Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

That brought a complete hush over the company. When Brother Martin turned back, his eyes were suddenly haunted. “Fifty or more are dead. With those who turned back or decided to stay at Florence, that still leaves us about five hundred in the company. Captain Hodgett has about a hundred and eighty people in his company.”

  Joseph Young rocked back as though he had been struck. “Fifty dead?”

  “Yes. And we’re losing five or six a night now.”

  Abel Garr looked around. “Where’s Captain Hunt? We were told he was with you.”

  Captain Hodgett stepped forward. “They hadn’t made the last crossing when we last saw them,” he said. “Captain Hunt said he was going to wait for the weather to warm.” Without waiting for the question, he gave the answer to what they needed to know. “Captain Hunt has fifty wagons and about two dozen more people than I do.”

  The three rescuers looked at each other. Though both of the other men were older than Joseph Young, it was clear to everyone that he was in charge, and also that they were happy to have that be the case. Then Brother Young turned back to Brother Martin. “We assume you are on reduced rations?”

  “Yes. Four ounces of flour per day for an adult. We figured that is what it would take to make our flour last to South Pass.”

  Again there was shock, but then Brother Young recovered. The young man’s face wrinkled in concentration, and then he nodded. “All right. We have to leave you and go on to the Platte and find Brother Hunt’s company. As you see, we have a pack mule loaded with food. It isn’t much for so many, but now that you know you don’t have to go all the way to South Pass to meet the wagons, I recommend you put everyone back on full rations immediately and—”

  He was cut off as again a great shout went up.

  He acknowledged it soberly. “Your cheers must be saved for when you reach the Valley, and then you can cheer the Saints who have sent these wagons to you.” He turned back to Captains Martin and Hodgett. “You have got to move forward in the morning, even if it is only a few miles at a time. Once we find Brother Hunt’s company and get them started, we shall go back to Devil’s Gate to alert Captain Grant. But you must go on as rapidly as possible so that he doesn’t have to come this far to find you.”

  “Yes,” Brother Martin said. “We understand. We shall leave first thing in the morning.”

  Joseph Young turned and looked at the surrounding faces. They were gaunt, hollow, smudged. But in the eyes there was something that had not been there just half an hour before. There was hope and rejoicing. “Brothers and sisters,” he said in a choked voice. “We have found you at last. God has heard and answered your prayers. And ours! Now, let us set to work and do all we can to bring about your temporal salvation.”

  II

  Thursday, 30 October 1856

  Captain Grant was staring moodily into the fire and for once was not participating in the conversation except for an occasional grunt or a brief answer when someone addressed him directly.

  David Granger was not surprised by their leader’s gloominess. This was the fourth day since Joseph Young, Abel Garr, and Dan Jones had mounted up and ridden east, once again becoming an express party sent out to find the lost handcart pioneers. This was the fourth day that there had been no word of them. This gathering around the fire had become their standard pattern each night. Through the day they would see to their work—checking the gear, making sure the stock had plenty of feed, gathering wood. Then once supper was over and cleaned up, they collected around the fire and talked for a time before evening prayers. David enjoyed these times a great deal. The older men would reminisce about the early days of the Church, or other times when they had crossed the trail, or troubles in the Indian wars in Utah. These conversations made him feel younger than his twenty-one years, but it also brought him a deep sense of gratification to know that he was accepted as a man in these circles. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

  It was dark now and the stars overhead were a brilliant spray of light. Off a short distance to his left, David could just barely make out the deeper black of the granite monoliths that rose like towering walls above the old abandoned fort. Directly in front of him, if he peered more carefully, he could just discern the deep cleft in the rocks that was Devil’s Gate.

  “This weather is a mixed blessing,” Captain Grant suddenly said.

  The others stopped and looked at him.

  “Having it warmer will bless those poor people, but the roads are going to be a nightmare.”

  Several murmured their assent at that. Mud was the worst of all for traveling with wagons and teams. Being on foot would only make it all the more miserable.

  “Two days won’t be enough to thaw it down too deep,” Robert Burton suggested, “so maybe it won’t be too bad yet.”

