Saints (66 page)

It was unlike anything that Dinah had ever written before. Gone were the long involved sentences, the rhyming lines that never lacked a mate. Gone, too, was the neat certainty of most of her poems. In this one she seemed unsure of what she had to say. It could be spoken by first or second wife alike, in equal pain. And yet it was a love poem. And not a love poem for the husband.

That was the meaning of the poem, and the meaning of the pain that Harriette felt. It was the love between the wives that made the Principle both terrible and glorious. It was the daily forgivenesses, the quiet bearing of a burden that accumulated every little pain, and above all the knowledge that her sister shared a burden at least as heavy as her own. Most women marry, Harriette realized, but never the same man at the same time. Sally and I know each other’s lives more perfectly than any other women can hope to know each other. We are each other’s school for charity. If we live through this and love each other at the end, no one can say we don’t deserve to be called saints.

Polygamy is the great smokescreen of Mormonism. For a hundred years whenever people spoke or wrote of Mormonism, it was that peculiar institution that drew their attention. A generation of readers of pulp fiction grew up with a picture of Mormons as dour-faced patriarchs who sent out handsome young missionaries to seduce or kidnap young girls and bring them back to their harems. Those who did not think Mormon polygamy was a moral outrage found it to be a bizarre curiosity.

I, however, never thought of polygamy that way. Even though the Church had forsaken the practice years before I was born, I was aware almost from infancy that my grandparents had grown up in plural families—my one grandmother even told me stories of the day her father brought home Aunt Velora, the second wife. So the Principle did not seem strange to me, and I knew from the start that most of the titillating tales of polygamy were nonsense. With rare exceptions, the men and women who practiced the Principle were quite Victorian in their moral attitude. Polygamy was not promiscuity—all the children of all the wives were loved and cared for by their fathers, and adultery was regarded by the Church as a sin next to murder in seriousness. Women were never physically forced into polygamy, and while some no doubt were pressured into marriages they did not want, I suspect that there were no fewer non-Mormon girls pressured into equally detestable monogamous marriages. And some of my female ancestors, like Dinah Kirkham, were ardent advocates of the Principle. I know of no serious student of Mormon history who has found evidence to justify any other conclusion than this: Whatever other faults they might have had, Mormon men and women were almost never hypocritical about polygamy. It was not an excuse for promiscuity and exploitation. They entered the Principle as a sacrament and lived it as a serious family responsibility.

Yet a puzzle remained for me. Why did the first Mormons, reared in the puritanical tradition of New England, ever accept the Principle in the first place? Even Joseph Smith himself wrestled with the doctrine for a decade before he began to impose it on the Church, and it is almost impossible to find a record of a man or woman who was glad to learn of the commandment. Many, perhaps most, of the people who were taught the doctrine rejected it outright, and often they were so shaken by it that they apostatized and began to fight against the Church. Joseph Smith’s assassination can in large part be blamed on the practice of polygamy. Almost no one liked the doctrine, yet Joseph Smith died for it, hundreds of Saints went to jail for it, the Church was nearly destroyed for its sake. Even today, Mormons who, like me, grew up knowing the truth about polygamy still shudder at the thought of ever being required to live that law ourselves.

I have often wondered if, on an institutional level, polygamy did the Mormon Church harm or good. The death and suffering during the exodus from Nauvoo, added to the community pain caused by the deaths of Joseph and Hyrum, weigh heavily on the negative side. By the end of open polygamy in 1890, fifty years of struggle between the Church and the federal government left the Church broken and defeated, the Saints exhausted, the economy of Utah Territory in a shambles. The price for the peculiar doctrine was high.

