Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  If hunger was a challenge for all of the handcart companies, for the Willie and Martin Companies, who were coming so late in the season, it was particularly critical. By the beginning of the second week after leaving Fort Laramie, the reduced rations and colder conditions were starting to wear heavily on the handcart pioneers. The entry for 8 October made by Levi Savage reads: “Deer Creek. This morning when we arose, we found the best ox on our train dead. In the weak state of our teams, the loss impaired us much. . . . Our old people are nearly all failing fast” (in Remember, p. 4).

  John Chislett, who was captain of the fourth hundred in the Willie Company, noted the effects of both weather and lack of supplies:

  Our seventeen pounds of clothing and bedding was now altogether insufficient for our comfort. Nearly all suffered more or less at night from cold. Instead of getting up in the morning strong, refreshed, vigorous, and prepared for the hardships of another day of toil, the poor Saints were to be seen crawling out from their tents looking haggard, benumbed, and showing an utter lack of that vitality so necessary to our success.

  Cold weather, scarcity of food, lassitude and fatigue from over-exertion, soon produced their effects. Our old and infirm people began to droop, and they no sooner lost spirit and courage than death’s stamp could be traced upon their features. Life went out as smoothly as a lamp ceases to burn when the oil is gone. At first the deaths occurred slowly and irregularly, but in a few days at more frequent intervals, until we soon thought it unusual to leave a camp-ground without burying one or more persons. (In Remember, p. 65)

  John Jaques, with the Martin Company, wrote: “I believe the company left Fort Laramie the next day [10 October]. . . . Up to this time the daily pound of flour ration had been regularly served out, but it was never enough to stay the stomachs of the emigrants, and the longer they were on the plains and in the mountains the hungrier they grew. It was an appetite that could not be satisfied. At least that was the experience of the handcart people. You felt as if you could almost eat a rusty nail or gnaw a file. You were ten times as hungry as a hunter, yea, as ten hunters, all the long day, and every time you woke up in the night. Eating was the grand passion of the pedestrian on the plains, an insatiable passion, for he never got enough to eat” (in Bell, Life History and Writings of John Jaques, p. 142).

  Describing conditions as they existed when the winter storms came later that month of October 1856, Jaques wrote: “The cattle had now grown so poor that there was little flesh left on them, and that little was as lean as could be. The problem was how to cook it to advantage. Stewed meat and soups were found to be bad for diarrhoea and dysentery, provocative of and aggravating those diseases, of which there was considerable in the company, and to fry lean meat without an atom of fat in it or out of it was disgusting to every cook in the camp.” However, his very next words are of interest: “The outlook was certainly not encouraging, but it need not be supposed that the company was in despair, notwithstanding the situation was rather desperate. Oh! No! A hopeful and cheerful spirit pervaded the camp, and the ‘Songs of Zion’ were frequently heard at this time, though the company was in the very depths of privation. Though the bodies of the people were worn down, their spirits were buoyant, while at the same time they had become so accustomed to looking death in the face that they seemed to have no fear of it” (in Bell, Life History and Writings of John Jaques, pp. 147–48).

  The conversation between Emma and her father about staying at Deer Creek actually took place between Mary Powell and her father, John Powell. Mary was almost thirteen and was traveling with the Edmund Ellsworth Company, the first handcart company of that season (see Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, pp. 604–5).

  The trading post run by John Baptiste Richard (or Reshaw) was sometimes called Fort Bridge because of its being near the famous Platte Bridge. The Platte Bridge is often called Reshaw’s Bridge by modern historians. Occasionally in some of the pioneer journals, emigrants refer to Fort Bridge as Fort Bridger. That is an error and shouldn’t be confused with the actual Fort Bridger, owned by Jim Bridger, which was near present-day Lyman, Wyoming, another 250 miles from the last crossing of the North Platte.

  Chapter 19

  Last Crossing

  To

  Devil’s Gate

  I

  Tuesday, 14 October 1856

  “Maggie?”

  She opened her eyes. Sarah James was kneeling beside her, pulling the buffalo robe up around her neck.

  “How are you feeling?”

  It took a moment for Maggie to realize that the inside of their tent was filled with light, which meant it was daytime outside. “Oh!” she cried. She tried to rise. “Is it time to go already?”

  Sarah pushed her back down gently. “No, Maggie. We’re camped here for the night, but it’s not dark yet. You’ve just fallen asleep again.”

  She lay back, greatly relieved. “Yes, that’s right. I remember now.” She did vaguely remember lying on the ground and watching through heavy eyes while the men began to erect the tent. She clutched at the buffalo robe, pulling it more tightly around her body, feeling a sudden chill and reveling in the warmth the heavy covering provided. Suddenly her body convulsed as a deep, racking cough ripped through her. She cried out in pain and hugged herself, feeling the pain down deep in her chest. Sarah watched her with anxious eyes.

  “Where are we, Sarah?”

  “We are camped between Independence Rock and Devil’s Gate.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember.” The other places were a fuzzy blur to her—Emigrant Gap, Willow Springs, Prospect Hill, Saleratus Lake.

