Page 47 of Caroline’s Compass

“That eliminates the one Lucy requested.”

Lucy frowned. “I know most of it.”

“You know the final line and supply the middle with confidence,” Charlotte said.

They began with “Come, Thou Fount.” The first verse was uneven. By the second, the voices found one another. Martha sang low and true. Grace carried the higher line. Rebecca claimed not to sing while producing every word. Lydia sang loudly enough to correct anyone who had chosen a different key.

Caroline stood between Charlotte and Thomas. He held no hymnbook, but he knew the melody. His voice was quieter than she expected, roughened at the edges and steady beneath hers.

Nathaniel read from the Psalms about being guided in a plain path. He did not turn the passage into a lecture about obedience or roads. He spoke briefly of people who traveled with more questions than answers, who still had duties to one another while they waited for direction.

Caroline touched the compass through her pocket. An instrument could identify north. It could not promise safety, settle the Fort Kearny question, or tell her what Thomas would choose. Faith, she thought, was not pretending the whole map had been given. It was taking the next honest step without abandoning the people beside her.

Eleanor invited prayers. Mr. Hall thanked God for the wagons recovered from the fog. Mrs. Lawson prayed for children who were tired of walking. Coleman asked protection for the animals and added, after a nudge from his wife, the people as well.

Martha prayed for Nathaniel's shoulder. He opened one eye and looked at her, but wisdom kept him silent.

Then Thomas spoke. “For work that serves people rather than pride,” he said, “and for the courage to recognize the difference.”

His prayer was only one sentence. Caroline heard the Fort Kearny position inside it, and perhaps the damaged cutoff they would inspect in the morning. She did not know whether he was asking for an answer or the courage to accept one.

When Nathaniel asked if anyone else wished to pray, Caroline found herself speaking before she had arranged the words.

“For wisdom when more than one road seems right,” she said. “And grace when the people we love cannot choose as quickly as we would prefer.”

Lydia whispered, “That prayer has a target.”

Rebecca elbowed her.

Thomas did not look at Caroline until everyone said amen. When he did, there was no amusement in his face, only gratitude and a question he did not press her to answer.

They closed with “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah.” Mr. Avery's fiddle carried the melody into the dusk. Children who had fidgeted through the reading sang the chorus with renewed devotion, mostly because it was loud.

Afterward, the company did not hurry away. People shared bread, checked on neighbors, and spoke more gently than they had at the road council. Worship had not solved the cutoff or changed the miles ahead. It had reminded twelve wagon families that they would face both together.

Thomas helped Caroline fold the last blanket. “Your prayer was severe.”

“I included grace.”

“For yourself?”

She considered. “In limited quantity.”

“Then I will try not to exhaust it before morning.”

“An excellent beginning.”

The Sunday meal after worship became a sharing supper. Each family contributed what it could spare: beans, bread, dried fruit, a little bacon, and Mrs. Bell's pickles. Mr. Bell carried the pickle crock as if transporting explosives.

Lucy took one pickle and immediately regretted its size. Pride required her to finish it. Grace watched every bite with devotional attention.

Thomas accepted a pickle because Caroline did. His eyes watered after the first mouthful.

“You need not prove anything,” she said.

“I have crossed rivers.”

“The pickle is not a river.”