Chapter 17

Fort Laramie

I

Tuesday, 30 September 1856

It was half past eight o’clock in the morning. Eric Pederson and Maggie McKensie were both at the camp of Mary Bathgate and Isabella Park. Eric was chopping firewood. Maggie was cleaning up after breakfast. Normally they would have been out on the trail by now, but the company was stopped until further word.

After six weeks and more than five hundred miles since leaving Florence, the Willie Handcart Company had reached a major marker on the trail. They were now camped just four miles to the east of the famous Fort Laramie. Last night, as they made camp, everyone assumed that they would be to the fort the next day. But this morning, in council meeting, the captains had decided to let the camp stay put while a delegation was sent to the fort to ascertain if it was possible to purchase additional provisions.

For some reason that Captain Willie did not feel to share with the company, he clearly was nervous about having the company camp for the night right at the fort. Elder Ahmanson thought it was because the fort had a reputation for attracting unsavory characters. Eric thought it more likely that it was because there would be other emigrants stopped there, and there always seemed to be at least a few who delighted in heckling the Mormons. Or maybe it was because of the Indians. In spite of continual assurance from their leaders, the European emigrants had a natural anxiety around the natives, whether they were reported to be friendly or not.

Whatever the reason, Elder Willie declared that the camp would stay where they were while they waited for the delegation to return. Any stop was welcomed by the company. Instead of the usual cold breakfast, there would be time to cook. The morning would be spent in washing and mending clothes. Out of habit, Eric and Olaf were up early and shared breakfast with the Nielsons. Then Eric set off to check on his two walkers. And they were walkers again now. They had stayed in the wagons for only about two weeks until both of their injuries were healed, and then they were right back on the trail as before. No amount of reasoning or persuasion made a difference.

It came as no great surprise to Eric that Maggie was there ahead of him. She came as regularly as he did, often accompanied by Sarah James. If the two women loved Eric for what he did for them, they absolutely adored the two girls. This morning, though, Sarah was engaged in helping with her own large family, and so Maggie had come alone. The two of them set to work helping Sister Bathgate and Sister Park get a breakfast of their own. That was not a difficult task. With only flour and meat from the cattle, and limited amounts of those, meals were pretty monotonous.

This morning, a fire would be welcomed, Eric thought. It was a brisk morning, the chilliest so far. There had been a heavy frost during the night, and they could still see their breath. For the first time Maggie had her coat on, and also for the first time in quite a while Eric was wearing the sweater his mother had given him the day they left Balestrand.

Finished with getting the fire started and breakfast on, Eric and Maggie went to the two sisters to say farewell. As Eric went to Mary and gave her a hug, she reached out and touched his sweater. “This is beautiful,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear that before.”

“My mother make it for me. One for me and one for Olaf. Before we leave Norway.”

“It is lovely.”

“Yes.”

“The nights are certainly cold enough now,” Isabella said. “We had to use another quilt last night.”

Maggie bent down and kissed Isabella on the cheek and then went to Mary and did the same. “Well,” she said as she did so, “we’ll probably see frost most nights from here on in.” She could have said much more. It was the last day of September. Over the last week they had watched the leaves in the hills turn to orange and red. Now the aspens, higher up in the mountains off to the west, were showing a brilliant yellow. Autumn was almost gone. Winter was approaching with sobering speed.

Eric and Maggie said good-bye to the two women again and then walked away. Fort Laramie was located near the confluence of the Laramie and North Platte Rivers. Being some distance east of the fort, the company was camped along the North Platte, spread out over a considerable distance so as to get the sites with plentiful firewood and easy access to the water. The sluggish, silty water of the Platte River had been left far behind them now. Here the North Platte was deep, swift, clear, and cold as an icehouse—a joy to the weary travelers. Eric’s tent was more than a hundred rods from where Mary and Isabella were camped. Maggie’s was another hundred beyond his. They walked slowly, savoring the morning air and the chance for a leisurely moment together.

