Hannah heard a noise and turned. Ingrid Christensen had stepped out of the tent. When she saw Hannah, she came over. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Hannah bent down and picked up the one small kettle they had kept when they had lightened their loads at Deer Creek. “Let’s go.”
They moved slowly along one of the paths that linked the camp together, heading for the supply wagons where rations would be distributed again this afternoon. The snow was almost a foot deep and no one wanted to break their own way through it, so the trails were well worn. Wearing every piece of clothing they owned and clutching their only blankets tightly around them, they shuffled along, two dark, despairing figures moving slowly in a world of white.
They joined the line of people waiting in front of one of the supply wagons. John Jaques and another man whose name Hannah couldn’t remember were there beside a flour sack with a pair of scales. One by one they asked each person for the total number in his or her tent, then carefully weighed out the daily allotment.
When it was their turn, Brother Jaques looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Brother Jaques.”
“How is Brother Jackson?”
Hannah shook her head slowly. “Not good. He’s still very weak.”
“Dysentery?”
“Yes. It’s a little better now. We’ve stopped feeding him meat. That’s helped a little.”
He nodded grimly. “It’s a vicious circle, isn’t it? We need the meat from the cattle in our diet, and yet because the cattle are so lean the meat only adds to our misery. It’s like eating a piece of boiled cottonwood bark.” He sighed, then seemed to shrug it off. “Tell me again how many you have in your tent group?”
“Seven adults, eight children.”
The man beside him did some quick calculating. “That would be two pounds twelve ounces,” he said to Brother Jaques.
Hannah watched stoically as they measured out the flour and dumped it into her kettle. It did not even fill the bottom third. Not that she had expected it to. Step by step the daily allowance of flour had been cut back. When they found no more flour for sale at Fort Laramie, the daily allotment of sixteen ounces was reduced to twelve ounces per day for an adult. At Deer Creek that dropped to eight ounces. When they reached the Platte Bridge trading post and found nothing there either, Brother Martin had taken stock of what was left. Shortly after they forded the river the announcement had been sent through the camp. Until the supply wagons from Salt Lake were found, the ration for an adult would be four ounces of flour per day. Small children were given half that amount.
“Thank you,” Hannah said when they finished.
“Tell Sister Jackson I’ll try to come by in the morning and see her husband.”
“I will.” She and Ingrid turned and started away. Ingrid reached out and took the kettle from Hannah, careful not to let it tip and spill any of the precious little they had.
Hannah shook her head slowly. Four ounces of flour per day. No wonder the company couldn’t go forward. If you were careful, you could hold four ounces of flour in one cupped hand. If you used both hands, four ounces wouldn’t begin to fill them. So between them right now, Hannah and Ingrid were bringing back a whopping forty-four ounces of flour for their tent group of fifteen people. When they got back to their tent, they would stir in enough water to make a thin gruel, bring it to a near boil over the fire so it would thicken, then either put it on the griddle and fry it into thin cakes or maybe even eat it straight from the kettle.
Somewhere down deep inside her, Hannah wished she could feel anger or frustration or even despair. But the lassitude that engulfed her—and all the others, for that matter—was too complete, the malaise too total, to do anything but walk woodenly back to their group. She wanted to care about what was happening but it took too much effort.
When they reached their tent, Sister Elizabeth Jackson was already waiting for them by the small fire. Her husband sat nearby, a small mass of body hidden in the folds of a quilt, only a tiny circle of his face visible through the folds. The Roper family and the Jackson children were still in the tent. Unless the camp was on the move, most people stayed in their tents now, huddled in their bedding, conserving as much strength as they could.
Sister Jackson had a kettle of water hung over the flames, and when Hannah peered inside, she saw it was already near to boiling. She looked at Sister Jackson, who had a wooden spoon in her hand. She nodded and so Ingrid dumped the flour into the water. As they stepped back, Sister Jackson leaned forward and began to stir the pot with her spoon.
