Ruffian Dick

by Kennedy, Joseph; Enright, John;

  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, Mr. Brigham Young, with few words and a gentle eye, let it be known that he would be pleased to know the exact reason for my visit. I told him that I had heard much about Utah and wished to see the place for myself.

  “Oh, is that so, Captain? Then by all means allow me to describe for you our soils, methods of agriculture, and animal husbandry.” And this the Prophet did in detail with all the acumen of a highly accomplished estate manager.

  After an uninterrupted half hour of desultory monologue he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Are you interested in our methods of water harnessing, Captain? Or perhaps the influence of climate and elevation on timber growth. We have developed quite a complete chart on these matters.”

  I began to squirm in my seat.

  His Excellency President Mr. Brigham Young had adequately succeeded in demonstrating his abilities to deal with someone who was being less than direct with him, but he felt compelled to punctuate the matter in a most straightforward way.

  “Captain, are you not the same Richard Burton who has investigated and written extensively on the forbidden cities of the Orient and Africa? Kurrachee in Scinde, Meccah, Hurrar, Zanzibar—places like that?”

  “I am the same, sir.”

  “Then you are the same Richard Burton who is famous in some circles for his social and anthropological commentary, the man with the great interest in language, world religions, and,” he smiled, “harem life? Oh, come, come, Captain Burton. We mustn’t be coy in such matters. You have travelled to Salt Lake City in order to investigate the Saints, to see what sort of men we are, what we are made of. There is no crime in that Captain.”

  Mr. Young removed himself from behind his desk, clasped his hands behind his back as he paced the room, and he spoke with a smile on his face that communicated a perfect confidence in what he had to say. His words were careful and well chosen, and while it is often difficult to discern a great spirit at first impression, I felt strongly and at once that this was no common uncommon man.

  “I’m afraid you’ll find no demons here, Captain Burton. The Saints are a God fearing people, lovers of liberty, and benefactors to our fellow man. There are no secrets in these matters, no exposé to be written in a popular travelogue. We are simply hard-working servants to our creed, a people who wish nothing from others, nor want anything but respect in return.”

  Brigham Young’s hands were gesturing in the air as he moved about his office, and like all good preachers he could sense that he was now warmed-up and gaining narrative momentum with each new thought. “You fancy religions other than your own, isn’t that so, Captain? You see, I have read your books and know your love of spiritual adventure, of penetrating holy cities.” He forcefully thrust a forefinger towards the ceiling. “You are a seeker! And I like that!”

  He placed his arm around the back of my chair and lowered his voice. “Mr. Joseph Smith was a seeker, just like you. And he was murdered for it. Murdered by men who could not tolerate the seeker, men who have not the Spirit of Zion within them.”

  The Prophet straightened before me and nodded. He then walked to his desk and expectorated into a spittoon which was discreetly placed behind a floor safe. I believe he realized that a sermon was perhaps not the best approach in my case, and being the man that he is, naturally composed himself and redirected the conversation. “I am a practical man, Captain. I understand yours is an academic interest in our community, and as a scholar you are welcome here, as are all men who lead decent and intelligent lives.”

  I told him that my interest was not wholly academic and made an inquiry as to what conditions are necessary in order to join the union of the Saints.

  Mr. Young chuckled. “You wish to become a Mormon? Oh, I am afraid your reputation precedes you in that respect, Captain. I think you have done that sort of thing before.” He gave me a knowing and somewhat sly look. “No, Captain, there is much, much more to being a Mormon than to be sealed to a number of wives.”

  I glanced down at the floor momentarily and said, “I see. If that is the case and you do not find me a fit candidate, then may we at least speak freely on the subject of polygamy?”

  “Plural marriages,” he corrected.

  “Very well then, plural marriage, if you like.”

  Brigham Young reseated himself behind his desk and displayed a comfortable if not serene disposition. “Normally I would not consent to probing inquiries from the outside world, but in your case, Captain Burton, I shall make an exception. The answer to your question is yes; feel free to ask what you will.”

