The Emigrants (47 page)

And while this knowledge filled his breast he hurried to tell suffering, frightened people in the bunks around him that God was here among them on the ship—they had brought God with them, He was sailing with them to North America. And the storm He had let loose was a storm of trial—He wanted to try their faith and their belief in Him.

As a comfort and help for his fellow passengers he read for them from the Gospel of St. Matthew: “And when He was entered into a ship, His disciples followed Him. And, behold, there arose a great tempest in the sea, insomuch that
the ship was covered with the waves:
but He was asleep. And His disciples came to Him, and awoke Him, saying, Lord, save us: we perish. And He saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then He arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm. But the men marveled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey Him!”

The Bible reader’s voice rose so as to be heard above the roar of the waves that broke against the ship. But the Gospel word could not penetrate the indifference of the seasick ones: they were too deeply involved in their own pain and discomfort. They heard the story of a tempest at sea once upon a time, a storm in the time of Christ, blown out and dead many hundreds of years ago. What had that storm to do with them? They were seafarers on another sea, in another time, on another ship. Another storm had arisen, but Christ had not boarded their ship to still this storm. He let them lie there in their suffering. Ye of little faith, He reproached them. But He lived no longer on earth, He did not now come to help them—how could He accuse them of little faith? And their sickness in itself protected them against fear: those very sick had neither great nor little faith, they were neither afraid nor brave: they lay there in their vomit, unable to believe or to doubt. They were in a sort of beyond—coiled up in their indifference, completely insensible.

Danjel Andreasson, who, for the sake of his belief, had been exiled from his home, could now hold his Bible explanations wherever he wanted—in houses or in the open, on land or at sea. No sheriff would close his mouth, no minister would accuse him of being possessed by the devil. So he explained the Bible story to his fellow passengers: Keep quiet and be calm, Christ had said to the sea. And the waves subsided and the sea became calm, as an obedient dog crouches on the floor at his master’s command. All these horrible waves on the sea, all roaring waters and noisy winds, all could be compared to God’s creatures, who were allowed to bark and low and roar and bellow, but would instantly keep silence at their Master’s command. How then could a person who believed in the Saviour be frightened by a storm? Even in this little fragile, rocking ship, he could rest safely and sweetly in his Creator’s hand. The whole world rested in that hand, like a bird in its nest.

In a bunk near Danjel lay Måns Jakob and his wife Fina-Kajsa, the old peasant couple from Öland, and they were suffering much from seasickness. They lay on a worn old mattress with the straws pricking them like spears. The husband was the sicker, he shook as in fever and did not answer when spoken to, but only moaned. In his delirium he talked of the grindstone he was taking to his son in America. He thought it had been broken and was now useless. The grindstone worried him even now, in his delirious seasick dreams. The old man’s face was drenched with perspiration and lined with black runnels from the escaping snuff in his mouth, which Fina-Kajsa tried to dry off now and again with a piece of cloth. She was still clear in her mind, and waited on her husband, although she was weak and suffered much from seasickness.

Fina-Kajsa listened to Danjel’s explanations about Jesus on the ship in the tempest, and now she wished to talk to him. They should never have attempted the voyage, she and her husband, old and ailing as they were. When people had walked safely on land for more than sixty years, they ought to remain there for the rest of their days. She herself had wanted to remain on their farm, but something had got into the old man—he wanted to go; and their son in North America had written them persuasively. Now no one could tell if there would be enough left of their lives to last them to America. Måns Jakob’s condition was bad, hers was not much better. Hers was a worn-out rickety old body, she could feel she would soon lie there dead with her nose in the air and smell cadaver. What was the meaning of her going off to sea, old woman that she was, now to lie here and suffer? Was this God’s will?

If she were to face God the next moment, she would not be afraid: she could look God in the eyes, she had long ago confessed her sins to Him.

She listened for a while to the uneven breathing of her husband. A few words escaped him: “I wonder if the—grindstone—will hold together—all the way—”

In the old woman’s unwashed face dirt had gathered like seed corn in her wrinkles—from her sour eyes a yellow fluid ran. She lifted her head from her pillow, and turned to Danjel, who was sitting near the bunk with his Bible on his knees.

