MY PARENTS IN ZION--ARRIVAL OF RICHARD SEDGWICK IN SALT LAKE CITY--HIS
STORY OF LEAVING HOME IN 1867--HOW THE PRESIDENT OF THE MIDDLESBROUGH
BRANCH WAS EMIGRATED--RE-UNION OF THE MIDDLESBROUGH BRANCH.
The next morning they were enabled to get a better view of he "City of
the Saints." It was the first of May--a fine sunny day. The orchards
were delightful for the eye to gaze upon; the peach, plum, apple, and
other trees were arrayed in their sweetest attire. The birds were
merry, the bee and butterfly passed too and fro, and everything around
was beautiful.
My parents were much in love with our city and the surroundings. During
the day father was seen to shed tears--tears of joy and sorrow. He was
glad he was here in the land of Zion, but felt sorrowful to think of
his sons and daughter in Babylon. To a neighbor who happened to be near
him, and saw the tears roll down his cheeks, he said he felt sorry to
think that his children back in England were so foolish to stay there,
when they might have been here in this beautiful country.
My parents have often expressed, that they wished they had come here
years ago.
About the latter part of October, 1880, I was much pleased to receive
a letter from my brother Miles, at Middlesbrough, stating that he had
been baptized into the Church.
In September, 1881, I sent his fare to emigrate him to Utah, and he
arrived in Salt Lake City, Nov. 11th.
My readers no doubt, have been wondering what became of Richard
Sedgwick. When I bade him good by in England, I little thought so
many years would elapse before we should meet again. After my leaving
Middlesbrough, he stayed there a little over one year, then emigrated
to New York and resided in Brooklyn, at which place he was married in
July, 1868. Our correspondence continued more or less, from the time
he reached that place till he arrived in the valleys of the mountains,
November 10, 1882. When we met, I should not have known him, nor would
he have recognized me, had I not answered to my name when he inquired
for me. It was nearly sixteen years and a half since we saw each other,
and it was a happy meeting.
The following is Richard Sedgwick's account of his leaving home in 1867:
"I started from home on the 1st of July, 1867. It was on a Monday
morning, and on Mondays we used to commence work at 8 o'clock, while
other mornings, we began at 6. I took the train for Stockton (four
miles away), and on arriving there called at the house of Brother
Thomas Watson, clerk of the Middlesbrough and Stockton branch. The box,
which we had with us when we left our homes the year previous, was at
Brother Watson's house. I told him I wanted it, as it was my intention
to go to Liverpool, and from there to New York. Brother Watson was
not in favor of my going away, and advised me to return home, but my
mind was bent on leaving for New York and then get to Utah as soon
as possible. He kept talking with me till I missed the train for
Liverpool. This was unpleasant, as I was afraid Mr. Carter would send
an officer after me.
"Determined not to be baffled, I took my box, went to the station and
waited for the next train, perhaps two hours, and arrived at Liverpool
about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. It so happened that a steamer had to
leave for New York early next morning. I went to 42 Islington, and got
my passage money which I had paid to sail on the _American Congress_
the year previous.
"Next morning I was up bright and early and went aboard the steamer.
The vessel sailed about half-past 9 o'clock, and it was well she
started at that hour, for I learned afterwards, by letter from my
father, that as soon as Carter missed me, he lost no time in trying
to have me brought back again. A detective was put on my track, who,
fortunately for me, arrived at the Liverpool docks just a few hours too
late."
On September 12, 1881, I received a letter from William Garbett,
president of the Middlesbrough branch, which stated in effect that
there had been a death in his family, another reduction in wages, a
poor harvest on account of incessant rains, and provisions were rising
in price. In answer, I told him my faith was that he would be emigrated
to Utah before the end of the next year. Circulars were issued by me to
his friends, explaining his situation. The result was sufficient means
were procured to emigrate Brother Garbett and family (seven in number)
to Utah. They arrived here in Sept., 1882
Reflecting at various times on the scenes recounted in this little
work, and of the many joyful times experienced among the Saints in
Middlesbrough and vicinity, it occurred to the writer that a revival of
old times and acquaintanceships would be greatly relished by those who
had emigrated therefrom, and it was finally arranged to have a re-union
of the Middlesbrough branch of the church on Thanksgiving day, November
29, 1883.
All the Saints and Elders who had been in the branch were invited to
be present at the 4th Ward meeting house, where the re-union was held.
Dinner was served at 2 p.m., followed by the various exercises, such
as singing, reciting, speaking, etc. The time was agreeably spent till
half-past 6 o'clock in the evening. The attendance was numerous without
being crowded, and the affair was gratifying to all present. It will
remain indelibly impressed upon the memories of all who participated.
A BOY'S LOVE: A MAN'S DEVOTION
CHAPTER I.
WILLIAM ANDERSON'S HEART AND HAND--HIS EARLY LIFE, HOME AND
SURROUNDINGS.
Two little shreds of yellow paper which would not pass current for the
value of an ordinary letter stamp! And yet they are to be cherished in
the family Bible as a treasure worthy of loving gaze and reverent touch.
Look at them closer. One resembles a hand and the other a heart. Even
in their freshest and brightest days they would have been condemned by
the artist whose standard is the ideal, and by the anatomist whose sole
appreciation is for the real; for their departure from anatomical truth
is not in the line of artistic license. Still they are sacred to us.
Why are the papers so yellow? you ask. Because more than half a century
has elapsed since they were cut into these shapes. Why so frayed and
worn? Because for years they were carried in a woman's bosom. Why so
stained? Because they have been wept over; and doubtless some of the
bitterest of all tears--the tears which fall from the widowed and the
fatherless, have moistened them. But here is a deeper stain than any
which can be made by any human tears--what is it? The blood of an
honest man, a patriot; the blood which flowed from the real heart of
the man whose real hand clipped these little uncouth models from the
old-fashioned sheet and sent them to his lady-love.
Turn the papers over. What do you read?
"William Anderson sends this hand to his sweetheart, Emeline T.
Stewart. Like myself, it is yours now and forever, if you will it so.
"NEW VINEYARD, MAINE, Christmas, 1829."
"Dear Emeline:
I offer my heart to you. Keep it if you can love me and will be
my wife.
"Your true lover--and husband, as I hope to be,
WILLIAM ANDERSON."
The writing is cramped, for the hand which laboriously traced so
many words within so small a space, though it belonged to the young
schoolmaster of the village, was quite as well used to carrying a
rifle or wielding an ax in the forest as to this scholar's work. The
composition, too, is heavy: William Anderson was not a poet; he was but
a plain youth whose best effort was to put his honest wish into honest
words, and to send his blunt message freighted with all his hopes for
the future.
Little did he know how his paper hand and heart would be hoarded
to come into the loving care of his descendants! The strong man is
dead--his mangled clay rests amid the decaying beauties of a city by
the banks of the lordly Mississippi. The devoted woman is dead--her
tortured body reposes under mighty Wasatch shadows. But the fragile
papers survive; and the love which brought them into being lives. It
lives eternally, if there be reward in heaven for sacrifice.
William Anderson was the son of a New Vineyard farmer--well to do with
the grosser goods of this world, as well as being possessed of family
pride; and the boy was taught, along with the heavy duties of the
field, something of books. He was indulged, too, in the physical luxury
of a yearly meeting-suit, made out of wondrous fabrics brought all the
way from Boston, a city more distant and mythical in the estimation of
the New Vineyard people of that day than is Benares to this age.
Large families of children were in the sturdy and healthy New England
fashion of the first quarter of this century, and William's brothers
and sisters numbered near a half score. So the boys were impelled to
industry and self-reliance.
Religious profession of some kind was one of the common comforts of
life; and Mrs. Joy Anderson was proud to marshal "for meetin'" each
Sabbath a troop as numerous and well-behaved as the family party of
Charity Carver or Hope Smith. William's mother was of a Puritan family,
and vied with her female neighbors, whose names indicated the same
proud descent, in having every able member of her household a regular
attendant upon divine service.
From the country within a radius of five miles of the plain,
old-fashioned, stone meeting house, came, for gossip as much as genuine
worship, all the settlers--rich and poor, farmers, graziers, woodsmen
and the few traffickers who were able to make their Yankee shrewdness a
means of maintenance.
One of the principal men of the region comprised in the scattered
village of New Vineyard, was Hugh Stewart, farmer and whilom speculator
in lands and timber. His family was wont to journey from his residence
to the church--a distance of two miles in a carryall.
This vehicle was the object of much reverence; and Hugh managed by
frequent applications of varnish to keep it in that state of glossiness
which constituted its chief awe in New Vineyard eyes. Regularly, rain
or shine, its appearance at the last turn of the sandy road leading
to the meeting-house was announced by some watchful youngster and the
waiting worshipers, who usually assembled an hour in advance of sermon
time, rushed to the porch to watch the family of the Stewarts dismount
from their carriage. Though this practice was continued for a term of
years, it never failed to awaken interest. I doubt if the London Lord
Mayor's gilded chariot ever aroused more real excitement among his
satiated townsmen than was evinced at each appearance of this ancient
vehicle at the meeting-house steps.
The occupants of the carryall were invariably checked off upon a score
of fingers: "There's Hugh and Martha, and there's Dan'l and Marchant
and Em'line and Car'line."
If one of these usual attendants happened for any reason to be absent,
there were comments and surmises without number until some active
investigator could ascertain the cause; and once learned, the news was
whispered about from lips quivering with eagerness to tell unto ears
twitching with anxiety to hear.
One of the most intensely interested of the watches was Mrs. Joy
Anderson, who felt all that her religion would permit her to entertain
of envy for the almost regal state in which the Stewarts were brought
to church.
More than one scathing rebuke fell from her very capable tongue upon
the well-calloused understanding of William, the senior Anderson. Her
stock complaint is worthy of preservation as showing how little the
style of marital reproach has varied within three-quarters of a century.
