It was as though James G. Willie had become Brigham Young. His voice rang out, sending chills up and down Maggie’s spine. Then gradually he quieted, his shoulders falling again. Now he looked at her squarely. “That’s what it was you felt that day, Maggie.”
“What?”
“The fire of the covenant.”
She pulled back a little, her eyes wide.
“When you were baptized you made a covenant with Jesus Christ. When you sang the words to that song the Spirit brought them into your mind, but what gave them the power to change your heart was the covenant that burned within you.”
He stopped, watching her. She was barely aware of him. Was that what it was? Why had the words of that hymn hit her so hard? She had reread them several times since and marveled. They were touching lyrics but didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. What was it about that final stanza that had swept all of her determination to stay in Scotland aside?
She began to move her head up and down, slowly, almost dazed. “Yes, you are right.”
He nodded somberly. “I thought so.”
There was a long pause, and then she said, “But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”
He laughed softly. “No, not in any way. In fact, sometimes the fire is a burden, and you would give almost anything to be rid of it.”
“Anything except turning your back on it.”
“Exactly.” Now he stood, moving away from her to stand closer to his two brethren. “I was touched when your mother told me what had happened. Thank you for letting us talk about it.” He took a quick breath. “And that brings us to why we are here, Maggie. We have an assignment for you.”
She bobbed her head. That was not unexpected. At worship services earlier that day President Willie had announced that now that the people were getting their “sea legs,” it was time to make some work assignments. President Richards had purchased a large quantity of a heavy cotton fabric called “drill” or “drilling” from the cotton mills in Lancashire. It was for making the tents and covers for the wagons and the handcarts they would need in America. Their leader had told them that starting tomorrow, work crews would be assigned—the men cutting up the heavy cloth and the women stitching it together. “I would be happy to help in any way, President Willie. However, I worked at a paper factory. I’m not a good seamstress, but my mother is very good. Perhaps she could teach me and—”
He laughed. “Actually, we weren’t thinking of asking you to sew, Sister Maggie. We have something else in mind for you.”
Her face registered her surprise. “What?”
“I want you to organize a school.”
She rocked back. “A school? Me?”
“Yes. But not for the children. We already have several parents doing that.”
“Then what?” She was reeling a little.
Elder Ahmanson stood now too. “An English school,” he said quietly.
She stared at him, not sure she had heard correctly.
Elder Atwood jumped in. “The Scandinavians are at a disadvantage. They have Elder Ahmanson and one other brother who can translate for them, but there are over a hundred of them. We cannot possibly teach everyone to speak English now, but if we had even a few who could speak it, it would be a great blessing to the rest of them.”
President Willie stepped closer to her. “Once we are on the trail, it will be dangerous if we cannot relay instructions swiftly. We need more translators.”
“But I . . . Brother Willie, why would you ask me? I am not a teacher.”
“Because we feel impressed that you are the one we need. I will leave it completely in your hands. We will assign five or six people to your class. They will be mostly younger people. We feel like they will be able to learn the language faster than some of the older folks.”
Again Elder Ahmanson came in. “I have been trying to teach a few of our people already. For example, remember those two young men who were being yelled at by the sailor and you intervened?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been teaching them ever since we left Denmark, and they’re slowly picking it up. But I don’t have the time. It’s not been consistent enough to really help them.”
Now Maggie understood why President Willie had started by reminding her of the covenant. She felt overwhelmed, terribly intimidated. And yet . . . Since when had God promised that in keeping the covenant one could be completely comfortable?
“I . . .” She took a deep, slow breath. “Yes. I will do as you ask, Brother Willie.”
“Good. I knew you would.” He reached out and shook her hand. “Thank you. We’ll leave it in your hands. Brother Atwood will arrange with the ship’s captain a place for you to meet. I’d like you to start tomorrow.”
III
Monday, 12 May 1856
“Oh, Sarah, what shall I do?” Maggie wailed.
