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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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 31- Lost in the Willows

 Sophie's Journey - Chapter 31

Lost in the Willows

The ringing of axes traveled through the encampment. Anne stirred, pressing close to Sophie. Peter and Emma slept, their breathing soft. Sophie awoke, then drifted back into sleep when Otto suddenly cried out in alarm. She arose to quiet Otto, and he clung to her. Outside, dawn turned the hollow gray. The trees remained black against the light sky. She smelled campfire smoke and meat. Her stomach tightened. They had killed a cow. She had almost forgotten what that was like.

She sat up and crawled out of the tent. The camp was already busy. Men moved around the carts. Peder Mortensen and his son were working on a handcart, fitting a new axle. Others worked with him, their hands black with grease and tar. Repairs had started.

Marianne came to her elbow with a tin cup containing something hot. Although her eyes had red rims and her face looked pale from fatigue, she managed to give a thin smile. "It's broth," she said, "from the cow. There's not much of it, but it warms the bones."

Sophie took the cup and wrapped her cold fingers around it. The heat helped. "Any news?" she asked, though she was afraid to hear it.

Marianne shook her head. "They sent more men at first light. Captain Willie went with several others. The first two searches found nothing." She looked toward the trees, where the hollow was dark. "They will find her, or she will come back. She must."

Sophie drank the broth. It was thin and greasy, nevertheless warm. She thought of Sister Stewart, somewhere out past the trees. The hollow looked gentle, but it could swallow a person. A hundred yards, and you could disappear.

"The children?" Marianne asked.

“Peter is still sleeping. He has earned his rest.” Sophie answered. “He's a good boy and strong,” she continued, her speech showing the sadness that comes to mothers when they see their children aging too quickly. “We would never have made it without Peter and Captain Savage helping.”

Marianne nodded and replied, “You speak truly." Pointing to a cart with a cracked wheel, she continued, “It’s good that we can make repairs here.” Two men held the handcart steady while another tied a split log around the break, fastening it with rawhide. The work was rough, but it would hold. It had to. 

Sophie gathered up her children and fed them the broth that was left. Soon the hollow buzzed with activity as people took advantage of a morning without travel to make repairs and regroup. As they worked, Sophie and Marianne kept watching the edge of camp, waiting for the searchers. 

When they saw them return, they looked weary. Brother Oliver shook his head at Captain Siler and said, "Nothing. We followed her tracks to the creek, but then lost them in the willows. The ground is too soft to leave any prints."

Captain Siler's jaw tensed. "Captain Willie took eleven men on his third expedition, and they went deeper, towards the south bluffs. If she's walking, she might now be miles away."

The afternoon dragged. Sophie washed clothes and mended Peter's shirt. The children played quietly near the tent. Anne grasped her skirt.

Late in the day, sunlight glimmered through the trees. A noise rose at the edge of camp. Sophie looked up from her sewing. Someone staggered out of the trees, helped by two men Sophie did not know.

It was Sister Stewart, but she looked changed. Her dress was torn and muddy. Scratches marked her face. Her eyes were full of exhaustion. She moved slowly, dragging her feet. Captain Woodward walked next to her, steadying her. He had found her while cutting timber.

The camp assembled around her. Women brought blankets, food, and water. Sophie pushed through the crowd. She reached Sister Stewart as the woman collapsed. They laid her on the ground. Sophie knelt and pressed a cup of water to her lips. Sister Stewart drank, water running down her chin. Her hands quivered too much to hold the cup.

"Easy," Sophie whispered, using the very tone that she adopted when her children awoke from nightmares. "You're safe now."

Sister Stewart had great difficulty focusing her eyes on Sophie, as though Sophie were a figure seen through deep water. "I heard..." she spoke quietly, her words dry and broken like that of withered leaves. "I heard the cattle and the axes. I pursued the sound."

Sophie took her hand. The fingers were ice-cold, nails broken and dirty. "You did well. You found your way."

They gave her beef soup. Sister Stewart ate quickly, soup running down her chin. Color came back to her cheeks. She closed her eyes and slept, her head on a rolled blanket.