"I don't care for myself, and you know I don't; I don't say a grumbling
word at you for not taking me to New York when Mrs. Stewart went with
her husband though you know well enough you were quite as able to
pay my way as he was to take his wife; and everybody knows that if
anyone deserves a rest I do; but no, I never can go to visit my cousin
Faith Brewster that I think the world of, though I've never seen her
and only heard from her twice in my life, and she may have been dead
these ten years for all I know or you care, and even then it would
only be my duty to visit her grave and I could carry along a little
box of mignonette, in case of, to plant on her last resting place--no
I never say one word about these things, and I always spare your
feelings instead of telling you how often Mrs. Stewart looks at me as
if she had a kind of contemptuous pity for my suffering; but what I
feel so awfully hurt about are the airs that the Stewart children put
on when they get out of the carriage on Sunday at the meeting-house
door; and we've got more than half the distance to travel and you
could well afford something of the kind, and then we could get to the
meeting-house even if some of us were sick, and because we've had not a
day's sickness in the house in fifteen years is no sign we won't have,
but all the more sign that it must come sooner or later--"
Though this some what inconsistent speech was received with no apparent
emotion by the substantial husband and father whom it was intended to
pierce with its sharp sarcasm; it always created a little excitement
among the children.
Mrs. Stewart was really a good woman who was compelled by frequent
attacks of illness to pay some attention to personal comfort, and
who had never thought of triumphing over her esteemed friend Joy
with a glance of pity. Mrs. Anderson was also a good woman; but she
unwittingly taught her children to hold envy and dislike for neighbors.
Probably she was not the first woman, as she was certainly not the last
to pursue this foolish, unchristianlike course.
Little William was often an attentive listener to this wail of his
mother; and from it he tried to conceive a deep and bitter hatred for
the rival aristocratic family at the other end of the village.
Very strangely, this effort of the boy, begun and religiously pursued
under a sense of family loyalty, was utterly unavailing. There was
something in the soft eyes and patient face of Mrs. Stewart which
consumed all his bitter thoughts and made him feel more like kissing
the lady's hand than hating her, even for his injured mother's sake.
Often and often when she was assisting the children from the carriage,
while Hugh--something too careless in this respect, was taking his
horse from the thills or hailing neighbors in a hearty voice, little
Will Anderson felt a barely resistible inclination to rush forward and
offer his help. Was he restrained by a fear of punishment from his
mother, or the dread of a refusal from Mrs. Stewart, or anticipation
of ridicule from the assembled villagers? Not one of these fears
influenced him in the least: he was simply afraid that there was one
of the children that he could not lift. It was not tall Dan, nor fat
March; for he felt that he could toss them both over the meeting house
if such conduct would have been advantageous to the Stewart family;
though either of the boys was as large as two such chaps as Will. And
of course it was not little Carrie, for she was only a baby, three
years old, "lighter than goose down," as Will thought, but did not say
aloud. But it was Emeline.
Will had looked this girl in the face, from a distance, two or three
times--she had brown eyes, deep and true; and brown hair, in heavy,
rich coils. Her face was as full of unsullied beauty as a lily blossom.
It had always a thoughtful expression as if the little brain were
solving some grave problem of more than human interest. At least, all
this is what Will saw and felt in an indistinct sort of fashion. I
doubt if she were quite so ethereally beautiful as Will imagined; for
girls born and reared on New England farms are not as fragile as a
hot-house flower, and I dare say that she laughed as often as other
girls; I know from personal knowledge that in later life she was not
too prim to play practical jokes.
But Will felt that he could not, for his very life, offer to lift this
girl from the carriage step. He was stout and heavy twelve years old;
and Emeline was light and slender nine; yet the exertion, especially
if she should happen to look at him from her wonderful eyes, would be
fatal.
CHAPTER II.
BOYHOOD SPORTS--AN AMATEUR MILITIA--A CAMPAIGN INCIDENT--WILL
ANDERSON'S GALLANTRY--CHRISTMAS MORNING GREETING--THE AFTERNOON
SERVICE--A COMBAT AMONG THE BOYS.
Will was more than five years old when peace was declared after
the second war with Great Britain; and the subject, in that time
of slow-moving news, was still a matter for frequent talk when he
completed his tenth year. He was then admitted into the ranks of
the "Continental Veterans," an organization of the patriotic youths
who trained along the roads and in the woods adjoining the village,
and told to each other, with passionate interest, all the tales of
adventure and heroism which they could glean from their elders. The
youngsters kept up really an accurate show of a military organization;
including this important feature (which they had learned from the
example of their elders), that all were officers of some rank or other.
In the day-time they built fires in the woods on the banks of the
Penobscot; and pretended that they were surrounded by night, dark as
a stack of black cats. Occasionally they captured a calf and tried it
as a spy by court-martial; usually allowing it to escape, at the last
moment, its sentence of hanging, and then putting the guards on trial
for aiding in the escape.
Four years of this training made Will a major, all the elder boys
ranking from lieutenant colonel upward.
One afternoon late in the Autumn, when they were having a jolly good
time in ambush along the old south road, a picket sentry announced a
body of the enemy advancing rapidly. The hostile party consisted of one
little girl, Emeline Stewart, who was trotting briskly homeward from
her weekly visit to the village sewing school. Will was scouting at
another point in company with Emeline's two brothers; and when one of
the colonels suggested taking the entire force of the enemy prisoner of
war, no dissenting voice was raised.
They met and seized her, poor, timid, little Emeline! She knew these
boys, her school-fellows and playmates, and they were not rough; but
they kept up such a style of martial bravado, and talked so glibly
of court-martial and execution--they rehearsed with such sanguinary
details the precedents established last week by the hanging of eight
Hessian and Tory spies, that the child was struck speechless with fear.
From long practice, the young rogues acted with as much confidence and
presence of mind as if they had been really old soldiers. What alarmed
Emeline most of all was that they never once lapsed back from soldiers
into the village boys of her acquaintance. Look at them with pleading
eyes as much as she would, they gave no response. Without knowing how
they were startling the child, the boys kept on with their cruel work.
A council of war was called, with General Hezekiah Bradford presiding;
and before this pompous assemblage Emeline was commanded to stand and
plead. She burst into tears and then sank down upon the mossy sward,
while the boys, struck with sudden remorse, gazed blankly at her and
then at each other.
At this instant Will and his companions hurried into the camp. A few
words of explanation from one of Will's brothers revealed the whole
situation, including the identity of "the enemy."
While they were gazing at the child's recumbent form, Hezzy Bradford
spoke:
"Guards, remove the prisoner, and"--
He was about to conclude with "set her at liberty;" but Will did not
wait to hear the conclusion. Deeming this speech but a continuation of
the cruelty shown toward Emeline, he rushed at the president of the
court-martial and with one accidentally-directed bunt, he knocked that
august official from his seat of pine boughs and sprawled him upon his
back, breathless and helpless for the moment.
Without waiting for any consultation or help, Will picked up the
slender child and darted away with her; while the Continental Veterans,
including Emeline's brothers, stood gaping as if they had lost their
senses.
Once out upon the road and far enough from the camp to show that
immediate pursuit was not intended. Will was fain to place Emeline upon
a bank, that they both might get breath.
The child looked at him with wonder, at first mingled with fear. But
soon she realized that he was her rescuer and began to thank him in her
tender, cooing way; soon changing to a just and fiery indignation at
her tormentors.
Will's physical exertion had been a trifle compared with the
overwhelming nature of Emeline's glance. He was now ready to wilt. He
might have fled ignominiously, but just at that moment when he felt
himself about to take this course a shout came from the boys in the
wood.
Will at once squared himself sturdily, intending to encounter all
comers. But Emeline, with a cry of affright, sprang to her feet and
cried:
"Oh, quick, Will! Let us run for home or those wicked boys will catch
me again!"
At this familiar invitation, the boy took the outstretched hand of the
child into his own broader palm; and thus together they ran toward the
Stewart residence, Will giving the little girl a helpful lift at every
step of the flight.
Looking back as they ran, Will saw his comrades emerge from the wood
and shake their warrior fists at the fugitives; but he readily observed
that a hopeful pursuit was deemed out of the question, and that the
boys were not intending to chase.
The gate opening into the Stewart grounds was speedily reached and then
Will stopped and expected Emeline to enter. But she remained outside
long enough to say:
"Will Anderson, you are better than a brother to me. If you had not
been there, so good and brave, what could I have done!"
When the grateful child at last disappeared within the house, Will
turned to walk slowly back to the village.
He traversed the first mile on his return journey with no disturbance
to his happy reflection; and then he entered the turn of the road
leading through the wood. Raising his eyes at some slight sound in
front, he saw a phalanx of the Continental Veterans drawn up in line
across his path; while at the same moment a similar body of troops
closed in from the sides and took position a few steps in the rear of
his person. Will was taken in an ambuscade, which was performed so
successfully and with such perfect regard to military precedent, that
it is probably talked of to this day in New Vineyard among the great
grandchildren of the Continental Veterans.
A colonel solemnly placed Will under arrest; and then, by command of
General Bradford, the troop marched to the encampment in the depths of
the pine wood.
The court-martial so abruptly dismissed an hour before was now
ceremoniously re-convened, and William Anderson, major in the
Continental Veterans, was charged with an attack upon his superior
officer. The accusation was proved and the sentence of the court,
General Bradford still sitting as presiding officer, was that the
culprit be dismissed the service.
As the sentence was being pronounced, Will sprang to his feet and
shouted:
"Boys, don't carry this further. I believe in military discipline, but
let us settle this matter outside of the army.
"Hezzy, if I hit you, I did it accidentally; but I'm ready to take
the consequences, and I'll stand up and fight you until you get
satisfaction. Come on, you're bigger than I am and you're three years
older; you're sure to get the best of it. Let's fight it out between us
two and let that settle the matter."
Such a plan did not entirely suit the general. He remarked:
"You're sentenced; and you'll have to quit the service. But I'll give
you plenty of `consequences' besides, so make ready."
This truthful historian grieves to say that in the fight which ensued,
General Bradford disgraced his uniform by cowardice; that most of the
boys were afraid to interfere even when they saw the plainest rules of
combat violated by the strapping Hezekiah; and lastly, that the hero of
this sketch was whaled in a most sanguinary fashion.
To Will's credit be it said that he fought with all the energy of his
being, administering occasional terrific blows on the rosy nose of the
general; and that he made no cry for quarter even when soundly thrashed.
After the encounter, the boys dispersed to their homes.
Will's heart was full of grief--not so much for the licking as for his
dismissal from the ranks of the Continental Veterans. But he tried to
bear up bravely in the hope that Emeline's kind feeling for him was
permanent and not dependent upon his military position.
The Stewart boys went home with some shame in their minds for the
unsoldier-like part which they had played in the thrilling events of
the afternoon. But they sought to make amends by describing Will's
chivalry and pluck in most extravagant terms to Emeline and all the
other younger members of the household.
