THE SEEDS OF GRACETON

By Vee Daniels

In this final book of the Graceton trilogy, the homesteaders near early Fargo, North Dakota hang onto their desire to found their own village, even as they struggle with heartbreak, hate, anger, disappointment. Their love for one another keeps them strong and hopeful.

Graceton revolves around seven homestead families and severa

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gotham Books
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798887750286

Vee Daniels

Vee Daniels has had a passion for writing since very young. She has created short stories and memoire chapters for future books and wrote for a popular local newspaper for over fifteen years. Her first novel, ­ e Seeds of Graceton, was inspired by a family project for each to learn about a different state. She chose North Dakota and after receiving a centennial booklet from a small town in that state, she began imagining how such a place came about. Her story became a trilogy: ­ e Seeds of Graceton, ­ e Flowers of Graceton and Graceton. Vee remained in Northern Virginia after leaving the Army and working for private industry before starting her own home service company. She has lived in Nokesville, Virginia for almost 40 years.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Thank you, Bob, for being my greatest supporter through these many years. And thanks to Dorothy for getting me on the way to this long process.

Most of all, I thank Daddy, who helped me create my writing room, my cloister, then watched as I shut myself in there to heed my muse. I wish he were here to read the fruit of my labor.

PART ONE

THE PETERSENS

Chapter 1

Come to America! We need you! the rich-looking man from the American railroad implored the small group of Norwegian men who’d gathered outside the parish church in the southwest Norwegian district of Stavenger. He was expensively dressed, his hair and moustache were impeccably styled, and the fob and watch he pulled from inside his jacket with shiny brass buttons was highly polished.

There was a mixture of admiration and resentment among the men in the audience. Who was this man from far, far away to tell them America needed their labor? He seemed to think it a simple matter to leave one’s family and homeland to settle somewhere on the other side of the world. Still, he was wealthy-looking, far different from the tattered, hungry group standing before him, which listened intently as he raved about the wonderful attributes of the wide-open settler- hungry American west.

Gentlemen! the railroad man communicated through an interpreter who precisely relayed his message, for he, too, was employed by the railroad. America needs you! We want to open the west for farming and cattle to feed our growing population in the East. We want to make sure there are white people from sea to shining sea! And what’s in it for you? He paused only a second to glance around the pool of men with desperate blue eyes; it was a rhetorical question and he knew he had their attention. Land, that’s what! Lots of it. And it’s practically free. And I’m here to help you get to it.

The man’s enthusiasm was certainly reflected in his eyes, his voice, his gestures as he stretched his arms and fingers toward the small gathering and occasionally pointed at specific individuals whose attention he was sure he’d captured. Most of the men were drawn in, some against their will, but there were some doubts nonetheless. They, too, made use of the interpreter.

Free land? several asked doubtfully when the railroad man paused a few moments to wipe his brow, even though it was still cool. The short spring was struggling to arrive so there was no weather-related reason to perspire yet. If clothed differently, he could have been mistaken for a revivalist.

Yes. Well, practically free, he confessed quickly and went on. "And almost all arable. There’s government land for homesteads and some railroad land, too. There’s work. Work on the farms. Work on the rail lines. Yes, land and work! What many of you don’t have here."

The Norwegians nodded to each other, reluctantly acknowledging that lack of farmland and work was a growing problem. Indeed, there were even alarming rumors of food shortages in some parts of Norway.

What about the savages we’ve heard about? one man asked, raising his hand to attract the railroad man’s attention.

Bah! The Army’s taking care of that small problem as we speak. We guarantee you, in a few years there won’t be any savages left in America.

So we can get rich by growing wheat? another asked, as if to summarize.

Yes! The American excitedly jabbed his finger toward the questioner. Yes! It’s easy to grow wheat and with the railroad, it will be easy to get it to market. And, he asserted and continued to jab the air in front of him, you don’t have to farm to get rich! There’s lots of other work to be had. But we think the land, especially in the upper plains, would be most suited to you Norwegians.

The railroad man’s final statement sounded rather condescending but the audience seemed to overlook it. The combination of his speech, the colorful Norwegian-language pamphlets he handed out, and glowing local newspaper items painted an irresistible picture of America. The men began to murmur among themselves as the railroad man watched with satisfaction. Why should one stay here and face the possibility of homelessness, work shortage and potential starvation when America had so much to offer? they asked one another. If it were not possible for entire families to leave together, why shouldn’t the younger sons grab the opportunity?

The American fielded questions and slanted the answers to his advantage. There were no hardships to worry about, he assured them. If one didn’t want to farm, there were plenty other employment opportunities: rail work, from building cars to laying lines, to servicing the workers, mill work, iron work, whatever. There was plenty money to be made. If they couldn’t bring their families with them, not to worry. The separation would be only a temporary sacrifice; the young men would make enough to send for their relatives forthwith.

Unfortunately, the American wasn’t being entirely truthful; certainly, he was touring Norway to exaggerate the promise of the American west but his most hurtful fabrication wouldn’t be realized by the emigrants until perhaps years after they’d migrated. In most cases, those who left unaccompanied or without their entire families would never have enough money to send for the remaining members and consequently would never see them again. Perhaps he didn’t even know the truth; after all, it was his job to encourage emigration, not to worry about the fate of immigrants.

Kirk Petersen was one of those struggling men, mostly from farms, listening raptly to the railroad man. He had just walked the several miles into town to search for work, hoping to replace some poor townsman who’d suffered a terrible accident. However, there were so many more potential replacements than there were accidents. Getting employment anywhere was nearly hopeless on other farms and even in the larger towns such as Stavenger on the coast, especially for former farmers. Just as he was ready to collapse from exhaustion against an abandoned home, he happened upon the small crowd of hungry men listening to the American.

