JOHN OPENS HIS MOUTH
On the following Sabbath Captain Van Arden attended divine service, and he was not as surprised as he would have been a week ago, to hear and see the calm, mighty courage which animated every face and spoke in every voice. Here was a handful of wronged and hunted religionists, whose only crime was in desiring to serve God in a way peculiar to themselves. He had walked the streets at darkest midnight, and not once had he seen or heard one word of drunkenness, ribaldry or obscenity. He had failed to find any traces of licentiousness, such as the ugly rumors he had heard before coming here, had led him to expect. Instead, he felt himself surrounded by an implacable circle of watchful care, which prevented him from entering into any relations with women, even the harmless one of mild flirtation with the pretty brown-haired girl he had met at Bishop Winthrop's home. Certainly he had received some enlarged ideas on the subject of religious persecution.
He listened attentively to Apostle John Taylor, who, at the close of his remarks, repeated the statement he had heard before, that the army should not be allowed to enter the Valley; and then, in ringing tones, the preacher asked all who would apply the torch to their dwellings, cut down their trees and lay waste their farms, to raise their hands.
The captain rose in his seat to see the effect of this powerful appeal. Not one hand in that vast assembly of four thousand people, was left to rest in cowardly silence in its owner's lap; but like a unit, the clouds of hands arose. Some horny and worn with toil and poverty; others, soft and white with youth and womanhood; and even little children in their eager, unconscious zeal, elevated their hands high in sympathy with their elders.
The captain felt awed and overcome. Up in his throat rose a lump of sympathy and admiration for this heroic people. He expected to find a seditious and priest-ridden community, mouth-valiant and few in number, whom the mere appearance of troops would tame into submission. He found instead, a handful of enthusiasts rising against the might of a great nation.
When President Young arose to speak the Captain felt a genuine response in his own breast to the vigorous and manly sentiments uttered by the "Mormon" leader:
"When the time comes to lay waste our dwellings and our improvements, if any man undertakes to shield his, he will be treated as a traitor. Now, the faint-hearted can go in peace, but should that time come, they must not interfere. Before we will again suffer as we have in times gone by, there shall not one building, nor one foot of lumber, nor a fence, nor a tree, nor a particle of grass or hay that will burn, be left in the reach of our enemies. I am sworn if driven to the last extremities, utterly to lay waste this land in the name of Israel's God, and our enemies shall find it as barren as when we came here."
At the close of the services the Captain sought President Young, surrounded by his friends and associate pioneers; the officer grasped and held the hand of the maligned leader, and with a voice shaken with emotion, declared his sympathy and fellowship with this band of earnest enthusiasts.
"President Young, my whole heart goes out to you in this cause. I am sure no one in the central government understands the real condition of affairs here. I shall hasten to President Buchanan and when he understands the true situation, be assured there will be a cessation of this war-like movement."
"Perhaps," said the President, "he will not accept your version of the affair."
"He must listen; he shall be convinced. By the eternal heavens, if our government pushes this matter to the extent of making war upon you, I will withdraw from the army, for I will not have a hand in the shedding of the blood of American citizens."
"We shall trust in God, Captain. He will open our way before us. Congress has promptly sent investigating committees to Kansas and other places as occasion has required; but upon the merest rumor, it has sent two thousand armed soldiers to destroy the people of Utah, without investigating the matter at all."
"The government may yet send an investigating committee to Utah, and consider it good policy to do so, before they get through."
"I believe that God has sent you here, Captain Van Arden, and that good will grow out of it. I was glad when I heard you had come."
"I am anxious to get back to Washington as soon as I can. I have heard officially that General Harney has been removed to Kansas. I shall stop the trains at Ham's Fork on my own responsibility."
"If we can keep peace for this winter, I think that something will transpire that will stop the shedding of blood. God bless you, captain, in all your labors and efforts to bring about so desirable a condition."
Notwithstanding the gallant captain's generosity and nobility, John Stevens, who had heard every word uttered between him and his own beloved leader, was greatly pleased and relieved to receive orders to accompany the Captain early the next morning on his homeward destination.
John felt no shadow of fear or doubt about the coming issue between the picked army of the United States and the struggling guerillas of his own Territory; but it filled his soul with a vague dread and alarm to look forward to a possible contact between the youth of his people and the alluring sins and vices of the world at large.
He was surprised, therefore, as the two men rode along in the cool, September morning, up through the rough canyon gorges, to have the captain turn to him with a question upon the very subject which was occupying his own thoughts.
"Stevens, was I wrong in supposing that although your people greeted me with such noble welcomes, yet there was a barrier raised between any especial friendliness between me and any of your women?"
"Did you make any effort to be especially familiar with our women?" asked John, cautiously.
"Ah, Stevens, you are a genuine Yankee. You answer my question by asking another; and I may not care to commit myself. You have some very fascinating and really intelligent women among your people. I saw some lovely faces in your bowery yesterday."
"Well, yes, our girls are tolerably good-looking."
"Oh, Stevens, no wonder your girls long for a breath of worldly freedom, if all your young men are as cautious and unenthusiastic about them as you seem to be," laughed the captain.
"Do our girls long for worldly pleasures?"
"Another question; I see, my taciturn friend, that the only way to open your oyster of a mouth is to turn confidential myself and open my own heart to you. I confess to some curiosity as to the inner condition of your social affairs. Now, I am quite willing to further confess that I was never more impressed with the grace and magnificence of womanhood than I was when I saw it embodied in those two young girls I met at your Bishop Winthrop's. Such unconscious charm and beauty, I had never seen before. And the brown-haired one was evidently not unkindly disposed to me; however, of course I had not time, even if I had been given the opportunity to go deeper than a profound admiration for the lovely and winsome sprite. She was not forward, although perfectly free and familiar, if I may so express it."
"Did Ellen, for that is her name, express to you any such feelings as you infer our girls possess?"
"Well, yes; she casually mentioned her desire to see and know something of the great, beautiful, unknown world stretching out behind these rugged mountains."
"And you?"
"I was a guest and a stranger, and, I hope, also a gentleman. I could not but admire and be impressed by her innocence, but I also respected and guarded it."
"I believe you are a good man, Captain Van Arden; but you are not of our faith. And if you read the old Scriptures, you will find that God sets a curse on those of His chosen people who marry with unbelievers. God surely knows why this should be so."
"I can't see for the life of me, why one good man is not as good as another; if you believe in the Bible, you must acknowledge that we are all one family, and all children of one Father. Why should you presume to be better than I?"
