by Lou Cameron
“I knew Fleming would tell you all about it, Mason.”
“And so he did. As to where the Prophet is, the Prophet likes to make a grand entrance. I’m sure there will be a blare of trumpets when he arrives.”
“Keep your voice down,” I said.
“Oh, they can’t hear me in this great big place. Now tell me about Rockwell, my lad. What is he like and why does he dress like that?”
“He has long hair, is that what you mean?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Forbes. You may not want to tell me about Rockwell, but you will.” She smiled as if there were no way I could avoid doing what she wanted me to do. Another man came in and went to talk to Rockwell and General Wells.
“I wish I had some brandy and water,” Cynthia Mason complained. “Or even sherry. Anything.”
‘Unless I’m dead wrong, you’ll have a choice of milk or buttermilk, apple juice, maybe grape juice, and certainly spring water. No coffee, no tea. Don’t you wish you had stayed in Montreal?”
“No, I don’t! Your friend Rockwell didn’t smell as if he’d been drinking buttermilk.”
“Rockwell does as he pleases.”
“You say that as if you liked him.”
“Well enough. He got me here. How did you get here?”
“Through Fleming. It seems the Prophet already knew I was coming to Salt Lake. They do have their lines of communication, don’t they?”
Hickman was watching us. “They manage,” I said. “Who’s your gentleman friend?”
She laughed. “My what? Fitzy! Wait till I tell him what you said. If you have to know, Ike Fitz is my man-of-all-work. He travels around with me and arranges things I can’t be bothered with. Hotels. The best way to travel.”
“He looks too smart to be that,” I said. “Does he carry a gun?”
She gave me a quick look. “Yes, he does. Here he had to leave it at the door. I wish the holy man would get here so we could eat. What’s that commotion?”
I looked toward the door. “I think that’s your holy man.”
It was. And he brought his entire family, all fifty-five of them, and there were wives and children of all ages, sizes and colors. By “colors” I don’t mean that there were Negroes or Hindus or Chinese among them, yet somehow I got the impression of a family of all nations. Among them were wives and children with red hair, blond hair, black hair; the skin colorings ran from freckled Scottish to Latin olive. I was trying to count them (I counted them later) when the Prophet made his way through them like a man wading in the sea.
I expected him to be built on the order of Paul Bunyan, tree-top tall, a man in seven league boots, but he wasn’t any taller than Rockwell, who didn’t make six feet. Yet the force of the man reached out to me, as it must have to all the Mormons. It was the eyes more than anything else: dark and brooding, not hard exactly, but cold as ancient ice in an arctic crevasse. I knew him to be sixty-one, but he looked ageless as men like that often do; his crow black hair, perhaps dyed, was oiled and combed back. His body was massive rather than fat. His sallow skin matched his dark eyes.
We all turned to face him, all somewhat subdued by his presence, which was that of the great statesman, the selfless leader, the audience hypnotizing thespian. “Greetings, my friends,” he declared in a strong, measured voice which had retained its Yankee intonations. “I am most glad to see you all here tonight. And this”—an expansive wave of his left hand—“is my family. We will now have supper.”
Like well-drilled soldiers, the wives and children took their places at the massive, seemingly endless dining table which ran down the center of the room. There might have been numbers on the chairs, they did it so efficiently. The wives were as docile as the children, saying nothing, their eyes downcast, hands folded in front of them, waiting for the food to be brought in.
Wells, Rockwell, Cynthia, Fitz, and I were seated on one side of the table; Hickman, Widger, Jarrett, and Ritter on the other. There was a considerable gap between us and the wives and children seated farther down. The Prophet s chair was bigger and higher than any other—a throne. He regarded us with dark benevolence, and nothing was said until he nodded to someone unseen and the servants (they were referred to as “fellow workers” out of regard for Mormon egalitarianism) brought immense quantities of food on steaming platters.
