Historic Old Cove Fort

HISTORIC OLD COVE FORT 533 nearly midnight. It was cold and raw, and a chilly wind wafted down the canyon from the snow-laden peaks of Mt. Belnap, for it was in October, and the moaning of the wind presaged Winter. There was none to welcome me. All was still. The quiet was most peace- ful— soothing to the nerves that had watched the road for long, dreary hours. I made my bed behind a big iron sign which told the traveler the way to Bryce Canyon. I was to pass and re-pass that sign many times in the Summers to come; — but that night it served me well as a wind-break, and my slumbers were unbroken till morn. Another time I came back in the early afternoon. That day I had ample leisure. What a fine, wholesome, quiet air the old place had! I unlimbered my camera to take a view of the historic old spot in its quiet repose and rustic simplicity. There Photo by Frank Beckwith Showing the ample gateway with the huge timbers still in place on which were hung the massive gates, eight inches thick. The homey scene which gives sentiment to the historic old spot. was a wash on the line within, a peep of which I had through the open doorway, lending it a really homey background. And better yet, just when I was about to press the release, two innocent little lambs, just learning the use of those wobbly legs of theirs, emerged timidly through che big portal. What a contrast to a scene of rushing, painted, whooping, yelling braves against closed doors! 'Twas a long cry indeed from the domestic scene of a quiet afternoon, on wash day, with two innocent little lambs emerging

534 IMPROVEMENT ERA through a gate designed to, lock out a horde of savage reds, to a scene of hasty flight within those walls, a huddling of little ones at a mother's side — of men mounting the wall and cruel tubes of steel soon to spurt death into the foe! Yes, a severe task on the imagination. For the very purpose for which the old fort was built was never realized. There never was an attack made on it, no hasty retreat within, no menace of guns through the port holes. And yet, should a critic say, "Your picture is spoiled by the wash hanging on the line within, and you shouldn't have gotten the two little lambs in it," I should tell that critic that sentiment had atrophied in his being — that to me the picture is enhanced by those very elements. Today, how different! The last time I visited the old place, a fruit and vegetable stand stood close to the open doorway; a big red, conspicuous gas pump flanked the other side. A shed with corrugated-iron roof was leaned against the walls. Stalls for the display of road repair articles bade for attention. And above it all, a big sign howled a message tinged with commercialism. Then I didn't linger. Merely the needs of the road, was all! But when I took the first picture, to linger wasi a pleasure; how nice it was on those visits to ask the lady of the house for a drink, merely to make entry into conversation, which always brought out the polite response, and before one was aware of it, a lively conversa- tion was in progress. "When was the old fort built?" "In 1867," she answered; "it was erected by Ira Nathaniel Hinckley, acting under orders from President Brigham Young, as a protection against the Indians." "Was there ever a massacre here, or actual fighting?" I ques- tioned, eager to get a story, and hoping to be filled to overflowing with harrowing details, attack and repulse. "No, not that I ever knew of. No hostilities have ever been told me." Disappointed in that! I listened, however, with interest to hef recital that the place was used for years as a stage station in the long ago; also that boy riders carried mail from Beaver to Fillmore, stopping there for change of mount. And then I recalled that my late friend, Nelson S. Bishop, now dead several years, had told me that he rode that stretch himself; that once (he was then a lad of only eleven) he was met by five mounted braves, who stopped his horse, surrounded him, and while several sat on guard, one dis- mounted and examined him, his horse, and saddle bags. 'The thoroughly alarmed boy was greatly relieved when they let him ride on. The incident burned deeply into his impressionable mind. A. A. Hinckley's Birthplace One day last fall, President A. A. Hinckley came into my office,

