The Last Letter Home

by Vilhelm Moberg

  Karl Oskar started with the shocking at six o’clock to take advantage of the morning coolness. But already after one hour the sun was burning so intensely that perspiration ran over his brows and smarted like salt in his eyes. Regularly he made a visit to the water crock which he had put in the shade of a linden at the edge of the field.

  The church bell began to ring again on Thursday morning. In clear weather the little church spire was visible from this slope. Calm as it was now, the sound came clear.

  Two men emerged from the forest carrying guns and rucksacks. Karl Oskar recognized them as his neighbors, Jonas Petter and Algot Svensson.

  They cut across the field and approached him. He need not ask the men their errand or why they were out so early.

  Jonas Petter said, “The settlers have been called—we must all go and fight the Indians.”

  Jonas Petter had put on some weight these last years and walked rather heavily. “I never thought I’d have to go out to war at sixty years of age!”

  Algot Svensson said, “I’d hoped I would never have to go . . .”

  A red flame glowed in Algot’s left eye, which had been torn to pieces by a branch when he was clearing his claim. “But it can’t be helped,” he said. “A one-eyed man might do some good.”

  “It’ll help you aim!” said Jonas Petter. “Now you won’t have to close that eye!”

  “How near are they?” asked Karl Oskar.

  “No one seems to know for sure,” said Jonas Petter, and shouldered his gun.

  He went on: Last night the sheriff had called a meeting in Center City, and he and Algot had been there. During the meeting two men had arrived who had walked all the way from Carver County. They said all the settlers in Carver had fled to the forest, leaving cattle and everything behind. People in Hennepin and Nicollet had fled to St. Paul and Fort Snelling. The men had also said that great hordes of fugitives from out west were heading in this direction. Thousands had gathered in St. Peter and Mankato, completely destitute. They camped in the streets and slaughtered oxen or whatever animals they could lay hands on. All roads from the Minnesota Valley were crowded with wagons and cattle.

  They had been told at the meeting that Governor Ramsey had sent Colonel Sibley, the ex-governor, against the Indians, leading the soldiers from Fort Snelling. But unfortunately the good soldiers were already in the South, fighting in the Civil War, and only four companies of new volunteers had been available at Fort Snelling. Of these a few hundred men had been sent to relieve Fort Ridgely and New Ulm, which were surrounded by the Sioux. There was a rumor that Little Crow had gathered several thousand redskins and that all of them had guns. If the forts fell, the road would be open to St. Paul, but Colonel Sibley was organizing the defense for all of Minnesota and if he had time he would stop them.

  At the meeting last night the Chisago settlers had decided to evacuate the women and children and organize all the men. Across from Nordberg’s Island, at the narrow passage between the shore and cliffs just west of the church, they would gather and build a defense wall. The sheriff would get ammunition and guns from the governor, he thought. The men were to meet at the pass and start digging in the morning.

  “I can’t go with you,” said Karl Oskar. “Kristina is sick in bed—she had another miscarriage . . .”

  Algot asked how she was getting along and Karl Oskar said there was no change since yesterday.

  “Well, of course you can’t leave her,” said Jonas Petter. He had shared many dangers with his fellow emigrant from Ljuder and knew Karl Oskar was not trying to get out of defending his family and home. With his wife seriously ill he had just cause.

  “You’ve never shit in your pants from fear, Karl Oskar. But Olausson has already run away with his wife and children. They took off to some island.”

  “He shouldn’t have rushed about and scared people the way he did. People'll lose their sense in fright,” said Karl Oskar.

  “Who doesn’t love his own family!” said Algot.

  “The redskins are awfully cruel,” said Jonas Petter. “I want to kill at least one before they cut me up like a pig.”

  Jonas Petter was going to the Norwegian gunsmith in Center City to have the mechanism of his old Swedish muzzle loader fixed. It was still a good gun; he could fell a deer seventy paces away, and an Indian couldn’t have a thicker hide than a buck.

