The 19th Wife

by David Ebershoff

  After two and a half years, I could no longer hide the true state of my marriage. I told my parents the full and miserable account, and within an hour they asked him to leave. Dee protested, claiming his various rights, but my father dragged him to the wagon and drove him to Salt Lake, depositing him in the street.

  In the morning, my father and I went to see Brigham. I maintained my composure as I told the Prophet the intimate details of my marriage. Throughout my story, Brigham maintained a sympathetic gaze. His brow buckled at the most painful parts, and his lip ruffled with true and deep empathy. “You have been treated worse than an animal,” he said. “You must divorce him.”

  “But how?”

  “I shall tell you.” Brigham proceeded to lay out a legal strategy for me to be rid of Dee. In his power as leader of the Church, he dissolved the marriage at once. But for purposes of custody, he advised me to file for a divorce in the Probate Court of Great Salt Lake County. “I will do whatever I can to facilitate this. I’ll write the judge personally. I’ll serve as witness. I promise you”—and here he touched me, or so it seemed, with his iron eyes—“that you will be free from this man before Christmas.”

  On December 23 I gave testimony before the court. Dee failed to appear, and in short order I was divorced from my husband with full custody of my boys. Brigham had honored his promise with such resolution that on Christmas Day I gave thanks to God for the birth of His son and the wise guidance of our Prophet. On that glorious day there was no Saint in all of Mormondom who owed more to Brigham than I.

  XIII

  CONTRACT OF FAITH

  WRITTEN DEPOSITION IN THE CASE OF

  ANN ELIZA WEBB DEE YOUNG

  Versus

  BRIGHAM YOUNG

  NO. 71189

  On this 3rd day of October, 1873, in Salt Lake, in the Territory of Utah, Gilbert Webb personally appeared before me, Judge Albert Hagan, counsel to the plaintiff, Ann Eliza Webb Dee Young, to enter into the record of this Special Examination a written deposition consisting of his Testimony in the matter between the plaintiff and Brigham Young.

  I am Gilbert Webb, thirty-nine years old, son of Elizabeth and Chauncey Webb. I received my ordinances in the Nauvoo Temple in January 1846, in the state of Illinois. I presently live in South Cottonwood on my father’s land. I work as a shepherd, rancher, and wagon manufacturer. I have two wives, Kate and Almira, and eighteen children. My statement, as written here, is limited to my knowledge of, and direct experience with, Brigham Young, President, between the periods of May 1866 and March 1868, leading to my indebtedness to him, and the engagement of my sister, Ann Eliza, to become his 19th wife. With our Heavenly Father watching over, I swear everything I write here is true as far as I know it and I know no other version of these events.

  It started on a Sunday in May 1866. My wives and I stopped on the Salt Lake Road under the nine o’clock sun. The Prophet wasn’t due for another hour. By my count more than a thousand people had come out to greet him and a thousand more would come before ten. The valley was green from the grass and out to the East the mountains were blue with morning shade and white on the cap with old snow.

  My wives had stitched a welcome banner saying “The Daughters of Zion—Virtue” and held it above our heads on two sticks. Under the locust we could feel the spring chill on our necks but when in the sun it was hot as June and my wives fanned themselves with the leaflets announcing the Prophet’s visit.

  Up the road I could see my ma and pa, along with his wives. Sisters Lydia and Eleanor held a banner that said “Mothers in Israel.” Ann Eliza was with them, along with her boys, James and Lorenzo. It looked as if she was holding a banner that read “Hail to the Prophet,” but the woman next to her was carrying it. There were so many people it was hard to tell.

  After an hour a brass band led Brigham into town, followed by a brigade of children waving sticks with ribbons on the ends, then the hundred carriages in his party escorted by fifty horsemen. People stood three deep along the road and everyone cheered and waved. “Do you see him?” cried Kate, bouncing on her toes. “All I see is a hat in a window.” Almira set her hand on my shoulder and jumped a foot off the ground. “That’s him all right,” she said. “I recognize the brim.”

