. . . Our home was always open to the Mormon missionary and seven years after the church was organized my grandparents joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My parents joined the church on July 29, 1852.

On June 4, 1868, they decided to emigrate to America, and bidding goodbye to relatives and friends, sailed from Liverpool, England on the ship John Bright, captained by John Towart. The ship was an old one and was tossed about by the waves like a piece of drift wood.

One day when the air was dense with fog, another ship rammed into us and out a jagged hole in the side of our ship which immediately began to fill with water. All hands were called to man the pumps. The sailors dumped all excess baggage overboard, including my mother's prized feather beds, with the exception of one which she refused to part with, saying if it went down she would go with it. Clothing was taken and supposedly dumped overboard, but later my father discovered a sailor wearing some of his clothing. It was difficult to persuade father from demanding its return, but the sailors were considered a bad lot and were not past helping one to fall overboard, so father said nothing about it. Mormon emigrants, of which there were about seventy-five were kneeling [p.1] in prayer and singing songs to keep up their courage. It was with much rejoicing that the leak was repaired and the voyage continued.

In the six weeks it took us to cross the ocean, many incidents both good and bad occurred and so our hearts were filled with prayers of thankfulness when we sighted land and sailed into New York Harbor.

We were in New York only a few days before we started for the prairies. We rode in a freight car, which was crowded to overflowing, to Laramie, Wyoming, where we abandoned the freight car and started on the last lap of our journey to Utah by mule teams and covered wagons. Our wagon train was led by a capable man, John R. Murdock. The teamster of our wagon was Joseph Paine, a lad of 16.

We shared our wagon with another family making thirteen in the wagon, so it was impossible for us to ride except on rare occasions, when we were too tired to drag one foot after another. My mother and father took turns carrying a ten month old baby, my sister Emilie, all the way to Utah. I was six years old and my brother Harry was one year older when we crossed the plains and although we started out with light hearts, our enthusiasm wilted considerable before we arrived at our destination. On the sides of the wagon were the water barrels from which we got the water with which to quench our thirst but it was usually hot and not very tasty.

Our journey was a peaceful one, unmarred except by and occasional stray Indian. Despite the fact we saw only a very few Indians, a sharp look-out was kept so that we would not be taken by surprise in case of an attack. As we traveled along the dusty, hot trail, father often shot rabbits and other wild game so that we would have a change of diet. As evening drew near and the wagons were drawn into a circle for the night, I used to go out with the other children and fill my apron with buffalo chips for the fire. Then mother would start out [p.2] to prepare our evening meal and make soda bread, which was as yellow as gold and tasted as bitter as gall. Never in her life before had mother baked bread, as in England a person took their bread to the baker and he baked it for one cent. It was no wonder that our soda bread was so bitter although I think now that is what kept us so well on the trip was the soda in the bread. After the evening meal and when dusk had fallen, from somewhere came the sound of a violin being tuned and then a burst of merry melody. Dancing and singing usually followed, blotting out for the time being the thought of the tedious toil that lay before us. Following this bit of welcome entertainment usually came story telling time. A huge circle was made around the blazing campfire, following a silence, then began the tales of previous happenings and deeds of the Indians. Blood curdling stories of massacres, scalping and raids of the Indians were recited, until the very blood in my veins ran cold and as I gazed beyond the cheerful light of the campfire, each sinister shadow seemed to conceal and Indian, hideously painted and half naked. So terrorizing were some of these stories, that I could hardly move. After the evening prayer, when silence claimed the camp and everybody was asleep, I often lay awake, afraid to even close my eyes.

Death kept pace with us from day to day and claimed many of the pioneers before we reached Salt Lake City on August 19, 1868. We stayed at the tithing yard for three days after we reached Salt Lake City until we got located. . . . [p.3]

BIB: Warner, Mary Ann Chappel, [Autobiography], (MSS B-289), bx. 11, pp. 1-3, (Utah State Historical Society).
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