But upon such small things do monumental happenings swing.
For all of its ironies, the combination of circumstances in the Hastings-Donner tableau proved to be a great blessing to the Mormon emigration a year later. When the Mormons reached Henefer, they turned south and followed the road made by the Donners. Though much of it had grown over again and much work still had to be done, the Saints covered the distance from Henefer to the mouth of Emigration Canyon in five days. It had taken the Donners
twelve days
to travel that same distance, not counting the four-day layover at Henefer. This time savings allowed the Pioneer Company to arrive in the Valley in time to plant some crops which would help see them through the winter.
When John Brown and the other brethren who were leading the Mississippi Saints west learned that Brigham Young was wintering in Iowa and Nebraska, they decided to return to Mississippi for their families. They left Pueblo on 1 September and reached Mississippi on 20 October. Shortly after their return they received an epistle from the Twelve asking that they again leave their families in Mississippi for one more year and organize a small company of men who could go west with the Pioneer Company in the spring of 1847. They did so, leaving Mississippi in January and arriving at Winter Quarters just a few days before the vanguard company left. (See “Pioneer Journeys,” pp. 808–9.)
Chapter 23
Private Joshua Benjamin Steed stood with hooded eyes, listening to the complaints being voiced all around him, but saying nothing.
“Why is it that only the officers get to vote?” one man demanded.
“Because they don’t think we enlisted men have any say in what happens to us,” another growled, “even though we’re the ones who are most affected by it.”
“Brethren, brethren,” one of the older sergeants soothed, “in the army it is always the officers who make the decision. That’s just the way it is.”
“But this isn’t just the army,” shot back the first. “This is also the Church. I thought we were supposed to be brothers and treat each other with Christian charity.”
Josh moved away, not wanting to hear any more. This wasn’t his breakfast mess, but he had stopped to warm himself by their fire as he came in from guard duty and, at their invitation, stayed to eat with them. Now he wished he had just gone on to eat with his own mess.
Carping had become a way of life among many in the battalion, but for the past five days it had grown particularly bad. Before they had ever left Council Bluffs, Brigham Young and others of the Twelve had admonished them to live the gospel while they were serving their country. Marvelous promises were made to them if they would only remember that they were followers of Christ and exemplify his life in their own lives. But too often those admonitions were forgotten. It was not uncommon to hear profanity, usually among the younger men of the battalion. There was grumbling and backbiting. Some of the men spent what seemed to Josh like a lot of time playing cards or dominoes. But most common was the murmuring.
He smiled to himself. “Mur-mur-mur-mur,” he said softly. That cheered him up a little. He remembered his mother’s teachings about the spiritual dangers of murmuring. She had taught them how it got its name—because the word mimicked the sound people made when they were muttering under their breath. In the family they had developed a little game. When anyone started grumbling without real cause, someone would smile sweetly and say, “Mur-mur-mur-mur.” That was enough. Soon they would all be laughing and not complaining. His smile broadened as he thought how the men he was marching with would respond to that kind of reminder. A good way to get your head thumped, he decided.
Especially now that Lieutenant Smith and Doctor Sanderson had arrived.
The battalion had been deeply shocked when word came from Fort Leavenworth that Lieutenant Colonel James Allen had never recovered and was dead. The men had come to respect him, and he had come to respect them. His death was a significant loss. Then three days later Lieutenant Andrew Jackson Smith rode into the camp. Lieutenant Smith was a graduate of West Point and a regular officer in the U.S. Army. He went straight to Captain Hunt and, though Hunt outranked him, announced that he would like to take over the leadership of the battalion. Hunt had already assumed command at the news of the colonel’s death; but Smith pointed out that when it came to requisitioning supplies, or getting money from the paymaster, or winning other concessions from the army, a regular officer, no matter what his rank, would fare much better than a Mormon volunteer. Hunt finally agreed to put it to the other Mormon officers. To everyone’s surprise, all but four voted for Lieutenant Smith.
The enlisted men were furious that they hadn’t been consulted. Grudgingly they decided to sit back and see how their new commander did before passing judgment. That’s what was stuck in everyone’s craw now. In a matter of days Smith had proven to be an unbearable tyrant with a deep prejudice against these “Mormon volunteers.” It was hard to tell, when he spoke that phrase, which word was the more distasteful to him.
