Sophie's Journey - Chapter 15 - The Danish Saints

 

        

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 15

The Danish Saints

The morning dawned hot and humid. Sophie stood by her handcart at Clark's Mill, watching the other Saints prepare. The air smelled of wood smoke and canvas tents.

People around her spoke Danish, the language she grew up with. Sophie watched dust float in the sunlight through the trees and wondered what would happen next.

Their lives had changed. They used to have stone churches and settled homes, but now they lived in tents and rough camps at the edge of the frontier. Sophie knew faith was not about buildings. It was something you carried inside. She gripped the handcart handle and said a silent prayer. She would face whatever came next with the same courage that brought her here.

They were being separated again. The clerks had their lists and formed groups, but to the Danish Saints, it felt as though their lives were being divided even more. The Danes stayed together, drawn by their own language. There were five hundred people in the company, but the Danes kept to themselves, surrounded by English speakers.

It was a comfort for Sophie to pray in words she understood, to hear her own tongue in the voices around her. But it also reminded her how alone they were. The leaders had the maps and the authority. They spoke English. The Danish families followed where they pointed, not always knowing where they were going.

Sophie held onto the sound of her mother's language like a lifeline. It was all she had left of her now.

"Ninety-three of us," Peder said, coming up beside her. He walked with a limp, favoring his left side. His face showed the weariness they all felt. He wiped his forehead with his hand, leaving a dark streak of dirt behind. "Twenty handcarts and five tents for nearly a hundred people. The Brethren have their own kind of math, Sophie. They figure we don't need room to breathe, just room to endure."

Sophie looked at the people near their carts. Most were women. In their group from Denmark, there were twelve women and only four men in her tent assignment.

"It is the math of survival," she said. "The cholera took the men, and the sea took the rest."

"And now the handcarts will take what is left," Peder said quietly, keeping his voice low so the children would not hear. He pointed at the line of carts. The green wood was sticky with sap in the hot Iowa sun. "Look at them. They're made for a short walk, not for crossing a continent. We're mostly widows and broken families, Sophie. Not frontiersmen."

Sophie tightened the knot on her cart's canvas cover. Her fingers were numb from the morning's work. "We have our testimonies," she said. "That's what the missionaries promised would carry us when our legs gave out. Strength isn't just in the body, Peder. It's in the spirit, too."

Peder laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "The spirit can't haul a hundred pounds of flour through the mud," he said. "We're short on men, so the women and boys will have to do the heavy lifting. You can't pray a mountain flat, Sophie. It takes muscle and bone."

He turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched. Sophie watched him go. She knew he was right. She looked at her children. Peter was trying to walk like the teamsters, puffing out his chest to look older than ten. Emma sat in the grass, braiding clover into a crown for little Anne. Otto was asleep under the cart, his small chest rising and falling. It was the only peaceful thing in the camp.

Marianne came toward them, her face pale. Her eyes kept darting around, like she was looking for an escape. "They're saying we'll be separated by language, Sophie, that we'll walk in our own line. Is that because we're special, or because we're a burden?"

"Neither," Sophie said. "It's because they need us to understand the orders. If we stick together, we can help each other. We can share the translating and the pulling."

Marianne looked at the handcart. She was afraid, though she tried to hide it. "I'm not like you, Sophie. I don't have your strength. My father was a tailor. He worked with silk and fine wool, not with dragging wooden carts across the wilderness. When I look at that cart, I don't see a path to Zion. I see a cage on wheels."

"It is only a cage if you refuse to move it," Sophie said. She felt a little sorry for Marianne. "The children are watching us, Marianne. They need to see we are not afraid. That our fear does not control us."

She walked to the front of her handcart and grabbed the pull-bar. The wood was smooth and damp. She gripped it tight and began to pull. The wheels made a loud noise as they rolled over the earth. The cart was heavy, heavier than it looked when the men built it. Now she understood what Peder meant. It was harder than she had thought.

Near the fire, a group of Danish men talked. They argued about the flour and the tents. Sophie could only hear some of what they said. Their faces looked tired and worried.

Among them stood a young man named Niels. His face was bright with a feverish kind of zeal. Sophie found it more frightening than Peder's cynicism.

"The Lord will provide!" Niels shouted, his voice cracking with the effort of conviction. "Did He not part the Red Sea for the Israelites? Will He not smooth the path for the Saints of the latter days? We must not let doubt be the rust that destroys us!"

The older men nodded, but their eyes showed doubt. They were farmers and laborers, men who had spent their lives working the soil. They knew that the Lord usually helps those who help themselves, through strong backs and sharp tools. The handcarts were neither of those things.

Sophie went back to work. She carefully packed the cart. She put the rations box and cooking pot near the axle, then stacked the spare clothes and bedding on top. It was a shaky pile of everything they owned. She wrapped her hymnal, with its lock of hair, in oilcloth and put it in the center to keep it dry. It reminded her of home and gave her hope for the future.

As the afternoon went on, the split in the camp grew more obvious. The English Saints moved differently. Their laughter was louder. They could talk directly to Elder Willie and the captains, and that gave them confidence.

The Danes stood at the edge of the camp and watched. They did not understand everything that was happening. The language barrier made them feel separated from the others.

"Mother, let me help," Peter said, coming to stand beside her as she struggled with a particularly heavy sack. He reached out his small, dirt-streaked hands and gripped the side of the cart, his jaw set in a line that reminded her painfully of his father.

"You are a good boy, Peter," Sophie said, her hand resting briefly on his head. "But you must save your strength for the trail. We have many miles before us, and the cart will feel heavier tomorrow than it does today."

"I am strong," he insisted, his eyes searching hers for a validation she wasn't sure she could give. "I watched the men at the mill. I know how to grease the axles and how to balance the load. I will not let you pull it alone."

Sophie turned away so Peter would not see her tears. She looked at the horizon. The sun was setting behind the trees, and shadows stretched across the mill. The camp was changing. Carts were lined up in a row, ready to head west.

Later that evening, after the children ate, Sophie sat on the cart. The camp was quiet. She heard the fires crackling and voices speaking in English. She looked at the other Danish women, widows and mothers with many children and little strength. She saw determination in their faces, the same feeling she had inside.

The women would carry the weight of the company. It was not the captains or the missionaries, but the women who would pull the carts and bring their families west. They were tired. It showed in their hands and faces.

Sophie touched the handcart. The wood was still damp with sap. The cart would either carry them to the valley or be left behind in the wilderness. She remembered the jasmine in Gentofte and how it smelled in summer. For a moment, she could almost feel the cool grass under her feet.

A child cried out in the next tent. Sophie stood up. Her back ached, and she knew it would keep hurting in the weeks ahead.

She looked west. The Danish group was ready, as ready as faith and preparation could make them. The trail waited in the dark.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 14 - Brother Savage's Warning

Sophoe's Journey - Chapter 14

 

Brother Savage’s Warning

The morning at Clark's Mill was noisy. Saws cut through wood and hammers rang out as men worked hard. Sophie stood at the edge of the carpentry yard. The smell of hickory and pine filled the air. It reminded her of home in Gentofte, but now it only made her think of waiting.

Her handcart sat in the mud beside her. Sap leaked from the joints where the nails would not hold. She put her hand on the frame and could feel how weak it was. The wood was not ready for the journey.

The men worked quickly, their shirts soaked with sweat as they built the carts. Sophie noticed the order in the camp. Everything was counted and organized: tents, handcarts, people. Five hundred people divided into groups. It looked good on paper, but Sophie knew that plans on paper did not always keep people safe.

"They are finishing the axles on the last five," Peter said, his ten-year-old face smudged with sawdust and dirt. He stood with his hands tucked into his waistband, watching the craftsmen with the intense scrutiny of a boy who had been forced to learn the mechanics of survival too quickly.

