Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 17 - Ocean of Grass

 

Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 17

Ocean of Grass

On the morning of July 15, the weather was good, and everyone was in high spirits. Today, they would leave Clark's Mill and start their journey. 

Sophie stood next to her handcart and grabbed the pull-bar. The wood felt rough and sticky. The ground was hot from all the people walking around. The order to leave had come. They would be moving out soon.

All around, people in the camp worked quickly and quietly. The air smelled like woodsmoke, wet canvas, and grease. People rolled up bedding and tied it down. Tin plates rattled as they were packed into barrels. Sophie saw a woman a few carts away, tying the last things onto her cart. Everyone was in a hurry to get ready.

"They say we’ll make ten miles tomorrow," Marianne whispered, appearing at Sophie’s elbow like a ghost summoned from the shadows of the mill. She was clutching a canvas bundle to her chest, her eyes wide and rimmed with the red of exhaustion. "Ten miles, Sophie. My feet are already hurting from the walk to the river and back. How can we drag these wooden cages across an ocean of grass?"

Sophie didn't look up from the leather strap she was tightening around their shared cooking kettle. "We drag them because the alternative is to sit here and starve while the winter finds us, Marianne. The delay is over. Now, only the miles matter. Put that bundle in the cart and go to the children."

Marianne hesitated, wanting to say something, but Sophie’s serious look stopped her. She turned and walked to the side of the cart, where Peter sat on a crate. Peter was ten years old and looked excited. He rubbed tallow into the cart's axle, working carefully.

"Is it true, Mother?" he asked, his voice barely rising above the cacophony of Danish and English drifting through the camp. "That the cattle are too thin to pull the big wagons? Peder says the oxen will die before we’ve even seen a mountain."

Sophie knelt next to him and put her hand on his knee. "The cattle are tired, Peter, just like we are. But handcarts depend on us, not on oxen. We will get ourselves to the valley."

She checked the water keg to make sure it was closed tight. She lifted the rations box to see that nothing was broken. Everything they owned was packed into this cart. It did not seem like much for a whole life.

Across the way, Peder Mortenson was arguing with a sub-captain, his voice a sharp, jagged rasp in the quiet. "You ask us to pull a weight that would strain a mule, and then you tell us the supply wagons will find us when they find us. It isn't a plan, Brother. It’s a prayer whispered into a gale."

Sophie could not hear what the sub-captain said, but she heard Peder scoff. She did not pay attention to them. She looked at her shawl, the same one she wore at Thomas’s burial at sea. She tucked it into her waistband and pinned it tight, hoping it would help her stay strong.

A bugle sounded, and the company pressed toward the makeshift stage at the center of the camp. After singing a hymn, the people pressed closer to the stage, their excitement barely contained. Today was the day they had been waiting for.

Elder Willie stood and addressed his people. “Brothers and sisters, the trail is waiting. We have prayed for this day. We have prepared for it. Now we walk.

The carts are loaded. The flour is counted. Every ounce has been weighed, and every soul has been named. The Lord knows His people, and He knows this company.

The way ahead is long. There will be days when your feet blister, and your shoulders ache. There will be nights when the wind cuts through your tents, and you wonder if you were wise to come. I will not tell you otherwise. I am not here to promise you ease.

But I will tell you what I know. Zion is real. The valley is there, beyond these prairies, beyond the mountains. The Lord has prepared a place for His Saints, and we will reach it. Not because the carts are strong, though we have built them as well as we could. Not because the flour will last, though we have portioned it with care. We will reach it because our faith is stronger than our fatigue, and because the God of Israel keeps His promises.

Look to your left and right. These are your brothers and sisters now. When one falters, the rest must lift. When the cart gets stuck in the mud, we pull together. This is the covenant we make this morning, not with words but with our hands and our backs.

The time has come. Take up your places and let us be moving. God bless this company. God bless every soul who pulls toward Zion today.”

The crowd left the stage and went back to their carts. Sophie, Marianne, and the children waited by their handcart for the last instructions.

"Marianne, you push at the back with Peter," Sophie said. "I will pull. We do not stop unless the captain says so. Do you understand?"

Marianne nodded. She looked pale but held onto the cart tightly. Anne and Otto sat at the front of the cart between the bedding. Anne put her arm around Otto and tried to look brave.

The line of carts started to move with a loud groan. The wheels screeched as they rolled. Sophie stepped between the pull bars and grabbed them. The wood felt heavy and cold in her hands. She did not flinch. "This is it," she thought. "Now we show them."

She leaned forward, her weight shifting onto the balls of her feet, her muscles screaming against the cart’s sudden, brutal resistance. For a second, the cart didn't move. It felt like an anchor, a heavy wooden lie meant to keep them pinned to the Iowa soil forever. Then, with a groan, the wheels broke free from the mill’s shadows.