Sophie laid another blanket over her and stepped away. The camp seemed less heavy. But Willie and the eleven men had not returned.

 Sophie returned to her children and held them close. Emma wondered, "Is the lady all right?" with a serious look on her delicate face.

"She will be," Sophie said, "because she's strong, just like all of us."

By evening, the camp was grateful but uneasy. Captain Atwood called the Saints to prayer in the middle of the hollow. Sister Stewart was found, but Captain Willie, and the eleven men were still missing in the dark.

Later on, the captains talked in low voices. As Sophie settled her children, she caught pieces of their talk. The third group had not come back. As night came, worry replaced relief. Peter came and joined her, his young face serious in the light of the fire. "Will Captain Willie be all right?" he asked.

"Sophie said that he had eleven brothers and that he knew the country better than most of the others; therefore, he would be able to find his way back."

She watched the tree line, hoping someone would appear from the dark. Time passed. The fire burned low. Sophie was about to give up and crawl into the tent when she heard it. The sound of voices, many voices, approaching through the trees. She stood, her heart beating fast.

Captain Willie appeared first, followed by the other men, mud-spattered and weary. The camp stirred, people emerging from tents, calling out in relief and welcome.

"We found her trail," Captain Willie announced, his words projecting across the hollow. "Tracked it to the south bluffs, but lost it near dark. Deemed it best to return and make a fresh start in the morning if needed."

He paused, and it seemed everyone tried to speak at once.  "She's found?" Captain Willie asked.

Captain Siler came forward, grinning. "She came in on her own this afternoon. Heard Woodward's men cutting timber and tracked the sound. She is exhausted, although alive. Sleeping now."

The tension left Captain Willie's shoulders. He closed his eyes and moved his lips in silent prayer. When he opened them, his eyes were bright.

"Then we are all restored," he said in a soft voice. "Thanks be to God. We are all restored."

The camp kept the celebration quiet. There was little to share, but the mood was lighter. Sophie hugged her children and kissed their foreheads. For one night, they were safe.

That night Sophie slept peacefully. The axes were quiet. The lost had been found. The hollow was still except for the river and her children's breathing next to her.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 30 - Into Ash Hollow

  Sophie's Journey - Chapter 30

Into Ash Hollow

After the meal, the captains called for the company to move. Ellen Cantwell's cry remained in the air over the handcarts. Even the work of repacking felt quiet and uneasy. The captains warned that the climb into the bluffs would take time. They could not waste daylight. The trail was not straight. Marsh by the river forced them inland. Cliffs blocked the way. They would have to climb, twist through the hills, and drop down to Ash Hollow.

Sophie took her place at the cart with Peter next to her, while Marianne managed the younger children and the bundles. The bugle sounded, and they began to pull.

The climb started at once. The path rose through loose rock and sand that slipped underfoot. Sophie's lungs ached. Her shoulders ached. At every step, the cart became heavier, as if the bluffs wanted to push them back.

Someone yelled from in front. Sophie looked up and saw trouble ahead. The path got steeper, zigzagging over the bluff. One team could not move their cart. Two groups joined, four people pushing while another cart waited behind.

When it was their turn, Levi Savage offered to assist. He moved next to Peter without saying anything, and they pushed the cart as Sophie pulled.

The sun was bright, but the air stayed cool. Sweat ran down Sophie's back. Her hands, wrapped in cloth, burned against the coarse wood. She fixed her eyes on the path and counted her steps to forget the pain.

“One. Two. Three. Four.” Peter grunted as he pushed. His face was serious, older than his years. Sophie wanted to tell him to stop, but she needed his strength. He knew it too.

At the first switchback they stopped, gasping for breath. Below, the river curved through the valley, shining in the sun. Sophie saw the nooning place far behind and the trail they had climbed, cutting back and forth up the bluff. From here, it looked impossible, as if they had scaled a wall.

"Not much farther now to go," said Captain Savage, although his breathing showed that he was more comforting himself than them. "After that it's a descent into the hollow, where there are real trees, cedar trees, as they say."

Sophie nodded, saving her breath. They adjusted their grip and pushed on.

