Threads of Hope

by Andrea Boeshaar

  But not if he and Pa could help it.

  In the distance he heard the clang of the dinner bell. Ma didn’t like him to tarry when food was on the table. Across the beet field, Sam saw his younger brother run on ahead of him. He wagged his head at the twelve-year-old and his voracious appetite.

  With one calloused hand gripping the hoe and the other holding the bushel basket, Sam trudged toward their white clapboard home. Its two dormers protruded proudly from the second floor.

  Entering the mudroom, he fetched cold water from the inside well, peeled off his hat, and quickly washed up. Next he donned a fresh shirt. Ma insisted upon cleanliness at the supper table. Finally presentable, he made his way into the basement where the summer kitchen and a small eating area were located. The cool air met his sun-stoked skin and Sam sighed, appreciating the noonday respite.

  Next he noticed a cake in the middle of the table.

  “That looks good enough to eat,” he teased, resisting the urge to steal a finger-full of white frosting.

  Ma gave him a smile, and her nut-brown eyes darkened as she set the wooden tureen of turkey and wild rice onto the table. “Since it’s Rachel’s last day with us, I thought I would prepare an extra special dessert.”

  Sam glanced across the table at the glowing bride-to-be. In less than twenty-four hours Rachel Decker would become Mrs. Luke Smith. But for the remainder of today she’d fulfill her duties as Ma’s hired house girl who helped with the cooking, cleaning, sewing, washing, and ironing whenever Ma came down with one of her episodes, which were sometimes so intensely painful that Ma couldn’t get out of bed without help. Rachel had been both a comfort and an efficient assistant to Ma.

  “I helped bake the cake, Sam.”

  He grinned at his ten-year-old sister, Mary. “Good job.”

  They all sat down, Mary taking her seat beside Rachel. Sam helped his mother into her place at the head of the table then lowered himself into his chair next to Jackson, who’d been named after Major General Andrew Jackson, the seventh president of this great country.

  “Sam, since your father is away,” Ma began, “will you please ask God’s blessing on our food?”

  “Be glad to.” He bowed his head. “Dearest Lord, we thank Thee for Thy provisions. Strengthen and nourish us with this meal so we may glorify Thee with our labors. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

  Action ensued all around the table. The women served themselves and then between Sam and Jack, they scraped the bowl clean.

  “Good thing Pa’s not home from his meetings in town,” Jack muttered with a crooked grin.

  “If your father were home,” Ma retorted, “I would have made more food.”

  “Should have made more anyhow.” Jack gave her a teasing grin. “No seconds.” He clanged the bowl and spoon together as if to prove his point.

  “You have seconds on your plate already,” Ma said. “Why, I have never seen anyone consume as much food as you do, Jackson.”

  His smile broadened. “I’m growing. Soon I’ll be taller than Sam.”

  “Brotherly competition.” Sam had to chuckle. But in the next moment, he wondered if his family behaved oddly. Didn’t all families enjoy meals together? Tease and laugh together? Tell stories once the sun went down? According to Rachel, they didn’t. The ebony-haired, dark-eyed young woman had grown up without a mother and had a drunkard for a father … until Ma got wind of the situation and took her in. She invited Rachel to stay in the small room adjacent to the kitchen and offered her a job. Rachel had accepted. And now, years later, Rachel would soon marry a fine man, Luke Smith, a friend of Sam’s.

  Taking a bite of his meal, he chewed and looked across the table at Mary. Both she and Jack resembled their mother, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and graceful, willowy frames, while Sam took after his father, blue eyes and stocky build, measuring just under six feet. Yet, in spite of the outward dissimilarities, the five Sundbergs were a closely knit family, and Sam felt grateful that he’d known nothing but happiness throughout his childhood. He had no recollection whatsoever of his biological mother who had taken ill and died during the voyage from Norway to America.

