Praise for the Elders.—Efforts to Bring Two Natives to Utah.—Sail for Home.—Description of Steerage.—An Earnest Prayer.—Timidity of the Saints.—Baptize a New Convert at Midnight.
November 22, 1857. The day was beautiful, perhaps because my heart felt to rejoice; for I had been truly blest during my sojourn on these islands. I attended meeting and listened to remarks by Elders Bigler, Woodbury, Bell, and Cluff. I loved Brother Bigler for his wisdom and humility; Brother Woodbury for his loyalty to the Church, and for his eloquence in preaching in Kanaka. Truly his speaking was a gift, and came not by his own wisdom.
I spoke on the nature of opposition. Herod sought to kill Jesus Christ, because Christ came with power to organize and establish God's kingdom upon the earth. The Jews persecuted him because they feared, "lest all the world would go after him, and they would lose their place and nation." And so it was with the Christians when the Prophet Joseph came; they feared him, for he had more powder, wisdom, and godliness than all of them. They do not hate us personally; but they are determined to resist the truth, and overthrow the kingdom. Their inspiration comes from Satan.
The following is from my journal of Friday, November 27, 1857:
"We are anxious to take two native elders home with us; but their laws forbid their emigrating without a government permit. For this reason Elders Bigler, Woodbury, and I waited on his excellency, Governor Kekuanaao. He is a large, robust, fine-looking, elderly man; and like all Hawaiians, he is fond of ease and good living.
"We apprised him of our desires and asked his permission for two of our Hawaiian brethren to go home with us. He was quite ignorant of the law on this matter, but said he would consult Prince Lot, and if there were no objections he would grant our request. We called next on his royal highness, Prince Lot, and found him clad in rich Chinese costume. He is above the medium height, strong, well-built, about twenty-five years of age, kind and courteous in manner, and speaks good English.
"On December 2, 1857, the government informed us that they declined to let the native brethren go with us.
"Monday, December 7th. For thirty dollars I secured steerage passage on the bark Yankee, to San Francisco. I had ten dollars left, and having sold my only coat for ten dollars, left the twenty dollars with Elder Bigler to give to my brother Franklin W. who was still on Hawaii.
"Wednesday, December 9, 1857, Elders Sextus E. Johnson, William King, Eli Bell, William W. Cluff, Smith B. Thurston, John A. West, Simpson M. Molen, George Speirs, and John R. Young sailed for home on the bark Yankee. The treatment we received was anything but courteous, and so the following doggerel verses fairly illustrate our feelings:
"The wealthy gent may think I'm wrongIn writing this poor, uncouth song.But those who share my humble berthWill count my theme of greater worth.Perhaps you all who've crossed the seaHave, of the famous bark Yankee,Heard much of good, by fiction told.But now the truth I will unfold.Poverty, I know, is oft despisedBy those who think they're rich and wise.But oft in modest birth we'll findMen of sense, and noble mind."Excuse sufficient this must be,True worth needs no apology.You to our steerage I'll invite,Where you shall see a motley sight.For here we sit 'mong ropes and rags,Spars, chicken coops, and dirty bags,Turkeys, sheep, and guinea hens,With Johnny Ching Ching,—all in one pen—A pen some folks a steerage call,With ample room to hold us all."From morn till night we sit around,Like gypsies camping on the ground.Some of us talk, and others sing,While some are busy scrimshawing.Some of politics are talking,Others on the decks are walking,And with the dogs ofttimes are playing,But pause to hear some witty saying.Below sits Caesar with open hymn-bookSeeking grace with a pious look;While carpenter and mate with hammer,Do their best to make a clamor."Hark! now the bell for dinner rings,And each one for the hatchway springs.'Old Salt horse again' half-raw,To chew would need an iron jaw.'Look here, cook, this meat's not done.''Boiled three hours,' cries Afric's son.'But if you do not like the meat,There's murphies plus sea bread to eat.You can't complain, for as the crewAre treated by us, so are you.'These are the words of Captain Bob,Who thinks no harm poor men to rob.For robber it is, in every sense,To treat men thus, to save expense."Now for our hammocks let us look;Search your corner—scan each nook.Vain the search. From hatch to hatchThe Yankee's steerage has no match.On ropes and barrels men must lie,Thankful to get a little hay.For forty dollars per head we've gotA passage minus bed or cot.Filled with barrels, ropes and sails,Where light o'er darkenss [sic] ne'er prevails.Here men are classed with brutish dogs,And treated worse than farmer's hogs."Such odious scenes you can't admire,So from the steerage let's retire.But when again we go to sea'Twill not be in the bark Yankee.To you, dear friends, I'll say goodbye—For supper time is drawing nigh—And welcome are the hours of nightThat from my view will hide the sightOf filth and dirt, and drive awayThe thoughts that haunt me all the day.
"The wealthy gent may think I'm wrongIn writing this poor, uncouth song.But those who share my humble berthWill count my theme of greater worth.Perhaps you all who've crossed the seaHave, of the famous bark Yankee,Heard much of good, by fiction told.But now the truth I will unfold.Poverty, I know, is oft despisedBy those who think they're rich and wise.But oft in modest birth we'll findMen of sense, and noble mind.
"Excuse sufficient this must be,True worth needs no apology.You to our steerage I'll invite,Where you shall see a motley sight.For here we sit 'mong ropes and rags,Spars, chicken coops, and dirty bags,Turkeys, sheep, and guinea hens,With Johnny Ching Ching,—all in one pen—A pen some folks a steerage call,With ample room to hold us all.
"From morn till night we sit around,Like gypsies camping on the ground.Some of us talk, and others sing,While some are busy scrimshawing.Some of politics are talking,Others on the decks are walking,And with the dogs ofttimes are playing,But pause to hear some witty saying.Below sits Caesar with open hymn-bookSeeking grace with a pious look;While carpenter and mate with hammer,Do their best to make a clamor.
"Hark! now the bell for dinner rings,And each one for the hatchway springs.'Old Salt horse again' half-raw,To chew would need an iron jaw.'Look here, cook, this meat's not done.''Boiled three hours,' cries Afric's son.'But if you do not like the meat,There's murphies plus sea bread to eat.You can't complain, for as the crewAre treated by us, so are you.'These are the words of Captain Bob,Who thinks no harm poor men to rob.For robber it is, in every sense,To treat men thus, to save expense.