Marianne moved up behind them, one hand placed against her side and the other pulling at a bundle which had fallen from the cart. "If this is the road to Zion," she said, breathing hard, "then Zion must be beyond a difficult climb."

Sophie managed to give a faint smile. "Save your breath, Marianne; you'll need it before we come to the next bend."

"I tell you, I have none left to save," said Marianne. "My feet are as rocks, my back is on fire, and that cart has become wicked since this morning; when we loaded it, it was lighter, I promise you it was."

"Then we'll teach it to obey," Sophie said, tightening her hold on the cart. "Bit by bit."

The climb dragged on for hours. The path zigzagged over uneven ground, skirting cliffs that fell into hidden valleys. They passed through a grove of cedars, the first real trees Sophie had seen in weeks.

They started down, the carts sliding on the loose gravel. Ropes and every bit of strength the company had held the carts back. Sophie walked backward, boots digging in, arms shaking. Peter did the same on the other side, his expression pale and set.

Ash Hollow opened before them, broad and filled with grass and trees. The North Platte shone in the distance. The detour had cost them daylight and strength. The river ran close to the bluffs, but the low ground was boggy. To avoid it, the trail climbed the broken bluffs and dropped into the hollow.

That morning, Levi Savage had warned they would need to double up for the climb. He was right. The broken bluff forced them to turn and climb in stages, pulling ropes and pushing their bodies against the carts. What should have been an easy road by the river became a half-day fight through the hardest ground yet.

When darkness fell, they set up camp. No one spoke for a long time. Sophie barely had the strength to raise the tent. Peter and Emma gathered wood. Sophie sat on the cold ground and coaxed a fire from damp tinder. Anne fussed in her lap, perceiving her mother's weariness.

Marianne collapsed beside Sophie. Dust lined her face. Her bonnet had slipped back. "Now, Sophie," she said, forcing a thin smile, "if there was ever a day meant to humble us, this was it. The hill caught my feet, my bundle broke in the dust, and little Otto cried as if his heart would break. More than once I thought I should sit down and let the rest go on without me."

Sophie warmed her hands over the small fire. She did not look up. The faint glow of the fire showed Anne's sleepy eyes and Peter's hunched shoulders. "I am grateful it is over," she said quietly. "Not because it was kind, but because it cannot ask anything more until morning."

"Over," Marianne echoed, letting out a breath that was not quite laughter. "No one ever told me anything like that before. My limbs are still on the bluff, moving and struggling. When the cart jerked, I thought we would all go down together. I meant to weep, but it was no use, and there was no time."

Sophie put her hand over Marianne's. "It’s ok to cry," she said, trying to smile. "All day I have said bold things and believed only half. This small fire feels like a kindness tonight."

Marianne lowered her head. For a moment, both women were silent. The hollow sank into darkness, filled with soft voices, coughing children, and the sound of wagons cooling in the evening air.

"Someone's missing," Peter called. When he came back from the river with water, his face was troubled. "Sister Stewart; they noticed it at the camp, and her footsteps went off in that direction." He indicated the trees, for it was there that the hollow became thick with shadow.

Sophie looked where he pointed. The hollow seemed open at first, but brush and broken ground lined the sides. 

"You could go a little way and lose your sense of direction," Peter said. "It's getting dark, and the captain says we cannot send anyone else until morning.

Marianne focused her gaze at the end of the hollow, where the searchers' lanterns had disappeared.  She spoke quietly, "I talked a great deal about the difficulties I had when I was coming down." "Now I feel ashamed of that. Here I am by the fire, and the children are within easy reach. At least we have been spared that." 

Sophie gave Marianne's hand a single press before releasing it. "Yes," she said. "The walking is over for tonight, the cart is still there, and the Lord has allowed us to sit together. Although I have very little strength left, I am grateful for it."

Sophie thought of Ellen Cantwell lying in the wagon. Sister Stewart was lost in the trees, maybe hurt, maybe wandering as the cold set in. Sophie pulled Otto and Anne close and looked into the dark where the searchers had gone.

