“He kissed Maggie,” Emma blurted. “He forced her to kiss him.”
The sheriff scowled, then swore under his breath. He looked at Sarah, his eyes quickly taking in her beauty, knowing he was hearing the truth. He turned to look at the retreating rider and again mumbled something under his breath. He was clearly disgusted.
“Sheriff,” Captain Willie said. “You’ve searched the wagons. You’ve gone up and down the company. As you can tell, there is nothing wrong here.”
The man nodded slowly, staring at Eric. “What did you do to my man?”
“I asked him to leave, that’s all.” There was a faint smile. “He dropped the pistol.” He stepped forward, handing it butt first to the sheriff.
“Fool!” the sheriff said again. He looked at his other men. “I told you to mind your manners.”
Maggie’s hands had started to tremble now in a delayed reaction, and she pressed them against her body so no one would notice. The relief made her knees feel weak.
The sheriff turned to Captain Willie. “Sir, you have our apology. Clearly the report we were given in town has no basis in fact. We are sorry for troubling you.” He looked down at the women and tipped his hat. “And I apologize for this lout of mine who still needs to learn some manners.”
Maggie forced a smile. “I think the word we used was dingbat,” she murmured.
“Well, he’ll not be bothering you anymore.” He lifted the reins, and in a moment he and the other deputies were trotting away.
Once they were out of earshot, their captain turned to look at them. “What in the world happened here?” he asked. And then as the group all looked at each other, not sure who should speak, he shook his head. “I’ll hear the whole story tonight. For now, we’ve got to get moving. We’ll be stopping at Muddy Creek in about an hour and making camp.”
II
Friday, 1 August 1856
Some one hundred and sixty miles and sixteen days out of Iowa City, at a place called Timber Point, Iowa, the James G. Willie Handcart Company was making camp. They had come only fourteen miles that day, but the afternoon heat had been almost unbearable, and several people had fainted, some in the shafts of their handcarts, so Captain Willie had finally called for an early halt.
For the moment, the activity around the camp was in a lull. The large round tents were up now. Supper would come in about an hour, but the camp had basically collapsed in exhaustion. Except for a few young children, who could be heard laughing as they explored the new campsite, the camp looked like a dead zone. Everywhere you looked, people were sprawled out on the ground. Some were dozing; others sat in clusters and spoke quietly.
Near one of the tents, Eric and Olaf Pederson had rolled out their bedrolls. Elsie Nielson had little Jens and Bodil Mortensen seated on a dead log beside her, telling them one of the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen, who was almost a national hero in Denmark. The senior Jens had gone off with a couple of the other brethren to look for firewood for in the morning.
Eric stood up. “Sister Nielson?”
Elsie turned.
“Is there anything more you need right now?”
She smiled at him, knowing what he had on his mind. “No, that’s fine.”
“All right. I won’t be long.”
•••
The three girls were on their backs in the thick grass. Maggie’s bonnet was off and she had spread her thick dark hair out behind her to get it off her neck. On her left, Emma and Sarah looked like corpses laid out for burial. Both of them had their eyes closed, and Maggie wasn’t sure but what they were asleep. Maggie’s eyes were not closed. She stared up at the leafy canopy above them, listening to the soft gurgle of the creek which was a few feet away. Who would have ever guessed that shade and fresh water would come to be something so luxurious that she would long for it more than the most elegant of dishes? She wanted to savor it, store it up somehow for when they were out on the trail again tomorrow.
Maggie rose up, leaning on one elbow. She looked around. In the dappled light of the wooded grove, the only things she saw standing were the oxen and mules, hobbled and let loose to graze near the supply wagons. Their tails switched lazily back and forth. About twenty yards away, sitting on the grass near one of the wagons, she saw Captain Willie with his five subcaptains. They were talking quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone. She listened but heard nothing from their own tent, which was a few feet away. Like most of the others, the McKensies and the Jameses were taking advantage of the chance to rest.
