Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Eric!” she gasped.

  “Hold on.” He stepped forward, and felt the ice crack. Though he had clenched his teeth in preparation for the shock, a gasp was still torn from his lips as the water went over the top of his boots. It was as if someone had stabbed him with a dozen knives.

  “Eric! Put me down. I can do it.”

  “Not on your life,” he said. He took long strides, breaking the ice open again, setting his feet firmly on the rocky bottom below to make sure he wouldn’t slip.

  He set her down on the other side, kissed her soundly, then plunged back in again even as she was still protesting. Back with the others, he looked at Sister James. “If I get Martha and Mary Ann, can you and the girls take George and John over on the cart?”

  Sister James had already made that decision. The boys were awake and watching what was happening from their perch on the cart. “Yes.”

  Eric bent down and put Mary Ann, who was eleven, on his back. Then he picked up Martha, who was ten, in his arms.

  “Do they get a kiss too?” Emma cried as he started off.

  “Yes, but no one older than that,” Maggie cried from the other side, laughing now.

  In five minutes they were done. Sarah, Emma, and their mother took the cart across and changed into dry stockings and shoes while Eric went back for Robbie one time and Sister McKensie the next. As he set Maggie’s mother down, she touched his arm gently. “Thank you, son.”

  That startled him. She had never used that term with him before. He smiled back at her. “You’re welcome.”

  Then Maggie grabbed at his arm. “Do you have another pair of shoes or stockings, Eric?”

  He shrugged. “It’s only a few miles to Rock Creek,” he said lightly. “Come on, let’s get going, or my feet are going to get cold.”

  •••

  By late afternoon Olaf Pederson was half stumbling, half walking as he followed the line of tracks in the snow, already half-covered by the blowing snow. He turned, looking back. Elsie and Jens Nielson were now a full quarter of a mile behind him. Even at this distance he could see how badly Jens was hobbling. No wonder they were losing ground on him. Elsie was at the back now, pushing with all her strength, but she couldn’t make the cart go faster than Jens could walk. He didn’t see Bodil Mortensen and guessed she might be riding in the cart now.

  For one brief moment Olaf considered stopping long enough to let them catch up to him. He shook his head. He knew without any doubt that if he stopped now, he would have to sit down. And if he sat down he would not get up again. At least not with little Jens Nielson on his back. And so he lowered his head and plodded on.

  His lungs were on fire. His chest hurt with every breath. His back felt as though he carried a barn on it. And his feet. He knew that even the new boots were no longer protecting him. In the last hour, with more and more snow on the trail now that they were on level ground, the boots had gradually become soaked. The progression was interesting to him in a detached sort of way. First there had been the bitter cold and the growing discomfort. Then the wet seeped in and his feet became like two blocks of ice. Then for a blessed time he had felt nothing. Now the first tendrils of pain were starting to shoot through them with each new step. He knew that in another hour or two he would better understand what the senior Jens Nielson was experiencing. He began to sing to himself in English, to take his mind off the pain.

  Ye Saints that dwell on Europe’s shores,

  Prepare yourselves with many more

  To leave behind your native land

  For . . .

  His eyes were half-closed as he sang and now they snapped open. “For . . .” He shook his head, trying to clear the muddle. But it did no good. Dismayed, he frowned. How would he explain this to Maggie? She had made her students memorize the lyrics. What if she called on him in class tonight?

  Frustrated, he jumped ahead to the chorus. That he could remember.

  Some must push and some must pull

  As we go marching up the hill,

  As merrily on the way we go

  Until we reach the valley, oh.

  He grunted softly, pleased with himself. “Hey, Jens,” he said in English, turning his head enough to look up at the little person riding on his back. “Are you merrily on the way we go?”

  He laughed, pleased with his little joke. Then he realized there was no response. He shook his body a little, switching back to Danish. “Jens. Are you all right up there?”

  There was a soft murmur and the weight on his back stirred a little.

