Chapter 19

Last Crossing
To
 Devil’s Gate

I

Tuesday, 14 October 1856

“Maggie?”

She opened her eyes. Sarah James was kneeling beside her, pulling the buffalo robe up around her neck.

“How are you feeling?”

It took a moment for Maggie to realize that the inside of their tent was filled with light, which meant it was daytime outside. “Oh!” she cried. She tried to rise. “Is it time to go already?”

Sarah pushed her back down gently. “No, Maggie. We’re camped here for the night, but it’s not dark yet. You’ve just fallen asleep again.”

She lay back, greatly relieved. “Yes, that’s right. I remember now.” She did vaguely remember lying on the ground and watching through heavy eyes while the men began to erect the tent. She clutched at the buffalo robe, pulling it more tightly around her body, feeling a sudden chill and reveling in the warmth the heavy covering provided. Suddenly her body convulsed as a deep, racking cough ripped through her. She cried out in pain and hugged herself, feeling the pain down deep in her chest. Sarah watched her with anxious eyes.

“Where are we, Sarah?”

“We are camped between Independence Rock and Devil’s Gate.”

“Oh, yes. I remember.” The other places were a fuzzy blur to her—Emigrant Gap, Willow Springs, Prospect Hill, Saleratus Lake.

Sarah laid a hand on her forehead. To Maggie, it felt cool, wonderful. “Your fever has finally broken,” Sarah said. “We’re so glad. The priesthood blessing has really helped you.”

Priesthood blessing? She didn’t remember that at all.

Sarah saw it in her eyes. “Yes. Captain Willie, Brother James, and Eric all administered to you day before yesterday. You had us all very frightened.”

“I am feeling a little better.” It was a bit of a lie, unless you emphasized “a little,” but compared to her few conscious memories of the past few days, this was a definite improvement. “Has it really been two days since we crossed the river?”

There was a tiny smile as Sarah shook her head. “That was four days ago, Maggie.”

“Four?” she cried in dismay.

“Yes. You have been a very sick young woman. Your mother has been very worried. Eric has been frantic. You were in and out of delirium—chills, fever.”

“Aches,” Maggie added weakly. “My body aches everywhere, Sarah.”

“I know. I think you got that from crossing the river. A lot of others did as well.”

Maggie closed her eyes again. “Ah, yes.” That was clear in her mind—the stunning shock of stepping into the icy water; the frightening push of the current against the handcart as she and Robbie fought to help their mother keep it moving; the blind panic when her feet had slipped on the rocky bottom and she had gone clear under; the cold wind when they came out on the other side; the violent shivering until she had gotten into dry clothing—which had taken over an hour because they had to get the younger children changed first. Her mother had finally taken her in her arms and held her tightly to get it under control. Oh, yes, she remembered the last crossing very well.

She started to sit up but instantly sensed the depths of her weakness. She gave it up. “Eric? He pulled the cart for a while, didn’t he?”

“Yes. When you became too sick to walk, Eric asked Elder Willie if he could help your mother and Robbie pull.”

Guilt washed over her. “Why didn’t you just put me in one of the wagons?”

“Because every wagon was already full,” Eric said.

Maggie turned in surprise. He was at the entry to the tent, holding the flap up. He stepped inside and came over beside them. He looked at Maggie closely for a moment, then turned to Sarah. “How is she?”

“A little better.” She stood. “She’s remembering more.”

“Good.”

Sarah smiled down at Maggie. “I’m going to go help Mama with supper, Maggie. If you need something, just call.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

As Sarah went out, Eric knelt down beside Maggie. His face was twisted with concern. He reached out and touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “The fever is gone.”

She turned her head so as to press her face against his touch. “Yes.”

“You have all of us in very big worry, Maggie McKensie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just be better now.”

“I would like that,” she said with a wan smile. “Thank you for helping my family.”

He shrugged.

“How are Olaf and the Nielsons? Are they all right?”

“Yah, they are fine. Bodil, the girl who travels with us, was sick too from the wet clothing. But she was better in two days.”

“And Sister Bathgate and Isabella?”

“A wonder,” he said with a smile. “They are doing well. The crossing did not seem to bother them.”

“Good. You said the wagons were full. Are there many who are sick?”

“Yes, very many. The weather has been cold. And like you, many found the crossing of the river very bad. Many others are not sick but just too weak to pull carts any longer.” He looked away. “The deaths grow more frequent now. We have lost another in our tent.”

