The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana)

by Robert Lewis Taylor

  (I shall say a word shortly about the shocking freedom of profanity which these Mormons enjoy, presumably by official sanction, since their leaders are among the very worst offenders.)

  Young in the pulpit, by the way, never omits a chance to play down the Californian allure and often reads unfavorable items seized upon in newspapers from the region. In Sunday’s address, it is said, he read that, “There are too many people here, and they are still coming—ten by water to one by land. The lucky man who strikes a good lead, and can keep it a secret, will get rich, while there are twenty barely making expenses.”

  After which, he read additional notices to the effect that, “A Yale college graduate is waiter at one of the principal hotels, and a Philadelphia reporter has turned scavenger at San Francisco.”

  I of course discount much of this as being Mormon bias.

  For now, to sum up, we are established with every comfort. Coe and his negro servant, with Jaimie and myself, inhabit one half of our low, solid dwelling that is flanked on one side by a canal and on the other by the broad street. We have a commodious bedroom, Coe has another, and the darky sleeps on a mattress of shucking in a storeroom opening off the kitchen. On the other side, with no communicating door, are the Kissels, in a bedroom, and Jennie and Po-Povi in the second. Our evening meal we take together. Breakfasts shall be done separately, and our lunch must be eaten, at least by Kissel and me, of sandwiches while on the job. Yes, I have a promise of work, as clerk in the General Merchandise Emporium of Elijah Thomas. We are in a thriving way of business and have just nailed up a bulletin, at the Bowery, describing a recent arrival of goods: “Prints, Mull Muslin, Variety of Shawls, Painted Lawns, Ladies Hose, White and Colored Stockings, Linseys, Ginghams, Cotton and Silk Cravats, Silk Tussie, Gents Comforts, Kid Gloves Cold, Side Combs, Tuck Combs, Merinos, Me De Lains, Coat and Vest Buttons, Jackonetts, Redding Combs, Broad Cloths, Cassamiers, ‘Redy Made’ Clothing, and Tea.”

  We expect a sizable run on these in the pre-Christmas trade.

  Kissel seeks work either on a private farm or on the “public works.” (Without here exploring fully the Saints’ system of tithing, I will say for now that each man must deliver up, in addition to a tenth of his income, a like percentage of his working time to labor in the common fields.)

  Coe will devote the winter to his projected book, An Amble over the Rockies and a Stroll through the Diggings. Jaimie’s fortunes of the period are not yet decided.

  So, my dear wife, we are well arranged, as the French have it. Of all the possible methods of getting to the gold fields, this is unquestionably the best. I only wish I had thought of it in the beginning.

  Your undaunted (and many-faceted) spouse,

  SARDIUS MCPHEETERS;

  (Ass’t to E. Thomas, Gen. Mdse., S.L.C.)

  Chapter XXX

  Three days after my father wrote that letter he got into a fuss with Brigham Young. They took a dislike to each other right away; they didn’t waste any time on it.

  The way it happened was this: across the street lived a family that had an unusual situation. The case was one in a million. Brigham Young himself said he doubted if there’d be another such mix-up in the Mormon settlements for the next hundred years.

  A woman by the name of Rachel Diddler lost her husband, Merle, and in a few months she married another, a much younger man. In fact, he was so noticeably younger that she was called “giddy” from the pulpit, by one of the elders. But that didn’t bother her; she went ahead and married him as soon as they got permission from the Quorum of Seventies.

  Well, her daughter, a plump and pretty but shy girl of fifteen, was living with them, perfectly grown-up and ready, as they said, and under the system of plural marriage it seemed natural that the stepfather should add her to his collection, as a second wife. Across the street they put up this double house, exactly like ours, and had everything working fine, though a little out of the ordinary. The mother and daughter were now sisters, in a way, and on equal terms, but the mother wasn’t a small person and didn’t mind at all; she quit giving the girl orders, because you don’t boss your married sister, of course, and everybody was happy.

  Then they ran into bad luck. The young man—he wasn’t more than twenty—went out with a party to punish some Utes and got killed, shot through the stomach with a flintlock. Well, his father, who was thirty-eight, had been living with them, being a widower, and had taken a shine to the daughter because she was serious and ungiddy, like him, and wasn’t always trying to go to parties, the way her mother and his son used to.

  So, after a decent interval, of about three weeks, they got married, and this changed things a little. The girl was now her mother’s mother, and when she had a baby, a boy, which they named John, he was her mother’s brother. It was confusing; everybody said so. And they all felt sorry for the mother, and hoped she’d eventually settle down so that the father, who was both her son-in-law and father-in-law, might marry her, too, and get things more or less back to normal. And even if he didn’t, she had the right to “claim him” by the Mormon laws, and demand that he marry her, on the ground of “the privileges of salvation.” If he refused, he had to show “just cause and impediment” why it shouldn’t be done, or else by considered “contumacious and in danger of the Council.” But meantime they were all getting along very well, though it was another demotion for the mother, who, as stated, was dropped back from sister to daughter this time, when she had started out as mother, right on top of the heap, in the first place.

