Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

Brother Kimball shook his head. “It’s not worth dragging it to our next camp. Leave it for the antelope and the coyotes.”

  •••

  Fifteen minutes later it was done. The cart that Eric and Olaf and Brother James and the other brethren had helped to make back in Iowa City, the cart that had carried their things more than a thousand miles, the cart that had raised blisters and then calluses, that had dragged them back as they went up the hills and pushed them forward when they went down again, was now to be left behind. It was not a prospect that filled them with sorrow.

  As they carried the last of their clothing and bedding to the nearest wagon, Brother Kimball nodded. “All right.” He looked at Eric. “If you and the McKensies could help Sister James and the girls with their cart until more wagons come along, we’d appreciate it. Pull this one out of the way and let’s get rolling again.”

  Eric nodded, then started for the cart, but Maggie beat him to it. She trotted forward and quickly raised the shafts. As he came to help, she waved him off. “No, Eric. I want to do this.”

  Surprised, he stopped. She leaned into the crossbars and started forward, the empty cart rolling easily now. “What?” he said, teasing her. “You have so much love for it that you must have one last turn?”

  She nodded. Moving faster, she turned off the trail and into the sagebrush. To everyone’s surprise, she did not stop but moved upward along the rising ground, following the edge of the ridge.

  Her mother began to look concerned. “Maggie, where are you going?” she called.

  She waved and called back something that none of them caught. Eric looked at Brother Willie and Brother Kimball. He shrugged, thoroughly perplexed.

  The ridge had been swept mostly clear of the snow, so it was not hard pulling for her. Maggie moved steadily along it, looking over the edge of the ridge down below. About a hundred yards out she reached a spot where the ridge dropped off sharply. She was now about fifty or sixty feet above the level ground below. She moved right to the edge of the drop-off, then stepped out of the shafts, still holding firmly to the front crossbar so as to keep the cart level.

  “What are you doing?” Robbie shouted.

  Eric was suddenly grinning. “Watch,” he said.

  Steadying the cart now, Maggie gripped the crossbar. With a cry of exultation, she heaved the cart forward. It had enough momentum that it shot over the edge. As the back end of the cart passed her, Maggie aimed a kick at it. She missed, but it still gave her great satisfaction.

  Over it went. As the front end dropped, the crossbar and shafts hit the dirt and bounced up again. The cart was careening wildly now as it gathered momentum. The second time the front end came down, the left shaft dug into the soft earth. The back end jerked upward, and then the cart was tumbling end over end, crashing loudly each time it hit. A piece of sideboard went flying. Then the right wheel crumpled. On the third flip, the main body hit a large rock protruding from the ground and the bottom of the cart shattered with a tremendous crack. Splinters of wood went flying everywhere.

  In a few seconds it was over. What had once been a serviceable handcart now lay at the bottom of the slope, mangled and twisted almost beyond recognition. Maggie stood there for a moment, looking down at her handiwork; then she brushed off her hands and started back.

  To her astonishment, she heard someone start to clap. Then others joined in. As she walked back to where Eric and her family and her two leaders were waiting for her, a great swell of applause went up and down the line of wagons and carts. There were cheers, and one of the newly arrived members of the rescue team even whistled shrilly. She lifted her arms in triumph and waved them back and forth, accepting their cheers for what they were—a deep expression of relief that they had come to this point in their journey.

  When she reached the group waiting for her, she looked at William Kimball. Perfectly serious, she nodded. “All right. I think I’m ready now.”

  Shaking his head and trying not to smile, Brother Kimball gave her an official nod and he and Captain Willie started back for the front of the line.

  Robbie was gaping at his sister. She finally let a touch of humor soften her mouth. “I’m sorry, Robbie. If I had been thinking, I would have let you help me.”

  His mouth was half-open, and then he grinned wickedly. “It was much more fun to watch from here, Maggie,” he said.

  As Robbie and Maggie’s mother moved forward to join the Jameses, Maggie finally turned to Eric. “You didn’t know that that was what you were marrying, did you?”

