Memoirs of John R. Young, Utah Pioneer, 1847

by John R. Young

Chapter 31.

Twenty-fourth of July Musings, Sent to President Joseph F. Smith.—Twenty-fourth of July Toast,—Utah—Thrilling Eruption of Kilauea.

Sitting 'neath the pines, in the cold mountain air,
Inhaling the inspiration of the chaplain's prayer;
Breathing the spirit of the orator's theme,
Memory sweeps backward o'er the troubled stream
Of my people's lives.

Wild, vivid scenes of frontier life burst like a meteor on the mind. I see the broad prairie lands of our dear Far West, with a hundred new-built, New England fashioned cottages. I hear the ring of the workman's ax, and the noisy laughter of many children,—the evidence of virtuous, happy homes. But the scene changes.

A cloud of dust rises on the horizon, and soon the tramping and neighing of a thousand horses is heard. And the cohorts of Clark's mob militia burst into view. They encircle the village, kindle their camp fires, and place their sentinels. Then commences a raid of pillage and rapine.

Homes are plundered, cows shot down, maidens insulted. Our leading Elders are treacherously arrested and driven at the point of the bayonet, with demoniac yells, into their camp. A court martial is convened. A sentence of death is passed upon the captives—"General Doniphan was to have the honor of shooting them at sunrise the next morning," for they, like the Hebrew children of old, must die for worshiping Israel's God. But when General Doniphan looked into the faces of those youthful, noble-looking men, his heart was touched, and the unjust, cruel sentence was never carried out.

Then followed a less severe, yet heart-rending scene. On the morrow, the prisoners were allowed to take a silent parting with their wives, children and parents; with the added solemn warning that they would never see them again. One clasp of the hand, and a tender look into the eyes of the loved ones, and they were torn away; and like murderous criminals, they were chained together, and driven to "Liberty." Not to Freedom, but to a dungeon, while their unprotected families were driven from their homes, to wander in the cold, biting blasts of winter.

While fleeing from the state of Missouri, among the fleeing exiles I see a woman of majestic appearance. Her firm step and compressed lips denote great will power; while the calm expression of the countenance evidences faith and trust in God. In her arms nestles a two weeks' old baby boy, born since the silent parting with her treacherously arrested husband. That woman was Mary Fielding Smith! That baby boy was our beloved president, Joseph Fielding Smith! Could we follow that mother and child, and their suffering companions, in their winter flight from Missouri to Illinois, and from Nauvoo to Salt Lake Valley; through the perils of mob violence—the burning of homes, the exposure to pitiless storms, the crossing of mighty rivers on treacherous ice, the traversing of unexplored deserts without guides, the bridging of long periods with little food—it would make a story of sacrifice and suffering, of perseverance, and thrilling adventure unparalleled in the history of civilized life.

All these trials our fathers and mothers passed heroically through, marking the pioneer trail with the unlettered graves of their bravest and dearest loved ones. The hands that first scourged them never left their trail, nor ceased applying the fire-brand to their homes and the lash to their naked backs, until the hunted fugitives, with a courage born of despair, (yet mixed with unyielding faith), crossed the Mississippi and plunged fearlessly into the unknown west. And as the hunted deer, with beating heart, flees long after the hounds have given up the chase, so these nationally banished exiles followed their intrepid leaders on, on, and still on, until the glistening sands of the "inland sea" greeted them. Oh, how they loved the rugged mountains, and the deep chasm-scarred canyons that surrounded them, and shielded them from their foes! No mobbings, no house burnings, no tar and feathering here; but peace and freedom, blessed freedom.

Salt Lake City, Utah,
July 31, 1918.

Elder John R. Young, Blanding, Utah. My Dear Brother John: It was with a great deal of pleasure that I read your letter which was written from Blanding on the 4th of the present month and reached me on the 11th, and which contained so many reminiscences of our earlier days and recalled old memories and scenes of my childhood and early youth.

