Now they were nearing the end of their voyage — the seventh for the Charlotta as emigrant ship. It had been a pleasant voyage with moderate storms. The mortality on board had also been moderate: seven deaths among seventy-eight passengers; there had been more among fewer on other crossings. Apparently the eighth death was to take place; for the eighth time this voyage he must fulfill the duties of minister.
It was indeed true — people were the most unhealthy cargo a vessel possibly could carry: “. . a great deal of attention was then required from the captain. .” Who knew this better than the captain on the brig Charlotta?
Happy those captains who carried other cargo across the seas! They might sometimes get a wink of sleep, even on a stormy night.
— 2—
Karl Oskar had changed the cold pack once; but the bleeding from Kristina’s nose was continuing as before.
Johan had at last gone to sleep. He lay across the bunk, over his mother’s legs. Lill-Märta was dreaming and talking in her sleep about a cake which someone wanted to take away from her. From the neighboring bunks came groans and puffs. The woman who had already snored for hours snored still louder. And outside, against the side of the ship, the Atlantic Ocean heaved as it had heaved during all tempests since the day of creation. Kristina lay there and rocked on her bunk, as she had rocked many nights and days. The ship rolled, and Karl Oskar grabbed hold of the bunk planks now and then so as not to fall off the stool on which he was sitting.
Now and again he lit his piece of taper and looked at his wife. She lay mostly with her eyes closed, but at times they would open and then he tried to gain her recognition. But she was away from her eyes, he could not find her there. He sat by her but she was not with him. Another woman snored. Some people snored, while others lay at death’s door. And from the pen of the Kärragärde people an even, monotonous mumble was occasionally heard. It was prayer; Danjel was praying. He must, then, be awake now. Inga-Lena lay very sick, but she denied her illness and insisted she was well — who could fathom these Åkians?
Another hour passed. When Karl Oskar again changed the cold pack, he thought he could notice that the flow of blood had stopped a little.
The watch was changing on deck, it was four o’clock, the dogwatch was over, the early-morning watch was going on. Karl Oskar continued his vigil, he was watching over Kristina, he had stood all the watches this night.
A heavy thunder was heard from above — a sound of splintering timbers, as if a wave had broken something on deck. Kristina awakened and opened her eyes. Karl Oskar looked into them and found his wife: she was awake and clear in her mind. From her mouth came a weak breath — he bent down to hear what she was saying: “Karl Oskar—”
“Yes?”
“I only wanted to ask — be kind to the children.”
“Of course I will.”
“You’ll look after the little ones, won’t you?”
“You may be sure of it.”
“That’s good to hear. You’ll have to be father and mother, both.”
“Don’t think of that now, Kristina.”
“No. We shan’t mention it again.”
“Is there anything you wish?”
“No. Not a thing.”
From the pocket of his jacket Karl Oskar took out a few lumps of sugar, wrapped in a piece of old paper — they were from home, he had saved them a long time.
“Will you have a piece of sugar in your mouth?”
“No.”
The sugar lumps had been in his pocket for weeks. They were no longer white; he blew off the dust to clean them. “I’ve saved these for you.”
“You are kind, Karl Oskar — but — I can’t chew.”
“Isn’t there anything I can give you?”
“No.”
He took a firm hold of Kristina’s hand on the quilt; it felt even colder than the sea water which had cooled her head.
Now it came over him, that which he always tried to evade, that which he never wished to feel or admit: he had persuaded her to follow him, he had taken wife and children with him on this voyage across the sea; he it was who had forced their emigration — someone had had to take the responsibility; I shall take it! That was what he had said — and now was the day of reckoning, now he must shoulder the responsibility. If he had known what it would be like — if he had known — if he had known the price. Now it came over him, overpoweringly it rushed forth. Regret.
Karl Oskar regretted what he had done.
“Kristina!”
“Ye-es.”
“I want to ask you — ask your forgiveness.”
“What must I forgive?”
“That I wanted to go—”
“I too wanted it.”
“But I forced my will through.”
“You didn’t mean anything wrong with it.”
“You know what I meant, Kristina.”
“You wanted to improve things for us — for all of us.”
“Yes. One might mean well — yet spoil it all — spoil it for all of us—”
“Don’t regret it, Karl Oskar. You can’t help it.”
“I’m to blame most.”
“You have only struggled for us. You mustn’t be sad.”
“You will forgive me, Kristina?”
“I have nothing to forgive you. Remember I said so.”
“That is good to hear.”
“I like you, Karl Oskar, always have. We are the best of friends.”
“Yes. The best of friends — that’s what we are!”
Thus Karl Oskar and Kristina spoke to each other as those people do who may have no more chance to speak to each other in this world.
Kristina was in her swing again. She closed her weak eyes. “I wish to sleep a little longer.”
“Sleep! You need it.”
“Only a short while.”
“Of course you will sleep — only you must not — not — not—”
His tongue froze in his throat, he could utter no more words, he was unable to finish: only you must not die and leave me!
“I wish to rest now, quietly,” it came from his wife. “I’m so tired.”
“Yes, rest now. I’ll change the packing.”
“Let me down now!” she said. “Let me down from the swing, Karl Oskar! It’s no fun any more.”
Then he understood she was delirious.
— 3—
The taper had burned out. He sat in the dark and listened to Kristina’s breathing. Of course you will sleep! You may sleep as long as you wish — the rest of the night — the whole day tomorrow — many days. Day after day you may sleep — only, you must wake up again, you must promise to awaken — you must not die.
Be father and mother both, she had said. Shall I arrive alone — alone with the three little ones? And the fourth one? The fourth she takes with her — it follows her. The other three follow me — the other three — who no longer have a mother — no! They still have father and mother — I can hear her breathing. She is only asleep. But if she shouldn’t — if it so should happen, then I can blame only myself. I myself have caused all this. I said: Someone must take the responsibility, I take the responsibility. She has been against it the whole time, she was against it from the very beginning. But I persuaded her. She came with me but I think she regretted it the whole time. But she said nothing. I was the one who insisted, I and no one else decided. And now she could blame me, but instead she says: I have nothing to forgive you; we are the best of friends. And I am causing her to lose her life — and she says — I like you—