“Well, yes, but I didn’t mean to say that . . . I wasn’t suggesting that we should have someone stay.”
Now Hannah ran to her mother and grasped her hands. “It would only be for a little while, Mama. The other company won’t be far behind you.” She whirled on Brother Willie. “In fact, didn’t you say that the next group might catch us by the time we get to Florence?”
“Yes.” He was pulling at his lip, watching her closely. “That is our hope. It would be good if the two companies could travel close together once we leave Florence.”
Maggie was speechless. Hannah not with them? Like Emma she was still reeling a little from the shock of losing Ingrid, but Hannah? It was one thing to give up her treasured music box, but to lose Hannah? It was as though a sharp stone had pierced her breast. Even as she felt it, she saw the three brethren exchanging looks. Elder Ahmanson was nodding thoughtfully.
Brother Spencer spoke to Elder Willie. “I was talking to Aaron Jackson two days ago. I worry a little too. He’s so thin. And their oldest child is only . . . what?” He looked at Jane James.
“Martha Ann is seven. Mary Elizabeth will be five in a few days.”
“The baby, little Aaron, is only two,” William said. “He’ll have to ride in the cart. He’s just toddling.”
Ingrid was still staring at Hannah, her blue eyes registering the same shock as the others. But there was wonder and hope there as well.
“Really, Mother,” Hannah rushed on. “Think about it. You said last night you wished there was something we could do to help the Jacksons. Well, now we can.”
“Yes, but—”
“I could stay too,” Emma said to her father. “Then we could all three be together.”
William James slowly shook his head. “We need you, Emma. Especially if Sister McKensie loses Hannah. We’ll have to help them.”
Brother Spencer was more emphatic. “There’s no way we could spare all three of you.” He turned to Hannah’s mother. “There is something to be said for this, Sister McKensie. What are your feelings?”
Mary started to speak; then words failed her. Her eyes were glistening as she looked at her daughter. Then, slowly, she turned to look at Ingrid. At that moment the Danish girl looked so helpless, and so filled with anxious expectation. Mary turned back. “Are you sure, Hannah?”
Maggie started forward, wanting to cry out, but then stopped. This was not her decision.
“I wasn’t,” Hannah said slowly. “The idea just popped into my head. But now? Yes, I’m sure, Mama. I feel like it is right. I don’t want Ingrid to be alone.” She took a quick breath and her shoulders squared. “If I had to leave you for a year, or even months, then I would probably say no. But for just a week or two. Yes, Mama. I’m sure.”
Ingrid gave a cry low in her throat and ran to Hannah, throwing her arms around her.
Tears were streaming down Emma’s face now. “Please, Papa.”
He put an arm around her. “I’m sorry, Emma. We just can’t spare you.”
Elder Willie, Elder Spencer, and Elder Ahmanson conferred quickly in whispers. Finally they all bobbed their heads in agreement. Daniel Spencer reached out and laid a hand on Mary’s arm. “We think there is merit to the idea if you are agreeable.”
She took a deep breath and seemed to hold it forever; then it came out slowly and softly. “I am agreeable if Hannah is.”
“Then it’s settled. Thank you.” He stepped forward and stuck out his hand to Hannah McKensie. “Thank you, dear sister. There is nothing sweeter than the pure love between good friends. We’ll make the changes in the lists.”
As they walked away, the two families stood around in a daze. Still weeping, Emma went to stand by her two friends. They held each other for a time, crying and whispering softly. Then suddenly Hannah straightened and moved back a step. “Do you know what this means, Emma?”
“No, what?”
“You won’t be with Ingrid and me, but now you will have Olaf all to yourself.” Her voice became husky, and though she tried to smile, it came out sounding quite forlorn. “Maybe you will get to be first wife after all.”
Chapter Notes
The following entry for 12 July 1856 is found in the daily journal of the Willie Company: “All are getting their 17 lbs weighed up this morning” (in Turner, Emigrating Journals, p. 13).
