Saints (28 page)

“I had the strangest dream.”

Emma did not seem to hear him, just continued dressing in the scant morning light through the oilcloth window.

“I dreamed,” Joseph said, “that I was walking in the marshes and a squirrel came out to the end of a limb and spoke to me.”

Emma laughed abruptly. “When did the Lord start sending you squirrels in your dreams?”

“I’m not saying it’s a revelation, I’m just saying it might mean
something
.” Joseph sat up and slid his legs out from under the sheet—all that he could bear to have covering him on summer nights.

“What did the squirrel say?”

“I left behind my children for you. Have you no inheritance for me in the beautiful city?”

“Mm.”

“I didn’t say I understood it.”

“The children will be wanting breakfast.” She walked out of the room. Joseph sighed. Not going to be a good day with Emma today. He had given up trying to understand what caused her moods. Sometimes they came at her time of month, and then he understood why Moses had commanded the women of Israel to stay away from men during such times. It was doubtless to limit the incidence of murder. But today was definitely not Emma’s time—
that
had been last week—and so of course he thought as he always did of his feeble attempts at initiating plural marriage. Had she heard rumors? Despite the strict oaths of secrecy, had someone hinted once too broadly? Or worse, had he been seen going into the wrong house at the wrong time?

Not that he hadn’t tried to tell her. One night as they lay in bed he started talking about how all things were to be restored—
all
things, including the ancient practice of marriage the way Abraham did it, the way Jacob did it; even polygamy on the grand scale of David and Solomon. She lay there in silence until she finally asked, “And when will you restore murder, the way Cain did it, or even on the grand scale of Joshua and Samson?” Ever since then, whenever he broached the subject she got angry and began questioning him about his relations with the young unmarried women of the neighborhood.

Sometimes she even accused him of being false to her, and what could he say? He always confessed some little sin, some minor indiscretion, for Emma would recognize hedging if he tried getting around it by saying, “I have never slept with a woman who was not my wife,” or even, “I am innocent of adultery.” Better to satisfy her suspicion with a repentance that was genuine enough, even if he lied about the offense, than to say anything that would fuel her suspicions. In short, he was afraid.

He laughed at himself. He had been beaten, poisoned, tarred and feathered, imprisoned, sentenced to death, hunted by murderous mobs, and it had only made him more determined to bind the world to the law God had taught him. But tell Emma the truth? He thought of what Sidney Rigdon had said about Socrates; no wonder he spent his life out of doors, conversing with anyone he could find rather than go home to Xantippe.

Not fair, not right. He cursed himself for such an unjust thought. Emma’s tongue was sharp because her wits were keen and her afflictions many. In all their years of marriage, when had she had a home of her own? When had she even had a husband who would surely be back tonight, or even this week? Half their marriage she had lived on the charity of the uncharitable, the other half on the pittance he could eke from whatever business he was in at the time. Well, this time things would be different. In Nauvoo she’d have a fine home, the best in the city. No one could begrudge the Prophet that vanity—he had for so many years made do with far, far less. But he knew that she would rather live in a pigsty than let her husband have another wife. He understood her feelings. If she loved another man, he’d seriously consider killing the son of a bitch, and to hell with eternal damnation.

Of all the things God demanded of him, celestial marriage was the hardest, for it smacked of adultery even to him. And hiding it from Emma made it feel yet more like a sin. It
was
a sin, in fact, for celestial marriage was only to be practiced with the consent of the first wife. Hadn’t Sarah given Hagar to Abraham of her own free will? Hadn’t Leah and Rachel asked their husband Jacob to go to their handmaids and conceive children? But what wife would Emma ever give to him?

He could tell her that God would damn him if he didn’t obey the commandment, but he knew that Emma would not be swayed by that. “Then go to hell,” she’d say, “but I’ll give you no wives but me.” So to obey the larger law, he broke a lesser one, and denied his wife the choice that was hers by right. He knew that he could never teach polygamy to the Saints if he weren’t living it himself; and yet he was also setting an example of deception and faithlessness, because he had not yet taught the law to his own wife. Telling her, though, might well be the end of their marriage, and he could not imagine life without Emma. Yet the longer he waited, the more deceived and betrayed she would feel when she finally learned. Emma, my love, I have already seven wives besides you, and in heaven they will be mine forever. No, he could not tell her, not for fear of her sharp tongue, not for fear of her rage, but for fear that she would leave him, and that he could not bear.