  “Good.” He began humming the next verse, still irritated at himself for not being able to remember the words.

  •••

  A quarter of a mile back from where Olaf trudged along, Elsie Nielson was also trying to find ways that took her mind off the pain. She hated pushing the cart and would have much preferred to pull. She was so short that even when the cart was level it came to her chest. So to push with any strength, she had to raise her arms to an unnatural level and lean forward. Even after months of taking her turn at pushing, she still wasn’t used to it. Her arms and shoulders burned as though someone had rubbed them with a red-hot liniment.

  Suddenly the cart jerked violently upward, the tailgate almost smashing her in the face. “Jens! Be careful!”

  And then, with a start, she realized what had happened. Her husband had dropped the shafts. The front of the cart had crashed to the ground, jerking the back end up sharply. With a low cry, she darted around. Jens was still in the shafts, but he was on his knees. She stopped as she watched him place both hands in the snow, his arms trembling violently, and try to push himself up. His knees came off the ground for a few seconds, but then he crashed down again. He gave a low sob and buried his face in his hands.

  “Jens!” She leaped forward and dropped to his side.

  “I can’t, Elsie.” He turned his face and she was shocked to see wet streaks down his cheeks. That shook her more deeply than anything he could have done. In their six years of marriage and a year of courting before that, she had never seen her husband cry. Now great sobs tore through his body.

  With a sob of her own, Elsie threw her arms around him. “Oh, Jens. It’s all right. It’s all right.” She stroked his face as she pressed against him. “We’ll rest for a minute.”

  For almost a minute, he sat there, his head down, his wife clinging to him. Finally, the shudders lessened and he reached up and wiped at his cheeks. Then he took her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “I can go no farther, Elsie. You are going to have to go on alone.”

  “No, Jens!”

  He shook her gently. “You have to, Elsie. For the children.”

  Frantic, all she could do was shake her head. Then suddenly, a great peace came over her. She knew exactly what to do. She stood up and put one hand under his arm. “Jens?”

  He looked up.

  “Come get in the cart.”

  Something akin to panic twisted his features. “No, Elsie.”

  “Yes, Jens.”

  “My weight will double the load. You’re not strong enough.”

  “I will not leave you.” For several long seconds their eyes held and then she said it again. “I will not.”

  Chapter Notes

  The journey from the base of Rocky Ridge to Rock Creek, a distance of sixteen miles, proved to be the greatest ordeal the James G. Willie Handcart Company would face. Though consistent journal keeping had stopped by now, fortunately several participants later wrote of their experiences. These accounts give rich details about what happened, though there are a few minor differences between the accounts, an understandable thing when one considers the trauma of that day. It was twenty hours before the last of the company made it to camp.

  Sarah James related the following:

  I can remember the time when one of the men who was pulling a cart just ahead of us laid down in his shafts and started to cry. We all wanted to cry with him. One of the captains, I don’t remember
just who, came up to him and just slapped him in the face. It made the man so mad that he jumped right up and started to run with his cart. I remember that it was a mean way to treat the poor fellow but know that it saved his life. . . .

  . . . It was a bitter cold morning in October as we broke camp. As usual there were dead to be buried before we could go on. Father and Reuben were with the burial detail. Mother, who was helping to pull the heaviest cart, had stayed behind until they could finish their sad work. After a short service, we, with light cart, went ahead to catch the rest of the company, and mother and Reuben started to follow. Father collapsed and fell in the snow. He tried two or three times to get up with mother’s help, then finally he asked her to go on and when he felt rested he would come on with Reuben. Mother knew in her heart that he had given out, but perhaps she said in a few minutes with some rest he could come on. She took the cart and hurried to follow us. (In Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, p. 629; see also Remember, p. 12)

  In his narrative John Chislett recalled:

