which he had been suffering throughout the previous months. Having recently lost her husband and another child to disease, she well knew the severity of his condition. Still, she hoped that the sea air would revitalize him and she knew that in any case he would never have survived the London winter.
She wore a woolen cape to keep out the damp Liverpool chill. There was no one to bid her farewell, but she felt blessed to have a sunny day for departure. She was not without her fears and worries, but her overwhelming mood was one of excitement and even levity. She found great humor in her group’s allocated provision of seventy pounds of oatmeal for the first week.
The initial days were occupied with organizational tasks controlled by the church leaders. Elder William Gibson quickly established order and appointed a committee composed of himself and two other church officials. The three then divided the ship into wards, each ward to be presided over by one of them, and appointed men to act as security for the group and to keep order. Next came the reading of a strict code of conduct to be observed while at sea. The passengers received explicit instructions on hygiene and sanitation, and were warned about lascivious drunken sailors and backsliding converts.
Passengers were expected to rise at six a.m., then clean their berths and throw all garbage overboard; they were to air their bedding twice a week before morning prayer. After prayer, the passengers would return to their personal quarters—furnished by the emigrants themselves with beds and bedding and all cooking utensils—to prepare breakfast. After the meal they would spend the day writing letters, reading, and entertaining themselves. A large “supper” was served around noon, tea at three p.m., and a small meal around six p.m. At eight p.m., prayers were again offered, after which the emigrants would retire for the night.
Lectures were scheduled for the adults and classes set up for the children, with regular church services to be held on Sundays. The management and harmony of the Mormon ships were in great contrast to so many of the overcrowded, chaotic expeditions of the day, prompting Charles Dickens to note “the perfect order and propriety of all their social arrangements.” Under the logistical direction of Brigham Young, the Mormon emigration became legendary for its discipline and control. The swift punishment of apostates, or dissidents, ensured that only the most tenacious, most loyal would be gathered to Zion.
On January 11 the ship was towed out into the Mersey River, where the sails were unfurled and the captain waited for a “fair wind” to carry the ship into the sea a few miles away. But the ship was stuck there for days as heavy winds blew against it, pushing it backward—“the ship rolls as badly as if she were off the North Foreland Cape in a gale,” Jean Rio wrote. Then those aboard waited for the winds to shift in their favor. On January 23, at ten a.m., a tug hauled the ship out into the Irish Sea. Now, it seemed, the journey across the Atlantic would begin. But instead the passengers faced more wind “dead against us,” so that nearly everyone on board was seasick. “We who have hitherto escaped are obliged to hold on to anything that comes in our way in order to keep our feet,” Jean Rio wrote.
The next day the winds continued, with all but ten persons on board violently ill. “Myself, I am happy to say, with Eliza, are in the minority,” wrote Jean Rio. With the ship roiling end on end, the passengers were seized with a paralyzing fear. Such fear was not unfounded, with shipwrecks and vanishing vessels all too common. “As to myself,” Jean Rio wrote, “the sea has never had any terrors.” But the darkness and creaking that pervaded the ship at night, the vomiting passengers and crying children, the agitated sailors and wind-whipped sails unnerved even the most resolute of souls. One young woman went into labor as the
She wore a woolen cape to keep out the damp Liverpool chill. There was no one to bid her farewell, but she felt blessed to have a sunny day for departure. She was not without her fears and worries, but her overwhelming mood was one of excitement and even levity. She found great humor in her group’s allocated provision of seventy pounds of oatmeal for the first week.
The initial days were occupied with organizational tasks controlled by the church leaders. Elder William Gibson quickly established order and appointed a committee composed of himself and two other church officials. The three then divided the ship into wards, each ward to be presided over by one of them, and appointed men to act as security for the group and to keep order. Next came the reading of a strict code of conduct to be observed while at sea. The passengers received explicit instructions on hygiene and sanitation, and were warned about lascivious drunken sailors and backsliding converts.
Passengers were expected to rise at six a.m., then clean their berths and throw all garbage overboard; they were to air their bedding twice a week before morning prayer. After prayer, the passengers would return to their personal quarters—furnished by the emigrants themselves with beds and bedding and all cooking utensils—to prepare breakfast. After the meal they would spend the day writing letters, reading, and entertaining themselves. A large “supper” was served around noon, tea at three p.m., and a small meal around six p.m. At eight p.m., prayers were again offered, after which the emigrants would retire for the night.
Lectures were scheduled for the adults and classes set up for the children, with regular church services to be held on Sundays. The management and harmony of the Mormon ships were in great contrast to so many of the overcrowded, chaotic expeditions of the day, prompting Charles Dickens to note “the perfect order and propriety of all their social arrangements.” Under the logistical direction of Brigham Young, the Mormon emigration became legendary for its discipline and control. The swift punishment of apostates, or dissidents, ensured that only the most tenacious, most loyal would be gathered to Zion.
On January 11 the ship was towed out into the Mersey River, where the sails were unfurled and the captain waited for a “fair wind” to carry the ship into the sea a few miles away. But the ship was stuck there for days as heavy winds blew against it, pushing it backward—“the ship rolls as badly as if she were off the North Foreland Cape in a gale,” Jean Rio wrote. Then those aboard waited for the winds to shift in their favor. On January 23, at ten a.m., a tug hauled the ship out into the Irish Sea. Now, it seemed, the journey across the Atlantic would begin. But instead the passengers faced more wind “dead against us,” so that nearly everyone on board was seasick. “We who have hitherto escaped are obliged to hold on to anything that comes in our way in order to keep our feet,” Jean Rio wrote.
The next day the winds continued, with all but ten persons on board violently ill. “Myself, I am happy to say, with Eliza, are in the minority,” wrote Jean Rio. With the ship roiling end on end, the passengers were seized with a paralyzing fear. Such fear was not unfounded, with shipwrecks and vanishing vessels all too common. “As to myself,” Jean Rio wrote, “the sea has never had any terrors.” But the darkness and creaking that pervaded the ship at night, the vomiting passengers and crying children, the agitated sailors and wind-whipped sails unnerved even the most resolute of souls. One young woman went into labor as the
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