Sophie ran her hand along the pull-bar of their cart. The wood was still damp. "It’s green, Peter. It hasn’t had time to dry. When the sun hits it on the trail, it will bend and twist."

"The Brethren say the Lord will sustain the wood as He sustains us," Peter replied, though his voice lacked the vibrance of true conviction. He looked toward the mountains they could not yet see; his small shoulders tensed against the weight of the coming miles.

Sophie did not answer. She understood how things worked. Salt pulled water from meat. Cold weather broke stone. Faith was important, but it could not change green wood. Hickory would still bend, no matter how much you prayed.

"Sophie?"

She turned. Marianne walked toward her, holding a small bundle of fabric. Her hands shook, and her eyes were wide. Sophie noticed how out of place Marianne looked in the Iowa mud and noise. The lace collar of her Sunday dress showed under her clothes, a reminder of the life they left behind in Denmark.

"They say we leave within the week," Marianne whispered, her voice almost lost in the noise. She held the bundle tighter. "But look at the carts, Sophie. They are not ready. How can we pull them?" She looked at Sophie, her eyes full of worry. "I am not strong enough for this."

Sophie did not know what to say. She could not give a true answer.

"We pull because we have to," Sophie said. "The carts are our homes now. We will get used to them, and soon it will be all we know."

Marianne looked down at her boots. The soles were already wearing thin. "I dreamed about the jasmine again last night. I could smell it and thought I was back in your garden. Then I woke up to the noise here and remembered I am just one more person in a tent."

"You are a pioneer," Sophie said, though she was not sure she believed it. "We have to let go of what we left behind. The jasmine is not here, Marianne. Only the hickory and the oak."

The camp grew quiet, and Sophie turned toward the road. Men were coming, their clothes covered in dust from the long journey. Their faces were thin and worn from travel.

At the front was Brother Levi Savage, the sub-captain from New York. He had a square jaw and sad eyes. Sophie remembered the things he had said in New York.

He got off his horse slowly, moving stiffly. He handed the reins to a younger man and looked around at the camp. He saw the green wood, the families waiting, and the confusion of people getting ready to leave. He noticed widows holding their children, old men with sticks, and mothers packing their few belongings.

Then he looked at Sophie. She saw him recognize her, and his expression softened for a moment. She wondered what he saw in her.

"Sister Petersen," he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried a strange authority. He walked toward her, his boots thumping solidly against the packed earth. "I see you have made it to the mill. And the children?"

"We are here, Brother Savage," Sophie replied, dipping her head in a brief, respectful nod. "Peter and Emma are helping with the sorting. Anne and Otto are in the tent with the Mortensens. We are ready to move, though the carts seem less ready than the people."

Savage looked at Sophie’s handcart and narrowed his eyes as he touched the damp wood. He grabbed the wheel and shook it. The cart made a noise. Sophie felt uneasy.

He sighed, and it sounded heavy. "July tenth," he muttered, almost to himself. "We are starting late, and these carts are not ready." He looked at Sophie. "It is a hard thing to ask of a mother, Sophie."

"Is it too late?" Sophie asked, her voice dropping so Marianne wouldn't hear. She watched his face, looking for the truth that the official reports often smoothed over with religious fervor. "The brothers say the Lord will hold back the snows for the faithful. They say the late start is a test of our devotion."

Savage turned his gaze to the western horizon, where the sky was a deep, deceptive blue. "The mountains do not care about devotion, Sister. They only care about the physics of the cold. I have seen the snow in the high passes by October. If we leave now, we are racing the very breath of winter, and we are starting that race with broken legs."

Sophie looked at the inventory list again. There were five mules and six yoke of cattle for five hundred people. "You think we will not make it," she said.

"I think we are being asked to perform a miracle with the tools of men," Savage said, his jaw tightening. "I have told the Brethren my mind. I have warned them that leaving now invites the company's destruction. But they speak of faith, and I speak of the trail, and the two languages do not often meet.”

He looked at her. "You are a stubborn woman, Sophie Petersen. I saw it in New York, and I see it now." He paused. "You will need that stubbornness."

He put his hand on the cart again and paused before speaking.

"Do not trust the wood," he said. "Trust your own hands. And when the food gets low, do not wait for the leaders. Tighten your belt before you are truly hungry."

"I have been tightening my belt since Peter died," she said. "The leaders did not notice then either."

She looked back at the cart. "I will not wait for permission to protect my family, Brother Savage. But when the cart breaks, what do I do then? Do I carry what the cart cannot?"

Savage nodded. "Watch the wheels. If the wood starts to split, soak it in the rivers when you cross them. Keep it wet as long as you can, or the sun will ruin the carts before you reach the Platte."

He walked away, and the camp grew quiet. Sophie watched him go to Elder Willie near the command tent. Their voices rose in a heated discussion. She saw the tension in Savage's shoulders as he pointed toward the carts.

"What did he say?" Marianne asked, creeping closer, her face pale. "He looks like a man bringing news of a funeral."

"He told us how to save the carts," Sophie said, turning back to her handcart. "He told us to be careful."

She worked through the afternoon. Her hands tied the lashings again and again. She packed the rations box and cooking pot deep in the cart, where the weight would balance over the axle. She focused on the work, making sure everything was ready.

The sun set over the mill. The company was divided into groups of a hundred. Sophie stood in line with the other women as a clerk called out their names. She was assigned to the Danish group. She did not look at the others. She was learning that survival was something you did on your own, even in a crowd.

She saw Peder being helped toward his cart, his sons on either side. His face looked bitter and tired, as if he had given up. He looked at the cart, then at his sons. Sophie saw the moment when he let go of his pride.

He would now depend on his sons. It was a different kind of burden, and Sophie saw it made him bow his head lower than any load he had carried before.

Late that night, when the children had finally surrendered to sleep, Sophie found herself on the handcart, the wood damp beneath her. The camp had gone quiet - saws silent, hammers still, only the distant howl of a coyote.

She reached into the sack and took out the hymnal. She did not open it, but held it in her hands. The leather felt cool in her palms. The Danish words inside had belonged to her mother before her. She remembered her husband and Thomas. She remembered the smell of jasmine, her home in Gentofte, and the runestones at Jelling on the green hills. Now, those memories seemed distant, as if they belonged to someone else who had not made it from Denmark to Iowa.

She looked at her hands. They were stained with sap and dirt from working with hickory. These were the hands of a woman who would take her four children across a country where no one knew her name. She stood up, her back aching, and looked toward the west. The trail was there, dark and uncertain. She went into the tent, lay down next to Emma, and closed her eyes, trying not to think about what Brother Savage had said.

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Rearview Mirror

 

Rearview Mirror

by Richard Lawry

Eyes ahead as I drive

On a long winding road

Then I glance in the mirror

At the landscape behind

I would have never seen

The places where I have been

The paths where you have led

Without looking behind

Let the rearview mirror show

Let the former scenes unfold

I will not linger here

But the past is clear

Trust His faithful hand

It leads to still water

And to productive land

Now I understand

I take a steadying breath

And think positive thoughts

Memories of how he led

But now I start again

Soft as a quiet whisper

Peace and love fills my heart

Because whatever else happens

I know where I have been

Let the rearview mirror show

Let the former scenes unfold

I will not linger here

But the past is clear

Trust His faithful hand

It leads to still water

And to productive land

Now I understand

Remember the grace

Remember the peace

Remember the love

Of a shepherd on high

Kindness and patience

Flowing from his hand

My rearview mirror

Brings me contentment

It helps me understand

Let the rearview mirror show

Let the former scenes unfold

I will not linger here

But the past is clear

Trust His faithful hand

It leads to still water

And to productive land

Now I understand

It just takes time

But it will fall into line

Just let the rearview mirror show

Let the rearview mirror show

You can listen to the song as recorded by Faded Chrome at this link

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 13 - The Promise

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 13

The Promise

The morning at Clark's Mill was warm and damp. Smoke from the fires mixed with the smell of wet earth. Sophie found Peder Mortensen sitting on a low trunk near the edge of the Danish camp. He looked older than his forty-eight years, with deep lines on his face and a gray beard. The journey across the Atlantic had left him with a habit of talking too much, as if words could hide how tired he really was.

