even the local idiots know, thanks to Brother Moroni Howe as well, that you and Tammy are something more to me than just friends of Sandra. There was that carload of hoods who stopped and screamed obscenities in front of the house, and we’re getting snubbed everywhere, that hurts business this time of year. Tourists don’t know or care, but the local gentry are something else. I really thought maybe we could do our own thing sort of unmolested down here.” He put his right hand on Chris’s. “I’m afraid for our safety.” The sound of the door opening startled them, and they both looked up expecting to see a persecutor. “Oh, Chrisie dear!” Claire rushed to embrace her sister but was thwarted by a counter and a display table. Chris, looking bewildered, rose slowly from her chair. “How are you?” Claire inquired as Chris emerged from the back of the shop, still not hurrying. “I’m okay, Claire. Why? Has Daddy sent you? Where are Bob and the kids?” “Chuck and I drove down, just because we love you, because we’re all worried.” “Worried? If you’re all so concerned, you could send me my money. Finding me wasn’t difficult at all, was it?” “No, the Walter girl told Mother the shop was on the main street.” “Yes, that traitorous little snake. She was loyal in the midst of comfort in Salt Lake.” “You don’t need to say that,” Mark interjected. “Oh, Claire, this is Mark. This is the wild-eyed seducer of innocent maidens.” “Chrisie, I have come a long way. Need I be insulted and ridiculed and treated to sarcasm?” She unbuttoned her coat. “I want only the best for you. I’m getting

warm in here. Chuck’s out in front in the car, he’d like you to come out and talk with him.” “Look, Claire,” Chris snapped, “I don’t want to hear the party line, okay? Anything Chuck or you or Daddy or anybody else has to say, they can say in front of my husband.” She looked at Mark for assurance. “I you, Claire, from high school days,” Mark broke in. “I’m from Kaysville, but I saw you at games and dances. It was an exciting night out when we’d venture the thirty or so miles to attend high school or church functions in the big city.” He chuckled nervously. Without giving Claire a chance to respond to Mark’s statement, Chris said, “Claire, I tell you what. You and Chuck come out to our place. Would you like me to say ‘pad’? We can talk there openly where my sisters and Mark can hear all. I have no secrets from them.” She turned to Mark. “Shop closed for the day? It’s time for lunch anyway. Claire and Chuck will appreciate vegetable soup and homemade bread.” “All right, I’ll buy that,” Mark answered. “Imagine, a man my age acting out some fantasy,” Claire remarked to Charles as they drove out east on the road to Bryce Canyon National Park. “Chris looked all right?” “Yes, I told you. She looked healthy but silly in her poorly fitting granny dress, and her hair was stringy.” She sighed. “What a cute girl she was in high school, to think this could happen.” “Does she have the Porsche?” “No, as I was leaving their Indian junk store, she muttered something about having traded it in on the VW bus we’re following.” “It appears to be new.” “I suppose. Oh, how dreadful all of this is. Look! That’s the dump, they’re turning in.”

Charles steered the Cadillac into the long driveway from which little snow had been removed. “Hope we don’t get stuck.” “They’ve got so much more snow down here than we do. Charles, just look at that hovel!” The house stood unprotected, its shabbiness exposed in the harshness of winter. Only the bottom half of the west and south sides had been painted yellow. Clear pieces of plastic served as storm windows. Hastily, with strips of plywood, Mark had nailed the thin plastic to the casings. The house was large, two stories plus an attic, but some of the roof beams were rotted, causing the roof to sag, and several floor joists were weak. The foundation, however, was fortress-like, constructed of local sandstone. Considering that the dwelling was nearly a hundred years old, it was fairly sound. In a more fashionable part of the country where restoration was in vogue, it would have euphemistically been termed charming, but in the bleakness of the seven thousand-foot plateau on this cold December day, Charles and Claire did not so describe it. “Please come in,” Chris invited, “but be careful of the wooden porch. We know it’s rotting and usually enter through the kitchen door. In the spring we’ll fix it. We started too late this year.” She went ahead to test the planks. “I’m anxious for you to meet Sandra and Tammy.” Chris’s sharing sisters stood near the door, curious about the strangers who had arrived in the highly polished Cadillac. Jeff, who at fourteen months, was walking very confidently, clung to his mother’s legs, more concerned with the fashionably dressed lady entering the house than with his runny nose. “Claire, Charles, I’d like you to meet Sandra and Tammy. Two wonderful spirits who have not been bewitched by Mr. Spencer.” She faced her comrades, extending her hand. “They are here entirely of their own volition.” Claire could not help staring at the pale, pregnant, and unkept Tammy and at Sandra who looked so stern in her wirerimmed glasses, and she was taken aback at the appearance of Jeff whose upper lip was caked with mucus. The intrusion into their private world had so captivated their attention that none of the women had thought to wipe the child’s nose.

“Sisters, this is my blood sister, Claire, and my brother, Charles.” “How do you do,” Sandra mumbled, and Tammy uttered only a weak hi. “Well, I’m pleased to meet you,” Claire reed, mustering her friendliest tones. “Yes, me too,” Charles added unenthusiastically. His expensive, gray vested suit contrasted with Mark’s denim, wool-lined jacket. “They’re going to have lunch with us,” Chris said, wondering how “Mother” Sandra would react. “I hope we have enough,” Sandra replied as she fixed her eyes on Chris. “You know, ah … Charles and I stopped in Salina for a snack. We’re really not that hungry …” “Oh, I don’t know about that, Claire,” Charles interrupted. “I think I’d like a bite. In the car you mentioned homemade bread. I’ve always had a weakness for that.” Perhaps showing interest in their food would reduce the tension and apprehension he sensed. “We’ll be ready to eat in a minute,” Chris said. “Please sit down here and talk with Mark.” The three sharing sisters walked into the kitchen; Jeff toddled after them, no longer interested in the strange lady. Claire and Charles sat together on an old, red sofa with broken springs. Mark sat opposite them on a wooden chair he had purchased from a family that was moving away from the nearby village of Tropic. A large, brown, braided rug lay in the middle of the room. The dirty, flowered wallpaper was torn away in spots revealing the lathes beneath it. A black, oil burning stove dating from the 1940s stood in the northeast corner; it produced too much heat making the room nearly insufferable. Claire soon removed her coat, and Charles loosened his tie. Mark noted how the eyes of his guests were studying all the imperfections of his home. “They don’t build houses like this anymore,” he announced defensively. “It really has potential, lathe and plaster construction, not dry wall prefabricated stuff.”

“Yes, I noted that,” Charles responded. “Certainly is very warm in here,” Claire added. “That’s good for the baby, I guess.” Mark ignored her comment. “We’ve done a lot here, believe it or not, and come spring we’ll do a lot more.” He decided to shock them a bit. “We’ve got three decent bedrooms, one for each sister, and I’ve fixed some of the plumbing, the toilet works.” “And Mark rigged up a wood burning hot water heater. Have you ever seen one?” Chris asked, walking in from the kitchen. Without waiting for a reply she continued. “It works really great. You can throw coal in it too.” She sat to the right of Mark on a folding chair. “My sisters told me to come in and talk with you. I suppose you came to try to convince me to return home, but you see how very happy I am here, right?” “I can other winters, Sun Valley, Jackson, Alta, the warmth of family gatherings at Christmas time, plenty of love and gifts for Chrisie,” Charles answered. “I don’t miss any of that. It was all phony, the latest ski fashions to impress people … and … and … material things.” She reached for Mark’s near hand. “You see we are sincere, honest, open. We try to understand ourselves. We contemplate and meditate and have shed all capitalistic ways.” Was she being entirely honest? Those ski trips had been a lot of fun and so was university life. She knew she loved Mark, but was she completely converted to his way? He was much more intellectual than she and more of a romantic dreamer. His ideas sounded good, but she knew she did not have sufficient knowledge to challenge them. “Chris is free here to be her own person, you know,” Mark assured them. “Before I ed Mark I did a lot of thinking. It was agonizing, but now I’m more convinced than ever that my choice was the right one. Although we reject Mormonism for the most part, I guess, in a way, we’re living closer to the original Mormon way than you are, more like how our great-grandmother Louisa lived.”

“How can you say that when the Howes have always been such loyal of the church, true to the restored gospel?” Claire asked. “Hey, you guys, we’re ready to eat,” Tammy announced from the kitchen door. “It’s simple, but it’s nourishing.” “A coal-cooking stove?” Claire inquired rhetorically upon entering the kitchen. “That’s right,” Mark confirmed, “and it’s sound as can be. The sisters prepare some terrific meals on it.” Sandra motioned for everyone to be seated at the large round, wooden table. No two chairs were alike, two metal folding, one rickety wooden, four others with high backs in unmatching colors. The kitchen appeared to be in greater disrepair than the living room. Paint was a primary necessity. The linoleum on the floor was yellowed and cracked; near the outside kitchen door a large portion had rotted away exposing the old, slivery flooring. The linoleum on the countertop and around the sink had fared even worse, especially near the water taps where water had frequently not been sponged off. In the warm months, those moist, fetid areas were favorite haunts of earwigs, cockroaches, and their arthropodal kin. A single lightbulb for which Tammy had fashioned a crude shade hung from a cord in the middle of the room. “If you want to bless the food, go ahead,” Mark said to Charles. “I know you’re a bishop. We’re just not into the praying scene at all.” Trained throughout his life to foil the Antichrist, Charles replied, “We’ll pray silently.” “The older I became, the more I despised all that praying at home,” Sandra said. “I my little brother asked my dad once why he talked to the chair all the time. We did the real old-fashioned bit, on the knees for every meal, and also every morning, every evening.” “That’s how we should all do it according to our Heavenly Father,” Claire explained. “We usually don’t bless our food on our knees, but for Bob and me and the children, the finest part of each day is when we kneel together in the evening and commune with our maker.” “I like a saying I picked up in the Netherlands,” Mark responded. “Het vlees is

beter als de been. Many a Dutchman threw that one at me as a reply to my evangelishe botschap—gospel message. I used to puzzle over the meaning, meat, or flesh, is better than the bone. That’s how I feel about prayer. You wait a long time for an answer, I prefer tangibles.” “I did my mission in England,” Charles replied without reacting to the heretical statement. “I see,” Mark answered, “in the best Mormon-good-old-boy tradition. Sons of the hierarchy still get sent to the British Isles, sort of a rite of manhood and college prep course combined.” Charles, who up to now had held his temper, was angered by Mark’s perception. “Missionaries go where the Lord wants them to go,” he snapped, “and you know it.” “Wow! The naïveté of you guys never ceases to amaze me. Are you real? Nietzsche said something about the worth of a spirit being measured by its capacity for enduring the truth. You’d score pretty low I’m afraid.” Charles was now struggling to control himself; once in the mission field, he had struck a man for disagreeing with him. Now he was mature, a bishop, a father, and member of a prominent family in the church and in business. He breathed deeply, thinking. The trip would be in vain if Chris became even more alienated and deepened her allegiance to this creep; he must not make him seem pitiable. “We have the truth, and endure it well, my friend. I don’t put much store in the learned words of a syphilitic philosopher whom Hitler ired.” “Now you’ve revealed your ignorance about Nietzsche.” Mark continued to bait him. “As for Hitler, that poor bastard misunderstood Nietzsche too, like you. Strange, but I think Nietzsche would have compared Mormons to the Germans of his day as he viewed them. ‘Beer and Christianity have dulled the German wit,’ he said. Of course we’d omit the beer. If I may use a Dutch expression again, they call the Germans a kudde volk, a herd people, and that’s what Mormons are, only worse, like open-mouthed cows following without question. Damn that is dangerous!” “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t swear, Mr. Spencer,” Claire said. “You know, I thought you were just a stray, Spencer. Maybe with that

fundamentalist renegade polygamous outfit, the Church of the Firstborn, but I see you’re worse, an atheist even.” “Oh shit, Chuck,” Chris spoke up. “That’s what’s wrong with all of you. You don’t even comprehend what somebody else believes. We’re tired of almost everything Mormon, the constant bragging about their accomplishments, from the broad streets to the number of converts; the violent reaction to criticism; the hyperbole about the marvelous family life when Salt Lake has one of the nation’s highest divorce rates, always being arrogant about being different, being a peculiar people. They are so paranoid! Always persecuted! In Louisa’s day, they weren’t concerned with all of this. Life was simple, they just lived the only way they knew how.” “I agree with Mark,” Tammy contributed. “The Salt Lake hierarchy, isn’t that the word? Keeps everybody singing, dancing, and attending meetings so there’s no time to think.” “It’s a folksy religion that you disciples have to justify and rationalize,” Sandra added. “Mark was pointing out to us that some very highly placed Mormons, some men of national prominence, have written elaborate, even scholarly, defenses and explanations of Mormon teachings. They just don’t have the courage to it it’s all nonsense. No guts. They would have to sacrifice too much. In Utah, good Mormon boys are well-rewarded, and naughty Mormon boys are ostracized.” She stood up and, looking very serious, said,“Develop thy testimony of the truth that thy money and thy prominence mayest multiply.” Only Mark and the sisters laughed. “Oh, Charles,” Claire exclaimed, “Satan has these young people in his power. Perhaps we should go.” “The strength of my priesthood will protect us, Claire.” “Against the bogeyman,” Mark said The sisters tittered. “Can we be serious?” Charles asked. “It seems you’re some kind of new polygamous offshoot. I’d sincerely like to know how you differ.” He knew that the key to vanquishing the enemy was to better understand him.

“We live together here in mutual commitment to truth and to the simple, examined life. We will not be dominated by any authority. Those groups you mention are as dictatorial as the official church itself, maybe even worse.” “Some have been known to murder dissenters and opposers.” “Sure, I know. Smith really started something, didn’t he? Those groups justify their beliefs on the basis of his original teachings of polygamy. Don’t accept the manifesto. See Woodruff as a false prophet. The church keeps it quiet, but more polygamists are active now then when celestial marriage was sanctioned.” He paused, then averred emphatically, “But we’re not into those organizations … No way!” “But, Chris, how can you do this?” Claire asked. She was feeling tired; her tones were no longer sweeet. “Howes, Edwardses, all of our people so struggled to become just the opposite of this, this hopeless, filthy, godless existence! What are you doing to yourself … to us?” Surprisingly, Chris controlled her temper. Slowly, carefully choosing her words, she replied, “My dear sister, I guess polygamy is just in my bones. Why is it different for me than it was for Louisa? Those early Howes and Smiths … surely you know we are Smiths, faced hardships and overcame them one by one. Why can’t we moderns do the same?” “You’re just playing house,” Charles chastised. “As to that persistent Smith rumor, what does it matter? Maybe we are Smiths, and maybe not, I suppose we’ll know after death. What’s more important is what you are doing now, ruining your life by trying to play a role. Are you trying to be our greatgrandmother? One day, you’ll wake up and wonder what you’ve done with your life. Look, we’ve driven down here on our own. Dad hasn’t commissioned the trip. We love you, Chris. Come home with us, just for Christmas, just to compare. It’s not only us, Chris. Melissa would love to see you too.” “No, Charles, I love Mark. Give all of them my regards, and tell Aunt Melissa I really miss her, but my place will always be at his side.” She stood, walked to where Mark sat opposite her, and from behind him draped her arms on his chest.

XXX

Nobody Wants ’Em Here

No, Jake, I don’t like ’em here, not even a little bit. You’re the sheriff. Can’t you haul them in, pester ’em a little,” Carl asked. On this morning of February 7, some of the community leaders sat in the Painted Rocks Café talking; in violation of the Word of Wisdom, three sipped coffee. Jake Karsen had been sheriff for about a year; he was thirty-two, a former missionary to South Dakota, eager to run for higher political office. Carl Hartz, a bishop and owner of a grocery store on Main Street, was this year president of the Lions Club. Al Rogers owned and edited the local newspaper and served as second counselor in the bishopric of his ward; Ed Mayhue owned two service stations, and Arnold Dallinga ran the largest farm in the county. “The stake president, Herb Rundquist, has spoken with Brother Moroni Howe several times on the telephone,” Ed said. “Shouldn’t nothin’ happen to his daughter. Brother Howe just wants to make sure that Spencer gits what’s comin’ to ’im.” “That Spencer’s quite the mouth, sometimes he talks like a damned communist,” Arnold said. “You know, he tries to corner folks to talk about a whole lot a writers and stuff he’s read about.” “He doesn’t just talk. While those silly girls are working for him, he sits on his ass and writes goofy propaganda, challenging the church,” Carl added. “His writing isn’t bad,” Al said, “a pity it’s against the church and unpatriotic.” He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “And you want me to haul him in, Carl, on what charge?” Jake asked. “Seems to me that an article in Al’s paper exposing them might rid us of them faster.”

