“But it sounds bad. I’ll readily concede that you were
mistreated, Mr. Young. That
doesn’t make you unique, it makes you just like everyone else.
“For thousands of years on this continent,” Sam continued,
“each Indian people oppressed the next, with tomahawk and obsidian club, human
sacrifice and torture and cannibalism. Then the white man showed up with weapons even more vicious—the
long rifle and the smallpox germ—and he joined the game. The Spaniards oppressed the Indians,
the French oppressed the Spaniards, the Englishmen finally oppressed everyone
else and won, game over, and to celebrate the victory they changed their name
to Americans .
“Someday,” he wound up to his dramatic finish, conscious of
Brigham Young’s cool eyes on him in the darkness and half expecting to have to
jump back to avoid a burst of rage, “the next hand of rock-paper-scissors will
come up and somebody else will oppress the Americans. Hell, maybe it will even be the Mormons, but that won’t mean
that God is on your side, any more than He was on the side of the Iroquois when
they sent the Lenape packing out of the Delaware Valley.”
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Clemens,” Young said
quietly. “I am telling you that
God was on our side when our enemies drove us out of Nauvoo. I am telling you that when all the
world saw as us trodden upon and beaten down, we rode west into the wilderness
cupped in the hand of the Almighty God.”
Sam nearly swallowed his cigar. “I must be misunderstanding you now , Mr. President,” he spluttered. “Are you suggesting that you were
persecuted and robbed and murdered and chased into the wilderness, as you
say—and that it was a good thing? That God elected you to
defeat?”
“I am suggesting,” Brigham Young said, impressively calm,
“that God moves in mysterious ways. Uprooting the Kingdom and moving it to the Rocky Mountains was hard,
harder possibly than you can ever imagine, Mr. Clemens. Death and starvation and disease dogged
our every step. But that move has
made us strong, and it has given us the space we needed to flourish and grow
and become independent. And if
your President, or Mr. Jefferson Davis, or even the Queen of England, thinks to
coerce us into any particular action with respect to this coming war, or any
other thing for that matter… well, they will find that God has taught us to be
prepared.”
“And has God prepared you for the actions of Mr. John D.
Lee?” Sam asked. He felt impudent
for his retort, but he was staggered by the things Brigham Young was saying,
and couldn’t leave them without rejoinder.
“God moves in mysterious ways,” Young repeated. “We are all cogs in slots in His cosmic
wonder-machine, just as you said. Rockwell and Eliza and Annie disobeyed me and they were right to do so,
but that doesn’t mean they weren’t acting as parts of the machine. God is the mechanick, Mr. Clemens, not
Brigham Young. I am nothing but a
cog that is happy to be returning to his usual slot.”
* * *
“If it all goes cock-eyed,” Sam Clemens had said, “remember
whose side you’re on.”
“I’m on your side, Sam,” Tam had shot back. He’d felt like the girl in the corner
of the dance hall, looking shyly away from her beau. Get a hold of yourself.
“You’re in the employ of the United States Army
Intelligence,” Sam had shot back, a little preachier than Tam liked. “That makes you on President
Buchanan’s side. And remember this.” He’d leaned in close and looked around to be sure that no one was
watching. “There’s still a war
coming. If at any point it looks
like Edgar Allan Poe is going to steal Pratt’s air-ships for Jefferson Davis
and his cronies, you know what you have to do.”
And wasn’t Pratt the perfect name for a crazy old bugger
living in the mountains, building air-ships and phlogiston guns and planning on
burning down
mistreated, Mr. Young. That
doesn’t make you unique, it makes you just like everyone else.
“For thousands of years on this continent,” Sam continued,
“each Indian people oppressed the next, with tomahawk and obsidian club, human
sacrifice and torture and cannibalism. Then the white man showed up with weapons even more vicious—the
long rifle and the smallpox germ—and he joined the game. The Spaniards oppressed the Indians,
the French oppressed the Spaniards, the Englishmen finally oppressed everyone
else and won, game over, and to celebrate the victory they changed their name
to Americans .
“Someday,” he wound up to his dramatic finish, conscious of
Brigham Young’s cool eyes on him in the darkness and half expecting to have to
jump back to avoid a burst of rage, “the next hand of rock-paper-scissors will
come up and somebody else will oppress the Americans. Hell, maybe it will even be the Mormons, but that won’t mean
that God is on your side, any more than He was on the side of the Iroquois when
they sent the Lenape packing out of the Delaware Valley.”
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Clemens,” Young said
quietly. “I am telling you that
God was on our side when our enemies drove us out of Nauvoo. I am telling you that when all the
world saw as us trodden upon and beaten down, we rode west into the wilderness
cupped in the hand of the Almighty God.”
Sam nearly swallowed his cigar. “I must be misunderstanding you now , Mr. President,” he spluttered. “Are you suggesting that you were
persecuted and robbed and murdered and chased into the wilderness, as you
say—and that it was a good thing? That God elected you to
defeat?”
“I am suggesting,” Brigham Young said, impressively calm,
“that God moves in mysterious ways. Uprooting the Kingdom and moving it to the Rocky Mountains was hard,
harder possibly than you can ever imagine, Mr. Clemens. Death and starvation and disease dogged
our every step. But that move has
made us strong, and it has given us the space we needed to flourish and grow
and become independent. And if
your President, or Mr. Jefferson Davis, or even the Queen of England, thinks to
coerce us into any particular action with respect to this coming war, or any
other thing for that matter… well, they will find that God has taught us to be
prepared.”
“And has God prepared you for the actions of Mr. John D.
Lee?” Sam asked. He felt impudent
for his retort, but he was staggered by the things Brigham Young was saying,
and couldn’t leave them without rejoinder.
“God moves in mysterious ways,” Young repeated. “We are all cogs in slots in His cosmic
wonder-machine, just as you said. Rockwell and Eliza and Annie disobeyed me and they were right to do so,
but that doesn’t mean they weren’t acting as parts of the machine. God is the mechanick, Mr. Clemens, not
Brigham Young. I am nothing but a
cog that is happy to be returning to his usual slot.”
* * *
“If it all goes cock-eyed,” Sam Clemens had said, “remember
whose side you’re on.”
“I’m on your side, Sam,” Tam had shot back. He’d felt like the girl in the corner
of the dance hall, looking shyly away from her beau. Get a hold of yourself.
“You’re in the employ of the United States Army
Intelligence,” Sam had shot back, a little preachier than Tam liked. “That makes you on President
Buchanan’s side. And remember this.” He’d leaned in close and looked around to be sure that no one was
watching. “There’s still a war
coming. If at any point it looks
like Edgar Allan Poe is going to steal Pratt’s air-ships for Jefferson Davis
and his cronies, you know what you have to do.”
And wasn’t Pratt the perfect name for a crazy old bugger
living in the mountains, building air-ships and phlogiston guns and planning on
burning down
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