The Fugitive Son Page 3

  “They trusted us so much we was able to help ourselves to a few more supplies along the way without getting’ caught!” Brintin boasted.

  Andy stood off to the side, apparently the only one not amused by the story. Lying, cheating, killing – was this conduct worthy of a Saint? And they were missionaries! Dedicated to spreading the everlasting gospel among the gentiles! It’s no wonder people mistrusted Mormons. He tried to push the doubts from his mind, but they continued to taunt him. He was reminded of what Ingrid had called his father – ”that awful, lying man.” Was she right? Had they all been duped by lies? He shook his head. He had to stop entertaining such doubts or Satan would steal his soul.

  Andy rejoined the others, helping them load the pitiful belongings of the handcart victims into the wagons for the journey to Salt Lake. The spirit of camaraderie and relief that flowed through the camp was contagious, and Andy felt his own spirits lift. Soon they would be on their way back to the Promised Land! They would defend Deseret from their enemy, the United States government. They would prevail, God would bring victory, and they would usher in the Millennium with its theocracy headed up by the prophet and his apostles.

  Day followed endless day as the wagons lumbered over the desolate landscape. Andy recognized Split Rock, a massive outcropping that looked like the refuse of the world thrown up in the utmost confusion. Beyond it, the Sweetwater River meandered through barren fields, surrounded by low rocks to the north and higher ones to the south.

  The missionary contingent took over most of the work of maintaining the wagons and feeding the group, leaving the weakened survivors from Devil’s Gate to rest and recuperate from their long, hard winter. The missionaries continued to buoy up the refugees’ spirits with humorous anecdotes of the past few months, telling of numerous conversions and about the women they had left behind.

  “Yep, I left some cryin’ hearts in just about every mission I served,” Brintin bragged. “Them purty gals about fell over themselves invitin’ me to dinner.”

  “Lucky for you none of them already had a husband,” Brother Tucker joshed. “You might have met the same fate that befell Brother Pratt down Arkansas way.”

  Andy, who had only been half listening to the banter, perked up at the mention of one of the church’s greatest missionary apostles. “Parley Pratt? What happened to him? You forget we’ve been cooped up here for nearly six months and haven’t heard anything about what’s going on elsewhere.”

  One of the other missionaries filled in the story. “Seems the apostle did pretty well by the ladies, too. But out in California, he won the heart of a married lady who had several kids. Baptized her, took her to the temple, and got her sealed to him as his twelfth wife.”

  Tucker interrupted the story. “Her husband wasn’t none too happy and chased Pratt half way ‘cross the country. He and some other fellas finally caught up with the apostle in Arkansas and shot him dead. I hear tell that Brother Brigham has proclaimed him a martyr – just like Prophet Smith. He’s blamin’ Pratt’s death on an Arkansas mob that refused to accept the truth of Mormonism.”

  Other stories soon followed, stories of deceit, triumph, and bravery. The returning missionaries told of being spit at, slapped, and mocked. “But it was worth sufferin’ for the prophet,” Brintin said. “Every time I snatched another soul for the Kingdom, I had such a feeling of power, of doing the Lord’s bidding. I tell you, there’s nothing quite like rescuing a body from the burnin’.”

  The conversation turned to their journey westward. “We stopped to rest at Independence Rock, where the Oregon Trail travelers scratch their names into the hard granite,” another missionary said. “Otherwise, we might have been here a day earlier.”

  “Yeah, we rested there, too,” Rigby said.

  Andy listened with amusement as many of the men told of climbing the rock, looking for names they had carved there in earlier years. He knew exactly where his name was etched and remembered the exciting day he had put it there.

  Traveling as the only child on the Saints’ first wagon train west, Andy had been thrilled when the prophet himself helped him scrawl “Andy” across the rock. The prophet had lifted him up so he could reach a higher place on which to write. “Probably hundreds of more names up there now,” Andy thought. Back in 1847, there hadn't been that many – maybe a few dozen or so.

  Andy hadn't thought about it much before now, but it seemed the prophet had always looked after him. Remembering brought a warm glow to his heart. On April 14, 1847, Pa had been called by the prophet to be a member of the pioneer company, the men who would scout out a new land for the Saints. Andy had been scared that he would be left behind at Winter Quarters with Ma and his baby sister, who were both sick with the black canker. Pa was his only security.

