The Emigrants (46 page)

Horror seized her, her hands grabbed hold of the rough boards of the bunk-pen, desperately—while the ship rolled and she sank, sank. There was no longer any floor to receive her feet—she fell, and nothing stopped her.

For there was no bottom.

Oh—she must get down, she must rest, she must lie down and rest against something, something onto which she could jump, something soft and warm—arms that would embrace her. She must get to the floor.

How thirsty she was! Her throat burned, in her mouth she chewed embers and ashes. But she was unable to reach out her hand for the water jar which stood near the bunk. She had no power to move her hands, to move her feet or her head. She would never be able to move again.

“Seasickness is harder on married women . . . and when a pregnant woman goes to sea, inexperienced with sea and sailing . . .”

But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered any more, nothing could happen to her any more. And whatever happened, she would never attempt to raise her head, or her hand even. She had only one wish: to lie here, still, still, still. Never to move any more, never move in all her life, just lie here, until it was all over at last.

Wives who were with child suffered doubly because they were with child. He shall travel free of charge, the little tyke, Karl Oskar had said; he will cheat the skipper. But she paid the fare in her suffering. Three children around her, one inside her—that unborn one—what sort might he be?

But it didn’t matter. Now she only wanted to reach the bottom. She must stop the swing, she wanted to sit on solid ground, she wanted to rest on something soft. But there was no bottom.

Except the bottom of the sea.

The sea was deep, the water was soft, the bottom of the sea was soft. Oh, how she would rest there!

The one who was afraid when the swing went too high could jump off. Other girls jumped off. But she had always liked to ride high. She never used to be afraid.

Kristina of Korpamoen rode on a swing. She was thrown into the clouds, she traveled through space without end or beginning, she sank into depths without bottom.

And from this swing she could not jump off.

Inga-Lena:

It had happened when she stood in the galley and fried pork. She had cut up a side piece, and laid the slices in the frying pan. Then the devil came to her and whispered: You mustn’t rely on that, don’t think for a moment it is true. You mustn’t think that you more than anyone else . . . And suddenly she had become dizzy and exhausted and weak. She had rushed to the corner where the buckets were, and thrown up.

Perhaps it was the smell of the pork, sizzling there in the pan. The fat was yellow and had a rancid odor when it was placed over the fire.

She had been forced to go below and rest her head for a moment. All around her people were sick. Men and women vomited like cats. But they were children of the world—the believers were saved from seasickness. Yet now she had been seized by the same illness as the unbelievers. She prayed God for help in her bodily weakness, then she put some more camphor in the pouch she carried against her stomach—a remedy for seasickness—and took a spoonful of medicine—The Four Kinds of Drops.

At supper she was unable to eat a single bite. The rancid fried pork grew and became larger in her mouth. The ship’s pork had never tasted good, today it was inedible. But she dared not tell her husband how things stood with her, he must not notice her bodily ailments, she must keep her seasickness a secret.

Danjel asked why she put her food aside. She answered that she had eaten some in the afternoon when she prepared a bite for the children.

She thought that it must soon pass. She must be well for the sake of her husband and children. And her littlest one so ill—no one knew how it might go with her.

But when she wanted to rise from her bunk, to take the utensils back to the galley, her legs refused to carry her. She lay down on her bunk again.

Ulrika of Västergöhl came up to her and looked at her questioningly.

“You are green in the face! Are you ailing, Inga-Lena?”

The wife from Kärragärde kept her silence. How could she tell the truth?

Ulrika felt perfectly well; she enjoyed the sea as much as solid land. Now she was practically the only woman in the hold feeling completely well. There lay Kristina of Korpamoen and suffered sorely, there she lay and grunted in her bunk like a farrowing sow. All who lived in the flesh became sick, the Lord had no mercy on sinners. But she, Ulrika, went free. One who lived in the true faith could stand the sea in any weather. One with Christ’s body in him could never feel sick.

Only how was it with Inga-Lena? Was not she one of the Lord’s chosen?

