Unto A Good Land Read online

  Danjel was beyond human compassion, nor did he seek mortal comfort. It was Ulrika of Västergöhl who was in need of comfort at this moment, she who had been a good foster mother to Danjel’s tender daughter, this daughter who had left the earth before she had learned to walk on it. And Ulrika remained sitting with the dead child in her arms until one of the crewmen came and took the little body away from her, and wrapped it in a piece of gray cloth.

  At sunset the bell rang on deck, the prow turned shoreward, the steamer moored at an outjutting cliff. Two men with shovels in their hands went on land, one man carrying a small bundle. A flock of half-grown wild ducklings were disturbed and lifted from among the reeds; they flew noisily in circles over the cliff; they were mallard ducks, with beautiful feathers in changing colors. While dusk fell the men dug a hole behind the cliff. Soon they returned on board with their shovels; only a small grave had been needed this time.

  Little Eva’s funeral was over. And while the steamer put out again and darkness quickly fell over land and water, the flock of ducklings, still disturbed, kept crying plaintively as they flew about over the promontory behind which was the newly dug baby grave.

  —4—

  Their group had now lost one of its members. When, after this, they spoke to each other about the terrible pestilence, there was always in the mind of each: Who will be next?

  Ulrika, up till now free from all pains and ailments, began to complain of diarrhea and aches in her legs; she hoped it was only the usual immigrant diarrhea that bothered her; and so it seemed. Karl Oskar suggested that she use the bleeding iron and get rid of some of her blood. Kristina had lost so much blood during her sickness on the Charlotta that she did not consider it necessary to be bled, nor did she think they should bleed their children; the little ones were so pale, they probably had no more blood in their bodies than they needed.

  Kristina interpreted the smallest discomfort in herself or her children as a sign of the pestilence. All except Danjel kept away from the unhealthy ship’s fare and starved themselves. The grownups went about starving in silence, but the children begged for food. Children could not starve day after day; yet they mustn’t eat the food either. Kristina said they must get fresh food, at least milk, for their offspring; they still had the means with which to buy it.

  The silver in Karl Oskar’s skin pouch had melted away during their journey inland, and he had less than a hundred dollars left. Their transportation from Chicago to Minnesota had cost more than he had figured, and they had spent more for food than they had expected. How much would be left on arrival?

  One night little Johan was seized with intense vomiting. It continued until green bile came up. Except for pain in his stomach he did not suffer, but Kristina watched in anxiety for the usual sign: the thin limbs twisting in convulsion.

  Next morning the steamer made shore at a settlement where firewood for the engine was to be loaded. This stretch of the river flowed through a forest region, and groves of evergreens and leaf-trees grew on either side. A group of bearded, long-haired men met the boat at the pier; they were woodcutters, waiting to load the steamer. These men of the forest had revolvers and knives in their belts and did not look very kind.

  A narrow strip of land had been cleared along the river, and behind tall stacks of firewood and piles of lumber a row of houses could be seen. People lived here, so it should be possible to buy food. Kristina entreated Karl Oskar: “Go on shore! Try to get some milk for the little ones.”

  Karl Oskar picked up their large tin pitcher and went on shore. Robert had seen a map and he said that this was a town, but to Karl Oskar it seemed no more than an out-of-the-way farm village. Not much building had taken place; there were a few houses on the cleared strip, recently built of green lumber, and a little farther away, near the edge of the forest, he could see some primitive huts, not larger than woodsheds; probably the woodcutters lived there. All the houses seemed to have been hammered together in a hurry. A road had been staked out through the village, and work on it begun, but it looked more like a timber road; it was uneven and full of ruts, winding its course between piles of logs and stumps many feet high. Karl Oskar had noticed these tall stumps in many places: apparently the timbermen in America did not bend their backs but felled the trees while standing upright. This left ugly stumps and wasted lumber.

  He looked at the row of houses, trying to find a store where food could be bought. He had made up his mind not to return to his children with an empty pitcher.

