Fire of the Covenant

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Yes,” she said. She leaned her head against him, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude. It was astonishing the difference that just a few hours could make. She turned and looked across the fire. Over there her mother sat beside Sister James, talking quietly. Sarah sat beside them, listening. Emma was in the tent with the other children, including Robbie, getting them to sleep. Nothing had been heard from any of them for over an hour, and Maggie suspected that Emma had fallen asleep with them. “What time is it, do you think?” she asked.

  “Half past ten. Maybe eleven. You should go to bed too, Maggie.”

  She shook her head. “Not until Olaf and Brother James and Reuben come in.”

  “And Jens and Elsie,” he agreed quietly.

  “I’m getting worried. It’s so late.”

  “I know. But Brother Chislett is not here yet either. He was bringing up the last. Maybe they are with him.”

  “Will you wait up all night for them?” she asked.

  “If necessary.” And with that he put his arm around her and pulled her in against him. “But you try to sleep.”

  “Right here?” she murmured.

  “Of course,” he said, surprised that she had to ask.

  •••

  They didn’t have to wait all night. Fifteen minutes later they heard a hoarse cry and turned to see a figure come stumbling out of the darkness. In an instant people were on their feet and rushing to see who it was. Maggie threw off the robe and grabbed Eric’s hand. Her mother and Sister James and Sarah were up too. They walked quickly over to Brother Kimball’s fire.

  “It’s Brother Chislett,” Mary McKensie cried as they got close enough to see.

  “Thank the Lord,” Jane breathed. “But why is he alone?”

  As the people crowded in, Brother Willie and Brother Kimball pushed their way through the crowd. Heber P. Kimball was beside his older brother. The crowd instantly quieted as the two leaders reached the subcaptain.

  “Brother John,” Captain Willie said, gripping his hand. “Thank heavens you’ve come. Where are your people?”

  Chislett stepped closer to the fire, shivering violently. A man nearby stood quickly, took the quilt from his own shoulders, and wrapped it quickly around Chislett’s.

  “Thank you.” He looked at Willie. “We’ve got forty people at Strawberry Creek.”

  There was a collective gasp. “Forty!” Brother Kimball blurted.

  “Yes. The oxen refuse to cross. And the people are at their limits too. We’ve got to send someone out to get them.”

  Brother Willie was nodding. “That’s why I couldn’t find anyone. I started back to help, but I couldn’t make it very far. I had to come back.”

  William Kimball swung around and began shouting out. “You boys from the Valley. Roust yourselves out of those tents.” He turned to his brother. “Get them all up, Heber, and get the teams hitched.”

  “Yes, sir!” The younger Kimball leaped away.

  “There are also some stragglers between here and Strawberry Creek,” Chislett said, holding the quilt tightly around himself. “I urged them to come on. You’re going to have to tell the men to watch for them along the way.”

  “We will.” William Kimball had heard enough. He said something to Captain Willie, then turned and strode off, headed for the wagons.

  Jane James immediately moved forward, with Sarah in tow. Knowing exactly what she was going to do, Eric and Maggie moved in right behind them.

  “Brother Chislett?”

  He turned. “Ah, Sister James.”

  “Have you seen my husband and son?”

  He sighed, his hand letting go of the quilt to reach out and take hers. “I have, and within the last hour.”

  Jane’s head dropped and there was a choked sob. “Praise heaven!”

  Then something in the silence brought her head up again. Brother Chislett was shaking his head. He told them quickly about finding father and son first thing this morning and sending them on without the second cart. But then his voice lowered. “I was chosen by the others at the crossing to come ahead to camp and get help,” he said. “I broke through the ice on Strawberry Creek and got my boots filled with water.” He looked down and held out one leg for them to see.

  The circle of people gasped. Both of his boots were caked with ice.

  “I was running, to stop my feet from freezing. Suddenly I saw a figure in the darkness. Then I saw it was two figures, a man and a boy.”

  “William?” Jane cried.

