Wheels

My father shaped these wheels himself, and well they served. He had to make many repairs to the Ellis's, the McCarthy's, the Bergstrom's and the Hudgkinson's wheels, as they were made of green wood, and sprang each time we forded a creek or the weather turned dry. But ours rolled sweetly and quietly as the man who made them. We rolled hundreds of miles before the accident, fixing the Ellis's wheel, that broke his arm. Now with but one arm, and the other constantly paining him, these blessed wheels became a grievous misery for us both with each revolution; me pulling on one side and he on the other with his one good arm. Our hands grew raw as freshly-butchered meat, until we could not grip the handles, but they slipped from our hands which freely flowed with blood. Others tried to spare us, but we were too few for real respite to be possible. When father's hand began to fester and turn black we begged the others to carry on without us. Surely another party would be along behind us, as we were among the "first of the last" to leave Nauvoo. We would let our hands heal, and follow on with the next group of handcarters.