Need we attempt to describe the joy of our friends in Vinland, when, one
afternoon towards the end of autumn, they saw their old ship sweep into
the lake under oars and sail, and cast anchor in the bay? We think not.
The reader must possess but a small power of fancy who cannot, without
the aid of description, call up vividly the gladsome faces of men and
women when they saw the familiar vessel appear, and beheld the bulwarks
crowded with well-known faces. Besides, words cannot paint Olaf's
sparkling eyes, and the scream of delight when he recognised his father
standing in sedate gravity on the poop.
Suffice it to say that the joy culminated at night, as human joys not
unfrequently do, in a feast, at which, as a matter of course, the whole
story of the arrival and settlement in Vinland was told over again to
the newcomers, as if it had never been told before. But there was this
advantage in the telling, that instead of all being told by Thorward,
each man gave his own version of his own doings, or, at all events,
delegated the telling to a friend who was likely to do him justice.
Sometimes one or another undertook that friendly act, without having it
laid upon him. Thus, Krake undertook to relate the discovery of the
grapes by Tyrker, and Tyrker retaliated by giving an account of the
accident in connexion with a mud-hole that had happened to Krake. This
brought out Biarne, who went into a still more minute account of that
event with reference to its bearing on Freydissa, and that gentle woman
revenged herself by giving an account of the manner in which Hake had
robbed Biarne of the honour of killing a brown bear, the mention of
which ferocious animal naturally suggested to Olaf the brave deed of his
dear pet the black bull, to a narrative of which he craved and obtained
attention. From the black bull to the baby was an easy and natural
transition--more so perhaps than may appear at first sight--for the bull
suggested the cows, and the cows the milk, which last naturally led to
thoughts of the great consumer thereof.
It is right to say here, however, that the baby was among the first
objects presented to Leif and his friends after their arrival; and great
was the interest with which they viewed this first-born of the American
land. The wrinkles, by the way, were gone by that time. They had been
filled up so completely that the place where they once were resembled a
fair and smooth round ball of fresh butter, with two bright blue holes
in it, a knob below them, and a ripe cherry underneath that.
Snorro happened to be particularly amiable when first presented to his
new friends. Of course he had not at that time reached the crowing or
smiling age. His goodness as yet was negative. He did not squall; he
did not screw up his face into inconceivable formations; he did not grow
alarmingly red in the face; he did not insist on having milk, seeing
that he had already had as much as he could possibly hold--no, he did
none of these things, but lay in Gudrid's arms, the very embodiment of
stolid and expressionless indifference to all earthly things--those who
loved him best included.
But this state of "goodness" did not last long. He soon began to
display what may be styled the old-Adamic part of his nature, and
induced Leif, after much long-suffering, to suggest that "that would
do," and that "he had better be taken away!"
The effervescence of the colony caused by this infusion of new elements
ere long settled down. The immigrants took part in the general labour
and duties. Timber-cutting, grape-gathering, hay-making, fishing,
hunting, exploring, eating, drinking, and sleeping, went on with
unabated vigour, and thus, gradually, autumn merged into winter.
But winter did not bring in its train the total change that these
Norsemen had been accustomed to in their more northern homes. The
season was to them comparatively mild. True, there was a good deal of
snow, and it frequently gave to the branches of the trees that silvery
coating which, in sunshine, converts the winter forest into the very
realms of fairyland; but the snow did not lie deep on the ground, or
prevent the cattle from remaining out and finding food all the winter.
There was ice, also, on the lake, thick enough to admit of walking on
it, and sledging with ponies, but not thick enough to prevent them
cutting easily through it, and fishing with lines and hooks, made of
bone and baited with bits of fat, with which they caught enormous trout,
little short of salmon in size, and quite as good for food.
Daring the winter there was plenty of occupation for every one in the
colony. For one thing, it cost a large number of the best men constant
and hard labour merely to supply the colonists with firewood and food.
Then the felling of timber for export was carried on during winter as
easily as in summer, and the trapping of wild animals for their furs was
a prolific branch of industry. Sometimes the men changed their work for
the sake of variety. The hunters occasionally took to fishing, the
fishers to timber felling and squaring, the timber-cutters to trapping;
the trappers undertook the work of the firewood-cutters, and these
latter relieved the men who performed the duties of furniture-making,
repairing, general home-work and guarding the settlement. Thus the work
went on, and circled round.
Of course all this implied a vast deal of tear and wear. Buttons had
not at that time been invented, but tags could burst off as well as
buttons, and loops were not warranted to last for ever, any more than
button-holes. Socks were unknown to those hardy pioneers, but soft
leather shoes, not unlike mocassins, and boots resembling those of the
Esquimaux of the present day, were constantly wearing out, and needed to
be replaced or repaired; hence the women of the colony had their hands
full, for, besides these renovating duties which devolved on them, they
had also the housekeeping--a duty in itself calling for an amount of
constant labour, anxiety, and attention which that ridiculous creature
_man_ never can or will understand or appreciate--at least so the women
say, but, being a man, we incline to differ from them as to that!
