But Now I See: Book 1 of "To Sing God's Praise: A Journey in Three Parts"

By Carl Jon Munson and Katie LC Philpott

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Amos Nordquist didn’t start out to be a minister, much less one in the American Civil War. Strong, handsome, intelligent, and wealthy, he intended to eventually head Nordquist Shipping, the Swedish shipping company begun by his father, Stig Nordquist, decades earlier. A devastating storm at sea, however, destroys two Nordquist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Earthen Vessel Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780996859080

Carl Jon Munson

Carl Jon Munson lives in Bellevue, Washington with his wife, Wendy Lynn Munson, and is "Dad" to seven, all grown. "To Sing God's Praise: a Journey in Three Parts" was written over a period of twenty-four years and is Munson's first novel series. The purpose of the trilogy is educational: reliving significant events generally overlooked in the annals of history, and the extent to which faith was a formative influence in adolescent America.

Book preview

Prologue

Meeting Angus MacGregor

1884

A batholith is a large intrusion of solidified magma that did not reach the earth’s surface as it cooled. Within solidified magma, subterranean fissures or dikes can form, eventually

filled by younger magma and, as millions of years elapse, the entire batholithic structure is pressured by multiple geological forces including continental uplift, exposing the batholith. During the Mesozoic Era that’s how the Montana/Idaho Bitterroot Mountains formed.

Subsequent eons of geological, glacial and atmospheric events ground, gouged, scored and eroded the old solidified magma, sometimes uncovering mineral wealth, often in exposed dikes. The earth’s surface contains copper at 50 parts per million (ppm) and gold at 0.005 ppm, and finding gold lying along creek beds is unlikely, but in 1882 that’s what happened in the Bitterroot Mountains, attracting men from everywhere.

January, 1884

Dawn sunlight pushed through the leaden overcast above the steep, snow-covered hillsides as one of those men, Amos Nordquist, lay sleeping in his soogan, or bedroll, spread on the unfinished boarding room’s cold, rough-sawn floor boards, the room’s woody dankness preferable to a snow covered tent outside. Nocturnal breathing formed frost on Nordquist’s mustache, making him look older than his 41 years. In the pleasant predawn state sandwiched between deep sleep and wide awake, the vision of his beautiful wife, Anna, was talking to him, saying things he wanted to hear, and he felt her presence as if back with her in Minnesota. Were it up to her, he would be. She knew that bringing the word of God to uncivilized Murray, a town begun overnight, blooming in the light of the American West’s last major gold strike, could be more readily accomplished by her husband than lesser men. She had uncharacteristically questioned, however, the wisdom, even sanity, of the church calling him across the Great Plains to some Bitterroot Mountain boomtown in the middle of winter, leaving behind a wife and three daughters.

Her concerns might have been justified when two weeks earlier Nordquist and his small party became lost in prairie snows while searching for the Little Big Horn battlefield south of Billings – a visit Nordquist wanted to make because he served under Custer at Appomattox. A scouting party of Christian Sioux, no longer trusting the machinations of their medicine man, gave redirection in exchange for medical attention to sick Sioux children. At the tribal encampment, with big, bearded, bearskin-clothed companion Fur man interpreting, Amos told Bible stories.

Story-telling was the primary form of Sioux entertainment and, to the displeasure of some older chiefs and younger braves, much of the tribe gradually gathered to hear about the miracles, death and resurrection of Jesus the promised Messiah, and stories like Noah and the ark (for which the Sioux had a similar story of a great flood), Moses on Mt. Sinai, Joseph’s reconciliation with his brothers, and what would become the tribal favorite: David and Goliath.

Leaving the tribe, Amos and the other men in the party returned safely to Billings where Amos re-boarded the Great Northern train and travelled west to Thompson Falls, the end of the line. There Amos bought a horse, and two nights ago overcame a blinding blizzard on the Bitterroot Mountain pass from Thompson Falls to Murray.

Now, still half asleep, enjoying the vision of Anna for whom he would send after building a parsonage, he subconsciously brushed his hand over his mustache, removing some of the frost but upsetting his reverie, waking him.

Unwilling to leave the relative warmth of his soogan, he remained motionless. As a sense of urgency set in, however, he slid out from the bedroll and, still sitting on the cold wood floor, began forcing his boots over his stocking feet. His several pairs of socks had not been changed since re-boarding the train at Billings, and would not be changed now.

Apart from his boots, Amos did not undress the night before, not even removing his heavy coat. Shivering nevertheless as he stood up, to stimulate his system he flexed as he considered his new flock: the expanding town’s citizenry. Time to begin the Lord’s work in Murray, he thought, opening and closing his big hands.

He suddenly sensed he was not alone. His eyes narrowed as the hair on his arms rose and he felt a clinging sensation like attic cobwebs, the sinister numen having dogged him from Sweden to America. The Old Evil. The feeling reminded him of when, years earlier as a cabin boy, his father’s ship was berthed on the east coast of Africa with supplies for British-occupied Ft. Jesus, a Christian sanctuary within the Moslem island of Mombasa. Once ashore with others, in the hot Kenyan air he excitedly ran along the water’s edge, leaving the others walking behind.

