After a hurried breakfast, Haakan said on the way out, “Lars and I will make a trip to St. Andrew tomorrow. If we leave before daylight, we should be able to make it back before dark.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” Ingeborg could have bit her tongue at the sharp retort.
Haakan gave her a questioning look as he lifted his basket of food for dinner. “Thank you for fixing this.” Ax over his shoulder, he strode out toward the river.
She waved Thorliff and his flock of sheep off after giving him a ham sandwich and a water jug. “Now, don’t go too far, you hear. Over the winter the sheep might have forgotten how to mind you.”
“Mo-or.” Thorliff’s pained expression gave deeper meaning to his word.
“Just be careful.” She watched as the boy headed out, the sheep following him as though they did this every day. The lambs gamboled around their mothers, and the ram brought up the rear. Paws trotted on the outside of the flock to round up any strays. In the places where the snow had melted first, the grass was already a short carpet of green.
Ingeborg hurried around, setting the house to rights and banking the stove. She gave a good stir to the pot of ham and beans she’d set to cooking and added a dollop of molasses. She took the rifle down and inspected it. When she was young, her brother had stressed upon her the importance of keeping the gun cleaned and oiled. Following his instructions, along with those of Carl, had stood her in good stead.
Andrew tagged at her feet, lost without his brother to entertain him. “Mor, go,” he whimpered. “Go, Tor.”
“No, you can’t go with Thorliff. You are going to Tante Kaaren’s.” Ingeborg started to change into the britches she’d laid out on the bed but changed her mind. Seeing her in men’s pants always made Kaaren tighten her lips. Why add any unhappiness to her today?
She left the house carrying Andrew but soon put him down. Quietly riding on her hip, he was heavy enough, but squirming and pushing, he was impossible. Trying to hurry a baby was like trying to scoop up an egg splattered on the floor.
Andrew looked at every blade of grass, every golden dandelion flower, any bug, and if he saw an earthworm, he squealed with delight. This was a three-earthworm trip.
“Get plenty of geese,” Kaaren said after scooping Andrew up and planting a big kiss on his cheek. “Does Tante Kaaren’s big boy want a cookie?” She’d said the magic words.
Ingeborg felt like running. Free, she was free to go hunting all by herself. Such freedom!
Once back at her own soddy, she swiftly changed from her skirt to the men’s pants and heavy wool shirt. With her boots retied, she clapped her hat on her head, grabbed a biscuit from the bowl and, rifle in hand, shut the door behind her.
Lars and Haakan were sitting on a log in the sunshine on the edge of the woods when she strode past them. She waved her rifle in the air and shouted, “Going hunting. Supper is at Kaaren’s if I’m not back in time.”
She heard only one explosive word as she marched gaily on.
“Britches.”
She was sure there were more. Haakan Howard Bjorklund wasn’t a one-word man.
Stolen! Everything was gone! Teeth chattering from the cold of his wet clothes, Hjelmer tried to still the panic. Here he stood in a strange land, unable to speak the language, and he had nothing. All his earthly belongings had been stolen.
A barrel-chested man in a blue wool uniform with gleaming gold buttons stopped in front of him. But the rapid-fire words meant nothing to Hjelmer. He shrugged, the weight of his wool coat dragging at his shoulders. Why hadn’t he learned to talk the language?
The official took Hjelmer’s arm and pointed to a huge domed building behind tall, sharply tipped posts that formed an impenetrable fence. Hjelmer could feel the panic grab his throat. Was the officer in the blue uniform taking him off to jail?
The woman who had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders now came to stand beside him. “How can I help you?” she asked, her Swedish clear to Hjelmer.
When the officer raised his voice as if they were deaf, she raised a hand. “This young man saved that child’s life, and now he needs some help.” Her tone stopped the officer in spite of his lack of understanding.
The man shrugged in reply and muttered something that any one with a sense of astuteness would recognize as a slur on their parentage.
One of the immigrants stepped over to the officer and asked in halting English, “You help him?”
