MARY BURTON’S STORY CONTINUED:—TERRIBLE ENDING OF THE HAND-CART SCHEME.
“It was early in September when we reached Laramie, but we found nothing
awaiting us there. We were all very much discouraged at this, and Captain
Willie called another meeting for consultation. We knew of course,
beforehand, that our position was very bad; but figures, when stated
plainly, become startling facts. We now learned that if we continued
at the same rate as that at which we had previously been travelling,
and received each the same allowance daily, we should be left utterly
destitute of provisions when we were yet three hundred and fifty
miles from the end of our journey. Nothing remained but to reduce our
allowance; so, instead of one pound, we were rationed at three-quarters
of a pound a day, and at the same time were forced to make incredible
exertions to travel faster.
“Not long after this, Captain Willie received a message from the Apostle
Richards. It is the custom, you know, for people who want to send
messages to emigrants who come after them to write a note on a scrap of
paper, and tie it to a stone or a piece of wood, and leave it on the way.
No one disturbs it, as no one but the emigrants travel along that road,
and they are sure to find it. It was from a rough post-office like this
that Captain Willie got his letter. In it the Apostle told him that we
should receive supplies from Salt Lake when we reached the South Pass;
but that we knew would be too late. So our allowance was again reduced,
and after that we were rationed at an average of ten ounces for every
person over ten years of age. The men who drew the carts received twelve
ounces, the women and aged men nine ounces, and the children from four
to eight ounces according to age. Before this, the men with families had
done better than the single men, as they had been able to save a little
from the children’s rations, and of course they did not like this new
arrangement so well.
“Picture to yourself these men—in the cool air of September, drawing
after them each one a loaded cart, with one or more children most
frequently superadded to its weight, trudging wearily every day, ten,
fifteen, or twenty miles over the rough desert, wading across streams
with the women and children, setting up tents at night, working as they
never worked before in all their lives, and withal keeping soul and body
together upon twelve ounces of flour a day. This is but one side of the
picture—the physical toil and endurance of the working men. Think what
the feeble and aged, the sick, the women and children, must have endured!
“By this time many of those who had hitherto held out bravely began to
fail, and the people in general were greatly discouraged. Captain Willie
and the Elders who assisted him did their best to keep up the spirits
of the people, and to get them over as much ground as they could each
day. The captains over the hundreds had also no little work to perform
in distributing provisions, helping the sick and infirm, and, in fact,
superintending everything.
“For some time the nights had been getting colder and colder, and by the
time we arrived at the Sweetwater river we suffered considerably from
that cause; we felt that winter was fast approaching. In fact, it came
on earlier and more severely last year than at any time before since the
Saints settled in Utah. Does it not seem strange that at the very time
when they were offering up special prayers for us in Zion, that we might
be defended from cold and storm, the terrors of a more than ordinary
winter overtook us and proved fatal to so many of our company? The
mountains were covered with snow; and it was soon quite evident, even to
those who had prophesied most loudly that the Lord would work a special
miracle in our behalf, that the storm-clouds of winter would soon burst
upon us.
“You have never seen the Sweetwater river, so I may as well tell you that
it is a very irregular stream, and we had to cross it again and again
upon our way. As usual we had to wade through the water each time, and
though the men helped over the women and children as well as they could,
many of us got very wet indeed, and quite chilled, and we were all cold
and miserable. Still, our faith never gave way—some, I know, began to
doubt a little, but they had not yet lost all faith, and discouraged
and wretched, as indeed we were, the greater number bore up with heroic
resolution. I noticed, however, on the faces of some poor souls—men
and women—a peculiar expression which it is quite impossible for me to
describe. Later on I was led to believe that at that time they, perhaps
unconsciously, felt the presentiment of that fearful death which so soon
overtook them.
“We suffered much at night. You may remember that I told you we were only
allowed seventeen pounds of clothing and bedding, and that, of course,
was of little use. Sleeping in a tent, under any circumstances, is not
generally pleasant to those who are accustomed to the shelter of a house;
but sleeping in a tent, exposed to the keen night air of a wilderness,
and with scarcely a rag of covering, was almost sufficient to prove fatal
to the stoutest and strongest. During the summer time, although our fare
was scanty and our labour incessant, we rose each morning refreshed and
strengthened, and ready for the toils of the day. But now we crept out of
our tents cramped and miserable, half-frozen, and with our eyes red and
tearful with the cold. We seemed to have no life left in us.
