The Locket: Escape from Deseret Book One

by Adell Harvey

  The Locket

  Adell Harvey

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  Written by Adell Harvey. Copyright ©2014 by Mari Serebrov.

  All rights reserved.

  Proudly prepared for publication by Kamel Press, LLC.

  This book is a work of historical fiction. Names, main characters, and incidents lived only in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. However, actual historical figures, places, dates, and events are the products of the author’s extensive research and are factual representations. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-62487-033-0 - Paperback

  978-1-62487-034-7 - eBook

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014949955

  Published in the USA.

  In memory of Hattie and Max,

  descendents of the real Anne Marie

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  ALTHOUGH Ingrid, Anne Marie, Andy, and Charles Rasmussen are fictional characters, I have drawn on actual Mormon diaries and genealogical records to create them. This novel is based upon true historical events and geographical locations; the dates and emigrant ships are authentic.

  The pronouncements from early Mormon church leaders came from their published sermons and writings, and John Ahmanson’s perceptions are from his own diary. Historical figures such as Jim Bridger, Chief Washakie, Brigham Young, and the other Mormon apostles are portrayed as accurately as my extensive research enabled.

  While writing this novel, I traveled the Mormon Trail from Nauvoo, Illinois to Salt Lake City, Utah, and later took the Humboldt Cutoff from Idaho to Gold Flat, Nevada County, California. Walking in traces of the wagon wheel ruts made so long ago by those hopeful pioneers, sweltering in the arid desert dust, and studying national park exhibits at Devil’s Gate, my heart went out to these lost souls who were so desperately deceived by a man they thought was “sent from God.”

  Chapter 1

  INGRID PULLED BACK the curtain, absently looking down at the crowded Stoget below. Her breath caught. They were back! The American preachers were standing near the corner gas lamp, surrounded by fascinated listeners and a handful of hecklers.

  Her heart pounding, Ingrid swung a shawl around her shoulders and raced down the narrow staircase, through Papa’s fish market, letting the door swing behind her.

  Thor Engstredt bellowed at her from the back of the market, “Shut the door! Didn’t Ollie teach you not to let flies into his fish market?”

  Biting back a nasty retort, Ingrid muttered silently, “What used to be his fish market, you mean.” A tear squeezed unbidden from her eye, trailing a damp path across her cheek.

  When Papa and Mama died in the epidemic in the fall, Thor had taken over the market by paying Papa’s debts. In what he considered a magnanimous gesture, he had allowed her to stay in the tiny apartment above the market. It had been her only home for all of her 16 years, and now she must find another.

  Thor was getting more persistent that it was time for her to move out. “I’m not given to charity, and your Pa owed me a lot. You can stay here for one more month, but that’s it.”

  Ingrid shuddered at his leering stare and insulting remark, “A month should give you time to find yourself a man, one way or the other.”

  The only ray of sunshine in her bleak world were the American preachers with their tales of a land called Zion, a special land promised to God’s special people. Ingrid found herself strangely drawn to the corner each time the preachers appeared, eagerly drinking in their promises of a better life in the land between the mountains.

  A better life? Surely anything would be better than walking the streets of Copenhagen, trying to survive. No home, no parents, no income – how was she to live?

  She dismissed the gloomy thoughts from her mind, intent on hearing everything the Americans had to say today. She listened eagerly, pulling her shawl closer to ward off the biting wind.

  Could it be true? The older of the two preachers, the one they called Brother Rasmussen, promised to make a way for anyone who wanted to join the gathering of the Saints in Zion.

  “‘Tis the Lord’s time,” his usually mild baritone thundered. “He has spoken to our prophet, Brigham Young, in these last days and ordered that his chosen come from the ends of the earth to build up Zion!”

  He stopped, taking a moment to survey the crowd of hopeful, uplifted eyes. His gaze came to rest on Ingrid, seeming to bore into her innermost thoughts. Startled, she looked away. Did he know how badly she wanted to go to Zion? Did he think she was among God’s chosen ones?

  Her hopes dashed as reality set in. She didn’t even know where she could get money for her next meal. Booking passage to America was an impossible dream.

  She shrugged and turned away. At least, it had been a nice dream while it lasted.

  “Sister Thirkelsen, may I have a word with you?” The mellow voice broke into her dreary thoughts. Turning, she came face to face with the preacher. His eyes again caught hers, the kindest eyes she had ever seen. Green, with little flecks of gold and tiny crinkles at the corners.

  His dark hair, combed back in a stylish pompadour, had tinges of gray at the temples. A warm feeling washed over her. Brother Rasmussen looked a lot like Papa! Or at least like Papa would have looked had he been able to dress in such a fine suit and great coat.

  The preacher cleared his throat. “Sister Thirkelsen, may I call on you?”

  “Call on me?” she stammered. “It wouldn’t be proper… I mean, my parents are dead, and I live alone, and I don’t have money for passage to America … ”

  He chuckled, interrupting her embarrassed rambling. “I know all that, my dear. When you were present at so many of our meetings, I began making inquiries. A beautiful face like yours is not easily forgotten.”