“I wuz just takin’ ’im to the Castle Garden. They could help there.” The officer’s brusque tone matched that of officials world over.
The man said again. “Help?”
“Come.” The officer stepped back and beckoned with one hand. The three followed him, Hjelmer feeling like a small boy following his mother through the marketplace. The shaking made even walking difficult. The wind off the water sliced through his wet clothes in spite of the blanket.
Who could have taken his things? All he’d had was a beat-up carpetbag and a canvas sack, nothing much of value to anyone else. But to him? The bags contained his carving tools, the gifts he’d made, his clothes, and worst of all, his tickets and the few kroner remaining from the meager store he’d begun with. Would they be surprised to find the coins in the pouch with the seagull! How would he get to Dakota Territory now?
Hjelmer felt a person beside him and looked to see the father of the child he’d saved, flanked by the mother and other children, their confusion as evident as his own. Hearing murmuring behind them, Hjelmer turned to see other families from the ship clustered around, standing silently but with the same determined looks on their faces as on the family beside him.
“Be off, now. This is no concern of yours.” The officer raised his voice and waved them away.
No one moved back; they only drew closer.
The officer raised his hands and then let them drop at his side. He spun on his heel, muttering, and headed through the gate.
Danish, Swedish, Norwegian, German, the languages mixed and mingled as the group discussed what would happen next.
Someone laid another blanket over Hjelmer’s shoulders. In the lee of the spike wall the wind failed to tear at his skin. But he knew he had to get out of his wet clothes. The child’s mother dug in a bag at her feet. She pulled out a pair of wool socks and stuffed them in Hjelmer’s hand.
“Mange takk,” Hjelmer said around chattering teeth. What would he wear? How could he dry the clothes he had on? The thoughts ricocheted through his mind like bullets glancing off granite.
He had to keep a clear head. Think, he commanded himself. Think!
The people around him pressed closer, sensing his need for warmth, and beyond that his need of support.
To the surprise of the group, when the officer returned, a round ball of a woman bounced beside him, the white apron that covered her from neck to ankle fluttering in the breeze of her movements.
“Now, then, what do we have here?” Her Norwegian sounded like the song of an angel in Hjelmer’s ears.
Everyone in the group started to tell their version of what had happened.
The officer raised his hand for silence, ordering it also in a tone that killed the cacophony. He pointed a finger at Hjelmer. “You!”
“He’s saying for you to tell us what happened. I will translate for him. Shame these police don’t learn enough of the emigrant languages so they can at least keep from frightening folks right out of a year’s growth.”
Hjelmer smiled down at her. She sounded wise, just like Tante Anna at home. The feeling of doom that had been driving him into the cobblestones beneath his feet flew off.
He took a deep breath and tried to stall a shudder. He told her about the rescue, downplaying his part in it and the subsequent loss of his belongings. “It wasn’t much,” he shrugged, raising the mound of quilt and blanket on his shoulders, “but it was all I have in this world.”
“Ah, me.” She shook her head. “Those hoodlums on the docks would steal the shoes off your feet i
f you so much as took a nap. First thing we need to do is get you into some dry clothes before you catch your death.”
A wool shirt appeared on his right, trousers were handed him from his left. Hjelmer turned in time to be handed a porkpie hat, also of wool. The group around him smiled as one. Those that had an extra piece of clothing had dug into their satchels and shared.
Hjelmer couldn’t speak for a moment, and it wasn’t due to the shivering. “But you need these things.”
“You saved my son’s life.” The man on his right looked Hjelmer in the eye. “I have not much, but what I have is yours.”
A collective sigh agreed with him.
“Now, ain’t that just the way of good folks.” The aproned woman beamed on all of them. “Young man, what is your name?”
“Hjelmer Bjorklund.”
“Well, Mr. Bjorklund, you go on through that gate to the necessary—the one for men is on the far wall—and change out of those wet things. We’ll all wait right here for you.”
