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Disguised Love

By Marie E. Bast

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CHAPTER 1





Spring 1849
Stockholm, Sweden



Early-morning mist covered Stockholm as a biting coastal wind gusted off the Baltic Sea.

Bitter cold hurried Lars Nelson down the brick street, pushing him past multi-story buildings and closer to the docks, where noisy buggies and horses’ hooves echoed over the old, winding cobblestone roads. Passengers from ships, businessmen, investors, shoppers, and proprietors bumped into Lars and shoved him along the path…toward the risky unknown of his future.

A raw breeze, strong enough to scare an old woman, whistled around the corner of a tall building and tugged at Lars’ hat. His pulse hammering in his ears forced Lars to twist his hat down tight around his head so it wouldn’t blow off. He pulled the collar of his gray wool coat up to shield his neck. His steps took on purpose as they grew closer to his destination.

Papa’s pace increased as he walked beside Lars, their boot-heels clicking in-time on the stone walkway, while a few annoying sprinkles fell from the ominous dark clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, quickening their pace.

The closer they drew to the dock, activity increased and a plethora of noise rose. The commotion of sailors and dockworkers loading and unloading ships with dockmasters' voices yelling instructions using crude language as they supervised getting the jobs done.

Lars stepped cautiously over a crack. What if this were a sham? If so, they could lose everything.

The Swedish government had warned emigrants about shamming—swindlers. Sometimes fake U.S. agents boasted about plentiful jobs and land for sale in America. Months later, families in Sweden received letters from friends and relatives in the States complaining that the agents' claims were false. With just enough money for passage, some emigrants lost everything when they couldn’t find work.

Perspiration clung to Lars’ brow but was resistant to the cool breeze as his pace increased. He hoped that he and father wouldn’t regret their decision. Once they’d committed to an irrevocable contract, it forced them to leave Sweden and sail to the United States.

Lars chuckled to himself as his thoughts rewound. He hadn’t wanted to move to America until Mary Swanson changed his mind. “It’ll be an adventure,” Mary said. “My family is leaving Sweden and sailing on the steamship Cobden for New York, then on to Iowa. Mama and Papa want a new life and freedom instead of economic depression and old customs holding us captive. Please come, Lars.”

He loved Mary, and now her dream was his dream.

Shaking off the memory, Lars stopped alongside Papa at the designated address. They stood outside the establishment on Svartensgatan Street, listening to the agent from the U.S. Emigrant Company address the crowd. He announced that the United States wanted settlers for Iowa and the land west of the Mississippi River and that immigrants were welcome.

Whispers and mumbling swept through the crowd. “Is it worth the risk?” someone asked.

“Quiet down, quiet down,” the white-haired agent yelled, waving his hands in the air for attention. “The thing is, gents, they discovered gold last year in California, which started a gold rush. Many sodbusters, tired of trying to tame the prairie into tillable fields, got gold fever, gave up their frontier farmland, and headed west to seek their fortune. They call them the 49ers, men rushing to the gold fields to seek their fortune.” The mumbling grew louder. “Quiet down.” The agent waved his hands again for silence.

Lars listened to the agent, whose tongue, like a horsehair brush, painted a canvas of wide-open prairie and black-soil fields in Iowa. “Midwest Gold,” the agent called it.

“With so many vacant farms, land in Iowa is selling for $1.25 an acre and sold in 40-acre parcels. That means a 40-acre farm would cost about 200 Riksdaler. Gentlemen, that’s reasonable, but the parcels are going fast.” A smile broadened across the agent’s face.

A loud cheer rose in the air, so loud that the agent could barely get the men calmed. “Please. Gentlemen. Quiet!” When the noise lowered, he yelled. “Step right up and sign your contract. The steamship Richard Cobden, registration number 60632, will depart June 29, 1849, from Gävle. To help emigrants out, The Swedish Mission Society in Stockholm is helping to finance this voyage for those destined for Victoria, Illinois.”

“Son, did you hear that?” Papa’s eyes widened. “I could own a 40-acre farm for 50 U.S. dollars. That is less than 200 Riksdaler.” The last few words rode out of Papa’s mouth on a whisper. “Ja, we gotta move to America. There, we can own land. Here we will remain poor.”

“Quiet!” the agent shouted. After a hush fell over the crowd, he continued. “Gents, the Cobden’s manifest is filling fast. You’ll need to decide soon.”

The idea of owning land blanketed Lars like a goose-down quilt on a winter night, wrapping him tightly in his dream.

What could go wrong with a plan so perfect?

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