Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  The second night they made camp in a cleavage of the ridge. This night no furry animals came to sniff their food boxes, and they were disturbed by no living creature except the mosquitoes.

  They had been told they would arrive about evening of the third day. During the afternoon they began to look for the village in the forest where Anders Månsson, Fina-Kajsa’s son, had his home. As yet they had seen no sign of human habitation, no sign of people.

  According to her son’s letters, insisted Fina-Kajsa, his home was situated near a river with great cliffs along its shores and many falls and rapids. One place was called The Devil’s Kettle because it was the entrance to Hell. Now they could see how steep the cliffs were along the shore of the St. Croix River. All stopped to look at the rapid current as it came rushing along down the cliffs with a terrific roar. This could well be the region Anders Månsson had described in his letters. But there wasn’t the slightest sign of people living near by.

  They walked on a little farther, and Fina-Kajsa was now sure they had lost their way. A farm like the one he had described could not possibly be located in this region—her son couldn’t live near here. She suspected that the little Norwegian who directed their way from Stillwater had been false and unreliable: he had undoubtedly led them astray on purpose. By now the old woman was completely exhausted, dragging her feet, stumbling and falling into holes in the trail, she had to be helped up several times.

  “Oh my, oh me! We’ll never get there! Oh my, oh me!” said Fina-Kajsa.

  They had only a few hours until darkness would fall and their third day would come to an end. They must again prepare to sleep in the open. And their food was running low, they would hardly have enough for the evening meal. They had eaten a lot of berries during their walk, but berries did not satisfy hunger.

  The men were talking about what to do, and all walked with slower, wearier steps as the sun sank lower. Should they make camp or go a little farther? Then they came into an opening in the forest and suddenly discovered a clearing where every pine had been cut down. They stopped short in surprise.

  “These trees were only recently cut down!” Karl Oskar exclaimed.

  The stumps were new, and branches and logs were strewn about. The stumps were three feet high—yes, those lazy bastards had stood straight backed while felling the trees.

  “And there they have left the ax,” said Arvid, and pointed to a tall stump. Karl Oskar quickly stepped up to the ax and loosened it, not only because he wanted to inspect an American tool but for a much more important reason: If a pregnant woman let her eyes fall on an ax stuck in a stump or chopping block, then her child would be born with a harelip, and this was an incurable defect. Karl Oskar hoped that Kristina had not noticed the broad-bladed ax.

  Jonas Petter, who was a bit ahead of them, now called out in great happiness: “Folks live back there!”

  A few gunshots to the left of their trail, the clearing ended in a green meadow where a cabin could be seen against a stand of leaf trees.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the newly built shake-roofed log cabin. A small field near by had growing crops, and two cows grazed in the meadow, fine, fat animals with full udders.

  This was a settler’s farm, here they could buy milk; cows with such splendid udders must give many gallons at each milking. They all sat down in the grass outside the cabin, and Karl Oskar brought out his stoup from the knapsack; then he went up to the door and knocked.

  A middle-aged, scrawny woman with heavy men’s boots on her feet opened the door. She looked curiously at the group outside. There was fear in her eyes as she turned them on Karl Oskar. Seeing her look of fright, he remembered what Kristina had said about his unkempt beard and hair. Not wishing to be mistaken for a robber he tried to look as friendly as possible and greeted her pleasantly in Swedish. The few English words he had learned he could never remember at such a time, but he talked with his hands and held out his stoup, then he moved it to his lips as if drinking. He tried in this way to tell her that he wanted to buy milk. The woman in the doorway said something incomprehensible and then she just stared at him. He opened his mouth still wider and acted as if gulping gallons from his vessel, at the same time pointing to the cows—the woman must understand what he wanted.

  But she looked still more frightened and stared at him as if he might be insane. Perhaps she thought he was making fun of her. He was unable to make himself understood and he had little confidence in Robert after their experience on the street in Stillwater.

  However, just as the woman prepared to shut the door, Robert stepped up and said clearly in English: “We want to buy milk.”

