“Yes.” He leaned back. “Yes, we did.”
She socked him on the arm, knowing he was playing with her. “So?”
Now the smile died away and he grew quite serious. “I told him about your family going to America and leaving you behind. He had already heard that. I asked him if he thought being married would make it harder for me to complete my apprenticeship.”
Her hands squeezed hard onto his. Her eyes were wide and brimming with hope.
He squeezed back. “He said that marriage wouldn’t make any difference to him.”
Now it exploded within her. She jerked her hands free and threw her arms around him. “Really, James? He really said that?”
He was laughing now. “Yes, Maggie. That’s what he said.”
“So we can get married now?”
He reared back, very sober. “I’d have to go home and change my clothes first.”
She slugged him. “I’m serious, James. Don’t joke about this.”
He nodded, pulling her closer to him. “I’m not joking, Maggie. I’ve been thinking about it all day. What if you take Mrs. Campbell’s offer at the boardinghouse for a few months until we can save a little money. Then we can find us a flat and get ourselves married.”
“Oh, James!”
Again there was that deep laugh. “Can I take that as a yes, then?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” All of sudden she pulled away, staring at him in amazement.
“What?” he asked in surprise.
“This is my answer, James.”
“Your answer to what?”
She just shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. But this is the answer.”
•••
Maggie was out of breath by the time she reached the flat and raced up the stairs. In her near delirium of excitement, she and James had talked for another twenty minutes, making plans, talking through what all of this meant and what had to happen next. Then the bells from the cathedral had brought her up short as they tolled the hour of four o’clock. With one last, passionate kiss of gladness, she had left him and raced home.
The moment she opened the door, she knew she had missed them. The apartment was quiet and still. No matter. Singing to herself, she changed clothes quickly, brushed through her hair, dashed water on her face and toweled it off briskly, then ran out again. She was fairly bursting with the news and wanted to catch her mother before the meeting started.
To her great disappointment, for once the branch president had started the meeting on time. She could hear the group singing the opening hymn even before she reached the house. With a rush of keen disappointment, she went inside. The missionaries were still in the main hallway, greeting any latecomers. They pointed to a seat on the very back row of chairs.
As Maggie moved toward it, she saw her mother and brother and sister near the front. There was no place beside them. She took her seat and her mother turned. She gave her a questioning look. Then it hit Maggie that what was exultant joy for her would be bitter disappointment for her mother. She shook her head slightly, not sure how her mother would interpret that.
Normally, Maggie loved worship services. She loved the sermons. She loved partaking of the sacrament. She loved reading the scriptures together. She even loved to sing with this little group, despite the one or two voices that could make one wince in pain. Sister Alice Merriweather, in her mid-seventies, warbled so terribly that her voice always stood out no matter how loud the rest of them sang. But Maggie loved the hymns of Zion, and—she realized with a sudden pang—she loved these good people in the Edinburgh Branch.
Today, however, her mind could barely focus. During the passing of the sacrament, she tried to concentrate on remembering the Savior, but once she had partaken, her mind was off again, soaring with joy. No more concern about having to leave Scotland. No pulling little carts across a vast desert. She thought of the marriage, wondering if James would mind if one of the missionaries performed the ceremony. She pictured their first apartment. Wondered if their first child would be a boy or a girl. It was like a rush of warm wind blowing the chill from her mind, and she was barely aware of the services around her.
She was surprised when the speaker sat down and the branch president stood back up again. Sheepishly, Maggie realized that she could not remember one thing the speaker had said in over fifteen minutes.
“In light of the fact that some of our number will be going to America shortly,” the president said, “I thought it would be appropriate to sing hymn number fifty-one. Sister Tait will give us the pitch and lead us. Then we’ll turn the time over to Elder Anderson.”
He sat down as the sound of rustling pages could be heard in the room. Maggie turned the pages in her hymnbook as well, trying to remember what hymn fifty-one might be. She knew many of them by number, but that didn’t sound familiar.
Then, as she found the page and looked down, her eyes widened. It was not a hymn they sang often, but they had sung it before. Now the opening lines smacked her as sharply as someone’s open palm.
Yes, my native land, I love thee.
Sister Tait came forward. She motioned with her hands and everyone stood. Lifting one hand up and holding it there, she smiled, then hummed a pitch. Around the room others matched her pitch softly. Then her hand dropped and they began. Maggie started with them, staring at the words as she sang them softly.
Yes, my native land, I love thee,
All thy scenes I love them well,
Friends, connexions, happy country!
Can I bid you all farewell?
Can I leave thee—
Far in distant lands to dwell?
Maggie did not make it past the second line before she wanted to shout at Sister Tait to stop. She wanted to bolt outside where she could no longer hear the words, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes burned as the words pummeled her.
Home! thy joys are passing lovely;
Joys no stranger-heart can tell!
Happy home! ’tis sure I love thee!
Can I—can I—say Farewell?
Can I leave thee—
Far in distant lands to dwell? . . .
