_Joel Rae Is Treated for Pride of Soul_
Brigham sent for him the next day and did him the honour to entrust to
him an important mission. He was to go back to the Missouri River and
bring on one of the hand-cart parties that were to leave there that
summer. The three years of famine had left the Saints in the valley
poor, so that the immigration fund was depleted. The oncoming Saints,
therefore, who were not able to pay their own way, were this summer,
instead of riding in ox-carts, to walk across the plains and mountains,
and push their belongings before them in hand-carts. It had become
Brigham's pet scheme, and the Lord had revealed to him that it would
work out auspiciously. Joel prepared to obey, though it was not without
aversion that he went again to the edge of the Gentile country.
He was full of bitterness while he was obliged to tarry on the banks of
the Missouri. The hatred of those who had persecuted him and his people,
bred into him from boyhood, flashed up in his heart with more fire than
ever. Even when a late comer from Nauvoo told him that Prudence Corson
had married Captain Girnway of the Carthage Grays, two years after the
exodus from Nauvoo, his first feeling was one of blazing anger against
the mobocrats rather than regret for his lost love.
"They moved down to Jackson County, Missouri, too," concluded his
informant, thus adding to the flame. They had gone to set up their home
in the very Zion that the Gentiles with so much bloodshed had wrested
from the Saints.
Even when the first anger cooled and he could face the thing calmly in
all its deeper aspects, he was still very bitter. While he had stanchly
kept himself for her, cherishing with a single heart all the old
memories of her dearness, she had been a wife these seven years,--the
wife, moreover, of a mob-leader whose minions had put them out of their
home, and then wantonly tossed his father like a dead branch into the
waters. She had loved this uniformed murderer--his little Prue--perhaps
borne him children, while he, Joel Rae, had been all too scrupulously
true to her memory, fighting against even the pleased look at a woman;
fighting--only the One above could know with what desperate
valour--against the warm-hearted girl with the gray eyes and the red
lips, who laughed in her knowledge that she drew him--fighting her away
for a sentimental figment, until she had married another.
Now when he might have let himself turn to her, his heart freed of the
image of that yellow-haired girl so long cherished, this other was the
wife of Elder Pixley--the fifth wife--and an unloving wife as he knew.
She had sought him before the marriage, and there had been some wholly
frank and simple talk between them. It had ended by his advising her to
marry Elder Pixley so that she might be saved into the Kingdom, and by
her replying, with the old reckless laugh, a little dry and strained,
and with the wonderful gray eyes full upon him,--"Oh, I'll marry him!
Small difference to me what man of them I marry at all,--now!"
And while he, by a mighty effort, had held down his arms and let her
turn away, the woman for whose memory he did it was the wife of an
enemy, caring nothing for his fidelity, sure to feel not more than
amused pity for him should she ever know of it. Surely, it had been a
brave struggle--for nothing.
But again the saving thought came that he was being tried for a purpose,
for some great work. And now it seemed that the time of it must be near.
As to what it was there could be little question: it must be to free his
people forever from Gentile aggression or interference. Everything
pointed to that. He was to be entrusted with great powers, and be made a
Lion of the Lord to lead them to their rightful glory.
He was eager to be back to the mountains where he could fitly receive
this new power, and becomingly make it known that he had been chosen of
Heaven to free them forever from the harassing Gentile. He felt
instinctively that a climax was close at hand--some dread moment of
turning that would try the faith of the Saints once for all--try his own
faith as well, and at last bring his great Witness before him, if his
soul should survive the perilous ordeal. For he had never ceased to wait
for this heavenly Witness--something he needed--he knew not what--some
great want of his soul unsatisfied despite all the teachings of the
temple priesthood. The hunger gnawed in his heart,--a hunger that only
his Witness could feed.
When the hand-cart party came in across the prairies of Iowa he made all
haste to be off with it to the valley of the Lake. Several such parties
had left the Missouri earlier in the season. His own was to be the last.
There were six hundred of them, young and old, men, women, and children.
Their carts moved on two light wheels with two projecting shafts of
hickory joined by a cross-piece. He was indignant to learn that the
Gentiles along the route of their march across Iowa had tried to beguile
these people from their faith. And even while they were in camp on the
Missouri there were still ungodly ones to warn them that they were
incurring grave dangers by starting across the plains so late in the
season.
With rare fervour he rallied the company from these attacks, pointed out
the divine source of the hand-cart plan, prophesied blessings and
abundance upon them for their faith in starting, and dwelt warningly
upon the sin they would be guilty of should they disobey their leader
and refuse to start.
