He whirled and caught her gaze. “You wish what?”
“Only that we could go by train or wait until the paddle boats are running, or even take a barge.” Ingeborg sighed.
“You think I am not doing what’s best?” His clipped words gave evidence of his thoughts.
“I know we do not have the money for such luxuries, but it doesn’t hurt to wish, does it?” Ingeborg looked up from watching her fingers pleat the wool of her skirt as if they had a mind of their own. One glance at her husband’s face made her wish she’d kept her dreams to herself. She trapped the sigh she felt coming with an abrupt rising to her feet. “Good night, Roald. I must go to bed now.”
With each passing day, Roald became more restless. The weather turned warmer, and with the ice leaving the ground, the streets of Fargo turned into ruts filled with muddy water.
On Saturday morning he ordered Ingeborg to tell Mrs. Johnson this would be her last day. They would leave in the morning with one wagon.
Through the early hours at the hotel, Ingeborg kept Roald’s order secreted in her heart, as if hoping something would happen to change it. A new woman had started in the kitchen two days earlier, training to take her place. After breakfast had been served, Ingeborg and Mrs. Johnson sat for a few minutes with their cups of coffee.
“This is your last day, ain’t it?” Mrs. Johnson said after a lull in the conversation.
Ingeborg nodded. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Not goodbye, for we shall see each other again. I feel it in my bones. Just God bless and keep you in His grace.”
Ingeborg reached across the wooden table. “Thank you for hiring a green immigrant like me.” She patted Mrs. Johnson’s hand, then reached in her pocket for a handkerchief to dab her tear-filled eyes.
“Smokey in here, ain’t it?” Mrs. Johnson smiled around her own bit of cloth. “Here we sit, as close to blubbering as two Norwegians like us can get. You know how to write to me and let me know where you are. One of these days there’ll be mail shipped all over this territory, you just wait and see.”
Later, when Ingeborg opened her final pay envelope, she sniffed again. Inside she found an extra week’s wages.
They left just as the first rays of daylight cracked the horizon between the endless prairie and the low-hanging clouds. Seated high on the front seat of the wagon, Ingeborg gave a silent farewell to the rising town of Fargo. The wagon could now be called a prairie schooner, since Carl and Roald had stretched canvas over the curved ribs of oak and firmly lashed it to the creaking wagon box. A rooster crowed off to their left as they slip-slopped their way north on Broadway. The street lay ankle deep in mud that some called gumbo because of the way it stuck to everything that tried to make its way through. Already the horses’ hooves were three times their normal size.
Ingeborg huddled into her warm wool coat. Spring might be here, but it had frozen the night before, and all the puddles were rimmed with hoarfrost. She glanced down at Thorliff, who was standing on a box in the wagon so he could lean his elbows on the seat between his father and mother.
“Would you like to sit up here?” Ingeborg dug in her pocket and produced a handkerchief to wipe his nose. She sniffed herself, not sure if from the cold or the sorrow of leaving, then helped Thorliff scramble up to sit beside his father.
Roald glanced down at the squirming boy. “I thought you would sleep awhile like Gunhilde is doing right now.”
“Gunny is a baby.”
Ingeborg hid a smile in her handkerchief. Ever since they’d set the time to leave, Thorliff had let them know that he’d grown up. Even the set of his shoulders, straight and square, matched that of the man beside him. Roald held the reins in relaxed hands resting on his knees.
“Far, how did you know that was our land?” The words carried the same quiet pride as when Roald said “our land.”
Roald hesitated. He’d answered this same question more than twice the last few days, more like every hour.
“The water was high in the rivers, and there were many trees and plenty of flat ground ready for our plow.”
“But how could you tell under the snow?”
“The snow lay deep to melt down in the rich earth and nourish our fields. Snow is important to farmers.”
“But what if there are rocks there?”
