The Rock Child

by Win Blevins

  For some minutes Burton worked in silence. His fingers found the muscles in spasm easily, and gently stretched them out. At last he said, “That’s all I can do in one session.”

  Young arced his back this way and that. He put his coat back on. Burton could see that he was moving more comfortably. Now when the Lion looked at Burton, his eye might have been softer. For the first time in half an hour the hairs on the back of Burton’s neck lay down.

  Young repeated, “What have you come here for, Captain Burton?”

  “My government is concerned with the disturbances caused by the War Between the States,” Burton began.

  President Young fish-eyed him.

  Burton felt himself want to be garrulous, a sign of danger. Nevertheless, he proceeded. “The fighting augurs to go on endlessly, neither party able to gain decisive advantage. That hurts everyone. It disrupts the economies of both countries. It destroys fortunes. It makes the poor into beggars.”

  “It also hurts the English mill owners, I believe,” said President Young. “Disrupts the supply of cotton.”

  So the Prophet was not going to permit pussyfooting.

  “Yes. The war is painful for our country. Should the North win, and in the process destroy the cotton economy of the South, it would be very painful.”

  President Young looked vaguely amused. Burton understood. A great issue was being decided, the ethical and legal status of slavery. Burton himself despised slavery. And with all hanging in the balance, his government was most concerned about the profit-and-loss ledger. Ah, well, he was a soldier, not a politician.

  “It is no secret,” put in the Prophet, “that your government is discreetly helping the South.”

  Burton made a face. He was unaccustomed to such directness in a political matter, or to being pushed toward his own point.

  “We wonder whether the Church should not take a position in this matter.”

  “You may be too late,” said Young.

  Earlier in the year, the Confederacy had advanced from Texas northward, taking the capital of New Mexico, Santa Fe, and presumably headed for Colorado. But the Union had turned them back.

  “We think not,” Burton went on. “That was merely the first skirmish. Southern New Mexico, southern Arizona, southern California—all favor the South. And the mines of Colorado are important. If Mr. Lincoln will finance his war with the gold of California, Mr. Davis will have the gold of Colorado.”

  Young merely regarded Burton in silence. A good tactic.

  “We believe you might well act.”

  “Why would we?” asked the Prophet.

  “The Saints can have no love for the people of the North, or their government. Not after Jackson County and Nauvoo, not to mention the Utah War.” The Mormons had been hounded out of Missouri and Illinois, with the complicity of the state governments. And the United States had sent a punitive military expedition to Utah in 1857.

  “A divided country to the east is no disadvantage to us. Why would we not let the two sides weaken each other?”

  Now Burton played his second highest card. “Because the South will prove sympathetic to plural marriage.” Polygamy was often thought a brother institution to slavery—Brigham Young himself was reported to have called it so. And Burton suspected that in his heart of hearts, Brigham Young was determined most of all to create a safe place for his Saints to live exactly as they wanted, including their marital practices. He would have bet on it. He had advised his government to bet on it.

  Now the Prophet turned away, looked over the city, and seemed to ponder. Finally he said, “What aid could we expect from your government?”

  Burton smiled to himself and gave the authorized message. “Immediately, we will provide whatever arms the Nauvoo Legion requires. Additionally, if the Legion coordinates an advance on Colorado with forces from Texas, we will assure that it is well supplied.” Burton paused to lend his words effect, then laid down his highest card. “Ultimately, I think what is at stake is more important. Her Majesty’s government is willing to consider the idea of diplomatic recognition of a new alignment on this continent, including an independent Confederacy and an independent Deseret. Each would govern itself according to the dictates of its own conscience.”

  Burton held his breath. All hung in the balance now. How much did President Young resent his removal as governor of Utah Territory? How much did he dream of true independence from the United States?

  The Prophet turned his fierce gaze on the captain, and Burton wondered whether the President thought him a hypocrite. He had published his abhorrence of slavery widely. On the other hand, he had written rather favorably of polygamy as he had witnessed it in Asia, and approved of it privately. He felt confident Young knew his position.