  Something in his manner startled her. Did he mean to make a social call on her or a religious one?

  He didn’t leave her long to ponder. Lowering his voice, he spoke confidentially. “My wife died of the black canker several years ago. And a man does get awfully lonely.”

  Ingrid stepped back in surprise. “But, but, I mean… ”

  He reached for her hand. “I assure you my intentions are completely honorable. May I come calling tonight?” She gulped.

  Surely someone who reminded her so much of Papa could be trusted. Nodding, “Tonight,” she whispered, slipping away into the crowd. She must get away to collect her thoughts.

  In a flurry of activity, she tidied the already over-clean apartment, washed and rewashed her face, and pressed her Sunday dress. Gazing into the tarnished mirror over the bureau, she plaited her hair, attempting to make herself look a bit older than her 16 years.

  All the while, a turmoil of hope and despair fought for control of her thoughts. He’s old enough to be my fat
her. He couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Maybe I am one of the chosen. Maybe this is God’s way of getting me to America. She brought herself up short. And maybe there’s gold at the end of the rainbow. Stop daydreaming. Good things just don’t happen to people like Ingrid Thirkelsen.

  But hope hung on. Why had he taken the trouble to learn her name and her circumstances? Why was he coming to call? Maybe, just maybe, things were going to come her way for once.

  Her heart jumped, almost in rhythm with the knock at the door. Smoothing stray golden tendrils back into the braids, Ingrid strode to the door, her resolve determined. Whatever Brother Rasmussen’s reason for coming to call, she would listen impartially.

  Nothing in her wildest imaginings had prepared her for the suddenness of his proposal, however. As soon as she opened the door to him, Brother Rasmussen took both her hands into his, cleared his throat, and spoke in his preaching voice.

  “I apologize for the haste, my dear,” he began. “I had hoped to woo you and win your hand in a more proper fashion. But I have just received word that I must leave for Liverpool to escort a group of emigrants to Zion… ”

  Ingrid caught her breath. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m afraid I must.” He cleared his throat again, a habit which Ingrid was beginning to associate with an important pronouncement. “The Lord has told me he has chosen you to be my wife, to help build up the Kingdom of Zion.”

  Numb with shock, Ingrid attempted to think clearly. “I can’t leave so quickly,” she stalled.

  “I don’t expect you to. We can marry tomorrow morning before I leave. I’ll book passage for you on the next emigrant ship scheduled to leave for Liverpool. It would be totally impossible to get you passage on this one anyway.”

  “Cross the Atlantic alone?” she shivered at the thought. “I’ve never been away from Copenhagen… I… I have no money for passage… ” She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He led her to the threadbare upholstered bench that served as a sofa, his arm wrapped around her shoulders.

  “You won’t be alone,” he assured her. “We hire entire ships and take hundreds of Saints. You’ll have plenty of company. I’ll send some of the faithful over to help you sell your things and pack.”

  He glanced around the meagerly furnished room. “We’ll use the proceeds from the sale to get you to Liverpool. Brother Brigham had a word from the Lord on how to help get the faithful across from there. It’s called the Perpetual Emigration Company, and funds go into it from tithing and ferry profits.”

  Ingrid didn’t have the slightest idea what tithing and ferry profits were, but if they could help get her to the Promised Land, so be it.

  “Of course, it’s only a loan,” he explained. “Once you get to Zion, you will eventually pay it back to the church so we can help more of the faithful come.”

  “A loan?” Ingrid spread out her hands in a helpless gesture, her palms turned upward to demonstrate their emptiness. “All I have in this world is in this room and in these hands,” she whispered. “How could I ever pay back a loan such as that?”

  Brother Rasmussen took her outstretched hands, fondling them as he did so. “These are solid, sturdy hands, lovely hands.” He raised an open palm to his lips and kissed it, bringing a deep flush to her cheeks. “Someone as strong and beautiful as you will have no trouble paying back the loan,” he assured her.

  “The Perpetual Emigration Fund is a fair enough plan, one given to our prophet direct from the Lord himself,” he continued. “And with all the golden opportunities and prosperity awaiting in the Land of Deseret, you’ll be able to pay it back quickly.”

  Reassured, Ingrid listened with delight as Brother Rasmussen spoke eloquently about Deseret, Zion, the Promised Land, and Utah Territory. It seemed they were all one and the same place. He beguiled her with stories and descriptions of God’s special place, which he had given to his anointed.

  “‘Tis a wondrous place, a large valley among the mountains where the godless are not,” he told her, his eyes glowing with memories of his time there. “Every man receives according to his labors and just desserts. Imagine entire communities of the Saints cooperating to build the Kingdom of God!”

  Ingrid was thrilled, hardly daring to imagine such a wonderful world. She warmed to Brother Rasmussen, enthralled by his single-hearted devotion to his religion and the apparent serenity of his life. Marriage to this man, living in Heaven on Earth – why was God being so good to her?