“Say, that’s a real good idea,” Arnold said, “They’ve got to go one way or another. We can’t have a bunch of polygamists breakin’ the laws of the church the way they are.” “How about it, Al?” Carl pleaded. “You could sign all of our names to it. That way you wouldn’t look like you was the only one again ’em.” “Okay, boys, let me give it some thought. Maybe I’ll write something and let you approve it. Spencer needs to be challenged on those leaflets he’s distributing anyway. I might be sparing him some personal violence by driving him out before some of the young bucks around here do the job with more than a pen. I been hearing some things they’re considering. It isn’t good.”

**********

“How does this sound?” Mark asked the sisters that same day at their evening study session and then proceeded to read them his Challenge to the LDS Church, No. 3, which dealt with “the puerile notion of Satan vs. acceptance of modern studies in psychology and enlightened religion.” “Nearly five hundred years ago the German, Sebastian Brant, and in later times Jonathan Swift,” Mark read aloud, “sneered at the figure of folly (Latin, stultitia) as wickedness. Erasmus of Rotterdam, who penned the Moria Encomium or Praise of Folly, as well as Rabelais found human folly to be infinitely amusing. We must ask modern fools, among them the mesmerized Mormons, if they are wicked or comical. This writer finds them tragic. How is it possible that in 1967 anyone can believe in a kind of god of Evil termed Devil or Satan? Surely, evil lies within oneself.” “Oh, Mark,” Tammy enthused, “you are so smart. I only know the name Swift among all those guys you mentioned, and I can’t name anything he wrote.” “Gulliver’s Travels is a good place to begin,” Chris contributed in an annoyed tone. “It’s a fine paragraph, Mark, but it’s going to agitate people even more than the last two. You’re calling Mormons fools, and they fancy themselves to be pretty sharp. ‘Them’s fightin’ words,’ and they’ll be coming after you.” She

emitted a long sigh. “What’s with all the name dropping? Rabelais, Erasmus …” “I come close to worshipping Erasmus, Chris. The old Rotterdamer’s Praise of Folly, the Moria, is a veritable weapon. Over 450 years ago, he had the guts to attack priests, bishops, even cardinals, as well as mankind’s favorite sport, war. He condemns war not only in the Moria but also in a collection of essays known as Erasmus against War and in scattered references, including his Colloquies.” He tilted back on his chair to quote an applicable age. “In the Moria, he wrote, ‘War is so savage a thing that it rather befits beasts than men, so outrageous that the very poets feign’d it came from the furies, so pestilent that it corrupts all men’s manners, so injust that it is best executed by the worst of men, so wicked that it has no agreement with Christ.’ Yet Mormons love war! Look how they back the Vietnam mess.” “Gee, is that all memorized?” Tammy asked. “Yes, auswendig as the Germans say.” “I’ve perceived that they use your friend Erasmus as they wish.” Sandra spoke. “In meetings I’ve heard him quoted, undoubtedly out of context, to substantiate a church position.” “How does your essay on Satan continue?” Chris asked. “Oh, I just go on with the argument of eliminating the evil in oneself, looking within, purifying the soul, but I won’t read you any more of it now. Let’s talk about Erasmus and the other names Tammy wasn’t familiar with.”

**********

Approximately one week after the discussion in the Painted Rocks Café, Allen Rogers published an editorial on polygamy and Satan in his Vermillion land observer. Challenge to the Church No. 3 could not be dismissed as the rantings of a misguided boy. It had to be answered! Herb Rundquist ed the café discussants in g Al’s exposé that began with the official church position on

polygamy: Unless by revelation the Lord commands plurality of wives in the new and everlasting covenant, it is lawful that a man have only one wife at a time. The prophet Joseph taught that he alone held the keys of power in the last days and always insisted (despite the wicked lies of the evil foes of truth) that without the sanction of the Lord through a true prophet a man should have but one mate. We know, of course, that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, conformed to the principle; in fact, the whole of ancient Israel lived the exalting covenant with divine approval. Millions who entered the order then and in the latter days have gained for themselves the brightest heaven of the celestial world where they shall be eternally exalted. In this last dispensation as part of the restitution of the full gospel, the Lord restored the principle of plural marriage for a few years and commanded the prophet Joseph and leading brethren to practice it. In all virtue and with purity of heart they complied. In this blessed land of Utah under President Young it was practiced openly until by revelation Our Father withdrew the command to persist in the holy practice. Now, we all know that plural marriage is not essential to salvation nor to exaltation. Every eternal blessing that the Lord has ever offered to any people was extended to the ancient Nephites; yet the Book of Mormon tells us, “For there shall not any man among you have save it be one wife.” And it is the law of one wife that was reverted to in 1890 under the President and Prophet, Wilford Woodruff. Today any who pretend to engage in plural marriage are guilty of base, gross iniquity, for the one who last held the keys withdrew the power with which those most holy of marriages are performed. Such persons LIVE IN ADULTERY and have SOLD THEIR SOULS TO SATAN. We are told that their contumacy will DAMN THEM THROUGH THE ETERNITIES!

The second part of the article turned to Mark’s latest Challenge and to vindictive insinuations against him:

Is it any wonder that one dwelling in our very midst who lives in adultery with several maidens would deny the reality of Satan? He who makes leather goods

and profits from the work of women, a one-time missionary, now following the dictates and promptings of that personage, LUCIFER, whom he would have us believe is a figment of the imagination of millions of “mesmerized” Latter-day Saints. We’ll ANSWER YOUR “CHALLENGE,” MR LEARNED. Those whose names are affixed below, backed by millions of loyal church and our inspired leaders testify that as surely as God and His son, Jesus the Christ, live so does Satan, the spirit son of God who, according to Holy Scripture, was a “liar from the beginning” (Doctrine and Covenants 93:25). We respect studies in modern psychology but know as surely as we live that Satan inspires the nefarious schemes of the wicked. It is he who is behind Communist and Fascist dictatorships; it is he who leads some, even in our universities, to philosophies which deny Christ and our Father, and it is he who instills in the minds of some the impious and ridiculous notion of organic evolution which denies the divine origin of man. The Book of Moses in our inspired writings, The Pearl of Great Price tells us that in the preexistence a plan was presented whereunder the spirit children of God the Father could gain tangible, mortal bodies in order to progress to Godhood themselves. When the need for a redeemer was explained Satan spoke up and said he would be that redeemer, the Son of God. But even then he stood in opposition to the plan of the Father who would give man his free agency. Old Master Mahan, Lucifer, the Son of the Morning, said, “I will redeem all mankind that one soul shall not be lost.” He would FORCE men to be redeemed! We know that our Father rejected that offer and chose His Beloved Son, Jesus the Christ, to be the redeemer. Whereupon Lucifer made open warfare against the Lord who, therefore, “caused that he be cast down, and he became Satan, yea, even the devil, the father of all lies, to deceive and to blind men, and to lead them captive as he will, even as many as would not hearken unto my voice” (Moses 4:3–4). A third of the hosts of heaven took part in the rebellion; they are the devil and his heinous angels—the SONS OF PERDITION. All of us are constantly enticed by them to leave the paths of truth. The Lord will use them to test and try us mortals until the millennium arrives; at which time Satan will be bound for a thousand years. Let the maker of leather goods and his adherents be reminded of their fate in the

eternities as clarified in the Second Book of Nephi 9:16, “They who are filthy shall be filthy still; wherefore, they who are filthy are the devil and his angels; and they shall go away into everlasting fire, prepared for them; and their torment is as a lake of fire and brimstone, whose flame ascendeth up forever and ever and has no end.” He who commits adultery with several young women and propagates false, impious teachings is not welcome in our community.

**********

“I read somethin’ in the paper about that motherfuckin’ polygamist who’s layin’ all them broads in that old farmhouse. He’s makin’ fun of us in pamphlets he writes, acts like he’s a smart ass know-it-all professor or somethin’,” Daniel “Danny” Hartz said to his two friends with whom he sat munching a hamburger in Ruby’s Inn at the entrance to Bryce Canyon. He had found the pressures of his freshman year at Dixie College in St. George to be too great and, having failed three subjects fall quarter and performing even worse during the first half of winter quarter, quit. Bill Henderson, twenty years old, lived in Escalante where he sometimes worked in a sawmill; Brian Riede was struggling through his senior year in high school. He envied his acquaintances who had their own motorcycles, and he was proud to ride with one of them on days like this. Thousands of square miles of unpopulated, rugged terrain offered itself to their mechanical toys. “Is that the sissy sonuvabitch who runs that store with the big peace sign in the window?” Brian asked. “Same weirdo. Bill ’n me ’n some of the guys has rode by a couple a times and yelled some things at ’em.” “Fuck, nobody wants ’em here,” Bill said. “My old man is real churchy, ’n he don’t want ’em. We oughta git some of the boys from here ’n Escalante ’n Tropic ’n encourage ’em ta leave. Ain’t been nothin’ much fun ta do around here since we kicked the shit outa that guy from Salt Lake who we found huntin’ on my uncle’s land.”

“I wouldn’t mind gettin’ some cunt, a nice juicy piece a ass off one of them chicks. They must put out purdy easy,” Danny said. “Easier than Carol Rundquist?,” Brian cautiously asked. “You little bastard, just don’t you start spreadin’ nothin’ about Carol ’n me. Jesus, if her old man found out what we do, I’d have my ass in a sling.” “What about your old man?” Bill asked. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be good neither.” He jumped up abruptly. “Speakin’ of him, let’s go. I got ta git ta work in the store.” “Never saw you so excited about bein’ late ta work,” Brian said. “A guy’s meetin’ me there. He’s from Nevada, might have a good deal on this stolen pickup. Hell, I could sleep in it, carry my bike around, but I don’t want the old man to know about him. This guy and his buddies got the truck off some stupid, fuckin’ Indian. Told him they’d cut his balls off if he squealed.” The three exited, laughing.

**********

Over the course of the years, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had won increasing respect in the nation. Many Americans eagerly awaited the weekly Sunday broadcasts of the Tabernacle Choir. In the two World Wars and Korea, as now in Vietnam, Mormon boys who were worthy to wear it, took some chiding for their curious underwear, but they proved to be fine soldiers. The mission system grew annually, its tentacles reaching into all parts of the noncommunist world, even daring to penetrate Catholic bastions. Utah’s few congressmen had been among the best and most highly regarded in Washington, and the FBI eagerly solicited young male Saints as agents because Mormons were known to be indefatigable workers, teetotalers, and honest. For the Saints, defending the constitution had become a duty second only to loyalty to the church. But no Mormon easily tolerated criticism of his faith and the half-

educated, the half-civilized, and the ill bred among them could still justify violence to protect it, especially when agitated by their masters. Never again would they go “as lambs to the slaughter.”

XXXI

This Would Be the Supreme Test of Her Horsemanship

The crimson of a wintry sunrise glowed on the half-thawed snow of the eastern hills. Patches of ice clung to the shaded areas of the yard, and new green buds forecast that the official first day of spring was very close. Sage and greasewood, gray-green and moribund in appearance, clung defiantly to life, their roots sucking in moisture to be stored for the sun-ravaged months to come. Skillfully, Chris guided the van into the driveway. She parked, jumped down from the driver’s seat, and hurried around to assist her enger. The Indian woman, Wolvina Lightfoot, swung her large body around on the seat, then, picking up her satchel, dropped to the ground with a thud. “I like it, Chris.” Wolvina indicated approvingly at the Volkswagen with a sweep of her hand. What a marvelous medical unit it would make. Our public health office could use such transportation to reach some of the outlying settlements.” Chris led the way to the side door, Mrs. Lightfoot following close behind. Although the entire family had rehearsed the natural birth procedures, Chris was relieved that the midwife had been home and immediately available. She had grown fond of Wolvina from their association at the free clinic where Tammy had received prenatal care. Mark had learned of the public health nurse from her mother, Mrs. Brown, from whom he had purchased the shop. “Pain in childbirth is something the women of our tribe never knew in the olden days,” Wolvina had explained at the clinic. “They dropped their offspring naturally, like the beasts of the forests, sometimes in the middle of work. Modern-day life has changed all that. Tammy knows pain because she has never learned to walk, to carry herself properly, and to breathe, utilizing the full power of her diaphragm.” Wolvina had shaken her head, her silver earrings flashing,

her brown eyes regarding the patient comionately. “With all we’ve learned, something has been lost forever,” she seemed to be thinking. “Hurry, in here … Hurry,” Sandra beckoned from Tammy’s bedroom. Chris was always annoyed at Sandra’s tendency to take over any situation. “Let’s not get uptight,” she snapped back at her sharing sister. “Ladies,” Mark looked tired, “could one of you show Wolvina where to wash up? The pains are only five minutes apart.” Tammy smiled as Chris and Wolvina entered the bedroom. Her blond hair was tied back, and the ridge of freckles across her nose seemed to stand out on her pale, moist skin. She turned to Mark and grasped his hand, even managing to smile as another spasm overtook her. “Whee! That was a big one.” “You’re doing fine, Tammy. We all love you, and we’re very proud of you,” Mark assured. “Yes, Tammy,” Chris affirmed, stroking the girl’s other hand and resisting the impulse to look at Sandra. “You’re doing just great.” “Could you hold this, Chris?” Wolvina requested, pulling a flat packet out of her satchel. Christ noted the date on the autoclave tape was recent and that the stripes had turned brown, steamed at a very high temperature. Wolvina might be into natural childbirth, but her technique was coupled with the most modern of sterile practices and expertise; several pairs of stainless steel forceps gleamed from inside the satchel and packets wrapped in autoclave paper were stacked in the pocket. The midwife unfolded a sterile towel on the table and set out a few instruments. “Just in case,” she said with a reassuring smile on her broad face. After draping Tammy’s pelvis with a sheet, she bent to examine the patient. “Good, the head is presenting itself.” She hummed a few words in Navaho, then looked up at Tammy. “Now, with the next spasm, I want you to bear down.” It was just as they all had practiced it, the singsong voice of the midwife, the heavy yet rhythmic breathing of the girl-woman on the threshold of giving birth confidently and unafraid, clinging to the directions of the hypnotic voice.

A lusty cry filled the room; and Chris and Sandra, their rivalry forgotten, hastened to take the newborn from Wolvina and hold her up in triumph for Tammy to see. “A girl,” Mark announced solemnly. Then, like a biblical patriarch, he proclaimed, “On this nineteenth day of March, 1967, we welcome her tiny spirit into this world, into our family, into our land. May she always know joy and love. We shall call her Hope.”

**********

In early May, approximately six weeks after Hope was born, Tammy, Sandra, Jeff, and the baby boarded a Greyhound bus for Salt Lake City. Tammy longed to show Hope to her mother, and Sandra, who for some time had desired to visit her family, insisted that Tammy should not travel alone. Chris was not unhappy at their departure. The arrival of Hope had caused increased work for all the girls, and everyone’s nerves were frayed by reaction to Mark’s Challenges and the editorial in the Observer that was responsible for a further decrease in business and for evoking other forms of harassment. Chris had been refused service in a drugstore, and someone had thrown beer bottles at the house. Several times youths in a pickup truck had stopped in front of the house and in the most vulgar summoned them to leave the area. Being alone with Mark for two weeks to think, to find a possible solution to their dilemma was welcome. The snow had begun to disappear early this spring, and now enough ground was bare for a horseback ride in the mountains. How she longed to ride again! Wolvina and her husband had four or five horses, maybe she could borrow two. The Lightfoots and the Browns had not ostracized the Spencer group (commune as Al Rogers and others said). She and Mark could get away for a day, have a picnic on some purple plateau, clear their heads. Why not ask? If Wolvina had no objection, she would plan it for next week.

