Ulrika, up till now free from all pains and ailments, began to complain of diarrhea and aches in her legs; she hoped it was only the usual immigrant diarrhea that bothered her; and so it seemed. Karl Oskar suggested that she use the bleeding iron and get rid of some of her blood. Kristina had lost so much blood during her sickness on the Charlotta that she did not consider it necessary to be bled, nor did she think they should bleed their children; the little ones were so pale, they probably had no more blood in their bodies than they needed.
Kristina interpreted the smallest discomfort in herself or her children as a sign of the pestilence. All except Danjel kept away from the unhealthy ship’s fare and starved themselves. The grownups went about starving in silence, but the children begged for food. Children could not starve day after day; yet they mustn’t eat the food either. Kristina said they must get fresh food, at least milk, for their offspring; they still had the means with which to buy it.
The silver in Karl Oskar’s skin pouch had melted away during their journey inland, and he had less than a hundred dollars left. Their transportation from Chicago to Minnesota had cost more than he had figured, and they had spent more for food than they had expected. How much would be left on arrival?
One night little Johan was seized with intense vomiting. It continued until green bile came up. Except for pain in his stomach he did not suffer, but Kristina watched in anxiety for the usual sign: the thin limbs twisting in convulsion.
Next morning the steamer made shore at a settlement where firewood for the engine was to be loaded. This stretch of the river flowed through a forest region, and groves of evergreens and leaf-trees grew on either side. A group of bearded, long-haired men met the boat at the pier; they were woodcutters, waiting to load the steamer. These men of the forest had revolvers and knives in their belts and did not look very kind.
A narrow strip of land had been cleared along the river, and behind tall stacks of firewood and piles of lumber a row of houses could be seen. People lived here, so it should be possible to buy food. Kristina entreated Karl Oskar: “Go on shore! Try to get some milk for the little ones.”
Karl Oskar picked up their large tin pitcher and went on shore. Robert had seen a map and he said that this was a town, but to Karl Oskar it seemed no more than an out-of-the-way farm village. Not much building had taken place; there were a few houses on the cleared strip, recently built of green lumber, and a little farther away, near the edge of the forest, he could see some primitive huts, not larger than woodsheds; probably the woodcutters lived there. All the houses seemed to have been hammered together in a hurry. A road had been staked out through the village, and work on it begun, but it looked more like a timber road; it was uneven and full of ruts, winding its course between piles of logs and stumps many feet high. Karl Oskar had noticed these tall stumps in many places: apparently the timbermen in America did not bend their backs but felled the trees while standing upright. This left ugly stumps and wasted lumber.
He looked at the row of houses, trying to find a store where food could be bought. He had made up his mind not to return to his children with an empty pitcher.
The biggest house had a sign painted in yard-high letters on the wall toward the river: BANK. Karl Oskar spelled the word twice to be sure, b, a, n, k. A word from his own language was painted on a house far away in the American wilderness! How could this be? Was it done to help arriving Swedes, unable to understand English? Or was the owner a Swede? Robert was not there to inform him that bank was spelled the same in both languages. Karl Oskar decided to go in and ask the bank master where he could buy some milk and wheat bread.
The door below the sign was locked. Karl Oskar knocked, but no one answered. Not a single person was in sight, neither inside the house nor near it. He walked farther, and through a window noticed some men standing at a counter of packing boxes. Behind the counter were shelves, and he thought perhaps this was a store.
Upon entering he immediately realized his mistake: on the counter stood a keg with a tap in it; a man in a white apron behind the counter was pouring a dark-brown drink from the keg. Karl Oskar recognized it as the American brännvin. The men at the counter were drinking, the shelves were filled with bottles, but there was no sign of food. He had entered a saloon.
He did not want to buy brännvin, he wanted milk. He turned in the door, mumbling something about being in the wrong place. It vexed him that he couldn’t ask where to buy fresh food and milk for his children. It was pitiful the way he had to act — like a suckling, not yet able to speak, unable to ask for food when he was hungry.
But the few words Karl Oskar mumbled as he left the store had an unexpected result. One of the men at the counter followed him through the door and called after him: “Hallo! Are you Swedish?”
Karl Oskar turned quickly. At first he only stared, the Swedish words surprised him so much.
Many Swedes had moved to North America before him, but it was the first time in this country a stranger had spoken to him in his own language.
“You are Swedish, aren’t you?” the man repeated.
The stranger was about his own age and size, somewhat thin, with large hands and feet. He was dressed in a red-striped woolen shirt and well-worn skin trousers, held up by a broad, richly ornamented belt. A wide-brimmed straw hat hung on the back of his head; his cheeks were puffed out as if swollen with a toothache or mumps, but his tobacco-spotted chin and lips divulged the secret of the swollen cheeks: they were filled with tobacco quids. Karl Oskar had seen many Americans dressed similarly and equally tall, gangly, and swollen cheeked; the stranger did not look like a Swede.
“I’m a countryman of yours!” the man said.
“Did you come from Sweden?” Karl Oskar was still dubious.
“Yes! Can’t you hear me speaking Swedish?”
The stranger wasn’t speaking exactly the way Karl Oskar did, but perhaps he had forgotten some of his Swedish. And Karl Oskar was well pleased to have met someone he could converse with.
He pointed to the sign on the building near by: “Are you the Swede who owns the bank?”
The man laughed: “No, I’m sorry. Mr. Stone owns the bank. My name is Larsson. I came from Sweden five years ago.”
Karl Oskar listened carefully — yes, the man must be Swedish.
The stranger smiled, he had dancing brown eyes, lying deep under his forehead, and his grin exposed a row of long, grayish-yellow, pointed teeth, spaced far apart.
“What can I help you with, countryman?” he asked. “I guess you came with the steamboat?”
Karl Oskar told him there was a group of Swedish immigrants on board. He was careful not to mention the cholera, he only stated his errand on shore: “I want to buy some food for our children. They can’t stand the ship’s fare.”
“Oh, yes, I understand. I’ll show you a store.”
“Have they milk and bread?”
“As much as you and your children can eat. Come along, I’ll show you. If you have no money, I’ll pay for it.”
“I can pay for myself,” said Karl Oskar. He wanted to make it clear to the stranger that he could pay for anything he got. He was no beggar, he told Larsson; he had been a farmer at home, all his life he had been able to meet his obligations and he intended to do the same in America.
“But it’s hard here for a new settler,” Larsson said kindly. “We immigrants must stick together, we must help each other.”
Karl Oskar was in need of aid; he needed someone to show him the way to a store; and for once luck seemed to be with him.