For many months the lawyers argued. The man she hired, Judge Hagan, never truly had her interests in mind. In truth, I did not pay close attention to the case, for so many other matters engaged me. I admit bewilderment then, when on February 25th of this year Judge McKean ordered me to pay Ann Eliza alimony in the sum of five hundred dollars a month by March 10th or be held in contempt of court. When I read the court order I remember thinking, It is a bluff. The United States government has ordered me to pay alimony to a 19th wife? It would mean they believed my wives to be legal in every sense. It would mean an acceptance of plural marriage. I knew this had not come to pass, and I shredded the court order, throwing the bits into the fire.
It was after nine o’clock this morning when the Deputy United States Marshal, A. K. Smith, a modest, dutiful man whose brass buttons shone like the sun, arrived at the Beehive with a warrant for my arrest. My loyal men—Brother Adam at the guardpost, Brother Caleb at the door, Brother Orson and Brother Herman in my office—each attempted to stop the Marshal from arresting me. The man had come armed with certified papers, and I told my men that we must always respect the force of law, and its majesty. “A piece of paper written with legal will is a weapon more powerful than a rifle,” I advised. “And so it shall be.”
The morning was cold, blustery, the winds throwing fresh, fine-grained snow against the window panes. At the time of the Marshal’s arrival I had been planning an emergency rescue for the citizens of Big Cottonwood. Yesterday’s snows, and those from the day before, had caused snow slides from Canyon Flat to Porcupine Cabin, burying the canyon in near fifty feet of snow, blocking the creek and the road for one mile. We did not know how many pitiable souls lay under the snow, whether dead, frozen blue into the frost, or alive and awaiting rescue. Together my men and I were organizing the teams to be sent when the Marshal entered my office.
The Marshal said we were due in court but allowed me the time necessary to sign my morning letters and documents. His orders had been to bring me at once, but he is a good man and understands that every man, whether crook or king, has business to finish before he can leave his house. I dressed in my cape and hat, hung my watch from my shirtwaist, and said good-bye to my men. I told them to continue with the rescue, and worry none for me. In the hall, as I was leaving the Beehive, I met Sister Mary Ann. She is nearly as old as I, fortified in her routine, suspicious of all Gentiles, Babylonians she names them, refusing to greet any outside our faith, even President Grant, she often says, were he to call. When she saw the Marshal, she looked as if she was about to reach for her pistol and bucket and chase him from the house in the fearless manner she drives the rats from the orchard. I told my good wife to be still and pray.
At ten o’clock we entered the Third District Court Room and the Marshal seated me in a chair on the east side. So many had gathered for the spectacle, supporters and enemies alike, that mine was the last vacant seat, with the exception of the chair awaiting Judge McKean. My supporters included many of my sons and sons-in-law, who sat in a row headed by Hiram Clawson; members of the Nauvoo Legion, some of them now older than I, their shoulders bent under fond memories of the olden days; a variety of Bishops, Elders, and other well-wishers; and Captain Hooper from the co-op’s hat department, who, just before the proceedings began, called out, “All of Zion rise up for our Prophet, Brigham Young!”
Judge McKean silenced the court room with his angry gavel. With each bang of the mallet’s head he looked at me with obvious disdain. From whence his adversity to our Faith comes I know not. True, the recent publication of Ann Eliza’s memoir has soiled my character in many parts of the nation. I am told it has sold more than 100,000 copies, sending the publisher back to the printing press three or four times. Are there 100,000 men and women interested in the Saints? If only they had read our Book, not hers. Now, for many, knowledge of our Church, and of me, comes mostly from her pen. I have not read The 19th Wife, but I have it here with me, should I need the company. I hope it does not come to that.
My attorneys, Brother Hempstead and Brother Kirkpatrick, had prepared themselves with an armory of books and briefs. Their adversary, Judge Hagan, stood nearby, solid with confidence. In dealing with him, he is the kind of lawyer who grants you the sensation of victory, while in truth you have lost everything.