  “True,” Grant agreed, “but remember that stretch up and over Prospect Hill and along the top of the plateau? That’s the worst mud anywhere on the whole trail. It’s like walking through bookbinders’ glue. It can gum up a wagon wheel to the point where it won’t even turn anymore.”

  Charles Decker, guide for the company, was laughing softly. “I can remember one time when—”

  Captain Grant’s head suddenly jerked up. “Hold it!” he said, lifting one hand. He was looking off to his left. It was there that the trail left the old fort and continued northeastward toward Independence Rock. “Riders coming!” He leaped to his feet. The twenty or so men gathered around the fire did the same. Several grabbed for their rifles. They hadn’t seen Indians this time out, but they were in Indian country.

  In the sudden silence, they all heard it now. Once the sun went down, the temperature dropped below freezing again and they could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves on frozen ground.

  “It’s the express party!” someone said in a low voice.

  The sound of the approaching riders grew louder, and then they appeared out of the darkness riding through the gate of the rail fence that had once enclosed the old compound. The men rushed forward. Joseph Young, Abel Garr, and Dan Jones got stiffly down from their mounts. David noticed then that they no longer had the pack animal with them.

  “Did you find the handcart company?” Brother Grant blurted even as Brother Young’s feet hit the ground.

  “We did,” Brother Young said wearily. “And both wagon companies as well.”

  A great shout went up from the men. At last. After more than three weeks of fruitless search, at last they had found the remaining companies.

  Brigham Young’s son arched his back and yawned mightily, then nodded in satisfaction. “We found Captain Martin’s company camped at Red Buttes,” he went on. “Captain Hodgett and his group were nearby. We had to ride on another twelve or fifteen miles to find Captain Hunt. They were settled in at the last crossing of the Platte waiting for the weather to break.”

  “And how are the people doing?” Major Burton asked.

  The three men just shook their heads. “The Martin group is in terrible shape,” Abel Garr answered for them all. “They’re having deaths in the camp every day. They’ve got a lot of older people.”

  “They were down to four ounces of flour per day,” Dan Jones added.

  David Granger started. Four ounces! He wasn’t sure exactly how much that was, but he knew it didn’t take much of a mixing bowl to hold a full pound.

  “Where are they now?” Grant asked.

  “Coming on slowly,” Brother Young said. He sighed deeply and it was filled with pain. “We camped with them last night at Rock Avenue. This morning we helped them up Prospect Hill.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Ah,” he sighed. “What a pitiful sight that was. The wagon companies were both in the rear by then, and we went early this morning to see how they were doing. When we came up on the handcarts again, they were strung out probably three or four miles, all the way from those alkali swamps up past Willow Springs to the top of Prospect Hill.

  “It was a scene to wrench the heart. Old men tugging and pulling on their carts, their wives
and children riding because they were too sick to walk. You would see women in the shafts, pulling alongside husbands so sick they could barely lift their heads. The children were walking alongside, slipping and sliding in the mud and snow, heads down and mouths pinched with hunger. Their feet were all clotted up with mud and it started to freeze on them as soon as the sun went down. The supply wagons look like funeral carts, stacked so thick with those who are sick that you’d think some would be crushed.”

  He had to stop. His eyes looked as if he might be sick.

  “It was a terrible thing to behold,” Abel Garr murmured.

  “We used our lariats to help them pull their handcarts up the hill as much as possible,” Brother Jones came in. “By the time they reached the top, they were in pretty sad condition.”

  Brother Young looked up again. “But they haven’t lost hope. Our arrival has infused them with determination to come on. When we returned from checking on Brother Hunt’s wagon company, all we heard from Captain Martin’s group was, ‘Let us go to the Valley. Let us go to Zion.’ ”

  “So where are they now?” Brother Charles Decker asked.

  “We left them at Prospect Hill about noon today and told them to camp there. We also told them to keep coming on tomorrow morning. We promised that we would bring the wagons out to meet them.”

