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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