Hagan began by declaring I had shown disdain for the court’s mandate by refusing to pay Ann Eliza’s fee in the stated time. Judge McKean asked my attorneys if this was true. Kirkpatrick attempted first, claiming it was not. Hempstead fortified Kirkpatrick’s position, saying, “While it’s true Brother Brigham has not paid the fees, he has not shown disdain for the court or its mandate.” Both men continued adequately for more than an hour, incorporating legal thinking derived from American and English courts, all in my support. While competent in legal history, they possess ordinary imaginations and therefore they could not create, as an artist would, a means for my escape. At 12:35, Judge McKean called an hour recess. When the court returned, I was found in contempt and ordered to the Penitentiary.
The cheers and whoops of hurrah drowned out the weeping of my supporters. The Marshal shackled me at the wrist, apologizing for having to do so. As he led me from the court room a voice cried out, “Remember Carthage!” A second echoed the first, “We’ll always remember Carthage!”
I, too, was thinking of Carthage, of the stone jailhouse where the mob assassinated my dear Joseph and his brother, Hyrum, nearly thirty-one years before. Joseph had submitted to the rule of law, giving himself up to the Gentile authorities, yet in the end the law could not protect him from the mob. I was away on mission that terrible day. I did not speak to him in his last hours. What were his thoughts? Those who witnessed him said he was pensive and in peace. Yet there is no greater mystery to me, at least among matters from here on Earth, than what occupied Joseph’s mind on his last day. We have his letter to Emma, but how often I have wished he had kept a deeper record of his final hours. I know he was not afraid, yet there is much more I wish I could know.
If this candle burns out before dawn, I will have to write by the light of the moon. Perhaps the guard outside my door will ask Mrs. Paddock for a second, yet he must do so now, before she falls asleep. To do this he will have to leave his post and he will only do so if he can trust me. The guard, a Catholic boy named Christopher, he reminds me of my son Willard. They share the same supple smile and wave of chestnut hair. They could be the same age—I shall ask when I request the second candle. I think of Willard often, of how bravely he withstood the slander when he arrived at West Point a few years ago. Many called for his removal from campus, writing Senators and Congressmen letters of disapproval, disparaging him as the son of whores. When I read this in the newspapers, I telegraphed Willard, inviting him to return home. His reply was swift and short: “Father, will stay.” Now he’s preparing to graduate from the Military Academy with a commission in the national Corps of Engineers. He is the kind of brave son I have always hoped to rear.
There, I have now spoken with the guard. His name is Officer O’Conner, he is twenty-three—Willard’s age by a month. He will fetch a second candle from Mrs. Paddock’s cupboard. While waiting for him, I have been standing at the window for some time. The immense valley lay in blackness, yet the moon on the snow casts a revealing silver-blue light. While gazing out, I have come to sense a movement out there. I cannot perceive it with any precision. That is what it is to my eye—a movement in the dark. I do not know if it is a trick of the light, or a wolf pack crouching through the snow, or men gathering. Or perhaps there is no movement, perhaps all is still, and it is time for me to sleep.
When Officer O’Conner returned I asked if he worried I might try to escape. “No, Sir,” he said. “You gave me your word.” He handed me a long tapered candle barely burned at the top.
Now, with ample candle-power, I should have the friend of light to guide me through the night. When I think of all there is to do, I become anxious and walk in circles around this sm
all room. I am not restless for lack of freedom. During my house arrest in the winter of ’72, I could stay at my desk day and night, hacking away at my tasks at a pace even I had never before known. There is always much to do, matters to consider, works to accomplish. Next month I would like to return to St. George to review the progress of the Temple. The roof will rise soon—how I hope to witness that. When it is up, and the building stands secure, we can begin our many important rites, starting with the baptism of the dead. Then I must tend to the United Order, which has yet to take root. Later this summer I should like to reintroduce the New Alphabet. How much easier it will be on our emigrants when they arrive in Deseret, unfamiliar with English as they are. The last attempt failed, I know, because I did not lead the Saints to it. This time they will know its importance to me. And always so much more—the letters I owe my sons, including Willard, to whom I must describe the guard. The upcoming conference of the councils of the Priesthood. The audit of the statements of the Z.C.M.I. The meeting with the Board of Directors of the Deseret Bank, and of the Street Railroad Co., too, and that of the Deseret Telegraph Co., all of which shall be held very soon, and a review of the Utah Southern Railroad’s future tracks, and the annual meeting of the Gas Co., &c. &c.—these are the matters, and many others, preoccupying my mind of late. The misperception among those who do not know me, or care not to know me, is that my spoiled marriage to Ann Eliza has consumed my days. Ann Eliza does not hold such a commanding position in my thoughts. She is perhaps 87th on a list of tasks and items requiring my attention. This no doubt has fueled her rage. I should have been more mindful of this. My rage for her, however, has never matched hers for me. I admire her, and always will. I remember the night she was born. There are no words to depict the joy she brought her mother, herself a true Saint. As a baby Ann Eliza was dark in the face, with two slits for eyes. How those eyes opened as she grew, blossoming into a beauty that, even tonight, can catch upon my old heart.