  Brother Grant straightened and looked around. “Brethren, get these men some supper. The rest of you see to your gear. I want to be on the road by the time dawn lights the sky.”

  III

  Friday, 31 October 1856

  Hannah McKensie had long since stopped looking ahead to see where they were going. First of all there was nothing to see. Since descending from Prospect Hill they had entered a great emptiness unbroken by any landmarks. Second, the glare of the snow, especially now with the afternoon sun directly in front of them, was blinding and it hurt her eyes to look into it. As she and Ingrid moved forward, step after plodding step, they kept their eyes fixed on the ground a few feet in front of them. Now that the trail was on level ground again, Sister Jackson was no longer helping them push. Little Aaron was not feeling well and Sister Jackson was carrying her son on her back. Martha Ann, who was seven, was pushing at the back of the cart, though they could hardly discern any difference, and Mary Elizabeth was riding in the cart for the moment.

  It wasn’t easy pulling in the mud, but here the mud was not the thick, clutching stuff they had yesterday and earlier today. It was slippery here, but not like some living thing trying to pull them to a stop. And after pulling the cart up the long, seemingly endless incline of Prospect Hill yesterday, this flatland seemed almost like child’s play.

  A movement caught her eye and she raised her head. Captain Martin was walking toward them, speaking briefly to each family as he passed. He would turn and point as he did so. Squinting against the sun, she saw a dark line directly up ahead of them. Some kind of vegetation, a miracle in this landscape. “It must be a creek or something,” she murmured to Ingrid, who was also peering ahead.

  Seeing Brother Martin coming, Sister Jackson, who was on the opposite side of the column from him, moved around the back of the cart and came up to walk beside Hannah, moving carefully so as not to wake young Aaron on her back. Hannah looked at the boy. His head was resting on her shoulder, bouncing softly as she walked.

  “Is he asleep?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Then Elder Martin came to them. “You see that vegetation up ahead of us? That’s Greasewood Creek. We’ll stop there for the night.”

  “Good.” Hannah was ready to drop the cart and lie down in the snow, anything to rest her legs and throbbing feet.

  Then a smile stole across Elder Martin’s face. In his weariness it was almost more like a wince, but there was happiness in his eyes. “There’s something else,” he said.

  “What?” Ingrid asked.

  “Look to the left, at about the ten o’clock position.”

  They turned their heads. All Hannah saw was an unbroken expanse of snow. She shook her head.

  “Look more closely. Right at the snow line.”

  Sister Jackson gave a low cry. “Oh!” One hand came up to her mouth.

  “Yes,” their captain said in a tired voice. “It’s the rescue wagons. At last.”

  •••

  East of Devil’s Gate, out past Independence Rock, the land was as flat as a tabletop and just about as empty. The emptiness stretched on for ten to fifteen miles. Then the land began to rise in gentle swells until it topped out on a plateau, of which Prospect Hill was a part. There were a few small and widely scattered upthrusts of rock—the last echoes of the range of granite hills—but other than that, nothing broke this great stretch of nothingness. As David Granger kept his wagon in the tracks of those in front of him, he noticed that even the sagebrush here was stunted, growing in clumps only six to eight inches high and now mostly covered by the snow.

  As the rescue party moved eastward and the sun rose higher, the roads began to thaw. At first they were just slushy, but soon the iron tires were digging down into the mud and the horses and mules began to have a harder time of it. This was not yet the stretch of mud that Captain Grant had warned them about, but it was challenge enough.

  When they had set out at first light, Captain Grant had left two wagons and four men back at Devil’s Gate to prepare for the arrival of the emigrants. To David Granger’s pleased surprise, he and Stephen Taylor, another of his companions in the Minute Men group, had been assigned to drive the fourth wagon back in the line. Brother Taylor had ridden with the first express party from Black’s Fork and had grown quite impatient waiting at Devil’s Gate for Captain Grant’s group to finally catch up with them. When Captain Grant suggested that Brother Taylor be one of those that stayed back, he vigorously protested, claiming he had already spent more than his fair share of time at the old fort. Major Burton took pity on him and changed the assignment, putting him with David. Which was fine with David. They had ridden numerous times together and were good friends.