Then a movement out of the corner of her eye caught Maggie’s attention. To her surprise, Eric Pederson was walking at a brisk pace through the trees on the other side of the creek. Surprised, she sat up. What could possibly motivate anyone to be up and moving about right now, and with such purpose? She looked down at the others. Neither Sarah nor Emma had moved. Quietly she picked up her shoes, then stood and stretched. Sarah stirred and opened one eye lazily. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just going to walk about a bit.”
“Silly,” Sarah mumbled, then closed her eye again.
Maggie laughed softly. “I know.”
She slipped away, moving as noiselessly as she could until she was away from them. Then she crossed the creek, loving the feel of the cold water on her bare feet. Eric was now about twenty-five or thirty yards ahead of her and still moving with definite purpose. She sat down and put on her shoes quickly, then jumped up and hurried after him, staying back and keeping trees between her and him so he wouldn’t see her. He didn’t go far, and when she saw where he stopped, then she understood.
On more than one occasion Maggie had noticed Eric going over to spend time with the footmen of the company. Sometimes it was at night after supper; other times in was in the morning before they departed. Curious, she had asked Olaf about it one day. Olaf had been reluctant at first, but finally admitted that Eric had someone among the footmen that he checked on regularly. When Maggie asked who, he would say no more. It was something Eric did, he explained, and wasn’t anxious to have others know about. Olaf’s reticence only piqued Maggie’s curiosity the more. Was it a young woman? Maybe that was why he treated Sarah’s interest in him so casually. Well, now she decided she had a chance to find out for herself.
When he stopped beside one of the tents in the area where the Chislett group was camped, Maggie moved in behind a large hickory tree to watch. To her surprise, he didn’t mingle among the group. He called out greetings to several, but he went directly to where two older sisters, one with white hair, one with gray, sat on the ground. When they saw him they rose immediately, their faces wreathed in smiles.
Thoroughly taken aback, Maggie slipped a little closer so she could hear, feeling only a momentary twinge of shame for eavesdropping. Could they be relatives? But then she shook her head. These were English women, as were all of Chislett’s group. Eric was Norwegian. She leaned forward to hear better, but the women had their backs to her and their voices were barely a murmur. Twice there was laughter, but she couldn’t distinguish what they were saying.
Eric fussed there for several minutes and then stood up. He turned so he was facing them, which put him facing Maggie as well. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she heard him ask.
Both nodded but she again couldn’t hear their reply.
“You drinking lots of water?” he wanted to know.
They both nodded again.
“All right. I’ll come see you in the morning before we leave.”
To her further surprise, he gave them both a hug, which was returned with some earnestness, then waved and started toward her. Startled, Maggie realized she was standing directly in his path. For a moment she almost bolted, but then realized it was too late. She stepped out from behind the tree.
Eric stopped, staring at her. “Maggie?”
“What?” she cried, fumbling for a way to deflect his inevitable question. “Not Sister Maggie today?”
“What are you doing here?”
He laughed and came forward to stand beside her. They turned and started back toward the main camp. “I come to see my granny,” he said, smiling.
“That’s your grandmother?” she blurted.
He laughed easily. “Sister Bathgate? No, but she is much like my grandmother. I come each day to make sure they’re okay.”
Maggie stopped, staring at him. He walked on several steps before he stopped too. “What?” he said.
She hadn’t realized what she had done and had to recover quickly. “Nothing,” she said.
He gave her a strange look, but didn’t push further. They walked together slowly, weaving their way through the tents and the people sprawled out around them. She was relieved that it hadn’t turned out to be an embarrassment for her. When they reached the creek, she slipped off her shoes again and went across slowly, savoring the cool wetness. He waited until she was across, then jumped it in one leap.
There was a soft sound and Maggie’s head came up. Sarah and Emma were sitting up, staring at the two of them in surprise.
“Well, hello,” Eric said easily.
