The Last Letter Home (5 page)

These immigrants settled in the St. Croix Valley of Minnesota, in the land of the Chippewas and the Sioux. It was a wild-growing region, never before touched by ax or plow. When the settlers had built their abodes and secured their daily needs they began also to concern themselves with their spiritual requirements. According to their ability they organized for a life beyond their corporal needs: They built churches and schools, they employed ministers and teachers, they agreed upon laws for peaceful community life with equal rights for all. They elected councils to solve their quarrels and mete out justice among them. In their frontier world they had to start everything from the very beginning. They changed the land that had received them and created for themselves a new community.

The region these immigrants helped develop was admitted to the Union as the thirty-second state, and they themselves became citizens of the United States.

But this alone did not guarantee them peace and security in their new land. After ten years in the New World their existence was threatened to its very foundations. Within the Union such great antagonism had arisen between opposing factions that it resulted in a four-year, utterly bloody civil war. And while this was still going on, their own new, free state was shaken by another internal strife: The Indians who had been forced to vacate their ancestral hunting grounds by the ever-encroaching settlers started an uprising to drive them out and regain their land.

The gift of liberty so generously extended to the immigrants made great demands on the recipients: It saddled the settlers with responsibilities that had been unknown to them in their native country. The United States demanded of its citizens talents never needed in their homeland. In Sweden they had been subjects of temporal and spiritual authorities they themselves had not elected, and—like people not of age—they had had a government over them to decide what was best and most beneficial for them. Here in the New World they were citizens of age: They themselves elected their government, and they elected as their officials men who had their confidence and who would serve the people rather than hold them in obedience.

The ability wholly to govern themselves was exacted of the settlers. And the necessity to decide for themselves forced and stimulated them to new efforts and developed in them new strength. In exercising their newfound liberty the immigrants gained the experience which gave them the strength to build their new society.

Thus, in turn, the immigrant-citizens were changed by their new country. They changed the country and the United States of America changed them.

Part One

I

OLD ABE CALLS

—1—

It was in the beginning of the age of the telegraph. This remarkable invention was in use everywhere in North America; in a few short minutes it could transfer important news from one end of the country to the other. The morning happenings in the South were known in every city and village of the North long before evening. The telegraph was a miracle not yet become commonplace.

What happened in South Carolina on the morning of Sunday, April 14, 1861, was known to every city dweller in Minnesota within a few hours; the news reached many of the smaller villages before the day was over; more remote settlers were perhaps not aware of it for still another day. It reached the people of Lake Chisago in the forenoon of Monday the fifteenth. This April day was never to be forgotten by any one of those who lived it.

It was the season of seeding. Karl Oskar Nilsson, owner of the first settlement at the lake, was harrowing his field for the spring wheat. For the first time he was driving his recently acquired team of horses. The weather was mild for that time of year, it had rained moderately, and the soil seemed ready after the stirring of the harrow pegs. The black earth was pregnant with growing and sufficiently dry after the rain not to clog his shoes. Pigeons, meadowlarks, and sparrows faithfully followed the team across the field and picked with eager beaks at worms and larvae exposed by the harrow. The horses pulled this heavy implement easily enough with such a brisk pace that the driver had difficulty in keeping up with them. Karl Oskar still dragged his left foot a little due to an old injury in his leg which always made itself known under stress.

He was pleased with his new team. There was a great difference between the lively, brisk horses and the dull, sluggish oxen. Now harrowing was easy. This afternoon he must sow his wheat, for tomorrow morning the Spring Court convened in Center City and he was to serve on the jury.

He had sent his oldest boy, Johan, on an errand to Klas Albert’s store—Persson’s Store, as they called it in Center City—and now and then he glanced down the road. Why was the boy so slow in returning? Finally he spied him down by the old log cabin. As soon as Johan saw his father he began to run. Karl Oskar reined in his team: Why suddenly this hurry?

