Eric flipped another pebble across the water, then stood, feeling the stiffness in his legs from crouching for so long. He stretched, loosening the muscles. The Pedersons, like most of the families in Balestrand, were both fishermen and farmers, and Eric’s body showed a lifetime of hard work. He was about six feet tall—two inches more than his father—and solidly built. Yet his waist was slim and his stomach firm. A shock of dark brown hair, thick as a horse’s winter coat, was getting a little shaggy again. It had been almost a month since his mother had last cut it. His features were what some might call rugged—high cheekbones, a strong jawline with dark whiskers that showed clearly by afternoon, dark eyebrows as thick as his hair, a firm chin with a slight cleft in it. But his eyes belied that ruggedness. They were a clear blue with tiny flecks of brown and were easily filled with laughter. His hands were large and strong. His arms showed the effects of countless days of pulling in nets laden with fish or cutting down weeds in the orchard.
He turned, surveying the long rows of apple, pear, and peach trees which filled the narrow valley. One of the remarkable things about Norway was its climate, and that was directly caused by the warm waters from the Gulf Stream. The Gulf Stream was a vast current that flowed from the eastern part of the Gulf of Mexico northeastward all the way to northern Europe. The waters spawned warm southwesterly winds that tempered the climate of the northerly latitudes. Even in areas above the Arctic Circle, many of Norway’s ports were free of ice year round as compared to ports eight hundred miles to the south in the Baltic Sea, which were locked tightly in ice for several months each winter.
That milder climate also meant that along the shores of the Sognefjorden was a great fruit-growing region, and the Pedersons were part of that. They had a small sailboat which they took out into the fjord three or four times a week during the winter months. Then for the greater part of summer they turned their attention to their orchards and vegetable gardens. In the spring, just a few months from now, the narrow valley along the fjord would become a paradise. The spray of color would be almost more than the eye could take in. The air would be thick with the sweet aroma of blossoms and the hum of ten thousand times ten thousand bees.
And it was that thought which left Eric Pederson filled with a deep melancholy. Like most Norwegians, he had a deep, passionate love for his motherland. As with most Norwegians, the land was so much a part of his life that he could hardly fathom what it would be like to live somewhere else. And yet that was exactly what he was going to do. Soon he would get to see the open North Sea for the first time in his life, but with that the Sognefjorden would become only a memory.
“Eric!”
He turned and looked to the east. Their simple home, which stood on the outskirts of Balestrand, was about a half mile from where he stood. Coming toward him was a figure. One hand came up and waved. “Eric!”
He lifted a hand. “I’m here, Olaf.” He bent down, selected one last flat rock, and sidearmed it across the water. He counted swiftly, then grunted in satisfaction. It had skipped eight or nine times. His best yet. Then he started walking toward his brother.
Katya Pederson had lost two children between the births of Eric and Olaf—one stillborn and a little girl to pneumonia before she had turned a year old. Thus there were six years between these two brothers. Eric was twenty-two. Olaf would probably celebrate his sixteenth birthday somewhere out on the Atlantic Ocean. But that difference in age mattered little to either of them. They had shared a bedroom together since Olaf had been born. Together they worked the farm, milked the cows, fished the waters of the fjord, hiked the mountain trails, skied the steep slopes in the winter on their homemade skis. They were as close as if they were twins.
Yet, physically, Olaf was very different than his older brother. He was slender of body—almost a stick—beneath his homespun shirt and trousers. His hair was fair and very fine. Even now as they walked back together, wisps of it lifted in the slight breeze. His eyes were also blue, but lighter and more somber than Eric’s. He was a good worker on the farm, but his first love was books. Almost every night his parents had to make him close whatever it was he was reading and go to bed. He had devoured the Book of Mormon and had been the first in the family after their father to declare that the gospel was true. Olaf adored and almost worshiped his older brother, but Eric envied Olaf his passion for learning and the depth of his thinking.
