Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  On the east shore of the St. Croix, directly across from Pastor Jackson’s cabin, steep cliffs of red-brown sandstone obstructed the view of the countryside: there lay Wisconsin, which two years ago had become a state of the Union.

  Jackson had been pastor in Stillwater ever since the Lord had founded his parish in the town. Up till now he had lived in a log cabin belonging to a fur trapper who spent most of his time in the forests, but a more comfortable abode was being built by his parishioners near his church and would be ready this fall. Most of the members of his congregation were generous, helpful people. Practically all gained their living from the lumber activities in the region or from farming. Many of the timbermen in the logging camps and the laborers at the mills in Stillwater were worldly and unregenerate, but the farmers moving into the district were nearly all good Christians. Some fifty homesteaders had moved into Washington County in recent years and these new settlers often had errands in Stillwater: Sundays they came to hear Pastor Jackson preach; weekdays they came to sell their grain, potatoes, pork, or mutton.

  The minister’s cabin stood only a few hundred yards from the pier where the Red Wing of St. Louis—well known in Stillwater—was unloading her cargo of beef, pork, and flour barrels. Soon the sound of her steam whistle drowned the saw’s screeching and announced to Pastor Jackson that the side-wheeler had returned down the river toward the Mississippi. But before he had time to lay a new log on his sawhorse, a dark cloud suddenly came up from the Wisconsin side. During the heavy downpour he sought shelter in his cabin. The street outside quickly became empty of people, everyone running inside. But through his window he now noticed on the steamship pier a small group of people who had not sought shelter from the violent shower. They must be newcomers, passengers from the Red Wing. The minister guessed they were immigrants. And no one had been there to help them—all were afraid of the cholera which new arrivals might bring with them.

  Last spring German immigrants had brought the cholera to Minnesota, and during the whole summer the pestilence had raged in the setttlements farther south. Along the St. Croix, enormous graves had been dug and filled with the bodies of immigrants. In Stillwater a score of deaths had taken place, and the inhabitants were stricken by fear of this pestilence. Careful watch was kept over newcomers, and the city council had removed a great number of them and placed them on an island in a forest lake some ten miles to the west. Here they had been left to live, separated from other people, until free from contagion.

  But Pastor Jackson never avoided strangers, he felt no fear of the dreadful disease: Whither in this world may man flee, that death shall not o’ertake him?

  As soon as he saw the group on the pier, he made his way toward them. The violent rain was barely over. Huddled among the bundles and chests sat grownups and children. Shawls and coats had been tucked around the children to protect them from the rain; babies cried in the women’s arms.

  He saw at once he had come to people who needed him. He recognized that they had come from far away, they were immigrants from Europe. Both men and women were light complexioned, tall and sturdy, and he guessed they were from Germany, like so many other recent immigrants. He spoke German passably and made an attempt to address the strangers in that language: He was a Baptist minister. Wouldn’t they come with him to his cabin?

  He repeated his question but received no answer; all stared at him without comprehension. Then German was not their mother tongue.

  As Pastor Jackson looked at the group more carefully he saw that nearly all were pale and starved-looking. Immigrant Germans, both men and women, usually arrived well fed, their cheeks blooming. He concluded these immigrants might be Irish—though why did they not know English?

  A tall, gangly youth with a light down on his upper lip spoke a few sentences in a language Pastor Jackson recognized: immigrant English. Pastor Jackson was familiar with newcomers’ first attempts to use the language of their new land, and he smiled encouragingly at the speaker, listened carefully, and did not interrupt him. And at last he understood. The youth wanted to tell him that he was a stranger in America and wondered if anyone here would help him.

  The American asked where the immigrants came from, and in the answer he seemed to recognize the name Sweden.

  Pastor Jackson had gathered much information about the various countries of the immigrants, and he knew that Sweden was a county of Norway. A Norwegian family in Marine belonged to his congregation. The newcomers on the pier must be countrymen of the Norwegian people in Marine, who were good, religious people. A Norwegian also lived here in Stillwater—Mr. Thomassen, a shoemaker who had resoled his shoes and made a good job of it. Thomassen lived some distance away, on the other side of the church. He would send a message to him to come and meet a group of his newly arrived countrymen.

