PLANNING TO LEAVE HOME A THIRD TIME—LEAVE MIDDLESBROUGH—ARRIVAL AT NEWCASTLE—LEITH, EDINBURGH AND GLASGOW —A PECULIAR SITUATION: NO MONEY, NO FRIENDS—MAKE UP MY MIND TO GO TO NEW YORK—ARRIVAL AT LIVERPOOL.
I left the waiting room and returned home with my mother.
It was my usual habit to be at home at 4 o'clock on Sundays, but being absent at that time on this occasion, my mother, thinking it probable I was going to a Latter-day Saint evening meeting at Stockton by steamer, came to the boat landing to look for me.
The next morning my mind was fully set to make a third attempt to leave home.
At dinner time, seeing Richard a little ahead of me on the street, I quickly overtook him and said:
"Now, Richard, make up your mind to go away to-night."
He was surprised, and said:
"We have been stopped twice now, and I don't think it's right for us to go away again; but I'll go with you if you want me to."
We then arranged to meet at the theatre, which was near a boat landing, at 7:30 that evening; he agreeing to bring with him out of my box (which was at Sister Scott's), a tin cup, some writing paper, envelopes, and pen and ink.
The working hours in the printing office were from 8 a.m. till 7:30 p.m. The train by which I intended to leave had to start at 7:45 p.m.
Shortly after 7 o'clock that evening it began to rain. The suit I wore was very thin and I would soon be wet through. I discovered also that a new pocket knife, recently purchased, had been left behind; so, thinking of the rain, my poor clothes and the knife, I was in two minds whether to go that night or not. I walked up and down the room in which I worked, hardly knowing what to do. Twenty-five minutes past seven came, but I was still undecided in my mind.
Presently I left the place and hurried down to where Richard was waiting near the theatre. He had the things which he was told to bring. Borrowing twelve shillings from him and, with the five shillings loaned me by Sister Scott, my total stock of cash was seventeen shillings.
The rain still continued and my clothes were wet. I parted with my friend Richard and went on a small steamboat which crossed the river Tees. After crossing, I purchased a ticket to Newcastle on-Tyne for three shillings and a penny and soon boarded the cars and started on my journey.
Newcastle was reached about half past 10 o'clock that night. Getting out of the cars I looked around for a few moments at the elegant and spacious railway station and began to wonder what was the next thing to do, as it was my intention to go to Leith next morning. After finding out where the Leith steamer sailed from I procured lodgings at a private boarding house.
At 4 o'clock I was aroused and quickly dressing myself, left the house and walked the streets for nearly two long hours. About 6 o'clock the steamer started. We arrived at Leith about 5 o'clock in the evening. Among the passengers whose acquaintance I made was an Irishman, bound for Glasgow; and having the address of the president of the Glasgow Conference, I thought it would be best to go there.
We walked from Leith to Edinburgh, about two miles distant, and then took train for Glasgow, reaching the latter place about 8 o'clock. The address I wanted to go to was about two miles from the station.
After entering the house I related to the lady there the particulars of my leaving home, during which time she prepared supper for me. She told me she expected Bro. Cluff in soon. Nearly an hour afterward Brother Cluff came in. They then held a consultation regarding me and Brother Cluff said I could say there that night, but they wished me to leave in the morning.
Next morning I started out to seek work—called at printing offices, paint shops and other places; but after traveling about all day met with no success.
In the evening I wended my way to the Conference House where they allowed me to sleep that night.
Next morning I started out again in search of employment. It appeared strange there should be numerous advertisements for boys wanted in many stores, but whenever I applied they always made some excuse.
For two long days I had tramped the streets, applying at stores of various kinds; I was anxious and willing to work but could not obtain any. All the money I had borrowed was spent—every cent—for traveling expenses, food, etc. And here was I in a strange country, without home or friends, and worst of all, no money. What was I to do? My situation was a trying one: I had left home, friends and employer, thinking to easily obtain employment and earn enough, with that deposited with the Perpetual Emigration Fund to emigrate next year to the frontier.
In the evening I returned as usual to the Conference House, feeling somewhat low-spirited, but doing my best to cheer myself up and look at the bright side.
Conversing with Brother Cluff he asked me why I did not go to New York. I replied that I might as well stay in Glasgow, because if I went there, I should not arrive in time to go with the Saints on the cars to Wyoming, the last ship having left three weeks previous.
Brother Cluff informed me that another ship had left Liverpool—theSt. Mark—and if I took passage by steamer from Glasgow the next Saturday, I could get there before the company arrived; and said he thought it would be likely I should have a chance to go with the Saints to the frontier.
Immediately making up my mind to do as Brother Cluff had advised me, I wrote to Brigham Young, Jr., at Liverpool, asking for my money in the P. E. Fund; also to Sister Scott, telling her of my resolve.
On the Saturday morning the postman brought two letters, one of which was from Liverpool and contained a post office order.
Being too late to secure a berth on the steamer which was to leave Glasgow that morning, as all the berths were taken, I decided to take the steamer for Liverpool, which would leave that evening at 6 o'clock, and sail from there to New York. I purchased several articles of clothing, and one of the Saints in the Glasgow branch gave me a hat, shirt, muffler, etc.
In the evening, at 6 o'clock, I left Glasgow for Liverpool, which place we reached late in the afternoon of the next day. I at once proceeded to Brigham Young's office. There Elder Orson Pratt received me very kindly and asked one of the clerks to take me to a lodging house, which he did.
The steamerVirginiawas advertised to sail for New York the following Wednesday, June 27th, and I made arrangements to embark on that vessel.
ARRIVAL AT QUEENSTOWN—IN SUSPENSE— "IT'S ONLY A RUNAWAY BOY THEY'RE AFTER"—ARRIVAL AT NEW YORK—A PROPOSITION ACCEPTED.
Queenstown was reached the next day, June 28th. A small steamer brought us some Irish passengers, also some officers in search of some one. I felt somewhat nervous on seeing them and wondered who they were after. Who did they want? was it me? Being anxious to ascertain, I inquired of an Irishwoman who was near me:
"What do these men want?"
The answer she made surprised me.
"It's only a runaway boy they're after."
I was thunderstruck at these words, but still kept my eye on the officers. At last, seeing them make their way in the direction where I was, if it were possible for me to have sunk into the cabin, I should certainly have done so. Could I hide? No, there was no time for that.
As they approached near me I sat down, folded my arms and said to myself: "Take me if you will!" Oh, how my heart beat! Another moment and they passed by. How thankful I felt it was not me they were after! It transpired afterwards it was a soldier—a deserter—they were in search of.
In a very little time we were sailing on the "deep blue sea."
We arrived at New York, July 13th, being sixteen days on our voyage.
Two or three hours after arriving I started to find out Mr. Thomas Taylor's office and was kindly invited in. No time was lost by me in accepting the invitation, as the heat was oppressive. I felt the effects very much, for no sooner was I seated than faintness overcame me. Some cold water and a fan were brought me and I soon recovered. H. P. Folsom, T. B. H. Stenhouse and others were present. Brother Folsom was formerly traveling Elder in the Durham and Newcastle Conference, and I formed his acquaintance at Middlesbrough.
