The Locket: Escape from Deseret Book One

by Adell Harvey

  Ingrid was instantly alert. “Bleeding? Is the baby coming?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He’s not supposed to get here for another month. But why am I bleeding?”

  “I don’t know much about these things. But it’s probably because of pulling this heavy cart. I’m going to ask Andy to let you ride in the wagon, and I’ll pull the cart by myself.”

  Rushing back to where Andy was loading the few remaining supplies into the wagon, Ingrid told him of Anne Marie’s plight. “You’ve got to make room for her in the wagon,” she insisted.

  Andy’s eyes clouded with dismay. “Believe me, I want to help her more than anything. But Captain Martin says nobody is to ride. It would be a betrayal of their faith.”

  “Betrayal of their faith?” Ingrid voice fairly screamed the words. “What kind of faith would make someone in Anne Marie’s condition undergo more suffering? I thought you loved her. ”

  As if holding his raw emotion in check, Andy murmured, “I do love her. But we must obey our leaders. It’s God’s way, and God knows best what is good for us.”

  “God?” Ingrid fairly spat the word. “You people know nothing about God! God is a loving heavenly father who would never cause such heartache. You’ve been duped by lies!”

  Andy grabbed her arm. “You’re in grave danger of apostasy. You’d best do some serious thinking about it.” His voice, absolutely emotionless, chilled her.

  “I’d best get back to Anne Marie,” she mumbled, breaking away from him.

  She found Anne Marie crumpled in a heap next to the cart, sobbing. “I’m so afraid, Ingrid. I thought I’d have my wee one in the Promised Land, and now it looks like I might lose him.”

  Ingrid bent beside her friend, trying to bring what small comfort she could. “We’ll figure something out. You’re not going to lose this little one, I promise. Maybe Captain Martin will let both of us stay at the fort till next spring under the circumstances, if we promise to come on to Salt Lake with the very first wagon train that shows up here.”

  Those hopes were dashed to pieces, however, when she approached the formidable Captain Martin. “Stay in Fort Laramie just because she’s having a baby? Lots of women have babies. And next you’ll be begging me to let everyone who has a cramp in his toe to stay here.” He frowned at her in disgust. “Brother Brigham gave me orders to bring this handcart train through, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  Ingrid had never felt more frustrated in her life. It took all her willpower to keep from reaching out and slapping the hateful look off the captain’s face. How could he be so insensitive, so uncaring? Was he an example of the other Mormon men she would encounter in Salt Lake? The image of brood mares and cows swept once again across her mind. The sooner she got away from these people, the better.

  She returned to Anne Marie, her step forlorn and hopeless. “He says we can’t stay here, but do we have to obey him? Let’s find Major Crawford and stay in the fort anyway.”

  Anne Marie looked up at her through tear-drenched, frightened eyes. “You… you can’t be serious. To disobey is to be killed. They wouldn’t give a second thought to slitting our throats. We don’t dare chance it.”

  “But you can’t go on,” Ingrid argued. “You’re not in any shape to travel, and Andy won’t help us.” Lowering her voice, she added, “I’ve already made up my mind to stay here with Major Crawford’s help. Please come with me.”

  “It’s not the same for you. You’ve never really been a polygamous wife, and you don’t have a baby to think about. But I can’t! I simply can’t!” Her voice was filled with despair and hopelessness. “I’ll make it somehow.”

  “But if I leave, who will take care of you? Look around – everybody we know is sick or dying, and I’m about the only strong person left who could help you.”

  “Andy’s here. He’ll look after me.”

  “In a pig’s eye! He’ll do whatever the leaders tell him, he’s that sotted with his belief in the prophet.”

  Anne Marie stood up, resolution flashing from her eyes. “Then it’s just up to me to make it on my own, isn’t it? Let’s go.”

  Slowly they followed the processional, Ingrid pulling the cart, encouraging Anne Marie to take her time and rest often. Trudging past the gates to Fort Laramie, she cast a wistful eye in the direction of Major Crawford’s barracks. There lay hope, a chance for freedom and safety. Ahead lay more despair, virtual slavery, and a bleak future.

