Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  P——— seems very much afraid that she will not have clothes enough when she gets to Zion. Well, if she sets more store upon fine clothes than upon the counsel of the Lord and the blessings of living in Zion, I can say she is different to me. The fact is, she has too many clothes—they are a trouble to her, and she seems willing to hazard her salvation for them. There is such a thing as being ruined by one’s riches. . . .

  . . . You cannot have much faith in the Lord if you have only enough to take you half way to Zion.

  You will say, you never had such a letter before in all your lives. I will say you never before deserved such a letter in all your lives, because you never before turned away from such privileges as you have now within your reach. What! are you going to dash away the cup of temporal salvation from your lips, now it almost touches them? What folly! What madness! It is no little thing to trifle with the Lord, or with His Holy Spirit, or with the counsels of His servants. . . .

  You say that you understood that the hand-carts were the last resource. Pray what other resource have you? Those who despise the hand-carts may yet be glad to get to Zion with a pack upon their backs.

  What more shall I say? I can but exhort you to repent of your faint-heartedness, repent of your trifling with the salvation of the Lord, and be ready to go with us, with a cheerful heart, trusting in God, and not in your own strength, when we come, and all will be well. . . . Pray unto Him without ceasing. Give your souls no rest till you get the spirit of the gathering burning in your bosoms, like a fire that cannot be quenched. . . .

  When your wife has heard this, I think she will fancy she has got revelation enough about the hand-carts.

  With love to all, in which my wife and family join, I remain your brother in the Gospel,

  John Jaques.

  Chapter 5

  Liverpool, England

  to

  New York City, New York

  I

  Thursday, 8 May 1856

  As the sound of the bell came softly through the hatch above her head, Maggie looked up. It was the ship’s bell, and it clanged again and then again. Maggie closed her book, a sense of sadness heavy upon her. Here it was again.

  The rest of her family and the James family were already topside. She got up and went to the berth where she and Sarah slept. Sarah James was awake, pale as a sheet of parchment, staring up at the bulkhead above her. Maggie noted that it made her look only more lovely. She pulled a face, envious but not resentful. Even when she was seasick, Sarah was lovely.

  “Do you want to try and go up on deck?” Maggie asked gently.

  Sarah turned. Her eyes closed for a moment, then opened again. “I think so.”

  “I’ll help you.” Maggie took her arm and helped her up to a sitting position.

  Sarah swayed for a moment and clutched at the side of the berth.

  “Don’t close your eyes,” Maggie suggested. “I found that that only makes things worse.”

  There was a wan smile, and then Sarah looked at her. “The Americans say that all men are created equal. It’s in their Declaration of Independence.”

  “Yes?” Maggie wasn’t sure what had brought that to her mind.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.” Now there was just a trace of the spunk that Maggie knew lay inside her new friend. “Otherwise how do you explain why I’ve been deathly seasick for four straight days now, and yet you were sick for only one day, and Robbie and Reuben didn’t even turn pale?”

  Maggie put her arm around her and helped her stand up. “I see what you mean. It doesn’t seem fair, does it? But then, if we were all created equal, I’d have skin that looks like fine porcelain and eyes as wide and lovely as yours.”

  “Go on, Maggie,” Sarah said, holding on to Maggie’s arm to steady herself. “You are very pretty, and you know it.”

  “And you are beautiful, Sarah James, and you know that.”

  Sarah looked away, embarrassed by the sincerity in Maggie’s voice. “Beauty is as beauty does,” she murmured.

  And that was Sarah James, Maggie thought with a rush of affection. She was as lovely a girl as Maggie knew, and yet there was not the slightest affectation about it, not the slightest arrogance. Beauty is as beauty does. How true. For what made Sarah James truly beautiful was what she was, not simply what she looked like. Maggie once again felt a great burst of gratitude that she had found such a friend so early in their journey.

  The sound of the bell came again down through the hatch.

