Unto A Good Land

by Vilhelm Moberg

  “To dig gold isn’t heavy work. It’s easier than grub hoeing!”

  “If you found some gold. If your fancies came through. But California lies far away, in the back end of America. How will you get there?”

  “We’ll work on the steamboat to St. Louis. Then we can walk the highway. I have a map and I know English. Don’t worry about me, Karl Oskar.”

  Arvid was coming to Ki-Chi-Saga to meet Robert the following morning. Danjel had said he would not keep his servant against his will. Arvid had already worked for him a whole year, that was enough for the transportation from Sweden. Danjel was decent about everything, he let Arvid have his free will.

  “This will come to a terrible end!” Karl Oskar almost shouted his words at Robert. If his brother had been strong and handy and tough! But Robert was a weak, inexperienced, timid boy. He ran from dead Indians and could hear the whizz of arrows that had never been shot. And his hearing was bad. He was filled with his own imagination; he was possessed by his own fancies. He was walking with open eyes into his own destruction!

  Karl Oskar recalled that Robert had been odd as a boy at home: he was at least twelve years old before he stopped running after rainbows, trying to catch them with his hands. Robert was fascinated by the glittering colors and never realized that however far he ran the rainbow remained equally far away. Karl Oskar had never run to catch a rainbow.

  It was pure folly for Robert to start out. And Karl Oskar pleaded with him and warned him. He was trying to talk him out of the gold-digging notion, not because he wanted Robert as a helper on the farm—he could take care of himself—it was for Robert’s own sake. He could not with a clear conscience let his younger brother set out on so reckless, danger-fraught a journey. Here in a foreign country he felt in a father’s place toward his brother. Had Robert thought of all the perils he and Arvid might encounter? They must travel through vast stretches of wilderness, they didn’t know the roads, they could easily become lost; they didn’t know people, they could be swindled and cheated; they might even be killed.

  “You can’t manage alone! Believe what I say. You’re only eighteen!”

  “You were only fourteen what you left home,” retorted Robert.

  “That’s true. But that was at home, that was different.”

  “When you were fourteen you said to Father: ‘I’ll go! I’ve decided for myself!’ And you left.”

  “Yes—but that was in Sweden.”

  “You went off on your own at fourteen. Haven’t I the right to do the same at eighteen?”

  Robert had put his older brother in a position where he was unable to answer. Ever since he was fourteen he had decided for himself, done as he pleased, traveled where he wished. He could not deny his brother the same right.

  “You can’t stop me, Karl Oskar,” Robert said.

  He had already gathered together his belongings. They were not many, they made only a small bundle. Persuasion and warning words were lost on him, no one could tie him down or tether him like an animal. And as Karl Oskar could not stop him by force, he could not stop him in any other way. From now on Robert must decide for himself and take the responsibility for his own life. Karl Oskar sought to ease his conscience—he had done all in his power, there was nothing more to do.

  Kristina was as much disturbed as Karl Oskar but she agreed with him: they must let Robert do as he wanted. What else could they do?

  Robert had saved five dollars; he had earned four of them as day laborer for Danjel, and one dollar had been his profit from the almanacs he had made at New Year and sold to the Swedish settlers in the St. Croix Valley. Of the eight dollars Karl Oskar had earned from rail splitting for Jonas Petter, he had only five left, and these he gave to Robert. It was the only help he could offer, the only cash he had to give when his brother left home. Kristina began to prepare a good-sized food basket for the boy; that was all she could do. He might be hungry many times and need many meals before he reached the California gold fields.

  Robert said: He was going to California because he wanted to become rich while still young and able to enjoy his riches. But he would not forget Karl Oskar and Kristina when he returned from the gold fields. He would share his gold—first of all, he would give Karl Oskar money for a pair of oxen, a real draft team, then he wouldn’t need to carry such heavy burdens long distances through the wilderness. And for Kristina he would buy cows, fine milch cows that would give milk enough for all of them. This family had been kind to him, he would remember them. This they could rely on: he would not keep all his fortune for himself, he was not like that—he would share.