“These things soon began to tell upon the health of every one of us,
especially upon the aged and those who were sickly. Hope at last died out
in their poor weary hearts. One by one they fell off—utterly worn out.
Poor things! how they had longed to see the promised Zion, and now all
expectation of peaceful rest on earth was over—the bitter end had come.
“We dug graves for them by the wayside in the desert, and there we laid
them with many tears, scarcely daring to look one another in the face,
for we felt that our own time might perhaps be nearer than we thought.
“One by one at first they fell off, but before long the deaths became so
frequent that it was seldom that we left a camp-ground without burying
one or more. This was, however, only the beginning of evil.
“Soon it was no longer the aged and sickly who were taken off, but the
young and strong, who under other circumstances would have set disease
and death at defiance. Cold, hunger, and excessive toil brought on
dysentery; and when once attacked by that there was little hope for the
sufferer, for we had no medicine, and it was quite out of our power to
give them relief in any other way. I now began to fear for my husband,
for I had noticed for some time an expression of extreme weariness in his
face. Our trials had not hardened our hearts; on the contrary, I think,
as death seemed to be drawing near, our affection for each other grew
more pure and devoted, and in my heart I often prayed, that if it were
His will, God would let us die together and rest in the same grave. We
never spoke a word to each other on this subject, but we felt the more.
I exerted all my strength, and day after day toiled along at his side,
helping him all I could; but although he never complained, I saw in his
eyes a dull and heavy look which, more than any words, told of failing
strength and the approach of disease, and my heart sank within me.
“But my own troubles did not alone engross my attention; there was too
much wretchedness around us to allow any one to be absorbed entirely in
his own griefs. Acts of devotion on the part of both parents and children
came before me daily such as would have put to shame the stories of
filial and parental piety which we used to be taught at school.
“I saw one poor man, whose health had evidently never been strong, draw
the cart with his two little ones in it, as well as the baggage, mile
after mile, until he could hardly drag his weary limbs a step further;
his wife carried a little five-months old baby in her bosom. This they
did day after day, until disease attacked the husband, and it was evident
that he could bear up no longer. The next morning I saw him, pale as a
corpse, bowed down, and shivering in every limb, but still stumbling on
as best he could. Before the day was half over, the poor wife lagged
behind with her babe, and the husband did not seem to notice her. This
was not the result of heartlessness on his part; I believe that even then
he had lost all consciousness. He did not know it, but he was dying.
Still he stumbled on, until the short wintry day came to a close, and we
pitched our camp, and then I missed him. There was no time to inquire,
and a chill came over my heart as I thought of what might be his fate.
Presently my husband came to the tent and told me all. The poor man had
dragged the cart up to the last moment, and, when the company halted
for the night, he had turned aside, and sitting down he bowed his head
between his knees and never spoke again. Later still, the poor wife
reached the camp, and I saw her then. There was no tear in her eyes,
and she uttered neither cry nor moan, but there was upon her features a
terrible expression of fixed despair which I dared not even look upon.
“A few days after this, one morning as we were almost ready to start, I
saw that poor mother in her tent, just as they had found her. She was
cold and still—frozen to death—her sorrows were over at last, and her
poor weary spirit was at rest; but on her bosom, still clasped in her
arms, and still living, was her little child, unconscious of its mother’s
fate.
“Most of those who died, as far as I could tell, seemed to pass away
quietly and with little pain, as if every feeling of the heart were
numbed and dead. But my own sufferings and fears at that time were so
great that I could not be a very close observer. Strange as it may
seem, the fear of death did not so much appear to terrify these poor
victims as the thought that their bodies would be buried by the wayside
in the desert, instead of in the sacred ground of Zion. Poor souls! the
absorbing passion of their life was strong in death.
“As death thinned our ranks, the labours of those who survived were
increased, until at last there were hardly enough left with strength
sufficient to pitch our tents at night. A great deal devolved upon the
captain of our hundred, Elder Chislett. He is a very good man, and a
devoted Saint; and I am glad to say that both he and a lady to whom he
was betrothed, and who was also with our company, escaped with their
lives. I have often seen him, when we stopped for the night, carrying the
sick and feeble on his back from the waggon to the fire, and then working
harder than a slave would work in putting things straight for the night.
He showed a great many kindnesses to my husband and myself.
