Unto A Good Land Read online

  The immigrants were counted like sheep in a pen, their numbers must check with the numbers in the passenger contracts. Then they were let out of the station to board the steam wagon.

  —2—

  At home, the immigrants from Ljuder had heard stories about these newly invented wagons, which were driven by steam and rolled along on iron bars strung over the ground. But until now none of their group had seen or used the railroad. To them this newfangled method of transportation seemed dangerous, possibly disastrous. But Karl Oskar had said that the steam wagon was the fastest means of transportation inland, and as their interpreter had told them the same, they had agreed to try the new way of traveling.

  They considered themselves lucky in obtaining so tall a Swede to be their interpreter and guide; the ex-carpenter Landberg was a whole head taller than anyone in this great multitude of travelers, and wherever he happened to be, they could easily see him, they would not be likely to lose him. And Landberg was careful not to lose any of them. He stayed close to the group from the Charlotta, explained things, and was helpful in all ways. Now he led them up to the steam wagon and told them to be careful when climbing on board, so as not to fall and hurt themselves.

  Some twenty wagons, high and covered with roofs, were tied together in a long row, and the immigrants gaped at them wide eyed, half from fear and half from curiosity. Each wagon was built on eight iron wheels and had windows. They thought it might be strong and steady. The wagon at the forward end was unlike the others; as it was first, it must be the one that was to pull, the real steam wagon. It had only four wheels, but these were three times as large as the wheels on the other wagons. Then there were two small wheels, in the very front end. The steam wagon had a tall chimney, broad at the opening and narrowing downward; it sat there like a huge funnel stuck in the throat of a bottle. At the fore end this wagon had iron bars twisted together to form a large scoop or shovel.

  Thick, black smoke belched from the chimney and sent red-glowing sparks whirling into the air. The steam wagon had fire inside, it burned there, and this worried the immigrants.

  They had always been taught to be careful with fire, to carry burning candles cautiously, to handle lanterns and firesticks with utmost wariness; they harbored a fear, implanted in them from childhood, of fire on the loose. And now they must ride in a row of wagons drawn by one with fire burning inside it; it smoked, crackled, sputtered, and sparks flew from the wagon’s bowels. How easily one spark could fall on the roof of a following wagon and ignite it! They realized that they were to be exposed to continuous fire hazard, at least while the fire burned inside the steam wagon. They had also heard that a steam wagon might easily explode and fly to pieces in the air.

  Robert had read about steam engines in his History of Nature and tried to explain to the others: Inside the steam wagon they were boiling water in a great big kettle, and it was that kettle which pulled the whole row of wagons. But he did not know what purpose was served by the large iron scoop in front of the steam wagon, and he asked Long Landberg about this. Their guide said that this contraption shoveled away wild animals if they stood between the rails and threatened to overturn the train.

  Ulrika of Västergöhl said she wanted to ride as far away from the burning wagon as possible. She expressed the desire of all in their group.

  When they were ready to take their seats, the guide showed them into the fifth wagon from the engine; they were disappointed not to be farther away from the fire. They climbed a small ladder, slowly and cautiously. Their wagon was about fifteen feet long and half as wide. A bench had been built on either side with a narrow passage in the middle. The seats were made of carelessly nailed-together rough boards. Two more groups, somewhat smaller than their own, were to share this wagon with them. Their knapsacks, food baskets, boxes, and bundles took much room, and they had to crowd together in order to find space for all. Those unable to find room on the benches stood or lay down on the floor. The immigrants felt as though they had been packed into a good-sized calf coop.

  On the end of one bench a place was made for old Fina-Kajsa, so that she might ride half-sitting; she was weaker than she would admit and could stand on her legs only a few minutes at a time. For the third or fourth time she inquired of the guide about her iron pot, and for the third or fourth time she was given the information that the pot rode with the chests and other heavier pieces in a special wagon.

  “But where is the grindstone?” asked Fina-Kajsa. “Where is it?”