Now aged twenty-eight, Kirk Petersen had been born into a large, very poor family well outside one of many cold and dying towns. All his siblings – and then their spouses – crowded into the house that was once adequate for one family. Unfortunately, there was little choice but to live this way. As the extended family expanded, there was less to eat; on the other hand, moving away would mean nothing to eat. So everyone stayed until Father Petersen died and the elder brother inherited the meager farm. For his own growing family’s sake, he wanted his four brothers to find their own way to support their respective families. Mother and two as-yet unmarried sisters were allowed to stay.

Here in this crowd, Kirk came to the absolute understanding that he’d have to leave his beloved home and homeland to make a better life. With more force than he intended, Kirk elbowed a new acquaintance who was standing next to him. As Jens massaged his now-tender left side, Kirk excitedly expressed his newly-discovered simple plan.

I’m going to America!

Between his sore ribs and his own resolution to leave, Jens didn’t respond right away, so Kirk turned his new friend toward him with both strong hands and shook him vigorously.

Did you hear me, Jens! I’m going! I’m going to America! I’m going to be rich like that man there. But I’m not doing railroad work. No, sir! I’ll get land and grow wheat like the man says. And become rich that way. His dark blue eyes blazed as he continued to shake Jens for emphasis.

He raised his hand enthusiastically as the railroad man asked his final question: Who wants to go?

Chapter 2

Unbeknownst to Kirk, Mother Petersen had pleaded with her elder son to lend Kirk most of the little money their father hoarded over the years and to take as collateral what few possessions Kirk actually owned. Kirk had worked at available odd jobs in Stavenger to help support the household; he’d also acquired possessions abandoned by some who’d already emigrated.

Kirk and his mother and sisters shared a heart-rending farewell. After kissing and embracing his sisters, he held his sobbing mother for as long as possible.

Mother, please don’t cry any more, Kirk implored, vainly trying to inconspicuously wipe away his own tears. His unmarried sisters, eighteen and nineteen, had already run out the door weeping heavily; being the closest to their age, he was their favorite brother, and he knew that.

Mother, he said, wanting to push her away just a bit, to see her face, to let her see his sincerity, Listen to me. I will send for you as soon as I get my land. You and the girls. I promise. I’ll send for you real soon. You’ll see.

But they both knew the truth. She was aging even faster since her husband’s death. She would probably expend her remaining energies watching over grandchildren while these daughters, her daughter-in-law and her remaining son worked the farm. Besides, Kirk had a wife and two sons. There would be more children. There would be no room–or money– to take on the extended family.

And tell my brother I will pay back the money as soon as I can.

Kirk suspected the loan was resented and he sincerely intended to pay it back but only Mrs. Petersen suspected it would never be repaid. She’d heard many stories about men who had seemingly vanished or had written back about their financial hardships in America.

Kirk, his wife Helga and their two sons boarded a sloop to America in mid-1862 with just the clothes on their bodies and two satchels. The first three days were somewhat adventurous, though at times sickening, for the passengers. Then came the boredom, crowdedness, discomfort, hunger, filth, mal de mer, and public child-birth.

As they huddled in their own small space, Kirk often daydreamed to pass the time. His favorite memory was that of spotting Helga Thorensen for the first time and immediately making a decision to court her. He chuckled and shook his head. Helga was leaning against him and their toddler was sleeping across her lap. She smiled, waiting for an explanation.

I was thinking about what fortune I had the day I first saw you, Kirk said with his eyes closed.

Oh? She turned toward him without disturbing Wilmer. She was ready for conversation. Her handsome husband was never the most talkative of his family and there was not much new to discuss, even after just a few days on board. Almost everyone had the same story.

If you and your mother had come into the shop only minutes earlier, I would’ve been covered head to foot with fish gut. Then I suppose we would not be here, together.

And I suppose you’re right, she teased, imagining a much younger Kirk dripping with the smelly mess. But you never told me that. What happened?

Even after all these years, I don’t really know why I never told you. I guess I was forever embarrassed by the incident.

Kirk never knew if the incident was an accident or a purposely, malicious act. He’d been in Stavenger, fortunate to have found work for awhile at a fish market. He had immediately replaced a fired worker; new help was easy to find. Indeed, Kirk heard the yelling and clanging pots and watched a burly, angry man storm out, turning back at the open door to cuss and gesture one last time. This was a sign that the owner, a Mr. Hallberg, needed an assistant right away. Competition was great. Kirk was the closest and ran through the doorway.

Mister, do you need help? the sixteen-year-old asked eagerly. After a quick lesson on preparing fish for sale, Kirk reached for a pot above his head, naturally assuming it was empty. It was not. Its contents–fish innards–showered onto him. He spat and coughed and ran out the back door, where he got sick. Fortunately, there was a well nearby and he cleaned himself off.

The shopkeeper had no reaction, no apology, no concern when Kirk returned because he was busy with a customer, a woman with her daughter, to whom Kirk immediately felt magnetized.

And that young lady was you, he said, smiling at Helga, concluding his story. He fell silent again as he reflected on their brief courtship and their marriage up to this point.

Kirk had adored the girl from the very beginning. Though not especially pretty, she had kind eyes and a warm smile. Her hair was dark brown, an unusual color for a Norwegian. As if ashamed of it, she kept it under a cap but some had slipped out to reveal soft shoulder-length hair. Kirk longed to touch it.

When the ladies left, Kirk asked his new employer if he knew them.

Surprised at the young man’s boldness, Hallberg raised his eyebrows. Certainly, he responded grumpily, still upset with his previous helper, but he answered anyway. That’s Mrs. Thorensen and... her daughter. Then almost sympathetically, he lowered his brows and added, This is usually their last stop and they turn right upon leaving here.