  Sam had been but a toddler when she went home to be with the Lord, and soon after disembarking in New York, his father met another Norwegian couple. They helped care for Sam and eventually persuaded Pa to take his young son and move with them to Wisconsin, known back then as part of the “Michigan Territory.” Pa seized the opportunity, believing the promises that westward expansion touted, and he was not disappointed. He learned to plant, trap, and trade with the Indians, and he became a successful businessman. In time, he saved enough funds to make his dreams of owning land and farming a reality.

  Then, when Sam was a boy of eight years, his father met and married Mariah, an Oneida. Like her, many Oneida were Christians and fairly well educated due to the missionaries who had lived among them. In time Sam took to his new mother, and she to him. Through the years Ma cherished and admonished him as though he were her own son. She learned the Norwegian language and could speak it fluently. As far as Sam was concerned, he was her own son—and Mariah, his own mother.

  They were a family.

  “Was that the Eikaas wagon driving by not long ago?” Mary asked.

  Sam snapped from his musing. “Sure was. It appears they have relatives in town.”

  “Mr. Eikaas didn’t stop and visit, did he?” Mary’s eyes were as round as gingersnaps.

  Sam chuckled. “No, of course not. I can’t recall the last time Lars Eikaas spoke to me … or any of the Sundbergs, for that matter.”

  “Erik is nice to me at school.” Mary took a bite of her meal.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I can’t wait to begin school next week.”

  Sam grinned at his sister’s enthusiasm. He’d felt the same way as a boy.

  “Sam, what made you assume Mr. Eikaas transported relatives in his wagon today?”

  He glanced at Ma. “A while back I’d heard that Lars’s niece was coming to America, accompanied by friends, and since I didn’t recognize the three passengers in the wagon this morning, I drew my own conclusions.”

  “Is she pretty?” Jackson’s cheeks bulged with food.

  “Is who pretty?”

  “Mr. Eikaas’s niece … is she pretty?”

  Sam recalled the plucky blonde whose large, cornflower-blue eyes looked back at him with interest from beneath her bonnet. And pretty? As much as Sam hated to admit it, she was about the prettiest young lady he’d ever set eyes on.

  Jackson elbowed him. “Hey, I asked you a question.”

  Sam gave his younger brother an annoyed look. “Yeah, I s’pose she’s pretty. But don’t go getting any big ideas about me courting her. She’s an Eikaas.”

  “You’re awful old to not be married yet.” Jack rolled his dark eyes.

  “What do you know about it? I’m only twenty-one.” Sam grinned. “Hush up and eat.” It’s what the boy did best. “So … did everyone have a pleasant morning?” He forked another bite of food into his mouth, wondering why he tried so hard to shift the subject off of Lars Eikaas’s niece.

  Kristin looked around the one-room shanty with its unhewn walls and narrow, bowed loft. Cotton squares of material covered the windows, making the heat inside nearly unbearable.

  Disappointment riddled her being like buckshot. Although she knew she should feel grateful for journeying safely this far, and now to have a roof over her head, she couldn’t seem to shake her displeasure at seeing her relatives’ living quarters. It looked nothing like her uncle had described in his letters nor the homes she’d glimpsed on the way.

  “Here is your trunk of belongings,” Uncle Lars said, carrying the wooden chest in on one of his broad shoulders. With a grunt, he set it down in the far corner of the cabin. “Where is my inheritance? Let me have a look at it.”

  “Right now, Onkel?”

  “Ja, ja …” Impatience filled his tone.

  Pulling open the draw
string of her leather purse, she reached inside and extracted the key. She unlocked the trunk and opened its curved lid. Getting onto her knees, Kristin moved aside her clothes and extra shoes until she found what she searched for. Poppa’s gold watch. She held the black velvet-covered box reverently in her hands for one last, long moment before she stood and presented it to her uncle.

  “This belonged to my poppa.”

  “Ah …” Uncle Lars’s face lit up with delight as he opened the box. Looking to Aunt Esther, he nodded. “This will bring a fair price, do you think?”

  Disbelief poured over her. “But … you would not sell Poppa’s watch, would you?”

  “None of your business!”