After being in the office a few minutes, Brother Folsom asked me if I was from Middlesbrough, to which I answered in the affirmative. Knowing I had worked in a printing office, Brother Folsom spoke a good word for me to Brother Stenhouse, editor and proprietor of theSalt Lake Daily Telegraph, who asked me how long I would work for him if he paid the remainder of my fare to the frontier. I responded two years. He then said:
"I'll make a proposition to you, Robert: I'll give you twelve dollars a week for the first year and fifteen for the second."
This proposition was eagerly accepted by me.
LEAVE NEW YORK—ARRIVAL AT WYOMING— INCIDENTS ON THE PLAINS.
I slept that night in the office. The next day Brother H. P. Folsom procured lodgings for me at Sister Mary I. Worthington's, in Brooklyn, with whom I stayed till the next Tuesday, the 17th of June, when, in company with her and her family, we left New York about midnight.
Our company consisted of about seven hundred Scandinavians (a ship having arrived on the 17th) and about one hundred English.
On the 29th of July, about noon, we arrived at Wyoming, a small settlement in Nebraska Territory. At a short distance the tents of the Saints attracted my attention, and I soon wended my way there, finding quite a number of those who had sailed in theAmerican Congress. We were pleased to greet each other.
After dinner I took a stroll over to one of the stores in the settlement, where I assisted in serving customers and was given my board as a recompense.
Early in the afternoon of August 2nd, we started on our long journey. Our train consisted of about sixty-five wagons. The captain's name was Rawlings, and Brother John Nicholson was chaplain.
About twenty miles was an average day's journey. The emigrants walked most of the way, riding only in the wagons at intervals to rest themselves. Each morning, before sunrise, we were aroused by the sound of the bugle. Then could be witnessed a scene of activity; all were bustling around, some going for wood, others carrying water and lighting fires.
While camping at night, after supper had been prepared and disposed of, we enjoyed good times, especially in listening to singing, in which some young ladies excelled. Groups of elder ones could have been seen seated around large fires, conversing about days gone by and forecasting the future.
Following are some incidents which happened on the plains:
Reaching the North Platte River, and after being camped there two or three hours, one of our company appeared with two loaded guns, one of which he hurriedly handed to a young man. We asked what was the matter. He replied:
"We are surrounded by Indians!"
I then rushed to our wagon to get a pistol which I thought our teamster had left in the wagon, but could not find it. All the men left camp to ascertain what was going on. Women and children began to cry and the scene was heartrending. Those of us left in camp were eagerly looking around, expecting every minute to be attacked by Indians. Our camping place was in a lonely spot. On one side, close to us, was the North Platte River, and on the other, about the same distance, were mountains. Not a house in sight; in fact, we were a great many miles away from one. We afterwards learned that the alarm was a false one. The captain called the company together and chided the men for leaving the camp without anyone to defend it.
One snowy morning, when probably about a hundred miles from Salt Lake City, I started out, as usual, on foot. My shoes were considerably worn out, and one of them was badly used up and so hurt me that, despite the snow, I had to throw it away and walk barefoot. Approaching our teamster, I besought him to let me ride, telling him my deplorable condition. He refused to grant my request. After walking awhile I again asked permission to ride, but was again denied. The snow came down in heavy flakes and very few of our company were walking. I trudged along for about three miles with only one shoe on, when my strength failed—I could go no farther — and was about to sit down in the snow, at the same time fervently praying to my Heavenly Father for His divine assistance. As soon as I had uttered my prayer a shoe came flying out to me. Our wagon was just passing by and Sister Worthington was the person who threw it. It was small for me, but with difficulty, after rubbing some skin off my heel, I managed to get it on and went limping on my journey.
ARRIVAL IN THE "CITY OF THE SAINTS"—KEEPING "BACH"—MY PARENTS JOIN THE CHURCH—THEY EMIGRATE TO UTAH.
After a long, weary and tedious journey of about seven thousand miles, Salt Lake City was at length reached on September 30, 1866—a little over three months' travel from Liverpool to Salt Lake City. It was Sunday when we arrived. That morning I arose early, and getting something to eat, left the camp (a few miles up Parley's Canyon), and wended my way to the "City of the Saints," to find the residence of Brother T. B. H. Stenhouse. It was a fine, sunny morning; everything around me looked charming and lovely.
Onward to the heart of the city I went. After many inquiries the residence of Brother Stenhouse was at length reached. He was pleased to see me and invited me to take dinner with himself and family. In the afternoon his son, Lorenzo, took me to his father's printing office, which was my sleeping place that night.
Next morning I went to the Tithing Office yard, where our train was camped (it having arrived there that morning). President Young came into the yard to see us. He shook hands with many of the brethren and sisters, and they felt quite honored. I was informed that a number of the Saints who sailed on theAmerican Congresshad only arrived in the city a day or two previous. Although it was over five weeks after the departure of theAmerican Congressbefore my leaving England. I did not lose much time after all.
I removed what little luggage I had to theDaily Telegraphoffice, thinking it best to "keep bach" for the present, as I had no relatives or any particular friend to board me. This I did for nearly eleven weeks, when, December 19, 1866, James McKnight, an employe in theDaily Telegraphoffice, told me that if it suited me I could live with him. His offer was gladly accepted and I stayed with him for several months.
During this time letters regularly reached me from my parents and I was prompt in answering them; giving full particulars about Salt Lake City and our religion, and often bore my testimony to them. I was here in Utah without a relative and was very desirous they should receive the gospel, although the prospects were not encouraging at that time.
In August, 1868, Wm. H. Scott arrived from New York (the Scott family having emigrated to New York in 1867). I was greatly pleased to meet my friend. He was the first intimate acquaintance from Middlesbrough I had seen since coming to Utah.
It is painful, however, to relate that he apostatized in the Summer of 1869. It was about the time when the "Godbeite" movement took place. From the time Brother Scott embraced the gospel he was one of the most zealous workers in the cause of truth ever seen by me. He labored faithfully to assist in establishing the latter-day kingdom; but his expectations in regard to Utah and her people were not realized. I had been very fond of him —had loved him as a brother. He had been a friend and counselor to me in past days, and when I saw that he was as much in opposition to the kingdom of God as he had been formerly in favor of building it up, it grieved me very much. I talked and reasoned with him and tried to show him the error of his way, but it was all in vain. He became more and more bitterly opposed to the gospel and in the Summer of 1870 went back to the States.
Correspondence with my parents and also my relatives was regularly kept up from the time of my arrival in Utah. I was very anxious to induce them to join the Church, and did all in my power to induce them to do so.
In the Spring of 1879, I procured the address of the president of the Middlesbrough Branch—William Garbett—and wrote to him, requesting that he should see my parents and use his best endeavors to induce them to embrace the gospel. Brother Garbett and other Saints visited with that object in view.
On the 20th of September, 1879, I was happily surprised and astonished to receive a letter from my mother with the following glad tidings:
"I, your mother, was baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints, on the 23rd of August, and your father on the 30th of the same month."
"I, your mother, was baptized a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints, on the 23rd of August, and your father on the 30th of the same month."
This was very gratifying news, both to myself and wife. After waiting patiently and anxiously for over thirteen years, my prayers, which were so often offered up, were answered.