When the searchers returned, their faces told the story before they spoke. Mud caked their boots. Branches stuck in their hair. Their eyes looked hollow with failure.

"I couldn't find her," Brother Oliver said. "I followed her trail to the creek, but then lost it. It's now too dark, and there are too many places she might have gone."

Captain Willie stood next to the fire with his shadow looming large over the bluff face. "We'll start the search again at first light," he said, "and keep posts throughout the night in case she manages to find her way back."

Sophie closed her eyes, but she couldn’t calm her thoughts. Her children pressed close for warmth. Lying awake, she listened to the night sounds. Somewhere, Sister Stewart was alone in the dark, maybe calling for help, but no one could hear.

Otto coughed in his sleep, a wet sound that made Sophie worry. She pulled him closer and felt his ribs move under her arm. She closed her eyes to pray.

“Lord,” she prayed silently, “if Thou wilt not take this burden from us, then lend us strength enough to bear it. Keep Sister Stewart through the night, whether she walks or lies still, and let some mercy find her before the morning. Lay Thy healing hand upon Ellen Cantwell, and draw the poison from her wound if it be Thy will. Watch over my children, over Peter's weary hands and Emma's valiant heart, over little Otto's breath and Anne's sleep. And if there is courage left for me, help me find it when the light comes again. Amen.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 29 - Shadows of the Bluffs

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 29

Shadows of the Bluffs

Frost came hard for the first time, stiffening the tent canvas until it was hard and brittle. Sophie woke before dawn to her own breath hanging in pale clouds. She reached over and pulled the blanket higher around Otto's shoulders. The boy stirred but did not wake. Beside him, Emma slept with her thumb against her lips, a habit Sophie had tried and failed to break.

She rose quietly. Her joints ached from the cold ground. Outside, the world was white and brittle. The grass along the riverbank stood in frozen spears. The North Platte moved slowly, its edges sealed with a thin skin of ice.

"Sharp one, ain't it?" Marianne stood by the dead fire, her arms wrapped around herself. "Brother Willie says we'll roll at nine. The captains are waiting for the sun to soften the ground."

Peder Mortenson emerged from the gloom. "The ground won't soften much today,” he said, his breath forming a cloud. "Frost this early means the season's turning. I've seen it before—Denmark, '47. The cold came and never left until spring."

Sophie pulled her shawl tighter. "You think it'll hold?"

"I think it'll get worse." Peder squatted by the dead fire and poked the ashes with a stick. "The captains know it too. That's why they're pushing for Ash Hollow—water and shelter before the real cold sets in." He looked up at Sophie, his face serious. "Keep your little ones close today. The trail ahead is bad—sand giving way to rock, the river pressing close, and bluffs steeper than they look."

Sophie nodded. “Another hard day ahead,” she muttered.

She looked toward the river. The bluffs rose on the far side, layered in tan and red stone. She no longer counted the days since Florence. Someone had scratched the miles on a wagon board: more than 380. The numbers mattered less than the tiredness in her children's faces.

"Peter," she called. "Wake the little ones. We need to pack before the bugle."

Peter came out of the tent quickly, all energy and no caution. He was ten and did not know what it meant to be tired. Sophie knew. She had watched the meat melt from her bones and felt her skirts grow loose.

They packed as they had done a hundred times. Carts loaded, tents pulled down. The dying fires hissed as river water hit the coals. Captain Willie rode past on his horse, face grim. He looked like a man carrying a burden he had not chosen.

The company rolled forward at nine, as promised. The sandy roads that had plagued them lately hardened overnight, making it easier to pull. Sophie pulled her cart with Otto fastened to her back in a makeshift sling. The child was two and getting bigger, but he could not keep pace with the older children.

The sun rose, and the frost melted. The sand turned soft again. By noon they reached the foot of the bluffs, where the river pressed close to the stone. Sophie watched the captains point at the ground ahead. The river bottom was marshy, choked with willow and reeds that would catch a cart axle. To reach Ash Hollow, they would have to climb two miles up broken shelves of ochre stone, then descend another two or three miles. What should have been easy miles along the water had become a half-day struggle through rough ground.

