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Articles/Essays – Volume 21, No. 3
Voyage of the Brooklyn
On 8 November 1845 Saints in the eastern states gathered together in conference at American Hall in New York City and listened to Apostle Orson Pratt deliver an impassioned call to exodus: “Brethren Awake !! Be determined to get out of this evil nation by next spring. We do not want one Saint to be left in the United States by that time. Let every branch in the north, south, east, and west be determined to flee Babylon, either by land or by sea” {Times and Seasons, 1 Dec. 1845; HG 7:520-22). Pratt reminded his audience that for sixteen years the Latter-day Saints had been persecuted. In fact, in the previous few months mobs had torched many Mormon homes around Nauvoo, Illinois (Flanders 1965, 306-41). Pressure was mounting to drive the Mor mons (some 15,000) from the state. On 16 September, hoping to appease the mobs, Brigham Young had publicly announced the Church’s decision to abandon Nauvoo, and the Saints were now hurriedly preparing for a massive over land trek to the West. As a destination, Brigham Young was considering upper California, at that time Mexican territory (which included present-day California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona).
Under instructions from Brigham Young, Pratt announced that Samuel Brannan would organize and lead another group—the first company to go by sea, which would sail from New York and go around Cape Horn to California. Eastern Saints were persuaded that going by sea from New York to California would be less expensive than trekking overland. Thus began preparations for emigration aboard the ship Brooklyn. Both the overland trek from Nauvoo and the voyage from New York had one purpose: to build a new Mormon Zion in the West where the Saints would be free from the conflicts of the past. As if to punctuate the unity of the two journeys, they began on the same day, 4 February 1846. The Brooklyn Saints understood that eventually the two groups would meet at or near the coast of upper California.[1]
What was first envisioned as several voyages in fact became one. But even that one voyage became important in the history of the West. The Brooklyn voyagers were the first group of immigrants to enter California by sea after California was claimed by the United States as the spoils of the Mexican American War. Among the first in California commerce and industry, these immigrants helped build the frontier village of Yerba Buena into a promising San Francisco. They helped discover and, for a time, develop the gold mines. But they also established homes and religious worship and pioneered California agriculture.
Because the main body of Saints stopped their overland migration at the Salt Lake Valley, the Brooklyn Saints were isolated from the Church for a time. Even so, they made important contributions to the Church. Their settlements at the Bay of San Francisco were a way station for many years, and the Mormons there generously assisted the missionaries and Saints traveling between the Pacific and Salt Lake City. They also sent many horticultural starts into the Great Basin. Finally, to be at the center of the Church, most of them were willing a second time to leave all behind and journey to “Zion,” some called in the midst of the 1857 Utah War. They went, not across the plains, but across the formidable Sierras and the Humboldt Sink, or across the desolate southern route out of San Bernardino.
Surprisingly, this smaller part of the western migration has not been nearly so well narrated and celebrated as the overland trek. The story, when told, has too often been fragmentary and sprinkled with fictions and misconceptions. I have turned to the early sources to retell the story of that epochal voyage. The account here must be abbreviated, but I include especially those details which help correct past misconceptions and ambiguities.
The Gathering and Preparations
In mid-winter of January 1846, East Coast Saints planning to go by sea on the first emigration to California were putting their affairs in order and gathering to New York City. They came from all directions: Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. For each, the story was different, but the parting with family and friends was difficult. Daniel Stark recorded in his diary that when he left Boston his older brother Joseph Stark “cried like a baby” (1955, 25). John Horner married Elizabeth Imlay in his parents’ home in New Jersey on 20 January, and the next morning they left for New York, hoping to join with the Saints and improve their economic opportunities. According to Horner, the voyage was for them “both in time and distance a rather uncommon wedding tour” (1898, 249). A few families split up (such as the Mowrys, the Rollins, the Fowlers, the Birds, and the Haskells), part going overland, part going by sea, hoping soon to meet somewhere in the West. For Sarah Burr, the voyage was a special act of courage and faith. She came from upstate New York with her husband and fifteen-month-old son, knowing that within weeks she would be giving birth to her second child (Carter 1960, 521).
Upon arrival in New York City, the emigrants loaded their heavier luggage aboard the Brooklyn and took up lodging with bare essentials at a boarding house reserved by Sam Brannan. Brannan asked them to refer to each other as Mr. and Mrs. rather than Brother and Sister, so as not to attract attention (New York Messenger, 15 Dec. 1845). By profession they were school teachers, farmers, carpenters, millers, coopers, blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoe makers, masons, printers, tailors, dressmakers, weavers, and even midwives and a physician (Brooklyn Passenger Manifest). They had the skills, if necessary, to form a self-sustaining colony.
Though they explored some of bustling lower Manhattan while waiting at the boarding house, they spent a good deal of time discussing “the length of the journey, months upon the water, the dreadful possibilities of sickness at sea, of storms, and then in the event of their really reaching that almost un known shore, the absence of population, the meagerness of supplies, and an almost uncivilized people to meet [the Indians]” (Crocheron 1888, 78). But they also thought about the great adventure and opportunities ahead and the great task of building a new Zion in the West.
Sam Brannan had leased the Brooklyn for $1200 per month plus expenses, and he and Captain Abel W. Richardson[2] were busily preparing the ship for sailing (Times and Seasons, 1 Feb. 1846), hoping to catch the end of the Cape Horn summer. To help pay for the preparations, passengers had prepaid their fare of seventy-five dollars per adult and half that for children (Times and Seasons, 15 Jan. 1846).
The Brooklyn was not the most likely vessel for such a voyage. A fully rigged ship of modest size, the Brooklyn was only about 125 feet long, about 28 feet across the beams, and weighed only 445 tons {Brooklyn Ship Registrations ). Some of the passengers doubted that the ship was seaworthy. Promoted in the New York Messenger as “a first class ship, in the best of order for sea .. . a very fast sailor” {Times and Seasons, 1 Feb. 1846), the Brooklyn was perhaps more correctly described as “old and almost worn out . . . one of the old time build . . . made more for work than beauty . . . [with] unmistakable signs of weakness and decay” (Crocheron 1888, 79). One passenger described the ship as just a “staunch tub of a whaler” (Skinner 1915, 2). Well-worn from eleven years of hard service, having survived such disasters as sprung masts and a head-on collision, and having traveled the world (Radcliffe 1923, 73—74), the Brooklyn was now at a disadvantage when competing with newer, larger, and more efficient ships. So by 1846 the Brooklyn was still seaworthy, but well patched, in declining years, and “leased because she could be had cheap” (Crocheron 1888, 79).