  Monday morning before daybreak Arvid arrived at the log house—he was ready to walk with Robert through the forest to Stillwater.

  Robert had ten dollars in his pocket, his bundle of worldly possessions on his back, and food for ten days. As he shook hands with his brother in good-by, he said he had been lying awake during the night—his ear had bothered him—and he had made a decision: When he returned from California he would journey back to Sweden for a time and buy Kråkesjå Manor from Lieutenant Rudeborg and give this estate to his father and mother. They had such a little room, and their reserved rights in Korpamoen were very poor. It would be well for them in their old age to live in a manor. They had earned this, he thought; they would have more room in a mansion. Yes, he would not forget father and mother at home, Karl Oskar could rely on that—this was the last thing he wanted to say before they parted.

  Karl Oskar and Kristina stood outside the log house door and looked after Arvid and Robert. The two disappeared into the forest. Karl Oskar and Kristina asked the same question of themselves: Would they see the boys ever again?

  —3—

  The river was open, its water flowed free—this was the final harbinger of spring in the St. Croix Valley.

  In bays and inlets of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga the spawn-bellied pike began their play among belated, melting ice floes. Now the settlers again had fresh fish at every meal, good sustaining fare. And the rabbits emerged from their winter shelters and ate the green grass in the meadow; the rabbits were not so fat as last fall, but their meat tasted better. Food worry diminished each day. The weather was mild with a warming sun, the sap rose under the bark of the tree trunks. Karl Oskar took his auger and drilled holes in the sugar maples near the log house, and the running sap filled the containers he placed below the holes. From it they boiled a sweet sirup which they spread on bread instead of butter; the children were overjoyed with this delicious food. Useful trees grew around their house—with nourishment flowing under their bark.

  People and animals came to life again, the shores of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga teemed with fresh, young growth. A new joy burst forth in all growing things—the joy of having kept alive through the winter.

  Robert and Arvid had boarded the Red Wing, the spring’s first steamer to Stillwater. The packet also brought the year’s first mail to the Territory—it should include a letter from Sweden.

  Kristina talked every day about this letter which they had been waiting for so long, and she begged Karl Oskar to go to the post office in Taylors Falls and ask about it. But the walk would require half a day, and now all his days were busy—the frost would soon be out of the earth, and he had begun to make a plow for the turning of the meadow. At last, however, he gave in to his impatient wife—early one morning he took off on the nine-mile walk to Taylors Falls to inquire in the Scotsman’s store about the letter from Sweden.

  There was always a paper nailed to the outside of the door of Mr. Abbott’s store, a list of the names of people who had letters inside: Letters remaining at the Post Office in Taylors Falls, Walter H. Abbott, Postmaster.

  How many times Karl Oskar had stopped on the steps of the store and read through that list, searching for his own name! As yet it had never been there. He had read the name of every other inhabitant of Taylors Falls and thereabouts, but not his own, or Danjel’s, or Jonas Petter’s. He had read the names of other settlers until he learned to r
ecognize them, but he had always missed his own name. Many times he had wondered how it would feel to find his own name written down, and be counted among the fortunate people who had letters inside in the custody of storekeeper and postmaster Walter H. Abbott.

  And today his name was on the list! Indeed, it was the first one, it stood at the top of the list! He counted all the names, there were seventeen below his. It was as though his letter were the most important of all. For a moment he felt he was better than the others who had letters inside. His name was written in the Scot’s firm hand, with large, round, clear letters, easy to read: Mr. Karl Oskar Nilsson. Here he was called Mr. like the others. That meant the same as Lord in Sweden. He was a lord here, like all Americans. But the Mr. before his name seemed strange to him. In some way it did not belong before a name like his, it belonged before Jackson and Abbott and other American names, but not before Karl Oskar Nilsson.

  However, the letter from Sweden had arrived.

  Karl Oskar opened the door and went inside. Mr. Abbott stood in his place behind the counter. He was a tall, scrawny man with sharp features and piercing eyes. He always wore the same serious look, his features were in some way incapable of change. And the strangest thing about him was that he could talk without seeming to move his lips. He was held among the settlers to be a good man, very exact in his business. He gave the customers full weight, though not an ounce more. He was an honest trader, but no one was ever granted delay in payment; in his store trading was done for cash only.

