Unto a Good Land (12 page)

Arvid cried out at the top of his voice: “A knife! He’ll stab us—Run, run!’’

The boys took to their heels and ran. They ran into the middle of the street, still gripping each other’s hands, down the street the same way they had come; they ran until they lost their breath and felt a burning in their lungs; they ran past riders and wagons, carts and carriages, horses and asses, they slid between animals and vehicles, they ran for their lives—to get away from the man who sprang at them with a flashing knife in his hand, from the dead man who had come back to life. They had no trouble finding their way, they knew it—all the way down the broad street, the whole length of Broadway, until it ended, then a turn to the left where they would see the harbor and the ships.

During their race they josded people, and angry voices were heard from the crowd. At last Robert held Arvid back: they must slow their pace and be more careful or people would become suspicious of them.

As they reached the market place they stopped for a moment and looked back, puffing and breathless. No one was following them, they were saved. And they resumed their leisurely walk, protected and hidden by the crowd.

“He was a dangerous man,” said Arvid, still shaking. “He might have killed us!”

In a flash Robert could see himself and Arvid lying there stretched out in the street, knife slashes through their throats, like pigs at slaughter time, their blood gushing like ale through a bunghole; their legs kicking a last, weak kick, a helpless kick against death; a feeble twitch of their limbs—then death overpowering them. And there they would be lying, dead in the street, people walking by, no one noticing or taking care of their corpses, nor shrouding them, nor burying them, nor grieving over them here in a foreign country. And when they began to rot and smell, they would at last become food for the swine in the street. So it might have happened.

Robert had seen something glitter in the man’s hand but now, as he recovered his breath, he thought it might not have been a knife; it looked more like glass, perhaps a small bottle. But Arvid insisted he had seen the gruesome man pull out a slaughter knife, a real sticking knife with a point as sharp as an awl.

Robert was still trembling a little, and now he felt ashamed of it and wondered if they hadn’t run simply because of their own fear. He told Arvid they must agree never to let fear overtake them here in America.

“Silly to run away! If the man had touched us, we could have reported him to the police.”

He had just remembered from his English instruction book how to call the police in case of robbers and murderers on the street:
Please listen to me, Mr. Policeman! I appeal for your protection against this unfriendly person who is annoying me.
This was a long sentence, requiring much time to say. . . . He thought one would have to be very quick if one were to finish the whole sentence before being murdered. He realized he must learn English as soon as possible; he must know the language in order to save his life in case of sudden attack, if for no other reason. He had forgotten, earlier, that he had something of value he might lose; now he remembered: his own life!

But what had happened was really Arvid’s fault: “I told you to let the man alone!”

“I thought he was dead from drinking. He stank of brännvin.”

“But why did you poke him in the ribs?”

“I like the smell of brännvin, and I thought a corpse couldn’t be dangerous.”

Robert lectured him. He had been foolish and curious, and as a result almost got them killed. Finally Arvid agreed that he had been careless; but he had felt happy and reckless today, walking along this broad, beautiful street. Now he became dejected and sad; he promised on oath, using God’s holy name, that it would never happen again. If he found droves of corpses here in America, if people lay dead in piles on every street and road, he would never bother to stop. No, he wouldn’t even cast a glance at a single one of the corpses, no one could ever persuade him to look at dead men, or poke at them—even if they smelled of brännvin ever so much. He and Robert shook hands on this.

They were a little disappointed not to have reached the farther end of the street, not to have seen where Broadway ran—either to the portals of Heaven or Hell. But now they trailed dejectedly and cautiously back to its beginning, where they had started out, near the green grove, the manor park. They went back to join their families, both of them anxious to tell the others about their walk on the most beautiful street in the world, where they had almost been robbed of the only thing they owned—their lives.

Arvid soon consoled himself, and his happiness returned as he stuck his hand into his trousers pocket and felt his watch still there.

VI

JOURNEY WITH THE STEAM WAGON

Contract for Transportation of Immigrants

The undersigned agrees to carry the immigrants, who have arrived on the Swedish brig
Charlotta
of Karlshamn, from New York to Chicago, on the following conditions:

1. From New York to Albany by steamer, from Albany to Buffalo by steam wagon, and from Buffalo to Chicago by steamer.

2. For every adult person the fare is 8 dollars, children under 3 years free, children between 3 years and 12 years half fare.

3. The same fare entitles the traveler to 100 lbs. baggage free, and 150 lbs. on the steam wagon.

4. The baggage of the passengers is transferred free of charge from the vessel in New York to the steamer, and likewise in Albany and Buffalo, the whole way through to Chicago.

New York, June 26, 1850

—1—

The immigrants traveled up the Hudson from New York to Albany on one of the largest steamboats plying the river, the
Isaac Newton.

The steamer left New York at eight in the evening, loaded to capacity with passengers and baggage. The immigrants were crowded together on the lower deck, while their belongings were piled almost as high as the smokestacks of the steamer on the upper deck toward the bow.

