“Did what?”
He looked back over his shoulder. There was no sense of longing in him for what he saw, that was for sure. His face split with a triumphant grin. “Conquered Iowa. She tried her best to beat us, but we punched her in the nose.”
“Yes, we did,” Eric said. He reached out and clapped his brother on the shoulder. There was still eleven hundred miles to go, but this was a good day. A good day indeed.
Chapter Notes
The details shared here of the Willie Company as they crossed Iowa— including dates of departure, mileage, those who turned back, and the death of Mary Williams—come from the company journal (see Turner, Emigrating Journals, pp. 15–18). One entry, that of 25 July 1856, reads as follows: “Traveled as far as Muddy Creek, 13 miles. Stopped twice by the way to rest. The weather being very warm. Just before we camped, we were overtaken by the Sheriff with a warrant to search the wagons, under the idea that the women were detained contrary to their wishes, with ropes. After showing their authority, they had permission to examine any part of the company, and were fully satisfied that the report was without foundation, and they left us.”
Chapter 12
Iowa City, Iowa
to
Indian Town, Iowa
I
Monday, 28 July 1856
On the day that the Edward Martin Company marched out of the Mormon Campground at Iowa City, there were no large crowds of people standing by to watch them go as had happened when the Willie Company left. Hannah McKensie clearly remembered that day two weeks before when she and Ingrid had gone out and said good-bye to Hannah’s family. She had felt such a burst of longing to be with them instead of standing on the sidelines waving good-bye.
Well, now it was their turn. And who cared if the group come to bid them farewell was pitifully small? There were the five Church agents, with Brother Daniel Spencer at their head, and a few from the independent wagon companies. Ingrid was bothered by that a little, Hannah knew. She had stayed behind specifically to help translate for the Scandinavians who were in the Hodgett Wagon Company. Now only one or two had come out to see her off. It was understandable. They would be leaving soon, probably tomorrow, and final preparations were under way. Time was precious, and even an hour could be costly.
“Where are your thoughts, Hannah?”
She looked around at Elizabeth Jackson. She was holding little Aaron, who was just two, while her husband checked the lashings on their cart one last time. Hannah smiled. “I was thinking about the Scandinavian Saints and if they will come and say good-bye to Ingrid.”
“I wondered that too.” Sister Jackson half turned. Ingrid was off to one side playing with Sister Jackson’s two girls. “Do you think she feels bad that they haven’t?”
“She says no, but I think she does a little. She’s done a lot for them.”
“I know.” Sister Jackson’s eyes were still on Ingrid. “She has done a lot for us too. As have you, Hannah. We are so thankful that you two were able to stay and help us.”
“Yes, we are.” Aaron Jackson gave one last yank on the rope, then came around to join them. “We know it was a sacrifice for the both of you.”
Hannah was embarrassed now. In the two weeks since saying good-bye to her family, she had drawn very close to the Jacksons. That had helped assuage her loss somewhat, but it had still been hard. “I’m not the only one who’s been separated from family. Ingrid is traveling with just her aunt and uncle. Our two friends from Norway left everyone behind. Brother Ahmanson has his wife and child with the wagon company.”
Just then they saw Daniel Spencer approaching. He smiled as he reached them. “All set?” he asked.
They all nodded vigorously.
“Good. Again, thanks to you, Hannah, and to Ingrid for staying to help.”
“You’re welcome,” Hannah said. “Do you think we’ll be able to catch the others?”
“I hope so. Once we get you out of here, the other agents and I will leave. We have light wagons and carriages and will make much better time than you. We should catch Captain Willie at Florence, if not before, so we’ll tell them you’re coming.”
“Will you tell my family hello when you see them?”
“I will.” He looked around. “Well, they’re readjusting the load in one of the wagons; then I think Captain Martin is about ready to start.”
With that, Elder Spencer tipped his hat and walked away. He stopped for a moment to speak to John Jaques, who, along with James Loader and his family, was just a few carts ahead of them. Jaques was one of the captains of hundreds as well as the historian of the company. When Spencer strode on, he headed for the front of the column where Elder Edward Martin was waiting.
