The Betrayal

by Diane Noble

  “Honor and glory? I’m not talking about the hereafter. I’m talking about the here and now. What if it were Ruby or Pearl . . . or Little Grace?”

  “We aren’t talking about them.” He grabbed his hat, started to the door, and then turned. “When I get back, you’ll lead me to Coal and the girl—and that’s that.”

  “You’re wrong, Gabe.”

  He stared at her.

  “You’re not going alone.” She stepped closer. “Don’t try to stop me. If Sarah’s mother can be convinced to act on behalf of her daughter, it will probably be another woman who will do the convincing.” She grabbed her shawl from a hook by the door, and shoulders as erect as a young soldier’s, she marched out ahead of Gabe.

  She stopped outside the door and turned to him. “And another thing, Gabe. You’re wrong about something else too. You’re wrong about me leading you or anyone else to where they’re hiding. Unless the marriage is called off, Sarah’s not coming home.”

  Taking a deep breath, he said, “You’re forgetting why they made their decision.”

  “If you mean the ‘decision’ that in exchange for their daughter’s marriage to Brother Hyrum, they’ll be fed and clothed during harsh times, I don’t believe it. They don’t have to make Sarah a sacrificial lamb.”

  He stared at her, his lips forming a straight line.

  “I’m not forgetting anything, Gabe. I’m especially not forgetting Sarah’s wedding night.”

  Chapter Four

  Hosea Livingstone leaned against the railing of the Dixie Queen, looking out across the gently swelling waters of the Mississippi just south of Nauvoo. A wharf jutted into the river dead ahead, and he watched the crew prepare to dock. The riverboat swayed as the captain called out an order to turn starboard to miss a sandbar. Gasps escaped from a few passengers standing near Hosea.

  Memories flooded into his mind as the pilot shouted more commands to his crew. He lifted his face to the sun, closed his eyes, and felt the spray of the water, letting his mind drift back to the Sea Hawk, the last ship he captained out of Liverpool. It had been a magnificent ship, faster than any he’d ever served as master and commander. He’d been proud of her, especially of the way she so elegantly sailed into Boston Harbor, setting the speed record for crossing the Atlantic.

  “Been to Nauvoo before?”

  A sandy-haired man with a pleasant face interrupted his thoughts. Hosea studied him for a moment before answering. He’d preferred keeping to himself since leaving Nova Scotia, but this man interested him. He was a mix of good taste and travel-worn shabby, and his fingernails were dark, ink dark, as if he spent a good deal of time dipping a pen into an inkwell. Though his clothing was rumpled, he appeared to have had a recent haircut and beard trim. Likely in the last settlement where they’d stopped to take on passengers. His hat, even its tilt, said that he likely hailed from a city, perhaps New York or Boston. Even his shoes held a shine, unheard of in these parts.

  Finally, Hosea said, “Never set eyes on the place, though I’ve heard plenty about it.”

  “First trip here myself,” the man said. “I overheard you asking the captain about the Mormon exodus, so I thought maybe you knew something about the group.”

  “Idle curiosity, I suppose.” Hosea shrugged. “Especially about the religion of the people who used to live here.”

  “Religion?” The man scoffed. “If you can call it that. I say it’s more like one man’s grandiose folly.”

  “You mean that of Joseph Smith?”

  “Yes. But come to think of it, I could also be speaking of their new prophet and president, Brigham Young. Smith, him, and a dozen others like him.” He laughed. “Pay no mind to me. I’m a newspaperman investigating the phenomenal rise of these fringe religious groups—the Shakers, the Campbellites, the Mormons, the Oneida group all out of Upstate New York—same place young Joseph claimed to have found the golden plates.” He laughed. “I’m starting with the Mormons, plan to follow them west and find out what’s happened since the exodus. I’m looking under every rock and bush to find out what’s crawling underneath.”

  “Will make for interesting reading,” Hosea said. “Why are you so sure you’ll find something ‘crawling’ under their rocks and bushes?”