This was a night without rest for the travelers; there were no sleeping accommodations, and the immigrants sat or stood on deck, so closely packed together that no one could lie down. Parents held their children in their arms, older children and grownups stood upright. When they were tired, they tried to find rest by leaning on each other. Fortunately, they were to travel on this boat for only one night.

And this night they might have been able to sleep without concern for their lives if only there had been room to stretch out; this was not a dangerous voyage over a heaving ocean, violently pitching and rolling; this was a steady, easy passage on a calm, protected river. The Hudson stretched serenely before them, dotted with islands and inlets, following its furrow in quiet power. Through the night, mist towered over the high, steep shores. They were like secret dark fortress walls or silent sentinels, which guarded their water passage on either side. The journey on this water, where they could see land on the right and on the left, was to these ocean travelers almost the same as a trip on solid ground.

The
Isaac Newton
was driven forward by its great stern wheel, which dug deep into the river, stirring up whirls of foam; the wheel twirled the water like a giant egg whisk. The Hudson’s even current slowed the progress of the heavily laden, deep-lying vessel. The stern wheel cut a deep furrow through the white foam, a wheel track in the water, evened out, obliterated, and gone as soon as its wake had passed. Behind the vessel the river flowed as before, calm, slow, even, majestic, on its way to the Atlantic.

One hour after daybreak the
Isaac Newton
tied up at the pier in Albany. Tired, limp, worn-out by lack of sleep, the immigrants left the boat and were divided into groups by their guides and interpreters, who marched with them on a road along the river to the railway station. They were shown into a large hall in the station house, and here the different groups—the English, the Irish, the Germans, the Swedes—were told by their respective guides in their own languages to remain absolutely still; no one was allowed to move from his indicated place. They were not told why they must stand so still, but gradually they learned: two American inspectors went about among them, pointing their fingers at each one, counting them. The men came back, pointed and mumbled once more, and again the immigrants were told by their guides to remain absolutely still; a few had moved and confused the inspectors in their counting.

The immigrants were counted like sheep in a pen, their numbers must check with the numbers in the passenger contracts. Then they were let out of the station to board the steam wagon.

—2—

At home, the immigrants from Ljuder had heard stories about these newly invented wagons, which were driven by steam and rolled along on iron bars strung over the ground. But until now none of their group had seen or used the railroad. To them this newfangled method of transportation seemed dangerous, possibly disastrous. But Karl Oskar had said that the steam wagon was the fastest means of transportation inland, and as their interpreter had told them the same, they had agreed to try the new way of traveling.

They considered themselves lucky in obtaining so tall a Swede to be their interpreter and guide; the ex-carpenter Landberg was a whole head taller than anyone in this great multitude of travelers, and wherever he happened to be, they could easily see him, they would not be likely to lose him. And Landberg was careful not to lose any of them. He stayed close to the group from the
Charlotta,
explained things, and was helpful in all ways. Now he led them up to the steam wagon and told them to be careful when climbing on board, so as not to fall and hurt themselves.

Some twenty wagons, high and covered with roofs, were tied together in a long row, and the immigrants gaped at them wide eyed, half from fear and half from curiosity. Each wagon was built on eight iron wheels and had windows. They thought it might be strong and steady. The wagon at the forward end was unlike the others; as it was first, it must be the one that was to pull, the real steam wagon. It had only four wheels, but these were three times as large as the wheels on the other wagons. Then there were two small wheels, in the very front end. The steam wagon had a tall chimney, broad at the opening and narrowing downward; it sat there like a huge funnel stuck in the throat of a bottle. At the fore end this wagon had iron bars twisted together to form a large scoop or shovel.

Thick, black smoke belched from the chimney and sent red-glowing sparks whirling into the air. The steam wagon had fire inside, it burned there, and this worried the immigrants.

They had always been taught to be careful with fire, to carry burning candles cautiously, to handle lanterns and firesticks with utmost wariness; they harbored a fear, implanted in them from childhood, of fire on the loose. And now they must ride in a row of wagons drawn by one with fire burning inside it; it smoked, crackled, sputtered, and sparks flew from the wagon’s bowels. How easily one spark could fall on the roof of a following wagon and ignite it! They realized that they were to be exposed to continuous fire hazard, at least while the fire burned inside the steam wagon. They had also heard that a steam wagon might easily explode and fly to pieces in the air.

Robert had read about steam engines in his
History of Nature
and tried to explain to the others: Inside the steam wagon they were boiling water in a great big kettle, and it was that kettle which pulled the whole row of wagons. But he did not know what purpose was served by the large iron scoop in front of the steam wagon, and he asked Long Landberg about this. Their guide said that this contraption shoveled away wild animals if they stood between the rails and threatened to overturn the train.

Ulrika of Västergöhl said she wanted to ride as far away from the burning wagon as possible. She expressed the desire of all in their group.