"It is not an assumption, or an impudence. There is an eternal law which underlies this principle. Perhaps I cannot make it plain to you, but it exists, else God would not have announced it. God is a Master gardener. He does not mix His blooms and fruits, but sets each to multiply with each; nor does He ever mix the birds and animals; else sterility would result. But to His children He has given their agency as their dearest possession; and they use that agency like the reckless spend-thrifts and bunglers that they are. Only man may mix his seed and still retain a measure of fertility. We are eternal. Our spirits sang together when this earth was created, and to each is allotted a time and a destiny; but always our free agency comes in to disturb and confuse that destiny. Yet, only by using that free agency, can we work out our exaltation in the world to come. If we would be prudent, we would let the great Gardener train and trim our lives to His own matchless design. It is the ancient Hebrews, who have preserved to the world the best that we know of home, brotherhood, love, and life eternal; and in their national individuality and history we have the most perfect example of the fruits of careful breeding. Where they have observed the traditions of the fathers, they are strong, domestic, clean, faithful, loving and true. This fact, with all the Israelite's faults, is the lamp which has lighted Christianity for the rest of mankind to see by. If the Jews had mixed with all creation, where would their autonomy be today? Why shall the true Christian hesitate to abide by an eternal truth because of ridicule? The religious emotions are the deepest founts of the human soul. Make them muddy, confuse their source, and you have lost their purity and their worth. All men may believe in Christ, but all do not follow Him; for He came to fulfil, not to abrogate the laws of Moses. Love is too often the result of propinquity, or passion. More: I am convinced that God has mated His children in spirit before they ever dwelt upon this earth. There is a divine belongingness in marriage; and if we will follow the guidance of that unerring spirit, we will not mix our lives nor confuse our destiny; there will be no bungling confusion or muddled strains in races or religions. I do not think all people will be converted to the Gospel in this life; nor that they could be. Nor that all men and women are rightly mated. But all will have a chance behind the veil, for we hold the doctrine of salvation for the dead to be as true as Peter and Paul held it. [A]
[Footnote A: Read I Peter, 3rd chap. verses 18 to 20; also I Peter, chap. 4, verse 6, and I Corinthians, chap. 15, verse 29.]
"Our religion, like our politics, is much a matter of temperament. But the day will come in the great hereafter, when gradually all men will learn and accept the perfect Gospel of peace and right. Meanwhile, let not those who have been so greatly blessed as to see the Truth, confuse themselves and weaken their powers for good by joining themselves for life with those who know not and love not the Truth. As is the husband, so is the wife. As is the wife, alas, so becomes the husband, sooner or later."
"Stevens," said the captain, "you can expound and exhort like the rest of your elders, even if you do not waste time in general conversation," then with a twinkle in his eye, the captain added, "You recall to my mind a scathing assertion I heard uttered by an apostate in your Valley. He said that you 'Mormons' believed that no woman could be exalted in the Kingdom of Heaven without a man. Is that so?" and the soldier looked shrewdly at his companion.
"Yes, captain; that is correct."
Astonished by this frank admission, the captain rode on in silence for some moments. Then, as if to add point to his rejoinder, John Stevens drew in his horse, and turned in his saddle to look his companion full in the eye:
"Yes, sir, that is our belief. But we also hold that no man can be exalted in the Kingdom of Heaven without a woman. Don't you recollect that Paul says the woman is not without the man, nor the man without the woman in Christ Jesus?"
And long before John had finished, the captain was laughing so heartily that he lost his reins.
"Well, Stevens, I give up. You are a better scriptorian than I am; even if you may be inclined to appropriate quotations a bit for your own advantage. That's no more than we all do."
John shrewdly put another question.
"Would you be willing to see your sister marry a Mormon elder?"
The captain looked amused, then amazed.
"Do you mean to imply that 'Mormons' are orthodox Christians?"
"I imply nothing. I only wondered if you would be willing to have your sister marry any virtuous man, no matter what his other condition might be, spiritual or physical."
"Well, Stevens, I fear I could not convince you, and you only further puzzle me. One thing, though, I do maintain, and that is, that every American citizen, woman as well as man, should have the right to choose his own path and companion in life. It is our birthright."
"It is, when we are old enough to know our own mind; but you would not throw your half-grown son and daughter in the midst of temptation and leave them there unprotected, to carry out that argument."
"Perhaps not, perhaps not. You have given me new food for thought, and I already have much new and valuable material for reflection and study. Let us hasten now or we may not reach our evening camp before dark."
As he lay in camp that night, the conversation repeated itself over and over in the troubled mind of John Stevens. Oh, what was the right? How he trembled at the thought of strange and scornful men being brought into this peaceful valley, and left to corrupt and estrange our thoughtless youths and beautiful girls.
He knew something of the moral conditions of men in the world and he also knew much of men in general. He felt that nothing but the keenest religious conscience could protect men from immorality of life. He raised his hand in silent agony to heaven, and swore that his whole strength and life should be devoted to protecting and shielding the youth from this terrible fate—that of too many youths in the outside world. And yet, as he himself had said, there was the divine right of self-choice, or man's agency. He groaned as the consequences of thrusting upon innocent and helpless women, as would be done, opportunities to seek their companions among camp-followers, miners, and other transients of that day. Human agency was an agency fraught with dire consequences. Would we have to meet its terrible responsibility, he asked himself?
What did the future hold in store for this hunted and persecuted people? God alone knew! It was so difficult for a man of John's temperament to say God's will be done, when it involved the life, or worse, perhaps, the virtue of men and women. For he feared for the virtue of the youths among his people quite as much as he dreaded the temptations to be offered to the maidens. To John Stevens virtue, of both man and woman, was far dearer than life.
He felt as if he must arise, and with mighty power, seize and flee with his loved ones to the safe fastnesses of the mountains.
IN ECHO CANYON
It was a lovely day in the last of September, a few days after the occurrences related in our last chapter. The air was cool, crisp, and full of the odor of pine and sagebrush. In a mountain retreat, around a gleaming fire, sat a group of men with serious, eager faces, and their talk was carried on in guarded tones.
The country was wild and barren, except that here and there along the course of a stream the willows and brush gave a little protection to man and beast. On a low hill-side to the right of the camp-fire, were tethered horses, picking a scant supper from the fall-dried plain. Not very far away yawned a huge black opening in the side of the mountain, which gave the name of Cache Cave to the spot.
The leader of the party, General Daniel H. Wells, sat in the center of the council, his fine large head and prominent features giving him a massive appearance well calculated to inspire respect and confidence. He was listening to some recital of a recent expedition from the lips of a tall, red-bearded, slow-spoken man.
"What did General Harney say when Captain Van Arden had explained to him the condition in our Territory?" asked the General.
"The General replied with an oath, 'I am ordered to Salt Lake City, and I will winter there or in hell.'"
The men around the camp-fire uttered various exclamations of determination that the violent general should be well supplied with opportunities to join his friends in the latter warm retreat.
On the right of General Wells sat an immense, broad-shouldered fellow, bearded and with eyes like an eagle. He said little, and kept his face in his hands while listening to the report of his fellow-soldier, Stevens.
"Major Smith," remarked General Wells, turning to this silent, keen-eyed giant-like officer, "you will at once proceed to the enemy's camp, and deliver these documents which have been entrusted to my care by Governor Young. Wait for a reply, see all you can, hear all you can, and make yourself, if possible, more familiar with the country surrounding us than you are at the present. There is much for you to do in the near future, if we would prevent this army from entering the Valley this winter. Do you wish any one to accompany you?"
"No, sir, I am foot-loose, and when alone, can ride as fast as I please."