  Instead of answering, the man stuck out a hand, and as Hosea shook it, he said, “Name’s Andrew Greyson.”

  “Hosea Livingstone. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  Greyson turned to look out at the river, leaning against the railing, ankles crossed. “Fine place, Nauvoo,” he mused. “Too bad they were chased out. Some twenty thousand so-called ‘Saints’ have now made their way west.”

  “You didn’t answer my question . . .”

  Laugh lines crinkled at the outer corners of his eyes, telling Hosea that easy laughter was part of his character. He couldn’t help liking the man. “That’s true. I didn’t.” He turned back to Hosea. “I sometimes come on strong when I’ve got preconceived ideas,” he said. “I try not to do that. After all, it’s not the mark of a good reporter.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already sniffed around under those rocks.”

  “I can’t go by hearsay, though there’s plenty of that around, believe me.” He sobered as he continued. “One bit of hearsay I am paying attention to is the rumor of the resurgence of a Mormon secret militia led by Brigham himself. Hard to pin down. Sometimes the group is called the Avenging Angels or Destroying Angels, other times the Danites, probably taken from the Old Testament Book of Daniel 7:18: “But the saints of the most High shall take the kingdom, and possess the kingdom forever, even forever and ever.

  “What we do know for certain is that the group once served as a death squad in Far West. Once they moved to Nauvoo, supposedly it was disbanded, and its members became bodyguards to Joseph Smith or policemen for the town. At least they told as much to outsiders.”

  A chill traveled up Hosea’s spine. “It sounds like there’s more.”

  “After the assassination of Smith you can bet they revved up the effort to exact revenge. Nothing much has been officially reported, but there’ve been disappearances.”

  “Of those who were in on Smith’s murder?”

  Greyson didn’t answer.

  Hosea watched the rolling water for a few moments. “If they’ve moved from the area, there’s no longer the threat from outsiders,” he said. “Why would there still be need for a secret militia? Why now?”

  “Even in Far West it wasn’t formed to exact revenge on those who persecuted them. It was formed to, in the militia leader’s own words, ‘remove the salt that had lost its savor.’ ”

  “Remove the salt?” Hosea had followed the man’s reasoning until now. “Salt? What did he mean by that?”

  “The militia leader was a right-hand man to Smith, and when preaching his famous ‘salt sermon,’ it was understood that dissenters, apostates, wouldn’t be tolerated by the church.”

  “So they would be chased out.”

  Greyson shook his head. “That, and worse. He said they should be ‘trodden under the foot of men.’ ”

  Hosea’s thoughts went to Enid, her headstrong, outspoken ways. How could she possibly have become a part of this group? And Gabe? He thought he’d known his friend well. Obviously, he hadn’t. Gabe proved that fact aboard the Sea Hawk when he told him about his relationship with Enid.

  “So, they’ve all moved on?” Hosea stared at the river, attempting to keep his disappointment from showing. “I heard some church leaders stayed behind to make sure they all got out before the governor’s protection expires.” He’d held out hope that Gabe might be one of those leaders.

  Greyson studied him with greater scrutiny. “There may be some folks still waiting to leave from outlying areas, but not many. Brigham Young treated this exodus like a military operation. The first groups left in terror, then he sent an emissary to plead with the governor on their behalf. He got a reprieve of a few months, some say up to a year, to get the rest out of the state. After
that, locals are expecting full-out war against this group.”

  Hosea drew in a deep breath. “Why war? What have they done to deserve that kind of treatment?”

  Greyson glanced at Hosea before turning to watch the approaching wharf. “All the New York groups have their idiosyncrasies but none of the others formed militias. That tends to make neighbors very nervous. The situation with the Mormons is complicated. There were financial scams involved—at least that’s what the neighbors called it when they felt they’d been tricked into investing and lost a great deal of money. They didn’t stop to consider that it wasn’t the fault of the Saints—the entire country was going through financial woes in those years.”