His wife Lena worked quietly beside him. Sophie noticed how Lena's hands moved quickly as she sorted through their few belongings. She looked like a woman who had lost more than she wanted to, and Sophie understood that feeling.

"You see how the wood bends?" Peder said, pointing at the cart. "It is green. In Denmark, we would not use this kind of wood, not even for a pigsty. But here, we have to trust it to carry our children and us." Sophie knew he was worried the handcarts would not last.

Sophie replied, “It is what we have, Peder. The wood is young, yes, but so is our journey. Perhaps it will season as we do, growing harder under the sun of the plains.”

Peder laughed, then coughed. "Wood needs time to dry, and we have wasted too much time already. We sold everything—the farm, the cattle, even our bed—because we were told to hurry to Zion. Now we wait for carts that are not ready and leaders who pray while the season changes."

"We are here because we chose to be," Sophie said, her voice sharper than she intended. Peder's complaints bothered her, but she also understood them. He had sold his place in Denmark and left his community behind. Now he was a refugee, and even the wood for the carts was letting him down.

"We gave up the comfort of the known for the promise of the valley," she said, and heard how it sounded, like something from a hymn she was not sure she believed. "Does the promise change because the wood is green?"

Lena looked at Sophie. Sophie saw in her eyes the tired understanding of women who knew how hard it was to carry heavy promises, especially when others could not walk the whole way themselves.

"He is only worried," Lena said quietly. "The mission president's promise is hard for him, especially since he cannot walk the whole way himself."

Sophie nodded. She knew about heavy things. She knew about promises that sat heavily on the heart.

The promise Lena spoke of was a shadow hanging over the entire Mortensen family, a spiritual contract signed in Copenhagen when their eldest son, Morten, was asked to remain behind as a missionary. The mission president had looked Peder in the eye and told him that, because of Morten’s sacrifice, every member of the family would reach Zion safely. It was a terrifyingly specific blessing, one that turned every broken axle and every rainy night into a test of prophetic accuracy. 

Sophie saw Peder's jaw tighten. He had eight children to care for, from little Kirsten to his grown sons. The blessing promised safety if they sacrificed. Sophie thought about her own children and the promise she had been given in her dream when Peter Hansen told her, "Go to Zion, and you shall behold the face of the Prophet, and your legacy shall be a forest grown from a single, stubborn seed in the wilderness."

“Safe passage,” Peder muttered, rubbing his knee where the old injury from a falling timber in Denmark had left him partially disabled. “A fine thing to say when you are the one staying in a warm house in Copenhagen. I had the money for a wagon, Sophie. I had the gold in my belt to buy a team and a sturdy box where I could sit when this leg failed me.”

“You gave that money to the church,” Sophie reminded him.  “You did a noble thing, Peder. You followed the counsel of the leaders.”

"I followed the advice of men who do not have to pull their own weight," Peder said, his voice sharp. He looked down at his bad leg and gripped the bench. "How can I lead them, Sophie? A father who must be carried is just another burden for his sons."

Sophie set Otto down and knelt beside Peder. She remembered Peter and the cottage she left in Gentofte. "You are the anchor, Peder. The boys do not just pull a burden. They see a father who gave up his wagon so others could walk. That is the kind of father who makes it on the trail."

Peder looked away. He stared at the Iowa prairie stretching before them, wide and empty. "It is an exhausting thing," he said, "when the clouds sit this low." He paused, and she felt the words coming before he spoke them. "You speak as if faith were a map. But I think it is more like a blindfold."

"Maybe it is both," Sophie said, standing up as Emma came with sticks for the fire. "A map for our hearts and a blindfold for our fears. We will find our way, Peder. Even if we have to pull ourselves every step on these green-wood carts."

Later that afternoon, the wind picked up and blew hard through the camp. Sophie was at the washing tubs, her hands in the water. Marianne stood beside her, scrubbing a shirt quickly, as if she could wash away more than just dirt.

They worked in silence. It was the silence of women who understood each other. The wind rattled the canvas behind them.

“Peder Mortensen is complaining again,” Marianne said, her voice thin and distracted. “I heard him speaking to Elder Willie about the rations. He says the flour is already running low.”

“Peder would find a flaw in the gates of heaven if the hinges squeaked,” Sophie said, wringing out one of Peter’s stockings. “But he is not wrong about the flour. We are eating through our reserves before we have even left the mill. It is a hard thing to watch the children look at the bottom of the bowl.”

Marianne stopped scrubbing. Her hands were red from the lye soap. "Do you ever regret it, Sophie? Selling the house? The spoons? Sometimes I wake up and forget why we are here. I remember the jasmine by your gate in Gentofte."

Sophie looked at Marianne and saw how tired she was. "I remember the jasmine," she said quietly. "But I also remember the debt. The house felt smaller every day. Now we are out here, and it is hard, but at least the air is ours."

"It is a high price for air," Marianne said, turning back to the tub. She did not look up again. Sophie felt a familiar fear. She had seen that look before, on the ship crossing the Atlantic. She wanted to say something comforting, but could not find the words.

Sophie walked back to her handcart, thinking about what Peder and Marianne had said. She liked things she could touch and count, like coins, grain, or the ticking of a clock. Now, nothing felt certain. She was heading for a place she only knew from promises and dreams.

She checked the lashings, her fingers finding the rough twine she had reinforced herself. Something solid, at least. Something her hands could trust.

As the sun set, Sophie saw Peder leaning on his two oldest sons. He looked weak, his feet dragging in the dirt. He had no wagon or oxen, only a handcart made of green wood that might not last. His son, Morton, was still in Copenhagen, far away.

Sophie stood in the twilight as the camp grew quiet. Five hundred people were getting ready for another night on the ground. She was not just carrying her own load. She was carrying the future. She put her hand in her pocket and felt her hymnal. The Danish words inside were her only guide.

Peder might doubt, but Sophie would keep going. She would hold the pull-bar and walk the trail, no matter what.

As night fell, Sophie remembered Gentofte. She did not think of the debt or the jasmine, but of a dream she once had in her cottage. In the dream, a man stood where the desert met the mountains. His face was bright, and his voice was strong. The dream had stayed with her ever since.

He spoke as if reading something already written in her bones: “Go to Zion, and you shall behold the face of the Prophet, and your legacy shall be a forest grown from a single, stubborn seed in the wilderness.”

Now, sitting on the edge of her cart as the stars came out, Sophie remembered the promise from her dream. She felt both fear and hope. The dream had not ended when she woke up. It was still with her, waiting for her to finish the journey.

She sat on her cart, watching the stars appear in the western sky. They did not promise anything. They were far away, and she was here, still breathing. And that was enough for now.

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Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 12 - The Price of Liberty

 

Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 12

The Price of Liberty

Sophie struggled to breathe at Clark's Mill. The air was thick with sawdust and the sharp smell of metal from men sharpening axes. She stood apart from the others and watched Elder Willie rub his temples, trying to bring some order to the confusion around him.