Emeline was deeply interested in the recital; and her soft little heart
was torn between reverence for Will's heroism and indignation at the
baseness of his persecutors--even her own brothers coming in for a
lecture which made them hang their heads and look at each other in a
most woe-begone fashion.
During the next few days Will had much to suffer; for big boys who
were high officers in the Vets. laughed at him, and little boys, whose
highest temporary aspiration was to belong to that corps, sneered and
chuckled whenever they caught sight of this dismounted "knight of the
sorrowful visage."
Seven weeks passed before Christmas morning dawned in that bitterly
cold Winter of 1823. With the rising of the sun that day, two boys
drawing a sled on which was seated a little girl, well wrapped and
cuddled, appeared at the door of the Anderson residence--the girl was
Emeline and the boys were Dan and March, whom she had forced into
reluctant service. They entered the big kitchen, upon the invitation of
Mrs. Joy, and amid a chorus of salutations in which the visitors bore
their part.
When they were fairly in the house, with the biting frost shut out and
the tumult ended, Emeline asked for Will.
It is very unromantic but it is truth that the object of her inquiry
was at that particular moment seated at one corner of the fireplace,
straining himself black in the face to draw on a pair of damp cowhide
boots over a pair of similarly damp woolen socks--all of which personal
belongings he had been seeking to dry by the morning fire, when this
astounding interruption came.
Will succeeded in getting both boots on "as far as the heels," but go
no further they would; and when his father called him to come forward,
the poor boy got up and walked in agony and distortion toward Emeline.
He was at least three inches taller than common, from the fact that
his chubby heels rested upon the high, implacable stiffening of the
boots; and his face wore a twisted look of agony which, coupled with
his abnormal height, would have made him unrecognizable by casual
acquaintances.
Most of the family laughed, and Dan and March joined in the
hilarity--for really Will did appear grotesque; but Emeline either from
absolute unconsciousness or gentle cunning, did not seem to notice
the boy's awkward situation, and she began to take to him with a
self-possession entirely unruffled.
"Will," she said, "I have brought you a pair of mittens for a Christmas
gift. They're my first knitting and mother says they're not good enough
for a present; but they're the best I can do now, and I offer them to
you because you've been so kind to me and had to suffer so much for my
sake. I hope you will wear them, will you?"
Emeline had ample time for this long speech. Poor Will was dumb and
gulping. But before it was ended his confusion had shrunk his feet so
that he was able to literally sink into his boots, and with this relief
his face had changed from a purple hue to a good tint of health. He
found his voice in time to answer:
"That I will, if mother will let me--that is, I mean if your mother
will let me."
And so the blushing boy stretched out his hand and took the package,
but Emeline kept a tight hold of one end of the cloth in which the
mittens were wrapped, as she was under positive instructions from her
thrifty mother to return the piece of hickory, for which the shoulder
of Dan's second-best shirt was even then yawning.
The separation of the gift from its wrappings was soon achieved, and
the hickory tucked into the depth of Emeline's pocket. Then wholesome
maple sugar was produced, and with it a few pieces of sugar candy
such as some of those young lips had never before had an opportunity
to smack over. During the hilarity which ensued, Will was doing his
best to creep back into a state of self-possession. But this work was
prodigious and slow; for when he had several times fairly arrived at a
stage of comparative comfort, a friendly glance from the kind little
knitter sent him again into a state of confusion. After the Christmas
luxuries had been distributed and given lodgment in capacious stomachs
or economizing pockets, the Stewart children departed and left Will
to the ungentle raillery of his family. Being amply able to care for
himself in a family contest with either ridicule or logic as the
weapon--or, what is sometimes as good as both, a downright unreasoning
self-assertiveness, Will felt no pain during the assault to which he
was subjected; rather, he derived keen enjoyment from it.
In the afternoon sacred services were held in the meeting house; for
these people gave to every observance, which they deemed holy, their
highest esteem, and nearly all the inhabitants of the village were
present. Probably the good old preacher who was a new comer to the
village, had delivered forty other Christmas sermons, or even the same
sermon forty other times; but familiarity with the subject had not
lessened his power.
He first stilled the buzz of gossiping whisper when he announced that
his text would be form one of the great poets; and the congregation
bent with horror to hear what dreadful thing he next would utter. Even
into this remote corner of the New World had penetrated the evil fame
of the irreverent poet lord, "Childe Harold," and even the very name of
poet brought with it an oppressive sense of sin.
The false impression was soon removed. In a voice rendered tremulous
by age and feeling, the minister repeated some of the verses of
Milton--the Christian whose earthly sight had been lost at last to make
his Heavenly vision more complete. As the wonderful words of adoration
filled the house of worship, every head was bowed in contrition for
unworthy thought:
"This is the month and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,
That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace."
Having won his congregation to solemnity of feeling, the preacher
taught them that "All good Christians celebrate the day of Christ's
nativity, a day of joy both in heaven and on earth: in heaven for a day
of glory unto God on high; on earth for a day of peace here below, and
good-will towards men; a day of joy to all people past, present and to
come; such a day as wherein, after long expectation, the best return
was made that ever came to the poor sons of men; such a day as the Lord
Himself made. Let us therefore rejoice therein!"
Even impatient and restless youth was awed by the manner and words of
the earnest minister; and the boys restrained within unusual bounds
their desire to be out of church amidst the hearty enjoyments of the
day.
When the service was ended, the people dispersed more slowly and
thoughtfully than was their wont; but humanity cannot long be kept
upon such an exalted plane of feeling, and soon began the gossip and
familiarity common to the occasion. Especially among the young people
was the reaction quickly noticeable; and while the elders were speaking
of the latest birth, death and marriage, the children were already
beginning to romp even at the very door of the meeting-house. The
youngsters, despite their exceptional appreciation of the sermon, and
even more as a wilful revulsion from their noteworthy behavior, were
determined now to compensate themselves for self-sacrifice; and they
gathered in a noisy crowd in the street passing before the house of
worship.
The sun was sending down his best Winter beams, and the snow was made
just moist enough for sport; so a contest of snow-balling was at once
informally arranged between the boys. Hezzy Bradford was one of the
leaders, and when he and his rival had each made choice of two or three
of the larger boys, someone already chosen said to Hezzy:
"Take Will Anderson--there he comes. He's the straightest thrower of
the lot."
But Hezzy, whose dislike of Will had been steadily augmenting since the
fight in the pine grove, was not ready to make peace with his victim.
So he shook his head and sneeringly cried:
"Here comes the baby who wears mittens to a snow-balling match, for
fear that his fingers will get wet. Watch me tip his cap off!"
With these words Hezzy threw an icy snow-ball which he had been
carelessly making while choosing sides. The missile flew straight to
its mark, and Will felt his head stung sharply as his cap tumbled into
the road.
Will saw the hand of Hezzy and knew that retaliation meant a renewal of
hostilities; but he did not hesitate. He pulled off his valued mittens,
crowded them into his pockets and in a moment proved that any praise of
his accurate throwing was not ill bestowed. He cast a snow-ball fairly
into Hezzy's ear, rather staggering that blusterer, and causing a peal
of laughter to go up from the crowd.
As our boy had expected, Hezzy declared war and rushed forward to
summarily punish this reckless antagonist.
Was it that the insult to the mittens had nerved Will with a superhuman
strength? or was it that all the indignation of weeks became suddenly
centered in his arm? Whatever may have been the reason, he fought with
an effective vigor, before which Master Hezekiah Bradford, general,
village bully and aspiring sweetheart was compelled to go ingloriously
down. Briefly and plainly told, Will, to his own astonishment, no
less than to the marvel of the spectators, licked Hezzy until that
great military commander was glad to cry for quarter and surrender
unconditionally.
More than one oppressed youngster was gladdened by the result of this
combat; and so great was the excitement, produced that the general
contest was incontinently forsaken.
Hezzy was led away by his brothers and one or two others, who gave him
a kind of contemptuous attention; but the majority of the boys crowded
near to the conqueror.
From this hour, Will's rank among his companions was undisputed. He
had soundly thrashed the commander-in-chief of the Continental Vets.;
and without any request from himself, he was speedily restored to his
former rank of major, only to relinquish that position very soon to be
installed in the chief place vacated, in profound disgust, by Hezekiah
Bradford.
Nor was this the least of his triumphs. When next he met Mrs. Stewart
she praised his powers in unstinted terms. Though the conscientious
lady could not exactly approve of fighting among boys, nevertheless
she felt that Will's troubles and subsequent victories were traceable
directly to his manly defense of her daughter; and Mrs. Stewart could
not withhold her congratulations. And Emeline, herself, from out her
brown eyes looked such pleasure at him during the next school session
that he felt almost self-reproachful at receiving so much reward.
CHAPTER III.
THE PROGRESS OF THE AGE--WILL ANDERSON'S COURTSHIP--THE CHRISTMAS
SERMON.
In those times the months moved on in serene procession with the people
of New Vineyard. In a later age of rapidly-recurring marvels we are
wont to speak of the first quarter of this century as a "slow-poke,
old-fogy time;" we contemptuously wonder how men endured the tedious
drag of the seasons.
In William Anderson's journal I find a note which gives token of the
dawn of this great modern day of progress. He writes:
"_August 2_, 1824.--Not many days ago, Mr. Stewart gave me a newspaper
to read; he said something was in it which ought to interest a bright
boy like myself. (I only repeat this because Emeline's father said it.)
The paper is the _Hancock Gazette and Penobscot Patriot_, of May 26,
1824; and it tells of a wonderful ship which has come into the lower
waters of our river. It works with fire instead of wind and it can
walk against tide, or current, or gale, as well as a horse can trot
against a breeze. I have heard before of this marvelous thing called
a steamship, but never thought it was a true wonder; but if it is
really traveling up against a heavy Penobscot current, fire or steam
or something else that is unusual must move it, for I am sure that no
landward breeze that ever came off the Atlantic could do such a work.
At any rate, I must see this strange ship and decide whether I shall
believe or not."
The biographer finds that Providence favored Will with a trip to Bangor
later in the year. How he came to be thus blessed the excited youth
does not relate--beyond the fact that he went with his father, who
adventured so far from home as a factor of the log men of the upper
Penobscot to deal with the opulent lumber-mill owners at Bangor. Much
that ensued upon this important journey is lost to us, through Will's
hurried state after his return. But we learn that the steamship was
actually a fact; for Will stepped on board the _Maine_, a boat of one
hundred tons burthen, commanded by Captain Porter--the first steamer
and the first steamer captain to be in Penobscot waters. And it is also
proven that the wondrous vessel could move without the aid of sails;
for after Will had disembarked he saw her shift her moorings a quarter
of a mile directly against wind and current.