Roald shook his head. “They say there isn’t a rock in the Red River Valley, nor a stump to dig out. Just rich land waiting under the prairie grass for our plow. You will plant seeds in the garden that will sprout as fast as you can put them in the ground.”
“But I want to help you plant wheat and corn in the fields.”
“Little boys help in the garden. When we have a cow and some sheep, you will herd them so they get plenty to eat but do not graze too far.”
“All by myself?”
Thorliff’s voice squeaked, either in joy or fear, Ingeborg wasn’t sure. Roald has said more to his son in these last few days than he has in the boy’s entire lifetime, she thought.
“Ja, you are getting to be a young man now.”
Thorliff shot a look of pride up at his mother. Ingeborg took the opportunity to wipe his nose again. As he twisted away, she glanced back in the wagon box. A pallet had been made for Kaaren and the baby on top of the trunks and boxes they’d brought from Norway. She sat propped against another box, nursing Gunny and watching out the rear of the wagon, where Carl alternately rode on the endgate or walked along beside.
If only they had been able to find a team of oxen, this wagon wouldn’t be so heavily loaded and so difficult for the horses to pull. She knew Roald had planned on buying or trading for more machinery too. Would they be able to find what they needed in Grand Forks? Someone had said prices were higher up there.
From the Minnesota side of the icebound Red River, a train whistle wept across the prairie. How much easier this trip would have been on the train or on the riverboat when the thaw finally set in and the ice went out in the river.
She closed her mind on those kinds of thoughts. Could one covet a train ride?
Only an hour up the trail, Roald stopped the team for a rest. He and Carl took sticks and knocked the mud off the horses’ hooves and legs, and then cleaned between the spokes of the wheels. Next they scraped the gumbo from beneath the wagon bed.
“There, that should make their job easier.” Carl straightened and stuck his stave behind the water barrel. He held the bucket under the spigot and, when it was half full, gave each horse a few swallows. While he was doing that, Roald checked the harnesses and the horses’ hides for sore spots from rubbing.
He’d spent hours working on the harness, repairing strained places and oiling it so the cracks wouldn’t go below the surface. More than once he’d grumbled about the way Mainwright had abused his farming implements. “That man had the sense of a flea,” he muttered.
Ingeborg watched from her place on the seat. Maybe they should all walk to save the horses. Should she suggest such a thing? The narrowing space between Roald’s eyebrows warned her to keep her opinions to herself.
The day and the miles dragged by as they repeated the mud-scraping stop about every hour. Yet, still the horses drooped from pulling all the extra weight.
Roald had hoped to reach Georgetown, but they were far short of that by the time they stopped for the night.
“Pray for a good hard frost and cold days,” he muttered as he and Carl shuffled their goods to make better sleeping accommodations. They had hoped to find a farm where they might stop the night over, but in this land of bonanza farms, the home places were few and far between. At least the travelers had plenty of firewood. Cottonwood, willow, and occasional oak trees bordered the river and offered both protection from the never-ending wind and a good supply of dead branches that burned hot and crackling.
Coffee had never tasted so good. With the pot steaming to the side of the fire and mush frying in the pan, the snowbanks seemed to fade away. The sound of horses cropping dried prairie grass where
Carl and Roald had cleared away the snow made camping out seem less a burden and more like an adventure. Thorliff dragged more branches back to the fire. The adults sank knee-deep in the snow with every step, so the boy had an easier time than any of them since he was small enough for the snow crust to hold him.
Ingeborg closed her eyes, the better to enjoy the savory steam from the mug in her hands. With her eyes closed, she pretended they were on an evening skating party in Norway. She pictured the pine and fir-clad hills that rose to granite mountains—hills, that when skied, connected one farm to another by minutes.
“Mor.” Thorliff’s question brought her back to the windswept prairies.
“Ja, den lille?”
“Tell me a story.”
