A New Day Rising (10 page)

"They treat the cattle better'n us, and we paid good money for these tickets." The man who'd claimed the bunk below Hjelmer's muttered his complaint.

Hjelmer nodded. He heaved himself up into the space he'd staked out as his own to let a family of four squeeze by. How he wished he had been at the head of the line and grabbed a bunk where he could at least see the sky when one of the hatches was opened. The dark seeped from the walls like a malevolent beast seeking to destroy all hope. How could he handle the dark and cramped quarters for seven days, and that only if they weren't delayed by storms? Kerosene lamps guttered from posts on the main aisle, their stench adding one more layer to the stew of odors.

After the last emigrants made their way down the companionway, the rumble of the steam engines that already made the floorboards quiver changed timbre. The hatches slammed closed, and with a shudder the huge screws commenced to turn, and the ship eased away from the dock.

Someone began to pray in a loud voice. The language was German as far as Hjelmer could tell, and the tone held fear and foreboding.

Hjelmer piled his bags at one end of his bunk and leaned against them, stretching out his legs. While he had a book to read, the light was far too dim for such an activity, likewise for the carving of the bird he'd started while waiting in line. Never one to be idle, he felt himself begin to fidget by the time the vessel reached the open sea.

He knew when that happened because he felt the difference in wave pitch. His months on the North Sea with Onkel Hamre had taught him much about the weather and waves. The huge steamer plowed through the swell, but not without some rise and fall motion. It wasn't long before the smell of vomit dominated the air, already dank from the number of people breathing, coughing, and crying.

A little girl in the bunk across from him hadn't stopped her tears since they boarded.

Hjelmer thought to Katja at home. She would look on the voyage as a grand adventure and soon be entertaining all the children within earshot with the stories that flowed from her fertile mind.

A sigh of relief went up when the hatches were opened and one of the ship's crew bellered, "All you down there, line up and come topside while the weather holds."

Someone must have understood his words, because as soon as a few climbed the steep passageway, others followed. Hjelmer grabbed his carving and knife and joined the line. He should have practiced his English as Roald had written, but no one on the fishing boat spoke the new language, and he'd not bothered to locate a teacher once he returned home.

Two other young men joined the line behind him. He turned with a grin and an outstretched hand to introduce himself. When they answered in Swedish, Hjelmer switched to that language. Since Norway lay under the auspices of Sweden, Swedish had become the official language of Norwegians also and was taught in the schools.

"Do either of you speak Amerikan?" he asked.

They shook their heads. "They said we didn't have to learn it, that we will get along just fine with our own language. Learning Amerikan is a waste of time."

Hjelmer shrugged and stepped up onto the deck. Drawing in a deep breath, he made his way over to the rail. Never had he been so grateful for the wind and spume from the tips of the rollers as the ship's prow cleaved the waves. If he never went below again, he wouldn't mind at all. Except to get his belongings, of course. Were they safe below? The thought hadn't entered his mind until this moment. And his father had cautioned him repeatedly about protecting his bags. Surely no one would dare steal from other emigrants while on the ship. There was nowhere to hide.

He found a nook in the lee of one of the funnels, sat cross-legged on the deck, and took out his wood and knife. As soon as he finished the seagull, he planned to start carving spoons. Mor said a woman always needed more stirring spoons, so he thought to make a set of different sizes for ingeborg and Kaaren. He knew he should be carving hammer and chisel handles for working the forge, but he'd learned early that people appreciated gifts. The bird, that was something else. His fingers itched to create images of the wild creatures he saw, so an eagle on a limb and a puffin on a rock were some of his creations that lined the shelves of his mother's house.

"Hey, mister, what you doin'?" The little girl who'd been in tears now squatted in front of him, her arms crossed on her knees.

Hjelmer held up the bird. "Carving."

"Ain't that pretty." She reached out a cautious finger to smooth it over the extended wing. "Where'd you learn to carve like that?"

"Practice. My father taught me in the beginning."

"My father don't do such nice things."

Another child joined her, and soon Hjelmer sat in the midst of an admiring audience.

"Tell me about the bird." The little girl crossed her legs, mimicking the way Hjelmer sat. Others followed suit.

Hjelmer wrinkled his brow. Here, he'd thought to have a moment to himself, and now he had an audience who wanted a story, no less. "Well, it is a seagull. You've seen them all around the docks and some are even now above us." He pointed to the white gulls shrieking and crying on the wind and in the rigging of the foremast.

"So." The children's gazes followed his pointing finger.

"So, soon we will leave the birds behind, and now I have one to remember them by. Where I am going in Dakota Territory, I'm sure there are no seagulls." As he talked, he continued to roll bits of shavings off the emerging bird.