“Have you fallen seasick?”

“I’m afraid so,” whispered Inga-Lena.

“Can this be true?”

“Yes—and what will Danjel say if I cannot get up? What shall I do?”

Ulrika was well and full of health and happiness. She could comfort an unhappy one, and now she told Inga-Lena to keep up her spirits. Perhaps there were some remnants of the old body left within her, and these she must give up. They were sinful parts anyway, good to get rid of; it would be well for her to vomit a little. She would feel cleaner and lighter and happier afterwards. When not the slightest piece of the old body was left in her, then Christ would feel much more at home inside her.

Ulrika left Inga-Lena to view the devastation of the seasickness among the children of the world. Inga-Lena remained in her bunk and cried—cried from sorrow that she had been unable to withstand the seasickness and thereby please her husband.

Soon Danjel could see with his own eyes what had happened to her. As he approached their bunk a few moments later, the illness overpowered her and she had to make quick use of the bucket.

“My dear wife!” he exclaimed in consternation.

“Yes, dear Danjel—”

“Was that why you put your food aside?”

“Yes, that’s why, dear Danjel.”

“You have gone to bed? Is your faith weak?”

“Dear, sweet husband, forgive me.”

“Have you listened to the Enemy? Have you doubted . . . ?”

But the reproach in Danjel Andreasson’s voice was only a mild, kind reproach.

Inga-Lena lay on her bunk and groped for her husband’s hand, crying in despair. She sobbed out: yes, it was true, she had doubted.

Danjel bent his head as after a hard blow: in every unguarded moment the devil was near, trying to entice and tempt and cheat a poor sinner, making him doubt that God could help in trouble and tribulation.

His wife now admitted the whole truth: in her simple mind she had sometimes wondered if it were really true that those who adhered to Åke Svensson’s teachings would escape seasickness on the America voyage. She had thought it sounded a little strange, and she had not believed it a sin to wonder. And today when she stood in the ship’s cookhouse, and saw the tremendous waves, and heard the storm carry on so that their vessel jumped like a cork on the water, then she had become afraid. She had felt sick at her stomach. She was standing at the stove, turning the slices of pork, when doubt at its worst assailed her. Again she had wondered if it could be true—that about the seasickness. She didn’t know what to believe any longer, she couldn’t rely on not getting sick, for she felt in her body that she was about to vomit. That was why she had started to doubt.

Now Danjel understood that it was the devil who had come to her when she was frying pork. But she had not at first recognized him.

“He is always difficult to recognize,” said Danjel. “But don’t you rely on our God, Inga-Lena? Don’t you think He has power to save you from the seasickness, if He wishes?”

Yes, that she believed fully. She had only wondered a little, in her simple mind, only a very little. She had not thought that this could make any difference—if she wondered and questioned, just a little. . . .

“But you must know that man should not wonder and question! Why didn’t you close your ears to the soul-fiend?”

Danjel’s voice grew more severe; but his sorrow was still deeper, and he gave his wife devout admonitions: she must never never let go of her hold to faith, she must always cling to it. A little carelessness, and she might fall and be lost; and she had been careless while she prepared the meal in the storm. But he could understand this.

Inga-Lena needed to vomit again, and her husband held the bucket for her.

When she was through she said, as if to excuse herself: “The sickness may have started because my bowels are so hard. I have not had an opening for several days.”

“Isn’t that a sinner’s defense, Inga-Lena?”

“No, dear Danjel, I know I would feel better if I could cleanse my bowels.”

“If it were God’s will, you would have openings,” answered her husband.

“Yes, that I believe, of course.”

“But you do not rely on the Lord your God!”

She wanted to. But she wished, so much, that she had a quart of buttermilk to drink here on the ship. Buttermilk had always helped her when she had hard bowels on land. By drinking half a quart a day she could always keep her bowels in good order.

“Do not worry and think of worldly things now, my dear wife,” admonished Danjel, and softly patted the hand of his seasick wife. “Now you must reconcile yourself with Jesus. Do as Ulrika does. She feels hale and well. She believes that the Lord helps His devoted ones on the sea. She holds on to her faith.”