**********

For herself Chris had selected the type of mount she preferred, a mare, still green but sensitive and responsive to the aids. Mark was mounted on a gelding, an Appaloosa with a sprinkling of black-and-white spots across the croup. The animal’s rather small eye ringed with white, freckled skin suggested a sullen disposition, but the horse was actually kind-spirited, trail-wise, and intelligent; he recognized immediately the inexperience of his rider and tolerated sudden jerks on the reins and the uneven distribution of weight upon his back. “Sit up.” Chris eyed her husband critically. “You’re collapsing a hip, that’s better. I think I could make a horseman of you.” “All right, how do you make him go faster?” Mark leaned and flapped his arms. “Not that way! Oh, Mark!” She was laughing so hard her mare spooked and gave a high-spirited buck. Chris’s back followed the motion as she gave a peremptory pull on the reins, elevating the horse’s head; then she leaned forward out of the saddle and stroked her shoulder. “Steady, Vandy old girl. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She waited for Mark to catch up. “Squeeze with your legs to urge him forward.” “You look like you were born in the saddle,” Mark observed grudgingly, “especially the way you sat that bucking.” “Nothing to that,” she replied, pleased with the compliment. “She has to get her head down to buck, so I just elevated it.” She flashed him a reassuring smile. “Horses are wonderful creatures. They’re not at all like, for example, dogs or cats. A dog will grovel all over you, love you no matter what. Horses aren’t so demonstrative. A dog has guilt feelings if it, say, does its business on the carpet, but horses don’t recognize their own misbehavior. If they’re not punished immediately following their disobedience, they don’t understand that they’ve done wrong. Did you know that their mouths are very sensitive? Ever wonder why the horses in western movies run with their heads in the air?” “Nope.”

“Because those cowboys jerking on the reins are creating painful pressure on the bars in the horses’ mouths. Contrary to what most people think, cowboys are some of the most inconsiderate riders around. I use a snaffle with this young horse. It’s a gentle bit and, unlike a curb, won’t hurt her mouth.” Mark looked at her approvingly. “I know you’re very beautiful with the wind tossing your hair, and from somewhere the sun has brought out golden highlights in it and that you look harmonious with the animal.” “We’ll canter a little. It’s easier to sit than a jog. Just let your body follow Kaval’s motion; try to stretch your legs down and keep your upper body erect. It’s okay to hang onto the horn if you lose your balance. I’ll go first. He’ll follow along.” At the tightening of Chris’s legs on her sides, Vandy swung into a canter. Head stretched forward and neck rounded and relaxed, the horse lengthened her stride, and Chris felt the exhilaration she had always experienced in riding. She had a natural verve and rapport with horses. As a child an unbridled gallop crosscountry had been an outlet for any unhappiness, and at ten, she had entertained the desire to become a riding instructor; her riding masters marveled at her daring in tackling any obstacle no matter how high or wide. Now, just as she no longer skied flat out, but a shade slower and always under control, so had she tempered with finesse her desire for speed on horseback. She had learned to school a horse on the flat in the rudiments of dressage. As they galloped farther up the arroyo the path began to disintegrate. Deftly, the mare changed leads to avoid the boulders along the trail. Glancing behind her from a forward seat position, like a jockey in the lead eying his pursuers, Chris saw that the gelding was taking care of the novice in his charge. Mark had give up any attempts at control and was clinging to the saddle horn, allowing the reins to flap about the horse’s neck. They had angled up the narrow defile of the arroyo to emerge onto a butte, dull clay-red in hue and dotted with junipers in the region know as the Escalante rim. A panoply of wild flowers strained their petals out of the loose rock. Within the view of the riders stretched a network of basins, plateaus, amphitheaters, box canyons, and nine- to ten-thousand foot peaks in an inimitable array of colors, a landscape created by the cataclysmic forces of nature.

“Shall we stop here?” Chris halted her mare, dismounted, and detached a set of rope hobbles from her saddle. Placing one hand behind the girth she noted, “She’s a little warm, but that’s because of her winter coat.” “Where do we tie them?” Mark asked. “I don’t see a tree large enough.” “Don’t need one. I’ll just hobble both horses, although Kaval wouldn’t need it. He’d stay put as long as Vandy is around. Just get off the left side, Markie,” she chuckled, “although with that nag, it probably doesn’t matter. He’s so easygoing.” “Hey, you’re getting sort of fresh. I spank little girls who talk up to their elders.” He patted her buttocks as she bent over to adjust the ropes on the mare’s legs. “Make yourself useful, unpack that saddlebag and see if the dry ice kept the beer cold.” Mark untied the bag, inspected the contents, and then surveyed the ground. “Where do we sit?” “I’ve a blanket rolled behind the saddle.” “I marvel at you, Chris. I really do. I would never have imagined you to be so self-sufficient. Seems there’s nothing you need me for.” “I can think of one thing,” she whispered, standing on tiptoe and stretching both arms under his shoulders to pull him close. “I love you, Mark. It’s getting stronger, and I know it’s right. I feel more secure now, although I still want you to myself.” He flipped a strand of hair from her face and tilted her chin up to his. “Mrs. Spencer, I think the beer is getting warm, and I’m hungry from fighting that beast. I’ll take you up on your hint, however, before the day is out.”

**********

For some time they sat, eating, drinking, talking. “Do you know about Hole-in-the-Rock, Chris?” “Sure … more or less. That’s where some of the early Mormons crossed a river around here or descended a cliff or something, a heroic feat that my family wasn’t involved with. They were too busy making dough.” “Obviously, mine came too late for such adventures, but I sure as hell ire the courage and the ingenuity of the bunch who did it.” He motioned southeast. “The spot is about right there, maybe forty or fifty miles as the crow flies. Here, sight along my finger.” She slid behind him and made a mental note of the cleft in a white streaked crimson cliff to which he was pointing. “They went through there, than across the Kaiparowits Plateau and on to the Colorado River to settle San Juan County, the town of Bluff. Man has always been greedy for Lebensraum, especially when inspired by divine or insane leadership. Brigham Young was dead, but John Taylor was just as intent on keeping gentiles out of Deseret. In 1879, he dispatched eighty families to thread their way through those box canyons of the Escalante Desert out there. They built their own road and bridges, weren’t even sure that they could make a road across those rocks. Often they resorted to dugways.” “What’s that?” “They would cut a deep wagon track, put a wagon in it and let her go. It couldn’t get out you see.” “Hey, that’s pretty smart.” “With a little prayer it seemed to work, but not at Hole-in-the-Rock. There they were faced with descending a nearly sheer two thousand-foot cliff to the Colorado, and they’d used up all of their dynamite.” Smiling, he said, “I assume they consulted the Lord. Anyway, someone came up with the brainstorm of lowering men over the cliff to drill deep holes into it on an incline from top to bottom. They then drove stakes into those holes and piled brush and rocks on top.” He shifted his position, leaning back and ing himself on one elbow. “Can you visualize it? They actually built a descending shelf on the side of the

cliff and drove wagons down it. As I recall, they didn’t even lose any.” “Amazing, just the old pioneer spirit, I guess.” “Oh sure. Hell, it was just like crossing the plains again. They danced at night and the whole bit. The trip from Cedar City to Bluff took them half a year!” He chuckled. “And for what? Who has ever wanted Bluff?” “I’d like to see the cliff, maybe on another ride, a long one. You know for all my rejection of childish Mormon philosophy, I do ire the people, especially those early gutsy ones like my great-grandmother.” She turned for a moment to gaze again at the panorama. “I think of her so much since coming here. It was my search for my past, for her, that led me to you, and in part it was her example that convinced me to … to … marry you. I wonder if in a moment of crisis I would have her strength, her guts. This intolerance and hatred of us really frightens me.” “I’m sure your ancestors knew some violence. The history of Mormonism has always been tied up with it. A bishop once proudly told me that the legendary Porter Rockwell killed 172 men but only for righteous reasons, and to this day, many Mormon leaders, let alone the laity, don’t think John D. Lee and the other perpetrators of the Mountain Meadow Massacre did wrong.” He sat up and grasped his knees with his arms. “And old Butch Cassidy, son of an English convert, is a genuine folk hero, a criminal is ired! Cassidy and all the other Mormons who were in his gang!” Suddenly, a chill, a premonition of evil engulfed her. “I just don’t want us to get burned out or something.” She hesitated, pondering her feelings. “We aren’t making any money sitting here. Maybe we should leave now, Mark. I feel kind of creepy.” She kissed his cheek. “Chris, I’ll handle the money problems, I’ll handle the opposition. We’ve been talking about violence too much.” He reached for her. “You just snuggle up close. In spring, a young man’s fancy turns to …” “Making love to Chris,” she finished.

**********

“Well well, look who’s tresin’ up here.” Danny Hartz motioned to his five fellow motorcyclists to come over to the spot where he had taken a spill with his BMW. “Fuck-a-do!” He spoke to Mac Quinn who was approaching him. “They should know better than to ignore them signs back there. This is private land.” “What the hell you talkin’ about?” Mac questioned. “The private land is another few yards east or we’d be on it too.” “Bullshit!” I say them two’s on it, and as good citizens we should do somethin’ about it.” “Right.” Bill Henderson ed them. “Get Brian’s ass up here,” Danny ordered, “and Phil and Tom. If chicken shit Mac here don’t want to help us teach them lovers a lesson, he can go take down his lace panties and squat to piss.” Bill laughed. “Yeah, maybe that slut would even enjoy given’ us a little tail.” “I was thinkin’ that myself,” Dan said. “Course I’m with ya,” Mac whined. “You guys know me better ’n that, especially now I realize who them two is.” “Holler to Brian and the others to cut ’em off from their horses. We’ll just rush up on ’em from here,” Danny instructed. “Leave the bikes.” “Hey,” Danny yelled at Chris and Mark when he and his companions were still several feet away. “Just what do you think you’re doin’ ridin’ them horses across this here private land and ruin’ it?” “Private land?” Mark frowned, startled at having his intimacy with Chris disturbed. “We sure didn’t come across any signs, and we’ve been looking. Anyway, most folks around here don’t seem to mind anybody just crossing their land.” “Look, you lawbreakin’ polygamist fucker, this guy minds,” Bill challenged.

“Hey, who are you guys?” Chris spoke up as she slowly stepped back, away from the menacing youths, suddenly realizing who they might be. “Are you the ones who’ve been hassling us? Yelling and all that around our house?” “Never mind, Chris.” Mark tried to silence her. “Look, if we’re on private land, we’ll just get off. Please tell the owner we’re sorry. We won’t do it again. It was just ignorance. Please point out to us the government land, and we’ll just head for that.” “It’s private as far as ya can see,” Danny lied. “We usually convince tresers real good not to do it again. Don’t we, Mac?” Bill patted the frightened boy on the shoulder. “Yeah, damn right, we always do,” Mac stammered. Suddenly the horses whinnied, and Chris whirled to see Brian and his friends standing near them. Danny broke into laughter. “Just didn’t want you folks escapin’ what’s comin’ ta ya. We don’t like smarty sonsabitches writin’ stuff against us.” Then, pointing at Mark, he yelled, “Take ’im, Bill.” Mark felt a sharp pain as Bill’s right fist smashed against his nose. Naturally a good athlete, he ducked the next punch and retaliated with a skillfully placed powerful left to Bill’s throat that sent the aggressor staggering backward. Then from the left, a fist crashed into Mark’s left kidney; he turned to face Danny and the timid Mac. “Rush him, Mac,” Danny urged. “Show us what yer made off.” The boy lunged at Mark, who with a right to the head, sent him sprawling. Danny began screaming, “He’s killed Mac. The cocksucker’s killed Mac.” Whereupon the three standing near the horses ed Bill, who had recovered from his punch, to press the attack. Besides herself with frustration, Chris tripped Brian as he ran toward Mark and was reaching for a rock to throw at Phil when Danny grabbed her from behind, lifted her off her feet, and violently threw her to the ground. “You pussy,” he shouted, placing his right foot on her neck to silence her, “move one inch, and

I’ll stomp your whore brains out. You’re goin’ ta get yours, baby.” She lay silently, no use resisting, only get hurt or worse, listening and crying as she heard the vulgarities, the blows, and Mark’s grunts of pain. Bill, Tom, Phil, and Brian were pummeling and kicking him in the head, the groin, the back, everywhere. Soon Mark’s groans grew weaker, and she heard Danny say, “Spread ’em wide, honey, I want a piece of ass like no man has ever known. It’s not right that only yer polygamous friend is gettin’ it.” Then she felt his weight crash down on her. He tore her slacks open, and clawed at her panties. “Get over here, Bill. This slut’s got plenty for all of us.” “You filthy bastard,” she screamed as he forced his tumescence into her. “You lousy, degraded bastard.” She was attempting to push Danny away when a shattering blow from his fist to the side of her head knocked her unconscious. “Hey, Mac ain’t dead,” Brian yelled, “but this polygamous guy might be. We’d best get out of here.” “I was never one to up free cunt,” Bill responded.

**********

It was almost dark when Chris came to. At first she didn’t know where she was. She looked at her watch—7:12—then she ed the horrifying sequence of events. Her slacks were in tatters, her thighs caked with blood, and she felt very cold. Her head throbbed in excruciating pain, and her entire body ached, but no matter, how was Mark? She ed herself on her left elbow and looked toward where he had been lying only a few feet away. Her gaze fell upon a quiet lump of humanity. Oh God. Was he alive? Painfully she arose and hurried to him. She felt for a pulse but was clumsy. Damn! Could she anything from her Girl Scout first aid training? She put her cheek against his chest and, holding her breath, listened for a heartbeat. Didn’t she detect one? Yes! And there was definitely breathing. She felt air from his nostrils. But maybe he was dying

nevertheless. Oh God, to be so helpless. She searched her memory, “Don’t move a seriously injured person.” The caveat came from the depths of her mind. But way up here she had no choice. By the time she went for a rescue team, for a helicopter, he might be dead. Better to take him to the nearest house. Hadn’t they ridden past one that was off in the distance sheltered by an eastern slope of these darkening hills about thirty minutes back? She hoped so, but chances were, they would have no phone anyway, little choice, she would have to chance it. She stood up quickly to see if she could see the horses in the feint light that still remained. Stabbing pains pierced the inside of her skull. Oh how her body ached. The pain between her legs was nearly unbearable. But she had to do it. She had to save him! “Thank God!” She spotted the gentle gelding standing just about where they had left him. Vandy was nowhere in sight. Perhaps their attackers had removed her hobbles. They would both have to ride Kaval. Good, he’d be more manageable. She approached him slowly, cautiously; he too had been frightened by the violent disturbance. Long experience with horses taught her even in her haste to be calm with the animal, to make no sudden movements or gestures. “There, there, big boy, you have to do the most important job of your life. You have to carry my Markie. Oh God, Kaval, he can’t die. He can’t!” She tied the horse to a juniper next to where Mark lay; she could not risk his running away now! She knelt at Mark’s side to see if she could arouse him. To lift his 180 pounds onto the horse would be impossible. Gently she nudged him, no response. “Mark,” she pleaded. “Mark hear me. Hear me, please!” She struck him sharply on the cheek, and his eyes opened. “Stand up, Mark. I’ll help you. We have to get you on Kaval.” With Chris ing most of his weight, he slowly arose, and half stumbling, half dragged by Chris, took three steps to the horse. With a surge of strength equal to her task, she hoisted him onto the animal, well knowing that she might be intensifying his injuries. He lay across the saddle like the dead deer she had so often seen during hunting season. Then, ignoring her own pain, she climbed up behind him. “Mark, are you all right? I can’t make you more comfortable.”

There was no answer. Blood dripped from his left ear and his mouth. Chris pressed her knees into the horse’s sides. “Let’s go, Kaval. Do it boy!” This would be the supreme test of her horsemanship, far more important than any grand prix dressage test.

XXXII

Was Mark Really Worth It?

