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  The Fugitive Son

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  Written by Adell Harvey & Mari Serebrov.

  Copyright 2016 by Mari Serebrov. All rights reserved.

  Proudly prepared for publication by Kamel Press, LLC.

  This book is a work of historical fiction. Names, main characters, and incidents lived only in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. However, actual historical figures, places, dates, and events are the products of the author’s extensive research and are factual representations. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-62487-090-3 - Paperback

  978-1-62487-091-0 - eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015956666

  Published in the USA.

  To our beloved son and brother,

  Dr. William Farley,

  who spent his adult life ministering

  among the Mormons in Eastern Idaho.

  “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  ALTHOUGH the names mentioned herein are fictional characters, I have drawn on many actual Mormon diaries and genealogical records to create them. This novel is based upon true historical events and geographical locations; the dates and emigrant ships are authentic.

  The pronouncements from early Mormon church leaders came from their published sermons and writings, and John Ahmanson’s perceptions are from his own diary. Historical figures such as Jim Bridger, Chief Washakie, Brigham Young, and the other Mormon apostles are portrayed as accurately as my extensive research enabled. While many may disagree based on personal preference, I would simply challenge them to research, with depth, as many critical resources a possible.

  While writing this novel, I traveled the Mormon Trail from Nauvoo, Illinois to Salt Lake City, Utah, and later took the Humboldt Cutoff from Idaho to Gold Flat, Nevada County, California. Walking in traces of the wagon wheel ruts made so long ago by those hopeful pioneers, sweltering in the arid desert dust, and studying national park exhibits at Devil’s Gate, my heart went out to these lost souls who were so desperately deceived by a man they thought was “sent from God.”

  Prologue

  Winter 1856

  Devil’s Gate, Oregon Territory

  ANDY WATCHED as the relief wagons lumbered beyond the horizon, heading toward South Pass and Fort Bridger. His shoulders slumped in grief. “Go with them, God, and please take care of little Ammie.”

  He had been so excited to find his teen-age sweetheart Anne Marie among the handcart companies waiting to make their journey to the Promised Land. Sent back to Iowa City to escort Pa’s young bride, Ingrid, to her new home in Deseret, he had discovered Anne Marie also was assigned to him. Andy’s hopes had soared, thinking Pa had seen their love for each other and would allow them to marry when they reached their destination.

  Those hopes had turned to despair when Anne Marie confessed she had been forced to marry his father and was now carrying Pa’s child. Dutifully, Andy had escorted both of Pa’s brides on the long, torturous trek, determined to do his duty no matter what the personal cost.

  He smoothed away the chips from the rough stone marker he had carved for the grave. Had the prophet’s promises really come to this? A trench filled with the frozen bodies of Anne Marie and dozens of other travelers who hadn’t survived the horrors of Devil’s Gate in midwinter. And another forced march through the wind and snow for those who had survived. At least Ingrid and Anne Marie’s baby Ammie had been given a place in the relief wagons. They were too weak to walk.

  A moment of doubt crept into Andy’s bitter thoughts. If Brigham Young truly were a prophet of God, wouldn’t he have known the handcart treks were a foolish idea? Wouldn’t he have known that ordering the Martin Party to leave Iowa City so late in the year would make the trek through the mountains impossible? Was the prophet doing the will of God or simply building up his own kingdom on earth?

  A shudder coursed through Andy’s body. Did God even care? Would God listen to the prayers of a man who had just promised a dying girl he would lie to his own father to protect her newborn daughter? A man who had vowed to help one of his father’s brides and baby daughter escape from Deseret? He had even sinned against his sacred undergarments, breaking his oath to wear them as a shield and protection against the Evil One. Surely God would understand that he had to wrap Ammie in them for protection against the harsh winter winds.

  As Andy bent down to place another rock on Anne Marie’s grave, sobs wracked his body. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s a hard thing to do, Brother Rasmussen, losing a young wife like that.”

  Andy rose slowly from his knees, recognizing Brother Ricks from a brief encounter in Great Salt Lake City. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he murmured, “She was so young – so full of life. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Nothing’s fair in this world. But Salt Lake has lots of pretty girls. You’ll soon find another bride.”

  Andy stood back, startled. “Anne Marie wasn’t my wife. She was my father’s.”

  The older man nodded in sympathy. “Don’t suppose you’re the first young buck to fall in love with his father’s wife. Happens all the time.”

  His sympathetic manner prompted Andy to share more. “Thing is, I fell in love with Anne Marie long before she married Pa. I didn’t even know they were married until a couple of months ago. I went back East to escort Pa’s new bride from Copenhagen and wound up escorting two new brides.” His voice was acrid with bitterness.

  “Well, as they say, ain’t no use crying over spilt milk.” Ricks placed yet another stone on the mass grave. “Must have buried fifty people here,” he said. He looked up at the gray sky. “Looks like we’re in for a long, hard winter here, so we’d best get on up to the mail cabin and stake out a place to sleep or they’ll be piling our bodies in here, too.”

