The Fugitive Son

by Adell Harvey

  Ricks laughed. “Now what would a young feller like you know about the Danites? They’re just an old church myth, you know.”

  “A church myth?” With more daring than thought, Andy said, “Wonder if it brings comfort to a man facing your knife to know that you’re just an old church myth.”

  Ricks threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I like you, young man! We can use spunk like that in our ranks. How’d you like to join the myth?”

  “I don’t know.…”

  “Save a wicked man’s soul by spilling his blood and raise your own self up in the process. Salvation for the victim and exaltation for the slayer. It’s a good deal for both parties,” Ricks said. “How can you fault it?”

  Andy stood up. “Reckon I’ll have to think on it awhile. But thanks for the offer.”

  That night, Andy’s tortured mind denied him the escape of sleep. Lying on his bed – a pile of sagebrush covered with a counterpane of old newspapers – he relived the day’s events. How could such a killing be the will of God? But if Brigham Young were really the mouthpiece of the Lord, how could Andy doubt his teachings? Over and over, his mind played over everything he knew about the Danites. Tales of the bravado of Danites like Bill Hickman and Porter Rockwell flashed through his memory. Back in Nauvoo, those men had been the stuff legends were made of, the heroes of every young Mormon boy.

  He shuddered. Tales and legends were a far cry from actually watching a man’s throat slit and hearing the last breath gurgle from his body. And for what? Simply because he’d had a belly full of troubles and the audacity to complain about it? If the truth were told, probably most of the men who wintered at Devil’s Gate secretly harbored some of the same complaints and doubts.

  Thinking back over the ill-conceived handcart journey, Andy remembered how time after time he had urged the leaders to wait until spring, how he and others had tried to persuade them that the flimsy handcarts would break down, that many of the Danish and English immigrants were too old or feeble to walk across the Plains pulling their duffel in the carts. But no one had listened. The path of graves across the Mormon Trail and now the trench outside the mail cabin with its fill of frozen bodies were mute evidence that the leaders should have heeded him.

  “We don’t question our leaders.” Pa’s voice came to him in the darkness. Pa had drilled that into him from the time he was a young’un. “When the leaders speak, the thinking has been done,” Pa always said. But what thinking? How much thought had gone into this terrible tragedy that sent hundreds to an early grave? That had taken Anne Marie’s precious life from him?

  Andy turned over on his pallet. “I will not doubt. Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Lord, and Brigham Young is the voice of God.” Startled, Andy sat up in bed to hear who had spoken, only to realize he had said the words aloud.

  Lying back down, Andy muttered the words of his testimony over and over, trying to feel the assurance they usually gave him. Tonight, however, the testimony failed to give him the “burning in his bosom” he had come to recognize as the spirit of God. Instead, each time he repeated, “I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Lord,” a small inner voice challenged, How do you know? What proof, if any, do you have?

  Where were these doubts coming from? Had God deserted him because he had promised Anne Marie he would let Ingrid take her baby away from the Saints? Was this awful torture of mind and spirit his punishment?

  Failing all else, Andy tried to bargain with God. “If you’ll give me peace of mind, I promise I’ll make sure Ingrid and Ammie return to the fold. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I give you my solemn promise that I will.”

  Thus resolved, Andy finally fell asleep, just as the first gray streaks of dawn pierced the cracks in the cabin walls.

  River Bend Plantation

  Elsie stood at the window gazing out over the broad rolling lawn, the stables and white-fenced corrals, the patchwork of fields and distant woodlands that made up her family plantation. How could she leave this, the only home she had known? The home her ancestors had carved out of the Kentucky wilderness so many years ago? She felt almost a traitor to their memory, a memory that echoed in the now empty rooms of the plantation house.

  As she turned away from the window, her eyes swept over the room, settling on a mural painted on the far wall. She could barely make out the edge of a door hidden in the lines of the painting. She smiled, proudly remembering all the times Papa and Isaac had brought runaway slaves to the safety of the small chamber tucked behind that door. Again, she wondered if she had done the right thing in responding to her brothers’ invitation to join them out West. With River Bend in the hands of strangers, where would runaways seek refuge in the future? This house had been the only station in the area for slaves risking their lives in their quest for freedom.