"Now for our hammocks let us look;Search your corner—scan each nook.Vain the search. From hatch to hatchThe Yankee's steerage has no match.On ropes and barrels men must lie,Thankful to get a little hay.For forty dollars per head we've gotA passage minus bed or cot.Filled with barrels, ropes and sails,Where light o'er darkenss [sic] ne'er prevails.Here men are classed with brutish dogs,And treated worse than farmer's hogs.
"Such odious scenes you can't admire,So from the steerage let's retire.But when again we go to sea'Twill not be in the bark Yankee.To you, dear friends, I'll say goodbye—For supper time is drawing nigh—And welcome are the hours of nightThat from my view will hide the sightOf filth and dirt, and drive awayThe thoughts that haunt me all the day.
"Saturday, December 26, 1857. This morning land could be seen from the mast head. At ten a.m. it could be seen from deck. At noon we hove in sight of the Golden Gate, and soon sailed into the beautiful bay of Frisco.
"But now the wind died, and we were left without a breath of air. The sailors whistled, but the sails flapped lazily, and the ship moved not. The day slipped away, the moon rose in all its splendor, the night was beautiful, and there lay the city with her thousand sparkling lamps. Oh, how I longed to be on shore, to tread American soil once more, to walk on my native land the land of my fathers, where I should be glad to dwell in peace.
"But alas, that boon is denied me. Even now the camp fires are kindled by a strong, and well-disciplined army sent by a corrupt government to rob my parents, kindred, and people, of the sacred rights bequeathed them by their noble sires who fought and bled, to win the freedom and justice that England refused to grant. And yet this same nation, that became thus, under the blessing of God, a home for the free, and an asylum for the oppressed has now turned to be an oppressor!
"O, God, hear my prayer. For Thou knowest the integrity of my heart. I have returned from the mission Thou gavest me through Thy servant, to find Thy covenant people denied their rights; falsely accused, and persecuted without cause; therefore, I pray Thee, do Thou guard and protect them. Deliver them. Father, from all their enemies. Let the armies of the oppressor go backwards and not forward! Let the fierce storms and tempests of the mountains block their way. May contentions arise among them, and union be far from them, until they turn to righteousness and abide by the Constitution which Thou didst give by inspiration to our fathers. I ask it in the name of Jesus Christ, Thy Son. Amen."
On Sunday, December 27, 1857, I attended meeting in the home of Brother Dwight Eveleth, President of the San Francisco branch. The local Saints were afraid to sing, or talk aloud in our meetings, for fear of being heard upon the street. But I felt like shouting Hosannah, and I would not be restrained. Attracted by my voice, several strangers called in. After meeting, I walked down to the bay and baptized Elijah E. Warren, a young man from Santa Clara.
Visit My Cousin.—His Tempting Offer.—Meet the Agents of Mr. Walker, the Nicaragua Filibusterer.—Baptize Mrs. Bradford.
On Monday, December 28, 1857, I borrowed two dollars and fifty cents and bought from a Jew store a very good second-hand coat as I had come from the islands in my shirt sleeves. The returning elders scattered out in search of work. Elders Molen and Speirs went to Sacramento, Elders Johnson, King, West, and Thurston went to the Redwoods; while Elders Cluff, Bell, and I remained in the city.
I visited my cousin, Lorenzo Sawyer, attorney general for the state of California. He said if I would stay with him, he would send me to school for three years, then let me study law in his office a year, and then give me one thousand dollars in gold to commence life. I thanked him, but told him there was not gold enough in California to bribe me from going home, and sharing the destiny of the Latter-day Saints.
I also met at Brother Eveleth's, Mr. Cooper, Mr. Harbin, and Mr. Mathewsen, straight from New York, agents of Mr. Walker, the celebrated filibusterer. They were commissioned to go to Utah and sell the Mormon people two million acres of land in Central America. I did all I could to dissuade them from going, but in vain.
Before leaving the island, I was counseled to change my name, as the spirit of persecution was strong against us in all parts of the United States. Hence, I was now passing under the name of John Brown; but I could not conceal my identity. Everybody knew me, and President Eveleth advised, as a precautionary measure, that I should leave the city.
Tuesday, December 29, 1857. Elders William Cluff, Eli Bell, and I took stage for the Redwoods, seeking opportunity to work where no one knew me. When within four miles of Whipple's mills, we left the stage and walked through the fields. The mill had closed for the day. One man was working at the saw. Brother Cluff and I sat down on a log, while Brother Bell went to make inquiries.
As soon as the man was addressed, he left his work and came straight to me, saying, "Brother Young, I am glad to see you. A few nights ago, I saw you in a dream, and I know you have been sent here to do a good work." Again everybody knew me, and I told the brethren that, live or die, from this time on I would be John R. Young.
I went to work for Brother Eli Whipple. He owned a large steam saw-mill, and was anxious to close out and go to Utah. His wife and three daughters were not in the Church, and were opposed to gathering. In fact Mrs. Whipple was very bitter toward me. I pleaded earnestly with the Lord that He would soften her heart and bring her into the Church. In about three weeks I had the joy of seeing her and Mrs. Mary Whipple Walker baptized.
Sister Whipple gave me the following account of her conversion: "When you first came to live with us, I thought you were the ugliest-looking man that I had ever seen. You looked dark and swarthy, and I could not help but hate you. One evening, after you had borne a testimony to me, I went into my room, knelt down and prayed. I asked God, if what you had said was true, to give me some evidence of it. That night I dreamed that I saw you clothed in white raiment, and your face shone like the face of an angel. In the morning when I met you, I could see a halo of light around your face. And I never see you now but what there is a bright spot on your cheek."
Ever since that day Aunt Patience has been as kind and gentle to me as my own mother. So did the Father answer my prayers.
Brother Whipple had a large number of logs scattered among the timber, ready to be hauled to the mill. I took four yoke of his oxen and went to logging. One day, as I came in muddy and tired, I met a gentleman who asked for Mr. Young. I answered: "That's my name." But he wanted Elder Young, the Mormon preacher; and he could hardly comprehend how a man could be an ox driver and a minister of the Gospel at the same time. After supper I held meeting in the kitchen, and talked to a house full of earnest listeners until midnight.