  “Yes. They must have come along all right, because I had not seen them again. But there they were. Your husband was seated by the roadside with your son watching over him.”

  “Dear, faithful Reuben,” Sarah cried, near to tears now.

  “Yes. Brother James was very weak. Your son was trying to make him get up and come along, but he couldn’t.” Now he looked away and his eyes filled with pain. “I tried to help. I got him to his feet and had him lean on me. He did so and we walked a little distance, but then he collapsed again. I half carried him, half dragged him for a ways, your son helping all he could, but my strength failed me.”

  With eyes that had seen too much in the last fourteen or fifteen hours, John Chislett stared at Jane James. Eyes brimming with tears, she reached out and gripped his hand. “It’s all right, Brother Chislett. I thank you for doing what you could.”

  He barely seemed to hear. He was staring now at something in the fire. “The errand I was on was of a most urgent nature and I could not tarry longer. I took off the quilt I had wrapped around me and rolled your husband into it. I told your son to stay with him but to keep walking back and forth no matter what. If he didn’t, I told him he would freeze to death.”

  Jane turned around, groping blindly. Sarah reached out and took her into her arms, tears streaming down her own cheeks.

  Eric stepped forward. “Did you see my brother?”

  Chislett turned, grateful for the chance to turn away from his thoughts. “Yes. They are on this side of Strawberry Creek as well, coming on slowly. Your brother is with the Danish couple and their two children.”

  “Is he all right?”

  One hand came up and rubbed at his eyes. “Yes. I think so. He is carrying the little boy.” He sighed. “And the tall Dane? What’s his name?”

  “Jens Nielson.”

  “Yes, him. His feet are badly frozen. His wife is bringing him on.” Again he seemed overwhelmed. He stifled back a sob. “That tiny wisp of a woman has pulled the cart alone, with her husband and the little girl in it, for I don’t know how many miles. Hours at least. It’s incredible.”

  Eric bowed his head. Oh, Elsie! If only I had been with you! And then he shook it off. If he had been with the Nielsons, Maggie would be dead now.

  “We offered to have her wait with the rest of us,” Chislett was saying. “Maybe she didn’t understand what I was saying, but she came on. They crossed the creek on their own—her and your brother—and they’re about two miles back.”

  “The boys will go get them, Eric,” Captain Willie said. “The boys from the Valley are still strong and fresh.”

  Eric turned. “I’ll be going with them,” he said quietly.

  II

  Friday, 24 October 1856

  The McKensies and the Jameses, along with Eric, had finally reached the Rock Creek Camp just as it was getting dark. Some of the “Valley boys,” as William Kimball called them, immediately rushed out to help. They took their tent and set it up in short order. Food was already in steaming kettles, and though they would not have unlimited quantities until the other wagons arrived, there was enough for a good meal for everyone. Firewood and dry willows had already been cut and piled up near each fire.

  That meal along with five or six hours of warmth and rest had done a great deal to rejuvenate Eric’s strength, but it would take many days before the terrible weariness in his bones would be gone completely. He could feel that weariness now as he walked alongside one of the wagons moving eastward
back towards Strawberry Creek. When they left the camp at Rock Creek shortly before midnight, he had started in the lead wagon along with William H. and Heber P. Kimball. But he soon gave that up and got out to walk. The night was dark and suddenly a solitary figure or a small group pulling a handcart would loom up before them.

  At first they tried hailing them to learn who they were. Some responded wearily but coherently; some mumbled indistinguishable words; some just stared at them and stumbled on past as though they were apparitions in the night. Fearing that he might miss Olaf, Eric had climbed down. Soon some of the other rescuers were doing the same, walking along with him, checking each new person or group of people as they came upon them. They would pause long enough to find out who they were and how they were doing. If they were still on their feet, they would encourage them to press forward until the wagons could return for them. If they were on the verge of collapse, they would put them in the wagons and bundle them up as much as possible.

  In some cases it was bodies they found, still sitting wrapped in their meager blankets or stretched out in the snow. These would wait until the last wagon returned.

