The Emigrants (58 page)

When Elin had gone so far she looked at her hands, which were clean and white, with a fragrance of soap. It was early in the morning and she had just washed them.

“In America they must think all maids have dirty hands,” she said.

“The Americans hate all kinds of dirt,” said Robert. “Everything is cleaner in the New World than in the Old. That’s why you’ll fit in well there.”

“Do you really believe it’s true that a maid need not get up before six in the morning?”

About that, Robert dared not offer anything definite. There was the chance that she might accuse him of having told her something untrue. He answered cautiously: “Perhaps she isn’t allowed to sleep so late in all places. But I’ve heard that farmhands can sleep till five o’clock.”

When Elin had served as nursemaid she had always been awakened by her mistress at four o’clock or half past. She liked to sleep late in the morning, and now she was a little disappointed in Robert’s answer. He had once said that all women in America were waited on, and if this were true, then it was only right that they be allowed to sleep later than the men.

The deck rolled slowly under the youth and the girl, the changing world of the sea surrounded them, the same eternal billows lifted them and carried them to a New World where they must find their way. And they sat there close together and with inexperienced, obstinate tongues tried to learn a new language—seriously and persistently they struggled through the English sentences, reading the words aloud as they were spelled.

I am used to farm work. I am the new servant girl.

In these two sentences the youthful emigrants must let the Americans know what kind of people they were, and they must pronounce them correctly, inspiring respect. This was of great importance for their future.

—2—

The brig
Charlotta
of Karlshamn was sailing toward Midsummer.

The eagle on her prow still looked incessantly toward the west, his eyes washed clean and clear by the spray. And the two tall masts—fir trees from the forests of the ship’s homeland—bowed gracefully as the vessel glided down the billowy vales, rose proudly again as she encountered the crests of the waves. So they bowed while they carried the sails across all the sea, always rising to their full height again, proudly, defiantly. They had bent a little in hard gusts of wind, they had been pressed down by the storms, but they had always come back up again. They were slim and slender pine spires, in appearance so delicate at the top that they could be broken with the fingers—but these the ship’s pinions had endured the tempests of all seasons on the sea. They were pines from a little land far away, they came from the same stony meadows and moors as the people on this ship—they were related to these voyagers, they were tough and indomitable as the people they helped carry across the sea.

And soon they will have conquered the ocean once more. The
Charlotta
now met other vessels daily, sailing ships and iron steamers, she was passing vessels, she was overtaken by vessels, she kept company with vessels. The swarm of sea birds was thickening in her rigging. In the water—up till now uncontaminated in its clear blueness—slime and flotsam began to appear, various discarded objects sailed about on the surface. All signs indicated that land was near. And soon the ship would no longer sail on the sea, she would enter a broad river mouth.

The sun was high in the heavens and bathed the deck in warmth. Sick passengers were carried up from the hold and lay the whole day through in the beneficial sunshine. Slowly mending, they felt they were enjoying a warmer sun than the one that shone on them at home. It was high-summer weather, Midsummer weather.

Kristina had improved slowly after her bleeding during the night of the storm. But as yet she was too weak to stand. Karl Oskar carried her out of the dark and stuffy quarters up on deck every day when the sun was out, and each day her sensation of returning strength increased. It worried her that she was lying here so useless; she could not help them now when they had so much to do: they were getting themselves in order for their landing.

The passengers had begun their great cleaning up and were busy preparing themselves for the landing. There was washing and scouring and scrubbing in the hold, garments were washed and rinsed and hung to dry. Clothing of all kinds, Sunday best and underwear and bed-clothing, must be cleaned, mended, patched and brushed. This was not work for menfolk, but Karl Oskar must do it now, and he found it a tedious task. Many things had been ruined on the long voyage—worn out, torn, rotted, drenched with vomit. Mattresses and bolsters and garments were in shreds—these he could only throw into the sea. And nearly everything smelled musty and evil—like the quarters where they had spent more than two months. He gathered, sorted, and discarded a large pile.

“There should be a rag-and-bone man on the ship. He would have a thriving business!”

Now he, like the other passengers, must throw his rags into the sea. And he mused that little by little a whole mountain of ragged discarded belongings of emigrants must have accumulated near the shores of America, if each new arrival threw overboard as much as this.

Kristina thought that he threw away too much. Some of the things in his pile could have been cleaned and mended, could well have had more use. But Karl Oskar felt it a relief to get rid of the stinking rags, reminders of his anxiety during the storms and the plague of seasickness—he wanted to free himself of these witnesses to the troubles of the crossing. The sight of them would only torment him on land when they were to begin anew.

“I don’t want to feel ashamed among the Americans,” he said. “If they were to see these rags, they would wonder what kind of people we are.”

Karl Oskar admitted no debt to the homeland where all his struggle had repaid him so little, but he did not wish to shame Sweden in the eyes of America: he wished to show that it was a land with a cleanly, upright peasantry, that those who came from there were decent and orderly, even if they brought nothing more than their poverty in their knapsacks. He wanted to be neat in his dress, and appear sensible and experienced as he passed through the portals of the New World.

He discarded the
old
with the rags that he heaved overboard—now the
new
was to begin.

Of their bedding, Karl Oskar saved only one piece: their blue bridal cover which Kristina herself had sewn. It too was spotted, and several holes gaped in it. Tears came to Kristina’s eyes as she now beheld it in full daylight, and saw how badly it had fared. But maybe she could wash it, remove the disgusting spots, mend the holes—once they had landed and her health and strength had returned. Her bridal quilt was dearer to her than any other possession they brought with them from home. It had been part of her setting-up-of-home in Sweden, she had made her bridal bed with it, Karl Oskar and she had slept under it for six years—during their whole lives as husband and wife. She could now hope that they might rest together under it once more, and use it for many years. Surely they would never be happy and prosperous unless the bridal cover was part of their new settling in America.