The first mile was a blur of sweat and the rhythmic squeak of the wheels. Sophie didn't look at the horizon; she watched the heels of the man ahead, focusing on how his boots kicked up small clouds of dust. The weight of the cart was a living thing, a constant, shifting pressure that demanded every ounce of her attention to balance. If the wheels hit a rut, the cart would buck like a living animal.

"My legs ache, Mother," Emma whispered as she walked alongside, her voice small against the din of the migration. "The trail is hard."

"Look at the birds, Emma," Sophie said, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "Watch the way they fly west. They know where we are going. Just keep your eyes on the birds."

The prairie was flat and covered with grass. The sun was hot. Sophie felt sweat on her back. Her wool dress stuck to her legs.

"We are doing it, Sophie," Marianne gasped, her face flushed a dangerous, bright red. "We are actually moving. We’ve left the mill behind."

"We have left the world behind, Marianne," Sophie replied, her voice tight with the effort of the pull. "Don't talk. Save your breath for the hills. The grass is easy, but the earth will get harder before it gets better."

The prairie grass was tall, even higher than a man on horseback. The sky was bright blue and seemed endless. Sometimes a hawk flew overhead.

There were no trees for miles. Only grass grew, with some purple coneflowers, black-eyed susans, and orange butterfly weed. The wind blew constantly from the west, carrying the smell of dust and dry plants.

The prairie was the first challenge for the handcart company. The grass hid rocks, gopher holes, and mud that could trap a wheel. It looked nice from far away, but it was hard to cross. The prairie did not care about the people moving through it.

Sophie and her children passed a cart with a broken wheel. The family stood around it, looking shocked. The father tried to fix it, his hands shaking. Sophie did not stop. She had to keep moving because the company did not wait.

Peder's cart came up next to them. His wife and son pulled hard on the harness. Peder sat on top of the load, tired but alert. He looked for the first hills ahead. He nodded at Sophie, showing they were both facing the same struggle. Every pound and every person mattered now.

The afternoon felt long. The grass and ground were hot. Sophie's hands started to blister from the rough wood. The cart's axles grew hot, and every step was hard work.

The sun began to set. The order came to stop for the night. Sophie pulled the handcart into place. She moved slowly, tired from the day. Otto cried, tired and upset. Sophie picked him up and took her children to the center of camp, where fires were being lit.

She looked back at the path they had made through the grass. They had gone four miles out of thirteen hundred. The distance ahead felt overwhelming.

She was a widow and a mother, and she had made it through the first day. She looked at her hands, already starting to blister, and then at the horizon, knowing the mountains were still far away. She did not pray for a miracle. She just reached for the water keg and got ready for the night.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 16 - Faith Against the Frontier

 

    

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 16

Faith Against the Frontier

The humidity was gone at last. A hot wind carried dust and the scent of sweat. Sophie stood at Clark's Mill, looking around. The camp was quiet as Elder Willie held his ledger and began the final count. The ledger seemed small against the vast prairie. It was meant to guide them through the wilderness ahead.

Men walked from cart to cart, their faces tense. They checked the flour sacks, pressing the canvas with their fingers, hoping for more grain. When they got to Sophie's cart, the lead elder did not look at her. He had a gray beard. He wrote down her ration and moved on to the next widow.

"Ninety-eight pounds," Peder Mortenson muttered, coming to stand beside her, his shadow long and thin against the dusty earth. "For a family of six, Sophie. They are calculating based on eighteen ounces a day for the men, less for the women, and a handful of flour for the children. It is a plan built on the hope that we will not grow hungry, or that the Lord will multiply the loaves in our pockets."

Sophie did not look at him. "The elders say the supply wagons will meet us along the way,” she replied. “That there are caches of grain waiting at the forts. We are not meant to carry everything ourselves, Peder. That is why we have the teamsters and the oxen."

"The oxen are old, and the wagons are few," Peder replied, his voice a low, dry rasp. "I watched them loading the communal tents this morning. Five tents for nearly a hundred people in our division. They are packing us in like salted herring, counting on the fact that half of us will be too exhausted to move during the night. It isn't faith that’s driving this company anymore, Sophie. It’s momentum. No one knows how to stop the wheel once it’s started down the hill."

He pointed at the line of handcarts ahead. The hickory wood was still wet, and sap leaked out where they were nailed together. Dark patches showed at every joint. Sophie knew the carts would not last. They were built wrong, but no one wanted to admit it.

Marianne walked over, her skirts muddy from the riverbank. Her eyes were wide with fear. She held a small wooden crate tightly, her knuckles white.

"They told me I have to leave the trunk," she said. "The one with my mother's linens. They said every ounce counts now, that the wood weighs more than the fabric." Her voice shook. "How am I supposed to start a life in the valley with nothing but the clothes on my back?"