  Sarah laid a hand on her forehead. To Maggie, it felt cool, wonderful. “Your fever has finally broken,” Sarah said. “We’re so glad. The priesthood blessing has really helped you.”

  Priesthood blessing? She didn’t remember that at all.

  Sarah saw it in her eyes. “Yes. Captain Willie, Brother James, and Eric all administered to you day before yesterday. You had us all very frightened.”

  “I am feeling a little better.” It was a bit of a lie, unless you emphasized “a little,” but compared to her few conscious memories of the past few days, this was a definite improvement. “Has it really been two days since we crossed the river?”

  There was a tiny smile as Sarah shook her head. “That was four days ago, Maggie.”

  “Four?” she cried in dismay.

  “Yes. You have been a very sick young woman. Your mother has been very worried. Eric has been frantic. You were in and out of delirium—chills, fever.”

  “Aches,” Maggie added weakly. “My body aches everywhere, Sarah.”

  “I know. I think you got that from crossing the river. A lot of others did as well.”

  Maggie closed her eyes again. “Ah, yes.” That was clear in her mind—the stunning shock of stepping into the icy water; the frightening push of the current against the handcart as she and Robbie fought to help their mother keep it moving; the blind panic when her feet had slipped on the rocky bottom and she had gone clear under; the cold wind when they came out on the other side; the violent shivering until she had gotten into dry clothing—which had taken over an hour because they had to get the younger children changed first. Her mother had finally taken her in her arms and held her tightly to get it under control. Oh, yes, she remembered the last crossing very well.

  She started to sit up but instantly sensed the depths of her weakness. She gave it up. “Eric? He pulled the cart for a while, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. When you became too sick to walk, Eric asked Elder Willie if he could help your mother and Robbie pull.”

  Guilt washed over her. “Why didn’t you just put me in one of the wagons?”

  “Because every wagon was already full,” Eric said.

  Maggie turned in surprise. He was at the entry to the tent, holding the flap up. He stepped inside and came over beside them. He looked at Maggie closely for a moment, then turned to Sarah. “How is she?”

  “A lit
tle better.” She stood. “She’s remembering more.”

  “Good.”

  Sarah smiled down at Maggie. “I’m going to go help Mama with supper, Maggie. If you need something, just call.”

  “Thank you, Sarah.”

  As Sarah went out, Eric knelt down beside Maggie. His face was twisted with concern. He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “The fever is gone.”

  She turned her head so as to press her face against his touch. “Yes.”

  “You have all of us in very big worry, Maggie McKensie.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just be better now.”

  “I would like that,” she said with a wan smile. “Thank you for helping my family.”

  He shrugged.

  “How are Olaf and the Nielsons? Are they all right?”

  “Yah, they are fine. Bodil, the girl who travels with us, was sick too from the wet clothing. But she was better in two days.”

  “And Sister Bathgate and Isabella?”

  “A wonder,” he said with a smile. “They are doing well. The crossing did not seem to bother them.”

  “Good. You said the wagons were full. Are there many who are sick?”

  “Yes, very many. The weather has been cold. And like you, many found the crossing of the river very bad. Many others are not sick but just too weak to pull carts any longer.” He looked away. “The deaths grow more frequent now. We have lost another in our tent.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “And you remember Sister Larson, who’s husband died a few days ago.”

  “Yes. With the five children.”

  “Yah. The little baby is now very sick. Sister Larson is so worn down she has not enough to nurse him well.”

  Maggie closed her eyes. More deaths. Young and old, the weak and the helpless. When would it stop?

  He exhaled softly. “There were riders going east today. They carried a letter from Elder Richards.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Is not good. He says we cannot expect wagons from Salt Lake before Pacific Springs.”

  She felt her body go cold. “Where is that, Eric?”

  “Elder Willie says it is just by South Pass.” He paused, debating whether to tell her all of it, then decided she would learn soon enough anyway. “That is yet one hundred more miles.”

  “A hundred miles?” She felt as if her heart had just fluttered to a stop.

  “Yes. At least one week. Maybe eight or nine days.”

  “How much food do we have left?”

  There was a long pause before he went on. “I talked with Brother Willie before I came here, and he said the captains will meet tonight in council. They have taken accounting of the flour and food. There is not enough. They are thinking that starting tomorrow we will reduce rations even more. They will discuss the matter tonight, but from what Brother Willie says it looks like men will get ten and a half ounces of flour. Women and older children will get nine ounces. Younger children six ounces and infants three.”

  She felt a deep horror settle in upon her. They were already nearing the limit of their endurance. Didn’t the captains know what this would do? But even as the thought came she pushed it away. Of course they knew. What a choice for their leaders to make. Did you give out more flour now so that the company would be strong enough to go forward, knowing you would run out before you reached Pacific Springs? Or did you reduce the rations further now so that the food would last, knowing that it would weaken the people even more so they couldn’t make it to Pacific Springs? How terrible to have to make such a choice!

