The 19th Wife

by David Ebershoff

  I drifted off in my chair but woke at midnight. Sunday was my night of rest from my women and typically I slept in the bed behind the kitchen, but I didn’t want to lie down there tonight. I went outside. The wind had kicked up, throwing around the cold. There was a dew that’d go to frost by dawn. Inside the barn my sorrel greeted me with a sneeze. The barn smelled of hay and manure and cold water in the metal trough. I climbed up into the hay loft, disturbing a hen. I lay down and propped my head in a saddle and threw a striped saddle blanket over my chest. A barn cat with a bend in his tail tiptoed through the straw and climbed on top of me. His paws delicately dented my belly and his bent tail flapped my face. A stranger might think I had argued with my wives, sleeping in the loft like that, but I hadn’t argued with anyone. I was very tired and the cat curled up and pulled his tail up alongside him. He was very small and in need of milk and he didn’t weigh anything at all on my chest where he slept, going up and down, up and down.

  Over the next year my wives gave me two more children. First Almira, then Kate. A boy and a girl. I loved them as much as a man can divide up his heart among fourteen. It’s a queer feeling, slicing up affection like a wheel of cheese. I’ve heard them say the heart’s bottomless but I don’t agree. I love my boys and girls but when my mind is clear I have to admit I wish I could give out more love. There’s another queer feeling to it too. A man isn’t meant to greet a new baby at the rate of more than one a year. But the men of Deseret got to adjust. Sometimes you get two a year. If you’ve got three wives, that might mean three. It goes on from there. I felt myself moving on in years faster than I should. I was already hard in the bone and tired, like a man who’s winding down.

  The more children my wives gave me, the more I needed my pa to fish me out. I relied mostly on him for my land, my house, my wagons and teams, my sheep and the hands I hired, and my accounts at the store and the granary. Even my horse was his, a nice little sorrel with front socks and heavy feet. When money went tight, I borrowed from a neighbor or took credit at the hardware. I always meant to pay down my own debts but it never worked out. My pa would hear about my holes and fill them in.

  That’s how it went for a long time and that was how it was going to be. I knew this as a fact when the latest baby was born to Kate. She was a dense little thing with a carrot swirl of hair. Holding my fourteenth child for the first time I became sick with a feeling that I’d failed. When I was a young man on Mission with my pa, I’d lie awake in our bed and picture myself as a husband. As I pictured it, I owned a small board house in a meadow with a tin chimney. It was so clear in my mind I could even picture the white smoke puffing from the chimney in the cold spring air. I saw the mountains big and shiny above the house and my wife working the vegetable patch while I plowed the field. I saw a babe in a basket napping in the sunlight. I imagined a supper table set for two with the plates turned down. Those were my dreams.

  Soon after the baby’s arrival I went to see Almira in her room. It was her night. I found her waiting on the bed in her nightdress and the bonnet with the braided ribbon. “Shut the door,” she said. “We need to talk.”

  Yet she had said enough—another baby was coming. All was clear.

  I looked out the window. It was early spring and the final winter storm was coming. You could see it from the way the moon burned behind the clouds. My wife came to my side. Her fingers played with my sleeve. “You’re supposed to be happy.”

  I don’t know how much longer I stood at the window. Might’ve been an hour. I don’t know. The mountains were black and hidden but even when you can’t see them you know they’re there. For a long time I was ashamed to look at my wife. When I turned around I couldn’t see anything but the white bonnet crumpled in her hands.

  It snowed nearly a foot that night, but by daybreak the sun was up and already melting the pack on the southern roof. When I went out the path to my pa’s house was hidden, but from the way the wind was blowing soon it would clear. I waved to Ann Eliza out on her porch. She was in a green dress and the green was strong against the house’s white boards and the snow. She had done it. I reminded myself of that. She had escaped a life she did not want.