That was the signal the company had been waiting for. Carts were hoisted. Men and women both got inside the shafts and grabbed the crossbars. Teamsters swung up onto the wagon seats.
Edward Martin didn’t wait for all of that to finish. Unlike Elder Willie, who had made such a dramatic call for them to move, he simply shook hands with Brother Spencer, swung up onto his horse, and started forward, waving his arm for the others to follow.
As the column began to lurch into motion, Hannah McKensie turned and looked around the campground one last time. To her surprise, she felt a sudden sadness. The campground was littered with piles of materials. There were heaps of books, blankets, clothing, cooking utensils, tools. One only had to look for a moment to realize that there were literally dozens upon dozens of family treasures being left behind here—family pictures taken from walls; furniture that had been in the family for generations; boxes filled with inexpensive jewelry, perfumes, and other toiletry items; small and large chests which held who knew what; full-sized mirrors, vases, china dishes, valued statuary. This was the detritus of the weigh-in held by the Church agents a few days before. If it wasn’t within the seventeen-pound limit, it was left behind. Somehow it seemed like the perfect metaphor for this day. Everything they had known, everything they had loved and treasured in their former lives had been discarded. They were already dusty and starting to bleach in the merciless sun.
Hannah straightened her shoulders and raised her head, eager now for that first step. The old was being abandoned, that was true. But the promise of the new was exciting and wondrous. She leaned over, putting her hands against the back of the cart.
Ingrid bent down beside her. They looked at each other for a moment, then grinned happily. “Let’s do it, Ingrid,” Hannah said. “Let’s go.”
Ingrid’s blue eyes were dancing. “I’m ready, Hannah. I think I could run all the way to Zion.”
II
Wednesday, 6 August 1856
Ingrid and Hannah were taking their turn at pulling in the shafts at the moment. The Jacksons had pulled for more than two hours without a break, and the girls were determined to equal that. At Aaron’s insistence, his wife was walking alongside now, holding on to little Aaron’s hand to steady him atop the cart. Brother Jackson was behind, pushing steadily, keeping the girls moving in order to help them.
The ground was quite level here and the road was good, so the handcart rolled along easily. But Hannah realized that this was the surest sign that they were all, finally, after nine days on the trail, in good physical shape. The blisters were healing, the legs no longer ached, and she could tell that she had significantly greater strength in her arms now.
The two of them—Scottish lass and Danish farm girl—moved along in perfect step, the rhythm of their walking long since synchronized. Their heads were down as they leaned into the crossbar, putting one foot before the other in an endlessly monotonous rhythm.
•••
They nooned atop a large eminence, one of the tallest in the area. The Jacksons sat in the tiny block of shade provided by the handcart, munching on bread and drinking cups of tepid water. Elizabeth Jackson looked around. In every direction the prairie stretched away into nothingness. It was as though they had been dropped back onto the ocean again. Here and there i
n the hazy distance there were smudges of darker color—a creek or a small grove of trees on some other water source—but otherwise it was perfectly featureless.
“I can’t believe it,” the Englishwoman said. She was sitting on the ground, her arms folded across her knees and her chin resting on them.
“What?” her husband asked.
“Look. Not a house. Not a building. Not a barn or a shed or even an outhouse. No hedgerows, no village lanes, no churches, no pubs, no farms, no factories. Nothing as far as you can see.”
Hannah let her eyes search the emptiness as well. After the lush richness of Edinburgh, this was not something that had drawn her eye.
“Fort Des Moines is only a few miles behind us,” Aaron Jackson noted. They had passed through that settlement earlier in the day, but quickly left any other civilization behind.
“Think of Liverpool,” she went on, barely hearing him. “Think of London and Manchester. Think how many thousands upon thousands of people there are in England who have scarcely enough room to breathe, who are piled into rows and rows of depressingly dingy tenement houses. There is never enough food to feed them all. And here lies all of this empty land—unowned, fertile, unplowed. Prairie grass and wildflowers. That’s all it grows.”
