Lars Petersen

I mentioned that we were heavily loaded. We were only allowed fifty pounds baggage, but the reason we were so heavily loaded is because we were traveling with a merchant from Salt Lake City. Thomas Taylor owned the wagon and cattle that we were traveling with. He loaded the wagons with heavy merchandise such as glass and chinaware, such things as would not take up too much room. The wagon I was driving was loaded with boxes containing glass. So we had to put our baggage on top of that, and each person had to pay him sixty dollars for the provisions he furnished us, and for hauling up our fifty pounds, and for the privilege of walking by the side of the wagons one thousand miles or more. I earned my sixty dollars by driving a wagon with four yokes of oxen across the plains, but Anne had to sign a note with ten percent interest until she paid, and which we afterwards did pay.

We were a little afraid that Indians would bother us when we came over to the north side, but they did not. They never bothered us until we came to Fort Laramie. The first evening when we came to the fort or near it, the Indians drove our cattle away from the guard or herdsman that had driven them out on grass and were going to herd them until morning. The Indians fired a great many pistol shots, but whether they shot at the men or only shot to scare them, we did not know, for they did not hit any of them. Next morning we could see the cattle scattered all over the hills to the east and it took us three days to gather them up, and we never found all of them. The soldiers were there to protect the emigrants and travelers from the Indians, but they did not help us any, and we almost came to think it was the soldiers that were playing Indian at our expense.

After we had traveled a few miles away from the Fort, the Indians came after us again, this time at noon. A small train of merchandise consisting of heavily loaded wagons, with six mules on each wagon, belonging to George Romney of Salt Lake City, had joined us. They could travel faster than we could, but did not dare to because of the Indians. They generally drove a little ahead of us, but when they camped, we camped. They had stopped and unhitched for dinner when we came up to them. We stopped and unhitched for dinner also, and we all drove our animals to the river for water. The mules went ahead and the cattle close behind them, and we teamsters were close behind the cattle with our whips. The mules had got into the water, but the cattle had not, when a whole company of Indians came yelling and hooting. They were on horseback and tried to drive both the cattle and mules away from us, but they did not succeed because the mules got scared and jumped up out of the river and in among the cattle, which scared the cattle, too, and they all ran back to camp as fast as they could go. They raised such a cloud of dust that we could not see what became of them, whether they ran to camp or past it. We teamsters got far behind, and now the Indians kept riding behind us and kept shooting at us with their bows and arrows and pistols. They evidently had no rifles, but we teamsters had nothing but our whips. They did not succeed in killing any of us, but they wounded eight men, some of them very seriously, and they took one woman away with them. They threw a lariat at her, pulling her up on a horse and off they went with her, and she was never heard from again.

When we teamsters came near to camp there stood some girls with their buckets on the road to the river to get water with which to cook dinner. Anne was among them. We shouted to the girls to run to camp, and so they did run, but Anne told me afterwards that they did not know which would be the best, to run for camp or to hide in the brush. She had read about some emigrants, not Mormon, that had been attacked by Indians, and that they had destroyed the camp, and killed the people and burned the wagons, and that only a few people had been saved by hiding in the brush. The girls thought that such might happen this time.

The running of the mules and cattle made a great noise, and as soon as it was learned at camp what was going on, the men and boys came out and stopped the animals from running past, and got them into the corral. The corral was formed by driving wagons up in two half circles, forming a place in the middle. Some of the men and boys came out and shot at the Indians, and they thought that they had shot at least one of them, because he came to hand in his saddle, but he did not fall off the horse. When we came into camp, a great excitement prevailed. The wounded had to be tended to, and many of the women and children were crying. There was no thought of dinner. The men and boys had to get out all the ammunition and rifles that we had and get them loaded. We had got some rifles and ammunition that had been used in the war, which was now over.

The captain ordered us to hitch up our cattle so we could see how many we had lost, as we had expected we had lost some of them, but when we got them all hitched up it proved that we had not lost any of them. We did not see any more of the Indians now, but we expected they would follow us, so we were organized into rifle companies, all but the teamsters and the women and children. One rifle company was ordered to go ahead; next, all the girls and women that were able to walk, one man with rifle on each side of each wagon, and one company behind.

Now we started to drive and we found that the cattle were just as excited as the people were. We had no use for our whips that afternoon; the cattle pulled with a good will. We drove until eleven o’clock that night, and when we came into camp the captain ordered us to unyoke the cattle and leave them in the corral, and not drive them out on grass that night, because we expected the Indians to be behind us. We were not allowed to make any fires or light, not even to strike a match, so the Indians could not see where our camp was. Everyone was put on guard around the camp. The women and children were allowed to sleep if they could find a place to sleep, but were told to not put up any tents. Everybody being tired and thirsty. We had found no water that night. We spent a wearisome night. The night passed peaceably, however, and the Indians did not come.

When morning came, we found that nine of the cattle had died during the night, so the captain said that we had better lay over here at least one day, the cattle being so exhausted, having had neither water nor food for over twenty-four hours and had worked hard. Half of the armed men had to go with the cattle and half had to stay around the camp. After they had got the cattle out to water and grass, four more had died, but we did not see any more of the Indians. Still, we were afraid of them until after we had crossed the Green River.