“Did you know that Fort Laramie is considered the halfway point?” Maggie asked, after they had walked some distance in silence.

“Really?” And then he did some quick figuring in his head. Elder Ahmanson had reported last night that they had come about 550 miles from Florence. If Salt Lake was a little less than eleven hundred miles, then Fort Laramie was almost exactly at the midpoint of their journey.

In the last two weeks they had passed other markers that Eric had long heard and read about—Ash Hollow, a famous stopping place with plentiful wood and water; Chimney Rock, rising majestically some four hundred feet above the plains; Scott’s Bluff, which marked the end of the Great Plains and the beginning of the Rocky Mountains. But none of them was as important as Fort Laramie. After almost six hundred miles of emptiness, here was an island of humanity in a wilderness sea.

Eric stopped, his head lifting. High above, an eagle was circling lazily over the river. Maggie glanced up as well, but then lowered her eyes to study Eric’s face. She smiled. He hadn’t worn his hat this morning, and there was a line across his forehead. Below it, his skin was deeply browned. Above, it was still pale as a piece of parchment. His eyes dropped and caught her watching him.

“What you smile at?” he asked.

Flustered, she looked down. Then she noticed his sweater. “I wish I could knit like that. It really is beautiful.”

He reached up with his hand and fingered the wool. “I did not know Mama was doing this,” he said, his voice suddenly soft. “She stayed up late nights. She give to me and Olaf the day we leave Balestrand.” He looked away, staring out across the river. “It was most special.”

Maggie nodded slowly. “You must miss your family terribly.”

“Yah, very much.”

“I think of how it hurts each time I think of Hannah and I can hardly imagine what it would be like to leave your parents and your brothers and sisters for a whole year.”

“It is not easy. But already five months have been done. Seven more only.”

Thinking of Hannah only hurt, so she decided to change the subject. “I hope we get a chance to at least stop at the fort for a little while. We still have a little money left. Brother Woodward said we might be able to buy some biscuits or salt, or stuff like that.”

“Or trade,” he suggested. “Some in our group want to trade their things for food or other things they need.”

“Do the Nielsons still have any money?” she asked. “You said they had quite a bit before they gave it to the brethren back in Iowa.”

Eric shook his head. “I do not know for sure. I do not think so. Jens did not keep much, I am thinking.”

“That is so wonderful. I don’t know if I would have that kind of faith.”

He gave her a sharp look.

“What?” she said, a little taken aback by the accusation she saw in his eyes.

“You are here, are you not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

He was peering at her now. “Your mother told me about how you are getting your answer about whether to come to America.”

Maggie was stunned. “She did? When?”

“Last night.”

“Last night? When did you see my mother last night?”

He smiled briefly. “When you and Sarah were with Sister Bathgate and Sister Park.”

So that was it. Maggie had wondered why he hadn’t been there. But her mother hadn’t said one word about Eric’s coming to their tent. “And she told you all about Edinburgh?” She was frowning.

“Only because of what I ask her.” Now he looked uncomfortable.

“I can’t believe—” She stopped, realizing what he had said. “What did you ask her?”

He looked down at his hands, which were twisting nervously. “I ask her if she will allow . . . allow? . . . permit me to court her daughter.”

Maggie was so dumbfounded, all she could think of to say was, “Me?”

He laughed. “Hannah is adorable, but I think Olaf would be angry if I court her.”

She felt her face burning. “I . . . I didn’t mean it that way.” She turned now to face him fully. “You really did that?”

“Yah, I did.” Now a mischievous grin stole across his face. “I decide that if I do not do it, then Sister Bathgate and Sister Park will do it for me.”

Maggie had to laugh and nod at that. “Yes, those two are real conspirators.”

He wasn’t sure what that word meant, but did not want to be deflected. “In truth, that is not exactly what I ask of your mother.”

“Really? What, then?”

