Saints (57 page)

Do you want me to be ashamed? “Do you want to compare the pain?”

“I’m not comparing,” he said. “Father chooses for us what he knows we can bear, and what we need to go through to become what he wants us to be, if we have the faith for it. And not just once. Over and over again, that’s what we’re here for, that’s all that life is, testing us again and again.”

“Then the lucky ones are the ones who die before they’re old enough to know.”

“The lucky ones are the ones who know they have proved themselves in a wrestling match with the Lord.”

“I surrender now,” Dinah said. “I want no more tests. I have had enough.”

Joseph laughed sadly and kissed her hair. “The one thing you’ll never do, Sister Dinah, is surrender, to God or anyone.”

Dinah was afraid of meeting Emma once she left the room; there was no way to hide the fact that she’d been crying, and Emma would want to know why, if not now, then later. But Emma was not upstairs, and when they got downstairs Charlie told them she had gone on an errand before Heber and Vilate came. Joseph didn’t seem surprised. “These things work out,” he said.

“Brother Joseph,” Charlie said, “is it all right if I tell the news to Dinah?”

Joseph laughed. “It’s not that big a secret, Charlie.” Joseph turned to Dinah. “I’m sending Charlie to Washington. At his own expense, of course.” Charlie was visibly proud that he was doing well enough that he needed to ask for nothing from the Church to pay his way. “I want him to work on winning support with Congress for our petition for redress of grievances from Missouri. At least restitution for the land that was stolen from us.” Joseph slung his arm around Charlie’s shoulders.

“Charlie’s only just turning nineteen this week,” Dinah said. “Even if he were a citizen, he couldn’t vote in this country.”

“Don’t talk him out of it, Dinah,” Charlie said. “I can do it.”

“There isn’t much that Charlie can’t do,” Joseph said. “A sister wouldn’t know that, of course. My sisters never thought I’d amount to much, either.”

Dinah smiled, but wasn’t satisfied until Joseph playfully held Charlie at arm’s length and said to him, “It’s just the sort of mission I might’ve sent Don Carlos on.”

Charlie soberly received the words as praise, as confidence, and Joseph meant them that way, at least in part. But Dinah knew as well that Joseph had found a way around the most painful of reminders of Don Carlos’s death.

Charlie came to her and took her hands. “Dinah, are you glad?”

Impulsively she embraced him tightly. “Yes, I’m glad,” she said. It startled the poor boy, but it felt good to her. He was the companion of her youth, and even though their marriages had drawn them apart, she still loved him as always, and when she was glad she needed to be glad with him, even if she couldn’t tell him all the reasons. Couldn’t tell him she was glad that there would soon be other families living the Principle. Couldn’t tell him she was glad that the silence Vilate had imposed on her would end at last. Couldn’t tell him she was glad that it would not be long before Harriette, too, would have the husband that she wanted. You, Charlie, if you only knew what God has in store for
you
.

There was a warm spell in January, and the First Lady, Mrs. Tyler, decided to pretend it was spring and have an orchestra perform on the White House lawn. Charlie was there, with writing paper and pencil so he could pretend to be using the time for correspondence, but in fact he was out to enjoy the weather and the company of other people, just like everyone else.

Charlie began a letter to Sally first, more out of duty than pleasure. He felt guilty whenever he had to think of her for long. He hadn’t been there for the birth of little Alexandra in November. It was a much colder winter in Nauvoo. And the Prophet was in hiding much of the time, trying to evade arrest as the writs from Missouri came thick and fast. Charlie knew he should finish his business and come home, but the truth was, he wasn’t that anxious to return. He
missed
Sally, and
wanted
to see his daughter, but he was in love with Washington. There were people here who loved poetry,
men
who loved poetry. Old John Quincy Adams himself had lent Charlie more than one book of poetry, but when he copied some out and sent them home to Sally, she didn’t understand them unless Harriette explained them to her. Cold as a corpse Harriette, but she understood love poetry better than Sally, even though Sally was as hot between the sheets as a woman could possibly be.

Too hot. Not like the cool Washington ladies in their lawns and muslins, always so distant and reserved. They had mystery; there was no mystery about Sally. She said what she thought, and what she thought was so common, so unpoetic that Charlie sometimes felt quite afraid to go home, for life in Nauvoo was swallowing up the last vestiges of refinement in him, his last hope of being a gentleman. Charlie looked around him at the people beginning to gather on the lawn. There had never been such a gathering at Nauvoo. It was not just that people had money; it was the grace of conversation when they spoke, the depth of thought when they touched on topics that mattered. Nauvoo seemed so boorish in comparison. Charlie hated telling people he was just a clerk. He preferred to tell them that he owned a factory. He liked to leave the impression that he owned three, in fact, a chandlery, a soap manufactory, and a wagon-making firm. He
meant
to make wagons soon, anyway, and he did make wheels, and wheels were what made the difference between a wagon and a box. You’re in business, and only nineteen? Do you have partners? Oh, that’s impressive, I wish
my
son were so ambitious. Charles! Recite the one, that Wordsworth one, Lucy—yes, it breaks my heart, you have to hear it recited by an Englishman. A pleasure to meet you; you have the soul of a poet, Mr. Kirkham. May I call you Charles? What are you doing out west? You aren’t a pioneer, Charles. You’re too civilized. Where you belong is New York. No, Boston—don’t listen to him, New Yorkers can’t tell a waltz from a waffle iron. You should come to Charleston.

