Sarah: the 4Th Wife: A Historical Novel of Real Love Vs Polygamy

By Berta James

SARAH: The 4 TH WIFE is a real love story with characters drawn from people of the author's own ancestry. (Names have been changed.) Moving from England across America to Utah, it encompasses a broad tapestry of people and historical events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 22, 1999
• ISBN: 9781453534212

Berta James

Growing up in a small western town, Berta James heard stories of her pioneer grandmothers: Stories of hope, despair and suffering;  of faith, rebellion, plural marriage and apostasy. Stories of Love.  “Someday,” she decided, “I will write books about them.” Through the years they have, at last, woven themselves into the tapestry of this book.

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SARAH:

THE 4TH WIFE

A Historical Novel of

Real Love vs Polygamy

Berta James

Copyright © 1998 by Berta James.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

0317

Contents

PROLOGUE:

Through a Glass Darkly

CHAPTER 1

July 6, 1856 Iowa City, Iowa

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

July 7, 1856

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

August 8, 1856

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

August 14, 1856 Florence, Nebraska Territory

CHAPTER 10

September 3, 1856

CHAPTER 11

September 19, 1856

CHAPTER 13

September 25, 1856

CHAPTER 14

September 26, 1856 Salt Lake City

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

October 19, 1856

CHAPTER 19

October 19, 1856 The Oregon Trail

CHAPTER 20

October 27, 1856 Fifty miles west of South Pass

CHAPTER 21

November 9, 1856 Salt Lake City

CHAPTER 22

November 10 1856 Salt Lake City

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

April 5, 1857

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

Silver Lake Valley

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

August 3, 1857

CHAPTER 32

November 27, 1857

Hamm’s Fork: Somewhere in

Wyoming wilderness

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

April 22, 1858

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

April 24, 1858

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

June 17, 1858

CHAPTER 49

June 22, 1858

CHAPTER 50

June 26, 1858

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

July 9, 1858

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

POSTLUDE:

Time & Time Again

EPILOGUE

November 26, 1997

LEGACY

DEDICATED TO...

MY GRANDMOTHERS—ALL THE WAY

BACK TO LIB (SARAH),

MY MOTHER, GAYLE,

MY DAUGHTER, REBECCA,

MY GRANDDAUGHTERS,

MY SISTERS AND NIECES,

AND ALL THE WOMEN, LIVING AND DEAD,

WHO SHARE THIS UNIQUE LEGACY WITH ME.

ALSO TO BILL AND CONNIE WHO HAVE GIVEN

UNTOLD HOURS AS WELL AS LOVE AND

SUPPORT OF ALL KINDS.

PROLOGUE:

Through a Glass Darkly

For now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know even as I am known.

—Cor: 13;12

The large stone house with gingerbread trim and steep roof looked like a duplex. It had two entrances, each with its own front porch. It was a very old house. Perhaps in some forgotten time it had been renovated. The intricate gingerbread trim around the eaves and the carved posts had recently received a fresh coat of paint. The separate but equal design as a double residence was unmistakable here in the land of Zion. It was a polygamy house.

It had, in fact, been built by an early apostle for two of his eight wives and their children. Each side had its own entrance, its own porch and its own yard. The house had accommodated the two families of children. Two of the other wives had been childless and the rest had occupied similar homes. Altogether this man had fathered forty-eight children over the span of a half century, most had grown to adulthood here in this hard desert land of the far west.

As she slowed the car and rounded the corner, Alexis kept her eyes on the road. Her grandmother, Edna, who sat on the passenger side, leaned forward abruptly. Pointing, she said, That’s the house where my mother grew up.

I remember, Grandmama. I’ve been here before. Allie tossed a loving glance in her grandmother’s direction.

Intently, Edna continued, ...and that little rock bungalow on the left was the one my grandfather built for his sixth wife, Aunt Sophai.