  June 1857

  River Bend Plantation, Kentucky

  Elsie Condit placed a single rose on her father’s grave. “Oh, Papa,” she cried. “Am I doing the right thing?” The ornately carved headstones in the family cemetery seemed to mock her. “Peter Condit, born 1756, died 1799.” “Peter Condit, Jr., born 1780, died 1837.” And finally, Papa’s tombstone – ”Peter Condit, III, born 1805, died 1857.” Ever since Great-grandfather Condit settled these beautiful hills, the plantation had belonged in the family. And now she had sold it to a stranger.

  She fingered the letter that had come a fortnight ago from her brothers, who had gone West to seek adventure in New Mexico Territory. “There’s a fortune to be made here in general merchandising,” Ned had written. “With Papa giving the slaves their freedom, you can’t run the plantation alone.”

  Peter had added an ominous note: “The winds of war are raging, and I fear K
entucky will soon be fighting family against family. Given our family’s stance on slavery, your very life could be in danger if you stay at River Bend. Sell everything and come to safety here in New Mexico.”

  A tall black man entered through the rose-covered trellis gate, breaking her reverie. “Miss Elsie, it’s time. If we’re to catch that riverboat to St. Louis, we’d best be on our way.”

  Elsie smiled through her tears. Dear faithful Isaac. From the time they were toddlers, she and Isaac had shared everything, and he had always been her protector. And now, even with his freedman papers in his pocket, he wanted to go with her on the long trail to New Mexico.

  “Can’t have anything happening to the prettiest Condit in the crowd,” he had joked when he volunteered to come along. “Besides, maybe I’ll find me a young lady out there in the wilds and settle down.”

  Elsie smiled, remembering their conversation when she had tried to dissuade him from traveling with her. “Maybe a pretty Spanish senorita will set her sights on you!” she had teased him.

  “From what I hear, that wouldn’t be such a bad bargain!” Isaac laughed – a deep throaty chuckle that was almost his calling card.

  When her brothers had heard that Isaac planned to accompany her, they were glad but worried. “It will be like old times to have Isaac with us in New Mexico,” Ned had written, “and I am happy that you will have someone to look after you.” That part had raised Elsie’s hackles. She wasn’t a child who needed looking after! But the rest of Ned’s letter had been troubling as he warned about the dangers for Isaac.

  Their journey would eventually take them through “Bleeding Kansas,” where the slavers and free-staters were battling over whether the territory should be admitted to the Union as a slave state. Isaac could get caught up in all the violence.

  Elsie and Isaac had discussed the situation, especially the possibility of an unscrupulous ruffian hoping to make a profit by trying to sell Isaac back into slavery. But Isaac wasn’t to be deterred. He reminded Elsie of all the dangers he had faced helping her father conduct escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad. “The good Lord will protect me, just as he has in the past,” he had said. Nonetheless, he had insisted that when the time came, he would pose as Elsie’s slave so no one would get any greedy ideas.

  Pulling a few weeds from her parents’ graves, Elsie wondered once again if she was doing the right thing. It was hard enough to leave River Bend, but she would never forgive herself if something happened to Isaac.

  He again broke into her reverie, reaching down to lend her a hand. “We really should be going, Miss Elsie,” he repeated.

  “It’s just Elsie,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “You’re a free man. You don’t have to act the slave – at least not when it’s just the two of us.”

  He smiled down at her. “We’ll see. But for now, we need to go back to the house to pick up your things. There’s not much time.”

  Elsie gave one last, long look around the cemetery, then bent low to kiss her parents’ graves. “Goodbye, Mama and Papa,” she whispered.

  Chapter 1

  June 1857

  Devil’s Gate

  “AIN’T IT ‘bout time them relief wagons was gettin’ here? We’ve been holed up in this God-awful place for more than six months!”

  Andy turned wearily toward Brother Walters. “It wouldn’t seem near so long if you’d quit your bellyaching and complaining. The prophet promised to send somebody back for us as soon as it was spring.”

  Walters snorted. “The prophet, hah! It’s been spring in Great Salt Lake for a couple of months already, and I don’t see no relief wagons.”

  Much as he hated to admit it, Andy was afraid Walters was right. The winter in the mail cabin at Devil’s Gate had seemed endless – twenty cold, hungry men trying to survive with nothing to pass the time but bickering and an occasional forage onto the treeless plain in search of nonexistent wild game. He looked around the dingy cabin at the men leaning listlessly against the rough log walls. Once strong and full of life, they were now gaunt skeletons, with their eyes protruding from hollow sockets. Why hadn’t the relief wagons come as promised?

  When the prophet had sent the first relief party from Great Salt Lake City in November to rescue the stranded handcart travelers, Andy and nine other men – the healthiest survivors of the ill-fated cross-country journey – were selected to stay at Devil’s Gate to guard the possessions that had to be left behind. Ten of the rescuers also offered to stay so there would be room for the rest of the bedraggled survivors to make the return trip to the Promised Land.

