_How the Saints Were Brought to Repentance_
He put his torch to the tinder of irreligion at the first Sunday meeting
after his return. There were no premonitions, no warnings, no signs.
A few of the Elders had preceded him to rejoice at the escape of the
last hand-cart party from death in the mountains; and Brigham, after
giving the newcomers some practical hints about their shelter during the
winter now upon them, had invited Elder Rae to address the congregation.
He arose and came uncertainly forward, apparently weak, able hardly to
stand without leaning upon the desk in front of him; his face waxen and
drawn, hollowed at the cheeks and temples, his long hands thin to
transparency. Life was betrayed in him only by the eyes. These burned
darkly, far back under his brows, and flashed fiercely, as his glance
darted swiftly from side to side.
At first he spoke weakly and slowly, his opening words almost inaudible,
so that the throng of people before him leaned forward in sympathetic
intentness, and silence became absolute in the great hall except for
the high quavering of his tones. But then came a miracle of
reinvigoration. Little by little his voice swelled until it was full,
sonorous, richly warm and compelling, the words pouring from him with a
fluency that enchained. Little by little his leaning, drooping posture
of weakness became one of towering strength, the head flung back, the
gestures free and potent. Little by little his burning eyes seemed to
send their flash and glow through all his body, so that he became a
creature of life and fire.
They heard each word now, but still they leaned forward as when he spoke
at first, inaudibly--caught thrilled and breathless in his spell, even
to the Elders, Priests, and Apostles sitting near him. Nor was his
manner alone impressive. His words were new. He was calling them sinners
and covenant-breakers, guilty of pride, covetousness, contention, lying,
stealing, moral uncleanness--and launching upon them the curse of
Israel's God unless they should repent.
"It has been told you again and again," he thundered, "that if you wish
to be great in the Kingdom of God you must be good. It has been told you
many times, and now I burn the words once more into the bones of your
soul, that in this kingdom which the great Elohim has again set up on
earth, no man, no woman, can become great without being good, without
being true to his integrity, faithful to his trust, full of charity and
good works.
"Hear it now: if you do not order your lives to do all the good you
can, if you are false to one trust, you shall be stripped naked before
Jehovah of all your anticipations of greatness. And you have failed in
your work; you have been false to your trust; you have been lax and
wicked, and you have temporised, nay, affiliated with Gentiles. I have
asked myself if this, after all, may not have been the chief cause of
God's present wrath upon us. The flesh is weak. I have had my own hours
of wrestling with Satan. We all know his cunning to take shapes that
most weaken, beguile, and unman us, and small wonder if many of us
succumb. But this other sin is wilful. Not only have Gentile officers,
Federal officers, come among us and been let to insult, abuse,
calumniate, and to trample upon our most sacred ordinances, but we have
consorted, traded, and held relations with the Gentiles that pass by us.
You have the term 'winter Mormons,' a generation of vipers who come
here, marry your daughters in the fall, rest with you during the winter,
and pass on to the gold fields in the spring, never to return. You,
yourselves, coined the Godless phrase. But how can you utter it without
crimson faces? I tell you now, God is to make a short work upon this
earth. His lines are being drawn, and many of you before me will be left
outside. The curtains of Zion have been spread, but you are gone beyond
their folds. You are no longer numbered in the household of faith. For
your weak souls the sealing keys of power have been delivered in vain.
You have become waymarks to the kingdom of folly. This is truth I tell
you. It has been frozen and starved into me, but it will be burned into
you. For your sins, the road between here and the Missouri River is a
road between two lines of graves. For your sins, from the little band I
have just brought in, one hundred and fifty faithful ones fell asleep by
the wayside, and their bodies went to be gnawed by the wolves. How long
shall others die for you? Forever, think you? No! Your last day is come.
Repent, confess your sins in all haste, be buried again in the waters of
baptism, then cast out the Gentile, and throw off his yoke,--and
thereafter walk in trembling all your days,--for your wickedness has
been great."
Such was the opening gun in what became known as the "reformation." The
conditions had been ripe for it, and in that very moment a fever of
repentance spread through the two thousand people who had cowered under
his words. Alike with the people below, the leaders about him had been
fired with his spirit, and when he sat down each of them arose in turn
and echoed his words, denouncing the people for their sins and exhorting
them to repentance.
After another hour of this excitement, priests and people became alike
demoralised, and the meeting broke up in a confusion of terror.
As the doors of the tabernacle flew open, and the Saints pushed out of
that stifling atmosphere of denunciation, a cry came to the lips of the
dozen that first escaped:
"To the river--the waters of baptism!"
