The Last Letter Home Page 24

  By and by Charlie Burns got well, but his face had changed color: It was greenish, exactly like the belly of the rattler. This was not unusual in such cases, said Mr. Thorn.

  Wherever Charlie went after that, his green face caused a hell of a fright. People stared at him wherever he was, and all were sure that he was a drunkard and that his color came from drinking whiskey. One day he met a Methodist preacher who wanted to exhibit him to his congregation as a revolting example of what drinking would do. So Charlie hired himself to the Methodists and was displayed at all the meetings as a warning against drinking. Charlie had always been a sober person never touching whiskey, but now he became known far and wide as the worst drunkard in the world. He got half of the collections and earned good money for many years, working diligently in the field of religion, serving the cause of temperance, and saving many drunkards with his green face. Finally he retired and bought a big house in Chicago—he was still living there in great comfort, Mr. Thorn concluded.

  Chicago! cut in Jonas Petter. He had been to that town last winter, and some sight it was! The houses were dirty and black as if tarred. Chicago was a den of iniquity, a home of unnatural vices, filled with sinners of all kinds—murderers, thieves, swindlers, sodomites, whores, and pimps. The women he had met in that town were decked out in plumes and feathers, like peacocks. American women were of course lazy and haughty and didn’t want to do anything from morning to night except work on their faces and deck themselves out. And their wicked ideas had spread to some of the Swedish women in America; there were actually Swedish women who now refused to polish the shoes of their men.

  He had heard it was predicted that Chicago—world capital of sin—would be destroyed next year. On April 16, 1870, the lakes and rivers round the town would flood it and swallow it up, dirt and all.

  “Well, I think they would fish up Chicago again,” said Samuel Nöjd. “The Americans are so clever.”

  The whiskey and the beer had loosened the men’s tongues at Karl Oskar Nilsson’s party, and even those of few words wanted to talk. But the host himself did not participate much in the talking, he was busy attending to the guests and their needs of food and liquor. He was never very sociable—weeks would go by without callers in his house—and this wedding day was not a day of joy to him. There was now one less in the house and the child he most needed had moved away from him. She had deserted her father to be with the man she liked best, and according to life’s order it was the father who suffered the loss, and a loss was nothing to celebrate. But a party must be given by the father when his daughter was married.

  “When are you starting on your new house, Karl Oskar?” asked Jonas Petter.

  “Never. I won’t build any more in my time.”

  “Well, you’ve built enough to last. You can rest now.”

  Jonas Petter had himself raised a new house last summer and he had just sent for a photographer from St. Paul so he could send a picture of it to his relatives in Sweden. This picture was put on leather and could be sent like a postcard to any part of the world, without damage. Mr. Golding, the picture man, had made much money taking pictures of houses to send to the old country. He even had houses he lent to people who had none of their own, so they could stand in front of them to show their relatives.

  Jonas Petter regretted he hadn’t borrowed a house from Mr. Golding and stood in front of it, instead of his own. It wouldn’t have cost a cent more and he could have picked the nicest house in St. Paul and his relatives would never have known the difference.

  He was drowned out by Mr. Thorn and Samuel Nöjd, who had gotten into a dispute about the Sioux war. They both seemed to agree the war had been hopeless from the beginning and had only led the Indians to even greater misery than before. But their medicine men had promised easy victory because the whites were fighting the Civil War. Now the savages would have to starve forever while waiting for the money the government owed them. What could the hunter-folk live on with no more hunting grounds, no farms, no animals except dogs, fleas, and lice? When the starved Indians had come to the government supply house in Red Wood and asked for food, the agent had said they could go out and eat grass. The first one they killed on August 18, 1862, was that very agent, Mr. Andrew Myrick, and when his body was found in the debris his mouth was filled with grass.

  In this the Sioux showed their understanding of justice; their uprising in 1862, was to get justice, said Samuel Nöjd.

  But when he called Governor Ramsey and Colonel Sibley mass murderers Mr. Thorn rose to his feet and grabbed him by the collar. The party was near turning into a brawl; the Scot wanted the trapper to come outside with him so they could shoot at each other like gentlemen.

  Karl Oskar told the Scot not to pay any attention to the nonsense Nöjd spewed out, and Jonas Petter stepped between the two quarreling men to calm them: He had a story to tell, well suited for a wedding feast. It was about a farmer and a soldier; he had started to tell this story on many occasions but had always been interrupted. However, he had made up his mind to tell it once before he died, for he was by now the only living person who knew it, and it would be a great loss to science and the culture of the world if it weren’t told. He was always glad to tell it, if only someone wanted to listen. He was getting so old now, even he must die, therefore . . .

  And the sheriff and the trapper heeded him and sat down again and listened in silence.

  —5—

  Jonas Petter tells his forbidden story:

  Edvard in Hogahult and his wife Brita had been married ten years without having produced an heir. Hogahult was a fine farm, they were well-to-do. If they remained childless, their property would go to Edvard’s two younger brothers, who lived dissolute lives and already had thrown away their paternal inheritance in drinking. Neither Edvard nor Brita wanted to leave their fine farm to them and have it ruined. The couple would give anything in the world for a child and heir.