  He shook his head in wonder. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Want to change your mind?”

  To her surprise, he didn’t laugh. “No.” He took a deep breath, his eyes pained now. “Since Olaf died, I—” He stopped and took another breath. “I once thought that we should be married before we reached the Valley. When Olaf died, it didn’t seem appropriate to talk of happiness anymore.”

  “I know.” She had guessed that that might be the reason he had not mentioned marriage again since that terrible night at Rock Creek.

  “But now?” He turned and looked at the shattered cart. “Now I would like to have us be married as soon as we reach the Valley. Would that be all right with you, Maggie?”

  She slipped her arm in his. “That would be perfect,” she said happily. “Absolutely perfect.”

  II

  Sunday, 2 November 1856

  It was about ten o’clock the next morning. According to Brother Kimball and Captain Willie, they were just a few miles away from Fort Bridger, the last major stopping place before they reached the Valley. Maggie and Sarah James were behind the Jameses’ handcart, taking their turn pushing at the moment, while Eric and Sister James pulled in the shafts. Emma was getting a rest and was with the children. With both families down to one cart, there were plenty of chances for all to rest more now.

  “More wagons coming,” Eric called back.

  Maggie lifted her head to see over the cart. They were about a third of the way back from the head of the column and had a pretty good view of the trail ahead. But to their surprise, it turned out to be only one wagon. They could see it as it stopped near the front of the line and their captains went over to meet it. But no one ordered the company to stop, and eventually Eric’s group came up on the group and passed by it slowly. Captain Willie, Brother Kimball, Kimball’s younger brother Heber P., and Levi Savage were all talking to the teamster, who still sat on his wagon seat.

  As they went by, Eric saw that the man was slender of build, had long hair that fell down to his shoulders and a full dark beard. He was heavily dressed for the weather, and there was a long-barreled rifle in a holder beside the wagon seat. As he talked with their leaders, the man’s eyes would keep shifting to the passing line, and he would lift a hand to wave, or nod in greeting. His eyes were grave and he did not smile.

  “That’s strange,” Eric said.

  “What’s that?” Jane James asked.

  “Only one wagon.”

  “Hmm.” She hadn’t considered that. But Eric was right. They had now met more than a dozen wagons, but none of them had been traveling alone. The smallest group had been a group of three. “What do you think it means?”

  Eric shrugged. “Maybe he’s not from the Valley.”

  “Maybe he’s not even a Mormon,” Sarah called up from behind. “He didn’t look like one.”

  Maggie nudged her playfully. “And what is a Mormon supposed to look like?” she asked. “Maybe all the brethren in Utah have long hair and wear full beards.”

  Sarah pulled a face. “I hope not. I prefer someone like that David Granger that we met.”

  Hearing that, Eric half turned to look at Maggie and Sarah. “The brethren seemed to know him,” he commented.

  Five minutes later, as they continued to move slowly along, Heber P. Kimball came sauntering up the line on his horse. Seeing him coming, Eric waved a hand, motioning him in.

  “Yes?”

  “Was that one of
the wagons from the Valley?” Eric asked.

  Heber seemed surprised. “Of course. You won’t see many other wagons out here now except for ours.”

  “Isn’t it a little unusual to have one wagon traveling alone?”

  Heber nodded, understanding the question now. “Normally, yes.”

  “But this isn’t normal?” Maggie asked, curious now as well.

  He laughed. “No, this is not normal. This is Ephraim Hanks.”

  “So you did know him?” Sarah said, seeming a little disappointed.

  “Ephraim? Of course. Practically everyone in the Valley knows Ephraim Hanks. He and Charles Decker—” He stopped. “Do you remember Brother Decker? He was our scout. He went on ahead with Brother Grant’s group.”

  “Kind of,” Maggie responded.

  “Well, anyway, Ephraim and Brother Decker run the mail service between here and St. Jo, Missouri. Ephraim’s a real frontiersman, made out of the same mold as the likes of Jim Bridger and the other mountain men.”