Sarah James looked up. She and Maggie were the only ones below deck at the moment. The weather had cleared during the night, and the families were taking the opportunity to be up top again. Sarah was seated at the table with baby Jane on her lap. She was bouncing her lightly, making her coo with pleasure. “It will be all right, Maggie,” she said. “They’re not going to be difficult students.”
Maggie started a retort, then bit it off. She remembered the look of pure envy she had seen on Sarah’s face when Maggie came back with the news of her new calling. This was something she would love to do too. This morning Maggie had found President Willie again and asked if Sarah could be assigned to help her. “Yes,” he had answered, “but only as she has time. The Jameses are a large family, and I can’t take her away. Her mother needs her.” So Sarah would come to class when she could, but there would be no formal assignment.
Maggie’s voice softened. “But these are adults, Sarah. If it were children even, perhaps I could do without textbooks, but I couldn’t find a single book that teaches people how to speak English. I’ve asked everywhere on the ship.” She threw up her hands. “How do I teach English without any books?”
Sarah stood up, cuddling the baby against her. “How many are coming again?”
Maggie reached down and snatched up the list President Willie had handed her at the midday meal. “Five. A young married couple, a single girl the same age as Hannah and Emma, and the two Norwegian brothers.”
Sarah’s head came up. “Eric Pederson?”
Maggie was surprised at that reaction. “Do you know them?”
Her head ducked behind the baby’s, but Maggie had already seen the color in her cheeks. “I just know who they are,” she murmured. Maggie gave her a sharp look, and her color deepened. “Stop it, Maggie. I just noticed them one day talking with Elder Ahmanson.” Then she glanced up from beneath the dark lashes. “But he is very handsome.”
Maggie nodded at that. Hannah and Emma had also commented on Olaf Pederson. The two brothers were both quite good-looking, now that she thought about it. But it surprised her that Sarah—shy, demure Sarah—should have noticed it so quickly.
Then the worry pushed aside any thoughts of shipboard romance. “What am I going to do, Sarah?” she cried. “Class starts in fifteen minutes. I can’t even say hello to them. I don’t know a word of Danish.”
“I thought they were Norwegian.”
“The brothers are. The others are from Denmark. But Brother Ahmanson says it is virtually the same language. I don’t need to worry about the differences.”
Sarah held the baby up high and shook her gently, bringing a delightful little giggle from her. “Why don’t you do what we are doing with Jane?” she asked.
Maggie’s head came up. “What?”
“Well, think about it. How are we teaching Jane to speak English? We just talk to her. Over and over. We don’t worry about having a textbook for her. We just speak English to her all the time.”
Maggie frowned, starting to see. “But—” She stopped.
Sarah lowered the baby and picked up a spoon from the table. S
he held it out for Jane, who grabbed it immediately. “Spoon, Jane. This is a spoon,” she said slowly. Then she looked at Maggie and shrugged. “That’s how it’s done.”
Maggie stared at the baby, her mind racing. That was it. It was so simple. She stepped quickly to Sarah and hugged her. “Thank you. Will you come as soon as Jane is asleep?”
“You know I will. Good luck, Maggie.”
Laughing, Maggie went to her storage box and began plucking out items and shoving them into a canvas bag. “I don’t need luck now,” she said, straightening. “Thanks to you.”
•••
Maggie’s “school” was held up near the bow, away from the major traffic flow of the passengers and crew. Though the Thornton seemed huge, eight hundred people, counting passengers and crew, filled up virtually every free space. So Elder Atwood had gotten permission from the first officer to clear a small area near the prow of the ship where they could be largely undisturbed. She looked around, counted five “seats,” then folded her arms and settled in to wait. It was a clear evening, promising that the air would be quite cool by morning. She had decided that the time right after the evening meal each day would be the best. They would go for an hour, from six to seven o’clock.
