Fire of the Covenant Read online

  He looked around. “Are there any questions?”

  To Maggie’s surprise, Robbie’s hand shot up. His mother jerked around too, but before she could make him put it down, President Willie saw it. He leaned over and whispered in Spencer’s ear. The agent nodded, then turned to the family. “Yes, young Master McKensie?”

  “Brother Spencer?” Robbie stood up. “Do you need someone to stand guard tonight?”

  There were soft cries of amusement and admiration. Maggie was astonished. He was twelve years old! But he stood straight and tall with his shoulders squared.

  The agent’s face softened and there was a pleased smile. “We do, son. Are you volunteering?”

  There were a few chuckles, but most of the people were, like Daniel Spencer, suddenly touched by this boy warrior who was about to have his first night sleeping out in the wilderness and who was not in the least bit worried about snakes.

  “Yes, sir!” Robbie barked eagerly.

  “Great.” Spencer’s face was completely serious now. “We’ve already made assignments for the brethren who will be standing duty around the perimeter of the camp, but I’m looking for a man in each family who will be responsible for those he loves. Can you do that, son?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good. I want you to make sure everyone in your family is together for evening prayers. And when we call lights out, you be sure the campfire is completely out and that all candles and lamps are extinguished. Will you do that for me, Brother McKensie?”

  “Yes, Brother Spencer!” Robbie was about to bust right out of his shirt, for the agent was speaking to him as one adult to another. There was no teasing here.

  “Thank you.” Spencer turned to the audience and there was a sudden catch in his throat. “Oh, my brothers and sisters,” he said, “would that we all had such an attitude as that!”

  Maggie, her eyes burning, wanted to reach out and hug Robbie, but she saw her mother’s eyes—also a little misty—which said, “Don’t treat him like a boy. Not right now.” And so they just smiled at him and nodded their approval. For Maggie, it was probably the sweetest moment she had enjoyed since leaving Edinburgh.

  Suddenly she bowed her head without closing her eyes. I thank Thee, Father, for speaking to me that day. I have not accepted Thy will graciously. Forgive me. Help me learn to trust more fully in Thy counsel, and to come to understand Thy will. She paused for a long moment. And to accept and rejoice in it. Amen.

  II

  Monday, 30 June 1856

  On Monday morning, immediately after morning prayers, all the adult members of the Thornton group began to gather at the large, open area south of camp. The younger children either were sent off to various schools that had been organized or were left with the older girls to be tended. The people were in good spirits this morning. A Sabbath day’s rest and three nights of good sleep out in the open left them rejuvenated and eager.

  Precisely at eight o’clock, Daniel Spencer and the other Church agents appeared. They called for the people to gather in close, and Brother Spencer got right to the task at hand. They were divided into work teams. Those with experience in carpentry were sent to help Brother Chauncey Webb build handcarts. Word had already gone through the camp that Chauncey Webb had been the one who made many of the wagons for the pioneers when they went west. Because Eric Pederson had once helped his father build their barn, he went with that group. The rest of the men would go with Brother Grant and begin cutting wood. The younger men and older boys would go with Brother Kimball to purchase more flour.

  The women were quickly divided into “cutters” and “sewers” for the tents and went off with Brother Spencer. The younger women who weren’t tending children were set to work mending clothes, drying meat, and doing the hundred other minor things that had to happen before the company would be ready to go.

  The company was going to be challenged by lack of skilled labor. Most of the emigrants were from England. They were hard workers but they had worked all of their lives in the foundries, the cotton mills, the coal mines, the great pottery factories. Those experiences did not translate easily into trail skills. But they did have one thing in common and that was a determination to go to Zion. They were eager if not immediately capable.

  To Maggie’s surprise, President Willie sought her out the moment the meeting broke up. The need for translators was more urgent than ever. Ingrid, Eric, and Olaf were being used with the separate work teams, along with Elder Ahmanson. Would she consider starting up the English class again? There had been no opportunity since they left New York, but now she would be excused from any evening assignments. Would she hold class again from six to seven-thirty each night except for the Sabbath?

  Maggie agreed instantly, overjoyed that her work would not simply be allowed to die.

  •••

  Chauncey Webb was holding a long piece of board out in front of him, sighting down it with one eye closed. Even from where Jens and Eric stood they could see that it was twisted out of line. The blacksmith lowered it, shaking his head. “Brethren, we have a serious problem, but we have no choice but to make the best of it.” He waved the board at them. “Not only are we very short on lumber, but as you can see, much of it is green. That is not good.”

  Eric thought he caught most of his meaning, but that threw him. He turned to Johan Ahmanson and waited for the translation to make sure he had heard correctly. When Ahmanson finished, Eric stepped to Jens and in a low voice asked, “Does it really matter what color the handcarts are?”

  Ahmanson overheard the question and looked startled. Then he understood. “No, Eric. Green in this case is not the color. It means the wood is still new, that it hasn’t been properly dried and cured.”

  “Ah.”

  They turned back to Chauncey Webb, who was smiling grimly. “When you’re out on the trail in this kind of heat, day after day, green wood will start to dry. As it dries it shrinks and warps. It will make for many problems.” He straightened, forcing a smile. “Almost all of the lumber we have is still green. But as my father used to say, when you have no choice it greatly simplifies making the decision. And we have no choice.”

