BETSEY JANE LEAVITT

I was born on May 12, 1839, the eleventh child of Jeremiah Leavitt and Sarah Sturdevant Leavitt. At the time of my birth, my parents lived in Hancock County, Illinois. Beginning from the eldest, my brothers and sisters were: Louisa, Jeremiah, Lydia, Weir, Lemuel, Dudley, Mary Amelia, and Thomas Rowell. Before I was born, two other children had died at a very young age.

Since 1835, my family had been on the move, living a few months or a year at a place as they could get work. In 1841, my father got a farm by the Big Mound, seven miles from Nauvoo. At last, we were established in a permanent home. We could go into town for conferences and special meetings, and could keep in touch with the people. The farm was in a fine location with the site for the new home we planned to build on top of the mound. There was every promise that we would soon be prosperous. Dudley was then eleven years old, Lemuel fourteen, Weir seventeen, and Jeremiah twenty. With such a group of strappling young fellows to help him, father could soon get a fine farm all in shape. Everything seemed to be working for our benefit until the year 1844. Then our troubles began with the mobbing of the Mormons.

We were quite lucky though, only once did a mob threaten us, and then, without harm. We worked on our farm all the spring of 1844, conscious only of the troubles when we went into town on Sunday. When the word came that the Prophet Joseph Smith had been killed, we were all thunderstruck. My brother, Dudley, remembered his first impression of Joseph Smith. To his mind, here was a Prophet who talked with God (page 2) and angels, so he seemed a little more than human. Later in his life, Dudley was to have closer association with Joseph Smith, an association which seemed only to strengthen his first impression. Now the Prophet had been killed. With our Prophet and leader gone, what could we do?

The persecutions, which were temporarily stopped after the Prophet's death, began anew after Brigham Young took over as the head of the Church. At the Mound, we kept a constant watch, for two roads went directly past our home, one from Warsaw and one from Carthage, and we had to be alert for enemies from either. It soon became evident that we must leave the state or renounce our religion. This last we would not do. By this time, I had a new little sister, name Priscilla.

It was a year and a half after the martyrdom of the Prophet Joseph Smith before the Mormons left Nauvoo. Early in 1846, we had our orders to leave the state. Somtime in February, our family left the farm and gathered with neighbors and friends at an old school house. That night, we crossed the Mississippi River to the opposite side and made our first camp. It was April in 1846 before we reached Mt. Pisgah, one hundred and fifty miles west of Nauvoo. My father started out with us, but left his family at Mt. Pisgah and went back to Bonaparte to work and get provisions to take our family on with the company in the spring. While there, he was stricken with a sickness and died soon afterward.

Soon after father left, Mother came down and was very ill with the chills and fever. Then all the children became ill, until there was not one to wait upon the others. Though we were strangers, we were among our own people, and our neighbors were very kind, coming in to prepare meals and do the washing. (page 3) Mother was almost prostrate at the word of father's death, and the children all rallied around her. As soon as the boys had all gathered, they decided to move on to Council Bluffs. We lived there for two years, and all the family worked to make a living. By this time, Weir had died, Jeremiah was married and had taken his family to Utah, and Lemuel went ahead with an earlier company. This left Dudley and Thomas at home with my Mother, two sisters and me.

[After the order from Brigham Young to evacuate the plains] the first Mormon wagon train crossed the Mississippi on the first day of June, 1850, with Captain Milo Andrus in charge, and made its real start west on June third. They company got along very well as far as Salt Creek. Here the stream was so swollen that the bridge had been carried away. Nothing daunted, we set about making rafts on which to cross.

Our family had an uneventful trip. Dudley and Mary cared for the team and the cattle; Mother looked after the cooking and camp arrangements; Thomas gathered wood and carried water and chored around generally. For Priscilla and me, now nine and eleven years old, it was one unending adventure. We played with other children, at camp time racing among the wagons in games of tag or hide-and-seek; we hunted flowers and pretty rocks, waded the creeks, and even improvised dolls out of knotted stocks or bleached bones.