After Judge McKean declared me in contempt of court, the Marshal led me from the courthouse to a carriage. Hundreds of Saints waited along the cordoned path, all somber and withdrawn, many weeping softly, a few Sisters wailing with grief. I walked as proudly as a man can with his hands manacled behind his back. “Pray for the wisdom of our Father,” I called to them. “Pray for the mercy and justice of our Lord.” But my words could not travel far, for pressing against the Saints were nearly a thousand enemies, their fists in the air and calling for their own interpretation of justice. How I longed for the days when we were alone in Deseret! I always knew we would rue the railroad.
Marshal Smith ushered me into the carriage. His orders were to deliver me directly to the Warden of the Penitentiary. Again, at my request, he disobeyed them, driving first to the Beehive. I sent my guardsman to bring me Mrs. Young. Sister Mary Ann approached the carriage, torn apart by tears. I explained to my wife the task I needed her to perform. She understood, pushing a small cloth at her damp nose, and ran inside. She returned with a pair of caramel leather boots. These were the boots Joseph had worn when he rode to Carthage to submit to the jailhouse. In the carriage I changed my shoes, donning Joseph’s boots for the first time. Although our feet were not the same size, the boots fit as if they had been cobbled for me. I wear them now.
Admirers and enemies had gathered along the route to the Penitentiary. Several times a rifle was shot into the sky, sending fear and paranoia through the crowd. I cannot know the total number of people in the streets, yet I shall estimate it to be ten thousand. Most were my followers, yet the relative few who were there to oppose me controlled the argument. What astonished me, even more than the noise and the rancor, and the vicious shouts of slander—American Sultan! and No More Harems! and Isn’t 19 enough!—was the piety my Saints maintained, for they understood what they were witnessing. Their Prophet, shackled, being led to punishment. At a crossroads near the city’s limit, where the crowd was smaller and the shouting less, a small girl ran into the road, pelting my carriage with blue crocus. “Like Jesus before him,” she cried, running back to her mother, who kissed her head.
By the time we reached the Penitentiary gate, four miles from the city, twenty carriages were following us. I realized my men, friends all, filled them, and they had come to protect me. Warden Paddock met us at the gate, while his guards, Officer O’Conner and his partner, held back the men in the carriages. As the Marshal led me from the carriage, my men cried out for my release. Many held rifles in the air, while others raised up axes, scythes, and other blades.
Warden Paddock welcomed me, leading me up the stairs to his office, where I now sit. He instructed the Marshal to release me from the cuffs. The papers were drafted and signed, and officially the Marshal transferred me into the custody of the Warden. I thanked the good man for his attendance and said good-bye. From the window I watched him return to his carriage. The pair of Penitentiary officers escorted him through the throng of my supporters onto the road.
The Warden looked out the window with concern, for no doubt the crowd appeared ready to boil over into a mob. I assured him they would not attack the Penitentiary as long as they deemed I was safe. I asked to speak to them. The Warden considered this unusual request from his newest prisoner. I had never before met this man, yet surely he knew of me. I wondered with which portion of my public character he was familiar. I realize, more than anyone else, that for all the Saints who understand me as their Prophet, and trust me as their spiritual guide on Earth, and into the Afterlife, many more people believe me to be a scoundrel. I can accept this misperception if it means being constant in my faith.