Cynthia Mason gave me a brief smile when she saw that there was meat as well as wine for us. (Later the Prophet was to say that he “worked his will on no man; we live by persuasion”) There was enough to feed an army, and it was an army of sorts. A list of foodstuffs would bore you; suffice it to say that a glutton would have lost his senses. The Prophet thanked his friend God for the plentiful repast—and we all tucked in.
We ate in silence, it being understood that there would be no war talk in the presence of the family. The two giant fires crackled, the only sound except for sixty-five mouths masticating at the same time. The Prophet showed himself to be a trencherman and by all rights he should have had the girth of Falstaff. As a hearty eater Cynthia Mason wasn’t far behind the Prophet. Fitz, like me, ate very little, nor did he drink much wine. Perhaps he was nervous. I’m sure I was.
For such a large meal it was over in a relatively short time due to the absence of conversation. The Prophet didn’t command us to stop, he just pushed his silver plate away and lay back in his imperial chair. He smiled down the table at his family—I prefer the word “clan”—and said, “God bless you all, my dear ones.”
The words were softly uttered, but a drill sergeant’s bawling would not have broken up the formation of wives and children with any greater dispatch. Fifty-five chairs scraped quietly on the stone floor and they filed out without a word.
I did not like Brigham Young.
Chapter Eleven
Brigham Young inclined his head toward Cynthia Mason and said, “You are most welcome here. So are you, Mr. Forbes. Port has told me about you, I have read Miss Masons articles in her newspaper. Thank you both for coming here tonight. Now, Mr. Forbes, there is no need to go into everything that was said at General Wells’ house. I have his report, but allow me to ask you a few questions before I make my decision.”
I inclined my head too. “Of course, President Young.”
“You say you will be impartial if you are allowed to report the war, if it comes, from our side.”
I felt Rockwell’s head jerk upward as Brigham Young stressed the words “if it comes.”
“Yes sir,” I answered.
“But what is your opinion of such a war?” Brigham Young asked.
“I’m sure you will lose it, sir. In the end, you will lose it. Or to put it another way, I don’t see how you can win. You may beat off General Connor— destroy his force—but other, bigger armies will come. You will lose everything you have here.”
“Then you think we should just give up? Be frank, Mr. Forbes.” Having said that, the great man lay back in his chair and waited for my answer. His dark eyes were riveted on me.
“I think you can bargain from a position of strength,” I said. “I’m sure the United States doesn’t want a second civil war, even a small one. Such a war could be prolonged for several years, forcing Washington to send troops here that are badly needed elsewhere.”
The Prophet leaned forward again. “But isn’t that the best reason to fight? If the Americans can’t spare the men, how can they send them here?”
“They will find them somewhere, President Young,” I replied, wondering if Abe Lincoln would be inclined to agree with me. Knowing a little about him, I thought he would. Suddenly I felt Thyself wanting a drink of Rockwell’s whiskey.
“Of course that is just your opinion, Mr. Forbes?”
“Yes sir. But I’ve just come from the East, from New York and Washington, and I think I know the mood of the country. Washington won’t back off no matter what happens to General Connor.”
“Very possibly,” the Prophet said, turning toward General Wells. “Have you anything to say, Dan?”
Old Dan shifted in his chair. “I am inclined to agree with Mr. Forbes. This Lincoln is a fanatic. The South had every legal right to secede from the Union. It was all set out in black and white and agreed upon when the states joined together as equal partners. The South’s principal mistake was to secede at precisely the wrong time—with Lincoln in office. A less fanatical President would have let them go and hope for a reunion at some later date. Lincoln won’t let us go either, not in peace anyway. He’ll fight us, Brigham.”
Brigham Young sat perfectly still: he seemed to have no unconscious mannerisms such as pulling an earlobe or drumming his fingers—nothing as mortal or as everyday as that. “You say Lincoln will fight. Can he beat us, Dan?”
