Barlow patted them both a couple of times, then walked around to the wagon. “Well, I think that was our call to go to work.”
There wasn’t a lot of turning room within the quarry itself, so the drivers wheeled around at the entrance, then backed the wagons to the spot where the big jib crane could lower the blocks of stones onto the wagons. Backing a team was always a bit tricky, and Carl watched Israel Barlow with admiration as he went in first.
The two black mares were almost dancing as he swung the wagon around and then started them backing up. He spoke softly, gently, as if he were talking to small children, coaxing, cajoling, imploring. He barely had to touch the reins.
“He does have a way with them, doesn’t he?”
Carl turned in surprise to see Joseph Smith standing beside his wagon. He was dressed in workman’s coveralls, wore a bandanna around his neck, and had work gloves stuffed in one pocket. He had come to spend a day at the quarry with his brethren. Carl turned back toward Barlow. “He certainly does. It’s amazing to watch him.”
Barlow finally had the wagon where it needed to be. “Whoa!” he called to his team. “Whoa, girls. Stand steady, now.”
“We’re beholden to you, Carl,” Joseph said.
As Carl turned back to him, Joseph’s eyes—blue as a spring sky—assessed Carl with disarming directness. Embarrassed, Carl tried to shrug it away. “Benjamin said something about you being short of wagons.”
“It was mighty kind of you to pay heed,” Joseph said, smiling now. “It seems like the Steed family are always putting us Smiths in their debt. Thank you.”
“Glad to be of service.”
Joseph moved away, going over to Barlow’s wagon. He stopped at the head of the team, rubbing the nose of the near mare. “Morning, Israel.”
“Mornin’, Brother Joseph.”
“Fine mornin’ for hauling stone, no?”
“Indeed,” Israel agreed. “Shouldn’t be too hot today.”
With a nod and a wave, Joseph started away, heading toward the quarry foreman. Then suddenly he stopped and turned back. “Israel?”
Barlow was just climbing down. He turned. “Yes, Brother Joseph?”
“On your way back from this trip, why don’t you stop and get yourself a buggy whip for that team of yours?”
Israel stopped in midair, hanging from the wagon seat. “What was that?” he said.
Joseph smiled. Carl leaned forward, suddenly intent on this interchange. If anyone else had dared suggest such a thing, Israel would have taken his head off.
“Once you get that first block off-loaded, why don’t you swing around in town and get yourself a whip.”
Barlow slowly lowered himself to the ground. “But Joseph, you know I never use a whip with my team.”
There was a quick nod, and then the smile broadened slowly. “Israel, why don’t you stop in town on your way back and get yourself a buggy whip.”
There was a long pause, and then, “Yes, Joseph.”
Carl just stared as Joseph walked away. Israel Barlow watched him for several seconds, then swung around. He saw Carl and stopped. There was no expression on his face. He went to hold the heads of his horses as the men on the crane began cranking the first block of stone around into position.
It was almost ten by the time Carl came back along the road that led above the stone quarry, headed back for his second load. As his wagon approached the quarry itself, Carl grinned. Two more wagons and teams had joined the work force now, and they were down below, waiting to be loaded, so Israel Barlow had pulled his wagon off the road at the same spot where they had talked earlier. The team was facing a small clump of trees, waiting for their turn. Even from this distance, Carl could see the slender shape of a buggy whip standing in the holder beside the wagon seat.
Pulling on the reins, Carl swung his team to the right, bringing them right in alongside Barlow’s. “You made good time, what with going into town.” He said it with a straight face.
There was a low grunt, noncommittal and expressionless.
“I’m sorry,” Carl said, “but isn’t this the man who brags all over town that he will never use a whip on his animals, the man who says that all he has to do is speak to his horses and they’ll pull their hearts out for him?”
There was no mistaking the man’s embarrassment. “It is the same.”
Carl made no effort to hide his astonishment now. “Joseph makes one offhand comment, and you go and buy you a whip?”
“It wasn’t just an offhand comment.”
“He was making conversation, Israel. Teasing you a little, like the rest of us do.”
