Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  “The ground is easy to break,” Karl Oskar said. “There isn’t any finer!”

  He hoped she would forget the long road and feel better as she saw the place where they would build their new home.

  “You’ve found a nice place, Karl Oskar. It looks almost as nice as home in Duvemåla.”

  Kristina had compared the shores of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga with the village where she was born and had grown up; it was the highest praise she could give. Looking at Karl Oskar she knew he had expected more, probably he had expected her, on seeing the land, to break out in loud praise and grateful joy as if they had arrived in the Garden of Eden. But all the while the thought would not leave her that here they must live like hermits in the midst of savages and wild beasts.

  Karl Oskar pushed the whip handle into the ground and said the topsoil was as deep as the whip handle was long. He had measured all over—it was the same everywhere.

  “Such pretty flowers in the meadow,” she said.

  She saw things above ground, while Karl Oskar was anxious to impress her with what was under the surface; the growth came from below, down in the black mold which they couldn’t see, down there would grow the bread.

  “There are only flowers and weeds now,” he said. “Bread will grow here from now on. You can rely on that, Kristina!”

  This was Karl Oskar’s promise for the future, an earnest and binding promise to wife and children: here the earth would give life’s sustenance to them all, and his was the responsibility of breaking the land whence it would come.

  The ox wagon with their possessions had come to a stop in front of the newly built board shed, and Karl Oskar and Robert began to unload; soon they were struggling with the heavy America chest. Kristina stood at the open door which hung there on its willow hinges; the children hovered around her.

  She knew now how people lived out here when they began with the earth from the very beginning. Like Anders Månsson’s old mother, she too had taken his house for a meadow barn at first sight; it was so exactly like those rickety sheds on moors and meadows at home in which the summer hay was harvested. At first, she had been unable to accept that it was a farmer’s house and home. But at least it had been a solid house, built of logs. Here she stood in front of a still smaller hut, roughly thrown together of unfinished boards; this could not even be called a barn, it looked more like a tool house or a woodshed.

  But then—what had she expected? Kristina looked at the shanty Karl Oskar had built for them; she realized her husband had done the best he could with a few boards, as yet she couldn’t expect anything better. Seeing how people lived out here, it would have been impossible to ask for anything better, to insist on a more comfortable house. No one could conjure forth a real home in a few days; she must be satisfied with a hut.

  Karl Oskar looked at his wife, anxiously wondering what she might say about his cabin. Deep down he was a little ashamed not to be offering her a better home in the new country. They had traveled such a long way to come here—and at last they stood in front of a small board shed, hurriedly nailed together in a few days. She might not think it much of an achievement; even though he had prepared her in advance, he was afraid she might be disappointed:

  “It’s only a shanty, as they call it here,” he said.

  The very sound of the English word emphasized to Karl Oskar better than anything he could say in Swedish that this was a makeshift. He added, “The shanty will give us protection until the house is ready.”

  “It’ll do as long as the weather is decent,” said Kristina, and felt the walls. “You put it up fast,” she added.

  Karl Oskar had done carpentry work as a youth, helping his father, but he did not consider himself proficient. He could have built himself a hut of twigs and branches and saved the cost of the boards, but it would have been too wretched, he thought; and then the mosquitoes, they would have come in everywhere through the brush; boards were more of a protection in every way.

  Now he was pleased Kristina had found no fault with his cabin; it was the first house he had made all by himself, however it had turned out. He himself knew how poor it was. But she had said not one belittling word about the shanty, however clumsy or crooked or warped it was. She had only praised him for his handiness and speed.

  He said that in the beginning they must live like crofters, without flooring in their house, it couldn’t be helped. But see all the land they had! They might live like cotters but they had better and larger fields than the biggest farmer in Ljuder; they had reason to be well satisfied.

  “And next time, Kristina, just wait and see! Next time we shall timber a real house! A real home! Just wait and see. . . .”