Without waiting to be asked, Hannah got out the plates and spoons and cups from a box in their handcart. As she came back to the fire, Sister Jackson looked up. “I think I’ll put the gruel in a cup,” she said. “That will be easier for him.”
Hannah nodded and set everything down except for one tin cup. Using her apron to hold on to the handle and a rag to grip the bottom, Sister Jackson tipped the kettle and let the steaming batter fill the cup about halfway. Setting the kettle back on the fire, she took the cup, blew on the batter for a moment to cool it, then moved over beside her husband. Pulling the quilt away from his face, she touched his cheek. “Aaron. I have some supper for you.”
His eyes were half-closed. They opened slowly and he stared at her for a moment as though he didn’t recognize her.
“Here,” she said gently. She put the cup to his lips and tipped it up.
Hannah moved a step to the side so she could watch. For a moment she was afraid Aaron Jackson wasn’t going to open his mouth, but finally his lips parted, and some of the batter ran inside his mouth. It couldn’t have been much, barely a teaspoon, Hannah thought.
His lips closed again, and she could see his cheeks move as he tasted the food in his mouth. But as he went to swallow, he winced sharply, drawing back in pain.
A drop of batter appeared at one corner of his mouth and Sister Jackson reached up with her apron and wiped it away. “Can you swallow it, Aaron?”
He shook his head.
“Try, Aaron. You’ve got to swallow it.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed; then instantly he moaned and one hand came to his throat. His eyes closed in pain. “I can’t,” he croaked.
“You’ve got to eat something, Aaron,” Sister Jackson said, trying not to let her concern show too much. “Here, try one more.”
He turned his head away. “Can’t. Hurts too much.”
Elizabeth sighed and handed the cup back to Hannah, who poured it back into the kettle.
“Tired,” Brother Jackson said after a moment. “Need to rest.”
Ingrid and Hannah came forward as Sister Jackson stood up. Working together, they lifted him to his feet and helped him to the tent. As Sister Jackson got him settled in his bed, the girls took the Jackson children and the Ropers outside to have their meager supper.
When Sister Jackson came out a few minutes later, Hannah looked at her. She just shook her head. “He’s asleep already,” she said wearily. “We’ve got to get him to eat something. Maybe in the morning.”
•••
Hannah came awake with a start, looking around wildly. For a moment, she thought she had died. Everything was pitch-black; not even the tiniest glimmer of light shone anywhere.
“Help me.”
Hannah rolled over onto her side. “Sister Jackson?”
“Hannah! Help me.”
Sister Jackson was in the bedroll next to Hannah’s, and so she reached out, groping in the darkness. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
Something brushed her arm and she found Sister Jackson’s hand. Instantly her hand was seized in a crushing grip. She felt the coldness of the hand on hers. “What is it?” she asked again, rising up on one elbow.
“It’s Aaron,” came the anguished whisper. “I can’t hear him breathing.”
And then, before she could answer, Hannah felt her hand being pulled forward. Letting her body follow, she thought for a mome
nt that Sister Jackson was going to take her hands in hers to warm them. Suddenly her hand was placed on something very cold. Her first reaction was to think that Sister Jackson had found a block of ice and wanted her to feel it for some reason.
“No!” Sister Jackson’s cry sounded in the darkness. “No! Aaron!”
In that instant Hannah realized with horror that what she was feeling was a face. Here was a nose. Beneath her palm she felt the jawline and the roughness of stubbled whiskers. She jerked her hand away without thinking. A chill more terrible than the cold inside the tent shot through her. And then she got control of herself. As she jerked her hand away, she realized that Elizabeth Jackson’s hand was still on her husband’s face.
Hannah scrambled to her knees, tossing the blanket back. She moved over beside Sister Jackson.
“Help me!” It was Sister Jackson again, her voice torn with anguish. “Somebody help me!”