The accounts below give insights into the “weigh-in” that was required of each handcart emigrant before he or she left Iowa City. Spelling and punctuation are as found in the original sources.
Mary Ann Jones, nineteen, was in the first handcart company of 1856, led by Captain Edmund Ellsworth. She later married Brother Ellsworth when they reached the Valley. “We were allowed 17 lbs. of baggage each, that meant clothes beding cooking utensils etc. When the brethern came to weigh our things some wanted to take more than alowed so put on extra clothes so that some that wore [were] real thin soon became stout so as soon as the weighing was over put the extra clothes in the hand cart again but that did not last long for in a few days we were called upon to have all weighed again & quite a few were found with more than alowed. One old Sister carried a teapot & calendar [colander] on her apron strings all the way to Salt Lake. Another Sister carried a hat box full of things but she died on the way” (“Diary of Mary Ann Jones [age 19] on her trip across the plains,” in Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, p. 595).
Mary Powell, then twelve, and her family also came west with the Ellsworth Company in 1856. “It became necessary for Mother to dispose of some of our things. She sold a little flat iron that I had taken care to carry with me. How I cried when it was sold. I think this was the only time I cried on the whole long journey. I felt worried and said, ‘Whatever will we do for something with which to smooth out our clothes when we get to Salt Lake City’ ” (“Autobiography of Mary Powell Sabin,” in Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, p. 598).
Mary Ann Stucki Hafen, from Switzerland, came across the plains in 1860 when she was six. She and her family were in the Oscar Stoddard Company, the last of the ten companies to come to Utah by handcart. “When we came to load up our belongings, we found that we had more than we could take. Mother was forced to leave behind her feather bed, the bolt of linen, two large trunks full of clothes, and some other valuable things which we needed so badly later. Father could take only his most necessary tools” (Recollections of a Handcart Pioneer, p. 21).
John Jaques, as noted earlier, came to America and was reunited at Iowa City with his in-laws, the James Loader family. They became part of the Edward Martin Company. Describing the scene at the Mormon Campground shortly before their departure from Iowa City, he wrote: “As only a very limited amount of baggage could be taken with the handcarts, during the stay in the Iowa camping grounds there was a general lightening of such things as could best be done without. Many things were sold cheaply to residents of that vicinity, and many more things were left on the camping ground for anybody to take or leave at pleasure. It was grievous to see the heaps of books and other articles thus left in the sun and rain and dust, representing a respectable amount of money spent therefore in England, but thenceforth a waste and a dead loss to the owners” (as cited in Bell, Life History and Writings of John Jaques, p. 119).
Chapter 10
Iowa City, Iowa
to
Brushrow Creek, Iowa
I
Tuesday, 15 July 1856
It was pandemonium. Eric Pederson shook his head. It might be organized pandemonium, but it was pandemonium nevertheless. Dogs barked. Oxen bellowed. People shouted at each other, trying to tell someone else where they should be. They might as well have been talking to the wind on the North Atlantic. Usually they were simply ignored. Occasionally the “someone elses” shouted right back. Children—the only ones finding any enjoyment in any of this—shrieked joyously at each other as they darted back and forth, dodging frustrated adults and ignoring the calls of concerned mothers. Near the front of the line a teamster driving one of
the supply wagons was trying to yoke up his newly broken yoke of oxen—or better, Eric thought wryly, judging from what he could see, his unbroken yoke of oxen. It was a battle royal and still too early to tell who was going to win. Off to one side a pair of large black mules, already hitched to one of the other wagons, brayed raucously, as though finding the whole scene completely hilarious.
James Willie and the five captains of hundreds strode up and down the line, shouting orders, calling out encouragement, sometimes stopping to help someone with their lashings or to grease a wheel hub. Other times they just passed on, shaking their heads in futility. Willie led a horse behind him. With five hundred people, a hundred and twenty handcarts, five wagons, and about fifty head of beef, the line stretched for about a half a mile along the south side of the Mormon Campground. He had planned to ride back and forth and supervise things, but there were too many things that required his personal attention for him to be able to stay mounted.
