Sophie's Journey - Chapter 37 - The Silence of Heaven

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 37

The Silence of Heaven

The first snowflakes fell gently, and no one seemed to notice them. The river crossing had been exhausting, and the Saints were trying to regroup. As dusk fell, the flakes thickened, and the wind picked up. It swept over the frozen ground, erasing tracks and hiding the hills. The cold pressed in around the camp.

Sophie crouched over her children, pulling the ashen blanket higher over Anne’s chin. Otto’s cough resounded through the tent. The last of the flour had gone with breakfast—a thin glue, not even a taste. Anne’s lips were blue.

Wind battered the canvas overhead. Snow blew in through the seams. Sophie came closer to the children. Her skin was numb and burning. She no longer shivered. The cold sat inside her just like a lead blanket.

A shout split the blizzard. Then muffled hoofbeats thudded past the tent. More shouting, floating on the wind: “They’re here! Scouts from Zion!”

She hesitated momentarily, then lifted Anne’s head from her lap and crawled to the tent flap. The camp was white with snow. People moved in the storm, huddled shapes staggering toward the noise. Sophie followed, holding Otto’s hand. Anne and Emma trailed behind.

Near the center of camp, three men on horses stood ringed by the desperate. One, a youth with a raw red beard, raised both hands. “Captain Grant’s wagons are at the ridge. Two days out. Flour. Blankets. Help.”

A woman screamed. Someone smiled, then wept. Sophie watched the faces: frozen, starved, suddenly brightening as coals catching wind. Peder Mortenson coughed and said. “Storytelling. No one’s coming.”

But Sophie sensed it in her heart. Hope hurt more than hunger.

The scouts handed out what they could: hard bits of bread. Sophie broke the bread into four pieces. She gave one to Anne, who sucked on it until it softened, then swallowed. Otto stared, eyes glaring, then took his piece from her hand. She gave a piece to Emma. She held out the last piece to Peter. He did not take it. He looked at her hand, then at her face.

"Eat it," she said.

"You."

"I ate."

"You didn't." He didn't raise his volume. He never did anymore. "I saw you divide it into four pieces.

Sophie kept her arm extended. The chill penetrated her wool sleeve. "You need it."

"So do you." Peter pushed her hand back toward her chest, gently, the way a man handles something fragile. His fingers were red and cracked, the nails black with frost.

"Peter."

"I'm not a child." His words sat between them, heavier than the bread. "Eat it. Or I won't pull tomorrow."

Sophie looked at the scrap in her hand. She thought of the miles behind and the miles ahead. The ridge where the scouts said the wagons waited. Her stomach clenched with hunger.

She broke the piece in two. She put the larger part, small as it was, into Peter's hand. She put the other in her mouth and chewed. She did not taste it.

"Half," she said. "Or we both stop pulling."

Peter held the scrap of bread for a long moment. Then he ate it. They sat in silence, with nothing left to say, as the wind and snow kept blowing.

That night, Sophie lay awake, hearing the wind. In her mind, she saw the ridge and the dark line of rescue wagons crawling closer. She did not pray. She just waited, holding her children close, willing the dawn to come before hope died again.

The night dragged on. By morning, snow weighed down the tent and covered everything outside in white. The wind was quiet, but the cold was worse than anything Sophie had felt before. Emma and Peter hid under the last blankets. Anne lay next to Sophie, shivering and blue-lipped. Otto coughed in his sleep and grasped a piece of flannel.

A foot of snow had fallen overnight, trapping the company in the Sweetwater valley. Hardly anyone moved. Sophie wondered whether anyone could even get up anymore. She knew hunger well now, but hopelessness was worse. The last of the flour was gone. They boiled snow for water, and the children’s lips stuck to the tin cups.

Sophie noticed a stir near the center of camp. Captain James Willie was getting on his horse. His face looked pallid under his hat. Joseph Elder was getting ready to ride with him. Both men moved quickly in the falling snow.

"Captain Willie!" a man shouted, his voice faltering with a desperate, jagged edge. "You can't leave us here! Look at the sky! We’ll be buried here!"

Captain Willie looked at the tired, frostbitten faces around him. The rations were gone. The cattle were dying. Every hour they waited made things worse. If the relief wagons were ahead, he had to find them and bring them back before the storm made it impossible.

"We cannot wait for rescue while the snow buries this valley," Willie said, his quiet voice traveling through the frozen air. "The Salt Lake party is out there, but this storm may have stopped them as surely as it has stopped us. Brother Joseph Elder and I will ride west, find their camp, and bring them here. Keep the fires alive. Care for the children. Stay together. God will not abandon us."

He spurred his horse and rode into the snow. The camp was quiet after he left. Sophie kept looking at the spot where he disappeared. He was in charge of four hundred people, and now he was gone into the storm to find help. 

"He’s left us to die," someone said. Sophie turned and saw Peder Mortenson by his cart, fists held at his sides. He stared at the spot where Willie had gone, then at the children under the blankets. "He’s riding for help while we freeze here. He knows we won’t make it over that ridge, Sophie."

"He's doing what he has to, Peder," Sophie said, though her words felt hollow. "He has to find the wagons. If he doesn't, none of us survive."

Mortenson spat into the snow. The wind covered the spot. "He’s a coward and a fool. He should have listened back in Florence. Now he’s leaving us with this mess. Look at your hands, Sophie. Do you really think you can pull a cart through all this snow?"

Sophie kept her eyes on the handcart's wooden bar. "I’ll pull it as long as I can stand. Then I’ll crawl. You will too. We don’t have any other choice."

Mortenson stood for a moment, then returned to his cart. Sophie watched him leave. She realized hunger and cold were no longer their only problems. The faith that had helped them before was starting to break in the Wyoming winter.

Sophie walked to the small fire where Marianne Lautrup sat, hands in her lap, staring past the flames. Marianne had hardly moved since they crossed the river. Sophie looked for any sign of the woman who used to sing hymns in Denmark, but Marianne seemed far away.

"Marianne, you need to get up," Sophie said, squatting next to her. The air smelled of damp wool and sweat. "The snow is still falling. I need your help with the children."

Marianne looked at her, eyes slowly focusing. "It’s so quiet, Sophie," she said softly. "Back home, snow meant the harvest was over. We could sit by the fire and wait for spring. This isn’t the same. This snow wants to cover us up."

"It’s just weather, Marianne," Sophie said, trying to sound reassuring. "It’s a storm, and storms end. We’ve come too far to stop now. Think about the valley. Think about the house you’ll have. You have to keep going for the children."

Marianne gave a short, rough laugh. "There are no houses here, Sophie—only ice. Only the sky coming down on us. Can’t you feel it? The world is closing its eyes."

Sophie held Marianne’s shoulders. She wanted to shake her and tell her to be strong. But when she saw Marianne’s eyes, she stopped. Marianne had already given up and was waiting for the cold to take her. Sophie felt that same feeling creeping into her.