He saw Kirk’s eyes light up and understood, even though he’d seen nothing particularly attractive about the girl. He glanced about and quickly picked up a square of cheesecloth and a jar of seasoning. He sprinkled a tablespoon full, wrapped the cloth and tied it with string.

Er, I meant to have Mrs. Thorensen try this special spice I just got in. I think it’s good but I’d like someone else to try it before I start telling the rest of my customers. Perhaps you could...

Kirk was out the door and standing red-faced in front of Mrs. Thorensen and her daughter before he figured out what to say. He lamely held out the packet before coming to his senses.

Mrs. Thorensen? I, uh, Mr. Hallberg wants you to try this. He tried hard to focus on the mother but managed what he thought was a furtive glance at the girl.

Why, thank you, young man. I’ll try it tonight and let him know tomorrow. Mrs. Thorensen continued on without the introduction he was hoping for.

He stood still, disappointed as the distance between them grew. Then, suddenly, Helga turned, saw him watching, and smiled. Too late to stop her daughter’s action, Mrs. Thorenson squeezed her arm and yanked her forward.

That night, on his pallet in the corner of a barn, Kirk hardly slept, excited about seeing her the next day.

Friends helped him find out where she lived. After leaving work one evening, he headed for the small home only minutes from Hallberg’s store. She was just returning with a yolk of water, walking quickly but not spilling a drop. Upon seeing her, he sauntered near, hands in pockets, whistling, looking up, as if he just happened to be in the neighborhood. She slowed when she finally noticed him, now miraculously some water sloshed out both buckets and onto her skirt.

Oh, dear, she murmured and looked down with a worried expression.

Oh, well, hello, Kirk greeted as he closed in and acted as if he just saw her. Is something the matter?

My mother will be furious, she said anxiously, worriedly looking at the wet spots on her skirt.

Why? It’s only water, he responded reassuringly.

"She doesn’t want me to spill any. She uses every drop."

Would you like me to carry that for you? he offered.

Well, no thank you. I’ve been doing this for years.

What was I thinking? he asked himself. Hauling water was woman’s work anyway. If she’d said yes and his friends had seen him....

I’m Kirk. Mr. Hallberg told me your mother’s name but he didn’t tell me yours.

Oh, he probably doesn’t even know mine, she answered as she continued at the original pace. It’s Helga. She stopped at an open wooden gate. I have to go now. Good night.

The abrupt conclusion of the conversation disappointed him but he became bolder when he determined her routine and saw her in the store almost daily.

Helga cooperated by becoming a bit more independent, indeed somewhat rebellious.

She was ready to be courted by this impoverished but good-looking young man, despite her mother’s admonishments of being too friendly with him. Her parents eventually grew to like Kirk, so long as he maintained the proper distance. At dances and church, they saw that he was tall and strong, but not a bully. He was friendly, courteous, often quiet and deep in thought. He was truly seeking a better life; while helping to support his parents and siblings, he had dreams of farming his own land.

The Thorensen’s realized their daughter might eventually marry this young man; after all, there was no competition for her hand. While they understood farmers were having difficulty, city life was not much better. She might not do better than to marry this young man at some later time. After all, she was only fifteen.

They married sooner rather than later. There were many good hiding places and plenty of bad behavior at night around the wharfs. Though young, their furtiveness wasn’t worthy of extra attention.

Late one evening, Kirk was helping Helga sneak into the rear of the cottage. As he bent to kiss her cheek, her father’s voice boomed from the darkness at the side of the house. Apparently, at some point he’d been behind them.

Young man, what are you doing? he bellowed as he lunged toward Kirk. However, he lost his balance and threatening momentum when he slipped in mud but didn’t fall. As Thorensen swiftly narrowed the gap between them, Kirk had no doubt that he was about to be pounded but would no nothing to defend himself or otherwise show disrespect to his prospective father-in-law.

N...nothing, sir, Kirk stuttered, recovering from his initial surprise. His first instinct had been to run, in response to guilt and shame, but he couldn’t. He had to stand his ground and not be perceived as coward or cad by Helga. He knew almost from the beginning that he wanted her to marry him but had unintentionally acted inappropriately.

Thorensen approached to arms length, then drew back his fist in preparation for a powerful delivery to Kirk’s jaw.

Sir, I’d like permission to marry your daughter, Kirk said quickly, stunning both Thorensen and Helga, as well as himself. I want to marry your daughter, sir, he repeated to make sure all three had heard correctly.

Thorensen froze, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, clearly taken aback. Even without that, he really didn’t want to punch Kirk but he felt it an appropriate act on the part of a father.

Huh? he muttered. His fist lowered itself. After a few more moments of absorbing Kirk’s statements, Thorensen pulled himself together. But ... this is so sudden. In the lantern light. he could see Helga’s face redden and his eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, then up at Kirk.

Wait a minute, he continued, and slowly wagged a finger from one to the other while narrowing his eyes. You didn’t ...

No, sir, Kirk answered quickly, maybe even too quickly. I really want to marry Helga. He swallowed hard and hoped the tone of his denial wouldn’t betray him.

Helga, do you want to marry this young man? he asked doubtfully, wondering what her blush was about.

Yes, Pa. I do, she answered emphatically, nodded, and raised her eyes toward Kirk’s.

Well, I had hoped you’d wait another year before accepting any proposal. But I suppose you won’t find any better prospects here, he said, with a hint of resignation. "Your Ma does speak highly of Kirk."

Then, sir, does that mean yes? Kirk asked hopefully. He took Helga’s hand between his and looked from one to the other.

Well..., he paused a few moments, stroking his scruffy chin. I can’t say I agree to her marrying this soon, but .... By the way, when did you have in mind? he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Er, Kirk looked at Helga, who shrugged slightly. Er, right away?

