The Fugitive Son

by Adell Harvey

  John glanced at his clothing, which was obviously not pilot’s attire.

  “Not quite a pilot yet,” replied Sam, totally unabashed at his exaggeration. “Actually, I’m a cub – been up and down the Mississippi several times with Pilot Horace Bixby teachin’ me the ropes.”

  Remembering his manners, John introduced his old friend to the ladies. “Mary and Elsie, this is my old partner in crime, Samuel Clemens. We were both printer’s interns back in ’53 in New York.”

  “Those were the days!” Sam inserted. “Me and John were quite the ladies’ men and made plenty of memories.”

  The frown on Mary’s face as she possessively clutched John’s elbow forced a quick change of subject. “Now Horace thinks I need to take a few runs on a smaller steamer up the Missouri before I get my license. Can’t wait to get my hands on my own rudder!” Sam held up a notebook, ruled like a ship’s ledger. “But I have to learn all these consarned notes first. Horace talks so fast, we call him ‘Race for short. Durn near wrote my fingers off trying to keep up with him!”

  As Sam continued jawing with John, Elsie looked him over. He appeared to be in his early twenties, a few years younger than John – much too young for having done all the things he was bragging about. She summed him up as a man who liked to be the center of attention and enjoyed stretching the truth a bit for a laugh.

  At the moment, he had drawn an audience of travelers around their little group, regaling them with a lampoon of a captain named Isaiah Sellers, “a self-important but rigid rooster who likes to think that, because he’s a senior riverboat captain and writes steamboat stories for the New Orleans newspaper, we should all offer him obeisance.” Sam strutted up and down the deck, mimicking the pompous captain. “Obeisance, my foot!” he mocked. “We all call him Starchy Boy!”

  Elsie laughed along with the other river-weary travelers, thankful for the escape from the sad thoughts of leaving her new friends. Sam, who had taken on the role as a one-man show for his appreciative audience, chewed the end of his unlit cigar thoughtfully.

  “Lessen you think your lives will be in danger with an unlearned pilot at the helm, let me reassure you,” Sam’s face took on an overly serious look. “Having endured six trips up the Missouri, I am now a bona fide licensed pilot, fully capable of keeping the Polar Star some of you will be boarding soon off the shoals and sandbars. I have this little piece of paper to prove that the government deems me safe and worthy.” He held up a license certifying his ability to pilot ships on the Missouri.

  “By this time next year,” he continued, “the license will also include the mighty Mississippi and the beautiful Ohio!” He looked around the circle of travelers. “’Sides that, only two ships have sunk on the lower Missouri this year – the T.L. Crawford at Slaughterhouse Bend and the New Lucy at Diane Bend near Bocheport.” Sam pulled on his mustache dramatically. “And I’m happy to report that neither packet had the pleasure of my company in the wheelhouse.”

  As the cocky fellow continued to hold center stage with his admiring audience, Elsie grew bored. She almost wished she had opted for the stagecoach journey across Missouri rather than the extended riverboat trip. She had heard travel by stage was quicker, but the river was much easier and less dangerous. She shuddered, thinking of the warnings of Indian attacks and the rough wagon roads that had to be endured by the stagecoach passengers. Her instincts told her travel via steamboat would be safer for Isaac, even if he did have to spend the trip on the cargo deck.

  The only danger she had encountered aboard the steam packets so far was the night they ran aground on the sandbar on the Ohio River. That hadn’t been dangerous as much as it was a nuisance. Surely the Missouri River would be at least as tame as the Ohio. She did hope the privies on the Polar Star were safer. With a delicate shudder, she remembered the night she’d heard a loud crash, followed by a steward running up to the captain’s quarters yelling, “A plank caught in the paddle wheel, which hurled it right through the privy! Just missed a fella who was sittin’ in it! Six inches more and it would have run right through him!”

  From then on, Elsie made her “necessary” visits as quickly as possible, trembling with anxiety each time she had to use the privy. But then again, where did one take care of such daily routines along a stagecoach route?

