August 17, 1852
Great Salt Lake City
“Clara would have liked the snow,” Maggie murmured as she stared at the white mountaintops beyond South Pass. “I have never seen snow in summer.”
“She would beg for snow ice cream,” said Penn.
“That last Monday that we stayed in camp because of the rain, she wanted you to make ice cream,” Maggie remembered. “That was before…” Her mind drifted off, and she could not finish.
“I’d climb up that mountain right this minute and get the snow for her,” Penn said.
Maggie did not reply. She had barely spoken since Clara’s death, but she had thought of little besides her loss. She once had told herself that her years with Jesse had been worth the pain because out of that agony had come Clara and Dick. Now both children were dead. The marriage had had no purpose besides heartbreak. Why had God given her a son and a daughter, then taken them away? What was the sense of it? She tried to remind herself of the happy times, but she felt only grief. “Why?” she had asked the ministers.
Reverend Parnell had shaken his head and turned away, but Reverend Swain had replied, “I do not know the meaning of death, but there is meaning to life.”
Some of the women maintained that it was best not to talk to Maggie about Clara, that Maggie would not want to be reminded of her loss. Those who shared Maggie’s campfire believed otherwise, however. “You think she’s going to forget Clara’s death if you don’t mention it?” Penn asked.
“Remembering Clara makes me happy,” Evaline said. “I wish it would make Mrs. Hale happy, too.” The night Clara was buried, Evaline stayed by the campfire for hours, drawing the girl’s likeness. In the morning, she presented the portrait to Maggie, telling her, “It was Miss Mary’s idea for me to draw it.” Of course, Maggie thought. Clara was Mary’s loss, too. And Evaline’s. Caroline’s and Sadie’s and Dora’s. The ministers’. At first Clara had been afraid of the two men. Jesse might have made her afraid of all men. But the preachers’ kindness had eventually drawn her to them.
The picture Evaline had drawn was stored in Maggie’s trunk, and several times each day, she took it out and stared at it as she fingered Bessie’s locket, which she had not removed from her neck since Bessie had given it to her.
Those days following Clara’s death had been hard for all of them, Maggie most of all, of course. The others tried to ease her grief by taking over her chores. When it was Maggie’s turn, Penn harnessed the oxen and walked beside them on the trail, and Sadie and Bessie did Maggie’s cooking. Dora, big with child now, took over the laundry. During the day, Maggie stumbled along behind the wagon, and at night, she sat staring into the campfire, until Mary told the others that Maggie was too caught up in sorrow, that doing her part would help heal her. So one night, Mary said, “It is your turn to cook, Maggie. You cannot sit idle.”
Maggie, resting on the ground and staring out at the sage, looked up. At first she was surprised and then she was annoyed that others expected her to take over her duties when she was so wracked by sadness. She started to protest at the unfeelingness of Mary’s demand, then saw the determination on her friend’s face and rose and went to the wagon. She took out the beans and salt pork, the cornmeal and flour, and spent an hour preparing supper. Only after the meal was finished did she realize that as she had prepared it, she had put thoughts of Clara’s death aside. The next day, without being asked, she went with Mary to harness the team.
Still, she treasured those moments of sadness that cloaked her and was reluctant to let them go. She had sorrowed over Dick’s death, too, but she had still had Clara. Now she had no one.
She pondered all that, the might-have-beens, the what-ifs, wondering if she should have stayed in Chicago. She knew in her heart, however, that she had made the wise decision, the only one that would have taken Clara and her out of danger. Only it had not turned out as she had hoped. She should have been the one to die, not Clara. If only she could change places with her daughter. She could not, however. She was the one who lived.
Of course, she could join Clara. She could go back to Clara’s grave and die. It was a coward’s choice. Clara had not been a coward, and Maggie was not one either. Clara would want her to go on with the others, and to go on joyfully. That meant she must do her part. Nonetheless, the grief that weighed her down did not lift, and Maggie wondered if it ever would.