“But individual efforts availed nothing against fatigue and hunger,
and the fearful cold. To the minds of all of us, the end was fast
approaching. Nothing but our faith sustained us; and foolish as many
people would think that faith, I am quite sure, that but for it, no
living soul of all our company would have ever reached Salt Lake.
“At last the storm came, and the snow fell—I think it must have been at
least five or six inches deep within half an hour. The wind was very
keen and cutting, and it drifted the snow right into our faces; and thus
blinded by the storm, and scarcely able to stand, we stumbled on that day
for fully sixteen miles. What we suffered it would be useless for me to
attempt to describe. Some of the scenes we witnessed were heart-rending.
[Illustration: OVER AT LAST.
_To face p. 136._]
“There was a young girl, with whom I was very well acquainted, and whom I
saw struggling in the snow, clinging to one of the hand-carts, and vainly
trying to help in pushing it on, but really doing just the contrary. She
is now in Salt Lake City, a helpless cripple, her limbs downwards having
been frozen during that storm, and subsequently amputated. A poor old
woman, too, whom I think you must have known in London, lingered behind
later in the day. When night came on it was impossible for any one to
go back to search for her, but, in the morning, not very far from the
camp, some torn rags—the remains of her dress—were found, a few bones, a
quantity of hair, and at a little distance a female skull, well gnawed,
and with the marks of the wolf-fangs still wet upon it;—the snow all
round was crimsoned with blood.
“We halted for a little while in the middle of that day, and to our
surprise and joy, Joseph A. Young and Elder Stephen Taylor drove into
the camp. We found that when the returning missionaries, of whom I have
already told you, left us by the Platte river, they made their way as
speedily as they could to Salt Lake City. Joseph A., who felt deeply for
our sufferings, although he had been away from home for two whole years,
hastened to his father, and reported to him the condition in which we
were. Brigham Young was of course anxious to undo the mischief which had
resulted from the people following his inspired counsel, and at his son’s
earnest entreaty allowed him to return with provisions and clothing to
meet us. Joseph A. lost no time, but pressed on to the rescue, and having
told us that assistance was on the way, hastened eastward to meet the
company that was following us.
“I cannot tell you what a relief this intelligence was to the minds of
all, and how much the poor people felt encouraged by it. But as for me,
at that time my heart was sad enough. For some time my husband’s strength
had evidently been failing, and for the last two days I had felt very
serious apprehensions on his behalf. He had been overtasked, and like
the rest of us he was starving with cold and hunger, and I saw that he
could not hold out much longer. My worst fears were speedily realized.
We had not journeyed half a mile from the place where we rested at noon,
when, blinded by the snow, and completely broken down, he dropped the
rail of the cart, and I saw that he could go no further. How I felt,
you, as a wife and mother, only can guess. In a moment my own weakness
was forgotten; my love for my husband made me strong again. To leave
him there or to delay would have been death to one if not all of us.
So I called to those who shared the cart with us, and they helped me
as well as they could to lift my husband up, and put him under part
of the bedding. It was the only chance of saving his life; for, as I
before mentioned, some, previous to this, who had been overcome, and had
lingered by the way, had been frozen to death or devoured by the wolves.
“I then took hold of the cross-bar or handle of the cart, and numbed with
the cold, and trembling in every limb, it was as much as I could do to
raise it from the ground. To move the cart was impossible, so I appealed
to the old folks again, and they exerted all their strength to push it
from behind, and our combined efforts at length succeeded; but the chief
weight fell upon me. How gladly I bore it; how gladly I would have borne
anything for the mere chance of saving my dear husband’s life, your own
heart can tell.
“The snow drifted wildly around us, and beat in our faces so blindingly
that we could hardly proceed. The greater part of the train had passed on
while we delayed on account of my husband, and now every one was making
the most desperate efforts to keep up with the rest; to be left behind
was death. Had I been asked whether under any circumstances I could have
dragged that heavy cart along in all that storm, I should certainly have
replied that it would be utterly impossible; but until we are tried we
do not know what we can bear. It was not until the night came on, and we
pitched our tents, that I realized what I had passed through.
