“A prophet. An ancient prophet.” He eyed me for a second or two. “Haven’t seen ye in these parts, ma’am,” he said.
“No sir, I’m new—I hail from North Carolina. A Mormon once asked my grandmother to marry her.”
“And where did this take place?”
“Back east, in Missouri.”
“Missouri? Do you know his name?”
“I never knew. I just knew he was a Mormon.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll be happy to tell you some of what has been revealed to us, ma’am. May I?”
“Certainly.”
“Let me tend this landing and then perhaps ye might tarry just a moment.”
There was a plank landing. A Mexican woman and two Mexican boys were waiting to help off-load items.
Bishop Thorpe took care of the landing—you could not imagine him not being in charge wherever he might happen to be. Uncle P.J. drove his wagon off the ferry onto shore. There were no ferry customers in sight, so Bishop Thorpe launched into a little sermon of sorts, as we walked to some benches by the river.
He had started talking to me but was now eying Uncle P.J., and talking loudly. “Our ultimate purpose is the establishment of the Kingdom of God here in this western United States as preparation for the millennium reign of Jesus Christ. We are the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Our struggle with the government over celestial marriage was our last with the U.S. government. There is now nothing left for us to be not in compliance with.” We were by now sitting on a bench before a stone table, an area for ferry waiters next to the river, and Uncle P.J. glanced at me as if to say, Why’d you get him started?
“And of course,” said the Bishop, “the signs of the coming of Christ are beyond reasonable debate—earthquakes, wars, and rumors of wars.”
“What’s in the Book of Mormon?” I asked him.
“My dear, the story of the Book of Mormon is the history of one group of descendants of Manasseh, a group which migrated to America and became the ancestors of the American Indians. Those Nephites of old, of the lost tribes of Israel, passed northward through these valleys. As a matter of fact, my son and I have spent these last three days in the mesa seeking evidence which proves that fact. The descendants of Ephraim, on the other hand, were dispersed through Europe and are the ancestors of the Anglo-Saxon and Germanic peoples. The descendants of these people settled America after the Indians. One of the great purposes of America is to allow the gathering of all these descendants to Zion, that is, to Utah and surrounding states, and to here establish through them the Kingdom of God on Earth. Our mission is clear, our purpose strong.”
This was not the end. He continued for some time, until finally Uncle P.J. stood and said we had to get on our way to deliver saddles. At about the same time a group of Mormons arrived and needed to cross on the ferry. At least I think they were Mormons. Somehow I could tell.
“I told you not to get him started,” said Uncle P.J. as we rode away.
“Don’t you think it’s interesting?” I asked him.
“No, I don’t. I think it’s craziness.”
In a short distance we came to the little trading post. A woman was sweeping the porch.
As we drew near, I saw her more clearly. Her skin, under a big bonnet, did not have the harsh leathery composition of many women out here—a consequence of the dryness. This woman seemed altogether out of place in this harsh nature.
“Greetings,” she said. “Alight and have a cool dip of water.”
“Might as well,” said Uncle P.J.
We parked the team, alighted, and introduced ourselves. Her name was Harmony Beasley, she said. “Whereabouts in Carolina do ye hail from?” she asked me.
“I’m from Raleigh.”
“Oh yes, of course. The capital. Come inside for a sit.”
Her little store had huge round rafters, far larger than needed, I would have guessed, and two coal oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. The floor, though dirt, was mostly covered with Indian rugs and animal skins. She asked me to sit down in one of three roughly made chairs. She sat on another, took off her bonnet and pulled back her hair. She was a beautiful woman, as I mentioned before, perhaps forty-five years old, though her appearance was such that, at over ten paces away from her, you would believe that she was not over thirty or thirty-five. Her cheekbones were prominent, setting her blue eyes back into her face so that they seemed deep set and produced lights of their own. She had a slight dimple in her chin and another in one cheek. While she and I sat, Uncle P.J. studied over several suits of clothes that were hanging on the wall, for sale. I think he’s looking for such for his new business.