  She looked searchingly at the English-speaking youth who was beardless, but long haired, and they realized she understood him. He repeated his request a second and a third time, and each time she nodded in comprehension. Then she left them and disappeared into the house, returning in a few moments with a large wooden pail filled almost to the brim with milk.

  Both Kristina and Ulrika spoke heartfelt Swedish words of thanks to the woman, and all gathered with their mugs around the milk pail.

  Kristina turned to Robert and said: “We have you to thank for this milk!”

  At last Robert had shown that he could lend his mouth as a help to all, explain in the foreign language what they wished, and obtain what they needed. This time he had prepared himself well: he had repeated the words to himself many times before he used them: We want to buy milk. This was the way he must do it—chew the words many times, as he chewed his food.

  Robert grew courageous from his success, and as the kind woman was returning to the cabin he followed her and said: “Respected Sir, how can we reach Taylors Falls?”

  He asked Karl Oskar to show her the piece of paper with Anders Månsson’s address. But she did not look at it or answer him—instead she hurried inside and closed the door. When Robert tried to open it he found it bolted. The woman had given them a pail of milk and then she had locked herself in the cabin, without even waiting to be paid! That was peculiar.

  The immigrants eagerly emptied the milk pail; the children were given as much milk as they could drink, and there was still plenty for the grownups. The milk was cream-thick, the cows hereabouts must get good grass; all felt refreshed by this unexpected refreshment.

  But the American woman had not waited to be paid. She had locked herself in the cabin. She was afraid to let them come inside, this much they understood.

  They put the empty pail at the door and waited for her to reappear. Robert was still determined to find out where Anders Månsson lived. And he began to practice a new sentence: I want to expose you this paper with an address . . . when suddenly a dog’s bark was heard quite near them, and two men with guns in their hands approached across the clearing.

  The men who headed toward them were apparently hunters. They wore broad-brimmed hats and skin jackets on which the fur still clung at the seams. They were unkempt, fully bearded, and were accompanied by two fierce curs whose hair stood on end. As they neared the Swedish immigrants they lifted their guns threateningly. The dogs barked furiously, and the frightened children began to yell.

  A commotion of indescribable fear broke out among the travelers at the strangers’ unexpected behavior. The women pressed their children to them and huddled together, the men looked irresolutely from one to the other, feeling for their knives. The strangers acted and spoke roughly, and although the immigrants couldn’t understand their words, they understood their guns: the men ordered them not to move and seemed ready to lay hands on them. Karl Oskar and Jonas Petter fingered their knives—their guns were still in their chests in Stillwater—and wondered what kind of ruffians they had encountered. What did the men want? If they were hunters, they ought to pursue their game and let peaceful folk alone. This Karl Oskar and Jonas Petter told them in Swedish.

  A third man was now approaching across the clearing. He was shorter than the other two, but he too had a gun and was dressed like them. Hi
s trousers had great patches over the knees. He carried two rabbits by their hind legs, blood dripping from their headless bodies. He looked more threatening than either of the other two hunters.

  The unarmed group of men, women, and children was now surrounded by three men with guns, apparently hunters of peaceful human beings. Now they were indeed in danger and they huddled close together like a herd of game, stalked and encircled by hounds. What could they do?

  The dogs rushed to the third hunter and licked the blood dripping from his rabbits. Then, suddenly, one of the immigrant women rushed after the dogs, calling in fury at the top of her old voice: “You bastard! Don’t you know how to behave?”

  It was Fina-Kajsa, the oldest and most decrepit of the women. She rushed forward in an insane rage as if threatening the ruffian. But suddenly she stopped and stared at the man, and the hunter with the rabbits pushed back his broad-brimmed hat; he too stopped and stared; his chin fell, leaving his mouth open.

  Fina-Kajsa took a few steps forward: “Shoot your paltry rabbits, but leave peaceful folk alone! Have you no shame at all, boy? To meet your old mother with a gun!”

  The hunter’s chin fell another inch. He dropped his rabbits on the ground.

