In assisting widows and others who required help, my father's time was so occupied that we did not start until the morning of the 10th, and last day of the allotted grace. The weather was very cold and the ground covered with snow. After assisting in the arrangements for the journey, and shivering with cold, in order to warm my aching feet, I walked until the teams overtook me. In the mean time, I met one of the so-called militia, who accosted me with, "Well, I think this will cure you of your faith!" Looking him steadily in the eye, I replied, "No, sir; it will take more than this to cure me of my faith." His countenance suddenly fell, and he responded, "I must confess, you are a better soldier than I am." I passed on, thinking that, unless he was above the average of his fellows in that section, I was not highly complimented by his confession. It is true our hardships and privations were sufficient to have disheartened any but the saints of the living God—those who were prompted by higher than earthly motives, and trusting in the arm of Jehovah.
We were two days on our way to Far West, and stopped over night at what was called the Half-way House, a log building perhaps twenty feet square, with the chinkings between the logs, minus—they probably having been burned for firewood—the owner of the house, Brother Littlefield, having left with his family to escape being robbed; and the north wind had free ingress through the openings, wide enough for cats to crawl through. This had been the lodging place of the hundreds who had preceded us, and on the present occasion proved the almost shelterless shelter of seventy-five or eighty souls. To say lodging, would be a hoax, although places were allotted to a few aged and feeble, to lie down, while the rest of us either sat or stood, or both, all night. My sister and I managed so that mother lay down, and we sat by (on the floor, of course), to prevent her being trampled on, for the crowd was such that people were hardly responsible for their movements.
It was past the middle of December, and the cold was so intense that, in spite of well packing, our food was frozen hard, bread and all, and although a blazing fire was burning on one side of the room, we could not get to it to thaw our suppers, and had to resort to the next expediency, which was this: The boys milked, and while one strained the milk, another held the pan (for there was no chance for putting anything down); then, while one held a bowl of the warm milk, another would, as expeditiously as possible, thinly slice the frozen bread into it, and thus we managed for supper. In the morning, we were less crowded, as some started very early, and we toasted our bread and thawed our meat before the fire. But, withal, that was a very merry night. None but saints can be happy under every circumstance. About twenty feet from the house was a shed, in the centre of which the brethren built a roaring fire, around which some of them stood and sang songs and hymns all night, while others parched corn and roasted frosted potatoes, etc. Not a complaint was heard—all were cheerful, and judging from appearances, strangers would have taken us to be pleasure excursionists rather than a band of gubernatorial exiles.
After the mobbing commenced, although my father had purchased, and had on hand, plenty of wheat, he could get none ground, and we were under the necessity of grating corn for our bread on graters made of tin-pails and stove-pipe. I will here insert a few extracts from a long poem I wrote while in Davies county, as follows:
'Twas autumn—Summer's melting breath was gone,
And Winter's gelid blast was stealing on;
To meet its dread approach, with anxious care
The houseless saints were struggling to prepare;
When round about a desperate mob arose,
Like tigers waking from a night's repose;
They came like hordes from nether shades let loose—
Men without hearts, just fit for Satan's use!
With wild, demoniac rage they sallied forth,
Resolved to drive the saints of God from earth.
Hemm'd in by foes—deprived the use of mill,
Necessity inspires their patient skill;
Tin-pails and stove-pipe, from their service torn,
Are changed to graters to prepare the corn,
That Nature's wants may barely be supplied—
They ask no treat, no luxury beside.
But, where their shelter? Winter hastens fast;
Can tents and wagons stem this northern blast?
The scene presented in the city of Far West, as we stopped over night on our way to our temporary location, was too important to be omitted, and too sad to narrate. Joseph Smith, and many other prominent men, had been dragged to prison. Their families, having been plundered, were nearly or quite destitute—some living on parched corn, others on boiled wheat; and desolation seemed inscribed on everything but the hearts of the faithful saints. In the midst of affliction, they trusted in God.
After spending the remainder of the winter in the vicinity of Far West, on the 5th of March, 1839, leaving much of our property behind, we started for Illinois.
From the commencement of hostilities against us, in the State of Missouri, till our expulsion, no sympathy in our behalf was ever, to my knowledge, expressed by any of the former citizens, with one single exception, and that was so strikingly in contrast with the morbid state of feeling generally manifested that it made a deep impression on my mind, and I think it worthy of record. I will here relate the circumstance. It occurred on our outward journey.
After a night of rain which turned to snow and covered the ground in the morning, we thawed our tent, which was stiffly frozen, by holding and turning it alternately before a blazing fire until it could be folded for packing; and, all things put in order, while we all shook with the cold, we started on. As the sun mounted upwards, the snow melted, and increased the depth of the mud with which the road before us had been amply stocked, and rendered travel almost impossible. The teams were puffing, and the wagons dragging so heavily that we were all on foot, tugging along as best we could, when an elderly gentleman, on horseback, overtook us, and, after riding alongside for some time, apparently absorbed in deep thought, as he (after inquiring who we were) watched the women and girls, men and boys, teams and wagons, slowly wending our way up a long hill, en route from our only earthly homes, and, not knowing where we should find one, he said emphatically, "If I were in your places, I should want the Governor of the State hitched at the head of my teams." I afterwards remarked to my father that I had not heard as sensible a speech from a stranger since entering the State. I never saw that gentleman afterwards, but have from that time cherished a filial respect for him, and fancy I see his resemblance in the portrait of Sir Von Humboldt, now hanging on the wall before me.
We arrived in Quincy, Ill., where many of the exiled saints had preceded us, and all were received with generous hospitality.