Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  It would be a more substantial meal tonight, Maggie thought, and she thanked the Lord for that. Perhaps tonight the younger children would not have to go to bed holding their stomachs and whimpering about how hungry they still were. Maggie hated that most of all. The little ones weren’t old enough to understand covenant and sacrifice and faith and enduring. All they knew was that their tummies hurt.

  William James speared a piece of meat with his fork and held it up, eyeing it suspiciously. His wife saw it and frowned at him. “What’s wrong, William?”

  “Nothing. I was just wondering if this was a piece of meat or a piece of the horn.”

  They chuckled at the expression on his face. Sarah James stuck a piece in her mouth and began to chew, exaggerating the effort it took to bite into the tough meat. Then she spoke to her father. “It looks like it’s meat, but it doesn’t have enough flavor to be one of the horns. I’d guess it’s one of the hooves.”

  “All right,” Sister James said, trying not to smile. “Complaining about it isn’t going to make it any more tender.”

  “I wasn’t complaining,” William protested. “I was just wondering.”

  They were all smiling now. Even the younger James children knew their father was playing. Then the smile died. “It’s no wonder we’re having problems with dysentery and diarrhea,” he said somberly. “It’s not just that the meat is tough and tasteless. There’s not a trace of fat in it. When this and a watery soup is all you eat every day of your life, no wonder people are getting sick.”

  The light mood of a few moments before was completely gone now. William James was one of those suffering from the effects of the limited diet. At the moment, he was doing better, but it had taken its toll. His face was gaunt and had lost some of its color. There had been a couple of days when he wasn’t able to pull in the shafts and Sarah, Emma, and Sister James had been forced to take over pulling their two carts while he walked behind.

  “The cattle are in worse shape than we are,” Maggie noted quietly. “I was noticing today that you can count every rib on them.”

  “Did you hear that one of our best oxen died this morning?” Olaf asked. “They think it ate some kind of poison weed.”

  They nodded grimly. Yet another setback. They fell silent, contemplating the realities of their current situation. But Emma James didn’t like this change in mood. Always cheerful, always teasing, always quick with a smile, now she decided to change the subject. She looked around. “Wasn’t it here at Deer Creek that the wagons from Salt Lake were supposed to meet us?”

  Eric nodded. He had thought of that very thing when Elder Willie announced that they would stop here for the night. The first three handcart companies—now long since gone on—had found plentiful supplies of flour waiting here. The fourth company—their own—had found nothing but four soldiers from Fort Laramie taking an express to the Platte Bridge outpost.

  “It is a beautiful spot,” Emma said.

  The others looked around. Maggie smiled to herself. Bless you, Emma, she thought. This sixteen-year-old would never let them dwell too long on the gloomy side of things. And it was a beautiful spot, one of the most pleasant they had seen in the whole journey. Deer Creek was a clear, swift-flowing stream about thirty feet wide and a foot deep. The water was so cold it hurt your teeth. Yesterday they had camped by a stream that was barely a trickle this late in the season and tasted foul. Here tall trees lined the banks on both sides, providing a grove of quiet serenity. The grass was thick and plentiful, something they had not seen for the last few days and something the cattle desperately needed. And in spite of hundreds of people passing through here all season, there was still plenty of firewood to be found.

  Emma turned to her father. “Papa? Why don’t we build a little log house right here and just stay here forever?”

  Setting his plate down, her father stared at her for a moment, not sure if she was serious. Then his face softened. “It is beautiful, Emma, but what would we do for food?”

  “Well,” she said in surprise, smiling brightly. “We would do what we are doing now. We would simply do without.”

  III

  Friday, 10 October 1856

  About one hundred and twenty-five or thirty miles upriver from Fort Laramie, the North Platte River took a sharp turn to the south and entered Jackson Canyon, a narrow gorge too rough and confined for wagons to pass through. Because of that unfortunate accident of topography, after more than six hundred miles of following alongside the Platte and North Platte Rivers, the Oregon Trail left that “highway” for the last time and struck off directly to the west for a sixty-mile run to the Sweetwater River. Thus, this had come to be known simply as “the last crossing.”