“WE HAVE CROSSED where the waters divide,” William said one day.
“What’s that?” Penn asked.
“At the west side of these mountains, the water in the rivers flows west, to the Pacific Ocean. On the east side, where we came from, it flows east.”
“How does it know how to do that?”
“God tells it.”
“Well, I hope He tells us how to get across them mountains.”
The mountains rose ahead of them now, and Maggie was glad to leave the prairie, with its merciless sun. Although it was only August, the mornings were cold. In the early dew, the sage gave out a pungent odor.
Maggie was seasoned. She no longer felt the sand that worked its way into her moccasins. She walked miles on end without getting tired. Her eyes had stopped stinging from the campfire smoke. “We have been tried and not found wanting,” Bessie told her. Maggie only nodded. Clara had not been found wanting, but that hadn’t mattered. Maggie’s thoughts were back at the Green River.
“The hardest part’s behind us,” Sadie continued.
“The hardest part hasn’t even begun,” William chided her. “There are mountains ahead and perhaps snow. We must hurry.”
Sometimes they encountered travelers returning east who told them about the way ahead. “I would trade all the gold fields out there for just one acre of good Missouri land,” one said.
“Turn back,” another warned. “I seen hell, and its name is California.”
Nearly everyone they encountered expressed wonderment that a group of women was going west to find husbands. Many had heard of the train of women from travelers who had passed them, and they stopped to stare. Some gave advice on which route to take.
William had hoped to take the train along an arid shortcut called the Sublette Cutoff because he believed it would save time, but the women protested. They wanted to follow the Mormon Trail to its end in Great Salt Lake City. Edwin encouraged them to take that route, promising that they would find a warm welcome among the Mormons—good food and a chance to replenish supplies.
“I would trade a week of my life for a fresh egg and a loaf of bread baked in a real oven,” Bessie said.
The others began to talk about food then—puddings and cakes and pies. “Anything but vinegar pie,” Penn said.
“Have they bathtubs?” Sadie asked.
“I would be happy just to be in a real house,” Dora told Edwin.
“I believe the sympathy of our women will help you with your sorrow, Mrs. Hale,” Edwin said to Maggie. He as much as the others had been solicitous of Maggie.
“We will need to find teamsters to replace the Mormon men who are leaving us,” Joseph put in.
William looked at Edwin and the women, and shook his head. “I cannot fight all of you. We will take the Salt Lake route.”
MAGGIE HAD NOT seen real civilization since she had left St. Joseph months earlier, and she was glad to reach Great Salt Lake City, which sat in a valley surrounded by mountain ranges. Penn stared at the buildings, most of them lumpy adobe squares set on streets that were white-hot from the midday glare. She pointed to a clapboard house and told Maggie, “I would like to live there.”
Maggie nodded, not paying attention, and Sadie spoke. “Don’t like it too much, Penn. Some polygamous Mormon is likely to snatch you up.”
“Some what?” Penn looked confused.
“Polygamy. That is what Mormons do. It means they have more than one wife.”
“They what?” Penn looked at Sadie in shock.
“Like in the Bible. The men have more than one wife,” Maggie said, joining the conversation.
“I never was much for Bible reading on account of I can’t read,” Penn said. “How many do they have?”
Maggie turned to stare at a house where two women stood in the yard. “I do not know. Two or three. Maybe a hundred.”
“A hundred! How could that husband remember all their names?”
“Maybe he gives them a number.”
“Number Twenty-four, you come fix my supper,” Penn said, and even Maggie smiled.
“Why, one man could marry all of us, and we wouldn’t have to go on to California,” Sadie remarked.
Penn thought a moment. “You think a woman could have two husbands here?”
Maggie shrugged. “Most likely it is against the law.”
“When was the law ever a fair thing?” Mary asked.
“You mean the law lets a man have all the wives he wants, but a woman can’t have all them husbands?” Penn asked.