They were just a few rods apart now. “Papa wants you to come home.”
“Oh?” That surprised Eric a little. He had finished his chores by noon and his father had given him permission to go for a walk. He had come down the beach wanting to be alone.
“The ferry brought some mail,” Olaf explained. “There is a letter from Copenhagen. It came on the ferry from Bergen.”
“Oh.” Bergen was on the coast, forty or fifty miles south of where the Sognefjorden opened onto the North Sea. “Do you know what the letter says?”
Olaf shook his head. “Papa said to get you and then he would read it to us.”
“Then let’s go.”
He started off with long strides and Olaf fell in beside him. “What were you doing, Eric?” he asked as they walked swiftly along together.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About finally getting to see the North Sea.”
Olaf gave him a puzzled look. He gestured toward the water which was only a few feet from where they walked. “But this is the North Sea, Eric.”
He laughed softly. “Only a very small part of it, Olaf.” He increased the pace a little to forestall any more questions.
•••
The silence in the little cottage lay over them as heavy as a wet woolen blanket. Eric sat at the table with his father and mother and Olaf. His sister, Kirsten, who was eight, and his youngest brother, Peder, who was just six, sat on a bench behind them. Their eyes were wide as they watched the older members of the family.
“I don’t understand,” Eric said after the silence had stretched on for several moments.
His father glanced at him, then turned to his mother. There was a dark hopelessness in his eyes. The letter lay folded on the table between them.
His mother was staring at the table, and Eric could sense that she was very near to tears. Finally, his father turned back to him. “It means that there is not enough money in the Perpetual Emigrating Fund to help all of us go to America. Not this year.”
“But . . .”
There was a long sigh. “And with the late frost last spring, we—” He broke off and shrugged. He didn’t have to say more. For the past two years they had been saving every skilling they could set aside to help pay for their passage to America. It was not enough, but with what Eric’s Uncle Gustav was able to send and with the help of the Perpetual Emigrating Fund, they were going to make it. And then had come the terrible frost. They had been forced to draw from their savings to survive.
Eric looked up. “I thought those who borrowed money from the fund were supposed to pay it back so there would be money for others like us to come.”
“That’s the principle behind the fund,” his father agreed. “But what can they do? The grasshoppers in Utah have eaten their crop. Evidently no one, or at least not everyone, is able to pay the loans back.”
“What about selling the farm, Papa?” Olaf asked. “Wouldn’t that give us enough money?”
“Yes, of course,” his father answered. “But everyone in the village is just as poor as we are. The frost did not choose favorites, Olaf. I have three people who very much want our farm, but they cannot pay me anything now.”
“So we can’t go this year?” Eric said, feeling bleak. For all he was filled with melancholy at having to leave Norway, there was never any question in his mind about doing it. The call had come to gather to Zion. The Pedersons believed that that call had been given by prophets, seers, and revelators. The decision was easy. They would emigrate as soon as possible.
Katya Pederson managed
a wan smile; then she looked at her husband. Edvard cleared his throat, then sighed. It was a sound of resignation, sorrow, frustration. “Your mother and I have discussed another possible solution.”
Eric looked up. “What?”
Again the two parents exchanged quick glances. Now his mother’s eyes were shining with tears, but she nodded encouragement to her husband.
“I did not read you the last part of the letter. Elder Ahmanson knows of our circumstances and has made a suggestion.”
Eric waited. Elder Johan Ahmanson was a leader of the Church in Scandinavia, currently living in Copenhagen. Though born Swedish, he had moved to Denmark and had been one of the early converts there. Called on a mission to Norway, he had come to Christiania, the capital, and it was there that Eric’s father had met him and become interested in the Church. Eric’s father returned home with a Danish Book of Mormon—no problem for the Norwegians, since at this point in their history the Danes and the Norwegians both read Danish and their spoken languages were very similar as well. They began reading it together as a family, and a few months later, two missionaries trekked over the mountains from Christiania and baptized the whole family. Both Eric and his father were also ordained to the priesthood—Edvard to the Melchizedek Priesthood, Eric to the Aaronic. It was on the night of their baptism that they first heard of the call for all the Saints in Europe to gather to America. From that moment on, the Pedersons began making plans to emigrate to Utah.
