The Fugitive Son (17 page)

The doubts came rushing back in as he considered everything Pa had tried to teach him. Though not publically acknowledged, polygamy had begun back in Nauvoo, where he knew the Prophet Joseph had taken several wives. It wasn’t on the frontier, and most of the women Joseph Smith had taken as plural wives were already married to leaders in the church. They already had husbands to protect them. So Pa’s justifications didn’t hold water.

The thought of breaking Anne Marie’s heart by taking additional wives had wounded him to the core. He couldn’t have done that to the girl he had loved so much. Yet, the church said it was his duty, that he would never make it to the Celestial Kingdom without plural marriage. Could he have taken that step, duty or not? And could he, like Apostle Kimball, have handed over his own wife to the prophet to bed, simply because the prophet ordered it as a commandment of the Lord?

Andy now knew the facts that men actually outnumbered the women in Deseret. So there was no need for them to have several wives. In fact, if the older men kept marrying the young girls, there would be no wives for the younger fellas to begin their own kingdoms. Things just didn’t add up. Remembering what Hettie’s sons had told him about the castration of their friend at the Parowan school made him physically ill again. “No!” he shouted. “It can’t be right! Something is wrong with the prophet’s teaching!”

He fell to his knees alongside the stream and splashed cold water over his head and face, as if trying to purge himself of evil. “God,” he cried. “What is truth? Are you even real? Please show me the way.”

Andy lay beside the rushing stream, letting its incessant gurgling and singing over the rocks wash away some of the turmoil in his soul. Relaxed, he pulled his hat over his eyes to block out the brilliant sunshine and fell asleep.

Awakened by a strange sensation, Andy sat up and looked directly into the peering eyes of Kanosh, chief of the Pahvant. Standing nearby were several warriors of his band. Andy recognized the chief from his visits to Great Salt Lake City. Kanosh was the chief who had killed Captain John Gunnison, an army surveyor, and several of his men on the banks of the Sevier River a few years back. Had God sent him to punish Andy for doubting?

Kanosh held out his hand. “Miss Hettie. She friend of mine. Told me to look after you so nobody hurt you.”

With a huge sigh of relief, Andy took the proffered hand. Sitting beside Andy on the riverbank, Kanosh explained in his broken English that Miss Hettie had befriended him and his warriors many times, exchanging her jellies and jams for animal skins to cover her floor, baking them bread and helping with herbal medicines when his children became ill with white man’s diseases. “Others, they ignore Indians. Turn us away. Don’t like us. But Miss Hettie good to us. So we escort you to prophet. Going that way, anyway.”

Before resuming their trek, his new friends challenged Andy to some of the well-known Indian sports – spear-tossing contests, arm wrestling, and log rolling. When Andy’s log got away from him, landing him with a “splash!” midstream, Kanosh and his band nearly rolled on the ground laughing. “White boy not such good stand-up man!” they hooted.

At the moment, he wanted to be a “sit-down man.” He mounted his horse and headed it back north, oblivious to his soaking wet clothes and dripping hair. The Indian band followed his lead and rode in relative silence for a couple of hours. Now that Andy had companionship to occupy his mind, he could keep all his doubts at bay and enjoy the company of his new friends.

Cherokee Trail, Kansas Territory

Elsie watched in amusement as children continued to climb out of the wagons to join their friends in play. The little boys headed for the nearest piles of dirt; the girls found grassy spots to sit and play with their ragdolls. Many of the older girls watched over the youngest children while their mothers fixed the meals.

The children were rambunctious, full of pent-up energy from the day’s long journey, but amazingly well-behaved. And judging from the way they were dressed, Elsie surmised their families did, indeed, have money. She looked around at the beautiful broadcloth, poplin, and muslin dresses the girls wore, complete with full hoop skirts, petticoats, ruffles, and flounces. If these were their everyday traveling clothes, what did their dress clothing look like? Even the boys, unlike the untidy ragamuffins she had seen in Kansas City and on the miners’ train, were dressed more like her kin back at the plantation. Her mother had never allowed her brothers and Isaac to wear dirty, torn shirts and trousers, even for work or play.

