Sophie’s Journey - Chapter 19
Eyes on the Horizon
It was early morning, but the Iowa heat was oppressive, tasting of dust and dry grass. By noon, the humidity had wrapped itself around Sophie like a wet wool blanket, pressing against her lungs until every breath felt like work. She pulled the handcart, her boots sinking into the fine, powdery silt of the trail. The green-wood axle ground beneath its burden, that high, rhythmic shriek vibrating through the pull-bars and into her arms, a reminder of the unseasoned lumber slowly giving way to the sun.
"Peter, check the left wheel," Sophie said. Her voice came out thin and dry, like old parchment. "It is leaning outward. If it gets caught in the sand, we will lose an hour we cannot spare. We must keep the cart moving."
Peter moved to the side of the cart. Sweat ran down his face, but he did not complain. He gripped the wheel and pushed hard against the heavy load.
Behind them, the Willie Company moved in a long line. Five hundred people walked through the tall grass. The prairie looked green from afar, but up close, the ground was rough, full of ruts and rocks. Every mile was hard work. Today, Sophie was not sure they would make it. She saw the heat rising from the trail ahead.
Marianne Lautrup stumbled next to the cart. She held the sidebar tightly. The blue ribbon on her dress was dirty and limp. She stared at the ground, her eyes tired. Sophie saw that Marianne was slowing down, her skirts dragging in the dust. Sophie knew Marianne was losing hope.
"My feet, Sophie," Marianne whispered, her voice barely audible over the screech of the wheels. "They are burning. I think the skin has come away entirely inside my boots."
"Everyone’s feet are burning, Marianne. Keep your eyes on the horizon. If you look at your feet, the road becomes twice as long."
"It is not just the heat," Marianne replied, a sudden, sharp note of despair cutting through her exhaustion. "It is the futility of it. We pull, and we pull, and the mountains never get any closer. We are just moving through the same grass, day after day, until we disappear into it."
Sophie gripped tighter, the wood biting into her hands. "We are not disappearing. We are moving. Peter, give Marianne your shoulder for a moment. We are not stopping until the bugle sounds."
The heat grew worse as the day went on. By the afternoon, the company moved slowly. The sound of steady footsteps was gone. Now there was only shuffling. Sophie felt a back cramp, but she stood up straight and pulled harder. She remembered she was from Denmark. She had lost her husband and son. She would not let the Iowa sun defeat her.
Suddenly, Sophie heard shouting up ahead. She stopped to see what had happened. A woman had fallen on the trail. Her husband knelt beside her, trying to help.
Brother Levi Savage moved through the crowd. His face was grim, set in a mask of professional detachment. He knelt beside the woman and pressed his fingers to her throat. The moment stretched in silence. When he looked up, his eyes were heavy with sadness. He did not try to hide it.
The woman had collapsed from the sun. Her skin was pale. In a few minutes, she died.
Soon after, the bugle sounded for a halt. Elder Willie said they would only travel a few miles the next day because of the heat. The camp was quiet. No children were playing. Men worked on the carts. The rest did not make the journey easier. It only reminded them how hard the road ahead would be.
Peder Mortensen came to the fire where Sophie, Marianne, and the children sat. He looked tired and serious. “Reduced rations, Sister Petersen,” he said quietly. “Sixteen ounces of flour. It is not enough. A man cannot pull this weight on the food of a child.”
Sophie looked up at him. “We will make do. We have to."
Peder shook his head and looked west. "Making do is for the settlements, not out here. We have come three hundred miles, and the hardest part is still ahead. Florence is close, but the carts are already breaking. They were built by men who did not know how to choose good wood."
He stepped closer and spoke in a low voice. "I told Elder Willie in Iowa City. I told him the late start would hurt us. He talks about faith, but faith will not fix a broken axle in a storm.
Sophie watched him limp away. He looked weighed down by what he knew. The trail was taking everything from them—their things, their strength, even their hope. But Sophie decided she would not let it take her future.
The night was hot and still. Prairie owls called, and the guards spoke quietly. Sophie lay in the tent with her children. She did not pray for cooler weather. She only thought about the next day and the miles ahead.
Early the next morning, Sophie was already at the handcart. She grabbed the bars and felt the familiar weight settle in her chest. She did not look back toward the east. She placed one foot in front of the other and began to pull, determined to keep the cart moving.
The company moved slowly, barely staying together. The wheels on Sophie’s cart groaned. The grease Peter used did not help for long. Sophie counted her steps in the red dirt. The sun rose higher, promising more heat and work. She kept her eyes on the ground ahead of her boots.
Peter walked next to the wheel, his hand steady on the cart. He watched for ruts. He did not speak, but he helped Sophie on the hills. She saw he was growing up. They were survivors now, and the cart was part of their lives.
As they approached Nebraska, the Iowa prairie became more rugged, with steeper hills and yellow, dry grass swaying in the wind. The heat persisted, but a refreshing northwest wind offered Sophie relief, signaling that the season was shifting.
The company reached the last hill before Florence. Sophie stopped to rest. She saw the settlement ahead—small buildings and white wagons on the plains. It looked like a safe place to fix the carts before moving on.
Sophie adjusted the strap on her shoulder. Her dress was soaked with sweat. She looked at her children. They were dirty and exhausted. Marianne stared ahead at the buildings, looking worn out. They had come three hundred miles. There were still a thousand miles to go. Florence was close, but it did not feel any easier.
“We are almost to Florence,” Mariane said. “It looks like a wonderful place to rest.”
Sophie said nothing. She kept going, pulling the heavy cart. The wheels screeched over the sand. Sophie led her children down the hill toward Florence. She kept her eyes on the horizon as the breeze blew in her face.
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