Unto a Good Land (38 page)

The long, heavy logs were hoisted into place on the wall by the combined strength of all five men; each log was fastened to the underlying timber by means of thick pegs driven into the lower log and fitted into auger holes in the next one above. There was a racket all day long from three ax hammers; three axes were busy, three timbermen timbered. And the sound of axes against wood was no languid, depressing sound, it was bold, fresh, stimulating—it was a promise, an assurance of security. Here something took place of lasting import—not for a day, or a year, but for future times; here a human abode was raised. And the echo from the timbermen’s axes rang out over the forest in the clear autumn air, it was thrown from tree to tree—the axes cut and hammered, and the echo returned from the other side of the lake.

Jonas Petter was the master among the three timbermen; his ax corrected and finished where the others had begun. And in rhythm with his ax blows against the timbers, he sang “The Timberman’s Song,” which his father and grandfather before him had sung at house-building in the homeland, a song that had been sung through centuries when walls were raised for Swedish peasant houses, a song always sung to the music of ax and hammer—a song stimulating to the timberman, suitable for singing at his work, and now for the first time sung in Minnesota Territory:

What’s your daughter doing tonight?

What’s your daughter doing tonight?

What’s your timberman’s daughter doing tonight?

Timberrim, timberram, timberammaram—

What’s your daughter doing tonight?

Your daughter is making a bed,

Your daughter is making a bed,

Your daughter is making a timberman’s bed—

Timberrim, timberram, timberammaram—

Your daughter is making a bed.

Who shall sleep in your daughter’s bed?

Who shall sleep in your daughter’s bed?

Who shall sleep in your daughter’s timberman’s bed?

Timberrim, timberram, timberammaram—

Who shall sleep in your daughter’s bed?

I and your daughter, that’s who

I and your daughter, that’s who

I and your timberman’s daughter that’s who. . . .

“The Timberman’s Song” was fully ten verses long; Jonas Petter knew only three verses and part of the fourth; his father had sung the song to him when they worked as timbermen together, and he had managed to sing it from beginning to end while he set one log in place. The verses Jonas Petter had forgotten described the occupation in the timberman’s bed; but he couldn’t for the life of him remember how it went, except that in the timberman’s bed was made a timberman’s tyke, by a timberman’s “stud.” But, asked Jonas Petter, could there be anything easier than to be a stud, when you had the bed and the woman? He thought it might be more difficult not to.

The three men timbered up the house walls in five days, and on the sixth they put on the rafters and laid the roofing. Robert and Arvid handed up the turf, each piece fastened to a long pole, and the three men laid the sod over a layer of bark. So the house was ready with four walls and a roof.

The timbermen’s work was done, a house had been built in the same number of days as God had required in the beginning for the Creation. The seventh day arrived, and the almanac indicated it was a Sunday; and the timbermen kept the Sabbath and rested on the seventh day, while they inspected their handiwork; they found it good, strong, suitable for human habitation. A new home had been built, a solid, sturdy log house on secure footing, not to be felled by wrestling winds. It had been built to stand, by men who had built houses for farmers in Sweden, who had timbered the way their forebears had timbered through the centuries. A new house, of ancient construction, was built in a new land, on the shore of Lake Ki-Chi-Saga. His helpers had done their part, but the long, tedious work of completion remained for Karl Oskar before they could move in. First he laid the flooring; he placed the split linden trunks with the flat side up and fastened them to the joist logs with a wooden peg in each end. The planks were smooth hewn, and the floor turned out as even as it could be from hand-hewn boards. Through the front wall he cut a hole for a door, three feet wide and six feet and a half high; he wanted to be able to step over his threshold into his new home in America without having to bend his neck. He made the door of oak, heavy and clumsy as a church door; it would be a chore for the smaller children to open. He hung it by the strong, expensive hinges—the ones that had cost a whole dollar. Then he made a simple wooden latch for the outside, but on the inside he fitted heavy timbers for bolts, so that they could lock themselves in securely against their brown neighborfolk, if need be. He cut three holes for windows—one larger one, to the right of the door at the front, and a small one in each gable; the glazed sash, sent for from Stillwater, was fitted into these. He would have liked to let more of God’s clear daylight into his house, but he could not afford any more of the expensive glass.

Next in turn was the fireplace where the food was to be prepared; it would also be the source of heat and of light at night. He had lately worked as carpenter, timberman, and roofer, now he must also do a mason’s work, and this worried him. He asked Jonas Petter to help him, and with his skillful neighbor’s aid, he built a fireplace and chimney of stone, clay, and sand. Later, with less urgency, he would build a bake oven beside the fireplace.

The fireplace took up one corner of the house; in each one of the three remaining corners, Karl Oskar built a bedstead: one for Kristina and himself, one for the children, and one for Robert. Six feet from each gable and five feet from the side walls, he fastened posts to the floor on which he placed timbers long enough to be secured to the gable wall; this made the bed frames. Crossing these timbers and fitting between the wall logs he laid thinner scantlings for the bed bottom. He had seen beds built this way in an American settler’s house in Taylors Falls and he liked them; they were easy to make, yet ingenious and practical. During the coming winter he would make such furniture as they absolutely needed when he was forced to sit inside by the fire.

Karl Oskar brought Kristina over to their new house for a tour of inspection, to show her all he had done. He explained that everything was on the rough side—walls, windows, floor, door, and ceiling. There were no perfectly smooth surfaces—but he had done the best he could. And nothing was intended for looks, anyway, all was done to keep out rain, wind, cold. It could not be helped if the walls were a little rough, if the floor wasn’t quite even, if the door hung askew. Yes, the door did hang somewhat crooked, but she must remember the old saying: “Out of plumb is dumb, but a little lean cannot be seen.” Many planks might be poorly fitted, for he had used mostly pegs, he hadn’t driven a hundred nails into the whole house; the price of nails had worried him so much that he had thought a long while before using one.

