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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Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 10 - The Iron Road West

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 10

The Iron Road West

The train pulled into the station, sending up clouds of smoke and steam. Sophie stood among a crowd of strangers, her arms tired from holding little Otto, her hand gripping Anne's worn sleeve. In Gentofte, horse carts moved slowly and quietly. Here in New York, the air was thick and smelled of coal. The train wheels were taller than Peter, her oldest, and the brakes screeched as the train stopped. Everything here moved fast, and Sophie felt like she could barely keep up.

"We are to climb inside those boxes?" Marianne asked, her voice thin and wavering. She stood with her eyes wide open, staring at the livestock cars that offered nothing resembling comfort. "It looks like a prison, Sophie. A cage for the cattle."

Sophie didn't answer her friend. She was too busy counting heads, making sure she hadn't lost any of the four children in the crush, eyeing the bundles that held everything they had left of home. "It's wood and iron, Marianne, and it'll get us there in days instead of weeks. We're the lucky ones."

She climbed into the cattle car. The light inside was dim, and the air smelled of too many people and old tobacco. There were no beds or benches, just bare walls and a floor that shook with the train. Sophie found a corner for her family. Peter sat straight and quiet, looking serious like his father. Emma drew shapes on the dirty window with her finger.

The train jerked forward with a snap that threw Anne hard against Sophie's side. No warning, no easing into it, just sudden motion and the world outside streaking by. Sophie felt her stomach turn from the motion. The whistle blew every few miles. Sophie thought about how fast everything moved here. The train carried families like hers west, but it did not care about their hopes or fears.

"It is so loud," Emma whispered, her finger drawing a small, crooked house in the dust on the glass. "Does the noise ever stop, Mother?"

"It is the sound of us getting closer to the valley, Emma," Sophie said, though her own head throbbed with the relentless clatter of the tracks. 

They arrived in Dunkirk as the sun set over Lake Erie. Changing from the train to the steamboat was confusing and loud, with sailors shouting. The water was rough, and the sky threatened rain. Sophie made sure her family got onto the deck. Officials checked their papers and gave them numbers.

The trip to Toledo was cold. Lake spray soaked them, and the children huddled together under a damp blanket while the engine made noise below.

In Toledo, nothing went as planned. Railroad workers stared at the crowd of immigrants, unsure what to do. There were no train cars ready for Chicago. The families waited in the muddy yard while the children cried from hunger and the wind blew in from the water.

Peder Mortenson stood near the edge of their group, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched a harried conductor argue with Elder Willie. "They don't know what to do with us, Sister Petersen," Mortenson said, his voice carrying that familiar, dry edge of pragmatism. "To them, we are a spilled sack of grain. Too much to clean up, and not worth the effort to save."

Sophie adjusted Otto on her hip, her back screaming from the constant strain. "They cannot simply leave us here."

"They can do whatever they please with people who don't speak the language and have no place to go," Mortenson replied, nodding toward a group of local men who were gathered near a warehouse, watching the Saints with narrowed eyes. "This isn't Denmark. There is no king here to ensure the peace. Only the coin and the iron."

They rode in freight cars across Ohio and Indiana. The air smelled of animals and grain dust. There were no windows, only small cracks where some light came in. Sophie sat on the floor with her family. By the time they reached Chicago, the children were pale and covered in soot. They hardly looked like themselves anymore.

Chicago was large and busy at the edge of the prairie. The conductor told them to get off the train onto a cobblestone street by the rail yards. There was no shelter and no instructions. The train left, and five hundred people stood in the dark with their belongings. Piano music played from nearby saloons, and horses passed by, but the Saints only felt the cold stones under their feet and the darkness around them.

"We cannot stay here," Marianne said, her voice rising toward a sob as she looked at the dark alleys. "The men... they are leering at us, Sophie. I can hear them laughing."

Sophie refused to give in to fear. She stood up and began giving instructions. "Peter, help Marianne with her bundle. Emma, hold Anne's hand. We'll find a place. Brother Willie and the others are out looking now."

They walked for hours along the waterfront until someone showed them to a warehouse. It was large, cold, and smelled bad. There was no heat or straw, only rough boards on the floor. Sophie laid her shawl down for the children, pulled them close, and sat with her back against a beam.

Sophie slept lightly, waking often to the sound of boots outside. Then came shouting and drunken laughter. A rock hit the side of the warehouse, and glass broke somewhere above, falling into the room.

"Mormons!" a voice roared from outside, thick with liquor and malice. "Get out of our city, you filth! We’ll burn you out if you don’t leave now!"

Inside the warehouse, people whispered prayers and children cried. Peter sat up next to Sophie, his fists tight and his eyes wide with fear. She put her arm around him. Outside, men shouted threats and threw things at the doors. Smoke came in through the broken window. Sophie wondered if Zion would be any kinder than the place they had left.

