Derek stood quickly. “Which Apostles?”
“Elders Parley Pratt, Orson Hyde, and John Taylor.”
“But,” Rebecca said, closing the Bible now, “I thought they were going to England.”
“They are,” he said right back. “But they are going by way of St. Louis, so they stopped here to see how we are faring.” He paused for breath. “There’s going to be a meeting.”
Parley Pratt was near tears. He held up the bag that was now stuffed full of money, the money that represented a substantial portion of the battalion members’ forty-two-dollar clothing allowance. “Brethren and sisters, I don’t need to tell you what this will mean to your families and to the Church. While Elders Taylor and Hyde have been addressing you, I have counted the contributions you have made. I hold here five thousand eight hundred and sixty dollars.”
That brought cries of amazement and several low whistles. That was a staggering sum.
In a low and husky voice he went on. “We have determined that Elders Taylor and Hyde will continue to Europe in company with Elder Little, who is going back to preside over the Eastern States Mission. I shall, however, take this money to President Young at Council Bluffs. May the Lord bless you for your generosity and consecration. May he protect you as you now prepare to march to Mexico to fight for your country. God bless you, brothers and sisters. It is an honor to be numbered among such men and women as you.”
Chapter Notes
As shown here, the Mormon emigrants who arrived at Yerba Buena were welcomed warmly and treated fairly both by the military commander, Commander Montgomery, and by the locals in the small village that was there (see “Voyage,” pp. 64–66;
SW,
pp. 71, 73, 75–76).
Though there was still some discussion about whether to send anyone west that season, by the first part of August 1846, Brigham Young had largely made up his mind that the Saints would have to winter on the Missouri River. Accordingly, on 5 August he and several of the Twelve set out in company with others to scout for a suitable place for their winter encampment (see
MHBY,
pp. 295–96). With the enlistment of the battalion, they now had permission to settle on Omaha Indian lands.
The author took some liberties with the account of Charles C. Rich and his family. In her autobiography Sarah Rich does not give the name of the sister they helped, so “Brookstone” was supplied by the author. Also, the incident took place at Mount Pisgah and not at Council Bluffs, but other than that—along with the addition of Nathan in the scene—it happened at this period of time as described here. (See
SW,
pp. 78–79.)
The details of the outfitting of the Mormon Battalion when they arrived at Fort Leavenworth, which is about thirty miles northwest of present-day Kansas City, come from the journals and histories of those who were there (see
MB,
pp. 35–40;
CHMB,
pp. 134–37).
The nearly six thousand dollars that Parley P. Pratt took back to Brigham Young would have, by itself, justified answering the call of the government for Mormon volunteers. That infusion of cash would prove to be an enormous boon to the Church, which was desperately poor at this time and facing the challenge of caring for a large population during the coming winter.
Chapter 21
The animals were nervous, and Peter stayed right beside them, talking to them quietly. Virginia Reed came up beside him. “What’s the matter with them, Peter?”
“I’m not sure. I think the echo in the canyon is spooking them a little.”
Virginia cocked her head slightly. She needn’t have bothered. The sound was everywhere evident, bouncing off the great vermillion cliffs above them as though they were all confined in a barrel. “It does sound strange,” she agreed.
“In my opinion, the oxen think they hear other oxen somewhere off in the distance and it’s making them nervous. They can’t see what’s making the noise and they don’t like it.”
“But it’s so beautiful.”
“Spectacular,” Peter agreed, tipping his head back to look at the towering masses around them. They were now six days west of Fort Bridger. This morning they had dropped down from the Bear River into a wide and gentle canyon. The going had been relatively easy, though nothing like the “level trail with hard soil and plenty of grass” that Bridger and Vasquez had promised. But then about noon the canyon began to narrow and deepen. By three the scenery changed dramatically. Along the north wall of the canyon, great outcroppings of brilliant red stone, rising four or five hundred vertical feet, jutted out at regular intervals. They were crowned with cedar trees and oak brush and provided a view that stunned the senses.
Then had come the surprise. As they neared its mouth, the canyon closed in to where it was only about two hundred yards across. That is when they first noticed the echo. Nineteen wagons creaked and groaned down the sage-covered track. Men shouted back and forth to one another. Cattle bellowed, horses whinnied, and oxen lowed. And the towering walls of stone threw it all right back at them.
