MY HUSBAND DISFELLOWSHIPPED—WE APOSTATIZE—BRUTAL OUTRAGE UPON MY HUSBAND
AND MYSELF.
Notwithstanding all my own personal troubles and the difficulties which
surrounded us, the loss of my dear friend affected me very deeply.
And yet her story is the same as might be told of hundreds of other
English girls who have been lured from their happy homes and have died
broken-hearted and neglected in Utah.
Now came that change in our life which I had so long hoped for, but which
had always seemed to me so very far distant. We had been tossed by many
a storm, but the violence of this last gale was such that it forced us
clean out of the sea of Mormonism, and landed us high and dry upon the
firm ground of Apostasy.
About the time when my husband returned with his paper to Salt Lake
City, the _Utah Magazine_, a liberal journal just struggling into
existence, began to call in question some of Brigham’s measures; and
the editors, who were all men of some mark in the Mormon Church,
presumed to hint that the people had rights and privileges as well as
the Priesthood. This was done in a very quiet, unobtrusive way; but it
was, nevertheless, pronounced rebellion and apostasy. My husband’s paper
was silent upon the subject; and, in consequence, he was suspected of
being in league with the enemy. This was another good reason why the
people should be “counselled” not to take the _Telegraph_. Although he
was not yet sufficiently advanced in thought to give much direct aid to
the questioners of Brigham’s authority, I saw with pleasure that he did
not wish to oppose them; the tone of his paper was evidently changing,
and the articles which appeared from time to time gave serious offence
to Brigham Young. This, however, was not all his wrong-doing; he had of
late been neglectful in his attendance at the “School of the Prophets”—a
meeting which was then held every Saturday for the benefit of the Elders.
Together with the editors of the _Utah Magazine_, Mr. Stenhouse and
one or two others were summoned to appear at the School, to give their
reasons for previous non-attendance. This they had all along anticipated,
and were therefore not surprised at the summons, but they hardly expected
that Brigham would act so precipitately; for, without waiting to hear
their reasons, he disfellowshipped them all for irregular attendance.
Brigham’s assumption of the right to disfellowship men from the Church
because of irregular attendance at the School was a stretch of authority
which startled my husband: “What will he not do next?” he said. “To
submit would be to acknowledge him absolute, and myself a slave. There is
but one alternative now—slavery or freedom. Cost me what it may, I _will_
be free!”
In August of the same year my husband sent a respectful and kindly letter
to the Bishop of our ward, stating that he had no faith in Brigham’s
claim to an “Infallible Priesthood,” and that he considered that he ought
to be cut off from the Church. I added a postscript, stating that I
wished to share my husband’s fate—little thinking that within three days
my request would be answered in a too literal manner.
A little after ten o’clock on the Saturday night succeeding our
withdrawal from the Church, we were returning home together. The night
was very dark, and as our residence was in the suburbs of the City, north
of the Temple block, and the road very quiet, the walk was a very lonely
one and perhaps not altogether too safe. We had gone about a third of
the way, when we suddenly saw four men come out from under some trees
at a little distance from us. In the gloom of the night we could only
see them very indistinctly, and could not distinguish who they were.
They separated; and two of them came forward and stumbled up against
us, and two passed on beside us. For a moment I thought that they were
intoxicated, but it was soon clear that they were acting from design.
As soon as they approached, they seized hold of my husband’s arms, one
on each side, and held him firmly, thus rendering him almost powerless.
They were all masked, for it was supposed that thus we should not be able
to discover their identity, and that if by any chance an investigation
should subsequently be made into the doings of that night it would not be
possible for any one to witness against them.
The movements of the two men who held my husband were somewhat impeded by
my clinging to his arm, and they seemed to hesitate for a moment. The
other two, who stood a few feet distant from us, also hesitated. One of
the men who held my husband said to them, “Brethren, do your duty.” We
recognized his voice at once as that of a policeman, Philips, a young man
whom we had known in Southampton, England, when a child.
In an instant I saw them raise their arms, as if taking aim, and for
one brief second I thought that our end had now surely come, and that
we, like so many obnoxious persons before us, were about to be murdered
for the great sin of Apostasy. This, I firmly believe, would have been
my husband’s fate, if I had not chanced to be with him, or had I run
away—they would probably have beaten him to death—they were two of the
regular and two of the special policemen—and then, the next morning, they
would have “discovered” the body, and it would have been said that he
had been murdered by the Gentiles or Apostates in a personal quarrel. My
presence somewhat disarranged their plans, and it was that probably which
caused the two men to hesitate, not knowing what would be considered
their “duty” under present circumstances.
A much less noble fate than assassination was reserved for us. The
wretches, although otherwise well armed, were not holding revolvers
in their hands as I first supposed. They were furnished with huge
garden-syringes charged with the most disgusting filth, in the
preparation of which they took especial pains. So kindred to their own
base natures was such an act, that I doubt not they found it quite a
labour of love. The moment the syringes were pointed at us, my husband,
thinking a shot was coming, moved his head, and thus to a certain
extent escaped the full force of the discharge. I, however, was not so
fortunate. My hair, bonnet, face, clothes, person—every inch of my body,
every shred that I wore—were in an instant saturated, from head to foot.
The villains, when they had perpetrated this disgusting and brutal
outrage, turned and fled. We ran after them for some little distance,
but we had no arms and nothing with which to defend ourselves; in fact,
we pursued them instinctively rather than with any idea of overtaking
them. There was another man standing a little distance off in the
direction in which they were running, and we could not tell how many
might be concealed. The place, too, was dark and lonely, for they had
gone behind the Temple block—a fit corner for murderers to skulk in; a
convenient spot for the commission of any unholy deed. I was burning
with indignation, and longed to revenge myself upon the brutal cowards
who had assaulted us. In my anger I called upon them to come and kill us
outright, for I would have preferred death to such an indignity. I almost
wonder that they did not take me at my word and return and finish their
foul work, for they have long acted upon the principle that “dead men
tell no tales.”
I shall never forget that night. I declared that henceforth I would
tear from my heart every association, every memory, every affection,
which still remained to bind me to Mormonism; not one solitary link
should be left. Henceforth I would be the declared and open enemy of the
Priesthood. To the utmost of my power—weak though I might be—I would
arouse the women of Utah to a sense of the wrongs which they endured; I
would proclaim to the world the disgrace which Mormonism is to the great
American nation, the foul blot that it is upon Christianity and the
civilization of the age!
My son-in-law, Joseph A. Young, on the night of the attack, offered a
reward to the chief of the police for the apprehension of the ruffians;
but we knew well enough they would never be discovered. A few Gentile
friends also offered a reward of five hundred dollars for any evidence
that might lead to their identification; but nothing, of course, was
elicited.