Her husband was nodding now.
“Can you imagine us trying to tell people back in England about this? They wouldn’t believe it. I can scarcely believe it, and I’m looking at it.”
“I’ll bet you could fit all of Scotland in what we can see with our eyes from right here,” Hannah said.
Sister Jackson nodded, then laid her head down on her arms. “It truly is the land of promise, isn’t it?”
At that, Hannah had a sudden thought. “Do you remember what the Book of Mormon says about the land of promise?”
“What?”
“Father Lehi said that none should come unto this land save they should be brought by the hand of the Lord.”
There was a soft murmur of assent from all of them. “Well, that is certainly true of us,” Aaron Jackson said. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the Lord taking a hand in our lives.”
“And of me as well,” Ingrid said quietly. “I didn’t think I would get to come this year.”
Hannah once again let her eyes sweep out across the great expanse that lay before them. What if the missionaries had not come to Edinburgh? What if her father had not been impressed enough to listen, then invite them to their home? She believed that was part of the Lord’s plan and offered thanks for it in her prayers regularly, but until this moment she had not really considered that her being here, in this very place, in the wide desolation of America’s vast prairies, was because of the hand of the Lord in her life. She felt a deep gratitude and promised herself that tonight during evening prayers she would find that passage and read it again. Then she would offer yet another prayer of gratitude to God for his great goodness.
III
Wednesday, 13 August 1856
Captain Edward Martin was standing by a depression in the ground, and the company began to gather around him. “Are we stopping here?” someone called.
It was late in the day, but there was nothing here to indicate a campsite. There was no creek, no river, no springs, no trees, no bushes. There was prairie, and enough of that for a hundred companies like their own. No, Ingrid Christensen thought, there was room for more like a thousand such companies.
“Yes. The next water is still too far to make tonight. We’ll have to make do.”
“Well,” Hannah said beneath her breath. She was standing right beside Ingrid, a few feet away from their captain. “At least we won’t have to worry about finding a place to pitch the tents.”
Ingrid laughed softly. “But we’ll have to hurry before all the spots are taken.”
“We’ll dig down here,” Brother Martin was saying. “This is an old buffalo wallow. When it rains, it collects water, so usually you can dig a hole and eventually water seeps into it.”
“Wallow?” Ingrid said. “What is wallow?”
Sister Jackson came up beside them. “It’s a low spot, Ingrid. During the spring rains it fills with water and mud, and so the buffalo come and roll in it. It helps keep the bugs away.”
“I understand.”
Everyone was staring at the low depression. Their last water had been more than six hours ago, and it had been another blistering day. The little children crowded in, pressing against their parents’ legs.
“I’m thirsty, Mama,” Martha Ann Jackson whispered.
“Me too,” her younger brother echoed.
Ingrid didn’t doubt that in the least. Her mouth felt like she had just swallowed a cupful of sand. She had sucked on a small rock for some time, trying to keep some moisture in her mouth, but she finally gave up and spit it out. Now, as she looked at the low spot, which was about ten feet across and maybe thirty or forty long, it didn’t seem possible that they could get water from this place. As near as she could tell, the surface soil wasn’t even wet. But then she was from Denmark. When had anyone in the last thousand years had to worry about water in Denmark?
The captain turned and called. “Brother Jackson. Get a couple of men from your company with shovels and bring them here.”
Aaron was already moving before Martin finished. In a few moments he returned with two other men, each carrying a shovel. They stepped down into the depression. Captain Martin touched a spot toward one end with his toe, and the men set to work.
Most of the company had moved in to watch the men dig. No one spoke now. Water was paramount on everyone’s mind. With four men working, the hole—about three feet in diameter—quickly deepened. Ingrid watched in fascination as the first shovelfuls were mostly dry. Then the soil darkened. By the time they were down a foot and half, the dirt was clumping together. It was turning muddy. A sigh of relief swept through the crowd. It was working.