They responded bravely, and by the middle of August all was ready for
the march. He divided them into hundreds, allotting to each hundred five
tents, twenty hand-carts, and one wagon, drawn by three yokes of oxen,
to carry the tents and provisions. Families with more young men than
were needed to push their own carts helped families not so well
provided; but many carts had to be pushed by young girls and women.
He put the company on rations at the time of starting; ten ounces of
flour to each adult, four ounces to children, with bacon, sugar, coffee,
and rice served occasionally; for he had been unable to obtain a full
supply of provisions. Even in the first days of the march some of the
men would eat their day's allowance for breakfast, depending on the
generosity of settlers by the way, so long as there were any, for what
food they had until another morning. They were sternly rebuked by their
leader for thus, without shame, eating the bread of ungodliness.
Their first trouble after leaving the Missouri was with the carts; their
construction in all its details had been dictated from on high, but the
dust of the parched prairie sifted into the wooden hubs, and ground the
axles so that they broke. This caused delay for repairs, and as there
was no axle grease, many of them, hungry as they were, used their scanty
allowance of bacon to grease the wheels.
Yet in spite of these hardships they were cheerful, and in the early
days of the march they sang with spirit, to the tune of "A Little More
Cider," the hymn of the hand-cart written by one of their number:
"Hurrah for the Camp of Israel!
Hurrah for the hand-cart scheme!
Hurrah, hurrah! 'tis better far
Than the wagon and ox-team.
"Oh, our faith goes with the hand-carts,
And they have our hearts' best love;
'Tis a novel mode of travelling
Designed by the Gods above.
"And Brigham's their executive,
He told us their design;
And the Saints are proudly marching on
Along the hand-cart line.
"Who cares to go with the wagons?
Not we who are free and strong.
Our faith and arms with a right good will
Shall push our carts along."
At Wood River the plains seethed with buffalo, a frightened herd of
which one night caused a stampede of their cattle. After that the frail
carts had to relieve the wagons of a part of their loads, in order that
the remaining animals could draw them, each cart taking on a hundred
more pounds.
Thus, overworked and insufficiently fed, they pushed valiantly on under
burning suns, climbing the hills and wading the streams with their
burdens, the vigorous in the van. For a mile behind the train straggled
the lame and the sick. Here would be an aged sire in Israel walking
painfully, supported by a son or daughter; there a mother carrying a
child at her breast, with others holding by her skirts; a few went on
crutches.
As they toiled painfully forward in this wise, they were heartened by a
visit from a number of Elders who overtook them in returning to the
valley. These good men counselled them to be faithful, prayerful, and
obedient to their leader in all things, prophesying that they should
reach Zion in safety,--that though it might storm on their right and on
their left, the Lord would open their way before them. They cried
"Amen!" to this, and, at the request of the Elders, killed one of their
few remaining cattle for them, cheering them as they drove on in the
morning in their carriages.
They took up the march with new courage; but then in a few days came a
new danger to threaten them,--the cold. A rule made by Brigham had
limited each cart's outfit of clothing and bedding to seventeen pounds.
This had now become insufficient. As they advanced up the Sweetwater,
the mountains on either side took on snow. Frequent wading of the
streams chilled them. Morning would find them numb, haggard, spiritless,
unfitted for the march of the day.
A week of this cold weather, lack of food, and overwork produced their
effect. The old and the weak became too feeble to walk; then they began
to die, peacefully, smoothly, as a lamp ceases to burn when the oil is
gone. At first the deaths occurred irregularly; then they were frequent;
soon it was rarely that they left a camp-ground without burying one or
more of their number.
Nor was death long confined to the old and the infirm. Young men, strong
at the start, worn out now by the rigours of the march, began to drop. A
father would pull his cart all day, perhaps with his children in it, and
die at night when camp was reached. Each day lessened their number.
But they died full of faith, murmuring little, and having for their
chief regret, apparently, that they must be left on the plains or
mountains, instead of resting in the consecrated ground of Zion--this,
and that they must die without looking upon the face of their prophet,
seer, and revelator.
Their leader cheered them as best he could. He was at first puzzled at
the severity of their hardships in the face of past prophecies. But
light at last came to him. He stopped one day to comfort a wan, weak man
who had halted in dejection by the road.
"You have had trouble?" he asked him, and the man had answered, wearily:
"No, not what you could call trouble. When we left Florence my mother
could walk eighteen or twenty miles a day. She did it for weeks. But
then she wore out, and I had to haul her in my cart; but it was only for
three days. She gave up and died before we started out, the morning of
the fourth day. We buried her by the roadside without a coffin--that was
hard, to put her old, gray head right down into the ground with no
protection. It made us mourn, for she had always been such a good
friend. Then we went on a few days, and my sister gave out. I carried
her in the cart a few days, but she died too. Then my youngest child,
Ephraim, died. Then I fell sick myself, and my wife has pushed the cart
with me in it for two days. She looked so tired to-day that I got out to
rest her. But we don't call it trouble, only for the cold--my wife has a
chill every time she has to wade one of those icy streams. She's not
very used to rough life."
