Chapter 28.
In Memory of My Wife, Albina.—"By Their Fruits Ye Shall Know Them."
In 1858, when I was returning from my first mission to the Sandwich Islands, I met in San Francisco, Lorenzo Sawyer, the attorney-general of the state of California. He was my cousin on my mother's side. At that time the Mormon people were under a cloud of displeasure from the people and government of the United States. Acting upon misrepresentation, and without investigation, President Buchanan had sent an army of two thousand five hundred men under General Albert S. Johnston, to put down the alleged Mormon rebellion in Utah, as already narrated elsewhere in this journal. My cousin, seemingly wishing to snatch me from the doom overshadowing my people, made me this offer:
"If you will stay here, I will put you into the best school in the state of California for three years, then take you into the office with me, a year, and let you study law. Then I will give you a thousand dollars in gold, for you to commence life with."
That was the most liberal offer that ever came to me. I desired an education, but I loved my people more than I loved myself. I said to my cousin, "You do not know the Mormon people. You believe them rebellious and disloyal to our government. It is not so. The reports put in circulation against them are false. I thank you for your kind offer, but decline it."
I returned to Utah, and on the 23rd day of June my cousin Brigham drove me in a one-horse buggy from Provo to Salt Lake City. At Draper I received the kiss of welcome from my dear mother, and my sister Harriet. At the city I found my father, waiting like "a lion in his lair," and ready to apply the torch to his home if the army did not keep its promise to not camp within the limits of our city." At that time father's families had been moved to Spring Creek, seventy-five miles south of the city. As soon as peace was declared, I engaged actively in moving them back to their homes. When that was accomplished. I told father of the offer my cousin made, and said I am now going back to California to get an education.
The next morning, while I was passing the Church office, Uncle Brigham beckoned to me,—then came out and walked with me to Brother Wells' corner. Here we sat down on a pile of lumber, and after I had told him of my plans, he was silent a moment, then asked,
"Johnny, did you ever know me to give unwise counsel?" "Never." "Well, I want to give you a little counsel. Don't you go to California. Don't you study law. Look around, find a good girl, get married and make yourself a home.
Without another word he returned to his office and the brightest dream of my life had been swept away. What should I do? I sat a few minutes as if dazed, then sprang to my feet, saying, "I will accept counsel, let it lead me where it will."
A little later I met my Uncle Joseph. He said, "Johnny, Bishop Stewart wants you to go to Draper and talk to the young folks. Will you go?"
"Yes, when does he want me."
"Next Monday night."
"I will be there."
The schoolhouse was packed full that night. I had commenced talking, when a lady came in and was given a seat in front of the stand. Our eyes met, and I heard a voice say, "That is your wife." After meeting she was introduced to me as Miss Albina Terry. From that hour our life stream began flowing in one channel, but not to anticipate, I will let Albina tell her side of our love story. After we were engaged she confided to me:
"I had been unfortunate and unhappy in my first loves, and it had left me with a bleeding heart. I tried to forget, but could not. My health failed, until my parents became alarmed at my condition. One day in a heart to heart talk, my mother said, 'My daughter, if you will go to the Lord with your sorrows, he will comfort you.' I accepted her counsel. With fasting and prayer I asked the Father for help, and He graciously answered my pleadings. In a dream I saw a rosy-cheeked laughing boy, and a Person said, 'See, your husband.'
"I told my mother the dream; my hope revived, and my health became better. I waited and watched. Suitors came, but I shunned them. Three years had passed, and I was still at home. Johnston's army was coming, and all of our people from Salt Lake City northward, had fled to the south. Our home being only a few rods back from the road, we saw thousands of people pass southward until the stream was exhausted. One day as I sat weaving, my face to the street, a one-horse buggy with two men in it, drove by. The one on the side nearest us turned his face toward me and laughed. Instantly I cried, 'Oh, mother! That is my husband. Who are they?' I came to the meeting, and when I saw you, I knew you. I felt confused, yet a thrill of joy came to me. At the close of the meeting, I sought your sister and went home with her, for I knew you would be there."
