The Emigrants (56 page)

Another hour passed. When Karl Oskar again changed the cold pack, he thought he could notice that the flow of blood had stopped a little.

The watch was changing on deck, it was four o’clock, the dogwatch was over, the early-morning watch was going on. Karl Oskar continued his vigil, he was watching over Kristina, he had stood all the watches this night.

A heavy thunder was heard from above—a sound of splintering timbers, as if a wave had broken something on deck. Kristina awakened and opened her eyes. Karl Oskar looked into them and found his wife: she was awake and clear in her mind. From her mouth came a weak breath—he bent down to hear what she was saying: “Karl Oskar—”

“Yes?”

“I only wanted to ask—be kind to the children.”

“Of course I will.”

“You’ll look after the little ones, won’t you?”

“You may be sure of it.”

“That’s good to hear. You’ll have to be father and mother, both.”

“Don’t think of that now, Kristina.”

“No. We shan’t mention it again.”

“Is there anything you wish?”

“No. Not a thing.”

From the pocket of his jacket Karl Oskar took out a few lumps of sugar, wrapped in a piece of old paper—they were from home, he had saved them a long time.

“Will you have a piece of sugar in your mouth?”

“No.”

The sugar lumps had been in his pocket for weeks. They were no longer white; he blew off the dust to clean them. “I’ve saved these for you.”

“You are kind, Karl Oskar—but—I can’t chew.”

“Isn’t there anything I can give you?”

“No.”

He took a firm hold of Kristina’s hand on the quilt; it felt even colder than the sea water which had cooled her head.

Now it came over him, that which he always tried to evade, that which he never wished to feel or admit: he had persuaded her to follow him, he had taken wife and children with him on this voyage across the sea; he it was who had forced their emigration—someone had had to take the responsibility; I shall take it! That was what he had said—and now was the day of reckoning, now he must shoulder the responsibility. If he had known what it would be like—if he had known—if he had known the price. Now it came over him, overpoweringly it rushed forth.
Regret.

Karl Oskar regretted what he had done.

“Kristina!”

“Ye-es.”

“I want to ask you—ask your forgiveness.”

“What must I forgive?”

“That I wanted to go—”

“I too wanted it.”

“But I forced my will through.”

“You didn’t mean anything wrong with it.”

“You know what I meant, Kristina.”

“You wanted to improve things for us—for all of us.”

“Yes. One might mean well—yet spoil it all—spoil it for all of us—”

“Don’t regret it, Karl Oskar. You can’t help it.”

“I’m to blame most.”

“You have only struggled for us. You mustn’t be sad.”

“You will forgive me, Kristina?”

“I have nothing to forgive you. Remember I said so.”

“That is good to hear.”

“I like you, Karl Oskar, always have. We are the best of friends.”

“Yes. The best of friends—that’s what we are!”

Thus Karl Oskar and Kristina spoke to each other as those people do who may have no more chance to speak to each other in this world.

Kristina was in her swing again. She closed her weak eyes. “I wish to sleep a little longer.”

“Sleep! You need it.”

“Only a short while.”

“Of course you will sleep—only you must not—not—not—”

His tongue froze in his throat, he could utter no more words, he was unable to finish:
only you must not die and leave me!

“I wish to rest now, quietly,” it came from his wife. “I’m so tired.”

“Yes, rest now. I’ll change the packing.”

“Let me down now!” she said. “Let me down from the swing, Karl Oskar! It’s no fun any more.”

Then he understood she was delirious.

—3—

The taper had burned out. He sat in the dark and listened to Kristina’s breathing. Of course you will sleep! You may sleep as long as you wish—the rest of the night—the whole day tomorrow—many days. Day after day you may sleep—only, you must wake up again, you must promise to awaken—you must not die.

