Doctor Steuss wrote: “Orrin Porter Rockwell: Man of God Son of Thunder” by Benita N Schindler.
Steuss! I know you're into man crushes and all, but now you've gone too far: changing Hal Schlinder's gender! As the poor man is dead, perhaps this is some new and nefarious form of post-mortal baptism? Is this new doctrine or a policy of your own revelation? Are we witnessing the birth of yet
another LDS splinter sect? "The Church of Jesus Man Crush (Stuessite)" ?
All LOL-ing aside, Harold Schlinder's book on Rockwell is very good. I'm not familiar with the newer Dewey bio.
I have run across mention of Rockwell in two western folk ballads (I've been researching "murder ballads,"). I found the first in Utahn Olive Burt's
American Murder Ballads (she aslo has an article on "Mormon Murder Ballads"), and the second comes from an old book called "Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads" that I downloaded via Google Book Search.
Here they are:
(as Burt points out, Rockwell's war cry was "Wheat!," signifying that the tares were expendable.")
Old Port Rockwell
Old Port Rockwell has work to do,
So he saddles his sorrel and rides away;
And those who are watching wonder who
Will be a widow at break of day.
The waiting wife in the candle light,
Starts up as she hears a wild hoof-beat,
Then shrinks in terror as down the night,
Comes the wailing of Port’s dread war cry, “Wheat!”
Wheat!
She looks at her babes and tries to pray,
For she knows she’s a widow and orphans they.
Old Port Rockwell looks like a man,
With a beard on his face and his hair in a braid,
But there’s none in the West but Brigham who can
Look in his eyes and not be afraid.
For Port is a devil in human shape
Though he calls himself “Angel,” says vengeance is sweet;
But he’s black, bitter death, and there’s no escape
When he wails through the night his dread war cry, “Wheat!”
Wheat!
Somewhere a wife with her babes kneels to pray
For she knows she’s widow and orphans are they.
The Mormon Bishop’s Lament
I am a Mormon bishop and I will tell you what I know,
I joined the confraternity some forty years ago.
I then had youth upon my brow and eloquence my tongue,
But I had the sad misfortune then to meet with Brigham Young.
He said, “Young man, come join our band and bid hard work farewell,
You are too smart to waste your time in toil by hill and dell;
There is a ripening harvest and our hooks shall find the fool,
And in the distant nations we shall train them in our school.”
I listened to his preaching and I learned all the role,
And the truth of Mormon doctrine burned deep within my soul.
I married sixteen women and I spread my new belief,
I was sent to preach the gospel to the pauper and the thief.
Twas in the glorious days when Brigham was our only Lord and King,
And his wild cry of defiance from the Wasatch tops did ring.
Twas when that bold Bill Hickman and that Porter Rockwell led,
And in the blood atonements the pits received the dead.
They took in Dr. Robertson and left him in his gore,
And the Aiken brothers sleep in peace on Nephi’s distant shore.
We marched to Mountain Meadows and on that glorious field,
With rifle and with hatchet we made man and woman yield.
Twas there we were victorious with our legions fierce and brave,
We left the butchered victims on the ground without a grave.
We slew the load of emigrants on Sublet’s lonely road
And plundered many a trader of his then most precious load.
Alas for all the powers that were in the bygone time,
What we did as deeds of glory are condemned as bloody crime.
No more the blood atonements keep the doubting one in fear,
While the faithful were rewarded with a wedding once a year.
As the nation’s chieftain president says our days of rule are o’er,
And his marshals with their warrants are on watch at every door.
Old John he now goes skulking on the by-roads of our land,
Or unknown he keeps in hiding with the faithful of our band.
Old Brigham now is stretched beneath the cold and silent clay,
And the chieftains now are fallen that were mighty in their day.
Of the six and twenty women that I wedded long ago,
There are two now left to cheer me in these awful hours of woe.
The rest are scattered where the Gentiles’ flags unfurled,
And two score of my daughters are now numbered with the world.
Oh my poor old bones are aching and my head is turning grey,
Oh the scenes were black and awful that I’ve witnessed in my day.
Let my spirit seek the mansion where old Brigham’s gone to dwell,
For there’s no place for Mormons but the lowest pit of hell.
Sadly, I don't have music for either one of them...