By afternoon, the coldness had stopped all movement in the camp. This was not like winter in Denmark, where people scurried inside to a warm fire. This cold felt like the end.

Sophie huddled with her freezing children, hearing Captain Willie’s promise repeat in her mind.

“God will not abandon us.”

Captain Willie’s promise now seemed empty. He had ridden into the snow, and when she saw him disappear, something inside her broke. It was not her back, though the handcart had nearly done that, but something inside her chest.

She had told Peder the captain was doing what he had to do, but she knew it wasn't true. Peder’s words stayed with her: He knows we won’t make it.

She wondered if that was the truth. Had they brought their children into a frozen grave, singing hymns to cover up their fear?

Sophie looked at her children. Anne’s lips were blue, and Otto coughed as he clutched his blanket. The flour was gone. The firewood was gone. She had nothing left to give them except promises, and even those felt empty.

In Denmark, the missionaries told her the Lord would prepare the way. They talked about Zion in the valley and beautiful snow-capped mountains. Sophie had believed them. She remembered feeling hope when the Elders talked about the green fields. She truly thought the Lord was leading her across the sea and the plains.

Where was that hand now?

It was not here in the Sweetwater valley. Here, there was only white. The sky did not care that Anne was shivering. The mountain did not care that Otto was sick. The snow kept falling, covering them little by little, while God stayed silent.

Marianne had seen the truth. Sophie tried to say it was just a storm, but Marianne knew better. Sophie was afraid her friend was right. The world was not watching them. Heaven was not helping them with their heavy handcarts.

The day went on. A few men tried to make a path, but the snow covered it, and soon they stopped. Sophie stood by her handcart and watched as the camp disappeared under more snow. Tents bent, wagons faded, and every path was gone. Cold seeped through every hole in the canvas. Nearly four hundred people clustered tightly, shivering in their frozen clothes.

Families crowded under damp blankets on the frozen ground, sharing what little warmth they had. Hungry children cried until they were too tired to cry. Across the valley, the sick coughed. They had eaten the last of the flour the night before, and every adult knew what the quiet meant.

The company no longer moved together. Men who used to walk fifteen miles a day now sat with axes on their knees, too tired to chop firewood. At the edge of camp, the last cattle fell in the snow, and the wind quickly covered them.

As night came, no one knew if Willie had found the relief wagons or was trapped in the storm. One by one, the weakest stopped breathing. Deep snow covered the tents, the handcarts, and everything as far as the eye could see.

Willie’s words came back to her: "God will not abandon us." But Anne’s lips were blue, Otto’s cough was getting worse, and the road west was gone. 

Sophie closed her eyes and tried to pray as she had in Denmark, when prayer felt like a conversation, and she could almost feel the warmth of divine attention. She whispered, “Heavenly Father, bless my children,” but the words fell flat against the canvas, absorbed by the cold like breath into frost. No answer, no comfort, only the relentless whisper of snow against the tent and Anne’s shallow breathing beside her. She thought of the missionaries who had spoken of miracles, of a God who parted seas and sent angels to guide His people, and she searched the white wilderness outside for any sign that He was watching. But the sky remained empty, a gray bowl of indifference pressing down on the valley, and Sophie felt her faith slipping through her fingers like the last rations of flour, leaving her with nothing but the hollow certainty that she was alone.

She had prayed for strength, warmth, food for her children, and for the storm to break, and each unanswered plea now felt like a rebuke. If God saw them, why did He let Otto cough blood into his blanket? If He heard them, why did the snow keep falling? The questions rose in her throat, bitter and blasphemous, and she swallowed them down, afraid that giving them voice would somehow make them true. But the silence had already spoken. It filled the tent, heavier than the snow on the roof, telling her what she did not want to believe: no hand was guiding them through this wilderness, and the only warmth her children would know tonight was the failing heat of her own body.

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Nobody's Perfect

Nobody's Perfect 
by Richard Lawry 

We look beneath the surface
For every scar and stain
We measure one another
And call our judgment faith
We see the cracks and brokenness
And miss the good within
Like somehow we have forgotten
We’re all in need of Him

I’ve got a two by four in my own eye
But I’m looking for your tiny speck
As God's mercy keeps reminding me
I haven’t earned it yet

Nobody’s perfect, but grace is
Nobody’s worthy, but He gives
Love doesn’t turn away
When it sees the scars we carry
Nobody’s perfect, but grace is

We point out every failure
Like we’ve never fallen down
We throw our stones so freely
When forgiveness should be found
But Jesus knows our weakness
Every secret, every scar
And still He chose the cross 
And loved us as we are

Nobody’s perfect, but grace is
Nobody’s worthy, but He gives
Love doesn’t turn away
When it sees the scars we carry
Nobody’s perfect, but grace is

So let me see the good, Lord
Before I see the flaw
Let me give the mercy
You have given me through all
Let me leave the judging
In the hands where it belongs
And spend the time You give me
Learning how to love

Nobody’s perfect, but grace is
Nobody’s worthy, but He gives
Love doesn’t turn away
When it sees the scars we carry
There’s forgiveness for the broken
There is mercy where we’ve been
Nobody’s perfect
Nobody’s perfect
But grace is

If I’m looking for the faults
I can always condemn
So teach my eyes to look for love
And see the best in them
Nobody’s perfect
But grace is
Nobody's perfct
Nobody's perfect
But grace is 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 36 - The Far Bank

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 36

The Far Bank

By mid-October, the trail was identified by loss. At Rock Avenue, the ground rose, rough and cracked. Sophie watched the last supply wagons stop. The oxen were thin and weak. One brindled ox with a white star knelt and did not get up. The sub-captain’s whip cracked in the wind.

“He’s done,” Peder Mortenson said, appearing at Sophie’s side, his hands jammed deep into his pockets. “That’s the third today. When the cattle go, Sophie, we are finished.

Sophie said nothing. She leaned into the pull-bar. Her mood became darker with each animal that fell. 

On the morning of the 15th, the camp was silent. It was not the quiet of sleep, but of sadness. Caroline Reeder was dead. She was seventeen, strong and quick to laugh, a girl who seemed built to survive.

 Sophie had seen her small frame bent under a last load of sagebrush. Her heart had stopped. Sophie did not feel grief, only dread. If the strong were dying, what chance did she and her children have?

Caroline’s father had died two weeks before. In Denmark, they were healthy. Now they were gone, lost to hunger and the late trail. They cut the rations to make the food last. The young paid the price.

"Another one gone," Peter Mortenson said, pulling his cart alongside Sophie’s. His eyes were bloodshot and wild; his voice had a low, vibrating growl. "How many more, Sophie? How many more children do we bury before the captains admit they’ve killed us with their faith?" 

Sophie didn't look at him, her eyes locked on the distant silver line of the Sweetwater River. "It isn't faith killing us, Peter. It’s the time of year and the miles. The captains are doing what they can with what is left. What would you have them do? Give us all the flour at once so we starve a week sooner?"

