CHAPTER ONE
October 1844
 Momentarily forgetting her son clinging to her skirt and the heavy bag hanging from one arm, she began to run, desperate to reach her baby.   Margarette wove her way through the crowd separating her from the woman in a gray cloak who was walking away with her tiny daughter.  Despair threatened to overwhelm her.  She'd taken every precaution she could think of, still they'd been found.  A surge of strength lengthened her stride.  She wouldn't give up---not ever. She was a good mother and her children needed her, not the bitter, cruel old man who claimed it was his right to raise his son's children and discipline them as he saw fit.  She had no intention of allowing her children to be punched and whipped as their father had been until he lost all hope of a better life.
 The woman stopped, and Margarette rushed toward her, determined to reclaim her daughter.  A cry behind her was a reminder that Jens was clinging to her skirt and struggling to keep up.  She stopped abruptly.  What was she going to do?  The strange woman had Annelise, but if she pursued her, would she be giving someone an opportunity to steal Jens too? 
 The woman carrying Annelise turned abruptly, retracing her steps and closing the gap between them with a couple of swift strides. Dropping the bag she still carried, Margarette grasped her son's hand in a protective grip then straightened to face the beautiful, dark-haired woman rushing toward them. She briefly noted the bright Scottish plaid of the gray cloak's lining that framed the woman's face, before centering on the woman's fierce facial expression.  Margarette lifted a hand as though she would somehow defend herself and her son, but instead of reaching for Jens, the woman thrust the baby girl hard against Margarette's chest.  Margarette clutched at the infant with one hand and staggered back a step from the force of the abrupt gesture.  She heard Jens's cry as she stumbled against him.  Frantically, she reached to regain her hold on him and stay erect without dropping the baby. 
 She feared the woman's action was some kind of trick to distract her, but no matter what the woman did, Margarette would not release her hold on her children.  God entrusted Jens and Annelise to her, and she would not relinquish them to anyone.  The baby began to wail, and Margarette clutched her children tighter, watching as the fashionably dressed woman, without speaking a word, gathered up her skirt, turned, and raced with her gray cloak streaming behind her toward the plank linking the Carolina to its sister ship, the Nightingale, a bridge she had been told provided the passengers and crew of the other ship with access to the wharf via the Carolina.
 "Mamma," the little boy sobbed against her hip.  "You hurted me."
 "I'm sorry, dear.  Hold on tight to my skirt.  We must get to our quarters quickly."  She retrieved her bag with the hand that had held Jens's small hand, clutched the crying baby with the other, and with little Jens obediently clinging to her skirt though sniffling, she made her way to the stairs that led below.  She wanted to run, to get her children out of sight as rapidly as possible, but she forced herself to move slowly, accommodating Jens's short legs as she threaded her way through the crowd that seemed oblivious to the short drama that had just taken place. She skirted the deck filled with passenger cabins and continued her descent toward the lower deck where the poorer immigrants crowded together in steerage.
 Her heart was still beating rapidly as she found the bunk, two levels below the main deck, that she had claimed during the voyage from Denmark to England.  The bunk was marked by a worn quilt her mother had stitched when Margarette was a child.  It was among the few items she'd managed to bring with her from her former home. 
 She had claimed the lower bunk because she feared her children might tumble from one of the upper bunks and because it seemed the lower bunks were reserved for families. She noticed that in most cases, single men claimed bunks on one side of the aisle and single women the other.  Her closest neighbors, across the narrow aisle, were an older couple from Copenhagen she'd met at a gathering of Saints preparing to emigrate to America.  They tended to be polite and didn't seem to mind if her children were sometimes noisy. At times, they played with little Jens and entertained him while she nursed the baby, a kind gesture she appreciated.  She suspected they knew more of her situation than she'd told them, having likely overheard the many explanations and cautions she'd given Jens, who resented the confinement to limited quarters.
 She could see several bags and a strap of books on the bunk above the older couple, signifying that it had been spoken for while she'd strolled about the wharf with her children.  The space had gone unclaimed on the trip from Copenhagen.  She'd have to be more careful of her words now that the ship had taken on more passengers.  She let her gaze wander down the long row of bunks.  Nearly all of the spaces that had been empty before reaching London were now filled with baskets, bags, and piles of personal belongings.  The ship would be filled to capacity for the remainder of the journey. 