  And he waved his hands in the direction of the pine stand across the meadow where the lumber still stood—couldn’t she just see their sturdy, well-timbered house! Back there grew the walls for it, it was rooted, it wouldn’t run away from them, it was well anchored in their own ground—no one could take their future home away from them!

  Karl Oskar had moved in as a squatter, a man possessing the land without having to pay for it as yet. A squatter was a man staying close to the ground, and he too would need to stay close to the ground in the beginning; but not for long! No longer than he absolutely had to! He guessed Anders Månsson had squatted so long on his land that it had made him stoop-shouldered. Karl Oskar would be careful to avoid this; he had decided, if health and strength remained his, that only a short time would elapse before he would begin to rise, rise up to his full stature; on his own land he could rise to a man’s stature, to the proud independence of a free farmer.

  So far, he had always kept his resolutions; as far as it depended on him, this one would be kept also.

  For a time they would have to live in a board shed, without windows, without fireplace, the black earth for their floor. As Kristina now entered her new home she had to stoop to get through the door. Here they were now moving in with all their possessions, her children were already playing about in the hay inside, the hay for beds which all of them would sleep on; the children had great fun digging holes in the hay, tumbling about, screaming and laughing. They were already at home, acting as if they had lived here all their lives.

  Johan called out to his mother, in jubilation: “Now we live in a house, Mother! Our house in America!”

  Yes, she answered the boy, they were now living in a house, at last in their own house; no longer need they crowd in among others, they could at last be their own masters, do as they pleased in their own home. From today on they had a home of their own to live in. And for this they must be grateful to God.

  But deep inside her Kristina was also grateful for something else: that no one at home, neither her parents, nor her sisters, nor any other person from the old country need ever see this shanty, her first home in North America.

  XV

  . . . TO SURVIVE WITH THE HELP OF HIS HANDS

  —1—

  In the wilderness at Lake Ki-Chi-Saga in Minnesota Territory Karl Oskar and Kristina were to begin again as tillers of the soil; they must begin their lives anew.

  During the journey their hands had rested. Often they had wished to have something to do. Now all at once the settler’s innumerable chores crowded upon them; all were important, but all were not equally important; all could not be performed at one time, some must be put off. To find shelter, warmth, and food for the winter at hand—these were the most urgent tasks and took precedence over all others.

  For the time being they settled in their shanty, much smaller than Anders Månsson’s cabin, but now they were only six people instead of sixteen, and this hut was their own. In the center of the earth floor sat the large clothes chest, half as long as the shanty itself and occupying much of the space. At home it had been called the America chest, here it was called the Swedish chest. It was their one piece of furniture in their first American home. The chest bore the scars of its emigration adventure; it had been used roughly on the journey, in New York one corner had bee
n smashed in, it was marred and scratched all over. But within its oaken planks, held together with heavy iron bands, it had protected its owner’s indispensable belongings. Men who had had to handle the chest, lifting it by its clumsy iron handles, had been surprised by its weight, and cursed and complained about what it might contain.

  The clothes chest contained exactly the articles which the owners could not be without if they were to survive in the wilderness—so thought Kristina as she now unpacked them all. How could they withstand the winter’s cold without the woolen garments she now lifted from the chest? Camphor and lavender had protected them against moths and mildew; she found to her satisfaction that all the pieces of clothing were unharmed, though they had been packed this long time, from spring to autumn. Carefully Kristina handled woolen jackets, wadmal coats, linen sheets. She could have caressed the well-known pieces of clothing from home, in gratefulness that they had followed her out here, that they were ready for her now that she would need them. And it seemed almost incredible that they could be here with her in these foreign surroundings, so far away from home; they were like strangers here, they belonged to another home, in another country.

  It was so long since she had packed the chest, she could not remember what was in it, and now she found objects she had not expected; she made discoveries, many times she was pleasantly surprised: Did she pack that? Had she brought along this also? What luck!