“Oh, no.”

“And you remember Sister Larson, who’s husband died a few days ago.”

“Yes. With the five children.”

“Yah. The little baby is now very sick. Sister Larson is so worn down she has not enough to nurse him well.”

Maggie closed her eyes. More deaths. Young and old, the weak and the helpless. When would it stop?

He exhaled softly. “There were riders going east today. They carried a letter from Elder Richards.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Is not good. He says we cannot expect wagons from Salt Lake before Pacific Springs.”

She felt her body go cold. “Where is that, Eric?”

“Elder Willie says it is just by South Pass.” He paused, debating whether to tell her all of it, then decided she would learn soon enough anyway. “That is yet one hundred more miles.”

“A hundred miles?” She felt as if her heart had just fluttered to a stop.

“Yes. At least one week. Maybe eight or nine days.”

“How much food do we have left?”

There was a long pause before he went on. “I talked with Brother Willie before I came here, and he said the captains will meet tonight in council. They have taken accounting of the flour and food. There is not enough. They are thinking that starting tomorrow we will reduce rations even more. They will discuss the matter tonight, but from what Brother Willie says it looks like men will get ten and a half ounces of flour. Women and older children will get nine ounces. Younger children six ounces and infants three.”

She felt a deep horror settle in upon her. They were already nearing the limit of their endurance. Didn’t the captains know what this would do? But even as the thought came she pushed it away. Of course they knew. What a choice for their leaders to make. Did you give out more flour now so that the company would be strong enough to go forward, knowing you would run out before you reached Pacific Springs? Or did you reduce the rations further now so that the food would last, knowing that it would weaken the people even more so they couldn’t make it to Pacific Springs? How terrible to have to make such a choice!

“It is not good, Maggie,” Eric went on slowly. “Even the days are cold now. We had a little snow yesterday. Not enough to stay, but it was snow. And the nights are very bitter. We use axes to break the ice on the buckets this morning.”

The very mention of ice made her shiver and she cuddled deeper into her bed. “Thank heavens for the buffalo robes. There’s that to be thankful for at least.”

“Some people throw robes away.”

She jerked up, her eyes disbelieving. “No!”

“Yes. They are so heavy and the people are so weak. We pass eight or ten by the trail today.” Then as she closed her eyes, deep despair settling in on her face, he was instantly contrite. “I am sorry, Maggie,” he said.

She opened her eyes to see his shame.

“Your mother says I am to be making you happy, not sad.”

She pulled her arm out from beneath the heavy robe and held out her hand to him. She wanted to touch him, to let him know it was all right. “I am happy you are here.”

“And I am happy you are better. You frighten me very badly.”

“Eric? How are we going to get through this?”

“We ask the Lord to strengthen us,” he said simply. “We ask Him to bless our food, though it is very little, and He does.” Now his head came up. “We ask Him to give us strength in our bodies to go on until the others come. And He does. It is not big miracle, but it is miracle every day.”

Now it was she who felt a wash of shame. For a moment there, she had completely forgotten about God. “Yes,” she said, lying back. “We must do that.”

He was staring out at nothing now. “All the days since my family joined the Church, we say grace on our food. We ask God to strengthen and nourish our bodies.” He looked down at her and tightened his grip on her hand. “Now we really mean it. And He hears us. We go on day by day. We are weak but we go on.”

“Yes.” She reached up and touched his face. How sweet it felt to have him pour out his faith over her! She was so weak and so tired. His quiet assurance that God had not forgotten them was like honey to her soul. Finally, her eyes met and held his. “Eric?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about the ring.”

It didn’t seem to surprise him. He searched her face, then finally sighed and began to speak slowly. He told her about walking around the compound at Fort Laramie and finding the tin shop and then the ring. He told her about his pain when he thought of giving away his mother’s gift, and then how he had known it was all right.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked in a whisper.

“I was afraid that you would think I . . .” He looked down at his hands, no longer able to meet her steady gaze. “When I think of asking you to be my wife, I think, ‘Why would she say yes?’ ” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I decide it was better to wait a little while and see how courting goes.”

She shook her head, admonishing him with her eyes. “Do you think I would really say no?”

“I had many hopes that you would not, but . . . I was afraid.” He looked away. “And now there is no ring.”

