Piccadilly Doubles 2

by Lou Cameron

  Listening to Connor’s booming voice I wondered if he had prepared this peroration. Perhaps not, I decided, but for all the ease of his words there was passion behind them. I looked at Rockwell, Dan Wells, the other Mormon commanders; their faces were impassive, and I knew they were thinking of the great naval rifle pointed at their beloved city. The monstrous breech-loader hadn’t been mentioned yet; that would be the wind-up of Connor’s speech.

  The sky was cloudless; there was no breeze. It was baking hot. Connor’s blue uniform was dusty, but even if it had been parade-fresh it would not have given him a soldierly appearance. Not a spic and span soldier, I guessed he was a very good soldier. Grant was like that, so was Sherman; it is only the best soldiers who can afford not to look like soldiers. I knew the Mormons were impressed.

  Connor said, “The United States need not bargain with Ohio or Massachusetts. The United States refused to bargain with the rebellious states of the Confederacy for the very sensible reason that bargaining must by its nature lead to more bargaining. I ask you now: how can you hope to win? The South is more populous than you are. It is better armed. It hopes for the intervention of the British, who would like nothing better than to divide our country, perhaps to take it back. England recognized the old Texas Republic for that very reason. Well, let me tell you something, gentlemen. The United States will fight Great Britain as well as the Confederates if it has to.”

  Connor smiled. “Fighting the Mormons of Utah will be no great strain on our resources, if it comes to that. It will be an annoyance, certainly, but it will be done. We are as the leaves on the trees, as the Seminoles said when first they saw our forces. For every man you field, we field a hundred, a thousand. I have been informed that you can muster as many as ten thousand men, that is, if you include boys and old men. An impressive number to be sure—but ten thousand is all you’ve got. There can be no reinforcements, no hope of Confederate armies marching to your aid.”

  Connor was speaking the truth, but sometimes the truth is the last thing we want to hear. The Mormon commanders remained still, their faces showing nothing, and only in the ranks of the riflemen was there faint stirring of anger, a sullen hostility directed toward this burly outsider with the loud voice who dared to tell them that all was lost. Rifles began to be raised; Connor took no notice.

  “Your good luck in the past—our good luck now—is your remoteness, your isolation from the rest of the country,” Connor went on, waving his hand toward the bleak mountains, as if giving them a geography lesson. “Utah is landlocked, hemmed in by loyal states and territories. You will fight in the mountains, I have been warned. You will burn your towns, lay waste what you have built up so well, and when we leave you will return to start anew. A noble act of sacrifice, but hardly practical. What if we don’t leave? And we won’t. What if tens of thousands of American settlers are brought in to rebuild your towns, to reclaim your ruined farms? All this can be done. You forget that you showed the world how this desolate land could be made fruitful. What you have done can be done by outsiders. Not so well, I think, but well enough. Now you say: let them come and we will make life unbearable with all the miseries of guerrilla warfare. Night raids, barn burning, ambush, the killing of livestock, the poisoning of wells and water sources. Yes, you can try all that, but you aren’t savages, after all. Take my word for it, you will grow tired of it after a while, and always you will have the Army to deal with. I am told you have your strongholds in the mountains, but what will you do when winter comes, the game is gone, and it is forty below? Where will you go? Canada? I hardly think so. The British may be prepared to incite you. I doubt they will allow you to enter Canada. They will turn you back. So, finally, you will be forced to sue for peace. Or, I should say, beg for amnesty. The war against the South will be over by then and the United States will have the greatest army in the history of mankind. Two million men under arms, it is thought. All seasoned veterans. Do you think a nation thus armed will want to bargain with you? I think not.”

  Connor paused to light another cigar; the Mormons watched him puffing calmly. With his stout build, florid face, and white hair, he was the very picture of quiet confidence—the voice of reason. If he felt the hatred of the Saints, he gave no sign of it. I wasn’t sure I liked the man, but I had to admire him. Washington could not have sent a better man for the work at hand. I wondered what Rockwell thought of him.