She heard a noise and turned, her heart doing a little flutter. Six people were coming toward her, all in a tight group, laughing and chattering with each other as they approached. One of them was Brother Ahmanson. Good. Trying not to stare, she quickly looked at those with him. There were the two Pederson brothers in their matching sweaters. Beside them was the married couple—the Hansens, according to her list. They had been married shortly before leaving Denmark and so had no children to worry about. They were holding hands as they walked. Coming with the couple was a young girl about Hannah’s age. That had to be Ingrid Christensen.
As they approached, Maggie’s concerns subsided a little. They didn’t look too fierce. In fact, if anyone was intimidated, it seemed to be them. She set the paper back down again, put a block of wood on it so it wouldn’t blow away, brushed quickly at her hair with her hands, then stepped to the edge of her “classroom” to greet them.
The group stopped and Brother Ahmanson came forward. He stuck out his hand. “Sister McKensie,” he said pleasantly, “I have brought you your class.”
“Thank you, Brother Ahmanson.”
“Let me introduce you.”
Maggie held up her hand quickly. “Thank you, Brother Ahmanson, but no. I have decided that we are going to start right off speaking English, without any translation help. I’ll have them introduce themselves in a few minutes.”
He gave her a searching look, then nodded approvingly. “A wise decision, I think. Yes, very good.” He turned and rattled off something to them, then walked away, much to their consternation. Suddenly Maggie’s misgivings shot skyward again.
“Come,” she said, motioning with her hand toward their seats. “Come, sit down.” She did a little pantomime of sitting. Smiling shyly, they moved past her and took their seats, Ingrid and the Hansens choosing the front crate, the Pederson boys taking two barrels directly behind them.
Maggie waited a moment, then plunged in. “Good evening,” she said, fumbling a little at the sight of seven pairs of eyes staring gravely at her. “Welcome to English class. Anglais classa.” She frowned. She had no idea if class was a word common to other languages. And for that matter, Anglais was more French than anything. Did they even know what she was trying to say? No one moved. No one looked away.
She looked at Ingrid, then waved her finger back and forth at her in a gesture of warning. “Anglais, Ingrid. No Danmark. Anglais. Only English.” She frowned. Danmark was the name of the country in Danish. She had heard that. But it didn’t mean Danish the language.
But the girl smiled and nodded. “No Danmark. Engelsk.”
“Yes, that’s right. Engelsk.” She looked at the other four and again shook her finger. “No Danish. No Norwegian. Engelsk. Only English.”
“Only English,” Olaf Pederson said.
Maggie stopped, remembering that Brother Ahmanson had been teaching these two some. “You are Olaf?” she asked slowly.
“Yah. Olaf Pederson.”
“Do you understand what I am saying?”
He nodded, not very sure of himself. “Little.”
“Good. That’s good.” She thought for a moment, then pointed to herself. “My name is Maggie. Maggie McKensie.” She kept tapping her chest. “Maggie.”
Several nodded, and then Ingrid murmured, “Maggie.”
“Good, Ingrid.” Maggie reached down and took her by the elbow and brought her up to stand beside her. The girl smiled shyly, blushing almost instantly. Ingrid was adorable. Maggie saw that immediately. Just Hannah’s age, she had thick blond hair fastened in a bun at the back of her head. Her skin was fair and her eyes a light blue. She had an upturned nose which seemed to fit her perfectly. When she smiled it was so pleasant and so bright that one couldn’t help but instantly want to like her.
Again Maggie pointed to herself. “My name is Maggie.” Then she pointed to the girl, speaking slowly and distinctly. “What is your name?”
The girl turned to look at the others, hoping for help. Eric said something to her in Danish.
“No,” Maggie said quickly, shaking her finger at him. “Engelsk.” She turned the girl back around, touching her chest again. “My name is Maggie.” Now she touched Ingrid. “You say it.”
Ingrid’s face was a bright red, but then she spoke. “Ingrid Christensen,” she finally said in a halting manner.
“Good,” Maggie exclaimed, nodding up and down enthusiastically. She pointed to her again, still speaking very slowly. “My name is Ingrid. Say it.”