  “I wonder what Colonel Sibley is up to,” said Algot.

  “If anyone can stop the redskins he can,” said Karl Oskar.

  Colonel Henry Sibley had lived among the Sioux for long periods as a government agent. During that time he must have learned some of their tricks, he ought to know their kind of warfare. At the first gubernatorial election his opponents had claimed that Sibley had fathered a number of children with squaws, but the Republicans had never proved this. Nor would it detract from his military qualifications if true.

  “Well, then he’ll fight his own brats,” said Jonas Petter. He took out his snuffbox and loaded his nose, puffed and dried from the perspiration. A hell of a heat! he thought. It melted the lead in his fly buttons so he couldn’t keep his horn in.

  “If you stay here you must at least get your children to a safe place,” said Algot.

  “You think it’s that bad?”

  Yes, continued Algot Svensson, he and his neighbor, Johan Kron, were sending their wives and children to Cedar Island. Of all the many islands in the lake this one offered the best protection. Cedar Island was covered with impenetrable thickets and heavy woods, and gunshots couldn’t reach it from either shore. Karl Oskar’s children could join the group when they rowed them over.

  Jonas Petter added that he had heard last night that Colonel Sibley, who lived in Mendota, had already on Tuesday sent his family to Fort Snelling. This more than anything else had frightened people in St. Paul.

  Now Karl Oskar grew concerned; the former governor did not consider his family safe in Mendota! The officer in charge must know what he was doing.

  He made a quick decision: “Yes, the children must get away! You take them with yours, Algot!”

  As the men were leaving, Karl Oskar remembered that Danjel Andreasson had gone to see his son in Acton to help him with the harvest. He called after his neighbors: “Are they back at Danjel’s?”

  “No, they’re with Sven in Meeker.”

  “They must be in the midst of it!”

  Jonas Petter stopped still; it struck him that Danjel and his sons and daughter-in-law were indeed in Meeker County, the very place where the Indians had started the uprising.

  “You’re right, Karl Oskar. I wonder how they’ll manage . . .”

  Jonas Petter’s face had stiffened. Slowly he folded his hands: “O Lord God! O Lord, save Danjel and his . . .”

  Jonas Petter was not a pious man; he seldom prayed. But now he was standing with folded hands. And it was not for himself that he called on the Lord God. He prayed a warm, fervent prayer for some people who had been his neighbors, people whom he had been close to for many years, people he wanted to see live, whom he wanted to be with again.

  —2—

  Music from a black organ:

  But today was Thursday, August 21, and the people Jonas Petter prayed for were no longer to be found among the living. They were on one of the hundreds of farms where already all life was extinguished.

  This Thursday had been preceded by a Sunday. During their dinner rest on the Sabbath they had been caught unaware. While resting in the shade behind the cabin their minutes ran out and they entered another rest which no one could disturb.

  Four days had now gone by, and Danjel Andreasson and his eldest son remained in a field, undisturbed in their new rest. It would be another two days before the soldiers found their bodies.

  Only a few paces separated the bodies of father and son. The father was running these paces when he fell. He had seen his son fall and was hurrying to his aid. Thus his life was crowned by his death. The God Danjel confessed sacrificed his only son for hu
manity’s salvation. Danjel sacrificed himself, his own life, for his eldest son.

  But he was an earthly being, he was made of earth, he belonged to the soil of the field that was now his bed. His body was rotting on the ground near his son with whom he had shared the moment of death. Under the hot sun baking the field, their bodies soon were transformed and returned to their home in the earth.

  Coming from far away they had sought a new home in a new country, and here they had found their permanent home: They had returned to man’s sure and everlasting abode.

  Their resting place in the field, from early morning till late night, was marked by a thick swarm of big, black, fat flies. An uncountable number of these winged creatures held a wake over the dead settlers. A black cloud of the air’s buzzing life hovered over their corpses. The flies kept the wake faithfully, untiringly. They gathered and formed their dark cloud around the bier as soon as the sun began to shine over the field in the morning, and they did not part when twilight fell in the evening. During the night the swarm disappeared, it was invisible to the eye, but its sound told of its presence.