“They helped me to carry my husband to the tent, and there we laid him,
and I tried to make him as easy as was possible under the circumstances,
but comfort or rest was altogether out of the question. All that night
I sat beside him, sometimes watching, sometimes falling into a fitful
sleep. I did not believe that he would live through the night. In the
morning he was by no means improved, and then I felt too truly the abject
misery of our position. It is a painful thing to watch at the bedside of
those we love when hope for their recovery is gone; but think what it
must be to sit upon the cold earth in the tent, upon the open desert,
with the piercing wind of winter penetrating to the very bones, and there
before you, the dear one—your life, your all on earth—dying, and you
without a drop of medicine, or even a morsel of the coarsest nourishment,
to give him. Oh, the bitterness of my soul at that moment! I tried to
pray, but my heart was full of cursing; it seemed to me as if even God
Himself had forgotten us. The fearful misery of that dark hour has left
on my soul itself a record as ineffaceable as the imprint of a burning
iron upon the flesh.
“The morning broke at last, dark and dreary, and a thick heavy mantle
of snow covered all the camp; but we contrived to communicate with each
other, and soon it was whispered that five poor creatures had been found
dead in the tents. Want, and weariness, and the bitter cold, had done
their work, and we did not weep for them—they were at rest; but for
ourselves we wept that we were left behind—and we looked at one another,
wistfully, wondering which of us would be taken next.
“We buried those five poor frozen corpses in one grave, wrapped in the
clothing in which they died, and then we comforted each other as best
we might, and left the dead who were now beyond our reach, that we
might do what we could for those who were fast following them to the
grave. A meeting of the leaders was held, and it was resolved that we
should remain where we were until the promised supplies reached us.
We could not, in fact, do otherwise, for the snow was so deep that
it was impossible for us to proceed, and the sick and dying demanded
immediate attention. That morning, for the first time, no flour was
distributed—there was none. All that remained, besides our miserable
cattle, was a small quantity of hard biscuit which Captain Willie bought
at Laramie, and a few pounds of rice and dried apples. Nearly all the
biscuit was at once divided among the whole company, and the few pounds
which remained, together with the rice and apples, were given to Elder
Chislett for the use of the sick and the very little children. They also
killed two of the cattle and divided the beef. Most of the people got
through their miserable allowance that very morning, and then they had to
fast.
“Captain Willie set out that morning with another Elder to meet the
coming supplies and hasten them on, and as we saw them disappear in the
distant west we almost felt as if our last hope departed with them, so
many chances there were that we should never see them again.
“The whole of that long, long day I sat beside my husband in the tent—and
I might almost say I did no more. There was nothing that I could do. The
little bedding that was allowed for both of us I made up into a couch
for him; but what a wretched makeshift it was! And I got from Elder
Chislett a few of the dried apples which had been reserved for the sick;
but it was not until nightfall that my husband was capable of swallowing
anything—and then, what nourishment to give to a sick man! The day was
freezing cold, and I had hardly anything on me, and had eaten nothing
since the day before; for my mind was so agitated that I do not think the
most delicate food would have tempted me. God alone knows the bitterness
of my heart as I sat there during all that weary day. I never expected to
see my husband open his eyes again, and I thought that when evening came
I would lie down beside him, and we would take our last long sleep on
earth together.
“When night came on and all was dark I still sat there; I dreaded to
move lest I should learn the terrible truth—my husband dead! I looked
towards the place where I knew he was lying, but I could see nothing. I
listened, and I fancied that I heard a gentle breathing—but it was only
fancy. Then, louder than the incessant moaning of the wind, I could hear
in the distance a fearful cry—a cry which had often chilled our hearts
at midnight on the plains—it was the wolves! The darkness grew darker
still—so thick that one could almost feel it; the horror of death seemed
stealing over all my senses. Oh that there might be one long eternal
night to blot out for ever our miseries and our existence. I threw my
hands wildly above me, and cried bitterly, ‘Oh God, my God, _let me die_!’
“God was nearer to me than I thought. As my hand dropped lifelessly to
the ground it touched some moving thing—it was my husband’s hand—the
same hand which I had watched in the twilight, stiffening, as I thought,
in death. The long, thin fingers grasped my own, and though they were
very, very cold, I felt that life was in them; and as I stooped down to
kiss them I heard my husband’s voice, very weak and feeble, saying in a
whisper, ‘Mary.’ I threw myself upon his bosom. In a moment the fear of
death—the longing for death—the wild and terrible thoughts, all had gone;
the sound of that voice was life to me, and forgetful of his weakness,
forgetful of everything but him, I threw myself upon his bosom and wept
tears of joy.
