The pains were upon her; she felt as if she were bursting into pieces, splitting in halves lengthwise. A wild beast was tearing her with its claws, tearing her insides, digging into her, digging and twisting. . . .
Ulrika was near, bending over her. The young wife threw herself from side to side in the bed, her hands fumbling for holds. “Oh! Dear God! Dear God!”
“The pushing pains are beginning,” Ulrika said encouragingly. “Then it’ll soon be over.”
“Dear sweet, hold me! Give me something to hold on to!”
Kristina let out piercing cries, without being aware of it. The billowing pains rose within her—and would rise still higher, before they began to subside. In immeasurable pain she grasped the older woman. She held Ulrika around the waist with both arms and pressed her head into the full bosom. And she was received with kind, gentle arms.
Kristina and Ulrika embraced like two devoted sisters. They were back at humanity’s beginning here tonight, at the childbed in the North American forest. They were only two women, one to give life and one to help her; one to suffer and one to comfort; one seeking help in her pain, one in compassion sharing the pain which, ever since the beginning of time, has been woman’s fate.
—5—
“It will be over soon now. Come and hold her.”
Ulrika was shaking Karl Oskar by the shoulder; he had dozed off for a while. The night was far gone, daylight was creeping in through the windows.
The midwife was calling the father—now she would see what use he could make of his hands.
Kristina’s body was now helping in the labor, Ulrika said. Her pushing muscles were working, she was about to be delivered. But this last part was no play-work for her; Karl Oskar might imagine how it would hurt her when the child kicked itself out of her, tearing her flesh to pieces, breaking her in two. While this took place it would lessen her struggle if she could hold on to him, as she, Ulrika, had to receive the baby and couldn’t very well be in two places at the same time.
Karl Oskar went up to the head of the bed and took a firm hold around his wife’s shoulders.
“Karl Oskar—” Kristina’s mouth was wide open, her eyes glazed. She tossed her head back and forth on the pillow. She stretched her arms toward her husband and got hold of his body, pressing herself ever closer to him, seeking a solid stronghold.
“Hold on to me. . . .” The words died in a long, moaning sigh.
“The head is coming! Hold her firmly. Ill take the brat.” Ulrika’s hands were busy. “A great big devil! If it isn’t two!”
Karl Oskar noticed something moving, something furry, with black, shining, drenched hair. And he saw a streak of dark-red blood.
The birth-giving wife clung convulsively to her husband, seeking his embrace in her deepest agony. Severe, slow tremblings shook her body, not unlike those moments when her body was joined with his—and from moments of lust had grown moments of agony.
While the mates this time embraced, their child came into the world.
A hair-covered crown appeared, a brow, a nose, a chin—the face of a human being: Ulrika held in her hands a living, kicking, red-skinned little creature.
But the newcomer was still tied to his mother.
“The navel cord!” Ulrika called out. “Where did I put the wool shears?”
For safety’s sake she had rinsed Kristina’s wool shears in warm water in advance; they had seemed a little dirty and rusty, and one was supposed to wash everything that touched the mother’s body during childbirth. Oh, yes, now she remembered—she had laid the shears to dry near the fire.
“On the hearth! Hand me the wool shears, Karl Oskar!”
With the old, rusty wool shears Ulrika cut the blood-red cord which still united mother and child.
Then she made that most important inspection of the newborn: “He is shaped like his father. It’s a boy!”
Kristina had given life to a son, a sturdy boy. His skin was bright red, he fluttered his arms and legs, and let out his first complaining sounds. From the warm mother-womb the child had helterskelter arrived in a cold, alien world. The mother’s cries had died down, the child’s began.
Ulrika wrapped the newborn in the towel Danjel had sent with her: “A hell of a big chunk! Hold him and feel, Karl Oskar!”