Yes. Aileen spoke from the back seat. "Granny and Grandpa bought it after they returned

from their mission. We drove here and stayed with them for a couple of days.

The street was unpaved and the houses were scattered sparsely, like randomly spaced beads on a broken necklace. They were set back from the street, with vacant lots and gardens separating them. There were no sidewalks. The front yards ended in tall grass, interrupted by weed-choked irrigation ditches that ran the length of the streets on both sides.

The early morning sun had illuminated the land with radiance during the two-hour drive from Salt Lake City up the canyon highway to this northern most hamlet. A few puffy clouds lay atop the distant peaks.

Now, as they moved along the empty street toward the mountains, Edna spoke again. And are you still sweet on the young man your mother told me about?

His name is Riley. Alexis paused, allowing the question to hang in the air, unanswered. Then,...Yes, perhaps you could say I’m sweet on him. He is a wonderful man, Grandmama. You’ll like him.

Oh? So does that mean I get to meet him soon?

"Small whirling spirals of dust appeared along the dirt road. The clouds had elbowed their way in front of the sun and darkened ominously. The brightness of the morning gave way to black clouds and the threat of impending storm.

At the eastern edge of town, where the last stone house stood devoid of shrubbery with only one ancient elm leaning protectively between the dwelling and the street, the road turned sharply north. Half a mile further on, two rock posts announced the entrance to the cemetery.

Side by side, standing guard in a formidable column of sage-green specters, a single row of cone-shaped cottonwood trees swept the now leaden sky like giant brush brooms attempting to dispel the pall of grief that suffused the landscape here. At the entrance, heavy, rusted wrought-iron gates were hinged to two pillars of rock and mortar. They stood ajar, one hanging crazily on one hinge; the other leaned wearily against its post.

This was a place apart, separated from the external world by the barrier of thorned greenery and wrought-iron—an unseen wall of grief. Perhaps the pain suffered here accumulates over the years. Not disseminating or diluting as it diffuses across the countryside, it stays, piles up, amasses in an invisible shroud and remains at the graveyard.

Alexis drove the automobile past the gates between the posts and turned right. The grey mist descended, enveloping the three in separate worlds of their own thoughts and memories.

The Martineau family plot lay to the east encompassing a large block of land. Alexis parked on the access road and Aileen moved to open the trunk. Cut roses, peonies, hot-house mums and carnations lay wrapped in dampened newspapers and cloth towels. It had been over a week since Memorial Day, but a few bedraggled flowers remained in the buried urns beside the markers. Gathering a bundle of peonies in her arms, Aileen approached the graves of her grandparents. Beside them lay their two young children: a girl of seven and a nine-year-old boy. Both had died tragically long ago. Aileen strangled on the lump that swelled in her throat. Why? She had grieved for these dear grandparents. She still thought of them often, especially her grandmother Kate, but time had healed the raw wounds, leaving old scar tissue and memories.

Edna was dividing the floral offerings among the four graves. She too felt the heaviness in her chest and constriction in her throat. She stumbled back and forth around the granite markers, placing flowers carefully. The people buried here were her parents, her sister and her brother.

A terrible longing began to arise from deep inside, aching for release.

Alexis, ostensibly-, was examining the markers for the possibility of rubbings. She had her translucent paper and charcoal, but her feelings were much in tune with the others. At an emotional level she was more entangled with these people of her heritage—her roots—than either her mother or grandmother suspected.

With Riley pressing her to marry him, she discovered she was on the eternal quest for self.

Who Am I? Before unfolding my wings, I need to find the roots.

Here lay those who had gone before. They belonged to her and she to them. Moving from marker to marker, she admired the carvings, yet sought for one apart.

In a far corner lay the small vine-covered headstone of Sarah Field Bainbridge. Isolated. Set apart from the others in death as she had been in life. Alexis knelt to examine the crudely cut lettering.

Born: 1838 in Wiltshire County, England.

Died: 1930 in Salt Lake City, Utah.