The Church agents were likewise engaged. Daniel Spencer, Chauncey Webb, William Kimball, and George D. Grant went up and down the line checking on a thousand details. Today brought to fruition almost three weeks of nonstop effort on their part. The handcarts were constructed. Tents enough for this fourth company of the season were finished and packed in the supply wagons. Each wagon was filled to capacity. The agents carefully checked the inventory of required supplies: tools, rope, black powder, rifles and ammunition, sugar, tea, tent pegs, cooking utensils, bedding, a few bottles and tins of herbs and medicine, a small amount of lumber for repairs on the handcarts—or for coffins, should the need arise.
Eric could hardly take his eyes from the scene. It might be controlled bedlam, but it was also a culmination. Almost a year ago now the First Presidency had made a declaration and sent out a general epistle. Because of crop failures in Utah and tight money, the people would come by handcarts instead of wagon trains. With those few bold strokes of a pen, the Brethren had created the tumble of reality that lay before him.
Olaf was at the back of the cart with Jens Nielson, checking the ropes one last time to make sure the canvas was lashed down tight. Little Jens was right beside his father, his face as sober as that of a mourner at a funeral as he made sure they were doing it right. Unlike some of the handcarts, theirs did not have the rounded cover over the top that made them look like miniature wagons. With the limited amount of canvas, or drill cloth, only those handcarts with small children—defined as under six—were allowed to have covers to shield the children from the sun. Young Jens would not be six until October, but that was only three months away. In the weeks since their arrival at Iowa City, the boy had turned as brown as a piece of shoe leather and, unlike so many of the other Scandinavians who found the heat terribly oppressive, was not bothered by the sun. After almost a month of his running barefoot, the bottoms of his feet were as thick as sole leather and almost as black.
Off to the side from where Eric stood, Elsie Nielson was helping adjust a small shoulder pack for Bodil Mortensen, the nine-year-old girl they were taking to Zion for another family. Eric’s eyes softened and a warm rush of affection swept over him. He still missed his family back in Norway, sometimes so keenly that he would lie awake nights thinking about them, but what a blessing it had been to find the Nielsons. They had become family to Olaf and him, and Eric felt a deep gratitude toward them. He saw in Elsie many of the same qualities that his mother had—gentleness, strength, quiet faith, quiet cheer.
Eric smiled. Bodil was only nine, but she was already nearly as tall as Elsie’s four foot eleven. This tiny woman, who was such a physical contrast to her husband’s height and weight, had enough energy to make up for whatever she lacked in size. She was also a giant when it came to faith. The prophet had said, Come to Zion, and so she was going to Zion. Eric had only just learned about their earlier plan to go to Utah by wagon train and of their decision to change to the handcarts so that they could give their extra money to bless others.
Elsie’s skin, which was as fair as a baby’s, did not take kindly to the sun. In spite of the bonnets she wore, her cheeks were constantly burned and peeling. Her nose was a bright pink, her lips chapped and bleeding, in spite of small pieces of cloth she stuck on with dabs of butter. Freckles were starting to appear across her cheeks.
One night in English class Maggie had brought a beautiful brass hand mirror as one of the props she always used to help them learn to speak better English. On impulse, Eric had asked if he could borrow it long enough to show Elsie. To his dismay, when he held it up, Elsie burst into tears. Jens had come running over. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he cried.
Embarrassed, she recovered quickly, but it was clear she was still somewhat shocked.
“What is it, Elsie?” Jens persisted.
“When I get to Salt Lake, none of my friends will recognize me any longer,” she whispered. “They won’t even know me.”
And yet, with all of that, the only thing Eric had ever heard her say that gave even the slightest indication of her feelings was, “Sometimes I so miss the sea air we enjoyed in Denmark.”
She turned now and saw that he was watching her and instantly smiled. “Are you ready, Eric?” she asked in Danish.