“Nei, not tonight. You must go to sleep right away.” She rose from her overturned bucket by the fire and led him to the wagon. After tucking him in and saying prayers with him, she returned to the fire. Roald had found a piece of oak that he was carving into a handle for some implement. Carl was putting more wood in the flames, and Kaaren had just finished nursing the baby. The three of them sat snuggled with a quilt over their shoulders. Off in the distance the coyotes’ mournful song floated across the snowdrifts.
For a fleeting instant, Ingeborg felt a piercing sadness so intense she caught her breath. When the pain struck again, it turned heavy, a load too much to carry. Maybe that’s why the coyotes sing—to bring some life to the windblown loneliness of snow and the emptiness between it and the sky.
She shook her head at the fanciful thoughts. The coyotes no doubt were hunting, and she hoped they found something to eat far away from the Bjorklund camp. Now, if it were wolves, she would be concerned. And how could she call this lonely—there were four of them around the fire, and two children who could always be counted on to ask questions or to need something.
Ingeborg fought against the desire to look over her shoulder. There were no eyes watching them. They were safe here with their wagon and with one another. Both horses grazed peacefully. If there’d been something out there, their sharp ears and eyes would have caught it long before the people did.
Ingeborg was glad they had a gun.
But a gun wasn’t what they needed in the days ahead. Strong backs and stronger wells of patience were far more necessary. The weather continued warm and sunny, with the wind now a breeze and green shoots springing up with every passing breath. Only the deepest drifts remained and some scattered snow in those places shaded by bare-branched trees.
One afternoon, the driver of the stage bound for Grand Forks and Pembina hallooed them from behind before passing in a rush of waving arms and shouted greetings. Passengers rode both inside the coach and up by the driver, filling the rocking vehicle to capacity. The Bjorklunds waved back, and their horses picked up the pace for a few minutes, as if wanting to race.
In the few places where the track was dry, Ingeborg climbed down from the wagon and walked beside it, sometimes playing tag with Thorliff and other times just watching the cloud patterns on the prairie or lifting her face to the warm sun. As the snow continued to melt, the rich, fecund aroma of dirt and plants burgeoning to life made inhaling a pure pleasure.
During the long hours of riding, Ingeborg and Kaaren knitted and taught each other English words and phrases they had learned. Thanks to the little boy Thorliff had played with at the boardinghouse, he could add words, too. It became a game for all of them, learning this new language. The only problem was, they weren’t sure what was right and if they were pronouncing the words correctly.
Carl had bought a language book, and they took turns puzzling out the words. On the slate, Kaaren wrote the alphabet, and they went over it until they could all recognize the English letters and numbers.
“You are a good teacher,” Ingeborg said to Kaaren after one of their lessons.
“I always wanted to be a teacher, but my father said educating women was a waste of time. We just get married, after all.”
“Ja, and who would teach the little ones if it wasn’t for the mothers?” Ingeborg had never believed such a silly statement.
“I know. Maybe sometime in this new land I’ll be able to teach at a school.” Kaaren leaned her head back to let the sun warm her face.
“Starting with our own children.” Ingeborg put a hand protectively over her middle. The ache in her back from working the long hours at the hotel had disappeared, as did the morning sickness, and she felt better than she had for weeks.
Roald asked about oxen and a wagon as they passed through the stage stops of Grandin, Caledonia, and Buxton. Thanks to the riverboat traffic, all were growing towns. At each stop they received the same answer: Sorry, no oxen available.
“I’m beginning to think we’re making a mistake in wanting only to farm the land. We should buy up breeding mares and cows and raise draft horses and oxen. We could break just enough land to prove up our claims,” Carl muttered after one more turndown. “There is such a need that we could set our own prices.”
Roald stared at his brother. “But that would take more money than we have.”
“Farming will, too. You know we plan to borrow from a bank just like everyone else.”
“I hate the thought of borrowing money.”
“I hate not having the things we need even more—like another team.” Carl shifted on the hard wooden bench of the wagon.
“You’ve never trained oxen.”
“Ja, but I’ve never come to America before either, and here we are.”
