Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  She laughed merrily. “I don’t think so. When I saw them, they were haggling with one of the clerks over some deerskin moccasins. I think the poor man was getting the worst of it.”

  Eric chuckled. “I believe that.”

  “Olaf and Brother Nielson are in the sutler’s store too.” She started away. “I’ve got to take this to Mama. It’s some cloth for a shirt for Papa. But I’ll be back.”

  He waved to her and moved on. He had nothing to trade and no money, but he decided he wanted to see what a sutler’s store was like. Through the windows he could see that it was packed with people. He reached the door and pushed his way inside. It was pure bedlam. The noise was loud and continuous. People held things up, shouting for someone to tell them how much they cost. Others were yelling at clerks in what looked like “to-the-death” arguments. Just to his left, two women—one he recognized, one who was definitely not with their company—were fighting over a small wooden barrel on which was stenciled the word rice. A boy was crying loudly, pointing at a jar of hard candy that was marked at three pieces for a penny. His mother was shaking her head.

  The store itself was a wonder. Every wall was lined with shelves. Every aisle was crammed with boxes, crates, barrels, and sacks. Wooden and metal tools hung from overhead racks, and the handles had to be dodged as Eric moved along. The place assaulted the nostrils with a dozen or more odors—tobacco, spices, leather, molasses, body odor, pickled something or other, salted pork, slabs of bacon, the sickly smell of something dead as he passed shelves of buffalo, deer, and elk hides.

  He saw his two charges, Mary Bathgate and Isabella Park, near the main counter. Evidently the bargaining was over, because the clerk was smiling as he wrapped a small package in plain brown paper. Sister Isabella handed over something small in exchange, perhaps a cosmetic case or a jewel box.

  He saw Maggie and Sarah James at another counter and moved closer to see what they were examining with such care. It was sewing materials—some needles and different skeins of yarn. They did not see him and he moved on, not wanting to interrupt.

  Convinced that Jens and Olaf were not inside, he finally went out. He let out his breath, grateful to be in the open air again. Half watching for his brother, half just enjoying the wonder of it all, he moved around the compound slowly. He stopped near a table from whence came a pleasant smell. A man in buckskin stood beside an Indian woman who was pounding together a mixture of what looked like dried meat and berries.

  The man saw him looking and smiled. “Howdy. You know what pemmican is?”

  Eric shook his head.

  “Indian food. Best stuff ever made. Keep you going for a hundred miles on a single pouchful.”

  Eric shrugged. “I have no money.”

  The man instantly lost interest and turned to a woman who was coming towards them. “You know what pemmican is?” Eric heard the man say as he walked away.

  Down near the west end of the large courtyard, things were a little quieter. Here there were several smaller shops, some barely wide enough for a narrow table and an aisle beside it. One had a rope strung across the narrow window. From it hung dried ears of corn tied together in a clump, brightly colored gourds, and bunches of what Eric assumed were spices of some kind. There was no sign. He supposed that with the goods displayed, one was not needed.

  Next to that was a similar shop, only this one did have a sign roughly painted in the window: “Metal and Tin Goods.” Inside on the long table he saw cups and plates, a coffeepot, a funnel, a colander. He stopped, thinking what some of that tin would mean if it were put inside the axle boxes of their cart.

  He looked up as a man came to the door. “Come on in.”

  Eric shook his head. “I was just looking.”

  The man looked at him more closely. “A Swede, yah?” His voice took on a perfect Scandinavian accent.

  Eric smiled. “No, from Norway.”

  “Ah, very good. I have seen quite a few from the Old Country here today.”

  “Are you—”

  The man immediately shook his head. “Nope. American true-blue, through and through. But I had a shop up in Wisconsin Territory for a time. Met a lot of Swedes and Danes up there. A few Norwegians too.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, come on in and have a look. We have lots of stuff here besides just tin goods. Trinkets. Toys. Jewelry.”