 Seeking to reassure herself that she and the children were safe, she noted that the small pile of clothing she'd brought for her children still lay undisturbed on her quilt.  She settled herself on the quilt and endeavored to quiet Annelise's screams.  She wished they'd never left their small space, but after the cramped journey from Denmark, she'd decided to chance a stroll along the wharf and had discovered a bakery.  She couldn't regret that the delightful aroma of baking bread had tempted her to buy two penny worth of the fragrant bread.  The meals offered passengers in the lower deck quarters were already growing tiresome, and she feared it would be truly unpalatable by journey's end. While the little boy munched on the fresh bread, she leaned against one of the posts supporting the bunk bed, tossed a small quilt over her shoulder, and began nursing Annelise.
 "Come rest beside mamma," she spoke to Jens, patting a spot beside her once the baby's cries subsided.  She needed his sturdy little body next to her as reassurance that both her children were safe.  She looked around to be certain the woman who had taken Annelise, then changed her mind, hadn't followed them.
 "Want to play with boys."  Jens pouted.
 "You scared me when you ran away to play.  That was naughty."
 "I sorry."  Jens hung his head for a moment, then bounced back with a question.  "That  lady took Annelise.  Is she one of the bad people?"
 "I don't know if she's bad, but she gave Annelise back.  Maybe she was sorry she took her."  Margarette attempted to examine the question calmly.  She really didn't know what had happened or why the woman had returned Annelise to her, but she was grateful to have her.  The whole upsetting incident had happened so quickly.  They'd been returning from their short expedition ashore when she'd become aware Jens was no longer clutching her skirt.  She'd turned to see him hurrying after some older boys who were chasing a barrel hoop across the ship's deck.  Fearful he'd fall overboard or become lost, she'd placed the sleeping baby and the heavy bag of food between two thick coils of rope to keep them safe while she hurried after her son.  In moments, she caught her wayward boy and returned for the baby, Jens in tow, to find a dark-haired young woman walking away with Annelise.
 Margarette couldn't help wondering that if woman had been sent by Lars and Maria, why she had given up so easily.  She wondered too, if the woman would return, perhaps with someone stronger who could wrestle the children away from their mother.
 Margarette decided she wouldn't go topside again until the ship left port.  They were due to sail shortly after the moon came up and the tide turned.  Until then, she'd keep the children below deck and watch for anything suspicious.
 Jens, tired from their excursion, drifted to sleep, his arms flung wide, reminding Margarette of Jory and the way he'd flung himself on their bed exhausted to sleep during those brief months they'd lived in Copenhagen.  That was before his parents, Lars and Maria, found them and insisted their son and his wife return to the farm to live with them.  She wouldn't think about that unhappy time and the husband who changed to a tyrant once they arrived at his father's farm.  In the weeks following his death, she'd come to understand Jory hadn't been prepared to live in the city and wasn't strong enough to continue working on the docks loading and unloading cargo indefinitely. His return to his father and his tyranny had been inevitable. 
 She couldn't bear to see Jens follow in his father's and grandfather's steps, becoming a cruel and bitter man.  She'd promised on Jory's grave that she'd keep the children safe and give them a new life where Jens could grow to be a man without fear of his grandfather's brutality and baby Annelise could avoid the slavery imposed on the women in Lars Jorgensen's household. 
 The only way to keep that promise was to take them far away.
 "Hello," a cheery voice greeted her.  Startled, she looked up to see a tall, thin young man who appeared to be in his early twenties smiling down at her with a slightly crooked grin.  His head was bent to avoid brushing the low ceiling and his dark curls fell across his brow, threatening to hide his deep blue eyes.
 "Hallo," she responded in a tentative voice, trying to be civil.  She felt self-conscious in a way she hadn't felt around a man in a long time as his eager gaze passed over the coiled braids that formed a pale crown atop her head and slid lower to her plain black serviceable dress and heavy peasant shoes.  She knew she was taller than the average European woman and that hard work, unfashionable clothing, and the bearing of two children made her look older than her twenty years.   She'd been told enough times that she was ugly with her pale skin and eyes the color of the stormy North Sea, yet she sensed approval in his voice as he said something else. She shook her head, trying to let him know she didn't speak English.
 He grinned and pointed to himself.  "Matthew Holmes."  Then he pointed to the middle bunk across the aisle.