  Karl Oskar had not come to buy anything, he was penniless since he had given Robert his last five dollars. That was one reason he had delayed going to the store—he could buy nothing to bring home. He could only fetch the letter.

  Before he had time to ask for it, the postmaster-storekeeper behind the desk said to him: “I have a letter for you, Mister Nilsson.”

  Mr. Abbott pulled out a long drawer under the counter and looked through a stack of letters until he found a small, square, gray-blue envelope: “Here it is! Yes, Mr. Nilsson.”

  Karl Oskar’s face lit up, he recognized the letter: it was the kind of envelope they used at home. He stretched out his hand for the letter.

  “Fifteen cents.” The tall Scot held the letter between his thumb and forefinger, but he did not give it to the Swede on the other side of the counter: “Fifteen cents, sir.”

  “What mean you, Mr. Abbott?” Karl Oskar spoke his halting English. Why didn’t the postmaster hand over his letter? Did he want money because he had held it so long? What was the meaning of this charge?

  “You have to pay fifteen cents in postage due, Mr. Nilsson.”

  The postmaster of Taylors Falls still held the little gray-blue envelope between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand while he pointed with his left forefinger to some stamps on the letter. And Karl Oskar still stood with his hand outstretched for the letter from Sweden.

  Then he thought he understood: the freight for the letter had not been paid. He must redeem it with fifteen cents. But he did not have even one cent.

  “Yes, sir?” Mr. Abbott was waiting, expressionless. He held the letter firmly in his hand, as if afraid Karl Oskar might try to snatch it. Mr. Abbott was not a man to be taken by surprise.

  “No—No—” The Swedish settler struggled with the language of the new land. “I can—can not today—no—have . . . not one cent!” Karl Oskar pulled out his pockets—empty!

  A trace of pity was discernible in the postmaster’s voice: “No cash, Mr. Nilsson? Sorry, I have to keep your letter.” And he replaced it in the drawer under the counter.

  Karl Oskar, who had stretched out his hand for the letter from Sweden, had to pull it back empty—he thrust it into his empty pocket.

  The storekeeper at the other side of the counter scrutinized him sharply: Karl Oskar looked foolishly at the floor. He could not redeem the letter he had come to fetch. . . . “No cash, Mr. Nilsson?” He had heard those words so many times, he knew what they meant. Cash—the word still sounded to him like the rustle of paper money, the fingering of piles of dollar bills. It was one word in the foreign language which he did not like, he could not get by it, he always bumped against it like a stone wall—cash! It was the word of permanent hindrance, the word for the settler’s greatest obstacle.

  Mr. Abbott looked at Karl Oskar’s feet, at his shoes. To save his boots, already quite worn, Karl Oskar now wore his wooden shoes even for walks to the village. People in Taylors Falls stared at his feet in the wooden shoes, they had never seen such footgear. They apparently thought that people who wore wooden shoes were impoverished and wretched, he could see in Mr. Abbott’s eyes. The Scot pitied the wooden-shod settler, the poor Swede who did not have even fifteen cents to pay for his letter from the homeland.

  If there was one thing Karl Oskar detested above all else, it was to be pitied. “All right!” he said, as if the letter did not concern him. And he felt he pronounced those words like an American.

  “Sorry,” Mr. Abbott repeated. “But I have to keep the letter.”

  News from Sweden, the first in a year, again lay hidden in the postmaster’s drawer. All that the settlers had wanted so long to know about their relatives at home—if they were well or ill, if all were alive, or if someone were dead—this long-awaited news was pushed back among the letters in the drawer. There it must remain until the fee was paid. Karl Oskar had nothing to reproach the postmaster with, it was not his fault if the addressee lacked the fifteen cents. The mail company granted no delay in payments. Mr. Abbott worked for the mail company, he did only his duty when he kept the letter.

  Karl Oskar nodded a silent good-by and walked toward the door.

  “Sorry!” Mr. Abbott said, for the third or fourth time.