In the meantime, he told himself that during the passing months the Spirit of God would doubtless prepare her heart to receive the principle of celestial marriage. Surely that would be no harder than parting the Red Sea or raising the dead. And then came the most optimistic of his unbelievable dreams: What if Emma already knew all about the Principle, and the only thing that made her so angry was that he hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her? When he told her, why, she would rejoice and embrace him and say, “Why didn’t you ask me to do this before?” It’s
possible
, he told himself. When hell freezes over.

Downstairs she was even colder to him, and scolded the children unmercifully for the mildest offenses. To spare the little ones the anger that was meant for him, Joseph fled the house without his breakfast. He went down to the wharf, where all day rafts and little boats pulled up and put out—arriving always full, leaving always empty. It was the bane of his labor in this place. Nothing was yet manufactured here except houses and babies. All the money drained away from the town as quick as water through a sieve, and precious little came back to make it up. Something would have to happen soon, or there wouldn’t be a hope in the world of paying their debts. And no one around him seemed capable of helping. Joseph’s older brother Hyrum did his best, of course, but he was only one man, and not one for fresh ideas. Sidney Rigdon, who was either ill or shamming, was off in Pennsylvania or some other such place, waiting until all the real work was done. And the Twelve—they were in England. Well, the Lord wanted them there. Now if the Lord expected anything to get done, the Lord had better send someone capable to do it—the strain would kill
this
man, at least, before winter.

Of course Joseph knew perfectly well that the Lord probably already had help on the way. The Lord had a way of answering his prayers before he even said a word. It didn’t occur to him that it might not have been the Lord who sent small and beautiful John C. Bennett to help him in his time of need.

Bennett was elegant, that was the word for him. He rode his horse with energy along the muddy road; he was no dandy, fearful lest he be spattered with mud. And yet the mud seemed not to touch him, and when he dismounted gracefully, tossed the reins over his horse’s neck, and thrust out his hand toward Joseph Smith, he seemed to fill the space of a man twice his size; people stepped back to make way for him, though there was plenty of room.

“President Smith!” Bennett said. “I think if the City of God is ever built, it will be built at this place and no other!”

A clever one—that was the first thought that crossed Joseph’s mind. Bennett had weeks to devise the first words he would say to the Mormon Prophet, and from the few letters they had exchanged Bennett had understood him well enough to know that the way to Joseph’s heart was to flatter, not the man, but his dream. And yet Bennett’s expression was so genuine, his tone so sincere, that it made Joseph a bit ashamed to suspect him, even for a moment, of guile. “We mean to do it,” Joseph said, “if we can keep our enemies at bay long enough.”

There wasn’t even an introduction. It was as if both men assumed from the start that neither of them needed one. Joseph noticed that it made them equals, and that bothered him. The man took liberties. Soon, however, Joseph had his mind on other things. For Bennett was a man of ability, and if his deeds could match his talk, he was the answer to prayer.

“It strikes me that your worst enemy right now is disease.”

“Disease? Half the city has a fever and the other half has the chills. I heard of a man who had the chills so bad he shook all the shingles off his roof. And then had a fever so hot his wife set the teapot on him to bring it to a boil.” Bennett laughed, as Joseph wished him to. But it wasn’t a matter that could be cured with a joke. “I’m not Jesus,” Joseph said quietly, when the laughter was done. “I can’t heal them with a word, and when they touch the hem of my topcoat, they die anyway. Some even say the land is cursed, and if an idea like that takes hold, good-bye to our chance of building anything here.”

“Well, then, I’m your man. I’m a physician, and though my specialty is the ills of women and children, I’ve made it a point to use my office as Quartermaster General of the Illinois Militia to investigate this river fever. It’s endemic to this whole area, and if you can fetch a horse, sir, I propose we ride out and I’ll show you how to make this infirm land whole again.”

