“Can I help you ladies?”
They both jumped as the shopkeeper suddenly appeared at the door.
Ingrid mumbled a quick no and backed away, but Hannah’s curiosity was too strong. “Did you take that in trade from another handcart company that was here just last week?”
The man looked surprised. “Yes. Why?”
“Was his name Eric?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t say. He was a Norwegian, though.”
Hannah felt a little sick. Eric had traded the sweater his mother had given him? Were things that desperate for them? She saw the man still watching her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and started to move away. Then she couldn’t help it. “And you paid him five dollars for it?”
He straightened, his eyes narrowing. “He drove a hard bargain,” he answered in a clipped voice. Then he went back inside, shutting the door behind him.
Chapter Notes
No mention is made of the Willie Company’s stopping to trade at Fort Laramie, though the journal does note that they were able to procure some provisions. The author has assumed that, though they did not stay near the fort itself, some of the people did go in to purchase things and make trades.
A week later the Martin Company stayed a full day there, allowing their people to “shop” at the fort. John Jaques recorded his transactions: “Thurs. 9: Many of the brethren went to the fort to buy provisions, etc. I went and sold my watch for thirteen dollars. I bought from the fort commissariat 20 pounds of biscuit at 15 cents, twelve pounds of bacon at 15 cents and 3 pounds of rice at 17 cents and so on” (in Bell, Life History and Writings of John Jaques, p. 141).
It is difficult for modern travelers who cross the continent by jet in four or five hours, or even by car at seventy-five miles an hour, to imagine what Fort Laramie must have meant to travelers along the Mormon and Oregon Trails. One small inkling is given in these lines from the Willie Company journal under the date of 1 October 1856: “The first thing this morning, it was discovered that several sisters had left the camp and had taken up their residence at the fort. . . . Lucinda M. Davenport left camp on the previous night with an apostate mormon. It was discovered this morning. She was with Grant and Kimballs wagon on the journey. Christine Brown of the handcart company also stayed at Fort Laramie” (in Turner, Emigrating Journals, p. 38).
A party of missionaries from Salt Lake City were traveling the Mormon Trail eastward to begin missions in the United States and Europe. Parley P. Pratt was among them. Though he did not know it then, Elder Pratt would never return to the Valley. He was murdered by an assassin about twelve miles out of Van Buren, Arkansas, on 13 May 1857 (see Encyclopedia of Mormonism, s.v. “Pratt, Parley Parker”).
Book 4
The Storm
AUGUST – OCTOBER 1856
How could we expect to be joyous and to receive all that “the Father hath” if we do not strive to become like Him? And, in fact, can we, on our scale, be like Him without sharing in the “fellowship of his sufferings”? He shares with us His work; does that not suggest the need for our sharing, too, some of the suffering? . . .
If in all of this there is some understandable trembling, the adrenaline of affliction can help to ensure that our pace will be brisk rather than casual. His grace will cover us like a cloak—enough to provide for survival but too thin to keep out all the cold. The seeming cold is there to keep us from drowsiness, and gospel gladness warms us enough to keep going.
Neal A. Maxwell, 1982
Chapter 18
Fort Laramie
To
Last Crossing
I
Saturday, 4 October 1856
Maggie was not surprised when Eric suddenly appeared. She had taken careful note of where his hundred had camped and calculated the most likely path he would take to get to her tent; then she deliberately went out to intercept him. He had formally asked her permission to come courting just four days before. It had taken only two days for her to realize that having him do so in front of her mother and brother and all of the James family, especially Sarah, was not the most comfortable experience for either him or her.
She smiled. He hadn’t seen her yet through the trees, though he was coming directly for her. She could see that his brow was furrowed in concentration as he picked his way over the rough ground. Then she noticed something. The sun was just going down, and while the day had been pleasant, the air was rapidly taking on a chill. Their breath was already starting to show. It would be another night of heavy frost, perhaps dipping into the midtwenties or lower. Eric had on his round-brimmed hat and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, but that was all he wore for the cold. Then it occurred to her that she had not seen him wearing his sweater the last few days.