Edvard took a deep breath, looking at his two oldest sons. “While there isn’t enough to take all six of us this season, there is some money available—especially with what your Uncle Gustav has sent.”
“Yes?” Eric was suddenly wary, only just beginning to sense what was coming.
“We still have a little money left in what we were saving.”
Now Eric’s eyes widened and he reared back a little. “Are you—?” He stopped.
“Elder Ahmanson is going too. He said that if you and Olaf went this spring, he would meet you in Copenhagen and watch over you for the rest of the journey.”
“But Papa,” Olaf exclaimed in clear dismay. “Do you mean without you and Mama?”
His father rushed on, anxious to have it said. “When you get to Utah, your mother’s brother and sister-in-law will take you in and help you find work. Uncle Gustav and Aunt Mary are doing very well in Utah. They will give you a home and help you find work.”
“How can we leave you?” Eric cried. “Can’t we all just go next year?”
Eric’s mother cleared her throat, dabbing at her eyes. “Your father and I talked about that, and yes, we could do that. But what if there still isn’t enough money next year? The thought of having you and Olaf leave us is very difficult, but if you get work in Utah, then you boys could send us money as well.” The tears welled up again and she had to stop.
Their father picked it up from her. “Next year. Then we’d be sure to have enough money.” He sighed. “Mama and I think it is the best way.”
Katya was nodding, more enthusiastically now. “Papa and I will work very hard here and try to save even more. This new plan, to go by handcarts, will open the way, but we will still need the money you two can earn in America. It will only be for one year.”
“It is the only way,” his father said quietly. “The only way.”
•••
“Eric?”
“Yes?”
“You weren’t asleep, were you?”
“No, Olaf. I am awake.”
“Are you thinking about America?”
Eric smiled in the darkness. He could have guessed exactly what was on his younger brother’s mind. “Yes.”
“Me too.”
The two older boys shared one end of the loft that occupied about two-thirds of the upper floor of the family’s small hut. Kirsten and Peder shared the opposite end of the loft. Though Eric and Olaf spoke in low voices out of habit, there wasn’t much chance of their waking the other two. They had long ago learned to sleep through any noise the older boys made when they came to bed.
Eric listened for a moment to see if his parents were still awake, but no sound came from below. So he turned over on his side and tried to see his brother in the darkness. “And what were you thinking?” he asked.
“Mostly about leaving Mama and Papa.”
“Yes,” Eric replied in a low voice. That had been much on his mind all day as well. The shock still hadn’t completely worn off.
“Are you frightened, Eric?”
“About going to America?”
“Yes, but especially about going alone. Just me and you.”
His first reaction was to brush that aside with a laugh. He was, after all, the older brother. It wouldn’t do to let Olaf think he wasn’t up to the task given him. Yet on the other hand, he sensed that Olaf was in need of reassurance and that bravado wouldn’t give him that. “In one way, I guess. Not about the trip itself. We won’t be alone. Elder Ahmanson will be there in Copenhagen to help us. And there are other members from Norway going too—some from Bergen, some from Christiania. They may be on the ferry with us to Denmark. And there’ll be the ones from Denmark as well.”
“The letter said that there will be missionaries from all over Europe returning to America with the emigrants.”
“That’s right, and they’ll be a great help to us. So I don’t worry about not knowing where to go or what to do.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“It’s not so much fear as uncertainty, I would say.”
“Uncertainty?”