"Will they hurt us, Mother?" Peter whispered, his voice trembling against her shoulder.

Sophie looked toward the door, shadows of men passing the cracks in the wood. She thought of Levi Savage's warning in New York, about the wind that didn't ask for faith. This was that wind. "No, Peter. They're just men with darkness in them. We're under the Lord's protection. Close your eyes and think of the mountains."

The rest of the night was quiet, but Sophie could not sleep. In the morning, gray light showed her children's faces, dirty with soot. They were alive, but the journey was wearing them down.

The last part of the trip to Iowa City took three different trains, each one less reliable than the last. They waited for hours on the tracks in sun-heated cars. There was no food or water until Sophie traded a lace collar from her wedding dress for bread and a bucket of water at a stop in a cornfield. She felt like she was giving up part of her past to keep her family going.

When they reached Iowa City, Sophie, Marianne, and the children stepped out of the last car, their feet sinking into the mud. To the west, there were no more trains or tracks, only open sky and the sound of hammers from Clark's Mill. 

Sophie was very tired, but seeing her children standing in the Iowa mud made her feel a little stronger. The train had brought them across the country. The journey had been hard, but they were still standing.

She took Otto from Peter and looked ahead at the buildings, deciding where to go next. She did not look back at the train. She looked west toward the setting sun and quietly thanked God that her family was safe.

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Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 9 - Stranger in a Strange Land

 

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 9

Stranger in a Strange Land

Coal dust and salt hung in the air at the New York docks. Sophie Petersen stood on the wet pier, clutching Emma's coat. She wondered if she had made a mistake by coming here.

The city was noisy and crowded. Steam whistles sounded. Iron wheels rattled over cobblestones. Men shouted in words Sophie could not understand. The noise never stopped.

Sophie held Emma's coat more tightly. She missed the peace of home. The trip on the Thornton had been hard, but this felt even worse.

Marianne Lautrup stood beside her, shoulders slumped. She glanced nervously at the brick warehouses by the water. She hugged a bundle of damp linens to her chest. Her hands trembled.

The voyage had been hard. Sophie saw it in Marianne's face. She looked tired and worried. Sophie wished she could help, but she did not know how.

"It is too much, Sophie," Marianne whispered, her voice barely audible over the noise of nearby construction. "The noise, the smell. This isn't the garden they promised. It looks like the belly of a furnace."

Sophie did not look at Marianne. She did not want to feel afraid. She shifted Otto on her hip. He was heavy and restless, pulling at her shawl. Sophie still felt unsteady after leaving the ship.

"It is only a door, Marianne," Sophie said, though the words felt brittle in her throat. "You do not live in the doorway. You walk through it to reach the house."

A man in a coat with brass buttons walked up to them. He carried a large ledger and spoke quickly in English. He looked impatient.

Sophie looked at the man. She did not understand his words. Back in Gentofte, she knew what to do. Here, she felt lost. Without her language, she was just a name in a ledger. She was a stranger.

Someone translated the man's impatient words, and Sophie gathered her children and stepped forward. "Petersen," she said. Her voice sounded small. Foreign, even to her own ears. "Sophie Petersen. Denmark."

The official sighed. He gestured toward a long, muddy line stretching toward a wooden building. He did not see a woman who had buried her son three days ago. He saw a problem to be cleared. He made a sharp, dismissive motion with his hand, waving them forward.

Sophie understood his gesture. She started walking. Her boots sank into the black, oily mud. This was the New York waterfront. This was her new home.

They entered a large hall that smelled of wet wool and lye. Long tables filled the room. Clerks worked quickly, moving from person to person.

Peder Mortenson stood near the front, his hands in his pockets. He looked around the hall, calm and steady. The noise and confusion did not seem to bother him. Sophie wished she could be like that.

"They are measuring us like timber, Sister Petersen," Mortenson said, falling into step beside her as the line hitched forward. "Checking the teeth and the coin purses. If we were cattle, they’d have already marked us with blue chalk."

Sophie tightened her hold on Emma’s hand, the five-year-old girl walking with a wide-eyed silence that was more unnerving than tears. "We are not timber, Brother Mortenson. We are the Saints of God."

Mortenson offered a brief, cynical tilt of his head. "In this room, we are whatever the man with the pen says we are. I’d advise you to keep your papers dry and your children close. The Americans have a way of losing things that don't have a label on them."

The process was long and tiring. There were long silences, then questions they could not answer. Sophie saw Marianne struggling with a clerk. The man shouted, but Marianne did not understand. She looked at Sophie, scared and helpless. Her hands shook.

Sophie stepped between Marianne and the official. She set her jaw. That stubbornness had brought her across the ocean. She would keep going.

"Sophie Petersen," she repeated, placing her travel documents on the scarred wood of the table. She pointed to herself, then to Marianne, then to the children. "Together. Denmark. Zion."