Fantastic! So this Indian broad is sort of taking you under her wing and nursing you back to health,” Susan said to Mark who was sitting up in bed. “My people are the greatest— the greatest! ” “That’s part of it,” Chris clarified. “Of course the surgeon had something to do with it too and the internist.” “And the care all three ladies are giving me, especially Chris,” Mark added. “So this happened a couple of months ago?” “Not that long,” Mark said. “Let’s see, today’s June 26. It’s over five weeks.” “What a bummer! I just thought I’d come down and visit you, check on the local Navahos, and explore Anasazi ruins. Maybe smoke some of the sweet weed with my brethren or find something better. I didn’t expect this.” “Oh hell, Susan,” Mark responded. “None of the Indians around here are toking up.Most don’t even drink.” “Is that so? Anyway, how’d you get to a hospital?” He reached out and touched Chris’s hand. “The horsewoman here saved my life. She was all beat up herself, yet she got us to some Mexican’s place near Escalante and phoned from there. At least that’s what I’ve been told. I was unconscious for three days.” “The state police sent a helicopter in from Cedar City. They did a great job,” Chris acknowledged. “In fact, since this happened, local people have been nicer to us, guilt no doubt. They wanted us out, but they’re letting us know that they

didn’t want this to happen. The sheriff and the owner of the newspaper have visited Mark. Both insist they want to catch and prosecute the creeps. A lot of folks here probably never did mind us all that much. Of course, some agree with the plural wife bit. Two Relief Society ladies brought us some food.” She smiled. “The stake president came around blubbering and groveling. He seemed most concerned about how angry Daddy would be that I got worked over, has a teenage daughter himself.” She sighed. “I didn’t tell him that Daddy won’t hear about it from me. Of course, it was in the news. Again, she paused, thinking about her family. “And dear Wolvina was already our friend. She’s visited Mark every day since he’s been home.” “The broken ribs are okay now, and the nose is mending, although it will always be a little crooked,” Mark explained. “I guess my spleen was pretty severely damaged, and there were other internal injuries. That’s why I still have to rest so much, but I’m assured that I’ll be all right. Next week the cast comes off this left wrist which I broke defending myself.” He flashed his boyish grin. “I was almost a martyr to my cause, a second Joseph Smith.” “Good you got some licks in,” Susan responded. “Why? It probably got me beaten up worse and may have inspired the vicious handling of Chris.” “Raped?” Susan surmised. “Yeah,” Chris replied, “but let’s not talk about that. Mark’s about as good as new … and … so am I.” “Know who did it?” “Yes, at least three of them, and Mark thinks he can identify all six.” “Then get the rotten bastards!” “How?” Mark asked. “Through the law, justice? I’ve given the three names to the sheriff.” “Come on, Susan,” Chris said. “One of the guys is the son of a local bishop who is a good friend of the sheriff. The bishop hasn’t been around to visit. Shit, how many times have we discussed justice? Justice is always defined by the power

group. There has been only shamed silence, and from some embarrassment but no editorial yet, no official ittance that sons of church leaders were involved, no ittance that the slimes were agitated to such a degree by their elders that they can justify what they did. Sure, we’ve been assured that they want to prosecute, but I’m sure they are working out a way to minimize both negative publicity and jail sentences.” She stood up and walked to the bedroom window. “We need to clear out of Utah. We’ve all been discussing it real seriously since the attack.” “Move out with the kids and all? And go where?” “Probably California direction, but we’ve also been talking about Mexico. Might try California first. Many are living as they please on the West Coast,” Mark said. “As for the dear little bishop’s son, I like to think I’m a pacifist, but he just may get his. The rape was too much.” He struck his right fist into the mattress, “The demented pig!” “Leave it, Mark. They could do worse. Rape Tammy and Sandra too, harm the children, burn the house with us in it, kill you—us—I’m really frightened now.” “Well, we’ll see, Chrisie. You know that guy who came to visit the patient next to me in the hospital in Cedar City, Merrill Fenner? We talked quite a bit.” “Sure, turned out he’s a polygamist, member of one of the splinter groups of the church.” “Right, you know he never got it straight that we don’t accept them any more than we do the official Saints. He just thought we were brethren in his truth and, in spite of my objections, kept saying that Dan Hartz and the rest would learn not to reject the Lord’s anointed. I didn’t want to rile him up by going into my personal philosophy because he was really wild-eyed, fanatical as hell.” “Aren’t there a lot of polygamists down this way?” Susan asked. “Yes, that’s one reason I came here. Hurricane has long been a polygamist haven, and Short Creek, Arizona, hits the news now and then. To raid it, police drive four hundred fifty miles from Kingman, into California, back across Nevada, and through a corner of Utah, or fly in. Utah police can’t touch them. I guess they’re a pitiful group, living in abject poverty. We thought there would be more tolerance for our lifestyle around here, but clearly there isn’t.”

“You might add that your Challenges and proselytizing didn’t endear us to anyone,” Chris added. “You see, Susan, Mark has this penchant for setting them all straight.” Both girls laughed. “Some excommunicated Mormon polygamists live in Mexico too, right?,” Susan asked. “Correct, but don’t identify us with any of those nuts,” Chris requested. “And what news do you bring us of that great metropolis to the north. Yea, even the city of the most holy, the sanctuary in the tops of the mountains,” Mark inquired. Susan was laughing hard. “You break me up, Mark, even half racked up. They’re doing what they always do in Salt Lake, selling Books of Mormon at the airport, building houses on ever smaller lots and selling them for higher prices, running tourists around Temple Square and through the new visitors’ center to ire that tacky, white monstrous statue of Christ with the purple background.” “Oh, that’s good. That’s perceptive, Susan,” Chris chuckled. “And is our Heavenly Father still concerned for the personal welfare of each Saint from the bread in the oven to money for a new car?” “Yes, indeed, and the Salt Lake Saints are still like thrilled children when someone pays them a compliment.” “And,” Mark asked, “can we still correctly state that provincialism is hiding its ugly head there?” “Right on, in spite of the missionary system, which should make it most cosmopolitan.” “You know, ladies,” Mark said. “I loathe the way Salt Lake is spreading all over. It’s getting as ugly as Los Angeles. All Mormons desire to live there. One-half is selling real estate to the other half.” Again they all laughed uproariously together.

**********

That evening, Chris sat alone in the shop (with a loaded 30.06 handy); she had insisted that she had to check on things and keep the place open in case a tourist came in. They were starting to arrive in droves: campers, motor homes, cars with trailers, motorcycles, and pickups, a variety of toys. The truth was that she wanted to think, to avoid the evening study session, her sisters, Susan, and even Mark. Susan had brought word of her parents and Melissa. Her father was recovering normally from a serious gall bladder operation. Melissa looked like hell, Susan said, but Melissa was very old. Chris phoned her every few weeks. Why worry about a report from Susan? Melissa’s voice sounded strong, spunky as ever. Before Moroni’s operation, she had been trying to convince him to give Chris control of all her own money. Of course Susan had visited Melissa for selfish reasons. She never had before … to butter Chris up. Susan wanted to the Spencer group. When it finally came out that afternoon, Mark had been straightforward. He would take no one as a sister who used drugs or smoked pot. So that was solved for the time being, but what if Susan swore off grass? Mark had never vowed not to add other sisters, but since the events of May, Chris thought he was too close to her to desire another. They were stuck with Sandra and Tammy. In the hospital, he had itted that he preferred her, but maybe that was the influence of the painkillers or because she had saved his life. Jesus! What had become of her self-image? Why put up with all of this? Completely degraded, raped! And by how many? Two three … all? She, Chris Howe, who had always been popular with boys and dated some of Salt Lake’s finest. If Mark didn’t prefer her, there was no point in all of it. Now maybe she couldn’t ever have children. She hadn’t told him. For a week she too had been hospitalized, concussion, internal injuries, cuts, bruises. My God, what she suffered for her devotion to him! Had Louisa known as great a trial? Been so horribly humbled? Was Mark really worth it? Had this happened in Salt Lake, her father would have made certain that the rapists got life imprisonment, maybe the firing squad. Now she and her parents didn’t communicate. After the visit from Claire and Charles, Moroni had said she was no longer his daughter. Could he really mean that? She got up to look out the front window to see if any

customers were coming … or any rapists. The Painted Rocks Café across the street was jammed with people—dinner hour, but she wasn’t hungry, at least not for the slop her family was eating this evening. Salt Lake had such nice places to eat. It was no New York or San Francisco, but it was a gourmet’s paradise compared to this town. She returned to where she had been sitting behind a long display case. But she couldn’t return! She loved Mark, his comion, his honesty, his quest for truth, his pacifism, his rejection of materialism. Maybe it would be different in California, away from Zion, far away from the fierce winter and hardships. She had repressed her emotions for so long; now, alone, the stoic facade could be lifted. She brought her fist down on the display case and sobbed.

**********

The Spencers (as the local people had taken to calling them) were not ready to leave for San Francisco until late August. Mark had to be completely healed, the house and shop had to be disposed of (Mrs. Brown generously took back the shop, and they realized a small gain on their equity in the house and land), and they wanted to profit from the tourist season. With the proceeds from the sale of the house, the family purchased a second VW camper with a pop-top. With the addition of Hope and Susan, they needed two vans (Mark had accepted $1,500 from Susan and was allowing her to the family as an associate, refusing, to Chris’s relief, to consummate the relationship). A few days before the Spencers were to leave, Danny Hartz, Bill Henderson, and Mac Quinn had been killed in a bizarre accident; all three burned to death in Danny’s pickup. It had crashed through a guardrail between Henrieville and Escalante and plunged down a two thousand-foot cliff. People were astounded that the gas tank had so easily exploded; only charred bones remained of the youths. “Retribution came quickly,” Mark had commented. “If I were a good Mormon, the crash would be a testimony builder. I’m just glad Sheriff Karsen saw me with Mrs. Brown at the time of the accident. At least now I needn’t

worry about handling those guys myself, or secretly hope for the destroying angel, Merrill Fenner, to do the job.”

XXXIII

This Is Where It’s At

This is where it’s at, man,” Susan rolled her blue eyes heavenward. “Another few weeks like the first six, and we’ll have nothing left to sell.” She fondled a Zuni necklace in the display case that the Spencers had set up in the open air. “Why don’t we celebrate tonight?” Mark suggested. “Great idea. I’ll run down to Sabella’s and pick up some cracked crab and a couple of loaves of French bread,” Chris said, taking him up on his offer. “Don’t buy wine,” Susan reminded. “We’ve still got a gallon of Mondavi Riseling from out trip to St. Helena.” “Right. Meet you back at our digs (although Mark didn’t approve, the Spencer wives were assimilating a new vocabulary),” Chris called over her shoulder as she mingled with the crowd ambling down Beach Street and peering into the crammed stalls. Goods galore were for sale—jewelry of all kinds, beads, ceramics, plants, sandals, paintings, Mexican blouses. A lot of junk, Chris thought to herself. No wonder they had done so well with the authentic sterling and turquoise they had purchased from the Browns and Lightfoots. The quality was apparent. “Hi, Chris.” She turned to see a new acquaintance, a girl with long brown hair wearing a granny dress who vended her own hand-thrown pots. “How you making it?” “Great! How’s your old man?” “Hangin’ in there.”

An instant camaraderie had been established with their fellow merchants who set up shop every morning along the sidewalk by Victorian Park in front of Ghirardelli Square. Most were young and like themselves: anti-Vietnam, antiJohnson, anti-Establishment, anti-the Board of Regents at Cal (University of California at Berkeley), although Mark ed S. I. Hayakawa, the JapaneseAmerican who was soon to become president of San Francisco State University, because he liked the semanticist’s firm stand against violence. The Spencer clan went along with the Peace Movement but deplored demonstrations that degenerated into mobocracy. “I always think of poor old Joe Smith and the persecutions of the Mormons,” Mark would remind his ladies. He had repeatedly warned Susan that if she persisted in hanging around the wrong types at the Berkeley campus, he would terminate their relationship. She also had an irritating predilection for the Haight-Ashbury district where crime was increasing. Mark cautioned the sisters to stay in North Beach. San Francisco (to those in the know, simply The City) scintillated with life; from the bohemians to the beatniks to the hippies, its ecumenical spirit attracted young people from all over the country. The Spencer family had found many who talked their language. No one pried into their business, no one cared how they lived. With many groupies in the city (in all possible racial combinations), Mark’s multiple marriages stirred approval rather than opprobrium. Chris drew her poncho tighter around her shoulders. It was a typical Northern California morning; the fog had rapidly blown out through the Golden Gate as if swept with a broom by some giant, impatient housewife. The chill air was heavy with salt. Bemused, Chris stared at a pair of middle-aged tourists, clad in Bermuda shorts and perma press shirts, huddled by a kiosk trying to figure out what one did with an ojo de dios, a strange, geometric object made of yarn, which the hippies and superstitious Mexicans believed warded off evil spirits. How many strangers had learned that the city was never hot, especially in the summer, and that the ocean here was best assaulted in a wetsuit? So typical was the fog that one enterprising graduate student in business at Stanford was financing his education by vending sealed jelly jars labeled “Genuine San Francisco Fog”; every day was a sellout! Impatient with the crowds, Chris cut in back of the Hyde Street cable car turnaround where she mingled with several Montgomery Street business types who jumped from the trolley and headed across the street for a glass of Irish coffee at the Buena Vista where they would rub shoulders with longshoremen.

Two gave Chris a friendly wave which she returned as she continued on down Hyde toward the wharf. On the grass of the park, she stopped a moment to look out at the bay. She had always loved the view of Alcatraz set against the backdrop of Marin County with its picturesque Riviera-like villages of Sausalito and Tiburon-Belvedere presided over by Mt. Tamalpais. A jogger, dressed in dirty Adidas sneakers and warm-up suit, with sweat flowing from under his headband, nearly ran into her. “Hey, watch it,” she called and continued on along the sidewalk by the brick walls of the Cannery, the wharf’s newest restoration project. In front of her sauntered a blond wearing a miniskirt, which just covered her buttocks; her black lover, sporting an elaborate Afro hairstyle, clasped her possessively around the waist. They’d never make it in Salt Lake, Chris thought. She flashed them the peace sign. “Right on,” came a typical response from the girl. Chris swung across Jefferson Street, dodging the cars, many of which sported out-of-state plates, vainly searching for parking places. From the outdoor fish vendor in front of one of the wharf’s most expensive restaurants, she selected four of the largest crabs. “They’re getting smaller every year,” the swarthy middle-aged Italian told her as he packaged them in white butcher paper. “Have to go farther and farther out the bay, pollution. The bay is stinkin’, rotten, full of oil. Some days the purse seiners don’t even go out.” “It’s a shame.” Briefly she studied his pockmarked, kindly face, a true San Francisco ethnic. “Say,” he said, wiping his hands on a very dirty white apron, “you involved with Save the Bay? There’s a meeting this evening.” His black eyes ired her. “Can’t make it, although I sympathize. I’m into that whole scene.” “You let me know when you can make it.” “Sure … and thanks.” She dropped the crabs and loaves of bread into the large string bag and walked back across the street. Thinking it was time to pick up more Columbian coffee beans from Cost Plus, and maybe fresh flowers, she cut

through the Cannery and stopped first at the outdoor flower stall on the corner of Hyde. The girls would like that. They all loved a party, Mark most of all. Tammy greeted her at the door with Hope cradled in one arm nursing contentedly. “You know that couple down the hall, they got busted this afternoon.” Chris strongly felt the time for weaning was long past due, but Mark said the baby would desist of her own accord. “All those gorgeous Acapulco Golds. I mean their digs had so many plants it made Podesta’s fancy flowers look sick. I was at the health store when the pigs came. The whole neighborhood was uptight with the squad cars around, I bet lots of ts got flushed down the johns.” “Yes, girls, it’s best to stay on the right side of the law,” Mark chided, grinning. Chris went into the kitchen and pulled open the door of the refrigerator, trying to find enough room to store the crabs. Fortunately, stove and fridge had been included with the apartment; otherwise, they had no furniture yet, only some pillows Susan had picked up at Akron along with a hibachi, lots of candles, incense, and mats made in India. During the day, their sleeping bags were rolled up and stored in a corner. Mark said that if the Japanese could eat on the floor, so could they, but he made a firm rule that all clogs and sandals had to be left outside. “Where’s Susan?” Mark looked around the living room. “Thought maybe she’d ed you. She didn’t come home with me.” “Maybe at Golden Gate Park, Berkeley. You know our drifting Susan,” Chris answered. “She hasn’t been here all day,” Tammy said, giving a little moan as the baby’s prehensile hands squeezed her breast. “Hope’s getting a little big to nurse, don’t you think?” Chris couldn’t resist the pointed rhetorical question. Mark shot her a reproving glance.