  Andy glanced ruefully at the stuff piled in one corner of the cabin. There didn’t seem to be anything worth looking after. The families forced to travel by handcart had had to sell everything of value at Fort Laramie so they could buy food to keep from starving to death. Most of the travelers hadn’t had that much to start with.

  Following Andy’s gaze, Walters continued his rant. “Ain’t nothin’ in that pile worth risking our necks for,” he griped. “But that’s just more of Brigham’s folly – give ‘em something to do. Make ‘em feel important. That sorta stuff.”

  Brother Rigby fingered the knife hanging from his belt. “Careful there, Walters. Yer getting mighty close to apostasy.”

  “Yeah,” Brother Ricks cautioned. “Hold your tongue. Men have been sent to paradise for saying less. You can’t criticize the prophet.”

  Walters spat. “Prophet, my eye. Brigham ain’t no prophet. An’ he’s not the voice of God. He’s just a man who makes mistakes. And this handcart business is one of his stupidest ones. We’re stranded here, starving to death with nothin’ to eat but boiled rawhide, and he’s livin’ it up with all his pretty young wives.”

  Andy drew in his breath. Walters was on dangerous ground.

  “That’s blasphemy!” Rigby shouted as he headed for Walters, his knife drawn. “What more do we need to hear, men? Let’s slit his throat so we can save his eternal soul.”

  The men mobbed around the hapless complainer, dragging him outside the cabin.

  “Wait, fellas,” Andy protested. “We’re all pretty frazzled. I’m sure Brother Walters is not in his right mind. Let’s stop and think this through.”

  Rigby shoved him aside. “Better one man be sacrificed for the good of the church. An’ it’s for his own good, too.”

  Andy tried again. “But we’re not barbarians. We’re Saints, the Lord’s own Saints. I say it’s time we acted like it an’ showed a little compassion.”

  “Compassion’s got no place for them who criticize the prophet, the Living Word of God!” someone shouted. “Let’s do him in!”

  Helpless against the frenzied mob, Andy stood aside as the men dug a grave in the spring-softened mud. It was amazing how their energy returned when they had something to occupy their minds, Andy thought. Knowing what was coming, he was reluctant to watch and yet unable to turn away.

  His hands tied behind his back, Walters was forced to sit on the edge of his grave. Rigby, wiping his knife against his coat, knelt down next to him. “Prepare for paradise, Brother Walters. You must atone for your sin by spilling your blood – it’s the only way.”

  Andy’s stomach tightened as he watched Rigby plunge the knife into Walters’ neck and draw it quickly across his throat. He heard a gasp and a gurgle, then a thud as Walters’ body fell into the shallow hole.

  Andy rushed behind the cabin, physically ill. It wouldn’t do for the others to see him losing what little breakfast he’d eaten. His stomach knotted and lurched in wrenching heaves for what seemed an eternity. He could hear the others laughing and joking as they filled in the grave, apparently so caught up in their celebrating they hadn’t noticed his absence.

  The execution seemed to bring renewed life to the men. Several of them left the camp in yet another hunt for food. Others stayed behind to build a fire from sagebrush and bits of wood they tore off the mail cabin. “We’re going to eat tonight,” Ricks promised. “Now that we�
�ve rid the camp of the apostate, the Lord’s face will shine upon us.”

  Andy couldn’t join in the festivities. The cruel death of Walters had shaken him to the depths of his being. How could killing a man make a Saint feel so jubilant, so victorious? He sat close to the fire reading and rereading his Book of Mormon, trying to find solace in it. The words rambled across the pages, saying nothing. It was as though a terrible darkness had plunged into his soul, just as the knife had plunged into Walters’ neck.

  “Reading the Good Book?” Ricks drew up a rock and joined Andy at the fire. “Never read it much myself,” he admitted. “But the Prophet Joseph said it’s the most perfect book ever written and the only way to Celestial Glory.”

  “Then why don’t you read it?”

  “Don’t read anything much. I figure I learn everything I need to know by listening to Prophet Brigham and the apostles. They know what the book says.” He studied Andy intently. “Today the first blood atonement you’ve seen?”

  Startled by the sudden change of conversation, Andy drew back. “Yes,” he said quietly.

  “But you do know it’s the only way, don’t you? The prophet says there are sins that a man has to atone for by shedding his own blood. I heard him say it many times.”

  Andy sat silently, unable to think of anything to say. He had heard of blood atonement and had even met some of the Danites, the Avenging Angels, in Nauvoo. But they killed the church’s enemies, not the Saints.

  As if reading his thoughts, Ricks added, “Sometimes our enemies are within. We must rid the church of evil before it spreads. The first man I ever used up was one of them mobocrats in Missouri – that wasn’t to save his soul, but to rid the world of evil. Then Prophet Joseph asked me to take care of Brother Jamison back in Nauvoo. He was a traitor, spying for the Illinois militia.”

  Andy laid the Book of Mormon on the ground. Heart pounding, he asked, “Are you a Danite?”