He slowed as he saw her, then instantly smiled. She smiled back. How she loved that change in his countenance! When he was serious it was as if his face were carved from hickory or one of the other hardwoods. His eyes seemed a darker blue and somewhat withdrawn. But when he smiled, everything changed. The face softened into something wonderful. His eyes became like a . . . what? She couldn’t think of an appropriate simile. Well, whatever they were like, she could get lost in them. That was something she had never experienced with James MacAllister.
“Hello,” she said as he came up beside her.
“Hello,” he answered, clearly a little surprised to see her here.
“I was out walking,” she explained, a little lamely, she thought.
He smiled sardonically. “Yah, I understand. We don’t get to walk very much anymore.”
“All right,” she said, laughing through her embarrassment. “I admit it. I thought it would be nice if we had just a few minutes alone before we go into the cage.”
“The cage?” He was genuinely puzzled.
“Yes. When we get inside the cage and everyone sits around and stares at us and wonders why we don’t feel like talking very much.”
Then he understood. He hooted in delight. “Yah. Cage is good. I feel the same.”
“So can we take the long way around?” she said, pointing the opposite direction from where her tent was.
“Yes. I like that idea.”
She was pleased that as they started walking he moved close enough to her that their shoulders occasionally touched.
“How are Sister Bathgate and Sister Park?” she asked.
He frowned. “Hungry but not willing to admit it.”
She nodded. That was no revelation. From the time they left Iowa City, a mild hunger had become a part of their daily regimen. Sixteen ounces of flour per day, supplemented by occasional small portions of meat, was not enough to satisfy the body when it was pulling a handcart fifteen to twenty miles a day. During their brief stay at Florence, there had been more food and the hunger abated. As soon as they departed again, it returned.
Four days ago, that had changed significantly. There had been no flour at Fort Laramie and no oxen to replace those they had lost. There were no supply wagons waiting for them at Deer Creek. Captain Willie had managed to purchase about four hundred pounds of hard biscuits, a small amount of sugar, and a sack of dried apples. The conclusion was inescapable. He and the subcaptains called the Saints together and asked for a reduction by one-fourth in the daily ration. That meant each adult working man dropped to twelve ounces of flour per day; women and children were reduced in a similar manner. The vote had been unanimous in the affirmative. In just four days the effects of that decision were already pressing in upon them. What had been a vague gnawing desire for a little more to put in the belly was now an insistent ache and constant craving.
Maggie started a little as she realized Eric was watching her curiously. As usual, she had gotten lost in her own thoughts. “I’m sure,” she said quickly, “that having them walk all day now isn’t helping reduce that hunger either.”
“That’s what I told them too,” he said, “but it is good thing they can walk now. We have so many sick that there is no more room in the w
agons.”
Her eyes dropped and she looked at the ground. “I know. Brother Woodward came by a few minutes ago. He said we’ve had three more deaths today and that another little boy looks like he will die before the night is over.”
“Yah,” he said softly. “That is now four in four days. Five if the boy dies.”
“I heard that the man who died yesterday was from your group.”
“Yes, he was.” His eyes were hooded and sorrowful now. “Peter Larson. He was a good friend of Jens and Elsie. He was part of our tent group.”
Her hand shot out and she touched his arm. “Oh, Eric. I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. It has been very hard for Elsie. Sister Larson is a good friend. Now she is left with five children to go alone.”
Maggie started, remembering something now. “Sister Larson? Isn’t she the one who had a baby just a few weeks ago?”
“Yes. At Iowa City. Now she is widow. It has left great sadness in our tent.”
Maggie nodded, greatly sobered by that news. When it started striking within your own tent group, that was like losing family.
“How is your mother and Robbie?”
“Fine.” She was glad to change the subject. “She wants to know if you and Olaf would have supper with us.”
