An Untamed Land Read online

  “Ja, ’tis me. Can I bring you a drink or something?” she asked as she sidled down the aisle to the bunk. The thought of crabs scooting sideways in the fjords of home brought a merry smile to her face. Now, after all these days of traversing the narrow aisles, she certainly knew how they felt living a sideways life.

  “Are we nearly there?” Kaaren raised her head, careful not to disturb the sleeping Gunhilde.

  “Ja, the tugs are guiding the ship into its berth just like a mallard hen with her ducklings. Hear all the noise? The crowd on deck is waiting for sailors to lower the gangplanks. Roald and Carl will come for us as soon as the crush is over.” Ingeborg perched one hip on the edge of the bunk. “Any minute now they’ll throw out the hawsers and cut the engines. Then we will walk down the gangplanks with all the others on board and begin a new life in this new land.” Ingeborg lost herself in the dream. Soon, after a long train ride and a journey by horse and wagon, they’d find land to homestead, rich flat land in the Red River Valley of the North. That’s what the article, folded up and saved so carefully in her reticule, promised.

  “If I don’t . . . if I . . .”

  “You will go with us. You mustn’t even think of anything else. Just like we planned all those evenings around our kitchen table, this year we will build a sod house for us to live together in for the winter, and next year we will build another. Our children will grow up on farmsteads side by side, and one day we will send money for more of our brothers and sisters to come and join us. We will build a town for all the Bjorklunds with a church and a schoolhouse. You will see it, Kaaren, kjaere, you will.” Ingeborg clasped the thin cold hand of her sister-in-law. “You will.”

  “Me, too.” Thorliff leaned against her knee, his head resting against her arm. “Far said a big farm, bigger than all in Norway. Bestefar, grandfather, will come to see me.”

  “Yes, you too.” Ingeborg circled him with her arm and patted his cheek, holding him for a moment against her. “Please, dear God, let it be so.” Her whisper held a note of desperation that told of uncounted repetitions. Had she pestered God too much? Would He be like the judge in the Gospel that gave in because the woman persisted? Ingeborg had been accused of pestering before. When was too much? Or not enough? But, she knew that for all the needs of those she loved dearly, there could never be too much prayer. And, God, please give this sister-in-law of mine strength again. Bring the roses back to her cheeks and the laughter to her lips, so she can raise this beautiful child you have blessed her with. She dipped her head. Amen.

  The baby whimpered and stretched; her mouth opened and closed with tiny lips circling a pink tongue. She turned her face toward her mother’s chest, already nuzzling and seeking the breast that nourished her.

  Kaaren undid her dress with shaking fingers and turned so her daughter could nurse more easily. As soon as the little one was sucking contentedly, her mor readjusted the quilt in gentle modesty.

  “She is so perfect.” Ingeborg watched the age-old process with delight. In seven months or so, she looked forward to doing the same. Fall would bring the arrival of her son. So certain was she, she’d already chosen a name—Carl Andrew. Since Thorliff was named after Roald’s uncle, they could choose what they liked. Couldn’t they? Couldn’t she?

  Thorliff stuck his first finger in his mouth, his eyes drooping in weariness. The sucking of the nursing infant sounded peaceful in the gloom.

  “Listen.” Ingeborg sat ramrod straight.

  “What?”

  “The quiet. The engines are still.” She leaped to her feet, grabbing Thorliff up in her arms, and sidestepped her way to the porthole. “Look, Thorly, the wharf. We are docked.” She spun him around in the small open space. “We’re here. We’re finally here.”

  “In ’merika. In ’merika. Me see.” She lifted him to the tiny window, where he banged his hands against the wall as he peered out. “People, lots of people.” He wriggled in her arms to be let down and ran to the door. “Far come now.”

  Ingeborg snatched his hand away from the handle. “Soon, den lille, soon.”

  The minutes stopped, dragged, and stopped again. In what seemed like forever, Ingeborg retied the quilts for the third time and rechecked under every bunk in case they had left something precious.

  Finally she heard Carl’s voice and the low rumble of Roald’s answer. The door flew open, banging against the wall as the men strode through.