On Saturday, February 6, 1858, I went home with Mr. Bradford, the gentleman who came the previous evening. I stayed a week with him. Daytimes I threshed barley with a flail, at two dollars a day; evenings I gave Gospel talks to his family and a few invited friends. At the end of the week, his wife wanted to be baptized. The doctors and ministers visited her, and said that if she went into the water it would kill her, as her health was delicate, and she had been heavily dosed with calomel.
Nevertheless, at three o'clock Sunday morning, we put her into a spring wagon and drove fifteen miles to a secluded place on a sparkling mountain stream. Mr. Bradford helped me carry her into the water, and I baptized her for the remission of her sins, and confirmed her a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I then returned to the Redwoods and held a meeting at Brother Whipple's. A good many strangers attended; and as a result of these meetings seven persons were added to the Church, for which I greatly rejoiced.
About this time my Brother Franklin W. arrived from the islands.
Start for a Thirteen-Hundred-Mile Walk.—Become Indian Scout—Meet Jacob Hamblin, the Indian Peacemaker.—Surrounded by Forty Indian Warriors.—Shooting a Dove Saves our Scalps.
By the first of March forty persons had gathered at the Redwoods, 40 miles south of San Francisco, prepared to go to Utah. We organized a company by appointing Eli Whipple, captain; Sextus E. Johnson, sergeant of the guard; John R. Young, chaplain; and Elemuel Sawtell, clerk.
Brother Whipple furnished the provisions, and hauled the blankets for the returning elders, thirteen in number; and with hearts full of hope and joy we started out for a walk of thirteen hundred miles. Before setting out, Joseph A. Kelting and I went to San Francisco and purchased thirty-five rifles and one hundred pounds of powder.
At the start grass was short, and teams were heavily loaded, so we traveled slowly. By the middle of April, it was evident that our provisions would not last us through. Our meat was nearly gone, and I began to urge the brethren to lie over a day and hunt. However, as we saw but little game, and killed none, there was no spirit for hunting.
On the 20th of April we camped at Elizabeth's Lake. After evening camp prayers, I talked and prophesied that if we would lie over, and go out to hunt, we should kill all the meat we should want. The company consented; and the next morning at daybreak thirteen of us started out. I was the odd man, and went alone.
I had walked about a mile when I saw nine deer standing across a hollow. I fired and killed a large buck. That commenced the ball. William King killed three without moving out of his tracks. By noon we had in all, twenty-two deer. We lay by and jerked the meat. Needless to say, we had plenty to last us the rest of the journey.
At Stony Creek, Mr. Cooper and party from New York, overtook us. My services were secured to pilot them to Salt Lake City. So bidding goodbye to my fellow missionaries, who were very dear to me, and to the Saints that composed our little company, I mounted a mule and struck the trail for home.
On the Mohave, having struck the Mormon road leading from Salt Lake to San Bernardino, we saw Indian signs. The redskins approached our camp at night, but kept out of sight in the day time. That looked unfriendly. At the lower crossing of the Mohave we picketed our animals close around our wagon.
At three o'clock in the morning, they stampeded, and all got away but one. I mounted bareback, without stopping to dress, and soon overtook the frightened animals, and making a wide circuit, brought them safely to camp.
At the Vegas Springs T met for the first time, that renowned Indian peacemaker, Jacob Hamblin, and learned from him the history of the Mountain Meadows Massacre. He said the Indians were still hostile, and thirsting for more blood. On the Muddy, a small stream of that region, we found living in a wagon-bed, turned bottom-side up for a shield from heat and sand, Ira Hatch and Thales Haskell, strong men, giving the better part of their lives to missionary work among the Indians—a labor that brought them neither pleasure nor wealth.
Taking their advice, we rested a day, purposing to make rapid drives from there to the settlements. On the 13th of May we nooned at the Beaver Dams, rested until night, then drove to the Clara Mountains, made a dry camp, kindling no fire. In the morning we drove to the Cane Spring for breakfast.
Scarcely had we turned out our horses when we were surrounded by forty Indian warriors, their faces all blackened. I soon became convinced that they had been watching for us, and intended to rob, if not kill us. Many of them had on good broadcloth clothes, which I suppose they had taken from the people they had murdered at the Mountain Meadows. Most of them had good guns, and they were very insolent, helping themselves to whatever they wanted.
A few minutes after they came, a mourning dove alighted on a willow at the head of the spring, about twelve rods from our camp. The wind was blowing hard from the south, waving the willow on which the bird rested. The Indians commenced shooting at it. With a sudden impulse, I raised my rifle and fired. If I had had the dove in my hand, I could not have cut its head off more nicely than I did.
The Indians seemed astonished, and for a short time were quiet. In our small company—only five of us—was a mountaineer by the name of Hardin. I felt that he was the only man that could be relied on in case of trouble. He had loaded a double-barrelled shotgun with navy balls, and stood leaning by the side of the carriage, the butt of his gun on the ground, the muzzle resting in his right hand.
Three Indians crawled under the carriage and commenced scuffling. Instantly one barrel of his gun went off, taking off the upper part of Hardin's ear, and tearing away the rim of his hat. It knocked him down, and I thought he was killed. The chief threw the back of his hand to his mouth and gave the war whoop.
I cocked my gun and put the muzzle against his belly. He stopped yelling, and Hardin sprang up and attempted to shoot him; but I interfered, telling the men that our lives depended on our keeping the chief.
I then spoke in Ute, and ordered the Indians to their camp, but kept the chief a prisoner. We hitched up, and putting the chief into the carriage, drove until three o'clock, then rested until dark, when we hitched up and drove rapidly until midnight. We then camped, tied up, and stood guard without a fire until morning. After breakfast, we gave the Indian a shirt and plug of tobacco, and told him to "git."
Years after, I became intimately acquainted with this chief Jackson. He was a bad man; and while he lived there was no peace with his band. Without doubt, all that saved our scalps at that time was the fortunate shot in killing the dove, and the course we pursued in keeping the chief a prisoner.
After turning the Indian loose, we passed a painfully anxious day; our animals were so exhausted that we had to take several rests, and were fearful of being followed by the Indians. Just before night, however, we had the good fortune to pull into the town of Pinto, the frontier Mormon settlement.