I admitted my astonishment at the landscape of the west, and spoke of my family, my little sister Content, who may one day follow me out west, my recovery from the death of my mother. She was very easy to talk to. A very comfortable person. She asked me to come back to see her, said that she loved having visitors.
After this brief indoor visit, we came back outside. She pulled me aside, toward her garden, away from Uncle P.J.
“Please do not be alarmed at what I am about to say,” she said. “Bishop Thorpe may ask ye to marry him.”
I was shocked. Not only was I shocked at what she said, but at the fact of who had said it—someone once the Bishop’s wife. “What? Oh no, I don’t think so,” I said. Then I wasn’t altogether sure that she had really said what I thought she had said. Was this another odd western, or Mormon, custom?
“Hold this in your heart,” she said. “He is a gentle man. Ye aren’t married, are ye?”
“Oh, no.”
“And do ye have a calling to come to these parts?”
“A calling?” Suddenly I wondered if she really were somehow speaking for God. She was so . . . kind . . . and sturdy. I needed to step back somehow and think.
“A calling from God to come to these parts,” she said.
“Not exactly, but I am a Christian. I was saved at Raleigh Methodist Church, but I’m only out west on a visit.”
“It could be, you know, that ye have received a calling and have yet to realize it. Our marriages were not sinful, though the government made them out to be. We’ve received guidance from God and the Saints. And if ye have truly been chosen of God, then you are already a Mormon and will come to see the rightness of our ways.”
I didn’t want to go against her somehow, but I was almost reeling from the strangeness of our conversation.
“Are you married to him?” I asked her.
“I was, but no longer. He is now unmarried in the light of the new government laws. We have been told by our president to abide by all U.S. government laws and we shall do that. But I know that Markham is in need of a new wife.”
“Then why doesn’t he marry you?”
“Oh, that would be . . . unnecessary. What is important is that he is a great and gentle man. You would find our ways and beliefs very comfortable to your soul.” She looked away toward the road. “Your uncle is waiting. I hope to see ye again.”
I was . . . what? Flabbergasted is the only word close to what I felt, concerning a marriage proposal from the Bishop. Could Harmony Beasley, besides being a lovely woman, also be a bit touched?
We delivered the saddles, two saddles to each of three farmers on the far side of the town—a scattered little village, though very neat, with a large store, a meeting house, something called a tithing office, a large granary, and high stacks of hay. So very neat and organized. So unlike Mumford Rock. As we drove along I felt an urge to tell Uncle P.J. of my conversation with Harmony Beasley. He was blissfully ignorant. Yet I felt compelled by Mrs. Beasley’s soft intensity to keep her words a secret.
Harmony Beasley was not in sight as we drove back by her little store.
We had no sooner started back over on the ferry when Bishop Thorpe drew me aside—away from Uncle P.J.—and said to me, “I believe with all my heart that ye have been called here. I would like for ye to join me in celestial marriage.”
/> “I . . .”
He was looking deep into my eyes, with a calmness beyond words. The thought raced through my mind that I should relax and let God speak for me, yet I was also somehow becoming convinced that perhaps I was face to face with a true people of God—the Mormons, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
He continued, with a smile, “I do know that God is moving within me, that it is the will of our Saviour and the Saints that you and I live together for the glory of God.”
“I have to go back to North Carolina, sir. I am only visiting. I certainly couldn’t—”
“I understand that. I am not . . . in no way, child, do I wish to encumber your freedom. My only cause for what may seem forward is that God is moving within me at this moment. Please take these . . . these matters into your heart and ponder them and seek out the truth about our Kingdom, and please forgive all signs of forwardness in my behaviors and know that all intentions I have toward ye are kind and gentle. All my friends, male and female, would love and cherish ye in Jesus Christ and the Saints.”
“Do you mean . . . female—all your wives?”
