Karl Oskar was readying himself to drive to Bolle’s mill at Taylors Falls before the first snowfall. He loaded the wagon the evening before: two sacks of rye, two of barley; with two bushels to each sack it made a good load for his trundle cart, as heavy a load as the ox could manage on the bumpy forest road.
He arose before daylight and yoked Starkodder to the cart; he wanted to start at the break of dawn to be back before dark. Johan, always awake early, wanted to ride with his father, who once had promised to take him along to Taylors Falls. But today his load was heavy and Kristina felt the boy should stay at home; he would only get cold riding on the load such a long distance. It wasn’t freezing yet, replied Karl Oskar, and as the boy kept on pleading he relented. It would be good for the boy to get out a little; he would soon be eight and children ought to get around a little at that age.
Children should be hardened was an old saying, but Kristina wound her big woolen shawl around Johan to keep him warm on the journey. She lingered in the door and looked after them as they rolled away into the forest; Karl Oskar walked beside the cart, the reins in one hand, while he steadied the wagon with the other. Johan sat on top of the sacks and waved proudly to his mother; the gray shawl, covering everything but his face, made him look like a wizened old woman.
The ox cart rocked and bumped in the deep ruts—how easily it could turn over on the bumpy road.
“Drive carefully, Karl Oskar! The boy might fall off!” Kristina called after them.
Her husband and son disappeared from Kristina’s view, enveloped by the gray mist of dawn. She sat down in front of the fire with her wool cards; she ought to card wool days on end, all of them needed new stockings before the winter cold set in, and besides the work made the hours fly. But she could not get the cart out of her mind; so many things could happen to Karl Oskar and Johan. Suppose they had to wait at the mill for their grind—then they wouldn’t be home until after dark and could easily lose their way in the forest. The cart might turn over and pin Karl Oskar under the load, badly hurt and unable to move. The cart might break down on the wretched road, preventing them moving from the spot, or Johan might fall off and break an arm or a leg. Busy with her carding, she still could not help thinking there was no end to all the things that might happen to an ox cart.
In the late afternoon she began to listen for the sound of the wagon; wasn’t it time for her to hear the heavy tramp of the ox and the rolling trundles? But she heard nothing. At last she put the wool cards aside and walked out to the edge of the clearing. Once outside she understood that there was still something else that might have happened to Karl Oskar, something she had not imagined—the very thing that must have happened.
Indeed, they had been forewarned. She should have remembered the previous evening—the sun had set fiery red as a peony.
—5—
The forest had much to offer a child’s eyes and the road to Taylors Falls was all too short for Johan. From his high seat on the load he had a good view of all the creatures of the forest. The flying squirrels, so much shyer than ordinary squirrels, fluttered among the distant branches like enormous bats. The woodpecker hammered his arrow-sharp beak into a dry tree trunk until the noise echoed through the forest. At the approach of the noisy wagon, large flocks of blackbirds lifted from the thickets, and the long ears of curious rabbits poked up from the grass in meadows and glades, their white tails bobbing up and down as they took off, their hind legs stretching out behind them. But the skunk, that evil-smelling animal, was not so easily scared—he sat down among the bushes and examined the wagon; better avoid that critter or it would piss on you.
Of all the animals, Johan was most familiar with the gophers, which were always visible near the house. Now he saw them wherever the ground was free of trees and bushes. The gophers had gray-brown coats with two black streaks along the back, and were bigger than rats but smaller than squirrels. They sat upright on their tails, blinking curiously at you, but if you tried to catch them they dove quickly into their holes. Gophers were not dangerous, Johan had been told, they neither clawed nor bit you. But the gray wildcat with its short legs and bobbed tail, which sometimes sneaked all the way into their house—he could both claw and bite, and if he was very hungry he might tear little children to pieces and eat them. Johan had been warned about that cat.
With a lumbering gait the black ox pulled the cart, the oak trundles turning slowly over stumps, into and out of ruts. The axles were well greased with bacon rind to prevent them from squeaking; Karl Oskar’s cart was no screech-wagon announcing a coming settler miles away. It was the first time in America he had driven a load with his own vehicle and his own beast, and the first time he was accompanied by his oldest son.