  She shivered. The house that had once rung with laughter and music was cold and silent. It was a house built, not to trumpet wealth or proclaim power, but as a home – a place to nurture a family and a haven for those in bondage. Tomorrow, a new family would drive a carriage up the wide avenue of pines that led to the front entrance.

  They would bring their own treasures and beliefs into the two stories of weathered stone. And in the still summer evenings, they would sit and sip sweet tea on the double-story veranda supported by ionic columns. How would they respond if a runaway slave came to their doorstep? she wondered. Would they risk prison to help someone in need? She hoped the new inhabitants of River Bend would be as happy there as her family had been. And as generous to those who cried for help.

  Elsie patted the money pouch pinned beneath her bodice as if to reassure herself that it was still intact. That money, from the sale of River Bend, would pay her passage to St. Louis and then to Kansas City, Missouri, where she was to purchase enough dry goods to stock an emporium in Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory. Then she would hire drovers to get her goods safely through Indian territory and buy tickets for herself and Isaac on a Wells Fargo stagecoach to their new home out West.

  She sighed – a deep, fearful sigh. Was she up to it? Thoughts of the long journey ahead, the dangers and the possibilities, were daunting. She had been aboard a riverboat but once, a vacation trip with her family up the Ohio River. That had been a time of excitement and security. But now? Could she manage this huge task with only Isaac to help? And could she keep him safe?

  She knew she couldn’t simply stay in Kentucky. Her family, devout Methodists originally from Massachusetts, had always hated slavery. Grandfather Condit had determined after much thought that he could be of most use to the cause of abolition by furthering the education of black men and women. Thus, River Bend had become a place of tutelage to create a corps of leaders for the time slavery was finally abolished.

  Over the years, hundreds of slaves had been schooled and quietly freed at River Bend. Many of them were now teachers, doctors, lawyers, and craftsmen in the North. Papa had carried on the family tradition. Every slave who came to the plantation was educated, mostly in secret. Although Kentucky was one of the few states that allowed slaves to be taught, many plantation owners objected to such activity. Papa told them he was simply protecting his own interests by making his slaves better able to handle his business affairs. For the most part, the neighbors ignored the Condits, thinking them a bit eccentric but harmless. That made it easier for Papa to establish River Bend as a station on the Underground Railroad.

  Then Papa had died. His will had provided for the manumission of all his slaves, plus enough money to equal a fair wage for each month of service with accrued interest. Elsie had tried to keep the news quiet, but giving dozens of slaves their freedom did not go unnoticed. Even now, if word got out about Papa and Isaac’s activities in helping slaves escape, things could get very ugly for her. With the talk of secession, feelings were running high on the subject.

  Once more fingering the letters from her brothers, Elsie knew beyond doubt that it would be far too dangerous for her to stay in Kentucky. Her unpopular abol
itionist views were becoming too widely known. Besides, she knew she couldn’t run a plantation alone.

  She directed her gaze back out the window, again taking in the vast expanse of land that was River Bend in the early summer. A dozen mares grazed and played with their foals in a nearby pasture. Trees dotted the landscape in what seemed to be a million shades of green. Tea roses lined the hedgerow leading to the ponds that powered the steam sawmill. Her father had used the mill to rip massive yellow poplars into floorboards and trim. And every spring, he and the slaves would float planks on flatboats down the creek and river to New Orleans where they would sell the lumber. In the winter, they would cut ice from the ponds, pack it in sawdust from the mill, and store it in the icehouse.

  In her mind’s eye, Elsie pictured the ice saws, felling axes, and two-man crosscuts hanging along the icehouse wall in mute testimony of their winter activities. “And testimony of the fact that I couldn’t possibly run a sawmill and pack an icehouse by myself,” she murmured ruefully. Her brothers were right. She had no choice but to follow their instructions and begin a new life in the West. Besides, River Bend was no longer hers.