  The day we crossed the Rocky Ridge it was snowing a little—the wind hard from the north-west—and blowing so keenly that it almost pierced us through. We had to wrap ourselves closely in blankets, quilts, or whatever else we could get, to keep from freezing. Captain Willie still attended to the details of the company’s travelling, and this day he appointed me to bring up the rear. My duty was to stay behind everything and that nobody was left along the road. I had to bury a man who had died in my hundred, and I finished doing so after the company had started. In about half an hour, I set out on foot alone to do my duty as rear-guard to the camp. The ascent of the ridge commenced soon after leaving camp, and I had not gone far up it before I overtook a cart that the folks could not pull through the snow, here about knee-deep. I helped them along, and we soon overtook another. By all hands getting to one cart we could travel; so we moved one of the carts a few rods, and then went back and brought up the other. After moving in this way for a while, we overtook other carts at different points of the hill, until we had six carts, not one of which could be moved by the parties owning it. I put our collective strength to three carts at a time, took them a short distance, and then brought up the other three. Thus by travelling over the hill three times—twice forward and once back—I succeeded after hours of toil in bringing my little company to the summit. The six carts were then trotted on gaily down hill, the intense cold stirring us to action. . . . One old man, named James (a farm-laborer from Gloucestershire), who had a large family, and who had worked very hard all the way, I found sitting by the roadside unable to pull his cart any farther, I could not get him into the wagon, as it was already overcrowded. He had a shotgun which he had brought from England, and which had been a great blessing to him and his family, for he was a good shot, and often had a mess of sage hens or rabbits for his family. I took the gun from the cart, put a small bundle on the end of it, placed it on his shoulder, and started him out with his little boy, twelve years old. His wife and two daughters older than the boy took the cart along finely after reaching the summit.

  We travelled along with the ox-team and overtook others, all so laden with the sick and helpless that they moved very slowly. The oxen had almost given out. . . . We struggled along in this weary way until after dark, and by this time our “rear” numbered 3 wagons, 8 handcarts, and nearly 40 persons. With the wagons were Mellen Atwood, Levi Savage, and William Woodward, captains of hundreds, faithful men who had worked hard all the way. (In Remember, pp. 10–11)

  Levi Savage chronicled the experience thus: “We buried our dead, got up our teams and about nine o’clock a.m. commenced ascending the Rocky Ridge. This was a severe day. The wind blew hard and cold. The ascent was some five miles long and some places steep and covered with deep snow. We became weary, set down to rest, and some became chilled and commenced to freeze. Brothers Atwood, Woodward and myself remained with the teams. They being perfectly loaded down with the sick and children, so thickly stacked I was fearful some would smother” (in Remember, p. 10).

  Looking back on his experiences, Jens Nielson wrote: “I told you there were five men to the tent, but now the four were dead and I was the only man left so I had to ask some of the largest and strongest women to help me raise the tent. It looked like we should all die. I remember my prayers as distinctly today as I did then, if the Lord would let me live to reach Salt Lake City, that all my days should be spent in usefulness under the direction of his Holy Priesthood. How far I have come short of this promise I do not know, but I have been called to make six homes and as far as this goes, I have fulfilled my promise” (quoted in Lyman, “Bishop Jens Nielson,” p. 4). Further describing the ordeal that Jens Nielson and his wife, Elsie, underwent, the author of Jens’s life history states: “In the fury of those storms which raged around them the bishop [Jens later was a bishop in Utah] and his faithful wife toiled through the frozen snow till his feet were shapeless and useless with frost. He could walk no farther. What was to be done? Should he sink in the snow to die of despair? His young wife . . . looked at him, how desolate the world would be without him. ‘Ride,’ she urged. ‘I can’t leave you—I can pull the cart’ ” (Lyman, “Bishop Jens Nielson,” p. 4).