Johan had a mind ahead of his years, always quick to notice things around him. He had begun to help his father, looking after the cows and the pigs when they were let out, carrying in water and wood. He was a willing helper as far as his strength went. In time the boy would be a great aid to Karl Oskar.
“If you’re cold, come down and run beside the cart!”
No, Johan wasn’t cold; he wanted to ride on the load. The weather was mild and he was warmed by the excitement of his new experience, by all he saw and heard. He was only afraid the road might come to an end, and only too soon he spied the river; they had arrived.
Stephen Bolle, the Irishman, had built his little mill near the rushing stream above Taylors Falls. The mill house had been raised without a single nail; the walls were held together by pegs. The millstones were only eighteen inches in diameter; the small stones could grind only a rough flour. It was really a dwarf mill, a little makeshift contraption, but it was the closest one. Marine and Stillwater could boast of steam mills to grind the settlers’ crops.
The miller looked out through the door of his dwarf house, frightening Johan. Bolle was a thick-set, fat man with heavy white hair hanging down to his shoulders like a horse’s mane. His face was black-gray with white spots, like hardened, cracked clay, and in the cracks, dirt and flour had gathered; Bolle never washed his face. In the center of this black-gray, flour-white field, his mouth opened like a hole with one long, black tooth. To the boy the miller looked like an old troll.
One of his daughters, a widow, took care of the miller’s household, and a little granddaughter with fiery red hair ran around his legs, peeking curiously at the newcomers.
Stephen Bolle was a laconic man who grunted like an Indian; Karl Oskar could not understand half of what he said. But the Irishman understood the purpose of a man with grain sacks, and Karl Oskar knew the cost of grinding per bushel; further conversation was unnecessary.
There was one load before them; Karl Oskar would have to wait an hour until the other settler’s grind was finished, then his own sacks would be poured between the grindstones. Meanwhile, Karl Oskar and Johan opened their lunch basket: bread, potato pancakes, fried pork, milk from a bottle Kristina had tied in a woolen sock to keep warm. As they ate Bolle’s granddaughter, the little girl with the flaming hair, eagerly watched them. She tried to talk to Johan but he couldn’t begin to understand what she was saying. Her forehead above her snub nose was covered with freckles; she was the troll child and her grandfather the old troll; Johan disliked them both.
He asked his father about the miller and the girl and Karl Oskar told him that the Irish were a special race of people, unlike the Swedes except for the color of their skin. They were ill-tempered, always fighting among themselves or with other people. They quarreled willingly and worked unwillingly. But English happened to be their mother tongue and so they got along well in America, in spite of their bad behavior. That was the strange thing about this country—you might meet all kinds of people. So Johan mustn’t be surprised at the way people looked or acted.
The Irishman’s ramshackle mill ground slowly and it was one o’clock before Karl Oskar’s grain had been turned into flour. While they were waiting, the weather had unexpectedly changed. The sun was no longer visible, the w
hole sky had clouded over, and suddenly the air felt much colder.
The old miller dumped the last sack onto the cart, squinted heavenward, and granted, “Goin’ to get snow—pahaps—uh . . .”
The Swedish settler nodded goodbye to the Irishman and hurried to turn homeward. His ox cart would need four hours on the road and the day was far gone; he had no time to lose if he wanted to be home before dark. Of course he was familiar with the road and could follow his own tracks so he was sure to reach Duvemåla even if he had to travel the last stretch in darkness. Nevertheless . . . he urged Starkodder: “Git goin’! Hurry up!” But the black ox had once and for all set his own pace, and moved his heavy body with the familiar slow speed, shuffling his hooves in the same rhythm; this steady beast was not to be ruffled by whip or urging.
Johan had again settled himself on top of the sacks but after a couple of miles he complained of being cold. Karl Oskar helped the boy down and had him walk beside the cart to keep warm. Karl Oskar buttoned up his own heavy coat. It had indeed turned cold, and there was a peculiar thickness in the air, indicating a change in the weather, the kind that took place so suddenly in the Territory. Men said the temperature could fall from twenty above to twenty below within a few hours. And the Irish miller had croaked something about snow. Well, it was time, of course . . .
