Vilhelm Moberg - Unto A Good Land

“You rely on the woman? What’s her name?”

“Fina-Kajsa. She is from Öland; her husband died in the first storm.”

Captain Lorentz suddenly straightened. “You mean the old woman who is so sick?”

“She is better now, she says; she feels so well in her body she’ll be able to go with the rest of us.”

“Then you’ll take the old woman in your company and be responsible for her?”

“Yes. She has money for her journey. And we’ll look after her as best we can. When we get there, perhaps her son will help us find land.”

The captain’s face had suddenly lightened; it was not the first time Providence had helped him out of a difficult dilemma. This time, apparently, Providence had chosen the farmer to get him out of his difficulty with Fina-Kajsa Andersdotter, and thus save his company three hundred dollars.

He handed the important piece of paper back to Karl Oskar.

“It’s a long way to the territory of Minnesota. About fifteen hundred English miles, I believe.”

“Is it so. . so. . far away?” Karl Oskar’s face fell, and he scratched his head with its unkempt hair, yellow as barley straw, grown very long during the voyage from Sweden.

“Of course, it’s only two hundred and fifty Swedish miles,” the captain hastened to assure him. He did not wish to frighten the farmer by dwelling on the journey’s length, but rather to encourage him to undertake it. He continued: Every time he had transported farmers in search of land he had advised them to go as deep as possible into America; the farther west they went, the richer the soil was, and the broader were the regions to choose from. Most of the distance they could travel on river steamboats.

“Two hundred and fifty miles! It isn’t exactly next door.”

The infinitely long road which had worried Karl Oskar at first had shrunk to one-sixth, but it was still two hundred and fifty times the distance from Korpamoen to Ljuder church. He thought to himself, he must be careful how he spoke of the distance to others in his company; it might dishearten them.

“I will arrange the contract for the journey,” Captain Lorentz assured him. “Including the Widow Andersdotter, there will be sixteen in your company?”

Karl Oskar had never seen this taciturn, unobliging man so talkative and willing to help as he was today. The captain spoke almost as to an equal: Yes, he often arranged contracts with honest companies for transportation inland. His conscience bade him help immigrants leave New York as soon as possible; they couldn’t stay here in the harbor, they couldn’t settle in Battery Park. And he knew an honest Swedish man in New York whom he often asked to guide the immigrants and act as their interpreter. The man’s name was Landberg, he had once been carpenter on this very ship, the best carpenter Lorentz had ever had. But several years ago, when the captain was transporting a group of religious fanatics from Helsingland, followers of the widely known prophet Erik Janson, Landberg had been so taken by their religion that he had left the ship in New York and joined the group. After half a year, Landberg had lost faith in the prophet, who had plundered him. The poor man had been forced to flee from Janson’s tyranny penniless and practically naked. Landberg now earned his living by acting as interpreter and guide for Swedish immigrants. He spoke English fluendy, and it was Captain Lorentz’s custom to send for him as soon as the ship docked in New York. This time also he had notified the one-time carpenter, and Landberg had been given a pass by the health officer to come aboard the brig.

“How much would the interpreter cost?” Karl Oskar asked.

“It depends on the distance he must accompany you. I believe he charges three dollars for each grown person as far as Chicago.”

“Hmm. . Well, we can’t manage by ourselves. None of us can speak this tongue.”

The captain thought, to leave these poor, helpless peasants to shift for themselves would be almost like driving a flock of sheep into a forest full of wolves. He said, “If you would like speedy transport inland, you must take the steam wagon from Albany. Landberg will get contracts with all the companies concerned.”

“Thank you, Captain, for your great help.”

It had been reported to the captain during the voyage that this big-nosed peasant had been dissatisfied with his quarters, had complained of the small ration of water, and had been insubordinate to the ship’s officers. But Lorentz no longer disliked the man: Karl Oskar undoubtedly had a good head; and then, he was the tool of Providence.

“. . And you think the old woman is strong enough to be moved?”

“She says she is. She was on her feet again today.”

It was indeed strange; a few days ago the Widow Andersdotter had been shaking in every limb with the ague, fallen off to the very bones from diarrhea. But such miraculous recoveries had happened before, and even though Lorentz had little use for the customs of the North American Republic, he had to admit that the mere sight of the country worked like magic on people; one day they were lying in their bunks sighing and crying and ready to die, unable to lift head from pillow, and the next day they were on their feet again. When semi-corpses saw the shores of America, they returned to life.

— 3—

As Karl Oskar felt the new money in his belt, it seemed to him that a hundred and eighty-seven dollars was a poor exchange for five hundred and fifteen daler. His property had somehow shrunk on his arrival in America. And what he now carried in his belt was all he and his family owned in worldly possessions; it was all they could rely on for their future security.

He went to tell his fellow passengers that the captain would arrange for their continued journey; all were anxious to get away from the crowded ship’s quarters and were disturbed over the delay on board.

On the deck he met Jonas Petter of Hästebäck, the oldest one in their company; he should really have been the one to plan the journey, to act as leader for the group, rather than Karl Oskar.

“Ulrika is stirring up the women,” Jonas Petter told him.

On the foredeck, next to the watchman whose duty it was to prevent anyone from going ashore, stood unmarried Ulrika of Västergöhl, the Glad One, talking to a group of women, gesticulating wildly, loud, upset.

“She insists our captain is a slave trader,” Jonas Petter said.

What had the Glad One started now? Karl Oskar had long been afraid she might bring shame on their company.

He went to Ulrika; her cheeks were blossoming red and her voice was husky with anger.

“So it’s you, Karl Oskar! Now I’ve found out the truth! Now I know why they won’t let us land!”

“It’s because of the cholera,” said Karl Oskar.

“No, it’s not! It’s the captain! He keeps us confined here because he is going to hold an auction and sell us! He is going to sell us as slaves to the Americans!”

The women around Ulrika listened fearfully. They might have been listening to the auctioneer she predicted calling for bids on them; one woman had folded her hands as if praying God for help.

Karl Oskar seized Ulrika by the arm. “Come and let’s talk alone.” He pulled her away from the others and they walked over to the mainmast.

“Don’t spread such lies,” he warned her. “You might have to pay for it.”

“It’s the truth,” insisted Ulrika. “We’ve been swindled! We are to be sold on arrival — that’s why the captain keeps us penned in on the ship!”

“What fool has put such ideas into your head?”

“You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to. But I’m going to run away; I’m not going to stay here and be sold as a slave!”