 "Margarette Jorgensen."  She responded politely, not wanting to get off to a bad start with the young man who would be living mere feet from her and her children during the long voyage to America.  She smiled tentatively.  She glanced to the side, wondering if he were traveling alone or with friends or family.  She didn't see anyone else, but the remainder of his party might be boarding later.  Only the narrow top bunks held one passenger only and never lower or middle ones. The third tier of bunks were so narrow, it was difficult to squeeze in more than one traveler.
 "Jens."  Her small son leaped to his feet and pointed to himself.  "Annelise."  He pointed to his sleeping little sister, who still lay in Margarette's arms.  The young man's grin grew broader and he carefully repeated each name pointing to the individual named.  Once he was satisfied that he knew their names he held out his hand to Jens as though the little boy were his equal.  Jens's rare smile erupted across his small face as he shook the man's hand. 
 Margarette's breath caught for just a moment and she struggled to keep tears from forming in her suddenly moist eyes.   Seeing Jens and little Annelise laugh and smile was one of her greatest goals.  She'd hated seeing her son cower before his father and grandfather.  The old man had expected Jory to control his wife and children with a heavy hand.  She and her son had seldom had cause to smile.
 Memories crowded out the stranger's bright smile, and her thoughts drifted to the dock where she often went to watch the ships come and go, the place where, as a little girl, she'd waited with her mother for her father's ship to return laden with fish.  One day word came that the fishing boat carrying her father had capsized in a storm and all aboard had been lost.  She and her mother had grieved, then her mother had found employment in a shop near the waterfront and Margarette attended a nearby school.  In time, they'd learned to smile again, and when two missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints approached them, they eagerly accepted the message the missionaries taught and were baptized. 
 When Margarette was sixteen, her mother had become ill and passed away quickly, leaving Margarette afraid and on her own.  On the second day of her search for employment, she'd walked to the dock.  As she stood watching the ships, one of the men unloading a ship noticed her, and in a shy, hesitant manner struck up a conversation with her.  Their meeting turned to courtship, and three weeks later, she and Jory were wed. 
 Jory had grown up on his father's small farm.  The only thing he knew was hard work and severe punishment, until in desperation, he had run away.  Jory's freedom hadn't lasted long; only long enough to acquire a wife and to learn that his minimal education and lack of training and social graces left him unprepared for city life.  When his father had found him, he reverted back to the fearful, obedient youth with wild bursts of temper he had been before his desperate bid for freedom, but now instead of dreaming of escape, he had a wife and son on which to vent his frustration. 
  Margarette had been barely tolerated by her husband's parents and any mention of her religious beliefs was forbidden, but after Jory's death in a senseless farm accident, she found herself needing her faith more each day.  Her son became the focus of his grandfather's attention and he was treated to a constant barrage of harsh discipline and expectations beyond the toddler's ability.  He never smiled or played.  She began to pray for a more normal life for him.
 Heavy with a second child, Margarette could do little to protect her son.  When she gave birth, Lars and Maria berated her for producing a worthless female for them to feed.  Maria took over Annelise's care and Margarette was relegated to the role of wet nurse, kitchen drudge, and farmhand.
 Margarette had moved through each day numb with exhaustion, feeling she had not only lost her husband, but her children as well.  Falling into exhausted sleep when she knelt to pray, her anger simmered beneath the surface until the day Lars beat Jens viciously with his fists for some small infraction.   When Lars refused to allow her to comfort the small boy or treat his cuts and bruises, she vowed she wouldn't give up the way Jory had done.  Kneeling in the darkness in the middle of the night, she prayed for help, and a plan began to form in her mind. She had her mother's wedding ring and felt certain Mor would forgive her for selling it to aid in her escape plans. Stealing her children from their beds one night, she'd crept away in the darkness, hiding in ditches and walking until she had reached Copenhagen.
 A small giggle ended Margarette's musing.  Startled, she returned her attention to Jens.  No longer was he snuggled against her side.  The young man who had greeted her minutes earlier was seated on the floor between the two rows of bunks, facing her small son.  He pointed to Jens's shoe and said, "Shoe."  Jens repeated the word, then Matthew wiggled his fingers and said, "Fingers."  Dutifully, Jens echoed the English word, held up his own fingers, and giggled.