Thorensen’s eyebrow rose even higher. Why so fast, son?

Er.... Kirk thought fast. I’ve got to go back home right away. I got word that my ma’s real sick. And...and so is Father. They might even... And I don’t know if I’ll ever get back here if... you know.... He let his voice drift off sadly and cringed at his own boldness.

Then you should talk to the minister immediately. I doubt he’ll approve either but it appears your mind’s made up.

Without further talk, he kissed his daughter’s cheek, shook Kirk’s hand, and went inside. It hurt him that he sensed their urgency for other than Kirk’s stated reason, but decided to take that to his grave so as not to upset his wife. At least the boy was honorable enough to marry his daughter.

Kirk and Helga married in late 1849 and moved immediately to his home some twenty miles from Stavenger. Johann was born nearly nine months later. Over the years, the house became almost unbearably crowded as Kirk’s brothers also brought in wives and expanded their families. Wilmer was born in 1860, the survivor among several Helga actually delivered in the ten years after Johann. Soon after, Kirk returned a few times to Stavenger to work. He knew they’d have to leave the home eventually and he needed money for his own farm or flat in the city.

He was in Stavenger in 1862 seeking work when he heard the railroad agent and raised his hand to go to America.

The Petersens were unable to leave for the west as quickly as the railroad had led them to believe. Since they arrived with no money and few possessions, Kirk had to find work in New York before being able to move on.

Almost immediately, he began working in a meat processing and packaging plant but the work entailed long, hard hours and filthy conditions. He barely earned enough to feed and house his family in a tenement house. Always exhausted at the end of the day, Kirk had only enough energy left to eat the meals Helga managed to prepare on his meager income. Each night he collapsed into bed and she joined him, at least for awhile. Virtually the only opportunity to discuss and dream about their future was the occasional night when Kirk remained awake for a few minutes.

Though they loved each other very much, the first year in America was much harder than they’d expected. They had firmly believed their stay wouldn’t last more than a few months. Even at the close of one year, they still believed they’d soon have enough money to head west where there’d be plenty of food and their own cozy home.

Kirk often apologized for not moving westward as promptly as he thought they could.

Helga, he murmured, on some nights before tumbling off to sleep.

Yes, my dear, she answered softly. After several months in America, she knew what was coming from her exhausted husband.

I’m sorry we’re still here. I thought we would be on our own land by now. The railroad man made it sound so... so easy, he bemoaned.

She could always hear the frustration in his voice. In the darkness, she found his unshaven jaw -- he shaved on Saturday nights -- and stroked it gently.

Don’t worry, my dear, she soothed. It would be hard to work on our land with Wilmer so young. I wouldn’t be much help to you just yet. God will let us know when the time is right.

It was three long, miserable years before the time was finally right for the Petersens to leave New York. Though Kirk never completely lost his dream of his own land, it was Helga who ultimately made the decision to go. Over that time, she constantly assured him that he would live his dream, especially at Kirk’s most despairing moments, when he would collapse onto one of two chairs in the apartment and look around almost tearfully, angry at his inability to better provide for Helga, too exhausted to swat the flies swarming around him because he smelled of the plant. He would shamefully review his circumstances and silently apologize for not taking better care of his beloved wife. He knew the money was lacking; the lots of money he thought he’d make immediately upon arrival simply wasn’t there. He made enough to keep a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs, though sometimes not enough. Saving up for the move west was proceeding ever so slowly. He instinctively knew it was because of Helga’s scrimping, and maybe even going without food at times so that Kirk could have enough, that there was anything at all in the crock dedicated to the move.

The physical environment was horrible, too. Kirk’s job brought in flies, some of which lingered over the winter, and only heaven knew how so many roaches came to live with them. And then there were the rats, which would be there anyway, but the smell of Kirk’s clothes and body seemed to bring in more than their share of the nasty creatures. Helga insisted that Kirk wash his entire body everyday -- an unusual requirement ... so that the rats wouldn’t mistake him for food as the couple slept. The rats began their activities almost as soon as the lights were extinguished. For the few minutes he was awake, Kirk could hear them but was too tired to throw anything toward them. Besides, Helga suggested they might in turn become aggressive. Excused from action and overtaken by exhaustion, Kirk would fall asleep shortly. He knew, however, that his poor wife would remain awake for hours, too frightened and worried to sleep a full night. She told him she could hear the rats rustling around the apartment at night, moving about the kitchen area and jumping onto the table in search of food, dragging and gnawing Kirk’s work clothes, chewing on the walls as they made new entry and exit points.

Oh, Helga. How did this happen? Kirk often asked, sometimes holding back tears as he looked around the tiny apartment before dropping his head into his rough hands. "We were supposed to be long gone. I’m sorry you have to live like this. In this... in this hell!"

She would wipe her flour-covered hands on her only apron and kneel beside him. It hurt her to see him so angry with himself, though she held the same conversation with herself several times a week. She could cry when the despair became overbearing. She knew Kirk was close to tears but, being a man, held them in check, though his heart must be paying the price.

We’ll get out of here, you’ll see, she promised, gently patting his shoulder.

We’re not getting any younger. And this place ..., he motioned around the room, this city, is not good for you.

She nodded her head sadly, in agreement. In almost two years, Helga had lost three children through miscarriages. Though uneducated, she attributed these losses to the combination of bad air, poor sanitation, the anxiety of living among filthy pests, and worrying about her children.

No. It’s awful here. I still clearly remember the clean, fresh air of Norway. And the trees. And the beautiful fields and mountains. And the sunshine! Remember them, Kirk?