  A dust cloud near the head of the procession signaled the approach of soldiers, and Ingrid’s heart leapt. The entire group halted for a time, then the bugle to move on sounded. What was going on up there?

  She didn’t have to wait long for the answer. Major Crawford rode up, accompanied by an Army patrol. “We tried to talk some sense into your leader,” he told her. “It’s plain foolhardy to set out across those mountains now that winter’s approaching. But he won’t listen to reason.”

  He dismounted his horse and spoke privately to Ingrid. “If you still want to leave, just mount up here on my horse, and I’ll take you back to the fort. They’re not likely to try anything stupid with the Army here.”

  Freedom at last! Ingrid glanced at Anne Marie, her eyes begging her to come along. Anne Marie shook her head, her face contorted in pain. “I can’t,” she murmured. “I just can’t.”

  A war of emotions raging within her, Ingrid made up her mind. “I’m sorry, I’ve decided to stay with the train. I’ve got to be here to help Anne Marie when she delivers her little one.” She nearly choked on the words, all hope of escape fleeting.

  Major Crawford drew back in utter shock. “You’re going to stay?”

  “I have to. She has no one else, and her time’s nearly here.”

  A strange mixture of admiration and despair crossed his face. “If you insist on doing this, will you promise me you’ll talk to Old Jim Bridger when you get to Fort Bridger? The Mormons stole the fort from him a couple of years ago, but I’ve heard he’s holed up there for the winter. He hates Brigham with a passion and has helped several people escape Deseret. And whatever you do, don’t go into Salt Lake! Understand?”

  She nodded, her emotions numb. “And here,” he held out his warm wool saddle blanket. “Take this. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  She watched him leave, her heart heavy with despair. As he became little more than a speck on the landscape in the distance, all of her loneliness and confusion welded together in a great upsurge of devouring yearning. Would to God she could have gone with him!

  Chapter 10

  MANY TIMES AFTER leaving the safety of Fort Laramie, Ingrid regretted her hasty decision to continue on the trek. The harder the way became, the less strength she had to get over her decision. The more her body clamored for food and warmth, the less of these there were.

  Huddled together with Anne Marie under the saddle blanket each night, Ingrid tried to keep their spirits up, playing what she called the “Thankful game.”

  “I’m thankful for this blanket Major Crawford gave us,” she began. “Think how cold we’d be without it.”

  Anne Marie, growing weaker each day, managed a smile. “I reckon I’m thankful the bleeding stopped. And I’m thankful we’re still alive.”

  Ingrid nodded in agreement. “Must be someone up there is still looking after us.” Both girls tried to avert their eyes from the now-familiar sight and sound of the pit diggers. With so many dying daily, the pit digging became a nightly ritual. Living skeletons who could barely wield the pick dug a pit just large enough to place the dead bodies in, then threw on a shallow covering of dirt.

  Many who dug the grave one night fully expected to be placed in their own grave by the next evening. As one of the diggers stumbled past where the girls were huddled, Ingrid heard him murmur, “Would to God that my spirit might leave this frame of bones for a berth among the blessed.”

  A small wagon train caught up with the handcart company just as they reached the last crossing of t
he Platte River. A man climbed from the wagon and introduced himself. “We’re the Pay family, just emigrated from England this spring. This here’s my wife and six young’uns.”

  Any hope that the newly arrived wagons would bring provisions was dashed when the women and children came from behind the jagged canvas of the wagon cover. A girl, who looked to be about thirteen years old, had both legs and feet frozen, and the mother was so emaciated it was unlikely she would live through the night.

  “We’ve fallen on hard times,” Mr. Pay explained. “Daughter here got lost, and by time we found her in the ice and snow, her limbs were frozen. We’ll have to amputate when we reach Salt Lake.” He hung his head numbly. “And my wife gave birth back on September 23. The little one died for want of nourishment. We thinned our flour down into skilly, and even that thin gruel has run out. We’ve been without water or food for several days now.”

  Ingrid’s heart went out to the family, but there was little anyone could do to help them. Even Captain Martin showed an unexpected kindness, offering to allow the family to travel with his company. “But we don’t have anything to share,” he cautioned. “If we remain faithful, God will bring us through.”

