SAINTLY PILGRIMS ON THE WAY—THE “DIVINE” HAND-CART SCHEME.
One Sunday morning in early spring I attended a meeting of the Saints in
Williamsburgh.
My husband was there, and took part in the service, and so did the
Apostle Taylor, and one or two other Utah Elders. I went to that meeting
in a very desponding state of mind, for our prospects since the day of
our arrival had not brightened very much, and I felt the need of some
comforting and cheering words.
Whether it was the influence of the clear spring morning, or that the
Elders had noticed the depression of spirit among the Saints, I cannot
tell, but I know that on that particular occasion their words seemed to
me more earnest and encouraging than they had been for a long time past.
As we came out from the meeting, Brother Benton, one of the Elders,
stepped up to my husband, and said, “Brother Stenhouse, _they_ are
expected to arrive to-night or to-morrow; I suppose you will be down at
the ‘Gardens’ to meet them.”
I knew well enough who “they” were who were expected to arrive, and so
did Mr. Stenhouse. “Yes,” he said, “of course I shall be there, but
most likely we shall have to wait a few days before they come.” Then he
stopped and talked over the matter with Elder Benton.
Now it chanced that at that time Brigham Young was trying an experiment.
The “Prophet of the Lord” sometimes finds it necessary—notwithstanding
the “revelations” which he is supposed to receive—to try experiments like
other men before he can feel sure that his plans are likely to succeed.
The only difference between him and other men is, that he—knowing
himself that his plans are his own inventions, or the inventions of the
leaders—gives out that they come direct from God, thereby deceiving the
ignorant, innocent, and confiding people; and when his plans fail, as
they often do, he never confesses that he is wrong or mistaken, but lays
all the blame on some other person, or, failing that, on “the Lord” or
the devil. Other men, as a rule, say nothing about “the Lord” or devil,
but when their experiments fail they frankly confess that they themselves
were not inspired, but were liable to err. That is all the difference.
In the present instance Brigham Young tried an experiment upon a rather
large scale.
Up to the year 1856 the Mormon emigrants made the journey from the
Frontiers across the Plains by ox-teams, as I have already described,
and every season some of the wealthier Mormons formed themselves into an
independent company, paid their own expenses, and travelled with more
comfort. The expense to the poorer emigrants was very small, for they
performed the greater part of the journey on foot—the ox-teams being used
for transporting provisions and baggage—one hundred pounds of the latter
being allowed to each emigrant.
This “plan” was, so far, a success, and the settlements of the Saints
increased thereby, slowly but surely, in population and wealth. There
were, however, at that time, thousands of Saints in Europe anxious to
emigrate, but who were too poor to provide the small sum requisite for
that purpose. During the winter of 1855 this difficulty was discussed
in Conference by Brigham and the leading men in Salt Lake, and some
one suggested what was afterwards known as the “Hand-Cart Scheme.” The
idea of this “scheme” was to transfer the people from Liverpool to the
Frontiers in the cheapest possible way, and for them then to cross the
Plains with light-made hand-carts, just strong enough to carry the fewest
possible necessary articles, but sufficiently light for the men, women,
and even young girls, to draw them.
This “plan” would not perhaps have been a bad one if it had been properly
carried out, and if Brigham Young had seen, as he might have done, that
suitable preparations were made beforehand. But the Hand-Cart Emigration
Scheme began with a lie and ended in ruin.
The confiding Saints were told that “God” had specially inspired His
servant Brigham for this purpose, and the scheme was a revelation
direct from on high.—No proper measures were taken to provide for the
emigrants—all was done upon faith—faith on the part of the people in
their—as they supposed—inspired leaders; deception on the part of those
leaders towards the people, whose only fault was that they trusted them
too well.
The _Millennial Star_ proclaimed the “plan” to the Saints in Europe,
and so great was the response to this special summons that in that
year—1856—it was roughly estimated that no fewer than five or six
thousand Mormon emigrants travelled from Liverpool to Salt Lake City.