“You have five minutes, Sir.” The Warden led me down to the gate. With the two guards stationed beside me, I spoke to my followers. “Do not worry for me tonight, for these are good men here, who understand the rule of law. I am safe, and now you must disperse.”
The men, however, did not want to disperse. Many called out, “Carthage!”
“Please, Brethren, you must withdraw.”
Still the men stayed in place. “Carthage!” the men cried again. “Carthage!”
I tried a third time. “My dear friends, you must listen to me and disperse now. You wonder why you should do so and I shall tell you. For we are a people of law, and rule, and Christian kindness. We do not attack because we fear being attacked. Even if you worry for my safety, you must now push back, go out, and disperse. Do so now, for that is what I want of you. I know you want to protect me, but understand, God protects me, as He protects you. His will, whatever that may be, shall be borne out tonight, whether your rifle is drawn or not. Do not defy me, for in doing so you shall defy our Heavenly Father. You cry, Think of Carthage! Brethren, one day has not passed since June 27, 1844, when I have not thought of Carthage. I think of Carthage on days of joy and rest, on days of fear and toil, always I think of Carthage. At night, before sleep, I call Joseph’s name, knowing he awaits me, as he awaits you, all of you! Joseph came to tell us the Latter-day Saints are the inheritors of Christ, and Christ has shown us that we do not take an eye for an eye. Friends, go now, leave the Warden in peace, and his guards in peace, and this Penitentiary in peace! Even if it is now my home, and I know not my future, you must leave in peace, for that is what we believe.”
Silently the crowd broke, drifting out in all directions, to the factory and to the mill, and down the road to Salt Lake. Would an enemy mob replace them? Here at my window I have been anticipating it ever since.
It is late now. Half the night is gone. What will the darkness bring before the dawn? The prisoners are asleep. The Warden’s family has retired. Outside my door I hear Officer O’Conner pacing to keep himself awake. When I look out into the dark, into the land beyond the Penitentiary, I see the movement again. Now they are black shapes shifting against other black shapes. I cannot tell what they are. Wagons? Buffalo? Men on horseback? A forming brigade? For a long time now I have stood at the window, with my new candle burning itself down, staring into the night, trying to percei
ve what moves out there. It occurs to me I should snuff out the candle, so that I may stand in the darkened window, but then I will have no light until daybreak. The longer I look out, the more certain I am that there are men out there. Friend or enemy? I look for a signal, but see none. The snow has muffled the sounds of the Earth. An attack could come as a surprise. If it does, and they are assassins, I pray they spare Mrs. Paddock and her children. And Officer O’Conner—I should note he even speaks like Willard, slowly, with his tongue soft against the roof of his mouth. The similarity is perplexing. If it is a sign, I cannot interpret it. So I continue to stand alert at my window, considering so much.
Yesterday a reporter from the San Francisco Examiner came to see me. This man writes a daily unsigned column that has made him famous and, I am quite sure, rich. I would hold a grudge against him, for he has spared no venom in dissecting me and my divorce. But I cannot hold a grudge for he loathes everyone equally, and with good aim. Against the opinion of my advisors, I invited him to the Beehive. During our meeting he asked a question I am still pondering tonight. “What mistakes have you made?” I assured him there were many, but he pressed me for details.
First, I was wrong about Ann Eliza. Quite simply, I judged her incorrectly. I sensed she understood, or would come to understand, the arrangements of my household, and know that while I could not tend to her in every manner, I would always care for her. She is a selfish woman, by which I do not mean to condemn her, for most men and women are selfish, in that most often they think of themselves first. It is man’s most natural instinct, an impulse that connects us with the animals. Yet some women are extraordinary in this regard, they can submerge their natural impulses for the sake of their belief. These are the women best suited to plural marriage. Ann Eliza, I have learned, is not this kind of woman. So be it. I only wish we could have settled our matters more kindly. For now, with our case on the public stage, all the world it seems has become curious about my wives. Every day the mail brings a hundred letters wanting to know how many I have. Yesterday, the man from the Examiner pressed me on that question. “Surely, you must know how many wives you keep?” he asked not once, but eight or ten times.
The 19th Wife Page 45