But the benefits to the Church as an institution were high, too. Polygamy intensified the Saints’ dedication to the Church. Once men and women entered plural marriages, they were utterly committed to Mormonism. There could be no turning back without deserting helpless, beloved children, without renouncing wives or husband. A polygamous Mormon was forced to turn inward to the Church, for the outside world viewed him or her with pity at best, revulsion at worst. The long series of battles with the federal government taught generations of Saints to have a higher loyalty to their Church than to their government, a loyalty that continues even today. Mormons still treasure the myth of persecution: abuse a Mormon because of his beliefs, and he is almost grateful for the chance to bravely resist you, for it proves that he is worthy of the sacrifices of his ancestors. Polygamy named us as a people, and though polygamy is gratefully behind us now, we still live on the strength of its legacy.

That analytical view is possible only from a distance. Dinah and Charlie took a much more personal view. And that nearsighted, subjective, personal version of events may well be the only one that has any truth or importance to it. For all my words about the function of polygamy, the fact is that Charlie and Sally and Harriette, Joseph and Dinah, Heber and Vilate and hundreds of other Saints lived with it, paid its terrible price, and emerged from that peculiar institution stronger than ever. To my mind, at least, their response to the crisis of their faith ennobled them. And yet I suspect that my own response to the doctrine would have been like those who either left the Church in fury or pretended that it was just an aberration and hoped that it would go away. It is Emma whose acts I most sympathize with. I am not made of the same stuff as my ancestors. There’s a limit on how much I’m willing to sacrifice for my faith.

The years from 1842 to 1844 were crowded with events, according to the documents, but to me they seem like endless maneuvers to delay the inevitable end. The battle lines were drawn, the armies assembled, and for two years the armies perched on opposite hills and shouted at each other, fired warning shots, set pickets, sent forays, laid ambuscades, and yet dared not commit themselves irrevocably to battle. In the end, while all these little maneuvers fascinate me, they are footnotes to the story I am telling. Joseph Smith struggled to hold the Church together as polygamy threatened to tear it apart; he fought to win political power for the Church, even to the point of running for President of the United States, sending out troops of missionaries to campaign for him; in the end, watching the government turn into a weapon against him, watching the strength of the Church bleeding away as Mormon after Mormon defected to the anti-Mormon camp, he knew that it was impossible for the Church to fulfill his dream within the borders of the United States, and before he died he had already set the plans in motion for the westward migration that finally happened under the leadership of Brigham Young.

What finally brought matters to a head was the Nauvoo
Expositor
. The enemies of the Church published the newspaper right in Joseph’s city. Its first and only issue was filled with specific allegations concerning polygamy in Nauvoo. The
Expositor
forced Joseph Smith to commit himself. The Mormons who still had no idea that Joseph Smith himself was the source of the doctrine of polygamy demanded that any polygamists be prosecuted. As Mayor, Joseph Smith would have had to lead the prosecutions himself, and all the facts that would have come out in a trial would have destroyed the Church. Even a trial for libel was impossible for the same reason—too many of the allegations were true, or true enough that the world would never appreciate the fine distinction between the Principle and John Bennett’s version of events. The alternative was to deny everything, declare the
Expositor
a public nuisance, and stop its publication. That was the course that Joseph chose, and as a result, instead of the outside world seeing Mormons as a persecuted minority struggling for religious freedom against a mob, the world saw the Mormons as an arrogant theocracy, trampling on the Constitution by denying freedom of the press. After all the months of maneuvering, Joseph Smith found himself surrounded, and there was no way out.

—O. Kirkham, Salt Lake City, 1981

Charlie always felt a little silly wearing his sword as an officer in the Nauvoo Legion. He hadn’t the faintest idea what to do with it, and never unsheathed it for fear of hurting someone. He only held his rank because prominent citizens were expected to do their civic duty in the militia; but in the frequent military parades in recent months Charlie’s company became known as the best in the Nauvoo Legion. Charlie was dependable, so his soldiers had actually practiced marching in regular lines; Charlie had money, so his soldiers were all well-equipped. Naturally, Brother Joseph and the Nauvoo City Council decided to assign their destruction order to him. He was not pleased that his little company of soldiers was called into action for such a messy business as wrecking the paper. Not that he minded seeing the Nauvoo
Expositor
put out of business. After reading some of the terrible things that were said about him and his wives, Charlie wouldn’t have minded if the publishers were hanged. What he minded was having some responsibility for performing the act himself, for he had learned enough about American public feeling during his months in Washington to know that when the soldiers began to hammer at the door with their muskets, they were opening the door for the destruction of Nauvoo.