I did not attempt to make any answer to your letter before this because I have been for a long time under the weather and have neglected a great many matters which did not require immediate attention. While I have been confined to a very great extent to my room, I have had a great deal of time to devote to reflection and musing over earlier scenes and missionary experiences of my younger days. Your letter brought back very vividly the days of our missionary labors in the islands, where I was sent when only a boy, inexperienced in many things, and yet, through force of circumstances caused by the loss of both father and mother whose counsels I very sorely needed, with a training beyond my years caused by contact with hard necessity in those early pioneer days in a new country where but a few years before scarcely a white man had placed his foot. I recalled my travels across the desert and our journeyings to southern California and from there up to San Francisco; the dangers through which we passed because of hostile bands of Indians; laboring in California in order to get means to make the passage over the ocean to the appointed field of labor and the difficulties encountered after arriving there. I recalled the promises made to me by Brother Parley P. Pratt that I should receive the knowledge of the native language by the gift of God, and how it was fulfilled. I thought of the arrival of our boat and when the natives surrounded us as they came out in the harbor talking what appeared to me as an unintelligible gibberish, how it would be possible for me, or any one else, to learn to speak such a language and preach the Gospel to them in such a tongue. But the Lord blessed me and it was not many days before I was able to converse in the Hawaiian language and preach in my missionary journeyings among that dark, benighted but kind hearted people. I recalled not only the companionship of my friends, John R. Young, Silas Smith, my kinsman, Smith B. Thurston, Washington B. Rodgers, William W. Cluff, Francis A. Hammond and many others, but the many dark skinned natives whose friendship and brotherly love could not be surpassed. How my love went out to them! For are they not also the children of God, and of the seed of Abraham with a right to the promises made by the Lord to Israel? And did they not prove to us their worthiness and integrity even though they had not been taught and trained as we and were filled with the superstitions of their people which had come down for many generations.

And farther back to the days of my childhood in these valleys, my reflections carried me, to the time when as a herd boy I tended my mother's cows and those of others in this Salt Lake Valley where many prosperous farms are now located, to my early school days which were sadly limited because of necessity and then my early departure for the Islands of the Sea.

Yet farther back I went in my wandering to the days of Nauvoo where for so short a time the Saints were happy and I played, amused myself in the home of the Prophet and with his sons as well as in my father's house. Well do I remember the return of my father with the Prophet after they had crossed the river and had started on their journey west, because the false cry was raised that they were deserting the flock and how they went to Carthage never again to return in mortal life, cut down because of the testimony of Jesus in the prime of life and sealing their testimonies with their blood. Then followed the feverish days in which the Saints continued the labor on the Nauvoo Temple until it was complete and endowments were given therein and the wicked expulsion of thousands of innocent people from their homes. I recall the departure of the first companies over the frozen river on the ice in the depths of winter and how, shortly afterwards my mother and her family were forced also to take their departure in poverty and wend their way westward with the rest. My Brother John had gone at an earlier day and we overtook him on the journey. Then came the struggle on the banks of the Mississippi where we tried to save means to continue the journey to the valleys of the mountains and my employment as herdboy while we there sojourned. It was here that I had one of the most thrilling and exciting adventures of my life when the Indians made a raid on our cattle and, although but a child, I remember how the thought came to me that if our cattle were taken our journey to the Salt Lake Valley could not be taken. With more than human effort—for I know the Lord was with me—I turned the cattle and started them for home where they escaped although I was taken captive by the savage redmen, but considered so insignificant that they dropped me on the ground where I was left to survive or perish as chance it may and the horse on which I rode was stolen. Then came the journeying across the plains and after many difficulties the arrival in the valley—the promised land—where we were promised rest at least from enemies thirsting for our blood. We moved out on the Mill Creek and started to farm, but before many years had passed away my beloved mother was called home and I was sent out when but fifteen years of age to perform a man's duty in the world—a duty that was not, however, new to me—for had I not done the like when we crossed the plains?