On New Year's day we were married—and a blessing had come to me. She was industrious and saving as a housekeeper; she was also a wise counselor, and a loyal wife. As my family became enlarged, I adopted the plan of buying my family supplies by wholesale.
While we were living in Long Valley, I was a farmer, and also a saw-mill man. In the fall I would load my teams with lumber and grain and go to the Washington factory seventy-five miles away, buy my supplies, take them home, and give them to Albina, for I knew that she would divide them justly with every other member of the family. She was big hearted enough to sympathize with the other wives, and if trouble occurred in the family she always took their parts, yet so wisely and soothingly, that she always kept my love and confidence. By nature, I was of a quick, irritable disposition, and her firm calmness was a great help to me. It served as a balance wheel to keep me from flying to pieces. And her life had deeper roots than love for her husband, as the following incident illustrates:
In St. George, in 1864, I had two wives; for four years we had lived in tents and wagon beds, owing to deprivations, resulting from extended missionary labors. I had succeeded in getting up a one-roomed house which I was shingling, when the postman in passing, handed Albina a letter, remarking, "I think Brother Young is called on a mission again." I exclaimed, "I will be if I will go." "O father, don't say that," said my first wife. "You don't want to humiliate us. Think how we would feel if you should refuse to respond to a mission call." Thus did she ever encourage me to be loyal to my duty to the nation and the Church. The following incident, also touched upon elsewhere, illustrates her power of faith:
In 1868, returning from a visit to the Moqui Indians, forty-seven men in our company, we crossed the Colorado river on a raft made of flood-wood. I had charge of the rude ferry. We made five trips, which occupied the entire day; most of the time my feet were in the cold river water, while my body was perspiring with the exertions I had to make. That night I was attacked with cramping colic and suffered fearfully. In the morning, being out of food, we had to move on. Keeping in the saddle gave me great pain. At Kanab the boys found the old cast-away running gears of a wagon. They made a harness out of ropes, and lashing two poles on the running gears, they swung me in a hammock between them, and hauled me to Washington to my house. John Mangum was my driver and nurse, and he was careful and tender to relieve my pain. He gave me in all twenty-two pills and a pint of castor oil, and I carried that load in my stomach nine days.
As soon as we reached Washington, Doctors Israel Ivins and Silas G. Higgins were summoned from St. George. They came and worked five days with me, then gave me up. Bishop Covington came, and "sealed me up unto death," that my sufferings might cease. He kindly offered to watch during the night, but Albina excused him.
As soon as he was gone, my wife sent for Brother Tyler, a humble ward teacher. She next persuaded the family to get a little rest, then sitting by my side, poured out her soul to the Lord, until Brother Tyler's heart was touched; and kneeling by my bed, he too pleaded with the Father to spare me.
While he prayed, I awoke as from a sleep. I saw the two kneeling; I listened to their pleadings, and wondered what it meant. I placed my hand on Albina's head, when she looked up and sprang to her feet crying, "He is saved! He is saved!"
In the morning I dressed, and as the bishop came by, I hailed him, took a seat by his side, and rode in a lumber wagon over to St. George to attend the quarterly conference.
To me, it has ever seemed the womanly strength of character and faith of Albina that saved me.
Albina died on the 8th of January, 1913. From her birth to her grave, she was a pioneer. She drove a yoke of oxen from the Missouri river to Salt Lake City. One of her sons, in learning of her death, wrote:
"The hand is still that bore the whip, across the dreary plain,
Heeding neither wind nor dust, nor driving mountain rain;
Trusting in a hope divine that ever bore her up,
Tasting alike the joy of toil, and of its bitter cup.
And thus through life she journeyed on, bravely to the end,
And all along her thorny trail, were those who called her friend."