She was starting to feel tired now, but there was something she had to make clear to him. She pushed back the robe and forced herself up to one elbow. “Eric?”

“Yes?” He was looking at her with great concern now. “I would like it very much if you asked me to be your wife. I want you to know that.”

“Really?” His mouth softened. “This is not the fever speaking to me?”

A laugh started to burst out of her, but instantly the cough cut it off. Her body shook as once more the cough racked her again and again. Even as she fought it, she watched the fear in his eyes grow. “I’m sorry,” he said over and over.

Finally she got control again. Though spent, she forced a wan smile. “It is not the fever speaking, Eric. But . . .” She clung to him now. “But you can’t ask me now.”

He looked as if she had struck him. “Why not?”

She took a deep breath, feeling the bleakness come over her, as heavy as the buffalo robe. “Because if I don’t make it, I want you to—”

He cut her off sharply. “No, Maggie. Don’t you say it.”

“Because if I die, I want you to be free to find—”

His hand shot out and he put three fingers over her lips, shutting off the words. Suddenly he bent down. His fingers came away and he kissed her gently.

It so took her aback that all she could do was stare up at him. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Will you marry me, Maggie McKensie? Will you marry this silly Norwegian who says, ‘Yah, yah,’ and who does not have a ring, and who is not worthy of you, and whose love for you is stronger than all the hunger and sickness and cold that we have faced and have yet to face?”

 “Eric, I . . . I can’t. Not now.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Of course not. It would not be seemly to have you married in your sickbed.”

She swung weakly at him, which he dodged easily. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” he said, suddenly fierce, “but I will not let you mean it. Say yes or I shall kiss you again.”

A slow smile stole across her face. “No.”

He bent down and kissed her once more, this time more firmly and much longer than before. She put her arms up and around his neck. When he pulled back, she was still looking up and smiling into his eyes. “No,” she murmured again.

And so he kissed her yet a third time, holding her in his arms now and pulling her tightly to himself. “I will not let you die, Maggie.”

“Eric, I—”

He shook his head, cutting her off. “Will you marry me, Maggie McKensie? Please say yes.”

There was no hesitation in her anymore. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes.”

He closed his eyes and buried his face against her hair. “We will have to wait for a little while. I have not finished my courting of you.”

Laughing, she pushed him away. “You’d better get going, then, Brother Pederson.”

“I shall. Do you think a week is too soon to be proper?”

“I think a week is much too long, but if you insist . . .” She put her arms around him and clung to him for a long time, growing very quiet now. “In a week, we’ll know, Eric. We’ll know what’s going to happen. Yes, a week is fine.”

“I didn’t mean that,” he started to protest, but she cut him off.

“You must promise me one thing, Eric.”

“What?”

He started to pull back, but she wouldn’t let him. “Promise me!”

“I promise.”

“If I . . .” She couldn’t say it. Not now when the happiness inside her was like a glowing ball of light. “If something happens, I expect you to remarry, Eric. I expect—”

“No, Maggie!”

“Just listen to me,” she said softly, her heart so filled with love now that she could hardly speak. “I don’t care if you remarry. I want you to. But promise me, Eric. Promise me that when you get to Salt Lake you will be sealed to me in the new Endowment House. You can be sealed to more than one woman. Just promise me that I will have you forever.”

“You are not—”

“Promise me, Eric. Please!”

He clung to her, burying his face against her again. “I promise.”

Suddenly she was all matter-of-fact. “Good. Now there is one more thing.”

He straightened. “What?”

“I have just discovered the most wonderful medicine for my sickness, Eric.”

“What?”

She laughed in soft delight, and tapped her finger to her lips. “I’m not sure what they call it, but it needs to be applied right here at least twice a day.”

II

Wednesday, 15 October 1856

When Maggie stepped outside her tent the next morning, Eric was there talking to her mother. She had heard him come, and they were close enough to the tent that she had heard the debate over whether she would have to ride in the wagons or if they could carry her again in the handcart. So she had finished dressing quickly, then stepped outside.

They both turned as she came out. Eric’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her. He couldn’t believe the transformation. Her head was high and she was smiling radiantly. Her dark hair was pulled back in a French braid—Sarah’s doing, Eric guessed—and she walked with a visible bounce in her step. Her skin was still pale, and he could see the shadows around her eyes, but the eyes themselves were literally dancing with life.