  When Pa mentioned Andy to the prophet, Brigham had said he could come along. Andy remembered his disbelief when Pa had told him that he could go with the pioneers.

  What an experience! All along the trek, it seemed the prophet had favored him, sought him out even. “You're especially chosen of the Lord,” the prophet had announced. “You are going to be great and mighty in the kingdom!”

  “Great and mighty in the kingdom!” The words seemed to mock Andy now. He had defiled his sacred undergarments, promised to lie to his father, and said he’d help an apostate leave the kingdom. Great and mighty indeed! Andy longed for those happier days when all was right with his world. He wished he could run back to Independence Rock, hoping the strenuous exercise would erase the condemnation from his soul. Instead, he was a man pursued by his conscience, unable to shake off his guilt.

  The Ohio River

  Elsie stood on the dock watching Isaac direct her luggage from wagon to dock to gangplank. He seemed totally at ease and in command as if he had always worked as a dockhand. When the last trunk made its way up the gangplank, Isaac approached her. “Time to board.”

  Once on deck, Elsie was greeted by a steward and shown to her cabin. When she asked about Isaac’s cabin, the steward sneered. “Slaves sleep on the trunks in the master’s cabin. Of course, that would not be seemly in this situation.” He looked at Elsie with disdain. “Had you brought your maid instead of your manservant, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “But I paid for a first-class cabin for him. If he’s to protect me, he should be close by, don’t you think?” Elsie poured on her Southern charm.

  The steward wasn’t swayed. “You’ll have to take the ticket price up with the steamship company. No slave – or freedman, for that matter – gets a cabin of his own on the upper deck. Your boy will stay below on the cargo deck.”

  “I declare!” Elsie felt the heat rushing to her cheeks as she stomped her foot. “I want to speak to the captain.”

  “It won’t do you any good,” the steward said. “Rules are rules.” He turned toward Isaac, who was depositing Elsie’s trunks. “When you’re done with that, boy, you get on down to the bottom deck where you can stay with the other slaves and riffraff.”

  Elsie cringed at the steward’s tone, but she held her tongue when Isaac winked at her. Isaac knew her and her temper too well. She put her gloved hand to her lips, suppressing an inappropriate giggle.

  Isaac bowed low. “If you be needin' me, Miss Elsie, I'll be down b’low. You jus' call if’n you need anythin’.” And thus, the masquerade began.

  Elsie watched as Isaac turned away. In place of the proud giant of a man, he had assumed the role of an uneducated, ingratiating slave. His shoulders were slightly hunched, his chin pointed habitually toward the floor, and his eyes lowered. Even the tone of his voice and his vocabulary had changed. Gone was her friend – the commanding conversationalist, well-versed in literature, music, and politics.

  I declare, what a brilliant actor he is! Elsie thought as she settled into her cabin. She felt guilty that she would have the luxury of a private room while he had to find a place to sleep amidst the cargo. Not that her cabin was all that comfortable. Outfitted with a single berth, a b
ench, and a table, it was hardly luxurious. But at least it offered some privacy – and cleanliness.

  A chill swept over her, despite the heat, as she recalled the stories she had heard about all the thuggery and disease that plagued the poor souls confined to the cargo deck. “Protect him, Lord, and keep him well,” she whispered.

  Chapter 3

  July 1857

  Fort Bridger, Oregon Territory

  DAY AFTER endless day, the Devil’s Gate survivors and their rescuers, the returning missionaries, trudged along the trail toward Great Salt Lake City. Andy’s thoughts often focused on Ingrid and Anne Marie’s orphaned baby girl. Traversing the trail in the beautiful early summer weather was hard enough. How had it been for the sick and dying in the midst of the horrible winter cold? Had Ingrid and Ammie made it safely to Deseret? Or had Ingrid carried out her threat and managed to escape?

  He seriously doubted that Heavenly Father even listened to his prayers anymore, but he prayed anyway. Please, Father, keep Ingrid and Ammie safe until I can find both of them and figure out what to do. Bitterness choked his prayer. Ammie should have been his and Anne Marie’s first-born. Instead, the beautiful infant was one of his father’s many daughters. Andy shook his head as he tried to count how many half-siblings he had.

