The Fugitive Son

by Adell Harvey

  Pa flinched and pulled away, making it obvious that he was uncomfortable around children. Regaining his composure, Pa reached in his pocket and awkwardly handed each child a piece of licorice. “Have you been good for your mama?” he asked.

  That being the extent of his conversation with his offspring and his wife, Pa rose and headed outdoors, calling over his shoulder, “Probably ought to check on the livestock and the fences while I’m here.”

  That’s about the quickest escape from responsibility I’ve ever witnessed, Andy thought as he watched Pa disappear behind the house. Maybe Pa just isn’t cut out for parenthood. He shot Aunt Hettie a sympathetic look, almost in apology for Pa’s rudeness.

  Hettie dismissed the children. “You can go play for a while, but don’t make a nuisance of yourself around your father.”

  When they were all out of earshot, she studied Andy. “So Old Brigham sent you down here to recuperate, did he? Why don’t you tell me where ya been and what ya been up to that he wants you out of the way?”

  Her bluntness shocked him, but he instinctively felt that she was someone he could trust. He briefly told her about what had happened at Devil’s Gate, and even about blowing up at Pa and the prophet. “Thought for sure they’d have my throat,” he admitted. “But here I am, still in one piece.” For some reason, he couldn’t bear to tell her about Ingrid and Anne Marie.

  “I suspect there’s a lot more that you’re not telling me,” she observed. “But you’ve told me enough to explain to the nosey bishop and the neighbors why you’re here. They’ll be around soon as they get wind of a stranger in town.”

  Andy surmised from her attitude about the prophet and bishop that she wasn’t exactly enamored with the church or its leaders. “Apparently Pa doesn’t help you much with the family?” he asked.

  “Nope. But I’m fine with it. You may have noticed I’m not the most beautiful woman in Deseret. Not the most spiritual, either. Your Pa took me as his ‘duty wife’ so the prophet would give him a couple of pretty young girls to bed.”

  Andy sat up in the rocking chair he had plopped into when they first came in. “Duty wife? What in the world is that?”

  “The prophet decides who can marry and who can’t. But because some of us aren’t likely to attract a man to get us into eternal glory, Brigham believes it’s the duty of every male to ensure our resurrection by adding one of us ugly ones to his harem. So if a fella wants to marry a gorgeous wife, it’s his duty to wed a homely one once in awhile, just to keep things balanced.”

  Hettie paused and laughed derisively. “You can prob’ly guess I don’t believe any of that nonsense, but I figured if I was ever going to be a mother and have me some sweet babies, I’d have to do it their way. They don’t call me ‘Homely Hettie’ for nothing!”

  She chuckled and asked Andy, “How many wives has the old goat got now?”

  Surprised by her candor and disrespect, Andy entered into her mood. “Which old goat do you mean? The prophet or Pa?”

  At this, Hettie laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair. “I like you! Hope you’ll stick around long enough to influence the boys. They certainly won’t get it from their Pa!”

  When they finally stopped laughing, Andy answered her question seriously. “I really have no idea how many wives either of them have. Some of the soldiers told me Brother Brigham had twenty-seven wives and dozens of children. As for Pa, he’s never told me if he has other wives or children.”

  Deciding it was safe to take Hattie into his confidence, Andy told her a little about both of Pa’s young brides. “But they didn’t make it through the horrible winter at Devil’s Gate,” he added, deliberately leaving out the story of Ammie’s birth and Ingrid’s escape with her. The fewer people who knew about that, the less chance there would be that Pa would go looking for them. Let everybody think they were both dead.

  Pa was quiet throughout the delicious meal Hettie prepared for them and was even gracious enough to thank her for the mutton and vegetables she had quickly prepared with no notice she would have guests. The boys kept up a running chatter with their big brother, and even Mary slipped a few words in now and then. All in all, it was a pleasant evening, making Andy feel like for once he almost had a family. He appreciated Aunt Hettie’s down-to-earth frankness, her sense of joy and wonder at everything, and the way the children behaved. No one would know the kids were growing up without really knowing their father. Hettie was doing a good job of maintaining the farm and raising the kids. Homely or not, Pa doesn’t know what he’s missing! Andy thought.