Peder spat into the dust, a dry, harsh sound. "I would have them listen to Savage. I would have them stay in Florence where there was wood and shelter. But no, they had to gather. They pushed us into the teeth of winter to see if the Lord would provide. Well, look around you, Sophie. Does this look like the Lord providing?"

Sophie strengthened her grip on the pull-bar, the wood biting into the calluses of her hands. "The Lord provides the strength to keep walking. That is all I ask today. If you have only complaints, keep them to yourself. My children do not need to hear your doubt."

Peder laughed and pulled ahead. His cart rattled over the stones. Sophie watched him go. His words voiced the fears she wouldn't speak. Marianne shuffled beside the cart, silent and more withdrawn each day.

The next morning, Sophie woke to frost-covered canvas. She sat on her bedding and fought with frozen bootlaces, stiff as wire. Every joint ached, from her ankles to her back.

Next to her, Peter fidgeted beneath the communal blankets. His eyes looked too large for his sunken face, his skin pale as parchment. 

Sophie pulled the small wooden crate from the cart and set it on the frozen ground. Within lay the last hardtack beside their small flour ration. She measured the portions by sight, dividing what remained.

"We eat now," Sophie said. "And then we pull. We do not eat again until we reach the Sweetwater. Do you understand?"

The children nodded. Even Otto, usually restless, sat with his hands folded, staring at the tin held in his hands. They ate their gruel in silence.

Outside, people loaded carts with care, knowing a mistake could be fatal. Sophie watched Brother Jensen lean against his cart. He had collapsed the day before. His eyes were empty as he stared west. No one prayed, sang hymns, or spoke of Zion.

"Mother, my boots are hurting," Anne whispered, her lip quivering while she looked down at the battered leather. "They feel like rocks."

Sophie sat in the dirt and followed the holes in Anne’s shoes. She saw white skin through the gaps, the flesh turning purple from cold. She remembered talk of boys chewing their shoes because of hunger. She took a scrap of burlap from the cart and wrapped it around Anne’s feet, tying it with twine. Better?" Sophie asked, looking up at her daughter.

Anne nodded, though the worry in her eyes did not fade. "Is there more gruel, Mother? Anything else to eat?"

Sophie’s hand squeezed around the burlap scrap, her throat closing. "No, Anne. Not until the river. Now help Emma with the blankets. We will be moving soon."

The carts rolled on under cold gray overcast skies. The line spread out as the trail climbed toward Pacific Springs. Sophie pulled hard on the handcart. Her shoes slipped on frozen mud. The weight dragged her down.

By midday, the sun broke through the clouds, but it brought no warmth. The children walked with hunched shoulders and bowed heads, watching the ground. Hunger taught them to save their strength and words.

Peter and some boys loitered by the willows and sagebrush. They stripped bark with their fingernails and chewed the bitter green layer. Dirt and sap streaked Peter’s face. Never had Sophie seen such hunger in a child.

"Peter, stop that," Sophie called, though the words sounded hollow and hypocritical. "You’ll make yourself sick. The bark is not for eating."

The boy looked at her, his jaw working as he chewed the tough, fibrous material. "It’s something, Mother. It stops the shaking for a little while. Peder Mortenson says the Indians eat it when the buffalo are gone."

Sophie reached out to touch the tree's bark. She wanted to bite it, to taste anything but dust. She forced her hand back to the pull-bar. The wood was smooth and frosty. They were no longer Saints, only hungry people moving through a land that did not know them.

As they neared the Sweetwater River, the trail dropped through sandy washes and rugged rock. The river spread before them like glass in motion. At the ford, starving oxen sank to their knees in silt, ribs jutting beneath their hides.

Sophie stopped the handcart at the river. Her breath was short and ragged. The water was dark and cold. She stared at it, knowing the danger. She remembered her dream in Denmark of a safe valley. Now it was far away, almost foolish. She wondered if hope had tricked her. Would she ever see Zion?

"We have to cross the river again, Mother?" Emma murmured in a small, terrified whisper. She was clasping her small shawl around her shoulders, her eyes dark with a precocious understanding of the danger. "The water looks so cold."

Sophie knelt beside her daughter, her hands shaking as she smoothed the girl’s hair. "It is cold, Emma. But we cannot stay here. Zion is on the other side. We hold on to the cart and do not let go. Do you understand? No matter how cold it feels, you must keep your feet moving."

She looked at Peter, his face pale and his jaw set. He was not a child anymore. The trail had taken that from him. He met her eyes, steady and composed. Sophie nodded in a sign of shared understanding.

"Peter, take the downstream side," Sophie commanded, “grab hold of the cart to steady yourself. Emma, hold on to my skirt and don’t let go. Otto, Anne, stay in the cart. Do not move until I tell you."

She entered the water. The cold shocked her legs and stole their heat. It bit through her shoes and skirts. Her clothes became heavy and wet. The river thundered by. Sophie lost her footing as the silt gave way. The cart began to tip, their few belongings shifting. She saw Peter’s knuckles turn white as he held the cart, his face tight with effort.

"Hold on!" Sophie shouted, the wind tearing the words from her lungs. "Peter, push! Do not let go!" She threw her weight against the pull-bar. Her muscles burned with the effort. Pain stabbed her side, but she kept going. Only the far bank mattered. The cart straightened and she breathed a sigh of relief. 

Halfway across, Marianne lost her footing. The current pulled at her, and she slipped under the water. Her skirts dragged her downstream.

"Marianne!" Sophie shouted, but the wind took her voice. She held the cart steady, her arms shaking. Marianne’s hand broke the surface, then disappeared again.

Levi Savage moved into the river before Marianne could be swept away. He did not pause. The water reached his shoulders. His coat was soaked and heavy.

Marianne came up, coughing. Her lips were blue. Savage reached her, grabbed her dress and apron.

"I’ve got you! Savage’s voice rang out above the river's roar, gravelly and resolute.

The current pulled at them both. Savage braced his foot in the riverbed and lifted Marianne out of the water. He held her close and moved toward the bank.

Marianne shook and coughed up river water. She clung to Savage’s coat.

Savage turned into the current and carried Marianne to the bank. His boots slipped on the gravel, but he did not stop.

He set Marianne on the dry sagebrush and wrapped his scarf around her shoulders. She gasped for air. "Breathe, Marianne. You’re out of it now," Savage said, his heavy hand resting reassuringly on her trembling shoulder. He looked back across the river, his dark eyes fierce against the overcast light, meeting Sophie’s frantic gaze. "Keep moving, sister! Get that cart up the bank—Marianne's safe!"

The current surged on, cold, heavy, and completely uncaring. A quiet numbness settled over Sophie, but with the shore only paces away, she forced her legs to pull. The instant they breached the shallows, the cart handles slipped from her palms, and she lurched toward Marianne.

Sophie fell beside Marianne. Her knees gave out. Her red, numb hands lingered above her friend before she wrapped them around Marianne’s wet shoulders.