Accordingly, that night, while the others were fitfully sleeping, Major Lot Smith proceeded silently out of the camp to go on his mission to the United States army, now pressing forward to Fort Winfield. Not a detail of the lonely road, not a bush nor rock; not the slightest undulation in the silent hills escaped the keen eyes of this traveler.
Arrived at the army's headquarters, Major Lot Smith was conducted to the United States General's tent, where he was received with great dignity. His papers delivered, he waited in stern silence, the reply of a tall, heavy-set, dark-complexioned man, whose prolonged silence gave him an opportunity to observe underneath the apparent coldness, a shade of anxiety and care on the officer's face, which the eagle eyes under the heavy red brows read as plainly as he did the rock-strewn roadway along which he had traveled.
"Major-General Harney has been ordered back to Kansas," remarked Col. Alexander, after reading the despatches, "and Colonel Johnston, who succeeds him, will be here in a few days. Meanwhile, I will myself undertake to reply to these remarkable documents, and shall send the answer by you, if you can wait for a few hours."
"I am here under orders to await the answers to these papers, sir," answered Smith.
"Very well, my men will attend to your needs, and while you are eating dinner, your horse shall receive attention."
Lot Smith made no reply, but bowed himself out of the presence of the officer. Instead of accepting any hospitality for himself, he eagerly, yet quietly, spent the few hours of his stay, in mastering every detail of the camp, and fixing upon his mind every word he chanced to overhear from the soldiers.
He soon ascertained that the present commanding officer was Colonel Alexander, and that the colonel was in some anxiety as to what move to make next. Smith discovered this from the remarks of a young, dark-mustached officer, who sat chatting with his companion outside of a tent door, utterly oblivious that "Mormon" ears were taking note of his extravagances.
"I have told the Colonel repeatedly," announced this young braggart, "that the only honorable and manly course to pursue, is to follow the plan laid out by Harney. Harney is a trump, by—, and I wish we had him here again instead of this wavering, chicken-hearted present administration. All we have to do is to secure most of our troops and supplies in Fort Winfield; then a few hundred of us with our knap-sacks on our back could make the valley in a few days, surprise the fanatics and poltroons down there, take possession of old Brigham's harem for our own comfort and pleasure, quarter our men in their church, and the thing is done."
"Old Brigham himself might have something to say about that," remarked one of the loungers at the tent door. "Van Arden says he is a fighter of no mean ability."
"Bah! Van Arden is easily frightened. The very first thing to be done is, of course, to string up such rabble as Young, Kimball and Wells, with others of their ilk, to the nearest tree. I have no patience with men who play into the hands of heathens and tricksters. What were we sent out here for, anyway?"
The young man looked around the circle with a sneer upon his handsome mouth, and as he met the eyes of one or another, they gave him varying replies either by word or by glance.
"I don't think any one knows just exactly what we were sent out here for," at last answered the tall, gray-eyed man who had spoken before. "I don't know that Harney, Alexander or even Buchanan himself knows exactly what we were sent here for. Presumably to install Cumming in the office to which the President has appointed him."
"And do you think that it will take the flower of the American army, and millions of dollars to do so simple a thing as that? Come, now, Saxey, you are not so innocent as that. We have a whole Territory to subdue and the seditious priests of this most villainous community are to be tried and hanged, or hanged anyway. That's what I came out here for."
"Well, I am prepared to follow my orders, no matter what they may be; but I have no desire to take part in street fights, or brawls such as was witnessed in Illinois ten years ago, when the leaders of this people were killed by the border ruffians of that State. I know something of this people from my brief association with a part of the "Mormon" Battalion, which answered our government's call for troops to march into Lower California. I never saw a braver or more devoted body of men. And I will not be a party to another outrage upon an innocent people." So spake Col. Saxey, gentleman, soldier and man.
"You and I do not indulge in street fights or brawls," replied the braggart, "but we are determined to see order and decency maintained in this government, no matter if it be at the cost of a few lives of such lecherous scoundrels as old Brigham and his priests. Why, their doings are a blotch on the escutcheon of our proud country. It is an introduction into our midst of the rotten lives and practices of the Turks and Orientals. The manhood of this nation will not endure it."
"Let us see, Sherwood," interposed the grey-eyed man, withdrawing his cigar to give emphasis to his words, "how many of Brigham's daughters or concubines have you decided shall form part of your establishment this winter?"
"Oh, plague on your Quixotism; you make no distinction between the amours of a gentleman and the vile practices of the heathens and 'Mormons.'"
The silent listener at the other side of the tent found it impossible to keep his teeth from grinding together at this moment, but he was suddenly approached by a subaltern who requested him to wait at once upon the commanding officer for his messages to Utah.
Obtaining the despatches, Major Smith started upon the return journey. It was high noon in the camp of the mountaineers, when dusty, travel-stained Lot Smith rode into the small circle. He was ushered into the tent occupied by General Wells and staff and there delivered his messages. For the first time since leaving his own camp, the Major sat down and proceeded to satisfy a soldier's appetite, and although weary and worn for sleep, he was glad to satisfy his cravings for food before resting or sleeping.
The general saw the worn condition of his faithful officer, and ordered him to his own tent until the next morning. Meanwhile a courier was sent to the valley with the despatches from the army, and a full report from General Wells and his scouts.
All that night General Wells and his staff talked, planned, and counseled. It was but little after seven o'clock when the council assembled the next morning to hear the verbal report of Major Smith and to decide upon future action.
"I overheard much of their vaunting, blasphemous determination to enter the Valley, kill or imprison our leaders, and to capture and ruin our wives and daughters. There are a few cautious, sensible men among them, such as Col. Saxey, whom you all know by reputation at least, but the majority, especially the officers, who are mostly young men of hot passions and romantic temperament, are determined to force Colonel Alexander to proceed at once to the Valley with a light detachment, to be followed by the masses of the troops, as fast as is convenient."
"Colonel Alexander informs me in his letter," said General Wells, "that he will submit our letters and despatches to General Johnston immediately upon that officer's arrival in camp; and, that meanwhile the troops are there by order of the President of the United States, and their future movements will depend upon the orders issued by competent military authority."
"What shall we do under these circumstances?" asked one of the officers.
"This is the plan adopted in our council before leaving Salt Lake City, and there sanctioned by President Young. We were to ascertain the location of the troops as soon as possible, which has now been done by Major Smith. Then we were to proceed at once to annoy them in every way possible. We are to use every exertion to stampede their animals, and are to set fire to their supply trains whenever practicable. Burn the whole country before them, and on their flanks. Keep them from sleeping by night surprises, blockade the roads by felling trees or destroying the river fords wherever we can. Watch for opportunities to set fire to the grass on their windward, so as to set fire to their trains. Leave no grass behind them that can be burned. We are to keep our men concealed as much as possible, and of course we are to guard ourselves against surprises continually."
"What if we meet a detachment and are compelled to fight," asked one of the men.
"I anticipate no such catastrophe," answered General Wells. "Brother Brigham has said that the Lord will fight our battles for us, and if we follow his counsel to the letter, we shall also be able to comply with his strictest injunctions, which are, to spare life always when possible, and not to shed a drop of blood when it can be avoided. 'Say your prayers and keep your powder dry,' was his parting admonition."