He laughed shortly. “I ask your mother if I can come courting you, not if she will support me at your table.”
“She is the one who insists that I ask you,” she protested. “She likes you very much, Eric. This isn’t out of a sense of duty.”
“I like her very much,” he answered solemnly. “I have much admire for your mother.”
“Admiration.”
“Yah.” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “Yes, admiration.”
She smiled up at him. “Your English is getting better all the time.”
“If only I can remember to say yes instead of yah.”
“I like ‘yah,’ ” she replied. “I think it is—” Suddenly she stopped. “Listen.”
He cocked his head a little. From off to their right, not far away, there was the sound of singing. Somewhere in the camp a small group—perhaps just a tent group—had started to sing. They couldn’t distinguish the words clearly, but they didn’t have to. The words were from a poem written by Eliza R. Snow and then set to music by someone else. It was called, “Think Not, When You Gather to Zion.” The words had been published in the Millennial Star before they left England and had quickly become a favorite song among the emigrants.
Think not, when you gather to Zion,
Your troubles and trials are through—
That nothing but comfort and pleasure
Are waiting in Zion for you.
Maggie began to hum along softly. When she realized Eric was watching her, she blushed a little. “I love the songs of Zion. I’m glad that we can still sing them, even though things are not wonderful.”
“I too.”
“You sing it, then.”
He shook his head. “I do not know the words. I still learn ‘Some Must Push and Some Must Pull.’ ”
She laughed. Then, to Eric’s surprise, she became suddenly quite somber. “Are we going to make it, Eric?”
He stopped. “Make it?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
“To the Valley. We still have hundreds of miles to go. We don’t have enough food. The weather . . .” She didn’t finish. One hand began to pluck at the lining of her coat. “I’ve had this dark feeling lately,” she whispered. “I don’t know what is wrong. It frightens me.”
“Tell me how is dark,” he said.
Her shoulders lifted and fell and she exhaled slowly. It was a sound of great weariness. “I don’t know. Part of it is being tired and hungry. It wears you down so. And Brother James was sick in the middle of the night. Sarah and I went to the creek and got him some water.”
He nodded slowly. He hadn’t been up in the night, but he knew exactly what she meant by wearing down. The combination of reduced rations, increasing cold, and continually pressing forward was hitting everyone now. Eric had always worked hard back in Balestrand and had been trim and fit. But two nights before, he had to take his knife and poke two more holes in his belt. It was now overlapping a good two inches more than before.
“And then I’ve been thinking about Hannah lately.” The pain twisted at her mouth. “What if they don’t have enough food either? What if—” Tears sprang to her eyes now. “What if I never see her again, Eric? I can’t bear the thought of that.”
He stepped forward and took her by the shoulders. He turned her so that she squarely faced him. “Is not possible,” he said emphatically.
Her eyes came up. “What do you mean it isn’t possible?”
“Is not possible that you never see her again.”
Then she understood. “I know we’ll see each other sometime, but I’m talking about this life, Eric. What if she dies?” Her eyes half closed. “What if I die?”
To her surprise, he let go of her shoulders and reached out and laid the back of his hand against her cheek. “You will not die,” he said very softly.
“Why? How can you be sure?” She felt the first burning of the tears. “It’s not just the old people dying anymore, Eric. They said Brother Larson was only forty-three. I don’t have any special promises.”
For a long time he just looked at her, his eyes that deep, deep blue that pulled her in and held her as tightly as if she were bound. “Tell me, Maggie McKensie. Tell me of that day when the answer came to you.”
“Back in Edinburgh do you mean? Mother already told you.”
“Not the details. You tell me.”
So she did. She told him about James then, the first she had ever spoken to him about it. She told him about fasting and how James had come that day and said they could marry and of the joy she felt. She was so sure that was her answer. Then came the song, with the words burning like fire across her mind. As she said that, she started a little.
“What?” he asked.
