The Settlers (29 page)

They came from every land on earth, and spoke all the dialects and languages of the earth. This caravan was humanity’s parade in white, black, brown, and yellow; whites and Negroes, Hindus and Chinese, fullbloods, half-bloods, quadroons, the bluest noble blood and the rawest plebeian dregs.

Workers in all trades took off and joined this strange caravan: the carpenter threw away his plane, the timberman his ax, the smith his sledge hammer, the cobbler his last, the baker his spatula, the cook his spoon, the scrivener his pen. They streamed in from all nations: there rode in his ox wagon the English merchant, the Irish lawyer, there rode on his mule the American preacher and surgeon; the Jewish peddler kept whipping his ox. In the train were the Spanish captain, the Italian monk, the Norwegian forester, the German craftsman, and the Swedish farm hand.

In the caravan traveled, side by side the nobleman and the servant, the high officer and the low soldier, the editor and the actor, the singer and the player, the magician and the circus-performer, the ventriloquist and the snake charmer, the fire eater and the tight-rope dancer, the master marksman with the revolver and the man who had never touched a firearm. In their rucksacks, in their wagons or saddlebags, they hid what they held dearest in this world, objects they least wished to part with: the most diversified objects a human heart can cling to: Bibles and decks of cards, holy pictures and dirty pictures, canary birds in cages, whelps in baskets, gifts from parents and dear ones, knives, sewing baskets, crochet hooks, swingletrees, psalmbooks, songbooks, musical instruments, belts, clocks, rings, and amulets.

And an immense animal caravan accompanied the train intended as sacrifice for the people: in the train of the hundred thousand were 60,000 oxen, pulling 15,000 wagons, 25,000 horses and 10,000 mules who carried people on their backs. Four-legged creatures in the train supplied the two-legged with food and drink: 10,000 cows gave them milk twice a day, and a herd of 5,000 sheep gave them mutton and chops which sizzled with delicious odor over the evening campfires.

The train over the plains and deserts was accompanied by song and music—the musical instruments for religious services as well as those for idle play were brought along. Solemn tunes were heard from mouthorgans and psalmodikons, and dance tunes vibrated from fiddles and banjos. Hallowed psalms were sung to the guitar, and lewd songs to the harmonica, strings were strummed for prayer and reverence, while sin was lauded and debauchery acclaimed. Ministers and blasphemers held their services, and their voices and words rose to the same heaven, that lofty, indifferent heaven above the California Trail.

But these hundred thousand people of all nationalities and colors, speaking all languages, confessing all faiths, practicing all means of livelihood, indulging in all vices, consisting of all types, with all character traits, had one thing in common:
the Goal.
It was the goal that united the members in this folkwandering, the strangest migration ever to take place on the earth. It had forced them to leave their homes in widely separated countries and continents and had brought them together in civilization’s outposts in North America from where the caravan started. It drove them across prairies and deserts, over mountains and plains, over rivers and marshes, and made them endure the desert-heat and the mountain-cold. Any one unable to move forward on this road was also unable to turn back; there remained only to stay in the place and await the final end. The cowards, the cringers, had remained at home, and the weakest had been weeded out before horses’ or mules’ hoofs had taken a single step toward the west.

So the train pushed on, along the unblazed trail that was only a name, enduring the heat of the fiery sun, resting under the vaulted, starry night sky, through the days and months, from spring to fall. Only a dream could unite this human horde, and before the train of the hundred thousand there moved as guidance, day and night, a mirage, a pillar of fire:
gold!
It was their common goal:
GOLD!
It was the end of the road that united them:
The Land of Gold!

And broad was the land and unmeasured, long was the road, and without end, greatminded and daring the participants, and immeasurable their dreams.

The Gold Caravan traveled every year, from spring to fall, over the California Trail, but it happened that two out of three who followed its pillar of fire never reached their goal.

XIII

A YOUTH WHO IS NOT YOUNG

—1—

One June evening as Karl Oskar Nilsson made his way through his field, hoeing his corn, he saw a stranger approaching along the lakeshore. A tall, stooped man with a rucksack on his back came toward him, jerking along and swinging his arms as he climbed the road up to the old log cabin. He veered off toward the maple grove, walking as if he had no command over his tall, loose body. Then he stopped and looked at the new main house under the great sugar maples.