What most fills the journal at this period is that Will was scratching
an aching and unresponsive head, seeking to decide upon some suitable
present for Emeline which could be compassed by the contents of his
little bead purse. After much anxiety he felt a sudden thrill of
satisfaction as he remembered the poet whose sublime words the old
preacher had quoted last Christmas day. He found, after much search, a
shoe shop where books were also kept (for in those days business was
not so scrupulously and appropriately divided as now). But, alas! the
only copy of Milton was priced at twenty-seven shillings, while his
purse held scarcely half that much!
He turned away in utter disappointment, when the thought came to him:
"Why do I seek the modern poet who sang of Jesus? The book which tells
all we know of Him, I am sure is easier got."
He retraced his steps, and upon the cobbler-bookseller's shelves he
found a red morocco-bound Testament, which was offered at thirteen
shillings; and this he bought and later reverently packed away among
the wonderful supplies which had been purchased by the elder William
under distant direction of the precise and thrifty Mrs. Joy.
It was bleak November when the two Williams Anderson returned to New
Vineyard. What holiday secrets they had in store they kept well; and
the Christmas Day brought many surprises.
To Emeline--found upon the Stewart mansion door-steps that sacred
morning--came a little package which, unwrapped, showed a Testament
bound in red morocco. That precious little book is now before the eyes
of this historian. Upon its yellow-stained title page are discernible
these words:
"My friend, EMELINE T. STEWART,
"You will please accept this Testament as a gift from
"Your Friend,
"WILLIAM ANDERSON.
"EMELINE:--Ask, and ye shall receive. Knock, and it shall be opened
unto you."
Four years slipped away. During this time Will was bashfully loving
Emeline; and Emeline, well, she was bashfully watching Will's love.
This wondrous flower of affection grows by "bashful watching" just as
morning glories unfold in greeting to the hour of enchantment. And when
the Christmas Day of 1828 came, each of these dear children went to
church and watched the other.
The sermon was, for Christmas, a novel one, both in text and treatment.
It related to marriage as a state ordained for man; and the text was
from Fuller's "Holy State," wherein it is declared:
"It is the policy of the Londoners, when they send a ship into the
Levant or Mediterranean Sea, to make every mariner therein a merchant,
each seaman adventuring somewhat of his own, which will make him more
wary to avoid, and more valiant to encounter dangers. Thus married men,
especially if having posterity, are the deeper shares in the state
wherein they live, which engageth their affections to the greater
loyalty. And though bachelors be the strongest stakes, yet married men
are the best binders in the hedge of the commonwealth."
Will's mind must have been holding a thought not utterly foreign to
the text; for he unconsciously nodded approval of the very sensible
sentiment; and then he glanced at Emeline. The same instant, her eyes
were lifted from a strained look at the floor and were turned in his
direction. One long gaze passed between them; and this was Will's
informal proposition of marriage and Emeline's informal acceptance.
CHAPTER IV.
WILLIAM ANDERSON'S MARRIAGE AND JOURNEY WESTWARD--HE AND HIS WIFE HEAR
THE GOSPEL--VISIT NAUVOO--GATHER WITH THE SAINTS--THE BATTLE OF NAUVOO.
It was five hours less than one year later in the serene chronology
of New Vineyard, when Will sent his paper heart and hand to Emeline.
His trusty younger brother, Barton, was his messenger; and to escape
observation, the boy was compelled to go early and return quickly. At
breakfast, Will saw Barton enter the house and one glance told that the
mission had been successfully performed.
Some hours later, at the regular Christmas services in the
meeting-house, Will saw Emeline. His look was an anxious question,
and hers was a gentle affirmative answer; and this was Will's formal
proposition of marriage and Emeline's formal acceptance.
William Anderson and Emeline T. Stewart were wedded in their little
town of New Vineyard, September 6, 1831.
Is this too abrupt? It might be if marriage were the end of the story;
but unlike fiction, in real life the most uneventful period of human
existence is from engagement to marriage; and unlike fiction, in real
life the importance of existence comes after marriage.
Not long did they remain in their little village home. For William had
decided to seek a greater measure of prosperity in the wide lands lying
far beyond New Vineyard in the mysterious West.
Happy indeed was the fortune which carried them away from Maine. Their
long journey across half a continent was a revelation of Divinity to
their souls. Mountain, forest, lake, cataract, valley--breathed with
beauty and grandeur. Two ardent beings, viewing all things under the
radiance of their mutual love, saw the majesty of the land, the water
and the arching cloud space above, with reverent eyes--for beyond these
tangible evidences of sublime power, they sensed the Eternal Cause.
It was in the days and weeks of lonely journeying that they learned
how to pray; they felt that never again would supplication and song
of praise to Almighty God be formal lip-service given only at stated
intervals--rather it would be an hourly and often silent communion with
the Creator. In the day, they felt the Holy Presence in every glory
which adorned the earth; at night, in the quiet of the woods, they
gazed through swaying tree-tops, and saw the stars shedding earthward a
serene beauty: and they knew that the God who, from His far-off seat of
power, could unfold the swamp-pink flowers by the side of their lonely
path, and could send through unfathomed space the light of countless
spheres to cheer the silent watches of the night--could also lend His
special care to the sentient worshiping creatures of His love.
Far away upon the prairie they at last decided to make their home. They
settled in Bureau County, Illinois; and William became a sturdy western
farmer. In the ten years following their marriage three children came
to make their domestic happiness complete. The eldest was a son,
Augustus; the others were daughters, Caroline and Martha.
Each season of the year brought its allotted toil, and the reward of
perseverance and thrift was earthly prosperity.
Occasionally they heard rumors of a strange sect of religious
believers, with a prophet, who dwelt in a wonderful city on the banks
of the Mississippi, far to the south-west of their home. And one Summer
day in 1841, four strange men, plain but pleasing in appearance,
stopped at their door. These men were missionaries of the Church of
Jesus Christ, journeying from the city of Nauvoo to proclaim His words
to the honest-in-heart throughout the land. They left their marvelous
message with William and Emeline, with the admonition to pray to God
who would reveal whether the doctrine was true or false; and one of
them in leaving prophesied in these words:
"You will yet see the time when you will regret having let this hour
pass unheeded--this hour wherein you have the opportunity to accept,
through baptism, the gospel of our Lord."
The prophecy was fulfilled. Before many days had elapsed the truth was
plain to the minds of William and Emeline; and they awaited anxiously
the visit of an Elder who might give them membership in the Church of
their Savior. When weeks passed without the appearance of missionaries
William regretted his obduracy at the time when he was first pressed to
accept the truth.
Later, another opportunity came, and on the 15th day of August of that
year, 1841, in the waters of Bureau Creek, William was immersed in
sacred baptism. Afterward, Emeline rendered similar reverence to the
requirement of the gospel.
As soon as he could garner his crops, William felt that he must hasten
to the beautiful city of the Father of Waters. He carried with him on
the eventful journey to Nauvoo his wife and their three little ones;
and they reached the city on Thursday, September 30th, 1841.
On the day following, the great conference of the Church was to have
opened; but the storm prevented the assembling of the Saints. And
after learning that the meetings were postponed for one day, William
left his wife and children comfortably shielded in their wagon from
the blast while he wandered about regardless of the storm. He looked
with awestruck vision upon the temple which was rearing its majestic
presence toward heaven; and he gazed with curiosity at the place which
was being excavated for the foundation of the Nauvoo House.
The next day, Saturday, October 2nd, the people crowded to the meeting
ground and organized themselves into their quorums in order. The corner
stone of the Nauvoo House was laid that morning; but in the afternoon
services in the conference meeting were held.
The Sabbath came--a bleak day; but William and Emeline, with their
little ones, were at the meeting grounds, and they saw and heard that
day the Prophet of God.
The very sight of Joseph, graceful, erect, commanding; with flashing
eyes and animated gesture, was enough to thrill these humble believers
with joy. But when they heard his voice, with its wonderful impressive
sweetness, they shed tears of happiness.
Joseph's sermon was upon the glorious principle of redemption for
the dead; and he portrayed the greatness of Divine compassion and
benevolence in this plan of human salvation. He said:
"View two brothers--equally intelligent, learned, virtuous and
lovely--walking in uprightness and all good conscience, so far as they
are able to discern duty from the muddy stream of tradition or from
the blotted page of the book of nature. One dies and is buried, never
having heard the gospel of reconciliation. To the other the message of
salvation is sent; he hears and embraces it and is made the heir of
eternal life.
"Shall the one become the partaker of glory and the other be consigned
to hopeless perdition? Is there no chance for his escape? Sectarianism
answers, `None, none!' Such an idea is worse than atheism. The truth
shall break down and dash in pieces all such bigoted Pharisaism. The
sects shall be sifted, the honest-in-heart brought out and the priests
left in the midst of their corruption."
Such was the new and exalted nature of the instruction; and when the
conference was ended William and Emeline had determined to sacrifice
their distant possessions and gather with the Saints in the beautiful
city. But their desire was not immediately fulfilled; for William was
called to preach and discuss through the States; and in his absence
Emeline nobly and cheerfully toiled for her children and their dear
father.
Nearly three years of missionary labor, broken by intervals of farm
toil, had passed when, on the darkest day of the darkest June ever seen
by the summers of this great land, a treasonable massacre took place
at the little stone jail in Carthage. The appalling news of this great
national crime reached out with sudden horror to all the abiding places
of the scattered Saints.
William heard the dread story and hastened home. His property was
fairly given away, and soon he was with his encompassed and persecuted
brethren in Nauvoo.
Immediately he was enrolled in the Legion; later he was appointed
sergeant; and still later, captain.
I have here the original certificate of his rank as sergeant. The paper
is old and the ink is faded; but every letter is legible. It reads:
"May 12th, 1845.
"GREETING:
"This is to certify that William Anderson is appointed first sergeant
in the second company, fifth regiment, second cohort of the Nauvoo
Legion. And he is therefore to obey all orders and commands of his
superior officers with fidelity according to law and military rule and
discipline.
"Given under my hand May 12th, 1845.
"ISAAC ALLRED, Capt."
William Anderson and Emeline were faithful; and they received the
blessings of the temple. And on "Tuesday of the first week in February,
1846, I [William Anderson] received in marriage in God's Holy House,
Drusilla Sargent."