  He moved over to the one existing handcart that was still in camp, motioning for the others to gather around. He picked up a stick and used it as a pointer. “Ideally we use different kinds of wood for the various parts of the handcart—hickory, the hardest of all, for the axletrees”—he tapped the long, thick beam to which the wheels were attached—“red or slippery elms for the hubs, this part here that allows the wheels to turn. We use mostly oak for the bed of the cart and the sides. We try to use white oak for the spokes and the rims of the wheels, and white ash for the shafts.” As he said these last words he touched the long, rounded pieces of wood that protruded from the front of the carts and were connected by a crossbar.

  The Scandinavian brothers listened as Brother Ahmanson repeated it all in a low voice. Eric began to nod. Yesterday, in worship services, Elder Kimball had spoken to the people about the need to get into good physical shape so that they did not “collapse in the shafts.” Now it made sense what he was saying.

  “Wherever possible we try to get our wood from timber that has grown on low ground, as that tends to be very tough and easy to bend. The other men will be searching out and sawing that timber for us.”

  One of the Scottish men raised his hand. “Is it true that the wheels are the most difficult part of the cart to make?”

  “Absolutely,” Webb said with great fervency. “I guess none of you here are wheelwrights?”

  No one moved.

  He sighed wearily. “I was afraid of that. Yes, the wheel is a challenge.” He walked to the stack of three or four wheels that were behind them and rolled one back to serve as a model. “First of all, we have to soak long strips of oak in water for several days until they can be bent around to make the rim.” His fingers stroked the spokes, as though they were the strings of a harp. “Each spoke has to be shaped just right s
o that it fits tightly in the holes both in the hub and in the rim.”

  He turned the wheel now so that they weren’t looking at it straight on but as though it were rolling toward them. “Do you notice anything unusual about its shape?”

  “It curves inward,” Brother Ahmanson said.

  “Exactly. That is what we call ‘dishing’ the wheel. We make them slightly concave, like a dish. Why so? Because when the wagon or cart is loaded, the weight pushes directly on the wheel. If it were straight or extended outward, what would happen?”

  “The weight is transferred to the spokes and they would pop out,” an old Scotsman said. “But in dish shape, the weight actually pushes the spokes more tightly into the hub.”

  Brother Webb gave him a sharp look. “That’s right, brother. Are you sure you’ve never made a wheel before?”

  “No, but our neighbor in Dundee was a blacksmith. He explained all this to me one day.”

  “Good. I’d like you then to help me with the wheels and see if we can train some others.”

  He moved and picked up a hub. It was round with a square on the back for the axle and the holes for the spokes already drilled. He held it up high.

  “This is the hub, brethren, perhaps the most critical part of the handcart. He turned it so they could see the back. “On the trail we will be in a lot of sand. Sand is death for a handcart. It can grind an axle or the hubs away in a matter of days. We usually try to line the wheel boxes—the place where the axles are connected to the wheels—with tin to prevent that from happening. Unfortunately our supply of tin is also very limited and we have not, as yet, been able to find more. So in some cases we’ll have to line the boxes with leather. You’ll also need to take something to lubricate the boxes with. Axle grease is best, but—and this will come as no surprise—that too is in very short supply. We may have to use lard, bacon grease, or soap instead. Consider that as you make your plans for what to take.”

  He stepped back, eyeing the cart. “Well, there you have it. It’s not much to look at, but then we’re not running a contest here to see who can produce the fanciest equipment. We’ll keep the construction simple. The only planing we’ll do is to round off the shafts and on the ends of the axle. Oh, also, we round the edges of the rims so that they slough off the sand and dust as they turn. For everything else we can use rough-hewn lumber.

  “When done, the cart itself weighs about sixty pounds. But it will easily hold three- or four-hundred-pound loads, which can be pulled by one or two people without a great deal of effort.”

  He smiled faintly at his “crew.” “Well, brethren, I figure if we have five people assigned to each handcart, which is generally what we aim for, between this company and the one that is still coming, we are going to need about two hundred and fifty carts all told.”

  There were low groans and a soft whistle.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said dryly. “So let’s get started.”

  •••

  William H. Kimball, Heber C. Kimball’s son, and one of the Church agents at Iowa City, had taken his crew in five wagons to a mill in Iowa City. Olaf Pederson was sixteen and in every way considered a man. Also, he could speak some English, so he was assigned to the flour detail. Brother Kimball made a special effort to speak slowly and distinctly so that Olaf could translate for the other Scandinavians. In actuality it didn’t prove too difficult, because though it was hard work, it wasn’t difficult to understand.

  By five o’clock they were loading the last wagon. With a hundred-pound sack on his shoulder, Olaf walked slowly to the back of that wagon, stopped for a moment to line himself up, then heaved the sack of flour up and onto the pile. A small white cloud exploded outward as the wagon creaked beneath the load.

  “Four more should about do it,” Elder Kimball said, holding up four fingers to Olaf.