Everything went all right from that time until we came to the Sweetwater River. Here we came to a green place where there was nice green grass in the afternoon of October 8. Here the captain said we could stop just one hour to let the cattle eat some of that grass, then we should hitch up again and go through Sweetwater Canyon, where we would have to cross the river three times in the course of a mile, but the water was not deep. Another route passed over a high mountain called South Pass. After we had unhitched, the women folk did not know what to do. One hour was too short a time to cook supper in, so some of them went to the captain and asked permission to stay in that place overnight, so they would have time to cook supper. They told him that many of the people had had neither breakfast nor dinner that day. He was willing, provided they were willing to wade across the river three times in the morning. He explained to them that the water would be a little colder in the morning than in the evening, and we were too heavily loaded for them to ride. They consented to do that if they could only stay where they were because there was a nice place to camp and plenty of dry wood.

The reason why we had had neither breakfast nor dinner that day was because when we started to go across the plains from the Missouri River, it was expected that it would take ten weeks, but after we had traveled two weeks the captain said we had gone only seventy-eight miles, while we, by that time, ought to have traveled two hundred miles; so he would have to cut us short on our provisions, or we would run out long before we would reach Utah, and there would be nothing to buy on the way. The reason for our slow travel was that we had to break in both cattle and teamsters. From that time on we got less provisions, in fact we got too little, and when we got our provisions for a week it would only last five or six days for some families. We had just got our provisions for another week. We stayed there that night and had a good supper, but the next morning we had six inches of snow where we had camped, and the river had risen twenty feet during the night. A blizzard had come unexpectedly over us during the night.

Now the captain regretted that he had given way in the evening. Now we could not go through the canyon, but would have to go over the big mountain called South Pass, eight thousand feet above sea level, where there was supposed to be two feet of snow, and we were nearly out of provisions. The captain had telegraphed to President Young and told him about our condition, and Brigham Young made a call for donations to us, donations of provisions to be sent out to us, of teams to take it out and of young men to go with the teams. We stayed in that place for two days waiting for the snow to melt. It melted where we were stopping, but it did not melt much in the high mountains.

On the third day we had to try and climb the mountain; the slope was very gradual, so we got up all right, but what a splash traveling through about a foot of snow and water. On top of the mountain it looked like a flat, but when we came to go down the other side it was with great difficulty, because the snow still laid there in many places, so the wagons would slide and the cattle could not hold them back, the brakes were no good at such times and in some places the wagons would go sideways with great danger of tipping over. But we had to help each other as best we could, and finally we got down to a level place that looked like a meadow. In the center where the water had gathered, it looked like a lake. Here we camped for the night, but here we met with other serious difficulty. We were all wet, very wet, and especially the women. The ground was too wet to put up the tents and to spread the bed clothes on, and it was with great difficulty that we got a fire started, because there was no wood at that place except sage brush which was now wet and green.

It froze so hard that night that the ice on the water could hold the cattle in the morning. Here the first wagons with provisions met us that had been sent out by Brigham Young, and we were in hopes that they would give us some of it, but they said, “No, there is another company behind you, and they are worse off than you are, we have got to go out to them.” But they said there would soon come some more, and they almost frightened us by telling us that Green River was very high, and that our cattle were too small to stand up against the stream. It took us three or four days to reach Green River, so by that time the water had lowered some, but it was still high.

A couple of days before we reached Green River more wagons with provisions came to us with flour, meat, dried fruits, etc., so now we had plenty to eat until we reached Salt Lake City. Also, when the wagons returned, they took all of our sick folks and their baggage with them, so that our loads got so much lighter. They also told us that the water in the river had gone down some, so that we would be able to ford it. This, of course, we considered good news, but the idea that we would have to wade across that cold and desperate stream almost frightened some of our girls and women to death. But when we arrived at the river one day late in the afternoon, the captain ordered all the girls and women and the old men to climb into the wagons, as he said, “The water is now too cold for the women to wade in.” This made them smile, and not without a good reason for it. Next he ordered the teamsters to double up, two and two, and take the uneven numbered wagons first; that is, one, three, five, and so forth, and after they had taken them over to go back and bring the rest of them over, there being thirty-six wagons in all.

The river was quite wide where we crossed it. We could not cross in the narrow places, for there the water was too deep. We teamsters had to go to the head of our teams to lead them, and the water was waist deep, and by it continually splashing against us, we got wet nearly all over. After we got the first wagons over, we had to go back after the rest of them, and by this time it was nearly dark. This proved to be a different job, as the cattle did not want to go back over again, so we had that for reason to stay in the cold water longer than would have been necessary. We had to go at the head of them and use our whips on them. The cattle, of course, were both tired and hungry. We teamsters, therefore, had to wade the river three times, and being in the water with wet clothes for two or three hours. The other young men, those not teamsters, also had to wade the river, but only once. This was the coldest bath I had ever been treated to.

