The Icelandic Canadian - 01.12.1979, Síða 23

THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
21
Again the ship’s doctor came with Mr.
Baldvinsson. He shook his head sorrow-
fully.
“He says there is nothing can be done.
She is dying.” Baldvinsson said. Even as he
spoke the child lay still in her mother’s
arms.
“Captain Malcolm will have to be in-
formed,” the doctor said.
Johanna was left alone with the two sleep-
ing girls and her dead child while the men
sought the captain.
On their return she spoke.
“Are we far from land? Can the burial
wait?”
“More than a day’s voyage. Through the
Gulf of St. Lawrence, and up river to
Quebec City,” Baldvinsson informed.
“Then we can wait?” the woman in-
sisted.
“No, Johanna, my love, it is against
regulations. The burial will be at four
o’clock in the morning,” Jonas said in a
whisper.
“At sea!” Johanna sobbed.
It was the hour before the dawn. The
engines had stopped; the propellor had
ceased to turn; and the Britannica lay at rest.
There were no passengers on deck; only
Captain Malcolm, two uniformed members
of his crew, Baldvin Baldvinsson, and the
parents standing in grief-stricken silence.
Mercifully the now calm ocean was
hidden in heavy morning mist.
Captain Malcolm opened his Bible.
Johanna knew he was reading the burial
service, but his foreign words pierced her
aching heart.
“Let not your heart be troubled ...”
Quietly Baldvinsson re-read the whole
service in their native Icelandic, and the
passages became a meaningful balm for the
soul.
The officers bore the child to the deck’s
railing. Again the captain spoke and Bald-
vinsson translated.
“We now commit the body of our dear
departed to the deep.”
Johanna shivered and tears rolled down
her wan cheeks. She saw them lift their
canvas-shrouded burden and lower it over
the railing. With a sob she turned and
pressed her tear-stained face against her
husband’s rugged chest.
It was early summer in Pembina County,
North Dakota, 1889. The long wearisome
train journey from Quebec to Winnipeg, and
the covered-wagon ox-cart trek on the rough
trail to Pembina were now in the dim vistas
of the past. In their small log cabin, Jonas
and Johanna were hopeful for the future.
There had been rains, and the grass stood
lush and high for their stock’s grazing and
for the summer’s haying. The Icelandic
settlement was prospering against all odds.
There was food, shelter, hope, and love.
In her tiny home-made crib another baby
girl lay sweetly rosy and beautiful.
“Tomorrow we shall go to the church at
Mountain and have her christened,” Jonas
said.
“Yes, christened and named Sigurhlif for
the dear one we lost.”
“She will grow up in America, and her
descendants will be citizens of this New
World,” Jonas said gravely.
Johanna looked lovingly at her husband,
tall, muscular, still handsome though his
red-blonde hair and red beard were already
streaked with gray.
“In the past tragedy has touched our
lives. But God is good. He gives a balm for
every sorrow, and hope is eternal,” she said
fervently.
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