She handed the child to the father; they had no steelyard here, but she guessed he weighed at least twelve pounds. Ulrika herself had borne one that weighed thirteen and a half. She knew; the poor woman who had to squeeze out such a lump did not have an easy time. Ulrika had prayed to God to save her—an unmarried woman—from bearing such big brats; the Lord ought to reserve that honor for married women, it was easier for them to increase mankind with sturdy plants. And the Lord had gracefully heard her prayer—He had taken the child to Him before he was three months old.
Thus for the first time Karl Oskar had been present at childbed—at the birth of his third son—his fourth, counting the twin who had died.
Yes, Ulrika was right, his son weighed enough. But he lacked everything else in this world: they hadn’t a piece of cloth to swaddle him in; his little son was wrapped at birth in a borrowed towel.
Ulrika warmed some bath water for the newborn, then she held him in the pot and splashed water over his body while he yelled. And her eyes took in the child with satisfaction all the while—she felt as if he had been her own handiwork.
She said: “The boy was made in Sweden, but we must pray God this will have no ill effect on him.”
Kristina had lain quiet after her delivery. Now she asked Karl Oskar to put on the coffeepot.
She had put aside a few handfuls of coffee beans for her childbed; Ulrika had neither drunk nor eaten since her arrival last evening, they must now treat her to coffee.
“Haven’t you got anything stronger, Karl Oskar?” Ulrika asked. “Kristina must have her delivery schnapps. She has earned it this evil night.”
The delivery schnapps was part of the ritual, Karl Oskar remembered; he had given it to Kristina at her previous childbeds. And this time she needed it more than ever. There were a few swallows left in the keg of American brännvin Jonas Petter had brought to the housewarming.
“I think you could stand a drink yourself,” Ulrika said to Karl Oskar.
She finished washing the baby and handed him to the impatient mother. Meanwhile Karl Oskar prepared the coffee and served it on top of an oak-stump chair at Kristina’s bedside. He offered a mug to Ulrika, and the three of them enjoyed the warming drink. The whisky in the keg was also divided three ways—to the mother, the midwife, and the child’s father. And the father drank as much as the two women together, and he could not remember that brännvin had ever tasted so good as this morning.
While the birth had taken place inside the log house, a new day had dawned outside. It was a frosty November morning with a clear sun shining from a cloudless sky over the white, silver-strewn grass on the shore of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga.
The newly arrived Swedes in the St. Croix Valley had increased their number by one—the first one to be a citizen in their new country.
XVIII
MOTHER AND CHILD
The child is handed to the mother—it had left her and it has come back.
All is over, all is quiet, all is well.
Kristina lies with her newborn son at her breast. She lies calm and silent, she is delivered, she has changed worlds, she is in the newly delivered woman’s blissful world. It is the Glad One—the public whore of the home parish—her intimate friend, who has delivered her. But it is the child—in leaving her womb—who has delivered her from the agony; the child is her joy, and her joy is back with her, is here at her breast.
Mother and child are with each other.
The mother tries to help the child’s groping lips find a hold on her breast. The child feels with its mouth aimlessly, rubs its nose like a kitten; how wonderfully soft is its nose against the mother’s breast; as yet it seeks blindly. But when the nipple presses in between its lips, its
mouth closes around it; the child sucks awkwardly and slowly. Gradually the movements of the tiny lips grow stronger—it answers her with its lips: it answers the mother’s tenderness and at the same time satisfies its own desires.
The mother lies joyful and content. The newborn has relieved her of all her old concerns, as he himself now has become all her concern. Now it is he who causes her anxiety: she hasn’t a single garment ready to swaddle his naked body, not even a piece of cloth, not the smallest rag. What can she use for swaddling clothes?
A child could not arrive in a poorer home than this, where nothing is ready for it, it could not be given to a poorer mother. Wretched creature! Arriving stark naked, to such impoverished parents, in a log house in the wilderness, in a foreign land! Wretched little creature. . . .
But a child could never come to a happier mother than Kristina, and therefore its security is the greatest in the world.