  At last the Lion of the Lord led the way to the carriage, mounted easily, and took the reins. Burton climbed up beside him. “Captain Burton,” said Young, “I cannot answer you today about this matter. I must consult with the First Presidency.”

  Burton doubted that Brigham Young took much advice from anyone.

  “Perhaps you would come to me in the morning day after tomorrow.”

  So you have already made up your mind. Burton thirsted to know the answer, and feared the worst.

  “In the meantime I am indebted to you. Perhaps you would like a tour, to see how we have built up our industries, and the Nauvoo Legion. I will arrange a guide.”

  Young’s eyes glinted, and Burton couldn’t help smiling. The President had as much as said, “Since you want to spy on our army and fortifications, permit me to show you around.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Burton.

  “Wednesday morning, then? Come prepared. I have a good man to guide you.”

  2

  A factotum led Burton to the President’s office, and Young wasted no time on preliminaries. “Captain Burton,” he began, “I must tell you that the First Presidency has decided that the interest of the Latter-Day Saints would not be served by our participating in the war on either side.”

  Burton nodded. Ah, well. He had never had confidence in this mission anyway. “I understand. I will so inform my government.” That would be easy, thanks to the new telegraph lines that stretched from Atlantic to Pacific.

  “I must ask you to excuse me now. Your arrangements have been made. My man will show you around. He’s instructed to let you see whatever you like.”

  The factotum escorted him out. Burton could not get accustomed to the coarse phrases Americans of the frontier used, like show you around. “He’s waiting for you,” the factotum said. “Odd, you two look alike.”

  Surely this was impertinence. Burton cocked an imperious eyebrow at the dolt. The factotum’s face, he observed with pleasure, turned to watery whey. Splendid to be able to addle a man with just an eyebrow.

  They turned into an ill-lit hallway. “Not physically alike,” he added, mumbling now. “Something in the …” The sentence petered out. Burton suppressed a smile.

  Outside a rough-looking frontiersman waited, dressed in the outfit Burton had come to associate with army scouts. “Sir Richard Burton,” said the factotum, “Porter Rockwell.”

  Burton suppressed a laugh.

  “Sir Richard,” said Rockwell, offering his hand, and Burton had to suppress another.

  “Pleased to see you again,” he said, shaking.

  They had met at a stage station on Burton’s previous trip, the explorer and the avenger, introduced by the owner.

  Burton corrected, “Captain Burton.”

  “Not Sir Richard?” asked Rockwell.

  Burton decided on a policy of largesse. These Americans, or rather Mormons, were simply unacquainted with the social niceties. “One should be delighted to be so honored, but alas not yet.”

  “You wanna be Sir Richard, then?”

  Burton was at a loss for words. “Naturally, one …”

  “A man should have what he wants when he wants it. Sir Richard you be to me,” said the scout, grinning
monstrously.

  “It’s improper.”

  “I was borned improper,” answered Rockwell. “Sir Richard.”

  Preposterous, thought Burton. But utterly American. He was amused.

  Now Burton regarded two fine-looking mounts. “If you’re ready,” said the big man.

  “Of course,” said Burton.

  Porter Rockwell. Burton almost laughed out loud. He turned to the factotum. “Thank you,” he said in dismissal. Splendid. Brigham Young provides me with a tour of his country guided by a notorious killer. More than notorious. To Brigham Young’s virtues of subtle and discriminating intelligence and powerful will, Burton now added a virtue he wouldn’t have guessed, a sense of humor. At the same time this is an admonition, Burton realized. Assigning the head of the Danites as my guide is a warning.

  Rockwell mounted and waited.

  Oh, Mr. Rockwell, I know your reputation, the Destroying Angel of the Mormon Church, the most feared man in Utah Territory. Burton had traveled widely in the East, the Middle East, and even to deepest Africa. Yet I doubt I have had the privilege of beholding a man as purely dangerous as this one.

  He swung into the saddle and drew alongside Rockwell. He was exhilarated.

  And that dolt all but said Rockwell and I are alike in spirit! Burton was vastly amused.

  “Your call, Sir Richard,” Rockwell said. He gave a mirthless smile.