To make matters worse, Smith had brought a new military physician with him. Doctor George Sanderson was a Missourian, and rumors quickly spread that if Smith despised the Mormons, Sanderson hated them. He immediately ordered the men to come to him for an examination before they could be put on the sick roll. With many still in various stages of sickness from their stay in the Missouri River valley, that quickly became a cause for concern.
Josh caught himself, and shook his head. Now he was doing it. Not really complaining, but worrying about things and letting them upset him. He set his jaw and strode forward with determination to be different. Yesterday they had entered Comanche territory. That was plenty enough to worry about. The hostility of the Comanches toward the whites was known all up and down the Santa Fe Trail, and tension was high in the camp. For the first time last night, as he stood guard duty, Josh had felt a little prickling of fear, and he had had no trouble staying awake.
He looked up and saw that their tent was down and already packed on the wagon. He could see Christopher and Benji standing beside the wagon, but there was no sign of Derek and Rebecca. He blew out his breath. That was not a good sign.
When he came around the back of the wagon, the two boys ran to him happily. “Hi, Josh.”
“Good morning, Benji. Mornin’, Christopher. Where are your mother and father?”
Sergeant Tom Williams straightened from checking the harnessing on the mules. “They’re in the wagon. You’re uncle isn’t going to be doing any walking today.”
“He’s down again?”
Williams nodded his head.
Josh frowned. If the shakes were back, it would mean another miserable bout for Derek.
Williams was grim. “We got more sick than we can handle.”
“Thank you for taking them into your wagon.”
Williams grunted softly. He was a taciturn man, but Josh had come to respect him greatly. At Fort Leavenworth he had used his own money to purchase a wagon and team to help carry some of the company’s knapsacks and spare the men. Now it had become another hospital wagon as well, much to the blessing of those who were sick.
Josh went to the back of the wagon and lifted the flap. Rebecca looked up. “Good morning,” she said.
“Hi,” he answered softly. Derek’s eyes were closed and he didn’t stir. “How’s the patient?”
She just shook her head.
“I’ll take Christopher with me today,” Josh said. “I saw the Buttons family just now. They said they’ll keep Benji if you’d like.”
“That would be wonderful,” Rebecca sighed.
There was a noise behind them. Josh turned and saw Lieutenant Smith, Doctor Sanderson, and Lieutenant Dykes, the battalion adjutant, approaching the line of wagons. One look at their faces and Josh could tell they were not happy. They stopped two wagons back. Their voices carried clearly.
“What is going on here?” Lieutenant Smith demanded. The driver came to attention, a little flustered by the anger in the officer’s voice. “We’re preparing to move out, sir.”
“What are all these men doing in your wagon?” Sanderson demanded.
“They’re sick, sir. Too sick to walk.”
The lieutenant swung around and jerked up the wagon’s cover. “You there!” he snapped. “Are you sick?”
There was a muffled reply.
“Why didn’t you report to Doctor Sanderson? He’s got medicine. If you’re too sick to march, why didn’t you report to the doctor?”
The driver, a man by the name of Owens, started to speak, but the lieutenant ignored him. He was slapping one hand against the side of his trousers, his anger building visibly. “I won’t have this,” he shouted. “No one rides in the wagons unless they’re on sick report.”
Then, as the stunned onlookers watched, he stepped to the back of the wagon, grabbed the man by his boots, and dragged him out. The sick man stumbled and went down on his knees. “Out! Out!” the officer was screaming. He grabbed another man and dragged him out, letting him fall to the ground with a crash. “If you’re not on the sick report, you’re not sick enough to ride.”
Several men came running up, shocked by what they were seeing. Nathaniel Jones, a sergeant with Company D, darted in, blocking the lieutenant from grabbing any more of the men. “Sir,” he said sharply, “let me explain. These men mean no disrespect, sir, but we have religious scruples against taking army medicines. Since that’s what Doctor Sanderson administers, they didn’t want to report, sir.”
Lieutenant Smith looked confused for a moment. He turned to his adjutant. “Is that true, Lieutenant Dykes?”
