The Settlers (51 page)

Fred replied enthusiastically. Since Robert didn’t feel well he ought to be where he could get care and rest. He himself could not look after his friend and countryman in the manner he would wish. But Robert’s relatives would surely do so and help him regain his health and strength.

“Bob, you needn’t be a burden to your brother. I will of course return the money you put into my hotel! I’ll not only pay back the capital—I’ll pay interest as well, the highest interest in North America.”

Fredrik Mattsson from Asarum would, in every detail, keep the promise he had given his countryman. And Robert in turn assured him that he had always trusted his friend in their mutual business. He had never heard of one Swede cheating another in America.

“Of course not! I’ve increased our money! I know how to handle money in America, Bob. I know how to pay out the capital and still have it!”

From his vest pocket he fished up a five-cent coin and held it before Robert’s eyes.

“See this nickel? With this one single coin I paid for my food a whole winter in Chicago!”

“You couldn’t!” exclaimed Robert. “Unless you were a magician or something . . .”

Fred explained that it had nothing to do with tricks or miracles; it was pure business ability. That winter in Chicago he had had no cash except this coin. He had lived with a woman friend, free of charge, and he had eaten all his meals at a saloon on Clark Street where every customer who bought anything for at least five cents could eat a free meal. Each morning he had gone to this saloon and bought a five-cent cigar. Then he had eaten his breakfast. But he did not smoke his cigar—when he emerged onto the street he sold it to anyone he happened to meet for the same price he himself had paid. In that way he got back his five cents. At dinnertime he went back to the saloon, bought a fresh cigar, ate the dinner he was entitled to, and then went outside and sold his cigar for five cents. In that way he retrieved his nickel so he could buy a new cigar in the morning and have his breakfast, and so on.

He had lived in this way the whole winter through buying and selling two cigars a day and eating two solid meals. And when he left Chicago in the spring he still had his nickel, even though it had paid for his food for a whole winter.

Fred threw the coin into the air and caught it on the downfall.

“You see, I know how to handle capital! I pay out and still have it! I’ve done the same with your money, Bob. I know the tricks. Life is easy in America if you know the tricks.”

Up to the very last moment of Robert’s stay, the host of the Grand Hotel was helpful and generous to his friend and partner. He arranged for his trip home: an ox train would soon be due in Grand City on its way east to St. Louis, and from St. Louis Robert could take the paddle steamer as soon as the northern Mississippi was open. Robert remembered the route; it would be his third journey on the broad river.

“You must get yourself some decent clothes, Bob,” insisted Fred. “You must return as a gentleman!”

A few hundred dollars in silver were still left in Roberts black pouch—enough for his trip home, a suit of clothes, and a new rucksack. Now anyone could see he was returning from the goldfields, said Fred.

Thus one day in April 1855, the younger partner in the Grand Hotel, Grand City, was ready to leave the business and the town. The ox train for St. Louis had arrived. The two friends stood at the counter in Fred’s Tavern, and the one who would stay behind solemnly opened a bottle of Kentucky Straight. With controlled emotion Fred said they must drink the painful
Skol
of farewell. For the last time they would use the beloved Swedish word of greeting to each other. From then on the word
Skol
would never more be heard in this room.

And now at their parting the moment had come for him to repay Robert’s loan as he had promised.

“My dear friend, after two years your capital has doubled. In this way you are getting 100 per cent interest. I owe you four thousand dollars!”

Fredrik Mattsson put two heavy bundles of bills on the counter in front of his friend; he had of course changed Robert’s gold into bills. This had to be done before money could circulate and grow, and he was repaying him in bills.

He looked at his countryman, as if to see his reaction.

“Have you ever seen or heard of wildcats out here?”

“Wildcats? Do you mean those wild animals . . . ?”

“No. I mean free money in America. What you see before you on the counter is four thousand dollars in wildcat money. You get your capital back in sound, free money.”