It was the first company of these emigrants that Brother Benton alluded
to when he told Mr. Stenhouse that “_they_” were expected that night or
the next; but in those days emigrant vessels were frequently delayed by
adverse winds and other circumstances, and no one could calculate upon
the exact time of their arrival in port.
The following morning, my husband, when he returned from the _Mormon_
office, brought with him a letter bearing the English postmark, and
addressed to me in the neat unmistakable handwriting of Mary Burton.
I had been waiting and watching for a letter from her ever since our
arrival; I was anxious to hear from her, and I hastily tore it open, so
impatient was I to know how she was getting on. What I read interested
me deeply, though it did not surprise me. I had seen Mary many times
after the interview which I have already related, and our conversations
and discussions were to us of all-absorbing interest; but as they were
mostly personal I have not cared to record them in this narrative. To
tell the truth, her love affairs with Elder Shrewsbury occupied more and
more the most prominent place in all our discussions. His enthusiasm was
perfectly infectious. As long as Mary absolutely refused to see him, her
love for him and her faith in Mormonism were anything but overpowering.
But Elder Shrewsbury was one of those peculiar persons who have a sort of
magnetic charm about them; who, without our knowing it, or even, in some
instances, contrary to our will and reason, enlist all our sympathies and
leave behind them an impression that we vainly try to efface. He only
wanted _opportunity_, and his success was sure.
Opportunity he had had for pressing his suit with Mary and making an
impression upon her heart, ever since the day when they met at my door,
and had taken that walk together, as Mary said, for the purpose of
discussing important matters.
Now the letter which I received opened to me another chapter in Mary’s
life, which without the gift of prophecy I might have easily predicted.
Elder Shrewsbury’s patience and perseverance met with their due reward,
and Mary at length promised to become his wife; but fascinated though she
was, and herself almost as deeply in love as he was, she nevertheless
made one condition which showed that she had not entirely lost that
prudence and determination which she had shown in the early days of their
courtship.
“When he spoke to me in _that_ way—you know _how_, Sister Stenhouse”—she
said in her impulsive way, “How could I persist in saying _No_ to him?
It wasn’t in my heart to do so. I didn’t say ‘Yes’ in so many words, but
I simply said nothing, and he took my silence for consent. Then—but no,
I won’t even tell _you_ everything.... I know he thought he was going to
have it all his own way; but I didn’t think so. I told him then that I
had firmly resolved upon one thing—that I never would marry him unless he
made a solemn vow and promise before God that he would never enter into
Polygamy. I could not hide from him that I loved him—he knew it and could
see it; but I said I _never_ would go to Utah alone, and I certainly
never would marry at the risk of my husband taking another wife. No; I
was willing to give him my heart, my all—it was only fair for him to do
the same by me.... He was very near me then, and my hand was in his; and
he was looking into my eyes. Then he whispered the promise I had asked of
him, and, dear Sister Stenhouse, I _know_ I can depend upon _his_ word.
We shall be happier in this world _by ourselves_, and we feel quite sure
that God will not ask us to do anything in heaven that would make us
miserable. Perhaps I oughtn’t to say this, but I’m so happy that I cannot
allow myself one single wretched doubt about the future or _my_ husband,
such as I used to have.... We were married on the 27th of January....
“And now we are getting ready for Zion, and are busy day and night. Of
course you have heard of the “Divine Plan”—the Hand-Cart Scheme. Oh,
Sister Stenhouse, I am so very, _very_ much ashamed of myself for all
the wicked things that I used to say about the Apostles and the Elders.
Since our marriage, Elder Shrewsbury has explained everything to me, and
set things in their right light. It is a glorious privilege for us to be
permitted to gather to Zion, and now that I know my dear husband will
never even think of another besides myself, I glory in the thought of
leaving the Gentile world and all its wickedness....
“We go with the first company this season.
“I will tell you all the rest of the news when I meet you, dear.”
So Mary Burton was married, and coming with the Hand-Cart Company. “Why,”
I said, turning to my husband, “they’ll be here in a day or two now.”