As he ran, distancing himself from the armed seamen, his peripheral vision yanked his line-of-sight to his right, and panic suffused him as he saw the island’s alpha female-led clan of hyenas, eyes malevolent and dark above slavering grins, intelligently watching him from the brush and tall grass just above the beach. With so much death around Mombasa, hyenas had become accustomed to feeding on human flesh, attacking isolated children or small adults when the opportunity availed, dragging them away before ravenously ripping and ravaging them, leaving little for ubiquitous Mombasa vultures.

As Amos stopped, locking into the alpha female’s laughing eyes, the alpha female began to move forward. Terrified, adrenaline shooting through his system, Amos spun, cried out and raced like the Kenyan wind toward the distant adults who, seeing what was happening, in panic sprinted wide-eyed toward him, drawing pistols, the hyena clan leaping from the tall grass.

Tears blurring his vision as his feet moved as fast as they could in the sand, Amos stumbled, falling while still running, covering his head, anticipating the worst, but the fall was fortuitous, giving the men clear shots at the attacking hyenas. The men hit the alpha female in front with pistol fire before she reached Amos, and the beta female, fangs bared, was hit just as it reached him. But instead of sinking her teeth, she tumbled over him and lay on her side, her legs still running for a moment. All motion stopped as she lay still in the sand four feet from his head while another hyena caught additional fire. The remaining clan turned and raced back up into the tall grass as vultures circling high in the sky began to slowly spiral downward, landing cautiously nearby on the beach.

The sensation caused by the alpha female’s laughing eyes, and the sensation of Old Evil, were similar except Old Evil was an invisible, lurking thing whose presence injected creeping trepidation through Nordquist’s skin like Bitterroot Mountain cold.

While the Old Evil no longer truly frightened Amos, the Spirit within him being stronger and opposite, the ghostly feeling in the cold room was more than annoying. Jaws clenched, he put his wide-brimmed, black leather hat over his black hair and, while pulling on his sheepskin gloves, walked to the room’s door, and grabbed the latch. As he pulled, there was no movement; the heavy door of wet, rough-sawn boards was frozen shut. Seemingly trapped with Old Evil at his back, but over six feet tall and preternaturally strong, Amos ignored the crawling sensation, focusing on the door handle in his hand. He made no attempt to yank the door open, realizing that with his strength he might rip out the latch.

Grimacing, with his right hand he squeezed and pulled with measured, constant force while loudly pounding the upper door with his gloved, left hand, and kicking the base with his right boot until the door jamb surrendered its icy grip and the door jerked open, reciprocally banging against Amos’s boot.

Amos smiled, took a deep breath and expelled it as he stepped through the doorway and out into the icy air, closing the door behind him. For a moment he stood focusing his senses to see if…the Old Evil had not followed. Would it be there when he returned? But when wasn’t it around, constantly attempting to undermine his efforts, reverse his successes?

His breath vaporizing thickly before him, he brushed his hands together and slipped them in his pockets as his incisive eyes studied the snow-laden hillsides that surrounded the town of Murray like cold men crowding around a campfire, the aged mountains in turn watching self-absorbed newcomers whose conceit allowed them to call this rugged area the new country when there was nothing new about it.

The ragged ridges above snow-coated, treed hillsides reminded Amos of his native Sweden where snow and ice covered hillsides four-to-six months of the year; a severe land that created hard, uncomplaining people like Gustavus Adolphus, the Lion of the North; and Charles XII, the Last of the Vikings, who led his formidable armies by both rank and example, meeting or exceeding their hardships during long marches, dropping to his knees twice daily for prayer, his great army following in kind.

Amos lowered his gaze, studying the nascent town: snow-covered tents, shanties of shakes and canvas, cabins of logs and shakes, and, with a new sawmill in nearby Eagle City – named City in hope of becoming one – some frame buildings under construction in spite of the snow.

Warring with winter, men bustled about. The new harvest, Amos thought. Careful of his balance, he pushed through the snow toward the biggest saloon, Dutch Jake’s, still in a large tent, perhaps once part of a circus, partially blending in with the mist-shrouded hillsides. As he lurched steadily forward, ahead of him, hunched-over, shaggy, bearded men in heavy coats, leather gloves and wide-brimmed hats were quickly entering or leaving the saloon. Men teemed and swirled like blizzard flakes along a rewhitened street covered by packed snowfall over frozen mud, the surrounding snow-covered hillsides absorbing the sound. Pastor Nordquist intended to engage others in conversation, letting them know he was both a friend and a minister, here to serve them.

Later that day, Pastor Nordquist found three men willing to pray with him, asking for an outpouring of the Holy Spirit in Murray…until, while praying, it became evident they weren’t sure what this meant. When Amos explained and asked them to pray with him for conversion, they again prayed without entirely understanding what they were praying for. After warmly shaking their hands, Pastor Nord-

quist studied them as they walked away uneasily glancing at each other, and, as he had done for many others, silently prayed God would draw them to Jesus so they could experience the peace and joy of conversion, about which they knew nothing.

