And the minister turned again to the youth and spoke to him in English; he spoke as slowly and clearly as he could and tried to extend his message to the whole group. The people here were friendly and good people, but afraid of strangers who might bring the cholera. The newcomers need have no fears, he was a minister here in town; now they must come with him to his cabin and he would take care of their belongings and have them brought inside for the night.
The pale, gangly youth did not try to explain to the rest of them what Pastor Jackson had said. But he pulled from his pocket a small book, the leaves of which he turned eagerly as if searching for something. The minister turned to a young woman with a whimpering child on either knee and took the smallest child in his arms. It was a baby boy, and he held him as carefully as though baptizing him. The child was wrapped in a soaking-wet shawl, and water dripped from the shawl and wet the minister’s clothing quite through.
Then Pastor Henry Jackson walked away with the child in his arms, and the whole group followed him. Last in the row came the youth he had spoken to, still searching in his book. He continued to turn the pages all the way until they reached the cabin, unable to find what he was looking for: Conversation with a Minister.
— 3—
Before Karl Oskar stepped across the threshold of Pastor Jackson’s cabin, he turned to Jonas Petter to seek his counseclass="underline" Was it advisable to believe this peculiar, bareheaded man? How could they know what he intended to do with them? Perhaps he was leading them to a lair of robbers and thieves? How could they know what kind of den they were stepping into?
“But he looks kind and helpful,” Jonas Petter said.
“That’s just it,” Karl Oskar insisted. Didn’t he know! The kinder and more helpful a stranger seemed in America, the more dangerous it was to go with him. He still carried on his body marks he could feel and see: a great scar on his chest and his left leg still aching. He did not believe in any stranger in North America.
“We need not be afraid. He is the minister in this town,” Robert said, with respect in his voice.
“Minister? He? No! He lies!”
Karl Oskar’s suspicions increased: this helper of theirs, going bareheaded outside, poorly dressed in worn trousers and a shirt that wasn’t too clean — this man a minister? If this man was a minister then he, Karl Oskar, could stand in a pulpit!
Robert insisted that the man had said he was a minister, and that meant a preacher. They could see for themselves in his book. But Karl Oskar thought Robert must have heard wrong. He had no confidence in his brother’s knowledge of the English language. And he suspected that the stranger was luring them away from the pier so that he might steal their belongings.
But as the bareheaded man wasn’t taking them so far away that they couldn’t keep an eye on their movables, his suspicions were somewhat allayed, and he went inside the cabin. He whispered, however, to Kristina: They must not forget, the most seemingly helpful persons might be the most deceitful.
Pastor Jackson busied himself making a great fire in the stove so that his guests might dry their wet clothing. The women undressed to their petticoats and hung their skirts to dry in front of the fire; the children’s wet garments were removed. The men weren’t much concerned over their wet clothing as long as they felt warmth; they elbowed each other around the stove. Their host attended to all their needs: he acted as though they were his nearest relatives come to visit him. They weren’t allowed to do a single chore — neither fetch water nor wood — he did everything himself, attended to them as if he were their servant.
He put a kettle on the stove and placed a sizable chunk of venison in it; fortunately, one of his church members had brought the gift to him this very day. He split some of his newly sawed logs and carried in dry pine wood and fed the stove until it was red hot. He put on a white apron and set his broad table with bread, milk, butter, sausage, cheese; he set out knives, forks, plates, and spoons as capably as a woman. He fussed over the children, warmed milk for them, found playthings for them. And during this whole time his guests sat wide-eyed and stared at him, struck dumb by all the work an unknown man in an unknown place was doing for them, and all the things offered them. He made his house their home.
And when they sat down to table, they discovered he was a cook worthy of a noble family; the venison was tender and juicy, melting in the mouth like butter. None among them had ever eaten such fare. Even Fina-Kajsa, with her single tooth, was able to chew this meat. And when they had eaten to their satisfaction, there was still a great deal of food left. As they sat there, sated and comfortable, they entirely forgot their miserable situation of a few hours earlier.
The women were still in their petticoats, but after the meal Ulrika took down her skirt, which had dried in front of the fire: “When I get my rump wet, I lose my good temper.” So saying, she gave Pastor Jackson her broadest smile of honest appreciation.
He smiled back, full of understanding, not of her words, but of her need for dry clothing. And he behaved toward her and all of them as if concerned with only one thought: Did they have all the food they wanted and were they comfortable?
As they were dry again, they had indeed all they could wish for. And all were satisfied; since landing in America they had never eaten so well and enjoyed food so much as this evening, and yet all of it was a gift.
Now they knew the bareheaded man who had met them on the pier; now all realized who he was. They didn’t understand what he said, but they understood what he did, and this was sufficient for them. Robert had asked if no one would help them, and this man was the answer: he helped them all.
After enjoying the food, the immigrants were also to enjoy rest. Pastor Jackson made up beds for his visitors. For his fifteen guests, big and little, he made beds over the entire floor of his cabin. He brought out sacks and filled them with hay for mattresses, he produced animal skins for covers; he made such roomy and comfortable beds that he himself could find no place to sleep in his own house — he said good night to his guests and went to sleep with a neighbor.
And they were barely awake the following morning when he was back, busying himself at the stove, preparing the morning meal for them. He boiled a pot of potatoes and beans, he warmed yesterday’s leftover venison.
Their benefactor told Robert he had sent for one of their countrymen as interpreter. And while they were still at their breakfast a small, tousle-haired man with a broad nose entered the cabin; he had on a black cobbler’s apron of skin which smelled of leather and wax. He greeted them all as if knowing them in advance: “I am Sigurd Thomassen. I am a Nordman.”
He spoke to the Swedes as if expecting them to know who he was: shoemaker in Stillwater, the only Norwegian in town.
The man was not exactly a countryman of theirs; Robert had been mistaken. But the Swedish immigrants understood his language as well as they had understood Captain Berger on the Red Wing, and they learned from him that Robert had been right in saying their host was a minister.
Karl Oskar felt ashamed of his suspicions yesterday; and all beheld in deep wonder the man whose guests they were, this kind American, now busying himself with women’s chores. A man of the clergy, called and ordained for the holy office of preaching the Gospel — yet here he was making beds, washing dishes, tidying up the house, sweeping, performing the chores of an ordinary maid. They could not comprehend it. They could not imagine this man in the white kitchen apron, standing in the pulpit in frock and collar, they couldn’t understand this man who scoured pots and pans on weekdays and would stand at the altar Sundays, administering the Holy sacraments. Why should a minister, able to preach, stoop so low as to perform menial kitchen chores?