Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Where are the children?” Hannah asked. When they had left to come to the creek, Sister Jackson was reading to her three children.

  “Aaron took them over to the cattle. Little Aaron just loves to pet the milk cows.”

  Ingrid watched her for a moment. “You look tired, Sister Jackson.”

  Her head came up and there was a faint smile. “That’s good, because I sure feel tired.” She lay back and closed her eyes. “So what are you two girls talking about?”

  Hannah’s voice was soft. “About whether our families will still be in Florence.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I’ve been wondering that too. Brother Martin says we should get there in about two more days.” She opened her eyes again and looked at Ingrid. “With the wagon company behind us by a few days, you haven’t used your English much with them, have you?”

  “No, but Brother Spencer knew that might happen. The primary thing was that he wanted me to be a translator at Iowa City while the preparations were being made.”

  “Well, Aaron and I are certainly glad you stayed. I don’t know what we would have done without you. And I’m praying that your families will still be there and that we can travel with them hereafter.”

  “As am I,” Hannah murmured.

  They fell silent then, too tired to carry on much idle talk. Hannah brought her knees up and laid her head on them. She closed her eyes. A few minutes later she felt a touch on her arm. She opened her eyes and saw that Elizabeth Jackson was pointing. “Look,” she said softly.

  Sister Ann Parker, looking drawn and haggard, was walking slowly past them, about twenty yards from where they were. Her head was down and she barely noticed them sitting there. She had her older boy, who was about twelve, with her. As she passed, heads all around the camp turned to follow. Like a fog of chilled air, a great sadness followed her passing. No one spoke as she passed, but every eye followed her. Everyone knew exactly where she was going. Supper was over. Her younger children were settled. It was time to keep her promise. She would go and watch for her husband until it was too dark to see any longer.

  They watched as Sister Parker crossed the creek, moved off a few feet, then selected a tall bush and sat down in its shade. Her hand came up to her eyes as she looked to the east, scanning the trail which they had recently covered.

  Hannah watched, wondering how this woman could bear it. This was the sixth day now since Arthur had been discovered missing. Six days! How could a boy of five possibly survive that long out alone in a wilderness? How could his mother not lose hope? Every passing day made the chance of Robert Parker’s returning with his son more and more remote.

  Then to Hannah’s surprise, she saw that Ingrid had moved a few feet away from their camp. She was beside a tree, staring at Sister Parker just as they were. Hannah stood up and went over to stand beside her friend.

  “It is so sad,” Ingrid said.

  “I know.” Hannah turned away. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  But even as she said it, she saw Ingrid stiffen. “Oh,” she said.

  Hannah whirled around.

  Across the creek, Ann Parker was still by the bush, but she was on her feet. She was leaning forward, every muscle in her body taut, her hand to her eyes again, shading them as she stared toward the east. Her son was gazing in the same direction. He looked up at his mother and said something, but she neither heard him nor looked at him.

  Sister Jackson leaped to her feet. Hannah grabbed Ingrid’s hand and they quickly joined her as she crossed the creek. As one, they converged on Sister Parker. Hearing them, she turned. She started to speak but her voice failed her. She gestured toward the east, her eyes pleading.

  The three of them stared intently. The sun was almost setting now, and the landscape was filled with a soft orange glow. The trail they had crossed that afternoon was visible for almost a full two miles before it crested a low hill and disappeared. But where it was visible, it was in full sunlight. Hannah gasped. There was movement there.

  Sister Parker turned, her eyes huge and filled with hope. “Do you see it?” she exclaimed aloud now, gripping her son’s shoulder. “Is it someone?”

  “Yes,” Sister Jackson exclaimed. “Someone is coming.”

  And so it was. A small dark speck was visible against the lighter prairie. It was moving slowly towards them, and now they could clearly see that it was a person and not some animal.

  “Is it Papa? Is it Papa?” the boy cried.