The clerk looked at her, then at the children. He seemed to notice how tired she was. He did not smile. But he stopped shouting. He stamped the papers with a heavy, rhythmic thud and slid them back across the table. His eyes were already moving to the next person in line.

They left the docks and walked into the city. Sophie still felt unsteady after the long voyage. The tall brick buildings seemed to close in around her.

Elder Willie had found a small meeting house for them to stay in. They gathered in a narrow chapel that smelled of floor wax and old books. The room felt small compared to the busy port outside.

A man stood at the front of the room. His coat was worn at the elbows, but he stood tall and confident. He was thin, with dark skin from the sun and tired eyes.

Peder Mortenson stood up straighter. He looked at the man with interest. This was not like the missionary Franklin D. Richards they had seen in Liverpool. This man looked worn out from travel.

"That is Levi Savage," Mortenson whispered, his voice uncharacteristically low. "He has just returned from his mission. He is a sub-captain, they say. A man who knows the physics of the trail better than the words of the hymns."

Brother Savage spoke in a deep, steady voice. He did not promise easy times. He talked about the season, the cold, and the long distance to the Salt Lake Valley. He looked at the crowd with a serious expression. Sophie felt worried.

"I have seen the high plains in October," Savage said, his words being translated into Danish by a young man standing near the pulpit. "The wind there does not ask for your faith. It only asks for your heat. The handcarts are a new way, a fast way, but they are made of wood and iron, not miracles."

Sophie held the hymnal in her pocket. Inside was a lock of Thomas's hair, her son who died at sea. She thought of him and promised herself she would get her other children to Zion, no matter what.

"The Prophet has called for the gathering," a voice called from the back. It was Elder Willie; his face was flushed with rigid certainty. "Shall we tell the Lord we are afraid of the wind? Shall we wait for the warm sun while the Saints are needed in the valley?"

Levi Savage looked toward Willie, his expression unreadable. "The Lord gave us a mind to count the rations and a heart to protect the small ones. I am not afraid of the wind, Brother Willie. I am afraid of the graves we will dig if we do not respect it."

The room was tense. The hope of reaching Zion felt far away. Sophie felt her children restless beside her. They were tired and hungry. Their faces looked pale in the dim light.

She looked at Marianne, who had her head bowed, praying quietly.

"What do you see, Brother Mortenson?" Sophie asked, her voice quiet. "Do you see the mountains or the graves?"

Mortenson did not look at her. He watched Levi Savage and nodded. "I see a man who knows the journey will be hard. The season will not care about our promises, Sophie. We need to think about surviving first."

Sophie did not answer. She looked at Otto, who was asleep on her shoulder. She thought about the dream of a new life in the valley and hoped her family would have a better future.

Outside, New York City was busy and loud. The city did not care about them. But the trail west was waiting, leading into the unknown.

She reached out and took Marianne's hand. Her friend's skin was cold and dry. The silence in the chapel felt heavy, filled with the unspoken weight of five hundred people who had given up everything for a promise that now felt like a test.

Sophie held tight to her feelings, her friend, and her children. She set her jaw in quiet stubbornness. It was all she had left to give them. She stayed silent, standing in the drafty room, watching dust float in a gray beam of light while the city roared outside.

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Watercolors

 

Artwork by Regina Lawry

Watercolors

by Richard Lawry

I set a cup of water

On the kitchen table

Then I pick up a wash brush

And the paper feels right

I would have never dreamed

That I would be able

To show with watercolor

Dappled evening sunlight

Let the watercolors flow

Let the edges blur

No need to hurry now

It might be obscure

Trust the drifting colors

They will fall into line

Don't rush the flow

It just takes time

I take a soft pointed brush

In my wavering hand

Glide across the empty page

Creating my dreamland

Soft as a fleeting whisper

A little gold in the sky

The watercolor glides as planned

I wait for it to dry

Let the watercolors flow

Let the edges blur

No need to hurry now

It might be obscure

Trust the drifting colors

They will fall into line

Don't rush the flow

It just takes time

Painting a quiet river

Painting a pearly sky

Painting a mighty tree

And a bird flying by

Water and wonder

Flowing in my hand

Painting is contentment

It helps me understand

Let the watercolors flow

Let the edges blur

No need to hurry now

It might be obscure

Trust the drifting colors

They will fall into line

Don't rush the flow

It just takes time

It just takes time

But it will fall into line

Just let the watercolors flow

Let the watercolors flow

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

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 8 - The Night Sea

 

                                                                      

 Sophie's Journey - Chapter 8

The Night Sea

The steerage hold of the Thornton was dark and crowded. The air was thick and heavy from so many people packed together, breathing and sweating. Sophie sat on the edge of her berth, picking at a tear in her apron, while the ship rocked beneath her. The constant motion made her stomach uneasy and reminded her she was far from home.

