Back in January, as they prepared to depart from New York, there were growing rumors that the United States might go to war with Mexico. Because of that, there had been talk of government intervention to stop the Saints’ planned voyage. Having a colony of disgruntled Latter-day Saints sailing to Mexican California was seen by some as running counter to the interests of the United States. But nothing had come of such rumors, and they had sailed without incident. Was it possible now, after five months at sea, that they were to be stopped short of their final destination? That was the question on everyone’s mind.
Everyone’s except Will’s. In his years of sailing Will had seen more than one warship at close range, and at the moment this one was neither manned nor rigged for possible trouble. The sailors, notably subdued, showed no anger or hostility. There had been no flurry of activity when the Brooklynpulled up within a few yards of the Congress.If they planned to give the Mormons trouble, it certainly wasn’t today. Of that, Will was confident.
The anxieties of the Latter-day Saints only deepened when a man in full dress uniform—obviously the ship’s captain—ordered a small boat prepared for launching, and then he and two other officers, accompanied by an armed escort, climbed aboard and were lowered to the water. Will and Alice were near the railing on the port side of the ship where they could see clearly what was happening.
Alice reached out and clutched at his arm. “What do they want, Will?” She unconsciously held the roundness of her stomach as she stared down at the approaching men. She was now just three months away from delivery of their child and worried constantly about anything that might threaten the baby. “Do you think they’re coming for us?”
“Well,” he said soberly, letting his voice broaden into the deep southern drawl he had mastered as a boy in Savannah, “if they ah, it sho nuff is gonna take a lawt of trips in that there little teeny boat to get us all across.”
Startled, she laughed aloud. Others nearby turned in surprise. In the tense atmosphere, her laugh exploded like someone dropping an iron kettle in a church meeting. Embarrassed, she immediately suppressed a smile, giving Will a sideward look. He had done it. His absolute calm settled her fears. He was not worried in any way, and that was a tremendous relief to her.
Captain Richardson appeared, also dressed in full uniform now, something they had seen only once or twice since leaving the East Coast. He pushed his way to the rope ladder where the small boat was tying up to the Brooklyn.The first mate and the bosun were also there with him, standing at attention. There was a definite air of excitement and anticipation.
A moment later, the rope ladder stretched taut and began to creak. Then a plumed hat appeared, and the man Alice had assumed was the captain climbed over the rail and dropped lightly to the deck. He snapped a crisp salute at Captain Richardson, who returned it just as smartly. “Welcome aboard the Brooklyn,sir. Captain Abel W. Richardson at your service.”
The naval officer nodded formally, then extended his hand. “Thank you. Commodore Robert F. Stockton, United States Navy, commander of the USS Congress.” He stepped back as the other officers climbed aboard, and he introduced each one as they did so. Only two of the armed escorts came aboard. To Alice’s relief, the rest stayed in the boat that had ferried them across.
Commodore Stockton looked around. “I understand you have come around the Horn with a load of emigrants from America.”
Captain Richardson nodded, then turned to where Samuel Brannan and his counselors stood nearby. “Yes, sir. Let me introduce you to Mr. Samuel Brannan, Commodore Stockton. He’s the leader of these good people and the one who organized the charter of the ship in New York City.”
They shook hands and Brannan introduced his two counselors, E. Ward Pell and Isaac Robbins. Then to Will’s surprise, Brannan motioned him forward. “And this is Will Steed, one of the leaders of our company and a sailor in his own right.”
The naval officer extended his hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Steed. Whom have you sailed with?”
“Jonathan Sperryman, out of Boston, sir, on the China trade route around the Cape of Good Hope.”
“Oh, yes, I know Sperryman. Met him in New Orleans a few years back. He has a fine sailing reputation.”
“He was a great sailor, sir. I learned a lot from him.” He turned his head. “And that’s a fine ship you’re sailing, sir. Forty-four guns?”
Stockton’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Exactly. You know your ships, son.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Stockton turned back to Samuel Brannan. “Mr. Brannan, our report says that you have about three hundred emigrants sailing for Oregon or Upper California.”
Brannan nodded slowly, obviously somewhat wary. “Not quite that many, Commodore. Closer to about two hundred forty, I’d say.”
“Well, Mr. Brannan, I have news that I dare say you have not heard as yet. We are at war with Mexico.”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd, who had pushed in closer to hear the interchange. “War, sir?” Brannan exclaimed.
“Yes. Our two countries have already engaged in armed combat, and we are at full war now. I fully expect that our government intends to seize California from the Mexicans. We are waiting for a stores barque to join us and resupply our ship. Then we’ll sail for Monterey on the California coast. I fully expect that when we arrive, the order to capture the seaport towns will already have been given.”
War?For the first time Will felt a lurch of concern. The Latter-day Saints were fleeing the United States precisely because their government—county, state, and federal—had not offered them protection or allowed them to defend their rights as citizens. They were not anxious to reenter U.S. territory, nor were they comfortable with the idea of taking their families into a combat zone.
“And what is to become of us?” Brannan said, visibly rocked by the news.
“I am told that the supply ship has extra muskets and ammunition. We shall be happy to sell arms to your group if that is of interest to you.”
