“We are not entirely without manpower,” observed Karl Oskar.
“But the redskins don’t fight like humans! They’re pure beasts!”
Karl Oskar stood weighing the iron bar in his hand, looking at his neighbor who had brought him the message. Olausson’s feet tramped about in the stubble, his frightened eyes flew in all directions, and he could not say a single word calmly or clearly.
Karl Oskar saw before him a man who feared for his life.
Petrus Olausson had been proven right and now he wanted to remind you of it. He had always said they should drive the heathen pack away from Minnesota, for the Indians had always been and remained beasts whom no one could convert. The Lutherans had sent many missionaries among them, and they had collected money for catechisms to distribute among them so that they might at least learn God’s commandments. He himself had collected money for the books, sent whole wagon loads of Luther’s catechism in strong leather bindings to them. To what use? How had it helped? Now people could see for themselves; the red bandits thanked their givers by murdering them! The whites had offered the redskins Christ’s gospel; the redskins had answered their benefactors with tomahawks! They replied by crushing the skulls of the noble Christians who wanted to save them from heathen darkness!
When the whites had moved into the Indian country they had only followed the one path indicated by God! It was his wish that different people should succeed each other on the face of the earth. The Indians — like once the Canaanites — were under God’s doom. It was the Almighty’s will that these heathens should be obliterated from the earth, and a Christian no longer need feel sorry for them. President Lincoln was entirely too kind and compassionate with this beastly pack in allowing them to remain within the borders of the United States. There was only one way in which to treat the savages — get them out of Minnesota! This had always been Olausson’s opinion, and now everyone could see that he had been right!
Leaning on his iron bar, Karl Oskar Nilsson listened to his neighbor’s rancorous outburst against the Indians. He had indeed heard before that the redskins did not conduct their wars in a Christian or Lutheran manner but stuck to their Indian and heathen ways. In war they did not follow any rules, they only killed. And the savages acted as savages always had, he thought.
He wanted to know how close the Sioux were: “They haven’t got to St. Peter and Mankato yet, did you say?”
“They might be here any moment! We don’t have any soldiers left to stop those bandits!”
“What about the settlers? Can’t we do anything?”
“We live too far apart. No time to get together.”
“What’s your idea — to run away?”
“Of course! Flee as fast as you can, Nilsson!”
“Take off to the wilds, you mean. .?”
“Yes! And let your cattle loose in the forest!”
Karl Oskar turned his head slowly and looked out over his fields with the still uncut, ripe wheat: “You mean leave. .?” Then he looked toward the house: “Leave. . everything. .?”
“It’s the only thing we can do!” And Petrus Olausson held both his hands over his red, bald head, as if defending himself against the sharp scalping knives: “We must leave at once and hide from the Sioux murderers!”
Karl Oskar was a little surprised at this great fear that had come over their pious parish warden: “Don’t you have any trust in God’s help, Olausson. .?”
“The Lord helps only those who help themselves!”
“No one else. .?”
“No! Not a one! Remember that!”
“Well, that’s what I’ve always thought. It depends on oneself. .”
“We must warn all the settlers hereabouts. . I’ll see to it that we ring the church bell!”
“So we must leave our homes and run. .?”
Karl Oskar looked again toward the house up there in the shade under the tall sugar maples. At the east gable he could see the Astrakhan tree, its limbs bent by the heavy fruit. The apples glittered in the sun. This year the Sweden-tree bore for the first time.
“It isn’t so easy for me to leave. .” Karl Oskar took a deep breath and added: “Kristina is in bed.”
In the last words he had explained his plight to his neighbor. What he had said ought to be sufficient.
But it seemed Olausson hadn’t heard. His ears were closed to everything except the Indian scare: “I’m in a hurry! I must be off and tell the other neighbors! And get the church bell going.”
And he was gone on the moment. He vanished along the path that led to Algot Svensson’s.
Karl Oskar remained standing beside a shock he had not yet completed — the hat-sheaves were still lacking. He leaned against the iron bar and tramped on the wheatheads without noticing. Desert his home? Run away and leave all they owned?
For twelve years they had lived here. They were citizens, they had paid for their land and had the papers to prove it. They had tilled fields that gave good crops, they had built houses — a home. After twelve years of hard work they were getting along well and had enough for all their needs. Everything was in order. Here on the shores of Chisago Lake the immigrants had founded their own little community where they lived in peace and comfort. It had been a long time since he carried his gun with him while working in field or forest. They had never been bothered by the redskins.
Karl Oskar Nilsson had never believed anything other than that he would remain undisturbed on his farm for the rest of his life.
Here he had only used the tools of peaceful work. He had carried his ax for cutting and clearing; he had timbered up a home for himself and his own. Back there stood the house, serene and farmer-secure, with its new-painted walls and splendid shake roof. How many days’ labor hadn’t he put into it? How many trees hadn’t he felled for the walls? How many rafters and scantlings hadn’t he dressed? In great concern he had chinked his house, put on the roof, hewed the floorboards, built the fireplaces, finished the rooms. Twelve years of labor all this had cost him.
It was his home in this world. He had built it with his own hands and paid for it with his sweat. This farm was his by the tiller’s right.
And would all he had built up suddenly be destroyed, all he had done be undone? His home no longer his, not theirs who lived here? Their home in ruins, surrendered to savages and fire? They themselves fleeing to the wilderness, without a roof or a place to live?
To flee from their home: From one day to the next they would change from secure property owners to paupers, from settled homesteaders to vagabonds. After twelve years they would be thrust back to their situation on arrival. After twelve years they would change into impoverished immigrants, walking on foot through the wilderness from Stillwater to Taylors Falls, each night making their beds on leaves and twigs under the bare sky. Again they would be poor people who carried all they owned with them, all their possessions in their arms. From one day to the next they would lose fields and cattle, house and home.
So insecure and unsure was the pioneer’s right to the soil, so little rooted was he in his new state of Minnesota, so loose his settling in North America — so hazardous was the settler’s life.
— 2—
Karl Oskar slowly opened the door to the big room and walked on tiptoe across the floor; perhaps she was asleep? Marta had said that Mother dozed for moments but was awake most of the time. She often asked for water, and had also asked what time of day it was.
Kristina lay motionless on her back, her eyes open. The color of her face had changed; now her cheeks were light red and her eyes had the warm glitter of fever.