Anna Hansdatter: Hunger In the Dale

Chapter 5

The next summer, crops were again plentiful, Little Ole was confirmed at age 16, and Hans Nilsen Hauge visited and preached at Ringebu church. The priests of two adjoining parishes, Froen and Gausdal, were outraged, appealing to the bishop to forbid the visit. But the bishop sided with Ringebu’s priest, with urging from his friend, the bishop of Stavanger diocese, who had already welcomed Hauge there as an official and permanent lay-preacher.

After still another good growing season, the winter of 1799-1800 was the most brutal in memory. In the valley, hundreds of cattle and sheep froze or starved before the spring thaw. The thaw was slow in coming, and the rains were slower yet. And that spring, the last of the guano deposit was spread on Flaate’s fields. The family knew that they would soon have to leave their secluded meadow.

Late one night, baby Anna, now three years old, suddenly began coughing. As minutes passed, the coughing became more violent, and her breathing became wheezy and irregular.

“What’s wrong, Ma?” asked Poul. Both boys at first resented being awakened, but by now were genuinely worried about their little sister.

Mari touched each boy reassuringly, and stammered, “J … just … cough,” trying to hide her own anxiety.

Mari put on a pan of water, stoked the fire, and held Anna with her face in the steam. After a long time, the coughing subsided, her breathing relaxed, and the exhausted toddler fell into a deep sleep. The boys had already drifted off, but Mari slept no more that night. From then on, the worrisome coughing attacks struck the girl at irregular intervals.

= = =

In late June, Flaate received a visitor from across the fjord, Gerta Hansdatter. Although they did not know her well, the Flaate family greeted their guest with the customary foot-washing and psalm of praise. Knowing little of the Brethren and their ways, Gerta was both puzzled by the ritual and deeply moved by the sincerity and warmth of the welcome. Over tea with all the adults, she briefly explained the reason for her visit.

Her husband, Sven Karlsen, died suddenly a month ago. He had spent the past twenty years clearing and developing a large but very run-down farm he inherited from his father. Neighbors thought the land was played out, but Sven proved them wrong, creating a productive and thriving farm. At the time of his death, Sven and Gerta were finishing the spring planting. Helping them were three hired men, a housekeeper, and four fine draft horses. There were no children.

But Sven was heavily in debt, and several of the debts were coming due by midsummer. As he drove his wagon and best team to Skurdal for the last load of seed potatoes, his chest was seized with pain. He slumped over and died in the wagon seat. It seemed his body was barely cold when the creditors began to circle overhead. One of these was a Danish nobleman, Baron Henrik von Galting, with holdings in Vaaga parish, and connections with Father Magnussen of Froen.

The constable served on Gerta Hansdatter a court order seizing all the assets of Sven Karlsen, except for his land and buildings, and his household furniture. The widow was entitled to keep these for one year without threat of foreclosure against her husband’s debt. Everything else would be held by the magistrate for eventual distribution to the creditors. Soldiers took away the horses, along with all the other livestock and equipment, even most of the food and feed. The hired help was told they would no longer be needed, and to apply to the magistrate for their back pay. They were sent away, homeless and penniless, to seek work elsewhere. Gerta was left alone with the growing crops and little else. It was clear that someone, probably the Dane himself, coveted the farm, and she was determined that it should not fall to him.

“So I am here,” Gerta concluded, “to ask if you will buy my farm, and take it for your own; only let me live out my life there with you. The crops are growing well, now that the weather has finally warmed, and there may be an excellent harvest if only someone could tend and reap it.”

“To live out your life with us, you are welcome, Gerta Hansdatter,” said Ole, “But your farm is so large, it must be worth a great deal. What is the price you need?”

“Only the amount of my husband’s debts,” she replied. “About five thousand crowns.”

Ole and Johan looked at each other, and Ole replied, “Dear Gerta, we have some money, but not nearly that much. But our dream is to share just such a farm co-operatively with one or two other families. Please spend the night with us, and let us pray and try to discern God’s will in this time of great change.”

Gerta stayed for supper, but then took her leave. The sun would not set until almost midnight, and the short trail through the fjord took only two hours for an unburdened hiker. Ole and Johan walked with Gerta to the rim of the fjord. From there, they could see the other farm only a mile or so away, but by the nearest road, it took a full day by buggy or sleigh, and up to two days by wagon.

“The name of your farm is Svendsrud, isn’t it?” asked Johan.

“We meant that to be only a temporary name,” she said, “until we had children, or thought of a better name. I hope you will name it Flaate. Please come tomorrow.” Without another word, she started down the trail and quickly disappeared.