They kept repeating that there were five hundred people to prepare, feed, and move west before winter. Sophie noticed that the men were more concerned about their place in line than about how to keep everyone safe. She did not know Elder Willie well, but he looked tired and worried. The hickory behind him was still green and not ready to use. Nothing here was ready—not the wood, not the men, not the plan that had sounded so sure back in Liverpool.

Sophie thought about her husband, Peter. He would have stood quietly with the men, waiting to help. He was patient. She was not. As the men argued, Sophie wondered if anyone had asked God if five hundred was the right number, or if it was just what the elders had decided.

Peder Mortenson spoke quietly to her. "They are arguing about where to put the supply wagons again," he said, leaning against a handcart that looked barely strong enough to use. Sophie did not turn. There were too many voices now, too many people needing her help.

"The wood is still wet," Peder said. "It is green and not ready. It will break when we need it most."

She looked at the horizon, where clouds were gathering. "The wagons do not matter if we lack shelter," she said. "The carts are for travel. The tents are essential for survival. My children are already coughing."

She did not say that she no longer knew how to pray for her children. She did not say that Peter would have known what to do. Some things were too hard to share with someone she barely knew. But she thought Peder might understand. He paid attention to the wood, and she was learning that the wood told the truth about this place before the people did.

Sophie knew that a cart without a shelter was useless. She walked toward the canvas, already thinking about how much work it would take to sew enough tents for everyone.

"We are to make them circular," Marianne whispered, appearing like a thought Sophie had not finished thinking. She held a spool of thread so thin it seemed an act of faith to trust it. "Twenty people to a tent, they say. Twenty people around a single center pole, like spokes on a broken wheel."

Sophie looked at the thread, then at Marianne, who looked tired and worried. She wanted to comfort her, but all she could think about was her sick children. Twenty people in one tent did not feel like a community. It felt like a struggle to survive.

She picked up a piece of canvas. "It is better than being out in the rain, Marianne. We will sew as long as we have to so the children can sleep dry. We have to take care of ourselves now."

Sophie worked with the other women, sewing the tents together. They worked quietly, each focused on the task. The tents went up one by one, a small hope that God would help them through.

That night, heavy rain fell, flooding the camp. Sophie lay in the tent with her children, packed closely with the others. The water came in fast, and no one could keep dry.

The air inside the tent was damp and close. The canvas leaked, and soon the blankets were wet and cold. Sophie thought of Peter and how he would have tried to fix the leak or make her laugh about it.

But Peter was gone. Only the rain, the twenty people, and the sagging tent remained.

"Mother, the floor is melting," Emma whispered. She curled up, trying to keep her dress out of the mud that was coming in under the tent. Sophie pulled her close, trying to keep her warm.

"It is just the ground, Emma," Sophie said. "The sun will come in the morning. For now, we must stay together and hold on."

In the morning, the sun did come out. The people came out of their tents, tired and muddy, but they gathered together. As the sun dried their clothes, they sang hymns and listened to the word of God.

Sophie felt her spirits lift as she sang with the others. For a moment, the problems with the wood and the leaking tent did not seem so important.

After the meeting, the sun rose higher, and the mud began to dry. Sophie stood with the others, grateful for the warmth and the dry air.

The next day was the Fourth of July. Elder Willie told everyone to rest from their work in honor of Independence Day. In the center of the camp, a makeshift platform was erected, with an American flag flying from a thin pole. 

Sophie and her children stood near the platform as several of the brethren spoke about liberty, about freedom, about a nation that had fought for what it believed.

The flag waved in the breeze as Elder Willie stepped to the edge of the platform. He removed his hat, revealing a forehead pale against his wind-burned face, and looked out over the sea of sun-scorched bonnets and waistcoats.

"Today, the air of this land rings with the sound of bells and cannons," Willie began, his raspy baritone carrying across the hushed clearing. "They celebrate a liberty won with blood and steel. But we—we gather to celebrate a higher independence. You have already declared your freedom from the kings of Europe and the traditions of your fathers. You have traded the comforts of Egypt for the promise of the wilderness." He gestured toward the snapping flag, then to the half-finished carts. "Liberty is not a gift that is given; it is a weight that is carried. To reach the mountain of the Lord, we must be light of foot and pure of heart. We are called to sacrifice the heavy things of this world—not as a punishment, but as the price of a kingdom. Remember this day: for in the shedding of what we once were, we find the strength for what we must become."

Sophie listened with her children. She was not used to hearing about American patriotism, but she saw that it mattered a lot to the men. They believed in a promised land, and she understood that it came with a price.

"They speak of liberty," Peder said beside her, arms crossed, his eyes on the frayed edge of the flag where the fabric had already begun to surrender to the weather. "But liberty has a price, Sophie. Seventeen pounds per person. That is all we are allowed to take from here. That is the price of our freedom. Seventeen pounds to carry your life across a continent."

She looked at him, then at her children, and then at the flag above them. Seventeen pounds. She remembered her mother's china, already sold, and the books she had left behind in Gentofte.

Seventeen pounds. Sophie thought about how little that was. It meant they were no longer settlers but survivors who had to leave things behind.

She stood in the Iowa heat, watching the flag in the wind, and knew that what she carried would have to be enough to start over.

"Seventeen pounds?" Marianne's voice rose, bordering on a frantic pitch, drawing glances from nearby families. "Sophie, my china tea set... the linens my mother gave me. I cannot. I have already lost so much. To leave the rest in this mud... it is too much to ask."

Sophie looked at her friend's trembling hands and then down at her own children. "We will manage, Marianne. We will take what can keep us alive and leave the rest to the Lord. We cannot pull our memories to the valley. The carts will not hold them."

The camp turned into a marketplace. Families laid out their belongings on blankets, and the locals came to buy what they could. Sophie stood by her handcart with her extra things: her mother's wool shawl, the silver spoons from her wedding, and the brass candlestick that had made it across the ocean.

A man approached, his face like leather left too long in the sun. His eyes found the spoons and stayed there, calculating. "Dollar for the lot," he said. No question in it, no room for her to answer. "Take it or leave it in the dirt."

Sophie looked at the spoons. They were worth much more than a dollar, and both she and the man knew it. She felt anger rise in her.

"They are worth more than a dollar, sir,” she said. “I would sooner bury them in the woods than see them taken for nothing."

"Bury 'em then." He turned, spitting the words over his shoulder like seeds onto stone. "The dirt won't give you a dollar. And the dirt won't feed your kids when the flour runs out."

Sophie stood, holding the spoons, and wondered whether it was better to leave them in the ground than to sell them for so little.

She knelt in the mud and began to pack. Blankets, clothes, a cooking pot. Seventeen pounds. She weighed each item, thinking of the memories attached to them. What she could not take, she wrapped in the wool shawl and left at the edge of the clearing, where others had left their things too.

She held the wool shawl for a moment and remembered her mother's hands the last time they touched.

"You did not sell it?" Peder stood with a kettle in his hands, weighing it the way she had weighed everything, utility against mass, memory against miles.

"I will not be robbed by men who see our faith as a bargain." The words came out bold, though she did not feel bold.

The sun dropped below the horizon, ending the Independence Day celebration. The flag hung from its pole like a wet shirt, too tired to move. Sophie sat on the frame of her cart and remembered Atwood's warning: thirteen hundred miles of prairie and mountain, with winter bearing down on her like a debt she could not pay. She was a widow with four children and seventeen pounds of hope. Either it would be enough or it would not, and she would not know which until she had walked far enough to learn the answer.

She did not look back at the pile of discarded items. She looked west, where the horizon lay in wait, and thought, “So this is the price of liberty.”

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Levi Savage Journal from August 27, 1856 - October 25, 1856

One of the sources I am using for the story of Sophie Petersen is the diary that Levi Savage kept while he was a part of the Willie Handcart Company. I am sharing it here to give you a better picture of the life Sophie and her children experienced on the handcart journey.