The words were being taken up by others until the cry had run back
through the crowd to the leaders, still talking in excited groups about
the pulpit. These comprehended when they heard it, and straightway a
line of conscience-stricken Saints was headed toward the river.
There in the icy Jordan, on that chill December afternoon, when the
snows lay thick on the ground, the leaders stood and buried the sinful
ones anew in the cleansing waters. From the sinners themselves came
cries of self-accusation; from the crowd on the banks came the strains
of hymns to fortify them for the icy ordeal and the public confession.
There in the freezing current stood Joel Rae until long after the
December sun had gone below the Oquirrh hills, performing his office of
baptism, and reviving hope in those his words had smitten with fear.
His strength already depleted by the long march with the hand-cart party
and by the exhausting strain of the day, he was early chilled by the
water into which he plunged the repentant sinners. For the last hour
that he stood in the stream, his whole body was numb; he had ceased to
feel life in his feet, and his arms worked with a mechanical stiffness
like the arms of some automaton over which his mind had control.
For there was no numbness as yet in his mind. It was wonderfully clear
and active. He had begun a great work. His words had been words of fire,
and the flames of them had spread so that in a little while every sinner
in Zion should burn in them and be purified. Even the leaders--a great
wave of exultation surged through him at this thought--even Brigham had
felt the glow, and henceforth would be a fiercer Lion of the Lord to
resist the Godless Gentile.
Long after sensation had left his body his thoughts were rushing in this
fever of realisation, while his chilled hands made new in the Kingdom
such sinners as came there repenting.
Not until night fell did the hymns cease and the crowd dwindle away. The
air grew colder, and he began to feel pain again, the water cutting
against his legs like a blade. Little groups were now hurrying off in
the darkness, and the last Saint he had baptised was standing for the
moment, chill and dripping, on the bank.
Seeing there was no one else to come, he staggered out of the stream
where he had stood for three hours, finding his feet curiously clumsy
and uncontrollable. Below him in the stream another Elder still waited
to baptise a man and woman; but those who had been above him in the
river were gone, and his own work was done.
He ascended the bank, and stood looking back at the Elder who remained
in the stream. This man was now coming out of the water, having
performed his office for the last one who waited. He called to Joel
Rae:
"Don't stand there, Brother Rae. Hurry and get to your fire and your
warm drink and your supper, or you'll be bed-fast with the chills."
"It has been a glorious day, Brother Maltby!"
"Truly, a great work has been begun, thanks to you--but hurry, man! you
are freezing. Get to your fireside. We can't lose you now."
With a parting word he turned and set off down the dark street, walking
unsteadily through the snow, for his feet had to be tossed ahead of him,
and he could not always do it accurately. And the cold, now that he was
out of the water, came more keenly upon him, only it seemed to burn him
through and through with a white heat. He felt his arms stiffening in
his wet sleeves, and his knees grow weak. He staggered on past a row of
cabins, from which the light of fires shone out on the snow. At almost
every step he stumbled out of the narrow path that had been trodden.
"To your own fireside." He recalled the words of Elder Maltby, and
remembered his own lone, dark cabin, himself perhaps without strength to
build a fire or to get food, perhaps without even strength to reach the
place, for he felt weaker now, all at once, and put his hand out to
support himself against the fence.
He had been hearing footsteps behind him, creaking rapidly over the
packed snow-path. He might have to ask for help to reach his home. Even
as the steps came close, he felt himself swaying. He leaned over on the
fence, but to his amazement that swayed, too, and threw him back. Then
he felt himself falling toward the street; but the creaking steps
ceased, now by his side, and he felt under him something soft but
firm--something that did not sway as the fence had unaccountably done.
With his balance thus regained, he discovered the thing that held him to
be a woman's arm. A woman's face looked close into his, and then she
spoke.
"You are so cold. I knew you would be. And I waited--I wanted to do for
you--let me!"
At once there came back to him the vision of a white-faced woman in the
crowd along the river bank, staring at him out of deep, gray eyes under
heavy, black brows.
"Mara--Mara!"
"Yes, yes--you are so cold!"
"But you must not stand so close--see, I am wet--you will be chilled!"
"But _you_ are already chilled; your clothes are freezing on you; and
you were falling just now. Can you walk?"
"Yes--yes--my house is yonder."
"I know; it's far; it's beyond the square. You must come with me."
"But your house is still farther!"
She had started him now, with a firm grasp of his arm, walking beside
him in the deep snow, and trying to keep him in the narrow path.
