Kristina answered: Man should not sit with crossed arms and shovel everything onto the Lord. She believed God might be more inclined to look after her if she tried to help herself a little.
Danjel was more sad than ever when he learned that Ulrika, his obedient disciple, tried to protect herself against the pestilence with a mustard plaster. He reproached her for this and said she committed the heavy sin of doubt when she relied more on a plaster made by herself than on her God. Did she think, while preparing this plaster with her own sinful hands, that she could do more than the Almighty? She provoked the Lord with the mustard plaster on her stomach, and he entreated her earnestly to remove it.
After Inga-Lena’s death, Danjel had admitted to Ulrika that he himself had been mistaken in his belief that one reborn was rid of sin forever: no human being on earth could be free from sin as long as he remained in a mortal body; neither he, Danjel, nor anyone else. All were wretched sinners, burdened by fallen man’s body as long as they lived. There was no hope except through God’s grace and mercy.
When Ulrika heard this, she was deeply upset and perplexed; how could Danjel fail her thus? Weren’t all her sins washed away, once and for all? Did Jesus no longer live in her body? She had believed what Danjel had told her, and now he retracted what he had said. But she didn’t want her sin-body back, under no conditions did she wish her old corpse back. Nor had she sinned with any man since coming into Danjel’s house and eating his bread. She had been cleansed — why then did not Jesus wish to remain in her? Ulrika felt cheated and insulted: she had confidently relied on Danjel’s word, and she demanded that he, as the Lord’s prophet, stand by his word. She had long obeyed him and been subordinate to him in all things, but now doubt stole over her: Was Danjel too weak a man to be the Lord’s messenger? Yet he looked so much like a prophet, with his long, wild-grown beard.
Now Danjel tried to frighten her with God’s wrath because of the mustard plaster she had prepared. She felt irresolute, wondering what to do. But she was not convinced within herself that she had angered God because of such a little thing. She left the mustard plaster in its place.
— 3—
Every unfortunate victim chosen by the cholera sickened so suddenly that one moment he stood erect and strong, and the next, he almost fell to the floor. In the sickbed he immediately grew so weak that he was unable to lift his head, he shook in convulsions and moaned pitifully; some screamed in agony before they sank into the merciful depths of unconsciousness. After this the shrouding cloth was soon brought forth.
On the Charlotta, Kristina had not been conscious when anyone died; at the time of the deaths around her she herself had been desperately ill. But now she remembered the night on the ship when she nearly bled to death: a few times she had heard a woman’s weak voice: “The poor little ones! I don’t want to die!” It had been a low, moaning cry, and she had wondered whence it came. She had learned afterward that Inga-Lena had died that same night; it was Inga-Lena who had cried.
And as she now sat with her children about her, Kristina thought: “I do not wish to die and leave them!”
She had seen other creatures die: she had seen the animals at the slaughter bench. She had always had a feeling of compassion for them and had tried to avoid being present at the slaughter. But sometimes, when the men had no other help, she had been forced to hold the bucket for the blood. She had seen the dying animals suffer, she had heard their moaning and bellowing as they lay there, chained down, feet tied, and had seen their helpless kicking and struggling as long as they could move. She had often cried over people’s cruelty to innocent creatures who had never done them harm, and she was often aware of her own share in this as she stood at the slaughter trough and received the butchered animal’s blood in her bucket.
As she now heard the victims of cholera she was reminded of the times when she had helped with the slaughter. Now it was human creatures who suffered, and when their agony was over, they were hastily buried in unconsecrated ground in the same way as carcasses of diseased cattle were flung into shallow graves in the wastelands.
God must help her; He was the only one she could turn to. She herself would do all she was able to, and then God must help her.
The youngest one of their group, Danjel’s daughter Eva, who had not yet learned to walk, was suddenly seized by the pestilence one morning.
The child’s face turned blue, her small limbs were contorted with convulsions, her body twisted itself into a round bundle. It seemed as if the arms and legs of the little one had been pulled out of their joints. She cried pitifully, and at times lay still and moaned; she could not describe her pains, but if anyone touched her she screamed. Ulrika gave her all the medicines and pills at hand, but she refused to swallow anything, either dry or fluid. She lay in the vise of cramp, and no one could help her.
After a few hours the child’s moaning died down. She was still, now, as if in deep slumber. Her breathing could still be heard, her heart still beat in her little body, but her breast fluttered up and down so quickly the eye could not follow its movements. Her last sounds were like a little bird’s peep in a bush. In the late afternoon she grew entirely silent.
Eva Maria Emilia, not yet a year old, died in Ulrika’s arms. And Ulrika would not give up the little one after her breathing had stopped. She sat with the dead child in her arms, her weeping shook her whole body. Danjel sat next to her, immobile, his hands folded. He did not weep, he prayed. God had again touched him and he uttered his prayers of thanks for this: he had been too deeply devoted to this his youngest child, and because of this God had taken her away from him. He could not belong to the Lord soul and body while he loved a living creature here on earth. He had idolized little Eva, now the idol was removed, and he thanked his God that He had taken her.
Danjel was beyond human compassion, nor did he seek mortal comfort. It was Ulrika of Västergöhl who was in need of comfort at this moment, she who had been a good foster mother to Danjel’s tender daughter, this daughter who had left the earth before she had learned to walk on it. And Ulrika remained sitting with the dead child in her arms until one of the crewmen came and took the little body away from her, and wrapped it in a piece of gray cloth.
At sunset the bell rang on deck, the prow turned shoreward, the steamer moored at an outjutting cliff. Two men with shovels in their hands went on land, one man carrying a small bundle. A flock of half-grown wild ducklings were disturbed and lifted from among the reeds; they flew noisily in circles over the cliff; they were mallard ducks, with beautiful feathers in changing colors. While dusk fell the men dug a hole behind the cliff. Soon they returned on board with their shovels; only a small grave had been needed this time.
Little Eva’s funeral was over. And while the steamer put out again and darkness quickly fell over land and water, the flock of ducklings, still disturbed, kept crying plaintively as they flew about over the promontory behind which was the newly dug baby grave.
— 4—
Their group had now lost one of its members. When, after this, they spoke to each other about the terrible pestilence, there was always in the mind of each: Who will be next?