  In the spring runoff, which went well into June and early July, the North Platte swelled tremendously, becoming a treacherous stream that could roll wagons like a wine cork and had exacted more than one human life as its toll for crossing. Even at low water, the main channel was four or five feet deep and the current swift and dangerous. During high water, the river spread across a floodplain a quarter of a mile wide and was eight and ten feet deep in places.

  When the Mormons came through in 1847 they learned very quickly that there was no way to ford the river without great risk. Brigham Young ordered a ferry built. When it became immediately obvious that this would be a blessing to those of his people still coming, and that other Oregon Trail emigrants would pay handsomely to take advantage of it, he left eight men behind. Very quickly the “Mormon Ferry” became a mainstay on the upper North Platte, and each season thereafter Brigham would send a crew out to run it through the high-water season.

  In 1851, an American-born fur trader of French descent by the name of John Baptiste Richard, which he pronounced “Reshaw” in the French fashion, built a toll bridge across the North Platte River near Deer Creek to provide competition for the Mormon Ferry upriver. Easier, safer, and faster than the ferry—sometimes wagons would end up waiting three or four days for their turn to ferry across—the bridge proved to be quite profitable. When it washed out the following spring, Richard moved upstream to a spot just five or six miles from the ferry site. The bridge he built here was a marvel indeed. It was built on twenty-three cribs made of timbers and then filled with stone. The decking of the bridge, which was ten feet above the high-water mark, was made of sawn planks eighteen feet long and three inches thick. The bridge was wide enough to allow two wagons to pass each other anywhere along its length. But the thing that made the bridge most incredible and a sight that caused jaws to drop and eyes to pop was the fact that it spanned the whole floodplain so that even at its highest stages the river could be crossed without so much as getting one’s feet wet. It was 835 feet long from one end to the other!

  Though the price for crossing the “Platte Bridge,” as most people called it, was exorbitant during the high-water months—five dollars per wagon, four dollars per hundred head of stock—most were willing to pay. Later in the summer Richard might cut those fees in half, but even then it was expensive. Nevertheless, the bridge proved to be so popular that the Mormon Ferry was unable to compete and eventually shut down. To add to his profits, Richard established a small trading post—which was dubbed Fort Bridge—on the south side of the river. Almost all emigrants started out on the trail with overloaded wagons and with goods that were nice but not necessary. By the time they reached the last crossing, they were ready to trade off almost anything for passage across the bridge or for other, more critical items. With tens of thousands of people moving westward across the most significant highway in North America, Richard’s success was assured. It was reported that he had made forty thousand dollars the previous season.

  •••

  It was midmorning on October tenth when the James G. Willie Handcart Company arrived at the Platte Bridge and stopped in a large open field a short distance from Richard’s trading post. As the carts pulled up together, everyone stopped to stare at the wonder that lay before them.


  “Oh!” Robbie McKensie’s mouth was open and his eyes were as wide as the hubs of the carts. “Look, Mama. Look at the bridge.”

  Reuben James ducked out from beneath the shafts of the second of his family’s handcarts and ran to stand beside Robbie. Though he was fourteen, two years older than Robbie, and liked to think of himself as more mature than his friend, he too stopped dead. His mouth opened and there was a sharp gasp. “Jumping grasshoppers,” he exclaimed, using a phrase he had picked up from one of the teamsters. “Hurry, Pa. Come look.”

  They all came over then, as did many others up and down the line. It was a perfect fall day—cool air, bright sunshine, a slight breeze from the west. All along the river the trees were full yellow now. Many had already lost some of their leaves. Against that backdrop Richard’s bridge looked endless. Maggie found herself taking a quick breath. Someone had told her how long it was, but knowing the number had not prepared her for the sight. It was huge.