But there was another word in connection with snow, and that word Karl Oskar did not even wish to voice. But it was surely too early for that kind of weather, now, at the beginning of November. Yet, anything could happen weather-wise in this country—if they were unlucky. He began to feel apprehensive as he peered at the clouds; they were thickening and darkening above the tree tops. And the trees, which had been still when they drove past them a few hours ago, had begun to sway—slowly, to be sure—yet it was not a good sign; it boded ill.
But a storm couldn’t come on so suddenly; he had time to get home. Well, to be on the safe side, perhaps they had better take the road by Danjel’s and Jonas Petter’s claims, on Lake Gennesaret. This was a little farther, a mile or two, but in New Kärragärde they would find shelter should the threatening storm break. They would have to turn off at the creek, a few hundred yards farther on. He hesitated, scanning the fir tops every couple of minutes—it couldn’t come that quick . . .
Johan was unable to keep warm even though he ran behind the cart and kept in constant motion.
“I’m cold, Father! It burns . . .”
He wound the woolen shawl tighter around Johan’s head and shoulders and showed him how to flail his arms against his body to keep warm. He had no mittens but Karl Oskar dug his own out of his pocket and put them on the boy’s ice-cold hands. As the cold became more intense, the boy became a problem, for he was sensitive to it in a way a grown person was not. If Karl Oskar had suspected the weather would change he would have driven alone to Taylors Falls. But in the morning it had looked promising . . . For his son’s sake he now decided to take the longer road through Danjel’s claim and, if need be, seek shelter. At the creek Karl Oskar left his old tracks and turned off toward New Kärragärde. This stretch should take only half an hour, certainly not much more, if he just could get his ox to move a little faster.
He cut a juniper branch and struck Starkodder a few blows across the hindquarters. “Git goin’!” The black ox stepped up his pace a little, and sniffed the air as if he could smell an approaching calamity.
A raw fog was enveloping the wagon from all quarters. A sharp wind, which penetrated their clothing and cut the skin like a knife edge, had come up behind them from the northeast. In the air, high above the trees, a heavy roar could be heard; it sounded like breaking waves on a distant shore. The trees bent back and forth, swaying like masts of a ship. This was a sure sign: a northeaster was breaking. But it might not last long . . .
Karl Oskar looked skyward and discovered that he no longer could see the tree tops through the fog. Snow was all right, but that other word . . . No, he liked no part of it; it was a terrifying word in the Territory—blizzard. One’s life was always in danger in a blizzard if one happened to be more than five minutes from a house.
They were still only halfway home but they might reach Danjel’s cottage. Another half hour—if it didn’t get too bad in the next half hour. It couldn’t come that quickly. They would make it. He urged the ox on, he yelled and hit and slapped the reins. The cart was moving forward; each time the wheels turned he took a few steps, three long steps. They had to reach shelter.
The noise from above was closer, the tree tops were bending lower, the motion of the trunks had increased. The blizzard was hitting the forest at a terrifying speed, rolling across the valley in darkening clouds, bursting furiously over hundreds of miles while the cart trudged only a quarter of a mile. It had come upon them so unbelievably fast that they could feel its impact already; the first snow-hail was whipping Karl Oskar’s cheeks.
Like a hawk after its prey, the blizzard dove down upon the cart and its people.
Within a few moments it was upon them. It began with whirling hail, biting like gravel into the skin; then after this first smarting blow, it hurled snow masses with mighty force. All at once the world around them was enveloped in snow, hurling, whirling, whipping, piercing, smarting snow. Only snow could be seen. The northeaster drove the blinding mass through the forest, swept the valley with its blizzard-broom. Without warning, they had fallen into the ambush of a great blizzard.
If the onslaught had come from the opposite direction they would have been unable to drive on. Against such a force the ox would have been unable to move; the cart would have stopped in its tracks. Now they were driven forward by the storm.