“Listen,” Peter said. He strode out ahead of the animals a few paces so as not to startle them. Then he cupped his hands, tipped his head back, and shouted, “Hey!”
There was an instant response. “Hey-hey-hey!”
That brought the rest of the family to the front of the wagon. “What is it, Peter?” Margret Reed asked.
Five-year-old James thrust his head beneath his mother’s arm. “Did you see something, Peter? Did you?”
Peter laughed. “No, I was just showing Virginia the echo here. Listen.” He did it again, and again got the same result.
“Oh, boy!” James cried. “Can I do it?”
“Sure.”
He moved to the front of the wagon where the canvas cover was pulled back. “Hey, what are you doing?”
The echo came back as an unintelligible rumble.
“Use short words, James. It works better.”
He thought for a moment, then tipped his head back again. “James!”
The boy’s voice was higher and clearer than Peter’s, and the effect was even more noticeable. Back it came. “Ja-ja-james.”
The other children clapped their hands in delight.
Ten minutes later when James Reed rode toward them from the mouth of the canyon, they were still trying out the echo, and half the rest of the train were doing it as well.
Reed pulled up, smiling as he watched his children making themselves hoarse.
Peter, back at the head of the oxen now, looked up. “What did you find, Mr. Reed?”
“Good news. The Weber River is just beyond where the canyon opens up. It’s a pretty good stream—three or four rods across at least. And plenty of good feed.”
“Wonderful,” Peter answered. They had been following a small creek all the way down the canyon—everyone was calling it Red Canyon, but in Peter’s mind it had become Echo Canyon—but they crossed the stream several times, and the water was now muddy and foul.
“Where do you want to camp, then?” Peter asked.
Reed shrugged. “We’ll follow the river and see what looks good. We’ve still got another two or three hours of daylight.”
When they emerged from the canyon, they entered a gently sloping valley that opened up rapidly until it was more than a mile wide. They were following the river now, staying a quarter of a mile or so away from it so as to avoid the tangled underbrush along the bottoms. Mr. Reed was riding ahead again, only this time just a little out in front of the lead wagon. Suddenly he spurred ahead, racing right up to the bank of the river. He bent way over in the saddle, and when he straightened Peter saw that he was holding something white in his hand.
For almost a minute Reed sat motionless on his horse. Then with a jerk he reined Glaucus around and came back to them at a hard lope. As he reached George Donner’s first wagon, he waved a piece of paper. “It’s a letter from Lansford Hastings.”
They swung their nineteen wagons into a circle so that everyone was close enough to hear. Reed stood by Glaucus, impatiently waiting for the last wagon to pull in. As soon as it did so, he straightened, holding up the letter. “I found this wedged in a stick at the ford. It was put there in such a way that it could not be missed.”
“Hastings?” Jacob Donner asked.
“Yes. Written by his hand two days ago.”
“Are we only that far behind them?” Lewis Keseberg, one of the Germans, asked.
“No, a little more than that,” Reed answered. “Hastings rode back to leave the note for us, so they’re probably three or four days out in front of us.”
“What does it say?” Tamsen Donner inquired. “Read it to us.”
Reed nodded, gripping the paper with both hands to steady it against the breeze that was blowing down the canyon now. “‘To the trailing companies. From Lansford W. Hastings, company guide. I am leaving this note for anyone still coming behind us. You will observe that we took the route down Weber Canyon, following the river. This was against my recommendation, as I had heard that the Weber is a difficult route for wagons. I wanted to cut a road over the Wasatch Mountains and thus into the Utah River valley. An associate convinced our company to take the shorter route in my absence. It proved to be the wildest and most dangerous place we have yet encountered. If you look northwestward from the spot where you received this note, you will see that Weber Canyon closes in again. Just beyond that, the road becomes almost impassable. We have taken wagons where no wagons were ever intended to go. The only route is through the river bottom, which is filled with boulders and choked with undergrowth. We lost one wagon and all of its oxen when we tried to bypass the river on a steep side hill and could not hold it.’ ”
Reed stopped. “He doesn’t say if anyone was killed. Let’s hope not.” He read again. “ ‘Though we are now through two bad stretches and are once again in a broad valley, we see again where the canyon becomes little more than a tunnel before it opens onto the Salt Lake. Therefore, heed carefully my counsel. Do not attempt this passage. There is a better way. Send a messenger ahead to catch our company. Upon hearing from you, I will come back and guide you across the better road, which bypasses the Weber route altogether and provides a shorter route to the Salt Lake Valley. Do not risk losing your teams or equipment by attempting to follow us. Yours sincerely, L. W. Hastings, Esquire.’”
