The Lincoln Myth (14 page)

“The Prophet Joseph predicted the American Civil War eighteen years before it happened. He said that we, as a people, would migrate west to the Rocky Mountains, four years before that occurred. He also knew he would never make that journey. He died less than a year after making the prophecy. He predicted that justice would come to the mobocrats. The ones who tortured and killed Saints in the early days. And it did. In the form of a Civil War that killed hundreds of thousands.”

Her father had told her about the persecutions, common prior to 1847. Homes and businesses burned, people robbed and maimed and killed. A pattern of organized violence that forced Saints to flee three states.

But not Utah.

There they dug in. Took a stand. Fought back.

“The prophecy tells us that we, the White Horse, will gather strength, sending out elders to collect the honest in heart from among the people of the United States. That we did. The church grew tremendously in the last half of the 19th century. And we were all
to stand by the Constitution of the United States as it was given by the inspiration of God.”

She decided it was safe to ask, “What does that mean?”

“That something great is about to happen.”

“You seem excited by the possibilities. Is it that inspiring?”

“Indeed, it is. And this journal confirms that what we all suspected is correct. The White Horse Prophecy is real.”

She examined the book, carefully turning a few of its brittle pages. “Can you tell me any more about this?”

“It’s a great secret within our church. One that started long ago with Brigham Young. Every religion has its secrets, this is one of ours.”

“And you discovered it?”

He shook his head. “More a rediscovery. I found some information in the closed archives. My research drew the attention of Elder
Rowan. He called me in and, together, we have been working on this for several years.”

She had to press. “And the White Horse Prophecy is part of it?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. But it’s more complex than simply the Prophet Joseph’s vision. Many events happened after he was murdered. Secret things that only a few are privy to.”

She wondered why Josepe was being so forthcoming. Trusting her, after all these years. Or was she being tested?

“It seems fascinating,” she said. “And important. I wish you luck with the endeavor.”

“I was actually hoping you might offer a little more than that.”

S
ALAZAR HAD CAREFULLY TIMED HIS REQUEST, OFFERING JUST
enough information to impress Cassiopeia with the importance of his mission. He’d searched nearly two years for Edwin Rushton’s journal, then labored through three months of pointless negotiations trying to purchase it. Atoning its owner became the simpler method, especially after the man both lied and tried to cheat him.

He watched as she studied the journal.

Rushton was the type of Saint he wanted to be. An early pioneer who magnified his priesthood with good works, accepting the family responsibilities of four wives. He’d endured to the end in righteousness, becoming one of those the Heavenly Father surely accepted as having
kept his second estate
, entitling him to glory forever and ever. Could anyone ever doubt that those early Saints had been chastened, tested, and prepared for their last dispensation?

Of course not.

Those holy ones had established Zion on earth.

And he and every other descendant were the benefactors of their devotion.

“Cassiopeia, I don’t want you to leave my life again. Will you help me in my mission?”

“What can I do?”

“First and foremost, be there with me. The glory of its success will be so much sweeter if you are there. Next, there are matters that I could use your help accomplishing. I have followed, over the years, what you have been doing, rebuilding that castle in southern France.”

“I didn’t know you knew of that.”

“Oh, yes. I even donated funds to the effort, anonymously.”

“I had no idea.”

He’d always admired her. She was smart, with degrees in engineering and medieval history. She’d inherited full ownership of her father’s business concerns, a conglomerate currently worth several billion euros. He knew of her competent stewardship, and of her Dutch foundation that worked closely with the United Nations on world health and famine. Her personal life was not a matter of record, nor had he pried, confining his inquiries to what could be learned from the public record.

But he knew enough to know that he never should have allowed her to leave all those years ago.

“And she won’t. Ever again,”
the angel said inside his head.

“I meant what I told you at dinner,” she told him. “I made a mistake with both my faith
and
you.”

He’d been alone a long time.

No one had been able to take his late wife’s place.

Then one day he’d found a photograph of him and Cassiopeia, from back when they were together. The simple sight of it brought him joy, so he’d kept it out, on display, where he could see it every day.

Now that image was here.

In the flesh.

Again.

And he was glad.

EIGHTEEN

S
ALT
L
AKE
C
ITY

R
OWAN LISTENED AS
S
NOW SPOKE, WAITING TO LEARN THE
significance of the wooden box.

“Brigham Young challenged several American presidents, asserting our religious and political independence. He ignored Congress and all laws he disagreed with, and thumbed his nose at local military commanders. Finally, in 1857, James Buchanan had had enough and took the extraordinary measure of sending troops to subdue us.” Snow paused. “Plural marriage was a mistake both Smith and Young made.”

Prophets from the Old Testament, like Abraham, had routinely taken many wives. Solomon himself had 700, along with 300 concubines. In 1831 Joseph Smith prayed to the Lord about such practices and was answered with a revelation that plural marriage was indeed part of the true covenant, though the church did not publicly acknowledge the practice until 1852.

Only about 2 percent of members ever participated, and all had to be spiritually selected by the prophet. Most times it was older women incapable of taking care of themselves brought into the nonsexual roles of a plural marriage, and always with the consent of the first wife. But child propagation also lay at its roots, since God had commanded that all
raise up a seed
unto him.

He knew that plural marriage enraged and offended American society. The 1862 Morrill Act allowed the canceling of citizenship for anyone who practiced it. Then the 1887 Edmunds-Tucker Act criminalized it.

“Smith and Young misjudged the effect of plural marriage on both Saints and gentiles,” Snow said. “But instead of wisely walking away from something that had clearly become counterproductive, they continued the practice and demanded political autonomy.”

Which Rowan admired.