  She swept down the grand staircase, reminded again of how the rich green carpet mirrored the thick lawns surrounding the house. Of all the times she and her brothers and Isaac had played on these stairs, bouncing down them, sliding on the ornate banister rail, always in danger of a stern reprimand from Mama. Oh, to be so young and carefree again!

  Isaac, his forehead glistening with sweat, came across the polished floor of the grand hallway to meet her. “We’ve had lots of happy times in this house, haven’t we?” His voice was wistful.

  Elsie grinned. “I was just remembering the fun we had here on these stairs. Remember the time Mama spanked us all for sliding down the banister?”

  Isaac rubbed his bottom playfully. “Yep. I can still feel the sting of that willow branch!”

  “But it didn’t stop us from trying it again every time Mama’s back was turned.” Elsie brushed a tear from her cheek. “But those times are over now – we’re all grown up, with grown-up responsibilities and problems.”

  Isaac ran past her, heading up the stairs. “You may be grown up, but I want one last ride!”

  He swooshed down the banister, laughing as he landed with a thud at the bottom. “Come on, Elsie. Try it,” he urged. “For old times’ sake!”

  Giggling, Elsie rushed to the top of the stairs and lifted her skirts. With a whoosh and a thud, she joined Isaac on the floor at the bottom. “You sure know how to bring a girl out of the doldrums!” she exclaimed,

  “Well, my mama didn’t name me Isaac for nothing. She said my name meant laughter, and I guess she knew we all need a little laughter in life.”

  At the mention of Isaac’s mother, both young people sobered. Elsie knew the story of Amanda, having heard it many times as proof of the evils of slavery. As a young girl, Amanda had been bought as a concubine by a Virginia planter. Her first baby had been taken from her a few hours after birth on the orders of her master’s wife, who didn’t want a daily reminder of her husband’s adultery.

  Grief-stricken, Amanda had refused to eat. She had become so sickly, her owner became disenchanted with her and sold her at auction. It was there Papa had found her and determined to restore her to health. Amanda had married another of the Condit slaves and later gave birth to Isaac, but she mourned the loss of her firstborn until her death.

  Elsie broke the silence. “If you made her laugh even half as much as you do me, you’ve lived up to your name!”

  Isaac grinned. “Well, a fella’s got to be of some use in this world. Right now, I’d best get the trunks loaded in the carriage and head for the dock. That riverboat will be coming around the bend right soon.”

  Elsie paused as she stepped out onto the veranda. Summer’s heat had come early and with a vengeance. “It must be close to 100 degrees,” she said, trying to hide from the burning sun under her bonnet and parasol as she walked toward the carriage. “I declare, I’ve never been so hot!”

  As the carriage bounced down the lane, Elsie peered out, for what she knew would be the last time, at the garden. Masses of pink and purple sweet peas tumbled across the low stone walls that framed the garden. A tangle of rosebushes served as a stage for flocks of songbirds, all chirping against the extreme heat. Across the flagstone path, rows of young vegetables poked their tender heads tentatively through the soil.

  “Reckon someone else will be caring for those vegetables,” Isaac said.

  A feeling of despair threatened to engulf Elsie. The idea of someone else in her carefully tended garden didn’t sit well. “No, this will never do,” she told herself as she checked her thoughts. Feeling sorry for herself at every turn of the wheel was not her way. She would deal with this departure as she had every other trauma in her life – meeting it head-on. She sat up, ramrod straight, and looked out over the garden. “I’m glad somebody else has to tend it,” she muttered. “It would finish me off in this heat!”

  As the carriage jounced out of the elaborately carved plantation gate, Elsie glanced at the sky. The sun shone brightly in the east, but dark thunderclouds rolled in the west. She hoped that wasn’t an omen of things to come.

  Chapter 2

  Devil’s Gate

  “WAGONS A’COMIN’!” The shout resounded through the Devil's Gate encampment like a speeding bullet. Andy stared past the yawning gap of the strange rock outcropping that gave the area its name, peering into the dusty valley below. A cloud of dust billowing through the sage indicated that someone or something was indeed approaching.