All these thoughts and a thousand more have coursed through my mind, and I have reflected on many scenes of the days of Missouri, when I was too young to remember the persecutions of the Saints, and on scenes of more recent years, not all of which have been sad, for there have been many bright days in the years that have followed and companionships that have been formed that shall be everlasting. And I remember my old friends, many of whom are now laboring in the great beyond and a few who are still left and scattered throughout Zion. And among these friends I recall my beloved brother and true friend John R. Young. May his days be increased and made happy in his declining years, and may we all meet in the Kingdom of our God when our work is done, there to dwell in joy and happiness forever. This is the prayer of your friend and brother, who greets you in love and remembrance of former days. Respectfully yours, JOSEPH F. SMITH

IN MEMORY OF PRESIDENT JOSEPH F. SMITH.

By John R. Young.

I thank the Mutual Improvement Association of Blanding for the invitation to speak a few words in memory of my boyhood's friend, Joseph F. Smith. I shall not attempt to speak of the activities of his matured life, his splendid manhood and noble, spotless character. It has been well told by his bosom friend, Bishop Charles W. Nibley.

It was my lot, however, to know Joseph in his boyhood. I was with him on his first mission in 1854. We were numbered with the twenty young Elders called to the Sandwich Islands. Joseph was the youngest, (when called he was in his fifteenth year) of the company, but of the thirty men who crossed the desert to southern California together, there were but five who were believed to be his equals in athletic exercises.

As I am limited to time, I shall speak only of the most marked events, delineating his character when a boy. Upon reaching San Francisco, President Parley P. Pratt gave Joseph, William W. Cluff and myself a mission to tract the city. At the close of the first day's tracting Joseph asked to be released. He said, "I can not offer a Book of Mormon without having to listen to a burst of blasphemy and a tirade of falsehood and abuse to my Uncle Joseph, and I cannot be peaceable and hear it." He was released from tracting.

At that time he was lodging at the home of his Aunt Agnes. She was the wife of his Uncle Don Carlos Smith, who died at Nauvoo. After his death she married a man by the name of William Pickett, a man whose heart was full of bitterness toward President Brigham Young and the Utah Mormons, and he seemed to delight in slurring them to annoy Joseph. Pickett's home was on a sandy hillside. One day a man came with a load of wood. In passing through the gate the hind wheels slid down so the hub struck the gate post. Mr. Pickett asked Joseph and the teamster to lift the upper wheel, while he would lift the lower one and slough the wagon back. The upper wheel was lifted, but the lower one was too heavy. Joseph proposed that he try the lower one. Pickett replied, "Young man, if you think you are a better man than I, take hold, and maybe you'll learn something." The wagon passed in, and when the man had unloaded and was gone, Joseph faced his uncle and said, "Uncle, you seem to enjoy making slurring remarks about Brigham Young and the Utah Mormons. I wish you would not do so any more in my presence, and Mr. Pickett remembered the request.

After working two months in the harvest field to earn his passage money, Joseph with other elders, sailed steerage passage, on the bark Yankee, for the islands. As soon as the ship was clear from the wharf, the passengers were lined up on the deck and their names read off to see if there were any stowaways. When the purser called, "Joseph Smith" the captain asked, "Any relation to old Joe Smith?" "No, sir," was the prompt answer, "I never had a relative by that name; but if you had reference to the Prophet Joseph Smith, I am proud to say, he was my uncle." "Oh, I see," said the captain, and he did see a man who had the nerve and manhood to demand that proper respect be shown to the name of the Prophet, whom he loved and honored.