Pastor Nordquist believed removal of ministry obstacles was God’s responsibility, not his, and while some difficulties might be impossible for Amos to surmount alone, they were never impossible for the Almighty.

For the next two days, Pastor Nordquist spent most of his time in saloons, all still in tents, befriending others. As he did so, he met the men who came for the gold: men with hope who would sacrifice and work hard. But there were also the drifters – some leaving a previous town just ahead of the posse – who followed boomtowns mushrooming across the West, restless for excitement.

Some changed their names, some multiple times, fitting a new handle to an old axe, and Amos was never completely sure of to whom he was talking. Most men wore side arms, and some acted furtively, saying very little, obviously fearful of being identified. In conversation with such men, Amos wondered what they left behind.

While some men had wives and loved-ones back east, and would eventually bring them west, most were alone – they rode alone, lived alone, acted alone, and anyone friendly toward them was viewed with suspicion. Saying you’re a pastor would be great cover for a U.S. Marshal.

All conversation verified the Lord had one representative in Murray.

And no other Scandinavians had come to town. In conversation, Amos’s accent would unintentionally undermine the good intent of the English words he spoke.

He found that few of the expanding Murray population were churchgoers, and in one way this simplified matters: he need not deal with denominational dogma. For Amos, as Charles Spurgeon once said, the audience wasn’t in the pews, the audience was in heaven, and to Amos it mattered little if someone was a deacon or a drunkard if they were dead in their sins.

Many Murray newcomers of Irish descent, however, held religious convictions summarized, as one man responded, If it aihn’t Cath’lic, I aihn’t t’ be bothered. While Churchianity could occasionally be more difficult to overcome than unbeliever apathy, in the past Amos found most with some religious leaning had an arable spirituality in which seeds of faith could be planted, cultivated and, with the Lord of the Harvest drawing them to Jesus, true Christian faith attained. And while Amos wasn’t Catholic, he wasn’t non-Catholic, as a later conversation would verify.

Amos was undaunted. In a boomtown having reached several thousand people, it seemed there were an identical number of souls to be saved. Amos had no misgivings about going into Murray bars filled with coarse men of limited intellect. He did not proselytize, judge or preach, but, rather, tried to leave the honest impression he and they were kindred souls. Amos was a stark contrast to the men he met, however, and in varying degrees made others uncomfortable. Most treated him with respect but, to the vexation of Amos who wanted only their eternal salvation, kept their distance.

Amos observed that when it came to right and wrong, these things didn’t count for much in Murray. A group called The Committee avenged any prospectors and miners harmed, exacting an eye for an eye – and then some – as the need arose. Otherwise, men lived according to frontier law, meaning there was no law. From stories heard while at sea years ago, Amos knew that in the absence of law and staying conscience, the base nature of men can take free rein and, when that happens, sins multiply like maggots beneath an outhouse seat. While discouraging sinful behavior was an indirect reason for Amos being in Murray, his overriding purpose was to present the message of the gospel – Christ’s solution to the eternal consequence of that sinful behavior.

When witnessing, Amos found that ignorance of God’s laws was not an obstacle. These men knew they were sinners and had fallen short of the glory of God; they just didn’t care to be reminded. Many were painfully aware of their shortcomings and mistakes. The majority of men in Murray weren’t there because of success elsewhere; many had failed time and again. But salvation? Hoping to salvage a life of failure, men focused on finding gold not God.

As Christ spent time with the downtrodden, however, Pastor Nord-

quist waded into the dregs of Murray: men with sordid pasts and limited, even hopeless futures. Prospecting was fraught with hardship, and a decision to work the new mines often fated an early death. Unsurprisingly, Amos continually sensed urgency…the end for many Murray men would come sooner than later. Meanwhile, the men worked, ate, drank and made merry; and, unsated, drank some more.

Three days later, Pastor Nordquist again visited Dutch Jake’s Saloon. As he stepped inside, looking about at men standing at the bar or seated at tables, most looked back poker-faced. By now they knew the identity of the big preacher. A string of ceiling lantern lights weakly illuminated the corner occupied by Angus MacGregor, a burly, red-bearded prospector dressed in dirty, bib overalls, worn leather hat and coat, and large, worn, work boots. Angus had been genteelly sipping Scotch for about an hour. Next to his glass was his bottle, about 3/4 full. Angus enjoyed pleasures of the moment and took his time. Angus was starting to loosen up and was getting tired of sitting alone. Angus MacGregor knew Pastor Nordquist’s identity and, in Angus’s relaxed, uninhibited state, Angus was ready to talk to someone who might provide stimulating conversation.

Hey, yer Reverend, sir! Angus hollered at a surprised Amos Nord-

quist.

Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met, said Amos, his Scandinavian accent prominent as he moved in the direction of Angus MacGregor, a recent immigrant from Scotland. I’m Pastor Amos Nordquist.