 Margarette was torn.  She didn't want her son to bother the other passengers, nor did she want him to speak to strangers, but he'd had so few moments of pleasure in his young life and he'd spent most of the voyage thus far healing from the harsh beating his grandfather had given him.  She knew how he longed to play like other children and sooner or later he must learn English since that was the language that would be prevalent in America.  She couldn't bring herself to deny him an opportunity to learn English, and if she listened carefully, perhaps she would learn a few words as well.  She made up her mind to allow Jens this small pleasure.
 "Ma'am."  Startled she looked up to see one of the ship's officers.  He held a paper in his hand and seemed to be asking a question of her.  She shook her head, trying to signal her lack of understanding. 
 "No, no."  The old man who shared the opposite lower bunk with his wife stood beside the officer, gravely shaking his head.  She hadn't seen him and his wife return.  The older couple too had taken advantage of a day in port to walk about.  She had been too caught up in her musings to be aware of her surroundings, a situation she must not allow to happen again.
 The elderly gentleman said something more, his words sounding slow and unsure in a language she didn't understand, then he turned to her, speaking rapidly in Danish.  "This man said he has been ordered to search the ship for a woman with two small children she stole from their guardian, the children's grandfather.  He is asking if you are that woman.  He wants you and the children to accompany him to the wharf where a magistrate will settle the matter.   I told him he has made a mistake."  She knew he suspected there had been no mistake.
 Margarette's puzzlement turned to fear as the old man attempted to explain the officer's question to her.  One arm tightened its hold on her baby, and her panicked gaze flew to the little boy facing the Englishman on the floor.  There was no doubt in her mind that she was the woman being sought.  But she was also Jens and Annelise's mother and, to her way of thinking, she had every right granted by God, if not by man, to claim her own children. 
 Something about the situation triggered a reaction from the man playing with her son. He stood in one easy motion, then reaching down, picked up Jens and while holding the boy in his arms, strolled toward the officer.  Soren Pedersen was struggling to interpret for her, but she couldn't concentrate on his words. A dark storm cloud seemed to be roaring toward her, drowning out her ability to think.  Margarette's heart pounded, and she debated snatching Jens from the stranger's arms and fleeing.  
 Her eyes met Matthew Holmes's eyes, and she felt he was trying to tell her something. They'd only just met and didn't even speak the same language, so she had no reason to expect support from him, still she found herself searching his face for something and sensing some gossamer connection she couldn't explain.   Her son, who was generally wary of adult males, reached a small arm about Matthew's neck.  It seemed to become the deciding factor for the man.
 "Is there a problem, officer?" he asked.  He casually shifted Jens to his other arm and placed his free hand on Margarette's shoulder.  She flinched the tiniest amount, but didn't shake it off.  "Has my family wrongfully claimed space belonging to someone else?"  Anna, Soren's wife was now beside her, whispering a rough translation.  She didn't know why the Englishman was pretending to be her husband, but she didn't attempt to refute his implication that they were wed.
 Looking confused, the officer glanced at him, then about the rapidly filling space.  He shook his head.  "I'm not aware of any other claim," he told the Englishman.  "But the woman . . . and the children . . ."
 "I came to London to work a year ago," Matthew spoke with casual ease.  "She and the children have just arrived.  Together we shall travel to America where there are better opportunities for the children.  The bunk she claimed on the voyage from Scandinavia seemed to fit our needs, but of course, we will be happy to seek other space if someone else has a greater claim." She noticed from Anna's whispered translation that he was careful to not actually lie, but perhaps the implied lie he was planting in the officer's mind was just as wrong.  She suspected her silence was also a lie.  When the opportunity arose, she would ask the missionaries their thoughts on the matter, but now she felt a compelling need to protect her children any way she could.
 Anna's movements were spry in spite of the knot of gray hair on top of her head and the deep wrinkles carved in her face.  She moved closer to Mr. Holmes, but seemed to be still translating for Margarette.  She spoke softly, words she knew the young man could not understand, though he nodded his head as though he did.  Jens's small body stiffened, warning Margarette the boy heard and did not like whatever Anna had said.  He leaned toward his mother as though eager to go to her. Before she could stretch her arms to take him, the old woman said something more.  Though Anna faced Margarette, Jens seemed to know her words were meant for him.