  I picked up one child after the next, set him on my shoulders, gave him a glimpse of the Prophet, then set him back down and picked up the next. There were twelve then. The oldest was eleven. By the time I hoisted the baby, Brigham was down the road.

  We followed Brigham over to the bowery. It was an open-air structure, with a roof of branches held up by columns of white pine. My wives and children filled two benches, leaving no room for me. I stood next to them in the aisle, leaning against one of the columns. Two of the boys were fidgeting, pinching each other on the knee. One of the boys belonged to Kate, the other to Almira, but both were mine—I could see my chin on them, dimpled underneath.

  When Brigham took the pulpit everyone went silent, even the children. “Good Morning, good Brethren and Sisters,” he began. “I’ve come to your fine village to greet you because I want to talk about families, yours and mine. As you know, I have a large clan, made up of many sorts, my sons and daughters each with his own mind, or her own mind, and my wives, each with her own way of looking upon the world. I cherish nothing more than hearing one of my wives tell me what she thinks about the news of the day, or the progress of her hat-making, or whatever preoccupies her mind—for each is unique in her outlook, and it is this that makes her a child of God. I cherish when my wives, or my children, respond to my words given to them as husband, or as father, or as Prophet. Indeed, they have much commentary about my words as your Prophet and Leader, sometimes telling me I have spoken well, other times telling me my meaning is unclear. Every now and then one of my daughters, or one of my wives—yes, always the women—asks why anger and choler—for that is what they believe it to be—colors my sermons and other public commentary. When I speak to my family in private, as opposed to you and the other Saints of Deseret, I speak no differently, for my role in guiding them as father and husband is no different than my role in guiding your spirits toward our Heavenly Father. And thus, if you think I am admonishing you unfairly for your habits and ways, know that I admonish my daughters and sons, and my wives, in the same way. I know sometimes they think I am old and not aware of today’s fashions or tastes, but my wisdom comes not from the newspaper or the gossip buzzing about the counter at the store, but from our Book and the other words the Lord has shared, and from prayer, and thus I speak a truth which transcends the customs of this year, or of this decade, or even of this century—a truth that shall guide you through eternity. And so, it is with your good patience I have a few things to say about your habits and your ways. If you believe I am haranguing you, you are correct, for I harangue you with a heart heavy with love—”

  Soon after Brigham started speaking I admit I began thinking about my lambs and how high the grass was already this year and how much they’d bring when they went to slaughter. I must’ve been day-dreaming for a long time because Brigham was deep in sermon before I heard much of what he had to say. On this morning two themes interested him above the rest—the fashion of the women and the drinking habits of the men. Sometimes when he gets going on sinning it’s hard to know if he’ll ever stop.

  “My goodness, Sisters, if another one of you comes to me to discuss the fashions of the Gentiles, I shall tell you, Go, dress like the Gentile woman, appear as the whore, if that is what you want. You tell me about the hoops and the heart-shaped collars and the silks that cling and reveal the shapes of all of you; you ask why you cannot wear what the women of Paris wear, what the women of New York wear. By all means, you may wear the fashions of New York, the couture of Paris. If that is what you want. And if it is what you want, then you shall understand why I must assume you also want to be known as the whore. So be it. Sister-whores, order as you like from the Eastern catalogs! Dress as if you were walking up Broadway! But in doing so, know th
at you are not a Sister to me—You are not a Latter-day Saint! So ponder your choice in garment, Sisters. For the cloth on your back reveals much more than your lovely shape.”

  Hearing the Prophet talk of women’s hoops got one of my boys snickering. The wives tried to settle him, but the boy was worked up. He laughed until Brigham called him out: “Young man, why is this funny?” Brigham was sixty-six, fat and vigorous, with a large head that went red and dark when he condemned his people. His chins and mustaches quivered when he cried my boy’s name. The boy didn’t peep again all day.

  “Brothers, you laugh when I talk about our Sisters’ interest in frippery? You nod in agreement that our women are choosing silk over Saintliness? But what about you? You, Brothers, your sins are worse, far worse. For although our women debase their bodies when they don a dress that enhances their tother ends, you, Brothers, you debase your souls when you drown your days in whiskey and rye. If the Sisters worship at the altar of the catalog, you, Brothers, kneel before the bottle and the barrel. Each drink shall be remembered. Each sip shall be tallied. Each swallow shall swallow you!”