  Her eye was caught by a movement. She looked closer. A wagon pulled by three yoke of oxen was making its way across. It was not that far away, but in comparison to the bridge it looked like a tiny white bug inching its way across a very long tree limb.

  Robbie turned to Brother James. “Do we get to go across the bridge?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, Robbie. Unfortunately we have no money and nothing we can use to trade for the toll. Brother Woodward says we’ll ford the river upstream about five miles.”

  Maggie felt a little shiver. They couldn’t see the river from here because of the trees, just an occasional glint of sun on water, but they had camped near it the last two nights. Though it was supposedly in the low season, it was running swift, deep, and very, very cold.

  Just then, Brother Woodward, captain of their hundred, came trotting up to where his hundred was talking and pointing at the bridge. “We’ll stop here for a little while,” he called. “Elder Willie wants to go to the trading post and see what is available.”

  “Can we go too?” Brother James asked.

  Woodward nodded. “Just watch for Elder Willie. When he’s through, then you’re through. We’ve got to ford the river later today.”

  William James turned to his wife. “I’m going to go see what they’ve got,” he said.

  “But you don’t have anything to trade.”

  He didn’t answer.

  There was a soft exclamation of understanding. “No, William. Not your pocket watch. Your father gave that to you. What about your shotgun? That would fetch quite a bit.”

  William James was shaking his head before his wife finished. “I know I haven’t shot much,” he said, “but it is a way we can supplement our food supplies. I won’t give that up. It’s too important for the family.”

  “But your watch?” Sister James started.

  He pulled his hat more firmly onto his head, not meeting her eyes. “If they have food, I’m going to trade, Jane. There’ll be other pocket watches.”

  He turned to Maggie’s mother. “Mary?”

  She shook her head slowly. “All we have is some pretty threadbare clothing and boots with holes in them. I fancy that won’t get us much.”

  Maggie’s head came up sharply at that. She had something more than that. For an agonizing moment she debated about saying something to her mother, but then Brother James was waving and turning away. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  •••

  Twenty minutes later Emma, Sarah, Maggie, Robbie, and Reuben were lying on the grass, their eyes closed. Any chance to rest, even for five or ten minutes, was always taken now. On the reduced rations, it was the only way to rejuvenate your strength. Where before at such stopping times the children would have been off to play with the rest of their friends, now even the younger James children lay together next to where Jane James and Mary McKensie sat talking quietly. Young John, just four, was curled up on his mother’s lap. He had asked for food only once, then closed his eyes and lay against his mother’s body.

  “Maggie?” her mother called out.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Eric and Olaf are coming.”

  Maggie sat up in surprise. Eric was coming to their tent every night now after they stopped to camp, but during the day he usually stayed with his own group. Sarah got up now too. Emma, Reuben, and Robbie rolled over so that they could watch but didn’t bother to get up.

  As Maggie and Sarah stood, Maggie saw that Olaf carried something folded under his arm. Eric was carrying in his hands the hunting knife he always wore on his belt.

  “Are you going over to trade?” she asked, not trying to hide her surprise.

  Eric nodded. “Brother Ahmanson just came back. He says there is an Indian and his wife there who have buffalo meat.”

  Robbie sat up with a jerk. “Buffalo meat?”

  “Yes. A hundred pounds or more. We’re going to go see.”

  Now Emma scrambled up beside her sister and Maggie. “Can I go, Mama?” Reuben and Robbie were not a second behind her.

  Jane James looked dubious. Mary was shaking her head. Eric smiled. “I’ll watch them.” Then he asked Maggie, “Would you and Sarah like to come too?”

  “Yes.” Then she looked at her mother.

  After a moment Mary nodded. “All right. But Robbie, you stay right with Maggie.”

  “By the way,” Eric added, “there is some good news. Elder Richards purchased thirty-seven buffalo robes here and left them for us. Brother Willie and Brother Savage are loading them onto the wagon now.”