Be father and mother both, she had said. Shall I arrive alone—alone with the three little ones? And the fourth one? The fourth she takes with her—it follows her. The other three follow me—the other three—who no longer have a mother—no! They still have father and mother—I can hear her breathing. She is only asleep. But if she shouldn’t—if it so should happen, then I can blame only myself. I myself have caused all this. I said: Someone must take the responsibility, I take the responsibility. She has been against it the whole time, she was against it from the very beginning. But I persuaded her. She came with me but I think she regretted it the whole time. But she said nothing. I was the one who insisted, I and no one else decided. And now she could blame me, but instead she says: I have nothing to forgive you; we are the best of friends. And I am causing her to lose her life—and she says—I like you—

This is your payment for being so stubborn and insistent. Now you feel what it’s like! You wanted to push your will through—and now, see what has happened! If you had listened to her, if you had listened to your wife, and your parents and other people—those who wished to put a stop to it—then you would not have to sit here tonight, fumbling with a burnt-out taper, wondering if she is dead or alive. Do I look at my wife Kristina? Or at a corpse? Then I would not be sitting here, rocking back and forth, in this rolling ship—in this tempest tonight. Then I would never have set foot on this devil’s ship, never been on this damned ocean—damned for time and eternity! That’s what it is, if it takes her. If that damned Finn comes down with his canvas—comes up to this bunk—right here—and takes her—and says, as he usually does: We must—yes, now we must—If he comes—if HE comes—and I must blame myself. Stubborn and obstinate—the big-nosed are always stubborn. It’s your big nose, Karl Oskar.

You didn’t mean it wrongly—you didn’t want to harm us—you mustn’t feel downhearted—don’t be sad! But if that Finn comes—at early dawn, he usually comes in the mornings—and tries to touch her—to find out—It must not be morning—not yet—not for a long while yet. It’s better the night should last, better than that morning should come—morning, and a Finn, with a piece of canvas in his hand. You have yourself to blame. . . .

Thus Karl Oskar Nilsson stood watch at the bedside of his sick wife—the longest night watch of his life.

And with daylight and full morning he heard a child’s voice—his little son Johan crawled up on his knee and took hold of his trousers and said: “Father—Mother isn’t bleeding any more.”

—4—

Night had passed and calm weather had come with morning. The ocean had lowered its rough, roaring storm-voice—no more waves were heard against the side of the ship, and the rolling was negligible. In fact the rolling was all but gone when the emigrants began to crawl out of their bunks and waken to a new day in their old quarters in the hold.

Johan had crept down from his mother’s bunk. “Mother has stopped bleeding!”

Kristina lay quietly on her back as before, her eyes gleamed open and big in the meager daylight which came in through the main hatch. Her lips moved slowly: “Karl Oskar. Are you here?”

“Yes.”

“I believe—I think I’ve slept.”

“Yes. You’ve been sleeping a long time.”

“I don’t feel so tired any more.”

“That’s good.”

“I think—I think—”

But that was all. She was too weak to say anything more. Karl Oskar noticed that the blood no longer ran from her nostrils; the flow of blood had stopped—perhaps many hours ago. He had not been able to see in the dark, and he had been afraid of striking a light, he might have awakened her. But the blood was stanched. There was at least one blood-stancher on board the ship—the captain himself. One must always do what one could, things might change if one tried.

While raptures of joy went through Karl Oskar, a man approached him and touched his shoulder, timidly and clumsily. It was Danjel Andreasson. He was pale and his eyes were red from the night wake—they seemed strangely glazed and distant when he looked at Karl Oskar and then at Kristina. His voice, too, was foreign and distant, as if he were speaking from another world: “She is dead.”

“No! She lives!” said Karl Oskar. “I think she will survive now!”

“She died just now,” said Danjel.

“But can’t you see for yourself—”

“You must believe me, Karl Oskar, she died a moment ago. She had never told me how ill she was.”

“Don’t you see she is alive?”

“She is dead—you can see for yourself, if you doubt me,”

“Am I asleep? What are you talking about?”

Karl Oskar looked in consternation at Danjel.

Beside him stood a man in deep sorrow. Danjel did not speak of Kristina, he spoke of his own wife: Inga-Lena had died without admitting to her husband that she was ill.

Another man than Karl Oskar had become a widower this morning.