“My goodness,” Mary McKensie said. “Is that you, Maggie?”

Sarah James came out of the tent right behind her. She was smiling broadly. “No, this is some other young woman who has just joined our company. Let me introduce you.”

Maggie laughed merrily and came over and gave her mother a hug.

“You look so much better, Maggie.”

“I am so much better.” She looked over her mother’s shoulder at Eric. “I found some medicine that really made a difference.”

Sarah hooted aloud and Eric blushed deeply, suspecting that Maggie had told her friend everything.

“Mother,” Maggie said, taking a step back.

“Yes?”

“Eric asked me to marry him yesterday afternoon.”

Behind her, Emma James leaped to her feet and squealed aloud. “Really?”

“Ah,” Mary said with deep satisfaction. “So that is the medicine.”

“Kind of.” Maggie reached out her hand and Eric stepped forward and took it.

William James was staring. Sister James had one hand to her mouth, shaking her head with joy, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Maggie. How wonderful!”

Robbie was up and bouncing as if he were on a spring. “Really, Eric? Really? You’re going to be my brother?”

“Well, I must ask your mother first if it is all right.”

“You don’t have to ask.” Mary was crying now, her face filled with happiness. “You know the answer to that.”

“When? When?” Emma was darting around, hurling the question first at Maggie and then at Eric. Reuben James was smiling and pounding Robbie on the back.

Eric turned to Maggie’s mother. “I just begin courtship. If this were a normal life, I would ask for maybe one month or two. But out here?” He shrugged. “Would a week be too soon, Sister McKensie?”

She stepped to him and put her arms around him. “A week is fine. If you two decided you wanted to do it today, I would say yes to that too.”

“No, Mother,” Maggie blurted, a little alarmed. “A week. That will give us time to see if—” As if on perfect cue, she doubled over as another coughing fit struck. Eric stepped to her quickly and held her tightly, his eyes darkening as he heard the deep rasping sound she made. When it passed, she straightened, looking suddenly more vulnerable. “That will give us time to see what is happening,” she finished weakly.

Eric shot her a warning glance, which she ignored. She turned as Emma, Sarah, Sister James, and the younger girls swarmed in to throw their arms around her and give their congratulations.

After a moment, Eric called to her. “Maggie?”

“Yes?”

“Before we march this morning, we must tell Sister Bathgate and Sister Park. After all, they think they are responsible.”

“Of course.” Then she had a thought. “No, you go, Eric. I’m going to write a note to Hannah.”

“To Hannah?” Emma blurted. “How will you get a note to Hannah?”

“I’m going to put it on a stick. If someone is going east and sees it they can take it to her. If not, then they are only a week or two behind us. Elder Willie says people do that all the time.”

“Oh, yes,” Mary McKensie said. “Hannah would never forgive you if you didn’t tell her as soon as you knew. You write the letter and I’ll go ask Elder Willie where the best place is to leave it for her.”

III

Sunday, 19 October 1856

There was no longer any question about stopping to rest for the Sabbath. The race against time and weather had reached the crisis stage. The sky was leaden and lowering. The wind was coming out of the northwest strongly enough to whip the canvas covers on the carts and fill the air with dust and particles of sand. It was their coldest day so far, and the air had that familiar feel that Eric had come to know so well in Norway. They would see their first real snow before the day was out, perhaps even before they stopped to noon. They had seen a few flurries before now but nothing that had even stuck to the ground. And while it was the Sabbath day, the captains had decided that the Lord would not stay the weather simply to give the emigrants a chance to pause for worship.

Eric stamped his feet up and down as he walked along beside Jens Nielson, leaning into the crossbar to keep the handcart moving forward. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself to try and keep warm, and for a moment he felt an intense regret that he had traded away his mother’s sweater. If he had that under his coat, then . . . He shook it off. There was nothing to be gained down that path. He felt the cold most in his feet. His right boot had a hole in the sole about an inch in diameter. The left sole was paper-thin in a couple of spots but hadn’t broken through yet. Two days before, Maggie had found a small piece of stiff cloth for him, which he slipped inside the right boot. That helped him walk more comfortably but didn’t do much for the cold.

