John Stevens' Courtship

BROTHER DUNBAR SINGS ZION

The old Council House was a scene of profound excitement the next morning after the events recorded in the last chapter. There were gathered in its square brick walls the leaders of a people who had been suspected, made an incipient war against, tried and found guilty, and who were now about to be forgiven, when according to their own ideas they were not guilty of one single count in the whole indictment. Up from the South where the people were bivouacked, had come two score of the leaders and elders. Within the larger council chamber there was not much talk that morning and few outward semblances of the suppressed excitement. These men were too accustomed to action to do much talking in the face of danger.

Here and there were a few groups talking of the possible outcome of the day, while still others exchanged whispered items of news of the families in the South and the mountaineers in the eastern canyons.

As Brigham Young entered the room, accompanied by Heber C. Kimball, whose eloquent, snapping black eyes, shining bald head and kingly form towered above many of those assembled near, they were greeted cordially by their associates, and at once took their seats on the small raised platform at the western end of the room. Almost at the same time a whispered word went round that the Commissioners were at the door.

Captain Stevens flung open the inner door of the council chamber and announced quietly:

"President Young, I beg leave to announce the Peace Commission."

As these two gentlemen entered, followed at a little distance by Governor Cumming, who had lingered to exchange a word with some one in the hall, Brigham Young arose and cordially extended a hand of welcome to his new visitors.

John stepped back into the hall to exchange greetings with some of his friends and as he stood chatting for a moment he was tugged by the coat-sleeve and turned around to find Tom Allen's jolly eyes beaming into his face.

With the sympathetic ear of a good listener, John was soon deluged with verbal pictures of conditions down in Prove and vicinity. He discovered for himself the bear-hut, and saw its present rejuvenation, filled with the families of Winthrop and Tyler, who used the two rooms as dining room and kitchen; the half-dozen wagon boxes, as of old days on the plains, served as bed-chambers for the two groups of families. He knew in a trice about the birth of the Mathews twins, the quarrel of Annie Moore with Stephen Grace; he grasped almost before it was told, all the details of that strenuous and yet rather monotonous existence down on the banks of the shallow Timpanogos or Provo river, as he caught at random the pictures flung at random by his old friend and associate.

"And, oh yes, don't go yet, John; I must tell you the very latest. Diantha Winthrop is wearing Charlie Rose's ring. How's that for high?"

The arrow struck where Tom vaguely hoped it would. If there was one thing above another that pleased jolly Tom Allen it was to stick teasing arrows into his friends. But he did not have the satisfaction of even guessing how near his shot had struck home, for he was instantly swung round and out of the way by Corporal Rose himself, who thus addressed himself to John:

"Captain Stevens, the President is just calling the council to order, and it is desired that you shall be with us in the council."

John instantly accompanied Corporal Rose into the inner room, and Tom Allen was left to his own conjectures and the silence of the deserted hall.

Within, the groups of stern-visaged men had settled themselves in orderly lines upon the rows of benches, and on the raised platform sat those tried and true friends, Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, George A. Smith, with handsome young Joseph F. Smith and General Wells; and here John went quietly to find his own seat among the few Utah officers sitting near General Wells. In the center of the aisle sat rough old A. P. Rockwood, the commissary-general, with utter indifference to his rawhide boots and faded blue overalls, but with a perfect appreciation of his own great sagacity and importance.

Already the council was in operation. Governor Cumming introduced ex-Governor Powell to the assembly, and that gentleman proceeded in his customary smooth language to recite the facts connected with the presence of the Commissioners in Utah. He referred to the action of the President of the United States in sending out the Commission and read in solemn tones the pardon sent out by that great executive. The pardon was couched in somewhat elusive terms, but it was plain that the "Mormons" were accused of over fifty crimes and misdemeanors, for all of which his excellency, the President, offered amnesty to all who would acknowledge the supremacy of the United States government, and in this acknowledgment permit the troops now quartered outside the Territory to enter and take up quarters within said Territory. The paper concluded with a pledge of good faith to all peaceable inhabitants of the Territory, and an assurance that neither the Chief Executive of the Nation nor his representatives in the Territory would be found interfering with the religion or faith of the inhabitants of this region. Governor Powell emphasized the pledge on behalf of himself and associate Commissioner. He explained somewhat loftily, yet in good grace, that they did not propose to inquire into the past, but to let all that had gone before alone, and to talk and act now only for the future.