  “We’d better hurry,” Maggie said, starting toward the ladder.

  “Yes.” Sarah sighed. “I don’t look forward to it. Twice in one day? That’s too much.”

  “I know,” Maggie said wearily. “I know.”

  •••

  Eric Pederson wanted to avert his head as the four men passed through the crowd. Each held on to one corner of a long board with handles on each end. On the board was a dark shape sewn up into one of the blankets. But then he remembered the words of his father and did not look away. “Death is as much a part of life as birth,” his father often said. “While we may not welcome it, neither should we fear to look it in the face, for someday all of us will have to shake hands with it.”

  But two burials at sea in one day? And when they were barely— He had to stop for a moment and count. They had left the dock and anchored in the river on Friday, but had not actually been towed out into the Irish Sea until Sunday. Today was Thursday. So they had really been at sea for only five days. Five days and they were about to witness their second burial.

  Last night, just as the call for evening prayers had gone out, word came that Sister Rachel Curtis, aged seventy-five years, from Norton, in Gloucestershire, England, had passed away from causes incident to old age. Eric and Olaf did not know her personally, but they had seen her as they were checking in at the registration tables. White haired, frail, steadying herself on two canes, she had seemed barely able to hobble. Eric remembered wondering how she could ever manage to cross the plains—in wagon or handcart. But that was no longer a concern for her. Now she had found a different Zion. Now she could rest from those things incident to old age.

  The bells had tolled at ten o’clock this morning, and with great solemnity the majority of the passengers gathered on deck for the burial. President Willie had offered up a prayer to the Almighty, and then Rachel Curtis had been consigned to the depths of the sea. It had left a pall over the company, even though all knew that this aged sister was happier now and at peace.

  Then the second shock had come. About an hour before, Jens Nielson came up on deck where several of the Scandinavian Saints were taking the sun and announced that Sister Rasmine Rasmussen, from Jutland, Denmark—a sister that the Nielsons had known well—had just succumbed to an inflammation of the brain. Elsie had been with the sisters who were taking care of the woman and was having a difficult time of it, her husband reported.

  Here again, Eric thought, death had not caught them by surprise. On their way down from Norway, when they had docked at Copenhagen, he and Olaf had watched some of the Danish Saints help this sister on board the steamer. She had been suffering from the inflammation for several weeks, but was insistent that she would not be left behind. Now, less than a week into the voyage, she had passed quietly away. This time, because an infection was involved, the ship’s captain recommended that there be no delay in the burial. President Willie agreed, and at five o’clock in the afternoon, for the second time that day, the ship’s bell began to toll.

  Most of the crew were gathered around, faces solemn. They did not like death on their ship, even if it was a common visitor. The ship’s captain and President Willie stood side-by-side near the wheel. Almost all of the Saints—except for those who were still suffering from seasickness—were gathered around, heads bare, voices subdued.

  This time it was Elder Ahmanson who offered the prayer. He spoke in Danish and Eric was strangely glad. If Sister Rasmu
ssen was allowed to tarry long enough to witness her own burial, she ought to be able to understand the prayer. When the prayer was finished, Captain Collins spoke briefly. Eric didn’t know what he said—Elder Ahmanson wasn’t there to translate for the ship’s captain—but it seemed appropriate. That finished, the four men stepped forward to a place where the railing was open to the sea. There was a moment’s hesitation; then the two in the back raised the board up. Eric caught a glimpse of the dark shape sliding downward. There were two or three seconds of silence, then a quiet splash from below.

  President Willie stared down for several moments, then replaced his hat. “Thank you, brothers and sisters,” he said.

  As the crowd returned to their quarters, Eric stood where he was, pensive and reflecting. On Sunday one of President Willie’s counselors had married a missionary returning from Bombay and a young Scottish girl from Dundee. On Tuesday a sister had given birth to a baby boy, the second born on board since their arrival. A marriage. Two births. Two deaths. The accounts of mortality. Somehow they had to be kept in balance.