  A faint memory came back to Hosea. It happened on the Sea Hawk, dinner perhaps. He remembered the fervent apostle, Brigham Young, dining with him and others in the captain’s quarters. “I know about those early years,” he said. “I heard about it firsthand.” Images flew into his mind, faces of long ago: Lady Mary Rose Ashley; her grandfather, the earl; Griffin the Welshman; and Gabriel who had eyes for no one else in the room but the lovely Mary Rose. He remembered how Gabe challenged Brigham’s beliefs with a powerful argument, almost scoffing at the apostle’s naïveté.

  Greyson turned to him, his expression curious. “Why do I think you know more than you’re letting on?”

  Hosea laughed. There really was no reason to keep his circumstances a secret. He doubted he’d ever tell anyone every detail. Too much heartbreak. But as long as the man didn’t print it up in his newspaper, he saw no harm in telling him at least part of his story.

  Still chuckling, Hosea held up both hands. “You’re almost correct, though my knowledge about the group is limited to a couple of firsthand accounts told to me by Brigham Young when he was a missionary apostle. Things have changed a great deal since then.” Behind him, the pilot called out orders and the deckhands scurried to set anchor as they came alongside the Nauvoo wharf.

  “My wife may be among them,” he said, quite sober. “And a man who I once considered a friend as close as a brother.”

  Greyson studied Hosea for a long moment and then said, “And you suspect your wife may have become your friend’s second bride?”

  “I can see why you’re a good reporter,” Hosea said. “Yes, that is my fear.”

  “But she’s already married . . .” He looked puzzled. “Not that it makes much difference to many of the Saints who are set on taking more wives than one.”

  Hosea turned away from Greyson as the riverboat docked. “My wife thinks I’m dead.”

  Chapter Five

  Mary Rose watched Cordelia fuss around the small room. She opened windows to let in fresh air, shook the blankets outside to rid them of dust, fluffed her pillows and added one of her own, and finally, as Mary Rose requested, she placed her pen and ink and diary on the bedside table.

  “What would I do—would any of us do—without you,” she said.

  The dear woman gave her a weary smile as she sat in the old rocker and closed her eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said. “Makes a person feel needed.”

  “You stayed by my bedside day and night. It’s all pretty hazy, but it seemed like every time I looked up, you were there.”

  She glanced at Cordelia, who, still smiling, snored softly.

  Mary Rose reached for her journal and tenderly leafed through the pages. She’d poured out her feelings with the utmost honesty nearly every night since leaving Nauvoo, recording the many deaths and injuries, trail stories of families in the wagon train. The adventures of the older children.

  The entries that touched her heart now were those more personal, sometimes poetry or short stories, sometimes just random thoughts, but most often her deepest feelings—from joys to heartaches to fears. In the beginning she focused on the many acts of kindness she observed among the Saints.

  But her fears too often, especially recently, touched on the rigid dictates of the Church. In her writings, she openly criticized unfair acts of punishment for those who didn’t agree with their leaders. As Foley Gunnolf rose to power, she feared the cruelty she and others saw in him. Even back in Nauvoo, when he was appointed head of the police force, she felt something dark and sinister resided in his being.

  Rumors spread that a second police force had formed—a secret force that carried out acts of revenge. Many of the men on the regular force were also called upon at night to be “Avenging Angels” or “Danites.” Now those rumors had turned to truth, and she recorded every detail. Someday, if she ever had the chance to escape, she would take her journals with her.

  What she would do with them, she didn’t know. What she did know was that they followed next in line, after her children, in importance to her entire being.

  As Cordelia slept beside her, she dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write.

  August 7, 1846

  But the child’s sob curses deeper in the silence

  than the strong man in his wrath.

  —Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  I lie here sick and helpless, trying not to weep. But it doesn’t help. My tears drip from my chin onto this page, smearing the ink.

  I survived cholera, but I didn’t get well soon enough to help my friend . . . or my son! My heart is so heavy I almost cannot breathe.