Shivering and trembling, Johan clung to his father: “Dad! Please! Help me please, Dad!”
The boy cried pitifully. Karl Oskar took the blanket which covered the sacks and wrapped it around him and put him back on top of the load. He reined in the ox for a moment—the boy had lost his wooden shoes in the snow and Karl Oskar must find them. It took some moments, for the dense snow stung his eyelids, blinding him.
The thick, snow-filled air darkened the forest; a premature dusk fell about them. Karl Oskar felt as if he were naked, so penetrating was the fierce wind. The northeaster’s icy scraper tore at his face. Johan, despite being well bundled, whimpered and cried with the painful cold. Only Starkodder, in his thick hide, had adequate protection against the blizzard.
The ox plodded along between the shafts, pulling the cart and following the clearing among the trees. The wheels turned, the cart moved, but had they not been somewhat sheltered by the forest it would surely have turned over.
On, on! They must reach Danjel’s, they must find shelter. It could not be far now—if the boy was able to stand it . . . Karl Oskar walked beside the wagon and held onto it as if he were afraid of losing it. Now and again he felt for Johan to make sure he was still there; at the same time he watched his beast ahead of him. Starkodder tramped steadily through the blizzard, pushing his big-bellied body through the whirling snow masses like a slowly rolling boulder. The ox no longer seemed black—his coat was covered with snow and between the shafts he looked like a moving snowdrift with a pair of horns sticking out.
The snow lumped itself under Karl Oskar’s clogs, hung like a freezing cover over his back, stuck to the trundle wheels in big clumps. The cart rolled more slowly as the snow grew deeper, but they did move forward. God be praised for this ox; he was tough, he could get through.
And the blizzard-broom swept furiously and hurled the snow-masses over the St. Croix Valley. Karl Oskar had not seen the like of this storm in November. But a blizzard that came on so quickly usually did not last very long. It might be over in an hour, perhaps sooner. An hour, though, was too much for them; even a half hour or a quarter might be too much. So much could happen in a quarter of an hour in weather like this; indeed, a few minutes could mean life or death. They must find shelter quickly; their lives were now in danger.
The roar of the blizzard rose
and fell. Sharp, crackling sounds were heard above the din: broken tree trunks that crashed in the forest. Here trees were felled without an ax, and the storm thundered and rumbled and swallowed all other sounds with its own tumult. The cart trundles, however, were still turning, the black ox still pulled his wagon, even though the snow had changed his color to shining white.
The driver’s cheeks were stiff, frostbitten; he rubbed them with snow. How long would his time of grace last? How long could the boy endure? No protection helped a body against this cold, however well bundled up. He called cheeringly to his son, who lay on the sacks like a bundle of clothes. A weak complaint was his only reply. Johan’s life was in danger, his resistance was not great . . .
The storm-broom swept with its mighty strokes; the forest crackled, to right and left they could hear trees falling. Karl Oskar yelled with all his might at his beast, urging him, hitting him, but his voice was drowned in the blizzard’s hissing cauldron.
Suddenly he stopped; his clog had struck against wood. He took another step, yes, he was standing on wood. He recognized the place. They ware crossing the wooden bridge which Danjel and Jonas Petter had built over the brook Kidron. They were now in the little valley which the biblically inclined Danjel had called Kidron’s Valley.
If he remembered rightly he now had only about half a mile left to Danjel’s cabin. If the ox didn’t slow down they could make it in a quarter of an hour, surely in twenty minutes. On a clear day they could have seen the lake from here, and the house, they were that close. Within fifteen minutes they would be out of danger, sitting in the warmth of Danjel’s cottage. He called to the boy that they were almost at his uncle’s.
But the trundles turned more heavily in the drifted snow, the cart moved ever more grudgingly. Karl Oskar tied the reins around his waist and pushed the cart from behind with all his strength. This would also warm him. And the trundles kept turning, still rolling, and each turn brought them a few steps closer to the house down there at the lakeside, a few steps closer to safety.
The Settlers Page 15