Originally used as a merchantman, the Brooklyn needed remodeling to carry such a large company of passengers on one of the longest voyages in the world. Working quickly, laborers installed thirty-two small staterooms (with bunks) in two rows on the outsides of ‘tween-decks and vents and skylights to give passengers required ventilation and light. Between the staterooms they built a long table with benches for meetings, activities, and meals. Space was tight; taller passengers had to stoop when walking between decks. Workers also improved a galley on deck, equipping it with enough cooking surface for 400 people.
Captain Abel W. Richardson was an experienced ship’s master and was part owner of the ship (Brooklyn Ship Registrations). By reputation, wrote Brannan, he was “one of the most skillful seamen that has ever sailed from this [New York] port, and bears an excellent moral character” (Times and Seasons, 1 Jan. 1846). He came from a family of devout Baptists. John Homer described the crew as men of above-average morals and stated that “Unbecoming language was seldom heard on board” (1906, 796). They were all temperance men. Captain Richardson took as his first mate his nephew Joseph W. Richardson. A second mate, steward, cook, and twelve seamen made up the rest of the crew. The passengers also hired two blacks as their cook and steward. Two non-Mormons, Frank Ward and Edward von Pfister, also signed on as cabin passengers, traveling for business {Brooklyn Shipping Articles; Brooklyn Passenger Manifest).
Into the hold of the Brooklyn went 800 pounds of paying freight to be delivered to the Sandwich Islands (Hawaii). Some of the eastern Saints (John Van Cott, John Neff, Levi E. Riter, and others) chose to go overland to the West but sent bulky cargo, such as household belongings, on the Brooklyn, hoping to receive it later on the West Coast (Carter 1946, 402). Workers packed agricultural and mechanical tools to equip at least 800 men into the hold of the ship.
There were ploughs, hoes, forks, shovels, spades, plough irons, scythes, sickles, nails, glass, Blacksmith’s tools, Carpenter’s tools, Millwright’s tools, three grain mills for grinding grain, turning lathes, saw mill irons, grinding stones, one printing press and type, paper, stationary, school books, consisting of spelling books, sequels, history, arithmetic, astronomy, grammar, Morse’s Atlas and Geography, Hebrew Grammar and Lexicon, slates, etc. etc. Also dry goods, twine, etc., brass, copper, iron, tin and crockery ware (Times and Seasons, 15 Feb. 1846).
They even stowed away a cache of muskets and fifty Allen revolvers (pepper boxes), the latest in handguns (Eagar n.d., 3). To all this they added “large hogsheads of fresh water from Croton Lake” (Stark 1955, 26), provisions for a six- to seven-month voyage, crates of chickens, and forty to fifty pigs. Even two milch cows were stanchioned on board. And at a party the night before they departed, Joshua M. Van Cott (prominent Brooklyn attorney and president of the Hamilton Literary Society), presented the voyagers with 179 volumes of the Harper Family Library.[3]
During the last days before sailing, Brannan, who already had endless details to take care of, became embroiled in negotiations over possible government interference with the voyage because they intended to settle in Mexican territory. Given the expansionist mood in Washington, a voyage of Americans to Mexican California might have been welcomed. (The sequence of events in Texas could have been repeated: immigration, independence, and then annexation.) Because of their reason for leaving, however, there may have been doubts about their loyalty to the States once in California. And it could have been claimed they should not be allowed to go armed into a foreign state. Conveniently, Amos Kendall and A. G. Benson (representing “secret” interests in Washington) presented them with a warning—and a deal. Not only would the Brooklyn Saints be prevented from leaving, but the Nauvoo Saints would not be allowed to travel overland to California. However, if the Saints would agree to turn over half the land they acquired in the West, these “secret” interests would act to ensure their safe departure. Sam Brannan wanted to accept the offer, intending later to disavow it. But Brigham Young considered the offer a swindle and rejected it outright. However, his decision did not get back to Brannan before sailing time. Not knowing the substance of the threats, Brannan spread information that perhaps, after all, they were sailing for Oregon rather than California (CHC 3:33-39; HC 7:587-91).
The Sailing of the Brooklyn
On Wednesday, 4 February 1846, after the passing of a snowstorm, the emigrating Saints and about a dozen non-Mormon passengers began assembling at the Old Slip on the East River, where the Brooklyn was moored. Seventy men and about sixty women and 100 children boarded the ship with apprehension and excitement.[4] Friends, relatives, and curious onlookers had packed the wharves, some climbing on ships in the vicinity to get a better view. For a time, as one newspaper noted, “the sun shown down brightly upon them, and gave omen of a pleasant voyage” (New York Herald, 5 Feb. 1846). The Saints on the pier joined in some hymns and a song about going to California. Three lusty cheers swelled from the crowd and were echoed by three more from the Brooklyn. The exchange was repeated again and again. Then at 2 P.M. on that wintry but promising day the hawsers were released and the Brooklyn swung around into the channel. The steamboat Samson, a two decked ferry (Swede 1968), moved to the Brooklyn’s side, attached, and pulled her out past the tip of Manhattan, down through the Narrows, through Lower Bay, and off Sandy Hook. Last goodbyes were exchanged, the steamboat dis engaged, and sails unfurled. The Brooklyn’s topsails and jib caught the breeze and steadily the ship moved out into a frigid, choppy Atlantic, finally dis appearing from view (Appleby 1848, 158-62; Times and Seasons, 15 Feb. 1846; Kemble 1963, 16-19).
Through this same harbor immigrants arrived almost daily from the Old World seeking religious and political freedom and economic opportunity. Surprisingly, here were some 230 Latter-day Saints—men, women, and children—leaving this very port for the same reasons, embarking on a journey five times the length of the Mayflower voyage, abandoning home, family, friends, and country to begin anew in an unknown part of the world.
The next day, 5 February 1846, the New York Herald paid tribute to the courageous, seaward pioneers: “Those hardy, bold pioneers—who (quitting their home, and leaving the pleasant associations which cling around the scenes of their childhood) hew down forests and build up cities, and make the wilder ness bud and blossom—deserve our sympathies and most heart felt wishes of success” (punctuation added).
Four days out into the Gulf Stream the Brooklyn encountered a frightening gale. The crew quickly prepared the ship for the worst, lashing the helm and furling all sails except a storm jib connected to the main mast. The gale howled through the spars and rigging. Soon “mountain high” waves were breaking over the deck and pounding like thunder against the creaky hull. The ship pitched to the billows and plunged into cavernous troughs. Passengers were shut in the hold, “tossed about like feathers in a sack” (Skinner 1915, 2). At one point the situation grew so precarious that Captain Richardson feared his very cabin would be smashed and swept from the deck. He came down to the passengers with a fearful expression, only to find the voyagers in their dim lit chamber loudly singing hymns to drown out the storm and bolster their own courage. They gathered around him to catch his words. “My friends,” he said, “there is a time in every man’s life when it is fitting that he should prepare to die. That time has come to us, and unless God interposes, we shall all go to the bottom; I have done all in my power, but this is the worst gale I have ever known since I was a master of a ship.” Many shared the captain’s fear, but one answered, “Captain Richardson, we were sent to California and we shall get there.” Another exclaimed, “Captain, I have no more fear than though we were on solid land.” The captain stared in disbelief at such remarks and was heard to say in leaving, “They are either fools and fear nothing, or they know more than I do” (Crocheron 1888, 81).