Sometimes Tammy’s ingenuousness annoyed her as much as Sandra’s officiousness. Instantly she felt guilty; this was to be a celebration. They had taken in over $100 that day; the family finances had never been so good. Some of their best customers had been other shopkeepers; the sterling belt buckles, set with silver dollars and ringed with turquoise, were sold out. Fortunately, Mark had picked up additional silver dollars in Nevada and was now working on more leather belts. Later, with a mound of decimated crab legs in front of them, they settled back on the mats and cushions. Sandra had cooked the repulsive crustaceans to perfection. “Is there bread anywhere as delicious as San Francisco sour dough?” Tammy asked. “Couldn’t be,” Chris responded. The wine had made her drowsy, and she felt a rush of affection for her two sisters. “You know an entire branch of my family lives in San Francisco. They’ve been here since the last century. My great uncle Hyrum strayed from the church and founded a law firm here.” “Dastardly.” Sandra giggled. “But never fear,” Chris continued. “His descendants have kept the firm going, and they’ve kept in touch with our side.” “Blood is thicker than—” “You know old Moroni pretty well,” she interrupted Mark. “Never know when the family enterprises might need a shrewd West Coast law firm.” “Are you ever going to them, Chris?” Tammy inquired. “I can’t see why. We used to visit some cousins when I was little. They lived out in Sea Cliff in some huge house. All I can is that the wind blows like fury out there, and the view of the ocean and ships is spectacular.” Had she been alone with Mark he might have teased her about being a rich girl, but he never did that in front of the sisters, although his eyebrows arched at the mention of Sea Cliff.

“Mark, Mark,” Susan rushed in breathless pulling a hirsute young man after her. “This dude … uh … Ed, I just met him, would like you to present a seminar on Hermann Hesse. I told him that you really dig Steppenwolf and Demian and all that. She dropped to the floor dragging Ed with her. He nodded at everyone and made a greeting motion with his right hand. “Tell him what you want, Ed. Tell him.” She reached for a crab leg. “You see, man, it’s like this,” Ed began. “This is a tragic era we’re livng in, and somehow we have to humanize it.” “Isn’t he compelling?” Susan enthused. “Yeah, I suppose,” came Mark’s restrained reply. “We,” Ed continued, “have to zap society with super love, to make everyone see that pacifism and understanding and sharing is the only, I mean the only way to cope. Susan says you know a hell of a lot about Hesse, and from what I’ve read by him, that man has something to tell us all. I’m going to run a seminar down at Big Sur in a couple of weeks. It starts November 3 and runs for three weeks, on peace, sharing bread, and all that. If you could give maybe one lecture a week on Hesse, I’d like that.” He stopped talking and reached for a slice of sour dough. “You and your ladies could stay down there. There’ll be plenty food. I can even pay you a few bucks. My old man has too many.” “Vice president of West Coast Oil,” Susan chimed in. She had that straight, better work on the new dude’s name. “The prospect is appealing, Ed, but give me a few days to think it over.” “Sure, man, sure.”

**********

The advent of Edward Bloom altered the lives of the Spencers in two ways. First, Mark had only to learn that Bloom’s Institute was attracting some of the finest intellectuals on the West Coast in order to decide to pack up wives and

children and accept the invitation of his new acquaintance. The second change relieved the family of responsibility for Susan. In the easy manner of young people of the era, Susan announced three days after meeting him that she would be setting up housekeeping with Ed in one of the cabins on his Big Sur property. Waving her hand in farewell, she had bidden them to keep her candles and mats. “Somehow I never fully dug your lifestyle,” she said, “but there’s no animosity. I’ll continue to love all of you. Just hurry down to the Sur.” Then she unfastened from her neck a chain on which a small silver rosette was hanging and reached it out to Chris. “This has been in my family for years, came to me from my Indian grandfather through my father who was ashamed of his Indian blood. Please take it as a remembrance of our family bond and of my affection for you.”

XXXIV

My Great-Grandfather, Joseph Smith, Really Started Something

This has got to be the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, a harmonious blend of man and nature,” Mark said as he swung the steering wheel of the camper van to the right and pulled onto Highway 1 South, the Cabrillo Highway. Chris looked at Mark’s profile, the pronounced curve of his cheekbone, the wellformed nose (only a bit crooked from the recent break), the brown hair tied at the nape of his neck in a leather thong. He looked refreshed, indeed, had not looked so well since before the beating. Two days camping in Cachaugua in the upper Carmel Valley and an evening of meditation with some Zen freaks at Tassajara Hot Springs Retreat had been therapeutic. Relaxed and unhurried, the Spencers had interrupted their trip to the institute in the Big Sur to drive the Seventeen Mile Drive in Pebble Beach, following the orange line in a procession with other tourists, spent two days in the arty village of Carmel and visited the old Franciscan mission, San Carlos Borromeo. From harsh New York to lush California, Chris thought. Her odyssey had taken her coast-to-coast. She recalled the morning she had rambled through the cemetery in Charlton; the next day in Vermont she met Mark. How would Louisa have felt about her journey, Chris wondered. Probably have loved the VW camper buses, she concluded as a gust of wind tore at the pop-top. How would it be to do the same distance in a prairie schooner? She turned to speak to Tammy but saw that her sister had folded the rear seat into a bed She and Hope were stretched out, napping. Hope whimpered in her sleep but didn’t open her eyes. They ed through fields of artichokes and across the Carmel River, which ambles down from the upper valley to empty into the ocean just one-half mile west of the road. Past the bridge on the left, the treeless hills of the Fish Ranch

came into view where dignified Black Angus cattle, etched in relief-like figures from an ancient frieze, cropped the wild oat grasses. Next, on their left, stood the Carmelite Monastery, remote, arcane, framed by dark pines and Cypress trees. Farther south (“south coast, the wild coast,” the plaintive voice of Joan Baez sang), the scenery became more awesome, the mountains higher and the surf more turbulent. Land and ocean clung to one another symbiotically. On a straight stretch of road, Mark pulled the floor shift into fourth gear, and Chris covered his hand for an instant with her own. “Such a lovely place indeed. I wish we had the time to hike these hills. Someday, Chrisie, we’ll return.” Highway 1 hugged the mountainside following the undulating contours, its western shoulders uneven and unprotected by guardrails. Centuries of battering rains, winds, and ocean had shaped the jagged edge of the land that continued to crumble down the precipitous thousand foot drop to the rocks below. At Bixby Creek, they drove over a slender span of bridge high above the spot where the creek empties into the Pacific. Peering down to the beach below, Chris could see the bright magenta blossoms of wild rhododendrons growing at the base of the cliffs. “That looks like a nice beach,” she remarked, “but look at those ‘no tresing’ signs. This land should belong to the people, or at least be preserved for them.” “I heard this road was built by convict labor,” Mark told her as he swung the van perilously close to the rim of the road; an oncoming sedan, driven by a frightened looking tourist, straddled the middle line. Mark shook his head. “Forever wild. That’s what the Coast Master Plan is all about, a ten-acre minimum so houses cannot be built on every promontory overlooking the Pacific.” He checked the rearview mirror, watching their second van adjust for the anxious tourist. “Sandra’s a good driver.” “I heard in the city that a lot of hippies have been camping on the Little Sur River, and the landowners have been trying to chase them out.” “Private property, my dear,” Mark reminded her. “The dream of the founding fathers which lurks in the subconscious of all good Americans, ‘life, liberty, and the pursuit of property.’” “Sounds like my family’s credo,” Chris concurred, “and think of the selfish individuals with thousands of acres, but woe to the beards and sandals who want

to roam about and enjoy nature. Maybe routing them out is a lost cause anyway. They’re making the scene in the Sur in such great numbers that they’ll never stop all of them.” “There’s really no other place for them to go. I know of only one park, Pfeiffer…” “Mark, look!” Stretching before them on the western side of the road was a vast, sandy plain, and projected into the ocean, encased in an aura of mist, rose a large hill crowned with a lighthouse. “Like a miniature Normandy, although the tide doesn’t seem to isolate it. I just adore lighthouses—they’re so mournful.” “It’s a naval station. The only good property the developers haven’t ruined is in the hands of the military.” The highway began to angle inland; temporarily they had left the ocean and were now driving through the area known as Big Sur. Above them the hills stretched round and golden, and here, away from the coast, the air warmed. The road followed a ravine, meandering alongside a grove of sizeable redwoods. Log motels and rustic restaurants appeared on either side, and they began to see itinerant hitchhikers customarily accompanied by large, undernourished dogs. The Spencers didn’t stop but exchanged the peace sign. Chris pulled out the crumpled note on which she had written Ed Bloom’s directions to the institute. “Up there’s Nepenthe.” Mark pointed, and she caught a glimpse of the Phoenix sign of the restaurant perched on the cliffs above the ocean. “The word is Greek, meaning surcease of sorrow.” “I want to stop,” Chris said, smoothing her hair behind her ears. “Maybe we’ll see Henry Miller sitting at a bonfire reading from Tropic of Cancer. Doesn’t he still live in the Sur?” “Haven’t you outgrown dirty books, Chris?” Mark teased. “No stopping now. Let’s go get settled. Sandra says Jeff tires of riding and she’s right. I’ve been watching in the rearview mirror. He’s been bouncing up and down the whole trip, must be quite ready for a rest. And, anyway, I want to go over my notes

before the first lecture. Maybe you girls can jump into a hot tub.” Smiling, he added, “although I hear only Saturday nights are coed.” South of Big Sur they drove through numerous groves of redwoods enshrouded in life-giving moist fog. The trees seem to prosper best in the narrow canyons into which little light can filter and on the northern slopes of the Santa Lucia Mountains. In a small clearing near a creek about ten miles below Nepenthe, the Spencers saw a wooden sign indicating the turnoff to the institute. For an instant Chris experienced a feeling of dubiety at the visit to Bloom’s, but a glance at Mark reassured her. In the backseat, Tammy and Hope were awake and had pulled aside the curtains to look out. Signaling to Sandra that they were turning right, Mark pulled off onto the dirt road which wound a half mile along the creek. He stopped at a nest of redwood cabins; formerly a tourist court, its buildings were now converted into dorms for guests of the institute. A grassy meadow stretched to the cliffs above the ocean where some cinder block buildings with faded printing on the side identified themselves as “Bloom’s Hot Springs.” Upside-down, abandoned, rusting bathtubs dotted the grass above the precipice. “Not very aesthetic,” Chris murmured. “Looks like they’re not into ecology.” “Or hard work.” Mark cramped the steering wheel left and turned off the key. “Ed Bloom doesn’t look like the kind to perform manual labor.” He opened the door and, jumping down from the camper, motioned Sandra to park beside him. “Hey you guys.” Sandra turned at hearing a familiar Utah twang. Susan, dressed in jeans and wearing every piece of turquoise and silver she owned, had added a new dimension to her attire: her 20/20-vision blue eyes were shrouded by a pair of nonprescription, steel-rimmed granny glasses. “She’s strung out,” Chris whispered to Mark. “You’re all too much. Let’s get clear. You’ve got to circulate.” Ignoring the others, Susan grabbed Mark and Chris by the hand and pulled them into the istration building where the reception desk was manned only by a large, orange tabby cat asleep on top of the registration book. “Flaked out. What a bummer.” She dragged them forward. “Ed’s in the bar.” She pushed aside some heavy curtains, which looked as though they had come

from a Victorian mansion on Pine Street in San Francisco, and entered a dark, windowless room, its stroboscopic lights roving restlessly over the dancers. From a tape deck under the bar blared the acid rock of the Jefferson Airplane. In one corner, a girl wearing a leotard sat in the lotus position staring absently, still, unflinching; in another, two male gays contemplated a chessboard as one stroked the other’s arm. Couples danced, some with frenzy, others in a half dream to the syncopated beat blasting in ear-shattering decibels. None of the dancers touched; each seemed remote, alienated. The air was sweet with the scent of cannabis undisguised by incense. (The lone sheriff was preoccupied with traffic tickets, accidents, flat tires; a bust at the institute was most unlikely.) Ed stood behind the bar filling a beer mug from a keg of Lucky. “Here ya go, pal.” He handed the mug to a thirsty customer. Chris noted that despite Ed’s disdain of his father’s money, he operated the cash with alacrity. “Just yesterday I flashed on it. Now I know where I’m coming from.” A plain girl in a sari, holding a Mary Jane between her thumb and index finger, was enlightening Ed. “For me it’s a syncretism of the Buddha and …” “So overweening, oh, excuse me!” Susan sneered, bumping into the girl. Again taking Mark and Chris by the hands she pulled them forward. “Let the symposium begin. The speaker has arrived. The enlightened one!”

**********

That evening Mark sat on a comfortable, upholstered chair while addressing the class of thirty who came to hear his first lecture on Hermann Hesse. He hoped the informality would de-emphasize his position as an authority and underscore his relationship to the group as just one of its . He began with an appeal to camaraderie: “My fellow humanists, I have been invited here today to speak on a subject dear to my heart, the life and works of the German romanticist, Hermann Hesse. I don’t know if it is better to begin with the man or his works. Perhaps I can weave the two together, the life of the great pacifist with the novels that reflect his dialectical rhythm and dualism. Art and life, yin and yang, spirit and nature

comprise his message … and the onishment to know thyself.” Chris studied the audience. Tammy was smiling, proud of Mark. All were quiet, interested, as though pondering his opening statement. Chris felt a rush of love for him. They were in this together, and they would succeed in leading people to more meaningful lives. She turned to face Mark again as he continued. “This intellectual gentleman born in in 1877 into a family of Protestant missionaries has expressed in his writings the unity of all things, which he envisaged as the resolution of the conflict between the polarities that he is concerned with.” He paused. “That is undoubtedly one of his most important teachings…the unity of all things.” “That’s beautiful man,” a girl commented. “I mean really beautiful.” “We are dealing here with a man who was brilliant yet who had a most difficult time in school. He was expelled from two or three. This prodigy just didn’t fit into the strict mold of the system.” “With that I can empathize,” a tall youth with a blond ponytail contributed. “Yet he read, and understood, everything: Goethe, Maeterlinck, Burckhardt, the German romanticists, especially Hoffman, and Nietzsche whom we could call his spiritual mentor. He married a few times, he had children; he died. So troubled was this Nobel Prize winner as a youth that he attempted suicide. He was just too sensitive for this world of hatred, violence, suppression of truth, and lies. When, at the outbreak of World War I, most Germans and other Europeans were elated at the dawn of a new era, he, almost alone among intellectuals, opposed it and wrote a series of essays expounding his pacifism and international humanism, quixotic then perhaps, but we can achieve what he envisioned.” “Right on,” somebody agreed. Mark shifted forward on his chair and spoke the next sentence louder and slower. “Hesse held the conviction that the only way for civilization to survive was through regeneration of the individual. I onish that we should take to heart his principium individuationis.” He sat back again. “He’s far out,” a girl whispered to Chris.

“He believed that destiny leads man to himself through loneliness, but that man should be self-reliant.” Softly slapping the arm of his chair, Mark made another major point. “One should obey not the laws of men, but a higher, sacred law, the law within oneself.” The audience clapped and whistled. Mark waited a moment and then held up his hand for silence. “Harmony, thank you, harmony is another key concept for Hesse, comprehending the particular as well as the universal and finding a synthesis of the whole and its components. His emphasis on the unique nature of each life appeals greatly to my personal way of thinking.” Mark paused again and scanned his audience. Chris noticed a puzzled look momentarily shroud his features. It was as though he had seen something or somebody that caused him consternation or aroused his curiosity. He blinked before continuing. “Let me enumerate the many affinities that we share with the master.” Briefly he consulted the notes that had lain unread in his lap. “In the first place, he wrote, my friends, for us. Later I shall go to Hesse’s works to show that he wrote for young people. How many of his characters are youths? And tied in with this is the rebellion that permeates his writings. All of his major characters are alienated. They rebel against the state, against school, against all unreasonable authority. We can also share with him the proper understanding of sex.” Several nodded as Mark defined this “proper understanding.” “It is never shameful or ugly for Hesse. We have only to think of Goldmund’s adventures. It is beautiful, as is free love.” “I dig that,” the tall youth said. “Lastly, we can identify with Hesse’s mysticism, with the rewarding inwardness that he portrays. Dropping out can lead one to metaphysical ecstasies.” Mark went on to outline the plots of Steppenwolf, Narciss und Goldmumd, Demian, Siddhartha, and Magister Ludi; other less well-known works he left for another lecture. He omitted Hesse’s familiarity with psychoanalysis and the use of mind-expanding drugs by Harry Haller, the Steppenwolf. On sanctioning the use of drugs Mark disagreed with the master, and he feared preoccupation with psychoanalysis, believing that it fostered inactivity. Mark advocated only enough self-analysis to develop sensitivity, to better understand who one was; as timeconsuming navel contemplation, as an end in itself, it could only damage the personality. One aspect of Mormonism that he had not rejected was its insistence on the active life.