  “Throw down your shooting iron too,” Fina-Kajsa ordered him.

  “Mother!”

  “I had expected you to greet me like a decent man. And here you and your pack of friends aim guns. . . .”

  “Mother—I didn’t expect you!”

  “I thought I would never get here. But here you see me as I am, Anders my son.”

  “Mother—you’re here!”

  “I thought America had no end!”

  “Where’s Father?”

  “He lies on the bottom of the sea.”

  “Is Father dead?”

  “As dead as the rest on the bottom of the sea! And the grindstone he had brought for you lies there too.”

  “Did Father bring me a grindstone?”

  “The stones are cheap on Öland. Here is our old iron pot! Here, right in my hand! They broke one leg. . . . Anders . . . if you don’t recognize your mother you at least remember our old pot!”

  “Yes, yes! You bring our old gryta! Yes, yes. . . . Welcome, Mother!”

  Mother and son had found each other, and the group around them listened in silence.

  —4—

  They had reached Taylors Falls; they were only a short distance from Anders Månsson’s home.

  He told them he had been out with his two neighbors to shoot some rabbits for supper. And now they also heard the explanation for the strange behavior of the woman and the other two hunters: The settlers here were afraid of cholera, and all newcomers were met and questioned before they were allowed to enter the settlement. If anyone arrived from a contaminated region he was put into a shed near the falls where he was fumigated with sulphur and tar for a few days before he was let out. Weak people could not stand the ordeal of being smoked like hams, some only lasted a day before fainting. But it was a fact that in this manner they had so far avoided the sickness in Taylors Falls.

  Fina-Kajsa pointed out to the group what might have happened to them if she hadn’t been along to recognize Anders. And turning to her son she asked: “But what kind of sickness ails you? Your face blooms like a red rose!”

  “It’s the heat, Mother.”

  Anders Månsson greatly resembled his father, whom they all remembered from the beginning of their journey, and whom they had helped bury in the North Sea. Anders was a thickset man with broad, somewhat stooping shoulders. He was almost bald, his complexion was red, his nut-brown eyes restless, avoiding a direct look at them. At first he had looked threatening, but now they discovered he was shy to a fault.

  Twilight was upon them, they had arrived none too soon. They walked down a slope, through a grove of green trees, and arrived at a level, low-lying piece of ground. They could see water, a lagoon or small tarn, bordered by tall grass. Near the water was tilled ground, they saw a yellowed stubble field with some rye shocks. These were Anders Månsson’s fields which he himself had cleared. By now it was too dark to see how far the fields extended. A cabin stood in the flat meadow, with a few lindens and elms around it. There were other cabins across the rye field.

  Anders Månsson approached the small cabin of roughly hewn logs; it was situated like a hay barn in the meadow.

  “So this is your hay shed,” said Fina-Kajsa.

  “Hay shed?” the son repeated, as if not remembering what the Swedish word meant.

  Anders opened the door, and Fina-Kajsa stuck in her head to inspect the hay crop in her son’s shed.

  “Did you get much hay this summer?” she asked. She couldn’t see any hay at all, but in the dim light she espied pieces of furniture; clothing and tools hung on pegs around the walls: “You keep your hay shed empty!”

  “Yes—no—You see, Mother, I have no hay in this house—”

  “Do you have people living in the barn?”

  “I live here myself.”

  “Isn’t this your hay barn?”

  “No, Mother. It is my house.”

  “But why do you live in the barn? Where’s your main house?”

  “I have built this cabin for my own use. Welcome to my home, Mother! We must boil these rabbits for supper.”

  And Anders Månsson took out his hunting knife and began to skin and clean his game.

  Fina-Kajsa turned to her Swedish traveling companions: “My son is the same! Here he stands lying to my face. He won’t show us his home. He’s telling stories. All of you can see this is nothing but a barn. A small barn.”

