His brother’s bloody back was an insult to Karl Oskar and to the whole Nilsa family. Since the father was lame and broken-down, and not able to defend his younger son, it thus became his duty.
Karl Oskar picked up his cap and went straight to Nybacken. At a distance he caught sight of Aron, who stood at the cattle well and hauled up water. Karl Oskar approached the farm cautiously, looking around as he crossed the barnyard. No one was in sight. It seemed he might have luck on this visit.
Aron did not notice Karl Oskar until the visitor stood next to him; he was so surprised that he almost dropped the well bucket which he was just removing from the hook. As he looked the unexpected caller in the face he began to retreat around the well curb, at the same time looking about as if in search of help.
“Are you coming to take your brother’s place? Then I’ll have a real hand!” He attempted a weak smile, timidly.
Karl Oskar went up close to the farmer of Nybacken. Aron could not move, his back was already against the wall around the well; he acted as if he intended to call for help.
“You’ve beaten my brother. You bastard! Do you realize he’s only fifteen?”
“He got a little chastisement, he was lazy and careless.”
“Drawing blood is not a little chastisement. You’d better get yourself another hand to flog. You’ll get none from my family.”
“Your brother had better be here tomorrow morning! Otherwise the sheriff will get him.”
“Come and get him yourself! You’ll get a welcome in Korpamoen!”
Aron’s face grew whiter.
Karl Oskar took another half step, forcing his antagonist still closer to the well curb. He looked quickly about: no one was in sight. Aron became panicky, dropped the pail, and was just going to call for help when Karl Oskar grabbed him by the neck, choking the words in his throat.
Karl Oskar pushed him slowly backward until he was extended across the well opening; Aron was a living lid over the well, he lay there kicking and struggling, terror-stricken. With Karl Oskar’s vise-like grip at his throat he was unable to produce any sound but puffs and grunts. He did not know if Karl Oskar intended to choke him to death, or drown him, or both, but he was convinced he was going to die.
And Karl Oskar let him think so for a few minutes.
He pressed the farmer’s throat a suitably long time before relaxing his grip. Aron collapsed like an empty sack against the well wall. Karl Oskar warned him that it would be enough for this time. They would undoubtedly meet soon again; it happened sometimes while they hauled timber during the winter. They had met more than once in out-of-the-way places — they might meet again, far from people. They would then continue their conversation. For he was most anxious to meet alone anyone who laid hands on a member of his family. And any bastard who attacked a fifteen-year-old was easy to handle.
Then Karl Oskar turned about and went home to Korpamoen. Robert met him at the gate.
“You’ll have no more trouble from Aron, that much I can promise.” Robert had never been intimate with Karl Oskar, who was ten years older. If anything, he had been a little afraid of his big brother. For the first time today they felt really close. Shyness prevented Robert from telling his brother what he wished to, but someday he would show Karl Oskar that he thought more of him than of any other person in the world.
— 3—
Robert remained in Korpamoen; but as he was a deserter, no one knew whether he would be left in peace at home. Karl Oskar advised him to be prepared to hide in the woods when visitors came.
A few days went by and nothing happened. Karl Oskar had suggested that Aron come to Korpamoen and get Robert, but he didn’t show up and Karl Oskar did not expect him; as he scanned the road now and then he feared other callers. And one evening before dusk as he was standing near the gate the bitch began barking. Karl Oskar looked down the village road: an open carriage was approaching the farm. Two men were sitting in the wagon, and one of them wore a cap with broad yellow bands which glittered at a distance.
Robert was at the sawhorse next to the woodpile and Karl Oskar ran to warn him. But as soon as the dog started barking his brother had thrown away the saw; he now saw Robert disappear into the wood lot near the byre.
The carriage stopped at the gate, and Karl Oskar went to meet his callers.
“Good day, Karl Oskar Nilsson.”
The long, wide uniform coat hampered Sheriff Lönnegren in his movements; he almost tripped as he stepped down from the carriage. He told his man to tie the horse to the gatepost.
Lönnegren was an unusually tall man. At fairs his head could be seen above all others. He was as strong as he was tall. When he had to stop a fight, he often grabbed one combatant and used him as a weapon against the other. When he corrected some wrongdoer he invariably said: You scoundrel! This was his word of greeting in the community when he executed his office. If he spoke to a more hardened person he would say: You big scoundrel! And when he dealt with thieves and criminals: You damned scoundrel! Lönnegren was severe in his office, but folk were agreed that he was not a bad man.
“I’m looking for your brother, the farmhand Robert Nilsson,” he said.
“He’s not in this house,” answered Karl Oskar.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know where he is at the moment.”
Sheriff Lönnegren gave the farmer of Korpamoen a piercing look. Karl Oskar looked back equally firmly.
The sheriff ordered his man to look around the farm and see if he could find the deserter.
He continued: “Aron of Nybacken has asked the assistance of authorities in bringing your brother back to his service. I presume you know he left last Sunday morning?”
“He left because the farmer flogged him.”
Lönnegren nodded: Aron had said that he had corrected his hand with suitable chastisement, as was the right of masters, according to paragraph 5 of the servant law. But this chastisement was intended to improve the servant: the boy ought to have accepted it in mild submission. It did not give him the right to desert.
“My brother has shown me his bloody back.”
The sheriff gave Karl Oskar another searching look.
“You’ve met, then? Has he been here?”
“Yes, but he isn’t here any longer.”
“Is he close by?”
“I don’t know how close he might be.”
Karl Oskar tried to evade the truth without lying.
The sheriff stroked his chin in deep thought. From his coat pocket he pulled a large stamped paper which he now unfolded. According to paragraph 52 of the servant law, and Chapter 16, paragraph 7, of the land code, a master had the right to enforce the return of a deserted servant. In the name of the law he now asked Karl Oskar to divulge his brother’s whereabouts.
“I am not responsible for my brother.”
“The boy has once before tried to get away. It’s a second offense.”
The sheriff’s man returned: the escaped one could not be found outside the house.
The sheriff’s patience was coming to an end. “You are harboring the deserter, you scoundrel! Turn him over!”
Karl Oskar answered: According to the law he did not consider himself duty-bound to help the authorities apprehend his own brother. In any case, he would first like to see the paper concerning such duty.
The sheriff did not answer; this big-nosed peasant was not born on the porch, he knew his rights. And if it were up to him alone, the boy might well go. It was a most unpleasant task to hunt poor farmhands who evaded the servant law. But law was law and duty was duty; it was his business to see to it that the servant law was followed.