"Marianne, oh God, Marianne," Sophie gasped breathlessly. She pulled Marianne against her chest and felt her shaking.

Marianne leaned against the scarf. Her teeth chattered. Water dripped from her hair. Her eyes were wide.

"I—I felt my feet go, Sophie," Marianne whispered, her voice just a thread against the howling canyon wind. A dry, ragged sob ripped from her throat. "The bottom just... vanished. I thought I was gone. I was so tired... for a second, I just wanted to let the water take me."

Sophie took Marianne’s dripping face between her hands, forcing their eyes to lock. "Look at me, Marianne. The river didn't take you. Brother Savage caught you. You're right here." Marianne’s gaze drifted back toward the churning water. "How do we walk tomorrow? How does anyone?"

"We don't look at tomorrow," Sophie whispered. A single tear escaped and ran down her cheek. She began to rub Marianne’s frigid arms, fighting the cold with the sheer heat of her determination. "We only take the next breath, and then the next step. You keep breathing, and I’ll keep pulling. I’m not letting you go."

Levi Savage looked down at the two women. "Get her wrapped in dry blankets right now, Sister Sophie," he said. "The sun is setting, and it’s going to freeze hard tonight."

Sophie nodded firmly and pressed a brief, fierce kiss to Marianne’s icy forehead. The skin was pale and freezing, but beneath it, the pulse remained.

They had dragged themselves through the bitter shock of the Sweetwater, half-frozen and hollow with hunger. Yet as Sophie raised her head toward the horizon, the looming peaks stood waiting, wrapped in a blanket of blinding, white snow. The river was done with them. The mountains were next.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 35 - Only a Mother

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 35

Only a Mother

The Wyoming high desert was sharp and empty. The horizon always seemed farther away at every step. The wind never stopped. It carried the fragrance of sage and dust, leaving Sophie’s mouth dry and bitter. There was no green here, only tan and gray, like the tired faces around her. Her handcart rattled over the rough ground. The wood groaned with every bump. That beat was the only rhythm left to them.

Sophie watched the man ahead, his trousers loose around legs of skin and bone. As she moved, she counted every step as the leather strap pressed into her chest. The cart seemed heavier with each step.

Next to her, Peter pulled with his head down, his narrow shoulders stooped in a way that made him look like a weary old man instead of a ten-year-old boy.

"Steady, Peter," Sophie murmured, her speech sounding thin and unfamiliar. "Watch the stones. We cannot afford a broken axle today."

The boy did not look up. He held the crossbar tighter, his knuckles clenched in the sun. Behind them, the carts moved slowly as the ground rose. The company was quiet now. The singing had stopped.

Sometimes someone sobbed. Sometimes a sub captain shouted. The group was falling apart. No one talked about Iowa anymore.

A cry broke the march. Sophie slowed and saw that a man had fallen into his handcart. It was Brother Jensen, the carpenter from Aalborg. He used to laugh loudly and work with strong hands.

Now he lay in the dirt, face down. He wept. The trail had taken everything.

Captain Willie moved forward, his coat draped loosely over his thin frame. He looked at Jensen without pity, only the need to keep moving. Sophie thought that his look was colder than the wind.

The company could not stop. To stop was to die. The captain reached down. Sophie thought he might help Jensen up. Instead, the slap cracked amid the silence. Jensen’s head whipped back, eyes open wide.

The captain, with his hand still raised, said in a stern voice loud enough to be heard along the trail, "Get up, Brother Jensen. Pull your cart. Do not let the adversary take your legs while your children are watching." 

Sophie turned away. She watched Jensen climb back to his cart, moving like a machine. The slap had forced him to keep going, but Sophie felt sick. No prayer could change what she had seen.

She looked at Marianne, walking beside the cart. Marianne’s eyes were empty, staring ahead. She had not flinched at the slap. She was somewhere far away inside herself.

"Mother, why did he hit him?" Anne asked, in a small, terrified whisper out of the back of the cart where she sat huddled with Otto. She was holding her small shawl around her shoulders, her eyes dark with a precocious understanding of the violence they had just witnessed.

"To save him," Sophie said, though the words felt wrong. "He had to make him move. Now, be quiet and try to rest. We have miles yet before we camp."

By sunset, reports spread that someone had stolen flour from a widow’s sack during the night. Now everyone watched their neighbors with suspicion.

Sophie watched the leaders load the last supplies into three wagons. Men stood guard with sticks. No one trusted anyone now. Every neighbor looked like a rival.

Sophie stood in line at the supply wagon. When it was her turn, her hands quivered as she received the small ration that was supposed to sustain them for the next twenty-four hours. It was a small pile of gray flour. Back at the campsite, her children watched her divide it into their meager portions. She felt something cold inside.

"We should have stayed in Florence," Peder Mortenson said, moving into the edge of their firelight, his own small bowl of gruel held tightly against his chest. He looked at Sophie with a pragmatic bitterness, his eyes showing the wavering orange flames. "Savage was right. We are burning our own fat to move these wooden boxes, and now we are guarding our food from one another like dogs in a kennel. Is this the Zion they promised us, Sophie?"

Sophie didn't look up from the small fire she was nursing with twigs and buffalo chips. "Zion is where we arrive, Peder. Not where we are now. If you have breath to complain, you have breath to continue.”

"The trail doesn't care about our breath," Peder muttered, kicking a stray pebble into the dust. "Nor does it care about Zion."

Sophie threw another handful of twigs into the flickering flame, watching the smoke curl upward before speaking. "Then it is a good thing we care, even if the dirt beneath us does not."

Peder spat in disgust as he leaned forward. "Faith won't keep the frost out of our bones, Sophie. Look around—it is already the middle of October, and we haven't even reached the base of the mountains yet. The heavy snows are coming, and we are running out of days."

He paused, resting a hand heavily on his hip. "The livestock are failing, Sophie. Have you looked at the oxen? They are walking ghosts. If we don't cross the river tomorrow, we'll be hauling the wagons ourselves by Sunday. The captains are talking about fording the Sweetwater River again to save the climb over the ridge."

Sophie looked at the river ahead. Captain Willie wanted to ford to save strength. The water was low enough to cross, but it meant entering freezing currents. It was a hard choice.

In the morning, after a silent meal of flour gruel, Sophie and Peter pulled the handcart toward the riverbank. The Sweetwater River was a wide, shallow expanse of moving currents. When it was time to cross the river, Sophie pulled, and Peter steadied the cart. As Sophie stepped into the river, she felt the water's first touch through her leather boots, a shocking, icy chill that pulled the very heat from her bones.

"Hold onto the cart!" she shouted to the children over the rush of the water. "Do not let go! Peter, stay on the downstream side! Use the cart to steady yourself!"

She pulled with all of her strength; her skirts were saturated with water, dragging at her legs. The current pushed against the cart. The wood groaned. She saw the lead wagons struggle at the far bank. The oxen fell to their knees in the mud, their ribs showing.