In all the tragic history of the ensuing two years, William was
a staunch actor. It was a piteous time! History shows no greater
brutality than that which was perpetrated against the city and the
Saints, by officially protected mobs; and in the trying days every man
was compelled to show his mettle. William Anderson's journal is filled
with the record of this awful period. Its simple, unaffected words show
how closely allied were the people of Nauvoo to the sublime martyrs of
other centuries.
The history of that brief time should be read by every youth in Utah.
On the 10th day of September, 1846--after the cruelly-enforced
migration of many of the people of Nauvoo--there were left to guard
the city and its remaining population of women and babes, sick and
tottering old men--only 123 citizens who were capable to bear arms.
And this was the hour selected by the fiends incarnate for their
descent upon Nauvoo. The city was surrounded by an efficiently-armed
mob, nearly 2,000 strong; and a bombardment was begun by the besiegers.
When the thunder of the mob's traitorous guns shook the air of Nauvoo,
William sprang up to answer the call of duty.
Emeline and Drusilla clung to him--a fearful foreboding of personal
evil seemed to take sound and volume with every reverberation of the
artillery discharges. But he was firm. He pressed his fond and faithful
wives--his helpmeets given him of God--to his martial bosom; and then
he left them to solace themselves by prayer while he rushed to the
encounter.
Then these two good women--sisters, nay dearer to each other than
sisters--knelt down, with arms clasped about each others waists and
prayed to the All-Merciful to bring their good husband home in safety
from the battle.
One day, two days passed. It was the morning of the 12th day of
September, 1846. William was bidding farewell to his wives and his
children; when Emeline sobbed anew:
"Oh, my beloved! Let not Augustus go to the battle today. He is but a
child: think, William! he is only fourteen. Each day he has followed
you, taking his gun on his shoulder to fight the wicked enemy and to
brave a dreadful death. Let him stay with me!"
Even as she spoke, the thunder of the cannonade shook the city; and
William sprang away to hasten to his post, while Augustus gave a
ringing cry and fled from the house.
The two women and the little girls were left alone--Emeline and
her younger sister wife, the loving Drusilla, and Caroline and
Martha--white and trembling.
Hours elapsed, during which these good women were praying as they
toiled.
The sounds of the battle waging around the city neither distracted them
from devotion nor domestic duty.
Gradually there came a lull; and a momentary hope sprang up in their
hearts. But even while the precious thought was taking form, a rattle
of musketry shook the window panes; and a moment later the deep boom of
a siege gun--shaking the houses from chimney to cellar--told that the
struggle was renewed in all its fierceness.
When this grim messenger dispelled their hope with his harsh voice,
Emeline pressed her hands to her bosom and sank upon the floor. As she
dropped she cried:
"Drusilla, my friend, this instant has widowed us and has taken from
this house its only son. I feel the dread fact her in my heart!"
The younger wife and the two little girls hastened to the side of
Emeline, and there they knelt, weeping and moaning. The premonition
seemed too real to be disputed.
While the women and children were rocking back and forth in their agony
of apprehension, a hurried knock was heard at the door; and, without
waiting for a response, a brother soldier of William stalked into the
room. He saw the piteous sight; and all his gallant hardihood gave way.
Mingling his heavy tears with the rain from gentler eyes, he sobbed:
"My sister, our Savior help you! Brother Anderson is dead! God's will
be done!"
The spirit of courage sustained Emeline, and she cried:
"Where is our husband? Alive he was ours--and we will have his clay now
life is ended. Call my boy to bring his father's body home. God's will
be done!"
While the grief-shaken soldier was replying, another breathless
messenger burst in, saying between his gasps of haste and sorrow:
"Your boy is dead! Oh, Sister Anderson, he fell a martyr--brave, manly,
beyond his years--he took a soldier's part: he has met a soldier's
fate."
Did this last blow send Emeline swooning? No: in such a crisis a noble,
religious soul is exalted beyond the reach of earthly mourning.
Calmly she spoke:
"I will go forth and find our dead--my murdered boy and our martyred
husband--Drusilla. Do you prepare couches for their home-coming."
But Drusilla was herself a heroine:
"No, my sister," she said, "your duty is at home. Often your life has
been threatened by this mob. They will watch our husband's body, and
if you appear you too will be sacrificed. I am not known as Captain
Anderson's wife. I will go out and secure the bodies of our dear ones,
while you shall remain with these fatherless babes of yours--of ours."
Drusilla rushed from the house as she spoke. Emeline would have
followed; but one of her husband's comrades had remained to restrain
her, and besides, her little daughters clung at her skirts, determined
to prevent her going forth.
So Emeline stayed at the stricken house, preparing for that last solemn
home-coming of her soldier spouse and son. While she toiled to fit a
bed for the dear forms--now stilled through earthly time--she recalled
from her memory that the anniversary of her wedding day was but six
days past; and in another fortnight she would be 34 years old--already,
in her early prime, she was the widow of a martyr and the mother of a
murdered patriot.
Drusilla went abroad through the smoky streets of Nauvoo, escorted
by one of the heroic defenders, to the east side of the city. There,
resting where he had fallen against a wall, was the bleeding body of
her husband. Bravely this fair young woman took from her own shoulders
a cloak and laid it across the mangled form.
She breathed a prayer, beseeching strength and courage; and then she
sought the place where lay Augustus, the slain son. Tenderly, as if he
had been her own boy or brother, she spread her apron over his face.
Then she followed the procession which escorted the bodies of these
martyrs to their home.
Who shall speak the agony of the ensuing hours! Two bodies, beloved
in life, beloved still in death, were resting in that stricken house.
While Emeline and Drusilla, and the little daughters, all robbed of
their defenders, wept and moaned in a torture such as seldom comes to
womankind.
As she sobbed and prayed, Emeline took from the bosom of her husband
a tiny, blood-stained packet. It contained a little flower of hair,
Drusilla's, her own and Will's; and also those slips of paper--the hand
and heart. The morning when Will first went out to battle, she and
Drusilla had pressed this packet upon him and bade him wear it in his
bosom.
Poor, disappointed creatures! What can the love of women avail against
the hate of men? Nothing.
Emeline pressed the moist hair flower into Drusilla's hand; but the
heart and hand, crimson-flecked now, she placed next her own heart.
They had been the sign of love in youth and rosy life; they should be
cherished to remind her of the immortality which death can bring.
This was almost the end. Emeline's brave boy, Will Anderson, who had
given her his fidelity in childhood, had bestowed upon his country his
fidelity in manhood. To the oppressed of his countrymen he had extended
the help of his strong _hand_; in their defense his _heart_ had been
pierced by a bullet. He and his son, Augustus, were buried at Nauvoo.
A time of anxious toil ensued; for even through the darkest tragedy
runs a thread of the commonplace. And in the midst of the anxious
commotion and labor Emeline and Drusilla became separated. They never
met again in this life; and from that hour Drusilla's history is to
this writer unknown.
Emeline Anderson lived to emigrate to Utah and to receive the blessings
of this fair land. She accepted through the remainder of this life the
name of a worthy man, and she reared a third daughter. She carried with
her until the hour of her death the tear-stained, blood-stained _heart
and hand_; and when she was no more, these hallowed shreds of paper
passed into the possession of her children.
This is a life sketch. Those of the characters who have gone seem now
not to have been torn away by the rude hand of death, but to have faded
gently into the past, leaving their looks, their love, their loyalty
for their descendants.
A TRIP TO CARSON VALLEY.
By O. B. Huntington.
CHAPTER I.
DESCRIPTION OF THE ROUTE--OBJECT OF THE JOURNEY--CONFRONTED BY
INDIANS--DISCOVERY OF RUBIES--MORE INDIANS VISIT CAMP--AN INSPIRED
SUGGESTION--THE INDIANS BECOME FRIENDLY.
On the 18th of September, 1854, I started for Carson Valley, by the
advice and consent of Brigham Young, and in the employ of Colonel E. J.
Steptoe of the U. S. army.
I went south of the Great Salt Lake and across the then unknown deserts
where now are many towns, villages and cities, the settlement of which
was hastened some years by that trip of exploration.
The city of Genoa, immediately under the shadow of the Sierra Nevada
Mountains, consisting of about a dozen or fifteen houses, was the only
actual settlement between Grantsville and Hangtown, California, a
distance of one thousand miles by the wagon road over the Goose Creek
Mountains, which are one hundred miles north of Salt Lake City; and to
find a shorter road so as to save this one hundred miles and to avoid
the mountains was the object of my journey.
At the time of which I write this great mountain country of five
hundred miles in each direction from Salt Lake City, was an almost
unknown wilderness, a country inhabited only by Indians and wild game,
excepting the few settlements of this people; and the country was but
little explored, except so far as the wants of the people made it
necessary.
Colonel Steptoe was sent by the United States government, with two
companies of the U. S. army, as a military governor to take the place
of Brigham Young. This was a very quiet, secret movement of our nation
to establish a new form of republican government over this people; but
thanks to that overruling, inspirational power of God that has so often
turned the hearts of men, and the good, honest sense of Col. Steptoe,
who, when he had spent eight or nine months with this people, declined
the dishonorable and unrepublican office of military governor of Utah.
He said that no man but Brigham Young could govern this people, "and
if he stepped into Governor Young's place, Brigham Young would still
govern the people." He therefore decided to leave for California as
early in the Spring of 1855 as he could, and in order to find a new
route through south of the Lake he sent an exploring party through to
Carson and back that Fall, late as it was.
He applied to Brigham Young for suitable persons for so arduous and
hazardous an undertaking. I was chosen as one and was furnished an
interpreter (my nephew, C. A. Huntington), and an Indian guide, a young
man by the name of Natsab, a son of the Indian chief who was ruler in
Salt Lake Valley when we first settled the country--these two were
designed to return with me. Besides these was Col. John Reese, now
living in Salt Lake City, and he was an excellent companion. His home
was in Carson Valley, which at that time was a part of Utah Territory,
and he had two men with him, one Willis and a man by the name of Davis,
who had been to California, made a raise, returned to the States and
was now making his way west again with a very fleet race-horse in hope
of opening another "stake" by gambling.
My outfit consisted of six animals to ride and pack, a quantity of
goods to use as presents in making peace with the savages we might pass
on the way, a good compass to guide us on cloudy days in the deserts
and a good quantity of provisions and bedding.