  Anyway, late one night the baby had a fit and turned blue, and the daughter came running over after my father, who’d done some talking about being a physician, with a degree from the University of Edinburgh. It was only a case of simple spasm, he said, and he placed the child in a tub of cold water, which brought it around in a hurry.

  Well, Brigham Young heard about it and blew sky-high. He called at our house the following evening, which was a lowering of him in his position of Prophet and First President, and would never have happened if it hadn’t been an emergency involving a Gentile.

  We were in the middle of supper when we heard a rat-a-tat on the door, and when Po-Povi opened it, it was Brigham Young himself. But we didn’t know this at first. He was medium tall and firmly built, and had the air of a man used to being obeyed. His hair was light-sandy, with eyes to match, and his expression, though stern right now, might have been pleasant and mannerly on other occasions, I thought. After his blast about fashions, I was surprised to see he had on a very bright flowered waistcoat, and other garments just as stylish.

  My father sprang up, dropping his napkin, and cried, “Come in, sir. Come in. You’re the roofer, I imagine. Llewellyn said you’d be around. If you’ll just step this way, I’ll show you the trouble. I hope you brought your own ladder.”

  “I—am—Brigham—Young,” said our caller in a tone like the low notes of a pipe organ, spacing his words out slow.

  “Brig—Well, now, I call this courtly. We are honored, sir. Draw up a chair, take a bite with us. I want you to know,” said my father, adding a little more pomp as he heard himself orate, “that we are highly appreciative of our chance to visit your splendid city. We’ve been extended every courtesy, notwithstanding our divergence of faith. This is Mr. Kissel, of the Baptist persuasion, the Honorable Henry T. Coe, representing the Church of England, Mrs. T. Adam Brice, Methodist, Miss Po-Povi, a worshiper of the non-denominational Manitou, and self and son, Neo-Presbyterian, or freethinkers. An open mi—”

  “My visit concerns itself with the heresy committed in the name of healing last evening across the street,” said Young. “Perhaps you’d care to explain it.”

  “To be sure,” said my father. “Gladly, though it’s hardly worth explaining. If Your Excellency is interested in medicine, I can call to mind any number of cases far more compelling. For instance, I remember a very obese darky woman in Louisville, a ‘Mrs. Washington,’ legal husband unlikely, who had what appeared to be a carbuncle on
her—”

  “Hold!” cried Young, raising one arm. “Enough. Since you’re a Gentile, newly arrived, we’ll assume for once that you are ignorant of the Word. In the territory of Deseret, all real followers of the True Faith are healed by God. Let that be understood now and forever.”

  I could see my father getting his back up, and Major Bridger had cautioned us in particular not to take issue with the churchmen. He’d made a real point of saying so, with his eye on my father when he said it.

  “There was no question of a fee, you understand,” said my father, a little huffily. “Mrs. Diddler’s daughter, Mrs. Cravat, came running to ask assistance, and I gave it gladly. I would respond so always; it’s part of my Hippocratic oath.”

  “Gentile McPheeters,” said Young, “I’ve counseled with the High Priests about this party. We have made exceptions enough already, mainly because you appear to be people of substance who will probably join us eventually. But hear the Word now. Only Elders of the Church of the Latter-Day Saints are empowered, through God, to heal the sick, halt and sore. There is no practice of medicine here except the Divine laying on of hands. Another example of this quackery will cause your removal, with companions, from Deseret. The Prophet has spoken.”

  My father’s face was red as a beet, but he made a stiff bow, then stood aside to let Young pass out the door, which he did with no further word, not even the usual goodbye.

  “The intolerable boor!” cried my father when the door slammed. “Prophet! Seer! High Priests, and laying on of hands! I hope he breaks a leg and calls me to set it. I’ll tell him to get a couple of boneheaded elders. He’ll change his tune when something happens to him. His kind always does.”

  Sure enough, we found that some Mormons did use doctors, who’d been in practice before joining the Church, but these backsliders were said by the priests to be “lacking yet in a full measure of the faith.” The Prophet kept pounding at everybody’s duty to “ask for the Elders’ hands,” all right, but my father’s tantrum contained a kind of prophecy of his own about Brigham Young, as I shall tell later.

  “It’s their land,” said Kissel unexpectedly. “And their faith.”

  “Kissel’s right, doctor,” agreed Coe good-humoredly. “While here, let us observe and annotate. We have a priceless opportunity to document this curious movement for the world.”

  “By George, you’ve hit it,” cried my father, sitting down and looking more satisfied. “The only way to stop that charlatan is to get the word, the real word, to Congress. I’ll write an exposé of this mumbo-jumbo that will scorch that imitation Moses right out of business.”

  “That wasn’t precisely what I had in mind,” said Coe drily.

  In the next few days we got settled in and began our work. Mr. Kissel didn’t get his farm job at the start but signed for a week of labor at the new college, the University of Deseret, which was being laid out on the lower terraces of the mountains north of the capital, a place known as “the temple city.” They had a big stream running through the center, called City Creek, and this was being conducted here and there in the college grounds, for irrigation, to beautify the campus with all manner of decoration: “water jets,” botanical gardens, groves of unusual trees, even bath and swimming houses.