  “There are those among you that would go down to destruction rather than submit to federal authority,” Connor said. “Death before dishonor and so forth. Even today we hear such talk in the South. It will come to nothing, I assure you. You are different from the Southerners, you think, and I am sure you are in many ways. But what you face by honorable obedience to the laws of your country is not slaughter or slavery but the same rights as other American citizens. No one wants to take your land. It is yours. Of that there never has been any doubt. But Utah is not a fortress kingdom, and other Americans must be permitted to settle here if they so desire. There must be freedom of travel. There must be no more of these Mormon passports issued to outsiders. There is no need for such things—and they cannot be condoned. They will not.”

  It seemed to me that Connor’s voice suddenly became rougher—even menacing, as if his patient reasoning had come to an end. I looked at Rockwell and he was frowning. The other Mormons appeared to lean forward, though Connor’s voice was clear and carrying.

  “Gentlemen,” Connor said, “I have stated the facts of peace. Now I will state the facts of war. First you must remember that I am not bound by political theories. I am not a West Point man. In fact, I am not even a regular officer. Therefore, I do not feel myself bound by the so-called rules of war. To make it plain: I will destroy you if I have to. Those are not Mr. Lincoln’s words but my own. Washington has given me a free hand and you will feel its weight if you oppose me, and I have the assurance of the war department that I will not be removed for any reason other than failure. I do not intend to fail. However, I have no wish to destroy you. There are other men Washington might have sent that would do just that. All through your short history you have feared outsiders and with good reason. You have been persecuted because of your religion. Well, I am hostile to no mans religion, so you will do better to deal with me than with other men I can think of. So now, gentlemen, what is it going to be?”

  Dan Wells spoke up. “Is that big gun out there one of your means of destruction, General? You’ve been talking long. Not a word was said about the big gun. Why is that?”

  “I hoped it wouldn’t come to that,” Connor answered. “I always try sweet reason before I make real threats. But since you want to know I’ll tell you. That big gun as you call it is a Dahlgren gun, the most advanced naval gun in the world. England has nothing like it, neither has Germany. It doesn’t fire cannon balls, sir, but high explosive shells. And it can fire them faster and farther than you can imagine. It can demolish this city and everything in it in a matter of hours. Nothing will be left standing when the Dahlgren finishes its work.”

  “So you say,” Dan Wells said.

  “No, I don’t just say,” Connor said, turning to point at the biggest island far out in the lake. “I have already picked a target for a demonstration. You will agree that the island out there is the equivalent of a large building. Sun-hardened earth and rock.” Connor took out his watch and released the face cover. His entire manner was matter of fact. “An instant after I take off my hat and wave it, that island will start to disappear.”

  “They’ve been watching us through telescopes?” Dan Wells said.

  “All the time,” Connor said. “If I were seen to have been shot, an explosive shell would have landed among you before I finished breathing.”

  “They’re that good with that thing?” Dan Wells asked.

  “Master gunners from the ironclad Jackson,” Connor said. “I told you that gun is a naval rifle, not a cannon. Is it all right to wave my hat?”

  “Wave it,” Dan Wells told him.r />
  Connor turned to wave his hat and I began to count the seconds. I was up to four when the first shell exploded on the island, tearing up huge chunks of earth and rock. The sound of the big gun rolled toward us like thunder. Then the next shell came in; in spite of themselves, the Saints muttered in awe of the great gun’s performance, its implacable accuracy. A third shell struck the rocky island. Then a fourth. The explosions were orange in the bright sun. Three more shells came in—and there was no longer any island. Where the island had been water was now; the great salt lake was again flat and motionless.

  “Was the island of any worth?” Connor asked with just a trace of a smile.

  “No,” Dan Wells answered, “but it was our island.”

  “Better a worthless island than your Temple,” Connor said. “Mr. Wells”—not once did Connor address the Mormon general as “General”—“you saw how precisely the Dahlgren gun obliterated your island. The same can be done for any or all of your public or churchly buildings. Perhaps you think my men didn’t bring enough ammunition from the Jackson!”