PIONEER MOTHER

Eight years short of a century. The inscription PIONEER MOTHER was now nearly obliterated by the continuing assault of the elements.

Edna joined her granddaughter at the isolated gravesite. There was no urn for flowers so she placed the three remaining daisies across the headstone.

Grandmama, is she the one who brought her rocking chair across the plains?

Edna felt her throat constrict and unable to speak, nodded affirmation.

...and it was too heavy for the carts, so she had to leave it beside the trail?

Facing the grave, Edna slipped her arm through Allie’s and gently squeezed. The younger woman sensed her grandmother’s emotion and pulled her closer.

I remember her." Edna’s voice was husky.

You do?

Of course. She died just a few hours before your mother was born. She was nine-two.

Alexis stared at the pathetic little marker. Tell me about her, Grandmama.

Sarah’s life, like a reel of motion picture film, flashed through Edna’s consciousness. The split-second scenarios, frame by frame, spun across her brain: Deprived poverty-stricken childhood; hard work, hardship and disappointment; religious conversion and migration. A journey across a vast ocean followed by a grisly continental trek; hunger, weariness and death—much death.

Then, alliance with a gentle family; a polygamous marriage...and...distortion.

Edna found her voice. I will, my Dear. On the way home. Perhaps we’d better go now. That wind is cold.

The single existing photograph of Sarah Elizabeth Field Bainbridge had been taken in 1893, when she was past fifty years of age. She had straight even features and fading blond hair that was piled high on her head defying the mode of that day. Solemn gray eyes were fixed on the camera as if to hypnotize it. Fixed in the photographer’s iron headstand, she stared defiantly at an audience not hers to know. She was strong, this woman of Edna’s heritage, and her strength of character was etched on her features: facial lines marked years of hardship. Beneath the solemn exterior there was a twinkle lurking in those eyes—a sparkling intensity that lingered through the years and held one sensitive to such things, spellbound.

The wind had subsided and raindrops began to fall randomly, portending more to follow. The two started for the car. Alexis, with one strong arm around her grandmother’s shrunken frame, supported her. Did you love her, Grandmama? What was she like?

Edna moved carefully, watching her feet. Her mind worked furiously. Like? Sarah? What can I tell the child about this great great great grandmother? Yes, I knew her. I know her. Four generations of men dissecting us, attempting to dilute us with their names and their blood, but still, I know her. I shall tell her of Sarah. I shall weave the tale of all her mothers: that unique tapestry of sisterhood out of which she has sprung to become one with us. Cloth of brocade and burlap, linen and gauze and lindsey-woolsey.

Now the drops were large and spattering with increasing intensity. They walked faster, Alexis was cognizant of the older woman’s inability to run. They reached the car and she helped her grandmother into the back seat. Then she ran quickly around and climbed in beside her.

Aileen appeared running from the other direction. Sliding under the wheel onto the front seat, she asked, What’s going on? Aren’t you going to drive us home, Honey?

Alexis patted her damp hair. Leaning toward Edna, she smiled and answered, Would you drive, please, Mom? Grandmama’s going to tell me a bedtime story.

BOOK I

Preparation for Departure

And they shall come from the east and from the west and from the north and from the south, and shall sit down in the kingdom of God.

—Luke 13: 29

CHAPTER 1

July 6, 1856 Iowa City, Iowa

Acrid brown dust swirled about her legs. The crude linsey-woolsey of her ankle-length skirt was encrusted with residue from months of travel. She had endured the voyage in the flea-infested sailing vessel, the Thornton, which had brought them across the Atlantic to the continent and then the journey in a boxcar across America to this place.

Sarah Elizabeth Field had turned eighteen the day before and was fast approaching spinsterhood. Flicking the hem of her skirt at the army of flies that mingled with the heavy dust, Sarah looked up at the faded board sign nailed across the entrance to the unpainted barn.