And Inga-Lena felt a deep repentance, and prayed her husband to forgive her for having wondered and questioned and doubted: she hadn’t known any better. But when she got well again, and free of the seasickness, then she would never doubt again. She knew very well that Christ had calmed the storm and walked on the sea and turned water to wine when He lived here on earth. She knew He could save her from any ailment He chose.

Danjel Andreasson kneeled at his seasick wife’s bunk and prayed to God that He might give her more strength to adhere to faith in her Saviour.

Meanwhile Inga-Lena’s head was filled with anxiety: she must improve, she must be able to get up on her feet again. Who, otherwise, would prepare the food for her husband, who could neither boil nor fry? Who would look after his clothes, and keep them clean? He was so sloppy, and dirtied himself so, he wouldn’t care if he finally went about in rags. If she were to lie here—who would feed her children? And the baby who was ill, with something in her chest: who would take care of her? The milk in Inga-Lena’s breasts had gone dry here at sea and she had been forced to stop suckling little Eva; someone had to feed her now by chewing her food. Who would chew for the toothless child, if her mother lay here abed? And who would see to it that the other children were washed and combed and dressed in the mornings? Her husband couldn’t handle children, he was too clumsy with them. And who would watch the children when they played on deck? They might run too close to the rail and fall into the depths of the sea. There was no one to look after the poor little ones. Her dear family required her health and strength; if she were sick day after day, her poor husband and their poor children would be helpless and lost.

And while Danjel prayed for stronger faith for his wife, she herself prayed for strength so that she could do her daily chores and help her loved ones—she prayed for strength to get up the following morning.

Danjel Andreasson:

His feet sought a hold on a fragile little ship—a few brittle planks tossed about like shavings by the storm on these terrifyingly high waves. But each plank he stepped toward seemed to escape his foot and sink away. Darkness reigned over the great water, and darkness ruled the depths. And he could hear the cries and complaints of his fellow men, when the claws of pain tore their stomachs and bowels and emptied from their insides all they had consumed for their bodily sustenance. And they were all afraid they might drown on this ship, in this storm at sea. The sinner’s fear of death penetrated to his ears, the unconverted’s anguish at the thought of the resurrection and the Day of Judgment, when the King should sit on His throne of glory and separate them, one from the other, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, saying unto those He did not recognize: Depart from me, ye cursed, into the everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his wicked angels! Danjel looked for the Lord’s angels, but saw no sign of them. No white wingfeather gleamed through the darkness; and he feared there was no angel at the rudder guiding the hand of the helmsman.

Fright was about to overtake him, the weakness which shortly before had seized his wife. He knew the danger of doubt was lurking for him too. Where are you, my God? Are you near by? But the fright came closer. Why need he ask? Why must he question? There was no need for him to ask; he must know, he, who believed. It was not allowed for man to question and doubt. He must not let himself be overtaken by questions and doubts; they must be suppressed. God was surely here on the ship. Danjel could seek Him out, he could go to Him and throw himself on His bosom.

And Danjel now fled in this late moment to his God—he opened his Bible, the Almighty led his hand to the ninety-third Psalm: “The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voice; the floods lift up their waves. The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.”

From the words of the Bible, confidence was restored to his heart: “. . .
the Lord on high is mightier
. . .”

What harm will you do to me, you high, horrible billows out there? The Lord is greater than you. And you noisy, roaring wind, blowing at us tonight—I fear you not! The Lord is stronger than you! And what evil can you bring, you great, wide, dark sea, embracing our ship? The Lord is mightier than you!

God had shown His presence to Danjel Andreasson in the words of the Psalmist: they were not alone on the brig
Charlotta
in this terrible storm. God sailed with them. God was as close to Danjel here on the ocean as He was on dry land at home in Kärragärde. They could walk as safely on this little rocking ship as they did in solid, timbered houses set on rock and earth-fast stones.