  Eric estimated it was now somewhere around two o’clock in the morning. He and Heber P. Kimball walked along with one of the wagons, ignoring their own exhaustion, searching the night with their eyes to make sure that no one was missed.

  “Look,” Eric said softly. “Up there on the right. Is that someone?” At first he had thought it was a small tree or a bush, but then it seemed to move.

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  They increased their pace, moving out ahead of the wagon. As they drew closer, the dark shape took form. It was a man, and he was waving his arms. “Help!” It was little more than a croak. Eric wasn’t sure he had even heard it. “Help me, please.”

  Heber broke into a trot. That was beyond Eric, but he moved forward as quickly as he could. Only as he reached the person did Eric see another dark shape, this one lying in the snow beside the other. He stopped. “Reuben? Is that you!”

  There was a strangled cry of pain and joy.

  “It’s Eric, Reuben. We’re here.”

  “Papa is sick.” He half turned, his hands coming out of his blanket. “The man wrapped him in his quilt. He told me to walk back and forth so I didn’t freeze.”

  Eric and Heber were already on their knees beside the figure in the snow. Eric pulled the blanket back, pulled off his glove, and touched William James’s face. To his surprise, it had warmth in it. He bent down, putting an ear to his mouth. He looked up at Heber. “He’s alive, but just barely.”

  Reuben came forward. “Papa?”

  Eric stood up and took Reuben James in his arms. In the faint light reflected off the snow, the fourteen-year-old’s face looked like that of a tortured old man. “It’s all right, Reuben,” he said. “We’re here to help.”

  Heber stood up, peering up ahead into the darkness. “Here comes a wagon. Let’s get them into it.”

  Eric nodded and took Reuben’s hand. As he started to lead him forward, he saw that Reuben hobbled painfully. He put his arm around his waist. “Your feet?” he asked softly.

  There was a silent nod in the darkness. “My hands hurt real bad too, Eric.”

  “It’s going to be all right. Your mother is waiting for you at camp. And Sarah and Emma.”

  The boy’s head came up. “Are they all right?” he whispered.

  “Yes. They are all right.”

  The wagon was already jammed with people, and Eric quickly checked to see if Olaf was one of them. He was not. The emigrants silently rearranged themselves, making room for the two additions. As the wagon moved away, Eric stood silently, wishing that he could get on it too.

  “Do you think the old man will make it?” Heber P. asked quietly.

  Eric shook his head. “It will be a blessing if he lives long enough to reach camp, so his wife can see him one more time. I do not think he’ll make it through the night.”

  Heber touched Eric’s sleeve. “Guess what the father had lying beside him.”

  Eric could only look at him, too tired to guess.

  “A shotgun.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine? At a time like this, all you can think about is saving your shotgun?”

  Eric stared at him, his eyes suddenly burning. “He wasn’t trying to save his shotgun,” he whispered. “He was trying to save his family.”

  •••

  Olaf was walking alongside the next returning wagon. At first Eric almost didn’t see him as he ran to the back of the wagon and called inside as it moved along. This wagon had two handcarts tied on behind, and they too were filled with people. When he got no response to his calls, Eric turned away, frustrated. Then something about the figure walking on the other side of the wagon brought him around. In the darkness it looked odd and unnatural. He moved forward a few steps before he realized that it was a man carrying a child on his back. With a cry he ran forward. “Olaf!”

  The head rose slightly.

  Eric leaped forward and grabbed him by the arm. “Olaf!”

  Finally, Olaf shook off his grip, not stopping.

  Eric jumped forward and stepped directly in front of him. “It’s Eric, Olaf.”

  Olaf shuffled to a stop, his head coming up very slowly. “Eric?” he mumbled.

  “Yes! It’s me, Olaf. I’m here.” Eric peered up at the dark shape on his back. “Is that little Jens?”

  “Yes. He is so cold. Didn’t want to walk.”

  “Here let me help you.”