"No--I am staying here with Hubert Plimon's two babies, while the
mother has gone to Provo where Hubert lies sick. See--the light there.
Come with me--here's the gate--you shall be warmed."
Slowly and with many stumblings, leaning upon her strong arm, he made
his way to the cabin door. She pushed it open before him and he felt the
great warm breath of the room rush out upon him. Then he was inside,
swaying again uncertainly upon his feet. In the hovering light that came
from the fireplace he saw the bed in the far corner where the two small
children were sleeping, saw Mara with her back to the door, facing him
breathlessly, saw the heavy shadows all about; but he was conscious of
hardly more than the vast heavenly warmth that rolled out from the fire
and enfolded him and made him drunk.
Again he would have fallen, but she steadied him down on to a wide couch
covered with buffalo robes, beside the big fireplace; and here he fell
at once into a stupor. She drew out the couch so that it caught more of
the heat, pulled off the water-soaked boots and the stiffened coat,
wrapped him in a blanket which she warmed before the fire, and covered
him still again with one of the buffalo robes.
She went then to bring food and to make a hot drink, which she
strengthened with brandy poured from a little silver flask.
Presently she aroused him to drink the hot liquor, and then, after
another blank of stupor, she aroused him again, to eat. He could take
but little of the food, but called for more of the drink, and felt the
soul of it thrill along his frozen nerves until they awoke, sharpened,
alert, and eager. He lay so, with closed eyes a little time, floating in
an ecstasy that seemed to be half stupor and half of keenest
sensibility. Then he opened his eyes. She was kneeling by the couch on
which he lay. He felt her soft, quick breathing, and noted the unnatural
shining of her eyes and lips where the firelight fell upon them. All at
once he threw out his arms and drew her to him with such a shuddering
rush of power that she cried aloud in quick alarm--but the cry was
smothered under his kisses.
For ages the transport seemed to endure, the little world of his senses
whirling madly through an illimitable space of sensuous light, his lips
melting upon hers, his neck bending in the circle of pulsing warmth that
her soft arms wove about it, his own arms crushing to his breast with
frenzied fervour the whole yielding splendour of her womanhood. A moment
so, then he fell back upon the couch, all his body quivering under the
ecstasy from her parted lips, his triumphant senses rioting insolently
through the gray, cold garden of his vows.
She drew a little back, her hands resting on his shoulders, and he saw
again the firelight shining in her eyes and upon her lips. Yet the eyes
were now lighted with a strange, sad reluctance, even while the
mutinous lips opened their inciting welcome.
He was floating--floating midway between a cold, bleak heaven of denial
and a luring hell of consent; floating recklessly, as if careless to
which his soul should go.
His gaze was once more upon her face, and now, in a curiously cool
little second of observation, he saw mirrored there the same conflicting
duality that he knew raged within himself. In her eyes glowed the pure
flame of fear and protest--but on her mad lips was the curl of
provocation. And as the man in him had waited carelessly, in a sensuous
luxury of unconcern, for his soul to go where it might--far up or far
down--so now the woman waited before him in an incurious, unbiassed
calm--the clear eyes with their grave, stern "_No_!"--the parted lips
all but shuddering out their "_Yes_!"
Still he looked and still the leaning woman waited--waited to welcome
with impartial fervour the angel or the devil that might come forth.
And then, as he lay so, there started with electric quickness, from some
sudden coldness of recollection, the image of Prue. Sharp and vivid it
shone from this chill of truth like a glittering star from the clean
winter sky outside. Prue was before him with the tender blue of her eyes
and the fleecy gold of her hair and her joy of a child--her little
figure shrugging and nestling in his arms in happy faith--calling as she
had called to him that morning--"_Joel--Joel--Joel_!"
He shivered in this flood of cold, relentless light, yet unflinchingly
did he keep his face turned full upon the truth it revealed.
And this was now more than the image of the sweetheart he had sworn to
cherish--it was also the image of himself vowed to his great mission. He
knew that upon neither of these could he suffer a blemish to come if he
would not be forever in agony. With appalling clearness the thing was
lined out before him.
The woman at his side stirred and his eyes were again upon her. At once
she saw the truth in them. Her parted lips came together in a straight
line, shutting the red fulness determinedly in. Then there shone from
her eyes a glad, sweet welcome to the angel that had issued.
His arms seemed to sicken, falling limply from her. She arose without
speaking, and busied herself a little apart, her back to him.
He sat up on the couch, looking about the little room curiously, as one
recovering consciousness in strange surroundings. Then he began slowly
to pull on the wet boots that she had placed near the fire.