  And the minister turned again to the youth and spoke to him in English; he spoke as slowly and clearly as he could and tried to extend his message to the whole group. The people here were friendly and good people, but afraid of strangers who might bring the cholera. The newcomers need have no fears, he was a minister here in town; now they must come with him to his cabin and he would take care of their belongings and have them brought inside for the night.

  The pale, gangly youth did not try to explain to the rest of them what Pastor Jackson had said. But he pulled from his pocket a small book, the leaves of which he turned eagerly as if searching for something. The minister turned to a young woman with a whimpering child on either knee and took the smallest child in his arms. It was a baby boy, and he held him as carefully as though baptizing him. The child was wrapped in a soaking-wet shawl, and water dripped from the shawl and wet the minister’s clothing quite through.

  Then Pastor Henry Jackson walked away with the child in his arms, and the whole group followed him. Last in the row came the youth he had spoken to, still searching in his book. He continued to turn the pages all the way until they reached the cabin, unable to find what he was looking for: Conversation with a Minister.

  —3—

  Before Karl Oskar stepped across the threshold of Pastor Jackson’s cabin, he turned to Jonas Petter to seek his counsel: Was it advisable to believe this peculiar, bareheaded man? How could they know what he intended to do with them? Perhaps he was leading them to a lair of robbers and thieves? How could they know what kind of den they were stepping into?

  “But he looks kind and helpful,” Jonas Petter said.

  “That’s just it,” Karl Oskar insisted. Didn’t he know! The kinder and more helpful a stranger seemed in America, the more dangerous it was to go with him. He still carried on his body marks he could feel and see: a great scar on his chest and his left leg still aching. He did not believe in any stranger in North America.

  “We need not be afraid. He is the minister in this town,” Robert said, with respect in his voice.

  “Minister? He? No! He lies!”

  Karl Oskar’s suspicions increased: this helper of theirs, going bareheaded outside, poorly dressed in worn trousers and a shirt that wasn’t too clean—this man a minister? If this man was a minister then he, Karl Oskar, could stand in a pulpit!

  Robert insisted that the man had said he was a minister, and that meant a preacher. They could see for themselves in his book. But Karl Oskar thought Robert must have heard wrong. He had no confidence in his brother’s knowledge of the English language. And he suspected that the stranger was luring them away from the pier so that he might steal their belongings.

  But as the bareheaded man wasn’t taking them so far away that they couldn’t keep an eye on their movables, his suspicions were somewhat allayed, and he went inside the cabin. He whispered, however, to Kristina: They must not forget, the most seemingly helpful persons might be the most deceitful.

  Pastor Jackson busied himself making a great fire in the stove so that his guests might dry their wet clothing. The women undressed to their petticoats and hung their skirts to dry in front of the fire; the children’s wet garments
were removed. The men weren’t much concerned over their wet clothing as long as they felt warmth; they elbowed each other around the stove. Their host attended to all their needs: he acted as though they were his nearest relatives come to visit him. They weren’t allowed to do a single chore—neither fetch water nor wood—he did everything himself, attended to them as if he were their servant.

  He put a kettle on the stove and placed a sizable chunk of venison in it; fortunately, one of his church members had brought the gift to him this very day. He split some of his newly sawed logs and carried in dry pine wood and fed the stove until it was red hot. He put on a white apron and set his broad table with bread, milk, butter, sausage, cheese; he set out knives, forks, plates, and spoons as capably as a woman. He fussed over the children, warmed milk for them, found playthings for them. And during this whole time his guests sat wide-eyed and stared at him, struck dumb by all the work an unknown man in an unknown place was doing for them, and all the things offered them. He made his house their home.