Brigham Young called upon one of his near associates to speak: John Taylor, whose dark eyes looked out from under his splendid brows, and whose dignified, courtly manner won the admiration of even that bluff old Major McCulloch. This valiant friend of their late martyred Prophet, Joseph Smith, gave utterance to some fiery discourse, tempered with the desire to bring about peace, if it could be a peace with honor. He was followed by Brigham Young's nearest friend, George A. Smith, who told the Commissioners in ten minutes more of the "Mormon" people's past history than even Governor Cumming had ever known; he told them that the "Mormons" had come out here to these barren vales "willingly because they had to;" and he added that they were ready "if needs must or the devil drives" to seek other homes in the same manner. Some few but fiery words were spoken by Adjutant-General James Ferguson, and John's whole soul went out to his superior officer, who voiced the sentiments of the whole Utah militia. And then Brigham Young arose slowly, as though he were too full of thought and the responsibility of his position to act except with full deliberation. His voice was stern and cool, but vibrant, and it cut into every corner of that council chamber with thrilling if somewhat sharp enunciation. If his action were deliberate, there was no hesitancy in his speech. He said:

"I have listened very attentively to the Commissioners, and will say, as far as I am concerned, I thank President Buchanan for forgiving me, but I can't really tell what I have done. I know one thing, and that is, that the people called 'Mormons' are a lawful and loyal people, and have ever been. It is true Lot Smith burned some wagons last winter containing government supplies for the army. This was an overt act, and if it is for this that we are pardoned, I accept the pardon. The burning of a few wagons is but a small item, yet for this, combined with false reports, the whole 'Mormon' people are to be destroyed. What has the United States government permitted mobs to do to us in the past? Gentlemen, you can answer that question for yourselves. I can also, and so can thousands of my brethren. We have been plundered and whipped; and our houses burned, our fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and children butchered and murdered by the scores. We have been driven from our homes time and time again; but have the troops ever been sent to stay or punish the mobs for their crimes? No! Have we ever received a dollar for the property that we have been compelled to leave behind? Not a dollar! Let the government of our country treat us as we deserve. That is all we ask of them. We have always been loyal and expect to continue so. But hands off! Do not send your armed mobs into our midst. If you do, we will fight you, as the Lord lives. Do not threaten us with what the United States can do and will do, for we ask no odds of them or their troops. We have the God of Israel – the God of battles – on our side; and let me tell you, gentlemen, we fear not your threats. These, my brethren, put their trust in the God of Israel, and we have no fears. We have proved Him, and He is our friend. Boys, how do you feel? Are you afraid?"

Instantly there was a crash of voiced response to the man Brigham's fearless words. They might be termed fanatics – these men – but they could never be called cowards.

John held his breath as Brigham Young continued:

"Now let me say to you Peace Commissioners: we are willing those troops should come into our Territory, but not to stay in our cities. They may pass through this city, if needs be, but must not quarter nearer than forty miles to any city. If you bring your troops here to disturb this people, you have a bigger job on your hands than you or President Buchanan has any idea of. Before the troops reach here, this city will be in ashes, every tree and shrub will be cut to the ground, and every blade of grass that will burn shall be burned. Our wives and children will go to the canyons and take shelter in the mountains; while their husbands and sons will fight you to their last breath. And as God lives, we will hunt you by night and by day till our army or yours is wasted away. No mob, armed or otherwise, can live in the homes we have builded in these mountains. That's the program, gentlemen, whether you like it or not. If you want war, you can have it; but if you wish peace, peace it is; we shall be glad of it."

