The Last Letter Home (32 page)

For ten years now the Homestead Act had been in force, Abraham Lincoln’s great gift to the country’s farmers, the work of a farmer’s son, blessed by all immigrants who came to farm. Anyone who wanted land received 160 acres without paying a cent, the only requirement being that he clear and build on it. Through that law Old Abe had given homesteads to millions of the homeless. Nothing more important had ever happened to immigrants. The year before Lincoln was murdered he had proclaimed the last Thursday in November as a day of Thanksgiving on which to show the Lord God gratitude for the year’s crop. But innumerable immigrants, from all the old countries, turned on this day to Old Abe himself in his grave and thanked him for their fields and their crops. It was, after all, he who had given them the land.

Thus the Starvation-Småland people arrived in the St. Croix Valley at a happy time. Here they immediately found the living they sought. And to their countrymen who had arrived earlier they brought news of the famine and the starvation in the old villages, telling how even the crows had fallen dead from their perches since there was nothing to sustain life in them, how people had died by the hundreds, unable to exist on the chaff porridge spooned out at the church twice a week. But the lords and masters had their usual generous fare during the famine years. The so-called four estates, through constitutional amendment, had been abolished just before the famine—now, so the saying went, there remained only two estates: the well fed and the starving.

When Karl Oskar Nilsson heard of all the misery in Småland he was well pleased that he had sent his home parish a load of wheat.

Hardest to listen to were the stories of children the mothers were unable to feed at their breasts. Many of the babies born in Småland during the famine years left this world immediately. Mothers who had lost their children then became wet nurses in rich homes where they were given food in abundance: Their milk returned to their breasts to feed the upper-class children. Especially sought after were mothers of illegitimate children. The church condemned such women, but the lords liked them.

Ulrika of Västergöhl could remember a similar experience which she had often told to Karl Oskar in great bitterness: At the birth of her second bastard she had been ordered to Kräkesjö to give suck to the lieutenant’s newborn son, since his wife was too weak and nervous. She had been offered one riksdaler a month for her milk, and five meals a day of the best food she could eat. But Ulrika had refused the lieutenant’s offer: She wanted the milk for her own son. A child without a father ought at least to have a mother’s unshared breast. Yet, without sufficient food at home, she had not had milk enough for her baby and after four months it had died.

In Sweden the rich stole even mother’s milk from the poor. It was no wonder such great hordes had escaped across the ocean to the New World.

—2—

Ulrika Jackson had become a widow last winter. During a preaching journey in severe weather Pastor Jackson had caught a cold which later turned into pneumonia; he died nine days later. The Stillwater Baptist congregation had given their minister a magnificent funeral.

Ulrika had not visited the Nilsson Settlement for several years, nor had Karl Oskar gone to see her in Stillwater. She had been Kristina’s intimate friend but he had never counted her among his. Nor did he do much calling. But he heard through rumor that Ulrika of Västergöhl had become a rich widow. A member of the congregation who had died a year before the pastor had willed all his property to Jackson. It consisted of four houses which Ulrika inherited at her husband’s death, and Mrs. Henry O. Jackson was now considered well-to-do.

One day in early summer Karl Oskar had an errand to the land office in Stillwater and he dropped in to pay a visit to the Baptist pastor’s widow. She had moved from the old home and lived now in one of the inherited houses, a spacious, beautiful building with a lush orchard sloping down to the very edge of the St. Croix River.

Mrs. Henry O. Jackson was delightfully surprised at the visit: “Welcome, Nilsson! It’s been a long time!”

“Thought I would call on you.”

“I’ve thought of calling on you many times, Nilsson!”

“Call me Karl Oskar as in the old days. You still speak Swedish, don’t you?”

“All right, Karl Oskar!”

Ulrika invited her guest into a room much larger than the living room in the old house. The furniture was new and must have cost much, everything was fine and shiny. Karl Oskar guessed it must look like an upper-class room in Sweden, even though he hadn’t seen many of those.

“What can I offer you?”

A young girl in a starched white apron had come into the room and stood waiting at the door for her mistress’s order.

“Would you like some cherry wine?”

“I’ll try anything you offer, Ulrika.”

She gave instructions in English to her maid. The girl went out and returned with a bottle of cherry wine. She poured it into glasses of so elegant a cut they glittered like snow in sunshine.

