Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  Though Brigham Young took the strong stand—based on both wise governmental policy and sound Latter-day Saint theology—that it was better to feed and befriend the Indians than to fight them, it had not worked in all cases. With thousands of Saints pouring into the Great Basin and Brother Brigham colonizing new settlements on a regular basis, clashes with the native Utes, Paiutes, and Goshutes were inevitable. To combat that threat, President Young—who was also Territorial Governor Young—organized local militias in every community. These were armed and trained to respond rapidly to any Indian threats. In Salt Lake City, the “Nauvoo Legion” had been reorganized, and many of the brethren served in its ranks. But the “crack troops,” the ones who served as the point of the javelin when trouble broke out, were called the Minute Men. Usually young single men in their late teens and early twenties, they were eager, fearless, and capable.

  That wasn’t surprising, considering their heritage. For the most part they were the sons and nephews of Saints who had come through the refining days of Ohio, Missouri, and Illinois. Jonathan and Eliza Granger, David’s parents, had been at the fall of Far West and in the exodus from Missouri that winter. When persecution broke out again in Nauvoo, they packed up once again and slogged across Iowa. After a very lean year in Winter Quarters they had come across the plains in ’48. Nor had the eight years since then been what anyone might call easy ones. And their son had been part of it all. Like the other Minute Men, David Granger had been born in tribulation and nurtured on faith and courage.

  By the time David was fourteen, he was doing a man’s work on the farm. At fifteen he became a mail rider between Provo and Ogden. The following year he had started riding the “Mormon Corridor,” the string of settlements that stretched from Salt Lake to San Diego. The motto of the Minute Man—of which they seemed just a bit too proud, in Eleanor’s book—was to keep their powder dry and be ready to ride at a minute’s notice. It was common knowledge in the Valley that Brigham Young looked to “the boys” whenever there was a challenge to be met.

  As Eleanor watched David, far away from her now as he stared at the looming peaks of the Wasatch, she felt a fierce affection for him and an intense pride. It was David who had made sure a nine-year-old girl got across the plains safely. It was David who had spent the first five dollars he had earned as a mail rider to buy Eleanor the first store-bought dress she had owned since they had left Nauvoo.

  “David,” she said softly.

  Reluctantly, he straightened and turned his head.

  “It’s getting late. If we don’t hurry, we won’t get finished before dark.”

  His shoulders lifted as he took one last, longing look. “Yeah,” he sighed. “You’re right. Sorry, Alma. I shouldn’t be dreaming when there’s work to do.”

  •••

  They were almost back to the barn, the wagon creaking beneath the weight of a full load of hay, when David pulled on the reins, bringing the horses to a halt. Out at the gate of their property, which was bordered on the north by Five Hundred South Street, a rider was coming at a hard lope. He slowed only enough to turn in through the gate of the rail fence, then spurred his mount even harder.

  “I think that’s Heber P.,” David said.

  Eleanor half stood, looking concerned. “It is. And he’s in a mighty big hurry.”

  It was Heber. He raced into the yard and pulled up in a spray of dust and pebbles. “David! David! Guess what!”

  “What?”

  “Elder Franklin D. Richards is here.”

  David just looked at him, trying to think why that would have his friend so agitated.

  Heber was aghast at such ignorance. “Elder Richards! From England.”

  That got through to him. “Oh! Elder Richards.”

  His friend just shook his head, and then he raced on. “He just rode in about an hour ago with a group of missionaries. My brother is with them.”

  David leaned forward. “William? Really?” Now that was exciting news. William H. Kimball, Heber P.’s oldest brother, had gone to England in 1854. A few months ago the Kimball family had received letters from Iowa City saying that William was there helping to outfit the handcart companies and would be coming home once all was finished. And now he was here. “That’s great, Heber. I’ll bet your father is so—”

  “David! There are two more handcart companies out on the plains.”

  “No, the last one just got in day before yesterday, remember?”

  Heber shook that off. “No, two more! Elder Richards and my brother and the others are meeting with President Young and Father right now. They’ve come all the way across the plains by carriage and light wagons to bring the news. There are another twelve or thirteen hundred people still out there.”

  “Twelve or thirteen hundred!” Eleanor exclaimed.

  “Yes. They left England late. But they’re in trouble. Here it is October already.”

  David had already made that jump in his mind. The days of good weather were numbered now, and that number was not a large one. His face turned grave. “How far?”

  “No one is sure. William says that if they’re lucky, they’ll make it as far as the Green by the time we find them.”

  “The Green?” David exclaimed. “That’s all?”

  “Where’s the Green, David?” Alma asked. Alma had been only six when they came across the plains and remembered very little of the details of that journey.

  “The Green River. That’s two days east of Fort Bridger, about a hundred and thirty or forty miles from here.”

  Heber P. was nodding. “It’s likely they’ll be farther out than that. William said that when he and his party passed them, the lead company hadn’t even reached Fort Laramie yet.”

  David groaned. “Fort Laramie?”