  On impulse Eric nodded and stepped inside. Perhaps he would find Jens and see if there was any money left for some tin.

  The man stepped to the back of the store where there was a larger room behind a half-opened door. “Go ahead and look. Don’t cost nothing for looking.”

  Eric nodded and began walking slowly along, his eyes jumping from one item to the next. It was not the best of quality. Some of the seams on the kettles and pans were roughly made, but the tin was shiny. Spots of rust would have been a concern.

  All of sudden he stopped, his eyes pulled to a small box lined with velvet. Inside were a dozen or more slits, and tucked into each slit was a ring. Seeing Eric’s interest, the man came forward. He leaned over and picked up the box, holding it out for Eric to take. He did not, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from it. Without realizing it, he was holding his breath, astonished at the thought that had just flashed into his head.

  “Are you married?” the man asked.

  Eric shook his head.

  “Fiancée?”

  This time there was a moment’s hesitation before he shook his head again. The shopkeeper jumped on that. “A girl you’d like to be your fiancée?” he asked.

  When Eric didn’t look up, he took out a gold ring. “This is the finest I have. Made it myself from a single nugget I got from an Indian brave. Only ten dollars.”

  Eric almost gasped.

  Immediately sensing his mistake, the man replaced that ring and went to a silver one that was thinner and very plain. “This one is only a dollar.”

  Eric finally looked up. “I am sorry. I have no money.”

  “Oh.” The man sized him up for a moment, then put the case back down on the table.

  “They are very nice, but . . .” He shrugged and started toward the door.

  “I understand,” the man said, not unkindly. “Wish I could help you.”

  “Thank you anyway,” Eric said, stepping back out into the sunshine.

  “Wait a minute.” The man grabbed the case and came forward quickly again. When he got to Eric he reached out and touched his sweater, fingering the wool. “This is very nice. Where did you get it?”

  “From my mother.”

  “Oh.” Eric could see the wheels churning behind his eyes. “Want to trade it?” the man finally said.

  Eric shook his head, but he was staring at the case of rings in the man’s hand.

  “There won’t be another place like this until you get to Salt Lake City. You either get a ring now or not at all.”

  Two images flashed into Eric’s mind at the same time. One was of his mother’s tearstained face as she handed him and Olaf the sweaters; the other was the face of Maggie McKensie, her mouth pursed into a small O as she showed him how to pronounce a particularly difficult English word. Finally he looked up at the man. “How much you give?”

  He thought for a moment and started to reach for the one-dollar ring. Then he thought better of that. His fingers moved slightly and he chose the one above it. “This one is heavier and has a little design in it.” He held it up. “See?”

  Eric nodded. It was still quite plain, but there was a pattern in the center of the ring that looked like the waves of the sea.

  “This one is one dollar fifty cents. I’ll trade you straight across.”

  For a long time, Eric stared at the ring. Then he took it from the man and looked at it more closely. This is crazy, Eric Pederson. You have barely started to court her. How can you be thinking about marriage?

  “Wish I could give you more, friend, but I’m not really in the clothing business. I’m not even sure I should do th
is.”

  There are times when one’s thoughts crystalize and come with such clarity that there is no denying them. This was one of those times. It was not that he decided that Maggie McKensie would marry him. He had serious doubts about that. But in a single instant Eric knew that if he turned and walked away now, he would not be out of the main gate before he turned around and came back. He knew that as surely as he knew that Maggie sent his heart racing every time he thought about her. He could not leave the fort without this ring.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. Mama! Will you ever forgive me? And then came the second thought, and it came with equal clarity. If his mother were here and she knew it was a choice between the sweater and a wife for her son—especially a wife like Maggie McKensie—she would not hesitate for one second.

  He looked up, then slowly began to pull his arms out of the sleeves of the sweater. “All right. It is deal.”

