Mitch called back. “You stay with Mama, Johnny. There’s no danger.”
He turned forward, standing again in his stirrups. Before him was a narrow valley between low walls of red and white sandstone cliffs. Not hard to see why the first settlers had named the town Bluff. But what should have been a valley dotted with green fields and young trees, perhaps even an occasional flower garden, was instead a flat expanse of dark, brown, chocolaty mud. And through the middle of it snaked a wide river of almost-black, roiling water.
This was hardly the docile, sluggish stream they had been told to expect. It was a living thing, an angry torrent, roaring softly in the still, morning air. The water churned and boiled like a witch’s cauldron. The roiling surface was speckled with debris of all sorts, including full-grown trees. Mitch drew a sharp breath and jerked forward. Three white splotches had caught his eye. Now he could see they were the carcasses of sheep, rolling slowly over and over in the current. Behind them came what was left of a wagon box, it too turning over and over as it if were a child’s toy. The sight of it made him shudder. It also filled him with an immense gratitude that they did not have to cross it.
“What is it, son?”
Mitch swung down off his horse and faced his father. Behind him, other men had gotten off their wagons and were coming forward to see what the matter was. There was no need to explain. Mitch stepped back without speaking.
“Ohhhh.” It came out in a long, drawn-out sigh.
Pointing, Mitch squinted. “Are those cabins in the river? Or what’s left of them? Why would they build cabins in the riverbed?”
His father took off his hat, holding it up to block the sun. Then he shook his head and replaced it. “Not cabins, son. Those must be the cribs they built to channel the river into what they call the Big Ditch. They build a foundation of logs, much like they do for a cabin, but then they fill it with rock and dirt to hold their sluices in place. Remember, that is one of the reasons for our call. We’re here to help them build the Big Ditch. If we can’t irrigate the valley floor, we can’t turn it into farmland.”
“I’m not sure that’s true anymore.”
They turned as footsteps came up behind them. It was Isaiah Thompson, from Fillmore. He was the oldest man in their group and the one designated as the leader of their little company. He too drew in a sharp breath when he saw what was before them. “Well,” he drawled a moment later, “we’ve had torrential rain about every other day since we left our homes. From the look of things, I guess they’ve had it too.”
Caleb Burr, a father of five from Gunnison, joined them and gave a low whistle. “Whoo-ee!” he said softly. “The whole town’s gone.”
Mitch’s father shook his head. “No. Look there.” He raised his hand and pointed. “Just to the left of the cottonwood trees, up closer to the bluffs. I think that square rock building is the fort.”
“Yeah,” Mitch said. “And aren’t those cabins around it?”
Thompson grunted. “Yup. And judging from the ground around them, I’m betting that every one of them’s got a foot or two of mud inside.”
Finally Isaiah Thompson grunted. “Standing here isn’t going to help them much. Let’s get on down there and go to work.”
As they turned and started back toward the line of wagons, Mitch grabbed his father’s arm. “How’s Mother going to take this, Pa?” he asked in a low voice.
There was a quick flash of anger in his father’s eyes. “Your mother is a strong woman, Mitch. She’ll take it just fine.” Then, as he started away, he swung back. “No sense taking the cows down into that mess just yet. Get some of the other boys and take the herd back to that last wash we crossed. Leave a couple of the younger boys to watch them. Tell ’em we’ll be back for them ’fore dark.”
“Yes, Pa,” Mitch said as he swung back up in his saddle.
June 21, 1884—Bluff Fort
The meeting was to begin at seven o’clock that night. With the help of the Bluff settlers, who were ecstatic about the company’s arrival, the newcomers had spent the afternoon and evening of their first day getting their wagons parked and the teams turned out to pasture. This morning, the new arrivals returned the favor and pitched in to help in the cleanup effort. Somewhere around ten that morning, during a break for water, bread, and slabs of cheese, Jens Nielson, bishop of the Bluff Ward, announced that there would be an official welcome party for the latest additions to their community at the log schoolhouse next to the fort.