When we had got about two or three miles from Salt Lake City we
found eleven men, formerly of Col. Steptoe's outfit of teamsters,
camp-followers, etc., who, knowing of our search for a short route to
California, determined to sail under the "Mormon" flag as far as Carson.
I had no objections, because their numbers would lend us an appearance
of strength among the native tribes. They were rather poorly mounted,
armed and provisioned, which latter condition occasioned me eventually
some annoyance and suffering, compelling the whole company to live
on horseflesh during two hundred and fifty miles of the journey; and
during one day and night we were without even that.
For some time nothing of importance occurred on our way, except that we
had one horse shot accidentally and one of our strangers lost a mule in
a night march across a mud desert.
On the 28th of September, as we were passing through a large valley of
meadow land with scattering bunches of tall wheat grass and stools of
greasewood, an Indian, naked except for a covering about his loins,
with gun in hand, stood before us suddenly and stopped our movements.
After a very short and unedifying oration he fired his gun in the air,
and instantly there arose an Indian from behind every bunch of grass
and greasewood all around us until there was quite an army in view,
and we saw it was necessary to talk in persuasive tones and our orders
were enforced with many presents, in giving which the interpreter was
very expert. The Indians guided us to some very fine springs of water
and small ponds not far distant, where we distributed quantities of
tobacco, pipes, paints, calico, etc.
At this place we passed the night; but in the morning the Indians
were all gone, which to men acquainted with Indian natures, indicated
hostile intentions, and we therefore traveled cautiously to the west
side of the valley, where we nooned at a little creek which came down
out of a great range of mountains lying to the east of us, running
north and south as far as we could see. Here Mr. Davis said was as good
a prospect for gold as any place he had seen in California. We dug a
little dirt and washed it out and found several rubies, one very large
and fine. We therefore called the place Ruby Valley.
We soon moved on south a few miles; but feeling forebodings of evil,
stopped about 2, p.m., on a fine, grassy place near a spring and sent
Mr. Davis ahead to reconnoitre the country, which was mostly clear and
open to the end of the valley, about twelve miles distant. He rode
cautiously about five miles when, on looking over his left shoulder, he
saw an Indian on foot running towards the road behind and dropping into
the grass as Davis looked around. He instantly wheeled his horse and
sped for camp. Just as he started back an Indian on horseback started
from some willows near by to cut off his retreat, but that racehorse
outran the Indian pony, although the latter had the advantage.
When these facts were known in camp every man prepared for the worst.
We had chosen an open piece of ground where we could not be surprised
in daylight. We were preparing an early supper so as to have it over
before any surprise might be undertaken. Just as we were sitting down
to eat, seven Indians on horseback rode slowly towards our camp, came
past our horses which were grazing near and dismounted near our fires.
We saluted them kindly with "how-de-do," and they replied. They were
all dressed in coats, pants, overcoats, caps, etc, and rode well shod
horses, excepting one short, thick-set Indian, about twenty-three
years old, who wore buckskin pants, a hickory shirt, a Panama hat and
with his hair cut short and straight around his neck; he was very wide
between the eyes, rode a very large mare without a saddle. He came to
my mess where I, my nephew and Natsab were just sitting down to eat,
and shook hands.
We sat with guns and pistols in our laps. I told all our company to be
very careful, as this one could talk English. The interpreter tried to
talk with him, but to no effect until he spoke in the Snake language,
when he answered some. They were observing our actions, habits, etc.,
and making their calculations how and when to take our scalps. I felt
that under the Panama hat was a dreadful chief for blood and plunder,
and that he could talk English; and I was right in my judgment or
feelings.
As soon as the interpreter and I were done eating, we walked around the
horses after cautioning the men. While driving the animals a little
nearer camp he asked me if I had noticed a secret sign, a strange
motion, the Indian made as he shook hands with us, and he showed it to
me, stating that he believed these Indians were of the tribe and party
who had done so many murders on the Humboldt, among the California gold
seekers, and that he believed they were banded with whites by secret
oaths, signs and pass-words. Immediately after he told this I felt a
strange but bright sensation come over my mind and I could see with
my heart, or my spirit could see without my eyes. I told him we would
leave the horses and go quickly to camp, where he should go up to that
Indian (the chief), give him the same sign he had given us, and that we
would then be safe among them.
He did this and the effect was astonishing. The Indian shook hands and
hugged him heartily.
I gave further instructions to the interpreter what to say about a
certain man whom we knew lived on the Humboldt River, where so much
murdering had been done, and with whom I went to school in Nauvoo.
Every word had its effect as I anticipated, and the chief understood
that this man who lived on the Humboldt, and whom very many believed to
be the cause of all the murdering done there for money and plunder, was
our friend from boyhood; but the opposite might be said to be nearly
true, as we held no sympathy in common, although we had been boys
together. The chief called that man his "daddy," meaning father.
CHAPTER II.
INDIANS' STRATAGEM TO GET ONE OF OUR HORSES--PROCEED ON OUR WAY--HOW
INSPIRATION IS RECEIVED--AN ILLUSTRATIVE INCIDENT.
We will now leave these few Indians and seventeen white men, all
in peaceful, friendly chat, and go back to the 15th of September,
1854--three days before we left Salt Lake City.
On the corner of East Temple Street, just two blocks south of the
Temple site was a cottonwood log, on which two young men were sitting
in earnest conversation. One was about twenty-four years old, a very
tall, muscular man, not less than six feet, two inches in height,
with black eyes, set wide apart under a heavy forehead and over high
cheek bones. The whole countenance indicated a cruel and heartless
disposition. The other young man was just twenty years old, medium
height, with a well formed body, small, sharp, twinkling blue eyes,
regular features and a rather large head.
They had been quarreling; and when they arose from the log it was
agreed that the one who _crossed the other's path should die!_
The older man was to start for his lone log house on the Humboldt,
about sixty miles from Ruby Valley, in a week or two, by way of Goose
Creek Mountains; and the young man was to start just three days
from that time for Carson Valley, as Indian interpreter for a U. S.
exploring company, traveling west from Salt Lake City. When we told
"Bloody Chief," for such was the name of the chief who visited our
camp, that we were special friends to the bad young man we thought not
of the terrible consequences that might result from that deceitful
stratagem to save our lives then. We told the Indians frankly that we
were coming back in a little more than one moon, but did not tell them
there would be but three of us.
On the morning of September 30th, the same seven Indians came into our
camp without a gun, pistol, bow or arrow. All were merry and jolly, and
traded everything they could, and ran foot-races. They wanted to run
horses, but ours had too long a journey before them to admit of racing.
The main object and effort of the Indians was to get that race-horse,
but they did not succeed. They escorted us about eight miles on our
way and told us all they could of the country ahead in the direction
we wanted to go. They showed us a great deal of gold and silver coin,
jewelry and pocket-knives, which they doubtless obtained by killing
people on the Humboldt.
We left the valley at the south end, passing over a low divide and
through a narrow, rocky canyon, full of scattering cedar trees, making
as nice a place for ambush as an Indian could ask for the massacre of
whites.
Many incidents occurred worthy of note in a mere narrative; but as I
design to show the inspiration of the Lord in our preservation, I shall
only give so much of our journey as is necessary to bring you to the
circumstances in an easy and natural way. All of God's works are done
in a natural way; and He applies a law in one instance which would not
do in another. The inspiration of God to different men and to the same
man in different ways is a matter upon which I desire to enlarge some
little. Sometimes an idea is received in the mind that is foreign to
anything that ever existed there before. The person follows that idea,
which is so new and to him unusual, and develops a wonderful piece of
machinery or a principle in philosophy, manufacturing or something
otherwise useful to man. That idea came as other ideas, he will say;
but I am of the opinion that it is the inspiration of God that brings
out of chaos the very useful inventions and discoveries--this is the
simplest form of inspiration.
Another man is perhaps laboring, as usual, in the field and is suddenly
inclined in his feelings to go to his house. Perhaps he tries to
smother the feeling, but finally yields and reaches home just in time
to extinguish a fire that would certainly have consumed his house if he
had not gone just as he did.
The inspiration of the Holy Ghost which is given to all who obey
the gospel by baptism and the laying on of hands of the Elders, was
promised by the Lord to every one that earnestly and sincerely repents
of his sins and obeys the gospel, and "it shall guide him into all
truth."
I will tell you, my young friends, how that Holy Ghost will guide you.
If, when you are made clean from sin by baptism, you do not willingly
enter again into sin, pray often, keep the Sabbath day holy, always
try as earnestly as you can to be a peacemaker, help every institution
of Zion, cheerfully obey every call of the Lord through those who have
the authority from God to call, and live lives of purity in every way,
that Holy Ghost will be in you all the time and influence you in all
your thoughts, words and actions, bring to your mind things forgotten
when you need them, and suggest to your mind principle and doctrine,
when really necessary, that has never been taught you in this life, but
which you knew before you came to this world.
I will mention another incident of inspiration in my own experience,
different from the one already related concerning the secret sign among
the Indians.
In 1867, I had a friend who was going to San Bernardino, California,
and was to start on the second day after the following conversation
between us:
"Oliver, come and go to California with me."
"I cannot."
"Yes you can; you can go as well as not."
"I have nothing to leave for the support of my family during the
Winter;" (I having been sick for five or six months, and unable to earn
anything.)
"I'll lend you what money you want," said he.
"Well, I cannot go, and there is no use thinking or taking about it," I
finally replied.
That evening I was going home and thinking of my family affairs, but
nothing about going with my friend. A voice, sounding as though it was
about a foot from my left ear, whispered:
"Go with Hyrum to California."
The voice was as distinct as any I ever heard, and I half turned to see
if anyone was there, but saw no one; and after debating a short time in
my mind decided that I must not refuse, and I said mentally, "Well, I
will."
The next day I saw Hyrum and told him I would go with him and I wanted
fifty dollars to leave with my wife. He handed me the money and I
started with him on the following morning.
My health improved all the way there. I worked at carpenter work all
Winter and returned in the Spring, a sound, healthy man.
Other advantages and information gained while gone, prove to me that I
was inspired or told to go and do the very thing that was necessary for
my present salvation. It was a very important mission to me; and how
important no mortal but myself knows.
CHAPTER III.
OUT OF PROVISIONS--LIVE ON HORSE FLESH--ARRIVAL AT CARSON--START BACK
FOR HOME--DESCRIPTION OF THE JOURNEY--AIDED BY RED MEN--MEET WITH MORE
INDIANS--OUR MANNER OF DEALING WITH THEM.
