“I am extremely flattered, Rifle Shot. It must be very difficult for you to give her up because your second wife is a beautiful woman.”
He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and nodded. “Better than first wife, I can tell you that.”
“I accept your generous offer, sir. For reasons which I cannot discuss at the moment, I must ask that you keep my squaw with you during the days when we travel. Now I must ride in the coach with the others. At night I shall come to her and we shall make our home together in a tent separate from yours. Will this please your wife?”
Rifle Shot took a deep breath and blew the air out very slowly. “It is hard to say what will make her happy. Separate tents mean that sister sleeping with other man. “Mmmm, that might end biggest problem.”
He threw his hands into the air in frustration. “Wah, Bur-ton, I cannot say what will bring peace to my camp. Maybe the man you call god can understand squaw. For me, it is like trying to look past the edge of the earth. It cannot be done.”
The next morning I rose early, returned to Ft. Bridger around dawn and found Mahoney still asleep in the stable. At the first hint of a sound he jumped up from the straw with a pistol in each hand and blinked hard to wrest sleep from his eyes.
“Damn you, Burton. I hardly got a wink last night for fear of them Ham’s Fork boys arrivin’ here for some revenge. I near blasted your head off. Should be more careful when commin’ up on a man in my condition.” I apologized to our driver and said that I did not think Crawford or Oaks would be causing us any more trouble.
“I dunno ’bout that. Maybe not in England where you come from, but ‘round here you can pretty much count on some sort of re-taliation. All of ’em are crazy from takin’ that Apache whiskey root,31 an’ with Oaks’ finger cut off and all … wal, you better quit goin’ off by yourself at night and stay close to the fort for protection. I’m ready for ’em, though, by crackie, you stick close to me, Burton, and you’ll be alright.”
Here at Fort Bridger, Colonel Gardner has garrisoned two companies of foot and horse under the banner of the 10th Regiment. Since we are but 125 miles from the City of the Saints, every soldier here has had dealings with Mormons and none seems to like them very much. My meeting with Col. Gardner in his office may be offered as but one of many examples of this. Gardner, like most officers in this country, is originally from the South and as such considers himself an aristocrat rather than simply someone with a purchased commission. He was rather tall and gentlemanly and seemed to take great pleasure in reading my note of introduction from Colonel Beauregard. He held the document in his hand and admired the signature while shaking his head.
“P.G.T. Beauregard himself. Well my, my, Captain Burton, you do seem very well connected. How may I be of service to you, sir?”
“Your hospitality here is greatly acknowledged, Colonel, and I do appreciate your reconstruction efforts of cedar and pine. It appears you experienced quite a fire here sometime in the near past.”
“The Mormons were responsible for that, Captain Burton, like so many of our other problems here in the Territory. You see, the fire of religious cultism burns in their veins, and because of this they are given over to acts of fanaticisms which are directed against Indian and Gentile alike. Have you had any experience with religious fanaticism, Captain Burton?”
“Maybe once or twice.”
“I see. Well it is not an easy thing to deal with, I can tell you that. These are people who wish for fundamental change in society and believe God almighty has sanctioned their actions.”
The Colonel then proceeded to define his troubles with the Saints. “All the problems of New York and Nauvoo have now been pushed onto my shoulders. The Mormons are administering their own brand of vigilante justice, breeding like polygamist flies, and building their own Babylon just three days’ ride from here. Now I realize I am an American speaking to a continental gentleman, and you must think this whole country is filled with people just like the Mormons. Problem is they have this special ability to churn the temper of everyone they’ve come in contact with, a most remarkable ability, and this is what sets them apart and has occasioned their many solicitous movements across the continent.”
Gardner stood and paced across the room, searching for examples to prove his point. “Sometimes I say to myself, Why should these seekers of religious freedom be such outcasts in a country founded by those who sought the same thing? As a Christian, I have given this a great deal of thought.”