 "Far," Jens patted Matthew's cheek as though trying to gain his attention, then leaned forward to whisper loudly in his ear.  The Danish words meant nothing to Matt, but told Margarette the old woman  understood Matthew was playing a desperate game to keep Margarette and her children from being removed from the ship and that Anna was instructing Jens on how to continue the game.  She prayed her son would understand and play his part.  She had an uncomfortable feeling that if her family left the ship, they would be in grave danger.
 "The little one," the old man grinned sheepishly, joining in the charade, "seeks to relieve himself.  He wishes for his papa to . . . Perhaps I could assist . . ." 
 Matthew almost grinned as the older man reached for Jens, who went to him willingly.  The officer appeared flustered and began to apologize. He turned about and lost no time leaving the now crowded area.  Jens, it seemed, had provided the final convincing touch.
 Matthew crouched before Margarette who was now clutching her children to her and sobbing.  The elderly woman patted her shoulder and made soothing sounds.  He seemed to want to reassure her too, but unfortunately, she couldn't understand anything he said.  She wasn't even sure she knew exactly what had just happened.  Extending a hand, Matthew  patted Jens's head.  Margarette lifted her head, and her eyes met his.  No words were exchanged, but she thought he could read the gratitude in hers.  Nevertheless, she thanked him profusely in Danish. 
 After a few minutes, Margarette asked Soren to translate for her.  He listened to her jumble of words, then turned to Matthew, and spoke slowly, stumbling over his words.  "She wishes to thank you for coming to her aid.  She loves her children and does not wish for them to be returned to Denmark.  Her husband is dead and his parents beat the boy and do not allow them to meet with other members of Church."
 "Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?  Mormons?"  Matthew asked, a hopeful grin on his face.  All three of the adults he faced nodded their heads, understanding his question.  He grinned and pointed to himself.  "I am a member too.  I was baptized a little over a year ago.  Tell her I am happy I could help, but it was little Jens who convinced the officer Margarette is not the woman for whom he is searching."
 "Anna," the old man beamed with pride at his wife.  "She whisper to boy.  He smart boy, do as she say."  The two men chuckled, then the older one extended his hand.  "I am Soren Pedersen.  We belong Church two years.  I study English with missionaries to help other members they journey to Zion." Matthew shook the man's hand.  Brother Pedersen waved his arm, including the other Scandinavian passengers around them.  "Sweden, Norway, Finland, Denmark.  All baptized.  All Mormon."
 "I think many of the English passengers are members of the Church too.  And there are six missionaries returning to Nauvoo."  The old man nodded, signifying he was pleased with the information, then turned to share the news with the two women.
 "Brother Pedersen," Matthew looked hesitant.  He glanced at Margarette, then began speaking in an earnest manner to the older man.  "My father was a brutal man who spent his meager wages on drink.  My younger brother died at his hands during a drunken rage.  My mother was everything to me, and when she passed on a year past, I made up my mind to go to Zion.  I know what a mother means to a boy and I give my word of honor that I shall do all I can to keep young Jens from being separated from his mum."
 When Soren translated, Margarette was deeply touched.  She offered her gratitude, then sat down feeling awkward.
 After a few moments, still with the baby in her arms, Margarette rummaged in a bag that had been shoved under her bunk.  She was aware that the Englishman watched her covertly with quick sideways glances. His scrutiny made her conscious of all her shortcomings, especially her rough  hands, which revealed her familiarity with hard work. She withdrew a square of cloth from the bag.  Placing the baby on the quilt, she proceeded to unfasten Annelise's gown.  Matthew resumed his conversation with Brother Pedersen and Anna.  Breathing easier with Matthew's attention directed elsewhere, Margarette continued to remove the baby's wet nappy.
 Something that had been inside the nappy fell to the floor with a soft clunk.  Margarette stared at the object in disbelief.  Her gasp of astonishment attracted the attention of the Pedersens and their newfound friend.  They turned as she knelt beside the bunk while keeping one hand on the squirming baby.  All three stared at the object on the floor.
 Matthew moved closer, his eyes following hers.  There on the rough planks, half hidden by the hem of Margarette's quilt, lay a small black bag.  He reached for it, and as Soren, Anna, and Jens crowded around, he released the cord that held it closed and gently shook the bag's contents onto Margarette's bunk.
 A glittering bracelet dropped onto a quilt square.  All four adults gaped in astonishment. The metal chain appeared to be of inferior quality, but five large stones, each a different color gleamed almost as though they were hungry to claim the small amount of light in the ship's gloomy interior.