Then, when each day's work was over, the men returned to their several
abodes tired and hungry. Arrangements had been made that so many men
should dwell and mess together, and the women were so appointed that
each mess was properly looked after. Thus the men found cheerful fires,
clean hearths, spread tables, smoking viands, and a pleasant welcome on
their return home; and, after supper, were wont to spend the evenings in
recounting their day's experiences, telling sagas, singing songs, or
discussing general principles--a species of discussion, by the way,
which must certainly have originated in Eden after the Fall!
In Karlsefin's large hall the largest number of men and women were
nightly assembled, and there the time was spent much in the same way,
but with this difference, that the heads of the settlement were
naturally appealed to in disputed matters, and conversation frequently
merged into something like orations from Leif and Biarne Karlsefin and
Thorward, all of whom were far-travelled, well-informed, and capable of
sustaining the interest of their audiences for a prolonged period.
In those days the art of writing was unknown among the Norsemen, and it
was their custom to fix the history of their great achievements, as well
as much of their more domestic doings, in their memories by means of
song and story. Men gifted with powers of composition in prose and
verse undertook to enshrine deeds and incidents in appropriate language
at the time of their occurrence, and these scalds or poets, and saga-men
or chroniclers, although they might perhaps have _coloured_ their
narratives and poems slightly, were not likely to have falsified them,
because they were at first related and sung in the presence of actors
and eye-witnesses, to attempt imposition on whom would have been useless
as well as ridiculous. Hence those old songs and sagas had their
foundation in truth. After they were once launched into the memories of
men, the form of words, doubtless, tended to protect them to some extent
from adulteration, and even when all allowance is made for man's
well-known tendency to invent and exaggerate, it still remains likely
that _all_ the truth would be retained, although surrounded more or less
with fiction. To distinguish the true from the false in such cases is
not so difficult a process as one at first sight might suppose. Men
with penetrating minds and retentive memories, who are trained to such
work, are swift to detect the chaff amongst the wheat, and although in
their winnowing operations they may frequently blow away a few grains of
wheat, they seldom or never accept any of the chaff as good grain.
We urge all this upon the reader, because the narratives and poems which
were composed and related by Karlsefin and his friends that winter,
doubtless contained those truths which were not taken out of the
traditionary state, collected and committed to writing by the Icelandic
saga-writers, until about one hundred years afterwards, at the end of
the eleventh or beginning of the twelfth century.
On these winter evenings, too, Karlsefin sometimes broached the subject
of the new religion, which had been so recently introduced into
Greenland. He told them that he had not received much instruction in
it, so that he could not presume to explain it all to them, but added
that he had become acquainted with the name and some of the precepts of
Jesus Christ, and these last, he said, seemed to him so good and so true
that he now believed in Him who taught them, and would not exchange that
belief for all the riches of this world, "for," said he, "the world we
dwell in is passing away--that to which we go shall never pass away."
His chief delight in the new religion was that Jesus Christ was
described as a Saviour from sin, and he thought that to be delivered
from wicked thoughts in the heart and wicked deeds of the body was the
surest road to perfect happiness.
The Norsemen listened to all this with profound interest, for none of
them were so much wedded to their old religion as to feel any jealousy
of the new; but although they thought much about it, they spoke little,
for all were aware that the two religions could not go together--the
acceptance of the one implied the rejection of the other.
Frequently during the winter Karlsefin and Leif had earnest
conversations about the prospects of the infant colony.
"Leif," said Karlsefin, one day, "my mind is troubled."
"That is bad," replied Leif; "what troubles it?"
"The thoughts that crowd upon me in regard to this settlement."
"I marvel not at that," returned Leif, stopping and looking across the
lake, on the margin of which they were walking; "your charge is a heavy
one, calling for earnest thought and careful management. But what is
the particular view that gives you uneasiness?"
"Why, the fact that it does not stand on a foundation which is likely to
be permanent. A house may not be very large, but if its foundation be
good it will stand. If, however, its foundation be bad, then the bigger
and grander it is, so much the worse for the house."
"That is true. Go on."
"Well, it seems to me that the foundation of our settlement is not good.
It is true that some of us have our wives here, and there is, besides,
a sprinkling of young girls, who are being courted by some of the men;
nevertheless it remains a stubborn truth that far the greater part of
the men are those who came out with Thorward and me, and have left
either wives or sweethearts in Norway and in Iceland. Now these may be
pleased to remain here for a time, but it cannot be expected that they
will sit down contentedly and make it their home."
"There is truth in what you say, Karlsefin. Have any of your men spoken
on that subject?"
"No, none as yet; but I have not failed to note that some of them are
not so cheerful and hearty as they used to be."
"What is to prevent you making a voyage to Iceland and Norway next
spring," said Leif, "and bringing out the wives and families, and, if
you can, the sweethearts of these men?"
Karlsefin laughed heartily at this suggestion. "Why, Leif," he said,
"has your sojourn on the barren coast of Greenland so wrought on your
good sense, or your feelings, that you should suppose thirty or forty
families will agree at once to leave home and kindred to sail for and
settle in a new land of the West that they have barely,--perhaps never--
heard of; and think you that sweethearts have so few lovers at home that
they will jump at those who are farthest away from them? It is one
thing to take time and trouble to collect men and households that are
willing to emigrate; it is another thing altogether to induce households
to follow men who have already emigrated."