  No one answered him. They were rigid, eyes fixed on the tiny figure that moved towards them. Others had seen what was going on and people were pouring across the creek, coming to see. But no one spoke. It was as if the whole camp were suddenly holding its breath.

  And then in a moment that would be frozen in Hannah’s mind forever, she saw a glint of red. It moved back and forth above the figure like a flag or a banner. For a moment she didn’t understand. Then as a great sob of joy was torn from the lips of Sister Ann Parker, Hannah remembered what Ingrid had reported two mornings before. It was the red shawl. “If you find our son dead,” Ann Parker had said to her husband, “use this as his burial shroud. But if you find him alive, wave it as a signal, for I shall watch for you every night until you return.” Again the red flashed in the sunlight, like a far-off beacon. Ann Parker sank slowly to the ground, her face in her hands, and she began to sob softly.

  Captain Edwin Martin came running up. He stared up the trail for a moment, then dropped to one knee beside Ann Parker. “Sister Parker?” He touched her shoulder. Her head came up slowly. Tears of joy had made streaks through the dust on her cheeks. “Come,” he said gently. “We’ll send one of the wagons back to get them.” He lifted her to her feet. “Let’s go get your son.”

  Chapter Notes

  For some reason, the Martin Company did not keep a daily company journal as did the Willie Company. However, several diaries and journals were kept, and some accounts of the journey were written after the arrival in Salt Lake (see Turner, Emigrating Journals, p. 81). Together these give a fairly complete picture of the Martin Company’s experience. One of the best of these accounts was written by John Jaques, who was appointed to be the company historian. As noted earlier, Jaques was an accomplished writer and poet.

  Though not shown in the novel, the company that eventually became the Edward Martin Company—the fifth handcart company of 1856—left Iowa City as two companies, one captained by Edward Martin, one by Jesse Haven. They traveled separately to Florence, Nebraska Territory. There Elder Haven joined the Hodgett Wagon Company. The two companies were then joined and became the Edward Martin Company (see Turner, Emigrating Journals, pp. 81, 99, 105).

  The material depicted in this chapter was inspired by the following accounts.

  C. C. A. Christensen, the famous Mormon artist, came to America from Denmark with his new bride in the 1857 handcart company led by Christian Christiansen. “Our hats, or what might once have been called hats, assumed the most grotesque shapes, seeing that the sun, wind, and rain had the superior force. The ladies’ skirts and men’s trousers hung in irregular trimmings, and the foot coverings proportional to the rest, with or without bottoms. Our faces were gray from the dust, which sometimes prevented us from seeing the vanguard; our noses with the skin hanging in patches, especially on those who had as much nose as I have; and almost every lower lip covered with a piece of cloth or paper because of its chapped condition, which made it difficult to speak and particularly to smile or laugh” (as quoted in Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, p. 592).

  Samuel Openshaw, who came west with the Edward Martin Company in 1856, wrote this entry for 7 August: “We started about 7 o’clock this morning and traveled through a beautiful country, where we could stand and gaze upon the prairies as far as the eye could see, even until the prairies themselves seemed to meet the sky on all sides, without being able to see a house. I thought, how many thousands of people are there in England who have scarce room to breathe and not enough to
eat. Yet all this good land is lying dormant, except for the prairie grass to grow and decay” (in Turner, Emigrating Journals, p. 102).

  Mary Powell Sabin was twelve years old when she came in the first handcart company of 1856 captained by Edmund Ellsworth. She later wrote: “Often we would come to a place where the springs had dried down. It might be near midnight. Then little children would form a circle of eager watchers while the men dug down several feet to water. At last when they saw the chunks of wet mud they would lay it on their face and hands. Some of them would suck the water from the mud. When the water burst forth it was usually very thick. The children drank heartily, straining it through their teeth. The next morning it looked quite clear” (“Autobiography of Mary Powell Sabin,” in Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, p. 603).