My reply to this letter from my parents informed them how my heart rejoiced to hear the good news, and stated that we would assist them to emigrate to Utah the following year.
The time drew nigh for my parents to arrive in Zion. After such a lengthy absence from them, and knowing how opposed to the work they had been, but now their eyes were opened and they could see as I saw, I looked forward with pleasure to the day of their arrival.
They took passage with the first company, April 10th, 1880. I almost counted the days for their arrival. At last it was announced by telegram that the company would arrive at 6:30, p.m., April 30, 1880. Every preparation was made by us for their comfort.
MY PARENTS IN ZION—ARRIVAL OF RICHARD SEDGWICK IN SALT LAKE CITY—HIS STORY OF LEAVING HOME IN 1867— HOW THE PRESIDENT OF THE MIDDLESBROUGH BRANCH WAS EMIGRATED— RE-UNION OF THE MIDDLESBROUGH BRANCH.
The next morning they were enabled to get a better view of he "City of the Saints." It was the first of May—a fine sunny day. The orchards were delightful for the eye to gaze upon; the peach, plum, apple, and other trees were arrayed in their sweetest attire. The birds were merry, the bee and butterfly passed too and fro, and everything around was beautiful.
My parents were much in love with our city and the surroundings. During the day father was seen to shed tears—tears of joy and sorrow. He was glad he was here in the land of Zion, but felt sorrowful to think of his sons and daughter in Babylon. To a neighbor who happened to be near him, and saw the tears roll down his cheeks, he said he felt sorry to think that his children back in England were so foolish to stay there, when they might have been here in this beautiful country.
My parents have often expressed, that they wished they had come here years ago.
About the latter part of October, 1880, I was much pleased to receive a letter from my brother Miles, at Middlesbrough, stating that he had been baptized into the Church.
In September, 1881, I sent his fare to emigrate him to Utah, and he arrived in Salt Lake City, Nov. 11th.
My readers no doubt, have been wondering what became of Richard Sedgwick. When I bade him good by in England, I little thought so many years would elapse before we should meet again. After my leaving Middlesbrough, he stayed there a little over one year, then emigrated to New York and resided in Brooklyn, at which place he was married in July, 1868. Our correspondence continued more or less, from the time he reached that place till he arrived in the valleys of the mountains, November 10, 1882. When we met, I should not have known him, nor would he have recognized me, had I not answered to my name when he inquired for me. It was nearly sixteen years and a half since we saw each other, and it was a happy meeting.
The following is Richard Sedgwick's account of his leaving home in 1867:
"I started from home on the 1st of July, 1867. It was on a Monday morning, and on Mondays we used to commence work at 8 o'clock, while other mornings, we began at 6. I took the train for Stockton (four miles away), and on arriving there called at the house of Brother Thomas Watson, clerk of the Middlesbrough and Stockton branch. The box, which we had with us when we left our homes the year previous, was at Brother Watson's house. I told him I wanted it, as it was my intention to go to Liverpool, and from there to New York. Brother Watson was not in favor of my going away, and advised me to return home, but my mind was bent on leaving for New York and then get to Utah as soon as possible. He kept talking with me till I missed the train for Liverpool. This was unpleasant, as I was afraid Mr. Carter would send an officer after me.
"Determined not to be baffled, I took my box, went to the station and waited for the next train, perhaps two hours, and arrived at Liverpool about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. It so happened that a steamer had to leave for New York early next morning. I went to 42 Islington, and got my passage money which I had paid to sail on theAmerican Congressthe year previous.
"Next morning I was up bright and early and went aboard the steamer. The vessel sailed about half-past 9 o'clock, and it was well she started at that hour, for I learned afterwards, by letter from my father, that as soon as Carter missed me, he lost no time in trying to have me brought back again. A detective was put on my track, who, fortunately for me, arrived at the Liverpool docks just a few hours too late."
On September 12, 1881, I received a letter from William Garbett, president of the Middlesbrough branch, which stated in effect that there had been a death in his family, another reduction in wages, a poor harvest on account of incessant rains, and provisions were rising in price. In answer, I told him my faith was that he would be emigrated to Utah before the end of the next year. Circulars were issued by me to his friends, explaining his situation. The result was sufficient means were procured to emigrate Brother Garbett and family (seven in number) to Utah. They arrived here in Sept., 1882
Reflecting at various times on the scenes recounted in this little work, and of the many joyful times experienced among the Saints in Middlesbrough and vicinity, it occurred to the writer that a revival of old times and acquaintanceships would be greatly relished by those who had emigrated therefrom, and it was finally arranged to have a re-union of the Middlesbrough branch of the church on Thanksgiving day, November 29, 1883.
All the Saints and Elders who had been in the branch were invited to be present at the 4th Ward meeting house, where the re-union was held. Dinner was served at 2 p.m., followed by the various exercises, such as singing, reciting, speaking, etc. The time was agreeably spent till half-past 6 o'clock in the evening. The attendance was numerous without being crowded, and the affair was gratifying to all present. It will remain indelibly impressed upon the memories of all who participated.
WILLIAM ANDERSON'S HEART AND HAND—HIS EARLY LIFE, HOME AND SURROUNDINGS.
Two little shreds of yellow paper which would not pass current for the value of an ordinary letter stamp! And yet they are to be cherished in the family Bible as a treasure worthy of loving gaze and reverent touch.
Look at them closer. One resembles a hand and the other a heart. Even in their freshest and brightest days they would have been condemned by the artist whose standard is the ideal, and by the anatomist whose sole appreciation is for the real; for their departure from anatomical truth is not in the line of artistic license. Still they are sacred to us.
Why are the papers so yellow? you ask. Because more than half a century has elapsed since they were cut into these shapes. Why so frayed and worn? Because for years they were carried in a woman's bosom. Why so stained? Because they have been wept over; and doubtless some of the bitterest of all tears—the tears which fall from the widowed and the fatherless, have moistened them. But here is a deeper stain than any which can be made by any human tears—what is it? The blood of an honest man, a patriot; the blood which flowed from the real heart of the man whose real hand clipped these little uncouth models from the old-fashioned sheet and sent them to his lady-love.
Turn the papers over. What do you read?
"William Anderson sends this hand to his sweetheart, Emeline T. Stewart. Like myself, it is yours now and forever, if you will it so."NEW VINEYARD, MAINE, Christmas, 1829.""Dear Emeline:I offer my heart to you. Keep it if you can love me and will be my wife."Your true lover—and husband, as I hope to be,WILLIAM ANDERSON."
"William Anderson sends this hand to his sweetheart, Emeline T. Stewart. Like myself, it is yours now and forever, if you will it so.
"NEW VINEYARD, MAINE, Christmas, 1829."
"Dear Emeline:
I offer my heart to you. Keep it if you can love me and will be my wife.
"Your true lover—and husband, as I hope to be,
WILLIAM ANDERSON."
The writing is cramped, for the hand which laboriously traced so many words within so small a space, though it belonged to the young schoolmaster of the village, was quite as well used to carrying a rifle or wielding an ax in the forest as to this scholar's work. The composition, too, is heavy: William Anderson was not a poet; he was but a plain youth whose best effort was to put his honest wish into honest words, and to send his blunt message freighted with all his hopes for the future.