  Olaf removed his hat and wiped at his brow. It left a white, pasty streak on his shirtsleeve. He grimaced as he looked at it. They all looked like ghosts now, and in the heat the flour stuck to their faces and skin like bookbinder’s glue.

  The other brethren stopped to rest for a moment as well. An older man from England surveyed the wagons, obviously impressed. “Is this for the next group as well as ours?” he asked Elder Kimball.

  “Oh, no,” the agent replied with a smile. “This is only for your group. We’ll still have to come back and get more.”

  “It really takes this much?” another man said.

  Olaf listened closely, trying to understand as much as possible.

  “Figure it out, brethren,” Brother Kimball said. “The normal allowance for an adult is sixteen ounces, one pound, of flour per day. Children get about two-thirds that amount. Your company will consist of about five hundred people.”

  He stopped to let them calculate that in their minds.

  “So about five hundred pounds per day,” one started.

  Kimball nodded. “If you consider the children, a little less than that, but that’s close enough. Now figure on just under a month to Florence. We’ll resupply there, but just to get us to Florence will take about fifteen thousand pounds, or around eight tons.”

  Olaf was having trouble following all the figures, but it wasn’t hard to read the shock on the men’s faces.

  “Then think about what it takes from Florence to Salt Lake. That’s about seventy days, so for the whole company we need about thirty-five thousand pounds. Seventeen or eighteen tons.”

  “But how?” one of the brethren blurted. “With only five wagons per company, that’s seven thousand pounds per wagon. Surely wagons can’t carry that much.”

  “Well, first of all, we’ll be able to purchase some flour as we cross Iowa, so we won’t have to carry the full amount to begin with. That’s not true once we leave Florence, however. Second, though we’re letting you run light from here to Florence—the wagons will carry all the flour until you toughen up some—after that, each handcart will carry a hundred-pound sack. With a hundred and twenty handcarts, that’s about six tons of the total. The wagons will take another five tons or so.”

  “But we’ll still be seven or eight tons short,” someone cried.

  Brother Kimball nodded and went on quickly. “The First Presidency knew from the beginning that handcarts could not carry enough food for the whole distance. That’s why they send out resupply wagons from Salt Lake.”

  “Ah,” several said, understanding now.

  “We’ll meet the supply wagons somewhere between Fort Laramie and the last crossing of the North Platte. They’ll load us up again with enough to get us to Fort Bridger, where another group of wagons will be waiting. That’s how it’s done.”

  Now the anxiety on the faces of the men disappeared.

  Olaf raised his hand. “Do vee haf cows too?”

  Kimball nodded. “Yes, each group of a hundred will have a milk cow. That’s not much, enough to have a little butter and some milk for the smaller children. We also send with each company about fifty beef cattle that we can butcher along the way for meat.”

  “What about buffalo?” someone asked.

  “We always hope to kill a few buffalo along the way. Also our hunters kill deer and antelope here and there. So we’ll be fine.” He grinned. “I don’t think many of you will grow fat on the trail, but you’ll survive.”

  “What about you?” another man asked. “Do you and the other agents just stay here?”

  “No. Once we get everyone off, we’ll start out in light wagons and carriages and race ahead to Florence. Elder Franklin D. Richards is coming from England and will meet us there. Then all of us will go on ahead to be sure Salt Lake knows how many are still coming.

  “It is a marvelous organization,” Kimball concluded. “It gives you a sense for how strongly the First Presidency feels about helping our people gather to Zion. You won’t be alone out there, brethren. I can promise you that.”

  They were nodding now. Olaf had caught only a part of it all, but the last he had understood ve
ry well. And it made him proud to think that he and Eric could be part of such an effort.

  Brother Kimball straightened and replaced his hat. “Well, brethren, that last wagon isn’t going to load itself. And time’s a-wasting.”

  •••

  By the end of that first Monday after their arrival in Iowa City, the company being led by Elder James G. Willie had made three handcarts and sewn together the first four of an estimated forty or fifty tents that would be needed by the two late-arriving companies. Four tents meant that eighty people would have shelter for the night. The elderly and those with babies were given first priority. The rest would have to wait a little longer. Fortunately, for a third straight day the weather was clear and no rain came. The days were hot, but the nights cooled down to a pleasant temperature.

  Elsie and Jens Nielson were not among those assigned to a tent. With young Jens being five and Bodil Mortensen nine, they would have to wait. That was all right with both of them. Though Jens had slept out a few times as a young boy, Elsie never had. She loved the quiet hum of the crickets, the murmur of the creek, the sighing of the wind in the trees. And, of course, there were the stars. For each of the last three nights, Elsie’s last waking thoughts had been to wonder at the expanse of the universe above her head. She had always been one to sleep on her side or on her stomach. Now she stayed on her back, hands up beneath her head, for as long as possible.

  “Elsie?”

  She turned her head.

  “Are they asleep?” Jens was whispering.

  “I think so.”

  “Are your fingers still sore?”

  “Yes.” She rubbed her fingertips together, feeling the tenderness. A full day of pushing the heavy needles through the thick cotton fabric had left the tips of her thumb and forefinger burning and raw. She dreaded another day of it tomorrow.