August 1856

Wednesday, 27th August 1856 This morning we left the Loup Fork. At 12 o'clock we came to some wells, and from there traveled over sandy roads to a pond of poor water, having traveled about 15 miles. We encamped. Captain Bunker's Company passed on the 10th instant.

Thursday, 28th August 1856 (Wood River) Today we crossed Prairie Creek about 12 o'clock. From this point, Brother Siler and I went in search of buffalo. We saw four and shot at them, but got none. The handcarts and teams moved on to Wood River, some 8 or 10 miles. Brother Siler and I found the carts about 2 miles from the river. The teams did not get to camp until after dark; they left old Brother Haley behind, a mile and a half or two miles distant. They sought for him but in vain. He lay out all night and encountered a heavy rainstorm.

Friday, 29th August 1856 (Wood River) This morning, all healthy men in camp were requested by Brother Willie to go in search of Brother Haley. They found him about a mile and a half from camp, wet and cold but in good spirits. We started at 12 o'clock p.m. We traveled 5 or 6 miles and came to a camp of 800 Pawnee Indians. They are hunting buffalo, and yesterday killed 90. We bought some meat of them. They informed me of A. Babbitt's teamster being killed by the Cheyennes; a woman that was with them was carried captive, and her child, 10 months old, was killed. The U.S. Troops followed and killed some of them.

Saturday, 30th August 1856 (Wood River) This morning the Indians came to the camp early to trade more. At 7 o'clock a.m. we were under way. At 12 p.m. we stopped to dine. Here we saw two oxen in the yoke at a distance. Brother J. Elder and myself went on horseback and got them. They were very wild. We had a hard run for them. From this, we traveled until near 6 p.m. and encamped, having traveled about 15 miles. A. Babbitt, whose teamsters were killed and who stopped back on business, has just overtaken us. I have not spoken to him yet.

Sunday, 31st August 1856 (Deer Creek & Platte River) This morning Mr. A. Babbitt left us and went to Fort Kearny. He brought an elderly sister from Florence, intending to take her to the valley, but due to the robbery committed upon him by the Indians, he is unable to do so. He hired Brother Siler to take her. We traveled 18 miles. Had a good camping ground.

September 1856

Monday, 1st September 1856 (Buffalo Creek) Today we traveled about 18 miles. This evening we killed a buffalo and a cow for beef; the cow was shot 11 times before she fell. I never saw a beast so murdered before. Brother Willie had some disagreeable words concerning Brother Siler driving his teams between the handcarts and in front of the handcart teams. I objected to his driving there, it being to us a traveling camp with our sick. Brother Willie says he shall drive there, as he has driven there from Florence except for two days.

Tuesday, 2nd September 1856 (Buffalo Creek) Today we traveled 13 miles and encamped at 4 o'clock. Plenty of buffalo in sight. Some of the brethren shot at them but got none.

Wednesday, 3rd September 1856 (Near Chugwater Lake) This morning, just after daylight, Sister Ingra, aged 75 years—who had been sick and deranged since leaving England and had been drawn in a handcart from Iowa City—died. She suffered much. The camp moved on while Elder Willie and others remained on the ground and buried her. At 12 o'clock, the brethren killed two buffalo near the road. We took the meat on the handcarts, traveled 16 miles, and encamped without wood. We cooked our food with buffalo chips (dry dung). Brother J. Elder and I went on horseback and endeavored to get a buffalo calf or cow. The old bulls would not let us have any. They formed themselves in battle array, ready to receive their enemy. Their large heads were to be seen in all directions. We did not get to camp until after dark.

Thursday, 4th September 1856 (Near Chugwater Lake) Some time last night, 30 of our best working cattle left us. We had a guard around them, but no one knows when or where they went. I and a number of the brethren spent the day unsuccessfully hunting them. As I passed down the river, I saw Brother Smoot's train on the opposite side, south. We had an awful storm last night.

Friday, 5th September 1856 (Near Chugwater Lake) Today we also searched for the cattle without success. Brothers Atwood, Siler, and Jolley visited Brother Smoot's company across the Platte. I came to camp at dark and found Brothers Smoot and Rockwell, who had accompanied Brother Atwood's company to camp. I was glad to see them. They stopped with us all night.

Saturday, 6th September 1856 (Near Chugwater Lake) This morning, Brothers Elder and Smith started back toward Florence after our stray oxen. The remainder of us moved the camp, half at a time, about 3 miles. About 3 o'clock p.m., Brother Smoot and Rockwell left us to overtake their train, which is supposed to be moving 15 miles ahead.

Sunday, 7th September 1856 (Near Chugwater Lake) This morning, four men from California were seen encamped near us. Brother Willie, myself, and others visited them. The names of three of them are as follows: James H. Hurn (he said they had left a horse about 18 miles back, and if I could find him I might have him), Franklin Hawkins, and John Hawkins. They were short of provisions. They intended to go to Kearny, then to Missouri. We spent a part of the day in a meeting preaching to the people, and the remainder in repairing our handcarts and yoking unbroken cows.

Monday, 8th September 1856 (Platte River) This morning, a discharged soldier from Laramie came into camp and reported two families from Salt Lake were killed by the Indians. One of their names was Thomas Margetts. They were all well known by many of the Saints in this camp. We transferred from our wagons onto our handcarts about 4,000 pounds of flour, hitched up our teams, and got under way about 11 o'clock. We went 10 miles and camped by the Platte just at dark. Numbers of the sick did not get in until some time after. Our wild cows worked extraordinarily well; surely the hand of the Lord is with us yet.

Tuesday, 9th September 1856 (Platte River) This morning we started rather late and had heavy, sandy roads. We traveled about 12 miles and encamped at 4 o'clock p.m. on Skunk Creek. Our teams, as well as the Saints, were very tired.

Wednesday, 10th September 1856 (Platte River) Today we had sandy roads, traveled 14 miles, and encamped at the Cold Springs.

Thursday, 11th September 1856 (Platte River) Today we have had good roads and crossed several creeks, over which most of the women and children were carried by Brothers Willie, Atwood, and others. All are in good spirits and but few are sick. The flour on some of the carts draws very hard.

Friday, 12th September 1856 (North Bluff Fork) This morning we started at half-past eight and traveled eleven miles, crossing this creek about four o'clock p.m. Soon after this, Brothers F. D. Richards, D. Spencer, C. H. Wheelock, William Kimball, and others came up with us, as well as Brothers Elder and Smith, who went in search of our cattle. It was a joyful meeting. No one has heard of or seen our cattle, to our knowledge. This evening, by moonlight, we held a meeting. President Richards and others spoke, congratulating the Saints on their arduous journey and the blessings they should hereafter receive. We had a good time.

Saturday, 13th September 1856 (South Bank of the Platte) This morning, agreeable to Brother Richards' request and Brother Willie's orders, we arose at 4 o'clock, got breakfast, and made ready for starting at 7 o'clock a.m. At this time, our teams being hitched to our wagons and our handcarts packed ready for starting, very unexpectedly to me, I perceived a meeting of the Saints was called—not on the camp ground as usual, but a short distance to one side. I supposed it was for prayers.After singing and prayers, Brother Richards commenced to speak, and I soon perceived that the meeting was called in consequence of the wrong impression made by my expressing myself so freely at Florence concerning our crossing the plains so late in the season. The impression left was that I condemned the handcart scheme, which is radically wrong. I never conveyed such an idea nor felt to do so; quite to the contrary, I am in favor of it.The meeting was also called more particularly because someone, unknown to me, informed Brother Richards of the disagreeable words that took place between Brother Willie and myself concerning Brother Siler's teams traveling between the handcarts and front wagons, which I supposed was settled when I asked Brother Willie's and the Saints' forgiveness for all that I had said and done wrong. Brother Richards reprimanded me sharply. Brother Willie said that was the spirit I had manifested since Iowa City. This is something unknown to me and something he never before expressed. I had always held the best of feelings toward him and supposed he had toward me until now, except in the case of Brother Siler mentioned above.After the meeting, President Richards and company left us, intending to arrive in Salt Lake City in time for the October conference. Agreeable to his counsel, we crossed the river onto the south side and encamped. The water was shallow, but it required a strong team to draw our wagons through the sandy bed of the river, a mile distant.

