Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 17 - Ocean of Grass

 

Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 17

Ocean of Grass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Previous Chapters