Day after day the ship tossed and rolled. Without upper canvas, there was little to steady the ship against the roll of the waves. All the passengers were seasick. No fires were allowed, and those few who could eat had to subsist on hardtack (sea biscuits) and water. In the words of one passenger:
Women and children were at night lashed to their berths, for in no other way could they keep in. Furniture rolled back and forth endangering limb and life . . . [the] only light was from two [whale oil] lamps hung outside the hall and these were dim and wavering from the movements of the vessel. Children’s voices crying in the dark ness, mother’s voices soothing or scolding, men’s voices rising above the others, all mingled with the distressing groans of the sick for help. . . . And yet even there amid such scenes a few were cheerful and sought to comfort others” (Crocheron 1888, 81).
The ship had laid-to in the storm for four days when Captain Richardson and an unidentified passenger, Baptist and Mormon, found themselves on deck together surveying the fury of the relentless storm, watching the spars whip with the roll of the ship. The passenger related, “Captain Richardson (God bless the man) and myself stood watching those noble sticks that have since done us such good service, with our hearts lifted up to the God of nations to spare them in his mercy. He did so, and the next day the ship flew before the wind like a thing of magic” (“Progress,” 1846).
It was refreshing (especially for the children) to come topside, breathe fresh air, and experience new-found sea legs. There was much to clean up after the storm. Unfortunately, the two cows had been killed by the pitching and rolling of the ship. Four-year-old James Skinner stared in amazement as they were “hoisted by block and tackle, swung over the ship’s side, then dumped in the sea—food for sharks!” (Skinner 1915, 1)
These small pioneers had little difficulty adapting to the voyage. It would be years before it would be considered wise to send women and children around the Horn. But here were 100 children sharing the hardships and blazing the way. Throughout the voyage they could be found on deck attending school, jumping rope, or playing their many games. Shortly after the storm, another child was added to their number. Sarah Burr gave birth to a son, appropriately named John Atlantic Burr (Carter 1946, 521).
With the storm behind them, Sam Brannan appointed E. Ward Pell and Isaac Robbins as his counselors and began organizing activities and enforcing the twenty-one rules and regulations drawn up before departure. At the beating of reveille at 6:00 A.M. all were to rise, dress, wash hands and face, and “comb their heads.” Each activity of the day had its appointed hour: passengers were told when to clean, when to eat, when to count the sick, when to be on deck or in the staterooms, and when to enjoy amusements. They were to retire at 9:00 P.M. One activity followed the next, each announced by the clanging, double-beat staccato of the ship’s bells. The whole company was divided into watches and took turns as officers of the day. Captain Richardson held weekly religious services—on deck, weather permitting. At 11:00 A.M. each Sabbath all were to attend, “shaved, and washed clean, so as to appear in a manner becoming the solemn, and holy occasion.” Sam Brannan was a frequent speaker. They organized a choir and enjoyed many solos and congregational hymns (Kemble 1963, 20; Times and Seasons, 15 Feb. 1846; Stark 1955, 26).
Meals were mostly hardtack and salt junk (cured meat), with a few changes now and again, such as apple duff (a doughy pudding boiled in a canvas bag) served every Thursday (Skinner 1915, 3). The single girls served the meals on tin dishes.
At this point Sam Brannan devised a way to keep control of the Saints and keep them working together even after they reached California. He formed in writing an organization called “Samuel Brannan and Company” which would hold all the assets aboard the Brooklyn. Those wishing to become part of the company were required to sign articles of agreement, essentially as follows:
1. They would unite to form one company.
2. They would, as a single body, make every effort to pay the debt of transportation.
3. They would, with one accord, make preparations for members of the Church who were coming overland.
4. They would give the proceeds of their labor for the next three years to a common fund from which all were to have a living.
5. If any refused to obey the laws laid down, they should be expelled. 6. In the event all the Saints departed from the covenants the common property was to rest with the Elders, and if the Elders fell from grace, the common fund was to pass to the First Elder (Bailey 1959, 61-62).
The “First Elder” was, of course, Sam Brannan. Everyone signed the agreement, because if they didn’t they would land destitute on the western shores. But they resented what they considered unfairness in the agreement, the absolute authority it gave to Sam Brannan. It was the source of a growing resentment among the Saints toward Brannan.
Down the Atlantic to the Horn
The storm and the variable winds had driven them well along on their intended route. They continued bearing east, gradually turning to the south. Within three weeks the ship entered the northeast trade winds and passed near the Cape Verde Islands off the west coast of Africa. It seemed strange to go nearly to Africa on the way around the Horn, but given the winds and the currents of the Atlantic, this was the quickest route to California, a route already well used by China traders, hide and tallow merchants, and Pacific whalers. By entering the northeast trades so far to the east, they could get past Cape San Roque (the eastern extension of Brazil) without beating against the trades to keep from being driven against the northern shore of South America (see map). This route would cause them to go an extra thousand miles but would shave a couple of weeks off their voyage. Still, this voyage from the eastern to the western shores of North America was regarded as the longest point-to-point voyage in the world, in time as well as in distance (Maury 1855; Somerville 1923).
They were now traveling between the tropics. Flying fish abounded, flushed out by the prow, fluttering over the surface of the sea on lacy gauze wings. Porpoises raced along with the ship, sometimes leaping high into the air (Stark 1955, 26). Despite these visual pleasures, many already felt the monotony of the voyage. To overcome boredom, many turned to the Harper Family Library, enjoying books about travel, popular science, and history, as well as biographies, adventure stories, and poetry (“Progress,” 1846). Augusta Joyce Crocheron related one passenger’s solution to the boredom:
The sharks . . . followed the ship for food thrown overboard. One very daring young man used to take a curious kind of pleasure in lowering himself over the deck down to where he would be barely out of their reach, as an aggravating temptation to them. Evidently he did not share the nervous apprehensions of his wife nor the superstitions entertained by the sailors. After we reached the Sandwich Islands he practiced the same feat at the almost extinct volcano, and narrowly escaped suffocation (1888, 82).