  “Yes. So they might be somewhere along the Sweetwater.” He was trying to look grave, but there was excitement dancing in his eyes. “There’s going to have to be a rescue party sent out, David.” He grinned happily. “And what do the Minute Men always say?” He paused, giving David his cue.

  They sang it out together. “Keep your powder dry and be ready to ride on a minute’s notice.”

  David leaned forward, Eleanor and Alma totally forgotten now. “Do you really think they’ll call us out?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Heber said. “Everyone’s meeting right now in President Young’s office. But they’ve got to do something. And when there is something to be done, they almost always call on us. I think we’re going, David. I think we are going to go.”

  II

  Sunday, 5 October 1856

  “Do you think we’ll meet in the Tabernacle or the Bowery?”

  David Granger looked at his sister. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  Eleanor poked him, smiling. “Admit it. You haven’t thought about anything except the Minute Men since Heber P. came last night, have you?”

  He grinned and touched his cheek along the jawline where he had cut himself. “Nope. Not even shaving.”

  She laughed and put an arm through his. The Grangers were walking north on West Temple Street and were almost to the “Temple Block,” as everyone called it. David and Eleanor had fallen about ten paces behind the rest of the family. Ahead of them, towering above the walls surrounding the block, the triangular roof of the Tabernacle could be seen. The roof of the Bowery, being considerably lower than that of the Tabernacle, was not yet visible.

  David’s father heard the question and half turned. “With the weather this nice, it will be the North Bowery. It can hold more people.”

  David nodded. For sure there was going to be a crowd. General conference did not formally begin until Monday, which was the sixth of October, but people had been streaming into the city for two days now. Perhaps it was the weather. More likely it was the news about the late handcart companies. By nightfall the whole city knew of the arrival of Elder Richards’s party. The Sunday meeting before conference was always crowded, but it seemed like there were many more peo
ple than usual moving toward the temple site this morning.

  “Do you think he’ll talk about the handcart companies, Pa?”

  Jonathan Granger nodded at his oldest son. “I would suspect so. It’s a ripe opportunity. With general conference bringing everyone into town, it couldn’t be better timing. We’ll have Saints from every settlement in the territory here.”

  Eliza Granger turned. She was out ahead of her husband and Alma a little. She had their two youngest daughters by the hand, hurrying along so they wouldn’t be late. “Now, David,” she admonished him, “don’t you be getting your hopes set too high about this. Going out after those people this late in the year is going to be dangerous.”

  “So?” he shot right back.

  Eleanor laughed. “David survived shaving this morning, Mama. I think he’ll be all right.”

  •••

  For a time David was afraid that President Young was not going to bring up the news about the handcarts at all, even though the congregation was humming with speculation about what he would say. He spent almost ten minutes calling the congregation to repentance for being so noisy. And the noise really was terrible.

  The Bowery was an open-sided structure made of a roof of leafy boughs and dirt supported by dozens of poles. When the weather was good it could handle more than double the twenty-five hundred that the Tabernacle could house. The problem was, it couldn’t possibly accommodate all of the thousands who had come for conference. That left many people outside of its sheltering roof. Many of these wandered about or spoke aloud even after the meeting began. With a crowd this large, every speaker had to shout to make himself heard anyway, but with all the other activity going on it was almost impossible for any but those closest to the speakers to hear.

  So with a touch of obvious irritation, their prophet tore into them. He asked for their strictest attention and suggested that if they absolutely had to whisper and carry on conversations they remove themselves far enough away from the Bowery that they wouldn’t prevent others from hearing. He rebuked the police who were there to help with the crowd for talking out loud on the periphery of the assembly. He won an appreciative laugh when he suggested that a policeman could much more effectively control the noise by going over and laying his hand on the shoulder of an offending party than by hollering “Silence!” at the top of his lungs.

  Next he chided the women with crying babies who refused to take them out, even if they could not silence them. He suggested that it was only a matter of good breeding to be considerate of others in such matters.

  “I make these remarks,” he said at last, “because I am concerned that you hear the brethren who have just returned to us. We cannot expect them to shout over the whispering and talking, the shuffling of feet, and over crying babies. And I want these brethren to be heard.”

  David looked at Eleanor in relief. “At last,” he whispered.

  The chastisement worked. Those outside of the Bowery moved in closer, sheepishly breaking off their conversations. Several women stood up and went out with their wailing children. People stopped shifting around, and the constant squeaking of benches and chairs finally stopped. Everyone focused on their prophet and it quickly became perfectly quiet.

  Brigham let the silence become total, then straightened. His face became very grave. “Brothers and sisters, I will now give this people the subject and the text for the Elders who may speak today and during conference, which formally commences tomorrow. As most of you have heard, on this, the fifth day of October, eighteen fifty-six, many of our brethren and sisters are still out on the plains with handcarts. They must be brought here. We must send assistance to them.”

  David looked across the aisle at Heber P., who was sitting with his mother and other siblings. They grinned at each other. There was going to be a rescue.