They stood quickly. Emma brushed at her hair with her fingers, then picked a piece of leaf from her dress. “Where’s Olaf?”
“At the tent. Sleeping probably.”
As he spoke to her sister, Sarah shot Maggie a probing look. She shrugged, not wanting to try and explain in front of Eric. Then, surprising them all, Eric sat down and began removing his shoes. When he finished, he moved to the creek and plunged his feet into the water. He closed his eyes and lay back, sheer pleasure on his face.
Not to be outdone, the girls joined him, and soon there were four pairs of feet in the cool water. Maggie could hardly believe it. Eric Pederson? Stopping to take time for a casual visit? She was thoroughly amazed, and yet quietly pleased. Since his intervention with the deputy, she had not had a chance to really thank him. Now perhaps she would.
But Eric took charge of the conversation—another surprise—and kept the conversation away from any mention of the incident with the deputy. They talked about Hannah and Ingrid, wondering if they had left Iowa City by now. Eric reported that Elder Ahmanson said that they should be in Florence in another ten or twelve days and promised that they would stop there for a couple of weeks while they prepared for the jump into the wilderness. Surely that would give the following company time to catch up with them. Thereafter, they hoped, they would be able to travel together.
They spoke of the pitiful state of the handcarts. The lumber was warping to where great cracks were appearing in the boxes of the carts, and in some cases they simply fell apart under the day-long pounding they received. And the sand and dirt were now a serious problem. Without any tin to line the boxes and keep the dirt out of the axle housing, the sand was grinding down the wood at an alarming rate. Also, their axle grease had long since been depleted, and they were down to using bacon grease or lard. They talked about the diminishing food supply. They were on slightly reduced rations now so that they would have enough flour to see them through to Florence.
Maggie kept expecting Eric to bound up at any moment and mumble that he had to go, but he didn’t. He was relaxed and seemed to enjoy their company. Then he started recounting his experience in trying to help the teamsters hitch up the mules that morning. For some reason the animals had turned stubborn and balked at every turn. Eric’s English was getting quite good now, but when he wanted, he could drop back into a twangy, combination Norwegian-English accent that kept them all laughing. He was a good storyteller and clearly enjoyed entertaining an appreciative audience.
“So,” he concluded, “Brother Savage finally had to give that big black mule a whack—” He turned to Maggie. “Is that how you say it?”
“I think Robbie’s word is thwack.”
“Ah, yah. Anyway we had to give that mule a real thwack. He is stubborn, much like Sister Maggie when we do not say the right verb in English class—”
“What?” Maggie cried.
Feigning innocence, Eric turned to Sarah and Emma. “It is true, no?”
“She is more stubborn than two mules,” Sarah agreed. Then she started to mimic. “That is the wrong verb, Olaf. Bad boy.”
Maggie’s mouth opened wide. “I never said any such thing.”
Emma giggled, raising one arm as though she were cracking a whip. “Learn those verbs, Eric. Practice harder, Ingrid.”
Maggie looked wounded. “See if I ever teach you one word ever again, Eric Pederson,” she vowed.
“Anyway,” Eric went on, ignoring Maggie’s dark look, “this mule wants to go back to Iowa City. He does not want to pull wagons anymore. So he turned to Captain Willie and said—” Now his voice took on a distinct drawl. “ ‘Cap’n, sir. Don’t wanna pull no more wagons, sir. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll ride in one of the handcarts.’ ”
Still smarting a little from the teasing, Maggie broke in. “So now you’re learning how to speak mule talk as well as English?”
Eric seemed shocked. “Didn’t I tell you that?”
Emma grinned, thoroughly enjoying this now. “Say something in mule, Eric. I want to hear you.”
He cupped his hands, tipped his head back, and gave such a perfect imitation of the braying of a mule that they all began to laugh. All around, people sat up or stood up to see if one of the animals had gotten loose.
“What do you think, Emma?” Eric said gravely when he finished. “Am I speaking it all right?”