Before the boy had gained the field he began shouting: From the son the news reached the father:
War had broken out.

Johan was excited and short of breath. In Center City he had read a poster on the bulletin board of the parish meetinghouse. The Southern rebels had stormed Fort Sumter and shot down the Union flag. The slave states had begun warring against the North. A great many people had gathered at Persson’s Store, all talking about the war. The boy of fifteen was proud to have carried this message; he panted for breath as he repeated it.

Karl Oskar let the team rest and sat down heavily on the harrow. To him the news was not unexpected. He had long feared war would break out. It had been an uneasy winter, full of anxiety and uncertainty. Now spring had come and with it outbreak of war. And as war finally had come, at least he was relieved of the worry about its breaking out.

Last fall he had been one of those who helped elect Abraham Lincoln, himself a settler’s son. The men of the ax and the plow had placed Abe in the President’s chair: They trusted him. Karl Oskar had thought: Old Abe won’t have a war, if he can help it. He is sure to make peace with the slave states. He also wants what is best for the South—the best of both North and South—they must remain united. He wants the people of the New World to settle their differences peacefully, not with bloodshed. In the Old World the English, French, Russians, Austrians, and Turks had recently fought bloody battles. But over there kings and warlords had always driven their people to death, and people had meekly endured it. But Honest Abe—himself born in a settler’s cabin—is not going to ape leaders who have ruined the Old World.

But now the slave states had inveigled each other to attack the Union. The flag had been shot down! What could the President do now? What must they all do? The one attacked must defend himself.

Johan was standing beside the harrow, keyed up, waiting eagerly and with apprehension: “Do you think, Father, the rebels are coming all the way up here?”

No, his father didn’t think so; the boy mustn’t be afraid. The Southern rebels would never come as far north as Minnesota. Long before they got halfway they would be killed on the battlefields. And he told his boy to go on home and finish cleaning out the sheep pen, a chore he had started in the morning. He must tell Harald to help him, there was great hurry, the sheep manure was to be spread on the oat field before seeding.

Johan looked disappointed but obeyed reluctantly. He had expected his father to unharness the team and come home and forget about the sheep pen. He had in some way expected a reward for bringing the message of war. It was unfair, on a day like this, to have to shovel sheep dung.

A swarm of mosquitoes buzzed around the horses and bit them in the groins; the animals stamped with their hind legs, rattling the harnesses. Karl Oskar remained sitting, squinting at the sun, his thoughts disturbed, pondering. War! Never could a war have started at a more inopportune moment. But whatever happened, he must plant the spring wheat today. A new crop must grow; people would need bread next year also.

He resumed harrowing but row after row with each furrow he was pursued by the question: How many men in America must now leave their daily chores and go to war? He did not stop harrowing until the dinner hour. Kristina, his wife, had already set the table as he entered the kitchen, and he sat down to eat with his family.

Johan repeated to his mother and brothers and sisters what he had read on the poster in Center City. This last year in school he had learned English quite well and could read it almost fluently.

Kristina listened with great calm. A change had come over her these last years; nothing disturbed or frightened her.

“War is punishment for our sins,” she said. “We can only ask God to have mercy on us.”

Karl Oskar said, “Those armies of the South can do us no harm up here. They’ll never get here!”

“I mean: May God have mercy on the people in the South and the people in the North!”

He protested that the rich slave owners in the South had started the war. They alone were to blame, and they alone ought to suffer. If one were attacked by a criminal must he suffer the same punishment as the attacker?

“Punishment belongs to God,” explained Kristina. “A Christian is not allowed to go out and kill.”

“Isn’t he allowed to kill a murderer and criminal?”

“No. He mustn’t kill any human being.”

“But I’ve the right to defend myself. A murderer must blame himself if he gets killed!”

“If someone is killed, is it therefore necessary to kill others?” Kristina replied. “Can it help the dead one if other people die?”

