Part 15

A gleam of intelligence flitted across Fiddle-John’s features, as he heard the name Jens Skoug, and he arose with bashful hesitancy and extended his hand to the talkative stranger. He remembered well that Jens’ family had emigrated, some ten years ago, to the United States, and he remembered also vividly the uncouth little creature in skin-patched trousers and ragged jacket who had embarked, at that time, in the great steamer that came to take the emigrants off to Bergen. And now this little creature was a tall, dazzling man with a silk hat and showy jewellery, and an address which a prince might have envied. Thus reasoned Fiddle-John in his simplicity. Such a marvellous transformation he had never in all his life witnessed. The name James Forrest which Jens had dropped by a deliberate accident also impressed him strangely. It seemed to add greatly to Jens’ magnificence. A man who could afford to have such a foreign-sounding name must indeed be a person of enterprise and prominence. It surrounded Jens with a delightful foreign flavor which captivated his friend even more than his brilliant talk. “Jens,” he said, making an effort to conquer his diffidence, “you have grown to be a great man, indeed. How could you expect me to recognize you?”

“A great man!” exclaimed Jens, expanding agreeably under his friend’s sincere flattery; “no, Fiddle-John, I am not a great man--that is, not yet, Fiddle-John. But I mean to become a great man before I die. In America, where I live, every man can become great if he only chooses to. But I thought, being young yet, that I could afford to spend a couple of months in opening to my countrymen the same road to fortune which is open to myself, before I settled down to tackle life in earnest. Fact is, Fiddle-John, as I said before, I have too much heart. My conscience would leave me no peace, whenever I thought of my poor countrymen who were toiling here at home for twenty-five or forty cents a day, and scarcely could keep body and soul together, while I could earn five and ten dollars a day as readily as I could blow my nose. I positively cried, Fiddle-John, cried like a girl, when I thought of you and your small chaps and of all the other poor fellows here in the valley who had such a hard time of it, tearing off their caps and bowing and scraping before the parson and the judge and all the big guns, while in America we step up to the President himself, wring his hand and say, ‘How are you, old chap? I’ll drop in and take pot-luck with you to-morrow, if you don’t happen to have company.’ And he, likely as not, will say to me, ‘Right welcome shall you be, Jim; bring a couple of good fellows along with you. We don’t stand on ceremony around the White House. Perhaps I may be able to hunt up a consulship or a foreign mission for you, if you should happen to be out of office and pressed for cash.’ Now, that’s what I call good manners, Fiddle-John, and the chances are ten to one that, if you call upon him with a note from me, he may set you up in a right fat office, where you may cock your head at parsons and judges and feel yourself as big as the very biggest.”

Fiddle-John listened with eager ears and open mouth to this alluring narrative. It did not occur to him to question the truth of what Jens said, for did not his appearance and his independent and dazzling demeanor plainly show that he was a great and prosperous man? And, moreover, how could he have undergone such a startling transformation in a few years, if it had not been true, as he said, that the President of the United States or some other mighty personage took an interest in him. Fiddle-John had often heard it said that in America all things were possible; and he had himself read letters from persons who here at home had been poor tenants or even day laborers, and who over there had become colonels, and merchants, and legislators. Therefore, he was not in the least surprised at the good luck which had overtaken his former friend. He was only surprised that the thought of going to America had never occurred to him before, and he made up his mind on the spot to sell his cow, his pig, and his three sheep, and take the first ship for New York. He could scarcely stop to bid Jens Skoug good-by, so eager was he to rush home and communicate his resolution to his wife and children. He foresaw that he would meet with opposition from Ingeborg; but he steeled his heart against all her entreaties and vowed to himself that this time he would have his own way. Was it not enough that she had once nearly ruined his life? Should he permit her again to snatch the chance of greatness away from him?

He was flushed and breathless when he reached his little cottage up under the mountain-wall. It had never looked so mean and miserable to him as it did at this moment. The walls were propped up on the north and west sides with long beams, and dry, brownish grass from last year grew in tufts along the roof-tree and drooped down over the eaves. His two sons, Alf and Truls, were playing bear with their little sister Karen, who was seven years old. But they rose hurriedly when they saw their father, and brushed the sand from the knees of their trousers. There was something in his bearing and in the expression of his face which vaguely alarmed them. He stooped no more in walking, but strode along proudly with uplifted head.

“Boys,” he cried, joyously, “run in and tell your mother, to-morrow we are going to America!” Ingeborg, who was just coming across the yard with a new-born lamb in her arms, paused in consternation, and gazed with a frightened expression at her husband.

“What has happened to you, John?” she asked, gently. “I thought that matter about the foreigner was settled long ago.”