Sadie smiled. “That is the way of it, since men are in charge.”
“Well, maybe it’s just as well. What would I do with two men ordering me around? What if they didn’t want the same thing for supper?” Penn thought a moment. “I guess that’s all right. I wouldn’t want two men that could beat me. I already had me one.”
“So did I,” Maggie said softly.
“Then it’s a good thing your husband’s dead.”
Penn asked Edwin what the polygamous wives were like. He laughed. “Why, just like women everywhere. I myself have two and intend to take more. Our women like nice houses and pretty dresses. They cook and wash and raise children. The women are happy with the arrangement. They help each other in times of trouble or loss. Those who are barren share the children of sister wives.”
“Well, I wouldn’t like it,” Sadie told him.
“You might if your salvation depended on it,” he replied.
Joseph, who had been listening, interrupted. “It is immoral. Polygamy is a sin.”
“The prophets in the Bible practiced it,” Edwin told him. “Abraham had two wives. Do you believe the Bible is wrong?”
“Nonetheless…” Joseph didn’t finish.
“The first wife has to approve before her husband takes another wife,” Edwin continued.
Caroline interrupted. “I would never say yes to a second wife.”
“And I would never ask you,” Joseph said.
“Still, it would be nice to have someone to help with the washing,” Caroline added, glancing sideways at her husband.
“Caroline!” he said, and she bowed her head to hide a smile.
MAGGIE DISCOVERED SHE and the other women were of great interest to the Mormons. News that they were going to California to find husbands had made the rounds of the city, and several men called at the camp and asked to escort them to a dance the Mormons were holding that night. Most of the women said no, but a few agreed to attend, including Maggie. She had not wanted to go, but Mary insisted, and it was easier to give in to Mary than to argue with her.
When they arrived, they stared at the groups of women clustered around men. Several of those women were grandmothers, but many were barely into their teens.
“I expect those are their harems,” Mary said.
“Look how pretty some of the women are. I thought they would be old and dried up. And their dresses!” Winny remarked, looking down at her own faded and patched calico. “What do you think of them, Maggie?”
Maggie had not paid attention to the women’s clothing, but now she studied it. “Most appear homemade, but there must be professional dressmakers among them, for many of the garments are as fashionable as those in Chicago. Someone has studied Peterson’s Magazine and Godey’s Lady’s Book and copied the latest styles.”
“So many of the women are pregnant,” Dora observed. “It seems that every third one is expecting a baby.” She, too, had been reluctant to go to the dance, because her own pregnancy was advanced, and her arm, while healed, still ached from the break. She stared at the Mormons, who in turn stared at the little company of women.
“I wonder if they are appraising us as wives,” Bessie said.
“We will be in your city only another day, so we will not be looking for husbands here,” Maggie told a woman who greeted them.
“Sometimes it does not take that long. I myself married a man after I knew him but two hours.”
“I would not suppose one would decide so quickly about true love.”
“True love!” the woman scoffed. “I had little choice. He wanted to take two brides at one time, and the other was already chosen. There were several who would have stepped in if I had refused.”
“Marry in haste, repent in leisure,” Dora whispered to Maggie.
The woman overheard. “Life may be difficult on this earth, but I shall have my reward in heaven. He is a high-ranking member of the church.” She looked the women over. “It is a pity you are not among us. He is a good husband, and with so many other wives, he does not bother me too often.”
Despite their drab clothing and skin roughed by the sun and wind, the women were quickly approached by the men, even Dora. No one cared about her state. Several men were attracted to Mary, who forgot to put her hand over her bad eye. That did not deter them from requesting her as a partner. By the time they left, the women believed the Mormons were decent, welcoming people, albeit with strange customs.
As they walked back to the wagons, Mary confessed, “I had a proposal of marriage.”
“After one dance?” Winny asked. Then she inquired slyly, “Are you of a mind to accept?”