Sunday, 14th September 1856 (Platte River) Today we traveled up the Platte bottom 12 miles and camped by the river again.

Monday, 15th September 1856 (Platte Hills) This forenoon we traveled up the bottom on good roads. In the afternoon, we commenced to ascend the bluffs. The ascent was sand, which caused very hard pulling. As we reached the summit, three Indians came to us. They appeared friendly and said that the Cheyennes and Sioux would kill us all, and that they had, some five days ago, fallen upon a large train. What damage was done we did not ascertain, and we only have the Indians' word to confirm it at best.At sundown, we camped around a small buffalo wallow which had been recently filled by the recent rains. We were all much fatigued with our day's journey. We chained our oxen to the wagons, for there was neither feed nor water, and we had some fears of the Indians. We set a strong guard. About 2 o'clock a.m., an alarm was made. I immediately got out of bed but saw nor heard nothing of Indians. Some said they saw one and heard the voices of others.

Tuesday, 16th September 1856 (Platte Bluffs) This morning, the camp was called by the sound of the bugle at 3 o'clock and moved before daylight. We traveled some 10 miles, during which distance we descended through a rough canyon to the Platte, where we took breakfast at 10 o'clock a.m. Here we remained until 2 p.m., when we moved up the river three or four miles and encamped for the night. Both people and teams are much fatigued by the heavy, sandy roads.

Wednesday, 17th September 1856 (Platte River) This morning, just before the camp got under way, a cold and strong wind arose from the northwest. This, together with the heavy sand, made our progress very slow and extremely laborious. Several were obliged to leave their carts, and they, with the infirm, could scarcely get into camp. Our teams also, at times, could scarcely move. We traveled about 10 miles.

Thursday, 18th September 1856 (Ash Hollow) This morning we got under way as usual and traveled 4 or 5 miles to where the road ascended the bluffs. Here we dined, then doubled our teams and ascended the long, steep hill. Immediately upon reaching the summit, we commenced descending into Ash Hollow and encamped at its mouth by the Platte. At dinner, Sister Reed, whom Brother Babbitt left with us, was missing. It was ascertained that she was ahead, but she is not in camp, and no one knows where she is. She is bound to stay out one night.

Friday, 19th September 1856 (Mouth of Ash Hollow) Today we remained in camp to repair our carts. Some are broken, and on others, the axles are badly worn. Brother Chislett, with a company of brethren, went in search of Sister Reed. About 11 o'clock a.m., they returned and reported they had followed her footsteps 7 or 8 miles, mingled with Indian footsteps, and supposed that the Indians had got her.President Willie was not fully satisfied and determined to go himself; he chose me and ten others. We found her steps as reported, but I was satisfied that she had not been disturbed by Indians. She had taken the road up Ash Hollow, going back to the South Fork of the Platte. About 5 miles out, we found her steps coming back, but they soon left the road. Dark came, and we returned to camp, where we found she had just been brought in by some of the brethren who had gone to the canyon for timber. She was nearly exhausted, having been 36 hours without food and water. The weather is extremely warm.

Saturday, 20th September 1856 (Platte River) At 2 o'clock p.m., having repaired our carts, we started and traveled 6 or 8 miles. The weather is cold, and this evening a mist of rain commenced to fall. No wood.

Sunday, 21st September 1856 (Platte River) Last night was very rainy and disagreeable; it is also wet and cold today. Many are sick and stopping back to get into the wagons. The roads are very sandy. We could scarcely move. Sister Leafson's little boy, 2 years old, died at 11 o'clock last night. The weather is still cold and damp. Traveled 12 miles.

Monday, 22nd September 1856 (Platte River) This forenoon a mist of rain was still falling. In the afternoon, the clouds broke a little, the rain stopped, and it became a little warmer. We have traveled about 12 miles today. Brother Empey departed this life at half-past one p.m. One of his hands and arms was nearly covered with putrefied sores, which I should suppose were hereditary. He had been having the ague for some time past, but no one thought him dangerous.

Tuesday, 23rd September 1856 (Platte River) This morning was cold and foggy. The Saints were dilatory in rising and getting breakfast early, notwithstanding Brother Willie's repeated orders to arise at the sound of the horn (daylight)—apparently not realizing the necessity of our making as much distance as possible in order to reach the valley before too severe cold weather sets in. Some complain of hard treatment because we urge them along. Many hang on to the wagons. This afternoon, we came in sight of Chimney Rock and camped within 10 miles of it. Have traveled 16 miles.

Wednesday, 24th September 1856 (Platte River, near Chimney Rock) Today we traveled 16 miles. Camped near Chimney Rock. I thought we were nearer to it last night than we actually were. We have fine weather.

Thursday, 25th September 1856 (Platte River) Today we traveled about 16 miles, and at five o'clock encamped a short distance above Robidoux's late trading post. Just before we arrived at the post, we caught a large bay horse. He is very thin in flesh and has been left, no doubt, by some company passing to or from Great Salt Lake or California.

Friday, 26th September 1856 (Platte River) Today we traveled 14 miles without water. Some of our oxen nearly gave out. We camped at Robidoux's old trading post. When we stopped at 12 o'clock p.m., Sister Ann Bryant—who had been ill some time but was not thought to be in danger—was found dead in the wagon in a sitting posture, apparently asleep. Her age would have been 70 years next month.

Saturday, 27th September 1856 (Platte River) Today we traveled about 12 miles. The old appear to be failing considerably.

Sunday, 28th September 1856 (Platte River, 20 miles from Laramie) Today we traveled 16 miles. At 12 o'clock, we met a company from Salt Lake going to the States, I think mostly apostates. Benjamin Brackenbury was with them. They said Babbitt was killed by the Indians. Just before camping, some soldiers who were camped near the road took the horse that we had caught, by force.

Monday, 29th September 1856 (5 miles below Fort Laramie) Today we traveled about 14 miles. Brothers Woodward and Elder went to the fort. Brother Richards has no cattle provided for us here, and no other provisions have been made.

Tuesday, 30th September 1856 (Fort Laramie) Today we moved on 6 miles and camped 2 miles from the fort.October 1856

Wednesday, 1st October 1856 (Platte River) This morning, Brother David Reeder was found dead in his bed. He had been ill some time with no particular disease but debility. He was a good man and a worthy member of the Church. Brother Siler and his company stopped here to recruit and strengthen his teams, and to join the first wagon company that arrives here bound for the valley. Our camp moved on, and Brothers Willie, Atwood, myself, and others went to the fort and purchased provisions. They are extremely costly. I stopped all night with Brother Siler and company.

Thursday, 2nd October 1856 Early this morning, I returned to the fort, sold my watch (which cost me 20 dollars) for eleven, and purchased a pair of $6.00 boots and other articles. Then I proceeded to overtake the camp. On my way, I met a company of elders from the valley bound for the different nations of the earth to preach the Gospel. I met Brother Parley P. Pratt in camp. He spoke cheeringly to the Saints. Today, Brother Read died of a disease of the heart. His age was 64.