“I tell you, no!” he shouted, wildly; “it is not settled. It never will be settled as long as there is breath left in my body. This time I mean to have my own way. Jens Skoug has come back from America, and he says that America is the place for me. I knew it all along, and whether you will follow me or not, I am going.”

“Follow you, John? Yes, if go you must, then I will follow you. But to America I will not go willingly, unless I know what we are to do there, and how we are to make our living. It is a long, long distance, John, across the great ocean; they speak a language there which neither you nor I understand.”

Fiddle-John turned impatiently on his heel, as if to say that he knew all that twaddle from of old; but Ingeborg, giving the lamb to Alf, went up to him, laid her hand on his arm, and said:

“You and I have lived together for so many years, John, and we love each other too well ever to be happy away from each other. Don’t let us speak harsh words. They rankle in the bosom and cause pain, long after they are spoken. If you must go to America, I will go with you. But I have a feeling that I shall never get there alive. I beg of you, don’t decide rashly and don’t believe all that Jens Skoug tells you. He was not a truthful child, and I doubt if he has grown up to be a good man. Let us say no more about it to-night. We will sleep on it, and see how it will look to us to-morrow.”

Fiddle-John was not a bad fellow; on the contrary, he was quite soft-hearted and easily moved. This wife of his had toiled in poverty and ill-health all her life long, and he had never offered to lift a finger to help her. Yet she loved him, accepting her lot meekly, and never uttering a word of reproach against him. He had never observed before how thin and worn she looked, how hollow her cheeks were, and how large her eyes. He felt for the first time in his life a pang of remorse. He had not been a good husband, he thought; not as good as he might have been. But then he was a great man, and great men were never the best of husbands. And when he reached America, and his greatness became generally recognized, and fortune began to smile upon him, then he would shower kindness upon her, and she would be rewarded a thousand-fold for all she had suffered. Surely, he would turn over a new leaf--in America.

Thus Fiddle-John consoled himself, when his conscience grew uneasy. When only they got to America, he reasoned, then everything would be right. He would have started without delay if Ingeborg’s health had not failed so rapidly that the doctor positively forbade her to think of travelling. The look of suffering and sweet forbearance upon her face seemed a perpetual reproach to Fiddle-John, and he roamed restlessly from one end of the valley to the other, playing, singing, and telling his stories, in order to earn money for the voyage, he said to his sons; but, in reality, to escape from the unspoken reproach of his wife’s countenance. But the day soon came when he needed no longer to flee from her presence. One bright spring day, just as the snow was melting, and the bare spots on the meadows steamed in the sun, Ingeborg closed her weary eyes forever; and a few days later she was laid to rest in the shadow of the old church down on the headland, where the song-thrush warbles through the brief Arctic summer night.

II.

Down in the valley the Easter bells were chiming; the bell-strokes trembled through the clear, sun-steeped air. There was commotion in the valley, too, in spite of the fact that it was Easter Sunday. Out in the middle of the fiord lay a huge black steamer, which panted and shrieked, as if it were in distress, and sent volumes of gray smoke out of its chimneys. Around about little black fragments of coal-dust were drizzling through the air and swimming on the water; and the gulls which kept whirling about the smoke-stacks were quite shocked when they caught the reflections of themselves in the tide; with wild screams they plunged into the fiord. They probably mistook themselves for crows.

The pier, which broke the line of the beach at the point of the headland, was thronged with men, women, and children. The men were talking earnestly together; most of the women were weeping, and the children were gazing impatiently toward the steamboat and tugging at their mother’s skirts. Some twenty or thirty boats, heavily laden with chests and boxes, lay at the end of the pier; and one after another, as it was filled with people, put off and was rowed out to the steamer. Only the old folk remained behind; with heavy hearts and tottering steps they walked up the sloping beach and stood at the roadside, straining their eyes to catch a last glimpse of the son or daughter, whom they were never to see again. Some flung themselves down in the sand and sobbed aloud; others stooped over the weeping ones and tried to console them.

At last there was but one little group left on the pier; and that was composed of Fiddle-John and his three children. Jens Skoug, the emigration agent, was standing in a boat, shouting to them to hurry, and the boys were scrambling down the slippery stairs leading to the water, while the father followed more deliberately, carrying the little girl in his arms.

There was a Babel of voices on board; and poor Fiddle-John and his sons, who had never heard such noise in their lives before, stood dazed and bewildered, and had scarcely presence of mind to get out of the way of the iron chains and pulleys which were hoisting on board enormous boxes of merchandise, horses, cattle, pigs, and a variety of other commodities. It was not until they found themselves stowed away in a dark corner of the steerage, upon a couple of shelves, by courtesy styled berths, which had been assigned to them, that they were able to realize where they were, and that they were about to leave the land of their fathers and plunge blindly into a wild and foreign world which they had scarcely in fancy explored.