The morning dawned bright and clear. An air of eager expectancy hung over the entire camp. Today we would be in Zion! Three long, hot moths we had been on the road. We left on the third of June, and here it was the last day of August. On the whole, it had been a good trip. Though there was sickness and death before and behind us in other wagon trains, we had had remarkable good health. We had one birth and one (page 4) death in our company, so arrived in Salt Lake Valley with the same number we had when we started out.

At the first glance, the Valley was covered with a mist, but even as we watched, it dispersed, melted in the sunlight. There lay the broad lake, glistening; there were squares of brown earth freshly plowed, and green and yellow fields outlined with young cottonwood trees for fences; there were city squares etched in black and green. Mother wiped her eyes and moved her lips in a prayer of thanksgiving. Mary, sober and sweet, stood with some other girls, while Priscilla and I climbed on the wagon wheel, waved our sunbonnets and shouted, "Hurrah for Zion! Hurrah for Zion!" Home at last; no more drivings or burnings or mobbings. No more trouble. Now we could settle down and make a home and be happy, free of fear of any enemies. My brother, Lemuel, who had come to the valley the year before, had a log house all built out at Duel Settlement; he had worked for flour and potatoes, and he had a young beef ready to kill. This was truly a homecoming, especially for a tired family and our poor, hard-working mother.

All that winter, we stayed at Duel Settlement, and in the spring moved out to Tooele where a new town was started with better opportunity for farms. We soon fitted into the life of the little village. Lemuel had already married Melvina Thompson and had set up an establishment of his own. Later that winter, Mary was married to William Hamblin at Salt Lake City in the Tabernacle. This was the year 1850. After her marriage, it left only Dudley, Thomas, Priscilla, and me at home. We made ourselves quite comfortable in a log cabin with homemade furniture. Although we worked hard, we had our good times, too, with dances, candy pulls, husking bees and quilting for entertainment. (page 5) Five years had passed since William and Mary had been married, and they now had three children, all girls. As Mary was alone a great deal, I stayed with her a lot of the time and helped with the children. As time went on, William and Mary decided that since I fit into the family so nicely, and the fact that Mary and I got along well together, that William would take me for his second wife. Poligamy was being practiced in the Church at this time, and so I felt that this was perfectly all right. As William and Mary had talked the matter over concerning his forthcoming marriage to me, he decided to consult Mother Leavitt about the matter. Mother Leavitt gave her consent and was very pleased for me. It was not long until William and I were married on May 1, 1855, in the Salt Lake City Tabernacle. I was fifteen years old at the time, being sixteen in twelve days. My first child was born on January 20, 1856, a short time before my 17th birthday. He was a fine boy, and Mother Leavitt named him William Dudley. She felt that since he was the first son born, that his name should be after his father. Just two years and three days later, Betsey Jane, our first daughter was born.

As time went on, and William's family grew larger, we required a bigger and better home. He had a large house built and divided it into two apartments, one for Mary and one for me. A long living room, with folding doors which could slide back, was used for dancing and parties. Usually all the countryside was invited. Mary could make delicious pies, and I made cakes and cookies. It was in this home that William Dudley, my son, was born.

A year or so later, William again moved our family. This time we moved with six other pioneer families to a small clearing near the point of a low hill. The rough trail, which wound its way through the (page 6) clearing, passed over a large mountain, and had its beginning in Salt Lake. My cabin was farthest from the point of the hill, and the one beside it belonged to my brother, Thomas Leavitt and his young wife Ann. We had moved here to spend the spring and summer making butter and cheese. This was a very profitable business, for, by hauling our products regularly into Salt Lake City, we were assured a ready market and good prices. Emigrant trains enroute to California eagerly bought up all the fresh dairy and farm products available.

This particular morning dawned clear and chill with a stiff breeze blowing off the snow-capped mountains gleaming in the distance. I had gone to live close to Thomas and Ann while William was on a trip to San Francisco. Along with Billy, two and a half years old, and Jane, only three months old, I had bought a few milk cows and two white oxen, which had drawn my wagon from Salt Lake City.

