One of the reasons I was so taken by Kuypers cross-country railroad trip was that he'd come to his promised land south to north, oddly enough. Most Dakota Dutch--like my great-grandparents--came from east to west along a well-established immigrant trail, hitting Dutch communities in New Jersey and Michigan or Wisconsin or Illinois, or some variation thereof. The Kuypers' immigrant group were bound since Holland for South Dakota and got off the ship from the Netherlands at the port of New Orleans. From there, by steam ship, they came up the Mississippi, then the Missouri, from St. Louis, to a place (still exists, by the way) named Running Water, which would have been little more than a day a way from their destination, south and west of Platte, South Dakota.
Here's where the story-teller loses to the historians: I've always assumed his colony was the one named Friesland, now gone by the way; and I've always thought--or at least liked to think--that Kuypers' colony raised the Christian Reformed Church's very first bona fide academic star, Dr. Henry Zystra, whose Testament of Vision was required reading for all Calvin College students for generations.
Just thought I'd throw all of that in.
Anyway, I need George Stevenson, who you might already have pegged as a stereotype or a straw man (you wouldn't be wrong). He's interesting, but got a bit too much of the ugly American in him.
______________________________________
“Hey, you’re the Hollander,” Stevenson pointed up and into DeKruyf’s face, then offered the right hand again, palm upward. His drawn face broadened into a smile, and his black eyes shown like onyx as DeKruyf shook the hand once more.
“Back by the Zulus, eh? Know someone back there?”
There were no words like that in his vocabulary, save for some reference to the Dutch of South Africa.
“Zulus—immigrant cars. Always call them Zulus. Don’t rightly know why. Just everyone does—Zulus.” He stopped to think about it himself. “Kinda’ crazy, isn’t it? Everybody says it in the business--Zulus they call ‘em. Anyway, some of your people there?”
“No, no,” DeKruyf shook his head lightly, still smiling, unbuttoning his coat. “I wanted to see once yet the whole train. My family will want to know everything. They may too, travel like this someday.”
“Leavin’ soon, I bet, aren’t you?”
“Jamestown,” Albert told him.
“Just a hop, skip, and a jump,” George Stevenson said.
There was so much Albert told himself he didn’t know.
Stevenson looked around a bit, as if he didn’t want anybody to hear. “You ever been in a ritz?” he said.
DeKruyf had no idea.
“—The show car? The private Pullman?” He looked around shiftily. “Let me tell you, you haven’t seen it all till you seen that. Come with me,” he said covertly. “I can get you in there.” He rolled his eyes. “This is something your kids wouldn’t believe.”
Back they went through the cars until George Stevenson stopped. “Now you let me do the talking, see?” he said. “When I say something to you, just answer in your own language, see. And I can handle the darkies—I know how to talk to ‘em.” He reached into his pockets and retrieved his gloves, then pulled them tightly over his hands.
Quickly, they walked through the fresh air and into the adjoining car, and in a moment a Negro porter in a neatly pressed black suit stood before them, a huge black man. “Y’all can’t be in here,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“The name is Stevens, Theodore Stevens, and I’m with the company,” he told the man. “I work out of Seattle with special accounts.”
The man towered over George Stevenson, but Stevenson countered his physical inferiority with a pride that vaulted high above the porter.
“Here’s the story, my dear man—this gentleman behind me is a very, very rich Dutchman who’s interested in taking some of his people, his associates, on a excursion to the coast.” He took a quick half0-turn back. “Now, granted, he may not look like our rich New York friends, but take it from me—this is the way his people always dress.” He hunched his shoulders timidly. “You know all about that, don’t you? He needs private accomodations, and it’s my responsibility to show him around. So, I’ll be sure to pass your name along if you’ll just get out of the way—we won’t be long.”
“I’m not allowed to admit no one to this car here while the train is running,” the porter told them.