“Very carefully and gently I raised him up, and, in the darkness, every
whispered word conveyed more meaning to my mind than all his eloquence
in by-gone times. After some time I persuaded him to take a little
nourishment—miserable stuff that it was—and presently he fell asleep
again. I laid his dear head upon the best pillow that I could make of
some of my own clothes, and then I slept a little myself—not much, but it
was more refreshing than any sleep that had visited my eyes for a long
time past—hope had come again.
“The next morning my husband was evidently better, and I knelt down
beside him and thanked God for the miracle that He had wrought; for was
it not a miracle thus to raise my dead to life again? How many stronger,
stouter men than he had I seen fall sick and die; but to me God had shown
mercy in my utmost need.
“We waited three long days for the return of Captain Willie. My heart was
so full of thankfulness that my husband had been spared that I certainly
did not feel so acutely the misery with which I was surrounded as I
otherwise should have done; I was like the prisoner who feels happy in a
reprieve from death, but whose situation is nevertheless such as would
appear to any other person the most wretched in which he could be placed.
The misery that was suffered in that camp was beyond the power of words
to describe. On the second day they gave us some more beef-rations,
but they did us little good. The beef was, of course, of the poorest,
and, eaten alone, it did not seem to satisfy hunger, and those who were
prostrated by dysentery, although they ate it ravenously, suffered much
in consequence afterwards.
“The number of the sick rapidly increased, and not a few died from
exhaustion; and really those seemed happiest who were thus taken from the
horrors which surrounded them. Had it not been for the intense frost, we
should all probably have fallen victims to the intolerable atmosphere of
the camp. I would not even allow my mind to recall some of the scenes
which I witnessed at that time: scenes, the disgusting and filthy horrors
of which no decent words could describe. When you consider the frightful
condition in which we were, the hunger and cold which we endured, you may
perhaps be able in a small degree to conjecture—as far as a person can
conjecture who has not himself suffered such things—what we then passed
through. I saw poor miserable creatures, utterly worn out, dying in the
arms of other forlorn and hopeless creatures as wretched as themselves; I
saw strong and honest, honourable men, or who had once been such, begging
of the captain for the miserable scraps which had been saved for the sick
and the helpless children; I saw poor heart-broken mothers freezing to
death, but clasping as they died, in an agony of loving woe, the torn
and wretched remnants of clothing which they still retained, around the
emaciated forms of their innocent babes—the mother-instinct strong in
death; and sometimes at night when, all unbidden, I see again in dreams
the awful sufferings of those poor God-forsaken wretches, I start in
horror and pray the Almighty rather to blot out from my mind the memory
of _all_ the past, than to let me ever recollect, if but in fancy, that
fearful time.
“The third day came, and still no relief. There are mysterious powers of
endurance in human nature, weak as we often deem it, but there is a point
beyond which the bow, however flexible, will not bend. It was evident
that if no help arrived speedily, the end was not far off.
“The sun was sinking behind the distant western hills, in all the glory
of the clear frosty atmosphere of the desert, and many who gazed upon
its beauty did so with a mournful interest, believing that they would
never again behold the light of day. But at that moment some who were
anxiously watching with a last hope—watching for what they hardly dared
expect to see—raised a shout of joy. We knew what it was! Men, women, and
children rushed from their tents to welcome the approaching waggons and
our friends in time of need. Captain Willie and the other Elder had found
the rescue from Salt Lake overtaken by the storm just as we were, but he
had told them of our terrible situation, and they had hastened on without
a moment’s delay. It was he and they, convoying good supplies, who now
approached us. The poor creatures shouted wildly for joy; even the strong
men shed tears; and the sisters, overcome with the sudden change from
death to life, flung themselves into the arms of the brethren as they
came into the camp and covered them with kisses. Such happiness you never
saw—every one shaking hands and speaking joyfully—every one saying ‘God
bless you’ with a meaning such as is seldom attached to those words.
“The supplies were to us more than food and clothing—they were life
itself. Elder John Chislett was appointed to distribute the provisions
and clothing, and everything was placed in his hands. He gave out to us
all that was immediately necessary, but strongly cautioned us to be very
moderate in what we ate, as it was dangerous to go from the extreme of
fasting to a full meal. After supper the clothing and bedding was fairly
divided, and we felt more thankful for those little comforts than a
person, who had never endured as we had, would have felt had he become
suddenly the recipient of boundless luxury.