  Behind us the city was white in the sun; the Temple, noblest building of all, towered above everything. I thought of the great blocks of stone that had gone into its construction, all the years of hope and sweat. And I knew that Connor would not hesitate to destroy it—destroy everything if he had to. The Irishman was Fate in a dusty blue uniform.

  When Dan Wells didn’t answer Connor said, “We have more ammunition than we need. A hundred men—along with sailors from the Jackson— can bring enough ammunition to level a bigger city than this one. It was all thought out, Mr. Wells—I thought it out.”

  Dan Wells said angrily, “You’re mighty smug for a man alone. It was always part of our plan to destroy the city if the Americans forced it on us. We’re not afraid to die.”

  “Neither am I,” Connor said. “If you are of a mind to kill me, well, here I am. You can’t ransom me for your holy city, if that’s what you’re thinking. My second in command, Colonel Fairlie, has his orders on that subject. You as much as try to take me prisoner and the Dahlgren gun will start firing. It won’t stop until there is nothing here but rubble. And then my men will move in and kill every male above the age of fourteen. Any Mormon leader Colonel Fairlie captures—and that includes yourself—will be hanged. Not shot—hanged. Mr. Wells, not even the Mormons can murder a general officer of the United States army and get away with it. But I think you’re bluffing, Mr. Wells. You don’t want your beautiful city destroyed by Mormons— or by me. So I will ask you again: what is it going to be? If you can’t give me an answer, then talk to Mr. Young. Tell him I won’t wait more than an hour. That is the situation, sir.”

  The Mormon commanders exchanged glances. Dan Wells said coldly, “I will tell Brigham what you have said. You don’t even come here with a flag of truce. That is arrogant, sir.”

  Connor puffed on his cigar. “I don’t need a flag of truce. That big gun out there is all the protection I need.” Once again he produced his watch and looked at it. “An hour I said, an hour I meant.”

  “Fetch my horse,” Dan Wells told one of his aides. Then turning back to Connor he said, “If Brigham wishes to see you, you will be informed.”

  Connor said, “I’m not here to request an audience with your Pope. If he wishes to see me I’ll be at McSorley’s saloon. Will somebody show me where it is?”

  I felt like smiling, but of course I did not. Forcing the great man to come to a rough and ready saloon was a calculated move on Connor’s part and it angered the Mormons more than anything else.

  “Brigham does not enter saloons,” Dan Wells said.

  “Then let him stay in his fine house,” Connor said. “We know where it is, we have maps, the big gun can find him there. You’re wasting time, Mr. Wells.”

  “I’ll show you where the saloon is,” Rockwell interrupted. “Might as well tell Brigham,” he said to Dan Wells. “If he doesn’t come, then the war is on.”

  “Exactly,” Connor said. “You are Porter Rockwell, are you not?”

  “You know me?” Rockwell asked, a little surprised but more than a little pleased.

  “From your pictures,” Connor said. “Shall we go? I am thirsty for a mug of cold beer.”

  Rockwell glanced at me. “This is William Forbes, General. He is a reporter for the New York Sun.”

  And so I was formally introduced to Patrick Edward Connor, a man destined to become a legend in Utah. His Irish accent had not entirely deserted him, but there was nothing of the parvenu in his make-up. He was nothing at all like Flood, Mackay, O’Brien, or the other Irish gold- and silver-mining millionaires of his time. His manner was courtly, even a little studied; no one could have called him a boor or a bully.

  “I knew you were here, Mr. Forbes,” Connor said. “You dispatches are being widely read. Will you join us in a drink?”

  McSorley was behind the bar when we came in; Cassie and Fitz were at a table. No one else was there; the booming of the Dahlgren had sent everyone to the highest points in the city. Connor took off his hat and slapped dust from his clothing. “I’m told you take a drink now and then,” he said to Rockwell. “Or don’t you drink with the enemy?”