  They meant to make this University the finest anywhere, and the handsomest. Kissel pitched in first at a big square given over for an athletic field and equestrian ring. I went out with him the first day, and it was jolly to see how he relished getting back in harness. The sun rose up, so he stripped off his shirt, and how his shoulder and arm muscles rippled and jumped! Removing some pesky root, he’d flash his ax high, which made him look exactly like some old wrestler in one of those Roman or Greek pictures. A number of Mormon men stopped to admire him, and then a couple of women, bringing lunches, but these were hustled right along. Another emigrant working there, a red-bearded Irishman whose family lived in a wagon on the outskirts of town, said he reckoned these were members of a sizable harem, but were likely far down on “the servicing list,” but I didn’t know what he meant. Anyway he was a rough, rude fellow, always spitting, and worse; and once, he relieved himself directly before everybody, not bothering to turn his back. There was grumbling about it, because the women were still there, and pretty curious too.

  Oddly, the boss on this job was a Gentile, who had been hired to come out by Mormon recruiters. They did that right along-rounded up artisans and other skilled men with the promise of high salaries and cheap land to buy—“for two or three shillings an acre.” The boss liked Kissel and told him he could work on the astronomy observatory when they finished the athletic field, if he wanted to. They were erecting an engineering building and a big agricultural department and a school that would teach “the living, spoken languages of all people throughout the earth.”

  As I said, this was going to be a show place, and no mistake. They even had plans for a “Parents School,” for the heads of families, and Brigham Young himself had announced he would enroll as an ordinary scholar, which people said showed his true size, because there wasn’t any record in another religion of a Prophet going back to school like a boy in knee-pants. One or two said you’d have waited till Doomsday before Mohammed or Buddha or one of those fellows could have buckled down so. This Parents School struck me as a very good idea. It was what had been needed all along, the one big missing link in the Louisville education, for instance. If parents were obliged to turn up, and sit sweating through all those classes, watching the clock, listening to a group of pea-brained bores dribble on about William the Conqueror, hounded and harried by truant officers if they knocked off to go fishing, they’d likely get their skin full of it quick and tone down the whole system.

  The trouble with parents is, their memories get rusty. And as soon as they forget, they change. The truth is that parents are nothing but children gone sour. This school was well advised, because it might yank them back over the years and make them see things clearly again, as children do unless overeducated.

  As far as my parent was concerned, the one working at Thomas’ Emporium, he was having a picnic of a time. He was happier than he’d ever been doctoring, because now the responsibility belonged to somebody else. Moreover, he enjoyed meeting the people. He had spruced up his clothes, bought a marked-down vest from the proprietor with a hole in it, laying the cost against his salary, and placed a very splayed-out blue flower in his buttonhole. He was a sight. And when somebody requested a yard of muslin or half a pound of tea, how he spread himself. No stranger could have told him from the owner. Thomas sort of took a back seat, being entirely willing to do so because my father was a born salesman. He really made things move. He’d peter out on it presently, as I knew from past experience, but-right now it looked as though he might empty the shelves by New Year’s. Before a week was out, he was on speaking terms with practically everyone in the city, Saints and Gentiles.

  But he simply couldn’t resist pulling old Thomas’ leg about religion. During a lull one morning when I dropped in, he said:

  “Brother Thomas,” (all the Mormons called people brethren and sisteren, even outsiders) “I’ve been deep in study on theology, but I’m having trouble with your definition of Gentile. Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  This Thomas was a skinny old buzzard with a turkey-gobbler neck that slid up and down when he talked, which wasn’t often, unless it involved cash.

  “In what way, Brother McPheeters? I’m not a priest nor an elder; I’m only a humble Saint.”

  “The stickler in my mind is this: what, exactly, is a Gentile?”

  “Why that’s clear enough, unless I’m mistaken. Anybody who is not a Saint.”

  “Does that include Jews? In other words, where do Palestinian Jews fit into the picture?”

  Brother Thomas replied with some heat. “Jews, as they call themselves, are not actually Jews. They’re mixed up on that. The Latter-Day Saints of the Church of Jesus Christ are the only true descendants of the Tribe of Israel.
”

  “You mean to say, then, that Jews are, in fact, Gentiles?”

  Thomas was getting a little rattled, but he said, “You’ve oversimplified things, but I do know this—all others besides Saints are Gentiles, so stated in the Book of Mormon.”

  “The Saints, then, are the only authentic Jews, is that correct?”

  “I’ve never heard it stated in just that way. I don’t believe you have it right. I don’t think the priests would put it as you have put it. I do know this: there was a trader through here, a very likable and honest man, named Solomon Isaacs, but he got into a dispute with one of our people, not overly popular, who called him a ‘dirty Gentile.’ Isaacs was boiling-mad and took it to the Council on the ground of slander. He said if it was necessary to be cussed, he had a right to be called a ‘dirty Jew,’ according to the traditional view of his race, which he had got used to, whereas the other jangled his nerves. I disremember how it turned out.”