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Elsie awoke early the next morning, feeling more refreshed than she had in months. Isaac was already up and about, building a breakfast fire and checking the wheels, axles, reaches, and hounds of their wagon.

  “It’s going to be a long trip, Miss Elsie, so we need to make sure the wagon is up for it.” He watered the mules, checked them over, and pronounced them sound. “You did a good job of buying everything,” he complimented her. “Almost looks like you knew what you were doing!”

  She laughed and gave him a little shove. “Oh, yes,” she countered. “I’ve made this cross-country journey dozens of times!”

  The two continued to josh while they ate their smoked ham and biscuit breakfast, put away their utensils, and climbed onto the wagon bench. Elsie had wanted to hire drivers for the trip, but by time she had paid for the drovers to freight the mercantile supplies, she was afraid her money might not last for the entire journey. She figured she and Isaac had driven the wagons back home in Kentucky so many times that surely they could tackle it, even though this trip would be a lot longer.

  Almost as if reading her mind, Isaac said, “Guess you realize this is going to be daunting. They tell me it’s a thousand miles of prairie, desert, mountains, and river crossings.” Almost prophetically, he added, “We may run into bad weather, bad food, wagon breakdowns, Indian attacks, and even highwaymen bent on causing havoc. In fact, I heard some of the other travelers saying that the highwaymen are more dangerous than the Indians!”

  Elsie giggled nervously. “I declare, if you’re trying to scare me, you’re sure doing a good job! But it’s too late to back out now.”

  Isaac tried to present a more positive view. “Not trying to scare you. I’m just wondering if a pretty, delicate miss fresh from the plantation is up to a journey like this.”

  “Delicate miss, my eye!” she said. Accepting his challenge, she moved him over and took the driver’s reins. “I’ll show you delicate!” She maneuvered the mule team into place in the long train, amazed at how obedient and pliable the animals were. Maybe this wouldn’t be as rough as she had thought.

  Leaving Kansas City, the train of fifteen wagons, sixty oxen, and two dozen mules rolled out onto the wide expanse of prairie. Busy at first getting the feel of the mule team and the rutted prairie, Elsie had little time to ponder the situation. While she drove, Isaac occasionally walked among the other wagoners, picking up bits and pieces of news and getting acquainted with the folks who would be their traveling companions for the next three months.

  “Little lady just ahead of us is in the family way,” he reported back to Elsie. “Spends most of her time just lying in her wagon, only coming out now and then to empty her chamber pot.”

  Elsie remembered seeing the frail young woman occasionally emerge from the wagon, carrying a blue speckle-ware chamber pot. She had figured the rocking motion of the wagon, much like the rolling motion of the steamboats, was making the woman nauseated. Elsie was thankful that she had no problems with the unusual rocking and rolling. In fact, she found the steady movement of the wagon soothing, just as she had enjoyed the roll of the steamboat, which had often lulled her to sleep.

  The farther they lumbered away from Kansas City, the sparser the signs of habitation became. A desolate homestead, mute evidence of the hardscrabble life of its owners, occasionally popped up above the tall prairie grasses to break the monotony of the endless mi
les of bare, treeless, wind-swept Plains.

  Elsie found herself searching the sides of the trail, imagining the stories behind the broken artifacts, tools, or furniture that littered the prairie, testifying to the hardships previous travelers had endured. She noticed a trumpet vine twining through a broken wagon wheel among the weeds and grasses. Looking more closely, she nudged Isaac, who had reclaimed the reins and his seat on the driver’s bench.

  “Look!” she exclaimed. “A mockingbird is building a nest in the spokes of that broken wheel!”

  Isaac grinned. “It’s going to be a long, boring journey if the sight of a mockingbird nest excites you! Remember the white horse game we played when we rode in the back of your pa’s market wagon? We’d count every white horse we could see along the trip and whoever got home with the most horses won the game.”

  Elsie laughed. “I almost always won, because I remembered where the cemeteries were so I could bury yours!”