The General sat some time as if in silent meditation, and the officers present remained silent, unwilling to disturb his reflections.
At length the chief raised his head, and looking straight into the eyes of Major Smith, he asked:
"Major, do you think that you can take our small force, about forty men we have here now, and passing in the rear of the enemy, turn back and burn the supply trains on the road?"
The Major returned the intent gaze of the General, and while a dusky gleam shot through the red-brown depths of his own eyes, he only replied in words:
"Yes, sir; I think I can."
"Very well, sir, you can consider yourself under orders to carry out the plan I have just now indicated. The council is adjourned."
That these men could, at the close of their portentious council, kneel down and ask God to bless them and assist them in their undertaking, may seem strange, but they were banded together to protect the lives of their fellow-men shut up in the narrow valleys of the lower country, and they felt that if God did not interpose His power, the soldiers, accompanied as they were by a horde of blasphemous, reckless, licentious camp-followers and brawlers, would not only kill and plunder, but they would also decoy and destroy their fair wives and daughters.
They were facing no imaginary terrors, for the pangs of Illinois and Missouri were not yet blotted from the memory of even their babes. No blood would be shed, except in self-defense, but every man there was prepared to pour his life-current out like water upon the ground, if necessary, to protect their beloved homes and families and their honored leaders. God was their father and to Him they appealed.
"Say your prayers and keep your powder dry," had been the counsel of President Young, and they were united as one man to carry out his instructions.
One of the first men spoken to by Lot Smith was quiet John Stevens, a man after Smith's own heart. No need of much talk between these two, as they divined each other's wishes and purposes without need for words and explanations.
There was some delay, consequent upon breaking up camp, so that it was early twilight when the small detachment rode out upon the open prairie. The Major called John Stevens to his side, and to him in a few words related as they rode along some of the conversation overheard in the camp of the enemy.
As John listened to the wicked threats of the dissolute officers concerning the fair daughters of his people, he was seized with a sudden, passionate anger, and for a few moments he could think of nothing but to heap curses upon their wicked heads, and he longed with murderous longing, to have one of them just now under his own clenched hands that he might strangle the pride and the devil out of him.
His curses were not uttered aloud, however, and when he recovered himself, he heard his commanding officer ask:
"What's the matter, Stevens, are you annoyed?"
"Perhaps! I was not old enough to do any good in Illinois; but now—well, I am glad, major, that you permitted me to accompany you on this trip."
"Stevens, we are of the same stripe; but we must both remember our orders, and no matter what the provocation may be, we must shed no blood, unless compelled to do so. We both understand this, and yet, it is as hard for me as it is for you, my friend."
The next morning, just before sunrise, Major Smith called John's attention to a speck on the eastern horizon.
"Let us go forward carefully, Stevens; we must be sure as to numbers and conditions of this oncoming train."
"There are only half a dozen teams as I make them out."
An hour's ride verified Stevens' keen power of sight. Riding swiftly up to the flurried teamsters, Lot Smith pre-emptorily ordered them to turn back; and turn back they did. But our mountain soldiers had other work to do, and so they rode forward for an hour.
"Major, I have a feeling that it would be well to take a look again at those teams we ordered to follow us. I can't see anything of their dust," said John, as they rode along.
The major turned on his horse and scanned the horizon behind them with shaded eyes and thoughtful mind.
"Stevens, take fifteen or twenty of the boys and go back there, and see if our orders have been obeyed. Meanwhile I will ride forward slowly."
Three hours after this, Stevens returned and reported that he had found the train once more headed westward; whereupon he had unloaded the freight, and set fire to the whole lot. The teamsters were preparing to come eastward again on their animals.
"Good, now let us ride eastward as fast as we can."
Turning in the direction of the Green River bluffs, the men rode into a small clump of willows by the stream, and decided to get some sleep before proceeding further. It was sorely needed, and proved refreshing to the band of weary men.
The next morning before daybreak they were in the saddle; and before riding an hour, the major discovered a cloud of dust coming from the old "Mormon" trail.
Riding fiercely into camp, Lot Smith demanded to see the captain.
"Captain Simpson is out huntin' cattle; and I guess if you want him you will have to hunt him," replied one of the teamsters.
"I'll look after your captain," bluntly announced Lot, and then cocking his own gun as a signal to his men to follow suit, he quietly added, "but you fellows can just fork over your shooting irons; we are wanting some implements of that kind just now."
There was a flash in the red-brown eyes of Lot Smith, and every teamster carefully gathered up his pistol or gun and delivered it over to Stevens, who distributed them among the men.
Leaving Stevens in charge of the camp, Lot Smith rode out to meet the captain, whose name was Simpson. He was driving in some animals, and Lot simply said: "Captain, I am here on urgent business."
The man addressed was no coward, and his eyes flashed as he demanded the nature of that business.
"Just hand over your pistols, and I will let you know the nature of it," answered Smith.
Spurring his horse towards the train, Simpson replied: "No man ever took my pistols yet; and if you think you can without first killing me, try it."
They were all the time riding full gallop towards the train.
"I admire a brave man, captain, but I don't like blood. You insist on me killing you, which would only take a minute, but I don't want to do it. If you will take the trouble to look that way, captain, instead of glaring into my eyes, you will see that your teamsters are in a ticklish situation."
They had ridden as close together as their panting, reeking horses would allow, each looking fire and death into the blazing eyes of the other; but when Simpson raised his eyes and saw his own teamsters huddled together, unarmed and shivering, under the cocked guns of the mountaineers, he turned to Smith and muttered: "You have me at a bitter disadvantage."
"We don't need that advantage, captain. What would you do if I should give up your arms?"
"I'll fight you," answered the captain, between his teeth.
The two had now reached the camp.
"Well, we know something about that, too, Take up your arms."
The teamsters shrank back as one man.
"Not by a d—d sight," one of them exclaimed. "We came out here to whack bulls, and not to fight."
"What do you say to that, captain?" asked Smith.
With another violent oath, the captain ground his teeth and replied: "If I had been here before, and they had refused to fight, I would have killed every man of them."
Major Smith was too brave a man not to be touched by this manly, yet reckless spirit; and after some parley with Stevens, he ordered his men to give Simpson two of the loaded guns, with two of the loaded wagons, to keep his men from starvation until their return to the Eastern States, and then ordering all out of the way, he called out for a big burly Irishman, a non-"Mormon," who had followed Stevens from the trains the day before, and had offered to join their forces: "Here, Dawson, you can put the torch to these trains; it is very proper for the Gentiles to spoil the Gentiles."
The whole train of fifty-two wagons was burned; after which the mountaineers rode away, telling the teamsters that they could take what provisions they had secured for themselves to their comrades, a few miles away, and then return; and if any attempt were made to extinguish the flames, summary punishment would be administered to the offenders.