  Ingrid shuddered. It seemed everything revolved around remaining faithful. But how could anyone remain faithful to a religion so harsh and cruel?

  On October 19, at the last crossing of the Platte, winter hit with a fury. Great lumps of ice floated down the river, and the wind was bitter cold. Men who were still able-bodied enough to carry more than their own skeletal frame tried to lift women and children across. Andy, who was in better physical condition than anyone else, carried Anne Marie across the swirling stream, a fact that restored him a bit in Ingrid’s good graces.

  Ingrid herself, impatient and unwilling to be carried, hiked up her skirt and plunged into the icy water, holding the saddle blanket high above her head as she fought to maintain her balance in the fast-moving current. Hopes for a warming fire on the other side were dashed when a blizzard struck with sudden fury almost as soon as they reached the opposite bank.

  “Hurry on!” Captain Martin barked in all directions. “There’s no time to stop now!”

  The wintry winds blowing against their wet clothing, the keen frost, and piercing cold freezing the breath from their nostrils made their earlier sufferings seem minor by comparison. Ingrid ruefully remembered the blankets, great coats, and heavy items they had tossed aside in their desperate need to get over the bluffs that hot summer day. Why had they been so short-sighted? Why hadn’t their leaders, who were supposed to get direct revelations from God, warned them of what was to come?

  Dropping with fatigue and exposure, the motley party struggled on through the snow. The next morning there were fourteen more dead in the camp. Men died sitting up by inadequate fires; men, women, and children lay down under their ragged blankets and never rose again.

  The leaders called for prayers each night and insisted on making everyone sing “Come, Come, Ye Saints, No Toil Nor Labor Fear.” Mentally, Ingrid plugged her ears. Singing songs of Zion did not make her any warmer nor relieve the suffering of the travelers.

  The snow nearly stopped them completely when they left the Platte for the Sweetwater. Twelve to eighteen inches of fresh snow made walking nigh impossible. Their shoes used up, many suffered frostbite and were forced to plunge forward on frozen feet.

  Ingrid stopped frequently, vigorously rubbing Anne Marie’s feet and hands with snow, trying to keep the blood circulating. Her friend’s condition was becoming so desperate, Ingrid feared for her very life.

  Finally, the order came down to stop and pitch tents. With only two shovels for the entire camp, the hapless women tried to shovel out a place for their tents with frying pans and tin plates.

  Ingrid’s hands were so numb with cold, she couldn’t hold onto the ax long enough to drive tent pegs into the ground. Missing the pegs, she splintered them. In desperation, she dug the broken pegs from the frozen earth, then groped in the snow for splinters to get the ropes tied down somehow, anything to get shelter from this bitter wind.

  She watched helplessly as Anne Marie, whimpering and dog-tired, begged, “Just let me lie down and let the cold take me. I’m too tired to go on.”

  The situation was far too desperate for even the “Thankful game” to bring encouragement. Cuddling Anne Marie to her breast in childlike fashion, Ingrid wrapped them both in the saddle blanket and began talking about Copenhagen. Maybe keeping her mind occupied would keep her alive.

  “I know you were too little when you left Denmark to remember it,” she began. “But you’re a Dane at heart, so you need to know how beautiful Copenhagen is.”

  Anne Marie stirred, and even that bit of interest encouraged Ingrid to continue. “You should see Rosenborg Palace – it’s a veritable treasure! It’s a real castle, built of red brick and sandstone, with turrets that stretch far into the sky!” She spoke on and on, telling Anne Marie about Denmark’s crown jewels housed in the palace, the Venetian glass designed for Frederick IV in the 1700s, the regal dinnerware made in the Royal Copenhagen porcelain factories, the throne made from narwhal tusk. “I’ll never forget the day my Ma and Pa took me to see the castle,” she added. “I’m glad it’s open so all of us can enjoy it instead of just some queen and king!”

  “Maybe my wee one will get to see it someday,” Anne Marie said, her voice wistful, but feeble.

