The Icelandic Canadian - 01.06.1995, Qupperneq 41

SPRING /SUMMER 1995
THE ICELANDIC CANADIAN
151
written the longer letter before he left Fort
Garry, but the other he wrote in bed, in
pencil, the day after he came here to the
abbey. Whether the letters have ever been
delivered, I do not know. But I have valid
reasons to believe that they have gone amiss
in some way, — at least the letter which was
written on Ambrosius’ Mass (April 4th),
and they who read these lines to the end
may be of the same opinion.
The first days that Mr. Berg was here in
the abbey, he was often well enough to
speak and could sit propped up in bed with
a cushion behind his shoulders for an hour
or more. He used this time to write some
lines, either in the writing book or on the
loose sheets of paper. He wrote each line
quickly and although he was not educated,
his handwriting was beautiful, but quite
peculiar, and showed clearly that he was
more painstaking than men generally are
nowadays.
The day after Godson and Villon left the
abbey, Mr. Berg said to Jean and me, “What
do you think about my illness?”
“Your illness is very serious,” said Brother
Jean.
“Do you think my death is near?”
“I think it will be soon,” answered
Brother Jean.
“It gladdens me to know that my suffer-
ing is about to end,” said Mr. Berg, and a
glow of happiness seemed to spread over
his face. “Pain submits best to rest! I am
sated with life and men. Nor am I unpre-
pared. I am ready whenever the call comes.”
The next day (April 8th), he was feeling
better, for he had slept rather peacefully
during the night. In the morning he asked
me to lend him pen and ink, which I did
immediately. He sat up in bed for a full
hour with the cushion behind his shoul-
ders and wrote furiously. It was then that
he started the letter that will accompany
this narrative of mine. After midday that
day, he said to me, “I have a secret matter
that I wish to discuss because I know you
are discreet and trustworthy and God-fear-
ing.”
“What is your secret about?” I said, after
a short silence. I half feared that he would
let me hear a long confession of some
youthful offence.
“It is about a treasure buried in the
earth,” said he, gazing into space.
“Is it a large sum?” I asked.
“It comes to several thousand American
dollars in banknotes, not gold or silver, and
also a small bankbook.”
“Where is this treasure buried?”
“It is buried on the banks of the Red
River, near the inn I lived in while I was in
Fort Garry in Canada. It was I who buried
it there this fall, just before the first snow.”
“Why did you bury money in the
ground?” I asked.
“I knew I had not much time left and I
was afraid the money might get into the
hands of the rebels in Fort Garry. I myself
did not own the banknotes I buried. But I
did own the bankbook. — It was my friend,
William Trent, who gave me the notes on
his dying day and asked me to take them
to his brother who lives in the city of
Brooklyn. This fall I wrote a long letter to
my sister in the north of Iceland. I told her
as clearly as I could about this money, where
it was buried and how to go about finding
it. I asked my sister to send her son, if she
had one, when he was old enough, or some
other trustworthy man to find William
Trent’s brother or his heirs and go with him
or them west to Fort Garry to get the treas-
ure. I sent this letter to my sister with a white
man by the name of Smith who went to St.
Paul before Christmas last winter. After New
Year’s, I wrote my sister another letter con-
taining the same information. I sent this
letter with an Indian going to Pembina
about the middle ofjanuary. I wrote a third
letter to her a few days before I left Fort
Garry and in it I included the main infor-
mation from the earlier letters but added
that I was leaving, for life or death, to find
a doctor in the city of St. Paul. And I told
her, as well, that the money I buried this