Once more Governor Powell arose and in honeyed tones he soothed the tumult of emotions now swelling upon the high tide of that stern-visaged assembly of men. He dwelt with moving eloquence upon the great clemency of the President of the United States and the magnanimity of that authority in setting aside all past offenses, and he told of the bright future which awaited a new Territory begun under such favorable auspices of frugality and industry. He praised all for their temperance and toil. He grew eloquent as he moved along the current of his own fervid imagination, and his pictures of the coming era of peace and prosperity caught, not only his own hearty sympathy, but mollified and quieted the turbulent elements there. He assured them that the army of the United States would not enter the Valley, only as they were given permission by that gallant and humane Territorial executive, Governor Cumming. And he was in full cry upon a swelling compliment to that genial peace-promoter when the door of the hall was flung open, and a barbaric figure, hard-ridden through miles of flying dust and unwashed haste, flung himself into the room. The old slouch hat upon the head of that dramatic figure was drawn down upon a mass of braided hair, wound round and round the bullet-shaped head. The hooked nose, the sleepy-lidded eyes, half closed upon the eagle glance of that "Mormon" scout, Indian fighter, sheriff, and free-lance, Porter Rockwell, sent a shivering thrill of apprehension into the breast of every mountaineer in that chamber. Porter Rockwell bore no trifling message!

A moment of converse followed in hasty, lowered tones with Brigham Young behind the back of that eloquent Kentucky politician who was just then extolling the orderliness and clemency of the troops, now quietly resting in Fort Scott; and then, up rose, without haste, but in sudden sternness, Brigham Young, as he said in piercing accents:

"Governor Powell, Major McCulloch, are you aware, sirs, that those troops are on the move to this city?"

"It cannot be," answered the orator, Powell, as he swung instantly around to face his questioner. "For we were promised by General Johnston that they should not move until after this meeting."

"I have received a dispatch, sir, that they are on the move to this city, and my messenger would not deceive me."

There was a hush as of the tomb on every lip and heart in that assembly. The thunderbolt had fallen.

In that same severe but perfectly self-possessed voice, Brigham Young asked:

"Is Brother Dunbar present?"

"Yes, sir," answered that flute-voiced musician.

"Brother Dunbar, sing 'Zion.'"

And in the electrical silence which ensued, rang out the clarion tones of the "Mormon" battle-hymn, if such it could be called, since it embodies a spiritual triumph rather than a temporal subjugation. Brother Dunbar sang:

O! ye mountains high, where the clear blue skyArches over the vales of the free,Where the clear breezes blowAnd the pure streamlets flow,How I've longed to thy bosom to flee.O Zion! dear Zion! home of the free:My own mountain home, now to thee I have come,All my fond hopes are centered in thee.Though the great and the wise all thy beauties despise,To the humble and pure thou art dear;Though the haughty may smile,And the wicked revile,Yet we love thy glad tidings to hear.O Zion! dear Zion! home of the free:Though thou wert forced to fly to thy chambers on high,Yet we'll share joy and sorrow with thee.In thy mountain retreat, God will strengthen thy feet;On the necks of thy foes thou shalt tread;And their silver and gold,As the Prophets have told,Shall be brought to adorn thy fair head.O Zion! dear Zion! home of the free;Soon thy towers will shine with a splendor divine,And eternal thy glory shall be.Here our voices we'll raise, and we'll sing to thy praise,Sacred home of the Prophets of God;Thy deliverance is nigh,Thy oppressors shall die,And the Gentiles shall bow 'neath thy rod.O Zion! dear Zion! home of the free:In thy temples we'll bend, all thy rights we'll defend,And our home shall be ever with thee.

It was impossible to calm the tumult any more for that day. Peace or war, the situation was very much in the hands of Brigham Young for the time.

As the three Eastern officials made their way slowly out of the door, with mingled chagrin and anger, Governor Cumming asked his companions:

"What would you do with such a people?"

"Damn them, I would fight them, if I had my way," answered Major McCulloch, unconvinced that the rumor was in any degree true.

"Fight them, would you?" answered the Governor sadly. "You might fight them, but you would not whip them. They would never know when they were whipped. Did you notice the fire and flash in those men's eyes today? No, sir; they would never know when they were whipped."