"IN THE VALLEY OR HELL"
The details of that peculiar and providential winter of 1857-8 are written in lines of vivid interest and incident through the pages of recorded history. The pen would fain linger to describe how Lot Smith and his brave companions followed up their arranged course, burning grass and trees, tearing up bridges, and demolishing houses or huts of shelter everywhere along the road.
Fort Bridger, the point to which the army of Utah had made its slow, plainful way, was a mass of ruins when entered by Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston and his half-frozen soldiers and the remnants of his trains and stock. I cannot refrain from giving the words of the report of this awful march, made to Congress by the two commanding officers, Colonel Johnston and Colonel St. George Cooke.
The condition of the main division is thus stated by Colonel Johnston:
"The expedition was now ordered to Fort Bridger, and at every step the difficulties increased. There were only thirty-five miles to be traversed, but excepting on the margin of a few slender streams, the country through which our route lay is the barest of desert land. There is no shelter from the chilly blasts of this mountain solitude, where even in November, the thermometer sometimes sinks to 16 degrees below zero. There is no fuel but the wild sage and willow; and there is little pasture for the half-frozen cattle. Our march commenced on the sixth of November, and on the previous night five hundred of our strongest cattle were taken by the 'Mormons.' The trains extended over six miles, and all day long sleet and snow fell on the retreating column. Some of the men were frost bitten, and the exhausted animals were goaded by their drivers, until many of them fell dead in their traces. At sunset the troops camped wherever they could find a particle of shelter, some under bluffs, and some in the willow copses. At daybreak the camp was surrounded by the carcasses of frozen cattle, of which several hundred had perished during the night. Still, as the trains arrived from the rear, each one halted for a day or more, giving time for the cattle to graze and rest on such scant herbage as they could find. To press forward more rapidly was impossible, for it would have cost the lives of most of the draft animals; to find shelter was equally impossible, there was none. There was no alternative but to proceed slowly and persistently, saving as many as possible of the horses, mules and oxen. Fifteen days were required for this difficult operation."
Arrived at Fort Bridger, though they found the whole place in ruins, the camp was struck, and tents were erected. Here the army of the United States wintered, calling the camp Fort Scott.
A fine commentary on the foolish extravagance and thoughtless waste of money involved in the fitting out of this disastrous campaign was furnished by the opening of the few supply wagons left them by their relentless pursuers. The wagons loaded with provisions had been burned; the wagons that survived were filled with bedticks and camp kettles. For two thousand six hundred men, wintering in a region seven thousand feet above the sea level, where at night the thermometer always sank below zero, there were three thousand one hundred and fifty bedticks, and only seven hundred and twenty-three blankets; there were one thousand five hundred pairs of epaulettes and metallic scales, but only nine hundred coats and six hundred overcoats; there were three hundred and seven cap-covers, and only one hundred and ninety caps; there were one thousand and ninety military stocks; some of the men were already barefooted and others had no covering for their feet but moccasins, while there were only eight hundred and twenty-three pairs of boots and six hundred pairs of stockings. One wagon was entirely freighted with camp-kettles; with nothing to cook, and no salt with which to season their nothingness.
An extract from Colonel St. George Cooke's report gives quite a dismal picture of his own division. He says:
"The north wind and drifting snow became severe; the air seemed turned to frozen fog, nothing could be seen; we were struggling in a freezing cloud. The lofty wall of Three Crossings was a happy relief; but the guide who had lately passed there was relentless in pronouncing that there was no grass at that point. As he promised grass and shelter two miles further, we marched on, crossing twice more the rocky stream, half-choked with snow and ice; finally he led us behind a great granite rock, but all too small for the promised shelter. Only a part of the regiment could huddle there in the deep snow; whilst the long night through the storm continued, and fearful eddies, above, below and behind, drove the falling and drifting snow. Meanwhile the animals were driven once more across the stream, to the base of the granite ridge, which faced the storm, but where there was grass. They refused to eat; the mules huddled together, moaning piteously, while some of the horses broke from the guard and went back to the ford. The next day, better camping ground was reached ten miles farther on. On the morning of the eighth, the thermometer marked 44 degrees below the freezing point; but in this weather and through deep snow, the men made eighteen miles, and the following day nineteen miles, to the next camping ground on Bitter Creek, on the Sweetwater. On the 10th, matters were still worse. Herders, left to bring up the rear, with the stray mules, could not force them from the valley, and they were left to perish. Nine horses were also abandoned. At night the thermometer marked twenty-five degrees below zero; nearly all the tent pins were broken, and nearly forty soldiers and teamsters were on the sick list, most of them being frost-bitten. The earth has no more lifeless, treeless, grassless desert; it contains scarcely a wolf to glut itself on the hundreds of dead and frozen animals which, for thirty miles, nearly blocked the road."
Such was the condition in which this flower of the American army found itself when about ready, as they supposed, to enter the Valley of the Great Salt Lake and subdue a handful of unoffending and simple-hearted people. Something was certainly done by the small band of hardy men who followed and surrounded the army with harassing circumstances; but they did little compared with the forces which were brought to bear by the God of nature, who undertook to fight this battle according to His own good pleasure and plan.
THE FRIEND OF BRIGHAM YOUNG
The bright fire upon the wide hearthstone in Aunt Clara's sitting room in Great Salt Lake City seemed all the brighter to the young man who opened the cheerful green door late in the afternoon on the 24th day of February, 1858. The slow moving figure of Aunt Clara swung around from her busy loom in the corner, as she looked to see who her visitor was.
"You, John? I thought you were in Echo Canyon or in San Bernardino, or on the Southern Mexican route."
"So I was till this morning; I have come to see if you will take a stranger for a few days, who is sent to you by Governor Young."
"Anyone sent from President Young is welcome, and John, anyone you bring is welcome also."
John Stevens thanked her and added that he would return shortly with his guest, and then departed as silently and swiftly as he had come.
"Ellen," called Aunt Clara to the girl whose spinning wheel whirred from the kitchen, "bring some more wood for the fire-place, and put the clean white blankets in the front bedroom. Have we enough white flour to make some biscuits?"
Ellen came into the sitting-room, followed by her friend Dian, who was busily engaged in knitting at some large, coarse but warm socks. Dian did not stop as she walked, but knitted away as if life depended upon the "stunt" being accomplished before the dusk should come upon her.
"Why do you want to make biscuits tonight, Aunt Clara?" asked Ellen.
The answer produced much scurrying of the girl's quick feet, and in less than half an hour, the table was set in the clean front sitting room, shining with the few cherished china pieces brought from the early colonial days into these bleak mountain valleys by this Puritan daughter from New England's wave-washed shores. Ellen set some eggs to wait their turn at the great open fire-place, and in the covered bake skillet were browning the cream biscuits which only Aunt Clara could compound from the various chemical resultants of lye made from wood-ashes and the pleasant acid of soured cream. Serviceberry preserves glowed darkly through the one precious glass dish, and soft Dutch cheese was molded into oval richness on a china saucer. A pitcher of foaming milk testified to its recent cold storage; and a plate of doughnuts flanked the cheese. It was a hasty meal, but none the less appetizing; and was ready none too soon.