He grinned. “More than ready. Aren’t you?”
She nodded. Jens, finished now, moved up beside his wife and put one arm around her. “At last it comes,” he said softly.
“Yes.” She smiled up at him. “I’m so glad, Jens.”
He turned and looked back toward the camp. There was a small crowd about thirty yards off. It was part of the Edward Martin group. Mingled with them were some of their own number, those who would be coming with the independent wagon trains. They had come out to say farewell.
“Do you think we made the right choice, Elsie?” Jens asked softly.
She looked up in surprise, then instantly frowned. “You know the answer to that,” she said firmly.
“I know.” His eyes were filled with both love and admiration for her. “Thank you. I still feel that we have made the right decision.”
She smiled, then looked at Eric, who was watching the two of them. “Besides, if we were going by wagon company, we would not have these two strong boys added to our family now, would we?”
Eric chuckled. “And handsome too,” he teased.
“Yes, very handsome.”
Olaf hooted. “That’s what Sarah James thinks too.”
Eric spun around and glared at his brother. “I was just joking,” he said.
Elsie laughed. “Olaf is not the only one who notices how that lovely young girl looks at you, Eric. Why don’t you at least smile back at her from time to time?”
Eric started to say something, not realizing that even now he was frowning, but then a noise from off to the left caught his attention and he turned to look, grateful for the distraction. John Chislett, captain of the fourth hundred, was standing with the “footmen,” speaking with some animation to two older sisters.
The group that stood off a short distance from the awaiting column did not have handcarts. Each hundred in the company had a small number of people—mostly those without other family members—who were not assigned to a handcart. In some cases it was because they weren’t bringing much more than what they wore and didn’t need a cart to carry it. Others felt that they were not physically able to pull a cart but could walk. A few were the odd-numbered ones who couldn’t be placed easily with any other family group and its cart. They had a tent group and a mess group but not a handcart. The rest of the company had quickly dubbed them the “footmen,” or the “walkers.”
Curious, and anxious to escape any further taunting about Sarah, Eric spoke to Elsie. “I’m going to see if there’s anything I can do to help.” Without waiting for her reply, he sauntered over. He had visited with some of the footmen earlier and was impressed with their dogged determination not to be a burden on anyone.
“Sisters,” Brother Chislett was saying, fighting for patience, “I find
your independence commendable, but I would recommend that you seriously consider Brother Willie’s offer.”
“We have considered it.” The speaker was a heavyset woman. Her hair was nearly white, but her eyes were a dark blue and filled with energy and life. Eric had noticed her before because she reminded him very much of his grandmother on his father’s side, who had died two years before.
“And we thank our good captain,” she went on, “but Sister Park and I have made up our minds. We shall walk.”
In the heat she was fanning herself with a small book—something his grandmother always did—and Eric could see streaks of perspiration coming from beneath her bonnet.
The one called Sister Park nodded vigorously. She was tall, an inch or two more than her companion, and quite slender. At first glance it made her seem more frail, but Eric knew that that was a misleading impression. Her hair was not yet white, but it was graying heavily and was pulled back severely into a bun at the back of her neck. She peered at Brother Chislett. “And we shall not be asking anyone for help.”
“But that’s just it,” Brother Chislett said in exasperation. “You don’t have to ask. We are offering to help. They have room for both of you in the wagon company. They’ll only be a day or so behind us.”
“You think we’re too old to walk on our own, don’t you?” the first one said snappishly.
Eric smiled. He guessed that both were at least sixty years of age, perhaps as much as sixty-five, but it wouldn’t be wise to point that out to them.
Chislett threw up his hands and exploded in frustration. “Sister Bathgate, we are not talking about an easy journey here. We have thirteen hundred miles to go. It is already very late in the season. We may get caught in some snowstorms in the Rocky Mountains before we reach the Valley.”
“Then we shall walk through the snow,” she retorted. “Sister Park and I will help each other, but we have every intention of walking every step of the way. You don’t need to worry about us.”