For the first time Robert saw wildcat money and he liked the name; to him it had something to do with freedom and liberty; the bills had probably been given that name because they in some way echoed the freedom of the wildcats in the forest.

“Here you are, Bob. One hundred per cent interest!”

Robert was overcome by the great generosity his friend displayed at their parting. Was it right for him to accept these big bundles of money, four thousand dollars? He felt like a miser, a usurper. No, he couldn’t accept all this money—he hadn’t earned it. And he said if he accepted it he would ever after feel he had skinned a countryman and friend.

“No, Fred, you’re too generous to me!”

But Fred forced him to take it, he himself pushed the bundles into the black leather pouch. He knew how Robert felt, but after all, it was only his own money that had doubled in two years by constant, careful handling. He paid back in wildcats—sound, free money that would double again if handled wisely. They were as good as gold in the right hands. Up in Minnesota, where there were few banks, these bills might be worth even more than out here, probably more than gold.

Robert gave in. He now possessed four thousand dollars of this money that had been named after the free forest cats who had no masters, and who roamed at liberty wherever they liked. Instead of the heavy, exacting gold, he had now liberty’s light and sound money in his bag. And wasn’t this the kind of money he had always been looking for?

His partner, this competent businessman, had doubled his fortune. And that very moment Robert decided how he would use this great sum of money.

He thanked his countryman with all his heart, thanked him long and well, not only for his great help in increasing his money, but also for all the stories about the gold land he had listened to in the Grand Hotel when undisturbed by guests. What he had learned he would not forget.

So the two friends emptied their farewell
Skol
to the last drop; for the last time the Swedish toast was used in Fred’s Tavern.

Later, in the street outside the hotel, Fredrik Mattsson from Asarum, Sweden, waved a cheerful goodbye to Robert Nilsson from the same country, as he left the Grand Hotel in Grand City on the ox wagon, the wildcats in his bag.

You’re listening, but you haven’t heard Karl Oskar return; you don’t hear well—it’s I who ruined your hearing.

It’s been a long night for you—I’ve had much to tell, have tried not to forget anything of importance.

But now my story nears its end.

It was during your last winter in the ghost town that I came back to you. Since then I’ve left you only for short intervals. I’ve buzzed and throbbed and banged and hammered so intensely that you have been forced to listen to me. And you can say what you wish, but you can thank me for the fact that you began to ponder your lot in life. I’ve kept you awake at night and given you time to think in peace when all is silent.

And at last you have returned and can play the gold seeker who struck it rich! The sound, free money in your pouch hadn’t been touched when you returned. You had decided not to spend a single dollar of it, for you wanted to give all your riches to Karl Oskar and Kristina.

Thus your trip has not been in vain, my dear gold seeker. Your money will help your brother and sister-in-law. Who could deserve the money more? Who could use it better? Who could need it more? Your brother is still young, but he has poked so hard in the earth here that he already limps—even though he won’t admit it! When he has cleared one field he begins with another, and another, and so on. He loves it. But however big his fields he will never be satisfied. Yet he too, in the end, must be satisfied with a handful of earth—as much as the mouth of a dead man can hold.

And Kristina is not nearly as strong as your brother.

She is only thirty, yet soon she will become bent and broken on this claim if she doesn’t get help. She has five brats, and will have more, she has her big household to care for, all the livestock—constant chores inside and outside. She is like a ship at sail: never entirely still, always driven by some little gust of wind. You see how worn out she is in the evenings. You can be pleased that your money will help a little to ease her burden.

You’ve returned with riches to the home of Karl Oskar and Kristina. You’ve kept the promise you made them when you left four years ago. But it cost you mightily. You returned a whole life older. And your return was not what you had imagined when you left; you expected to return with your life unspent. But now you’ve learned what life is and what death is. You’ve experienced them both, and these two ought to be the title of the story that now draws to its close.

