Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  Noteworthy on our approach to the city was a moat which was dug to provide material for an equally curious structure—a Romulian wall made of puddle and stone, which was nearly six miles in length and twelve feet high throughout its course. I later learned that this worthless expenditure was built in 1854 to dissuade the Lamanites [Indians] from attack. My guess would be that despite all the effort put into building it, this laughable barrier could not hold off a half dozen Utes for more than fifteen minutes as they would quickly flank it and get on with their business.

  As we rolled through our first properly civilized town in nearly three weeks I could not help but stare out the window of the coach and marvel at the order of things and the abundance. This was no Cairo, St. Louis, or St. Jo, but rather an Athens from a distance and up close, a budding Paris with wide, tree-lined boulevards and the feeling that everything in the city had been carefully planned well in advance.

  There was also a distinct air of calmness and civility that obviously did not sit well with Gaston La Mash. He was unusually quiet and sat frozen in his seat shifting only his eyes to take hesitating looks out the window. He once leaned in that direction as if to spit, but caught himself and swallowed hard; I believe the apparent absence of barbarism actually frightened him. Mahoney waved to a few people as we passed, and Lt. Dana waxed enthusiastic to his wife. “Look dear, a dry goods store with calicos, and over there is a theater house of some sort. Why, they have in-door plumbing and bake shops. Isn’t this wonderful?”

  Mrs. Dana gave her husband a surly look and appeared much more interested in his Colts’ Dragoon that lay wrapped in its issue belt on the seat between them. Since back at Ham’s Fork, the woman’s attitude had soured and hardened more with each passing day until now. Like La Mash, I feared she may not be fit for civilized company. Her hair, once wrapped in a neat bun, now hung in greasy strands down her face. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, and there were outbursts of wicked laughter that responded to no apparent stimulus.

  After some turns through the city we pulled up to the Salt Lake House, the best hotel between Chicago and California. This would be the end of the trail for Mahoney and, for all practical purposes, the Danas as well. They would be off to Camp Floyd after a two- or three-day rest and Mahoney would book passage on the next coach back to St. Jo and begin the ride all over again.

  My own plans are to stay here for two weeks in the hopes of exploring and perhaps even experiencing Mormon polygamy. After unpacking and taking a bit of decent food, I wandered the streets for an initial, firsthand impression. It did not take long before one was able to tell which citizens were Mormon, which Gentile, and who among them represented the dedicated anti-Mormon contingent.

  As for the Mormons themselves, disposition is the first indicator. They appear stoic if not severe but with a surprisingly sunny disposition, and if this is not enough, the stranger may also identify a Mormon by looking towards those many citizens sporting blond hair and pale blue eyes. One also has the distinct impression that there is a subrosa element in all affairs of the state. This secretive attitude seems to spill over into even the most routine matters and breeds an atmosphere of suspicion directed towards the newcomer. “Smiling deception” may be the best way to characterize the Saint’s demeanor.

  The Gentiles, and there are but four hundred of them in this city of nine thousand, seem somewhat less secretive and are conspicuous by their groupings around the saloons of Whiskey Street. This is the section of town where the soldiers take their leave and seemingly the only place in Salt Lake City to get a drink. I did not know that semi-temperance (at least in public) was the rule of the day among the Mormons, and I was chagrined to learn that the devout take nothing stronger than lager beer. I am naturally suspicious of those who turn their back on the occasional drink, but I shall try not to allow this to colour my impressions.

  The anti-Mormon presence is most apparent by the select literature that is available in several stores about town. One is certainly able to patronize a few non-Mormon shops, and in some of these establishments the reader may peruse titles such as: Friendly Warnings on the Subject of Mormonism, An Exposure on the Errors and Fallacies of the Mormon; Les Harems du Nouveau Monde; and perhaps the longest and most inflammatory title, Fifteen Years Among the Mormons, being the Narrative of Mrs. Mary Ettie V. Smith, late of the Gt. S.L. City, a Sister of one of the Mormon High Priests, she having been personally acquainted with most of the Mormon leaders and long in the confidence of Brigham Young by Nelson Winch Green.

