The 19th Wife (30 page)

“You should ask her,” my pa said again.

“Yes, but how does it sound to you?”

“I can’t talk about it anymore without consulting her.”

“Let’s say seven hundred and fifty dollars. Will that be enough?”

“I don’t know.”

“One thousand? How’s that?”

“Brother Brigham, I can’t speak for my daughter.”

“Yes, but will you recommend it?”

“I can only present it,” said my pa.

Our meeting lasted an hour. “Walk me to my carriage,” Brigham said to me upon conclusion. At the road, the Prophet asked about my family. “How many children are there now? Ten, eleven?”

“Twelve.”

“That’s a lot of mouths. It can strain a man. I see you still live on your pa’s land and tend his sheep.”

“That’s right.”

“You need a little fortune to come your way.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“How much do I pay you for your sheep?” I told him my deal with the Church’s butchery. “Let’s improve it, shall we? Another dollar?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The Prophet rested his hand on my arm. “Now I need your help. Will you tell your sister to take my offer?”

“It’s a good offer,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s good for her.”

When I returned to the house my pa was already telling Ann Eliza about the Prophet’s proposal. “I’m afraid he loves you,” he said.

“Did he say that?”

“In his own way.”

“His own way is to love one woman, then the next, then the next again.”

My ma entered the fray. “Ann Eliza, settle down. You act like he’s come to lock you up.”

“Hasn’t he? Isn’t that what he wants—for me to be one of a hundred wives?”

“He doesn’t have a hundred wives,” said my ma.

“No? Then how many?”

“That’s enough,” said my ma. “All Brigham’s done is propose.”

Ann Eliza cooled her fury. “Mother, I know you love him. And I love him too, but as my Prophet, not my husband.”

“You think you’re smarter than everyone,” my ma said. “But you’re not. I’m not blind. I know Brigham has his weaknesses, but do they erase everything good he’s ever done?”

I went out into the kitchen yard. I had no more desire to be with my wives than I had to be back in that argument. My only place it seemed was outside in the night. The moon was up and lit the path to my cottage. The cattle were lowing and the sheep were bleating and the night was empty but noisy too. I could smell the rye in the paddock and last year’s hay in the barn. It was cold, and the cold gathered in the stones of the path.

When my wives greeted me at the door, I stopped them before they could begin. “Not tonight,” I said. “Not tonight.”

They offered milk and cake but I was not hungry and asked the women to let me alone. They retreated to their bedrooms, one door latching, then the next. Upstairs the children slept, four boys across the Mormon sofa, two babes bundled in the cradle, the rest divided between two beds. I had a vision of myself in the future, five or six years along, gone silver in the beard, another six or eight children under my roof. And if I were foolish enough, maybe another wife. What was to stop it—this terrible vision of my future days? When I thought of happiness I thought of my horse bending to drink from a stream. I thought of a meadow where the only chatter came from the jays and the squirrels. I thought of a bedroll under the stars. I thought of stretching out beneath the night, falling asleep alone.

I drifted off in my chair but woke at midnight. Sunday was my night of rest from my women and typically I slept in the bed behind the kitchen, but I didn’t want to lie down there tonight. I went outside. The wind had kicked up, throwing around the cold. There was a dew that’d go to frost by dawn. Inside the barn my sorrel greeted me with a sneeze. The barn smelled of hay and manure and cold water in the metal trough. I climbed up into the hay loft, disturbing a hen. I lay down and propped my head in a saddle and threw a striped saddle blanket over my chest. A barn cat with a bend in his tail tiptoed through the straw and climbed on top of me. His paws delicately dented my belly and his bent tail flapped my face. A stranger might think I had argued with my wives, sleeping in the loft like that, but I hadn’t argued with anyone. I was very tired and the cat curled up and pulled his tail up alongside him. He was very small and in need of milk and he didn’t weigh anything at all on my chest where he slept, going up and down, up and down.

