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
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