Ann and I were washing in my cabin, while Thomas, having nothing more urgent to do, sat on the hearth making bullets for our guns. Beside him lay a powder horn and bullet mould. Over the glowing coals, he held a frying pan in which a large bar of lead was slowly melting.

It was now nearing noon, and I decided to build up the fire in the huge fireplace and prepare dinner. Needing wood and not wanting to disturb Thomas, I ran out to the woodpile a short distance away. As I bent over gathering the wood, my ears caught the thud of hoofs. I glanced toward the trail just as the first of a band of mounted Indians appeared around the point. After the first stunned moment, I snatched the two keen-bladed axes and with an arm load of wood, raced for the house. "Indians!" I said in a low-strained voice to Thomas. "Indians! Lots of them." By this time, the Indians had been seen by the settlers. (page 7) Ann sat on the bed resting and thinking as she held baby Jane. It would only be a few months until she would be holding her own child in her arms. Startled, she look up at my hasty entrance. Then she caught the dreaded word, "Indians!" "Dear Lord, have mercy upon us!" she cried. Then she fell back upon the bed in a dead faint, the baby slipping from her arms to the bed. Thomas sprang to her side and took her gently in his arms.

Meanwhile, I snatched Billy off the floor and placed him on the bed beside the baby. I told Thomas to put Ann beside the children and to help me push the bed into the corner so that the foot was behind the door. Then I told him to talk to the Indians if they came to the cabin, while I made more bullets. I quickly busied myself at the fire, and took a long, thin pole, newly sharpened at one end and used as a poker, to stir the coals until they glowed. Picking up the pan which held the lead Thomas had started to melt, I sat down on the hearth and went to work.

At almost the same instant I had sighted the Indians, they had also been seen by others. Amid cries from the women and hoarse shouts from the men, all rushed into their cabins. Doors were shut and bolted, and guns snatched from their brackets above the beds. Now grim-faced men watched the approach of the band through the cabin's port-holes. Strange to say, the Indians did not stop when they reached the first of the cabins, but as silent, grim, and forbidding as their chief who led them, they filed past, not pausing until they had reached our little cabin where they quickly formed a semi-circle in front of the cabin. They quickly dismounted, securely holding their horses by the lariats which were tied about the horses' necks. Their bows and arrows were held in their other hands. The chief took his place in the center (page 8) facing the white man Thomas now standing in the door.

The picture they formed as they crowded their horses together was one to chill the heart of a much older and harder man than Thomas, who was only twenty-three. There must have been a hundred savages. Their bodies, save for a loin cloth at the waist, were naked and painted. Their hair had been plastered down with black mud with feathers stuck in the back. But the most horrible part of the picture was the scalps dangling from the savage waists. Beautiful brown tresses of some unfortunate young girl and long grey hair of an elderly woman were only two of the many pitiful reminders of recent savage butality.

It seemed a lifetime while Thomas waited for silence among the Indians. When the last horse was quited, he stepped out into the circle and called a greeting to the chief. A grunt was the only answer as the chief glowered at him, hate and lust to kill in his black eyes; but Thomas started bravely on with his speech, speaking slowly and weighing each word carefully. "We are peaceful people. We have never harmed you or your people, and we ask you not to harm us."

"Ug!" again grunted the chief. "White men liars! We kill all white men. My braves want blood - revenge for brothers killed." In his hand, he held a long, thin pole, sharpened at one point. Now he raised his hand and threw it to the ground with such force it stood upright, buried in the earth deep enough to hold the rest of its weight. Immediately, scores of arrows from the bows of the warriors encircled it.

Thomas stepped quickly back into the cabin. Coming to me, he said, "Do you know what that means"" I told him that of course I knew, but we could not give up hope. Thomas seized the poker from beside the fireplace; then, standing (page 9) in the doorway, he raised to his toes and threw it with all his strength close beside the chief's spear. The makeshift spear stook just as proud at the chief's in the circle of arrows. A surprised grunt came from the chief, and he eyed Thomas with less hostile eyes. Thomas walked boldly to where the chief stood beside his horse.