  “Our first stop will be Castle Garden, where we must go through immigration. Ingeborg, I’ll take you and Thorliff first, along with as much baggage as we can carry. Then I’ll return to help Carl with the rest. An official from the dock warned us not to leave anything unattended. There are thieves who prey on new immigrants.” Roald handed one satchel to his wife and loaded himself with others as he spoke. “Now, Thorliff, you hang on to your mother’s hand and don’t let go, you hear?”

  “Ja, Far, I’ll be good.” The little boy danced in place, already leaning against the restriction.

  When they cleared the companionway to the deck, Ingeborg stopped still. “Oh, hutte meg tu!” The words were whispered in awe. Buildings rose so high they blocked out the westering sun and numbered beyond her time and ability to count them all.

  “Come, come.” Roald turned around and frowned at her when he realized she wasn’t right beside him. Ingeborg put her feet in motion, though her mind remained suspended in disbelief. Could men really build anything so tall? Or was New York like the Tower of Babel, and God just hadn’t gotten around to crushing them down yet?

  Roald grunted under the weight of the load he carried. Not bothering to excuse himself, he pushed and shoved through clusters of jabbering immigrants who swarmed the docks like flies. The sight of huge black men, naked to the waist, lugging crates and barrels up a plank to a neighboring ship gave him pause. “Uff da,” he muttered, shaking his head. But it didn’t slow his pace.

  He stepped out of the way of a horse-pulled cart when the driver yelled at him. The tone and sneer of the man told him the words were lacking in hospitality.

  “If you’d speak Norwegian like any decent man, I’d have moved sooner,” Roald responded, returning glare for glare until man and beast passed by.

  So much for a warm welcome to his new land. He clapped his mind shut against the thought that the newspaper articles had been less than honest about Amerika welcoming all newcomers with open arms and free land.

  After three long years of planning and saving, he was finally here. That was enough. And his family was safe. He flinched again at the memory of Ingeborg leaning so far over the rail. One accidental shove and she’d have flown overboard. Uff da. Yet the merry smile that crinkled around her gray eyes made his mouth twitch in response. Ingeborg, Ingeborg. What am I to do with you?

  He stopped when he reached the head of the pier. Now he stood on solid land. His new land. His dream had come true! He set the bundles down and rubbed the shoulder where the box had dug a furrow into a muscle. “Ingeborg, just a . . .” But when he turned, she wasn’t there.

  Ingeborg followed the laden Roald down the ramp and up the cobblestone pier. Teems of immigrants from other ships and stevedores surged around her, carrying them along like twigs on a stream newly released from the bondage of winter. She hurried to keep Roald in sight. God help them if they got separated now.

  Strange languages flowed around her, people shouted above the noise of the crowd, and ships’ whistles bellowed out their calls—all blending into a mishmash of sounds that crashed against her eardrums. And she’d thought the ship’s engines loud! She wrinkled her nose and tried to breathe in small sniffs at a time. Rotting vegetables, horse droppings, smoke, unwashed bodies—the pungent smells assaulted her nostrils as intensely as the sounds did her ears.

  Roald strode on ahead of her.

  “Come, Thorliff, we must hurry.” She pulled him closer to her side and tried to move faster, but the carpetbag on her other arm weighted her down. A brisk wind snatched at the veil of her hat, threat
ening to carry it over the edge and into the oily water below.

  Roald disappeared in the surging mass ahead of her. She could no longer see his tall hat above the others.

  Fear clutched at her chest, driving the air out and cramping her belly. “Hang on to my skirt,” she commanded Thorliff, her voice breathless. She set the carpetbag down with a thump, reached up with both arms, and unpinned her precious hat, stuffing it in the bag at her feet. At least she wouldn’t lose that. She hefted the bag again, grasped Thorliff’s hand, and determinedly set forth. Roald would be waiting up ahead.

  When they reached the juncture of wharf and pier, Roald stood amid their pile of belongings, his arms crossed. His eyebrows formed a straight line, and his scowl cut deep slashes from nose to chin.

  “I thought you were right behind me. What if I lost you?”

  Ingeborg bit back a reply. She knew that Roald’s concern always came out gruff. “Ja, I know. But we’re here now, and we’re safe.” Her hand twitched with wanting to smooth away the worry lines on his face. But one did not do such a thing in public. And with Roald, one didn’t do it at all.