  I rode out to Lark’s Meadow, my horse chopping through the snow. Lark’s is a long narrow meadow with a timber of white pine on one side and the foothills on the other. The mountains stand tall over it, and half the meadow can go marshy in the spring. It was a good spot for sheep because of the grass and the water and the shade.

  When I reached the meadow I pulled up for a look. The sun was just then clearing the mountains and the snow hadn’t begun to melt. Everything looked hard and cold like in January and the white pines bent with the snow on the bough and the creek ran with ice. The log cabin at the far end was white with snow and it looked like no one had been to the meadow in some time and that wasn’t right.

  I rode down to the cabin and tied my horse. “Harkness?” I called.

  “It’s about time!” Harkness yelled from inside the cabin.

  When I opened the door I found him roped to a chair. “What happened here?”

  “First get me out of these damn ropes.” They’d worked the rope around Harkness a dozen times. The knot was tight and the cold made it stiff and unworkable and I had to cut the rope. When Harkness was free he jumped around the room getting the blood back to his legs. “Thought I’d freeze to death in that damn chair.”

  “How many?” I said.

  “Two.”

  “That’s all?”

  “The wind was picking up and I didn’t hear them ride in. They were carrying, each with a Winchester and a pistol.”

  “What time was it?”

  “About an hour before the snow.”

  “Local,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “They were waiting for a storm to cover their tracks. They seem familiar?”

  “Not really. But they knew what they were doing. They had them all rounded up and out the gate in a couple of minutes. Had a few dogs with them showing the way.”

  “Meanwhile you sat in that chair.”

  “Waiting for you, Sister.”

  “It’s not funny. I just lost a hundred sheep.”

  “And I nearly lost my legs tied down in this cold.”

  “Here’s my handkerchief. Go have a cry and come back when you can tell me who they were.”

  “They were two rustlers just like you imagine them. Quick in their dealings and good on a horse and real comfortable holding a gun.”

  I built a fire in the stove. I boiled some coffee and fried a pair of sausages and we ate without talking. Outside the sky was clear and the sun was strong. When I left the meadow was green again and springy under foot. You could smell the pine resin burning off the wet trees in the sun.

  Eventually Harkness found my sheep out on Van Etten’s land, up in a high pasture a mile off the road. Their brands had been burned over but if you looked you could see what had come first. Van Etten had been suspected of rustling a couple of times before. No one trusted him much, he was known for reporting false crimes to Brigham’s office. When I went to see Van Etten he denied knowing anything. He puffed up his chest but I told him I knew my sheep. “If you don’t stop accusing me,” he said, “I’ll go to the Prophet.” He was wearing his rifle but I was madder than I could remember. “I’ll go to him myself,” I said, and that’s what I did.

  I rode up to Salt Lake and took my place on line outside the Beehive House. When it was my turn I told Brigham my business.

  “If you’re certain,” he said, “then I’ll speak to the man.” A clerk in armbands interrupted Brigham to sign some papers. As he went about scratching off his name, he asked after my family. “I understand you’ve had more children. No one can accuse you of not doing your part. I hope you’re managing.” I told him I was. “Glad to know it. Now you’ll send my regards to your sister?”

  I told him I would and got up to leave.

  “In a hurry?” He laughed, his flesh
pressing against the buttons of his coat. “Sit down and tell me your plans. You’ve lost a hundred sheep. That must be difficult for a man in your position.”

  “It’d be difficult for any man.”

  He went quiet. Anyone could see his mind turning behind his eyes. “What do you know about telegraph poles?”

  “They go in the ground.”

  “That’s about all you need to know. How many teams do you have?”

  “Ten wagons and sixty mules.”

  “That might not be enough.”

  “For what?”

  “I need a man to deliver poles to the line my son’s running out from Denver.”

  “I can do it.”

  “They’re moving fast, making twenty-five miles a week.”

  “I can do it.”

  “How does two dollars and fifty cents a pole sound? Cut, shaped, and delivered.”