"We'll stop here," Captain Willie called out. "Take water from the river. Fill everything you have. It's seven miles to the next reliable source."

The company halted in the shadow of the bluffs. Sophie unslung Otto and set him down on a blanket. Peter went to the river with the water pails while Emma tended to Otto, wiping his face with a corner of her smock. The boy had developed a cough that worried Sophie, though she said nothing. There was little enough to be done for it.

She was unpacking the dried meat when she heard the scream.

It cut through the camp noise like a blade—a child's cry, high and terrified, followed by shouts. Sophie ran before she could think, legs carrying her toward the sandy slope where the younger children played.

When she arrived, Sophie saw Captain Siler standing with his pistol drawn. On the ground lay the twisted body of a rattlesnake, its head blown off, its body still quivering in the dust. And in the arms of Brother Cantwell was little Ellen.

Sophie pushed through the crowd. The girl lay limp in her father’s arms. Suddenly, she gasped and placed her hand on her chest, and Sophie could see the puncture marks in her already swelling hand.

"She was playing in the sand," someone said. "It came out of nowhere."

Brother Cantwell held his daughter as if she might dissolve. "The captain killed it," he said, his voice strange and distant. "But the bite—what do we do for the bite?"

Captain Siler was already holstering his pistol and pulling items from his saddlebag. "Powder and lard," he said. "Best remedy we have. And a little whiskey inside, to steady her."

Sophie watched as the Captain stirred the powder into the lard in his tin cup. He applied the gray paste to Ellen's hand while the girl whimpered, her eyes glassy with shock. Then he produced a flask and tipped a small amount between her lips. Ellen coughed, sputtered, then grew quiet.

"She'll sleep now," Siler said. "The Lord willing, she'll pull through."

Sophie saw doubt in his eyes. He would not meet Brother Cantwell's gaze. She remembered a snakebite in Denmark, a farmhand bitten by an adder in the hay. The man lived, but his arm never worked right again. Ellen was so small.

They carried the girl to her family's wagon, where Sister Cantwell waited. Sophie returned to her own children, who had gathered in a silent cluster by the handcart. Peter held Otto's hand. Tears marked Emma's face; she had not bothered to wipe them.

"Will she die?" Emma questioned, trying to sound brave, but her voice cracked on the last word.

"I don't know," Sophie said. She rarely lied to her children, and she would not start now. "They've given her a remedy. We can only pray."

They ate what passed for dinner: a few bites of tough meat and flour gruel. Sophie chewed without tasting. She kept looking at the Cantwell wagon. No sound came from inside. Peter, usually full of talk, was quiet. Emma kept glancing that way, worry pinching her face. Sophie was about to send her for water when Marianne appeared, shawl tight, cheeks red from the cold. She sat beside Sophie and took a cup of thin gruel. They sat in silence by the dying fire. Marianne stirred her gruel but did not drink. 

Sophie watched Peder, who had set himself near the remaining embers of the fire, carving a length of oak wood with his pocket knife. His hands moved steady and sure, blade flicking thin shavings into a tidy pile at his feet. When he finished, he stood and came to her, offering the newly carved horse to Otto, who took it with a happy squeal.

"That'll help occupy him," Peder said. "Maybe help keep him out of trouble."

Sophie managed a thin smile. “I always liked to make them things. Toys, mostly,” Peder continued. “Our father said I was wasting time, but not every boy wanted to be a farmer.”

She looked at him, trying to see past the stubble and wind-burned skin. "What did you want to be, then?" Peder turned the knife in his hand, thumb caressing the weathered handle. "I wanted to build things instead of grow them," he said. "I was a blacksmith before I was injured."

"If you want," Peder added, more softly now, "I can show Peter how to set a snare for rabbits. It might help.

Sophie hesitated at the offer, but she nodded. "That would be good. Thank you."

Peder nodded. Turning to Peter, he said, “Do you want to learn how to set a rabbit snare?”

The boy came quickly, eager to learn. Sophie watched them walk away. Something eased inside her. It was not hope, but the knot of worry loosened a little.

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