Three days after leaving our newly-made friends, the Indians, we were
on a hard desert, where in one place we crossed a field of crystallized
mineral of some kind, which had the appearance of ice, and rode our
horses safely over it. That night, on the same desert, one of the
fattest horses in the company failed and was left just before we had
crossed the desert, and it was nearly morning when we camped. At
daylight I sent for the horse to eat, as we were then out of provisions.
The uninvited increase of the company had very small rations at
starting, and when their food was exhausted I fed them until there was
nothing left to eat for any of us, then we killed the horse and lived
on its flesh for one week.
Two days after killing the horse we were on another desert and traveled
until far into the night, for we could see no end to the desert; and
since living on horseflesh for food we crowded the animals to make the
best time possible to get where better food could be had, and more
water, for we found water scarce and both men and beasts were in a
suffering condition. About 2 o'clock in the morning a stop was made
to rest the animals, for they had neither food nor water for over
twenty-four hours. The saddles were removed and the animals were turned
loose in the desert, where neither bush, stick nor grass could be seen.
Being loosened, the animals all began feeding on something, though we
could see nothing. We set out a guard, as usual. In the morning we
found the horses feeding on a weed or grass of a wine color, about four
inches high, covering in area about eight acres, and nowhere else did
we ever see any more of that kind of feed.
We reached Carson on the 15th of October. We could not start back until
word could be got to and from San Francisco. It was getting late in
the season and we soon began to feel uneasy about the Winter snows we
might encounter, but I had thought of this all the way and took such
notes of the route as would enable me to recognize the way again even
if the mountains should be covered with snow. I kept what sailors would
call a "log book," in which was written a regular description of every
landscape--certain shaped mountains here, a grove of cedars there,
etc.; and at every turn of the road, consulted the compass, noting the
various directions, and had some certain land-marks at each turn, with
estimates of distances between points.
While not otherwise engaged in Genoa, as it is now called, I made a
map of the road we had traveled, noting every watering-place, desert,
mountain, grove of timber, plot of grass, etc., not forgetting to mark
my distances as well as the points of compass.
While at Genoa, Natsab, the Indian, left me one night and started home
on foot and alone and made his way in safety. It was a week before I
found which way he had gone, and feared much that the Indians there
had killed him. I saw him after I arrived home and asked his reason
for leaving me without notice. He said he was afraid we would have to
stay all Winter; and that if I had known he was going to leave I would
stop him and make him stay too, and that was too long to live among the
whites; he would have got sick and perhaps died.
At last the word came from San Francisco, and a man also to go with us
to Salt Lake, which was very acceptable. Col. Reece resolved to fit
up two men besides himself and accompany me one or two hundred miles,
just to explore the country; for of the route we were to take nothing
was known by white men, and we were all enthusiastic to search the
unexplored regions.
On November 2, 1854, I started for home, with five animals for my own
outfit of myself and the interpreter. Our through friend and partner
for the trip back, Mr. Kinsey, had two horses, thus making seven
well-loaded animals for three men to take care of. One large mule
carried a keg of water as a reserve for times of distress. We each
carried a canteen of water on our saddles as we rode; and several times
our riding horses would, when our canteens were only partly full so
that the water would sound as the motion of their bodies shook them,
turned and hunted for the water and whinnyed coaxingly for a little sup
of the water they had carried so long.
Carson River, at which point Mr. Davis overtook us, sinks or empties
into a lake of its own, which is about twenty miles across. Around the
lake is a very flat and large extent of country, wet and marshy, which
affords great quantities of a grass known as "bayonet grass;" this
yields tufts or bunches of black, rich seed that the Indians manage to
cut and dry and then thresh or pound out the seed for their Winter's
bread. We saw many large-sized stacks of the remains of their threshing
at their threshing-floors, which were mostly inaccessible to horses,
being on small, dry places in the midst of the sodded marshes that
yield the grass.
After passing around the south end of the lake we crossed a low divide
and entered a new valley some thirty miles from the lake. Where we
entered this new desert valley was among rolling hills of sand blown up
by the wind, some perhaps twenty feet high and covering from a half to
a full acre of ground. In passing among these hills and valleys I saw
the heads of two Indians who had not yet seen us. I took in the whole
situation at a glance: a large alkali desert was before us in which was
no water, while that we had in store was small and poor. Those Indians
were not there without water being near, and if we could get them we
could perhaps induce them to find or show us water. Our horses in the
sand made no noise traveling, so we started at our best speed and soon
overtook those whom we wanted as guides. They took us to water, though
very reluctantly, and indeed not until they understood that they must
do so.
We would never have found the water of ourselves; for the spring was in
the top of a little elevation that covered perhaps five acres in the
center of a valley. The spring was round and perhaps five feet across.
It gave a rapid supply of water, but had no visible outlet. The Indians
had fenced it with tall greasewood brush stuck in the ground as thick
as they could put it, except at an opening about eight inches wide
which would permit rabbits to enter, where they were trapped. A pit
about two and one-half feet deep was dug in this opening and a strong,
wiry sand-grass was fastened on either side of the hole so that the
ends would overlap at the center of the hole or pit, making apparent
smooth floor. When a rabbit jumped on it went down into the pit, which
had no water in it. The grass readily sprang back to its place and was
prepared for another rabbit. This continued until the pit was full,
for it was so narrow and deep there was no chance to jump out. Three
similar pits, at a distance from the spring, was prepared for antelope.
We camped here, used the greasewood for cooking supper and refreshed
our horses. We kept the Indians all night with us so they could not
notify others, who would perhaps prove dangerous. It was the intention
to take them a day on the journey, but they escaped when we were not
watching them. We traveled, after getting a full supply of water, all
that day, all night and until 2 o'clock in the afternoon of the next
day without any rest, except that got by stopping to eat and drink and
tend the animals. This long journey was necessary in order to find
grass and water.
About half or three-quarters of a mile before coming to the water our
animals began to crowd ahead--pull on the bit--which surprised us all,
as there were no signs of water, such as willows, trees or grass, in
sight to attract our attention, nothing but the smooth desert of small,
short desert brush, with occasional fields of sage brush. Suddenly our
animals stopped at a little, swift-running brook not more than two or
three feet wide.
Here we rested, watered and prepared for our journey. Towards evening
we moved about two miles to some low sand hills, which generally afford
an excellent grass called sand-grass. The next day we spent in trying
to get more easterly over the mountains, but failed.
The second day after watering we would gladly have passed through the
range of mountains by a canyon; but thinking it impossible, had started
on north again nearly a mile, when someone called behind us. On looking
around we saw two Indians running towards us. We waited until they came
up. They then enquired where we were going, and on being told, said we
would all die if we continued in that direction for it was three days'
travel to water. They led us to water in the mountains and stayed with
us that night and were well pleased with their newly-made friends, but
not more so than we were; for they seemed more like kind old friends,
and in the parting got their full share of presents.
On that camp ground I set the compass, but to my surprise one end of
the needle dropped down and remained thus. Move the needle where I
would it did the same. We were on a mountain of iron and probably some
magnetic ore was near.
The next day was the 12th of November, 1854, and by favor of one of
these good red men we got through the mountains to a fine, large spring
creek, and there camped. Now, who can deny the hand of the Lord and His
power in sending these natives with softened hearts to call us from
certain death and kindly bring us through to these beautiful springs?
None of us did; even the Gentiles with us acknowledged His hand in that
act of the savage Indian.
The next morning, Col. Reece, with his two men, left us and turned
south to explore three or four days in that direction and then turn
westward on their course home. During this journey he made the very
important discovery of the Reece River and country now so profitable to
the State of Nevada.
We continued our course east one day and a half, and then struck the
southern extremity of our outward route, which was a very plain trail
at that place and was just at the foot of a long slope approaching a
high, rocky, rugged mountain, over which we had to pass.
Indians and snow-storms were alike a dread to us to encounter; and the
former were now before us when within about half a mile of the mouth
of a very narrow, rocky canyon. They had the advantage of us, for they
were nearest the rocks that overhung the road and were on the run in a
half bent posture when first seen on the side of the mountain, but they
straightened and sprang to the race right manfully when once in sight,
until they were safe among the rocks, where they took positions of
safety, only exposing their heads.
We approached slowly, all the while consulting as to what was the
best policy to pursue. We did not want to go around the mountain to
the south, for of the distance we knew nothing, and to fight we were
afraid; for numbers and position were against us, there being only four
of us and seven we could see of them. Speaking of four of us reminds
me that when eighty miles from Genoa, a man by the name of Davis came
to us from California, having heard of the exploring party going to
Salt Lake. He had a very large herd of sheep _en route_ for California,
which was obliged to Winter in Utah, and being anxious to join it he
was willing to take chances with us.
The most feasible plan now was to make friends of them with presents.
This being decided upon we concluded to try it, and if it failed we
must try to force a passage. We consoled ourselves with the saying, "a
coward cornered is the worst man in the world to fight." By some means,
however, we expected, by the help of the Lord, to get through.
After talking and preaching to the natives half an hour or more the
interpreter allured them down near us--so near that presents, small
articles we had on our persons, were given them by one of us while
the other three guarded against any treacherous surprise. They were
then told to go with us to the top of the mountain, where we would
camp for the night and we would there give them more valuable articles
which were on the horse. They finally consented and told us to go on
ahead; but feeling safer with their backs to us than ours to them we
succeeded in having them take the lead. They were strong, fierce,
desperate-looking men, and we did not care to give them any advantage
over us, so we kept our eyes on them and our hands on our guns, even
after we had camped at a nice spring in a large opening in the top of
the mountain.
Our greatest safety against these and other Indians that might be
lurking around, was to take their bows and arrows into our possession,
which we did very quietly after giving the promised gifts. They looked
rather sorry at seeing themselves entirely in our power.
For our future safety I thought it best to teach our neighbors a lesson
in gun tactics, for we felt sure their knowledge of guns was limited
to hearsay, they were so very wild and unacquainted with white men. My
plan was as follows: I went into a narrow ravine well out of sight, cut
a couple of leaves out of my memorandum book, doubled them, shot a hole
through the center and then cut them in two. One of these I secretly
gave to Mr. Kinsey. The interpreter and I then got into high words. The
Indians wanted to know what we were talking about. He told them that I
thought I could beat him shooting. They manifested much interest in the
matter. I took a leaf from my book, folded and cut it exactly like the
first and put it in the split of a stick about three feet long, gave
this to Mr. Kinsey, all in plain view of the natives, and he put it
up about one third of a mile off, but exchanged papers on the way and
substituted the one with a hole in the center.