The climb on the other side was steep and sandy. The animals struggled. Teamsters shouted and whipped, but the wagons barely moved. When they reached the shore, Sophie fell to the sand. Her legs shook. Her feet were numb. Anne cried next to her.

She looked at the trail ahead, twisting up toward the mountains. The crossing was over, but now the climb would take what little strength they had left.

"We have to move, Mother," Peter whispered, his voice cracking. He stood over her, his clothes dripping and his face colorless, but his eyes were steady, showing a maturity shaped in the freezing water. "If we sit, we'll freeze. I can help more. I'll take more of the weight."

Sophie nodded and leaned on Peter’s shoulder to stand. Together, they seized the cart’s handles. Their fingers were numb on the wood. Each step up the steep incline was hard. The wind took the last of their warmth. As her legs woke from the cold, hunger returned.

Hunger was sharp now, not just an ache. Sophie saw a woman from the Welsh company by the trail, chewing a strip of rawhide cut from a boot. The woman’s eyes were empty.

Sophie looked away and kept climbing. Her hands burned on the frozen wood. Each breath hurt her chest. The trail leveled on a bare ridge. The company moved slowly, each step a struggle.

Finally, the signal came to stop for the night. Sophie barely had enough energy left to help with the tent. After the few bites of flour gruel that she had for supper, she collapsed in the tent.

"Sophie?" Marianne whispered, her speech faintly discernible over the whistle of wind gusts through the tent. She turned her head, her eyes seeking Sophie’s in the subdued light. "Is there... is there anything left? Just a bite? My head is so light, I feel like I might float away."

"No, Marianne," Sophie said, her speech unemotional and clinical, a sound that gave no space for argument. "There is nothing left. We all have the same ration. You must try to sleep and save your strength for the morning."

She was only a mother now. Nothing else mattered.  Keeping her children alive was her only goal.

Night appeared on the desert, cold and dark. Sophie lay in the tent, holding Otto and Anne close. Her body was the only heat that she could give them.

She heard the guards walking outside, boots on hard ground. A wolf howled far away. Sophie did not pray for Zion or the captains. She closed her eyes and listened to her children breathing.

She thought of the miles ahead, the river, and the mountains waiting in the dark. The company was breaking apart. Sophie would pull the cart as long as she could, for her children and no one else.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 34 - Spoons for Hardtack

 Sophie's Journey - Chapter 34

Spoons for Hardtack

The lantern’s light threw shadows on the adobe wall. Captain Willie sat on an empty hardtack crate, elbows on his knees, holding a tin cup of water. He had not slept. The fort was quiet. The Saints tried to rest. Willie stayed awake, checking the carts and counting supplies. He hoped the numbers would change, but they did not.

He heard the cane before he saw the man. The wood struck the packed earth in a uniform rhythm.

Peder Mortensen stepped out of the dark. The lantern showed his gaunt face. He looked at Willie, waiting.

"You knew," Peder said. No greeting. No Captain Willie or President Willie. Just the stone-cold words.

Willie did not look up. "Knew what, Brother Mortensen?"

"Don't." Peder stopped a few feet away, leaning hard on his cane. "Don't call me brother when you led us into a graveyard. You knew there would be nothing here."

Willie looked up. Peder's face was worn and thin. His eyes were angry.

"I did not know," Willie said quietly. "I hoped."

"Hoped," Peder uttered the word with contempt. "Hope is what they sell in Liverpool to peasants who don't know better. I counted on leadership. I counted on men in Salt Lake who promised God would provide if we had faith enough to pull a cart."

He came closer. His voice fell to a whisper.

"Where are the supply depots, Willie? Where are the caches the Church was supposed to station here for late companies? I saw the empty storehouse. I saw the bare shelves. There is nothing."

Willie set his cup down. "There were no depots established. Not for us."

"Why?"

"Because the Perpetual Emigrating Fund is empty," Willie said plainly, without excuse. "The Church assumed we would move faster than ox teams. They assumed we could carry sufficient provisions to reach mid-route relief points further west. They did not account for... delays."

"Delays." Peder laughed, a dry, harsh sound. "You mean the delays we were warned about in Florence? The warnings Brother Savage begged you to heed? We are not a delay, Captain. We are four hundred souls who Brigham Young told to walk into winter because it was cheaper than wagons."

Willie stood. His legs ached, but he would not let Peder look down at him.

"I did not set the Fund's balance," Willie said. "I did not choose the handcart scheme. Church leadership called me to lead it, and I have. Through sand and death and river crossings that took strong men. I have done what I could with what I was given."

"But you knew," Peder pressed. "You knew the Fund was empty. You knew they assumed we would fly across the plains like angels. You knew the supply wagons from the Valley would not be waiting here."

Willie was silent. The wind moved through the fort. 

"I knew relief wagons were sent," he said at last. "I was told they'd meet us. I didn't know they unloaded at Deer Creek and turned back when the early companies passed, assuming no one was behind them. That’s because of the distance and bad communication. It is men with full bellies in warm rooms making decisions while we suffer on the trail."

"Convenient failures," Peder said. "Failures that cost nothing to the men in warm rooms. The Perpetual Emigrating Fund is depleted-so they send the poor. They send the ones who cannot buy their own passage. They send Danes and English and Scots who believe that Zion waits with open arms, and they do not bother to put flour in the storehouses because it saves them money."

"Brother Mortensen-"

"And Fort Laramie." Peder cut him off, gesturing toward the darkened commissary with his cane. "A military post dependent on supply trains from the East Coast. No excess inventory. No bulk provisions for four hundred starving Saints. You traded spoons, Captain. Your own silver spoons. For two barrels of hardtack. That is what the Church's planning has come to. Spoonfuls."

Willie's jaw tensed. He remembered the silver in the sutler's hands and the small sack of flour it bought.

"I did what I could," Willie said, his voice subdued. "I traded every trinket, every personal effect, every small dignity I had left. I walked into that commissary, and bargained like a beggar because no one else would. The traders here do not answer to Brigham Young. They answer to money. And we had none."

"It is because the Church left us with nothing," Peder said. "They looked at a ledger in Salt Lake, saw empty columns, and figured faith would cover the rest. But faith doesn't fill a child's stomach, Captain. I've already watched five die. Five names. And more will follow—not because God willed it, but because men did. Men who looked at a calendar, saw August slipping into September, and sent us out anyway."

Willie approached closer. He was taller than Peder, but the Dane did not flinch.

"You think I do not know this?" Willie asked. "You think I have not lain awake every night since Florence, counting the days, measuring the miles against the rations, watching the days get shorter? I knew we were late. I argued. I wrote letters. I pleaded for delay, for wagons, for mercy from those who had the power to grant it. And I was overruled. The Fund was depleted. The ships were late. The carts were built of green wood. And still they said go."

"Then you should have refused," Peder said. "You should have stood in Florence and said no. Better to be stranded in Iowa than frozen in the Rockies."