“I suppose you think we should build the wagons too.” Roald slapped the reins when the horses slowed. At the moment they were driving a fairly dry stretch and could make better time.
Carl stroked his whiskers. “That’s not a bad idea. We could . . .”
“Carl, we are farmers, and we will farm.”
“I am not saying we would not farm. I think we could add raising livestock to sell and make a better return sooner.”
Roald’s voice carried like a whiplash. “I will not talk about this anymore. We are farmers who till the soil. And that is that.”
“Remember, brother. We are in this together,” Carl spoke softly, but his words carried all the weight of his determination.
Ingeborg listened to the discussion, her hands busily knitting the sock on her needles, but her mind racing beyond the men’s discussion. Talk about two hardheaded Norwegians. Couldn’t they see they were both right? They needed to have some income the first year, before the prairie sod could be broken and the crops planted. She had heard about the breaking of sod, how it could break both a man’s back and his spirit. She had also heard that when you stuck a seed in the ground, it sprouted and grew before you could finish the end of the row.
Even Ingeborg could recognize a tall story when she heard one, but she thought there must be some basis for the tale. She shivered in spite of her coat as the clouds above grew blacker. Without the sun, the temperature dropped in pace with the plodding horses.
The storm began with a chilling mist that soon turned to pounding rain and finally to snow. By the time they’d unhitched the horses and made camp for the night, Ingeborg felt chilled clear to her bones. How had the weather changed so quickly? Just a short time ago, the sun’s warm rays had felt like summer, and now winter had returned. Cold coffee and leftover mush filled their stomachs but did little for their spirits.
By morning, six inches of snow had fallen, making land and trees sparkle as the sun rose. But with a south wind and warm sun, it soon turned to slush and melted off by midafternoon.
“I guess winter wanted to get in one last lick,” Carl said, swinging his feet as he sat on the endgate of the wagon.
“Let’s just pray that was the last one. All the men are saying spring came too early, and winter’ll be back in time to freeze everything.” Roald flicked the reins over the horses’ backs. “Come on, you lazy bags of bones, let’s pick up the pace. We have land awaiting us.”
They spent the day sinking in potholes
and wrenching the wagon out again. When evening fell, they had covered a grand distance of two miles. Both Carl and Roald wore frowns that looked to permanently crease their foreheads.
Before she fell asleep that night, Ingeborg prayed for a drier journey on the morrow. It couldn’t get much worse.
Worse didn’t happen, but more of the same brought shortness of temper, and only their wisdom and care for their team kept them from using the whip. After being yelled at several times, Thorliff huddled in the back of the wagon. He leaned his head against Kaaren and finally fell asleep. With only a cold evening meal again, no one had much to say before falling into bed like trees felled by an ax.
By the time they finally reached Grand Forks, they felt as though they’d been on the trail for half a lifetime.
They unhitched the team and set up camp along the riverbank. There were few trees left; others who’d come before them had stripped the banks bare.
Ingeborg and Kaaren looked at each other and shook their heads. “How will we cook?” Kaaren asked.
“I’ll take Belle and return to where I saw some trees,” Carl said. “We’ll drag something back.” He quickly added some rope and a chain to the harness and leaped on the mare’s back.
Roald handed him an ax. “We might be here a couple of days, so bring in a good one.” He tied the whinnying Bob to one of the wagon wheels. “I’m going into town to see if anyone has a team of oxen to sell.”
“Can I go?” Thorliff looked up at his father, every line of his face and body a plea.
Roald shook his head, then changed his mind. “Ja, if you think you can behave yourself.”
“I can, I can. I’ll be the goodest.” The little boy spun around, his arms flung wide as if his father had just given him the sun, moon, and stars rolled into one.
Ingeborg felt her throat tighten. It took so little to make the boy happy. A shame it was that his father didn’t do such things more often. But then, she was trying to learn to be grateful for each little gift they received. This was such a one.
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