“Perhaps to-day,” he replied.
They did not, however, arrive either that day or the next; but towards
the end of the week we were told that their vessel was in the river, and
I accompanied my husband to Castle Gardens to see them.
A strange spectacle was presented to our view. More than six hundred
Mormon emigrants were gathered there, all on their way to Zion, and
burning with zeal and enthusiasm worthy of a better cause. There were
aged men and women, whose heads were hoary with the snows of many a
winter, and whose tottering steps had borne them to the verge of three
score years and ten; there were stout-hearted fathers and families, and
matrons with sons and daughters growing up around them; there were young
men in the pride and strength of manhood; and maidens in the modest blush
of womanly beauty; and little toddling children, and babes in their
mothers’ arms—all obedient to what they thought was the command of God
Himself—all with their faces set steadfastly and anxiously Zionward.
Let not the reader smile at the blind infatuation of those poor
emigrants. Would he or she have suffered so confidingly—so faithfully—for
his or her religion? They might be mistaken; but truly theirs was a
faith which “hoped all things, believed all things, endured all things.”
Surely, in His sight—who judges the heart—the blind obedience of those
men and women who were ready to suffer and to endure unto the bitter
end, because in their child-like faith they thought that it was His holy
will—such practical devotion was more truly acceptable than the formal
professions of an untested faith.
I met at Castle Gardens many whom I had known in the old country; but it
was one particular face which I was anxious to see. A man wrapped in a
thick great coat, and with a fur cap upon his head, brushed against me;
and before I had time to raise my eyes, my hand was grasped in his, and I
heard Mary’s husband say, “Oh Sister Stenhouse, I’m so glad to see you; I
knew we should meet you in New York. Come and see Mary. She’s _my_ Mary
now!”
I went with Elder Shrewsbury and I saw Mary. But oh, how greatly was she
changed! When I returned from our Swiss mission and saw her after an
interval of several years, I was, of course, struck with the alteration
which had then transformed her from a pretty little fairy-like girl
into a decorous young lady contemplating matrimony; but although I had
now been absent from England only a few months, I observed a much more
striking alteration in her than on the previous occasion. It was not now,
I thought, so much an outward and personal change, as a new development
of her inner consciousness—her soul itself. Her form was as graceful, and
her eyes as bright as ever; but from those eyes there now shone forth
another light than that which I had thought so charming in the by-gone
time.
Her affection for me was as warm and demonstrative as when we first met.
She recognized me in a moment, before her husband had time to say a word;
and, throwing both her arms round me, she kissed me again and again with
all the effusion of her childish days. Taking my hand she led me gently
into a quiet corner and seated me beside her on a big trunk, and then
she began to talk. It was the same soft sweet voice again, which used to
be so dear to me when I was left all alone in Southampton, soon after my
marriage, while my husband was on mission in Italy.
She told me all the story of her courtship—all, and much more, than she
had told me in her letter. But it was when she came to speak of her
marriage, of her husband, and especially of their pilgrimage to Utah,
that I observed more especially the change which had taken place in her.
She was no longer the light-hearted girl, half-doubting her strange
religion, and rejecting it altogether when it did not coincide with her
own ideas and wishes. No: Elder Shrewsbury—had he been ten times a Mormon
Elder—could not have wished for a more obedient, a more earnest, I might
say, a more fanatical believer than was now to be found in his young and
beautiful wife. Her eyes really glowed with enthusiasm as she spoke of
“the work of the Lord” and of “gathering to Zion;” and her voice, though
soft and sweet as ever, had in it, now and then, a tinge of sternness
which told of a determination and spirit which the casual observer would
never have suspected.
I expressed some surprise that she and her husband, not being without
funds, should have gone with the Hand-Cart Company when they might
have waited and have gone with so much more comfort with one of the
independent companies.
“Why, Sister Stenhouse,” she said, “we have done it as a matter of faith.
