The Fugitive Son (11 page)

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 make 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?”

Andy tried to explain that he had been living the life of a mountain man for several months, but Pa interrupted. “And the girls? Where are the brides you promised to escort out here for me? When I saw they weren’t with that pathetic bunch that were rescued last year, I naturally assumed you’d bring them along later.”

Andy paused. Could he lie to his father and the prophet? That was the only way he could keep his promise to Anne Marie that he’d help Ingrid escape with baby Ammie. His Adam’s apple protruded hugely as he swallowed hard. Now was not the time for a confession.

“Well?” Pa gazed intently on his son as he continued his rant. “I trusted you to bring both my young brides safely into Great Salt Lake City. Where are they?”

Andy raised his chin ever so slightly, returning Pa’s intense gaze with determination. “Sir, they didn’t make it past the Devil’s Gate ordeal.”

The elder Rasmussen seemed momentarily stunned, and then shrugged resignedly, “I reckon it was a hard trip. I'm sure you did the best you could for them. What's done is done.”

The prophet reached out and patted Charles’ shoulder as if to comfort the man. “One of the blessings of the Lord is that Deseret is full of pretty young girls. We’ll find you a couple more in good time.”

Andy’s anger flared at that moment as he remembered the soldiers’ taunts, “Brigham Young ain’t no prophet! He’s just an old geezer with a harem of brood mares. He treats his women like cows!”

And I defended him,
Andy thought as he wondered about his father’s lack of reaction.
How can he not be heartbroken over the news that his brides are dead? Why is he not at least curious about how they died?

His emotions in turmoil, doubts assailing him on every side, Andy completely lost control. Never before had he felt such anger, such absolute rage. He yelled at Pa, “How can you be so callous? Didn’t you feel anything for Anne Marie? And my own mother? How could you leave her dying alone with the black canker back in Winter Quarters to go gallivanting off with the prophet?” He stifled a sob. “I never got to see her again, even to tell her goodbye!”

Turning his rage toward the prophet, Andy continued his tirade. “And you! Demanding that the Willy and Martin parties leave so late in the season. You had to know they would never make it before winter set in! Those handcarts were the worst piece of junk, breaking up, leaving starving people stranded. And why didn’t you at least send the relief parties earlier before Anne Marie suffered and died?” At the thought of Anne Marie, Andy finally got control of his anger. He sat down on one of the office benches, his head in his hands.

Instead of the tongue lashing Andy expected in answer to his accusations and rage, the prophet hugged him tightly. “There, there, my boy. You’ve endured far more than a chap your age should ever experience in a lifetime.”

Patting Andy’s back with loving, comforting strokes, he continued, “God has revealed to me exactly what you need. Let’s give you some time to rest and relax, and then I’ll have an important job for you to do. Working to build up Zion is a good cure for disappointment.”

Turning to Charles, the prophet gave him a look loaded with meaning. “I understand it’s been a long time since you last visited Homely Hettie. Doesn’t she live down there somewhere between Panquitch and Parowan? Isn’t it about time you took the boy there and spent some time with your sixth wife and children?”

Andy had been sure the prophet or Pa would order a blood atonement to save his wayward soul. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. With his throat intact, Andy thought visiting Auntie Hettie seemed like a reprieve.

Missouri River

To Elsie’s relief, traveling up the Missouri was quite enjoyable. Wild flowers abounded along the banks, and several times when the
Polar Star
stopped to refuel, she had gone ashore to climb the banks and pick bouquets for her stateroom.

She had to admit, even to herself, that her new “banty” friend was an entertaining companion. Often, when he wasn’t needed in the wheelhouse, Sam joined her on the Texas deck just to chat. And could he chat! He kept her amused with his silly stories and just as often entertained large crowds in his self-appointed role as tour guide. It seemed he already had absorbed much of the river’s history, knew everyone from Minnesota to New Orleans, plus a few in New York City, and had an amazing grasp on the nation’s politics.

Whenever he could draw an appreciative audience, Sam waxed eloquent about the Missouri River. “Yes, sir, navigating the Missouri’s sinuous curves and capricious currents is a mighty challenge, even for the most skillful pilots,” he said.

Then, with more braggadocio than humility, he added, “And I’m not afeared to tell ya, this is only my second time up the river, and you’ll notice, we haven’t run aground yet! Last time I navigated this stream, the boat could have almost made it to St. Joe by land, for she was walking most of the time – climbing over reefs and clambering over snags all day long.”

Elsie giggled, realizing she actually trusted this funny little man, despite his exaggerations. Sam stroked his mustache in the charming manner he had and added, “This river is so muddy, my friend Steamboat Bill Hickman said the Missouri was too thick to navigate and not thick enough to cultivate. Ah yes, the romance of the river!”

On rare occasions, Sam could even be serious. “Are you certain you want to head out toward Utah and New Mexico Territory?” he asked her one evening as the boat lay moored for the night. “President Buchanan has declared war on the Mormons, and the Army is on the march across Kansas, ready to make the Saints behave and obey the government’s regulations.”