Their eyes brightened at the memory of their picturesque homeland, even as they remembered why they left. He smiled and patted her hand, kissed her dirt-streaked forehead.

I hear the Dakota Territory is somewhat like that, except for the mountains, he said.

"And I hear it’s absolutely beautiful. I know in my heart we’ll get there, Kirk. It’s not too late. You’ll see."

With that, she rose to finish her bread, after bravely shooing away a bold rat that couldn’t wait for complete darkness before foraging in her kitchen.

Helga spent as much time out of the apartment as possible, especially in the summer, when the heat was oppressive and the flies were abundant. At least Johann was in school, learning English; he shared his language skills with his parents whenever he could, though Kirk had eventually picked it up at work and Helga more gradually on the street as the immigrant women gathered on the stoops, sidewalks and shops. They passed around the Nordish Folkebad, a Norwegian immigrant newspaper which gave them news of their homeland and glowing accounts of successful farm life in the Midwest through open letters, editorials, journalists who’d traveled there, and railroad ads. They showed one another the railroad posters taken off lamp posts, some in bright colors, depicting richness resulting from huge successes in farming with just a little hard work. The women shared their own stories of why they were in America; most came with their parents, husbands, children to begin new lives similar to the ones they’d left, but better. On pristine farms with lots of children to help. Not only did they share their own stories and those in the newspapers, they shared letters from relatives and friends who’d left for the plains. Many letter-writers expressed happiness at having their own land, fresh air, plenty to eat, especially after a couple years of admitted hardship. But their closing remarks often revealed loneliness and desire for companionship. The women discussed the letters they’d received, as if the correspondents were acquaintances of them all.

Ingrid seems to be doing fine. How can she be lonely?

That’s right! Why, she’s got her husband and her children!

Yes, and the church can’t be far away. All the women nodded in agreement at that positive statement.

"There must be a town right there. And a ladies circle of some kind."

Heads again nodded.

"Oh, it can’t possibly be that lonely. I think she just misses you, Gertie." Ladies gathered around to console Gertie; certainly, Ingrid, her sister or friend, was just fine on the prairie with her husband and children and new friends in the new town.

Helga was ready. Perhaps the ladies already there were lonely but if more Norwegian immigrants went, those ladies wouldn’t have to remain so lonely, so isolated. Besides, the environment of the city was truly loathsome; it was so different from the pristine setting of Norway. Here, the summers were stifling and on some days the delightful aromas of baking and roasting Norwegian specialties were smothered by the stench of uncollected garbage. In the winter, the snow was black, even before it hit the ground. Though she sometimes felt less than energetic, Helga knew she didn’t want to stay and die in this city. And she wanted her sons to have a better life.

In early 1865, when Johann was almost fifteen and Wilmer almost five, Helga approached Kirk as the boys sat on the floor at his feet and competed for the time he had left before nodding off to sleep, an action which seemed to come sooner with each passing month.

She smiled sadly at her sons, but her heart was somewhat lighter than in previous weeks when she’d witnessed the same scene over and over. This night, she wanted to speak privately to her husband, but there was no privacy to be had in the tiny apartment.

Kirk, she said gently, tucking back a dark strand of hair that had fallen toward the front of her ear. She smiled and her eyes reflected a happiness he hadn’t realized was absent until this moment. The jar is full, she announced simply.

What! he jumped up and grabbed her arms more firmly than he intended. Are you saying...?

Yes! Yes, I think we have enough. No. I’m sure of it. I counted it today.

He hugged her tightly and fought back tears of joy and relief. Johann stood up, laughed and hooted, hefted his little brother, and threw him in the air several times before the confused toddler began to cry.

Indeed, Helga had finally managed to save enough for train fare to St. Paul, Minnesota, for the family and their possessions. St. Paul was the gateway – or starting point – for the journey west, particularly the Red River Valley in the Dakota Territory.

Though they’d gone over the plan many times, Helga reviewed it once again. This time it would be a reality. Once in St. Paul, they would purchase a covered wagon, a team of oxen, supplies for the journey and their new home, and seeds for planting a large vegetable garden and small field of wheat. They would also coordinate their entry into the Red River Valley with Northern Pacific Railroad agents and government agents who expected the railroad to reach its rich lower third in the next couple of years. They would then continue the journey westward, with others, into the valley.

On a freezing, sleeting morning in February, the Petersens hugged friends, said farewell and boarded a westbound train, believing that March and April in Minnesota would bring sudden warmth and sunshine, and immediate passage further westward.

Chapter 3

The emigrant train, as that mode of transportation was known, carried mostly newly-arrived Americans westward and was anything but pleasant. A typical car contained two rows of narrow wooden benches and a narrow aisle, a small wood-burning stove for heat and cooking at one end and an enclosed toilet or convenience on the other. In the summer it was too hot, in the winter too cold. It was poorly lighted; when the small oil lamps along the walls were lit, there was a constant danger of fire as the train lurched along. Infections spread rapidly in the dirty, close environment. And there was no privacy to be had; marital quarrels and reconciliations, courting, childbirth and death were public events for those who cared to witness them. In the boredom of the journey, who wouldn’t want a little diversion?

On the rare occasion when an engine pulled only immigrant-laden cars, the train was made to yield to better or faster ones. The immigrants’ car was normally part of a mixed freight and could be shunted aside at any station, including remote ones, if a more important, higher-class train or private car came along and needed service. When the train stopped at a station, passengers could find food but they had only some twenty minutes to do so and the train could pull out without so much as a warning whistle.

