Little Peter with the Handcarts

MY PIONEER FATHER
by Claude Duval McBride

Peter Howard McBride

Little Peter landed in Boston harbor on his sixth birthday, May 3, 1856, with his parents and their family of five boys and two daughters, all older than Peter except one sister, Maggie. They had left their good home in the Highlands of Scotland and sailed from Liverpool on the good ship Horizon.

His parents, Robert and Margaret McBride, were converts to the Mormon Church. The ship was loaded with Mormon converts bound for Zion in the valleys of the Rocky Mountains in western America. Their dear folks back home had condemned and disowned them for listening to the missionaries and joining the Mormon Church.

All was hustle and bustle at the docks. Everyone was hurrying to get through the customs office with passports and baggage checked off to the station to catch the train and ride in box cars to Iowa City. They rode like cattle, and arrived two days later in a terrific storm. Wagons took their baggage to camp three miles away while the men, women, and children walked through the soaking rain. Children got lost and mothers wept in their frantic search for them.

On the ship they had sung songs and made merry. But now they were tired, wet, low in spirits, and much bewildered. Little Peter led his baby sister Maggie by the hand and followed the older ones along the wet road to the camp. She was hungry, tired and cried for mama. But she loved her brother and clung to his hand as they trudged along through the mud.

At camp, tents were pitched and food was prepared over open fires by hundreds of families. Peter's father gathered soggy limbs from the willow patches by the river, and with some dry paper, was able to get a fire started. His wife, in poor health but with a brave heart and cheerful soul, prepared sandwiches of bread, butter, and jam, and they drank water from a spring above the camp in the hillside.

Bedding was dried as best it could be by the fire. Soon they were all snug in their beds on the grassy wet ground and drifting away into dreamland. They dreamed of Zion in the valleys of the faraway mountains, and of a new home where persecutors would not molest them.

Morning came with bright sunshine and crisp, fresh air. All the tent people came out and spread their bedding and clothing on the bushes to dry. Here they waited three weeks for the handcarts to come which they would pull and push across the wide western plains and through the mountains carrying their meager belongings to Zion.

Little Peter and Maggie played among the trees and bushes on the hillside and along the river. Peter fashioned for himself a fishing tackle with a pin for a hook, a string for a line, a willow for a pole, and a cork for a floater. He caught some small grasshoppers for bait and went to the river to fish. He got frequent bites, but few catches--the hook would not hold them. “Wup, there's one!” he shouted as the cork bobbed under. He hung on the pole and landed a fish. “Yippie! I caught one!” he yelled. And Maggie yelled and jumped with glee at seeing the wiggling fish on the hook. Peter grabbed it and ran for the tent. “See Mother, I caught a fish!” he shouted running into the tent.

“My, what a big boy you are, what a great fisherman,” she said. Peter's ego swelled with pride.

Peter's success as a fisherman set the stage for a fishing expedition by his two older brothers, Heber and Ether. Mother's sewing kit was ransacked for pins to make fish hooks and crude outfits were put together. Young grasshoppers were gathered for bait and the fishing expedition was on.

Although most bites got away, the three of them caught a dozen fish, and the family had a fish fry for supper that evening.

Finally the handcarts arrived, one for each family, and the company started to move westward late in the afternoon under the command of Captain Henry Martin. He told them they would travel only a few miles the first day and camp for the night just to gain experience pulling the handcarts and camping on the open plains. Once they were on their way they would travel longer and farther day by day, he said. Four wagons pulled by six oxen were provided to haul extra provisions and those who might become sick and disabled by the hardships of the long journey.

Nightfall found them a few miles on their way. They pulled their handcarts into a big circle and pitched their tents inside for protection against the Indians, buffalo, and wolves. The next day they made a long drive, Father Robert and the two older boys pulled and pushed the handcart while Mother, Jenetta, Peter, and Maggie trudged along behind. In this fashion they traveled day after day across streams and wide stretches of grasslands. In camp at night they sang hymns and folk songs, led by Peter's father who was a talented singer. The bugle call and nine o'clock each evening signaled the call for prayer in their tens and to bed. With strong faith in God and his protecting care, and in the gospel which they had embraced, they thanked God and beseeched him for his protecting care and guidance on their long journey to Zion.

Many days passed crossing the Iowa plains before they reached the Missouri river at a place called Council Bluffs. Here they rested for a day and they crossed the river on a ferry boat to Florence, Nebraska where they were joined by the David Taylor Company, making a thousand in all.

Peter's mother became ill and had to ride in the handcart, and Jenetta had to be the cook and manager of the smaller children. It was now June, the weather was warm and the endless plains stretched out before them. They still had almost a thousand miles ahead of them and must push on as fast as possible each day to reach the valley in the mountains before winter came. Day after long day they traveled on.

They gathered buffalo chips for fuel for their campfires at night. Handcarts broke down and old women and men wore out and died, and were buried along the trail. Little Peter and Maggie trudged along behind the handcart. Their shoes wore out and their feet became sore and bleeding. Mother Margaret and Jenetta would wrap them and comfort the children at night. Little Peter often helped Heber and Ether gather buffalo chips for the fire.