  The Thomas Moulton family, among whom was eight-year-old James Heber Moulton, were also members of the Willie Company. An account of their experiences includes the following: “Rocky Ridge must have been a real trial, as another terrible wind and snowstorm came upon them. As they struggled up the side of the ridge, they had to wrap themselves in blankets and quilts to keep from freezing to death. Heber took the brunt of the weather. Perhaps there was not sufficient warm clothing to go around for all. A kindly old lady, seeing the freezing lad’s dilemma, grasped his hand as he trailed behind the handcart, held by the rope around his waist, and struggling to climb the slopes of the ridge. This kindly act saved his right hand, but his left hand, being exposed to the sub-zero weather, was frozen. The flesh dropped off his poor little fingers to the first joint” (from the autobiography of Charlotte “Lottie” Moulton Carroll, as cited in Turner, Emigrating Journals, p. 227).

  The reference to the temperature here brings up something that is frequently overlooked. The journal entries and historical accounts about the crossing of Rocky Ridge make frequent reference to the weather, especially the bitterly cold wind, but no specific temperature is mentioned. On November fourth, less than two weeks after the Rocky Ridge crossing, a temperature of minus six degrees was recorded at Martin’s Cove. On the sixth, the thermometer showed minus eleven degrees (see Turner, Emigrating Journals, p. 201; Hafen and Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, p. 224). Those temperatures were recorded near Devil’s Gate, which is just under six thousand feet in elevation. The top of Rocky Ridge is 7,300 feet above sea level. So it is possible that temperatures were near zero or below that day.

  “Windchill” is a modern device used to calculate the effect of temperature, humidity, and wind on a person. To have a “hard wind” on Rocky Ridge is typical, even in good weather. When storms are brewing the winds can become fierce. Howard A. Christy’s study of windchill shows that if the wind was blowing at thirty miles per hour and the temperature was ten degrees Fahrenheit, the windchill factor would be thirty degrees below zero. At zero degrees and forty miles per hour, the windchill factor would drop to fifty-five degrees below zero. At minus ten and forty miles per hour, the windchill effect would be an incredible seventy degrees below zero! (see Christy, “Weather, Disaster, and Responsibility,” p. 19).

  There is no way to know exactly what conditions were that day on Rocky Ridge, but it is not surprising that severe frostbite became a factor in the emigrants’ sufferings.

  Chapter 27

  Rock Creek

  I

  Thursday, 23 October 1856

  In the dancing light of the scattered fires, the shapes of the half dozen wagons camped near Rock Creek loomed like ghosts in the darkness. The wagons from South Pass had not been waiting here, as promised, but
a rider had come in and said that they would be here in the morning. Six more. Filled with fat quarters of beef, thousands of pounds of flour, more warm clothing, and additional quilts and blankets.

  That knowledge warmed Eric as much as the crackling fire. He looked down at Maggie, who was wrapped in a buffalo robe and lying in his arms. “Are you getting warm finally?”

  She smiled up at him, her eyes dark and contented in the firelight. “Yes. And full. Can you believe it, Eric? Warm and full. Who would ever have thought that those would be the two most wonderful things in the world?”

  “Yes.” He held up his feet, which he had been holding near the hot coals. “Even Eric’s big feet are getting dry. It is wonderful.”

  She suddenly remembered something, a sign that she was coming back to normal again. “How are Sister Bathgate and Sister Park?”

  “They made it,” he said simply. He had gone to see them after supper and was amazed that they seemed to have come through the day without serious setbacks.

  He took her hand and held it tightly. “We made it too, Maggie,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” she said in wonder.

  “We’ve still got a long way to go, but the worst is over.”

  She felt a cough stirring down in her chest and willed it to hold for a moment, until she said what she wanted to say. “I was so sure that I was going to die, Eric.”

  “I told you it would not be.”

  “I know. Thank you.” A teasing smile stole across her face. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  But before she could speak, the coughing started again. He held her tightly until it passed. Then she went on. “Do you remember that day when I told you that if I died before I got to the Valley I wanted you to remarry?”

  “Yes?”

  She lowered her eyes. “I was just being noble.”

  He laughed aloud. “I know.”

  “You knew?” She slapped at him playfully. “Why didn’t you tell me that, then?”

  He didn’t smile back. “I was busy trying to make you believe you would not die.”