Of the Petersen family in one emigrant car, four-year old Wilmer was the only one who found the trip at all entertaining, for there were plenty other children to play with. Being a youngster, he hardly ever realized the discomfort of the ride until it was time to nap or retire for the night. Though he wanted to lay on his mother’s lap, there was barely room on the seat to do so, even when his father wasn’t sharing it. He usually found a space on the floor, but the rough ride caused his head to constantly bump the floor or his little neck to wrench. His older brother, Johann, however, found the journey tedious and uncomfortable, but not necessarily lonely. He often joined Kirk in repetitive conversations with other men and boys about their future prospects. Kirk tolerated the ride, recognizing it as part of the price of eventual land ownership.

Helga was the most miserable of them all. For this, she asked herself over and over, I waited three years? But it will be over in a matter of days, she tried to convince herself. But each day seemed longer and more tiresome than the previous.

One night after their children had retired in the aisle not too far from them, Helga fought hard to keep her tears in check for she didn’t want Kirk to feel her discomfort and disappointment. Kirk was seated next to her, his head leaning forward in preparation for another uncomfortable night’s sleep. Her back and derriere ached from the long hours on the padless bench. She didn’t dare stray too far from the food and other few possessions she chose to keep with her on the journey, for she’d overhead one woman say there were thieves among them. Whether that was true didn’t matter; she couldn’t take the chance of losing any of what little they owned. Her face and hands were freezing from the chill seeping in through spaces in the doors, windows, floor and roof, even as the little stove tried vainly to warm the car. Helga often sat on her thinly-gloved hands until they were numb, rubbed them together until they were tired, blew on them until she was breathless. Her lips had become dry and chapped, her nose and cheeks red. She looked and felt absolutely miserable.

Kirk, Helga whispered, though against the train’s rumble even Kirk could barely hear her.

Huh? he responded, interrupted within seconds of being fully asleep.

How much longer? Her voice trembled a bit but Kirk was unaware of that.

Oh, I don’t know really, he answered simply, A couple of days perhaps.

I hope so, Kirk. I pray that’s all.

It finally dawned on him, now that he was fully awake, that his wife sounded so terribly sad and this time it was not entirely his doing. He took her left hand and rubbed it gently between his, noticing how cold it was. He then took both her hands and put them under his jacket. She turned to accommodate his gesture, though her new position was no more comfortable than the last. However, she knew he was trying to console her and give her at least a few minutes of comfort.

I’m sorry we have to travel this way, Helga, but it’s the only way we can afford to get west.

I know that, Kirk. I know better than anyone else why we’re on this train. She scanned the other occupants, knowing any of them could have the same conversation at any time during this journey. I just wish it didn’t have to be so.

He patted his jacket where her hands were. I know, darling. We’ll get there soon and some day, you’ll forget all about this railroad.

That settled, he resumed his sleeping position; she retrieved her hands, said a little prayer, and spent yet another sleepless night.

At Chicago, the immigrants disboarded for several hours but most dared not leave the station. They used the opportunity to buy bread and coffee, walk and stretch, and wash faces and hands. Reboarding almost reluctantly, they knew the journey was half over and perhaps the worst was yet to come as they headed into truly unfamiliar territory further away from civilization.

As the train pulled away, Helga anxiously took one last look at the last large city she’d ever see. It wasn’t that she would miss the crowded, dirty environment. Rather, in New York she had friends nearby, a mere few steps away; loneliness and help were never a problem. And there were shops right in the neighborhood; provided one had the money, anything needed was available. Helga now imagined herself shouting for the conductor to stop the train so that she could flee. Her heart pounded as she recalled a conversation she’d had with a returning Norwegian immigrant mother who’d lost her husband on the Minnesota prairie. She had related the horrors of her travel beyond Chicago and the subsequent awful life on her homestead. Before the church congregation was able to provide help, she and her young children had nearly starved. She was unsure of her future but she was certain of her past; she had no desire to remain in Minnesota.

For the first time, Helga questioned life without Kirk. What would happen to her and Johann and Wilmer? The consequences were so frightening that she forced herself to push the horrific images from her mind by inadvertently staring at her sons, until Kirk caught her at it the following day.

They’re fine, Helga. You needn’t watch their every move, Kirk said as he patted her cold hand.

She frowned worriedly, then forced a smile for his sake and nodded in agreement.

Look out at the beautiful country instead.

Though it was daylight, it was hard to view the scenery by simply turning to look out the window. Kirk reached for the little rag Helga kept expressly for wiping their smokey, dusty window to enable the family to see out. He created an awkwardly-rectangular space and pointed outward.

See? Isn’t it beautiful? he asked

The virginal Wisconsin landscape was indeed beautiful. Pristine snow under a glorious blue, cloudless sky covered nearly flat land until it met rolling hills well into the distance. There wasn’t an animal or farm in sight. The only sign of life was that of the train, evidenced by its loud rumble and remnants of thick puffs of smoke floating past the windows.

Soon, we’ll look out our own door and this is what we’ll see, Kirk assured her as he lightly squeezed her hand. He smiled broadly and his eyes lit up excitedly. Helga inwardly groaned at a fresh realization: there was no indication of humanity but Kirk seemed to find this gratifying.

Soon they pulled into a remote, but rather busy, town and everyone detrained for their twenty-minute break. Though it was a frigid day, some industrious local women had managed to load baskets with jarred pickles and apples, bread, pies, sundries, towels to sell the weary passengers at the depot. The travelers barely heeded an unusual commotion nearby as they clamored for fresh or new products to carry with them over the next leg of the ride.

Meanwhile, a great bustle of activity was taking place not far from the immigrants. Well-dressed American women were directing Negro servants as their husbands clustered to discuss financial opportunities in the West. Negro cooks and porters checked iceboxes and crates of food and swept and wiped and polished interiors of luxury cars. Trainmen inspected, fueled, cleaned, rested.