Friday, 3rd October 1856 (Platte River) Today we left the river and crossed over the hills, said to be 22 miles to feed and water. We traveled until 8 o'clock p.m. and camped within half a mile of a spring, but there was no feed for our cattle. We were all fatigued. Brother Ingra, aged 68, died just after we camped.

Saturday, 4th October 1856 This morning at 10 o'clock we started and traveled about five miles to a small creek and encamped. We took an estimate of our provisions and reduced our rations to 12 ounces per day. Pacific Springs is the only place where we are sure of meeting supplies. Brother Benjamin Culley, aged 61 years, and David Yadd, aged 2 years, died. All three were buried, as well as a Dane who died last night. Some stealing is practiced by some; consequently, we put all the provisions into three wagons and placed a guard over them.

Sunday, 5th October 1856 At eight o'clock this morning we got under way. We have had good roads and traveled about 16 miles. Camped by the Platte. The weather is very fine.

Monday, 6th October 1856 (Platte River) Today we traveled 16 miles. Our rations are now reduced to an average of 12 ounces of flour per head. We are not certain of supplies before arriving at Pacific Springs

.Tuesday, 7th October 1856 (Platte River) Today we traveled 14 miles. The weather is good.

Wednesday, 8th October 1856 (Deer Creek) When we arose this morning, we found the best ox in our train dead. In the weak state of our teams, the loss impaired us much. At 9 o'clock a.m. we moved and traveled 15 miles. Our old people are nearly all failing fast. A four-mule team express from Laramie is camped near us; they passed us this afternoon.

Thursday, 9th October 1856 (Platte River) Today we moved 16 miles.

Friday, 10th October 1856 (Last Crossing of the Platte) At about 12 o'clock, we passed the Platte Bridge. Here we got 31 buffalo robes which President Richards purchased for us. Moved on 5 miles, crossed the river, and encamped. Our teams are very weak.

Saturday, 11th October 1856 (Mineral Springs) Today we traveled 12 miles. Three of our working cows gave out and one died, and the remainder of our oxen were nearly overcome.

Sunday, 12th October 1856 (Small Creek) Today, we left out of the yoke some of our cows that were nearly exhausted. Last night our cattle had good feed, and they traveled much better today than yesterday. One of the cows that was overrun with work, though driven less, could not be got within a mile of camp. By Brother Willie's order, several of the brethren went back to kill her for the people to eat (if they wanted to). They struck her twice in the head with an ax; she got up and ran into camp, where she was shot, dressed, and issued out. The people have sharp appetites.

Monday, 13th October 1856 (Greenwood Creek) Today we have traveled 13 miles. The nights are cold; the days are warm and pleasant.

Tuesday, 14th October 1856 (Independence Rock) Today we traveled 12 miles, got some saleratus out of the Saleratus Lake, and crossed the Sweetwater River at the second bridge.

Wednesday, 15th October 1856 (Sweetwater) Today we traveled 15½ miles. Last night, Caroline Reeder, aged 17 years, died and was buried this morning. The people are getting weak and failing very fast; a great many are sick. Our teams are also failing fast, and it requires great exertion to make any progress. Our rations were reduced last night by one quarter, bringing the men's to 10½ ounces, the women's to 9 ounces, and the children's to 6 ounces and 3 ounces each.

Thursday, 16th October 1856 (Sweetwater) This morning we had three deaths and one birth. We have traveled 11 miles today. Our oxen are much worn down, and our loading increases daily by the weak and sick.

Friday, 17th October 1856 (Sweetwater) At 2 o'clock this morning, Brother William Philpot died and was buried before we started. At 10 o'clock the camp moved, traveled 10 miles, and encamped at sunset.

Saturday, 18th October 1856 (Fourth Crossing of the Sweetwater) Today we traveled eight miles, camped, killed a beef, and prepared for a 16-mile drive with water. The weather is cool but fair.

Sunday, 19th October 1856 (Fifth Crossing of the Sweetwater) At half-past 10 o'clock we started. In about one hour, we encountered a very severely cold and blustering snowstorm; for one hour, the poorly clad women and children suffered much. At 12 o'clock, we met Brother Wheelock and company, who have come to our relief. He reported 40 wagons loaded with flour just one day in advance of us. This was joyful news to us, for we had eaten the last pound of flour, having only 6 small beeves and 400 pounds of biscuit to provision over 400 people.After a short meeting, in which Brothers Wheelock and Joseph A. Young spoke cheeringly to the Saints, we moved on. The wind continued strong and cold. The children, aged, and infirm fell back to the wagons until they were so full that all in them were extremely uncomfortable. Brother Knowles, aged 66 years, died during the day in a handcart hitched behind one of the wagons. Sister Smith, aged, and Daniel Esplin, aged 8 years, died in the wagons. They had been ill some time. The carts arrived at the river at dark. The wagons, it being dark, took another road and did not get into camp until 11 o'clock p.m., nearly exhausted; so was myself and the teamsters.

Monday, 20th October 1856 (Sixth Crossing of the Sweetwater) This morning when we arose, we found several inches of snow on the ground, and it is still snowing. The cattle and people are so much reduced by short food and hard work that, unless we get assistance, we surely cannot move far in this snow. Brother Willie, the captain, and elders started on horseback about 10 o'clock to search for the wagons that Wheelock reported a short distance in advance of us. This morning we issued the last bread or breadstuffs in our possession. It continued snowing severely during the day. We expected Brother Willie would return this evening, but he has not come.

Tuesday, 21st October 1856 (Sixth Crossing of the Sweetwater) This morning about eleven o'clock, Brother Willie returned with Brother George D. Grant, bringing a good supply of teams, wagons, provisions, and some clothing—a desirable relief. Here, we buried several persons.

Wednesday, 22nd October 1856 We prepared for starting and commenced moving about 12 o'clock. Brother Grant took a good portion of the teams and continued his journey to meet Brother Martin's company, and Brother William H. Kimball took charge of our company. We traveled about 10 miles and camped at the foot of what is called the Rocky Ridge. I had charge of the teams, and because of their reduced strength and heavy loads—a large number of sick and children being in the wagons—I did not arrive in camp until late at night. The wind blew bleak and cold, and firewood was very scarce. The Saints were obliged to spread their light bedding on the snow, and in this cold state, endeavored to obtain a little rest. Sister Philpot died about 10 o'clock p.m., leaving two fatherless girls; several others also died during the night.

Thursday, 23rd October 1856 This morning we buried our dead, got up our teams, and about 9 o'clock a.m. commenced ascending the Rocky Ridge. This was a severe day. The wind blew awfully hard and cold. The ascent was some five miles long, and in some places steep and covered with deep snow. The people became weary, sat down to rest, and some became chilled and commenced to freeze.Brothers Atwood, Woodward, and myself remained with the teams, they being perfectly loaded down with the sick and children, so thickly stowed that I was fearful some would smother. About 10 or 11 o'clock in the night, we came to a creek that we did not like to attempt to cross without help, it being full of ice and freezing cold. Leaving Brothers Atwood and Woodward with the teams, I started to the camp for help. I met Brother Willie coming to look for us; he turned back for the camp, as he could do no good alone. I passed several on the road and arrived in camp after about four miles of travel.When I arrived in camp, but few tents were pitched, and men, women, and children sat shivering with cold around their small fires. Some time elapsed before two teams started to bring up the rear; just before daylight they returned, bringing everyone with them—some badly frozen, some dying, and some dead. It was certainly heartrending to hear children crying for mothers, and mothers crying for children. By the time I got them as comfortably situated as circumstances could admit (which was not very comfortable), day was dawning. I had not shut my eyes for sleep, nor lain down, and I was nearly exhausted with fatigue and want of rest.