  “You are most kind. As President and Prophet, may I ask if you personally are a practitioner of plural marriage?”

  Young gave a slight nod and said modestly and slowly, “Yes, I am sealed to over fifty living women. But I would like to add, Captain, that I am a conservative man, I sleep with none of them.”

  “But, you do … ?”

  The Prophet spared me the indelicacy of finishing the sentence by answering very patiently. “I had nine children born to me in the past week, Captain. I refer to sleep in the literal and not the biblical sense. I take my sleep in solitude for reasons having to do with quietude and health.”

  “Then your wives are kept elsewhere?”

  “I do not know that kept is the best term, Captain, but they are together in a place apart from my quarters.”

  “It has been said, sir, that Mr. Heber Kimball has from the pulpit, referred to his young wives as, ‘little heifers.’ Grouping your stock together away from the main house is what one does with cattle. Is it possible that the Gentiles derive anti-Mormon fodder from these acts and Mr. Kimball’s words?”

  “What I do know, Captain Burton, is that plural marriage has abolished prostitution, concubinage, celibacy, and infanticide. In Salt Lake City there is no such thing as an old maid.”

  “Thank God for the last blessing, Mr. President.”

  “Thank God for Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon, Captain Burton.”

  “Sir, since my arrival, it has come to my attention that the Mormons take nothing stronger than lager beer and also disdain the use of tobacco. Many people of the world will disavow one or the other, but both sir? It seems a bit strict.”

  “Captain, may I inquire of your travels in this land before your arrival in our strict city? I have in mind specifically if you have encountered any episodes where the use of spirits has encouraged social collapse or engendered any other acts of public opprobrium?”

  I instantly thought of Steinhaeuser at the baseball game, but then there was the episode at the hotel, and at the Republican Convention and Congo Square, and then Lester Beach and the Sultana, and the Tangle Foot session at Ft. Laramie, and the saloons in St. Louis and St. Jo, and so much more I will never forget.

  “I see that I may have touched a nerve, Captain. I’m sure you have noticed that America is something of a lawless land filled with adventure-seekers and firearms. Do we really wish to have alcohol added to this mix? No, Captain, no we do not. The State of Deseret is far better off without it, and tobacco for that matter.” The President’s eyes widened. “Have you ever suffered the smell of someone who has both evils on their breath at one time? It is the height of revulsion,” he contorted his face and shook his head, “the very height. As for me, Captain, a baked potato with a dollop of buttermilk is as exhilarating as the Gentiles’ brandy. A glass of water to wash it down and I have my earthly intoxication. Nothing more Captain, nothing extreme, nothing in excess.”

  “Except women?” I added.

  Brigham Young almost gave in to expressing outrage at my comment but quickly composed himself and calmly reminded me that, “The Lord has instructed us to be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth. He has said that it is not good that man should be alone.”

  “Quite right, Mr. President. I trust the wisdom of the Lord in this matter but must tell you that as a Gentile in your city, Je meurs de soif en couste la fontaine.”34


  Mr. Young flashed a smile and began to chortle. “Oh Captain, ho, ho, you are a card. I’m afraid that in this instance the Lord’s words are meant for the Lord’s people, and while your passage from Mr. Charles D’Orleans is amusing in this context, I do not think you would be a very good fit in our society. Perhaps you should explore some other avenues to satisfy your secular desires? Have you considered conventional marriage to a loved one back home, or perchance in your case bonding with a Laminate squaw?”

  This last suggestion naturally brought me to thoughts of my Delaware wife and her revenge-minded ex-husband and my current brother-in-law. My familial respect and obligations notwithstanding, I felt honour bound to alert Mr. Young that his life was in danger.

  “Sir, not that I wish to change the subject, but there is another topic which must be addressed at once: I must inform you that there is an agent close to the city who wishes you harm. Someone quite formidable and very dangerous whose desire it is to end your life.”