  “It is not good, Maggie,” Eric went on slowly. “Even the days are cold now. We had a little snow yesterday. Not enough to stay, but it was snow. And the nights are very bitter. We use axes to break the ice on the buckets this morning.”

  The very mention of ice made her shiver and she cuddled deeper into her bed. “Thank heavens for the buffalo robes. There’s that to be thankful for at least.”

  “Some people throw robes away.”

  She jerked up, her eyes disbelieving. “No!”

  “Yes. They are so heavy and the people are so weak. We pass eight or ten by the trail today.” Then as she closed her eyes, deep despair settling in on her face, he was instantly contrite. “I am sorry, Maggie,” he said.

  She opened her eyes to see his shame.

  “Your mother says I am to be making you happy, not sad.”

  She pulled her arm out from beneath the heavy robe and held out her hand to him. She wanted to touch him, to let him know it was all right. “I am happy you are here.”

  “And I am happy you are better. You frighten me very badly.”

  “Eric? How are we going to get through this?”

  “We ask the Lord to strengthen us,” he said simply. “We ask Him to bless our food, though it is very little, and He does.” Now his head came up. “We ask Him to give us strength in our bodies to go on until the others come. And He does. It is not big miracle, but it is miracle every day.”

  Now it was she who felt a wash of shame. For a moment there, she had completely forgotten about God. “Yes,” she said, lying back. “We must do that.”

  He was staring out at nothing now. “All the days since my family joined the Church, we say grace on our food. We ask God to strengthen and nourish our bodies.” He looked down at her and tightened his grip on her hand. “Now we really mean it. And He hears us. We go on day by day. We are weak but we go on.”

  “Yes.” She reached up and touched his face. How sweet it felt to have him pour out his faith over her! She was so weak and so tired. His quiet assurance that God had not forgotten them was like honey to her soul. Finally, her eyes met and held his. “Eric?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the ring.”

  It didn’t seem to surprise him. He searched her face, then finally sighed and began to speak slowly. He told her about walking around the compound at Fort Laramie and finding the tin shop and then the ring. He told her about his pain when he thought of giving away his mother’s gift, and then how he had known it was all right.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked in a whisper.

  “I was afraid that you would think I . . .” He looked down at his hands, no longer able to meet her steady gaze. “When I think of asking you to be my wife, I think, ‘Why would she say yes?’ ” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I decide it was better to wait a little while and see how courting goes.”

  She shook her head, admonishing him with her eyes. “Do you think I would really say no?”

  “I had many hopes that you would not, but . . . I was afraid.” He looked away. “And now there is no ring.”

  She was starting to feel tired now, but there was something she had to make clear to him. She pushed back the robe and forced herself up to one elbow. “Eric?”

  “Yes?” He was looking at her with great concern now. “I would like it very much if you asked me to be your wife. I want you to know that.”

  “Really?” His mouth softened. “This is not the fever speaking to me?”

  A laugh started to burst out of her, but instantly the cough cut it off. Her body shook as once more the cough racked her again and again. Even as she fought it, she watched the fear in his eyes grow. “I’m sorry,” he said over and over.

  Finally she got control again. Though spent, she forced a wan smile. “It is not the fever speaking, Eric. But . . .” She clung to him now. “But you can’t ask me now.”

  He looked as if she had struck him. “Why not?”

  She took a deep breath, feeling the bleakness come over her, as heavy as the buffalo robe. “Because if I don’t make it, I want you to—”

  He cut her off sharply. “No, Maggie. Don’t you say it.”

  “Because if I die, I want you to be free to find—”

  His hand shot out and he put three fingers over her lips, shutting off the words. Suddenly he bent down. His fingers came away and h
e kissed her gently.

  It so took her aback that all she could do was stare up at him. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Will you marry me, Maggie McKensie? Will you marry this silly Norwegian who says, ‘Yah, yah,’ and who does not have a ring, and who is not worthy of you, and whose love for you is stronger than all the hunger and sickness and cold that we have faced and have yet to face?”

  “Eric, I . . . I can’t. Not now.”

  He seemed genuinely surprised. “Of course not. It would not be seemly to have you married in your sickbed.”

  She swung weakly at him, which he dodged easily. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said, suddenly fierce, “but I will not let you mean it. Say yes or I shall kiss you again.”

  A slow smile stole across her face. “No.”

  He bent down and kissed her once more, this time more firmly and much longer than before. She put her arms up and around his neck. When he pulled back, she was still looking up and smiling into his eyes. “No,” she murmured again.

  And so he kissed her yet a third time, holding her in his arms now and pulling her tightly to himself. “I will not let you die, Maggie.”

  “Eric, I—”

  He shook his head, cutting her off. “Will you marry me, Maggie McKensie? Please say yes.”

  There was no hesitation in her anymore. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes.”

  He closed his eyes and buried his face against her hair. “We will have to wait for a little while. I have not finished my courting of you.”

  Laughing, she pushed him away. “You’d better get going, then, Brother Pederson.”