  Kristin jumped back at the biting reply. Her opinion of her uncle dropped like a rock into a cavern.

  “Anything more?” Her uncle bent over the wooden chest and quickly rummaged through it, spilling clothes onto the unswept floor.

  “Onkel, please, stop. My garments …”

  “Does not seem to be anything else.” Uncle Lars narrowed his gaze. “Is there?”

  “No.” The necklace Mor had given her burned against her already perspiring skin. Still, Kristin refused to part with the gift. “Nothing more. As you know, Poppa was a farmer. He supplemented his income by working at the post office, but no money was ever saved. After my parents died, I sold everything to help pay for a portion of my passage to America. I earned the rest myself.”

  “Any money left?”

  Kristin shook her head as she picked up the last of her belongings, careful not to meet her uncle’s stare. A little money remained in the special pocket she’d sewn into her petticoat. For safety, she’d kept her funds on her person throughout the entire voyage. The last of her coinage would purchase muchneeded undergarments. She’d managed to save it throughout the journey for the specific purpose of buying new foundations when she reached America. It wasn’t inherited. She’d worked hard for it.

  With a grunt Uncle Lars turned and sauntered out of the cabin.

  “You will sleep in the loft with your cousins.” Aunt Esther’s tone left no room for questions or argument. Wearing a plain, brown dress with a tan apron pinned to its front, and with her dark brown hair tightly pinned into a bun, the older woman looked as drab as her surroundings. “Your uncle and I sleep on a pallet by the hearth.”

  “Yes, Tante. I am sure I will be very comfortable.” Another lie.

  “Come, let us eat.” Aunt Esther walked toward the hearth where a heavy black kettle sat on top of a low-burning fire. “There is venison stew for our meal.”

  “It sounds delicious.” Kristin’s stomach growled in anticipation. She’d eaten very little on the ship this morning. Excitement plus the waves on Lake Michigan made eating impossible. But after disembarking in Green Bay, her stomach began to settle, and now she was famished.

  Aunt Esther called everyone to the table, which occupied an entire corner of the cabin. Her three children, two girls and one boy, ranging in ages from seven to sixteen, came in from outside, as did the Olstads. After a wooden bowl filled with stew was set before each person, the family clasped hands and recited a standard Norwegian prayer …

  I Jesu navn gar vi til bords,—We sit down in the name of Jesus, Spise drikke pa ditt ord,—To eat and drink according to Your Word,

  Deg Gud til are, oss til gavn,—To Your honor, Oh Lord, and for our benefit, Sa far vi mat i Jesu navn.—We receive food in the name of Jesus.

  Amen.

  Having said grace, hands were released, and everyone picked up a spoon and began to eat. Kristin noticed her cousins, Inga and Anna, eyeing her with interest. They resembled their father, blonde curls and blue eyes.

  “What do you like to do on sunny afternoons such as this one?” she asked cheerfully, hoping to start conversation. After all, Inga’s age was close to hers. Perhaps her cousin would help her meet friends.

  “We do not talk at the table,” Aunt Esther informed her. “We eat, not talk.”

  “Yes, Tante.” Kristin glanced at Peder and Mr. Olstad who replied with noncommittal shrugs and kept eating.

  Silently, Kristin did the same. The Olstads always had lively discussions around their table.

  When the meal ended, the girls cleared the table and the men took young Erik and ambled outside.

  “May I help with cleaning up?” Kristin asked her aunt.

  “No. You rest today and regain your strength. Tomorrow we are invited to a wedding, the day after is the Sabbath. Then beginning on Monday, you will labor from sunup to sunset like everyone else in this place.”

  “Except for one,” Inga quipped. No one but Kristin heard.

  “Who?” Her lips moved, although she didn’t utter a sound.

  “Far, that is who.” Disrespect seeped from Inga’s tone, which was loud and clear.

  Hadn’t Aunt Esther overheard it?

  Tante suddenly whirled around and glared at Kristin. “Do something with yourself. We are working here.”