During their preparations for the landing Karl Oskar showed himself so handy and efficient with the chores of womenfolk that Kristina could not help but admire him. It seemed he could do almost anything he wanted—if he only wanted to. His old disposition had now returned, and he was more cheerful with each day. Midsummer was imminent, he said, he must have on his holiday disposition.

The closer they came to land, the more Karl Oskar became himself.

—3—

One morning at daybreak Robert was awakened by Arvid, who excitedly shook him by the shoulder. “They see America!”

Still half asleep Robert jumped into his trousers, still half asleep he emerged through the main hatch onto deck where he continued to button himself up. Many passengers had already gathered up here, mostly menfolk, but also a few early risers among the women. They all stood there silently in grave expectation: they saw North America.

As yet there was not much for the eyes to behold. They sailed up the mouth of a broad river, a broad bay of the sea. It was not yet full daylight, and a mist hung over the land: America was still sleeping this morning, had not yet shed her blanket of night. Land rose over the stern and on the prow and on either side of the ship, but in the mist of dawn it appeared fragmentary, visible in places, hidden in others. As yet no one could discern if this land was barren or fertile, rich or poor, beautiful or ugly. But they had reached the shores of America, and this knowledge sufficed them.

Their speed up the bay was good—now, during the last stage of this long voyage, the wind was with them, and their sails were full as women’s skirts in a breeze. Innumerable ships filled the passage, sailing ships, sloops, steamers, vessels of all sizes and kinds. The brig
Charlotta
had long traveled alone on the ocean, now she was in great company.

Little by little the land threw off its morning shroud. Slowly the naked shores arose. And soon a populated stretch of land jutted out in the path of their ship, like a large peninsula. Here the clearing mist gradually uncovered a multitude of clustered roofs, long rows of houses could be seen, and high above the roofs stretched spires and steeples, exactly like the church steeples at home. Before them lay a town, greater than any they had ever seen before. When full daylight broke through, they could see their harbor: New York.

Robert and Arvid stood in the prow, as immobile as people can stand on a moving deck. Next to them stood the second mate, the Finn, who had taken part in every one of the
Charlotta
’s voyages to North America. He told them that the land they saw was only a large island. It was originally called
Manna-Hata,
which was an Indian word—the name of a favorable god among the Indians, he had heard. The god had lived on this pretty island of
Manna-Hata
for thousands of years, until it once was flooded by the river and he had been forced to move. Now it was mostly people who lived here, but the Finn had never been to any church while in port so he was not sure which god—if any—lived on
Manna-Hata
nowadays.

The
Charlotta
steered toward a shore which seemed to them made up of fortifications and piers. But above these rose also a large, round, yellow-gray building with a tremendous round tower. Robert wondered what this could be.

“That’s called Castle Garden. It’s a
kastell
”

Robert did not know what a
kastell
was, he had never heard the word before, but he didn’t wish to ask. Instead, Arvid asked the mate.

“A
kastell
is the same as a prison,” said the Finn.

Robert looked at him with wide-open eyes. That yellow-gray house with the large round tower was a prison? There were then imprisoned people in the house called Castle Garden. He had not imagined that the first house he saw in America would be a prison, a house where people were locked up when they lost their freedom. And he said that he had hardly expected to find any prisons in the United States of North America, where all evil and criminal people were exterminated.

The mate then explained that Castle Garden was no longer used as a prison. There were no prisoners there any more—it was instead a hell of a good place, a saloon. He knew, he had been there himself. The fare was good, and the ale of first quality. One could eat there to one’s satisfaction, and get good and drunk too. On Sundays the saloon was crowded, people sitting on each other’s knees while they ate and drank. Castle Garden was indeed a damned good saloon, a place where one was free to do as one pleased, use one’s knife in a brawl and all other kinds of entertainment.

Then it was really as Robert had thought it would be: the prisons in America were actually not prisons with prisoners, as was the case in Sweden, but rather fine inns with guests who there could enjoy and entertain themselves as best they pleased. No doubt about it, America was a land with a kind government.

—4—

Only a short time elapsed before all of the
Charlotta
’s passengers were gathered on deck. Those unable to crawl up by themselves were carried: America was visible, and all wanted to see. They saw houses, churches, embankments, piers, streets and roads, people and carriages. But the eyes of the emigrants missed something—they looked in vain for something which the shores of America as yet had not shown. Their eyes had been searching for it during the whole passage up the bay—at last they found it, on the outjutting tongue of land over the prow: behind the big house with the round tower the morning mist was lifting, uncovering a grove of trees—large leaf-trees with thick foliage, and grass on the ground around the trees. The shore they had left at Karlshamn had been a dark shore—here a light shore greeted them. Bushes and trees grew there, leaves and green boughs, herbs and grass: at last they could see the green earth.

The long-drawn-out voyage with all its storms, sufferings, ills and troubles—the confinement on the ship during endless days—all this had gnawed hard on the emigrants’ lives and spirits. Scurvy and ship’s fever had lowered their resistance. From the monotonous life on board they had grown depressed and downhearted, and many had ceased to care what life and fate would bring them. But now this new vision unfolded before them, a bit of living ground near them—and they knew they had safely crossed the sea, and were here with the earth lying before their eyes again.

They stood crowded together on deck like a herd of cattle—shackled in the narrow stalls of the byre during a whole long winter, and at last stretching their necks and turning toward the door when it began to smell of spring and fresh grass and meadows: soon they would be let out, soon their imprisonment would end. And in this moment a new energy and ambition seized the emigrants. They felt cheered, encouraged, born anew, as if a fresh spirit were blown into their breasts.