**********

“Do you think they really liked it?” Mark asked Chris much later that night as they sat near a bonfire and looked out over the Pacific. Sandra and Tammy were asleep in one of the cabins. Again, taking pleasure in a moment when she had Mark to herself, Chris answered, “Of course. Do you think you got all those grateful and congratulatory comments for nothing? They thought your insights and clear explanations were terrific. One chick from Michigan told me that if she’d had lectures like that in college, she wouldn’t have dropped out.” “That sure makes me feel good. Maybe I should enroll in college again, become a real professor. You know I’d like to build a following, impregnate a whole generation with my ideas. “Why not be satisfied with impregnating me?” He was on a high again, his kick of grandeur, and she wanted to quiet him, calm him, but fleetingly she thought of herself. Were the physicians in Cedar City correct? Could she be impregnated? Should she quit taking the pill and find out? “I left out some things about Hesse, you know. They’ll find out soon enough, if they haven’t already, about the drugs for instance. How I wish he had not got into that. Today’s youth will misunderstand him. I didn’t mention his love of the classics in music and literature nor the way in which he makes the unwieldy German language beautiful.” “Maybe next time, Mark.” He chattered on without responding. “Then too, I didn’t really stress that Hesse in my opinion is one more in a long chain of German romanticists. Nowhere was the nineteenth century movement greater than in , and he is an outgrowth of that. I love it, the fascination with psychology, with love and death, with synesthesia, and eternity, and night. Friedrich Schlegel, brother of AW, in

his famous Rede über die Mythologie, wrote that the beginning of poetry lies in the cancellation of the laws of rational thinking. Poetry was to transplant us once again into the beautiful confusion of imagination, into the original chaos of human nature.” “That’s famous?” Chris humorously questioned as she arose to move closer to the fire. “You make it sound as though the Schlegel boys are the latest rage.” “Oh go to hell, Chris.” Standing in front of him with her back to the fire she said, “In a more serious vain, Mr. Spencer, I pose a question. Once during your lecture you suddenly frowned deeply while pausing for a few seconds. You were looking at the crowd. Do you why?” “Yes, I do. Thanks for reminding me. I was going to tell you about that, but it slipped my mind. Hell, I thought I saw that fundamentalist, Merrill Fenner, in the back of the room.” “You’re putting me on.” “No, I wondered if you or Tammy or Sandra had seen him.” “I certainly didn’t.” “Must have been a look-alike, but why would I suddenly think of him. He was in no way on my mind. In fact, that whole year in southern Utah seems far away. Anyway, why would he be here?” “Probably because those fundamentalists are always looking for females to share their screwed-up existence, and you’re surrounded by women. Daddy used to say that they prefer finding girls who are already committed to communal living, like daughters of other polygamists. It’s easier that way.” “That’s true, and this Big Sur country right now would be paradise for them, but who would go with those crackpots?” “We can’t really shake it can we, Mark,” she said, sitting next to him. “What’s that?”

“Our heritage. My great-grandfather, Joseph Smith, really started something. Modern Mormonism as well as fanatical, fundamentalist offshoots like Fenner’s Church of the Spiritual Sons of Joseph only exist because of what he started.” “And why is my church a fanatical offshoot?” a voice from the darkness asked. Both Chris and Mark shifted forward with a start, and their heads whipped right to face the speaker. “So, Merrill, it was you I saw. My God, you, here in California, lurking around in the darkness. Trying to give us heart attacks.” He emerged from the trees and his lanky frame appeared silhouetted in the light of the fire. “I have never been far away from you since you left Utah. We watch our own … and after hearing your lecture I have much to say to you.” “Come and us,” Mark invited sarcastically. “You’ve made me curious.” Fenner approached from behind the fire and sat beside them. He hesitated a moment then said, “Your introduction to that hippie writer was well delivered, but I’m amazed and shamed that you would become a follower of a disciple of Lucifer. Use your talents for the work of the Lord.” Mark regarded Fenner’s grating insensitivity as a challenge. “Look, Merrill, I’m shocked and angry that you’ve apparently been following us. I have a constitutional right to be a … a … Freidenker … a free spirit. I don’t want to hear some puerile notion of yours that I follow Old Beelzebub. Seeking truth, reading, having an open mind are not satanic activities … and Hesse is not a ‘hippie writer.’” “Oh ye of so very little faith. I was mistaken in believing that you were one of us. I just assumed it.” His tone of voice was abnormal, more didactic than conversational, threatening, frightening. “Just because I live with a couple girls and broke away from the Mormons doesn’t mean that I’m a fundamentalist.” “Yes, I’ve been observing that, and therefore, I’ve sought you out to call you to repentance while there’s still time, to wean you even yet from the forces of evil, for it is only us, only the spiritual sons of Joseph who live the prophet’s

teachings.” Momentarily, his fierce, piercing eyes glared at Chris. “Merrill, I appreciated your kindness to me when I was hospitalized, but I don’t want any part of what you believe in, okay? I should have told you then. There can be no talking to me, no converting, no calling to repentance. Why don’t you examine your own beliefs? Ever think that you’re misguided?” Enraged, Fenner jumped up and snatched from the fire a long stick of wood that was burning on one end. Brandishing it, he wailed, “Behold! Lest thou repentest, the Lord, thy God, shall cause thee to be stricken from this earth. Yea, even as were thine enemies in Utah, for he destroyeth all who have had a chance to hear the truth and reject it.” Nearly out of breath, he gulped air, swallowed and issued a threat, “I am permitted to give thee but a little more time to mend thy ways.” He threw the stick into the fire and walked away. “Mark, what was that all about?” Chris asked as Fenner’s form returned to the trees. “That dude should be locked up. Unreal! I really feel chopped up after that. Here we are innocently sitting here thinking over one of our greatest experiences, feeling mellow, and this creature comes out of the night.” She sighed deeply. “I thought we got away from persecution.” “How about his remark about ‘thine enemies’?” “Of course, you don’t think that he was connected with the deaths of those depraved boys?” “He’s probably harmless, a lot of hot air, but I don’t know, I wouldn’t put it past him, Chris. He’s committed, insanely so.” He thought for a moment. “Some modern polygamist leaders have commissioned murders, seem to prefer throat cutting. You know blood atonement, just like the Danites of the early church.” The next morning she was to learn more about Merrill and his followers.

**********

Avoiding slippery patches of ice plant, Chris had descended a steep, sandy path

strewn with gravel that led from the cliffs to a tiny beach. Of late she sought periods of solitude, of reflection, and here in the gray mist she could be alone. She inhaled deeply of the salt air as she watched a sea otter playfully swim through beds of floating kelp. “Thank God, they’re protected by law,” she murmured to herself. Susan was on her mind this morning; dear Susan who had given her a family heirloom. She fondled the rosette that hung at her throat. How old was it? From Louisa’s day? Pioneer times? Susan was into drugs again, too bad, for little Chrisie loved her in return, but Chrisie’s head was on straighter. Mark was right about drugs. Transfixed by the rhythm of the surf, she stood pondering possible ways to help her cousin when someone spoke to her. “Hi there.” It was a hesitant utterance, almost a whisper. Chris whirled, still edgy from the previous night, to face a young woman. “Oh, you startled me. I was standing here sort of taking an emotional reading, I guess.” “Doing what?” “Getting in touch with my feelings.” The slim girl looked puzzled. “Thinking, just thinking.” Chris assumed that all the “in” people visiting Bloom’s knew what a “reading” was. Maybe this chick had just arrived. “Where you from?” “Utah” “Oh yeah? So am I.” “And what brings you here, the seminar?” “No—er—we’re here because of … We’re missionaries,” she revealed slowly, cautiously. “LDS missionaries?”

“No, we belong to the Spiritual Sons of Joseph, the true church of Joseph Smith.” “You’re with Merrill Fenner?” “Why, yes. He’s my husband. Do you know him?” “Indeed, even talked with him just last night.” “Merrill often goes for walks at night.” “Were you at the lecture, the one on Hermann Hesse?” “Oh no. Merrill doesn’t allow us to attend hippie meetings.” The term ‘hippie meetings’ irritated Chris, but she thought better of explaining now. “Us? How many of you are there?” “We’re five women and Merrill.” “Are all of you his wives?” The stranger hesitated. She seemed so naive, so cowed, more like an abused child than an adult, reluctant to answer some questions, unsure of just how much she should reveal. “You can tell me. We folks from Utah understand such things. I won’t turn you in to any authorities.” The girl itted the multiple marriages and told Chris that her name was Hazel. She contrasted sharply with the “California look” of suntanned robustness: pale skin, lackluster eyes, lines of hardship in her young face, as though she bore responsibilities far beyond her capacity for handling them. “Got any kids?” “All but one of us do.” Her face brightened. “I’ve been blessed to give my husband three.” Observing that she warmed to the question about her children, Chris tried another nonthreatening one. “Been married long?”

“Three years, since I was sixteen.” “One a year? You have them faster than my sister who’s a good Mormon.” Chris smiled. “Where you from? What town?” Again she seemed disinclined to tell too much. “Ah … ah … well … Hildale.” “Oh yeah. That’s the Utah side of the Shortcreek colony of polygamists,” Chris ed. “Hazel, I am really interested in all of this. It’s okay to tell me.” “But we’re not with that group,” she blurted, and a gush of information followed. “I was raised in it though. Our leader, Brother LeRoux, says they don’t have the keys of the priesthood. They know only false teachings.” “So where does Fenner come in?” “Merrill was born in Mexico, in the province of Chihuahua. His family has been there since the Manifesto, when Brother LeRoux’s father established the Kingdom of God there.” “And Merrill converted you?” “Yes, and two other girls from Shortcreek,” she volunteered. “He’s a great missionary, so persuasive and informed, knows all the scriptures.” “How close are you to the original church. Do you wear garments?” “Yes, the proper kind, ankle length. We make our own.” “And you’re here trying to make converts among these liberal, free-thinking drug s?” “Yes, we must, for Merrill says the lord will destroy them and their places of abode even as he did Sodom and Gomorrah.” She was becoming enthusiastic at the telling of their mission, far less apprehensive of Chris’s questions. “We move on from group to group warning them. One maiden from San Francisco has been baptized. She’s Merrill’s newest wife.” “Wow! Sounds like he’s really effective. Has he preached around here?”

“Once they mocked and jeered him even as the Jews ridiculed our Savior. Merrill says that was their only warning. “We’ve been here three days. We’ll move on soon to warn others.” She sighed. “There are so few of us and so many who must learn of the celestial principle and of Brother LeRoux’s true church.” Confident that she now had Hazel’s trust, Chris decided to inquire about Merrill’s possible activities as a destroyer and his spying. “Do you know of a man named Mark Spencer?” She frowned and pursed her lips, thinking. “No” “Do you know anything about three boys who died in a truck accident near Escalante?” Again her brow wrinkled. “I believe we talked about that once because Merrill was in the region when it happened, but I don’t know who they were or anything. They weren’t boys from Hildale. Did you know them?” “Yes yes, I knew them, all too well.” Chris spoke with Hazel for several minutes and accompanied her back up the path to the top of the cliff. She heard a tale of extreme fundamentalism but nothing to justify fearing Merrill. Still, somehow, intuitively, she remained suspicious and was happy when she saw Mark sitting with Sandra and Tammy eating breakfast on the large redwood picnic table in front of the sisters’ cabin. They were all safe. “You certainly know when to take off,” Sandra greeted. “We managed to prepare breakfast without you again.” “I’ll do the cleanup,” Chris replied. “That should even things up.” Mark had been telling the sisters about the sudden appearance of Fenner, so when Chris said she had more information about him, they were all eager to hear it. “This Hazel is really pathetic. It isn’t at all like us being with Mark. I mean she doesn’t think. It’s like she is a windup doll. And what they believe in makes the Salt Lake church seem almost intellectual.” She scraped what was left of a pan of scrambled eggs on to her plate. “At least I learned one thing that makes me

happy. They’re splitting soon. We and the others here have had our warning it seems.” “How do people get so screwed up?” Sandra asked. “, some people say we’re mixed up,” Tammy reed. “Some deep psychological need, I suppose,” Mark explained, “or they simply don’t know any better, like this Hazel, or they’re psychotic … mad … which I’m afraid is the case with our Brother Merrill. Reminds me of a guy in Holland, a fish peddler known as Lou who decided he was god, claimed to be invulnerable, managed to get apostles and a rather large following. But, as was bound to happen, a man whose wife had been converted decided to test Lou’s invulnerability. In the middle of one of Lou’s meetings, the disbeliever walked up to the stage of the theater where Lou preached and slugged him. Poor old Lou bled like the rest of us mortals.” Sandra and Tammy giggled, but Chris’s mood was less jocund. “I’d like to know more about this LeRoux and his outfit, Mark. What’s the whole story on them?” “Well, as you know, after the Manifesto some dissidents kept polygamy alive and still do. I’ve read that there may be as many as thirty thousand. They practiced in secret in Utah, more openly in Short Creek where after 1935, they lived the United Effort Plan. It was a corporation, a trust agreement, to which everyone was to devote all of his property. Some who now dissent from those dissidents claim it made the leader rich, while the rank and file lived in desperation.” “From the looks of Hazel, I’d agree,” “Added to the Utah and Arizona groups were those in Mexico and Canada. Most of the Mexican bunch returned to the states in 1912 at the time of the Mexican Revolution when Pancho Villa, Zapata, and the boys were running around shooting their enemies, including gringos. The polygamists called their flight ‘the exodus.’ Many drifted back after things calmed down.” He picked up little Jeff and held him in his lap. “Hell, it’s all so mixed up with daughter swapping, old men and young girls, infighting, visions, revelations, counter visions and revelations. Right now the head honcho down in Short Creek is over eighty, and word is he has seven teenage brides along with his older women. Of course, several groups exist, the Church of the Firstborn, the Spiritual Sons of Joseph,

and five or six others. This LeRoux, Merrill’s chief, is in his sixties. He comes from the Mexican polygamists. He’s a son of the original leader and claims to be the ‘one mighty and strong.’ They’re a fierce lot who make no bones about accepting the blood atonement. Apparently that means they help unworthies spill their blood, just like Mountain Meadow.” “Then they are very dangerous,” Tammy commented, “and not to be taken lightly.” “Informed gossip has it that LeRoux had his brother killed because he formed his own group.” He grinned. “I think they restrict themselves to killing one of their own now and then for straying. About 1950, a character who calls himself ‘Doctor Allen,’ a naturopathic physician, split the Short Creek group and spread most of his flock around Salt Lake where he practices. It’s my understanding that LeRoux has commissioned his death.” “How do you know this? Are you putting us on?” Tammy questioned. “No no, I get around. Us polygamist fellers has to know about each other.” “I don’t think all of this is comical, Mark, not at all. I’ll be glad when Fenner takes off. He may be their avenger,” Chris warned.

**********

The next weekend, the institute seethed with visitors; a seminar on transactional analysis (TA) had attracted the usual professional crowd, and many had stayed on for Saturday night hot-tubbing or partying at the bar. Ed Bloom, sporting leather pants, fringed vest, and three beaded necklaces (a gift from Susan) was doing a profitable bar business, and another kind of private enterprise was also flourishing: drug pushers from Santa Cruz to Moro Bay were making the scene in order to accommodate those guests who wished to turn on. The usual Big Sur hangers-on had drifted into the bar where they mingled with groupies and straights who had attended the lecture. In lively conversation they were comparing the simplistic concepts of TA with the system of the old sage, Fritz Perls, who had spoken on a prior weekend about Gestalt psychology.