  I think of the boy and how he couldn’t be more of a son to me if he was my own flesh and blood. Perhaps because I’m bedfast, memories of him keep coming . . . the first time he raced like a whirling dervish into the manor house, teasing his sisters, and raising havoc for Grandfather and me. His ready grin, his mop of straw-colored hair, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes . . . won our hearts within minutes.

  I weep as I write this, missing him so. If I could give my life in exchange for his, I would gladly.

  And dear little Sarah. I weep for her, for what I fear lies ahead. We tried to save her, hoped that other mothers would join us, but from all accounts none stood up with Bronwyn. Do they realize the next young bride might be their own daughter?

  The very idea of it makes me sick, makes me feel worse than cholera ever did. Sarah is a child. The man who Brigham says God told him she must marry is Hyrum Riordan. He’s ancient, with yellow teeth, a beard long enough to catch in his trousers. Dear Sarah is the youngest bride to be chosen for what the prophet calls the greatest privilege bestowed on womanhood.

  Greatest privilege? Hogwash, as Cordelia would say.

  If people would stop for a minute and consider what they know to be right, regardless of what the prophet says, they surely would see the cruelty in such a forceful act.

  As I write this, I fear Bronwyn will not escape punishment. Many convicted of apostasy are expelled from the Church, the family, the community. I’ve seen it happen before, though not to a woman.

  It’s heartbreaking for the family and friends when the accused is made to leave our presence. How can we let that happen without raising a fuss? Without trying to stop it. If it happened to any in my beloved family, I would fight tooth and nail to save them. I wouldn’t let them go alone, even if the prophet himself ordered me not to go.

  One night I watched as a young man, a father and husband, was made to leave our campsite. It was cold and dark and he had only the clothes on his back. I listened to wolves howling sometime around midnight, and I somehow knew it was because they’d found easy prey.

  I wept that night till dawn. Early the next morning I visited his wife, and though her eyes were swollen and red she never once mentioned his name. It was as if he never existed. And then she told me the prophet was giving her in marriage to someone else before the day was out.

  Chattel! Is that what we are?

  Is no one willing to speak out? To tell those in power over us how we feel? Are they so powerful that all we can do is cower when told what we must do? Who we must marry?

  What Bronwyn did today took courage and cunning. I am in awe of her as always. It seems there is nothing she cannot do when she sets her min
d to it. An hour ago, a mob appeared at our door. Brother Brigham was among them, also Apostle Hyrum Riordan, who shouted that Bronwyn should be tried for apostasy.

  Even in my illness, I felt the ire inside me flash to the surface. If I’d not fainted, I was ready to do verbal battle . . . yea, I may yet!

  I love Bronwyn as much as a sister born of the same parents. She is my friend, and no matter what happens, I will always stand by her. If she is tried for apostasy, I will stand with her. If she is punished, I will join her in her punishment.

  I helped plan this daring raid to save Sarah James, and I will shout it from the mountaintops that this practice of old men—nay, any men—taking such young brides is wrong. It is a sin!

  I read in my family Bible before the cholera overcame me that Jesus Christ Himself said that if anyone causes harm to these little ones of His, better a millstone be hung around his neck and he be drowned in the depths of the sea. I believe that applies to even the prophet, though if anyone knew I accused him of such sin, I would likely be tried and convicted of apostasy, myself. For the one I accuse is revered as if God himself.

  I grow weary from my illness, and cannot write much more. But my heart is troubled by what I see in Bronwyn’s eyes when she gazes upon Gabe. It is even more disturbing when I see what’s in his eyes. She is looking for someone to love and treasure her. She, in all her beauty, presents him a challenge because she will no longer give in to what he believes to be his marital rights

  Do I love him? A question I can’t answer. Once I did beyond all human understanding, but I didn’t know that loving him would end in such heartbreak, would require me to turn against all the things I most cherish.

  I’m just learning about forgiveness and mercy as I read my dear mother’s Bible, but I have so far to go.

  I will end with a long-treasured verse from Elizabeth B.B.,