Within one hundred days after landing on the islands, he was preaching the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ in the Hawaiian language. After six months' labor on Maui, he was called to be the President of the Molokai Island Conference. Here he made the acquaintance and won the friendship of a wealthy gentleman by the name of Meyers. Stopping, by invitation, a few days with him, he met Jules Remy, a French savant and author, who was making a circuit of the world. With six companions he visited the wild wonderland of Molokai, the Reverend Mr. Dwight, Presbyterian pastor of the islands, acting as guide and interpreter. While all were seated around the supper table, Mr. Remy asked Joseph if the report was true "that the Mormon people were in rebellion against the United States?" Before Joseph could reply, the parson chipped in, "Yes, Brigham Young has always been a traitor, and now he has not only rebelled, but he has ordered his people to massacre all the Gentiles in the Territory. Already they have murdered over a hundred innocent men, women and children at a place called Mountain Meadows." Joseph sprang from his chair, and seizing Mr. Dwight by his collar, lifted him to his feet and said, "Brigham Young is not a traitor, the Mormon people are not in rebellion, but you are a liar, and you will take back what you have said, or I will drive your teeth down your throat." Mr. Remy acted the man and came to Joseph's assistance by affirming the question was to Mr. Smith, and that Mr. Dwight was out of place, and that he should apologize, which he did, and from that time on there was at least one Mormon elder that Mr. Dwight treated with respect.

In relating these incidents where Joseph resented insults and untruthful accusations, I do not want any one to infer that he was of a quarrelsome disposition, for he was not. In all of my acquaintance with him, I never knew him to be the aggressor nor to be tantalizing in the least degree, but he was plain and positive. To me, from a boy, he lived in harmony with the Spirit of God, and I have good reason for believing that his father and his Uncle Joseph watched over him continuously, and when Joseph was nigh to death with typhoid fever at President Hammond's on the island of Maui, I feel sure that those two exalted brothers, walking hand in hand, visited and ministered unto him, whereby his life was preserved and he was enabled to complete his earth life mission, leaving on record a testimony of one of the purest lives ever lived by man.

Bishop Nibley told of a railroad incident where Joseph, by listening to an invincible warning, was kept out of danger. I want to recall the scene at Lahaina. In 1864 Apostles Ezra T. Benson, Lorenzo Snow, and Elders Joseph F. Smith, William W. Cluff and Alma L. Smith were sent to the islands to put a stop to Walter M. Gibson's mischief making among the Hawaiian Saints. When the ship reached Lahaina, (an unsafe harbor) the incoming wave swells were so heavy that the ship had to anchor nearly a mile from the land. In going ashore the captain invited the elders to ride with him in his boat, but Joseph declined, he was so strongly impressed with a feeling of danger that he pleaded with his brethren to wait until the native boats should come; but the brethren were anxious to be ashore and went. The result, the boat was capsized and Apostle Snow was drowned, and it was a miracle that he was resuscitated and his life saved.

In the early days of the Hawaiian mission our elders met with much opposition and with several severe mobbings. At one time in Honolulu, a crowd of ruffians mobbed the aged President, Philip B. Lewis. The harmless old man was knocked down and dragged by the heels, his head bumping on the cobble rock pavement until the ruffians thought he was dead; then they flung him into the gutter, while they went to a saloon to celebrate the achievement. A carpenter, a new convert to the faith by the name of Burnham, from the roof of a house that he was shingling, saw the last brutal act of the mob and gave the leader a severe thrashing. He whipped the brute so thoroughly that it put an end to the mobbing in Honolulu. The manly fight put up by Burnham endeared him to us, and when we returned to the islands in 1864 we found that Brother Burnham had died leaving the family, (Sister Burnham and three children) in poverty, homeless. After the Apostles had cut Mr. Gibson off the Church, Joseph was appointed President of the mission. With the assistance of Elders William W. Cluff, Alma L. Smith, Benjamin Cluff and John R. Young, all the islands were visited and the branches reorganized; then Joseph F. Smith, William W. Cluff and John R. Young were released to return home. At that time it cost $108.00 for a ticket from San Francisco to Salt Lake. President Young sent the money necessary to pay our passage home, but Joseph said, "I will not go and leave Sister Burnham. It was finally decided to go the southern route as our money would take us to San Bernardino; from there we could in all probability, work our way home as teamsters, while Sister Burnham could find a home with the Saints of that place.