  •••

  As Eric came out of the main gate of the fort and turned toward the line of handcarts, he heard a shout. He stopped and turned, then waved. Olaf was walking across the courtyard with Jens Nielson. Seeing Eric, Olaf said something to Jens, then broke into a trot toward his brother. Eric groaned. Olaf was also wearing his sweater today.

  “All done?” he said as he came up.

  “It doesn’t take long when you have nothing to do,” Eric noted dryly. They were speaking in Norwegian.

  “Yeah. Same for me. Jens made a good trade for a knife he had. He got two dollars.”

  Eric winced. Two dollars? He had seen that knife and it was not that wonderful. He wondered if he should have bargained a little more vigorously.

  “Did you see Emma?” Olaf asked. “She was in here somewhere.”

  “Yes. About fifteen minutes ago she was taking something back to her mother.”

  “I was going—” He stopped, suddenly staring at Eric’s chest. “Didn’t you have your sweater on earlier?”

  For an instant Eric tried to think of ways he could steer around this, but he realized it was of no use. He couldn’t lie to Olaf. “Yes,” he finally said slowly.

  “What did you do, take it off before you came to the fort? It’s not that warm today.”

  “No, I didn’t take it off.”

  Olaf stopped dead, gaping at him. “You traded it?”

  Eric nodded and started to turn. Olaf grabbed him and pulled him back around. “You didn’t!”

  “I did. I made a trade with one of the merchants.”

  “What did you trade it for?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Eric! Tell me. What was so important that you gave away Mother’s sweater?”

  “I didn’t give it away.”

  “Then what? I want to know.”

  Eric sighed and pulled him off to the side. People were streaming out of the gate now and turned to look at them as they went by. He took Olaf over to the great wall that loomed above them, glaring at him. “If I tell you, you have to give me your solemn word that you won’t tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  He gripped his arm. “I mean no one, Olaf. Not Jens or Elsie. Not Brother Ahmanson.” A look of horror flitted across Eric’s face. “And definitely not Emma.”

  “What about Mama?” Olaf asked, a little defiant now.

  Eric sighed. “I’ll tell Mama.” He tightened his grip and shook his brother a little. “But you can’t tell anyone. Swear to me.”

  “All right, all right.”

  Eric let him go and stepped back. After a long moment, he thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew the ring. He held it out.

  Olaf glanced at it, then looked back up at Eric. “What’s this?”

  “This is what I traded my sweater for.”

  It was like watching a ripple in a pond. Olaf’s eyes widened, then widened again. He reached out and took it, bringing it close to see it better. “A wedding ring?”

  Eric cuffed him. “You don’t have to blurt it out.”

  “Are you crazy? Who is this for?” The eyes went even wider. “Maggie? Are you—”

  “No, we’re not. She knows nothing about this, and don’t you ever so much as hint to her.”

  Olaf stepped back, staring at him as though he didn’t know who he was. “You are crazy.”

  Eric took the ring from his brother’s hands and slipped it back into his pocket. “I know,” he said glumly. He turned and started away. “I know.”

  •••

  The delegation who had ridden ahead to the fort earlier that day did not return to camp until well after dark. They went straight to Captain Willie to report. Captain Willie immediately ordered the horn to sound for assembly. When they were gathered around their leaders, Captain Willie jumped in without introduction.

  “Brothers and sisters, it is almost time for lights out, so I will keep this short. Our brethren have been able to purchase a limited number of provisions from the military using the credit of the Church, but our hopes to purchase large quantities of flour were not realized. We know that some of you were able to procure some few things for yourself and that is good. But we certainly have not filled our needs. Today is the last day of September. We are still at least six weeks out of Salt Lake City. We cannot delay even one day now. We will therefore leave first thing in the morning.”

  There was a collective groan. They knew that was the plan, but after even an hour and a half at the fort, many had hoped they might stay at least one day more.

  “Unfortunately, that is not the worst of it. Normally the first place the supply wagons from Salt Lake meet us is at Deer Creek, which is about three or four days farther west from here. We have learned that a group of missionaries from Salt Lake on their way east are camped not far from us. Elder Parley P. Pratt and Brother Thomas Bullock are with them.”