The first day on board passed without any incident. The next day, they reached Hamburg, and were transferred to a much larger and more comfortable steamer, named the Ruckert, and before evening the low land of North Germany traced itself only as a misty line on the distant horizon. Night and day followed in their monotony; Russian Mennonites, Altenburg peasants, and all sorts of queer and outlandish-looking people passed in kaleidoscopic review before the eyes of the astonished Norsemen. It was the third day at sea, I think, when they had got somewhat accustomed to their novel surroundings, that a little incident occurred which was fraught with serious consequences to Fiddle-John’s family.

The gong had just sounded for dinner, and the emigrants were hurrying down-stairs with tin cups and bowls in their hands. The children were themselves hungry, and needed no persuasion to follow the general example. They unpacked their big tin cups, which looked like wash-basins, and took their seats at an interminably long table, while the stewards went around with buckets full of steaming soup, which they poured into each emigrant’s basin, as it was extended to them, by means of great iron dippers. Many of the Russians were either so hungry or so ill-mannered that they could not wait until their turn came, but rushed forward, clamoring for soup in hoarse, guttural tones; and one of the stewards, after having shouted to them in German to take their places at the tables, finally, by way of argument, gave one of them a blow on the head with his iron dipper. Then there arose a great commotion, and everybody supposed that the angry Mennonites would have attacked the offending steward. But instead of that, the crowd scattered and quietly took their places, as they had been commanded. They were an odd lot, those Mennonites, thought the Norse boys, who did not know that their religion forbade them to fight, and compelled them to pocket injuries without resentment.

Next to Alf, on the same bench, sat a swarthy boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, with yellow cheeks and large black eyes. He had a thin iron chain about his wrist and seemed every now and then to direct his attention to something under the table. Alf concluded that, in all probability, he had his bundle of clothes or his trunk hidden under his feet. But he was not long permitted to remain in this error. Just as the steward approached them and extended the long-handled dipper, filled with soup, a fierce growl was heard under the bench, and a half-grown black bear-cub rushed out and made a plunge for his legs. The frightened steward made a leap, which had the effect of upsetting the soup-pail over his assailant’s head.

A wild roar of pain followed, and everybody jumped on tables and benches to see the sport; while the Savoyard boy who owned the bear darted forward, his eyes flashing with anger, and hurled a flood of unintelligible imprecations at the knight of the soup-pail. There was a sudden change of tone, as he stooped down over his scalded and dripping pet, and, showering endearing names upon it, hugged it to his bosom.

The emigrants jeered and shouted, the waiters swore, and the purser, who had been summoned to restore order, elbowed his way ruthlessly through the crowd until he reached the author of the tumult.

“How do you dare, you insolent beggar, to bring a bear into the steerage?” he cried, seizing the boy by the collar, and shaking him. “Who permitted you to bring such a dangerous beast----”

His harangue was here suddenly interrupted by the bear, which calmly rose on its hind legs and, showing its teeth in an unpleasant manner, prepared to resent such disrespectful language. The purser took to his heels, while the steerage rang with jeers and laughter, and the Savoyard had all he could do to prevent his friend from pursuing him. The Norse boys, whose sympathy was entirely with the bear and his master, quite forgot their hunger in their excitement over the stirring incident; and when the Savoyard, feeling that the steerage was scarcely a safe place for him after what had occurred, mounted the stairs, dragging his bear after him, they could not resist the temptation to follow him at a respectful distance. But when they saw him crouching down behind the big smokestack and gazing timidly about him while he wiped the bear’s head and face with his sleeve, they could not conquer the impulse to make the acquaintance of so distinguished and interesting a personage. They accordingly sidled up slowly, holding their sister between them, and were soon face to face with the Savoyard.

“What is your name?” asked Truls with a boldness which raised him immensely in his brother’s esteem.

The Savoyard shook his head.

“What do people call you when they speak to you?” Truls repeated, raising his voice and drawing a step nearer.

“_Non capisco. Je ne sais pas_,” answered the boy in Italian and French, giving them the choice of the only two languages he knew.

“Capisco,” Truls went on confidently in his Norse dialect; “that is a very funny name. I am afraid you don’t understand me. It wasn’t the bear’s name I asked for; it was your own.”

The Savoyard shrugged his shoulders expressively, then poured out a torrent of speech which bewildered his Norse friends exceedingly. If the bear had opened its mouth and addressed them in the ursine language, it would not have succeeded in being more unintelligible.

“You are a very funny chap,” Truls remarked with a discouraged air. “Why don’t you talk like a Christian?”