Over the next year my wives gave me two more children. First Almira, then Kate. A boy and a girl. I loved them as much as a man can divide up his heart among fourteen. It’s a queer feeling, slicing up affection like a wheel of cheese. I’ve heard them say the heart’s bottomless but I don’t agree. I love my boys and girls but when my mind is clear I have to admit I wish I could give out more love. There’s another queer feeling to it too. A man isn’t meant to greet a new baby at the rate of more than one a year. But the men of Deseret got to adjust. Sometimes you get two a year. If you’ve got three wives, that might mean three. It goes on from there. I felt myself moving on in years faster than I should. I was already hard in the bone and tired, like a man who’s winding down.

The more children my wives gave me, the more I needed my pa to fish me out. I relied mostly on him for my land, my house, my wagons and teams, my sheep and the hands I hired, and my accounts at the store and the granary. Even my horse was his, a nice little sorrel with front socks and heavy feet. When money went tight, I borrowed from a neighbor or took credit at the hardware. I always meant to pay down my own debts but it never worked out. My pa would hear about my holes and fill them in.

That’s how it went for a long time and that was how it was going to be. I knew this as a fact when the latest baby was born to Kate. She was a dense little thing with a carrot swirl of hair. Holding my fourteenth child for the first time I became sick with a feeling that I’d failed. When I was a young man on Mission with my pa, I’d lie awake in our bed and picture myself as a husband. As I pictured it, I owned a small board house in a meadow with a tin chimney. It was so clear in my mind I could even picture the white smoke puffing from the chimney in the cold spring air. I saw the mountains big and shiny above the house and my wife working the vegetable patch while I plowed the field. I saw a babe in a basket napping in the sunlight. I imagined a supper table set for two with the plates turned down. Those were my dreams.

Soon after the baby’s arrival I went to see Almira in her room. It was her night. I found her waiting on the bed in her nightdress and the bonnet with the braided ribbon. “Shut the door,” she said. “We need to talk.”

Yet she had said enough—another baby was coming. All was clear.

I looked out the window. It was early spring and the final winter storm was coming. You could see it from the way the moon burned behind the clouds. My wife came to my side. Her fingers played with my sleeve. “You’re supposed to be happy.”

I don’t know how much longer I stood at the window. Might’ve been an hour. I don’t know. The mountains were black and hidden but even when you can’t see them you know they’re there. For a long time I was ashamed to look at my wife. When I turned around I couldn’t see anything but the white bonnet crumpled in her hands.

It snowed nearly a foot that night, but by daybreak the sun was up and already melting the pack on the southern roof. When I went out the path to my pa’s house was hidden, but from the way the wind was blowing soon it would clear. I waved to Ann Eliza out on her porch. She was in a green dress and the green was strong against the house’s white boards and the snow. She had done it. I reminded myself of that. She had escaped a life she did not want.

I rode out to Lark’s Meadow, my horse chopping through the snow. Lark’s is a long narrow meadow with a timber of white pine on one side and the foothills on the other. The mountains stand tall over it, and half the meadow can go marshy in the spring. It was a good spot for sheep because of the grass and the water and the shade.

When I reached the meadow I pulled up for a look. The sun was just then clearing the mountains and the snow hadn’t begun to melt. Everything looked hard and cold like in January and the white pines bent with the snow on the bough and the creek ran with ice. The log cabin at the far end was white with snow and it looked like no one had been to the meadow in some time and that wasn’t right.

I rode down to the cabin and tied my horse. “Harkness?” I called.

“It’s about time!” Harkness yelled from inside the cabin.

When I opened the door I found him roped to a chair. “What happened here?”

“First get me out of these damn ropes.” They’d worked the rope around Harkness a dozen times. The knot was tight and the cold made it stiff and unworkable and I had to cut the rope. When Harkness was free he jumped around the room getting the blood back to his legs. “Thought I’d freeze to death in that damn chair.”

“How many?” I said.

“Two.”

“That’s all?”

“The wind was picking up and I didn’t hear them ride in. They were carrying, each with a Winchester and a pistol.”

“What time was it?”

“About an hour before the snow.”

“Local,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“They were waiting for a storm to cover their tracks. They seem familiar?”