The horse was fetched, of course, and in a few minutes they were riding alone together away from the people gathered near the stable. It all happened so quickly—things happened quickly around John Bennett. It was not until they were alone together that Joseph realized that he, the most hated, hunted man in Missouri, an escaped criminal there with a bounty on his head, was now riding alone near the edge of the river, a ripe target for capture or murder. He was relieved when he saw, in the distance, Porter Rockwell galloping hard to catch up. “Whoa up, now,” Joseph said. “We’re in no hurry.” And he slowed his horse to a walk, to wait for Porter.

Bennett wheeled and returned to him. “My horse always runs when I feel urgent, President Smith.” Then he cast his gaze back along the route they had followed, and he looked alarmed. “There’s a man riding hard toward us who looks like a bandit.”

Joseph didn’t turn around. He had never asked Port to be his bodyguard, but he didn’t mind in the least the frightening impression he made. Porter Rockwell was small, had a game leg, and talked in a high-pitched voice that was almost comical. But he decked himself out with as many pistols and carbines as a cavalry troop, and those who had seen him shoot knew that the guns weren’t there for show. Joseph took pleasure watching Bennett’s face. For when he first saw Porter, Bennett’s face showed only curiosity, and by the time Porter arrived, Bennett was the picture of courage and confidence. But in between, for a fleeting moment, Joseph saw that the man could wear a fear that wasn’t pretty. Not a cowardly kind of fear. More like the face of a boy who’s just been caught stealing again, and knows there’ll be no mercy in
this
whipping.

“Mornin’, Brother Joseph,” Porter said.

Joseph offered not a word of explanation to Bennett, just said, “Mornin’, Porter. Well, now, let’s have a look at the cause of our fever.”

They rode on. Much of the swamp was firming up now, with the drainage ditches carrying the standing water away to the Mississippi so there’d be room to build, but Bennett seemed determined to seek out the foulest spots. The insects droned around them, and the horses sloshed water all over their boots and trousers; Bennett seemed not to notice. “Look at this,” he said. “Wet as a cuspidor at closing time. See that fallen log? Last year’s leaves rotting on the water? The air here has death in it. Malaria, we call it—that’s Latin for ‘bad air.’ You won’t be rid of that fever until every last bit of this swamp is dry land, firm enough to draw a cannon across it with a slow mule. The standing water causes the rot, and the rot causes foul odors to rise in the air, and those odors are poisons that attack the body and start the decay going inside a man. Of course, it takes brave men to dig ditches in places as foul as this—but I see you’ve already done some ditching, so I expect you’ll have it done before long.”

“Drain this, and it’ll cure it?”

“Try me and see. President Smith, I can be a useful man to you—but only if you use me. Try me now. Dig those ditches. If the disease doesn’t clear up within a month, then you’ll know the only malaria around here comes from
me
.”

“Bad air.”

“It’s the latest scientific discovery, President Smith. And in the meantime, I happen to have brought with me a supply of the drug quinine, which is extremely effective against this disease.”

Porter Rockwell’s piping voice interrupted. “How much you plan to sell it for?”

Bennett looked at him in surprise. “Sell it? Good heavens, man! I’m not a patent medicine dealer, I’m a medical doctor and a surgeon, the Quartermaster General of the Illinois Militia and a brigadier general. I have been a professor of medicine and a member of the board of regents of universities in West Virginia, Ohio, and the fair state of Illinois. I do not sell lifesaving drugs for profit.”

Properly abashed, Port looked away and watched the birds diving through the swarms of gnats and mosquitoes.

“It has to have cost you some money, General Bennett,” Joseph said.

As Joseph had supposed, Bennett was a man who loved titles. Well, so did Joseph, for that matter. Bennett grinned and extended his hand. “President Smith, here with you I’m just plain John Bennett.”

Joseph was quite capable of answering, “And you may call me President Smith,” when someone presumptuously asked for first names. This man, however, was clearly not a charlatan. He had offered a plan and was willing to accept the judgment that would come if he failed—such confidence was a rare thing in this rough country, where few men were willing to stand to a tenth of what they said. “I’m called Brother Joseph by the Saints. And I hope you won’t misunderstand me if I call you Brother John.”