  Roald hoisted his load again and strode past the wide doorway of a warehouse. “Castle Garden is ahead of us. We’ll go through the immigration process there. They say there are doctors too, so there will be help for Kaaren.”

  Ingeborg saved all her breath to keep up with his long strides. And poor Thorliff practically had to run as he held on to his mother. Besides, the fear that Kaaren would be considered too ill to enter the country left Ingeborg with no spit to swallow, let alone breath to respond.

  Roald nearly disappeared again in the crush of immigrants when he set his bundles down in a square open area. On the land side of the point, a wooden fence with tall vertical posts protected a circular building. “That’s Castle Garden. There is help for us there,” he said as he finished mounding their belongings. He pointed to a wooden box. “You sit there and wait for us. I’ll return as soon as I can. Once we have a bed for Kaaren, we’ll get our trunks out of the hold.”

  Ingeborg nodded as she gathered her dirty skirts about her and sank down on the box. Thorliff stared wide-eyed at the commotion around them. Two boys, whose pants were held up with twine, chased each other around the flag pole. Young, old, and all ages in between—the lines of immigrants stretched four abreast out of the gate and curved around the courtyard. If only she could take a place in line, but then who would guard their belongings?

  Shortly after Roald disappeared back into the throng of disembarking passengers, a broad-shouldered man in a dark blue wool uniform stopped in front of her. Ingeborg shook her head when he spoke to her, then shrugged. She had no idea what he’d said. He leaned closer and raised his voice. At her shrug, he pointed at the gate. “Norwegian?” The one familiar word brought a smile to her face that lit up the dimming square.

  She nodded. “Ja, Norwegian,” and continued in a stream of her own language.

  He shook his head, disgust visible on his square-jawed face.

  Fear clawed again at her throat when he picked up the roll of quilts and a box. “Nei, nei!” Ingeborg leaped to her feet and grabbed for his sleeve. He shook her off and nodded to the fence with his chin. When he reached the wooden pillars, he dropped her box and returned for more.

  Ingeborg breathed a sigh of relief. He was not a thief waiting to run off with her things. He was merely helping to move them out of the way. She carried the carpetbag over and smiled her thanks. “Mange takk.” But her gratitude only bounced off his disappearing back. With a sigh, she sat back down on the box. “Thorliff?” The second call rose to a near scream. “Thorliff!” She searched behind the stack and all around her. Roald’s son was nowhere in sight.

  I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”

  “You won’t, don’t even think such a thing.” Carl stroked the limp strands of hair back from his wife’s pale forehead. “We’re here in New York now; wait until you see it. Roald and Ingeborg have already gone ashore. They’ll be back for us soon.”

  Kaaren reached up with a quivering hand and locked her fingers into his rough black lapel. “You’ll care for Gunny, promise me.” Her voice, in sheer desperation, sounded strong for the first time in days.

  “Kaaren, Kaaren, don’t even think of such a thing.”

  “Promise!”

  “Yes, I promise. Now never talk of dying again. We’ve come to Amerika for a new life. This little one here was just too impatient to wait.” With a gentle finger he brushed the cheek of his sleeping daughter lying secure in the crook of her mother’s arm.

  Kaaren studied the strong face of the man sitting on the edge of the narrow bunk. Wind and sun had burnished his cheeks with a ruddy glow. His blue eyes, Bjorklund eyes they called them at home, smiled tenderly down at her. Back in grammar school, she’d fallen in love with his eyes first. And she’d been in love with him ever since. She released the fold of his coat and reached up to the crinkled lines radiating from the corners of his eyes.

  “But . . . but those stories of people being turned away. What if they won’t let me in?”

  “You’re not ill with tuberculosis or something contagious. You just had a baby and a rough voyage. That’s all. Many were seasick; surely the authorities will understand that. I will tell them you’ve never before been sick, not a day in your entire life.”

  “That is true.” She attempted to return his confident smile. But why, then, have I nearly died? Women have babies all the time and get right up and go back to baking bread or whatever else they were doing. She shook her head. “I’m just not very good at riding on a ship, I guess.”