We were kindly received by the good people of that ward, and after resting a few days, continued our journey. The monotony of the desert was now pleasingly changed by the many ranches and busy villages we passed. At Parowan, two hundred miles south of Salt Lake City, we encountered a scene that I shall never forget. I remember distinctly, the "Exodus," as it was called, from Nauvoo, when sixteen thousand souls left their homes and commenced that marvelous journey of fourteen hundred miles to the unknown valley of the Salt Lake. But that exodus was like a small rivulet by the side of a mighty river when compared with the seventy-five thousand men, women, and children that we now met in one continuous line of travel.
Horses, oxen, and cows were harnessed or yoked to wagons and carts; and one family by the name of Syphus, was moving their effects on a handcart drawn by a pair of yearling steers. Mothers and children walked along as merrily as if going to a corn husking; each family moving its little bunch of cows and flock of sheep, and all starting on the journey (that was never completed) to Sonora, in Mexico, or some other place.
At times we were compelled to drive our wagon for miles outside the beaten road, everywhere hearing and seeing evidences that increased my gentile companions' wonderment of the marvelous power held by Brigham Young over his people; and added to my curiosity to see the outcome of Mr. Cooper's colonizing scheme. Surely everything looked favorable for the promoters of that idea.
At last we reached Provo, where the Church leaders had made their temporary headquarters. In the evening I visited President Young, and made known to him the object of Mr. Cooper's visit. Two days later he gave audience to Messrs. Cooper, Mathewsen, and Hardin. They held a lengthy conversation, in which Mr. Cooper, in glowing language, told the Mormon leaders what a splendid opportunity it was for them to lead their people to Central America, where, he said, they could found an empire that would crown the stirring life of Brigham Young and his associates with endless glory.
I can still hear the ringing words of Brigham Young's answer: "Gentlemen," said he, "God Almighty made these everlasting hills to be bulwarks of liberty for the oppressed and down-trodden of the earth. We shall never leave here and go to a country where we should have six hundred miles of sea coast to defend, and where any nation at their pleasure could send war ships to bombard our cities. Furthermore, gentlemen, should the desire ever come, we have hundreds of boys, just as capable of going to Nicaragua, and of taking possession and holding it, too, as General Walker of New York. Gentlemen, you have our answer."
On June 23, 1858, my cousin, Brigham Young, Jr., carried me in his one-horse buggy to Salt Lake City. At Draper I received the kiss of welcome from my dear sister, Harriet M. Brown, and from my dear aged mother. At the city I met my father, who, like a lion in his lair, was watching the coming fate of his deserted home. He and a few fearless, trusted men had been left behind to see that Johnston's army kept its pledges not to quarter in the city. Had they broken their pledge the city would have been burned.
I sat with the guards in the upper room of the Lion House, and saw that army in death-like silence march through the deserted streets of the dead city, a few of the officers with uncovered heads, as if attending a funeral. To us western mountain boys, the solemnity of the march was oppressive; and glad relief came to our strained feelings, when we saw the soldiers' camp fires kindled on the "other side of Jordan."
Home Activities.—Counseled Not to Study Law.—Called to Uinta, and Dixie.
As soon as I had seen the army "pass through," I returned to Provo to report myself to President Young. I had been gone on my mission a little over four years, as before recorded. When Apostle John Taylor set me apart for this mission he said, "You shall be cast upon the bosom of the sea; but fear not, the hand of the Lord shall be over you, and you shall return in safety to your father's home;" also in parting President Young had said: "If you will be humble, live near the Lord, and not commit sin, when you return you will take me by the hand and tell me that you know Mormonism is true." I had kept the conditions, and I knew the Gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored to the earth, and that it is the power of God unto salvation to all who receive and obey it.
About this time peace was restored by President Buchanan's proclamation of pardon to the Mormons. I took hold with energy to help move my father's families back from the south, whither they had fled, at the near approach of the army. That task accomplished, I made arrangements to go to San Francisco, intending to live with my cousin, Lorenzo Sawyer, and go to school and study law.
One day, as I passed Uncle Brigham's office, he called to me, then came out and walked with me to Brother Wells' corner. We sat down on a pile of lumber, and I told him my plans. He counseled me not to go to California, to let the law alone, to find a good girl, get married, and make me a home.
During the winter I attended a school taught by Sister Eleanor Pratt, and here became acquainted with Miss S. E. Carmichael, one of Utah's most gifted daughters.
On January 1, 1859, I married Albina Terry, eldest daughter of William Reynolds and Mary Phillips Terry. During the summer following, I worked as a farm hand for my brother-in-law, Joseph G. Brown. On November 12, 1859, I moved to Payson and bought a home of David Crockett, paying for it during the winter by hauling tithing wheat from Sanpete valley to Salt Lake City.
November 16, 1859, my eldest son, John Terry, was born. The mother came near dying with hemorrhage at the nose, but Elders Levi W. Hancock and William McBride laid hands on her, and she was instantly healed.
In the spring of 1861, I was called, with ten other families of Payson, to help settle the Uinta country. I sold my home, bought two good teams, and loaded up my things; then going to Salt Lake City, I reported to President Young for specific instructions. After a long talk, in which he seemed pleased with my labors, he told me the Indians had become hostile, and he should release those who had been called. He advised that I return to Payson and buy another home. I did so, trading my teams for a house and lot and ten acres of farm land.
I also rented a ranch, with twenty cows and a flock of sheep, for three years, of James McClellan. During the summer I picked up sixty calves, to be kept on halves. I also married as second wife. Miss Lydia Knight, daughter of Newell Knight, a life long trusted friend of the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Everything that I touched seemed to prosper, and I was happy—but the "best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley." In the fall, I was called, in connection with my Brother Franklin W., who at that time was bishop of Payson, to go to Dixie.
I purchased two yoke of oxen and a big wagon. My Brother Franklin W. accompanied me as far as Toquer, where we parted. I going to the Santa Clara, I bought an Indian farm situated on the creek just below the Old Mission fort. I worked hard during days, fencing with timber that grew on the place. The long evenings I spent in grubbing the heavy sage and squaw brush that covered a great portion of the farm. My wives, Albina, and Lydia, would pile the brush, and keep up fires so that I could see to work. We were ambitious to make a good home; and the only capital we had was health, strong-arms, and resolute will.