  His expression was still unchanged, but there was sadness in his voice. The postmaster was sorry for Karl Oskar, because he was unable to redeem his letter. Sorry, he heard that word often when Americans talked, it sounded as if they were constantly grieving for others. But he had sometimes heard the word uttered so lightly and unconcernedly that he wasn’t sure real sorrow was always felt. This time, however, he believed Mr. Abbott was genuinely sorry he had had to leave without the letter.

  The day had been almost wasted. A walk to Taylors Falls and back was tiresome, his wooden shoes were heavy and clumsy, his feet always felt sore after a long walk. Must he now walk back nine miles without the letter?

  But Anders Månsson lived in the village only half a mile away; he could borrow the fifteen cents from him, go back to Mr. Abbott’s post-office, and lay the money on the counter!

  The Månsson fields lay deserted today, all was quiet. Fina-Kajsa sat in the sun outside the cabin, patching one of her son’s skin coats. She sat slumped and her glassy eyes wandered listlessly as if following something far away in the forest. She did not look at the work in her hands, she stared in front of her as if in deep worry; perhaps she was still brooding over the journey of disappointment she had undertaken to her son’s fine mansion in Minnesota; as yet she had not arrived.

  Her cream-pitcher lips moved vaguely in answer as Karl Oskar greeted her and asked for Anders.

  “He lies flat-back today.”

  “Flat-back?”

  “Yes. He lies flat on his back inside.”

  Fina-Kajsa’s voice sounded hollow. Karl Oskar looked at her in surprise. Did Anders Månsson lie in bed on a weekday for no reason, without working? Or had something happened to him? “Is he ailing? Is that why—”

  The mother gave no answer, she only pointed to the door meaningfully: Go inside! And he entered the tiny cabin into which the whole group of Swedish newcomers had packed themselves last year.

  A strong, sweet odor struck him as soon as he was over the threshold and in the stuffy air of the cabin. It was a work day, the middle of the day—but Anders Månsson lay in his shirt on his bed, stretched out on his back, sleeping and snoring. The door creaked loudly on its un-greased hinges, and Karl Oskar clumped noisily on his woode
n shoes, but the sleeper was not awakened by these sounds. Anders Månsson had not lain down for a light nap, he was sunk in deep slumber.

  Karl Oskar went to the bed. As he leaned over the sleeper the rancid-sweet odor grew stronger. He discovered its source: his foot struck a wooden keg that lay overturned on the floor near the bed.

  It was a whisky keg, rolling in a dark-brown wet spot on the floor, where some of the contents had run out. But not much had been wasted: Karl Oskar suspected that the keg had been practically empty when it was turned over. And the man who had emptied it now lay on the bed after his drinking bout, with open, gaping mouth, breathing noisily in deep jerky snores. His breath rattled in his throat, and his chest heaved slowly up and down. It seemed as if each new breath might choke him, stick in his throat, and be his last.

  Anders Månsson was dead drunk today, a day in the middle of the week; he lay unconscious on his bed in full daylight, he lay flat-back as his mother had said. But his face bloomed red, his cheeks blossomed.

  “Why are you so red in the face?” Fina-Kajsa had asked her son when they arrived last summer. And Karl Oskar remembered one time when he met Fina-Kajsa at Danjel’s; he had asked about Anders, and she had answered: “He lies flat-back at home.” He had wondered what she meant.

  He looked at Anders Månsson with disgust and pity: he slept a drunkard’s sleep and nothing would wake him now, nothing but time could stop that rattle in his throat. But his face looked healthy and red; “if you have red cheeks you are far from dead,” the saying was. . . .

  Karl Oskar walked slowly out of the cabin. The drunkard’s mother was still sitting outside; he had nothing to say to her.

  But she asked: “Was it something you wanted with Anders?”

  “Nothing to speak of. Just wanted to look in as I passed by.”

  “He wakes up toward evening.”

  “Well. . . is that so? Does he often—”

  “As often as he has money to buy drinks with.” Old Fina-Kajsa spoke to the air in a low, hollow voice—without reproach or sorrow. “He got started on it when he lived alone.”