Still, Charlie was not one to hang back from his duty. He was one of the first militiamen to pass through the door into the printing office. Two of his soldiers had their muskets pointing at the terrified typesetter.

“I’m just a typesetter,” he said. “I don’t write the stuff, I just set it up.”

“Don’t point your guns at him,” Charlie said. “They might go off.”

“It’s OK. They only got powder and wad.”

“I don’t want you catching him on fire, either.”

The young soldiers reluctantly lifted the muzzles toward the ceiling—all but one, who pointed the gun downward, whereupon the gunpowder dribbled out on the floor. “Next time,” Charlie said, “remember the wadding.”

The marshall had several men going at the press with crowbars. Charlie watched the machinery come apart and remembered Don Carlos in the cellar before he died, pumping his heart out on just such an apparatus. It made him sad to see how frail the press really was.

“Come on, Charlie,” the marshall said. “The quicker begun, the quicker done.”

A philosopher, Charlie thought. “Come on, men, carry all the paper out into the street. We want a bonfire big enough to see in Iowa.” The men soon had a human chain going, passing the bundles of paper from arm to arm out of the shop.

His men were having trouble getting the type. The typesetter was clinging to the case, his mouth set in such a determined expression that Charlie was afraid violence might be necessary. Still, it was always better to try reason first.

“Friend,” Charlie said to him. “We’re just doing a little scientific experiment here. We’re trying to find out if little pieces of metal with backward letters on them are worth dying for. What do
you
think?”

After another moment’s hesitation, the fellow decided he had things yet to do with his life. He had been pulling with such force that the three men trying to get it from him nearly fell over when he let go. Then they wrestled the type case outside and dumped it into the street. Charlie watched from the window. The flames from the burning paper were yellow, and he could hear the roar of the fire above all the shouting.

One of his soldiers, a boy not much younger than Charlie, sidled up to him at the window. “Were you really gonna to kill him?”

Charlie shook his head. “But I’m flattered that he believed I might.”

The boy thought for a moment. “Would’ve been a hell of a lot more exciting if you did.”

No doubt. And then they would have had a murder trial on their hands. As it was, Charlie wondered if he’d be sent to jail for this. True, he was only obeying orders, but that wouldn’t save him. His name had long been prominent in anti-Mormon diatribes—putting him on trial would be worth the show even if he was acquitted. Still, the enemy was hunting buck, not rabbit. It was Joseph who was in the greatest danger. Even as Charlie sent his men marching back and forth to grind the metal type into the street, he was planning what might be done to get out of the trouble this was going to cause. And by the time the show was over, with all the furniture and fittings and materials broken and lying in the street, Charlie knew what he had to do.

It was a week before he had a chance to talk to Brother Joseph. By then it was plain to everyone that things were getting out of hand. Thousands of militiamen were drilling in nearby cities, boasting loudly of how they planned to invade Nauvoo whether Governor Ford officially called them out or not.

“I have a dozen horses stabled for you across the river in Iowa, with guards day and night,” Charlie told the Prophet. “There are a dozen boats up and down the river ready to take you across. I’ve also outfitted four wagons on the Iowa side with everything you’ll need to set up a forward camp in the Indian Territory, where the Church can come to join you.”

Joseph looked at the lists and maps Charlie had given him. “Charlie, don’t your factories keep you busy anymore? What do I want with this?”

“You’ve said before that you mean to lead us west. If you’re going to be alive to do it, you’ll have to be a few hundred miles away from what passes for civilization around here.”

Joseph looked over at Hyrum, who shrugged and said, “I’m glad somebody around here is thinking.”

“I’ve ridden out storms before.” Joseph pushed the papers away from him across the table. “They’ve even arrested me.”