Immediately, the silence was broken as the savages, keeping time with their moccasined feet, started a low, weird chanting of their war song, which when heard, can never be forgotten. Thomas joined his voice with those of the warriors, singing as he had never sung before in his life. After the song ended, each warrior placed his hand over his mouth and gave a blood-curdling war whoop.

The chief, laying his hand over Thomas' heart, said, "White man brave. White man not afraid."

Thomas spoke again. "My sister and I and the other people in the other cabins do not want to die, but we are not afraid to die. We want to live and be friends with the red men. Do you love your warriors"" At once the chief swept the circle with his hand, then placed his hand over his heart. Yes, he loved them very much; they were like brothers to him. Thomas immediately took advantage of this. "We may die, but some of your warriors that you say you love will also die - maybe even you will die - for inside of those cabins are men with guns watching you through little holes in the walls. It you start to kill us, they will kill many of you."

At the point, the warriors began the war chant. The stench from the Indians's bodies, the horses, and the scalps made Thomas deathly sick. With an effort he pulled himself together. He stepped back into the house and came quickly to my side. "Betsey," he said in a (page 10) steady voice, "the chief says we are brave people and because we are so brave, he will be good to us and those who are so afraid in their locked cabins. If we will give them all our cattle, food, and clothing, they will let us go peacefully over the mountains to Salt Lake."

As the full import of the proposition struck me, I told Thomas that we would not do that. It would only mean death, if not from cold, then from starvation. We could never hope to get over that mountain - there was still snow in the pass. We would die fighting first.

Thomas agreed with me and again stepped out to talk with the Indians. He was back in a few minutes, and the Indians had told him to accept these terms and maybe they would not take everything.

I told Thomas that if the Lord had made the Indians merciful enough to suggest terms at all when they could take everything by killing us and the price would be the lives of only a few of their warriors, then I thought that He must be opening the way to have our lives spared. I told him to tell the savages that they could have the two white oxen and that was all. If they wouldn't take them, to tell the chief that I had my gun aimed straight at his heart and that he would be the first ot die, but to tell him this was a last resort.

Again, Thomas stepped out into the semi-circle. He strode up to where the chief stood by his horse waiting. Stopping only a few feet from the Indian, he drew himself up, and, looking the chief full in the face, he spoke swiftly in the Indian dialect. "My brave sister and I cannot accept your terms because we would all die anyway. We could not get through the deep snow in the pass with no coverings for our bodies, for we are not tough like you and your warriors. My sisters says for you to take her two white oxen because they are the best we have and are fit (page 11) even for an Indian chief. Take these and go in peace."

Thomas held his breath while the Indian eyed him with a grim, stolid look. Suddenly the chief seized Thomas in his long, brawny arms. He hugged him as though he could not restrain his admiration for this white man's bravery. I almost fainted, watching from the cabin, for I thought surely he was being killed. I breathed easily when the Indian finally released Thomas and broke the strained silence. "White man and squaw talk brave, very brave. We no kill, take oxen and go." Over his shoulder he threw a few gutteral sentences.

Immediately the warriors turned their horses and, rounding up the two white oxen, started back over the point of the hills from which they had come. At that point, the chief stopped, turned, and raised his hand to Thomas and then vanished around the point of the hill. Later, as time went on, the Indians became more peaceable, and there was less trouble with them.

The purpose of William's journey to San Francisco was to straighten out the failure of a farm he had as partnership with a Mr. Henderson. William furnished the money, and Henderson was to look after the farm and crops. When William was gone on an exploration trip, Mr. Henderson sold the crops along with the farm, and left the country. William felt unhappy about this, and so he decided to work in California and make up for the money he had lost through Mr. Henderson. He told Mary and me that he would "bring back as much as Mr. Henderson stole from me or I won't come back!"