  “I understand there is good whisky to be had in Ogden,” said Burton.

  Rockwell laughed, a rough sound, a child’s fantasy of an evil laugh, and touched his heels to his horse.

  What similarity was the factotum imagining? Intimidating aspect, I suppose.

  The two men rode down the middle of the wide road as though it were theirs not by command or even ownership but by natural law. Burton eyed the other man curiously. They were both in middle age yet bore an aura of physical power. Each was about six feet, strongly built, rugged-looking. Each sat his horse like a saddle-toughened soldier. Each had an air of readiness, capability, self-assurance. Each was graying a bit, though Burton wore his hair as a gentleman and Rockwell as a border ruffian, long and plaited into a braid. They had faces much aged by hard experience, Burton forty-two, Rockwell somewhat older. They had the eyes of soldiers who have seen many battles, many deaths, and much savagery. Both had the courage, Burton would guess, to admit to much that is evil in all men, including themselves.

  But doubtless the factotum saw that each of them had a face that by itself could make men quail. Burton had a mad-looking scar on his left cheek, where a Somali spear passed through. He also possessed what was called the Gypsy eye, which focuses on a man severely until he feels his innards are exposed, then refocuses beyond him, on something visible only to the beholder. The Gypsy eye was unnerving.

  Rockwell’s look was simpler. It was careless violence, a love of mayhem, a look of pure malevolence as fine as Burton had seen even in Asia and Africa.

  He chuckled to himself. He imagined the effect of the two of them simply walking into a bar for a drink. The Americans would see two very dangerous coons, as they quaintly put it. Some would go quickly elsewhere, and ease the constriction in their throats with the whisky the Mormons opposed, made illegal, and provided illegally at high prices.

  “What would you care to see beyond Ogden?” asked Rockwell civilly. Then he added softly, “Sir Richard.”

  Burton shot him a glance meant to be withering, but answered only, “I’m at your disposal.”

  “Bear’s ass!” said Rockwell, and gave a mocking sideways grin. Burton was delighted to hear this Mormon expression, which he had already recorded in his notebook. It was an ejaculation of approval. “Bear’s ass! So you have come to see the elephant. I will by God show him to you every bit, trunk, legs, and twitching tail.” A flick of amused eyes. “Sir Richard.”

  “To the queen!” Burton proposed, and lifted his whisky.

  “To Deseret!” answered Rockwell, ever the Mormon partisan. He downed his in one toss.

  “Wheat!” Rockwell exclaimed.

  Burton couldn’t second “wheat,” but he recognized it. A few nights before he had listed it in his copious notes as a “Mormon neologism for good.” To Burton’s educated tongue, however, no Western whisky was wheat. The only standard of quality for Western whisky, Burton had heard, was how far a man could walk after he drank it. The shorter the walk, the better the whisky.

  Rockwell slugged down the second glass.

  During the last two days Burton had satisfied some of his curiosity. They were doing very well, the Mormons. Brigham Young was shrewder and far more determined than the U.S.-appointed governor of the territory, and the vast majority of politicians. With the advantages of the vast distances of the West and the fanatical devotion of his followers, he would outwit the United States in nearly any way he cared to. Burton had no doubt that the Saints would succeed. People of religious fervor usually do.

  However, he remained befuddled and intrigued by his companion. Was Porter Rockwell a Saint in spirit? Abundant signs said he wasn’t. For one thing, Rockwell liked his whisky.

  As Rockwell brought another glass to his lips, Burton said, “Do you not agree with ‘The Word of Wisdom’ then? Are you a free thinker?”

  “A man holds truths he cannot live to,” said Rockwell. “Yet a square drink will not condemn a man to eternal dying.”

  Burton noted the language of Joseph Smith on Rockwell’s tongue. He also thought one of the drinkers at the next table was showing undue interest in the conversation.

  “You’re a good chap to lift a glass with,” Burton said.