Little did he know how his paper hand and heart would be hoarded to come into the loving care of his descendants! The strong man is dead—his mangled clay rests amid the decaying beauties of a city by the banks of the lordly Mississippi. The devoted woman is dead—her tortured body reposes under mighty Wasatch shadows. But the fragile papers survive; and the love which brought them into being lives. It lives eternally, if there be reward in heaven for sacrifice.
William Anderson was the son of a New Vineyard farmer—well to do with the grosser goods of this world, as well as being possessed of family pride; and the boy was taught, along with the heavy duties of the field, something of books. He was indulged, too, in the physical luxury of a yearly meeting-suit, made out of wondrous fabrics brought all the way from Boston, a city more distant and mythical in the estimation of the New Vineyard people of that day than is Benares to this age.
Large families of children were in the sturdy and healthy New England fashion of the first quarter of this century, and William's brothers and sisters numbered near a half score. So the boys were impelled to industry and self-reliance.
Religious profession of some kind was one of the common comforts of life; and Mrs. Joy Anderson was proud to marshal "for meetin'" each Sabbath a troop as numerous and well-behaved as the family party of Charity Carver or Hope Smith. William's mother was of a Puritan family, and vied with her female neighbors, whose names indicated the same proud descent, in having every able member of her household a regular attendant upon divine service.
From the country within a radius of five miles of the plain, old-fashioned, stone meeting house, came, for gossip as much as genuine worship, all the settlers—rich and poor, farmers, graziers, woodsmen and the few traffickers who were able to make their Yankee shrewdness a means of maintenance.
One of the principal men of the region comprised in the scattered village of New Vineyard, was Hugh Stewart, farmer and whilom speculator in lands and timber. His family was wont to journey from his residence to the church—a distance of two miles in a carryall.
This vehicle was the object of much reverence; and Hugh managed by frequent applications of varnish to keep it in that state of glossiness which constituted its chief awe in New Vineyard eyes. Regularly, rain or shine, its appearance at the last turn of the sandy road leading to the meeting-house was announced by some watchful youngster and the waiting worshipers, who usually assembled an hour in advance of sermon time, rushed to the porch to watch the family of the Stewarts dismount from their carriage. Though this practice was continued for a term of years, it never failed to awaken interest. I doubt if the London Lord Mayor's gilded chariot ever aroused more real excitement among his satiated townsmen than was evinced at each appearance of this ancient vehicle at the meeting-house steps.
The occupants of the carryall were invariably checked off upon a score of fingers: "There's Hugh and Martha, and there's Dan'l and Marchant and Em'line and Car'line."
If one of these usual attendants happened for any reason to be absent, there were comments and surmises without number until some active investigator could ascertain the cause; and once learned, the news was whispered about from lips quivering with eagerness to tell unto ears twitching with anxiety to hear.
One of the most intensely interested of the watches was Mrs. Joy Anderson, who felt all that her religion would permit her to entertain of envy for the almost regal state in which the Stewarts were brought to church.
More than one scathing rebuke fell from her very capable tongue upon the well-calloused understanding of William, the senior Anderson. Her stock complaint is worthy of preservation as showing how little the style of marital reproach has varied within three-quarters of a century.
"I don't care for myself, and you know I don't; I don't say a grumbling word at you for not taking me to New York when Mrs. Stewart went with her husband though you know well enough you were quite as able to pay my way as he was to take his wife; and everybody knows that if anyone deserves a rest I do; but no, I never can go to visit my cousin Faith Brewster that I think the world of, though I've never seen her and only heard from her twice in my life, and she may have been dead these ten years for all I know or you care, and even then it would only be my duty to visit her grave and I could carry along a little box of mignonette, in case of, to plant on her last resting place—no I never say one word about these things, and I always spare your feelings instead of telling you how often Mrs. Stewart looks at me as if she had a kind of contemptuous pity for my suffering; but what I feel so awfully hurt about are the airs that the Stewart children put on when they get out of the carriage on Sunday at the meeting-house door; and we've got more than half the distance to travel and you could well afford something of the kind, and then we could get to the meeting-house even if some of us were sick, and because we've had not a day's sickness in the house in fifteen years is no sign we won't have, but all the more sign that it must come sooner or later—"
Though this some what inconsistent speech was received with no apparent emotion by the substantial husband and father whom it was intended to pierce with its sharp sarcasm; it always created a little excitement among the children.
Mrs. Stewart was really a good woman who was compelled by frequent attacks of illness to pay some attention to personal comfort, and who had never thought of triumphing over her esteemed friend Joy with a glance of pity. Mrs. Anderson was also a good woman; but she unwittingly taught her children to hold envy and dislike for neighbors. Probably she was not the first woman, as she was certainly not the last to pursue this foolish, unchristianlike course.
Little William was often an attentive listener to this wail of his mother; and from it he tried to conceive a deep and bitter hatred for the rival aristocratic family at the other end of the village.
Very strangely, this effort of the boy, begun and religiously pursued under a sense of family loyalty, was utterly unavailing. There was something in the soft eyes and patient face of Mrs. Stewart which consumed all his bitter thoughts and made him feel more like kissing the lady's hand than hating her, even for his injured mother's sake.
Often and often when she was assisting the children from the carriage, while Hugh—something too careless in this respect, was taking his horse from the thills or hailing neighbors in a hearty voice, little Will Anderson felt a barely resistible inclination to rush forward and offer his help. Was he restrained by a fear of punishment from his mother, or the dread of a refusal from Mrs. Stewart, or anticipation of ridicule from the assembled villagers? Not one of these fears influenced him in the least: he was simply afraid that there was one of the children that he could not lift. It was not tall Dan, nor fat March; for he felt that he could toss them both over the meeting house if such conduct would have been advantageous to the Stewart family; though either of the boys was as large as two such chaps as Will. And of course it was not little Carrie, for she was only a baby, three years old, "lighter than goose down," as Will thought, but did not say aloud. But it was Emeline.
Will had looked this girl in the face, from a distance, two or three times—she had brown eyes, deep and true; and brown hair, in heavy, rich coils. Her face was as full of unsullied beauty as a lily blossom. It had always a thoughtful expression as if the little brain were solving some grave problem of more than human interest. At least, all this is what Will saw and felt in an indistinct sort of fashion. I doubt if she were quite so ethereally beautiful as Will imagined; for girls born and reared on New England farms are not as fragile as a hot-house flower, and I dare say that she laughed as often as other girls; I know from personal knowledge that in later life she was not too prim to play practical jokes.
But Will felt that he could not, for his very life, offer to lift this girl from the carriage step. He was stout and heavy twelve years old; and Emeline was light and slender nine; yet the exertion, especially if she should happen to look at him from her wonderful eyes, would be fatal.
BOYHOOD SPORTS—AN AMATEUR MILITIA—A CAMPAIGN INCIDENT—WILL ANDERSON'S GALLANTRY—CHRISTMAS MORNING GREETING—THE AFTERNOON SERVICE—A COMBAT AMONG THE BOYS.