Susan had just elbowed her way across the dance floor to assist Ed in opening a fresh keg when the door opened and the orange light from a torch fell across the room. Framed in the doorway, clad in dull, black tros, old-fashioned frock coat with a high-collared shirt, looking like some Puritan Methodist minister, was Merrill Fenner. The light of the torch he held cast shadows on the walls elongating his bony frame and magnifying his angular features and deepsocketed eyes. “Hey man, in those John Cash duds you should hit the costume party at Nepenthe,” a wit called out from the corner. “Be ye still,” Fenner commanded. The guests could not grasp what was happening, and even if they had, more than half were too stoned to take action. Brandishing his torch, Fenner jabbed at the dancers who shrank back in astonishment. “Ye damned and corrupted flesh,” he accused. “The devil must be rooted out by fire.” “He’s off the wall,” someone said. “Does he know this is the twentieth century?” “No way,” another voice replied. “I’m having difficulty internalizing this experience.” “He’s just doing his thing,” one of the dancers said. Fenner whirled around affixing them with his gaze. “It is the Lord of all who calls you to repentance. Know ye that I am the agent of the Almighty.” “Now look here, man.” Ed Bloom stepped out from behind the bar to confront the wraithlike apparition. “People just don’t act this way.” He had to shout to be heard above the tape of Cream. In the meantime, Susan slipped out unnoticed and ran toward the baths to seek help from the Spencers and other guests who were enjoying mixed bathing in the steamy waters. In the late 1960s in coastal northern California, the hip generation interrelated and hung loose, but the menacing figure of Merrill Fenner connoted a specter so

alien and sinister that a primordial fear gripped the denizens of the bar; this was getting to be too much, even for their degree of tolerance. Collectively the men could have easily overcome him; yet they faltered. Fenner turned from his assault on the dancers and chanted, “Only fire can eradicate the evil of this place.” Then, wheeling, he ignited the velvet drapes that hung over the door and watched his pyrotechnics with satisfaction as the dry, fraying material sprang alive with flames. Suddenly he hurled the torch into the bar and ran into the night screaming, “For this wicked and profane generation shall be cleansed.” The fire did no structural damage. As the flames reached the dry tinders of the ceiling, the dancers galvanized into action and beat out the blaze with old gunnysacks that Ed had hastily dragged out of a storeroom. By the time Mark and others reached the istration building the fire had been doused, and the dance floor was again crowded, albeit permeated with the unpleasant stench of old smoke.

XXXV

Was She in Some Way Repeating Her GreatGrandmother’s Life?

Mark’s lectures were a success, so much so that the Spencers stayed on near Bloom’s Hot Springs. They had all found the City congenial to their tastes and lifestyle, but Mark longed for open spaces; Big Sur suited him. Ed rented them a house near the highway only two miles from the hot springs; and now and then during the next year, Mark lectured there on authors, philosophers, peace, and seeking one’s true purpose in life. His periodic seminars did not generate sufficient income to the family, but the store they established in the house did. Its fortuitous location so close to Highway 1 assured the Spencers a stream of customers for leather goods, hippie paraphernalia (Mark objected to the use of water pipes, but still he sold them), health foods, and articles from Mexico. They wondered at the foolishness of their first move to southern Utah. To Chris’s relief, Merrill Fenner and his harem had not been seen since the evening of “cleansing by fire.” Everyone except Chris received Christmas greetings from their parents; only Melissa ed her (with a $100 check enclosed in a card). Touched at Melissa’s expression of affection, Chris phoned her aunt from the hot springs to thank her and to learn more about her family, but she had no desire to return to Salt Lake, satisfied at having exchanged its provincialism and bigotry for the liberal life. California had been good to her, to Mark, to the family, and now experiencing contentment and robust health, she yearned to become a mother. It rankled that Tammy and Sandra had born Mark children, while she alone remained barren. The Spencers did not remain isolated as they had in Utah; frequently one or two of them journeyed to the City (“by the bay” as Tony Bennett sang), and daily the world came to them. They were part of the “California scene” and in close touch

with all the happenings of the nation and the world in that eventful year of 1968 when Americans, led by the young, were trying to clarify values. Their emotions were teased and their interest stimulated by Vietnam, Cambodia, draft dodging, civil rights, civil disorder, the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the Soviet Union, Black Panthers (principally Huey P. Newton, Bobby Seale, and Eldrige Cleaver), the continuing success of the Beatles, who had sold in excess of 210,000,000 records, Andy Warhol (critically wounded in June by Valeria Solanis who told police that Warhol had too much control of her life), Ralph Abernathy and the Poor People’s Campaign, the mindless assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy, and the spectacle of the many presidential candidates, conventions, and convention riots in Miami and Chicago. So much was happening that Chris barely took notice of Jean Claude Killy’s triple ski championships in the Olympics, an occurrence that would have been of prime importance to her only a few months earlier. A fellow Mormon, George Romney, was one of the first to begin campaigning for the presidency; he had eagerly declared himself a candidate of the GOP in November l967 but by February l968 had withdrawn when the most formidable of the Republicans, Richard M Nixon, announced his candidacy. The host of candidates included Nelson Rockefeller (who for several months insisted that he would not run), Eugene McCarthy, Robert Kennedy (until June 5, when in Los Angeles an assassin’s bullets took his life), George Wallace, Hubert H. Humphrey, Lester Maddox, and the “noncandidate” from California, Gov. Ronald Reagan, who issued position papers and undertook a fund-raising tour; the young despised him. It was difficult for the young and old alike to thread their way through the maze of proposals, counterproposals, and shifting positions on the major issues. Where did Humphrey really stand on Vietnam? Was he Johnson’s puppet or his own man? How did Kennedy and McCarthy differ? What was Reagan’s game? Sen. Robert F. Kennedy, recently of New York (the whole family couldn’t represent Massachusetts), whom Mark preferred, was a late starter; he announced on March l6, maintaining that he had become a candidate in opposition to the renomination of Pres. Lyndon B. Johnson (who at the end of the month went on national television to announce a unilateral halt in air and naval bombardments of North Vietnam and his decision not to seek renomination). Kennedy asserted that the nation was on a perilous course; he wanted new policies to close the gaps between rich and poor, black and white,

and young and old. Concerning these pursuits and his urgent cry to end the bloodshed in Vietnam, he saw himself in harmony with Senator McCarthy who had been stomping the country since January. Following Kennedy’s death, Mark ed the three sisters in giving his full to McCarthy whom he had always ired—a professor and poet could only be good for the country. Had he not ed better than his wives the charismatic appeal of John Kennedy and “Camelot,” Mark would have favored McCarthy all along. For him, the one thousand days was a time when a humanist dwelled in the White House, and Mark had hoped (perhaps naively given the quite different characters of the brothers) that the younger Kennedy would restore the aura of culture. When Bobby spoke at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, Mark and Chris stood in the crowd that shared his moment of victory and the horror of his murder. “Violence, violence,damn! Goddamn it !” Mark had decried, “Where is the sanity of mankind? Why, oh why can’t people reason?” The Spencers and their acquaintances disliked all the Republican candidates, but with McCarthy lay hope; they resigned themselves and campaigned for him. In August, Susan and Ed flew out to Chicago for the Democratic Convention “to be where the action was.” (And as it turned out, there would be plenty). Mayor Daley was promising the nation that he would tolerate no repetition of the GOP Convention in Miami, marked by agitators, injuries, and even killings. Potential demonstrators whatever their cause: the poor, Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), the Black Panthers, hippies, Mexican-Americans, and all the rest would be dealt with harshly. Ironically, the course of events brought Chicago even more violence than Miami had known, and the mayor was true to his word in repressing demonstrators and uprisings with brutal force: police, National Guard, and Army Reserves. At the International Amphitheatre where the convention met, a garrison atmosphere prevailed. Susan returned loathing Daley and lauding Ralph Abernathy, Dick Gregory, and Julian Bond. Ed insisted that with the defeat of McCarthy all was lost. “Humphrey-Muskie or Nixon-Agnew,” he groused, “some fuckin’ choice.” Mark, ever the romantic optimist, disagreed; he thought Humphrey’s policies might prove to be very good for the country. “At one hundred miles per hour ‘old pumpkin head’ spouts lots of wisdom,” he had commented to Ed. “My real depression will come if he loses.” Yet by November when Nixon had won, Mark

faced this ultimate defeat by again adjusting his outlook. They who believed as he and the sisters did must continued to pursue their goals, propagate those goals, however possible, cultivate patience. Anyway, he reasoned, hadn’t Nixon promised to end the war? Maybe he would. One evening in December, Mark remarked to a seminar group, “America is still a democracy, at least we’re relatively free to express our views. You know, I never did condone the rock-throwing, the Molotov cocktails, the SDS, the Black Panthers, any of the militant demonstrators, and I’m glad that Hayakawa has become acting president of San Francisco State. Militants on whatever side are wrong. He’ll deal fairly with them. We must always avoid anarchy.”

**********

In January of 1969, Chris, Tammy, and Mark were returning from a rock concert at the Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco when Mark casually asked Tammy, who was sitting next to him, if she and Sandra would mind if he and Chris went to Mexico on a “buying trip.” “I need someone to go,” he clarified, “and the two of you have the children. We can load up, make ourselves a tidy profit.” Chris sat behind Mark on the small seat that faced the rear of the van. “Becoming more and more the capitalist,” she said, turning to grin her approval. “First soft on Nixon and now seeking greater profits. Once a Mormon, always a Mormon.” “Any profit we make is for the common good and for our little ones.” Chris did not answer. Two “little ones, she thought and maybe before long a third. Should she tell him now? No, not with Tammy here. She wanted to be alone with him, and to be certain, she should consult a gynecologist. “Sure, it’s okay, but I should check with Sandra, I guess,” Tammy finally replied. “But why would she mind? We don’t care if you go with Chris. She’s our sharing sister.” “Then I think we should do it, about the end of next week. Get some goods in

plenty of time for the spring invasion of tourists.” “May I turn up the radio a little you guys?” Tammy asked. “I just love the Fifth Dimension.” She sang along, “Up, up and away-ay in my beautiful, my beautiful balloon.” “Sandra’s favorite is Englebert Humperdinck. Every time she hears There Goes My Everything, she talks about wanting to see him in person.” “If he comes to the City, we’ll go,” Mark promised. “Mark?” Tammy asked. “Yes?” “Charley was the saddest movie I’ve ever seen. I mean really the saddest.” “Right it was tragic.” He longed for Chris to say something and reached back to pat her arm. “You agree, Chris? You’re so silent tonight.” “Silent? I suppose I am, just thinking about the future, about visiting Mexico again … and with you.”

**********

They stayed as close to the coast as possible on the drive south through California to Tijuana where their vehicle was given careful scrutiny by U.S. Customs inspectors who told them not even to think of returning with marijuana. Mexican authorities also searched the camper bus conscientiously, probing its sink, closet, spare-tire depression, motor compartment, and all possible hiding places. “La mayoría de las drogas vienen de los Estados Unidos,” a thin, mustachioed customs officer in a brown uniform told Mark. “I know,” he replied sarcastically in Spanish. “Too many bad things come from the U.S/A.”

Missing the sarcasm the officer replied, “Ah usted habla español.” “Claro, como un loro. Perfecto.” “Qué bueno!” The man smiled broadly extending his right hand toward Mark, palm up. Mark gave him two dollars. “Pues, se acabó,” the officer said, then looked at Chris and translated, “Now he ees feeneesh.” “I like Mexicans,” Chris commented as they drove away. “They’re such children.” “Down here every kind of favor has a price,” came Mark’s reply. “La mordida, ‘the bite,’ is a way of life. That character isn’t supposed to get money from people coming through customs.” “Gee, Mark, he liked your Spanish,” she twitted, “and he could have made it a lot harder on you if you hadn’t rewarded his appreciation with a couple bucks. You know, started looking inside of tires, dismantling the radio …” “Sure, that’s why I paid him.” He waved at some children, who every day hung around the customs office, staring curiously at los turistas. “Shit! Just because I have long hair everybody automatically assumes I puff Mary Jane, eat hashish, and shoot up heroin.” “Really pisses you off, doesn’t it? Decompress, Mark baby, decompress. You always say it doesn’t matter what people think, so live your own teachings. Where to now?” “Mexicali and then on down to Hermosillo.” She took the map of Mexico from the storage space behind the driver’s seat and studied it for a moment. “Do you really … I mean really know how far that is? It’s a hell of a long way!” “Right, but I want to get down where the goods are a bargain. May even go farther than Hermosillo. I love this country. Enjoy it with me, Chris. Just think, if

it hadn’t been for the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo way back in 1848, we folks from Utah would all be citizens of Mexico, and maybe better off. It’s what Brigham wanted, his own fief within the Mexican state.” “God, I love you.” She leaned across the space between the seats and pressed her mouth to his cheek, biting it tenderly. “I’m happy to go as far as you want.” “Hey, young lady, don’t arouse the driver’s ions now. I have to keep my mind on these Mexican drivers and the animals and kids on the road. Have you observed that this so-called major highway has no shoulders?” They had not left as soon as Mark had hoped; it was mid-February. There had been business matters to take care of, arrangements for postponing some lectures, and Sandra’s opposition. She had not welcomed her sister’s traveling to Mexico alone with Mark as sweet, pliable Tammy had assumed. Chris and she had one very heated exchange of words during which Chris reminded Sandra that she had once gone home, while Chris “minded the store.” “And Mark’s affections,” came the retort. From the beginning, Chris had wanted Mark to herself, Sandra had accused. “If you can’t live our vows, Chris, you should leave.” Now as she sat looking at this desolate region of Mexico from the pop-topper, Chris reflected on her sister’s accusations. Sandra was correct. She had always wanted Mark to herself, and being three months pregnant, she felt bound to him more than ever. What had the gynecologist said? “I anticipate no complications whatsoever.” So the rape had not affected her fertility. How very lucky, blessed, her mother would have said. She felt so happy to be relieved of the anguish of not knowing. To hell with the whole silly polygamist nonsense. Too bad Mark had got into this thing before she met him. He hadn’t taken any wives since, and she and the others knew why—because he regarded Chris as his only wife. Sandra had said something about Mark’s reluctance to sleep with her … good! Maybe it would lead to her departure. She will go, not I, Chris thought. Soon, when the perfect moment arrived, she would tell Mark that she was carrying his son. They spent three days at Hermosillo looking into possible purchases of huaraches, guayabera shirts, statues, pots, ponchos, rugs, onyx articles, and whatever else they thought would sell well in their store, but Mark decided they should drive even farther south. Chris perceived his real reason: to spend some

time on the beach at Guaymas. He had no worries about servicing the camper, and that too encouraged him to continue. The VW service in Hermosillo had been excellent. “The krauts have set up better dealerships here than in the states,” Mark observed to Chris. “I appreciated the ice-cold water of their shiny metal wall fountain,” she replied. “Must have them in all the VW places.” “Still, even that so-called agua purificada may give you Montezuma’s revenge,” he cautioned. Camping in Mexico was more primitive than in the states. They had spent nights next to Pemex stations and in schoolyards, but Guaymas offered a commercial campsite on the beach. “We don’t get our money’s worth from these places, not having a sewer hookup, but at least we can use their electricity, and with our hose connected to our site’s water faucet, we can shower,” Mark said on the evening of their arrival. “I think I’m going to like it here, Mark, except maybe for the sand fleas, or whatever they are. Did you see all the bites on that woman camping across from us?” “Maybe her husband bites her. What can I do to help with supper?” “Just light the Coleman stove for me.” “You know, you look kind of tired tonight. Let’s live it up and eat out. We can walk over to that nice hotel next to the campground, throw down some delicious Dos Equis, and partake of a little carne asada con … uh … asada with something.” “Asada … asada, showing off again. Hmm … carne is ‘meat,’ con means ‘with.’” She paused, searching her memory. “Anyway, I love the beer with the two X’s.” “Roasted”

The next morning, they savored a breakfast of fresh orange juice, toast, and scrambled eggs and then went for a swim in the warm, still waters of the Gulf of California (large waves are blocked by the long, thin finger of Baja California). This should be a good time to tell him, Chris thought, when we are both well rested and mellow. “Love it,” Mark said, as his body floated, gently undulating in the green waters. “How I love it. I needed to get away from my responsibilities, from the burden of changing the world. It’s lost its sense of urgency for me. America’s going to hell now under Nixon anyway. I should run for president, finally the nation would have a good one.” “One with three wives, but you wouldn’t be the first.” Playfully she splashed him. “Great-grandfather Smith planned to become a polygamous president.” “Chris, oh Chris.” He stood in the waist-deep water and embraced her, kissing her softly. “I don’t even try to fight it anymore, I wish I had only you. We change, I guess. The last couple of years have given me a whole new outlook. Maybe I’m just getting old. I can’t abandon Tammy and Sandra, of course, but perhaps I can find a way to them and the kids, and … and … marry you.” He hesitated. “I mean officially.” “Nothing could make me happier.” She pressed against him and looked into his eyes. “Maybe I’m getting older and wiser also … or … or … maybe I’d just like to rear our baby in a more conventional atmosphere.” “Baby?” For a moment he stood, nonplused, then stepped back in the water and held her at arm’s length to inspect her trim figure in its bikini. “I’m three months pregnant.” “But the pill … We had decided … It can’t be.” “I stopped using anything, Mark; I wanted to get pregnant. Not only did I want to give you a child, but I never told you, the physicians in Cedar City said it might be impossible. Guess we proved them wrong.” “Guess we did! This is a real big shock. I … I had no idea, but … yeah … yeah … Maybe you are a little plumper.” His eyes again examined her figure. “A baby from you, I like that.” He toppled her into the shallow water and kissed her

repeatedly. They swam and frolicked for sometime before returning to the beach where they lay in the sun and talked. “We’ve been through so much together, Chris. I guess that’s what old married couples are referring to when they speak of ‘going through thick and thin’ and ‘loyalty.’ When I met you I was just getting into polygamy. I like to think I’m intelligent and make wise decisions, but now I’ll it to you that I didn’t know what I was doing.” He propped himself up on one elbow. “I was rebellious. The church had disappointed me. I wanted to prove to them that they were hypocrites. First polygamy is okay, and then it isn’t. But now I don’t know. I’ve thought about it so very much. Been planning some way to be alone with you for a period of several days to discuss it. And now with the baby, I hadn’t been expecting that. My God, there’s even more reason for us to have our own life.” “There’s no easy way out. We can’t hurt Tammy and Sandra.” “No, but there has to be some way. I could simply confront them, tell them I can’t live the vows anymore.” “No, don’t rush it. Use that bright mind of yours, I’ll help. We’ll think of something. Maybe they’ll both fall in love while we’re away.” He laughed. “Maybe, whatever. I’ll tell you one thing, I’m not going to be in any hurry to get back. I think we should go on down to Mazatlán, hit that beach. From there, we’ll go east to Durango. That might be the ideal place to make our purchases. And, get this, we’ll return via Torreón and Chihuahua, Chihuahua, and exit in Texas.” “Chihuahua? That’s where the fundamentalists are.” “Yes, in the state of Chihuahua, not the city. It’s a hamlet where they live called Colonia de los Unificados.” “Let’s see, that’s easy, means ‘colony of the unified,’ a fitting name, but comical.” “No funnier than the Indian names of some of the places.”