James Reed lowered the paper and looked around. The faces that he saw were grave, the eyes lined with worry. They were already dangerously late in the season. It was the sixth day of August, and there were still about seven or eight hundred miles to go before California. If they halted another three or four days, it was pushing the limits badly. On the other hand, what choice did they have? The canyon ahead was impassable. Fort Bridger and the proven Oregon Trail were five days behind them. Waiting for Hastings required less time than that.
“Well?” Reed finally asked.
“What do you think?” Uncle George asked soberly.
Reed considered that. Though George Donner was formally captain of the train, James Reed was by far the more dynamic leader and everyone naturally looked to him. He took a deep breath, then let it out in frustration. “I don’t see a choice. Let’s make camp here, and tomorrow I’ll take a couple of men and we’ll try to catch Hastings and bring him back to help us.”
John Baptiste Richard—or Reshaw, as he pronounced it—stopped his wagon at the top of a slight rise and motioned for the others to pull up alongside him. They did so one by one, glad for the respite from the dusty trail.
The Crow family wagon in which Kathryn was riding was one of the last in the small train, so by the time they reached the front, most of the people were standing in a cluster pointing toward the south and talking with great animation. John Brown walked over as the Crows reached the point where they had topped the rise and could see the prairie out ahead of them.
“We thought you might like to see this,” the wagon captain said with a smile.
“Mother? Children?” Brother Crow said. “Come take a look. Kathryn, you get on the wagon seat so you can see better.”
Sister Crow, who had been keeping company with Kathryn, climbed out of the back of the wagon. Kathryn moved to the front and slid through the opening in the canvas onto the wagon seat. She didn’t need anyone to point out what they were looking at. About three or four miles away, stretching across their whole field of view, a long, winding strip of green stood out in sharp contrast to the relentless brown of the prairie.
“Is that it, Papa?” one of the children asked.
John Brown answered for him. “That is the Arkansas River.”
“The Arkansas River?” someone exclaimed. “We’re that far?”
Brown laughed. “Well, it is the Arkansas, but we’re a long way upstream from the state of Arkansas. If you look just a little left of straight ahead you can see Fort Pueblo.”
Kathryn peered forward, shielding her eyes from the sun. Then she saw it. “Yes,” she cried at the same time that Sister Crow did. “I see it.”
Kathryn bent down and began helping the younger children pick it out.
Reshaw walked up, his teeth showing white against his swarthy skin. “That is it, no?” he said happily. “Fort Pueblo. The green squares by the river are fields of corn. The darker greens are fields of squash and pumpkin.” He laughed aloud, rubbing his hands. “I told you I would bring you to Pueblo. And here we are.”
“You have kept your word, Mr. Reshaw,” John Brown said gratefully. “You have done as you said you would. And for that, we are in your debt.”
For the last several days, anyone who was associated with Brigham Young, even in the slightest way, was aware of the urgency he felt about finding a place for a permanent encampment. Wilford Woodruff had ridden north first, in company with Colonel Thomas Kane, who was proving to be such a loyal friend to the Saints. Then Joshua had left with Heber C. Kimball’s full company. Later that same afternoon Brigham finally started. Like Heber, he brought his company and their wagons with him.
Now they all converged on the same spot about a full day’s ride upriver from Cold Spring Camp. It was a pleasant spot up on the bluffs about three miles from the river. It was eight-thirty on the morning of the third day of their exploration. All of the adults who were present had gathered in the center of the wagon circle at the request of President Young. Three others of the Twelve were also there—Heber Kimball, Willard Richards, and Wilford Woodruff. As was often the case, Elder Kimball called the group to order and then, after prayer, turned the meeting over to Brigham Young.