  I looked to survey my brood. Kate’s eyes had glazed over. I gathered she was pondering the rolls of Boston wallpaper Dalby’s had put out for sale. Almira was upright and alert with envy for Mrs. Ball’s quail-feathered bonnet bobbing across the aisle. I looked forward to hearing all about it at the supper table. My twelve children were asleep, propped against one another or slumped over in their mothers’ laps. Little Gilbert lay like a pup on the ground. Sometimes I could not believe they were mine. Certainly twelve is not a record. In Deseret twelve children causes no comment. Sometime soon Almira or Kate would announce a thirteenth. The fourteenth could not be far behind.

  For a while now I sensed Brigham was looking down in my direction. True I enjoyed whiskey as much as the next man, but no more so, not enough for Brigham to call me out. In the last year only once did Jamison have to dump me at the door too drunk to walk. I’ve never lifted my hand to either wife and by God never to my children. So why was Brigham gazing my way? His eyes shone the way the sun catches a scar on a plow’s blade. Perhaps a false rumor had spread and reached his ear. I’d seen it happen—stories passing as if they were fact and men condemned because of it. I try not to ask too much of my wives but if I hear them sharing out tittle-tattle I tell them to stop and go back and clean up their debris. I once heard my pa say, Live by rumor, die by it too. And so it be. Now, with Brigham’s stare on me, I figured someone I didn’t know to count as my enemy had gone about twisting up my name.

  Yet I came to see he wasn’t looking at me but admiring my sister standing near-by. Ann Eliza was twenty-one now and more beautiful than ever. I am no poet and can’t depict beauty and won’t try. Since divorcing Dee she had turned down half a dozen marriage proposals. More than a few men had come to tell me of their desire to take my sister’s hand.

  After the services, we all walked home to my ma’s house for supper. Along the way, the Presidential Carriage pulled up. Brigham stepped down and asked Ann Eliza if he might walk with her.

  My brood and I were twenty paces behind this scene. We could see them plainly but the wind was wrong for us to hear. My wives galloped forward, dragging the children and me, stopping ten paces from their target, where we were close enough to pick up their words.

  “You’ve never looked finer,” Brigham remarked.

  “You’ve never sounded angrier,” said my sister. “When you return to Salt Lake, please send my best to Mrs. Young.”

  If Brigham grimaced or winced, I could not see it. “They ask after you. They remember you fondly from your stay.”

  “I remember some of them quite fondly as well.” Each time my sister jabbed the Prophet with her words, my wives looked at each other with quick-moving eyes that spoke a language all their own.

  “Do you think you’ll ever remarry?” Brigham asked.

  “I hope not.”

  “What if it were your duty?”

  “Thankfully it isn’t.”

  Brigham took Lorenzo in his arms. As he continued to walk with my sister, more and more people speculated on the nature of his interest. Kate whispered her theory: “I guess it’s time for a new wife. It’s been nearly a year.”

  “He’s chasing the wrong hoop,” said Almira. “He’s the last man in Utah she’d ever marry.”

  “She says that. But look at her!”

  Without my wives I would have been at a loss for interpretation. My ma’s house was near and I could tell you exactly what was on my wives’ minds: Would Ann Eliza invite the Prophet in for supper? Before a decision had to be made, my ma swooped in.

  Following the meal Brigham asked my pa and me to meet him in my ma’s house for a discussion. After some talk about the May grasses and the water levels, Brigham got into his purpose. “Chauncey, Friend, I’ve known your daughter since she was a babe. I’ve watched her grow from child to woman. When she met Dee I tried to warn her but she wouldn’t listen. I would’ve married her myself, but I’d just only recently taken Amelia as my wife. Washington was after me just then, going on about my wives. It wasn’t the right time for another marriage. I can’t tell you how it strained me to watch that man abuse her. And those boys. I want to make those boys mine. I want Ann Eliza for my wife.” Brigham implored my pa for half an hour. He didn’t think to address me. It didn’t matter, I didn’t want to be a part of it. Brigham finished his appeal with a promise. “I’ll treat her well.”