But Sally wouldn’t hear of it. He dropped a hint once, about how nice it might be to live on the coast. Sally’s next letter fairly burned as she informed Charlie that she had married a Latter-day Saint and intended her children to grow up with Latter-day Saints and she would not for a moment be willing to live in
Babylon
, the
whore of the earth
, as the scriptures called it. Are you praying every day, Charlie? Don’t forget me. Don’t forget our baby. Don’t forget the Savior. Come home soon.

Writing to Sally depressed him. He set down the pencil and watched the orchestra forming on a makeshift stand nearer the White House. Sally was right—
she
at least would never fit in here. In Nauvoo she was the perfect wife, bright, businesslike, hardworking, fertile, strong, healthy, all that it took to do well in the rough life of the frontier. But here in Washington her movements would be too large, her emotions too obvious, her voice too loud, her words all inappropriate. A frog at a ball, that’s what she’d be. With his choice of wives, Charlie had made his choice of career as well. He could visit Washington, but he could never belong here.

“And there is a true correspondent, lost in letters even at a concert.”

Charlie looked up. Daniel Webster had decked himself out in his dashing blue swallowtail coat and buff trousers, the Whig colors, so that he would have looked like Whig Party bunting had he not also been an outrageously handsome man. His black hair recommended him from a distance; closer to, his voice required everyone to listen. Charlie noticed that already the inevitable crowd was forming around the Secretary of State and, therefore, around Charlie. In a way, Washington was as small as Nauvoo—it was possible to know everyone.

“Good morning, sir,” Charlie said, getting up.

“But it’s afternoon, my friend. What an engrossing letter you’re writing, that it has held you so enthralled right through the dinner hour! I’m Daniel Webster, Mr. Kirkham—you may remember that we met at Mrs. Woodbury’s soiree, an unfortunately Democratic affair at which I provided the only Whig of fresh air.”

A man standing nearby—Charlie recognized him as an obscure new Congressman from Massachusetts or Georgia or some such foreign place—spoke up and said, “But the President himself was there.”

“And you yourself, Mr. Colquitt, have been quoted as saying that poor President Tyler has no party, even when he attends one.”

So the political wars continued on the White House lawn. Finding Charlie a good neutral foil, Webster stayed there some time, conversing with him for the entertainment and enlightenment of the onlookers. Charlie knew that his role was not to compete but to complement, and so he designed his answers and his questions to make him sound like a naive but fascinated foreigner. His Lancashire accent was indispensable at times like this.

Because Charlie was so good at conversation, it was still going strong after a quarter hour; Charlie wished it could last forever. But Webster began to break away, to move on—the concert was nearly over, and he had to make his appearance at the front before the affair broke up. “A pleasure talking with you, Mr. Kirkham.”

Charlie had already learned how the famous love to be reminded of their fame. “A man of my age rarely gets to talk with men of fame.”

“Fame!” Webster cried. “What is fame! Let me give you a striking illustration of how valuable a thing
fame
is. I was traveling in a railroad car a short time ago, and it so happened that I was seated by the side of a very old man. I soon found that this old man was from my native town in New Hampshire. I asked him if he was acquainted with the Webster family there. He answered that he and old Mr. Webster, in his lifetime, were great friends. He then went on to speak of the children. He said Ezekiel was the most eminent lawyer in New Hampshire, and his sisters, calling each by her Christian name, were married to most excellent men.” Webster paused. “I then inquired if there was not another member of the family.”

The crowd laughed. Charlie smiled.

“He said he thought not.” At this Webster made a slightly woeful face, which drew more laughter. “Was there not one, I asked him, by the name of Daniel? Here the old man put on his thinking-cap for a few moments, and then he replied, ‘Oh, I recollect now. There was one by the name of Daniel, but he went down to Boston, and I haven’t heard of him since.’” The crowd roared with laughter. “There’s your fame, Mr. Kirkham!”

Charlie thought then that Webster would move away, but Webster put his arm around Charlie’s shoulders and brought him along as he walked toward Mrs. Tyler at the front of the gathering.

“A most delightful conversation,” Webster said.

“I think I learned more from half an hour with you than in all these months in Washington,” Charlie said.

Webster chuckled. “You don’t have
very
much to learn from anyone. If I were either more or less vain, I’d hire you to walk around with me, to converse with me so cleverly. It would enhance my reputation.”

“Not to mention mine.”

“You looked forlorn as you wrote. I cannot resist a sad story.”

“My wife,” Charlie said.

“A wife,” Webster said sadly. “No wonder you’re morose. There are ladies who quite openly set their caps for you, and you must ignore them most heartlessly. Of course, if word got around that you’re married, as many as two or three of them might get discouraged. But don’t worry—I’ll tell no one your dark secret. How would I dare? The bearer of such news would be unwelcome in every Washington house that contains an unmarried lady.”