That night Chris had trouble falling asleep. She was content now, so happy that she had stuck it out, remained with Mark. Together they would prove to her family that they were not fools, and Mark would not disappoint her. With his intelligence, he was destined for something big, still plenty time, but why go to the state of Chihuahua near the fundamentalists’ colony? What if Fenner were around? As happened so frequently, her thoughts turned to Louisa. Was she in some way repeating her great-grandmother’s life? Had Louisa accepted polygamy without jealousy or had she wanted Joseph to herself? And had she, Chris, found herself at last? She felt contentment at the prospect of legally becoming Mrs. Spencer. She would begin to plan for a future without Sandra and Tammy, a future for herself, with Mark and their baby. She lay silently, reviewing the months since she had met Mark. She had experienced moments of weakness, times when she had wanted to chuck it all, especially after the rape. That choice was never open to her great-grandmother. Where would a girl have gone in those days? Where would a girl go today with a baby, rejected by her family?

**********

Mark’s assessment proved to be correct; a village near Durango had prices to their liking. Assisted by five eager Mexican boys, he and Chris stored goods in every free space inside the van and fastened two large boxes on the top luggage rack. As they worked, Chris and Mark were so solicitous of each other, their happiness at being together so ostentatious, that several Mexicans asked if this trip were their luna de miel. “No, no honeymoon,” Mark would clarify. “It’s just that we’ve rediscovered each other.” When they left Durango, Chris saddened a bit because now they were on the way back. Mazatlán had been even more fun than Guaymas: bodysurfing, stretching out on the white beach to bake in the sun (something they experienced only infrequently in the misty climate of Big Sur), laughing, sharing intimacies, relaxing. For two nights, they had left the confinement of the pop-topper and splurged on an accommodation in a new hotel on the beach complete with its own balcony, plush carpets, and a king-size bed that invited uninhibited lovemaking. Now all that was behind them. Ahead lay Torreón, Chihuahau, El

Paso, Big Sur, Tammy, and Sandra.

**********

“Chris,” Mark said as they were approaching Torreón. “We’ll stay here tonight and then tomorrow drive to Chihuahua. You know I’ve decided I really want to visit that screwy Fenner. Let’s try to find out what that bunch is up to. Won’t cost us more than a day. After all, I was rather hard on him.” “Wasn’t he a bit hard on you? And Ed’s bar?” Chris awakened first in the morning. She uncurled her legs from the vinyl covered spare tire that protruded into her side of the bed (Mark always took the other side because he was taller). She stretched, then lay on her back looking up at the sky, visible through the mosquito netting of the pop-top. No one could see in; they had snapped all of the curtains in place, including the ones that fit so precisely over the front windshield (“Deutsche Genauigkeit, exactness, Ordnung, the Krauts think of everything,” Mark always said). Not that they had ever been molested, but more than once curious, brown faces had appeared at the windows. She turned over and studied their tiny home on wheels. Cramped, she thought, very cramped, easy to bump one’s head or crack a crazy bone. However, at three-quarters size with a good mattress, the bed was comfortable, not quite like her room at the Howe residence, but she felt rested. Unless it rained, they did most of their living outside anyway. She looked at her legs, examining for possible new bites and bruises, then reached up to the overhead shelf for her halter. Because of the heat, she had worn only panties as a nightgown. Carefully she inched her way out of bed, trying not to wake Mark, slipped into her shorts and halter, and exited through the right front door; from the outside, she unlocked the sliding door. A beautiful morning, she thought, feels good to be alive, to be young, to be free, in love, a budding mother. She checked her face and hair in the side mirror, then removed the Coleman stove from under the rear seat, set it on the small folding shelf by the sink, and lit one of the burners. Finding it easier to stand outside to work, she pumped water (purificada purchased the day before) from the van’s eight-gallon tank into a pot for morning coffee. For breakfast, in addition to fresh pineapple, they would eat

bolillos, Mexican hard rolls, and pan dulce, bread-like pastry. Making the daily selection at a panadería was a highlight of the trip. “I sure do enjoy watching you cook breakfast, Mrs. Spencer.” Mark rolled over onto his stomach, propped his head in his hands and faced her. “So sleeping beauty, or is it the sleeping prince, is awake. You’re going to spend many years watching me prepare breakfast.” She leaned into the camper and kissed him. “But boiling water isn’t exactly cooking. What tastes better than fresh pan dulce, and so reasonable. I love the fruits and vegetables in Mexico. Here fewer things come packaged in cellophane.” She dumped a spoonful of Nescafé (the strong Mexican variety) into the coffee cups. “Wagon master, what have you decided about today?” “I still want to stop in Colonia de los Unificados. I wouldn’t go out of my way to see it, but since we’re here, why not? A living page out of history, southern Utah one hundred years ago.” Merrill told me a lot about it in the hospital. Must be the sensitive side of my character. I’m fascinated with these splinter groups, people living what they consider to be the intrinsic truth. Mormonism has grown so sterile spiritually, from its vibrant potency in Joseph’s day. In an offshoot branch like the Spiritual Sons of Joseph, the old fire eating, antinomian spirit prevails. Of course some of the eschatological preoccupations concern me, but still I’m intrigued by Merrill’s intransigence. His destroying by fire is straight out of the Old Testament.” “Since meeting Hazel, I’ve been curious about their lifestyle, but I’m not keen to run into Fenner ever! You said yourself his outfit is suspected of murder. Why don’t we leave all religion far behind?” “Oh, come now. Merrill transmogrifies only when the moon is full,” he chuckled. “This will be an educational experience for you. Their village is a contrast to the main splinter group which fled south of the Texas border from Laredo to Chihuahua. One town has prospered. The homes are solid middle class, not greatly different from Salt Lake City. But the chosen of Colonia seem to be of a different variety.” “I guess my wishes are being ignored, and we’ll see for ourselves. If they’re all as basic as Hazel, I’d better not wear my halter and shorts. Might be pilloried in the plaza.”

Chris washed the dishes and put away the cooking supplies and Coleman stove, while Mark hurriedly shook out the bedding and folded up the curtains. He had just transformed the bed into a seat and was preparing to fasten down the poptop when he grumbled, “Takes about one hour each day just to get underway. Let’s hustle, woman.” No sign marked the turn to Colonia de los Unificados from the main highway north, but they surmised the dirt road to be correct; it appeared on the left, as indicated on their map, immediately after they had crossed a single lane bridge over a sandy barranca. Swirls of dust arose from the unpaved road to trail their van. To avoid rocks and lessen the shock of potholes, Mark slowed to twentyfive miles per hour, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. “Baches,” He repeated the word they had so often seen on Mexican road signs. “Baches, derrumbes, deslaves, three vital words to the traveler in Mexico.” “But never in the phrase books. Let’s prepare one, Chris, ‘chuckholes,’ ‘landslides,’ and … How should we translate deslaves?” “Washouts.” “Then we’ll add oil slicks, broken shoulders …” “And a note about bridge repairs when you get to play stunt driver and guide the wheels over a couple narrow boards.” “Let’s also point out the inexplicable fascination the Mexican villagers have for gathering along the roads at night, even sitting on the edges, must be a substitute for TV.” The country about them was arid, semidesert; vegetation was sparse, consisting solely of straggly cacti. No effort had been made at cultivation, not even a sign of cutting for pulque. After more than two hours, some pitiable cement block structures appeared in the distance. “Must be it up ahead,” Mark said. “I’d say that’s their style.” The red camper, top-heavy with its awkward load, turned left into the village.

Cackling chickens fearlessly paraded ahead of it, and underfed dogs slunk alongside eyeing the Spencers suspiciously. “Probably not more than a hundred souls live here,” Mark said, trying to take it all in. “Mexicans among them I see. Some Indian visages here and there.” Chris too was intrigued, curious. A ragged line of trees outlined the zócalo, the tiny village square, where bright bushes of bougainvillea grew wild. Several unpainted benches stood on the brown grass, and a rickety bandstand dominated the center. The Spencers parked under the shade of a large pepper tree on the north side. From there, they could “better reconnoiter their surroundings,” Mark said. Immediately a throng of children surrounded them. Chris recognized the girls’ attire as small replicas of what Merrill’s wives had worn at the hot springs, illfitting, ankle-length dresses; the boys were clothed in coarse, wool knickers and long-sleeved, white shirts. While little faces stared at her, Chris stepped down from the van. Hooking her fingers together over her head, she arched her back and stretched. Mark locked all the doors and ed her. “You look great in those jeans and peasant blouse,” he complimented. “Still plenty of tan left?” “Oh, you’re so damned vain.” Always he took pleasure in studying her. “Turn, let me see. Yes you’re tanned, and you haven’t lost your figure yet.” “It’s too early for that.” She crinkled her nose and swatted at a huge housefly that had landed on her face. “Why so many flies in this part of the world?” “Chris,” Mark said in a low voice. “Look, over there.” She turned in time to see two men, dressed in the familiar, rough homespun, walk into the store across the road from the zócalo; each had a carbine slung over his shoulder. “Looks like they maintain their own militia, inherited the old LDS paranoia,” Mark said softly.

Chris linked her arm in his. “You’re right about la colonia. It’s neither modern gringo nor Mexican but nineteenth century America.” Her hand on his arm tightened. “Quickly, Mark, over there, leaving the post office, I’d swear that’s Hazel.” “Good, we’ll ask her about Merill.” “Do you think it’s wise? I … I don’t like this place.” “Come on, Chris you said yourself she was pathetic. Greet the poor thing.” They pushed through the children and crossed the street. “Hazel,” Chris called. “Hi, Hazel. It’s me the girl from Big Sur. ?” Surprised at hearing her name, she looked up. Momentarily an expression of recognition brightened her face; then she whirled around and hurried down a path between two squatty adobes. “Come,” Mark urged, pulling Chris by the arm. “If we follow her, she’ll lead us to Fenner.” Hazel was approximately fifty yards ahead of them; to keep from stumbling as she ran, she had dared to pick up her long skirt. Periodically she glanced back over her shoulder, visibly agitated at being followed. On a back street, she turned suddenly and disappeared into a small, blue house, an ugly cinder block structure with a yard strewn with broken glass and trash. Sheets were drawn across the front windows, but Chris thought she noticed a movement in one of their folds. “Hospitable,” she murmured to Mark. They stepped up onto building blocks that served as the front steps. “By now they’ve got to be expecting us. Just a little social call,” he joked, as he rapped on the door. “What if no one answers?” “We can hardly break the door down, but I’ve got plenty of patience and not too much planned for today.”

“Mark, we can’t stand here waiting for someone to answer. Wait, I hear something.” The door opened a crack and a Mexican woman dressed in the uniform gray, ankle-length dress stared out at them. “Buenos días, señora,” Mark greeted. “Busco al señor Fenner.” “No está,” came a firm reder, and the door slammed shut. “The Colonia’s hospitality lacks the characteristic warmth of ‘mi casa, tu casa,’” Chris groused, nudging Mark. “They’re behaving like hippies in a drug raid. Let’s get out of here.” They walked across the cluttered yard, trying to suppress their laughter. “You were right all along, Chris. Lousy idea to come here, just beat up the VW.” He encircled her waist with his right arm and pulled her to him. She reciprocated and they strolled on, entwined. “So much for Merrill Fenner. Let’s head for the next town of any size to camp for the night and to tomar una cerveza.” “Right on, Mark, right on. I could use a cold Dos Equis.” Playfully she bumped him with her hip, elated at leaving.

**********

That night they had been sleeping for a few hours when Chris heard a voice calling Mark. At first she thought she was dreaming because she had been having a nightmare, someone chasing her, driving her away from Mark. Wide awake, she sat up and pushed back the curtain on the side window. In the thick darkness she could see nothing. Then she heard the voice again, “Mark Spencer, thy time hath come to answer unto the Lord.” She nudged Mark, who was already awakening. “Mark, I’m so scared. I think we’ve found Merrill Fenner.”

“Huh? What are you saying? Go to sleep. We’ll talk about him tomorrow.” “No. Wake up! I think he’s calling you, must have been following us.” “Mark Spencer, thou must answer unto the Lord, thy God,” came the voice. “It’s got to be him, Mark, couldn’t be anybody else. Damn! He must have kept track of us for over a year, and then yesterday we’re so stupid as to go to the lion’s den. I know he was in that house.” Mark called out, “Is that you, Merrill?” “It is I, the mouthpiece of the Almighty.” “Yes, well, let’s talk. Are you alone?” “I am accompanied only by mine handmaiden, Hazel.” “See. He was with her yesterday too,” Chris whispered. “I’ll see what he wants.” Mark reached forward and unlocked the sliding door. “Come on over to the van, Merrill, and bring Hazel. I’ll turn on a light. We can talk, okay?” He turned on the light and stepped out, peering into the darkness in an effort to catch sight of Fenner. “Do you always make social calls at night?” “That is what the Lord has commanded, for I am his servant.” Mark looked to the front of the camper from where he heard the voice and saw Merrill with Hazel standing beside him. He held a shotgun in his hands. “Chris,” Mark whispered, “stay in the VW no matter what happens. He has a gun. Get in the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition now!” “I have always known what thou didest, for either I was near you or other brethren have kept me informed. And now the Lord hath delivered thee unto me that I may meet out thy punishment, yea even in accordance with thy degree of wickedness, for thou hast deserted the paths of righteousness and forsaken the truth.” Mark tried to calm him. “Listen, Merrill, let me explain. I know your way is the

true way of the Lord, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately. Ah … That’s why I’m here, wanted to tell you.” He took a step toward the shotgun. “Stay back, you filthy cur!” Merrill screamed, suddenly abandoning his King James speech. “You have had every opportunity. I destroyed your enemies in Utah, and—” “You what?” Mark interrupted, immediately comprehending Fenner’s divulgence. “You … you murdered Danny Hartz?” “As the Lord commanded, shot them, doused their bodies with gasoline, and pushed the truck over a cliff. They were abominable perverts, and at that time you were a choice spirit in the eyes of the Lord. He tolerates no mistreatment of the chosen.” “Look, that’s why we have to talk. That shotgun frightens me, Merrill. Why don’t you put it down.” He reached out. “No! I have consulted with Brother LeRoux. You have had more than your allotted time. I have no authority to extend it.” “Come now, Merrill, you’re a reasonable …” A point-blank blast from the shotgun ended Mark’s sentence. He whispered Chris’s name as he fell backward against the side of the van and slumped to the ground. Unmindful of danger, Chris leapt from the bus and ran to where he lay. The night was once again still, disturbed only by the soft moans of Hazel’s weeping.