At three feet, those close enough could see the water start to trickle into the hole, thick with mud and silt. Another foot and the walls of the hole began to collapse as the water came more quickly. It was black and thick as soup, but it was water.
“All right,” Captain Martin called. “That should do it. Let’s dig another one at the other end of the wallow. The holes will fill in about an hour, but it will take another hour or two to let the mud settle out of it. Be patient. Just take enough to drink at first. We need to get enough water for the animals too. Then you can get what you need for cooking.”
Hannah pulled a face. “We’re supposed to drink that?”
Suddenly a young boy of about five broke away from his mother and darted past the diggers. He threw himself down beside the hole and reached in with his hands.
“Tommie Jenkins,” his mother yelled, starting toward him. “You get back here.”
But the boy had already brought his hands up. They were filled with very wet mud. In wonder he squeezed them together and black liquid squirted between his fingers. He looked up in wonder. “It’s cold, Mama,” he cried. “And wet.”
His mother stopped, her eyes softening. Then to her amazement, Tommie buried his face in his hands. There was a sucking sound as he strained the thick mixture through his teeth.
He stopped and looked up as he realized it had gone totally silent all around him. A ring of black mud covered his mouth, but his eyes were smiling. Then his teeth showed—white lights in a window of black—as he grinned. “It’s all right, Mama. It’s water. I can get the water.” He held up his hands, streaks of black running down his arms. “It tastes good.”
That was enough. While the adults grimaced or looked away, several other children darted in and dropped to their stomachs.
Ingrid wrinkled up her nose and started to back away. A moment ago she had felt like she would die for a drink of water. Now she decided that she could wait a little longer.
Captain Martin watched all of this without comment. Then he looked around at the adults. “Well, while you’re getting your first le
sson in getting water from a ‘prairie spring,’ you may as well learn about ‘prairie firewood’ too.” He walked away, looking down at the ground. After a moment he bent down and picked up a buffalo chip. He held it up. “You all know what this is.”
“How do you say it?” Ingrid asked Sister Jackson. “Buffalo—?”
“Chips. They call them buffalo chips.”
“And it is the droppings of the animals?” Ingrid said, wrinkling her nose.
“Yes,” Aaron laughed. “It is buffalo dung, but it is all dried out now.”
The company moved in close around Elder Martin as he continued. “Well, as you can see, not only do we have no fresh water this afternoon, but for the first time since we left Iowa City more than two weeks ago, we also have no firewood. When you think about it, buffalo chips are really nothing more than dried, digested grass. They burn hot and clean and actually make a very good fuel. While the men start putting up the tents, I suggest the women and children start collecting buffalo chips.”
He stopped for a moment, then chuckled softly. “The buffalo may be gone, brothers and sisters, but the essence still remains. Go to it.”
As the people began to turn away and head for their carts, Hannah poked Ingrid. As she turned, Hannah pulled a face. “Ooh, let’s hurry, Ingrid. I can’t wait to eat potatoes which are cooked in muddy water taken from a buffalo wallow over a fire made from dried buffalo dung.”
Ingrid’s mouth pulled down. “Thanks, Hannah. I think I just lost my appetite.”
IV
Thursday, 14 August 1856
On their eighteenth day out of Iowa City, the Edward Martin Handcart Company broke camp and resumed their westward march at eight o’clock in the morning. It was already hot, and now the prairie had given way to rolling hill country covered with scattered groves of trees and brush. It was beautiful after the flat monotony of the prairie, but it also meant pulling the carts up one hill after another. Often the roads changed from hard-packed soil to soft sand. The wheels sank in three or four inches, and it was like adding two or three hundred pounds to the load. Feet could get no grip, and even as trail toughened as they now were, very quickly the emigrants began to feel the added strain. Calves and thighs began to ache from the lack of good footing. The heat drained moisture from them as if their bodies were wicks in a shallow pan of water. To add further to their misery, many in the company were sick, running high fevers and suffering from dysentery. For them, every mile became pure torture.
Fire of the Covenant Page 30