Just as I had completed the fence, and had several acres ready for plowing, the Big Flood came like a thief in the night. The wall of water, which was ten to fifteen feet high, struck the west side of the fort, a rock structure two hundred feet square, in which several families were living. The solid wall stood as a dam, causing the stream to divide the greater part following the creek channel to the south, but a sheet of water four or five feet deep spewing over the creek bank, and running along the fort wall until it came to the north side, where it swept through the gate like a mill race, flooding the inside of the fort to a man's armpits.
Such were the conditions when the inmates of the fort were awakened to their peril. The alarm was given to those living outside of the fort; and soon all the men, and some of the women, were gathered at the point of danger. The first care was to rescue the women and children.
Inside the fort, the water was comparatively still, so that men were able to move around as they wished; but as they approached the gate, no man unassisted could stem the current. To remedy this, a rope was passed from a tree on the outside, through the gate, and made fast to a post on the inside. By holding to this line, men could pass in and out; the women and children were then taken on the men's shoulders and carried to a place of safety.
The rescue was scarcely accomplished, before another danger faced us; for by this time the high tide of the flood had passed; and the channel of the creek, which had also become enlarged, sucked the water from the overflowed flats, strengthened the current in the creek, undermining its banks, and caving them in. Suddenly the southwest corner of the fort, Ira Hatch's home, fell into the flood, sweeping away everything he owned. Other families suffered, but he, taken by surprise, lost all.
Across the creek from the fort was a little grist mill owned by Jacob Hamblin. Father Chamberlain, the aged miller, with two grandchildren, a boy and a girl, were living in a dugout near the mill. The first they knew of it, a stream of water was pouring in upon them. They succeeded, however, in emerging from the trap, and climbing a near-by tree, where they passed the night in terror. In the morning they waded to a high spot on the mill-race, and none too soon, for both the tree they had climbed, and the mill, were carried away. It was three days before the water fell sufficiently for Ira Hatch and myself to wade across and rescue them.
During the summer preceding the flood, the Clara Indian missionaries had labored in the United Order. The northwest corner room of the fort had been used by them for a granary. Here they had two hundred bushels of wheat unsacked. It was agreed that all hands should assist in carrying out the wheat; while I stood, lantern in hand, to signal any danger from the encroaching flood. One hundred seventy-five bushels had been saved, when I gave the alarm. The men came out at once: and ten minutes later the room caved in.
We felt that we had done all that could be done; and the men being nearly exhausted, and chilled to the bone, went to their homes. The rope that was used at the gate had been taken down, coiled, and hung on Samuel Knight's gate. Jacob Hamblin begged me to hold the light, while he moved a pile of cord-wood, and said when that was done, he would go and rest. He had moved about half of the pile, when a large block of earth on which he stood, dropped into the flood.
I called for help. Joseph Knight ran to me, catching the rope in his hand as he came. At the bank I held the light so that we might peer into the seething waters below. So much earth had fallen that it pushed the water back; and we saw Jacob clinging desperately to snapping roots. Brother Knight rapidly made a noose and dropped it over his head and shoulders. Hamblin then grabbed the rope, and we pulled him from the jaws of death; for no man could have lived long in that torrent of mud and water.
During the damp and rainy weather that accompanied the flood, our little son, John T., took the croup, and after several days of terrible suffering, died. This was our first life sorrow, and the blow was a heavy one.
The old fort and town having been washed away, a new town was laid out under the direction of Apostle Erastus Snow. I secured a city lot, and some farm land, and went to work again.
In the spring of 1862 I was called by the bishop of the Clara ward to drive an ox team to Omaha on the Missouri river, to get some cotton gins and spinning jennies for the benefit of the ward. Leaving my family camped in a tent, I responded to the call, driving my own team, and crossing the plains in John R. Murdock's train.
At Omaha I found my Brother Joseph W., who had charge of the Church immigration, lying at the point of death. He had been knocked down by lightning, and nearly crushed to death by baled wagon beds that were blown upon him during the terrible storm. Under the blessing of God, and with careful nursing, his life was preserved. For three weeks I aided in purchasing teams for the immigrants, and brought up the rear end of that year's emigration. After all our companies had started back, I received orders, by telegram from President Young, to buy more teams and wagons and to clear out the Church warehouse at Florence.
On the 17th of August I started for Salt Lake with twenty-two wagons and teams, but only ten teamsters; and we traveled one hundred miles before I got additional help. On Elm Creek, while on the move, we were charged by a stampeded herd of buffalo, estimated at three thousand head. It was with great difficulty that we turned them aside, and kept the train from being run over and trampled to pieces.
During the combat, one of my night guard was dismounted, and his mule, a fine animal, ran off with the buffalo. As soon as the train was safe, a young man by the name of Stewart, and I, followed the herd, stampeded them again, and riding into the heaving, rolling mass, secured the mule, and also succeeded in cutting out three oxen and a cow that we found running with them. Two of the oxen were large, fine fellows, and were very helpful in my team. Upon reaching Salt Lake City, I gave them to Bishop Hunter, as a donation to the Perpetual Emigration fund, and they were used for years on the Temple Block, to move the blocks of granite that were placed in the Temple walls.
Near Fort Laramie we overtook Captain William H. Dame's train of fifty wagons. As he was prostrate with mountain fever, we blended the trains, and I took charge of them until we reached Fort Bridger.
When I reached Salt Lake City, President Young gave me a beautiful Canadian mare, which the Church had furnished me to use on the plains; and he gave me, moreover, his blessing as a reward for my services.
At Provo, I found my wife Lydia with a sweet babe—Lydia Roseana—in her arms. I gave Mother Knight a cooking stove for her kindness to me and mine. Jesse, my wife Lydia's brother, wished to go to the Clara; so I employed him to drive my ox team, for which service I gave him a French pony, valued at seventy-five dollars. He was a noble boy, and I always loved him. It was late in the fall when I returned to the Clara with the machinery I started for. In six months' time I had traveled twenty-eight hundred miles with my four yoke of oxen.
I found Albina and babe well, but still living—and without a murmur—in a tent.