For several long seconds he just looked at her; then, without taking his eyes off her, he answered. “I asked for permission to ask her older daughter for permission to court her.”

Maggie felt her breath catch. There it was, as direct and unmistakable as she could have hoped for. Her face softened. “And what if the older daughter were to say no?”

He hesitated for only a moment, seeing that she was teasing him now. “Then I shall not go on anymore. I shall wait here for Brother Martin’s company and then I shall have to court the younger daughter instead.”

That startled her, and then she slugged him on the arm. “Eric Pederson! You leave my sister out of this.”

He rubbed his arm, looking rueful. “It would only be if I am desperate.”

“How desperate?” she asked softly.

“It depends,” he mused. “Does older daughter say no?”

She tried to stay very serious, but she knew there was happiness in her eyes. “If I did say no, you would have to wait here several days. It could get very cold at night without a tent.”

He nodded. “Very cold.”

“I would hate to think I was responsible for you getting sick.”

He never changed his expression. “I would not like either.”

She sighed in mock resignation. “Then perhaps the older daughter had better say yes.” As his face brightened, she held up her hand. “But there is one condition.”

“What?”

“That we don’t tell Mary and Isabella about this. I am having far too much fun watching them try to bring us together.”

He laughed softly. “How do you say in English? That is deal?”

“Yes. That’s a deal.”

He stuck out his hand solemnly. “That is deal, Maggie McKensie. Thank you.”

She took it and shook it up and down, equally solemn. “Thank you, Eric Pederson.” Then she poked him with her elbow. “Does this mean no more Sister Maggie?”

He looked offended. “I call you Sister Maggie because from the time I first see you so angry at that sailor man, this foolish Norwegian boy wanted to show how much he is honoring the beautiful Scottish girl, Sister Maggie McKensie.”

Suddenly she realized she was still holding his hand. She squeezed it lightly, then let it go. She looked away as she realized her face was burning. “If that is so, this foolish Norwegian boy can call me Sister Maggie anytime he wishes.”

•••

At one o’clock that afternoon, word went up and down the camp that they were not going to wait any longer for the men who had been sent to the fort. The camp would move forward in one hour, marching past Fort Laramie to a campsite three miles beyond. That news was met with great disappointment, for there were many in the company who had looked forward to an opportunity to make purchases and just to see the place about which they had heard so much.

Half an hour later another message was circulated. The company would stop near the fort for one hour and a half before moving on to their new camp. Any who wished to trade should avail themselves of that opportunity, for tomorrow the company would continue westward first thing in the morning.

•••

It surprised Eric as he drew closer to the actual fort to see that it was not a stockade made of logs, as he had expected. Rather the walls were made of sunbaked bricks. He had heard that this was in the style of Mexico and was popular in many places here. Shortly after the 1846–48 war with Mexico, the fur-trading post was taken over by the military and became an army fort. Perhaps they were responsible for the sun-dried brick construction. Whatever its source, it was an imposing structure, and certainly the fort itself was the most imposing structure in the complex of barracks and buildings that surrounded it. The bricks had been whitewashed, and they gleamed like marble in the sun from this distance. Near the center of the long and high walls, a tower housed the main gate. Atop the tower was a flagpole from which flew the Stars and Stripes of the United States of America. Defensive towers of lower height could be seen on each corner. Smoke was billowing upward from somewhere inside the fort, perhaps from one of the blacksmith’s forges that were said to be there.

Eric was alone at the moment. The company had reached the fort about quarter past three, and Elder Willie called a halt on the fields just to the west of the cluster of buildings. Olaf and Jens Nielson left immediately along with a rush of others. Eric had gone to find Sister Bathgate and Sister Park and see if they needed him to get anything for them. He should have known better. They had already gone in with the others.