  The grindstone, brought along by her husband who died on the voyage, had, through carelessness at the New York unloading, fallen into the harbor, and all said this was good luck for Fina-Kajsa, who need not now pay the expensive inland freight for it. But she thought they were telling her a lie. Her son Anders in Minnesota had written home that grindstones were scarce in America, and now she thought the Americans had stolen her stone as soon as they laid eyes on it.

  And Fina-Kajsa kept on complaining: “Oh me, oh my! What an endless road! We’ll never arrive!”

  In great harmony the immigrants shared the wagon space with each other; no one tried to spread out, all made room; they had learned on this journey to live closely packed in narrow quarters, and they endured it good-naturedly. In the wagon, too, they had more space in which to move than they had had on the river steamer. But the air in the wagon seemed thick and stuffy after a score and a half people had pushed their way into it. At daybreak a heavy shower had fallen and cooled the earth, but now the sun already felt burning, in spite of the early hour, and they understood that the day was to bring intense heat, hard to endure.

  As yet the wagon stood still, and the passengers were quiet in silent anticipation and wordless worry: What would happen when they began to ride? Unknown dangers lurked on this journey; what mightn’t take place when the wagon with fire inside it began to move? They had heard that some persons could not stand being freighted along on the railroad; it was said to be so hard on them that they fainted and lay unconscious for hours.

  Kristina had heard the same as the others; she sat in a corner of the wagon with Lill-Märta and Harald on her knees. Johan had climbed up on the knapsack standing between the bench and her feet. The oldest boy had also wished to sit on her knees, and she would gladly have let him if she had had three knees. But Johan wouldn’t understand that she had only two. The boy had grown impatient and troublesome since they landed.

  He pulled his mother’s arms: “Aren’t we going to live in a house now, Mother?”

  “Yes, soon—I’ve told you so.”

  “When is soon? When shall we live in a house?”

  “When we arrive.”

  “But Father says we have arrived in America now.”

  “Yes, we have. Please keep quiet.”

  “It isn’t true, Mother! You said we would live in a house when we got to America. Now we are in America—aren’t we going to live in a house?”

  “Yes, yes—please keep still, can’t you, boy?”

  Johan tired her beyond endurance, and she didn’t know what to do with him, except to let him be until he tired himself. After the night on the river steamer without a moment’s sleep, she was too exhausted to answer her children. All she wanted was to stretch herself out somewhere and rest; she wanted to lie still, still, and sleep, sleep. But there never seemed any rest on this journey, no real rest, no satisfying sleep; now that they were to travel on this dangerous steam wagon there would be no sleep tonight either.

  Karl Oskar stood pressed against the wall near her and talked to Jonas Petter and Danjel about the new form of transportation. Danjel said that now the prophesy had been fulfilled which said that toward the end of the world wagons would move without horses.

  Danjel had asked himself if it could be God’s will that His children use the steam power as beast of burden; if this power were something good and useful, why had the Lord kept it secret from man ever since the creation of the earth—nearly six thousand years? It might be that the steam pow
er emanated from evil powers. But thus far the Lord had helped them on their journey. On the steam wagon they were still in His hands.

  Kristina remembered Dean Brusander’s words at a catechism examination, to the effect that the steam wagon was a wicked human device, tending to estrange the soul from its Creator, and, like all mechanical contraptions, leading to disaster for poor and rich alike. Steam power weakened and undermined soul and body, encouraging idleness, fornication, and immorality. The dean had therefore prayed God to spare them this curse and prevent steam wagons from ever being used in Sweden.

  Kristina wondered if they sinned against any of God’s commandments by riding the steam wagon; she thought, if she had understood the dean rightly, it must be the sixth commandment.