  That brought a murmur of pleased surprise. Parley P. Pratt was one of the Twelve. He had labored for an extended time in England and was beloved there.

  “Hopefully they will be able to join with us and address us tomorrow evening, but . . .” His brow furrowed even more deeply than before. “But they do bring bad news. They passed Deer Creek just three days ago.” He stopped, then shook his head wearily. “There are no wagons waiting for us there, and none coming.”

  Pleased surprise turned to shock and dismay.

  He rushed on. “I think it is just as Elder Richards feared. When the third handcart company passed this way a few weeks ago, the supply wagons assumed there were no more coming and turned back. That means . . .” He didn’t have to finish.

  Now the heavy weight of leadership showed heavily in James Willie’s face. “We fear that the soonest we may find wagons from the Valley is at South Pass. That, my brothers and sisters, is another two hundred fifty miles from here.”

  There was a loud buzz now among the congregation, but he did not try to stop it. He just shouted over it. “That’s all I have to say. I suggest that, as always, you make our situation in this matter part of your evening prayers. We are going to need all the help we can get. Please be ready to roll by seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

  II

  Wednesday, 8 October 1856

  The fifth and last handcart company of 1856 reached Fort Laramie late in the afternoon of the forty-third day after leaving Florence, Nebraska. Elder Edward Martin, their captain, chose a campsite about one mile east of the fort. Even before the last carts had stopped rolling, Hannah McKensie and Ingrid Christensen came looking for him.

  He had had the same question they did and had sent scouts ahead that morning to learn the answer. Before they could even ask, he was shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Hannah. The Willie Company left here one week ago today.”

  It was crazy to hope so urgently when you knew there was no hope to be had, but you couldn’t help it. Hannah’s face crumpled and she turned away before he could see the tears. Ingrid just stared at him for several seconds, then spun around and started after her friend.

  “If it is of any consolation,”
Elder Martin called after them, knowing even as he said it that it would not be, “we are only eight days behind them now. Once we were twelve days behind them. So we are gaining slowly.”

  Hannah raised an arm in acknowledgment but walked on without stopping.

  •••

  That night, more out of curiosity than anything, since they had neither money nor trade items, Hannah and Ingrid walked to the fort with Brother Aaron Jackson and Brother John Jaques. While Brother Jaques went into the army commissary to see about purchasing items from the military stores, the girls walked around the main square of the fort. Brother Jackson had some specific things he was looking for and did not stay with them, but they made sure he was always in sight. They received more than a few leers from some of the young men loitering about and one or two invitations from the young rowdies, but if the boys persisted Brother Jackson was right there to send them packing. It was a little frightening, and yet titillating too. For two girls not yet seventeen, there was something exciting in being noticed.

  They moved slowly from place to place, barely aware that they were gawking like children. Suddenly, Ingrid grabbed Hannah’s arm. She was staring at a storefront. Across the inside of the store window letters were painted: “Metal and Tin Goods.” Next to it was a window filled with dried corn, squash, and spices. Hannah looked at Ingrid, then turned to see what she was gaping at. She almost jumped when she saw it. There in the window of the tinsmith was a beautiful blue hand-knitted sweater.

  “That’s Olaf’s sweater,” Ingrid gasped. She dragged Hannah forward.

  “Are you sure?” But Hannah already knew the answer to that question. She hadn’t seen it for several months now, but both Eric and Olaf had worn their sweaters a great deal while they were coming across the Atlantic. “It might be Eric’s,” she said. “It looks a little big for Olaf.”

  Ingrid was peering intently through the window. There was a quick intake of breath and she pointed to a small card pinned to the bottom edge of the sweater. It read: “$5.00.”

  Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “Five dollars? He got five dollars for that?” Her mind leaped to her own wardrobe, wondering if she had anything that might fetch even half that amount.