“That’s right. We’ll be going to a new country where we don’t know anyone excepting Uncle Gustav and Aunt Mary. We don’t speak the language. That will be hard.” Then he grew more thoughtful. “It will be a whole new life, Olaf. New friends, a new language, a new country. Not knowing what it will be like is a little unsettling, don’t you think?”
“A lot more than that,” came the fervent reply.
“But we’ll be fine. We will have family waiting for us.”
“Yes. I’m glad for that. Really glad.”
The silence stretched on for almost two minutes as both of the brothers retreated into their thoughts. Then Olaf spoke up again. “I don’t know if I can leave Mama and Papa. Every time I think about it, it hurts inside.”
“Me too, Olaf. That will be the hardest thing of all. And Kirsten and Peder. How we will miss them! But it will only be for a year.”
“I am going to work very hard once we get to America. We will earn many riksdaler and send them to Mama and Papa.”
“In America they are just called dollars, Olaf. But yes, we shall send back every skilling that we can spare. And that will make the time pass more quickly too.”
He felt Olaf touch his arm. “I’m glad I’ll be with you, Eric.”
Eric laid a hand on his brother’s arm. “Yes. It would be really hard if we had to go alone, either one of us.”
“I know.”
“We’d better go to sleep, Olaf. Papa wants to take the boat out fishing early.”
“All right.” Olaf rolled over onto his back and wiggled a little as he got comfortable. Again there was a long silence, and Eric wondered if he had gone to sleep so quickly. But then Olaf’s voice sounded softly in the darkness. “I’m glad you weren’t asleep, Eric.”
“Me too, Olaf. I’m glad we could talk.”
II
Saturday, 19 April 1856
“Eric!”
“I hear it, Mama,” he called toward the stairs. Then he turned back. “Come on, Olaf. The ferry’s coming.”
In the narrow confines of the Sognefjorden, the steam whistle of the small ferryboat echoed across the still waters and made it sound much closer than it was. It was perhaps still ten or fifteen minutes from docking at the wharf at Balestrand, but once it arrived it would remain there for only five minutes. And there were still farewells to be made.
“I know. I know.” Olaf sounded a little frustrated. He was m
eticulously folding his socks into neat squares, then finding a place in the battered suitcase where they filled in a space and kept everything even.
Eric shook his head. His own valise was neatly packed and showed very little unused space, but nothing like this. But that was Olaf. He liked things in order and in their place. Clutter of any kind bothered him to the point that he either straightened it or had to go somewhere else.
Shutting his valise and buckling the heavy strap, Eric straightened. “It’s all right, Olaf. That’s fine. Come on. You’ve still got things you’ve got to get in there.”
“I know. I know,” Olaf said again, biting at his lip as he surveyed how much he still had to accommodate. “You go. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Boys! The ferry is coming!”
“Yes, Mama. We’re almost done.” Eric moved across the loft to Olaf’s bed. “Here, let me help.”
“No, Eric,” he said quickly, almost in panic. “I’m almost done. I know where everything needs to go.”
Eric held up his hands and stepped back, a little surprised by the intensity of his brother’s reaction. Then suddenly he understood. This was more than just Olaf’s usual penchant for neatness. When he closed that suitcase, he closed the lid on the first nearly sixteen years of his life, probably never to be opened again. What was the likelihood that they would ever return to this simple farmer’s cottage on the shores of the fjord? Not very great.
He watched as Olaf put the last of his things in the case, stepped back to survey it for a moment, then reluctantly moved forward and shut the top. He snapped the two clips slowly, then picked it up. “All right,” he said.
Eric laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it for a moment; then together they went down the narrow stairs into the main room of their home. At that moment Kirsten, Eric and Olaf’s younger sister, burst in from outside. “The ferry is coming around the bend, Papa.”
Edvard Pederson nodded. “Thank you, Kirsten.”
The “bend” was about a mile away, so they still had nine or ten minutes. The little white ferryboat, with its black smokestack sticking out of its center mass, made steady time, but it was never speedy.
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