  Uninterrupted, through day and night, the buzzing, whirring sound of the flies continued. From the black swarm over the field it rose like the surging peal of an organ; a monotonous playing as from eternity’s depth, it strained on through day and night. A buzzing, whirring psalm was sung over the unburied corpses. From the swarm of small, whirring lives organ music was played over humans who had returned to the dust.

  Play, black organ, play over this field, and over the other hundreds where the tiller has come home. Play over these dead, sing the whirring psalm for those who here enjoy rest in the earth! Play and whir through day and night, strike up a hymn for a funeral aboveground for these tillers who here have settled for eternity!

  On a hundred settlements all life had ceased; this black cloud was the wakers’ organ.

  And the black organ hummed, it whirred, it buzzed its psalm over Danjel Andreasson and his son, and for all those who had fallen back upon the earth that owned their bodies.

  On this day the black organ played at seven hundred funerals in the settlers’ country. It would play at other places, still waiting.

  —3—

  On one of the oldest farms only the husband and wife were left behind. Their children had been evacuated with their neighbors, who had left their homes and sought safety.

  The wife lay sick and the husband sat beside her bed. He watched over her through day and night. While she slept he had sent away the children and he worried lest she should ask for them when she woke up. But only once did she wonder why she didn’t see them or hear their voices. He told her the boys were busy with the harvest and the girls were picking berries in the forest. The wife did not seem to suspect the husband was lying to her.

  The sick one was not able to take any food, but as she suffered from fever-thirst she drank a great deal of water. From a bottle on the table beside the bed, the husband poured a yellow-brown, syrupy fluid into a spoon and gave it to the wife, who swallowed reluctantly.

  On this farm quiet and inactivity reigned. No chores were performed; neither inside nor outside was there any sound of activity. No children ran about and played and laughed. The cattle had been let out into the forest, and in the evening the cows came to the gate and waited for their milkmaid. But she did not come to meet them with her pail and stool, she did not sit down to lean her head against their sides. In her place a man attempted to relieve their swollen udders with his rough, clumsy fingers which squeezed the teats awkwardly. In the fields the crops were left overripe and the heads grew heavier and bent lower each day. No scythe was touched, no straw cut, no sheaves bound, no shocks built, no ricks brought the crops to the barn. No one called any longer from the stoop, announcing mealtime, no one went to and from his work, no one went to rest or rose from his bed.

  The place seemed desolate, deserted. But a man and a wife remained. She lay in her bed inside the house and seldom made any sound, he moved cautiously when he approached or left her. He went in and out of the house without her noticing. He answered her when she spoke but did not speak to her if she lay with her eyes closed.

  During the last days he had not noticed any change in her. She herself had said she knew she would pull through.

  Thus a husband kept watch over his wife. Only for the shortest moments did he leave his chair at her bed and stroll outside. Under the clear sky a serene peace reigned over his land these days. There lay his farm with all the crops, trees, fruit, grass—surrendered to itself. Under the flaming sun the earth enjoyed a long, lazy dinner rest. His claim sloped toward the shore, and it seemed as undisturbed and peaceful as the day he had discovered it, resting here and waiting for him since the day of Creation.

  When he stepped outside he looked and always peered in the same direction: to the west, where there rose a sandstone cliff which had the appearance of a man’s head, but a hundred thousand times larger. There rose a high cliff wall, glittering red in the sunshine—a wall of threat and danger. The Indian head!

  All his life until now he had followed this command: You must always help yourself! Always use your common sense and your strength! In every situation you must only trust your own ability. Never give up in danger! Never think there is no use going on! Always try once more! Never lose heart and say, there is nothing more I can do.

  But these days he no longer made decisions as to what happened around him. What happened decided over him. He kept watch on the chair beside his wife’s bed, he walked outside and looked to the west.