  Soldiers in Camp Floyd also print and circulate Valley Tan, a vehemently anti-Mormon tract. It is a testimony to Mormon tolerance that such publications are allowed anywhere in the city, for they could surely suppress such literature without too much trouble.

  There was much to think about as I took my stroll through the streets of Zion. As this was the first real pause in my trip across the American west, I could not help but reflect on some of the characters and events of my journey so far. The apparent collapse of Mrs. Dana is certainly noteworthy, if not troubling, and I fear that events may come to a hard end very soon. Can there be any doubt that she is but one of the many psychological casualties of the way west? I think not.

  It is difficult to determine if it was murder of the young Pony Express rider, Little Boy Cotton, or the incident at Ham’s Fork Station that snapped her into this new and dangerous self. Perhaps it was the rapid combination. Only god himself knows what role La Mash played in this, but there can be no doubt that he helped set the stage with his early barrage.

  And what will become of La Mash? I do not think it is possible to say. He claims to be here for the buffalo, and if this is true, I believe he may be in the correct element. These creatures of the plains also inhabit the mountains, although they are being eliminated at such a shocking rate methinks they may all be gone by the time he leaves the coach.

  Lord Kill Ba’r seems best suited to a place like Fort Laramie, but I do not think he will retrace his steps and move back east. It is my hope that he will swing north to Canada, but he has made mention of California so we may be together for a while yet.

  Then there is this business with my new wife, and more importantly, Rifle Shot’s intention to kill Brigham Young. Now that we have reached the city of his residence I suppose that there will be an attempt on his life, and because of my associations, there is a chance I too will become involved. This is not a happy prospect. And what of this Orrin Porter Rockwell fellow who is Mr. Young’s bodyguard? His reputation seems as formidable as Rifle Shot’s and a confrontation between them is sure to be bloody business.

  There are many things to contemplate here in the City of the Saints but none more intriguing than my desire to sample the Mormon harem. How one gains entree to this garden of delights is a mystery at the moment, but I shall be pursuing a solution with great diligence. As for now, it is a return to the Salt Lake House for a much needed rest and a drink. This will be my first proper bed in nearly a month and I cannot say that it won’t be welcome. I suspect the brandy in these parts will be both dear and bad, but no matter, if I can find a bottle, I’ll see it through in a heat.

  ANOTHER LETTER TO LORD HOUGHTON, DATED SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1860 FROM THE GREAT SALT LAKE

  Carissimo Milnes,

  Yrs. truly has the melancholy satisfaction to report that I am now a week deep in the pervasive gloom of Mormon religiosity. It seems that I have travelled near one thousand miles just to dwell in the odour of sanctity, and a pretty strong one it is too.

  It is a fact that Salt Lake City is as safe as St. James and that the entire town requires only a handful of police to maintain order, but that is also part of the problem. I had a chat yesterday with the Chief of Police, a brass-fronted and copper-bottomed Scotsman named Mr. Sharp, who took great pride in informing me there was not a loafer rich or poor, an idle gentleman, a drunkard, gambler, or a prostitute in the whole Mormon community. What a pity I say!

  These professionals, membered now exc
lusively by a few Gentiles, were once a numerous if not unanticipated and underappreciated item in these parts. It seems that Mr. Smith’s vision did not foresee the gold fever that would bring hordes of such characters to isolated Utah Territory. It was not until Denver and Carson City effloresced and lured the crusty miners to this isolated part of the globe that the Mormon Jerusalem was effected, and that in turn helped to settle this place into the dreary and sanitized little monastery that it is today. It is worth mentioning that America’s general response to the chaos of freedom-emboldened miscreants is a corresponding hardening of religious beliefs and structure. This dichotomy, if it continues, promises a future land torn between two extremes leaving little ground for normal citizens to enjoy a balanced life.