The weather so far had been good, with only a few showers. At night the stars came out and the cool evening breezes rattled their tents. The solitude of the night was broken only by the plaintive wail of a coyote on a low hill and the footsteps of the guards keeping watch for Indians trying to steal the oxen.

Great herds of buffalo roamed the plains. At times the handcart company had to split and leave a wide gap to let the buffalo herds pass through on their way to water. Indians also roamed the plains in bands hunting buffalo for their hides and meat. One day a large band of Sioux Indians in war paint came riding toward the caravan. People feared for their lives, but the Indian chief greeted Captain Martin in a friendly manner and told him they were going to fight the Pawnee tribe. So their caravan parted and let them pass through.

Rations were running low. Flour was rationed 3/4 pound per day for each person at first. Then it was cut to 1/2 pound and finally 1/4 pound. Little Peter and his baby sister Maggie were given only 1/4 pound for both of them. Oxen pulling the wagons gave out and died, and their flesh was eaten by the starving travelers. Although there were plenty of buffalo roaming the plains, these immigrants from a foreign country knew little about hunting them. One good hunter could have kept the company in meat while they were in buffalo territory. One day and Indian came into camp and offered to trade a buffalo for tobacco. Some tobacco was found and a trade arranged. The Indian got his tobacco (five cents worth) for his buffalo. Too bad more Indians did not come in with buffalo while the tobacco lasted.

Tragedy began to stalk the company at night. Their trail followed up along the Platte River in Wyoming territory. The weather turned wet and cold and the weak and sick ones died. Tents became places of mourning and grave-digging became a daily chore. Brief funeral services were held and worn-out bodies were buried in shallow graves with crude slabs of wood for markers. Despite their hardships and losses, the pioneers would gather around their fires inside the great circle at night and sing songs led by Peter's father. One familiar song was:

“For some must push, and some must pull

As we go merrily up the hill

And faithfully on our way we go

Until we reach the valley-O.”

Little Peter's feet had long since become bare, and thick calluses had grown on their soles. Little Maggie now had to ride in the handcart most of the time along with her ailing mother. Father and the two older boys pulled and pushed day after day. Early snows began to fall in October to make things worse. On one cold night they were all hovering around the fire, stirring it and piling on more buffalo chips and sticks of wood. Heber started to sniff the air and said., “I smell leather burning.” Ether sniffed and said, “So can I.” All began to look around to see what was burning. Little Peter felt something warm under his foot and moved it, and there-was a hot coal. His foot was that tough.

Hunger, snow, and cold took their daily toll. Each morning the dead were counted in-each tent and graves were dug to bury them. Sometimes one big shallow hole became the grave for several bodies.

One day two men on horseback passed the company on their way to California. They saw little Maggie crying for food and her brother Peter tugging her along by the hand behind the handcart. One opened up his saddlebag and gave Maggie two cookies. She soon dried her tears and started devouring them. Little Peter, his stomach gnawing, begged her for one.

“Please give me one Maggie,” he begged.

“Here, you can have a bite of this one,” she said, reaching out her chubby hand with a cookie in it.

Peter reached out his mouth for a big bite, but she jerked it away and he got just a little taste--but, oh, how delicious!

Then stark tragedy struck when they reached the upper crossing of the Platte river in western Wyoming territory. The snow was deep and the air cold. The river was running with ice forming along its edges. Worn and starved as they were, the surviving men had to somehow get the carts, women, and children across. A horseman named Cyrus Wheeler, returning from a mission in the eastern states overtook the company at this point. He spent the day helping to carry the women and children and pulling the handcarts across by a rope from his saddlehorn. On the last trip he had three little boys and his horse with him, one in front and two on behind the saddle. Little Peter was the last boy left.

“Climb on boy, and hold on tight,” he said to Peter. Peter climbed on and held to the boy in from of him. Things went well until they reached the opposite bank. The horse lunged up the bank and Peter fell off into the icy water, but he grabbed the horse's tail and hung on for dear life and the horse dragged him out. Wet and shivering, he ran to the fire and stayed close to it warming himself and turning from side to side until his tattered clothes were dry.

That night the wind blew down the tents and the snow covered them up. Peter's father was counted among the dead. in the morning. Starvation, exposure, and endless struggle had worn him out, and his strong heart, weakened and worn, could sustain him no longer. He died singing this hymn:

Oh, Zion, when I think of thee,

I long for pinions like the dove,

And mourn to think that I should be,

So distant from the land I love.

The last verse was just a whisper as his strength ebbed away and his eyes closed in death. In the morning, the few-surviving men gathered up the dead and dragged them through the by their feet, heads bobbing in the snow, to a big shallow grave by the bank of the river. Fourteen men were thus dragged to this grave and dumped in. Peter's mother wept and begged her beloved husband to “come back”. The boys and little ones clinging to weeping mothers from this and other tents, sobbed as they stood helplessly by and watched the men cover their brave and loyal fathers in this cold, cold, grave in the forlorn and unmerciful land. “Where is God? And why has he so heartlessly forsaken us?” they cried out in grief and discouragement.