  She found her carding combs, her wool shears, her sewing basket with balls of yarn, knitting needles, tallow candles which she herself had dipped last Christmas, her tablecloth of whole linen, woven by herself as part of her dowry, the small bottle of Hoffman’s Heart-Aiding Drops, children’s playthings. All these came now as unexpected gifts, at a moment when she needed them. She was most pleased when she found the swingletree which Karl Oskar had decorated with red tulips—his betrothal gift to her: through this her youth was brought back to her, such a long time ago, she thought—her betrothal time.

  In the Swedish chest were also Karl Oskar’s carpenter tools; without them he could not have attempted to build a house for his family. Had he known how expensive tools were out here, he would have brought along much more edge iron: planes, augers, chisels, more axes. He also regretted not having more powder and shot, for it was costly to load a gun here. For once Robert had shown foresight—his hooks, fish traps, nets, and other fishing gear would come in handy for them, living as they did on the shores of a lake.

  The odor of the camphor and lavender that had kept the packed clothing in good condition filled the shanty as the lid of the chest was thrown open. It was pleasing to Kristina—it smelled like home.

  It had been in late March that she packed the America chest—it was in early September that she unpacked the Swedish chest. During all the months in between she had been moving; she had traveled from spring to autumn, and she had experienced so much during this time that it seemed more like years than months since she had left home. Was it only last spring that she had packed her possessions? To Kristina it seemed the packing had taken place in another life, in another world. And it was indeed true—they were living a new life, in a new world.

  Many were the memories awakened in her as she unpacked the chest; every object was linked with some happening at home, some experience with people close to her, friends or relatives. The wool cards had been given her by her mother when she moved into her own home, the sewing basket she had bought at the fair the first spring she was married, the knitting needles had occupied her hands during winter evenings in company of friends around the fire. So many intimate things were here thrust upon her; from the old clothes chest she now unpacked Sweden.

  And with these objects came many thoughts of little value to her—rather, they annoyed her. She knew that nothing could be more futile than to let her thoughts wander back and dwell on what once had been and never could be again. Her family must begin anew, they could not bury themselves in memories of the past. She had taken it as a warning when Karl Oskar had said: If their thoughts were too much on their old homeland, on things they had once and for all given up, this would hinder their success in the new country.

  From that point of view, it had been disturbing to open the lid of the America chest—now the Swedish chest: their old home and their life there had thrust itself upon her; yet, it was as distant as ever.

  But the chest was the only piece of furniture in the hut. And now she used it as a table; she spread food on the lid, and it became the family’s gathering place at every meal. And the old homeland odor remained; the chest occupied the center of the shanty and smelled of camphor and lavender—a lingering reminder of Sweden.

  —2—

  Karl Oskar arranged his work according to the sun; he began early, before it was too warm, rested during the noon heat, and continued his work in the afternoon and into the cool evening as late as daylight would permit him. He was felling pines near the stream for house timbers. He felled the straightest and most suitable trees, stripping them of bark so the logs would dry while there was still warmth in the air. He cut young lindens, which he roughhewed for a roof and floor boards; he dug sod for the roof, he gathered and dried the birch and pine bark that was to hold the sod, he collected the stringy linden bark for ropes, he burned debris and cleared roads, he built a simple baking oven near the shanty, he dug a hole in the ground where they could keep food in a cool place and where it was protected from wild animals and insects, and he daily performed innumerable small chores. But even though he used the last reflected rays of the sun, the day was not long enough for him, he wished to do still more. And he complained because he had only two hands.

  “Be satisfied with your two hands!” Kristina said. “You might have had only one.”

  So much of the work was new to him, he was constantly learning new ways, he was ever improving the knowledge of his hands. All that specially skilled workmen had done for him at home, he himself must do here as best he could. Necessity was the best teacher, his father had said, and necessity forced a settler to try his skill at all kinds of work.

  Karl Oskar had always learned easily and quickly imitated others. Now everything depended on his hands’ knowledge—unable to help himself with his hands, a settler would soon perish in this wilderness.

