my husband disfellowshipped—we apostatize—brutal outrage upon my husband and myself.
notwithstanding all my own personal troubles and the difficulties which surrounded us, the loss of my dear friend affected me very deeply. and yet her story is the same as might be told of hundreds of other english girls who have been lured from their happy homes and have died broken-hearted and neglected in utah.
now came that change in our life which i had so long hoped for, but which had always seemed to me so very far distant. we had been tossed by many a storm, but the violence of this last gale was such that it forced us clean out of the sea of mormonism, and landed us high and dry upon the firm ground of apostasy.
about the time when my husband returned with his paper to salt lake city, the utah magazine, a liberal journal just struggling into existence, began to call in question some of brigham’s measures; and the editors, who were all men of some mark in the mormon church, presumed to hint that the people had rights and privileges as well as the priesthood. this was done in a very quiet, unobtrusive way; but it was, nevertheless, pronounced rebellion and apostasy. my husband’s paper was silent upon the subject; and, in consequence, he was suspected of being in league with the enemy. this was another good reason why the people should be “counselled” not to take the telegraph. although he was not yet sufficiently advanced in thought to give much direct aid to the questioners of brigham’s authority, i saw with pleasure that he did not wish to oppose them; the tone of his paper was evidently changing, and the articles which appeared from time to time gave serious offence to brigham young. this, however, was not all his wrong-doing; he had of late been neglectful in his attendance at the “school of the prophets”—a meeting which was then held every saturday for the benefit of the elders.
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together with the editors of the utah magazine, mr. stenhouse and one or two others were summoned to appear at the school, to give their reasons for previous non-attendance. this they had all along anticipated, and were therefore not surprised at the summons, but they hardly expected that brigham would act so precipitately; for, without waiting to hear their reasons, he disfellowshipped them all for irregular attendance.
brigham’s assumption of the right to disfellowship men from the church because of irregular attendance at the school was a stretch of authority which startled my husband: “what will he not do next?” he said. “to submit would be to acknowledge him absolute, and myself a slave. there is but one alternative now—slavery or freedom. cost me what it may, i will be free!”
in august of the same year my husband sent a respectful and kindly letter to the bishop of our ward, stating that he had no faith in brigham’s claim to an “infallible priesthood,” and that he considered that he ought to be cut off from the church. i added a postscript, stating that i wished to share my husband’s fate—little thinking that within three days my request would be answered in a too literal manner.
a little after ten o’clock on the saturday night succeeding our withdrawal from the church, we were returning home together. the night was very dark, and as our residence was in the suburbs of the city, north of the temple block, and the road very quiet, the walk was a very lonely one and perhaps not altogether too safe. we had gone about a third of the way, when we suddenly saw four men come out from under some trees at a little distance from us. in the gloom of the night we could only see them very indistinctly, and could not distinguish who they were. they separated; and two of them came forward and stumbled up against us, and two passed on beside us. for a moment i thought that they were intoxicated, but it was soon clear that they were acting from design. as soon as they approached, they seized hold of my husband’s arms, one on each side, and held him firmly, thus rendering him almost powerless. they were all masked, for it was supposed that thus we should not be able to discover their identity, and that if by any chance an investigation should subsequently be made into the doings of that night it would not be possible for any one to witness against them.
the movements of the two men who held my husband were somewhat impeded by my clinging to his arm, and they seemed[359] to hesitate for a moment. the other two, who stood a few feet distant from us, also hesitated. one of the men who held my husband said to them, “brethren, do your duty.” we recognized his voice at once as that of a policeman, philips, a young man whom we had known in southampton, england, when a child.
in an instant i saw them raise their arms, as if taking aim, and for one brief second i thought that our end had now surely come, and that we, like so many obnoxious persons before us, were about to be murdered for the great sin of apostasy. this, i firmly believe, would have been my husband’s fate, if i had not chanced to be with him, or had i run away—they would probably have beaten him to death—they were two of the regular and two of the special policemen—and then, the next morning, they would have “discovered” the body, and it would have been said that he had been murdered by the gentiles or apostates in a personal quarrel. my presence somewhat disarranged their plans, and it was that probably which caused the two men to hesitate, not knowing what would be considered their “duty” under present circumstances.
a much less noble fate than assassination was reserved for us. the wretches, although otherwise well armed, were not holding revolvers in their hands as i first supposed. they were furnished with huge garden-syringes charged with the most disgusting filth, in the preparation of which they took especial pains. so kindred to their own base natures was such an act, that i doubt not they found it quite a labour of love. the moment the syringes were pointed at us, my husband, thinking a shot was coming, moved his head, and thus to a certain extent escaped the full force of the discharge. i, however, was not so fortunate. my hair, bonnet, face, clothes, person—every inch of my body, every shred that i wore—were in an instant saturated, from head to foot.
the villains, when they had perpetrated this disgusting and brutal outrage, turned and fled. we ran after them for some little distance, but we had no arms and nothing with which to defend ourselves; in fact, we pursued them instinctively rather than with any idea of overtaking them. there was another man standing a little distance off in the direction in which they were running, and we could not tell how many might be concealed. the place, too, was dark and lonely, for they had gone behind the temple block—a fit corner for murderers to skulk in; a convenient spot for the commission of any unholy deed. i was burning with indignation, and longed[360] to revenge myself upon the brutal cowards who had assaulted us. in my anger i called upon them to come and kill us outright, for i would have preferred death to such an indignity. i almost wonder that they did not take me at my word and return and finish their foul work, for they have long acted upon the principle that “dead men tell no tales.”
i shall never forget that night. i declared that henceforth i would tear from my heart every association, every memory, every affection, which still remained to bind me to mormonism; not one solitary link should be left. henceforth i would be the declared and open enemy of the priesthood. to the utmost of my power—weak though i might be—i would arouse the women of utah to a sense of the wrongs which they endured; i would proclaim to the world the disgrace which mormonism is to the great american nation, the foul blot that it is upon christianity and the civilization of the age!
my son-in-law, joseph a. young, on the night of the attack, offered a reward to the chief of the police for the apprehension of the ruffians; but we knew well enough they would never be discovered. a few gentile friends also offered a reward of five hundred dollars for any evidence that might lead to their identification; but nothing, of course, was elicited.
