To no one’s surprise, immediately after his arrival Brigham sent word up and down the camps on both sides of the river—the brethren were to assemble tomorrow at noon to hear their President who had just returned.
It seemed that there were only two choices that summer along the Missouri River—drenching rain or blistering sun, and either one came with swarms of voracious mosquitos. Those in the river bottoms began calling it the Misery River. To combat the blistering sun, Brigham Young had commanded that a bowery be built just below the bridge that spanned Mosquito Creek. Numerous holes were dug in the earth and filled with posts that extended about eight feet above the ground. A latticework of willow branches was laid across the top, then covered with leafy branches from the hundreds of trees along the river. It worked for either alternative that nature laid upon them—it was nearly waterproof when it rained, and it provided deep and welcome shelter from the sun.
When the Steeds awoke on that Monday morning, it was cloudy and cool. At eight it commenced to rain and quickly became heavy. But by ten the clouds were scudding eastward and the sun was shining brightly. By noon the heat was oppressive again. As Nathan, Joshua, Derek, Solomon, Matthew, and young Josh arrived—Nathan had finally agreed to let his son accompany them, even though Lydia strenuously objected—William Pitt’s brass band began to play. In the month since the first arrivals here at Council Bluffs, enough band members had come so that Pitt had a nearly full contingent again. The marches were brisk and stirring, and many a foot was set to tapping. It set a proper mood for the assembly as they gathered beneath the bowery.
Nathan watched as the leaders of the Church gathered near the front of the bowery and shook hands with each other. There were now eleven of the Twelve in camp. Only Lyman Wight, who still refused to obey the call to bring his group back from Texas, was absent. There were also two men in uniform. The first was Captain Allen. The other was an officer named Colonel Thomas L. Kane. Kane was the son of a prominent jurist in Philadelphia whose family had great influence with the Polk White House. The Kanes were not members of the Church, but Thomas had been touched by the injustices done to the Mormons and became a staunch defender of their rights with the president. He had given invaluable help to Elder Jesse Little in Washington in getting an audience with the president of the United States. Now he had come west with Brother Little to assure the Mormons that this was not some deceptive trick by the government.
Brigham seemed in no hurry to begin the meeting but let the band play on for several minutes after the bowery was full and no more seemed to be coming. Finally at twenty minutes of one o’clock, the band stopped, a prayer was offered, and the meeting began. With characteristic directness, Brigham took to the podium first. Nathan was not surprised. During a brief greeting, Parley Pratt had told Nathan that even with the sixty-five or so men who had volunteered at Mount Pisgah, they had still barely filled two of the five required companies for the battalion. If that report had been given to Brigham—and Nathan was sure it had—then directness was what could be expected today.
“Brethren, I request your silence and your order so that we may begin.”
When he had stood, the crowd had immediately quieted, but now it became perfectly still.
He looked around, letting his eyes sweep across the many faces. “As you know, I have just returned last evening from our encampment at Mount Pisgah. Things are well there and they send you greetings. Many of our brothers and sisters are on their way here, and we are pleased at their progress.” He paused for a moment. “I would be glad to offer a great many ideas to you this day, but our time is limited, so I shall come straight to the point.
“The business to be laid before you today is the call from the War Department to furnish five hundred volunteers for the Army of the West to march to California.” He paused again, but no one stirred, so he went on firmly.
“I know what many of you are thinking. You are concerned about your circumstances. Well, I am as well acquainted with the situation of every man in camp as they are themselves. But now the surrounding circumstances must recede from our minds. Let go of them. We may as well consider ourselves in good circumstances as in bad ones.”
Now his eyes took on that fierceness that was typical of him when he felt strongly about something. “But says one, ‘I will go if my family can be made comfortable.’ ” He frowned. “I told my brethren not to mention families today. I am aware it is desirable, were it our privilege, to have every man’s presence in the camp to take care of his family and team and go along to the West. There are no more men here than what are badly needed. But these feelings must be dispensed with. We have to learn to control our feelings and act according to our best judgment.
“My experience has taught me that it is best to do the things that are necessary. I have learned to do the necessary thing independent of my feelings and at the expense of everything near and dear to me. Many of us have been called upon to forsake the society of friends, wives, and children, and you will all be brought into a situation to learn the same lesson.”
Nathan saw Joshua give him a questioning look and knew his thoughts. Were Brigham’s assignments to the Steed family about to change? Would Joshua be asked to leave the family after all?
“The blessings we are looking forward to receive,” Brigham continued, “will only be attained through sacrifice. We want to raise volunteers. Are we willing to undergo hardships and privation to procure that which we desire? I say we can do it.” The last sentence was punctuated with a hard slap on the podium that startled some of those near the front.
He shook his head wearily. “Some of you have said that you do not see the propriety of going and that the Twelve do not understand your ‘peculiar circumstances.’ There will be a time for preaching and answering those concerns, but we have not the time to reason together now. We want to conform to the requisition made upon us, and we will do nothing else, till we have accomplished this thing.
