It was Friday morning when the party stopped at their destination, and Lee was immediately ordered to descend from the waggon in which he rode, which he did without delay.
Marshal Nelson then read the orders of the court regarding the execution, and when the reading was concluded, Lee was asked if he had anything to say. Just at this moment the photographer was arranging his camera to take a picture of the prisoner. Lee caught sight of him, and pointing to him said, “I want to see that man,” and added in a louder voice, addressed to the photographer, “Come over here.”
Mr. Fennimore, the artist, replied, “In a second, Mr. Lee,” and very soon after was by the side of Lee, who said,—
“I want to ask a favour of you, sir; I want you to furnish each of my three wives with a copy of the photograph—one to Rachel A., Emma B., and Sarah C.”
He had had in all eighteen wives; but only the three named remained. Rachel was the oldest and most faithful to his interests.
The artist consented to do as he had been requested, and Lee then sat for his picture, which was successfully taken. Then he arose and, looking over those standing about, said,—
“I have but little to say this morning. Of course, I feel that I am upon the brink of eternity, and the solemnity of eternity should rest upon my mind at the present moment. I have made out, or endeavoured to do so, a manuscript and an abridged history of my life. This will be published. Sir, [turning to District Attorney Howard] I have given my views and feelings with regard to all these things. I feel resigned to my fate. I feel as calm as a summer morning. I have done nothing adversely wrong. My conscience is clear before God and man, and I am ready to meet my Redeemer. This it is that places me on this field. I am not an infidel; I have not denied God or His mercy. I am a strong believer in these things. The most I regret is parting with my family. Many of them are unprotected, and will be left fatherless. When I speak of those little ones, they touch a tender chord within me.”
At this moment his voice trembled, and he perceptibly faltered in his words. He continued, however, as follows:—
“I have done nothing designedly wrong in this affair. I used my utmost endeavours to save those people. I would have given worlds were they at my command to have avoided that calamity, but I could not. I am sacrificed to satisfy feelings, and am used to gratify parties; but I am ready to die. I have no fear of death. It has no terrors for me; and no particle of mercy have I asked for from court or officials to spare my life. I do not fear death. I shall never go to a worse place than the one I am now in. I have said it to my family, and I will say it to-day, that the Government of the United States sacrifices their best friend, and that is saying a great deal; but it is true. I am a true believer in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I do not believe everything that is now practised and taught by Brigham Young. I do not agree with him. I believe he is leading his people astray. But I believe in the gospel as taught in its purity by Joseph Smith in former days. I have my reasons for saying this. I used to make this man’s will my pleasure (evidently alluding to Brigham Young), and did so for thirty years. See how and what I have come to this day! I have been sacrificed in a cowardly, dastardly manner. There are thousands of people in the Church—honourable, good-hearted—whom I cherish in my heart. I regret to leave my family. They are near and dear to me. These are things to rouse my sympathy. I declare I did nothing designedly wrong in this unfortunate affair. I did everything in my power to save all emigrants, but I am the one that must suffer. Having said this I feel resigned. I ask the Lord, my God, to extend His mercy to me and receive my spirit. My labours are here done.”
This ceremony, altogether, had occupied about an hour, and it was now close upon eleven o’clock. The sun, which had been fitfully bright during the morning, had become veiled behind a passing cloud, yet the sky was only partially overcast, as down the horizon were bright streaks of golden light; and the effect of light and shadow, as portrayed upon the scene, soon to culminate in the execution of the law, was one that seemed to be in full harmony with the painful silence that prevailed. Then it was that the words upon the rude monument, which once had stood to mark the spot of the massacre, came out with vivid force—