The fort was a bustle of activity as he approached. There were several tepees set up near the Laramie River, a few rods from the eastern end of the fort. He could see quite a few Indians there, including numerous children playing some kind of game with half a dozen dogs racing around after them, barking wildly. Closer to the fort, several military-type tents were pitched. On the west, closer to where they had stopped, there were half a dozen wagons and teams, other late emigrants on the Oregon Trail. People were going in or coming out of the fort in a steady stream. Some carried saddlebags, others sacks and boxes, and one man was lugging a heavy bale of skins of some kind.

As Eric reached the huge wooden gate and passed into the fort itself, he stopped in surprise. It was swarming with people, most of them Latter-day Saints. But what completely astounded him was the complex of buildings lining the inside of the massive walls. He turned slowly. Only in the corners were the walls left bare, and here steps led up to the towers. But in every other place he looked, buildings had been constructed in such a way that their back walls were formed by the walls of the stockade. There were stores, workshops, a barber, stables, storage sheds, and even a saloon. Many of the buildings were two stories high, with apartments built over the commercial buildings. He had never imagined such a thing, and for several minutes he just walked around, taking it all in.

He heard someone call his name and turned to see Emma James. She had a wrapped package under one arm as she ran up to him. “Hi, Eric. Are you just getting here?”

“Yah. I went to see Sister Bathgate.”

“Oh, she and Sister Park are in the sutler’s store.”

“Sutler?”

“Yes. It’s like a general store but inside a military fort.” She indicated a long, low building with her head. Then she turned and pointed in a different direction. Here there was a sign with a word he did not recognize. “There is also the military commissary, but they sell mostly food. The prices are much higher in the sutler’s store.” She turned back to him. “Do you want me to help you find Sister Bathgate?”

“Thank you, no. I just wondered if they needed help.”

She laughed merrily. “I don’t think so. When I saw them, they were haggling with one of the clerks over some deerskin moccasins. I think the poor man was getting the worst of it.”

Eric chuckled. “I believe that.”

“Olaf and Brother Nielson are in the sutler’s store too.” She started away. “I’ve got to take this to Mama. It’s some cloth for a shirt for Papa. But I’ll be back.”

He waved to her and moved on. He had nothing to trade and no money, but he decided he wanted to see what a sutler’s store was like. Through the windows he could see that it was packed with people. He reached the door and pushed his way inside. It was pure bedlam. The noise was loud and continuous. People held things up, shouting for someone to tell them how much they cost. Others were yelling at clerks in what looked like “to-the-death” arguments. Just to his left, two women—one he recognized, one who was definitely not with their company—were fighting over a small wooden barrel on which was stenciled the word rice. A boy was crying loudly, pointing at a jar of hard candy that was marked at three pieces for a penny. His mother was shaking her head.

The store itself was a wonder. Every wall was lined with shelves. Every aisle was crammed with boxes, crates, barrels, and sacks. Wooden and metal tools hung from overhead racks, and the handles had to be dodged as Eric moved along. The place assaulted the nostrils with a dozen or more odors—tobacco, spices, leather, molasses, body odor, pickled something or other, salted pork, slabs of bacon, the sickly smell of something dead as he passed shelves of buffalo, deer, and elk hides.

He saw his two charges, Mary Bathgate and Isabella Park, near the main counter. Evidently the bargaining was over, because the clerk was smiling as he wrapped a small package in plain brown paper. Sister Isabella handed over something small in exchange, perhaps a cosmetic case or a jewel box.

He saw Maggie and Sarah James at another counter and moved closer to see what they were examining with such care. It was sewing materials—some needles and different skeins of yarn. They did not see him and he moved on, not wanting to interrupt.

Convinced that Jens and Olaf were not inside, he finally went out. He let out his breath, grateful to be in the open air again. Half watching for his brother, half just enjoying the wonder of it all, he moved around the compound slowly. He stopped near a table from whence came a pleasant smell. A man in buckskin stood beside an Indian woman who was pounding together a mixture of what looked like dried meat and berries.

The man saw him looking and smiled. “Howdy. You know what pemmican is?”