  The wife was nearing forty and must hurry if she wanted to bear a child. So the couple at last went to town to see a doctor. They asked him: Why wasn’t their marriage blessed with offspring?

  The doctor looked over and examined and inspected both Edvard and Brita. Then he gave his verdict: He found no fault with the wife. If it depended on her only they would have had a child each year of the ten they had been married. But the fault lay with her husband: His seed was useless. The seed the farmer sowed in his wife did not sprout.

  The farmer of Hogahult was greatly perturbed that he couldn’t beget children. He must then die without an heir of his flesh and blood. The brothers would inherit the farm and throw it away on drinking. And it irked him that they already felt sure of the inheritance and were waiting for it. They had for long considered him unable and knew he would not have any offspring.

  And Edvard said to his wife Brita: No one ought to let a field lay in fallow because he himself couldn’t use it. If one farmer can’t sow sprouting seed, the neighbor must do it. If she could have children she must have them. He would hire a man for the work he himself couldn’t perform, if she was willing. Personal pride must not stand in the way with him. He himself wanted an heir so badly he had decided to get a man and pay him well; he would in advance make the understanding that he himself would be considered the father. All depended on her, if she was willing.

  At first the wife was unwilling. It was against her nature to give herself in that way to a strange man. Instead, she had thought they might adopt a child, some orphan perhaps.

  But when Brita of Hogahult had thought over her husband’s suggestion for some time, she changed her mind: Rather than raise an unknown child she would prefer to bring up a child she herself had given life to. She asked only one condition: that she herself choose the man who was to make her with child.

  To this Edvard agreed.

  Some little time passed again and both husband and wife kept their eyes open for young men or fathers who might be able and willing. But they didn’t find a one.

  Just about tha
t time a new soldier came to the village, and he often came to work in Hogahult. His name was Ferm, he was thirty years of age, well built, and strong as a bull. He had a wife and six children and he had a hard time feeding his large family. They were often without bread in the soldier’s cottage. Often the children had to go out and beg for bread before they went to school.

  And Brita said to her husband that the soldier was a strong and healthy man, free of all defects—royal soldiers must be first class in all ways. He had so many children already he must surely be able to make one more. And his family was so poor the father would need a little extra. If they were to hire a man for her she would accept Ferm.

  When the soldier had worked on their farm Edvard had valued him greatly. He thought him a fine man. He agreed with his wife.

  He went to see him and gave him the offer: They needed an heir in Hogahult, they would prefer a male child, but they would be satisfied with only a girl, in which case they might eventually get a son-in-law to take over the farm. The soldier would be well rewarded: If a son were born he would receive forty bushels of rye, if a daughter, twenty, heaped measure. But their agreement must be kept secret, not a word must leak out.

  It was a generous offer, at once tempting to soldier Ferm. On his little plot he harvested barely ten bushels a year, which was far too little to keep his family in bread, and he had to work for others many days of the year. Now he would get many times his yearly yield without work! If the wife in Hogahult was shaped the way a woman should be it would be easy work for him to make her with child. And he had never thought that a man would be paid for so pleasant a labor. He himself had had to pay—in more drudgery and labor and worry for each new child he fathered with his wife. Indeed, he was afraid that his ability to beget children would make him a real pauper in the end. This gift would now help him and his family.

  The farmer and the soldier were agreed and sealed their agreement with a handshake.

  Edvard said to his wife that he would drive to Karlshamn with some logs and stay away as long as she thought would be needed. Exactly how long they couldn’t be sure, at first they thought a week, but finally they settled for three days. If this wasn’t enough he would have to make another trip to town.

  During Edvard’s absence the soldier would come to the farm and do day labor.

  The farmer drove away, the soldier came. It was shortly before Christmas and the days were short. Nor did Ferm perform any heavy labor these days. But instead of returning home in the evenings, as he used to, he now remained at the farm overnight. His night work was now his real duty. And the soldier did his duty at the farm during the part of the year when the nights are the longest.

  For three long nights the farmer remained away from the house.

  When Edvard returned from town he was met by his wife, who was satisfied and full of confidence. She said she felt sure the three days he had been away were not lost days. She did not think he would have to drive any more logs to town.

  After a few months the Hogahult mistress began to broaden around the waist. She was satisfied, her husband was satisfied.

  But in the soldier’s cottage Ferm was very worried. He was worrying about his reward, the bushels of rye: Suppose he was so unlucky that it was a girl. Then he would get only twenty bushels. And if he were real unlucky she might have a miscarriage and he wouldn’t get a single grain. That would be hell. And all his life he had only had bad luck—couldn’t it change for once for a poor village soldier?

  And change it did for the soldier in the end: When her days were accomplished the wife in Hogahult bore triplets, three sons.

  A triple birth had not taken place in the parish as far back as anyone could remember. But all three boys were well shaped and full of life. The mother was a little weak in her body after her delivery, but she was happy and satisfied in her soul. Her husband was pleased and more than that. He was overwhelmed. One day he had no heir, and the next day three were crying lustily. He was pleased, but he would have been better pleased if the number had been smaller. And as he looked at the three boys in the three cradles he thought what luck he hadn’t stayed away a week as they first had figured on; three nights was quite sufficient.