For a change we sailed for home cabin passage. Upon arrival at San Francisco we found a telegram awaiting Joseph, requesting him to come home as soon as possible. Bear in mind Joseph was an elder, and a financially poor one at that, as his whole life had been in the mission field and he was the last man on earth to ask for help. What could we do? In council it was thought best for Joseph and William to go by stage, while I with the Burnham family would go by San Bernardino. And now comes the tempter. There were living in San Francisco quite a number of relatives by marriage to the Smith family, and some of them were wealthy. They held a family reunion and invited Joseph to attend. He asked me to accompany him, which I did. We met them at Mr.—'s; some twenty all told; six or eight strong, healthy looking men. A few stories were told, then the conversation drifted into personal experiences and present home conditions. They pitied Joseph and offered to deed him a good home if he would cut loose from the "Utah Mormons" and stay with them, his true friends. He declined, and said if they would excuse him he would bid them good night. All rose up, and then the storm broke. Their spokesman said in substance, "Joseph, we are disappointed in you; we thought you were a Smith, but any man who will come and go at the command of Brigham Young, the man who connived at the murder of your father and Uncle Joseph, has not a drop of Smith's blood in his veins." Joseph: "Do I understand you to say that Brigham Young connived at the murder of the Prophet Joseph Smith?" "Yes, and I can prove the assertion." Then there leaped from Joseph's lips the strongest expression that ever I heard come from them. "You are a damned infernal liar! Joseph Smith never had a truer friend than Brigham Young." To me, how grand he looked. He seemed to expand until he towered head and shoulders above his opponents. While their faces scowled with anger, yet like the tempest tossed waves of the ocean, whose fury had been spent at the foot of the boulder, they recede, leaving the beach cleaner and whiter than before the storm.

How I loved that man's manliness; he not a Smith? The very tension of the rigid muscles proclaimed him the embodiment of the chivalrous Macks and Smiths.

Over forty years ago, while laboring as a missionary in the London Conference, I wrote in my journal:

I knew Joseph F. Smith in life's rosy morn,
When herding cows and hoeing corn;
And though he worked early and late,
Yet he never murmured at his fate,
But smiled to think that his strong arm
Brought wheat and corn to his mother's barn.

His first mark made I remember well;
'Twas when he flogged Philander Bell.
A champion then, for innocence and youth,
As he is now for liberty and truth.
If plain his speech, and strong in boyish strife,
I doubt if he could mend the history of his life.

The years of trial on Hawaii's land
Were more than wiser heads would stand.
Poi, paakia, poverty and shame
Were all endured for the blessed Savior's name.
The crime and faith, and ulcerated sores
Opened to view, bleeding at every pore,
Tried the metal, proved one's pride.
Then was the day of choosing sides.
Then was the hour to begin, and he
Pulled off his coat and waded in.

We need not urge him to improve,
He seeks, as Joseph did, light from above,
And God has given strength to Hyrum's son,
Speeding him on the race so well begun;
For unto him a charge is truly given
To lead erring men from sin to heaven;
To realms of glory, where truth divine
Enlightens life with joy sublime.
But I will leave to pens abler than mine
To paint the beauties of that heavenly clime.

I choose to feast on more substantial food.
One to be great, must first be truly good.
The precious clouds that bless our vales with rain
Descend from lofty peaks and kiss the plains,
So God, Himself, in plainness said to man,
"Blessed are the meek," 'T am the great I Am,"
And while His voice echoed from Sinai's peak,
He talked with Moses, the meekest of the meek.
Then look to Christ, and note the keywords given
To lead men back to God and Heaven.

Brother nobly and well thou hast begun,
Now hold the fort until the victory's won,
And when the smoke and din of war is past
Your works and name on history's page shall last.

And I feel in all my being that Joseph F. Smith held the fort and won the victory, giving him a seat with his Prophet Uncle and his martyred father in the mansions of our Heavenly Father.