A strong yet quick rap at the front door introduced John Stevens, to be followed by a dusty, travel-stained man, of small stature, and of an exceedingly dignified mien, yet looking very feeble and ill.
"Mrs. Tyler, let me introduce Dr. Osborne," said John gravely, and the gentleman bowed courteously over the extended hand of his hostess. The lady looked at the traveler with a curious half remembrance in her black eyes, but the "doctor" responded with only a grave salute, as he followed his hostess into the low-ceiled bedchamber, just off the sitting-room.
"John," said Aunt Clara, when she returned, "I have surely seen that gentleman somewhere, but I can't tell where for the life of me. He is very tired and looks sick;" and she gazed thoughtfully and inquiringly at dusty John Stevens, who only stroked his long beard and gazed kindly at her without reply.
"Hurry, John," called Ellen from the inner kitchen door; "supper is all ready, and if you are going to eat with this gentleman, you will need to hurry and wash. Come out here to the porch; I have water and a clean towel for you."
Dian was still knitting away for dear life, near the small-framed west window; John halted a moment at her side.
"What's the hurry?" he asked, laconically, as he touched the dark grey ribbed stocking swinging from the shining needles in her deft fingers.
"Oh, it's for the Utah militia boys. Aunt Clara has kept us girls knitting and spinning, sewing and weaving, night and day, for the soldiers. We don't mind, for it's all we can do to help along."
"Any particular soldier?" he queried, indifferently. Dian glanced up to discover a latent meaning, but John's cool gaze gave her no clue. However, a girl flings many chance shots, and some are sure to hit. So she replied with a supercilious accent: "Oh, I promised Charlie Rose to knit all the socks he needed for the expedition. Will you take these to him?"
"Certainly," answered John, gravely. He turned and left her, saying: "Charlie will be real grateful for your kindness."
"How provoking men can be," thought Dian.
Left with Dian, Aunt Clara stood in the center of the floor, her dark eyes fixed in an absent-minded stare, so common to her when she was trying to puzzle out some mental problem that eluded her. Where had she seen her visitor? Dian hurried away to her home across the way, ignorant both of Aunt Clara's problem or its possible solution.
As soon as the supper was despatched, Aunt Clara followed her two guests out of the front door, and said softly to John, "Come back after your interview with the President, John; I have something to tell you."
John nodded assent, and he and the traveler melted away into the freezing gloom of the winter's darkness.
But John did not return with his visitor till after midnight, and then, finding the front door on the latch, as was usual in that safe and honest pioneer town, he guided his guest by the light of the fire into the front chamber, now somewhat warmed by the open door from the sitting room, and, lighting the tallow candle left on the light-stand by the bedside for his guest, he softly made all as comfortable as he could and then left the traveler to seek a much-needed repose.
Who was the traveler and what was his business with President Young? This was the thought that flashed and wandered in and out of the sleepless brain of Aunt Clara, hour after hour, in that still and cold night. She knew much of her people's inner, unwritten history, for hers was the silent tongue and quick sympathy which drew all men, as well as women, to her tender heart and warm hearthstone for help and counsel. She had been the trusted friend of the great Prophet Joseph Smith, and to him she had given more than a human devotion; she had accorded him his place beside the greatest martyrs in Biblical history. She was likewise the confidential friend of his successor, Brigham Young; to Aunt Clara the great Pioneer often looked when he had a delicate task which needed the quickness and subtlety of a woman's help. And now she could not sleep till she had puzzled out her puzzle, and had answered the challenge of her unerring memory.
Daylight had brought the answer. Aunt Clara was up early, and, by the light of her candle, was kneading the loaves for the day's baking. To her soon came Ellen, intent on finishing her spinning and reeling before daylight should bring breakfast and interruption.
"Do you suppose that this is another of those splendid United States soldiers?" asked Ellen, her feet stepping off the regular rhythm of the whizzing yarn, as it whirled and spun from the steel point into fine threads under the flying fingers of the industrious girl. Her wheel paused in its onward circling flight to catch Aunt Clara's answer:
"No, dear; if he were, John would have taken him down to the Salt Lake House. And how could John bring in a soldier? They are all out east. John has been down to San Bernardino."
Evidently Aunt Clara herself had been busy with the same question, which still did not possess so vital an interest for youth as for experienced age. Youth leaned upon the wisdom of Brigham Young, and the proved Providence which drew them safely from most difficulties; maturity grasped the dangers and difficulties with surer fear, and sought to find answers to every problem.
"Well, one thing is certain, Aunt Clara. President Young has kept the soldiers out of the Valley, and the winter is half over."
"True, dear; but no one but God knows what is ahead of us just now. One thing just now, however, is to get this yarn all spun, reeled and woven into good coats for our soldiers;" and Aunt Clara slid into her seat before the huge loom, as if to shut off further discussion.
When the traveler came into the room two hours later, he found the wintry sun well started on his morning pilgrimage and his hostess placing his modest breakfast on the table in the sitting room; he noted every point of the innate refinement and peace which filled the small place with more than human sweetness. The delicately crocheted white window-curtains, the cushioned rush-bottomed chairs, all of them garnished neatly with antimacassars, tied with green ribbons; the windows filled with geraniums and blooming petunias; and the great hand-loom in the corner of the roomy sitting-room only added to its homelike air.
He walked up to the fire-place and as he stretched out his hands to the blaze, he said cordially:
"Well, Aunt Clara, have you found me out yet?"
"Yes, Colonel Haines, I discovered you not more than three hours ago."
"What was your clue?"
"You spoke of our people last night as your friends; there is but one man in the United States who thus refers to this hunted people."
"I had no idea that I could remain so long incognito to those keen eyes and ears of yours, Aunt Clara. You see I've not forgotten the quaint Yankee term by which all of your friends designated you in Nauvoo?"
"Have you had your interview with the President?"
"Yes, and I must say again, what I have said before: if the government of this country knew Brigham Young as I know him, they would honor themselves by honoring him with every trust and responsibility they could bestow."
"Ah, Colonel, how few men ever get human perspective. Only a true man himself may discover truth and honor in another."
"I find your people very sore, and naturally so; but President Young has wisely agreed to welcome Governor Cumming into the Territory, and I think he will permit the army to be quartered somewhere, not too near your settlements; I can appreciate his dislike to bringing the turbulent elements of army life into too close a juxtaposition with your innocent and sylvan communities. Yet the great government of which we are all proud factors has sent an army here—right or wrong—to be quartered within the confines of this Territory; and I was sure that President Young only needed the assurance that Governor Cumming comes here as an element of peace, and not as a casus belli, to accept wisely and quietly the unfortunate situation. Captain Van Arden has been a good friend to your people, my dear lady. We are to hold another council meeting this morning, and then I shall take myself from under your hospitable roof and go on my way."
"Surely, Colonel, you will not think of taking up another journey in this terrible winter season, and you in the delicate state of health which is evidenced in the lines of pain just now showing upon your face?"
"Fear not, friend Clara. Your president promised me last night that my life should be spared to complete this and other good works; and you know that I look upon Brigham Young as a prophet."