  The biggest house had a sign painted in yard-high letters on the wall toward the river: BANK. Karl Oskar spelled the word twice to be sure, b, a, n, k. A word from his own language was painted on a house far away in the American wilderness! How could this be? Was it done to help arriving Swedes, unable to understand English? Or was the owner a Swede? Robert was not there to inform him that bank was spelled the same in both languages. Karl Oskar decided to go in and ask the bank master where he could buy some milk and wheat bread.

  The door below the sign was locked. Karl Oskar knocked, but no one answered. Not a single person was in sight, neither inside the house nor near it. He walked farther, and through a window noticed some men standing at a counter of packing boxes. Behind the counter were shelves, and he thought perhaps this was a store.

  Upon entering he immediately realized his mistake: on the counter stood a keg with a tap in it; a man in a white apron behind the counter was pouring a dark-brown drink from the keg. Karl Oskar recognized it as the American brännvin. The men at the counter were drinking, the shelves were filled with bottles, but there was no sign of food. He had entered a saloon.

  He did not want to buy brännvin, he wanted milk. He turned in the door, mumbling something about being in the wrong place. It vexed him that he couldn’t ask where to buy fresh food and milk for his children. It was pitiful the way he had to act—like a suckling, not yet able to speak, unable to ask for food when he was hungry.

  But the few words Karl Oskar mumbled as he left the store had an unexpected result. One of the men at the counter followed him through the door and called after him: “Hallo! Are you Swedish?”

  Karl Oskar turned quickly. At first he only stared, the Swedish words surprised him so much.

  Many Swedes had moved to North America before him, but it was the first time in this country a stranger had spoken to him in his own language.

  “You are Swedish, aren’t you?” the man repeated.

  The stranger was about his own age and size, somewhat thin, with large hands and feet. He was dressed in a red-striped woolen shirt and well-worn skin trousers, held up by a broad, richly ornamented belt. A wide-brimmed straw hat hung on the back of his head; his cheeks were puffed out as if swollen with a toothache or mumps, but his tobacco-spotted chin and lips divulged the secret of the swollen cheeks: they were filled with tobacco quids. Karl Oskar had seen many Americans dressed similarly and equally tall, gangly, and swollen cheeked; the stranger did not look like a Swede.

  “I’m a countryman of yours!” the man said.

  “Did you come from Sweden?” Karl Oskar was still dubious.

  “Yes! Can’t you hear me speaking Swedish?”

  The stranger wasn’t speaking exactly the way Karl Oskar did, but perhaps he had forgotten some of his Swedish. And Karl Oskar was well pleased to have met someone he could converse with.

  He pointed to the sign on the building near by: “Are you the Swede who owns the bank?”

  The man laughed: “No, I’m sorry. Mr. Stone owns the bank. My name is Larsson. I came from Sweden five years ago.”

  Karl Oskar listened carefully—yes, the man must be Swedish.

  The stranger smiled, he had dancing brown eyes, lying deep under his forehead, and his grin exposed a row of long, grayish-yellow, pointed teeth, spaced far apart.

  “What can I help you with, countryman?” he asked. “I guess you came with the steamboat?”

  Karl Oskar told him there was a group of Swedish immigrants on board.
He was careful not to mention the cholera, he only stated his errand on shore: “I want to buy some food for our children. They can’t stand the ship’s fare.”

  “Oh, yes, I understand. I’ll show you a store.”

  “Have they milk and bread?”

  “As much as you and your children can eat. Come along, I’ll show you. If you have no money, I’ll pay for it.”

  “I can pay for myself,” said Karl Oskar. He wanted to make it clear to the stranger that he could pay for anything he got. He was no beggar, he told Larsson; he had been a farmer at home, all his life he had been able to meet his obligations and he intended to do the same in America.

  “But it’s hard here for a new settler,” Larsson said kindly. “We immigrants must stick together, we must help each other.”

