The Locket: Escape from Deseret Book One

by Adell Harvey

  She heard a faint sob, and for the first time became aware of the woman standing beside her. “Oh, how I wish ‘twas me agoing,” the woman said, dabbing at her eyes with a ragged handkerchief.

  Ingrid turned to comfort her. “Don’t worry, our turn will come soon,” she assured the woman. “Brother Rasmussen told me the next ship will leave within a month or two.”

  “Not for me it won’t,” the woman said, her eyes bleak. “Lars, my husband, was hurt bad in a boating accident. He can’t go across the sea, and I can’t leave him.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she changed her mood dramatically. “That’s enough of my problems. Yer Brother Rasmussen’s new bride, ain’t ya?”

  “Why, yes, I am …”

  “Wal, I’m sposed to come help ya git yer stuff ready to sell. Then yer sposed to come stay with me and Lars ‘til yer ship comes.” As an afterthought, she introduced herself. “I’m Margaret Jorgensen.”

  Ingrid took quick stock of the woman’s obvious poverty and began to protest. “Oh, no, I can’t do that. It would be a terrible imposition on you.”

  “An’ jus’ where else do you plan on goin’ when Engstredt throws ya out in the street?” Margaret countered. “Besides, Brother Rasmussen already paid for yer keep, and it’s a way I can do my bit to help build up Zion, even from here.”

  She waited while Ingrid considered that bit of news. Ingrid smiled. It seemed Brother Rasmussen was taking care of everything for her. It was a new feeling, one she rather enjoyed, this being taken care of.

  “Come along now, and let’s get busy,” Margaret insisted, tugging at her coat sleeve.

  Ingrid was surprised when they arrived back at her apartment to find a drayage company already hauling out her furniture. “Your man told us to take all the furniture,” one of the men explained. “Yer to go through the personal things real quick and decide what you need.”

  Ingrid caught her breath. Things were moving too quickly for her liking, far too quickly for her to sort out her thoughts. She watched in dismay as the men carried out Mama’s bureau. “Stuff that was in it is on the bed,” one of them said, nodding toward a heap of tablecloths and doilies. Her most precious treasures, those dainties she had watched Mama crochet during the long winter nights. Tears ran down her cheeks as she packed them into the valise.

  “No, no,” Margaret admonished, taking the delicate linens from her and placing them with the pile to be sold. “Brother Rasmussen insisted no fancies, said there’s jus’ no room.”

  Ingrid issued a faint protest, but with a heavy heart gave up her treasures. Her memories of her beloved Mama were so strong, she wouldn’t need dainties to remind her.

  Finally, the tiny rooms were empty of all but her lightly packed valise, the heavy coat she intended to wear, and, of course, her sturdy shoes. “See now, that warn’t so bad,” Margaret consoled. “When yer out there in the Heavenly City, you won’t miss none of these things.”

  Ingrid looked around the empty rooms. Strangely, they didn’t seem empty. They were filled with hopes and dreams for the future, dreams of the wonderful life she and Brother Rasmussen were going to build in Zion.

  Days grew into weeks at the Jorgensens’, and Ingrid found herself becoming more and more fond of the couple. She and Margaret were becoming good friends, and Lars, despite his horribly crippled body, managed to inject good humor into daily burdens. Even so, Ingrid often sensed a sadness in Margaret, a sudden sag of the shoulders, perhaps a tear hastily wiped away.

  The apartment, even tinier and poorer than the one she had left, was immaculately clean. Ingrid helped all she could, trying not to be a burden, but there wasn’t a whole lot to do in the cramped quarters. They spent much time discussing Zion, studying the Book of Mormon, and talking about the future.

  Brother and Sister Ahmanson came by often to instruct Ingrid in the religion of the Mormons. Brother Ahmanson told her he had accepted the faith when the first Americans came to Copenhagen in 1850 and later was jailed in Norway for adhering to the new religion. Ingrid was struck by his extraordinary knowledge of the Bible, and his life and conduct seemed to conform very closely to the doctrines he taught.