She wondered about that sea in Palestine, the one he had read of, the Galilean Sea on which the Saviour had sailed—it couldn’t be nearly as big as this sea, could it? Was it possible that the billows on Gennesaret were as high as these? Perhaps it was easy for Christ to perform a miracle on that sea, it would be nothing to still the storm on such a little sea. She wanted to know what Danjel thought: perhaps the waves on this North Sea were too strong, too overpowering for Christ, so that He would be unable to handle them. Otherwise she couldn’t understand why He hadn’t stopped the storm—so many had prayed to Him, it had been raging for hours. . . .

“God have mercy on you!” exclaimed Danjel in terror. “Are you prepared to die? If you don’t think God is almighty—”

“I am only wondering why He doesn’t help us—when we lie here and suffer so.”

“He has let loose the tempest for the sake of the unbelievers, because of the doubting ones.”

From Måns Jakob came a groan of anguish: “Fina-Kajsa.”

“Yes, my little man?”

“Some water—”

Fina-Kajsa picked up the water jug and held it to her husband’s mouth. She straightened the pillow under his tousled head, removed her kerchief and dried off the perspiration and snuff from his face—she had nothing but her headcloth handy. The snuff had mixed with the sweat into a slimy mass, her kerchief became wet and soiled, but she used it to dry her own face as well, as she turned to the Bible explainer. “Those who doubt?”

Danjel Andreasson was sitting close to the old people’s bunk, his Bible lay open on his knees, and he wanted to admonish the sick old woman who lay here suffering because of her disbelief. But before he could get another word across his lips the Bible fell from his knees onto the floor of the hold—he let go of Holy Writ in order to grab the bunk-boards with both hands, and a swaying sensation of dizziness cut through his whole body, from the top of his head to the heel of his foot. Danjel was suddenly lifted into the sky, and the whole hold rose with him.

What is happening to me, O Lord? The ship is losing her grip on the water, and with all her sails like wings is taking flight toward heaven! Dear Lord—is my hour near? Has it already arrived? Shall I, like Elijah, travel to Thee fully alive as I sit here at this bunkside and explain Thy word to this old woman? Dear Lord, is this ship the chariot Thou offerest me for my ascension? Yes, Thou art lifting me on high, I feel it—I am blessed—but I dropped Thy Word—Thy Bible. Forgive me, O Lord. I flee to Thee—I come!

But the ship quickly sank down again, and with her Danjel, and his soul and body. His heavenly flight led him back down to earth, he was not to follow Elijah. And on the journey downward he was suddenly seized with a cruel pain; at first it seemed as if his intestines were being strangulated, then as if they were all swelling up inside, as if they did not have sufficient space in their allotted place in his body. They were all crying to get out, to force themselves out. They craved new space, were relentlessly finding their way out.

He was at once overpowered: he fell, face down, on the floor, vomiting violently.

The ship was again sailing on water—the earth journey was resumed.

And next morning Danjel Andreasson lay in his bunk writhing in the unrelenting embrace of seasickness. When his agony left him for a moment, and his thoughts became clear, doubt and prostration assailed him. Then he stammered again and again, the same prayer. He prayed with trembling lips, prayed God for forgiveness for the greatest of all transgressions, the greatest of sins. With the remnants of the night’s vomit still in his beard—like many-colored roses and red blossoms—he prayed his prayer of mercy: O Lord, Thou didst push me down again, from Thy Heaven—O Lord, who can endure Thy presence?

A seasick man prayed, and the prayer came from one stricken by God.

The brig
Charlotta
sails through the great tempest which the Lord has let loose over the North Sea, in the path of the emigrants, this April of the year 1850. In the ship’s hold, in her narrow stomach, lies her living cargo, closely packed human beings strangled by the sickness that is caused by a ship’s swaying motions at sea—emitting all the sounds that witness the disease. The ship has only one stomach, but inside this one are many stomachs—healthy and sick, old and young, children’s and old people’s; stomachs belonging to converted and unconverted, sinners and repenters, good and evil. In all of them the pain digs deeply with her multitudinous talons—in all these wretched bodies are nausea and loathing.