He came to an abrupt halt and pirouetted towards me. “It is their damnable self-righteousness that makes the gorge rise most, but the secretness, materialism, and relentless industry of the Mormon also makes the blood boil. I’ll tell you, Captain Burton, I have seen this process in action and it is not a pretty sight to behold. Things become unglued when Mormon meets Gentile. As I said, it is a most remarkable phenomenon.” He regained a measure of composure and cleared his throat. “Of course, it is my duty to protect the peace in this territory, and that responsibility extends to all the citizens in the territory be they red, white,” and he made a bad face, “or Mormon.”
It was revealing, if not amusing to me, that Colonel Gardner felt he needed to make a distinction between white people and Mormons. It were as if he considered them a race unto themselves and completely foreign from everyone around them. Moreover, one got the impression he assigned them to some foul sub-group which should be considered inferior to the others due to their remarkable and ubiquitous abilities to offend.
“On my word, Colonel Gardner, this Mormon settlement seems to be something of a thorny patch hereabouts.”
“Oh yes indeed, sir; a most difficult situation. I have all I can do to keep the men from giving vent to their anger. If they had their way, the City of the Saints would closer resemble the Roman Vulcan. It is my prediction that someday soon the 10th will couple with the men at Camp Floyd and crush the Mormons in a fatal pincer action. Mark my words well, Captain; by the year eighteen hundred and sixty three, there will not be a single follower of Joseph Smith alive in Wyoming or Utah Territories … or anywhere else in these United States. You can trust me on that, Captain.
“Now, I am afraid you must excuse me, sir. I am expecting Lt. Dana, an artillery officer on his way to assignment at Camp Floyd.” Gardner paused for a moment and flashed a look of modest embarrassment. “Oh my, how forgetful of me. You must have arrived in the same coach.”
“That is quite alright, Colonel Gardner. I thank you for your time and our insightful conversation. I shall leave now in favour of your next appointment.”
Gardner began to arrange some papers on his desk. “One last thing, Captain Burton. Do take care not to associate with the Indians. You are new in this land and cannot be expected to know much of their ways. The Indians are a treacherous lot and will take your life in an instant for a pot of beans. I do not want to be the one writing Col. Beauregard that you were killed on my watch.”
“I will be on guard against all villainy and mistruth, sir.”
Gardner looked down at his papers and drew little circles in the air with his pen. “Goood, very good, Captain!”
I left Gardner’s office at roughly nine in the morning which is considered midday at the typical western military garrison. The sergeant majors “break out” at four thirty and rouse the enlisted men. A half hour later, the officers are having their morning eye-opener, which is a cocktail of whiskey, water, bitters and sugar. This is followed by a call to roll and orders in the parade ground just as the sun is rising. While the U.S. Army is far from the Dorado of military decorum and drill, I must say that all the men were uniformed and almost looked smart in their blues, yellows, and reds.
For the camp Indians this was surely one of the high points of each day. The notion of warriors made to stand still in lines and then march around like schoolboys was hilarious to them, and near every member of the red community suspended their morning activity to witness this spectacle. Indian children formed ranks in ragged
imitation of the soldiers, and young braves bumped into and saluted each other in mocking parade.
Curiously, they all stopped clowning and stood in awe as the morning bugler delivered his salute to the raising of the flag. Here was something that struck a solemn note; something worthy and deserving of serious attention. For the life of me, I cannot understand what inspired them to act in such a way, unless it was the sound of the music or the resplendent colours of the flag. Perhaps they had never before seen a man-made object hoisted that high in the air. I believe it must have been something of that nature for they surely ascribed no allegiance to the nation or society that was inexorably devouring their own. Some of the more foolish troopers actually believe they have become patriotic.
I spotted Mrs. Dana as I crossed the grounds. One might have expected her emerging from the home of the KOW—the euphemized abbreviation for Commanding Officer’s Wife, because obviously the more correct spelling just wouldn’t do—but rather Mrs. Dana was in fact resident in the farrier’s section of the stable.
I watched her as she studied the smith, and then unaccountably, she took his hammer and began driving nails into the back hoof of a horse that was in need of shoeing. I almost could not believe my eyes. Her blouse was unbuttoned to a shocking level and she had somehow obtained and was sporting a pair of trooper boots.