  On Sundays, she attended the Mormon services in the Hotel Scandinavia that was on the corner of King Street and King’s New Market. Margaret told her the church had been a Baptist congregation, but the entire group was converted to the new faith by Apostle Erastus Snow and his fellow missionaries. At the start, Ingrid was taken by the friendliness and family spirit of the little church and its members. It felt so good to belong to something, to somebody.

  Occasionally, when a strange new teaching would come from the speaker, Ingrid shuddered. I wish I had learned my catechism better, she often thought. While she didn’t know her Bible that well, some of the things she heard stirred nagging doubts. This was especially when Brother Van Cott preached, “The true Christian church died out under the persecutions of the first centuries. The later church is an apostate, the harlot spoken of in Revelation 17!”

  A harlot church? Were her parents and Pastor Jensen part of something so evil? It couldn’t be.

  “Look around you,” Van Cott continued. “Ever since religious freedom was granted here in Denmark, hundreds of little sects have sprung up, all of them saying they’ve got the truth.” He paused for effect. “Is this the one faith, one baptism, one God, the Father of all? No!” he shouted triumphantly. “Only the Latter Day Saints have the restored gospel, the restored church of Jesus Christ. Every other church is bound for Hell!”

  Ingrid shivered, her mind in a whirl. Who was telling the truth? These men were far too educated to be caught in a deception; they had personally known the Prophet Joseph Smith; all these events to which they gave testimony had happened in America, an enlightened country. Surely they couldn’t be wrong. But what of Mama and Papa? Had they been deceived by a false teaching?

  Brother Ahmanson had an answer for all her doubts. “I once wondered some of these things, myself,” he told her. “Then I reasoned, for what purpose would these men forsake their house and home, their wives and children, in order to devote themselves to foreign and remote portions of the earth and proclaim the gospel without any kind of remuneration? They must have the truth. And so I believed.”

  He took her hand reassuringly. “As for your Ma and Pa, Heavenly Father has made a way for them, as well. At the Endowment House in Zion, you will be given certain spiritual gifts that can only be received there. We can only come to the full depths of Mormon blessings when we reach Zion, where the prophet of the Lord is.”

  Ingrid found her spirits greatly lifted after her talk with Brother Ahmanson, and many of her doubts were put to rest. She would set her face toward Zion, not looking back. There, in the place of refuge for the Saints, she would receive her spiritual gifts and have better understanding.

  There was one thing she would definitely take with her to Zion. That was Mama’s Bible, the one “fancy” she could not do without. Any problem she had ever faced while growing up was always met with the same response from Mama, “Let’s see what the Good Lord says about it.”

  Now Ingrid was reading not only the “Good Lord’s Book,” but the new scriptures as well. “Too bad yer Ma didn’t know about the Book of Mormon,” Margaret mentioned one day as they sat discussing scripture together. “So’s she could be in the Celestial Kingdom now.”

  That thought hadn’t crossed Ingrid’s mind. Mama was a good person, one who read her Bible, believed in the Good Lord and his Book, and attended church faithfully, even if it had been the wrong church. If anyone was in Heaven, it was Mama.

  Margaret rambled on. “But Heavenly Father has made a way for them that didn’t get a chance to hear the restored gospel, so’s they won’t have to stay in Spirit Prison forever.”

  “Spirit Prison?” Ingrid shuddered. “You think Mama’s in Spirit Prison?”

  Margaret nodded. “That’s where everybody goes when they die, ‘cepting the Saints. They stay there ‘til the
Prophet Joseph Smith lets ‘em into the Kingdom.” She stopped, noting the look of utter dismay on Ingrid’s face.

  Margaret reached out and patted her hand in a comforting gesture. “But never you mind. As soon as you get to Zion, you can do yer Ma and Pa’s endowment work and release them from Spirit Prison.” Endowment work? Was this one of the blessings Brother Ahmanson had referred to?

  Ingrid pushed yet another doubt about her new-found religion to the back of her mind. Surely such good, kind people wouldn’t lead her astray.

  Now she had one more very important reason for hurrying to Salt Lake. The sooner she got to Zion, the sooner Mama and Papa could be released from Spirit Prison. Maybe that’s why God was letting all these good things come her way, so she could get to Zion and rescue Mama and Papa!

  “Think of it,” Margaret comforted. “You’ll be a savior on Mt. Zion for yer own Ma and Pa!”