Karl Oskar rested against the hoe, staring at the man. During their first years on the claim they had barely had one visitor a month, now someone came almost every day. But this man was not one of their neighbors. And the stranger looked from one building to the other as if he had lost his way. When he saw Karl Oskar in the cornfield, he turned and walked in that direction.

He was a gaunt young man, and judging from his clothing he must be a fur trapper. He wore a broad hat, a long black-and-white-checked coat, and a hunting shirt of flaming red flannel. His pants were made of deerskin, held up by a broad yellow leather belt; his snug leggings fit into high boots. He was a skinny man; his clothes seemed too big for him, hanging on his body as they did.

To Karl Oskar the strangers walk reminded him of his brother Robert. But he was taller than Robert, and as he came closer Karl Oskar could not discern any likeness to his brother.

It must be someone who had lost his way and wanted to inquire about directions.

“Hello, Karl Oskar!”

The farmer stood openmouthed with the hoe in his hand: a stranger, in strange clothing, with a strange face, in a hoarse voice he had never heard before, called him by name.

“Don’t you recognize your brother, Karl Oskar?”

Could it be possible that someone was trying to pretend to be the brother who had left for California four years before?

“I’m back from the California Trail!”

The evening was still light; Karl Oskar peered more closely at the newcomer, looked him in the eye, and began to recognize him, feeling rather than seeing who it was. His younger brother, Robert, was standing in front of him.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Karl Oskar put down his hoe and offered his hand: “Back at last! Welcome, Robert!”

“Thanks, Karl Oskar. Didn’t you recognize . . . ?”

“Well, you’ve grown taller. And changed!”

It was the height that had confused him; Robert had grown several inches—that was only natural, he had been gone four years. But the clothes; he had left in his old Swedish wadmal, and now he returned dressed like an American trapper. The greatest change, however, was in his face. When Karl Oskar had last seen his brother’s face it had been round and full with only the first down of a beard and still with a childish softness in its contours. Now his cheeks were cavernous, bones protruding under the scabby, pale-yellow skin which looked as if worms had gnawed it. Deep, dark gray furrows underlined his eyes. It was a ravished youth-face he now saw. And when Robert smiled, black holes from missing front teeth appeared.

Robert had been eighteen when he set out. Now he was twenty-two. He was still young but he looked old.

“We thought you were dead . . .”

“But I wrote—many times . . .”

“Only two letters have come.”

“Well, some were lost, I guess. They often rob the mail out west.”

Karl Oskar took hold of Robert by the shoulder, holding him as if wishing to convince himself that this was really his brother: Robert’s body was wasted to bones and sinews.

“Nice clothes you have!”

“Did you think I would return looking like a ragbag, Karl Oskar?”

And Robert again smiled his black, toothless smile.

“I came up the river with the steamboat—to St. Paul. Then I got a ride with an ox team. The last part I walked. You have roads through the forest now . . .”

He interrupted himself with a racking, hollow cough, accompanied by a growling noise from inside his chest. “I caught a cold on the steamboat.”

He turned and looked up at the new main house. “You’ve raised some house, Karl Oskar!”

“It isn’t as big as I planned but it’ll do.”

“Two stories!”

Karl Oskar replied that he had not yet had time to finish the inside of the upper story, but downstairs they had one large room for daily use, a bedroom for the children, and a good-sized kitchen. He had built sturdy fireplaces so they would be warm in winter.

Robert had only praise for the new house, so pleasant on the slope under the maples, which gave shade in summer and protection in winter. And the maples were full and handsome. When he compared the new house with the old log cabin, he realized that things had improved for his brother while he had been away.

“Let’s go home!” said Karl Oskar, and picked up the hoe from among the furrows.

“I see you’ve started to plant Indian corn.”

“This is the second year—it’s well worth it. And I’ve sown wheat for three years now. Wheat and corn go best in Minnesota.”

Yes, Robert knew that wheat was king of the grains in America, and Indian corn the queen. And he thought that much had indeed changed since he left.