When the men returned home, the hour was late. They were surprised to find another visitor waiting for them: Anders Amundsen of Gausdal parish. Anders was brushing his horse when he spied the two rushing toward him. Tears of joy flowed from all eyes as the men embraced. The Amundsen and Olsen families had been close friends and near neighbors. Both had been instrumental in forming the Gausdal Brethren.

Though all the men were smiling, Anders’ face looked weary and drawn as Ole washed his feet and they said a prayer together. Anders and Johan stared at each other. Johan’s disfigured face was hidden as always by his kerchief, but his cap was pushed back, exposing a severely scarred forehead and scalp. Anders’ face was also burned; his cheeks were red and blistered, and his hair and beard, although trimmed short, still showed some singed areas.

Johan suddenly guessed the story. “You were burned out?” he asked.

“Yesterday,” sighed Anders. “They torched our south field. My whole crop of winter wheat was ripe and ready for harvest. A good crop, too, considering the cold spring. We tried to fight the fire with wet sacks, but we lost it all, and two barns besides. No one was injured, praise God. But there’s too much hatred there, Brother. We are moving out.”

“What about your land?”

“We’ve sold it. David Jacobsen, the owner of the adjacent farm, offered us three thousand, cash. He sent for the money today.”

“You don’t think he’s in with the hooligans?” asked Johan skeptically.

“No, he is an honest man. We’ve been friends for many years. I was glad to sell to him. I agreed to move out within sixty days after we get the money.”

Ole and Johan looked at each other, than turned to the others. The enormity of this coincidence left them all dumbfounded.

“Well?” said Anders, “Why are you all so surprised, after what happened to you? I was just unlucky enough to be next. The priest has had me in his sights for months.”

“It isn’t that,” began Johan, and recounted Gerta Hansdatter’s visit earlier in the day. All that night and into the morning, they discussed the prospect of the two families farming co-operatively. The simultaneous misfortunes of Anders and of Gerta had created an opportunity to realize Ole’s dream. There was one sticking point, however.

“What of your servants?” Ole asked.

Anders thought for a moment. He knew Ole’s feelings on the subject of servitude, but his family, like many others, had depended on servant labor for generations. “That’s a bit of a problem,” he said. “We have two field hands, plus a milkmaid and a housekeeper. The farm you describe is twice as large as mine. How can we manage it with only our own labor?”

Ole replied, “Between the two families there are three men and two strong boys, with two more growing boys, who can take on more work year by year. Counting Gerta Hansdatter, there are four women to share the chores. Before long, your three girls will be old enough to help as well. If we plan carefully, we can match the work needed with the help available.”

“Perhaps,” said Anders. “But I worry for the servants’ sake too. Especially our housekeeper, Rønog Iversdatter. She is old and almost blind, and has been with our family since before I was born. We even named our youngest daughter after her. She is just like a part of our family.”

“So be it, then,” Ole said. “If she wishes, she should live with us not as a servant, but as much a part of the family as one of our own mothers.”

Anders smiled, “Ja, I guess that’s pretty much how it is already. As for the others, they are young, and with my recommendation, can easily find work elsewhere.”

The sun was already high in the northeast when the three men prepared to set out on foot to Svendsrud. “I’m coming too,” said Kari, putting on her cloak and shoes. She looked invitingly at Mari, who shook her head.

“It’s alright, Mari,” volunteered Little Ole. “I can look after Anna and the others. I’m eighteen now. Torger can do the milking and chores.”

Mari shook her head again. She did not wish to be away so long, for fear that Anna might have another of her coughing attacks.

When the four arrived at Svendsrud, Gerta Hansdatter served them tea and freshly baked bread before taking them on a tour of the farm. It was indeed a large spread, with over two hundred acres under cultivation, and twice that in forest and scrub. The fields were fertile, the buildings sturdy and well-maintained. On one of the largest fields, a crop of winter wheat was nearing maturity.

“This is more wheat than I lost in the fire,” said Anders.

“But it will be seized by the court, I’m afraid,” Gerta fretted. “It will be ready in two or three weeks, and even if you decide to buy the farm, I don’t think we can complete the sale in time.”

The four visitors exchanged looks among themselves, and the consensus was clear. “We will buy it, Gerta Hansdatter, and try our best to save this crop.” Ole said.

Gerta was delighted by their decision, but anxious about the details. “It will not be easy,” she said. “There are powerful forces working against us. I believe that Father Magnussen is in league with Baron Galting to take the farm from me.”

“Well, then,” said Anders, “first of all, we must keep our plans a secret as long as possible. I should have the money from the sale of my farm in five or six days. Ole, how quickly can you get the money from your bank account?”

“Most likely in seven to ten days.” Ole replied.

“In the meantime,” Anders continued, “I will go to the county seat in Tretten, where my brother is a lawyer. He can draw up the papers and have them ready. As soon as we have the money, Gerta, Ole, and I will ride to Tretten, close the sale, and deliver the money to the magistrate to pay off Gerta’s debts.”