Eventually the Brooklyn reached the equator, where the crew, in the traditions of King Neptune, played “tricks and jokes” on the passengers. It was an easy way to lift spirits. Near there the Brooklyn was caught in the doldrums. If sailors feared anything on the oceans like the storms it was the doldrums, those dead calms at the confluence of the northeast and southeast trades pro duced at the thermal equator. The Brooklyn sat for two to three days with limp sails in the muggy, oppressive heat, motionless on a sea “like molten glass” (Skinner 1915, 3). They rigged an awning to protect the passengers from the sun, which at noon burned down from straight overhead. James H. Skinner reported that the air seemed “as if it came out of a furnace. . . . It was so hot that the pitch was drawn out of the ship’s seams” (1915, 3-4). Finally, the winds stirred into life, picked up the sails, and gently wafted the ship out to the full southeast trades. Soon those trades and the variables carried the Brooklyn swiftly down toward the Cape.
Of all the hardships the travelers endured on the voyage, the most difficult to bear were the deaths among the passengers. James H. Skinner recalled as a four-year-old listening to a service aboard ship and watching a shrouded corpse resting on a plank. The plank was raised, he later remembered, just enough to let “the corpse gently slide off, and disappear into the mighty and lonesome ocean, my mother holding me tight in her arms, as if in fear that I, too, might find a watery grave” (1915, 1). Some preferred to bear their sorrows in private. Phoebe Robbins was on deck one night and saw some sober-faced men gently lower a tiny bundle into the sea. Within days she too would do the same with first one and then another of her own children (Carter 1960, 572). Sarah Burr, who gave birth to her son John three weeks after leaving New York, lost her three-year-old son Charles after another three weeks (Carter 1960, 521). In all, ten passengers and one of the crew died while at sea, and, as reported in the Honolulu Friend, another infant died at the Sandwich Islands, left behind with his family because of sickness (15 July 1846). The passengers died of such diseases as diarrhea, scarlet fever, consumption, cankered sore throat, and dropsy of the stomach[5] (The Friend, 1 July 1846; The Polynesian, 27 June 1846). These deaths and the recorded dates, latitudes, and longitudes now mark the route of the Brooklyn.
The Brooklyn voyagers approached the Horn—truly the graveyard of the oceans—with considerable apprehension. It was common knowledge that the supreme test of a bold seaman was going west around the Horn. Violent, changeable winds blew there from every quarter, often accompanied by hail and sleet. Westerly winds outnumbered easterlies three to one. Crews could beat against these winds to exhaustion trying to gain position west. Because of the force and persistence of the westerlies, waves—sometimes in towering crests, sometimes in long, giant swells—could reach a height seldom seen in other parts of the world. But the captain did not fight the westerlies. Instead, he used a tactic recognized and followed by many at that time (Maury 1834); he stood ready to take advantage of the easterlies (when they occurred) to gain position west, but mostly he bore directly south with the westerlies, where gaining longitude west would be easier. After four days, this strategy had taken them as far as 60 degrees south latitude (“Progress,” 1846). For days they had barely a glimpse of the sun. Finally they encountered a south wind which carried them sufficiently west of the Cape where they then hauled to the north. John Horner couldn’t help but note their extreme good fortune: “It was fine weather when we doubled Cape Horn. The women were making bread, pies, cakes, frying doughnuts, etc., and the children were playing and romping about the deck” (1906, 797).
North upon the Pacific
Soon the Brooklyn was moving north along the Chilean coast, out of view of land. After three months on the sea the passengers were growing weary of their fare. Provisions were becoming scarce and stale.
The drinking water grew thick and ropy with slime, so that it had to be strained between the teeth, and the taste was dreadful. One pint a day was the allowance to each person to carry to his stateroom. . . . Still worse grew the condition of the ship. . . . Rats abounded in the vessel; cockroaches and smaller vermin infested the provisions, until eternal vigilance was the price imposed upon every mouthful (Crocheron 1888, 82).
The passengers were growing desperate to reach Valparaiso—the intended port for fresh provisions. Some even voiced doubts that Captain Richardson knew where he was. Those doubts were soon dissipated, however, as the captain took the Brooklyn closer to shore and came in view of the highest point of the Andes—Mount Aconcagua, not far from Valparaiso (Horner 1906, 797).[6] Excitement arose as the Saints anticipated walking the streets of that port city.
Unfortunately, the Brooklyn never reached Valparaiso. While trying for that port, another severe gale drove the ship back against the Cape. Again the passengers were hatched below. The storm was not as severe as the one they had endured in the Atlantic (Horner 1906, 798), but still the crew had to fight the elements to ride out the storm and preserve the ship. One sailor was washed overboard but was able to hang on to a floating board until the crew could rescue him. Laura Goodwin, pregnant and traveling with her husband Isaac and seven children, lost her footing with the pitching of the ship and was thrown down a companionway. She went into premature labor and developed complications. She pled with her grief-stricken family that she not be buried in the sea and, after lingering, finally died (Crocheron 1888, 81; “Progress,” 1846).
For three days the ship had scudded before the gale, and because of an easterly was unable to get into port. Now they were even more desperate for supplies. So the captain abandoned Valparaiso as a destination and set the Brooklyn to ride the wind for Juan Fernandez (or Mas-a-tierra), some 360 miles off the coast of Chile.
Passengers first caught sight of Juan Fernandez in the early morning rays of 4 May. They could gradually make out the towering peaks jutting out of the ocean and the shifting clouds condensed on those peaks from the Pacific air stream. Excitedly they anticipated their first landing since New York and an opportunity to obtain dearly needed supplies. Juan Fernandez, of course, was well known as the island where Robinson Crusoe was marooned. Supposedly, Alexander Selkirk’s experiences there became the basis for Daniel Defoe’s fictional classic. There had been many settlements on the island by 1846, but because of earthquakes and invasions, only two families—eight isolated Chilinos—now remained. These Chilinos lived in primitive huts and leisurely subsisted on nature. Some of that “nature,” of course, had been imported. The island abounded in untended fruit trees, continually reseeding vegetables, and animals (goats, hares, and pigs) which ran wild from previous settlements (Crocheron 1888, 81-82; Woodward 1969; “Progress,” 1846).
