Chapter 2
THE FLOWER OF UTAH
THIS is not the place to commemorate the trials and privations endured
by the immigrant Mormons before they came to their final haven. From the shores of the
Mississippi to the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains they had struggled on with a
constancy almost unparalleled in history. The savage man, and the savage beast, hunger,
thirst, fatigue, and disease–every impediment which Nature could place in the
way–had all been overcome with Anglo-Saxon tenacity. Yet the long journey and the
accumulated terrors had shaken the hearts of the stoutest among them. There was not one
who did not sink upon his knees in heartfelt prayer when they saw the broad valley of Utah
bathed in the sunlight beneath them, and learned from the lips of their leader that this
was the promised land, and that these virgin acres were to be theirs for evermore.
Young speedily proved himself to be a skilful administrator as
well as a resolute chief. Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future city
was sketched out. All around farms were apportioned and allotted in proportion to the
standing of each individual. The tradesman was put to his trade and the artisan to his
calling. In the town streets and squares sprang up as if by magic. In the country there
was draining and hedging, planting and clearing, until the next summer saw the whole
country golden with the wheat crop. Everything prospered in the strange settlement. Above
all, the great temple which they had erected in the centre of the city grew ever taller
and larger. From the first blush of dawn until the closing of the twilight, the clatter of
the hammer and the rasp of the saw were never absent from the monument which the
immigrants erected to Him who had led them safe through many dangers.
The two castaways, John Ferrier and the little girl, who had
shared his fortunes and had been adopted as his daughter, accompanied the Mormons to the
end of their great pilgrimage. Little Lucy Ferrier was borne along pleasantly enough in
Elder Stangerson’s wagon, a retreat which she shared with the Mormon’s three
wives and with his son, a headstrong, forward boy of twelve. Having rallied, with the
elasticity of childhood, from the shock caused by her mother’s death, she soon became
a pet with the women, and reconciled herself to this new life in her moving canvas-covered
home. In the meantime Ferrier having recovered from his privations, distinguished himself
as a useful guide and an indefatigable hunter. So rapidly did he gain the esteem of his
new companions, that when they reached [59]
the end of their wanderings, it was unanimously agreed that he should be provided with as
large and as fertile a tract of land as any of the settlers, with the exception of Young
himself, and of Stangerson, Kemball, Johnston, and Drebber, who were the four principal
Elders.
On the farm thus acquired John Ferrier built himself a
substantial log-house, which received so many additions in succeeding years that it grew
into a roomy villa. He was a man of a practical turn of mind, keen in his dealings and
skilful with his hands. His iron constitution enabled him to work morning and evening at
improving and tilling his lands. Hence it came about that his farm and all that belonged
to him prospered exceedingly. In three years he was better off than his neighbours, in six
he was well-to-do, in nine he was rich, and in twelve there were not half a dozen men in
the whole of Salt Lake City who could compare with him. From the great inland sea to the
distant Wasatch Mountains there was no name better known than that of John Ferrier.
There was one way and only one in which he offended the
susceptibilities of his co-religionists. No argument or persuasion could ever induce him
to set up a female establishment after the manner of his companions. He never gave reasons
for this persistent refusal, but contented himself by resolutely and inflexibly adhering
to his determination. There were some who accused him of lukewarmness in his adopted
religion, and others who put it down to greed of wealth and reluctance to incur expense.
Others, again, spoke of some early love affair, and of a fair-haired girl who had pined
away on the shores of the Atlantic. Whatever the reason, Ferrier remained strictly
celibate. In every other respect he conformed to the religion of the young settlement, and
gained the name of being an orthodox and straight-walking man.
Lucy Ferrier grew up within the log-house, and assisted her
adopted father in all his undertakings. The keen air of the mountains and the balsamic
odour of the pine trees took the place of nurse and mother to the young girl. As year
succeeded to year she grew taller and stronger, her cheek more ruddy and her step more
elastic. Many a wayfarer upon the high road which ran by Ferrier’s farm felt
long-forgotten thoughts revive in his mind as he watched her lithe, girlish figure
tripping through the wheatfields, or met her mounted upon her father’s mustang, and
managing it with all the ease and grace of a true child of the West. So the bud blossomed
into a flower, and the year which saw her father the richest of the farmers left her as
fair a specimen of American girlhood as could be found in the whole Pacific slope.
It was not the father, however, who first discovered that the
child had developed into the woman. It seldom is in such cases. That mysterious change is
too subtle and too gradual to be measured by dates. Least of all does the maiden herself
know it until the tone of a voice or the touch of a hand sets her heart thrilling within
her, and she learns, with a mixture of pride and of fear, that a new and a larger nature
has awakened within her. There are few who cannot recall that day and remember the one
little incident which heralded the dawn of a new life. In the case of Lucy Ferrier the
occasion was serious enough in itself, apart from its future influence on her destiny and
that of many besides.
It was a warm June morning, and the Latter Day Saints were as
busy as the bees whose hive they have chosen for their emblem. In the fields and in the
streets rose the same hum of human industry. Down the dusty high roads defiled long
streams of heavily laden mules, all heading to the west, for the gold fever had [60] broken out in California, and
the overland route lay through the city of the Elect. There, too, were droves of sheep and
bullocks coming in from the outlying pasture lands, and trains of tired immigrants, men
and horses equally weary of their interminable journey. Through all this motley
assemblage, threading her way with the skill of an accomplished rider, there galloped Lucy
Ferrier, her fair face flushed with the exercise and her long chestnut hair floating out
behind her. She had a commission from her father in the city, and was dashing in as she
had done many a time before, with all the fearlessness of youth, thinking only of her task
and how it was to be performed. The travel-stained adventurers gazed after her in
astonishment, and even the unemotional Indians, journeying in with their peltries, relaxed
their accustomed stoicism as they marvelled at the beauty of the pale-faced maiden.
She had reached the outskirts of the city when she found the
road blocked by a great drove of cattle, driven by a half-dozen wild-looking herdsmen from
the plains. In her impatience she endeavoured to pass this obstacle by pushing her horse
into what appeared to be a gap. Scarcely had she got fairly into it, however, before the
beasts closed in behind her, and she found herself completely embedded in the moving
stream of fierce-eyed, long-horned bullocks. Accustomed as she was to deal with cattle,
she was not alarmed at her situation, but took advantage of every opportunity to urge her
horse on, in the hopes of pushing her way through the cavalcade. Unfortunately the horns
of one of the creatures, either by accident or design, came in violent contact with the
flank of the mustang, and excited it to madness. In an instant it reared up upon its hind
legs with a snort of rage, and pranced and tossed in a way that would have unseated any
but a skilful rider. The situation was full of peril. Every plunge of the excited horse
brought it against the horns again, and goaded it to fresh madness. It was all that the
girl could do to keep herself in the saddle, yet a slip would mean a terrible death under
the hoofs of the unwieldy and terrified animals. Unaccustomed to sudden emergencies, her
head began to swim, and her grip upon the bridle to relax. Choked by the rising cloud of
dust and by the steam from the struggling creatures, she might have abandoned her efforts
in despair, but for a kindly voice at her elbow which assured her of assistance. At the
same moment a sinewy brown hand caught the frightened horse by the curb, and forcing a way
through the drove, soon brought her to the outskirts.
