Sophie's Journey - Chapter 26 - The South Bank

 

Sophie's Journey - Chapter 26

The South Bank

The North Platte River stretched across the high plains, blocking the handcart company’s way. It was mid-September, and the trail on the north bank presented a problem.

Sophie held on to the handcart crossbar, her chest tight as she looked ahead. North Bluff Fork flowed into the Platte nearby, but the real threat was beyond that. Pale sand bluffs crowded the water’s edge, steep and jagged, making it nearly impossible for the carts to pass.

The sand hills seemed solid under their bunchgrass, but the wheels told a different story. Sophie held the pull-bar with sweaty, dirt-streaked hands while Peter struggled next to her in the harness. The cart sank nearly to the hubs, and they had to drag every yard forward.

"We have to keep moving, Peter," Sophie said, her words coming out in short, strained bursts. "If we stop, the sand will trap us."

Peter did not answer. His teeth were clenched the way his father’s had been during hard seasons on the farm. Behind them, the Willie Company bent into a crooked line, every family hunting for firmer ground. Now and then, someone cried out when a cart stuck fast, and men hurried over to shove it free.

Sophie’s back hurt, and the pain spread down her legs. She was used to hard work in Denmark, like milking cows, baking bread, and carrying water, but this was harder. Each push moved the cart only a little. The sun was hot, and hunger left her dizzy and weak.

“I can’t feel my toes, Mother,” Emma murmured from the front of the cart, where she sat snuggled beside Otto. The six-year-old was supposed to walk, but her legs had given out an hour ago, and Sophie could not bring herself to set the child back on the trail.

"Wiggle your toes, Emma," Sophie said, not turning around. "Keep the blood moving. We'll reach the water soon, and then you can rest."

“We can’t pull through this,” Peter said, his voice sinking to a hoarse whisper. He did not say it in despair. He said it as fact.

Even wagons pulled by oxen sometimes had trouble on these slopes, but the handcarts, made of green wood and already worn out, faced an even harder path. If they tried to push the carts through the deep sand, axles might break, wheels could get stuck, and tired people would get hurt before they made any progress.

A group gathered at the front of the line. Captain Willie stood with his sub-captains, their features concealed under their hats. The north wind felt cooler now, a real sign that September was here.

Sophie stood between the handles of her cart, her hands sore and blistered. She watched Captain Willie and the elders gather in low, urgent council. She didn’t need to hear their words to know the truth. A wagon train with oxen might have made it through the sand hills, but they couldn’t. They were just weary people pulling carts, and they grew weaker with every mile. If they tried to push the handcarts into the deep sand, they would waste the day and get nowhere.

When the word came down the line, silence spread over the Saints. Millen Atwood gave the order: they were to cross the river.

"To the south side?" Sophie asked, her hand gripping Emma’s shoulder.

“The captain says it’s the only way around the bluffs,” Captain Atwood shouted, his voice projecting through the strengthening wind as he walked the line. “Check your loads! Secure the canvas! We cross together, and we do not stop in the middle!”

Sophie looked out over the Platte. From the bank, it looked shallow and safe, but its wide, muddy water and churning currents warned of quicksand and sudden deep spots where the river had gouged out the bed. Turning the carts toward the Platte felt like choosing danger because no better path remained. The air sharpened near the water, and the river lay gray and unforgiving beneath the pale sky.

Captain Willie stood near the edge, mud on his boots, guiding the first carts into the current. Sophie tightened both hands on the crossbar and watched the first group step down from the bank.

When it was her turn to go into the river, the first step stole Sophie’s breath. Cold water inundated her boots and bit into her ankles. Below the surface, the riverbed rolled with quicksand and hidden holes, while the current pulled at her skirts and tried to turn her sideways.

Her wool skirt soaked up the river, growing heavier with each step. Some younger women had cut their skirts short or wore bloomers, but Sophie’s long skirt dragged in the water, slowing her down when she needed to move quickly.

“Push, Peter!” Sophie cried, her voice cracking. She dug her toes into the shifting mud and threw the full heft of her thin frame into the wood. Across the river, the lowing of stubborn cattle and the shouts of men coaxing the remaining oxen echoed off the bluff.

"Keep moving, Sophie! Don't let the wheels settle!"

The shout came from behind her, but Sophie heard only the cart. She leaned forward, dug in her heels, and pulled. Behind her, the wooden axles moaned as muddy water circulated around the spokes.

The voice belonged to Peder Mortensen. He sat inside his cart while his sons and wife strained to pull him along with all their belongings. His old leg injury made it impossible for him to walk through the river. “We have to keep moving,” he said, “or we will get stuck or swept away.” 

Peder didn’t try to hide how miserable he was. “My toes are completely numb, Sophie,” he said, squeezing water from his heavy trousers. “It didn’t look deep from the bank, but as soon as I stepped in, I knew I couldn’t keep my balance. If we have to cross this freezing river every time the Platte bends, we’ll be walking on stumps before we ever reach the Valley.”

Sophie didn't have enough energy to answer. She pulled hard, her heart beating fast as she tried to keep her family moving. Mud rubbed her ankles raw, and stones scraped her heels. Peter struggled behind the cart with water above his waist, his expression pale. He was too small for the strong current, and momentarily it seemed like the river might sweep him away.

To Sophie’s left, a mother screamed as her small child slipped into the swirling water. A brother caught the boy just in time, but both came up wide-eyed, trembling. The captains urged exhausted men, women, and crying children onward while others steadied the carts and drove the last cattle across.

The cold made Sophie’s legs cramp. As they went deeper, the sand shifted under their feet. The cart rocked in the current, and briefly the wheels lifted, as if the river might carry it away.

They moved forward only a little at a time. Sophie’s wet skirts dragged behind her, and she saw Marianne being carried by a young man, her face against his shoulder. Some people still walked, but others had to be carried. The crossing showed who was strong enough to keep going.

When the wheels finally reached solid ground, Sophie stumbled and almost fell. She pulled the cart out past the high-water mark and let the bar drop into the mud. Her legs were numb and shaking, but she stayed standing long enough to watch water pour from her skirt.

The company left the bluffs behind. Sophie looked back across the river and felt uneasy. Now they were on the south side, facing a rough trail toward Ash Hollow. The sand hills were behind them, but the path ahead looked hard. Sophie pulled her shawl tight as the cold wind cut through her wet clothes. Even though they had crossed the river, she did not feel safe.

The trail on the south side of the river was difficult. Old ruts, thick brush, and deep ridges tested the handcarts with every step. Instead of a steady pace, the handcarts went by stops and starts. Every mile felt twice as long, and every hill took time they didn’t have.

That evening, the camp was quiet and tense. Men struggled with wet canvas as the wind tried to pull it away. There were no fires. The buffalo chips were soaked, the willow branches wouldn’t burn, and everyone shivered in the sudden cold as the last bit of summer warmth faded.

Sophie looked back across the Platte at the north bluffs they had left behind, pale and quiet in the diminishing light. They had made it past the one obstacle and survived the crossing, but the day had cost them more than it gave. They kept moving, but the trail was wearing them out, and winter was getting closer.

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