Karl Oskar drank; the wine had a good although sweet taste.

“So youve hired a maid, I see.”

“I have two girls.”

“Well, I hear you can afford it. Nice that you’re well off.”

“Yes, I have plenty of worldly goods,” Mrs. Jackson sighed softly, “but I have lost my husband. I’ll never get over losing Henry. Now I’ve only the Lord to comfort me.”

Ulrika told him about her husband’s sickness and death and her life as a widow. She wanted to do good with the money the Lord had granted her so undeservedly, and with some of it she had started a home for illegitimate children, where they would receive kind treatment. It had cost her a lot and when people asked why she had done it she would reply that she herself had borne four bastards in her homeland, three of whom had died in tender years from undernourishment. But everyone laughed at this and took it for a joke.

“But your American children are getting along well?”

Yes, indeed, the three daughters she had borne to Pastor Jackson had brought her much happiness. They had all married well. But the boy—well, she didn’t even want to talk about her son.

Suddenly a flash of anger came over her face.

Karl Oskar asked, “Is something wrong with your boy?”

“He doesn’t want to be a priest, the bastard!”

Karl Oskar was well aware of the resolution the unmarried Ulrika of Västergöhl had made at the time of her emigration: She would show the clergy of Ljuder “whom they had stung” when they denied her Communion at the Lord’s table. She herself would bear a clergyman.

“Can you imagine that lout, Karl Oskar! He refuses holy orders!”

Red roses bloomed on Ulrika’s cheeks as she continued. They had put Henry Jr. in the Baptist seminary, but he ran away. He didn’t want to serve as a priest in any church, he didn’t even want to go to church or listen to a minister, not even his own father. What could you do with such an obstreperous, snooty child? The boy was so shameless he wouldn’t even listen to the Lord’s Word. Now he was sixteen, yet he would receive neither baptism nor confirmation, not in any kind of church, be it Baptist, Methodist, or Lutheran. She had borne into this world a hardened heathen.

“Does your son live with you?”

“No, he’s away. He travels about.”

And Ulrika again sighed deeply. Only with effort could she go on. “My son is an animal trainer.”

“What did you say?” Her guest was astonished.

“Yea—Henry Jr. travels with a circus.”

Last spring a circus had come to Stillwater, with Arabs, Bedouins, mules, apes, and other monsters, as well as wild bears, lions, and leopards. Junior took a job with the circus, currying horses and shoveling dung after lions and bears for five dollars a week and his keep. He went with the circus when it departed. Last time he wrote he had been in Chicago. He was now almost a fully qualified animal trainer. In a few weeks he would take his animal trainer examination and would graduate, he wrote.

Her only son—carrying on in a circus arena, instead of preaching the Lord’s Word from a pulpit! Instead of becoming a priest he was a jester, a fool, at fairs—instead of taming sinful people he was taming wild beasts!

No son born of woman had brought his mother a more cruel sorrow than Henry Jr. She had been denied the birth of a priest.

Karl Oskar looked out over the St. Croix River just as a steamer glided by. It had a high funnel with smoke belching out in gray clouds. The lower deck was piled high with wood—fuel for the engine. In the stern the huge wheel paddled like a river monster that had got caught on a hook. The upper deck was loaded with barrels of flour, for the paddleboat carried a cargo of wheat flour. The settlers of Minnesota were already growing more wheat than they consumed; already they supplied other countries with bread.

“Have some more wine!” And Ulrika filled the glasses. “How are things with you, Karl Oskar?”

“You know. Half of me died with Kristina . . .”

“I reckoned as much . . .”

“In other respects all is well. Except my old leg kicks up at times.”

“Your injury? Have you tried Blood-Renewer for it? You can get it at Turner’s Drug Store.”

She opened a cupboard and took out a bottle:
Sweet’s Blood-Renewer heals Scrofula, Aches, Stomach Fever, Chest Fever, Headache, All Female Weakness, and All Sicknesses Caused by Bad Blood.

Ulrika was convinced that Karl Oskar’s pain was caused by impurity in the blood: “The Blood-Renewer helps me when my old legs ache!”

Karl Oskar wondered to himself how old Ulrika of Västergöhl might be by now. She must be over sixty. She had put on a little weight but this did not detract from her appearance; otherwise she looked as always.