  “Doubt if we’re going to see any white horses or cemeteries this far from civilization.” Isaac grew pensive. “Though so many people have died along this route, we probably come across a lot of gravestones.”

  “Is it really that bad?” Elsie asked. “So far, it’s been bumpy and jarring, but not really dangerous.”

  “Talked to the wagon master while I was out walking the train awhile ago, and he said it’s a lot safer than it used to be. The Indians have settled down some and haven’t attacked a train in some time. I’m sure all the soldiers and forts along here had something to do with that.”

  As Elsie sighed in relief, Isaac cautioned her, “But there’s still plenty of danger, so we need to keep on the lookout. The wagon master told me most of the people who died on the trail got sick from bad water, had a wagon accident, or drowned in a river crossing. We’re going to have to be careful about things like that.”

  A loud ruckus sounded behind them, and a heavily loaded stagecoach roared up the trail, directly behind their wagon. “Move over, mail coach coming through!” The driver shouted, motioning for them to pull over and send the message on up the train.

  Wearing a buckskin tunic and a flat-crowned hat, the stage driver “geed and gawed” the six-horse team through the wagon train. Elsie watched the spectacle with awe, as the coach weaved its way in and around wagons, herds, and other obstacles, while nine or ten passengers, jammed in like sardines, peered out the windows. An equal number of passengers clung to their perches on the roof for dear life.

  “That’s why Sam warned me not to take a stagecoach,” Elsie told Isaac. “He said Ben Holladay packed in every paying passenger he could squeeze aboard and that his drivers drove like Jehu.”

  Noticing Isaac’s quizzical look, she explained, “You know, Jehu from the Old Testament stories Mama used to teach us. Jehu was the king who drove furiously.”

  “Oh, I knew that. I was just puzzled that Mr. Clemens would be quoting from the Scriptures. Didn’t take him as much of a Bible reader.”

  “He seemed to be quite familiar with it,” Elsie replied. “Probably didn’t pay it much heed, mind you, but he quoted from the Bible on several occasions.”

  The mention of Sam started them talking about their steamboat travels. They hadn’t had much time to catch up on their trip since leaving the river. “I’m so sorry you had to stay below. I paid for a full passenger ticket for you, but the ship’s purser and captain wouldn’t hear of a black man having his own cabin on the Texas deck.”

  Isaac shrugged. “Been treated worse. And it really wasn’t too bad. At least they didn’t whip me or try to sell me.” He paused. “But there were a couple of burly fellows in Kansas City who were watching me. Looked like they’d be happy to take me hostage and sell me back to my owner. The wagon master said there are a lot of bounty hunters out looking for escaped slaves and plenty of highwaymen who’ll take not only your money but anything else you own that they can sell. Guess that includes black men, who might bring a hefty sum on the slave market.”

  “Good thing we kept up the ruse then.” Elsie looked at his boots. “Are your manumission papers still intact?”

  Isaac patted the top of his sturdy leather boots. “Yep! I’m hanging onto them for dear life! As long as I’m with you, I’m still in your service, Miss Elsie.” He tipped his hat with a big flourish. “But as soon as we get settled in New Mexico, we can drop the ruse, and we’ll just be good friends again. ‘Til then, we’d best keep up the charade. Wouldn’t do fer a black man like me to run ‘round loose, not with the way people are behavin’ these days. If they think you own me, won’t be nobody trying to snatch me away.”

  Giggling at his fake accent, Elsie readily agreed. “We’ll just keep up the story that when Papa died, my brothers sent for me and ordered you to protect me along the journey as my personal slave.”

  Hour after endless hour passed as the wagons rolled westward across the Kansas Plains. They passed only a handful of small outposts that looked like they’d been thrown up haphazardly in the tall prairie grass. Towering cottonwoods stood like sentinels on the edge of the outposts, often the only evidence of a populated area.

  As the sun began its swift departure over the western horizon, the wagon master called the train to a halt. “We’ll circle up here. Looks like as good a place as any to spend the night.”

  Elsie was thankful Isaac was at the reins as they began the daunting task of getting their wagon and livestock all in place. She looked out over the vast Plains, as if looking for Indian raiders. “No Indians around here,” Isaac reassured her. “The captain sent scouts out ahead and likely picked this as a safe spot.”