The smell was the first thing Sophie noticed. It was a mix of unwashed bodies, old food, and the chemicals they used to try to keep things clean. The bilge smell was always there. The only light came from an oil lamp swinging above the crowded berths. Life in the hold was hard, but Sophie kept her hands busy and tried to pray. Sometimes, that was all she could do.

"Is the Promised Valley as big as this ship, Mama?" Anne asked, her three-year-old voice small and high against the groaning of the timbers. She clung to Sophie’s skirt, her eyes wide with the persistent worry that had settled into her face since they left the docks of Liverpool.

"Much bigger, little bird," Sophie said, smoothing the girl’s hair, which had begun to lose its luster in the dim light of the hold. "It is a land of mountains that touch the clouds, with grass so green it looks like the fields of Gentofte in the spring. There is space enough for every child to run until their legs are tired, and the air smells of pine and sunshine instead of coal smoke."

Across the aisle, Peder Mortenson sat with his back to the wall of the ship. He kept his hands busy, whittling a piece of wood. Shavings dropped onto the floor as he worked.

Peder looked up and saw Sophie watching him. He was a careful man who liked to measure things and trust only what he could see. When Sophie talked about the mountains, he looked at her with doubt, as if he did not believe in dreams.

"Mountains don't fill a belly, Sister Petersen," Mortenson said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that cut through the chatter of the hold. He didn't stop the movement of his knife, the blade peeling back a thin curl of pine. "And sunshine doesn't mend a broken axle. We’d do better to teach the children how to mend a sack than how to dream of valleys that they haven't seen yet."

Sophie tightened her hold on Anne’s hand, her jaw setting in the quiet, stubborn line that had become her armor. "Dreams are what keep their feet moving, Brother Mortenson. If we only look at the mud, we will surely sink into it."

"The mud is real," he said, tipping his cap toward her with a brief, mirthless twist of his lips. "The valley is a map in a missionary's pocket. I’ll trust the wood in my hands and the weight of the water in the casks. That is what gets a family across an ocean."

Suddenly, the ship lurched, and a stack of tin plates slid across the floor with a loud crash. The noise startled everyone in the hold. The Thornton fought against the waves, and the ship groaned as the wood and iron strained.

Sophie felt the change in the ship through her boots. The usual steady movement turned rough and uneven as the Atlantic waves hit the hull. The air in the hold grew colder, and everyone could feel the power of the sea outside.

"Stay in the berth," Sophie commanded, her voice sharp enough to make Peter and Thomas freeze where they had been playing with a handful of smooth stones.

"Emma, hold Otto. Peter, keep your sisters close. Do not move until I tell you."

The storm built up slowly. Wind and water battered the ship, and it felt like the ship might come apart. Below deck, the lamps were put out to prevent fire, and darkness filled the hold. People could only hear the water crashing and the cries of those thrown from their beds.

Sophie sat in the middle of their berth, holding Anne and Otto close. She tried to protect them from the shaking ship and the noise. She hoped morning would come soon.

Above them, the deck had become a theater of screams and crashing cargo. Sophie heard it through the boards, a heavy metallic thud as something broke loose, maybe a crate or a piece of rigging. Then came a sound that would stay with her, waking her in the night for years to come. A sharp crack, sudden and final. Feet sliding across wet wood. A frantic, high-pitched shout, cut short by the roar of the gale and swallowed before it could finish. 

The hatchway above them groaned under the wind's pressure, and for one terrifying moment, gray light flooded the hold, salt-stung and cold, the Atlantic itself pressing in to see what it could claim.

"Thomas!" Peter’s voice was a jagged tear in the darkness, full of a realization that Sophie’s mind refused to accept. He was pointing toward the upper deck, his face pale and distorted in the gloom. "Mama, Thomas went up! He went to see the waves!”

Sophie acted quickly. She rushed to the ladder as the ship dropped with the waves. When she reached the deck, the wind and salt spray hit her face, and she could barely see through the chaos.

The deck was slippery and crowded with wreckage and frightened men. Near the rail, where the cargo had shifted, Sophie saw Thomas.

Thomas was trapped under a heavy wooden crate. He looked small and fragile next to the large piece of wood. His eyes were open, and blood from his head mixed with the water on the deck.

Sophie knelt beside Thomas and tried to move the crate, but it would not budge. Thomas was trapped.

"Thomas, look at me," she whispered, her voice lost in the screaming of the wind. She reached out, her fingers brushing his cold, wet cheek. "Stay with me, little one. The valley is coming. We are almost there."

Thomas did not answer. He took one last breath and then went still.

Sophie held Thomas in her arms, ignoring the cold and the noise around her. She pressed her chin to his wet hair and felt the pain of losing him.

Peter stood next to her, watching his brother. He looked older than his nine years. He did not cry, but stood with his fists clenched, silent and shocked.