  A word or two on Mormon polygamy, for surely one would think that such a practice could enliven even the most common and cheerless town. Not so! To begin, Mormon polygamy lacks the sensuality of Islamic harem life. If you can believe it, Mr. Young expressly forbids pleasure in the married state beyond that single episode which is requisite for ensuring progeny. He has therefore created a state of Puritanical Polygamy, and what good is that? Good god, man, given this somber mandate it is no wonder why multiple wives are a positive necessity for all healthy young men. The rest of America must recognize this Mormon tragedy and forgive them.

  Jollification hereabouts revolves around the church. The many religious events are always coram publico and involve mighty speeches designed to leave the audience in a rapturous state of spiritual ecstasy. Never mind the pleasures of physical love or the imperial numbness of a stiff drink. What could be more satisfying than to hear Jedediah Smith rail against filth and whores or the vascular A. O. Smoot run on about the joys and gladness of being filled with the Holy Ghost? Nothing is the correct answer for there is no genuine satisfaction in that.

  Just as the love-making is regulated, so is almost every other aspect of Mormon behaviour. Unlike Turkey and Egypt—which we recognize as the twin mothers of municipal misadministration—the Imperial State of Deseret runs like a Swiss clock and governs the Saints with a mandate that transforms romance and reverence to religion and the church. Therefore, it is for the church, to the church, and all about the church, that makes the Mormon world.

  There is, for example, much tithing to the church, which is done without so much as a whisper of complaint. This practice is especially hated by the Gentiles. I believe it offends their New World sense of independence and recalls a time when paying tribute to a king was the order of the day. This is but one of the reasons why the Mormons are considered “downright un-American.”

  In an act of courage, I sat down and attempted to read the Book of Mormon and Maroni the Prophet. This was a painful and brutalizing effort that left me utterly exhausted well before the halfway mark. Those wishing more may be in need of sal volatile33 and perhaps something to quell a rising stomach. The Holy Bible did me, but this book did an extra do.

  One must admit, however, that the Book of Mormon has done something for America that America could never have done for itself. It has created a fantastic non-Indian history for the country, a miraculous past related through a most improbable saga. This tale informs us that the Indians, or “Lamanites,” are really Hebrews whose skins have been darkened by apostasy. More dangerous is the declaration that upon their conversion they will become once again a “white and delightsome people.” The world should brace for a new plague of missionaries, and a special caution issued to dark-skinned people everywhere.

  I suppose it would be impolitic to mention Mr. Smith’s extraordinary translation of those unique golden tablets upon which the Book of Mormon is based, or their remarkable resemblance to the decorative copper plates that are so abundant in Indian graves throughout the state of New York. Likewise, there shall be no mention of the same Mr. Smith’s history of violating those final resting places in search of loot. If faith were money, Milnes, the Mormons would be millionaires. But enough of the Saints for the moment. Have I told you of my marriage to a Delaware Indian squaw? Her name translates as “Love Eye.” Not a word of this to Miss Arundell, if you please. You see, ours is just an “over the broom,” frontier sort of wedding that would in no way be recognized by the One, Holy, and Apostolic Church of Rome. In consideration of this, Miss Arundell’s deep devotion and fragile mindset, I say why trouble the poor dear with something of such small consequence?

  Regarding the squaw in general, suffice it to say that the female aborigine is not petted and spoiled as her Anglo sisters tend to be back home. Because of this she is not frail and less likely to be possessed of the highly nervous temperament that causes so much domestic trouble. The squaw is also well-conditioned because she is a willing and acrobatic bedmate, her sturdy and muscular frame being both the cause and effect of her vigorous and profound love-making abilities.

  As happy a union it may be, I am afraid mine is not destined to be a long one. “Love-e” as I call her, would not fare well in England for a variety of reasons. I can just imagine what the Arundells would think if I walked off the boat with her, not to mention the reactions of Palmerston, Murchison, and the rest. It is a delicious thought, but one probably best left as just that.