At her breast lies a little human seedling, entrusted to her in its helplessness and defenselessness. It depends on her if it shall grow up or wither down, if it shall live or die. And at this thought a tenderness grows inside her heart, so strong that tears come to her eyes. But they are not tears of sorrow, they are only the proof of a mother’s strong, sure feeling for her newborn child.
When God gave her this child in her poverty, He showed that He could trust her. And if the Creator trusted her, then she could wholeheartedly trust Him in return. From this conviction springs the sense of security and comfort which the child instills in the mother.
Poor little one—happy little one! Why does she worry? Why is she concerned about him? She has something fine to swaddle him in! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She should have remembered at once: her white petticoat, the one she never uses, because it is a piece of finery. Her petticoat of thick, fine linen, woven by herself, her bridal petticoat! As yet she has used it only once—at her wedding. And for what can she use it here in the forest? Here she’ll never go to weddings, here she’ll never be so much dressed up as to need such a petticoat. She can cut it to pieces and sew diapers from it; it is large, voluminous, it will make many diapers. And she must use it because she has nothing else. But isn’t it the best thing she could ever find for protection of her child, that delicate little body, with its soft, tender skin? Her own bridal petticoat!
How happy the woman who can cut up her best petticoat for her child.
So much for the clothing. Food for the child the mother has herself. Milk for the child runs slowly as yet, only a few white drops trickling. And Kristina aids the newborn’s blindly seeking mouth, pushes her nipple into blindly seeking lips which do not yet quite know how to hold and close and suck, to receive the mother’s first gift.
All is well, all is over, all is quiet. Now mother and child rest in mutual security.
XIX
THE LETTER TO SWEDEN
North America at Taylors Falls Postofice in
Minnesota Teritory, November 15, Anno 1850
Dearly Beloved Parents,
May all be well with you is my Daily wish.
I will now let you know how Our Journey progressed, we were freighted on Steam wagon to Buffalo and by Steam ship further over large Lakes and Rivers, we had an honest interpreter. On the river boat Danjel Andreasson lost his youngest daughter in that terrible pest the Cholera. The girl could not live through it. But the rest of us are in good health and well fed. Nothing happened on the journey and in August we arrived at our place of settling.
We live here in a Great Broad valley, I have claimed and marked 160 American acres, that is about 130 Swedish acres and I will have delasjon with the payment until the Land is offered for Sale. It is all fertile Soil. We shall clear the Land and can harvest as much Hay as we want. We live at a fair Lake, full of fish and my whole farm is overgrown with Oak, Pine, Sugar Maples, Lindens, Walnuts, Elms and other kinds whose names I do not know.
I have timbered up a good house for us. Danjel and his Family settled near us in the valley, also Jonas Petter. Danjel no longer preaches Åke Svensson’s teaching, nor is he making noise about his religion, he is pious and quiet and is left in peace by Ministers and Sheriffs. Danjel calls his place New Kärragärde.
Our beloved children are in good health and live well, I will also inform you that we have a new little son who made his first entry into this world the seventh of this November, at very daybreak. He is already a sitter as are all who are born here. We shall in time carry him to Baptism but here are ministers of many Religions and we dare not take the Lord’s Supper for fear it is the wrong faith. Here is no Religious Law but all have their free will.
Scarcely any people live in this Valley, rich soil is empty on all sides of us for many miles which is a great shame and Sin. We have no trouble with the indians, the savages are curious about new people but harm no one. They have brown skin and live like cattle without houses or anything. They eat snakes and grasshoppers but the whites drive away the indians as they come.
There is a great difference between Sweden and America in food and clothing. Here people eat substantial fare and wheat bread to every meal. Newcomers get hard bowels from their food but the Americans are honest and helpful to their acquaintances and snub no one if ever so poor. Wooden shoes are not used, it is too simple for the Americans. They honor all work, menfolk milk cows and wash the floor. Both farmers and Ministers perform woman-work without shame. In a town called Stillwater we were given quarters with a priest who did his own chores.