"He is gone, Mama," Peter said, his voice flat and drained of all inflection. It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact that settled over them like the freezing mist. "The sea took him."

Sophie did not answer. She sat in silence, grieving for her son. For the first time since leaving Gentofte, she doubted her faith. She realized that her prayers could not protect Thomas from the dangers of the sea.

The aftermath came in a blur of gray light and the smell of wet wool. They were back in the hold, the air thick with muffled weeping from other families who had lost their belongings or their hope to the gale. Marianne sat in the corner of the berth, face buried in her hands, body shaking with rhythmic, silent despair. She had warned Sophie of the dangers, and now her silence spoke louder than any words could have.

"It is a sign, Sophie," Marianne whispered later that evening, her voice barely rising above the chaos of the hold. She wouldn't look at the small bundle wrapped in clean linen, lying in the center of the berth. "God is telling us we should have stayed in Denmark. He is closing the door to Zion with the bodies of children."

"God doesn't kill children to prove a point, Marianne," Sophie said, her voice coming from somewhere cold and hollow, a place of resolve that felt empty. She was holding her leather-bound hymnal, her fingers tracing the water-stained cover. "The wind blew. The ship lurched. That was the world, not a judgment."

"Then why didn't He stop it?" Marianne asked, her eyes finally lifting to meet Sophie's, filled with a terrifying, vacant light. "If we're His people, why are we dying in a hole?"

Sophie did not answer. She opened her hymnal and placed a small lock of Thomas's hair inside, hoping to keep this piece of him safe.

Across the aisle, Peder Mortenson watched her. He put down his knife and looked at Sophie with respect for her strength.

"He didn't suffer, Sister Petersen," Mortenson said, his voice lower than usual. He leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. "The blow was quick. In this life, that is a mercy we aren't all promised. Don't listen to the talk of signs. The sea doesn't care about our sins or our prayers. It only cares about the weight of the wood."

"He was seven years old," Sophie said, her voice cracking for the first time. "He should have seen the mountains."

"He will see better ones now," Mortenson said. He looked toward the hatchway, where gray dawn light was beginning to filter down. "But the rest of us still have to make the journey to Zion. You have four more children, Sophie. Don't let grief for the one who's gone drown the ones still breathing. God hasn't left the ship, even if it seems He's gone quiet for a while."

The burial happened in the thin, watery light of a North Atlantic morning. The wind had settled to a persistent, chilly moan, and the sea stretched out, a vast expanse of deep indigo as far as the eye could see. The company gathered on deck, faces gaunt, eyes red-rimmed from the night's terror. Elder Willie stood near the rail, his voice steady and practiced, weaving the tragedy into the story of their migration, speaking of the sacrifice of the Saints and the glory of the gathering.

Sophie stood with her hand on Peter's shoulder. She felt the pain of losing Thomas. His small wooden coffin, made quickly by the carpenter, rested on a board over the side of the ship. It looked very small against the wide sea.

After the final prayer, they lifted the board, and Thomas's coffin slipped into the sea. The sound was lost in the noise of the waves. Sophie stared at the ocean, feeling her loss.

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Sophie's Journey - Chapter 7 - Cargo of the Thornton

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 7

Cargo of the Thornton

Liverpool was dark and crowded. Soot covered the stone buildings, and the sky was hard to see. The air was heavy with coal smoke and the smell of rotting fish. People from all walks of life pushed toward the docks.

Sophie stood at the edge of the cobblestone street. She held Otto in one arm and kept her other hand on Anne's shoulder. Peter carried the heaviest sack. The city was much bigger than she expected. Copenhagen had seemed busy, but Liverpool was even larger and more crowded.

“Stay close,” Sophie said, looking at the children. “Emma, grip Peter’s coat and don't let go. Anne, keep your hand on my skirt. Thomas, you stay with Marianne. Eyes forward—we do not stop for anything until we find the Brother with the flag.”

They made their way through the crowd. The noise was loud: carts rattled on the stones, sailors shouted in many languages, and the city seemed to hum with activity. Sophie watched the masts above the rooftops, knowing that was where they needed to go.

"It is too much, Sophie," Marianne whispered, her face pale as a bleached bone. She walked with her head ducked. Her eyes darted toward the dark alleys. They branched off the main thoroughfare. "The people," she said. "They look like they haven't seen the sun in years. Are we to be lost here?"

"We are not lost, Marianne," Sophie said, adjusting the weight of Otto on her hip. "We are exactly where we are meant to be. Look at the children. Do not look at the alleys."

They reached the staging area near Waterloo Dock. The ground was muddy and wide. Sophie stopped and caught her breath as she saw how many people were there.

Hundreds of people were gathered. Some were from England, Wales, Denmark, and Sweden. Trunks and crates were everywhere. Many looked tired and wore soot-stained clothes. Their eyes showed hope and worry.