  With a frown, Kristin backed away. Her aunt’s brusque manner caused her to feel weary and more homesick than ever. She missed her parents and her little brothers. Why did God take them, leaving her to live life without them? And Sylvia … how she longed for her best friend!

  Kristin knelt by the trunk and carefully lifted out a soft, knitted shawl that had once belonged to her mother, Lydia Eikaas. Mor had been an excellent seamstress, expert in spinning wool into yarn and thread, as well as in weaving and sewing garments. She’d taught Kristin everything she knew about the craft. Surely Kristin could now put her skills to good use in this new country, this land of opportunity.

  She sighed and glanced over to where her aunt and two cousins continued straightening up after the meal. Inga and Anna barely smiled, and her aunt’s expression seemed permanently frozen into a frown. Is that what this country really afforded … misery?

  Allowing her gaze to wander around the dismal cabin once more, Kristin began to wish she had not come to America.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Kristin’s eyes popped open at a woman’s shouts to arise. At first she thought she was at still at sea. But then she realized she’d heard her aunt’s voice.

  “Up, up, up, with your lazy bones!”

  Kristin sat upright but didn’t move until Inga and Anna had climbed over her for fear they’d all go sailing over the edge of the loft. There hadn’t been room on the bowed plank for Erik last night, thank the Lord, so he had slept in a pallet near Kristin’s trunk. As it was, Kristin had feared their beds would go crashing down at any minute.

  “You had best hurry,” Inga said, “if you want something to eat.”

  Kristin’s stomach rumbled as if in reply, and once her cousins had descended, she climbed from the loft. Aunt Esther stoked the fire in the stone hearth. Her braided hair hung down as far as her hips.

  “Good morning,” Kristin ventured. Back in Norway, mornings were always cheerful. Poppa would read from the Bible and Mor would serve fried eggs or fish, and perhaps there would even be enough rye flour left for a loaf of bread.

  Aunt Esther didn’t even turn from the hearth. “God morgen.”

  “Did we oversleep?” Kristin couldn’t fathom what had ignited all the hostility crackling in the air.

  Finally her aunt faced her and inclined her head toward the door. “Go and wash up now, or lose your chance in the toalett.”

  Kristin didn’t want that to happen. She strode to her trunk. Erik yawned and stretched from his place beside it on the floor. He smiled at her, and she found his happy face a bright spot in this sorry home.

  “God morgen, Erik.”

  “Morning.”

  Locating her cotton robe, she pulled it over her high-necked ivory nightgown.

  “Oh, and Kristin?” Inga walked to her and whispered in her ear. “Your job from now on will be to fetch the water. I am telling you this so Momma will not yell at you.”

  “I am grateful.”

  Her cousin
pushed a wooden bucket at Kristin. Fetching water wasn’t a big deal. Taking hold of the pail, she stepped from the cabin. The cool morning breeze greeted her like a welcome friend. Between the heat inside the shanty and worrying the loft would crash down, Kristin hadn’t slept well last night. She wondered if maybe tonight she should offer to sleep beneath the stars instead. But, of course, that came with its own set of troubles. She’d heard there were Indians lurking about, waiting to scalp innocent women and children. She’d read about giant bears traipsing around that could eat a man in a single bite.

  No, Kristin would rather suffer in the hot cabin tonight. But perhaps it would cool off by then.

  She reached the open well and grabbed hold of the rope. Tying it to the bucket, she lowered it into the water. Peder called to her from the barn and waved. She returned the gesture with her free hand, adding a smile, before returning to the task at hand. She struggled to pull the bucket back up. Had it caught on something?

  A movement beside her gave Kristin a start, and she lost her hold on the rope. She clutched her nightgown and robe together while the bucket sailed down the well and landed with a splash.

  When she saw it was Peder, she relaxed. “You scared me.”

  “What a frightened little girl you are.” Peder now stood beside her, wearing a smirk.

  “I should have known it was just you.” Annoyance at both the pail and Peder filled her. “The bucket got snagged in the well.”

  “Or maybe a troll is down there, vexing you.”