Will was more than five years old when peace was declared after the second war with Great Britain; and the subject, in that time of slow-moving news, was still a matter for frequent talk when he completed his tenth year. He was then admitted into the ranks of the "Continental Veterans," an organization of the patriotic youths who trained along the roads and in the woods adjoining the village, and told to each other, with passionate interest, all the tales of adventure and heroism which they could glean from their elders. The youngsters kept up really an accurate show of a military organization; including this important feature (which they had learned from the example of their elders), that all were officers of some rank or other. In the day-time they built fires in the woods on the banks of the Penobscot; and pretended that they were surrounded by night, dark as a stack of black cats. Occasionally they captured a calf and tried it as a spy by court-martial; usually allowing it to escape, at the last moment, its sentence of hanging, and then putting the guards on trial for aiding in the escape.
Four years of this training made Will a major, all the elder boys ranking from lieutenant colonel upward.
One afternoon late in the Autumn, when they were having a jolly good time in ambush along the old south road, a picket sentry announced a body of the enemy advancing rapidly. The hostile party consisted of one little girl, Emeline Stewart, who was trotting briskly homeward from her weekly visit to the village sewing school. Will was scouting at another point in company with Emeline's two brothers; and when one of the colonels suggested taking the entire force of the enemy prisoner of war, no dissenting voice was raised.
They met and seized her, poor, timid, little Emeline! She knew these boys, her school-fellows and playmates, and they were not rough; but they kept up such a style of martial bravado, and talked so glibly of court-martial and execution—they rehearsed with such sanguinary details the precedents established last week by the hanging of eight Hessian and Tory spies, that the child was struck speechless with fear.
From long practice, the young rogues acted with as much confidence and presence of mind as if they had been really old soldiers. What alarmed Emeline most of all was that they never once lapsed back from soldiers into the village boys of her acquaintance. Look at them with pleading eyes as much as she would, they gave no response. Without knowing how they were startling the child, the boys kept on with their cruel work.
A council of war was called, with General Hezekiah Bradford presiding; and before this pompous assemblage Emeline was commanded to stand and plead. She burst into tears and then sank down upon the mossy sward, while the boys, struck with sudden remorse, gazed blankly at her and then at each other.
At this instant Will and his companions hurried into the camp. A few words of explanation from one of Will's brothers revealed the whole situation, including the identity of "the enemy."
While they were gazing at the child's recumbent form, Hezzy Bradford spoke:
"Guards, remove the prisoner, and"—
He was about to conclude with "set her at liberty;" but Will did not wait to hear the conclusion. Deeming this speech but a continuation of the cruelty shown toward Emeline, he rushed at the president of the court-martial and with one accidentally-directed bunt, he knocked that august official from his seat of pine boughs and sprawled him upon his back, breathless and helpless for the moment.
Without waiting for any consultation or help, Will picked up the slender child and darted away with her; while the Continental Veterans, including Emeline's brothers, stood gaping as if they had lost their senses.
Once out upon the road and far enough from the camp to show that immediate pursuit was not intended. Will was fain to place Emeline upon a bank, that they both might get breath.
The child looked at him with wonder, at first mingled with fear. But soon she realized that he was her rescuer and began to thank him in her tender, cooing way; soon changing to a just and fiery indignation at her tormentors.
Will's physical exertion had been a trifle compared with the overwhelming nature of Emeline's glance. He was now ready to wilt. He might have fled ignominiously, but just at that moment when he felt himself about to take this course a shout came from the boys in the wood.
Will at once squared himself sturdily, intending to encounter all comers. But Emeline, with a cry of affright, sprang to her feet and cried:
"Oh, quick, Will! Let us run for home or those wicked boys will catch me again!"
At this familiar invitation, the boy took the outstretched hand of the child into his own broader palm; and thus together they ran toward the Stewart residence, Will giving the little girl a helpful lift at every step of the flight.
Looking back as they ran, Will saw his comrades emerge from the wood and shake their warrior fists at the fugitives; but he readily observed that a hopeful pursuit was deemed out of the question, and that the boys were not intending to chase.
The gate opening into the Stewart grounds was speedily reached and then Will stopped and expected Emeline to enter. But she remained outside long enough to say:
"Will Anderson, you are better than a brother to me. If you had not been there, so good and brave, what could I have done!"
When the grateful child at last disappeared within the house, Will turned to walk slowly back to the village.
He traversed the first mile on his return journey with no disturbance to his happy reflection; and then he entered the turn of the road leading through the wood. Raising his eyes at some slight sound in front, he saw a phalanx of the Continental Veterans drawn up in line across his path; while at the same moment a similar body of troops closed in from the sides and took position a few steps in the rear of his person. Will was taken in an ambuscade, which was performed so successfully and with such perfect regard to military precedent, that it is probably talked of to this day in New Vineyard among the great grandchildren of the Continental Veterans.
A colonel solemnly placed Will under arrest; and then, by command of General Bradford, the troop marched to the encampment in the depths of the pine wood.
The court-martial so abruptly dismissed an hour before was now ceremoniously re-convened, and William Anderson, major in the Continental Veterans, was charged with an attack upon his superior officer. The accusation was proved and the sentence of the court, General Bradford still sitting as presiding officer, was that the culprit be dismissed the service.
As the sentence was being pronounced, Will sprang to his feet and shouted:
"Boys, don't carry this further. I believe in military discipline, but let us settle this matter outside of the army.
"Hezzy, if I hit you, I did it accidentally; but I'm ready to take the consequences, and I'll stand up and fight you until you get satisfaction. Come on, you're bigger than I am and you're three years older; you're sure to get the best of it. Let's fight it out between us two and let that settle the matter."
Such a plan did not entirely suit the general. He remarked:
"You're sentenced; and you'll have to quit the service. But I'll give you plenty of `consequences' besides, so make ready."
This truthful historian grieves to say that in the fight which ensued, General Bradford disgraced his uniform by cowardice; that most of the boys were afraid to interfere even when they saw the plainest rules of combat violated by the strapping Hezekiah; and lastly, that the hero of this sketch was whaled in a most sanguinary fashion.
To Will's credit be it said that he fought with all the energy of his being, administering occasional terrific blows on the rosy nose of the general; and that he made no cry for quarter even when soundly thrashed.
After the encounter, the boys dispersed to their homes.
Will's heart was full of grief—not so much for the licking as for his dismissal from the ranks of the Continental Veterans. But he tried to bear up bravely in the hope that Emeline's kind feeling for him was permanent and not dependent upon his military position.
The Stewart boys went home with some shame in their minds for the unsoldier-like part which they had played in the thrilling events of the afternoon. But they sought to make amends by describing Will's chivalry and pluck in most extravagant terms to Emeline and all the other younger members of the household.
Emeline was deeply interested in the recital; and her soft little heart was torn between reverence for Will's heroism and indignation at the baseness of his persecutors—even her own brothers coming in for a lecture which made them hang their heads and look at each other in a most woe-begone fashion.
During the next few days Will had much to suffer; for big boys who were high officers in the Vets. laughed at him, and little boys, whose highest temporary aspiration was to belong to that corps, sneered and chuckled whenever they caught sight of this dismounted "knight of the sorrowful visage."