General Wells said, “Lincoln hasn’t won the other war yet, and there’s a good chance he’ll lose it. All the news coming over the telegraph seems to favor the South. The South has Lee while Lincoln has McClellan, who is a jackass and should never have been a general in the first place. Lincoln will fight. It depends how hard, and if he loses the Civil War we may find ourselves dealing with the Confederacy. I’d say we’d have an easier time dealing with them, knowing their history.”
Brigham Young rapped on the table and a servant, an elderly woman, brought in pitchers of water and glasses.
“What about you, Port?” Brigham Young asked. “What do you think about the war? Can we win it?”
“Let me pass for a while, Brigham,” Rockwell answered. “I’d like to listen for a bit.”
The Prophet directed his eyes at Hickman, whose jaw muscles were rippling with anger. “You, Bill, let us hear from you.”
Hickman drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve been listening to a lot of talk here and I don’t like any of it. When we came here to Utah the idea was that this would be the end of the line for us. In those days we were pretty well out of their reach. Now, nearly fifteen years later, they’re a lot closer so they want to take what we have. It’s ours—paid for in sweat and blood—but they’ll take it anyway if we let them. I used to be a lawyer back in the States, so I know how it works. If they don’t take our land and properties by military decree, they will contest our rights of ownership and get rigged federal courts to strip us of everything. And then they will populate our country with paupers and foreigners from back East. Oh yes, they may allow us to keep a little land for pity’s sake. But it will be bad land, land where water can’t be brought in. We’ll be like reservation Indians coming to the government agent for cotton blankets and rotten horsemeat.”
Hickman’s dark face grew darker and his voice became a shout. “We should go to war now. March out to meet Connor’s force and wipe it off the face of the earth. No quarter. No mercy. I say don’t just kill the wounded, the prisoners. Castrate them. Blind them. We can make this war so terrible that no one will march against us again. We can round up the Gentiles here and make them fight for us or die. We can carry the war into Nevada and California. Our people there can rise up and join us. We’ll raise all the Indians, give them guns and gold.”
The Prophet half rose in his chair. “I order you to be quiet. Quiet! I said no speeches. Now it’s Port’s turn to speak.”
“I’m for the war, Brigham,” Rockwell said quietly. “You make the decisions and I’ll do my share of the fighting. That’s all I have to say.”
Even the Prophet looked surprised, but all he did was nod gravely. A depression seemed to have settled over Rockwell; he slumped in his chair and I knew it wasn’t from the whiskey. Nothing more was said for at least a minute.
“Mr. Forbes,” the Prophet said slowly, watching me. “If it comes to war, you may accompany our forces. You have given your word. As of now there is little information that will be held back from you. It has been suggested that your dispatches will help the Americans to see reason. The War Department can still halt Connor’s march if that is what Washington wants to do. We must wait and see what happens.”
Hickman stood up. “Declare war on them now, Brigham. Let them know that we are ready to fight. That’s the way to stop Connor. I’ll say goodnight now.”
Ritter, Jarrett, and Widger, who hadn’t been asked for their opinions, left immediately after Hickman. “We’ll be going too,” Rockwell announced, and I got up obediently
“Good night, my friends,” the Prophet said solemnly.
As we went out I heard him saying, “Would you care for some wine, Miss Mason?”
~*~
Rockwell didn’t say a word all the way back to town. Before we started he took a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebag and started to drink it in sullen silence. So glum was he that I would have welcomed a mad outburst, but it never came. When we reached the jail and I turned my horse over to the night jailer, Rockwell spoke for the first time. “I’m going to look for Abby tomorrow, but you don’t have to come along.”
“Whatever you say,” I said. “Are you mad about what I said tonight? About the war? You don’t think I finagled my way in there to lay down an argument?”
“Hickman was the one with all the arguments. That man doesn’t want to fight an honorable war, he just wants to find an excuse for killing. You heard him tonight: don’t kill the prisoners, castrate them. Torture them so the others will know what they face when they come to Utah. God Almighty! Did you ever hear such talk from a man who’s supposed to be a Mormon? William, you heard what I told Brigham. If the war comes I’ll fight to my last breath. I’ll fight here in the basin and then wherever the war goes. But this crazy-minded killing has no place even in the worst war.”
