Unto a Good Land (18 page)

“Be at peace, good people,” Danjel entreated once more, deeply concerned. “Won’t you shake hands?”

Karl Oskar and Ulrika remained silent. Both had calmed down and each would have taken a proffered hand. Ulrika knew that Karl Oskar had acted in good faith, and that she had unjustly accused him of skulduggery. Karl Oskar regretted the words he had uttered; there was reason enough to call Ulrika of Västergöhl an old slut, but it was unnecessary and foolish to dig up dirt from home to throw at her in a foreign land. Both admitted inwardly that it would be right to retract; both were ready to shake hands in forgiveness. But neither one offered his hand, each feared the humiliation of refusal from the other.

And so no hand was offered. Danjel bowed his head in sorrow, his shaggy, unkempt beard sweeping his chest.

Elin called her mother from their cabin, and Ulrika departed with long strides, proudly.

Jonas Petter looked after her and said in a low voice to Robert and Arvid: Ulrika of Västergöhl was getting ill-tempered because of lack of close male company; what she needed most of all for a few nights ahead was a man.

Karl Oskar and Kristina walked over to the wheelhouse.

“I can’t stand the Glad One any longer!” he said. “We must part from her.”

“But she is part of Danjel’s family,” protested Kristina. “She is like a foster mother to the children. You don’t want to take her away from the poor motherless children?”

Karl Oskar kept silence gloomily, wondering what to do.

“And how can you get rid of Ulrika?” continued Kristina. “You can’t throw her into the lake.”

“You’ve always disliked Ulrika before. Now you defend the old whore!”

“I didn’t defend the way she acted just now. But I can stand her better in this country.”

Kristina pointed out that Ulrika had softened a little since sharing their food on the train the other day. She was more friendly and talkative, and the two women had these last days talked with each other as if no unfriendly feelings had ever existed between them. Ulrika had spoken many words both true and wise, and Kristina had enjoyed her company. Earlier, she had avoided the Glad One as one avoided vermin, she had thought her full of hatred and ill will, always trying to hurt others. But Ulrika wasn’t entirely wicked and evil; there must be something good in a woman who was so kind to Danjel’s offspring, poor little ones. And perhaps injustice had been done her at home in Sweden, ever since her childhood when they sold her at auction. That was why she always thought the worst of people. If they mistreated her and scorned her, then she acted the same way in return; and she could give ten for two; she could act like a viper if tramped on, biting, spurting out venom. If now they were to be considerate of her, if they made her feel one of them, perhaps . . .

“There will be no peace in our group until we get rid of her,” Karl Oskar insisted. But what Kristina had said seemed to him worthy of thought, although he wouldn’t admit it now.

Kristina also harbored an opinion of her own, well hidden from Karl Oskar: she felt the same way as Ulrika about this long journey inland.

They had barely started; the guide said several weeks would elapse before they reached their destination. Why must they travel such an unfathomable distance? Why hadn’t they settled on a nearer place? It was Karl Oskar who wanted it that way, the responsibility was his, his will was being carried out. He had decided that they were to travel with the old woman, Fina-Kajsa, to her son in Minnesota. The others were willing to follow along: they thought what he did was best. He gave advice, and the others listened. But who could tell if he were right? Need they traverse so many lakes and rivers to find a home? Couldn’t they have found one nearer?

This was Karl Oskar’s great shortcoming: he never let well enough alone. All other men were satisfied at last, satisfied some time—never he. Many would have thought a move to another country quite sufficient—he wasn’t satisfied until they moved to another continent. To others it would have been enough to travel two, three hundred miles inland—he must travel fifteen hundred miles, five times as far; he must get as far inland as he possibly could, before he would be satisfied. He said he wanted to find the best soil. But was it so sure (he acted as though God had said so) that the best land lay farthest away? Such was Karl Oskar’s nature: things far away were better than those near by; what he couldn’t reach was better than what he had, and the best of all lay farthest away in the world.

And now they were on a ship again, even though it didn’t move by sail, but by steam and wheels. And she who had made up her mind never again to travel on water! The others too had come along. Ulrika alone had murmured, she was not afraid to speak her mind. Her unfair accusations against Karl Oskar were inexcusable, but what she had said about this eternal traveling could just as well have come from Kristina’s own mouth. It was well for him to hear it! He should know that there were those among them who were tired to death of this journey. Kristina was. Three long months had elapsed since that morning when she stepped onto the wagon in Korpamoen for a ride to the sea; she was still riding! And deep within her she marveled that her little children had survived this dangerous, unending journey; it would not have surprised her had it killed them all.

How intensely she longed for a place where she could stay. Where she could be by herself and make her own decisions, where she wouldn’t have strangers with her always, where she could rest in her own bed, under her own roof, where she could make a home for her husband and her offspring! How fervently her heart longed for a home again, how desperately she prayed that she might see the place where she was to live.

—4—

The steamer
Sultana
entered a sound which soon turned out to be a river mouth; shortly they tied up at the pier in Detroit.

The immigrants were now approaching the northernmost boundaries of the United States. In this harbor the
Sultana
was to remain long enough so that anyone who wished to go ashore was allowed to do so.

Detroit was an old town, well built and of pleasing aspect. It was not a settlement village with streets crowded with cattle and tall tree stumps; it had well-ordered streets, almost like a town in Sweden, as Landberg said. From the boat it seemed that Detroit stood on a high bank along the river; they could see rows of well-built and well-looked-after houses, topped by church towers and steeples; next to the pier there was an extensive market place. Coming up the river they had seen vast orchards on either shore, filled with apple and cherry trees, their branches overloaded with delicious-looking fruit. The country around the town was fertile and good as far as their eyes could see.