  Kristina too must learn new ways: how to make beds without bedsteads, wash without proper soap, keep food without a cellar. And she was much concerned about their clothing, badly worn during the journey; some garments were completely worn out, all were soiled, all must be darned and patched, mended and washed. Her bridal quilt had fared ill in the hold of the Charlotta, it was spotted and torn and would never be the same; Kristina took this very hard. The working clothes for every member of the family needed attention, they must last a long time; she must be careful of every single garment, as she thought it might be a long time before new things could be obtained to cover their bodies.

  Their soft-soap jar from Sweden was empty, and Kristina could wash nothing clean. Karl Oskar tried to help her: he boiled a mixture of rabbit fat and ashes, he thought this might be strong enough to eat away the dirt. And most of the dirt did wash away in the soap he had invented.

  Kristina’s greatest concern was to keep dirt and vermin away, to keep grownups and children clean. During their journey cleanliness had been neglected, and this had troubled her. One evening as she sat outside the shanty and watched Karl Oskar and Robert, who busied themselves stacking firewood, the thought came to her that she should cut the hair of her unkempt menfolk; they looked uncivilized, bringing shame to all Sweden, should anyone happen to see them.

  She went inside and fetched her wool shears: “Come here! Your heads need attention!”

  “You—a woman—you can’t cut men’s hair!” exclaimed Robert scornfully.

  “I used to shear the sheep at home.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Karl Oskar. He took off his cap and sat down on the chopping block. “Better begin with the old ram, then.”

  “When I
shear frisky rams I usually tie their legs. Shall I do the same with you?”

  Kristina’s wool shears mowed mercilessly through Karl Oskar’s thick locks, which fell from his head and gathered in piles on the ground. She guessed he gave at least a pound of wool.

  Karl Oskar hardly recognized his own head as he looked in a piece of mirror-glass; his hair was cut in steps, marking each shear bite, just the way sheep looked after the shearing. But he was well pleased to be rid of the thick mat of hair which had been uncomfortable in the heat.

  Robert sorely felt the degradation of having his hair cut by a woman. But he insisted that Kristina cut his hair as short as she possibly could; this would save his scalp from the knives of the Indians. Samuel Nöjd, the pelt man, in Taylors Falls, had related how some of his companions a few years earlier had been scalped by the savages; only one man in the group had escaped, and this because he was completely bald; the Indians thought he had already been scalped.

  Robert’s hair was cut according to his instructions, and his head looked something like a scraped and scalded hog; this would undoubtedly make the Indians believe he had no scalp. But he would not be secure for long, his hair soon would grow out again.

  Kristina also cut Johan’s and Harald’s hair quite short, but this was less from fear of Indians than of head lice, which were thus discouraged from building their nests.

  The children had improved so much since the journey’s end, she was happy to see. Their little bodies and limbs were now quite firm, their eyes clear, and their pale cheeks had bloomed since arriving here. They spent most of their time in the open. Food at the moment was fresh and plentiful; wild fruit and berries grew in abundance near the shanty. The family fare had lately changed fundamentally: they had fresh meat at every meal, fish or game which they seldom had enjoyed in Sweden, except on rare occasions. The countryside abounded with rabbits, which supplied most of the meat, as well as fat for many uses. Robert learned to catch them by hand; he ran after the fat animals until they tired and crouched, when he grabbed them. In this way he saved powder and shot for larger game. Ducks and wild geese kept to the lake and could only be obtained through shooting; but it was child’s play to catch fish in Lake Ki-Chi-Saga, where life bubbled below the surface. They would put a pot over the fire, go down to the lake, and return with the fish before the water was boiling. They caught pike and perch, but these were the only fish they recognized. The pike had black backs with yellow stripes, and a narrower body than those at home. The perch had enormous jaws and were less tasty than the Swedish variety. Among the unfamiliar fish suitable for food was one called whitefish, delicious either boiled or fried. Whitefish resembled roach in color, but had longish bodies like pike. The catfish was ugly, with long whiskers, and purred like a cat when pulled out of water. A short, fat fish, the color of perch but with blood-red eyes, was called bass, Anders Månsson told them.