“He told me I would have my own bedroom, and he would buy me a plow and a mule.”
“He is a romantic, then,” Maggie told her. “Was he the handsome Dane you danced with?”
“It was the Dane’s father, the man with one arm.”
“Does he have teeth?”
“Of course. I counted three.”
“Then we shall know where you have gone if you are not with us in the morning,” Dora teased.
“Oh, I think I shall not marry him,” Mary said, shaking her head. “It seems he saw me riding on the red horse, and it is the horse he admires. He said by way of proposal that he wanted me to sell the horse to him at a good price, but if I would not do so, then the only way he could see to acquire it was to marry me.”
“He has a way with words,” Maggie said.
THE NEXT DAY, Mary, Sadie, and many of the other travelers explored the city, but a few remained with the wagons. Dora, tired from the dancing the night before, stayed behind with Maggie, who was stitching a quilt. Stitching soothed her.
“Will you help me with the baby?” Dora asked.
Maggie looked up, startled. “Why?”
“I know so little about them, and I do not believe there are any other mothers among us. You are the only one.”
“I should think you would not want me near it.”
“You were not responsible for Clara’s death.”
Maggie shook her head. “Then why do I feel I am?”
Dora was silent a moment, then asked, “Did you want Clara? I heard you say your husband beat you. Did you want the baby?”
“Yes, after a time,” Maggie said. “You did not want yours, did you?” She made a knot and bit off the thread. Was there thread for sale in Great Salt Lake City? she wondered. But of course there was. With a place so full of women, how could there not be? She would purchase some before she left.
Dora shook her head.
“But you do now.”
“More than anything in the world. I love her so much.” Dora put her hands over her stomach as if protecting the child.
“A girl, then?”
“I hope so.”
“Some believe they are the best kind.”
Edwin interrupted them. “I have been looking for a chance to talk to you away from the others.” He smiled, and the two women nodded at him. “I have two houses. My first and second wives live in one of them. The other is rented, but I will ask the couple living there to move. There is a feather bed and pillows and a rocker and a rug. My father is a high-ranking member of the church, and I have had a blessing telling me that I will rise even higher. I am clean in my habits and have never hit either wife. I am the owner of a prosperous farm. My wives would not object to enlarging my kingdom. I believe I can offer a good life.”
Maggie was bewildered and exchanged a glance with Dora, who looked confused, too.
“Well? Are you agreeable?”
“To what?” Maggie asked.
“To marriage.”
“To you?”
He looked around and grinned. “I do not see anyone else.”
“But which one of us is your object?” Dora asked.
Edwin grinned. “Why, both of you, of course. I would marry both of you in one ceremony. I have observed that you are compatible with each other and would be happy as sister wives. I have asked my wives, and they say they would welcome you.”
Maggie and Dora looked at each other, and although they tried not to, both began to chuckle. “Oh, do forgive us. It is all so strange,” Maggie said.
Edwin looked hurt. “I will be a good husband, and I chose you because you both are in need. You are going west in hopes of finding husbands, and I believe I am better than any of the men you will meet in California.”
Maggie bit her lip to stop the smile, then said, “Edwin, we are sensible of the honor, but it would never do for me—or for Dora either, I believe.” She glanced at Dora, who nodded. “It is quite out of the question.”
“I would provide a home for your child,” he told Dora, then said to Maggie, “And I would give you more children. I am a robust man.”
“I can see that,” Maggie agreed. Then, trying to spare Edwin’s feelings, she added, “As you know, we have agreed to marry in California. It would cause us discomfort if we were to go against our promise.”
Edwin argued for a moment, but nothing he said dissuaded the two women. Both tried to keep solemn faces. They waited until Edwin was out of earshot, then Dora burst out laughing, and Maggie joined her. Maggie laughed so hard that she doubled over, and when she stopped, there were tears in her eyes. “Imagine!” she said.
“Did he really think we would accept?”
