The 19th Wife (49 page)

After Judge McKean declared me in contempt of court, the Marshal led me from the courthouse to a carriage. Hundreds of Saints waited along the cordoned path, all somber and withdrawn, many weeping softly, a few Sisters wailing with grief. I walked as proudly as a man can with his hands manacled behind his back. “Pray for the wisdom of our Father,” I called to them. “Pray for the mercy and justice of our Lord.” But my words could not travel far, for pressing against the Saints were nearly a thousand enemies, their fists in the air and calling for their own interpretation of justice. How I longed for the days when we were alone in Deseret! I always knew we would rue the railroad.

Marshal Smith ushered me into the carriage. His orders were to deliver me directly to the Warden of the Penitentiary. Again, at my request, he disobeyed them, driving first to the Beehive. I sent my guardsman to bring me Mrs. Young. Sister Mary Ann approached the carriage, torn apart by tears. I explained to my wife the task I needed her to perform. She understood, pushing a small cloth at her damp nose, and ran inside. She returned with a pair of caramel leather boots. These were the boots Joseph had worn when he rode to Carthage to submit to the jailhouse. In the carriage I changed my shoes, donning Joseph’s boots for the first time. Although our feet were not the same size, the boots fit as if they had been cobbled for me. I wear them now.

Admirers and enemies had gathered along the route to the Penitentiary. Several times a rifle was shot into the sky, sending fear and paranoia through the crowd. I cannot know the total number of people in the streets, yet I shall estimate it to be ten thousand. Most were my followers, yet the relative few who were there to oppose me controlled the argument. What astonished me, even more than the noise and the rancor, and the vicious shouts of slander—
American Sultan!
and
No More Harems!
and
Isn’t 19 enough!
—was the piety my Saints maintained, for they understood what they were witnessing. Their Prophet, shackled, being led to punishment. At a crossroads near the city’s limit, where the crowd was smaller and the shouting less, a small girl ran into the road, pelting my carriage with blue crocus. “Like Jesus before him,” she cried, running back to her mother, who kissed her head.

By the time we reached the Penitentiary gate, four miles from the city, twenty carriages were following us. I realized my men, friends all, filled them, and they had come to protect me. Warden Paddock met us at the gate, while his guards, Officer O’Conner and his partner, held back the men in the carriages. As the Marshal led me from the carriage, my men cried out for my release. Many held rifles in the air, while others raised up axes, scythes, and other blades.

Warden Paddock welcomed me, leading me up the stairs to his office, where I now sit. He instructed the Marshal to release me from the cuffs. The papers were drafted and signed, and officially the Marshal transferred me into the custody of the Warden. I thanked the good man for his attendance and said good-bye. From the window I watched him return to his carriage. The pair of Penitentiary officers escorted him through the throng of my supporters onto the road.

The Warden looked out the window with concern, for no doubt the crowd appeared ready to boil over into a mob. I assured him they would not attack the Penitentiary as long as they deemed I was safe. I asked to speak to them. The Warden considered this unusual request from his newest prisoner. I had never before met this man, yet surely he knew of me. I wondered with which portion of my public character he was familiar. I realize, more than anyone else, that for all the Saints who understand me as their Prophet, and trust me as their spiritual guide on Earth, and into the Afterlife, many more people believe me to be a scoundrel. I can accept this misperception if it means being constant in my faith.

“You have five minutes, Sir.” The Warden led me down to the gate. With the two guards stationed beside me, I spoke to my followers. “Do not worry for me tonight, for these are good men here, who understand the rule of law. I am safe, and now you must disperse.”

The men, however, did not want to disperse. Many called out, “Carthage!”

“Please, Brethren, you must withdraw.”

Still the men stayed in place. “Carthage!” the men cried again. “Carthage!”

I tried a third time. “My dear friends, you must listen to me and disperse now. You wonder why you should do so and I shall tell you. For we are a people of law, and rule, and Christian kindness. We do not attack because we fear being attacked. Even if you worry for my safety, you must now push back, go out, and disperse. Do so now, for that is what I want of you. I know you want to protect me, but understand, God protects me, as He protects you. His will, whatever that may be, shall be borne out tonight, whether your rifle is drawn or not. Do not defy me, for in doing so you shall defy our Heavenly Father. You cry, Think of Carthage! Brethren, one day has not passed since June 27, 1844, when I have not thought of Carthage. I think of Carthage on days of joy and rest, on days of fear and toil, always I think of Carthage. At night, before sleep, I call Joseph’s name, knowing he awaits me, as he awaits you, all of you! Joseph came to tell us the Latter-day Saints are the inheritors of Christ, and Christ has shown us that we do not take an eye for an eye. Friends, go now, leave the Warden in peace, and his guards in peace, and this Penitentiary in peace! Even if it is now my home, and I know not my future, you must leave in peace, for that is what we believe.”