Yes! I hasten from you gladly,
From the scenes I love so well!
Far away, ye billows, bear me:
Lovely, native land farewell!
Pleas’d I leave thee—
Far in distant lands to dwell.
Maggie looked away, the burning in her eyes now washed with tears. It was not just the words. It was the absolute, unshakable knowledge that they were being spoken directly to her. She let the book drop to her chair and shut her eyes, but she could not stop the words from piercing her heart.
In the deserts let me labor,
On the mountains let me tell,
How he died—the blessed Savior—
To redeem a world from hell!
Let me hasten,
Far in distant lands to dwell.
Bear me on, thou restless ocean;
Let the winds my canvass swell—
Heaves my heart with warm emotion,
While I go far hence to dwell,
Glad I bid thee—
Native land!—Farewell—Farewell.
She bowed her head, the tears overflowing now. Oh, James! It was an anguished cry deep within her. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!
•••
When the knock sounded at the door, Mary turned to her daughter. “Would you like me to come with you, Maggie?”
Immediately she shook her head. Though dread was like a great black cloud over her, this she had to do alone. She stood slowly.
Mary stood too and went to her. She took her daughter’s hand and squeezed it gently, without speaking. She stepped back. Maggie went to the door, opened it, and then, to James’s surprise, stepped through it and shut it behind her.
When they reached the street, he gave her a closer look. “I thought we were going to tell your mother about our decision.”
“James, I—” She took a quick breath. �
��Something happened. At church.”
“What?”
She took him by the hand. The dread was like a shroud engulfing her. “Let’s walk.”
He didn’t move, even when she pulled on his hand. “Maggie, what’s wrong?”
Her shoulders lifted and fell, and then she began. She fumbled at first, looking for a way to ease into it, to somehow prepare him. She told him about her mother’s challenge to fast and pray. She told him that’s what she had been doing when he found her in the park. He nodded from time to time, made appropriate murmurs to let her know that he was following her, though he had no idea where all of this was going.
“When you came and said you had talked to Mr. McPhail, I thought that was my answer, James. I was ecstatic. I have never been so happy in my life.”
He seemed relieved and smiled a little. “Good. I didn’t realize I was bringing an answer to a prayer, but I’m glad I could be of service.”
“It meant everything to me, James,” she whispered, her eyes glistening now.
“Then what’s wrong?”
Speaking in a low voice, she described what had happened to her during the worship services. She finished, her voice trailing off lamely.
He had watched her closely throughout, his face showing little expression. When she finished, he waited a moment, obviously expecting more. When it was not forthcoming, he cocked his head. “So? You sang the hymn about leaving your native land and the words hit you really hard. So what exactly did the words say?”
She bit her lower lip. “The words in and of themselves don’t matter. I’ve sung that song before and never thought much about it. But it was how it happened, James. The words were suddenly etched into my mind like liquid fire. I knew that was my answer. It came with such power, such clarity. I knew it was the Lord speaking directly to me.”
He looked openly skeptical. “Through a song?”
“No, James. Through the Spirit bringing those words into my heart with great power.”
Suddenly his eyes narrowed and there was a flash of understanding. “What are you saying, Maggie?”
Could she put it into words? She had hoped he would understand. Was she going to have to roll the words up into a fist and club him with them? “I thought I had my answer when you came to see me this afternoon, James. But in church I got the real answer.” There was a long pause. “I have to go to America.”
“What!”
“I know. It sounds impossible. When you said we could get married, that was all I ever wanted. But then the Lord gave me a different answer.”
“No! A song gave you a different answer, Maggie. A stupid song! You’re not going to listen to that, are you?”
“I have to.” It was an agonized whisper.
“You have to? What about us?”
The tears overflowed and she was pleading now. “James, come to America with us. It’s a land of opportunity. You can be anything you want to be there.”
He just stared at her, his eyes cold and angry.
She wanted to try again, to grab his hands and hold them to her face, to somehow let him feel what she was feeling.
“Do you want to marry me, Maggie?”
“You know I do,” she cried. “You know how long I’ve waited for you to ask.”
“Then let’s go upstairs right now and tell your mother that you are not going.”
At that moment she knew she had lost. It came as no surprise. She had come down to the street with him without much hope. Her head dropped and she closed her eyes.
He stood there for almost a minute, breathing hard, glaring down at her. She felt his gaze on her like a burning iron but could not bring herself to lift her head. And finally, without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked away.
At last Maggie looked up. James was just rounding the corner, head high, back stiff. She lowered her head again, burying her face in her hands. In a moment, her shoulders began to shake convulsively.
I’m sorry, James. I am so sorry.
IV
Wednesday, 30 April 1856
Maggie watched as Hannah went up on tiptoes, craning her neck to see better. Robbie was searching up the street as well. “He’s not coming,” Maggie said in a tired voice. “There’s no use looking for him.”
“But . . . Her sister turned back, the disappointment clearly on her face. “He knows, doesn’t he? He knows you’re leaving today?”