“I am unmarried. And I feel led to forever keep you safe and in comfort.”
“But I’m not even a Mormon.”
Uncle P.J. was hearing none of this. He thought it was yet another sermon and was avoiding it.
“If we are married ye will be a Mormon, my dear. I only ask and pray that ye think on it for a short while. Do not answer me now. Think and pray on it. For as long as even unto a year.” He said all this with sincerity and gentle force, holding my arm above my elbow, looking deep into my eyes. I had no choice but to say I would contemplate the request. My thoughts were these: This is a part of the west. These are a clean and organized people. This is where I am.
I have been wooed by several beaus back home, with poor Sammy Perry asking finally for my hand in marriage. But Sammy was so . . . so nice, so lacking in force and will power that I could not bring myself to concur to marry him, and besides I was sorely needed at home during that time.
This proposal was so unexpected, my first out west, and yes, so flattering that I did promise Bishop Thorpe that I would ponder his words. I could do no wrong by pondering the request. We lived miles away and I could think on it from my little cabin.
Suddenly I thought of the Englishman. He was so reserved and proper. And so handsome. But the Bishop . . . the Bishop had a certain power about him. And I was certainly old enough to consider the sincere advances of an older man.
On the ride back to the store I tried to get up the nerve to tell Uncle P.J. what had transpired. We were riding along a beautiful stretch between the ferry and the Copeland store. The distant Sangre de Hermanas mountain range to the north—or is it east?—is especially beautiful from along that road. I asked him what he knew about the Mormons, besides all we’d heard from Bishop Thorpe.
He was quiet for a minute. “It all started, as I understand it,” he said, “when they had this man that got killed back in Illinois somewhere. Joseph Smith. He had these visions he said, and saw God and Jesus, and said he found these brass things with all this stuff written on it that said they was supposed to set up a kingdom. I stay clear of it.”
I couldn’t hold it back. “Bishop Thorpe asked me to marry him.”
“What?” He looked at me. “That old goat. All them wives is against the law, and—”
“That’s all been settled by the new laws.”
“Well, I don’t . . . Star! What are you . . . Did you get bit by a stupid snake? Have you gone loco? If your papa were alive, why he’d . . . You wouldn’t want to do that, Star. You just got out here. You just got moved in your cabin. It’s a nice cabin and you’re just fine where you are.”
“No, I don’t think I would—oh dear, Uncle P.J.” I’d never seen him so upset. “But you have to admit, it’s such a clean town over there, and everybody was so nice, and he’s such a powerful figure of a man, don’t you think?” It might do no harm, I suddenly thought, if the handsome young Englishman found out about the proposal.
“They don’t put up with no nonsense,” said Uncle P.J. “They won’t even drink coffee. You don’t want to take all the nonsense out of your life. You take all the nonsense out, and it ain’t what a life is supposed to be. Don’t you see that?”
We drove in through the gate and I was wondering what Aunt Ann might say. She was walking Grandma Copeland around the chinaberry tree. Grandma Copeland loves to walk around the chinaberry tree and anytime somebody offers, she lets them walk her.
I couldn’t wait to tell Aunt Ann—I was getting all full of it, as news.
“He did what?!” she said.
Grandma Copeland was between us, walking unsteadily around the tree, one foot out, then the other. Aunt Ann was holding her up. I took hold of her, too.
“Asked me to marry him. On the ferry, on the way back over from Beacon City.”
“Hold her by the elbow,” said Aunt Ann. “You hold her up there under the arm and she gets a laughing fit. You said no, didn’t you?”
“I said I’d think about it. I was too flabbergasted to make a decision. I just met him.”
“For heaven’s sake, child, say no. You don’t want to marry a Mormon. You’d have to become one. Honey, you ain’t been out here long enough to know how they are.”
“They’re not all the same, Aunt Ann, and it’s not fair to say so.”
“Don’t do it,” said Grandma Copeland.