"And who would have led them then?" Willie's voice cracked, the first fracture in his armor. "Who would have kept them moving when the sand buried the wheels? Who would have organized the searches when Sister Stewart wandered into the hollow? Who would have carried the sick when the supply wagons were full? You, Brother Mortensen? With your cane and your ledger of the dead?"

Peder stared at him. The quietness grew.

"I am not the leader," Peder said eventually. "I am a blacksmith who counted on the Church to be what it claimed. A refuge. A family. A body that does not abandon its weakest limbs. Instead I find a corporation with an empty treasury, sending the poor to die so the rich in Zion do not have to pay for ox teams."

"The Church is not a corporation," Willie said, but the words sounded meaningless even to him.

"Then why are we treated like debtors?" Peder asked. "The Perpetual Emigrating Fund is depleted-so the poor must pull their own salvation. No supplies waiting. No relief at the fort. Just a long road and a promise that God will make up the difference. I am tired of God making up the difference, Captain. I am tired of watching children pay the interest on the Church's poverty."

Willie turned away. He looked at the dark fort. The Saints sleeping in the dust. The handcarts lined against the wall.

"I cannot change what the leadership did or did not do," he said. "I cannot conjure flour from empty shelves or supply wagons from frozen passes. I have twelve ounces per day. I have four hundred and twenty miles. I have winter waiting in the mountains that Brother Savage says is coming early. And I have you, Brother Mortensen, standing in the dark telling me what I already know."

"Then what will you do?" Peder asked.

Willie turned back. His face was tired, his eyes red. He looked stubborn.

"I will reduce the rations," Willie said. "I will stretch the flour. I will leave the wagons behind and lighten the carts. I will pray for relief wagons that may or may not come. And I will walk into those mountains with every soul who can still stand, because the alternative is to stop here and wait for death. And I will not stop."

"Even if the leadership abandoned us?"

"Especially then." Willie came closer, his voice lowering to a whisper just as fierce as Peder's. "Because if the men in warm rooms failed us, then we must not fail each other. That is the only covenant left, Brother Mortensen. Not between us and Salt Lake.  The covenant is between the widow Mary Ann Empey and us. Between your friend Sophie, her children, and us. Between every Saint on the trail and us.

You want to lay the dead at the feet of the Church? Fine. I will lay them at the feet of God. But I will not lay down myself. Not while there is still a mile to walk."

Peder held his gaze for a long moment. The wind grew chillier, carrying the first true breath of winter. Somewhere in the night, a child coughed-a thin, rattling sound.

"You are a good man, Captain Willie," Peder said, and there was no praise in it. "Good men make excellent shields for bad plans. The Church will call you a hero when this is over. They will sing songs about your spoons and your twelve ounces. And they will forget that they sent us here with nothing, because that is what institutions do. They disregard the cost."

"Then remember it," Willie said. "Write it in your ledger, beside the five names. Write that the leadership failed. Write that the Fund was empty and the depots were bare and the supply wagons turned back. Write it all, Brother Mortensen. And when you are finished writing, keep moving forward toward Zion because the only thing that matters now is the next mile. Not the last one. Not the ones we lost. The next one."

Peder looked at him. His eyes were tired now. He turned and walked into the dark, his cane striking the earth in steady beats.

Willie stood alone in the lantern glow. He picked up the lantern and walked to the supply wagon. He rested his hand on the rough wood. He knew the supplies were not enough. But what was he to do?

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 33 - Fort Laramie

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 33

Fort Laramie

Fort Laramie appeared on the prairie, gray against the morning sky. Sophie saw the adobe walls, the timber stockades, the American flag hanging in the still air. Her shoulders ached in the harness. Her feet burned in shoes tied with twine. Still, she felt something move in her chest. Hope.

"Mother," Peter said, his voice faint with exhaustion. "Is that Fort Laramie?"

"That's the fort," Sophie said.

Emma stumbled beside the cart. Her feet were swollen and bloody. She kept her eyes down. Anne and Otto rode in the cart, where Sophie had placed them after miles of walking.

The company straggled toward the fort in ragged columns. Four wagons rolled behind them-the Independent Wagons, they were called, owned by families who had paid their own way, not part of the handcart company proper but traveling in its shadow for safety.

Sophie had watched them for weeks, their oxen growing leaner, their teams faltering in the same sand which swallowed the handcart wheels. Now the oxen moved at a crawl, heads low, ribs showing through patchy hides.

Brother Levi Savage walked past her, his eyes focused on the fort's walls. He did not look hopeful. He looked like a man confirming a suspicion.

"Brother Savage," Sophie called. "They'll have supplies for us, won't they? The Church would have sent-"

"They'll have what they have," Savage said, not breaking stride. "And they'll have reasons for what they don't."

The gates to the fort opened. Inside it smelt of horse dung, woodsmoke, and the putrid air of too many men in one place. Soldiers watched from the parapets, their faces curious and pitying. Sophie hated that look. She had seen it in Florence, in Iowa City, in the eyes of merchants who sold overpriced supplies to Saints who did not know better.

Captain Willie rode ahead on his horse, his back straight despite the exhaustion she had watched accumulate in his face for weeks. He dismounted at the commissary office and disappeared inside. The company waited within the dusty yard, too tired to sit, too hungry to rest.

Sophie unhitched herself from the cart and gathered her children in the shade of the palisade wall. The wall was warm from the sun. Anne reclined against it, her eyes closed, her breathing light. Emma sat on the ground and unwound the rags from her feet. The blisters had broken and bled again, the skin raw and weeping. Sophie looked away.

The sun ascended in the sky. Soldiers brought buckets of brackish water. Sophie made her children drink slowly, though they wanted to gulp. A trader in a greasy buckskin coat walked past the carts, looking for something to buy, but there was nothing left.

Then Captain Willie emerged. Sophie knew before he spoke. His jaw was set. His hands hung at his sides. He looked like a man who had lost an argument with God. The Saints surged forward. Children huddled against their parents' legs. The four Independent Wagon families stood apart, their faces already guarded.

"The supply depots are empty," Willie said. No preamble. No softening. "The Church wagons that should have met us here were never stationed. What stores came from the Valley were unloaded at Deer Creek, further west, or turned back when the early companies passed. No flour is waiting for us. No beef. No shoes."

A murmur ran through the crowd, not quite a cry. Too many had learned to swallow their grief.

"But we aren't without resources," Willie continued. "I have spoken with the sutlers. The military commissary holds small stores. I have traded what I could-personal effects, trinkets, silver spoons-to purchase what they would sell."

He motioned. Two men rolled barrels into view. Sophie counted. Two barrels for five hundred people.

"A small quantity of flour," Willie said. "And two barrels of hardtack. Hard bread. It is not enough. It will never be enough. But it is what we have."

Sophie looked at the barrels. She did the math in her head. Miles, rations, days. Two barrels. Peter slipped his hand into hers. His fingers were cold and thin.