Franklin D. Richards stood on a makeshift platform. His voice was a resonant tolling bell. It tried to weave the chaos into a single thread of purpose.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said in a voice filled with authority. “You stand at the edge of a great water. Behind you lies the world you knew. Before you lies the world God has prepared.

You are not merely passengers. You are pioneers. Every step you take upon this deck is a step toward Zion. The Lord has gathered you from the fields of Denmark, from the mines of Wales, from the cities of England. He has marked you. He has called you by name.

When the waves rise and the wind howls, remember the mountains. The peaks of the West wait for us. The valleys of Deseret wait for us. And God, who has brought us this far, will not abandon us now.

The journey will test you. The sea does not care for our faith. But we care. We care for one another. Look to your left. Look to your right. These are your people now. This ship is your home. This company is your family. We are seven hundred and sixty-four Saints bound for Zion. Board with courage. Sail with faith. We go to build a city upon a hill.”

"Seven hundred and sixty-four," Peter whispered, his nine-year-old eyes wide as he looked at the sheer volume of humanity. "Mama, are they all going to Zion? Every one of them?"

"Every one, Peter," Sophie said. She felt a chill. She remembered her life as a widow in a small village, with her own farm and name. Now she was just one person among many.

Sophie realized she was not alone. Many people were leaving their homes for the same reason. The ship at the pier looked small for so many people.

The Thornton was an old ship. As they moved toward the gangplank, they smelled wet rope, old water, and a sharp chemical scent.

Sophie moved quickly.  Hundreds of people crowded into the space. There was no privacy, only thin boards and other people's belongings nearby. She was used to hard work. She ignored the shouting of the sailors and the crying of a woman who lost her trunk in the harbor. She watched her step and made sure her children stayed close.

Below decks, the steerage hold was dark and crowded. Narrow wooden berths were stacked three high, leaving little space for anyone.

The air was already heavy. Hundreds of people crowded into the space. There was no privacy, only thin boards and other people's belongings close by.

Sophie found their assigned space. It was small and cramped. The smell of damp sawdust and sweat lingered.

"We are to sleep here?" Marianne asked, her voice cracking as she looked at the cramped wooden shelf. "Like cordwood, Sophie? I cannot breathe. The ceiling—it is touching my head."

"It is only for a time, Marianne," Sophie said, though her own stomach churned at the smell and the close-pressed heat of the hold. She began to unpack the rations box, placing the hardtack and dried apples in a corner where they wouldn't be crushed. "The ship will move, and the air will come. Help me with the quilts. We must mark our space before it is taken."

In the aisle, a traveler paused, a small man in a frayed coat and low-slung cap. His hands were stained with dirt, his face a rugged landscape of past hardships. Behind him, a woman and several children stood with a weary determination that Sophie recognized instantly. For a long moment, he watched her, his eyes tracking the careful precision with which she managed her tiny domain.

"You’re Danish," the man said, his voice a low, steady rumble that cut through the din of the hold. "I can tell by the way you tie your sacks. No one else keeps a knot that neat when they’re half-dead from the road."

"Sophie Petersen," she said, not looking up from the quilt she was smoothing. "And I am not half-dead. I am alive, I assure you."

The man let out a short, dry sound that might have been a laugh. "Peder Mortenson. My family and I are in the berth across from you. It’s a tight fit for a man, but I suppose we aren’t thought of as people anymore. We’re just cargo now, sister."

Sophie looked at him. His eyes were skeptical, and he stood with tense shoulders, as if he expected trouble.

He seemed practical and cautious. He was from Denmark too and understood what it meant to sacrifice for faith. Sophie found his attitude comforting. He looked like someone who knew how to make supplies last.

"We are whatever the Lord needs us to be, Brother Mortenson," Sophie said, though her hands trembled slightly as she tucked a corner of the blanket. "Today, we are cargo. Tomorrow, we will be something else."

"Hopefully we're survivors," Peder said, tipping his cap toward her. He turned back to his own family, his voice dropping into a series of sharp, practical commands as he began to lash their trunks to the support beams. He moved slowly and with a pronounced limp. But Sophie only saw a man who had already decided. He would be the one to see the end of the road. No matter what the road held.

The afternoon was long, filled with noise and heat. More people crowded into the hold. English families carrying many bundles. Some men had only a Bible and an extra shirt. Children cried as it grew dark.

Marianne sat on the edge of the berth with her hands in her lap. She stared at a knot in the wood. She seemed far away, lost in thought about Denmark.

"They are singing again," Marianne whispered, nodding toward the hatchway where the sound of a hymn drifted down from the deck. "How can they sing, Sophie? We are in a hole. We have sold our homes for a hole in a ship."

"They sing because they have to, Marianne," Sophie said, sitting down beside her and pulling Otto into her lap. "If they stop singing, they will hear the water. And the water is very loud today."