Certainly we could have afforded to go in any way we chose, but my
husband said we ought to be an example to the poorer saints; so we gave
away nearly all our money to help the emigration fund, and then we came,
just as you see us, along with the rest.”
“But the danger and discomfort is so great,” I suggested. “Surely the
Lord does not want us to sacrifice ourselves when no one is benefitted by
it?”
“Not a bit,” said she; “there’s no danger, Sister Stenhouse, and if there
were it would only please me all the more. As for discomfort, why we
should have had that any way, and we both glory in making sacrifices.
Besides which, we have been told by the Apostle that this will be the
most pleasant and successful journey across the Plains that has ever been
made.”
“I am a little doubtful of the promises of Apostles and Elders,” I said;
“and I remember, Mary, when you used to agree with me.”
“I know I did,” she answered; “but Brother Shrewsbury has shown me how
wrong I was—I never doubt _now_. But I think you have a wrong notion
about this hand-cart scheme. It is not an ordinary plan such as any man
might have made. God Himself revealed this plan to Brigham, and in fact
we call it ‘the divine plan’ in our songs. Oh, you should hear our songs!
They’re a little rough, but the singing is so earnest and the voices of
the men and girls blend so well together, that I know you’d like them.
There’s only one thing that I don’t like about this plan, and that I
daresay is all right if only I knew it.”
“I think, Mary,” I said, “I could tell you a good deal that you wouldn’t
like if you knew it.”
“No, dear,” she replied hastily, as if afraid to hear me, “don’t tell
me unpleasant matters. I’ll tell you all I meant. The Prophet and Heber
C. Kimball, and Jedediah Grant, counselled the richer emigrants to give
as much as they could—all their property, if they had faith enough—to
help the poor brethren to emigrate; but the American Elders had private
instructions—so Brother Shrewsbury told me—to use the money to help
out all the unmarried girls who are willing to go. I confess that this
troubled me not a little; but my husband says that when we get to Zion we
shall find all will be right, and of course I believe him.”
Mary’s conversation puzzled me a good deal at the time. She had formerly
been so clear-sighted and so unbiassed by prejudice, and now she seemed
ready to believe anything. All her husband’s enthusiasm was now her own;
she saw with his eyes, and in the intensity of her love for him she
believed all that he accepted as true. Long after, when I thought of that
short interview, I called to mind her impulsive earnestness, and I felt
that a secret misgiving, unconsciously to herself, was partly the cause
of it. Unknown to herself her excess of zeal was the offspring of doubt.
Life in the future was in anticipation to my poor friend one long day of
hope and happiness. She could not see the shadow of a cloud—no coming
sorrow darkened her way. Zion, to her excited imagination, was the abode
of peace, and sanctity, and unchanging joy.
I asked her whether the Saints in England had heard any of those strange
reports about Brigham Young defying the Government, which had attracted
so much attention in this country.
“Certainly,” she said; “it is because the day is so very near when all
intercourse between God’s people and the Gentile world shall be cut off
for ever that these great efforts are being made to gather the Saints to
Zion. Of course you know this, but I don’t think you know all. Why, at
the last general conference in Liverpool, the president had instructions
from Salt Lake to propose Brigham Young as ‘prophet, seer, revelator, and
_King_!’”
“_King?_” I said. “How can President Young ever be ‘king’? Utah is part
of the territory of the States, and under their jurisdiction; it is not
even a State itself yet, and Congress has refused to sanction the name of
_Deseret_. This country will never suffer a kingdom to be set up in Utah;
you must be misinformed, Sister Mary.”
“No, Sister Stenhouse,” she exclaimed, “I am under no mistake. My husband
assured me that the conference accepted the proposition, and that it was
received unanimously. The Saints are gathering in from all parts of the
world, and when war is declared they will not be found unprepared. Why,
here on board with us, the American Elders are all provided with swords
and revolvers of the very best make that could be got for love or money,
and I myself have heard them say that Brigham Young intends shortly to
declare his independence of the United States. We didn’t know this before
we left England, but we felt sure that he had some great purpose in view
which had been revealed to him.”
