The Fugitive Son (4 page)

The men in the mail cabin went for their rifles. Whoever was coming, they'd be ready for them.

Andy heard it first, the familiar music of “Come, Come Ye Saints.” The men in the wagons sounded like a mighty chorus, shouting out the words to what had become the Mormons' marching anthem.

“Put up your rifles, men,” Andy called to the others in the cabin. “Whoever our visitors are, they're some of us.”

Soon the cabin rang with laughter, amid shouts of recognition and jubilation. “Durned if we expected to find anybody here! What'd you say you was doin’ here?” the new arrivals asked.

The Devil's Gate survivors told their story of staying behind to tend to the belongings of the handcart company, glossing over their ordeal and hardships now that help had arrived.

John Berry, captain of the newly arrived wagon train, told their story. “We were all serving missions around the world. When General Scott called for the biggest army this country has ever had and said they were heading to Utah, the prophet ordered us to come back to the valley to help protect our homes. Those of us in the East met in Winter Quarters, then rolled out for Utah.”

Union armies in Utah? Andy could barely believe the news. What had happened during this dismal time they'd been holed up at Devil's Gate with no word from the outside world? Amidst all the talk and confusion, he voiced his questions. “Why is an army headed for Utah? How bad is it?”

Brother Berry explained that as soon as Buchanan had been elected president, he decided to put down the “rebellion” in Utah. “He wants to replace the prophet with a governor of his choosin’, as if we Saints don’t know who we want to lead us.”

All the men laughed at this. “Rebellion! Them Easterners won't know what rebellion is until we get finished with them!”

A shout of acclamation went up. “Yeah, let's go get 'em! We'll drive those mobocrats out of our territory!”

Several of the returning missionaries talked at once, eager to be the first with the news from back East. “The new Republican Party even included wiping us out as part of its platform,” Berry said.

“Yeah, can you imagine? Said it was the duty of Congress to prohibit the ‘twin relics of barbarism’ – polygamy and slavery, that is – in the territories,” another man interrupted.

“They compared our sacred principle with slavery?” Andy asked, aghast at the thought. “No wonder the prophet is gathering a militia together.”

Berry nodded. “And it’s not just the Republicans. Even Stephen Douglas called Mormonism an ulcer that has to be removed.”

Rigby fingered his long beard. “Judgin’ from the fomenting ‘gainst us, I foresee dark days ahead for the Saints. We may have to build up the Nauvoo Legion again to fight for our way of life.”

David Brintin, commander of one of the missionary units, tried to lighten the mood. “We passed some travelers on the Oregon Trail. When they heard where we was headed, they warned us ‘bout the Mormons. Said they might attack us, given how the president is musterin’ up troops to send to Great Salt Lake City.”

“We lied and told them we were Army regulars,” Berry added with a laugh. “And that we would be joinin’ more soldiers when we got to the frontier. Since there’d be so many of us and we were well armed, we should get through all right.”

“Some of them was so willin’ to help us fight off the Mormons,” Brother Brintin said, “that they shared their supplies with us, loadin’ us down with provisions.”

The men laughed at the tale of deceit. “Did you tell 'em you wasn't afraid of any Mormons?” Rigby asked, tears of laughter making trails in the dirt on his face.

“They trusted us so much we was able to help ourselves to a few more supplies along the way without getting’ caught!” Brintin boasted.

Andy stood off to the side, apparently the only one not amused by the story. Lying, cheating, killing – was this conduct worthy of a Saint? And they were missionaries! Dedicated to spreading the everlasting gospel among the gentiles! It’s no wonder people mistrusted Mormons. He tried to push the doubts from his mind, but they continued to taunt him. He was reminded of what Ingrid had called his father – ”that awful, lying man.” Was she right? Had they all been duped by lies? He shook his head. He had to stop entertaining such doubts or Satan would steal his soul.

Andy rejoined the others, helping them load the pitiful belongings of the handcart victims into the wagons for the journey to Salt Lake. The spirit of camaraderie and relief that flowed through the camp was contagious, and Andy felt his own spirits lift. Soon they would be on their way back to the Promised Land! They would defend Deseret from their enemy, the United States government. They would prevail, God would bring victory, and they would usher in the Millennium with its theocracy headed up by the prophet and his apostles.

Day followed endless day as the wagons lumbered over the desolate landscape. Andy recognized Split Rock, a massive outcropping that looked like the refuse of the world thrown up in the utmost confusion. Beyond it, the Sweetwater River meandered through barren fields, surrounded by low rocks to the north and higher ones to the south.

The missionary contingent took over most of the work of maintaining the wagons and feeding the group, leaving the weakened survivors from Devil’s Gate to rest and recuperate from their long, hard winter. The missionaries continued to buoy up the refugees’ spirits with humorous anecdotes of the past few months, telling of numerous conversions and about the women they had left behind.

“Yep, I left some cryin’ hearts in just about every mission I served,” Brintin bragged. “Them purty gals about fell over themselves invitin’ me to dinner.”

“Lucky for you none of them already had a husband,” Brother Tucker joshed. “You might have met the same fate that befell Brother Pratt down Arkansas way.”

Andy, who had only been half listening to the banter, perked up at the mention of one of the church’s greatest missionary apostles. “Parley Pratt? What happened to him? You forget we’ve been cooped up here for nearly six months and haven’t heard anything about what’s going on elsewhere.”