In no time, a small crowd of soldiers and stable boys gathered to witness this unusual event. Mrs. Dana occasionally glanced at them with a maniacal grin on her face and then pounded harder and harder until even the taciturn horse became alarmed and had to look around to see what was happening. The smith was finally obliged to take the hammer from her. “Whoa there, Missus. You’re going to drive the shoe clear through ol’ Brownie’s hoof if you don’t ease-up.”
Mrs. Dana was sweating and appeared preoccupied, maybe anxious to find something else of equal intensity. The hammer fell to the ground in the exchange and she left the stable without saying a word, but not before nodding and taking one last hard and defiant look at the gathering.
La Mash apparently also witnessed this extraordinary episode, because it was all he could talk about at our noon meal. “Wal, did ya see that, the general’s little wife inside there with them blacksmiths? I’ll be dumfouzled if’n I can figure that one out. I know’d a woman once who could ride and shoot like a man, chewed tobacco like a horse, and drank rye whiskey, lots of it too. She was Jake Blake’s daughter though an’ I suppose that would account for it. But that one in the stable, she ain’t the same one we hitched-up with back at St. Jo. No siree. Somethin’s gotten into her, you can believe that.” Lord Kill Ba’r then broke off his narrative when he discovered, captured, and then ate a louse which was crawling on his chest.
29 Norton Shaw was a friend of Burton and Secretary of the Royal Geographic Society. —Ed.
30 Fanny Writism, which was also known as Free-Loveism, Bundling, and Hand Fasting was the practice of unmarried couples sleeping together without undressing. —Ed.
31 The “whiskey root” was Lophophora williamsii, commonly called peyote. The effects of taking this drug have been called “fantastic and unworldly” and Spanish chroniclers reported those who took it saw “frightful visions” and remained drunk for two or three days. —Ed.
XVI
GRIPS TIGHTEN ON THE APPROACH TO THE GREAT SALT LAKE
August 24, 1860
Carson’s House Station
We are in the land of graves. The trail winds along a ridge to Quaking Asp Hill and down a tricky descent into the deprivations of Sulfur Creek Valley. This rocky stretch is trying to wheels and animals alike, and the skeletons of many a lesser coach and mule lie rotting along either side of the road. Here there is no good water or grass and the swampy valley floor positively smells of death. Shade is dear and the heat excruciating.
Mahoney was mad to get through this land, correctly noting that it was one of the worst parts of the trail and famous for claiming lives. He did slow down as we passed a burnt and ravaged wagon that was a porcupine of arrows, and from the number of spent cartridges scattered on the ground next to it, one could imagine the terrible struggle that must have taken place here in the not-too-distant past. The odour of carbonized wood was still in the air a hundred yards away. We soon came upon four stone piles with crude wooden crosses over them. These undoubtedly marked the end of the trail for the hapless pioneers from the wagon. Some Christian passer-by buried them here and included a personal touch atop each cairn; a cottage bonnet, a single shoe, a slingshot, and a child’s doll.
“Mon Dieu,” sighed La Mash. “It’s probably a whole family. This must have happened in the last couple of days. The damn wood’s still warm on the wagon. Where wuz Gardner’s troopers when all this killin’ took place?” He drew his .44-caliber Walker revolver and loudly cursed the sky. “No all-fired red belly’s going to take out Gaston La Mash, you can believe that. I’ll be chewed up before I’m going to let myself git kilt like them settlers.”
He was answered from inside the coach by an icy feminine voice. “Maybe they deserved it.”
Everyone in the coach turned to Mrs. Dana in disbelief. Her husband was the first to speak. He gave his head a small shake and with a cautious smile asked, “What did you say, dear?”
I said, maybe they deserved to be killed. Maybe the damn fools did something to the Indians first.”
Not another word was spoken for the next several hours until we came upon another wagon that was broken down along the side of the road. I think we were all relieved to find the owners alive and somewhat comfortably camped next to their disabled ship.
He was an old Cornishman, on his way to Salt Lake City in search of polygamy. Unfortunately, I believe he had reached that time in life when perhaps the responsibilities of such a happy situation may quickly overwhelm his abilities. He was in the company of a full-blooded Negro woman, half his age and perhaps twice his size, who was introduced to us as his “girlfriend.” After this revelation, she blushed as only a Negress can, and swung her arm around his shoulder.