  She knew nothing in advance of what might happen on this steam journey, but as she and her loved ones were in the clutches of the wagon it was too late to regret it. She felt as though she had stepped into a conveyance which had been harnessed to a wild, untamed horse in the shafts for the first time; a romping, ferocious beast capable of anything, which might run off the road, bolt, or roll over on the ground in play. She could not forget the belching sparks from the steam wagon’s bowels; she felt that this was the most perilous part of their journey thus far. As yet nothing dangerous had happened to them in America, but they hadn’t got far from the shore: anything might still happen.

  Danjel had opened his psalmbook to the “Prayer before Starting a Journey,” and when Kristina saw her uncle fold his hands, she did the same. She, her husband, and children already had risked their lives at sea, now they must do it on land as well; in silent prayer she invoked her Creator’s protection.

  —3—

  In each end of the wagon was a narrow door, and over both doors were identical inscriptions in tall black letters:

  DANGER!

  WATCH YOUR STEP!

  Karl Oskar had seen the same inscription near the pier in New York and as he now recognized it he asked their interpreter to tell him the meaning. Landberg said that these four words warned of dangerous places; when they saw the sign they must watch their steps and look carefully where they set their feet. Inexperienced travelers could easily take a false step when entering or leaving the wagon, and fall off.

  Karl Oskar in his turn explained the words to Kristina, who said it was thoughtful to nail up placards in dangerous places in America; she too was going to keep in mind the four words signaling danger, they were so black and threatening she could never forget them.

  Outside their window was a tall, white-painted signpost with several lines of foot-high letters:

  SAFETY SIGNALS FOR TRAINS

  A WHITE FLAG BY DAY

  A WHITE LAMP BY NIGHT

  SHOWS

  ALL CLEAR

  Karl Oskar wondered what this placard might mean; no doubt it concerned the travelers, therefore they ought to know. And it annoyed him that he understood not a single syllable of the new language, that he couldn’t decipher a word. It was like the first day at school, when Schoolmaster Rinaldo had held the ABC book to his eyes for the first time. But now he was a full-grown man, twenty-seven years of age, with three children of his own; yet in this country he felt like a schoolboy once more; he must learn to spell all over again, he must learn to recognize words. His inability to read the language did not seem so bad, but it vexed him not to understand the spoken words; it hurt him to hear people speak in his presence without understanding them; he felt inclined to believe they were talking about him, and he was ashamed and annoyed to be talked about before his face, disregarded. Here in America one could stand face to face with people who insulted one, yet one couldn’t do a thing about it; only stand there and stare, awkward, helpless, dumb. Since stepping ashore in America not many hours ago, he had felt foolish more often than during his whole life in Sweden.

  But he refused to believe his intelligence had suffered from the emigration.

  Their guide Landberg was standing at the entrance, his tall head concealing the inscription; he was speaking English to a man in a blue coat with yellow buttons; the man had a yellow sign on his cap, he must be one of the American guards, or steam-wagon officials. Karl Oskar surmised they were talking about the travelers inside the wagon. He listened with his ears open, trying to understand something that at least reminded him of words he understood. But the language of the interpreter and the American did not sound like human speech, rather like the buzz of a bumblebee in his ear; the sounds were distorted, mixed up, crazy through and through. The men twisted their mouths and made knots of their tongues in order to emit strange sounds; it seemed they imitated each other, made faces at each other as children might in play. To Karl Oskar’s ears the American language seemed an unaccountable mixture of senseless sounds, and he grew more depressed each time he listened to it; he would never be able to teach his mouth to use this tongue.

  The official left the wagon after he had seen to it that both doors were closed, and now Landberg spoke in Swedish: “Hold on to your seats, good people! Our train is starting to move!”

  The warning was followed by a long-drawn-out, piercing, evil yell from the first wagon. The immigrants had never heard the like of this horrible howl, produced by neither beasts’ nor human beings’ throats, but by a lifeless thing and consequently much more terrifying. When it stopped, there was silence in the wagon, a silence of fear and apprehension. Faces turned pale, hands grasped hands, the travelers clutched each other or sought support against benches and walls, against anything within reach.