As he listened to the man's tale, the truth came to him in a great
light. Famine not sufficing, the Lord was sending this further
affliction upon them. He was going to goad them into asserting and
maintaining their independence of his enemies, the Gentiles. The
inspiration of this thought nerved him anew. Though they all died, to
the last child, he would live to carry back to Zion the message that now
burned within him. They had temporised with the Gentile and had grown
lax among themselves. They must be aroused to repentance, and God would
save him to do the work.
So, when the snow came at last, the final touch of hardship, driving
furiously about the unprotected women and children, putting wild fear
into the heart of every man, he remained calm and sure and defiant. The
next morning the snow lay heavily about them, and they had to dig
through it to bury five of their number in one grave. The morning
before, they had issued their last ration of flour. Now he divided
among the company a little hard bread they had kept, and waited in the
snow, for they could travel no further without food.
One of their number was sent ahead to bring aid. After a day in which
they ate nothing, supplies reached them from the valley; but now they
were so weakened that food could not fortify them against the extreme
cold that had set in. They wrapped themselves in their few poor quilts,
and struggled bravely on into a white, stinging fog of snow. Each
morning there were more and more of them to bury. And even the burial
was a mockery, for wolves were digging at the graves almost before the
last debilitated straggler had left the camping-place. The heavy snows
continued, but movement was necessary. Into the white jaws of the
beautiful, merciless demon they went.
Among the papers of a man he helped to bury, Joel Rae found a journal
that the dead man had kept until within a few days of his death. By the
light of his last candle he read it until late into the night.
* * * * *
"The weather grew colder each day; and many got their feet so badly
frozen that they could not walk and had to be lifted from place to
place. Some got their fingers frozen; others their ears; and one woman
lost her sight by the frost. These severities of the weather also
increased our number of deaths, so that we buried several each day.
"The day we crossed the Rocky Ridge it was snowing a little--the wind
hard from the northwest, and blowing so keenly that it almost pierced us
through. We had to wrap ourselves closely in blankets, quilts, or
whatever else we could get, to keep from freezing. Elder Rae this day
appointed me to bring up the rear. My duty was to stay behind everything
and see that nobody was left along the road. I had to bury a man who had
died in my hundred, and I finished doing so after the company had
started. In about half an hour I set out on foot alone to do my duty as
rear-guard to the camp. The ascent of the ridge commenced soon after
leaving camp, and I had not gone far up it before I overtook the carts
that the folks could not pull through the snow, here about knee-deep. I
helped them along, and we soon overtook another. By all hands getting to
one cart we could travel; so we moved one of the carts a few rods, and
then went back and brought up the others. After moving in this way for
awhile, we overtook other carts at different points of the hill, until
we had six carts, not one of which could be moved by the parties owning
it. I put our collective strength to three carts at a time, took them a
short distance, and then brought up the other three. Thus by travelling
over the hill three times--twice forward and once back--I succeeded
after hours of toil in bringing my little company to the summit. The
carts were then trotted on gaily down-hill, the intense cold stirring us
to action.
"One or two parties who were with these carts gave up entirely, and but
for the fact that we overtook one of our ox-teams that had been detained
on the road, they must have perished on the Rocky Ridge. One old man
named James, a farmer from Gloucestershire, who had a large family, and
who had worked very hard all the way, I found sitting by the roadside
unable to pull his cart any farther. I could not get him into the wagon,
as it was already overcrowded. He had a shotgun, which he had brought
from England, and which had been a great blessing to him and his family,
for he was a good shot, and often had a mess of sage-hens or rabbits for
his family. I took the gun from his cart, put a bundle on the end of it,
placed it on his shoulder, and started him out with his little boy,
twelve years old. His wife and two daughters, older than the boy, took
the cart along finely after reaching the summit.
"We travelled along with the ox-team and overtook others, all so laden
with the sick and helpless that they moved very slowly. The oxen had
almost given out. Some of our folks with carts went ahead of the team,
for where the roads were good they could out-travel oxen; but we
constantly overtook stragglers, some with carts, some without, who had
been unable to keep pace with the body of the company. We struggled
along in this weary way until after dark, and by this time our rear
numbered three wagons, eight hand-carts, and nearly forty persons.