"Additionally," Willie said, "the Independent Wagons can proceed no further. Their draft cattle are lost or exhausted. The four wagons will remain here at Fort Laramie to await the Hodgetts Wagon Company, which follows behind us. They will not travel with the handcart company beyond this point."

A voice rose from the wagon families-a woman's protest, quickly hushed. Sophie turned to see a man in a broad-brimmed hat helping his wife down from their wagon seat. Their children hung onto the tailgate. The man looked at Captain Willie with something worse than anger. Resignation.

"We cannot wait for them," Willie said. "We cannot carry them. The handcarts move light, or they do not move at all."

Sophie remembered the broken wagons left in the grass west of Florence. Families had walked away from what they could not carry. Now it was happening again.

 

Standing forlornly by the supply wagon, Sophie saw the young widow, Sister Empey, holding her nine-month-old baby, Sarah Jane, close to her chest. Her three older children, William, James, and little Mary Ann, were hanging on to her skirt, their eyes empty and staring. Her face appeared gaunt, her eyes hollow-looking from widowhood, but her voice remained steady. "What of the flour? What of the ration?"

Willie looked at her. Sophie saw the cost of what he was about to say written in the lines around his mouth.

"A meeting," he said. "This evening. All heads of family. We will divide what we have. And we will discuss... adjustments."

He did not say the word reduction. He did not need to.

They held the meeting amid the dusty parade grounds while the sun set. Sophie left her children with Marianne, who sat against the wall with her shawl tight. Sophie remained at the back of the crowd, arms crossed against the cold. Captain Willie climbed onto a crate. A sack of flour was at his feet. A lantern cast his shadow on the wall.

"Here are the numbers," he said. He had forever been a man for numbers. "We have four hundred and twenty miles to the Valley. Perhaps more, depending on the route through the mountains. We have what flour I purchased today, plus the remaining stores from Florence. At sixteen ounces per person per day, the flour lasts until..."

He paused. Sophie watched him do the math in his head, the same cruel arithmetic she had performed a hundred times in the dark hours of the night.

"Until we are still three weeks short of Salt Lake," Willie finished. "At best. At current pace, with the sand and the weather that Brother Savage tells me is turning, we will run out of flour on the Sweetwater. Or before."

Peder Mortensen stood near the front, leaning on his cane. He did not speak, but Sophie saw his jaw tighten. Five, she knew he was thinking—five deaths, and more to come.

"The alternative," Willie said, "is to stretch what we have. Reduce the daily ration now, while we still have stores, rather than reach empty sacks with mountains still ahead."

He lifted a tin cup. "Twelve ounces. Per person. Per day. Starting tomorrow."

"And the children?" someone called.

"Children under twelve," Willie said. "Eight ounces."

Twelve ounces. Sophie sensed the number settling in her stomach like a stone. Twelve ounces. Sixteen ounces had barely kept them standing. Sixteen ounces had not saved Jesse Empey. Twelve ounces was not enough.

Sophie closed her eyes. Emma was six. Otto was two now. Anne was four. Peter was ten, nearly eleven. “Eight ounces of flour per day. How can my children survive on eight ounces?” she said to no one in particular.

"Captain Willie," Captain Siler spoke from the front. "The people are already weak. The sick."

"The sick will get what the sick get," Willie said, cutting him off, his voice harsh with exhaustion. "I am not choosing between the strong and the weak, Captain. I am choosing between a slow death and a faster one. Twelve ounces stretches the stores. Twelve ounces gives us a chance to reach the relief wagons that must be coming from the Valley. Twelve ounces-" He stopped. His shoulders dropped. When he spoke again, his speech was hardly audible. "Twelve ounces is all the math allows."

"And if the relief wagons don't come?" Peder Mortensen asked. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. "If the Valley sent nothing, or if what they sent is frozen on the other side of the mountains? What then, Captain Willie? What do your numbers say about twelve ounces in a blizzard?"

Willie looked at him. For a long moment, the two men held each other's gaze- the captain who had taken them into this, and the Dane who had counted every step of the way.

"Then we die closer to Zion than we would have," Willie said. "And that is the only mercy I can offer."

Sophie walked back to her children in the dark. Lanterns lit the packed earth. A soldier laughed at a card game. The sound appeared far away.

She found Marianne where she had left her, still staring at nothing. The children slept in a quilt nest. Peter had his arm around Emma. Anne and Otto curled together, small and quiet.

"Twelve ounces," Marianne said, not raising her eyes. "It is a death sentence, Sophie."

"It is our daily bread," Sophie said. "And our daily bread is all we are promised."

Marianne laughed, a dry, cracked sound. "You sound like Captain Willie."

"I sound like a woman with four children who need to reach the mountains before the snow." Sophie sat next to her, her back against the palisade wall. The wood was cold through her dress. "Where is the flour?"

"By Captain Willie's tent. Under guard."

Sophie nodded. In the morning, she would take her cloth bag and get her portion. She would divide it carefully. Peter would get a little more because he pulled. Emma, Anne, and Otto would get equal shares. She would mix the flour with water, make a paste, and watch her children eat slowly, chewing each mouthful many times, trying to feel full.

"Do you remember Gentofte?" Marianne asked suddenly. "The market days? The bread stalls?"

"I remember," Sophie said.

"So much bread," Marianne whispered. "Piles of it. Warm and brown and cheap. We walked past it to buy passage on a ship. We left bread behind to come here, to this fort, to twelve ounces of flour."

Across the yard, Sophie saw Captain Willie moving among the carts in the dark. He stopped at each one, his hand on the wood, his lips quivering in prayer or counting. He had bartered his spoons and trinkets, the small things from England.  He had bought two barrels of hardtack and a sack of flour. He called it hope.

She watched him until he disappeared inside the darkness of the supply wagon. Then she lay down next to her children, pulling the worn quilt over them all, feeling Emma's thin ribs rise and fall against her side.

Twelve ounces of flour. How had it come to this? Sophie closed her eyes and prayed the only prayer she had left: “Lord, save my children.”

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 32 - No False Comfort

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 32

No False Comfort

Gray light reflected on the muddy river, cold and distant. Sophie Petersen’s hands ached under the rags she had wrapped them in. The world had lost its color. Only black rock, brittle yellow grass, and the muddy brown North Platte were left.

Every step sent pain along her spine and into her sore, battered feet. To keep from panicking, she focused on the only numbers that mattered: how much flour was left and how many miles to Fort Laramie.

“Mother, my shoes won’t go on.” Anne’s voice was thin and wheezy. She sat collapsed on a roll of canvas, feet swollen, red, with bloody heels.

Sophie knelt, the grit from the trail scratching her knees, and massaged the child’s stiff arches. Anne’s face was empty, her tears long since spent.

“We will find shoes at Fort Laramie. Maybe sugar, if we are lucky. But you have to walk today.” Sophie’s voice was flat. She gave no tender comfort, only the command to survive.

