His father-in-law, that gaunt and bearded believer, had stood against emigration, but on one of those dark mornings he lost his capacity to wake up, so they buried him beside Kristina’s mother and began to consider in earnest. Now was the time. Øistein’s parents were already dead. No children had come yet; they retained a sack of coin from better days; as to their future, the landlord had increased the rent, and next month would bring three more boarders into that tiny house.
It was Sunday. When they all got home from church, two of the other tenants commenced disagreeing over a pair of boots, while Øistein stood watching raindrops on the window, the harbor trembling, reflections of red, white and yellow edifices barely pinkening or blueing the water. Then he opened his heart to Kristina, who said: I’ll do whatever you think best.
He loved his wife’s hair. In America, perhaps, she might not be compelled to kerchief her face against the stinging herring-brine. Then he could admire it every day. One could breathe in America, it was said. There was cheap good land, and the taxes were low.
Bypassing Mr. Køhler’s, they went to Mr. Kielland’s cousin Nils, who ran a clean business, everyone said. His passengers tended to be rich, but Øistein hoped that a berth in steerage might not be too dear. So the Pedersons awaited their turn, gripping the railing-narrow counter while the officials sat far away around their square wooden island of a desk-table, writing in their ledgers, counting money received and placing it in envelopes, never opening their tall black safe before the public. Some of these men Øistein had seen across the nave on Sunday, and some he had never met before; they looked nearly as grand as the Rosenkildes.
Finally the Pedersons stood before the high clerk, who asked what they wanted. From his tone they could have been unemployable Pietists. Looking him in the eye, Øistein demanded his cheapest price to America.
America, now, that’s a wide place. Where in America?
New York.
We sail only to Québec nowadays.
Then you could have said so at the beginning, sir.
Good luck to you. Next!
How much to Québec?
For two?
That’s right.
The man wrote down a number on a scrap of paper. Øistein led his wife out of that office, passing framed etchings of sailing ships and frowning rich men.
Fortunately, Kristina’s aunt had been watching out for them. She said that there was nothing as easy to keep an eye on as that raven-suited agent who rushed so busily across the winding walls of white houses. He usually flittered by in mid-morning, when women had given up standing outside the canneries. The next day the Pedersons stood waiting for him, and here he came.
In his black suit he reminded Øistein of the dark narrow column of a mink standing up, its little hands dangling against its breast. Under his throat he wore a high white collar, whose clasp was a ruby-eyed herring cast out of pure silver.
He extended his hand, but Øistein stepped back.
So it’s America you’d go to?
Frowning, the young man nodded.
I’ll quote you a fine price!
What price?
Whatever others charge, Captain Gull will be less. Just bring a bill for proof.
Where is he?
This way.
That’s not to the harbor! Øistein exclaimed.
It is, it is! A short passage! laughed the sailing-ship agent.
Following him up that steep lane whose twistings were nearly stifled by hordes of square-windowed wooden houses which watched every passerby like standing stones, they unaccountably found themselves back at the docks. Little single-masted vessels scuttled in and out of the Vågen, quick to tie up at their favorite warehouse before someone else could. The agent led them past the line of weary women in the salty stench of the herring wharves, some of whom tried to smile at Kristina, and just past Eystein’s warehouse they arrived at a door in a small warehouse. Naturally they were subjected to no passenger ship office, and certainly not to any clock with Chinese figures on its towering plinth, let alone some white door marked PRIVAT. This went far to explain why it might have been that the instant they saw Captain Gull, they liked him, although, come to think of it, this was unaccountable, for Øistein partook of a distrustful nature. With a name like that,* the fellow should have been a German goldsmith with six pink, roundcheeked children. As it was, he gave off a prosperous enough impression: narrow spectacles, fine white hair with a few strands of red still in it. His breath was scarcely beery at all.
Two more for America! said the agent.
Kristina wished to know how long the voyage would last. — Not above three weeks, said Captain Gull.
Impossible!
Not at all. Given fine weather it will be even less. You see, I’ve found a short passage.
Kristina was smiling. Alarmed, her husband took her hand, which even now remained blotched and inflamed from herring-brine.
Captain Gull was explaining that this shorter route to America had been worked out long ago. It was the way that Leif Eiriksson had revealed to no one, not even the ill-fated Vinland voyagers, who were his own kin; Captain Gull had followed up certain hints in the sagas, and claimed it for himself. — And you must promise to keep my secret, he continued.
He took them down to see the Hyndla. She was a pretty enough vessel, white, black and green. Øistein tapped his forefinger on the railing. Smiling, the agent said: Sound ship-wood — straight from the Ryfylke forest! And look here; this is interesting.
Her bowsprit was as impressive as an iron spear — for walrus hunting, chuckled Captain Gull.
We’ll think on this, said Øistein, to which the agent replied: Don’t think too long, Mr. Pederson. We have only half a dozen berths left.
In steerage?
They’re all in steerage.
What’s the price? And this time I want a figure.
Smiling, Captain Gull turned away. The agent murmured. It truly was unbelievably good.
Oho, said the agent. Three more emigrants coming! Excuse me now; perhaps I’ll see you again.
After a glance at his anxious eager wife, Øistein said: We’ll book our passage now.
Kristina’s face was as shiny as her best possession, the brass teakettle that her mother had bequeathed to her.
Buying dried foodstuffs for the voyage at Mr. Kielland’s store, Kristina felt even happier than she had been when Øistein first came courting. She laid in potatoes, flatbread, jugs of soured milk — and salted herring, of course; there was still a supply of it. In America, where food was cheap, she might be spared from eating that fish anymore. She bought plugs of tobacco for her husband, and a few onions against scurvy. Receiving Mr. Kielland’s permission, the apprentice loaded the wagon and took her home with all her groceries. — Write us a letter if you get time, he said. Kristina thanked him, knowing that he would pray for her.
Her cousin Eyvind reached into his sailmaker’s horn full of needles, and pulled out an awl which could pierce through anything. He gave it to her with a prayer and a kiss on the forehead.
Meanwhile her husband was packing up his trunk: wool mittens made by his sister, a striped white shirt, a cap, oilskin trousers and jacket, linens, a bit of rope, then all the farm tools the relatives could spare. How long he and Kristina could manage in America without work was as tedious to calculate as the number of green herring to fill a barrel. The uncertainties of the passage disquieted him, but after all, no man can see down deeply into the future. They had made their agreement and must be content. At least the voyage would be brief; moreover, his wife was too strong and good to complain.