Seven weeks passed before Christmas morning dawned in that bitterly cold Winter of 1823. With the rising of the sun that day, two boys drawing a sled on which was seated a little girl, well wrapped and cuddled, appeared at the door of the Anderson residence—the girl was Emeline and the boys were Dan and March, whom she had forced into reluctant service. They entered the big kitchen, upon the invitation of Mrs. Joy, and amid a chorus of salutations in which the visitors bore their part.
When they were fairly in the house, with the biting frost shut out and the tumult ended, Emeline asked for Will.
It is very unromantic but it is truth that the object of her inquiry was at that particular moment seated at one corner of the fireplace, straining himself black in the face to draw on a pair of damp cowhide boots over a pair of similarly damp woolen socks—all of which personal belongings he had been seeking to dry by the morning fire, when this astounding interruption came.
Will succeeded in getting both boots on "as far as the heels," but go no further they would; and when his father called him to come forward, the poor boy got up and walked in agony and distortion toward Emeline. He was at least three inches taller than common, from the fact that his chubby heels rested upon the high, implacable stiffening of the boots; and his face wore a twisted look of agony which, coupled with his abnormal height, would have made him unrecognizable by casual acquaintances.
Most of the family laughed, and Dan and March joined in the hilarity —for really Will did appear grotesque; but Emeline either from absolute unconsciousness or gentle cunning, did not seem to notice the boy's awkward situation, and she began to take to him with a self-possession entirely unruffled.
"Will," she said, "I have brought you a pair of mittens for a Christmas gift. They're my first knitting and mother says they're not good enough for a present; but they're the best I can do now, and I offer them to you because you've been so kind to me and had to suffer so much for my sake. I hope you will wear them, will you?"
Emeline had ample time for this long speech. Poor Will was dumb and gulping. But before it was ended his confusion had shrunk his feet so that he was able to literally sink into his boots, and with this relief his face had changed from a purple hue to a good tint of health. He found his voice in time to answer:
"That I will, if mother will let me—that is, I mean if your mother will let me."
And so the blushing boy stretched out his hand and took the package, but Emeline kept a tight hold of one end of the cloth in which the mittens were wrapped, as she was under positive instructions from her thrifty mother to return the piece of hickory, for which the shoulder of Dan's second-best shirt was even then yawning.
The separation of the gift from its wrappings was soon achieved, and the hickory tucked into the depth of Emeline's pocket. Then wholesome maple sugar was produced, and with it a few pieces of sugar candy such as some of those young lips had never before had an opportunity to smack over. During the hilarity which ensued, Will was doing his best to creep back into a state of self-possession. But this work was prodigious and slow; for when he had several times fairly arrived at a stage of comparative comfort, a friendly glance from the kind little knitter sent him again into a state of confusion. After the Christmas luxuries had been distributed and given lodgment in capacious stomachs or economizing pockets, the Stewart children departed and left Will to the ungentle raillery of his family. Being amply able to care for himself in a family contest with either ridicule or logic as the weapon—or, what is sometimes as good as both, a downright unreasoning self-assertiveness, Will felt no pain during the assault to which he was subjected; rather, he derived keen enjoyment from it.
In the afternoon sacred services were held in the meeting house; for these people gave to every observance, which they deemed holy, their highest esteem, and nearly all the inhabitants of the village were present. Probably the good old preacher who was a new comer to the village, had delivered forty other Christmas sermons, or even the same sermon forty other times; but familiarity with the subject had not lessened his power.
He first stilled the buzz of gossiping whisper when he announced that his text would be form one of the great poets; and the congregation bent with horror to hear what dreadful thing he next would utter. Even into this remote corner of the New World had penetrated the evil fame of the irreverent poet lord, "Childe Harold," and even the very name of poet brought with it an oppressive sense of sin.
The false impression was soon removed. In a voice rendered tremulous by age and feeling, the minister repeated some of the verses of Milton— the Christian whose earthly sight had been lost at last to make his Heavenly vision more complete. As the wonderful words of adoration filled the house of worship, every head was bowed in contrition for unworthy thought:
"This is the month and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That he our deadly forfeit should release,And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
"This is the month and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring;For so the holy sages once did sing,That he our deadly forfeit should release,And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.
Having won his congregation to solemnity of feeling, the preacher taught them that "All good Christians celebrate the day of Christ's nativity, a day of joy both in heaven and on earth: in heaven for a day of glory unto God on high; on earth for a day of peace here below, and good-will towards men; a day of joy to all people past, present and to come; such a day as wherein, after long expectation, the best return was made that ever came to the poor sons of men; such a day as the Lord Himself made. Let us therefore rejoice therein!"
Even impatient and restless youth was awed by the manner and words of the earnest minister; and the boys restrained within unusual bounds their desire to be out of church amidst the hearty enjoyments of the day.
When the service was ended, the people dispersed more slowly and thoughtfully than was their wont; but humanity cannot long be kept upon such an exalted plane of feeling, and soon began the gossip and familiarity common to the occasion. Especially among the young people was the reaction quickly noticeable; and while the elders were speaking of the latest birth, death and marriage, the children were already beginning to romp even at the very door of the meeting-house. The youngsters, despite their exceptional appreciation of the sermon, and even more as a wilful revulsion from their noteworthy behavior, were determined now to compensate themselves for self-sacrifice; and they gathered in a noisy crowd in the street passing before the house of worship.
The sun was sending down his best Winter beams, and the snow was made just moist enough for sport; so a contest of snow-balling was at once informally arranged between the boys. Hezzy Bradford was one of the leaders, and when he and his rival had each made choice of two or three of the larger boys, someone already chosen said to Hezzy:
"Take Will Anderson—there he comes. He's the straightest thrower of the lot."
But Hezzy, whose dislike of Will had been steadily augmenting since the fight in the pine grove, was not ready to make peace with his victim. So he shook his head and sneeringly cried:
"Here comes the baby who wears mittens to a snow-balling match, for fear that his fingers will get wet. Watch me tip his cap off!"
With these words Hezzy threw an icy snow-ball which he had been carelessly making while choosing sides. The missile flew straight to its mark, and Will felt his head stung sharply as his cap tumbled into the road.
Will saw the hand of Hezzy and knew that retaliation meant a renewal of hostilities; but he did not hesitate. He pulled off his valued mittens, crowded them into his pockets and in a moment proved that any praise of his accurate throwing was not ill bestowed. He cast a snow-ball fairly into Hezzy's ear, rather staggering that blusterer, and causing a peal of laughter to go up from the crowd.
As our boy had expected, Hezzy declared war and rushed forward to summarily punish this reckless antagonist.
Was it that the insult to the mittens had nerved Will with a superhuman strength? or was it that all the indignation of weeks became suddenly centered in his arm? Whatever may have been the reason, he fought with an effective vigor, before which Master Hezekiah Bradford, general, village bully and aspiring sweetheart was compelled to go ingloriously down. Briefly and plainly told, Will, to his own astonishment, no less than to the marvel of the spectators, licked Hezzy until that great military commander was glad to cry for quarter and surrender unconditionally.
More than one oppressed youngster was gladdened by the result of this combat; and so great was the excitement, produced that the general contest was incontinently forsaken.
Hezzy was led away by his brothers and one or two others, who gave him a kind of contemptuous attention; but the majority of the boys crowded near to the conqueror.