  “If you are referring to those silly French assassins Jules Remy and Julius Brenchley, they have not succeeded and have been sent on their way for almost a year now. And I would hardly consider either one of those two formidable. You would think the French could manage better than that.”

  “They are not who I had in mind, sir. The individual in question is fully capable of the most extreme forms of violence and should not be considered lightly.”

  “Do you mean Joachim Johnson?”

  “No.”

  “Not that bullwacker Martin Oats?”

  “That is not the man.”

  “Lot Hunnington then, is that the man?”

  “It is not.”

  “John Gheen! Is it John Gheen you are referring to?”

  “I have never heard of a John Gheen.”

  “Do not tell me that Martin Brewer is posturing once again. Another alcohol victim, Captain, always full of vinegar when he is at the bottle.”

  “I do not refer to Mr. Brewer, sir.”

  Brigham Young then came the closest I had seen to losing his composure. “Well, who then? I could run this list to Carson City if I be forced to list all mine enemies. Utah Territory is filled with people who do not like the Mormons and would die for a chance to try their revolver on the Mormon leader.”

  “It is an Indian, sir, and I can say no more about him.”

  Young walked around behind his desk, leaned forward and rested his knuckles on a stack of papers. He studied me for a moment and drew a long breath before he spoke.

  “An Indian, you say? And one you are not prepared to discuss further.”

  “For good reason, sir. The man has saved my life.”

  The Mormon pater patriae seemed relieved and almost jocular as he continued. “A Lamanite is it, Captain? Well, we have our ways of dealing with these fellows, and it won’t require the saber or the services of my twelve-shooter over on the wall either. No, the poor little beggar is probably just hungry and out of sorts on account of his wretched condition. A sack of flour and some inspirational words will change his mind, Captain, render him harmless as a housefly.”

  “I do not believe that will work with this one, sir.”

  “Oh? I did not know you were an expert on Indian affairs, Captain. Just in case you are not, allow me to inform you that the average Lamanite is in size and accomplishment on a par with your run-of-the-mill East Indian ghorwalla. I do not want to say that we brush aside such threats, but I can tell you that we treat other matters of security with far more concern.”

  “I am not an expert on American Indians, Mr. Young, but it takes no expert to know when to be fearful as Hobbes. I would move with great care. This Indian told me that a hard rain is going to fall. He is after your hair, and if he gets it, it will not be his first.”

  Mr. Brigham Young scoffed at this pronouncement and flicked his hand in the air as if dismissing a bothersome insect. His normal equanimity returned an instant later and he lightened the mood by skillfully changing the subject. “Oh, come now, Captain, we mustn’t get too worked-up over such matters. Now, weren’t we speaking of the fair sex? Why don’t you come with me and I will introduce you to an eligible lady friend of mine. I think she will like you. Sister Sally Erb is a fine woman with the fire of Zion in her. Perhaps she can instill the spirit of the Saints within you too. There may be hope for you yet, Captain.”

  As troubled as I was about Mr. Young’s dismissal of my warning, I must say that the prospect of meeting a young and available lady was enough to make me quickly forget the entire episode. The Prophet was a master at things of this nature. We left Mr. Young’s office and walked a few blocks until we reached a very plain-looking cottage which was set quite apart from the others. Mr. Young knocked carefully on the door, and we were beckoned into an even plainer interior, consisting only of a very ordinary bed, a crudely built table, and a single chair. There seated was Sister Erb, unfortunately bathed in light from the dreary room’s only window so that the extraordinary wretchedness of her person was in full display. Her hair and costume looked as if they had been rammed through a picket wire fence into a world of tribulation and woe. Her face was a cross somewhere between Staffordshire terrier and bullmastiff broken through stiff training.

  Besides the distinct canine appearance, Sister Erb also had the misfortune of being one of those women who appeared to be sixty when she was, in reality, barely half that age. The expression on her mummified face was a reflection of her cheerless surroundings and she hardly showed signs of life when Mr. Young introduced me.