Angus MacGregor. M’ pleasure, said Angus in his thick Scottish brogue, his smile contrasting the surrounding gloom as he stuck out his callused hand and shook Amos’s with companionable affection. Say, what religion did y’ say you were?

I am a Christian, sir.

Please. Sit down. Angus motioned with his head toward the opposite chair as he measured one finger of Scotch into a shot glass while Amos pulled up the chair and sat down.

This be m’ bottle, said Angus reverently as he placed the bottle on the table. "Brought from Scotland, it was. Walker’s Old Highland. A gift from m’ friend, Alexander Walker. Rightly blended."

Angus looked intently at Amos and formally nodded.

"Dutch Jake keeps it behind the bar for me – and only me. Although I own the bottle, I keep track of and pay for each drink. T’is a fair arrangement. Were I t’ keep it t’ myself, drink for free, the bottle’d’ve gone dry long ago. This way the bottle’s safe and the contents incrementally consumed. I sip Old Highland gradually, as is mete and proper." Looking up a Pastor Nordquist, Angus took a sip.

Angus formally nodded again and Amos nodded back, not knowing what to say.

What kind of Christian might you be, sir? asked Angus.

I am a Lutheran, responded Amos pleasantly, folding his hands on the table.

His hand wrapped around the glass, Angus looked at Pastor Nordquist, thinking. D’ you mean like Martin Luther? he asked.

Pastor Nordquist beamed, believing that perhaps he might have someone being led by the Holy Spirit.

Yah, we follow the teachings of Martin Luther – that is why we are called Lutherans. But the term ‘Lutheran’ only refers to our church organization; the more correct term is ‘Christian.’ We believe that sin separated man from God, that the crucifixion of Jesus was the atonement enabling forgiveness of sin, and the resurrection that first Easter provides the basis for a newness of life here and also, following our physical death, eternal life with God.

Angus MacGregor listened intently, nodding in agreement with each point, and added another log to the small fire.

We are Christians, you and I. You are a Lutheran. I am a Presbyterian. My whole family consists of Presbyterians. But I must tell you that I am not entirely sure what a Presbyterian is.

Well, Reformed Presbyterians and Lutherans have a great deal in common. In fact, Reformed Presbyterians now are more like Lutherans used to be following the Reformation.

Aye, then, why do you not become a Reformed Presbyterian rather than remaining a Lutheran? Because, if it is as you say, said Angus MacGregor, taking a sip of Scotch, you would be more of a Lutheran if you were a Presbyterian than you are as a Lutheran.

Reverend Nordquist blinked at Angus MacGregor.

Well, you know, maybe that is so, maybe not, said Amos quickly. Perhaps, if we place more emphasis on God’s saving grace, like the Reformed Presbyterians, then we become better Lutherans.

Pastor Nordquist was satisfied with his answer because, although it shed little additional light on the subject, he was a Lutheran minister, not a Presbyterian minister, and even though the purpose at hand, saving souls, was of paramount importance, at the moment he was not prepared to switch denominations. If Pastor Nordquist’s response clarified the issue for Angus MacGregor, the next question posed by Angus would muddy the theological waters into which they were wading to an even greater degree.

Was Martin Luther a Lutheran?

Well, you know, began Pastor Nordquist, we follow the teachings of Martin Luther, but he did not call himself a Lutheran.

Martin Luther was not a Lutheran. Is that what you said? asked Angus MacGregor, sounding somewhat confused.

Yah, we follow Martin Luther, answered Pastor Nordquist, but he was not a follower of himself because he was himself, of course. I mean he was not a Lutheran – although certainly he believed what Lutherans believe because...he was Martin Luther. In his mind, Amos questioned where this conversation was going. Martin Luther, added Pastor Nordquist, believed that the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, the son of God, paid for our sins…

...just as the Presbyterians believe, interjected Angus MacGregor, holding up his right index measuring finger.

Yah.

Angus MacGregor thought a moment. Pastor Nordquist waited, his forehead slightly furrowed.

Of what denomination was Martin Luther if he wasn’t a Lutheran? asked Angus MacGregor, raising the glass of Scotch to his mouth.

He was Catholic.

Aye, a Catholic y’ say, said Angus, relishing a sip. If he was Catholic and you follow him, then you should also be Catholic or, because, as you say, since Reformed Presbyterians are more like Lutherans should be than Lutherans are, then it seems you should be either Catholic or Reformed Presbyterian if you are followers of Luther, as you say you are, rather than being Lutherans.

Reverend Nordquist was now convinced that this conversation into which he had entered with great expectations was quickly becoming a circus of semantics and might be doing more harm than good as far as the soul of Angus MacGregor was concerned.

Again, it is sufficient that we are Christians, responded Pastor Nordquist. "We do not worship Martin Luther; we worship God, and we believe that Jesus was the Christ, the Savior, the third person of the trinity. Immanuel: ‘God with us.’ "

Angus nodded in agreement, looking extremely serious.

Was Jesus a Lutheran? asked Angus MacGregor.

What? thought Pastor Nordquist, looking quizzically at Angus MacGregor. Of course he wasn’t.