  “He will,” Ingrid encouraged. “We’re going to get through this somehow, and give that little one a good start in life.”

  Three days later, after seemingly endless days and nights of howling winds and blinding snow, Ingrid wondered about her earlier bravado. Camped at the Sweetwater Bridge, just five miles from Devil’s Gate, and still 300 miles from Salt Lake, the company gave up hope. Their limbs began to freeze, turning their fingers and toes black. The snow was strewn with bodies of dispirited travelers who simply pined away and died.

  Others, at the point of starvation, gnawed the flesh off their own arms, ate hide remaining from the dead draft animals, or resorted to feeding upon what was left of their shoe leather. Those who had any strength left dug frantically through the deep snow to find straggly willow branches with which to build pitiful fires.

  This was hardly the “land flowing with milk and honey” that Brother Rasmussen had promised her. Calling on all her resources, Ingrid decided it would be more productive to vent her anger on those who were responsible rather than just panicking or giving up and dying. She still had Anne Marie’s welfare to consider.

  Anger was not a hard emotion for her to muster. She cursed Brother Rasmussen for his lies; she cursed Andy for his faithful but misplaced loyalty; most of all, she cursed the prophet Brigham Young who had devised this wickedness.

  Just the thought of him sent a shudder quivering through her. The lives he’s destroyed, the blood he has shed, the victims lying frozen here because of his stupidity and greed – I hope he rots in Hell forever! The force of her anger sent the blood coursing hotly through her veins, warming her.

  She would show them all. It was not for her to die like an animal out here in the middle of nothingness! Her angry thoughts were interrupted by Anne Marie’s low moan. “It’s time,” she cried. “My baby’s coming!”

  Instantly alert now, Ingrid yelled for Andy. “Come quick! We’ve got to do something!”

  Looking around the flimsy shelter of the ragged tent, Ingrid made a quick decision. “She can’t have the baby here. It’ll freeze to death. We’ve got to get her to that old mail station you told us about. Can you find it in this snow?”

  Andy sheltered his eyes with his hand, brushing the swirling snow away as he did so. “I think we can find it. It isn’t far, just atop that little rise.” Together, they lay Anne Marie on the saddle blanket, wrapped it around her as much as they could, and carried her up the low hill. Step after weary step, Ingrid prayed, Please, help us find the cabin. We’ve got to find the cabin!

  Almost as if by mir
acle, they stumbled into the stockade and mail station. A few survivors were already there, huddled together for what warmth they could extract from their bodies. Their eyes bleak, their frames reduced to nothing but skin stretched tautly against bones, Ingrid knew they would be of little help in the birthing process.

  It was clear that Anne Marie couldn’t hold back much longer. There was no time to build a fire, even if wood could be found. Andy and Ingrid lay her on a stack of musty mailbags they found in a corner of the room, neither knowing exactly what to do. Nature soon took its course, however, and amidst a torrent of blood, a tiny baby made its appearance.

  “I think you’re supposed to tie off the cord and slap the baby on the back,” Andy said. “I saw Pa’s wives do that a couple of times.”

  Ingrid winced at the mention of her fellow-wives but wasted no time on what-might-be’s. She tied the cord and smiled hugely when the slight slap on the baby’s behind produced the desired wails.

  “Got good lungs for a little girl, ain’t she?” Andy exclaimed, a look of utter relief brightening his eyes.

  Tearing off her underskirt, Ingrid cleaned the baby as best she could, then tended to Anne Marie, who was flooded with a warm wetness. Ingrid gasped, her eyes wide with terror as she saw the blood soaking into Anne Marie’s skirts. The new mother’s eyes drifted shut; she made no sound or movement. “Is this much bleeding normal?” Ingrid whispered to Andy.

  His brows came together in a worried frown. “I don’t know. But it don’t look good, does it?”

  She attempted to still the bleeding with the underskirt, when a feeble voice came from the other side of the room. “Pack some snow in it. Cold will stop the bleeding.”

  Hurriedly, she packed the bloody skirt with snow and placed it on Anne Marie, who had begun to stir. Ingrid placed the baby gently beside her mother, snuggling both of them under the saddle blanket.