Barlow’s face was leathery and sunburned. The eyes seemed to be in a perpetual squint, a common trait of farmers and wagoners. He removed the hat and wiped at the dampness of his forehead. “I know this is something that you may not understand, good friend, but I believe Joseph Smith is a prophet of God. And when a prophet suggests that I ought to have a whip for my team, I’m going to get me a whip for my team.”
Carl pushed back the smile that was fighting to surface. He didn’t want to offend the man. He thought too much of him. “And so are you using it?” he asked.
There was a quick, emphatic shake of the head. “Not so far.”
Carl couldn’t help it. “Oh?” he said sagely.
“Look,” Barlow growled, obviously chaffing. “He didn’t tell me I had to use it, only that I should get one.”
“Oh,” Carl said again. “I see.” And with that, he got down and busied himself with checking the harnessing on his own team, not wanting to embarrass the man further.
A few minutes later one of the wagons rumbled by, loaded with one massive block. Carl climbed back up in the wagon, standing so that he could see down below. The second wagon was beneath the crane and the workers were winching the block up in preparation for loading. Barlow was also looking in that direction. “Looks like they’re about ready for us,” he said.
Carl nodded, and dropped to his seat. “You go first. I’ll follow.”
Israel sat down, released the brake lever, then took the reins in his hand. He snapped them softly over the backs of his team, pulling back on them. “All right, girls. Back it up. Here we go.” As they started moving, Carl watched. Those two mares didn’t like backing up, he could see that. Their heads were snapping up and down. The one’s ears were laid back flat against her head. Israel paid that no mind. He just kept talking to them in a low voice.
Then around the corner, from the same direction Carl had come a few minutes before, a buckboard appeared, coming at a trot. A man and a woman were inside, either headed for town or coming out to watch the work at the quarry. The light buggy clattered noisily on the hard packed road.
The nearest mare of Barlow’s team swung her head around sharply, eyes bulging. “Whoa!” Israel said, raising his voice some. The team was still backing and the wagon was onto the road. But even though Israel was pulling on the reins now, trying to turn the horses, they weren’t turning for him and the wagon was headed straight for the edge of the cliff overlooking the quarry. “Come on, girls,” he cried, for the first time with sharpness to his voice. “Turn around there, now.” He yanked on the left reins, trying to turn the horses’ heads. But this only panicked the team further. The one whinnied wildly and reared, kicking back at the traces.
Carl was on his feet now, waving off the approaching buggy. Barlow’s wagon was across the road now and was still going straight back. Another ten or fifteen yards beyond that lay the lip of the quarry. Worse, the ground began to fall off sharply right near the edge. “Israel, watch the cliff!” he shouted.
Barlow turned around and saw the danger. He slapped the reins hard across the backs of his team. “Giddyap!” he yelled. The blacks did not respond. They were blindly fighting to be clear. Their necks were arched, yanking at the harnessing. Their nostrils were flaring, their breath whistling.
The buckboard driver, seeing what was happening, pulled his horse up sharply. But it was too late. The horses had finally stopped backing under Barlow’s urgent commands, but the wagon was on the down slope now, just ten or fifteen feet from the edge of the cliff. Its weight started dragging them back. They began to paw the ground, trying to stop themselves, but it was no use.
In one leap Carl was off his wagon and running, but there was no way he could reach them in time. “Jump, Israel!” he screamed.
And then it happened. Israel Barlow was on his feet, flailing at his team with the reins, shouting hoarsely at them. In one instant, his hand shot out. He grabbed the buggy whip waiting in its holder.
Crack!
The tip of the whip caught the near horse square on the left flank. It jumped violently, smacking into the harnessing with an audible pop.
Crack!
The second snap of the whip was an inch above the second horse’s ears. “Go!” Barlow bellowed. “Giddyap, there! Go!”
The whip was a blur, sometimes popping in midair, other times lying across the horses’ flesh. This was a team not used to the lash, and they lunged forward in stunned surprise. Clods of dirt flew from the clawing hooves. Barlow was slammed back down into his seat, and nearly somersaulted backwards into the wagon bed. But he hung on as the wagon leaped ahead and was back out into the road again.