The girls had made a great big campfire, there being plenty of good wood at that place, and we had to go to the fire and stand by it until the water in our clothing got warm enough to warm us through, but as soon as we turned away from the fire our clothes got cold again. Some of them suggested that we had better take our dry clothes out to the fire and change clothes right there where it was warm. This would have been very nice, but we did not dare do that, there being too many girls around. After we had been in our wagons and got dry clothes on we felt just as cold again, as there was a cold wind blowing at the time, so we had to go back to the fire to get warmed up the second time, and also to get our supper that they had prepared for us. We got chilled through to the marrow and bone, so it was impossible to get warm enough to sleep that night. I never felt it so cold during the war, where we had to sleep out in the snow most of the time.

After we had passed Green River, we had several smaller streams to cross, the largest of them being Black Fork, running south and joining Green River lower down. The next largest was Bear River, running north. We crossed it near the head of Echo Canyon, about where Evanston now is. We next went through Echo Canyon, which is about forty miles long. When we came through the canyon, we came to Coalville, where we met William Cluff who had been to Denmark on a mission, and spoke Danish, and although we were strangers in a strange land, we commenced to feel a little more like we were at home than we had done for the last six months. Here we got some vegetables, such as carrots, beets, turnips, and potatoes, which some of our emigrants had been homesick for for a long time.

After two or three days further travel we reached Salt Lake City on November 8, 1865, six months and four days from the time we left Copenhagen. We were both tired and hungry, although we had had plenty to eat the last two hundred miles. It took us practically all winter to get filled up, we had starved for so long a time on the plains.

But now another question presented itself to us, that is, to me and Anne, “What should we now do? Should we get married and stay together, or should we again part for a while?” We came to the conclusion that we were far too poor to marry, as we had practically nothing, and we were in debt for our emigration besides. We were only allowed to have fifty pounds of things with us across the plains, and a few books and bedclothes with a few other clothes besides what we had on soon made up fifty pounds. As long as it was summer we did not need any clothes, but when it came winter we practically had to put on all we had, and as we had three hundred miles to travel in snow and mud, we got our clothes not only soiled, but worn out. So we concluded that we had better put our marriage off until spring. Anne got a place with a Swedish family by the name of Tyge Benson, in Mill Creek, and I went with my brother, Peter, to Huntsville. He had met me on the road. Peter and another brother, Christian, had moved from Farmington to Huntsville that summer, and our father and mother also came up there from Farmington in the fall. They all lived now in a house Peter and Christian had built that summer, only one room and only half finished. I stayed with them until after New Years.

October had been a very stormy month, but November had been fine. A threshing machine was still running in Huntsville, and I got a few days work helping with the threshing. I also made a few bushel baskets which I sold for potatoes. Money was out of the question in those days. After New Years I got about two months work in Ogden with William McKay, weaving, for which I earned a little store pay and ten bushels of wheat.

When we parted in Salt Lake City on November 9, 1865, I handed Anne an address which I had received from my brother, to which she could write to me at Huntsville, and as soon as she had learned what address to use for herself, to write to me. She would hear from me in return. She received one letter from me and I also received one from her during November, but then it all stopped. I wrote several letters to her, but never heard from her any more for a couple of months. I did not know what was the matter. I could not very well take a trip down there, there being no railroad at that time, and there was more snow in Salt Lake Valley that winter than there has been any time since. In February my brother Peter went to Salt Lake City to visit a girl he had there that he intended to marry in the spring. He stopped over at McKay’s with me in Ogden, both when he went down and when he came back. He told me that I had better go down to Mill Creek to look after my girl. He had learned while he was in Salt Lake City that they were using all kinds of tricks to induce her to marry as a second wife to the man where she was working. He had also learned that one man from Huntsville was participating in the game by telling stories about me.

In the latter part of February I took a trip down there on foot. The snow had gone on the road, but there laid big piles of it in many places. Anne was quite surprised to see me, but glad I came, because she was perplexed in her mind what to do. She had not heard from me for so long, and although she had written several letters to me she had only received one, and that shortly after I had gone to Huntsville. I told her I was in the same fix, I had also written several to her and only received one. Well, she had been suspecting foul play all the time but did not know what to do about it. Then she told me that a man that had moved from Mill Creek to Huntsville in the fall had been down there during the winter and he had said to her about me, “You don’t need to expect to see him anymore, he has been running after all the girls in Huntsville, and I believe he has found one that he is going to marry when spring comes.” This good man’s name was Feder. Anne did not believe any of that. She could plainly see through their trickery. She had known me too long to be caught in that kind of a trap. She further told me that right in the middle of winter, Benson had proposed to her one day and asked her to go with him to Salt Lake City. He wanted to buy her lots of good and useful things, if she would be his second wife, which he hoped. But she refused, both to go with him and to be his second wife. Then he said, “Don’t you want to get married?” “Perhaps I will,” she answered, “when the one comes that I want.” To marry him was entirely out of the question. Then he got mad and told her to go, that he had no more use for her.