The man stared at her helplessly, mumbling some words in his own language. Kristina ran to the next man, she ran from one to another, and asked, and asked; she had forgotten that none of them understood a word: “A girl. . haven’t you seen her. . our little girl?”
Karl Oskar searched in silent anguish; he remembered that he was among strangers, that here he was no better than a mute.
Their child had disappeared, and they couldn’t tell a single soul that she was lost. No one could tell them if Lill-Märta had been seen, no one could tell them where she had gone, no one could help them, because they couldn’t ask anyone for help — no one could help them search for a little girl in a blue dress and red ribbons.
“Maybe she has fallen off the pier. . into the water,” he said to Kristina.
“It was you! You let her get away from you!” Kristina broke out accusingly.
“Yes. . it’s my fault. . I forgot. . for only a moment. . ” Remorse swept over him.
“Lill-Märta! Lill-Märta! Lill-Märta!” Hysterically, the mother called her child’s name, and no one answered. She broke into tears. “We’ve lost our child! She was with you!”
“Yes, Kristina. She was with me.”
“Our first girl. Anna. You remember?”
As Kristina mentioned Anna, their dead child, memories of the past flashed through Karl Oskar’s mind: He carried a small coffin in his arms, he was on his way to a grave, he walked with heavy steps carrying the coffin he himself had made, had hammered together of fine boards, the finest, knot-free boards he had been able to find. That was Anna, that was the other time, the other child whom they had lost.
The Sultana’s side wheels were beginning to churn, foam whirled about, the bell rang again, and a man on deck shouted, “All aboard!”
Some of the crewmen made ready to pull in the gangplank — no one was aware that two passengers had gone back on shore.
Karl Oskar stood on the pier as if paralyzed. But suddenly, at the sound of the bell, he came back to life: “The ship is leaving us!”
“We cannot leave Lill-Märta!”
“The boys are on the ship! All we own is on the ship!”
“I stay here on land. I must find our child.” Kristina sank down on a packing box among the freight, unable to move.
Karl Oskar looked wildly in all directions, searching for the lost child; he looked at the ship, ready to depart; he looked at his wife, sitting on the box, forlorn and shaking with sobs. In that moment he was a thoroughly bewildered, helpless human being, not knowing what to do next. Yet within the minute he must know, his decision must be made.
Two of their children were on board, one was here on land. If they went on board without the girl, they would never see her again. If they remained on shore, their sons would be left to themselves on the ship. What must they do?
He would never give up in despair, never consider all lost; he must do the best he knew how, he had always done so in critical moments, he must do so now.
He would rush on board and find Landberg; their interpreter might persuade the captain to delay the ship until they found. .
But now the gangplank was hauled in.
Karl Oskar made two jumps to the edge of the pier, waved both arms and shouted as loudly as he could: “Wait! Wait a little! Have mercy, people!”
A crewman came to the rail and shouted something back, something he didn’t understand. But suddenly he heard another voice, a voice he understood, a voice shouting in his own language, louder than all the noises of the ship, louder than any human sound around him: from somewhere on shore came a woman’s voice, a coarse voice, a penetrating, fierce, furious voice, rising above all the din and bustle on the pier: “Wait, you sons of bitches! I’m still on shore!”
A woman came running along a footpath that followed the shore, and she called, short of breath and angrily, while running, yet louder even than the bellowing bulclass="underline" “Put down the gangplank, you bastards! I’m coming as fast as I can!”
Karl Oskar recognized the voice; it belonged to Ulrika of Västergöhl, who, it seemed, was also in danger of being left behind. But Ulrika was not alone as she came running to the pier, she carried a burden, she carried in her arms a kicking, obstreperous child, and because of this burden, and the fear of being left behind, Ulrika was short of breath and angry. In her arms the Glad One carried a little girl in a blue dress with red ribbons on her hair. Panting, she put the child down next to Karl Oskar and yelled once more toward the ship: “Those sons of bitches! Trying to get away!”
While Karl Oskar and Kristina fell upon their child, the gangplank was once more lowered.
“The girl was back there under the trees,” said Ulrika. “She was eating cherries.”
Near the shore, Ulrika told them as they hurried to the gangplank, she had seen a grove of cherry trees, and thinking their boat would remain a while longer, she had gone there to pick some fruit — her throat was dry in this awful heat. The child was already there, reaching for the cherries. But Lill-Märta had been unable to reach the branches, she was too short, so Ulrika had picked her a handful. The child had wanted to remain and eat cherries, and that was why she had kicked and fought so hard when Ulrika carried her back.
Lill-Märta was still restive; when Kristina pressed her hard to her breast, the girl began to cry: the mother had squashed one of the cherries which she still held in her hand.
The crewmen greeted Ulrika with happy smiles and gestures as the four belated passengers walked up the gangplank. Who knows, perhaps they would have been equally friendly had they understood the words she shouted at them a few minutes earlier.
Slowly the steamer Sultana glided out of the Detroit harbor, with none of her passengers missing.
As soon as they were inside the rail Karl Oskar held out his hand to Ulrika; he shook hers violently, he pressed it in his own, he would not let go of it for a long while: this was the hand that had brought back their child, had saved the little girl and — the parents. But he was unable to speak, not a syllable would cross his lips, not a sound. He felt something in his throat, something he couldn’t swallow. Only a few times before had he had this feeling, it came over him instead of tears.
Karl Oskar wept, wept inwardly like a man, with invisible tears.
— 5—
After six days’ sailing across the Great Lakes and the rivers and sounds which separated them, the steamer Sultana reached Chicago. Waiting for a river steamer, the immigrants remained three days in this town, lodged in quarters Landberg had found them. Meanwhile, their guide was busy making arrangements for their continued journey. Pastor Unonius, the Swedish Lutheran minister, unfortunately had gone to visit a new settlement outside the town; consequently, the immigrants were unable to participate in Holy Communion while in Chicago.
On July 6, early in the morning, Landberg escorted the group on board a steamer in the Chicago River which plied a canal to the Illinois River and which was to carry them to the upper Mississippi. With this last service the guide finished his obligations. Landberg bade his countrymen farewell, wishing them health and success in their new homeland. They were now entirely dependent on themselves, but he commended them all to the hands of Almighty God.
The immigrants had passed through the portals of the West. They were on a new ship, and on the new ship they met a new sea, a sea unlike any they had ever seen or traversed: the prairies’ own Sea of Grass.
VIII. PEASANTS ON A SEA OF GRASS