In 1863, I was called by Bishop Edward Bunker of the Clara Ward, to go to the states and help gather the poor. I had charge of ten teams from that ward. I drove my own team of four yoke of oxen. On the trip eastward we made part of Daniel D. McArthur's train. At Florence I was appointed captain of an independent Danish company of forty-four wagons. On the return trip we had several stampedes, in one of which two women and one man were killed. With that exception we were greatly prospered. I became very much attached to the Danish people. My brother, Lorenzo S., was with me, and was of great help to me. Jeremiah Stringham and family joined the company, and I learned to love him for his courage and fidelity.
Upon my return to the Clara, I found my two wives living in a one-room adobe house that my brother-in-law, Samuel Knight, had built for them. In the fore part of the winter, William R. Terry (my father-in-law) and I were requested by President Erastus Snow, to move to St. George. I promptly set about the work; putting up a small hewn-log house, then going to Pine Valley to make the shingles. While finishing the roof I received a letter from President Young, calling me on a second mission to the Sandwich Islands.
On March 20, 1864, I started to Salt Lake City to fill this mission. I had been notified that I would need to raise four hundred fifty dollars. I therefore sold my ox teams, and otherwise raised all the money I could before starting. Albina and children went with me to Draper, where I left her with her father. The weather was unusually stormy, and the roads were bad. On March 31st we camped on Pioneer creek, near Fillmore. For the first time in my life my children cried for bread, when I had none to give them.
Early in the morning, however, Sister McFate, a widow, came along and sold me five pounds of flour. At Round Valley brethren were owing me twenty-five bushels of wheat; but I could not get a bushel, nor a dollar in cash. Bishop Jesse Martin came to my rescue and generously helped me out of his own pocket.
April 4, 1864, I stayed over night with Bishop William McBride, of Santaquin. In the evening a heavy snow storm swept over the place; and while we were in his home at supper, a pair of valuable Navajo blankets were stolen from my wagon.
I immediately got out a search warrant, and early next morning, with the constable, commenced search. Learning that a man had left town before daylight, we followed him through Payson to Spanish Fork, where we caught him with the blankets. He was tried, convicted, and fined ninety dollars.
On Sunday, April 10, 1864, I reached Battle Creek, and visited my brother-in-law, William Frampton. In the night my horses got out of the stable and strayed off. I hunted four days for them, then gave them up. Our friends took us to the city.
On Friday, April 22, 1864, forty-six missionaries met in the historian's office and were set apart for their respective missions.
Apostle Wilford Woodruff blessed me as follows: "Brother John R. Young, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, and by virtue of the Holy Priesthood, we lay our hands upon your head and set you apart unto the mission whereunto you have been called by the servants of our God; to lift up your warning voice, to preach the Gospel to the children of men.
"We say, go in peace, bearing precious seed; go trusting in God. Call upon Him day by day and night by night. Follow the dictates of the Holy Spirit in this ministry and mission; and inasmuch as you will do this, the blessings of the heavens will rest upon you. And you shall rejoice before the Most High, because of the blessing that will be given unto you in this mission, in bearing the responsibility with your brethren in laboring to build up the kingdom of God, to warn the nations of the earth, to search out the honest in heart wherever you may be sent, to gather the people to Zion. We dedicate you unto God, and set you apart for this great and glorious mission.
"You shall go forth in peace and be preserved upon the land and upon the water. While the land is full of danger, and these dangers will increase, trust in the Lord, and all will be well with you. You shall do a good work, and bring many souls into the Kingdom of God; and you shall increase in wisdom and the gifts of God.
"When your mission is ended you shall return in peace and joy to your family and friends. We seal upon you every blessing you can desire in righteousness, and ask our Heavenly Father to preserve you, to give his angels charge concerning you, and enable you to do much good in your day and generation. All these blessings, together with all you may need and require, we confer upon you in the name of the Lord. Jesus Christ. Amen."
Elder Benjamin Cluff was set apart to be my companion. Brothers Abram Hatch, John T. Caine, F. A. Mitchell, Richard White, and Uncle Brigham were liberal in helping me on this mission.
Miss Carmichael's Parting Words.—San Francisco.—Orson Pratt's Prophecy. Sail for Hawaii.—Delivered From the Hands of a Wicked Man.—Visit Walter M. Gibson.—View Kawaimanu.
Wednesday, April 27, 1864. I spent the day visiting my dear mother, and passed the night beneath my father's hospitable roof. Miss S. E. Carmichael wrote "A Parting Word to my Friend John R. Young:"
My words are seldom strong, or bright,A woman's tones are low,And 'tis not much a hand so slightCan offer thee, I know,'Tis like the quivering breath that wakesWhere forest leaves are stirred,Yet from a friend's true heart it takesTo thee, a parting word,
My words are seldom strong, or bright,A woman's tones are low,And 'tis not much a hand so slightCan offer thee, I know,'Tis like the quivering breath that wakesWhere forest leaves are stirred,Yet from a friend's true heart it takesTo thee, a parting word,
Remember—hope in thy sorrow,Remember—faith in thy prayer,Remember—the bright tomorrowThat dawns on the night's despair,Remember—the hearts that love theeAre with thee—everywhere.Remember—the path of dutyWhen other paths seem fair,Remember—the truth's white beautyWhen weak illusions glare.And should the world defy theeAlone its strength to dare,Remember—Heaven is nigh thee,Remember—God is there.A friend's kind thoughts attend thy wayWhere e'er that way may be,And so I make remember,A parting word to thee.
Remember—hope in thy sorrow,Remember—faith in thy prayer,Remember—the bright tomorrowThat dawns on the night's despair,Remember—the hearts that love theeAre with thee—everywhere.Remember—the path of dutyWhen other paths seem fair,Remember—the truth's white beautyWhen weak illusions glare.And should the world defy theeAlone its strength to dare,Remember—Heaven is nigh thee,Remember—God is there.
A friend's kind thoughts attend thy wayWhere e'er that way may be,And so I make remember,A parting word to thee.
On April 28, in company with Elder Benjamin Cluff, I took stage for Sacramento. We were six days and nights, jolting across the dusty, rut cut deserts. At Austin and Egan mining camps, Nevada, hay was two hundred dollars per ton and flour 18 cents per pound.
On May 4th we reached San Francisco, where we met Apostles Lorenzo Snow and Ezra T. Benson, returning from the islands. They had cut Walter M. Gibson off the Church, and appointed Joseph F. Smith president of the mission.