“J.T. Twiggs is the name. Welcome to my new, temporary home. And will you stop and have a sip of tea with a fellow the likes of me? I’ve plenty.”
Mahoney stared at the couple with his mouth open and then allowed that the animals could use the rest. We stopped and offered some verbal comfort to the shipwrecked couple. There was really nothing more we could have done.
“Me mates said I was crazy, joining the church and coming all the way out here. Not at all, sez I. The delights of plural marriage will transcend the hardships of this journey and leave me a contented man. It will make Deirdre contented too. Isn’t that right girl? God has come to me in a dream and declared that I will have three wives—one black, one white, and one red. So when I learned of Mr. Joseph Smith in America, I knew I had to join with him in his heaven upon the earth. While still in Cornwall, word reached me that Mr. Joseph Smith had been martyred in Illinois, and that Mr. Brigham Young was moving the Saints west into the land of the red man. Well, that did it right then and there, my dear, as I knew for certain then that the prophesy would be fulfilled. I need only bring a black woman with me and the white and the red ones would be provided at the Great Salt Lake. It’s God’s will, and the Perpetual Emigration Fund did us no harm either, isn’t that so, Deirdre?”
I asked Mr. Twiggs if he was aware that the Daughters of Ham are not admitted to the communion of the Saints. He looked at Dierdre and told me that was not possible. “That’s not part of the dream,” he insisted, “and besides, the Saints would never do anything like that.”
We left the star-struck Mr. Twiggs and his girlfriend on the side of the trail after they refused passage to the next station. I wondered what the Mormons would think when they laid eyes on Dierdre, and how they would view her use of Perpetual Emigration Funds.
“Just tell Mr. Young that we are on the way, and he will send the Saints to our rescue. I have faith that he knows who we are and what we need.”
The last words I heard from him were ones of consolation to Dierdre. “Don’t you pay no mind to those people, woman, you’ll be welcomed in the communion of the Saints, you can trust me on that.”
Colonel Gardner said I could trust him that the Saints would be completely eliminated from the territory in three years. He also believes I will be killed instantly the moment I associate with Indians. The most feared Indian in the territories is frightfully worried by his own squaw, and the most timid army wife on the trail is now becoming more dangerous than Gaston LaMash ever was. Mahoney believes I have a better chance against two dead men by staying with him rather than camping alone. Some of the troopers actually believe the Indians gather in the morning to salute the flag. And Mr. Twiggs tells his Negro girlfriend that she will be readily accepted as a Mormon. Alas, in the land of freedom, it seems everyone is free to be an idiot.
We reached Carson’s House Station at five o’clock this evening. A sign was stenciled on the front of this establishment which read, ‘Maud Carson!!! dispenses comfort to the weery! feeds the hungrie!! and cheers the gloomy!!! at her well-stocked and famous!!! station. Don’t pass by me!!!’
The inn behind this painted lie featured only its overbearing filth and its relative nearness to civilization. Situated in these mean lands between Ft. Bridger and Salt Lake City, Carson’s House managed to merge the worst of all three worlds.
Something is terribly wrong with the semi-civilized state. It is as if one world vitiates the other in a vicious and unending exchange of corruption. We were immediately driven out of the so-called dining room by a thick swarm of biting black flies and found ourselves back outside and in the company of the worst hung-dog Indians and criminal-looking whites I have seen so far.
The flies were beaten off after a rag was wrapped around the end of a broom handle, soaked in kerosene, and ignited. The old crow of a cook paraded around the room with the torch over her head until a greasy black smoke settled over every surface, including the horrid food, and every spoon, knife and cup. What must have been Maude Carson herself appeared in the doorway and gave an exaggerated bow. “The room is now purified, your royal highnesses. Youse don’t have to fear the man-eating housefly no more.” She cackled like a witch and extinguished the stinking flame in a barrel of drinking water. Needless to say, our rancid food and water was now sharp with the taste of kerosene, and black soot stained both flesh and clothing each time anyone made contact with anything.
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