  And when they sat down to table, they discovered he was a cook worthy of a noble family; the venison was tender and juicy, melting in the mouth like butter. None among them had ever eaten such fare. Even Fina-Kajsa, with her single tooth, was able to chew this meat. And when they had eaten to their satisfaction, there was still a great deal of food left. As they sat there, sated and comfortable, they entirely forgot their miserable situation of a few hours earlier.

  The women were still in their petticoats, but after the meal Ulrika took down her skirt, which had dried in front of the fire: “When I get my rump wet, I lose my good temper.” So saying, she gave Pastor Jackson her broadest smile of honest appreciation.

  He smiled back, full of understanding, not of her words, but of her need for dry clothing. And he behaved toward her and all of them as if concerned with only one thought: Did they have all the food they wanted and were they comfortable?

  As they were dry again, they had indeed all they could wish for. And all were satisfied; since landing in America they had never eaten so well and enjoyed food so much as this evening, and yet all of it was a gift.

  Now they knew the bareheaded man who had met them on the pier; now all realized who he was. They didn’t understand what he said, but they understood what he did, and this was sufficient for them. Robert had asked if no one would help them, and this man was the answer: he helped them all.

  After enjoying the food, the immigrants were also to enjoy rest. Pastor Jackson made up beds for his visitors. For his fifteen guests, big and little, he made beds over the entire floor of his cabin. He brought out sacks and filled them with hay for mattresses, he produced animal skins for covers; he made such roomy and comfortable beds that he himself could find no place to sleep in his own house—he said good night to his guests and went to sleep with a neighbor.

  And they were barely awake the following morning when he was back, busying himself at the stove, preparing the morning meal for them. He boiled a pot of potatoes and beans, he warmed yesterday’s leftover venison.

  Their benefactor told Robert he had sent for one of their countrymen as interpreter. And while they were still at their breakfast a small, tousle-haired man with a broad nose entered the cabin; he had on a black cobbler’s apron of skin which smelled of leather and wax. He greeted them all as if knowing them in advance: “I am Sigurd Thomassen. I am a Nordman.”

  He spoke to the Swedes as if expecting them to know who he was: shoemaker in Stillwater, the only Norwegian in town.

  The man was not exactly a countryman of theirs; Robert had been mistaken. But the Swedish immigrants understood his language as well as they had understood Captain Berger on the Red Wing, and they learned from him that Robert had been right in saying their host was a minister.

  Karl Oskar felt ashamed of his suspicions yesterday; and all beheld in deep wonder the man whose guests they were, this kind American, now busying himself with women’s chores. A man of the clergy, called and ordained for the holy office of preaching the Gospel—yet here he was making beds, washing dishes, tidying up the house, sweeping, performing the chores of an ordinary maid. They could not comprehend it. They could not imagine this man in the white kitchen apron, standing in the pulpit in frock and collar, they couldn’t understand this man who scoured pots and pans on weekdays and would stand at the altar Sundays, administering the Holy sacraments. Why should a minister, able to preach, stoop so low as to perform menial kitchen chores?

  “I have never seen a man so handy in the kitchen,” Kristina said to Ulrika.

  “He is the kindest man with the biggest heart I’ve ever met,” replied the Glad One. “Who could ever have guessed he was a priest?”

  “Is he married?” Kristina asked.

  “He is a bachelor.” Thomassen used the English word.

  “I mean—does he have a wife?”

  “No. He lives single.” He used the English word single, which Kristina didn’t understand. She thought, however, the minister in Stillwater must not yet have married.

  The Norwegian told them that women were scarce in the Territory. Here in Stillwater there was hardly one woman to ten men, and in the countryside maybe one to twenty men. So the men went about as eager as Adam in Paradise before God created Eve.

  “You are most welcome! The settlers have been waiting for you!” he told Kristina.

  And he looked from one to the other of the three Swedish women. Kristina did not like his eyes; there was lust in them. When he looked at her, she felt as though he were in some way touching her intimately. This she was sure of—she needn’t ask if shoemaker Thomassen was unmarried.