"You leave the wood so you can carry the children, Marianne," Sophie said, her voice coming out flatter than she intended. "We are not going there to be ladies. We are going there to be survivors. If the trunk stays, it stays. The prairie doesn't care about your trunk, and neither will the snow when it finds us."

Marianne made a small sound and turned away, her shoulders hunched. Sophie watched her leave. She felt herself changing. She was a mother, a widow, and now she had to work like an animal. There was no room for old memories or heavy trunks.

The afternoon sun was hot on the staging ground. Sophie smelled wood and axle grease. She walked through the Danish group and watched as people were paired together.

The leaders were matching up the weakest people. Strangers were put together, hoping that two weak people could do the work of one strong one. Sophie saw an old couple from Odense put with three young orphans. Their hands shook as they tried to hold the pull-bar.

Sophie saw that the plan did not make sense. The leaders expected strong people, but most were tired and small. The handcart plan seemed to think faith could make people stronger, but the carts only cared about weight and rough ground.

She found Peter at the back of the cart. His face was smudged with soot, his jaw set tight. He was trying to tighten the leather straps on their water keg, his small fingers fumbling with the buckle.

"I can do it, Mother," he said before she could help. "I'm the man now. I have to be. Peder says the carts will break before we reach the first fort, so I'm checking the joints."

"Checking them won't stop the wood from shrinking, Peter," Sophie said, reaching out to steady the keg. "But you are right to watch them. We will have to be the ones who fix what the mill didn't finish. Save your strength. We start at dawn, and the hills will not be kind to those who spend their energy before we even begin."

She walked to the edge of camp where the prairie met the trees. From here, the five hundred people in the Willie Company looked small and spread out. The tents were thin, and the wagons were heavy. She looked at the blue sky and remembered the burial mounds in Jelling. There, the ground did not move.

Here, everything was moving. They were heading for a valley they had never seen. She remembered praying for a miracle in her kitchen in Gentofte, hoping for a better land. Now, that hope was meeting the hard facts of the American frontier. Everything came down to pounds and miles, and the numbers did not look good.

As the light faded, Sophie looked at her hands, already blistered from packing. She had no husband to pull for her. There was no father to protect her children. No one would help if she fell.

She was the worker now. If Zion was real, she would not get there because of the elders or the missionaries. She would get there by her own strength, step by step.

She did not pray. She adjusted her shawl and watched the stars. Her faith had brought her this far, but now it was up to her body to finish the journey.

The camp grew quiet. Sophie stood up and walked to her tent. She lay down next to her children and put her hand on Anne's back. The planning was finished. Only the work was left.

Sophie lay awake in the dark, listening to her children breathe. Tomorrow, they would start pulling the cart. She had seen the trail, a thin line through tall grass. The elders talked about Zion as if it was just ahead, but Sophie was not so sure.

The cart waited outside. It would not carry her to the valley. She would have to pull it, step by step, until she reached the place God wanted her to be, or until she could not go any farther. Either way, the journey would begin at dawn. She closed her eyes and tried to rest, saving her strength for the morning.

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Savage Words

 

Savage Words

by Richard Lawry

A hush fell softly

Through Clark's Mill

As riders crossed the plain

Their coats were grimy

With prairie dust

Their faces marked with pain

And Levi Savage

Rode ahead

With sorrow in his eyes

He looked around at

Clark's Mill camp

And breathed a heavy sigh

Oh, do not trust the wood, my friends

Nor promises so bold

The mountains care not for your prayers

They only answer cold

Oh, do not trust the wood, my friends

Racing winter

Racing time

Faith alone won't pull the cart

When winter chases time

I warned the brethren

Savage said

But they don't seem to care

They speak of wonders

And of signs

The power of a prayer

I speak of rivers

And of snow

Of hunger and of cold

The mountains don't care

About your faith

They can't be bought with gold

Oh, do not trust the wood, my friends

Nor promises so bold

The mountains care not for your prayers

They only answer cold

Oh, do not trust the wood, my friends

Racing winter

Racing time

Faith alone won't pull the cart

When winter chases time

Dreams built on what we could

Faith, prayer, warped green wood

Racing winter

Racing time

Faith on fire

But snow is cold

And mountains don't do

What they're told

If the wheels survive the trail

Maybe mercy will not fail

Oh, do not trust the wood, my friends

Nor promises so bold

The mountains care not for your prayers

They only answer cold

Oh, do not trust the wood, my friends

Racing winter

Racing time

Faith alone won't pull the cart

When winter chases time

Do not trust the wood, my friends

Racing winter

Racing time

Faith alone won't pull the cart

When winter chases time

You can listen to the song as recorded by The Junkyard Misfits at this link

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

Sophie'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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Savage Words by The Junkyard Misfits written for the Sophie's Journey companion album

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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