If William ever wrote to us, the letters were lost as we never heard from him and assumed he must be dead. He had been gone almost two years, when one day we received a letter from him. He said that (page 12) he was well, and that he would be home in a short time.

When William finally arrived, I was away from home weaving material for a dress. Word was sent to me to come home immediately, which I did. Everyone was overjoyed to have the husband and father home who had been gone so long. William brought three wagon loads of goods home with him which included clothing, materials, shoes, bedding, and all kinds of badly needed food items.

After William's homecoming, we moved to Gunlock, Utah. This small town had been named after William because of his skill with guns. Another daughter, Elmirea, was born October 26, 1860, and then a son, Deuane on August 10, 1862. Ann Eliza was born February 1, 1864, and Hyrum was born December 6, 1867, but lived a short time and died in May of 1868. These children were all born while we were in Gunlock. Then we moved to a nice little place in Nevada called Clover Valley in Lincoln County. Here Clara, another daughter, was born on October 26, 1870.

About this time, William was dealing with two mining companies, and had to travel to Pioche, Nevada, in company with a doctor and a lawyer. While in this town, there was a lawsuit, and William was the star witness for one of the companies. On his departure, Mary and I had cautioned him not to eat or drink anything at a public eating place. I remember that he said with a laugh, "Don't worry about me - nothing could happen to me as I have both a doctor and a lawyer with me. I'll be all right."

Before the trial in Pioche, the men were eating a small meal at a public eating place. They were all anxious and worried, and as they sat waiting, they were served coffee. William didn't drink coffe, but (page 13) as he was thirsty and worried, he drank part of his coffee. He immediately arose to his feet and left the table, saying, "I am poisoned," then fell to the floor. He was taken to the doctor's office and received immediate treatment. He felt some better, so they put him in a spring wagon and took him home to Clover Valley. A runner was sent ahead to break the bad news.

William's companion, Dr. Ivins, came home with him, and William soon became much better. The doctor could not stay long, and another doctor came in his stead. The new doctor prescribed medicine for William which harmed, rather than helped him. After William had been home about ten days, he got up and dressed himself. The exertion proved to be too much. He had a stroke, and soon passed away without saying a word to anyone. This was on May 8, 1872.

After William's death, it was hard for us to go on, knowing we would no longer have him with us. My health became poor with worry, grief, and hard work, and after the birth of my baby girl, Sarah Priscilla, born seven months and twenty days after the death of her father, I became seriously ill. After months of illness, I slowly regained my strength, and we decided it would be a good thing to move to Utah with several other families leaving at this time.

After an uneventful trip, we arrived at our destination and settled on the Pahrea on a small farm. We raised mostly corn and cane. We had Indian trouble continuously, so it was a relief when the "call" came for us to go to Arizona. It took a great deal of preparation, for we had to take good to last us many months, as there would be no food there upon our arrival.

On October 28, 1879, our little company of ten wagons started for (page 14) the far-off country of Arizona. The first part of our journey was very pleasant. When we reached the Big Colorado River, most of the adults and children alike were frightened at the prospects of crossing such a large stream of water. However, we did make it perfectly across on rafts, and a few on rowboats, and everyone rejoiced when we reached the other side.

As we continued our journey, I could hear my son Billie singing, "When you go to Arizona, be sure you have enough of flour, beans, and bacon, and other kinds of stuff. For if you do not do it, you will find it rather tough, before you raise a crop in Arizona!" Our journey seemed pleasant and free from worry, and not at any time or any place can I recall hearing anyone speak a harsh or angry word.

We camped along the side of the Little Colorado River after six weeks of travel. There, the men built a log cabin, for we remained here several weeks. Most of the hardships seemed to fall upon my shoulders. The weather was getting colder, and some mornings there was snow on the ground. We soon left and drove on into Round Valley, later called Springerville. Tired and weather-worn, we stayed here about two months, but the boys wanted to travel on to Bush Valley, later called Alpine.