When they were ready to take their seats, the guide showed them into the fifth wagon from the engine; they were disappointed not to be farther away from the fire. They climbed a small ladder, slowly and cautiously. Their wagon was about fifteen feet long and half as wide. A bench had been built on either side with a narrow passage in the middle. The seats were made of carelessly nailed-together rough boards. Two more groups, somewhat smaller than their own, were to share this wagon with them. Their knapsacks, food baskets, boxes, and bundles took much room, and they had to crowd together in order to find space for all. Those unable to find room on the benches stood or lay down on the floor. The immigrants felt as though they had been packed into a good-sized calf coop.

On the end of one bench a place was made for old Fina-Kajsa, so that she might ride half-sitting; she was weaker than she would admit and could stand on her legs only a few minutes at a time. For the third or fourth time she inquired of the guide about her iron pot, and for the third or fourth time she was given the information that the pot rode with the chests and other heavier pieces in a special wagon.

“But where is the grindstone?” asked Fina-Kajsa. “Where is it?”

The grindstone, brought along by her husband who died on the voyage, had, through carelessness at the New York unloading, fallen into the harbor, and all said this was good luck for Fina-Kajsa, who need not now pay the expensive inland freight for it. But she thought they were telling her a lie. Her son Anders in Minnesota had written home that grindstones were scarce in America, and now she thought the Americans had stolen her stone as soon as they laid eyes on it.

And Fina-Kajsa kept on complaining: “Oh me, oh my! What an endless road! We’ll never arrive!”

In great harmony the immigrants shared the wagon space with each other; no one tried to spread out, all made room; they had learned on this journey to live closely packed in narrow quarters, and they endured it good-naturedly. In the wagon, too, they had more space in which to move than they had had on the river steamer. But the air in the wagon seemed thick and stuffy after a score and a half people had pushed their way into it. At daybreak a heavy shower had fallen and cooled the earth, but now the sun already felt burning, in spite of the early hour, and they understood that the day was to bring intense heat, hard to endure.

As yet the wagon stood still, and the passengers were quiet in silent anticipation and wordless worry: What would happen when they began to ride? Unknown dangers lurked on this journey; what mightn’t take place when the wagon with fire inside it began to move? They had heard that some persons could not stand being freighted along on the railroad; it was said to be so hard on them that they fainted and lay unconscious for hours.

Kristina had heard the same as the others; she sat in a corner of the wagon with Lill-Märta and Harald on her knees. Johan had climbed up on the knapsack standing between the bench and her feet. The oldest boy had also wished to sit on her knees, and she would gladly have let him if she had had three knees. But Johan wouldn’t understand that she had only two. The boy had grown impatient and troublesome since they landed.

He pulled his mother’s arms: “Aren’t we going to live in a house now, Mother?”

“Yes, soon—I’ve told you so.”

“When is soon? When shall we live in a house?”

“When we arrive.”

“But Father says we have arrived in America now.”

“Yes, we have. Please keep quiet.”

“It isn’t true, Mother! You said we would live in a house when we got to America. Now we are in America—aren’t we going to live in a house?”

“Yes, yes—please keep still, can’t you, boy?”

Johan tired her beyond endurance, and she didn’t know what to do with him, except to let him be until he tired himself. After the night on the river steamer without a moment’s sleep, she was too exhausted to answer her children. All she wanted was to stretch herself out somewhere and rest; she wanted to lie still, still, and sleep, sleep. But there never seemed any rest on this journey, no real rest, no satisfying sleep; now that they were to travel on this dangerous steam wagon there would be no sleep tonight either.

Karl Oskar stood pressed against the wall near her and talked to Jonas Petter and Danjel about the new form of transportation. Danjel said that now the prophesy had been fulfilled which said that toward the end of the world wagons would move without horses.

Danjel had asked himself if it could be God’s will that His children use the steam power as beast of burden; if this power were something good and useful, why had the Lord kept it secret from man ever since the creation of the earth—nearly six thousand years? It might be that the steam power emanated from evil powers. But thus far the Lord had helped them on their journey. On the steam wagon they were still in His hands.

Kristina remembered Dean Brusander’s words at a catechism examination, to the effect that the steam wagon was a wicked human device, tending to estrange the soul from its Creator, and, like all mechanical contraptions, leading to disaster for poor and rich alike. Steam power weakened and undermined soul and body, encouraging idleness, fornication, and immorality. The dean had therefore prayed God to spare them this curse and prevent steam wagons from ever being used in Sweden.

Kristina wondered if they sinned against any of God’s commandments by riding the steam wagon; she thought, if she had understood the dean rightly, it must be the sixth commandment.

She knew nothing in advance of what might happen on this steam journey, but as she and her loved ones were in the clutches of the wagon it was too late to regret it. She felt as though she had stepped into a conveyance which had been harnessed to a wild, untamed horse in the shafts for the first time; a romping, ferocious beast capable of anything, which might run off the road, bolt, or roll over on the ground in play. She could not forget the belching sparks from the steam wagon’s bowels; she felt that this was the most perilous part of their journey thus far. As yet nothing dangerous had happened to them in America, but they hadn’t got far from the shore: anything might still happen.