by Adell Harvey
Noting the alarmed look on Ingrid’s face, he squared his drooping shoulders and tried to get a tone of optimism in his voice. “Well, maybe it will be a late winter this year.”
They made good time walking across Iowa’s rolling hills. There was plenty of grass for the draft animals that pulled the supply wagon, and a mood of optimism swept through the entourage. Soon they would be joining the Old Mormon Trail in Nebraska, following the north bank of the Platte River.
Ingrid listened to the conversations of her fellow travelers, picking up hopeful comments like… “Maybe we’ll meet up with some of the wagon trains.” “I hear they pound the trail by the hundreds.” “It’d be nice to have company in case the Indians really do attack.”
Anne Marie grew heavier and heavier, and Ingrid had difficulty believing that Andy hadn’t guessed her condition. How could he be so blind? Were all men as dense? Her feet swelled, making her shoes tight and the walking painful. To help ease Anne Marie’s burden, Ingrid took more than her share of turns pulling the cart and often rubbed Anne Marie’s swollen feet and legs at night.
There was no opportunity for privacy, giving Ingrid little chance to attempt to convince Anne Marie to tell Andy the truth. She was tempted to tell him herself, but wasn’t sure how Anne Marie would react. Maybe if she just hinted?
One day when it was Anne Marie’s turn to help pull the cart, Ingrid maneuvered herself into position with Andy, walking along at the front of their company. Now was her chance! “Have you ever noticed how pretty Anne Marie is?” she ventured.
“Yep, she sure is pretty,” Andy replied.
Ingrid tried again. “I wonder why somebody so pretty isn’t married?”
Andy plodded on in silence, and Ingrid felt like stomping her foot in a temper. How could men be so obtuse?
She tried again. “You two are such good friends and get along so well. I sort of thought maybe you’d be the one marrying her.” There, it was out.
Andy shook his head sadly. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. A lot. But I can’t marry her until we get to Salt Lake and get permission from the authorities.”
“You mean from your pa?”
“Probably from Pa. But from the other leaders, too.” He dug his toe into a clod, giving it a kick. “I have to make sure she’s not promised to one of the older men, first.”
Ingrid raised her eyebrows. “How could she be promised to someone else? I happen to know she’s in love with you!”
Andy shrugged. “That’s just the way it is with the Saints. The older men get first choice.”
“Even if the girl loves somebody else?” The idea was incredulous. “That’s… that’s evil… that’s what it is!”
Alarmed by her outburst, Andy drew her aside, waving the rest of the company on past. He pulled her to a grassy swail and explained the Principle. “It’s a hard doctrine for all of us, but it’s God’s truth, and we must accept it. One night before we left Nauvoo, I heard a shouting mob. I rushed to the window and saw Saints running. There were gunshots. Men, women, and children dropped before my eyes.” A sadness spread across his face as he remembered the terrors of his childhood.
“We Saints have been chased and driven out ever since the beginning. We’ve been driven from our homes in the midst of winter; we’ve watched our loved ones die of black canker and worse.” His voice trembled as he continued. “We’ve been through terrible suffering, proven our faith, and now God is rewarding us with the Land of Zion.”
“You look just like your Pa when you talk about the Faith,” Ingrid whispered, noting the same intensity, the same single-hearted devotion Brother Rasmussen had when he spoke of the Saints. “But I still don’t understand… the plural marriages… how does any of this explain the Principle?”
Andy reached down and took her hands in his, his gaze burning into her own. “Many of our men were killed, leaving wives and daughters without a man to protect them. That’s when the Prophet Joseph Smith had a revelation from God telling him to direct our leaders to marry these women and give them a home and protection. It works out well for everyone. It’s our way of life.”
Ingrid shook her head, as if to clear it of all this puzzlement. “Anne Marie needs protection right now,” she argued. “Why can’t you marry her instead of waiting for someone who already has a wife to take her?”
“You just don’t understand,” he muttered, pulling her up from the ground. “We’d better hurry and catch up with the others. It’s not safe to straggle too far behind the group,” he cautioned.