Eric shook his head.

“Indian food. Best stuff ever made. Keep you going for a hundred miles on a single pouchful.”

Eric shrugged. “I have no money.”

The man instantly lost interest and turned to a woman who was coming towards them. “You know what pemmican is?” Eric heard the man say as he walked away.

Down near the west end of the large courtyard, things were a little quieter. Here there were several smaller shops, some barely wide enough for a narrow table and an aisle beside it. One had a rope strung across the narrow window. From it hung dried ears of corn tied together in a clump, brightly colored gourds, and bunches of what Eric assumed were spices of some kind. There was no sign. He supposed that with the goods displayed, one was not needed.

Next to that was a similar shop, only this one did have a sign roughly painted in the window: “Metal and Tin Goods.” Inside on the long table he saw cups and plates, a coffeepot, a funnel, a colander. He stopped, thinking what some of that tin would mean if it were put inside the axle boxes of their cart.

He looked up as a man came to the door. “Come on in.”

Eric shook his head. “I was just looking.”

The man looked at him more closely. “A Swede, yah?” His voice took on a perfect Scandinavian accent.

Eric smiled. “No, from Norway.”

“Ah, very good. I have seen quite a few from the Old Country here today.”

“Are you—”

The man immediately shook his head. “Nope. American true-blue, through and through. But I had a shop up in Wisconsin Territory for a time. Met a lot of Swedes and Danes up there. A few Norwegians too.”

“I see.”

“Well, come on in and have a look. We have lots of stuff here besides just tin goods. Trinkets. Toys. Jewelry.”

On impulse Eric nodded and stepped inside. Perhaps he would find Jens and see if there was any money left for some tin.

The man stepped to the back of the store where there was a larger room behind a half-opened door. “Go ahead and look. Don’t cost nothing for looking.”

Eric nodded and began walking slowly along, his eyes jumping from one item to the next. It was not the best of quality. Some of the seams on the kettles and pans were roughly made, but the tin was shiny. Spots of rust would have been a concern.

All of sudden he stopped, his eyes pulled to a small box lined with velvet. Inside were a dozen or more slits, and tucked into each slit was a ring. Seeing Eric’s interest, the man came forward. He leaned over and picked up the box, holding it out for Eric to take. He did not, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from it. Without realizing it, he was holding his breath, astonished at the thought that had just flashed into his head.

“Are you married?” the man asked.

Eric shook his head.

“Fiancée?”

This time there was a moment’s hesitation before he shook his head again. The shopkeeper jumped on that. “A girl you’d like to be your fiancée?” he asked.

When Eric didn’t look up, he took out a gold ring. “This is the finest I have. Made it myself from a single nugget I got from an Indian brave. Only ten dollars.”

Eric almost gasped.

Immediately sensing his mistake, the man replaced that ring and went to a silver one that was thinner and very plain. “This one is only a dollar.”

Eric finally looked up. “I am sorry. I have no money.”

“Oh.” The man sized him up for a moment, then put the case back down on the table.

“They are very nice, but . . .” He shrugged and started toward the door.

“I understand,” the man said, not unkindly. “Wish I could help you.”

“Thank you anyway,” Eric said, stepping back out into the sunshine.

“Wait a minute.” The man grabbed the case and came forward quickly again. When he got to Eric he reached out and touched his sweater, fingering the wool. “This is very nice. Where did you get it?”

“From my mother.”

“Oh.” Eric could see the wheels churning behind his eyes. “Want to trade it?” the man finally said.

Eric shook his head, but he was staring at the case of rings in the man’s hand.

“There won’t be another place like this until you get to Salt Lake City. You either get a ring now or not at all.”

Two images flashed into Eric’s mind at the same time. One was of his mother’s tearstained face as she handed him and Olaf the sweaters; the other was the face of Maggie McKensie, her mouth pursed into a small O as she showed him how to pronounce a particularly difficult English word. Finally he looked up at the man. “How much you give?”

