Albertus is going to get some exercise by walking through the cars today. Don't be surprised if you start to think the Great Northern is a bit of a microcosm.
Spoiler alert: Albertus Kuypers stayed in South Dakota. I knew that when I wrote the story, and so should you while reading it. As a writer, I've just got to figure out how to determine the nature of his motivations. Lots of his people--and his Dutch neighbors--did stay, however; they left for Washington, although that fact plays no part of the story I'm writing.
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Just outside of Bismarck, Albertus De Kruyf decided to work his way through the train, since he had somewhat less than several hours before catching the Union southbound out of Jamestown. He checked his baggage beneath the bench and walked back uneasily toward the retiring room. A news butcher approached him with an English paper, but DeKruyf, more to rid himself of the nuisance than anything else, bought an additional supply of tobacco before opening the red oak door to the next car.
The air was cool and moist beneath a canopy of clouds that shrouded the sun since the train's descent from the mountains. Yet he felt almost joyous, because that moisture would be received with great thanks by the people; he hoped it would reach his own people in Douglas County. Furthermore, the tension of living with so many strange Americans could be at least momentarily forgotten in the isolation of the decks between cars. No one saw him smile broadly here; no one saw him raise his hand upward, pulling out the stiffness that had worn into his arms and legs. There was something in him that wanted to shout, to scream like a child, to release the fatigue of doing nothing but sitting through the interminable expanse of this huge country. He stood straight momentarily, observing the heavy, gray clouds of spring rolling through the sky. He was nearly home.
There was some unease in that knowledge, however, for he had been sent to Washington as a representative of the colony. Albertus DeKruyf, no one else, had been able to see the beauty there. No one else had tasted of the bounty, had felt the moisture deep within the dark earth, had envisioned a new town, a transported colony flourishing in verdant new surroundings. But now no one else could make the decision. This barren land, this flat, lifeless land, or the new land so far away. This land of frequent fires, this land where grasshoppers came in waves, the land of drought, of brutal winters--this land, or the promise of a vision only he had seen.
He stepped into the adjoining car, closed the door softly behind him, and walked in. The car, like his own, was a Pullman. People sat comfortably on upholstered benches, reading, talking, some even playing cards, while others, sprawled in rather unsightly postures, tried to catch more sleep. The next three cars were all Pullmans, well-provided with the collapsible, padded upper berths, most of which were pulled up and out of the way during the day, held snugly to the ceiling by chains, while the passengers lounged beneath, separated, perhaps, by the hinged table which stood between the two facing seats. Pullmans seemed a taste of the promise of America.
With the next car, however he was much more familiar, even though it stood empty. Although the passage was marked by no additional obstructions, DeKruyf knew immediately that a change was imminent, for the picture differed drastically. The same stove sentried the door, but in the place of upholstered seats and collapsible bedding, clean but hard wooden cubicles stood, boxed atop each other. The immigrant car was not new to him. He’d seen it on the way to Washington, the people packed in like animals in cattle cars. He’d sometimes traveled with immigrants who’d come from the east.
Old women sat there as if in a trance their grayed hair swathed by triangular scarves. Children ran and played where they could find an opening, chattering and squealing some foreign language. Men sat soberly, smoking pipes or cigars. Some sipped from clear, unlabeled bottles. The air hung heavy with the odor of uncleanliness, the stench of stale smoke, the pungency of open liquor. The vision, the smells, the noise was haunting, the chaos, the madness. The immigrant car was almost empty now. The sound of the rails chanted through lifeless walls.
He passed through slowly, as if it were a graveyard, and came to the next car, this one alive with Chinese, whose monotone staccatos almost hurt his ears. Some smiled as he passed; most failed to acknowledge his presence. Square-shouldered Russians filled the next car, then more Orientals.
One vision drew them all together on this pilgrimage, one vision compelled them all, and De Kruyf understood himself the sweet illusion, for he too had slept on such a hard bench as these, hoping for something which existed only in his mind, but pained by a gnawing realization, growing with each passing mile that somehow reality wouldn’t or more pathetically, couldn’t fulfill the vision. But he was different now, he told himself, for this time he had seen the land, tasted its crops and smelled its richness. He passed back through the immigrant crowds, walking like an American in a land of Babel, face forward, chin lifted in a vain display of acquitted self-assurance, the human desire to empathize subordinated to the knowledge that his own car was the Pullman.