  The rest of the immigrants had at first, like the old woman, taken this cabin for a hay barn, since it sat in the middle of a field. Also it was rather small, not more than fifteen or sixteen feet square. And the door, cut through the logs without a jamb, was as low as a barn door. Kristina whispered to Karl Oskar: This house was exactly like their meadow barn which had burned down when lightning struck it.

  But by and by they all understood that Anders Månsson had led them to his main house; this barn was his home. All understood this, but none mentioned it—none except his mother.

  “Anders! Don’t fool me any longer! Show me your house!” she commanded.

  “This is my house, Mother! Come into my house, all you Svenskar! I’ll fix you a good supper tonight.”

  And the immigrants obeyed him and entered his humble abode; fatigue had overcome them to the very marrow of their bones, and they climbed with great contentment over the log serving as threshold, happy and pleased to be in a house, under a roof, having reached a shelter where they could rest.

  But old Fina-Kajsa sat down on her pot outside the cabin, she remained there, repeating more and more severely, “Take me to your house!”

  While all the others gathered in the cabin, and darkness fell, she remained there, sitting on her iron pot. At length Anders went outside and half carried, half dragged his mother over the threshold.

  The group from Ljuder had now reached the end of their long journey. All but the widow Fina-Kajsa Andersdotter from Öland. She had not yet arrived: she had not yet seen the home her son had described in his letters. It had come to pass as she had predicted so often during the journey: she would never arrive.

  XIII

  DISTANT FIELDS LOOK GREENEST

  —1—

  The arrival of the Swedish immigrants in Taylors Falls was a momentous occurrence. The whole population of the village consisted of only thirty-odd people, and with the fifteen new arrivals it was increased in one day by half. Until now there had been only four women in the settlement; with the arrival of Fina-Kajsa, Kristina, Ulrika, and Elin their number had doubled. Previously there had been only three families, the rest were single men.

  Taylors Falls had been named for an American, Jesse Taylor, who was the first white man to settle here, twelve years earlier; he had built a sawmill at the falls. He had since died, but the mill was operated by an old Irishma
n named Stephen Bolles who had also started a flour mill. A German couple, the Fischers, had recently opened a combined inn and store, consisting of two log cabins connected by a roofed passage. Mr. and Mrs. Fischer also kept a bull to serve the settlers’ cows. A general store was owned and operated by a Scot, Mr. Abbott, who was the postmaster as well, with the post office located in the store. The largest building in the settlement was occupied by the Stillwater Lumber Company.

  Besides Fina-Kajsa’s son, two other Swedes lived in Taylors Falls, one man and one woman—Samuel Nöjd and Anna Johansdotter, the latter known as Svenska Anna, or Swedish Anna. Samuel Nöjd was a fur hunter by trade, and Swedish Anna was cook in a logging camp a few miles north of the village. With fifteen newcomers the Swedish population in this part of the St. Croix River Valley increased six-fold at once.

  Anders Månsson offered the use of his cabin to his homeless countrymen until they could build living quarters for themselves or for as long as they wished to stay. Helping them thus he was only repaying a debt: “You have cared for my mother,” he said.

  And should they feel too cramped in his cabin, they might sleep at German Fischer’s inn; lodging there would cost only ten cents a night for each person; they would, of course, have to sleep with other people, but never more than four in the same bed; and the host was quite strict and let no one wear his boots in bed. The Fischers were particular and cleanly people and maintained good order at their inn.

  There were now sixteen persons living in Anders Månsson’s small cabin; but they had become accustomed to close quarters during their voyages; indeed, they had been more cramped in the holds. Here they could let their children run outside in the daytime and could themselves go out whenever they wished, so they need not jostle each other in the house all the time. Since Anders Månsson was kind enough to let them use his house, they accepted gratefully. In this way they saved a dollar and fifty cents a day, the amount it would have cost them if all had been forced to sleep at the inn. And Fina-Kajsa’s son felt proud that they considered his cabin good enough; he was well pleased with it himself. During his first winter in Taylors Falls he had lived with thirteen other people in a cabin half as large as this one. He said it was only nine feet square, and only six feet from the ground to the roof, and it had no flooring.