  But still, she had hundreds of unanswered questions, the most important, of course, being the wedding. “How can we marry tomorrow?” she asked. “We have to get civil approval, a preacher, a church.”

  He patted her hand, as if all her questions were of little consequence. “Brother Ahmanson will perform the ceremony at our meeting house. Civil approval won’t be necessary, as we Saints do things differently. When you meet me in Salt Lake City, we’ll go to the Temple Endowment House and have a Celestial Wedding,” he promised.

  Celestial wedding? Another term that meant nothing to Ingrid, but it did sound intriguing. Rather than display her ignorance, she posed another question. “Why me? I’m not even baptized into the Saints yet.”

  He gave her a searching look. “But you do believe, don’t you?”

  Ingrid searched deep into her heart of hearts. It all sounded too good to be true, but something about this man made her trust him implicitly. If he believed it so passionately, it must be true. She raised her eyes, flashing him a radiant smile. “Yes, I believe,” she murmured.

  Overcome with emotion, he deftly unpinned her braids, coaxing her hair to flow long and free. His voice choked as he fondled the silken tresses. “Your hair is like spun honey. And with such a strong back and gentle manner – our children will be wondrous, indeed!”

  Ingrid blushed and drew back. He pulled her lightly to him and asked for one more favor. “Since we will be man and wife tomorrow, could I kiss you goodnight?”

  Touched by his reticence and courtly manners, Ingrid lifted her lips to his, hoping for some sign of love – not necessarily fireworks, but at least a stirring. His lips were firm, tight against hers, slightly moist. She felt nothing but a warm, comforting feeling. At least that was a start.

  He hadn’t mentioned love, but perhaps someday, it would come. In the meantime, she would be a devoted wife and mother, warming his heart and hearth.

  He gave her a quick hug. “I’ll call for you at 10 o’clock,” he promised. “Be ready.” With a tip of his hat he headed for the stairs.

  Ingrid readied for bed, her mind in a whirl. Whatever was she doing? Marrying an older man she barely knew, heading for America. Had she lost leave of her senses?

  With customary resoluteness, she shrugged. What was done was done. Tomorrow she would be Mrs… Mrs… Something Rasmussen. She giggled.

  My goodness! I don’t even know his first name!

  Chapter 2

  INGRIDS’ WEDDING DAY dawned sunny and cold. The morning rushed by in a whirl of activity, leaving her half-dazed. A very brief, matter-of-fact wedding ceremony pronounced to the few who attended that she now was Sister Charles Rasmussen. She forced herself not to giggle like a silly schoolchild. “At least now I know his first name!” she thought.

  She fingered the slim gold band her groom had slipped on her finger, the wedding ring she had removed from Mama’s finger just before the burial. When she had shyly asked Brother Rasmussen to use it as her own wedding ring, he agreed, but she sensed a reluctance in his manner.

  “Our ceremony doesn’t bother with rings and things,” he said, “but if you want to wear it, I suppose you may.”

  Dressed in the best her meager wardrobe could offer, Ingrid still felt awkward standing next to the elegant, well-dressed Brother Rasmussen. She pressed her hands against the rough fabric of the faded gray homespun dress that she usually wore only on Sundays. It wasn’t exactly the wedding she had dreamed of – no white dress, no flowers, not even any of her few friends. She w
ished there had been time to invite Pastor Jensen, who had been so good to her when Mama and Papa died.

  A rush of conscience sent a flush to her face. What would Pastor Jensen think of her new religion? Would he approve? Remembering the sermons she had heard from Brother Rasmussen on the street corner, they didn’t sound too different from her catechism classes. Surely this new religion was acceptable, and it offered a new life in Zion, a chance to build up God’s own Kingdom!

  Brother Rasmussen smiled down at her, aware of her nervousness. “Things will be different in Zion, my dear,” he promised. “Our Celestial Wedding in the Temple Endowment House will make up for this one. There’ll be time enough for the foo faraw then!”

  Ingrid clutched his promises close to her breast as she stood at the dock watching her new groom assemble several hundred Danes to assist them in their journey. He would be their agent to Liverpool, on across the Atlantic, and finally across America to the Promised Land. As the last person boarded the ship, Brother Rasmussen gave her a polite, firm kiss and headed up the gang plank. “Remember, pack lightly,” he called over his shoulder.

  Turning, with a look of tenderness that warmed her heart, he added, “Be certain to pack a warm coat and sturdy shoes. When we’re together again in Zion we can get the fancies and pretties.”

  Ingrid hugged her arms close to her body. Oh, it was so good to have someone of her very own, someone who cared about her, someone who would protect and cherish her.

  No longer was she an orphan girl about to be dispelled from her home. Today she was somebody, Sister Charles Rasmussen, on her way to Zion, the beautiful city of God! Mentally, she tried on the name for size. Ingrid Rasmussen, Sister Ingrid Rasmussen, Brother and Sister Charles Rasmussen. How good it sounded!

  Despite the cold, bitter wind blowing across the dock, she felt no chill, totally wrapped in the warmth of her emotions. She stood motionless, watching until the steamer disappeared over the horizon.