  Brigham’s voice rose sharply. “Here is the subject to which we all shall speak. The text will be—to get them here! I want the brethren who may speak to understand that their text is the people on the plains, and the subject matter for this community is to send for them and bring them in before the winter sets in.”

  “Hear! Hear!” someone cried out.

  President Young clearly heard it, but did not turn. “That is my religion,” he said firmly. “That is the dictation of the Holy Ghost that I possess. It is to save the people! We must bring them in from the plains.”

  He stopped, his head moving back and forth as his eyes locked those of the crowd. His shoulders were squared and his face resolute. “I shall call upon the bishops this day. I shall not wait until tomorrow nor the next day. I want sixty good mule teams and twelve or fifteen wagons. I do not want to send oxen. They are much too slow for this enterprise. I want good horses and mules. They are in this Territory, and we must have them. I want also twelve tons of flour and forty good young men as teamsters.”

  David nearly leaped up. Young men! President Young always called the Minute Men his “boys” or his “young men.”

  “Next, I want sixty spans of mules, or horses, with harness, whippletrees, neck‑yokes, stretchers, load chains, and so forth. I will repeat the division, brothers and sisters. Forty extra teamsters is number one. Sixty spans of mules or horses is part of number two. Twelve tons of flour, and the wagons to take it, is number three.”

  He shook his finger at the sea of upturned faces. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I will tell you all that your faith, all your religion, and all your profession of religion will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, not unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains! Attend strictly to those things which we call temporal duties, otherwise your faith will be in vain. The preaching you have heard will be in vain to you, and you will sink to hell, unless you attend to the things we tell you.”

  He stopped, his chest rising and falling. There was not a flicker of sound anywhere. Every eye was fastened upon their leader. His voice suddenly dropped in pitch, and though he still had to shout to make himself heard in such a large congregation, it felt like he had suddenly started to whisper. “I feel disposed, brothers and sisters,” he went on, “to be as speedy as possible with regard to helping our brethren who are now on the plains. Consequently, I shall call upon the people forthwith for the help that is needed. I want them to give their names this morning, if they are ready to start on their journey tomorrow. Don’t say, ‘I will go next week, or in ten days, or in a fortnight hence,’ for I wish you to start tomorrow morning.

  “I want the sisters to have the privilege of fetching blankets, skirts, stockings, shoes, and so forth for the men, women, and children that are in those handcart companies. I want hoods, winter bonnets, stockings, skirts, garments, and almost any description of clothing. I now want brethren to come forward to the stand, for we need forty good teamsters to help the brethren on the plains. You may rise up now and give your names.”

  David Granger was instantly on his feet and saw that Heber P. Kimball and Brigham Young, Jr., were up as well. He felt a touch on his hand. He looked down at Eleanor, who was smiling up at him through tears. Her eyes were filled with pride. And then to his great joy, he saw that his father was also standing. Jonathan Granger looked down at his wife. “We’ve got four good horses, Lizzy.”

  To David’s surprise, his mother was weeping too. She reached out and grabbed her husband’s hand with both of hers. “Go, Jonathan! You and David go and help find those people.”

  •••

  It was nearing sundown when David Granger left Temple Block and started down West Temple Street towards his home. The Sunday meetings were done. The names were taken, and already donated materials were starting to pour into the tithing store, which had been designated as the collection point.

  To no one’s surprise, following the meetings Brigham Young formally called up a number of the Minute Men to join the rescue. Not all would go. The community couldn’t leave itself vulnerable if any Indian
trouble arose, but the Minute Men would be going. And David had been one of those selected. Unfortunately, his father had not been chosen. Brigham noted that the work required in the Valley to supply the rescue effort would be prodigious, and they had great need for help from men like Jonathan Granger.

  Afterwards, David and Heber P. and Brigham, Jr., had gathered with their compatriots and talked excitedly about what had to be done. It would be a race to be ready on time, for Brother Brigham was adamant. By Tuesday morning he wanted the first wagons rolling. More would follow as soon as possible, but come Tuesday, the first help had to be on its way. The few voices who expressed doubts about whether that was possible were quickly silenced. Brother Brigham would hear of nothing less. If he had his way, they would be rolling tomorrow morning, but it would take most of Monday just to load the wagons.

  David looked up in surprise when he saw Eleanor waiting across the street. When she saw him come out of the gate of Temple Block, she smiled and waved. Waiting for a carriage to roll by, he darted across the street.

  “How come you’re still here?”

  She shook her head, trying to be patient. “What? You think only the Minute Men are working tonight to get things ready?”

  “You mean that you are . . .” That thought took him aback a little. “Are you girls doing something?”

  “Yes. Some of us who aren’t married yet are going to get together in the morning and gather up all the clothing we can find.” She blushed a little and looked away. “In fact, we already started.”

  Puzzled by her sudden embarrassment, he looked at her more closely. She laughed then, stepping away from him, and did a quick pirouette. “Notice anything different?” she said.

  It took him a moment; then his eyes widened. Where before her skirts had been full, now they were limp and flat. She looked as though she had shed twenty pounds since he had last seen her. “What happened?”