Maggie shrugged, picked up one of the valises, and carried it to where the rest of the luggage was being collected. The hurt inside her was like a hemorrhaging sore—the pain was always there, weakening her, draining her of all energy and will. She didn’t want to talk about it further.
James wouldn’t come and it was just as well. In the six weeks since that terrible Sunday evening when she had told him of her decision, she had not heard from him or seen him. There was nothing more to be said now. Her friend Kathryn Moulter had reported that recently James had been seen with another girl on his arm. No surprise. But the pain almost took Maggie’s breath away.
Maggie felt her mother come up behind her with the rest of their belongings. She didn’t turn. The carriage for Glasgow was due in ten more minutes. She prayed that it would be early this morning. It would take half a day to reach Scotland’s main port. Then they would take the train to Liverpool. In four days they would depart for America. Maybe then the pain would start to subside a little.
Her mother laid a hand on her shoulder, but all she said was, “I think that’s everything now.”
Maggie nodded numbly. “Yes. I think it is.”
Chapter Notes
Though Maggie McKensie and her family are fictional characters, the example of their faith and conversion is echoed in the lives of many actual people. For instance, the following excerpt from the life story of a Mary Ann Stucki Hafen, a young girl from Switzerland whose family came to America with the last handcart company in 1860, gives a glimpse of the faith and commitment of these early Saints:
I was born May 5, 1854, in the valley of Rotenback, about three miles from the city of Bern, Switzerland. I was the second child of my parents, Samuel Stucki and Magdalena Stettler Stucki. . . .
Every Sunday mother would dress us in our Sunday clothes to go to church, as we belonged to the Christian Church. One day my Uncle John Reber, who had married my father’s sister, came to see us. He was a young man then, about twenty I guess. I remember watching him as he came through the lot, leaning heavily on two crutches, his hands warped and misshapen with rheumatism, and a great hump on his back.
He told us that he had been to a Mormon meeting and that he believed they taught the true gospel of Christ. . . .
Soon after this the Elders called at our home. They talked to my parents for a while and then asked us to join them in prayer. I still remember the sweet influence which I felt during this prayer, though I was only a child. . . .
I well remember the day my Uncle John Reber was baptized. He was the first to join the church in that section. It was mid-winter and the ice over the lake was more than a foot thick. He came down on his crutches to where they had picked through the ice. As he was helped into the water he handed his crutches to a friend who stood near. When he came out he walked on without them, while icicles froze on all his clothes before he could get them changed. Never again in all his life did he use crutches. The hump disappeared entirely, and his hands became straight.
Soon after, my parents also joined the Church and made ready to go to Zion. Father tried to sell our property, but was unable to dispose of it, so he was forced to hire an auctioneer. In this way we received very little for our belongings. Mother took with us a large trunk of clothes, some blankets, a feather bed, and a bolt of linen to make up. Father took only his tool chest. This was early in the year 1860. (Recollections of a Handcart Pioneer, pp. 13, 15–17)
In the early history of the Church, it became the practice to send out general epistles from the First Presidency to inform the members of developments and exhort them t
o faithfulness. In the Thirteenth General Epistle, dated 29 October 1855 and signed by Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, and Jedediah M. Grant, the call was given for the European Saints to come to Utah by handcart the following season (see Clark, Messages of the First Presidency 2:177–86).
The hymn cited in this chapter which changes Maggie’s mind can be found in the original 1835 hymnal prepared by Emma Smith.
Chapter 3
Balestrand, Sognefjorden, Norway
to
Copenhagen, Denmark
I
Tuesday, 19 February 1856
It was a strange thing, Eric Pederson thought. His boyhood home was no more than a stone’s throw from the waters of the North Sea, and yet in his twenty-two years of life, he had never once seen the actual North Sea. Why? Because the tiny fishing and farming village of Balestrand was on the shore of the Sognefjorden, the longest fjord in Norway. From where the wall of mountains opened up on the west coast to let in the North Sea, the fjord snaked its way inland through the towering peaks for almost a hundred and fifty miles. It took the ferryboat, which was now docked at the small wharf in the village, a full day and a half just to make its way up to Balestrand from the mouth of the fjord. And their little village was by no means at the end of the waterway.
He picked up a pebble from the beach and sent it skittering across the water. Each time it hit, it left circular ripples in the smooth surface. In the Sognefjorden, the water was almost always perfectly still. The high mountain walls protected it from all but the most violent storms. In some places the granite cliffs, looking as though they had been sheared off with some giant Viking’s ax millennia ago, squeezed the fjord into a space of no more than a few dozen yards. And the fjord was deep. Eric’s father said that some people claimed that it was not only one of the longest inlets in the world but one of the deepest as well. In many places its waters were so deep that they were almost black.
He loved it. Except on gray, stormy days, the calm waters mirrored the green mountain walls, the blue sky, and the white puffs of clouds that marched majestically overhead. It was as though the scene were simply too lovely to share only once, and so there were two fjords offered to the view, the actual one and the reflected one.
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