  At the moment, Brother Taylor was in the back of the wagon, trying to sleep on the sacks of flour as best he could with all the bumping and jarring the wagon made as it traveled over the rough roads. He had David’s full sympathy because David had tried the same thing earlier that afternoon while Stephen drove, and he had barely slept at all.

  David lifted his head to gaze out across the great snowfields. Instinctively he pulled down his hat. It was a perfectly clear day, and the sunlight sparkled off the snow in a dazzling glare that even now, as the afternoon wore on, nearly blinded them.

  It was about half past four, or maybe even five o’clock, when the company scout, Charles Decker, came riding at a canter back toward the line of wagons. He had been out in front half a mile or more, following the tracks the three express riders had made the night before on their return to Devil’s Gate. The sun was dipping low now, and with its less direct rays, the air temperature was dropping again. The roads were still muddy and slushy, but as the temperature dropped, they were starting to firm up again.

  The scout stopped for a few minutes and spoke with Captain Grant and Major Burton, then came on again, speaking briefly as he reached each wagon. As Decker came alongside David, he half turned in his saddle, pointing eastward. “See that low slash of black there just off to the left of the wagons, maybe two miles up ahead of us?”

  David stood, leaning out to see around the wagon in front of him. “Yes.” It wasn’t much. More like a black line on top of the snow.

  Suddenly Stephen Taylor’s head appeared in the slit in the wagon cover. “Where?”

  As Brother Taylor climbed out and sat down beside David, Brother Decker pointed again. “That’s Greasewood Creek. Captain Grant says we’ll stop there and water the teams.”

  “All right.”

  As their guide started on again, suddenly there was a shout from up front. Decker wheeled his horse around.

 
“There they are!” someone yelled.

  “Where?” called another.

  Decker spurred his horse forward, but David, still standing, had seen what the other man had seen. He didn’t need anyone to go and check it out for him. On the right side of the trail, yet some distance off from Greasewood Creek, he had seen movement. At first he thought it was his eyes playing tricks on him. He blinked and looked again. It was not an illusion. There were tiny black specks moving against the endless white background. Handcarts, with people pulling and pushing them. And then behind them he saw teams and wagons, their canvas tops barely discernible against the snow.

  He turned to Stephen Taylor with an immense feeling of relief. “They’re right,” he said. “It’s them.”

  •••

  For the second time in ten days, David Granger had the privilege of knowing the joy of being a rescuer. To his surprise, this time it was considerably more subdued than it had been before. At the Sixth Crossing, when the wagons drove in to where the Willie Company was camped, the celebration had been an explosion of joy and exultation. He still remembered the cries of the children, the women throwing off their inhibitions and falling on the men to hug and kiss them. Here, when they drove up to Greasewood Creek, there was joy in the eyes of the emigrants and many cries of welcome, but it was nothing like what they had experienced before.

  As he thought about that, he decided part of it was that with the Willie Company their arrival had not been expected. Then, they had come out of the west just at sundown, like angels of mercy descending from heaven. But the Martin Company knew that their rescuers were waiting at Devil’s Gate and would come out to meet them. They also knew that this would likely be the day it would happen. It was not that they were less grateful; it was just that they were less surprised.

  Yet in another way, while perhaps not as dramatic, this time was even more poignant than the first. David and Stephen Taylor were assigned to distribute the food from their wagon to one of the companies of hundred in Captain Martin’s group. It touched David deeply that, as he handed them onions and potatoes and scooped out flour in generous portions, there was no pushing, no fighting for a place in the line, no whining about how hungry they were. They stood patiently, waiting their turn, their eyes large and haunting, the sallow, thin faces enough to make David want to weep. When they finally reached him, they would hold out their hands or their pots without speaking, the very gesture so beseeching and imploring that it became far more eloquent than words. And when he finished giving them their allotment, not once did they forget to express their gratitude. “Thank you, dear brother.” “Bless you, son.” “The Lord bless you.” “Thank you so much for coming to our aid.”