J & L CARRIAGE SHOP —WE MAKE WAGONS, CUPBOARDS & COFFINS.

In that order I be wagerin’. Sarah’s comment was directed to her younger sister, Charity, who gripped her hand tightly.

Where’s me father? the six-year-old whines in a small voice. I nae be likin’ this place, Sarah. Let’s go home.

Home. Where would that be? We have nae home. Sarah knew their refugee status would not soon change. But she kept these musings to herself. Would they ever be havin’ a place of ther own agin? She thought of the Israelites wandering around in the wilderness for forty years. She felt a kinship with them.

People swarmed the hot, dusty street—mostly men and boys— and Charity crept closer against her sister’s side. Sarah felt oddly apart, like a spectator at a disorganized game. The stakes were high, she knew. Perhaps their survival rode on a whimsical twist of the unseen. Fearful imaginings rose unbidden from within her. She took a deep breath and smiled at Charity.

Sarah’s father emerged from the building. His grim expression told Sarah of his worry. As he strode across the boardwalk to where they were standing, Sarah nudged her little sister and whispered, "Yer’d best be smilin, Charity. Me father don’t need two downcast daughters ter add ter his troubles.

You two be gittin’ on back ter thee mam, Jacob Field ordered tersely. I’ve got ter set about findin’ some decent wood. The stern jaw betrayed his anxiety and Sarah understood with a pang that the gruffness of his voice was not intended for them.

Aye, and what is it, me Father? Sarah pressed him gently for an explanation. Her mother was frail and the journey had been difficult for her. Striving to lift her spirits, they spoke only words of promise to her and hid their own doubts and fears.

Lovingly, Sarah peered at her father. The man exuded weariness of mind and body. What do ther brethren say? she queried. Can they do owt fer us?

Her father shrugged and dark confusion filled his eyes. When President Brigham Young sent word fer us ter come, he promised that carts and supplies would be waitin’ fer us here. Remember how ther missionaries urged us ter make haste? I be certain they did not count on our ship bein’ delayed or ther rough seas.

Sarah interrupted him. I be knowin’ that, me Father. They said fer ten pounds apiece, we would be proper supplied. They allowed that we be comin’ on the revolvin’ funds. Hae they be changin’ ther minds, then?

Nae Child, nae. Ther problem be nowt money. There be many more a us as they be plannin’ fer. Now we find ther carts be nowt built and no seasoned wood ter build them with. There be nowt tents, nor supplies, nor owt.

Bitterness welled up in Sarah’s throat. But why did they wait until now ter tell us? Tis too late! Why didn’t they be lettin’ us stay in Wiltshire until spring? Thee could hae kept workin’ at ther mill. Mayhap, me Mam would be well by then. Why did they bring us ter this place that nae be ready fer us and dump us?!

Sarah! Shocked, Jacob thundered her name with authority. I will nae tolerate this from thee! Then, lowering his voice, "Ther missionaries carried ther prophet Brigham’s instructions ter make haste. He speaks for thee Heavenly Father. If we be havin’ faith, He will watch over me and thee.

Sarah hoped He knew what He was doing. He hadn’t asked for her advice but if He had, she would have mentioned the choice which seemed a saner option to her.

Three companies had already left Iowa City, Sarah knew, and were probably halfway to Salt Lake City by now...takin’ supplies meant to be shared by All a us, she imagined. Well. They’d do what they had to do. Setting her square little jaw in a firm line, she flashed a smile of encouragement to her father and whispered lightly, Sure and I be sorry, me Father. Thee be right, a course. God will provide and we be trustin’ in Him. We be goin’ to see about me mam now. She brushed his cheek with her lips.

Relief pllayed around the creases beside Jacob’s eyes and his sagging chin lifted. On ther way, be fer takin’ Charity through ther town past ther square. Ther soldiers be marchin’ today. But don’t be takin’ too long. I fret about thee mam.