He thought for a moment and started to reach for the one-dollar ring. Then he thought better of that. His fingers moved slightly and he chose the one above it. “This one is heavier and has a little design in it.” He held it up. “See?”

Eric nodded. It was still quite plain, but there was a pattern in the center of the ring that looked like the waves of the sea.

“This one is one dollar fifty cents. I’ll trade you straight across.”

For a long time, Eric stared at the ring. Then he took it from the man and looked at it more closely. This is crazy, Eric Pederson. You have barely started to court her. How can you be thinking about marriage?

“Wish I could give you more, friend, but I’m not really in the clothing business. I’m not even sure I should do this.”

There are times when one’s thoughts crystalize and come with such clarity that there is no denying them. This was one of those times. It was not that he decided that Maggie McKensie would marry him. He had serious doubts about that. But in a single instant Eric knew that if he turned and walked away now, he would not be out of the main gate before he turned around and came back. He knew that as surely as he knew that Maggie sent his heart racing every time he thought about her. He could not leave the fort without this ring.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Mama! Will you ever forgive me? And then came the second thought, and it came with equal clarity. If his mother were here and she knew it was a choice between the sweater and a wife for her son—especially a wife like Maggie McKensie—she would not hesitate for one second.

He looked up, then slowly began to pull his arms out of the sleeves of the sweater. “All right. It is deal.”

•••

As Eric came out of the main gate of the fort and turned toward the line of handcarts, he heard a shout. He stopped and turned, then waved. Olaf was walking across the courtyard with Jens Nielson. Seeing Eric, Olaf said something to Jens, then broke into a trot toward his brother. Eric groaned. Olaf was also wearing his sweater today.

“All done?” he said as he came up.

“It doesn’t take long when you have nothing to do,” Eric noted dryly. They were speaking in Norwegian.

“Yeah. Same for me. Jens made a good trade for a knife he had. He got two dollars.”

Eric winced. Two dollars? He had seen that knife and it was not that wonderful. He wondered if he should have bargained a little more vigorously.

“Did you see Emma?” Olaf asked. “She was in here somewhere.”

“Yes. About fifteen minutes ago she was taking something back to her mother.”

“I was going—” He stopped, suddenly staring at Eric’s chest. “Didn’t you have your sweater on earlier?”

For an instant Eric tried to think of ways he could steer around this, but he realized it was of no use. He couldn’t lie to Olaf. “Yes,” he finally said slowly.

“What did you do, take it off before you came to the fort? It’s not that warm today.”

“No, I didn’t take it off.”

Olaf stopped dead, gaping at him. “You traded it?”

Eric nodded and started to turn. Olaf grabbed him and pulled him back around. “You didn’t!”

“I did. I made a trade with one of the merchants.”

“What did you trade it for?”

“Never mind.”

“Eric! Tell me. What was so important that you gave away Mother’s sweater?”

“I didn’t give it away.”

“Then what? I want to know.”

Eric sighed and pulled him off to the side. People were streaming out of the gate now and turned to look at them as they went by. He took Olaf over to the great wall that loomed above them, glaring at him. “If I tell you, you have to give me your solemn word that you won’t tell anyone.”

“I promise.”

He gripped his arm. “I mean no one, Olaf. Not Jens or Elsie. Not Brother Ahmanson.” A look of horror flitted across Eric’s face. “And definitely not Emma.”

“What about Mama?” Olaf asked, a little defiant now.

Eric sighed. “I’ll tell Mama.” He tightened his grip and shook his brother a little. “But you can’t tell anyone. Swear to me.”

“All right, all right.”

Eric let him go and stepped back. After a long moment, he thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew the ring. He held it out.

Olaf glanced at it, then looked back up at Eric. “What’s this?”

“This is what I traded my sweater for.”

It was like watching a ripple in a pond. Olaf’s eyes widened, then widened again. He reached out and took it, bringing it close to see it better. “A wedding ring?”