When he stood up, put on his coat, and reached for his hat, she came up
to him, hesitating, timid.
"You are so cold! If you would only stay here--I am afraid you will be
sick."
He answered very gently:
"It is better to go. I am strong again, now."
"I would--I would not be near you--and I am afraid for you to go out
again in the cold."
He smiled a little. "_Nothing_ can hurt me now--I am strong."
He opened the door, breathing his fill of the icy air that rushed in. He
stepped outside, then turned to her. She stood in the doorway, the light
from the room melting the darkness about them.
They looked long at each other. Then in a sudden impulse of gratitude,
of generous feeling toward her, he put out his arm and drew her to him.
She was cold, impassive. He bent over and lightly kissed her closed,
unresponding lips. As he drew away, her hand caught his wrist for a
second.
"I'm _glad_!" she said.
He tried to answer, but could only say, "Good night, Mara!"
Then he turned, drew the wide collar of his coat well up, and went down
the narrow path through the snow. She stood, framed in the light of the
doorway, leaning out to look after him until he was lost in the
darkness.
As she stepped back and closed the door, a man, who had halted by a tree
in front of the next house when the door first opened, walked on again.
It had been a great day, but, for one cause or another, it came near to
being one of the last days of the man who had made it great.
Late the next afternoon, Joel Rae was found in his cabin by a messenger
from Brigham. He had presumably lain there unattended since the night
before, and now he was delirious and sick unto death; raving of the sins
of the Saints, and of his great work of reformation. So tenderly
sympathetic was his mind, said those who came to care for him, that in
his delirium he ranked himself among the lowest of sinners in Zion,
imploring them to take him out and bury him in the waters of baptism so
that he might again be worthy to preach them the Word of God.
He was at once given every care, and for six weeks was not left alone
night or day; the good mothers in Israel vying with each other in kindly
offices for the sick Elder, and the men praying daily that he might not
be taken so soon after his great work had begun.
The fifth wife of Elder Pixley came once to sit by his bedside, but when
she heard him rave of some great sin that lay black upon his soul,
beseeching forgiveness for it while the tears rained down his fevered
face, she had professed that his suffering sickened her so she could not
stay. Thereafter she had contented herself with inquiring at his door
each day--until the day when they told her that the sickness was broken;
that he was again rational and doubtless would soon be well. After that
she went no more; which was not unnatural, for Elder Pixley was about to
return from his three years' mission abroad, and there was much to do in
the community-house in preparation for the master's coming.
But the long sickness of the young Elder did not in any manner stay the
great movement he had inaugurated. From that first Sunday the
reformation spread until it had reached every corner of the new Zion.
The leaders took up the accusing cry,--the Elders, Bishops, High
Priests, and Counsellors. Missionaries were appointed for the outlying
settlements, and meetings were held daily in every center, with a
general renewing of covenants.
Brigham, who had warmly seconded Joel Rae's opening discourse, was now,
not unnaturally, the leader of the reformation, and in his preaching to
the Saints while Joel Rae lay sick he committed no faults of vagueness.
For profane swearing he rebuked his people: "You Elders in Israel will
go to the canons for wood, get a little brush-whipped, and then curse
and swear--damn and curse your oxen and swear by Him who created you.
You rip and curse as bad as any pirates ever did!"
For the sin of cattle-stealing he denounced them. A fence high enough to
keep out cattle-thieves, he told them, must be high enough to keep out
the Devil.
Sometimes his grievance would have a personal basis, as when he told
them: "I have gone to work and made roads to the canon for wood; and I
have cut wood down and piled it up, and then I have not got it. I wonder
if any of you can say as much about the wood I have left there. I could
tell stories of Elders that found and took my wood that should make
professional thieves blush. And again I have proof to show that Bishops
have taken thousands of pounds of wheat in tithing which they have never
reported to the general tithing-office,--proof that they stole the wheat
to let their friends speculate upon."
Under this very pointed denunciation many of the flock complained
bitterly. But Brigham only increased the flow of his wrath upon them.
"You need," said he, "to have it rain pitchforks, tines downward, from
this pulpit, Sunday after Sunday."
Still there were rebellious Saints to object, and, as Brigham drew the
lines of his wrath tighter, these became more prominent in the
community. When they voiced their discontent, they angered the
priesthood. But when they indicated their purpose to leave the valley,
as many soon did, they gave alarm. An exodus must be prevented at any
cost, and so the priesthood let it be known that migrations from the
valley would be considered as nothing less than apostasy. In Brigham's
own words: "The moment a person decides to leave this people, he is cut
off from every object that is desirable in time or eternity. Every
possession and object of affection will be taken from those who forsake
the truth, and their identity will eventually cease."