George P. Dykes was one of the Mormon officers, but he had quickly fallen into disfavor with the men because his position of authority had gone straight to his head and he had become a little martinet, demanding that he be treated like a regular army officer.
Lieutenant Dykes instantly shook his head. “There’s nothing in our religion which forbids the taking of medicine.”
Brother Owens broke in. “Sir, before we left, you know that President Young—” He looked at Smith. “Brigham Young, our leader, whom we view as a prophet, counseled us that if we got sick, we were to live by faith and to let the doctors’ medicines alone. We were to use only healing herbs and mild food. He promised that if we would heed this counsel, we would prosper.”
“Ridiculous!” Doctor Sanderson roared. “These men are sick. Calomel and arsenic is exactly what they need. Live by faith, indeed.”
Dykes did not meet Owens’s eyes. “There is nothing in our religion that forbids the use of medicine,” he said stubbornly.
Lieutenant Smith spun on his heel and walked swiftly toward where Josh and Sergeant Williams were standing watching all of this. Without a word to either of them, Smith stepped to the back of the wagon and dropped the tailgate. As he reached in to grab Derek by the feet, Williams jumped in between the two men. “Stop! Leave these people alone.”
Williams was a good hand span taller than the lieutenant and had squared his shoulders. The lieutenant was dumbfounded. “Get out of my way, soldier!”
“You’ll not be dragging these people out of my wagon, sir,” Williams said calmly.
Smith fell back a step, eyes blazing. Then he fumbled at his scabbard and whipped out his sword. Now his eyes were narrow and like two pieces of blue ice. “Step out of my way, soldier, or I’ll run you through. There’ll be no more people riding in this wagon.”
Williams had his bullwhip coiled and tied to his waist. With one swift movement he had it in his hand and gripped the thick handle like a club. Other than that, he did not move. “Lieutenant,” he said, his voice low and filled with menace, “you take one more step, and I’ll strike you to the ground. This wagon is my private property. I purchased it out of my own funds at Fort Leavenworth, and I will haul in it who and what I choose.”
The defiance caught Smith totally by surprise. He stood there, eyes bulging as they stared at the whip, mouth working but no words coming out.
“These are my brethren, Lieutenant. We have been counseled not to take your doctor’s medicine, and I will never leave one of them lying on the ground as long as my team can pull them.”
Neither the officers nor the doctor spoke. Sanderson and Dykes watched their commander to see what he would do. After several interminable seconds, Lieutenant Smith, his face nearly purple, slid his sword back into its scabbard and turned away. As he and his party withdrew, Josh clearly heard the lieutenant’s question. “Who is that man?”
“Sergeant Thomas S. Williams, sir, Company D,” Dykes answered. Smith said no more but kept on walking, his back stiff and his head high.
“Stop this wagon, Sergeant.”
Thomas Williams looked up at Lieutenant Smith and Doctor Sanderson, who had ridden up on horses. Williams pulled up on the reins and brought his team to a halt. As they dismounted, Williams jumped down quickly and moved with them to the back of the wagon. Josh was marching with his company a few yards away. He broke ranks and trotted over, worried that another confrontation was about to take place.
“Open the flap, Sergeant.”
Williams hesitated. “There won’t be any dragging of these people out of the wagon,” he said; then, at the officer’s look, he pulled back the flap and let down the tailgate.
Lieutenant Smith stepped forward and peered inside. Josh arrived just then, and the lieutenant swung on him. “What are you doing here, Private?” he demanded.
“This is my aunt and uncle,” Josh explained, pointing to Derek and Rebecca.
Lieutenant Smith assessed the situation quickly. There were six people in the wagon, all but two lying on beds. Rebecca was propped up against a flour sack holding the baby. She was serving as nurse to the sick. Derek was on his back, his arm over his eyes, moaning softly. Albert Dunham, a private from Company B, was also seated. His arms were folded across his knees, and his head was down upon them. He hadn’t even lifted his head to see what was going on. Smith leaned in and poked him sharply. “You there. Get out of the wagon.”
With a groan, Dunham slid forward and got down. His face was pale, his eyes watery, his limbs trembling slightly.