  This was the type of deal a man waits most of his life for. There was good timber at Lark’s Meadow. If I hired enough men and bought a few more teams it would work out all right. Brigham and I went over the details but it was all pretty clear. I’d set up a mill in the meadow to debark them and plane them and dry them in the sun, then treat them with the creosote. The teams would deliver them to the line. I knew I could do as fine a job as any man in Utah. We shook on the deal.

  Cutting and curing a telegraph pole is a simple process. Most any man with a good team and strong timber and quick saws can do it. The only special requirement is capital. For the men and the extra wagons and provisions I needed $11,000. I borrowed half the money from a Gentile banker named Walter Karr and the other half from a Mormon banker named Alfred Eagleton, at 5 percent a month. The job would be complete by mid-summer. After paying back the loan I’d have plenty to build out my house and keep my wives happy a few more years. I got ahead of myself and for one night thought about taking another wife. The truth is I’m as weak as the next man, maybe more.

  My wives were happy with the news. “We’ll help out by making your men their meals,” said Kate.

  Almira was showing under her apron, and for the first time the sight of her belly made me glad. “I’ll fix up the food in the morning,” she said, “giving each man one of my special peaches, and Kate will drive the food out to Lark’s. That way the work won’t have to stop.”

  It didn’t take long for us to reach twenty-five miles a week. The men laying the poles weren’t my men but we liked working together. With each delivery they said my poles were good, well-planed poles with a base as wide as it should be. They knew what was coming, which means they could dig their holes better and faster and stand the poles the right way. The job ran easy and smooth for everyone and I think everyone working on that line felt the way you do when you know well-earned money’s coming your way.

  By July we were nearing Denver. That’s when Brigham called me to his office. I thought he was going to pay off the job in advance because my work was quality work and everyone said so. “You’ve done such a fine job,” he said. “I want you to take over the line running to Montana. They’re in real trouble and might not finish this year. I’ll give you three dollars for every pole delivered, and a dollar for standing it in the ground.”

  A man who’s recently made real money has but one inclination, and that’s to make more. That same day I drove a load of poles north myself. I spent about two weeks straightening out the job and pulling up the bad poles and filling in old holes and digging new ones. On the Denver line the Prophet’s office paid me twice a month. But once I started driving north the payments stopped. I needed those deposits to pay my men. After three weeks I was low and could barely pay them out. After four weeks I spent everything I had to keep the men on the roll and the line extending north.

  When I went to see Brigham about the dried-up payments, his secretary kept me waiting for a long time and then told me to come back the next day. The next day it was the same. I couldn’t wait another day in Salt Lake. I needed to ride back up to the job. Even though I wasn’t being paid I knew I couldn’t stop driving the line. In summer winter feels far away, but not if you’ve got a line of poles to get in the ground before frost. That’s what I was thinking as I left Salt Lake, and that’s all. I never thought I’d never see my money. I’ve seen swindling up close. I’ve heard all about it and always shook my head, wondering how a man could be so foolish to hand out his money to a crook, because a crook looks like a crook and talks like one too. And that’s how I thought about swindling. I don’t have the kind of mind to imagine the Prophet cheating, and I’m both sorry and glad I don’t.

  It took a month to see the Prophet. By then I couldn’t hold down my anger. My men were chewing me up and some had walked off and the job was behind. They accused me of swindling and some talked of stealing my teams. When I finally got to see Brigham, I blew apart. “I’ve got thirty men laying your poles and I haven’t seen a penny from you since I sent them north.”

  “From what I hear, your poles are rotting. On top of that you’re behind schedule. Now why would you expect me to pay for that?”

  That’s when I lost my head. I leapt across his desk and fisted his lapels, shaking him hard. “Give me my money!”

  “Get off me.” He shoved at me but I held on.

  “You’re cheating me,” I said, “and you know you’re cheating me, and there’s nothing worse than a cheat who knows he’s doing it.”

  Brigham put together enough force to throw me down. I was on the carpet with my hat bent beneath me. He looked as fresh as he does on Sunday morning. “What about our deal?” I muttered.

