She whispered: “She sleeps right there — the whore!”
That disgusting woman was as close to her as that; Ulrika of Västergöhl had her bunk right next to Kristina’s — only a thin piece of sailcloth separated the beds. Kristina could hear every move of the Glad One, every word she uttered — and those were words she would rather close her ears to.
Kristina pointed, and Karl Oskar looked. There was a small hole in the hanging, through which he caught a glimpse of Ulrika of Västergöhl; she was busy undressing, and he noticed something white: her bare, full breasts. He turned quickly away, embarrassed and a little irritated, and he became even more irritated as he saw Kristina’s vexed look: did she think he was in the habit of staring at undressed women? She herself had pointed out Ulrika’s place. But Ulrika ought to hang a cover over that hole before undressing. Still, among all these people on the crowded ship one must apparently grow accustomed to incidents never before experienced.
“Why do they call her the Glad One?” asked Kristina.
“I suppose because she is never sad.”
“If ever a woman needed to be sad, she is the one. She should weep tears of blood, that woman.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her,” said Karl Oskar.
“Attention! Certainly not! I have other things to do.”
Kristina wondered if he could find her a bucket of water. She must wash their dirty clothes. She intended to keep herself and her children as clean as if they were on land, both underclothes and outer garments.
But Karl Oskar thought they could not obtain more water today — not before tomorrow morning, after the hold was cleaned.
“Too bad you can’t ask the mate for an extra portion; he is angry at you.”
Karl Oskar did not answer. He was a little hesitant and lost here on the ship. He always knew what to do when on land, and if he needed anything usually managed to get it. But here at sea he didn’t know where to obtain anything, he was not allowed to go where he wanted, he could not do as he wished. And if he complained, he was threatened and talked down to by the ship’s command. He felt that these seafaring people looked down on peasants as some order of lower beings. They treated them almost like cattle. Here he went about like an animal tethered to its stake; he could go as far as the chain permitted him, around and around, but not an inch farther. It was the sea that tied him. The sea outside the ship’s rail closed him in. The sea was not for anyone who wanted space in which to move freely.
He was disappointed mostly for Kristina’s sake that their ship was so crowded and their quarters so dark and moist and unhealthy. It was he who had persuaded her to emigrate, he was responsible for their being here. And from her countenance he knew what she thought — he had avoided looking her directly in the face since they came on board, but he knew what her expression was. Still, she was not one to complain and blame him, even when she had cause; that was one reason he had wanted her as his wife.
He would try to cheer and comfort her: “We have fine weather at sea! We can be happy for that!”
He had hardly finished speaking when the ship lurched heavily, the result of tacking. The movement came so unexpectedly that Kristina lost her footing and fell on her side, luckily on the made-up bunk.
“Our ship is leaping ahead!”
Karl Oskar gave Kristina a broad smile. “You should feel at home here at sea — you have always liked swinging!”
The ship had lurched and knocked over Kristina from Korpamoen. She did not smile. The young wife looked about her in the dark, dusty, smelly hold of the Charlotta, overfilled with people: these were to be their quarters during the long voyage to North America; here she was to live for weeks, maybe months, with her children. Here they must eat and drink and sleep, here they must live and breathe and be awake. Here they must remain in their bed-stall, like imprisoned animals in a byre during the long, dark winter.
And as she looked at her home at sea, the thought returned to her — a thought she had had the first moment she had put foot in the hold: I will never get away from here alive. This looks exactly like a grave.
XV. A CARGO OF DREAMS
Sometimes during the nights the emigrants lay awake and turned in their bunks, listening to each other’s movements and to all the sounds of the ship.
Karl Oskar:
We are on the voyage and very little is actually the way I had thought it would be. But whether it goes well or ill, I’ll never regret my step. The stupidest thing a man can do is regret something that’s already done, something that cannot be changed. Perhaps I have brought unhappiness upon us — we may have to suffer a great deal; and all is on my shoulders. I insisted on the emigration — if it turns out badly, I can blame only myself.
If only we can get across this ocean, and land with our health.
Everything I own is in this venture. With bad luck all can be lost. At home they ridiculed me. They thought I had a crazy notion. This irritates me, but I won’t let it get under my skin. Why should other people necessarily like what I do? Only cowardly dogs hang about lapping up praise, waiting to have their backs scratched. I’ll have to scratch my own back. And I’ll never return with my wife and children to become a burden to my parish — whether our venture turns out happily or not. That pleasure I won’t give anyone. No; however it goes, no one at home shall suffer because of us. There are many back there who wish me bad luck, so I must watch my step. The home folk are envious and begrudge each other success, wish hardship on each other; they would be pleased if things went wrong for me.
I don’t think things will begin easily for us in America. It’s hard to start anew. But my health is good, and if it stays with me I can work enough to feed us. Hardship is not going to bend me; with adversity I shall work even harder, from pure anger. I’ll work, all right, as soon as I have my land. And no one is going to cheat me — I won’t put trust in the first soft-spoken stranger I meet.
As I lie here with my money belt around my waist I like to touch it now and then. It gives me a sense of security to touch it when I want to. It holds all I have left of worldly possessions, changed into silver coin. It’s all we have to lay our new foundation; I carry that belt night and day — no one can steal it without first killing me. Of course, all the folk here in the hold are simple farmers, and perhaps as honest and decent as I; but I never did trust strangers. I suppose the other farmers are also lying here with their money belts around their bellies. But who can know for sure that there isn’t a thief on board? He wouldn’t go around saying: I’m the one who steals! And in the jostle down here we are so close to each other we can look under each other’s shirts. The way we lie packed together one couldn’t hide even a needle from the other fellow.
I have never relied on any person, except myself — and on her, of course. God be praised I have such a fine woman, industrious, thrifty, and careful of our young ones. A farmer with a wasteful, lazy, slovenly wife never can get ahead. And she came along with me, she did as I wished. But I’m afraid she will regret it, although she will say nothing. Perhaps she would rather see the whole thing undone; at times I think so. If she should begin to look back, and wish to return, what might I do then?
No. She has agreed, once and for all. She is a woman of her word, she’ll stick to her promise.
It’s bad luck she got with child at this time — it looks as though it had been planned — the very moment we left. Now she is sensitive — and I’m afraid the sea will aggravate her further. But I shall take care of her, and help her with the children where I can. Luckily, she too is in good health.