The Emigrants (37 page)

The boss himself chose his brides from among the youngest sisters. Tender, helpless women were, of course, most in need of a skilled helper who could guide them to the Lord, who could lead them with experienced hands. It was the assistant’s duty to marry older, riper women, many of whom had never before known a man. But the more advanced in years the bride, the more shy she appeared—sometimes dressed in innumerable undergarments for the marriage consummation. Then the bridegroom’s first occupation might be likened to the patient, reverent turning of the leaves in the old family Bible—one of those really old ones, with big pages. So there was, after all, an air of religion in the wedding night.

But this job had lasted only half a year. The boss had had a most unpleasant accident one dark evening in the fall. The two of them had come traveling on the steam wagon to an out-of-the-way little town far in the West, in which place little was known about God and His Ten Commandments. The people in the town were heathenish and wild, sometimes attacking strangers—before they had said a single evil word, or even had time to fire a shot at the inhabitants. And as the fake priest and his assistant stepped off the railroad car in this town they were attacked without warning by a group of godforsaken hoodlums. They were infuriated by the very idea of Mormons, it seemed, because in the past so many of the town’s women had become daughters of Zion. There were scarcely any women left for wives and cooks among the settlers of the district. Now of course he, as a hired assistant, had little to do with this, he had only done what he was told to do. And luck was with him, too: he was able to get away from his boss as the mob surrounded him. As it happened, he had just that day received his weekly pay, so there was no reason to speak further to the priest. He had left the town as fast as his legs could carry him, and reached another village where people were more humane and refined.

Meanwhile the infuriated mob took charge of his boss, and the following day the assistant read in a paper, with great sorrow, that the poor man had been found dead, dangling from a tree. He had really had bad luck, encountering such uncivil people. He had been a just employer, too, and deserved more friends—or someone, at least, to help him in his hour of need.

It had also said in the paper that many were anxious to locate the supposed priest’s assistant. This he couldn’t understand, as he himself had nothing to do with the Mormon religion, real or pretended: he was a Lutheran engaged merely as servant to the priest—simply employed to help him with various things. And if the priest was not a priest anyway, and not a Mormon—well, it was not in any sense reasonable.

The passenger in the loud-checked suit finished his tale. He spat once more over the rail, pulled out the large handkerchief from his hip pocket, and dried his eyes. Robert and Arvid silently stared at him, thinking he was shedding tears over the fate of his employer. But it appeared he was only drying spray from his face. Then he nodded to the boys, left them, and resumed his leisurely walk, his big handkerchief dangling behind like the tail of a skulking dog.

Arvid was unable to solve the stranger’s mystifying occupation in North America.

“Was he an assistant pastor, do you think?”

“Something of the sort, I suppose,” said Robert.

“Are they allowed to hang ministers from trees in America?”

“Perhaps—if it is absolutely necessary. Otherwise I don’t think it’s permitted.”

The two America-bound farmhands continued inspecting the ship from stem to stern—forty paces long and eight paces wide. They would prefer to stay on deck both night and day. They did not look forward to going back into the huddle below, to the dark space under the deck, the moist, smelly hold filled with dust from mattresses and straw, stinking of urine and vomit.

When on land Robert had always imagined a sailing ship as something immaculate and shining. He had thought of sails as being like white angels’ wings. But the
Charlotta
of Karlshamn had dark gray sails, dirty from wind and weather, gray as potato sacks in a muddy field in autumn. The brig
Charlotta
had no angels’ wings. She was no yacht with white sails, flying lightly over the sea. She was a lumbering cargo ship, deep in the water, her lower holds loaded with pig iron, plowing her way heavily along. She wasn’t Robert’s dream ship, she wasn’t the ship he had seen for days and nights in his expectant longing. Yet he felt pleased, nevertheless, as he walked about on deck, looking up at the rigging where seagulls swarmed with their wings white and clean against the gray sails.

He was participating in a great adventure. If only he didn’t have to go below. . . .