  “Roald and I should have taken you fishing on Onkel Hamre’s boat so you could have gotten your sea legs. Riding out a raging storm in the North Seas will take the seasickness out of anyone.”

  She transferred her hand from his face to his fingers. On his left hand he carried the badge of a fisherman: a missing finger. He’d lost it in the rigging during a bad storm one night. She shuddered at the thought. “And you think farming will be any safer?”

  “At least you can’t be washed overboard.” When he smiled that way, she could refuse him nothing. He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. “Think, my love—our own land. Crops to feed our children and sell to a hungry city. Wheat for bread, hogs to fatten, cows to milk, butter and cheese to make. A white house of our own with sunlight streaming through the windows. A great shiny black stove where you can bake and cook anything you want.”

  Kaaren closed her tired eyes and let him paint the pictures on the back of her eyelids. She would be the mistress of her own home, not at the beck and call of the lady of another house. For the last three years she had worked hard as a hired girl. Now Kaaren would be the lady of the house, and one day mayhap they would have their own hired girl. And hired men to help Carl and Roald work the fields. She could almost see the golden wheat swaying in the wind.

  “Are you ready, then?” Roald’s deep voice cut into her daydream.

  She turned her head to brush a kiss across her daughter’s forehead. God of heaven and earth, give me the strength to make it through the inspection. May your heavenly angels be with me now. She gently laid the infant down beside her. “Please help me with my coat, Carl. Ingeborg has all our things gathered together.”

  “I found a handcart,” Roald said, entering the cabin. “A good man on the dock loaned it to me.” He began to load their valises and bundles onto the two-wheeled dolly. “Once we’ve been through Castle Garden, we’ll come back for our trunks that are stored in the hold.”

  Kaaren could sense Roald’s excitement, even though his face was set in its normal sober lines. Sometimes she wondered how the two men could be brothers, they were such opposites in temperament. She looked into the eyes of her husband as he carefully slipped the buttons of her coat through their holes. She gave him an answering smile when he winked at her, his full lips tilting up in the grin she loved.

  “Ready?” he w
hispered.

  She nodded and picked up the still sleeping babe. “Ja, I’m ready.”

  Slipping his strong arms around her shoulders and under her knees, he lifted her and Gunhilde in one smooth motion. “Ready or not, Mrs. Bjorklund, we have arrived in Amerika!”

  Sheer terror cut off the scream choking Ingeborg’s throat.

  The blue-coated officer loomed in front of her. “Ma’am, what is wrong?” His voice sounded clipped, gruff, like a soldier’s.

  If only she could understand what he was saying. “Thorliff, I must find Thorliff!” She broke away from his restraining hand and darted down the side of the wooden pillars to see if the little boy had hidden there. If only she could make them understand. “I must find my son, Thorliff.” She screamed his name again, the desperation of her voice turning many heads.

  “Here, now. Calm down. Acting crazy will get you nowhere.” The officer grabbed her arm again, this time with no doubt that he planned to hang on to her.

  By then a crowd had gathered, their various languages rising in discordant noise.

  “She’s looking for something—or someone.” A man in a black wool coat stepped forward. “I think she’s speaking Norwegian, or maybe Swedish. Have you someone around who can speak the language?”

  The officer looked at the stranger, then shrugged and loosened Ingeborg’s arm. “Mayhap we do. If ye’ll keep track of her, I’ll go inside and ask around. Can’t have a crazy woman disrupting the proceedings, now, can we?” He gave Ingeborg a little push that sent her bumping into the tall man.

  Ingeborg broke free and headed for the other end of the log fence. “Thorliff! Thorliff!” A ship’s whistle echoed her plaintive cry, sobbing along with her. Her heart pounded so hard she could barely hear herself crying. Where had he gone? How could he have gotten away so quickly? Why? Oh, dear God, why?

  “Fraulein, how may I help you?” the man asked.

  She spun around. So near her own language—German, the man spoke. “Thorliff, my son, so little.” She held her hand about waist high from the packed dirt beneath them. “He’s gone. Disappeared. I was right there with our things and he—why would someone take so little a boy?” Her Norwegian words tripped over themselves, hastening for expression like a creek bounding down the mountains of home.