"To your tents, O Israel!"
What a picture of quiet despair melting into calm resignation those spring months presented! In April there had begun that wondrous move into the unknown which had been the inspiration and yet the dread of President Brigham Young. Only a patriot such as he could appreciate the love of home and country which had forced this people ten years before into a trackless wilderness; no one but a patriot could guess what these new sacrifices must mean to the hunted and driven people. Ten years of peace! Ten years of hardest labor ever performed by any people, at any period; and now to start out into the wilderness again! Who could tell the suffering, the anguish of a people whose hearthstones were their altars, and whose religion was a home!
As the wagon driven by Aunt Clara's own delicate hands turned into the State Road on the morning of the 12th of May, 1858, she saw a long, straggling trail of wagons ahead of her; old and weather-worn most of them were, having crossed the plains many times in the last twelve years. There were crowds of little children packed in many of the wagons, and in some there groaned and writhed the sick and helpless. But all faces wore the expression of exalted determination borne only by a people whose devotion could help them to bid adieu to comfort and ease when duty or inspiration gave the ringing cry:
"To your tents, O Israel!"
Ah, how often in their broken and turbulent history as a people had that clarion cry sounded in their ears!
And now, once again, Israel was on the march!
The usual chatter of women, the laugh of children, the merry exchange of field and farm gossip from the men, these common features of their communal life were almost hushed in the common sorrow which gripped the vitals of every wanderer in that straggling train which was conveying twenty thousand souls from Great Salt Lake City alone, and thousands more from the northern towns, to the mountains! From the Eagle Gate clear to the "Point of the Mountain"—that longest straight street in all the world—the whole length of that twenty miles of road, straight as engineering skill could plant—was one moving mass of wagons, with and without covers; some with quilts over the wagon boxes, and some without boxes or covers; driven by men, by women, and by little boys. Great oxen on some of them lumbered heavily along; horses, mules, and even patient cows were harnessed in the procession. The dust was blinding; the day began to be hot. Out in the western horizon shone the silvered edge of the Great Salt Lake, glistening, diamond-bright, under the ardent sun.
At Dr. Dunyon's place at the Point of the Mountain the wagons of the Winthrop family drew alongside the slower mule team driven by Aunt Clara's slender but capable hands; and the voice of Ellen Tyler called out from under the dusty wagon cover:
"Rachel, where's Dian? I have been looking for her all the morning."
"She is just behind in the last wagon. She thought she could help grandmother if she stayed in that wagon. You get out and ride with her; there's plenty of room in there;" and Rachel halted to chat awhile with Aunt Clara.