One of the other missionaries filled in the story. “Seems the apostle did pretty well by the ladies, too. But out in California, he won the heart of a married lady who had several kids. Baptized her, took her to the temple, and got her sealed to him as his twelfth wife.”

Tucker interrupted the story. “Her husband wasn’t none too happy and chased Pratt half way ‘cross the country. He and some other fellas finally caught up with the apostle in Arkansas and shot him dead. I hear tell that Brother Brigham has proclaimed him a martyr – just like Prophet Smith. He’s blamin’ Pratt’s death on an Arkansas mob that refused to accept the truth of Mormonism.”

Other stories soon followed, stories of deceit, triumph, and bravery. The returning missionaries told of being spit at, slapped, and mocked. “But it was worth sufferin’ for the prophet,” Brintin said. “Every time I snatched another soul for the Kingdom, I had such a feeling of power, of doing the Lord’s bidding. I tell you, there’s nothing quite like rescuing a body from the burnin’.”

The conversation turned to their journey westward. “We stopped to rest at Independence Rock, where the Oregon Trail travelers scratch their names into the hard granite,” another missionary said. “Otherwise, we might have been here a day earlier.”

“Yeah, we rested there, too,” Rigby said.

Andy listened with amusement as many of the men told of climbing the rock, looking for names they had carved there in earlier years. He knew exactly where his name was etched and remembered the exciting day he had put it there.

Traveling as the only child on the Saints’ first wagon train west, Andy had been thrilled when the prophet himself helped him scrawl “Andy” across the rock. The prophet had lifted him up so he could reach a higher place on which to write. “Probably hundreds of more names up there now,” Andy thought. Back in 1847, there hadn't been that many – maybe a few dozen or so.

Andy hadn't thought about it much before now, but it seemed the prophet had always looked after him. Remembering brought a warm glow to his heart. On April 14, 1847, Pa had been called by the prophet to be a member of the pioneer company, the men who would scout out a new land for the Saints. Andy had been scared that he would be left behind at Winter Quarters with Ma and his baby sister, who were both sick with the black canker. Pa was his only security.

When Pa mentioned Andy to the prophet, Brigham had said he could come along. Andy remembered his disbelief when Pa had told him that he could go with the pioneers.

What an experience! All along the trek, it seemed the prophet had favored him, sought him out even. “You're especially chosen of the Lord,” the prophet had announced. “You are going to be great and mighty in the kingdom!”

“Great and mighty in the kingdom!” The words seemed to mock Andy now. He had defiled his sacred undergarments, promised to lie to his father, and said he’d help an apostate leave the kingdom. Great and mighty indeed! Andy longed for those happier days when all was right with his world. He wished he could run back to Independence Rock, hoping the strenuous exercise would erase the condemnation from his soul. Instead, he was a man pursued by his conscience, unable to shake off his guilt.

The Ohio River

Elsie stood on the dock watching Isaac direct her luggage from wagon to dock to gangplank. He seemed totally at ease and in command as if he had always worked as a dockhand. When the last trunk made its way up the gangplank, Isaac approached her. “Time to board.”

Once on deck, Elsie was greeted by a steward and shown to her cabin. When she asked about Isaac’s cabin, the steward sneered. “Slaves sleep on the trunks in the master’s cabin. Of course, that would not be seemly in this situation.” He looked at Elsie with disdain. “Had you brought your maid instead of your manservant, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“But I paid for a first-class cabin for him. If he’s to protect me, he should be close by, don’t you think?” Elsie poured on her Southern charm.

The steward wasn’t swayed. “You’ll have to take the ticket price up with the steamship company. No slave – or freedman, for that matter – gets a cabin of his own on the upper deck. Your boy will stay below on the cargo deck.”

“I declare!” Elsie felt the heat rushing to her cheeks as she stomped her foot. “I want to speak to the captain.”

“It won’t do you any good,” the steward said. “Rules are rules.” He turned toward Isaac, who was depositing Elsie’s trunks. “When you’re done with that, boy, you get on down to the bottom deck where you can stay with the other slaves and riffraff.”

Elsie cringed at the steward’s tone, but she held her tongue when Isaac winked at her. Isaac knew her and her temper too well. She put her gloved hand to her lips, suppressing an inappropriate giggle.

Isaac bowed low. “If you be needin' me, Miss Elsie, I'll be down b’low. You jus' call if’n you need anythin’.” And thus, the masquerade began.

Elsie watched as Isaac turned away. In place of the proud giant of a man, he had assumed the role of an uneducated, ingratiating slave. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his chin pointed habitually toward the floor, and his eyes lowered. Even the tone of his voice and his vocabulary had changed. Gone was her friend – the commanding conversationalist, well-versed in literature, music, and politics.

I declare, what a brilliant actor he is!
Elsie thought as she settled into her cabin. She felt guilty that she would have the luxury of a private room while he had to find a place to sleep amidst the cargo. Not that her cabin was all that comfortable. Outfitted with a single berth, a bench, and a table, it was hardly luxurious. But at least it offered some privacy – and cleanliness.

A chill swept over her, despite the heat, as she recalled the stories she had heard about all the thuggery and disease that plagued the poor souls confined to the cargo deck. “Protect him, Lord, and keep him well,” she whispered.