Virgin River (17 page)

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Authors: Richard S. Wheeler

BOOK: Virgin River
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T
he bishop′s proposal hung in space, turning the world upside down.
“Of course,” said Higbee, “I would entertain only a most earnest conversion. If I could win the soul of just one of your company, heaven and earth would rejoice.”
The marshal, Klingonsmith, looked faintly discomfited.
“I could catechize your company for an hour, and let them make their own decisions. It would need to be a most sacred commitment. But I believe it would be the gateway to joy, and your company would find the pearl of great price.”
“I don't have enough steam in my boiler,” Enoch Bright declared, which puzzled the bishop.
Skye hardly knew how to respond, but decided to see about the consequences. “We already have a Saint in our company, Mister Pick, who agreed to help us reach the Virgin River. Would that not suffice?”
“Sadly for you, sir, it would not. The Saints have made alliances with all the surrounding tribes, and now with the threat of war hanging over my people, the tribes are stirred
up. The presence of a Mormon in your company would not forestall trouble. From what I hear, the Paiutes are quite beyond the control of our LDS people.”
“You mentioned that you have your own radicals, looking for trouble.”
“We do. And your membership in my congregation would guarantee you safe passage. I might add, Mister Bright, that you intend to settle on the Virgin River, in the Territory that the Saints have reserved for ourselves. If you hope for cooperation, and foodstuffs, and help, you would be very wise to join my church. That will open the doors. Your invalids will be fed and sheltered and protected, as we would protect our own. And land would be set aside for your sanitarium.”
“We have a Saint. Mister Pick. Can he trade for food here?”
“I'm afraid not. The president has embargoed all trade with Gentiles because of the impending invasion.”
“He's a Mormon.”
“But the leader of this company is not. Mister Bright is not. And, I take it, Sterling Peacock, who inherited the company, is not.” He shook his head regretfully. “I'm so sorry. I can't defy the apostolic command.”
“Did the big company ahead of us obtain food here?”
“Not a bushel. Not a peck, not a pint.”
All this angered Skye. “You're saying you won't protect us? You won't quiet the Paiutes? You can't even keep us safe from your people? A company of invalids?”
Higbee stiffened. “We did not provoke this war, this invasion.” Then he softened. Skye sensed that this Saint did not want to see the New Bedford Infirmary Company in harm's way. “There is an absolute way to protect your women … from whatever might befall them. Let them marry Saints.”
“Marry Saints?” Bright exclaimed. “You just blew my safety valve.”
“The Saints believe marriages are forever, and continue on in heaven. No Saint would violate the wife of another. Let them marry.”
“And stay here? With strangers chosen for them?” Skye asked.
“Let them continue to your healing place. We can marry them by proxy. I am sure Marshal Klingonsmith would rejoice to receive wives destined for him in heaven.”
“Proxy, you say?”
“Our own women will speak as proxies, yes. The ceremony is closed to Gentiles. You may proceed on your way, each of your invalid women carrying with her a record of her wedding. Let them enjoy their marriage after this brief life ends, and their glory in heaven begins.”
Skye knew the bishop's offer wasn't for him. He had started life, so long ago, as an Anglican, and had absorbed its liturgy as a boy. Now, five decades later, all that liturgy had been stripped away. But there remained a hard kernel of faith and belief, the vision of God he knew would never leave him.
But the bishop was waiting, smiling blandly. Skye thought it was one of the strangest moments of his life; safe passage guaranteed only to those of the bishop's faith.
It really was Bright's decision to make, and he made it.
“Bishop Higbee, matters of conscience are up to each person. I will exempt only our two youngest, the Tucker twins, who are twelve and not ready to make such choices. You may present your ideas, both the religious and the practical, and it will then be up to each of our invalids to decide.” He smiled slightly. “You might even acquire a bride or two.”
“It is I who take the risk, sir,” Higbee responded. “One false heart would offend my very soul.”
This was not Skye's business, but the result would be. A company with some Saints in it might well be safer, if Higbee was right, than one without any Mormons. And Higbee was surely right about the settlement on the Virgin River. If there were Saints in the New Bedford Company, there might be succor through the long first winter.