HISTORIC OLD COVE FORT 535 and, in glancing over the pictures which hang on the walls, exclaimed: "Why there's dear Old Cove Fort! — the place where I was born!" I insisted on the promise of a letter, and soon there came into my hands details of the historic old spot, so full of fond recollections to him. That letter read: "My father, Ira Nathaniel Hinckley, supervised the building of the fort, acting under appointment from Brigham Young. It was con- sidered a place of complete safety from any molestation from the Indians. The huge gates, eight inches thick, and studded with steel nails to hold the wood in place, were closed each night. What a feeling of protection my father and his family felt behind those massive walls and those strongly barred portals! "We lived there for years. It was our 'home.' With special pride my father used to make it pleasant for any chance traveler. Those were the days of genuine hospitality. Historic Old Cove Fort lives in my memory, not as a fort, but as a home. "No, Mr. Beckwith, it was not attacked by Indians. Its grim walls, those threatening port holes, the sense of absolute security which those solid rock walls and those heavy gates gave, no doubt, deterred the Indians from ever attempting an attack. But that is not all. Acting under the wise instruction of Brigham Young, my father faith- fully carried out in rigorous exactitude that policy early laid down, 'Feed the Indian rather than fight him.' That was the greater reason why there was no attack. For always we maintained the most friendly relations with our red brother. "Sweet memories of my childhood cling to that spot. 'Twas there I was reared under the watchful care of a noble mother, and the influence of the example of a wonderful father. Every morning and evening, no matter how many strangers were within those gates, my father took the entire family across the open space to one of those well-kept rooms, and there they all knelt in humble family prayer. "One time I was thrilled. Many preparations were being busily worked upon. All was bustle and activity within the fort and home. President Brigham Young and his party were to be received by my father in Old Cove Fort! How well do I remember that wonderful, inspired leader of men! And he a guest at my father's house — in the home which won the name, historic Old Cove Fort! — the edifice to which my earliest and fondest recollections are attached." "Perhaps," continues President Hinckley in that letter, "you would be interested in some of the details my father wrote to President George A. Smith in an official communication of the long ago: 'The fort is built of volcanic rock, laid up in lime mortar. The walls are one hundred feet square outside, three feet thick at the bottom, tapering to eighteen inches at the top, and eighteen feet high. There were ten rooms within the enclosure. Facing the east is a gateway fourteen feet square. Opposite this is a small gateway on the west side, eight by four feet. Huge gates, eight inches thick, are slung on big, serv- iceable hinges. Above the rooms a runway is built behind the walls.

536 , IMPROVEMENT ERA with convenient port holes; behind the protection of those ample walls, the defenders, could protrude their guns through the port holes and sweep every angle of approach to the fort, from their commanding point of vantage. The roof is covered with shaved shingles.' Shaved shingles! Another lost art! How different are those hand-shaved shingles from the present- day output of an unthinking machine. Into that old historic building went men's life-blood. Personality was expressed in each chipped stone. In each hewn timber was embodied an output of character. And each of those shingles was shaved by hand! It is with ample reason that old timers draw up slowly in front of the fort now, and try to pierce with penetrating gaze beyond and through the hard, repelling iron that hides history, to espy within the mind's eye the scene of a family on its bended knees! Of a group listening with rapture to the sonorous voice of the greatest leader Utah has ever known! Or to see, disclosed within, that plebeian, — that humble evidence of a home — a wash upon the line. Possibly instead of an innocent little lamb emerging through the gate, a flapper in knickers and half hose precedes a mechanic to pilot him to the car that needs the little tinkering he is asked to give. No, the old gives way to the new! Gone into a vanishing past is all the old sentiment, the rich, tingling, vibrant recollections of the days that were. Hominess, the clinging of sentiment to walls, are now profaned by growths upon its sides. A huge, red blister marks a gas tank. Where holiness bespoke from an archway, now a road-sign advertisement clamors for attention. Save as permanent record is made in photo and type of this old historic spot, its history no longer clings to the old stones. A new message has supplanted the former, tender sentiments — but not a better message. Old Cove Fort of the past, sanctified with the presence of the great, mellowed with the charm of home, softened with the influence of "family prayer," — the Old Cove Fort of a day and time long since gone, speaks no more from stone and doorway; but raucous signs cry aloud the message of commercialism from its sides. The old exists only in the mind's eyes. The camera caught the transition period — at a time when the old stones were unprofaned; before additions of the spirit of gain in trade cried from them. And yet, neither camera nor pen can catch and fix the spirit of the place. We may try. We may feebly revive, in part measure, thoughts long buried in the stress of affairs, — but who can depict the flood of association which wells in the heart of President A. A. Hinckley, as he drives to that spot, and sees the old birthplace, the "home" which received Brigham Young — Old Cove Fort? Delta, Utah.