By the time they’d unloaded, changed trains, and gotten settled again, Roald was so keyed up he couldn’t sit still. He paced the aisle and let his mind run with all he had learned from Mr. Probstfield. With weather like this, how could they continue north to find their homestead? Buying supplies would take time too. Probstfield had suggested they take the train and purchase their goods in Grand Forks, but they were fast running out of money.
He fingered the small card with embossed letters in his pocket. Should he use it and contact Mr. Gould for work for himself and Carl on the rail line? He rubbed the cleft in his chin and continued to pace. Where would they live in the meantime? And on what? How would they save to buy horses and wagons, let alone a plow and seeds for planting? How? How? How? The pounding questions kept rhythm with the clacking wheels of the train.
Roald felt like kissing the ground when they stepped out on snow-covered Dakota land. He looked up and down the street that ran next to the train station. While this wasn’t New York, there were thriving businesses, both horse and foot traffic on the street, and buildings as far as he could see. This was Fargo, the largest town in Dakota Territory.
Within three days, the Bjorklunds had settled into their new life. Without being forced to contact Gould, Roald and Carl had asked around and managed to find work on the bridge the St. Paul, Minneapolis & Manitoba Railroad was building across the Red River between Fargo and Moorhead. Ingeborg found immediate employment in the kitchen of the Headquarters Hotel, the largest hotel in Fargo. And Kaaren cared for the children in their two rented rooms in one of the boardinghouses on Broadway Street. The proprietor promised board and room in exchange for labor as soon as Kaaren felt strong enough.
Every morning at dark, Roald and Carl left to begin working on the trestle for the bridge. The huge round piers, formed of curved sandstone blocks, had been set the previous summer and fall, along with the wooden pier posts of the trestle. The billowing steam engine had pounded the round timbers into the mud before the ground and river had frozen. Carl and Roald worked as a team with the whipsaw to trim the tops of the timbers that had been splayed by the pounding, so another team could come behind later and lay the roadbed.
The chug of the steam engine, thudding hammers, and the commands hollered on the frigid air, combined with the ring of pounded metal, made it difficult to hear their soft grunts as each pulled the saw toward himself. Frost formed on Carl’s beard and Roald’s eyebrows from their puffing exertion. It was hard work, but they were both glad to be earning money for their needed supplies.
A curse rang out behind them from one of the other workers. Carl and Roald stopped for a moment and straightened to stretch their tiring muscles.
“Another broken handle?” Carl tipped his hat back and rubbed a gloved hand across his brow, causing ice to break free.
“Ja, when spring comes there will be quite a harvest of hammer heads down between these piers. No one seems to care much, for the railroad just provides new ones. They say it’s a waste of time to stop and fix them.”
“If no one cares, why don’t we go dig them out? We can carve our own handles.”
“And trade the extras,” Roald said, picking up on his brother’s idea.
“Or pound them out and use the iron for scythes and plowshares.”
The two brothers finished each other’s sentences in their excitement.
That night, lit only by the full moon overhead, they kicked the loose snow in the forest of wooden piers and uncovered ten large hammer heads and several small ones. Loaded with their treasures, they made their way back to the boardinghouse.
In the kitchen of the Headquarters Hotel, Ingeborg wiped the perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. Scrubbing pots in steamy water in a room already hot and stuffy from the two cast-iron ranges that were always kept hot to provide the food for the dining room would make anyone sweat.
“Are you all right?” asked Mrs. Johnson, head cook and commander of the kitchen, as she stopped on her way back from the pantry.
“Ja, I will be done in a bit. Then I will get to the bread like you asked.” Ingeborg kneaded her aching back with her fists and rolled her shoulders forward. She put the last dirty kettle in the water and set to scrubbing it. She’d never known there were so many pots and dishes in the world. Her hands were red and sore from the hot water. By the time she finished, they would be ready to prepare another meal, and she would have to start all over again.
“I forgot to tell you, I hired a young boy to scrub and clean. You are much more valuable as a cook.”
