Honourable East India Company or to his government. Some of them had been madmen, and the world judged Brigham Young a madman. As it judged Richard Burton a madman.
The world was wrong, certainly about the Lion of the Lord. Burton knew President Young’s history. The man had taken over from the dead Prophet, Joseph Smith (now madman might apply there), in the Saints’ hour of darkness beyond darkness. He had mustered in that moment the vision, the courage, and the requisite ability to inspire. He had led the Saints across the state of Iowa and the frozen Mississippi River, then across the Great Plains, and the Rocky Mountains, not knowing where they were headed. He had designated this valley the place of salvation, and somehow had inspired his people to heroic energies. Few of the world’s enterprises in creating utopias were so successful as Salt Lake City.
Burton knew the audacity that required, the foresight, the steadiness, the intelligence, most of all the courage.
Brigham Young knew himself and his people, understood his strengths and weaknesses, knew what he wanted, and was implacable in his determination. Burton would have liked to flatter the man, cajole him, even deceive him, but he knew none of those would work. He was going to be reduced to telling the simple truth.
He felt naked.
“What have you come here for, Captain Burton?”
It was said softly, but Burton was not deceived. The Lion of the Lord had just set aside politeness. The man pivoted and fixed him with a gimlet eye. Burton knew better than to take the fragility of the pivot for weakness.
He also knew intuitively how tough the Lion could be. Burton felt a spasm of cold. He was in a country ruled for five hundred miles around by this man. An astute leader, very much so. A man of indomitable will.A man of huge responsibilities, and determination to meet them by any means necessary. A man followed by thousands of unquestioning adherents. To make an enemy of Brigham Young in Deseret would be dangerous.
Burton took a deep breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he told himself. A man who sticks his neck out before a potentate may get his head cut off, he also told himself. “Mr. President,” he said, “one art I learned in India is maalis, the skill of massage for aching muscles.” He did not add that his teacher was a courtesan. “I became an adept. Would you let me try?”
Burton got the pleasure of seeing he had truly surprised Brigham Young. The Lion of the Lord regarded him doubtfully. “Saints do not attend doctors. We trust to the healing hands of the anointed.”
“I am no physician,” answered Burton. He held up his big hands and flexed the fingers. “My gift resides in my hands alone.” He’s hurting severely, or he’d have said no instantly. “I seem to have a particular gift for backs.”
Young looked around apprehensively.
Good luck we came without a driver, thought Burton.
Young removed his broadcloth coat. His motions wanted to be decisive, yet were made tentative by pain. “I will not go further,” said Young. He turned his back to the gentile, sat on a boulder, and put his hands on his knees.
For some minutes Burton worked in silence. His fingers found the muscles in spasm easily, and gently stretched them out. At last he said, “That’s all I can do in one session.”
Young arced his back this way and that. He put his coat back on. Burton could see that he was moving more comfortably. Now when the Lion looked at Burton, his eye might have been softer. For the first time in half an hour the hairs on the back of Burton’s neck lay down.
Young repeated, “What have you come here for, Captain Burton?”
“My government is concerned with the disturbances caused by the War Between the States,” Burton began.
President Young fish-eyed him.
Burton felt himself want to be garrulous, a sign of danger. Nevertheless, he proceeded. “The fighting augurs to go on endlessly, neither party able to gain decisive
The world was wrong, certainly about the Lion of the Lord. Burton knew President Young’s history. The man had taken over from the dead Prophet, Joseph Smith (now madman might apply there), in the Saints’ hour of darkness beyond darkness. He had mustered in that moment the vision, the courage, and the requisite ability to inspire. He had led the Saints across the state of Iowa and the frozen Mississippi River, then across the Great Plains, and the Rocky Mountains, not knowing where they were headed. He had designated this valley the place of salvation, and somehow had inspired his people to heroic energies. Few of the world’s enterprises in creating utopias were so successful as Salt Lake City.
Burton knew the audacity that required, the foresight, the steadiness, the intelligence, most of all the courage.
Brigham Young knew himself and his people, understood his strengths and weaknesses, knew what he wanted, and was implacable in his determination. Burton would have liked to flatter the man, cajole him, even deceive him, but he knew none of those would work. He was going to be reduced to telling the simple truth.
He felt naked.
“What have you come here for, Captain Burton?”
It was said softly, but Burton was not deceived. The Lion of the Lord had just set aside politeness. The man pivoted and fixed him with a gimlet eye. Burton knew better than to take the fragility of the pivot for weakness.
He also knew intuitively how tough the Lion could be. Burton felt a spasm of cold. He was in a country ruled for five hundred miles around by this man. An astute leader, very much so. A man of indomitable will.A man of huge responsibilities, and determination to meet them by any means necessary. A man followed by thousands of unquestioning adherents. To make an enemy of Brigham Young in Deseret would be dangerous.
Burton took a deep breath. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he told himself. A man who sticks his neck out before a potentate may get his head cut off, he also told himself. “Mr. President,” he said, “one art I learned in India is maalis, the skill of massage for aching muscles.” He did not add that his teacher was a courtesan. “I became an adept. Would you let me try?”
Burton got the pleasure of seeing he had truly surprised Brigham Young. The Lion of the Lord regarded him doubtfully. “Saints do not attend doctors. We trust to the healing hands of the anointed.”
“I am no physician,” answered Burton. He held up his big hands and flexed the fingers. “My gift resides in my hands alone.” He’s hurting severely, or he’d have said no instantly. “I seem to have a particular gift for backs.”
Young looked around apprehensively.
Good luck we came without a driver, thought Burton.
Young removed his broadcloth coat. His motions wanted to be decisive, yet were made tentative by pain. “I will not go further,” said Young. He turned his back to the gentile, sat on a boulder, and put his hands on his knees.
For some minutes Burton worked in silence. His fingers found the muscles in spasm easily, and gently stretched them out. At last he said, “That’s all I can do in one session.”
Young arced his back this way and that. He put his coat back on. Burton could see that he was moving more comfortably. Now when the Lion looked at Burton, his eye might have been softer. For the first time in half an hour the hairs on the back of Burton’s neck lay down.
Young repeated, “What have you come here for, Captain Burton?”
“My government is concerned with the disturbances caused by the War Between the States,” Burton began.
President Young fish-eyed him.
Burton felt himself want to be garrulous, a sign of danger. Nevertheless, he proceeded. “The fighting augurs to go on endlessly, neither party able to gain decisive
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