  He finally gave up in disgust. I don’t even know how many wives Pa has, let alone how many brothers and sisters he’s produced for me, he thought, but one thing I know for sure, none of them were born of a love like Anne Marie and I shared. Still, he could do nothing.

  Arriving at Fort Bridger, the travelers were met with a contingent of Mormon soldiers, arrayed in the full-dress uniform Andy remembered from his Nauvoo days. The Nauvoo Legion out here? When he spotted Porter Rockwell, the legendary gunslinger and hero of his youth, riding at the head of the contingent, he knew something was amiss.

  The man Andy remembered fondly as “Old Port” dismounted and raised his hand in greeting. “Hello, brethren. Greetings in the name of the prophet. He has sent me out to deputize all of you into the reorganized Nauvoo Legion. I know you are all eager to get on down to Great Salt Lake, but the prophet has need of your services.”

  At this, the men began firing questions at Rockwell and his troops. “What’s going on that can’t wait until we get home to our families? Some of us nearly died this winter. We need to rest…”

  As they shouted question after question, Rockwell called for silence. “Enough! If the prophet says he needs you, that’s the end of it. Now, let’s get this unit organized, and I’ll explain what’s going on.”

  In less time than Andy could have thought possible, Rockwell had the new arrivals deputized and assigned to specific units, judiciously placing the weakest men in units with those Legionnaires who seemed the strongest and most experienced. Among them, Andy recognized several who had been friends back in Nauvoo, some he had met in the Saints’ Missouri days, and a few he remembered meeting the few times he had guided wagon trains across the Plains.

  Once the new arrivals were placed in their units, Rockwell set them down on the rocky ground and began to explain, “When me and Abe Smoot got wind that President Buchanan was plannin’ to send the Army to ‘clean up’ Utah Territory, we hightailed it back to Salt Lake with the news. Brother Brigham called up the old Nauvoo Legion and asked me to serve as a commander.”

  As Rockwell stroked his long, flowing beard, Andy was reminded of Joseph Smith’s prophecy about the man known as the Avenging Angel of the Mormons. The prophet had said that his childhood friend and one of the first converts to the new faith need never fear bullet nor blade so long as he remained faithful to the church and didn’t cut his hair.

  Rockwell’s throaty laugh brought Andy’s momentary thoughts back to the present. Pointing to his men in their colorful Legion uniforms, Rockwell said, “And some of us could still fit in our uniforms from the good ol’ days!” He walked over and playfully jabbed one of the more portly soldiers in the paunch. “But some of us enjoyed a bit too much good ole’ Mormon cookin’!”

  Becoming serious once again, Rockwell gave the troops their orders, further explaining the dire situation. “As of now, none of us has a home in Great Salt Lake City. The prophet ordered everyone to leave their homes, takin’ just what they could carry, and then fill the empty houses with straw for burnin’. If Deseret is attacked, he plans to burn it to the ground, leavin’ nothin’ for them rotten gentiles.”

  His mood changing abruptly, Rockwell again laughed. “Actually, he called the gentiles a lot worse than that. But I’m watchin’ my language for you young bucks that has virgin ears!”

  After the laughter subsided, Rockwell continued. “All able-bodied men between fifteen and sixty are expected to join the Legion.” He glanced around the bedraggled would-be troops. “Guess some of you ain’t so able-bodied, but we still need you. Our job is to pester the Union troops comin’ from the north ‘nough to slow ‘em down. That way the Mormon settlements can git ready to fight or run. An’ the prophet can use the extry time to try to talk some sense into Buchanan. Meanwhile, Brother Brigham’s sent Colonel Burton and his men to keep an eye on Union troops comin’ from Kansas and to protect Saints travelin’ on the Mormon Trail.” He paused to take a swig of water from his canteen.

  “Now, it would be blamed foolhardy for an army as small as ours to face hundreds of trained Union soldiers in an all out war. So the prophet has a better plan.”

  Andy winced, remembering the prophet’s last “plan” that had cost so many lives.