Once he found the place, Hjelmer stripped to the skin and rubbed himself with the wool blanket until he could feel the heat returning. While he’d have to wear wet boots, the pants and shirt, though shorter than his own, were warm and blissfully dry. He toweled his head, and after smoothing his hair back with his fingers, he set the hat at a jaunty angle.
He rolled his own wet things together, folded the blanket and quilt, and returned to the waiting group.
A cheer went up and Hjelmer could feel a blush start at his chest and work its way up to his ears. He held up the quilt and blanket to see who had loaned it to him. No one stepped forward.
“But you will need these when you get to your new homes.”
“Ja,” said the child’s father. “So will you.” He dug in his pocket and extended several coins to Hjelmer. “I wish this could be more, but we all have so little.” His gesture included the group around them.
Hjelmer shook his head. “You will need . . . you already gave me . . .” He stopped at the look on the man’s face. He looked at all the others. “Mange takk.”
“Well, now, ain’t that a picture of human kindness. I’ll show you where to get that changed so you don’t go losing anything more. All of you, follow me, and we’ll get you through Castle Garden and on your way.” She turned and, like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, lead her flock into the fortress.
After he’d said good-bye to his newfound friends, Hjelmer changed his few coins to American money and returned to the woman who’d become another of his benefactors. She checked the amount of money he now had and shook her head slowly.
“That won’t barely get you to Chicago, and then where would you be?” She looked up at him. “If you take my advice, I’d say wait till I’m done working here today, and you can come home with me. My late husband—God rest his soul—brought us where a lot of other Norwegian families have gathered. Most of us have been here for a generation or two, and perhaps you could find some work with one of us.” She cocked her head, robinlike, and studied him out of merry brown eyes. “What is it you might be good at?”
“I can carve, but I do that more for pleasure—birds and kitchen utensils and such. But my far made all his sons learn farming . . . .”
She shook her head. “Not much of that where we live.”
“And blacksmithing. I can shoe horses, rim a wheel, make tools, household things, whatever can be done with a forge, I can do it or learn how.” Hjelmer felt like he was bragging, something his mor said was a sin, but he needed work, and soon. How else would he ever make it to Dakota Territory?
She nodded her head. “I see. You look a mite young to be so skilled.” Just then someone called her name and beckoned to her from behind one of the pillars that reached clear to the arch of the domed ceiling. “You wait over there, out of the way of the traffic, and I will be back with you soon.” She darted away before he had a chance to answer.
Hjelmer did as she told him, his rolled wet clothes under one arm and his new quilt and blanket under the other. A bench ran along one wall, and as soon as an old woman vacated her seat, he took it and leaned against the wall. The rise and fall of voices seemed to circle the cavernous building and bounce down to pound upon his ears.
The family next to him were stuffing themselves with sausages and bread, making his stomach rumble in response. The child drank from a mug, the white mustache betraying his drink.
Hjelmer thought of the cows at home, remembering the rich taste of milk still warm from the cow. The cheeses his mother made, fresh bread, lefse, sild, and even the hard biscuits his sister had packed marched like a vision through his head. He didn’t dare add up the hours since he’d had any food, let alone known a full stomach.
He took his bundles and went in search of a drink of water. Surely they didn’t charge for water, although according to what he saw, they charged for everything else. After a long drink that did nothing to stop the rumbles in his belly, he returned to the bench to wait.
“Now then, Mr. Bjorklund, are you ready to go?” The woman stopped in front of him, a shawl covering her dark dress and the apron folded over her arm.
“Yes, ma’am.” Hjelmer stood and adjusted his bundles.
“My name is Mrs. Holtenslander, and we have about a mile to walk to the ferry to Brooklyn where I live.”
A mile on flat land like this New York City seemed like nothing to the young man used to the hills and mountains of Nordland. He found himself gawking at the brick buildings, some three, even five stories tall. He was dumbfounded by the crush of people speaking in a myriad of strident tongues and the manner of drayage on the streets: horse cabs, phaetons, heavy wagons carrying wood, stone, or beer, lighter wagons with a wooden cover that had pictures of milk cans painted on the sides, fancy carriages pulled by matched teams, and carts hitched to lame nags. Never had he seen and heard such chaos. A steam train thundered by on tracks over his head, making his ears ring and his legs shake.