Enoch led the Saints to the wagons, where the isolated invalids perched on the tailgates or rested within. The oxen slumped in their yokes, and the mules yawned.
“Come, gather around,” Bright said. “This is Bishop Higbee, and he's going to talk about what we do next. Beside him is Territorial Marshal Klingonsmith, and Deputy Tanner.”
The young people collected warily.
Skye had to give the bishop credit. He began with a tribute to the courage of these young people who were fueled by a vision of healing. He said his people had made the same desperate odyssey across a trackless waste, often in winter, to escape persecutions that were, in a way, not unlike the disease afflicting them.
Higbee turned to the perils ahead, and also to what might be expected if these sick people settled in Utah Territory, which the Saints had reserved as their sanctuary. “We're much alike,” he said. “We, too, have sought our Zion here in the Southwest.”
He turned delicately to war, to the feeling among the Saints that they were about to be invaded, transgressed, denied their beliefs. And from this he candidly discussed the prospect of running into firebrands and fanatics, whose memories of the great persecutions burned fiercely. And he discussed the Paiutes, allied to the Saints, who were, even now, stirred up so much the Saints could not quiet them.
“Now I will talk about my beloved faith, and my beliefs, and how they might bring you a life of joy and salvation, what we call the pearl of great price.”
In swift, sure cadences he outlined the beliefs of his people, their history, a word about Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, and the flight of these people to this, their own Promised Land.
“I invite you to join us, first and foremost to the joy of the heavens, and also for temporal purposes, your comfort, safety, and security in the future. You've heard my appeal, which I offer with a joyous hope in your salvation, and you've heard both the spiritual and temporal purposes this might achieve. It is my hope and belief that once you reach your destination, all the world will smile upon you, and you will walk away with new lungs, new hearts, and the prospect of a long life.”
It was an eloquent talk, touching both practical and spiritual concerns.
“Are there questions?” he asked. “Will anyone step forward?”
Anna Bennett had one. “Can Mormon wives marry more than one husband?”
“No, that would separate the woman from God.”
“I'm a feminist. I believe in equality. I won't embrace a religion that gives me one iota less liberty than a male.”
“Ah! We think that upsets the natural and godly order of the universe, as handed to us by our prophet,” Higbee said. “But I know there are many young stalwarts here who would gladly take you to wife.”
Anna laughed, and Skye sensed this interview was deteriorating. But then Sterling Peacock stood, looking determined and not unlike his father.
“This is my company. It was my father's company. It is my responsibility. I will assume that responsibility. I accept.”
“I rejoice to welcome you, Mister Peacock. But I want your most sacred pledge that your purpose is spiritual, not temporal. Utter that pledge before God and man, and I will welcome you into our congregation after a brief instruction.”
Sterling Peacock stood resolutely, his pale gray flesh showing the havoc of the sickness that was slowly ruining his whole body. Skye saw no desperation or indecision in him.
“I pledge it,” Sterling said.
“Pledge what?”
“To accept your church, the Latter-Day Saints, as my faith, and to accept its doctrine.”
“So help you God?”
“So help me God.”
Why did Skye feel troubled? He could not say.
“Are there others?” Higbee asked. “Would you care to meditate on it awhile?”
There were no others.
“Young ladies, there is yet another way you can assure your comfort and safety, in the now and in the forever. Marriage.”
The Bridge sisters stirred. Plainly, the idea intrigued them.
“It is my holy office to bond Saints in matrimony. I should be most pleased to marry you lovely women to Marshal Klingonsmith here. It would assure you of your safety and comfort throughout the territory, as well as union with a man of great integrity and distinction.”
Lloyd Jones intervened. “Would you marry me to a Mormon woman? And would that ensure my safety?”
“I will ignore your impertinence. There are none available, and I could not unite one of our own to a Gentile.”
“I'm still waiting in line for mine,” Mickey the Pick said.
Higbee stared coolly at the little Londoner.
Skye caught the glance between Mary Bridge and Lloyd Jones, and knew what it was. So there had been dreams all along.