  “So why he is alone?” Eric asked, still surprised to find an isolated wagon out in this desolation.

  “Anyone else would be crazy to come out here in this weather on their own. But not Ephraim. He says he’s going on to help the rear company.” Then Heber got a strange look on his face. “Said he’d gotten a real strong call from the Lord that he ought to come out and help.”

  “What kind of call?” Sister James asked.

  “Wouldn’t say. But for all he looks kind of rough, here’s a man who’s close to the Lord. The Indians call him the man who talks with the Great Spirit.”

  When it was clear they had no more questions, Heber lifted a hand and rode on. Once he was gone, Maggie turned to Sarah. “I wish I had known that that was what he was doing.”

  “Why?”

  “I would have told him about Hannah and Ingrid and had him make sure they were all right.”

  III

  Monday, 3 November 1856

  Rescue did not mean restoration.

  David Granger learned that lesson in short order when they found the Martin Company at Greasewood Creek. With the Willie Company, the rescuers had brought in the wagons full of food and clothing, distributed it out to the smiles and tears of the joyous recipients, and then left again immediately. He was not there to see what followed. He came on east with Captain Grant’s division while William H. Kimball took the Willie Company west. Somehow in David’s mind he still pictured the Willie Company at the Sixth Crossing, enjoying the largesse their rescuers had brought them. Now that he thought about it, he knew that that couldn’t be the case, but as they had pressed on eastward he really hadn’t thought much about the Willie Company’s moving on.

  As the rescue company made their camp at Greasewood Creek with the Martin Company on the last day of October, the south wind died; then after a time the wind sprang up again, only this time from out of the northwest. The temperature dropped sharply, and by morning it was clear that another winter storm was coming. From the feel of it, it promised to be another bad one, which shortly proved to be the case. This should have created an air of urgency in the camp, but the emigrants didn’t seem to care. Or at least, it was not enough to spur them on to greater speed. And that was when David began to realize that rescue was not the final solution. The mood of the camp that morning had been greatly improved over when they had found them. But one meal on full rations didn’t restore strength and energy overnight. One night of hope did not magically regenerate the endurance that had dribbled away over a period of a month or more.

  The next morning, as they prepared to break camp and start for Devil’s Gate, David began to sense just how far these people had to go before they would be back to any semblance of normality. As he watched them, particularly Hannah McKensie and Ingrid Christensen and the recently widowed Sister Elizabeth Jackson and her children, David decided to ask Captain Grant if Stephen Taylor or someone else might drive the team so that he could help them pull their cart.

  He never got a chance to make that request.

  As the handcart company prepared to move out, Captain Grant called some of the brethren together. He and Major Burton were going back to find the Hodgett Wagon Company, who were camped just four or five miles behind the Martin group. But the Hunt Wagon Company was still a worry. The last they had been heard from was on the twenty-ninth—three days earlier—when Brother Young and his companions had left them at the last crossing and urged them to come on as quickly as possible. So Captain Grant asked a few brethren under the direction of Cyrus Wheelock to head east and try to find them once again. David was assigned to go with them, and that ended any of his plans about helping with the handcarts—or spending more time with Hannah McKensie.

  That had been three days ago, and those three days had turned out to be a little frustrating to David Granger. The Hunt wagons had left the last crossing of the North Platte on the twenty-ninth as they had promised Joseph Young, but their pace could best be described as leisurely. If it was hard to generate a sense of urgency in the handcart emigrants, it was because they had reached the point where all physical, mental, and spiritual reserves were drained. With the Hunt group, the lack of urgency seemed to stem from a blithe unawareness of how critical the situation was becoming. After Joseph Young, Abel Garr, and Dan Jones left them with the command to come on as quickly as possible, the Hunt Company had not moved out until two o’clock that afternoon. They went three miles. The next day they went seven miles and stopped again. Then they stayed in place for another full day while they worked out the purchase of some cattle from the Platte Bridge trading post.

