“But America has no end. We’ll never get there! Oh me, oh my!”
Karl Oskar still kept the piece of paper with Anders Månsson’s address. “Have patience a little longer, Mother Fina-Kajsa. We’ll get there,” he comforted the old woman.
Robert and Arvid were looking down into the water, trying to figure out how fast they were traveling. Robert had read in his book about the Mississippi that it drained a greater area than any other river in the world, and that it flowed with a speed of four miles an hour. And their bearded Norwegian captain had said that the boat could move with a speed of two miles an hour. This didn’t seem to make sense; if the river flowed faster than the steamer moved, they wouldn’t get forward at all, rather backward.
Robert deducted the speed of the steamer from the speed of the current — two minus four — then he said: “Now I’ve figured it out. We go two miles backward an hour! We’ll soon get back to the ocean again.”
“Christ in heaven!” Arvid exclaimed in terror. “Not back on the ocean again! I told you we should have walked once we were on dry land!”
But Robert’s figures did not give the truth of the matter. By watching the shores they could see for themselves that their boat was moving upstream. Luckily, Robert had been mistaken.
He asked his brother how the boat could move faster than the river even though the river moved faster than the boat? Karl Oskar said, perhaps Captain Berger had counted in Norwegian miles. But he did not wish to be drawn into arguments about miles and distances, he had already had enough trouble with the difference between Swedish and American miles.
Ever since Ulrika had found Lill-Märta in Detroit, harmony had reigned among the group; there was no longer talk of anyone’s leaving it. They realized that in their situation they could be of help to each other. After reaching these distant regions where their language separated them from other travelers, their group had become more unified than before: they owned one thing in common — their language. Since Landberg’s departure in Chicago, they had been left to rely on themselves, and a greater intimacy had sprung up among them. Kristina said if they all stuck together, they would get along; she told them the secret of success was that none must be proud. No one must feel above anyone else. They mustn’t act the way they used to at home in Sweden.
And they all agreed not to dig up old quarrels and scandals from their homeland; the past must be dead and buried forever. Ulrika had been the parish whore and spent time in prison; Danjel had many times been punished with heavy fines for breach of religious laws and had been threatened with exile by the authorities; both were now banned by the church in Sweden; but who cared about that out here? The deeds for which they had been punished in Sweden were not considered crimes in America. Moreover, no one here cared what they had done in Sweden. Why then bring it up among themselves? More and more they began to realize that Sweden was an antiquated country, behind the times, her unjust laws written by the masters that they might dominate the simple people. Here in America they could tell both the bishop and the sheriff to go to hell. As Jonas Petter put it, they could tell all of them — the bishop, the dean, the warden, and the sheriff — to kiss their bottoms.
The health of the travelers was improving. At little Eva’s death, on their previous boat, nearly all had felt pains and aches, but they had escaped the cholera. Ulrika had become perfectly well the moment she stepped aboard the Red Wing though at first sight of the steamer she had refused to go near it: one wheelhouse had an inscription in tall letters — PACKET. In Swedish packet meant rabble, mob, loose people. If they were to be lodged in the part of the ship called packet, she refused to go near it. Here in America all were supposed to be equal, and no one group ought to be called packet. She calmed down only after the Norwegian captain’s explanation that packet meant his steamer carried mail.
The captain had risen in unmarried Ulrika’s estimation since he addressed her as Min Fru. Apparently all men in America raised her to married status. Now, too, she was well again and without pain. She believed the mustard plaster had saved her from the cholera. In spite of Danjel’s friendly remonstrance, she had used it, but for a few days she had worried lest God punish this disobedience to His apostle. Never before had she disobeyed Danjel. However, the Lord God had not taken revenge because of her plaster, and now she wondered if she should always follow Danjel’s advice and warnings. She had noticed he was not as stern as before; it seemed as if he sometimes doubted that he had been chosen to guide their souls.
Kristina looked after Karl Oskar’s wound, which was healing well, but his chest was sore and blue all over and it hurt when he breathed. In his left leg some stiffness remained, and he still limped a little. His Swedish good luck had deserted him in America, Kristina insisted.
Since they had now been a whole month on their journey from New York, Karl Oskar was thinking of writing another letter to Sweden; but he decided to wait until they arrived at their place of settling. There was nothing new to tell his parents; nothing had happened that was worth mentioning in a letter.
As they sat together on deck they spoke for the first time in a long while about their old homeland, and now it appeared Karl Oskar was the only one who had written home to Sweden. Danjel had no one to write to there; after the church had pronounced its bann, none of his relatives would have anything to do with him, no one expected a letter from one who was exiled, no one cared what happened to him after his departure. His servant Arvid could not write. Jonas Petter could write, and he had his wife Brita-Stafva to write to, but after twenty years of daily quarrels they had at last reached complete disagreement, so he had left her; he was in no hurry to write to the cause of his emigration; nor would he have anything to say to his wife, except that he was glad to be rid of her, and that she already knew.
When she heard them speak of letters home, Ulrika of Västergöhl exclaimed: “Write to Sweden? But that country doesn’t exist any more! That hellhole is obliterated from the face of the earth!”
Jonas Petter asked what she meant by this, and Ulrika explained: When leaving Karlshamn, Danjel had said that their old homeland would immediately perish. The Lord’s vengeance would smite the land which had put His faithful in prison on bread and water. The Lord God had long intended to destroy Sweden, but He had to wait until Danjel and his followers had left. Soon four months would have passed since their ship had sailed away, and undoubtedly divine judgment had by now been meted out; the Almighty had surely stricken Sweden and erased her from the earth. If they wanted to send letters home, Ulrika suggested they address them to Hell Below, if mail were delivered there.
Danjel admitted in a low voice that at the departure he had made a prophecy concerning the homeland’s imminent destruction. But he did not know whether the Lord had as yet carried it out. Perhaps the Lord in patience held back His avenging hand.
Kristina looked at her uncle and shook her head: Surely the Last Judgment could not have taken place in Sweden without having been noticed here in America? Or what did he think?
Danjel turned his kind eyes toward his sister’s daughter: He would never again prophesy the Day of Doom; he had now learned that this happening was not postponed until the end of the world but that every day, for every mortal, old or young, was a day of doom. For the Last Judgment was the judgment of conscience within one’s soul, it was meted out in the heart of every pious Christian each time he committed a sin.