“Before we left,” I said, “the Saints were all eager to emigrate.”
“Yes, dear,” she answered, “but nothing like they are now. You have no
idea how excited and anxious everybody is. Some of the people, in order
to obey counsel, sold their watches and jewellery, and even their best
clothes, scarcely keeping enough for the journey, and every one who had
any money gave it away. Brigham Young set a noble example in that; even
the Gentiles would admire him if they knew all. Why, we had on board
ship with us Brother Tenant, the rich new convert, who paid thirty
thousand dollars for the property which Brigham Young so generously gave
to help the Emigration Fund. He hardly had enough left to carry him and
his family to Zion; and now he is going to cross the Plains with us, to
settle in Salt Lake City. He is somewhere here among the emigrants, I
believe, at the present moment, and you could ask him all about it if you
liked. The brethren assure him that Brother Brigham is so liberal that he
will get vastly more than the value of his thirty thousand dollars when
he reaches Zion, and I hope he will, for I like both him and his wife.”
All this was thus far true, but it was with some misgivings that I heard
Mary talk about it. Still I tried to persuade myself that it was a sin to
doubt. How little did either of us imagine that after poor Mr. Tenant’s
miserable death upon the Plains we should live to see his wife—destitute
and defrauded of her property by generous-hearted Brigham—dragging out a
miserable existence in Zion, and dependent even for a crust of bread upon
the kindness of the brethren. And yet, as I have previously stated, this
was how the Prophet, under the mask of liberality, contrived, for his own
purposes, to cheat this unfortunate and too-confiding Saint.
Then we talked of what more nearly interested ourselves, and Mary asked
me when Mr. Stenhouse and myself were coming out. I told her that it was
quite uncertain, but that we expected to before long. “At any rate you
will come out before the season is over?” she said.
“Most likely so,” I replied; “but you will be safely there and settled
before we arrive.”
How little did she imagine the fearful scenes she was to witness—the
terrible sufferings she was to endure—before the season she spoke of had
passed away. Could I at that time have known all, I would have prayed
that sooner than set out on that fearful journey she might find refuge
in the grave from the horrors which, unknown to her, were brooding over
her way.
We talked long, and then my husband joined us—Elder Shrewsbury was called
away by some necessary duty—and when we parted it was with many promises
to write frequently to each other of our common religious interests, as
well as the welfare of ourselves and those we loved. Then I spoke with
several other old friends, and we exchanged greetings with all sorts
of people, for my husband wherever he goes is always sure to be upon
speaking terms with almost everybody he meets.
The Hand-Cart Company left New York for Utah—a long and formidable
journey at best—but in that instance, through mismanagement and neglect,
one of the most fatal expeditions that imprudent man has ever undertaken;
and it was not until months and months had passed away, and another
season had come round, that we heard anything of their fate.
And time went on, but my troubles did not lighten. My husband still
continued to work at the _Mormon_ office, and after a while his salary
was slightly increased from time to time; but still his earnings were
altogether inadequate for the support of a family, and I found it
absolutely necessary to obtain some employment for myself. It cost me
many a long and weary day of search and inquiry, and many a battle
with my pride, before I could get anything to do; but at last I was
successful, and although my little ones required constant attention, I
contrived to add a very decent quota to the scanty family purse.
And thus matters continued until the following year—our life of
uncertainty and care unchanged. Little in my life at that time is worth
recording: to me it was one long, painful struggle, and any change which
could come I felt must be for the better. My experience of Mormonism was
of course enlarged as new facts presented themselves to my observation,
and by nothing was my faith so much shaken as by the discrepancies
between the written and spoken Mormonism which was presented with fair
face to the European Saints and the world at large, and the actual
conduct of the Elders.
From the first moment when Polygamy was announced, the leaders had
strictly forbidden the missionaries to enter into any alliances with
the sisters abroad, or to make any proposals of marriage to them, or
to enter into any matrimonial covenants. In the language of Heber C.