The young mothers milled around, and like their daughters, most of them were well dressed. Some swirled around the campfire, carefully holding back their voluminous skirts; others had donned casual, more practical skirts for the journey. Elsie giggled aloud. She herself had put away her flowing skirts and ruffles after just one day of climbing in and out of the wagon and trying to hop up on the driver’s seat. How long would it take these women to get rid of their petticoats, buttons, and bows?

As if reading her thoughts, Cynthia Tackitt came alongside, laughing with her. “We women surely do love the effect of a tiny waist with a huge skirt, for sure. Still, didn’t stop me from ditching my metal hoop and crinoline a day or two after we left Arkansas!”

“I tossed mine under the bed after one day on the trail,” Elsie admitted. “Way too much trouble along with everything else we have to contend with. If it weren’t so unladylike, I think I’d choose to wear britches like the men to make it easier gathering wood for fires and climbing around on wagons.”

The two ladies glanced at the children, who seemed to be having the time of their lives. “But how do they manage to keep the children so clean?” Elsie asked. “How can anyone look so tidy amongst all this dirt and dust?”

“Just like we love the elegance of our own dresses so much that we sacrifice comfort and practicality in the name of fashion, we’re equally as extravagant and frilly when it comes to dressing our children.” Cynthia paused and batted a pesky fly from her side curls. “Sure does make for a heap of laundry, though.”

During dinner, the travelers sat down near their own wagons to dine as families. The Fancher group, which included the captain’s own passel of children, plus a number of in-laws and out-laws, as he called them, was very large and jovial. The camaraderie among them spoke of a close-knit clan, but they all worked hard at including Elsie in their conversations, explaining people and places they were talking about so she could follow the flow of talk.

Sally Poteet, whom Cynthia had introduced as a cousin whose family planned to leave the train early to head for southwest Texas, brought her plate and plunked down next to Elsie. “Looks like we’re about the only unwed spinsters in this group,” she confided, “so we should stick together.” She flung her head enough to bounce her sun-kissed sausage curls and laughed. She reminded Elsie of many of her friends back in Kentucky at their coming-out parties. Vivacious, spunky, and full of life.

Catching her playful spirit, Elsie joined in the fun. “Spinsters? You mean we’re old maids before we even hit twenty?”

“Won’t be for long. This train is loaded with young bucks who would be more than willing to take that title away from both of you,” Cynthia interjected. “I think I’m probably one of the oldest women on the train,” she added. “And I’m still in my forties.”

She turned to Elsie and explained, “You’re probably noticing this train is mostly made up of young folk. Many of our young men served in the Mexican-American War a few years ago, and they don’t want to get caught up in another war back home. So they’re hankering to take advantage of the federal land grants out West.”

Her eyes swept over the young ladies gathering around and their swains following close by. “Judging from the looks of things, I’d venture to guess that my son Pleasant will be performing a few weddings on this trip,” she said with a grin.

Cynthia reached out and affectionately patted Sally’s hand. “And if these old eyes serve me right, the way Marion looks at you no doubt means yours might be one of those weddings.” She turned toward Elsie, “Marion’s one of my younger sons. You’ll be getting to know him well in the days ahead, as he’s volunteered to help with your wagon. Which means you’ll be seeing a lot of Sally, as the two of them are never far apart.”

Sally blushed. “Speaking of the Reverend Pleasant,” she said, “here he comes, fiddle in hand. Do we get to sing around the campfire again tonight?”

A distinguished young man approached, followed by two toddlers.

“That’s Pleasant and his little boys,” Cynthia said by way of introduction. “Let’s spread our quilts and make room for the others.”

Before long the prairie was alive with the sound of happy, joyful music. Several others had brought guitars, dulcimers, and a few instruments Elsie had never seen before. She soon found herself tapping her leather lace-up boots to the rhythm.