Twenty-five hard days later, the travelers finally reached the tiny town of Florence on the west bank of the Missouri River, the point where the handcart companies joined the regular Mormon Trail. The weary walkers were in high spirits, feeling they had reached a major goal on their journey, a boundary between the territory of the “red men” and that of the “palefaces.” Captain Martin called for a day of rest and scripture reading. Several of the men caught fish for dinner, the first fresh fish Ingrid had eaten since leaving Copenhagen.
She was disappointed to discover they probably would not encounter any wagons on their way. “Most sensible people passed this way at least two months ago,” Andy declared. “We’re not likely to come across anybody else, except maybe a few stragglers who also started late.”
Still a thousand miles away from their goal, Andy and others who were acquainted with the trail once more argued for reason. “We ought to winter here in Florence,” he insisted. “We’ll never make it across the mountains before winter hits.”
Captain Martin gave him a scornful look. “Where’s your faith?” he demanded.
As if to add credence to Martin’s stubborn insistence, that night the oldest son of Apostle Heber Kimball rode into camp and delivered a speech rebuking those of little faith.
“If anyone doesn’t believe, I’ll stuff into his mouth all the snow they would ever get to see on their journey to the valleys!” he boasted.
With Kimball’s pronouncement, every doubt vanished altogether, and Captain Martin declared he would continue the trip until he received orders from Brigham Young himself to desist.
The Saints in Florence presented the company with a few beef cattle to provide meat for the rest of the journey, to be slaughtered as needed. For those who had been living on a daily ration of one pound of wheat flour, two-and-a-half ounces of meat, two ounces of sugar, two ounces of dried apples, and one quarter ounce of coffee or tea, the cattle were a welcome sight, indeed.
The blazing August sun scorched the earth, and the hard-baked clay trail burned into the soles of their shoes. The fair-skinned Anne Marie and Ingrid wore their bonnets constantly to ward off the burning rays, but continued to burn and peel with regularity. Crossing creeks and rivers was a daily event, as were sad farewells to the unfortunate travelers who fell victim to the swirling waters.
As the days wore on, another daily event was the digging of graves for those who had reached the limits of their endurance. One by one they succumbed – Brother Rossin was found dead by the side of the road; Brother Nipras died on his blanket; Brother Sanderson, Sister Sheen – the grave markers left a sad trail behind the marchers.
Sister Mayer, Sister Prator, and Brother Card, the three others assigned to the cart with Ingrid and Anne Marie, all fell by the wayside, leaving the two girls to struggle alone with the heavy cart. Andy helped when he could, but much of his time was spent in guard and scout duties.
In addition to those who died from sheer exhaustion, there were the others who met sad fates. Brother Henry Walker was struck by lightening while walking in the middle of the handcart train, and Brother Stoddard was killed after being bit by a rattlesnake near the side of the trail.
One of the saddest scenes etched its memory deep into Ingrid’s heart when she saw a young mother whose two-year-old toddler had been run over by a supply wagon knelt by his grave, screaming in anguish. “Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Zion was for you! And now you’ll never see it.” Her tears pud
dled onto the dusty grave where the tiny body lay.
Her husband, his own face twisted in pain, took her by the arm. “Come along. Little Johnny will rest in peace and not be disturbed by wolves. Be thankful we had the dry-goods box to bury him in.”
Ingrid watched in awe as Andy, seeming wise beyond his years, approached the grieving couple. Placing his arms around their shoulders, he reminded them, “Johnny is a Chosen Spirit, one who was so good in the pre-existence he doesn’t have to serve his mortal probation. He will see the Lord’s own Zion. And you will get to raise him to manhood in the Celestial Kingdom. The Lord has promised it.”
His words brought comfort to the parents, but wonderment to Ingrid. Was all this true? Were some spirits more worthy than others?
Death and despair accompanied the party daily now. There was no energy for the dances that had lifted spirits on the Enoch train and at Iowa City. The walkers fell onto the hard ground at night, utterly exhausted, barely enough strength left to wrap their meager blankets around their dehydrated bodies.