By 1:00 P.M. on 4 May the Brooklyn was anchoring in small, half-moon Cumberland Bay on the northeast side of the island, with passengers impatient to refresh themselves on land and to explore this lonely Pacific outpost. From the beach of Cumberland Bay the land sloped back just enough for a small settlement and then gave way to sharp valleys and steep, jagged mountains. Some of the peaks rose to misty summits covered with exotic trees and lush ferns (Skottsberg 1918). Along with the pleasures of going ashore, however, was the sad task of burying their dear sister, Laura Goodwin. Augusta Joyce Crocheron later wrote:
Although the occasion was so sorrowful, the presence of the six little children sobbing in uncontrollable grief and the father in his loneliness trying to comfort them, still, such was our weariness of the voyage that the sight of and tread upon terra firma once more was such a relief from the ship life that we gratefully realized and enjoyed it. The passengers bathed and washed their clothing in the fresh water, gathered fruit and potatoes, caught fish, some eels, great spotted creatures that looked so much like snakes that some members of the company could not eat them when cooked. We rambled about the island, visited the caves, one of which was pointed out to us as the veritable “Robinson Crusoe’s cave,” and it was my good fortune to take a sound nap there one pleasant afternoon (1888, 82).
Augusta at this time was a child (nearly two years old), napping under the watchful eye of her mother, Caroline Joyce, who was now enjoying a respite in what to her was a voyage of incredible hardship. Years later, at the end of her life, she would relate again the story of the voyage to Augusta and note: “Of all the unpleasant memories, not one half so bitter as that dreary six months’ voyage in the emigrant ship” (Crocheron 1884, 101). Others were just grateful to have arrived safely this far. One penned in a letter from the island, “The ship has proved herself to be better than she was represented, and our Captain and first mate have been good and kind to our company” (“Progress,” 1846).
The weary voyagers quickly replenished the ship’s supplies. They found fresh water only two rods from the beach, poured about 18,000 gallons into casks, and loaded it aboard the ship. They also stowed away bundled firewood from the steep hillsides and salted barrels of fish. Juan Fernandez may have been a second-choice destination, but here they avoided the high cost of sup plies and the port duty at Valparaiso. After five days the ship was ready to set sail.
The Brooklyn retrieved anchor on 9 May and set a course for the Sandwich Islands. In this part of the voyage the Pacific was true to its name, an expanse of peace. The breezes were gentle and steady, so they used a maximum of sail to make the best time. It was a rare and beautiful moment seeing the ship gliding across the sea with a full complement of sail. Edward Kemble, along to help Sam Brannan pioneer the west coast printing trade, remembered it well:
What a dreamy, delightful period of unbroken sea voyaging . . . were those weeks that followed the short delay at Robinson Crusoe’s island! Riding gayly along with all sails set before a six or seven knot breeze, over a sea just sufficiently agitated to give grateful variety to a motion without retarding progress—not a sail touched not a brace started until the peaks of Hawaii shot up into sight—the remembrance of those cool days and nights in the Pacific “Trades ” will be a “joy forever” (1963, 22).
William Glover gave a less poetic summary of the passage to Hawaii: “We were becalmed a few days near the equator. Nothing transpired worthy of note till we landed at Wauhooane [Oahu]” (1954, 16). But for others, those days were indeed noteworthy. Phoebe Robbins, after burying two sons in the Atlantic, gave birth to a daughter—Georgiana Pacific Robbins—just a week before they arrived at Oahu (Carter 1960, 572). Also, Sam Brannan, partly to occupy the men and partly to prepare for the uncertain events at landing, had Robert Smith and Samuel Ladd lead the other men in daily military drills on deck. The captain soon ordered the drills stopped and instead had the crew make military preparations. In the words of Kemble, “Two rusty old guns were fished up out of the hold, pounded free from rust, cleaned, mounted, loaded and put in position; boarding pikes were manufactured and cutlasses sharpened” (1963, 22). Perhaps, as the passengers interpreted, the captain stopped their drills because he feared mutiny. In any case, it seems at least he was reminded that when leaving New York there had been rumors of impending war with Mexico, and he himself needed to prepare for all eventualities. Not until the Brooklyn arrived at Honolulu Harbor on 20 June and anchored outside the reef beside an American warship (the forty-four gun Congress) did the captain’s worries subside.
But the presence of a U.S. warship did not end Sam Brannan’s concerns. He also remembered the rumors that the Saints might be searched and interfered with if they attempted to sail to Mexican California. Commodore Robert F. Stockton of the U.S. Navy, commander of the Congress, boarded the Brooklyn and met with Sam Brannan and his counselors, informing them that the United States and Mexico had already engaged in military combat, that our government was contemplating seizing California, that the Congress was about to leave for the California coast, and that perhaps the order to capture seaport towns had already been given. The Saints had not anticipated these complications. They had voyaged nearly five months so far, thinking they were leaving the United States. Now there was the possibility that their intended destination would soon become U.S. territory. Even if it did not, it would be held by forces now hostile to Americans.
Commodore Stockton not only informed them of the threatening news, he encouraged them to go and hold Yerba Buena, an Anglo-American colony on the San Francisco Bay, in the name of the United States. According to Edward Kemble,
There were long faces and wrathful words . . . and whispered consultations under the ship’s hatches at the assembling for prayers the evening these unpleasant tidings were made known. Nor was the news made more agreeable by the intimation (frequently thrown out during the remainder of their stay on the Islands) that they would be expected to render assistance in the conquest of the country to which they were going. The arms they held in their hands they were ready enough to use, as originally in tended, for their own protection, or for any needful acquisitions under the banner of the Church. But to help establish the authority of the United States again over them was a very wide departure from the original plans, if not in direct antagonism with their designs (1963, 24).
Some wanted to go on to Oregon, some back home to the East. However, after considering the changed situation carefully, the voyagers decided to move on as planned, hoping for the best but preparing for the worst. Now their safety was of first importance, and it was some comfort knowing that the war ship Congress was also leaving for California.
The next day, Sunday, 21 June, the Brooklyn and the Congress were joined at anchor by the U.S. store barque Erie. Because of the dangers ahead, Stockton (instead of confiscating the arms aboard the Brooklyn) suggested Brannan purchase additional arms, which he did, buying condemned Navy muskets at three and four dollars each. Early the next morning, a pilot arrived and escorted the Erie and the Brooklyn into port. They left the Congress out side the reef to finish preparing for departure to Monterey (Log of Congress; Log of Erie).[7]
Brannan wanted no complications on this final leg of their voyage. Long before they reached Honolulu he instructed the passengers not to discuss religion with the people on shore, and that if asked what Mormonism was, they were to say it was “to mind one’s own business” (Kemble 1963, 22-23). Such a curt response, they soon found, was inappropriate in the warm and welcoming atmosphere of Honolulu. Hundreds came to see them land. So friendly were the residents that Kemble called their short stay “the most delightful episode of their long voyage” (1963, 23). Sam Brannan even abandoned his own advice and accepted an invitation from Rev. Samuel C. Damon to deliver a Sunday sermon at nondenominational Seaman’s Bethel near the wharves (The Polynesian, 27 June 1846; Damon 1933). This was no doubt the first Mormon sermon preached on the island. On behalf of the Brooklyn passengers, Sam Brannan donated $48.00 for Rev. Damon’s ministry (The Friend, 1 July 1846).