  “I’ll drink Valley Tan, mint juleps, brandy smashes, whisky skies, gin slings, cocktail sherry, cobblers, rum salads, streaks of lightning, and morning glories,” said Rockwell, his eye slyly on the eavesdropper. “I’ll imbibe tarantula juice, awerdenty, coffin varnish, rattlesnake juice, or Pass brandy. Some months I exist mostly on bottles, flasks, demijohns, corbozes….” Rockwell seemed to take sudden thought. “Occasionally I even drink with gentiles.” He smiled at Burton. “Like you, Sir Richard.” He held the bottle out toward the back of the stranger. “And you, eavesdropper.”

  The eavesdropper turned his head and regarded them. Then he gave a slow smile and arose, glass in hand. “Believe I will,” he said. His companion also rose and extended a glass. Rockwell poured, and the men joined Rockwell and Burton. Names and handshakes were not exchanged. From the look of curiosity on his face, Burton supposed that the gentile knew Rockwell by reputation.

  Eve, Burton named the eavesdropper in his mind, because Eve is the source of all human troubles. Gent, he named the other, short for gentile, and because the fellow was not genteel. From their accents both were Southerners. Eve had the look of a gentleman, Gent a ruffian.

  “I was asking my companion his view of sin,” Burton began.

  “The two blasphemies against the Holy Ghost,” intoned Rockwell, “which shall not be forgiven in this world or out of it, are shedding innocent blood and adultery. Those who commit these abominations shall be destroyed by the Lord our God.”

  “You Mormons commit adultery every night,” said Gent.

  Burton eased his chair back. If the Destroying Angel took a notion to purify Deseret of one gentile, Burton wanted to be able to stand clear.

  Rockwell gave him a grin. “You gentiles have hearts filled with lust,” he said. “So you imagine we …”

  Burton smiled to himself. Is it possible I’m going to hear a rousing debate between a Mormon and a gentile about the system of plural marriage?

  “I am no polygamist,” Rockwell told Gent ominously. “I have but one wife.” He did not add, a wife I see only now and then.

  Burton wondered if Gent or Eve knew danger when he saw it. I hope neither of them is the sort of idiot who imagines to make his reputation by whipping a notorious bad man. Without looking at it, he let himself be aware of his knife, an assegai, a short sword of the Zulu, which would be very effective in these clos
e quarters.

  He tried diplomacy. “I have observed polygamy firsthand in Asia and Africa,” said Burton. “I don’t believe it will work among us, but it works among them.”

  “Are you saying, Sir Richard, that you think plural marriage is a nigger thing?” Rockwell’s gaze was amused and malicious.

  Tingle. Burton was surprised and delighted by the pleasure this whiff of danger gave him. If Rockwell and I fight, one of us will die very quickly.

  “I’m saying it works in many parts of the world.” He held Rockwell’s eye.

  “Hooray,” said Gent. “Listen to John Bull stick up for the Mormons.” The fellow at least drew Rockwell’s venomous gaze away from Burton.

  “I merely report what I have observed, which is that it works well among the Muslims.” Now he addressed Rockwell. “Are you aware of Mohammed’s teachings on the subject?”

  Rockwell cocked an eye. He was willing to change moods, be amiable.

  “‘If you have only one wife,’ says the Prophet, ‘she will think herself your equal and take on airs. If two, they will quarrel eternally. If three, one will be nicer than the others, and they will collude against her, making her life miserable. Four, however, is a different story. Four wives will give each other companionship and become a family. It is the ideal number.’”

  “And higher numbers?”

  “To have more than four is forbidden,” said Burton. “So says the Prophet.”

  Rockwell’s eye glinted. “Not our Prophet, Sir Richard, not our Prophet.”

  “You don’t see nothing wrong with them marrying all them wives?” whined Gent.

  “Indeed I do. My complaint of womanhood in Salt Lake City is what the sailor says of the sea.” He embraced the city with his outspread arms. “Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”

  Rockwell chuckled. So did Burton. Rockwell laughed heartily, and Burton joined him.

  “Amazing that anyone would defend polygamy,” said Eve, “in this day and age.”

  Amazing that you bait Porter Rockwell! Dressed head to toe in black, his hair loose and wild and hanging to his waist today, Rockwell looked a Destroying Angel right enough, or a devil.