CHAPTER 2

The town square was the parade ground for army troops stationed at nearby Fort Davenport. Sarah stood motionless still gripping Charity’s hand. She allowed the staccato yammer of the drums to fill her body and drown out her fears. This was all there was: the beating of the drums, the shuffle of marching feet, the heat and the flies and the dust and this encampment on the edge of nowhere. It was enough. She felt far away from the only world she had ever known, yet, it was now and yesterday was not important.

That other world, the world of the tiny provincetown of Wiltshire in northern England, was bleak and rugged. The great moorland plateau was uninviting and resistant to cultivation. Barren as it had been for centuries, it supported only meager herds of sheep and goats and an occasional ancient village, leftover from medieval days.

The primary enterprise of the town was the mill. Working, combing, spinning raw fleece into fine woolens, most of the town’s men and women labored from dawn until long after sunset to earn the coppers that kept the families from starvation.

Sarah had gone to work in the mill at twelve years of age; stacking yarn bobbins, emptying giant skips, sweeping the floors, cleaning the machines. She had been forced to quit the church school in the village and with stoic resignation, she had accepted this without a whimper. Her teacher had been distressed. Sarah was an avid pupil, receptive to learning, but was caught in the snare of circumstance; doomed to a life of drudgery in the mill. If she were to marry, she would be allowed time off periodically to give birth. But the survival of the family depended on the efforts of all its members, so she must continue to work at the mill until she became very ill or very old.

Sarah had continued to study on her own. She read and reread the meager collection of old books her mother owned and grasped bits of knowledge from cast-off periodicals that occasionally fell into her hands. She read the family bible. Jacob Field was a deeply spiritual man and family worship service was a nightly ritual.

At seventeen, Sarah had considered striking out on her own. In the not-so-distant city of Leeds, vigorous industry was developing and she knew she could get a better position, support herself and send money home to her family. In this century, a young, unmarried woman living on her own outside family supervision was not only frowned upon, it was unthinkable and forbidden.

Sarah bided her time and kept her ambitions in her silent mind. All the while she remained fiercely determined to better herself.

One day the Mormon missionaries had appeared at their door. Jacob Field embraced their gospel with open arms, mind and heart and the entire family had been baptized in the frigid waters of the Aires River on a cold day early in the month of March. They had walked twenty-three miles to a Mormon conference held in Shipley, where they heard of Brigham Young’s desire for them to gather to Zion.

The Perpetual Emigration Fund, a revolving fund to help converts come to Zion, would provide assistance. For ten pounds apiece, they could expect passage from Liverpool to New York or Boston, train fare from there to Iowa City and provisions to carry them across the plains to Salt Lake City. President Young was making it possible for all to come. Let them come on foot with handcarts, or wheelbarrows; let them gird up their loins and walk through, and nothing shall hinder or stay them.

Sarah’s heart had burst with excitement as she listened to Brother Franklin deliver the message. ‘Surely me prayers are answered. We will go to Zion; we will live happily in the bosom of the church forever, sure and we will.’

They had left their cottage and all but the most necessary personal belongings and had journeyed to Liverpool. There, with over sixteen hundred other English and Scandinavian converts, they had set sail for America. Of the two ships that carried them westward, only the Horizon had not met with difficulties. The Thornton had grappled with delays and bad weather, arriving in New York Harbor five weeks behind its sister ship. The Fields had taken passage on the Thornton. Upon their arrival in New York, they boarded a westward bound train and had arrived here in Iowa City on July third. Sarah’s ‘happily-ever-after’ visions were fading.

* * * * * * * * *

The drums stopped and the marchers were dismissed. Still Sarah stood as if transfixed. Dispersing across the square and onto the street, brass-buttoned, blue-coated soldiers poured through the town. Some mounted horses tethered to hitching racks across the street and rode away. Laughing and back-slapping, some disappeared into dimly-lit taverns. A few ambled down the narrow board sidewalks.