  Karl Oskar was in need of aid; he needed someone to show him the way to a store; and for once luck seemed to be with him.

  “I have a wagon over here. Come along!” said Larsson.

  They turned a corner and found Larsson’s horse, harnessed to a kind of gig, a two-wheeler with a double seat and the driver’s seat behind. The vehicle reminded Karl Oskar of similar contraptions in Småland, called “coffee roasters.” Larsson untied the horse and asked Karl Oskar to climb in while he himself mounted the driver’s seat.

  “Is it a long way?”

  “Only five minutes.”

  “I don’t want to miss the boat.”

  “The steamer loads here for several hours,” Larsson told him. “You’ll have plenty of time.”

  His new acquaintance kept addressing Karl Oskar with the intimate Swedish thou, something a stranger in Sweden never would have done, and Karl Oskar found it difficult to be equally familiar.

  The gig turned onto the rutty road. The horse was a black, powerful, ragged animal, with dried-up dung clinging to his flanks and legs and a long, uncombed tail. Karl Oskar asked if he were young, and the driver confirmed it: “He’s just been broken in; hard to handle.”

  The two-wheeler hopped about and shook on the rough road, though they drove quite slowly. They left the row of houses and, as the road turned away from the river, passed the small huts so much resembling woodsheds. Heavy logs were piled high on either side of the road, the ruts became deeper, the stumps more numerous, and as they passed the last shed, the thick forest lay only a few hundred yards ahead of them.

  “Is the store in the wood?” asked Karl Oskar, puzzled.

  “Just inside; only three minutes more.”

  Then Karl Oskar began to be suspicious. Why would they build a shop in a wild forest, far away from the other houses? How much did he know about the stranger who had offered to take him to the store? Landberg, their honest guide, had warned the immigrants particularly to beware of their own countrymen, who could cheat and rob them the more easily because they spoke the same language. “Never confide in the first stranger you meet just because he speaks your language!” Landberg had said that more than once. Yet Karl Oskar had confided in this man he had just met and had climbed into his carriage. He had been careless enough to say that he had money; in the sheepskin belt next to his body he carried all he had left in cash.

  A robber wouldn’t commit his crime near houses. He would wait until they were in the forest where no one could see them; in the forest Karl Oskar would be alone with the stranger.

  He glanced back at the unknown man sitting behind him on the driver’s seat. In America he had seen many men with guns, pistols, or knives, but Larsson had no weapon in sight. Karl Oskar would have felt more comfortable had a weapon been carried openly. As it was, he didn’t know what kind of arms the man might have hidden on him. He himself had only an old pocketknife in his hip pocket.

  He looked about—perhaps it would be best to jump off the gig while he still could see the houses back there by the river.

  The vehicle rolled along, the driver tightened the reins and squirted tobacco juice quite calmly into the wheel tracks: “Where do you intend to settle, countryman of mine?”

  “In Minnesota, we had thought.”

  “Don’t know that country. Why don’t you stay here—you can make two dollars a day in the forest.”

  Larsson went on: He had helped many Swedes find good jobs. But not all of them had been reliable, he had been cheated and robbed by Swedish crooks when he himself had first arrived in America. As a good friend he wanted to warn Karl Oskar: he must never rely on or confide in anyone; he must be careful.

  Karl Oskar felt slightly embarrassed: his new acquaintance seemed to guess his thoughts.

  But Larsson seemed as friendly as before, he laughed and talked with the same geniality that he had shown earlier. Judging by his looks and speech, he must be an honest man. And why should Karl Oskar think he was a bandit? Nothing indicated he had evil intentions. One shouldn’t think ill of a stranger only because he seemed anxious to help. He felt a little ashamed of his suspicions; he was here for his children’s sake, to get them food which might save their lives. Yet he was full of fear and suspicion when he met a helpful countryman. It wasn’t like him to be so timid. His father used to say, if you weren’t afraid within yourself there was nothing to be afraid of in the whole world. Of course he dared drive a short distance into the forest with this man!