Charlie laughed. “They never give me a second glance, sir, as you well know.”

“Not while you’re glancing at
them
, you may be sure. How can they give you a second glance, anyway, when the first glance lingers infinitely?”

The flattery was coming far too thickly. Charlie laughed, but he was becoming wary, though in fact he could not think what Webster might hope to gain by flattering someone as powerless as Charlie.

“You may have heard,” said Webster, “that John Calhoun and I have had our differences.”

Charlie wondered what Webster was getting at. “It’s a rumor that I was not in a position to evaluate.”

“It isn’t a rumor, Mr. Kirkham. I’m telling you that it’s plain fact. If I didn’t hold the man’s mother in such high regard I’d suppose him a son-of-a-bitch in the grand tradition; as it is, I can only think him a horse’s ass. But both he and his moral twin, Henry Clay, may they share an appointment as ambassadors to Turkestan, have mentioned you favorably to me. Don’t you think that odd?”

“I’ve met them both. I hope they remembered me pleasantly.”

“I’ve never met this man you serve, your Joseph Smith. Is he really a prophet?”

“I wish you could meet him and judge for yourself, sir.”

“I don’t know. I’m not an expert on prophets, and I doubt he’s ever met such a shameless demagogue as myself. It has been suggested to me that you might make an admirable secretary.”

Charlie almost laughed. In a city swarming with office-seekers, Charlie was one of the few there who was not angling for an appointment. And now Daniel Webster himself was hinting at one. It tempted him sorely, but he was the Prophet’s representative. “I’m a businessman in Illinois, when I’m not here on President Smith’s affairs. I’ve been secretary to a law firm in England and to a prophet in Illinois, but I don’t know that I long for a career at it.”

Webster looked bemused. “At least they measured you fairly accurately. You really aren’t looking for a position. I had thought there was not such a man in the world. Come see me, Mr. Kirkham. I want to have you about the house, if only so I can point you out as a curiosity. There is a man who is good enough to do well in office, and doesn’t want one.” Then Webster took his leave, and returned to being the center of a swarm of admirers as he went to greet the First Lady.

They said Webster wanted to be President. Well, thought Charlie, that was an easy disease to catch in this city. Every politician Charlie met was infected with it, or once had been, which meant that they were accustomed to making no clear statement of policy on anything. It made Charlie’s official mission, to secure redress of grievances for the Saints’ losses in Missouri, hopeless. Henry Clay had put him off with vague talk of waiting for an improved political climate. John Quincy Adams bluntly said that he was busy collecting citizen petitions on matters that had at least a bit of hope of success. But it was John C. Calhoun who explained things most plainly, though in his careful Southern drawl it sounded milder than it was. “Son,” the Senator said, “I’d sooner see an enemy put Savannah to the torch than hear of a single federal officer interfering with a private matter in a sovereign state.” That had been the enlightenment for Charlie. The Saints were asking the federal government to either guarantee private property within the states—anathema to antislavery Northerners—or forcefully enter a state to enforce the Constitution—an unspeakable idea to a Southerner.

But the redress of grievances was not Charlie’s main purpose in Washington. Charlie’s real reason for staying in Washington was to size up the men who were the most likely candidates for President, to see which of them was worth supporting. Because the Church was concentrated in one county of one state, the Mormon vote could conceivably swing a whole bloc of electoral votes; that potential power might be traded for future protection, if the right man won. So as Charlie made his rounds, petition in hand, from one Congressman and Senator to another, he would casually mention that Mormons tended to vote as a bloc, and how many they were, and where they all lived.

Within a month of beginning this ploy, Charlie found himself invited everywhere. Only Henry Clay was frank about it. “You’re a charming fellow, Mr. Kirkham, but you got my attention the way you got everyone else’s, by making me wonder whether Joseph Smith was a Whig or a Democrat. It’s a clever game, and if you strike the right bargain you may do well for yourselves. But let me warn your prophet of something he may not know. After the next election, your influence will be
gone
. Once you decide to be Whigs, the Democrats will hound you until you drop; once you decide to be Democrats, the Whigs will drive you from the state at gunpoint. And if you don’t deliver your votes solidly one way or the other, they’ll figure you have no power at all, and despise you.”

“So you won’t help us?”

“Unbelievable as it may sound to you, Mr. Kirkham, there are still many men in Congress who put the public welfare above their individual good. But you Mormons are only a small part of the public. There are far greater issues than punishing the state of Missouri for crimes committed by a mob three years ago.”

Charlie nodded and stood to leave. “Thank you for the interview, Mr. Clay.”

But Clay stopped him. “That Smith fellow, your prophet. I met him when he was here, a couple of years ago. I didn’t like him much. That sort of religion doesn’t much appeal to me. But he has it, whatever it is that makes people lie down and die for a man. Has more of it than Webster, and Webster has more than anybody. But why are
you
taken in by it? It’s still all humbuggery.”