Friday, 24th October 1856 This morning found us with thirteen corpses for burial. These were all put into one grave; some had actually frozen to death. We were obliged to remain in camp, moving the tents and people behind the willows to shelter them from the searing wind, which blew enough to pierce us through. Several of our cattle died here.

Saturday, 25th October 1856 We commenced our march again. From this time, I have not been able to keep a daily journal, but nothing of much note transpired except that the people died daily. Theophilus Cox died on the morning of the 7th of November on the Weber River, was carried to Cottonwood Grove, East Canyon Creek, and there buried. We overtook Brother Smoot's emigration company on the 9th, and that afternoon arrived in Great Salt Lake City, where we deposited the people among the Saints and they were made comfortable.

Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 11 - The Camp at Clark’s Mill

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 

The Camp at Clark's Mill

Rain fell steadily over Iowa City, soaking Sophie Petersen’s wool skirts until they clung to her legs. She stood under the edge of the engine shed, listening to the rain hit the roof. Inside, hundreds of people crowded together. The air was thick with the smell of wet wool, sweat, and soot.

Sophie shifted Otto to her other hip as she watched the rain pour down. Beside her, Emma rested her hand on Peter’s shoulder, and Anne pressed her face into Sophie’s back.

"We have left the iron horse behind, Sophie," Marianne whispered, her eyes fixed on the empty rails that stretched back toward the east. She looked smaller than she had in Denmark, her skin sallow under the flickering lamps of the shed. "There are no more cars to carry us. No more steam. Only the mud."

Sophie didn't look back at the tracks, though the urge to see the path of their retreat was a cold itch between her shoulder blades. "The mud is only the beginning of the road, Marianne. We knew the rails would end. Now we walk to the campground."

"Walk?" Marianne’s voice hitched, a fragile sound lost in the drumming of the rain. "My boots are already ruined from the station yard. The children... their shoes are thin as parchment, Sophie. Look at them."

Sophie looked at Peter’s shoe and saw a jagged tear in the sole. Emma’s toes were starting to poke through her shoes. Sophie remembered the sturdy clogs she had sold back in Gentofte. She reached into her pocket and touched her leather-bound hymnal. It was the only thing that had not changed since they left home.

"We'll mend what we can when the rain breaks," she said. "Elder Willie says the campground at Clark's Mill is three miles. We can do three miles."

By noon, the rain had become a light mist over the prairie. The roads were still muddy and thick, making every step hard. The group moved out in a slow line from the end of the railroad. Peder Mortenson limped along the edge. He did not complain, but Sophie could see the pain on his face. His old injury made walking hard for him.

Sophie saw Mortenson struggling to keep up, breathing hard. A wagon loaded with timber came up behind them. Mortenson stepped into the path and raised his hands. The driver stopped, and after a short talk, Mortenson climbed onto the back of the wagon. He looked at Sophie for a moment. He did not look sorry, only determined to finish the journey.

Clark’s Mill was not the safe place Sophie had hoped for. The area was busy with saws and hammers. White tents stood in the mud, and men worked on wooden frames everywhere. It was not a place to rest. People were working hard to get ready for the journey.

Sophie walked into the clearing. The sun came out and started to dry their clothes. She realized the carts they had been promised were not ready. Workers were building them quickly from green wood.

"They aren't finished," Peter whispered. He slowly clenched his fist as they passed a row of unfinished axles. "Mother, they look like toys. Like the ones Thomas used to make from sticks."

Sophie looked at the handcarts. The wood was still pale and sticky with sap. She knew how to build things. Her husband had built many things around the farm back home. She could see that these carts were put together quickly, with gaps where the wood did not fit well.

"They're what we have, Peter," she said. "We'll help make them strong."

Elder Willie moved through the center of the camp, his black coat stained with the mud of the mill. He looked like a man carrying five hundred souls on his narrow shoulders, his jaw set with a certainty that seemed at odds with the frantic work around him. He stopped near a pile of wagon tongues, his eyes scanning the crowd of Danish, Swedish, English, and Welsh converts looking to him for a sign that the plan was still sound. 

"Sister Petersen," Willie said, his voice resonant but frayed at the edges. "You are here. The Lord has seen you through the rails. Now, we must prepare the vehicles for the final gathering."

Sophie dipped her head, though her eyes remained on the green wood of a nearby cart. "The wood is wet, Elder. It will shrink when the sun hits it in the high country. My husband... he used to say that green wood is a liar. It looks strong until it dries."

Willie's expression didn't soften, but something like weariness passed behind his eyes. "We don't have the luxury of the season, Sister. The Spirit moves us forward. We must trust the Lord will provide the seasoning where the timing failed us. Go to the Danish division. Brother Mortenson is already beginning the inventory."

Sophie found the Danish group near some oak trees. Their voices reminded her of home. Marianne sat on a crate with her head in her hands. She looked tired and worn out from all they had been through. Next to her was a handcart made of hickory and oak. It would have to carry everything the family owned for the long journey ahead. Sophie touched the pull-bar. It felt weak compared to a real wagon.

The camp grew quiet as a man climbed onto a supply wagon in the middle of the clearing. It was Millen Atwood. His face was tanned and lined from years on the frontier. He held his hat in his hand. When he spoke, his voice was rough and direct.

"I have been to the mountains," Atwood began, his gaze sweeping over the tired faces of the mothers and the small, hollow-eyed children. "I have seen the wind at the South Pass. I tell you now, as a brother and a servant of the Lord, that if we leave this late in the year, we are marking our own graves. The snows do not wait for faith. The mountains do not ask if you are weary. If we move now, with these carts of green wood and these children who have already given too much, we will leave a trail of bones from here to the valley."

After Atwood finished speaking, the camp was silent except for the cry of a hawk in the distance. Sophie shivered. She looked at the people around her. Some of the young men looked eager to prove themselves. The widows looked desperate. Elder Willie stepped forward, his face red with emotion.

"My brothers and sisters, look around you,” he began. “Five hundred Saints, gathered from Denmark, Sweden, England, Wales. The Prophet has called us to Zion. Not someday. Now.

The season is against us. The carts are green. You know this. I know this. But the Lord does not call the prepared. He calls the willing. He tests what is in our hearts.

Some of you have buried children on this journey. Some have left everything they knew. You did not come this far to turn back because the road looks hard.

We are the gathering. We are the fulfillment of prophecy. Every step we take is a step toward the valley the Lord has prepared. The carts will hold. The Lord will provide. Our faith will carry us where timber fails. Who will come with me? Who will stand and be counted among the faithful?"

As Elder Willie called for a vote, his hand rose into the air like a standard.

Sophie looked at her children. Peter’s face was already serious for a boy of ten. She remembered the life she had left behind in Gentofte. She raised her hand, though it shook. It did not feel like faith, but more like giving in to something she could not fight. Most people raised their hands, too.

When the meeting ended and people went back to work, Sophie found Peder Mortenson behind a supply tent. He was holding a small tin of axle grease and working tallow into a jar. He did not seem surprised to see her. He looked at her with a steady, practical gaze, ready to help if needed.

"It is a late start, Sister Petersen," Mortenson said, wiping his greasy hand on his trousers. "Atwood is a man who knows the weather. But Willie is a man who knows the heart. The heart is a poor navigator in a blizzard."

Sophie did not answer. She turned to the cart and started arranging their things. She worked carefully, paying attention to the wood and the wheels. She decided she would pull the handcart herself. No one else would do it for her.

She walked to the front of the cart and noticed someone watching her. She looked up and saw Millen Atwood standing nearby with his hat low. He looked at her with respect and sadness, then tipped his hat and walked away.

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