Twenty-minutes passed. Then thirty. Then forty. The immigrants ate, paced, used the convenience, stepped outside the depot for a breath of fresh, but cold, air. One by one, they became aware of the diminished noise level and, to their horror, they all watched as their train pulled away from the station without so much as a whistle, bell, or shout from the conductor. They’d been shunted aside, their car and the freight car with their possessions had been left behind.

Suddenly, they descended upon the sole railroad clerk, who was trying to sneak back into his tiny office, which resembled a cage, before the immigrants realized what had happened. He cowered and feared for his life as he was surrounded by a cacophony of newly-arrived Norwegian, German, Russian and Swedish tongues lashing out from puzzled, frightened, dirty faces. A surprising bout of arrogant confidence overcame him when he remembered he was the American and they were mere foreign peasants with little more than the clothing on their backs. He stood as tall as his short body allowed, held his hands up and out to the side, and yelled, Hold on, you folks! several times before they all quieted. Another train will be along, he mumbled softly, gave a quick tug to his jacket hem with both hands, and turned as if the conversation was over.

"Now, you hold on, mister!" came a booming voice from the crowd.

The clerk stopped dead in his tracks; the voice seemed to come from a big, strong man. This could be trouble. Because this immigrant spoke English, the clerk couldn’t simply shrug his shoulder, gesture that he couldn’t understand, and avoid any explanation of the problem as he had a few times before. He was frightened and hoped the big-sounding man was influential enough to calm the belligerent crowd should his lame explanation anger them further. He turned back around.

Kirk Petersen was pushing his way forward, though he was somewhat shocked and embarrassed by his own outburst. He hadn’t meant to be so gruff and bullyish, but now that he’d been so, he felt an obligation to this non-English speaking crowd, though he could probably only communicate any findings to the Norwegians and perhaps the Swedes. He cleared his throat as he found the courage to continue and inadvertently slightly eased the clerk’s concern over his own safety.

Sir! Kirk forced himself to be emphatic but not threatening. What happened to our train? Why did it leave us behind?

The clerk sighed heavily and was about to signal his exasperation by rolling his eyes, but thought better of it.

Well, he began by shrugging his shoulders as if the problem was of no consequence. You were switched off. There’s another train--

What do you mean, switched off? What is that? Kirk stepped closer as his fellow travelers threw out confused questions of their own, seeking understanding of their predicament. Thanks to Helga, Kirk had heard the term when he was awake enough to listen to his wife as she told some of the things she’d learned through letters shared among the women of the tenements. Several of the correspondents had mentioned being switched off on their way to their new homelands. Without letting Helga know, Kirk usually attributed the accounts to women’s gossip, griping, complaining, homesickness, and, of course, female problems. Now he was seeing first-hand the cruel reality of being shunted aside.

Why are we not on that train? Kirk asked, pointed in the direction of the train which had just pulled away from the depot. Now the whistle signaled as if to say farewell to its former passengers.

The clerk explained rapidly, knowing his words would be lost upon the crowd, perhaps even his English-speaking antagonist, but it wasn’t his fault they were ignorant. The engine that had just left was pulling luxury cars with rich passengers from Washington, DC. Headed for the west coast, they’d turned at St. Louis, and, on the northern route towards this depot, the engine experienced trouble and limped in. Here, the luxury train borrowed the immigrants’ engine and continued on its way. The train operators certainly didn’t want to inconvenience the important people from Washington. The immigrants would just have to wait patiently for the freight train due to arrive the following afternoon because there was nothing else to do.

As the clerk made another attempt to make a hasty retreat, Kirk lunged toward him. Helga, who had inched toward Kirk during the clerk’s unsympathetic explanation, grabbed his arm to stop him.

No, Kirk, she whispered firmly. You’ll get us thrown off the train!

Embarrassed by his own behavior and hers, Kirk relaxed his body a bit but was seething all the same. It was unfair to be treated as if they were of no consequence, especially when it was the immigrants who were helping these arrogant Americans to conquer the west. While this lowly, self-important clerk remained secure in this little town, it was they who were risking everything, including their very lives, to feed him and the rest of the nation.

Helga patted his arm gently, not letting on that she too was sickened by this horrible turn of events.

Chapter 4

The immigrants from New York finally arrived in St. Paul, Minnesota almost a week later than expected, after being shunted aside three times in favor of express or luxury trains. Now the weary group faced another obstacle between them and their homesteads in the Dakota territory: the weather.

The temperature hovered around ten degrees during the day and snow and ice accumulated several inches before the first week was over, with more to follow. The new covered wagons that had been bought and prepared for the move westward became temporary housing along with hastily built wooden and canvas shelters for humans and animals on the outskirts of St. Paul. Money that was to be used to buy other necessary provisions from wherever possible in the Red River Valley was spent in St. Paul, and rather quickly, as some merchants and farmers alike took advantage of the stranded pioneers. As the long winter continued, many of the miserable would-be homesteaders took work in the sawmill, blacksmith shops, flour mill, general stores or lumber camps. The spring brought flooding and the loss of many possessions. The immigrants were forced to stay in St. Paul even longer; some became discouraged and returned to the surer life back east. Others decided to move into town and remain. By the time the floods subsided, it was acknowledged to be too late to push westward; it was too late to build shelter and plant crops. The settlers would surely starve if they left now.

Kirk and Helga Petersen suffered their share of despair and disillusionment during their prolonged stay in St. Paul. When they had detrained at St. Paul, they both felt eager, young, strong and very close to a new home.

We’re almost there, Helga! Kirk had exclaimed, happily swinging his wife from the car steps down to the platform. He grinned broadly and surprised his family by hurriedly pushing through the crowd to the exit to catch a glimpse of St. Paul. Blushing from Kirk’s spontaneity, Helga scooped up Wilmer, beckoned to Johann and quickly followed.