Ingeborg raised her head and looked over her shoulder. “Mange takk.” She hadn’t realized the cook was still standing beside her. “I am glad to hear that.”
“Ja, well, just see you continue like you have been. A good day’s work is all I ask.” The aging blonde trundled off toward the dining room, and Ingeborg returned to her labors with renewed energy. She would rather bake breads and make stews any day. And she’d only been working here for a little over a week. She paused when she heard the now familiar train whistle. Since the track lay directly alongside the hotel, everything shook when the train chugged by, and no one could hear themselves think for a few moments.
Ingeborg was not afraid of hard work. She’d helped on the farm back home since she was a child. But the continual ache in her lower back was beginning to worry her a bit. She thanked God daily there had been no more telltale spots of blood to signal trouble, and, besides, anyone would be tired after the long days she’d worked, slaving over the steamy sinks. She left for work early in the morning, even before the men did, and when she returned, all of the others were sound asleep.
That night she crawled under the covers nearly frozen after walking the six blocks home. The heat radiating from Roald’s slumbering body made her feel as though she were lying next to the stove.
“Uff da,” he muttered when she accidentally touched one icy foot to his wool-covered leg. He rolled over and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You are a chunk of ice. Come here and let me warm you.” He turned her over and pulled her into the warmth of his body, carefully tucking the quilts around them again. “Are things going well at the hotel?”
“Ja.” She started to tell him about her change in status, but a gentle snore told her he’d already fallen back to sleep. She fit her body, spoon fashion, against him. Morning would be here long before she was ready for it.
By the end of three weeks, Ingeborg had tackled and accomplished every task in the hotel kitchen, much to the surprise and delight of her employer. The two women worked well together and kept mounds of delicious food flowing out the door on the trays of two hustling waitresses, neither of whom spoke Norwegian.
“No, I said we was wanting the fried chicken, not the steak.” Pearl, the elder of the two waitresses, planted her hands on her hips. “Ingeborg, you said you understood.”
Mrs. Johnson translated from across the kitchen and finished with, “You know you have to be more careful. It’s your fault as much as hers, Pearl.”
Pearl made a face, and with her back to Mrs. Johnson, she could get away with it. Her glare included Ingeborg.
“Ja, the mistake is mine.” Ingeborg hurriedly dished up a new plate with the fried chicken in place of the steak. “I am sorry.” Those words she had learned quickly. She handed the plate back with an apologetic smile. “Chicken.” She said the English word carefully. Her language would improve; it had to. Thank the good Lord the recipes were written in Norwegian, and Mrs. Johnson could speak Norwegian, English, some German, and a bit of French.
“Do not speak Norwegian to me anymore,” Ingeborg said when they were clearing things away for the day. The potato water had been mixed for the bread starter, and the already kneaded dough had been set near the stove to rise overnight. The sourdough made a wonderfully light bread that Ingeborg delighted in forming into loaves and rolls.
“I’ll go along with this when we have the time, but during meals and such, repeating the words and
making sure you understand would be too much. I do admire your gumption though.” Mrs. Johnson turned to Ingeborg and spoke in English. “Now you must go home or you will meet yourself coming back.”
Ingeborg shook her head. She only understood a few words, like “you,” “home,” and “back.”
“Say again, please.” That phrase she had learned well.
Mrs. Johnson slowly repeated the words.
Ingeborg nodded. “I go home.” The rest didn’t really matter. She wrapped her scarf around her throat and pulled on her mittens. Clutching the collar of her black wool coat around her neck, she stepped out into the frigid night air. At least there was no new snow, and during the day icicles had been dripping outside all the windows. The moon lighted her way, turning each breath into a miniature cloud in front of her. In spite of her aching weariness, she felt like skipping. She had two dollars and fifty cents in her coat pocket to add to the growing fund. Wages for one week, more than one earned for several months in Norway. And the men were earning two dollars a day—each. She could scarcely wait to write home. God had truly blessed them, just as all their family had said He would.