He let the horses run for twenty or thirty yards before he pulled them up. Carl was running hard after them, and as they stopped he slowed his step, coming up behind the team carefully. He took the bit of the closest mare. “There, girl,” he soothed. “Whoa!” He rubbed her nose, then behind her ears, all the time speaking softly to her. He stepped to the other and did the same.
When they calmed enough so that Carl knew they weren’t going to bolt again, he stepped back from them and looked up. Barlow was as pale as the bleached wood of his wagon, and his hands were visibly trembling. Finally, his eyes focused on Carl. There was the tiniest shake of his head, as though in total disbelief, and then very slowly he let the buggy whip drop back into its holder beside his seat.
Carl Rogers left for Yelrome, a Mormon settlement about twenty-five miles south of Nauvoo, about seven a.m. on Wednesday morning, April sixth. It was raining and the rain continued throughout the day, making the roads a twelve-hour-long nightmare of mud, ruts, detours, and washouts. Yelrome had been founded by Father Isaac Morley, one of the early converts to the Church in Kirtland. Thus its name—Yelrome was Morley spelled backwards, with an added
e.
Morley and Carl’s father had both been early settlers in Ohio, and while they were not what you would call friends, they had been longtime acquaintances. So when Carl arrived just at dark, he was welcomed like a son and given hot food, dry clothes, and a warm bed.
The next day the weather softened somewhat. They spent the morning unloading the bricks. Then Carl made plans for departing right after the midday meal. But the Morleys wouldn’t hear of it. They persuaded him that waiting until Friday would give the roads more chance to dry out and let his exhausted team recover some more. Carl gave in and stayed over. He left Friday morning right after sunup.
As he started north, he had already made up his mind to make a detour. The city of Warsaw was a river port about fifteen miles south of Nauvoo. It was three or four miles off the track for him, but that was better than making a trip back down from Nauvoo. So he swung over through Green Plains and then on into Warsaw.
Three times during his quiet investigation, Carl had been given the name of a family who lived in Warsaw. They were Mormons, come from England. But, he had been told, they became disillusioned on the journey over and dissatisfied with what they found in Nauvoo. So they moved to Warsaw. Warsaw was a hotbed of anti-Mormon sentiment, stirred up largely by the fiery Thomas Sharp, editor and proprietor of the
Warsaw Signal,
and they found that to their liking.
It was almost three o’clock on Friday afternoon when Carl came up the walk of a small frame home on the outskirts of Warsaw. He knocked once, then stepped back. In a moment, an older gentleman opened the door.
“Excuse me,” Carl began. “My name is Carl Rogers. I own a brick kiln up in Nauvoo. I’m looking for the home of a Brotherton family who recently came to America from England.”
“Yes, I’m Brotherton,” the man answered in a thick English accent. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you have a few moments I might talk with you?”
It was nearly eight o’clock that night before Carl finally arrived home. He was welcomed joyously by his children and fed a warmed-over supper by his wife. It was almost nine-thirty by the time the children were asleep and they had time alone. When he came out of the bedrooms from putting the last one to bed, he asked the question he had been wondering about for three days. “Melissa, tell me about conference. Did anything unusual happen?”
“Conference?”
“Yes.”
She gave him an odd look. “Well, it was a wonderful conference. Joseph wasn’t there the first day. He had been ill, and with the weather he—”
Carl cut that off. “Was anything said about John C. Bennett?”
“Bennett?” She was surprised. “No, I—” Then she straightened. “Wait! Thursday afternoon Hyrum Smith got quite angry. It was shocking, in fact. Hyrum never gets angry. He is so kind and so gentle and so patient.”
“What did he say?”
“He said there was a story going around about him and members of the Twelve.”
Carl sat up straighter now. “Yes?”
“Have you heard anything like that?” she asked.
For a moment he wasn’t sure how to answer, but finally he nodded. “About how Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball and others locked one of the women in her room for several days and wouldn’t let her out until she agreed to being a dual wife?”
Melissa was amazed. “You knew about that?”
He sighed wearily. “Melissa, you wouldn’t believe all that I’ve heard.”
“Hyrum said that this story was common gossip lately, but judging from the reaction of the congregation, including most of my family, many hadn’t heard it.”
“
Most
of the family?” he repeated.
“Yes, my father admitted that he had heard it, but he hadn’t even told Mama about it.”