No, sighed Pastor Nordquist with resignation. He was born into a Jewish family. But, perhaps, as a Reformed Presbyterian, you are familiar with some of Jesus’ miracles like ‘Lazarus, come forth!’ Angus nodded. And ‘Peace, be still!’ whereupon a disciple said, ‘What manner of man is this that even the wind and sea obey him?’ As I said, He was and is the promised Messiah…for both Jews and Gentiles, Lutherans and Presbyterians. Salvation is not attained by religious affiliation, but through belief in Christ, renewal through the Holy Spirit – being ‘born again’ – experiencing the door of your heart open, welcoming the Lord, while receiving the simple faith that His death – erasing your sins from the ledger, so to speak – enables you to live eternally with God.

He came to save the elect? asked Angus the Calvinist, eyebrows raised.

Yah, answered Pastor Nordquist. Salvation is not by good works – no one is that good. He speaks of those who did miraculous things in His name, yet He will say to some of them, ‘Depart from me; I never knew you.’ He also said to the disciples, ‘You did not choose me, but I chose you.’ Having been chosen by God is the greatest thing that can happen. Amos repeated sincerely with emphasis, The greatest thing.

What Pastor Nordquist said came from the heart, void of any erudite religious rhetoric. While not evident, the sincerity and conviction of Pastor Nordquist impressed Angus MacGregor who, because of his Reformed Presbyterian upbringing, knew as much about Martin Luther and the Reformation as did Pastor Nordquist. Angus MacGregor had quickly grown to like Pastor Nordquist. At the same time, Angus MacGregor had been enjoying himself, sipping Scotch and playing word games with an infinitely patient Lutheran pastor.

So if Jesus was not a Lutheran, concluded Angus MacGregor with a serious countenance masking the merriment welling up inside, then what Jesus Christ and Martin Luther had in common was that neither was a Lutheran.

Amos looked neutrally at Angus.

Well, yah. Pastor Nordquist’s rope was at its end. But they weren’t Presbyterians either.

Trying to keep from choking, Angus MacGregor put down his glass of Scotch, sat back in his chair and erupted with laughter easily heard above the raucousness at Dutch Jake’s.

Pastor Nordquist looked at Angus with the traditional Lutheran look that indicates its bearer is having a difficult time discerning what is so funny.

The genuine uncontrolled laughter of Angus MacGregor was contagious and soon, although no one other than Angus MacGregor understood why he was laughing, a few men at the next table began to chuckle and, as Angus continued laughing, they also began to laugh. Within a few moments, those seated at nearby tables found the laughter irresistible and spontaneously joined in. Others seated further away were also at a loss about the cause of laughter, but gradually they too began to laugh, one-by-one forming a chorus of mindless hilarity – magnified by the absurdity that no one knew what was funny – until the entire saloon was laughing. Then laughing hard.

There was little in Murray to laugh about up to that moment and, presently, there was no more reason than before. Perhaps because the aggregate laughter was so totally pointless to most, or because human nature has a need for laughter and, at that moment, pent-up demand was being met, the laughter crescendoed to uproarious, uncontrolled howling, the infection for which there is no cure. The intensity of the hilarity did not die at that point but grew to gale winds force with men laughing so hard that their stomachs began to hurt. Tears streaming down their faces, some fell off their chairs and lay on the barroom floor still laughing uncontrollably. On it went for several minutes until men became physically exhausted, and began to become laughed-out.

Gradually the gale winds began to die down.

Pastor Nordquist, sitting at his table, wiped away tears, and noticed how good he felt. This was the first opportunity he had to laugh hard since…he couldn’t remember. He knew he never laughed this hard before. Angus also regained his composure, and looked at Amos for a moment, chortling intermittently, like a spout continues to drip after the cask is emptied.

Y’ hold a church service and I will come, volunteered Angus MacGregor, smiling while wiping his eyes. Men at nearby tables were doing the same, still wondering what the big preacher said that made the red-bearded prospector and, subsequently, everyone else, go into hysterics.

Pastor Nordquist beamed back at likeable Angus, hoping that in addition to Angus becoming a parishioner, the two might become fast friends.

Angus poured another finger of Scotch in his shot glass and, in a voice loud enough for others to hear, asked a question that began laying the foundation for future camaraderie.

Aye, Pastor, now tell me: what brings a Scandinavian Lutheran pastor with a sense of humor all the way to Murray, Idaho?!

With no conversation nearby, hearing the question, two beaming men at the next table began listening.

Angus pleasantly looked at the men and beckoned, Gentlemen, join us! motioning with his head. The two men looked at one another, and Amos smiled as the two picked up their drinks, walked over and sat down with Amos and Angus. Still smiling, Amos nodded at the bartender, held up one finger and mouthed the words, Glass of wine.

He returned his attention to the table, introducing himself and Angus to the other men.

What brought me all this way? beamed Pastor Nordquist. It’s an interesting story. Do you want to hear it?

Aye, if you promise you’ll leave nothing out, said Angus. The others nodded.