  They had reached a stream and were about to cross it over a newly laid bridge of wooden planks, when the driver reined in his horse; on the bridge stood a man holding up one hand and saying something in English. The driver greeted him with a broad grin and a stream of English words. It seemed that the man wanted to ride along with them, and he climbed in and sat next to Karl Oskar.

  “Max is an American friend of mine; he is coming to pay me a visit. I have not seen him for a long time,” Larsson said and again showed his thin, sharp teeth in a broad grin.

  The two-wheeler drove on across the bridge, and now three men were riding in it, two in the low seat and one on the driver’s box.

  The newcomer was a thickset man with a round face and curly, black hair. He spoke English rapidly and smiled broadly at his neighbor on the seat, as though in Karl Oskar he had met a close relative after long separation.

  And the fact was that Karl Oskar did recognize the man who had just jumped up beside him. He had noticed him in the saloon, in the company of Larsson.

  Larsson had said that he had not seen Max for a long time, and the two now acted like long-lost friends. Karl Oskar did not need to know English to understand that this play was put on for his benefit. After all, it was not more than minutes since he had seen them stand side by side in the saloon.

  Apparently they considered him more simple than he was; now he knew for sure that two robbers were driving him into the forest. Larsson had followed him outside in order to get him into the gig, and meanwhile Max had sneaked away to meet them at the bridge. Now Karl Oskar had two men to handle, one beside him and one behind. The gig kept rolling closer to the edge of the forest; ahead of them the road swung in among the heavy close-standing trees; within two or three minutes he would be alone with two robbers in a thick forest.

  He carried his money next to his body when asleep or awake; without it, he and his family would be destitute in this country. No one was going to take it away from him, without first killing him.

  He had fallen into a trap. He had been led to believe there would be a store in the wilderness where he could buy milk and bread; he had ridden along like a meek beast to slaughter. But he was not going to ride another step with these robbers.

  They had left habitations behind, and not a soul was in sight. He must use cunning, he must pretend he had to get off on an urgent matter, “to call on the sheriff,” as the authority-hating farmers at home used to say, when they had to go behind a bush.

  But it wouldn’t be wise to mention the sheriff now, it might arouse suspicion. With forced calm, he turned to the man on the driver’s seat: “Would you mind stopping for a minute, Larsson? I’ve got to relieve myself.”

  “All right. Whoa!
Whoa!”

  The Swede calling himself Larsson spit on the road and reined in his horse. The gig came to a stop. On the right were some bushes, on the left a tall pile of logs. Karl Oskar had been sitting on the left side of the gig, and he jumped off in that direction.

  The driver had believed Karl Oskar’s excuse valid and had not objected when he wanted to get off; now he became suspicious. Karl Oskar had been in too much of a hurry to get off the gig, he had lost his feigned calmness; and he could see the two men exchange quick glances. They saw through his ruse.

  Larsson rose from the driver’s seat, and his genial look disappeared; his pointed yellow-gray teeth showed in a sarcastic, malicious grin: “You almost dirtied your pants, I believe. Perhaps I’d better help you unbutton them.”

  For a fraction of a second Karl Oskar stood paralyzed, his tin pitcher in his hand. Now he could not sneak away from behind the bushes as he had intended to do; now they would not let him go, and there would not be a single person to witness what they might do to him in the forest.

  He glanced at the pile of logs beside the road; one log was sticking out toward the hindquarters of the horse. This gave him an inspiration: the logs and the horse must save him. The horse was young, barely broken in; the horse must run away with the robbers, since Karl Oskar couldn’t run away from them.

  Larsson said something in English to his fellow bandit and handed him the reins. A sarcastic grin was still on his face as he said to Karl Oskar: “You can stay right there and use your pitcher! Don’t move, countryman, I’ll be right down to help you.”