The crew unloaded 500 barrels of freight and replenished the ship’s sup plies, including fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats. At least part of the unloaded cargo was an assorted supply of Bibles for Rev. Damon (The Friend, 1 July 1846). During the unloading and loading of cargo, the passengers explored the island. Frank Ward appeared before King Kamehameha III to thank him for his generous hospitality (The Polynesian, 27 June 1846). Some natives came on board the Brooklyn and were captivated by the nine-month old identical twins, Sarah and Hannah Kittleman. They were allowed to take the twins to show Queen Kalama, who then sent back many gifts (Carter 1960, 561). Some of the Saints attended the native church services.
Toward the end of their stay, Rev. Damon published an extensive article in his biweekly newspaper, The Friend (1 July), about the history and beliefs of the Church. He included comments from an interview with Captain Richardson:
Of their [the Saints’] general behavior and character, he speaks in the most favorable manner. They have lived in peace together, and uniformly appeared to be quiet and orderly. They are going with full determination of making a settlement … . During most of the passage they have maintained orderly and well conducted daily religious exercises, which still continue while lying in port.
Rev. Damon concluded the article with his best wishes:
This numerous company of emigrants are soon to leave for their new home; may it prove more peaceful than the one they have left. So far as their minds may have been led to embrace error, may it be renounced. That we differ on many essential points of doctrine and practice is clearly manifest, yet our best wishes and prayers go with them. May the fostering smiles of a kind and benignant Providence rest upon them. They are to lay the foundations of a society, and institutions, social, civil and religious. O, may they be such that coming generations shall rise up and call them blessed.
More than 600 ships a year frequented the Sandwich Islands at this time. It was a stop on the China trade route and, more important, a base of operations for whalers in the North Pacific. But ships seldom ventured from there to the California coast, and most that did were trading ships, hide droghers. The Brooklyn carried the first shipload of families intending to settle in California, and Brannan reported that others would follow and would be met by even larger groups coming overland. The islanders foresaw that a sizeable colony on the California coast would be of great commercial benefit to Honolulu.
From the Sandwich Isles to California
The Brooklyn sailed from Honolulu on 30 June,[8] leaving behind Orrin Smith and family because of sickness and picking up three additional passengers bound for California {The Polynesian, 4 July 1846). The travelers later dis covered they had also picked up unwelcome passengers. Two mutineers being held in the fort near the wharves escaped and stowed away on the Brooklyn just before it sailed {The Friend, 15 June 1846; The Polynesian, 11 July 1846; Log of Portsmouth, 1 Aug. 1846).[9]
A few days out, the Saints held a modest but spirited Fourth of July celebration : they hoisted flags, fired a volley from their antique firearms, and sang a few patriotic songs (Horner 1906, 798). Then sailing towards the Bay of San Francisco, the men of the company began military drills in earnest, this time with the consent of the captain. By now they even had uniforms (caps and suits), which the women had made from blue denim (Kemble 1963, 24-25).
At this time, Sam Brannan also excommunicated four Mormon passengers for doctrinal errors and moral misconduct.[10] Many of the Saints felt he had moved with undue harshness. Even Edward Kemble, a non-Mormon by stander, thought Brannan had overplayed the issue. He noted that even though the passengers shared close quarters, there was “rarely an infraction of discipline or decorum among the members of the company, even in the most trying times.” As for moral misconduct, Kemble also noted, “probably no emigrant ship ever crossed the ocean—certainly none ever sailed to California—whose female passengers at the end of a long voyage preserved their reputations as unspotted as those of the Brooklyn” (1963, 17). Brannan’s action more deeply estranged him from the other passengers.[11]
On the morning of Friday, 31 July 1846, the Brooklyn sailed boldly into the mist-shrouded headlands of San Francisco Bay. The captain had proved to be a skilled navigator. Throughout the trip, John Horner later pointed out, “He hit everything he aimed at, and nothing which he did not want to hit” (1906, 796-96). All passengers were on deck, eagerly straining to see through the clearing fog the details of their new home. Suddenly they sighted an old fort, Castillo de San Joaquin, high on the bluff to the right, and all but the crew were relegated below deck as the Brooklyn drew within range of the shore bound guns. What they didn’t know was that the fort was deserted and these guns were antiquated and encrusted beyond use.
Anxiously and quietly the ship slipped past the fort. The passengers returned cautiously to the deck as a great inland sea opened to their view—”the bleak treeless shores . . . the faded verdure of early Autumn . . . the lines of the soldier pelicans winging their measured flight just above the foamy crest of the waves . . . the startled myriads of black fowl . . . the islands . . . the rocky shores of the mainland” (Kemble 1963, 7-8).
This wondrous view was suddenly brought short as they sighted a sail. “Slowly and grimly it loomed into the full proportions of a man-of-war—a Yankee man-of-war at anchor” (Kemble 1963, 8). They had caught sight of the twenty-gun Portsmouth captained by Commander John B. Montgomery. Also in Yerba Buena Cove with the Portsmouth were two whalers and two or three hide droghers. Montgomery had arrived two months earlier and remained at first, ostensibly, as a passive observer of the Bear-Flag Rebellion and of Captain Fremont’s maneuvers. However, when additional orders arrived, Montgomery and his crew became military invaders, claiming Yerba Buena as U.S. territory.
As the Brooklyn approached the cove, it in turn was sighted causing sudden commotion on board the Portsmouth and on shore. The boatswain’s whistle signaled the crew. “Drums beat to quarters, guns were shotted and trained” (Kemble 1963, 8), but then the Portsmouth crew sighted the women on board and recognized the Brooklyn’s peaceful intentions. The Yerba Buena Battery fired a cannon salute, and a return echoed from the Brooklyn. Soon a rowboat reached the Brooklyn, and uniformed men climbed aboard. One of them loudly proclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to inform you that you are in the United States of America” (Grocheron 1888, 83). He couldn’t have known what mixed emotions those words would bring. Many of the Saints had hoped that they would land first, and (as Bancroft pointed out) not have to request favors from a government that would not protect them from mobs in Missouri and Illinois (Bancroft 1886, 5:551). On the other hand, they had no desire to become a vanguard colonization in the midst of war. “Three hearty cheers were given in reply from faint and weary lips, but rising from hearts strong, brave, hopeful, and loyal still” (Crocheron 1888, 83).