We all stopped. Aunt Ann and I looked at each other, Grandma Copeland between us, the top of her bonnet at our shoulders, and then we looked down into the bonnet at her. Her eyes were on me and her mouth all sunk in on itself, a frown in her eyes, and then she looked back at the ground and started slowly staggering along again, pulling us.
“P.J.!” Aunt Ann yelled. “Come here quick! Grandma talked!”
Uncle P.J. came running. “What’d she say? What’d she say?”
“She said, ‘Don’t do it.’”
“Do what?”
“Marry a Mormon,” said Aunt Ann.
Uncle P.J. walked backwards in front of Grandma around the chinaberry tree, trying to get her to talk some more.
She wouldn’t speak.
“What’d you say, Star?”
“That’d I’d been asked to get married.”
“Say it again.”
“Me?”
“Yes, say whatever you said.”
“It was Aunt Ann talking.”
“Say what you were saying, Ann.”
“I don’t remember—it was about Star marrying a Mormon. I said don’t do it, then Grandma said the same thing, ‘Don’t do it.”
“Mama,” said Uncle P.J. “Guess what! Star . . . is . . . going . . . to . . . marry . . . a . . . Mormon.”
Nothing.
“Star . . . is . . . going . . . to . . . marry . . . a . . . Mormon.”
Grandma Copeland just walked along with us holding her, staring at the ground, round the chinaberry tree with Uncle P.J. walking backwards in front of her, trying to get her to talk. In a little bit, we set her back in her rolling chair, rolled her up the ramp to the front porch, and left her there, fanning herself with her broom-straw fan.
ANDREW COLLIER
Merriwether Ranch
Mumford Rock, Colorado
United States of America
November 20, 1891
Dear Father,
I am in receipt of your letter dated September 30th. It crossed my latest, which you will have received by the time this one arrives. I understand your concern about the potential lack of substance in mesa findings here. I will admit that that was my own initial response. However, I am now convinced that possibly no greater or richer ancient treasures exist anywhere in the world than those the cowboy Merriwether and his friends are beginning to uncover here in Mesa Largo. I have seen numerous relics since I last wrote to you and will send you an eyewitness report from the ruins. My most sincere hope is that you w
ill reconsider your conclusions about my interests here in America. There is no danger involved, Father. None at all.
I also understand your concern about my health. The arid climate of Colorado, however, is altogether different from that of England and seems to alleviate the symptoms of my tuberculosis.
Mr. Merriwether has a comprehensive library in his home. I do believe you would like him. Other educated people reside in this area, including a young woman of unestablished background who has received a college education, albeit in the American South. Through her and her most congenial uncle, Pleasant James Copeland, I hope to learn something of the American South, its myths, history, and the War Between the States, as the Copelands call it. The young woman’s name is Star. On the whole, I find many American names quite creative—some even humourous. I have met, believe it or not, a man named Anonymous Cheekwood. And the Americans seem to have a knack for creating words. For example eggs are also known as “cackleberries.” Maple syrup is called “lick.”
In the event I am able to finish any articles about my travels (including unusual names), I will send them along for you to submit to the Daily Telegraph under the heading “From the Far West.”
Please give warmest regards to Mother and please tell Mary Charlotte I am proud of her marks, especially in Latin, and that I am sorry about her illness. And I am so glad to learn of the success of your trip to Venice. I look forward to hearing more when once again we relax before the library fire.
Father, indebted as I am for your support of this trip thus far, I find it absolutely necessary that I take at least one expedition onto Mesa Largo. I will send a report and I beg that you seriously consider my request, surely now in your hand, for an extended stay here.
With Sincerest Regards and
with Love,
Your devoted son,
Andrew
BUMPY
On that first expedition we started out from the Merriwether Ranch in the dark of morning—all those loaded wagons creaking and feeling heavy—so as to reach the ferry by soon after light. We took empty wagons too, horses and pack mules herded together, and Mexicans bringing up the rear.
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