She clapped her hands in delight. “Perfectly.”
“Yes,” Maggie said, seeing a chance to dig him back a little. “Actually, it’s much better than your English.”
He never changed expression. “Oh, yah,” he said with a deadpan face. “It is very helpful. How do you think I know what that deputy was saying?”
It took one instant to register, and then they all exploded.
He went right on, puckering up his lips and imitating the deputy’s voice. “Missy McKensie. I want a kiss. Hee-haw! Hee-haw!”
Maggie couldn’t help herself. She doubled over, holding her stomach. Emma was whooping in delight.
He looked at Sarah. “Hey, Mormon girl,” he said in the same voice. “You very pretty lady, missy. Come give this handsome donkey one big kiss. Hee-haw!”
Sarah too was clutching at her stomach. “Oh, stop, Eric,” she cried. “Stop. It hurts.”
He did, and gradually a lazy smile stole across his face. He looked at Maggie. “So maybe I don’t study English anymore. Maybe I just go to mule class.”
Wiping at her eyes, she could only nod. Was this Eric Pederson? Was this the man who had seemed so shy and reticent in her English class? the one who had almost fled when her mother invited him to stay for dinner a while ago? She could scarcely believe it.
Then, once again catching everyone off guard, Eric stood up. “Well,” he said, “I’d better go. Sister Nielson will be getting supper.” He said good-bye quickly and walked away.
They waved and called their good-byes, then turned to each other. Sarah was shaking her head. “Was that someone we know?” she wondered.
Maggie was still staring after him. “I’m not sure.” She was having a hard time believing what had just happened. Then a smile slowly stole across her face and filled her eyes. But whatever it was, it had been nice. Very nice.
III
Monday, 11 August 1856
Jens Nielson and Eric Pederson had the handcart turned around backwards. Together they leaned against the crossbar and pushed the two-wheeled cart up the ramp and onto the wooden deck of the ferryboat that would take them across the Missouri River. With the ferryman and Olaf guiding them, they carefully moved it forward, placing the wheels so they overlapped the shafts of the carts that we
re already there. Satisfied, the ferryman dropped his hands. “That’s good, brethren. Let her down right there.”
How strange, Eric thought. They had crossed three hundred miles of Iowa, and now as they were about to cross into Nebraska Territory and leave the United States, they had a ferryman who called them “brethren.” How wonderful! That, more than anything, said what it meant for them to be on the verge of reaching Florence.
They did so and stepped back. Theirs was the tenth handcart on the ferry, and the boat was now almost full. Johan Ahmanson and the other brethren who had put their carts on first stood back, waiting for further instructions. “All right,” the heavyset man said, “let’s get your families on board.” He squinted up at the sun, which was better than halfway down in its track toward the west. “Got one more load to get across before dark. You’ve got some people waiting for you. Let’s move.”
Jens Nielson turned to where Elsie, young Jens, and Bodil Mortensen were waiting a few feet away with the rest of the Scandinavian hundred, watching the proceedings with eager faces. He called to them. “Come on. They’re ready.”
The families moved up the gangplank and joined their husbands and fathers. They were on the eastern bank of the Missouri River. Though the ferryman said the river was low, being late in the season, it was still an impressive sight. Not as much as the Mississippi had been, but it was still wide, deep, and swift nevertheless. Olaf was glad they didn’t have to try to ford it.
There was a lurch and the ferry started out into the river. Across, several men guided the yoke of oxen that pulled on the heavy rope that provided the power they needed. Olaf looked at the ferryman, still a little surprised to think that he was a member of the Church, even out here this far in the wilderness. “So that’s Florence?”
“Not right there where we land,” the ferry captain answered from behind them. “But it’s not far. Just up and over the hill. Welcome to Nebraska Territory.”
“So we did it,” Olaf said to Eric in satisfaction, speaking in Norwegian.
Fire of the Covenant Page 29