“My . . . name is . . . Ingrid.”
Maggie clapped her hands. “Excellent. Very good.” The others were smiling now too, and Olga Hansen congratulated Ingrid warmly as she sat down again.
Maggie was soaring. She pointed to Eric Pederson and motioned for him to stand up. “Can you tell me your name?” she asked, again speaking slowly and distinctly.
He stood slowly. “My name Eric Pederson.”
That pleased her. “Very good. You too speak some English?”
“Yah,” he agreed, nodding his head. “But Olaf is better.”
She laughed and stepped back. It was going to be okay. Sarah was right. And as soon as she got back down in the hold, she was going to give Sarah one huge hug.
She was pulled back when she saw Eric’s hand come up. “Yes, Eric?”
“I wish to say takk.” He shook his head in frustration and started again. “Tank you.”
Maggie’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Thank you? To me? Why?”
He was struggling, his eyes concentrating fiercely. “For first day.”
“For our first day in class?”
“No,” Olaf said, standing now too. “For first day on ship. With angry man.”
Maggie slowly began to nod. “I see.” She began making the motion of hammering. “That man?” she asked.
Both brothers nodded vigorously, smiling now. “Yah, dat man,” Eric said. “Very angry at Norwegian Dummkopf and brother.”
Now she laughed out loud. “He vas da Dummkopf, yah?” she said in her best Norwegian accent.
The smiles turned to laughter, but then Eric instantly sobered. “Olaf and Eric tank you, Sister Maggie,” he said, laboring with each word. “Takk. Very much takk.”
IV
Thursday, 29 May 1856
On the morning of their twenty-ninth day after embarkation, Maggie was still in her berth. She had arisen early, as was required, and gone through the usual routine—breakfast, prayers, cleanup of the hold—and then went immediately back to reading the book she had started two days before. One of the ship’s officers had lent it to her. It was The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fenimore Cooper, and she was thoroughly engrossed. Here was America as she pictured it, with Natty Bummpo—or Leatherstocking, as he was known to
his Indian friends—living freely among the natives, in harmony with nature, fighting off danger, fearless in battle. The only drawback was that it left her with a vague sense of anxiety. In a few weeks they would be setting off into the wilderness, and the thoughts of Indians, who were not always friendly to whites, was unsettling. But it was not enough to dissuade her from reading.
“Maggie! Maggie!”
She raised her head in surprise. She heard the clumping of someone coming down the hatch ladder. The door jerked open and Robbie stuck his head in. “Maggie, come quick!”
“What?”
But he was already gone again.
Not sure whether to be alarmed or not, she shut the book, hopped down from the berth, and walked swiftly to the door. As she emerged on deck, she saw a large group of her fellow passengers along the railing near the front of the ship. Robbie was just pushing his way back into the crowd. He saw her and motioned vigorously for her to come.
When she finally made her way to the railing beside him, she had already guessed what it might be. And sure enough, there it was off the port bow. She had heard that they were massive, but nothing she had either heard or read prepared her for the huge mass that lay about a quarter of a mile off the port bow. It looked like an island, except there were no trees, no beach, no life of any kind. The sky was clear, and the sun bouncing off the ice was such a brilliant, dazzling white that she raised her hand to shade her eyes. It was breathtaking and chilling at the same moment.
The previous night, she and Sarah had lain awake much of the night as the ship moved slowly through a thick bank of fog. Above them they could hear the anxious cries of the sailors who were on watch, shouting out every few minutes that all was clear. Maggie kept telling herself that the captain would not sail on blindly and ram one of the floating mountains, but she had not ever been completely successful in convincing herself of that. Now as she thought of the unseen mass below the water—someone said you could see only a tiny portion of the total iceberg—she was grateful that the captain didn’t feel a need to take them any closer. It was huge—ten, maybe fifteen times larger than the ship. She felt a little sick as she realized how puny their little wooden raft was when compared to that giant mass.