Eric cuffed him. “You don’t have to blurt it out.”

“Are you crazy? Who is this for?” The eyes went even wider. “Maggie? Are you—”

“No, we’re not. She knows nothing about this, and don’t you ever so much as hint to her.”

Olaf stepped back, staring at him as though he didn’t know who he was. “You are crazy.”

Eric took the ring from his brother’s hands and slipped it back into his pocket. “I know,” he said glumly. He turned and started away. “I know.”

•••

The delegation who had ridden ahead to the fort earlier that day did not return to camp until well after dark. They went straight to Captain Willie to report. Captain Willie immediately ordered the horn to sound for assembly. When they were gathered around their leaders, Captain Willie jumped in without introduction.

“Brothers and sisters, it is almost time for lights out, so I will keep this short. Our brethren have been able to purchase a limited number of provisions from the military using the credit of the Church, but our hopes to purchase large quantities of flour were not realized. We know that some of you were able to procure some few things for yourself and that is good. But we certainly have not filled our needs. Today is the last day of September. We are still at least six weeks out of Salt Lake City. We cannot delay even one day now. We will therefore leave first thing in the morning.”

There was a collective groan. They knew that was the plan, but after even an hour and a half at the fort, many had hoped they might stay at least one day more.

“Unfortunately, that is not the worst of it. Normally the first place the supply wagons from Salt Lake meet us is at Deer Creek, which is about three or four days farther west from here. We have learned that a group of missionaries from Salt Lake on their way east are camped not far from us. Elder Parley P. Pratt and Brother Thomas Bullock are with them.”

That brought a murmur of pleased surprise. Parley P. Pratt was one of the Twelve. He had labored for an extended time in England and was beloved there.

“Hopefully they will be able to join with us and address us tomorrow evening, but . . .” His brow furrowed even more deeply than before. “But they do bring bad news. They passed Deer Creek just three days ago.” He stopped, then shook his head wearily. “There are no wagons waiting for us there, and none coming.”

Pleased surprise turned to shock and dismay.

He rushed on. “I think it is just as Elder Richards feared. When the third handcart company passed this way a few weeks ago, the supply wagons assumed there were no more coming and turned back. That means . . .” He didn’t have to finish.

Now the heavy weight of leadership showed heavily in James Willie’s face. “We fear that the soonest we may find wagons from the Valley is at South Pass. That, my brothers and sisters, is another two hundred fifty miles from here.”

There was a loud buzz now among the congregation, but he did not try to stop it. He just shouted over it. “That’s all I have to say. I suggest that, as always, you make our situation in this matter part of your evening prayers. We are going to need all the help we can get. Please be ready to roll by seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

II

Wednesday, 8 October 1856

The fifth and last handcart company of 1856 reached Fort Laramie late in the afternoon of the forty-third day after leaving Florence, Nebraska. Elder Edward Martin, their captain, chose a campsite about one mile east of the fort. Even before the last carts had stopped rolling, Hannah McKensie and Ingrid Christensen came looking for him.

He had had the same question they did and had sent scouts ahead that morning to learn the answer. Before they could even ask, he was shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Hannah. The Willie Company left here one week ago today.”

It was crazy to hope so urgently when you knew there was no hope to be had, but you couldn’t help it. Hannah’s face crumpled and she turned away before he could see the tears. Ingrid just stared at him for several seconds, then spun around and started after her friend.

“If it is of any consolation,” Elder Martin called after them, knowing even as he said it that it would not be, “we are only eight days behind them now. Once we were twelve days behind them. So we are gaining slowly.”

Hannah raised an arm in acknowledgment but walked on without stopping.