—2—

The passengers had been called on deck and gathered around the un-battened main hatch, where the second mate announced in his singsong Finnish-Swedish: “The first week’s provisions!”

Two of the seamen were busy rolling barrels and tubs from the storage hold. Lids were removed from the provision vessels, and the smell of food, combined with the sea air, made the emigrants hungry.

During the passage they were to receive their food and water at the ship’s expense. Curiosity about the fare was great, and all passengers—men and women, children and adults—assembled to watch as the provisions were handed out. But the mate told them it would not be necessary for every passenger to come up and crowd around him; one person from each family should fetch the food, the head of each family only.

He further said that definite portions of unprepared provisions would be allotted to each and every one weekly. They must manage so that their provisions lasted the intended time. They could not return after a few days, said the mate, to tell him they were hungry, and demand larger allotments. He wanted them to understand, once and for all, that this was a whole week’s supply. Each in turn could prepare his food in the galley on deck, and use the ship’s utensils if he didn’t have his own. The passengers must agree among themselves on time, and take turns at the galley so that everyone’s right was respected. Refuse, bones, dishwater, and sweepings must be thrown overboard—leeward, not windward. It was strictly forbidden to throw anything windward.

They could obtain fresh water from the ship’s supply once a day, half a gallon each for drinking and washing; they must economize on water. They themselves must keep the hold clean, and every morning remove vomit and other dirt. Water would not be issued before the hold was cleaned; that would help them to remember this chore. Sick people could obtain medicine: drops, pills, balsam, and such from the ship’s medicine chest. And if they needed to buy something during the voyage, goods were sold from the slop chest which the captain had charge of. Among supplies available at a fair price were soft soap, combs, brushes, Bibles, hymnbooks, snuff, chewing tobacco, knives, games, playing cards.

The passengers were admonished to handle fire with the strictest care. Below deck it was forbidden to smoke, or to carry or use unprotected lights. In general, it was the duty of everyone to obey the rules and orders of the ship’s command. All must realize the necessity for order on shipboard during a long voyage, for their own protection and safety. The law of the sea was in effect, and the captain would punish those who did not obey instructions.

The emigrants listened in silence and awe to the second mate. Some wondered what sort of punishment was to be meted out according to the sea law—was there an altogether different law at sea?

Near the foremast stood Inga-Lena and Danjel Andreasson. The wife held her husband’s hand and looked inquiringly around the deck. “Danjel—where might it be, that which he spoke of—windward?”

“I don’t know, beloved wife.”

“The place—where one is not allowed to throw anything? One must know where it is. I don’t wish to do anything that is forbidden.”

The old sailmaker standing near by explained to the peasants: “The mate meant that nothing must be thrown into the sea against the wind. Then it would blow right back onto the deck again.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Inga-Lena. “That much sense anyone must have, without orders. I thought windward was a special place on the ship.”

The second mate took out his wooden
betsman
and weighed the provisions, dividing them among the emigrants waiting around him.

Danjel Andreasson folded his hands. “God is feeding us for the first time on board ship.”

There were many kinds of provisions which the Lord God now offered through the mate: ship’s bread and ship’s biscuits, salt pork, salt beef, butter, rice, barley grains, peas, salt herring, flour, sugar, syrup, mustard, salt and pepper. The emigrants crowded around the mate, they brought crocks and pans and vessels of all kinds in which to store their portions. Some couldn’t find containers, and tied their herrings, or peas, or salt pork, in towels or aprons. Others received their allotment with their bare hands.

The mate repeated: “Remember, now—economize, good people!”

His was a chore which required patience and skill. The smaller portions caused him endless figuring. Only pork and bread were allotted in sufficient quantity to enable him to figure in whole pounds; for the rest he had to count in ounces on his
betsman
: six ounces of butter, six ounces of sugar, thirteen of flour, four of salt, four of coffee, half an ounce of mustard, and a tenth of an ounce of pepper. And the vinegar too was measured, two ounces for each passenger. It was degrading work for a mate, to stand here and weigh and count and divide; and the second mate on the ocean-sailer
Charlotta
thought, as he stood arguing and weighing and measuring and counting ounces: This is a job for a shop clerk, not for a deep-sea sailor.