Nearly all the
Sultana
’s
passengers went ashore. Of the group from Ljuder, the two smallest children were left behind, Karl Oskar’s son Harald and Danjel’s little daughter Eva, and Fina-Kajsa also remained on the ship to take care of the babies.

The older children were much excited by the prospect of walking on solid ground again; they asked if they might go back to where they had seen the cherry trees, but the parents told them there would not be time. Kristina took Johan by the hand and Karl Oskar held on to Lill-Märta, so as not to lose them in the crowd. They walked about the town for a few hours, looking at many strange things, but it was surprising how soon both children and grownups tired from walking: they had been freighted about for so long that they had no strength to walk any distance. The heat was more infernal on land, too, and they were almost glad to return to the ship.

By the time the passengers were back on the pier, the
Sultana
had finished unloading her freight. A wide barge loaded with cattle was tied to the steamer’s side. Half a dozen sturdy men, their upper bodies bare and their heads covered with broad straw hats, were bringing the cattle from the barge onto the pier. Then an accident befell one of the animals: a large bull refused obstinately to walk onto the landing plank: he skidded and fell into the water. The river was quite deep near the pier, and only the head and back of the bull could be seen above the water. A curious crowd gathered immediately to see the beast rescued. The bull struggled in the water like a sea monster, snorting, bellowing, and squirting quantities of water through his nostrils, until the men finally succeeded in getting a rope around his horns and pulling him on shore.

While the others of their group went aboard, Karl Oskar and Jonas Petter had remained behind to watch the rescue of the bull. As Karl Oskar turned to climb the gangplank he was met by Kristina.

“Are you alone?” she asked.

“Yes. Is anyone missing?”

She stared at him, fear in her eyes: “Isn’t Lill-Märta with you?”

“No. I thought she was aboard.”

“She was with you. Only Johan came with me.”

“The girl is not on the ship?” Karl Oskar asked breathlessly.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes—I told you, the girl was with you. Where is she?”

“She was on the pier when you went . . .”

“You let her out of your sight?”

“I thought she went with you.”

“Lord Jesus! Where is Lill-Märta?” Kristina shrieked. “Lord in Heaven! The child is left behind somewhere!”

She rushed down the gangplank, followed by Karl Oskar. They ran back and forth on the pier, looking for their missing child. The men, a moment before busy with the drowning bull, turned their attention from the now safe beast to the man and woman who ran about on the pier, calling out their child’s name. No one answered. They looked everywhere for the little one, on the pier and near it, among the unloaded freight, behind barrels and boxes and sacks and coils of rope; they searched behind cords of wood and stacks of boards, they examined every place imaginable that might be a hiding place, every nook and corner where a three-year-old might have crawled. On the pier were only grownups, there was no child in the crowd. They looked up toward the market place and along the shores, as far as their eyes could reach. But there was no sign of Lill-Märta. Their child had simply disappeared.

She had been on the pier a short time ago, when Karl Oskar stopped to watch the bull in the water; he had thought she followed her mother aboard. But the child had been in his charge, he felt the blame was his.

The
Sultana
’s
bell rang piercingly, it was time for the boat to leave. The bull responded with a long-drawn-out, angry bellow, as if wishing to chase the boat off, and Karl Oskar glared at him fiercely: if that damned beast hadn’t fallen into the river—if he hadn’t stopped to watch it . . .

Kristina turned to the men who had done the unloading: “Have you seen a little girl, about three years old?” She grabbed hold of the arm of a bearded giant, wailing in despair: “A very little girl . . . in a blue dress . . . red ribbons in her braids?”

The man stared at her helplessly, mumbling some words in his own language. Kristina ran to the next man, she ran from one to another, and asked, and asked; she had forgotten that none of them understood a word: “A girl . . . haven’t you seen her . . . our little girl?”

Karl Oskar searched in silent anguish; he remembered that he was among strangers, that here he was no better than a mute.

Their child had disappeared, and they couldn’t tell a single soul that she was lost. No one could tell them if Lill-Märta had been seen, no one could tell them where she had gone, no one could help them, because they couldn’t ask anyone for help—no one could help them search for a little girl in a blue dress and red ribbons.

“Maybe she has fallen off the pier . . . into the water,” he said to Kristina.

“It was you! You let her get away from you!” Kristina broke out accusingly.

“Yes . . . it’s my fault . . . I forgot . . . for only a moment. . . .” Remorse swept over him.

“Lill-Märta! Lill-Märta! Lill-Märta!” Hysterically, the mother called her child’s name, and no one answered. She broke into tears. “We’ve lost our child! She was with you!”

“Yes, Kristina. She was with me.”

“Our first girl. Anna. You remember?”

As Kristina mentioned Anna, their dead child, memories of the past flashed through Karl Oskar’s mind: He carried a small coffin in his arms, he was on his way to a grave, he walked with heavy steps carrying the coffin he himself had made, had hammered together of fine boards, the finest, knot-free boards he had been able to find. That was Anna, that was the other time, the other child whom they had lost.

The
Sultana
’s
side wheels were beginning to churn, foam whirled about, the bell rang again, and a man on deck shouted, “All aboard!”

Some of the crewmen made ready to pull in the gangplank—no one was aware that two passengers had gone back on shore.

Karl Oskar stood on the pier as if paralyzed. But suddenly, at the sound of the bell, he came back to life: “The ship is leaving us!”

“We cannot leave Lill-Märta!”

“The boys are on the ship! All we own is on the ship!”

“I stay here on land. I must find our child.” Kristina sank down on a packing box among the freight, unable to move.