  A phrase from her catechism flashed across her mind, unbidden. “Jesus is the only Savior.” There had to be an explanation for the seeming contradiction; she would remember to ask Brother Rasmussen about it when she arrived in Salt Lake.

  The next day’s mail brought the promise of Salt Lake much closer. In a short letter, Brother Rasmussen assured her of his prayers and sent instructions about the emigrant ship that was to leave Copenhagen for Liverpool in a fortnight.

  Ingrid fairly danced with excitement. “Oh, Margaret, how I wish you and Lars were coming!” She hugged her friend tight, stepping back suddenly when she felt, rather than heard, Margaret’s sob.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ingrid cried. “I was so caught up in my own happiness, I forgot that you can’t come.”

  Margaret’s body heaved with deep, heartbreaking sobs. “‘Tis not that,” she managed to say between sobs. “But I miss my wee ones so – how I would love to be agoing with you so I could see them again.”

  “You mean you and Lars have children in the Promised Land?” Ingrid fairly whispered it, trying to absorb this new information.

  “Three.” Margaret raised her head and wiped her eyes, almost defensively. “When we first heard the Gospel, Lars and I knew we could never go to Zion, but we wanted the children to have the opportunity to go. We knew we couldn’t give them anything but this.” Her glance swung around the pathetic little room.

  “So when the missionaries offered to take them to America and have one of the Saints adopt them, we let them go. It was ten years ago, but the hurt never goes away.”

  Ingrid hugged her friend, trying to allay some of the misery. “How old were they when they left?”

  “Ammie, my precious little Ammie, was four. The boys were three and two. Oh, it was a hard day, with them crying and clutching us, begging not to go with the strangers.” She stopped and pointed to her heart. “It always hurts so bad here,” then she pointed to her head, “but I know it was right to give them the chance.”

  “I’m sure you did the right thing,” Ingrid said. “They’re probably growing big and strong and happy over there.”

  Margaret brightened. “I know they are. From time to time, we get a letter or word from the missionaries. A few years ago, we got a letter from our Ammie. She was in the beautiful city of Nauvoo, with fancy brick houses and a gleaming white Temple. She sounded very happy, ‘cept she missed her brothers. The family who adopted them moved to some place called Iowa. I sorta hoped they could all be together, but it must’ve been too much for one family to take them all in.”

  Margaret suddenly stopped talking and walked over to a small chest. She lifted out a gold locket, holding it as if it were the king’s jewels. Bringing it to Ingrid, she hesitated, then handed it to her.

  “Will you give this to my Ammie when you get to Zion?” she begged. “Twas my ma’s. See, it has a lock of her hair in it and a tiny picture someone drew of her when she was a girl.”

  Ingrid examined the precious locket. “But how will I know your Ammie? They say Deseret is a very big territory.”

  “She’s nearly 15 now, and she used to look a lot like her Grandmama in the drawing. You just ask around for Ammie Jorgensen until you find her.”

  Ingrid gently fingered the locket, turning it over in her hand. “Why, there’s an inscription on it,” she exclaimed.

  “It says, ‘May God be with you always,” Margaret quoted from memory. “That’s my prayer for you and for my Ammie when you find her.”

  Sensing the older woman’s obvious heartache and longing for her daughter, Ingrid carefully wrapped the locket and put it in her valise. How could she refuse Margaret’s request?

  She hugged the older woman. “Looks like I’m going to be busy in Zion,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to have my Celestial Wedding, save Mama and Papa from Spirit Prison, and find your little Ammie!”

  Chapter 3

  THE DAYS PASSED quickly. The trip to Liverpool was uneventful, except for the sad departure from Copenhagen. Saying goodbye to Margaret and Lars was extremely difficult, almost as hard as it had been laying first Mama and then Papa to rest. The Jorgensens had become like family to her; indeed, the only family she had. Except Brother Rasmussen.

  Thoughts of her new groom helped ease the parting from her homeland. Soon, she was walking up the gangplank of the Enoch Train, the ship that would take her to the Promised Land. March 22, 1856, would stay in her mind forever as the fateful day she actually sailed toward Zion.