TWENTY-FOURTH OF JULY TOAST—"UTAH."

O Utah, thou Switzerland of America,
The home of many a Tell,
For freedom's fires are burning bright,
In all thy mountain dells.
Thou art the cradle, and the home
Of freedom's struggling child;
For here beneath thy mountain domes,
Within thy canyons wild,
A band of fleeing exiles
Found first a "resting place"
From persecution's bitter blast,
That smote them in the face.

And Utah's pioneers who fled
From Missouri's wrath and flames—
Whose unshod feet so often bled,
While creeping o'er the plains—
Are grateful for the noble men
Who stand as "beacon lights,"
Who "sink or swim, in life or death;"
Stand up for equal rights.
We love our country—north and south,
Her plains, and mountain sod,
We stand for "Freedom of the soul,"
"Our country and our God."

KILAUEA ON THE WAR PATH.

In 1856 and '57, I was laboring as a missionary on the island of Hawaii, and during that time the volcano of Kilauea gave us an exhibition on a stupendous scale. In company with Elder Henry P. Richards, I went through the forest several miles and met the stream of lava that was running down the mountain, threatening to destroy the town of Hilo. Here is an extract from my journal:

We paused to contemplate the sublimity of this vivid scene. It was one calculated to interest the naturalist, and to please the eye of the poet. The wonderful imagination of a Milton, or the great genius of a Byron could here find a theme on which their minds could feast.

The lava had burst forth from its prison cell, in the bowels of the earth, on the south side of the mountain, some thirty miles above the town of Hilo, which is situated at the head of a beautiful bay bearing the name of Byron. The close approximation of the town to the mountain rendered destruction almost certain. The mountain was covered with a dense growth of timber, and as the mighty stream of running lava drew near, the forest seemed to catch an electric spark, and in the twinkling of an eye, one sheet of flame burst forth, reaching from Pueo to Puna, about three miles in width. The startled Kanaka fled for his life, leaving his grass thatched home to the devastating fire.

I stood, with my companion, upon a craggy peak overlooking the waters of Waikahalulu. Below us was a beautiful cascade, and over this the lava swept with astonishing rapidity. Oh, it was a grand sight—the burning of the forest, the crackling and falling of the trees, the rushing of the lava, the hissing and spouting of the water, the clouds of steam and vapor, mingled with the shrieks and shouts of the natives!

I saw a man in his frenzy try to leap a boiling stream; his foot slipped, and he fell. A cloud of vapor hid him from view, but an agonizing shriek told too well his fate.

Our native guide refused to stay longer with us, but the increasing danger added to our excited fascination, and we declined to retreat. At this moment, the wind shifted, and a strong breeze from the south lifted the banks of smoke and steam, giving us a fair view of the town that nestled so lovingly on the green lawn at our feet.

We could see groups of people laden with what they could carry, hurrying from their homes to places of greater safety. A few ships were anchored in the bay, and between them and the shore, small boats were rapidly plying, evidently carrying the wealthier citizens to these prepared places of safety.

While viewing this romantic picture, a low rumbling was heard. It grew louder and louder until it seemed the heavens were rent in twain, and the ground reeled and tottered beneath our feet. We fell prostrate to the earth, and held our breath, through fear. A thick cloud of vapor, or hot steam, swept over us, followed by the pattering sound of falling stones hurled from the crater by the power of her convulsive throes, but returning to the earth in obedience to the law of gravity.

This shock had hardly passed, when the rain began to fall in torrents, but the flow of the volcano had spent its force. The fiery waves rolled back as if sorry for the destruction they had done, retaining for a moment their red glaring frown, then changed to a black, barren, chasm-scarred waste. Hilo was saved.

Then there leaped forth, from man and maid,
A song of joy and mirth;
The most sedate could not be stayed.
From thrilling notes of worth.
It was a song of gratitude for home and lives preserved,
No sweeter gush of sympathy, by man was ever heard.