I have nothing of importance to write about. Nothing unusual has happened to us since my last letter. Things go well for us and if health remains with us we shall surely improve our situation even though the country is unknown to us. I don’t complain of anything, Kristina was a little sad in the beginning but she has now forgotten it.
We hope soon to get a letter from you but letters are much delayed on the long way. Winter has begun in the Valley and the mail can not get through because of the ice on the river. I greet you dear parents, also from my wife and children, and Sister Lydia is heartily greeted by her Brother. My Brother Robert will write himself, he fools with writing easier than I. Kristina sends her greetings to her kind parents in Duvemåla. Nothing is lacking her here in our new settlement.
The year is soon over and we are one year nearer Eternity, I hope these lines will find you in good health.
Written down hastily by your devoted son
Karl Oskar Nilsson
Part Three
To Keep Alive
Through the Winter
XX
THE INDIAN IN THE TREETOP
—1—
Some distance west of the creek which emptied into Lake Ki-Chi-Saga a sandstone cliff rose high above the forest pines. The cliff had the copper-brown color of the Indians, and its shape strongly resembled the head of an Indian. Seen from below, a broad, smooth, stone brow could easily be recognized. Under the forehead lay two black eye holes, well protected by the formidable forehead boulders. Between the eyes a protruding cliff indicated a handsome Indian nose. The upper lip was formed by a ledge, and under it opened a broad indentation; this was the mouth, a dark gap. Below the mouth opening was a chin ledge. Even the neck of the Indian could be discerned below the chin and on top of the head grew maple saplings and elderberry bushes which the Indian in summer carried like a green wreath on his head.
This cliff in the forest was visible from afar and served as a landmark. The Swedish settlers at Lake Ki-Chi-Saga soon referred to it as the Indian-head.
In the caves and holes of the rock, animals found protection and hiding places, and those forest creatures which sought refuge in rain and storm within the Indian’s jaws could rest there in comfort. But on the deer path below could be seen great boulders, which from time to time had fallen from the cliff. And near some of these blocks were whitened, disintegrating bones, remnants of animal skeletons; perhaps, as a forest beast had run by below, the Indian had spit out a stone from his mouth and crushed it.
When Robert passed the Indian-head he trod lightly and stole quickly by, lest a boulder be loosed by his step and come crashing down on him. No one knew when the Indian might hurl a stone at a passer-by, human or beast.
In the beginning, Robert was as much afraid of the Indians as he was curious about them. But as time went by his curiosity increased and his fear diminished. The Indians seemed so friendly that they might in time become a nuisance. They frightened people sometimes with their terrifying appearance, they liked to deck themselves in all kinds of animal parts, but as yet they had done no harm to the Swedish settlers.
Karl Oskar despised the Indians for their laziness and called them useless creatures. Kristina pitied them because they were so thin and lived in such wretched hovels; and both she and Karl Oskar were grateful not to have been created Indians.
No one knew what the copperskins thought of their white neighbors, for no one understood their language. Robert guessed they considered their pale brethren fools to waste their time in work. He had begun to wonder which one of the two peoples could be considered wiser, the whites or the browns, the Christians or the heathens. The Indians were lazy, they did not till the earth, and what work they did was done without effort. He had watched them fell trees: they did not cut down the tree with an ax, they made a fire around it and burned it off at the root. The Christian hewed and labored and sweated before he got his tree down. But the heathen sat and rested and smoked his pipe until the fire burned through and the tree fell by itself, without a single ax blow.
The Indians did not waste their strength in work; they spared their bodies for better use, they saved their strength for enjoyment. At their feasts they danced for three weeks at a stretch—it was just as well they had rested beforehand. But Karl Oskar and the other peasants in Småland had accustomed themselves to tiresome labor and drudgery every day, they would not have been able to dance for even one week, so worn out were they. The heathens wisely economized their body strength so that they were capable of more endurance than the Christians.
Unto A Good Land Page 35