  Together, they prepared a quick supper, using sticks and twigs from the river bank to build a fire. All around the circle, other travelers were doing likewise, gathering firewood and enjoying their evening meal. Elsie knew she should walk around and meet some of the others, but she was much too weary to be sociable.

  She’d been woefully naïve about what the trip would entail. Only one day out and she was already exhausted from the grueling overland journey, the hard bench, and the bone-jarring bumps along the trail. She remembered one of the diaries she had read of an earlier traveler who had made the cross-country trip. “Worse and worse the road!” the harried woman had written. “Half a dozen men by bodily exertions are pulling the wagons down the hills! We made but 600 or 800 yards a day.”

  Back in Kentucky as she had prepared for the westward expedition by reading everything she could find on the subject, Elsie had dismissed such diary entries as exaggerations, but now that she was actually on the trail, she wondered if the diary writers had described it in harsh enough terms.

  The sun long gone, Isaac took his bedroll and spread it under the wagon, while Elsie clamored aboard and snuggled into her featherbed. Relaxing to the cool churning of the nearby creek and the constant whine of locusts, she pondered the vast unknown territory that lay ahead. Was she truly up to this task? Or was she, as Isaac had teased, too delicate and spoiled to survive the ravages of driving a wagon across the wide expanse of prairie and desert?

  She fluffed her feather pillow, pulled the comforter closer around her shoulders, and curled her body until her knees were nearly hitting her chin. Not only will I survive, I will thrive! she promised herself. I am a Condit, born of sturdy, Kentucky stock – not some pampered Southern belle complaining about a few bumps in the road. One day is already behind me, and each day will bring me closer to my brothers. No matter what the future brings, God will see me through.

  With her resolve settled, Elsie fell into a deep, restful sleep, her future securely in the hands of the Almighty God.

  Chapter 9

  Parowan, Utah Territory

  ANDY’S GAZE swept around the crude cabin. A plain carpenter’s bench ran along one wall, topped with a water bucket and dipper, a few battered utensils, and a handful of chipped pottery dishes – apparently the kitchen area. Another wall held a stack of buffalo robes, above which several pegs held the family’s meager ward
robe.

  Hettie had covered the bare dirt floor with various animal skins, making a rather comfortable floor cover for the hovel. Hettie’s gaze followed Andy’s. “Ain’t much, but it’s home,” she pronounced.

  “Doesn’t Pa help you with any of this?” Andy asked, looking at the burgeoning evidence of a hard-tack existence. Fresh fruits and vegetables sat in bushel baskets, waiting to be washed and preserved; animal feed was stacked in yet another corner; and mountains of firewood awaited chopping and splitting just outside the cabin’s single door. Add to that laundry and cooking for a large brood of children, and Aunt Hettie must be a busy woman indeed.

  “It’s the life I chose,” she said, without any sound of regret or bitterness. “When I came with my folks back in ’48 from Nauvoo to Great Salt Lake City, the Saints were openly practicing the Principle, so I knew what I was gettin’ into.”

  She shot him an inquisitive glance. “You did know it was already going on years ago in Nauvoo, didn’t ya? That’s partly the reason old Joseph met his Maker before his time in the Carthage jail. Seems the newspaper editor discovered that Mighty Joe was testing his church leaders by telling them God wanted him to take their wives and daughters to wife. He figured if they was that loyal to him, he could trust ‘em.”

  She shook her head. “Imagine a man willingly giving his wife to the prophet! Or his young virgin daughter to a crusty old man.”

  Andy swallowed, aghast at her open disdain and contempt for the Prophet Joseph Smith, the man who held the keys to the kingdom in his hand. He wondered whether he was duty bound to correct her or if he should just let her rant. Perhaps living out here alone with the children had touched her mind. Finally, he answered her. “I was just a little shaver when I went with Pa and the Prophet Brigham to find the place God intended to be our new Zion, so I didn’t know much of went on in Nauvoo. Of course, I do know about Prophet Joseph’s martyrdom in the Carthage jail. I’ve heard that story most of my life.”