Marianne Lautrup sat nearby, arms wrapped around her sides, holding her wool shawl tight against the cold from the river. She didn’t talk about Denmark or green fields anymore. She bit her cracked lip and held onto Sophie’s cart.

“I am so hungry, Sophie,” Marianne whispered, her eyes locked on the dark ridgeline ahead. “My stomach is a knot. The grit is in my teeth. Each mile demands more than the last. If we reach the fort... surely there will be flour? Shoes for the little ones?”

Sophie pinched Anne’s pale toes, watching the blood flush slowly back into the skin before fading. “Help me roll the bedding. The company moves soon.”

A long shadow extended across the ground. Brother Levi Savage stood above them, thin and weathered, his face set as he looked at the horizon. He spoke without kindness. “The roads ahead are deep sand, Sister Petersen. It will be a hard pull today. The supply wagons are already full of the sick.”

Sophie stood up, steadying herself with one hand on the cart. “My children will walk, Brother Savage. As long as I have breath to hold on to the pull bar,” she said.

Savage looked at her, noticing the dirt on her skin, the way her jaw was set, and the steady, stubborn movement of her hands. He gave a short nod. He didn’t offer false comfort. The nod was enough.

By afternoon, the travelers on the trail were covered with dirt and sweat, and battling the harsh sun. The flat land started to rise, but the climb brought deeper sand, making every inch a struggle.

Sophie pressed into the harness, the leather digging into her shoulders through her sweaty dress. Next to her, Peter pulled without a word, his thin body shaking under the weight.

“Watch the cart in front of us, Peter,” Sophie said, breathing hard. “Don’t look at the hills. Just watch those wheels. Then news circulated quietly down the line, carried via whispers through the dust: Jesse Empey was gone.

He had been getting weaker since the river crossing, his thirty-one-year-old body shaking with chills that even the hot Nebraska sun couldn’t stop. He had left England with his wife and four young children, hoping for Zion. Now the prairie had taken him.

The company stopped. Sophie stood still in the sudden quiet, gripping the wooden pull-bar so tightly that her bruised knuckles turned white.

There was no time for a real funeral; the ground was too hard to dig. Elder Willie and the sub-captains stood close together, talking quietly with serious faces. From a distance, Sophie saw Mary Ann Empey by the supply wagon. The young widow held her nine-month-old baby, Sarah Jane, close to her chest. Her three older children, William, James, and little Mary Ann, were hanging on to her skirt, their eyes empty and staring.

They looked so much like Sophie’s own children that she had to look away. Mary Ann stood alone now, a widow on the endless plains, left to pull the heavy cart and keep her four children alive until they reached the mountains.

We have to keep going, Marianne,” Sophie said, cutting off Marianne’s soft whimpering before it could start. “The living need the miles more than the dead need the ground. Now help me tighten the harness.”

“Five,” a voice muttered from the road near them. “Five souls.”

Sophie didn't need to turn to know Peder Mortensen’s hoarse rasp. He leaned firmly on his makeshift wooden cane, eyes fixed on his own family pulling ahead.

“Five gone already in September, and we haven't even sighted the peaks,” Peder said, the sound of his voice nearly buried by the rattle of wooden axles. “Five names for the ledger, Sophie.”

“Names that are in the Lord's hands, Peder,” Sophie said, though her tongue felt as heavy as lead.

“The Lord cares for spirits, but this prairie takes bodies,” Peder said, as he rubbed his brow, leaving a streak of red dust on his forehead. “The numbers don’t add up. We move slower every day. The flour rations get smaller. The children get weaker. If we lose strong men like Brother Empey on flat land, what will happen in the mountains? What if the wind brings snow?” 

Sophie pulled against the handcart until the rough wood bit deep into her raw palms. “We reach the fort. We get flour. We keep moving.”

“Flour can’t turn back time,” Peder whispered, moving in closer. “It’s late, Sophie. Later than Brother Savage warned us back in Florence. We’re walking right into a trap of stone and ice, and we’re doing it while singing hymns.”

“Keep your complaints to yourself!” Sophie said sharply, her fear finally breaking through. “I have four children to keep alive today. I don’t have space in my mind for your numbers.”

Peder didn’t apologize. He stared ahead toward the west, his lined face set like flint. The dark truth hung heavy between them as they trudged along in silence.

Sophie kept walking through the thick, hazy twilight. The road drained her strength and covered her wool skirts in red dust. Fort Laramie was still days away. She looked at her children, feeling a strong, protective anger, and set her jaw.

By the time they made camp, cold stars were sprinkled across the night sky. The heat was gone, replaced by a breeze that cooled their sweaty backs. With little wood to find, they clustered together tightly on the bare ground in the dark.

“Mother?”

A small, cold hand slipped into hers. Emma crawled out from under the worn quilt, her face colorless in the starlight.

“Is it true what the men said?” Emma murmured, her eyes wide. “Is Brother Empey dead?”

"Yes, Emma. It is true." Sophie pulled the quilt higher, tucking it under Emma’s chin. The child’s skin felt as paper, dry and thin. "Brother Empey has gone to rest."

Emma went quiet, her little body limp against Sophie’s side. A gust of wind shook the covering of a nearby wagon, making a sharp sound in the dark. "But he was at the fire just two nights ago," Emma said softly. "He was laughing at the baby's toes. How can he be gone?"

Sophie didn’t have a gentle answer ready. No way to soften what she had to say. "The road is hard, Emma. Sometimes the body just stops."

Sophie held Emma’s hand, her rough skin against the girl’s knuckles. She knew that she should encourage the girl, but today, God seemed so far away. She couldn’t talk about Zion and the wonderful things they would see there. Zion was too far away. 

Emma paused, her voice trembling. “They said his wife has to pull the cart all by herself now. Will we be left like that, Mother? If the snow comes? If... if you stop breathing like Brother Empey? Will we be alone?”

“You are never alone,” Sophie said, pulling the girl in tight. “And you never will be alone, Emma.” I am here; I will always be here. And nothing on this trail can take me from you. I won’t let it.”

Emma rested her head on Sophie’s shoulder, her breath unsteady at first, then calm. The camp was quiet, filled with the smell of sage and waning embers. To comfort Emma, Sophie turned to the only thing the trail couldn’t take: their memories.

"Do you remember the farm in Gentofte?" Sophie inquired gently. "The way the cows had the scent of clover?"

Emma stirred, a small trace of light returning to her eyes. "And the kitchen? It was always warm."

"Always," Sophie murmured. "And the bread fresh from the oven, still steaming.”

Emma closed her eyes, a faint trace of a smile touching her lips. “I wish I could remember the taste of the butter,” she said. “Yellow butter on fresh warm bread. Just once.”

Sophie closed her eyes. She hated the price God asked for land, and guilt ate at her. She didn’t tell Emma that fresh bread and butter were only dreams now, or that the route ahead would be colder than the river. She just held Emma tighter as the girl fell asleep and waited for morniing. 

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