  Robert and Ann Hartley Parker and their four children came to Utah in 1856 in the second handcart company under the direction of Captain Daniel D. McArthur. Though the Parkers were not with the Willie or Martin Handcart Companies, the story of Arthur’s being lost and then found again is included in this novel because it typifies one aspect of the experience of the handcart pioneers. Other than placing the Parkers in the Martin Company, who passed the area where the Parker boy was lost a little more than a month after it actually happened, the novel portrays the details of the story accurately. Here is an account of what happened:

  Robert Parker was stricken with fever that was sweeping the company and Captain McArthur ordered him placed in one of the wagons. Martha Alice had to leave her little brother to the care of the other children while she lent her child-strength to the heavy cart. One day, while going through the timberlands of Nebraska [actually Iowa], Arthur became feverish and ill and unnoticed by the other children sat down to rest beside the trail. He was soon fast asleep. In the afternoon a sudden storm came up and the company hurried to make camp. Finding that Arthur was not with the children, they hurriedly organized a posse and went back to search for him. They returned with grim faces after two days’ searching. The Captain ordered the company to move on. Ann pleaded with him, but he set his jaw hard—the food was giving out and not another day could be lost.

  Ann Parker pinned a bright shawl about the thin shoulders of her husband and sent him back alone on the trail to search again for their child. If he found him dead he was to wrap him in the shawl; if alive, the shawl would be a flag to signal her. Ann and her children took up their load and struggled on with the company, while Robert retraced the miles of forest trail, calling, and searching and praying for his helpless little son. At last he reached a mail and trading station where he learned that his child had been found and cared for by a woodsman and his wife. He had been ill from exposure and fright. God had heard the prayers of his people.

  Out on the trail each night Ann and her children kept watch and, when, on the third night [after she had sent her husband back] the rays of the setting sun caught the glimmer of a bright red shawl, the brave little mother sank in a pitiful heap in the sand. Completely exhausted, Ann slept for the first time in six long days and nights. God indeed was kind and merciful, and in the gladness of their hearts the Saints sang, “All is Well.” The good captain speeded a wagon with food and blankets back to meet her husband and son. (In Carter, comp., Treasures of Pioneer History 5:240–41)

  Chapter 13

  Florence, Nebraska Territory

  I

  Tuesday, 12 August 1856

  The last of the lingering twilight filtered through the thin scattering of trees on the bluffs above the Missouri River. Maggie sat beneath a small oak tree on a knoll just to the east of camp. From here she could look down upon the river and across to the opposite bank. Her eyes lifted slightly. Across the river, on the Iowa side, the first lights in Kanesville, Iowa—what had first been known as Council Bluffs—were starting to show in the gathering darkness. She wrapped her arms around her knees, savoring the light breeze that had sprung up from the west and cooled the air considerably. Above, the evening star hung like a solitary beacon. Soon it would be surrounded with a myriad of others. It was going to be a lovely evening, and she decided that she would talk to Sarah about moving their bedrolls outside tonight.

  Maggie smiled to herself. How ironic! For six weeks they had slept in the cramped berths of the ship. For ten days they had tried to sleep in swaying railway cars, on the hard deck of steamboats, or on the concrete floor of empty locomotive barns. And for the last six weeks they had slept in the large round tent that had become their home. And now finally, when there was the opportunity to have an actual roof over their heads, she was considering sleeping outside.

  Winter Quarters, or Florence, had once housed thousands of Latter-day Saints. Now they had gone west, leaving little more than a ferry crossing and a way station for the emigrants going to Zion. Hundreds of structures were abandoned. Each new season the Church agents invited the emigrants to take advantage of these shelters as they passed through. The Willie Company had been no different. When the invitation was given, many of their number left their tents packed in the wagons and slept with a roof over their heads for the first time in several weeks.

  At the thought of the Church agents, Maggie sighed softly. The men who had worked them so hard in Iowa City had raced across the state in light wagons and carriages and beat the Willie Company to Florence by a day or two. Since it was late afternoon by the time they were all ferried across the Missouri yesterday, the agents had let them have the remainder of that day to rest. But first thing this morning they rounded the emigrants up again and put them to work. If anything, the sense of urgency was even more intense than it had been in Iowa. They had to get carts repaired, clothing mended, and food supplies restocked and be on their way again.