  “Must be our relief wagons,” Ricks declared.

  “Can't be,” Rigby argued. “Relief from Great Salt Lake would be comin’ from the west, not the east.”

  Andy agreed. “Brother Rigby's right. But who could it be? It's too early in the year for Oregon Trail travelers, unless they wintered on the Plains somewhere.” He studied the approaching wagons. “Looks like a six-mule team in the lead wagon. Maybe it's Army.”

  The train drew closer, slowly lumbering up the slight rise. “There's eight of ‘em,” someone announced.

  Andy could see some of the men driving the wagons. No uniforms, so they weren’t Army. “That's strange,” he murmured. “I don't see any women or children.”

  The men in the mail cabin went for their rifles. Whoever was coming, they'd be ready for them.

  Andy heard it first, the familiar music of “Come, Come Ye Saints.” The men in the wagons sounded like a mighty chorus, shouting out the words to what had become the Mormons' marching anthem.

  “Put up your rifles, men,” Andy called to the others in the cabin. “Whoever our visitors are, they're some of us.”

  Soon the cabin rang with laughter, amid shouts of recognition and jubilation. “Durned if we expected to find anybody here! What'd you say you was doin’ here?” the new arrivals asked.

  The Devil's Gate survivors told their story of staying behind to tend to the belongings of the handcart company, glossing over their ordeal and hardships now that help had arrived.

  John Berry, captain of the newly arrived wagon train, told their story. “We were all serving missions around the world. When General Scott called for the biggest army this country has ever had and said they were heading to Utah, the prophet ordered us to come back to the valley to help protect our homes. Those of us in the East met in Winter Quarters, then rolled out for Utah.”

  Union armies in Utah? Andy could barely believe the news. What had happened during this dismal time they'd been holed up at Devil's Gate with no word from the outside world? Amidst all the talk and confusion, he voiced his questions. “Why is an army headed for Utah? How bad is it?”

  Brother Berry explained that as soon as Buchanan had been elected president, he decided to put down the “rebellion” in Utah. “He wants to replace the prophet with a governor of his choosin’, as if we Saints don’t know who we want to lead us.”

  All the men
laughed at this. “Rebellion! Them Easterners won't know what rebellion is until we get finished with them!”

  A shout of acclamation went up. “Yeah, let's go get 'em! We'll drive those mobocrats out of our territory!”

  Several of the returning missionaries talked at once, eager to be the first with the news from back East. “The new Republican Party even included wiping us out as part of its platform,” Berry said.

  “Yeah, can you imagine? Said it was the duty of Congress to prohibit the ‘twin relics of barbarism’ – polygamy and slavery, that is – in the territories,” another man interrupted.

  “They compared our sacred principle with slavery?” Andy asked, aghast at the thought. “No wonder the prophet is gathering a militia together.”

  Berry nodded. “And it’s not just the Republicans. Even Stephen Douglas called Mormonism an ulcer that has to be removed.”

  Rigby fingered his long beard. “Judgin’ from the fomenting ‘gainst us, I foresee dark days ahead for the Saints. We may have to build up the Nauvoo Legion again to fight for our way of life.”

  David Brintin, commander of one of the missionary units, tried to lighten the mood. “We passed some travelers on the Oregon Trail. When they heard where we was headed, they warned us ‘bout the Mormons. Said they might attack us, given how the president is musterin’ up troops to send to Great Salt Lake City.”

  “We lied and told them we were Army regulars,” Berry added with a laugh. “And that we would be joinin’ more soldiers when we got to the frontier. Since there’d be so many of us and we were well armed, we should get through all right.”

  “Some of them was so willin’ to help us fight off the Mormons,” Brother Brintin said, “that they shared their supplies with us, loadin’ us down with provisions.”

  The men laughed at the tale of deceit. “Did you tell 'em you wasn't afraid of any Mormons?” Rigby asked, tears of laughter making trails in the dirt on his face.