The land seemed fertile, but because of a prairie fire that had swept across the plain, there was no grass for the oxen or the few remaining head of beef. Finally, the scrawny beef were killed and eaten, filling hungry stomachs for a time.
Deseret, the land God had promised to his anointed, seemed very far away indeed. One pound of flour per person was rationed each day, only rarely supplemented by small game or birds the men managed to shoot. If we truly are God’s chosen, Ingrid pondered, he sure doesn’t show us much concern.
The church leaders continually preached about the wonders of the Promised Land, the hardships the Saints must endure to prove their faith and be worthy to live in Deseret, and even chided them for faltering. Ingrid figured they were preaching to buoy the sagging spirits of the Saints, but it didn’t seem to be working very well.
On rare occasions, the company met travelers headed east, a few friendly Indians, or a detachment of soldiers. Just outside of Fort Kearney, they came across burned-out wagons, still smoldering. Ingrid became physically ill as she saw the charred corpses of two men and a child.
“Awful sight, isn’t it?”
Ingrid turned with a start when someone touched her arm. Intense astonishment touched her pale face as she noticed for the first time the two soldiers standing near her.
The one who had spoken held out his hand. “Permit me to introduce ourselves. I’m Major Kenneth Crawford, and this is Lieutenant Luther Horne. In light of this incident,” his eyes swept over the burning wreckage, “we’ve been assigned to escort your train as far as Fort Laramie.”
The tenderness in his expression amazed her, inviting friendship. She studied his face, as if deciding whether or not he could be trusted. What she saw was a face bronzed by wind and sun, compelling blue eyes, and an inherent strength in the set of his shoulders.
Ingrid returned his handclasp, a relieved smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “I’m pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”
Captain Martin wasn’t as happy to meet the new arrivals. “We know the U.S. Army is out to destroy Deseret. These men are probably spies for the Army.”
This time Andy’s good sense won the argument. “Spies or not, I say we need protection. Just look at what those redskins did to Secretary Babbitt’s party.” Andy didn’t need to say more as the scene made his case.
Earlier, they had been overtaken by Secretary Babbitt, who was returning to Salt Lake after a visit to Washington. He hadn’t been concerned for safety, having traveled the trail several times. After a short stay with the handcart train, he had set off at a gallop, relying on hardy, light-footed mules and his own experience, planning to catch up to his party. And now, to be viewed in horror by the travelers, was the burned carriage of his baggage carriers. The fate of Utah’s territorial secretary could only be guessed at.
The soldiers’ presence became an accepted part of the journey, and Ingrid found herself enjoying their company. Major Crawford seemed to seek her out, helping pull the handcart over particularly rough terrain, acting as a well-informed trail guide. Frequently, he shared his cavalry rations with her, supplementing the meager meals the emigrants were allotted. Just as frequently, Ingrid slipped a tasty tidbit into her apron pocket to give to Anne Marie later.
At first, Anne Marie protested. “Ingrid, you shouldn’t be so friendly with those Gentiles,” she warned. “They’re not to be trusted.” Munching on a delicious tea biscuit Ingrid had brought from Major Crawford, she added, “Truth be told, it makes me feel guilty, having these extra nibbles while the rest are always hungry. Maybe we shouldn’t … ”
“Pshaw!” Ingrid hushed her. “We need to keep up our strength to help the others. Besides, who are we to question? Maybe Major Crawford is a special messenger from Heavenly Father to help us.”
Not quite convinced, Anne Marie mumbled, “And maybe he’s a humbug from the Devil to snatch our souls.”
Ingrid laughed. “I don’t think so. Nobody from Satan could be so nice!”
Trudging across the trail one dreary day after another, Ingrid began to believe Major Crawford was, indeed, a heaven-sent helper. His stories of earlier Oregon trail travelers entertained and helped pass many a weary mile. Almost daily he pointed out one historical place after another.
His voice was velvet-edged and smooth, with a rich resonant timbre. Ingrid felt she could listen to him speak forever without becoming bored. “You should be a history teacher or preacher or something,” she teased, failing to note the look of caution that flickered momentarily in his eyes.
