Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  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.

  Karl Oskar looked wildly in all directions, searching for the lost child; he looked at the ship, ready to depart; he looked at his wife, sitting on the box, forlorn and shaking with sobs. In that moment he was a thoroughly bewildered, helpless human being, not knowing what to do next. Yet within the minute he must know, his decision must be made.

  Two of their children were on board, one was here on land. If they went on board without the girl, they would never see her again. If they remained on shore, their sons would be left to themselves on the ship. What must they do?

  He would never give up in despair, never consider all lost; he must do the best he knew how, he had always done so in critical moments, he must do so now.

  He would rush on board and find Landberg; their interpreter might persuade the captain to delay the ship until they found . . .

  But now the gangplank was hauled in.

  Karl Oskar made two jumps to the edge of the pier, waved both arms and shouted as loudly as he could: “Wait! Wait a little! Have mercy, people!”

  A crewman came to the rail and shouted something back, something he didn’t understand. But suddenly he heard another voice, a voice he understood, a voice shouting in his own language, louder than all the noises of the ship, louder than any human sound around him: from somewhere on shore came a woman’s voice, a coarse voice, a penetrating, fierce, furious voice, rising above all the din and bustle on the pier: “Wait, you sons of bitches! I’m still on shore!”

  A woman came running along a footpath that followed the shore, and she called, short of breath and angrily, while running, yet louder even than the bellowing bull: “Put down the gangplank, you bastards! I’m coming as fast as I can!”

  Karl Oskar recognized the voice; it belonged to Ulrika of Västergöhl, who, it seemed, was also in danger of being left behind. But Ulrika was not alone as she came running to the pier, she carried a burden, she carried in her arms a kicking, obstreperous child, and because of this burden, and the fear of being left behind, Ulrika was short of breath and angry. In her arms the Glad One carried a little girl in a blue dress with red ribbons on her hair. Panting, she put the child down next to Karl Oskar and yelled once more toward the ship: “Those sons of bitches! Trying to get away!”

  While Karl Oskar and Kristina fell upon their child, the gangplank was once more lowered.

  “The girl was back there under the trees,” said Ulrika. “She was eating cherries.”

  Near the shore, Ulrika told them as they hurried to the gangplank, she had seen a grove of cherry trees, and thinking their boat would remain a while longer, she had gone there to pick some fruit—her throat was dry in this awful heat. The child was already there, reaching for the cherries. But Lill-Märta had been unable to reach the branches, she was too short, so Ulrika had picked her a handful. The child had wanted to remain and eat cherries, and that was why she had kicked and fought so hard when Ulrika carried her back.

  Lill-Märta was still restive; when Kristina pressed her hard to her breast, the girl began to cry: the mother had squashed one of the cherries which she still held in her hand.

  The crewmen greeted Ulrika with happy smiles and gestures as the four belated passengers walked up the gangplank. Who knows, perhaps they would have been equally friendly had they understood the words she shouted at them a few minutes earlier.

  Slowly the steamer Sultana glided out of the Detroit harbor, with none of her passengers missing.

  As soon as they were inside the rail Karl Oskar held out his hand to Ulrika; he shook hers violently, he pressed it in his own, he would not let go of it for a long while: this was the hand that had brought back their child, had saved the little girl and—the parents. But he was unable to speak, not a syllable would cross his lips, not a sound. He felt something in his throat, something he couldn’t swallow. Only a few times before had he had this feeling, it came over him instead of tears.

  Karl Oskar wept, wept inwardly like a man, with invisible tears.

  —5—

  After six days’ sailing across the Great Lakes and the rivers and sounds which separated them, the steamer Sultana reached Chicago. Waiting for a river steamer, the immigrants remained three days in this town, lodged in quarters Landberg had found them. Meanwhile, their guide was busy making arrangements for their continued journey. Pastor Unonius, the Swedish Lutheran minister, unfortunately had gone to visit a new settlement outside the town; consequently, the immigrants were unable to participate in Holy Communion while in Chicago.

  On July 6, early in the morning, Landberg escorted the group on board a steamer in the Chicago River which plied a canal to the Illinois River and which was to carry them to the upper Mississippi. With this last service the guide finished his obligations. Landberg bade his countrymen farewell, wishing them health and success in their new homeland. They were now entirely dependent on themselves, but he commended them all to the hands of Almighty God.

  The immigrants had passed through the portals of the West. They were on a new ship, and on the new ship they met a new sea, a sea unlike any they had ever seen or traversed: the prairies’ own Sea of Grass.