  II

  Sunday, 11 May 1856

  It was evening now and would soon be fully dark. Most of the passengers had gone below immediately following worship services and had not come up again. It had been raining lightly for most of the day, and the wind was stiff and cold, coming directly out of the northwest. But Maggie loved it. She was at the prow of the ship, leaning into the wind, letting it swirl through her hair and make her cheeks tingle. This had proven to be one of the unexpected and yet welcome surprises for Maggie McKensie. She had fallen in love with the sea.

  For most of the Latter-day Saints on board the Thornton, the crossing of the Atlantic seemed like an interminable string of dreary days and drearier nights. In their eyes it was filled with stupefying monotony—recurring seasickness; drab meals often eaten cold because they could not build fires on deck due to bad weather; unbearable confinement when it stormed and the hatches had to be secured until it passed; constant vigilance required to keep small children from getting into trouble or falling overboard; chilling cold winds or blistering sun.

  She half closed her eyes, letting her mind run back over the last ten days. There were the dreary times, there was no disputing that—her brief but violent bout of seasickness when at first she thought she was going to die, and then feared that she might not. Misery took on a whole new depth of meaning to her during that day. There were also the funerals. The one that hit her the hardest was the old woman with the two canes she had watched that first day when they were boarding. Maggie could still close her eyes and picture the snow-white hair and the gnarled hands grasping the handles of her canes.

  But there were the lighter moments too. Several of the parents had school for their children. Maggie and Hannah and Emma and Sarah James had volunteered to help with the one that included most of the James children. One day Maggie and Sarah had acted out the fairy tale about Rapunzel. Sarah tied her hair back and became the handsome prince. Maggie borrowed lengths of heavy rope from the crew to become her long “blond” tresses. When she “threw them out of the castle window” so that her prince could “climb up to her,” the children shrieked in delight. Maggie and Sarah hammed it up shamelessly.

  Maggie now realized that that had been an important day for her. As she and Sarah had collapsed on a bag of wool afterwards, still laughing together, a startling thought hit Maggie. She suddenly realized that while there would always be an empty place in her heart for James MacAllister, Scotland was behind her. She had finally accepted that she was going to America, and was happy with the decision. It had been a significant turning point for her.

  “Sister McKensie?”

  Maggie turned in surprise. In her reveling in the wind, she hadn’t heard anyone come up behind her. She saw that it was the presidency of their company—James G. Willie, Millen Atwood, and the Danish translator, Brother Ahmanson.

  “Good evening,” she said, turning now fully and brushing at her hair to get it back in its place.

  “It’s a pleasant evening, isn’t it?” Elder Ahmanson said, looking around.

  Millen Atwood had his coat pulled tightly about him. “Only someone from Scandinavia would call a night like this pleasant,” he grumbled. But it was done with a smile and the others laughed.

  “I love it,” Maggie said. “I love the wind and smell of the salt water.”

  “That’s not just salt water,” President Willie said. He turned and faced into the wind himself. “Captain Collins says that’s the smell of icebergs in the air.”

  That caught them all by surprise. “Truly?” Elder Atwood asked.

  “That’s what he said. Starting tomorrow, we’ll be posting watch because there will be icebergs coming down from Iceland and Greenland.”

  Maggie was nodding. So that explained the particularly biting nip in the air tonight. She looked at President Willie. “Are you looking for my mother?” she asked. “She’s down below.”

  “No, actually, we were looking for you.”

  Her eyes widened a little. “Me?”

  “Yes, Sister McKensie, we would like a word with you. As your priesthood leaders.”

  “I . . .” She was completely taken aback. “Of course.”

  The men moved in around her and found places to sit on the crates and bags lashed to the deck. President Willie pointed to a low trunk and invited her to sit down.

  Completely bewildered, she sat down. He sat a few feet away from her, straddling the trunk so he could look directly at her. The others watched but clearly were going to let him take the lead on this.