“Not really. But they knew what they were doing. They had them all rounded up and out the gate in a couple of minutes. Had a few dogs with them showing the way.”

“Meanwhile you sat in that chair.”

“Waiting for you, Sister.”

“It’s not funny. I just lost a hundred sheep.”

“And I nearly lost my legs tied down in this cold.”

“Here’s my handkerchief. Go have a cry and come back when you can tell me who they were.”

“They were two rustlers just like you imagine them. Quick in their dealings and good on a horse and real comfortable holding a gun.”

I built a fire in the stove. I boiled some coffee and fried a pair of sausages and we ate without talking. Outside the sky was clear and the sun was strong. When I left the meadow was green again and springy under foot. You could smell the pine resin burning off the wet trees in the sun.

Eventually Harkness found my sheep out on Van Etten’s land, up in a high pasture a mile off the road. Their brands had been burned over but if you looked you could see what had come first. Van Etten had been suspected of rustling a couple of times before. No one trusted him much, he was known for reporting false crimes to Brigham’s office. When I went to see Van Etten he denied knowing anything. He puffed up his chest but I told him I knew my sheep. “If you don’t stop accusing me,” he said, “I’ll go to the Prophet.” He was wearing his rifle but I was madder than I could remember. “I’ll go to him myself,” I said, and that’s what I did.

I rode up to Salt Lake and took my place on line outside the Beehive House. When it was my turn I told Brigham my business.

“If you’re certain,” he said, “then I’ll speak to the man.” A clerk in armbands interrupted Brigham to sign some papers. As he went about scratching off his name, he asked after my family. “I understand you’ve had more children. No one can accuse you of not doing your part. I hope you’re managing.” I told him I was. “Glad to know it. Now you’ll send my regards to your sister?”

I told him I would and got up to leave.

“In a hurry?” He laughed, his flesh pressing against the buttons of his coat. “Sit down and tell me your plans. You’ve lost a hundred sheep. That must be difficult for a man in your position.”

“It’d be difficult for any man.”

He went quiet. Anyone could see his mind turning behind his eyes. “What do you know about telegraph poles?”

“They go in the ground.”

“That’s about all you need to know. How many teams do you have?”

“Ten wagons and sixty mules.”

“That might not be enough.”

“For what?”

“I need a man to deliver poles to the line my son’s running out from Denver.”

“I can do it.”

“They’re moving fast, making twenty-five miles a week.”

“I can do it.”

“How does two dollars and fifty cents a pole sound? Cut, shaped, and delivered.”

This was the type of deal a man waits most of his life for. There was good timber at Lark’s Meadow. If I hired enough men and bought a few more teams it would work out all right. Brigham and I went over the details but it was all pretty clear. I’d set up a mill in the meadow to debark them and plane them and dry them in the sun, then treat them with the creosote. The teams would deliver them to the line. I knew I could do as fine a job as any man in Utah. We shook on the deal.

Cutting and curing a telegraph pole is a simple process. Most any man with a good team and strong timber and quick saws can do it. The only special requirement is capital. For the men and the extra wagons and provisions I needed $11,000. I borrowed half the money from a Gentile banker named Walter Karr and the other half from a Mormon banker named Alfred Eagleton, at 5 percent a month. The job would be complete by mid-summer. After paying back the loan I’d have plenty to build out my house and keep my wives happy a few more years. I got ahead of myself and for one night thought about taking another wife. The truth is I’m as weak as the next man, maybe more.

My wives were happy with the news. “We’ll help out by making your men their meals,” said Kate.

Almira was showing under her apron, and for the first time the sight of her belly made me glad. “I’ll fix up the food in the morning,” she said, “giving each man one of my special peaches, and Kate will drive the food out to Lark’s. That way the work won’t have to stop.”

It didn’t take long for us to reach twenty-five miles a week. The men laying the poles weren’t my men but we liked working together. With each delivery they said my poles were good, well-planed poles with a base as wide as it should be. They knew what was coming, which means they could dig their holes better and faster and stand the poles the right way. The job ran easy and smooth for everyone and I think everyone working on that line felt the way you do when you know well-earned money’s coming your way.