Still grinning, Kirk breathed in icy, fresh air and looked out at a street lined with brick and wooden buildings containing restaurants, saloons, hotels, dry goods stores, butchers, banks.

Come back inside, Kirk, or you’ll catch your death from cold, Helga scolded gently, yet joining in his delight.

Yes, dear. We’ve come too far for that to happen now, hey? As she shook her head and rolled her eyes in feigned exasperation, he put his arm around her and accompanied his joyous family back inside.

Indeed, it was considerably warmer in the station, where several trains were arriving and departing within short periods of time. Passengers were crowded around in spots, claiming baggage and possessions, asking questions of one another, consulting land agents. While some headed for immigrant houses, residences for those not seeking the homesteading life, most wanted land of their own. The railroad land agents had helped assure the immediate availability of wagons and oxen so that the future homesteaders could remove their possessions as quickly as possible and be on their way. Next, the immigrants set about securing provisions needed for their homesteads, then pulled into an encampment on the eastern outskirts to await the formation of a wagon train to the Red River Valley.

Kirk and Helga and their two sons joined several other families as they spent their first miserable night in their crowded wagons. They were parked in an area near the station, made available to them only long enough to immediately purchase the rest of their supplies before moving away to the encampment.

As Kirk labored to build a fire for cooking and warmth, he watched as Helga struggled to peel potatoes for dinner. She was seated in a chair with a pot containing some peeled potatoes and slivers of salt pork at her feet. He knew that, back in New York, this simple task would have taken her only minutes, but now it was prolonged; the hand wielding the knife was gloveless. She stopped every few moments to tuck both hands under her armpits, shielding them from the biting cold. Finally, Kirk’s fire had taken hold and, though very hungry, he approached Helga.

My dear, put on your other glove and go inside for a few minutes, he commanded gently, his tone proving his empathy for her. He took her knife and dropped the potato she was peeling into the pot of icy water Johann had brought before he disappeared.

I can’t, Kirk. I have to make dinner. You and the boys must be starving by now. I’m sorry this is taking me so long. Her voice broke as she spoke the last sentence.

No, no, Helga. Don’t you cry, now, Kirk responded, bending down to take her freezing hand into his gloved ones. His gloves were especially warm after having been at the fire. He plucked her other glove from the back of the chair and slipped it onto her stiff, red hand.

But dinner.... she started to protest.

You just go inside for a few minutes while I peel the rest of these potatoes for you and put them on the fire. I’ll have some bread while they cook.

You can’t do that! she exclaimed as she reluctantly allowed him to help her rise, her body nearly paralyzed from the cold.

What if the other men see you? You’ll be a laughing stock! She didn’t want her husband to be the target of cruel jokes about his manhood. And she didn’t want her sons, particularly the teenaged Johann, to also suffer from the ridicule.

Nonsense. I’ll wager I’m not the only husband who’ll be peeling potatoes sooner or later. You just go inside and get warm and don’t worry about me.

He helped her into the back of the wagon and, as soon as she tied it closed, he took a hasty look around the yard, moved the chair as close as possible to the wagon and facing it, and sat with the pot in his lap where it might not be seen. As he awkwardly peeled the remaining potatoes, he watched for other men, pausing and pretending to be examining the wagon whenever a peer passed nearby.

Darkness brought even more misery for the Petersens and their fellow travelers. They slept as cozily as possible in their crowded wagons, but the frigid wind found its way in through various uncontrollable gaps.

Kirk, Helga whispered in the middle of the night, waking him. Though she would have whispered anyway to avoid rousing young Wilmer, who slept tightly next to her with Johann crammed in on his other side, her face was already pressed against Kirk’s. Her body ached even more than earlier because now there was no room for movement; she vowed better sleeping arrangements for the next night.

Hum? he murmured.

"They didn’t tell us it would be so cold. How will we manage until we build our house? We can’t live like this. What will we do?"

This is only the first night, Helga, he replied sleepily. When we move out tomorrow afternoon, we’ll repack the wagon so we can all sleep better. His body likewise ached from his inability to change position.

"Yes, but the cold. I couldn’t stay outside to prepare dinner and it can’t be done in here. They didn’t tell us it would be so cold," she repeated. As he responded, she clenched her jaws to keep her teeth from chattering.

No, I suppose they were afraid to tell us too much. But Helga, have you completely forgotten Norway?

But we were inside! Her worried-sounding voice rose above a whisper and she felt Wilmer stir to the extent possible in his position between Johann and his mother.

We’re inside, Kirk answered good-naturedly, smiling in the darkness despite his own discomfort.

If she could, she would have lightly elbowed him. Instead, she giggled, even though she was truly miserable.

You know what I mean! Right now, if I wasn’t in a bed under a huge pile of blankets, I’d be sitting in front of a fireplace with a nice big fire. She began imagining both scenarios, willing herself to attain warmth and comfort from the cozy images.

Hear, hear, Kirk agreed and drifted back to sleep, sensing that Helga had thankfully completed her end of the conversation.

Indeed, when they arrived at the temporary encampment where they would soon join a new wagon train, they repacked their possessions and new purchases in order to sleep as comfortably as possible. Of the weather, they could do nothing.

Beginning only a couple days into their encampment, the anxious immigrants were confronted with a series of vicious snow storms that left their departure in question. They could not even get to St. Paul, only about a mile away. Finally, after nearly three weeks of dumping snow and ice on the immigrants, the weather offered them a brief respite from torture. Then, they received the bad news from the man who would have been their wagon-master.

On a slightly warmer day made brilliant by dripping icicles in nearby trees and pristine snow surrounding the encampment, the wagon-master, known only as Captain Smith, arrived and ordered a few men to summon all the others