A twinge of guilt made her catch her breath. She hadn’t mailed a letter since they arrived in Fargo. The last one she’d sent was from Minneapolis, to let the families know all the immigrating Bjorklunds had arrived safe and were well. Maybe she would have time on Sunday afternoon to write, for Mrs. Johnson had said Ingeborg could leave after the noon meal.
She tiptoed into their room and, after putting two dollars of her wages into the leather bag they used as a bank, undressed for bed. As she removed her petticoats, she contemplated what she had done. Safely tied in a handkerchief lay the remaining fifty cents. Now she had some money of her own. Never again would she have to plead for a penny or a nickel. What would Mor say about this? Or Roald?
She folded up the thoughts and carefully tucked them away, much like she did her undergarments. Kaaren’s mother was right. A woman needed a bit of her own no matter how good a man she married.
In her nightgown, she knelt by the pallet in the corner where Thorliff slept and touched his rosy cheek with the tips of her fingers. “Good night, my son. Soon I will talk to you in English, and we will be able to speak with everyone in our new country.”
Ingeborg was reaching for her coat to go home the next afternoon when a knock sounded from the back door. She glanced at Mrs. Johnson, who nodded for her to open it.
A man and a boy stood on the back steps. The man took his hat off and dipped his head in a motion of servility. “Please, ma’am, can I talk with the person in charge here?” Watery blue eyes gazed up at her from beneath nearly white eyebrows. Deep lines gashed from nose to chin and wrinkled his forehead.
“Ja, of course you may.” Ingeborg stepped back and motioned them in out of the cold.
The young boy trailed behind the man, as if trying to disappear in the coattails, of which little remained. The man’s tattered coat looked as though it had been caught under a plowshare.
“Here, come close to the fire. You look half-froze.” Mrs. Johnson beckoned them close to the big range, already banked for the night. She pulled a pot of coffee from the back where it warmed and poured two cups.
The two did as she ordered, looking as though anything else would be too much effort.
“Ingeborg, fetch some cream from the larder. These two look as if a little wind might send them bouncing like tumbleweeds across the prairie. Now, my good man, what can I do for you?” She plunked the two cups down on the table as she spoke.
The man turned his backside to the range and twisted his hat in his hands. “My name is Mainwright, David Mainwright, and this here’s my son Daniel. I took up a homestead about four miles from town, but we ain’t doin’ so good. My wife died just before Christmas, her’n the babe she was bornin’, and I don’t have nothin’ left. I thought as maybe Daniel, here, could work for his room and board. He’s a good hard worker—for fetchin’ wood and scrubbin’ and such.” His voice died away when Mrs. Johnson failed to comment.
Ingeborg looked from the man’s tired face to the young boy who stood hunched close to the stove, wiping his red dripping nose on his tattered sleeve. He glanced up from time to time, his gaze darting from his father to Mrs. Johnson and back.
“And what are you planning on doing?”
“I’m going to sell out as fast as I can and take the train back to Ohio where I belong. I never shoulda come out here to Dakota Territory, free land or no. That land ain’t free. It sucks ever bit a life outen a man.” For the first time, a bit of fire sounded in his strained voice. “All I’m wanting is for to go back home before the prairie kills us all.”
“You have other children?”
Mainwright nodded. “I thought leastways Daniel, here, would get something hot in his belly regular like. He’s a good boy, like I said.”
Mrs. Johnson nodded toward the pantry again, and Ingeborg flew to do her unstated bidding. She cut two thick slabs of bread and spread an ample amount of butter and jam on them. There were two sausage patties she had planned to use for the soup, but it seemed these two needed them worse. When she placed two plates with the bread and sausage in front of the Mainwrights, the boy looked at her as if she’d given him a bit of heaven. The look on his face when he bit into the bread made her want to weep.
Would the prairie do this to the Bjorklunds, also? She banished the traitorous thought before it could take hold and become more of a fear than those she already carried. She’d heard so many horror stories from those who came and went in the hotel.