“This time is different,” Charlie said. “This time it looks like you violated the Constitution.”

“I didn’t violate the Constitution!”

“I didn’t say you did. I said it looks like it, and it does.”

“The Constitution doesn’t protect libel.”

“Then you should have prosecuted them for libel.” Charlie smiled, to let Joseph know he was playing the devil’s advocate.

“That’s just what they wanted me to do, so they could call every apostate and traitor as a witness against me. I’d win the case and they’d convince the whole world that we practice Bennett’s brand of spiritual wifery.”

“Then you should have ignored them.”

“That would’ve been like admitting they were telling the truth. I had no choice but to do what I did.”

“Oh, I know that,” Charlie said. “That’s why I’ve got a dozen horses and four wagons full of supplies. I’ve also got men ready at a moment’s notice to ride with you, day or night. It’s all paid for out of my pocket, and it’s going to be ready whether you like it or not. I just wanted you to know where they were.”

“I’ll never use them, Charlie. Do you think I’ll run west and leave the Saints here surrounded by armies the way they were in Missouri? You weren’t here, Charlie, but I won’t do that again—I won’t sit off helpless in the distance, hearing reports of little children being murdered and women being raped while I can’t do a damn thing to stop it. They’ll never dare arrest me when I’m in Nauvoo, surrounded by the Legion.”

When Joseph had his mind made up, it was like talking to a wall. Charlie looked to Hyrum for some cue; Hyrum only smiled and shrugged. Charlie took that as encouragement and went on. “Brother Joseph, up to now you’ve had public sympathy with you, and your enemies knew it. But now you’ve done something un-American.”

“What do you think they did to our newspaper in Missouri!”

“I didn’t say it was fair. I just said that as far as public opinion is concerned, they’re free now to do whatever they dare.”

Joseph stood up and looked down on Charlie with fire in his eyes. “Who the hell are you to tell me I don’t understand. You aren’t even American!”

“I’ve lived for months in Washington.”

“You’re only a boy!”

“I’m twenty-one. When you were twenty-one you translated the Book of Mormon.”

Joseph made as if to answer. Then, slowly, he sat down. “I was a boy then too.”

“Charlie,” Hyrum said, “he knows you’re right.”

“I know nothing of the kind,” Joseph retorted.

“He knows you’re right, but he wants so bad for all this just to go away that he’s pretending that it will.”

“Hyrum, sometimes.” Joseph glared at his brother.

“The horses are there,” Charlie said. “If I have enough warning, I’ll be on the other side of the river when you get there, to make sure it goes smoothly. If anybody follows you, we’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

“I told you. I won’t be going.”

Charlie got up from his chair and walked to the door. “I think I’ll have a carriage waiting over there, too, in case somebody’s injured and can’t ride.”

“The boy’s deaf,” Joseph said to Hyrum.

“Thanks, Brother Charlie,” Hyrum called.

“Good-night,” Charlie answered.

It was daybreak, and Charlie woke up stiff from sleeping on a dirt floor. He got up at once and went to the door of the cabin. Joseph should have been here by now. It was a dangerous crossing. Charlie could not help but fear that the boat might have capsized.

He walked down to the shore. The water was higher today than it had been yesterday, when Charlie himself crossed. Several whole trees were rushing by out on the water, signs of heavy rainstorms upriver.

“Look at him!” someone shouted. “Just standing around, couldn’t even fix breakfast!”

It was Hyrum, emerging from the brush downstream. To Charlie’s relief, Joseph appeared next, followed by Porter Rockwell, with fat little Willard Richards puffing along behind.

“I thought you were drowned.”

“Damn near were,” said Rockwell. “I thought we were dead a million times.”

“I’ll help you saddle up the horses,” Charlie offered.

“No,” Joseph said. “We aren’t in that big a hurry. Do you have any paper and ink here?”

“In the supply wagons somewhere. They’re on about a mile inland.”

Willard Richards produced a scrap of paper from his pocket. “Will this do?”