  When Brother Wheelock and his small group finally found them, it hadn’t been much better. They had finally made it back to Greasewood Creek just today. David blew out his breath. Eighteen miles and it had taken them three days. It was then he decided to go to Brother Wheelock and ask for a favor.

  “Brother Wheelock, would you have any objection if I were to ride on ahead to Devil’s Gate?”

  One eyebrow came up. “Right now?”

  “Yes. It’s just that . . . well, this company seems to be moving along all right now, and the handcart company seemed in much more need of help. I was just thinking that they are probably getting ready to move on by now. Maybe they already have. They might be able to use some more help.” He stopped, realizing that the words had come out in a rush.

  For a long moment, Brother Wheelock peered at him. Cyrus Wheelock was a longtime friend of David’s father and close to the family. He knew David well and was pleased with how his friend’s oldest son was turning out. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with those two young ladies I saw you speaking with out here the other day, would it?”

  David flinched. How had he noticed that? He had only spoken to Ingrid and Hannah for a few minutes at his wagon. The next morning he had somehow ended up at their tent and helped them take it down, but he had helped others as well.

  “I’ll take that long silence as a yes,” Brother Wheelock said with a sardonic smile.

  David grinned sheepishly. “Well, sir, they do seem to be in need of some help.”

  “Mind if I go with you?” he asked.

  David was startled. “Well, no, of course not. But I thought you had to stay with Captain Hunt’s group.”

  Brother Wheelock sighed deeply. “I do. I’ll bring them in, but this pace we’re setting is enough to drive a teetotaler to drink.” He slapped David on the arm. “Saddle your horse and get out of here. Someone needs to tell Captain Grant where we are anyway.”

  •••

  It was almost eight P.M. when David Granger rode into the compound at the old fort at Devil’s Gate. He had come seventeen miles in nine hours. Surprised to see a solitary rider, several of those in the rescue company came out to greet him. One of those was Stephen Taylor, his wagon partner when they went out to find the Martin Company. Like David, Stephen was twenty-one and had been in the Minute Men for the last three years.

  David climbe
d down stiffly from the saddle and handed Stephen the reins. “Where’s Captain Grant?”

  “In that center building there,” Stephen answered.

  “Good. Will you see to my horse?”

  •••

  “Look,” Ingrid said, poking Hannah on the shoulder. “There he is.”

  “There who is?” Hannah said, turning to look. She had been talking to Mary Elizabeth Jackson, but looked up to see what Ingrid was looking at.

  “You know. Him! The one who hugged you.”

  Hannah’s eye caught sight of the figure who had just come out from Captain Grant’s cabin. He stopped for a moment to speak to a man standing just outside the door, then started slowly towards the nearest fire. The company had several large fires burning around the compound, and the light illuminated a wide circle in the darkness. Hannah watched him as he moved stiffly and with obvious weariness.

  Suddenly Ingrid grabbed her arm. “I’ll bet he’s hungry. We’ve still got some stew left.”

  Hannah turned and gave her an incredulous look.

  She went on the defensive. “Wouldn’t you be hungry after all day on the trail?”

  “Ingrid! We barely even know his name.”

  “So?” A bit of an impish smile played around her mouth. “I thought the scriptures talked about offering help to the stranger.”

  Hannah was thoroughly shocked. “Have you got designs on that young man?” she said.

  Ingrid looked innocent. “What is ‘designs’?”

  “Don’t you play that with me, young lady. You know exactly what I mean. Are you trying to make something happen between you and him?”

  Now Ingrid looked shocked. “Not between me and him, Hannah.”

  “What?”

  “He hugged you, you know.”

  “I . . . that was just from Maggie.”

  “Did you not see his face? He was red like a beet. It was more than just a hug from Maggie.”

  “Ingrid Christensen. Is this what a little food and rest does to you? You are losing your mind.”

  “Come on. Let’s ask him.” She grabbed Hannah by the arm and dragged her forward.