"Nay, but I would counsel you to take the men home along with you, so
that they might use their persuasions," returned Leif; "but, as you say,
it is not a likely course to take, even in that way. What, then, do you
think, is wisest to be done?"
"I cannot yet reply to that, Leif. I see no course open."
"Tell me, Karlsefin, how is it with yourself?" asked Leif, looking
earnestly at his friend. "Are you content to dwell here?"
Karlsefin did not reply for a few seconds.
"Well, to tell you the truth," he said at length, "I do not relish the
notion of calling Vinland _home_. The sea is my home. I have dwelt on
it the greater part of my life. I love its free breezes and surging
waves. The very smell of its salt spray brings pleasant memories to my
soul. I cannot brook the solid earth. While I walk I feel as if I were
glued to it, and when I lie down I am too still. It is like death. On
the sea, whether I stand, or walk, or lie, I am ever bounding on. Yes;
the sea is my native home, and when old age constrains me to forsake it,
and take to the land, my home must be in Iceland."
"Truly if that be your state of mind," said Leif, laughing, "there is
little hope of your finally coming to an anchor here."
"But," continued Karlsefin, less energetically, "it would not be right
in me to forsake those whom I have led hither. I am bound to remain by
and aid them as long as they are willing to stay--at least until they do
not require my services."
"That is well spoken, friend," said Leif. "Thou art indeed so bound.
Now, what I would counsel is this, that you should spend another year,
or perhaps two more years, in Vinland, and at the end of that time it
will be pretty plain either that the colony is going to flourish and can
do without you, or that it is advisable to forsake it and return home.
Meanwhile I would advise that you give the land a fair trial. Put a
good face on it; keep the men busy--for that is the way to keep them
cheerful and contented, always being careful not to overwork them--
provide amusements for their leisure hours if possible, and keep them
from thinking too much of absent wives and sweethearts--if you can."
"_If I can_," repeated Karlsefin, with a smile; "ay, but I don't think I
can. However, your advice seems good, so I will adopt it; and as I
shall be able to follow it out all the better with your aid, I hope that
you will spend next winter with us."
"I agree to that," said Leif; "but I must first visit Greenland in
spring, and then return to you. And now, tell me what you think of the
two thralls King Olaf sent me."
Karlsefin's brow clouded a little as he replied that they were excellent
men in all respects--cheerful, willing, and brave.
"So should I have expected of men sent to me by the King," said Leif,
"but I have noticed that the elder is very sad. Does he pine for his
native land, think ye?"
"Doubtless he does," answered Karlsefin; "but I am tempted to think that
he, like some others among us, pines for an absent sweetheart."
"Not unlikely, not unlikely," observed Leif, looking gravely at the
ground. "And the younger lad, Hake, what of him? He, I think, seems
well enough pleased to remain, if one may judge from his manner and
countenance."
"There is reason for that," returned Karlsefin, with a recurrence of the
troubled expression. "The truth is that Hake is in love with Bertha."
"The thrall?" exclaimed Leif.
"Ay, and he has gone the length of speaking to her of love; I know it,
for I heard him."
"What! does Karlsefin condescend to turn eavesdropper?" said Leif,
looking at his friend in surprise.
"Not so, but I chanced to come within earshot at the close of an
interview they had, and heard a few words in spite of myself. It was in
summer. I was walking through the woods, and suddenly heard voices near
me in the heart of a copse through which I must needs pass. Thinking
nothing about it I advanced and saw Hake and Bertha partially concealed
by the bushes. Suddenly Hake cried passionately, `I cannot help it,
Bertha. I _must_ tell you that I love you if I should die for it;' to
which Bertha replied, `It is useless, Hake; neither Leif nor Karlsefin
will consent, and I shall never oppose their will.' Then Hake said,
`You are right, Bertha, right--forgive me--.' At this point I felt
ashamed of standing still, and turned back lest I should overhear more."
"He is a thrall--a thrall," murmured Leif sternly, as if musing.
"And yet he is a Scottish earl's son," said Karlsefin. "It does seem a
hard case to be a thrall. I wonder if the new religion teaches anything
regarding thraldom."
Leif looked up quickly into his friend's face, but Karlsefin had turned
his head aside as if in meditation, and no further allusion was made to
that subject by either of them.
"Do you think that Bertha returns Hake's love?" asked Leif, after a few
minutes.
"There can be no doubt of that," said Karlsefin, laughing; "the colour
of her cheek, the glance of her eye, and the tones of her voice, are all
tell-tale. But since the day I have mentioned they have evidently held
more aloof from each other."
"That is well," said Leif, somewhat sternly. "Bertha is free-born. She
shall not wed a thrall if he were the son of fifty Scottish earls."
This speech was altogether so unlike what might have been expected from
one of Leif's kind and gentle nature that Karlsefin looked at him in
some astonishment and seemed about to speak, but Leif kept his frowning
eyes steadily on the ground, and the two friends walked the remainder of
the road to the hamlet in perfect silence.