Saints had migrated to Salt Lake to find a refuge. They’d occupied barren land no one had wanted and forged a society where church and state seamlessly meshed together. A provisional government was established in 1849 and statehood applied for. They called it Deseret, a word from the Book of Mormon that referred to a beehive, a symbol of industry and cooperation. Its boundaries would have included present-day Utah and Nevada, most of California, a third of Arizona, and parts of Colorado, Wyoming, Idaho, and Oregon. Statehood was denied. Congress did, though, accept the new land as a territory, shrinking its boundaries and renaming it Utah. Young was appointed its first governor, and did a masterful job keeping the meld of church and state intact.

“On the one hand,” Snow said, “we wanted to be part of the greater society. Contribute to the national welfare. Be good citizens. On the other, we demanded the right to do as we please.”

“It was a matter of religious belief. A matter of freedom. Plural marriage was part of our religion.”

“Come now, Thaddeus. If our religion compelled the murdering of other human beings, would we have the freedom to enjoy that? That argument is weak and indefensible. Plural marriage, in a physical sense, was wrong. We should have recognized that long before 1890, when we finally did the smart thing and abolished it forever.”

He did not agree.

“Brigham Young made many wise decisions,” Snow said. “He was an effective administrator, a true visionary. We owe him a great
deal. But he also made mistakes. Ones he failed to openly acknowledge during his life, but mistakes nonetheless.”

He decided against any further argument or rebuttal. He needed information and conflict was not the way to encourage its flow.

“We should discuss the White Horse Prophecy,” Snow said.

Had he heard right? He stared at the prophet.

“I’m aware of your explorations in the restricted archives. I know the substance of what Brother Salazar has researched within our closed records. You both have been busy studying that prophecy.”

He decided not to be coy. “I want to find our great secret, Charles.
We
need to find it.”

“That secret has been missing a long time.”

But the sight of those wagons had provided him hope.

“I made the decision after your call yesterday,” Snow said. “Something told me it was the right location.” The older man paused, winded, and grabbed his breath.

“The Prophet Brigham hid the great secret away,” he said, “intending for us to find it one day.”

Snow shook his head. “We don’t know that.”

Only he and the prophet could have this conversation, as only they were currently privy to the story. Unfortunately, they each knew different parts. His had been learned from hard work and research, both in Utah and D.C., Snow’s had been handed to him by his predecessor.

And that’s what he needed to know.

“Every prophet since Brigham Young has wrestled with this same dilemma. I was hoping it might pass me by.” Snow pointed to the wooden box. “Go ahead.”

He opened the lid.

Inside lay an assortment of tattered documents, each tucked safely inside a vacuum-sealed plastic bag. Mainly books and old newspapers, badly damaged from rot and mildew.

“That’s what we could salvage from the record stone in 1993,” Snow said. “Unimportant writings from long ago, save for the two packets on top.”

He’d already noticed both. Single sheets lay inside, their outer edges stained, as if burned. But their writing had survived.

“Examine both,” the prophet told him.

He lifted out the first plastic protector.

The script was tight and small, the ink barely readable.

I fear there has been too much mixing of the hairs with the butter for the good of the butter. The workers of wickedness would really like, now that the great Civil War is but a memory, to have attention again drawn to us and troops sent again to break us up. They openly avow their intention to break the power of the priesthood and destroy our sacred organization. I once thought that we could co-exist. That agreements could be honored. But it will not do for us to mix with the world and hope thereby to gain favor and friendship. I so tried to do what seemed correct and decent. During my life I spoke of this to no one. Instead, I leave this message for the faithful who come after me. Know that we carry a burden, one thrust upon us by Lincoln himself, but one we voluntarily accepted. When the great Civil War broke out I saw that fight as the White Horse Prophecy come true. Prophet Joseph predicted all that eventually happened, including our journey into the Rocky Mountains and his own demise. By 1863 the Constitution did in fact hang by a thread and, just as the prophecy stated would happen, Congress passed a law aimed at ruining us. So I sent an emissary to Mr. Lincoln. He received him with kindness and without formality. His stated mission was to inquire about statehood, which Mr. Lincoln avoided. Instead, a message was sent to me. Lincoln said he would leave us be, if I would leave him be. This was precisely what we had waited so many years to hear. All we have ever sought was the freedom to live in our own way. Lincoln knew us from Illinois. He told my emissary that he had read the Book of Mormon, which was encouraging to hear. But it would have been ill advised to make an agreement with any president without some sort of assurance that its terms would be honored. This was told to Lincoln, who offered something of a sufficient magnitude that we would know he intended to keep his word. He, in turn, demanded the same from us, which I provided. We each accepted the other’s offering and both sides honored the agreement. Unfortunately, Mr. Lincoln died before either one of our collaterals could be returned. No one from the government ever asked about what we held of theirs, nor of what they held of ours, which led me to conclude that no one other than myself knew either existed. So I kept silent. In doing so I fulfilled the rest of the prophecy, which said that we would act as the white horse savior of the nation. But Prophet Joseph also told us to stand by the Constitution of the United States, as it was given by the inspiration of God. That has never been done, at least not in my lifetime. What I gave Mr. Lincoln was the secret location of our wealth. Ever since the federal troops came in ’57 Saints have talked of our lost gold. I tell you now that none of that gold was lost. Instead, all was put to good use. I provided a map of its hiding place, where I also hid what Mr. Lincoln entrusted to us. Two months after our bargain was sealed Lincoln sent me a telegram that said Samuel, the Lamanite, stood guard over our secret in Washington, among the Word, which gave me great comfort. He also said that he keeps the most important part of the secret close to him every day. I told him that providence and nature guard his half of the bargain. He seemed to enjoy the great mystery he and I created. Prophet Joseph was right in all that he foretold. May you be equally correct too.