He thought back to this morning’s meeting around the supply wagons, and shook his head. There was a brief report on those who had died and on the general health of the company. In earlier days, that alone would have been devastating. There had been another death in the night—the sixth since leaving Devil’s Gate. The one yesterday had been a Scotsman, one of Maggie’s hundred. He was twenty-seven years old! Four of those riding in the wagons were diagnosed as so far gone that they would likely not make it alive to camp tonight. If that was correct, that would mean ten deaths in four days. Now, in addition to morning prayers, each day’s ritual included a morning burial.

He shuddered, remembering Maggie’s feelings that she was going to die “before our journey’s through,” as the hymn put it. It had frightened him deeply. Eric lifted his eyes, searching the line ahead. When he finally picked Maggie out, he was relieved to see that she was still in the shafts of her cart, pulling beside her mother. That was good. He knew that she was stubborn enough to try to pull even if she was too weak, but her mother had promised Eric that she wouldn’t let that happen. Most encouraging to Eric, Maggie had not mentioned death again since that afternoon in her tent. The deep cough was still of great concern, but she swore that even that was not as painful now as it had been at first.

He felt an overwhelming rush of thanks for the power of prayer and the priesthood. And love. It still astounded him what the promise of marriage had done for her.

Then his countenance fell again. What would this morning’s announcement do to her now? The news of the deaths was bad enough, but when they were dividing out the daily rations and the last flour bag was emptied without everyone’s getting even their full allotment, it was as though a death knell had sounded.

On the verge of weeping, something the company had never seen him do, Elder Willie announced that there was now nothing left in their stores except for the four hundred pounds of hard biscuits purchased at Fort Laramie—barely one pound per person—a few pounds of sugar, a partial bag of dried apples, and a quarter of a sack of rice. “This is it, brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice torn with anguish. “The flour you now have in your hands has to last until the supply wagons reach us.”

Eric shook his head. South Pass was still at least three days away. In their weakened condition, more likely four or five. Desperate measures were already being taken. Last night two boys in Eric’s hundred had experimented with the hides taken from the two butchered cattle. They held the skins right in the flames to scorch off all the hair. Then they cut off long strips, roasted them until they were crisp, and sprinkled a little sugar on them. They claimed it made an acceptable supper. Even worse, two nights ago, Sarah James had taken her father’s knife and cut off the tatters—the ragged pieces—from her shoes and added them to the soup she was making.

Hunger was an endless presence with Eric now, but he wasn’t ready to go quite that far yet. He had passed on both the roasted hides and “tatters soup.”

“That must be the Ice Springs.”

Eric turned to look where Jens was pointing. They were crossing an endless emptiness, where even the artemisia, or sagebrush, was barely three or four inches high and sparsely scattered at that. They hadn’t seen trees, other than along the Sweetwater, for two days now. Just ahead of where they were, the handcarts were crossing a low depression in the ground. Meandering through the low spot was a swatch of greener, thicker vegetation, looking almost swampy. Off to the left about a hundred yards, there was a circle of dark green, marking the source of the actual spring.

“Is there any ice left now?” Olaf asked from behind them. He was taking his turn pushing the cart at the moment.

“I don’t think so,” Jens answered. “Elder Ahmanson said that so many emigrants have dug down to find the ice over the years that it’s all gone now.”

Bodil Mortensen, the nine-year-old whom the Nielsons were bringing with them for another family, heard that and moved closer. “Was there really ice here, Uncle Jens?”

“That’s what they claim. They said that if you dug down through the sod about a foot and a half there by the spring, you would find large slabs of ice. Evidently the water below ground froze in the winter, and then the sod acted like the sawdust in an icehouse and kept it frozen even in the middle of July and August. That’s why they called it Ice Springs.”

Elsie Nielson was walking alongside the cart, watching little Jens out of the corner of her eye. At the moment he was huddled in a blanket atop the load and seemed almost in a stupor. Elsie had on a thin coat and a shawl over that. Rags wound around her hands served as her mittens. Beneath her summer bonnet, her nose and cheeks were red. “All they need to do,” she said, “is leave it open to the air today and they’ll have ice here again.”

“That’s for sure,” Olaf said.

Up ahead there was a shout and they saw Elder Willie waving his arms.

“Looks like we’re stopping to noon,” Jens said. He immediately began to slow. Eric did the same and they let the cart come to a stop. Then they carefully lowered the shafts, not wanting to wake little Jens, and stepped to one side.

Eric looked up as a tiny spot of white fluttered past his face. “Here it comes,” he said.