“I believe so. I have never heard anything so preposterous in my life.” Maggie wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
Dora studied her friend for a moment, then said, “I have not heard you laugh since…”
Maggie thought that over, then nodded. “I believe now I shall get better.”
EDWIN MUST NOT have been too heartbroken that Maggie and Dora turned down his proposal, because he promised to escort both of them, along with several other women, to a mercantile that afternoon. Maggie went along to buy thread.
Edwin pointed out the sights as they walked to the business district—the stores and houses and church buildings that the Mormons had erected in only five years. The women spread out along the street, dawdling a little, since it was a rare day of leisure.
Penn stared at four women gathered in a yard and wondered, “Is them those sister wives?”
“I believe so,” Maggie said.
Penn started to reply, then stopped and gasped. Maggie turned to see that her friend was watching two men come down the street, one on horseback, the other driving a wagon. Penn froze, a look of anguish on her face. One of the men pointed at her, and Penn started to run. He galloped after her and grasped her arm.
“Looky who’s here. Ain’t it Penn House? We been looking for you, Penn, been looking since St. Joe.” He jumped off his horse.
The other man caught up. “Ain’t much of a welcome you give us when we come all this way just to find you. Elias there, he wanted to take the cutoff, but I says you being a woman and all, you’d want to go this way so’s you could buy yourself some pretties.”
“Where’s Asa at, Reed?” Penn whispered.
“Funny thing, we was going to ask you the same thing, only we know.”
“Know what?”
Reed turned to his brother. “Ain’t that cute? She’s asking about Asa, like she don’t know he’s killed.”
“Asa’s dead?” Penn looked down, as if she were sorry.
“Like you don’t know.”
“I’m real sorry, Reed,” Penn said. “Me and Asa had us some good times.”
Reed sneered. “Likely you killed him. We was at Kearny when they found his body. Soldiers said there was a bunch of women camped there. They said it was robbery, but Asa still had his gold on him, only he didn’t have something else, something you taken off him in St. Joe.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I guess you do, and you’ll tell where it’s at before long.” He reached out and slapped her, and Penn fell to the ground, her mouth bloody. “Now you come along real quiet, and we won’t do nothing to your friends.”
Maggie hurried to defend Penn, as did Edwin and the other women.
“You have no business here, sir. You will release Miss House,” Caroline said.
Elias stared at her while his brother came to stand next to Penn. “It ain’t your business, lady. We’re taking her with us,” Reed said.
“No, you are not,” Edwin told him.
“You going to stop us, Mormon?”
“I and the others.” He nodded at half a dozen Mormon men who had come up behind the Harveys.
Elias turned and stared at the men. “Ain’t your affair neither. She’s our brother’s wife, a grieving widow. We’re taking her home.”
“I wasn’t never married to him, Elias. I ain’t going with you,” Penn told him.
“We’ll ask you to leave the lady alone,” one of the men said.
“God damn you, you go to hell!” Reed yelled.
“You will not take the Lord’s name in vain, sir, not in His holy city.”
Elias, furious, grabbed a pistol from his belt and aimed it at the man, ready to fire, but before he could pull the trigger, one of the Mormon men shot him. As Elias dropped to his knees, Reed reached for his own pistol and fired at one of the Mormons. In the melee, he, too, was wounded and fell to the dirt, writhing. The Mormon men put down their guns.
Edwin rushed to the wounded Mormon and put his head to the man’s chest. “He’s dead.”
“So’s this one, and the other’s hurt bad,” an elder said, examining the Harvey brothers.
Two Mormons gripped Reed’s arms and dragged him to a wagon. Reed was conscious, and he glared at Penn, hatred in his eyes. “You killed them, Penn. You killed Asa and now Elias. You ain’t never going to get away. I’ll hunt you down. Don’t you never sleep through a night without being afraid of me.”
Edwin stood and took Penn’s hands. “You do not need to worry, Miss House. He will hang—that is, if he does not die first.”