Silently the crowd broke, drifting out in all directions, to the factory and to the mill, and down the road to Salt Lake. Would an enemy mob replace them? Here at my window I have been anticipating it ever since.

It is late now. Half the night is gone. What will the darkness bring before the dawn? The prisoners are asleep. The Warden’s family has retired. Outside my door I hear Officer O’Conner pacing to keep himself awake. When I look out into the dark, into the land beyond the Penitentiary, I see the movement again. Now they are black shapes shifting against other black shapes. I cannot tell what they are. Wagons? Buffalo? Men on horseback? A forming brigade? For a long time now I have stood at the window, with my new candle burning itself down, staring into the night, trying to perceive what moves out there. It occurs to me I should snuff out the candle, so that I may stand in the darkened window, but then I will have no light until daybreak. The longer I look out, the more certain I am that there are men out there. Friend or enemy? I look for a signal, but see none. The snow has muffled the sounds of the Earth. An attack could come as a surprise. If it does, and they are assassins, I pray they spare Mrs. Paddock and her children. And Officer O’Conner—I should note he even speaks like Willard, slowly, with his tongue soft against the roof of his mouth. The similarity is perplexing. If it is a sign, I cannot interpret it. So I continue to stand alert at my window, considering so much.

Yesterday a reporter from the
San Francisco Examiner
came to see me. This man writes a daily unsigned column that has made him famous and, I am quite sure, rich. I would hold a grudge against him, for he has spared no venom in dissecting me and my divorce. But I cannot hold a grudge for he loathes everyone equally, and with good aim. Against the opinion of my advisors, I invited him to the Beehive. During our meeting he asked a question I am still pondering tonight. “What mistakes have you made?” I assured him there were many, but he pressed me for details.

First, I was wrong about Ann Eliza. Quite simply, I judged her incorrectly. I sensed she understood, or would come to understand, the arrangements of my household, and know that while I could not tend to her in every manner, I would always care for her. She is a selfish woman, by which I do not mean to condemn her, for most men and women are selfish, in that most often they think of themselves first. It is man’s most natural instinct, an impulse that connects us with the animals. Yet some women are extraordinary in this regard, they can submerge their natural impulses for the sake of their belief. These are the women best suited to plural marriage. Ann Eliza, I have learned, is not this kind of woman. So be it. I only wish we could have settled our matters more kindly. For now, with our case on the public stage, all the world it seems has become curious about my wives. Every day the mail brings a hundred letters wanting to know how many I have. Yesterday, the man from the
Examiner
pressed me on that question. “Surely, you must know how many wives you keep?” he asked not once, but eight or ten times.

Each time I replied, “I do.”

“Then why won’t you tell me how many Mrs. Youngs there are? Why is it a secret?” He is an intelligent man, but not so intelligent to realize he is most likely the thousandth person to inquire on the matter. Why this never-ending speculation over how many wives? Why do visitors to Great Salt Lake stand outside the Lion House, and the Beehive House, too, counting windows and doors, attempting to estimate the number of spouses therein. Surely they must know it is a futile exercise—one cannot know how many sleep inside a house by counting the dormers! Yet they do, I see them outside the wall every day. One, two, three, four, five, their moving lips say. Next they wonder if I keep two wives in one bed. Or perhaps three, a rude man suggests to his friend. They share a debased laugh, a putrid guffaw, one that degrades the very idea of woman and her dignity. Next they wonder how I can manage my conjugal duties with so many wives waiting her turn. Their interest in the number of wives is always prurient. If, on the other hand, it were spiritual and came as a true inquiry into the will of God, I would explain my household to them, count up the wives to show the abundance of our faith. Yet I see no point when it will only feed the imagination of the profane.