“If we want the privilege of going where we can worship God according to the dictates of our consciences, we must raise the battalion.” He pounded home each word with a stab of his finger. “I say that it is right. Who cares for sacrificing our comfort for a few years? I would rather have undertaken to raise two thousand men a year ago in twenty-four hours than raise one hundred in a week now. I know that you do not have your gardens planted and your farms growing. I know your circumstances. But we want the five hundred men. We can muster them now. We can do what other people cannot.” He stopped, and now his eyes were blazing with passion. “Some of you are worried about going off to fight, but all the fighting that will be done will be among yourselves, I am afraid to say.”
Then just as suddenly, the passion was gone. He spoke with intensity, but more calmly now and in a softer and milder tone. “Brethren, every man that enlists will have his name and the names of his wife and children inserted into a book, along with what directions you give concerning them. We will take care of them. We shall care for the families still coming from Nauvoo. Do you think we shall neglect your families if you enroll?”
Now there were many who were shaking their heads. As usual, Brigham’s call had stirred and softened hearts. Brigham straightened to his full height. “Brethren, after we get through talking we shall call out the companies. And if there are not young men enough, we shall call out the old men.” His glance pierced every man there assembled. “And,” he thundered, “if there are not enough old men, we shall take the women!”
His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I tell you, those of you who go on this expedition will never be sorry, but rather, you will be glad to all eternity. And those who are not here to go will be sorry they missed the opportunity to do what you will do.”
The Steed women and children were waiting for them when they returned, and they gathered around to hear the report. Caroline asked the question that was most pressing on the minds of all of them. “Did President Young make any changes in what he wants our family to do?”
> Joshua shook his head, unable to hide his disappointment. “No. Nathan and I asked him specifically. He only wants Derek to go.”
“Did you ask him about me?” Rebecca asked quickly.
Derek shook his head, then grinned at the look of dismay that crossed her face. “I didn’t have to.”
“Why not?”
He straightened, striking a pose similar to Brigham’s. “I tell you, brethren, when we call out the companies, if we do not have enough young men, we shall call the old men, and if we do not have enough old men, we shall call the women.”
Rebecca clapped her hands. “He really said that?”
“He did,” Derek said. “That was answer enough for me.”
Christopher, now seven and their oldest, started marching around in a circle, swinging his arms. “I get to go in the army. I get to go in the army.”
They all laughed except Lydia, who turned her face away. Young Josh saw it and went to her. “Mama?”
She turned.
“Did you hear that, Mama? President Young said he wants the young men first.”
Lydia gave Nathan a sharp glance, an I-told-you-not-to-let-him-go glance, but then turned back to face the pleading eyes of her son. “You know what the letter says, Josh. Men eighteen to forty-five.”
“But Mama, there are younger men going.”
She swung around in surprise. “Is that true?” she demanded of Nathan and the others.
Nathan nodded slowly. “A fourteen-year-old drummer boy has been selected, and some of the officers will be allowed to take young men as orderlies.”
“No.”
“Mama!”
“No,Joshua. No! We’ve already talked about this.” She was shaking her head emphatically all the time she was speaking. “No.”
There was a long silence, but Josh was not defeated yet. “After President Young spoke, Elder Hyde talked to us too. Do you know what he said, Mama?”
“It doesn’t matter, Josh. He wasn’t speaking to you.”
“He said, ‘Let us rally to the standard and our children will reverence our names. It will inspire in them a gratitude which will last forever.’ ”
She didn’t wait for him to finish, but began shaking her head again.
“Lydia—,” Nathan began.
She whirled, furious now. “Nathan, don’t you dare take his side in this. We’ve talked about it. The answer is no!” Then, bursting into tears, she spun around and ran toward their tent.
Shocked by the intensity of her outburst, the family looked awkwardly at one another. Finally, Mary Ann stood up. “I’ll go to her, Nathan. But for now, I think any more talk of the battalion will have to wait.”
Chapter Notes
By mid-July of 1846 the anti-Mormons around Nauvoo had lost patience. The Saints had promised to leave the city by spring. While most had, there were still a large number of the poor who seemed unable to leave. Also, new arrivals from Europe or from missions in the South and the East showed up almost daily. The antis had their own eyes set on expropriating the rich properties the Mormons would leave behind, so they did not welcome the non-Mormons who came in and bought out the Mormons. Tensions had been mounting through most of the summer, but on 11 July, open violence erupted as described here (see MHBY,pp. 230–32). Whether the men from Pontoosuc thought they were attacking Mormons or not is not clear, but this became the first in what quickly became an escalating battle for control of Nauvoo and Hancock County, Illinois.
After his return from Mount Pisgah, Brigham Young called for an assembly of the brethren and once again gave them a stirring call to volunteer. The address he gave on that occasion as presented here is taken almost verbatim from the transcript kept by Willard Richards and William Clayton. (See MHBY,pp. 234–38.)