I also met and spent six days with Apostle Orson Pratt. He was on his way to Austria to introduce the Gospel to that nation. He telegraphed to President Young to see if my mission could be changed, so that I could accompany him. It was thought best, however, for me to continue on to the islands.
Sunday, May 22, 1864, I accompanied Brother Pratt in a walk to the summit of the high cliff west of the city. We found a secluded crevice and knelt in prayer. He seemed oppressed in spirit, grieving perhaps, over the infidelity of his son Orson. While he was talking, the Spirit of the Lord came upon him; and he upbraided the inhabitants of San Francisco, and prophesied that the city should be destroyed by earthquake.
On Tuesday, May 24, 1864, we sailed second cabin on the bark Onward, Hempstead, captain. Brother Cluff and I occupied one room with a Missourian named McCarty, said to be suffering with consumption. He was a large, raw-boned man, of a quarrelsome disposition.
One day Captain Hempstead invited us three to have seats on the upper deck with the first-cabin passengers. The reason for this courtesy was soon apparent. Among the cabin passengers were several ministers; and they wanted a little diversion at the expense of the Mormon Elders.
A warm discussion ensued. It was asserted that the Mormons were driven from Missouri and Illinois on account of their thieving and lawless acts. In my defense I challenged the proof of a single dishonest deed, and testified that Joseph and Hyrum were innocent, and that they were murdered in cold blood.
Mr. McCarty became angry, and boasted that he helped kill Joseph and Hyrum Smith. I told him then that by his own confession he was a murderer, and that the curse of God was upon him. He would have struck me, but the captain interfered, and made him behave.
About midnight of the 30th of May, I was awakened by McCarty. He was sitting on a stool, in front of his bunk; the full moon shining through the window giving him a white, ghastly appearance. He told me to get up and get him a drink. I replied that the guard passed the door every five minutes and would wait upon him.
He seized a butcher knife, sprang to his feet, and swore he would cut the heart out of me. I was lying in the middle bunk, and had but little room in which to move, and nothing with which to defend myself; but I felt I would rather die than do his bidding. I therefore silently asked God to deliver me from his power.
He took one step forward, threw up both hands, and fell backwards. I sprang from the bunk, and raised his head, but the man was dead. Brother Cluff called the guard, who soon brought the captain and the doctor. The latter said he died of heart failure.
In the morning they sewed him up in a canvas, a cannon ball at his feet. I stood by the taff rail, and saw the body slide off the plank; and as I watched it sink into the depths of the ocean, I rejoiced that I had borne a faithful testimony of God's martyred prophets, and was truly grateful that I had been delivered from the hands of a wicked man.
At Honolulu, where we arrived June 10th, we were warmly welcomed by Elders Joseph F. Smith, William W. Cluff, and the native Saints. In council it was decided that I should visit Mr. Gibson on Lanai, and if possible, recover some Church property that he had possession of, then join Elder A. L. Smith on Maui, and with him visit the Saints and reorganize the branches of the Church on Maui and Hawaii.
On the 14th of June, I wrote my Brother Franklin W., as follows: "I am waiting for a vessel to Lahaina. My first labor will be to visit Mr. Gibson, and try to get back several hundred Books of Mormon that he got possession of when he first came. He has proved to be a deceitful though shrewd and capable man, possessed of one absorbing idea, that of founding an empire of the Pacific Islands. For that purpose he joined the Church, asked for a mission, and commenced at once his empire building.
"To raise money, he made merchandise of the Priesthood. Under his "dispensation," he ordained all the Saints, both men and women. To be an apostle cost one hundred dollars, a deacon, five dollars. He sold our meetinghouses, making Lanai the only place where the word of the Lord could be given to the people.
"Clothed in his temple robes, he publicly laid the foundation of a temple, using for the chief corner stone, a huge boulder that had drunk the blood of many a victim, sacrificed by the idol worshipers of Lanai. He then covered the stone with brush and tabooed it, giving out that if anyone uncovered it, he would be smitten with death.
"While Apostles Snow and Benson were laboring with Gibson, trying to bring him to repentance. Elders Joseph F. and Alma L. Smith, W. W. Cluff, and Talula, Mr. Gibson's daughter, visited the temple site; and Brother Cluff, with impious hands, pulled the brush away, and left the "Consecrated" slaughter rock exposed to rain and sun.
"Mr. Gibson had used the old heathen Hale Pule site for the purpose of working upon the superstitions of the islanders. In their fear he had enshrined himself as a god. Coming into his presence they would prostrate themselves in the dust of the earth, and await his bidding to arise.
"But now in a moment, all his power had been swept away. From their doors they had seen Elder Cluffdesecrate the tabooed stone, and return to them unharmed. The charm was broken. Mr. Gibson was cut off the Church, and his Polynesian empire soon dissolved. From this on, he will be a crownless king, without a kingdom."
From Lahaina I crossed to Lanai in a whale boat. I stayed a week with Mr. Gibson. He surrendered to me five hundred Books of Mormon, his temple clothes, and a watch that my father had given to him. I recrossed the channel to Maui—as usual in a whale boat—and found Elder A. L. Smith anxious to learn the success of my mission.
While waiting for dinner, I wrote:
This little card on which is tracedThe image of a lovely rose,Was given me, by one who sharedMy brightest joys, my deepest woes.It is to me a priceless gem,A token dearly prized,As emblematic of the lifeOf one I idolize.I'll place it with my choicest books,There shall it linger longTo mark the place where I may lookOn a favorite author's song.And when bright words and noble thoughtsKindle my soul aglow,I'll think of my wife, as I gaze on the roseThat is traced on the card below.Very dear to me, are the little giftsThat richer men oft spurn.They speak to me of the honest loveA humble life may earn.I will gather them up as flowers that bloomBeside the pathway of life;Leaves of affection, wafted from home,And kissed by the breath of a wife.
This little card on which is tracedThe image of a lovely rose,Was given me, by one who sharedMy brightest joys, my deepest woes.
It is to me a priceless gem,A token dearly prized,As emblematic of the lifeOf one I idolize.
I'll place it with my choicest books,There shall it linger longTo mark the place where I may lookOn a favorite author's song.And when bright words and noble thoughtsKindle my soul aglow,I'll think of my wife, as I gaze on the roseThat is traced on the card below.