  VIII

  PEASANTS ON A SEA OF GRASS

  —1—

  Through the vast flat land the Creator’s finger had carved a crooked furrow and in this furrow flowed the river, carrying the vessel of the immigrants. The shores of the waterway lay close to them, just beyond the boat’s rail. The solid earth on either side gave the travelers a feeling of security. Fear for their lives, their constant companion on the ocean voyage, was no longer with them; they traveled on water, yet they were near land.

  But their sense of being lost, astray in the world, remained wit
h them on this river journey as it had during the ocean voyage.

  They were passing through a vast level country, an endless emptiness of open, grassy, flat land. No more here than on the ocean could their eyes find a point of focus: no trees, no groves, no hills, no glades, no mountains. They saw one sight only—stretches of wild grass, herbs, and flowers, fields of tussocks, hollows of grass, billows of grass, springing from the ground on all sides, rolling forth in infinity; the same green billows extended all the way to that narrow edge where the flat land flowed into the globe of heaven, all the way to where the eye could see no farther. Like the Atlantic Ocean, this treeless expanse seemed to them one region only; nothing under the sun separated one landscape from another. The grassy tussocks swayed and sank and came up again from the hollows; the tussocks were like billows, always the same, everywhere; when they had seen one, they had seen them all. This unchanging, monotonous expanse was called the prairie.

  For seventy days they had traversed the Atlantic Ocean—a sea of water. Now they traveled across the North American prairie—-a sea of grass.

  Here blossomed a hay meadow, vast as a kingdom, yet here no cattle grazed. Here was hay to harvest in such abundance that all the barns in the world would not suffice to hold it; here a haymaker could go forth with his scythe and cut one straight swath, day after day, mile after mile; he could continue his straight swath the whole summer long, the meadow was so vast he need never turn. Here were blossoming fields and grazing lands, here abounded flowers and fodder. Here, spreading before them, the travelers saw a verdant ocean which they might have walked through dry-shod, which they might have traversed without a ship.

  This was not the sterile sea with darkness in its depths, existing below the firmament before dry land was seen: this was a growing and yielding sea where crops had as yet never been harvested.

  Over this sea, too, the winds wailed, sweeping through the grass, stirring waves that rolled on endlessly. The fierce wind fell upon the grass, flattened it with all its power, rolled over it, pressed it down, so that it lay there as slick as if it had been combed with a comb. But when the wind lost its force and the pressure slackened, the soft grass rose again, straightening its blades. The sea of grass lay there again—living, irrepressible, billowing back and forth in its eternal way, unchanged since the creation of the earth.

  The immigrants had lived in woodland regions in Sweden, they were at home in forests, they were familiar with trees, bushes, and thicket paths, they were intimate with valleys, glades, ridges, and hills. In the woodlands at home they had easily recognized familiar landmarks to guide them. But in this sea of grass they could find nothing to notice and remember: no roads, no wheel tracks, no paths, no cairns. In whichever direction they looked, from the deck of the river steamer they could see only a wild, untrampled expanse, where nothing indicated that man had passed. Without a guide, a wanderer over these flat lands would be lost, swallowed up; how could he find his way when one mile was forever like another?

  The peasants from the forest regions passed over the prairie and shrank from the land opening before their eyes in all its incomprehensible vastness. They desired nothing more than to till smooth, level ground, but this prairie was not what they wanted. There was something missing in this flat land: God had not finished His creation. He had made the ground and planted the grass and all the other growing herbage, but the trees were missing, the bushes, the hills, the valleys, the swales. Moreover, this grass sea was too immense; it frightened them. Anything stretching farther than their eyes could see aroused fear, loneliness, a feeling of desolation. They feared the sea of grass because they were unable to see its end, they feared it in the same way that they feared eternity.

  The prairie stung their hearts with its might and emptiness. The grassland lay on this side of the horizon and it lay beyond, continuing into the invisible, encircling them on all sides; they wanted to shrink and hide within themselves in their helplessness; the farther the earth stretched, the smaller man seemed.

  Here was fertile soil, offering itself to the plow, a ground of potent growth. Where the earth is green, there people can live and feed themselves. And the rivers and brooks had cut into the land and watered it with their flow. What more could a tiller wish? Yet, here they would not like to settle, not under the best conditions; this land was not what they were seeking.