He was determined to make no more advances to so irrational a creature, and was about to lead the way back to the dinner-table, when the arrival of the purser and the third officer of the ship again arrested his attention. The purser had evidently been hunting for the Savoyard; for, as he caught sight of him, he made an exclamation in German and called out to the third officer:

“There is the vagabond! Make him understand, please, that his bear must be shot and that he must get out of the way. He has taken out no ticket for his beast and we don’t take that kind of freight gratis!”

The third officer, who spoke French fluently, explained the purport of the purser’s remarks to the Savoyard, but in a gentle and kindly manner which almost deprived them of their cruel meaning. The boy, however, made no motion to stir, but remained calmly sitting, with his arm thrown over the bear’s neck and one hand playing with his paws.

The officer, seeing that his words had no effect, repeated his remark with greater emphasis. A startled look in the boy’s eyes gave evidence that he was beginning to comprehend. But yet he remained immovable.

“Get out of the way, I tell you!” cried the purser, drawing a revolver from his hip-pocket and pointing it at the bear’s head. “I have orders to kill this beast, and I mean to do it now. Quick, now, I don’t want to hurt you!”

The boy gazed for a moment with a fascinated stare at the muzzle of the terrible weapon, then sprang up and flung himself over the bear, covering it with his own body. The animal, not understanding what all this ado was about, took it to mean a romp, and began to lick his master’s face and to claw him with his limp paws.

“Well, I have given you fair warning!” the purser went on, excitedly, as he vainly tried to find an exposed vital spot on the bear at which he could fire. “If you don’t look out, you will have to take the consequences.” A large crowd had now gathered about them, and a loud grumble of displeasure made itself heard round about. The purser began to perceive that the sentiment was against him, and that it would scarcely be safe for him to execute his threat. Yet he found it inconsistent with his dignity to retire from the contest, and he was just pausing to deliberate when, all of a sudden, a small fist struck his wrist and the pistol flew out of his hand and dropped over the gunwale into the sea. A loud cheer broke from the crowd. The purser stood utterly discomfited, scarcely knowing whether he should be angry with his small assailant or laugh at him. He would, perhaps, have done the latter if the cheering of the people and their hostile attitude toward him had not roused his temper.

“Bravo, Tom Thumb!” they cried. “At him again! don’t be afraid of the brute because he has got brass buttons on his coat.”

“Good for you, Ashiepattle!” the Norwegians shouted; “go it again! We’ll stand by you!”

It was Truls, Fiddle-John’s son, who had thus suddenly become the hero of the hour; he had acted in the hot indignation of the moment and was now abashed and bewildered at the sensation he was making. He looked anxiously about for his brother and sister, and as soon as he caught sight of them, was about to make his escape when the purser seized him by the collar and bade him remain.

“You are a nice one, to be attacking your betters, who have never given you any provocation,” he said in German, which Truls, fortunately, did not understand. “I am going to take you to the captain, and he will have you punished for assault.”

He made a motion to drag the struggling boy away, but the crowd closed about him on all sides, and pressed in upon him with angry shouts and gestures. The third officer, who had so far taken no part in the proceedings, now stepped up to the purser and begged him to release the boy.

“Of course,” he said, “you are in the right; but if I were you, I would waive my right this time. It’s hardly worth while making a row about so small a matter; and it is always bad policy to go to the captain with squabbles and grievances, especially when they might so easily have been avoided. I assure you, you will only injure yourself by doing it.”

They talked for a minute together, while the ever-increasing throng surged hither and thither about them. Whether purposely or not, the irate purser, in the zeal of his argument, released his hold on Truls’ collar, and the liberated boy dodged away, as quickly as possible, and was soon lost in the crowd. The Savoyard and his bear had long before seized the opportunity to withdraw from the public gaze.

III.

The life on shipboard did not agree with Fiddle-John. Like a spoiled child, he was restless and unhappy when he was unnoticed. All day long he sat on the top of a coil of rope in the forecastle of the ship and sang. The forecastle was often deserted, and there were probably not many among the emigrants who would have been capable of judging whether his voice was in any way extraordinary. And yet, one there was who found an untold amount of comfort in listening to that clear, sweet tenor of Fiddle-John’s, and that one was the Savoyard boy. It had been his constant effort, since his encounter with the purser, to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, and it would have gratified him much if he had possessed some means of making the bear invisible. As the forecastle was the least visited portion of the ship, he had chosen to hide himself there behind the anchor-cable.

He trembled whenever anyone approached, and threw the end of the tarpaulin which covered the deck-freight over his friend, the bear. The only people whose company did not incommode him were Fiddle-John and his children, for whom he testified his devotion by smiles and gestures and all sorts of endearing Italian diminutives, which, on account of his caressing tones, even a dumb brute could not have failed to appreciate. After a long and exciting pantomime, Truls ascertained that his name was Annibale Petrucchio and that his bear gloried in the name of Garibaldi.