Kimball—Brigham’s first counsellor—they were “not to pick out from the
flock the young, fair, and tender lambs,” but were to bring them all
safely home to Zion.
This counsel was all very well, for it tended to keep the Elders out of
mischief, and afforded an opportunity to the brethren at home to select
more and more youthful wives from the fair converts who were gathered in
to Zion. But the missionaries found it very irksome to obey this counsel,
and in point of fact those who did so formed a very small minority.
One of the missionaries who had just returned from Europe came one day to
our house in New York, and brought a youthful sister with him. He was by
no means a handsome man or prepossessing in his appearance, but I saw at
once that he had succeeded in obtaining considerable influence over the
young sister’s mind. He said she was not very happy, and he wanted her to
stay with some respectable family for a week or two until they set out
for Utah, and I agreed that she should stay with us.
She began to play with the children, and took one of them in her arms
in a way which attracted my attention, for I noticed that tears were
in her eyes, and she excited my sympathy. I asked her as gently and as
delicately as I could what was the matter with her, and what her sorrow
was, and she told me that she herself had two little ones at home and was
wretched at being parted from them. She had obeyed counsel, and had left
her husband and a happy home to go to Zion. She loved them all dearly;
but, deluded by false teachings, and promises that she should soon have
her children again, she had stolen away and left them all.
I reasoned with her, tried to make her see how wrongly she had acted,
and persuaded her to return to her husband and seek his forgiveness. But
it was all in vain. The salvation of her soul she thought was beyond all
earthly considerations; she must stifle the suggestions of her heart
within her; she must hasten to Zion. Thus she left me, and like many
another victim, I never expected to see her again.
One morning, a few months later, I was astonished to receive a visit from
her. After expressing my pleasure at seeing her once more, she told me
that what I said had so impressed her that when the emigrants had arrived
at St. Louis she had refused to proceed any further on the journey, had
written to her husband, had made everything right with him, and was now
on her way back to her home in England.
My story is so full of painful reminiscences, that it is with pleasure
that I record this incident—one of the rare cases in which folly was
not succeeded by utter ruin and misery. Alas, how many instances I
might mention, which fell beneath my own personal observation, of wives
and mothers led away by the delusive doctrines which they mistook for
inspiration, and who sought vainly, through years of misery, for peace
and rest, until at length they found it in the darkness of the tomb.
Towards the end of the year 1857, the difficulties in Utah, and a
financial panic in New York, resulted in the discontinuance of the
_Mormon_. My husband was thus thrown out of employment, and to add to
our difficulties the people for whom I worked suspended operations. This
new trial of our faith, however, was not long; out of apparent evil
good came. Released from his obligations to the Apostle and the Mormon
paper, my husband now set earnestly to work to obtain a living without
the crippling influences of “counsel” or the dictates of those whom his
religion taught him to respect.
I had always believed that if suffered to act for himself, his energy
was such that he would certainly carve his way to a respectable position
in the world. In this I was not deceived, either at the time of which
I speak or at a later period when, in Salt Lake City, he engaged in
active business on his own account. In New York, where he had been, by
this time, appointed President of the Eastern Mission, and was actively
engaged in advocating the claims of the Mormon Church, he sought and
found employment on the staff of the _Herald_, and in connexion with
other daily papers; and such was his success, that from a condition of
misery and poverty we were very soon raised to a position of comfort,
and surrounded by every luxury suitable to our station in life; and this
position we enjoyed until called upon to leave all and journey across the
Plains to Zion.
Our own journey to Zion was postponed for a while; but not long before
we set forth, I received the long-expected letter which Mary Burton had
promised me; and as it contains a vivid picture of a mode of transit—the
only mode which could _then_ be used—across the Plains, and shows what
people were forced to endure so recently as a few short years ago, I
shall give it in the following chapter; for I feel sure that if the
reader did not peruse the story in the exact words of my unfortunate
friend, he never would believe that in this country and in our own times
such a terrible tragedy could have been enacted.