And Ulrika wondered if he had reconciled himself with God. But her recollection of his behavior at their last meeting was still in her mind and she didn’t ask. She felt he was a little more mellow this time. Perhaps he couldn’t endure his own hatred for the Creator. And if he didn’t show some humility—God would surely bend him.

—3—

Ulrika persuaded Karl Oskar to stay for dinner.

They spoke of the old country. Ulrika had never written any letters to Sweden and never received any. She did have relatives at home but they had never wanted to have anything to do with her. Karl Oskar wrote once a year to his sister Lydia and received letters in return, and he gave Ulrika the latest news.

Mrs. Jackson showed him a copy of
Hemlandet
and pointed to a notice. An emigrant from Ljuder had presented a bridal crown to the village church. Who might the donor be? Could it be someone in the St. Croix Valley?

Karl Oskar picked up the paper and read:

“The parish of Ljuder, Småland, has recently received a valuable gift from North America, given by an emigrant from the parish—a beautifully wrought, highly valuable bridal crown of silver, the finest obtainable. The crown, according to the donor’s instructions, is to be worn at church weddings but only by brides known for chastity and decent living. This valuable church jewel will be used for the first time this Whitsuntide, when Anna Ottilia Davidsson, an upright and modest virgin, the granddaughter of Per Persson in Åkerby, will be married to Karl Alexander Olofsson from Kärragärde.

“The donor of the crown, now living in North America, wishes to remain anonymous. She was a member of Ljuder parish before her emigration some years ago. The silver crown is in expression of gratitude and appreciation of her native village.

“Honor to each emigrant who remembers his old country and shows his gratitude in this way!”

Karl Oskar folded the paper. “I wonder who it might be?”

“I guessed you,” said Ulrika.

Karl Oskar laughed. “No—it must be someone else, someone who is rich.”

“Why? The crown needn’t be so expensive.”

“It’s made of silver.”

“Silver isn’t expensive in America.”

Karl Oskar read the notice again. “The giver doesn’t want his name known—I wonder why? I wonder how much it cost?”

“How much do you guess?”

“I couldn’t try!”

“One guess!”

Now Karl Oskar noticed something sly and mocking in her remarks. A suspicion was born in him and it was confirmed before he had time to say anything more.

“The crown cost nine hundred dollars!”

Karl Oskar started from the chair. “How in all the . . .”

“Yes, nine hundred dollars. Cheap for cash!”

“You, Ulrika! You gave it!”

“Yes, of course!”

Mrs. Henry O. Jackson folded her arms over her ample bosom and enjoyed Karl Oskar’s look of surprise. He just sat there and stared at her, utterly astonished. She laughed with great exuberance and it echoed through the house. In this moment, when teasing Karl Oskar, she was again the old Glad One.

“You fooled me, Ulrika.”

“I thought you’d guess at once!”

“It didn’t enter my head you were so rich you could give away silver crowns!”

“I bought the bridal crown in Chicago last winter. It’s covered with precious stones, it glittered so I couldn’t take my eyes off it.”

“Some gift!” said Karl Oskar. “But why the secrecy?”

“If the people in Ljuder had known who gave it they wouldn’t have accepted it.”

She was right in this, he thought. Older people at home were sure to remember the parish whore, Ulrika of Västergöhl. But she might have given it under her present name, for no one would have known who Mrs. Jackson was. No one would have guessed by checking the church records that this was “Unmarried Ulrika of Västergöhl, denied the Lord’s table for lewd living, excluded from the parish, banished.” For the donor was now Mrs. Henry O. Jackson, of Stillwater, Minnesota, North America. And the magnificent bridal crown she had presented to Ljuder church could be worn only by virgins, known for chastity, decency, and unquestionable morals.

“Did you yourself stipulate that only chaste women can wear it?”

“They must have their maidenheads, of course. That very word is on the paper. Sure tough, isn’t it?”

Karl Oskar remembered that it was chaste and honorable women, above all, who had looked down on and insulted the parish whore, Ulrika of Västergöhl. Yet that very kind of woman—fine farm daughters and virgins—would wear her silver crown with the precious stones at their weddings in the village church. Perhaps it was Ulrika’s way of taking revenge.