Zion

The stranger, whose name is Albert Bierstadt, saw to my protection in that wild Union fort filled with devils, and was pleased to see me on my way with a passing train of well-set-up emigrants to Zion. I was able to rest and walk alternately, they being well provided with wagons. We encountered no other difficulties than the usual ones of the road, and were not harassed by soldiers nor Indians nor Gentiles. Arriving through the last, difficult defile, Emigrant's Canyon, I walked with bare head so that I could see Zion and I repeated my father's name, William Ferguson, with prayer, sorrow and rejoicing. There, at the head of the defile, was a party of mounted men, with their leader seated upon a tall grey. With the sun in my eyes, and in my astonishment, I believed I beheld Joseph Smith, our beloved Prophet! When I recovered from my joy and astonishment, while others held me and bathed my face in cool water, I was told that it was not Joseph, after all, but Brigham Young, come to meet us, and me in particular. He inquired kindly about my wounded hands, and said kind words about Father, followed by a Blessing for us all. I was filled with a curious excitement and happiness, not only about our arrival in Zion, but was filled with a rising and certain conviction that this was the man I was going to marry: Brigham Young.

Fort Bridger

All through that long ride with the stranger I was in and out of consciousness, aware that we were climbing in altitude, aware that the air grew brisker and somehow more clear and lighter somehow, which made me yet more giddy. Imagine my terror to see these soldiers; -Union troops! - when I peeked out under the canvas and saw this armed posse. I shivered the length of my body and I nearly lost the precious dinner I'd eagerly and ravenously consumed, fed gently and piecemeal to me by the stranger's hand, like he was feeding a wild creature. I swooned, for it was too much to imagine our trials worsening at the hands of these Federal brigands (for in my twilight state I regarded Father as still with me; - I spoke to him, and he to me, while other voices, the voices of the living, sounded like the distant piping of little birds). After this fright, I woke in clean sheets which smelt of sharp stones, a not unpleasant smell, and somewhat stiff but very white. I could hear the stamping of horses, barrels or crates being moved about, harness, and the now-familiar soft, stangely aristocratic-sounding gutterals of Indian talk. A woman came in, dressed in calico but somehow looking Indian and spoke to me softly, held a tin cup of cold, cold water to my lips. "Where am I?" I asked. "Fort Bridger," she said, almost inaudibly, and turned and left the room.

Riding

Skyward

I prepared myself to die. It was no hard thing to lie on the ground, and to give myself over to my Maker. Was it a sin? Should I have picked up what meager belongings I could carry and tried to walk on over that endless plain? It seemed so clear to me that my time had come, and that I should die here with Father; too weak to bury him, too weak to take another step. How I regretted him dying thinking I had carelessly left our rifle in the tall grass, but how could I have told him I had traded all of our ammunition for what little food the Pawnee could spare? I would cry, but there was no moisture left in me to produce a single tear. As the afternoon wore on, I felt small rustling in my calicos, and even the small inquiry of tiny feet across my face, but I no longer cared to brush away an ant. I was glad my eyes were blue to drink up the sky, to ease my mingling with Heaven, which I could feel lifting me as my body grew lighter and lighter.

Ghost Ship

This morning we came across a prairie schooner, new and smart as a church bonnet, sitting alone along a little defile. There was no smoke from fires, and no horses or cattle could be seen about, never a dog barked. We pulled up and wondered uneasily whether the people were about, or had been slain, when the light breeze suddenly turned our way and the unmistakable odor of death, overpowering, sweet and charnel, overcame us. This was cholera, our deadliest enemy. The pity is we could not dare stop to bury the dead, even though they were Gentiles strayed far from the main path, away on the "wrong" side of the river, but they deserved at least this. The Pawnee, sensing the danger, had disappeared utterly from the Plain, as if they had never been. With grim fear, we carried on. There was extra music and rejoicing that night around our small fire, even though there was little to eat or drink at all, because there is no telling what the next day will bring. We never saw the Pawnee, or any other Indian, again. It was as though we'd been deserted by Nature.

Pawnee

Wheels

My father shaped these wheels himself, and well they served. He had to make many repairs to the Ellis's, the McCarthy's, the Bergstrom's and the Hudgkinson's wheels, as they were made of green wood, and sprang each time we forded a creek or the weather turned dry. But ours rolled sweetly and quietly as the man who made them. We rolled hundreds of miles before the accident, fixing the Ellis's wheel, that broke his arm. Now with but one arm, and the other constantly paining him, these blessed wheels became a grievous misery for us both with each revolution; me pulling on one side and he on the other with his one good arm. Our hands grew raw as freshly-butchered meat, until we could not grip the handles, but they slipped from our hands which freely flowed with blood. Others tried to spare us, but we were too few for real respite to be possible. When father's hand began to fester and turn black we begged the others to carry on without us. Surely another party would be along behind us, as we were among the "first of the last" to leave Nauvoo. We would let our hands heal, and follow on with the next group of handcarters.

Endlessness

When we came out of the last brake of willows, after the ford, and saw this "prairie" I thought, "this is the nearest I will ever see to an ocean." Wave upon wave of greenest green followed the wind, like silk blown on the line. I was so beautiful that for an instant I forgot to be afraid.

Iowa

Nauvoo

This is the story of how came I to be the wife of Brigham Young. Oh, yes, not the only wife, you'll say, wisely and with a hidden wink, oh yes, only number twenty-seven, or twenty-five if you counted the living, but I was his wife, and will always be for Time and Eternity and no Gentile silliness will ever alter that. My father, William, a carpenter, always felt I was destined to be in the highest place, and with his dying breath urged me to carry on and marry well. Marry well, I did. We followed Joseph Smith from New York to Nauvoo. There my father stayed to finish the Temple after the Prophet was murdered. How he suffered to learn it had been burnt! To Iowa and then to Zion, we travelled, but only I arrived. Dear Father. How his skilled hands labored for the glory of the Kingdom of God. One day, I believe, we will see the Temple in Nauvoo raised again, in Glory. I am as certain of this as I am of anything in this world, or the next.