It took several hours before the provisions were distributed and the second mate could throw aside his
betsman
and measuring vessels. He sighed in relief: now it was done for a week. All had received their week’s rations; but of course, as always with these peasants, they didn’t have enough containers. A couple of women had received their flour in shawls, and the barley grains and peas in turned-up petticoats. However, they were never finicky, these passengers to North America.

Soon the smell of frying pork and boiling peas in the galley permeated the whole ship, but it would be long before each had his turn at the galley stove, and while waiting for the prepared meal the herrings and bread and such were taken out and eaten.

Arvid and Robert stood in the stern, each chewing on a ship’s biscuit, hard as a stone chip. Arvid broke one of his front teeth on the very first bite; after that he was more careful, crushing the biscuit with his hands and eating the small pieces. He had often eaten month-old bread in Nybacken, but never had he broken a tooth on it. He thought if it was to continue this way, he would be toothless before reaching America.

It was growing dusk. The water around them darkened, rigging and sails were shrouded in mist as if the clouds had descended upon the ship. Their world seemed to shrink, no other ships were in sight, and their little sailing vessel seemed alone and lost on the darkening sea, with land no longer visible.

Robert shivered. It was a horrible depth there under the ship’s bottom—and here he stood on a pile of old, half-rotten planks. He was inside a sour old wooden bucket which was intended to carry him across these depths; he felt infinitely helpless. Into the youth from firm land crept fear that bit and tortured him like a multitude of ants: the seafarers’ life was precarious, it was not like life on land.

Perhaps it would be best after all to crawl down below and hide himself tonight in the dark bowels of the ship.

—3—

Kristina stood by the place where she and the children were to sleep, this bunk or bed-pen nailed together of roughly hewn odds and ends of boards. She had placed her mattress on the floor of the hold and spread her quilt, her bridal cover, over it. On top of the bunk stood the big willow basket, their food box—they had found no other place for it. And in this bunk tumbled and tussled the children; there was no other place for them, either. The bunk was their only room, and in it was gathered everything.

Kristina had slept the first night in the family bunk. The compartment was too small for her and the children—even without Karl Oskar. Almost every time she had been about to go to sleep, a child’s knee or foot had poked her in the stomach or face and awakened her anew. She had lain there like a setting hen, unable to find space under her wings for her brood. In between she was kept awake by noise from the other passengers, and by the many sounds of the ship. So she had dozed uneasily and started awake through the whole night, and when she arose in the morning she was more tired than she had been the night before.

In the family compartment more than thirty people lived, men, women, and children, jammed together in one room that was no larger than Kristina’s own room in Korpamoen. As soon as she stepped out of her bed she bumped into someone. And Kristina was shy in the presence of all these strangers crowding around her. All she did must be done in full view of these people. How was she to suckle little Harald? She felt uncomfortable opening her blouse to expose her breasts in the presence of strangers; she did not like to suckle her baby while other wives’ husbands looked on. She was shy even in the presence of Karl Oskar, her own husband. It was dreadful that she had to dress and undress among all these unknown folk.

Lill-Märta had caught a cold in the windy harbor town, and was now in bed with a fever, perspiring, an alarming flush in her cheeks. Kristina wished she could obtain a mug of hot milk for her. But there was no milk on the ship. She must now mix honey in water and warm it for the child. And what was she to do with Johan? He was well enough, but he wet his bed nearly every night; that dripper ought to have had his own mattress. And the amount of clothing which the children already had dirtied—how was she ever to wash and dry it here on the ship?

She was now enclosed in a small pen, among all these strangers, with three children, one of them sick—never in her life had she felt so lost and helpless.