Their new house was built roughly, but he was sure it would provide them with comfort and shelter.

Kristina said that this house was like a castle, it was heaven compared to the shanty! And she was well pleased with all she saw, especially their new beds; these were the most comfortable sleeping places they had since leaving home.

Karl Oskar assured her he would make the house still more comfortable for her. On the long back wall, between the beds, he intended to place an oak log, which would make an excellent sofa; next to the fireplace he intended to build shelves, he would drive pegs into the logs to hang clothes on, and as soon as he had time he would make her a table, surely before Christmas. By and by they would be quite comfortable in this house.

Kristina was aware of the rough timbers in the cabin, the unfinished walls; she saw better than her husband all that was crooked and out of line, but she had been deeply worried that the house would not be finished before winter came. How glad she was now that she could move into it! They had wandered about so long and had to change shelter and sleeping places so often—how wonderful it would be to settle down under a real roof, be within four solid walls, live in a house where they could stay!

Yes, Kristina was satisfied with their house of roughhewn logs, even though Karl Oskar said: “Wait till next time! Next time I’ll build a real . . .”

Even before they had moved into their new house he was planning the next one: This forest had timber enough for real mansions; as soon as he had improved his condition, he would build something larger and finer than any farmhouse in all Ljuder Parish! It would be at least two stories high, of the finest timber, elegantly finished.

Yes, he assured his wife, she could rely on him; their next house would be well finished, both inside and outside.

—4—

Karl Oskar made a cross in the almanac on the twenty-eighth of October—that was the day they moved into the new log house.

They invited their countrymen at the other settlement for a house-warming, and Anders Månsson and his mother were also asked. All the guests came in Anders Månsson’s ox wagon—the ungreased wooden wheels, ever moaning and squeaking, announced their arrival half an hour before the wagon emerged from the forest. Now the new house was filled with people jostling for seats. Karl Oskar had made a few chairs from sawed-off oak blocks, leaving a back rest sticking up, somewhat rounded to fit the back of a full-grown person. These made solid seats, but for the party he had to roll in ordinary blocks as well, and still some of the guests had to sit on the beds.

So they were again together, sixteen of them, all born in the same land, all speaking the same language. They had settled in different places, made up separate households, and had no possessions in common except their language, and this united them and held them together in their new country. They felt almost like close relatives. However kind and friendly people may be, if they are unable to speak a common language, they remain strangers. Today, no strangers had come to visit Karl Oskar and Kristina; their visitors seemed like blood relations.

Kristina had prepared a venison dinner; she had peeled the potatoes before boiling them, as was the custom at parties at home. She had boiled a whole kettle of cranberries; these berries were now ripening in great quantities in the bogs hereabouts, and they had a pleasing sour-fresh taste. To a housewarming the guests were supposed to bring gifts of food, and Ulrika had cooked the moving-in porridge, made of rice; she came with a large earthen bowl full of it. Jonas Petter had brought a keg of American brännvin. There were not as many dishes or as much of everything as was customary at housewarmings in Sweden, but all felt that they were sitting down to a great feast.

Karl Oskar and Kristina had invited their guests before they had a table; the food was served on top of their Swedish chest, around which they all sat down. Their guests said they too were still using their chest lids for food boards.

Ulrika had not been stingy when she cooked the housewarming porridge, it was sugar-sweet and won praise from all; before they knew it they had reached the bottom of the earthen bowl. As a young girl, Ulrika had occasionally worked as cook’s helper at Kråkesjö manor; she had learned cooking well and was handy at both stove and oven, when she had anything to cook with.

Today, for once, the settlers felt entitled to many dishes at the same meal, and they ate steadily and solemnly. At last the coffeepot was taken down from its hook over the fire, and a delicious odor of coffee spread through the cabin. Robert proudly showed the coffee grinder he had made for Kristina: he had hollowed out a stone to make a mortar with another stone for pestle, to crush the coffee beans. He had seen the Indians use such mills—their coffee now was ground Indian-wise.

All ate to their full satisfaction, and when Ulrika wanted to rise, the chair clung to her behind. She had eaten so much that she couldn’t get out of the chair, she blamed Karl Oskar who had made the seat too narrow for a grown woman; he ought to be old enough to know that women were broader across the behind than men; God had created them that way in order to make them lie steady on their backs those times when they obeyed His commandment to increase and replenish the earth.

Jonas Petter poured the American brännvin, and all drank—even the children were given a few drops each. Anders Månsson said the whisky was stronger than Swedish brännvin; at first it burned the tongue a little, but later it felt good in the stomach. Some people had a hard time getting accustomed to the taste of whisky, some had to keep at it persistently, it might take years; he himself had already become accustomed to it. The whisky was made from Indian corn, “Lazyman’s Grain” as it was called. He had planted this corn for the first time last spring.

“At home the brännvin is white, why is it brown here?” Kristina asked.

“They haven’t strained it carefully,” said Ulrika. “There’s mash in it.”

Jonas Petter had his own opinion: “It’s the color of cow piss but it tastes mighty good!”

Kristina and Ulrika both thought Swedish brännvin was sweeter and milder; this tasted pungent. But old Fina-Kajsa liked American brännvin better then Swedish: “Brännvin should be felt in the throat! It mustn’t slip down like communion wine!”

Anders Månsson’s mother had changed much since she had found her son; at times she sat silently by herself, staring straight ahead for hours, hardly hearing if she were spoken to. At other times she seemed to have lost her memory. Believing herself still on the journey, she kept mumbling, downhearted and confused: “Oh me, oh my! We’ll never get there! Oh me, oh my!”