Pastor Nordquist leaned back in his chair as the bartender brought over a glass of wine. That will be easy, he smiled, taking the glass.

Northern Europe, Mid-19th Century

1

The North Sea Rage

1859

It all began normally enough, said Amos, one crisis after another interspersed with tedium like that about to end."

Late fall, 1859

As the large, North Sea swells rose and fell outside, holding the edge of the chart desk with his left hand for stability, 18-year-old Amos Nordquist walked the plotting dividers across the chart, estimating how far the Einar II was from home.

Amos put the dividers in a drawer and made a mental calculation as he roughly pushed the drawer shut. At their present course and speed, the Einar II was less than a day from the Skagerrak, the deep, black sea along southern Norway, and perhaps four or five days from Göteborg depending on rising wind and wave. Amos was concerned, however; over the last hour the seas had grown ominously rougher.

As the Einar II pitched and rolled, the hatch door opened behind Amos, the uninvited wind snatching the chart and pinning it against the bulkhead. Amos grabbed the chart as the hatch door slammed shut. Amos smoothed out the chart on the chart desk, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

Amos, said Captain Stig Nordquist, a bear of a man, that storm to the north will be on top of us in less than a half hour and I need you on deck. I thought we might make it back without going through one of these, but no. Mizzenmast preventer braces needed to be reeved and hauled taut; tackles got upon the backstays. Go, get your gear on.

Following his father out the door, Amos hurried to the forecastle and raced down the ladder to his rack, underneath which he stowed his oilskins and southwester. The ship pitched and rolled heavily, occasionally yawing to left or right, the swells high, menacing mounds of icy, undulating ocean whipped and lacerated by the rising north wind beneath a blackening sky.

Fighting to keep his balance, Amos pulled on his gear, raced to the boatswain’s locker, grabbed coiled halyards, and climbed the ladder topside. As he steadied himself on the wet, heaving deck, the swells were huge and black, continually lifting and lowering the Einar II as if inspecting it for flaws. His back to the windward, Amos staggered along the weatherdeck and back to the aftcastle.

Reaching the mizzenmast, Amos lurched as a larger swell slammed and passed beneath the Einar II, lifting her upward amidships before thrusting her down into the next huge swell where icy spray exploded and shot aft from the forecastle, stinging Amos like wet buckshot.

Hurrah, men! Amos shouted to other seamen. Lay aloft and I’ll send the rigging up to you!

As men climbed the rigging, the square-rigged ship’s bow rose high and dove into the next swell, sending an audible, resonating shudder along the deck as another blast of icy saltwater shot over the forecastle, weatherdeck and stern while the topgallant masts crackled and bent like horse whips. As Amos maintained his balance while feeding heavy lines to the men above, thoughts of men such as his grandfather, Lars, whom he had never met, and others lost at sea, came to him. Amos’s stomach tightened. Too often these thoughts were presentiments – he had no idea how this spiritual intuition worked, but so often in the past, thoughts of events that had not yet happened were then followed by those events. Amos became wary, exercising extreme caution.

The Einar II raced toward the Skagerrak. By the first mate’s reckoning they were less than a day from the Jutland peninsula of northern Denmark. Until moments ago the sea and wind were tolerable. Two hours ago all was well until the men felt it: a drop in temperature followed by that initially innocent sound the wind makes when she first decides to rise, like the sound of a group of schoolboys learning to whistle. Shortly the wind’s anger had grown – who knows why? – and the men scrambled. It was as if the North Sea wanted to give them a reminder of its more natural disposition before they reached the western Skagerrak. But the seasoned crewmen were already familiar with the maddening North Sea and her temperamental mood swings, and needed no reminder.

As the north wind howled about him on the dangerous aftcastle, equally maddened by an angry sea and lacerating sleet, Amos fought back, rapidly handling lines requiring the strength of two men, having done it since he was a boy. Seasoned in battles like this on the North Sea and the North Atlantic, a fighter with a familiar opponent, Amos punched and counterpunched. Like men possessed, all on board fought against rising wind, sleet and North Sea swells. All knew souls lost in seas like these.

Lay aloft there and set the mizzen topsail! shouted the mate. Be lively, lads. It’s the Skagerrak by noon on the morrow!

As the men neared completion of readiness, Captain Stig Nordquist came on deck. Although the wind was fierce, his captain’s hat brim clung tightly to his forehead above his thick gray eyebrows that, like his trimmed beard, resembled clipped strands of oxidized iron wire. Even if the men did not immediately see him, they sensed his presence. To the men, no other man, not one, was more intimately familiar with the North Sea than Captain Stig Nordquist, and for a split-second it seemed the angry waves reared like spooked horses, as if recognizing the man who had just stepped on deck, his gray eyes surveying the great swells like they were the familiar hillsides of Göteborg.

Mr. Olson, is all made ready? Captain Nordquist shouted over the wind to Oldemar Olson who had been mate on the Einar II since her maiden voyage five years earlier.