From this hour, Will's rank among his companions was undisputed. He had soundly thrashed the commander-in-chief of the Continental Vets.; and without any request from himself, he was speedily restored to his former rank of major, only to relinquish that position very soon to be installed in the chief place vacated, in profound disgust, by Hezekiah Bradford.
Nor was this the least of his triumphs. When next he met Mrs. Stewart she praised his powers in unstinted terms. Though the conscientious lady could not exactly approve of fighting among boys, nevertheless she felt that Will's troubles and subsequent victories were traceable directly to his manly defense of her daughter; and Mrs. Stewart could not withhold her congratulations. And Emeline, herself, from out her brown eyes looked such pleasure at him during the next school session that he felt almost self-reproachful at receiving so much reward.
THE PROGRESS OF THE AGE—WILL ANDERSON'S COURTSHIP—THE CHRISTMAS SERMON.
In those times the months moved on in serene procession with the people of New Vineyard. In a later age of rapidly-recurring marvels we are wont to speak of the first quarter of this century as a "slow-poke, old-fogy time;" we contemptuously wonder how men endured the tedious drag of the seasons.
In William Anderson's journal I find a note which gives token of the dawn of this great modern day of progress. He writes:
"August 2, 1824.—Not many days ago, Mr. Stewart gave me a newspaper to read; he said something was in it which ought to interest a bright boy like myself. (I only repeat this because Emeline's father said it.) The paper is theHancock Gazette and Penobscot Patriot, of May 26, 1824; and it tells of a wonderful ship which has come into the lower waters of our river. It works with fire instead of wind and it can walk against tide, or current, or gale, as well as a horse can trot against a breeze. I have heard before of this marvelous thing called a steamship, but never thought it was a true wonder; but if it is really traveling up against a heavy Penobscot current, fire or steam or something else that is unusual must move it, for I am sure that no landward breeze that ever came off the Atlantic could do such a work. At any rate, I must see this strange ship and decide whether I shall believe or not."
The biographer finds that Providence favored Will with a trip to Bangor later in the year. How he came to be thus blessed the excited youth does not relate—beyond the fact that he went with his father, who adventured so far from home as a factor of the log men of the upper Penobscot to deal with the opulent lumber-mill owners at Bangor. Much that ensued upon this important journey is lost to us, through Will's hurried state after his return. But we learn that the steamship was actually a fact; for Will stepped on board theMaine, a boat of one hundred tons burthen, commanded by Captain Porter—the first steamer and the first steamer captain to be in Penobscot waters. And it is also proven that the wondrous vessel could move without the aid of sails; for after Will had disembarked he saw her shift her moorings a quarter of a mile directly against wind and current.
What most fills the journal at this period is that Will was scratching an aching and unresponsive head, seeking to decide upon some suitable present for Emeline which could be compassed by the contents of his little bead purse. After much anxiety he felt a sudden thrill of satisfaction as he remembered the poet whose sublime words the old preacher had quoted last Christmas day. He found, after much search, a shoe shop where books were also kept (for in those days business was not so scrupulously and appropriately divided as now). But, alas! the only copy of Milton was priced at twenty-seven shillings, while his purse held scarcely half that much!
He turned away in utter disappointment, when the thought came to him:
"Why do I seek the modern poet who sang of Jesus? The book which tells all we know of Him, I am sure is easier got."
He retraced his steps, and upon the cobbler-bookseller's shelves he found a red morocco-bound Testament, which was offered at thirteen shillings; and this he bought and later reverently packed away among the wonderful supplies which had been purchased by the elder William under distant direction of the precise and thrifty Mrs. Joy.
It was bleak November when the two Williams Anderson returned to New Vineyard. What holiday secrets they had in store they kept well; and the Christmas Day brought many surprises.
To Emeline—found upon the Stewart mansion door-steps that sacred morning—came a little package which, unwrapped, showed a Testament bound in red morocco. That precious little book is now before the eyes of this historian. Upon its yellow-stained title page are discernible these words:
"My friend, EMELINE T. STEWART,
"You will please accept this Testament as a gift from
"Your Friend,
"WILLIAM ANDERSON.
"EMELINE:—Ask, and ye shall receive. Knock, and it shall be opened unto you."
Four years slipped away. During this time Will was bashfully loving Emeline; and Emeline, well, she was bashfully watching Will's love.
This wondrous flower of affection grows by "bashful watching" just as morning glories unfold in greeting to the hour of enchantment. And when the Christmas Day of 1828 came, each of these dear children went to church and watched the other.
The sermon was, for Christmas, a novel one, both in text and treatment. It related to marriage as a state ordained for man; and the text was from Fuller's "Holy State," wherein it is declared:
"It is the policy of the Londoners, when they send a ship into the Levant or Mediterranean Sea, to make every mariner therein a merchant, each seaman adventuring somewhat of his own, which will make him more wary to avoid, and more valiant to encounter dangers. Thus married men, especially if having posterity, are the deeper shares in the state wherein they live, which engageth their affections to the greater loyalty. And though bachelors be the strongest stakes, yet married men are the best binders in the hedge of the commonwealth."
Will's mind must have been holding a thought not utterly foreign to the text; for he unconsciously nodded approval of the very sensible sentiment; and then he glanced at Emeline. The same instant, her eyes were lifted from a strained look at the floor and were turned in his direction. One long gaze passed between them; and this was Will's informal proposition of marriage and Emeline's informal acceptance.
WILLIAM ANDERSON'S MARRIAGE AND JOURNEY WESTWARD —HE AND HIS WIFE HEAR THE GOSPEL—VISIT NAUVOO—GATHER WITH THE SAINTS—THE BATTLE OF NAUVOO.
It was five hours less than one year later in the serene chronology of New Vineyard, when Will sent his paper heart and hand to Emeline. His trusty younger brother, Barton, was his messenger; and to escape observation, the boy was compelled to go early and return quickly. At breakfast, Will saw Barton enter the house and one glance told that the mission had been successfully performed.
Some hours later, at the regular Christmas services in the meeting-house, Will saw Emeline. His look was an anxious question, and hers was a gentle affirmative answer; and this was Will's formal proposition of marriage and Emeline's formal acceptance.
William Anderson and Emeline T. Stewart were wedded in their little town of New Vineyard, September 6, 1831.
Is this too abrupt? It might be if marriage were the end of the story; but unlike fiction, in real life the most uneventful period of human existence is from engagement to marriage; and unlike fiction, in real life the importance of existence comes after marriage.
Not long did they remain in their little village home. For William had decided to seek a greater measure of prosperity in the wide lands lying far beyond New Vineyard in the mysterious West.
Happy indeed was the fortune which carried them away from Maine. Their long journey across half a continent was a revelation of Divinity to their souls. Mountain, forest, lake, cataract, valley—breathed with beauty and grandeur. Two ardent beings, viewing all things under the radiance of their mutual love, saw the majesty of the land, the water and the arching cloud space above, with reverent eyes—for beyond these tangible evidences of sublime power, they sensed the Eternal Cause.