  “Thirty-seven!” Sarah exclaimed. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yes. That’s almost two robes per tent. They say they can keep you warm even when the temperature drops below zero.”

  “They work for the buffalo,” Robbie sang out. “And they sleep outside.”

  Mary looked at her son with great affection. Even now with the hunger and the weariness, he had not lost his enthusiasm for life. “Yes, son, they do work for the buffalo.”

  “Even if there aren’t enough for everyone,” Maggie suggested, “it will free up some of the quilts and blankets for others.”

  “Thanks be to Elder Richards,” Jane said warmly. “It’s nice to hear some good news for a change.”

  •••

  The trading post was less than a quarter of a mile away, and before they were halfway there they saw William James come out of the low adobe building and start towards them. He was carrying a cloth sack in one hand.

  As they met, Emma ran to him. “What did you get, Papa?”

  He shook his head, looking quite dejected. “A half pound of sugar, two pounds of beans, and some rice.”

  “That’s all he would give you for your watch?” Sarah exclaimed in dismay.

  “It was broken, Sarah. I didn’t have the heart to tell your mother that. I broke the crystal about a week ago when I bumped against the cart. It still works, but . . .” He shrugged.

  Olaf murmured something in condolence, then said eagerly, “They say there is an Indian with buffalo meat.”

  Brother James nodded. “Yes. I tried him first, but once I showed him that the watch face was cracked, he wouldn’t talk to me. He’s driving a hard bargain.”

  “But it’s real meat?” Eric asked.

  “Yes.” There was a look of pure longing. “It looks fresh and with lots of fat.” He sighed softly. “Do you know what that would mean? Maybe we’d all finally have a chance to get well again.”

  Then as quickly as the dejection had settled in upon him, it left. He lifted the sack and forced a smile. “But at least I got us a little something.” He looked at Eric and Olaf, noting what they were carrying. “Good luck,” he said.

  As he started to go on, Maggie suddenly reached out and grabbed Eric’s arm. “Wait, Eric. Wait here. I’ll be right back.” And without waiting either for an answer or for Brother James, she turned and ran back to their cart.

  Puzzled, Eric watched her reach in beneath the canvas, fish around for a minute, then come out wi
th something. She tucked it beneath her apron, then came running back. “All right,” she said.

  Sarah was staring at her now, eyes questioning. “Maggie? You’re not—”

  “I’m ready,” she said again to Eric firmly. “Let’s go.”

  •••

  When Olaf unfolded the bundle he had under his arm, all three girls gaped in astonishment. It was Emma, with her characteristic bluntness, who spoke first. “Your sweater, Olaf? You’re going to trade your sweater?”

  He didn’t look around. “I’ve got a coat,” he murmured. “I’ll be all right.”

  “But your mother made that for you special,” Sarah said.

  “And our father gave Eric that knife.” He started to say more, then realized he didn’t have to. If a knife, which was a valuable tool, had to go, then a sweater was not a hard decision.

  Maggie suddenly remembered the disappearance of Eric’s sweater and wondered if this might actually be Eric’s. It would be like Eric to give his to Olaf so that Olaf would have something to trade. But as Olaf unfolded it and held it up for the Indian trader to examine, Maggie saw that it was not large enough to be Eric’s. It was Olaf’s.

  The Indian sitting behind the rough-hewn table grunted softly, then took the sweater from Olaf and began to examine it. His wife, sitting beside him, watched as he did so, but her eyes were expressionless. Maggie took the opportunity to study them. According to Levi Savage, these Indians were Sioux, probably Oglala or Mandan. They had been trading peacefully with the whites for some time now. Obviously they traded here with the permission of John Richard, the proprietor of the Platte Bridge and trading post. The table was just a few yards from the door of the adobe building, and inside they could see Mr. Richard waiting on others of their company. Richard probably got a cut of any sales the natives made or some trading concessions with them.