The interpreter shot with a dragoon revolver and sent an Indian for
the mark. He came back on the run and talking as hard as he could. The
Indians all joined in the talk but superstitiously avoided touching the
paper.
I could not, of course, shoot better than that and therefore did not
try; besides, it was getting dark.
The following morning, which was the 17th of November, one of the
natives volunteered to go with us, saying that he "lived over that
way." He ran on foot by the side of our horses all day and we rode most
of the time on the gallop.
That night, about 1 o'clock, the Indian ran away from the guard--one
man with gun in hand--and got clear with his life and two blankets that
were not his.
In the morning we found his tracks in the trail ahead of us and we
were satisfied that evil was designed against us. We were but a
day-and-a-half's ride from the south end of Ruby Valley, and two and
one-half days' ride from the north end, where most of the Indians were.
That day, at noon, we came to water on a high ridge, from which I
could see a canyon pass through the mountains at the north end of
Ruby Valley, which lay north by north-east from us, and the south end
nearly east, leaving a great angle or elbow for us to make, which was
an object to save. From one place only on this high ridge could be
seen this low place in the distant mountains; and as soon as my eyes
rested on it the idea was given me that we could get through that pass
and save a great distance, and what else it might save I did not know,
unless it was our hair. I at once informed the men of the gap in the
mountains and my idea that it was best to travel that way; they agreed
with me. We turned our horses that way and every one of us felt right
sure then that in the plan was our safety.
We traveled that afternoon and until perhaps 12 o'clock in the night
and camped on a creek at the foot of the gap, probably ten miles from
the top, where we made neither light nor noise.
CHAPTER IV.
PREMONITIONS OF DANGER--LEARN OF AN ATTEMPT TO KILL US--AN INDIAN'S
ADVICE--UNDECIDED ABOUT WHAT COURSE TO TAKE--APPEAL TO THE LORD--PRAYER
ANSWERED--REACH HOME IN SAFETY.
Early in the morning of the 19th we were in motion, fearing that that
day might bring the greatest trial of our lives. Right on the divide we
met about fifteen old men, women and children, but none that could draw
the bow in battle were there. The interpreter, who was well versed in
Indian policies and tactics, said:
"There, boys, that tells the story--not a warrior here and these are
sent off out of danger."
We came out into the valley about 2 o'clock very still, slow and
cautious, but saw no signs of life near. We had to ride hard so that,
if possible, we might get across the valley unobserved. We succeeded,
and just as the sun was setting we reached a little basin or valley
among low hills on our old trail, where there was a fine spring of
water. We looked carefully all over the country behind us as we left
the valley, but saw no signs of life except many smokes.
Our hearts nearly came to a standstill as we turned the ridge down into
the little basin, at the sight of seven Indians on the run for the
water. We had to have the right of water even if necessary to fight for
it; and we started on the run. The ground was so open that we could see
no point of advantage the Indians could gain by getting to water first,
so we rode more leisurely and we came together at the spring.
As they appeared in every motion to be friendly, we dismounted, threw
off our saddles and packs as though we were at home, never forgetting
to keep our eyes open and revolvers handy. The first thing to test
their friendship was to smoke--if they would smoke with us they would
talk, and if they would talk we could be friends and learn something.
When the oldest man had smoked, he asked in astonishment how we got
there.
The interpreter said: "We rode here on our horses."
"Yes," said the old man, "I saw you do that; but what road did you
come?"
He was told, and replied:
"That is the only way you could come."
"Why?"
Then he went on to tell us that the Indian, Natsab, who ran away in
Carson, had passed there telling when he thought we would be along.
The Bloody Chief we saw in the valley going out came all through the
valley, calling the men to the rocky canyon that leads out of the
valley and there they thought to kill us all and divide the spoils,
expecting the whole seventeen men to return.
"Why didn't you go?" was asked.
The old man fumbled among his rags and pulled out a piece of tobacco
about one and one-half inches square and said, "I showed him that
tobacco and told him you gave me it, and I could not fight you as long
as that lasted."
"What it that had all been gone?" was asked.
The old man had as mild and pleasant eyes as I ever saw in an Indian's
head, and he raised them with as much honesty and simplicity as a
child, after looking in the fire a minute, and said:
"I don't know what I would have done."
His heart seemed to correspond with his eye.
The six men with him were his sons and sons-in-law. He kept them from
going to fight us. His camp was about a mile from the spring. After
talking awhile we tried the "long shot" game on them and found the
paper shot through the center as before. We wanted to impress all
Indians with the belief that when they fought us, the farther off they
could get the safer they would be.
Then we smoked again and all had lunch. The Indians got lots of gifts,
the whites none. Then came the good old man's last advice and council:
"I do not know whether they will get track of you before morning or
not; but they _will_ get on your track," said the mild-eyed man. "You
must not let the sun see you here. To-morrow when the sun looks down
from behind the top of that mountain you must be a long way from here.
Ride hard all day; and when night comes, don't stop riding, but ride
hard all night, and in the morning you will be in the Goshute land and
they will not follow you there. They have long been wanting your meat,
and when they find only your tracks they will ride like the wind."
When he had done talking, they all arose with a mild dignity, wrapped
their remnants of blankets around them, turned their faces towards
their home among the cedars and none looked around, except the
mild-eyed man, who gave us a look of mingled pity and hope, then nodded
his head towards their home, gave a motion of the hand and a prolonged
sigh, as much as to say, "I'm going home to sleep."
The old man's advice to us was carefully followed. I examined my
journal and notes of the country before we started. The whole day's
travel was over a level country from one valley to another, with no
high divide or hardly a separating hill; but at noon I found myself
lost, in spite of all my care and even extra caution preparatory for
such an important day. I could not find any lack of attention in myself
and no responsibility was upon any other person in the matter--the
route was very plain, and yet I had gone to the left of a mountain
instead of to the right. I knew where we were, although there was no
trail on either route, yet I knew we had taken the wrong side of the
mountain. I was afraid of the result and questioned whether it would
give our pursuers any advantage. Should we turn back or go ahead? was
another question.
Our lives was the game we were playing for that day, and the
responsibility of correct moves was upon me. The thought made me
sweat like rain. I told all the men and asked them to ride slowly,
very slowly, while I rode up the mountain to see if I could make any
discovery. I rode to a good, secure place and there knelt upon the
ground and, with my whole soul, asked God to show me what to do in this
trying time of uncertainty.
I arose and mounted my horse, fully satisfied. I knew how it would
terminate. An impression a feeling, some would call it, made me
understand this: "Go on; you will come out all right;" that is, keep
going as you are going, and you will come around to the right place,
was what it meant.
Some might ask, How did you get that information? I can only tell you
that it was spoken in those words to my soul. It was planted instantly
in my understanding by the power of God. It was revealed to my spirit
independent of the body.
I rode down and overtook my fellow-travelers in perfect cheer and told
them that we would go on, we were going just right.
Just before sunset we came to the very water I had intended, in the
morning, to reach, which was in a nice, grassy vale close by a large
cedar grove, and on looking back on the route I designed to come, we
saw, on a point of the mountain, three smokes near to each other, which
among Indians means to rally to some appointed place. We all, Gentiles
though two of the company were, acknowledged the hand of God in guiding
us, as we thought, the wrong way.
Water, grass and rest our animals must have in order to carry us safely
through the night. We could see the Indian smokes; they could see ours
and very likely see us. We must make them think we were going to stay
all night, so we drove the horses away from camp quite a distance and
towards the Indians, gathered a good lot of wood, ate supper and waited
impatiently for the mantle of night to be thrown over our movements.
As soon as I felt sure the Indians' keen eyes could not see our moves
through the darkness, two men ran for the horses and drove them around
so the fire would not show their forms. The other two men carried the
saddles far back from the fire, where we hastily saddled and left the
horses in care of one man while the other three went to the fire, put
on all the wood and lazily passed and re-passed between the distant
Indians and the fire, then mounted and rode with good speed from our
comfortable fire and beautiful Antelope Spring. This place received
its name, Antelope Spring, as follows: On approaching this place, as
we went west, we saw a drove of antelope feeding just in the edge of
the scattering cedars, and one antelope quite a little behind the rest,
which one of our men prepared to shoot; but all the animals seeing us
ran away. The one behind was thrown into a dreadful fright, and could
not run with the others, while the man prepared to shoot. He resolved
to be an antelope no longer, and with magical power threw off his
antelope skin, and in the twinkling of an eye, stood up a tall Indian
with bow and arrows in hand. He followed us to camp and there showed us
all about the transformation.
We rode all night as fast as we could and at dawn came into a little
gulch, where water was found. Here we turned our animals loose and
all but two of us laid down and slept until sunrise. That morning
was beautiful to us. We now felt ourselves out of danger and quietly
pursues our journey homeward, without any other important event
occurring. We reached home on the 25th of November, 1854.
This was an important event to us and our families and friends. One
thing that made it more important to my wife and relatives was a report
from a man who undertook to overtake us a day or two after we left
Salt Lake City for Carson. He was a relic of the army, and failing
to overtake us as soon as he expected, became faint-hearted from the
forbidding and uninviting surroundings of a lone man among Indians
and deserts, and turned back. He arrived safely in Salt Lake City and
undoubtedly thought himself very fortunate in so doing; and to excuse
himself beyond the possibility of reproach among his associates, he
made up an inexcusable falsehood and told that he came to the place
where the Indians had massacred every one of our party. The deed had
just been done and the bodies lay mangled and stripped of clothing.
He was obliged to make a hasty retreat to avoid being discovered and
served the same.
On arriving in Salt Lake I delivered all U. S. property in my
possession to Colonel Steptoe and as soon as possible made my official
report in writing and got my release. In my report was given an outline
of the road, which, however, he did not think practicable for his army
in the following Spring. From my journal of the trip and the map, I
formed what was called in those days a guide book, which was a minute
account of the road, by which a stranger to the country could safely
travel it without danger of being lost.
Our Delegate to Congress then was acquainted with this book, and as he
was about to start for Washington by way of San Francisco, he offered
to take the guide book and if he could sell it to Congress he would
give me half the proceeds. In San Francisco he was offered $1000 for
it, but would not let it go for that amount. I think he did not sell
it, for I never received any money for it.