  And what he did did not help him any more.

  —4—

  No more reports about the Indian danger arrived. But Karl Oskar no longer kept track of the days. It had been in the early morning on Wednesday that Kristina took sick, and after that he didn’t count the days. With his whittling knife and a stick he started a new calendar: He cut a notch in the stick every evening—one more day. He cut the first notch on the evening the children had been sent to Cedar Island.

  There were three notches now, and it was morning again. He was dozing on his watcher’s chair; fatigue had closed his eyes. He woke up startled by a noise outside.

  No one had come to his house these three days. Now someone was knocking on the gable window. He rose and rubbed his smarting eyes. His face was pale gray in the dawn light.

  Algot Svensson was outside, his gun under his arm and a good-sized food sack on his back. His torn eye shone dark red like a ripe cherry.

  “It’s you, Algot! I thought maybe the redskins had come . . .”

  “We’re building at the wall, back by the church. I’m only going home to do the milking.”

  “Have you heard from the island?”

  “I rowed over last night—all is well there. The kids are well and seem to enjoy it.”

  “How near are the Indians?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t seen them hereabouts yet.”

  About a hundred of the settlers were gathered back at Nordberg’s Island, said Algot. They were digging an entrenchment, and a small cannon had been sent with some men from Fort Snelling. A few more days of preparations and he felt sure they would be able to hold back the redskins at the church. Pastor Stenius himself was helping them, digging like a real farmer, he was so anxious to save the church from the savages’ violation.

  But the men were uneasy about their families and farms; the crops were overripe, cows unmilked, calves and smaller animals unfed, and the loose cattle broke into the fields and did damage. This couldn’t go on very long. As far as Algot could learn every farm hereabouts was deserted.

  He was going home to look after his animals and then he would take some food and other things to the people on Cedar Island. They had told him last night they had eaten all the potatoes and meat they had with them and had no milk for the children. The boys were chasing and catching rabbits but they had no salt. They had also caught some fish, but they were bothered terribly by mosquitoes and ants.
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  Algot said he would come back and pick up whatever Karl Oskar might wish to send over to the children, but he didn’t think they were suffering.

  The neighbor left, and when Karl Oskar came in again Kristina had awakened. She was talking to herself, her eyes on the ceiling boards as if she were addressing them. He asked if there was anything she wanted but she replied in disjointed, incomprehensible words.

  From his wife’s speech Karl Oskar understood that she no longer recognized him.

  —5—

  Another day passed with the sun shining unchangeably in a high, cloudless sky. From morning to night Ki-Chi-Saga’s surface glittered in its immobile smoothness. The leafy trees along the shores dipped their boughs in the lake’s water. In the reeds the young ducklings tried their wings, not yet quite ready for the long flight. No activities at the farms now disturbed the large flocks. Brave birds from the forest came and perched on the apple tree at the east gable, now tempting with fruit.

  Karl Oskar cut a new notch in his time-counting stick.

  Every evening after dark he saw fires in the forest, especially on a tongue of land in the lake to the east. But they didn’t disturb him; they were the settlers’ campfires across from Nordberg’s Island where the entrenchment was being built. The fires burned the night through and their glare was reassuring. The Indian watch was in order and ready. The tillers had gathered to defend their labor; the Chisago people would not be taken unaware.

  The night fires in the forest were reminders of danger and war. But in daytime nothing could be seen that heralded imminent threat.

  Cedar Island was not visible from this shore, but he could see smoke from the other islands where people from other farms had gone for protection. In the old days these islands had been camping places for the Indians during their hunts. During their first years at Ki-Chi-Saga he had often in the gathering dusk seen the hunting people’s tall flames and heard their eerie cries, so unlike those of ordinary human beings. What they then saw and heard had frightened the newly arrived immigrants, and when the Indians had their powwows, the settlers had stayed away from their fields so as not to divulge their presence. Now the whites had fled their new homes and sought safety in the redskins’ old camping grounds.