In a burst of brotherly affection Karl Oskar put his arm on Robert’s shoulder as they walked up to the house. He had been almost sure that his brother was dead. Now joy at his return and bafflement at the changes in him mingled within Karl Oskar: Robert’s emaciated body, his jaundiced, unhealthy complexion, the hollowness of his voice, his stiff motions—something of life itself was missing in Robert. He stooped as he walked—the halting gait of an old man. Perhaps he had grown too tall to carry his body erect, perhaps he was forced to stoop a little. His brother was ten years younger than he, yet he didn’t seem young any more. What was the matter with him? Was he sick?

“I don’t think Kristina will recognize you either, Robert.”

They entered the new house through the kitchen door at the back. Kristina stood at the hearth tending the pot containing the pea soup for their supper.

After a momentary look of surprise and hesitation she gave a cry of recognition: “Robert! Robert! Are you back . . . ?”

Her voice was filled with joy; she threw her arms around her brother-in-law. Her throat choked with tears, so moved was she. It was with difficulty that she found words to express her feeling.

“You recognized me sooner than Karl Oskar!”

“I’ve missed you terribly!” she said. “But I’ve always been sure you would come back!”

Robert unshouldered his rucksack and dropped it on the floor.

“You come dressed like an American gentleman,” continued Kristina. “And you have gown terribly tall—but so skinny . . . ?”

The children came running into the kitchen but they were shy with the newcomer when he approached them. Robert had been away so long they had had time to forget him. Only Johan remembered: “You are the uncle who lived with us in the old house!”

“You’ve grown a lot, Johan. How old are you now?”

“Nine!”

Robert picked up Dan and lifted him high in the air: “You lay in swaddling clothes when I left!”

“We have one more little one now,” said Kristina. “A girl we call Ulrika—she’s thirteen months.”

Robert picked up the girl too and lifted her into the air; but her uncle’s intimacy did not please Ulrika—she began to yell at the top of her voice and he had to put her down. Then Robert felt in his pocket and pulled out a bag of sweets which he divided among the five children. After this they were no longer shy of the stranger but jostled about him.

Karl Oskar sniffed the aroma from the pot on the fire; pea soup with boiled pork was to him a delicious dish and he knew his brother liked it. What luck Kristina had such fine fare today; Robert looked as if he needed nourishing food.

“You’ve walked a long way—you must be hungry.”

“I am thirsty, rather,” said Robert. “Would you have some drinking water, Kristina?”

She handed him a quart measure which she had filled from the wooden bucket on the floor against the chimney wall. He drank it down, with noticeable enjoyment. “Wonderful water! Did you find a spring?”

Karl Oskar told him that he had dug a well in the slope during the first year but it gave brown water with a brackish taste to it and in a long drought the well went dry. Then last summer he had found a spring in the oak stand behind the old cabin. It gave this clear, fresh water—the best drinking water one could wish. It was about a ten-minute walk to the spring but the water was well worth it.

Robert said, “Good water is worth any walk!”

“Where’s Arvid?” asked Kristina. “Did he come back with you?”

“No, Arvid didn’t come back with me.”

“But you were together . . . ?”

“Yes, we were together. But then we parted.”

“Where is Arvid now?”

“He is out there. He stayed.”

“Stayed . . . ?”

“You mean Arvid remained in the goldfields?” interrupted Karl Oskar in surprise.

“Yes, he remained. He is still there.”

“Oh?” said Kristina and looked questioningly at her brother-in-law.

“Yes, Arvid stayed behind.”

Robert’s replies to their questions were short and indifferent, as if they did not concern him.

Karl Oskar tried again. “I guess neither you nor Arvid had much luck? Or do you carry your gold with you in that sack?”

He pointed to his brother’s rucksack—it was made of thick, excellent skin and looked new.

“Do you think I could carry the gold with me? I can tell you’ve never been on the Trail!”

Robert smiled his broad, toothless smile; so Karl Oskar thought a gold digger could carry his gold with him? That he would come with a sack of gold on his back when he returned? Gold was heavy, almost the heaviest thing that existed. No one was able to carry gold very far. And one could easily be attacked and robbed along the way. Oh no! One put the gold in safekeeping as soon as one found it. One didn’t carry it in one’s pocket, not a single nugget could one risk. Every grain was of value and was well taken care of. He had learned how to handle and keep gold: one put it in a bank for safekeeping.