A bell clanged somewhere. Parents came by and took their children off with them. Finally, a crewman stopped. "Time to get below now.,,

While Hjelmer didn't understand the words, he recognized the signal. "Ja, I go." He put the bird in his pocket, gathered up his shavings, and followed the human herd below.

That night, after a supper of soup and hard bread, he lay on his bunk and let his thoughts fly home on the back of the west wind. He could see his family gathered around the oval oak table in the warm kitchen, redolent with the flavor of lamb stew and fresh bread. Perhaps Mor had made fatigman, dusted with cinnamon and sugar. The coffee would be rich and hot.

Somewhere aft, a concertina struck up a polka, joined by the strains of a fiddle. While there was no room for dancing, the music lilted the length of the vessel and helped salve the remembrances of home.

They could have used the music in the morning to cover the unpleasant sound of vomiting. The seas had roughened, bringing with it the agony of seasickness.

Grateful for his sea legs, Hjelmer spent every moment he could topside. When the ever present wind bit so deep that his shaking hands refused to hold the carving knife, he walked the decks and visited with other young men who did the same. Whenever he heard someone speaking English, he stopped to listen. A few words became obvious. "Good-bye, hello, hey you, yes, no." One couldn't go far with such a limited vocabulary. But none of the other emigrants seemed to care about learning the language. Like the young men he'd met the first day and continued to see, all stayed within their own kind.

The third day out, Hjelmer came upon a card game. Thanks to the tutelage of the fishermen on Onkel Hamre's boat, Hjelmer had gained real skill in the games of chance. In fact, some had said he was gifted. He didn't need a second invitation to join in.

They sighted land on the eighth day, eight of the longest days Hjelmer had ever endured, even with the distraction of playing cards. He stored his winnings in the pouch with the carved seagull and wrapped them in his extra shirt. Slinging one bag over his shoulder and clutching the other now lighter because of his eating some of the rock-hard biscuits, he reached the passageway before most of the others. On deck, he joined the crowd at the rail facing south. As they steamed into the harbor, scaffolding and construction equipment nearly covered a small island near to the shore. Workers swarmed over the site, and the clang of hammers and shrill of saws carrying on the breeze could be heard over the now diminished engines in the hold of the ship. Barges loaded with lumber, gravel, and sand butted up against the piers like piglets nursing on a sow.

He made his way to the bow and caught his breath in amazement. Before him lay the city of New York, glimmering in the sunlight reflected off a thousand windows. Buildings as tall as the highest pine trees of Nordland, and taller yet, marched into the distance. As the ship he rode eased its way into the berth, he couldn't absorb the sights fast enough. Tall ships, squat boats, barges, flags of every stripe and nation, long piers, men of every shape and color. Such bustle, hurrying, shouting. Never had he seen such pandemonium.

The first-class and second-class passengers left the ship first. The steerage held back until all the baggage was removed. Finally, in orderly lines, the emigrants filed off the ship and up the crowded pier to solid land.

Hjelmer strode toward Castle Garden, where they'd been told the officials would pass them through. Once through the line, he planned to head for the railroad station and board the first train west.

Suddenly a piercing scream rent the air.

Hjelmer swung around. A cry for help sounded the same in any language.

The scream came again. Sobbing and screaming.

Back along the pier a woman leaned over the edge and pointed to the water.

Hjelmer dropped his bags and sprinted to the edge of the pier. Down in the water, filmed with oil sheen and cluttered with flotsam and jetsam, a small child thrashed and sputtered.

Without a thought, Hjelmer dived in. He surfaced, shaking his head to throw the water out of his eyes, and treading water, he looked around. Two strokes and he had the child in a strong grip.

"I have you, easy now." He murmured the words, not caring if the child understood or not.

Dark terror-filled eyes peeked out from dripping hair that curled on the child's forehead.

Someone threw him a rope. He grabbed it, pulled the child close to his chest and let them haul him back to the dock. With fingers shaking from the frigid water, he knotted the rope under the child's arms and patted the heaving chest. "You will be all right now."

Another rope flopped in the water beside him, and he pulled himself up.

Standing on the dock, dripping water and shivering in the wind off the river, he accepted the mother's thanks.

"Velbekomme."

He ducked his chin into his chest. Someone wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. "M-Mange takk." He could hardly speak, his teeth chattered so hard.

Hjelmer nodded at the comments of gratitude and appreciation flowing from the emigrants gathered around him. He started back to where he'd dropped his bags. He had to get into some dry clothes before he- caught his death of cold. - - - - - - --- -

The black seabag, the leather carpetbag that held his train tickets, his winnings from the card games, and all his worldly goods were nowhere to be seen.

horliff," Kaaren said, brushing a strand of sun-kissed hair from her forehead, "run out to the barn and get Onkel Lars." She turned to her guests. "He's working with the forge, and you know how noisy that can be. Here, sit down, sit down, and we'll have coffee." When she turned to the stove, Ingeborg stopped her.