Chapter 13
Peter left Fort Bernard shortly after four a.m. on the morning of the ninth day of July. He rode hard the eight miles to Fort Laramie; bought some hardtack, pemmican, and venison jerky from Bordeaux; changed his saddle to the pack mule to give his horse a rest; then set out again before seven that morning. There was no way to gauge the miles. They passed in exhausting slowness. He rode well after sundown, until it became too dark to see and he was afraid he would lose the trail. He was up and off again before the sky was barely light enough to see, trading mounts, eating food and drinking from his leather water bottle as he rode. About three p.m. on the second day, he passed Beaver Creek and the campground where they had celebrated the Fourth of July. That was good. What had taken him and Kathryn almost four full days to do he had done in less than two.
At midafternoon of the third day he caught up with a small company of emigrants stopped at what was known as the “last crossing” of the Platte. Here the river turned south, not a direction the emigrants wanted to go. Also, from what they said, a few miles farther on the North Platte entered a narrow gorge that provided no possible road for the wagons. So here at the last crossing they left the river that had given them not only a clearly marked highway for almost six hundred miles but also water, wood, and game. From this point the trail struck off to the southwest, and about fifty miles farther on it would pick up the Sweetwater River, a tributary to the Platte.
Peter didn’t stop to watch the emigrants’ attempt to cross the river. Fortunately the high-water season—evidence of which was visible everywhere around him—was about over. But even then the current was swift, the channel deep, and the river still thirty or forty yards across. The emigrants would have welcomed his help, but time was too pressing. He found a spot on the opposite side of the river where the banks weren’t too steep, and plunged in with his horse and mule.
With everything soaked through, Peter decided there was no point in camping for the night in a wet bedroll. There was a quarter moon and the air was so clear that he could easily follow the wagon tracks across the barren expanse of artemisia, or sagebrush, plain. Then, sometime after midnight, he learned that it is possible to fall asleep on a moving horse. He woke up just as he pitched headfirst off the saddle. Fortunately he caught himself in time to do little more than scrape his hands and bruise his pride. At that point he determined that, wet bedroll or not, it was time to camp.
Independence Rock, which from a distance had seemed little more than a large bump in the flat desert country, now looked like some gigantic loaf of bread half-buried in the flatness of the Sweetwater Valley. It was solid rock, one massive block of brown-gray granite that was easily a quarter of a mile long and two hundred feet high. Only a few low bushes grew from cracks and crevasses on its flank. Much of it rose precipitously from the flat ground around it, but nearer the center its slope was more gradual, and Peter saw in surprise tiny figures moving around on the top of it. He peered more closely and saw that they were people. That only added to the impression of sheer size and majesty. No wonder people spoke of Independence Rock as the most noted landmark west of Fort Laramie.
Peter stood up in his stirrups, reaching down to pat the sweaty neck of the mule. He lifted his hand and shaded his eyes against the lowering sun. Ahead, about a mile away, he could see a speckling of white—wagon covers, unless his eyes were deceiving him.
He sat down again, removed his hat, and wiped at his brow. It was the fourth day. If his calculations were correct, he had come almost a hundred and forty miles since Fort Bernard. That was close to thirty-five miles a day. He felt it too. His bottom had lost all feeling. The insides of his legs were chafed raw. His eyes burned and his face was flushed from too much sun. He rubbed at the thick stubble on his chin and felt the stickiness of the sweat beneath his armpits. Good thing Kathryn wasn’t here to see him now, he thought.
Grinning, he slapped the mule affectionately on the rump. “Let’s go, boy! We’re almost home.”
In the fading light of a spectacular sunset, the Reeds sat quietly around the campfire. Patty sat on one side of Peter, her arm through his. She was eight. Young James, who was five, sat on the other side, his shoulder pressed against Peter’s. Thomas (or T
ommy, as his mother called him), who was three, plopped squarely on Peter’s lap. Mr. and Mrs. Reed sat across the fire, drinking coffee from tin cups. They smiled as they watched their children cling to Peter. He had always been good with them, and many nights he had joined Kathryn in teaching them their lessons. But everyone knew this response was partially to compensate for their loss of Kathryn.
Virginia sat beside her parents. She had turned thirteen last month and now liked to let everyone know she was an adult and no longer a child.
Peter had a tin cup as well, but it was filled with water from the river. He drank deeply, savoring it even though this was his third full cup. When he lowered it, Patty snatched it from his hand. “Would you like some more, Peter?”
“Yes, Patty. Thank you.”
She ran to the bucket and brought it back sloshing over. He drank about half of it again, then took a deep breath. “Now, that is good.”
“That’s why they call this the Sweetwater River,” James Reed said. “After that silty stuff from the Platte, this tastes pretty good.”
“And after all the alkali springs we’ve had to drink from too,” Mrs. Reed added, “it’s wonderful.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Peter said, pulling a face. A couple of the watering places had been downright foul.
“Did you see the big saleratus beds down the trail a little?” young James asked. “I got some of that for Mama.”
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