Let’s be goin’, Sarah. The small hand tugged at the sister’s, impatient and pleading. A covey of bluecoats approached, their heavy heels echoing hollowly against the overhanging roofs and wooden store fronts. As they moved closer to where the two girls were standing, Sarah felt suddenly overwhelmed and ducked inside an open doorway, pulling her little sister with her.

After the bright glare of the sunshine, their eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness within. Familiar odors intermingled and told them that they were inside the city’s one emporium. Looking around, Sarah noted household items, hardware, fabric, clothing and food. The proprietor was engaged with a customer at the far counter and the girls decided to investigate their surroundings. Huge barrels of cucumber pickles, coffee beans, unshucked corn, squash, potatoes, flour and sugar were lined up down the center of the room, creating aisles on either side.

Tools, knives, guns and other hardware were displayed atop giant bins that contained nails and bolts of all sizes. Harnesses, straps, saddles and spurs hung from wooden racks on the back wall. Piles of animal pelts lay in bundles tied with rope, on both counters and the floor. Their presence was further betrayed by their stench. Behind the wide counters, bolts of fabric lined the shelves all the way to the high ceiling.

A pastel pink gingham with little yellow daisies embroidered all over it caught Sarah’s eye and she held her breath. Oh, to have one dress from that beautiful gauzy cloth! Perhaps it had been spun by fairies for their queen, Sarah imagined whimsically. She longed to touch the filmy stuff, to feel its softness between her fingers. ‘Sure and I would make dresses for Charity and Healen too,’ she determined, ‘and one for me Mam’. She could see them all now, decked out fit for a king’s ball.

Could I lift it down for you to examine? The masculine voice at her shoulder startled Sarah and she retreated a step before looking up at the stranger.

The black, knee-high military boots were coated with the same brown clay that clung to the bottom of her skirt and covered everything with layers of silt. The brass buttons on his uniform were polished and the coarse blue serge accentuated his muscular chest and arms. He was not much taller than she, Sarah observed. Coffee-colored hair, side burns and a neatly-clipped beard wreathed his handsome features. Finally, her eyes scanned his face and were riveted by two piercing navy blue eyes which held her gaze. The man was smiling.

Sarah was not given to shyness and holding his bold gaze with her own, she inquired, Do thee work here?

No. But I would be happy to lift the bolt of cloth down for your closer inspection.

Surprised at such presumption, Sarah stiffened and turned away. In Wiltshire she had never seen such an open display of grand merchandise. Now here was one offering to help her and he not even commissioned to do so. Nodding her head, she declined the offer. Nae. I be just admirin’. I do nae wish ter buy. But me thanks thee for thy kind offer, that I do.

Reaching again for Charity’s hand, she saw the child standing in silent wonderment, looking into a large glass canister full of candies. Nougets of golden taffy, licorice and hardtack were mixed together in a confectionery delight. Her eyes full of a child’s yearning, Charity stood spellbound as Sarah gently recaptured the small hand and moved toward the door.

Just a moment...please. The friendly stranger spoke quietly to the proprietor of the store. He, in turn, scooped a generous amount of the candies onto a small piece of brown paper, wrapped it securely and handed it over in exchange for some copper coins.

Catching up with the two girls about thirty yards down the street, the young soldier knelt on one knee beside the child. Shrinking back against her sister and hiding in a fold of the long skirt, Charity kept both eyes fixed longingly on the brown package, opened, and being proferred in her direction.

Oh. Thee be very kind, Sir, but we surely cannot accept. Sarah knew how Charity yearned for the sugary treat; she felt her own mouth begin to water. She smiled slightly and her eyes shone with gratitude for this kindness. Briskly, she turned again and began to walk away.

Resetting the wide-brimmed hat more firmly forward upon his head the young man quickly caught stride with the girls and thrust the bag into Sarah’s free hand. She could resist no longer. Succumbing to the man’s