Nearly ready, Captain, shouted the mate. All is secure on deck; we’re lowering the moonraker and the main skysail…

’Moonraker’? shouted Captain Nordquist as he squinted toward the main topmast, his face lacerated by sleet. Mr. Olson, get those men down from up there before they’re blown down! This storm will become angry enough without being provoked! Set the lower main studdingsails; we need even more speed. If we can get to the Skagerrak, we might survive!

Aye, captain, shouted the mate over the wind as he staggered to the mainmast to signal down the seamen precariously beginning work on the moonraker and main skysail as Captain Nordquist, after a glowering glance about at the threatening swells, returned below.

The helmsman adjusted the course slightly as the wind rose, and as sails caught the wind full, the Einar II leapt through the water, the spars and masts crackling under the strain.

Aye! There she goes! The smell of land! shouted the mate. Ahahhh! Now she’s got the scent! As long as she cracks, she holds!

Buffeted by wind, sleet and wave, the Einar II sprang through the North Sea like an African lion hound, and the men worked frantically and prayed – prayed for safe landing in Göteborg, and for helmsman Olaf Andersson who would be God’s man on board as he steered a dead-reckoning course toward the wide mouth of the Skagerrak well beyond the cloud-shrouded horizon.

The swells now exceeded 15 feet, causing the Einar II to rise and dive, creak and moan as if in pain, occasionally loud enough to be heard above the high-pitched wind and sleet rifling against sails and through the rigging.

Late in the day, the sky grew darker, and when blackness covered the North Sea, nowhere were the ship’s crew more dependent on an all-seeing God. The swells grew larger, and Amos Nordquist could hear and feel the shrouds and stays whine, but not yet fray or snap as the agitated, wind-whipped North Sea reduced the Einar II’s relative size to harbor dory insignificance.

That night Amos’s presentiment occurred. At 2:00 a.m. the main topgallant mast ruptured at the crosstree, with flailing, iced-over stays and shrouds holding it aloft. In the forecastle berthing quarters, awakened by the second mate, an experienced seaman attempting to get an hour’s sleep groggily unstrapped himself from his rack, grabbed a coil of halyards, a block, marline spike, strap and a hurricane lantern from the bo’sun’s locker, all of which he hung from his neck, and warily went topside in the darkness. Reaching the main deck, he staggered toward the mainmast and began climbing the ratlines aloft to the step where the main topmast and topgallant mast were connected. With a loose end, he tied himself to the topmast and, no more than a blind man in the blackness, his hands began feeling nearly-frozen lines that he would jury-rig until a better job could be done during daylight.

The ice caused his fingers to gradually numb. He struggled as if partially paralyzed in the cold, wind and blackness, all the while fighting the convulsive ship’s motion exacerbated by mast height. Nearly 20 minutes later, shivering exaggeratedly, and gasping for breath, he untied the loose-end holding him to the topmast, and began to descend. His jury-rigging wasn’t nearly enough, but he had done what he could.

His frigid fingers rigid, he slowly crept down the icy rope ladder like a circumspect spider. As the ship dove, the seaman compensated by pushing his weight backwards while attempting to grab the line with his left hand, but at that moment a large swell pitched the ship to larboard, whipping the topmast and shrouds through the air, causing his left foot to slip. As his left foot slipped, the mast swing reversed, ripping the seaman’s right foot and frigid fingers from the icy ratlines, hurling him out into the blackness above the quarterdeck. Eyes enormous, flying through the air, panic seizing through him like shroud ice, he plunged violently into the black, raging ocean below.

In shock, he still desperately fought his way to the surface and, in the high swells and hurricane winds, gasped for air, screaming at the invisible larboard quarter as it passed by. Flailing like ruptured stays in the wind, he screamed over and over, choking on seawater as he screamed and gasped.

But the ship sailed on.

Before the last icy wave rolled over him, his eyes adopted a ghastly, ghostly stare as he realized that life’s brief hour, in an unplanned and unexpected moment, was done.

**O**

Early dawn drew a faint, gray line above the black, eastern horizon, and by the grace of God the winds and swells were not as great as during the hours after midnight. As daylight grew, Second Mate Gustaf Johansen made a headcount of deck hands and came up one short. After checking about the ship, the count was still one short.

The seaman? When had he last been seen?

Awakened in his rack, midwatch helmsman Jurgen Ericsson said he saw someone come up from below deck and perhaps head to the mainmast, but it was too dark, too foul, to tell. Was it the seaman? If so, what was he doing? Who sent him aloft?

I did, Captain, said Second Mate Gustaf Johansen somberly, standing before Captain Nordquist and Chief Mate Olson in the captain’s stateroom. The three men held on to the table, fastened to the stateroom deck, to maintain their balance as they stood formally.

I’m assuming you believed it absolutely necessary, said Captain Nordquist. Johansen served with Captain Nordquist for many years; Captain Nordquist knew Johansen well.

It was, Captain, Johansen said, his voice tight. Do you remember the storm southwest of the Azores eight years ago? We had a similar mishap and, rather than take chances that night, we let it go without doing anything immediately. We lost the main topgallant mast and rigging, and the rigging to the other masts was compromised to the point where we had to send several men aloft anyway. We lost Eric Johansen who was…, Johansen looked at Captain Nordquist grimly, and could not finish the sentence, his lips forming a tight line.