  No, it appears that we may even part ways here in Salt Lake City. Her ex-husband and brother-in-law (they are one in the same, and were once both at the same time) has brought her this far so she may assist him in the assassination of the Mormon leader, Mr. Brigham Young.

  This big Indian is a very able warrior and determined, and I think I have told you before that it makes some Indians “feel good” to eat a bit of their defeated enemy. This could get very messy. For their part, the Mormons have a history of not being behind hand in responding forcefully whenever they think their best interests are being threatened. One can only imagine what would happen if someone were discovered trying to “do-up” Mr. Young in the same fashion that Mr. Smith was “done-up” some years past.

  I shall be here at least another week trying to find a woman for myself, but so far it appears the blasted Mormons have them all. Another trip to a Holy City and the practitioners of polygamy, Baw! I must be contented to once again pay the penalty of ignorance.

  Tout a vous,

  R. Burton

  32 Totally naked. —Ed.

  33 Smelling salts. —Ed.

  XVIII

  THE BIG MORMON, THE SON OF THUNDER, AND A CASE OF AMERICAN JUSTICE

  Sept. 18, 1860

  Camp Floyd,

  Utah Territory

  At last a few quiet hours to write after an eight-day trip to Camp Floyd, and later, American Fork in search of the vaunted Mr. O. P. Rockwell. I left on horseback under the supervision of a Gentile guide named Tree Jimboy, whose appellation no doubt comes from his extraordinary size and reluctance to undertake any superfluous movement.

  Mr. Jimboy was a first-rate hand in shirking anything that resembled work, and being a life-long product of the high plains and completely uneducated, he spoke a type of English so mangled and perverted that the home reader could hardly distinguish it from High Dutch. In spite of these handicaps, Tree Jimboy was placed in charge of the convoying and delivery of ten Mormon horses which had been purchased by the adversaries of the Saints at Camp Floyd.

  It is a curious interplay between the soldiers and the Mormons here in God’s land. There is no secret that the Saints dislike the troopers for their wild and reckless ways, and the very existence of the military garrisons stands as a testimony to the government’s distrust of Mr. Young and his charges. The soldiers at Camp Floyd have a favourite aphorism that says simply, “They hate us and we hate them.” The popular Mormon rhyme which serves as a counterpoint is known by every blond child in the street:

  If Uncle Sam’s determined

  On his very foolish plan

  The Lord will fight our battle

  And we’ll help him if we can

  If what they now propose to do

  Should ever come to pass

&nb
sp; We’ll burn up every inch of wood

  And every blade of grass

  Yet it is the Mormons who deliver the U.S. Mail, produce much of the soldiers’ food, provide the very lumber from which the fort is built, and many of the horses which may someday be used in raids against them. The only possible explanation rests in the materialism of the Saints, a doctrine which is so leveling in its unauthorized deductions at home and so prominent in its dealings with the outside world that even the materialist must reject it.

  This situation exists because Mr. Brigham Young, like the Imam of Muscat, is both the chief merchant as well as the High Priest. In such situations, spirituality and material interests are inexorably mixed to such a degree that empire building becomes the highest form of Godliness and it is even acceptable to aid one’s enemy for the right price.

  I had the opportunity to meet face-to-face with Mr. Young on the day before my departure. This meeting was arranged at my request by Gov. Cumming and took place in Young’s private office. No one enters the room of the “President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints all over the World” without passing a number of body guards and engaging in a certain amount of smiling.

  Once inside, I was approached and greeted by a handsome man whose demeanor was characterized by an air of utmost civility and regal calmness. I knew from earlier readings that Mr. Young was born in Vermont in 1801,which would make him fifty-nine years and some days at our meeting, but one could easily lose a wager guessing his age, for the man appeared to be not a day over forty. If just appearance is the reward of clean living, then you can have it for what it’s worth.

  The Prophet, son of a Revolutionary War soldier, had the appearance of a gentleman farmer. He was stately and even and there was a total absence of pretension in his manner. As an ultimate compliment I would say that he was so used to power that he cared nothing for its display.