The schoolhouse—which was also the church house and community hall—was a long, low building made of twisted cottonwood logs and topped with a sod roof. Mitch was surprised by how crooked the logs were, but his father explained that cottonwood trunks grew that way, and that if there were no other alternatives, you made do with what you had. The cabins surrounding the fort and schoolhouse were built of the same timber, with the same crooked result.
Inside the schoolhouse they had built a raised platform. Here wooden chairs and a small pulpit had been placed. As the Westlands entered the room, the smell of mold and mildew assaulted their nostrils. Mitch pulled a face but said nothing. This was a smell that now filled the entire valley and probably would for weeks to come.
Glancing up, he saw that there were two large holes in the roof where the sod had collapsed from the incessant rain. Dark mud stains were visible on the floor planking and a couple of the benches. That wasn’t a surprise. There were not many houses in Bluff right now that weren’t open to the sky to some degree or another.
Mitch noticed three men talking quietly together on the stand as his family found a place on the benches. One he recognized—it was Bishop Nielson. The other two he guessed were his counselors.
He sat back, completely content. Bluff had just suffered a severe flood. Mud and rot were everywhere. The task of cleanup was overwhelming, but there was nowhere else he would rather be. They were here at last. The grand adventure had finally begun, and he was happy to be a part of it.
“Brodders and sisters?”
Every eye turned toward the stand. Bishop Nielson was now at the pulpit. The other two men had taken the chairs. The room quickly quieted.
“Vee vould like to start vit an opening prayer. I haf asked my counselor, Lemuel Redd, to offer that prayer.”
The older of the two men behind the bishop got to his feet and came forward. As everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes, Mitch peeked at his mother to make sure her eyes were closed too, and then he turned to study the bishop.
Jens Nielson was his mid-sixties and had a deeply tanned face and deep wrinkles lining deep blue eyes. His hair was almost pure white, as were his eyebrows and the funny little beard that grew from beneath his chin. Taller than Mitch and broad enough across the shoulders to strain the material of his suit coat, he was an imposing figure, but with a kindly face and a quick smile.
Bishop Nielson’s beard was one of the most unusual Mitch had seen. The bishop’s upper lip and the front of his chin were clean shaven, but growing straight down out of the bottom of his chin was a rectangular tuft of hair that looked as though it had been stuck on with bookbinder’s glue. In a way it seemed almost comical, but then Mitch changed his mind. The bishop was very dignified in his manner, and his beard somehow seemed to add to that.
Brother Redd’s prayer was brief but heartfelt. As soon as he sat down, the bishop was up again. He cleared his throat. “Brodders and sisters, vee velcome you tonight to our meeting.” His eyes twinkled for a moment. “For you who are new to us, I thought it might be good to explain vhy everyvhere you look there is so much mud. Vell, the problem is that vee haf so much sand in Bluff. Vhen the vind blows, it gets into everything—our shoes, our beds, our food. So vee decided to order in some mud to hold the sand down.”
He smiled as the people burst out laughing. Still dead sober he went on. “Now, vee haf another problem. Vee haf too much mud. So vee are thinking of bringing in some sand to help dry out the mud.”
Everyone was laughing
now. A couple of people even clapped their hands in delight. Mitch glanced at his mother and saw that she was laughing too.
The bishop continued, more serious now. “Vee vant to velcome all of the new families who haf joined our little mission here along the banks of the San Juan. Vee are so grateful for your faith and your sacrifice. As you can see, you have come at a time vhen vee need your help so much. So, in behalf of all our people, vee thank you. God bless you for your faith.”
Mitch glanced sideways, wondering what his mother was thinking.
Gwendolyn Greene Westland had not wanted to come here. Not in any way. The thought of leaving her home, uprooting her family, and leaving Mitch’s two older brothers and their wives and children had been almost more than she could bear. Almost. When the stake president told them the call had come from John Taylor, President of the Church, she agreed to go. Not joyfully. She told Mitch’s father that as far as she knew, the call didn’t require joy. Only willingness.