  Maggie heard footsteps behind her and turned to see who it was. To her surprise it was Eric Pederson, and she started to scramble to her feet.

  “Don’t get up!” he said quickly, waving his hand at her. “Please.”

  She sank back down, feeling her heart race a little. She had been so engrossed in her thoughts, he had startled her.

  “May I join you?”

  He had not called her Sister Maggie, she noted. That was good. “Of course.”

  He came over and sat down as well. “It is beautiful night, yes?”

  “Very lovely.”

  He nodded slowly, then turned to look down at the river and across to the east bank. Maggie watched him for a moment out of the corner of her eye, then folded her arms on her knees and rested her chin on them. He did the same, and they sat there for almost a full minute in silence, looking out over the scene before them. Then finally he asked a question. “Were you thinking of Hannah and Ingrid?”

  She turned to him in surprise. That was exactly what she had been thinking.

  “You are thinking that they will not come before we must go.”

  She looked away again, nodding. The Martin Company had not left Iowa City until twelve days after Willie had left. Even if they made better time than the Willie Company had, there was no way they could ever get here in time.

  “There is some talk of not leaving. Did you know that?”

  “Yes. I heard that.”

  “Some think we must winter over here. Perhaps at the . . .” He stumbled for a moment. “At the Elkhorn River, which is not far.”

  Maggie had already considered the implications of that. It would certainly solve the problem of Hannah’s catching up to them. “Do you think we will?”

  He shook his head. “No. I think that is why we have big meeting tomorrow night. Did you hear that some people are here staying no matter what we decide at the meeting?”

  “Yes, I heard that too.”

  “Will your family?” he asked, looking suddenly concerned.

  “Not if the rest of the company goes on,” Maggie replied. “Mother is adamant about that. Even if it means we don’t get to see Hannah until we reach the Valley.”

  “The Nielsons too,” he said. “I for me hope we do not stop. Ola
f and I must get to the Valley so we earn money for our family.”

  Maggie felt a sudden twist of guilt. She had forgotten for the moment that Eric and Olaf had left their entire family and would not see any of them for at least another year. Somehow that made two months without Hannah seem a little insignificant. “Don’t you have a sister too?”

  “Yah. Her name is Kirsten. She is eight.” He smiled softly. “She looks very much like Ingrid—light hair, blue eyes, a smile that . . . She is my little angel. And also my Peder, who wants so much to be a man but is only six.”

  The longing in his voice made Maggie almost sorry she had asked. “How do the missionaries do it?” she murmured. “They’ve been gone four years now. Think what that means for their wives and families.”

  “It is very difficult, I think. But for the gospel . . .” He shrugged and that said it all.

  Again they were quiet for a time, lost in their thoughts. Then finally Eric half turned. “Sister Maggie?”

  She shook her head, wondering if he could ever not be quite so formal with her. “What?”

  “Sister Maggie, I would like to say . . .” His mouth twisted as he felt the frustration of wanting to speak in Norwegian but knowing he had to say it in English. “I wish to thank you for two things.”

  “For what?”

  “For English.”

  “You and Olaf and Ingrid were a delight to teach. I have enjoyed it a great deal.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “That is why you are good teacher. You enjoy and you make us enjoy too.”

  Touched and surprised at the gravity in his voice, she smiled at him. “Thank you. You said there were two things. What else?”

  “For helping stupid Dummkopf.”

  She just looked at him. “Dummkopf? What do you mean?”

  “On the ship.”

  Then she remembered their first day aboard the Thornton. One of the sailors had been yelling at Eric and Olaf because they weren’t helping. She laughed. “If there was a Dummkopf that day, it was the sailor. He was a real donkey. Imagine being angry because someone who can’t speak your language doesn’t understand what you want.”