  The Banner’s twin smokestacks belched heavy black smoke, and the band ripped into a lively march, signaling the sidewheeler was approaching a landing. Elsie thought she’d never tire of the majestic sight of the American flag waving grandly in the breeze, framed by the smokestacks against the backdrop of a spectacular sunset.

  She hurried to her cabin to collect her things and to say goodbye to the Montgomerys. She prayed her friends would have a safe journey to their new home in Illinois and that she and Isaac would have a safe and pleasant trip to Kansas City. Please let Sam be right, Lord, she pled. Help him to be a safe riverboat pilot!

  Isaac met her at the door of her cabin with all her baggage already piled on a transport cart. “Evenin’, Miss Elsie,” he said as he lowered his head. “You ready to board the Polar Star? It’s jist down the dock a few slips.”

  Again, she wanted to hug her friend but knew it wouldn’t be seemly. She couldn’t do anything that might endanger him. She’d save her appreciation for all his help once they got to a safer location. They were so in tune with each other, however, that she caught the twinkle in his eye and the big grin just aching to spread across his face. She knew he understood. He was, after all, more like a dearly loved big brother.

  Boarding the smaller boat for the trip across Missouri, Elsie noticed the difference between this riverboat and the elegant one she had just left. They had a few things in common – both carried freight – but the Polar Star seemed to be loaded with furnishings and household goods rather than bales of cotton or barrels of molasses headed to market. Its passengers appeared to be moving out West and taking all their belongings with them. There was an air of excitement among the travelers, an anticipation for the new life that lay ahead.

  The Polar Star, despite its worn facade showing the ravages of time, still had all the amenities of the previous ship. Soft Brussels carpet covered the cabin and lounge floors. Staterooms boasted every imaginable convenience. Even a grand piano presided over the ladies’ cabin! The tables in the elegantly furnished dining room were covered in white linen cloths topped with amazing floral centerpieces. Wandering among the tables, Elsie picked up a menu and found it to be equal to any of the first-class hotels she had visited with her father. But the prices! She unconsciously patted one of the money folders she had pinned beneath her skirts. She had plenty of money, but she wondered how long it would last at this rate.

  As the passengers continued to board, Elsie saw the wiry little pilot again, holding forth in the midst of a crowd. She had begun to think of Sam Clemens as a cocky little banty rooster. She smiled as she remembered her banties back home and how they strutted all over the chicken yard, crowing as if they owned the place. Likewise, this Sam looked like he owned the steamship as he spouted off his knowledge of the journey.

  “Yessir, folks, you’ve chosen by far the better method of travel to the West,” he complimented his growing circle of admirers. “I’ve been on rough wagon roads all over Missouri in a first-class stagecoach, and believe me, it’s a trip you don’t want to take. It’s a much easier journey by steamboat, I can assure you.” He paused to catch his breath before launching into yet another tale.

  “Why, I tell you that our coach was an imposing cradle on wheels, of the most sumptuous description,” he said. “Long about an hour or so before daylight, we bowled along so smoothly over the road that our cradle rocked in a gentle way, lulling us to sleep. Then something under the carriage gave way with a loud THUD! and woke us to the sad fate of spending the rest of the night out in the open while the drivers repaired something called a thoroughbrace.”

  Sam continued his saga of the stagecoach ride with a hilarious tale of a portly woman who had sp
ent the entire time swatting pesky mosquitoes. “Every time a mosquito came within her range, she’d launch a swat at him that would have jolted a cow,” he said, demonstrating her technique. “Once she slapped so hard, she like to swatted me right off the coach! She never missed, and after she got one, she’d sit and contemplate the corpse with an air of tranquil satisfaction. By George, I swear I watched her kill thirty or forty mosquitoes that night.”

  By this time, Elsie was laughing along with the others at Sam’s antics. The blast of the boat whistle signaled it was time to leave, confirmed by the belches of steam rising from the smokestacks. Elsie headed for her cabin, thinking perhaps she had misjudged the cocky pilot. He wasn’t such a bad fellow, and he certainly had a droll sense of humor. Maybe this part of her journey would be interesting after all.