The others looked up as well. Here and there the first snowflakes were slanting in on the cold wind.

“I’m going up with Maggie until it’s time to move out again.”

Jens and Elsie sank down to the ground beside the cart, grateful to be off their feet. They waved a hand, acknowledging that they had heard.

Eric glanced at Olaf. He was leaning heavily against the cart. “Do you want to come?”

Olaf just shook his head.

As Eric started forward, the snowflakes began to thicken. By the time he had covered the fifty or so yards to where the James and McKensie families were resting beside their carts, it had begun to snow in earnest. As he took off his gloves and dropped down beside Maggie, he turned his back to the wind and took her hand. Even through the layer of her mittens, he could feel how cold her hands were. The flakes were starting to stick to her coat, and he reached up absently and brushed them off her shoulders. “How are you doing?”

She nodded, too weary to answer. Then she turned her face to the northwest, directly into the wind. She half closed her eyes, letting the snow hit against her cheeks. “This is the day we have not been waiting for,” she murmured. After a moment, she turned again, facing directly west, scanning the endless horizon. Now her eyes were wide and filled with fear. “Oh, Eric. Where are those wagons?”

According to Elder Willie, South Pass and the hoped-for relief were at least three days away, and that was assuming the wagons were there. He didn’t have the heart, though, to remind her of that. He just shook his head as he took her hand and held it tightly. After a moment, she hunched over and began to cough, hugging her chest to ease the pain a little. Eric watched her with anxious eyes, rubbing her back softly while she fought to clear her chest again.

Chapter Notes

With the company and its animals failing rapidly now, the news that they could not expect to find the supply wagons before South Pass came as a terrible blow to the Willie Company. Though the letter from Elder Franklin D. Richards is not mentioned in the company journal, John Chislett says it       arrived on 14 October, while they were camped between Independence Rock and Devil’s Gate in what is now central Wyoming (see Remember, p. 64).

Based on what we know now, they were down to no more than a week’s supply of food, and that is taking into consideration the reduced rations and the fact that the increasing frequency of death provided the macabre “blessing” of having fewer mouths to feed. In their weakened state, it would take them at least ten days to reach South Pass. It was that grim arithmetic which, on 14 October as they were camped near Independence Rock, led the company to vote unanimously to reduce their rations even more (see journal entries in Remember, pp. 5–6).

Though she does not give a specific date, it would have been about this time that Sarah James came up with an idea that she would later describe thus: “I even decided to cook the tatters of my shoes and make soup of them. It brought a smile to my father’s sad face when I made the suggestion, but mother was a bit impatient with me and told me that I’d have to eat the muddy things myself” (in Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, p. 628).

George Cunningham, who was a fifteen-year-old boy when he came with his family in the Willie Company, later said this: “Every particle [of the cattle] that could be used was taken, even the hide was rationed and after scorching the hair off, we would roast it a little over the coals and cut it in small pieces and it made what we considered a delicious supper” (in Carol Cornwall Madsen, Journey to Zion, p. 638).

Patience Loader, sister-in-law to John Jaques and a member of the Martin Company, wrote about the inadequacy of the food and how they turned to the Lord for help. Speaking of a time when they had obtained a soup bone and used it to make a meager broth, she wrote: “We did not get but very little meat as the bone had been picked the night before and we did not have only the half of asmall biscute as we only was having four oz. of flour aday. This we devided into portians so we could have asmall peice three times aday. This we eat with thankfull hearts and we allways as[k] God to bless to our use and that it would strengthen our bodys day by day so that we could performe our dutys. And I can testefie that our heavenly Father heard and answerd our prayers and we was blessed with health and strength day by day to endure the severe trials we had to pass through on that terrable journey before we got to Salt Lake City. We know that if God had not been with us that our strength would have failed us. . . . I can say we put our trust in God and he heard and answerd our prayers and brought us through to the valleys” (in Godfrey and others, Women’s Voices, p. 238).

On the eighteenth/nineteenth of October, the Willie Company camped at the Fifth Crossing of the Sweetwater River. The 19 October entry in the company journal records five deaths. In John Chislett’s narrative he records that the last of the flour was distributed equally among the camp that morning. Those two sources, as well as Levi Savage’s journal, all note that it was bitterly cold and that sometime before noon the first snowstorm of the season descended upon the company. Savage notes that “the poorly clad women and children suffered much” (see Remember, pp. 7–8).