To find a sea of mud upon arrival must have raised some misgivings within her. But if she was having those feelings now, it did not show on her face.
Bishop Nielson then read the names of the new families and asked each father to introduce his wife and children to the congregation. As that went on, Mitch turned his focus back to the man he had heard so much about but never met.
Bishop Jens Nielson was famous among the settlers in southern Utah. He and his wife, Elsie, had joined the Church when Mormon missionaries came to Denmark with a message of a new prophet, a new bible, and a new church. When they received the call to come to America several years later, they sold their farm in Denmark and caught a steamer from Copenhagen to Liverpool. There, in 1856, they joined a company of Saints from various countries in Europe. That year, for the first time, the companies of pioneers headed for Utah would not be in wagon trains. They would go by handcart. James Willie, who had been in England serving as a missionary for the previous four years, had been called to lead their handcart company from Iowa City to the Valley.
The Willie Handcart Company had been the first to be caught in the raging winter blizzards that roared across the high plains of Wyoming. Their handcarts ground to a stop while they were still 300 miles from Salt Lake. Before they reached the Valley, the Nielsons buried their only son and a young girl they were bringing with them for another family. When Jens’s feet were so badly frostbitten that he couldn’t go on, his wife, Elsie, barely five feet tall and weighing less than a hundred pounds, put him in their handcart and pulled him on to camp.
They both survived, but the frostbite twisted one leg so badly that Jens walked with a noticeable limp for the rest of his life. One night, as their group faced almost certain death, Jens had told the Lord that if He would spare their lives and let them reach the Valley, he would spend the rest of his life answering whatever call his priesthood leaders gave to him. When the call came in 1878 to open a mission around the San Juan River, Jens was nearly sixty. He was not one of those called, but he volunteered to accompany some of his family members anyway.
At the point where it looked like the Hole-in-the-Rock pioneers could go no farther due to impassable terrain, Jens Nielson had made two statements that changed everything. He said that what the people needed was more stick-to-it-ive-ness. In his rough Danish accent it came out as “stick-a-ty-tootie.” Then he added with great solemnity, “We must go on, whether we can or not.” And they did.
“Arthur Vestland.” Bishop Nielson’s voice brought Mitch back to the present. His father got to his feet, turning to look back at the congregation as he motioned for the rest of the family to stand beside him. The smiles from the congregation were warm, genuine, and welcoming. Mitch smiled back at them, resisting the temptation to give a little cheer when his father finished.
“Thank you, my brodders and sisters,” Bishop Nielson said when the last family finished. “Vee cannot fully express how grateful vee are that you haf answered a call from the Lord and joined us in this important effort.”
His shoulders lifted and fell as he searched the faces of the new arrivals. Then he sighed. “It saddens me deeply that vee cannot celebrate your arrival vit a dance and potluck dinner. That vould be a luxury for all of us. Instead, not only must you join us in cleaning up after a devastating flood, but in addition, I fear that vee haf some other news that vee must share vit you.
“As you haf seen vit your own eyes, this has not been a goot year for us. Vee haf seen more rain this spring than vee haf seen since vee first come to Utah. Vhen it rained and rained and rained, all of our efforts to shore up the riverbanks vere in vain. All of our vurk to protect the town vas for nothing. Vurse, three years of vurk on what vee call the Big Ditch is gone. This vas to be a permanent solution for irrigating our crops. Now, three years of backbreaking labor, three years of using every spare dollar of cash to pay for it, is gone. The great vahter vheel vas vashed avay like a child’s toy. Just like that, the monster river svept everything avay.
“And vhat haf vee left? A valley covered in mud. Our houses filled vit mud.” He gestured upward. “Roofs collapsed from too much rain. Fields of new corn and vheat and oats, gone. The air filled vit such a stench that vee haf to wear bandannas over our noses.”
He turned and gazed out the west windows to where the last of the evening sun was bathing everything in soft, gold light. When he went on, it was barely a whisper. “Upstream from here is the town of Montezuma Creek. Eight of our families chose to settle there. The flood hit them vit particular fury. All but two homes were completely destroyed. Most of their livestock vere lost.”