Feeling with her hands, Hannah found Aaron Jackson. He was still in his quilt, but one arm was out. When Hannah touched his hand, she recoiled again. It was as cold as the snow outside. With a low sob, she turned and put her arms around the woman beside her. “Oh, Sister Jackson,” she cried.
Off to one side, someone stirred. “Sister Jackson, is that you?”
It was Brother Roper, father of the family that shared their tent.
“Yes,” Elizabeth Jackson cried, turning toward him. “Can you help me?”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Aaron. My husband.”
“Is he . . .”
“He’s dead,” Hannah said when Elizabeth didn’t answer.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Sister Jackson finally whispered. “His face is so cold.”
There was a long moment of silence; then finally Brother Roper spoke again. “There’s nothing we can do now, then. We’ll have to wait until first light.”
They heard the rustling of blankets and Hannah realized that their tent companion had lain down again. She was on her knees beside Elizabeth Jackson, still holding her. Sister Jackson was rocking back and forth now, and Hannah could feel the trembling in her body. Then she realized that Ingrid was on the other side of Sister Jackson, holding her as well.
“It’s all right,” Hannah cried, tears trickling down her cheeks. “He’s finally at peace now.”
“I know.” The rocking didn’t stop. “I know.”
II
Sunday, 26 October 1856
David Granger was tired. He was tired of sitting, tired of the constant hammering of his backside against the wagon seat, tired of staring at the back of the rescue wagon filled with flour sacks in front of him, and tired of the endless miles of snow. He was even tiring of the stunning vista to his left, a long range of mountains made up almost entirely of masses of solid granite that in some places rose from the flat plain as abruptly as a wall. They had been following along this range for two days now.
He sighed and shifted his weight again on the wagon seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. He knew what he was doing. After this long on the road, he always began to get that restless urge to break the monotony. It had been twenty days now since they left Salt Lake City, and it was their fourth day since the rescue party led by Captain George D. Grant had met the Willie Handcart Company at Sixth Crossing. The rapidity with which they had covered the road from Salt Lake to South Pass was a thing of the past. Here along the river and in the shelter of the great granite upthrust the snow was deeper. One day they had been forced to stop completely as the storm raged around them. Where they had been making twenty-five and occasionally thirty miles a day before, now they weren’t even averaging fifteen. And still no sign of the Martin Handcart Company.
Maybe he should have volunteered to go with Heber P. and escort the Willie Company, he thought. At least they had something to do besides sit on a wagon seat and stare forward like a frog frozen in the lamplight. He sighed again and hunched down, stamping his feet up and down to restore the circulation.
•••
It was about a quarter of a mile later when David lifted his head. The wagons in the lead were pulling to a halt alongside one another. He straightened, his boredom vanishing in an instant. The third wagon in line wheeled out and came up beside the other two. Something was up. David was fifth in line and followed the fourth as he pulled up on the far side of Captain Grant’s wagon. In a moment, all eight wagons were parked parallel to each other. David didn’t have to ask why they had stopped. The men were already pointing. To the left of the trail and across the river at a distance of about a mile or a mile and a half, the wall of granite mountains curved sharply away to the north. The eastern end tapered off and ended at a point almost straight ahead of them. Here the prairie rose in a gentle incline to make a narrow pass before the next outcropping thrust up and continued on to the east. It was just to the left of that gentle pass that they saw a gigantic cleft in the mountain wall. There it was at last. Devil’s Gate. Three hundred and fifty miles later they had reached this important landmark on the trail.