  “Produce a contract, and I’ll honor it.”

  “You never offered one.”

  “That’s because one isn’t necessary among old friends. Brother Gilbert, I will pay you as soon as you’ve earned it.”

  Two clerks appeared to escort me from the Beehive House. They dumped me on the curb at the head of the line. Everyone on the street was looking at me. It’s not every day a man gets thrown out of the Beehive House. “He’s a liar!” I yelled, warning anyone who could hear. “He’s a cheat and a liar!” The men on line pretended not to listen and I know for certain each of them couldn’t wait to get home to repeat the story at the supper table. I’m sure the story moved up and down Deseret faster than if it had been sent on our telegraph.

  The next day I rode up to the job to explain everything to my men. When I got there my foreman pulled me aside. “Thank God you’re here.” I asked him the trouble. “The poles, they’re rotting off at the ends.” We walked a line of poles. At each one he pointed up and it was true, indeed the top was black and soft. I asked my man what was wrong. “One of two things. Either the curing didn’t take …”

  “Or?”

  “Or sabotage.”

  I didn’t know what to think, not then or now, but the truth was Brigham had been right: my poles were no good. I gathered my men up and told them the job was done. I explained as best I could the circumstances, but I no longer understood them as well as I’d thought. The men didn’t care about my troubles, whether my timber hadn’t cured or Brigham wasn’t paying or anything. “I’m a pole layer,” said one, “and I’ve laid your damn poles.” They spoke angrily, cursing my name and this damn job. They were rough men of the West, used to settling debts by any means. They surrounded me—maybe thirty at once—and they demanded to know what I was going to do. “Give me two days,” I told them. One man, a con from Nevada, said he wouldn’t wait a third.

  To pay my men I sold my teams and my gear and the little bit of land my pa had given me. I sold everything I could to clear up with my men enough so they would never call me a cheat and a liar. I asked my bankers for a deal to pay off the debt. Karr agreed to forgive the remaining money if I paid half. But Eagleton wanted all his money and interest and penalties too. I can’t blame him for it, but I didn’t have it. When Brigham heard, he was angry I favored the Gentile banker over Eagleton. He spoke about it in a sermon. “There’s a brother here who fe
els he owes more to a Gentile than a Saint. I ask you: Would you trust him?” I didn’t favor anyone but that’s how Brigham saw it and how most people saw it, too.

  By the spring of ’68 I was bankrupt and facing legal suits. Eagleton, with the Prophet’s blessing, was coming after me. Debt’s a cruel hole. The more you try to climb out of it, the more it caves in. That’s what I learned. And don’t go into business with the Church. There’s no way to wind up on the right side.

  So with all this behind me, was I surprised to see the Presidential Carriage in my ma’s yard that day in March? I’d been expecting it for some time. I heard it from the barn—the wheels squealing, the leather reins twisting, the horses clopping to a stop. The door swung open and the Prophet eased himself out with one hand on the roof. The carriage swayed with him as he stepped down and the springs groaned and the horses flicked and twitched. My ma came out of her house and I came out of the barn and we met the Prophet on the path. “Sister Elizabeth, I’ve come to warn you about your son,” he said. “He owes a good Saint money. He’s wrongfully accused a close friend of rustling sheep. He’s cheated me with a bad job. Something’s got in him, Sister. I’ll have to take steps.”

  “I’m paying out what I can,” I said. “And those sheep were mine.”

  “Brother, you’re not acting like a Saint.”

  “Brigham,” my ma said, “neither are you.” My ma says she’s never been angrier in her life. You might wonder why she didn’t quit the Church then, but she’s not like that. She’s always saying she lives in the middle, where everything has two meanings, and the shades are gray. There are those who say my ma pushed Ann Eliza into her marriage with Brigham. There are those who say my ma hoped to see her own standing in the Church rise by marrying a daughter to the Prophet. But those who say these things about my ma don’t know her. My ma never once cared what others think of her. She cares about one thing only, and that’s her God.