“When Brother Willie asked me to teach the English class on board ship, he told me a story about Brigham Young. President Young said that when the fire of the covenant burns in our hearts like flame unquenchable, then we do whatever we are supposed to do, no matter what the consequences. Brother Willie said that was what had happened to me that day. The fire of the covenant was kindled in my heart.”
“Ah, yah,” Eric said. “Yes. That is true. It is like a fire.”
“But . . .” She didn’t want to sound discouraged, but this had been lying heavily upon her for the past three days. “These people who died today, they were coming to Zion because of the covenant too. They were doing what the Lord asked of them. So just because I got an answer to come doesn’t mean I have a guarantee that I won’t die. Or that someone in my family won’t die.” Her eyes glistened again. “What if Robbie doesn’t make it?”
Now he shook her very gently. “Why you think God give you that answer?”
That took her aback. “Why?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because . . .” She hesitated. “Because I guess he wanted me to come to Zion.”
He let her go and stepped back. “You could come to Zion later. Why now?”
“Well, I suppose it had something to do with His wanting me to be with my family.”
“Yes, that too.” He smiled gently, waiting.
Then her eyes widened and one hand came up as though she were going to reach out to him, but she didn’t. The wonder of what he was suggesting struck her hard.
Seeing that she understood, he laughed softly. “Eric Pederson was not coming to Edinburgh. Not ever. Eric Pederson was on the ship Thornton. Eric Pederson was the Dummkopf who needed some courage-filled young girl to come to his help.” He stopped, and now the smile filled his entire countenance. “Eric Pederson needed English teacher.”
“I—”
As quickly as the smile had come it left again. Now he was completely serious. “Maggie McKensie better
not die,” he said slowly. “Not now. Not when she finally say that Eric Pederson can come to court her.”
She was so completely taken off guard by his openness that she didn’t know what to say. But in that instant, any sense of darkness in her was completely banished. Then her eyes grew mischievous. “And what would you do if I did die?” she teased.
If anything, he became even more grave. “Then,” he began, seeming to search for the right words, “then Eric Pederson come to the spirit world and stand behind Maggie all the day long, saying, ‘Yah, yah, yah. Yah, yah, yah!’”
The laughter exploded from her and she clapped her hand over her mouth and looked around quickly, afraid someone might have heard her. The singing was still audible, though, and no one seemed to be paying any attention to the two of them. Still laughing, she stepped to Eric and slipped an arm through his. “That would be a fate too horrible to contemplate.”
“I think so too,” he said.
“Come on,” she said happily, laying her head against his shoulder. “Mama will be wondering where we are.”
As they started off, she remembered the thought she had had when she first saw him. “By the way, Eric, where is your sweater? I haven’t seen you wearing it for a while.”
He stopped dead and stepped back away from her. She was surprised to see a touch of panic in his eyes. “It is gone,” he finally said.
“Gone? Did you lose it?”
“No. Just gone.”
He said it in such a way that it brooked no further questions. As they started off again, Maggie suddenly understood. Tomorrow, when she went to help Sister Bathgate and Sister Park, she would look to see if either of them had acquired a new sweater in the last few days.
II
Wednesday, 8 October 1856
Olaf and Eric Pederson had once again come to have supper with the McKensie and James families. They brought their ration of flour with them so as not to work a hardship on the two families. Tonight, in addition to biscuits and a thin gruel, there would be meat. Elder Willie had ordered another one of the cattle butchered and the meat distributed through the camp. With what was allotted to Eric and Olaf, that gave them about five pounds of food for the fourteen of them. Sarah and Maggie had cut the meat up into small chunks, and then Sister McKensie and Sister James had fried them on a hot griddle, without the aid of grease. Since they had been forced to hitch up the milk cows following the loss of their oxen after the buffalo stampede, the cows were barely producing enough milk to meet the needs of the babies in the camp. That was another loss. The butter and cream had not been much, but they were at least something.
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