“Listen, Mr. Villard is a personal friend.” He pointed at Albertus. “Of this guy too, see? He doesn’t know the language, or he’d say so himself. Maybe it’s lucky that he can’t or if he’d a heard you he’d already decided on the Union Pacific.”
The black man was not interested in letting anyone cross his path. “You got a card or something?” he asked.
What Stevenson said then were words Albertus wasn’t expecting. “Now listen, boy,” he said, and you listen good, hear? This guy’s a rich bird, and if Northern loses his account, then some poor darkie will be wearing that good-looking suit of yours and you’ll be pickin’ cotton—you hear?”
The porter moved slightly, just far enough for the two of them to get through to wherever they were going.
Stevenson didn’t let it alone. “What’s your name, boy?” he said. “I got to get your name because you can bet that Mr. Villard will hear about this—he’ll be thanking you personally, I’m sure.” He patted the black man’s shoulder. “I know you can’t just let any trash comin’ in here—I know that’s your job. I get that.” He pointed quickly. “We’ll just be standing here a minute or so, just not at all in your way, hear?”
The porter walked to the front of the car. Albertus DeKruyf had never seen anything quite like that. He wondered if all Americans were like George Stevenson.
Stevenson’s hand swept through the air in a grand gesture of a master magician. “How’s this, wooden shoe?” he said.
DeKruyf was stunned. Not even in Holland had he seen anything quite like it on a train, so lavish. The ceiling was rich, hand-carved walnut, festooned with what seemed gold embroidery. Stained glass windows ran along the canopy, surrounding a flamboyant chandelier. Velvet curtains framed the huge side windows, and matching upholstery, complete with dangling fringe, dressed a showroom of rockers and straight chairs on a shimmering oriental rug. Spacious mirrors adorned the walls that separated the compartments, giving the whole interior even more elegance and at least the appearance of extra space. It was a palace on iron wheels. He imagined himself sitting here, pipe filled with imported tobacco, his wife clean, content, happily watching her darling grandchildren play on the colorful carpet.
"What does it cost?" he asked, astounded.
"To build?--who knows? Couple thousand? Couple hundred thousand? To rent? Fifty a day, I think."
"Fifty?" De Kruyf was incredulous. "Who can spend so much money?"
Stevenson seemed to purr as he shaped his mustache with his fingers and pursed his lips. "Goodly number, my friend. Car like this is always booked. There's a lot a rich folks in this land, you know. That's what I been tellin' you all the time. There's lots of 'em what already got theirs. The rest of us just gotta take it when we can get it, you know. This here's a great land. Who knows, move yerselves up to Washington, and a coupla’ years you might be here yourself.”
“Hey, you’re the Hollander,” Stevenson pointed up and into DeKruyf’s face, then offered the right hand again, palm upward. His drawn face broadened into a smile, and his black eyes shown like onyx as DeKruyf shook the hand once more.
“Back by the Zulus, eh? Know someone back there?”
There were no words like that in his vocabulary, save for some reference to the Dutch of South Africa.
“Zulus—immigrant cars. Always call them Zulus. Don’t rightly know why. Just everyone does—Zulus.” He stopped to think about it himself. “Kinda’ crazy, isn’t it? Everybody says it in the business--Zulus they call ‘em. Anyway, some of your people there?”
“No, no,” DeKruyf shook his head lightly, still smiling, unbuttoning his coat. “I wanted to see once yet the whole train. My family will want to know everything. They may too, travel like this someday.”
“Leavin’ soon, I bet, aren’t you?”
“Jamestown,” Albert told him.
“Just a hop, skip, and a jump,” George Stevenson said.
There was so much Albert told himself he didn’t know.
Stevenson looked around a bit, as if he didn’t want anybody to hear. “You ever been in a ritz?” he said.
DeKruyf had no idea.
“—The show car? The private Pullman?” He looked around shiftily. “Let me tell you, you haven’t seen it all till you seen that. Come with me,” he said covertly. “I can get you in there.” He rolled his eyes. “This is something your kids wouldn’t believe.”