Again there was a startled response from the listening Saints. The fear was that the navy had come to seize what arms they already owned. Now the military was offering to sell them more? That was a good sign.
“I would suggest you continue as planned,” Stockton went on. “Only I would strongly recommend that instead of sailing for Oregon you set sail for Yerba Buena, on the Bay of San Francisco, north of Monterey. There is a small Anglo-American colony there, and your people would be a welcome addition to help them hold it for the United States. Of that I am sure.”
Brannan nodded slowly. The relief was evident in his eyes, but there was still some wariness as well. “We appreciate your advice, Commodore, and shall take it under consideration. We also appreciate your offer of arms and are interested in taking advantage of your kindness.” He hesitated for a moment. “As you may know, sir, we have come in peace. We have no intention of joining forces with Mexico in these hostilities. Of that you can be assured, but we would like to be prepared to protect ourselves if necessary.”
“That is good to hear, Mr. Brannan. I was led to believe that such would be the case.”
Captain Richardson spoke up. “I believe Mr. Brannan speaks the truth, Commodore Stockton. And I can vouchsafe for these good people that they are no threat to the United States of America.”
“I was not of any other opinion,” the commander of the Congresssaid pleasantly.
Chapter Notes
After one hundred and thirty-six days at sea and six weeks after leaving the Juan Fernández Islands off the coast of Chile, on 20 June 1846 the Brooklynarrived at Hawaii, then known as the Sandwich Islands. While waiting for a pilot to guide them to the port of Honolulu, island of Oahu, they anchored outside of the reef. There, as described in this chapter, they were met by a warship, the USS Congress,which was about to depart for California and participate in the war with Mexico. The Brooklyndid not enter the actual port for two days, 21 June being a Sunday. (See “Voyage,” pp. 60–61; CS,pp.
36–38.)
Chapter 4
Even though it was not yet ten o’clock, Solomon Garrett was pouring sweat. The headband of the straw hat Jessica had woven for him was soaked, and some of the straws were working loose. The front of his shirt was darkened halfway down his chest, and though he couldn’t see it, from the stickiness he suspected the back of it was the same.
He set the sickle on the ground and straightened, holding his back as he did so. Taking off his hat, he mopped at his brow with a rag he carried in his back pocket. It wasn’t just the heat, though the sun was already hot. It had rained for most of the week and the air was still heavy with moisture. Just walking out to the meadow from the main center of Mount Pisgah had left him feeling clammy and prickly around his shirt collar. He arched his back, still pushing against it with his hands, trying to stretch out the stiffness in his muscles. Solomon had passed his forty-first birthday in March. He was still in excellent health, and five months on the trail had left him trim and fit. But two hours of harvesting meadow grass took it out of the best of men.
He turned and looked back, then sighed. He had cut a swath about ten feet wide and no more than fifty to sixty feet long. It looked pitifully small considering how hard he had worked. There was a brief burst of intense longing as he thought of the McCormick harvesting machine he had jointly owned with one of his neighbors back in Hancock County. Or the one Benjamin Steed had once owned, a gift from Joshua. That one had been destroyed during the 1838 Missouri persecutions. His and his partner’s was sold for a pittance to help raise money for teams and a wagon. Solomon sighed again, replaced his hat, then reached for the wooden rake he had brought with him. In long, even strokes he pulled the newly cut grass into small windrows.
As they had inched their way across Iowa Territory, Brigham had decided to create semi-temporary way stations for his people. Garden Grove was the first, and because he was an excellent farmer, Solomon had been asked to stay behind to help put some crops in. He had been promised that it would be only a short time and then he could continue on to rejoin his family. The promise had been half kept. They stayed at Garden Grove for almost two weeks, and then John Taylor had said that Solomon and Jessica could move on, but not to Council Bluffs. Solomon’s skills were needed in Mount Pisgah. Would he consent to stopping there for a time as well?
Solomon wasn’t cutting this meadow hay for himself. He had contracted with three families who were going to winter over here at Mount Pisgah. He would cut enough hay to help see their stock through the winter. In return he would get a side of pork, a hundred pounds of cornmeal, a hundred pounds of wheat, and three gallons of molasses. That would be a great boon to the family, whether they stayed in Council Bluffs for the winter or went across the plains. Two more days, maybe three, and he would be done, and he and Jessica could take their family on. He bent over, grabbed a bunch of the meadow grasses, and went to work again.
It was an hour later when Jessica appeared. On her back in a canvas pouch that Solomon had made for her she carried little Solomon, now fourteen months old. She also carried a wicker basket in one hand. Solomon dropped the sickle and turned to watch her come across the swath he had mowed. She moved lightly. There was no touch of gray in her hair as yet, and her skin was still smooth and clear. She looked five or six years younger than him, even though she was actually almost a year older.
He smiled as he watched her. How fortunate they had been that Joshua had decided to do a little unannounced matchmaking! Solomon had been supervisor of “common schools” for Hancock County, Illinois. The state was vigorously trying to launch schools that were financed out of public funds to compete with the schools offered in the homes of individual schoolteachers. Joshua, then a successful businessman, had met Solomon in Ramus one day, and before their conversation was through he had suggested that Solomon come to Nauvoo to observe a school run by a woman named Jessica Griffith. He spoke so highly of her that Solomon had agreed.