…your nephew, said Captain Nordquist quietly, remembering how Gustaf requested his brother’s son be hired on as a crewmember.

Had the storm not subsided, continued Johansen after a moment, we might have lost many more…perhaps the entire ship and crew. Me. You.

Captain Nordquist nodded solemnly.

I don’t know what happened, Captain, said Johansen, looking down gloomily. He quickly looked up at Captain Nordquist, maintaining decorum. I could tell from what I found aloft earlier this morning that he climbed to the rupture and did a commendable job, considering weather conditions and absence of light.

At that moment a large swell slammed, lifted and threw the Einar II downward, causing the men to grab the secured table with both hands. Regaining his balance, Johansen looked at Captain Nordquist for a moment as Johansen also regained his train of thought.

There was no light to work by last night, Johansen continued. Raging seas, heavy sleet, ice, and the wind was foul. But there was no other choice. Johansen’s eyes looked down. No one saw or heard anything. He looked regretfully at Captain Nordquist. I’m sorry.

I know you are, Johansen, said the captain, his steely, gray eyes looking levelly at the second mate. You will go with me when I inform his mother and give her his belongings. Now securely seize the shrouds. Dismissed.

Aye, captain. Johansen turned, left the captain’s stateroom, and went to find another seaman to finish repairing the damage.

How far are we from land? shouted the second seaman over the wind before he started aloft.

The mate thought we’d see land sometime this morning, Johansen shouted back. It depends on headway made during the night…and leeway.

With the dexterity of a rhesus monkey, the slender, young seaman climbed up to where the topgallant mast was ruptured. He worked precariously for 10 minutes, the mast whipping in multiple directions as the storm continued. While tying a line to the crosstree, he glanced eastward and, miraculously, as the mate anticipated, there was a black sliver on the clouded horizon – land – the Jutland peninsula. His popularity among the crew would momentarily soar as he looked down at the weather deck and hoarsely hollered the venerated cry of seafaring.

Laaaaaaaand-ohhh! Dead ahead!

2

Racing to Göteborg

1859

In the frigid North Sea storm, the exhausted crewmembers turned and stared as they looked beyond the bowsprit.

An hour later they were close enough to recognize Jutland landfall and the gaping mouth of the Skagerrak to the northeast. The helmsman corrected to larboard, the masts catching the trailing storm winds full. The first mate’s dead reckoning was accurate, and each man was grateful as two hours later, racing in from the North Sea, prevailing winds continued to whip the large, rolling swells covered with cobwebbed foam, while pushing Einar II’s full sails on a straight line into the unruly Skagerrak.

His cold hands occasionally gripping the gunwale for stability, Amos Nordquist stood on the forecastle and watched the distant Jutland shoreline in the gloom as insuperable swells continued to pummel the Einar II. Amos thought of his earlier presentiment about someone being lost at sea. With the loss of the seaman, again it had come true.

Amos stared at the black waves, feeling guilty because he sensed something was going to happen, but did nothing…but, then, what could I have done? And now what will we tell the seaman’s mother when we arrive in port? As Amos wondered, Second Mate Gustaf Johansen came to Amos’s side.

We still have problems, Johansen said loudly over the wind as he also grabbed hold of the gunwale. The rigging is torn and frayed between the main topmast and both the fore topmast and mizzen topmast. Several other lines are either loosened or stretched taut to the point of snapping. But I don’t want to chance another man overboard. We’ll do the reparations when we get to port. Should something become amiss, however, making it to Göteborg could become a challenge. We just have to pray the rigging holds until we arrive.

If it doesn’t?

We weather that storm when we sail into it.

Amos nodded and looked at the sea. The waves about them boiled, rose, surfed and blew as if multiple sea monsters were rising to the surface of the storied Skagerrak.

Amos, said Gustaf loudly over the wind after a moment, looking up at Amos, may I ask you a question?

Certainly, said Amos, wondering what the question was if Gustaf felt he needed permission to ask it. Amos had known Gustaf all his life.

Your father. As long as I’ve known your father, I’ve never known where he’s from. Göteborg?

While my parents came from small towns, they met in Göteborg. My father grew up in the köping Döderhultsvik, Amos said, looking at the boiling waves, gripping the gunwale with both hands. As you know, it was a beehive of enterprise that, unlike much of Sweden, had never been enserfed although nobles had tried…unsuccessfully. Families owned their farms, everyone worked hard – they knew no other way – and were a tough, stubborn bunch, covetous of their freedom. When missionaries first came a thousand years ago, the people were loath to give up the old gods – Odin, Freya, Thor – and many missionary priests met with death or enslavement. Eventually, however, Catholicism overcame the old paganism, and my father’s people gradually became tepid Roman Catholics.

Is there another kind?

Amos looked disparagingly at Gustaf who smirked. Of course, said Amos with mild exasperation.