Aunt Clara moved quietly about the room for a few moments; then, coming up to the table once more, she said reverently, with the deep tenderness that only a devout woman may express in voice and eyes:
"Friend Thomas, I feel that God has sent you here to put a stop to this terrible misunderstanding and tragedy."
"Dear old friend, you are just repeating the words of our mutual friend and President, Brigham Young, last night, as he gave me his goodnight hand-clasp. And now tell me who is that exceedingly pretty girl who was in here last night?"
"That is the daughter of my dead sister; she lives with me and assists me as my own daughter would have done, if she had lived."
"She is certainly good to look upon. May I charge you to look well after her? The future advent of many strange men into this primitive society of yours will call for the closest watching and the most loving care on the part of you older ones."
"Ellen is the light of our eyes; she is a good girl, Colonel Haines; very loving and sincere; she is easy to lead and asks only for love in return."
"Ah, Aunt Clara, it is the paradox of human nature that man, who should be the protector of woman, is too often her assailant; and that the kindly virtues of a woman which make her the best of wives and mothers, too often renders her the easiest prey to a wicked man."
"Have you noted anything wrong with my Ellen, sir?" asked Aunt Clara, in mournful surprise.
"Not so. She is just a little too endowed with natural loveliness for her complete safety in this unhappy world."
Then, saying a few words of gratitude, the Colonel, or "Doctor Osborne," arose and put on his heavy army cloak.
"May I ask you one question, Colonel?"
"A dozen, if you will."
"Why do you come here to us under an assumed name?"
"Ah, that is easy to answer; for you yourself have riddled me my riddle. I had received such generous and courteous treatment in your old unhappy city of Nauvoo, and had made so many warm friends there, that I wondered if it could be that you had changed into the creatures that your enemies in Washington tried to convince me you were; so I chose to come under a borrowed name, and thus test all round your quality of hospitality. And my good friend Aunt Clara Tyler has proved for me all that I sought to discover."
The interview at the President's office that day was so satisfactory that within twenty-four hours, John Stevens was once more at the head of an escort which was to convey Colonel Haines, the mediator, the friend, and the great heart, on his mission of mercy and peace into the lines of Federal armies quartered at Fort Scott, on Black's Fork.
DIANTHA WEARS CHARLIE'S RING
The mission of Colonel Haines was of immediate effect. The fear of desperate warfare was over. But there yet remained much for the people of Utah to do and suffer.
John Stevens was constantly in the saddle during the few months of the Spring of 1858, though this did not prevent him from keeping a pretty close watch on Miss Diantha Winthrop. He was quite familiar with the tenor of her recent encouragement to Charlie Rose. He was also aware of the quiet yet effective snubs she had administered to that resplendent young Englishman, Henry Boyle. In a way known only to himself, John Stevens contrived to be aware of most things in which he himself was interested.
It was early in the evening of the first week of April that he rode down from the northern camps into the valley; as he passed the first farm-houses outside the city, he caught sight of a wagon-load of young people, evidently just returning from some merry-making, and he was conscious of the glory of Dian's hair and the flash of her bright eyes, even before he heard the silvery peal of laughter with which she was adding to the stings of a taunt administered to some luckless wight of the party. The music of her laughter was at once the charm and the despair of all Dian's lovers. The notes of that peal always reminded John of a chime of Swiss silver bells, with which a strolling musician had once delighted the city. They rippled and trilled along the waves of ether with enchanting melody. Her friends will remember many youthful graces of this well-known Dian, but none which were more charming than her ready, irresistible, musical laughter. It was never forced nor insincere, but was always the expression of the truth-loving and buoyant soul within. It did not add to John's own merriment to see the girl enjoying herself so heartily while under the gallant protection of Charlie Rose; as his horse lingered some distance behind the wagon, he could pick out the "crowd" even in the cool dusk of the early evening, and locate all the incipient flirtations. It may be that the tired man felt the incongruousness of laughter when his own heart was hot and sore because of the events just now transpiring; but he was too just not to recognize the further fact that youth is a time for joy and forgetful laughter; and, furthermore, all possible excitement and fear had been wisely suppressed by Brigham Young. As soon as he reached a side street, John turned away, and cantered into the city to deliver his messages.
The next evening, as he was striding down the State Road he met the "crowd" face to face. They were returning from singing practice.
"Oh, John," called Ellen, "do tell us all the news. Here's Tom Allen trying to make us believe that the President is for deserting our good homes and leading us into the wilderness. It isn't true, is it?"
"Would you rather stay here under the rule of an army, or follow your leaders into another place of safety and peace?" asked John, gently and seriously.
"John," said Charlie Rose, now sober and earnest, "I am trying to get these girls to understand that they are about to have a chance to be brave and womanly. It's stiff work trying to make a girl see that there is anything but fun ahead."
"Some girls," corrected Diantha, with lofty emphasis.
"Come into Aunt Clara's sitting-room and let me get a word with her; then, maybe, you shall get another," said John, quietly.
Sobered and awed, the little group of young people filed, almost silently, into the familiar gathering place. Dian refused to sit down; her quick thought had followed the serious mood of John Stevens and instantly her whole attention was fixed on one idea; what could she do in this crisis—a girl—and yet so full of devotion to that cause her friends were defending?
"Aunt Clara, you can tell the crowd how very serious our condition is at present. They seem to have forgotten Nauvoo," said John, possibly glad to sober these young people. Charlie Rose, whose face was quite flushed with the news he had just heard on the streets, walked over to the loom in the corner and waited impatiently for Aunt Clara to finish tearing off her last thread.
It was impossible for John Stevens to be unconscious of the fact that Charlie Rose was standing very near to Dian, as she leaned against the loom, so near that almost the loose flying tendrils of her yellow hair were against his shoulder. But with stern grip on his own nerves, he sat carelessly on the bench and bent his head slightly as he examined the pattern of his braided buckskin pantaloons.
Aunt Clara felt the tense atmosphere surrounding her, and she waited in silence for John to speak, for she was sure he had something serious to tell them. That he had something to say was sufficient for others to remain quiet.
"Boys, how many of you can be ready to start at midnight for the army of the United States camped now at Fort Scott?" There was a breathless silence for an instant, and then:
"All of us," quietly answered Charlie Rose.
"We shall leave the Eagle Gate, then, at twelve o'clock, boys; I shall expect you to be there. Bring your usual outfit."
"John," said Aunt Clara, with a note of anxiety in her voice, "what is it now?"
"We are to meet and escort Governor Cumming into the Territory."
"Governor Cumming? Is Brigham Young no longer Governor of Utah then?" asked Charlie.
"I have this day delivered the official information that the President of the United States has appointed a new Governor for our unhappy Territory. It is for this reason, ostensibly, that the flower of the American army has come out into the wilderness of the West. Thousands of trained soldiers have been sent to install one man in a Territory of a few hundred pioneers." John spoke bitterly, but it was not his to question. He was but to obey.
"What is the name of this new Governor?" asked Dian with quick sarcasm in her tones.
"His name is Cumming, and so far as I am able to judge, he is not to blame for this blunder of Buchanan's. But, boys, meet me at the Eagle Gate at midnight."