Dear Robert! You’ve been lying awake for long hours tonight. We won’t part, you and I. Don’t think so for a moment! You yet have one master left! But now I shall release a few great drops of comfort, a few drops to ease your pain, so that you will have a few hours’ rest. This much credit you must give your sick, buzzing ear: it has taught you to value sleep as the greatest gift the Creator has to offer. When fatigue and despair rob a person of life’s strength, it is restored with sleep.

Farewell now for the moment. Sleep well, gold seeker—you who never saw California!

XXIV

WILDCAT RICHES

—1—

Karl Oskar had expected to return from Stillwater before nightfall on Friday, but at bedtime he was not yet back. Kristina put the children to bed while she herself stayed up and kept a fire going to keep supper warm for her husband.

As yet she wasn’t worried. Karl Oskar had been late on several occasions when returning from Stillwater or Taylors Falls. On the wretched, recently cleared forest roads so much could happen to delay a ramshackle ox cart, and their oxen were young and barely trained. Then it was so hot during the day with swarms of that summer plague, the mosquitoes. No one could get a moment’s peace in the forest because of these pests. She felt sorry for Karl Oskar, who must drive the team such a long way in this heat, when even well-trained animals sometimes bolted and took off because of the stinging critters.

A young ox might easily bolt in this weather, and then the driver might get hurt also. It comforted her that Karl Oskar wasn’t alone on this trip. Their neighbor, Algot Svensson, was a capable and reliable man.

Robert had gone to bed at his usual time. There was no need for him to stay up and wait for his brother. He was weak and sickly and needed his rest more than anyone else in the house.

A couple of long hours passed as Kristina waited. On the hearth stood the pot containing the corn porridge she had cooked for supper, which was beginning to smell burned. She must prepare something else for Karl Oskar, something she could make ready quickly. She found some eggs and poured water into a pot to boil them; she also cut a few thick slices of pork. Then she waited again.

It was close inside, so she went out and sat down on the oak bench near the kitchen door where it was cooler. The crickets squeaked and chirped in bushes and grass all around the house. She had become accustomed to this sound of the nights whistle pipes, but tonight she wished the screech-hoppers would keep quiet; their noise distracted her and prevented her from hearing the rumble of the ox cart down the road.

It was almost midnight before Kristina heard the sound she had been waiting for. She went back into the kitchen and blew fire into the dying embers; the food would be ready as soon as Karl Oskar had unyoked the oxen and stabled them. She heard no voices; their neighbor must have left below the meadow and taken a short cut to his home.

After a few moments she heard the familiar footsteps outside the door. Only a few minutes more and the eggs would be boiled and the pork fried. Karl Oskar came in.

She greeted him with the words that many times before had met him when he returned:

“You’re late . . .”

He flung his hat unto its accustomed nail on the wall, drew in his breath, and said that on the way home they had hit a stump in the road, turned over the cart, and broken the axle. Algot Svensson had gone to the new homestead at Hay Lake and borrowed tools so they could cut a tree and put in a new axle. This had delayed them several hours. His cart wasn’t good enough for long trips.

She was just lifting the boiling pot off the fire and she turned around quickly; his voice sounded strange. He spoke with an effort, in short, stuttering words as she had never before heard him talk. What was the matter with him? The broken axle couldn’t have affected him that seriously.

He walked past her into the big room before she could see his face, and now she remembered his most important errand today. But she had not intended to ask him anything before he had eaten; hungry men needed food first of all.

Karl Oskar usually went directly to the table and sat down to eat when he came home hungry. Wonderingly, she went into the big room after him. He had lit a candle; his face was stern, his features frozen.

“What is it, Karl Oskar . . . ?”

His face was spotted, marked by his dirty fingers wiping off perspiration. He had driven his team a long way on a hot day and he had turned over, but he was not hurt. Why, then, wasn’t everything all right?

Kristina noticed that he held something in his hands. With a sudden, angry thrust he threw it away—flung it all the way into the fireplace corner toward the old spittoon she had just cleaned. It was a bundle of paper which fluttered in the air as it flew past her; around and inside the spittoon a heap of green bills lay strewn.