After it passed, he looked down at his companion to see her smiling. “That’s the El or elevated train. Built some years ago, it’s one of the wonders of New York. It provides more room on the streets for other kinds of transportation.”
“Oh.” Hjelmer spun around to see what caused the clanging that had other folks crossing the streets and heading for the sidewalks.
“Fire engine,” Mrs. Holtenslander yelled at him over the clamor.
Around the corner raced six white horses, two abreast with ears flat against their heads. The driver slapped the reins as they straightened out, the wagon behind them a tanker painted red with yellow-and-brass trim. Uniformed men hung on the sides of the wagon.
The thunder of the horse hooves and screaming wheels made him long to follow. The way they drove that wagon, they surely needed a blacksmith every day.
As the ferry chugged across the East River to Long Island, he couldn’t take his eyes off the city lit up behind them. Up river, huge sand-block towers rose against the night sky, a promise of the Brooklyn Bridge to come. Once on land again, they walked a few more blocks, past small businesses and stores now closed for the night.
Lamplighters, making their way from post to post, lighted their way through the dusk. When Mrs. Holtenslander stopped in front of a narrow two-story house made of brown cut stone, Hjelmer looked from the carved front door at the top of the short flight of stairs to his hostess.
“You live here?”
“Ja.”
Hjelmer stared up and down the tree-lined street that ran between similar houses, their walls butted against each other so as not to waste an inch. The noise of the streets they had walked seemed like in another land. A woman pushed a baby buggy and nodded as she passed. A man in a bowler hat, his black overcoat over his arm, did the same.
Windows glowed, welcoming the homeward bound.
Mrs. Holtenslander climbed the four steps to her door, inserted her key, pushed it open, and stood there waiting for Hjelmer. “Please, come in.”
Never in his life had he
been so conscious of his dirty and still wet boots, the pant legs that didn’t quite reach his boot tops, and the smell that had seeped into his skin while on the ship and from his swim in the litter-strewn harbor. His mor would be horrified if she saw him. His ears burned like he’d been standing too close to the forge.
“I . . . I cannot.” He shook his head. “Surely you have a barn or a shed where I could sleep. I do not need a bed. I-I’m . . .” He stuttered to a stop.
“Mr. Bjorklund, I would be most pleased to offer you a room in my home until you find some employment and another place to stay. Surely you would do the same for a young person of your own nationality who was in a difficult situation through no fault of his own. If you hadn’t been more concerned for that child’s life than your belongings or even your own life, you would be on the train for your new home. And that little boy would be dead, his parents grieving their loss, would they not?”
Hjelmer nodded. “But I never thought—I . . . I mean, your house is so grand, and I am so dirty.”
“We have a bathtub, young man, and tomorrow, Fulla, the maid, will wash your clothes good as new. In the meantime, I know my cook has supper ready, and if you are not hungry, which I am sure you are, I am.” She waved to the inviting hallway. “Please, come in.”
Hat in his hands, Hjelmer mounted the stairs and stepped into a whole new world.
On her travois, two poles with willow branches woven between them to carry the results of her hunt, Ingeborg had piled six geese and the gutted carcass of one deer with the horns still in place because she needed new spoons. Deer antlers could be formed into spoons, combs, and all manner of things needed around the house. The brains, mixed with lye from the ashes, would be used in tanning the hide. So Metiz, the old half-breed woman who’d lived and begun to farm the land before the Bjorklunds filed on it, had taught her. Like the Indians, Ingeborg wasted nothing.
Paws yipped and danced around her, meeting her out on the trail and announcing to all that she had come home. Thorliff came running from the barn, a grin lighting his face.
Lauraine Snelling - [Red River of the North 02] Page 9