What Joshua hadn’t mentioned then was that she had been married twice before—once to Joshua himself, and once to John Griffith, who had been brutally killed at Haun’s Mill. Not that it would have made a difference to Solomon. He was also a widower. So he went to Nauvoo and sat in on Jessica’s school, and that, as they say, was that.
Solomon’s eyes softened now as he watched her walk toward him. They both owed Joshua a great debt for his foresight.
He removed his hat and swiped at his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “Hello.”
Jessica smiled as she came up, then turned her back to him. He lifted little Solomon out of the carrier. “You’re making good progress,” she said.
“I think I’ve got about half a load, but it’s coming. I think I can have a full load by tonight. If the weather holds, I can get another one tomorrow. Then we can rest up on Sunday and leave on Monday.”
“I hope so, Solomon. I’m so anxious.” She held out the basket. “I brought you some food and some cool milk.”
“Wonderful.”
She went down to her knees and opened the basket and began to take out some bread and cheese, slices of ham, and a crock of milk. He sat down beside her. “Actually,” she said with a smile, “there’s news. I couldn’t wait for you to come in.”
“From the family?”
“From east and west.”
He looked puzzled, and she laughed lightly. “A new group of families arrived from Nauvoo about an hour ago. They brought a letter from Melissa.”
“Good. How are she and Carl doing?”
“I’ll talk about that in a minute. Two riders also came in from Council Bluffs this morning.” She was smiling now, almost laughing.
“Oh.” That explained her comment about east and west. “And they also brought news of the family?”
There were sudden tears in her eyes, and she clasped her hands together in an expression of great joy. “Joshua was baptized a week ago, Solomon.”
He nearly dropped the baby. “What?”
“Can you believe it? But the man swears it’s true. He was there.”
“Joshua? OurJoshua?” He set the baby down, who immediately toddled over to examine Solomon’s wooden rake.
“Yes. He said that Joshua had been secretly reading the Book of Mormon and finally he decided it was true.”
He sat back, leaning on his hands. “Well, I’ll be.”
“Isn’t that wonderful? Caroline must be so happy. And Mother Steed.”
“It seems too good to be true.”
“I know. I can scarcely believe it myself.” Then she frowned. “But Melissa’s letter is not so good. Someone burned the store down.”
He jerked forward, shocked deeply. “They what?”
“I’ll let you read her letter. It was awful. Two men came and threatened her at the store. Young Carl drove them off with a shotgun. That night the store was burned to the ground.”
“How terrible!”
“Melissa is really frightened, but she doesn’t think Carl will hear any talk of leaving. He was still up at the pineries getting lumber when she wrote.”
Just then there was a shout from behind them. Both of them turned to see.
“It’s Mark,” Jessica said, getting to her feet now. Her son was running hard toward them, waving his hands.
Solomon stood up beside her, feeling a sudden pull of anxiety. It was obvious that something had Mark stirred up.
“Mama, Papa!” As he reached them and pulled up short, he bent over, breathing hard.
“What is it, son?” Solomon asked. “What’s the matter?”
“Brother Woodruff sent me, Pa. He wants you and Mama to come quick.”
Jessica reached out and grabbed his arm. “Why, Mark? What’s the matter?”
“Soldiers. There’re soldiers in camp, Mama.”
To say that Mount Pisgah was in an uproar would be a grave understatement. The meadow where Solomon had been cutting hay was no more than a mile from the main camp of Mount Pisgah, and they walked swiftly. By the time h
e and Jessica arrived back, people lined the dusty streets or stood outside the rows of cabins talking excitedly or pointing up the street. They were calling back and forth to one another. Some men had rifles.
Solomon grabbed the nearest man. “Are there really soldiers here?”
“Absolutely.”
“How many?”
“Five or six,” came the reply, “plus a supply wagon.”
“Where are they?” Solomon asked.
“Meetin’ with President Huntington and Elder Woodruff,” the man responded. “Been in there for near quarter of an hour now.”
“Were they armed?” Solomon asked.
“Just side arms,” another man volunteered. “They didn’t have them out or anything.”
“Mark,” Jessica said, taking her son by the shoulder. “Get Luke; then you two find Miriam and John. Stay with them until we come.”
“Ah, Ma, I—”
“Do it, son,” Solomon said softly.
Grumbling, he turned and trotted away. Solomon, still carrying the baby, motioned to Jessica and they started toward Wilford Woodruff’s tent. They had gone only a few steps when the flap to the tent opened and William Huntington, president of the Mount Pisgah settlement, stepped outside. There was instant silence, and Solomon and Jessica stopped where they were. A moment later an officer dressed in the blue uniform of the United States Army appeared. He was followed by four more officers, and then Elder Wilford Woodruff. The officers stopped, standing close together. Elder Woodruff conferred briefly with President Huntington, who nodded, and then he turned toward the people.
“Brethren and sisters,” Elder Woodruff called in a loud voice. “Would you gather in closer, please. We have an announcement to make.”
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