"I fear," said Governor Powell, reflectively, as they retraced their way sadly through the silent echoing streets to one of the few inhabited houses in the city, the hotel on Main Street, "I fear that the messenger was right. I had occasion to doubt the rashness of General Johnston's temper before we left the camp. Yet, I hope, I hope it is not true. I am loath to see the blood of good men shed for naught. But what a strangely dramatic people! They sing their defiance instead of announcing it."

There was another council held the next day; messengers were sent from both the Peace Commission and Governor Cumming to Camp Scott, and at length the whole matter was patched up, and the Commissioners were permitted to have their way. But meanwhile Brigham Young, with all his associates, had fled once more to the South and the deserted streets of the city were pressed only by the feet of the few and scattered non-"Mormons" who had chosen to remain through all these troubles within the borders of the unhappy Territory.

XVIII

THE ARMY ENTERS THE VALLEY

The armies of the United States were to enter the valleys of Utah. President Buchanan had said they must, the Peace Commission and Governor Cumming said they ought, and Brigham Young said they might.

On the twenty-sixth day of June, 1858, at daybreak, the advance column of the army began its march through the streets of Great Salt Lake City.

The soldiers, whose eyes had for so many months rested on desolation, looked down from the mouth of Emigration Canyon with a pleased surprise on all the goodly evidences of civilization about them. Houses, with blinking windows and comfortable porches; wide streets, flanked on either side with running streams of clear, cold, canyon water, over whose rippling surface drooped in graceful lines the native cottonwood, which had been dug from the neighboring canyon streams and planted along every water-course to furnish shade and rest for man and beast; commodious homes, barns, fences and outbuildings gave this unique city a look of mingled rural simplicity and urban attractiveness. The huge blocks were laid out in large lots, whereon sat with sturdy independence each snug house, its surrounding fruit and vegetable plantations fenced in with poles or cobbles, thus forming a generous combination of orchard and kitchen garden.

The soldiers were not more curious nor more deeply impressed with the queer appearance of this well-built yet deserted city than were the officers, who rode here and there inspecting their various divisions. Colonel St. George Cooke, who had been in service with the "Mormon" Battalion in Lower California, rode through the city with bared head and gloomy eye, as a silent evidence of a respect and sympathy which did his head no less honor than his heart.

One handsome, dark-eyed young officer looked about and rode from side to side of the silent streets, at last opening a gaping gate wide and riding within the yard, as if unable to restrain his curiosity. As he rode around to the back of the house, a door opened, and a man stood silently watching his approach.

"Well, my good fellow," patronizingly said the young blue-coated horseman, "can you tell me the meaning of the extraordinary appearance of this extraordinary city?"

"What's extraordinary?" asked the bearded man, leaning against the doorpost.

"Do you mean, what's the meaning of the word? or what's extraordinary about the town? You must know, my man, that it seems very strange – to use the simple terms suited to your capacity – to find all these good houses, barns and gardens empty and to find no living soul moving about. Not a woman or girl, not even a child or dog, to give active life to your rural scene. Where are your women and children? I have seen one or two men, but not a woman."

"Don't see a woman, hey?" and John Stevens looked about him with indifferent insolence; "well, I don't either."

"Can't you answer a civil question, my surly fellow? Where are your families?"

"They are out of your reach, scoundrel, as well as out of your sight! What are you going to do about it?"

"Oh, I'm not afraid; the women will find us out. They have a particular fondness for brass buttons, you know. I have no doubt that we shall find all the women we want, provided that you big strapping fellows have a few dozen over and above your own needs."

The sneering yet airy tones of this speech made John Stevens clinch his hands in silent yet mighty anger. But, under orders to maintain peace, he merely turned around and sauntered towards the barn, leaving his questioner to go or stay as he pleased.

"What in the name of mischief does this deadly quiet and desertion mean?" asked the same officer, as he rode out into the street and found his companions still streaming down the silent road.

"I have just heard the Colonel say that these people have followed their leader, old Brigham, down to the southern part of the Territory, and that they intend to emigrate to Mexico, or – who knows – to Brazil, maybe. They were determined to give us no excuse to kill them or to even administer the punishment they so richly deserve."