Little Peter watched with the others. Then he remembered something. “Oh, wait. Let me get the fish hook!” he cried. Climbing down into the hole, he worked his chappy hand into the pocket of his father's tattered trousers and pulled out a fish hook on a short line. Tucking it into his own pocket, he looked up with his smiling blue eyes and said, “There it is,” and climbed out of the hole.

Other people have turned cannibal under such tragic circumstances, and eaten the flesh of the dead ones. But these saintly people held life so sacred that they would rather die and be buried along with their loved ones than to molest their sacred bodies.

Peter's little sister was sick and starving and his mother was near death. Jenetta had to take over the responsibility of caring for them and helping the boys keep body and soul together. She proved herself equal to the task. She carried water from the river for cooking the scant meals and nursed her mother and baby sister. Her shoes were gone and her feet left blood spots on the snow. Little Peter got hold of a bone from one of the dead oxen. He cut off the skin and roasted the bone in the fire. But just as it was done, two bigger boys grabbed it and ran away. He cried and ran after them, but they ran too fast for him. Then he boiled the skin in a kettle and made soup and drank it. Then he ate the skin. This was his best meal for several days. Jenetta's worn out shoes were boiled to make soup which she thickened with flour and fed the family.

The next day, the survivors struggled on a few more miles through the snow and cold to Sweetwater River. Here they camped and held a meeting. They decided to give up and not try to travel on. They would stay there and hope and pray for the Lord to rescue them. The rest of the oxen died and their skinny flesh was stripped off and divided up among the survivors. The bones were roasted and ground into meal for soup.

That night a blizzard came and blew down the tents and covered them with snow. Little Peter had curled up in a corner and gone to sleep. When their tent blew down the others crawled out and went to another tent that was still standing. But, little Peter dreamed he was dying. Then he started flying like a bird and came to a valley by a lake and saw people’s homes and flowers, and lots of food at their tables.

In the morning the daily search for dead ones went on as usual. “How many are dead in this tent?” a man was heard to say. All were accounted for except Peter. “He must have been frozen during the night,” said Jenetta.

They pulled the tent out of the snow and dragged little Peter out with his hair frozen to the tent. He was alive and warm. The tent and snow had saved him.

That day good news came to the disheartened survivors, now living on boiled bark from willows and trees along the river. Ox teams and wagons with food were coming from the valley. Word of their plight had reached the valley by a scout, and Brigham Young had sent rescue teams for them. Hearts leaped up, and the little band of humble and thankful people knelt and thanked God for their salvation. Wagons arrived late in the afternoon with food. Others came the next day and the sick and weakest ones were loaded into the wagons. But the others had to walk. They traveled on through the snow and cold, stopping at times to build fires to dry their clothes and warm their cold and bleeding feet. In a few days the summit of the big mountains was reached, and all climbed into the wagons for the ride into the valley.

They arrived in the Salt Lake Valley on November 20, 1856 and were received by the saints who had arrived each year since 1847 and built homes of rock, logs, and adobe. Little Peter, barefoot, tattered, and starved, had walked every step of the way, over a thousand miles, at times pushing on the handcart along with his father and older brothers.

His mother's health improved and she made her way with her family to Ogden and then to Ogden Canyon in the hills east of Ogden, and settled in the little town of Eden. Here the boys built a log house and worked in the fields and timber to support their mother and the family. Here little Peter and Maggie grew into young manhood and womanhood. Their mother married again and Peter became a talented singer and leader in music and dramatics.

His pioneering days were not over, however. Soon after he was married, he was called by Brigham Young to take his young bride, Ruth, and their infant son and go south to help build settlements in southern Utah and Arizona. They left with nine other couples in wagons in the spring of 1870. They lived the United Order in Orderville for a year and then moved on to Kanab for a year, then returned to St. George on their way back to the Ogden Valley. But there Brigham Young met them and told them their mission was not finished and sent them on into Arizona territory. They settled in a place they called Forest Dale and started building homes and clearing the land and developing a community government. But the Indians drove them out and they moved on into southeastern Arizona and homesteaded along the Gila River near the little community of Pima where a few of the saints had settled earlier. There they built a house of adobe and became leaders in community and church life. Peter's mission was to organize choirs, cantatas, dramatic groups, and develop the musical talents of the saints wherever he went. He raised a large family and filled his mission well.

Peter and Ruth lived to help build a temple at Mesa and to do their temple work in it. This accomplished, they felt their mission had been completed, and they passed on to their reward, satisfied that they had earned salvation in the celestial kingdom. Their bodies lie in the cemetery near Pima, Arizona, along with those of many of the other pioneers. They had lived and died on the frontier in this western land, and had passed on to their reward.