Our journey to Arizona ended when we stopped at Bush Valley. There were about eight families living there before us, and during the first spring, we lived in a cellar. The cellar was large and roomy which made it quite comfortable. We lived in this cellar until the boys finished building a large log cabin in which to live. During this time, we also had a few Indian scares. Because of this, a small fort was built for protection against the Indian raids.

It was awfully cold in the winter time at Bush Valley, and I can clearly remember the snow reaching the top of the fence posts. In the (page 15) spring of 1882, we moved farther up toward the mountain where there was more farming land. The next winter was the coldest we had seen since coming to Arizona. All the men had left for work on the Union Pacific Railroad, and as a result, all the chores were left up to the girls and me.

In the fall of 1882, we moved to Nutrioso. At first, we lived in tents, but it seemed so good to be in a place where we could sleep at night without fear of Indians. The mountains were so beautiful with tall bunches of grass, raspberry, gooseberry, and currant bushes, red pine, oak, clumps of white-barked quaking asps [aspen], springs of sweet water with clear streams running from the mountains.

Soon after we settled in Nutrioso, the rest of our boys who had been working on the railroad came home. That fall, some of the younger children were able to attend school. Up until this time, I had been the only school teacher, and had taught them to read from newspapers which papered the walls of our cabin.

It was very cold again this winter. I remember the boys calling me and the girls to see a frozen calf. Sure enough, there it stood frozen to death. Twice the boys, who were herding our horses, came running and yelling, "The Indians have our horses." All the women and children ran to the fort. The men held a council to see if they would follow the Indians and take the horses back. I was listening and urged them not to go, as the Indians might ambush and kill them, then raid the fort. We could get more horses, but never get our men back. What then would the women and children do" The men decided against going, and strengthened the fort and built a good corral for the horses.

My son, Billie, would tie a big red stallion by the door each night, and when the children asked about this, I told them if the Indians even come (page 16) close, this horse would let us know when he smells them by making a disturbance and this will be an alarm to us. Later, Mexicans stole our work horses and the men did follow and keep on their trail until they got most of the horses back.

It was getting late in the season with some snow, and we were low on food stuffs, especially flour. Neute Mangum, my grandson, said he would drive me to the store, so we put our feather mattress and quilts in the wagon, took food to last us on the way, and drove the wagon and oxen, Buck and Brandy. I took my youngest child, Priscilla, wrapped tight in a big shawl, and started out to Julius Beckers store in Round Valley. While on this trip, we visited Jacob Hamblin and his wife, Priscilla, my youngest sister. They had come to Arizona the year before we had come. It was a very happy reunion. We returned home with our provisions, safe and happy.

In 1881, work commenced on the Union Pacific Railroad from Fort Wingate, New Mexico to Flagstaff, Arizona. My sons, Billie and Deuane, and son-in-laws, George Mangum and George Adair and wives, left to get work on the railroad.

In September, 1891, I was asked to give up my last child, Sarah Priscilla, as Thomas Alger, a nice young man, asked for her hand and they prepared to be married in December. My son, Billie and I had planned to go to a new part of Arizona on the Gila River, but this changed my plans. Thomas and Priscilla stayed with me until we moved down to the Gila Valley in 1899.

The remaining years of my life were very pleasant, as I lived with Tom and Priscilla and helped with the babies as they came along. I was really needed, as they had thirteen children, and Priscilla was raither frail. (page 17)

Their first son died as a baby, the next child, a daughter, died when she was nineteen, and the next baby, another boy, died when a baby. All the others lived to adulthood. I enjoyed raising chickens and turkeys to help out, and for spending money of my own. I remained strong and well most of the time. I have lived the remainder of my life with Tom and Priscilla.

Betsey Jane Leavitt Hamblin passed away at the home of her daughter and son-in-law, Priscilla and Tom Alger at the age of seventy-eight, on October 16, 1917 and was buried in Lebanon Cemetery. She was always a dearly beloved mother and grandmother.

Composed by Josephine Alger Pursley; Typewritten by Sherry Pursley; Computerized by Lyman D. Platt, September 4, 1998, St. George, Utah.