"Run away, have they? Well, that's cool. Here we've come out over the most forsaken country in all the United States; have passed the beastliest winter ever seen by soldiers, since Moscow, and yet when we are here ready to get in our work, behold the sacrifice has picked up his heels and fled ingloriously."

"Not even having the grace to leave us a scrubby ram caught in the thicket. Too bad, old fellow. What about all your plans for a modern seraglio? No doubt the women are kept under the closest surveillance, wherever they are."

"Oh, well, as I told a raw-boned fellow in the dooryard back there, if the women get a sight of us, they will follow us without our even going to the trouble to whistle for them. I have known the dear creatures all my life, don't you know?"

All day, the tramp, tramp of armed men, the rattle of heavy field-pieces, the jingle of swords and guns, the rumble of baggage wagons, with occasional bursts of music from the regimental bands – these were the only sounds heard through the tomb-like and deserted streets. So profound was the silence that, at intervals, between the passage of the columns, the slight monotonous gurgle of City Creek struck on every ear. The only living creatures to be seen was the group of men who stood around Governor Cumming on the Council House corner and waved a cheerful yet subdued salute to the troops, as they filed lustily by. Inside of many of these houses, no sign of inhabiting life remained; the furniture was piled in great heaps, with under portions of shavings and kindlings and straw, ready to be burned at a moment's notice; while in a few houses there were eager watching, silent men inside, who held flint and steel ready to apply to these crisp piles of shavings if ever the marching feet outside had stopped and attempted any desecration. Outside, everywhere, great piles of straw lay upon grass, garden and outbuildings; all ready for the instant torch of destruction.

All day, all day, the marching feet and wondering eyes passed through the desolate streets. There were no stops, no breaking of ranks, save here and there, where some daring soldier's hand would seize and pluck a fragrant bloom from a flaunting rose-bush, or a thirsty, dust-stained soldier would stoop, and making a cup of his hands, drink of the running, sparkling streams along the road. The divisions clanged heavily along with no rest to the steady, onward, measured march. The fragrant grass-grown streets were not more eloquent of a whole people's sorrowing desertion than were the sun-rotting barrels and buckets near the unused wells of water.

Forty miles to the south there awaited in the silent desert the spot where these journeying troops would halt in their march, and striking permanent camp, sojourn for a season. But the army would camp for the night on the dry plain across the river Jordan to the west of the City.

As the last company of soldiers filed past the western streets in the late summer evening, John Stevens warily closed his own and other doors in the neighborhood, and together with a party of scouts, he rode stealthily down to the army camp, made temporarily a couple of miles beyond the river Jordan. He watched in silent suspicion the whole night through, and when morning light found men and camp-followers astir, he, too, was on the alert, and at a safe distance he followed the long moving column for two days as it stretched from the banks of the river Jordan down through the narrow pass beside the treacherous stream's banks. On and on the marching lines flowed heavily down the southern road, past the northern edge of the lovely sheet of blue, clear water called Utah Lake; around and around this lake the road ran, past the northern shores of its clear blue glory; past the chain of canyon defiles which opened at last into the Cedar Valley, and down into the heart of that desert vale, where only the cricket and sage-brush gave evidence of animal or vegetable life. Here on the valley's one water course the army halted. They made their permanent quarters there and called their first Utah camp "Floyd," in honor of the Secretary of War.

Here, then, the army of the United States was quartered, with the approval of the great and distant heads of the Government, and the disapproval of the surrounding bands of half-hungry and half-frightened Ute and Pauvan Indians; with the grudged consent of General Albert Sidney Johnston, and the silent acquiescence, that armed truce, of the intrepid "Mormon" leader, Brigham Young.

As the last tent was set, and the whole machinery of camp life once more set in motion, Captain John Stevens found himself at liberty to ride, with his companions, into the southern rendezvous of his people, at Provo, and to make due report to his commanding officers. As he turned his face eastward and rode at the head of his company his relieved thoughts flew from those larger affairs of state to his personal affairs; and he wondered silently whether it were whim or affection which kept Charlie Rose's ring on the finger of Diantha Winthrop. If it were whim – well, eternity was very long; if it were affection —