The Thornton creaked and shifted as the crew made final preparations. Heavy boots thudded on the deck above. The anchor chain rattled, and the ship began to vibrate as it got ready to leave.

Sophie felt the ship lurch as it left the dock. The current pulled them away from Liverpool and out into the open water.

She leaned her head against the wood and thought of her farm in Gentofte. She remembered the stone walls and the smell of rye in summer. Now, those memories felt far away. All she had was this small space with her children.

"Go to sleep, little ones," Sophie whispered, pulling the heavy wool quilt over the children. "The water will carry us. We have done what we could."

A lantern swung in the aisle, casting yellow light. Across from her, Peder Mortenson leaned against the hull, watching the shadows. Around them, many voices sang about Zion and the mountains in the West.

Sophie stayed quiet. She listened to her children's breathing and counted the hours as they passed. Staring at the dark ceiling, she thought about the long journey ahead across the ocean to America.

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Heave Away, Saints by The Junkyard Misfits written for the Sophie's Journey companion album

Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 6 - The Road to Liverpool

 

Sophie's Journey Chapter 6

The Road to Liverpool

The carriage groaned and shuddered as they bounced down the road. Sophie sat with her back pressed hard against the wooden bench. She held her arm across Anne and Otto's laps to keep them steady.

Outside the window, the Danish countryside passed by. Sophie knew this land well. She remembered the rye in summer and the smell of clover. Now, everything looked gray in the winter mist. The hills she grew up with faded from view.

She saw a single farmhouse go by, a small white building with a thatched roof. Her jaw ached from clenching it during the bumpy ride.

"Are we there, Mama?" Anne asked. Her voice was small and muffled against Sophie's cloak. The three-year-old's eyes were wide. She had been restless since they left Gentofte. Her legs twitched with nervous energy. Sophie could not soothe her.

"Not yet, little bird," Sophie said. She smoothed the child's hair. "We are going to Copenhagen first. To the big water."

Peter sat hunched across from her. He stared at the floor. In the days since they had committed to the journey, the boy had gone silent. His face tried to look like his father's. Hard. But his cheeks were still round. The hardness did not quite fit.

While the others looked out at the fields, Peter stared at the mud on his boots. The mud was gray and dry. It reminded him of the farm they had just left. Every time the coach bumped, some of it fell off onto the floor.

To Sophie, it was only dirt. To Peter, it felt like the last piece of Denmark he had. He watched it disappear with each mile.

Marianne Lautrup sat next to Peter. She picked at a loose thread on her shawl until it started to fray. She looked out the window, her face confused.

She had not spoken since they got on the carriage. Her silence made the air feel colder.

“The spires,” Emma whispered, pointing toward the horizon where the jagged silhouette of the capital began to rise against the bruised purple of the twilight. “Mama, look. The giants’ fingers.”

Sophie looked through the foggy window as Copenhagen came into view. She saw the stone buildings and the copper church domes above the harbor. The domes were green from the sea air.

Thomas sat by the window, his nose pressed to the glass. He was seven years old, and this was the farthest he had ever been from the farm. He watched the buildings grow taller, the streets grow busier, and the world grow bigger with every turn of the wheels. His eyes were wide. His mouth hung open. He had never seen so many people in one place. So many horses. So many carts. He turned to Sophie, his face lit with wonder, and she saw that for him, this was not an ending. It was a beginning.

Sophie was a widow. She had spent her life on a farm, surrounded by pastures and muddy roads. Now she saw warehouses and tall buildings for merchants and kings. The size of the city made her feel small.

The carriage slowed. The wheels groaned against the cobblestones. The change in motion broke Otto's sleep. He opened his mouth and released a thin, shrill cry. It cut through the compartment's hush.

Other passengers turned to look at them. Their faces showed annoyance. They did not want to be bothered by children or poor travelers.

Sophie picked him up quickly and held him close. His small hands gripped her shawl tightly.

The station was loud with horses and shouting men. Sophie carried her bundles and kept her children close. She did not stop to look at the decorations or the fancy clothes of other women. She kept her eyes on the missionary leading them through the crowd.

The air smelled of the sea and metal from the factories. It reminded Sophie that they were close to the harbor and the world beyond.

They walked through narrow, icy streets toward the docks. The children were tired and stumbled, but Sophie kept them moving.

At the pier, the steamer to Kiel waited. Its black hull was huge. The harbor water was dark and slapped against the posts. Marianne stopped walking.

“I cannot,” Marianne whispered, her voice trembling. “Sophie, look at the water. It is like a throat. It wants to swallow us.”

“The water is just a road, Marianne,” Sophie said, her voice dropping into the low, steady tone she used for skittish horses. “It is no different than the path to the market, only wider. Hold onto Emma’s hand. Do not look down. Look at the light on the mast.”