  Born in the forest, they would never feel at home on the prairie. They wanted all of God’s creation around their homes; they wanted trees which gave shade and coolness in summer, warmth and protection against winds in winter. Here was not a single tree to fell for house timber, hardly a shrub to cut for firewood. They wanted to live within timbered walls, to gather high piles of wood for fires in their stoves. Settlers on the prairie must dig holes in the earth and live the life of gophers, and when above ground they must bend their backs because of the unmerciful winds. The woodland peasants would languish from the monotony of the unvarying, desolate, empty endlessness which would surround their homes if they lived here. They would wither away from loneliness and the sense of loss. Delivered into the infinity of this sea of grass, they would perish, soul and body.

  No, the prairie was not a suitable place for permanent settlement. From the deck of their moving steamer they looked out over this flat land, satisfied to pass through it; they thought of the prairie as a thoroughfare, another sea they must cross.

  Their journey continued in the river furrow, and more great stretches of prairie opened up. The new country was showing its size to them, and the more they saw of its vastness and immensity, the smaller they felt themselves; more than ever before during this long journey they felt lost and strayed in the world.

  —2—

  At night, darkness was upon the face of the deep, and on this sea of grass. The wind held its breath and died down. From the ground rose a surge like dying billows on a calm water. Grass and wild flowers were veiled by the cloak of darkness, the verdant ocean was hidden by night. In the firmament—stretched over the earth by the Creator on the Second Day, and called by Him Heaven—the stars shone with clear brilliance. The world down here was great, but the heavenly firmament and the lights up there were greater still—so it seemed when night descended with darkness over the land, comforting those who felt too small for the great earth.

  One evening at dusk, they saw a bright light in the sky ahead of the steamer. Somewhere far away a fire was burning, reflecting its gold-red flames in the heavens. On the earth a fire was throwing its flames so high that it wove red stripes into the gray clouds all the way to the top of heaven: the sea of grass was afire.

  Far into the night the immigrants stood and gazed at this fire, so brilliantly reflected in the firmament ahead of the steamer. A wall of fire and flames rose into the sky, and they could discern thick clouds of smoke spreading above their heads like the wings of a black bird of prey. The stars faded away behind this red-glowing heavenly wall. A fire was sweeping the prairie, devouring the grass, feeding on a sea of fuel.

  To the immigrants, watching from a distance, it seemed as if God’s heaven were burning this night, and a burning heaven is an awesome sight to see. Even the children noticed the fire in the heavens above them, and asked about the angels and wondered if they could fly away before their wings got burned.

  The immigrants were reminded of the altar picture in their village church. It showed the Last Judgment and Christ’s return to earth. In the picture, too, fiery clouds and smoke belched forth, heavy and dark and so real one could almost smell the smoke. And from on high Jesus came riding down on a burning cloud, in snow-white mantle, surrounded by a host of white angels. The people who were to be judged stood in fear on trembling legs, while the earth was lighted by pale rays from a darkened sun. It was daylight, yet it was dark as night, because it was the Last Day, the Day of Doom.

  And now they were seeing the heavens burn in a fire which spread a fearsome light over the earth: their village altar picture was now hanging before them in the fir
mament, immensely enlarged and brought into living reality.

  As yet that part of the picture which gave meaning to it remained undivulged: as yet Christ remained invisible in the fire-wreathed clouds. Christ and His angels had not yet made their appearance.

  But many among them would not have been surprised if during this night He had descended from on high, in the glare of the heavenly flames, to judge living and dead.

  They recognized the signs, they saw them in the very skies: like this it must be on the last day of the world. The seas and the winds would make much noise, and the heavens would tremble. Any moment now the world’s Judge might descend from His heavenly throne, the burning skies lighting His way to the earth.

  But even if this were only an earthly fire—the prairie turned into a burning sea—they were nevertheless drawing closer to this fire each moment. The steamer followed the river, and the river flowed right into the red wall of flames and smoke. They would have liked to ask the captain why their ship didn’t moor, why he continued to steer right into the fire. Did he with intention bring his boat into the flames, to destroy it with passengers and crew? But unable to speak the language, they could not ask. All they knew was that the fire appeared closer and closer, and the boat approached the fire: the boat and the fire must meet.

  Would it be possible to pass through a burning wall and yet remain alive? The alarmed and anxious immigrants sought comfort in their Bibles, where the prophet Isaiah had written the Lord’s words: “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”

  All stayed awake through this night; those who went to bed rose at short intervals to look at the burning skies; many prayed in anguish and despair; if it were so that their last day was upon them, hadn’t it come too suddenly? Would the heavenly King recognize them as His own, or would He say to them: “Depart from Me, ye cursed!”