One morning shortly after the company broke camp, Major Crawford rode up to Ingrid and Anne Marie. Ceremoniously he handed each of them a bouquet of gorgeous wildflowers. “May these brighten your journey,” he bantered gallantly.
“Oh, they’re beautiful!” Anne Marie exclaimed. “Wherever did you get them?”
“Up ahead a piece. There’s fields full of them – ironweed, sunflowers, dotted gay-feathers, pink smartweed, and asters. You two will love them.”
Ingrid was speechless. Never before had anyone given her flowers. Finally finding her voice, she said with a mock curtsy, “Thank you m’Lord.” Attempting to return his banter, she added, “You know so much about flowers, you must surely be a botanist.”
Major Crawford dismounted. He walked alongside Ingrid, leading his horse. The laughter had left his voice, leaving all seriousness. “I have studied botany. And history. And a great many other things.”
Ingrid tried to put all the pieces of this intriguing man together. “Why the cavalry uniform then?”
“I’m not entirely certain.” There was a faint tremor in his voice as though some emotion had deeply touched him. “When I finished at the university, I didn’t know what lay ahead. But when Lieutenant Horne told me about his sister and all the mess going on out in Utah, the Army seemed to be the place I could help most.”
Ingrid pondered this information. “You knew Lieutenant Horne before?”
“Best friends all our lives. We enlisted together, but because of my degree, I received a higher rank.” He laughed. “Actually, he’s a much smarter and better soldier than I am.”
A nagging question persisted. “You mentioned Lieutenant Horne’s sister and the mess in Utah. Is she a Mormon?”
“Yes, she joined the Mormons.” His reply, though quiet, had a sad, hollow quality, tinged with hurt. “Amelia married a Mormon back in Illinois while I was away at school.”
Something clicked in her brain, triggering a blunt statement. “You were in love with her, weren’t you?”
Pain flickered in his eyes, but only for a moment. “You ask a lot of questions for someone so young. Let’s save the answers for another day.”
He quickly remounted and rode toward the head of the column, leaving behind a dust cloud and a bewildered Ingrid.
The road became increasingly rough and steep, with scarcely any piece of level land in sight. Pulling the cart over the rough terrain left
Ingrid little energy to worry about the soldiers and their problems. Heaven knew, she had enough of her own!
The train of emigrants suddenly came to an abrupt halt. Andy came back to the girls’ handcart. “We’re getting ready to head down a steep hill. It’s a mean one, so make sure everything’s tied up tight on your cart.”
Ingrid watched as the men with the supply wagons rough-locked the wheels, tying huge timbers to the axles to act as brakes. She held her breath as the first wagon began its descent, certain the wagon would tip over on the tongue yoke of cattle.
“This is a tough one. Better let me and Lieutenant Horne help.” Ingrid turned at the sound of the now-familiar voice, thankful her guardian angel was back on the job. Major Crawford picked up the cart handle while Lieutenant Horne balanced the duffle. “You ladies walk behind us, very slowly and very carefully,” he ordered, sounding very much the military officer.
His voice softened and the laugh lines around his eyes crinkled. “Can’t have our lady friends rolling head over heels down this hill, can we? On second thought, maybe rolling down this hill would be the easiest way to go,” he added.
Ingrid laughed out loud, the first real laugh she had enjoyed for weeks. “My aching feet and legs would probably welcome a good roll,” she agreed.
“The hollow is worth the trip,” Major Crawford assured them. “You’ll get to rest there.”
The hollow was all that Major Crawford had promised and more. On the banks of the North Platte River, its abundant water and trees offered a welcome oasis to the plains-weary travelers. Captain Martin decided the company would camp there through Sunday, giving the animals and walkers a much-needed opportunity for rest.
Major Crawford spent much of his time telling Ingrid about the area, fascinating her with his knowledge. “Over there, across the river, is where the Oregon travelers come down Windlass Hill into Ash Hollow,” he explained, pointing out the wagon ruts on the steep hill. “The hill we came down was nothing compared to that one!”