XXV

ANOTHER THREE SHOVELFULS OF EARTH FROM SWEDEN

—1—

Captain Lorentz sat in his cabin and mused over a piece of paper with a few lines written on it: “Wife Inga-Lena Andersdotter from Kärragärde in Ljuder Parish, Konga County, born October 4, 1809; joined in marriage with homeowner Danjel Andreasson, June 23, 1833. . . .”

Name, sex, and age—that was all he required, all he needed to know to conduct the funeral. This was now the eighth funeral. But there was something about the information which did not check. Nothing checked, as he thought further about it. He had seen the woman’s bleeding body, he had tied her arms and legs. She had been a young woman, barely thirty, but now it seemed that the dead one was forty years old. And he had been told that she left behind four children, all on board with their parents. Yet he remembered definitely having seen only three small ones in the bunk of the dying woman.

Apparently another death had occurred than the one he had expected.

Once more on this voyage must he stand on deck and from the prayerbook choose suitable prayers and thought-worthy hymns, “as well as some sentence from Holy Writ,” as it was prescribed in “How to Bury a Corpse on Board.”

“Teach us all to remember that we must die and thereby gain understanding. . . .”

This potent prayer could have two meanings: either that we gain understanding and use our lives well before we die—or, the meaning which no doubt had been in the mind of the author, that we gain understanding to prepare ourselves for death. But the person who used his intelligence well would not concern himself in life with constant preparation for death. There could be no meaning in thus wasting one’s few allotted days. Man must live in comfort and good cheer as long as life lasted—soon enough death comes with joy to no one.

And the thought of his own death—probable within the next few years—occupied the captain of the
Charlotta
for some fleeting moments. While still young, his death-day had often been in his mind; but the older he grew, the less often did he think of it. Some wisdom he had gained with the years. At sixty he was still sailing the seas in fairly good health. Nearly all the comrades of his youth had been taken by the sea, and their bodies had become part of the water that had surged about their ships. Some had sailed five years, others ten, still others thirty. He himself had already been allowed forty-six. Why? Nothing could be more foolish than to brood over this question. He might just as well ask why the wind was southerly today and northerly yesterday, and not the opposite. Once one knew there was no answer to the question, one ceased to ask. Only a simpleton would query the inexplicable.

It might be difficult to die, but it was rather common. All people must die, people had done so throughout time, and he too must face up to it when his time came. Since he couldn’t escape it, he might as well pretend that he would live forever. For all eternity he would sail the seas, his ship would rot down but the master remain. By thinking death nonexistent, he could best use his life.

How had the wife Inga-Lena Andersdotter used her life—the forty years that had been given to her? A funeral officiant on a crowded emigrant ship could seldom know anything about those over whom he read his prayers. His passengers had been removed from their parish registers on leaving home, and had not yet been recorded elsewhere. They were registered nowhere—the emigrants on his ship were homeless, they had no plot in a churchyard. Only the sea opened its depths to them. The sea had room for all of them.

These peasants often feared death at sea, because of the final resting place—they wanted to be put in consecrated ground, and the ocean was not consecrated. But they were caught in deep superstition: this water where so many good seamen had found their graves ought to be a good enough resting place for the wretched land-rats.

Perhaps the wife Inga-Lena Andersdotter had died, too, in fear of the unconsecrated burial place of the ocean. Her forty years she had lived on solid ground, bending over the earth in her potato furrows and barley fields, poking in pens and manure piles, tramping between byre and barn. Yet she would find rest in the sea, in the most extended churchyard in the world, where nothing marked the graves. She would not be registered anywhere—she was an emigrant who had failed to reach her destination, a wanderer in the world.

But this peasant woman had still left her mark after her on earth: she had borne four new citizens for the North American republic.

With his stiff fingers, wasted and gray from the salt of the sea, Captain Lorentz picked up his pen to add a few lines on the small paper: “Died June 17, 1850, on board the brig
Charlotta
of Karlshamn, on voyage to New York. Certified, Christian Lorentz, Master.”

—2—

It was a calm and beautiful June morning on the Atlantic Ocean. The emigrant vessel sailed with a feeble southerly breeze. The sun mirrored itself in the water, its rays reflected like burning flames. This morning at sea the emigrants had their first feeling of summer.