The subject of Mormon matrimony vanished, and Skye found himself wondering about Sterling Peacock, and what was passing through the gaunt young man's mind, and heart and soul.
S
terling Peacock followed the elders, and was soon out of sight. Skye saw various people collect at the distant stone temple on the square.
Hiram Peacock's son was trail-worn and sick, and carried a grubby rag, into which he would spit up the bloody debris from his lungs and throat. And yet he walked away from the company in pale dignity, a great earnestness upon him.
Whatever would befall him was not for the New Bedford Company to know. This was something private, between the Saints and young Peacock, but Skye surmised it would involve instruction, acceptance, confirmation, and prayer, the essential elements of a step into a new faith.
The company tarried on the broad avenue that cut through Parowan, all of them silent. Somehow it was understood among them that a man's change of religion was not to be discussed; neither was it to be approved or disapproved. And so they all waited in the mild September sunlight, through a ticking afternoon. For this plainly was not a hurried ceremony, and the Saints were taking whatever time was required.
Skye looked to his horse, checking Jawbone for hoof bruises and other troubles, while the Jones brothers examined Christopher Carson Ox and the other oxen, and Enoch Bright examined his mules, hoof by hoof, leg by leg. The animals were gaunt and worn, and half starved because this desert offered so little feed. And yet the company would soon settle on the Virgin River, where the livestock could recruit.
Skye could not know what was passing through Sterling's mind and heart, and thought he ought not wonder about it. A man's faith was, ultimately, his own, and not the business of others. Still, Sterling's decision had surprised Skye. There had been no warning, no cue that such an event was forthcoming. Skye could not remember anything that Sterling had said or done along the road that separated his faith and belief from the rest of these New Englanders.
The sickest had returned to their pallets, shaded by the canvas of their wagon, while they all waited for Sterling to return to the company. If he would return. Skye wondered whether Sterling might choose to abandon the company and live in Parowan. This was desert enough for a man with consumption.
People on the street did not greet them, but hurried by, unwilling to make contact with these Gentiles, and Skye was reminded that this was wartime, and these people felt besieged and threatened.
The invalid women were using the rest break to freshen themselves. Their trail-grimed clothing was in tatters, and stained from the endless tramp across the continent. They needed fresh, but there was no clothing to be had. Lloyd Jones and Mary Bridge were deep in talk, of some sort, and Skye realized that the two had formed some sort of bond; their terrible
sickness had not prevented them from a liaison. That, Skye thought, doubled their need to be healed.
Then, late in that afternoon, the Mormon churchdoors swung open. Skye could see the elders shaking hands with Sterling, and then the young man walked alone to the New Bedford Company. His appearance surprised Skye: Sterling wore a fresh shirt and trousers, and had scrubbed away the trail grime that had covered him.
Now they all stared. Had this young man been transformed? Was he still Sterling to them? Would things be different?
“I am free to trade at any store,” he said to Bright and Skye. “The embargo does not apply to me. I've decided to trade one of the rolls of canvas for whatever we can get for it. We'll make do with less when we reach the Virgin River. You'll have to carry it for me.”
Skye nodded. Each roll of canvas ran two hundred pounds. He summoned the Jones brothers, and then Skye, Bright, and the brothers dragged the roll out of the supply wagon and hauled it into the Parowan General Store across the dusty clay street.
The merchant accepted the canvas in trade at once. He had been apprised of Sterling's confirmation.
Sterling, somehow transformed and confident, negotiated three hundred pounds of flour, barley, milled oats, and some vegetables for it, all in the space of a few minutes. It was plain that the merchant was eager to make an equitable trade. The canvas was worth much; all manufactured goods were worth much, so far from their place of origin. Soon his clerks, as well as Skye, Bright, and the Jones brothers, were carrying sacks of oats, barley, and wheat flour to the supply wagon.
“We're done here,” Sterling said. “Let us be on our way.”
“It's a bloomin' miracle,” Mickey the Pick whispered to Skye. “It's like he's not sick now.”
Whatever it was, Sterling's whole demeanor had changed, and now more than ever Sterling seemed like his father, determined, relentless, and inspired by a vision of goodness.