"Oh, John, will the soldiers kill us all, or drive us from our homes?" asked Ellen, tearfully.
"Only God can answer that," replied John, solemnly.
The heart of every girl was thrilled with the sense of personal and communal danger. Yet, there mingled with it all a paradoxical and feminine joy in the intrepid character of the men who would protect them and their homes in life or in death.
Ellen ran up to Dian, and with her arms around her neck, begged her friend to "stay all night." Ellen felt suddenly a sense of coming disaster; her very heart was choking in her throat, and she felt that she must have many people near her. Dian was glad to stay; although her own thoughts were not busy with herself, but dwelt upon the larger interests of the starving army beyond the mountains, who were all human beings, even if enemies. Her soul bowed in prayer for Brigham Young and the other leaders of her people, whose judgment and wisdom must be supreme in this the people's most trying hour.
The days that followed were filled with vague rumors of coming disaster. Women clung to their little children; men gazed upon their innocent daughters and wondered what the future held in store for all. They had seen their dear ones mobbed, driven and plundered, time and again in the past; what would this new disaster bring forth?
Fear and suspense—are they not man's most dreaded foes? Anything which comes is better than the undefinable things which are so feared but which rarely happen. And thus the days and weeks of that month of suspense which followed John Stevens' expedition into the eastern mountains were far more unendurable to Diantha and her girl-friends than the simple events which followed. For, after all, when the day came for the entrance of Governor Cumming into the Territory, the sun shone, the meadow-larks piped out their usual notes of musical inquiry into the state of the worm and bug market, the crickets hopped nimbly out of the way of the oncoming posse of mountaineer soldiers who acted as the gubernatorial escort, and the whole party drew up to the Salt Lake House, clattered under the broad eaves of its western porches, and debouched quietly within. The first great act of the expected sensation was over, while the second act was quite small and inadequate to the tremendous overture of dread which had been pounding at the ears of the small inland city for so long. Governor Cumming proved to be a very generous, whole-souled man, and in the historic interview which followed between the new and the old Governors of the then distracted Territory of Utah, both men discovered the elements of candor, truth and sincerity in the other, and the bond of mutual understanding was not long in forming. The days of adjustment and readjustment which followed were not days of unmixed confusion and disturbance, for time was taken in which to dispel fears and to form new ties.
Diantha Winthrop was conscious, in those uncertain and troublous days, of a certain dissatisfaction regarding the outcome of the dramatic beginnings which her quick intelligence had discovered in this appalling incident. Like most noble if youthful minds, her thoughts had been busy with the high purpose and exalted ideals of the people. Unlike her volatile friend Ellen, Dian's gloomy fears at this period settled around the leaders of her people; while to little laughing Ellie the one important feature of it all was little Ellie's own connection with each and every happening. It was therefore somewhat of a disappointment to both girls that there was such a tame ending to so tragic a beginning. Governor Cumming was in the city, he had been properly received by Governor Young, and the whole incident was closed, apparently, without even the hoisting of the flag. The girls mentioned the matter to Aunt Clara, and that good lady only answered:
"None but poets and prophets know the difference between tragedy and comedy. What you feel is going to be tragedy turns out to be comedy, and what starts as comedy too often turns into tragedy."
And thus life poured its turbulent stream down into the channels of Utah's history and the evening and the morning made up the scintillating days of that trying season.
Suffice it to say, Governor Cumming was duly escorted into the city, and he and his gentle lady-wife were suitably quartered. To him Brigham Young turned over all the Territorial records, the great seal and all insignia of his exalted office; all were delivered over safely and formally by the maligned "Mormon" leader. But our friend John, with his companions Charlie Rose and Tom Allen, was kept long weeks in active service out in Echo Canyon. The city seemed very lonely to Ellen and Dian during those long spring weeks.
One day in the early spring, some weeks after Governor Cumming's entrance into the Valley, Dian sought a quiet interview with Aunt Clara, hoping to ascertain something definite as to the real nature of all the rumors and forebodings again quivering in the very air of Great Salt Lake City.
"Dear Aunt Clara," said Dian, when they were seated and busily knitting—oh, those active, flying hands of women which never rested, scarce night or day, during those trying months—"I am so troubled; my nights are full of unhappy dreams and my days are so restless that I cannot accomplish anything worth while. What is all this about? Please confide in Ellie and me, dear Aunt Clara. I know you enjoy the confidence of the leading brethren, and I long to know if it is true that the soldiers are going to be allowed to enter our beloved Territory? And is Governor Cumming really our friend?"
"Governor Cumming is a very liberal and humane man, my dear. But it is apparently true that we shall have to bow to the will of the government of this great nation which we all love so well, and allow these soldiers, this terrible army, to come into the Territory and quarter themselves here, for how long no one can tell. Ostensibly the army came to install Governor Cumming; but as you know, Governor Cumming has been peaceably installed, yet General Johnston insists on coming into the Valley. President Young has turned over the records and great seal of our Territory which our wicked enemies swore to President Buchanan we had destroyed, and now Governor Cumming has notified Brother Brigham that a Peace Commission may be sent out to this Territory to hand us out a Proclamation of Amnesty. And there is the full story."
"What's a Peace Commission and what is amnesty?" asked Ellen.
"Surely, my dear! What is amnesty? It is forgiveness. And why the United States should deem it necessary to send an army out here to crush us into submission, when we had never revolted, and then think it necessary to send us a proclamation of amnesty, when we have done nothing to be forgiven for, is more than a poor woman can understand. However, the plain English of it is that someone wanted the army out of the way in Washington, others wanted the money that comes to contractors, and still others don't know anything about it, except someone has raised another cry of 'Down with the Mormons.' Governor Cumming hopes to clear everything up with the aid of this Peace Commission. But, girls, I have something very serious to confide to you; next Monday we are to pack up everything that can be loaded into wagons, leaving the rest piled up with kindlings ready to burn, and then we are to start for the South."
"For the South? Where?" asked the two girls in one breath.
"I cannot tell. Some have already gone quietly ahead. We shall pack up everything that we can pile in our wagons, and with sufficient provisions to last us a year, we shall once more go out into the wilderness. This time we shall take to the mountains."
"Oh, Aunt Clara, surely you are not in earnest?"
"Girls, this is no time for any of us to be in jest. We know not what a day may bring forth. Do you get to work at once. And then, when all is ready, we shall fill this house with sufficient kindling to burn every stick and log within twenty-four hours of the time when the word is given."
"Aunt Clara! Burn this house which you love so well? With this dear green door? It's the only green door in the city. And all this comfort which you have worked so hard to secure? Oh, I can't bear the thought. And the lettuce and radishes which you sowed on the snow and which are just now ready to eat? What about everybody else?" asked Ellen, incoherently.
But no amount of grief on the part of the girls could change the condition of things, and after awhile the prudent counsels of their good friend calmed undue excitement, and they resigned themselves to the common fate, willing to share in the general affliction as they had shared in the common good. Here was tragedy, surely! When least expected, here it was! Nightfall found them all tired out with the day's labor and excitement.