  Ingrid’s excitement was at fever pitch, despite the jostling and shoving of hordes of other emigrants, all just as anxious as she was to begin their journey toward hope and happiness. For a moment, she felt a twinge of panic. What if they pushed her over the rail in their eagerness to clamor aboard?

  Brother Shumway, the Mormon missionary who was to be their escort for the trip, suddenly appeared on the upper deck, speaking horn in hand. At the sound of his voice, the jostling stopped and the crowd stood nearly motionless.

  “We have 528 Saints going aboard,” he shouted. “There’s plenty of room for everyone, so let’s begin to act like the Lord’s chosen.” Within a few minutes, he had the emigrants arranged somewhat neatly in orderly companies of 20 and these companies organized into larger groups called wards.

  Ingrid noted that the Danes who had accompanied her from Copenhagen were scattered among the English companies. Her own company was nearly all English. “That’s so you Danes will learn the English language better,” Brother Shumway explained.

  Nevertheless, being surrounded by a babble of strange sounds heightened her homesickness, and her longing for the docks of Copenhagen nearly overshadowed her longing for the Promised Land.

  Life aboard ship didn’t afford the luxury of daydreaming, however. The routine of morning prayers at dawn, a Gospel lesson, ship cleaning details, afternoon testimony and prayer service, and deck dancing at night wearied Ingrid rapidly. At nightfall, she was only too happy to fall exhausted onto her hard pallet, after she had conscientiously read a chapter in Mama’s Bible. Somehow, that helped ease the loneliness.

  She had also gotten into the habit of caressing the locket each night as she placed the Bible alongside it in her small valise. Its inscription, “May God be with you always,” was a special comfort, reminding her of Heavenly Father’s presence.

  The monotony was occasionally broken by a baptismal service, sometimes in a barrel aboard the freighter, sometimes down a rope ladder into the ocean. Neither idea appealed to Ingrid, and she argued with her conscience about her promise to Brother Rasmussen to be baptized aboard ship.

  I’ll tell him I preferred to let him baptize me, she rationalized, silencing her conscience.

  A frightful storm in the Irish Channel made everyone so seasick that not even the Birmingham Band could entice the emigrants on deck for their nightly dance. Not that Ingrid ever joined the dances anyway. Somehow it didn’t seem proper for a new bride to take part in such revelry without her husband being present.

  She spent most evenings frightened and alone, standing at the rail in the cold moonlight, t
he endless long wash of the North Atlantic and the brittle stars and moon her only companions.

  As endless day followed endless day, carrying her farther and farther from home, she began straining her eyes to catch a glimpse of the American shore. One night late in April she was rewarded, the distant lights of Boston flickered, seeming to beckon a welcome.

  Brother Shumway had explained to them that they would put in at the Port of Boston, because all the other ports were assessing a head tax on emigrants. The nine pounds the Perpetual Emigration Fund had advanced for their journey couldn’t be stretched far enough to cover such taxes, he explained.

  Ingrid didn’t care where they landed; she simply wanted to get off the weary ship and onto her new life. She was tired of the meager meals and cramped quarters that made her poverty in Copenhagen seem royal by comparison. As if reading her thoughts, Brother Shumway’s lesson that morning was about the Israelites bound for the Promised Land, craving for the leeks and garlic of the life God had delivered them from.

  “Nobody said the journey to the Promised Land is easy,” he scolded. “We’re the Chosen of the Lord, and we will be tried by fire. Only the faithful who persevere are worthy to live in God’s land.”

  These were new thoughts for Ingrid. Her husband had said nothing about testings and trials. He had made it all sound so wonderful, so simple. With characteristic determination, Ingrid shrugged off the doubts.

  Whatever trials came, she knew she would face them and conquer. She had to. She had work to do in Zion.

  Her determination faltered as she hurried down the gangplank and got her first good look at America. This was the famed America, land of opportunity for the downtrodden and distressed? Crowded rows of narrow houses lined squalid streets, streets that were far dirtier than her neighborhood along the docks in Copenhagen.

  Fishmongers and ware sellers shouted to be heard above the din, the noise and confusion assaulting her senses. “Fresh fish fit for the pan!” or “Shad! Buy any shad?” Their hawking was sometimes interjected by the blowing of a tin horn, shattering Ingrid’s already tense nerves.