Sterling approached Skye. “They told me there could be trouble ahead. They cannot quiet the Paiutes. Neither can they guarantee safe passage in a country dominated by local militias. These armed groups have escaped the control of the elders. But I have this,” he said. He withdrew from a shirt pocket a certificate of baptism.
“That is good to have,” Skye said.
“I have a letter, also. It's addressed to the LDS brothers in the Virgin River valley, and it urges them to help me build the sanitarium, and to render all possible assistance to us. Bishop Higbee signed it. I think that's going to see us through the winter, and keep us fed until our farm produces. It's what we need the most.”
Skye marveled. Here was a pathway. From the beginning, he had worried about this thing: how could this small company sustain itself after it had reached the Virgin River? And now there was an answer.
“I can see that my task is coming to an end,” he said. “We'll make sure you're settled, and then when you feel secure, my family and I will head north. My wife Victoria's eager to winter with her people, and that's what we'll do.”
“I am grateful you have taken us to the desert,” Sterling said.
Skye thought that the son sounded like his father, and all the more so now, after whatever he had accepted or committed
himself to in Parowan. Skye found himself gazing at a determined adult; no longer anyone's son, but a sovereign man, and he marveled at the change.
But then Sterling coughed, and spat bright blood into a fresh and crimsoned rag.
They abandoned Parowan and continued along the well-worn trail south. To the east, a tall, arid, and monotonous cliff guarded the valley and hid the verdant mountains that rose beyond it. In that direction was lush green high country. West of this long valley lay harsh and bleak ridges, almost naked of life.
Skye was suddenly eager to leave this desert. He ached for the lush country that had become his home, the prairies and mountains where buffalo and elk and deer roamed, where the people of his wives wandered along tumbling creeks, and where the nights were cool, even in midsummer′s heat. A man's very soul takes to some country and shies from other country, and Skye's soul had wedded itself to the Yellowstone. It was there that life was sweetest. The plains tribes were rich, he thought; richer than these white and red men who made a home where there was so little water.
In a few days he and Victoria and Mary and North Star would be on their way; another trip done; another task fulfilled.
They traveled that afternoon without incident, and camped for the night near a much-used well where they watered their stock. A mile west of the road was some good grass, and some small cedars for firewood, and they made that place their night's lodging.
No one troubled them. The next morning they broke camp early. Suddenly the whole company was charged with excitement. In a day or two they would reach the Virgin
River, the very place they had dreamed of, talked of, planned for, and crossed a continent to reach. Not far ahead was Cedar City, another great Mormon settlement, with its promise of safety and provisions if they should need anything. Whatever had transpired in Sterling Peacock's soul, his conversion had opened a pathway for this weary company.
This land looked west; to the east, the giant ridge walled off the world, somehow separating this country from everything familiar. Then, late that day, they reached Cedar City, which had sprung up only a few years earlier. Skye marveled. This was a solid city of red brick, which the industrious Saints had thrown up with amazing speed. It seemed more impressive than the somewhat older Parowan. But even as the New Bedford Company pierced town, riding down its broad artery, a man in black rode to meet them. He had the combed square beard so common among these people, and was astride a blooded horse, a glistening chestnut with wild eyes and foam collected around the bit.
He veered toward Skye, who was in the van, as usual, and settled into Jawbone's steady pace.
“You are the sick Pukes,” he said. “Do not stop here. Ride straight through. Do not buy or sell. Do not talk to any person. Do not stay for any reason, for every second that you are among us, Cedar City is cursed.”
It was a far cry from the friendly reception at Parowan.
Sterling Peacock, aboard his father′s Morgan, trotted forward.
“Is there trouble?” he asked.
“None whatsoever,” the man with the combed black beard said. “You will not pause. You will not stop. Not even for a drink of water at the well. There will be no trouble if you do as I say.”
“I'm a Saint,” Sterling said.
The man glared a moment, and then laughed quietly. “Aren't we all,” he said. “Now be on your way.”
There was no reason to stop. No reason to resist this messenger in the black broadcloth suit. They traversed the entire town in ten minutes, and soon were rolling through open country again. The desert seemed cleaner and sweeter than Cedar City, Skye thought.

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