Back they went through the cars until George Stevenson stopped. “Now you let me do the talking, see?” he said. “When I say something to you, just answer in your own language, see. And I can handle the darkies—I know how to talk to ‘em.” He reached into his pockets and retrieved his gloves, then pulled them tightly over his hands.
Quickly, they walked through the fresh air and into the adjoining car, and in a moment a Negro porter in a neatly pressed black suit stood before them, a huge black man. “Y’all can’t be in here,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“The name is Stevens, Theodore Stevens, and I’m with the company,” he told the man. “I work out of Seattle with special accounts.”
The man towered over George Stevenson, but Stevenson countered his physical inferiority with a pride that vaulted high above the porter.
“Here’s the story, my dear man—this gentleman behind me is a very, very rich Dutchman who’s interested in taking some of his people, his associates, on a excursion to the coast.” He took a quick half0-turn back. “Now, granted, he may not look like our rich New York friends, but take it from me—this is the way his people always dress.” He hunched his shoulders timidly. “You know all about that, don’t you? He needs private accomodations, and it’s my responsibility to show him around. So, I’ll be sure to pass your name along if you’ll just get out of the way—we won’t be long.”
“I’m not allowed to admit no one to this car here while the train is running,” the porter told them.
“Listen, Mr. Villard is a personal friend.” He pointed at Albertus. “Of this guy too, see? He doesn’t know the language, or he’d say so himself. Maybe it’s lucky that he can’t or if he’d a heard you he’d already decided on the Union Pacific.”
The black man was not interested in letting anyone cross his path. “You got a card or something?” he asked.
What Stevenson said then were words Albertus wasn’t expecting. “Now listen, boy,” he said, and you listen good, hear? This guy’s a rich bird, and if Northern loses his account, then some poor darkie will be wearing that good-looking suit of yours and you’ll be pickin’ cotton—you hear?”
The porter moved slightly, just far enough for the two of them to get through to wherever they were going.
Stevenson didn’t let it alone. “What’s your name, boy?” he said. “I got to get your name because you can bet that Mr. Villard will hear about this—he’ll be thanking you personally, I’m sure.” He patted the black man’s shoulder. “I know you can’t just let any trash comin’ in here—I know that’s your job. I get that.” He pointed quickly. “We’ll just be standing here a minute or so, just not at all in your way, hear?”
The porter walked to the front of the car. Albertus DeKruyf had never seen anything quite like that. He wondered if all Americans were like George Stevenson.
Stevenson’s hand swept through the air in a grand gesture of a master magician. “How’s this, wooden shoe?” he said.
DeKruyf was stunned. Not even in Holland had he seen anything quite like it on a train, so lavish. The ceiling was rich, hand-carved walnut, festooned with what seemed gold embroidery. Stained glass windows ran along the canopy, surrounding a flamboyant chandelier. Velvet curtains framed the huge side windows, and matching upholstery, complete with dangling fringe, dressed a showroom of rockers and straight chairs on a shimmering oriental rug. Spacious mirrors adorned the walls that separated the compartments, giving the whole interior even more elegance and at least the appearance of extra space. It was a palace on iron wheels. He imagined himself sitting here, pipe filled with imported tobacco, his wife clean, content, happily watching her darling grandchildren play on the colorful carpet.
"What does it cost?" he asked, astounded.
"To build?--who knows? Couple thousand? Couple hundred thousand? To rent? Fifty a day, I think."
"Fifty?" De Kruyf was incredulous. "Who can spend so much money?"
Stevenson seemed to purr as he shaped his mustache with his fingers and pursed his lips. "Goodly number, my friend. Car like this is always booked. There's a lot a rich folks in this land, you know. That's what I been tellin' you all the time. There's lots of 'em what already got theirs. The rest of us just gotta take it when we can get it, you know. This here's a great land. Who knows, move yerselves up to Washington, and a coupla’ years you might be here yourself.”
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