Sam Brannan and a few of the others were taken to the Portsmouth while the Saints, from the deck of the Brooklyn, studied this quaint little cove where, supposedly, they would soon be unloading. This was Yerba Buena, named for the good herbs (mint) that grew there. At this time the town had about 200 inhabitants and about fifty adobe and frame buildings (houses, saloons, shops, and sheds), scattered with little apparent order since lots were not fenced and the streets were not developed (Brown 1939; Soule et al. 1855, 173). Augusta Joyce Crocheron recounted the scene:
A long, sandy beach strewn with hides and skeletons of slaughtered cattle, a few scrubby oaks, farther back low sand hills rising behind each other as a background to a few old shanties that leaned away from the wind, an old adobe barracks, a few donkeys plodding dejectedly along beneath towering bundles of wood, a few loungers stretched lazily upon the beach as though nothing could astonish them (1888, 83).
The suspicions and curiosity of the Brooklyn passengers were easily matched by those of the Portsmouth crew. They had been almost bored by the anti climactic “capture” of Yerba Buena and the weeks that followed. General Jose Castro’s forces of about 150 men, including a few militia from Yerba Buena—the entire military force of northern California—had retreated south to Santa Clara and on to Santa Barbara, looking for reinforcements from Governor Pio Pico. The officials and other Californians of the village had fled also, fearing the worst. So the assault on Yerba Buena entailed, primarily, rowing ashore, marching to the village square, and running Old Glory up the flagpole in front of the newly constructed customs house. Since then they had laid at anchor for three weeks, with little to do except build a crude battery which overlooked the cove. Yeoman Joseph T. Downey recalled, “Time . . . began to hang heavily on our hands, and many a growl was sent up at our long tarry here . . . when all at once on [Friday][12] afternoon . . . without signal or warning, round the point came booming along a full-rigged ship, crowded with men and bearing our flag at her peak” (1956, 43). They soon learned that this was the Brooklyn from New York with a load of Mormon immigrants. Downey continued,
The arrival of Mormons in Yerba Buena, a sect we had heard so much, was an event which caused great surprise and no little share of excitement in our colony. Curiosity was raised to the highest pitch, and surmises ran rife among all the inhabitants. The stories of their adventures in Illinois and Missouri had preceded them, and a vague idea seemed to predominate that they were a wild and desperate people, and that trouble would soon arise from their arrival[13] (1956, 45).
So Brannan and the others were brought to Commander Montgomery’s cabin, where they exchanged plans and concerns to Montgomery’s satisfaction.
Montgomery described the situation in a letter (2 Aug. 1846) to the new officials in Monterey: “The emigrants who have determined to remain at this place for the present, consisting of 80 men, completely armed, organized and drilled as a military company, have promptly tendered their services to me should any emergency arise which I do not apprehend [anticipate]. I feel very strong however under the circumstances [of these additional forces].” Officials gave the immigrants permission to disembark and to unload all their possessions free of duty. They began unloading at a rocky point near the battery (later called Clark’s Point) and began setting up accommodations on shore for their first night in their new land. A few families found vacant homes. Sixteen families stayed in the barracks or customs house, which they separated into apartments using quilt partitions. Others pitched white tents around the village square in military fashion, lit campfires, and set up outdoor cooking facilities.
Commander Montgomery was known as a deeply religious man who studied the scriptures daily (Downy 1958, 9, 79). He invited the Saints to join him for Sunday services aboard the Portsmouth. His invitation was no doubt sincere, but according to Yeoman Downey, the crew of the man-of-war had other ideas.
Anxiety to see and examine the female portion of this strange sect was apparent on the faces of all. At the appointed hour the quarter deck was cleared, the awnings spread, the chairs from the ward room and cabin placed for the ladies, the capstan bars ranged as seats for the men, and the boats called away to bring the visitors. When on their return with their live cargoes they hauled alongside the gangway, the whole ship’s company was collected on the larboard side of the spar deck, and every eye was fixed on the ladder, anxious to get a first peep at that portion of the human family which is generally denominated the better half of man. Over they came, and as they followed one another, curiosity appeared to fade away, and ere the last had seated herself in the chair appropriated for her, a long-drawn sigh of disappointment escaped from that large crowd, and a dilapidated specimen of a Quarter Gunner growled out, in no very sweet tones, “D-mnation! Why, they are just like other women.” And so they were; sect, creed, or religion had not changed the human form divine, and they sat as meek and smiling as though they had no religion at all. Services over, they one and all partook of a lunch with the Captain and Lieutenants, inspected the ship all over, and then took their leave, having created a most favorable impression among the hardy Tars of the good ship Portsmouth (1956, 46).
Monday morning the unloading of the Brooklyn continued, assisted by the crew and boats of the Portsmouth. Arriving when they did, instead of three to four weeks earlier, the Brooklyn passengers not only had this help but avoided about $20,000 in import duty (Millennial Star, 15 Oct. 1846), assuming of course that they would have been allowed to land. The Portsmouth tars marvelled at the cargo, “the most heterogeneous mass of materials ever crowded together; in fact it seemed as if, like the ship of Noah, it contained a representative of every mortal thing the mind of man had ever conceived.” Last to be unloaded, causing reflection about what might have been, were “three beautiful pieces of brass cannon, six pounders, mounted in the style of light artillery, with the necessary complement of powder and shot: round, fixed, and grape” (Downey 1956, 47).
Brannan was about $1,000 short on the money he owed Captain Richard son. To settle the account, a group of the men went to Sausalito and prepared a load of redwood for the captain to receive at Bodega Bay on his return trip (Glover 1954, 18).
Accounts settled, the Brooklyn and crew left 17 August to return home by way of Bodega Bay, Oahu, and Wampoa (Huangpu) and Canton China (Log of Portsmouth; New York Evening Post, 13, 28 April 1847). Yerba Buena (soon to be renamed San Francisco) was now essentially a Mormon town (Bancroft 1886, 5:551). The Saints had only primitive accommodations and about two months’ provisions. However, they immediately began building homes, setting up industry, and laying plans for an agricultural settlement. But that is another story.
The voyage of the Brooklyn was an event of historical significance and pro vides an engaging tale of human experience. It occurred because of the conflicts between early Mormons and their neighbors in the East. Yet, interestingly, the voyage itself (except for the Brannan/Kendall intrigue) was marked by an unusual flow of kindness and good will from others. It involved only a few people but was a part of ambitious Mormon plans in the West. For San Francisco, though it imposed only a brief Mormon interlude between a Spanish/Mexican past and a boom-town, gold-rush future, it was the beginning of a larger Mormon involvement in the development of California.