“Two of the Elders who had held forth such delusive hopes to the company,
not long before, as I have already told you, were with the brethren who
came to our relief. I have never ventured to ask how it was that they
could hold out to us in God’s name such promises, when they must have
known after a moment’s reflection, that they were utterly baseless; but
I think that probably they left their comfortable homes in Salt Lake City
and came across the stormy desert with supplies to meet us, only to show
practically how anxious they were to atone for having led us astray. Next
morning Elder Grant went on east to meet the company following us, but
Elder W. H. Kimball took command of our company for the rest of the way.
“We could now journey but very slowly, for the road was bad; the sick and
weakly were, however, able to ride, and altogether we suffered less. To
some this change for the better arrived too late—the mental and physical
sufferings which they had endured were too much for them. Poor souls!
they alone and their Father in heaven knew what they had passed through.
They seemed to have lost all consciousness, as if their faculties had
been numbed and stultified. We talked to them of the past, but they
looked at us with unmeaning eyes, as if we spoke of something in which
they had no interest; we tried to lead their thoughts to Zion, and the
promises of the Lord; but it was all in vain. They turned from us with a
look of terrible apathy; and one or two, who partly seemed to understand,
only replied with an indifference painful to witness—‘Too late, too late!’
“As we journeyed, the weather every day grew colder. Many of the
unfortunate people lost their fingers and toes, others their ears; one
poor woman lost her sight, and I was told of a poor sick man who held on
to the waggon-bars to save himself from jolting, and had all his fingers
frozen off. Few, if any, of the people recovered from the effects of
that frost. One morning they found a poor old man who had vainly tried
the evening before to keep up with the rest. His corpse was not far
from the camp, but it had been sadly mangled by the wolves. Then there
came another snow-storm, only worse in proportion as the weather was
colder, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could be kept from
freezing. We wrapped blankets and anything else we could get around us,
but the cold wind penetrated to our very bones. I was told that some of
the people, even women and children, who lagged behind, were whipped so
as to make them keep up, and to keep life in them. I did not see this
myself; but I believe, if the story was true, it was an act of mercy
and not of cruelty, for to delay a moment was fatal. The captain of our
hundred more than once stayed behind the company to bury some unfortunate
person who died on the road: how he ever got up with us again I cannot
tell, but he seemed to be as indefatigable in his labours as he was
wonderfully preserved.
“Sometimes the carts came to a dead stand-still, and several had to be
fastened together and drawn by a united effort, and in more than one
instance the poor people gave up altogether;—they were carried on, while
they lived, as well as we could; but their carts were abandoned. The
stragglers came in slowly to camp the night of the storm—the people from
the Valley even went back to fetch some in—and it was nearly six o’clock
in the morning before the last arrived.
“The next day we remained in camp, for there were so many sick and dying
that we could not proceed. Early in the morning Elder Chislett and three
other Elders went round to see who was dead, that they might be buried.
They found in the tents fifteen corpses—all stiff and frozen. Two more
died during the day. A large square hole was dug, and they were buried in
it three abreast, and then they were covered with leaves and earth, every
precaution being taken to keep them from the wolves. Few of the relatives
of those who were dead came to the burial—they did not seem to care—death
had become familiar to them, and personal misery precluded sorrow for the
dead.
“As we drew nearer to Salt Lake Valley we met more of the brethren
coming to our assistance. They supplied us with all we needed, and then
hastened on to meet those who followed us. The atmosphere seemed to
become sensibly warmer, and our sufferings were proportionately less as
we approached Zion.
“What the feelings of others might have been when they first saw the goal
of our hopes—Zion of our prayers and songs—I cannot tell. Weary, oh _so_
weary I felt, but thankful, more than thankful, that my husband’s life
had been spared. He was pale and sick, but he was with us still.
“I have written too much already, Sister Stenhouse. I cannot tell you
more now, but I may as well add that when we left Iowa City we were about
five hundred in all. Some left us on the way. When we left Florence,
and began the journey across the Plains, we were over four hundred and
twenty, of which number we buried sixty-seven—a sixth of the whole. The
company which followed us, and to which I have frequently alluded, fared
worse than we. They numbered six hundred when they started, but they
buried one hundred and fifty on the journey—one in every four. May God
grant that I may never again see such a sight as was presented by the
miserable remnant of that last company as they came on slowly through the
Cañon towards Salt Lake Valley.”