Karl Oskar and Kristina had had many discussions about the South and the North and could not agree. Now he replied, as he had done many times before: If one couldn’t defend oneself against an attacker, no person in the world could live in peace in his home. And the slave states had attacked because the presidential election last fall hadn’t gone the way they wanted.

“They want to govern themselves, as we do,” she said. “Why can’t they?”

“It ruins the Union,” he explained. “The rebels have broken the laws of the Union.”

“But the people of the South don’t like them. They don’t want to obey the same laws as we. Why must they? Why must they be forced to obey?”

Karl Oskar could not make Kristina understand that the slave power in the South was criminal. Hadn’t they not long ago read in their paper
Hemlandet
about the Souths plan to murder President Abraham Lincoln, the most honest man in North America? The slave owners had conspired to prevent him from occupying his office. For a long time they had planned this deed, and hired the assassins. When Father Abe was to ride the steam wagon to the government house in Washington, the murderers were to turn over the wagon and crush him against the rails. Such was their intent; he was never to reach the presidential chair alive. Praise be God, the conspiracy was discovered in time, Abe was warned, and guards were posted along the whole line of the railroad and he arrived unharmed in Washington. This fully proved that the slave powers instigated murders. And murderers could not be endured in this country.

Kristina looked at him across the table: “And now they must go to war, the men . . . ?”

It was half a question, but he did not reply this time; he looked down at his plate.

She had something more to say to him but she couldn’t quite get it out now—there was one more question she would have liked to ask him: Are you going?

The next morning, Tuesday, Karl Oskar drove single-horsed to Center City to do jury duty. He tied his horse and walked up the steps to the meetinghouse, which also served as courthouse, where he met Mr. Thorn, the Chisago County sheriff, a tall, well-built man. The sheriff said there would be no sitting of the court today because war had broken out.

Mr. Thorn was a Scotchman. Karl Oskar knew him as an honest and capable person and he had helped elect him sheriff. In Sweden the farmers were never allowed to elect their sheriff; there they must accept whoever the Crown sent them, however badly he might treat them. A Crown sheriff in Sweden was a puffed-up, vain person, a magistrate wearing gold-plated buttons and uniform cap, who cursed and ruled. He threatened and frightened and no one dared do anything but obey. Mr. Thorn on the contrary was a helpful, kind man who neither ruled nor swore at people. And if he had done so he would not have lasted long in his office. There was a great difference between a sheriff in Sweden and a sheriff in America; here the settlers were his equals.

“Old Abe has called for troops,” said Mr. Thorn.

He showed the Swedish settler a big placard nailed to the meetinghouse wall. Yesterday Abraham Lincoln, the President of the Union, had sent this proclamation to all the Northern states; this poster concerned each and every citizen.

Karl Oskar began to spell his way through the poster. He understood most of the English, and what he didn’t understand the sheriff explained to him.

Southern rebels had conspired to get possession of fortresses and war matériel from the Union. The laws of the nation must be enforced and therefore the booty must be recaptured. Lincoln, in his capacity as President, urged all loyal citizens to hasten to the defense of the Union. He asked for 75,000 men to enlist immediately.

The tall Scotchman already knew Lincoln’s proclamation by heart. He spoke with great feeling—those scoundrels in the slave states had besmirched the flag, they had shot at the thirty-two stars in the Union flag. The thirty-second and last star was that of Minnesota. These Southern bandits in shooting at their flag thus, had actually fired at the people of this very county; it was as if they had tried to murder him, Karl Oskar, his friends, and fellow settlers.

Mr. Thorn had his duties as sheriff and because of this, sadly enough, he was forced to stay at home. Otherwise he would already have hearkened to Old Abe’s call and enlisted. As he said this he glanced at the Swede beside him in a way that could not be misunderstood.

Twice Karl Oskar read through the presidential proclamation very carefully while he barely listened to the sheriff. Mr. Thorn kept fingering his badge of office as he poured out his bitterness over the insult to the flag; such an insult could be washed off only in blood.