  “A drink is a drink,” Rockwell said. “McSorley, cold beer for the general, the usual for me. William?”

  “Beer,” I said. History was about to be made one way or another; I didn’t want to look at it through a fog.

  We sat at a table and McSorley brought the drinks. Rockwell nodded toward Cassie and Fitz. “These are your other spies,” he told Connor. “I owe them a favor, that’s why they haven’t been shot. Anyway, you gave them away when you mentioned this place. Why did you do that?”

  “Because I know there won’t be any war,” Connor said. “Do you think there will be a war, Mr. Rockwell?”

  Rockwell shrugged. “I’ll fight is there is one. You can’t take that big gun up through the passes to the mountain valleys. Even if you could, it wouldn’t be much use to you there.”

  Cassie came over to our table; Fitz stayed where he was. “Is it true that you are going to shell the city?” she asked Connor. There was excitement in her eyes.

  “Only if I have to, Miss MacKay” Connor said.

  “Maybe you should do it anyway,” Cassie said, glaring at me. “These people don’t understand anything but force.”

  Connor waved her to a chair. “Don’t be so bloodthirsty,” he said. “I’m not bloodthirsty at all. Have a drink of something and we’ll see what happens. Mr. Young should be along in a little while.”

  Cassie’s eyes grew wide. “You mean he’s coming here?”

  “If he chooses to,” Connor said. “You think he’ll come, Mr. Rockwell?”

  Rockwell was already on his third drink; there was something close to malice in his smile. “Yes, General, I think he’ll come. If he had decided to fight, we would have heard long before now.”

  Connor signaled to McSorley to bring another beer. “That was my thought, Mr. Rockwell. The time to fight was when we were in the desert. I knew your men were watching our movements. Then not a single shot was fired and time began to slip away. Now I think the time for fighting has passed.”

  “Not unless Brigham says it has,” Rockwell said, but there wasn’t much conviction in his words.

  “Prosperity will ensure peace,” Connor said with the utter confidence which marked the man. “Prosperous nations seldom go to war, at least, not in modern times. You are prosperous, Mr. Rockwell, or I should say, the Mormons are. Why should you wish to destroy that prosperity? There is great wealth here as even a fool can see. For war at least one side has to be plagued by a failing economy, lack of work for its people, internal dissent. You have none of that here. No offense, Mr. Rockwell, but your very prosperity will stay your belligerence. The bankers, the very rich, will see to it that there is no war.”

  “Could be,” Rockwell agreed, a terse comment in the face of Connor’s somewhat flamboyant manner of speaking.
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  McSorley turned from the door with a startled look on his face. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “It looks like he’s coming after all. That’s his coach sure enough.”

  All Connor said was, “Another beer, Mac.”

  There was a dead silence in the room as Connor sipped his beer. Then there was a rumble of coach wheels and the shrill cry of the driver as he reined in the horses. I tensed with anticipation as footsteps approached the door; expecting to see armed guards, I was surprised to see Brigham Young come in alone. I disliked the Prophet intensely, and never have found any reason to change my opinion of him as a canting scoundrel, yet I must admit that there was something almost majestic in his entrance. Well, perhaps it was more melodramatic than majestic. The fact remains—he was impressive, with his somber clothing, his dark, near-Indian features, his air of command. I suppose every man who plays emperor long enough comes to live his part eventually. Though of no great height, he gave the impression of towering strength; his black eyes were cold and remote.

  “You are General Connor?” he said in his Old Testament voice, that is, if such a description may be applied to a Mormon.

  Connor inclined his snowy head. “And you are Mr. Young,” he said with equal gravity.

  It was the stuff of history; the confrontation still is vivid in my mind after so many years. It was hardly Grant and Lee at Appomattox, but I was young and I was there to see it. For a moment the only sound was the beer fizzing in Connor ‘s mug.

  “I am Brigham Young,” the Prophet said.

  “Then we must sit down and talk,” Connor said, indicating a table removed from the rest of us.