“Pen and ink?”

Charlie had those. Joseph scrawled out a message to Emma. “I want her out of Nauvoo,” he said as he handed the message to Rockwell. “Hyrum’s family, too. Not a Smith left in the city. Tell them to send all Hyrum’s and my personal belongings downriver on the
Maid of Iowa
, then up the Ohio to Pittsburgh. Or somewhere. Maybe they don’t have to go that far to be safe. I don’t want a mob getting their hands on my son and holding him as a hostage against my coming back. If there isn’t a single Smith left in Nauvoo, the Saints will be safe.”

Rockwell looked at the note in his hand. “Back across the river?”

“It’s daylight now. Bring somebody back with you to help you bail.”

They waited for hours in the cabin as the day got hotter and hotter. Joseph kept telling stories and joking until Charlie wanted to shout at him that it was no time for joking, with the world coming down on them. But he held his tongue. Instead he escaped the relentless good cheer by repeatedly going outside to scan the river to see if anyone was crossing. No one did until Rockwell and another man came across at midmorning.

It was Reynolds Cahoon, and he brought a letter from Emma. Joseph read it in silence, then turned away, handing it to Hyrum as he walked off alone toward the horses. Charlie read the letter over Hyrum’s shoulder. She was pleading with Joseph to come back and submit to arrest. The governor had promised protection for him if he did. Otherwise, there’s be no controlling the mobs. Nauvoo would be sacked, the Saints driven out or killed.

Charlie looked at Cahoon. “You can tell the Saints that if they don’t want Brother Joseph alive, they aren’t worth his dying for.”

Cahoon glanced at Charlie, then glanced away as if he were unworthy of notice. It was Joseph who had to be persuaded, Cahoon knew. He wouldn’t waste time arguing with anyone else.

“Brother Joseph,” he called, and followed the Prophet.

Joseph was leaning on the cabin wall, stroking the muzzle of one of the horses tethered there. “Charlie,” he said, “you didn’t tell me your horses were a bunch of old nags. I’ve given better horses than this to the knacker.”

“I’m not a very good judge of horse,” said Charlie.

“So I see.”

“Brother Joseph,” Cahoon said. “You’ve never seen the people as scared as they are now, with word going around that you’ve left the city.”

“They only want
me
, Reynolds. If I’m out of reach their threats won’t come to anything.”

“And then what, Joseph? What do the Saints do then? Leave Nauvoo, leave another temple unfinished, give up our homes again? The governor gives his personal guarantee that you’ll be protected.”

“Last time I trusted a governor, I nearly ended up in Missouri hanging on the end of a rope.”

“That was Governor Carlin. This is Governor Ford.”

“The kind of man likely to get elected governor of any state isn’t worth the money he was bought with.” Joseph looked Cahoon in the eye. “If I give myself up, Cahoon, the Saints will never see me again.”

“Sister Emma doesn’t think so,” Cahoon said. “Sister Emma thinks it’s your responsibility to act for the good of the Church.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“Sister Emma told me that you always said if the Church would stick to you, you’d stick to the Church, and now trouble comes you’re the first to run!”

Joseph reached out and took Cahoon by the lapels. “Emma didn’t say that.”

“No,” Cahoon admitted. “She only told me people were saying that. She says that the people are losing heart. Some folks say that if you can’t even stick around when you’ve got the governor on your side, you’re no good to the Church alive
or
dead.”

“They’re just scared,” Charlie said. “They won’t feel that way in a few days.”

“There are mobs out there!” Cahoon shouted. “I don’t want no immigrant telling me how we’re going to feel in a couple of days! I made that march across Missouri, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna do it again, not if the Prophet’s sitting fat and sassy out in Iowa somewhere making flapjacks so we can have a nice hot breakfast when we get there!”

Charlie was about to answer when Joseph silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. “If my life is of no value to my friends, it isn’t worth much to me, either,” Joseph said. He turned to Hyrum and Port. “What should I do?”