  “May I call you Maggie?” he asked, after a moment.

  “Of course.”

  “Your family is from Scotland? From Edinburgh?”

  “Yes.”

  There was hesitation now. “Your branch president there told me about the difficult time you had in deciding whether to join us or not.” As her eyes widened he went on quickly. “I took the liberty to ask your mother for the details.”

  She rocked back a little, then blushed. Maggie had not spoken to anyone about her struggle, not even Sarah. But to her surprise, she was not upset by the fact that these brethren knew. They were her leaders and they had a right to know about the Saints in their charge. She nodded. The pain was back, almost as piercing as on that Sabbath day. She opened her eyes, but looked away. “I don’t know what it was. There were so many reasons why I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t want to. But . . .” She let her voice trail away to empty silence.

  Brother Willie smiled with infinite gentleness. “I think you do know what it was, Maggie.”

  Her shoulders lifted and fell. “I suppose it was the Spirit.” She had told herself that over and over, particularly in those terrible days when James turned away from her and there was nothing but the horrible pain. But to her surprise, he was shaking his head.

  One eyebrow lifted.

  “Oh, it was the Spirit working on you, of course, but I think it was something more too.”

  “What?”

  “To answer that, let me share something with you, Maggie. This was something that happened in Winter Quarters shortly after we arrived there in the fall of eighteen forty-six. I think it is the explanation for what you experienced.”

  She was curious now and nodded for him to go on.

  “As you probably know, by the fall of eighteen forty-six, most of the Saints had been driven from Nauvoo. But there were about six hundred people who had not been able to come. These were generally widows or those who were too poor to outfit themselves. Then, in September, our enemies decided they would wait no longer. A group of armed militia—really nothing more than an organized mob—laid siege to the city. They started cannonading it and then marched in under arms. The battle was brief but intense. The remaining Saints had no choice but to surrender.”

  He rubbed at his eyes now, trying to hide the pain. “They were driven out of the city at bayonet point. Some of them—even women and child
ren—were thrown into the river. Others were crowded onto ferries, overloading them to the point where there was risk of them sinking as they crossed. The soldiers stood on the riverbanks, shouting that they hoped the boats would sink.”

  Maggie’s eyes were wide with shock now. He spoke with such intensity that she could almost feel the muddy water beneath her feet. “It must have been terrifying for them.”

  “I can only imagine.” He sighed deeply, then continued. “When word reached Brigham Young in Winter Quarters that the poor Saints had been cast out and were languishing on the west banks of the river, sick, starving, cold, destitute, he called the brethren together.”

  Now his head came up and there was no more horror in his voice. It was filled with strength and power. “He reminded us of what we called the Nauvoo Covenant. Before leaving we had gathered in the temple, and Brother Brigham put us under covenant that we would not leave anyone behind, even if we had to sacrifice our own goods to bring them along.

  “Now, remember, it’s not like we had much of the world’s goods in Winter Quarters. We too were destitute. We had sent five hundred of our best men off with the Mormon Battalion. We were facing a winter with sparse shelter and limited food. No one was in much condition to go off on some rescue mission.”

  He leaned forward. “There were so many reasons why we shouldn’t have gone, Maggie. So many.”

  Startled, she stared at him, not sure if he had deliberately chosen to use her exact words or not. She found herself barely breathing, wanting him to finish now.

  “Brother Brigham stopped for a moment. I can still picture it as if it happened just this afternoon. He was standing in the back of a wagon. Everything was perfectly still. Every eye was upon him. When he spoke, it was as if he had the voice of a lion. ‘Now is the time for our labor,’ he said. ‘Let the fire of the covenant, which you made in the house of the Lord, burn in your hearts like flame unquenchable! Rise up, brethren, take your teams and wagons and go straightway to the Mississippi and bring a load of the poor back here where we can help them find shelter for the winter.’ ”