Very dear to me, are the little giftsThat richer men oft spurn.They speak to me of the honest loveA humble life may earn.I will gather them up as flowers that bloomBeside the pathway of life;Leaves of affection, wafted from home,And kissed by the breath of a wife.
On June 28, 1864, we sailed on the schooner Kilauea for Hawaii. On the 30th, we arrived at Kapaliuka and were warmly welcomed by Brother Kanaha and his wife Nakiaielua. I have taken much interest in this family, on account of their strength of character. When Gibson came, Kanaha had no faith in him, and refused to gather to Lanai, or to deed his home to him. For these sins he was cut off the Church. But he continued to hold meetings and kept his little flock together until we came.
When the old man met us, he wept with joy; and we were equally rejoiced to see his integrity and manhood. This branch has been replete with interesting incidents. Here, during our first coming, Elder Hawkins had been shamefully mobbed. Here Ward E. Pack, cast the devil out of two Catholic priests who had incited natives to mob him. The act of casting out had greatly amused the Kanakas.
Monday, July 25, 1864, at Waipio. We started on foot for Kawaimanu (flying water), a secluded mountain village, seldom visited by white men, a very fertile glade fifteen miles north of Waipio. We had to climb a pali two thousand feet in height: a solid rock wall almost perpendicular. When about half way to the top, we stepped to the side of the narrow trail and looked down on the sea that washed the rock below us. The sight made my head dizzy, and I hurriedly drew back. Our path led over the mountain, near some celebrated waterfalls. I wrote:
Our meal of poi, pakai, and shrimps,>In silence we partake,Then with a guide to lead the way,The mountain path we take,Narrow and winding in its course,And difficult to find.The vale below is growing small,As upward still we climb.And now great drops of sweat appearUpon the traveler's brow;Reminding me of summer daysWhen following the plow.Surprised, we meet a mountain maid,Wild, Indian-like, and free;Around her waist a shirt is tied—The custom here, you see.She meets us with a smiling face—"Which way, strangers?" asked she."We're going to Kawaimanu,The waterfalls to see."Breathless we reach the mountain crest,Where dark winged clouds oft fly;And seldom can the traveler passAnd keep his jacket dry.The natives call it "Pele's tears"—Full often doth she weep,Till torrents gushing from her eyesRoll thundering down the steeps.For "Pele's" home—at Kilauea,In a burning lake of fire,Where demons wild, in hideous form,Are ever hovering nigh her.But why she weeps, they cannot tell;Unless to quench her fever,Or else to drown the mystic yellsOf fiends who never leave her.Through forests dense our guide doth lead,And vales of tangled fern,So green that Neibaur's match receiptWould fail to make them burn.The clouds are dark'ning o'er our heads;And yonder on our right,The craggy peaks in vapors blackAre hidden from our sight.Hurrah, we see the waterfall—Three thousand feet or moreFrom cliff to cliff three noble streamsTheir foaming waters pour.They're leaping from the battling cloudsThat clothe in darkness now,The storm-scarred cliffs, and snow-crowned peaksOf Mauna Keas brow.In foaming sheets, the cloud streams leap,Sending back roar for roar,In answer to the deafening crashThat peals from ocean's shore.The music of the universeIs never silent here—By day or night the sea surf's songRings in the peasant's ear.And when I wake, and gaze uponThe authors of that song,I see the ocean's vast expanse;The mountains bulwark strong.For endless ages they have stood:Eternities to come,May listen to Waimanus flood.And the ocean's ceaseless song.
Our meal of poi, pakai, and shrimps,>In silence we partake,Then with a guide to lead the way,The mountain path we take,Narrow and winding in its course,And difficult to find.The vale below is growing small,As upward still we climb.And now great drops of sweat appearUpon the traveler's brow;Reminding me of summer daysWhen following the plow.
Surprised, we meet a mountain maid,Wild, Indian-like, and free;Around her waist a shirt is tied—The custom here, you see.She meets us with a smiling face—"Which way, strangers?" asked she."We're going to Kawaimanu,The waterfalls to see."
Breathless we reach the mountain crest,Where dark winged clouds oft fly;And seldom can the traveler passAnd keep his jacket dry.The natives call it "Pele's tears"—Full often doth she weep,Till torrents gushing from her eyesRoll thundering down the steeps.
For "Pele's" home—at Kilauea,In a burning lake of fire,Where demons wild, in hideous form,Are ever hovering nigh her.But why she weeps, they cannot tell;Unless to quench her fever,Or else to drown the mystic yellsOf fiends who never leave her.
Through forests dense our guide doth lead,And vales of tangled fern,So green that Neibaur's match receiptWould fail to make them burn.The clouds are dark'ning o'er our heads;And yonder on our right,The craggy peaks in vapors blackAre hidden from our sight.
Hurrah, we see the waterfall—Three thousand feet or moreFrom cliff to cliff three noble streamsTheir foaming waters pour.They're leaping from the battling cloudsThat clothe in darkness now,The storm-scarred cliffs, and snow-crowned peaksOf Mauna Keas brow.In foaming sheets, the cloud streams leap,Sending back roar for roar,In answer to the deafening crashThat peals from ocean's shore.
The music of the universeIs never silent here—By day or night the sea surf's songRings in the peasant's ear.And when I wake, and gaze uponThe authors of that song,I see the ocean's vast expanse;The mountains bulwark strong.For endless ages they have stood:Eternities to come,May listen to Waimanus flood.And the ocean's ceaseless song.
After crossing twelve deep canyons and descending a pali half a mile in height, we reached the village and were kindly entertained by the few Saints who reside here. We held three meetings, baptized three persons, and organized a branch of the Church. We remained one month on Hawaii, visiting the Saints and organizing branches to the best of our ability.
On the .5th of August we sailed for Maui, and landed on the 6th at Malia. Here we met President Joseph F. Smith, who in those days, as now, was always active, and thoughtful for others. He met us on the beach with horses, and a hearty welcome. A two hours' ride brought us to Waialuku, where I received several home letters. The cheerfulness of my family was a comfort to me. As the gentle dews of heaven give life, beauty, and freshness to the flowers of the field, so good news from loved ones cheers, animates, and strengthens my heart, fills my bosom with joy, and makes me a happier, and I hope, a better man.