Authors: Adell Harvey,Mari Serebrov
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Historical, #Romance, #Teen & Young Adult, #Historical Fiction, #Historical Romance
The Fugitive Son
The Fugitive Son
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Written by Adell Harvey & Mari Serebrov.
Copyright 2016 by Mari Serebrov. All rights reserved.
Proudly prepared for publication by Kamel Press, LLC.
This book is a work of historical fiction. Names, main characters, and incidents lived only in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. However, actual historical figures, places, dates, and events are the products of the author’s extensive research and are factual representations. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author.
ISBN-13:
978-1-62487-090-3 - Paperback
978-1-62487-091-0 - eBook
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015956666
Published in the USA.
To our beloved son and brother,
Dr. William Farley,
who spent his adult life ministering
among the Mormons in Eastern Idaho.
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”
A
LTHOUGH
the names mentioned herein are fictional characters, I have drawn on many actual Mormon diaries and genealogical records to create them. This novel is based upon true historical events and geographical locations; the dates and emigrant ships are authentic.
The pronouncements from early Mormon church leaders came from their published sermons and writings, and John Ahmanson’s perceptions are from his own diary. Historical figures such as Jim Bridger, Chief Washakie, Brigham Young, and the other Mormon apostles are portrayed as accurately as my extensive research enabled. While many may disagree based on personal preference, I would simply challenge them to research, with depth, as many critical resources a possible.
While writing this novel, I traveled the Mormon Trail from Nauvoo, Illinois to Salt Lake City, Utah, and later took the Humboldt Cutoff from Idaho to Gold Flat, Nevada County, California. Walking in traces of the wagon wheel ruts made so long ago by those hopeful pioneers, sweltering in the arid desert dust, and studying national park exhibits at Devil’s Gate, my heart went out to these lost souls who were so desperately deceived by a man they thought was “sent from God.”
Winter 1856
Devil’s Gate, Oregon Territory
A
NDY WATCHED
as the relief wagons lumbered beyond the horizon, heading toward South Pass and Fort Bridger. His shoulders slumped in grief. “Go with them, God, and please take care of little Ammie.”
He had been so excited to find his teen-age sweetheart Anne Marie among the handcart companies waiting to make their journey to the Promised Land. Sent back to Iowa City to escort Pa’s young bride, Ingrid, to her new home in Deseret, he had discovered Anne Marie also was assigned to him. Andy’s hopes had soared, thinking Pa had seen their love for each other and would allow them to marry when they reached their destination.
Those hopes had turned to despair when Anne Marie confessed she had been forced to marry his father and was now carrying Pa’s child. Dutifully, Andy had escorted both of Pa’s brides on the long, torturous trek, determined to do his duty no matter what the personal cost.
He smoothed away the chips from the rough stone marker he had carved for the grave. Had the prophet’s promises really come to this? A trench filled with the frozen bodies of Anne Marie and dozens of other travelers who hadn’t survived the horrors of Devil’s Gate in midwinter. And another forced march through the wind and snow for those who had survived. At least Ingrid and Anne Marie’s baby Ammie had been given a place in the relief wagons. They were too weak to walk.
A moment of doubt crept into Andy’s bitter thoughts. If Brigham Young truly were a prophet of God, wouldn’t he have known the handcart treks were a foolish idea? Wouldn’t he have known that ordering the Martin Party to leave Iowa City so late in the year would make the trek through the mountains impossible? Was the prophet doing the will of God or simply building up his own kingdom on earth?
A shudder coursed through Andy’s body. Did God even care? Would God listen to the prayers of a man who had just promised a dying girl he would lie to his own father to protect her newborn daughter? A man who had vowed to help one of his father’s brides and baby daughter escape from Deseret? He had even sinned against his sacred undergarments, breaking his oath to wear them as a shield and protection against the Evil One. Surely God would understand that he had to wrap Ammie in them for protection against the harsh winter winds.
As Andy bent down to place another rock on Anne Marie’s grave, sobs wracked his body. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder.
“It’s a hard thing to do, Brother Rasmussen, losing a young wife like that.”
Andy rose slowly from his knees, recognizing Brother Ricks from a brief encounter in Great Salt Lake City. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he murmured, “She was so young – so full of life. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Nothing’s fair in this world. But Salt Lake has lots of pretty girls. You’ll soon find another bride.”
Andy stood back, startled. “Anne Marie wasn’t my wife. She was my father’s.”
The older man nodded in sympathy. “Don’t suppose you’re the first young buck to fall in love with his father’s wife. Happens all the time.”
His sympathetic manner prompted Andy to share more. “Thing is, I fell in love with Anne Marie long before she married Pa. I didn’t even know they were married until a couple of months ago. I went back East to escort Pa’s new bride from Copenhagen and wound up escorting two new brides.” His voice was acrid with bitterness.
“Well, as they say, ain’t no use crying over spilt milk.” Ricks placed yet another stone on the mass grave. “Must have buried fifty people here,” he said. He looked up at the gray sky. “Looks like we’re in for a long, hard winter here, so we’d best get on up to the mail cabin and stake out a place to sleep or they’ll be piling our bodies in here, too.”
June 1857
River Bend Plantation, Kentucky
Elsie Condit placed a single rose on her father’s grave. “Oh, Papa,” she cried. “Am I doing the right thing?” The ornately carved headstones in the family cemetery seemed to mock her. “Peter Condit, born 1756, died 1799.” “Peter Condit, Jr., born 1780, died 1837.” And finally, Papa’s tombstone – ”Peter Condit, III, born 1805, died 1857.” Ever since Great-grandfather Condit settled these beautiful hills, the plantation had belonged in the family. And now she had sold it to a stranger.
She fingered the letter that had come a fortnight ago from her brothers, who had gone West to seek adventure in New Mexico Territory. “There’s a fortune to be made here in general merchandising,” Ned had written. “With Papa giving the slaves their freedom, you can’t run the plantation alone.”
Peter had added an ominous note: “The winds of war are raging, and I fear Kentucky will soon be fighting family against family. Given our family’s stance on slavery, your very life could be in danger if you stay at River Bend. Sell everything and come to safety here in New Mexico.”
A tall black man entered through the rose-covered trellis gate, breaking her reverie. “Miss Elsie, it’s time. If we’re to catch that riverboat to St. Louis, we’d best be on our way.”
Elsie smiled through her tears. Dear faithful Isaac. From the time they were toddlers, she and Isaac had shared everything, and he had always been her protector. And now, even with his freedman papers in his pocket, he wanted to go with her on the long trail to New Mexico.