Vilhelm Moberg - The Settlers

Of all the animals, Johan was most familiar with the gophers, which were always visible near the house. Now he saw them wherever the ground was free of trees and bushes. The gophers had gray-brown coats with two black streaks along the back, and were bigger than rats but smaller than squirrels. They sat upright on their tails, blinking curiously at you, but if you tried to catch them they dove quickly into their holes. Gophers were not dangerous, Johan had been told, they neither clawed nor bit you. But the gray wildcat with its short legs and bobbed tail, which sometimes sneaked all the way into their house — he could both claw and bite, and if he was very hungry he might tear little children to pieces and eat them. Johan had been warned about that cat.

With a lumbering gait the black ox pulled the cart, the oak trundles turning slowly over stumps, into and out of ruts. The axles were well greased with bacon rind to prevent them from squeaking; Karl Oskar’s cart was no screech-wagon announcing a coming settler miles away. It was the first time in America he had driven a load with his own vehicle and his own beast, and the first time he was accompanied by his oldest son.

Johan had a mind ahead of his years, always quick to notice things around him. He had begun to help his father, looking after the cows and the pigs when they were let out, carrying in water and wood. He was a willing helper as far as his strength went. In time the boy would be a great aid to Karl Oskar.

“If you’re cold, come down and run beside the cart!”

No, Johan wasn’t cold; he wanted to ride on the load. The weather was mild and he was warmed by the excitement of his new experience, by all he saw and heard. He was only afraid the road might come to an end, and only too soon he spied the river; they had arrived.

Stephen Bolle, the Irishman, had built his little mill near the rushing stream above Taylors Falls. The mill house had been raised without a single nail; the walls were held together by pegs. The millstones were only eighteen inches in diameter; the small stones could grind only a rough flour. It was really a dwarf mill, a little makeshift contraption, but it was the closest one. Marine and Stillwater could boast of steam mills to grind the settlers’ crops.

The miller looked out through the door of his dwarf house, frightening Johan. Bolle was a thick-set, fat man with heavy white hair hanging down to his shoulders like a horse’s mane. His face was black-gray with white spots, like hardened, cracked clay, and in the cracks, dirt and flour had gathered; Bolle never washed his face. In the center of this black-gray, flour-white field, his mouth opened like a hole with one long, black tooth. To the boy the miller looked like an old troll.

One of his daughters, a widow, took care of the miller’s household, and a little granddaughter with fiery red hair ran around his legs, peeking curiously at the newcomers.

Stephen Bolle was a laconic man who grunted like an Indian; Karl Oskar could not understand half of what he said. But the Irishman understood the purpose of a man with grain sacks, and Karl Oskar knew the cost of grinding per bushel; further conversation was unnecessary.

There was one load before them; Karl Oskar would have to wait an hour until the other settler’s grind was finished, then his own sacks would be poured between the grindstones. Meanwhile, Karl Oskar and Johan opened their lunch basket: bread, potato pancakes, fried pork, milk from a bottle Kristina had tied in a woolen sock to keep warm. As they ate Bolle’s granddaughter, the little girl with the flaming hair, eagerly watched them. She tried to talk to Johan but he couldn’t begin to understand what she was saying. Her forehead above her snub nose was covered with freckles; she was the troll child and her grandfather the old troll; Johan disliked them both.

He asked his father about the miller and the girl and Karl Oskar told him that the Irish were a special race of people, unlike the Swedes except for the color of their skin. They were ill-tempered, always fighting among themselves or with other people. They quarreled willingly and worked unwillingly. But English happened to be their mother tongue and so they got along well in America, in spite of their bad behavior. That was the strange thing about this country — you might meet all kinds of people. So Johan mustn’t be surprised at the way people looked or acted.

The Irishman’s ramshackle mill ground slowly and it was one o’clock before Karl Oskar’s grain had been turned into flour. While they were waiting, the weather had unexpectedly changed. The sun was no longer visible, the whole sky had clouded over, and suddenly the air felt much colder.

The old miller dumped the last sack onto the cart, squinted heavenward, and granted, “Goin’ to get snow — pahaps — uh. .”

The Swedish settler nodded goodbye to the Irishman and hurried to turn homeward. His ox cart would need four hours on the road and the day was far gone; he had no time to lose if he wanted to be home before dark. Of course he was familiar with the road and could follow his own tracks so he was sure to reach Duvemåla even if he had to travel the last stretch in darkness. Nevertheless. . he urged Starkodder: “Git goin’! Hurry up!” But the black ox had once and for all set his own pace, and moved his heavy body with the familiar slow speed, shuffling his hooves in the same rhythm; this steady beast was not to be ruffled by whip or urging.

Johan had again settled himself on top of the sacks but after a couple of miles he complained of being cold. Karl Oskar helped the boy down and had him walk beside the cart to keep warm. Karl Oskar buttoned up his own heavy coat. It had indeed turned cold, and there was a peculiar thickness in the air, indicating a change in the weather, the kind that took place so suddenly in the Territory. Men said the temperature could fall from twenty above to twenty below within a few hours. And the Irish miller had croaked something about snow. Well, it was time, of course. .

But there was another word in connection with snow, and that word Karl Oskar did not even wish to voice. But it was surely too early for that kind of weather, now, at the beginning of November. Yet, anything could happen weather-wise in this country — if they were unlucky. He began to feel apprehensive as he peered at the clouds; they were thickening and darkening above the tree tops. And the trees, which had been still when they drove past them a few hours ago, had begun to sway — slowly, to be sure — yet it was not a good sign; it boded ill.

But a storm couldn’t come on so suddenly; he had time to get home. Well, to be on the safe side, perhaps they had better take the road by Danjel’s and Jonas Petter’s claims, on Lake Gennesaret. This was a little farther, a mile or two, but in New Kärragärde they would find shelter should the threatening storm break. They would have to turn off at the creek, a few hundred yards farther on. He hesitated, scanning the fir tops every couple of minutes — it couldn’t come that quick. .

Johan was unable to keep warm even though he ran behind the cart and kept in constant motion.

“I’m cold, Father! It burns. .”

He wound the woolen shawl tighter around Johan’s head and shoulders and showed him how to flail his arms against his body to keep warm. He had no mittens but Karl Oskar dug his own out of his pocket and put them on the boy’s ice-cold hands. As the cold became more intense, the boy became a problem, for he was sensitive to it in a way a grown person was not. If Karl Oskar had suspected the weather would change he would have driven alone to Taylors Falls. But in the morning it had looked promising. . For his son’s sake he now decided to take the longer road through Danjel’s claim and, if need be, seek shelter. At the creek Karl Oskar left his old tracks and turned off toward New Kärragärde. This stretch should take only half an hour, certainly not much more, if he just could get his ox to move a little faster.