  “How will your wives treat her?” my pa asked.

  “They will love her. When she stayed with them, they took her in.”

  “That’s not what she says,” I said. “She was lonely.”

  “Lonely?” said Brigham. “In the Lion House?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Did she?” asked my pa.

  “She was very young,” said Brigham. “It was her first time away from her mother. Of course she’d be lonely. But this time, no, she’ll have me, and the boys, and Mrs. Webb, if she wants, she can come live with us. You know my great fondness for Sister Elizabeth.”

  My pa thought about all this. “Maybe you should ask her now.”

  “First I need you to agree. If she doesn’t care for the Lion House, I’ll set her up in a fine home of her own, furnished as she likes, and provide her with five hundred dollars a year. Each boy will have a room. I have a house in mind—it’s not far from mine. There’s a tree out back with an elbow where the boys can build a tree house. I’ll help them. Think of it—your daughter will have a husband. Your grandsons will have a father.”

  “You should ask her,” my pa said again.

  “Yes, but how does it sound to you?”

  “I can’t talk about it anymore without consulting her.”

  “Let’s say seven hundred and fifty dollars. Will that be enough?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “One thousand? How’s that?”

  “Brother Brigham, I can’t speak for my daughter.”

  “Yes, but will you recommend it?”

  “I can only present it,” said my pa.

  Our meeting lasted an hour. “Walk me to my carriage,” Brigham said to me upon conclusion. At the road, the Prophet asked about my family. “How many children are there now? Ten, eleven?”

  “Twelve.”

  “That’s a lot of mouths. It can strain a man. I see you still live on your pa’s land and tend his sheep.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You need a little fortune to come your way.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “How much do I pay you for your sheep?” I told him my deal with the Church’s butchery. “Let’s improve it, shall we? Another dollar?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  The Prophet rested his hand on my arm. “Now I need your help. Will you tell your sister to take my offer?”

  “It’s a good offer,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s good for her.”

&
nbsp; When I returned to the house my pa was already telling Ann Eliza about the Prophet’s proposal. “I’m afraid he loves you,” he said.

  “Did he say that?”

  “In his own way.”

  “His own way is to love one woman, then the next, then the next again.”

  My ma entered the fray. “Ann Eliza, settle down. You act like he’s come to lock you up.”

  “Hasn’t he? Isn’t that what he wants—for me to be one of a hundred wives?”

  “He doesn’t have a hundred wives,” said my ma.

  “No? Then how many?”

  “That’s enough,” said my ma. “All Brigham’s done is propose.”

  Ann Eliza cooled her fury. “Mother, I know you love him. And I love him too, but as my Prophet, not my husband.”

  “You think you’re smarter than everyone,” my ma said. “But you’re not. I’m not blind. I know Brigham has his weaknesses, but do they erase everything good he’s ever done?”

  I went out into the kitchen yard. I had no more desire to be with my wives than I had to be back in that argument. My only place it seemed was outside in the night. The moon was up and lit the path to my cottage. The cattle were lowing and the sheep were bleating and the night was empty but noisy too. I could smell the rye in the paddock and last year’s hay in the barn. It was cold, and the cold gathered in the stones of the path.

  When my wives greeted me at the door, I stopped them before they could begin. “Not tonight,” I said. “Not tonight.”

  They offered milk and cake but I was not hungry and asked the women to let me alone. They retreated to their bedrooms, one door latching, then the next. Upstairs the children slept, four boys across the Mormon sofa, two babes bundled in the cradle, the rest divided between two beds. I had a vision of myself in the future, five or six years along, gone silver in the beard, another six or eight children under my roof. And if I were foolish enough, maybe another wife. What was to stop it—this terrible vision of my future days? When I thought of happiness I thought of my horse bending to drink from a stream. I thought of a meadow where the only chatter came from the jays and the squirrels. I thought of a bedroll under the stars. I thought of stretching out beneath the night, falling asleep alone.