  “Sister Erb, may I introduce you to Captain Burton? He is a visitor here in Deseret and has expressed a marked interest in our religion. Perhaps you could kindly receive him, and the two of you could discuss matters pertaining to the Saints.” The Prophet turned to me and in a voice that could be described as a loud whisper said, “Sister Erb is a well-known expert on church affairs.”

  He indicated that the right woman may be able to bring me into the fold, and added fuel to the fire by declaring to her that special rewards are in store for those missionaries with enough pluck to convert ardent sinners like myself.

  Sister Erb’s mouth began to twitch. “Mission?” she said. “A mission right here in Salt Lake City, in my own home?” She knelt before Mr. Young and took his hand as if to kiss it. “I will devote myself to this task, Mr. President.”

  She turned to me. “Will you join me on your knees, Captain? Will you get down on your knees right now and accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your soul?”

  I told her I would not. I told them both I was Hajji Abdullah, a mystic Sufi, a former Member of the Church of England, a drinker, a fornicator, an agnostic, an atheist, a committed and unrepentant sinner. I shouted there was no hope for the likes of me and bolted out the door into the street. I secured the nearest horse and rode like the wind until I was well away from the City of the Saints. I would sleep on the ground without shelter. I would forgo nourishment and personal safety. I would lose it all to be free of Sister Sally Erb and her mission of conversion. As I rode towards the mountains I realized that Brigham Young was right in the first place—I would not be a good fit in Mormon society. But on my word, I hold the man accountable for wrongfully telling me there were no old maids in Salt Lake City.

  I was no more than thirty minutes away from town when there came a most urgent need to wash the trail dust from my throat and reconnoiter for an overnight camp. A grassy flat next to a bend in the stream caught my eye and I dismounted and headed for the cool water. As I contemplated the stream in preparation for my drink I was hit hard by a bone-jarring, flying tackle the likes of which are administered in serious rugby matches. My attacker held my arms fast to my sides and I panicked realizing I was unable to reach my revolver.

  Then I realized I was being kissed, kissed all over the side of my face and on my neck, kissed on the ear and the nose. It was Love Eye, my wife, apparently overwhelmed by passion after not seeing me for less than a fortnight. She was squealing as she
rolled me around in the grass and continued to administer her affection. When I was finally released, I saw Rifle Shot standing in the distance shaking his head and chuckling.

  “Wah, Bur-ton, it has happened again. Stranger has surprised you in own camp. This time it is a squaw. You are like animal that keeps returning to same trap. Someday luck will run out. Smart animal watches for signs and does not get caught, stupid one ends up on fire.”

  We retired to a camp that the two sisters had made outside of town. Judging from the appointments, it appeared that the three of them had been in this particular spot for some time. Rifle Shot immediately went to his tent, fetched his breechloader, and began polishing it as we sat in front of the fire. This of course reminded me of his purpose to the Great Salt Lake. Considering my failure to impress the Mormon President of impending danger, I thought I might re-approach my friend with a mind towards reconciliation.

  “I have met with Brigham Young; the man you wish to kill.”

  Rifle Shot nodded. “Mmmm, I know this.”

  I cleared my throat. “I noticed he has many bodyguards. He is not an easy fellow to get close to, and he also owns one of those new twelve-shooters.”

  The big Indian shrugged while studying the passage of a cleaning swab he was pushing through the barrel of his weapon.

  “You know, it turns out that Mr. Young is not such a bad chap after all. He does not wish harm to Indian people. I think these Mormons just wish to be left alone, in peace, like all other decent people.”

  This comment took Rifle Shot from his business with the breechloader and he turned to me with a look of penetrating severity. “Mormons do not want peace any more than I do, or you, or any of the decent people you speak of. We all want what we want, and want to take what we need. Peace is just a word that sometime man puts in between. Is the hunter more decent than the rabbit he takes for his fire? Does the deer ask the wolf for peace? It is not the way of things. The only peace is death, when it is all finished the way it must be.”