  Ahead of them, the driver had reined to a stop and was peering around the side of the wagon. He jumped down and ran back to join Eric. “Do you know him?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  “I tried to get him to ride in the wagon, but he wouldn’t. Said he promised to carry this boy. He’s not coherent.”

  Eric stepped around behind Olaf and reached up. He recoiled as he touched little Jens Nielson’s arm. It was cold and stiff. Now the driver was beside Eric. “The boy’s dead,” he whispered. “We tried to tell your brother that, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s in pretty bad shape himself.”

  “Help me,” Eric cried softly. Then to Olaf he said, “We’re going to get Jens down, Olaf. We’ll let him ride in the wagon now.”

  “Too cold. Have to carry him.”

  “It’s all right,” Eric said, fighting to stop his voice from breaking. “We have blankets. Jens will be all right.”

  Working as gently as possible, Eric and the teamster pried the body of Jens Nielson from off Olaf’s back, then carried him to the wagon. Again those inside shuffled around and made room for the still form. Olaf stood where he was, his head down, his arms swinging loose now. Eric went back to him and took him by the elbow.

  “There’s no more room in there,” the driver said. He was young, perhaps even a year or two younger than Eric. His voice was soft and filled with sorrow. “You and him get up in the wagon seat with me.”

  It took both of them to help Olaf up, and the driver had to hold him steady until Eric clambered up as well and took Olaf in his arms. “All right,” Eric said to the teamster.

  •••

  Maggie and the others had finally gone inside their tent and tried to sleep for a while. But no one did. They had lain there in the darkness for a long time, talking quietly so as not to wake the children. They didn’t talk about Brother James or Eric or Olaf. They talked of the Valley and friends that might be waiting for them when they finally arrived, and where they would live, and how they would make a living. Then about an hour after midnight they had heard the rattle of a wagon. They were up instantly and out of their tent. It was a disappointment. The wagon was filled with people but not any of theirs.

  The second wagon came in fifteen minutes later. Again they shuffled out as quickly as they could. This time it was to face tragedy. Reuben James was one of the first ones to climb down from the wagon. When he saw his mother he dropped to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and beg
an to sob. The driver and another man then carefully lifted out the body of William James. He had come within half an hour of seeing his beloved family again, but it was not meant to be.

  Now Sarah and Emma and Jane James sat by the fire, holding hands, staring numbly at nothing, stricken with grief. The body of William James lay wrapped in a tattered quilt just outside the circle of firelight. Reuben was sleeping now, his hands and feet carefully bandaged. Maggie had nearly fainted when she saw him in the light. The tips of his fingers were as black as if he had been digging in a coal bin. His cheeks had those white crystalized spots they had all come to recognize and dread. And he could barely hobble, even with his mother and sisters holding him up. And in the morning, the four younger children would wake to the news that their father was dead.

  Maggie stared eastward into the black night. It was around two or three in the morning now. Eighteen hours ago they had stood at the base of Rocky Ridge and prepared for the day that lay before them. And still it wasn’t over. Oh, Eric! Where are you? Please come back. Please!

  “Mama?”

  Maggie turned. It was Emma. She sat beside her mother, who stroked her hair slowly. Sister James finally looked down at her daughter.

  Wet streaks on Emma’s cheeks gleamed in the firelight. “What are we going to do now, Mama?”

  For several moments, Maggie didn’t think that Jane was going to answer. Her eyes were lifeless, staring past Emma into the darkness. Her face was like stone. There were no tears here. And then, slowly, her eyes focused. Her mouth softened and she came back to them. Sarah was looking up at her mother now too.

  Jane James looked at her two oldest children. On board the Thornton she had watched a child be buried in the cold waters of the North Atlantic. In the morning she would attend to another burial. But there were still seven children who were dependent on her alone now. Her head came up a little as she turned to look squarely at Emma. “We shall go on to Zion,” she said quietly.

  Emma sniffed, wiping at the tears now. Sarah was nodding slowly.

  “And there,” Jane said with quiet resolve, “there we will live in such a way that when we are privileged to see your father again, he will be very proud of us.”