When he left the last immigrant car, he drew the door softly shut behind him, as if he might wake the occupants from a satisfying sleep. The cold spring air woke him to the realization that he was learning something, that the Lord was committing something to his understanding, if only he could discover what it was. He paused for an unspoken prayer, then passed back into the Pullman, shutting the red door and turning directly into the face of George Stevenson.
Just outside of Bismarck, Albertus De Kruyf decided to work his way through the train, since he had somewhat less than several hours before catching the Union southbound out of Jamestown. He checked his baggage beneath the bench and walked back uneasily toward the retiring room. A news butcher approached him with an English paper, but DeKruyf, more to rid himself of the nuisance than anything else, bought an additional supply of tobacco before opening the red oak door to the next car.
The air was cool and moist beneath a canopy of clouds that shrouded the sun since the train's descent from the mountains. Yet he felt almost joyous, because that moisture would be received with great thanks by the people; he hoped it would reach his own people in Douglas County. Furthermore, the tension of living with so many strange Americans could be at least momentarily forgotten in the isolation of the decks between cars. No one saw him smile broadly here; no one saw him raise his hand upward, pulling out the stiffness that had worn into his arms and legs. There was something in him that wanted to shout, to scream like a child, to release the fatigue of doing nothing but sitting through the interminable expanse of this huge country. He stood straight momentarily, observing the heavy, gray clouds of spring rolling through the sky. He was nearly home.
There was some unease in that knowledge, however, for he had been sent to Washington as a representative of the colony. Albertus DeKruyf, no one else, had been able to see the beauty there. No one else had tasted of the bounty, had felt the moisture deep within the dark earth, had envisioned a new town, a transported colony flourishing in verdant new surroundings. But now no one else could make the decision. This barren land, this flat, lifeless land, or the new land so far away. This land of frequent fires, this land where grasshoppers came in waves, the land of drought, of brutal winters--this land, or the promise of a vision only he had seen.
He stepped into the adjoining car, closed the door softly behind him, and walked in. The car, like his own, was a Pullman. People sat comfortably on upholstered benches, reading, talking, some even playing cards, while others, sprawled in rather unsightly postures, tried to catch more sleep. The next three cars were all Pullmans, well-provided with the collapsible, padded upper berths, most of which were pulled up and out of the way during the day, held snugly to the ceiling by chains, while the passengers lounged beneath, separated, perhaps, by the hinged table which stood between the two facing seats. Pullmans seemed a taste of the promise of America.
With the next car, however he was much more familiar, even though it stood empty. Although the passage was marked by no additional obstructions, DeKruyf knew immediately that a change was imminent, for the picture differed drastically. The same stove sentried the door, but in the place of upholstered seats and collapsible bedding, clean but hard wooden cubicles stood, boxed atop each other. The immigrant car was not new to him. He’d seen it on the way to Washington, the people packed in like animals in cattle cars. He’d sometimes traveled with immigrants who’d come from the east.
Old women sat there as if in a trance their grayed hair swathed by triangular scarves. Children ran and played where they could find an opening, chattering and squealing some foreign language. Men sat soberly, smoking pipes or cigars. Some sipped from clear, unlabeled bottles. The air hung heavy with the odor of uncleanliness, the stench of stale smoke, the pungency of open liquor. The vision, the smells, the noise was haunting, the chaos, the madness. The immigrant car was almost empty now. The sound of the rails chanted through lifeless walls.
He passed through slowly, as if it were a graveyard, and came to the next car, this one alive with Chinese, whose monotone staccatos almost hurt his ears. Some smiled as he passed; most failed to acknowledge his presence. Square-shouldered Russians filled the next car, then more Orientals.
One vision drew them all together on this pilgrimage, one vision compelled them all, and De Kruyf understood himself the sweet illusion, for he too had slept on such a hard bench as these, hoping for something which existed only in his mind, but pained by a gnawing realization, growing with each passing mile that somehow reality wouldn’t or more pathetically, couldn’t fulfill the vision. But he was different now, he told himself, for this time he had seen the land, tasted its crops and smelled its richness. He passed back through the immigrant crowds, walking like an American in a land of Babel, face forward, chin lifted in a vain display of acquitted self-assurance, the human desire to empathize subordinated to the knowledge that his own car was the Pullman.
When he left the last immigrant car, he drew the door softly shut behind him, as if he might wake the occupants from a satisfying sleep. The cold spring air woke him to the realization that he was learning something, that the Lord was committing something to his understanding, if only he could discover what it was. He paused for an unspoken prayer, then passed back into the Pullman, shutting the red door and turning directly into the face of George Stevenson.
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