She led them onto the gangplank. The wood bent a little under their weight. Sophie stepped onto the deck and looked back at the city. The lights of Copenhagen shone in a line against the darkness.

She remembered the graves in Gentofte and the stone walls Peter had built. She had lived there for thirty years, but now that life was over. On the deck, she felt the engine beneath her feet.

The trip to Kiel passed quickly. The air smelled of salt and unwashed sailors. Below deck, they were crowded into steerage. The space was narrow and lit by a weak yellow lantern.

Sophie spent the night perched on a rough coil of rope. She anchored Otto in the crook of her arm. The other children sought warmth beneath a single weighted quilt. They tangled their limbs together.

The lantern swung back and forth. Sophie stayed alert, watching over her children. She focused only on keeping them safe.

She listened to Anne's coughs and Peter's restless movements. Sophie stayed determined to get them through the journey.

By dawn, they left the steamer and got on a train heading toward Altona. The land was flat, and the winter wind had stripped the trees bare.

The language had changed. The familiar Danish vowels were gone, replaced by sharp, guttural consonants. Sophie felt as though she were becoming deaf. She watched the ticket collectors. The station masters. Her eyes searched their faces for some sign of the world she knew. She found only professional indifference. These were men who moved cargo. To them, she was not Sophie Petersen, daughter of a farmer. She was a unit of passage. A head to be counted. A ticket to be punched.

“They sound like dogs barking,” Thomas whispered, leaning toward his mother as a German official shouted instructions on the platform at Altona. “I don't like it, Mama. Why don't they speak right?”

“They speak their own way, Thomas,” Sophie said, tightening the knot on a sack. “The Lord understands all languages. We only need to follow the Brother who leads us. Keep your pack high on your shoulders. We must walk to the other station.”

Getting through Altona was hard. They walked a long way through dirty streets. The children fell behind, and Sophie carried Otto and her bundle. Her back hurt, and the city air made it hard to breathe.

Sophie watched Marianne, who walked quietly, staring at the person ahead. Marianne seemed lost, as if the world she knew was gone.

Sophie wanted to comfort Marianne, but she was too tired. All her strength went into keeping her children moving forward.

The North Sea crossing was different from the Baltic. They boarded the ship for Hull. The wind was strong and cold, and the air smelled of salt.

The sky was dark and cloudy. Sophie found a corner of the deck and gathered the children near a wooden crate to protect them from the spray. The ship started to roll before they left the harbor, and a tray of tins slid across the deck.

A storm hit three hours after they left. Freezing rain made the deck slippery. Sophie held the railing with one hand and Emma's collar with the other, trying to protect her children from the wind.

The waves were high, and their tops broke into white foam. The air tasted salty. In the dark, Sophie heard the ship creak and groan. Marianne was sick into a bucket, her face pale. The children held onto Sophie's skirts, scared and quiet.

"Are we sinking, Mama?" Peter asked. His voice cracked. He was most like his father. He had a quiet logic. It usually kept him calm. But now his hands shook. He could barely hold his cap.

"The ship is built for this," Sophie said. Her own stomach churned with every drop into the trough of a wave. "The men know the way. We are just crossing a valley of water. Think of the mountain in the dream. It doesn't move. We are going to the mountain."

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing with the movement of the ship. As long as she kept her hands on the children, she felt they would be safe.

Sophie sat in the rain all night. Her clothes were soaked. She did not move until she saw the first gray light of England through the mist.

The port of Hull was crowded with ships and people. The city was full of brick buildings and coal smoke. The air was heavy. They hurried from the ship to the train, carrying their bags through the crowd.

Sophie felt tired and numb after the storm. She sat on the train to Liverpool and watched the English countryside go by, seeing dark hedges and dirty cottages.

By the time they reached Liverpool, the sun was setting behind a wall of fog. The station was a cathedral of iron. The roof soared so high the pigeons looked like dust motes in the rafters. The noise was absolute. The hiss of steam. The clatter of trolleys. The endless, rhythmic thrum of a world that never stopped.

Sophie stood on the platform with her children close by. Her hands were cracked and stained from the journey. Her children looked tired and pale.

“Is this Zion, Mama?” Anne asked, her voice thick with sleep. She looked around at the dark brick walls and the flickering gaslights, her bottom lip trembling.

“No, Anne,” Sophie said, her voice sounding thin and unfamiliar in the vastness of the station. “This is only the place where we wait. The beginning is over.”

She looked up at the large iron clock above the tracks. Its hands moved steadily.

The green fields of Gentofte were gone, replaced by soot and iron and the long road ahead. Sophie sat quietly for a moment, then picked up the heaviest sack. Its weight felt familiar against her hip. She did not look back toward the station; she looked toward the crowded, noisy streets of Liverpool. Then she gathered her children and moved forward into the dark.

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