  The farmhouse was filled with happiness, and in the soldier’s cottage the children’s father jumped to the ceiling: forty bushels for each male child! One hundred twenty bushels of rye for bread!

  When the farmer of Hogahult paid off his agreement he had to scrape his bins and borrow forty bushels from a neighbor. His wife said Ferm was well worth his pay. Edvard said, as he measured the rye for the soldier, that he had only been talking about one heir, but he had enough rye for three. And no one could accuse Ferm of poor work; he should have his pay. Best of all—Edvard’s brothers had taken to their beds at the news of the triplets in Hogahult and they were quite sick.

  However much they ate in the soldier’s cottage they couldn’t consume more than a couple of bushels a month. With three nights’ work on the farm the soldier had supplied his family with food for five years.

  Ferm did not work any more on his plot. He put it in fallow and lay all day in the cottage and did nothing. He felt well off. Why should he work when he already had bread for wife and children? His bins were so full of rye they spilled over. Why get more grain when he already wallowed in it? Why worry about the future when it was already taken care of?

  The soldier’s place grew neglected, weeds overran the fields, and the farmers were bitterly jealous of the soldier who pretended and acted like a lord while they had to labor from early to late in the sweat of their brows. And it began to be whispered about in the village: Where had the triplets in Hogahult come from? The couple had been childless for so many years. Where had all the rye in the soldier’s cottage come from? They had always been without bread. People added one and two together and the sum they arrived at was very near the truth. And when Ferm was drunk he liked to brag and couldn’t prevent words of wisdom, like these, from escaping: It didn’t pay to work at day labor if he could find night work, and could sow sprouting seed.

  Others completed the half-sung song, and that was how the story about the farmer and the soldier got to be known.

  But it didn’t hurt anyone. Edvard in Hogahult had got three sons who thrived and grew up to be helpers to him when he was getting old. The triplets were fine youngsters and much joy to their parents, who were greatly honored by them in their old age. Both sides of the partnership had received what they needed and wished, both the farmer family and the soldier family were as happy as people can be in this world. Providence had arranged everything to the best for the people in the two places.

  No seed that had been sowed in the fields of Hogahult for a thousand years was so satisfying and sprouted so well as the rye the farmer measured up to the soldier.

  So Jonas Petter ended his story at Karl Oskar Nilsson’s first wedding party.

  XXI

  THE BRIDAL CROWN WITH PRECIOUS STONES

  —1—

  Within the span of a few years the Swedish population at Lake Chisago had doubled. Every spring new immigrants arrived, driven from Sweden by pure hunger, victims of the great famine. They came by the thousands from Starvation-Småland, where they had chewed on bread of lichen, chaff, and acorn. Their intestines were ruined, their throats sore and sensitive from famine bread. The new arrivals in the St. Croix Valley were pale as potato sprouts in a cellar in spring, they were gaunt, their flesh gone to the bone. They said themselves they ought to have traveled across the ocean for half fare.

  To this peaceful and lush valley there immigrated during these years people who had known intense hunger in their homeland. The Smålanders said they could still hear the echo of tolling funeral bells. They came to a country where good times prevailed and everything was prosperous. There was building and planning, clearing and farming going on. More and more railroads stretched through Minnesota’s forests. Pastor Stenius preached against the line being staked out from St. Paul to Taylors Fa
lls, for machines and steam engines turned thoughts to worldly matters and inflicted damage on the settlers’ souls. Yet the road was built in its entire length. More and bigger sawmills were built, steam-driven, and machines appeared that could cut the crops twenty times as fast as any scythe, threshing machines were invented that winnowed a bushel a minute. And people were needed to build and transport and work; the immigrants were received with open arms. Here there was still plenty of room.

  For ten years now the Homestead Act had been in force, Abraham Lincoln’s great gift to the country’s farmers, the work of a farmer’s son, blessed by all immigrants who came to farm. Anyone who wanted land received 160 acres without paying a cent, the only requirement being that he clear and build on it. Through that law Old Abe had given homesteads to millions of the homeless. Nothing more important had ever happened to immigrants. The year before Lincoln was murdered he had proclaimed the last Thursday in November as a day of Thanksgiving on which to show the Lord God gratitude for the year’s crop. But innumerable immigrants, from all the old countries, turned on this day to Old Abe himself in his grave and thanked him for their fields and their crops. It was, after all, he who had given them the land.

  Thus the Starvation-Småland people arrived in the St. Croix Valley at a happy time. Here they immediately found the living they sought. And to their countrymen who had arrived earlier they brought news of the famine and the starvation in the old villages, telling how even the crows had fallen dead from their perches since there was nothing to sustain life in them, how people had died by the hundreds, unable to exist on the chaff porridge spooned out at the church twice a week. But the lords and masters had their usual generous fare during the famine years. The so-called four estates, through constitutional amendment, had been abolished just before the famine—now, so the saying went, there remained only two estates: the well fed and the starving.