The image of the sheep floating in the brown water flashed into Mitch’s mind.
“Three of those families are here vit us tonight. The rest decided they vere too veary, too tired to carry on any longer. They packed vhat few belongings they had left and vent looking for new homes in a gentler land.”
He turned back to face the congregation. “The first night after all of this hit, vee here in Bluff gathered together. Vee too were terribly discouraged and vanted to escape from this terrible country. Vee asked ourselves, ‘Does the Lord really expect us to stay here now? Or is it time to finally admit that vee cannot make it any longer? Is it time to give up?’”
He stopped, letting his gaze move from face to face among those who had just arrived the day before. There wasn’t a sound in the hall now. Mitch felt a deepening sickness in the pit of his stomach. No. Don’t say it. You can’t tell us to leave now.
Then Bishop Nielson’s head moved back and forth slowly. “Vee finally decided that it vould not be right to release ourselves from a call that came from our prophet. So vee wrote a letter to President John Taylor, which vas signed by almost all here. Vee set forth plainly the obstacles vee are facing, and vee asked for a release from our callings unless suitable help vas forthcoming.”
“But what about us?” someone right behind Mitch cried out.
“Yes,” a woman’s voice chimed in. “Did we come all this way only to turn around now and go back?”
Mitch turned. Sister Lavina Livingstone was on her feet. Her face was strained, her voice anguished. As Mitch watched, her husband reached out to take her hand. His face was flushed with embarrassment, but he didn’t try to pull her down or quiet her. They had brought five children with them, the oldest a girl about Mitch’s age. The Westlands and the Livingstones had become good friends in the last three weeks. Sister Livingstone was only voicing what all the rest were feeling.
Mitch stole a quick glance at his own mother, again wondering what was going through her mind. But her head was partially averted and he could not see her face.
“Ya, ya,” Bishop Nielson said softly. “Your qvestions are goot ones. Vee knew, of course, dear sister, that more families had been called and vere planning to come this summer, but vee had not heard any more about vhen you vere coming.”
She sat down again as he went on. “The letter to Salt Lake will take weeks to reach there. And it vill be veeks after th
ey get it before a letter finds its vay back here.”
He straightened, squaring his shoulders. With great resolve, he finished his thought. “But vee vill stay until vee hear from them.”
Bishop Nielson continued. “So here is vhat vee vould recommend to you; then each of you vill haf to decide for yourselves vhat you vish to do. You haf just arrived. Your teams and your livestock are tired and vorn out. To turn around now and go back vould be very difficult. If you choose to do so, vee vill do vhatever we can to help you on your way. But vee ask that you give careful thought to staying at least until vee hear from Salt Lake. Vee so badly need your help.”
He stopped to give them a chance to let his words sink in, and then in a quieter voice, he went on. “But you do not haf to decide anything tonight. Go back to your wagons and your tents and talk about it as families. Think about it. Pray about it. Then decide.”
“Amen,” a deep male voice boomed out. Other murmurs of assent followed. It was a reasonable plan and one that avoided the awkward question of whether they were abandoning their calls rather than waiting to be released from them. Mitch looked sideways at his mother, but her eyes were fixed on the bishop. She was as still as a stone statue—which did not bode well.
Mitch squared his shoulders now. He knew what he was going to say when they got back to their wagon. His vote was to stay. Period. End of discussion.
Bishop Nielson raised his hands, and the room quickly quieted. Once again his shoulders lifted and fell. Once again he sighed a great sigh. “My dear brodders and sisters,” he said apologetically, “I know that you all are exhausted and are eager to fall into your beds. But vee haf one more problem vee must deal vit that cannot vait. I have asked my other counselor, Brodder Kumen Jones, to explain.”
He stepped back as the man sitting next to Lemuel Redd got to his feet and came forward. Tugging at his mother’s sleeve, Mitch leaned in and whispered, “That’s Kumen Jones?”
Only the Brave Page 4