“I’m afraid it happens, Port. It’ll happen before the civil war is done with.”
This did nothing to placate Rockwell. “Don’t give me a history lesson. I know it happens and sometimes it’s done as a policy. But Hickman doesn’t care about policy or throwing a scare into the enemy—he just wants to kill.”
“You’ll be on the same side.”
“That’s what rips at my guts. And the way Brigham ...” Rockwell stopped abruptly and clenched his fists and held them out in front of him. “William, I tell you I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if the Americans will fight as hard as you say to conquer our country. But they will if Hickman has his dirty, murderous way. All right. I never wanted to talk about him before. Now it’s time. In the first war—not a real war, anyway— Hickman had himself under some kind of control. I’ve seen him get worse all the time. You’ve seen me kill men in cold blood, so maybe you think we’re the same. That’s not so. There was a reason.”
“I didn’t like the killing but I could understand why,” I answered. “I don’t think you’re like Hickman.”
Rockwell raised his hand. “As God is my judge, I’m not. But what’s to keep him in check once he gets started. Since this war talk started I’ve been blinding myself to the truth. When I made all those patriotic speeches to you I didn’t want to think about Hickman. The man is my bitter enemy William.”
“Because of Mountain Meadows?” It wasn’t much of a guess on my part, not after what I had heard at the Prophet’s dinner table. “I think you know he did it.”
Rockwell walked away and stood with his back turned. All I could do was wait. It was a long wait.
“Hickman did it,” Rockwell said at last. “I told you Mormons were responsible, but I didn’t say I knew their names because my brain was sick with the thought of it. To this day I feel a terrible shame, and so I lied to you about that dead man’s statement. Lambert wasn’t lying when he made that statement to Davenport. He was there. I don’t know if all the men on the list were there. Probably. Why should a dying man lie? I know some of them were. Mountain Meadows was one of the things I said you couldn’t write about till after my death. It still is.”
“Mountain Meadows is a way to stop Hickman. A way to hang him. If you go to Brigham Young ...”
Rockwell voice was empty of feeling. “I did go to him and he said I must ask no more questions about it. He said terrible things happen when peo
ple are at war and We are always at war.’ So for the good name of the church I must say no more. Not even think about it.”
“Then he knew before you went to him?”
“What are you saying?”
“Did he know?”
“Brigham didn’t know. He said he didn’t know. I believed him then and I believe him now.”
“I have to ask you this, Port. It has to do with lying. Why did Lambert say you were at Mountain Meadows, that you planned it and carried it out?”
“Why are you asking? I told you I wasn’t.”
“And I believe you. Answer the question. Why did Lambert lie about you?”
Rockwell’s answer was the same one I had in my head. “Because he wanted to do good. He wanted to destroy me.”
“All men lie for one reason or another,” I said. “Isn’t it possible ...”
“No!” Rockwell shouted. “Brigham didn’t lie about Mountain Meadows. I won’t listen to you. You are my friend, but I won’t take such talk even from you. No more talk. No more. If there is war, let it come. Brigham will decide. That’s all I want to know. Go away from here, William. I will be very drunk soon and I don’t want you here. Please go away.”
“Goodnight, Port,” was about all I could say because I, too, was sick of talk, and once again I wanted to be gone from Salt Lake City. But even feeling that I knew I would stay. I had been there for only a very short time, yet I felt as if I never had known any other world.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when I walked back to the hotel and wearily climbed the stairs to my room and lay on the bed without taking off even my boots. Most of the city had turned in; only the saloons, gaming houses and brothels were still open for business. I wondered where Connors army was. Was it marching in darkness through the desert? The Mormons in California and Nevada would watch its progress, sending tough scouts on fast horses ahead of it, riding in relays, always spreading the news of unusual deployments. Or had Connor anticipated all this? Had he made his plans weeks, even months in advance? So many questions.