•••

That night, more out of curiosity than anything, since they had neither money nor trade items, Hannah and Ingrid walked to the fort with Brother Aaron Jackson and Brother John Jaques. While Brother Jaques went into the army commissary to see about purchasing items from the military stores, the girls walked around the main square of the fort. Brother Jackson had some specific things he was looking for and did not stay with them, but they made sure he was always in sight. They received more than a few leers from some of the young men loitering about and one or two invitations from the young rowdies, but if the boys persisted Brother Jackson was right there to send them packing. It was a little frightening, and yet titillating too. For two girls not yet seventeen, there was something exciting in being noticed.

They moved slowly from place to place, barely aware that they were gawking like children. Suddenly, Ingrid grabbed Hannah’s arm. She was staring at a storefront. Across the inside of the store window letters were painted: “Metal and Tin Goods.” Next to it was a window filled with dried corn, squash, and spices. Hannah looked at Ingrid, then turned to see what she was gaping at. She almost jumped when she saw it. There in the window of the tinsmith was a beautiful blue hand-knitted sweater.

“That’s Olaf’s sweater,” Ingrid gasped. She dragged Hannah forward.

“Are you sure?” But Hannah already knew the answer to that question. She hadn’t seen it for several months now, but both Eric and Olaf had worn their sweaters a great deal while they were coming across the Atlantic. “It might be Eric’s,” she said. “It looks a little big for Olaf.”

Ingrid was peering intently through the window. There was a quick intake of breath and she pointed to a small card pinned to the bottom edge of the sweater. It read: “$5.00.”

Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “Five dollars? He got five dollars for that?” Her mind leaped to her own wardrobe, wondering if she had anything that might fetch even half that amount.

“Can I help you ladies?”

They both jumped as the shopkeeper suddenly appeared at the door.

Ingrid mumbled a quick no and backed away, but Hannah’s curiosity was too strong. “Did you take that in trade from another handcart company that was here just last week?”

The man looked surprised. “Yes. Why?”

“Was his name Eric?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say. He was a Norwegian, though.”

Hannah felt a little sick. Eric had traded the sweater his mother had given him? Were things that desperate for them? She saw the man still watching her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and started to move away. Then she couldn’t help it. “And you paid him five dollars for it?”

He straightened, his eyes narrowing. “He drove a hard bargain,” he answered in a clipped voice. Then he went back inside, shutting the door behind him.

Chapter Notes

No mention is made of the Willie Company’s stopping to trade at Fort Laramie, though the journal does note that they were able to procure some provisions. The author has assumed that, though they did not stay near the fort itself, some of the people did go in to purchase things and make trades.

A week later the Martin Company stayed a full day there, allowing their people to “shop” at the fort. John Jaques recorded his transactions: “Thurs. 9: Many of the brethren went to the fort to buy provisions, etc. I went and sold my watch for thirteen dollars. I bought from the fort commissariat 20 pounds of biscuit at 15 cents, twelve pounds of bacon at 15 cents and 3 pounds of rice at 17 cents and so on” (in Bell, Life History and Writings of John Jaques, p. 141).

It is difficult for modern travelers who cross the continent by jet in four or five hours, or even by car at seventy-five miles an hour, to imagine what Fort Laramie must have meant to travelers along the Mormon and Oregon Trails. One small inkling is given in these lines from the Willie Company journal under the date of 1 October 1856: “The first thing this morning, it was discovered that several sisters had left the camp and had taken up their residence at the fort. . . . Lucinda M. Davenport left camp on the previous night with an apostate mormon. It was discovered this morning. She was with Grant and Kimballs wagon on the journey. Christine Brown of the handcart company also stayed at Fort Laramie” (in Turner, Emigrating Journals, p. 38).

A party of missionaries from Salt Lake City were traveling the Mormon Trail eastward to begin missions in the United States and Europe. Parley P. Pratt was among them. Though he did not know it then, Elder Pratt would never return to the Valley. He was murdered by an assassin about twelve miles out of Van Buren, Arkansas, on 13 May 1857 (see Encyclopedia of Mormonism, s.v. “Pratt, Parley Parker”).