Vilhelm Moberg - The Emigrants

The farmers quite willingly contributed a couple of riksdaler each to free themselves from Thron’s boy, who had been such a nuisance to them. So the money was collected, he was put on the coach at Klintakrogen, and Lieutenant Rudeborg even came down in person to see that his scoundrel servant started off to North America.

A few months passed by and all was well. No mischief was heard of and everyone said this was the wisest thing they had ever done — to send Fredrik to North America.

But one day the news spread that the American traveler was home in Kvarntorpet again.

He had never boarded the ship for North America. He had gone only as far as Gothenburg, and in Gothenburg he had remained the whole time. There he had stayed at an inn, and had drunk and caroused and lived like a lord as long as the money lasted. When it was spent he returned home, and now this debased youth looked honest people in the face as if expecting them to be happy to see him back again in good health. He had put on weight and he looked fine. On the money he had received from honest folk he had lived in idleness, gluttony, and debauchery. And the rogue said that if you wanted to live well you should not work. He was so shameless that he went around the village and thanked people for their contributions toward the journey, saying he had used them as well as he could, he had had much pleasure. And if they should have it in mind again, he would be most willing to undertake another American journey. He had always longed to get out and see the world, it was so useful and instructive for a person. And this parish was a dirty little hole not at all befitting decent, sensible people. He hoped that the contributions next time would be sufficient to take him a bit farther on his voyage to America.

By now people were so angry at the inveterate scamp from Kvarntorpet that they spit at him whenever they saw him. Evil was within him, and it “inclined him to evil, and disinclined him to good,” as it is written. And Lieutenant Rudeborg, who had paid half his American fare and himself seen him board the Gothenburg coach, had no mercy on him this time: he reported him to the sheriff for theft of the oxen. However, when Lönnegren arrived at Kvarntorpet to fetch Fredrik, he had disappeared, and the authorities had not been able to lay hands on him since.

“That’s fifteen years ago, now. No one here has seen Fredrik since that time. They say he took to the sea,” Jonas Petter concluded.

Angry words were mumbled by the peasants as the farmer from Hästebäck finished his tale. Probably, thought Robert, some of them had contributed toward Fredrik’s American journey at the Gothenburg tavern.

A few words in Jonas Petter’s story had especially impressed Robert and he pondered them: the lieutenant from Kråkesjö had said that a land existed which fitted all those who misbehaved at home.

If one disappeared from one’s service and from the neighborhood, one was written down under “End of the Parish.” He could hear the dean call a name at the examination next autumn: Farmhand Robert Nilsson from Korpamoen. No one present knows where he is. And the dean writes: Whereabouts unknown. So it would be written next year, and the following. And ten years, fifteen years later the dean would still write in the church book about the farmhand Robert Nilsson: Whereabouts unknown. Not heard from since 1848. For all time it would appear about him in “End of the Parish”: Whereabouts unknown.

It was thus written about those who were free.

How many miles might it be to North America? He dared not ask anyone present, they might begin to wonder about him. Perhaps he could learn from some book.

But America was the land for one who had taken the wrong road.

— 3—

Robert became drowsy from the heat in the mill room and from the monotonous din of the millstones; he went to sleep on some empty sacks in a corner. It was late afternoon when he awoke. Jonas Petter and the other peasants were gone with their grind, and in their place two other farmers who had arrived were waiting for their flour and eating their provisions. They no doubt thought Robert was a farmhand who was waiting for his grind. And one of them noticed that he had no food and handed him a slice of bread and a piece of pork.

The same farmer told about a death which had occurred that very morning: a young farmhand on his way to service in Nybacken had drowned in the mill creek. It appeared he had fallen off the bridge. They had found his jacket, and Aron of Nybacken had dragged the pool, but his body had not yet been recovered. Strangely enough, a maid from Nybacken had drowned in the same pool a few years ago.

The farmer also knew that the drowned servant was son to Nils in Korpamoen. He was only recently confirmed. As a child he had been somewhat peculiar: he would run away from home, and his parents had been forced to hang a cowbell around his neck to locate him.

A young person’s sudden death — a horrible occurrence, the farmer sighed. He added that fortunately the victim was old enough to have received the Lord’s Holy Supper, so one might hope he was now with his Saviour in eternal bliss.

The last bite of bread stuck in Robert’s windpipe; he coughed for a moment: the same man who had given him the bread believed he deserved a blissful heaven. He was a kind man, he must be thanked sometime.

Here at the mill Robert felt he might be recognized any moment; he must remain here no longer.

He knew in which direction he must go: he wanted to reach Karlshamn, the town by the sea; he must reach the sea.

He intended to ask if perchance any one of the peasants came from the southern part of the parish; perhaps he could get a ride part of the way. But just as he opened his mouth to ask, the miller himself came into the room, covered from head to foot with white flour dust. He seemed to be looking for someone; he eyed Robert sharply.

“Are you Nils of Korpamoen’s son?”

As he looked closer he added: “You’re barefooted, and you haven’t any jacket. You must be the one.”

It was too late to ask for a ride.

“Your master is here. He heard about you from the other farmers.”

Up the steps into the mill room came a big man with thick, fox-red hair covering his forehead. His cheeks were smooth and shone as if greased with pork fat, and he had small, piercing eyes. It was Aron of Nybacken.

Robert crawled backwards into his corner.

Aron smiled with a broad grin as he espied the lost farmhand.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my boy, that little helper of mine!”

And he extended his hands toward Robert, a pair of hands covered with long, coarse, red hair. They were heavy and rough as gnarled birch clubs, they were the biggest hands Robert had ever seen. And they were fastened to a pair of powerful arms, the arms of Aron of Nybacken; they hung from the man who was his master.

Robert tried to pull himself into his shirt, into his trousers, he wanted to become small, so small that the master could not get hold of him, could not see him.

But Aron sounded very kind now, his voice was mild and soft as sweet cream: “Too bad you lost your way! My little boy, you didn’t find Nybacken this morning — now I’ll show you the way. Outside the coach awaits you.”

And he stretched out his big hand and grabbed the boy by the shoulder.

“Pick up your bundles and come.”

Robert walked out of the mill room followed by the farmer. He was hired according to law, he was bound to the man who had the biggest hands he had ever seen.

Outside the mill stood the horse and wagon from Nybacken, and here the master and the hired hand were alone. Aron got a good hold of Robert’s ear, while his broad smile vanished: So-o, the little farmhand was of that sort of wool! So, he wanted to run away, did he! And he had tried to make people believe he had drowned! And had caused his master great trouble — the whole morning had been spent in dragging for the lost farmhand! Now, in the midst of the most pressing time of spring! So he was of that ugly breed that wanted to leave his service before he began it! Was it in this way that the little hired man honored his father and mother and revered and obeyed his masters? His poor parents had today mourned him as drowned and dead, tomorrow they would be ashamed of him as living. He was confirmed and grown, but he couldn’t walk a mile from home without disappearing. He, Aron, would tell his parents they must still hang the cowbell on their boy before they let him leave home.