Devil’s Gate itself was a narrow gorge through which only the Sweetwater River or a man on foot could pass. When he and his family had come through here in 1848, David had been surprised to learn that the trail did not go through the “gate” but through the gentle pass just to the east of it. He remembered how that night around the fire some of the brethren told the pioneers of the Indian legends about how Devil’s Gate had gotten its name. According to the natives, there had once been a great and terrible spirit who haunted the valley of the Sweetwater. In the form of a great tusked beast, it drove off the buffalo and gorged itself on the deer, antelope, and elk. Finally a great holy man called upon all the tribes of the red men to unite together to drive away the evil beast. They surrounded him and filled his body with arrows. Enraged by the attack, the great beast stamped and pawed the ground. Then with one great upward thrust of its tusks, it ripped a huge gash in the mountain wall and fled through it, never to be seen again.
That was the stuff that fired a boy’s imagination, and Devil’s Gate was a place clearly fixed in David’s memory. Now, about three miles off, it lay before him once again, silent, magnificent, awesome.
“Look, there’s a column of smoke.” One of the men was pointing.
“And there,” said another, “behind the building. Isn’t that the top of a wagon?”
Captain Grant nodded, looking quite satisfied now. “That’s got to be our express party, holed up at the old fort, just like I told them to do.” He picked up his reins. “All right, brethren. Let’s hope they’ve got those handcart people with them.”
•••
Captain Grant proved to be only half right. Joseph Young, Abel Garr, Stephen Taylor, and Cyrus Wheelock, the four express riders Grant had sent forward from Black’s Fork, saw them coming and came out and met them while they were still half a mile out from the fort. All four men were well and reported that their teams were well rested. To the next question there was a slow shake of the head. No, they had found no sign of the Martin Handcart Company or either of the two independent wagon companies reported to be traveling with them.
To a man who had hoped to find his people somewhere around the Green River, almost two hundred miles to the west of where they were now, that was bitter news. As everyone watched their leader, Captain Grant gravely pulled on his lip. Then finally he looked around at his men. “Brethren, we have to find them. They are surely in the most desperate of straits by now.” He turned to Brigham Young’s son. “Joseph?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Would you be willing to lead another express party and ride as far east as the Platte Bridge?”
“Yes, sir, I would. We’re rested and ready to go.”
“How far is that?” someone asked.
“Another forty or fifty miles if you have to go all the way,” Robert Burton answered, still speaking to Brother Young.
“I want you to leave first thing in the morning,”
Captain Grant said. He looked around. His eyes settled on Abel Garr, who had ridden with Young as part of the first express party. “Abe, would you be willing to ride with Joseph again?”
“Of course.”
He turned once more, and this time his choice surprised a few people. He called upon the camp’s cook. “Brother Jones?”
“Yes, Captain? Would you like me to go too?” Daniel W. Jones said.
“I would.”
“I would consider it an honor, sir.”
“Good. Take the best mounts we have. I want you to take one pack animal loaded with food. It won’t be much, but . . .” He shrugged. “I want you on your way at first light.”
Then Captain Grant said one last thing that sent a cold shiver through David’s back. “If you don’t find them by that time, we’ll have to assume that either they have decided to go into winter camp somewhere or . . . or else they have perished.”
III
Monday, 27 October 1856
While the stronger men gathered the dead from around the camp, including Aaron Jackson, Captain Martin and Captain Hodgett called a meeting with their subcaptains. They hadn’t changed their minds about the need to stop for a few days to rest, but they felt there was a better place to do it. About twelve miles upstream from where they had crossed the North Platte—just two or three miles from where they were now—the river made a slow, lazy bend to the south. Here the trail set off across open country to rejoin the main trail near Mineral Springs. But at the bend there was better grass for the animals, more shelter from the wind, and more fuel for the fires. It would provide a better place for an extended stop. And so the signal was given. Strike the tents and pack. Burial service would be at nine o’clock. They would move out immediately thereafter.
They buried the dead as best they could. A hymn was sung and a short dedicatory prayer said over the “grave”—really nothing more than a hole scraped in the snow and then covered with stones and branches and what few rocks could be pried from the grip of the frozen ground. As they marched out half an hour later, no one looked back. Those people had found their rest. Now the living had to find a place to stay for the night.
Fire of the Covenant Page 65