“Thank’ee, ma’am,” Mainwright said and prodded his son, who nodded around a mouthful.
“Well, I reckon I can find work for Daniel, here, and a place for him to sleep. Would you then be taking him with you when you went?”
Mainwright shrugged. “ ’Pends on how much money I get for my team, and iffen I can sell the homestead. I gotta pay up at the bank and the general store. They won’t let me have no more credit, as if I wouldn’t pay whens I could.”
Ingeborg’s interest picked up instantly. She’d have to tell Roald right away. With the money they’d all been saving in the last few weeks, maybe they could strike up a deal and purchase a team at a good price.
Mrs. Johnson fingered the ring of keys she kept in the pocket of her floor-length white apron, a sure sign she was thinking over the man’s proposition.
“You got anything to feed those children still at home?”
Mainwright bowed his head and shook it slowly from side to side.
“Then we better give Daniel here an advance on his wages. Ingeborg, fetch a sack of beans and a bit of cornmeal. That might help for a few days. Wish I could do more for all the starvin’ farmers who come by here, but this is better than nothing.”
Mainwright blinked rapidly and sniffed. “Thank’ee, ma’am. There’ll be stars in your crown for sure. I’ll pay you some when I sell my stock, I will.”
With a smile, Ingeborg came back from the pantry and handed him the sack. If only she could talk with him. If only she could talk with Roald before this man headed back out across the prairie. What would her husband want to do?
Mainwright pulled his hat down over his forehead and stepped out into the fading sunlight.
Mrs. Johnson returned from the hallway and handed a quilt to the boy. “Now, you can make yourself a pallet behind the stove for tonight, and tomorrow we’ll decide where you will sleep. You get your rest now, because our morning starts mighty early.”
Ingeborg hurried home, excitement with her news lending wings to her tired feet.
When Carl and Roald returned from another hard day of work on the bridge, they found Ingeborg laughing and playing Find the Thimble with Thorliff, and Kaaren turning the heel on the gray wool sock she was knitting. Baby Gunhilde lay asleep in the center of the bed, snuggled under a quilt.
“Now this is what I like to see.” Carl hung his coat on the peg by the door and crossed to the po
tbellied stove in the corner, where he rubbed his hands over the heat. “That bridge has got to be the coldest place on earth. The wind blows across the frozen river and right up through us.”
Roald followed suit. “We could jump off the bridge, and the wind would carry us right back up.”
Thorliff ran to his father. “The wind could do that?”
Roald shook his head. “No, son, but it is bad.” He turned to look at Ingeborg. “It is good to see you. I was beginning to doubt I still had a wife, except when her cold feet tell me she is home.”
Ingeborg smiled. What had gotten into this man of hers? She poured each of them a mug of hot coffee and, raising the pot, glanced at Kaaren. Kaaren shook her head. After pouring a cup for herself, Ingeborg joined the men around the small wooden table, her secret bubbling inside her.
“I think, and Carl agrees, that a week after the thaw comes, he and I should buy our team of horses and ride north to locate a place to homestead. You and Kaaren will stay here, and when we get back, if spring is really here, we will buy a team of oxen and the rest of our supplies, and then drive to our new home.” He stopped and looked around at the three.
“Where will you go?” Ingeborg asked, carefully keeping her secret safe, waiting for just the right moment to tell them.
“North of Grand Forks to Pembina County. We’ve heard there is still land there for homesteading.”
“Wouldn’t it . . . ?”
“Ja?” Roald looked at her as if she’d spoken out of turn.
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until the weather is safer?”
“Safer?” His tone made the word sound incredulous.
“Come, Inge, remember you are talking to two Norwegians who have lived through winters in Norway. We know how to take care of ourselves.” Carl grinned, his shoulders hunched forward from his elbows propped on the table.
“Ja, I know, but . . .”
“And besides, if we don’t hurry, someone else might take the land we want.” Carl sipped his coffee.
An Untamed Land Page 11