The good Saints know why I do not announce the number of wives. Wife is an inadequate term, for each woman plays a different role in my life, just as each person plays a different role in all our lives. For lack of a more precise term, we label them all wives, but they are not all wives. Indeed some are my mates and mothers of my children. Yet others are more like affectionate aunts. Others are intellectual friends, with whom I can debate and discuss all matters. Others still are, indeed, the keepers of the house, the kitchen, the children. Others remind me, in their distance, of neighbors to whom one might wave across a wall. Others still are very old and retired in their rocking chairs. They find comfort in knowing I shall provide them with a bed and meals for the rest of their days. Only a few are like a wife in the common sense, none more so than Amelia. She is all of this, and more, but imagine the uproar—among my women and the public at large—were I to so publicly dissect the ranks within my household. I shall not subject these good women to that, and therefore I do not answer the question how many wives. I must admit to the smallest pleasure it gives me—how this numerical mystery irritates the world!

Sometimes, also, I permit the hypocrisy to bemuse me. In the evening, when I am with Amelia, or my sons, or other friends, and the business of the day is done, and we can sit by a fire, and loosen the laces in our shoes, I allow myself to chuckle, like when I have been told a fine irony. These indignant Gentiles, lamenting the nature of my household, having never known it in person, tolerate in their midst a broader range of crimes—drunkenness, infanticide, neglect of the elderly, prostitution—crimes that are all but unknown in Deseret. Let’s ponder the latter. I have seen the whore at work—the painted lips, the exposed bosom, the voice darkened by whiskey and tobacco. She is an unnatural sight, in defiance of God’s grace and the beauty of man given to us by Adam. Yet visit any Gentile city at dusk, or thereafter, and stroll the streets. You shall find one lady after the next vying for her spot on the corner. Or enter a tavern, where drink is deified, and you will find a woman prepared to spill her breasts onto the counter for a dollar, or less. In my younger days, when I saw Gentile whores on the street, I thought back in time. I imagined them as little girls in their Sunday dresses, with white collars and straw bonnets. I envisioned their mothers brushing their flaxen hair, kissing their smooth brows, and praying to our Father to protect them. Then I saw them now, before me, in the dim corners of the Gentile city—the whore with her nest of false curls permitting any man with a coin to paw her parts, to reach beneath her skirts in search of the desecrated hollow raked over by a thousand men. Where is the outrage among the Gentile crusaders? Why do they not demand an end to her whoredom? Only hypocrisy can explain it, and withered reasoning.

Each time my enemies attack me as America’s foremost adulterer, they fail to admit an important matter to the debate. Their society is rife with adultery, yet among the Saints, this sin remains mostly unknown. To my mind, adultery is worst among the sins, with the exception of murder, for the one act corrodes many souls. The practice of plural marriage has eliminated adultery from our society, freeing us of its ill effects. I look to King David with many sacred wives. He was a good and devout man, but when he stole Uriah’s wife, snatching her from the heart of her husband, he became an adulterer, and in God’s eyes he had committed sin. Worse still, his selfish act—prompted by the other sins of greed, vanity, and lust—forced her to become an adulteress. Thus the sinner created a second sinner. This is not right.

I wonder if Ann Eliza has illuminated this truth to her reader. Opening her book at random, I find this declaration: “Brigham leads the Church, and all of Utah, as a tyrant rules from his throne. He will not tolerate dissent or open opinion, for in his claim to be Prophet of God he believes there is no truth except that which he has spoken.” My goodness, am I really such? I laugh over her depiction, for I’ve heard it before, and will do so again.

I must say, Ann Eliza always proved insightful. Behind her denunciation, she has illuminated one of the most troublesome aspects of my leadership. There is, and, to my mind, always will be, the problem of balancing the Truth, as I know it, with the rights of man, in which I believe. How to reconcile this problem? I know my faith to be the true faith of God, and Joseph His first Prophet since Christ, and myself after him, yet I cannot force belief upon others—or can I? Is this not my task, my mission? How to solve this quandary of religious duty? If we are right, and our faith is the true expression of God’s will, to what extent should I enforce that will? This is not merely a practical question of conversion and missionary work, but a theological question concerning divine duty. I have pondered it for many years, without full resolution. In my heart I know we are right, and Joseph has brought us the Truth, and now I am to carry it forth. In my heart I know I am to bring it to all the lands with the force of God, and His wrath, too, for Truth can never respect falsehoods and lies. But it is not always feasible to do so. Is it a failing when I tell my Brethren to respect the Methodist, the Episcopal, the Jew? Am I failing God? I cannot know. I must accept it as one of our Heavenly Father’s many mysteries, its answer unknowable until our last day.