  Chapter 7

  Great Salt Lake City

  RIDING INTO the valley of the Great Salt Lake, Andy sensed something amiss. What was normally an area alive with bustle and hustle seemed eerily quiet. The closer he drew to the city, the quieter it became, without even the disturbance of birdsong or crickets. He looked around the deserted streets for some sign of life, but nothing stirred.

  “How strange,” he thought. “There aren’t even any guards at Temple Square.” Normally, the ten-acre plot of ground in the center of the city was teeming with stone masons, hod carriers, and laborers bringing quarried sandstone in from Red Butte Canyon and laying the foundation and footings for a huge temple. Ever since the temple building had begun four years ago, Andy had gloried in the growth of the walls. He expected that by now there would have been a lot of progress on the House of the Lord. Instead, the foundation stones were buried and the entire area was plowed to resemble a farmer’s field.

  He spurred the horse and galloped around Temple Square, stopping at Beehive House, the residence where the prophet housed his numerous wives and children. To his surprise, another huge mansion had been built on the property, a mansion with a large lion statue resting on a balcony above the entrance. An engraved sign read, “The Lion House, home of Prophet Brigham Young.”

  Andy grimaced. “Got so many wives and children, one huge mansion isn’t big enough to house ‘em all,” he murmured aloud, then looked around to make sure no one had heard him. But who would have heard him? Not a soul appeared anywhere around the square or in the houses.

  People starving all over Deseret and the temple has yet to be built, but he still has money to put up another grand house. Andy shook his head in disbelief. Doesn’t seem like something a man of God should be doing.

  Cautiously, Andy approached the newly built Lion House and peered into a window. Straw, hay, and leaves were piled everywhere – so much that Andy couldn’t see into the room. He went from one window to another until he had walked the entire length of the large house. Straw and more straw. Nothing but straw.

  He stepped across the area that connected the new residence with the colonnaded Beehive House and found more of the same. He continued his tour, finding straw in every building. It looked like the prophet had followed through on his plan to evacuate the city and prepare it for burning. But where had the people gone? Andy vaguely remembered one of the Legionnaires remarking about plans to desert the city, but he hadn’t believed the prophet would really do it. Burn the beautiful city he had pushed the residents so hard to build? Destroy the foundations of the temple of God that had already cost so much in lives, blood, and money?

  His faith in the prophet fading with each new discovery, Andy sat down beside the plowed ground that hid the foundations of the temple and sobbed. Had it come to this? The dreams of the Promised Land, of Zion, of a pure and holy religion, undefiled, a called-out people coming from the ends of the earth to serve the True Church? Had Ingrid been right when she had angrily cried, “Promised Land, my foot! It’s more like the Land of Broken Promises”?

  Regaining control of his emotions, Andy mounted his horse again. Well, he thought with a rueful shrug, I guess I’m not a man of faith anymore, but I am a man who does his duty. And my duty right now is to deliver this packet of information to the prophet. If I can find him.

  He heard a movement in the direction of the official residences and quickly looked back toward the houses. A large wagon, pulled by six oxen, was pulling into the sweeping driveway.

  He rushed back over to Beehive House and greeted the driver. “I’m with the Nauvoo Legion,” he explained. “And I have an important message for the prophet. Do you know where he is?”

  A swarthy wagon driver looked him over, as if checking him out. “Legion, you say? You sure don’t look like no soldier. You look more like a mountain man!”

  “Been in the mountains for a long time, trying to get here with the message,” Andy retorted. “And I might ask why you’re backed up here to the prophet’s house like you’re going to loot it. How do I know you’re not a thief?”

  The swarthy man laughed. “Guess we’ve got us a draw! I don’t trust you and you don’t trust me. That makes us quite a fine pair.”

  “Then let’s start over.” Andy offered his hand, giving the driver the official secret Mormon handshake. “I’m Andy Rasmussen, son of Charles Rasmussen. Been on the trail from Iowa City for more than two years with the Martin handcart party that got stranded at Devil’s Gate. They were rescued late last fall, but some of us had to stay behind. Then Brother Rockwell showed up and conscripted us into the Legion. So here I am, finally arriving in Salt Lake more than a year late.”