It was in the days and weeks of lonely journeying that they learned how to pray; they felt that never again would supplication and song of praise to Almighty God be formal lip-service given only at stated intervals — rather it would be an hourly and often silent communion with the Creator. In the day, they felt the Holy Presence in every glory which adorned the earth; at night, in the quiet of the woods, they gazed through swaying tree-tops, and saw the stars shedding earthward a serene beauty: and they knew that the God who, from His far-off seat of power, could unfold the swamp-pink flowers by the side of their lonely path, and could send through unfathomed space the light of countless spheres to cheer the silent watches of the night—could also lend His special care to the sentient worshiping creatures of His love.
Far away upon the prairie they at last decided to make their home. They settled in Bureau County, Illinois; and William became a sturdy western farmer. In the ten years following their marriage three children came to make their domestic happiness complete. The eldest was a son, Augustus; the others were daughters, Caroline and Martha.
Each season of the year brought its allotted toil, and the reward of perseverance and thrift was earthly prosperity.
Occasionally they heard rumors of a strange sect of religious believers, with a prophet, who dwelt in a wonderful city on the banks of the Mississippi, far to the south-west of their home. And one Summer day in 1841, four strange men, plain but pleasing in appearance, stopped at their door. These men were missionaries of the Church of Jesus Christ, journeying from the city of Nauvoo to proclaim His words to the honest-in-heart throughout the land. They left their marvelous message with William and Emeline, with the admonition to pray to God who would reveal whether the doctrine was true or false; and one of them in leaving prophesied in these words:
"You will yet see the time when you will regret having let this hour pass unheeded—this hour wherein you have the opportunity to accept, through baptism, the gospel of our Lord."
The prophecy was fulfilled. Before many days had elapsed the truth was plain to the minds of William and Emeline; and they awaited anxiously the visit of an Elder who might give them membership in the Church of their Savior. When weeks passed without the appearance of missionaries William regretted his obduracy at the time when he was first pressed to accept the truth.
Later, another opportunity came, and on the 15th day of August of that year, 1841, in the waters of Bureau Creek, William was immersed in sacred baptism. Afterward, Emeline rendered similar reverence to the requirement of the gospel.
As soon as he could garner his crops, William felt that he must hasten to the beautiful city of the Father of Waters. He carried with him on the eventful journey to Nauvoo his wife and their three little ones; and they reached the city on Thursday, September 30th, 1841.
On the day following, the great conference of the Church was to have opened; but the storm prevented the assembling of the Saints. And after learning that the meetings were postponed for one day, William left his wife and children comfortably shielded in their wagon from the blast while he wandered about regardless of the storm. He looked with awestruck vision upon the temple which was rearing its majestic presence toward heaven; and he gazed with curiosity at the place which was being excavated for the foundation of the Nauvoo House.
The next day, Saturday, October 2nd, the people crowded to the meeting ground and organized themselves into their quorums in order. The corner stone of the Nauvoo House was laid that morning; but in the afternoon services in the conference meeting were held.
The Sabbath came—a bleak day; but William and Emeline, with their little ones, were at the meeting grounds, and they saw and heard that day the Prophet of God.
The very sight of Joseph, graceful, erect, commanding; with flashing eyes and animated gesture, was enough to thrill these humble believers with joy. But when they heard his voice, with its wonderful impressive sweetness, they shed tears of happiness.
Joseph's sermon was upon the glorious principle of redemption for the dead; and he portrayed the greatness of Divine compassion and benevolence in this plan of human salvation. He said:
"View two brothers—equally intelligent, learned, virtuous and lovely—walking in uprightness and all good conscience, so far as they are able to discern duty from the muddy stream of tradition or from the blotted page of the book of nature. One dies and is buried, never having heard the gospel of reconciliation. To the other the message of salvation is sent; he hears and embraces it and is made the heir of eternal life.
"Shall the one become the partaker of glory and the other be consigned to hopeless perdition? Is there no chance for his escape? Sectarianism answers, `None, none!' Such an idea is worse than atheism. The truth shall break down and dash in pieces all such bigoted Pharisaism. The sects shall be sifted, the honest-in-heart brought out and the priests left in the midst of their corruption."
Such was the new and exalted nature of the instruction; and when the conference was ended William and Emeline had determined to sacrifice their distant possessions and gather with the Saints in the beautiful city. But their desire was not immediately fulfilled; for William was called to preach and discuss through the States; and in his absence Emeline nobly and cheerfully toiled for her children and their dear father.
Nearly three years of missionary labor, broken by intervals of farm toil, had passed when, on the darkest day of the darkest June ever seen by the summers of this great land, a treasonable massacre took place at the little stone jail in Carthage. The appalling news of this great national crime reached out with sudden horror to all the abiding places of the scattered Saints.
William heard the dread story and hastened home. His property was fairly given away, and soon he was with his encompassed and persecuted brethren in Nauvoo.
Immediately he was enrolled in the Legion; later he was appointed sergeant; and still later, captain.
I have here the original certificate of his rank as sergeant. The paper is old and the ink is faded; but every letter is legible. It reads:
"May 12th, 1845."GREETING:"This is to certify that William Anderson is appointed first sergeant in the second company, fifth regiment, second cohort of the Nauvoo Legion. And he is therefore to obey all orders and commands of his superior officers with fidelity according to law and military rule and discipline."Given under my hand May 12th, 1845."ISAAC ALLRED, Capt."
"May 12th, 1845.
"GREETING:
"This is to certify that William Anderson is appointed first sergeant in the second company, fifth regiment, second cohort of the Nauvoo Legion. And he is therefore to obey all orders and commands of his superior officers with fidelity according to law and military rule and discipline.
"Given under my hand May 12th, 1845.
"ISAAC ALLRED, Capt."
William Anderson and Emeline were faithful; and they received the blessings of the temple. And on "Tuesday of the first week in February, 1846, I [William Anderson] received in marriage in God's Holy House, Drusilla Sargent."
In all the tragic history of the ensuing two years, William was a staunch actor. It was a piteous time! History shows no greater brutality than that which was perpetrated against the city and the Saints, by officially protected mobs; and in the trying days every man was compelled to show his mettle. William Anderson's journal is filled with the record of this awful period. Its simple, unaffected words show how closely allied were the people of Nauvoo to the sublime martyrs of other centuries.
The history of that brief time should be read by every youth in Utah.
On the 10th day of September, 1846—after the cruelly-enforced migration of many of the people of Nauvoo—there were left to guard the city and its remaining population of women and babes, sick and tottering old men—only 123 citizens who were capable to bear arms.
And this was the hour selected by the fiends incarnate for their descent upon Nauvoo. The city was surrounded by an efficiently-armed mob, nearly 2,000 strong; and a bombardment was begun by the besiegers.
When the thunder of the mob's traitorous guns shook the air of Nauvoo, William sprang up to answer the call of duty.
Emeline and Drusilla clung to him—a fearful foreboding of personal evil seemed to take sound and volume with every reverberation of the artillery discharges. But he was firm. He pressed his fond and faithful wives—his helpmeets given him of God—to his martial bosom; and then he left them to solace themselves by prayer while he rushed to the encounter.
Then these two good women—sisters, nay dearer to each other than sisters—knelt down, with arms clasped about each others waists and prayed to the All-Merciful to bring their good husband home in safety from the battle.