The plan worked smoothly. Two weeks later, the three partners arrived in Froen, accompanied by their lawyer, with a court order to release Gerta’s livestock, equipment, and other property, all of which were being held at the priest’s farm (Praestegaard). They were stopped at the farm’s gate.

The lawyer announced himself to the gatekeeper. “Eric Amundsen, attorney and court officer of the Diocese of Tretten. We have business with Father Magnussen.”

“Wait here,” commanded the gatekeeper. He rode to the hilltop and signaled to the house watchman. Several minutes later, the priest appeared at the gate.

“Good afternoon, Father Magnussen.” began the lawyer, and introduced his companions. “We have come to claim the possessions of Gerta Hansdatter. Here are the magistrate’s instructions.”

The priest was furious. His hands shook as he read and re-read the court order, looking up from time to time at the callers. “Let me see your passports,” he demanded. (At that time, written permission from the priest or constable was required to travel outside one’s own parish.)

Ole and Anders produced their documents. The priest glared at Gerta. “What about yours?” He knew perfectly well she had none.

The lawyer spoke up, “My client is your own parishioner, sir, standing on the grounds of the parish’s own farm,” he said. “She needs no passport.”

The priest growled and cleared his throat. He wasn’t so sure about that last point. He would like to have challenged it – the law is the law, he thought; and she had obviously been to Tretten – but, better to choose your battles.

“Your client?” said the priest slowly, feeling his way. “Your own brother, there beside you, he is not your client?”

“He is my co-client, sir, along with Ole Flaate, beside him. The three are partners in the former Svendsrud farm, which they have legally renamed Flaate.”

The priest gasped, “Without my knowledge? Does a priest no longer have a say in his own parish?” He thought for a moment. “Come back tomorrow, but not before noon. I’ll have the law on my side by then, or you can have your damned nags and scrawny cows. Now, good day.”

The priest was grasping at straws, and he knew it. But he sent a swift rider to Tretten with a letter for the magistrate, begging a quick reply. By midmorning of the next day, the rider returned. The reply read,

Dear Father Magnussen,

The sale of Svendsrud farm, and the payment in full of Svend Karlsen’s debts, were conducted properly and duly recorded by the magistrate’s office. You must release the livestock and personal property as stipulated in my order. If you have well-founded objections to the change of the farm’s name, based on its history or geographic considerations, you may appeal that decision in writing. But since the old name has stood for only twenty years, and the farm is of no importance as a landmark or trading center, I can think of no substantial argument in your favor. However, I will forward your concerns to Bishop Hovde.

With greetings,

Th Honorable Reidar Flynt
Chief Magistrate, Tretten District

The priest fumed and plotted, but when the three arrived that afternoon with Anders’ team and wagon, he had no choice but to let them begin removing their possessions. Since these included another wagon and team, the moving went swiftly. In three days, all the livestock, equipment and supplies were retrieved. Then came the moving of Anders’ family, livestock, and possessions from Gausdal. It was a four-day round trip by wagon, and there was work to do at the farms in the meantime, so it took most of the summer.

Anders’ hired hands stayed on for the first week or two, until they found employment at other farms. After that, there were only the three men; Ole, Johan, and Anders, plus Little Ole and Torger. The two boys were delighted to now have four horses in the family. True, they were mainly draft horses. They were also saddle-trained, but seldom spared from farm work to carry riders.

Along with the animals came the need to drive them and care for them. Johan had trouble handling the teams. His voice was not loud or clear enough to shout commands over the noise of hooves and wheels. Anders was a fair teamster, he could whistle and shout loudly and had good command of the reins.

Ole was the master. He gave commands only loud enough for the horses to hear. If they were at a standstill and all was quiet, he would tell them, almost in a pleasant speaking voice, “Hey, now, hey!” give the reins the slightest twitch, and the team started off as smoothly as you please. Even at the loudest, with a noisy wagon and hard road, his shouts sounded friendly, sometimes even cheerful, and the beasts responded with cooperation.

With so many long wagon trips ahead, and only two drivers, the men considered training Little Ole and Torger to drive the teams. They decided, though, that the training would take too long, and the boys were sorely needed in the fields of both the “old Flaate” meadow and the new farm of the same name. For the time being, Ole and Anders remained the only available drivers. Johan occasionally drove in relief for field work only. He did not drive the wagon trips, because of his unease both with the horses, and with the stares and whispers of people along the road.

In late summer, the arsonist who burned Anders Amundsen’s wheat field was arrested and sent to Tretten to stand trial. He was unrepentant before the magistrate, going so far as to quote from his parish priest’s sermons as justification for his crime. When word of this reached the bishop, he traveled to Gausdal and demanded to see the priest’s sermon notes for the entire year. Based on what he found, he reassigned the priest to a mission parish in the far north.