  “We’re goin’ to burn the grass along their trail, pester ‘em, play a few tricks, and make ‘em think we’ve got a lot more men than we have. We’ll run off their cattle, sneak in and steal their supplies – anything to annoy ‘em and keep ‘em from gettin’ into Deseret.” Rockwell stroked his beard again. “But we’re not s’posed to shoot anybody or start a battle, lessin’ we can’t help it.” He pointed back east. “So, turn back the way you came, and let’s get to work.”

  The men began rustling, about to obey his orders. “I meant all in good time,” Rockwell called out. “Figured we’d head into old Jim Bridger’s fort here and make ourselves at home for a few days first. Mighty gentlemanly of him to leave it for us.” He chuckled. “He and Vasquez are off scoutin’ for the Army, and the Injuns are at their summer huntin’ grounds. Whilst they’re gone, the fort is ours. The new Union troops are still a long way off in Kansas, so we’ll just rattle the cages of the soldiers around Laramie.”

  As an afterthought, he added, “An’ when we’re done with the fort, we might just set a match or two to this heap of junk as a nice surprise for old Bridger when he returns.”

  Set fire to Fort Bridger? Andy shuddered. Old Jim had been nothing but nice to him and the travelers who had come through on the Oregon and Mormon trails. As best he could remember, Bridger had treated both Mormon and gentile fairly.

  Andy’s thoughts quickly turned to Ingrid and Ammie. He knew Major Crawford had told Ingrid to enlist Bridger’s help to escape from the Mormon wagons. Would she be at the fort? Or had she decided to stay with the relief wagons and try to escape once they made it to Great Salt Lake? Another unbidden thought flashed across his mind – nobody escapes from the Mormons and lives to tell about it. Anne Marie had warned Ingrid of that as she lay dying at Devil’s Gate. Were Ingrid’s and Ammie’s bodies lying in a cold trench somewhere on up the trail? Andy sent up another prayer for their safety, wherever they were.

  He picked up his duffel and headed toward the fort, determined to make the best of this new situation. At least he could put off the dreaded confrontation with Pa for a few more weeks.

  The Ohio River

  Elsie sighed deeply as the paddle-wheeler slowly pulled away from the dock. Would she ever see her beloved River Bend again? So many happy times. So many beautiful memories. She felt her heart would burst with anguish as she silently said goodbye to all that she had known.

  Trying to shake her melancholy, she focused on the trees tha
t lined the steep river banks, playing a game with herself as she catalogued the tree species in her mind. Chestnut, butternut, beech – wouldn’t her brothers and Isaac have loved this game here on the riverboat deck? At the thought of Isaac down below, another wave of sadness swept over her.

  She shook her head, as if to chase her gloominess away. Instead of dwelling on the past and things that were out of her control, why not play the “thankful” game? Thankful she was en route to a reunion in Santa Fe with her brothers. And that Isaac was accompanying her. Thankful for the gorgeous sunset that was brightening the sky with the same colors that abounded in her garden back home.

  She turned her gaze to the spectacle God was painting in the sky to the west. The brilliant hues reminded her of the flowers blooming outside the breakfast room back at River Bend. The lavender of her sweet-scented bushes deepened into the purple of the hyacinths before being joined by the orange of the lilies and the crimson of the roses.

  Elsie caught her breath as the shades intensified and the reflection of the blazing sky seemed to set the river on fire. The mirrored colors glanced off the ripples, looking for all the world like joyful sparks flying off a bonfire. God, forgive me! she silently prayed. Help me to be content in the situation in which you have placed me. Help me remember that all things work together for my good. You alone can bring peace to my aching heart!

  The sky darkened as the boat passed by a mighty forest of oak, ash, and maple trees that lined both sides of the river. Ahead, the river broadened, and Elsie realized they were pulling onto an island. She watched as the slaves lashed the boat securely on a beautiful, broad beach.

  “Looks like we’re going to overnight here.” A baritone voice behind her broke the evening quiet. Elsie turned to greet a young couple standing at the rail to watch the activity below. “John and Mary Montgomery,” the man said, tipping his hat. “We were married just a fortnight ago and are on our way to join my family at their home in Illinois.”