The brig
Charlotta
sails through the storm with Indisposition as guest and passenger, with Wretchedness in her bowels.

XVIII

A BUSHEL OF EARTH FROM SWEDEN

—1—

Karl Oskar Nilsson was one of the passengers in the ship’s hold who could best stand the sea. He felt as well here on the ocean as he did on firm land. As yet he had not missed a single meal. The food was supplied by the ship, and he liked to get his due; many of the seasick peasants lay and fretted because they couldn’t swallow a bite, although they had paid for the fare, and no money was refunded.

During the storm most of the emigrants remained in their bunks, day and night, without consuming anything except the half gallon of water which was their portion. Of all the grownups from Ljuder Parish, only Karl Oskar and Ulrika of Västergöhl were able to be up and about. While Kristina remained in bed, the father alone looked after the children. They were well and lively and did not suffer from the sea. Karl Oskar prepared food for himself and the children up in the galley, as best he could over a fire that rocked like a cradle with the ship’s rolling and pitching. He had to stand and hold the handles of pots and pans to be on the safe side; once when he left them unguarded for a moment he had to get down on his knees and gather the food from the galley deck.

He had long ago given up trying to make Kristina eat; she had asked him not even to speak of food, as this made her still more uncomfortable. Butter and pork he was particularly forbidden to mention: one was as rancid as the other, and if she heard either referred to she was immediately seized by convulsions.

The storm was still raging on the morning of the third day, when Karl Oskar stood at Kristina’s bunk and asked the usual question.

She tried to move her head enough to meet his eyes. How did she feel?

Did he have to ask? She didn’t have enough strength to answer.

He held the tin cup to her mouth, water he had saved from his own portion. The ship’s water had become old, it was murky, as if it had been taken from some swamp or peat bog—slimy, and full of sediment. It stank, and had the taste of old laundry tubs; all edibles on board now had an old taste—of chests, cupboards, and barrels. But the water could be somewhat refreshed by a few drops of vinegar, which the emigrants were accustomed to add before they used it.

Kristina drank, and some water ran down her chin and neck. Karl Oskar dried her with his handkerchief.

“The storm will soon be over.”

But Kristina did not care about the storm—it could do what it pleased, die down or rage on. She had only one wish: to lie here, still, still.

When her indifference left her for a moment, her first concern was for her children. Harald crawled about in her bunk-pen and could not get outside its fence—she need not worry about him. But when she didn’t see Johan and Lill-Märta, she wondered where they were. Sometimes they stood at the edge of her bunk and prayed and entreated her, pulled at her arms and clothing, persistently, stubbornly: “Mother, get up! Why don’t you get up, Mother? You can’t stay in bed any longer!”

And now she asked her husband, as she had asked him twenty times a day: “Are you able to find some food for the little ones?”

“They get enough to manage.”

“I’m glad they are well—glad you are well.”

Suddenly she broke off: “Karl Oskar—the bucket!”

The water she had just drunk came up, mixed with greenish slime.

“Do you want a spoon of The Prince’s Drops?”

“No. I want nothing—nothing.”

Neither Hoffman’s nor The Prince’s nor The Four Kinds of Drops seemed to relieve her. She had tried all the kinds that were obtainable from the medicine chest. And why should she take medicines, only to be tortured in throwing them up again?

Karl Oskar bent anxiously over Kristina: her face was green-white, pale and wan in the meager daylight down here. She could keep down neither food nor water, and these vomitings night and day were weakening her. Her pregnancy added to her discomfort. He had become seriously concerned about his wife—she could not stand this for very much longer.

The voyage across the sea to North America was more unhealthy and perilous than he himself had imagined. But no one could know in advance what a crossing would be like. Of one thing he was sure, however: since people so often became sick on the sea, they were meant to live on land. Only because God had created water between the continents were they forced to go on the sea at times. It would feel good with solid ground underfoot again.