By early September, it was time to move the Flaate family from the mountain meadow. What few possessions they took, along with the season’s crop of grain and potatoes, had to be packed on horseback to the wagon road, then driven by way of Ringebu and Hundorp. The wagon trip alone was a long day’s travel each way, sometimes two days. The short-cut through the fjord was too steep and fragile for anything but foot travel; even that caused some erosion. Travel on horseback would be dangerous and destructive.

Grandfather Ole drove the last load from the meadow, with Mari, Poul, Nels, and Anna riding along. As they began the drive, Nels asked to sit in the wagon seat between Mari and Ole. He watched the horses carefully, and listened to Ole’s pleasant calls. Ole gave a short, high whistle, and called, “All right, girls, Hey now! Hey” He shook the reigns once, and the horses went into a slow walk. After watching the wagon and load for a moment, he called, “Pick it up girls, Hey! Hey!” The horses walked faster. Nels noticed that Ole hadn’t used the reigns at all that time.

Nels looked at the old man and said, “Can I call you Grandpa?”

Ole and Mari glanced at each other, and Ole blushed. “Call me Grandpa Ole, if your mother doesn’t mind.” Mari smiled and nodded.

“Grandpa Ole, the horses really like you.”

“What’s not to like?” Ole joked. “Don’t you like me?”

Now Nels blushed. “Ja, but …”

“I talk nice to them. I give them a carrot for lunch.”

Nels laughed, then his face grew more serious. “Did you know my Pa?”

“No, Nels, I never got to meet him.”

“He was a teamster, like you.”

“Ja, our friend Berit told me,” said Ole.

Nels sat up front and observed Ole’s driving for over an hour, then moved to the wagon bed with his brother and sister.

As they passed near the Praestegaard, the constable rode up from behind and ordered them to stop. Beside him were his two wolfhounds. To Ole and Mari, he said, “Show me your passports.” The dogs growled softly.

Ole produced his document and held it out. The constable looked toward Mari. She looked at his eyes and shook her head slightly. He could not return her gaze, but averted his eyes a little, and said in a commanding voice, “Mari Nelsdatter, I arrest you in the name of Froen Parish and the Kingdom of Denmark.” The dogs squinted and growled louder. The children cowered silently in the wagon.

In an incredulous voice, Ole said, “Arrest her? On what possible charge …?”

“Shut up!” barked the constable. The dogs snarled. “For traveling away from the parish without a passport.”

Mari, shaken but unsurprised, turned to Ole and tried to whisper in his ear, “F … Fa … ther … Ny …” Ole nodded his understanding.

“Come on, then.” The constable reached toward Mari to help her from the wagon. Instead, she held out both arms as if to be bound. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Just walk ahead of me, don’t run, and do as I say. The dogs will stay behind me as long as you don’t run.”

Awkwardly, Mari dismounted the wagon without assistance. She looked around at her children. Anna started to cry.

“Shut up!” the constable snapped. The dogs snarled again. The boys hushed Anna as best they could. “Ahead of me,” he said to Mari, and pointed down the road behind the wagon.

With a tearful gesture to the children, Mari turned and walked slowly, with her curious, crooked gait, toward the Praestegaard. “A little faster, just don’t run,” said the constable.

All three children were crying as the wagon pulled away. After the constable was out of sight, Ole snapped the reins to pick up the pace. The new farm was still hours away; instead, he drove to Skurdal, to seek help from Berit Simonsdatter.

Skurdal was a huge complex of four farms, all owned by branches of the same family. The owners were kind, treating the peasants relatively well. Still, living was hand-to-mouth, and depended heavily on potatoes. Berit had made her home there for three years now, delivering dozens of babies. Since Mari’s injury, Berit had become the “midwife of choice,” not only at the Skurdal farms, but throughout southern Froen.

Berit was appalled to hear of Mari’s arrest, and went directly to the big house of South Skurdal. Johannes Skurdal agreed to have one of his teamsters drive the wagon and the children to Flaate (or “New Flaate,” as some called it) and to loan Ole a fast saddle-horse. Ole rode to Ringebu at a gallop to call on Father Nygaard.

Upon hearing Ole’s story, Father Nygaard said, “Old Magnussen has lost his mind. I could see it coming. When he was told of the affair in Gausdal, he exploded. Went on a tirade about the lay-preachers and their unauthorized meetings. You would almost have thought he sympathized with the arsonists. And now this. He’s really gone over the edge.”

With that, the young priest saddled his horse, saying, “You must come with me to see the bishop. He is taking the waters at Tretten this week. If we hurry, we can be there by nightfall.” They arrived in Tretten late that night, and found lodging at the monastery. Both men were exhausted and sore from the long ride.