But, as the reform wave swept on, it became apparent that these words
had been considered merely figurative by many who were about to seek
homes outside the valley. From every side news came privately that this
family or that was preparing to leave.
And so it came about that the first Sunday Joel Rae was able to walk to
the tabernacle, still weak and wasted and trembling, he heard a sermon
from Brigham which made him question his own soul in an agony of terror.
For, on this day, was boldly preached, for the first time in Zion,
something which had never before been more than whispered among the
highest elect,--the doctrine of blood-atonement--of human sacrifice.
"I am preaching St. Paul, this morning," began Brigham, easily.
"Hebrews, Chapter ix., and Verse 22: 'And almost all things are by the
law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no remission.'
Also, and more especially, first Corinthians, Chapter v., Verse 5: 'To
deliver such an one unto Satan for the destruction of the flesh, that
the spirit may be saved in the day of the Lord Jesus.' Remember these
words of Paul's. The time has come when justice will be laid to the line
and righteousness to the plummet; when we shall take the old broadsword,
and ask, 'Are you for God?' And if you are not heartily on the Lord's
side, you will be hewn down."
There was a rustling movement in the throng before him, and he paused
until it subsided.
"I tell you there are men and women amongst you who ought to come and
ask me to select a place and appoint a committee to shed their blood.
Only in that way can they be saved, for water will not do. Their sins
are too deep for that. I repeat--there are covenant-breakers here, and
we need a place set apart and men designated to shed their blood for
their own salvation. If any of you ask, do I mean you, I answer yes. We
have tried long enough with you, and now I shall let the sword of the
Almighty be unsheathed, not only in words but in deed. I tell you there
are sins for which men cannot otherwise receive forgiveness in this
world nor in the world to come; and if you guilty ones had your eyes
opened to your true condition, you would be willing to have your blood
spilt upon the ground that the smoke thereof might go up to heaven for
your sins. I know when you hear this talk about cutting people off from
the earth you will consider it strong doctrine; but it is to save them,
and not destroy them. Take a person in this congregation who knows the
principles of that kind of life and sees the beauties of eternity before
him compared with the vain and foolish things of the world--and suppose
he is overtaken in a gross fault which he knows will rob him of that
exaltation which he desires and which he now cannot obtain without the
shedding of his blood; and suppose he knows that by having his blood
shed he will atone for that sin and be saved and exalted with the Gods.
Is there a man or woman here but would say, 'Save me--shed my blood,
that I may be exalted.' And how many of you love your neighbour well
enough to save him in that way? That is what Christ meant by loving our
neighbours as ourselves. I could refer you to plenty of instances where
men have been righteously slain to atone for their sin; I have seen
scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have been a chance in
the last day if their lives had been taken and their blood spilt upon
the ground as a smoking incense to the Almighty, but who are now angels
to the Devil because it was not done. The weakness and ignorance of the
nations forbids this law being in full and open force; yet, remember, if
our neighbour needs help we must help him. If his soul is in danger we
must save it.
"Now as to our enemies--apostates and Gentiles--the tree that brings not
forth good fruit shall be hewn down. 'What,' you ask, 'do you believe
that people would do right to put these traitors to death?' Yes! What
does the United States government do with traitors? Examine the doings
of earthly governments on this point and you will find but one practise
universal. A word to the wise is enough; just remember that there are
sins that the blood of a lamb, of a calf, or of a turtle-dove, cannot
remit."
Under this discourse Joel Rae sat terrified, with a bloodless face,
cowering as he had made others to cower six weeks before. The words
seemed to carry his own preaching to its rightful conclusion; but now
how changed was his world!--a whirling, sickening chaos of sin and
remorse.
As he listened to Brigham's words, picturing the blood of the sinner
smoking on the ground, his thoughts fled back to that night, that night
of wondrous light and warmth, the last he could remember before the
great blank came.
Now the voice of Brigham came to him again: "And almost all things are
by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood is no
remission!"
Then the service ended, and he saw Bishop Wright pushing toward him
through the crowd.
"Well, well, Brother Rae you do look peaked, for sure! But you'll pick
up fast enough, and just in time, too. Lord! what won't Brother Brigham
do when the Holy Ghost gets a strangle-holt on him? Now, then," he
added, in a lower tone, "if I ain't mistaken, there's going to be some
work for the Sons of Dan!"