She had rarely experienced such joyful hymn singing. The hymns they sang in her church back home were uplifting but dignified. Nothing like this toe-tapping, boisterous, spirited music. She poked Sally and whispered, “What kind of religion are these people?”

Sally grinned. “Religion? I guess most of us are Baptists or Methodists. Reverend Pleasant is a Methodist preacher.”

“He must be a ‘Shouting’ Methodist then.”

Unable to contain her mirth, Sally burst out laughing, causing quite a few eyes to look their way. She covered her mouth with her hands, trying to curtail her giggles. “Shouting Methodist? Where in the world did you hear that?”

Abashed, Elsie looked apologetic. “That’s what Papa called some of our neighbors. I supposed it was a separate denomination or something. We’re Methodists, but our music never sounded as lively as this.”

“No need to apologize,” Sally replied. “In fact, it’s a pretty good description of us. We do get pretty noisy sometimes.” She glanced up at the young pastor, who looked like he was about to start preaching, Bible in hand. “And when Reverend Pleasant gets revved up, preaching hell fire and damnation, he does get to shouting some!”

Elsie listened intently as the young preacher and the crowd got “revved up.” Unaccustomed to his kind of sermonizing, she was fascinated as he began to explain the Word of God amidst a constant chorus of “amens” and “hallelujahs.”

“The very word ‘religion,’” he said, “means to reconnect. And that’s what man has been trying to do ever since Adam and Eve sinned in the garden – reconnect with the Creator.” He went into a lengthy discussion on man’s attempts to reach God, beginning with Cain’s offering of the works of his hands, while his brother Abel brought an acceptable sacrifice.

“The Bible clearly says without the shedding of blood is no remission, no forgiveness, for sin!” He thundered, pounding his Bible across his palm. More “amens!” and “hallelujahs!” echoed through the crowd. As the reverend warmed to his topic, the crowd got more excited and loud. Shouting Methodists, indeed! But Elsie rather enjoyed it.

That night’s campfire was just one of many Elsie would experience along the arduous trail. On most evenings, if it wasn’t storming or if the travelers hadn’t had a rough day forging streams and pushing up hills, they gathered together for worship. And always, despite the weather, worship services were held every Wednesday and Sunday. These folks took their faith seriously.

The fun and fellowship of all the Fanchers, Tackitts, Bakers, Dunlaps, and others turned the long, tedious journey into an exciting time of making new friends, sharing confidences, and just plain good times. The days passed swiftly, and even the physical hardships of the trail and her constant worries about Isaac were made better because of the horseplay and joyful moods of her many new friends.

Even when a huge swarm of locusts had darkened the sky and frightened the little ones, Captain Fancher and Reverend Pleasant made light of the situation. “God just sent those nasty insects along to help us appreciate the beautiful sunshine he’s been blessing us with,” the reverend explained.

“So let’s crawl up into our wagons and enjoy the darkness. It will help us all sleep better,” suggested Captain Fancher. “We’ll pray the locusts get their tummies full of food here and take off for greener pastures tomorrow.” As an afterthought, he added, “Or maybe they’ll gorge themselves so much they’ll founder like an old horse and lie down and die.”

And they did. The next morning the travelers gave thanks for the brilliant sunshine, while stepping gingerly around the camp to keep from squishing the thousands of dead locusts that covered the ground.

Elsie watched the tall, gaunt captain in awe. She fully understood how he had earned the nickname “Piney Alex,” which most of the travelers called him. He stood ramrod straight like a pine tree, head and shoulders above most of the others. Sally had told her it wasn’t just his posture and height that earned him the name, however.

“Uncle Alex is such a straight guy in all his dealings,” she said. “His word is his bond, and he’ll never let you down. He’s already made this trek to California three times, and when he suggested that some of us might want to come with him this time, look at all the folks who signed on! They sold their farms, houses, and businesses and are ready to start a whole new way of life, just because they know they can trust him.”