"With the wagons were Millen Atwood, Levi Savage, and William Woodward,
captains of hundreds, faithful men who had worked all the way. We
finally came to a stream of water which was frozen over. We could not
see where the company had crossed. If at the point where we struck the
creek, then it had frozen over since they passed it. We started one team
across, but the oxen broke through the ice, and would not go over. No
amount of shouting and whipping could induce them to stir an inch. We
were afraid to try the other teams, for even could they cross, we could
not leave the one in the creek and go on.
"There was no wood in the vicinity, so we could make no fire, and we
were uncertain what to do. We did not know the distance to the camp, but
supposed it to be three or four miles. After consulting about it, we
resolved that some one should go on foot to the camp to inform the
captain of our situation. I was selected to perform the duty, and I set
out with all speed. In crossing the creek I slipped through the ice and
got my feet wet, my boots being nearly worn out. I had not gone far when
I saw some one sitting by the roadside. I stopped to see who it was, and
discovered the old man, James, and his little boy. The poor old man was
quite worn out.
"I got him to his feet and had him lean on me, and he walked a little
distance, but not very far. I partly dragged, partly carried, him a
short distance farther, but he was quite helpless, and my strength
failed me. Being obliged to leave him to go forward on my own errand, I
put down a quilt I had wrapped around me, rolled him in it, and told the
little boy to walk up and down by his father, and on no account to sit
down, or he would be frozen to death. He asked me very bravely why God
or Brigham Young had not sent us some food or blankets.
"I again set out for the camp, running all the way and frequently
falling down, for there were many obstructions and holes in the road. My
boots were frozen stiff, so that I had not the free use of my feet, and
it was only by rapid motion that I kept them from being badly frozen. As
it was, both feet have been nipped.
"After some time, I came in sight of the camp-fires, which encouraged
me. As I neared the camp, I frequently overtook stragglers on foot, all
pressing forward slowly. I stopped to speak to each one, cautioning them
all against resting, as they would surely freeze to death. Finally,
about eleven P.M., I reached the camp almost exhausted. I had exerted
myself very much during the day, and had not eaten anything since
breakfast. I reported to Elder Rae the situation of the folks behind. He
immediately got up some horses, and the boys from the valley started
back about midnight to help the ox-teams in. The night was very severe,
and many of the animals were frozen. It was five A.M. before the last
team reached the camp.
"I told my companions about the old man James and his little boy. They
found the little fellow keeping faithful watch over his father, who lay
sleeping in my quilt just as I left him. They lifted him into a wagon,
still alive, but in a sort of stupor, and he died just as they got him
up by the fire. His last words were an inquiry as to the safety of his
shotgun.
"There were so many dead and dying that it was decided to lay by for the
day. In the forenoon I was appointed to go around the camp and collect
the dead. I took with me two young men to assist me in the sad task, and
we collected together, of all ages and both sexes, thirteen corpses, all
stiffly frozen. We had a large square hole dug, in which we buried these
thirteen people, three or four abreast and three deep. When they did not
fit in, we put one or two crosswise at the head or feet of the others.
We covered them with willows and then with the earth. When we buried
these thirteen people, some of their relatives refused to attend the
services. They manifested an utter indifference about it. The numbness
and cold in their physical natures seemed to have reached the soul, and
to have crushed out natural feeling and affection. Had I not myself
witnessed it, I could not have believed that suffering could produce
such terrible results. But so it was. Two others died during the day,
and we buried them in the same big grave, making fifteen in all. Even so
it has been better for them than to stay where their souls would have
been among the rejected at the day of resurrection.
"But for Elder Rae, our leader, we should all have perished by now. He
is at times severe and stern with those who falter, but only for their
good. He is all along the line, helping the women, who well-nigh worship
him, and urging on the men. He cheers us by prophesying that we shall
soon prevail over all conditions and all our enemies. I think he must
never sleep and never eat. At all hours of the night he is awake. As to
eating, a girl in our hundred, Fidelia, daughter of Jabez Merrismith,
who has been much attracted by him and stays near him when she can,
called him aside the other day, so she has told me, and gave him a
biscuit--_soaked, perfectly soaked, with bacon grease_. She had saved it
for many days. He took it and thanked her, but later she saw him giving
it to the wife of Henry Glines, who is hauling Henry and the two babies
in the cart. She taxed him with not eating it himself; but he told her
that she had given him more than bread, which was the power to _give_
bread. The _giving_ happiness, he told her, is always a little more than
the _taking_ happiness, even when we are starving. He says the one kind
of happiness always keeps a little ahead of the other."
* * * * *
December 1st, the remnant of the caravan reached the city of the Saints.
Of six hundred setting out from the Missouri River, over one quarter had
died by the way.
And to Joel Rae had now come another mission,--one that would not let
him wait, for the spirit was moving him strangely and strongly,--a
mission of reformation.