  The moment had arrived; the steam wagon was moving. They could hear the wheels thunder under them as they rolled along on the iron bars, they could see through the windows that they had started ahead.

  Their wagon jolted and shook, it cracked and creaked. A minute passed, and two, it pulled still harder, and the wagon rolled and leaned over a little to one side. Some of the travelers crouched in terror to weigh down the other side with the weight of their bodies; Fina-Kajsa shrieked to heaven. It was like the shriek of a dying person; she said she was being choked. Ulrika of Västergöhl hurried to her and loosened her vest, and soon she grew quiet and breathed more easily.

  “It’s turning over!” Johan screamed and gripped his mother’s legs. “It’s tipping over, Mother!”

  “Keep quiet, boy!”

  “I’m afraid!”

  “Don’t be afraid! It isn’t dangerous!” Karl Oskar reassured the boy. “Lill-Märta and Harald aren’t crying. You’re the biggest, you mustn’t cry.”

  Johan wanted to crawl up onto his mother’s knees, already occupied by the smaller children, but the closest he could get was to cling to her legs; he held on with all his strength while the wagon rolled on, and great tears rolled down his pale cheeks.

  Kristina was as much afraid as the child holding on to her, but she forced herself not to cry out. As she looked through the window and saw houses, trees, and the very ground itself move backward, she felt nauseated, her eyes blurred, her throat closed, her head swam. She wanted to see nothing, feel nothing—she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. She must drive away this dizziness. She held her children closer to her, she clenched her teeth still tighter, she mustn’t faint. . . . Perhaps she might escape it by sitting quite still, eyes closed. . . .

  And while the train increased its speed, faster and faster, Kristina sat with her eyes closed. The engine blew out smoke and sparks from its interior, it belched and sputtered, it drew its breath heavily, in and out. The wheels rolled, creaked, and thundered, the wagons rocked and jerked, pulled and shook. And the people closed up inside sat in tense turmoil, each moment anticipating calamity.

  But their wagon did not leave the rails, nor did it turn over, nor catch fire; nothing happened.

  After a long while Kristina opened her eyes. She saw through the window how trees, bushes, hills, fields rushed by her with dizzying, indescribable speed, and her feeling of faintness returned. They were traveling with frightful speed, she could not end
ure to see how fast they moved, her head could not stand it; she was forced to close her eyes again.

  And the immigrant train continued inland. Pale, silent, serious, the travelers felt they were moving with the speed of the wind.

  Karl Oskar said, perhaps they were the first from Sweden to ride on a steam wagon.

  —4—

  The passengers gradually grew calm, they began to talk to each other and move about. But they suffered sorely from the heat that pricked their skins with a thousand invisible pin points. As no air was admitted, it grew more and more oppressive inside the wagon, breathing became almost impossible; the children grew restless and irritable.

  Karl Oskar turned to their guide: “Couldn’t we open the windows ever so little?”

  “The windows are nailed and cannot be opened.”

  “Couldn’t we open the doors, then?”

  “The doors are locked. They won’t be opened until we stop.”

  And Landberg admonished the travelers to be calm and to rely on him; they were in his hands and he would look after them the way a shepherd watches his flock.

  Landberg continued: It had happened that traveling immigrants had fallen off the wagons during the journey and been killed; it was in concern for their lives that the doors had been locked. But he would see to it that they got the air they needed during the journey. He knew that locked doors, too, could be dangerous. Last year a gruesome disaster had happened to an immigrant train. When it had arrived in Buffalo, and the doors of one windowless freight car had been opened, five travelers were dead of suffocation. Three of those stifled had come from Sweden. All the other passengers were far gone. They had cried and begged to have the doors opened, but no one had understood them as there was no interpreter in their company. So, Landberg pointed out, the travelers could readily see how useful a guide was to newcomers. Since that tragedy, the railroad companies had been instructed to open the doors every time the train stopped. Landberg would see to it that sufficient air was admitted to keep his flock alive; no one would suffocate on this journey.