  Karl Oskar questioned him concerning the road to Taylors Falls, and he showed the Norwegian the piece of paper he had carefully saved, the address of Fina-Kajsa’s son:

  Mister Anders Månsson

  Taylors Falls Påst Offis

  Minnesota Territory

  North-America.

  From Thomassen he now learned that Taylors Falls was a small settlement deep in the wilderness to the north. There were only a few settlers there and they would find Månsson without difficulty. Taylors Falls was on the banks of the St. Croix, but no passenger boats went there. The lumber company in Stillwater had cut a road for timber hauling with their ox teams some distance along the river—after that there were trails. They would have to go by foot to reach their destination. He was sure the lumber company could be persuaded to freight their belongings up the river in one of their barges. It was almost thirty miles to Taylors Falls, and if they were good walkers, they might manage it in two days, but the paths were overgrown, and as they had children with them they ought to figure on three days. But they would have no trouble finding their way: if they stayed close to the river, they couldn’t miss it, for Taylors Falls lay right on the bank.

  The weather now was pleasantly cool, and as they had already been much delayed it was decided that they should continue on their way immediately. Thirty miles sounded a formidable distance to walk on foot, but counting in Swedish miles it was only five. Often on a Sunday they had walked the distance to Ljuder church and back, which made two Swedish miles. Having sat inactive so long on ships and steamboats, they felt they ought to have rested themselves sufficiently to walk the distance.

  They asked the Norwegian if there might be any danger of wild Indians during the walk, but he did not think that the Redskins they might encounter on the road to Taylors Falls would be dangerous, if left alone. There were only Chippewa Indians living in the wilds to the north, and they were a docile and peace-loving tribe. The Sioux, who had their hunting ground to the south and who roamed in great packs through the forest this time of year, were much more fierce and warlike, and the settlers were afraid of them. But he was sure they would not meet any members of that tribe in the region they were to pass through.

  The Swedes wondered if shoemaker Thomassen didn’t minimize the dangers. Perhaps he only wanted to allay their fears.

  “You may meet Chippewa
s, but they are friendly to the settlers,” he insisted.

  The youngest and the oldest in their group would cause most concern during a long walk—Fina-Kajsa and the babies. Karl Oskar asked Fina-Kajsa if she would be able to go with them; perhaps she had better stay here with the kind minister for the time being.

  The old woman flared up in anger: “Who says I’m not able to walk? Who will recognize my son Anders if I don’t come along?”

  And she assured them with many oaths that they would never get there if she didn’t go with them to find her son for them; they would never arrive without her aid. They would lose their way in the wilderness, and no one would help them, unless she was with them and brought them to Anders.

  So they prepared to get under way. They brought along as much food as they thought would be needed, and clothing and bedding for sleeping in the open; they took their knapsacks and their bundles, as much as they thought they could carry. Pastor Jackson had taken charge of their heavy goods, and he was to send it on the lumber company’s flat barges to Mister Anders Månsson at Taylors Falls.

  As the immigrants parted from the goodhearted man who had made his cabin their home for a night and half a day, they were all very sad at not being able to say a single word of thanks in his tongue. None of their honest words of gratitude were comprehensible to him. But all shook him by the hand in such a way that they felt he must understand. And Robert tried to express in English how grateful they were: Pastor Jackson could rely on them to do him a favor in return as soon as they could. This sentence he had not taken from the language book and he was not sure the pastor understood him. Robert was particularly grateful to the Stillwater minister: he was the first American able to understand his English. Pastor Jackson had understood more of his sentences from the language book than anyone else, and of the English words Pastor Jackson spoke, Robert had understood many more than any other American’s. Robert had used a sentence which he had long practiced: Please speak a little more slowly, sir! and after this the minister had spoken more slowly and clearly. Their conversation had progressed almost to his full satisfaction, even though he had been unable to find a chapter, Conversation with a Minister. This American had understood him from the very beginning, ever since his question: Will no one help me?