As with life in general, the story is not without touches of incongruity. History and biography have often been made to celebrate great leaders, but Sam Brannan was hardly the ideal player for such a role. He was a great organizer and became a community leader, but as the voyage began to show and as time would confirm, he failed as a spiritual leader (Campbell 1959). One biographer called him an “opportunist and an erratic genius” (Glover 1954, viii). Another referred to him as “a man of more ability and zeal than high principle” (Bancroft 1886, 5:545). Religious history has also been used to celebrate faith, devotion, and moral triumph. Here also, some of the Brooklyn Saints displayed their human weaknesses; a few eventually abandoned the cause they originally embraced. But, of course, life is too com plicated for simple judgments. Despite the incongruities, there is special meaning for the Brooklyn voyage beyond just our fascination for things as they were. Here were a few ordinary people who—through faith, courage, and sacrifice—more than they had dreamed, placed their impressive contributions in the history of their church and the history of the West.
[1] Brigham Young was considering several possible destinations for the Saints, including the Great Basin for a main settlement and the Pacific coast as a secondary colony and way station. Plans were kept from general knowledge, apparently to avoid preemption and interference (Christian 1981; Esplin 1982), and remained tentative until the Saints arrived in the West. Because of this secrecy and communication problems between Brigham Young and Sam Brannan, and perhaps because of Brannan’s wishful thinking, Brannan thought or per haps hoped that he was emigrating where the main body of the Church would settle. Apparently, he had been informed otherwise (Muir 1:30). In any case, Brannan told people that the main body of the Church would emigrate to California (see JH, 8 April 1849, p. 4). This was technically correct since both San Francisco Bay and the Great Basin were in “Upper California.” But even more, Brannan gave the definite impression that the main body of the Church was coming to the Pacific coast (see Woodruff 2:617).
[2] Amelia Everett (1958, 229) and Kate Carter (1960, 477) claim Edward Richardson as the ship’s master. The Brooklyn Shipping Articles, the Brooklyn Passenger Manifest, Bancroft (5:694), and a Honolulu donation list (The Friend, 15 July 1846) clearly indicate that the captain was Abel W. Richardson, Edward’s younger brother. See also Sonne (1983, 1987).
[3] The New York Messenger (Times and Seasons, 15 Feb. 1846) lists the donor only as “J. M. Van Cott, a noted Brooklyn Attorney.” According to the Brooklyn City Directory, 1844-46, the only J. M. Van Cott in Brooklyn at that time was Joshua M. Van Cott. He was an attorney, a graduate of Yale, and was in the process of becoming a prominent civic leader, an authority on maritime law, and a leader in the New York Bar (Hamm 2:200; Van Cott 1:98). Joshua was related to John Van Cott who was sending cargo on the Brooklyn but only as a nephew four times removed (Van Cott 1 and 2).
[4] The Brooklyn was being loaded far beyond the legal limit of two passengers for every five tons of ship, for the Brooklyn a limit of 178 passengers (Brooklyn Shipping Articles). Perhaps Captain Richardson and Sam Brannan felt that a child did not count the same as an adult. In any case, by exceeding the limit, the ship owners risked a heavy fine and the confiscation of their ship for payment. No doubt this was the reason New York newspapers were aware of and were reporting only 175 passengers aboard (New York Herald, Evening Mirror, and The Sun, 5 Feb. 1846). As more accurate counts, the New York Messenger reported 230 (Times and Seasons, 15 Feb. 1846), Horner puts the count at 235 (1906, 795), Eagar claims 236 (n.d., 1), and Kemble reports 238 (1963, 17). Bancroft accepts Kemble’s count and adds the further detail of 70 men, 68 women, and 100 children (5:546), but he uses a faulty list to obtain this breakdown. In the appendix, I have attempted to reconstruct the passenger list and count 234: 70 men, 63 women, and 101 children.
[5] Contrary to some accounts, there was no scurvy reported. If there had been deaths from scurvy, they would have occurred toward the end of the voyage, not at the beginning.
[6] Horner places these doubts and the sighting of the Andes after Juan Fernandez. How ever, it is only before Valparaiso that the incident fits. After Juan Fernandez the passengers would no longer doubt that the captain knew where he was and would no longer be near enough to the Andes to see them by a minor deviation of course.
[7] Their arrival at the reef one day and the wharf two days later no doubt accounts for some sources giving 20 June as the arrival date and some 22 June.
[8] Kemble gives 2 July as the departure date, while both The Friend (15 July 1846) and the log of the USS Erie give the date as 30 June.
[9] Two of the new passengers were probably Henry Harris (Soule 1855, 750) and George Hyde (Downey 1956, 48). The third could have been Howard Oakley, who Glover claims was a passenger (1954, 31) but who does not show up on any other early passenger list. The two stowaways, William Taylor and John Stanley, were returned to Honolulu in irons.
[10] Those excommunicated were E. W. Pell, Orrin Smith, A. T. Moses, and Lucy Eagar (Millennial Star, 15 Oct. 1847).
[11] Some fictionalized accounts of the voyage portray a growing contention among the crew and passengers over the subject of polygamy. These portrayals are probably elaborations based on Brannan’s ambiguous statements justifying the excommunications (Millennial Star, 15 Oct. 1847). However, in the light of Captain Richardson’s interview at Honolulu and Kemble’s statements about peaceful relations and the absence of polygamy as an issue (1963, 17), such fictional extrapolations must be questioned.
[12] According to Downey the Brooklyn arrived on a Saturday. Most sources, including the log of the Portsmouth and Duvall (with Downey on the Portsmouth) give 31 July 1846, a Friday, as the Brooklyn’s date of entry into San Francisco Bay (Log of Portsmouth; Duvall 1962,47).
[13] This concern was not just a fabrication of Downey’s imagination. The overland trek and the Brooklyn voyage were announced publicly months before they started, and news of them had reached the West before they themselves did. See, for example, the letter of A. E. Beach of the New York Sun to Thomas O. Larkin (U.S. Consul at Monterey) which accompanied newspaper reports (Larkin 5:129). Larkin also received word from a friend in Boston that an avalanche of Mormons was headed for California (around 10,000 strong) and that the Mormons would “kill you all off and take possession of all your worldly gear” (Larkin 5:118-21). The French consul at Monterey, M. Gasquet, wrote that the Californians “have a terrible fear of them [the Mormons] and are all ready to give themselves up to whomever will deliver them from this plague” (Nasatir 1932, 355). Larkin wrote to Washington about the excitement and fear among the natives over the coming of the Mor mons (5:232). Even Governor Pio Pico expressed concern about the invading 10,000 from the society of “Mormonitas” coming to claim California as their promised land (Bancroft 9:16-17). It is easy to understand this fear when we realize that California was then a remote, sparsely populated, and neglected province of Mexico and that General Castro in the ensuing conflict was able to raise a force of only about 150 men in northern California, and Governor Pico even less in southern California. There was no way they could handle an invading force of 10,000. The Mexicans either did not know or did not consider it relevant that the Mormons came as refugees, not conquerors.