  Offering his hand in the same secret handclasp, the driver said, “Jeremiah Tucker. Seems the prophet’s wives were clamoring for him to bring more of the young’uns’ toys and sech, so he sent me down to fetch ‘em. You have no idea how much noise them squawkin’ maws can make when they want sumthin’. I used to envy the prophet all them wives, but now I just feel sorry for him having to put up with ‘em.”

  The two men laughed and joked, commiserating with the prophet who had felt duty-bound to take so many women to bed. While they talked, Andy volunteered to help load the wagon. Once inside the elegant house, Andy was again chagrined at the opulence and splendor. Costly antiques. Plush, imported carpets. It appeared no expense had been spared in creating a comfortable living space for the prophet and his enormous family.

  Tucker noticed Andy’s gaze and laughed. “Guess he gets pretty well paid for putting up with all those women. Well, he can have it! I have enough trouble with the two wives I’ve got, what with all their squabblin’ and fussin’.”

  He carried yet another armload of furnishings out to the wagon. “We’d better tie this stuff down and get on up the road,” he added. They busied themselves securing the wagon and then tied Andy’s mount to walk along behind. Andy climbed up on the buckboard.

  “Where are we headed? It’s obvious everybody has left town, but where did they go?” Andy asked.

  “Most everybody headed for the colonies to the south, but we moved the prophet’s families to Provo where he’d be close enough to direct the war effort. They’re all living at one of his summer places,” Tucker said.

  Summer places? Again, doubts assailed Andy. In addition to these two mansions, the prophet owned yet another house big enough for his huge family? “How many houses does he have?” he blurted without thinking.

  Tucker seemed surprised by Andy’s question. “You’ve been away a long time, haven’t you? He’s got houses and lands all over Utah, all full of wives and young’uns, I reckon. Seems like our prophet has his hands full, what with all the doting maws pushing their girls on him. And when one of the leaders dies, Brother Brigham feels it’s his duty to take the widows to wife, too. He’s married a bunch of ‘em lately, to give them a place in the coming kingdom on resurrection day.”

  He leaned closer to Andy and added with a naughty grin, “I’ve heard tell that he marks an X on the door of his wife of choice each night after he’s bedded her. But some of the ladies’ don’t want to be bothered by him, so they mark an X on their own door to mak
e him think he’s already visited and done his duty by them.”

  Andy’s sense of decency smote him. Should the Saints talk about their prophet like this? Was there no more respect for the spokesman for God, for the leader of their religion?

  “Yes, sir,” Tucker was saying. “’Afore long, he’ll have a harem as big as King Solomon’s.”

  With so little activity on the roads, the trip to Provo didn’t take long. Soon the men were met with squeals of delight as many of the prophet’s wives rushed out to meet the wagon, claiming the personal belongings and children’s things they had left behind. Andy delayed as long as possible before approaching the church office the prophet was temporarily using.

  “Does your pa know you’ve arrived?” Tucker called to Andy. “I think he’s working just up the street. I’ll fetch him for you.”

  Before Andy could reply, Tucker had already clucked his team into motion and headed up the street.

  Andy gulped and swallowed hard. Figuring there was no time like the present to beard the lion in his den, he squared his shoulders with determination and grit and lifted the door knocker.

  “Andy Rasmussen! I didn’t know that you were still among the living!” Brother Brigham swung his arms around him so fast and with so much enthusiasm, Andy nearly lost his balance. “I’m happy beyond anything to see you.” The prophet backed away and held Andy out away from him as he checked him over. “You’re looking mighty fine, my lad! Nobody would ever realize the ordeal you’ve been through….”

  The prophet’s effusive welcome was cut short as Charles Rasmussen walked up the stairs. There was no enthusiastic welcome from his pa, no hug, not even a “glad to see you” – even though it had been more than two years since they had last met. Instead, Pa began interrogating him. “Are you sure all those stories we heard about Devil’s Gate are true?” he asked. “You’re in far better shape than those poor, straggly Danes you were supposed to help across the Plains. Why are you looking so healthy?”